tales of two people 52

tales of two people 52

And after the next audience he sat down and thought. But, as often

happens with meaner men, he took nothing by it, except a pain in the

head and a temper much the worse. So that he ordered three more assaults

on the ramparts of the City of Or, which ended as the first three had;

and then sent another summons to Countess Runa, to which she returned

the same answer. And for the life of him the King could see in it no

meaning save that never in all his life should he pass the ramparts.

“Only an army of birds could do what she says!” he declared peevishly.

Indeed he was so chagrined and shamed that he would then and there have

raised the siege and returned to the capital, had it not been for the

unfortunate circumstance that, on leaving it, he had publicly and

solemnly vowed never to return, nor to show himself to his lieges there,

unless and until he should be master of the City of Or. So there he was,

unable to enter either city, and saddled with a great army to feed,

winter coming on, and the entire situation, as his Chancellor observed,

full of perplexity. On the top of all this, too, there were constant

sounds and signs of merriment and plenty within the city, and the

Countess’s men, when they had eaten, took to flinging the bones of their

meat to the besiegers outside--an action most insulting, however one

might be pleased to interpret it.

 

Meanwhile Countess Runa sat among her ladies and knights, on her high

chair under the emblazoned window, with the sun striking athwart her

fair hair. Often she smiled; once or twice she sighed. Perhaps she was

wondering what King Stanislas would do next--and when he would

understand her message.

 

 

 

 

II

 

 

There was with King Stanislas’ army a certain friar named Nicholas, a

man who was pious, brave, and cheerful, although, in the judgment of

some, more given to good-fellowship and conviviality than became his

sacred profession. He was a shrewd fellow too, and had a good wit; and

for all these qualities Stanislas held him in good will and allowed him

some degree of familiarity. Friar Nicholas had heard the Countess Runa’s

message, which, indeed, had leaked through the army and been much

discussed and canvassed round the camp fires. The friar had listened to

all the talk, agreeing with every man in turn, nodding his head wisely,

but holding his tongue closely. No man heard him utter any opinion

whatsoever as to what Countess Runa meant--supposing her to mean

anything save defiance pure and simple.

 

One night, when the King sat in his tent very moody and sore out of

heart with his undertaking, the flap of the tent was lifted, and Friar

Nicholas stood there.

 

“I did not summon you,” said the King.

 

“David did not summon Nathan,” said Nicholas. “But he came to him.”

 

“What ewe-lamb is it that I have taken?” Stanislas asked, smiling, for

he was glad to be rid of his thoughts and have company. “Let Nathan

drink with David,” he added, pushing a flagon of wine towards Nicholas,

who, on this invitation, let the flap of the tent fall behind him and

came in. “Is the ewe-lamb this one city which of all the realm holds out

against me? Is Or the ewe-lamb of Countess Runa?”

 

“The City of Or is the ewe-lamb,” said Nicholas, after he had drunk.

 

“But in the first place, O Prophet, I have not taken it--a curse on it!

And, in the second, it is mine by right, as by right it was my father’s

before me. Why, then, am I to be denounced by my holy Prophet?”

 

“I do not come to denounce you for having taken it, but to show you how

to take it,” answered Nicholas. And he stood there, in the centre of the

tent, wrapping his frock close round him. “O King,” said he, “I will put

a question to you.”

 

The King leant back in his chair. “I will listen and answer,” he said.

 

“Where is the citadel of an army, O King?” asked Nicholas.

 

“An army has no citadel,” answered the King. “A city has a citadel, a

fortress of stone or of brick, set in the middle of it and on high. But

an army lies in tents or on the bare ground, moving hither and thither.

An army has no citadel, O Prophet! Are you answered?”

 

“Where is the citadel of an army, O King?” asked Nicholas again.

 

“An army has no citadel,” replied the King. “A city that is made of

brick and of stone has a citadel. But an army is not of brick and stone,

but is made and composed only of men, of their flesh and bones, their

sinews and muscles, their brains and hearts. An army has no citadel, O

Prophet! Are you answered?”

 

“Where is the citadel of an army, O King?” asked Nicholas for the third

time.

 

Then, seeing that he had a meaning, the King took thought; for many

minutes he sat in meditation, while Nicholas stood in the centre of the

tent, never moving, with his eyes set on the King’s face.

 

At last the King answered.

 

“An army has a citadel,” he said. “The citadel of an army is the stout

heart of him who leads it. His heart is its citadel, O Prophet! Are you

answered?”

 

“You have spoken it. I am answered, O King!” said Nicholas, and he

turned and went out from the King’s tent.

 

But the King sprang to his feet with an eager cry. “It is not otherwise

with a city!” he cried. “And before I can pass the ramparts of Or, I

must carry the citadel!”

 

 

 

 

III

 

 

Countess Runa sat in her high chair under the emblazoned window of the

great hall, with her ladies and knights about her, and one of her

officers craved leave to bring a prisoner into her presence. Leave

given, the officer presented his charge--a tall and comely young man,

standing between two guards, yet bearing himself proudly and with a free

man’s carriage of his head. His hair was dark, his eyes blue, his

shoulders broad; he was long in the leg and lean in the flank. Runa

suffered her eyes to glance at him in approval.

 

“Where did you find him?” she asked of the officer.

 

“He came late last night to the southern gate,” the officer answered,

“and begged asylum from the anger of King Stanislas.”

 

“He’s a deserter, then?” she asked, frowning a little.

 

“He has told us nothing. He would tell his story, he said, to your

Highness only.”

 

“Let him speak,” she said, taking a peacock fan from one of her ladies

and half hiding her face behind it.

 

“Speak, prisoner,” said the officer.

 

“If I am a prisoner, it is by my own will,” said the stranger; “but I

was in such straits that my will had no alternative save to cause me to

throw myself on the mercy of your Highness. Yet I am no traitor, and

wish naught but good to my lord King Stanislas.”

 

“Then you had best wish that he shall return to his own city and leave

mine alone,” said Runa.

 

The knights smiled and the ladies tittered. The stranger took no heed of

these things, nor, as it seemed, of her Highness’s remark.

 

“I was high in the King’s confidence,” he said. “He deemed me a wise

man, and held that I knew all that was to be known, and that by my aid

alone he could discover all that was hidden, and unravel any riddle,

however difficult. Through three victorious campaigns I was by his side,

and then he brought me to the walls of Or, not doubting that by my

valour and counsel he should be enabled to make himself master of the

city. I do not boast. I repeat only what the King has many a time said

of me, both publicly and when we two were alone.”

 

“Then one man at least has a good esteem of you,” said Runa. “Indeed, as

I think, two.”

 

Again the ladies tittered and the knights smiled. But the stranger was

unmoved.

 

“Then,” he went on in a smooth equable voice whose rich tones struck

pleasantly on their ears and made the ladies sorry for their mocking,

“came the day, fatal to me, when your Highness was pleased to send his

Majesty a message. For when the King asked me the meaning of your

riddle--asked how a man could carry the citadel before he passed the

ramparts--I told him to take no heed of it, for it was an idle vaunt.

And he believed me and assaulted the ramparts three times in vain. And

in vain brave men died. Again came your message, and when the King asked

me the meaning of it, I said it was insolent defiance. And he believed

me, and assaulted the ramparts three times in vain. And in vain brave

men died. Then came the message a third time, and the King demanded of

me the meaning of it. But I did not know the meaning, and, lest more men

should die, I confessed to him that I could not read the riddle.”

 

“You learnt wisdom late and at a cost,” said Runa, setting her eyes on

him over the top of the peacock fan.

 

“When I confessed that, he called me a blockhead and, with many hard

words, told me plainly that all my credit stood on my reading him that

riddle, and reading it, the third time, right; and that if I could not

read it, I could never see home again nor my own people, but that my

life must end here outside the walls of the city, and end in disgrace

and defeat. So the King said to me in his wrath, and in fear of him and

of the death he threatened I stole by night from his camp and delivered

myself to the officer of your Highness’s watch at the southern gate of

the city.”

 

“What do you want of me?” asked Runa.

 

“Either the answer to the riddle, that I may carry it back to the King

forthwith and have his favour again----”

 

“And failing that?” said Runa, smiling.

 

“Leave to abide here for a while, in the hope that by my own wit I may