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The Brethren

by H. Rider Haggard · English · Gutenberg #2762 · 708,635 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Brethren

Author: H. Rider Haggard


        
Release date: August 1, 2001 [eBook #2762]
                Most recently updated: August 10, 2023

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/2762

Credits: JoAnn Rees


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BRETHREN ***


[Illustration]




The Brethren

by H. Rider Haggard


Contents

 Dedication
 AUTHOR’S NOTE.
 PROLOGUE

 Chapter I. By The Waters of Death Creek
 Chapter II. Sir Andrew D’Arcy
 Chapter III. The Knighting of the Brethren
 Chapter IV. The Letter of Saladin
 Chapter V. The Wine Merchant
 Chapter VI. The Christmas Feast at Steeple
 Chapter VII. The Banner of Saladin
 Chapter VIII. The Widow Masouda
 Chapter IX. The Horses Flame and Smoke
 Chapter X. On Board the Galley
 Chapter XI. The City of Al-Je-Bal
 Chapter XII. The Lord of Death
 Chapter XIII. The Embassy
 Chapter XIV. The Combat on the Bridge
 Chapter XV. The Flight to Emesa
 Chapter XVI. The Sultan Saladin
 Chapter XVII. The Brethren Depart from Damascus
 Chapter XVIII. Wulf Pays for the Drugged Wine
 Chapter XIX. Before the Walls of Ascalon
 Chapter XX. The Luck of the Star of Hassan
 Chapter XXI. What Befell Godwin
 Chapter XXII. At Jerusalem
 Chapter XXIII. Saint Rosamund
 Chapter XXIV. The Dregs of the Cup




Dedication


R.M.S. Mongolia, 12th May, 1904 Mayhap, Ella, here too distance lends
its enchantment, and these gallant brethren would have quarrelled over
Rosamund, or even had their long swords at each other’s throat. Mayhap
that Princess and heroine might have failed in the hour of her trial
and never earned her saintly crown. Mayhap the good horse “Smoke” would
have fallen on the Narrow Way, leaving false Lozelle a victor, and
Masouda, the royal-hearted, would have offered up a strangely different
sacrifice upon the altars of her passionate desire.

Still, let us hold otherwise, though we grow grey and know the world
for what it is. Let us for a little time think as we thought while we
were young; when faith knew no fears for anything and death had not
knocked upon our doors; when you opened also to my childish eyes that
gate of ivory and pearl which leads to the blessed kingdom of Romance.

At the least I am sure, and I believe that you, my sister, will agree
with me, that, above and beyond its terrors and its pitfalls,
Imagination has few finer qualities, and none, perhaps, more helpful to
our hearts, than those which enable us for an hour to dream that men
and women, their fortunes and their fate, are as we would fashion them.

H. Rider Haggard.

To Mrs. Maddison Green.




“_Two lovers by the maiden sate,
Without a glance of jealous hate;
The maid her lovers sat between,
With open brow and equal mien;—
It is a sight but rarely spied,
Thanks to man’s wrath and woman’s pride._”
— Scott




AUTHOR’S NOTE:


Standing a while ago upon the flower-clad plain above Tiberius, by the
Lake of Galilee, the writer gazed at the double peaks of the Hill of
Hattin. Here, or so tradition says, Christ preached the Sermon on the
Mount—that perfect rule of gentleness and peace. Here, too—and this is
certain—after nearly twelve centuries had gone by, Yusuf Salah-ed-din,
whom we know as the Sultan Saladin, crushed the Christian power in
Palestine in perhaps the most terrible battle which that land of blood
has known. Thus the Mount of the Beatitudes became the Mount of
Massacre.

Whilst musing on these strangely-contrasted scenes enacted in one place
there arose in his mind a desire to weave, as best he might, a tale
wherein any who are drawn to the romance of that pregnant and
mysterious epoch, when men by thousands were glad to lay down their
lives for visions and spiritual hopes, could find a picture, however
faint and broken, of the long war between Cross and Crescent waged
among the Syrian plains and deserts. Of Christian knights and ladies
also, and their loves and sufferings in England and the East; of the
fearful lord of the Assassins whom the Franks called Old Man of the
Mountain, and his fortress city, Masyaf. Of the great-hearted, if at
times cruel Saladin and his fierce Saracens; of the rout at Hattin
itself, on whose rocky height the Holy Rood was set up as a standard
and captured, to be seen no more by Christian eyes; and of the Iast
surrender, whereby the Crusaders lost Jerusalem forever.

Of that desire this story is the fruit.




PROLOGUE


Salah-ed-din, Commander of the Faithful, the king Strong to Aid,
Sovereign of the East, sat at night in his palace at Damascus and
brooded on the wonderful ways of God, by Whom he had been lifted to his
high estate. He remembered how, when he was but small in the eyes of
men, Nour-ed-din, king of Syria, forced him to accompany his uncle,
Shirkuh, to Egypt, whither he went, “like one driven to his death,” and
how, against his own will, there he rose to greatness. He thought of
his father, the wise Ayoub, and the brethren with whom he was brought
up, all of them dead now save one; and of his sisters, whom he had
cherished. Most of all did he think of her, Zobeide, who had been
stolen away by the knight whom she loved even to the loss of her own
soul—yes, by the English friend of his youth, his father’s prisoner,
Sir Andrew D’Arcy, who, led astray by passion, had done him and his
house this grievous wrong. He had sworn, he remembered, that he would
bring her back even from England, and already had planned to kill her
husband and capture her when he learned her death. She had left a
child, or so his spies told him, who, if she still lived, must be a
woman now—his own niece, though half of noble English blood.

Then his mind wandered from this old, half-forgotten story to the woe
and blood in which his days were set, and to the last great struggle
between the followers of the prophets Jesus and Mahomet, that
_Jihad_[1] for which he made ready—and he sighed. For he was a merciful
man, who loved not slaughter, although his fierce faith drove him from
war to war.

 [1] Holy War


Salah-ed-din slept and dreamed of peace. In his dream a maiden stood
before him. Presently, when she lifted her veil, he saw that she was
beautiful, with features like his own, but fairer, and knew her surely
for the daughter of his sister who had fled with the English knight.
Now he wondered why she visited him thus, and in his vision prayed
Allah to make the matter clear. Then of a sudden he saw this same woman
standing before him on a Syrian plain, and on either side of her a
countless host of Saracens and Franks, of whom thousands and tens of
thousands were appointed to death. Lo! he, Salah-ed-din, charged at the
head of his squadrons, scimitar aloft, but she held up her hand and
stayed him.

“What do you here, my niece?” he asked.

“I am come to save the lives of men through you,” she answered;
“therefore was I born of your blood, and therefore I am sent to you.
Put up your sword, King, and spare them.”

“Say, maiden, what ransom do you bring to buy this multitude from doom?
What ransom, and what gift?”

“The ransom of my own blood freely offered, and Heaven’s gift of peace
to your sinful soul, O King.” And with that outstretched hand she drew
down his keen-edged scimitar until it rested on her breast.

Salah-ed-din awoke, and marvelled on his dream, but said nothing of it
to any man. The next night it returned to him, and the memory of it
went with him all the day that followed, but still he said nothing.

When on the third night he dreamed it yet again, even more vividly,
then he was sure that this thing was from God, and summoned his holy
Imauns and his Diviners, and took counsel with them. These, after they
had listened, prayed and consulted, spoke thus:

“O Sultan, Allah has warned you in shadows that the woman, your niece,
who dwells far away in England, shall by her own nobleness and
sacrifice, in some time to come, save you from shedding a sea of blood,
and bring rest upon the land. We charge you, therefore, draw this lady
to your court, and keep her ever by your side, since if she escape you,
her peace goes with her.”

Salah-ed-din said that this interpretation was wise and true, for thus
also he had read his dream. Then he summoned a certain false knight who
bore the Cross upon his breast, but in secret had accepted the Koran, a
Frankish spy of his, who came from that country where dwelt the maiden,
his niece, and from him learned about her, her father, and her home.
With him and another spy who passed as a Christian palmer, by the aid
of Prince Hassan, one of the greatest and most trusted of his Emirs, he
made a cunning plan for the capture of the maiden if she would not come
willingly, and for her bearing away to Syria.

Moreover—that in the eyes of all men her dignity might be worthy of her
high blood and fate—by his decree he created her, the niece whom he had
never seen, Princess of Baalbec, with great possessions—a rule that her
grandfather, Ayoub, and her uncle, Izzeddin, had held before her. Also
he purchased a stout galley of war, manning it with proved sailors and
with chosen men-at-arms, under the command of the Prince Hassan, and
wrote a letter to the English lord, Sir Andrew D’Arcy, and to his
daughter, and prepared a royal gift of jewels, and sent them to the
lady, his niece, far away in England, and with it the Patent of her
rank. Her he commanded this company to win by peace, or force, or
fraud, as best they might, but that without her not one of them should
dare to look upon his face again. And with these he sent the two
Frankish spies, who knew the place where the lady lived, one of whom,
the false knight, was a skilled mariner and the captain of the ship.

These things did Yusuf Salah-ed-din, and waited patiently till it
should please God to accomplish the vision with which God had filled
his soul in sleep.




Chapter I.
By The Waters of Death Creek


From the sea-wall on the coast of Essex, Rosamund looked out across the
ocean eastwards. To right and left, but a little behind her, like
guards attending the person of their sovereign, stood her cousins, the
twin brethren, Godwin and Wulf, tall and shapely men. Godwin was still
as a statue, his hands folded over the hilt of the long, scabbarded
sword, of which the point was set on the ground before him, but Wulf,
his brother, moved restlessly, and at length yawned aloud. They were
beautiful to look at, all three of them, as they appeared in the
splendour of their youth and health. The imperial Rosamund, dark-haired
and eyed, ivory skinned and slender-waisted, a posy of marsh flowers in
her hand; the pale, stately Godwin, with his dreaming face; and the
bold-fronted, blue-eyed warrior, Wulf, Saxon to his finger-tips,
notwithstanding his father’s Norman blood.

At the sound of that unstifled yawn, Rosamund turned her head with the
slow grace which marked her every movement.

“Would you sleep already, Wulf, and the sun not yet down?” she asked in
her rich, low voice, which, perhaps because of its foreign accent,
seemed quite different to that of any other woman.

“I think so, Rosamund,” he answered. “It would serve to pass the time,
and now that you have finished gathering those yellow flowers which we
rode so far to seek, the time—is somewhat long.”

“Shame on you, Wulf,” she said, smiling. “Look upon yonder sea and sky,
at that sheet of bloom all gold and purple—”

“I have looked for hard on half an hour, Cousin Rosamund; also at your
back and at Godwin’s left arm and side-face, till in truth I thought
myself kneeling in Stangate Priory staring at my father’s effigy upon
his tomb, while Prior John pattered the Mass. Why, if you stood it on
its feet, it is Godwin, the same crossed hands resting on the sword,
the same cold, silent face staring at the sky.”

“Godwin as Godwin will no doubt one day be, or so he hopes—that is, if
the saints give him grace to do such deeds as did our sire,”
interrupted his brother.

Wulf looked at him, and a curious flash of inspiration shone in his
blue eyes.

“No, I think not,” he answered; “the deeds you may do, and greater, but
surely you will lie wrapped not in a shirt of mail, but with a monk’s
cowl at the last—unless a woman robs you of it and the quickest road to
heaven. Tell me now, what are you thinking of, you two—for I have been
wondering in my dull way, and am curious to learn how far I stand from
truth? Rosamund, speak first. Nay, not all the truth—a maid’s thoughts
are her own—but just the cream of it, that which rises to the top and
should be skimmed.”

Rosamund sighed. “I? I was thinking of the East, where the sun shines
ever and the seas are blue as my girdle stones, and men are full of
strange learning—”

“And women are men’s slaves!” interrupted Wulf. “Still, it is natural
that you should think of the East who have that blood in your veins,
and high blood, if all tales be true. Say, Princess”—and he bowed the
knee to her with an affectation of mockery which could not hide his
earnest reverence—“say, Princess, my cousin, granddaughter of Ayoub and
niece of the mighty monarch, Yusuf Salah-ed-din, do you wish to leave
this pale land and visit your dominions in Egypt and in Syria?”

She listened, and at his words her eyes seemed to take fire, the
stately form to erect itself, the breast to heave, and the thin
nostrils to grow wider as though they scented some sweet, remembered
perfume. Indeed, at that moment, standing there on the promontory above
the seas, Rosamund looked a very queen.

Presently she answered him with another question.

“And how would they greet me there, Wulf, who am a Norman D’Arcy and a
Christian maid?”

“The first they would forgive you, since that blood is none so ill
either, and for the second—why, faiths can be changed.”

Then it was that Godwin spoke for the first time.

“Wulf, Wulf,” he said sternly, “keep watch upon your tongue, for there
are things that should not be said even as a silly jest. See you, I
love my cousin here better than aught else upon the earth—”

“There, at least, we agree,” broke in Wulf.

“Better than aught else on the earth,” repeated Godwin; “but, by the
Holy Blood and by St. Peter, at whose shrine we are, I would kill her
with my own hand before her lips kissed the book of the false prophet.”

“Or any of his followers,” muttered Wulf to himself, but fortunately,
perhaps, too low for either of his companions to hear. Aloud he said,
“You understand, Rosamund, you must be careful, for Godwin ever keeps
his word, and that would be but a poor end for so much birth and beauty
and wisdom.”

“Oh, cease mocking, Wulf,” she answered, laying her hand lightly on the
tunic that hid his shirt of mail. “Cease mocking, and pray St. Chad,
the builder of this church, that no such dreadful choice may ever be
forced upon you, or me, or your beloved brother—who, indeed, in such a
case would do right to slay me.”

“Well, if it were,” answered Wulf, and his fair face flushed as he
spoke, “I trust that we should know how to meet it. After all, is it so
very hard to choose between death and duty?”

“I know not,” she replied; “but oft-times sacrifice seems easy when
seen from far away; also, things may be lost that are more prized than
life.”

“What things? Do you mean place, or wealth, or—love?”

“Tell me,” said Rosamund, changing her tone, “what is that boat rowing
round the river’s mouth? A while ago it hung upon its oars as though
those within it watched us.”

“Fisher-folk,” answered Wulf carelessly. “I saw their nets.”

“Yes; but beneath them something gleamed bright, like swords.”

“Fish,” said Wulf; “we are at peace in Essex.” Although Rosamund did
not look convinced, he went on: “Now for Godwin’s thoughts— what were
they?”

“Brother, if you would know, of the East also—the East and its wars.”

“Which have brought us no great luck,” answered Wulf, “seeing that our
sire was slain in them and naught of him came home again save his
heart, which lies at Stangate yonder.”

“How better could he die,” asked Godwin, “than fighting for the Cross
of Christ? Is not that death of his at Harenc told of to this day? By
our Lady, I pray for one but half as glorious!”

“Aye, he died well—he died well,” said Wulf, his blue eyes flashing and
his hand creeping to his sword hilt. “But, brother, there is peace at
Jerusalem, as in Essex.”

“Peace? Yes; but soon there will be war again. The monk Peter—he whom
we saw at Stangate last Sunday, and who left Syria but six months
gone—told me that it was coming fast. Even now the Sultan Saladin,
sitting at Damascus, summons his hosts from far and wide, while his
priests preach battle amongst the tribes and barons of the East. And
when it comes, brother, shall we not be there to share it, as were our
grandfather, our father, our uncle, and so many of our kin? Shall we
rot here in this dull land, as by our uncle’s wish we have done these
many years, yes, ever since we were home from the Scottish war, and
count the kine and plough the fields like peasants, while our peers are
charging on the pagan, and the banners wave, and the blood runs red
upon the holy sands of Palestine?”

Now it was Wulf’s turn to take fire.

“By our Lady in Heaven, and our lady here!”—and he looked at Rosamund,
who was watching the pair of them with her quiet thoughtful eyes—“go
when you will, Godwin, and I go with you, and as our birth was one
birth, so, if it is decreed, let our death be one death.” And suddenly
his hand that had been playing with the sword-hilt gripped it fast, and
tore the long, lean blade from its scabbard and cast it high into the
air, flashing in the sunlight, to catch it as it fell again, while in a
voice that caused the wild fowl to rise in thunder from the Saltings
beneath, Wulf shouted the old war-cry that had rung on so many a
field—“_A D’Arcy! a D’Arcy! Meet D’Arcy, meet Death!_” Then he sheathed
his sword again and added in a shamed voice, “Are we children that we
fight where no foe is? Still, brother, may we find him soon!”

Godwin smiled grimly, but answered nothing; only Rosamund said:

“So, my cousins, you would be away, perhaps to return no more, and that
will part us. But”—and her voice broke somewhat—“such is the woman’s
lot, since men like you ever love the bare sword best of all, nor
should I think well of you were it otherwise. Yet, cousins, I know not
why”—and she shivered a little—“it comes into my heart that Heaven
often answers such prayers swiftly. Oh, Wulf! your sword looked very
red in the sunlight but now: I say that it looked very red in the
sunlight. I am afraid—of I know not what. Well, we must be going, for
we have nine miles to ride, and the dark is not so far away. But first,
my cousins, come with me into this shrine, and let us pray St. Peter
and St. Chad to guard us on our journey home.”

“Our journey?” said Wulf anxiously. “What is there for you to fear in a
nine-mile ride along the shores of the Blackwater?”

“I said our journey home Wulf; and home is not in the hall at Steeple,
but yonder,” and she pointed to the quiet, brooding sky.

“Well answered,” said Godwin, “in this ancient place, whence so many
have journeyed home; all the Romans who are dead, when it was their
fortress, and the Saxons who came after them, and others without
count.”

Then they turned and entered the old church—one of the first that ever
was in Britain, rough-built of Roman stone by the very hands of Chad,
the Saxon saint, more than five hundred years before their day. Here
they knelt a while at the rude altar and prayed, each of them in his or
her own fashion, then crossed themselves, and rose to seek their
horses, which were tied in the shed hard by.

Now there were two roads, or rather tracks, back to the Hall at
Steeple—one a mile or so inland, that ran through the village of
Bradwell, and the other, the shorter way, along the edge of the
Saltings to the narrow water known as Death Creek, at the head of which
the traveller to Steeple must strike inland, leaving the Priory of
Stangate on his right. It was this latter path they chose, since at low
tide the going there is good for horses—which, even in the summer, that
of the inland track was not. Also they wished to be at home by
supper-time, lest the old knight, Sir Andrew D’Arcy, the father of
Rosamund and the uncle of the orphan brethren, should grow anxious, and
perhaps come out to seek them.

For the half of an hour or more they rode along the edge of the
Saltings, for the most part in silence that was broken only by the cry
of curlew and the lap of the turning tide. No human being did they see,
indeed, for this place was very desolate and unvisited, save now and
again by fishermen. At length, just as the sun began to sink, they
approached the shore of Death Creek—a sheet of tidal water which ran a
mile or more inland, growing ever narrower, but was here some three
hundred yards in breadth. They were well mounted, all three of them.
Indeed, Rosamund’s horse, a great grey, her father’s gift to her, was
famous in that country-side for its swiftness and power, also because
it was so docile that a child could ride it; while those of the
brethren were heavy-built but well-trained war steeds, taught to stand
where they were left, and to charge when they were urged, without fear
of shouting men or flashing steel.

Now the ground lay thus. Some seventy yards from the shore of Death
Creek and parallel to it, a tongue of land, covered with scrub and a
few oaks, ran down into the Saltings, its point ending on their path,
beyond which were a swamp and the broad river. Between this tongue and
the shore of the creek the track wended its way to the uplands. It was
an ancient track; indeed the reason of its existence was that here the
Romans or some other long dead hands had built a narrow mole or quay of
rough stone, forty or fifty yards in length, out into the water of the
creek, doubtless to serve as a convenience for fisher boats, which
could lie alongside of it even at low tide. This mole had been much
destroyed by centuries of washing, so that the end of it lay below
water, although the landward part was still almost sound and level.

Coming over the little rise at the top of the wooded tongue, the quick
eyes of Wulf, who rode first—for here the path along the border of the
swamp was so narrow that they must go in single file—caught sight of a
large, empty boat moored to an iron ring set in the wall of the mole.

“Your fishermen have landed, Rosamund,” he said, “and doubtless gone up
to Bradwell.”

“That is strange,” she answered anxiously, “since here no fishermen
ever come.” And she checked her horse as though to turn.

“Whether they come or not, certainly they have gone,” said Godwin,
craning forward to look about him; “so, as we have nothing to fear from
an empty boat, let us push on.”

On they rode accordingly, until they came to the root of the stone quay
or pier, when a sound behind them caused them to look back. Then they
saw a sight that sent the blood to their hearts, for there behind them,
leaping down one by one on to that narrow footway, were men armed with
naked swords, six or eight of them, all of whom, they noted, had strips
of linen pierced with eyelet holes tied beneath their helms or leather
caps, so as to conceal their faces.

“A snare! a snare!” cried Wulf, drawing his sword. “Swift! follow me up
the Bradwell path!” and he struck the spurs into his horse. It bounded
forward, to be dragged next second with all the weight of his powerful
arm almost to its haunches. “God’s mercy!” he cried, “there are more of
them!” And more there were, for another band of men armed and
linen-hooded like the first, had leapt down on to that Bradwell path,
amongst them a stout man, who seemed to be unarmed, except for a long,
crooked knife at his girdle and a coat of ringed mail, which showed
through the opening of his loose tunic.

“To the boat!” shouted Godwin, whereat the stout man laughed—a light,
penetrating laugh, which even then all three of them heard and noted.

Along the quay they rode, since there was nowhere else that they could
go, with both paths barred, and swamp and water on one side of them,
and a steep, wooded bank upon the other. When they reached it, they
found why the man had laughed, for the boat was made fast with a strong
chain that could not be cut; more, her sail and oars were gone.

“Get into it,” mocked a voice; “or, at least, let the lady get in; it
will save us the trouble of carrying her there.”

Now Rosamund turned very pale, while the face of Wulf went red and
white, and he gripped his sword-hilt. But Godwin, calm as ever, rode
forward a few paces, and said quietly:

“Of your courtesy, say what you need of us. If it be money, we have
none—nothing but our arms and horses, which I think may cost you dear.”

Now the man with the crooked knife advanced a little, accompanied by
another man, a tall, supple-looking knave, into whose ear he whispered.

“My master says,” answered the tall man, “that you have with you that
which is of more value than all the king’s gold—a very fair lady, of
whom someone has urgent need. Give her up now, and go your way with
your arms and horses, for you are gallant young men, whose blood we do
not wish to shed.”

At this it was the turn of the brethren to laugh, which both of them
did together.

“Give her up,” answered Godwin, “and go our ways dishonoured? Aye, with
our breath, but not before. Who then has such urgent need of the lady
Rosamund?”

Again there was whispering between the pair.

“My master says,” was the answer, “he thinks that all who see her will
have need of her, since such loveliness is rare. But if you wish a
name, well, one comes into his mind; the name of the knight Lozelle.”

“The knight Lozelle!” murmured Rosamund, turning even paler than
before, as well she might. For this Lozelle was a powerful man and
Essex-born. He owned ships of whose doings upon the seas and in the
East evil tales were told, and once had sought Rosamund’s hand in
marriage, but being rejected, uttered threats for which Godwin, as the
elder of the twins, had fought and wounded him. Then he vanished—none
knew where.

“Is Sir Hugh Lozelle here then?” asked Godwin, “masked like you common
cowards? If so, I desire to meet him, to finish the work I began in the
snow last Christmas twelvemonths.”

“Find that out if you can,” answered the tall man. But Wulf said,
speaking low between his clenched teeth:

“Brother, I see but one chance. We must place Rosamund between us and
charge them.”

The captain of the band seemed to read their thoughts, for again he
whispered into the ear of his companion, who called out:

“My master says that if you try to charge, you will be fools, since we
shall stab and ham-string your horses, which are too good to waste, and
take you quite easily as you fall. Come then, yield, as you can do
without shame, seeing there is no escape, and that two men, however
brave, cannot stand against a crowd. He gives you one minute to
surrender.”

Now Rosamund spoke for the first time.

“My cousins,” she said, “I pray you not to let me fall living into the
hands of Sir Hugh Lozelle, or of yonder men, to be taken to what fate I
know not. Let Godwin kill me, then, to save my honour, as but now he
said he would to save my soul, and strive to cut your way through, and
live to avenge me.”

The brethren made no answer, only they looked at the water and then at
one another, and nodded. It was Godwin who spoke again, for now that it
had come to this struggle for life and their lady, Wulf, whose tongue
was commonly so ready, had grown strangely silent, and fierce-faced
also.

“Listen, Rosamund, and do not turn your eyes,” said Godwin. “There is
but one chance for you, and, poor as it is, you must choose between it
and capture, since we cannot kill you. The grey horse you ride is
strong and true. Turn him now, and spur into the water of Death Creek
and swim it. It is broad, but the incoming tide will help you, and
perchance you will not drown.”

Rosamund listened and moved her head backwards towards the boat. Then
Wulf spoke—few words and sharp: “Begone, girl! we guard the boat.”

She heard, and her dark eyes filled with tears, and her stately head
sank for a moment almost to her horse’s mane.

“Oh, my knights! my knights! And would you die for me? Well, if God
wills it, so it must be. But I swear that if you die, that no man shall
be aught to me who have your memory, and if you live—” And she looked
at them confusedly, then stopped.

“Bless us, and begone,” said Godwin.

So she blessed them in words low and holy; then of a sudden wheeled
round the great grey horse, and striking the spur into its flank, drove
straight at the deep water. A moment the stallion hung, then from the
low quay-end sprang out wide and clear. Deep it sank, but not for long,
for presently its rider’s head rose above the water, and regaining the
saddle, from which she had floated, Rosamund sat firm and headed the
horse straight for the distant bank. Now a shout of wonderment went up
from the woman thieves, for this was a deed that they had never thought
a girl would dare. But the brethren laughed as they saw that the grey
swam well, and, leaping from their saddles, ran forward a few
paces—eight or ten—along the mole to where it was narrowest, as they
went tearing the cloaks from their shoulders, and, since they had none,
throwing them over their left arms to serve as bucklers.

The band cursed sullenly, only their captain gave an order to his
spokesman, who cried aloud:

“Cut them down, and to the boat! We shall take her before she reaches
shore or drowns.”

For a moment they wavered, for the tall twin warriors who barred the
way had eyes that told of wounds and death. Then with a rush they came,
scrambling over the rough stones. But here the causeway was so narrow
that while their strength lasted, two men were as good as twenty, nor,
because of the mud and water, could they be got at from either side. So
after all it was but two to two, and the brethren were the better two.
Their long swords flashed and smote, and when Wulf’s was lifted again,
once more it shone red as it had been when he tossed it high in the
sunlight, and a man fell with a heavy splash into the waters of the
creek, and wallowed there till he died. Godwin’s foe was down also,
and, as it seemed, sped.

Then, at a muttered word, not waiting to be attacked by others, the
brethren sprang forward. The huddled mob in front of them saw them
come, and shrank back, but before they had gone a yard, the swords were
at work behind. They swore strange oaths, they caught their feet among
the rocks, and rolled upon their faces. In their confusion three of
them were pushed into the water, where two sank in the mud and were
drowned, the third only dragging himself ashore, while the rest made
good their escape from the causeway. But two had been cut down, and
three had fallen, for whom there was no escape. They strove to rise and
fight, but the linen masks flapped about their eyes, so that their
blows went wide, while the long swords of the brothers smote and smote
again upon their helms and harness as the hammers of smiths smite upon
an anvil, until they rolled over silent and stirless.

“Back!” said Godwin; “for here the road is wide; and they will get
behind us.”

So back they moved slowly, with their faces to the foe, stopping just
in front of the first man whom Godwin had seemed to kill, and who lay
face upwards with arms outstretched.

“So far we have done well,” said Wulf, with a short laugh. “Are you
hurt?”

“Nay,” answered his brother, “but do not boast till the battle is over,
for many are left and they will come on thus no more. Pray God they
have no spears or bows.”

Then he turned and looked behind him, and there, far from the shore
now, swam the grey horse steadily, and there upon its back sat
Rosamund. Yes, and she had seen, since the horse must swim somewhat
sideways with the tide, for look, she took the kerchief from her throat
and waved it to them. Then the brethren knew that she was proud of
their great deeds, and thanked the saints that they had lived to do
even so much as this for her dear sake.

Godwin was right. Although their leader commanded them in a stern
voice, the band sank from the reach of those awful swords, and,
instead, sought for stones to hurl at them. But here lay more mud than
pebbles, and the rocks of which the causeway was built were too heavy
for them to lift, so that they found but few, which when thrown either
missed the brethren or did them little hurt. Now, after some while, the
man called “master” spoke through his lieutenant, and certain of them
ran into the thorn thicket, and thence appeared again bearing the long
oars of the boat.

“Their counsel is to batter us down with the oars. What shall we do
now, brother?” asked Godwin.

“What we can,” answered Wulf. “It matters little if Rosamund is spared
by the waters, for they will scarcely take her now, who must loose the
boat and man it after we are dead.”

As he spoke Wulf heard a sound behind him, and of a sudden Godwin threw
up his arms and sank to his knees. Round he sprang, and there upon his
feet stood that man whom they had thought dead, and in his hand a
bloody sword. At him leapt Wulf, and so fierce were the blows he smote
that the first severed his sword arm and the second shore through cloak
and mail deep into the thief’s side; so that this time he fell, never
to stir again. Then he looked at his brother and saw that the blood was
running down his face and blinding him.

“Save yourself, Wulf, for I am sped,” murmured Godwin.

“Nay, or you could not speak.” And he cast his arm round him and kissed
him on the brow.

Then a thought came into his mind, and lifting Godwin as though he were
a child, he ran back to where the horses stood, and heaved him onto the
saddle.

“Hold fast!” he cried, “by mane and pommel. Keep your mind, and hold
fast, and I will save you yet.”

Passing the reins over his left arm, Wulf leapt upon the back of his
own horse, and turned it. Ten seconds more, and the pirates, who were
gathering with the oars where the paths joined at the root of the
causeway, saw the two great horses thundering down upon them. On one a
sore wounded man, his bright hair dabbled with blood, his hands
gripping mane and saddle, and on the other the warrior Wulf, with
starting eyes and a face like the face of a flame, shaking his red
sword, and for the second time that day shouting aloud: “_A D’Arcy! a
D’Arcy! Contre D’Arcy, contre Mort!_”

They saw, they shouted, they massed themselves together and held up the
oars to meet them. But Wulf spurred fiercely, and, short as was the
way, the heavy horses, trained to tourney, gathered their speed. Now
they were on them. The oars were swept aside like reeds; all round them
flashed the swords, and Wulf felt that he was hurt, he knew not where.
But his sword flashed also, one blow—there was no time for more—yet the
man beneath it sank like an empty sack.

By St. Peter! They were through, and Godwin still swayed upon the
saddle, and yonder, nearing the further shore, the grey horse with its
burden still battled in the tide. They were through! they were through!
while to Wulf’s eyes the air swam red, and the earth seemed as though
it rose up to meet them, and everywhere was flaming fire.

But the shouts had died away behind them, and the only sound was the
sound of the galloping of their horses’ hoofs. Then that also grew
faint and died away, and silence and darkness fell upon the mind of
Wulf.




Chapter II.
Sir Andrew D’Arcy


Godwin dreamed that he was dead, and that beneath him floated the
world, a glowing ball, while he was borne to and fro through the
blackness, stretched upon a couch of ebony. There were bright watchers
by his couch also, watchers twain, and he knew them for his guardian
angels, given him at birth. Moreover, now and again presences would
come and question the watchers who sat at his head and foot. One asked:

“Has this soul sinned?” And the angel at his head answered:

“It has sinned.”

Again the voice asked: “Did it die shriven of its sins?”

The angel answered: “It died unshriven, red sword aloft, fighting a
good fight.”

“Fighting for the Cross of Christ?”

“Nay; fighting for a woman.”

“Alas! poor soul, sinful and unshriven, who died fighting for a woman’s
love. How shall such a one find mercy?” wailed the questioning voice,
growing ever fainter, till it was lost far, far away.

Now came another visitor. It was his father—the warrior sire whom he
had never seen, who fell in Syria. Godwin knew him well, for the face
was the face carven on the tomb in Stangate church, and he wore the
blood-red cross upon his mail, and the D’Arcy Death’s-head was on his
shield, and in his hand shone a naked sword.

“Is this the soul of my son?” he asked of the whiterobed watchers. “If
so, how died he?”

Then the angel at his foot answered: “He died, red sword aloft,
fighting a good fight.”

“Fighting for the Cross of Christ?”

“Nay; fighting for a woman.”

“Fighting for a woman’s love who should have fallen in the Holy War?
Alas! poor son; alas! poor son! Alas! that we must part again forever!”
and his voice, too, passed away.

Lo! a Glory advanced through the blackness, and the angels at head and
foot stood up and saluted with their flaming spears.

“How died this child of God?” asked a voice, speaking out of the Glory,
a low and awful voice.

“He died by the sword,” answered the angel.

“By the sword of the children of the enemy, fighting in the war of
Heaven?”

Then the angels were silent.

“What has Heaven to do with him, if he fought not for Heaven?” asked
the voice again.

“Let him be spared,” pleaded the guardians, “who was young and brave,
and knew not. Send him back to earth, there to retrieve his sins and be
our charge once more.”

“So be it,” said the voice. “Knight, live on, but live as a knight of
Heaven if thou wouldst win Heaven.”

“Must he then put the woman from him?” asked the angels.

“It was not said,” answered the voice speaking from the Glory. And all
that wild vision vanished.

Then a space of oblivion, and Godwin awoke to hear other voices around
him, voices human, well-beloved, remembered; and to see a face bending
over him—a face most human, most well-beloved, most remembered—that of
his cousin Rosamund. He babbled some questions, but they brought him
food, and told him to sleep, so he slept. Thus it went on, waking and
sleep, sleep and waking, till at length one morning he woke up truly in
the little room that opened out of the solar or sitting place of the
Hall of Steeple, where he and Wulf had slept since their uncle took
them to his home as infants. More, on the trestle bed opposite to him,
his leg and arm bandaged, and a crutch by his side, sat Wulf himself,
somewhat paler and thinner than of yore, but the same jovial, careless,
yet at times fierce-faced Wulf.

“Do I still dream, my brother, or is it you indeed?”

A happy smile spread upon the face of Wulf, for now he knew that Godwin
was himself again.

“Me sure enough,” he answered. “Dream-folk don’t have lame legs; they
are the gifts of swords and men.”

“And Rosamund? What of Rosamund? Did the grey horse swim the creek, and
how came we here? Tell me quick—I faint for news!”

“She shall tell you herself.” And hobbling to the curtained door, he
called, “Rosamund, my—nay, our—cousin Rosamund, Godwin is himself
again. Hear you, Godwin is himself again, and would speak with you!”

There was a swift rustle of robes and a sound of quick feet among the
rushes that strewed the floor, and then—Rosamund herself, lovely as
ever, but all her stateliness forgot in joy. She saw him, the gaunt
Godwin sitting up upon the pallet, his grey eyes shining in the white
and sunken face. For Godwin’s eyes were grey, while Wulf’s were blue,
the only difference between them which a stranger would note, although
in truth Wulf’s lips were fuller than Godwin’s, and his chin more
marked; also he was a larger man. She saw him, and with a little cry of
delight ran and cast her arms about him, and kissed him on the brow.

“Be careful,” said Wulf roughly, turning his head aside, “or, Rosamund,
you will loose the bandages, and bring his trouble back again; he has
had enough of blood-letting.”

“Then I will kiss him on the hand—the hand that saved me,” she said,
and did so. More, she pressed that poor, pale hand against her heart.

“Mine had something to do with that business also but I don’t remember
that you kissed it, Rosamund. Well, I will kiss him too, and oh! God be
praised, and the holy Virgin, and the holy Peter, and the holy Chad,
and all the other holy dead folk whose names I can’t recall, who
between them, with the help of Rosamund here, and the prayers of the
Prior John and brethren at Stangate, and of Matthew, the village
priest, have given you back to us, my brother, my most beloved
brother.” And he hopped to the bedside, and throwing his long, sinewy
arms about Godwin embraced him again and again.

“Be careful,” said Rosamund drily, “or, Wulf, you will disturb the
bandages, and he has had enough of blood-letting.”

Then before he could answer, which he seemed minded to do, there came
the sound of a slow step, and swinging the curtain aside, a tall and
noble-looking knight entered the little place. The man was old, but
looked older than he was, for sorrow and sickness had wasted him. His
snow-white hair hung upon his shoulders, his face was pale, and his
features were pinched but finely-chiselled, and notwithstanding the
difference of their years, wonderfully like to those of the daughter
Rosamund. For this was her father, the famous lord, Sir Andrew D’Arcy.

Rosamund turned and bent the knee to him with a strange and Eastern
grace, while Wulf bowed his head, and Godwin, since his neck was too
stiff to stir, held up his hand in greeting. The old man looked at him,
and there was pride in his eye.

“So you will live after all, my nephew,” he said, “and for that I thank
the giver of life and death, since by God, you are a gallant man—a
worthy child of the bloods of the Norman D’Arcy and of Uluin the Saxon.
Yes, one of the best of them.”

“Speak not so, my uncle,” said Godwin; “or at least, here is a
worthier,”—and he patted the hand of Wulf with his lean fingers. “It
was Wulf who bore me through. Oh, I remember as much as that—how he
lifted me onto the black horse and bade me to cling fast to mane and
pommel. Ay, and I remember the charge, and his cry of ‘Contre D’Arcy,
contre Mort!’ and the flashing of swords about us, and after
that—nothing.”

“Would that I had been there to help in that fight,” said Sir Andrew
D’Arcy, tossing his white hair. “Oh, my children, it is hard to be sick
and old. A log am I—naught but a rotting log. Still, had I only known—”

“Father, father,” said Rosamund, casting her white arm about his neck.
“You should not speak thus. You have done your share.”

“Yes, my share; but I should like to do more. Oh, St. Andrew, ask it
for me that I may die with sword aloft and my grandsire’s cry upon my
lips. Yes, yes; thus, not like a worn-out war-horse in his stall.
There, pardon me; but in truth, my children, I am jealous of you. Why,
when I found you lying in each other’s arms I could have wept for rage
to think that such a fray had been within a league of my own doors and
I not in it.”

“I know nothing of all that story,” said Godwin.

“No, in truth, how can you, who have been senseless this month or more?
But Rosamund knows, and she shall tell it you. Speak on, Rosamund. Lay
you back, Godwin, and listen.”

“The tale is yours, my cousins, and not mine,” said Rosamund. “You bade
me take the water, and into it I spurred the grey horse, and we sank
deep, so that the waves closed above my head. Then up we came, I
floating from the saddle, but I regained it, and the horse answered to
my voice and bridle, and swam out for the further shore. On it swam,
somewhat slantwise with the tide, so that by turning my head I could
see all that passed upon the mole. I saw them come at you, and men fall
before your swords; I saw you charge them, and run back again. Lastly,
after what seemed a very long while, when I was far away, I saw Wulf
lift Godwin into the saddle—I knew it must be Godwin, because he set
him on the black horse—and the pair of you galloped down the quay and
vanished.

“By then I was near the home shore, and the grey grew very weary and
sank deep in the water. But I cheered it on with my voice, and although
twice its head went beneath the waves, in the end it found a footing,
though a soft one. After resting awhile, it plunged forward with short
rushes through the mud, and so at length came safe to land, where it
stood shaking with fear and weariness. So soon as the horse got its
breath again, I pressed on, for I saw them loosing the boat, and came
home here as the dark closed in, to meet your uncle watching for me at
the gate. Now, father, do you take up the tale.”

“There is little more to tell,” said Sir Andrew. “You will remember,
nephews, that I was against this ride of Rosamund’s to seek flowers, or
I know not what, at St. Peter’s shrine, nine miles away, but as the
maid had set her heart on it, and there are but few pleasures here,
why, I let her go with the pair of you for escort. You will mind also
that you were starting without your mail, and how foolish you thought
me when I called you back and made you gird it on. Well, my patron
saint—or yours—put it into my head to do so, for had it not been for
those same shirts of mail, you were both of you dead men to-day. But
that morning I had been thinking of Sir Hugh Lozelle—if such a false,
pirate rogue can be called a knight, not but that he is stout and brave
enough—and his threats after he recovered from the wound you gave him,
Godwin; how that he would come back and take your cousin for all we
could do to stay him. True, we heard that he had sailed for the East to
war against Saladin—or with him, for he was ever a traitor—but even if
this were so, men return from the East. Therefore I bade you arm,
having some foresight of what was to come, for doubtless this onslaught
must have been planned by him.”

“I think so,” said Wulf, “for, as Rosamund here knows, the tall knave
who interpreted for the foreigner whom he called his master, gave us
the name of the knight Lozelle as the man who sought to carry her off.”

“Was this master a Saracen?” asked Sir Andrew, anxiously.

“Nay, uncle, how can I tell, seeing that his face was masked like the
rest and he spoke through an interpreter? But I pray you go on with the
story, which Godwin has not heard.”

“It is short. When Rosamund told her tale of which I could make little,
for the girl was crazed with grief and cold and fear, save that you had
been attacked upon the old quay, and she had escaped by swimming Death
Creek—which seemed a thing incredible—I got together what men I could.
Then bidding her stay behind, with some of them to guard her, and nurse
herself, which she was loth to do, I set out to find you or your
bodies. It was dark, but we rode hard, having lanterns with us, as we
went rousing men at every stead, until we came to where the roads join
at Moats. There we found a black horse—your horse, Godwin—so badly
wounded that he could travel no further, and I groaned, thinking that
you were dead. Still we went on, till we heard another horse whinny,
and presently found the roan also riderless, standing by the path-side
with his head down.

“‘A man on the ground holds him!’ cried one, and I sprang from the
saddle to see who it might be, to find that it was you, the pair of
you, locked in each other’s arms and senseless, if not dead, as well
you might be from your wounds. I bade the country-folk cover you up and
carry you home, and others to run to Stangate and pray the Prior and
the monk Stephen, who is a doctor, come at once to tend you, while we
pressed onwards to take vengeance if we could. We reached the quay upon
the creek, but there we found nothing save some bloodstains and—this is
strange—your sword, Godwin, the hilt set between two stones, and on the
point a writing.”

“What was the writing?” asked Godwin.

“Here it is,” answered his uncle, drawing a piece of parchment from his
robe. “Read it, one of you, since all of you are scholars and my eyes
are bad.”

Rosamund took it and read what was written, hurriedly but in a clerkly
hand, and in the French tongue. It ran thus: “The sword of a brave man.
Bury it with him if he be dead, and give it back to him if he lives, as
I hope. My master would wish me to do this honour to a gallant foe whom
in that case he still may meet. (Signed) Hugh Lozelle, or Another.”

“Another, then; not Hugh Lozelle,” said Godwin, “since he cannot write,
and if he could, would never pen words so knightly.”

“The words may be knightly, but the writer’s deeds were base enough,”
replied Sir Andrew; “nor, in truth do I understand this scroll.”

“The interpreter spoke of the short man as his master,” suggested Wulf.

“Ay, nephew; but him you met. This writing speaks of a master whom
Godwin may meet, and who would wish the writer to pay him a certain
honour.”

“Perhaps he wrote thus to blind us.”

“Perchance, perchance. The matter puzzles me. Moreover, of whom these
men were I have been able to learn nothing. A boat was seen passing
towards Bradwell—indeed, it seems that you saw it, and that night a
boat was seen sailing southwards down St. Peter’s sands towards a ship
that had anchored off Foulness Point. But what that ship was, whence
she came, and whither she went, none know, though the tidings of this
fray have made some stir.”

“Well,” said Wulf, “at the least we have seen the last of her crew of
women-thieves. Had they meant more mischief, they would have shown
themselves again ere now.”

Sir Andrew looked grave as he answered.

“So I trust, but all the tale is very strange. How came they to know
that you and Rosamund were riding that day to St. Peter’s-on-the-Wall,
and so were able to waylay you? Surely some spy must have warned them,
since that they were no common pirates is evident, for they spoke of
Lozelle, and bade you two begone unharmed, as it was Rosamund whom they
needed. Also, there is the matter of the sword that fell from the hand
of Godwin when he was hurt, which was returned in so strange a fashion.
I have known many such deeds of chivalry done in the East by Paynim
men—”

“Well, Rosamund is half an Eastern,” broke in Wulf carelessly; “and
perhaps that had something to do with it all.”

Sir Andrew started, and the colour rose to his pale face. Then in a
tone in which he showed he wished to speak no more of this matter, he
said:

“Enough, enough. Godwin is very weak, and grows weary, and before I
leave him I have a word to say that it may please you both to hear.
Young men, you are of my blood, the nearest to it except Rosamund—the
sons of that noble knight, my brother. I have ever loved you well, and
been proud of you, but if this was so in the past, how much more is it
thus to-day, when you have done such high service to my house?
Moreover, that deed was brave and great; nothing more knightly has been
told of in Essex this many a year, and those who wrought it should no
longer be simple gentlemen, but very knights. This boon it is in my
power to grant to you according to the ancient custom. Still, that none
may question it, while you lay sick, but after it was believed that
Godwin would live, which at first we scarcely dared to hope, I
journeyed to London and sought audience of our lord the king. Having
told him this tale, I prayed him that he would be pleased to grant me
his command in writing that I should name you knights.

“My nephews, he was so pleased, and here I have the brief sealed with
the royal signet, commanding that in his name and my own I should give
you the accolade publicly in the church of the Priory at Stangate at
such season as may be convenient. Therefore, Godwin, the squire, haste
you to get well that you may become Sir Godwin the knight; for you,
Wulf, save for the hurt to your leg, are well enough already.”

Now Godwin’s white face went red with pride, and Wulf dropped his bold
eyes and looked modest as a girl.

“Speak you,” he said to his brother, “for my tongue is blunt and
awkward.”

“Sir,” said Godwin in a weak voice, “we do not know how to thank you
for so great an honour, that we never thought to win till we had done
more famous deeds than the beating off of a band of robbers. Sir, we
have no more to say, save that while we live we will strive to be
worthy of our name and of you.”

“Well spoken,” said his uncle, adding as though to himself, “this man
is courtly as he is brave.”

Wulf looked up, a flash of merriment upon his open face.

“I, my uncle, whose speech is, I fear me, not courtly, thank you also.
I will add that I think our lady cousin here should be knighted too, if
such a thing were possible for a woman, seeing that to swim a horse
across Death Creek was a greater deed than to fight some rascals on its
quay.”

“Rosamund?” answered the old man in the same dreamy voice. “Her rank is
high enough—too high, far too high for safety.” And turning, he left
the little chamber.

“Well, cousin,” said Wulf, “if you cannot be a knight, at least you can
lessen all this dangerous rank of yours by becoming a knight’s wife.”
Whereat Rosamund looked at him with indignation which struggled with a
smile in her dark eyes, and murmuring that she must see to the making
of Godwin’s broth, followed her father from the place.

“It would have been kinder had she told us that she was glad,” said
Wulf when she was gone.

“Perhaps she would,” answered his brother, “had it not been for your
rough jests, Wulf, which might have a meaning in them.”

“Nay, I had no meaning. Why should she not become a knight’s wife?”

“Ay, but what knight’s? Would it please either of us, brother, if, as
may well chance, he should be some stranger?”

Now Wulf swore a great oath, then flushed to the roots of his fair
hair, and was silent.

“Ah!” said Godwin; “you do not think before you speak, which it is
always well to do.”

“She swore upon the quay yonder”—broke in Wulf.

“Forget what she swore. Words uttered in such an hour should not be
remembered against a maid.”

“God’s truth, brother, you are right, as ever! My tongue runs away with
me, but still I can’t put those words out of my mind, though which of
us—”

“Wulf!”

“I mean to say that we are in Fortune’s path to-day, Godwin. Oh, that
was a lucky ride! Such fighting as I have never seen or dreamed of. We
won it too! And now both of us are alive, and a knighthood for each!”

“Yes, both of us alive, thanks to you, Wulf—nay, it is so, though you
would never have done less. But as for Fortune’s path, it is one that
has many rough turns, and perhaps before all is done she may lead us
round some of them.”

“You talk like a priest, not like a squire who is to be knighted at the
cost of a scar on his head. For my part I will kiss Fortune while I
may, and if she jilts me afterwards—”

“Wulf,” called Rosamund from without the curtain, “cease talking of
kissing at the top of your voice, I pray you, and leave Godwin to
sleep, for he needs it.” And she entered the little chamber, bearing a
bowl of broth in her hand.

Thereon, saying that ladies should not listen to what did not concern
them, Wulf seized his crutch and hobbled from the place.




Chapter III.
The Knighting of the Brethren


Another month had gone by, and though Godwin was still somewhat weak
and suffered from a headache at times, the brethren had recovered from
their wounds. On the last day of November, about two o’clock in the
afternoon, a great procession might have been seen wending its way from
the old Hall at Steeple. In it rode many knights fully armed, before
whom were borne their banners. These went first. Then came old Sir
Andrew D’Arcy, also fully armed, attended by squires and retainers. He
was accompanied by his lovely daughter, the lady Rosamund, clad in
beautiful apparel under her cloak of fur, who rode at his right hand on
that same horse which had swum Death Creek. Next appeared the brethren,
modestly arrayed as simple gentlemen, followed each of them by his
squire, scions of the noble houses of Salcote and of Dengie. After them
rode yet more knights, squires, tenants of various degree, and
servants, surrounded by a great number of peasantry and villeins, who
walked and ran with their women folk and children.

Following the road through the village, the procession turned to the
left at the great arch which marked the boundary of the monk’s lands,
and headed for Stangate Abbey, some two miles away, by the path that
ran between the arable land and the Salt marshes, which are flooded at
high tide. At length they came to the stone gate of the Abbey, that
gave the place its name of Stangate. Here they were met by a company of
the Cluniac monks, who dwelt in this wild and lonely spot upon the
water’s edge, headed by their prior, John Fitz Brien. He was a
venerable, white-haired man, clad in wide-sleeved, black robes, and
preceded by a priest carrying a silver cross. Now the procession
separated, Godwin and Wulf, with certain of the knights and their
esquires, being led to the Priory, while the main body of it entered
the church, or stood about outside its door.

Arrived in the house, the two knights elect were taken to a room where
their hair was cut and their chins were shaved by a barber who awaited
them. Then, under the guidance of two old knights named Sir Anthony de
Mandeville and Sir Roger de Merci, they were conducted to baths
surrounded with rich cloths. Into these, having been undressed by the
squires, they entered and bathed themselves, while Sir Anthony and Sir
Roger spoke to them through the cloths of the high duties of their
vocation, ending by pouring water over them, and signing their bare
bodies with the sign of the Cross. Next they were dressed again, and
preceded by minstrels, led to the church, at the porch of which they
and their esquires were given wine to drink.

Here, in the presence of all the company, they were clothed first in
white tunics, to signify the whiteness of their hearts; next in red
robes, symbolical of the blood they might be called upon to shed for
Christ; and lastly, in long black cloaks, emblems of the death that
must be endured by all. This done, their armour was brought in and
piled before them upon the steps of the altar, and the congregation
departed homeward, leaving them with their esquires and the priest to
spend the long winter night in orisons and prayers.

Long, indeed, it was, in that lonesome, holy place, lit only by a lamp
which swung before the altar. Wulf prayed and prayed until he could
pray no more, then fell into a half dreamful state that was haunted by
the face of Rosamund, where even her face should have been forgotten.
Godwin, his elbow resting against the tomb that hid his father’s heart,
prayed also, until even his earnestness was outworn, and he began to
wonder about many things.

That dream of his, for instance, in his sickness, when he had seemed to
be dead, and what might be the true duty of man. To be brave and
upright? Surely. To fight for the Cross of Christ against the Saracen?
Surely, if the chance came his way. What more? To abandon the world and
to spend his life muttering prayers like those priests in the darkness
behind him? Could that be needful or of service to God or man? To man,
perhaps, because such folk tended the sick and fed the poor. But to
God? Was he not sent into the world to bear his part in the world—to
live his full life? This would mean a half-life—one into which no woman
might enter, to which no child might be added, since to monks and even
to certain brotherhoods, all these things, which Nature decreed and
Heaven had sanctified, were deadly sin.

It would mean, for instance, that he must think no more of Rosamund.
Could he do this for the sake of the welfare of his soul in some future
state?

Why, at the thought of it even, in that solemn place and hour of
dedication, his spirit reeled, for then and there for the first time it
was borne in upon him that he loved this woman more than all the world
beside—more than his life, more, perhaps, than his soul. He loved her
with all his pure young heart—so much that it would be a joy to him to
die for her, not only in the heat of battle, as lately had almost
chanced on the Death Creek quay, but in cold blood, of set purpose, if
there came need. He loved her with body and with spirit, and, after
God, here to her he consecrated his body and his spirit. But what value
would she put upon the gift? What if some other man—?

By his side, his elbows resting on the altar rails, his eyes fixed upon
the beaming armour that he would wear in battle, knelt Wulf, his
brother—a mighty man, a knight of knights, fearless, noble,
open-hearted; such a one as any woman might well love. And he also
loved Rosamund. Of this Godwin was sure. And, oh! did not Rosamund love
Wulf? Bitter jealousy seized upon his vitals. Yes; even then and there,
black envy got hold of Godwin, and rent him so sore that, cold as was
the place, the sweat poured from his brow and body.

Should he abandon hope? Should he fly the battle for fear that he might
be defeated? Nay; he would fight on in all honesty and honour, and if
he were overcome, would meet his fate as a brave knight should—without
bitterness, but without shame. Let destiny direct the matter. It was in
the hands of destiny, and stretching out his arm, he threw it around
the neck of his brother, who knelt beside him, and let it rest there,
until the head of the weary Wulf sank sleepily upon his shoulder, like
the head of an infant upon its mother’s breast.

“Oh Jesu,” Godwin moaned in his poor heart, “give me strength to fight
against this sinful passion that would lead me to hate the brother whom
I love. Oh Jesu, give me strength to bear it if he should be preferred
before me. Make me a perfect knight—strong to suffer and endure, and,
if need be, to rejoice even in the joy of my supplanter.”

At length the grey dawn broke, and the sunlight, passing through the
eastern window, like a golden spear, pierced the dusk of the long
church, which was built to the shape of a cross, so that only its
transepts remained in shadow. Then came a sound of chanting, and at the
western door entered the Prior, wearing all his robes, attended by the
monks and acolytes, who swung censers. In the centre of the nave he
halted and passed to the confessional, calling on Godwin to follow. So
he went and knelt before the holy man, and there poured out all his
heart. He confessed his sins. They were but few. He told him of the
vision of his sickness, on which the Prior pondered long; of his deep
love, his hopes, his fears, and his desire to be a warrior who once, as
a lad, had wished to be a monk, not that he might shed blood, but to
fight for the Cross of Christ against the Paynim, ending with a cry of—

“Give me counsel, O my father. Give me counsel.”

“Your own heart is your best counsellor,” was the priest’s answer. “Go
as it guides you, knowing that, through it, it is God who guides. Nor
fear that you will fail. But if love and the joys of life should leave
you, then come back, and we will talk again. Go on, pure knight of
Christ, fearing nothing and sure of the reward, and take with you the
blessing of Christ and of his Church.”

“What penance must I bear, father?”

“Such souls as yours inflict their own penance. The saints forbid that
I should add to it,” was the gentle answer.

Then with a lightened heart Godwin returned to the altar rails, while
his brother Wulf was summoned to take his place in the confessional. Of
the sins that he had to tell we need not speak. They were such as are
common to young men, and none of them very grievous. Still, before he
gave him absolution, the good Prior admonished him to think less of his
body and more of his spirit; less of the glory of feats of arms and
more of the true ends to which he should enter on them. He bade him,
moreover, to take his brother Godwin as an earthly guide and example,
since there lived no better or wiser man of his years, and finally
dismissed him, prophesying that if he would heed these counsels, he
would come to great glory on earth and in heaven.

“Father, I will do my best,” answered Wulf humbly; “but there cannot be
two Godwins; and, father, sometimes I fear me that our paths will
cross, since two men cannot win one woman.”

“I know the trouble,” answered the Prior anxiously, “and with less
noble-natured men it might be grave. But if it should come to this,
then must the lady judge according to the wishes of her own heart, and
he who loses her must be loyal in sorrow as in joy. Be sure that you
take no base advantage of your brother in the hour of temptation, and
bear him no bitterness should he win the bride.”

“I think I can be sure of that,” said Wulf; “also that we, who have
loved each other from birth, would die before we betrayed each other.”

“I think so also,” answered the Prior; “but Satan is very strong.”

Then Wulf also returned to the altar rails, and the full Mass was sung,
and the Sacrament received by the two neophytes, and the offerings made
all in their appointed order. Next they were led back to the Priory to
rest and eat a little after their long night’s vigil in the cold
church, and here they abode awhile, thinking their own thoughts, seated
alone in the Prior’s chamber. At length Wulf, who seemed to be ill at
ease, rose and laid his hand upon his brother’s shoulder, saying:

“I can be silent no more; it was ever thus: that which is in my mind
must out of it. I have words to say to you.”

“Speak on, Wulf,” said Godwin.

Wulf sat himself down again upon his stool, and for a while stared hard
at nothing, for he did not seem to find it easy to begin this talk. Now
Godwin could read his brother’s mind like a book, but Wulf could not
always read Godwin’s, although, being twins who had been together from
birth, their hearts were for the most part open to each other without
the need of words.

“It is of our cousin Rosamund, is it not?” asked Godwin presently.

“Ay. Who else?”

“And you would tell me that you love her, and that now you are a
knight—almost—and hard on five-and twenty years of age, you would ask
her to become your affianced wife?”

“Yes, Godwin; it came into my heart when she rode the grey horse into
the water, there upon the pier, and I thought that I should never see
her any more. I tell you it came into my heart that life was not worth
living nor death worth dying without her.”

“Then, Wulf,” answered Godwin slowly, “what more is there to say? Ask
on, and prosper. Why not? We have some lands, if not many, and Rosamund
will not lack for them. Nor do I think that our uncle would forbid you,
if she wills it, seeing that you are the properest man and the bravest
in all this country side.”

“Except my brother Godwin, who is all these things, and good and
learned to boot, which I am not,” replied Wulf musingly. Then there was
silence for a while, which he broke.

“Godwin, our ill-luck is that you love her also, and that you thought
the same thoughts which I did yonder on the quay-head.”

Godwin flushed a little, and his long fingers tightened their grip upon
his knee.

“It is so,” he said quietly. “To my grief it is so. But Rosamund knows
nothing of this, and should never know it if you will keep a watch upon
your tongue. Moreover, you need not be jealous of me, before marriage
or after.”

“What, then, would you have me do?” asked Wulf hotly. “Seek her heart,
and perchance—though this I doubt—let her yield it to me, she thinking
that you care naught for her?”

“Why not?” asked Godwin again, with a sigh; “it might save her some
pain and you some doubt, and make my own path clearer. Marriage is more
to you than to me, Wulf, who think sometimes that my sword should be my
spouse and duty my only aim.”

“Who think, having a heart of gold, that even in such a thing as this
you will not bar the path of the brother whom you love. Nay, Godwin, as
I am a sinful man, and as I desire her above all things on earth, I
will play no such coward’s game, nor conquer one who will not lift his
sword lest he should hurt me. Sooner would I bid you all farewell, and
go to seek fortune or death in the wars without word spoken.”

“Leaving Rosamund to pine, perchance. Oh, could we be sure that she had
no mind toward either of us, that would be best—to begone together.
But, Wulf, we cannot be sure, since at times, to be honest, I have
thought she loves you.”

“And at times, to be honest, Godwin, I have been sure that she loves
you, although I should like to try my luck and hear it from her lips,
which on such terms I will not do.”

“What, then, is your plan, Wulf?”

“My plan is that if our uncle gives us leave, we should both speak to
her—you first, as the elder, setting out your case as best you can, and
asking her to think of it and give you your answer within a day. Then,
before that day is done I also should speak, so that she may know all
the story, and play her part in it with opened eyes, not deeming, as
otherwise she might, that we know each other’s minds, and that you ask
because I have no will that way.”

“It is very fair,” replied Godwin; “and worthy of you, who are the most
honest of men. Yet, Wulf, I am troubled. See you, my brother, have ever
brethren loved each other as we do? And now must the shadow of a woman
fall upon and blight that love which is so fair and precious?”

“Why so?” asked Wulf. “Come, Godwin, let us make a pact that it shall
not be thus, and keep it by the help of heaven. Let us show the world
that two men can love one woman and still love each other, not knowing
as yet which of them she will choose—if, indeed, she chooses either.
For, Godwin, we are not the only gentlemen whose eyes have turned, or
yet may turn, towards the high-born, rich, and lovely lady Rosamund. Is
it your will that we should make such a pact?”

Godwin thought a little, then answered:

“Yes; but if so, it must be one so strong that for her sake and for
both our sakes we cannot break it and live with honour.”

“So be it,” said Wulf; “this is man’s work, not child’s make-believe.”

Then Godwin rose, and going to the door, bade his squire, who watched
without, pray the Prior John to come to them as they sought his counsel
in a matter. So he came, and, standing before him with downcast head,
Godwin told him all the tale, which, indeed, he who knew so much
already, was quick to understand, and of their purpose also; while at a
question from the prior, Wulf answered that it was well and truly said,
nothing having been kept back. Then they asked him if it was lawful
that they should take such an oath, to which he replied that he thought
it not only lawful, but very good.

So in the end, kneeling together hand in hand before the Rood that
stood in the chamber, they repeated this oath after him, both of them
together.

“We brethren, Godwin and Wulf D’Arcy, do swear by the holy Cross of
Christ, and by the patron saint of this place, St. Mary Magdalene, and
our own patron saints, St. Peter and St. Chad, standing in the presence
of God, of our guardian angels, and of you, John, that being both of us
enamoured of our cousin, Rosamund D’Arcy, we will ask her to wife in
the manner we have agreed, and no other. That we will abide by her
decision, should she choose either of us, nor seek to alter it by
tempting her from her troth, or in any fashion overt or covert. That he
of us whom she refuses will thenceforth be a brother to her and no
more, however Satan may tempt his heart otherwise. That so far as may
be possible to us, who are but sinful men, we will suffer neither
bitterness nor jealousy to come between our love because of this woman,
and that in war or peace we will remain faithful comrades and brethren.
Thus we swear with a true heart and purpose, and in token thereof,
knowing that he who breaks this oath will be a knight dishonoured and a
vessel fit for the wrath of God, we kiss this Rood and one another.”

This, then, these brethren said and did, and with light minds and
joyful faces received the blessing of the Prior, who had christened
them in infancy, and went down to meet the great company that had
ridden forth to lead them back to Steeple, where their knighting should
be done.

So to Steeple, preceded by the squires, who rode before them
bareheaded, carrying their swords by the scabbarded points, with their
gold spurs hanging from the hilts, they came at last. Here the hall was
set for a great feast, a space having been left between the tables and
the dais, to which the brethren were conducted. Then came forward Sir
Anthony de Mandeville and Sir Roger de Merci in full armour, and
presented to Sir Andrew D’Arcy, their uncle, who stood upon the edge of
the dais, also in his armour, their swords and spurs, of which he gave
back to them two of the latter, bidding them affix these upon the
candidates’ right heels. This done, the Prior John blessed the swords,
after which Sir Andrew girded them about the waists of his nephews,
saying:

“Take ye back the swords that you have used so well.”

Next, he drew his own silver-hilted blade that had been his father’s
and his grandfather’s, and whilst they knelt before him, smote each of
them three blows upon the right shoulder, crying with a loud voice: “In
the name of God, St. Michael, and St. George, I knight ye. Be ye good
knights.”

Thereafter came forward Rosamund as their nearest kinswoman, and,
helped by other ladies, clad upon them their hauberks, or coats of
mail, their helms of steel, and their kite-shaped shields, emblazoned
with a skull, the cognizance of their race. This done, with the
musicians marching before them, they walked to Steeple church—a
distance of two hundred paces from the Hall, where they laid their
swords upon the altar and took them up again, swearing to be good
servants of Christ and defenders of the Church. As they left its doors,
who should meet them but the cook, carrying his chopper in his hand and
claiming as his fee the value of the spurs they wore, crying aloud at
the same time:

“If either of you young knights should do aught in despite of your
honour and of the oaths that you have sworn—from which may God and his
saints prevent you!—then with my chopper will I hack these spurs from
off your heels.”

Thus at last the long ceremony was ended, and after it came a very
great feast, for at the high table were entertained many noble knights
and ladies, and below, in the hall their squires, and other gentlemen,
and outside all the yeomanry and villagers, whilst the children and the
aged had food and drink given to them in the nave of the church itself.
When the eating at length was done, the centre of the hall was cleared,
and while men drank, the minstrels made music. All were very merry with
wine and strong ale, and talk arose among them as to which of these
brethren—Sir Godwin or Sir Wulf—was the more brave, the more handsome,
and the more learned and courteous.

Now a knight—it was Sir Surin de Salcote—seeing that the argument grew
hot and might lead to blows, rose and declared that this should be
decided by beauty alone, and that none could be more fitted to judge
than the fair lady whom the two of them had saved from woman-thieves at
the Death Creek quay. They all called, “Ay, let her settle it,” and it
was agreed that she would give the kerchief from her neck to the
bravest, a beaker of wine to the handsomest, and a Book of Hours to the
most learned.

So, seeing no help for it, since except her father, the brethren, the
most of the other ladies and herself, who drank but water, gentle and
simple alike, had begun to grow heated with wine, and were very urgent,
Rosamund took the silk kerchief from her neck. Then coming to the edge
of the dais, where they were seated in the sight of all, she stood
before her cousins, not knowing, poor maid, to which of them she should
offer it. But Godwin whispered a word to Wulf, and both of them
stretching out their right hands, snatched an end of the kerchief which
she held towards them, and rending it, twisted the severed halves round
their sword hilts. The company laughed at their wit, and cried:

“The wine for the more handsome. They cannot serve that thus.”

Rosamund thought a moment; then she lifted a great silver beaker, the
largest on the board, and having filled it full of wine, once more came
forward and held it before them as though pondering. Thereon the
brethren, as though by a single movement, bent forward and each of them
touched the beaker with his lips. Again a great laugh went up, and even
Rosamund smiled.

“The book! the book!” cried the guests. “They dare not rend the holy
book!”

So for the third time Rosamund advanced, bearing the missal.

“Knights,” she said, “you have torn my kerchief and drunk my wine. Now
I offer this hallowed writing—to him who can read it best.”

“Give it to Godwin,” said Wulf. “I am a swordsman, not a clerk.”

“Well said! well said!” roared the company. “The sword for us—not the
pen!” But Rosamund turned on them and answered:

“He who wields sword is brave, and he who wields pen is wise, but
better is he who can handle both sword and pen—like my cousin Godwin,
the brave and learned.”

“Hear her! hear her!” cried the revellers, knocking their horns upon
the board, while in the silence that followed a woman’s voice said,
“Sir Godwin’s luck is great, but give me Sir Wulf’s strong arms.”

Then the drinking began again, and Rosamund and the ladies slipped
away, as well they might—for the times were rough and coarse.

On the morrow, after most of the guests were gone, many of them with
aching heads, Godwin and Wulf sought their uncle, Sir Andrew, in the
solar where he sat alone, for they knew Rosamund had walked to the
church hard by with two of the serving women to make it ready for the
Friday’s mass, after the feast of the peasants that had been held in
the nave. Coming to his oaken chair by the open hearth which had a
chimney to it—no common thing in those days—they knelt before him.

“What is it now, my nephews?” asked the old man, smiling. “Do you wish
that I should knight you afresh?”

“No, sir,” answered Godwin; “we seek a greater boon.”

“Then you seek in vain, for there is none.”

“Another sort of boon,” broke in Wulf.

Sir Andrew pulled his beard, and looked at them. Perhaps the Prior John
had spoken a word to him, and he guessed what was coming.

“Speak,” he said to Godwin. “The gift is great that I would not give to
either of you if it be within my power.”

“Sir,” said Godwin, “we seek the leave to ask your daughter’s hand in
marriage.”

“What! the two of you?”

“Yes, sir; the two of us.”

Then Sir Andrew, who seldom laughed, laughed outright.

“Truly,” he said, “of all the strange things I have known, this is the
strangest—that two knights should ask one wife between them.”

“It seems strange, sir; but when you have heard our tale you will
understand.”

So he listened while they told him all that had passed between them and
of the solemn oath which they had sworn.

“Noble in this as in other things,” commented Sir Andrew when they had
done; “but I fear that one of you may find that vow hard to keep. By
all the saints, nephews, you were right when you said that you asked a
great boon. Do you know, although I have told you nothing of it, that,
not to speak of the knave Lozelle, already two of the greatest men in
this land have sought my daughter Rosamund in marriage?”

“It may well be so,” said Wulf.

“It is so, and now I will tell you why one or other of the pair is not
her husband, which in some ways I would he were. A simple reason. I
asked her, and she had no mind to either, and as her mother married
where her heart was, so I have sworn that the daughter should do, or
not at all—for better a nunnery than a loveless bridal.

“Now let us see what you have to give. You are of good blood—that of
Uluin by your mother, and mine, also on one side her own. As squires to
your sponsors of yesterday, the knights Sir Anthony de Mandeville and
Sir Roger de Merci, you bore yourselves bravely in the Scottish War;
indeed, your liege king Henry remembered it, and that is why he granted
my prayer so readily. Since then, although you loved the life little,
because I asked it of you, you have rested here at home with me, and
done no feats of arms, save that great one of two months gone which
made you knights, and, in truth, gives you some claim on Rosamund.

“For the rest, your father being the younger son, your lands are small,
and you have no other gear. Outside the borders of this shire you are
unknown men, with all your deeds to do—for I will not count those
Scottish battles when you were but boys. And she whom you ask is one of
the fairest and noblest and most learned ladies in this land, for I,
who have some skill in such things, have taught her myself from
childhood. Moreover, as I have no other heir, she will be wealthy.
Well, what more have you to offer for all this?”

“Ourselves,” answered Wulf boldly. “We are true knights of whom you
know the best and worst, and we love her. We learned it for once and
for all on Death Creek quay, for till then she was our sister and no
more.”

“Ay,” added Godwin, “when she swore herself to us and blessed us, then
light broke on both.”

“Stand up,” said Sir Andrew, “and let me look at you.”

So they stood side by side in the full light of the blazing fire, for
little other came through those narrow windows.

“Proper men; proper men,” said the old knight; “and as like to one
another as two grains of wheat from the same sample. Six feet high,
each of you, and broad chested, though Wulf is larger made and the
stronger of the two. Brown and waving-haired both, save for that line
of white where the sword hit yours, Godwin—Godwin with grey eyes that
dream and Wulf with the blue eyes that shine like swords. Ah! your
grandsire had eyes like that, Wulf; and I have been told that when he
leapt from the tower to the wall at the taking of Jerusalem, the
Saracens did not love the light which shone in them—nor, in faith, did
I, his son, when he was angry. Proper men, the pair of you; but Sir
Wulf most warriorlike, and Sir Godwin most courtly. Now which do you
think would please a woman most?”

“That, sir, depends upon the woman,” answered Godwin, and straightway
his eyes began to dream.

“That, sir, we seek to learn before the day is out, if you give us
leave,” added Wulf; “though, if you would know, I think my chance a
poor one.”

“Ah, well; it is a very pretty riddle. But I do not envy her who has
its answering, for it might well trouble a maid’s mind, neither is it
certain when all is done that she will guess best for her own peace.
Would it not be wiser, then, that I should forbid them to ask this
riddle?” he added as though to himself and fell to thinking while they
trembled, seeing that he was minded to refuse their suit.

At length he looked up again and said: “Nay, let it go as God wills Who
holds the future in His hand. Nephews, because you are good knights and
true, either of whom would ward her well—and she may need
warding—because you are my only brother’s sons, whom I have promised
him to care for; and most of all because I love you both with an equal
love, have your wish, and go try your fortunes at the hands of my
daughter Rosamund in the fashion you have agreed. Godwin, the elder,
first, as is his right; then Wulf. Nay, no thanks; but go swiftly, for
I whose hours are short wish to learn the answer to this riddle.”

So they bowed and went, walking side by side. At the door of the hall,
Wulf stopped and said:

“Rosamund is in the church. Seek her there, and—oh! I would that I
could wish you good fortune; but, Godwin, I cannot. I fear me that this
may be the edge of that shadow of woman’s love whereof you spoke,
falling cold upon my heart.”

“There is no shadow; there is light, now and always, as we have sworn
that it should be,” answered Godwin.




Chapter IV.
The Letter of Saladin


Twas past three in the afternoon, and snow clouds were fast covering up
the last grey gleam of the December day, as Godwin, wishing that his
road was longer, walked to Steeple church across the meadow. At the
door of it he met the two serving women coming out with brooms in their
hands, and bearing between them a great basket filled with broken meats
and foul rushes. Of them he asked if the Lady Rosamund were still in
the church, to which they answered, curtseying:

“Yes, Sir Godwin; and she bade us desire of you that you would come to
lead her to the Hall when she had finished making her prayers before
the altar.”

“I wonder,” mused Godwin, “whether I shall ever lead her from the altar
to the Hall, or whether—I shall bide alone by the altar?”

Still he thought it a good omen that she had bidden him thus, though
some might have read it otherwise.

Godwin entered the church, walking softly on the rushes with which its
nave was strewn, and by the light of the lamp that burnt there always,
saw Rosamund kneeling before a little shrine, her gracious head bowed
upon her hands, praying earnestly. Of what, he wondered—of what?

Still, she did not hear him; so, coming into the chancel, he stood
behind her and waited patiently. At length, with a deep sigh, Rosamund
rose from her knees and turned, and he noted by the light of the lamp
that there were tear-stains upon her face. Perhaps she, too, had spoken
with the Prior John, who was her confessor also. Who knows? At the
least, when her eyes fell upon Godwin standing like a statue before
her, she started, and there broke from her lips the words:

“Oh, how swift an answer!” Then, recovering herself, added, “To my
message, I mean, cousin.”

“I met the women at the door,” he said.

“It is kind of you to come,” Rosamund went on; “but, in truth, since
that day on Death Creek I fear to walk a bow-shot’s length alone or in
the company of women only. With you I feel safe.”

“Or with Wulf?”

“Yes; or with Wulf,” she repeated; “that is, when he is not thinking of
wars and adventures far away.”

By now they had reached the porch of the church, to find that the snow
was falling fast.

“Let us bide here a minute,” he said; “it is but a passing cloud.”

So they stayed there in the gloom, and for a while there was silence
between them. Then he spoke.

“Rosamund, my cousin and lady, I come to put a question to you, but
first—why you will understand afterwards—it is my duty to ask that you
will give me no answer to that question until a full day has passed.”

“Surely, Godwin, that is easy to promise. But what is this wonderful
question which may not be answered?”

“One short and simple. Will you give yourself to me in marriage,
Rosamund?”

She leaned back against the wall of the porch.

“My father—” she began.

“Rosamund, I have his leave.”

“How can I answer since you yourself forbid me?”

“Till this time to-morrow only. Meanwhile, I pray you hear me,
Rosamund. I am your cousin, and we were brought up together—indeed,
except when I was away at the Scottish war, we have never been apart.
Therefore, we know each other well, as well as any can who are not
wedded. Therefore, too, you will know that I have always loved you,
first as a brother loves his sister, and now as a man loves a woman.”

“Nay, Godwin, I knew it not; indeed, I thought that, as it used to be,
your heart was other-where.”

“Other-where? What lady—?”

“Nay, no lady; but in your dreams.”

“Dreams? Dreams of what?”

“I cannot say. Perchance of things that are not here—things higher than
the person of a poor maid.”

“Cousin, in part you are right, for it is not only the maid whom I
love, but her spirit also. Oh, in truth, you are to me a dream—a symbol
of all that is noble, high and pure. In you and through you, Rosamund,
I worship the heaven I hope to share with you.”

“A dream? A symbol? Heaven? Are not these glittering garments to hang
about a woman’s shape? Why, when the truth came out you would find her
but a skull in a jewelled mask, and learn to loathe her for a deceit
that was not her own, but yours. Godwin, such trappings as your
imagination pictures could only fit an angel’s face.”

“They fit a face that will become an angel’s.”

“An angel’s? How know you? I am half an Eastern; the blood runs warm in
me at times. I, too, have my thoughts and visions. I think that I love
power and imagery and the delights of life—a different life from this.
Are you sure, Godwin, that this poor face will be an angel’s?”

“I wish I were as sure of other things. At least I’ll risk it.”

“Think of your soul, Godwin. It might be tarnished. You would not risk
that for me, would you?”

He thought. Then answered:

“No; since your soul is a part of mine, and I would not risk yours,
Rosamund.”

“I like you for that answer,” she said. “Yes; more than for all you
have said before, because I know that it is true. Indeed, you are an
honourable knight, and I am proud—very proud—that you should love me,
though perhaps it would have been better otherwise.” And ever so little
she bent the knee to him.

“Whatever chances, in life or death those words will make me happy,
Rosamund.”

Suddenly she caught his arm. “Whatever chances? Ah! what is about to
chance? Great things, I think, for you and Wulf and me. Remember, I am
half an Eastern, and we children of the East can feel the shadow of the
future before it lays its hands upon us and becomes the present. I fear
it, Godwin—I tell you that I fear it.”

“Fear it not, Rosamund. Why should you fear? On God’s knees lies the
scroll of our lives, and of His purposes. The words we see and the
words we guess may be terrible, but He who wrote it knows the end of
the scroll, and that it is good. Do not fear, therefore, but read on
with an untroubled heart, taking no thought for the morrow.”

She looked at him wonderingly, and asked,

“Are these the words of a wooer or of a saint in wooer’s weeds? I know
not, and do you know yourself? But you say you love me and that you
would wed me, and I believe it; also that the woman whom Godwin weds
will be fortunate, since such men are rare. But I am forbid to answer
till to-morrow. Well, then I will answer as I am given grace. So till
then be what you were of old, and—the snow has ceased; guide me home,
my cousin Godwin.”

So home they went through the darkness and the cold, moaning wind,
speaking no word, and entered the wide hall, where a great fire built
in its centre roared upwards towards an opening in the roof, whence the
smoke escaped, looking very pleasant and cheerful after the winter
night without.

There, standing in front of the fire, also pleasant and cheerful to
behold, although his brow seemed somewhat puckered, was Wulf. At the
sight of him Godwin turned back through the great door, and having, as
it were, stood for one moment in the light, vanished again into the
darkness, closing the door behind him. But Rosamund walked on towards
the fire.

“You seem cold, cousin,” said Wulf, studying her. “Godwin has kept you
too long to pray with him in church. Well, it is his custom, from which
I myself have suffered. Be seated on this settle and warm yourself.”

She obeyed without a word, and opening her fur cloak, stretched out her
hands towards the flame, which played upon her dark and lovely face.
Wulf looked round him.

The hall was empty. Then he looked at Rosamund.

“I am glad to find this chance of speaking with you alone, Cousin,
since I have a question to ask of you; but I must pray of you to give
me no answer to it until four-and-twenty hours be passed.”

“Agreed,” she said. “I have given one such promise; let it serve for
both; now for your question.”

“Ah!” replied Wulf cheerfully; “I am glad that Godwin went first, since
it saves me words, at which he is better than I am.”

“I do not know that, Wulf; at least, you have more of them,” answered
Rosamund, with a little smile.

“More perhaps, but of a different quality—that is what you mean. Well,
happily here mere words are not in question.”

“What, then, are in question, Wulf?”

“Hearts. Your heart and my heart—and, I suppose, Godwin’s heart, if he
has one—in that way.”

“Why should not Godwin have a heart?”

“Why? Well, you see just now it is my business to belittle Godwin.
Therefore I declare—which you, who know more about it, can believe or
not as it pleases you—that Godwin’s heart is like that of the old saint
in the reliquary at Stangate—a thing which may have beaten once, and
will perhaps beat again in heaven, but now is somewhat dead—to this
world.”

Rosamund smiled, and thought to herself that this dead heart had shown
signs of life not long ago. But aloud she said:

“If you have no more to say to me of Godwin’s heart, I will begone to
read with my father, who waits for me.”

“Nay, I have much more to say of my own.” Then suddenly Wulf became
very earnest—so earnest that his great frame shook, and when he strove
to speak he could but stammer. At length it all came forth in a flood
of burning words.

“I love you, Rosamund! I love you—all of you, as I have ever loved
you—though I did not know it till the other day—that of the fight, and
ever shall love you—and I seek you for my wife. I know that I am only a
rough soldier-man, full of faults, not holy and learned like Godwin.
Yet I swear that I would be a true knight to you all my life, and, if
the saints give me grace and strength, do great deeds in your honour
and watch you well. Oh! what more is there to say?”

“Nothing, Wulf,” answered Rosamund, lifting her downcast eyes. “You do
not wish that I should answer you, so I will thank you—yes, from my
heart, though, in truth, I am grieved that we can be no more brother
and sister, as we have been this many a year—and be going.”

“Nay, Rosamund, not yet. Although you may not speak, surely you might
give me some little sign, who am in torment, and thus must stay until
this time to-morrow. For instance, you might let me kiss your hand—the
pact said nothing about kissing.”

“I know naught of this pact, Wulf,” answered Rosamund sternly, although
a smile crept about the corners of her mouth, “but I do know that I
shall not suffer you to touch my hand.”

“Then I will kiss your robe,” and seizing a corner of her cloak, he
pressed it to his lips.

“You are strong—I am weak, Wulf, and cannot wrench my garment from you,
but I tell you that this play advantages you nothing.”

He let the cloak fall.

“Your pardon. I should have remembered that Godwin would never have
presumed so far.”

“Godwin,” she said, tapping her foot upon the ground, “if he gave a
promise, would keep it in the spirit as well as in the letter.”

“I suppose so. See what it is for an erring man to have a saint for a
brother and a rival! Nay, be not angry with me, Rosamund, who cannot
tread the path of saints.”

“That I believe, but at least, Wulf, there is no need to mock those who
can.”

“I mock him not. I love him as well as—you do.” And he watched her
face.

It never changed, for in Rosamund’s heart were hid the secret strength
and silence of the East, which can throw a mask impenetrable over face
and features.

“I am glad that you love him, Wulf. See to it that you never forget
your love and duty.”

“I will; yes—even if you reject me for him.”

“Those are honest words, such as I looked to hear you speak,” she
replied in a gentle voice. “And now, dear Wulf, farewell, for I am
weary—”

“To-morrow—” he broke in.

“Ay,” she answered in a heavy voice. “To-morrow I must speak, and—you
must listen.”

The sun had run his course again, and once more it was near four
o’clock in the afternoon. The brethren stood by the great fire in the
hall looking at each other doubtfully—as, indeed, they had looked
through all the long hours of the night, during which neither of them
had closed an eye.

“It is time,” said Wulf, and Godwin nodded.

As he spoke a woman was seen descending from the solar, and they knew
her errand.

“Which?” asked Wulf, but Godwin shook his head.

“Sir Andrew bids me say that he would speak with you both,” said the
woman, and went her way.

“By the saints, I believe it’s neither!” exclaimed Wulf, with a little
laugh.

“It may be thus,” said Godwin, “and perhaps that would be best for
all.”

“I don’t think so,” answered Wulf, as he followed him up the steps of
the solar.

Now they had passed the passage and closed the door, and before them
was Sir Andrew seated in his chair by the fire, but not alone, for at
his side, her hand resting upon his shoulder, stood Rosamund. They
noted that she was clad in her richest robes, and a bitter thought came
into their minds that this might be to show them how beautiful was the
woman whom both of them must lose. As they advanced they bowed first to
her and then to their uncle, while, lifting her eyes from the ground,
she smiled a little in greeting.

“Speak, Rosamund,” said her father. “These knights are in doubt and
pain.”

“Now for the _coup de grâce_,” muttered Wulf.

“My cousins,” began Rosamund in a low, quiet voice, as though she were
saying a lesson, “as to the matter of which you spoke to me yesterday,
I have taken counsel with my father and with my own heart. You did me
great honour, both of you, in asking me to be the wife of such worthy
knights, with whom I have been brought up and have loved since
childhood as a sister loves her brothers. I will be brief as I may.
Alas! I can give to neither of you the answer which you wish.”

“_Coup de grâce_ indeed,” muttered Wulf, “through hauberk, gambeson,
and shirt, right home to the heart.”

But Godwin only turned a trifle paler and said nothing.

Now there was silence for a little space, while from beneath his bushy
eyebrows the old knight watched their faces, on which the light of the
tapers fell.

Then Godwin spoke: “We thank you, Cousin. Come, Wulf, we have our
answer; let us be going.”

“Not all of it,” broke in Rosamund hastily, and they seemed to breathe
again.

“Listen,” she said; “for if it pleases you, I am willing to make a
promise which my father has approved. Come to me this time two years,
and if we all three live, should both of you still wish for me to wife,
that there may be no further space of pain or waiting, I will name the
man whom I shall choose, and marry him at once.”

“And if one of us is dead?” asked Godwin.

“Then,” replied Rosamund, “if his name be untarnished, and he has done
no deed that is not knightly, will forthwith wed the other.”

“Pardon me—” broke in Wulf.

She held up her hand and stopped him, saying: “You think this a strange
saying, and so, perhaps, it is; but the matter is also strange, and for
me the case is hard. Remember, all my life is at stake, and I may
desire more time wherein to make my choice, that between two such men
no maiden would find easy. We are all of us still young for marriage,
for which, if God guards our lives, there will be time and to spare.
Also in two years I may learn which of you is in truth the worthier
knight, who to-day both seem so worthy.”

“Then is neither of us more to you than the other?” asked Wulf
outright.

Rosamund turned red, and her bosom heaved as she replied:

“I will not answer that question.”

“And Wulf should not have asked it,” said Godwin. “Brother, I read
Rosamund’s saying thus: Between us she finds not much to choose, or if
she does in her secret heart, out of her kindness—since she is
determined not to marry for a while—she will not suffer us to see it
and thereby bring grief on one of us. So she says, ‘Go forth, you
knights, and do deeds worthy of such a lady, and perchance he who does
the highest deeds shall receive the great reward.’ For my part, I find
this judgment wise and just, and I am content to abide its issue. Nay,
I am even glad of it, since it gives us time and opportunity to show
our sweet cousin here, and all our fellows, the mettle whereof we are
made, and strive to outshine each other in the achievement of great
feats which, as always, we shall attempt side by side.”

“Well spoken,” said Sir Andrew. “And you, Wulf?”

Then Wulf, feeling that Rosamund was watching his face beneath the
shadow of her long eyelashes, answered:

“Before Heaven, I am content also, for whatever may be said against it,
now at least there will be two years of war in which one or both of us
well may fall, and for that while at least no woman can come between
our brotherhood. Uncle, I crave your leave to go serve my liege in
Normandy.”

“And I also,” said Godwin.

“In the spring; in the spring,” replied Sir Andrew hastily; “when King
Henry moves his power. Meanwhile, bide you here in all good fellowship,
for, who knows—much may happen between now and then, and perhaps your
strong arms will be needed as they were not long ago. Moreover, I look
to all three of you to hear no more of this talk of love and marriage,
which, in truth, disturbs my mind and house. For good or ill, the
matter is now settled for two years to come, by which time it is likely
I shall be in my grave and beyond all troubling.

“I do not say that things have gone altogether as I could have wished,
but they are as Rosamund wishes, and that is enough for me. On which of
you she looks with the more favour I do not know, and be you content to
remain in ignorance of what a father does not think it wise to seek to
learn. A maid’s heart is her own, and her future lies in the hand of
God and His saints, where let it bide, say I. Now we have done with all
this business. Rosamund, dismiss your knights, and be you all three
brothers and sister once more till this time two years, when those who
live will find an answer to the riddle.”

So Rosamund came forward, and without a word gave her right hand to
Godwin and her left to Wulf, and suffered that they should press their
lips upon them. So for a while this was the end of their asking of her
in marriage.

The brethren left the solar side by side as they had come into it, but
changed men in a sense, for now their lives were afire with a great
purpose, which bade them dare and do and win. Yet they were
lighter-hearted than when they entered there, since at least neither
had been scorned, while both had hope, and all the future, which the
young so seldom fear, lay before them.

As they descended the steps their eyes fell upon the figure of a tall
man clad in a pilgrim’s cape, hood and low-crowned hat, of which the
front was bent upwards and laced, who carried in his hand a palmer’s
staff, and about his waist the scrip and water-bottle.

“What do you seek, holy palmer?” asked Godwin, coming towards him. “A
night’s lodging in my uncle’s house?”

The man bowed; then, fixing on him a pair of beadlike brown eyes, which
reminded Godwin of some he had seen, he knew not when or where,
answered in the humble voice affected by his class:

“Even so, most noble knight. Shelter for man and beast, for my mule is
held without. Also—a word with the lord, Sir Andrew D’Arcy, for whom I
have a message.”

“A mule?” said Wulf. “I thought that palmers always went afoot?”

“True, Sir Knight; but, as it chances, I have baggage. Nay, not my own,
whose earthly gear is all upon my back—but a chest, that contains I
know not what, which I am charged to deliver to Sir Andrew D’Arcy, the
owner of this hall, or should he be dead, then to the lady Rosamund,
his daughter.”

“Charged? By whom?” asked Wulf.

“That, sir,” said the palmer, bowing, “I will tell to Sir Andrew, who,
I understand, still lives. Have I your leave to bring in the chest, and
if so, will one of your servants help me, for it is heavy?”

“We will help you,” said Godwin. And they went with him into the
courtyard, where by the scant light of the stars they saw a fine mule
in charge of one of the serving men, and bound upon its back a
long-shaped package sewn over with sacking. This the palmer unloosed,
and taking one end, while Wulf, after bidding the man stable the mule,
took the other, they bore it into the hall, Godwin going before them to
summon his uncle. Presently he came and the palmer bowed to him.

“What is your name, palmer, and whence is this box?” asked the old
knight, looking at him keenly.

“My name, Sir Andrew, is Nicholas of Salisbury, and as to who sent me,
with your leave I will whisper in your ear.” And, leaning forward, he
did so.

Sir Andrew heard and staggered back as though a dart had pierced him.

“What?” he said. “Are you, a holy palmer, the messenger of—” and he
stopped suddenly.

“I was his prisoner,” answered the man, “and he—who at least ever keeps
his word—gave me my life—for I had been condemned to die—at the price
that I brought this to you, and took back your answer, or hers, which I
have sworn to do.”

“Answer? To what?”

“Nay, I know nothing save that there is a writing in the chest. Its
purport I am not told, who am but a messenger bound by oath to do
certain things. Open the chest, lord, and meanwhile, if you have food,
I have travelled far and fast.”

Sir Andrew went to a door, and called to his men-servants, whom he bade
give meat to the palmer and stay with him while he ate. Then he told
Godwin and Wulf to lift the box and bring it to the solar, and with it
hammer and chisel, in case they should be needed, which they did,
setting it upon the oaken table.

“Open,” said Sir Andrew. So they ripped off the canvas, two folds of
it, revealing within a box of dark, foreign looking wood bound with
iron bands, at which they laboured long before they could break them.
At length it was done, and there within was another box beautifully
made of polished ebony, and sealed at the front and ends with a strange
device. This box had a lock of silver, to which was tied a silver key.

“At least it has not been tampered with,” said Wulf, examining the
unbroken seals, but Sir Andrew only repeated:

“Open, and be swift. Here, Godwin, take the key, for my hand shakes
with cold.”

The lock turned easily, and the seals being broken, the lid rose upon
its hinges, while, as it did so, a scent of precious odours filled the
place. Beneath, covering the contents of the chest, was an oblong piece
of worked silk, and lying on it a parchment.

Sir Andrew broke the thread and seal, and unrolled the parchment.
Within it was written over in strange characters. Also, there was a
second unsealed roll, written in a clerkly hand in Norman French, and
headed, “Translation of this letter, in case the knight, Sir Andrew
D’Arcy, has forgotten the Arabic tongue, or that his daughter, the lady
Rosamund, has not yet learned the same.”

Sir Andrew glanced at both headings, then said:

“Nay, I have not forgotten Arabic, who, while my lady lived, spoke
little else with her, and who taught it to our daughter. But the light
is bad, and, Godwin, you are scholarly; read me the French. We can
compare them afterwards.”

At this moment Rosamund entered the solar from her chamber, and seeing
the three of them so strangely employed, said:

“Is it your will that I go, father?”

“No, daughter. Since you are here, stay here. I think that this matter
concerns you as well as me. Read on, Godwin.”

So Godwin read:

“In the Name of God, the Merciful and Compassionate! I, Salah-ed-din,
Yusuf ibn Ayoub, Commander of the Faithful, cause these words to be
written, and seal them with my own hand, to the Frankish lord, Sir
Andrew D’Arcy, husband of my sister by another mother, Sitt Zobeide,
the beautiful and faithless, on whom Allah has taken vengeance for her
sin. Or if he be dead also, then to his daughter and hers, my niece,
and by blood a princess of Syria and Egypt, who among the English is
named the lady Rose of the World.

“You, Sir Andrew, will remember how, many years ago, when we were
friends, you, by an evil chance, became acquainted with my sister
Zobeide, while you were a prisoner and sick in my father’s house. How,
too, Satan put it into her heart to listen to your words of love, so
that she became a Cross-worshipper, and was married to you after the
Frankish custom, and fled with you to England. You will remember also,
although at the time we could not recapture her from your vessel, how I
sent a messenger to you, saying that soon or late I would yet tear her
from your arms and deal with her as we deal with faithless women. But
within six years of that time sure news reached me that Allah had taken
her, therefore I mourned for my sister and her fate awhile, and forgot
her and you.

“Know that a certain knight named Lozelle, who dwelt in the part of
England where you have your castle, has told me that Zobeide left a
daughter, who is very beautiful. Now my heart, which loved her mother,
goes out towards this niece whom I have never seen, for although she is
your child and a Cross-worshipper at least—save in the matter of her
mother’s theft—you were a brave and noble knight, of good blood, as,
indeed, I remember your brother was also, he who fell in the fight at
Harenc.

“Learn now that, having by the will of Allah come to great estate here
at Damascus and throughout the East, I desire to lift your daughter up
to be a princess of my house. Therefore I invite her to journey to
Damascus, and you with her, if you live. Moreover, lest you should fear
some trap, on behalf of myself, my successors and councillors, I
promise in the Name of God, and by the word of Salah-ed-din, which
never yet was broken, that although I trust the merciful God may change
her heart so that she enters it of her own will, I will not force her
to accept the Faith or to bind herself in any marriage which she does
not desire. Nor will I take vengeance upon you, Sir Andrew, for what
you have done in the past, or suffer others to do so, but will rather
raise you to great honour and live with you in friendship as of yore.

“But if my messenger returns and tells me that my niece refuses this,
my loving offer, then I warn her that my arm is long, and I will surely
take her as I can.

“Therefore, within a year of the day that I receive the answer of the
lady, my niece, who is named Rose of the World, my emissaries will
appear wherever she may be, married or single, to lead her to me, with
honour if she be willing, but still to lead her to me if she be
unwilling. Meanwhile, in token of my love, I send certain gifts of
precious things, and with them my patent of her title as Princess, and
Lady of the City of Baalbec, which title, with its revenue and
prerogatives, are registered in the archives of my empire in favour of
her and her lawful heirs, and declared to be binding upon me and my
successors forever.

“The bearer of this letter and of my gifts is a certain
Cross-worshipper named Nicholas, to whom let your answer be handed for
delivery to me. This devoir he is under oath to perform and will
perform it, for he knows that if he fails therein, then that he must
die.

“Signed by Salah-ed-din, Commander of the Faithful, at Damascus, and
sealed with his seal, in the spring season of the year of the Hegira
581.

“Take note also that this writing having been read to me by my
secretary before I set my name and seal thereunto, I perceive that you,
Sir Andrew, or you, Lady Rose of the World, may think it strange that I
should be at such pains and cost over a maid who is not of my religion
and whom I never saw, and may therefore doubt my honesty in the matter.
Know then the true reason. Since I heard that you, Lady Rose of the
World, lived, I have thrice been visited by a dream sent from God
concerning you, and in it I saw your face.

“Now this was the dream—that the oath I made as regards your mother is
binding as regards you also; further, that in some way which is not
revealed to me, your presence here will withhold me from the shedding
of a sea of blood, and save the whole world much misery. Therefore it
is decreed that you must come and bide in my house. That these things
are so, Allah and His Prophet be my witnesses.”




Chapter V.
The Wine Merchant


Godwin laid down the letter, and all of them stared at one another in
amazement.

“Surely,” said Wulf, “this is some fool’s trick played off upon our
uncle as an evil jest.”

By way of answer Sir Andrew bade him lift the silk that hid the
contents of the coffer and see what lay there. Wulf did so, and next
moment threw back his head like a man whom some sudden light had
blinded, as well he might, for from it came such a flare of gems as
Essex had rarely seen before. Red, green and blue they sparkled; and
among them were the dull glow of gold and the white sheen of pearls.

“Oh, how beautiful! how beautiful!” said Rosamund.

“Ay,” muttered Godwin; “beautiful enough to maze a woman’s mind till
she knows not right from wrong.”

Wulf said nothing, but one by one drew its treasures from the
chest—coronet, necklace of pearls, breast ornaments of rubies, girdle
of sapphires, jewelled anklets, and with them veil, sandals, robes and
other garments of gold-embroidered purple silk. Moreover, among these,
also sealed with the seals of Salah-ed-din, his viziers, officers of
state, and secretaries, was that patent of which the letter spoke,
setting out the full titles of the Princess of Baalbec; the extent and
boundaries of her great estates, and the amount of her annual revenue,
which seemed more money than they had ever heard of.

“I was wrong,” said Wulf. “Even the Sultan of the East could not afford
a jest so costly.”

“Jest?” broke in Sir Andrew; “it is no jest, as I was sure from the
first line of that letter. It breathes the very spirit of Saladin,
though he be a Saracen, the greatest man on all the earth, as I, who
was a friend of his youth, know well. Ay, and he is right. In a sense I
sinned against him as his sister sinned, our love compelling us. Jest?
Nay, no jest, but because a vision of the night, which he believes the
voice of God, or perhaps some oracle of the magicians has deeply
stirred that great soul of his and led him on to this wild adventure.”

He paused awhile, then looked up and said, “Girl, do you know what
Saladin has made of you? Why, there are queens in Europe who would be
glad to own that rank and those estates in the rich lands above
Damascus. I know the city and the castle of which he speaks. It is a
mighty place upon the banks of Litani and Orontes, and after its
military governor—for that rule he would not give a Christian—you will
be first in it, beneath the seal of Saladin—the surest title in all the
earth. Say, will you go and queen it there?”

Rosamund gazed at the gleaming gems and the writings that made her
royal, and her eyes flashed and her breast heaved, as they had done by
the church of St. Peter on the Essex coast. Thrice she looked while
they watched her, then turned her head as from the bait of some great
temptation and answered one word only—“Nay.”

“Well spoken,” said her father, who knew her blood and its longings.
“At least, had the ‘nay’ been ‘yea,’ you must have gone alone. Give me
ink and parchment, Godwin.”

They were brought, and he wrote:

“To the Sultan Saladin, from Andrew D’Arcy and his daughter Rosamund.

“We have received your letter, and we answer that where we are there we
will bide in such state as God has given us. Nevertheless, we thank
you, Sultan, since we believe you honest, and we wish you well, except
in your wars against the Cross. As for your threats, we will do our
best to bring them to nothing. Knowing the customs of the East, we do
not send back your gifts to you, since to do so would be to offer
insult to one of the greatest men in all the world; but if you choose
to ask for them, they are yours—not ours. Of your dream we say that it
was but an empty vision of the night which a wise man should
forget.—Your servant and your niece.”

Then he signed, and Rosamund signed after him, and the writing was done
up, wrapped in silk, and sealed.

“Now,” said Sir Andrew, “hide away this wealth, since were it known
that we had such treasures in the place, every thief in England would
be our visitor, some of them bearing high names, I think.”

So they laid the gold-embroidered robes and the priceless sets of gems
back in their coffer, and having locked it, hid it away in the great
iron-bound chest that stood in Sir Andrew’s sleeping chamber.

When everything was finished, Sir Andrew said: “Listen now, Rosamund,
and you also, my nephews. I have never told you the true tale of how
the sister of Saladin, who was known as Zobeide, daughter of Ayoub, and
afterwards christened into our faith by the name of Mary, came to be my
wife. Yet you should learn it, if only to show how evil returns upon a
man. After the great Nur-ed-din took Damascus, Ayoub was made its
governor; then some three-and-twenty years ago came the capture of
Harenc, in which my brother fell. Here I was wounded and taken
prisoner. They bore me to Damascus, where I was lodged in the palace of
Ayoub and kindly treated. Here too it was, while I lay sick, that I
made friends with the young Saladin, and with his sister Zobeide, whom
I met secretly in the gardens of the palace. The rest may be guessed.
Although she numbered but half my years, she loved me as I loved her,
and for my sake offered to change her faith and fly with me to England
if opportunity could be found, which was hard.

“Now, as it chanced, I had a friend, a dark and secret man named Jebal,
the young sheik of a terrible people, whose cruel rites no Christian
understands. They are the subjects of one Mahomet, in Persia, and live
in castles at Masyaf, on Lebanon. This man had been in alliance with
the Franks, and once in a battle I saved his life from the Saracens at
the risk of my own, whereon he swore that did I summon him from the
ends of the earth he would come to me if I needed help. Moreover, he
gave me his signet-ring as a token, and, by virtue of it, so he said,
power in his dominions equal to his own, though these I never visited.
You know it,” and holding up his hand, Sir Andrew showed them a heavy
gold ring, in which was set a black stone, with red veins running
across the stone in the exact shape of a dagger, and beneath the dagger
words cut in unknown characters.

“So in my plight I bethought me of Jebal, and found means to send him a
letter sealed with his ring. Nor did he forget his promise, for within
twelve days Zobeide and I were galloping for Beirut on two horses so
swift that all the cavalry of Ayoub could not overtake them. We reached
the city, and there were married, Rosamund. There too your mother was
baptised a Christian. Thence, since it was not safe for us to stay in
the East, we took ship and came safe home, bearing this ring of Jebal
with us, for I would not give it up, as his servants demanded that I
should do, except to him alone. But before that vessel sailed, a man
disguised as a fisherman brought me a message from Ayoub and his son
Saladin, swearing that they would yet recapture Zobeide, the daughter
of one of them and sister of the other.

“That is the story, and you see that their oath has not been forgotten,
though when in after years they learned of my wife’s death, they let
the matter lie. But since then Saladin, who in those days was but a
noble youth, has become the greatest sultan that the East has ever
known, and having been told of you, Rosamund, by that traitor Lozelle,
he seeks to take you in your mother’s place, and, daughter, I tell you
that I fear him.”

“At least we have a year or longer in which to prepare ourselves, or to
hide,” said Rosamund. “His palmer must travel back to the East before
my uncle Saladin can have our answer.”

“Ay,” said Sir Andrew; “perhaps we have a year.”

“What of the attack on the quay?” asked Godwin, who had been thinking.
“The knight Lozelle was named there. Yet if Saladin had to do with it,
it seems strange that the blow should have come before the word.”

Sir Andrew brooded a while, then said:

“Bring in this palmer. I will question him.”

So the man Nicholas, who was found still eating as though his hunger
would never be satisfied, was brought in by Wulf. He bowed low before
the old knight and Rosamund, studying them the while with his sharp
eyes, and the roof and the floor, and every other detail of the
chamber. For those eyes of his seemed to miss nothing.

“You have brought me a letter from far away, Sir Palmer, who are named
Nicholas,” said Sir Andrew.

“I have brought you a chest from Damascus, Sir Knight, but of its
contents I know nothing. At least you will bear me witness that it has
not been tampered with,” answered Nicholas.

“I find it strange,” went on the old knight, “that one in your holy
garb should be chosen as the messenger of Saladin, with whom Christian
men have little to do.”

“But Saladin has much to do with Christian men, Sir Andrew. Thus he
takes them prisoner even in times of peace, as he did me.”

“Did he, then, take the knight Lozelle prisoner?”

“The knight Lozelle?” repeated the palmer. “Was he a big, red-faced
man, with a scar upon his forehead, who always wore a black cloak over
his mail?”

“That might be he.”

“Then he was not taken prisoner, but he came to visit the Sultan at
Damascus while I lay in bonds there, for I saw him twice or thrice,
though what his business was I do not know. Afterwards he left, and at
Jaffa I heard that he had sailed for Europe three months before I did.”

Now the brethren looked at each other. So Lozelle was in England. But
Sir Andrew made no comment, only he said: “Tell me your story, and be
careful that you speak the truth.”

“Why should I not, who have nothing to hide?” answered Nicholas. “I was
captured by some Arabs as I journeyed to the Jordan upon a pilgrimage,
who, when they found that I had no goods to be robbed of, would have
killed me. This, indeed, they were about to do, had not some of
Saladin’s soldiers come by and commanded them to hold their hands and
give me over to them. They did so, and the soldiers took me to
Damascus. There I was imprisoned, but not close, and then it was that I
saw Lozelle, or, at least, a Christian man who had some such name, and,
as he seemed to be in favour with the Saracens, I begged him to
intercede for me. Afterwards I was brought before the court of Saladin,
and having questioned me, the Sultan himself told me that I must either
worship the false prophet or die, to which you can guess my answer. So
they led me away, as I thought, to death, but none offered to do me
hurt.

“Three days later Saladin sent for me again, and offered to spare my
life if I would swear an oath, which oath was that I should take a
certain package and deliver it to you, or to your daughter named the
Lady Rosamund here at your hall of Steeple, in Essex, and bring back
the answer to Damascus. Not wishing to die, I said that I would do
this, if the Sultan passed his word, which he never breaks, that I
should be set free afterwards.”

“And now you are safe in England, do you purpose to return to Damascus
with the answer, and, if so, why?”

“For two reasons, Sir Andrew. First, because I have sworn to do so, and
I do not break my word any more than does Saladin. Secondly, because I
continue to wish to live, and the Sultan promised me that if I failed
in my mission, he would bring about my death wherever I might be, which
I am sure he has the power to do by magic or otherwise. Well, the rest
of the tale is short. The chest was handed over to me as you see it,
and with it money sufficient for my faring to and fro and something to
spare. Then I was escorted to Joppa, where I took passage on a ship
bound to Italy, where I found another ship named the Holy Mary sailing
for Calais, which we reached after being nearly cast away. Thence I
came to Dover in a fishing boat, landing there eight days ago, and
having bought a mule, joined some travellers to London, and so on
here.”

“And how will you return?”

The palmer shrugged his shoulders.

“As best I may, and as quickly. Is your answer ready, Sir Andrew?”

“Yes; it is here,” and he handed him the roll, which Nicholas hid away
in the folds of his great cloak. Then Sir Andrew added, “You say you
know nothing of all the business in which you play this part?”

“Nothing; or, rather, only this—the officer who escorted me to Jaffa
told me that there was a stir among the learned doctors and diviners at
the court because of a certain dream which the Sultan had dreamed three
times. It had to do with a lady who was half of the blood of Ayoub and
half English, and they said that my mission was mixed up with this
matter. Now I see that the noble lady before me has eyes strangely like
those of the Sultan Saladin.” And he spread out his hands and ceased.

“You seem to see a good deal, friend Nicholas.”

“Sir Andrew, a poor palmer who wishes to preserve his throat unslit
must keep his eyes open. Now I have eaten well, and I am weary. Is
there any place where I may sleep? I must be gone at daybreak, for
those who do Saladin’s business dare not tarry, and I have your
letter.”

“There is a place,” answered Sir Andrew. “Wulf, take him to it, and
to-morrow, before he leaves, we will speak again. Till then, farewell,
holy Nicholas.”

With one more searching glance the palmer bowed and went. When the door
closed behind him Sir Andrew beckoned Godwin to him, and whispered:

“To-morrow, Godwin, you must take some men and follow this Nicholas to
see where he goes and what he does, for I tell you I do not trust
him—ay, I fear him much! These embassies to and from Saracens are
strange traffic for a Christian man. Also, though he says his life
hangs on it, I think that were he honest, once safe in England here he
would stop, since the first priest would absolve him of an oath forced
from him by the infidel.”

“Were he dishonest would he not have stolen those jewels?” asked
Godwin. “They are worth some risk. What do you think, Rosamund?”

“I?” she answered. “Oh, I think there is more in this than any of us
dream.

“I think,” she added in a voice of distress and with an involuntary
wringing motion of the hands, “that for this house and those who dwell
in it time is big with death, and that sharp-eyed palmer is its
midwife. How strange is the destiny that wraps us all about! And now
comes the sword of Saladin to shape it, and the hand of Saladin to drag
me from my peaceful state to a dignity which I do not seek; and the
dreams of Saladin, of whose kin I am, to interweave my life with the
bloody policies of Syria and the unending war between Cross and
Crescent, that are, both of them, my heritage.” Then, with a woeful
gesture, Rosamund turned and left them.

Her father watched her go, and said:

“The maid is right. Great business is afoot in which all of us must
bear our parts. For no little thing would Saladin stir thus—he who
braces himself as I know well, for the last struggle in which Christ or
Mahomet must go down. Rosamund is right. On her brow shines the
crescent diadem of the house of Ayoub, and at her heart hangs the black
cross of the Christian and round her struggle creeds and nations. What,
Wulf, does the man sleep already?”

“Like a dog, for he seems outworn with travel.”

“Like a dog with one eye open, perhaps. I do not wish that he should
give us the slip during the night, as I want more talk with him and
other things, of which I have spoken to Godwin.”

“No fear of that, uncle. I have locked the stable door, and a sainted
palmer will scarcely leave us the present of such a mule.”

“Not he, if I know his tribe,” answered Sir Andrew. “Now let us sup and
afterwards take counsel together, for we shall need it before all is
done.”

An hour before the dawn next morning Godwin and Wulf were up, and with
them certain trusted men who had been warned that their services would
be needed. Presently Wulf, bearing a lantern in his hand, came to where
his brother stood by the fire in the hall.

“Where have you been?” Godwin asked. “To wake the palmer?”

“No. To place a man to watch the road to Steeple Hill, and another at
the Creek path; also to feed his mule, which is a very fine beast—too
good for a palmer. Doubtless he will be stirring soon, as he said that
he must be up early.”

Godwin nodded, and they sat together on the bench beside the fire, for
the weather was bitter, and dozed till the dawn began to break. Then
Wulf rose and shook himself, saying:

“He will not think it uncourteous if we rouse him now,” and walking to
the far end of the hall, he drew a curtain and called out, “Awake, holy
Nicholas! awake! It is time for you to say your prayers, and breakfast
will soon be cooking.”

But no Nicholas answered.

“Of a truth,” grumbled Wulf, as he came back for his lantern, “that
palmer sleeps as though Saladin had already cut his throat.” Then
having lit it, he returned to the guest place.

“Godwin,” he called presently, “come here. The man has gone!”

“Gone?” said Godwin as he ran to the curtain. “Gone where?”

“Back to his friend Saladin, I think,” answered Wulf. “Look, that is
how he went.” And he pointed to the shutter of the sleeping-place, that
stood wide open, and to an oaken stool beneath, by means of which the
sainted Nicholas had climbed up to and through the narrow window slit.

“He must be without, grooming the mule which he would never have left,”
said Godwin.

“Honest guests do not part from their hosts thus,” answered Wulf; “but
let us go and see.”

So they ran to the stable and found it locked and the mule safe enough
within. Nor—though they looked—could they find any trace of the
palmer—not even a footstep, since the ground was frostbound. Only on
examining the door of the stable they discovered that an attempt had
been made to lift the lock with some sharp instrument.

“It seems that he was determined to be gone, either with or without the
beast,” said Wulf. “Well, perhaps we can catch him yet,” and he called
to the men to saddle up and ride with him to search the country.

For three hours they hunted far and wide, but nothing did they see of
Nicholas.

“The knave has slipped away like a night hawk, and left as little
trace,” reported Wulf. “Now, my uncle, what does this mean?”

“I do not know, save that it is of a piece with the rest, and that I
like it little,” answered the old knight anxiously. “Here the value of
the beast was of no account, that is plain. What the man held of
account was that he should be gone in such a fashion that none could
follow him or know whither he went. The net is about us, my nephews,
and I think that Saladin draws its string.”

Still less pleased would Sir Andrew have been, could he have seen the
palmer Nicholas creeping round the hall while all men slept, ere he
girded up his long gown and ran like a hare for London. Yet he had done
this by the light of the bright stars, taking note of every window slit
in it, more especially of those of the solar; of the plan of the
outbuildings also, and of the path that ran to Steeple Creek some five
hundred yards away.

From that day forward fear settled on the place—fear of some blow that
none were able to foresee, and against which they could not guard. Sir
Andrew even talked of leaving Steeple and of taking up his abode in
London, where he thought that they might be safer, but such foul
weather set in that it was impossible to travel the roads, and still
less to sail the sea. So it was arranged that if they moved at all—and
there were many things against it, not the least of which were Sir
Andrew’s weak health and the lack of a house to go to—it should not be
till after New Year’s Day.

Thus the time went on, and nothing happened to disturb them. The
friends of whom the old knight took counsel laughed at his forebodings.
They said that so long as they did not wander about unguarded, there
was little danger of any fresh attack upon them, and if one should by
chance be made, with the aid of the men they had they could hold the
Hall against a company until help was summoned. Moreover, at heart,
none of them believed that Saladin or his emissaries would stir in this
business before the spring, or more probably until another year had
passed. Still, they always set guards at night, and, besides
themselves, kept twenty men sleeping at the Hall. Also they arranged
that on the lighting of a signal fire upon the tower of Steeple Church
their neighbours should come to succour them.

So the time went on towards Christmas, before which the weather changed
and became calm, with sharp frost.

It was on the shortest day that Prior John rode up to the Hall and told
them that he was going to Southminster to buy some wine for the
Christmas feast. Sir Andrew asked what wine there was at Southminster.
The Prior answered that he had heard that a ship, laden amongst other
things with wine of Cyprus of wonderful quality, had come into the
river Crouch with her rudder broken. He added that as no shipwrights
could be found in London to repair it till after Christmas, the
chapman, a Cypriote, who was in charge of the wine, was selling as much
as he could in Southminster and to the houses about at a cheap rate,
and delivering it by means of a wain that he had hired.

Sir Andrew replied that this seemed a fair chance to get fine liquor,
which was hard to come by in Essex in those times. The end of it was
that he bade Wulf, whose taste in strong drink was nice, to ride with
the Prior into Southminster, and if he liked the stuff to buy a few
casks of it for them to make merry with at Christmas—although he
himself, because of his ailments, now drank only water.

So Wulf went, nothing loth. In this dark season of the year when there
was no fishing, it grew very dull loitering about the Hall, and since
he did not read much, like Godwin, sitting for long hours by the fire
at night watching Rosamund going to and fro upon her tasks, but not
speaking with her overmuch. For notwithstanding all their pretense of
forgetfulness, some sort of veil had fallen between the brethren and
Rosamund, and their intercourse was not so open and familiar as of old.
She could not but remember that they were no more her cousins only, but
her lovers also, and that she must guard herself lest she seemed to
show preference to one above the other. The brethren for their part
must always bear in mind also that they were bound not to show their
love, and that their cousin Rosamund was no longer a simple English
lady, but also by creation, as by blood, a princess of the East, whom
destiny might yet lift beyond the reach of either of them.

Moreover, as has been said, dread sat upon that rooftree like a
croaking raven, nor could they escape from the shadow of its wing. Far
away in the East a mighty monarch had turned his thoughts towards this
English home and the maid of his royal blood who dwelt there, and who
was mingled with his visions of conquest and of the triumph of his
faith. Driven on by no dead oath, by no mere fancy or imperial desire,
but by some spiritual hope or need, he had determined to draw her to
him, by fair means if he could; if not, by foul. Already means both
foul and fair had failed, for that the attack at Death Creek quay had
to do with this matter they could no longer doubt. It was certain also
that others would be tried again and again till his end was won or
Rosamund was dead—for here, if even she would go back upon her word,
marriage itself could not shield her.

So the house was sad, and saddest of all seemed the face of the old
knight, Sir Andrew, oppressed as he was with sickness, with memories
and fears. Therefore, Wulf could find pleasure even in an errand to
Southminster to buy wine, of which, in truth, he would have been glad
to drink deeply, if only to drown his thoughts awhile.

So away he rode up Steeple Hill with the Prior, laughing as he used to
do before Rosamund led him to gather flowers at St.
Peter’s-on-the-Wall.

Asking where the foreign merchant dwelt who had wine to sell, they were
directed to an inn near the minster. Here in a back room they found a
short, stout man, wearing a red cloth cap, who was seated on a pillow
between two kegs. In front of him stood a number of folk, gentry and
others, who bargained with him for his wine and the silks and
embroideries that he had to sell, giving the latter to be handled and
samples of the drink to all who asked for them.

“Clean cups,” he said, speaking in bad French, to the drawer who stood
beside him. “Clean cups, for here come a holy man and a gallant knight
who wish to taste my liquor. Nay, fellow, fill them up, for the top of
Mount Trooidos in winter is not so cold as this cursed place, to say
nothing of its damp, which is that of a dungeon,” and he shivered,
drawing his costly shawl closer round him.

“Sir Abbot, which will you taste first—the red wine or the yellow? The
red is the stronger but the yellow is the more costly and a drink for
saints in Paradise and abbots upon earth. The yellow from Kyrenia?
Well, you are wise. They say it was my patron St. Helena’s favourite
vintage when she visited Cyprus, bringing with her Disma’s cross.”

“Are you a Christian then?” asked the Prior. “I took you for a Paynim.”

“Were I not a Christian would I visit this foggy land of yours to trade
in wine—a liquor forbidden to the Moslems?” answered the man, drawing
aside the folds of his shawl and revealing a silver crucifix upon his
broad breast. “I am a merchant of Famagusta in Cyprus, Georgios by
name, and of the Greek Church which you Westerners hold to be
heretical. But what do you think of that wine, holy Abbot?”

The Prior smacked his lips.

“Friend Georgios, it is indeed a drink for the saints,” he answered.

“Ay, and has been a drink for sinners ere now—for this is the very
tipple that Cleopatra, Queen of Egypt, drank with her Roman lover
Antony, of whom you, being a learned man, may have heard. And you, Sir
Knight, what say you of the black stuff—‘Mavro,’ we call it—not the
common, but that which has been twenty years in cask?”

“I have tasted worse,” said Wulf, holding out his horn to be filled
again.

“Ay, and will never taste better if you live as long as the Wandering
Jew. Well, sirs, may I take your orders? If you are wise you will make
them large, since no such chance is likely to come your way again, and
that wine, yellow or red, will keep a century.”

Then the chaffering began, and it was long and keen. Indeed, at one
time they nearly left the place without purchasing, but the merchant
Georgios called them back and offered to come to their terms if they
would take double the quantity, so as to make up a cartload between
them, which he said he would deliver before Christmas Day. To this they
consented at length, and departed homewards made happy by the gifts
with which the chapman clinched his bargain, after the Eastern fashion.
To the Prior he gave a roll of worked silk to be used as an edging to
an altar cloth or banner, and to Wulf a dagger handle, quaintly carved
in olive wood to the fashion of a rampant lion. Wulf thanked him, and
then asked him with a somewhat shamed face if he had more embroidery
for sale, whereat the Prior smiled. The quick-eyed Cypriote saw the
smile, and inquired if it might be needed for a lady’s wear, at which
some neighbours present in the room laughed outright.

“Do not laugh at me, gentlemen,” said the Eastern; “for how can I, a
stranger, know this young knight’s affairs, and whether he has mother,
or sisters, or wife, or lover? Well here are broideries fit for any of
them.” Then bidding his servant bring a bale, he opened it, and began
to show his goods, which, indeed, were very beautiful. In the end Wulf
purchased a veil of gauze-like silk worked with golden stars as a
Christmas gift for Rosamund. Afterwards, remembering that even in such
a matter he must take no advantage of his brother, he added to it a
tunic broidered with gold and silver flowers such as he had never
seen—for they were Eastern tulips and anemones, which Godwin would give
her also if he wished.

These silks were costly, and Wulf turned to the Prior to borrow money,
but he had no more upon him. Georgios said, however, that it mattered
nothing, as he would take a guide from the town and bring the wine in
person, when he could receive payment for the broideries, of which he
hoped to sell more to the ladies of the house.

He offered also to go with the Prior and Wulf to where his ship lay in
the river, and show them many other goods aboard of her, which, he
explained to them, were the property of a company of Cyprian merchants
who had embarked upon this venture jointly with himself. This they
declined, however, as the darkness was not far off; but Wulf added that
he would come after Christmas with his brother to see the vessel that
had made so great a voyage. Georgios replied that they would be very
welcome, but if he could make shift to finish the repairs to his
rudder, he was anxious to sail for London while the weather held calm,
for there he looked to sell the bulk of his cargo. He added that he had
expected to spend Christmas at that city, but their helm having gone
wrong in the rough weather, they were driven past the mouth of the
Thames, and had they not drifted into that of the Crouch, would, he
thought, have foundered. So he bade them farewell for that time, but
not before he had asked and received the blessing of the Prior.

Thus the pair of them departed, well pleased with their purchases and
the Cypriote Georgios, whom they found a very pleasant merchant. Prior
John stopped to eat at the Hall that night, when he and Wulf told of
all their dealings with this man. Sir Andrew laughed at the story,
showing them how they had been persuaded by the Eastern to buy a great
deal more wine than they needed, so that it was he and not they who had
the best of the bargain. Then he went on to tell tales of the rich
island of Cyprus, where he had landed many years before and stayed
awhile, and of the gorgeous court of its emperor, and of its
inhabitants. These were, he said, the cunningest traders in the
world—so cunning, indeed, that no Jew could overmatch them; bold
sailors, also, which they had from the Phoenicians of Holy Writ, who,
with the Greeks, were their forefathers, adding that what they told him
of this Georgios accorded well with the character of that people.

Thus it came to pass that no suspicion of Georgios or his ship entered
the mind of any one of them, which, indeed, was scarcely strange,
seeing how well his tale held together, and how plain were the reasons
of his presence and the purpose of his dealings in wines and silks.




Chapter VI.
The Christmas Feast at Steeple


The fourth day after Wulf’s visit to Southminster was Christmas
morning, and the weather being bad, Sir Andrew and his household did
not ride to Stangate, but attended mass in Steeple Church. Here, after
service, according to his custom on this day, he gave a largesse to his
tenants and villeins, and with it his good wishes and a caution that
they should not become drunk at their Yuletide feast, as was the common
habit of the time.

“We shall not get the chance,” said Wulf, as they walked to the Hall,
“since that merchant Georgios has not delivered the wine, of which I
hoped to drink a cup to-night.”

“Perhaps he has sold it at a better price to someone else; it would be
like a Cypriote,” answered Sir Andrew, smiling.

Then they went into the hall, and as had been agreed between them,
together the brethren gave their Christmas gifts to Rosamund. She
thanked them prettily enough, and much admired the beauty of the work.
When they told her that it had not yet been paid for, she laughed and
said that, however they were come by, she would wear both tunic and
veil at their feast, which was to be held at nightfall.

About two o’clock in the afternoon a servant came into the hall to say
that a wain drawn by three horses and accompanied by two men, one of
whom led the horses, was coming down the road from Steeple village.

“Our merchant—and in time after all,” said Wulf, and, followed by the
others, he went out to meet them.

Georgios it was, sure enough, wrapped in a great sheepskin cloak such
as Cypriotes wear in winter, and seated on the head of one of his own
barrels.

“Your pardon, knights,” he said as he scrambled nimbly to the ground.
“The roads in this country are such that, although I have left nearly
half my load at Stangate, it has taken me four long hours to come from
the Abbey here, most of which time we spent in mud-holes that have
wearied the horses and, as I fear, strained the wheels of this crazy
wagon. Still, here we are at last, and, noble sir,” he added, bowing to
Sir Andrew, “here too is the wine that your son bought of me.”

“My nephew,” interrupted Sir Andrew.

“Once more your pardon. I thought from their likeness to you that these
knights were your sons.”

“Has he bought all that stuff?” asked Sir Andrew—for there were five
tubs on the wagon, besides one or two smaller kegs and some packages
wrapped in sheepskin.

“No, alas!” answered the Cypriote ruefully, and shrugging his
shoulders. “Only two of the Mavro. The rest I took to the Abbey, for I
understood the holy Prior to say he would purchase six casks, but it
seems that it was but three he needed.”

“He said three,” put in Wulf.

“Did he, sir? Then doubtless the error was mine, who speak your tongue
but ill. So I must drag the rest back again over those accursed roads,”
and he made another grimace. “Yet I will ask you, sir,” he added to Sir
Andrew, “to lighten the load a little by accepting this small keg of
the old sweet vintage that grows on the slopes of Trooidos.”

“I remember it well,” said Sir Andrew, with a smile; “but, friend, I do
not wish to take your wine for nothing.”

At these words the face of Georgios beamed.

“What, noble sir,” he exclaimed, “do you know my land of Cyprus? Oh,
then indeed I kiss your hands, and surely you will not affront me by
refusing this little present? Indeed, to be frank, I can afford to lose
its price, who have done a good trade, even here in Essex.”

“As you will,” said Sir Andrew. “I thank you, and perhaps you have
other things to sell.”

“I have indeed; a few embroideries if this most gracious lady would be
pleased to look at them. Some carpets also, such as the Moslems used to
pray on in the name of their false prophet, Mahomet,” and, turning, he
spat upon the ground.

“I see that you are a Christian,” said Sir Andrew. “Yet, although I
fought against them, I have known many a good Mussulman. Nor do I think
it necessary to spit at the name of Mahomet, who to my mind was a great
man deceived by the artifice of Satan.”

“Neither do I,” said Godwin reflectively. “Its true servants should
fight the enemies of the Cross and pray for their souls, not spit at
them.”

The merchant looked at them curiously, fingering the silver crucifix
that hung upon his breast. “The captors of the Holy City thought
otherwise,” he said, “when they rode into the Mosque El Aksa up to
their horses’ knees in blood, and I have been taught otherwise. But the
times grow liberal, and, after all, what right has a poor trader whose
mind, alas! is set more on gain than on the sufferings of the blessed
Son of Mary,” and he crossed himself, “to form a judgment upon such
high matters? Pardon me, I accept your reproof, who perhaps am
bigoted.”

Yet, had they but known it, this “reproof” was to save the life of many
a man that night.

“May I ask help with these packages?” he went on, “as I cannot open
them here, and to move the casks? Nay, the little keg I will carry
myself, as I hope that you will taste of it at your Christmas feast. It
must be gently handled, though I fear me that those roads of yours will
not improve its quality.” Then twisting the tub from the end of the
wain onto his shoulder in such a fashion that it remained upright, he
walked off lightly towards the open door of the hall.

“For one not tall that man is strangely strong,” thought Wulf, who
followed with a bale of carpets.

Then the other casks of wine were stowed away in the stone cellar
beneath the hall.

Leaving his servant—a silent, stupid-looking, dark-eyed fellow named
Petros—to bait the horses, Georgios entered the hall and began to
unpack his carpets and embroideries with all the skill of one who had
been trained in the bazaars of Cairo, Damascus, or Nicosia. Beautiful
things they were which he had to show; broideries that dazzled the eye,
and rugs of many hues, yet soft and bright as an otter’s pelt. As Sir
Andrew looked at them, remembering long dead days, his face softened.

“I will buy that rug,” he said, “for of a truth it might be one on
which I lay sick many a year ago in the house of Ayoub at Damascus.
Nay, I haggle not at the price. I will buy it.” Then he fell to
thinking how, whilst lying on such a rug (indeed, although he knew it
not, it was the same), looking through the rounded beads of the wooden
lattice-work of his window, he had first seen his Eastern wife walking
in the orange garden with her father Ayoub. Afterwards, still recalling
his youth, he began to talk of Cyprus, and so time went on until the
dark was falling.

Now Georgios said that he must be going, as he had sent back his guide
to Southminster, where the man desired to eat his Christmas feast. So
the reckoning was paid—it was a long one—and while the horses were
harnessed to the wain the merchant bored holes in the little cask of
wine and set spigots in them, bidding them all be sure to drink of it
that night. Then calling down good fortune on them for their kindness
and liberality, he made his salaams in the Eastern fashion, and
departed, accompanied by Wulf.

Within five minutes there was a sound of shouting, and Wulf was back
again saying that the wheel of the wain had broken at the first turn,
so that now it was lying upon its side in the courtyard. Sir Andrew and
Godwin went out to see to the matter, and there they found Georgios
wringing his hands, as only an Eastern merchant can, and cursing in
some foreign tongue.

“Noble knights,” he said, “what am I to do? Already it is nearly dark,
and how I shall find my way up yonder steep hill I know not. As for the
priceless broideries, I suppose they must stay here for the night,
since that wheel cannot be mended till to-morrow—”

“As you had best do also,” said Sir Andrew kindly. “Come, man, do not
grieve; we are used to broken axles here in Essex, and you and your
servant may as well eat your Christmas dinners at Steeple as in
Southminster.”

“I thank you, Sir Knight; I thank you. But why should I, who am but a
merchant, thrust myself upon your noble company? Let me stop outside
with my man, Petros, and dine with your people in that barn, where I
see they are making ready their food.”

“By no means,” answered Sir Andrew. “Leave your servant with my people,
who will look after him, and come you into the hall, and tell me some
more of Cyprus till our food is ready, which will be soon. Do not fear
for your goods; they shall be placed under cover.”

“All unworthy as I am, I obey,” answered the obsequious Georgios.
“Petros, do you understand? This noble lord gives us hospitality for
the night. His people will show you where to eat and sleep, and help
you with your horses.”

This man, who, he explained, was a Cypriote—a fisherman in summer and a
muleteer in winter—bowed, and fixing his dark eyes upon those of his
master, spoke in some foreign tongue.

“You hear what he says, the silly fellow?” said Georgios. “What? You do
not understand Greek—only Arabic? Well, he asks me to give him money to
pay for his dinner and his night’s lodging. You must forgive him, for
he is but a simple peasant, and cannot believe that anyone may be
lodged and fed without payment. I will explain to him, the pig!” And
explain he did in shrill, high notes, of which no one else could
understand a word.

“There, Sir Knight, I do not think he will offend you so again. Ah!
look. He is walking off—he is sulky. Well, let him alone; he will be
back for his dinner, the pig! Oh, the wet and the wind! A Cypriote does
not mind them in his sheepskins, in which he will sleep even in the
snow.”

So, Georgios still declaiming upon the shortcomings of his servant,
they went back into the hall. Here the conversation soon turned upon
other matters, such as the differences between the creeds of the Greek
and Latin churches—a subject upon which he seemed to be an expert—and
the fear of the Christians in Cyprus lest Saladin should attempt to
capture that island.

At length five o’clock came, and Georgios having first been taken to
the lavatory—it was but a stone trough—to wash his hands, was led to
the dinner, or rather to the supper-table, which stood upon a dais in
front of the entrance to the solar. Here places were laid for six—Sir
Andrew, his nephews, Rosamund, the chaplain, Matthew, who celebrated
masses in the church and ate at the hall on feast-days, and the
Cypriote merchant, Georgios himself. Below the dais, and between it and
the fire, was another table, at which were already gathered twelve
guests, being the chief tenants of Sir Andrew and the reeves of his
outlying lands. On most days the servants of the house, with the
huntsmen, swineherds, and others, sat at a third table beyond the fire.
But as nothing would stop these from growing drunken on the good ale at
a feast, and though many ladies thought little of it, there was no sin
that Rosamund hated so much as this, now their lord sent them to eat
and drink at their ease in the barn which stood in the courtyard with
its back to the moat.

When all had taken their seats, the chaplain said grace, and the meal
began. It was rude but very plentiful. First, borne in by the cook on a
wooden platter, came a great codfish, whereof he helped portions to
each in turn, laying them on their “trenchers”—that is, large slices of
bread—whence they ate them with the spoons that were given to each.
After the fish appeared the meats, of which there were many sorts,
served on silver spits. These included fowls, partridges, duck, and,
chief of all, a great swan, that the tenants greeted by knocking their
horn mugs upon the table; after which came the pastries, and with them
nuts and apples. For drink, ale was served at the lower table. On the
dais however, they drank some of the black wine which Wulf had
bought—that is, except Sir Andrew and Rosamund, the former because he
dared not, and the latter because she had always hated any drink but
water—a dislike that came to her, doubtless, with her Eastern blood.

Thus they grew merry since their guest proved himself a cheerful
fellow, who told them many stories of love and war, for he seemed to
know much of loves, and to have been in sundry wars. At these even Sir
Andrew, forgetting his ailments and forebodings, laughed well, while
Rosamund, looking more beautiful than ever in the gold-starred veil and
the broidered tunic which the brethren had given her, listened to them,
smiling somewhat absently. At last the feast drew towards its end, when
suddenly, as though struck by a sudden recollection, Georgios
exclaimed:

“The wine! The liquid amber from Trooidos! I had forgotten it. Noble
knight, have I your leave to draw?”

“Ay, excellent merchant,” answered Sir Andrew. “Certainly you can draw
your own wine.”

So Georgios rose, and took a large jug and a silver tankard from the
sideboard where such things were displayed. With these he went to the
little keg which, it will be remembered, had been stood ready upon the
trestles, and, bending over it while he drew the spigots, filled the
vessels to the brim. Then he beckoned to a reeve sitting at the lower
table to bring him a leather jack that stood upon the board. Having
rinsed it out with wine, he filled that also, handing it with the jug
to the reeve to drink their lord’s health on this Yule night. The
silver vessel he bore back to the high table, and with his own hand
filled the horn cups of all present, Rosamund alone excepted, for she
would touch none, although he pressed her hard and looked vexed at her
refusal. Indeed, it was because it seemed to pain the man that Sir
Andrew, ever courteous, took a little himself, although, when his back
was turned, he filled the goblet up with water. At length, when all was
ready, Georgios charged, or seemed to charge, his own horn, and,
lifting it, said:

“Let us drink, every one of us here, to the noble knight, Sir Andrew
D’Arcy, to whom I wish, in the phrase of my own people, that he may
live for ever. Drink, friends, drink deep, for never will wine such as
this pass your lips again.”

Then, lifting his beaker, he appeared to drain it in great gulps—an
example which all followed, even Sir Andrew drinking a little from his
cup, which was three parts filled with water. There followed a long
murmur of satisfaction.

“Wine! It is nectar!” said Wulf.

“Ay,” put in the chaplain, Matthew; “Adam might have drunk this in the
Garden,” while from the lower table came jovial shouts of praise of
this smooth, creamlike vintage.

Certainly that wine was both rich and strong. Thus, after his sup of
it, a veil as it were seemed to fall on the mind of Sir Andrew and to
cover it up. It lifted again, and lo! his brain was full of memories
and foresights. Circumstances which he had forgotten for many years
came back to him altogether, like a crowd of children tumbling out to
play. These passed, and he grew suddenly afraid. Yet what had he to
fear that night? The gates across the moat were locked and guarded.
Trusty men, a score or more of them, ate in his outbuildings within
those gates; while others, still more trusted, sat in his hall; and on
his right hand and on his left were those two strong and valiant
knights, Sir Godwin and Sir Wulf. No, there was nothing to fear—and yet
he felt afraid. Suddenly he heard a voice speak. It was Rosamund’s; and
she said:

“Why is there such silence, father? A while ago I heard the servants
and bondsmen carousing in the barn; now they are still as death. Oh,
and look! Are all here drunken? Godwin—”

But as she spoke Godwin’s head fell forward on the board, while Wulf
rose, half drew his sword, then threw his arm about the neck of the
priest, and sank with him to the ground. As it was with these, so it
seemed with all, for folk rocked to and fro, then sank to sleep,
everyone of them, save the merchant Georgios, who rose to call another
toast.

“Stranger,” said Sir Andrew, in a heavy voice, “your wine is very
strong.”

“It would seem so, Sir Knight,” he answered; “but I will wake them from
their wassail.” Springing from the dais lightly as a cat, he ran down
the hall crying, “Air is what they need. Air!” Now coming to the door,
he threw it wide open, and drawing a silver whistle from his robe, blew
it long and loud. “What,” he laughed, “do they still sleep? Why, then,
I must give a toast that will rouse them all,” and seizing a horn mug,
he waved it and shouted:

“Arouse you, ye drunkards, and drink to the lady Rose of the World,
princess of Baalbec, and niece to my royal master, Yusuf Salah-ed-din,
who sends me to lead her to him!”

“Oh, father,” shrieked Rosamund, “the wine was drugged and we are
betrayed!”

As the words passed her lips there rose a sound of running feet, and
through the open door at the far end of the hall burst in a score or
over of armed men. Then at last Sir Andrew saw and understood.

With a roar of rage like that of a wounded lion, he seized his daughter
and dragged her back with him down the passage into the solar where a
fire burned and lights had been lit ready for their retiring, flinging
to and bolting the door behind them.

“Swift!” he said, as he tore his gown from him, “there is no escape,
but at least I can die fighting for you. Give me my mail.”

She snatched his hauberk from the wall, and while they thundered at the
door, did it on to him—ay, and his steel helm also, and gave him his
long sword and his shield.

“Now,” he said, “help me.” And they thrust the oak table forward, and
overset it in front of the door, throwing the chairs and stools on
either side, that men might stumble on them.

“There is a bow,” he said, “and you can use it as I have taught you.
Get to one side and out of reach of the sword sweeps, and shoot past me
as they rush; it may stay one of them. Oh, that Godwin and Wulf were
here, and we would still teach these Paynim dogs a lesson!”

Rosamund made no answer but there came into her mind a vision of the
agony of Godwin and of Wulf should they ever wake again to learn what
had chanced to her and them. She looked round. Against the wall stood a
little desk, at which Godwin was wont to write, and on it lay pen and
parchment. She seized them, and as the door gave slowly inwards,
scrawled:

“Follow me to Saladin. In that hope I live on.—Rosamund.”

Then as the stout door at length crashed in Rosamund turned what she
had written face downwards on the desk, and seizing the bow, set an
arrow to its string. Now it was down and on rushed the mob up the six
feet of narrow passage. At the end of it, in front of the overturned
table, they halted suddenly. For there before them, skull-emblazoned,
shield on arm, his long sword lifted, and a terrible wrath burning in
his eyes, stood the old knight, like a wolf at bay, and by his side,
bow in hand, the beauteous lady Rosamund, clad in all her festal
broideries.

“Yield you!” cried a voice. By way of answer the bowstring twanged, and
an arrow sped home to its feathers through the throat of the speaker,
so that he went down, grabbing at it, and spoke no more for ever.

As he fell clattering to the floor, Sir Andrew cried in a great voice:

“We yield not to pagan dogs and poisoners. _A D’Arcy! A D’Arcy! Meet
D’Arcy, meet Death!_”

Thus for the last time did old Sir Andrew utter the warcry of his race,
which he had feared would never pass his lips again. His prayer had
been heard, and he was to die as he had desired.

“Down with him! seize the Princess!” said a voice. It was that of
Georgios, no longer humble with a merchant’s obsequious whine, but
speaking in tones of cold command and in Arabic. For a moment the
swarthy mob hung back, as well they might in face of that glittering
sword. Then with a cry of “_Salah-ed-din! Salah-ed-din!_” on they
surged, with flashing spears and scimitars. The overthrown table was in
front of them, and one leapt upon its edge, but as he leapt, the old
knight, all his years and sickness forgotten now, sprang forward and
struck downwards, so heavy a blow that in the darkling mouth of the
passage the sparks streamed out, and where the Saracen’s head had been,
appeared his heels. Back Sir Andrew stepped again to win space for his
sword-play, while round the ends of the table broke two fierce-faced
men. At one of them Rosamund shot with her bow, and the arrow pierced
his thigh, but as he fell he struck with his keen scimitar and shore
the end off the bow, so that it was useless. The second man caught his
foot in the bar of the oak chair which he did not see, and went down
prone, while Sir Andrew, taking no heed of him, rushed with a shout at
the crowd who followed, and catching their blows upon his shield,
rained down others so desperate that, being hampered by their very
number, they gave before him, and staggered back along the passage.

“Guard your right, father!” cried Rosamund. He sprang round, to see the
Saracen, who had fallen, on his feet again. At him he went, nor did the
man wait the onset, but turned to fly, only to find his death, for the
great sword caught him between neck and shoulders. Now a voice cried:
“We make poor sport with this old lion, and lose men. Keep clear of his
claws, and whelm him with spear casts.”

But Rosamund, who understood their tongue, sprang in front of him, and
answered in Arabic:

“Ay, through my breast; and go, tell that tale to Saladin!”

Then, clear and calm was heard the command of Georgios. “He who harms a
hair of the Princess dies. Take them both living if you may, but lay no
hand on her. Stay, let us talk.”

So they ceased from their onslaught and began to consult together.

Rosamund touched her father and pointed to the man who lay upon the
floor with an arrow through his thigh. He was struggling to his knee,
raising the heavy scimitar in his hand. Sir Andrew lifted his sword as
a husbandman lifts a stick to kill a rat, then let it fall again,
saying:

“I fight not with the wounded. Drop that steel, and get you back to
your own folk.”

The fellow obeyed him—yes, and even touched the floor with his forehead
in salaam as he crawled away, for he knew that he had been given his
life, and that the deed was noble towards him who had planned a
coward’s stroke. Then Georgios stepped forward, no longer the same
Georgios who had sold poisoned wine and Eastern broideries, but a
proud-looking, high-browed Saracen clad in the mail which he wore
beneath his merchant’s robe, and in place of the crucifix wearing on
his breast a great star-shaped jewel, the emblem of his house and rank.

“Sir Andrew,” he said, “hearken to me, I pray you. Noble was that act,”
and he pointed to the wounded man being dragged away by his fellows,
“and noble has been your defence—well worthy of your lineage and your
knighthood. It is a tale that my master,” and he bowed as he said the
word, “will love to hear if it pleases Allah that we return to him in
safety. Also you will think that I have played a knave’s trick upon
you, overcoming the might of those gallant knights, Sir Godwin and Sir
Wulf, not with sword blows but with drugged wine, and treating all your
servants in like fashion, since not one of them can shake off its fumes
before to-morrow’s light. So indeed it is—a very scurvy trick which I
shall remember with shame to my life’s end, and that perchance may yet
fall back upon my head in blood and vengeance. Yet bethink you how we
stand, and forgive us. We are but a little company of men in your great
country, hidden, as it were, in a den of lions, who, if they saw us,
would slay us without mercy. That, indeed, is a small thing, for what
are our lives, of which your sword has taken tithe, and not only yours,
but those of the twin brethren on the quay by the water?”

“I thought it,” broke in Sir Andrew contemptuously. “Indeed, that deed
was worthy of you—twenty or more men against two.”

Georgios held up his hand.

“Judge us not harshly,” he said, speaking slowly, who, for his own ends
wished to gain time, “you who have read the letter of our lord. See
you, these were my commands: To secure the lady Rose of the World as
best I might, but if possible without bloodshed. Now I was
reconnoitring the country with a troop of the sailors from my ship who
are but poor fighters, and a few of my own people, when my spies
brought me word that she had ridden out attended by only two men, and
surely I thought that already she was in my hands. But the knights
foiled me by strategy and strength, and you know the end of it. So
afterwards my messenger presented the letter, which, indeed, should
have been done at first. The letter failed also, for neither you, nor
the Princess”—and he bowed to Rosamund—“could be bought. More, the
whole country was awakened; you were surrounded with armed men, the
knightly brethren kept watch and ward over you, and you were about to
fly to London, where it would have been hard to snare you. Therefore,
because I must, I—who am a prince and an emir, who also, although you
remember it not, have crossed swords with you in my youth; yes, at
Harenc—became a dealer in drugged wine.

“Now hearken. Yield you, Sir Andrew, who have done enough to make your
name a song for generations, and accept the love of Salah-ed-din, whose
word you have, the word that, as you know well, cannot be broken, which
I, the lord El-Hassan—for no meaner man has been sent upon this
errand—plight to you afresh. Yield you, and save your life, and live on
in honour, clinging to your own faith, till Azrael takes you from the
pleasant fields of Baalbec to the waters of Paradise—if such there be
for infidels, however gallant.

“For know, this deed must be done. Did we return without the princess
Rose of the World, we should die, every one of us, and did we offer her
harm or insult, then more horribly than I can tell you. This is no
fancy of a great king that drives him on to the stealing of a woman,
although she be of his own high blood. The voice of God has spoken to
Salah-ed-din by the mouth of his angel Sleep. Thrice has Allah spoken
in dreams, telling him who is merciful, that through your daughter and
her nobleness alone can countless lives be saved; therefore, sooner
than she should escape him, he would lose even the half of all his
empire. Outwit us, defeat us now, capture us, cause us to be tortured
and destroyed, and other messengers would come to do his bidding—
indeed, they are already on the way. Moreover, it is useless to shed
more blood, seeing it is written in the Books that this lady, Rose of
the World, must return to the East where she was begot, there to fulfil
her destiny and save the lives of men.”

“Then, emir El-Hassan, I shall return as a spirit,” said Rosamund
proudly.

“Not so, Princess,” he answered, bowing, “for Allah alone has power
over your life, and it is otherwise decreed. Sir Andrew, the time grows
short, and I must fulfil my mission. Will you take the peace of
Salah-ed-din, or force his servants to take your life?”

The old knight listened, resting on his reddened sword; then he lifted
his head, and spoke:

“I am aged and near my death, wine-seller Georgios, or prince
El-Hassan, whichever you may be. In my youth I swore to make no pact
with Paynims, and in my eld I will not break that vow. While I can lift
sword I will defend my daughter, even against the might of Saladin. Get
to your coward’s work again, and let things go as God has willed them.”

“Then, Princess,” answered El-Hassan, “bear me witness throughout the
East that I am innocent of your father’s blood. On his own head be it,
and on yours,” and for the second time he blew upon the whistle that
hung around his neck.




Chapter VII.
The Banner of Saladin


As the echoes of Hassan’s whistle died away there was a crash amongst
the wooden shutters of the window behind them, and down into the room
leaped a long, lithe figure, holding an axe aloft. Before Sir Andrew
could turn to see whence the sound came, that axe dealt him a fearful
blow between the shoulders which, although the ringed mail remained
unshorn, shattered his spine beneath. Down he fell, rolled on to his
back, and lay there, still able to speak and without pain, but helpless
as a child. For he was paralysed, and never more would move hand or
foot or head.

In the silence that followed he spoke in a heavy voice, letting his
eyes rest upon the man who had struck him down.

“A knightly blow, truly; one worthy of a Christian born who does murder
for Paynim pay! Traitor to God and man, who have eaten my bread and now
slaughter me like an ox on my hearth-stone, may your own end be even
worse, and at the hands of those you serve.”

The palmer Nicholas, for it was he, although he no longer wore the
palmer’s robe, slunk away muttering, and was lost among the crowd in
the passage. Then, with a sudden and a bitter cry, Rosamund swooped
forward, as a bird swoops, snatched up the sword her sire would never
lift again, and setting its hilt upon the floor, cast herself forward.
But its point never touched her breast, for the emir sprang swiftly and
struck the steel aside; then, as she fell, caught her in his arms.
“Lady,” he said, loosing her very gently. “Allah does not need you yet.
I have told you that it is not fated. Now will you pass me your
word—for being of the blood of Salah-ed-din and D’Arcy, you, too,
cannot lie—that neither now nor afterwards you will attempt to harm
yourself? If not, I must bind you, which I am loth to do—it is a
sacrilege to which I pray you will not force me.”

“Promise, Rosamund,” said the hollow voice of her father, “and go to
fulfil your fate. Self-murder is a crime, and the man is right; it is
decreed. I bid you promise.”

“I obey and promise,” said Rosamund. “It is your hour, my lord Hassan.”

He bowed deeply and answered:

“I am satisfied, and henceforth we are your servants. Princess, the
night air is bitter; you cannot travel thus. In which chamber are your
garments?”

She pointed with her finger. A man took a taper, and, accompanied by
two others, entered the place, to return presently with their arms full
of all the apparel they could find. Indeed, they even brought her
missal and the silver crucifix which hung above her bed and with it her
leathern case of trinkets.

“Keep out the warmest cloak,” said Hassan, “and tie the rest up in
those carpets.”

So the rugs that Sir Andrew had bought that day from the merchant
Georgios were made to serve as travelling bags to hold his daughter’s
gear. Thus even in this hour of haste and danger thought was taken for
her comfort.

“Princess,” said Hassan, bowing, “my master, your uncle, sent you
certain jewels of no mean value. Is it your wish that they should
accompany you?”

Without lifting her eyes from her dying father’s face, Rosamund
answered heavily:

“Where they are, there let them bide. What have I to do with jewels?”

“Your will is my law,” he said, “and others will be found for you.
Princess, all is ready; we wait your pleasure.”

“My pleasure? Oh, God, my pleasure?” exclaimed Rosamund in the same
drear voice, still staring at her father, who lay before her on the
ground.

“I cannot help it,” said Hassan, answering the question in her eyes,
and there was grief in his tone. “He would not come, he brought it on
himself; though in truth I wish that accursed Frank had not struck so
shrewdly. If you ask it, we will bear him with you; but, lady, it is
idle to hide the truth—he is sped. I have studied medicine, and I
know.”

“Nay,” said Sir Andrew from the floor, “leave me here. Daughter, we
must part awhile. As I stole his child from Ayoub, so Ayoub’s son
steals my child from me. Daughter, cling to the faith—that we may meet
again.”

“To the death,” she answered.

“Be comforted,” said Hassan. “Has not Salah-ed-din passed his word that
except her own will or that of Allah should change her heart, a
Cross-worshipper she may live and die? Lady, for your own sake as well
as ours, let this sad farewell be brief. Begone, my servants, taking
these dead and wounded with you. There are things it is not fitting
that common eyes should see.”

They obeyed, and the three of them remained alone together. Then
Rosamund knelt down beside her father, and they whispered into each
other’s ears. Hassan turned his back upon them, and threw the corner of
his cloak over his head and eyes that he might neither see nor hear
their voices in this dread and holy hour of parting.

It would seem that they found some kind of hope and consolation in
it—at least when Rosamund kissed him for the last time, Sir Andrew
smiled and said:

“Yes, yes; it may all be for the best. God will guard you, and His will
be done. But I forgot. Tell me, daughter, which?”

Again she whispered into his ear, and when he had thought a moment, he
answered:

“Maybe you are right. I think that is wisest for all. And now on the
three of you—aye, and on your children’s children’s children—let my
blessing rest, as rest it shall. Come hither, Emir.”

Hassan heard him through his cloak, and, uncovering, came.

“Say to Saladin, your master, that he has been too strong for me, and
paid me back in my own coin. Well, had it been otherwise, my daughter
and I must soon have parted, for death drew near to me. At least it is
the decree of God, to which I bow my head, trusting there may be truth
in that dream of his, and that our sorrows, in some way unforeseen,
will bring blessings to our brethren in the East. But to Saladin say
also that whatever his bigot faith may teach, for Christian and for
Paynim there is a meeting-place beyond the grave. Say that if aught of
wrong or insult is done towards this maiden, I swear by the God who
made us both that there I will hold him to account. Now, since it must
be so, take her and go your way, knowing that my spirit follows after
you and her; yes, and that even in this world she will find avengers.”

“I hear your words, and I will deliver them,” answered Hassan. “More, I
believe that they are true, and for the rest you have the oath of
Salah-ed-din—ay, and my oath while she is in my charge. Therefore, Sir
Andrew D’Arcy, forgive us, who are but the instruments of Allah, and
die in peace.”

“I, who have so much to be forgiven, forgive you,” answered the old
knight slowly.

Then his eyes fixed themselves upon his daughter’s face with one long,
searching look, and closed.

“I think that he is dead,” said Hassan. “May God, the Merciful and
Compassionate, rest his soul!” And taking a white garment from the
wall, he flung it over him, adding, “Lady, come.”

Thrice Rosamund looked at the shrouded figure on the floor; once she
wrung her hands and seemed about to fall. Then, as though a thought
struck her, she lifted her father’s sword from where it lay, and
gathering her strength, drew herself up and passed like a queen down
the blood-stained passage and the steps of the solar. In the hall
beneath waited the band of Hassan, who bowed as she came—a vision of
despairing loveliness, that held aloft a red and naked sword. There,
too, lay the drugged men fallen this way and that, and among them Wulf
across the table, and Godwin on the dais. Rosamund spoke.

“Are these dead or sleeping?”

“Have no fear,” answered Hassan. “By my hope of paradise, they do but
sleep, and will awake ere morning.”

Rosamund pointed to the renegade Nicholas—he that had struck down her
father from behind—who, an evil look upon his face, stood apart from
the Saracens, holding in his hand a lighted torch.

“What does this man with the torch?” she asked.

“If you would know, lady,” Nicholas answered with a sneer, “I wait till
you are out of it to fire the hall.”

“Prince Hassan,” said Rosamund, “is this a deed that great Saladin
would wish, to burn drugged men beneath their own roof? Now, as you
shall answer to him, in the name of Saladin I, a daughter of his House,
command you, strike the fire from that man’s hand, and in my hearing
give your order that none should even think of such an act of shame.”

“What?” broke in Nicholas, “and leave knights like these, whose quality
you know”—and he pointed to the brethren—“to follow in our path, and
take our lives in vengeance? Why, it is madness!”

“Are you master here, traitor, or am I?” asked Hassan in cold contempt.
“Let them follow if they will, and I for one shall rejoice to meet foes
so brave in open battle, and there give them their revenge. Ali,” he
added, addressing the man who had been disguised as a merchant’s
underling, and who had drugged the men in the barn as his master had
drugged those in the hall, and opened the moat gate to the band, “Ali,
stamp upon the torch and guard that Frank till we reach the boat lest
the fool should raise the country on us with his fires. Now, Princess,
are you satisfied?”

“Ay, having your word,” she answered. “One moment, I pray you. I would
leave a token to my knights.”

Then, while they watched her with wondering eyes, she unfastened the
gold cross and chain that hung upon her bosom, and slipping the cross
from the chain, went to where Godwin lay, and placed it on his breast.
Next, with a swift movement, she wound the chain about the silver hilt
of Sir Andrew’s sword, and passing to Wulf, with one strong thrust,
drove the point between the oak boards of the table, so that it stood
before him—at once a cross, a brand of battle, and a lady’s token.

“His grandsire bore it,” she said in Arabic, “when he leapt on to the
walls of Jerusalem. It is my last gift to him.” But the Saracens
muttered and turned pale at these words of evil omen.

Then taking the hand of Hassan, who stood searching her white,
inscrutable face, with never a word or a backward look, she swept down
the length of the long hall, and out into the night beyond.

“It would have been well to take my counsel and fire the place, or at
least to cut the throats of all within it,” said the man Nicholas to
his guard Ali as they followed with the rest. “If I know aught of these
brethren, cross and sword will soon be hard upon our track, and men’s
lives must pay the price of such soft folly.” And he shivered as though
in fear.

“It may be so, Spy,” answered the Saracen, looking at him with sombre,
contemptuous eyes. “It may be that your life will pay the price.”

Wulf was dreaming, dreaming that he stood on his head upon a wooden
plank, as once he had seen a juggler do, which turned round one way
while he turned round the other, till at length some one shouted at
him, and he tumbled off the board and hurt himself. Then he awoke to
hear a voice shouting surely enough—the voice of Matthew, the chaplain
of Steeple Church.

“Awake!” said the voice. “In God’s name, I conjure you, awake!”

“What is it?” he said, lifting his head sleepily, and becoming
conscious of a dull pain across his forehead.

“It is that death and the devil have been here, Sir Wulf.”

“Well, they are often near together. But I thirst. Give me water.”

A serving-woman, pallid, dishevelled, heavy-eyed, who was stumbling to
and fro, lighting torches and tapers, for it was still dark, brought it
to him in a leathern jack, from which he drank deeply.

“That is better,” he said. Then his eye fell upon the bloody sword set
point downwards in the wood of the table before him, and he exclaimed,
“Mother of God! what is that? My uncle’s silver-hilted sword, red with
blood, and Rosamund’s gold chain upon the hilt! Priest, where is the
lady Rosamund?”

“Gone,” answered the chaplain in a voice that sounded like a groan.
“The women woke and found her gone, and Sir Andrew lies dead or dying
in the solar—but now I have shriven him—and oh! we have all been
drugged. Look at them!” and he waved his hand towards the recumbent
forms. “I say that the devil has been here.”

Wulf sprang to his feet with an oath.

“The devil? Ah! I have it now. You mean the Cyprian chapman Georgios.
He who sold wine.”

“He who sold drugged wine,” echoed the chaplain, “and has stolen away
the lady Rosamund.”

Then Wulf seemed to go mad.

“Stolen Rosamund over our sleeping carcases! Stolen Rosamund with never
a blow struck by us to save her! O, Christ, that such a thing should
be! O, Christ, that I should live to hear it!” And he, the mighty man,
the knight of skill and strength, broke down and wept like a very
child. But not for long, for presently he shouted in a voice of
thunder:

“Awake, ye drunkards! Awake, and learn what has chanced to us. Your
lady Rosamund has been raped away while we were lost in sleep!”

At the sound of that great voice a tall form arose from the floor, and
staggered towards him, holding a gold cross in its hand.

“What awful words are those, my brother?” asked Godwin, who, pale and
dull-eyed, rocked to and fro before him. Then he, too, saw the red
sword and stared, first at it and next at the gold cross in his hand.
“My uncle’s sword, Rosamund’s chain, Rosamund’s cross! Where, then, is
Rosamund?”

“Gone! gone! gone!” cried Wulf. “Tell him, priest.”

So the chaplain told him all he knew.

“Thus have we kept our oaths,” went on Wulf. “Oh, what can we do now,
save die for very shame?”

“Nay,” answered Godwin, dreamingly; “we can live on to save her. See,
these are her tokens—the cross for me, the blood-stained sword for you,
and about its hilt the chain, a symbol of her slavery. Now both of us
must bear the cross; both of us must wield the sword, and both of us
must cut the chain, or if we fail, then die.”

“You rave,” said Wulf; “and little wonder. Here, drink water. Would
that we had never touched aught else, as she did, and desired that we
should do. What said you of my uncle, priest? Dead, or only dying? Nay,
answer not, let us see. Come, brother.”

Now together they ran, or rather reeled, torch in hand, along the
passage.

Wulf saw the bloodstains on the floor and laughed savagely.

“The old man made a good fight,” he said, “while, like drunken brutes,
we slept.”

They were there, and before them, beneath the white, shroud-like cloak,
lay Sir Andrew, the steel helm on his head, and his face beneath it
even whiter than the cloak.

At the sound of their footsteps he opened his eyes. “At length, at
length,” he muttered. “Oh, how many years have I waited for you? Nay,
be silent, for I do not know how long my strength will last, but
listen—kneel down and listen.”

So they knelt on either side of him, and in quick, fierce words he told
them all—of the drugging, of the fight, of the long parley carried on
to give the palmer knave time to climb to the window; of his cowardly
blow, and of what chanced afterwards. Then his strength seemed to fail
him, but they poured drink down his throat, and it came back again.

“Take horse swiftly,” he gasped, pausing now and again to rest, “and
rouse the countryside. There is still a chance. Nay, seven hours have
gone by; there is no chance. Their plans were too well laid; by now
they will be at sea. So hear me. Go to Palestine. There is money for
your faring in my chest, but go alone, with no company, for in time of
peace these would betray you. Godwin, draw off this ring from my
finger, and with it as a token, find out Jebal, the black sheik of the
Mountain Tribe at Masyaf on Lebanon. Bid him remember the vow he made
to Andrew D’Arcy, the English knight. If any can aid you, it will be
Jebal, who hates the Houses of Nur-ed-din and of Ayoub. So, I charge
you, let nothing—I say nothing—turn you aside from seeking him.

“Afterwards act as God shall guide you. If they still live, kill that
traitor Nicholas and Hugh Lozelle, but, save in open war, spare the
Emir Hassan, who did but do his duty as an Eastern reads it, and showed
some mercy, for he could have slain or burnt us all. This riddle has
been hard for me; yet now, in my dying hour, I seem to see its answer.
I think that Saladin did not dream in vain. Keep brave hearts, for I
think also that at Masyaf you will find friends, and that things will
yet go well, and our sorrows bear good fruit.

“What is that you said? She left you my father’s sword, Wulf? Then
wield it bravely, winning honour for our name. She left you the cross,
Godwin? Wear it worthily, winning glory for the Lord, and salvation to
your soul. Remember what you have sworn. Whate’er befall, bear no
bitterness to one another. Be true to one another, and to her, your
lady, so that when at the last you make your report to me before high
Heaven, I may have no cause to be ashamed of you, my nephews, Godwin
and Wulf.”

For a moment the dying man was silent, until his face lit up as with a
great gladness, and he cried in a loud, clear voice, “Beloved wife, I
hear you! O, God, I come!”

Then though his eyes stayed open, and the smile still rested on his
face, his jaw fell.

Thus died Sir Andrew D’Arcy.

Still kneeling on either side of him, the brethren watched the end,
and, as his spirit passed, bowed their heads in prayer.

“We have seen a great death,” said Godwin presently. “Let us learn a
lesson from it, that when our time comes we may die like him.”

“Ay,” answered Wulf, springing to his feet, “but first let us take
vengeance for it. Why, what is this? Rosamund’s writing! Read it,
Godwin.”

Godwin took the parchment and read: “_Follow me to Saladin. In that
hope I live on._”

“Surely we will follow you, Rosamund,” he cried aloud. “Follow you
through life to death or victory.”

Then he threw down the paper, and calling for the chaplain to come to
watch the body, they ran into the hall. By this time about half of the
folk were awake from their drugged sleep, whilst others who had been
doctored by the man Ali in the barn staggered into the hall—wild-eyed,
white-faced, and holding their hands to their heads and hearts. They
were so sick and bewildered, indeed, that it was difficult to make them
understand what had chanced, and when they learned the truth, the most
of them could only groan. Still, a few were found strong enough in wit
and body to grope their way through the darkness and the falling snow
to Stangate Abbey, to Southminster, and to the houses of their
neighbours, although of these there were none near, praying that every
true man would arm and ride to help them in the hunt. Also Wulf,
cursing the priest Matthew and himself that he had not thought of it
before, called him from his prayers by their dead uncle, and charged
him to climb the church tower as swiftly as he could, and set light to
the beacon that was laid ready there.

Away he went, taking flint, steel, and tinder with him, and ten minutes
later the blaze was flaring furiously above the roof of Steeple Church,
warning all men of the need for help. Then they armed, saddled such
horses as they had, amongst them the three that had been left there by
the merchant Georgios, and gathered all of them who were not too sick
to ride or run, in the courtyard of the Hall. But as yet their haste
availed them little, for the moon was down. Snow fell also, and the
night was still black as death—so black that a man could scarcely see
the hand he held before his face. So they must wait, and wait they did,
eating their hearts out with grief and rage, and bathing their aching
brows in icy water.

At length the dawn began to break, and by its first grey light they saw
men mounted and afoot feeling their way through the snow, shouting to
each other as they came to know what dreadful thing had happened at
Steeple. Quickly the tidings spread among them that Sir Andrew was
slain, and the lady Rosamund snatched away by Paynims, while all who
feasted in the place had been drugged with poisoned wine by a man whom
they believed to be a merchant. So soon as a band was got
together—perhaps thirty men in all—and there was light to stir by, they
set out and began to search, though where to look they knew not, for
the snow had covered up all traces of their foes.

“One thing is certain,” said Godwin, “they must have come by water.”

“Ay,” answered Wulf, “and landed near by, since, had they far to go,
they would have taken the horses, and must run the risk also of losing
their path in the darkness. To the Staithe! Let us try Steeple
Staithe.”

So on they went across the meadow to the creek. It lay but three
bow-shots distant. At first they could see nothing, for the snow
covered the stones of the little pier, but presently a man cried out
that the lock of the water house, in which the brethren kept their
fishing-boat, was broken, and next minute, that the boat was gone.

“She was small; she would hold but six men,” cried a voice. “So great a
company could never have crowded into her.”

“Fool!” one answered, “there may have been other boats.”

So they looked again, and beneath the thin coating of rime, found a
mark in the mud by the Staithe, made by the prow of a large boat, and
not far from it a hole in the earth into which a peg had been driven to
make her fast.

Now the thing seemed clear enough, but it was to be made yet clearer,
for presently, even through the driving snow, the quick eye of Wulf
caught sight of some glittering thing which hung to the edge of a clump
of dead reeds. A man with a lance lifted it out at his command, and
gave it to him.

“I thought so,” he said in a heavy voice; “it is a fragment of that
star-wrought veil which was my Christmas gift to Rosamund, and she has
torn it off and left it here to show us her road. To St.
Peter’s-on-the-Wall! To St. Peter’s, I say, for there the boats or ship
must pass, and maybe that in the darkness they have not yet won out to
sea.”

So they turned their horses’ heads, and those of them that were mounted
rode for St. Peter’s by the inland path that runs through Steeple St.
Lawrence and Bradwell town, while those who were not, started to search
along the Saltings and the river bank. On they galloped through the
falling snow, Godwin and Wulf leading the way, whilst behind them
thundered an ever-gathering train of knights, squires and yeomen, who
had seen the beacon flare on Steeple tower, or learned the tale from
messengers—yes, and even of monks from Stangate and traders from
Southminster.

Hard they rode, but the lanes were heavy with fallen snow and mud
beneath, and the way was far, so that an hour had gone by before
Bradwell was left behind, and the shrine of St. Chad lay but half a
mile in front. Now of a sudden the snow ceased, and a strong northerly
wind springing up, drove the thick mist before it and left the sky hard
and blue behind. Still riding in this mist, they pressed on to where
the old tower loomed in front of them, then drew rein and waited.

“What is that?” said Godwin presently, pointing to a great, dim thing
upon the vapour-hidden sea.

As he spoke a strong gust of wind tore away the last veils of mist,
revealing the red face of the risen sun, and not a hundred yards away
from them—for the tide was high—the tall masts of a galley creeping out
to sea beneath her banks of oars. As they stared the wind caught her,
and on the main-mast rose her bellying sail, while a shout of laughter
told them that they themselves were seen. They shook their swords in
the madness of their rage, knowing well who was aboard that galley;
while to the fore peak ran up the yellow flag of Saladin, streaming
there like gold in the golden sunlight.

Nor was this all, for on the high poop appeared the tall shape of
Rosamund herself, and on one side of her, clad now in coat of mail and
turban, the emir Hassan, whom they had known as the merchant Georgios,
and on the other, a stout man, also clad in mail, who at that distance
looked like a Christian knight. Rosamund stretched out her arms towards
them. Then suddenly she sprang forward as though she would throw
herself into the sea, had not Hassan caught her by the arm and held her
back, whilst the other man who was watching slipped between her and the
bulwark.

In his fury and despair Wulf drove his horse into the water till the
waves broke about his middle, and there, since he could go no further,
sat shaking his sword and shouting:

“Fear not! We follow! we follow!” in such a voice of thunder, that even
through the wind and across the everwidening space of foam his words
may have reached the ship. At least Rosamund seemed to hear them, for
she tossed up her arms as though in token.

But Hassan, one hand pressed upon his heart and the other on his
forehead, only bowed thrice in courteous farewell.

Then the great sail filled, the oars were drawn in, and the vessel
swept away swiftly across the dancing waves, till at length she
vanished, and they could only see the sunlight playing on the golden
banner of Saladin which floated from her truck.




Chapter VIII.
The Widow Masouda


Many months had gone by since the brethren sat upon their horses that
winter morning, and from the shrine of St. Peter’s-on-the-Wall, at the
mouth of the Blackwater in Essex, watched with anguished hearts the
galley of Saladin sailing southwards; their love and cousin, Rosamund,
standing a prisoner on the deck. Having no ship in which to follow
her—and this, indeed, it would have been too late to do—they thanked
those who had come to aid them, and returned home to Steeple, where
they had matters to arrange. As they went they gathered from this man
and that tidings which made the whole tale clear to them.

They learned, for instance, then and afterwards, that the galley which
had been thought to be a merchantman put into the river Crouch by
design, feigning an injury to her rudder, and that on Christmas eve she
had moved up with the tide, and anchored in the Blackwater about three
miles from its mouth. Thence a great boat, which she towed behind her,
and which was afterwards found abandoned, had rowed in the dusk,
keeping along the further shore to avoid observation, to the mouth of
Steeple Creek, which she descended at dark, making fast to the Staithe,
unseen of any. Her crew of thirty men or more, guided by the false
palmer Nicholas, next hid themselves in the grove of trees about fifty
yards from the house, where traces of them were found afterwards,
waiting for the signal, and, if that were necessary, ready to attack
and burn the Hall while all men feasted there. But it was not
necessary, since the cunning scheme of the drugged wine, which only an
Eastern could have devised, succeeded. So it happened that the one man
they had to meet in arms was an old knight, of which doubtless they
were glad, as their numbers being few, they wished to avoid a desperate
battle, wherein many must fall, and, if help came, they might be all
destroyed.

When it was over they led Rosamund to the boat, felt their way down the
creek, towing behind them the little skiff which they had taken from
the water-house—laden with their dead and wounded. This, indeed, proved
the most perilous part of their adventures, since it was very dark, and
came on to snow; also twice they grounded upon mud banks. Still guided
by Nicholas, who had studied the river, they reached the galley before
dawn, and with the first light weighed anchor, and very cautiously
rowed out to sea. The rest is known.

Two days later, since there was no time to spare, Sir Andrew was buried
with great pomp at Stangate Abbey, in the same tomb where lay the heart
of his brother, the father of the brethren, who had fallen in the
Eastern wars. After he had been laid to rest amidst much lamentation
and in the presence of a great concourse of people, for the fame of
these strange happenings had travelled far and wide, his will was
opened. Then it was found that with the exception of certain sums of
money left to his nephews, a legacy to Stangate Abbey, and another to
be devoted to masses for the repose of his soul, with some gifts to his
servants and the poor, all his estate was devised to his daughter
Rosamund. The brethren, or the survivor of them, however, held it in
trust on her behalf, with the charge that they should keep watch and
ward over her, and manage her lands till she took a husband.

These lands, together with their own, the brethren placed in the hands
of Prior John of Stangate, in the presence of witnesses, to administer
for them subject to the provisions of the will, taking a tithe of the
rents and profits for his pains. The priceless jewels also that had
been sent by Saladin were given into his keeping, and a receipt with a
list of the same signed in duplicate, deposited with a clerk at
Southminster. This, indeed, was necessary, seeing that none save the
brethren and the Prior knew of these jewels, of which, being of so
great a value, it was not safe to speak. Their affairs arranged, having
first made their wills in favour of each other with remainder to their
heirs-at-law, since it was scarcely to be hoped that both of them would
return alive from such a quest, they received the Communion, and with
it his blessing from the hands of the Prior John. Then early one
morning, before any were astir, they rode quietly away to London.

On the top of Steeple Hill, sending forward the servant who led the
mule laden with their baggage—that same mule which had been left by the
spy Nicholas—the brethren turned their horses’ heads to look in
farewell on their home. There to the north of them lay the Blackwater,
and to the west the parish of Mayland, towards which the laden barges
crept along the stream of Steeple Cre

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