"God Wills It!" A Tale of the First Crusade.
by William Stearns Davis · English · Gutenberg #41549 · 1,065,936 chars · public domain (US)
The Project Gutenberg eBook of "God Wills It!" A Tale of the First Crusade.
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.
Title: "God Wills It!" A Tale of the First Crusade.
Author: William Stearns Davis
Illustrator: Louis Betts
Release date: December 4, 2012 [eBook #41549]
Most recently updated: October 23, 2024
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/41549
Credits: Produced by sp1nd and the Online Distributed Proofreading
Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from
images generously made available by The Internet Archive)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK "GOD WILLS IT!" A TALE OF THE FIRST CRUSADE. ***
Transcriber's note:
Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).
Small capital text has been replaced with all capitals.
Variations in spelling, punctuation and hyphenation have been retained
except in obvious cases of typographical error.
[=] combined with a letter, example [=a], indicates a macron over the
letter.
* * * * *
"GOD WILLS IT"
[Illustration: logo]
[Illustration: "IN A TWINKLING RICHARD WAS AT THE HEAD OF THE RAGING
BRUTE"]
"GOD WILLS IT!"
A Tale of the First Crusade
BY
WILLIAM STEARNS DAVIS
AUTHOR OF "A FRIEND OF CÆSAR"
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY LOUIS BETTS
_"Who through faith subdued kingdoms, wrought righteousness,
obtained promises, stopped the mouths of lions, quenched the
violence of fire, escaped the edge of the sword, out of weakness
were made strong, waxed valiant in fight, turned to flight the
armies of the aliens."_
--HEBREWS xi. 33, 34.
New York
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
LONDON: MACMILLAN & CO., LTD.
1901
_All rights reserved_
COPYRIGHT, 1901,
BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.
_Norwood Press
J. S. Cushing & Co.--Berwick & Smith
Norwood, Mass., U.S.A._
To my long-time Friend
ARTHUR WASHBURN
I DEDICATE THIS TALE
OF THE DAYS OF FAITH
PREFACE
The First Crusade was the sacrifice of France for the sins of the Dark
Ages. Alone of all the Crusades it succeeded, despite its surrender of
countless lives. No Richard of England, no St. Louis led; its heroes
were the nobles and peasants of France and Norman Italy, who endured a
thousand perils and hewed their victorious way to Jerusalem. In this
Crusade united Feudalism and Papacy won their greatest triumph.
Notwithstanding the self-seeking of a few, the mass of the Crusaders
were true to their profession,--they sought no worldly gain, but to
wash out their sins in infidel blood. In this Crusade also the alien
civilizations of Christendom and Islam were brought into a dramatic
collision which has few historic counterparts.
Except in Scott's "Count Robert of Paris," which deals wholly with the
Constantinople episode, I believe the First Crusade has not been
interpreted in fiction. Possibly, therefore, the present book may have
a slight value, as seeking to tell the story of the greatest event of
a great age.
I have sometimes used modern spellings instead of unfamiliar
eleventh-century names. The Crusade chronicles often contradict one
another, and once or twice I have taken trifling liberties. To Mr. S.
S. Drury and Mr. Charles Hill, University friends who have rendered
kind aid on several historical details, I owe many thanks.
W. S. D.
HARVARD UNIVERSITY.
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
PAGE
HOW HILDEBRAND GAVE A BATTLE CRY 1
CHAPTER
I. HOW BARON WILLIAM SALLIED FORTH 13
II. HOW RICHARD WON THREE FRIENDS 24
III. HOW RICHARD WON A BROTHER 37
IV. HOW RICHARD WENT TO PALERMO 46
V. HOW RICHARD WON TWO FOES 53
VI. HOW ROLLO MET INSULT 64
VII. HOW DE VALMONT SENT HIS GAGE 74
VIII. HOW IFTIKHAR SPED A VAIN ARROW 81
IX. HOW TRENCHEFER DROVE HOME 94
X. HOW IFTIKHAR SAID FAREWELL TO SICILY 113
XI. HOW RICHARD FARED TO AUVERGNE 121
XII. HOW RICHARD CAME TO ST. JULIEN 127
XIII. HOW RICHARD SINNED AGAINST HEAVEN 138
XIV. HOW RICHARD'S SIN WAS REWARDED 148
XV. HOW RICHARD FOUND THE CRUCIFIX 158
XVI. HOW LADY IDE FORGAVE RICHARD 168
XVII. HOW RICHARD SAW PETER THE HERMIT 179
XVIII. HOW RICHARD MET GODFREY OF BOUILLON 187
XIX. HOW RICHARD TOOK THE CROSS 195
XX. HOW RICHARD RECEIVED GREAT MERCY 206
XXI. HOW RICHARD RETURNED TO LA HAYE 214
XXII. HOW RICHARD PARTED WITH HIS BROTHER 224
XXIII. HOW IFTIKHAR'S MESSENGER RETURNED 235
XXIV. HOW THEY SLEW THE FIRST INFIDEL 247
XXV. HOW DUKE GODFREY SAVED THE DAY 258
XXVI. HOW RICHARD WAS AGAIN CHASTENED 272
XXVII. HOW THE ARMY CAME TO ANTIOCH 283
XXVIII. HOW RICHARD REGAINED HIS BROTHER 293
XXIX. HOW IFTIKHAR BORE HOME HIS PRIZE 302
XXX. HOW THERE WAS FESTIVAL AT ALEPPO 315
XXXI. HOW MARY REDEEMED HER SOUL 328
XXXII. HOW MORGIANA PROFFERED TWO CUPS 341
XXXIII. HOW EYBEK TURNED GRAY 354
XXXIV. HOW MUSA PRACTISED MAGIC 367
XXXV. HOW RICHARD HEARD A SONG 381
XXXVI. HOW THE ISMAELIANS SAW TRENCHEFER 402
XXXVII. HOW ROLLO CARRIED WEIGHT 415
XXXVIII. HOW RICHARD AND MUSA AGAIN PARTED 428
XXXIX. HOW PETER BARTHELMY HAD A DREAM 444
XL. HOW THE HOLY LANCE WAS FOUND 457
XLI. HOW LIGHT SMOTE DARKNESS 472
XLII. HOW MORGIANA WOUND HER LAST SPELL 483
XLIII. HOW THE ARMY SAW JERUSALEM 489
XLIV. HOW MORGIANA BROUGHT WARNING 499
XLV. HOW RICHARD HAD SPEECH WITH MUSA 510
XLVI. HOW IFTIKHAR CEASED FROM TROUBLING 522
XLVII. HOW TRENCHEFER WAS BROKEN 535
XLVIII. HOW RICHARD SAW THE SUN RISE 546
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
"In a twinkling Richard was at the head of the raging brute" 16
"The cup trembled, as at the very thought she shuddered" 40
"The lad lay with his bright locks in a crimson pool" 146
"'How may I lift eyes to you when I belong to the cause of
Christ?'" 222
"Iftikhar took from the seat a little lute, touched the
strings, and sang" 327
"All blindly, he knew they were mounting stairways" 401
"And in his hand the rusted head of a lance" 462
"The infidel gave way" 542
GOD WILLS IT!
PROLOGUE
HOW HILDEBRAND GAVE A BATTLE CRY
High noon in Italy. Without, a hot sun, a blue bay, a slow sea-breeze;
within, a vaulted chamber, bare stone walls, a few blazoned pennons
upon the pillars, here and there pictured tapestries, where one might
see many a merry tourney and passage-at-arms. Very gentle were the
footfalls, though the room was not empty: the whispers were so low
that the droning buzz of a bee, which had stolen in at the narrow
window, sounded loud as a mill wheel. There were a score of persons in
the chamber: tonsured priests in white stoles, and monks in black
cassocks; knights in silvered hauberks; a white-robed Moor with the
eyes of a falcon and the teeth of a cat; and a young lad, Richard, son
of Sir William the castellan, a shy boy of twelve, who sat upon the
stone window seat, blinking his great eyes and wondering what it all
might mean. No eye rested on the lad: the company had thought only for
one object,--a figure that turned wearily on the velvet pillows, half
raised itself, sank once more. Then came a thin voice, gentle as a
woman's:--
"Abd Rahman, come: feel my wrist, and do not fear to speak the truth."
The Moor at the foot of the bed rose from the rushes whereon he had
been squatting; stole noiselessly to the sick man's side. From the
arch of the vault above dangled a silver ball. The Moor smote the
ball, and with his eye counted the slow vibrations while his hand held
the wrist. Even the vagrant bee stopped humming while the sphere
swung to and fro for a long minute. Then without a word Abd Rahman
crept to a low table where a lamp was heating a silver vial, and on
which other vials and spoons were lying. He turned the warm red elixir
into a spoon, and brought it to the dying man. There was a rush of
color to the pallid cheeks, with a striving to rise from the pillow;
but the Moor again held his wrist. Another long silence,--then the
question from the bed:--
"Do not hesitate. Is it near the end?"
Abd Rahman salaamed until his turban touched the rushes.
"Sheik Gregorius, all life save Allah's is mortal," said he in mongrel
Latin.
At the words, there ran a shiver and sobbing through all the company;
the priests were kissing their crucifixes; the monks were on their
knees,--and had begun to mutter _Agnus Dei, qui tolles peccata mundi,
miserere nobis!_ The sufferer's voice checked them.
"Sweet children, what is this? Sorrow? Tears? Rather should you not
rejoice that God has remembered my long travail, and opens wide the
doorway to the dwellings of His rest?" But the answer was renewed
sobbing. Only Abd Rahman crouched impassive. To him death was death,
for Nubian slave or lordly Kalif.
"Draw nearer, dear brothers, my children in Christ," came the voice
from the bed. "Let me see your faces; my sight grows dim. The end is
not far."
So they stood close by, those prelates and knights of the stout Norman
fortress city of Salerno, on that five-and-twentieth of May, in the
year of grace one thousand and eighty-five. None spoke. Each muttered
his own prayer, and looked upon the face of the dying. As they stood,
the sun dropped a beam athwart the pillows, and lit up the sick man's
face. It was a pale, thin, wasted face, the eyelids half drooping, the
eyes now lack-lustre, now touched by fretful and feverish fire; the
scanty gray hair tonsured, the shaven lips drawn tensely, so wan that
the blue veins showed, as they did through the delicate hands at rest
on the coverings. Yet the onlookers saw a majesty more than royal in
that wan face; for before them lay the "Servant of the Servants of
God." They looked upon Gregory VII, christened Hildebrand, heir of St.
Peter, Vicar of Christ, before whom the imperial successor of
Charlemagne and Cæsar had knelt as suppliant and vassal. The silence
was again waxing long.
"Dear children," said the dying Pope, "have you no word for me before
I go?" Whereupon the lordliest prelate of them all, the Archbishop of
Salerno, fell on his knees, and cried aloud:--
"Oh, _Sanctissime_! how can we endure when you are reft from us? Shall
we not be unshepherded sheep amongst ravening wolves; forsaken to the
devices of Satan! Oh, Father, if indeed you are the Vicar of Our Lord,
beg that He will spare us this loss; and even now He will lengthen out
your days, as God rewarded the good Hezekiah, and you will be restored
to us and to Holy Church!" But there was a weary smile upon Gregory's
pale face.
"No, my brother, be not afraid. I go to the visible presence of Our
Lord: before His very throne I will commend you all to His mercy."
Then the dim eyes wandered round the room. "Where is Odon? Where is
Odon, Bishop of Ostia? Not here?--"
"_Beatissime_" said old Desidarius, Abbot of Monte Casino, "we have
sent urgent messages to Capua, bidding him come with speed."
A wistful shadow passed across the face of Gregory.
"I pray God I may give him my blessing before I die."
He coughed violently; another vial of Abd Rahman's elixir quieted him,
but even the imperturbable face of the Moor told that the medicine
could profit little.
"Let us partake of the body and blood of Our Lord," said Gregory; and
the priests brought in a golden chalice and gilded pyx, containing the
holy mysteries. They chanted the _Gloria Patri_ with trembling voices;
the archbishop knelt at the bedside, proffering the pyx. But at that
instant the lad, Richard, as he sat and wondered, saw the Pope's
waxen face flush dark; he saw the thin hands crush the coverings into
folds, and put by the elements.
"I forget; I am first the Vicar of Christ; second, Hildebrand, the
sinner. I have yet one duty before I can stand at God's judgment
seat." The archbishop rose to his feet, and the holy vessel quaked in
his hand; for he saw on the brow of Gregory the black clouds,
foretelling the stroke of the lightning.
"What is your command, _Sanctissime_?" he faltered.
And the Pope answered, lifting himself unaided:--
"Speak! how has God dealt with the foes of Holy Church and His
Vicegerent? Has He abased Guibert of Ravenna, the Antipope, very
Antichrist? Has he humbled Henry, the German, Antichrist's friend?"
The voice was strong now; it thrilled through the vaulted chamber like
the roar of the wind that runs herald to the thunders.
And Desidarius answered feebly: "Holy Father, it is written, 'He that
is unjust let him be unjust still.' Guibert the Antipope, who
blasphemes, calling himself Clement the Third, still lords it in the
city of Peter; in Germany Henry the accursed is suffered to prosper
for yet a little season."
Whereupon Richard saw a terrible thing. The face of the Pope flushed
with an awful fury; he sat upright in the bed, his eyes darting fire,
and night on his forehead. Abd Rahman rose to quiet him--one glance
thrust the Moor back. None seconded. The Pope was still Pope; his were
the keys of heaven and hell,--perdition to deny! And now he spoke in
harsh command, as if handing down the doom of kingdoms, as indeed he
did.
"Hearken, bishops and prelates! I, Gregory, standing at the judgment
seat of God, am yet the Vicar of Christ. Of me it is said, 'Whatsoever
ye shall bind on earth shall be bound in heaven;' and let my last act
on this sinful earth be this--to devote to the devil and his angels
the souls of Henry, king of the Germans, who vaunts the name of
emperor, and Guibert, whose sin shall be forgiven never, for he is
Antichrist."
The pontiff gasped for breath; his voice sounded again.
"Take vellum, and write the formula of the greater excommunication
against the two accursed. Make haste: for all the rest of the world I
will forgive, but they shall be parched forever. Then let me, like
Pope Zacharias, sign the anathema with the very blood of Our Lord.
Haste; for the time grows short."
They obeyed like mute slaves. Richard saw a priest's pen racing over
the parchment, and shivered to his young self; for two of the world's
highest were being handed over to eternal torment. The Pope still sat.
In his eye flashed a fire born of passion passing reason.
"Yes," he ran on. "I am the son of the carpenter of Saona, the poor
monk at St. Mary of the Aventine. Yet I have been set above kings. At
Canossa the prince of this world has knelt at my feet, confessing his
imperial majesty lesser than mine. I have made and unmade kings; I
have raised up and pulled down; and the holy bride of Christ shall
come unblemished to her marriage. The Church--the Church--shall wax
forever; and this has been the work of my hands!" The Pope raved,--all
knew it,--but who should say him nay? Still he stormed on in his
passion: "They have driven me to exile, but mine is the victory. I
die, but the Church advances to triumph! Kingdoms fall,--the Church is
established. The earth passes away,--the Church sits down to the
marriage supper with the Lamb: for the gates of hell shall not prevail
against her!"
Gregory saw the priest lift his eyes from the writing-desk.
"Is it written?"
"It is written, Holy Father."
"Bring it to me, and bring the chalice and the pen; for I will sign."
The archbishop brought the vellum and the holy cup, and knelt at the
bedside; and others had brought lighted candles, twelve in number,
each held by a prelate or priest who stood in semicircle about the
bed. Then while they chanted the great psalm of wrath, they heard the
bell of the castle tolling,--tolling,--not for the death of the body,
but for the more grievous death of the soul. "_In consummatione, in
ira consummationis_"--"Consume them, in wrath consume them," swelled
the terrible chant.
"Give me the crucifix," commanded Gregory. Desidarius placed one of
silver in his hand. A priest at either side bore him up from the bed.
Softly, but solemnly as the Judge of the last Great Day, Gregory read
the major anathema:--
"I, Gregory, Servant of the Servants of God, to whom is given all
power in heaven, on earth, and in hell, do pronounce you, Henry, false
Emperor, and you, Guibert, false Pope, anathematized, excommunicate,
damned! Accursed in heaven and on earth,--may the pains of hell follow
you forever! Cursed be you in your food and your possessions, from the
dog that barks for you to the cock that crows for you! May you wax
blind; may your hands wither; like Dathan and Abiram, may hell swallow
you up quick; like Ananias and Sapphira, may you receive an ass's
burial! May your lot be that of Judas in the land of shades! May these
maledictions echo about you through the ages of ages!"
And at these words the priests cast down their candles, treading them
out, all crying: "Amen and amen! So let God quench all who contemn the
Vicar of Christ."
Then in a silence so tense that Richard felt his very eyeballs
beating, Gregory dipped in the chalice, and bent over the roll. The
lad heard the tip of the pen touch the vellum,--but the words were
never written....
Darkening the doorway was a figure, leaning upon a crooked staff; in
the right hand a withered palm branch,--the gaze fixed straight upon
the Vicegerent of God. And Gregory, as he glanced upward, saw,--gave a
cry and sigh in one breath; then every eye fastened upon the newcomer,
who without a word advanced with soft gliding step to the foot of the
bed, and looked upon the Pope.
None addressed him, for he was as it were a prophet, a Samuel called
up from his long rest to disclose the mysteries hid to human ken. The
strange visitor was of no great height; fasting and hardship had worn
him almost to a skeleton. From under his dust-soiled pilgrim's coat
could be seen the long arms, with the skin sun-dried, shrivelled. Over
his breast and broad shoulders streamed the snow-white hair and beard.
Beneath the shaggy brows, within deep sockets, were eyes, large, dark,
fiery, that held the onlooker captive against his will. The pilgrim's
nose seemed like the beak of a hawk, his fingers like dry talons. And
all looked and grew afraid, for he was as one who had wrestled with
the glamour and sin of the world for long, and had been more than
victor.
Pope and pilgrim gazed upon each other: first spoke Hildebrand:--
"Sebastian, my brother-monk!"
"Hildebrand, my fellow at St. Mary's!"
Then the apparition fell on his knees, saying humbly:--
"And will not the Pope bless Sebastian the palmer from Jerusalem?"
What the pontiff replied was lost to all about; then louder he
spoke:--
"And has Sebastian the palmer forgotten his love for Hildebrand the
monk, when he reverences the Vicar of Christ?"
But the stranger arose.
"I kneel, adoring Gregory, Vicegerent of God: I stand to lay bare to
Hildebrand, the man, his mortal sin."
A thrill of horror ran through all the churchmen, and the archbishop
whispered darkly to Desidarius, but the Pope reproved:--
"And I implore the prayers of Sebastian, a more righteous man than I;
let him speak, and all Christians honor him."
So they stood. The palmer drew close to the bedside, pointing into the
pontiff's face a finger bare as that of one long in the grave.
"Listen, Hildebrand of Saona! I am come from my pilgrimage to the tomb
of our dear Lord. I have come hither to fall at your feet, to bid you
remember the captivity of the city of Christ, and His sorrow at the
wrong done Him through His little ones. I come to find the Vicar of
Christ like the meanest of humankind, nigh to death, and preparing to
stand naked at God's tribunal. I find him not forgiving his enemies,
but devoting to hell. I find him going before God, his last breath a
curse--"
But the Pope was writhing in agony.
"Not this, my brother, my brother," rang his plea. "O Sebastian,
holier man than I," and he strove to turn from the palmer's terrible
gaze, but could not. "Not in my own wrath and hatred do I this. Henry
and Guibert blaspheme Christ and His church, not me. Did I not freely
forgive Censius the brigand, who sought my life? Have I ever been a
worldly prelate, whose cellars are full of wines, whose castles abound
with plate and falcons and chargers? Has simony or uncleanness ever
justly been laid at my door? Not so, not so,--I am innocent."
But Sebastian never wavered. "You and I were fellow-monks at St.
Mary's, friends, as one soul dwelling in two bodies. But the pleasure
of God led us wide apart; you became maker of popes, very Pope--I
remained a simple monk; for our Lord spared me the burdens of
greatness. Now for the third time I have been to the tomb of Christ,
to plead pardon for my many sins and I bring from Palestine treasures
more precious than gold."
The whole company was about the palmer when he drew forth a little
packet. "See--the finger-bone of the blessed St. Jerome; this flask is
filled with water of Jordan; this dust my poor hands gathered at the
Holy Sepulchre." And now all bowed very low. "This splinter is of that
wood whereon the price of all our sins was paid."
Hildebrand took the last relic, kissed it, placed it in his bosom
lovingly. Then came the slow question. "And are the Eastern Christians
still persecuted, the pilgrims outraged, the sacred places polluted?"
"Look, _Sanctissime_" was the answer, tinged half with bitterness and
scorn; and Sebastian bared his arm, showing upon it a ring of scarce
healed scars. "These are tokens of the tortures I endured by command
of the Emir of Jerusalem, when I rejoiced to be counted worthy to
suffer for Christ's dear sake."
"Wounds of Our Lord!" cried the archbishop on his knees, "we are
unworthy to wash the feet of such as you!"
"No," replied the palmer. "It was but merciful chastening. Yet my
heart burns when I behold Christians cursing and slaying one another,
while so many infidels rage unslain and the Holy City mourns their
captive. Therefore I stand here, _Sanctissime_, to reproach you for
your sin."
Again Gregory broke forth: "Unjust Sebastian, eleven years since I
pleaded with King Henry, setting forth the miseries of Jerusalem; ever
has my soul been torn for her captivity. Did I not profess myself
ready to lead over land and sea to the Holy Sepulchre? Then the devil
stirred Henry to his onslaught on the Church, and God has opened no
door for this righteous warfare."
Sebastian leaned over, speaking into the Pope's face.
"You have put your hand to the plough and looked back. You promised
Michael Ducas the Greek aid against the Turks. You anathematized him
for heresy. You wrote of holy war. War blazed forth in Saxony, where
your underling, Rudolf of Swabia, slew his fellow-Christians with your
blessing, while Christ's children in the East were perishing. You
called to Rome Robert Guiscard, that man of sin, whose half-paynim
army spared neither nun nor matron in its violence when it sacked, and
led thousands of Roman captives to endless bondage in Calabria. Where
then your anathemas? You cared more for humiliating Cæsar than for
removing the humiliation of Christ. Therefore I reproach."
There were great beads of sweat on the Pope's forehead; he was panting
in agony; again and again the splinter of the cross was pressed to his
breast, as if the very touch would quench the raging flame within.
"_Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa!_" he was repeating. Next he
spoke aloud: "Sweet friends, bear witness,--all my life I have loved
righteousness and hated iniquity; therefore, in exile, here at
Salerno, I die. Yet our old enemy, Satan, has been too strong. I am a
very sinful man, thinking too much of the glory of Peter, too little
of the sorrow of Christ. Pray for me,--for Hildebrand, chief of
sinners; for Gregory the Pope is nigh his end."
When the pontiff's breath failed, there were again shadows in the
doorway, and two figures entered treading softly; the one a tall and
handsome churchman, in a high prelate's dress, the second a cavalier,
not tall, but mighty of limb and shoulder, the jewels flashing on his
baldric, the gold spurs at his heels. The warrior threw back his helm,
and all saw the long, fair beard, the steel-blue eyes, the mien of
high command.
"Odon, Cardinal of Ostia, my dear son!" cried the fainting Pope, as
the prelate knelt at the bedside, beseeching the blessing. "But--you?"
and he wondered, looking upon the knight. The other bowed his head.
"Holy Father," said he, in the tongue of northern France, "do you not
know me? I have greatly sinned: I have fought with Henry against Holy
Church. I repent; assign any penance--for from Rome I have come,
seeking absolution at the hands of the true Vicar of Christ."
"And you are--?" came from Hildebrand's thin lips.
"Godfrey of Bouillon." And the knight knelt beside the cardinal.
The light was again in the Pope's eye. "Fear not," came his words. "As
you have been the foe of Holy Church, so now you shall become her
champion. Your sins are forgiven; what you shall do, learn hereafter."
Another spasm of coughing; Abd Rahman administered his last elixir.
All knew the end was very near. But again the pontiff spoke. "I must
say farewell, sweet children. Make Desidarius my successor, for he has
served Holy Church full long. But he is old, and after him"--his eyes
went over to Odon--"you shall sit upon the throne of Peter." The
prelate was in tears.
"Say it not," he cried. "Unworthy!--Anselm of Lucca, Hugh of Lyons,
they are better men than I."
"No," said Gregory, gently, "you will succeed in due time, and do not
refuse the service of the Lord." Then he turned to Sebastian. "Dear
brother, O for ten years of life, five, one! I have been an
unfaithful shepherd of my sheep! But God is all wise. Never in this
body shall I call the soldiers of the West to arm against the enemies
of Christ! Yet--yet--" the voice faltered, steadied again--"the time
cometh when God wills it, and you, Odon, shall call forth the warriors
of the Cross; and you, O Godfrey,--be this your penance,--you shall
lead the host to Jerusalem. And the host shall move victoriously,
Frank, German, Italian! The Holy City shall be rescued from her
spoilers! And this be your battle cry, against which paynim or devil
may not prevail, '_God wills it!_' For what God wills, may no man or
archfiend stay!"
His voice pealed like a trumpet, like the shout of a dauntless captain
leading through the deathly press. All looked on him. When his hands
stretched on high, every other hand was outstretched. Nearer they
crowded, and the swords of the Norman knights leaped from their
scabbards,--there was the clang of mail, the flash of light on bare
steel,--highest of all the sword of Godfrey. Hildebrand struggled to
rise; Sebastian upbore at one side, Odon at the other. The Pope gazed
upward toward the vaulting--seemingly through it--beyond--
"I see the heavens opened," was his cry. "I see horses and chariots; a
mighty host; and Michael and all his angels with swords of fire. I see
the earth covered with armies innumerable, and red with the carnage of
countless battles. I see the great host of those who have shed their
blood for Christ, ascending into heaven, with psalms of praise,
clothed in white robes, while their comrades below march on to
victory." A pause,--a final burst of ecstasy,--"I see the Cross
triumphant on the walls of Jerusalem! And all this shall be not now,
yet speedily; for so God wills it!"
The Pope reeled; Sebastian caught him; they laid him on the bed. Abd
Rahman was beside--no need of his skill--a great rush of blood surged
from Gregory's lips, one brief spasm--he was dead.
"Christians," spoke Sebastian the palmer, "think not the Vicar of
Christ has left us unaided in this sacred task. At the throne of God
he will pray that our fingers be taught the sword, that we be girded
with strength for the battle. And now while his spirit is borne on
high by angels, let us take on ourselves the vow of holy war."
The lad Richard, whose young wits had been sadly perplexed by all he
had seen since at early morn he had been sent to watch in the
sick-room, that his weary father the castellan might rest, made as if
to glide from the chamber; but Sebastian by a glance recalled. They
stood around the bed, looking upon the dead man's face, their arms
stretched on high.
"We swear it! That soon as the path is plain, we will free Jerusalem.
So God wills it!"
Thus cried Odon, thus all; but loudest of all Godfrey of Bouillon.
Then Sebastian, turning to Richard, said:--
"And you, fair young sir, whom the saints make the sprout of a mighty
warrior for Christ--will you vow also?"
Whereupon Richard, holding himself very lordly, as became his noble
Norman blood, replied with outstretched hand, in right manly
fashion:--
"Yes, with St. Maurice's help, I will slay my share of the infidels!"
"Amen," quoth Abbot Desidarius, solemnly, "Gregory the Pope is dead in
the body, but in the spirit he shall win new victories for Holy Church
and for God."
CHAPTER I
HOW BARON WILLIAM SALLIED FORTH
It was early dawn in May, 1094. The glowing sun had just touched the
eastern mountains with living fire; the green brakes and long
stretches of half-tropical woodland were springing out of the shadow;
a thin mist was drifting from the cool valleys; to the north the sea's
wide reach was dancing and darkling. Upon a little height overlooking
the Sicilian town of Cefalu three men were standing, very unlike in
age and dress, yet each with attention fixed on one object,--a white
falcon which the youngest of the party had perched on his fist. Two of
the men were past the prime of life. Of one, the swarthy countenance,
sharp features, bright Oriental dress, ponderous blue turban, and
crooked cimeter proclaimed him at once a Moor, undoubtedly a Moslem;
the other, taller, thinner than his comrade, wore a coarse, dark
mantle; his hood was thrust back, displaying a head crowned with a
tight-fitting steel cap, a face stern and tough, as if it were of
oxhide, marked almost to deformity by plentiful sword scars. He wore a
grizzled gray beard; at his side jangled a heavy sword in battered
sheath; and in his hands, which lacked more than one finger, he held a
crossbow, the bolts for which swung in a leathern case at his thigh.
The two stood by their third companion, who was holding up the falcon
on a gold-embroidered glove, while the other hand readjusted the
feather-tufted hood over the bird's eyes.
"By St. Michael," the young man was declaring, "say to me, Herbert,
and you also, Nasr, there was never such a falcon; no, not in all
Count Roger's mews."
The speaker stood at least a head taller than the others, and they
were not short men. He was a strong-limbed fellow of perhaps
two-and-twenty; with a face not regular and handsome certainly; the
cheek-bones were too high, the features too rugged, the mouth too
large for that. But it was an honest, ingenuous face; the brown eyes
snapped with lively spirits, and, if need be, with no trifling
passion; the mouth was affable; the little brown mustache twisted at a
determined curve; and the short dark hair--he was bare-headed--was
just curly enough to be unruly. He wore a bleaunt, an undercloak of
fine gray cloth, and over this was caught a loose mantle of scarlet
woollen,--a bright dress that marked out his figure from afar.
The young man had been speaking in Norman French, and his comrade in
the steel cap, who answered to the name of Herbert, broke out
loudly:--
"Aye, my Lord Richard, there is not such a falcon in all Sicily from
Syracuse to Trapani; not such a bird as will strike so huge a crane or
heron from so far, and go at the quarry so fearless." And the old man
held up a dead crane, as if in proof of his assertion.
"I am glad to think it," replied the other, "for I have no small hope
that when next I go to Palermo, I may show that haughty Louis De
Valmont I know somewhat of hawking, and can breed a bird to outmatch
his best."
"Allah!" grunted Nasr, the Moor, "the young _Cid_ is right. Never have
I seen a better falcon. And he does well to harbor the old grudge
against the boisterous De Valmont, who will get his dues if the Most
High will! Ha, ha!" And the old rascal began croaking in his throat,
thinking he was laughing.
Nasr had spoken in Arabic, but his companions understood him well
enough; for what tongue was not current in Sicily? The young man's
face was clouded, however, as if by no very pleasant recollection;
then he burst out:--
"By the Mass, but I will not forget the high words that pompous knight
spoke to me. If it be a sin to harbor an enmity, as Sebastian the
chaplain says, why then"--and he crossed himself--"I will do penance
in due time. But the quarrel must be wiped out first." And he clapped
his hand on his sword-hilt to confirm his word.
"_Ai!_" muttered Herbert, "the churchmen talk of the days when spears
shall be beaten into pruning-hooks--so they say it; but I say, let old
Herbert be dead before that time dawns. What is life without its
grudges? A good horse, a good sword, a good wife, and a good
grudge--what more can an honest man want, be he knight or 'villain'?"
Richard yawned and commenced to scratch his head.
"Ah!" he commented, "it was very early we rose! I have not yet rubbed
the vapors out of my crown. Sir Gerald, the knight travelling from
Palermo who lodged with us, was given hospitality in my bed, and we
talked of his horses and sweethearts till past midnight. Then
Brochart, my best dog, was not content to sleep under the bed, as is
his wont, but must needs climb up and lie upon me, and I was too
slumberous to roll him off; so I have dreamt of imps and devils all
night long."
He drew the strap tight that held the falcon to his glove, and led the
way down the slope, remarking that since he had tested the new bird
thus early, he would not hesitate to display her keenness to his
father the Baron, who proposed to ride hawking that day. So they
passed down the hill towards Cefalu with its white houses and
squat-domed churches spreading out below them, a fair picture to the
eye; for the summer sea, flecked by a few fishers' sails, stretched
beyond, and the green hills far to either hand. Before them on a sheer
eminence rose the battlemented keep of the castle, an ancient
Saracenic fortress lately remodelled by the new Norman lords, the dawn
falling bright and free on its amber-gray walls, and lending a rich
blush to the stately crimson banner that from topmost rampart was
trailing to the southern wind.
As the three went down the slope they struck the highroad just beyond
a little clump of palm trees, and at the turn they ran on a travelling
party that was evidently just setting forth from Cefalu. There were
several women and priests on palfreys and mules, one or two mounted
men-at-arms, and several pack animals; but the centre of the whole
party was found in an enormous black horse, who at that instant had
flung off his rider, and was tossing his forefeet in the air and
raging and stamping as if by a demon possessed. Two stout Lombard
serving-men were tugging at his bits, but he was kicking at them
viciously, and almost worrying out of their grasp at every plunge. The
women were giving little shrieks each time the great horse reared; the
priests were crossing themselves and mumbling in Latin; and all their
beasts were growing restive.
In a twinkling Richard was at the head of the raging brute, and with a
mighty grip close to the jaw taught the foaming monster that he felt a
master hand. A moment more and the horse was standing quiet and
submissive. Richard resigned his hold to a servant, and turned to the
strange travellers. A fat man in a prelate's dress, with a frosty red
face, was pushing his white mule forward; Richard fell at once on his
knees, for he recognized in the churchman My Lord Prelate Robert of
Evroult, the Bishop of Messina. The good father was all thanks.
"_Dominus vobiscum_, my son; you have subdued a savage beast, to which
I, a man of peace and not of war, should never have given harborage in
my stables. And who may you be, for I have seen your face before, yet
forget the name?"
"_Beatissime_, I am Richard Longsword, son of William Longsword,
seigneur of this Barony of Cefalu."
"A right noble knight you will prove yourself, no doubt," commented
the bishop; "when at Palermo do not fail to wait on me." And then,
when he had given his blessing, he signed for the cavalcade to
proceed.
"I thank your episcopal grace," quoth Richard, still very dutifully;
and then his eye lit on another of the travellers,--one much more to
his liking than the reverend prelate; for a lady sitting on a second
white mule had thrust back the yellow veil from before her face, and
the Norman caught a glimpse of cheeks red as a rose and white as milk,
and two very bright eyes. Only a glimpse; for the lady, the instant
he raised his gaze, dropped the veil; but she could not cover up those
dark, gleaming eyes. Richly dressed was she, after the fashion of the
Greeks, with red ribbons on her neck and a blue silk mantle and
riding-hood. Her mule had a saddle of fine, embossed leather, and
silver bits. At her side rode an old man in a horse-litter led by
foot-boys; he also daintily dressed, and with the handsome, clear-cut
features and venerable white beard of a Greek gentleman. The lady had
dropped her veil at his warning nod, but now she bent over the mule
and half motioned to Richard.
"You understand Greek, Sir Frank?" was her question; not in the
mongrel Sicilian dialect, but in the stately tongue of Constantinople.
In her voice was a little tremor and melody sweet as a springtime
brook. The Norman bowed low.
"I understand and speak, fair lady," replied he, in her own tongue.
"How brave you have been!" cried the Greek, ingenuously; "I feared the
raging horse would kill you."
Richard shrugged his shoulders and laughed:--
"It is nothing; I know horses as my second self."
But the lady shook her head, and made all the red ribbons and bright
veil flutter. "I am not wont to be contradicted," said she; "a brave
deed, I say. I did not think you Franks so modest."
The old man was leaning from the litter. "Let us ride, my daughter,"
he was commanding. The lady tapped her mule on the neck with the ivory
butt of her whip. "Farewell, Sir Frank; St. Theodore keep you, if you
make so light of peril!"
Richard bowed again in silence. He would not forget those eyes in a
day, though he had seen many bright eyes at Count Roger's court.
"_Ai_," cried he to his companions, "to the castle, or the hawking
begins without us."
So they struck a brisk pace, whilst Herbert related how he had heard
that the Greek gentleman, though a cripple, had stood high at the
court of Constantinople, and that he had come to Cefalu on a Pisan
ship a few days before. It was declared he was in exile, having fallen
out of the Emperor's favor, and had been waiting at Cefalu until the
bishop came up, giving them escort for the land journey to Palermo.
"As for the daughter, ah! she is what you have just seen,--more
precious than all the relics under a church altar; but her father
watches her as if she were made of gold!"
"I am vexed," replied the young man. "I did not know this before; it
was uncourtly that persons of their rank should lodge in Cefalu, and
no one of the castle wait on them." Then because one thought had led
to another: "Tell me, Nasr, have you learned anything of that Spanish
knight whom they say keeps himself at the country house of Hajib the
Kadi? Assuredly he is no true cavalier, or he would not thus
churlishly withdraw himself. There are none too many men of spirit
here at Cefalu, for me to stick at making acquaintance."
Nasr showed his sharp, white teeth.
"Yes, I have gained sight of the Spaniard. From the brother-in-law of
the cousin of the wife of the steward of the Kadi, I learn that he is
called Musa, and is of a great family among the Andalusian Moslems."
Richard chuckled at the circuit this bit of news had taken; then
pressed:--
"But you have seen him? What is he like?"
"If my lord's slave"--Nasr was always respectful--"may speak,--the
Spanish knight is a very noble cavalier. I saw him only once, yet my
eye tells if a man has the port of a good swordsman and rider.
Assuredly this one has, and his eyes are as keen and quick as a
shooting star."
"Yet he keeps himself very retired about the country house?"
"True, _Cid_, yet this, they say, is because he is an exile in Sicily,
and even here has fears for his life; so he remains quiet."
"Foh!" grunted Richard, "I am weary of quiet men and a quiet life. I
will go back to Palermo, and leave my father to eat his dinners and
doze over his barony. I have the old grudge with De Valmont to settle,
and some high words with Iftikhar, captain of the Saracen guards, will
breed into a very pretty quarrel if I am bent on using them. Better
ten broils than this sleepy hawking and feasting!"
So they crossed the drawbridge, entered the outer walls of the bailey,
with its squalid outbuildings, weather-beaten stables, the gray, bare
donjon looming up above; and entering a tiny chapel, Richard and
Herbert fell on their knees, while a priest--none other than
Sebastian, who had stood at Hildebrand's side--chanted through the
"_Gloria_" and "_Preface_" But when it came time for the sermon, the
baron's two bears, caged in the bailey, drowned the pious prosings
with an unholy roar as they fell on one another; and the good cleric
cried, "Amen!" that all might run and drag them asunder.
There by the cage Richard greeted his father,--a mighty man even in
his old age, though his face was hacked and scarred, and showed little
of the handsome young cavalier who had stolen the heart of every maid
in Rouen. But in his blue Norman eyes still burned the genial fire;
his tread was heavy as a charger's, his great frame straight as a
plummet; a stroke of his fist could fell a horse, and his flail-like
sword was a rush in his fingers. He was smooth-shaven; round his neck
strayed a few white locks, all his crown worn bare by the long rubbing
of his helmet. One could have learned his rank by the ermine lining on
his under-mantle, by the gold plates on his sword belt and samite
scabbard; but in a "villain's" dress he would have been known as one
of those lordly cavaliers who had carried the Norman name and fame
from the Scottish Marches to Thessaly.
Father and son embraced almost in bear-fashion, each with a crushing
hug. Then Richard must needs kiss his mother, the fair Lady Margaret
of Auvergne, sweet and stately in her embroidered bleaunt, with golden
circlet on her thick gray-gold hair; after her, Eleanor, a small
maiden of sixteen, prim, demure, and very like her mother, with two
golden braids that fell before her shoulders almost to her knees; and
lastly, Stephen, a slight, dark lad, with a dreamy, contemplative face
and an eye for books in place of arrow-heads, whom the family placed
great hopes on: should he not be bishop, nay Pope, some bright day, if
the saints favored?
"Hola, Richard!" cried the Baron, with a spade-like paw on his son's
shoulder. "So you made test of the white falcon; does she take
quarry?"
"A crane large enough to hold a dog at bay!"
"Praised be St. Maurice! Come, let us eat, and then to horse and
away!"
So they feasted in the great hall, the plates and trenchers
clattering, enough spiced wine to crack the heads of drinkers less
hardened, the busy Norman varlets and Greek serving-maids buzzing to
and fro like bees; for who could hawk with hunger under the girdle? A
brief feast; and all had scattered right and left to make ready; but
not for long.
Soon they were again in the court, the Baron, his sons, and Herbert,
with Aimeri, the falconer, who had brought out his pride, as fine a
half-dozen of goshawks and gerfalcons as might be found in all Sicily.
The birds were being strapped fast to each glove, the grooms were
leading out the tall palfreys, and the Baron stood with one hand on
the pommel of his saddle, ready to dig his spurs and be away, when a
mighty clangor arose from the bronze slab hanging by the gate.
"By St. Ouen," cried he, in a hot Norman oath, pausing in his spring,
"what din is that? I have no mind to put off the hawking to bandy
words with some wandering priest who would stop to swill my wine!"
But Herbert, the seneschal, had gone to the gate, and came back with
his wicked eyes dancing in his head.
"Ho! My lord, there will be no hawking to-day!" he was bawling with
all his lungs.
"Why not, rascal?" growled the Baron; yet he, too, began to sniff an
adventure, like a practised war-horse.
"These people will make it clear to my lord."
And after the seneschal trooped three very dissimilar persons, who all
broke out in a breath into howls and cries.
The first was a well-fed priest, but with a tattered cassock and a
great red welt swelling upon his bare poll; the second, a dark-eyed
Greek peasant of the country in a dress also much the worse for wear;
and the third, a tall, gaunt old Moor, whose one-time spotless white
kaftan and turban were dust-sprinkled and torn. They all cried and
bellowed at once, but the priest got out the first coherent word.
"Rescue, noble Baron, rescue, for the love of Christ! My master, the
Bishop of Messina, is fallen into the hands of the men of Belial, and
I, even I, of all his following, am escaped to tell the tale.
Rescue--"
And here the Greek broke in:--
"Oh! most august Frank, by St. Basil and St. Demetrius, I adjure you,
save my sister, whom the pirates have carried away."
But the old Moor, with tears in his eyes, knelt and kissed the Baron's
very feet.
"Oh! fountain of generosity, save my master, for the Berber raiders
seek not his ransom, but his life. Rescue, O champion of the
innocent!"
"By the splendor of God!" roared the Baron, with a great oath, "I make
nothing of all this wind. What mean they, Herbert?" And the seneschal,
who stood by all alert, replied curtly: "I gather, Moorish pirates
have landed below the town toward Lascari to kill or kidnap the
Spanish knight who dwells with Hajib the Kadi; and doubtless the
Bishop of Messina and his company have fallen into their hands while
passing along the road. It may be, my lord,"--and the sly fellow
winked, as if the hint would be needed,--"that if we ride forth, we
may nip them before they regain the ship. The Kadi's villa is far
inland."
Baron William was no man of words when deeds were needed. In a trice
he had clapped to his mouth the great olifant--the ivory horn that
dangled at his baldric, and its notes rang out sharp and clear. Twice
he wound a mighty blast; and almost before the last peal died away
the castle was transformed. The Norman men-at-arms, dozing and dicing
in the great hall, were tearing their shields from the wall, their
lances from the cupboards and presses. Forth sounded that merriest of
jingling, the clinking of good ring-steel hauberks as they dragged
them on. In the stables feverish grooms girt fast the saddles on the
stamping _destrers_--the huge war-horses. And up from other parts of
the castle rose the boom of kettledrums, the clash and brattle of
cymbals, as the Baron's Saracens, nigh half of his garrison, came
racing into the bailey, clattering their brass-studded targets with
their bow staves, and tossing their crooked cimeters. Richard and his
father had rushed into the donjon, but were back quick as thought with
their mail shirts jangling about them, and stout steel caps hiding all
the face save the eyes. The good Baron was snorting and dancing for
the fray as if it had been his first battle; or as if he were what the
_jongleurs_ said of Charlemagne, "two hundred years old, scarred by a
hundred fields, yet the last to weary of the mêlée."
Good Lady Margaret stood by the gate as the troops rode out, after her
son and husband had kissed her. Dear woman! it was not the first time
she had seen them ride forth perchance to deadlier fields, but she had
not yet learned to love the blasts of the war-horn. Until they
returned she would spend the time in the chapel, betwixt hope and
fear, telling it all to "Our Lady of Succors."
"Will you not come with us?" cried Richard, gayly, to Sebastian, the
old priest, who stood at his mother's side. "Play Roland's Bishop
Turpin, who slew so many infidels."
The good man shrugged his shoulders, and said with a sigh: "Not
slaying infidels, but slaying for slaying's sake you lust after, my
son. When you ride for Christ's love only, then perhaps I ride with
you; but St. George shield you--if not for your sake, at least for
ours."
The troops cantered forth, twenty good Norman men-at-arms; as many
light-mailed Saracen riders,--the Baron and his son in full armor. At
the turn in the road below the castle Richard waved his kite-shaped
shield, as last salute to the little group by the drawbridge.
"Let us go to the chapel, my children," said Lady Margaret to her
younger son and her daughter. "We can do nothing here."
CHAPTER II
HOW RICHARD WON THREE FRIENDS
Little heeded Richard Longsword the warnings of priest or mother, as
with a good horse between his knees, a stout shield tossed over his
back, and the white hawk blinking under her hood and perched upon his
shoulder, he spurred ahead of his troop, leading their mad gallop. One
thought, be it confessed, was uppermost in his mind,--the Greek lady
with the yellow veil and red ribbons,--she the booty of Berber
raiders, while he was near by with a keen sword in his scabbard! St.
Maurice forbid! So furious was his riding that the Baron, who was
foaming behind, must needs shout to him not to outpace the company.
The ground sped fast under the flying hoofs. A fair and fruitful
country it was, had he given it heed: fields of cotton, orchards of
orange and lemon, flower masses scattered here and there bright as the
rainbow, and the great mountains swelling up above all, with Pizzo
Antenna and San Salvadore in the background, their mighty summits
standing forth as brown and green crystal against the azure.
There was a kind, sweet wind creeping in from the sea, bearing a
breath of the pure brine; and to the sea were threading the silver
rivulets from the meadows, the racing brooks from the mountain sides.
Small place had all this in the young Norman's mind. Already as they
cantered westward toward the foothills, his keen eye had lit on a
sluggish column of smoke, at sight whereof he gave his flying steed
another thrust with the rowels; and all the riders at his back, when
they saw, set up one gleeful yell,--they were on track of the
raiders. Now frightened Moslem or Greek peasants scampered past them,
too scared to whimper out more than a word as to where the foe
awaited. Then as they swung round a turn in the road, and cleared a
clump of manna trees, a woman came flying to meet them,--old, but
decently dressed, and throwing up her hands she gave one mighty howl
to Richard.
"Oh! Sir Frank; rescue, rescue for my dear mistress! Save her from the
Hagarenes!" For so the Greeks called all the race of Ishmael.
Richard bent low in his saddle. "Never fear, good woman; where are the
raiders? I will rescue your lady!"
"There!" cried the old woman, screaming again. "Oh! they will kill us
all! St. Irene, St. John, St. Basil--"
But Longsword did not wait for her to finish her adjuration. Right at
the turn in the road were advancing a knot of men in bright barbaric
dresses with tossing spears and brandished cimeters. When they caught
sight of their galloping pursuers, they set up a hideous din from
horns and cymbals and tabors; and the shout of the Baron's party was
met by a louder from fourfold as many throats.
The Baron had pricked up abreast of his son, and one sweeping glance
over the freebooters' array told the story.
"Nigh two hundred," he muttered under his helmet, "and think
themselves too strong to be molested. We have met them as they return
to their ship. Berbers mostly, but I see the fair skins of some
Christian renegadoes. They have captured some horses, and their
prisoners are strapped to them, in the centre of the band. By the
peacock! it will be a pretty fight ere we get at them! But we have our
mounts, and one rider matches ten on the ground."
The pirates stood on a little clearing flanked by vineyard hedges; and
a low stone wall lay betwixt them and their assailants. The horde were
drawing up in close mass: the best-armored men without, bowmen within,
prisoners and booty in the centre. A tall mounted African in a
splendid suit of silvered armor and in gilded casque was wheeling
about, ordering, brandishing his long cimeter,--evidently the chief.
Just before the pirates lay the wall, which a mounted enemy must clear
at a bound to strike them. Baron William turned to Herbert.
"Ready, my men?"
"Ready, lord."
Then again the Baron wound the horn, and the restless horses felt no
spur when the whole band as one swept forward. Right as they came to
the leap of the wall a deadly arrow fire smote them. Three steeds went
down: four riders reeled; but the others took the bound and crashed
upon the Berbers. Four and five to one were the odds, but not a rider
that had not slain his tens and scattered his hundreds; and the weight
of the Norman sword and axe the luckless raiders felt with cost. Like
a sledge shattering the wood the impact smote them: there was one
struggle, one wild push and rally to maintain the spear hedge. It was
broken, and the Baron's men were cutting hand to hand, and hewing down
the Berbers. Loud ran out the Norman war-cry, "_Nostre Dame, Dieu ay
nous ade_," and the very shout struck terror to the hearts of the
quaking pirates. An instant of deadly fencing man to man, and they
were scattered. Like rats they were breaking through the thickets and
dashing down the hillside; close on their heels flew Nasr and his
Saracens, shooting and hewing with might and main.
But Richard had higher foes in view. The instant the pirates
scattered, their six riders had struck out boldly, pushing their
beasts over the walls and through the groves and hedges, all flying
northward toward their only safety,--the ships. Now behind each of
four riders was strapped a prisoner, and it was on these last that
Richard cast chiefest eye; especially on one, for from the prisoner's
throat he could see trailing red ribbons. Leaving the men to hunt down
the fugitives on foot, he thrust his steed by a long leap over a hedge
and was away after the mounted raiders, little recking whether he had
a follower.
The wind whistled in his teeth as his good horse sped across ploughed
lands, and took ditch or garden wall with noble bounds. Now he was
gaining on the rearmost fugitive, a lean, black African on a stolen
steed, who was weighted in his race by no less a prisoner than the
reverend bishop. Richard laughed behind his helm, as he saw the holy
man writhing and twisting on his uneasy pillion, and coughing forth
maledictions at every jolt in the mad chase. The Norman swung up
abreast the Moor, and struck out with his sword. The raider made shift
to wield his cimeter, but one stroke cleft him down, and as he fell he
dragged the bishop with him, who landed on the crupper with a mighty
thud that made him howl to all the saints.
Richard glanced back; two or three of the Baron's men were in the far
distance, the rest scattered; only Herbert on a well-tried horse flew
close at hand.
"Help, fair son! _Maledicte_, I perish--I die a martyr, butchered by
paynims!" groaned the bishop. But Richard left him to salve his own
bruises, and pricked the faster. Be the foe two or twenty, he would
follow the lady of the red ribbons. Swift as a dream he flew on.
Before him on the greensward lay the old Greek, thrust from the
pillion to lighten the load of his captor. Feebly he struggled to rise
as Richard swept past. "Ah, young Frank, for Christ's dear sake save
my daughter!" was his cry and groan.
"That will I!" snorted the Norman, and he smote his steed's neck with
the flat of his great sword. The bishop, the Greek had vanished;
hedge, ravine, brooklet, he swept through them, over them; nor knew
how often St. George saved him from headlong fall. The Berbers were
lashing and prodding with their cimeter points; but Richard was well
mounted, only the great black horse bearing the captive lady sped
ahead despite all Richard's speed.
A stone wall,--all the fugitives cleared it saving the last, behind
whom was strapped a young man, fast prisoner. As Longsword flew, he
saw this rider miss the leap, crash downward. In a twinkling all the
pursued, save the guard of the lady, wheeled, charged back. But
Richard had reached the wall, passed with a bound, and for a long
instant it was foil and fence, his life dancing on three cimeter
points at his breast. Then, sudden as a thunderclap, there was a new
blade opposed to the Berbers,--the erstwhile captive had burst his
bands, leaped from under the kicking charger, disarmed his guard, and
was in the midst of the fray, giving blow for blow. But at sight of
him, all three pirates forsook the Norman, and rained their blows upon
the prisoner.
"_Allah!_ Hew him down, though we die for it!" was the shout of their
chief. The captive parried all three as one; ere the second stroke,
Richard had sped the first raider past sword-play. His new ally beat
down a second with a sweeping blow. The third cried "Mercy!"--but
neither gave him heed. The released prisoner, a light-skinned young
Moslem of Spain, wiry as a hound, nimble as a cat, had caught the rein
of a fallen Berber, and swung himself into the dead man's saddle,
touching no stirrup, almost ere Richard could admire.
"As the Most High lives," cried the Spaniard, as if rescue were mere
incident, "after the lady! The ship is near!" And ride they did,
though the black horse was far ahead now, despite his burden.
"Ride, Frank, ride!" shouted the other, leaning over his steed's neck,
and seeming to lend speed by very touch and voice. "Allah smite us, if
she is taken!"
Over the foothills, across the rolling country, the feet of their
horses springing like on-rushing winds, raced the twain. They saw blue
water before an orange grove, and not far away the pirate's
refuge,--the ship. And still the black horse held them in chase,
though losing slowly. Richard flung the target from his back, to make
greater speed. He could see the lady struggling on her uneasy pillion.
Her captor with one hand gripped her fast; with the other, smote and
prodded with his cimeter. The flecks of blood were on the black
steed's flanks. The lady plucked at the Berber's throat with strength
born of despair.
"Rescue, rescue, for the love of Christ!" rang her cry; and as if in
answer, the great charger began to plunge in his gallop, nigh casting
his double mount. The Berber wrestled him down, with a mighty strain
on the reins; but in the instant Richard had gained apace. "Ai! St.
Michael!" he thundered, his good sword swung almost in stroke. But at
the shout there was a wild yell from beyond the orange trees, and as
he swept on he saw a score or more pirates rushing with drawn swords
to greet them,--and through the grove the tacklings of the ship.
Straight toward the midst of the Berbers sped the black horse: a
moment,--the lady would be lost indeed!
"Rescue for the love of Christ!" again her wail in reply to the
triumphant howl of her captor. The Norman's hand was on his shoulder;
down he plucked the white falcon, unhooded, tossed in air,--one circle
she cut, then sped straight in the flying raider's eyes.
Vainly he strove to buffet away with a fist; the instant the grip on
the reins relaxed, the black horse was plunging, rearing, and
Longsword was abreast. With one long stroke he smote the Berber from
the saddle; the lady reeled also, strapped fast. But the Norman, proud
in his might, calmed the black horse with one hand on the bits; drew
his blade once across the thong, releasing the captive. The pirate
tumbled to earth with never a groan.
Barely in time--the twenty were all about them now; but Richard
Longsword fought as twenty, the Spaniard as twenty more. "A houri! A
great prize! A great ransom!" howled the raiders, seeking their prey;
but they ran on doom. For the Norman mounted, and in his armor dashed
them down with his heavy sword; and those whom the Spaniard's cimeter
bit never cried more. Yet with all the death twinkling about, Richard
held his steed and mailed breast betwixt the foe and the lady. Even
while he fought, her clear Greek voice encouraged. "Holy Mother, that
was a well-struck blow! Oh, were I but a man with a sword!"
How long the mounted two could have beat back the unmounted twenty
only the wise saints know; for just as Richard's hauberk had turned
the third javelin, and his eyes danced with stars when his helmet
dinted, a new cry rang from behind.
"Forward, brothers! Slay! death!" And a bolt from Herbert's crossbow
crashed through a pirate's target,--herald of the advent of the
man-at-arms and fifteen riders more; at sight whereof the
pirates--guessing at last that it was all over with their comrades who
had gone inland--fled like partridges through the grove, over the
white sands; and before Herbert could rein in his steaming beast, they
heard the blocks creaking, as feverish hands made sail and warped the
ship to sea. Not all thus to escape; for the Normans nipped several,
whom they tugged away, strapped to the saddle-bows, after having
searched them for jewels down to their shoes.
Richard looked about him. The lady, agile as a _fée_, had alighted,
and was standing, clinging with both hands to an orange tree, panting
for breath,--as did all. The Spaniard had dismounted also, and stood
leaning against the saddle.
While waiting breath for speech, Longsword surveyed the rescued,
finding in both need of more than one glance. The costume of the Moor
had been sadly dealt with, but his silken vest and the shawl at his
girdle were of the finest silk, and set off a most shapely frame. He
was tall, wiry, supple as a blooded charger; and no dress would have
concealed a face so intelligent, ingenuous, winsome, that, as Richard
looked thereon, he had but a single thought,--"I would know more of
this man." The countenance was a fine oval, the forehead not high but
prominent; the eye, brilliant, deep, and dark; the small mouth, shaded
by a black curly beard; the skin not swarthy, yet tinged with pale
brown, a gentle bronzing of the sun-loved vegas. But these are parts
only, and the whole--how much fairer was it than any part! For the
face thrilled with eager, active intelligence, and the eyes seemed but
open windows to a soul,--a soul perchance to admire, to reverence, to
love. And as Richard beheld him, he felt a magic current of
fellow-feeling drawing him to the Spaniard, ere they had spoken ten
syllables.
Yet not all the Norman's gaze was for the Moslem--far from it. The
lady no longer wore her yellow veil: the red ribbons were in tatters
round her throat; her blue mantle had many a rent; but of these, who
would think? She stood with her brown hair all dishevelled to the
winds, and underneath the flying tresses one could see those bright
eyes--dark, bright, and very merry; a high, white forehead, small red
lips, and features that seemed smoothed and rounded like some marble
image of the old pagans, which Sebastian had called "a snare of
Satan." But this was no snare; for these cheeks were moulded with a
soft texture and bloom like a pale rose; not quite fair, like Norman
maidens, but just tinted enough to show the breath of the sun. All
this Richard saw, and was not awestruck nor abashed, as in the
presence of many handsome dames; but simply delighted, and, as chance
would have it, the lady herself broke silence.
"By St. Theodore, Sir Frank," quoth she, holding out both hands to
Richard, "will you say again to my face that you can do nothing
brave?" And here she laughed so merrily, that the Norman was laughing
too when he replied, having taken the hands:--
"Ah! dear lady, it is the white falcon you should thank, if any praise
be due."
"And no praise for the falcon's trainer?" quoth she, still laughing;
then with a sudden turn, while the tears almost stood in her eyes,
"_Eu!_ Brave, noble sir, what may I do to repay! Kneel, fall at your
feet, kiss them?"--and half she made to do so, but Richard shrank
back, as if horrified.
"St. Michael forbid!" cried he; "rather this, let me kneel and kiss
your hand, blessing Our Lady she has suffered me to save you!"
"But the peril was very great!" protested the lady, while Richard did
as he wished, and kissed a hand very small and white.
"But the joy of peril is greater in such a cause!" he flashed back,
rising. There was a shadow flitting across that bright face.
"My father?" the question came slowly. "He is--safe?"
"I saw him released; have no fear. I swore to him I would save you."
And the flush of pleasure was Richard's tenfold payment.
"Let us go to him," said the Norman, as he bade one of the men-at-arms
arrange a pillion and ride back with the Greek toward the scene of the
first battle.
"Ah! may all the dear saints bless you and your good men--I would give
my life for my father!" said she.
So while the lady rode ahead, Richard galloped stirrup to stirrup with
the Spaniard. He had needed no words to tell him that the Moslem was a
notable cavalier, and the Spaniard had dispelled all doubts by a frank
declaration of his name and position.
"Know, O Frank, that you have this day won the eternal gratitude of
Musa, son of Abdallah, the late Vizier of Al'mu'tamed, King of
Cordova, though I am better known as 'the Sword of Granada,' for in
that city have I spent much of my life."
And the Christian bowed his casqued head in humblest reverence,
asking:--
"Then truly have I saved that famous knight, who, they say, held the
lists at Toledo, during the truce, against the Cid Campeador and all
his cavaliers?"
"I had that fortune," said the Spaniard, smiling, and returning the
bow; "but," and he spoke lightly, "I would not have you, Sir Frank,
regard me in an awesome fashion; for, believe me, after striking the
blows I saw you give to-day, you may, I think, break lances with the
best, and owe deference to none."
"Ah, my lord," cried Richard, "it has been a great privilege for a
simple 'bachelor' like myself to be of service to so great a warrior."
The Moslem laughed, and made reply: "No, I will not be 'lorded' by
you. I think I know an equal and a friend when I set eyes on him. To
you my name is Musa; and yours--?"
"Richard Longsword," was the answer.
"Then, O Richard, we know one another and are brothers."
Then and there, while the horses were at a merry pace, the two young
men leaned over their saddles and caught one another's hands. And at
that moment was stricken a friendship that was destined to bind with
hooks of steel through more than one fateful year. As if to cement the
tie, Longsword passed the flask at his belt to the Spaniard.
"Drink, friend, for you have seen enough this day to chill your veins,
even if your prophet forbids wine."
"I am but a lax Moslem," replied Musa, with another of his soft
smiles. And taking the flask, he clapped it to his lips. "'Wine of
Paradise'!" cried he, when he took it away. "Ah, an hour since I
expected that I would be soon drinking from the cups of the houris in
the real Paradise, or more likely"--with a sly wag of the
head--"scorching in no gentle fire!"
"Then the raiders sought your life, not your ransom?" asked the
Norman.
"Assuredly; do not think I have lain so hidden here at Cefalu because,
like a dervish or one of your monks, I enjoy solitude. I fled Spain
because my blood is too princely to make my presence safe to Yusuf,
the Almoravide, who has come from Africa to save us Spanish Moslems
from conquest by the Christians, and who has conquered us himself.
When Granada fell and its treasures were scattered as booty to his
rude Berber officers, and when Seville and all Andalusia were in his
hands, imprudently I spoke of the days of our great Kalifs. The words
were remembered by enemies and duly reported. Presently I heard that
Yusuf suspected me of leading a revolt in Cordova against his rule,
and that he keenly desired my head. I will not tell how I escaped to
my Cid Campeador at Valencia, and thence to King Alfonso of Castile.
But the Almoravide's arms are long. Nowhere in Spain would I be safe.
So I came to Sicily, where I have relatives, hoping by lying close to
elude his agents; but in vain, as has just been proved!"
"So," asked Richard, "this raid was on your account?"
"Of course," replied Musa; "I was surprised at the country house of
Hajib this morning, and taken before I could kill more than two of the
pirates. In their chief I recognized a corsair long in the service of
Yusuf. They aimed to bear me in chains to Cordova, that the Almoravide
might gloat over me alive, ere calling the headsman. You saw how they
rained their blows at me, when they saw rescue at hand."
"The saints be praised, I saved you!" exclaimed the Norman. "You were
indeed in the very jaws of death."
"Aye," was the careless answer, "and I owe you all thanks; yet this is
not the first time I have imagined I would see no more mornings."
"Ah, my lord, you are a great cavalier!" cried Richard,
enthusiastically.
The Spaniard shook his hand in warning.
"I am not 'lord' to you, brother! If Allah favors our friendship, what
brave adventures shall we not have together!"
Longsword made no reply. The Moor had captivated him: he felt that he
could ride through a thousand men-at-arms with such a friend at his
side. Presently they drew rein under a wide-spreading, venerable
chestnut tree that bowed over the highway. Here were gathered the
Baron and most of his men: here was my lord bishop sitting on the
ground upon a saddle, still groaning and rubbing his bruised shins,
while two scared priests were shivering beside him, and muttering a
_gratias Deo_ for their deliverance from the infidel. The old Greek
was also there, resting on a saddle-bag; but when the young Norman
galloped up he made shift to rise; and his daughter, who had already
left her pillion, hastened to say:--
"This, my father, is that brave Frankish nobleman to whom we owe so
much," and then to Longsword: "And this is my father, the Cæsar Manuel
Kurkuas, late of Constantinople, but who now is exile, and travelling
to Palermo."
The old Kurkuas, despite his lameness, bowed in the stately fashion of
that ceremonious courtesy which was his inheritance.
"Lord Richard," said he, in his sonorous native tongue, for he already
knew the Norman's name, "the blessings of a father be yours; and if at
any time, by word or deed, I may repay you, your wish shall be my
highest law."
But the daughter broke out, a little hotly:--
"Oh! father, not in so solemn and courtly a manner thank him! We are
not in 'His Divine Majesty's' palace, by the Golden Horn. Take him by
the hand as I have done; tell him that we are his friends forever, and
that if we go back to Constantinople, we will take him with us, and
share with him all the riches and honor that would belong to a real
Kurkuas."
The old man listened to her flow of eager words, half pleased, half
alarmed; then, with a deprecatory shrug, exclaimed:--
"Pardon a thousand times, my lord, if I am too old to speak all that
lies at heart, save in a cold and formal way. Yet pardon, also, my
daughter; for she has so unbridled a tongue that if you come to know
her, strong must your friendship be, or she will drive you from her by
sheer witless chatter."
Whereupon, before Richard could reply, the lady returned to the
charge. "Yes, truly, I am half of Frankish blood myself. And I think
it better to speak from my heart and declare 'I love you' and 'I hate
you,' than to move my lips softly and politely and say things that
mean nothing."
The Greek shrugged again, as if accustomed to such outbursts. "You
have lost your veil," he said gently, raising his eyes.
"Assuredly," was the answer; "nor do Frankish ladies wear them." Then,
turning to Richard, "Tell me, Sir Norman, do you see anything about me
to be ashamed of, that I must veil my face?"
The remark was advanced so naturally, in such perfectly good faith,
that Longsword, without the least premeditation, answered as readily
as if to his sister:--
"I see no reason why you should veil, my lady."
"Then do not speak of it again, dear father," said she.
The mules of the bishop's party, which had been taken when the pirates
fell upon them, had been recovered, and the bishop began to stop
groaning over his bruises. The Baron remarked that, although the
baggage had been retaken, it was too late to repack and make the
journey that day. One and all, they must go back to Cefalu and enjoy
the hospitality of the castle. The bishop demurred, when he saw that
the Moslem Musa was bidden to share the feast; but he was very hungry,
and reflected that Christ and Mohammed were impiously good comrades in
Sicily. He and the priests with the Greek and his daughter mounted the
mules and started away, just as Herbert rode up with the tidings that
the Berbers' ship had long since put to sea. As for the great black
horse that had nigh carried Mary away from her rescuers, the grateful
prelate bestowed him upon Richard. "He was an unruly beast," declared
the bishop, "_furiosus, impetuosus, perditus equus_, in whom a devil
beyond all doubt had entered; and if the Baron's son desired him, he
was welcome, though he feared, instead of a gift, he was bestowing a
cursing." But Richard beheld the huge crupper and chest of the great
beast, watched his mighty stride, and reflected that such a _destrer_
would bear quite as safely in battle as one with the prized white coat
and greyhound feet. Therefore he thanked the bishop and led the horse
away.
So they fared back to the castle, while the Cefalu people gave them
cheers and flowers as they passed along the way; but the fairest
welcome was on Lady Margaret's face when they all pounded over the
drawbridge.
CHAPTER III
HOW RICHARD WON A BROTHER
A notable feast it was the good Lady Margaret set before her
unexpected guests; for if the warning was short, the eager hands were
many, and the day before there had been rare hunting. The worthy
Baron, her lord, took pride in the goodly Norman habit of sitting long
at table, and would have found eight hours none too many for meat and
drink, had there been another to keep him company. And if this feast
ended sooner, there was no lack of good food and better cheer.
Hincmar, the stately chamberlain, marshalled his guests up to the
fountain at the door of the great hall, where they washed their hands
in punctilious order of precedence. The hall itself was hung with rare
tapestries, the floor was strewn with fresh mint and cornflags; over
the diners' benches were cast rich carpets of the East, and for the
host and his immediate relatives and guests were gilt chairs of
embossed leather. Then the serving-lads went in and out, bringing
wine-soup in three kinds in remembrance of the Trinity, and flesh and
fowl, from a stuffed cormorant to a haunch of bear's flesh. Last of
all the great drinking-horns began to pass to and fro, and the skins
of Cyprian wine from the cellars, to empty.
The Baron had placed the bishop at his right hand at the head of the
long table, on his left the Greek Cæsar. But a little lower sat
Richard, and beside him Musa and Mary Kurkuas; and while they were
busy over the trenchers talk flew fast, and these in brief were the
stories they told one another.
William Longsword, the present Baron of Cefalu, had been a Norman
seigneur of noble lineage and slender estates near the ducal capital
of Rouen. The Longswords were an ancient house. They boasted their
descent from that notable William Longsword who had succeeded to the
sovereignty of Rollo the Norman; yet, as too often, a great name did
not mean great fiefs, and young William's best fortune was the weight
of his battle-axe. But that battle-axe was very heavy. At
Val-es-Dunes, when William the Bastard crushed his rebellious barons,
Longsword had won the great Duke's highest favor. At Hastings none had
struck doughtier blows than he. For a moment he had dreamt of a broad
English barony and a Saxon heiress. But when the new king was at York
there rose ill-blood and a hint to the monarch that the mutiny of
certain Anjou mercenaries was due to his vassal.
One morning Longsword finding that fetters, not fiefs, waited him in
England, fled just in time to Flanders, and went south to _gaaignant_,
"to go a gaining," as the Normans put it, seeking fortune wherever the
saints favored. In Auvergne he had married the daughter of a mountain
baron, but had drifted on to Italy, had served with Counts Robert
Guiscard and Roger, his brother, in Calabria, Epirus, and Sicily; and
at last when Noto, the last Saracen stronghold in Sicily, fell, and
Count Roger rewarded his faithful cavaliers, William Longsword had
found himself Lord of Cefalu, with a stout castle and a barony of
peaceful and industrious Moslems and Greeks for vassals; now for four
years past he had ceased roving, and dreamed of handing down a goodly
seigneury to his firstborn.
Thus Richard told his father's story, and Mary related more briefly
how her father--and she proudly recounted his titles--was the
"preëminently august" Cæsar Manuel Kurkuas; whose family was of the
most noble and wealthy of the whole imperial city. He had been a great
warrior in his day, until a crippling wound in the Patzinak war had
forced the one-time "commander of the guards" to accept the peaceful
office of "first prefect" of the capital. And in this position he
might have died in honor and prosperity, had it not come to Emperor
Alexius's ears that he had intrigued in favor of Constantine, the son
of the dead sovereign Romanus, who was just raising the rebel
standard. "And so," explained his daughter, quite simply, for she was
bred at the Grecian court, "the Princess Anna Comnena, who is my kind
friend, gave me to understand that all was not well with my father,
and the Grand Chamberlain let fall that 'his eyes were in danger.'
Therefore, with the aid of St. Basil and our cousin, the High Admiral,
we made escape on a Venetian ship, and it was well we did; for
Constantine, I hear, has been captured and blinded, and if we had been
taken, the like would have befallen my father, and I would have been
cast into the convent of Antiochus 'to live with the angels,' as they
call taking the veil, at Constantinople."
"Allah forbid!" cried Musa, who had been following all her story, and
Richard winced when he thought of those brown locks falling under the
shears.
The Greek gave a little shrug and shiver. "Ah!" said she, "let us not
speak of it. Yet I do not blame the Emperor. He has many enemies to
guard against." And she paused.
"But you said you were half a Frank," said Richard, wishing to turn
the conversation.
"Yes, truly, my father was envoy to the Duke of Aquitaine. In Provence
he met my mother, daughter of the Baron of La Haye. She must have been
a beautiful woman. They say all Constantinople was at her feet, when
my father brought her there--his bride. But she died when I was a very
little girl. I can only remember her bright eyes and sweet face."
Another pause; and Richard did not try to break it. Was he not
conscious in his innermost soul, that there were bright eyes and a
sweet face very close to his own? That for an hour past, as the
fashion was, he had been dipping his hand in the same bowl where also
dipped another hand, soft, and white, and delicate? The evening was
stealing on. Now the ruddy torches were sputtering in their cressets
along the wall; and the glow fell softly over the feasters, seeming to
hide witchery and sweet madness in every flickering shadow. For the
first time in his life Richard Longsword felt a strange intoxication
stealing over him. Not the wine--he had not drained a beaker. Up at
the head of the table the Baron and the bishop were matching bumpers,
and the former, between his draughts, was trying to tell Cæsar Manuel
some tale of the Durazzo campaign in which they had both fought,
though on opposing sides. At the foot of the table the Norman
men-at-arms were splashing their liquor, and roaring broad jests at
the Greek serving-maids. Musa, having satisfied hunger, sat with his
long eyelashes cast down in dreamy Oriental revery. Only for one face
and for one voice did Richard have sight or hearing. The princess held
the Majolica cup to her lips, tasted, held it toward the Norman.
"See," said she, softly, "you have saved my father's liberty--perhaps
his life--and me"--the color half left the wonderful face while she
spoke--"from death or worse." The cup trembled as she shuddered at the
thought. "When the Berbers seized me, I pleaded with all the saints to
let me die,--better a thousand deaths than to breathe out one's life
captive in an African harem!"
"By Our Lady, speak not of it," came from Richard,--he, too,
trembling. But the brightness had darted again into the Greek's eyes
while she continued: "And now attend--the reward! Know, brave Frank,
that three months since a 'supremely august' prince, close to
Alexius's self, would have given half his inheritance for gift like
this!"
And with her own hands she held the cup to his lips. Richard drank.
What else possible? He felt himself caught in a tide irresistible, too
delicious in its caress to escape from if he might. Was the wine fire,
that it burned through every vein? Yet the very flame bore a
sweetness, a delight beyond all thought; the hot pain drowned in the
ecstasy. He did not know what he replied, but the lady was answering.
"_Eu!_ What joy I take in you Franks, whom I have never seen before
to-day. When first did we meet? This morning beside the raging horse?
I think I have known and admired you these score of years!"
[Illustration: "THE CUP TREMBLED AS AT THE VERY THOUGHT SHE
SHUDDERED"]
"I?" quoth Richard, wool-gathering.
The lady laughed at her indiscretion.
"You do well to ask. At times my father rails at me; 'Daughter, you
open your mind to strangers like a casket.' Again I am silent, hidden,
locked fast, as my mood alters. Be it so, I am the open casket
to-night. I will speak it all forth. The saints grant I may dwell
amongst you Franks; how much better to crush down a raging horse with
one touch, than to know all the wisdom of Plato!"
"Why better?" asked the Norman, never taking his gaze from that face
all rosy in the flickering light.
"Why?" her voice rose a little, and the brightness of the torches was
in her eyes. "Let others con the musty parchments,--a thousand times
better are the men who _do_, as you of the West,--than the weaklings
who only _know_. Plato babbled foolishness describing his 'perfect
nation,' for when he strove to realize it--failure!"
"These are riddles, sweet lady!" cried Richard; "who was this
Plato--some pagan long since in hell?"
Whereat the princess began to laugh afresh; not offensively, but
sweetly as a running brook; so that the other would have said a
hundred witless things to make her continue. Then she answered, her
eyes dancing, and Richard thought he saw the lips of the dreamy
Spaniard twitch: "Yes, for all his mist-hung cobwebs, he must have
broiled in no common fire. But I love better to talk of coursing and
falconry; that science better befits a Christian!"
"St. Stephen!" blurted out the Norman, pricking his ears, "can you
ride and hawk?"
"Do you think I sat smelling inkhorns and tangling silk yarn all day
in our palace by the Golden Gate? I had my own Arabian palfrey, my own
dear goshawks: not four months have flown since I hunted with the
Princess Anna over the lovely hills of the Emperor's preserves beyond
the Sweet Waters of Europe. O"--and Richard almost thought her about
to weep--"St. Irene, pity my horse and the birds, their mistress so
far away!"
"By the Mass," began Richard, more flighty than ever, "you shall find
our Sicilian birds put the best of Constantinople to shame. But the
saints are very kind not to let you grow more sad over your loss; next
to losing one's kinsfolk, what worse than to lose horse or falcon!"
The lady had kissed a second cup, and pressed it to his lips. "Drink,
then, in token of the merry rides we shall have side by side, if you
come to wait on us at Palermo!"
And Richard drank, while all the time he felt the tide of intoxication
sweeping him onward. Glancing into the Greek's eyes, he knew in a
half-conscious way that a like spirit possessed her too. Had they been
alone, only the saints know what might have befallen. Richard's voice
was very loud when he answered, "No, by the Splendor of God, you must
stay at Cefalu,--you shall ride my best palfrey; fly the white
falcon!" The lady cut him short with another laugh, her face still
very merry: "St. Basil, make them deaf; they all look at us! What have
we been doing!"
Richard started, as from a dream: father, mother, bishop, the Cæsar,
were all looking upon them. The Lady Margaret was turning a warning
face upon Richard, but the Cæsar addressed his daughter austerely. "My
child, these noble Franks and your valiant rescuer will take away
strange tales of your conduct at this feast. Believe me, kind lords,
my daughter is commonly less bold and unmaidenly than to-night. This
has been a strange day for us, and we must pardon her much."
"You forget the princess is not your sister," added Lady Margaret,
severely, her eyes on Richard; and the Baron was ready with his own
word, but the younger Greek cut all short.
"Yes, by St. Theodore," was her saucy cry, "this has been a strange
day for us all. And if you, my father, think my saving is over-dear at
two cups of wine, let the Berbers snatch me off again! But give no
blame to my Lord Richard, for it was I that began, led on, and made
the fire tenfold hotter."
Cæsar Manuel hobbled to his feet.
"I do not blame my Lord Richard," said he, curtly; "I only fear lest
closer knowledge make him repent your friendship. Most gallant Baron,
and you, noble lady," continued he, bowing in courtly fashion to both,
"I am feeble, and my daughter has diverted you enough. With your
pardon, let us go to our chambers."
The Baron muttered something to the effect that there was still much
wine--a pity to miss it. Mary rose and deliberately allowed Richard to
bend and kiss her hand, courtesied before the Baron and his lady,
knelt while the half-tipsy bishop hiccoughed out a benediction.
Stately as a queen, she drew herself up, but her last shaft was darted
at the Cæsar. "Dear father, are you not sorry I am so little
contrite?" then to Richard, "And you, my lord, do not forget we go to
Palermo!" There was a rustle of her dress; Manuel limped after; three
serving-varlets brought up the Greeks' rear. They were gone. Richard
started again--looked about. His mother and sister had risen also. The
Baron and the bishop had reached that stage of joviality where the
holy man was commencing to sing and brandish his flagon. Richard
tasted the wine--insipid; how unlike the sweet fire of the cups
proffered by the lady! Musa had glided from his revery,--was casting
about sharply.
"My head throbs, though I have drunk little," professed the Norman.
"Do you wish more?" Musa shook his head. "Then come upon the
battlements; the bishop's bellowing makes one mad."
They mounted through darkened chambers, up dizzy ladders, to the
summit of the donjon. It was a murky, cloudy night that greeted them
as they emerged from the trap-door and stood alone on the stone-girt
platform, with the land and the sea one vague black haze below. No
moon, no stars; only a red flash on the ground where the light
streamed from a loophole in the great hall. No sound save the faint
shouts of the drinkers, echoing from far below, and their own measured
footfalls. They paced the platform for a few moments in silence. Then
the Norman broke forth in Arabic:--
"Musa, son of Abdallah, we have sworn brotherhood. Our friendship is
young: may I put it to a test?"
"My hands, my wits, my head if need be, all yours, my brother,"
replied the Spaniard, never hesitating.
"Help me to gain the hand of this lady!"
Their hands rested on one another's shoulders. Richard felt--but
perchance he was wrong--a quiver run through the Moslem; only for an
instant, if at all. Very naturally Musa replied:--
"Had you said, 'Kill me this enemy,' how easy to aid you! But to win
the lady, what may I do? I am no magician to mix you philters. In her
eyes I am only Moslem, and Infidel. She has not learned, as have you
Sicilian Normans, that Christian and Moslem may be friends. I would be
a sorry pursuivant in your behalf."
Richard was silent; then cried out:--
"_Ai_, it is all madness! I have no need to be told. I set eyes on her
first this morning. Holy Mother, what sin is mine that I should be
afflicted thus! Never before have I loved a maid so much as my white
falcon. Yet were I longing for a drop of water in Purgatory, I could
not have greater desire. It is sin; it is madness; I must never see
her again, or great sorrow will come of it!"
But Musa pressed his arm closer, and more kindly.
"No," said he, softly, in his rich Spanish accent; "if it is mere
fleeting passion, it will end; and the upright man is none the worse.
Is it a sin to take delight, when Allah reveals to us what seems a
glimmer of Paradise? And as for the future, that lies in the hands of
the Most High. Whatever is written in the books of our dooms--what
power may withstand? To-day, call it madness, and speak not of it.
To-morrow, if it live, call it passion--speak in whispers. A month, a
year; call it love--it will speak for itself. It is a fire--all men
see it. And who would then hide its brightness?"
"Ah," answered the Norman, "what day is this! How dare I stand and
speak thus to you of what I ought to hide even from myself? How long
have I known you?"
"How long?" replied the other, dreamily. "Friendships are made in the
heart of Allah. Before the earliest star was created, before He said
to the earth, 'Be,' it was destined that friend should be joined to
friend, and when two such souls in the body meet face to face, they
are not strangers. In each other they see a fellow that they have
loved, while they dwelt as thoughts in the bosom of the Eternal."
"Yes," said Richard, caught in the pensive mood of the other, "we are
friends. Why? We know not. To what end? A mystery! It is well we both
believe God is good."
"He is good," said Musa, reverently, and they descended.
CHAPTER IV
HOW RICHARD WENT TO PALERMO
The yawning servants had carried the bishop from under the table, long
before Baron William that night found the bottom of his last flagon.
Yet early the next morning, none was more nimble and jovial than he.
The Greeks did not come down to the great hall; they were fatigued,
said Sylvana the old servant who had adjured Richard to rescue them
during the fight. The Cæsar's wound was paining him, and he required
the care of his daughter. So it was noon before Richard set eyes again
on the princess, as she came into the bailey with her father on her
arm, to help him into his litter. The bishop was impatient to be away.
What with the clamor of the foot-boys and grooms, and the neighing of
impatient steeds, there was little chance for ceremonious
leave-taking. The bishop had thanks and blessings for his rescuers and
hosts. The Cæsar gave a few courtly phrases of gratitude; his daughter
bestowed on Lady Margaret and Eleanor each a hearty kiss, and for
Richard, one smile from her bright eyes, and the words, "Fail not to
wait on us, if you come to Palermo." So the troop started, leaving
Richard to stare after them until the cavalcade was a speck on the
roadway, and for the rest of the day to resolve many times that to
Palermo he would go ere many months be sped.
But in the days that followed he was not idle. First of all the
bishop's gift, the great black horse, had to be wrestled into
submission; no light task, for the mighty beast would rage like a
bull; but in the end the brute was conquered, and "Rollo"--such was
his christening--became Richard's boon comrade and second self; dear
as those horses whereof the _jongleurs_ sang, that would snatch their
masters from the midst of a host of foes, or recognize them returning
home after seven years, when the riders' own wives had forgotten them.
But this was the least the raid of the Berbers had brought to Richard,
for he and Musa became grappled to each other by bonds of friendship
that tightened each day. The Spaniard had sealed his gratitude by the
gift of a Valencia hauberk, inwrought with gold wire, light almost as
velvet, on whose links once the sword of Cid Campeador had turned. And
Musa brought also a wonderful chessboard of rock crystal with men of
silver, over whose magic squares the Norman was to puzzle many an
hour; but beyond all else, Musa brought himself--more a marvel every
hour to Richard Longsword. What had he not learned and done! A
swordsman whose prowess in the fence tested Richard's utmost skill; a
poet whose musical Arabic must have charmed many a fair brunette by
the darkling Guadalquiver. He could talk of elixirs, alembics, and
horoscopes. The learning of the University of Cordova was his; he
could read Greek and Latin, and had a smattering of the Languedoc.
Only a consistent Moslem he was not,--neither going to the mosque on
Fridays, nor abstaining from wine nor remembering the fasts; and when
Richard asked, "Will you turn Christian?" Musa had replied, laughing,
"I am of the rationalist school of the Kalif Mamun,--reason alone is
the father of religion; even the commands of Al-Koran are not fetters
to bind, when reason directs otherwise."
Richard could only shake his head. Moslems, he was very sure, were
likely to scorch in eternal fire, but at least he conceived they ought
to be consistent in supporting their superstition, if they held to it
at all. As for himself, when he compared his life and acquirements to
Musa's, he grew exceeding humble; born in a camp in Campania, his
boyhood spent now in this, now in another Italian or Sicilian castle,
from a lad he had learned to wield a sword as became the son of a
doughty sire. But he had neither the gentle troubadour's art, as the
knights of Provence, nor the deeper lore of the Spaniard. Reading,
thanks to Sebastian's patience, he might make shift with; he could
barely scrawl an awkward fist. One accomplishment his south-Italian
life gave him: he could speak Greek, Arabic, Latin, the Languedoc, and
the Languedoil; but with these and some skill in hawking and jousting
his learning ended, and it was small enough.
As day sped into day, Musa was ever at the castle of Cefalu. He had
relatives in Palermo who desired him there, and declared the city safe
against kidnapper or assassin; but he was not tempted to leave the
country house of Hajib. The Baron smiled on the friendship; he had
long since learned to love infidels, if they were only brave knights;
Sebastian alone was all fears and frowns, and had many a wordy tilt
with the Spaniard.
"Ah, Richard," cried the chaplain once, when the two friends sat at
chess in the great hall, "know you not Holy Church condemns chess as
no less perilous to the soul than very dicing?"
And when Richard, despite prickings of conscience, would not leave the
game, Sebastian admonished in private:--
"Remember the words of the Apostle: 'Be not unequally yoked with
unbelievers, for what concord hath Christ with Belial?' Be warned;
bitter sorrow or perdition will come of this friendship; have you
forgotten your vow to slay the unbelievers and free Jerusalem?"
"But we await the will of God, father," answered Richard, carelessly.
"And the will of God is that you first cast off these ties of Satan,
and make ready for holy warfare, or assuredly God will remember your
sin and punish you." But Richard would not hear. Ever he drew closer
to Musa; the reckless paladin Roland and his "sage" friend Oliver were
no nearer comrades, and in the after days Longsword likened their love
to nothing less than the bonds betwixt David and Jonathan.
Yet Sebastian never forbore his warnings. "Dear son," he said, when
Musa was telling his wondering friend of the marvellous mountain of
Kaf, which encircles the earth, and whither the Almighty had banished
the rebellious genii, "be not seduced by the wisdom which cometh from
the Father of Lies. Though Musa called himself Christian (and were not
damned already), yet his soul would be lost because of his sinful
learning. It was so with Gerbert, whom the Devil even aided to become
Pope, yet in the end snatched away his soul; in testimony whereof his
bones rattle in their tomb, every time a pope lies nigh to death."
"_Wallah!_" cried the Spaniard, gently, "your mind, friend, is as wide
as the bridge Es-Sirat, which bridges Hell on the road to
Heaven,--finer than a hair, sharper than a sword-edge."
"Mock me not, Child of the Devil," retorted the unappeased churchman.
"Nay," was the mild answer, "I am not obstinate. Convince me, satisfy
my reason; I will then turn Christian."
"Ah," replied Sebastian, sadly, "have you never heard the words of the
holy Anselm of Canterbury, 'Let the intellect submit to authority,
when it can no longer agree therewith'?"
Musa shook his head.
"Let us not wrangle to no purpose," said he, extending a frank hand;
"our own Prophet commands us, 'Dispute not with those who have
received the scriptures'--the Christians and Jews--'save in the
mildest manner.' Think not we blaspheme the Son of Mary. No good
Moslem speaks His name without adding 'on whom be peace.' We too hold
He was born of a pure virgin, by a miracle of God, and Al-Koran says
'He is the word of God, and a spirit proceeding out of Him.'"
"Aye," made answer the priest, stripping his arm, and smiling grimly
as he pointed to his scars, "and is this not a token of your tolerance
and reverence?"
Musa shrugged his shoulders.
"_Mâshallah!_ Those Seljouks at Jerusalem are but barbarians. We
Arabs love them a little less than we do most Christians!"
"One fire awaits you all," muttered the obdurate priest, withdrawing.
So days sped, and a letter came to Musa from Palermo, from his uncle
the great merchant Al-Bukri, the "general syndic" of the capital.
There was promise of patronage and high office with the Fatimite court
at Cairo. Would the Spanish knight come down to Palermo for
consultation? And Richard vowed loudly he would travel to the city
too, only his heart grew sad when Musa spoke of parting and a career
in Egypt. "Be not troubled, brother mine," quoth Musa, lightly; "what
is fated, is fated; as for my fortune, so far as man may dispose, I
say as did once an Egyptian kalif, 'I carry my kingdom here!'" and he
slapped the hilt of his cimeter. And Richard, when he thought of what
awaited in Palermo, went about with his head in the air. Night and day
had the vision of the Greek been before his face. Would he not hew
through hosts to possess her? Had he not already won a name and a
fame--as a true sprig of the Longswords? Was not the lady in his debt,
had she not shown all favor? What hindered him to recount his father's
fiefs to Manuel, and say, "Sir, give me your daughter!"
"But the lady may be dowerless," objected old Herbert, who had been
Richard's confidant since earliest boyhood; "I have little liking for
cat-hearted Greeks who spit, not bite. And I fear the Emperor has
snapped up all the exiled Cæsar's estates."
"No," was his answer; "I hear that through Venetian merchants, Cæsar
Manuel saved much ready money. But"--and Richard's voice rose
high--"were she mine with only our old Norman dower,--a chaplet of
roses and a mother's kiss,--by St. Michael, I swear I would take her;
for the tips of her fingers are dearer than red gold!"
"_Ai_," cried the old daredevil, "you have indeed a merry passion.
Well, go your way, and the Holy Mother favor you!"
The Baron consented half reluctantly to his son's desires. He did not
love most Greeks; but Cæsar Manuel had been a brave cavalier, and had
saved the wreck of his great fortune; and the Baron was too fond of
his eldest to refuse him anything in reason. Only, before starting, he
gave Richard this advice:--
"Be not over-anxious to brew up more quarrel with that Louis de
Valmont. I know he comes from your mother's country of Auvergne, and
his family and hers have been long at feud. But he is a knight of
great renown, and till you have won your spurs, do not bear yourself
loftily. He is a haughty man, high in favor with Count Roger, and a
broil with him may breed you little glory."
So Richard vowed discretion after his careless way. The two friends
were to sail from Cefalu upon a Tunisian corn-ship, that made Palermo
on her homeward voyage. Herbert was to follow by land, bringing down
the retinue and horses; and his young master went on board, laughing
and promising himself that when next Cefalu lay under his eyes, at his
side should be another.
* * * * *
Brief voyaging and a kind west wind brought the Tunisian soon in sight
of the red crags of Monte Pellegrino, which dominated the "City of the
threefold Tongue," where dwelt Greek and Latin and Arab in peace,
brotherhood, and prosperity. Before Longsword and his friend stretched
Palermo, its white palaces, its domes and minarets bright as snow
under the morning's azure sky; around them lay the fair wide crescent
of the harbor running away to the wooded headland of Capo Zafferana;
and on the emerald waves loitered the rich argosies of Pisa, Amalfi,
Venice, and Andalusia, beating out against the laggard wind. Behind
the long reach of the city stretched the "Golden Shell," one long
green vega, thick with orchards of olive and orange; broken with
feathery palm groves, tinted with flowering thickets bright as the
sunset; threaded by the circling Preto, and many another silver
rivulet hurrying to the sea.
A fair picture, thought Musa; while Richard repeated the proud boast
of its citizens, that Palermo was indeed _prima sedes, corona regis,
et regni caput_. Then their ship made anchor off the old Saracen
castle of Castellamare, where now lay the Norman garrison. Busy
boatmen set them down on the quay in the harbor of Khalessa, where
were the warehouses of the great Arab merchants, and where all around
brawled the crowd and clamor of a half-Eastern traffic. And even
Musa's eyes were amazed at the wealth and splendor of this busy city,
which had hardly yet realized that her masters now went to church and
no more to the great mosque. At the stately house of Al-Bakri courtly
hospitality awaited them. The grave syndic was all smiles and flowery
compliments to his nephew's preserver, and cried out when Richard made
to go to the castle. On the next day a messenger came for the Norman,
with words that made his sun shine very bright and the sea-breeze
sweet as nard of Araby--Cæsar Manuel Kurkuas begged Richard to wait on
him at the "Palace of the Diadem," which lay without the city by
Monreale.
CHAPTER V
HOW RICHARD WON TWO FOES
The "Palace of the Diadem" had been the pride of some haughty Kelbite
emir in the days when Palermo was a prime jewel in the Arabian crown;
but the glory of its builder's family had long since been laid low.
Moslem had slaughtered Moslem in the feuds that racked Sicily.
Byzantines and Pisans had menaced the capital and ravaged its emerald
vega. Now at last the Norman had come to conquer, and remained as
lord; so that the owners of the palace had long sought purchaser. Then
the Greek Cæsar came, an exile, but with a good store of bezants held
in trust by Venetian merchants, and the palace had passed into his
hands. It lay on the first slopes of the hills rising back of
Monreale, close by the Norman count's hunting lodge; the steep
mountain sides crowding down upon it from above; before it, to the
north, the broad sweeps of the Golden Shell; and around, dense groves
of locust and almond, palm trees and judas trees, with thickets in
perennial bloom. Here, all the year long, little brooks kept the
greensward moist and sweet; and in springtime the orange blossoms
glistered whiter than clouds against rare green foliage. At evening,
from behind clustered thickets would drift the notes of the
nightingale, while the still, shy moon crept upwards in the sky. Such
the gardens about the palace. And the palace itself? It was a lyric in
stone. One could wander through long halls and wide courts in a soft
half-light, with no rude sun venturing to touch a vulgar ray upon the
stalactite vaults, the mazy colonnades, the red granite and jasper
shafts, the tile work and moulding of red and blue and gold. Buried in
the midst of these halls, where the air ever breathed of musk, and
rose-water, and frankincense, what effort to lie through the round
year, and hear the fountains plash their music, and dream of love,
joy, and the kiss of the houris?
Here dwelt the Cæsar and his daughter. Not alone; thither came all
Palermo, from Count Roger downward. True, Manuel was in exile, but
there were many roads back to Alexius's favor, and once regained, the
Cæsar's friendship was worth the winning. And as for the princess, all
the young knights quarrelled in secret for the chance to offer her
holy water at church, or to ride in Countess Adelaide's train when she
took the fair Greek hawking. Much ill-blood was brewed, and some
little shed; for the Norman and Saracen knights alike would almost
have given their heads for one smile from her. Yet the hottest rivals
were the one-time friends, the great knight, Louis de Valmont of
Auvergne, far-famed as a jouster, and Iftikhar Eddauleh, commander of
Count Roger's Saracen guards, reputed the stoutest lance in Sicily.
Thus it befell that Louis and Iftikhar (who, despite his creed and
dark skin, was all gallantry to the Christian ladies) had ridden to
Monreale to pay their _devoirs_ to the princess on the selfsame day
Richard and his friend rode thither also. The Cæsar affected something
of his native state at Monreale; he met his guests in a marble court,
where a gilded swan was pouring tinkling water from its curving
throat; and scattered about the alabaster basin, in the mild
half-light, lay rug-covered divans, gay carpets, and a great cushioned
armchair for the aged Greek. The Cæsar wore the insignia of his
rank,--buskins of green leather, and a gem-set, open cap, whence
dangled a long lappet of pearls over either cheek. And his daughter,
too, was another and far statelier lady than she whom Richard
Longsword had plucked from the Berbers. She stood to greet her guests,
all radiant in purple tunic, a silken cape about her shoulders which
shone with gems worth a baron's ransom; and when she spoke, it was
with the nod and mien of one whose life it had been to command.
Yet they were very merry. De Valmont had equal fame as troubadour and
as cavalier. He had brought the princess an "improvised" _canso_,
wherein he protested his abject wretchedness when the light of her
face was hid from him, professed himself her slave, and conjured
heaven, since she still remained so cold, to take away his life, that
he might no more suffer. At this poem Mary professed herself
delighted; for she was long past blushing at lip service. Then
Iftikhar, swelling with jealousy, matched the Provençal with his
Arabic, which Mary, like any cosmopolitan Byzantine, understood well;
he sang how all the black-eyed maids of Paradise burned in jealousy of
the Greek, how before her beauty each nightingale forgot his song, and
a hundred genii flitted about her, feasting their ravished eyes.
Whereat Louis, in rivalry, would have capped his song with another,
when a serving-lad announced Richard Longsword and Musa of Granada.
Longsword knew Iftikhar and De Valmont well, yet in years to come he
dated their contact from this hour. Splendid was the emir in form and
face, with broad shoulders and lordly height and poise. His swarthy
Egyptian skin became him as a bay coat a charger; his ponderous hands,
full black beard, red morocco-shod feet, the huge cimeter at his side,
all spoke one word--"power"; a prince in very deed, from his jewelled
black turban downward. And beside him stood Louis,--short, but great
of limb, fair-haired, handsome, save for a certain smile more arrogant
than affable. His beard was trimmed to a little beak, his hair
carefully shaven across his forehead, as the fashion was; and he wore
his native high black boots, the bane of all Provençal-hating Normans.
On the gold plates of his sword-belt were jewel-set rosettes, and
despite the heat of the day he did not disdain to show a mantle lined
with rare sable,--no poor cavalier's dress.
Mary greeted the newcomers warmly; warmly--yet to Richard how
different was she from that merry girl who had pressed the cup to his
lips that fateful evening at Cefalu! He had come expecting to demand,
and to carry away; and behold! the laughing maid was a stately
princess; her suitor was one of a score of young men who loved
without hope; his rivals were the most valorous cavaliers in all the
broad island. He had but set eyes on De Valmont and the emir, when he
saw his day-dreams vanish in thin air. What had he, unknighted,
comparatively unrenowned, to proffer, when such champions sought her
grace?
Still, for a while the talk ran gayly. Mary told of her rescue, and
praised Longsword's valor; but his joy was tempered as he saw the
patronizing smile that sat on De Valmont's face, when the recital
finished.
"Our young friend comes of my own Auvergne stock," said the knight,
with venomous urbanity; "when he reaches due years he will break
lances with the best."
The Norman's cheek flushed, but he mastered his temper. "You say well,
fair sir; I am indeed a very young cavalier. Yet I hope I am not
unworthy of my mother's family of St. Julien, which has won some small
credit in its feuds with its neighbors."
There was an arrow in this reply; for the houses of St. Julien and
Valmont were at bitter strife, and thus far the saints had given glory
to the former. So the knight frowned in his turn, and shot back:--
"Yet, I think, good squire, that you are Norman rather than Provençal.
No gentleman of the South Country preserves that worthy old custom,
whereby the father hands down his festival clothes to the son through
three, and here, I imagine, four generations."
The insult was palpable enough, but Longsword reined in his anger.
"You are wrong, Sir Louis," quoth he, very softly; "my bleaunt is new,
though I have no Provençal tailor; for I remembered the saying of
certain holy churchmen: 'He who dresses after the godless fashion of
the men of the Languedoc, puts in peril his soul.'"
The parry and thrust had gone on long enough to promise little honor
to De Valmont, and the knight ended by saying blandly: "It grieves me,
dear friend, that you listen to such slanders. Be assured there are no
Christians better than those of Provence."
Richard affected to be appeased. Yet every moment his soul was crying
out against this rival, who disdained and mocked him as a mere boy.
And bitterer grew his wrath, when Louis continued:--
"Come, heir of Cefalu; can you not match with me in singing the praise
of the adorable mistress of our hearts, the ever incomparable Princess
Mary Kurkuas,--flower of the Greeks, star of the Moslems, sun of all
Christian cavaliers! Let us hold our _tenso_; and contend,--not with
sword,--but with verses, singing the matchless worth of our lady."
Richard felt the anger swelling within him. He had prudence in dealing
with Louis, but not to bear tamely a thrust of sheer malice, likely to
permit a display of his rival's superior accomplishments before the
princess. Well enough De Valmont had known that the Norman was no
troubadour.
"Louis de Valmont," answered Longsword, haughtily, "I am no clerk in
your 'courts of love,' whereof you Provençals boast so often. When I
will praise man or maid, I find blunt speech good enough, if they have
wit to hear. When I have difference with any gentleman, I have a good
horse and a good sword--and let St. Maurice judge between us."
"By St. Martin," cried the Provençal, bursting into a laugh, "hear you
this, my Lord Iftikhar! Our excellent Norman, when I speak of a
contest of _cansos_, at once talks of hauberks and lances."
The emir cast a disdainful eye upon Longsword.
"_Allah akhbar!_" he commenced, then more mildly: "yet how can we say
aught against so excellent a young man, as he who plucked our princess
from the pirates?"
Richard's gorge was rising; but before his hot words broke forth,
Musa, who had bided his time, interposed:--
"Tell me, Cid Louis," said he, in his broken Languedoc, "men say you
have served in Spain; is that not so?"
"I saw service there with Raymond of St. Gilles," was the answer, "and
with King Alfonso, and Cid Campeador."
"And brave cavaliers they are," continued the Andalusian. "None
better, Christian or Moslem, so far as knightly courtesy is known."
"You say well," asserted the Provençal; "they are splendid knights. By
the Cross," he added deprecatingly, "I count myself no poor lance,
with St. Martin's help; but in Spain every cavalier was nigh my peer."
"I rejoice you found such noble comrades; but, by Allah, know this, O
Frank: I have ridden against all the good lances of Spain, and Richard
Longsword of Cefalu is as firm a saddle as the best!"
The Spaniard had drawn himself up haughtily; there was fire in his
eye, half a threat in his voice. Neither De Valmont nor Iftikhar cared
to contradict him. And when Louis, vainly endeavoring to turn the tide
that was setting against him in the princess's presence, again
proposed a _tenso_, Richard was again able to answer in tones of lofty
scorn.
"Have you no shame, fair sir, to rehearse here the frivolous songs you
doubtless learned at the court of William of Aquitaine, whose _cansos_
and _tornadas_ are all in praise of his paramours--a new love and a
new song each day?"
"Have a care, young sir, have a care!" quoth the southern knight,
angrily.
"I seek no quarrel," was the reply;--"nor shun one." This last, under
the breath.
Louis stepped before the Norman with his hands on his hips.
"Heir of Cefalu," said he, in undertone, "if it is true you are a good
lance--well. But remember this, that is told in Auvergne. On the
mountains near the castle of Valmont lies a chapel, whither often I
went to pray, waiting some champion to come and test my valor; but
none has ever dared, nor have I ever ridden against my match, save
against my own brother Raoul, the Seigneur of Valmont."
"Do not threaten," said Richard, still in undertone.
"Threaten? I?" replied the knight. "I speak of the past, not of the
present. Yet those are sorry who cross my path."
They said no more. The emir and De Valmont were the first to take
leave. Mary gave Louis her hand to kiss, and Iftikhar salaamed very
low. When the two were gone, all who remained were happier; and the
princess, who had been silent long, found her tongue.
"You are not a friend of Sir Louis, or the emir?" said she.
"I would not be their foes," replied Longsword, looking into the
bubbling fountain; "yet it is true Sir Louis is very willing to think
himself above an unknighted cavalier. And the emir and I know each
other little."
"Ah," said the lady, her eyes also resting on the water, "it is sad it
is thus. Believe me, Lord Richard, you and De Valmont should be
friends. He is a gallant cavalier. I have heard much of his valor. He
is a poet also. What lady would not lose her heart at his
compliments?"
Now all this was gall and wormwood to Richard, but he made shift to
reply.
"Yes, doubtless he is a splendid knight."
"But you are not his friend? Why?"
"Lady," replied the Norman, a little sourly, "if to be the cavalier is
only to wear the wreath in the tourney, and sing _cansos_ in the
'courts of love'--behold Louis de Valmont; from the Scottish Marches
to our Sicily none knightlier. But," and his eye kindled, "with God's
help, when in my turn I win stroke of the accolade, they shall say of
Richard Longsword that he was more than mere jouster or troubadour;
for I am no soft Provençal like De Valmont. My ancestors snuffed the
bleak north wind, and laughed at the cold and storm. I hold that the
belted knight is consecrated priest: standing in the world, should
behold its sin and violence, and keep his own heart pure, should lay
low the wicked, and lift up the weak; for God has set him apart to
pray, not with his lips, but with his good sword; and he should ride
to each _mêlée_ as to a sacrament."
"Verily," cried she, smiling; "it is you that are now the poet!"
"Not so," was the half-gloomy answer; "I repeat the words of
Sebastian, our chaplain, who is one of the saints of God."
"You will be a noble cavalier," said Mary, when the two friends arose
to leave her. "Yet," she added, "I will not have you a foe to Louis de
Valmont. That my friends should be enemies among themselves, would be
a heavy grief."
Richard kissed Mary's hand, and rode away. He and Musa had been bidden
to come again and often to Monreale; but he had no great joy in the
prospect. Rather his thoughts were darksome as the night.
* * * * *
The shadows were falling when the Norman and his friend left the
Palace of the Diadem. The half-light of the marble arcade was fading
into a soft haze, wherein the gauzy tracery that pierced the pillared
stone work was barely visible. Manuel Kurkuas lay on his cushions,
sunk in silent reveries; his daughter had stolen to his side, cast one
arm about his neck, and with her other hand softly, slowly, stroked
his long white beard. Neither spoke for a long time. Presently in came
an Arab serving-man with noiseless step: tiny lamps began to twinkle
red and green up against the vaulting, throwing the mazy mosaic work
into flickering shadow. The tinkle, tinkle of the fountain never
ceased. They could hear the note of the nightingales from the grove,
sweet, tremulous, melancholy. The servants set a tray before the Cæsar
with silver cups, and fruit, and cakes, salaamed and retired. Then the
fountain and the _bulbuls_ alone broke the evening calm. Presently the
old Greek raised his head.
"They have brought the tray?" he asked, still dreamily.
"Yes, there is a sleeping powder in your wine. Will you drink?"
"Not yet," said the Cæsar, still musing; then half stirring: "Ah! my
daughter, do you remember where we were one year ago this night?"
"We were at our summer house by Chalcedon, and doubtless had just
returned from a sail to the Isles of the Princes on the Emperor's own
galley."
"It is beautiful, that Bosphorus; and our noble capital," ran on
Manuel, dreamily. "No church in the world like to our Hagia Sophia! No
dwelling like the 'Sacred Palace' of our Emperor! No river fairer than
the blue Bosphorus! Ours are all the trophies of the art of Greece at
her prime; ours the books preserving the ancient learning; the speech
of Plato, of Demosthenes, so unlike this Frankish magpies' chatter! Do
you not long to be back? I shall be recalled. You will be again a
great lady at Constantinople; marry some '_pan-sebastos_,' or perhaps
the heir of the purple buskins himself." Mary was silent; the old man
continued: "No reply? I know your thoughts. You are half a Frank and
love them better: better to watch these mad knights at tourney than
read Polybius with the Princess Anna?"
"Yes, my father," was the simple reply; "we have glory, art, learning,
a name never to die. But the future is with these Franks--so
boisterous, so brutish! For high resolve and higher action make people
great, not gazing at statues, and reading of brave deeds done of old."
More silence save for the bulbuls and the fountain.
"Daughter mine," replied the Cæsar, "you say well. We have fought a
good fight,--we of the Rome by the Bosphorus: we have flung back Avar
and Arab. The Turks press hard, yet we may hold them at bay a little
longer; but our race is indeed grown old, and our glory, too. And you
love the West? What wonder! your mother spoke this Languedoc in which
this De Valmont sings. And doubtless you will give your hand to him;
men say he is a mighty cavalier; as his wife you will be a great lady
among these Franks."
"Father!" cried out Mary, in protest.
"No," said the Greek, still smiling, "I will not give you away against
your will. If not he, whom? Does the Moslem Iftikhar find favor?
Religion sits light in this strange Sicily."
But Mary shook her head angrily.
"Ah, then you perhaps were glad when young Richard of Cefalu came
to-day. But he is no poet like De Valmont. His manners may prove as
rough as his blows."
"I will not give myself to a chamberlain or a troubadour. Shall I
receive _cansos_ when my hair is gray, or my face wrinkled? If I wish
soft manners, let it be one of the eunuch-courtiers about the
Emperor's palace."
The Cæsar laughed softly. "You have seen this Richard but little; he
saved us both; we owe him all gratitude. He shall come often. I am a
shrewd judge of men, and read their faces. His I like well. Just now
he thinks De Valmont has you snared, and is very sorrowful. But no
trial harms the lover. To-day he worships your face, as do all. Later
let us see if he looks deeper, and loves you with all your faults!"
"My faults?"
"Yes," with another soft laugh, "you are over-fond of the applause,
and glitter, and whir of admiration. You know your face is very fair
to see, and love to let men see it. And though in action you are often
prudent and demure, yet--as on that night at Cefalu--you are like a
coiled spring,--such as moves the singing bird of the Emperor: one
touch will make you flash forth in some madness. But beneath all I
know you are pure and strong, and will make a noble woman."
"You temper praise with blame, my father," was her answer.
"Now let me sup and go to rest; and while I drink, take your lute and
sing. Not from the choruses of Æschylus; nor Pindar nor Anacreon: sing
me Proclus's hymn to the Muses, the last pagan poem in our Greek,
which is worthy to stand beside our best; and the burden of the hymn,
too, fits with my mood to-night."
So Mary took up the lute, let her fingers wander over the strings, and
then, while the fountain babbled accompaniment, sang sweet as a silver
bell:--
"Glory and praise to those sweet lamps of Earth,
The nine fair daughters of Almighty Jove:
Who all the passage dark to death from birth
Lead wandering souls with their bright beams of love.
"Through cares of mortal life, through pain and woe,
The tender solace of their counsel saves:
The healing secrets of their songs forego
Despair: and when we tremble at the waves
"Of life's wild sea of murk incertitude,
Their gentle touch upon the helm is pressed,
Their hand points out the beacon star of good,
Where we shall make our harbor and have rest:--
"Hear, heavenly Sisters, hear! O ye who know
The winds of wisdom's sea, the course to steer;
Who light the flame that lightens all below,
And bring the spirits of the perfect there,
"Where the immortals are, when this life's fever
Is left behind as a dread gulf o'erpassed,
And souls, like mariners, escaped forever,
Throng on the happy foreland, saved at last!"
The lute was still. Naught but the plash, plash of the fountain, the
distant call of the birds. In through the marble tracery stole the
silent panels of moonlight. Manuel Kurkuas sat long in deeper
revery:--
"'Throng on the happy foreland, saved at last!'" he murmured; "ah!
daughter mine, it is late: we must seek rest."
CHAPTER VI
HOW ROLLO MET INSULT
On the next day Richard rode again to Monreale, this time without
Musa. But on the way, just as his horse brought him clear of the city,
and he was speeding past the straggling Saracen village that stretched
far up the hills to Baidha, the canter of two riders going at a mad
pace thundered behind him, and he saw Louis de Valmont with Iftikhar
Eddauleh close at his heels. The Provençal knight was bravely
accoutred with silk mantle and boots of the latest fashion, and was
bestriding a splendid white palfrey that made Richard shiver the tenth
commandment then and there. The emir was no less gay in flaming
scarlet vest, and trailing to the wind a red and yellow kaftan; while
on his head tossed a great blue turban, whereon the gems were
sparkling. Clearly the two had set forth independently, and had no
mind for comradeship; for Richard soon learned that Iftikhar had put
his horse to his speed to outstrip De Valmont, and the latter had
ridden away from him. When the Provençal drew close upon Richard,
however, the Norman, nowise anxious to be the last, spurred on also,
and soon all three were in the race; which ended by De Valmont
shooting ahead, and leaving the others side by side. As the knight
vanished in a cloud of dust, Iftikhar reined in his good bay, and
turned to Longsword.
"He passes us both, Cid Richard," quoth the emir, showing his white
teeth, while he laughed.
"Truly, emir," was the answer, "they say there is no rider like him in
all the South Country."
The Egyptian grinned again, a little angrily.
"_Wallah!_ Let him go. I will reach Monreale soon enough. Not even
Louis de Valmont shall cross my path save when I choose; neither he
nor any other."
"You wax bold, my lord. And may I ask why you speak thus? Surely, it
is no wound to your honor or mine that he chances to-day to outride us
both."
Iftikhar laughed aloud, was silent a moment, then broke forth.
"Verily, Cid Richard, why ride we all, you, I, De Valmont, to
Monreale! _Ya!_ do you still ask why I say I 'let none cross me'?"
Richard's hand started towards his hilt.
"My Lord Iftikhar, we all seek the good favor of that incomparable
lady, Mary Kurkuas."
The Egyptian's hand was on his cimeter also. "You speak well," came
back his haughty answer; "but I speak to a young cavalier like
yourself this word of warning--do not carry your passion too far. As
for De Valmont, let him know this, good lance that he is: I am as sure
a saddle as he, and I am more." Iftikhar leaned, as he rode, and half
whispered to Richard, "Do you know the brotherhood of the Ismaelians?"
"The secret confederacy among Moslems, whose god is the dagger?"
Iftikhar spoke very low: "Know, O Norman, that I am a grand prior
amongst the Ismaelians. Soon as Allah wills, I return to Syria. At my
nod will be countless devotees, who rush on death as to a feast.
Therefore I am not lightly to be thwarted by De Valmont even. _Ya!_"
And the emir laughed grimly. Richard kept silence, but swore in his
heart that laugh should be like Roland's laugh at Ganelon,--a laugh
that cost Roland his life.
When they came to the Palace of the Diadem, De Valmont was there
before them, and had the lady's ear. He was telling of a marvellous
hunting party that was on foot for the morrow, and how Count Roger's
daughter, the young Countess Blanche, had especially bidden him to
ride with the princess to the chase. And Richard, and Iftikhar also,
had perforce to stand by, while Mary gave the Provençal her sweetest
thanks, and promised him her glove to wear at the next jousting.
Sorry comfort it was to Longsword, especially as the princess gave him
and the emir only enough of the talk to let them know she remembered
they were there. As for Iftikhar, black jealousy drove him forth
quickly. He salaamed himself away, and went tearing down the road to
Palermo, uttering invocations to all the evil jinns, to blast Louis de
Valmont's happiness for many a long year. But Richard would not own to
such defeat; while Louis and Mary bartered merry small talk, he sat
beside the old Cæsar, and found in the noble Greek, after the crust of
dignity was broken, a man of the world who could tell his story.
And Richard found that Manuel had been a mighty warrior in his youth,
though not after the Norman fashion. Richard learned with wonder how
armies were marshalled according to careful rules in the military
books of Nicephorus Phocus and Leo the Wise; how campaigns could be
worked out, and armies shuffled about dexterously as chessmen, instead
of depending on chance _mêlées_ and bull valor. The Cæsar had stirring
tales to tell of wars and paladins Richard had never before heard
of,--Zimiskes and his terrible fight with Swiatoslaf the Russian, when
St. Theodore himself, men said, led the charge through the pagan
spear-hedge; of Basil, the terrible "Bulgarian slayer"; of the
redoubtable champion, Diginis Akritas, grim lord of the Cilician
Marches, the terror of the border Arabs; only Manuel's face clouded
when he spoke of the present darkened fame of his people.
"I was with Romanus Diogenes," said he, bitterly, "at Manzikert, that
fatal day when by the treachery of Andronicus, general of the reserve,
our Emperor and all Asia Minor were betrayed to Alp-Arslan the
Seljouk. Oh! Sir Frank--" and his dim eyes lighted, "never saw I
harder fight than that: all that mortal men might, did we, riding down
the Turkish hordes with sword and lance all day. But at nightfall we
were surrounded, and the hosts rolled in around us. Treason had cut
off our succor. Our divisions perished; our emperor was a prisoner;
and the force that Alexius Comnenus led against you Normans at
Durazzo was a shadow, a mockery, of what had been our army in the days
when the Kalif of Bagdad trembled at the advance of the terrible
Romans!"
When Richard left the palace it was in company with Louis de Valmont.
Mary had been very gracious to the Norman in parting, and Manuel had
urged him to come again. He was an old man, time was heavy on his
hands; he was rejoiced to tell his tales to whoever would listen. But
it was Louis who had the last word with the princess, Louis who
whispered at the farewell some soft pleasantry that had a deeper ring
than the common troubadour's praise and compliment. Longsword and the
Provençal rode back towards Palermo side by side. De Valmont was in a
happy enough mood to be very gracious.
"Heir, of Cefalu," said he, while they cantered stirrup to stirrup, "I
did wrong yesterday. I thought you sought to cross me in a quest--what
shame for me to avow it--after the hand of this lady. But to-day by
your discreet carriage I see you have no such rashness. Who can but
fall at the princess's feet, and sigh with passion! And her father,
though a Greek, must have been a fine man once in the saddle."
The Provençal's words were like flint striking steel; Richard replied
very slowly, sure warning that fire was near at hand.
"Sir Louis de Valmont, with our eyes on the lady, no marvel we possess
only one thought. Yet not I only, but Iftikhar Eddauleh may cry
'Hold!' ere you carry this fair game to an end. The emir this day
boasted to me he was become grand prior of the Ismaelians, the
devotees of the dagger, and that not even so good a lance as you might
cross his road when he minded otherwise."
The knight frowned blackly.
"The emir and I are friends no longer. The princess may love the gems
in his turban, his Arabic verses; but not even here in Sicily will she
wed an infidel. He has more than one woman in his harem in the city.
Over his devotees and his own lance I lose little slumber."
"You say well, fair sir," said Richard; "yet honor forbids me to
conceal it. I think you will not take Mary Kurkuas to the priest
before you have tried the temper of my sword, though Iftikhar do what
he lists."
"Take care, my brave lad!" cried the Provençal, dropping his jaw in a
sneer. "I wish to splinter no lances against such as you."
"By St. Michael, I swear it; aye, and will make it good on my body!"
And Richard raised his hand in an oath.
"Fie!" cried the other, pricking ahead. "In the morning you will
repent of this folly. I can win no glory in a broil with you; which,
if I follow up, will end with your funeral mass."
And before Richard could make reply De Valmont's white palfrey had
swept far in advance, leaving the Norman with only his raging thoughts
for company. In this state he rode into the town, seeking the house of
Al-Bakri. But close by the door a noisy crowd was swelling: Pisan
sailors, Greek peasants come to market, Moslem serving-lads, and chief
of all several men-at-arms in leather jerkins and steel caps, all
howling and shouting in half a dozen tongues, and making the narrow
street and bare gray house-walls ring with their clamors.
"A hair, a hair of the wonderful horse of Cefalu!" was braying one of
the men-at-arms in the very centre of the throng. "Pull out his tail;
let him drag a cart! What knight ever rode such a _destrer_? And this
is the best-loved steed of my Lord Richard! Like master, like horse!"
While others shouted: "Give up the fellow! He is ours! We claim him
for our master, Louis de Valmont. What need has your Lord Richard of a
_jongleur_--mountebank himself?"
And then in the midst of the press, Longsword saw his old retainer
Herbert, sitting upon Rollo; perched behind on the great steed a
small, scared-looking man, with the little bright eyes and peaked nose
of a mouse; with a strange dress of blue and red stripes, and hugging
a great viol under his arm. So far the crowd had confined itself to
noise; but it was pressing so madly around the entrance to the court,
that the porter had hesitated to throw open the gate lest the mob
press in with the rider. There was an angry glint in Herbert's eyes;
and the veteran had his fingers round his hilt with the blade half
drawn, while Rollo had tossed up his great black head, and was
snuffing and pawing as if his hoofs were ready to fly out on his
besetters.
"A thousand fiends!" cried Richard, pushing into the throng, "what
have we here! Dogs, devils, back all of you!" And he struck right and
left with his riding whip, making a red scar on more than one swarthy
cheek. "Out of the way, rascals, or your heads pay for it!"
There was no resisting this menace. Rollo himself had struck out with
his mighty hoofs, and a sailor went down upon the pavement with a
groan. The crowd slunk back, cursing and threatening under breath; but
no man wished to come to an issue with his betters.
"Now, Herbert," cried the Norman, "what means this? Has Satan
uncovered the Pit, and his imps flown out? Who is this man with you?"
"May all the saints blast them!" and here the veteran doomed all his
assailants to pitiless and eternal torment. "To be brief, good lord,
this man is by name Theroulde, a right good fellow; as you see by his
viol, a _jongleur_. Before your father fled England, I knew him well,
when we both were younger. I found him as I rode by the quay, landed
from a Pisan merchantman, and seeking to escape the men-at-arms of
Louis de Valmont, who, seeing him a stranger and likely to prove a
merry fellow, wished to carry him to the castle, willy-nilly, to give
them sport over their cups; and this sailor gang fell in with them.
Then when I saw that he did not like their greeting, and that he
recognized me as an old comrade, I took him up behind me, and rode
away; but this pack," with a contemptuous snap of the finger,
"travelled behind us like the curs they are; and I think they would
have learned how my sword could bite, had you not come up."
"Theroulde? Theroulde?" repeated Richard to the _jongleur_, who had
leaped to the ground and stood bowing and scraping, but still hugging
his beloved viol; "are you not son of that Taillefer, the brave
minstrel to whom Duke William granted that he should ride first at
Senlac, singing of Roland and Roncesvalles, and who died a cavalier's
death that day?"
"I am his son, gracious lord," said the man, with another bow and wide
grimace. "I am Theroulde of Mount St. Michael, and well I loved and
served your father in the brave days of the English war."
"By the peacock," cried Longsword, "and what lucky saint sends you to
Sicily, to enter my father's service once more, if you will?"
"Ah! lord," was the doleful answer, "glad I am to see Sicily; but no
merry thing brings me hither. I was in the service of my dear Lord
Henry, son of William the Bastard, and dwelt in his court at Mount St.
Michael, with a warm nook by the fire and a flagon of good drink
always mine for the wishing. But three years since I was driven out an
exile, when William, the wicked 'Red King,' and Duke Robert besieged
Henry their brother, and took the stronghold. So ever since I have
wandered over Champagne and Burgundy and the Ile de France; and then I
went down to Aquitaine and thence to Dauphiny. But I did not learn to
love the chattering Provençals, who think songs of mawkish love better
than our northern _chansons_ of valorous knights. Then I heard that
your noble father had been blessed with a fair barony here in Sicily;
and hither I came to seek his bounty, though I did not expect to find
in his son so grand a cavalier."
Richard laughed a little sourly. Now he had a new grudge against Louis
de Valmont; to the sins of the master had been added those of the men.
A knight did not always as yet keep squires of as gentle blood as
himself. De Valmont's crew of attendants were but little better than
"villains." The insults to Herbert and Rollo were not to be forgiven
in a moment. And in this new fury Richard rode into the courtyard;
while Theroulde, delighted to be under friendly patronage, rattled on,
rehearsing his wares.
"Know, most valiant sir, that I boast myself versed in all the noble
histories of that wise Trojan priest, Dares, and of the rich Greek
cavalier, Dictys of Crete; I can tell you all their tales of Sir
Hector and of Sir Ulysses and of the fair and never too much praised
Countess Medea. I have set in new verse the whole tale of Roland and
Oliver, and how Count Ganelon betrayed them; and I can tell you the
story of Oberon, king of faery, who was begotten by Julius Cæsar at
the isle of Cephallenia, while he was at war with King Pompey."
So he would have run on forever had not Richard thrust him away and
gone in to Musa, with a face dark as a thundercloud. The _jongleur_
was left to the hospitality of the Moslem servants of Al-Bakri, who
treated him kindly though he eyed them askance; for to his mind they
all were servants of Apollin, the pagan demon of the sun. Presently a
messenger went from Richard to the castle, where De Valmont lay,
bearing a letter,--a letter which demanded of the Provençal that he
either inflict summary chastisement on his men who had insulted
Richard through his favorite horse, or make good the affront by a
meeting face to face.
Richard spent the next two hours in the little court of the syndic,
pacing moodily under the orange trees that stood around the fountain
basin; while Musa lolled on the rugs upon the divan under the arcade,
and tried to persuade his friend to sit down with him at chess.
"By the Mass, Musa," cried the Norman, twisting his mustache with
nervous energy, while his eyes studied the black and white tiled
pavement, "Moslem that you are, I had rather see Mary Kurkuas yours
than De Valmont's. What with all the brave tales you tell of your
sweethearts in Cordova and Granada, you must know the way to a woman's
heart."
"_Allah!_" exclaimed the Spaniard, taking a cushion from the divan and
flinging it merrily at his friend. "Do you not know, I am like the
Arab youth who died fighting at Emesa?" said he. "I see the black-eyed
girls, the houris looking at me; and one for love of whom all the
world would die, beckons me, saying, 'Come hither quickly, for I love
thee.' Not that I would slander the beauty of your Greek; but," with
half a sigh, "he who has seen the maidens of Andalusia can long only
for the houris of Paradise."
"You speak folly," cried the Norman, pettishly. "Where are your eyes?"
But at this moment Hugh, the serving-lad who had gone to the castle
with the cartel, returned.
"A letter from Sir Louis de Valmont," he announced.
It was a roll of parchment, written by some priest or monk, with only
a rude mark over the signature, in another hand; for Louis with all
his "gay" science was no clerk. It ran thus:--
"Louis de Valmont, Knight of Auvergne, to Richard Longsword, greeting:
I am astounded that an unknighted 'bachelor' like yourself, who has
won neither spurs, nor vassals, nor fame in arms, should venture to
address me with such insolence. As for my men they had their frolic,
and only a fool will quarrel about it. As for your defiance, I will
win small honor by slaying a boy like yourself in the lists, as I
could well do, and my honor is in no wise hurt when I say I will not
meet you. Farewell."
Richard tore the parchment into shreds and strode to and fro in
bootless fury.
"By the splendor of God!" cried he, stretching his arms aloft, "the
day shall come when this Louis and all the spawn of his sinful house
shall curse the hour he sent me this. So may Our Lady help!"
Musa could do nothing to comfort. Richard told his trials to
Sebastian, just come down from Cefalu. And in Sebastian he found a
counsellor very like to those of long-tormented Job.
"Ah! dear son, this is because all love is sorrow except it be the
love of heaven. Says not the Apostle, 'Love not the world, neither the
things in the world,'--"
"Not so," broke in Richard; "in loving Mary Kurkuas I love an angel of
light."
Sebastian shook his head solemnly. "Dear son, this is a chastisement
sent on you from heaven for forgetting your vow, now that you are
come to man's estate. Often have I invoked my patron saint, Sebastian,
by the arrows that pierced his side, that you would put by all these
carnal lusts, this friendship for Musa, the paynim, and dedicate life
and might to the freeing of the Holy City."
But Richard was in an impious mood that day. "I was a child when I
took the vow. Let the saints smite me, if they will, only first let me
humble De Valmont!"
"Alas!" came the answer, "they will indeed smite you, until in very
agony for your sin you will plead to go to Jerusalem."
CHAPTER VII
HOW DE VALMONT SENT HIS GAGE
Richard's fury lasted more than one angry day, Musa's comforting
counting for nothing. Sebastian's warnings--twanging the same old
string--only made his rage the hotter. He wrote to Cefalu, saying it
was all over with his suit, and received a letter dictated by his
father (who wrote only with his battle-axe) that it was as well; he
could marry a daughter of the Baron's old friend, the Count of Foix.
William had not seen her, but she would bring a large dowry, and a
messenger could sail with proposals for Toulouse at once. Richard
returned answer that he could not marry the lady--she came within the
forbidden degrees through some ancient alliance of his mother's house
with that of Foix. But his heart burned more than ever. Then respite
came: Count Roger was summoned to Campania by his nephew and suzerain
Duke Roger Bursa, to help crush certain malcontent barons, and away he
sailed, taking Iftikhar and his much-prized Saracen guard. With him
also went Musa and Richard Longsword, who was finding Palermo a dreary
place, and gladly bartered gloomy thoughts for hard campaigning.
Louis de Valmont remained. Every morn he fared to Monreale to bask
under the smiles of Mary. Very pleasant these days to her. As Manuel
had said, she was more than fond of the praise of men; knew her eyes
darted madness, and was not ashamed to show them. Palermo was not
Constantinople; no polished Greek as spoken in the circle of Psellus,
the philosopher, and of Anna Comnena; no splendid state ceremonies.
But life was free; men spoke of their loves and hates plainly; did not
prattle friendship and misty compliment and stab in the dark.
Yet in the end Louis's homage began to pall on her. She heard
unpleasant stories touching him through Sylvana, her nurse, an
indefatigable gossip-monger. The Provençal, she learned, was accounted
a hard master to his men; his peers praised his courage, but not his
courtesy; he had fought a duel in Catalonia with a baron, in a broil
concerning the latter's lady; he had two Moslem sweethearts in
Palermo; some said three. All these tales did not go to prosper
Louis's suit, and he began to find the morning chatter growing dull
and the princess meeting his _cansos_ with sober and troublesome
questions.
Manuel Kurkuas said little; he was a shrewd man, and knew it was
easier to lead than to drive. What with De Valmont's hollow gallantry
and boasting of his own great deeds, he fell daily in the daughter's
eyes. Then one day two carrier pigeons fluttered to the casements of
the Palermo castle, and Sylvana came to Mary itching with a tale. The
princess had just bidden Louis farewell. His importunity was great,
her perplexity greater; for she did not love the man, yet things had
gone too far for her to dismiss him without bitterness and gossip all
over the city.
"_Hei, despoina!_" quoth the old woman; "Bardas, the groom, is come
from Palermo--a terrible story. Richard Longsword in deathly peril!"
And Sylvana, sly sinner, who knew Mary better than Mary knew herself,
had expected the start, and flush, and little cry. "No, by St. Basil,
he is safe enough," protested she, consequentially. "He was with Count
Roger in Italy in the war against William of Grantmesnil, who has
turned rebel. Let him tell the whole tale himself. But the chief part
is this: There was a castle which my Lord Count and his kinsman, Duke
Roger Bursa, swore they would take, but it was defended as though held
by very devils. The engines beat a breach in the walls, and the next
thing was the storming. But to make the breach and to go through it
are not the same thing, as Nicetas, who was my uncle's son, and fought
in Syria, once told."
"I have heard that story," cried the lady, impatiently; "go on."
"Well, as I said, the breach was stoutly defended. My Lord Count
orders up his boasted Saracen guard, and bids my Lord Iftikhar lead
the storm: once, twice, they charge--are beaten back--the third time
when ordered, say they are not fond of dying--too many comrades are
fallen already. Then while the emir hung back, forward comes my Lord
Richard and Musa, his friend; they will lead the storm. A few mad
Franks follow them. They win the breach and the castle. St. Theodore
must have aided. They say my Lord Richard had as many wounds as you
have fingers, when they took him up. No, do not stare about thus:
Bardas said he only lost a little blood. But they have made him a
knight after the fashion of these Franks, by Duke Roger's own hand;
and to Musa they gave I know not what presents. And now seeing that
the rebels have sued for mercy, the Count is coming back with all his
men, and sent off pigeons from Stromboli saying that he will arrive
to-morrow."
To-morrow came and went, and De Valmont held aloof, half to Mary's
satisfaction, half to her vexation. Nor did several succeeding days
see him. But finally it fell out that he and his rival sallied forth
from Palermo by different roads, and both came to Monreale and into
the Princess's presence at about the same time. And now it was Louis's
turn to let his sharp little beard curl up in impotent anger. For Mary
gave never a glance to his high-peaked Anjou boots with which he
swelled in pride, but only had eyes for the golden spurs that were
twinkling significantly upon Longsword's heels, and the broad white
belt that girt him.
"Ah! Sir Richard," cried she, with a pretty stress on the "sir," "now
at last you will not deny that you can do a brave deed or two!"
The Norman blushed manfully; for praise from her lips was dearer than
from Pope or Emperor.
"Dear lady," said he, humbly, "thanks to the valor of my good
comrades, and the help of the blessed angel Michael, men are pleased
to speak well of me."
"And the sword you wear," continued she, "it is not the one I saw
glance so bright at Cefalu. Who gave it?" And she added, while Richard
drew forth the weapon: "How long! How heavy! What magic letters are
these upon the blade?"
Richard had bared a mighty weapon, which he held outstretched while
the sun glinted on the long, polished steel, and the gold chased work
on the guard shone bright.
"Know," he said proudly, "that from this weapon we Longswords take our
name. This is 'Trenchefer,' passed from father to son, so far as
memory may reach to the days when our house came down from the
Northland with Duke Rollo, and hewed away our duchy from the weakling
Emperor. Never has a Longsword carried this blade and endured
captivity. Never has a hostile hand gripped its hilt; never has a
first-born of my race"--Richard held his head still higher--"lacked a
first-born who could not toss it like a twig." And he brandished the
great gleaming blade on high. "As for these strange characters, they
say they are an incantation, pagan no doubt, but it still holds good:
a rune-song, they call it, which makes Trenchefer cut iron like wool
and steel like fagots. Here in the hilt is the reliquary, set there by
my pious grandfather to destroy the sin of the spell, and make it
stronger; here is a tooth of St. Matthias, and a clot of the blood of
St. Gereon the Martyr. All his life my father has borne this, and
never yet has Trenchefer failed in the sorest need. Now that my father
is old, and I a belted knight, I have taken Trenchefer to bear until
my own first-born can wield it worthily."
Mary stepped beside him, took the hilt in both her little hands, and
made shift to raise the great sword. It was very heavy. The blood
mounted to her cheeks; she smiled, but bit her lips, and made a mighty
effort. Once she raised the blade, then dropped it with a clang, and
laughed merrily.
"_Eu!_ Sir Richard," she cried in Greek, "what a pretty toy for a maid
like myself! I will let you always swing it for me."
"It is not heavy," quoth the Norman, his iron wrist tossing it
lightly.
"Not heavy!" was the reply. "You Franks are born, I half think, in
armor; slaying is to you a pleasant art."
"And why not, sweet lady?" answered the other, seriously. "Is there
anything better befitting a brave gentleman, after a noble life, than
to be rocked to sleep in a fair battle with the swords clinking merry
music above, and angels to convoy his soul?"
But at this moment De Valmont, who had stood by gnawing his mustachios
all this while, stepped up and took the sword out of Richard's hand.
"Assuredly, Sir Richard," said he, holding up the sword, though truth
to tell he found it nothing easy, "you have here a mighty weapon. You
will be the thirteenth of Charlemagne's twelve peers, and contest the
captaincy with Roland's self." He sheathed the sword, and laughed
dryly.
There was no need for any special wits to see that Louis was seeking a
quarrel at last.
"I trust it will be found keen enough to satisfy any who question
_now_ my knighthood," came back the hot retort. But Mary intervened
with haughty mandate:--
"Sir Louis! Sir Richard! what is this in my presence? How often have I
bidden you be friends, if you would keep my favor! Must you brawl
under my very eyes?"
"I cry pardon of Sir Richard," began the Provençal, feeling he had
made a misstep; but Longsword cut him short.
"And I grant none; but this is no place. Let us begone!"
"I warn you!" cried De Valmont, in black fury, "if we meet, but one
shall ride away. Hitherto you have crossed swords with weaklings, and
I give you a proverb, 'Amongst the blind, the one-eyed man is king.'"
"And I return proverb for proverb," blazed back the Norman: "'It is
well to let the sleeping dog lie.' Let God judge if I have sought this
quarrel!"
"Sirs," commanded Mary Kurkuas, with her haughtiest gesture, "get you
gone both, nor return till this strife be ended!" And she pointed
towards the door.
Richard collected himself with a mighty effort.
"I obey, lady," was all he said; while he bowed, kissed the hem of her
mantle, and stalked out of the palace. De Valmont did not follow him,
but stood staring darkly about, as though wanting half his wits.
"Sir Louis," repeated the princess, still at her lordly poise, "did
you not hear what I said?"
"Ah! _Dona!_ beautiful mistress!" cried the Provençal, half
threatening, half entreating; "what words are these? Depart? Will you
dismiss me? By St. Martin, I swear life will be all night without you!
Oh, pity, favor me; have mercy on my distress!"
Mary looked upon him, and saw that half his profession sprang from his
troubadour gallantry; but the rest--the mad light in his eyes proved
how genuine!
"Give me your hand!" raged on De Valmont, half beside himself. Then
with a step nearer--"No, not your hand, your lips!"
Mary flushed in turn with her anger; quail she did not.
"Sir Louis, recollect yourself," she commanded sternly; "let what has
slipped you be forgotten. I repeat--depart, or I call my father's
servants; and come not again, until your quarrel with Richard
Longsword be ended."
"Then, by Christ's wounds, I will have his life!" roared the Provençal
with a great oath, and tore out of the room, leaving Mary quaking amid
hysteric laughter.
When Manuel Kurkuas heard what had passed, he grew very grave.
"Enemies they have been since first they met here at Monreale," was
his comment, "and now I fear they will strike friendship only in
heaven, unless," he added dryly, "their sins be such--and they are
many--they will perchance meet elsewhere."
So his daughter spent the remainder of the day in no little
trepidation and sorrow; for it was no pleasant thing to feel that two
gallant gentlemen, for whom she had cared much, were to risk immortal
souls, perhaps on her account. About noon the next day, Sylvana came
to her gleefully with the whole story.
"_Ei_, my lady," chattered she, "all Palermo is talking of it, and
Bardas has brought me all they say. It is told that this morning Sir
Richard went to the Cathedral, and confessed to a priest and received
the host; then he set hand on a box of holy relics and swore something
secret, but doubtless terrible. A little later, lo! in comes Sir Louis
and does the very same. Then right in the porch of the church they
came face to face, and Sir Louis broke out with revilings terrible to
hear, and finally cried, 'You are not an equal fit to kiss my cheek;
"villain" you are, or little better, who should kiss my spurs!'
Whereupon Sir Richard gave him a great box on the ear, which nearly
knocked him down, crying, 'This is the kiss I give you!' And then and
there they would have drawn, but other gentlemen dragged them asunder
by main force, and took them to Count Roger, who, when he found he
could not compose their quarrel, demanded of each his knightly word
that they would remain apart until the great tourney, which will be
when the envoys from the Egyptian emperor come. Then the two will
meet, and Our Lady guard their lives!"
Mary Kurkuas did not sleep soundly that night. Often as the dreams
came to her, they took form of champions in armor, charging, charging,
ever charging! And when she awoke, it was with the last words of De
Valmont ringing in her ears, "By Christ's wounds, I will have his
life!" A long time after all the palace was still, she arose, lit a
taper, and knelt before a stiff little Byzantine painting of the Holy
Mother that was by her bedside.
"O pure and blessed Lady," she prayed, "have mercy on me! Have mercy
on them both! I have sinned in leading them on so madly; they have
sinned in loving me so madly! Oh, pity, mercy; have compassion on us
all!"
So ran her prayer. After a while she was a little comforted, and fell
into troubled sleep.
CHAPTER VIII
HOW IFTIKHAR SPED A VAIN ARROW
News from over the sea,--from Italy! News that set old Sebastian
declaiming, and wandering about all day with a mad fire in his eyes
and a verse from Isaiah the prophet on his lips. For it was bruited
abroad that a wonderful pilgrim had come from the East, Peter of
Amiens, once a noble and a warrior, but one who had forsworn the world
and gone to the Holy City to expiate his sins. Now he had returned,
and stood before Pope Urban with messages from the down-trodden
Patriarch of Jerusalem; also with a marvellous tale,--that Christ had
appeared in vision to him, and bidden him summon the soldiers of the
West to the deliverance of the City of God. And the Holy Father had
believed, and given him letters bidding all men hear him and obey. Nor
was that all. There was a great council of the Church soon to convene
at Plaisance to move all Italy to go against the infidel; and if Italy
were too sunken in her civil strifes and unknightly commerce, the Pope
had sworn he would appeal to his own people, the French--"bold
cavaliers so dear to God."
When Sebastian heard this tale, brought by a Genoese, he was all
eagerness to take the next ship for Marseilles with Richard. "It was
the acceptable day of the Lord; who was not for Him was against Him:
beware lest the laggards endure the reproach of Deborah upon Reuben,
that abode by his sheepfold, and Dan, who remained in his ships." But
Richard only swelled with desire to see De Valmont prone upon the
sands; and Musa smiled in his soft manner, saying, "Have not you
Franks broils enough among yourselves, that you must seek Jerusalem?"
Whereupon Sebastian had cried, "Ah! Child of the Devil, you seek to
pluck away Richard's soul; but every night I wrestle with God in
prayer, beseeching God He will sever this unholy friendship. And my
faith does not fail!"
Musa gave no answer; silence was the stoutest armor against the
churchman.
Presently all thoughts of Italy and France were chased from mind by
the coming of the long-awaited embassy from the Egyptian kalif to
Palermo. A great and splendid embassy it was, headed by no less a
person than Hisham, son of Afdhal, vizier to the kalif Abul Kasim.
There were long trains of stately Abyssinian eunuchs and negro
guardsmen in gay liveries; a mighty glitter of scarlet and purple
caftans, jewel-decked turbans, gold-sheathed cimeters, a present of
dazzling gems for the Count and the Countess. The echo of the
earthquake in France and Italy had been heard in Africa, and the kalif
had been anxious to forestall the joining of the redoubtable Sicilian
Count to the Crusade by early display of friendship. Then, too, it was
told that the kalif had especial love for Count Roger, because in
crushing the Sicilian emirs he had only chastised rebels, who had a
little earlier cast off their fealty to the Cairo Emperor.
And Count Roger, bound to do his guests full honor, sent out his
heralds over the length and breadth of Sicily, proclaiming a grand
tournament. Forth went the messengers "crying the tourney," till their
mules were dust-covered and their voices cracked. To the remotest
Norman castle and Saracen village in the mountains they went, and man
and maid made ready their best, and counted the days; for the Count
had ordered there should be games and combats for Christian and Moslem
alike.
The days sped slowly for Mary Kurkuas. De Valmont and Longsword were
bound by pledge to Count Roger not to wait on her till after the
tourney. Bitterly Mary reproached herself for her folly. Did not all
Palermo know how she had given her glove to De Valmont? And Richard?
Why had she held that cup to his lips that night at Cefalu? Mere
gratitude? Was not that repaying her preserver with more than
friendship? And was she not willing to pay? Such her questions--never
answered. Poor little Countess Blanche, Count Roger's daughter, soon
to be exiled as given in marriage to the king of Hungary, would have
laughed with glee to have two such gallant cavaliers joust with her
name on their lips. But Mary's heart told her that it was very wrong.
Her father's health failed fast; she was filled with foreboding. Musa
and Iftikhar were the only visitors at Monreale now. Musa was ever the
same,--gentle, sweet-voiced, courtly, never unduly familiar. Iftikhar
at times swelled with a passion that nearly betrayed him; but Mary was
too accustomed to ardent lovers to take alarm. Yet at times, to her
dismay, she saw he really held that their religion was no barrier
between them, and that he would gladly have stood on equality with
Richard and De Valmont. One day it befell that the fire in the emir
nearly flashed out. He had paid a more than commonly florid
compliment, and Mary twitted him.
"But you Moslems in truth cannot care much for women, for all your
verses and praise; we are not even granted immortal souls by your
law!"
"Oh, believe it not," cried the emir, hotly; "for in Paradise the true
believer will rejoice in the company of all the wives of his mortal
state!"
"Yes," interposed Musa, with a soft laugh. "He will if he desire them,
otherwise not; and there are many husbands and many wives!"
The princess saw the frown that swept over the brow of the emir at
this interference.
"Come, my lord," commanded she, pointing to the lute, "you shall sing
to me! Sing of love, and mirth, and laughter, for I am in a doleful
mood to-day."
But Iftikhar only frowned the more.
"O Brightness of the Heart!" he replied gloomily, "I too am not merry.
Were I to sing, it would be Kalif Rahdi's poem, of which the burden
runs, 'Man is but the child of woe!' You would not care for such
melancholy?"
"Assuredly not," laughed the lady. "Then you shall play the minstrel,
Sir Musa. First you shall tell us of those wonderful poets' gardens in
your Spain; then you shall sing one of the songs that win the sighs
and blushes in the harems of Seville or Granada." And she held out the
lute.
Musa obeyed, tightened the strings, tinkled a few notes, and said in
his musical, liquid Arabic:--
"Know, O lady, that we Spaniards are not like the Moslems of the East;
we do not hide our wives and daughters in prison houses. To us
marriage is born of true love, and he who would win love must be a
poet; therefore all Andalusians are poets. Would you hear of the
wooing of my mother? She was the daughter of the emir of Malaga, and
on the day my father came to her father's court, he saw her in the
gardens, dancing with her women; and his heart was as fire. Sleep left
him. Three days he spent in sighs and sorrow, and on the fourth he
stole under the garden wall and sang his passion: how she was lovelier
than the Ez-Zahra, 'City of the Fairest'; her voice was sweeter than
the murmur of the Guadalquiver glancing in the sun; her eyes more
beautiful than the stars when they twinkle in the lake, and a smile
from her lips surpassed all wine. Then, on the next night as he sang,
she answered him in like manner in verse; how her love was strong as
the Berber lion; his white teeth more precious than pearls; his head
more beautiful than garlands of roses; and his words cut her heart
more keenly than cimeters of Murcia. So my father rejoiced, for he
knew he had won; and went boldly to the emir and demanded his daughter
in marriage."
"And what are the songs which your poets sing by the Guadalquiver and
the Darro?" asked the princess.
"Ah, lady," answered Musa, dreamily, "no true poet can sing his
love-song twice. See; I will wish myself back at Cordova, in the
orange groves I love so well, and will sing as move the genii of
song." And the Spaniard ran his hands over the echoing strings, and
sang in low, weird melody:--
"Sweet as the wind when it kisses the rose
Is thy breath!
Blest, if thy lips had but once on me smiled,
Would be death!
Give me the throat of the bulbul to sing
Forth thy praise:
Then wouldst thou drink the clear notes as they spring
All thy days!
Nard of far Oman's too mean for thy sweetness,
Eagle wings lag at thy glancing eyes' fleetness;
By thy pure beauty, bright gems lack completeness;
Lady, ah, fairest!
Were I a genie, with rapture I'd seize thee;
I'd haste away
To magic-wrought cavern, all jewelled and golden;
There I'd stay
While the long glad years with printless feet wheeling
Leave no trace,
Save only new beauty and soft love revealing
In thy face.
The speeding of ages would breed us no sorrow;
I'd shrink from no past, and dread naught of the morrow;
The laugh in thine eyes, that alone I would borrow,
Lady, ah, rarest!"
"_Ai_, Sir Musa," cried Mary, when the strings were still, "were you
Louis de Valmont or even my Lord Iftikhar, I should say in my heart,
'How much you are my slave!' But to a Spaniard like yourself the
making of such a song--it means nothing?"
"Nothing," answered the Andalusian, his dreamy eye wandering over the
marble tracery on the wall above.
The emir broke forth hotly:--
"_Wallah_, you Spaniard, what mean then your pretty songs, your
chatter of praise and compliment, if they are words, words, and
nothing more? In the East, whence I come, we thrill, we feel, we make
no shame to flame with a mighty passion. Aye, and make our deeds match
our fine words."
Musa laid down the lute, and stared at the emir unconcernedly.
"My good lord," answered he, "do you not know that when I sing love, I
sing not the love of any one lady? And think not I despise our
princess--she is peerless among women. Rather I praise that divine
essence which reveals itself in every bright eye and velvet cheek from
east to west,--this pure beauty sent down from Paradise by the favor
of Allah, I adore; and whenever I behold it, its praise I must sing."
"You are trained in the heathen philosophy of your schools of
Cordova," retorted the emir; "I cannot follow your thought. To me it
is better to have the taste of one cup of wine than be told of the
sweetness of ten thousand. Enough; the Count requires me." And he
arose to bow himself out.
Musa had arisen also, and courteously thrust his right hand in his
breast, where he murmured the farewell, "Peace be on you."
Iftikhar's answer hung for a moment on his lips, then he gave the
customary reply among Moslem friends, "And on you be peace, and the
mercy of Allah and His blessings!"
Mary sighed when the emir was gone.
"You are not gay, dear lady," said the Spaniard; "if I can do aught to
aid, command me."
Half petulantly the princess caught a sugared cake from the tray by
the divan and threw it into the fountain, where the greedy fish in the
basin waited.
"I should be very happy, should I not?" exclaimed she, with a laugh
not very merry. "See, since I have come to Palermo, here are Richard
Longsword and De Valmont with blades drawn on my account; the emir
sighs like the west wind, and is all gloom and restlessness; and you,
Sir Musa," she went on boldly, "were you to speak out your own heart,
are wishing them all three dead, that you might have no rival. Holy
Mother," added she, with half a sob, half a laugh, "I am too much
loved! What am I, silly girl, that so many brave cavaliers should pawn
their souls for my poor sake!"
"Sweet mistress," replied the Spaniard, very slowly, flinging a second
cake into the fountain, "you are wrong. Your friend, your admirer, I
will ever be. Were we both Christian or Moslem, had I no memories of
moon-lit nights and sun-lit orchards in Spain--but enough of that!
Know that I am the sworn brother of Richard Longsword; that he loves
you purely and honorably; that after the manner of his people he will
become a great man, whom any lady, be she however high, might love to
call her lord. And that you may smile on him, is my first and only
prayer."
Mary's whole face crimsoned at this, for Musa was not now playing the
poet. There was a ring of command in her voice when she made answer:--
"Sir Musa, I cannot have another say for them what Richard and Louis
de Valmont may not say to my face. Let us await the tourney. Who knows
lest your friend will woo no more after that day? I hear--God spare
them both--that Louis is a terrible knight; he will ride against
Longsword as though all the fiends were in him."
"They are in the hands of the Most High," said the Andalusian, still
very gently; "yet, believe me, the Provençal may have ridden down many
stout knights, and yet not the peer of Longsword. But--" and he in
turn salaamed, "I have also to hasten. And perhaps even my presence is
burdensome."
"No," cried the Greek, extending her hands, "come, come often; I have
too many lovers, too few friends. My father sinks day by day; Christ
pity me! I am alone in a strange land; I have borne myself foolishly.
The beauty you sing of is half a curse. If truly you would be my
friend, and nothing more, do not desert me. I am very wretched."
There were tears in her eyes; her voice choked a little, but she stood
proud and steady, the great princess still.
Very low was the reverence paid by the Spaniard. He kissed the bright
rug at her feet; then rising, answered:--
"Star of the Greeks, not you, but Allah who has put enchantment in
your eyes, has bred this trouble, if trouble it be. But as for me, I
swear it, by Allah the Great, you shall never call on me in vain!"
"You are a noble cavalier, Sir Musa," said the lady, now all dignity;
"I thank you."
So the days went by, and it was the evening before the tourney. All
around Palermo spread the tents, bright pavilions of silk with broad
pennons above, whipping the slow south wind. The gardens of the Golden
Shell buzzed with the clatter and hum of a thousand busy squires. In
the city, every house--Christian, Moslem, or Jewish--was thrown open
to guests. There were flags at every door and window; and within
pealed the laughter of feasters, the note of viol and psaltery and
tabor at the dance. All the house walls without and within were decked
in tapestries, cloth of gold, and priceless _pail_e and _cendal_ silk,
some from the looms of Thebes or Corinth, some from the farthest Ind.
Mixed with these Orient stuffs, the storied Poitou tapestry shook to
the breeze in long folds, displaying kings and emperors and the legion
of the saints. Much wagering there was with knight and villain on the
issues of the day. Many cavaliers of the baser sort had entered,
merely in hopes to fill their purses by the ransom of defeated
combatants; most of all, men chaffered over the coming duel between
Richard and Louis. "Longsword would never stand one round," ran the
vulgar tongue; "De Valmont had no peer unless it were Iftikhar. The
saints have mercy on the younger knight in Purgatory!"
As for Mary, she had spent the afternoon in no common vexation. Her
father was worse, and could not go to the tourney. Countess Adelaide
had bidden the princess sit with her, but Mary had little joy in the
prospect.
That evening as she sat with a taper at her reading-desk, the purple
vellum leaves of George of Pisidia's learned epic brought little
forgetfulness. While she was staring at the words, Bardas, the
serving-man, startled her: "The emir Iftikhar to see the gracious
princess." And without awaiting permission the Egyptian entered. He
was in his splendid panoply,--gold on the rings of his cuirass, two
broad eagle wings on his helmet, between them burned a great ruby.
Under the mail-shirt hung the green silk trousers with their pearl
embroidery, gems again on the buckles of the high shoes, more gems on
the gilded sword hilt.
"You are come in state, my lord," said the Greek, while he made
profound obeisance. "What may I do for you?"
"O lady of excellent beauty," he began abruptly, "will you indeed give
your hand to him who conquers to-morrow?"
The wandering eye, the flushed cheek, the mad fire of his words--all
these were a warning. Mary drew herself up.
"You ask what you have no right, my lord," answered she; "I am in no
way pledged."
Unlucky admission: in a twinkling the emir had moved a step toward her
and stretched out his arms.
"Oh, happy mortal that I am! O lady with the wisdom of Sukman, nephew
of Job, the beauty of Jacob, the sweet voice of David, the purity of
Mary the Virgin! Listen! Favor me!"
"Sir!" cried the Greek, recoiling as he advanced, "what is this
speech? No more of it. I am Christian, you a Moslem. Friends we have
been, perhaps to our cost. More than that, never; we part, if you
think to make otherwise!"
Iftikhar fell on his knees. All the flame of a terrible passion was
kindling his eyes. Even as she trembled, Mary could admire his
Oriental splendor. But she did not forget herself.
"I must bid you leave me!" with a commanding gesture. "If our
friendship leads to this--it is well to make an end!"
"Not so," burst from the Egyptian, still supplicating; "none worship
you as do I! To me you are fair as the moon in its fourteenth night,
when the clouds withdraw. For your sake I will turn Christian. To win
you--" But Mary was in no gracious mood that night.
"Madman," she tossed back, all her anger rising at his importunity,
"do you think you will buy me with such a bribe? Forswear Mohammed for
your soul's sake, not for mine! I do not love you. Were I to look on
any Moslem, why not Musa? he is a noble cavalier."
Iftikhar was not kneeling now. His eyes still flashed. His voice was
husky; but he mastered it.
"Lady," he said a little thickly, "think well before you say me nay.
Listen--I am a man of great power among both Franks and Moslem. Were I
to go to Syria, even higher things await me,--commands, cities,
principalities," his voice rose higher, "kingdoms even; for you should
know that I am a chieftain of the Ismaelians, one of the highest
_dais_ of that dread brotherhood, whose daggers strike down the
mightiest, and at whose warning kalifs tremble--"
Mary cut him short; her poise grew more haughty. "I do not love you.
Were you kalif or emperor, I would not favor you. Depart."
"Hearken!" cried the Egyptian, with a last effort; "my breast bursts
for the love of you; the light of your eyes is my sun; a kiss from
you--my arms about you--"
But here the Greek, whose face had crimsoned, snatched a tiny baton
beside a bronze gong.
"Away from me!" she commanded fiercely, as he took an uneasy step
toward her. "Away! or I sound the gong and call the grooms."
"Woman!" came from his lips hotly, "what is such a threat to me? I
would have you with your love if I might. But, by the Glory of Allah,
you I will have, though your every breath were a curse. Your grooms!"
with a proud toss of his splendid head; "were they ten, what have I to
fear? I, the best sword in all Sicily, in all Syria, Egypt, and Iran,
perchance." And he came a step still nearer; and now at last Mary
began to dread, but still she did not quail.
"I doubt not your valor, my lord," she said very coldly. "But my heart
and hand are not to be won with a cimeter, as was won that castle
breach which Musa and Richard Longsword, not you, entered first."
Scarce were the words out of her mouth before terror seized her. For
in a twinkling Iftikhar had snatched the gong from her reach, and
caught her wrist in a grasp of iron. She could feel the hot breath
from his nostrils in her face, see the mad blood swelling the veins of
his forehead. In her panic she screamed once, and instantly Iftikhar
was pressing her very throat. In his mighty hands she was dumb and
helpless as a child.
"Hear me," came from his lips in a hoarse whisper. "I have not come
hither alone. I had come to bear away the pledge of your love. You
spurn me. All is provided. My slave Zeyneb is without, and with him
fifteen men, all armed, hidden in the gardens. What resistance could
your servants make, were you to cry ever so loudly? My men are
devotees of our order--would kill themselves at my bidding. A ship
lies in the harbor at my command. It is night. You are helpless. I
will carry you aboard. Before morning we are beyond sight of Sicily,
beyond pursuit. And you are mine, be it in love or hate,
forever--forever!"
Iftikhar pressed his face nearer. Mary thrilled with horror beyond
words. She had one thought,--her father, her father.
"To Egypt," Iftikhar was repeating, "to Syria. There is a palace of
mine at Aleppo, beside which this is a cottage. And it shall be yours
and you mine. _Allah akhbah!_ How beautiful you are; your lips, a
kiss--"
But even as Mary's senses reeled, she heard a step, a familiar step,
and Iftikhar had let her drop from his hands as though her form were
flame. She caught at a column, steadied herself, and looked upon the
face of Musa.
The Spaniard was standing in the dim light of the hall, dressed in
sombre black armor; but the red plumes danced on his helmet. His
shield was on his arm, naked cimeter outstretched.
"The peace of Allah be with you, fair lady, and noble lord," said
Musa, bowing in most stately fashion, first to the shivering Greek,
then to Iftikhar. The Egyptian already had his weapon drawn, but the
Andalusian did not fall on guard.
"Most excellent emir," continued he, very gently, "Count Roger bids me
say, if you will go at once to the castle, it will please him well.
And your men in the gardens shall be no care to you. I have ridden
from Palermo with forty lancers, who will give them all good company
on return."
Night was never blacker than the frown of the Egyptian, when he
replied huskily: "And, Sir Spaniard, why does Count Roger favor _you_
with bearing me his orders? And why come you here unbidden, with
cimeter and target?"
"Because," answered Musa, his brow too darkening, "I know too well why
the Commander of the Guard is here." Then, more sternly, "And that I
have come barely in time--praise be to Allah--to save him from a deed
at which the very jinns of hell would cry out!"
He took a step closer to Iftikhar, and the two blades went up
together. But Mary sprang forward, with the cry:--
"Not as you live! You shall not. Would you kill my father by fighting
here, and for me?"
Musa let his point fall, and bowed with courtly ease.
"You say well, Star of the Greeks. The emir will speak with me
elsewhere."
Iftikhar made no attempt to conceal his rage.
"Cursed be you and all your race! What enchanter has told you
this--has humiliated me thus?"
"You ask what I may not tell," and Musa smiled in his gentle way.
"Enough, I was told all that was in your heart, about an hour
since,--the ship, the men, the design. Count Roger also knows; and, my
lord, he has been none too well pleased with your faithfulness of
late. I have come with forty given me by the Count. They do not know
their errand; they are to move at my nod. Ride back with me to
Palermo, my lord, and pledge me your word, by Allah the Great, said
thrice, that you will not molest Mary Kurkuas so long as you remain in
Sicily, or--"
"And if I will not--" broke from the raging emir.
"Then, my lord, I shall carry you to the castle in fetters. My men are
also without--" Iftikhar had half started upon the Spaniard, swinging
his cimeter. "Never!" came between his teeth. Musa beckoned away Mary
with his own weapon. "To your father!" he commanded. But the Egyptian
let his point sink. "Allah make you feel the fire of Gehennah!" was
his curse. "I am trapped, I will swear."
"Then, my lord, saving Count Roger, and the lady, and myself, none
shall ever know of this," said Musa softly, and he pointed with his
cimeter to the doorway. Iftikhar repeated the great oath--the most
terrible among Moslems--thrice; bowed to the Spaniard; made a profound
salaam to Mary; the samite curtains in the passage closed behind him;
his footfalls died away; he was gone. Musa bowed in turn:--
"Allah is merciful, dear lady. Do I prove a faithful cavalier?"
"Ah, Sir Musa!" cried Mary, still faint and weak, "God requite you. I
offer you all I have, except love--and could I give that, it were mean
repayment."
Musa's plumes almost brushed the pavement as he again saluted.
"I may not tell how I learned of this plot. I was warned secretly by a
strange Arabian woman, who required of me solemn oath not to reveal
her. To her, owe the thanks! But my mistress's words are more precious
than as if each syllable were treasures of gold; the praise, flashed
from her eyes, beyond gems; her voice sweeter than all the
nightingales of Khorassan. I am well repaid."
He, too, departed. Mary stood long clinging to the pillar, now
shivering, now laughing. What had she not escaped? When might she
forget the unholy desire on the emir's face when he departed? Had he
indeed forsaken his passion for her forever?
"St. Theodore," she cried with a sad, wild laugh, "I am cursed with
too much love!"
Then she went to her father.
CHAPTER IX
HOW TRENCHEFER DROVE HOME
November sixth; feast of St. Leonard, the warrior hermit; third hour
of the morning. In the monastery church the monks were chanting
"terce" to an empty nave. When the muezzins climbed their minarets to
bid all Moslems "come to prayer," few heard. Mary Kurkuas sat in the
pavilion of Countess Adelaide, viewing the lists and wondering if even
the vision of the Golden Horn and Constantinople might be more fair.
The lists were set in the broad plain betwixt the city and Monte
Pellegrino, the loftier western height of Castellaccio and Monte
Cuccio. All about lay the matchless country--Palermo, its masses of
white buildings crowned with gilded minarets; the blooming "Golden
Shell" a sea of olive trees, palm, fig, orange, running down to that
other sea of emerald; and in the background rocks of saffron topped by
the broken peaks beyond.
Against the stout wooden barriers with pointed palings, pressed and
jostled a vast swarm of city folk,--Greek, Frank, Arab, Jew,--their
busy tongues making babel. Within the barriers, but behind the low
inner fence, loitered the impatient squires, splendid in bright
mantles and silvered casques, ready, the instant conflict joined, to
rush to the _mêlée_, and drag dismounted combatants from under the
horses. But for the ladies--"the stars of the tourney"--were set shady
pavilions,--wooden lodges, brightly painted, flag-covered. Now their
rising tiers of seats were filled by a buzzing throng, rustling their
silken mantles and satin bleaunts. And the sun was glancing on many a
gemmed fillet and many a ribbon-decked, blond tress that fell nigh to
its proud owner's knees. These on the western side. On the eastern
fluttered gauzy veils, feathery fans, blazing brocade of Mosul, and
kerchiefs of Kufa. Dark eyes flashed from beneath the veiling. But
Moslem watched Christian in peace. A clang of trumpets was drifting
down the wind--the tourneyers were coming from Palermo.
Fifty viols braying in the hands of marching Frankish _jongleurs_;
fifty Egyptian timbrels clattering; kettledrums, northern horns;
heralds in blue mantles, Christian and Moslem side by side--the
combatants two abreast--Norman, Provençal, Sicilian, Arab, Egyptians
of the embassy,--a goodly company; gold on every Toledo hauberk,
silver on each bit and bridle; a trailing pennon on every lance, save
when a prouder banner streamed--the silken stocking of some fair dame,
gift of love to her chosen cavalier. So the procession entered. Behind
them trailed a new horde of common folk who had come from watching two
blindfolded varlets chase a pig in a ring; these, too, now pressed
against the palings, peering and edging for a glimpse within. Then,
while the actual combatants rode to the tents at either end of the
lists, two cavaliers--Count Roger de Hauteville and Prince Tancred,
his nephew--came to take seats in the Countess's lodge; for they were
judges of the games.
A lordly cavalier was the Sicilian count despite threescore years and
more; fire still in his blue eyes, command and power in his voice;
worthy suzerain of so fair an isle. At his side stood his
nephew,--stranger as yet to Mary Kurkuas; but at once she noted his
flaxen hair and crafty "sea-green" eye, and stature above that of
common men. She was told he had fame as the most headlong cavalier in
all south Italy; but she little dreamed what deeds God destined him to
dare. Very ceremonious was the Prince, when he saluted the Greek lady.
He spoke her own tongue fluently, and never in Constantinople had she
met a gentleman more at his ease in courtly company. Their talk ran
soon to the tourney and the combatants.
"I wish you joy, fair princess," protested Tancred; "not often may any
lady see two stouter champions ride with her name on the lips of
both!"
Mary shook her head.
"Would God they might do anything else! They tell me Sir Louis has
sworn to have Sir Richard's life; and the Auvergner is a terrible
cavalier."
Tancred shot a glance keen as an arrow. Did he know that Mary's heart
would ride with one of the train and not with the other?
"Spare him your tears," was the answer. "Louis de Valmont is a famous
knight; but I do not think he will down Richard Longsword in one
joust,--or in seven."
"St. Basil spare both--and forgive both!" was the unuttered reply. But
she asked, "Yet I saw neither among the combatants?"
"True; both protested they could not meet in the regular tourney and
take the required oath to fight solely to gain skill. Fight on the
same side they will not; therefore they will come forward when the
general games end." Tancred was cut short by a word from the Count.
"See, my princess--a cavalier asks your favor."
None other than Musa had reined before the pavilion on a prancing
white Berber. His plain black mail fitted his fine form like a
doublet. His mettled horse caracoled under his touch with a grace that
made a long "Ah!" come from betwixt more than one pair of red lips.
His glance sought the Greek.
Mary rose deliberately; long since had she learned not to dread the
public eye.
"See, Sir Musa," cried she, loosing the red ribbon from her neck.
"Wear this in the games and do me honor!" More than two heads had come
together.
"Has De Valmont a new rival?" ran the whisper. But Mary knew her
ground.
"Your reward for service untold," she tossed forth; and only the Count
and two more knew what her words implied. Musa caught the ribbon with
a flourish of his lance; pressed it to his lips, then wound it deftly
around the green, peaked cap which he wore Andalusian fashion in lieu
of turban.
"You honor a gallant cavalier," said the Count, applauding. "I offered
him much to join my service; but he listens to the proffers of the
Egyptian envoys."
"Look!" came Tancred's voice; and Mary saw Iftikhar Eddauleh, on a
dappled Arabian and in his panoply of the night before, come plunging
down the lists. Abreast of Musa he drew rein in a twinkling, and the
two riders came together so close that no other might hear the words
which flew between them. But ten thousand saw Musa's hand clap to
hilt, and Iftikhar's lance half fall to rest.
"Holy Mother--keep them asunder!" was Mary's whispered prayer.
Count Roger had risen.
"Sirs--what is this? Brew quarrels under your lady's very eyes? Go
apart, or I forbid you to ride in the games." Iftikhar bowed his
head,--in no very good grace, it seemed,--and cantered sulkily to the
upper end of the lists.
"I fear Iftikhar Eddauleh and I must soon seek other masters,"
remarked the Count to Tancred, in Mary's hearing. "Rumor has it, he
has dealings with the Ismaelians. He grows haughty and insubordinate.
A good captain and a matchless cavalier; yet I shall not grieve to see
him return to the East."
But now the Christian heralds were calling on the Normans and
Provençals to range themselves in two companies and do battle, after
the rule of that knightly paragon, Geoffrey de Preully,--"for the love
of Christ, St. George, and all fair ladies." Of the passage at arms
that followed, needless here to tell. Many a stout blow was struck
despite blunted weapons; ten good knights fell senseless from their
horses; the squires took up two dead; sent for a priest to anoint a
third. Before the fray ended, little Countess Blanche and her ladies
had fluttered and shrieked till wild and hoarse. They had torn off
ribbons, necklaces, lockets, bracelets, and tossed forth madly
"gauntlets of love" to favorite cavaliers, until they sat--or stood
rather--dressed only in their robes and their long, bright hair.
Then came respite, while the lists were cleared for the Saracens'
games,--for the wise Count suffered no ill-blood to breed by letting
Christian ride against Moslem. The Egyptian cavaliers took
part--stately men, in red, silver-embroidered tunics, with blue,
gem-set aigrettes flashing in their turbans. No less gallant were the
Sicilian Saracens, and Iftikhar most brilliant of them all. A small
palm tree was set in the midst of the arena,--the trunk bronze, the
leaves one sheen of gold-foil. A silver dove dangled from a bough, in
the bill a golden ring. Then the Arab heralds proclaimed that each
horseman should ride in turn, catching the ring upon his lance; and he
who once failed should not try again.
So they rode, twenty or more. The first round none missed; three in
the second; and so till the ninth, when there were but two,--and these
Iftikhar and Musa the Andalusian.
"Beard of the Prophet!" cried Hasham, the Egyptian envoy, who sat at
the Count's side, "the two are as enchanted. Not in all Egypt--in all
Syria and Khorassan,--such horsemen!"
"And the All-wise alone knows," responded the Count, "which of the two
be the better! Yet I wish any save these two were contending. See!
Again!"
And the twain rode many times; till Mary, whose cheeks were very hot
and eyes very bright, forgot to count the rounds. At last a shout:--
"Iftikhar fails!" The ring was still in the dove's mouth. Musa swung
lightly his horse; dropped lance-point, dashed at the tree at a
gallop, fleet as the north wind, amid a cloud of dust; but as he flew
down the lists a mightier shout was rising. The ring glittered on his
spear. The Count placed the prize in Mary's hand, when the heralds led
the victor to the judges' lodge.
"Sir Musa," said she clearly, while he knelt and she fixed the
diamond-studded aigrette upon his cap, "you have so ridden that all
your friends grow proud. May it be ever thus!"
"Could each gem be a thousand," answered the Spaniard, in his musical
accent, "they were less precious than your words to-day."
"There spoke the true cavalier of Spain!" cried Count Roger, who loved
Moslems so that priests grumbled he dissuaded them from Christianity.
And Hasham added, "Verily, the efreets bewitched the Almoravide when
he exiled such a horseman!"
"By the brightness of Allah!" replied Musa, with a sweeping bow to the
ladies, "who could not ride through a thousand blades with such gaze
upon him!"
The Andalusian started to ride slowly back to his station, when the
Count summoned him again.
"Sir Musa, all is not smooth between you and Iftikhar Eddauleh. In the
game to follow I desire that you ride on the same side. I will not
have you meet. What were those words between you?"
The Spaniard's teeth shone white when he answered:--
"Bountiful lord, the emir deigned to tell me that if ever we met face
to face and naught hindered, I would do well to commend my soul to
Allah."
"And you?"
"Made answer that the secrets of Allah were hid, and no man knows
whether the Book of Doom assigns death to Iftikhar or to Musa when
they meet; as Musa for his part prays they may."
"Mad spirits!" laughed Roger; "but I cannot have more than De Valmont
and Longsword sacrifice themselves to-day. Your word that you will not
seek Iftikhar's mischief in the games!"
"Given, my lord."
"Good!"--then to an attendant knight, "Send the emir to the pavilion."
But the emir had withdrawn himself, and was not to be found, until
amid the clash of Eastern music the arena was cleared and the Moslem
game of the wands began. The ten riders who had contended best for the
rings were drawn up, five against five. Light round targets were
brought them, and in the place of pointed lances, long brittle reeds.
He who failed to break his reed on an opponent's target, when they
charged at gallop, fell out of the game, unless his rival fared no
better. Iftikhar Eddauleh and Musa were arrayed on the same side, with
three combatants between. The Count had seen the shadow flit across
Mary's face, and reassured: "They will not meet unless the other eight
are worsted before either of them--and that can scarcely be; for all
are great cavaliers."
Then the kettledrums boomed, while the ten dashed together. A fair
sight, without the bloodshed of the Christians' tourney. As each rider
swept forward after breaking his reed, he dashed on past attendants
standing with a sheaf of unbroken lances, dropped his shivered butt,
snatched another, and spurred back to the contest. The horses caught
their masters' spirit, and threw up their heels merrily as they flew
on charge after charge. Well matched were all; only on the seventh
round did an agile Sicilian, by a quick crouch in the saddle, elude an
Egyptian's reed while fairly breaking his own. The dust rose high. The
horses panted. One by one the combatants dropped out. At last, after
the multitude had howled and cheered till weary, the dust cloud
settled, and revealed that of one party of five not one remained
contesting; of the other, side by side sat Musa and Iftikhar Eddauleh.
The great Count shook his head, and Mary had little joy. They at least
knew what fires would spur on the emir, when he rode; but to deny the
crowd their sport would have meant riot,--nay, bloodshed,--what with
their thousands standing on the benches, pressing the palings, shaking
earth and air with tumult. The two contestants mounted new horses and
sat face to face; behind each stood an attendant with the sheaf of
reed lances. Count Roger swept his eye over the lists.
"Ha! who is that dwarfish fellow behind the emir?" demanded he; and a
knight beside answered:--
"Zeyneb, Iftikhar's body-servant and shadow."
Roger did not need to see the cloud that spread on Mary's face.
"Holla!" cried the Count, "_he_ is not admitted to the lists! A
venomous cat, I hear." A new roar from the benches drowned his voice.
The two had charged amid deafening din. Three times past, and the
reeds fairly broken; four times,--never drawing rein,--the emir broke
only by a great shift; five times, both shivered fairly; sixth time,
the Egyptian shattered only his tip, which still dangled from the
butt.
"The Spaniard wins!" cried a thousand throats. But the emir had
spurred by, dashed up to his attendant, snatched lance, wheeled
instantly, and thundered back, Musa flying to meet him.
"Ho!" trumpeted the Count, leaping up, "Iftikhar's lance! See!" In a
twinkling the lists rang as never before. The Spaniard reeled in his
saddle; his target flew in twain; he clapped his right hand to his
shoulder and drew it away--blood!
Prince Tancred had bounded into the arena.
"Felony!" his shout; "the emir had a pointed weapon. Sir Musa is run
through. Physicians--aid!"
A dozen squires and grooms buzzed around the Spaniard, making to lift
him from his horse. He sat erect--dispersed them with an angry
gesture.
"Nothing--_Bismillah!_ The lance turned as it split the target. My
side was grazed, and a little blood drawn--it is nothing!"
"Lead Iftikhar Eddauleh this way," raged Tancred, his green eyes fired
with his wrath. The emir had deliberately ridden back unbidden. From
the benches came countless curses and jeers--Frankish and Arabic; he
heeded none.
"What is this doing of yours?" demanded Tancred, very grave. "You rode
with a pointed lance--no reed."
The Egyptian drew himself up very proudly.
"By the soul of my father!" swore he, outstretching his hand to Musa,
"all men saw we were riding madly, and paying little heed to what was
thrust in our hands. Just as we struck, I saw the steel--too late. A
pointed lance must have been hidden in the reeds. Allah be praised,
you are not slain!"
"This is not easy to believe," began Tancred. Musa cut him short:--
"I accept his oath--I am not disabled. Ride again!"
He cantered to his stand at the head of the lists. Tancred returned to
the Count.
"Where is Zeyneb, the emir's dwarf?" demanded Roger.
"By Our Lady," cried the Prince, with a glance--"gone!"
"After him!" thundered Roger. "His was felony or foolishness, best
paid by hanging. Lay him by the heels!"
Men-at-arms rushed away; but in neither the multitude nor the city
found they Zeyneb.
The two rode once more--met; broke fairly. Men heard their voices for
an instant raised high--curse and defiance, doubtless. Who might say?
A second time--all eyes following. Mary saw the Spaniard swing nimbly
in his saddle. The emir's lance overshot harmlessly; his own snapped
fairly on the target. Another mighty shout--Musa had won!
"Again I wish you glory!" said Mary, as she fixed a second diamond
aigrette on the cap of the kneeling Spaniard. "May God ever guard you
as now, and let you shed glory on your friends!" But this last was in
a tone few around might hear.
"And I protest," replied Musa, no louder, "I crave no honor greater
than that of serving you."
Mary blushed. She knew the Andalusian meant all he said; yet she was
not afraid, as she had been if Iftikhar or De Valmont had so spoken. A
page served Musa courteously, bringing him a basin of perfumed water,
towels of sweet white linen, and a goblet of cool Aquillan wine. Then
he sat with the Count and his party during the noon interval,
protesting that Iftikhar had given him but a slight bruise which
needed no stanching, though Mary feared otherwise. Very tolerantly he
listened to the tale of Gerland, militant Bishop of Girgenti, how in
his diocese he had turned his cathedral into a castle--the unbelievers
being so many. The squires brought fruit and cakes and wine. The Greek
monks--Cosman and Eugenius--whom Count Roger patronized for their
poesy, sang a new hymn in honor of the Blessed Trinity; an Arab rival
presented a tale in verse of the Count's late raid to Malta, and so
the hour passed. The multitude scattered a little, but did not
disperse. The best wine had been kept till the last. What were blunted
swords or riding with reed lances, beside a duel betwixt gallant
knights under their lady's very eye; swords whetted, and
life--perchance soul--at stake!
Mary found her heart beating fast. The moments crept slowly. People,
she knew, were staring at her,--pointing, whispering her name. Sweet
no doubt to feel that scarce a young knight but would nigh give his
right hand for a gracious speech from her, hardly a woman but would
almost pawn hope of heaven to sit in her place! But when the pure
heart of the Greek turned to her dying father and the gallant
gentlemen who were hazarding body and soul on her account,--even the
bright sun shone darkly.
* * * * *
Richard Longsword had watched the tourney from a lodge at the northern
end of the lists beside his fidgeting father and grave-faced mother,
trying to enjoy the contests and t
Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/41549