God Wills It!
God Wills It!PREFACEPROLOGUECHAPTER ICHAPTER IICHAPTER IIICHAPTER IVCHAPTER VCHAPTER VICHAPTER VIICHAPTER VIIICHAPTER IXCHAPTER XCHAPTER XICHAPTER XIICHAPTER XIIICHAPTER XIVCHAPTER XVCHAPTER XVICHAPTER XVIICHAPTER XVIIICHAPTER XIXCHAPTER XXCHAPTER XXICHAPTER XXIICHAPTER XXIIICHAPTER XXIVCHAPTER XXVCHAPTER XXVICHAPTER XXVIICHAPTER XXVIIICHAPTER XXIXCHAPTER XXXCHAPTER XXXICHAPTER XXXIICHAPTER XXXIIICHAPTER XXXIVCHAPTER XXXVCHAPTER XXXVICHAPTER XXXVIICHAPTER XXXVIIICHAPTER XXXIXCHAPTER XLCHAPTER XLICHAPTER XLIICHAPTER XLIIICHAPTER XLIVCHAPTER XLVCHAPTER XLVICHAPTER XLVIICHAPTER XLVIIICopyright
God Wills It!
William Stearns Davis
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.
PROLOGUE
HOW HILDEBRAND GAVE A BATTLE
CRYHigh 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 mutterAgnus 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 theGloria Patriwith 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 FORTHIt 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 youngCidis 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
stampingdestrers—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
thejongleurssaid 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
afée, 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.
