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[Illustration: "SO GILBERT FIRST MET THE QUEEN"]
VIA CRUCIS
A Romance of the Second Crusade
BY
F. MARION CRAWFORD
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
"So Gilbert first met the Queen"
"Perhaps that is one reason why I like you"
"Crosses! Give us Crosses!"
Beatrix and Gilbert
"He ... held, while earth and sky whirled with him"
The Knighting of Gilbert
"For a space Gilbert answered nothing"
The Way of the Cross
CHAPTER I
The sun was setting on the fifth day of May, in the year of our Lord's
grace eleven hundred and forty-five. In the little garden between the
outer wall of the manor and the moat of Stoke Regis Manor, a lady
slowly walked along the narrow path between high rose bushes trained
upon the masonry, and a low flower-bed, divided into many little
squares, planted alternately with flowers and sweet herbs on one side,
and bordered with budding violets on the other. From the line where the
flowers ended, spiked rushes grew in sharp disorder to the edge of the
deep green water in the moat. Beyond the water stretched the
close-cropped sward; then came great oak trees, shadowy still in their
spring foliage; and then, corn-land and meadow-land, in long, green
waves of rising tilth and pasture, as far as a man could see.
The sun was setting, and the level rays reddened the lady's golden
hair, and fired the softness of her clear blue eyes. She walked with a
certain easy undulation, in which there were both strength and grace;
and though she could barely have been called young, none would have
dared to say that she was past maturity. Features which had been coldly
perfect and hard in early youth, and which might grow sharp in old age,
were smoothed and rounded in the full fruit-time of life's summer. As
the gold deepened in the mellow air, and tinged the lady's hair and
eyes, it wrought in her face changes of which she knew nothing. The
beauty of a white marble statue suddenly changed to burnished gold
might be beauty still, but of different expression and meaning. There
is always something devilish in the too great profusion of precious
metal--something that suggests greed, spoil, gain, and all that he
lives for who strives for wealth; and sometimes, by the mere absence of
gold or silver, there is dignity, simplicity, even solemnity.
Above the setting sun, tens of thousands of little clouds, as light and
fleecy as swan's-down, some dazzling bright, some rosy-coloured, some,
far to eastward, already purple, streamed across the pale sky in the
mystic figure of a vast wing, as if some great archangel hovered below
the horizon, pointing one jewelled pinion to the firmament, the other
down and unseen in his low flight. Just above the feathery oak trees,
behind which the sun had dipped, long streamers of red and yellow and
more imperial purple shot out to right and left. Above the moat's broad
water, the quick dark May-flies chased one another, in dashes of
straight lines, through the rosy haze, and as the sinking sun shot a
last farewell glance between the oak trees on the knoll, the lady stood
still and turned her smooth features to the light. There was curiosity
in her look, expectation, and some anxiety, but there was no longing. A
month, had passed since Raymond Warde had ridden away with his
half-dozen squires and servants to do homage to the Empress Maud. Her
court was, indeed, little more than a show, and Stephen ruled in
wrongful possession of the land; but here and there a sturdy and honest
knight was still to be found, who might, perhaps, be brought to do
homage for his lands to King Stephen, but who would have felt that he
was a traitor, and no true man, had he not rendered the homage of
fealty to the unhappy lady who was his rightful sovereign. And one of
these was Raymond Warde, whose great-grandfather had ridden with Robert
the Devil to Jerusalem, and had been with him when he died in Nicaea;
and his grandsire had been in the thick of the press at Hastings, with
William of Normandy, wherefore he had received the lands and lordship
of Stoke Regis in Hertfordshire; and his name is on Battle Abbey Roll
to this day.
During ten years Stephen of Blois had reigned over England with varying
fortune, alternately victor and vanquished, now holding his great
enemy, Robert of Gloucester, a prisoner and hostage, now himself in the
Empress's power, loaded with chains and languishing in the keep of
Bristol Castle. Yet of late the tide had turned in his favour; and
though Gloucester still kept up the show of warfare for his
half-sister's sake,--as indeed he fought for her so long as he had
breath,--the worst of the civil war was over; the partisans of the
Empress had lost faith in her sovereignty, and her cause was but
lingering in the shadow of death. The nobles of England had judged
Stephen's character from the hour in which King Henry died, and they
knew him to be a brave soldier, a desperate fighter, an indulgent man,
and a weak ruler.
Finding themselves confronted by a usurper who had no great talent to
recommend him, nor much political strength behind his brilliant
personal courage, their first instinct was to refuse submission to his
authority, and to drive him out as an impostor. It was not until they
had been chilled and disappointed by the scornful coldness of the
Empress Queen's imperious bearing that they saw how much pleasanter it
would be to rule Stephen than to serve Maud. Yet Gloucester was
powerful, and with his feudal retainers and devoted followers and a
handful of loyal independent knights, he was still able to hold Oxford,
Gloucester, and the northernmost part of Berkshire for his sister.
Now, in the early spring of this present year, the great earl had gone
forth, with his followers and a host of masons and labouring men, to
build a new castle on the height by Faringdon, where good King Alfred
had carved the great white horse by tearing the turf from the gravel
hill, for an everlasting record of victory. Broadly and boldly
Gloucester had traced the outer wall and bastions, the second wall
within that, and the vast fortress which was to be thus trebly
protected. The building was to be the work of weeks, not months, and,
if it were possible, of days rather than of weeks. The whole was to be
a strong outpost for a fresh advance, and neither gold nor labour was
to be spared in the execution of the plan. Gloucester pitched his
sister's camp and his own tent upon the grassy eminence that faced the
castle. Thence he himself directed and commanded, and thence the
Empress Maud, sitting beneath the lifted awning of her imperial tent,
could see the grey stones rising, course upon course, string upon
string, block upon block, at a rate that reminded her of that Eastern
trick which she had seen at the Emperor's court, performed by a
turbaned juggler from the East, who made a tree grow from the seed to
the leafy branch and full ripe fruit while the dazed courtiers who
looked on could count fivescore.
Thither, as to a general trysting-place, the few loyal knights and
barons went up to do homage to their sovereign lady, and to grasp the
hand of the bravest and gentlest man who trod English ground; and
thither, with the rest, Raymond Warde was gone, with his only son,
Gilbert, then but eighteen years of age, whom this chronicle chiefly
concerns; and Raymond's wife, the Lady Goda, was left in the manor
house of Stoke Regis under the guard of a dozen men-at-arms, mostly
stiff-jointed veterans of King Henry's wars, and under the more
effectual protection of several hundred sturdy bondsmen and yeomen,
devoted, body and soul, to their master and ready to die for his blood
or kin. For throughout Hertfordshire and Essex and Kent there dwelt no
Norman baron nor any earl who was beloved of his Saxon people as was
the Lord of Stoke; wherefore his lady felt herself safe in his absence,
though she knew well enough that only a small part of that devotion was
for herself.
There are people who seem able to go through life, with profit to
themselves, if not to others, by a sort of vicarious grace arising out
of the devotion wasted on them by their nearest and dearest, and
dependent upon the success, the honour, and the reputation of those who
cherish them. The Lady Goda set down to her own full credit the
faithful attachment which her husband's Saxon swains not only felt for
him, but owed him in return for his unchanging kindness and impartial
justice; and she took the desert to herself, as such people will, with
a whole-souled determination to believe that it was all her due though
she knew that she deserved none of it.
She had married Raymond Warde without loving him, being ambitious of
his name and honours, when his future had seemed brilliant in the days
of good King Henry. She had borne him an only son, who worshipped her
with a chivalric devotion that was almost childlike in its blindness;
but the most that she could feel, in return, was a sort of motherly
vanity in his outward being; and this he accepted as love, though it
was as far from that as devotion to self is from devotion to
another--as greed is far from generosity. She had not been more than
sixteen years of age when she had married, being the youngest of many
sisters, left almost dowerless when their father had departed on a
pilgrimage to the Holy Land, from which he had never returned. Raymond
Warde had loved her for her beauty, which was real, and for her
character, which was entirely the creation of his own imagination; and
with the calm, unconscious fatuity which so often underlies the
characters of honest and simple men, he had continued throughout his
married life to believe that his wife's affection, if neither very deep
nor very high, was centred upon himself and upon Gilbert. Any man a
whit less true and straightforward would have found out the utter
emptiness of such belief within a year. Goda had been bitterly
disappointed by the result of her marriage, so far as her real tastes
and ambitions were concerned. She had dreamt of a court; she was
condemned to the country. She loved gayety; she was relegated to
dulness. Moreover the Lord of Stoke was strong rather than attractive,
imposing rather than seductive, and he had never dreamed of that small
coin of flattery which greedy and dissatisfied natures require at all
costs when their real longings are unfed. It is their nature to give
little; it is their nature and their delight to ask much, and to take
all that is within their reach. So it came to pass that Goda took her
husband's loving generosity and her son's devotion as matters foregone
and of course, which were her due, and which might stay hunger, though
they could not satisfy her vanity's large appetite; and she took,
besides, such other things, both good and bad, as she found in her
path, especially and notably the heart of Arnold de Curboil, a widowed
knight, cousin to that Archbishop of Canterbury who had crowned Stephen
king, after swearing allegiance to Maud. This Arnold, who had followed
his great cousin in supporting King Stephen's cause, had received for
his service broad lands, both farm and forest, in Hertfordshire,
bordering upon the hereditary estates of the Wardes; and in the turmoil
and chaos of the long civil war, his word, at first without Raymond's
knowledge, had more than once saved the latter's little castle from
siege and probable destruction. Warde, in his loyalty to the rightful
sovereign, had, indeed, rather drawn back from the newcomer's
friendship than made advances to win it; but Raymond had yielded in the
end to his wife's sarcasms and to his own sense of obligation, as he
began to find out how, again and again, in the turning tides of civil
strife, his neighbour, though of opposite conviction, served him by
protecting his bondsmen, his neat cattle, and his growing crops from
pillage and destruction. Raymond did not trace such acts of neighbourly
kindness to the day when, hawking with his lady and little Gilbert,
then hardly big enough to sit upon a horse, they had been overtaken by
a winter storm not far from Arnold's lands, and when Arnold himself,
returning from a journey, had bidden them take shelter in a small
outlying manor house, where he was to spend the night, and whither his
servants had brought his little daughter Beatrix to meet her father.
Raymond had accepted the offer for his wife's sake, and the two
families had made acquaintance on that evening, by the blazing fire in
the little hall.
Before supper, the men had talked together with that sort of cheery
confidence which exists almost before the first meeting between men who
are neighbours and of the same rank, and the Lady Goda had put in a
word now and then, as she sat in the high-backed chair, drying the
bright blue cloth skirt of her gown before the crackling logs; and
meanwhile, too, young Gilbert, who had his mother's hair and his
father's deep-set eyes, walked round and round the solemn little
dark-faced girl, who sat upon a settle by herself, clad in a green
cloth dress which was cut in the fashion for grown-up women, and having
two short stiff plaits of black hair hanging down behind the small
coverchief that was tied under her fat chin. And as the boy in his
scarlet doublet and green cloth hose walked backward and forward,
stopping, moving away, then standing still to show off his small
hunting-knife, drawing it half out of its sheath, and driving it home
again with a smart push of the palm of his hand, the little girl's
round black eyes followed all his movements with silent and grave
curiosity. She was brotherless, he had no sisters, and both had been
brought up without companions, so that each was an absolute novelty to
the other; and when Gilbert threw his round cap, spinning on itself, up
to the brown rafters of the dim fire-lit chamber and caught it upon one
finger as it came down again, the little Beatrix laughed aloud. This
seemed to him nothing less than an invitation, and he immediately sat
down beside her on the settle, holding his cap in his hand, and began
to ask her how she was called, and whether she lived in that place all
the year round; and before long they were good friends, and were
talking of plovers' eggs and kingfishers' nests, and of the time when
they should each have a hawk of their own, and a horse, and each a
hound and a footman.
When supper was over and a serving-woman had taken the little Beatrix
away to sleep in the women's upper chamber, and when the steward of the
manor farm, and his wife and the retainers and servants, who had eaten
and drunk their fill at the lower end of the hall, were all gone to
their quarters in the outbuildings,--and when a bed had been made for
Gilbert, in a corner near the great chimney-piece, by filling with
fresh straw a large linen sack which was laid upon the chest in which
the bag was kept during the daytime, and was then covered with a fine
Holland sheet and two thick woollen blankets, under which the boy was
asleep in five minutes,--then the two knights and the lady were left to
themselves in their great carved chairs before the fire. But the Lord
of Stoke, who was a strong man and heavy, and had eaten well and had
drunk both ale and Gascony wine at supper, stretched out his feet to
the fire-dogs, and rested his elbows upon the arms of his chair, and
matched his hands together by the thumbs and by the forefingers, and by
the other fingers, one by one; and little by little the musical, false
voice of his lady, and the singularly gentle and unctuous tones of his
host, Arnold de Curboil, blended together and lost themselves, just as
the gates of dreamland softly closed behind him.
The Lady Goda, who had been far too tired to think of riding home that
night, was not in the least sleepy, and, moreover, she was profoundly
interested in what Sir Arnold had to say, while he was much too witty
to say anything which should not interest her. He talked of the court,
and of the fashions, and of great people whom he knew intimately and
whom the Lady Goda longed to know; and from time to time he managed to
convey to her the idea that the beauties of King Stephen's court would
stand in a poor comparison with her, if her husband could be induced to
give up his old-fashioned prejudices and his allegiance to the Empress
Maud. Lady Goda had once been presented to the Empress, who had paid
very little attention to her, compared with the interest she showed in
Sir Raymond himself. At the feast which had followed the formal
audience, she had been placed between a stout German widow lady and an
Italian abbot from Normandy, who had talked to each other across her,
in dog-Latin, in a way which had seemed to her very unmannerly; and the
German lady had eaten pieces of game-pie with her knife, instead of
using her fingers, as a lady should, before forks were invented. On the
following morning the Lady Goda had been taken away again by her
husband, and her experiences of court life had been brought to an
abrupt close. If the great Earl Robert of Gloucester had deigned to
bestow a word upon her, instead of looking through her with his
beautiful calm blue eyes at an imaginary landscape beyond, her
impressions of life at the Empress's court might have been very
different, and she might ever afterwards have approved her husband's
loyalty. But although she had bestowed unusual pains upon the
arrangement of her splendid golden hair, and had boxed the ears of a
clumsy tirewoman with so much vivacity that her own hand ached
perceptibly three hours afterwards, yet the great earl paid no more
attention to her than if she had been a Saxon dairy-maid. These things,
combined with the fact that she unexpectedly found the ladies of the
Empress's court wearing pocket sleeves, shaped like overgrown
mandolins, and almost dragging on the rushes as they walked, whereas
her own were of the old-fashioned open cut, had filled her soul with
bitterness against the legitimate heir to King Henry's throne and had
made the one-sided barrier between herself and her husband--which she
could see so plainly, but which was quite invisible to him--finally and
utterly impassable. He not only bored her himself, but he had given her
over to be bored by others, and from that day no such thing as even the
mildest affection for him was to be thought of on her side.
It was no wonder that she listened with breathless interest to all Sir
Arnold told her, and watched with delight the changing expression of
his smooth face, contrasted at every point with the bold, grave
features of the Lord of Stoke, solemnly asleep beside her. And Curboil,
on his side, was not only flattered, as every man is when a beautiful
woman listens to him long and intently, but he saw also that her beauty
was of an unusual and very striking kind. Too straight, too cold, too
much like marble, yet with hair almost too golden and a mouth like a
small red wound; too much of every quality to be natural, and yet
without fault or flaw, and too vivid not to delight the tired taste of
the man of pleasure of that day, who had seen the world from London to
Rome and from Rome to the imperial court of Henry the Fifth.
And she, on her side, saw in him the type to which she would naturally
have been attracted had she been perfectly free to make her choice of a
husband. Contrasted with the man of action, of few words, of few
feelings and strong ones, she saw the many-sided man of the world,
whose mere versatility was a charm, and the thought of whose manifold
experiences had in it a sort of mysterious fascination. Arnold de
Curboil was above all a man of tact and light touch, accustomed to the
society of women and skilled in the art of appealing to that
unsatisfied vanity which is the basis of most imperfect feminine
characters. There was nothing weak about him, and he was at least as
brave as most men, besides being more skilful than the majority in the
use of weapons. His small, well-shaped, olive-tinted hand could drive a
sword with a quicker thrust than Raymond Warde's, and with as sure an
aim, though there might not be the same massive strength behind it. In
the saddle he had not the terrible grip of the knee which could make a
strong horse shrink and quiver and groan aloud; but few riders of his
day were more profoundly skilled in the art of showing a poor mount to
good advantage, and of teaching a good one to use his own powers to the
utmost. When Warde had ridden a horse six months, the beast was
generally gone in the fore quarters, and broken-winded, if not dead
outright; but in the same time Curboil would have ridden the same horse
twice as far, and would have doubled his value. And so in many other
ways, with equal chances, the one seemed to squander where the other
turned everything to his own advantage. Standing Sir Arnold was
scarcely of medium height, but seated, he was not noticeably small;
and, like many men of short stature, he bestowed a constant and
thoughtful care upon his person and appearance, which resulted in a
sort of permanent compensation. His dark beard was cut to a point, and
so carefully trimmed as to remind one of those smoothly clipped trees
representing peacocks and dragons, which have been the delight of the
Italian gardener ever since the days of Pliny. He wore his hair neither
long nor short, but the silky locks were carefully parted in the middle
and smoothed back in rich dark waves. There was something almost
irritating in their unnatural smoothness, in the perfect transparency
of the man's healthy olive complexion, in the mouselike sleekness of
his long arching eyebrows, and in the perfect self-satisfaction and
confidence of his rather insolent reddish-brown eyes. His straight
round throat, well proportioned, well set upon his shoulders, and
transparently smooth as his own forehead, was thrown into relief by the
exquisite gold embroidery that edged the shirt of finest Flemish linen.
He wore a close-fitting tunic of fine scarlet cloth, with tight sleeves
slightly turned back to display his shapely wrists; it was gathered to
his waist by a splendid sword-belt, made of linked and enamelled plates
of silver, the work of a skilled Byzantine artist, each plate
representing in rich colours a little scene from the life and passion
of Christ. The straight cross-hilted sword stood leaning against the
wall near the great chimney-piece, but the dagger was still at the
belt, a marvel of workmanship, a wonder of temper, a triumph of Eastern
art, when almost all art was Eastern. The hilt of solid gold,
eight-sided and notched, was cross-chiselled in a delicate but deep
design, picked out with rough gems, set with cunning irregularity; the
guard, a hollowed disk of steel, graven and inlaid in gold with Kufic
characters; the blade, as long as a man's arm from the elbow to the
wrist-joint, forged of steel and silver by a smith of Damascus, well
balanced, slender, with deep blood-channels scored on each side to
within four fingers of the thrice-hardened point, that could prick as
delicately as a needle or pierce fine mail like a spike driven by a
sledge-hammer. The tunic fell in folds to the knee, and the
close-fitted cloth hose were of a rich dark brown. Sir Arnold wore
short riding-boots of dark purple leather, having the tops worked round
with a fine scarlet lacing; but the spur-leathers were of the same
colour as the boot and the spurs themselves of steel, small, sharp,
unornamented, and workmanlike.
Six years had passed since that evening, and still, when the Lady Goda
closed her eyes and thought of Sir Arnold, she saw him as she had seen
him then, with every line of his expression, every detail of his dress,
sitting beside her in the warm firelight, leaning forward a little in
his chair, and talking to her in a tone of voice that was meant to be
monotonous to the sleeper's ear, but not by any means to her own.
Between Warde and Curboil the acquaintance had matured--had been in a
measure forced in its growth by circumstances and mutual obligations;
but it had never ripened into the confidence of friendship on Warde's
side, while on Sir Arnold's it had been but a well-played comedy to
hide his rising hatred for the Lady Goda's husband. And she, on her
side, played her part as well. An alliance in which ambition had held
the place of heart could not remain an alliance at all when ambition
had been altogether disappointed. She hated her husband for having
disappointed her; she despised him for having made nothing of his many
gifts and chances, for clinging to an old cause, for being
old-fashioned, for having seen much and taken nothing--which makes
'rich eyes and poor hands'--for being slow, good-natured, kind-hearted,
and a prey to all who wished to get anything from him. She reflected
with bitterness that for a matter of seven or eight years of waiting,
and a turn of chance which would have meant happiness instead of
misery, she might have had the widowed Sir Arnold for a husband and
have been the Archbishop of Canterbury's cousin, high in favour with
the winning side in the civil war and united to a man who would have
known how to flatter her cold nature into a fiction of feeling, instead
of wasting on her the almost exaggerated respect with which a noble
passion envelops its object, but which, to most women, becomes in the
end unspeakably wearisome.
Many a time during those six years had she and Sir Arnold met and
talked as on the first night. Once, when the Empress Maud had taken
King Stephen prisoner, and things looked ill for his followers, Warde
had insisted that his neighbour should come over to Stoke Regis, as
being a safer place than his own castle; and once again, when Stephen
had the upper hand, and Sir Raymond was fighting desperately under
Gloucester, his wife had taken her son, and the priest, and some of her
women, and had ridden over to ask protection of Sir Arnold, leaving the
manor to take care of itself.
At first Curboil had constantly professed admiration for Warde's mental
and physical gifts; but little by little, tactfully feeling his
distance, he had made the lady meet his real intention half way by
confiding to him all that she suffered, or fancied that she
suffered--which with some women is the same thing--in being bound for
life to a man who had failed to give her what her ambition craved.
Then, one day, the key-word had been spoken. After that, they never
ceased to hope that Raymond Warde might come to an untimely end.
During these years Gilbert had grown from a boy to a man, unsuspicious,
worshipping his mother as a kind of superior being, but loving his
father with all that profound instinct of mutual understanding which
makes both love and hatred terrible within the closer degrees of
consanguinity. As time went by and the little Beatrix grew tall and
straight and pale, Gilbert loved her quite naturally, as she loved
him--two young people of one class, without other companions, and very
often brought together for days at a time in the isolated existence of
mediaeval castles. Perhaps Gilbert never realized just how much of his
affection for his mother was the result of her willingness to let him
fall in love with Beatrix. But the possibility of discussing the
marriage was another excuse for those long conversations with Sir
Arnold, which had now become a necessary part of Goda's life, and it
made the frequent visits and meetings in the hawking season seem quite
natural to the unsuspecting Sir Raymond. In hunting with Sir Arnold, he
had more than one narrow escape. Once, when almost at close quarters
with an old boar, he was stooping down to meet the tusker with a low
thrust. His wife and Sir Arnold were some twenty paces behind him, and
all three had become separated from the huntsmen. Seeing the position
and the solitude, the Lady Goda turned her meaning eyes to her
companion. An instant later Sir Arnold's boar-spear flew like a
cloth-yard arrow, straight at Sir Raymond's back. But in that very
instant, too, as the boar rushed upon him, Warde sprang to one side,
and, almost dropping to his knee, ran the wild beast through with his
hunting sword. The spear flew harmless over his head, unseen and
unheard, and lost itself in the dead leaves twenty yards beyond him. On
another day, Raymond, riding along, hawk on wrist, ten lengths before
the others, as was his wont, did not notice that they gradually fell
behind, until he halted in a narrow path of the forest, looked round,
and found himself alone. He turned his horse's head and rode back a few
yards, when suddenly three masked men, whom he took for robbers, sprang
up in his path and fell upon him with long knives. But they had
misreckoned their distance by a single yard, and their time by one
second, and when they were near enough to strike, his sword was already
in his hand. The first man fell dead; the second turned and fled, with
a deep flesh wound in his shoulder; the third followed without striking
a blow; and Sir Raymond rode on unhurt, meditating upon the uncertainty
of the times. When he rejoined his wife and friend, he found them
dismounted and sitting side by side on a fallen tree, talking low and
earnestly, while the footmen and falconers were gathered together in a
little knot at some distance. As they heard his voice, Goda started
with a little cry, and Arnold's dark face turned white; but by the time
he was beside them, they were calm again, and smiled, and they asked
him whether he had lost his way. Raymond said nothing of what had
happened to him, fearing to startle the delicate nerves of his lady;
but late on the following night, when Sir Arnold was alone in his
bedchamber, a man ghastly white from loss of blood lifted the heavy
curtain and told his story in a low voice.