So Gilbert Warde was made a knight, and to this day the Wards bear the
cross flory in their shield, which was given to their forefathers by
Eleanor of Aquitaine before she was English Queen. And so, also, Sir
Gilbert promised to ride a day's march before the rest, with a handful
of men whom he chose among his acquaintance; and many envied him his
honour, but there were more who warmed themselves by the camp-fire at
night most comfortably, and were glad that they had not been chosen to
live hardly, half starving on their half-starved horses, with a cloak
and a blanket on the ground for a bed, watching in turns by night, and
waking each morning to wonder whether they should live till sunset.
In truth there was less of danger than of hardship at first, and more
trouble than either; for though Gilbert was sent on with the best of
the Greek guides to choose the way, and had full power of life and
death over them, so that they feared him more than Satan and dared not
hide the truth from him, yet when he had chosen the line of the march
and had sent word by a messenger to the army, the answer often came
back that the King and the Emperor were of another mind, because they
had listened to some lying Greek; and since the Emperor and the King
and Queen had agreed that any one of them must always yield to the
opinion of the other two, Eleanor's advice, which was Gilbert's and
founded on real knowledge, was often overridden by the others, and she
was forced to give way or make an open breach. Then Gilbert ground his
teeth silently and did the best he could, retracing his steps over many
miles, exploring a new road, and choking down the humiliation bravely,
because he had given his word.
But little by little that humiliation turned to honour, even among the
men who were with him; for most of them were taken from the Queen's
army, and besides, they saw every day that Gilbert was right, so that
they trusted him and would have followed him through storm and fire.
Also in the Queen's army it began to be known, and it spread to the
other French, and to the Germans, and to the Poles and the Bohemians,
that when the troops followed the march chosen by Gilbert, all went
well, and they found water and forage for their horses, and food and a
good camping-ground; but often, when the King and the Emperor had their
way, there was hunger and cold and lack of water.
The men began to say to each other, when they knew, "This is Sir
Gilbert's road, and to-day is a feast-day;" and then, "This is the
King's road, and to-day is Friday." And on Gilbert's days they sang as
they marched, and trudged along cheerfully, and his name ran like a
sound of gladness along the endless lines. He grew, therefore, to be
beloved by many who had never seen him in the great host, and at last
even by the most of the soldiers.
So they came to Ephesus at last, very weary, and with some sick persons
among them. Conrad the Emperor was in ill case, though he was of the
strongest, and at Ephesus messengers met him who had come by sea from
the Emperor of the Greeks, begging that he and all his men would sail
back to Constantinople and spend the rest of the winter there, and
afterwards go by sea again to Syria. And they did so, for the brave
Germans were much broken and worn because of their marches and defeats
before they had gone back to Nicaea, and the armies of the King and
Queen went on without them, to a great meadow by the Maeander, where
they encamped to keep the Christmas feast with great thanksgiving for
their preservation thus far.
On Christmas eve Gilbert came into camp with his companions, and when
they were seen, a great cry arose throughout the army, and men left
their fires and their mending of arms and clothes, and ran out to meet
him, a gaunt man in rusty armour, on a gaunt horse, followed by others
in no better plight. His mantle was all stained with rain and mud, and
was rent in many places, and his mail was brown, save where it had been
chafed bright by his moving; his great Norman horse was rough with his
winter coat and seemed all joints and bones, and Dunstan and Alric rode
in rags with the men-at-arms. His face was haggard with weariness and
lack of food, but stern and high, and the first who saw him ceased
shouting and looked up at him with awe; but then he smiled so gently
and kindly that the cheer broke out again and rang across the camp, far
and wide.
Presently those who cheered began to follow the little train of
horsemen, first by twos and tens and twenties, till thousands were
drawn into the stream and pressed round him, so that he was obliged to
move slowly. For many weeks they had heard his name, knowing that it
meant safety for them, and wonderful tales had been told over the
camp-fires of his endurance and courage. So his coming back was his
first triumph, and the day was memorable in his life. While the army
rested there was no work for him, and he had returned in order to rest
himself; but he had nothing of immediate importance to report to the
leaders, and he bade his men find out his baggage among the heaps of
packs that had been unloaded from the general train of mules, and to
pitch his tent near those of his old comrades on the march.
While Dunstan and Alric were obeying his orders, he sat on his saddle
on the ground, with his weary horse standing beside him, his nose
plunged into a canvas bag half full of oats. Gilbert looked on in a
sort of mournfully indifferent silence. Everything he saw was familiar,
and yet it all seemed very far away and divided from him by weeks of
danger and hard riding. The vast crowd that had followed him had begun
to disperse as soon as it was known that he was not going before the
King, and only three or four hundred of the more curious stood and
moved in groups around the open space where the tent was being pitched.
Many of his acquaintance came and spoke to him, and he rose and shook
their hands and spoke a few words to each; but none of the greater
nobles who had sought him out after he had saved the Queen took any
pains to find him now, though they and their followers owed him much.
The praise of the multitude and their ringing cheers had been pleasant
enough to hear, but he had expected something else, and a cold
disappointment took possession of his heart as he sat in his tent some
hours later, considering, with Dunstan, the miserable condition and
poor appearance of his arms and the impossibility of procuring anything
better. He was as lonely and unnoticed as if he had not been devoting
every energy he possessed to the safe guidance of a great army during
the past two months.
"There is nothing to complain of, sir," said Dunstan, in answer to a
disconsolate ejaculation of Gilbert's. "Your body is whole, you have
received back your belongings with nothing stolen, which is more than I
expected of the Greek muleteers, you have a new tunic and hose to wear,
and bean soup for supper. The world is not so bad as it looks."
"On the other hand," answered Gilbert, with a sour smile, "my bones
ache, my armour is rusty, and my purse is empty. Make what good cheer
you can of that."
He rose, and leaving Dunstan to set to work upon the injured coat of
mail, he took his cap and strolled out alone to breathe the afternoon
air. It was Christmas-time, and the day had been bright and clear; but
he wore no mantle, for the overwhelmingly good reason that he possessed
only one, which was in rags; and, indeed, he had been so much exposed
to bad weather of late that he was hardened to every sort of
discomfort--a little more or less was not worth counting.
Dunstan was quite right of course, and Gilbert had no reasonable cause
for complaint. The Queen would doubtless send for him on the morrow,
and had he chosen to present himself before her at once he would have
been received with honour. But he was in an ill humour with himself and
the world, and being still very young, it seemed quite natural to yield
to it rather than to reason himself into a better temper. He got out of
the camp as soon as he could, and walked by the green banks of the
still Maeander. It was winter, but the grass was as fresh as it might
have been in spring, and a salt breeze floated up from the not distant
sea. He knew the country, for he himself had chosen the spot as a
camping-place for the army, and had advanced still farther when
messengers had brought him word to come back. To northward rolled away
the gentle hills beyond Ephesus, while to the south and east the
mountains of the Cadmus and Taurns rose rugged and sharp against the
pale sky--the range through which the army must next make its way to
Attalia. The time lacked an hour of sunset, and the clear air had taken
the first tinge of evening. Here and there in the plain the evergreen
ilex trees grew in little clumps, black against the sunlight, but dark
green, with glistening points among their shadows, where the afternoon
sun struck full upon them.
Gilbert had hoped to be alone, but there were parties of idlers along
the river-bank as far as he could see, and among them were many who
bore evergreen boughs and young cypress shoots of three and four years'
growth, which they were carrying back to the camp for the Christmas
festival. For there were many Normans in the army, and Franks from
Lorraine, and Northern men from Poland and Bohemia, and all the men of
the North would have their Yule trees before their tents, as their
heathen forefathers had done before them in the days of the old faith.
There were ladies of Eleanor's troop also, riding for pleasure, in rich
gowns and flowing mantles, and knights with them, all unarmed save for
a sword or dagger; and there were many dark-eyed Greeks, too, both men
and women, who had come out from Ephesus in holiday clothes to see the
great camp. It was all calm, and bright, and good to see, but out of
harmony with Gilbert's gloomy thoughts. At the bend of the stream the
ground rose a little, somewhat away from the bank, and the rocks stuck
up rough and jagged out of the green grass, a sort of little wilderness
in the midst of the fertile plain. Almost instinctively, Gilbert turned
aside and climbed in and out among the stones until he reached the
highest ledge, on which he seated himself in profound satisfaction at
having got away from his fellow-creatures. The place where he had
perched was about sixty feet above the river-bank, and though he could
not distinctly hear the conversation of the passing groups he could see
the expression of every face clearly, and he found himself wondering
how often the look of each matched the words and the unspoken thoughts.
The sun sank lower, and he had no idea how long he had sat still, when
he became conscious that he was intently watching a party of riders who
were coming toward him. They were still half a mile away, but he saw a
white horse in the front rank, and even at that distance something in
the easy pace of the creature made him feel sure that it was the
Queen's Arab mare. They came on at a canter, and in two or three
minutes he could make out the figures of those best known to
him--Eleanor herself, Anne of Auch, Castignac, and the other two
attendant knights who were always in the Queen's train, and a score of
others riding behind by twos and threes. Gilbert sat motionless and
watched them, nor did it occur to him that he himself, sitting on the
highest boulder and dressed in a tunic of dark red, was a striking
object in the glow of the setting sun. But before she was near enough
to recognize him, Eleanor had seen him, and her curiosity was roused; a
few minutes more, and she knew his face. Then their eyes met.
She drew rein and walked her horse, still looking up, and wondering why
he gazed at her so fixedly, without so much as lifting his cap from his
head; and then, to her infinite surprise, she saw him spring to his
feet and disappear from view among the rocks. She was so much
astonished that she stopped her horse altogether and sat several
seconds staring at the ledge on which he had sat, while all her
attendants looked in the same direction, expecting Gilbert to appear
again; for several of them had recognized him, and supposed that he
would hasten down to salute the Queen.
But when he did not come, she moved on, and though her face did not
change, she did not speak again till the camp was reached, nor did any
of her party dare to break the silence.
Had she looked back, she might have caught sight of Gilbert's figure
walking steadily with bent head across the plain, away from the river
and from the camp, out to the broad solitude beyond. He had acted under
an impulse, foolishly, almost unconsciously, being guided by something
he did not attempt to understand.
Two months had passed, and more, since he had seen her, and in his life
of excitement and anxiety her face had disappeared from his dreams.
While he had been away from her, she had not existed for him, save as
the only leader of the three to whom he looked for approbation and
support; the woman had been lost in the person of the sovereign, and
had ceased to torment him by the perpetual opposition of that which all
men coveted to that which he truly loved. But now, at the very first
sight of her face, it seemed as if the Queen were gone again, leaving
only the woman to his sight, and at the instant in which he realized it
he had turned and fled, hardly knowing what he did.
He walked steadily on, more than two miles, and all at once he cast no
shadow, for the sun had gone down, and the pale east before him turned
to a cool purple in the reflection. The air was very chilly, for the
night wind came down suddenly from the mountains as the sea breeze died
away, and the solitary man felt cold; for he had no cloak, and exposure
and fighting had used his blood, while within him there was nothing to
cheer his heart.
It had seemed to him for two years that he was always just about to do
the high deed, to make the great decision of life, to find out his
destiny, and he had done bravely and well all that he had found in his
way. The chance came, he seized it, he did his best, and the cheers of
the soldiers had told him a few hours ago that he was no longer the
obscure English wanderer who had met Geoffrey Plantagenet on the road
to Paris. Thousands repeated his name in honour and looked to him for
their safety on the march, cursing those who led them astray against
his warning. In his place on that day, most men would have gone to the
Queen, expecting a great reward, if not claiming it outright. But he
was wandering alone at nightfall in the great plain, discontented with
all things, and most of all with himself. Everything he had done rose
up against him and accused him, instead of praising him and flattering
his vanity; every good deed had a base motive in his eyes, or was
poisoned by the thought that it had not been done for itself, but for
an uncertain something which came over him when the Queen spoke to him
or touched his hand. It is not only inactive men who grow morbid and
fault-finding with themselves; for the wide breach between the ideal
good and the poor accomplishment holds as much that can disappoint the
heart as the mean little ditch between thought and deed, wherein so
many weak good men lie stuck in the mud of self-examination. He who
stands at the edge of the limit, with a lifetime of good struggles
behind him, may be as sad and hopeless as he who sits down and weeps
before the mountain of untried beginnings. The joy of the earthly
future is for the very great and the very little. For as charity leads
mankind by faith to the hope of the life to come, so, on the mind's
side, by faith in its own strength, the work of genius in the past is
its own surety for like work to come.
Gilbert Warde was not of that great mould, but more human and less sure
of himself; and suddenly, as the sun went down, a strong desire of
death came upon him, and he wished that he were dead and buried under
the grass whereon he stood, for very discontent with himself. It would
be so simple, and none would mourn him much, except his men, perhaps,
and they would part his few possessions and serve another. He was a
burden to the earth, since he could do nothing well; he was a coward,
because he was afraid of a woman's eyes and had fled from their gaze
like a boy; he was a sinner deserving eternal fire since a touch of a
fair woman's hand could make him unfaithful for an instant to the one
woman he loved best. He had meant to tread the way of the Cross in true
faith, with unswerving feet, and his heart was the toy of women; he had
sworn the promises of knighthood, and he was already breaking them in
his thoughts; he was his evil mother's son, and he had not the strength
to be unlike her.
It was folly and madness, and Castignac, the Gascon knight, would have
laughed at him, or else would have believed that he was demented. But
to the Englishman it was real, for he was under that strange melancholy
which only Northmen know, and which is the most real suffering in all
the world. It is a dim sadness that gathers like a cloud about strong
men's souls, and they fear it, and sometimes kill themselves to escape
from it into the outer darkness beyond; but sometimes it drives them to
bad deeds and the shedding of innocent blood, and now and then the
better sort of such men turn from the world and hide themselves in the
abodes of sorrow and pain and prayer. The signs of it are that when it
has no cause it seizes upon trifles to make them its reasons, and more
often it torments young men than the old; and no woman nor southern
person has ever known it, nor can even understand it. But it follows
the northern blood from generation to generation, like retribution for
an evil without a name done long ago by the northern race.
It was dark night when Gilbert found his way back to his tent, more by
the instinct of one used to living in camps among soldiers than by any
precise recollection of the way, and he sat down to warm himself before
the brazier of red coals which Alric shovelled out of the camp-fire
that burned outside. His men gave him a pottage of beans, with bread
and wine, as it was Christmas Eve and a fast-day, and there was nothing
else, for all the fish brought up from the sea had been bought early in
the day for the great nobles, long before Gilbert had come into the
lines. But he neither knew nor cared, and he ate mechanically what they
gave him, being in a black humour. Then he sat a long time by the light
of the earthenware lamp which Dunstan occasionally tended with an iron
pin, lest the charring wick should slip into the half-melted fat and go
out altogether. When he was not watching the wick, the man's eyes fixed
themselves upon his master's grave face.
"Sir," he said at last, "you are sad. This is the Holy Eve, and all the
army will watch till midnight, when the first masses begin. If it
please you, let us walk through the camp and see what we may. The tents
of the great lords are all lighted up by this time and the soldiers are
singing the Christmas hymns."
Gilbert shook his head indifferently, but said nothing.
"Sir," insisted the man, "I pray you, let us go, for you shall be
cheered, and there are good sights. Before midnight the King and Queen
and all the court go in procession to the great chapel tent, and it is
meet that you should be there with them."
Dunstan brought a garment and gently urged him to rise. Gilbert stood
up, not looking.
"Why should I go?" he asked. "I am better alone, for I am in a sad
humour. And, besides, it is very cold."
"Your cloak shall keep you warm, sir."
"I cannot walk among the court people in rags," answered Gilbert, "and
I have nothing that is whole but this one thin tunic."
But even as he spoke, Dunstan held up the surcoat for him to put on
over his head, the skirts caught up in his hands, which also held the
collar open.
"What is this?" asked Gilbert, in surprise.
"It is a knight's surcoat, sir," answered the man. "It is of very good
stuff, and is wadded with down. I pray you, put it on."
"This is a gift," said Gilbert, suspiciously, and drawing back. "Who
sends me such presents?"
"The King of France, sir."
"You mean the Queen." He frowned and would not touch the coat.
"The things were brought by the King's men, and one of the King's
knights came also with them, and delivered a very courteous message,
and a purse of Greek bezants, very heavy."
Gilbert began to walk up and down, in hesitation. He was very poor, but
if the gifts were from the Queen, he was resolved not to keep them.
"Sir," said Dunstan, "the knight said most expressly that the King sent
you these poor presents as a token that he desires to see you to-morrow
and to thank you for all you have done. I thought to please you by
bringing them out suddenly."
Then Gilbert smiled kindly, for the man loved him, and he put his head
and arms into the knightly garment with its wide sleeves, and Dunstan
laced it up the back, so that it fitted closely to the body, while the
skirt hung down below the knees. It was of a rich dark silk, woven in
the East, and much like the velvet of later days. Then Dunstan girded
his master with a new sword-belt made of heavy silver plates, finely
chased and sewn on leather, and he thrust the great old sword with its
sheath through the flattened ring that hung to the belt by short silver
chains. Lastly he put upon Gilbert's shoulders a mantle of very dark
red cloth, lined with fine fur and clasped at the neck with silver; for
it was not seemly to wear a surcoat without a cloak.
"It is very noble," said Dunstan, moving back a step or two to see the
effect.
Indeed, the young English knight looked well in the dress of his
station, which he wore for the first time; for he was very tall and
broad of shoulder, and a lean man, well-bred; his face was clear and
pale, and his fair hair fell thick and long behind his cap.
"But you, Dunstan, you cannot be seen--"
Gilbert stopped, for he noticed suddenly that both his men were clad in
new clothes of good cloth and leather.
"The servants are honoured with their lord," said Dunstan. "The King
sent gifts for us, too."
"That was a man's thought, not a woman's," said Gilbert, almost to
himself.
He went out, and Dunstan walked by his left, but half a step behind his
stride, as was proper.
The camp was lit up with fires and torches as far as one could see, and
all men were out of doors, either walking up and down, arm in arm, or
sitting before their tents on folding-stools, or on their saddles, or
on packs of baggage. The hundreds and thousands of little Christmas
trees, stuck into the earth amid circles of torches before the newly
whitened tents, made a great garden of boughs and evergreens, and the
yellow glare shone everywhere through lacing branches, and fell on rich
colours and gleaming arms, well polished for the holiday, and lost
itself suddenly in the cold starlight overhead. The air smelt of
evergreen and the aromatic smoke of burning resin.
The night rang with song also, and in some places as many as a hundred
had gathered in company to sing the long Christmas hymns they had
learned as little children far away at home--endless canticles with
endless repetitions, telling the story of the Christ-Child's birth at
Bethlehem, of the adoration of the shepherds, and of the coming of the
Eastern kings.
In one part of the camp the rough Burgundians were drinking the strong
Asian wine in deep draughts, roaring their great choruses between, with
more energy than unction. But for the most part the northern men were
sober and in earnest, praying as they sang and looking upward as if the
Star of the East were presently to shed its soft light in the sky; and
they tended the torches and lights around the trees devoutly, not
guessing that their fathers had done the same long ago, in bleak
Denmark and snowy Norway, in worship of Odin and in honour of
Yggdrasil, the tree of life.
The Gascons and all the men of the South, on their side, had made
little altars between two trees, decked with white cloths and adorned
with tinsel ornaments and little crosses and small carved images
carefully brought, like household gods, from the far home, and
treasured only next to their arms. The thin, dark faces of the men were
fervent with southern faith, and their wild black eyes were deep and
still.
There were also Alsatians and Lorrainers in lines by themselves, quiet,
fair-haired men. They had little German dolls of wood, and toys
brightly painted, and by their trees they set out the scene of
Bethlehem, with the manger and the Christ-Child, and the oxen crouching
down, and the Blessed Mary and Saint Joseph, and also the shepherds and
the wise kings; and the men sat down before these things with happy
faces and sang their songs. So it was through the whole camp, the
soldiers doing everywhere according to their customs.
As for the nobles and knights, Gilbert saw some of them walking about
like himself, and some were sitting before their tents. Here and there,
as he passed, when a tent was open, he saw knights kneeling in prayer,
and could hear them reciting the litanies. But it was not always so,
for some were spending the night in feasting, their tents being closed,
though one could hear plainly the revelry. There was more than one
great tent in the French lines, of which the curtain was raised a
little, and there Gilbert saw men and women drinking together, under
bright lights, and he saw that the women were Greeks and that their
cheeks were painted and their eyelids blackened; and he turned away
from the sight, in disgust that such things should be done on the Holy
Eve of Christmas.
Further on, some very poor soldiers, in sheepskin doublets and leathern
hose, were kneeling together before a sort of rough screen, on which
were hung images painted in the manner of Greek eikons. These men had
long and silky beards, and their smooth brown hair hung out over their
shoulders in well-combed waves, and some of them had beautiful faces.
One, who was a priest of their own, stood upright and recited prayers
in a low chant, and from time to time, at the refrain, the soldiers all
bowed themselves till their foreheads touched the ground.
"The Lord Jesus Christ be praised," sang the priest.
"To all ages. Amen," responded the soldiers.
Though they sang in the Bohemian language, and Gilbert could not
understand, he saw that they believed and were of an earnest mind.
So he walked about for more than an hour, looking and listening, and
his own sad humour was lightened a little as he forgot to think of
himself only. For it seemed a great thing to have been chosen to lead
so many through a wilderness full of danger, and to know that more than
a hundred thousand lives had been in his keeping, as it were, for two
months, and were to be in his hand again, till he should lead them
safely into Syria, or perish himself and leave his task to another. It
was a task worth accomplishing and a trust worth his life.
Then, at midnight, he was walking in a great procession after the King
and Queen. Modestly he joined the ranks, and his man walked beside him
carrying a torch, so that the light fell full upon his face. Some one
knew him, and spoke to his neighbour.
"That is Sir Gilbert Warde, who is our guide," he said.
In an instant word ran along the line that he was there; and in a few
minutes a messenger came breathless, asking for him, and then the
herald of France, Montjoye Saint Denis, came after, bidding him to a
foremost place, in the name of the King and Queen. So he followed the
herald, whose runner walked before him, as had been bidden by Eleanor
herself.
"Make way for the Guide of Aquitaine!" cried the squire, in a loud
voice.
Knights and men-at-arms stood aside to let him pass, and the tall
Englishman went between them, courteously bending his head to thank
those who moved out of his way, and deprecating the high honour that
was done him. He heard his name repeated, both by men whose faces he
could see in the light around him, when the torches blazed and flamed,
and also from the darkness beyond.
"Well done, Sir Gilbert!" cried some. "God bless the Guide of
Aquitaine!" cried many others. And all the voices praised him, so that
his heart warmed.
Following the herald, he came to his place in the procession, in the
front rank of the great vassals of the two kingdoms, and just after the
sovereign lords; and as he was somewhat taller than other men, he could
look over their heads, and he saw the King and Queen in their furs,
walking together, and before them the bishops and priests. At the stir
made by his coming Eleanor turned and looked back, and her eyes met
Gilbert's through the smoky glare, gazing at him sadly, as if she would
have made him understand something she could not say.
But he would not have spoken if he could, for his thoughts were on
other things. The procession went on toward the royal altar, set up
under an open tent in a wide space, so that the multitude could kneel
on the grass and both see and hear the celebration. So they all knelt
down, the great barons and chief vassals having small hassocks for
their knees, while the King and Queen and the sovereign lords of Savoy
and Alsatia and Lorraine, and of Bohemia and of Poland, had rich
praying-stools set out for them in a row, next to the King and Queen.
The torches were stuck into the ground to burn down as they might, and
the great wax candles shone quietly on the white altar, for the night
was now very still and clear. There all the great nobles and many
thousands of other men heard the Christmas mass, just after midnight,
knowing that many of them should never hear it again on earth. There
they all sang together, in a mighty melody of older times, the 'Glory
to God in the highest,' which was first sung on the Holy Eve; and
there, when the Bishop of Metz was about to lift up the consecrated
bread, the royal trumpets rang out a great call to the multitude, so
that all men might bow themselves together. Then the silence was very
deep, while the Lord passed by; nor ever again in his life did Sir
Gilbert Warde know such a stillness as that was, save once, and it
seemed to him that in the Way of the Cross he had reached a place of
refreshment and rest.