In this way it came about that Gilbert, of whom the historians say that
nothing else is known, was placed in command of the whole army of
Crusaders, to lead them through the enemy's country down into Syria;
and so he did, well and bravely. After the great battle in the valley
there was much fighting still to be done, day by day; for the Seljuks
retreated foot by foot, filling the mountains and sweeping down like
storm-clouds, to disappear as quickly, leaving blood behind them. But
Gilbert led the van, and held the whole pilgrimage together, commanding
where the camp should be each night, and ordering the march. Men
wondered at his wisdom, and at his strength to endure hardship; for all
were very tired, and provision was scarce, and the Greek hill people
sold at a tenfold value the little they had to sell, so that the
soldiers dined not every day, and a dish of boiled goat's flesh was a
feast. So the pilgrimage went on in fighting and suffering, and as time
passed the people were the more in earnest with themselves and with one
another, looking forward to the promised forgiveness of sins when they
should have accomplished their vows in the holy places.
They came down at last from the mountains to the sea, to a place called
Attalia. Thence Gilbert would have led them still by land into Syria;
but the King was weary, and the Queen also had seen the great mistake
she had made in bringing her ladies into the pilgrimage; for few had
the strength of the hardy Anne of Auch, or the spirit of Beatrix, to
endure without murmuring, like men, and like very brave men. The
ladies' train had become a company of complainers, murmuring against
everything, longing for the good things of France, and often crying out
bitterly, even with tears, that they had been brought out to waste
their youth and freshness, or even their lives, in a wilderness.
Therefore Eleanor consented at last to the King's desire, which was to
take ship from Attalia to Saint Simeon's Harbour, which is close to
Antioch. In Antioch also reigned her uncle, Count Raymond, a man of her
own blood, and thinking as she thought; him she now desired to see and
consult with, because he knew the world, and was an honourable man, and
of good counsel. Yet there was danger there, too, for the King had once
believed that this Count Raymond loved her, when he had been at the
court, and the King was ever very jealous and sour.
He would have brought the whole army to Antioch with him, but a great
outcry arose; for, whereas all the great barons and knights were for
the safer journey, the poorer sort of pilgrims feared the sea more than
they feared the Seljuks, and they would not take ship. So at last the
King let them go, and they, not knowing whither they went, boasted that
they should reach Antioch first. He gave them money and certain guides
whom he trusted.
Then Gilbert, seeing that there was a choice of two ways, sat down at
night and debated what he should do. He desired to follow Beatrix with
the ships, for he had not seen Sir Arnold de Curboil since Christmas
Eve, and he believed that he had gone back to Ephesus to sail for
Syria, so that at the present time he could not suddenly surprise his
daughter and carry her away, to force her to a marriage of which heirs
might be born to his great possessions in England. Gilbert knew also
that his command over the whole army was ended, that the enemy's
country was now passed, and that all were to join forces with Count
Raymond to win back Edessa in the spring. He should therefore have more
time and leisure to protect Beatrix if needful; and this was a strong
thing to move him, for he had seen her many times of late, and he loved
her with all his heart.
But on the other hand, when he saw how many thousands of the poorer
people, who had taken the Cross in simple faith that God would provide
for the journey, were about to go up into the passes again, to fight
their own way through, without King or Queen or army, his charity bade
him stay with them and lead them, as he only could, to live or die with
them, rather than to go safely by water. So it was hard to decide which
he should do, and he would not see Beatrix, lest she should persuade
him; nor would he let himself think too much of the people, nor mix
with them, for they knew him, and honoured him greatly, and would have
carried him on their shoulders to make him their leader if he would.
Therefore his debating with himself came to nothing, and he slept ill.
In the early morning, as he was walking by the seashore, he met the
Lady Anne of Auch, with two women behind her, coming back from the
mass, and they stood and talked together. As he looked into her face he
saw friendship there, and suddenly, though he was often slow of
impulse, he began to tell her his trouble, walking beside her.
"Sir Gilbert," she said quietly, "I loved a good man, who was my
husband, and he loved me; but he was killed, and they brought him home
to me dead. I tell you, Sir Gilbert, that the true love of man and
woman is the greatest and best thing in all the world; but when two
love one another, if their love be not the greatest thing save honour,
then it is not true, nor worthy to be reckoned in account. Think well
whether you love this lady truly, as I mean, or not, and if you do,
there can be no more doubt."
"Lady Anne," said Gilbert, when he had thought a little while, "you are
a very honourable woman, and your counsel is good."
After they had talked, they parted, and Gilbert went back to his
lodging, being determined to go to Antioch by sea with the King and
Queen; but still he was sorry for the poor pilgrims who were to be left
behind to fight a way through for themselves.
The great ships that had been hired for the voyage were heavy and
unwieldy vessels to see, but yet swift through the water, whether the
vast lateen sails drew full with a fair wind or were close-reefed in a
gale, till they seemed mere jibs bent to the long yards, or even when
in a flat calm the vessels were sent along by a hundred sweeps, fifty
on each side; and they were partly Greek galleys and partly they were
of Amalfi, whose citizens had all the commerce of the East, and their
own quarter in every town and harbour, from the Piraeus round by
Constantinople and all Asia Minor and Egypt, as far as Tunis itself.
A clear northwest wind began to blow on the very day fixed for
departure, and the big galleys swept out one by one, close upon each
other, till they were outside and hoisted their sails, the sea being
very smooth under the land; and when they had run out two or three
miles, with the wind aft, they wore ship, one after another, coming to
a little, to get their sheets in, and then holding off to jibe the
great sails for the port tack, with much creaking of yards and flapping
of canvas. Then, as they ran free along the coast to the eastward, the
wind quartering, they got out great booms to windward, guyed fore and
aft, and down to the forward beaching-hooks at the water's edge, at the
first streak under the wales; and they set light sails, hauling the
tacks well out and making the sheet fast after the southern fashion,
and then swaying away at the halyards, till the white canvas was up to
the mast-head, bellying full, and as steady as the upper half of a
half-moon.
Before many days they came to Saint Simeon's Harbour, which was the
port of Antioch, and saw the mighty walls and towers on the heights a
dozen miles inshore; and when Gilbert looked from the deck of his ship,
he was glad that the army was not to besiege that great and strong
fortress, since it belonged to Count Raymond, the Queen's uncle. But if
he had known what things were to happen to him there, rather than have
ridden up to the walled city he would have gone barefoot to Jerusalem,
to fulfil his vow as he might.
Count Raymond, with his broad shoulders and bronzed face and dark hair
just turning gray at the temples, came down to meet the army at the
shore; and first he embraced the King, according to custom, and then he
kissed the Queen, his niece, not once, but four or five times, and she
kissed him, for they were very glad to see each other; but it is not
true, as some have said in their chronicles, that there were thoughts
of love between them. Queen Eleanor had many bitter enemies, and her
sins were almost as many as her good deeds, but love for Count Raymond
was not among them.
Nevertheless, King Louis was very jealous as soon as he saw the two
embracing, for he had always believed that there was more than he knew.
But he said nothing, for he feared his Queen. So there were great
rejoicings in Antioch, when all the ladies and the barons and other
nobles were installed there to keep Easter together; and though they
had still some days of fasting during Holy Week, they were so glad to
be in the great city, and so much lightened of trouble by having left
the poorer pilgrims to shift for themselves, that it would have been
easy for them to live on bread and water, instead of eating the dainty
dishes of good fish, and the imitations of eggs made with flour and
saffron and blanched almonds, and the delicate sweetmeats, and all the
many good things which Count Raymond's fifty cooks knew how to prepare
for Lent. For the Count lived luxuriously, though he was a good fighter
at need.
Most of all, he was a keen man, with few scruples, and the Queen began
to ask him to help her in getting her marriage annulled, because she
could no longer bear to be the wife of a spoon-faced monk, as she
called the King; whereat Count Raymond laughed. Then he thought awhile
and bent his broad brows; but soon his face cleared, for he had found a
remedy. The King, he said, was surely Eleanor's cousin and within the
prohibited degrees of consanguinity, so that the marriage was null and
void; and the Pope would be obliged against his will to adhere to the
rule of the Church and pronounce it so. They were cousins in the
seventh degree, he said, because the King was descended from Eleanor's
great-great-great-great-grandfather, William Towhead, Duke of Guienne,
whose daughter, Adelaide of Poitiers, married Hugh Capet, King of
France; and the seventh degree of consanguinity was still prohibited,
and no dispensation had been given, nor even asked for.
At first the Queen laughed, but presently she sent for the Bishop of
Metz, and asked him; and he said that Count Raymond spoke truly, but
that he would have nothing to do with the matter, since it had never
been the intention of the Church that her rules should be misused. Yet
it is said that he was afterwards of the Council which declared that
there had been no marriage.
So, being sure, the Queen went to the King and told him to his face
that she had meant to marry a king, and not a monk as he was, and that
she had now found out that her marriage was no marriage, wherefore he
was living in mortal sin; and if he would save his soul he must
repudiate her as soon as they should have returned to France. At this
the King was overcome with grief and wept bitterly, not because he was
to be delivered from the woman of Belial, as he had prayed, but because
he had unwittingly lived in such great sin so many years. She laughed
and went away, leaving him weeping.
From that time she spent her days and her evenings in consultation with
Count Raymond, and they were continually closeted together in her
apartment, which was in one of the western towers of the palace and
looked out over the city walls towards the sea. It was early spring,
and the air smelt of Syrian flowers and was tender to breathe.
Although the King was now sure that Eleanor was not his wife, he
continued to be very jealous of her, because he had once loved her in
his dull fashion, and she was very beautiful. Therefore, when he was
not praying, he was watching and spying, to see whether she were alone
with Count Raymond. Certain writers have spoken of the great Saladin at
this time, saying that she met him secretly, for the deliverance of her
kinsman Sandebeuil de Sanzay, who had been taken prisoner, and that she
loved Saladin for his generosity, and that the King was jealous of him;
which things are lies, because Saladin was at that time but seven years
old.
Daily, as he watched, the King grew very sure that Raymond loved
Eleanor, and he swore by his hope of salvation that such things should
not be. In this way the feast of Easter passed, and there were great
rejoicings, and feastings, and all manner of delight. Also during this
time Gilbert saw Beatrix freely, so that their love grew more and more;
but he seldom spoke with the Queen, and then briefly.
Now Eleanor lived in the western tower, and only one staircase led up
to the vestibule of her apartments, by which way Count Raymond came,
and the great nobles when she summoned them, and the guards also. But
beyond her inner chamber there was a door opening into the long wing of
the palace where all her ladies were lodged, and by that door she went
to them and they came to her. Often the Lady Anne came in, and Beatrix,
and some of the others who were more especially her familiars, and they
found the Queen and Count Raymond sitting in chairs, and talking
without constraint, and sometimes playing at chess by the open window
which looked out on the west balcony. They thought no evil, for they
knew that he had become her counsellor in the matter of the
repudiation; and Beatrix cared not, for she knew well that the Queen
loved Gilbert, and she never saw him there.
On an evening in the week after Easter the King determined that he
would see the Queen himself and tell her his mind. He therefore took
two nobles for an escort, with torchbearers and a few guards; and when
he had descended into the main court, he walked across to the west side
and went up into Eleanor's tower; for he would not go through the
ladies' wing, lest his eyes should see some fair and noble maiden, or
some young dame of great beauty, whereby his pious thoughts might be
disturbed ever so little.
Having come to the vestibule, he demanded admittance to the Queen's
chamber; and the young Lord of Sanzay, who was in waiting, begged him
to wait while he himself inquired if the Queen were at leisure. Then
the King was angry, and said that he waited for no one, and he went
forward to go in. But Sanzay stood before the door and bade the Gascon
guards form in rank and keep it till he should come back. The King saw
that he had small chance of forcing a way, and he stood still,
repeating some prayers the while, lest he should draw his sword and
fight, out of sheer anger. Then Sanzay came back.
"My lord King," he said in a clear voice, "her Grace bids me say that
she has no leisure now, and that when she has need of a monk she will
send for him."
At the great insult, swords were out as soon as the words, and the
broken reflections of steel flashed red under the high lamps and in the
torchlight; for the King drew to strike down Sanzay where he stood, and
his nobles and guards drew with him, while the Gascons were as quick as
they. But Sanzay would not draw his sword, for he had once saved the
King's life in battle, and he thought it not knightly. Then some blows
were exchanged and blood was shed; but presently, being at a
disadvantage, the King stepped back and lowered his point.
"Sirs," he said, "it is not seemly that we of the Cross should kill one
another. Let us go."
When Sanzay heard this, he called his guards back, and the King went
away discomfited. In the courtyard he turned aside and sat down upon a
great stone seat.
"Fetch me Sir Gilbert Warde," he said, "and let him come quickly."
He waited silently till the knight came and stood before him in his
surcoat and mantle, with only his dagger in his belt; and the King bade
all his attendants go away to a distance, leaving a torch stuck in the
ring in the wall.
He desired of Gilbert that he should take a force of trusted men who
would obey him, and go up the west tower to bring the Queen out a
prisoner; for he would not stay in Antioch another night, nor leave her
behind, and he meant to ride down to the harbour and take ship for
Ptolemais, leaving the army to follow him on the morrow. But for a
space Gilbert answered nothing.
At first it seemed to him impossible to do such a deed, and but for
courtesy he would have turned on his heel and left the King sitting
there. But as he stood thinking, it seemed to him that he had better
seem to obey, and go and warn the Queen of her danger.
[Illustration: "FOR A SPACE GILBERT ANSWERED NOTHING"]
"My lord," he answered at last, "I will go."
Though he said not what he would do, the King was satisfied, and rose
and went toward his own apartments, to order his departure.
Then Gilbert went and sought out ten knights whom he knew, and each of
them called ten of their men-at-arms, and they took their swords with
them, and torches; but Gilbert had only his dagger, for those he had
chosen were all of them Queen's men and would have died for her. So
they went together up the broad steps of the tower, and the Gascons
heard the hundred footfalls in fear and much trembling, supposing that
the King had come back with a great force to slay them and go in. Then
Sanzay drew his sword and stood at the head of the stairs, bidding his
men keep the narrow way till they should all be dead for the Queen's
sake. They were Gascons, and were ready to die, but they held their
breath as they listened to the steady tramping on the stone steps below.
In the torchlight they saw Gilbert's face, and the faces of Queen's
men, and that there were no swords out; nevertheless, they kept theirs
drawn and stood in the doorway, and on the landing Gilbert stood still,
for they did not make way for him.
"Sir Gilbert," said Sanzay, "I am here to keep the Queen's door, and
though we be friends, I shall not let you pass while I live, if you
mean her any violence."
"Sir," answered Gilbert, "I come unarmed, as you see, and by no means
to fight with you. I pray you, sir, go in and tell the Queen that I am
without, and have her men with me, and would speak with her for her
safety."
Then Sanzay bade his men stand back, and the knights and men-at-arms
crowded the vestibule, while he went in; and immediately he came out
again, with a clear face.
"The Queen is alone, and bids the Guide of Aquitaine pass," he said.
All stood aside, and he, taller than they, and grave and keen of face,
went in; and the door was closed behind him, and within that there was
a heavy Eastern curtain, so that no voices could be heard from one side
to the other.
Eleanor sat under the warm lamplight, near the open window, for the
night was warm. Her head was uncovered, her russet-golden hair fell in
great waves upon her shoulders and to the ground behind her chair, and
she wore no mantle, but only a close-fitting gown of cream-white silk
with deep embroideries of silver and pearls. She was very beautiful,
but very pale, and her eyes were veiled. Gilbert came and stood before
her, but she did not hold out her hand, as he had expected.
"Why have you come to me?" she asked after a time, looking out at the
balcony, and not at him.
"The King, Madam, has bidden me take you a prisoner to him, in order
that he may carry you away by sea to Ptolemais and to Jerusalem."
While he was speaking, she slowly turned her face to him, and stared at
his coldly.
"And you are come to do as you are bidden, getting admittance to me
stealthily, with men of my own who have betrayed me?"
Gilbert turned white, and then he smiled as he answered her.
"No. I am come to warn your Grace and to defend you against all
violence, with my life."
Eleanor's face changed and softened, and again she looked out at the
balcony.
"Why should you defend me?" she asked sadly, after a pause. "What am I
to you, that you should fight for me? I sent you out to die--why should
you wish me to be safe?"
"You have been the best friend to me, and the kindest, that ever woman
was to man."
"A friend? No. I was never your friend. I sent you out to death,
because I loved you, and trusted that I might see you never again, and
that you might die honourably for the Cross and your vows. Instead, you
won glory, and saved us all--all but me! You owe me no thanks for such
friendship."
She looked at him long, and he was silent.
"Oh, what a man you are!" she cried suddenly. "What a man!"
He blushed like a girl at the praise, for her soul was in the words,
and her great love for him, the only thing in all her life that had
ever been above herself.
"What a man you are!" she said again, more softly. "Eleanor of
Aquitaine, the Queen, the fairest woman in the world, would give you
her soul and her body and the hope of her life to come--and you are
faithful to a poor girl whom you loved when you were a boy! A hundred
thousand brave men stand by to see me die, and you alone take death by
the throat and strangle him off, as you would strangle a bloodhound,
with those hands of yours! I send you out--oh, how selfishly!--that you
may at least die bravely for your vow and leave me at sad peace with
your memory, and you fight through a hell of foes and save the King and
me and all, and come back to me in glory--my Guide of Aquitaine!"
She had risen and stood before him, her face dead white with passion,
and her eyes deep-fired by a love that was beyond any telling. And
though she would not move, her arms went out toward him.
"How can any woman help loving you!" she cried passionately.
She sank into her chair again, and covered her face with her hands. He
stood still a moment, and then came and knelt on one knee beside her,
resting his hand upon the carved arm of her chair.
"I cannot love you, but in so far as I may be faithful to another I
give you my whole life," he said very gently.
As he spoke the last words, the curtain of the inner apartments was
softly raised, and Beatrix stood there; for she had thought that the
Queen was alone. But she heard not the beginning of the speech, and she
grew quite cold, and could not speak nor go away.
Eleanor's hands left her face and fell together upon Gilbert's right.
"I have not mine to give," she answered in a low voice. "It is yours
already--and I would that you were not English, that I might be your
sovereign and make you great among men--or that I were England's
Queen--and that may come to pass, and you shall see what I will do for
love of you--I would marry that boy of the Plantagenets, if it could
serve you!"
"Madam," said Gilbert, "think of your own present safety--the King is
very angry--"
"Did I think of your safety when I sent you out to lead us? Now if you
are here, am I not safe? Gilbert--"
She let her voice caress his name, and her lips lingered with it, and
she laid her hands upon his shoulders. As he knelt beside her--she bent
to his face.
"Best and bravest living man"--it was a whisper now--"love of my
life--heart of my heart--this last time--this only once--and then
good-by."
She kissed him on the forehead, and leapt from her seat in horror, for
there was another voice in the room, with a hurt cry.
"Oh, Gilbert! Gilbert!"
Beatrix was reeling on her feet, and caught the curtain, lest she fall,
and her face of agony was still turned toward the two, as they stood
together. Gilbert sprang forward, when he understood, and caught the
girl in his arms and brought her to the light, trembling like a falling
leaf. Then she started in his arms and struggled wildly to be free, and
twisted her neck lest he should kiss her; but he held her fast.
"Beatrix! You do not understand--you did not hear!" He tried to make
her listen to him.
"I heard!" she cried, still struggling. "I saw! I know! Let me go--oh,
for God's sake, let me go!"
Gilbert's arms relaxed, and she sprang back from him two paces, and
faced the Queen.
"You have won!" she cried, in a breaking voice. "You have him body and
soul, as you swore you would! But do not say that I have not
understood!"
"I have given him to you, soul and body," answered Eleanor, sadly.
"Might I not even bid him good-by, as a friend might?"
"You are false--falser each than the other," answered Beatrix, in white
anger. "You have played with me, tricked me, made me your toy--"
"Did you hear this man say that he did not love me, before I bade him
good-by?" asked Eleanor, gravely, almost sternly.
"He has said it to me, but not to you, never to you--never to the woman
he loves!"
"I never loved the Queen," said Gilbert. "On my soul--on the Holy
Cross--"
"Never loved her? And you saved her life before mine--"
"And you said that I did well--"
"It was all a lie--a cruel lie--" The girl's voice almost broke, but
she choked down the terrible tears, and got words again. "It would have
been braver to have told me long ago--I should not have died then, for
I loved you less."
Eleanor came a step nearer and spoke very quietly and kindly.
"You are wrong," she said. "Sir Gilbert is sent by the King to take me
as a prisoner, that I may be carried away to Jerusalem this very night.
Come, you shall hear the voices of the soldiers who are waiting for me."
She led Beatrix to the door and lifted the curtain, so that through the
wooden panels the girl could hear the talking of many voices, and the
clank of steel. Then Eleanor brought her back.
"But he would not take me," she said, "and he warned me of my danger."
"No wonder--he loves you!"
"He does not love me, though I love him, and he has said so to-night.
And I know that he loves you and is faithful to you--"
Beatrix laughed wildly.
"Faithful! He? There is no faith in his greatest oath, nor in his
smallest word!"
"You are mad, child; he never lied in all his life to me or you--he
could not lie."
"Then he has deceived you, too--Queen, Duchess; you are only a woman,
after all, and he has made sport of you, as he has of me!" Again she
laughed, half furiously.
"If he has deceived me he has indeed deceived you," answered Eleanor,
"for he has told me very plainly that he loves you. And now I will not
stand between you and him, even in the mistake you made. I love him,
yes. I have loved him enough to give him up, because he loves you. I
love him so well that I will not take his warning and save myself from
the King's anger, and I know not what he and his monks will do to me.
Good-by, Sir Gilbert Warde--Beatrix, good-by."
"This is some comedy," answered the girl, exasperated.
"No--by the living truth, it is no comedy," answered the Queen.
She looked once more into Gilbert's face, and then turned away, stately
and sad. With one movement she drew aside the great curtain, and with
the next she opened wide the door, and the loud clamour of the knights
and men-at-arms came in like a wave. Then it ceased suddenly, as
Eleanor spoke to them in clear tones.
"I am the King's prisoner. Take me to him!"
There was silence for a moment, and then the Gascons who had fought
with the King and his men cried out fiercely.
"We will not let you go! We will not let our Duchess go!"
They feared some evil for her, and were loyal men to her, hating the
King. But Eleanor raised her hand to motion them back, for their faces
were fierce, and their hands were on their swords.
"Make way for me, if you will not take me to him," she said proudly.
Then Sanzay, her kinsman, stepped before the rest, and spoke.
"Madam," he said, "the Duchess of Gascony cannot be prisoner to the
King of France, while there are Gascons. If your Grace will go to the
King, we will go also, and we shall see who is to be a prisoner."
At this there was a great shout that rang up to the vault of the lofty
vestibule, and down the stone steps and out into the courtyard. Eleanor
smiled serenely, for she knew her men.
"Go with me, then," she said, "and see that no bodily harm comes to me.
But in this matter I shall do the King's will."
In the room behind, the words echoed clearly, and Beatrix turned to
Gilbert.
"You see," she said, "it is but a play that you have thought of between
you, and nothing more."
"Can you not believe us?" he asked reproachfully.
"I shall believe you when I know that you love me," she answered, and
turned away, towards the door of the inner apartments.
Gilbert followed her.
"Beatrix!" he cried. "Beatrix! Hear me!"
She turned once more, with a face like stone.
"I have heard you, I have heard her, and I do not believe you," she
answered.
Without another word she left him and went out. He stood looking after
her for a moment, while his calm face darkened slowly; and his anger
was slow and lasting, as the heating of a furnace for the smelting. He
stooped and picked up his cap, which had fallen to the floor, and then
he, too, followed the Queen, through the vestibule and stairs and
courtyard, to the King's presence.