That night they left hastily and went down to the sea with torches; but
it was dawn when they were on board one of the great ships, and the
hawsers were cast off, and the crew began to heave up the anchor. In
his anger, Gilbert had called his men, and had gone on board also, and
many hours passed before he realized what he had done. Then he began to
torment himself.
His angry manhood told him that he was just and that he should not bear
a girl's unbelief when he was manifestly in the right; and his love
answered that he had left Beatrix without protection and perhaps at the
mercy of her father, since he might come by sea at any moment and claim
her from Count Raymond, who would give her up without opposition. He
wondered also why Sir Arnold had not appeared, and whether, having
sailed from Ephesus, he had been shipwrecked. But his thoughts soon
turned back to his work, and he sat on the low rail by the
main-rigging, looking down at the blue water as the ship ran smoothly
along. What was there in Beatrix to hold him, after all? It was nothing
but a boyish memory, revived by a mistaken idea of faith.
But suddenly he felt within him the aching hollow and the grinding
hunger of heart that the loved woman leaves behind her, and he knew
well that his anger was playing a comedy with him, as Beatrix had
accused him and the Queen of playing a play in the past night.
It was hard that she should not have believed him; and yet when one has
seen and heard, it is harder still to believe against sight and
hearing. If she had loved him, he said to himself, she could not have
doubted him. He would never have doubted her, no matter what he might
have seen her do. But at this he began to realize and understand; for
in order to persuade himself, he pictured her sitting as the Queen had
sat, and a man bending over her and kissing her and calling her the
love of his life and heart, and he felt another sort of anger rising
fiercely in him, because the imagined sight was vivid and bad to see.
Thereupon he grew calmer, seeing that she was not wholly wrong, and he
began to curse his evil fate and to wish that he had not followed the
Queen, but had stayed behind at Antioch.
But it was too late now, for Antioch was gone in the purple distance,
and it was towards evening.
The day dawned again, and darkened, and days after that, while he
perpetually blamed himself more and more and began to find a fault in
every doing of his life, and the gloom of the northern temper settled
upon him and oppressed him heavily, so that his companions wondered
what had happened to him.
During all that time the Queen never showed herself, but remained in
her cabin with the Lady Anne, who had come with her and would not be
denied. For Eleanor hated to see the King, and she was afraid to see
Gilbert, whom she knew to be in the ship's company, and she was very
sad, also, and cared not for the daylight nor for men's voices. It made
it worse that she had tried to sacrifice herself for the woman Gilbert
loved, since it had been in vain, and she had not been believed, and
since he had after all come with her, she knew not why. As for the
King, he sat all day long on the quarter-deck under an awning, telling
beads, and praying fervently that the presence of the woman of Belial
might not distract his thoughts when he should at last come to the holy
places; for before anything else he considered his own soul as of great
importance.
So they came to Ptolemais, which some called Acre, and they rode a
weary way to Jerusalem, till the young King Baldwin of Jerusalem, the
third of that name, came out to meet them with a very rich train. Then
Gilbert lagged behind, for he had no heart in any rejoicing or
feasting, seeing that he should not have been there at all, and had
left Beatrix in anger. But Eleanor had come out of the ship to the
shore, more beautiful than ever, and serenely scornful of the King,
since he had not even dared to use the power she had put into his
hands, in order to tell her his mind, and speak out his reproaches; and
he was more ridiculous than ever in her eyes. From that time she paid
no more attention to him than if he had not existed, for she despised a
man who would not use the power he had.
As for Gilbert, though he was in such melancholy mood, when he saw the
walls and towers of Jerusalem at last, a hope of peace sprang up in
him, and a certainty of satisfaction not like anything which he had
known before; and it seemed to him that if he could but be alone in the
holy places he should find rest for his soul. Therefore he rode in the
rear of the train, though he was a man of consequence, and many young
knights and squires looked up to him and kept him company, so that he
could not escape altogether to an outward solitude.
His eyes looked up before him, and he saw the holiest city in the
world, like a vision against the pale sky, as the day sank; and his
whole being went out to be there, floating before him in a prayer
learnt long ago. Therein, as when he had been a child in his English
home, he heard the voice of a guardian angel praying with him--praying
for the good against the evil, for the light against the darkness, for
the clean against the unclean, for the good self against the bad; and
his heart made echoes in heaven.
He heard not the sounds that came back from the royal train, the high
talking and glad laughter; for that would have jarred on him and set
his teeth on edge, and he had shut the doors of the body upon himself
to be alone within. It mattered not that young Baldwin was riding by
the Queen, already half in love, and making soft speeches within sight
of the hill whereon Christ died, nor that he took a boy's mischievous
pleasure in interrupting the King's droning litany, recited in verse
and response with the priest at his side; nor that some of the knights
were chattering of what lodging they should find, and the young
squires, in undertones, of black-eyed Jewish girls, and the grooms of
Syrian wine. They were as nothing, all these, as nothing but the
shadows of the world cast by its own ancient evil at the foot of the
Cross, and he only was real and alive, and the Cross only was true and
high in the pure light.
And in this he was not quite dreaming, for the train that rode up from
Acre was not all of those true Crusaders of whom many had been with the
army, both rich and poor, but of whom the rich had stayed behind in
Antioch and the poor had perished miserably by the swords of the
Seljuks or by the wiles of the Greeks, when they had tried to come on
by land; and many of them had been sold into slavery, and not one
reached Jerusalem alive, out of so many thousands. Of the forty or
fifty who were first in sight of the City, scarcely three were in
heartfelt earnest, and they were the Lady Anne of Auch, and Gilbert
Warde, and the King himself. But with the King all faith took a
material shape, which was his own, and the buying of his own salvation
had turned his soul into a place of spiritual usury.
The Lady Anne was calm and silent, and when young Baldwin spoke to her
she hardly heard him, and answered in few words, little to the point.
She had trusted that she might never see Jerusalem, for she had hoped
to die of wound or sickness by the way, and so end in heaven, with him
she had lost, the pilgrimage begun on earth. For she was a most
faithful woman, and of the most faithful there is often least to tell,
because they have but one thought, one hope, one prayer. And seeing
that she had come through alive, she neither rejoiced nor complained,
knowing that there was more to bear before the end, and trusting to
bear it all bravely for the dear sake of her dead love. It may be,
also, that she was the most earnest of all those who had taken the
Cross, because all earthly things that had made her life happy had been
taken from her.
Yet of all men, Gilbert Warde had fought best and most, and in so far
as bodily peril was counted, none had lived through so much as he; for
many of his companions had been killed beside him, and others had taken
their place, and even his man Dunstan had been wounded twice, and
little Alric once, and many horses had been killed under him, but he
himself was untouched, even after the great battle in the valley; and
there were honours for him whenever he was seen. In this, too, he was
high-hearted and thoughtless of himself, that when he saw the Holy City
before him, he forgot the many risks of life and limb, and the hunger
and cold and weariness through which he had passed, and forgot that he
had won reward well and fairly, thinking only that the peace he felt
came as a gift from Heaven.
That evening, when there was a feast in Baldwin's palace, the Lady Anne
was not there; and when the King of France called for the Guide of
Aquitaine to present him to the King of Jerusalem, he was not in the
hall nor within the walls; and by and by the Queen herself rose and
went out, leaving the two Kings at table.
For Gilbert had gone fasting to the Holy Sepulchre, with Dunstan
bearing his shield, and with a man to lead them. Then he went into the
vast church which the crusaders had built to enclose all the sacred
ground, and little lights broke the darkness here and there, without
dispelling it, but the poor Christian who led Gilbert had a taper in
his hand. The knight came first to the deep-red stone whereon Nicodemus
and Joseph of Arimathea anointed the body of the Lord for burial, and
there kneeling down, he set his shield and sword before him and prayed
that he might yet use them well. Then the man took him to the Golgotha,
and he laid down his arms before him and stood trembling, as if he were
afraid, and the drops of sweat stood out upon his forehead, and his low
voice shook like a little child's when he prayed in the place where God
died for man. Afterwards he knelt and touched the stones with his face,
and spread out his arms crosswise, not knowing what he did. But when he
had lain thus some time he rose and took up his shield and sword, and
the man led him farther through the darkness to other places. So at
last they brought him to the Tomb, and he sent away the man who had
guided him, and bade Dunstan go back also; but he would not.
"I also have fought for the Cross, though I be but a churl," said the
dark-faced man.
"You are no churl," answered Gilbert, gravely. "Kneel beside me and
watch."
"I will watch with you," said Dunstan, and he took his own sword and
laid it next to Gilbert's.
But he knelt one step behind his master, on his left side. More than
forty burning lamps hung above the stone of the Tomb, and around the
stone itself stood a grating of well-wrought iron having a wicket with
a lock of pure gold.
Then Gilbert raised his eyes, and looking through the iron fence, he
saw that on the other side some one was kneeling also, and it was the
Lady Anne of Auch, robed all in black, with a black hood half thrown
back; but her face was white, with dark shadows, and her two white
hands clasped two of the iron stanchions, while her sad eyes looked
upwards fixedly, seeing a vision, and not seeing men. Gilbert was glad
that she was there.
So they knelt an hour, and another hour, and no sound broke the
stillness, nor did they feel any weariness at all, for their hearts
were lifted up, and for a time the world fell away from them. Then a
soft sound of footsteps was in the church, ceasing at some distance
from the Tomb, which was not then shut off within walls of its own. But
none of the three turned to see who was there, and there was silence
again.
Eleanor had come alone to the Sepulchre, and stood gazing at the three,
not willing to come nearer. As she looked, her sins rose in her eyes
and passed before her, many and great, and where her good deeds were
hidden in her soul there was darkness, and she despaired of
forgiveness, for she knew her own pride, that it could never be broken
in her. She looked on that most faithful woman, and on that maiden
knight whom she so dearly loved, sinning daily in her heart for him,
and yet for his sake fighting her loving thoughts; and she would not
have dared to go forward and kneel beside the pure in heart, in the
holy light. All alone she drew back, and when she was so far that they
could not have seen her, had they looked, she knelt down by a pillar,
and drew her dark veil over her face, folding her hands in the hope of
forgiveness and peace, and in great loneliness.
Some comfort she found in this, that for the great love of her life,
the like of which she had not known nor was to know again, though she
had wished evil and dreamed of sweetest sins, she had done a little
good at the last, and that the man who knelt there praying had grown
stronger and greater and of higher honour by her means. Yet the comfort
was not of much worth in her loneliness, since she had given him to
another, and none could take his place. Then she said prayers she knew,
but they had no meaning, and she gazed from beneath her veil at the
place where the Lord had lain; but she felt nothing, and her heart was
as stone, believing what she saw, but finding no light of faith for her
in the divine beyond.
At last she rose softly, as she had knelt, and leaning against the
pillar, she looked long at the man she loved, and at the shield with
the cross of Aquitaine, and, in it, at the spot she had once so
fervently kissed. Her hand went to her heart, where it hurt her, and
with the hurt came the great pure longing that, come what might to
herself, all might be well with him; and her lips moved silently, while
her eyes would have given him the world and its glory.
"God, let me perish, but keep him what he is!"
Shall any one say that such true prayers are not heard, because they
are spoken by lips that have sinned? If not, God is not good, nor did
Christ die to save men.
The daughter of princes, the wife of two kings, as she was to be, and
the mother of two kings, and of many more in line after them, she drew
down her veil that none might see her face under the dim lights, and
she went out thence, very lonely and sad, into the streets of Jerusalem.
At midnight came a priest of the church to trim the lights at the tomb;
yet the three did not move, and he prayed awhile and went away. But
when the watchmen cried the dawning, and their voices came faintly in
by the doorway, floating through the dark church, Gilbert rose to his
feet, and Dunstan with him, and they took their arms with them, and
went away, leaving the Lady Anne the last of them all, her white hands
still clasping the iron bars, her sad black eyes still turned to heaven.
Faint streaks were in the eastern sky, but it was still almost dark as
the two men turned to the left to follow the way by which they had
come. Three steps from the door, Dunstan stumbled against something
neither hard nor soft, and in many fights he had learned what that
thing was.
"There is a dead man here," he said, and Gilbert had stopped also.
They stooped down, trying to see, and Dunstan felt along the body,
touching the mantle, till he found something sharp, which was the point
of a dagger out of its sheath.
"He is a knight," said Dunstan, "for he wears his surcoat and
sword-belt under his mantle."
But Gilbert was gazing into the face, trying to see, while the dust
under the head grew slowly grey in the dawn, and the waxen features
seemed to rise up out of the earth before him. But then he started,
for, as he looked down, his own eyes were but a hand-breadth from an
arrow-head that stuck straight up out of the dead forehead, and the
broken shaft with its feathers darkly soiled lay half under the body.
Dunstan also looked, and a low sound of gladness came from his fierce
lips.
"It is Arnold de Curboil!" exclaimed Gilbert, in measureless surprise.
"And this is Alric's arrow," answered Dunstan, looking at the point,
and then handling the piece of the broken shaft. "This is the arrow
that was sticking in your cap on that day when we fought for sport in
Tuscany, and Alric picked it up and kept it. And often in battle he had
but that one left, and would not shoot, saying that it was only to be
shot to save his master's life. So now it has done its work, for though
the knight was shot from behind, he has his dagger in his dead hand
under his cloak, and he must have followed you to the door of the
church to kill you in the dark within. Well done, little Alric!"
Then Dunstan spat in the face of the dead man and cursed him; but
Gilbert took his man by the collar and pulled him aside roughly.
"It is unmanly to insult the dead," he said, in disgust.
But Dunstan laughed savagely.
"Why?" he asked. "He was only my father!"
Gilbert's hand relaxed and fell to his side, then he lifted it again
and laid it gently on Dunstan's shoulder.
"Poor Dunstan!" he said.
But Dunstan smiled bitterly and said nothing, for he thought himself
poor indeed, since if the dead man had given him a tenth of his due, he
should have had land enough for a knight.
"We cannot leave him here," said Gilbert, at last.
"Why not? There are dogs."
Dunstan took up his master's shield and without more waiting turned his
back on his father's body. But Gilbert stood where he was, and gazed
down into the face of the man who had done him so much harm; and he
remembered Faringdon and the swift stroke that had killed his father,
and Stortford woods, where he himself had lain for dead. He still saw
in dreams how Curboil snatched his dagger left-handed from its sheath,
and now, by strong association, he wished to see whether it were still
the same one, a masterpiece of Eastern art, and he stooped down in the
dawn to pull back the cloak and take the weapon. It was the same, fair
and keen, with the chiselled hilt. He stuck it into his own belt, for a
memory, for it had once been sheathed in his own side; then he drew the
cloak over the dead face and went his way, just as the hushed city
began to stir, following Dunstan to his lodging, musing on the strange
chances of his life, and glad that, since his enemy was to die, it had
not been his ill chance to soil the blade consecrated to the Cross with
blood so vile, and to slay with his own hand the father of the woman he
loved.
Now also, as he thought calmly, he guessed that Beatrix must be in
Jerusalem, and that Curboil, having taken her from Antioch, and meaning
to kill his enemy before he sailed back to England, had brought his
daughter with him, fearing lest she should escape him again and find
refuge against him.
He found little Alric sitting on the low doorstep of the house where he
lodged, his stolid Saxon face pink and white in the fresh dawn, and his
thick hands hanging idly over his knees, while the round blue eyes
stared at the street. He got up when Gilbert came near, and pulled off
his woollen cap.
"Well done, Alric," said Gilbert. "That is the second time you have
saved my life."
"It was a good arrow," answered Alric, thoughtfully. "I carried it two
years and made it very sharp. It is a pity the man broke the shaft with
his head when he fell, and I would have cut off the steel point to use
it again, but I heard footsteps and ran away, lest I should be taken
for a thief."
"It was well shot," said Gilbert, and he went in.