THE CHAPTER OF FORBIDDING: HOW DE GURDUN LOOKED, AND KING RICHARD HID
HIS FACE
Since the Soldan broke his pledges, King Richard swore that he would
keep his. So he had all the two thousand hostages killed, except the
Sheik Moffadin, whom the Marquess had enlarged. He has been blamed for
this, and I (if it were my business) should blame him too. He asked no
counsel, and allowed no comment: by this time he was absolute over the
armies in Acre. If I am to say anything upon the red business it shall
be this, that he knew very well where his danger lay. It was his
friends, not his enemies, he had reason to fear; and upon these the
effect of what he did was instantaneous, and perhaps well-timed. The
Count of Flanders had died of the camp-sickness; King Philip was
stricken to the bones with the same crawling disease. Nothing now could
keep Philip away from France. Acre was full of rumours, meetings of
kings and princes, spies, racing messengers. Who should stay and who go
was the matter of debate. Philip meant to go: his friend, Prince John of
England, had been writing to him. Flanders must be occupied, and
Flanders, near England, was nearer yet to Normandy. The Marquess also
meant to go--to Sidon for Lebanon. He had things to do up there on
Richard's and his own account, as you shall hear. But the Archduke chose
to stay in Acre--and so on.
King Richard heard of each of these hasty discussions with a shrug, and
only put his hand down when they were all concluded. He said that unless
French hostages were left in his keeping for the fulfilment of
covenants, he should know what to do.
'And what is that, King of England?' asked Philip.
'What becomes me,' was the short answer, given in full hail before the
magnates. They looked at each other and askance at the sanguine-hued
King, who drove them all huddling before him by mere magnanimity. What
could they do but leave hostages? They left Burgundy, Beauvais, and
Henry of Champagne--one friend, one enemy, and one blockhead. Now you
see a reason for drawing the sword upon the wretched Turks. If Richard
had planted, they, poor devils, had to water.
So King Philip went home, and the Marquess to Sidon for Lebanon; and
Richard, knowing full well that they meant him ill here and at home,
turned his face towards Jerusalem.
* * * * *
When the time came for ordering the goings of his host, he grew very
nervous about what he must leave behind him in Acre. Whether he was a
good man or not, a good husband, a good lover or not, he was
passionately a father. In every surge and cry of his wild heart he
showed this. The heart is a generous inn, keeps open house, grows wide
to meet all corners. The company is divers. In King Richard's heart sat
three guests: Christ and His lost Cross, Jehane and her lost honour, and
little Fulke upon her breast. Christ was a dumb guest, but the most
eloquent still. There had been no nods from Him since the great day of
Fontevrault; but Richard watched Him daily and held himself bound to be
His footboy. See these desperate shifts of the great-hearted man! Here
were his two other guests: little Fulke, who claimed everything, and
still Jehane, who claimed nothing; and outside the door stood Berengère,
crisping and uncrisping her small hands. To serve Christ he had married
the Queen; to serve the Queen he had put away Jehane; to honour Jehane
(who had given him her honour) he had abjured the Queen. Now lastly, he
prayed Christ to save him Fulke, his first and only son. 'My Saviour
Christ,' he prayed on his last night at Acre, 'let Thine honour be the
first end of this adventure. But if honour come to Thee, my Lord,
through me, let honour stay with me and my son through Thee. I cannot
think I do amiss to ask so much. One other thing I ask before I go out.
Watch over these treasures of mine that I leave in pawn, for I know very
well that I shall get no more of them.' Then he kissed the mother and
the child, comforting them, and went out, not trusting himself to look
back at the house.
He had made the defences of Acre as good as he knew, which was very good
indeed. He had bettered the harbour; he left ships in it, established a
post between it and Beyrout, between Beyrout and Cyprus. He sent Guy of
Lusignan to be his regent in that island, Emperor if he chose. He left
Abbot Milo to comfort Jehane, the Viscount of Béziers to rule the town
and garrison. Shriven, fortified with the Sacrament, he spent his last
night in Acre on the 21st of August. Next morning, as soon as it was
day, he led his army out on its march to Jerusalem.
Joppa was his immediate object, to which place a road ran between the
mountains and the sea, never far from either. He had little or no
transport, nor could expect food by the way, for Saladin had seen to
that. The ships had to work down level with him, with reserves of men
and stores; and even so the thing had an ugly look. The mountains of
Ephraim, not very lofty, were covered with a thick growth of holm-oak:
excellent cover, wherein, as he knew quite well, the Saracens could move
as he moved, choose their time, and attack him on front, rear, or left
flank, wherever chance offered. It was a journey of peril, harassing,
slow, and without glory.
For six weeks he led and held a running battle, wherein the powers of
earth and air, the powers of Mahomet, and dark forces within his own
lines all strove against him. He met them alone, with a blank face, eyes
bare, teeth hard-set. Whatever provocation was offered from without or
within, he would not attack, nor let his friends attack, until the enemy
was in his hand. You, who know what longanimity may be and how hard a
thing to come at, may admire him for this.
Directly the Christians were over the brook Belus, their difficulties
were upon them. The way was through a pebbly waste of beach and
salt-grass, and a sea-scrub of grey bushes. A mile to their left the
rocks began, spurs of the mountains; the shrubs became stunted trees;
the rocks climbed, the trees with them; then the forest rose, first
sparsely, then thick and dark; lastly, into the deep blue of the sky
soared the toothed ridges, grey, scarred, and splintry. Scurrying
horsemen, on beasts incredibly sure of foot, hung on the edge of these
fastnesses, yelling, whirling their lances, white-clad, swarthy and
hoarse. They came by fifties, or in clouds they came, swept by like a
windstorm, and were gone. And in each shrill and terrible rush some
stragglers, be sure, would call upon Christ in vain. Or sometimes great
companies of Mamelukes in mail, massed companies in blocks of men, stood
covered by their bowmen as if offering battle. If the Christians opened
out to attack (as at first they did), or some party of knights, more
adventurous than another, pricked forward at a canter, and hastening as
their hearts grew high cried at last the charge, 'Passavant!' or 'Sauve
Anjou!' out of the wood with cries would come the black cavalry, sweep
up behind our men, and cut off one company or another. And if so by day,
by night there was no long peace under the large stars. Desperate
stampedes, the scattering of camp-fires, trampling, grunting in the
dark; ghostly horsemen looming and vanishing suddenly in the half-light;
and in the lull the querulous howling of wild beasts disappointed.
To their full days succeeded their empty days, when they were alone with
the desert and the sun. Then hunger and thirst assailed them, serpents
bit them, stinging flies drove men mad, the sand burnt their feet
through steel and leather. They lost more this way than by Saracen
ambush, and lost more hearts than men. This was a time for private
grudges to awaken. Hatred feeds on such dry meat. In the empty watches
of the night, in the blistering daytime, under the white sky or the deep
violet, Des Barres remembered his struck face, De Gurdun his stolen
wife, Saint-Pol his dead brother, and the Duke of Burgundy his forty
pounds.
It must be said that Richard stretched his authority as far as it would
go. His direct aim was to reach Joppa with speed, and thence to strike
inward over the hills to the Holy City. It was against sense to attack
this enemy hugging the woody heights; but as time went on, as he lost
men and heard the muttering of those who saw them go, he understood that
if he could tempt Saladin into close battle upon chosen ground it would
be well. This was a difficult matter, for though (as he knew) the
Saracen army followed him in the woods, it kept well out of sight. None
but the light horsemen showed near at hand, and their tactics were to
sting like wasps, and fly--never to join battle. At last, in the swamp
of Arsûf, where the Dead River splays over broad marshes, and goes in a
swamp to the sea-edge, he saw his chance, and took it.
Here a feint, carried out by Gaston of Béarn with great spirit, brought
Saladin into the open. The Christians continued their toilsome march,
Saladin attacked their rear; and for six hours or more that rearguard
fought a retreating battle, meeting shock after shock, striking no
blow, while the centre and the van watched them. This was one of the
tensest days of Richard's iron rule. De Charron, commanding the rear,
sent imploring messengers--'For Christ's love let us charge, sire, we
can bear no more of this.' He was answered, 'Let them come on again.'
Then Saint-Pol, seeing one of the chances of his life, was in open
mutiny of the tongue. 'Are we sheep, then?' Thus he to the French with
Burgundy. 'Is the King a drover of cattle? Where is the chivalry of
France?' Even Richard's friends grew fretful: Champagne tossing his
head, muttering curses to himself, Gaston of Béarn pale and serious,
chewing his beard. Two more wild assaults the rearguard took stiffly, at
the third they broke in two places, but repelled the Turks. Richard,
watching like a hawk, saw his opportunity. He sent down a message to the
Duke of Burgundy, to Saint-Pol and De Charron--'Hold them yet once more;
at six blasts of my trumpet, charge.' The Duke of Burgundy, block though
he was, was prepared to obey. About him came buzzing Saint-Pol and his
friends: 'Impossible, my lord Duke, we cannot keep in our men. Attack,
attack.' Saladin was then coming on, one of his thunderous charges. 'God
strike blind those French mules!' cried Richard. 'They are out!' This
was true: from left to centre the Christian bowmen were out, the knights
pricking after them to the charge. Richard cursed them from his heart.
'Sound trumpets!' he shouted, 'we must let go.' They sounded; they ran
forward: the English first, then the Normans, Poictevins, men of Anjou
and Pisa, black Genoese--but the left had moved before them, and made
doubtful Richard's échelon. They knelt, pulled bowstrings to the ear.
The sky grew dun as the long shafts flew; the oncoming tide of men
flickered and tossed like a broken sea, and the Soldan's green banner
dipped like a reed in it. A second time the blast of arrows, like a gust
of death, smote them flat: Richard's voice rang sharply out--'Passavant,
chivalers! Sauve Anjou!'--and a young Poictevin knight, stooping low in
his saddle, went rocking down the line with words for Henry of
Champagne, who ruled the centre. The archers ran back and crouched;
Richard and his chivalry on the extreme right moved out, the next
company after him, and the next, and the next, company following
company, until, in echelon, all the long fluttering array galloped over
the marsh, overlapped and enfolded the Saracen hordes in their bright
embrace. A frenzied cry from some emir by the standard gave notice of
the danger; the bodyguard about the Soldan were seen urging him. Saladin
gave some hasty order as he rode off; Richard saw it, and tasted the
bitterness of folly. 'By God, we shall lose him--oh, bemused hog of
Burgundy!' He sent a man flying to the Duke; but it was too late.
Saladin gained the woods, and with him his bodyguard, the flower of his
state.
The Mamelukes also turned to fly. To right, to left, the mad horsemen
drove--the black, the plumed, the Nubians in yellow, the Turcomans with
spotted skins over their mail, the men of Syria, knighthood of
Egypt--trampling underfoot their own kind. But the steel chain held
most of these; the knights had bound horse to horse: wide on the left
the Templars and Hospitallers fanned out and swept all stragglers into
the net. So within hoops of iron, as it were, the slaughter began,
silent, breathless, wet work. Here James d'Avesnes was killed, a good
knight; and here Des Barres went down in a huddle of black men, and had
infallibly perished but that King Richard himself with his axe dug him
out. 'Your pardon, King of the World,' sobbed Des Barres, kissing his
enemy's knee. 'Pooh,' says Richard, 'we are all kings here. Take my
sword and get crowns'; and so he turned again into battle, and Des
Barres pressed after him. That was the beginning of a firm friendship
between the two. Des Barres eschewed the counsels of Saint-Pol from that
day.
But there was treachery still awake and about. When the rout was begun
Richard reined up for a minute, to breathe his horse and watch the way
of the field. He sat apart from his friends, seeing the lines ride by.
All in a moment inexplicably, as when in a race of the tide comes a
sudden thwart gust of wind and changes the face of the day, there was a
scurry, a babble of voices, the stampede of men fighting to kill: the
Turks with Christians on their backs came trampling, struggling
together. A sword glinted close to Richard--'Death to the Angevin
devil!' he heard, and turning received in mid shield De Gurdun's sword.
At the same moment a knight ran full tilt into the assailant, knocked
him off his horse, and himself reeled, powerless to strike. This was
Des Barres, paying his debts. The King smiled grimly to see the
wholesome treachery, and Gurdun's dismay at it. 'Gilles, Gilles,' says
he, 'be sure you get me alone in the world when next you strike at my
back. Now get you up, Norman, and fight a flying enemy, if you please. I
will await your return.' De Gurdun saluted, but avoided his lord's face,
and rode after the Turks. Des Barres stood, deep-breathing, by the King.
'Will he come back, sire?' asked the French knight.
'Not he,' said Richard; 'he is ashamed of himself.' He added, 'That is a
very honest man, to whom I have done a wrong. But listen to this, Des
Barres; if I had not wronged him, I was so placed that I should have
injured a most holy innocent soul. Let be. I shall meet De Gurdun again.
He may have me yet if he do not tire.'
He had been speaking as if to himself so far, but now turned his
hawk-eyes upon Des Barres. 'Tell me now,' he said, 'who gave the order
to the rear to charge, against my order?'
'Sire,' replied Des Barres, 'it was the Duke of Burgundy.'
'You do not understand me,' said Richard. 'It came through the Duke of
Burgundy's windpipe. But who put it into his thick head?'
Des Barres looked troubled. 'Ah, sire, must I answer you?'
Considering him, King Richard said, 'No, Des Barres, you need not. For
now I know who it was. Well, he has lost me my game, and won a part of
his, I doubt.' Then he rode off, bidding Des Barres sound the recall.
'Of the pagans that day,' writes Milo by hearsay, 'we made hecatombs two
score five: yet the King my master took no pleasure of that, as I
gather, deeming that he should have had Saladin's head in a bag. Also we
gained a clear road to Joppa.' So they did; but Joppa was a heap of
stones.
* * * * *
They held a great council there. Richard put out his views. There were
two things to be done: repair Joppa and march at once on Jerusalem,
there to find and have again at Saladin; or pursue the coast road to
Ascalon and raise the siege of that city. 'I, my lords, am for Ascalon,'
Richard said. 'It is the key of Egypt. While the Soldan holds us cooped
up in Ascalon he can get his pack-mules through. If we relieve it, after
the battery we have done him we can hold Jerusalem at our whim. What do
you say to this, Duke of Burgundy?'
In the natural order of things the Duke would have said nothing. But he
had been filled to the neck by Saint-Pol. Richard being for Ascalon, the
key of Egypt, the Duke declared himself for Jerusalem, 'the key,' as he
rather flatly said, 'of the world.' To this Richard contented himself
with replying, that a key was little worth unless you could open the
door with it. All the French stood by their leader, except Des Barres.
He, with Richard's party, leaned to the King's side. But the Duke of
Burgundy would not budge, sat like a lump. He would not go to Ascalon,
and none of his battle should go. Richard cursed all Frenchmen, but gave
in. The truth was, he dared not leave Saint-Pol behind him.
They repaired the walls and towers of Joppa, garrisoned the place. Then
late in the autumn (truthfully, too late) they struck inland over a
rolling grass country towards Blanchegarde, a white castle on a green
hill. Moving slowly and cautiously, they pushed on to Ramleh, thence to
Bêtenoble, which is actually within two days' march of Jerusalem. The
month was October, mellow autumn weather. King Richard, moved by the
sacred influences, the level peace of the fair land, filled day and
night with the thought that he was on the threshold of that soil which
bore the very footmarks of our blessed Saviour--King Richard, I say, was
in great heart. He had been against the enterprise thus to do; he would
have approached from Ascalon; the enterprise was folly. But it was
glorious folly, for which a man might well die. He was ready to die,
though he hoped and believed that he should not. Saladin, once bitten,
would be shy: he had been badly bitten at Arsûf. Then came the Bishop of
Beauvais with Burgundy to his tent--Saint-Pol stayed behind--with
speeches, saying that the winter season was at hand; that it would be
more prudent to withdraw to Joppa, or even to go down to Ascalon.
Ascalon needed succours, it seemed. Richard's heart stood still at this
treachery; then he blazed out in fury. 'Are we hare or hounds, by
heaven? Do you presume--?' He mastered himself. 'What part, pray, does
Almighty God take in these pastimes of yours?'
The Duke of Burgundy looked heavily at the Bishop. The Bishop said,
'Sire, Ascalon is besieged.'
Said Richard, 'You old fool, do you not know the Soldan better than
that? Or do you put him on a parity with this Duke? It was under siege
three weeks ago, as you remember perfectly well.'
The Duke still looked at the Bishop. Driven again to say something, the
latter began--'Sire, your words are injurious; but I have spoken
advisedly. The Count of Saint-Pol--'
'Ah,' said Richard, 'the Count of Saint-Pol? Now I begin to understand
you. Please to fetch in your Count of Saint-Pol.'
Saint-Pol was sent for, and he came, darkly smiling, respectful, but
aware. King Richard held his voice, but not his hand, on the curb. The
hand shook a little.
'Saint-Pol,' he said, 'the Duke of Burgundy refers me to the Bishop, the
Bishop to you. This seems the order of command in King Philip's host.
Between the three of you I conceive to lie the honour of France. Now
observe me. Three weeks ago I was for Ascalon, and you for Jerusalem.
Now that I have brought you within two days of your desire--two days,
observe--you are for Ascalon, and I for Jerusalem. What is the meaning
of this?'
'Sire,' said Saint-Pol, reasonably, 'it means that we believe the Holy
City impregnable at this season, or untenable; and Ascalon still
pregnable.'
The King put a hand to the table. 'It means nothing of the sort, man.
You do not believe Ascalon can be taken. It is eight days' journey, and
was in straits a month ago. You make me ashamed of the men I am forced
to lead. What faith have you? What religion? The faith of your sick
master the Runagate! The religion of your white Marquess of Montferrat!
And I had taken you for men. Foh! you are rats.'
This was dreadful hearing: Saint-Pol bit his lip, but made no other
answer.
'Sire,' said the Bishop with heat, 'my manhood has never been reproached
before. When you carried war into my country in the King your father's
time, I met you in a hauberk of mail. If I met your Grace, judge if I
should fear the Soldan. It is my devout hope to kiss the Holy Sepulchre
and touch the Holy Cross, but before I die, not afterwards.'
'Pish!' said King Richard.
'Sire,' Beauvais ventured again, 'our master King Philip set us over his
host as foster-fathers of his children. We dare not imperil so many
lives unadvisedly.'
'Unadvisedly!' the King thundered at him, red to the roots of his hair.
'I withdraw the word, sire,' said the Bishop in a hurry; 'yet it is the
mature opinion of us all that we should seek the coast for
winter-quarters, not the high lands. We claim, at least, the duty of
choosing for those whose guardians we are.'
If Richard had been himself of two years earlier he would have killed
then and there a second Count of Saint-Pol; and for a pulse or two the
young man saw his death bright in the King's eyes. That the angry man
commanded himself is, I think, to his credit. As it was, he did what he
had certainly never done before: he tried to reason with the Duke of
Burgundy.
'Duke of Burgundy,' he said, leaning over his chair and talking low,
'you are no Frenchman, and the more of a man on that account. You and I
have had our differences. I have blamed you, and you me. But I have
never found you a laggard when there was work for the sword or adventure
for the heart. Now, of all adventures in the world the highest in which
a man may engage is here. Across those hills lies the city of God, of
which (I suppose) no soul among us might, unhelped, dare hope the sight,
much less the touch, least of all the redemption. I tell you, Duke of
Burgundy, there is that within me (not my own) which will lead you
thither with profit, glory and honour. Will you trust me? So far as I
have gone along with you I have done reasonably well. Did I scatter the
heathen at Arsûf? No thanks to you, Burgundy, but I did. Did I hold a
safe course to Joppa? Have I then brought you so near, and myself so
near, for nothing at all? If I have been a fool in my day, I am not a
fool now. I speak what I know. With this host I can save the city.
Without the best of it, I can do nothing. What do you say, my lord? Will
you let Beauvais take his Frenchmen to dishonour, and you and your
Burgundians play for honour with me? The prize is great, the reward
sure, here or in heaven. What do you say, Duke of Burgundy?'
His voice shook by now, and all the bystanders watched without breath
the heavy, brooding, mottled man over against him. He, faithful to his
nature, looked at the Bishop of Beauvais. But Beauvais was looking at
his ring.
'What do you say, my lord?' again asked King Richard.
The Duke of Burgundy was troubled: he blinked, looking at Saint-Pol. But
Saint-Pol was looking at the tent-roof.
'Be pleased to look at me,' said Richard; and the man did look, working
under his wrongs.
'By God, Richard,' said the Duke of Burgundy, 'you owe me forty pound!'
King Richard laughed till he was helpless.
'It may be, it may well be,' he gasped between the throes of his mirth.
'O lump of clay! O wonderful half-man! O most expressive river-horse!
You shall be paid and sent about your business. Archbishop, be pleased
to pay this man his bill. I will content you, Burgundy, with money; but
I will be damned before I take you to Jerusalem. My lords,' he said,
altering voice and look in a moment, 'I will conduct you to the ships.
Since I am not strong enough for Jerusalem I will go to Ascalon. But
you! By the living God, you shall go back to France.' He dismissed them
all, and next day broke up his camp.
But before that, very early in the morning, after a night spent with his
head in his hands, he rode out with Gaston and Des Barres to a hill
which they call Montjoy, because from there the pilgrims, tending south,
see first among the folded hills Jerusalem itself lie like a dove in a
nest. The moon was low and cold, the sun not up; but the heavens and
earth were full of shadowless light; every hill-top, every black rock
upon it stood sharply cut out, as with a knife. King Richard rode
silently, his face covered in a great hood; neither man with him dared
speak, but kept the distance due. So they skirted hill after hill, wound
in and out of the deep valleys, until at last Gaston pricked forward and
touched his master on the arm. Richard started, not turned.
'Montjoy, dear master,' said Gaston.
There before them, as out of a cup, rose a dark conical hill with
streamers of white light behind and, as might be, leaping from it. 'The
light shines on Jerusalem,' said Gaston: Richard, looking up at the
glory, uncovered his head. Sharp against the light stood a single man on
Montjoy, who faced the full sun. They who saw him there were still deep
in shade.
'Gaston and Des Barres,' said King Richard, when they had reached the
foot of the wet hill, 'stay you here. Let me go on alone.'
Gaston demurred. 'The hill is manned, sire. Beware an ambush. You have
enemies close by.' He hinted at Saint-Pol.
'I have only one enemy that I fear, Gaston,' said the King; 'and he
rides my horse. Do as I tell you.'
They obeyed; so he went under their anxious eyes. Slowly he toiled up
the bridle-path which the feet of many pilgrims had worn into the turf;
slowly they saw him dip from the head downwards into the splendour of
the dawn. But when horse and man were bathed full in light, those two
below touched each other and held hands; for they saw him hoist his
great shield from his shoulder and hold it before his face. So as he
stayed, screening himself from what he sought but dared not touch, the
solitary watcher turned, and came near him, and spoke.
'Why does the great King cover his face?' said Gilles de Gurdun; 'and
why does he, of his own will, keep the light of God from him? Is he at
the edge of his dominion? Hath he touched the limit of his power? Then I
am stronger than my Duke; for I see the towers shine in the sun; I see
the Mount of Olives, Calvary also, and the holy temple of God. I see the
Church of the Sepulchre, the battlements and great gates of the city.
Look, my lord King. See that which you desire, that you may take it.
Fulke of Anjou was King of Jerusalem; and shall not Richard be a king?
What is lacking? What is amiss? For kings may desire that which they
see, and take that which they desire, though other men go cursing and
naked.'
Said King Richard from behind his shield, 'Is that you, Gurdun, my
enemy?'
'I am that man,' said Gilles, 'and bolder than you are, since I can look
unoffended upon the place where our Lord God suffered as a man.
Suffering, it seems, maketh me sib with God.'
'I will never look upon the city, though I have risked all for the sake
of it,' said Richard; 'for now I know that it was no design of God's to
allow me to take it, although it was certainly His desire that I should
come into this country. Perhaps He thought me other than now I am. I
will not look. For if I look upon it I shall lead my men up against it;
and then they will be cut off and destroyed, since we are too few. I
will never see what I cannot save.'
Said Gilles between his teeth, 'You robber, you have seen my wife, and
cannot save her now' Richard laughed softly.
'God bless her,' he said, 'she is my true wife, and will be saved sure
enough. Yet I will tell you this, Gurdun. If she was not mine she should
be yours; and what is more, she may be so yet.'
'You speak idly,' said Gurdun, 'of things which no man knows.'
'Ah,' said the King, 'but I do know them. Leave me: I wish to pray.'
Gilles moved off, and sat himself on the edge of the hill looking
towards Jerusalem. If Richard prayed, it was with the heart, for his
lips never opened. But I believe that his heart, in this hour of clear
defeat, was turned to stone. He took his joys with riot, his triumphs
calmly; his griefs he shut in a trap. Such a nature as his, I suppose,
respects no persons. Whether God beat him, or his enemy, he would take
it the same way. All that Gilles heard him say aloud was this: 'What I
have done I have done: deliver us from evil.' He bade no farewell to his
hope, he asked no greeting for his altered way. When he had turned his
back upon the sacred places he lowered his shield; and then rode down
the hill into the cold shadow of the valley.
If he was changed, or if his soul, naked of hope, was stricken bleak, so
was the road he had to go. That day he broke up his camp and fared for
Ascalon and the sea. Stormy weather set in, the rains overtook him; he
was quagged, blighted with fever, lost his way, his men, his men's
love. Camp-sickness came and spread like a fungus. Men, rotten through
to the brain, died shrieking, and as they shrieked they cursed his name.
One, a Poictevin named Rolf, whom he knew well, turned away his
blackened face when Richard came to visit him.
'Ah, Rolf,' said the King, 'dost thou turn away from me, man?'
'I do that, by our Lord,' said Rolf, 'since by these deeds of thine my
wife and children will starve, or she become a whore.'
'As God lives,' said Richard, 'I will see to it.'
'I do not think He can be living any more,' said Rolf, 'if He lets thee
live, King Richard.' Richard went away. The time dragged, the rain fell
pitilessly, without end. He found rivers in floods, fords roaring
torrents, all ways choked. At every turn the Duke of Burgundy and
Saint-Pol worked against him.
Also he found Ascalon in ruins, but grimly set about rebuilding it. This
took him all the winter, because the French (judging, perhaps, that they
had done their affair) took to the ships and sailed back to Acre. There
they heard, what came more slowly to King Richard, strange news of the
Marquess of Montferrat, and terrible news of Jehane Saint-Pol.