THE CHAPTER CALLED _A LATERE_
The Old Man of Musse, Lord of all the Assassins, descendant of Ali,
Fulness of Light, Master of them that eat hemp, and many things beside,
wedded Jehane and made her his principal wife. He valued in her, apart
from her bodily perfections, her discretion, obedience, good sense, and
that extraordinary sort of pride which makes its possessor humble, so
inset it is; too proud, you may say, to give pride a thought. Esteeming
her at this price, it is not remarkable if she came to be his only wife.
This was the manner of her life. When her husband left her, which was
very early in the morning, she generally slept for an hour, then rose
and went to the bath. Her boy was brought to her in the pavilion of the
Garden of Fountains; she spent two hours or more with him, teaching him
his prayers, the honour of his father, love and duty to his mother,
respect for the long purposes of God. At ten o'clock she broke her fast,
and afterwards her women sat with her at needlework; and one would sing,
or one tell a good tale; or, leave being given, they would gossip among
themselves, with a look ever at her for approval or (what rarely
happened) disapproval. There was not a soul among her slaves who did not
love her, nor one who did not fear her. She talked no more than she had
ever done, but she judged no less. Many times a day the Old Man sent for
her, or sometimes came to her room, to discuss his affairs. He never
found her out of humour, dull, perverse, or otherwise than well-disposed
to all his desires. Far from that, every Friday he gave thanks in the
mosque for the gift of such an admirable wife--grave, discreet, pious,
amorous, chaste, obedient, nimble, complaisant, and most beautiful, as
he hereby declared that he found her. Being a man of the greatest
possible experience, this was high praise; nor had he been slow in
making up his mind that she was to be trusted. He was about to prove his
deed as good as his opinion.
Word was brought her on a day, as she sat in the harem with her boy on
her knee, singing to herself and him some winding song of France, that
this redoubtable lord of hers was waiting to see her in her chamber. She
put the child down and followed the eunuch. Entering the room where the
Old Man sat, she knelt down, as was customary, and kissed his knee. He
touched her bent head. 'Rise up, my child,' says he, 'sit with me for a
little. I have matters of concernment for you.' She sat at once by his
side; he took her hand and began to talk to her in this manner.
'It appears, Jehane, that I am something of a prophet. Your late master,
the Melek Richard, has fallen into the power of his enemies; he is now a
prisoner of the Archduke's on many charges: first, the killing of your
brother Eudo, Count of Saint-Pol; but that is a very trifling affair,
which occurred, moreover, in fair battle. Next, they accuse
him--falsely, as you know--of the death of Montferrat. We may have our
own opinion about that. But the prime matter, as I guess, is ransom, and
whether those who wish him ill (not for what he has done to them, but
for what he has not allowed them to do to him) will suffer him to be
ransomed. Now, what have you to say, my child? I see that it affects
you.'
Jehane was affected, but not as you might expect. With great
self-possession she had a very practical mind. There were neither tears
nor heart-beatings, neither panic nor flying of colours. Her eyes sought
the Old Man's and remained steadily on them; her lips were firm and red.
'What are you willing to do, sire?' she asked him. Sinan stroked his
fine beard.
'I can dispose of the business of Montferrat in a few lines,' he said,
considering. 'More, I can reach the Melek and assure him of comfort.
What I cannot do so easily, though I admit no failure, mind, is to
induce his enemies at home to allow of a ransom.'
'I can do that,' said Jehane, 'if you will do the rest.' The Old Man
patted her cheek.
'It is not the custom of my nation to allow wives abroad. You, moreover,
are not of that nation. How can I trust the Melek, who (I know) loves
you? How can I trust you, who (I know) love the Melek?'
'Oh, sire,' says Jehane, looking him full in the face, 'I came here
because I loved my lord Richard; and when I have assured his safety I
shall return here.' She looked down, as she added--'For the same
reason, and for no other.'
'I quite understand you, child,' said the Old Man, and put his hand
under her chin. This made her blush, and brought up her face again
quickly.
'Dear sire,' she said shyly, 'you are very kind to me. If I had another
reason for returning it would be that.' Sinan kissed her.
'And so it shall be, my dear,' he assured her. 'There is time enough.
You shall certainly go, due regard being had to my dignity, and your
health, which is delicate just now.'
'Have no fear for me, my lord,' she said. 'I am very strong.' He kissed
her again, saying, 'I have never known a woman at once so beautiful and
so strong.'
He wrote two letters, sealing them with his own signet and that of King
Solomon. To the Archduke he said curtly--
'To the Archduke Luitpold, _Vetus de Monte_ sends greeting. If the Melek
Richard be any way let in the matter of his life and renown, I bid you
take heed that as I served the Marquess of Montferrat, so also I shall
serve your Serenity.'
But the Emperor demanded more civil advertisement: he got a remarkably
fine letter.
'To the most exalted man, Henry, by the grace of God Emperor of the
Romans, happy, pious, ever august, the invincible Conqueror, _Vetus de
Monte_, by the same great Chief of the Assassins, sends greeting with
the kiss of peace. Let your Celsitude make certain acquaintance with
error in regard to the most illustrious person whom you have in hold.
Not that Melek Richard caused the death of the Marquess Conrad; but I,
the Ancient, the Lord of Assassins, Fulness of Light, for good cause,
namely to save my friend the same Melek from injurious death at the
hands of the Marquess. And him, the said Melek, I am resolved at all
hazards to defend by means of the silent smiters who serve me. So
farewell; and may He protect your Celsitude whom we diversely worship.'
As with every business of the Old Man's, preparations were soon and
silently made. In three or four days' time Jehane strained the young
Fulke to her bosom, took affectionate humble leave of her master, and
left the green valley of Lebanon on her embassy.
She was sent down to the coast in the manner becoming the estate of a
Sultan's favourite wife. She never set foot on the ground, never even
saw it. She was in a close-curtained litter, herself veiled to the eyes.
Sitting with her was a vast old Turkish woman, whom in the harem they
called the Mother of Flowers. Mules bore the litter, eunuchs on mules
surrounded it. On all sides, a third line of defence, rode the
janissaries, hooded in white, on white Arabian horses. So they came
swiftly to Tortosa, whose lord, in strict alliance with him of Musse,
little knew that in paying homage to the shrouded cage he was
cap-in-hand to Jehane of Picardy. Long galleys took up the burden of the
mountain roads, dipped and furrowed across the Ægean, and touched land
at Salonika. Hence by relays of bearers Jehane was carried darkly to
Marburg in Styria, where at last she saw the face of the sky.
They took her to the inn and unveiled her. Then the chief of the eunuchs
handed her a paper which he had written himself, being deprived of a
tongue:--'Madame, Fragrance of the Harem, Gulzareen (which is to say,
Golden Rose), thus I am commanded by my dreadful master. From this hour
and place you are free to do what seems best to your wisdom. The letters
of our lord will be sent forward by the proper bearers of them, one to
Gratz, where the Archduke watches the Melek, and one to the Emperor of
the Romans, wherever he may be found. In Gratz is he whom you seek. This
day six months I shall be here to attend your Sufficiency.' He bowed
three times, and went away.
'Now, mother,' said Jehane to the old duenna, 'do for me what I bid you,
and quickly. Get me brown juice for my skin, and a ragged kirtle and
bodice, such as the Egyptians wear. Give me money to line it, and then
let me go.' All this was done. Jehane put on vile raiment which barely
covered her, stained her fair face, neck, and arms brown, and let her
hair droop all about her. Then she went barefoot out, hugging herself
against the cold, being three months gone with child, and took the road
over barren moorland to Gratz.
She had not seen King Richard for nearly two years, at the thought of
which thing and of him the hot blood leapt up, to thrust and tingle in
her face. She did not mean to see him now if she could help it, for she
knew just how far she could withstand him; she would save him and then
go back. Thus she reasoned with herself as she trudged: 'Jehane, ma mye,
thou art wife now to a wise old man, who is good to thee, and has
exalted thee above all his women. Thou must have no lovers now. Only
save him, save him, save him, Lord Jesus, Lady Mary!' She treated this
as a prayer, and kept it very near her lips all the way to Gratz, except
when she felt herself flush all over with the thought, 'School of God!
Is so great a king to be prayed for, as if he were a sick monk?'
Nevertheless, she prayed more than she flushed. Nothing disturbed her;
she slept in woods, in byres, in stackyards; bought what she needed for
food, attracted no attention, and got no annoyance worthy the name. At
the closing in of the fifth day she saw the walls of the city rise above
the black moors into the sky, and the towers above them. The dome of a
church, gilded, caught the dying sun's eye; its towers were monstrous
tall, round, and peaked with caps of green copper. On the walls she
counted seven other towers, heavy, squat, flat-roofed fortresses with
huge battlements. A great flag hung in folds, motionless about a staff.
All was a uniform dun, muffled in stormy sky, lowering, remote from
knowledge, and alien.
But Jehane herself was of the North, and not impressionable. Grey skies
were familiar tents to her, moorlands roomy places, one heap of stones
much like another. But her heart beat high to know Richard half a league
away; all her trouble was how she should find him in such a great town.
It was dusk when she reached it; they were about to shut the gates. She
let them, having seen that there were booths and hovels at the
barriers, even a little church. It was there she spent the night,
huddled in a corner by the altar.
Dawn is a laggard in Styria. She awoke before it was really light, and
crept out, munching a crust. The suburb was dead asleep, a little breeze
ruffled the poplars, and blew wrinkles on the town ditch. About and
about the walls she went, peering up at their ragged edge, at the huge
crumbling towers, at the storks on steep roofs. 'Eh, Lord God, here lies
in torment my lovely king!' she cried to herself. The keen breeze
freshened, the cloud-wrack went racing westward; it left the sky clean
and bare. Out of the east came the red sun, and struck fire upon the
dome of Saint Stanislas. Out of a high window then came the sound of a
man singing, a sharp strong voice, tremulous in the open notes. She held
her bosom as she heard--
Al entrada del tems clar, eya!
Per joja recomençar, eya!
Vol la regina mostrar
Qu'el' es si amoroza.
The sun kindled her lifted face, filled her wet eyes with light, and
glistened on her praying lips.
After that her duty was clear, as she conceived it. She dared not
attempt the tower: that would reveal her to him. But she could not leave
it. She must wait to learn the effect of her lord's letter, wait to see
the bearer of it: here she would wait, where she could press the stones
which bore up the stones pressed by Richard. So she did, crouching on
the earth by the wall, sheltered against the wind or the wet by either
side of a buttress, getting her food sparingly from the booths at the
gate, or of charity. The townsmen of Gratz, hoarse-voiced touzleheads
mostly, divined her to be an anchoress, a saint, or an unfortunate. She
was not of their country, for her hair was burnt yellow like a
Lombard's, and her eyes green; her face, tanned and searching, was like
a Hungarian's; they thought that she wove spells with her long hands. On
this account at first she was driven away on to the moors; but she
always returned to her place in the angle, and counted that a day gained
when she knew by Richard's strong singing that he yet lived. His songs
told her more than that: they were all of love, and if her name came not
in her image did. She knew by the mere pitch of his voice--who so
well?--when he was occupied with her and when not. Mostly he sang all
the morning from the moment the sun struck his window. Thus she judged
him a light sleeper. From noon to four there was no sound; surely then
he slept. He sang fitfully in the evening, not so saliently; more at
night, if there was a moon; and generally he closed his eyes with a
stave of _Li dous consire_, that song which he had made of and for her.
When she had been sitting there for upwards of a month, and still no
sign from the bearer of the letter, she saw Gilles de Gurdun come
halting up the poplar avenue and pry about the walls, much as she
herself had done. She knew him at once for all his tatters, this
square-faced, low-browed Norman. How he came there, if not as a
slot-hound comes, she could not guess; but she knew perfectly well what
he was about. The blood-instinct had led him, inflexible man, from far
Acre across the seas, over the sharp mountains and enormous plains; the
blood-instinct had brought him as truly as ever love led her--more
truly, indeed. Here he was, with murder still in his heart.
Watching him through the meshes of her hair, elbowing her arms on her
knees, she thought, What should she do? Plead? Nay, dare she plead for
so royal a head, for so great a heart, so great a king, for one so
nearly god that, for a sacrifice, she could have yielded up no more to
very God? This strife tore her to pieces, while Gurdun snuffled round
the walls, actually round the buttress where she crouched, spying out
the entries. On one side she feared Gilles, on the other scorned what he
could do. There was the leper! He made Gilles terrible; even her
sacrifice on Lebanon might not avail against such as he. But King
Richard! But this strong singer! But this god of war! Gilles came round
the walls for a second time, nosing here and there, stopping, shaking
his head, limping on. Then she heard the King's voice singing, high and
sharp and spiring; his glorious voice, keener than any man's, as pure as
any boy's, singing with astounding gaiety, _'Al entrada del tems clar,
eya!'_
Gilles stopped as one struck, and gaped up at the tower. To see his
stupid mouth open, Jehane's bosom heaved with pride well-nigh
insufferable. Had any woman, since Mary conceived, such a lover as hers!
'Oh, Gilles, Gilles, go you on with your knife in your vest. What can
you do, little oaf, against King Richard?' Gilles went in by the gate,
and she let him go. He was away two days, by which time she had cause to
alter her mind. The prisoner sang nothing; and presently a man dressed
like a Bohemian came out of the town and spoke to her. This was Cogia,
the Assassin, bearer of the letter.
'Well, Cogia?' said Jehane, holding herself.
'Mistress, the letter of our lord has been delivered. I think it may go
hard with the Melek.'
'What, Cogia? Does the Archduke dare?'
'The Archduke, mistress, desires not the Melek's death. He is a worthy
man. But many do desire it--kings of the West, kinsmen of the Marquess,
above all the Melek's blood-brother. One of that prince's men, as I
judge him, is with him now--one of your country, mistress.'
In a vision she saw the leper again, a dull smear in the sunny waste,
scratching himself on a white stone. She saw him come hopping from rock
to rock, his wagging finger, shapeless face, tongueless voice.
'Mistress--' said Cogia. She turned blank eyes upon him. 'I pray,' she
said; 'I pray. Has God no pity?'
Cogia shrugged. 'What has God to do with pity? The end of the world is
in His hand already. The Melek is a king, and the Norman dung in his
sight. Who knows the end but God, and how shall He pity what He hath
decreed for wisdom? This I say, if the King dies the man dies.'
Jehane threw up her head. 'The King will not die, Cogia. Yet to-morrow,
if the man comes not out, I will go to seek him.'
* * * * *
Early in the morning Gilles did come out, turned the angle of the ditch,
and shuffled towards her, his head hung. Jehane moved swiftly out from
the shadow of the buttress and confronted him. She folded her arms over
her breast; and at that moment the shadow of Richard's tower was capped
with the shadow of Richard himself. But she saw nothing of this. 'Halt
there, Sir Gilles,' she said. The Norman gave a squeal, like a hog
startled at his trough, and went dead-fire colour.
'Ha, Heart of Jesus!' said Gilles de Gurdun.