Wulf Pays for the Drugged Wine
Many a day had gone by since the brethren bade farewell to Rosamund at
Damascus. Now, one burning July night, they sat upon their horses, the
moonlight gleaming on their mail. Still as statues they sat, looking
out from a rocky mountain top across that grey and arid plain which
stretches from near Nazareth to the lip of the hills at whose foot lies
Tiberias on the Sea of Galilee. Beneath them, camped around the
fountain of Seffurieh, were spread the hosts of the Franks to which
they did sentinel; thirteen hundred knights, twenty thousand foot, and
hordes of Turcopoles—that is, natives of the country, armed after the
fashion of the Saracens. Two miles away to the southeast glimmered the
white houses of Nazareth, set in the lap of the mountains. Nazareth,
the holy city, where for thirty years lived and toiled the Saviour of
the world. Doubtless, thought Godwin, His feet had often trod that
mountain whereon they stood, and in the watered vales below His hands
had sped the plow or reaped the corn. Long, long had His voice been
silent, yet to Godwin’s ears it still seemed to speak in the murmur of
the vast camp, and to echo from the slopes of the Galilean hills, and
the words it said were: “I bring not peace, but a sword.”
To-morrow they were to advance, so rumour said, across yonder desert
plain and give battle to Saladin, who lay with all his power by Hattin,
above Tiberias.
Godwin and his brother thought that it was a madness; for they had seen
the might of the Saracens and ridden across that thirsty plain beneath
the summer sun. But who were they, two wandering, unattended knights,
that they should dare to lift up their voices against those of the
lords of the land, skilled from their birth in desert warfare? Yet
Godwin’s heart was troubled and fear took hold of him, not for himself,
but for all the countless army that lay asleep yonder, and for the
cause of Christendom, which staked its last throw upon this battle.
“I go to watch yonder; bide you here,” he said to Wulf, and, turning
the head of Flame, rode some sixty yards over a shoulder of the rock to
the further edge of the mountain which looked towards the north. Here
he could see neither the camp, nor Wulf, nor any living thing, but
indeed was utterly alone. Dismounting, and bidding the horse stand,
which it would do like a dog, he walked forward a few steps to where
there was a rock, and, kneeling down, began to pray with all the
strength of his pure, warrior heart.
“O Lord,” he prayed, “Who once wast man and a dweller in these
mountains, and knowest what is in man, hear me. I am afraid for all the
thousands who sleep round Nazareth; not for myself, who care nothing
for my life, but for all those, Thy servants and my brethren. Yes, and
for the Cross upon which Thou didst hang, and for the faith itself
throughout the East. Oh! give me light! Oh! let me hear and see, that I
may warn them, unless my fears are vain!”
So he murmured to Heaven above and beat his hands against his brow,
praying, ever praying, as he had never prayed before, that wisdom and
vision might be given to his soul.
It seemed to Godwin that a sleep fell on him—at least, his mind grew
clouded and confused. Then it cleared again, slowly, as stirred water
clears, till it was bright and still; yet another mind to that which
was his servant day by day which never could see or hear those things
he saw and heard in that strange hour. Lo! he heard the spirits pass,
whispering as they went; whispering, and, as it seemed to him, weeping
also for some great woe which was to be; weeping yonder over Nazareth.
Then like curtains the veils were lifted from his eyes, and as they
swung aside he saw further, and yet further.
He saw the king of the Franks in his tent beneath, and about him the
council of his captains, among them the fierce-eyed master of the
Templars, and a man whom he had seen in Jerusalem where they had been
dwelling, and knew for Count Raymond of Tripoli, the lord of Tiberias.
They were reasoning together, till, presently, in a rage, the Master of
the Templars drew his sword and dashed it down upon the table.
Another veil was lifted, and lo! he saw the camp of Saladin, the
mighty, endless camp, with its ten thousand tents, amongst which the
Saracens cried to Allah through all the watches of the night. He saw
the royal pavilion, and in it the Sultan walked to and fro alone—none
of his emirs, not even his son, were with him. He was lost in thought,
and Godwin read his thought.
It was: “Behind me the Jordan and the Sea of Galilee, into which, if my
flanks were turned, I should be driven, I and all my host. In front the
territories of the Franks, where I have no friend; and by Nazareth
their great army. Allah alone can help me. If they sit still and force
me to advance across the desert and attack them before my army melts
away, then I am lost. If they advance upon me round the Mountain Tabor
and by the watered land, I may be lost. But if—oh! if Allah should make
them mad, and they should strike straight across the desert—then, then
they are lost, and the reign of the Cross in Syria is forever at an
end. I will wait here. I will wait here....”
Look! near to the pavilion of Saladin stood another tent, closely
guarded, and in it on a cushioned bed lay two women. One was Rosamund,
but she slept sound; and the other was Masouda, and she was waking, for
her eyes met his in the darkness.
The last veil was withdrawn, and now Godwin saw a sight at which his
soul shivered. A fire-blackened plain, and above it a frowning
mountain, and that mountain thick, thick with dead, thousands and
thousands and thousands of dead, among which the hyenas wandered and
the night-birds screamed. He could see their faces, many of them he
knew again as those of living men whom he had met in Jerusalem and
elsewhere, or had noted with the army. He could hear also the moanings
of the few who were yet alive.
About that field—yes, and in the camp of Saladin, where lay more
dead—his body seemed to wander searching for something, he knew not
what, till it came to him that it was the corpse of Wulf for which he
sought and found it not—nay, nor his own either. Then once more he
heard the spirits pass—a very great company, for to them were gathered
all those dead—heard them pass away, wailing, ever more faintly wailing
for the lost cause of Christ, wailing over Nazareth.
Godwin awoke from his dream trembling, mounted his horse, and rode back
to Wulf. Beneath, as before, lay the sleeping camp, yonder stretched
the brown desert, and there sat Wulf watching both.
“Tell me,” asked Godwin, “how long is it since I left you?”
“Some few minutes—ten perhaps,” answered his brother.
“A short while to have seen so much,” replied Godwin. Then Wulf looked
at him curiously and asked:
“What have you seen?”
“If I told you, Wulf, you would not believe.”
“Tell me, and I will say.”
So Godwin told him all, and at the end asked him, “What think you?”
Wulf considered awhile, and answered:
“Well, brother, you have touched no wine to-day, so you are not drunk,
and you have done nothing foolish, so you are not mad. Therefore it
would seem that the saints have been talking to you, or, at least, so I
should think of any other man whom I knew to be as good as you are. Yet
it is folk like you that see visions, and those visions are not always
true, for sometimes, I believe, the devil is their showman. Our watch
is ended, for I hear the horses of the knights who come to relieve us.
Listen; this is my counsel. In the camp yonder is our friend with whom
we travelled from Jerusalem, Egbert, the bishop of Nazareth, who
marches with the host. Let us go to him and lay this matter before him,
for he is a holy man and learned; no false, self-seeking priest.”
Godwin nodded in assent, and presently, when the other knights were
come and they had made their report to them, they rode off together to
the tent of Egbert, and, leaving their horses in charge of a servant,
entered.
Egbert was an Englishman who had spent more than thirty years of his
life in the East, whereof the suns had tanned his wrinkled face to the
hue of bronze, that seemed the darker in contrast with his blue eyes
and snow-white hair and beard. Entering the tent, they found him at his
prayers before a little image of the Virgin, and stood with bowed heads
until he had finished. Presently he rose, and greeting them with a
blessing, asked them what they needed.
“Your counsel, holy father,” answered Wulf. “Godwin, set out your
tale.”
So, having seen that the tent flap was closed and that none lingered
near, Godwin told him his dream.
The old man listened patiently, nor did he seem surprised at this
strange story, since in those days men saw—or thought they saw—many
such visions, which were accepted by the Church as true.
When he had finished Godwin asked of him as he had asked of Wulf: “What
think you, holy father? Is this a dream, or is it a message? And if so,
from whom comes the message?”
“Godwin D’Arcy,” he answered, “in my youth I knew your father. It was I
who shrove him when he lay dying of his wounds, and a nobler soul never
passed from earth to heaven. After you had left Damascus, when you were
the guest of Saladin, we dwelt together in the same lodging in
Jerusalem, and together we travelled here, during all which time I
learned to know you also as the worthy son of a worthy sire—no
dissolute knight, but a true servant of the Church. It well may be that
to such a one as you foresight has been given, that through you those
who rule us may be warned, and all Christendom saved from great sorrow
and disgrace. Come; let us go to the king, and tell this story, for he
still sits in council yonder.”
So they went out together and rode to the royal tent. Here the bishop
was admitted, leaving them without.
Presently he returned and beckoned to them, and as they passed, the
guards whispered to them:
“A strange council, sirs, and a fateful!”
Already it was near midnight, but still the great pavilion was crowded
with barons and chief captains who sat in groups, or sat round a narrow
table made of boards placed upon trestles. At the head of that table
sat the king, Guy of Lusignan, a weak-faced man, clad in splendid
armour. On his right was the white-haired Count Raymond of Tripoli, and
on his left the black-bearded, frowning Master of the Templars, clad in
his white mantle on the left breast of which the red cross was
blazoned.
Words had been running high, their faces showed it, but just then a
silence reigned as though the disputants were weary, and the king
leaned back in his chair, passing his hand to and fro across his
forehead. He looked up, and seeing the bishop, asked peevishly:
“What is it now? Oh! I remember, some tale from those tall twin
knights. Well, bring them forward and speak it out, for we have no time
to lose.”
So the three of them came forward and at Godwin’s prayer the bishop
Egbert told of the vision that had come to him not more than an hour
ago while he kept watch upon the mountain top. At first one or two of
the barons seemed disposed to laugh, but when they looked at Godwin’s
high and spiritual face, their laughter died away, for it did not seem
wonderful to them that such a man should see visions. Indeed, as the
tale of the rocky hill and the dead who were stretched upon it went on,
they grew white with fear, and whitest of them all was the king, Guy of
Lusignan.
“Is all this true, Sir Godwin?” he asked, when the bishop had finished.
“It is true, my lord king,” answered Godwin.
“His word is not enough,” broke in the Master of the Templars. “Let him
swear to it on the Holy Rood, knowing that if he lies it will blast his
soul to all eternity.” And the council muttered, “Ay, let him swear.”
Now there was an annexe to the tent, rudely furnished as a chapel, and
at the end of this annexe a tall, veiled object. Rufinus, the bishop of
Acre, who was clad in the armour of a knight, went to the object, and
drawing the veil, revealed a broken, blackened cross, set around with
jewels, that stood about the height of a man above the ground, for all
the lower part was gone.
At the sight of it Godwin and every man present there fell upon his
knees, for since St. Helena found it, over seven centuries before, this
had been accounted the most precious relic in all Christendom; the very
wood upon which the Saviour suffered, as, indeed, it may have been.
Millions had worshipped it, tens of thousands had died for it, and now,
in the hour of this great struggle between Christ and the false prophet
it was brought from its shrine that the host which escorted it might
prove invincible in battle. Soldiers who fought around the very Cross
could not be defeated, they said, for, if need were, legions of angels
would come to aid them.
Godwin and Wulf stared at the relic with wonder, fear, and adoration.
There were the nail marks, there was the place where the scroll of
Pilate had been affixed above the holy head—almost could they seem to
see that Form divine and dying.
“Now,” broke in the voice of the Master of the Templars, “let Sir
Godwin D’Arcy swear to the truth of his tale upon this Rood.”
Rising from his knees Godwin advanced to the Cross, and laying his hand
upon the wood, said: “Upon the very Rood I swear that not much more
than an hour ago I saw the vision which has been told to the king’s
highness and to all; that I believe this vision was sent to me in
answer to my prayer to preserve our host and the holy city from the
power of the Saracen, and that it is a true foreshadowing of what will
come about should we advance upon the Sultan. I can say no more. I
swear, knowing that if I lie eternal damnation is my doom.”
The bishop drew back the covering over the Cross, and in silence the
council took their seats again about the table. Now the king was very
pale, and fearful; indeed a gloom lay upon all of them.
“It would seem,” he said, “that here a messenger has been sent to us
from heaven. Dare we disobey his message?”
The Grand Templar lifted his rugged, frowning face. “A messenger from
heaven, said you, king? To me he seems more like a messenger from
Saladin. Tell us, Sir Godwin, were not you and your brother once the
Sultan’s guests at Damascus?”
“That is so, my lord Templar. We left before the war was declared.”
“And,” went on the Master, “were you not officers of the Sultan’s
bodyguard?”
Now all looked intently at Godwin, who hesitated a little, foreseeing
how his answer would be read, whereon Wulf spoke in his loud voice:
“Ay, we acted as such for awhile, and—doubtless you have heard the
story—saved Saladin’s life when he was attacked by the Assassins.”
“Oh!” said the Templar with bitter sarcasm, “you saved Saladin’s life,
did you? I can well believe it. You, being Christians, who above
everything should desire the death of Saladin, saved his life! Now, Sir
Knights, answer me one more question—”
“Sir Templar, with my tongue or with my sword?” broke in Wulf, but the
king held up his hand and bade him be silent.
“A truce to your tavern ruffling, young sir, and answer,” went on the
Templar. “Or, rather, do you answer, Sir Godwin. Is your cousin,
Rosamund, the daughter of Sir Andrew D’Arcy, a niece of Saladin, and
has she been created by him princess of Baalbec, and is she at this
moment in his city of Damascus?”
“She is his niece,” answered Godwin quietly; “she is the princess of
Baalbec, but at this moment she is not in Damascus.”
“How do you know that, Sir Godwin?”
“I know it because in the vision of which you have been told I saw her
sleeping in a tent in the camp of Saladin.”
Now the council began to laugh, but Godwin, with a set, white face,
went on:
“Ay, my lord Templar, and near that very blazoned tent I saw scores of
the Templars and of the Hospitallers lying dead. Remember it when the
dreadful hour comes and you see them also.”
Now the laughter died away, and a murmur of fear ran round the board,
mixed with such words as “Wizardry.” “He has learnt it from the
Paynims.” “A black sorcerer, without doubt.”
Only the Templar, who feared neither man nor spirit, laughed, and gave
him the lie with his eyes.
“You do not believe me,” said Godwin, “nor will you believe me when I
say that while I was on guard on yonder hill-top I saw you wrangling
with the Count of Tripoli—ay, and draw your sword and dash it down in
front of him upon this very table.”
Now again the council stared and muttered, for they too had seen this
thing; but the Master answered:
“He may have learnt it otherwise than from an angel. Folk have been in
and out of this tent. My lord king, have we more time to waste upon
these visions of a knight of whom all we know for certain is, that like
his brother, he has been in the service of Saladin, which they left, he
says, in order to fight against him in this war. It may be so; it is
not for us to judge; though were the times different I would inform
against Sir Godwin D’Arcy as a sorcerer, and one who has been in
traitorous communication with our common foe.”
“And I would thrust the lie down your throat with my sword’s point!”
shouted Wulf.
But Godwin only shrugged: his shoulders and said nothing, and the
Master went on, taking no heed.
“King, we await your word, and it must be spoken soon, for in four
hours it will be dawn. Do we march against Saladin like bold, Christian
men, or do we bide here like cowards?”
Then Count Raymond of Tripoli rose, and said:
“Before you answer, king, hear me, if it be for the last time, who am
old in war and know the Saracens. My town of Tiberias is sacked; my
vassals have been put to the sword by thousands; my wife is imprisoned
in her citadel, and soon must yield, if she be not rescued. Yet I say
to you, and to the barons here assembled, better so than that you
should advance across the desert to attack Saladin. Leave Tiberias to
its fate and my wife with it, and save your army, which is the last
hope of the Christians of the East. Christ has no more soldiers in
these lands, Jerusalem has no other shield. The army of the Sultan is
larger than yours; his cavalry are more skilled. Turn his flank—or,
better still, bide here and await his attack, and victory will be to
the soldiers of the Cross. Advance and the vision of that knight at
whom you scoff will come true, and the cause of Christendom be lost in
Syria. I have spoken, and for the last time.”
“Like his friend the knight of Visions,” sneered the Grand Master, “the
count Raymond is an old ally of Saladin. Will you take such coward
council? On—on! and smite these heathen dogs, or be forever shamed. On,
in the name of the Cross! The Cross is with us!”
“Ay,” answered Raymond, “for the last time.”
Then there arose a tumult through which every man shouted to his
fellow, some saying one thing and some another, while the king sat at
the head of the board, his face hidden in his hands. Presently he
lifted it, and said:
“I command that we march at dawn. If the count Raymond and these
brethren think the words unwise, let them leave us and remain here
under guard until the issue be known.”
Now followed a great silence, for all there knew that the words were
fateful, in the midst of which Count Raymond said:
“Nay, I go with you,” while Godwin echoed, “And we go also to show
whether or not we are the spies of Saladin.”
Of these speeches none of them seemed to take heed, for all were lost
in their own thoughts. One by one they rose, bowed to the king, and
left the tent to give their commands and rest awhile, before it was
time to ride. Godwin and Wulf went also, and with them the bishop of
Nazareth, who wrung his hands and seemed ill at ease. But Wulf
comforted him, saying:
“Grieve no more, father; let us think of the joy of battle, not of the
sorrow by which it may be followed.”
“I find no joy in battles,” answered the holy Egbert.
When they had slept awhile, Godwin and Wulf rose and fed their horses.
After they had washed and groomed them, they tested and did on their
armour, then took them down to the spring to drink their fill, as their
masters did. Also Wulf, who was cunning in war, brought with him four
large wineskins which he had provided against this hour, and filling
them with pure water, fastened two of them with thongs behind the
saddle of Godwin and two behind his own. Further, he filled the
water-bottles at their saddle-bows, saying:
“At least we will be among the last to die of thirst.”
Then they went back and watched the host break its camp, which it did
with no light heart, for many of them knew of the danger in which they
stood; moreover, the tale of Godwin’s vision had been spread abroad.
Not knowing where to go, they and Egbert, the bishop of Nazareth—who
was unarmed and rode upon a mule, for stay behind he would not—joined
themselves to the great body of knights who followed the king. As they
did so, the Templars, five hundred strong, came up, a fierce and
gallant band, and the Master, who was at their head, saw the brethren
and called out, pointing to the wineskins which were hung behind their
saddles:
“What do these water-carriers here among brave knights who trust in God
alone?”
Wulf would have answered, but Godwin bade him be silent, saying:
“Fall back; we will find less ill-omened company.”
So they stood on one side and bowed themselves as the Cross went by,
guarded by the mailed bishop of Acre. Then came Reginald of Chatillon,
Saladin’s enemy, the cause of all this woe, who saw them and cried:
“Sir Knights, whatever they may say, I know you for brave men, for I
have heard the tale of your doings among the Assassins. There is room
for you among my suite—follow me.”
“As well him as another,” said Godwin. “Let us go where we are led.” So
they followed him.
By the time that the army reached Kenna, where once the water was made
wine, the July sun was already hot, and the spring was so soon drunk
dry that many men could get no water. On they pushed into the desert
lands below, which lay between them and Tiberias, and were bordered on
the right and left by hills. Now clouds of dust were seen moving across
the plains, and in the heart of them bodies of Saracen horsemen, which
continually attacked the vanguard under Count Raymond, and as
continually retreated before they could be crushed, slaying many with
their spears and arrows. Also these came round behind them, and charged
the rearguard, where marched the Templars and the light-armed troops
named Turcopoles, and the band of Reginald de Chatillon, with which
rode the brethren.
From noon till near sundown the long harassed line, broken now into
fragments, struggled forward across the rough, stony plain, the burning
heat beating upon their armour till the air danced about it as it does
before a fire. Towards evening men and horses became exhausted, and the
soldiers cried to their captains to lead them to water. But in that
place there was no water. The rearguard fell behind, worn out with
constant attacks that must be repelled in the burning heat, so that
there was a great gap between it and the king who marched in the
centre. Messages reached them to push on, but they could not, and at
length camp was pitched in the desert near a place called Marescalcia,
and upon this camp Raymond and his vanguard were forced back. As Godwin
and Wulf rode up, they saw him come in bringing his wounded with him,
and heard him pray the king to push on and at all hazards to cut his
way through to the lake, where they might drink—ay, and heard the king
say that he could not, since the soldiers would march no more that day.
Then Raymond wrung his hands in despair and rode back to his men,
crying aloud:
“Alas! alas! Oh! Lord God, alas! We are dead, and Thy Kingdom is lost.”
That night none slept, for all were athirst, and who can sleep with a
burning throat? Now also Godwin and Wulf were no longer laughed at
because of the water-skins they carried on their horses. Rather did
great nobles come to them, and almost on their knees crave for the boon
of a single cup. Having watered their horses sparingly from a bowl,
they gave what they could, till at length only two skins remained, and
one of these was spilt by a thief, who crept up and slashed it with his
knife that he might drink while the water ran to waste. After this the
brethren drew their swords and watched, swearing that they would kill
any man who so much as touched the skin which was left. All that long
night through there arose a confused clamour from the camp, of which
the burden seemed to be, “Water! Give us water!” while from without
came the shouts of the Saracens calling upon Allah. Here, too, the hot
ground was covered with scrub dried to tinder by the summer drought,
and to this the Saracens set fire so that the smoke rolled down on the
Christian host and choked them, and the place became a hell.
Day dawned at last; and the army was formed up in order of battle, its
two wings being thrown forward. Thus they struggled on, those of them
that were not too weak to stir, who were slaughtered as they lay. Nor
as yet did the Saracens attack them, since they knew that the sun was
stronger than all their spears. On they laboured towards the northern
wells, till about mid-day the battle began with a flight of arrows so
thick that for awhile it hid the heavens.
After this came charge and counter-charge, attack and repulse, and
always above the noise of war that dreadful cry for water. What chanced
Godwin and Wulf never knew, for the smoke and dust blinded them so that
they could see but a little way. At length there was a last furious
charge, and the knights with whom they were clove the dense mass of
Saracens like a serpent of steel, leaving a broad trail of dead behind
them. When they pulled rein and wiped the sweat from their eyes it was
to find themselves with thousands of others upon the top of a steep
hill, of which the sides were thick with dry grass and bush that
already was being fired.
“The Rood! The Rood! Rally round the Rood!” said a voice, and looking
behind them they saw the black and jewelled fragment of the true Cross
set upon a rock, and by it the bishop of Acre. Then the smoke of the
burning grass rose up and hid it from their sight.
Now began one of the most hideous fights that is told of in the history
of the world. Again and again the Saracens attacked in thousands, and
again and again they were driven back by the desperate valour of the
Franks, who fought on, their jaws agape with thirst. A blackbearded man
stumbled up to the brethren, his tongue protruding from his lips, and
they knew him for the Master of the Templars.
“For the love of Christ, give me to drink,” he said, recognizing them
as the knights at whom he had mocked as water-carriers.
They gave him of the little they had left, and while they and their
horses drank the rest themselves, saw him rush down the hill refreshed,
shaking his red sword. Then came a pause, and they heard the voice of
the bishop of Nazareth, who had clung to them all this while, saying,
as though to himself:
“And here it was that the Saviour preached the Sermon on the Mount.
Yes, He preached the words of peace upon this very spot. Oh! it cannot
be that He will desert us—it cannot be.”
While the Saracens held off, the soldiers began to put up the king’s
pavilion, and with it other tents, around the rock on which stood the
Cross.
“Do they mean to camp here?” asked Wulf bitterly.
“Peace,” answered Godwin; “they hope to make a wall about the Rood. But
it is of no avail, for this is the place of my dream.”
Wulf shrugged his shoulders. “At least, let us die well,” he said.
Then the last attack began. Up the hillside rose dense volumes of
smoke, and with the smoke came the Saracens. Thrice they were driven
back; thrice they came on. At the fourth onset few of the Franks could
fight more, for thirst had conquered them on this waterless hill of
Hattin. They lay down upon the dry grass with gaping jaws and
protruding tongues, and let themselves be slain or taken prisoners. A
great company of Saracen horsemen broke through the ring and rushed at
the scarlet tent. It rocked to and fro, then down it fell in a red
heap, entangling the king in its folds.
At the foot of the Cross, Rufinus, the bishop of Acre, still fought on
bravely. Suddenly an arrow struck him in the throat, and throwing his
arms wide, he fell to earth. Then the Saracens hurled themselves upon
the Rood, tore it from its place, and with mockery and spittings bore
it down the hill towards their camp, as ants may be seen carrying a
little stick into their nest, while all who were left alive of the
Christian army stared upwards, as though they awaited some miracle from
Heaven. But no angels appeared in the brazen sky, and knowing that God
had deserted them, they groaned aloud in their shame and wretchedness.
“Come,” said Godwin to Wulf in a strange, quiet voice. “We have seen
enough. It is time to die. Look! yonder below us are the Mameluks, our
old regiment, and amongst them Saladin, for I see his banner. Having
had water, we and our horses are still fresh and strong. Now, let us
make an end of which they will tell in Essex yonder. Charge for the
flag of Saladin!”
Wulf nodded, and side by side they sped down the hill. Scimitars
flashed at them, arrows struck upon their mail and the shields blazoned
with the Death’s-head D’Arcy crest. Through it all they went unscathed,
and while the army of the Saracens stared, at the foot of the Horn of
Hattin turned their horses’ heads straight for the royal standard of
Saladin. On they struggled, felling or riding down a foe at every
stride. On, still on, although Flame and Smoke bled from a score of
wounds.
They were among the Mameluks, where their line was thin; by Heaven!
they were through them, and riding straight at the well-known figure of
the Sultan, mounted on his white horse with his young son and his emir,
the prince Hassan, at his side.
“Saladin for you, Hassan for me,” shouted Wulf.
Then they met, and all the host of Islam cried out in dismay as they
saw the Commander of the Faithful and his horse borne to the earth
before the last despairing charge of these mad Christian knights.
Another instant, and the Sultan was on his feet again, and a score of
scimitars were striking at Godwin. His horse Flame sank down dying, but
he sprang from the saddle, swinging the long sword. Now Saladin
recognized the crest upon his buckler, and cried out:
“Yield you, Sir Godwin! You have done well—yield you!”
But Godwin, who would not yield, answered:
“When I am dead—not before.”
Thereupon Saladin spoke a word, and while certain of his Mameluks
engaged Godwin in front, keeping out of reach of that red and terrible
sword, others crept up behind, and springing on him, seized his arms
and dragged him to the ground, where they bound him fast.
Meanwhile Wulf had fared otherwise, for it was his horse Smoke, already
stabbed to the vitals, that fell as he plunged on prince Hassan. Yet he
also arose but little hurt, and cried out:
“Thus, Hassan, old foe and friend, we meet at last in war. Come, I
would pay the debt I owe you for that drugged wine, man to man and
sword to sword.”
“Indeed, it is due, Sir Wulf,” answered the prince, laughing. “Guards,
touch not this brave knight who has dared so much to reach me. Sultan,
I ask a boon. Between Sir Wulf and me there is an ancient quarrel that
can only be washed away in blood. Let it be decided here and now, and
let this be your decree—that if I fall in fair fight, none shall set
upon my conqueror, and no vengeance shall be taken for my blood.”
“Good,” said Saladin. “Then Sir Wulf shall be my prisoner and no more,
as his brother is already. I owe it to the men who saved my life when
we were friends. Give the Frank to drink that the fight may be fair.”
So they gave Wulf a cup of which he drank, and when he had done it was
handed to Godwin. For even the Mameluks knew and loved these brethren
who had been their officers, and praised the fierce charge that they
had dared to make alone.
Hassan sprang to the ground, saying:
“Your horse is dead, Sir Wulf, so we must fight afoot.”
“Generous as ever,” laughed Wulf. “Even the poisoned wine was a gift!”
“If so, for the last time, I fear me,” answered Hassan with a smile.
Then they faced each other, and oh! the scene was strange. Up on the
slopes of Hattin the fight still raged. There amidst the smoke and
fires of the burning grass little companies of soldiers stood back to
back while the Saracens wheeled round them, thrusting and cutting at
them till they fell. Here and there knights charged singly or in
groups, and so came to death or capture. About the plain hundreds of
foot soldiers were being slaughtered, while their officers were taken
prisoners. Towards the camp of Saladin a company advanced with sounds
of triumph, carrying aloft a black stump which was the holy Rood, while
others drove or led mobs of prisoners, among them the king and his
chosen knights.
The wilderness was red with blood, the air was rent with shouts of
victory and cries of agony or despair. And there, in the midst of it
all, ringed round with grave, courteous Saracens, stood the emir, clad
above his mail in his white robe and jewelled turban, facing the great
Christian knight, with harness hacked and reddened, the light of battle
shining in his fierce eyes, and a smile upon his stained features.
For those who watched the battle was forgotten—or, rather, its interest
was centred on this point.
“It will be a good fight,” said one of them to Godwin, whom they had
suffered to rise, “for though your brother is the younger and the
heavier man, he is hurt and weary, whereas the emir is fresh and
unwounded. Ah! they are at it!”
Hassan had struck first and the blow went home. Falling upon the point
of Wulf’s steel helm, the heavy, razoredged scimitar glanced from it
and shore away the links from the flap which hung upon his shoulder,
causing the Frank to stagger. Again he struck, this time upon the
shield, and so heavily that Wulf came to his knees.
“Your brother is sped,” said the Saracen captain to Godwin, but Godwin
only answered:
“Wait.”
As he spoke Wulf twisted his body out of reach of a third blow, and
while Hassan staggered forward with the weight of the missed stroke,
placed his hand upon the ground, and springing to his feet, ran
backwards six or eight paces.
“He flies!” cried the Saracens; but again Godwin said, “Wait.” Nor was
there long to wait.
For now, throwing aside his buckler and grasping the great sword in
both his hands, with a shout of “_A D’Arcy! A D’Arcy!_” Wulf leapt at
Hassan as a wounded lion leaps. The sword wheeled and fell, and lo! the
shield of the Saracen was severed in two. Again it fell, and his
turbaned helm was cloven. A third time, and the right arm and shoulder
with the scimitar that grasped it seemed to spring from his body, and
Hassan sank dying to the ground.
Wulf stood and looked at him, while a murmur of grief went up from
those who watched, for they loved this emir. Hassan beckoned to the
victor with his left hand, and throwing down his sword to show that he
feared no treachery, Wulf came to him and knelt beside him.
“A good stroke,” Hassan said faintly, “that could shear the double
links of Damascus steel as though it were silk. Well, as I told you
long ago, I knew that the hour of our meeting in war would be an ill
hour for me, and my debt is paid. Farewell, brave knight. Would I could
hope that we should meet in Paradise! Take that star jewel, the badge
of my House, from my turban and wear it in memory of me. Long, long and
happy be your days.”
Then, while Wulf held him in his arms, Saladin came up and spoke to
him, till he fell back and was dead.
Thus died Hassan, and thus ended the battle of Hattin, which broke the
power of the Christians in the East.