An hour had passed away since the conflict had ceased, and all was
again peaceful and still. The Christian dead were buried; the
Moslems yet dotted the plain with prostrate corpses, whose unclosed
and glassy eyes met the gazer in every direction.
Of these the Crusaders reckoned little, nor did the ghastly
spectacle at all disturb their rest. They sorrowed, indeed, for
their own comrades; but when the parting prayers were breathed over
their desert graves, they dismissed even them from their thoughts.
"They have given their lives in a noble cause, and the saints will
take good care of them and make their beds in Paradise," was the
general sentiment.
And now the fire was rekindled, the wine skins passed round, the
venison steaks again placed on the glowing embers, and they
refreshed the inner man, with appetites sharpened by their
desperate exertions in the late struggle.
Close by the side of the young knight sat their deliverer, whose
followers mingled with the Englishmen around at one or other of the
fires they had kindled.
"A health," said the young knight--"a health to our deliverer. Had
he not come so opportunely to our rescue, we were now supping in
Paradise.
"What name shall I give to our honoured guest?"
"Men call me the Knight of the Holy Sepulchre, but it is too proud
a title to be borne by mortal man."
"Art thou he, then, whose fame has filled our ears, of whom
minstrels sing, who with a band of stout followers defied the
Moslem's rage in these forest fastnesses, before even Peter
preached the word of God?"
"Thou hast exaggerated my merits, but be they many, or as I would
say few, I am he of whom they speak."
"We are indeed honoured, thrice honoured, to be saved by thee; and
these thy followers--of what nation are they?"
"Of all countries which rejoice in the light of the True Faith, but
they were Varangians {xxvii}, of the household guard of the
Emperor of the East, whose service I left, to avenge the injuries
of the pilgrim, and to clear him a path through these robber-infested
wastes."
"And may I ask the country which is honoured by thy birth, the
nation which claims thee as her worthiest son?"
"I have no nation," said the knight; sadly; "for these thirty years
I have been an exile from home."
The young knight asked no further questions, fearing to probe some
secret wound. He gave the toast, and all drank it with cheers,
which made the solitude ring.
An indefinable interest centred in this knight: rumour made him a
noble of the later empire, the "Acolyth" or commander of that
famous band of guards, whom the policy of the Caesar gathered
around the tottering throne of Constantinople--exiles from all
nations, but especially from England--driven by various fortunes
from home. Hereward--and before him Norwegian Harold, who perished
at Stamford Bridge--had served in their ranks.
This knight, whose real name none knew, had been the first to take
up the sword in defence of the pilgrims, who sought the Holy
Sepulchre, and who, on their passage southward, through these
solitudes, were grievously maltreated by robbers, whom the Turkish
Government--ever the same--protected, provided they paid the due
tithe of their spoils to the Sultan.
In their mountain solitudes, fame reported the knight to have his
secret retreat, whence no Turk nor Saracen could dislodge him, and
whence he often issued, the protector of the Christian, the dread
of his oppressor.
He had thrown aside his visor. Time, and perhaps grief, had marked
many a wrinkle on his manly forehead; his hair and beard were
grizzled with time and exposure; his age might have been variously
estimated: he seemed to bear the weight of half a century at the
least, but perhaps toil and trouble had dealt more severely with
him than time.
"My son," he said, as he marked the intent gaze of the youth, who
was excited by finding himself the companion of one so distinguished
by feats of arms, "I have told thee my own vain designation; now,
let me be anon the catechist. Of what country art thou?"
"Hast thou heard of a fair island across the sea men call England?"
"Have I not?"
"That is then my home."
"Thou art an Englishman? or do I not rather see one of the blood of
the conquerors of that fair land."
And here he suppressed what might have been a sigh.
"I am indeed Norman by my father's side--a race none need blush to
own, and received but recently knighthood from the hands of Robert
of Normandy, after the battle of Dorylaeum; but by my mother's side
I am of English blood."
"And thou blushest not to own it?"
"Why should I? Norman and English have long been peacefully united
on my father's lands, and we know no distinction."
"Such, I have heard, is not yet everywhere the case in thine
island; but thou hast not told me thy name."
"Edward of Aescendune, son of Etienne, lord of Aescendune in
England, and Malville in Normandy."
The stranger started as if an arrow had suddenly pierced him. The
young knight looked on him with amazement.
"A fit to which I am subject--it is nothing," said he, regaining
his composure and drinking a goblet of wine. "May I ask thy
mother's name? Thou saidst she was English."
"Edith, daughter of Edmund, the English lord of Aescendune, and
Winifred his wife."
The knight was still evidently unwell--a deadly pallor sat on his
face.
"I fear me thou art hurt."
"Nay, my son; one who like myself has lain for weeks in unwholesome
caverns, with but scanty fare sometimes, contracts a tendency to
this kind of seizure. It will pass away."
"Art thou interested in England? Perhaps thyself English by birth?"
"I have said I have no country," replied he, sadly.
The young lord of Aescendune remembered his designation of himself
as an exile, and forbore to inquire, lest he should unawares renew
some ancient wound.
The manner in which the knight addressed his young companion had
something in it of tender interest; his voice sounded like that of
one who spake with emotion forcibly suppressed.
"Thy mother is yet living?" said he, with forced calmness.
"She mourns our absence in the halls of Aescendune, yet she could
not grudge us to the Cross, and methinks she finds consolation in
many a holy deed of mercy and charity."
"Hast thou any brethren, or art thou her only child?"
"Nay, we are four in number--two boys and two girls. My brother
Hugh is destined to be the future lord of Malville, and I, if I
survive, shall inherit Aescendune."
"Thy mother, my boy, must miss thee sadly. How bore she the pain of
separation?"
"Religion came to her aid, and does still. I can fancy her each
morning as she kneels before the altar of St. Wilfred, and wearies
heaven with prayer for her absent lord and her boy, and perhaps
those prayers sent thee to my deliverance this night."
"Thrice blessed they who have so pious a mother. The Priory of St.
Wilfred didst thou say? Methinks he was an English saint."
"It is the third building which has existed within the century on
the spot. The first was burnt in the troubles which followed the
Conquest; the second, dedicated to St. Denys, shared the same fate,
and when the present priory was built, my father, who had brought
his English wife from the convent of the Holy Trinity at Caen,
where she received her education, restored the old dedication, as I
imagine to give her pleasure."
"Thy father, thou sayest, is with thee in this land?"
"He has gone forward with the host to the siege of the Holy City. I
was wounded on that glorious day when we scattered half a million
followers of Mohammed, who had penned us within the walls of
Antioch; and he left me with this faithful squire, Osmund--an old
man who fought with my grandsire at Hastings--to tarry in the city
till I should be fit to travel. Now we are journeying southward in
haste, fearing we shall be too late for our share in the holy work.
Dost thou not travel thitherward--thou of all men?"
"Even now I hasten, lest my unworthy eyes should fail to behold the
deliverance of that Holy Sepulchre whence my designation is taken.
We will travel together, so will thy journey be safer, for these
Turks hang like carrion upon the skirts of the grand army."
"Blithely do I accept thine offer. I would not willingly perish in
some obscure skirmish when the gates of Jerusalem are as the gates
of heaven before me, and I shall present my preserver to my father.
Are you ill again--I fear me--"
"It is nothing. Earthly feelings must not be permitted to mingle
with our sacred call."
"But I may introduce you to him?"
"When our work is done--thou mayest. The hill of Calvary will be
the fitting place, where--"
Here the knight paused, and was silent for awhile, then said--"It
is night, and night is the time for rest; we must sleep, my young
brother in arms, if we would be fit for travel tomorrow. See, we
alone are watchers; our companions are all wrapped in slumber--save
the sentinels, I will but assign the latter their posts and hours,
and seek nature's greatest boon to man."
Edward of Aescendune would fain have joined in this duty, but the
older soldier bade him rest, in a tone of gentle authority which he
could not resist. And the stern warrior drew the embers of the
fire, so as to warm the feet of the youth, while he cast a mantle
over him to protect him from the heavy dew.
The Knight of the Holy Sepulchre departed upon his rounds, and
assigned to the sentinels their posts, after which he returned and
lay amidst the sleeping forms beneath the cedars, the branches of
which were ever and anon fitfully illumined as some brand fell and
caused a flame to arise. He gazed intently, nay, even fondly, upon
the ingenuous face of the sleeping youth.
"How like his mother he is--what a load his simple tale has removed
from my breast! God, I thank thee! the old house of my fathers yet
lives in this boy--worthier far than I to represent it."