The remainder of the journey of Edward of Aescendune to the camp of
the Crusaders before Jerusalem was uneventful. With such an escort
as the Knight of the Holy Sepulchre and his well-known band, there
was little occasion to dread the onslaught of any of those troops
of Turks or Saracens, who hung on the skirts of the Crusading
hosts, to cut off the stragglers.
They skirted the western shore of the Sea of Galilee, crossed the
Jordan at the fords below, and travelled southwards along its
eastern bank.
The reason of this detour was twofold.
First, it was the route taken by the Saviour of mankind, on His
last journey to the guilty city which crucified Him; and the Knight
of the Holy Sepulchre felt a spiritual satisfaction in tracing the
steps of the Redeemer.
Secondly, the direct route had been taken by the host, and, like
locusts, they had devoured all the provisions on the way, and
scared from their track every edible beast.
From time to time the elder knight pointed out some venerable ruin
which tradition--ever active, if not always truthful--identified as
a resting place of the Divine Wayfarer; but there was little doubt
that they crossed the Jordan at the same fords which had been in
use in those far-off days, shortly before they entered and passed
through the city of ruins, which had once been Jericho.
Then followed the ascent of the rocky way, familiar to the readers
of the parable of the "Good Samaritan;" and let me remind my
younger friends that even in the days when there were few readers
and fewer books, all the leading episodes of our Lord's life,
including His miracles and parables, were oft-told tales
{xxviii}.
It was a day of feverish excitement when they drew near Bethany and
the Mount of Olives. All the followers of the young English knight,
who had never been in Palestine before, looked forward to the
moment when the Holy City would first meet their gaze with an
intense expectation which even rendered them silent; only as they
pressed onward they sometimes broke out into the Crusading
hymn--familiar to them as some popular song to modern soldiers.
And this was the song:
"Coelestis urbs, Hierusalem
Beata pacis visio,"
It was hardly to be a vision of peace to them.
At length they stood on the slope of the same hill where the
Redeemer had wept over the guilty city; and--will my readers
believe me?--many of these men of strife--familiar with war and
bloodshed--did not restrain their tears of joy, as they forgot
their toils past, and dangers yet to come, ere they could enter the
holy walls.
This had been their longing expectation--this the goal of their
wearisome journey; they had oft doubted whether their eyes would
ever behold it--and now--It lay in all its wondrous beauty--beautiful
even then--before them; but, the banners of the false prophet floated
upon the Hill of Zion.
Across the valley of the Kedron rose the Mosque of Omar, on the
site of the Temple of Solomon; farther to the left lay the fatal
Valley of Hinnom, once defiled by the fires of Moloch; but on
neither of these sides lay the object of the greatest present
interest--the Christian Host.
Their attack was directed against the northern and western sides of
the city, where the approach was far more easy.
"There is the standard of Godfrey de Bouillon, on the first swell
of Mount Calvary," said the elder knight; "there on the left, where
the Jewish rabble erst stoned St. Stephen, Tancred and Robert of
Normandy conduct the attack; there, between the citadel and the
foot of Mount Zion, floats the banner of Raymond of Toulouse."
"And there, amidst the banners which surround the ducal lion of
Normandy, I see our own," cried young Edward. "Oh! let us charge
through that rabble and join them."
"Thine is a spirit I love to see; come, it shall be done--St.
George for merry England--Holy Sepulchre--en avant;" and the whole
galloped madly down the descent, first bringing the news of their
own arrival to a mixed crew of Saracens and Turks--an irregular
corps of observation which had got in their way.
They cleft their way to the very centre, as a wedge driven by a
powerful mallet cleaves its way to the heart of the tree. The
followers of Mohammed scattered in all directions, and then, like
wasps, clustered around in hope to sting.
Their fleet horses enabled them to keep near the Christian cavalry,
and to annoy them by countless flights of arrows, darts, and
spears, while, as usual, they avoided close contest, as a hunter
would avoid the hug of the bear. When they could not do so, it was
wondrous to see how limbs flew about, and bodies were cleft to the
very chine before the ponderous battle-axes of Western Christendom.
Still, it was with lessened numbers that our heroes fought their
way through, and had it not been that a body of Crusading cavalry,
attracted by the tumult, came prancing down the hill to their
rescue, in all the pomp and panoply of mediaeval warfare, they
might have fared worse.
There was a smart engagement when the succours arrived, ending in
the complete disappearance of all the Saracens and Turks from the
scene, while the victors rode together to the camp, exchanging
news, as if such a small affair was not worth talking about.
When they reached the camp, Edward of Aescendune exerted his powers
of persuasion in vain to induce the Knight of the Holy Sepulchre to
accompany him to his father's tent, there to receive the paternal
thanks.
"When the city is taken, and the Holy Sepulchre free, and the army
(bareheaded and barefooted) accomplishes its vow on Calvary--then,
but not before--we shall meet--Etienne de Malville and--" he
paused, then continued, "and I shall meet once more."
"Once more? have you ever met before?"
"We have, but long ago--let it pass, my son. God's blessing rest
upon thee and protect thee on the morrow, when thou wilt, I fear,
have scant care for thyself."
"It is for Jerusalem or Paradise. I shall rest in one or the other
by tomorrow night at this time. I leave which to God."
"Good youth; the saints keep thee, dear boy, for thy fond mother's
sake."
At that word mother, a tear stood in the warlike stripling's eye.
An embrace fonder than seemed usual with the stern knight of many
deeds, and they parted.
If our tale had not protracted itself to such an extravagant length
already, it would delight us to tell of the feats of valour
performed respectively, by the Knight of the Holy Sepulchre, by
Etienne de Malville, and by Edward his son; but it must suffice to
narrate in as few words as may be, the oft-told history of that
eventful day.
On the fortieth day of the siege the city was carried by assault,
and on Friday, at three in the afternoon, the day and even the hour
of the death of the Son of God, Godfrey de Bouillon planted his
standard on the walls, the first of the noble army of Crusaders.
Thus, four hundred and sixty years after the conquest of Christian
Jerusalem by the Mahometan, Caliph Omar, it was delivered from the
yoke of the false prophet.
Seventy thousand Moslems were slain by the sword; for three whole
days the massacre continued, until each worshipper of Mahomet had
been sought out amidst the hiding places of the city--full of
secret nooks and corners--and put to death.
And now, after this bloody sacrifice--the fruit of mistaken
zeal--the Christians proceeded to accomplish their vow, with every
mark of penitence. With bare heads and bleeding feet they mounted
the Via Dolorosa (the sorrowful way) and wept where the great
sacrifice had been offered for their sins. They literally bedewed
the sacred soil with their tears.
So strange a union of fierceness and piety may well astonish us,
but our office is to relate the facts.
It was over, this strange but touching act of devotion, and the
sacred hill was partially deserted. Here and there a group of
weeping penitents lingered, and on the spot where tradition
asserted the cross to have been raised, many were seen yet waiting
their turn to salute the ground reverently with their lips.
Two knightly warriors, a father and a son, who had just performed
this act of devotion, arose together, and as they gained their
feet, observed their immediate predecessor in the pious act,
awaiting them, as if he wished to accost them.
They were all, as we have seen, bareheaded, neither did they wear
any armour or weapons--all resistance had ceased, and with it all
warfare, before the ceremony of the day had begun.
"Father," said young Edward, "it is my deliverer."
The Knight of the Holy Sepulchre beckoned them to follow, and
together they gained the outskirts of the crowd.
Etienne de Malville has greatly changed since we last beheld him.
In the place of the sprightly, impetuous youth, our readers must
imagine a warrior, past the middle age; one whose scanty hair was
already deeply tinged with gray. Thirty years had left many
wrinkles on his brow; but where impatience and fiery temper had
once sat visible to all, age and experience had substituted
self-control and wisdom.
"I have to thank thee, my valiant brother in arms, for the life of
my son. To whom do I render my thanks? Well do I know thy fame as
the Knight of the Holy Sepulchre; but our vow accomplished, we may
lay aside our incognitos and assume our names once more."
"We may indeed, and I will utter the name of one--long since
numbered with the dead in the records of men, and re-assume it upon
this sacred mount."
Etienne gazed intently upon the open face, but no look of
recognition followed.
"I crave thy pardon, if I ought to recognise thee, yet truth
compels me to say I do not."
"Nor can I wonder; didst thou recognise me, thou wouldst think me a
ghost permitted to revisit the land of the living--one whom thou
didst actually behold wrapped in the cere cloth of the tomb!--whose
funeral thou didst witness with thine own eyes! Yet he lives, and
feels sure that thou wilt not revoke, upon this holy hill, that
pardon from the living, thou didst bestow upon the seeming dead."
Etienne trembled.
"Art thou then? nay, it cannot be!"
"Etienne de Malville, I am Wilfred of Aescendune."
For a moment Etienne turned pale, and gazed as if to make sure he
did not behold a ghost or a vampire--gazed like one startled out of
his self possession, and the first emotion which succeeded was
sheer incredulity; there was small trace of the once fair-haired
English boy in the sunburnt, storm-beaten warrior of fifty to
assist his memory.
"Nay, my brother, it cannot be; thou art jesting;--not, at least,
the Wilfred of Aescendune I once knew, and by whom I fear I dealt
somewhat hardly; he died, and was buried at Oxenford thirty years
agone. I saw his dead body; I beheld his burial; I have joined in
masses for his soul; I have prayed for his repose; nay, it cannot
be!"
But when in few words, but words to the purpose, Wilfred explained
the device of Geoffrey of Coutances--when he reminded Etienne of
facts, which none but he could have known--conviction gradually,
but firmly, seized the mind of his ancient enemy.
"I believe that thou art he," said the latter, with trembling
voice; "believe, though I cannot yet realise the fact, and I thank
God."
He extended his hand gravely, and Wilfred grasped it with equal
solemnity.
"Thou art, then, my uncle Wilfred I have so long been taught to
think dead, for whom I have prayed many a time, for whom countless
masses have been offered at St. Wilfred's shrine," said young
Edward.
"Thou hast not, then, been taught to hate me?"
"No, indeed," said the boy; "why should I?"
"He knows nought of the quarrel between us, save what it is fitting
that Edith's child should know," said Etienne. "It is well that
upon this holiest spot on earth, whence the Prince of Life uttered
the words which have floated through the ages--'Father, forgive
them, for they know not what they do'--that Etienne de Malville and
Wilfred of Aescendune should become friends."
"It is, indeed."
"I have long been conscious that thou wast not alone to blame--that
thou hast to forgive as well as I; but thou, like myself, hast long
since, I am sure, earned the right to breathe the prayer, 'Forgive
us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us.'"
Once more they grasped hands--Etienne still like one in a dream.
"Come now to my tent. There thou mayst tell me all the details of
thy story, and I will tell thee news, unless this boy, my son and
thy nephew, has anticipated me, of those thou didst leave behind
thirty years ago in England. Thy sister Edith is my beloved wife,
and in this boy Norman and Englishman meet together, the merits of
each combined, the faults obliterated, if a father may be trusted."
And the friends, who once were foes, entered the tent of Etienne.