CHAPTER I.

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HEROINES OF CRUSADES.

HEROINES

OF THE

CRUSADES

_Adela Countess of Blois.

Eleanor of Aquitaine.

Berengaria of Navarre.

Isabella of Angouleme.

Violante of Jerusalem.

Eleanor of Castile._

BY C. A. BLOSS.

"Old Historic rolls I opened."

Engraved by J. C. Buttre.

HEROINES OF THE CRUSADES.

BY C. A. BLOSS.

AUTHOR OF "BLOSS'S ANCIENT HISTORY," ETC.

"Old historic rolls I opened."

AUBURN:

ALDEN, BEARDSLEY & CO.

ROCHESTER:

WANZER, BEARDSLEY & CO.

1853.

Entered, according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1853, BY ALDEN,

BEARDSLEY & CO., In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United

States for the Northern District of New York.

TO MY PUPILS,

The "Heroines of the Crusades"

IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED

BY THE AUTHOR.

PREFACE.

To those whom it has been my privilege and pleasure to lead through the

devious and darkened paths of the Past, to all who cordially receive the

doctrine that _actions_ and not faint desires for Excellence form the

character, I address a few words by way of explanation and Preface.

Jerusalem, the capital of Palestine, whether glorious in the beauty of her

first temple, and the excellent wisdom of her philosopher king, or veiled

in the darkness of that fatal eclipse in which the solemn scenes of

Calvary consummated her glory and shame, has occupied a position in the

great drama of human events, more interesting and important than any other

city on the globe.

But Jerusalem, in the gloom of that moral night which gathered over the

nations after the fall of the Western Empire of the Romans, exerted a

greater influence upon the minds of men than at any former period. The

insulting Moslem felt a degree of veneration for the splendid ruins over

which he walked with all a conqueror's pride--the African anchorite left

his solitary hermitage to weep upon Mount Olivet--the European adventurer

wreathed his staff with the branching palm from her holy hills--the

despairing Jew sat in sackcloth at her fallen gates, and even the mingled

barbarians of the East united with the Christian to revere the spot where

art achieved its proudest monument, and poetry found the theme of its

sublimest song.

This natural reverence, exalted into piety by the decrees of the church,

resulted necessarily in the practice of pilgrimage. Anxious, restless

guilt, fled from the scene of its enormities to the sweet valleys where

the Saviour whispered peace to his disciples; poetry sought inspiring

visions on the Mount of Transfiguration; penitence lingered in the garden

of Passion, and remorse expiated its crimes in weary vigils at the Holy

Sepulchre.

At the dawn of the eleventh century, one sublime idea pervaded

Christendom. The thousand years of the Apocalypse were supposed to be

accomplished, and a general belief prevailed that on the Mount of Olives,

whence the Son of God ascended in his chariot of cloud to heaven, he would

reappear in all the pomp of his Second Advent. From every quarter of the

Latin world the affrighted Christians, deserting their homes and kindred,

crowded to the Holy Land--terror quickened devotion, curiosity stimulated

enthusiasm. But insult and outrage awaited the pilgrims in Palestine, and

in Jerusalem itself they encountered the scoffing taunts of idolatry and

infidelity.

To free those holy courts from the polluting tread of the sandalled

Paynim, to prepare a pure resting-place for the Son of Man, Superstition

roused the martial spirit of the age, and enlisted chivalry under the

banners of the cross.

Thus began the CRUSADES, those romantic expeditions which, combining

religious fervor with military ardor, united the various nations of Europe

from the shores of the Baltic to the Straits of Gibraltar, and from the

banks of the Danube to the Bay of Biscay, in one common cause, and poured

the mingled tide of fanatics, warriors and adventurers, upon the plains of

Asia. For nearly two centuries the mightiest efforts and best blood of

Christendom were wasted in the useless struggle, and it is computed that

not less than six millions of people devoted their lives and fortunes to

this desperate undertaking.

But though the Crusades are so important to the historian as involving the

politics of all nations; to the philosopher as fraught with consequences

affecting the happiness of succeeding generations; and to the scholar as

commencing the era when Genius, brooding over the ruins of the Past, rose

Phoenix-like from the ashes of Arabian splendor, and soaring in the

clearer light of Christianity, scattered from her wing the dew of

refinement upon the barbarians of the North; yet the general reader feels

that his knowledge of them is so vague as to detract materially from his

pleasure in allusions to them, and continually to force upon his mind a

painful sense of ignorance upon points where he ought to be informed.

In some measure to supply a deficiency which common history cannot

obviate, to make the period of the Crusades interesting, by giving to it

the tangible thread of authentic narrative, these biographies of the

"Heroines" who inspired the troubadour, animated the warrior, or in person

"took the cross," have, with much care and labor, been selected and

compiled.

The era opens about the time of the Conquest, when William I.,

unquestionably the greatest ruler of his time, returns in triumph to

Normandy. No two writers agreeing as to the age of his children, I have

arranged them as best suited my purpose, making Cicely the eldest, the

betrothed of Harold; and the second daughter, Agatha, the bride of Earl

Edwin; and Adela, whose ambitious character is well authenticated, the

Heroine of the First Crusade.

The character and superstitions of the Saxons, with their love of

"legendary lore," I have endeavored to embody in the early life of Maude,

while I have endeavored to make her riper years illustrate the principles

and piety of a teacher to whom you are all much attached.

The half-infidel Hardrager, who was necessary to show both the plan of

Battle Abbey and the causes and character of pilgrimage, might really have

been the leader of the Assassins, since they established themselves in

Mount Lebanon, and incorporated in their belief some of the doctrines of

the New Testament about that period.

Eleanor of Aquitaine was one of the few women whose mature years in some

measure atoned for a youth of folly. Agnes Strickland cites authorities to

show that Fair Rosamond passed nineteen years in a convent, and died with

the reputation of a saint. You will excuse me that I permitted death to

cut her off in "her young beauty's bloom" to present a more affecting

picture of the sad effects of guilt. The ballads are not mine; some I

found in obsolete works, and one was versified from a legend of the Early

Romancers.

For the Tournament, and contest with the lion in Berengaria, I am indebted

to the same veracious authority, though I cannot account for Richard's

finding the Lion's Heart so conveniently situated at the bottom of the

throat, except from the fact that "Physiology and Hygiene" had not then

assigned the true position to the internal organs.

I was very sorry not to make Joanna as interesting as Edith in the

Talisman, but this was clearly impossible--first, from the fact that I had

not the genius of Scott; and second, because I made it my study to adhere

strictly to truth. It was Saphadin and not Saladin who sought to ally

himself with the princely house of Plantagenet, and I found it convenient

to console his disappointment by bestowing upon him the fictitious lady I

had brought to seek her fortune in the East. Michelet confirms this

decision by his statement that this was emphatically the era of women, and

that for some years a female exercised the sovereign power over the

territories of Islamism.

Blondell, upon whose very existence so many doubts have been cast, is, I

think, a well-authenticated character, who "_plays his part_" with great

fidelity and truth.

Had I not been limited as to space, the _ring_ in the hand of Violante's

grandson would have projected the catastrophe of the Sicilian Vespers. For

the same reason, I could only allude to the strife between the Guelphs and

Ghibellines, to the civil wars of France and England, to the Crusade

against the Albigenes, and the founding of the Inquisition by St. Dominic,

when, in quest of heresy, he traversed the hills and vales of Languedoe,

and doomed to death those brave spirits who dared to exercise the right of

private judgment.

Eva is the only purely fictitious character of any importance in the work,

and she was drawn from life, a portrait which some of you may recognize.

Fuller, in his "Holy War," contradicts the legend of Eleanora's drawing

the poison from Edward's wound, but adds, "he who shall disprove this

pretty fiction shall get to himself little credit," and I confess I had

not the courage thus warned to attempt it.

I would here gratefully acknowledge my obligations to the gentlemen of the

Rochester University, through whose politeness I have been permitted to

consult several works of early English authors not republished in this

country, from which I have made liberal extracts both of facts and

language.

In conclusion, I can only say I have endeavored to set before you a true

history in a series of entertaining stories. In the former, I am confident

I have succeeded both as regards events and chronology; of the latter I am

somewhat doubtful; but if my "Heroines" have the effect to awaken

curiosity and induce research, I shall feel that "they have their reward."

CLOVER STREET SEM., _Nov. 30th, 1852_.

CONTENTS.

Page

ADELA OF BLOIS 19

ELEANOR OF AQUITAINE 119

BERENGARIA OF NAVARRE 195

ISABELLA OF ANGOULEME 279

VIOLANTE OF JERUSALEM 307

ELEANORA OF CASTILE 341

FIRST CRUSADE, A.D. 1090 75

SECOND CRUSADE, A.D. 1147 132

THIRD CRUSADE, A.D. 1187 221

FOURTH CRUSADE, A.D. 1198 272

FIFTH CRUSADE, A.D. 1203 281

SIXTH CRUSADE, A.D. 1215 315

SEVENTH CRUSADE, A.D. 1249 347

EIGHTH CRUSADE, A.D. 1272 377

NOTES 461

Leaders of Crusades.

GODFREY OF BOULOGNE, FIRST CRUSADE.

STEPHEN, COUNT OF BLOIS, " "

LOUIS VII. OF FRANCE, SECOND "

FREDERIC I. BARBAROSSA, THIRD "

PHILIP II. AUGUSTUS, " "

RICHARD I. COEUR DE LION, " "

HENRY, COUNT OF CHAMPAGNE, FOURTH "

CONRAD OF GERMANY, " "

THIBAUT, COUNT OF CHAMPAGNE, FIFTH "

DANDOLO, DOGE OF VENICE, " "

JEAN DE BRIENNE, KING OF JERUSALEM, " "

HUGH X. DE LUSIGNAN, COUNT LA MARCHE, " "

ANDREW II. OF HUNGARY, SIXTH "

FREDERIC II. OF GERMANY, " "

LOUIS IX. OF FRANCE, SEVENTH "

CHARLES D'ANJOU, KING OF SICILY, " "

EDWARD I. OF ENGLAND, EIGHTH "

ADELA.

[Illustration: Adela. Countess of Blois.]

CHAPTER I.

THE NIGHT OF THE 20TH OF MARCH, 1067.

"Wave high your torches on each crag and cliff

Let many lights blaze on our battlements,

Shout to them in the pauses of the storm

And tell them there is no hope."

MATURIN'S _Bertram_.

All night long the Lady Matilda, with her becoming children, knelt before

the holy shrine in the old Abbey of Feschamp.

Anxiously had they watched through the lingering twilight, for the

whitening sails of the Conqueror's fleet. No sails appeared, and the night

fell dark and stormy upon the English channel. Meet was it that prayer

should ascend to Him who rules the destiny of nations, for the hopes of

all future times were rocked upon that midnight sea. The field of Hastings

was won, Harold was slain, England was subdued, and the ships of William

the Conqueror, filled with the flower of Norman chivalry, and followed by

the sad remnant of Saxon nobles, were speeding to the Norman coast.

Was it Woden the storm-throned, that thus with relentless fury pursued the

Viking's progeny,--despoilers of the Saxon race? Was it Thor the

thunder-voiced, warning the proud Conqueror that the great heart of

England still throbbed with the pulse of Freedom, though the vale of

Sanguelac was red with the blood of her bravest sons? Was it the spirit of

a milder Faith that prevailed over that night of darkness, spread a calm

morning on those troubled waters, and through that all-pervading sunlight

scattered blessings countless as the liquid jewels that paved the track of

the rescued ships?

The Mora with its splendid convoy was in sight, the bells rang out merrily

their matin chimes, and while Matilda lingered to unite in the anthem of

thanksgiving and praise, the little Adela, escaping from the care of the

attendants, found her way through the dim aisles, to the door of the

church, where she stood the radiant picture of delight, gazing with

childish interest upon the scene before her.

The solemn service over, Matilda with her stately train emerged from the

Abbey and encircled by a princely retinue of knights and ladies, watched

the swelling canvass, which under the pressure of a steady breeze, bore

the gallant vessels into port. Impatient of delay, the royal children ran

eagerly down the green slope to the water's edge. "Now brothers mine,"

said the fiery William, "the fair and goodly land of England, to him who

in three stones' cast shall twice strike yon fisherman's buoy." Seizing a

pebble as he spoke, he was about to hurl it towards the destined mark,

when Adela thoughtlessly grasped his arm. The stone dropped idly into the

wave, sprinkling the short cloaks, and embroidered tunics of the little

group. A derisive laugh followed this exploit, and Adela, familiar with

the effects of William's anger, fled from his uplifted hand to the

protecting care of Richard, who, sheltering her with his arm, exclaimed,

"Robert, imagine yon buoy a Saxon Earl, and try your prowess upon him. I

resign all claim to the conquered realm."

"Book and bell, latin prayers, and a pilgrimage for my brother Richard,"

replied Robert, selecting a smooth pebble and preparing to throw, but, ere

the stone left his hand, a well directed missile from William struck the

buoy, and sank it for a moment beneath the waves. With a look of proud

disdain Robert hurled the stone. It fell dimpling the waters far beyond

the mark. "England is mine," shouted William, as again with unerring aim

he dashed the buoy beneath the surface. "England is mine," he repeated,

pointing exultingly to the Saxon banner grasped in the hand of his own

effigy upon the prow of the Mora. Robert smiled contemptuously, and

rejoined his mother.

All eyes were now directed towards the gallant bark which rode proudly

into port, amid the joyous flutter of banners, gonfanons, pennons, and

streamers which from every mast, spar, and standard, waved and flapped in

the morning breeze.

A glad shout burst from the assembled multitude, and cries of "Long live

the conqueror William! Long live our good Duke of Normandy!" echoed by the

clangor of trumpet, and chiming of bells, welcomed the victor on shore.

Fondly embracing his lovely wife and children, and graciously receiving

the greeting of his rejoicing subjects, he turned to present the noble

Saxons, that swelled the pomp of his train.

"My Matilda will welcome Edgar Atheling, in whose veins flows the blood of

her sire Alfred the Great. The brave Earls Morcar and Edwin, the noble

Waltheof, and his beautiful daughter Maude, are also guests at our court,

and must lack no courtesy at our hands."

While Matilda with high-born grace and dignity received her reluctant

guests, the little Adela accustomed to the sight of mail-clad barons, and

princely array, felt herself irresistibly attracted by the timid girl, who

clung tremblingly to the arm of Earl Waltheof. Other eyes than hers were

fascinated by the appearance of the lovely stranger. A yellow kirtle of

the finest wool fell in graceful folds to her feet; over this was thrown a

purple robe, which confined at the bodice by a girdle exquisitely wrought,

draped without concealing the delicate proportions of a figure cast in

nature's finest mould. A crimson coverchief half hid the jewelled network,

from which her fair brown hair, brightening to gold in the sunshine,

escaped in rich abundance over a neck of snow. The steady light of her

meek violet eyes fell lovingly on Adela, and the faint tinge upon her

cheek deepened into a brilliant blush, as the sprightly child kindly

taking her hand, led her forward to receive the kiss of welcome from the

Queen Duchess Matilda.

CHAPTER II.

"But doth the exile's heart serenely dwell in sunshine there?"

A succession of brilliant pageants, and knightly entertainments awaited

the Conqueror, his nobles and hostages, in their pompous progress through

all the towns and cities of Normandy, from Feschamp to Bayeux.

Robert already wearing the spurs of knighthood, girt with silver baldric,

and bearing high the lance with its pointed banderol, led the van;

gallantly conducting the young Earls Morcar and Edwin, and the royal

Atheling: while the aspiring Prince William, attaching himself to a band

of his father's best trained bowmen, practised on bright winged birds,

those feats of archery in which he subsequently became so cruelly skilful.

Adela obtained a place near the gentle Maude, and strove by every childish

art to charm back the smiles that transiently enlivened the sad

countenance of the Saxon maiden. Not less assiduously, and not more

successfully did the Duke King, and his haughty consort, employ the

fascinations of easy grace, and polished wit, to beguile the gloomy

musings of the captive Waltheof. So passed they on, the sad hearts with

the gay. So sat they in the halls of mirth, the one keeping strict lenten

fast, the other revelling in triumphal feasts; one sole thought

embittering the fast, and sweetening the feast--and that thought

_England_.

In a chamber in the palace of Bayeux were assembled the household of the

Conqueror, busy in their daily occupations. Groups of girls, with nimble

fingers, wrought silently under the eye of Matilda, the sad epic of

England's fall.

"Leave thy tangled skeins to these fair maids, and the skilful Turold, and

come thou apart with me," said William, abruptly entering and drawing his

Queen aside, within the deep embrasure of the window, "'tis of thy glory

and mine that I would speak."

The conference lasted long. The young princes summoned the maidens to the

mimic tourney in the tiltyard, and waiting clouds prepared the gorgeous

couch of sun, beyond the hills of Bretagne, ere the wily statesman had

completed the unfoldings of all his schemes, for fixing the Norman line

securely upon the throne of Edward the Confessor. He revealed his

apprehensions from the stern character of Waltheof, and his hopes from the

fascinations of his niece Judith d'Aumale. From Edgar Atheling he feared

little. The boy reared in a foreign court, a stranger to Saxon language

and manners, had neither desire nor capacity to contend for a dignity

unsuited to his years. He was already hand and glove with Robert, and

subject to the imperious will of the young knight.

But Morcar and Edwin were more dangerous foes. Kinsmen of the late king,

at the least disaffection they might rouse the friends of the famous Earl

Siward, vanquisher of Macbeth; the thegns of Norfolk, Ely, Huntingdon, and

Northumbria, stretching far to the Scottish border; and the valiant man of

Mercia allied to the terrible Welsh.

"The victory at Hastings, my Queen," said William, with his blandest

smile, "does not establish peaceful rule o'er all the hills and vales of

merrie England. Let policy complete what valor has commenced. Methinks our

pretty Cicely might bind the restive Edwin in the silken toils of love,

more securely than unwilling homage or extorted oath."

"Cicely, the betrothed of Harold!" exclaimed Matilda. "Could'st thou have

seen her agony when tidings of Harold's death came with news of thy

victory, thou would'st scarcely speak to her of love." "A childish fancy,"

impatiently cried William, "the breath of praise soon dries the tears on a

maiden's cheeks. She must be the Saxon's bride."

"It is impossible," replied the Queen. "In Notre-Dame de Bonnes Nouvelles,

while my soul was filled with joy for thy safety, did I dedicate thy

broken-hearted child to be the bride of Heaven. The holy Lanfranc has

already sanctioned the vow."

William strode hastily up and down the chamber, tying and untying the rich

cordon of his cloak in uncontrollable anger and disappointment.

Matilda laid her hand soothingly upon his arm. "Agatha is fairer than

Cicely--Adela hath wit beyond her years, and child as she is, will readily

comprehend all thy schemes."

"Talk not of Adela, she hath a head for intrigue equal to my brother Odo.

Wed her to one who might foster her ambition, and neither crown nor throne

would be beyond her aspirations."

"Agatha hath a loving heart," pleaded Matilda.

"Thou sayest truth Bein Aimie, 'tis by the heart woman rules. Agatha shall

be the affianced of Edwin before he leaves these shores."

Thus it was settled. The new Queen received the title of the manor of

Gloucester, and condemned the owner, her former lover, to perpetual

imprisonment. The fair Maude was to dwell in exile a hostage for the

fidelity of her father, till a fitting opportunity might occur to make her

hand the bond of amity between the Conqueror and some disaffected peer.

Other hostages with their various possessions were disposed of in a

similar manner, and thus the shades of evening stole into that darkened

chamber, and brooded like palpable forms over the sacrifices which the new

sovereigns covertly laid upon the altar of Avarice and Ambition.

The ceremony of betrothal took place on the following evening. There were

guests in embroidered garments and costly jewels, there were lights and

music, and more than wonted festivity: yet Maude saw only Edwin, and when

taking the hand of the little princess, he pronounced with unhesitating

voice, "Thine, and thine only," the color faded from her lip and cheek, as

if a mortal woe had fastened on her heart.

There were gifts and congratulations, and as Edwin presented his bride a

miniature shield of silver, saying gallantly, "This shall thy heart from

other love defend," a gleam of triumph on the countenance of William

assured Matilda that Edwin was won.

CHAPTER III.

"Oh! the joy

Of young ideas painted on the mind,

In the warm glowing colors fancy spreads

On objects not yet known, when all is new

And all is lovely."

HANNAH MORE.

When the spring deepened into summer, Edwin, exulting in the pride of his

youthful elegance and princely alliance, returned loaded with honors to

his restored domains.

Agatha wept sore at his departure, but no tear trembled on the cheek of

Maude. All external emotions were buried in the grave of hopeless love,

and thenceforth in her pale, changeless beauty, she looked the ivory

shrine, where the ashes of some holy thing were preserved, to work daily

miracles upon the restless spirits by which she was surrounded.

In her society the turbulent, and self-willed children of the Conqueror

became calm and docile. Often in the long still twilight would she hold

them a charmed circle, listening with breathless awe to wild tales and

ghostly legends of the terrible Vikings; who drove their daring keels into

unknown seas, and immured their wailing captives in sunless dungeons of

northern ice, or left them naked and shivering upon a barren coast, a prey

to the wolfish winds, that lifted and tossed them ever on the red and

bristling spears of Aurora's giant demons.

The story of the Babe of Bethlehem--cradled among the beasts of the

stall--heralded by angels, and worshiped by the eastern sages, passing, a

holy presence that diffused joy and comfort to every heart, through the

green vales of Judea--walking unsandaled upon the glassy waves of

Galilee, and standing in robes white as the light upon the top of Tabor,

agonizing in Gethsemane, and suffering upon Calvary for the redemption of

a ruined race, recited in the mellow tones of Maude, imparted an interest

to the scenes of the Saviour's life and passion, which all the sacred

relics and saintly effigies of the church had failed to awaken.

But especially did Robert and Adela delight in tales of the turbaned

Paynim. The long caravan winding its spicy track through emerald oases, or

glistening sands--the dark-browed Saracens with spear and cimeter

careering in battle on Arab steeds, fleet as the desert wind--terrible

Turks from the wilds of Khosser, swifter than leopards, and more fierce

than the evening wolves--swarthy Nubians clustering like locusts in the

holy places--toil-worn pilgrims scourged and massacred, and christian

children slaughtered to furnish diabolical repasts for Moslem fiends, were

themes that never failed to excite the most intense curiosity, and to

rouse the direct imprecations of vengeance.

From one of these narrations, Robert rose with a determined air, and

exclaimed--"My grandsire, Robert le Diable, say the monks, was carried to

heaven on the backs of fiends; but if by the favor of St. Stephen, I ever

visit the Holy Land, it shall be not with pilgrim's staff, but with sword

and lance, to drive those cursed fiends back to their place of torture."

"It were a holy work," said Richard, "and one the saints would bless."

"Were I a knight, or might a woman set lance in rest," cried Adela, "those

heathen dogs should no longer feed upon the flesh of christian babes.

Shame to the peers of Normandy, that sit quietly in Rouen while the Holy

Sepulchre is in the hands of infidels."

"The peers of Normandy will sit quietly in Rouen only till my father

returns from his conference with Lanfranc," said William. "Last night a

small vessel anchored off the coast, and a messenger came in breathless

haste to the palace. I could not gain speech with him, but I know he

brings tidings from Fitz Osborne, and our Uncle Odo. Hugh de Glaville

conjectures there is treason in England."

"My mother dismissed her maidens at an earlier hour than is her wont, and

sent away Turold with a frown, when he brought her his pattern of the

wooden fort," said Cicely, with a sigh, "my heart misgave me then that

some peril was impending."

"Pray God it may not reach Edwin," said Agatha, with white lips.

"Pray God the troubles may continue till my father moves his court to

London," said William, as rising from the mossy bank upon which they had

been sitting, the anxious party returned through the pleasance, to the

great hall where the evening meal was prepared.

When the silent repast was finished, Maude led the weeping Agatha to her

own chamber, and lifting the curtain of the oratory, stood with her before

an altar covered with a richly embroidered velvet pall. Upon the altar was

placed a golden crucifix, before which burned a silver lamp, and in a

niche above, an alabaster image of the Madonna.

"Daughter of the Norman William," said she, taking Agatha's hands and

kneeling before the altar, "with the holy cross before thee, and the eyes

of our blessed lady looking down upon thee, tell me truly, lovest thou the

Saxon Edwin?" and Agatha whispered low but firmly, "I love the Saxon

Edwin."

"Turn thy eyes to the stars, emblems of unchanging faith, and tell me

truly, wilt thou be to Edwin a guardian Fylgia in weal or woe?" and Agatha

answered, "I will guard Edwin in weal or woe."

"Lay thy hand upon this holy shrine," again said Maude, lifting the purple

pall, and revealing a jewelled casket, "and tell me truly, though father,

mother, brother, friend, or priest, compel, wilt thou with Edwin keep thy

plighted troth?" and Agatha answered, "I will with Edwin keep my plighted

troth." "The pure Mary, the sleepless stars, and this holy relic of St.

John the divine aid thee to keep thy vow, Amen." And Agatha responded

solemnly--"Amen."

All that night the patient Maude wrought with a magic bodkin upon the

trothgift of Edwin, inscribing thereon a Saxon charm, that worn upon the

breast of his mistress should shield him from danger, defeat, and death!

the trusting Agatha keeping silent vigils by her side, while from the

court-yard below echoed the tramp of steeds, and the heavy tread of

mail-clad warriors hastening preparations for departure.

CHAPTER IV.

"That cruel word her tender heart so thrilled

That sudden cold did run through every vein,

And stony horror all her senses filled,

With dying fit, that down she fell for pain."

SPENSER'S _Fairy Queen_.

"When sorrows come, they come not single spies,

But in battalions."

SHAKSPEARE'S _Hamlet_.

The conjectures of Prince William were well founded. The peers of Normandy

were again summoned from their castles to attend the Conqueror, and the

following spring the royal family removed to Winchester.

The coronation of Matilda was the most imposing pageant that had ever been

seen in England. Foreign princes and peers graced the brilliant

ceremonial--a numerous and lordly company of Normans attended her to the

church, and a body-guard of Anglo-Saxons, among whom Agatha distinguished

Edwin, conspicuous alike for the beauty of his person, and the almost

oriental magnificence of his apparel, reconducted the new Queen and her

beautiful children to the palace, where a splendid banquet closed the

festivities.

This season of rejoicing was followed by events of a sad and gloomy

character. The peculiar miseries which fell upon England during the

disastrous years of 1069-70 compelled the Queen with the ladies of her

court, again to seek safety in Normandy. The revolt of Earl Waltheof--the

invasion of the Danes--the flight of Edgar Atheling--the hostility of

Malcolm, King of Scotland--the destruction of the city of York--the death

of Aldred, its beneficent, and much loved bishop--the desolation of

Northumberland--the laying waste the county of Hampshire--the confiscation

of private property--and the cry of houseless wanderers, perishing of

want, furnished a scene of unexampled calamities, while the odious revival

of the Danegelt, and the still more odious imposition of the _couvre feu_,

goaded the exasperated inhabitants to desperation, and excited constant

rebellions and insurrections.

The heart of the king, grieved and irritated, became entirely alienated

from his Saxon subjects; and when Earl Edwin demanded the hand of Agatha,

his claim was rejected with reproach and scorn.

Meanwhile the ladies of the Norman court, no less than Matilda, deplored

the absence of their lords, and murmurings and complaints succeeded to

sadness and discontent, as month after month, and year after year rolled

on, and still the troubles in England required the constant exercise of

the Norman arms.

The unheralded arrival of the Conqueror, with a military escort at Caen,

excited a brief sensation of pleasure, but small cause had his family to

rejoice in his coming.

The princesses were listening with rapt attention while Maude related the

romance of a northern Jarl, who each night when the moon hung her silver

lamp on high, moored his ocean palace beneath the shadow of a castle,

beetling the sea, to woo fair Ulnah the Pearl of the Orkneys. The maiden,

leaning spell-bound from the lattice, had yielded to the enchanter's song,

and dropped a pale pearl upon the deck of the war-ship; the wizard-bird

that nestled in its shroudings had spread its broad wings and hovered

broodingly above the casement, when flaming torches--splashing oars--and

wild shouts, announced the coming of her father's fleet.

At this point of the story a messenger hastily entered and summoned Agatha

to the presence of her dread father.

With sad presentiments the princess rose and silently obeyed the mandate.

None were present with the Conqueror in the audience chamber save Matilda,

Lanfranc, and the Saxon secretary, Ingulfus.

"Seat thyself beside me, daughter, and listen to my words," said the

haughty monarch, with unwonted tenderness. "That I bade thee pledge thy

hand to Earl Edwin to secure the peace of England, instead of trusting

that event to my good sword, hath long grieved me sore; and often have I

prayed the holy saints to absolve me of the sin. Heaven has heard my

prayer and averted thy doom."

An involuntary shudder shook the slight frame of Agatha, but no sound

escaped her lips.

"The brave Alphonso, King of Gallicia," continued the king, "has sent to

woo thee for his bride; ambassadors wait in the antechamber, and the good

Lanfranc has consented to release thee from thy extorted vow. With this

costly ring the prince of Spain plights thee his faith."

Agatha instinctively drew back her hand.

"Nay, shrink not, my daughter. The Saxon was unworthy of thy love. Knowest

thou not he is leagued with thy father's foes? Resign thou his troth-gift,

I will restore it to the proud Rebel. Bid thy maidens robe thee in apparel

befitting thy rank, (certes, the Spanish diadem will well become thy jetty

locks.) Even now a splendid convoy of vessels ride at anchor in the harbor

to convey thee to thy future lord, and the pious Ingulfus, who hath long

desired to visit the Holy Sepulchre, shall attend thee to the coast of

Spain."

Agatha neither spoke nor moved.

"Give me thy troth-gift, silly girl," cried her father angrily, bending

his brow upon her, with the terrible frown, at which bold hearts were wont

to quail.

Mechanically the trembling victim, drew from her bosom the talismanic

shield. Lanfranc took it from her hand, placed the ring upon her finger,

repeated the words of absolution, and the ceremony of betrothal, and when

he ceased, Agatha lay at her father's feet, pale and cold in a death-like

swoon. But bitterly as Matilda wept over her suffering daughter, her heart

was torn with still keener anguish, at the maledictions pronounced upon

her first-born and favorite son. Robert had been betrothed in infancy to

the heiress of Maine; and had cherished the most romantic attachment for

his affianced bride. On the death of the princess the people demanded him

for their lord, and the young regent, generous and rash, had proceeded to

take possession of the duchy, and administer justice in his own name.

William now required him to resign the fief, not only, but to give his

hand to Maude, the beautiful captive, who had so long been the companion

of his sisters. With the true spirit of chivalry, Robert indignantly

replied;

"The lovely Maude hath already bestowed her affections on Earl Edwin, and

Robert's bride shall never bear to the altar a reluctant heart. Thou hast

sacrificed the meek Agatha to the lust of dominion, but the gentle Maude

shall never suffer from thy tyranny, while the sword of a belted knight

can defend her. If ever I am king of England, the lands of Huntingdon

shall be hers, with free right to choose her own lord."

"Boast not thyself of to-morrow, England shalt thou never have. I have won

it by mine own good sword, the vicars of Christ have set its crown upon my

head, and placed its sceptre in my hand, and all the world combined shall

not take it from me," cried the monarch in a paroxysm of rage.

"I only demand the suzerainship of Normandy and Maine, which all men say

is my just inheritance," replied Robert.

"Thou would'st do well to remember the fate of Absalom, and the

misfortunes of Rehoboam, and beware of evil counsellors," retorted

William.

Robert insolently rejoined, "I did not come hither to listen to sermons,

but to claim the investiture which has been promised me. Answer me

positively, are not these things my right?"

"It is not my custom to strip before I go to bed," replied the Conqueror;

"and as long as I live, I will not divide my native realm, Normandy, with

another, for it is written in the holy evangelists, 'Every kingdom divided

against itself shall become desolate.'"

"If it is inconvenient for thee to keep thy word, I will depart from

Normandy, and seek justice from strangers, here I will not remain a

subject," retorted Robert, with equal pride and scorn.

"Par le splendeur de De," shouted William, half unsheathing his sword. "It

is not to be borne, that he who owes his existence to me, should aspire to

be my rival in mine own dominions. May the curse of Cain light upon thy

undutiful head."

Thus they parted, Robert to take refuge with his mother's brother, in

Flanders, and William to return to his distracted kingdom, where the fires

of civil war still smouldered in the ashes of freedom.

In such scenes was Adela nurtured, and thus in an atmosphere of intrigue

and superstition, was a character naturally penetrating and impetuous,

prepared to devise and carry forward the wildest schemes.

Public calamities, and domestic vexations, impaired the peace and

irritated the temper of the English monarch. Bodesmen from the north,

brought news of leagues and plots against his power, while messengers from

Normandy, conveyed tidings of the disaffections of his peers, and the

hostilities of the French king.

Richard, his most dutiful and affectionate son, had accompanied him to

England. The young prince was exceedingly fond of the chase, and often

spent whole days hunting in the New Forest of Hampshire.

The malaria of the depopulated district, and the painful emotions awakened

in his sensitive nature, by the sight of famishing wretches, vainly

seeking food and shelter, brought on a delirious fever, which soon

terminated his life. He was interred in Winchester Cathedral.

The last tone of the curfew bell was reverberating through the silent

halls of the palace, when the distracted father, haunted by the piteous

lamentations, and reproachful ravings of his departed son, threw himself

despairingly upon his couch.

"News from beyond seas," said the chamberlain, entering, and presenting

him a letter. William cut the silk and read.

"In the name of the blessed Mary, ever virgin, St. Michael, and St.

Valery, doth thy poor scribe Ingulfus pray, that strength may be given

thee, duke William, by grace of God, king of England, to bear the dreadful

tidings, which much it grieves me to convey. When this comes to thee thou

wilt know that thy sweet daughter, Agatha, liveth no more. From the day of

our departure she shed no tears, but a tender wailing sound, like the moan

of a wounded dove, issued ever from her lips. Her heart, she said, was

devoted to her first spouse, and she prayed that the Most High would

rather take her to himself, than allow her ever to be wedded to another.

Her prayer was granted.

"The faintness which we witnessed at her betrothal, returned upon her by

night and by day, but she never murmured; and on the eve of the blessed

St. Agnes, having received the rites of our holy Church, she died, with

the crucifix in her hand, and the name of Edwin on her lips."

The scroll dropped from the hand of the stricken father and a remorseful

pang wrung his heart.

Again the chamberlain entered ushering in a dark figure wrapped in a long

serge cloak, like those usually worn by monks. Kneeling at the monarch's

feet, the stranger spoke. "Knowing, oh king! thy munificence to thy

faithful servants, and moved by the love I bear thy throne and realm, I

have discovered to Fitz Osborne the secret haunts of thine enemies, and to

obtain thy royal favor, have brought from the Isle of Ely, that which I

hope will please thee well. Behold the head of the Saxon chief."

The Conqueror shrank back in horror, as the well-known features of Edwin,

pale and distorted with the death agony, and the long, fair locks all

dabbled with gore, met his bewildered gaze.

"Cursed traitor!" shouted he, starting from his seat, "dost thou think to

win my favor by bringing me the head of thy murdered lord? Ho! seneschal,

convey this Judas to the lowest cell of the donjon. There shall he learn

how William rewards the betrayer of innocent blood." The prisoner was

borne from his presence.

The monarch buried his face in his hands, and burst into tears of

uncontrollable anguish.

"Woe is me, my daughter,--Done to death by thy father's unholy

ambition--Thy Edwin hunted and slain on his own hearth-stone. What has

this sceptre brought me? Toilsome days, and sleepless nights,--a divided

household,--and children cut off in the flower of their youth. Truly,

saith the Scripture; 'Woe unto him that coveteth an evil covetousness unto

his house.'"

As he bowed his head his eyes fell upon the fatal, silver shield. Lifting

it reverently from the floor, and wiping the clotted blood from its

polished surface, with some difficulty, he deciphered the Saxon

inscription, which has been thus elegantly translated.

"Edwin his pledge has left in me,

Now to the battle prest:

His guardian angel may she be,

Who wears me on her breast.

To him true hearted may she prove,

Oh! God, to thee I pray;

Edwin shall well requite her love,

Returning from the fray.

But if, forgetful of her vows,

May Heaven avert the thought,

She sell this love-charm of her spouse,

Which never could be bought;

If of her own free will she cast

This talisman away;

May Edwin's life no longer last,

To rue that fatal day."

CHAPTER V.

"Still to the truth direct thy strong desire,

And flee the very air where dwells a liar.

Fail not the mass, there still with reverent feet,

Each morn be found, nor scant thy offering meet,

Haste thee, sir knight, where dames complain of wrong;

Maintain their right, and in their cause be strong."

The last act in the bloody tragedy of England's subjection, was

consummated in the year 1074, when Earl Waltheof, having been drawn into a

plot against the crown, and betrayed by his Norman wife, Judith, to her

uncle, the Conqueror, was beheaded on a rising ground, just without the

gates of Winchester, the first Anglo-Saxon that perished by the hand of

the executioner.

The perfidious Judith had fixed her affections on a French Count, but

William had already secured a willing agent of his own purposes, in the

person of Simon, a Norman noble, lame and deformed, on whom he designed to

bestow her hand, with the rich earldoms of Northampton and Huntingdon.

The haughty Judith scorned the alliance, and stripped of rank and power,

retired to the wilds of Yorkshire in obscurity and contempt.

The bitter tears occasioned by the melancholy fate of Agatha and Edwin,

were fresh upon the cheek of Maude, when the heavy tidings of her father's

cruel death, overwhelmed her in a tide of deeper anguish. A lingering

illness followed, yet sweet dreams stole ever upon her rest, and the

watchful Adela comprehended, that transported to the home of her

childhood, in the gaiety of life's early morn, she trod again the breezy

upland, and fragrant glade, wandered through wood and wold, with Edwin by

her side, or sitting by the star-lit fountain, challenged the nightingale

from out the leafy holt, with snatches of Runic rhyme, and Saxon melody.

But young life combating disease, slowly led her back from the gates of

the grave. One by one the bright visions faded, and sadly her eyes

unclosed to a consciousness of the dark realities before her.

William had determined that the hand of the beautiful heiress of

Huntingdon, should compensate the pliant Simon for the mortifying refusal

of her stepmother. The betrothal was to take place directly on the

Conqueror's arrival in Normandy, but the happy oblivion of Maude, no less

than the entreaties of Adela, and the menacing of Robert served to delay

the doom they could not finally avert.

William had subdued the rebel province of Maine, and moved by the

declining health, and incessant pleading of his beloved Queen, had

accorded to his refractory son a full pardon for his late rebellion,

"promising at the same time, to grant him everything that he could expect

from the affection of a father consistently with the duty of a king."

Thus peace was restored throughout the Conqueror's dominions, and the

royal family happy in their reunion, kept merry Christmas in the capital

city of Rouen.

"Sweet sister mine," said Robert to Adela, as she sat engaged upon the

famous Bayeux tapestry, "pray leave the royal nose of our valiant sire,

which thou hast punctured and cross-stitched, till verily it seems to

bleed beneath thy fingers, and lend an ear to thy brother's words."

"Now, gramercy! Curthose," said Adela, laughing, "thou must have a

distinct impression of thy noble father's visage, since thou canst not

distinguish his nose from the 'fiery train' of the terrific comet."

"Nay," said Robert, taking up the simile, "the Conqueror's fiery train in

England, has wrought more terror than all the comets since the days of

Julius Caesar, as the inhabitants of York will testify; but come, lay aside

that odious tapestry, I have other work for thy skilful fingers."

"My duteous brother would, perhaps, employ them in puncturing his noble

sire, at the field of Archembraye, but a maiden's needle wounds less

deeply than a warrior's sword," said Adela, archly.

"Certes, thy tongue is sharper than thy needle," said Robert, reddening,

"and thine eyes outdo thy tongue. On the field of Archembraye I did but

wound my father's arm, while one bright shaft from thine eyes has pierced

Count Stephen's heart."

"Methinks a heart so vulnerable, should be clad in armor," said Adela,

reddening in her turn.

"Thy woman's wit doth run before my speech and prophesy my errand," said

Robert. "The Count Stephen, of Blois, bids me entreat the fair Adela to

bind him in _ring armor_, that the friend of Robert may be his brother in

arms."

"_He_ bids thee!" said Adela, dropping the embroidery. "Is the count,

then, in Rouen?"

"Even so, bien amie," replied Robert. "Hast thou not marked a noble figure

entering the church at twilight, and emerging at sunrise, his regards bent

upon the ground except, perchance, when he steals a glance at my charming

sister, accompanying her mother to matins or vespers."

"In truth, I marked such a youth," said Adela, blushing, "but wherefore

frequents he not the court?"

"He holds his vigil of arms till twelfth day," replied Robert, "and the

Conqueror has promised, that ere the Yule-clog, as Atheling calls it, has

ceased to burn, he will himself lay the accolade of knighthood upon the

shoulder of the young count. 'Tis my father's wish that his children

assist at the ceremony."

"My father's wish!" said Adela, in a tone of deep surprise.

"Certes, sweet," replied her brother, "thinkest thou the Conqueror sees

not the white flocks that range the green pastures of Blois, that he hears

not the sound of the busy looms of Chartres, and loves not the sparkling

wine, that flows from the blushing vineyards of Champaigne?"

"Robert, thou hast broken my needle," said Adela, striving confusedly to

hide from the penetrating eyes of her brother, the influence which these

considerations exercised over her own ambitious heart.

"I have broken thy needle of wool, that thou mightst thread a finer with

floss of silk to embroider the scarf for thy gallant knight," said Robert,

rising to withdraw. Adela followed him to the antechamber, and dismissing

the attendants, concerted with him the arrangements for the pageant.

Scarcely confessing to herself the sweet hopes that for the first time

agitated her bosom, she quitted the joustings and maskings of the

holidays, and passed the festive season in the privacy of her own

apartment, where assisted only by the faithful Maude, she wrought upon

Tyrian purple the golden lions of Chartres, budded the shining damask with

the fleur de lis of Champagne, and sewed the embroidered field azure with

the pearly crescent of Blois. The deep tones of the turret clock tolling

the midnight hour broke the stillness that reigned through the castle,

just as Adela severed the last silken thread from the embroidery frame,

and held up the gorgeous baldric in the light of the lamp before the

admiring gaze of her friend.

"Hush!" said Maude, placing her finger on Adela's lip to repress a joyous

exclamation, "we have a proverb in the north that, 'finished works bring

prophetic dreams.'--Hasten to seek thy pillow, but beware thy glance

wander not from yon bright star that even now glimmers through the

casement. Breathe not a word while I wreathe the silken scarf in the folds

of thy canopy, and whisper the mystic charm of the morthwyrtha." With an

incredulous smile Adela obeyed, and dismissing the tire-women, Maude left

her to her solitary slumbers. The sun had scarce risen when Maude again

entered the apartment.

"The visions of the future have visited thy rest," said she, glancing

inquiringly at the thoughtful countenance of the princess.

"Question me not," replied Adela, "a promise and a fear have bewildered

me--coming years can alone explain the mystery."

The great hall of the palace was fitted up for a brilliant ceremony. All

the knights and nobles, bishops and clergy of Normandy, and the adjacent

provinces, arrayed in the most gorgeous vestments of their several

orders, with high-born dames and blushing maidens, sparkling in jewelry,

lined the apartment, at the upper end of which stood the family of the

Conqueror, beside an altar covered with cloth of gold.

The young princes Robert and William after attending Count Stephen to the

bath clothed him in white garments, and covered him with a crimson cloak,

the one symbolical of the purity of his soul, the other of his

determination to shed his blood in the cause of heaven. Arrayed in this

simple garb, after the celebration of the high mass, he entered the hall

and approaching the altar, presented his sword to the bishop, who blessed

and consecrated it to the service of religion and virtue.

Lanfranc then addressed him thus. "Thou seekest, Count of Blois, to become

a knight--thou art of noble birth--of liberal gifts and high in

courage.--Thou must be strong in danger--secret in councils--patient in

difficulties--powerful against enemies--prudent in deeds. Lay thy hand

upon this holy missal, and swear to observe the following rules." And

Stephen laid his hand upon the clasped volume, and repeated slowly, after

the priest.

"I do solemnly promise and swear to spare neither my blood nor my life in

defence of the Catholic faith,--to aid all widows and orphans--to protect

the innocent and oppressed--to be humble in all things--to speak the truth

from the heart--to seek the welfare of my vassals--to regard the rights of

my sovereign--and to live righteously before God and man."

Then rising from his knees and throwing off his cloak the neophyte stood

with his head reverently inclined toward the priest, while Prince William

buckled on the spurs of knighthood, and Edgar Atheling fastened the

greaves, and Robert belted the corselet; gracefully he sank upon his knee,

when Maude advancing adjusted the helmet upon his closely curling locks,

and Constance presented the spear with its drooping pennon; but his head

bowed in conscious devotion, and the warm blood glowed eloquently on his

manly cheek, while Adela, the lady of his love, tremulous with agitation,

passed the scarf about his neck--fitted the silken folds across his

breast, and belted the jewelled knot upon the ivory sheath of his sword.

Appareled in his splendid armor the young count took the consecrated

weapon from the altar, and presenting it to the king, knelt before the

throne while the monarch rose and laid upon his shoulder three gentle

blows, saying in a voice whose deep tones echoed to the farthest end of

the hall, "In the name of St. Michael, and St. Stephen, I make thee

knight. Be loyal, bold and true."

Following the example of the Conqueror, each knight advanced a step, drew

his sword from the sheath, and while the hall gleamed with the flash of

burnished steel, the man of God again took up the word, blessing him who

had newly undertaken, and those who had long been engaged in holy warfare,

and praying that all the hosts of the enemies of heaven, might be

destroyed by christian chivalry.

The trumpets sounded without, and the knights thronging around their

brother in arms, conducted him to the court below, where vaulting upon

their steeds, they rode through the admiring crowds, among whom Stephen

scattered largesses with a liberal hand.

The banquet over, a gallant train of mounted knights and ladies emerged

from the wooded park and wound along the banks of the Seine. There was

rare sport that day, when the fox broke cover, and the hounds darted away

upon his track, and the curveting steeds bounded over the crisp green

sward, in the wild excitement of the chase; but the proud barb of Stephen

obedient to the rein, curved his glossy neck and moved with lofty step, by

the dappled palfrey of Adela, while the young knight whispered words that

the princess loved to hear; and thus in sweet converse the day wore away,

and when the solemn night came on, beneath the blue cope of heaven, while

the stars gazed from their sapphire thrones and the river mingled its low

music with the murmur of their voices, Adela plighted her troth to Stephen

Count of Blois.

But a ceremonial more joyous than a betrothal--more solemn than a burial,

occasioned the removal of the court to Feschamp.

From the day of Harold's death, Cicely his betrothed, devoted herself to

the cloister. Her father had bestowed a princely dower upon the convent of

her choice, and fixed the day of her profession upon the high festival of

Easter. At the close of the lenten fast, she quitted the scene of her

childish pleasures, gazed a last adieu on the hills, vales and streams,

over which the early spring of that bright climate was casting its mellow

sheen--distributed alms among the mendicant crowds that thronged her

route, and bade a kind farewell to the multitudes, that flocked from every

village and hamlet, to invoke the blessing of heaven upon her holy

purpose.

Adela stood again in the old abbey of Feschamp, listening to the joyous

sound of the matin chime, but neither the happy associations awakened by

the place and hour, nor the warm breath of early love could charm the

sadness from her heart.

She had entered the dark cloister, and conducted Cicely from her weary

vigil beside the holy relics, to wreathe her dark locks with jewels and

gold, and array her fair form for the last time in the garb of a princess.

With the selfishness of affection, she suffered none but Maude to share

the pious task.

Fast fell her tears as the whispered sounds of her sister's devotions

forced upon her an appalling sense of the final separation.

The convent bell had scarce ceased its summons, ere a splendid concourse

filled the galleries, and thronged the aisles of the Abbey to witness the

holy bridal.

Proudly and painfully beat the heart of the king, as his saintly daughter

leaned upon his breast--twined her soft arms lovingly about his neck--and

imprinted her last kiss upon his cheek; but sympathetic tenderness

overmastered all other emotions, as with gentle force he drew her from the

last fond embrace of her weeping mother, and the convulsive clasp of the

almost frantic Adela, and resigned her in all her youthful beauty, to be

immured in a living tomb. Her three young sisters less grieved at the

parting, than pleased with the pageant, with hasty adieus prepared to take

their place in the ceremony.

With a light step nicely modulated to the soft chanting of the nuns, the

little Adeliza bearing a jewelled crucifix, led the procession, followed

by Constance and Gundred, each carrying a lighted taper and bearing

between them a lily-shaped basket of wrought silver, containing the vestal

habit and veil which they laid upon the altar.

At the solemn call of the bishop, the fair Cicely entered, prepared as a

bride adorned for her husband, and supported by the matron sisters passed

up the long aisle, her white robes like a gathering mist floating about

her fragile form, and her calm and serene countenance, beaming with such

angelic sweetness from beneath the gossamer wreath which ornamented her

head, that to Maude's fanciful vision she seemed already crowned with the

radiant halo of the saints. A brilliant burst of jubilant melody, pealing

from the organ, accompanied the nuns in their welcoming hymn, "O Gloriosa

Virginium," and a breathless silence pervaded the holy courts as the soft

voice of Cicely responded. "Receive me, oh Lord! according to thy holy

word."

Kneeling before the bishop she begged his benediction and the name of

Cecilia her patron-saint. The reverend Father gave her the consecrated

name, signed her with the sign of the cross, and sprinkled holy-water upon

her garments.

The high mass celebrated, and the Kyrie Eleison sung, a waxen taper was

placed in her hand, and seated by the chancel, she listened with devout

attention, while the archbishop portrayed the beatitude of that high

vocation, which had called her from the pomps and vanities of earthly

grandeur, to the durable riches of a heavenly kingdom; from the waning

light of earthly affection to the ineffable love of the immortal

bridegroom;--from the fading lustre of an earthly diadem, to the

changeless glory of an eternal crown: and scarcely had he concluded with

the gracious words, "Many daughters have done virtuously, but thou

excellest them all," when the whole orchestra took up the note of

commendation and "Gloria in Excelsis" sounded through the cloistered

aisles, echoed along the vaulted roof, and breathed to the heart of the

waiting novice the full reality of joy. The sacred vestments were blessed

and replaced in their silver shrine, and the children resuming their

precious burden preceded their sister into an inner, apartment, where busy

nuns disrobed her of her resplendent array,--despoiled her of her costly

ornaments--and one by one shred away her long, bright locks, that never

more might stir a thought of pride.

The solemn bandeau was bound about her brow, the black serge garment

wrapped about her form, and when she again knelt before the bishop,

saying, "I am the handmaid of Christ," an ill-suppressed shriek from

Adela, told how changed was her appearance, and how gloomy was the fate

that awaited her--but the votaress saw nothing, heard nothing, save the

sacred mysteries in which she was engaged. Prostrated as if in deep

abasement she lay upon the marble floor, while the choir chanted the

litany; gently she inclined to the abbess, to be bound by the girdle of

humiliation; reverently she bowed her head to receive the veil that should

forever shut the world from her sight; joyfully she accepted the ring that

sealed the irrevocable vow; and while the choir chanted, "Come, oh spouse

of Christ, receive the crown," a coronal of mingled thorns and roses was

placed upon her head--and Cicely was a nun.

Loud anthems pealed upward to the swelling dome, and every demonstration

of joy welcomed the bride to her new home.

The royal guests sat down to a splendid repast in the great hall of the

convent, and nuns and novices shared in the sumptuous entertainment; but

between Cicely and her family was an impassable barrier of an iron

grating, and four thick and cold stone walls separated her forever from

the friends of her youth.

CHAPTER VI.

"What is't we live for? tell life's fairest tale--

To eat, to drink, to sleep, love, and enjoy,

And then to love no more!

To talk of things we know not, and to know

Nothing but things not worth the talking of."

SIR R. FANE, JR.

"Methinks," said Adela, as she sat with Maude in the loved twilight

conference, "it were a weary thing, to fast and pray as doth my sister

Cicely, and look forever on those dull, cold images of stone or pictured

saints, whose holiness we can never hope to reach."

"Thou thinkest so, dearest, because on the bright scroll of thy future is

pictured a living form glowing with youth and beauty," said Maude; "but

when death shuts out the light of hope, the pencil of love illumines the

canvass ever with the image of a saint."

"I have never seen a Saxon saint but thee, best one," said Adela,

affectionately kissing her cheek. "Cicely worships the memory of him who

would have wrested the broad realm of England from her father."

"And Agatha died for one who loved that father," said Maude, half

reproachfully.

"I cannot read aright the riddle of life," replied Adela, pensively, "less

still the riddle of love. Doth not the heart seek happiness as the flower

seeks the light? yet what men call the 'ends life lives for,' wealth and

power and dominion, terminate in discontent, despair, and death. No duke

of Normandy, since the days of Rou, hath been so successful as William the

Conqueror, yet the meanest serf is happier than he: and this love that

makes my heart flutter like a joyous bird, has consigned our Agatha to an

early grave--immured Cicely in the abhorrent convent--and," she added,

with a deprecating glance, "has plucked the last pale rose from the cheek

of my lovely Maude."

"Thou speakest thus because thou knowest neither life nor love," replied

the maiden. "Thou deemest wisely that a lofty purpose must call the strong

man to effort, else lying dormant would his faculties perish with the rust

of inactivity. Our pious bishop, Aldred, used to say; that any purpose so

holy as not to need evil means to work its ends, like the consecration of

the wafer, brings to the human soul the _real presence_ of Christ."

"Thy riddle is too deep for my poor wit," said Adela. "Tell me of the love

I know not--thy love."

"Thou fanciest thou lovest Count Stephen," said Maude, with a sigh, "but

should he plight his love to another, thou wouldst regard him with hate

and scorn."

"Aye, verily," replied Adela, her cheeks glowing, and her dark eye

flashing, at the thought.

"So loved not Maude Earl Edwin. Thy father bade him give his hand to

Agatha, and when I marked the undivided current of their lives, flowing on

in a stream of bliss, Ambition and Hope were quenched in my heart, but

Love went forth to light their pathway, and gilds with heavenly radiance

their early tomb."

"Maude!" exclaimed Adela, enthusiastically, "thou wert not formed for this

sinful world; thou shouldst dwell with the angels, for verily thou art one

of them."

"Commend me not," said Maude, "thou little knowest the bitter repinings of

my heart when I heard I might not enter the convent with Cicely, nor how

my soul recoils from this unnatural alliance with Simon."

"And thou wouldst rather kneel upon the cold stone floor, and scourge thy

tender flesh with knotted cords, than live almost a princess in thy merrie

England!" said Adela, with unaffected surprise.

"Nay, rather would I work a weary pilgrimage to Palestine, and dwell an

eremite in the lonely caves of Engaddi, had choice been left with me,"

answered Maude.

"A pilgrimage were not so sad a fate," said Adela; "the marvellous tales

with which thou didst beguile my childhood hours, so wrought upon my

fancy, that even to this day the very name of Jerusalem calls up visions

bright as the bowers of Eden. Never have I wondered that pilgrims flocked

to the Holy Land when they deemed the thousand years of prophecy

accomplished, and expected to witness the azure gates unfolding above the

holy sepulchre, and the Saviour descending upon the Mount of Olives amid

all the terrific splendor of the final judgment."

"Scarce a century since," sighed Maude, "men looked for this heavenly

kingdom, and verily believed they found in prophecy the confirmation of

their hopes. My grandsire died upon the banks of the Jordan earnestly

expecting the coming of his Lord."

"There is a flash of spears in the moonbeams," interrupted Adela, gazing

from the arrow-slit of the turret. "Seest thou not a troop of horse,

winding along the brow of the hill? Eye and heart alike deceive me if that

be not Count Stephen's plume. Methought, ere this, he had reached the

borders of Maine. And there is Robert by his side. Our lady grant their

coming bode no ill."

"They pass beneath the shadow of the castle," said Maude. "They are not

all mounted. Those men on foot, in the garb of friars, how wearily they

follow, leaning upon their long staves."

"They are pilgrims!" exclaimed the maidens with one voice. "Let us descend

to welcome them."

Prince Henry met them in the corridor. "Count Stephen has returned," said

he, "and awaits my sister in the tapestry chamber."

"Come with me, Beauclerk," said Maude, leading away the young prince.

"Thou shalt conduct me to these holy pilgrims."

"Adela," said Stephen, kissing the hand of his affianced as she entered,

"thou art surprised, but I hope not ill-pleased at this unlooked-for

return."

"I feared me some mischance had occasioned it," said Adela, "but seeing

thee well, I am happy--yet wherefore art thou come?"

"Thy brother, Robert," replied Stephen, "vouchsafed to escort me with

twenty lances to the town of mantes--but when we reached the banks of

Eure, we found the bridges swept away, and the fords rendered impassable

by the swollen waters. A band of pilgrims were encamped upon the other

side, and at the sight of the Norman pennon, they sent forth a piteous cry

for aid. We swam our steeds across the turgid stream, and each horseman

mounting a palmer behind him, we brought them safely over. And what was my

joy to find I had thus rendered some slight service to Ingulfus, the early

tutor of my loved Adela."

"Our lady be praised, the good Ingulfus has returned. His pupil then shall

thank his benefactor as she ought."

"He is wayworn and weary," pursued Stephen, "much toil hath he had in his

long pilgrimage, and precious are the relics he has brought from

Palestine. I craved from his gratitude a portion of the holy dust, for thy

oratory. Should danger threaten the unworthy Stephen, the prayers of

Adela, at such a shrine, would doubtless avail for his protection."

The princess started, and the color fluctuated on her cheek, as with a

look of surprise and recognition she regarded the beautiful crystal urn,

with its amethystine entablature, on which were engraven the names of

Adela and Stephen.

"Dost reject my gift, or hath some sudden illness seized thee?" said her

lover, anxiously, remarking her strange emotion.

"A silly dream--a passing faintness," said Adela, convulsively grasping

the urn, and pressing her pale lips upon the inscription. "The hour wears

late, to-morrow we will meet again."

The young count imprinted a kiss upon her cold brow, and supporting her

trembling steps to the antechamber, consigned her to the care of her

attendants.

When the lovers met the following morning in the chapel to which all the

inhabitants of the city repaired, to see the high altar decked with the

palms of the pilgrims, and join in the general thanksgiving for their

return, all traces of agitation had disappeared from the countenance of

Adela. Relieved from his jealous fears, Count Stephen basked in the

sunshine of her smiles, and protracted his stay during the festivities

consequent upon the affiancing of Constance with Alan, Count of Bretagne.

The young bride was dowered with the lands of Chester, once the possession

of the unfortunate Earl Edwin. And William, at the same time, accorded his

approbation to the love of Stephen and Adela. Every heart seemed filled

with gaiety. Entertainment succeeded entertainment. The days were occupied

with joustings, hunting, hawking, feats of archery and tournaments; the

evenings were spent in games of hazard, or whiled away in listening to the

wondrous tales of Ingulfus.

CHAPTER VII.

"Some upon penance for their sins,

In person, or by attorney;

And some who were or had been sick;

And some who thought to cheat Old Nick;

And some who liked the journey;

And the staff was bored and drilled for those

Who on a flute could play;

And thus the merry Pilgrim had

His music on the way."

SOUTHEY.

"On my return to Caen with the remains of my dear lady Agatha," said

Ingulfus, "I abandoned all thoughts of pilgrimage, till learning that the

clergy of Germany had determined upon a visit to the Holy Land, the desire

to worship at the tomb of the Saviour, returned again so strong upon me,

that I was induced to unite with a Norman troop, which joined the company

of the archbishop at Mentz. We were a goodly band," continued he, "out of

every nation, kindred, tongue and people, of the Latin world--and heaven

that moved us to this expiation of our sins, opened before us the way,

and provided for our sustenance, both in the castles of princes, and in

the cottages of peasants.

"The monasteries, of which many have been founded by pious men throughout

all Germany, furnished resting-places for the weary, and hospitals for the

sick. When we entered upon the kingdom of Hungary, which is 'a

well-watered and fruitful country,' we found a strange people, whose

nobles and warriors indeed live in walled towns, and castles strongly

fortified among the rocks; but the common people, for the most part, dwell

in tents like Abraham of old, and feed their flocks and herds upon the

banks of the streams. These be the people, which the holy fathers thought

were the Gog and Magog of sacred writ, and truly they came like a storm

into Europe, and like a cloud they covered the land--both they and their

bands. And because the time of their coming was near the end of the

thousand years prophesied by St. John, many wise men did say, that they

were the signs and forerunners of the end of the world. Howbeit since the

end is not yet, there be not many at the present which hold this

doctrine."

"Are there not some who say, that Gog and Magog are the heresies which vex

the church?" inquired Robert.

"Even so," said Ingulfus; "but such are not led by the true and manifest

words of Scripture, but following 'cunningly devised fables' have

explained away even the promises of God. Now that these are the people is

proved, in that they came from Persia and from the north quarters, and the

name in which they most delight is Magyar, which plainly agreeth to Magog,

and whosoever shall dwell in the latter days, will see 'wars and rumors of

wars' in Hungary, according to my judgment. I have learned many things

concerning them; for either for my sins, or the badness of the roads, the

beast on which I rode fell lame, and therefore was I forced to leave the

horsemen, and follow on foot, supporting the weariness of the way with

pilgrim's staff. Among us were those, who from fear and love of adventure,

and not from devotion, had undertaken the pilgrimage. Their vain talk and

godless manners troubled me sore. There was one who having inserted a

shepherd's reed in his staff, played thereon and sang with his voice, not

the pious psalms of the church, but the unholy madrigals of the sinful and

profane. And for that he saw it pleased me not, he delighted in it the

more, and walked by my side, and when I could not rid myself of his

company, I questioned him concerning his history.

"He was an Anglo-Dane of the north countrie, a born thrall of Earl Edwin,

and had led a roving life from his youth. This man, whose name was

Hardrager, was the false vassal who betrayed the young noble, and received

from the justice of the Conqueror, the sentence of perpetual imprisonment.

But the princes of this world are often compelled to use unworthy

instruments in carrying forward their plans. When your royal father deemed

it expedient for the peace of the realm to punish the treason of Earl

Waltheof, and no man was willing to become his executioner, Hardrager

purchased free pardon by beheading him."

"It was well he sought to expiate his offences by a pilgrimage," said

Adela.

"Nay," said Ingulfus, "no thought of true penitence had ever entered his

mind. Instead of profiting by the clemency of his sovereign, he applied

himself anew to wicked practices, pursuing the hare and slaughtering the

deer in the New Forest; till finally having suffered the loss of an ear

for his crimes, and still continuing to set at naught the game laws, he

was condemned to death; but as if the Almighty had raised him up for a

'thorn in the flesh' to his servants, Hardrager again escaped his doom. It

pleased your noble sire, when he founded Battle Abbey, on the field of

Hastings, and appointed monks to pray for the souls of the slain, to grant

to the Abbot the power of showing mercy to the guilty. It chanced

accordingly when Hardrager was drawn from his dungeon, and carried toward

the gibbet, that the worthy Abbot meeting the cart, caused the procession

to stop, and moved with pity for the criminal revoked his sentence, and

laid on him the penance of pilgrimage. Hardrager lost no time in quitting

England, and found means to join our company, upon the banks of the

Rhine. He seemed well provided with purse and scrip, and often on days of

fasting, purchased an indulgence from the bishop for himself and other

vain persons, to regale themselves with meat and wine; and yet he seemed

not to be without a sense of sin, and a certain reverence for the commands

of the church. He rose early, and performed his devotions with the most

scrupulous regularity, and every night scourged his naked shoulders with a

knotted lash; and when I looked for a reformation in his life from this

wholesome discipline, he told me he did not that for his own sins, but for

the sins of another, who furnished him money for the expedition; for, by

reason of his poverty, he had engaged to work out a three years' penance,

that had been imposed on his benefactor; and he added, with a light laugh,

'I can better endure the smarting of my flesh by voluntary flagellation,

than the loss of it by Compulsory abstinence.'"

"By St. Stephen," exclaimed Robert, laughing, "the cunning knave is the

true scape-goat of Scripture. It were no bad thought thus to expiate our

sins by the vicarious suffering of some poor wretch."

"Heaven forefend," said Stephen, "that we should be compelled to raise our

own exchequer by such means."

"The indulgences and requisitions of the church," gravely continued

Ingulfus, "are too often perverted. I thank our blessed lady, who rather

than continue me in the society of this wicked one, laid me upon a bed of

sickness. For many days, I had with difficulty continued my journey, but

Hardrager, who seemed insensible to fatigue, supported me by his strong

arm, till coming to the lands of a powerful Hungarian, whose flocks and

herds covered the hill-side for many a league, we fell behind the other

pilgrims, and my weariness increasing upon me, I sank exhausted and

senseless upon the ground. What was my surprise when my consciousness

returned, to feel myself upborne in the arms of Hardrager, who was

attempting to place me upon the back of a horse which he had stolen from

the adjoining pasture, and bridled with the scourge that he wore about

his loins. 'Cheer up, holy father,' said he, 'heaven has sent thee help in

time of trouble. I will walk by thy side, and we will soon prove to yonder

heartless drones that the last shall be first.' In reply to my

remonstrance, he added, with a misbelieving smile, 'Nay, is it not

written, "The wealth of the wicked is laid up for the just," yon savage

Magyar may rejoice in the happy chance which enables him to send a

substitute to the holy city.'

"Upon my positive refusal to mount, he stood for a moment irresolute, and

then, with a smile, 'twixt jest and earnest, fell upon one knee before me,

saying, 'Gra'mercy, good monk, I would crave thy blessing and absolution

for this sin ere we part, for since thou wilt not accept the bounty of

heaven, I must e'en take it myself.' Observing my hesitation, he rose

hastily, saying, 'It boots not, 'tis but a few lashes more, and my

shoulders are well able to bear them. Adieu, holy father, I grieve that

thy conscience stands in the way of thy advancement,' and springing upon

the restive beast, he was away with the swiftness of the wind."

"Nay, methinks I should have been less scrupulous," said William,

laughing. "The fellow's dexterity merited absolution."

Ingulfus resumed, "Sick and alone, and much cast down in spirit, I

stretched myself upon the grass, and looked only for death, but He who

suffers not even a sparrow to fall without his notice, had compassion upon

me, and sent a good Samaritan to my relief. Korshah, the noble Magyar,

returning from the chase, came where I was, and seeing my low estate, gave

his servants charge concerning me, to convey me to his own castle, where I

tarried for above the space of a month, till my bruised feet were healed,

and my broken health restored."

"It was a deed of Christian charity. I would fain learn something of this

strange people," said Adela; "do they observe the rites of our church?"

"At the beginning of the present century," replied Ingulfus, "St. Stephen,

the Alfred of his nation, divided the country into seventy-two counties

and twelve bishoprics, but though the people have submitted to baptism,

and observe the sacred canons, yet there prevails among them a strange

mixture of barbarian fables, with the truths of holy writ; and their

language is for the most part colored with the extravagant, but beautiful

expressions of the Orientals. And because my mind was intent upon the

prophecies, and I would know concerning Gog and Magog and the chief

princes of Mesech and Tubal, I questioned the noble Magyar of his country

and the people of his ancient land. 'My people,' said he, 'are numerous as

the stars of night, and countless as the drops of falling showers. The

smallest twig of yonder elm, that throws its shadow across the valley, is

greater when compared with its trunk, than is the Hungarian branch, in

comparison with the Scythian tree, whose roots strike deep into the soil

of China, and whose boughs overshadow the Alps--extend beyond the sea of

darkness on the north, and distil dews upon the broad and fruitful regions

of Persia and Cathay. Beyond the possessions of our tribes to the

eastward,' he continued, 'may no man go; for a desert and a land of

darkness lasts from that coast, unto terrestrial Paradise. There are the

mountains and hills which arose from Noah's flood, when the soft and

tender ground was worn away by the waters, and fell and became valleys.

Paradise is the highest part of the world, so high that it touches the

borders of the moon. And there by a radiant way through the gates of the

morning the angels were wont to descend to commune with our first parents;

but that way was closed that Lucifer might return no more to the regions

of light after he had tempted them, and thus with them was he driven forth

from the garden. And Eve carried in her hand the seeds of the apple which

she had given unto her husband, and wherever she wandered she cast them

into the earth, and shed her tears upon them, and they sprang up and bore

fruit, some good and some evil, and from those seeds came every green tree

and herb that grow upon the earth. And this garden is enclosed all about

by a wall, which seems not to be of natural stone--and the gate is of

carbuncle flashing, with an incredible splendor, and shooting on every

side its beams like flaming swords. Wherefore some visionary ones said it

was fire, and many became worshippers thereof. And in the highest place in

Paradise, exactly in the midst, is a well that casts out four streams,

which run by divers lands throughout all the earth, and above the fountain

of the streams, the four princes of the stars weave the semblances of what

shall be, and cast them upon the waters, and whithersoever these flow

there entereth a spirit into the nation or the people that dwell upon the

banks, and they go forth conquering and to conquer. And thus were the

tribes of Asia inspired to go toward the west, and establish their domain

in Europe. Therefore wise men do study the stars, and read in the scroll

of heaven the will of the Invisible. And all the sweet waters in the world

above and beneath, take their rise from the well of Paradise. The drops of

the morning-dew are gendered there, and thither the clouds return after

the rain. There the light zephyrs gather rich odors under their wings, and

from thence carry them abroad upon all the face of the earth, and give to

every flower its perfume. And because of the abundance of precious things

that are found therein, many have entered these rivers and essayed to pass

by that land of chaos unto Paradise, but they might not speed in their

voyage; for many died of weariness, by reason of rowing against the strong

waves, and many were dashed in pieces against the dark rocks. And many

vessels bound with iron were drawn aside by the shipman's stone, and held

that they might never go thence.' I inquired concerning this stone," said

Ingulfus, "and he told me there were in the eastern seas 'certain rocks of

adamant which attract iron; and that men would break off pieces, and

suspend them by a thread, and that one point thereof would turn to the

north, and another to the south; and he said also that there are two stars

fixed in the heavens, about which all the firmament turns as a wheel upon

an axle. He said, moreover, that the earth and sea are of a round form,

and that by this stone many mariners have passed the whole compass of the

earth, and come again to the same point whence they set out. And these be

not half the things that he told me, and there is none of them all but

have some reason and understanding in them, and some good points of our

belief. But though this man was both learned and devout, it grieved me to

see in him the remains of his ancient superstition, for he was accustomed

to worship before a hideous idol. And when he knew I was grieved

concerning the thing, he said he worshipped not the image, but the virtue

which was in it, even as we have images of our Lady and of the saints,

which we set before us, to keep their holiness in mind. Howbeit the man

showed me no little kindness; and when I was sufficiently recovered, he

furnished me with a strong, well-appointed horse, replenished my purse,

and accompanied me to the next town on my journey.

"I had hard riding to overtake my companions, which I should have failed

in doing, had they not rested in Constantinople.

* * * * *

"This city was first called Byzantium, which name is still preserved in

the imperial money called byzants. It was by divine suggestion that its

appellation was changed. For when Constantine the Great was pursuing his

victorious course to the east, he lodged in that place; and in his dream

he saw, and behold there stood before him an old woman, whose brow was

furrowed with age; but presently clad in an imperial robe, she was

transformed into a beautiful girl, and fascinated his eyes by the elegance

of her youthful charms--and he waked and slept again; and there came one

unto him and said, 'The woman thou sawest is this city worn down by age,

whose walls thou shalt restore, and whose beauty shall signalize thy name

to the end of time. Mount thy horse and give him the rein, to go

whithersoever he will. Take the royal spear in thy hand, and its point

shall describe the circuit of the wall upon the ground.'

"The Emperor eagerly obeyed the vision, and employed the most skilful

architects in building the city. By casting in masses of rock and sand,

they straitened the ancient waters, and thus the sea wonders to see fields

unknown before amid its glassy waves, and surrounds and supplies the city

with all the conveniences of the earth. Constantine erected there the

circus, statues of triumphal heroes, and tripods from Delphi. And all the

saints whose bodies he was able to collect out of every country, were

brought thither. In Constantinople is the fairest and noblest church in

the world, called St. Sophia. It is of a circular form, domed in, and

supported with pillars of gold and silver, hung about by lamps of the same

precious metal. High mass is offered there on a different altar each day

in the year. In its innermost part on the north side, is a large and

beautiful apartment, wherein is a chest containing three pieces of our

Lord's cross. Three times in a year this chest is brought out into the

nave of the church, and placed upon a golden altar, where all the people

are permitted to worship it. Howbeit I saw it not, which thing is a grief

of mind to me. And they say concerning this cross, that when Adam was

about to die, Seth went unto the angel that kept Paradise, to beg the oil

of mercy for his father. But the angel gave him only three grains of the

tree of life. And Seth buried them in the grave of Adam, and from these

grains sprang up three trees, and from these were fashioned the cross on

which our Saviour was crucified, as is contained in these words, '_In

cruci fit palma cypressus oliva_.' Thus from the death of Adam came life

into the world. And when our Lord had risen from the dead, the Jews moved

with envy, took the crosses from Mount Calvary, and hid them in the earth.

And thus St. Helena, the mother of Constantine, who was descended from the

ancient kings of Britain, found them; and when she could not distinguish

the cross of the Saviour from those of the thieves, she caused a dead body

to be laid upon them, and when it touched the true cross it arose. St.

Helena caused these relics to be conveyed to Constantinople; but the cross

of Dismas the good thief, was carried to Cyprus, and men worship it

there. There also she found the Saviour's seamless coat, and the four

nails that pierced his hands and feet; and of one of these the Emperor

made a bridle for his horse to carry him in battle, and thereby he

overcame all his enemies, and reigned from Persia to the British Sea. They

showed me also a part of the crown of our Lord, made of the branches of

Aubespine; and I had one of those precious thorns given to me as a great

favor, and it hath this virtue; that whosoever beareth it about him, is

secure from thunder and from tempest, and from the malevolence of evil

spirits and demons. We tarried long at Constantinople, for there were many

wonderful things to be seen. Every year the birthday of Jesus is

celebrated with rejoicings; and on these occasions one may behold

representatives of all the nations that inhabit different parts of the

world; and the common people are amused with surprising feats of jugglery

and dexterous motions of wild beasts, and birds of prey that have been

trained to fight each other. And the Emperor entertained the bishops right

royally in the palace of the Blaquernel, in feasts and games, and gave

them gifts of gold and silver, rich apparel and costly jewels, so that

they were in no haste to depart, and many of the mixed multitudes that

followed with us, remained there, and entered the service of the Emperor."

Ingulfus was surprised the following day in the midst of his studies, by a

secret visit from Adela.

"I am come," said she, "to obtain of thee, the precious thorn from the

crown of our Lord."

The countenance of Ingulfus indicated at once his reluctance to part with

the inestimable relic, and his strong desire to gratify the princess.

"Nay," said she, observing his hesitation, "I know its value, and am

prepared to reward thee at whatsoever cost."

"Though it may have been the practice of some unworthy palmers, to trade

in relics," said Ingulfus, "I cannot make merchandise of that which

pierced the brow of my blessed Lord. It is thine without money, and

without price."

Tears of gratitude beamed in Adela's eyes. "Good father," she answered, "I

know right well, that by reason of thy holiness thou art safe from sudden

danger, and therefore thou canst not need this talisman as does thy

unworthy pupil; yet it grieves me to take without recompense that which is

so dear to thee. Is there no gift in the power of Adela which Ingulfus

would accept?"

"Thy father hath sometime suggested," returned the friar, modestly, "that

he would reward my poor services with a benefice. It would please me well,

to spend the few short days that remain unto me, in England. Near the

monastery of Croyland was I born, and within the shelter of its walls

would I die."

"Trust me for the accomplishment of thy wish," said Adela, bowing her head

for his benediction. Then wrapping the holy thorn in a piece of silver

tissue, and placing it in her bosom, she departed.

CHAPTER VIII.

"When thou shalt see an old man bent beneath

The burden of his earthly punishment,

Forgive him, Thalaba!

Yea, send a prayer to God in his behalf!"--SOUTHEY.

INGULFUS' STORY, CONTINUED.

From Constantinople we proceeded across the Bosphorus through Asia Minor.

Our route was tedious in the extreme, and after we entered upon the

territory of the Infidels, we were continually harassed by flying bands of

Arabs; so that many were slain, and some being driven from the main body

were lost among the mountains, and we saw them no more. At length with

much toil, the pilgrims reached the village of Capernaum, where being

hardly beset by the robbers, they were constrained to tarry, until they

could obtain a safe escort from the Emir at Antioch. Howbeit I only relate

these things as they were told me in Jerusalem; for a strange adventure

separated me from my fellows. There are two fountains, Jor and Dan, which

flowing down from the mountain, are collected into one, and form the

Jordan. When we passed them in our route, I was constrained to linger

among the shepherds, who fed their flocks in the green pastures which

there abound, and several devout persons tarried with me; and on the

morrow, when we had taken our leave, we journeyed on, and straightway we

came to the conflux of these streams,--and when we saw the Jordan, each

man hasted to divest himself of his garments, that he might bathe in that

stream, in which our blessed Lord was baptized. So occupied were we with

the holy ceremony, that we had not observed a band of Arabs, who assailed

us with a shower of stones and javelins, and separated us one from

another. What farther passed I know not, for a blow upon the temple felled

me to the ground, and deprived me of sense.

When I unclosed my eyes, I thought myself among the fiends of hell; and

feeling for my crucifix, I found myself wrapped in many folds of fine

cloth, in which I was firmly but gently bound. As my senses gradually

returned, I began to note the things about me. The apartment seemed a

long, dark cavern, whose limits I could not distinguish, lighted by a fire

at the farther extremity, round which half clothed, swarthy figures were

engaged in roasting pieces of flesh. Others of the same appearance were

seated upon mats, with a cloth spread before them upon the ground, cutting

the meat with long, crooked knives, or tearing it with their white pointed

teeth, with savage voracity. Apart from the rest, seated upon an elevated

cushion with his legs crossed, was a tall, strong-built man, with hair and

beard white as snow, hanging over his shoulders, and down to his breast.

He took no part with the revellers, but seemed to control by his look

their wild, gibbering talk, to the end that it might not disturb my

slumbers; for through excessive faintness, I seemed only to exist between

sleeping and waking. His regards were fixed upon me, and his appearance

recalled a dim recollection which I was vainly striving to trace, when at

a word from him, the whole band disappeared behind an angle in the wall.

The old man then lighted a torch and approached me, carefully removed the

bandage from my head, anointed my wound with sweet-smelling balm, and gave

me to drink of a fiery liquid, which spread like an elixir through my

veins, and seemed instantly to reanimate me. With a smile at my puzzled

look, he plucked away the false beard and hair, and revealed to my

astonished sight, the swarthy countenance of Hardrager.

"Well met, holy father," said he, with his wonted laugh. "Hast come to

bring a blessing to the habitation of Hardrager?"

"Is this thine habitation?" said I. "Then I was not so far wrong in

thinking myself in purgatory!" (for I was ill-pleased with the strange

place and bad company.) "But by what fatal mischance came I hither? Has

the Saviour, for my sins, denied me at last the sight of his holy

sepulchre?" and I sank back in despair.

"Nay," said Hardrager, "but for the mischance which thou deplorest, thou

mightest indeed have been in purgatory."

"And where am I?" eagerly inquired I.

"Thou art in the strong-hold of the Old Man of the Mountain, and guarded

by the assassin band of Mount Lebanon," replied he.

"The saints preserve me!" said I, ejaculating a prayer.

"In truth thou showest little gratitude," said Hardrager, "to one who hath

saved thy life, (thanks to the good Hungarian steed that brought me to thy

rescue). Knowest thou not the proverb? 'Speak well of the bridge that

carried thee safe over!'"

Finding from his words, but more especially from the seriousness of his

manner, that this wild man had really undertaken to render me an essential

service, I began to regard him with more complacency, and finally brought

myself to listen with interest to his story. Stung with remorse for his

agency in the death of the noble Saxons, Edwin and Waltheof, he had

determined, as soon as his pilgrimage was accomplished, to join the

Varangians of Constantinople, and make perpetual war upon the conquerors

of England. On his route through Syria, he fell in with a band of Arabs,

wild and reckless like himself, who, scorning allegiance to any leader,

had established themselves among the ruined towers and rocky fortresses of

Mount Lebanon, and thence carried on predatory warfare upon all who

ventured to travel that way. They wore the Mohammedan garb, and observed

some of the institutions of the Koran, but were followers of Ali, uncle of

the prophet. The superior abilities and learning of Hardrager, enabled him

soon to master their language and their tenets, and by the fortunate

solution of some timely mysteries, he impressed them with the belief that

he was the prophet of Allah, and soon brought them to take oath to obey

all his requirements. But though he had thus apostatized from the faith of

his fathers, he retained a copy of the New Testament, and religiously

fulfilled his vows at the holy sepulchre, and with honesty worthy a better

man continued his nightly flagellations. He had instilled into his wild

followers his own hatred of the Norman race, and it was because of this

that they fell upon us with such violence at the Jordan. I should have

perished with my companions, for the Assassins were proceeding to rip open

the bodies of the slain and wounded in search of coin, had not Hardrager

recognized my Saxon countenance and interposed for my rescue. With the

greatest care and tenderness, he had me conveyed in a litter to their

nearest haunt, where, after protracted insensibility, I found myself

stretched upon the couch of skins in the cavern. As soon as I was

sufficiently restored, he mounted me upon the good steed of the Magyar,

which, being unable to walk, I was fain to ride, and accompanied me till

we came in sight of the pilgrims encamped upon the Mount of Olives, for by

his messengers, Hardrager had intelligence of their movements, and

conducted me by the shortest route to join them.

"Benedicite, holy father," said he, as he lifted me gently from the horse,

and reverently inclined before me, "a blessing in the Saxon tongue would

be health to my guilty soul."

A tear glittered in his eye, and if it were a sin Heaven assoil me, for I

yielded to his importunity and granted him the blessing. "Adieu, good

friar," said he, "thou hast taken a load from my heart. Accept from the

gratitude of Hardrager that which may stand thee instead, when thy fancied

relics are of little avail." So saying, he gave me a small slip of

parchment inscribed with Arabic characters, and rode slowly away. I thrust

the scroll into my purse, little knowing its value, for my sight and sense

were filled with Jerusalem, which I now saw for the first time. As I

walked along the brow of Olivet, like my Saviour, I beheld the city and

wept over it, for the glory of Solomon's temple had departed; the holy

prophets and apostles had passed away, and bands of Infidels whose bright

scimeters gleamed in the light of the setting sun dashed through her

sacred streets, and encountered each other with barbarian clamor in her

holy courts. The sound of the vesper-bell from the church of the Ascension

invited us to prayer. With divine rapture we pressed our lips upon the

stone imprinted with the last footsteps of our Saviour, and with pious

theft we gathered some of the sacred dust from before the altar.

Descending from the mountain, we spent the night in fasting and prayer in

the garden of Gethsemane, and at the first cock-crowing, arose to pass

over the Brook Cedron. In the valley of Jehoshaphat we were met by the

venerable patriarch, with the Latin and Syrian Christians of Jerusalem,

who conducted us in solemn procession through the midst of the city to the

church of the Holy Sepulchre.

There, amid the clangor of cymbals, and the sweet sounds of psaltery and

harp, we bowed in worship and adoration, while through the cloud of

ascending incense streamed the effulgence of innumerable lights, like the

Shechinah of the ancient temple, and Jesus Christ the inhabitant of the

place, alone knew the sighs we breathed, the tears we shed, the prayers we

offered, and the thanksgivings we uttered.

Our vows were accomplished, and with the benediction of the patriarch upon

us, we went forth, to climb the hill of Calvary, to visit the pool of

Bethesda, and to mourn over all the pleasant places which the followers of

Mohammed have laid waste. There was one among us, who, for the sins he had

committed, and the compunctions of conscience that he suffered, was

desirous to yield up his soul at the tomb of the Saviour.

This celebrated man, Fulk Earl of Anjou, had compelled two of his servants

by an oath, to do whatsoever he commanded, and when we had completed our

procession, and obtained absolution, he was by them dragged naked through

the streets towards the Holy Sepulchre, one of them holding him by a

twisted withe about his neck, the other, with a rod scourging his bare

back, while the penitent cried out, "Lord, receive thy wretched Fulk, thy

perfidious, thy runagate--regard my repentant soul, oh Lord Jesus Christ."

Howbeit he obtained not his request at that time. We were desirous to go

down from Jerusalem to Jericho, to worship at Gilgal, and view that sea,

whose black waters roll over the cities of the plain; but the wealth of

the archbishops had been noised abroad, and the thieves that abound in

those parts, fell upon all those who ventured that way, stripped and

wounded them, and departed, leaving them to perish by the wayside. But our

Norman bands accompanied by a party of Germans, arming themselves with

swords determined to visit the Church of the Nativity, at Bethlehem. We

accomplished our purpose in safety, and were returning through the fields

of the wood, when a band of mounted Saracens, with wild cries, dashed

among us. Reluctantly, each man drew his sword and stood for his life. The

attack fell heaviest upon the Normans, and despite our vigorous

resistance, we should, doubtless, all have perished beneath their

javelins, had not the frantic gestures, and more especially the green

turbans of our assailants, reminded me of the cave of Hardrager, and

recalled his parting words. Hastily opening my purse, I held up the Arabic

scroll, before the eyes of a barbarian, whose drawn scimeter was flashing

above my head.

At sight of it his demeanor instantly changed. He alighted, assisted me to

rise, laid his hand upon his heart to express his concern for what had

happened, and shouting, Allah ackbar, to his companions, drew them from

their work of blood, and forthwith the flying band disappeared. Nearly

half our number were slain, and the rest of us wounded and disheartened,

slowly retraced our steps to Jerusalem, and relinquished all attempts to

visit the other holy places with which the vicinity abounds. Though the

patriarch, and the monks of the various monasteries gave us hospitable

entertainments, yet, such had been the length, the weariness and

discouragements of the way, and such the thinning of our ranks by famine,

fatigue, disease, and hostility, that we were fain to choose the readiest

means of return.

Learning that a fleet of Genoese merchantmen were anchored in the harbor

of Joppa, we determined to purchase a passage over seas with them. The

archbishops, therefore, gathered the pilgrims together, and numbered them,

and of the seven thousand that had set out from Mentz, scarce three

thousand remained; and on our way from Jerusalem to the place of

embarkation through the rocky defiles which are the favorite haunts of the

barbarians, we estimated that another thousand perished.

Our voyage to Brundusium was the most prosperous part of our journey.

Thence we came to Rome; where I showed my life to our holy father the

pope, and was absolved of all that lay on my conscience, concerning many

grievous points, as men must needs have that travel in company with so

many people of divers sects and beliefs. We then proceeded through Italy,

and the archbishops took the route to Germany; and of our band that left

Normandy, thirty well-appointed horsemen, twenty miserable palmers, only,

repassed the Alps, and entered France on foot, ill, weary, and penniless;

and had not a kind Providence sent the noble Earls Robert and Stephen to

our relief, we might at last have perished on the banks of the Eure.

CHAPTER IX.

Can piety the discord heal,

Or stanch the death-feud's enmity?

Can Christian lore, can patriot's zeal,

Can love of blessed charity?

The year 1077 opened with great rejoicing in Normandy. The royal family

were reunited for the last time, to celebrate the marriage of Adela and

Constance, with the wealthy and powerful husbands of the Conqueror's

choice. The young Count and Countess of Blois, whose castles were numerous

as the days in the year, determined to make a festive progress through

their dominions, and the Earl of Bretagne, with his bride, with their

young sister, Gundred, and her undeclared lover, the Earl of Warrenne,

joined the happy party.

In the midst of her happiness Adela did not forget her promise to

Ingulfus. The evening before her departure, she visited the cloister of

the palmer, and acquainted him with his preferment to the Abbey of

Croyland. The good friar's gratitude and pleasure were unbounded.

"Holy father," said the countess, "I have yet one boon to crave."

"Name it," said the priest. "If it lieth in my poor ability it shall not

fail thee."

"Because it lieth in thy power do I intrust it to thee," continued she.

"The body of Earl Waltheof, the father of our much-injured Maude, is

interred at the four cross-roads, without the gates of Winchester; when

thou takest possession of thy benefice, as soon as may be, thou wilt give

him Christian burial, in the church-yard of Croyland, and cause daily

masses to be said for his soul."

Ingulfus readily promised compliance.

Adela still lingered. "The lovely Maude goes with thee to England. Thou

wilt be compelled to marry her to Simon. Soften, as much as possible, her

hard fate, and watch over her interests, and comfort her with thy

counsels."

"It shall be done," said Ingulfus, fervently.

"Father, I would confess."

And the young countess, in all her beauty and pride, knelt at the feet of

the venerable man, and with the simplicity of a child, poured out her soul

before him.

As Adela had predicted, the Conqueror, on his return to England, took with

him Maude, as the bride of Simon. Robert sailed, also, in the same vessel,

being commissioned by the king to establish Simon, now Earl of Huntingdon,

in his new possessions.

William, too, accompanied his father, for he, more than any of the sons,

comprehended the policy, and partook of the spirit of the Conqueror.

The remaining years of the Queen Duchess Matilda, were passed in splendid

solitude, in the royal palace at Bayeux. The early death of the princess

Adeliza, the failing health of Constance, together with fresh dissensions

in her family, pressed heavily upon her mind, and occasioned the lingering

illness that slowly conducted her to the tomb.

The loss of his beloved queen, and the undutiful conduct of his sons,

aggravated the natural irritability and imperiousness of William, so that

according to the English chroniclers, "He became, after her death, a

thorough tyrant." He passed the four remaining years of his life in a

constant succession of petty annoyances, and fruitless wars, with Philip

of France.

In the stately castle of Chartres, sat the lovely Countess Adela

apparently busy with embroidery, in that age almost the only home

occupation of females. A shade of sadness was upon her brow, and an

expression of anxious care indicated the mother's sympathy with the

suffering child, that an attendant was vainly striving to soothe.

"Draw the couch of the little William to my side, Therese," said the

countess, observing the tears in the girl's eyes. "Thou hast a tiresome

task. Remove these frames," continued she to the maidens, "and go ye all

to disport awhile in the pleasance, I will watch my boy's slumbers."

The feeble child stretched his hands to his mother, and laying his head

upon her breast sank quietly to sleep.

"Poor suffering one," soliloquized Adela, "thou knowest naught but thy

mother's love. Already thy younger brothers despise thy imbecility--the

courtiers regard thee with indifference--and the very menials flout thee.

No ducal coronet, or kingly crown will grace the head of my first-born."

The sound of heavy steps in the corridor disturbed the slumberer. He

lifted his head, moaned heavily, and regarded with a vacant stare the

warrior who entered.

"Robert, my beloved brother!" exclaimed the countess, the joy of former

times flitting across her countenance.

With a moody and dissatisfied air the duke returned the frank greeting of

his sister, and throwing himself upon a seat by her side, said in a tone

of ill-concealed impatience,

"Adela, I have come to thee, for the prudent counsel of our mother dwells

with thee. I am robbed of my rights and stripped of my heritage."

"Art thou not Duke of Normandy," inquired his sister with surprise.

"Aye, verily. Our father left me the duchy with a blessing that sounded

marvellously like a curse. 'The dukedom of Normandy,' said he, 'I granted

unto my son Robert, and having received the homage of his baronage, that

honor given cannot be revoked: yet he is a foolish, proud knave, and will

be punished with cruel fortune.'"

"The saints preserve thee," said the countess with a look of alarm, "and

England"--

Robert interrupted.--"'Tis of that I would speak. The Conqueror bitterly

bewailing the desolation and woe he had wrought in England, protested that

he had so misused that fair and beautiful land, that he dare not appoint a

successor to it, but left the disposal of that matter in the hands of

God."

"Thou shouldst then have been king," said the Countess, "since God made

thee his first-born."

"So should I have been," said the duke, "but for the craft of William; but

while I tarried in Germany, little thinking that my father's illness would

terminate so suddenly, the red-haired usurper hastened over sea, and

gaining Lanfranc to his interest secured the throne."

"Always unready," sighed Adela. "And while the elder sons were thus

employed, the young Henry watched by the bed of his dying father. Is it

not so?"

"Small watching had the Conqueror's death-bed," said Robert, with

something between a smile and a sneer. "The filial Beauclerk set off to

secure the treasures, and the attendants equally rapacious and inhuman,

plundered the house of all the money, plate, and precious furniture, and

even stripped the person of the monarch. And after Herlwin had succeeded

in conveying the body to the abbey of St. Stephen's, and they were about

to place it in the grave, there stood forth an insolent noble, and forbade

the interment. 'This spot,' said he, 'was the site of my father's house,

which this dead duke took violently from him, and here upon part of my

inheritance founded this church. This ground I therefore challenge, and

charge ye all as ye shall answer it at the great and dreadful day of

judgment, that ye lay not the bones of the destroyer on the hearth of my

fathers.' And there, exposed to the jeers of the assembled multitudes, was

the body forced to wait, while Henry drove a sharp bargain with the owner

of the soil, and purchased leave of burial for the paltry sum of sixty

shillings. Oh Adela!" said Robert, rising and striding through the

apartment in extreme perturbation, "I am weary of this greatness which

makes enemies of brothers, and yields one scarce a grave at last."

The head of the countess was bent low over her sleeping child: and the

duke continued, "I sometimes wish I were an eremite, and unless thy clear

wit can devise some expedient by which I can obtain my rightful

inheritance, and chastise the vanity of this presumptuous Rufus, I am

resolved upon a pilgrimage."

"Thou saidst Lanfranc, assisted William: our uncle Odo hates Lanfranc,"

said Adela.

Robert caught at the suggestion. "My sister, I thank thee," he exclaimed

eagerly. "Thou hast made me king. I will to Normandy, and summon my trusty

squires to council. Simon of Huntingdon, Hugh of Norfolk, and William of

Durham, are already disaffected and ready for revolt. Odo shall head the

conspiracy in England."

Full of his new project the duke hurried away, scarcely waiting for the

pecuniary aid, with which the countess, who knew the impoverished state of

his finances, hastened to furnish him.

* * * * *

The well-concerted scheme of the conspirators failed, through the

characteristic indolence and procrastination of Robert. Odo effected an

inglorious escape from England, and the rebel earls gladly made terms with

the king. Many of the insurgents repaired to Normandy, and suffered the

confiscation of their estates; and while the Countess of Blois daily

expected a summons to attend Robert's coronation, she was surprised by

intelligence that William had crossed the sea with a numerous army, and by

menaces, bribery or fraud, had obtained possession of almost every

fortress, on the right bank of the Seine.

The barons who held lands under both brothers, labored to effect a

reconciliation through the mediation of the French monarch.

Robert still reckoning upon the liberal aid of his sister and her wealthy

lord, resisted all overtures of peace; but Adela comprehending the

hopeless defect of a character, that not even a crown could stimulate to

promptitude, persuaded him to accept the terms of the treaty.

* * * * *

As the splendid cortege attendant upon the Countess of Blois, and her

young sons Thibaut, Stephen and Henry, swept along the great road from

Chartres to Blois, the green arcades of a beautiful grove stretching down

to the brink of a small stream that rolled its clear waters to the Loire,

invited them to rest during the noontide hours. With loosened rein the

steeds wandered at will cropping the tender herbage, or slaked their

thirst in the rippling brook; while reposing upon the greensward, the

party made a refreshing repast. The children, left to the unrestrained

indulgence of their boyish glee, gathered wild flowers for their mother,

hallooed to the echoes of the wood, or pursued each other along the banks

of the stream.

Allured by the sound of their happy voices, the countess left the company

and stole after them, catching occasional glimpses of their dancing

plumes, as they bounded on before her, till coming to an opening in the

glen, she stopped before an antique crucifix that some pious hand had

reared upon the verge of a fountain. Occupied with the sweet thoughts

suggested by the place, she scarcely noted the absence of her children,

till the little Henry, pulling her by the robe exclaimed with a face all

radiant with joy, "This way ma mere, Thibaut says we've found a hermit's

cell, and Stephen is talking with the hermit." Yielding to his impetuosity

the countess hastened forward and discovered sitting at the entrance of a

sylvan lodge, just where the shadow of the cross fell longest at sunset, a

youthful saint, if saint he was, reading his breviary, and telling his

beads with affected sanctity.

"Beauclerk!" said the countess after a scrutinizing gaze at his

half-concealed features.

"Thou knowest me then," said the pretended monk, in a tone of bitter

reproach, rising and throwing off his gray friar's gown and cowl. "I

thought myself forgotten by all my father's house."

"'Tis our uncle Henry," said Thibaut, amazed and chagrined at this

transformation of his newly discovered hermit.

"And hast thou then doubted the affection of Adela?" said his sister.

"It were not strange that I should doubt the love of one leagued with my

foes," replied the prince sorrowfully.

"How leagued with thy foes?" inquired the countess in great surprise.

"Thou surely dost not mock me," said Henry marking the tears trembling on

her eyelids. "Thy countenance bespeaks thy sincerity. Have I then been the

dupe, as well as the prey of my designing brothers?"

"If thou hast distrusted the love of Adela, yes," replied his sister, "but

come thou with me. My lord awaits us at the castle of Blois. He shall

investigate thy cause and redress thy wrongs."

"Come with us, dear uncle," reiterated the children observing his

hesitation.

"Yield thyself, rescue or no rescue," said the young Stephen balancing a

stick as a lance, and leading off the prince in triumph.

"And hast thou not heard of the siege of St. Michael's Mount?" said Henry

as he rode by the side of his sister, at the head of the cavalcade.

"A passing rumor, and much I fear me, purposely perverted to restrain my

interference, was all that reached me," replied Adela. "Tell me all."

"Thou knowest," continued Henry, "that by the will of our father, the

duchy of Normandy fell to Robert, and the rich heritage of England was

given to William. Henry had neither patrimony nor domains, some small

treasure was all my share. This I gave to Robert in the hour of his need,

for the lands of Cotentin, and then passed into England, to secure the

dower of my mother. On my return, the prodigal having squandered the

moneys received from me, seized and confined me in one of his fortresses.

When Normandy was invaded, he released me from my imprisonment, and I did

him good service in compelling William to raise the siege of Rouen. In the

treaty to which thou didst persuade Robert, I was the principal sufferer,

and therefore"--added he with warmth, "did I deem that the guileful duke,

had stolen into the sanctuary of my sister's affections, and robbed me of

thy love, my choicest treasure."

"My much-injured brother," said the countess, affectionately, "I knew not

that thy interest was involved, else I had given far different counsel.

But proceed with the story of thy wrongs."

"My traitor brothers united like Pilate and Herod of old," proceeded

Henry, with increasing asperity, "seized my castles in Cotenten, and

dogged my steps like sleuth-hounds on the track, till I took refuge in Mt.

St. Michael, where the friendly tides kept them at bay; and there I had

perished with thirst, had not Robert's tardy compassion ministered to my

necessity, and finally effected my release. Since then, I have wandered a

fugitive and an outcast, craving scant hospitality of my brother's

vassals, and solacing my weary hours with clerkly studies."

"Courage, my good brother," said Adela, with enthusiasm. "Thou shalt

wander no more. Count Stephen will put thee in the way to mend thy

fortunes; and, perchance, thou wilt one day inherit the proud fiefs of

both thy brothers. See! yonder gleams the spires of Blois. But what

knightly train proceeds up the broad avenue of the castle. Listen! The

warder sounds his bugle blast, and the drawbridge is lowered. Put thy

horse to his mettle; these laggards may follow at their leisure." So

saying the countess and her brother dashed forward, and entered the

court-yard just as the retinue of the Duke of Normandy wound up the

staircase, leading to the great hall.

At sight of Robert, Henry's eye flashed, and with an indignant gesture he

turned to depart, but Adela, with a determined air, laid her hand upon his

arm. "Remain," said she, "that portcullis bars all egress from the

castle, and yon proud duke shall not escape till he has done thee ample

justice."

Earl Stephen gave a cordial welcome to Robert, and greeted his countess

with much affection, but the entrance of Henry threw him into evident

perturbation, nor did it relieve his embarrassment to see his wife, with

characteristic heroism, advance between the rival brothers, and fix her

flashing eyes upon Robert.

The noble conduct of the repentant duke happily averted the gathering

storm.

"Spare thy reproaches, sweet sister," said he, "and thou, my brother,

forgive the grievous injuries thou hast suffered, and accept the only

reparation that lieth in my power. I restore unto thee Cotenten, and would

but for my poverty indemnify thee for thy losses. I have determined on a

visit to the Holy Land; and I would dispose my worldly affairs, so that

should I never return, man shall not accuse me before the throne of God."

The frankness of his confession, and the seriousness of his manner,

allayed the resentment of Henry, and effected an apparent reconciliation.

Harmony being thus restored, Robert proceeded at proper intervals to

unfold the desires and purposes that had brought him once again to counsel

with Adela.

Since the treaty which confirmed William in the sovereignty of England,

not only, but secured to him several strong fortresses in Normandy, the

duke had resigned himself to listlessness and luxury. In his aimless

expeditions his attention had been frequently attracted by the appearance

of a monk, who embodied in himself the spirit of a hermit, a pilgrim, and

a soldier. His head was bare, his feet naked. His diminutive figure,

attenuated by frequent abstinence, was wrapped in a coarse garment. His

prayers were long and fervent, and the enthusiasm that gleamed in his eyes

kindled the fires of holy zeal, in every town, village, and hamlet through

which he passed. As he rode along, every street and highway was thronged

with people, who worshipped the weighty crucifix he bore aloft, and

listened with sighs and tears, while he depicted the sufferings of the

Christians of Palestine, and with loud and frequent appeals to Christ and

the holy mother, challenged the warriors of the age to defend their

brethren, and rescue the tomb of the Saviour from the dominion of

Infidels.

Robert's curiosity was excited. He joined the eager crowds that followed

the steps of the monk, and listened to the thrilling words till the latent

desire of pilgrimage that had long slumbered in his mind awoke to life and

activity, and he became a convert to the preachings of Peter the Hermit.

But while he hesitated at the palmer's gown and staff, the united voices

of chivalry and religion, bade him don his armor and draw his sword.

In the general council of the church, at Placentia, the ambassadors of the

Greek Emperor Alexius Comnenus had portrayed the distress of their

sovereign, and the danger of Constantinople, from the victorious Turks.

The sad tales of the misery and perils of the eastern brethren, drew tears

from the assembly, and several champions declared their readiness to march

to the East.

The Greeks were dismissed with assurances of speedy and powerful succor.

Pope Urban had given his sanction to the scheme, and summoned a second

council to meet in Clermont the following November, to confer upon

measures for sending armed forces into Asia.

It was to secure the concurrence of Adela, and the co-operation of

Stephen, that Robert now came to Blois.

The representations of her brother, and the subject of his discourse

renewed, in the memory of Adela, the fancy sketches of her childhood, and

called up the half-formed purposes of her early youth. With the

clear-sightedness peculiar to her character, she scanned the wide field

thus opened to ambition, balanced the possible with the impracticable,

determined for her brother the only course that would give free scope to

his knightly abilities, and coveting for her husband a share in the

glorious enterprise, persuaded him to embrace the scheme, and thus

rendered herself really the "_Heroine of the First Crusade_."

CHAPTER X.

"Onward they came, a dark continuous cloud

Of congregated myriads numberless."

"To dispose of his worldly affairs so that man might not accuse him before

the throne of God," was a more serious and protracted work than the Duke

of Normandy had anticipated. The patience of Stephen was in consequence

nearly exhausted, in waiting his preparations, and it was not till the

council of Clermont had been several days in session, that the nobles

entered the district of Auvergne. As they approached the place of meeting,

the highways were thronged by the eager crowds that flocked towards the

city; and all the plains as far as the eye could reach, were dotted with

tents and booths, that afforded temporary shelter for the thousands that

could not find accommodation in the town.

On the morning of the eighth day, at an early hour, the reverend clergy,

with the pope at their head, ascended a wooden pulpit, erected in the

midst of the concourse, and declared to them the decrees of the synod,

concerning the various matters at that time agitating the church. But

ecclesiastical decisions and local interests were lost in the absorbing

theme that occupied every heart. The blessing of Heaven was invoked upon

their deliberations; and a stillness fell upon the waiting multitudes,

like the hush of winds before the mighty storm, while the Monk of Amiens

in a voice of persuasive eloquence and power, told them how terrible were

the sufferings of their brethren in the East, and how burdensome was the

tribute exacted by the inhuman Mussulmans. He stated that lodging in the

house of Simon, the patriarch of Jerusalem, he had become an eye-witness

of these enormities, and had been commissioned to invite all the princes

of the West, to contribute towards their remedy; that on a certain day

filled with grief, he had entered the church of the Resurrection, and

given himself to prayer, till at length sinking upon the cold stone

pavement, there had breathed upon his senses,--first a soft strain like a

shepherd's flute, swelling into a heavenly harmony, such as the advent

angels sung, and then, triumphant anthems deepening into the trumpet's

thunder tone, and the discordant clash of armor; that like Elijah of old

he had afterwards heard a still small voice, saying, "Arise, Peter, make

haste and fulfil without fear, what I have enjoined upon thee; for I will

be with thee. It is time for the holy places to be purified, and for my

servants to be succored in their distress;" that immediately after the

seraphic vision had beamed upon his sight, the brightness of the light

awoke him; when he beheld lying upon the altar a letter containing the

words of the Saviour; and his own pilgrim's staff transformed into a

sword.

The Hermit ceased; and held up the miraculous scroll before the eyes of

all the people. A wailing swept over the vast throng, and the whole

multitude bowed, as the forest bends before the first rush of the tempest.

Seizing upon the favorable moment, the pontiff arose and addressed the

assembly. "My brethren and dearest children, whether kings, princes,

marquises, counts, barons, or knights, all you who have been redeemed by

the bodily passion, and shedding of the blood of our Lord Jesus Christ,

hear the complaints of God himself, which are addressed to you concerning

the wrongs and unlooked-for injuries, which have been done to him in Asia,

where sprang the first germs of our faith, where the Apostles suffered

martyrdom, and where at the present day, the persecuted christians with

stifled sighs, long for a participation in your liberties. Have compassion

upon your brethren that dwell in Jerusalem, and in the coasts

thereof,--check the insolence of the barbarians, and you will be extolled

throughout all ages--let your zeal in the expedition atone for the rapine,

theft, homicide, licentiousness, and deeds of incendiarism, by which you

have provoked the Lord to anger,--turn against the enemies of Christ those

weapons, which you have hitherto stained with blood, in battles and

tournaments against yourselves. To those present, I command this; to those

absent, I enjoin it. For ourselves we will trust in the mercy of the

Almighty God, and in virtue of the power He has given us, and by the

authority of the blessed Apostles, Peter and Paul, we absolve all who

engage in this holy war, from all the offences which they shall repent in

their hearts, and with their lips confess, and in the retribution of the

just we promise to the same an increased portion of eternal salvation. And

this forgiveness shall extend also to those who contribute by their

substance or counsel to its success. Go then, brave soldiers, and secure

to yourselves fame throughout the world. God will accompany you on your

march--the season of the year be propitious, both by the abundance of

fruits, and by the serenity of the elements. Those who shall die, will sit

down in the Heavenly guest-chamber, and those who survive will set their

eyes on the Saviour's sepulchre. Happy are they who are called to this

expedition, that they may see the holy places in which our Lord conversed

with man, and where to save them he was born, crucified, died;--was buried

and rose again. Take then the road before you in expiation of your sins,

and go assured that after the honors of this world have passed away,

imperishable glory shall await you, even in the kingdom of Heaven."

Loud shouts of 'God wills it,' 'God wills it,' pronounced simultaneously

in all the different dialects, and languages, spoken by the nations of

which the multitude was composed, for a moment interrupted the prelate.

Commanding silence by a motion of the hand, he resumed.

"Dear brethren, to-day is shown forth in you, that which the Lord has said

by his evangelist, 'When two or three shall be assembled in my name, there

shall I be in the midst of them.' For if the Lord God had not been in your

souls you would not all have pronounced the same words, or rather God

himself pronounced them by your lips, for it was He who put them in your

hearts. Be they then your war-cry in the combat, for those words came

forth from God. Let the army of the Lord when it rushes upon his enemies,

shout but that one cry, 'Deus vult,' 'Deus vult.' Oh brave knights!

remember the virtues of your ancestors; and if you feel held back from the

course before you, by the soft ties of wives, of children, of parents,

call to mind the words of our Lord himself, 'Whosoever loveth father or

mother more than me is not worthy of me. Whosoever shall abandon for my

name's sake, his house, or his brethren, or his sisters, or his father, or

his mother, or his wife, or his children, or his lands, shall receive an

hundred fold, and shall inherit eternal life.' Gird yourselves then, my

brave warriors, for the battle, and let him who is ready to march, bear

the holy cross of the Lord upon his shoulders, in memory of that precept

of the Saviour, 'He who does not take up his cross and follow me, is not

worthy of me.'"

The agony of conflicting emotions that shook the assembled throngs, burst

forth in a storm of sighs, groans, and tears, and as the trees of the

forest fall prostrate in the blast, the agitated multitudes sank upon

their knees, smote their breasts in sorrow, poured forth their

confessions, and consecrated their persons and their property to the Holy

Crusade.

CHAPTER IX.

"There the wild Crusaders form,

There assembled Europe stands,

Heaven they deem awakes the storm,

Hell the paynims' blood demands."

CARLYLE.

The results of the council of Clermont were speedily felt throughout

Europe. No nation was so remote, no people so retired, but, gaining the

intelligence by common rumor, or miraculous revelation, commenced

preparations for the mighty enterprise.

The Welshman forsook his hunting,--the Scot his native mountains,--the

Dane forgot his wassail-bowl,--the Norwegian left his fishing-tackle on

the sand. Whatever was stored in granaries or hoarded in chambers, to

answer the hopes of the avaricious husbandman, or the covetousness of the

miser, all was deserted, or bartered for military equipments.

"Zeal and sympathy, and indignation and chivalrous feeling, and the thirst

for glory, and the passion for enterprise, and a thousand vague, but great

and noble aspirations, mingled in the complicated motive of the Crusade.

It increased by contagion--it grew by communion--it spread from house to

house--and from bosom to bosom--it became a universal desire--an

enthusiasm--a passion--a madness."

Princes labored like peasants at the forge or in the armory. High-born

dames abandoned their embroidery, and employed their delicate fingers in

fabricating garments for the retainers of their lords.

The Countess of Blois laid aside the famous Bayeux tapestry, which her

mother had left for her completion, and accompanied her husband from

castle to castle, through all their wide domains, presiding over the

labors of her maidens, while with pious zeal they stitched the red cross

upon the surcoats of the warriors.

Robert pledged his ducal domains to the grasping Rufus, for a sum of money

scarcely sufficient to meet the expenses of the expedition; and Edgar

Atheling bestowing his orphan nieces in the nunnery of Wilton, joined the

train of his friend.

Godfrey, Duke of Lorraine, a prince of the royal house of France,

assembled his followers, from the banks of the Rhine to the Elbe; Raimond

of Toulouse, and Adhemar, bishop of Puy, called the Moses and Aaron of the

host, collected the Goths and Gascons, and all the mingled people between

the Pyrenees and the Alps; Bohemond of Apulia commanded the tribes from

the Tuscan sea to the Adriatic, while volunteers from all parts of Europe

flocked to the standards of these noble leaders, or joined the band of the

Hermit himself.

The long-looked-for time was now at hand, when the hoary garb of winter

being laid aside, the world clad in vernal bloom, invited the pilgrims to

the confines of the East. And in the beginning of March, 1097, the masses

of European population began to roll. The first band that swept on through

Germany into Hungary consisted of twenty thousand footmen, marshalled

under Walter the Penniless. Then followed Peter the Hermit, with forty

thousand men, women and children. Next a German priest headed fifteen

thousand enthusiasts, and another band of two hundred thousand unarmed and

disorderly people hurried on by the same path; and ere these desperate

adventurers had reached the borders of the Grecian Empire, Europe

glittered with mustering hosts of warriors arrayed in all the pomp and

splendor of chivalry, and led by the greatest warriors of the age.

Few chieftains brought so many soldiers to the standard of the cross as

Stephen, Count of Blois and Chartres. But notwithstanding the precipitate

zeal of Robert, and the prompt and politic measures of Adela, the summer

was wasted in idle delays; and it was not till the autumnal equinox that

these distinguished nobles joined the forces of Hugh, Count of Vermandois,

and crossed the Alps, intending to proceed by sea to the Holy Land. They

found Pope Urban at Lucca, and received from him the standard of St.

Peter. The autumn was passed in the gaiety and dissipation of Italy, where

the earls disposed their troops for winter-quarters. Count Stephen

returned once more to Blois, already dissatisfied with the prospects of

the expedition. In the ensuing spring, one year after the time designated

by the pope, with Robert and Hugh, and their united forces, the husband of

Adela embarked for Palestine. In the meantime numbers, disaffected by the

first encountering of difficulties, returned to claim subsistence from the

bounty of the Countess of Blois.

"Methinks, my beneficent sister," said Henry, observing her charity

towards the miserable wretches, "if thou hadst seen yon beggars sell their

flocks and herds for a few shillings, thou wouldst be better inclined to

laugh at their folly than relieve their poverty."

"Adela counts it not folly for a man to sell all he hath for the kingdom

of Heaven's sake."

"I fancy," said Henry, laughing, "that those self-sacrificers have an eye

to the 'manifold more in this life,' rather than to the heavenly

inheritance; and _some_, I trow, understand by the kingdom of heaven, a

principality in Palestine."

"And were not the establishment of Christian powers in Asia a worthy

purpose?" returned Adela, little pleased at her brother's insinuations.

"Certes, my beloved sister. But wherefore didst thou detain thy unworthy

Beauclerk, is there not kingdom or duchy for him?"

"Nay! I scarcely claim the merit of detaining thee," said Adela, "since I

suspect that a stronger tie than compassion for my lone estate has

withheld thee."

"That a tender interest in the declining health of the Red King somewhat

influenced my decision I cannot deny," replied Henry, evasively.

"And had the superlative beauty of the Red King's ward no influence?" said

Adela, pressing her advantage.

"Nay, sister, since thou divinest my secret," said Henry, frankly, "I will

e'en tell thee all. Perceiving that thy crusades would draw from the

Norman power its military strength, I deemed it wise, in case of my

brother's death, to entrench myself in the affections of the English

people, by uniting my personal interest with the Saxon race. Accordingly,

when Robert sent me to England to negotiate the mortgage of his duchy with

Rufus, I visited the nunnery of Wilton, with Edgar Atheling."

"And thou sawest there the fair novice, Matilda," interrupted Adela.

"Call her not novice, she scorns the name, and hath a spirit like a queen.

In presence of her uncle the Atheling, she tore the hateful veil from her

head, and trampled it under her feet."

"And did the spirited damsel smile upon thy suit?"

"I proffered no suit save to her uncle."

"And what said the Atheling to thy visionary scheme?"

"He promised to give her to me with his blessing, on his return from the

crusade."

"But here comes another son of Cushi, with tidings for the Countess of

Blois. Judging from his tattered garments, and limping gait, his story

must eclipse all that have gone before. My '_visionary schemes_' shall not

claim the attention that should be devoted to this magnificent eastern

ambassador;" and with a smile of irony Henry took his departure.

The appearance of the individual who entered the presence of Adela, and

the tidings he brought, fully justified the sarcastic conjectures of

Henry. He was a refugee from the party of Walter the Penniless, a band

whose only recommendation for the Holy war was their poverty. Before

setting out, each one was searched, and the man upon whose person was

found the sum of two sous, was hooted from the camp. Animated by a blind

fanaticism, they expected that rivers would be opened for their passage;

that flesh would be miraculously supplied; manna rained from heaven upon

them, and the smitten rock send forth its cooling stream. The hospitality

of the Hungarians confirmed their faith; but when they entered the kingdom

of Bulgaria, the illusion vanished, and the famine-stricken multitudes,

abandoning their presumptuous trust in heaven, resorted to carnage and

plunder. The exasperated inhabitants fell upon them without fear or mercy.

Many were slain, numbers fled to the forests, and a remnant of the

disappointed devotees attempted to retrace their steps to their own land.

After listening to the account of the miserable fugitive, Adela remarked,

that the misfortunes of the company doubtless proceeded from their

forgetfulness of the last directions of the Saviour: "He that hath a purse

let him take it, and likewise his scrip, and he that hath no sword let him

sell his garment and buy one."

"Ah, lady!" said the wretched fanatic, "think not that our misfortunes

arose from our want of money or arms, but rather through our impatience to

be gone, that led us to set out on Friday, instead of waiting for the holy

rest of the Sabbath."

The countess was residing with her family in Troyes, when she gave

audience to another of her "eastern ambassadors," as Henry jocosely called

them.

This man arrived at nightfall, on a sorry mule, the self-same animal that

a few months before, under Peter the Hermit, had led greater hosts to

battle than Bucephalus under Alexander, and which had enjoyed such a

reputation for sanctity that even his very hairs were devoutly treasured

as relics. Now, jaded and dispirited, with drooping head and pendant ears,

the poor beast slowly paced his heavy way up to the gates of the castle.

His rider seemed no less bowed with grief and fatigue, and wearily

dismounting, he meekly waited among the servants, till summoned to the

presence of his mistress.

"You behold, noble lady," said he, "one of those individuals whose fate it

is to bring ruin upon every expedition in which he embarks."

"Miserable man," exclaimed Adela, "hast thou betrayed the army of the

Lord?"

"God forbid that I should have been guilty of so foul a deed," said the

pilgrim, devoutly crossing himself; "but the curse of Jonah rests upon me.

Evil was the day when, impoverished by the wars of Duke Robert, I

plundered the sacred vessels of a church, and melted and sold them, to

obtain food for my starving family. The crime lay heavy on my conscience,

and to expiate its guilt I joined the band of the Hermit. But my sinful

love for my children prevailed over my devotion, and Satan tempted me with

the thought, that were they permitted to accompany me, they at least might

win the crown of martyrdom, though their father should suffer the

punishment of his sins. With much difficulty and labor, we scraped

together means to purchase a yoke of oxen and a cart, and the charity of

my noble countess (heaven reward thee) provided raiment for my poor old

father and helpless infants. Heaven pardon me, but my wicked heart was

inflated with pride, as seating my precious ones in the vehicle, I walked

by their side; and pleased was I as we reached any town or city, to hear

the little ones inquire, if that were Jerusalem. Fool that I was not to

remember the Saviour's words, 'He that forsaketh not all that he hath,

cannot be my disciple.' There were many who, falling into the same error,

cumbered the train with useless baggage, and many feeble and sick, both

men and women, caused that our route was tedious and slow. The heat of

summer came on, and the weariness of the way seemed to increase. My

children forgot their innocent prattle, and stretched their tender limbs

upon the floor of the cart. The old man, my father, slept, and we could

not wake him; and my wife gave me the infant from her breast--it was

dead--and we buried them by the wayside. This was the beginning of

sorrows. But the _horrors_ of my crime flashed upon me, when certain sons

of Belial among our company, set fire to the houses, and commenced to

plunder the people through whose villages we passed. The inhabitants armed

against us, and I shudder to describe the bloody scenes which followed.

Enraged at the wanton attack, they rushed out upon us, fell upon the rear

of the army, glutted their wrath with the blood of all that opposed them,

and destroyed that part of the multitude whom weakness left without

defence. My wife and sons fell victims to their fury, and Therese, my

lovely daughter, was torn shrieking from my arms, and carried away by a

brutal ruffian."

"Unhappy Therese," said Adela, dropping a tear. "My poor William has pined

for his patient nurse."

"In the extremity of my desperation," continued the pilgrim, "I rushed

into the thickest of the fight, and sought for death; but in vain. My

crimes were too great, and I was reserved to mourn the loss of those for

whose dear sakes I had perilled my soul.

"Deploring the ruin that my sins, and the sins of such as me had brought

upon the holy pilgrims, I determined to hide myself in a convent, and seek

by a life of penance, the pardon I hoped to have found at the Saviour's

tomb; and finding the deserted mule of our leader, wandering upon the

border of a marsh, I mounted upon his back, and begged my way hither."

The countess gave him money for the remainder of his journey, to the

monastery of Caen, and with a heavy heart dismissed him.

* * * * *

A German monk of great sanctity resided in a solitary cell in the forest

of Troyes. The fame of cures, effected by him, through the medium of

invisible agents, led the countess to consult him with regard to her

invalid son. Thibaut and Stephen, with a small train, accompanied her to

the hermitage.

On their return their way was obstructed by a crowd, collected about a

grotesque-looking figure clothed partly in armor, and partly in priestly

robes. His head was ornamented with a cap like that of a merry-Andrew, at

the top of which flourished a feather cut in the form of a cross. From his

shoulders hung numerous thongs, to which were attached boxes and bags of

various colors and dimensions, and a rosary of small human bones was

suspended about his neck. This he occasionally shook with demoniac glee,

as an accompaniment to songs, whose sentiment strangely alternated between

piety and profanity.

"News from the wars," shouted he approaching the cavalcade.

"Holy relics for sinners all,

The thumb of St. Peter, the tooth of St Paul."

"Yea more--Babylon has fallen--the Jews, the Jews--Shadrach, Meshach, and

Abednego, are consumed in the burning fiery furnace--Ha! ha! How the

flames crackled and sparkled--How the Long-beards winced and

writhed--Ashes! Ashes!" said he, throwing the contents of one of the boxes

into the faces of the spectators--"Yea more--

"The crusaders followed the spirit divine,

And water and blood it turned into wine;

That made us strong for the slaughter.

Drink--heal--wassail,"--and he poured from a bottle a noisome liquid, from

which the crowd shrank back in disgust.

"The demons shrieked in the forest--and the little fiends winked in the

marshes--they showed us the way to the holy sepulchre--bridges of

corpses--rusty armor--glaring eyeballs. How the wolves howled on our

track--and the black ravens croaked over the dying--'Twas rare sport to

hear them groan.

"The goat led his followers up the steep rock,

The goose flapped her wings, and headed the flock;

List to the sound of the martyrs' bones;"

and the lunatic broke into a wild fantastic dance, rattling his boxes and

shaking his horrid rosary with demoniac frenzy.

The countess was here relieved from her involuntary attendance upon the

frightful exhibition, by the approach of Prince Henry, who having

consigned the madman to proper care, dispersed the crowd, and permitted

the train proceed.

In reply to Adela's anxious inquiries, he informed her that the miserable

creature whom she had seen, had belonged to a mad-rabble, that set off for

the Holy Land without leader or guide, held together only by the strange

infatuation of adoring a goat and a goose, which they believed to be

filled with the divine spirit.

Their malignant zeal was directed principally against the Jews, whom they

exterminated wherever they came. The Hungarians denied them a passage

through the country. The fanatics attempted to force their way across the

Danube. The nation rose to arms, and for several days smote them with such

slaughter, that the fields were strewed with the slain, and the very

waters of the river were hidden by the multitude of the corpses.

"Heaven punished their impiety with a loss of reason," said Adela, with a

sigh.

"Their impiety began with a loss of reason," said Henry, drily. "Thy

pardon, sweet sister, but the heralds of thy grand expedition and the

tidings they bear, remind one of the evil messengers of Job, each man

having escaped alone to tell thee."

"We have as yet gained intelligence only from the ill-appointed and

barbarous hordes that encumbered rather than aided the expedition. When we

shall receive news from warriors, whose heroic courage executes the plans

of temperate wisdom, I trust that the disasters of our foes will form the

theme of conversation," said Adela, with much spirit.

"Nay, I meant not to vex thee," returned Henry, soothingly, "and to prove

my desire of peace, I have brought with me a flag of truce," and he handed

her a letter from her husband.

* * * * *

Adela's letter from Stephen contained the most gratifying intelligence.

Completely duped by the artful policy of Alexius, the count gave a glowing

description of his reception at Constantinople, and the splendid ceremony

by which the Latin chiefs did homage to the Greek Emperor, for the cities

they hoped to win in Palestine.

He described the magnificence of the city, and enlarged upon the

advantages which the holy legions would derive from this allegiance, both

in supplies of money and provisions. He stated that Alexius had already

furnished ships to convey them across the Bosphorus, that a part of the

army were already in Asia Minor, and expatiated upon the munificence of

their Imperial host, who each week presented the leader of the expedition

with as much gold as two slaves could bear upon their shoulders.

Delicately alluding to the favors bestowed upon himself, he closed the

epistle by presenting the monarch's request to the mother, that her son

Stephen should be sent to Constantinople, to receive princely nurture at

the most refined and elegant court in the world.

Tears of affection and gratification filled the beautiful eyes of the

countess, as gazing upon her blooming boy, she murmured, "My son may yet

wear the diadem of the Caesars. My father was styled The Conqueror, because

he added a poor island to his duchy of Normandy, but what title shall he

bear who restores a continent to the dominion of Christendom?"

* * * * *

For the three following months the countess received no certain

intelligence concerning the fate of the crusade. There were rumors of

famine in the christian camp, and stories of dreadful battles with the

Infidels; but the statements were vague and unsatisfactory.

Prince Henry had been absent for some time quelling an insurrection in

Normandy, and the loneliness of Adela's situation, together with the

anxiety of her mind, filled her thoughts with melancholy forebodings, and

subdued the natural vivacity of her manners.

The prince upon his return, was alarmed by the pallor of her countenance,

and the sadness of her tones.

"Cheer thee, my sister," said he, "thou wert, indeed, a prophet, to

declare that the victories of the warriors would compensate for the

disasters of the rabble crowds."

"Art thou the bearer of good tidings?" said Adela, a flush of hope

irradiating her features.

"Aye, verity," returned the prince, with exultation, "a well-authenticated

account of the victories of the cross, embellished with as pretty a

Passage of Arms in Cupid's tilt-yard, as the Romancers could well desire."

"Sport not with my impatience," said Adela. "Tell me the name of thy

messenger, and the news he brings."

"The messenger is Gilbert of Becket, a Saxon esquire of Edgar Atheling,

and, therefore, direct from Duke Robert and Count Stephen. He sailed with

them across the Ionian Sea, and carried the shield of his master at the

grand parade, in Constantinople."

Adela interrupted him. "I know all to the time of their departure from

that city. How have they sped in their encounters with the Infidels?"

"The first place of importance which they attacked," replied Henry, "was

Nice, the chief city of Rhoum, occupied by the Seljoukian Turks, who

exacted tribute from all the inhabitants of Asia Minor. The Sultan Soliman

hearing of the coming of the crusaders, left his capital defended by a

strong garrison, and hastened to the mountains levying troops in all

directions. The first body of croises that reached the city, was led by

Godfrey of Boulogne, and Hugh of Vermandois, who took up their position on

the eastern side. Raimond of Toulouse, and the Bishop of Puy, encamped on

the south, while Robert of Flanders, and Bohemond of Tarentum pitched

their camp upon the north. And of this Bohemond, the noble chief of

Otranto, I must tell thee. Forty Norman gentlemen who had distinguished

themselves in the wars of our father, returning from a pilgrimage to the

Holy Land, disembarked in Italy. Learning that the Prince of Salerno was

besieged by the Saracens, they threw themselves into that town, and being

supplied with arms and horses, soon compelled the Infidels to retire.

After their return home, deputies came to Normandy from the prince

imploring their further assistance. In consequence of his promises and

persuasions, several bodies of adventurers, at the head of whom was Robert

Guiscard and his eleven brothers, emigrated together, cleared the south of

Italy from the locust-like invaders, and established themselves lords of

Apulia and Calabria. Robert Guiscard spent most of his life in wars with

the Greek Emperor, and was finally poisoned by Alexius. Bohemond, the son

of this Guiscard, espoused the quarrel, and was preparing to avenge his

father's death, but when he heard the crusade proclaimed, his chivalric

spirit at once caught the flame. Dashing his armor to pieces with his

battle-axe, he caused them to be formed into small crosses, which he

distributed among his followers, and abandoning his possessions in Italy,

joined the pilgrims with his cousin, Tancred, a youth distinguished for

beauty, valor, generosity, enthusiasm--"

"I care not," said Adela, "though he were as beautiful as Absalom and wise

as Solomon. There are two less distinguished chiefs, who possess far more

interest for me than all the warriors in Italy."

"Of those thou shalt hear anon," said Henry. "When this Bohemond was in

Constantinople, the emperor sought to win his friendship."

"Return not to Bohemond again," interrupted the countess, "'tis of Stephen

and Robert I would hear."

"Now, sister," said Henry, playfully, "thou knowest not what thou

refusest. Will it not please thy woman's curiosity, to hear of the

magnificent rooms of the Blaquernel, filled with stores of money and

jewels, costly garments, and rich silks of unheard-of value, that Alexius

gave Bohemond to secure his allegiance."

"Nothing will please me," said Adela, "but to know what is the fortune of

my husband."

"And that will please thee well," said Henry, breaking into a playful

laugh. "Stephen, triple Count of Blois, Chartres, and Champagne, the

husband of my gifted sister," bowing to the countess, "son-in-law of

William the Conqueror, father of earls, and I doubt not of kings, the most

beautiful, accomplished, eloquent, and _prudent_ man of the times, was

chosen president of the council of chiefs."

"Heaven bless thee for thy news," said Adela, in a transport of joy; "and

Robert?"

"Justifies his youthful soubriquet of 'unready.' He came last to the siege

of Nice. His troops, however, were fresh and vigorous, and when he

approached the city by the west, which position had been left for his

encampment, he scanned, with a fearless eye, the double walls, defended by

three hundred and fifty towers, filled with bowmen, and spearsmen of the

most determined valor. He drew up the warriors of Normandy, with those of

Blois and Chartres, and a band from Boulogne, where a great part of the

people led by Walter the Penniless and Peter the Hermit had been defeated

and slain. The Infidels in mockery had formed here a great pile of their

bones, and covered them with earth; so that when Robert arrived with his

forces, he pitched his tent just beside the green sepulchre of those who

had found martyrdom on that very spot. Peter the Hermit, with the remnant

of his forces, soon after joined the besiegers, and the army, as they were

then numbered, consisted of 600,000 infantry and 100,000 mailed cavalry.

Each man confessed his sins, and the sacrifice of mass being offered, they

commenced the erection of engines, and other preparations for the siege.

Soliman himself was encamped upon the mountains, scarcely ten miles off,

watching in what manner he might best free his city from the enemies that

clustered around it. Two of his messengers were intercepted by Godfrey.

They confessed that they were sent to concert with the besieged a double

attack upon the christian camp. The crusaders immediately prepared for the

conflict. By break of day the Moslems began to descend from the hills, and

issue from the town. The Christians received them everywhere with

determined valor, repulsed them on all points, became in turn the

assailants, and all the plain around Nice grew one general scene of

conflict. This attack was twice repeated with the same result, and the

sultan was at last compelled to retire, astonished at the lion-like

courage of the Franks, who with a thousand lances, could charge, and

easily put to flight twenty thousand Turks. But amidst these splendid

achievements, which the Saxon Gilbert described, with great vividness, he

said it was mournful to see the pilgrims at nightfall collecting the dead

bodies of their companions and bearing them in sad procession to the

cypress groves adjacent, where by the melancholy glare of the torches they

buried them without coffin or shroud.

"To intimidate the besieged, the croises cut off the heads of the fallen

Moslems, and shot them from their engines into the city.

"The Turks invented a horrid method of retaliation. Long iron hooks were

let down from the walls, by which the bodies of the slaughtered

Christians were seized and drawn up through the air, and after being

stripped and maimed were again cast forth upon the ground.

"Young Gilbert being wounded and lying insensible, was grappled and drawn

into the city in this manner, but finding that life was not extinct, they

delivered him over to the care of Soliman's physicians, who tended him as

a prisoner of note. The siege had been protracted to some length and the

Christians had succeeded in undermining a huge tower at the north-eastern

angle of the wall. The Sultana, alarmed at the loss of this important

defence, determined upon flight. Several boats were prepared, and the

Queen, with her train, among whom was young Gilbert, attended by a

dark-eyed daughter of an Emir, beautiful as an houri, attempted to make

her escape at night by way of the lake. As the little fleet moved

stealthily in the shadow of the overhanging cliff, Becket seized a bow,

and dexterously discharged an arrow towards the nearest outpost of the

christian camp.

"The twang of the bow-string attracted the attention of the Moslems, but

Zaida perceiving the danger of her favorite smote the strings of her harp,

and thus, ingeniously reproducing the sound, made the whole appear the

result of accident.

"Becket afterwards learned, that the dart fell at the very feet of the

sentinel dozing by the watch-fire, who started up, aroused his comrades,

and soon the knights of Duke Robert swarmed along the shore.

"The Paynims plied their oars in vain, the Normans intercepted their

flight. The Sultana was taken prisoner, and only the boat of the Emir with

the disappointed Gilbert escaped capture.

"The Christians having thus discovered the means, by which the city was

supplied with provisions, procured boats from Constantinople and converted

the siege into a blockade. All hope now abandoned the Turks, and about the

time of the summer solstice they offered terms of capitulation.

"The necessary negotiations were in progress, when Tatius, the lieutenant

of the subtle Alexius, entered into a private treaty with the besieged,

and while waiting for the gates to be opened, with indignation and

astonishment the Christians discovered the imperial ensign floating upon

the walls of Nice. Alexius endeavored to appease their wrath by

distributing rich bribes among the chiefs, and largesses among the private

soldiers, but dissatisfied and exasperated they struck their tents, and

departed without setting foot within the city they had conquered.

"Meanwhile, the captive Becket, was conveyed to the army of the Sultan,

and though his ardent spirit chafed at restraint, and panted for the

fight, his impatience was soothed by the tender attentions, and sweet

songs, of the Emir's daughter.

"Soliman, with the whole of his force, amounting to 200,000 men, hung upon

the rear of the crusading army, concealing his own evolutions, by his

perfect knowledge of the country, and watching those of the croises with

the keen anxiety of a falcon hovering over its prey. By some mischance,

Robert and Bohemond were separated from the main body of the army. They

encamped nevertheless on the banks of a beautiful stream, in the valley of

the Gorgon, and passed the night in repose. Scarcely had they commenced

their march, on the following morning, when the immense army of the Sultan

appeared upon the hills. From his station upon a lofty eminence, Becket

had opportunity to watch the progress of the contest, and from christian

captives that were brought to the camp, he learned many particulars

concerning his companions.

"Our brother Robert, with a vigor and promptitude foreign to his

character, drew up his forces, formed a rampart of wagons and baggage, and

exhorted his men to meet with bravery the overwhelming shock. The terrific

cries of the Turks, as they bore down upon the little band, the tramp of

cavalry--the ringing of armor--the clash of shields--the trumpets of the

christian hosts--the shouts of the chiefs and heralds, raised so fearful a

din that none could distinguish the war-cry of friend from foe. Becket

perceived, however, that the Christians dropped the points of their long

lances, and prepared to receive the heavy charge upon their swords, when

suddenly each Moslem raised his bow, as he galloped forward, a thick cloud

seemed to hide all objects from his sight, and two hundred thousand arrows

dropped death among the followers of the cross."

An involuntary shudder shook the frame of the countess, and she pressed

her hands upon her eyes, as if to shut out the dreadful vision.

Her brother continued, "The European chivalry spurred up the hill against

their assailants. The Turks, as was their habit, yielded ground on every

side, avoiding by the fleetness of their horses, the lances of the

knights, and like the Parthians of old, continuing their fearful archery,

even as they fled. Again they wheeled, and with fiendish yells, fell upon

the diminished band, encompassing them within the valley; and fast as the

Infidels fell beneath the tremendous blows of the Norman battle-axes, new

foes stepped into their places. Borne back by the growing multitude that

pressed upon them, the knights gave way before the Saracens, and were

driven struggling against the very pikes of the foot-soldiers, that were

advancing to their support. The Christians wavered. At this critical

moment, Robert revived all the courage of his heart, and baring his head

in the midst of the fray, seized his banner, and clear and far above all

the roar of the conflict, Becket distinguished his cry of, Normandy!

Normandy to the rescue! The crusaders rallied, and stood again to their

arms, and the Turks were driven back. Again the Saracens bore down upon

them, giving them not a moment of repose. Thick and fast was mown the

flower of christian chivalry, soldier beside soldier, and knight beside

knight. In the glimpses granted by the rapid evolutions of the Arab

cavalry, Becket could see the women of the camp bringing water from the

river to the fainting troops, and bathing the wounded and dying. Thus the

battle lasted for many hours, when the eye of the Saxon soldier perceived

a cloud of dust rising behind the hills. Then came banner, and pennon,

and lance, and glittering armor, and the Red Cross fluttering on the wind.

In scattered bands spurring on their horses for life, on came the western

division of the croises. None waited for the others, but each hastened to

the fight, and rank after rank, troop after troop, shouting, '_Deus

vult_,' '_Deus vult_,' rushed over the mountains to the valley of the

battle. The christian war-cry thrilled the heart of the heroic Gilbert,

and he panted once more to join the standard that bore the emblem of our

holy religion. Tearing off the white turban that Zaida had bound about his

brow, he held it up aloft, vainly hoping to attract the attention of his

countrymen, and regain his liberty. But all were too intent upon the rout

of the Infidels, to notice the signal, and his heart sunk within him, as

the emir, fearing total discomfiture, commanded the slaves to carry away

the women and prisoners to a strong fastness in the mountains. As they led

him along the brow of the hill, he still kept his longing eye fixed upon

the scene of conflict, and distinctly discerned at the head of the

division of Raimond and Godfrey, the forms of two canonized martyrs, in

armor glittering above the brightness of the sun; and he could perceive

that their presence struck terror into the heart of the enemy. But farther

particulars concerning the battle he could not learn, except from the

Saracens themselves, who seemed sadly discomfited, and hurried on in

advance of the christian army, through Phrygia and Cilicia, laying waste

the villages, and making a desert of the country through which they

passed. At Tarsus he was separated from his faithful Zaida, and lodged

alone in a Paynim tower, overlooking the Cydnus. Here he pined in

loneliness day by day, gazing through the arrow-slit upon the

never-varying hills, or watching wearily the waterfowl sporting upon the

bosom of the stream. The christian host passed beneath the very walls of

his tower. He distinguished the forms of Robert, and Stephen, and the

Atheling, and the armorial bearings and ensigns of the various detachments

of European chivalry, and he struggled like an imprisoned bird to be

free. He shouted the honored names of the leaders, and the potent war-cry

of the Christians; called on the Saviour, and Mary, and every saint in the

calendar for release; but in vain. The walls of his prison alone echoed

his cry; no ear heard his voice; no eye was lifted towards his lonely

turret. He watched till the last cross disappeared in the distance, and

overwhelmed with despair, sank in agony upon the floor.

"The moon was riding high in heaven when he was awakened by the light

touch of a delicate hand, and the soft voice of Zaida whispered, 'Gilbert!

England!' the only Saxon words he had taught her. He started up, and an

exclamation of joy mounted to his lip. But Zaida, with a warning motion,

imposed silence, and beckoned him to follow her. Silently he tracked his

stealthy way through the mazes of the castle, guided by the vision that

glided on before him, more like a spirit of the air, than a being of

earthly mould, and the young Englishman had dizzy work to follow her down

a rude stone stair, winding to the base of the cliff, where a little skiff

was moored. She motioned him to embark. He obeyed, and turned to place her

by his side. She was gone. Far up the steep he saw the last flutter of her

white robe. He sprang to follow, but a strong arm dashed him to the bottom

of the boat. The rowers bent to their oars, and the little bark glided

noiselessly down the stream."

"Did he rejoin the christian army?" said Adela.

"All along the banks of the river," replied Henry, "he beheld, with

torturing gaze, the watch-fires of the christian camp, and heard the

pass-word repeated by familiar voices, but the pirates, for such they

were, permitted him neither to speak nor move. Reaching the sea of Cyprus,

they put him on board a vessel, and he was conveyed to Brundusium."

"And were these pirates Infidels?" inquired Adela.

"Saracens they were not," said her brother, "but to what extent they

believed in our holy religion Becket was not prepared to state. They spoke

several dialects of the Europeans, and at the commencement of the

crusades, turned their course towards the Holy Land, in the pleasant hope

of serving both God and mammon with the sword."

"And what farther chanced to the Saxon?" inquired the countess.

"He returned through France, and when I saw him at Feschamp, had engaged

his passage to England. And now, dear sister, I have come to take my leave

of thee, in order to accompany him."

"The news thou hast brought has removed a burden from my heart, and nerved

me to my duties," said his sister. "But wherefore wouldst thou to

England?"

"I have learned that the Duke of Bretagne is pressing his suit with the

fair Matilda, and I must away to see that the prize be not riven from my

grasp."

"Hast heard aught of the Countess of Huntingdon?" inquired Adela.

"Aye, and strange news concerning her have I for thine ear. Thou knowest

'tis scarce a twelvemonth since the death of her husband Simon; and she

has again entered the holy estate of matrimony."

"Impossible!" exclaimed Adela. "She who so longed for the quiet of

conventual life!"

"She was forced to forego her own inclinations to escape the tyranny of

Rufus," returned Henry.

"Poor Maude!" said Adela, "her life has been a continual sacrifice to the

selfish interests of others."

"Her patient meekness disarms even her cruel fate," said Henry. "Simon

always regarded her with the most devoted affection, and made her sole

heir to all her father's former possessions. It is said that our brother

Rufus had fixed his eye upon the charming widow, and that to avoid his

addresses, she accepted the hand of David, prince of Scotland."

"She will then be thy best advocate with David's sister, Matilda."

"Truth," said Henry. "The future Queen of Scotland shall aid to place the

crown on the head of the future Queen of England. Farewell. When I come

again I hope to present thee my lovely bride."

"Heaven speed thy purpose," said the countess, fervently, and thus they

parted.

CHAPTER XII.

"I rather tell thee what is to be feared,

Than what I fear."

The administration of the affairs of her domains, rendered it difficult

for the Countess of Blois, in the absence of the most vigorous part of the

population, to provide for the numerous families, left dependent by the

wars; and the increasing helplessness of her idiot son, added greatly to

the burden of her cares. 'Twas Christmas morning, the anniversary of her

betrothal. A crowd had assembled in the grand cathedral of Chartres, to

unite in the sacred solemnities of the day, and to witness the christening

of Lucy, the infant countess. So occupied was Adela with the impressive

scene, that she did not observe the entrance of several knights, on whose

noble forms and toil-worn habiliments, the eyes of the multitude were

riveted with the most intense curiosity; nor did she notice, while the

bishop sprinkled the babe with the holy-water, and consecrated it to God,

that their leader had advanced to the altar and knelt beside her at the

font: but when the warrior stretched out his arm to receive the

white-robed cherub from the hands of the priest, she turned to see her

_husband_ gazing with unutterable tenderness upon his infant daughter,

whom he now beheld for the first time.

The unexpected return of their lord gave an additional impulse to the

festivities of the day among the numerous retainers of the count.

When the joyous greetings and congratulations were over, and Adela and

Stephen were left to the free interchange of their own thoughts, the

countess, who suspected that some misadventure had occasioned this

unannounced arrival, led the way to an explanation. "And wherefore comes

not Robert with thee?" she inquired.

"Methinks thou mightest spare thine asking," said Stephen, looking fondly

upon her. "Robert has not those ties that draw me to my native land.

Adventure and war are wife and children to him."

"Did wife and children draw my husband from the paths of glory and the

cause of God?" replied the countess, apprehensively.

"Those paths which thy imagination invests with glory," said Stephen, "are

but the tracks where reptiles and savage beasts have found their way,

among craggy rocks and thorny bushes, bleeding deadly venom. We followed

them through deplorable suffering, and were conducted to disaster and

defeat. And as for the cause of God, if thou hadst seen the vices of these

_holy_ croises, and the hardships they endured, thou wouldst have deemed

either that they were not the people of God, or that the Almighty took

little note of the sufferings of his faithful servants."

"'Tis the faint heart that feels the toils of the way, and distrusts the

care of Providence," said Adela, reproachfully. "Did not the vows of

knighthood alone forbid thee to abandon the holy cause?"

"To abandon a cause forsaken by God and man, were the dictate of

prudence," retorted Stephen, stung by the censure of his beloved countess.

"Prudence is born of cowardice," replied she, with unabated warmth. "I

have hitherto heard of deeds of valor, not of desertion; of victory, not

of defeat."

"Thine ignorance then excuses thy violence," said Stephen; "but if thou

wilt listen patiently to thy lord, thou mayest perchance become better

informed."

"I will listen to nothing that brands my Stephen with cowardice!"

exclaimed Adela. "My heart exulted in the thought that the president of

the chiefs would counsel them to worthy deeds!" and the haughty woman

burst into tears of mingled tenderness and mortified pride.

"By the crucifix at Lucca!" exclaimed Stephen, rising in wrath, "an thou

wilt not listen to reason, 'twere vain to talk."

"And if reason determined thy return, wherefore comest thou alone?" said

Adela, striving to conquer her emotion.

"Alone!" replied the count. "Of the multitudes that left Europe at the

preaching of Peter, three fourths have returned already or fallen victims

to their folly. The Hermit himself has fled from the sight of miseries

that he was impotent to relieve and unable to endure. Baldwin has joined a

piratical band that ravage the coast of Cilicia. Raimond, of Toulouse,

languishes the victim of a pestilential fever. Godfrey, the soul of the

expedition, torn and lacerated, in an encounter with wild beasts, lies

prostrate with his wounds; nay, the Count Melun, and Tatius the lieutenant

of Alexius, have withdrawn their forces; and when sickness compelled me to

retire for a season from the siege of Antioch, fifteen thousand Turks,

from the heart of Asia, were on their way to join the myriads that

surround the christian camp."

"And what kind hand tended thy illness?" said the countess, her tenderness

returning at the thought of his suffering.

"The bivouac of the soldier admits few of those attentions so grateful to

an invalid," replied her husband, much softened. "However, my

indisposition was of short duration, and I should have rejoined my

companions, had not intelligence reached me that caused me to abandon all

hope for the success of the enterprise.

"I tell thee that the project of subduing Asia is utterly foolish and

vain. The Greek empire, the barrier of Europe on the east, is little less

infidel than the sons of Islam; and every conquest of the Christians is

claimed by Alexius as feudal lord. He wrested from us the city of Nice in

the very hour of victory. On my return, I met him at the head of his army

on the way to take possession of Antioch, and by representing the power

of the Turks turned him from his purpose."

"But do not the people of God always triumph in the battles with the

Infidels?" inquired Adela.

"In single encounter or in a fair field," replied Stephen, "the croises

are uniformly victorious: but valor wields no weapon against famine and

disease. Our army, at such a distance from their own land, must be

dependent for supplies upon the grace of Alexius, each victory, therefore,

but lays the foundation for another contest, and were Palestine delivered

from the Turk, it would require still greater exertion, to wrest it from

the Greek." The countess was silenced by reasoning which she could not

answer, but against which all her feelings revolted. Yet though she

apparently acquiesced in her husband's decision, her heart was keenly

alive to every rumor that might reflect upon his fame. Nor were her

feelings soothed, by hearing that the pilgrims besieged in Antioch,

enfeebled by disease and wasted by famine, reproached Count Stephen, as

the cause of all their miseries; since he had withdrawn his own forces,

not only, but turned back the armies that were hastening to their relief.

Her pride and ambition were deeply wounded by these reports, and when she

learned that the Christians, at the very point to die of starvation, had

bound themselves never to abandon the cause, till they had pressed their

lips upon the Holy Sepulchre; that visions of saints and apostles, had

reawakened energy and activity in their wasted ranks, that the lance that

pierced the side of the Saviour, had been discovered and that a "bright

squadron of celestial allies," had closed in with the battalions of the

christian army and pursued the Saracen legions from the vale of the

Orontes, she felt that her husband had not only tamely resigned an earthly

crown, but had by the same cowardly act forfeited an heavenly inheritance.

In the agony of her disappointment and chagrin, she vowed she would give

him no rest till he returned to the Holy Land, to wipe out with his blood

if need be, the foul stain upon his honor.

In this state of mind Stephen found it impossible to interest her in any

of their accustomed occupations and amusements. News from the Crusade

alone restored her wonted animation, and as these tidings, generally,

reflected little honor upon himself, he suppressed as much as possible all

intelligence from the East, and contrived to pass his time in distant

parts of his domains. The torturing suspense of the countess at length

induced her secretly to dispatch a messenger to Italy. He returned bearing

a transcript of an official letter, which the chiefs of the Crusade had

sent to Pope Urban. After giving the details of the march from Antioch

along the sea-coast past Tripoli, through the country of Sidon to Ramula,

the letter went on. "Thence our troops continued their route to the

village formerly called Emmaus, and like the disciples of old 'our hearts

burned within us,' when there came to us certain brethren from Bethlehem

to comfort us, after all our fatigues, and to welcome us to this holy and

beautiful land. Sleep was banished from every eye, and ere midnight was

well passed, every man animated by the fervor of hope and the intensity of

desire, had girded on his armor and come forth from his tent, prepared for

the last conflict. We wandered along the highways and fields, in darkness;

but at length the heavens blushed with the glorious suddenness of eastern

dawn, and as the sun shot his level rays across the sacred brow of Olivet,

the holy city lay before our eyes. 'Jerusalem! Jerusalem!' was repeated

with tumultuous wonder, by a thousand tongues. Every fatigue, every

danger, every hardship, was forgotten, and the warrior became at once a

simple pilgrim; his lance and sword were thrown aside, and the passion

which stirred every heart, was clothed with divers gestures. Some shouted

to the sky--some wept in silence--some knelt and prayed--some cast

themselves down and kissed the blessed earth--'all had much to do to

manage so great a gladness.' Taking off our shoes, we trod the sacred

ground with naked feet, and thus proceeding, came in front of the city and

pitched our camp upon the north, between the gate of St. Stephen and the

tower of David. It was early summer, the harvest was upon the ground, the

grapes were ripe upon the vines, and before the waters of the autumnal

equinox, dropped upon us out of heaven, the ensign of the cross was

floating upon the walls of Jerusalem. For having long assailed the

bulwarks in vain, we prepared movable towers of great strength, which we

rolled to the walls, commenced the assault, not as in former times at the

sound of drums and trumpets, but with the inspiring melody of hymns and

psalms, while the priests bowed on Mt. Zion and prayed for the aid of

heaven on the ensuing conflict. The Infidels, to manifest their rage,

erected the symbol of our holy religion, and cast dust upon it, but the

Lord was with us, and the sacrilegious insult was well atoned by their

blood, for while Godfrey and Baldwin leaped from a tower and planted a

banner upon the battlements, Tancred and Robert burst open one of the

gates, Raimond and his followers scaled the walls, and thus we have freed

the city from the dominion of the Infidels, and avenged the cause of

heaven. We laid down our arms, washed our hands from the bloody stains,

put on the habiliments of repentance, and in the spirit of humility, with

uncovered heads and reverent feet, walked over all those places which the

Saviour had consecrated by his presence. The ghost of the departed Adhemar

came and rejoiced with us, and the spirits of the martyrs who perished on

the road from Europe to Jerusalem, appeared and shared in the felicity of

their brethren. The whole city was influenced by one spirit, and the

clamor of thanksgiving was loud enough to have reached the stars. Thus in

the year of our Lord 1099, was the city of Jerusalem added again to the

dominion of Christendom, on the very day and hour of the crucifixion of

the Saviour. At this auspicious time, Pope Urban second sits in the Roman

see; Henry is emperor of the German, and Alexius of the Grecian empire.

Philip reigns in France and William Rufus in England, whilst over all men

and all things, reigns our Lord Jesus Christ forever and ever, to whom be

honor and glory for endless ages."

CHAPTER XIII.

"I have deeply felt

The mockery of the shrine at which my spirit knelt.

Mine is the requiem of years in reckless folly passed,

The wail above departed hopes on a frail venture cast."

WHITTIER.

Acting upon the hint of Adela, Prince Henry repaired immediately to

Huntingdon and secured the good offices of Maude and her husband, in

effecting a communication with the beautiful novice Matilda. He was thus

enabled to counteract the efforts of his powerful rival Warrenne, Earl of

Surrey, to whom Rufus had promised her hand. Deeming it unsafe however to

quit England, he tarried at court and passed his time in hunting and

hawking, according to the manners of the age. The New Forest was the

constant scene of dissolute pleasures. The sweet solemnity of the deep

woods was daily disturbed by the Bacchanal revel, and the pure echoes of

the dell were forced to answer the loose laugh and thoughtless

imprecation. Godly men lifted up their voice against the corruptions of

the age, and saintly priests warned by omens and dreams, admonished the

Red King on a certain day, to avoid the glen in which Prince Richard was

supposed to have contracted his fatal disease. But the impious Rufus, with

studied contempt led the chase that way, diverting his attendants with

ribald jests upon the warnings he had received. "Come, Deer's foot," said

Warrenne, tauntingly to Prince Henry, "yonder bounds the stag. The fair

hand of Matilda to him who brings the antlered monarch down." "I have

broken the string of my arblast, and must repair to the hut of this

forrester to replace it," replied Henry coldly. "Come on, ye laggards. Ho!

Tyrrel, thou and I alone will be in at the death," cried Rufus, putting

spurs to his horse. As Henry entered the cottage, a weird wife rose up as

if from the ground before him, chanting in Norman French,

"Hasty news to thee I bring--

Henry, thou art now a king.

Mark the words and heed them well,

Which to thee in sooth I tell."

The closing words were interrupted by hurried cries of alarm and distress.

The prince turned, and the horror-stricken Tyrrel, whose erring shaft had

slain the king, dashed past the door. Comprehending the whole affair at

once, Henry remounted his horse and rode full speed to Winchester, forced

the keys from the keeper, and took possession of the regalia and royal

treasure. The people thronged round him in the streets, and while the

nobles and prelates were debating on the claims of Robert, the populace,

whose allegiance he secured by the promise of English laws and an English

Queen, made the city resound with loud shouts of "Long live King Henry."

Within three days he was crowned at Winchester, by the bishop of London.

Scarce a month after the Countess of Blois was apprized of these events,

the tardy Robert arrived at Chartres. He had lingered in Apulia to woo

Sybilla, the fair cousin of Bohemond, and now returned to claim his

inheritance, after his younger brother was securely seated on the throne.

The countess received him with the greatest joy, and honored his peerless

bride with the most distinguishing attentions; but when she learned that

he depended upon her good offices with Stephen to secure assistance in a

meditated invasion of England, her love for her favorite brother Henry,

and her apprehension of the unsteady rule of Robert, moved her to dissuade

him from the scheme, and she secretly hoped that he might be made

instrumental in inducing her husband to return again to the Holy Land. She

learned from Robert the various success of the leaders of the crusade.

While some were still carving their way with the sword, Bohemond was

Prince of Antioch, Baldwin of Edessa, and Godfrey enjoyed the enviable

distinction of being King of Jerusalem.

"The voice of fame has spoken oft to me of the prowess of my brother

Robert," said she. "Did not his peers deem him worthy a principality in

Palestine?"

"Nay, it needed not the suffrages of the chiefs, since heaven itself

preferred my poor claims above all others," replied Robert. "When a king

was to be chosen, the bishops gave to each leader a waxen candle, and

directed us to walk in procession to the Holy Sepulchre. As we advanced

within the sacred place, a sudden flame kindled upon the taper I held in

my hand, but at that moment a whisper of Rufus' death swept across my

spirit, and remembering the throne of England I dashed out the light."--

"Unhappy man!" exclaimed the countess. "Thou hast refused the call of

heaven. Look not for success in any future enterprise. Hope not that

divine sanction will back thine endeavor, and expect not aid or succor by

thy sister's intervention."

"By the Holy Rood," shouted Robert in wrath, "thou Queen'st it well for a

woman whose craven husband was the first to desert his standard. It were

indeed the part of a madman to expect assistance from the dastard earl."

Before the anger of the countess gave her voice to reply, he strode from

her presence.

Meantime, Henry hearing that Robert had arrived in Normandy, strengthened

his power by conciliating the English nation, and took prompt measures to

redeem his promise of giving them an English Queen. But for some

unaccountable reason the Saxon princess seemed averse to quitting her

gloomy convent, nor would she consent to bestow her hand upon the

handsomest and most accomplished sovereign of his time, till he had

promised to confirm to the nation all the ancient laws and privileges

established by her great ancestor Alfred, and ratified by Edward the

Confessor. When a digest of these rights and immunities had been made, and

a hundred copies committed to the care of the principal bishoprics and

monasteries of England, she consented to become "the bond of peace to a

divided nation--the dove of the newly sealed covenant between the Norman

sovereign and her own people."

The efforts of Robert, delayed till Henry's power was thus consolidated,

of course proved ineffectual. He wasted the munificent dower of his

beautiful Sybilla, in idle feasting, and having buried his lovely wife the

third year after their marriage, he gave up Normandy to Henry, for an

annual pension, and was finally taken in a revolt, conveyed to Cardiff

Castle, where in a sort of honorable captivity he passed the remainder of

his useless life.

The spirit of crusade was still active in Europe, and combined with this

spirit, was the hope of gain, springing from vague and exaggerated

accounts of the wealth and principalities which the leaders of the first

expedition had acquired. The devastated lands of Palestine were soon

settled by families who immigrated from pecuniary or pious motives, and

not long after the death of Godfrey, and the election of Baldwin I. to the

throne of Jerusalem, several bodies of armed men set out to join their

brethren in Asia. Count Stephen, wearied with the incessant importunities

of his ambitious wife, shamed by the example of Hugh, Count of Vermandois,

and stimulated, perhaps, by the hope of obtaining easier conquest, and

less dangerous honors, consented to return to the Holy Land. At

Constantinople they met with Raimond of Toulouse, who was returning for

assistance, and proceeded under his guidance. On their way through Asia

Minor, they encountered the Turks, lost one hundred thousand men, together

with Hugh of Vermandois, who died of his wounds, at Tarsus. Raimond of

Toulouse was slain at Tripoli, but Stephen, Count of Blois, with the rest

of the leaders proceeded straight to Jerusalem; and having by the

completion of his pilgrimage, wiped out the disgrace of his first

desertion, embarked on board a vessel to return to Europe. The heart of

the countess dilated with pride and joy, as from time to time she heard of

his noble deeds, and with feelings akin to the romance of her youthful

admiration, she hourly expected his return. One evening, sitting thus

alone, a servant announced, that a monk in the anteroom craved permission

to speak with her. The countess ordered him to be instantly admitted, and

her heart sickened with a sad foreboding, as a diminutive figure veiled in

palmer's weeds stood before her.

"Speak thine errand quickly," said she, pale and breathless with

agitation. "What of my lord?" He replied only by an upward motion of the

hand, and Adela knew that her husband was dead. She sank back in her seat

and clasped her hands, but kept her eyes fixed with the intensity of the

keenest emotion upon the face of the monk. "Tell me all, good father,"

said she, in a voice nervously firm.

"I know little, noble lady," replied the palmer, "and though I have come

all the way from Palestine to bring thee tidings, my story will be brief.

Thou hast, doubtless, heard of the poor services of Peter the Hermit, in

awakening the attention of Europe to the low estate of Jerusalem. When by

Divine favor I had been so blest as to conduct the greatest warriors of

the age to the conquest of the Holy Sepulchre, and had seen the Christians

thus relieved from Turkish oppression, fall at my unworthy feet, and call

down blessings upon my head, I felt to exclaim like Simeon of old, 'Lord,

lettest now thy servant depart in peace, since mine eyes have seen thy

salvation.' With the deepest humiliation, for having in a moment of

temptation, wavered in faith, I thought to found a monastery upon the

shores of Lake Gennesareth, where I might have the example of the sinking

Peter ever before mine eyes. One evening, as I walked upon the shores of

the sea, revolving these things in my thoughts, I felt myself suddenly

seized from behind. A bandage was thrown over my eyes, I was forcibly

lifted from the ground, placed upon a mule and hurried forward. I

attempted to cry out, but a hand was laid upon my mouth, and a voice

whispered in Anglo-Norman, 'Fear not, old man, thou art among friends, and

bidden only to labor in thine holy calling.' Thus assured, I ceased my

struggles. How far I was conveyed, I know not, but when the bandage was

taken from my eyes, I found myself in a wild cave of the mountain, by the

side of a dying crusader, and recognized in the pale countenance before

me, the lineaments of Stephen Earl of Blois. 'Take courage, noble count,'

said the voice that had before spoken in mine ear, 'I have caught a priest

whose ghostly counsels will speedily prepare thee for the long journey,

which all must sooner or later take.' With a tenderness which one would

scarcely look for in such a savage, the chief raised the dying earl, and

gently supported him while I received his directions concerning certain

affairs, and ministered the last rites of our holy faith. The count

pressed me to promise that I would, myself, bring to thee the epistle,

which he had with much pain and difficulty indited. And when I hesitated,

by reason of the monastery which I had resolved to found, he summoned all

his remaining strength, and while I guided his trembling hand, drew for me

a deed of the vale of Montier, and bade me bring it to thee for thou

wouldst ratify it, and endow the abbey by thy bounty. Scarcely had he

finished it, when his wounds bleeding afresh, a deadly faintness seized

him. The chief laid him back upon the cushions. I held up the crucifix

before his eyes, and murmuring a prayer in which were mingled the names of

wife and children, he expired. That night I gave him christian burial

beneath one of the cedar-trees of Mount Lebanon, the swarthy barbarians

holding torches, and looking with reverent awe upon the solemn scene.

Before morning I was again blindfolded, and conducted to the sea-coast,

and put on board a vessel bound for Italy." So intent had the Hermit been

on his narration, that he had not observed the countess, pale and rigid as

though turned to stone; and when she clutched with convulsive eagerness

the parcel he extended, he bowed and withdrew.

She tore off the envelope, and the scarf which her girlish hand had

wrought in the hours of her first sweet love, soiled and blood-stained,

fell across her lap, and crept accusingly to her feet. She opened the

letter and read--

"To Adela, my best and only beloved, thy Stephen sends this last token of

affection. In this my dying hour it is my sweetest consolation to feel

that with my sword I have pierced the cloud that has so long been between

us, and that could I see my Adela, she would smile upon me as the loved

and honored husband of her youth. I have bathed in the Jordan, and

worshipped at the sepulchre; but it was the _human love_ and not the

_Divine_, that baptized my soul with joy, and whispered pardon to my

wounded spirit. I have sought for glory in the land of patriarchs and

prophets, and I have found it; but in the accents of fame my ear has heard

only the voice of Adela. The Eternal saw mine idolatry and punished it.

Adverse winds drove back the vessel that was to bear me to my native land.

The King of Jerusalem called upon us again for aid. We fought in the

plains of Ramula, seven hundred knights against the whole force of the

Turkish army. Hemmed in on every side, we fell, bravely defending the

standard of the cross. Fainting from loss of blood, my dull ear heard the

cry of 'Allah ackbar.' Like one dreaming I called upon the name of

Hardrager. Immediately the _old man_ came to me and stanching my mortal

wound, bound it tightly with the scarf which I had thrown across my breast

to animate me, for the conflict. I was conveyed away, and awoke as did

Ingulfus, in the cave of the Assassins. I know that I shall die. I cannot

long sustain the pressure of the ligament, and when once 'tis loosened my

last blood will flow. Hardrager has promised me christian burial, and sent

for a priest to shrive my parting soul. Think of me kindly, proudly, my

best beloved. Teach my sons to honor their father's name, for he died

fighting in the Holy Land. Kiss my darling Lucy, the sweet babe who

unconsciously smiled upon my return. Darkness gathers upon my sight. The

forms that gladdened my youthful days pass before me, and the fairest

among them all is my bride, my Adela." A few more words were indistinctly

traced, the page seemed blotted with tears, and the name of Stephen was

scarcely legible.

Years passed over the spirit of the countess in the intense agony of that

one night. Her heart-strings strained to their utmost tension by the power

of this mighty woe, thenceforth gave no response to the light fingering

of ordinary circumstance. The tender solicitude of friendship, the sweet

prattle of childhood, the hilarity of mirth, the consolations of religion,

and the schemes of ambition, were endured and accepted with the same

passionless apathy. She made a journey to Normandy, and arranged a

reconciliation between her brother Henry and the primate Anselm with her

accustomed wisdom. She visited Boulogne, and presided at the nuptials of

her son Stephen with her wonted grace. She gave her Lucy to the Earl of

Chester, with a mother's blessing, and saw her depart in the fatal White

Ship without emotion. But when she again stood at the door of the abbey of

Feschamp to welcome Maude once more to Normandy, the curtain of

retrospection was lifted, and the whole drama of her life passed before

her. Adela and Maude! The disparity between the happy child and the sad

captive was less striking than the contrast between the elegant and

stately Countess of Blois, and the serene and gracious princess of

Scotland, who now met after life had gathered the bloom of their youthful

beauty, and left the indefinable shades which character traces upon the

human countenance. Fixed and calm were the features of Adela, once radiant

with vivacity, but their repose was the death of emotion, and their

calmness was not resignation, but submission to inexorable fate. The face

of Maude, still fair and beautiful in the strength of its repose, beamed

with the serene benignity of ineffable peace, and she seemed one, the

joyousness of whose inner life found occasion for an overflow of

beneficence in every outward occurrence.

Again they journeyed together through the scenes that witnessed the

triumphal progress of William the Conqueror. But it was now the task of

Maude to soothe the spirit of her friend, bound with the chain of

remorseful regret. Cicely, celebrated for her piety, had become lady

abbess of the convent of Caen, and it was the intention of the countess to

enter the nunnery under her care. In fitting up her dormitory Adela had

laid aside all her accustomed magnificence, and the only relic of her

former state was a gorgeous curtain that divided her oratory from the

cheerless apartment, chosen as the home of her future years.

"Maude," said she, as they sat together there, "rememberest thou the

riddle of life and love that once formed our theme of converse in an hour

like this? How thy heart pined for the convent, and mine shuddered at its

gloom."

"Aye," said Maude, "well do I remember it, and often have I smiled at the

presumption which made me attempt to solve the greatest mystery of human

existence, and arrogate to myself the choice of the future; when the

highest wisdom leads only to the faithful performance of daily duties."

"I mind me now," replied the countess, "that thy gentle admonition pointed

to that effect.--But I scorned control, and when I saw the cruel policy by

which my father strengthened his dominion, I determined that my hand

should never seal the bond of a political alliance, and it was not till

after years that I learned that the meeting between Stephen and myself

resulted from a preconcerted plan to bind me to one whose mild virtues

would counteract my unholy aspirings. Thy instructions had taught me the

power of a righteous purpose, and I sought its aid to compensate for what

I considered a defect in my husband's character, vainly hoping that

ambition, sanctioned by religion, would secure its reward. With fatal

skill I wrought upon his generous affections till he relinquished the dear

delights of his family, to seek barren laurels, and find a lonely grave on

a foreign shore."

"Reproach not thyself," said Maude, tenderly.

The countess heeded not her interruption. "Thou and I," said she, "have

wrought for different ends, and the results for which I toiled have come

to thee unsought."

Maude would have replied, but the passionate woman proceeded. "Nay, let me

speak; for since my great grief has fallen upon me, I have unburdened my

heart to no one. As a captive thou didst bring a blessing to the household

of the Conqueror; thy sweet spirit moulded the rude Simon into a

benefactor of his dependents, and I know well that it was thy benevolent

wisdom which instructed Matilda to secure the liberty of England, and the

stability of Henry's throne. Thy silent sacrifices have made the rich

current of thy life one stream of beneficence, while my erring spirit has

converted the bounties of heaven into fountains of misery. My wicked pride

found occasion in the imbecility of my first-born William for ceaseless

repining, and sowed the seeds of sorrow in the hearts of my other noble

beautiful children. Thibaut is in arms against his sovereign, Stephen a

pensioner on the fickle humors of a king, Henry seeks preferment through

the church, and my lovely Lucy, the darling of her father, lies entombed

in the sea. Oh! Maude! Maude! my best and truest friend, pity her whose

only occupation through long years has been 'to write bitter things

against herself!' But I might have known it all," continued she

impetuously, "for heaven through thy intercession deigned to warn me of my

fate, and I would not tell thee lest thy gentle love should win me from

it."

She drew aside the curtain of the oratory, and led the princess within the

shadow. Through the oriel windows the mellow light of the autumnal sun

fell softly upon the altar, where stood beside the crucifix the crystal

urn containing the hallowed dust of Palestine. The scarf of Stephen, with

its golden embroidery rusted, and its bright pearls dimmed with his blood,

was wound round the precious love-gift, and fastened with the thorn

obtained from Ingulfus.

"It seems but yesterday," said she, tenderly detaching the baldric, "since

I held this up before thee with pride and pleasure, and in careless wonder

saw thee wreathe it in the canopy of my couch. But that dream, now that my

whole life looks a dream, seems the one reality of my existence. I shall

tell it thee, for my spirit already feels the balm of thy gentle sympathy.

"My slumbers were at first broken and disturbed. I seemed with Stephen and

Robert in an eastern land, hurrying over rocks and sands, a tiresome,

weary way, in pursuit of a crown which constantly tempted, but eluded the

grasp. First I missed Stephen from my side, then Robert disappeared, and

at last I sank down among myriads of wretches perishing of thirst. I woke

in terror, and it was long ere I could compose myself again to rest.

Whether I slept again I know not, but as I lay gazing into the depths of

the heavens, my vision seemed to pierce beyond the stars; and from the

uttermost distance came one winging his way past the bright orbs, till he

stood within the casement, the impersonation of my lover.

"My scarf lay upon his breast, and his right hand held out to me an urn,

pure as though formed of consolidated light, upon whose amethystine

entablature was engraven _Human Love_. As I extended my hand, and clasped

the precious treasure, the shattered inscription fell to dust in the vase.

I raised my eyes,--he threw a pitying smile upon me, and immediately there

sprang up from the ashes a celestial flower, and as each living petal

unfolded, there floated off a radiant line of light bearing the sacred

words _Divine Love_, till the whole air was filled with redolence and

beauty.

"The ringing of the matin chimes recalled me to consciousness, and my

bright vision was absorbed by the flood of glory which the morning sun

poured into the apartment.

"Thou saidst truth!" exclaimed Maude. "Thy dream is a reality; for in the

ashes of _Human Love_, the _Divine_ plants the sweetest hopes of

existence."

The long sealed fountain of Adela's tears began to flow, and as the

gracious drops distilled from her surcharged heart, and her paralyzed

sensibilities felt once more the bliss of emotion, the strong, proud

woman, became gentle and humble as a child.

"Maude," said she, clasping her hands in gratitude, "there was ever a

mystery about thee. I had thought to wear out my life in sad penance, and

thou hast opened to me a source of happy contemplation: henceforth my

desert future, fertilized by the sweet waters that have gushed from the

rock at thy magic touch, shall blossom with the flowers of Paradise."

The abbess Cicely here entered, and summoned them to the hall of general

reception, where Maude embraced her son and received the ambassadors sent

by her husband to conduct her to Stirling, the place appointed for her

coronation, as Queen of Scotland.

"Go," said Adela, with affectionate joy, as she saw her depart. "Go to thy

bright destiny. Thou art a living illustration of the truth of scripture,

'Be thou faithful over a few things, and I will make thee ruler over many

things.'"

ELEANOR.

[Illustration: Eleanor of Aquitaine.]

CHAPTER I.

"In the midst was seen

A lady of a more majestic mien,

By stature and by beauty marked their sovereign Queen."

The southern provinces of France, Poitou, Saintogne, Auvergne, Perigord,

Limousin, Angoumois and Guienne, received of the Romans the classic

appellation of Aquitaine. This beautiful land, watered by the Garonne and

Loire, whose clear and sparkling streams, flowing from vine-clad hills,

stretched their silvery arms to irrigate the fairest fields and to enclose

the finest harbors in the world, was in the twelfth century, inhabited by

the most civilized and polished people on the face of the earth. The arts,

and the idealities, and the refinements of life, like the native flowers

of its sunny vales, seemed wakened and nourished by the genial airs of a

climate, softened by the proximity of the sea, and rendered bracing by the

mountain breeze. The numerous and independent sovereigns, whose feudal

sway extended over this fair territory, imbibed the spirit of chivalry,

and caught the enthusiasm that precipitated the armies of Europe upon

Asia. Count Raimond of Toulouse, was one of the first who took the cross,

at the council of Clermont. He was styled _par excellence_ the Moses of

the expedition. Before leaving for Palestine, on his returnless voyage, he

ceded his dominions to his daughter, wife of William IX. of Poitou. The

grand-children of William IX. were Eleanor and Petronilla. The father of

these fair sisters, William X., left Aquitaine in 1132, with their uncle

Raimond, who was chosen prince of Antioch.

The poetical taste of Eleanor was early cultivated and developed by the

unrestrained freedom she enjoyed in the queenless court of her minstrel

grandfather in Gay Guienne. The language that prevailed all over the

south of France, was called Provencal. It was the mother-tongue of Duke

William, the grandfather of Eleanor, who was one of the most liberal

patrons and earliest professors of that style of composition in which the

Troubadours celebrated the feats of love and arms. The matchless charms of

Eleanor were enhanced by all the accomplishments of the south. Her fine

genius found ample exercise in composing the sirvantes and chansons of

Provencal poetry, and her delicate fingers wiled the spirit of music from

the echoing harp to accompany her voice adown the tide of song. She

inherited from her grandfather the political sovereignty of her native

dominions not only, but the brilliant talents and ancestral superiority

that made her Empress in the realm of Taste, and Queen of the courts of

Love.

When the gay and licentious Duke William felt the infirmities of age

coming upon him, he determined to seek the readiest means to rid himself

of the burden of his sins. Accordingly, he resolved to resign the most

potent sceptre in Europe to the unpractised hand of his youthful

granddaughter, and devote the rest of his days to prayer and penitence in

a hermitage of the rocky wilderness of St. James de Compostella. Eleanor

had not attained her fifteenth year when her grandfather commenced his

career of self-denial, by summoning the baronage of Aquitaine to transfer

their allegiance to herself; and the child-sovereign exercised the royal

functions of her new dignities while the duke visited the court of Louis

le Gros and offered her hand to the young prince. The wise lawgiver of

France readily accepted the proposal--for the rich provinces which

constituted the dower of Eleanor, held allegiance to the crown, only by

feudal tenure; and the son, equally impatient for the possession of his

fair prize, set off with a noble train for Bordeaux. The light heart of

Eleanor was easily won by the unrivalled attractions of Louis le Jeune,

whose courtly graces were illuminated by the prospect of the crown of

Charlemagne; while the damsels that composed her court, exercised their

blandishments with cruel skill upon the too susceptible hearts of the

cavaliers that came in the train of the bridegroom. The parliament of Love

deliberated day by day in mock solemnity upon the pretensions of the fair

rivals, and the discreet decisions of Eleanor, the presiding genius of the

conclave, inspired the songs of Trouveres and Troubadours, who vied with

each other in celebrating her charms.

A succession of long, bright days, closed the month of July, and on the

last evening the court of Love continued its session till the brilliant

twilight had faded from the western sky, and the mellow harvest-moon

poured a silver flood upon fountains that sprang as if instinct with life

to catch and fling the shining radiance upon the gay company that still

lingered in the Rose Pavilion. The Queen of the court, attired like Venus,

sat upon a throne, canopied with Acaeia, through whose trembling leaves

the light fell playfully contending with the envious shadows that seemed

striving to hide her smiles. At her feet sat her favorite page, with wings

framed of gauze attached to his shoulders, holding a lyre, fashioned to

resemble the bow of Cupid, upon which he occasionally struck a few notes

to announce a change in the evening's entertainment. Lovely maidens

arrayed as Nymphs and Graces reclined upon verdant couches around the fair

arbitress of these amorous debates. Groups of light-hearted girls,

representing heathen goddesses, listened encouragingly to their favorite

minstrels, and strove, by various subtle arts, to win the meed of praise

to the verse that celebrated their charms. Sirventes and Chansons had been

recited and sung, still the assembly listened with an air of impatience,

as if anticipating matters of more general interest. With a smile that at

once excited and baffled curiosity, the Queen touched the cheek of her

page with her flowery sceptre, saying, "Why slumbers the harp of my pretty

Peyrol? Has he no song for the ear of his lady?"

"Peyrol cannot sing in the Romance Walloon," said the youth, casting down

his eyes with jealous pique.

"Proud one," replied the queen, "thou knowest that though the lord of

_oui_ and _non_ delights our eye, his language charms not our ear. We

would hear a pretty faibleaux of Grenada, or wilt thou give us a fitting

apostrophe to the court, where Gaiety and Innocence preside."

"Nay, honored lady," said the page, "since Gaiety and Innocence parted

company on the plains of Pleasure, harmony hath forsaken the lyre, and not

even the goddess of Love can heal the discord."

"Thou pratest, pert boy," replied the queen, with a stolen glance at

Petronilla.

Perceiving from her tone, that he had presumed too far, the page bent over

his harp and rapidly swept his fingers across the strings, saying

apologetically,

"If my lady will accept a lay of Bretagne, Peyrol is ready to do her

bidding."

"The sweet tones of the langue d'oc little befit the rugged legends of the

northern clime," said the queen, "but tune thy lyre without further

parley." The page needed no second command, but sang:--

1. In a province fair of sunny France,

Beside a winding river,

Over whose waves in joyous dance,

The sunbeams gleam and quiver,

Stood a castle tall, a goodly sight,

With its broad and rich domain,

And therein dwelt a noble knight;

I ween he had a lady bright

And three sweet babes withouten stain.

2. A generous heart, an open hand,

To courtlie companie,

And eke as any in the land

For beggars of low degree.

So gentle his mien in lady's bower,

So full of courtesie,

Yet valiant was he in tournament,

And a good bow in the greenwood bent,

I wot right dextrously.

3. He had been blest in his earthly state

With such fair prosperity,

That his heart beat high with pride elate,

Forgot he the giver good and great

And christian humility.

Whereat to punish his arrogance,

Our Lady sent him sore mischance,

And dire adversity.

4. Sir Isumbras to the hunt has gone,

Riding so gallantly,

With hawk and hound in the dewy morn,

When a vision bright above him born,

Appeared in the clear blue sky.

He saw a maiden meek and fair,

An angel I wist was she,

A messenger sent to bid him prepare

For chill calamity.

5. A woful man was the knight that day,

He turned him home in sore dismay,

When his good steed fell and died,

And hawk and hound of life bereft,

Sir Isumbras in the forest left,

With no living thing beside.

When to him there came his little foot page,

As fast as he might hie.

My noble master, a sad message,

It is that I bear to thee.

"Thy proud castell lies in ruins low,

Thy lady and children escaped the blow,

But and with jeopardy."

6. The knight bowed meekly to heaven's decree;

A wiser and sadder man was he,

And with his lady and children, three,

Sir Isumbras boune him o'er the sea--

A penitent pilgrim he would be

To holy Palestine.

Through seven weary lands they went--

The strength of the babes was wellnigh spent,

For charity, cold was their nourishment.

They came to a wood, with flowers besprent--

To a rapid river of broad extent,

Where never the sunbeams shine.

7. His eldest born, Sir Isumbras bore

With tenderest care to the farther shore;

But ere he returned again,

A lion fierce from the thicket sprang--

The little one tore from that cruel strand,

Nor him might they regain.

8. He found his lady weeping, full lorn,

For in his absence a leopard strong,

With a fell and bloody unicorn,

The others from her arms had torn.

9. The lady wished that she might die,

Or ever this sore calamity,

She should have been preserved to see;

But the knight with meek humility,

To Mary mother a prayer 'gan say,

That his penance might soon have end--

When wandering through the weary land,

The Sultan's captives they were ta'en

Before his face to bend.

10. I trow the Sultan had rarely seen

A lady so lovely, in form or mien,

Or a knight so bold and true.

"Sir knight, I will give thee gold and fee,

As much as thou might wish to see,

If thou wilt renounce Christianity,

And fight for the banners of Paynimrie,

And sell thy lady bright to me;"

His form to its height he drew.

11. "Our Lady forefend that I should e'er

In infidel ranks a standard bear,

Or the holy cross betray;

And for weal or woe my lady fair,

I wed in the face of day;

A recreant knight I be when e'er

This right I shall gainsay."

12. They have putten off his scarlet mantell

Within the goldis shred;

They drove him from that land of Baal,

And left him as he were dead.

The lady was sent to a far countrie,

The bride of the Sultan she should be,

When from the wars of Chrisendie

In triumph he returned.

13. Asleep in the forest the good knight lay

And when he awoke at dawn of day

He saw his treasure borne away,

By an eagle strong in search of prey--

No longer he there sojourned.

To the Virgin he made a fervent prayer

Invoking for aye her watchful care.

Then to Palestine he turned.

14. Through ten long years the knight pursued

His weary pilgrimage;

Then buckled he on his armor bright,

With heart beating free and light,

He hath boune him for the fight,

A gallant and unknown knight

Withouten heritage.

15. Much they marvelled then to see

A warrior, unknown as he,

Such deeds of valor do.

They wist he was no mortal wight,

But some weird magician sprite,

When in the thickest of the fight

The Sultan dread he slew.

16. They have broughten him to the christian king

With gladness and great welcoming,

And honor and praise had he;

But his object fell he did obtain,

For his mighty enemy he hath slain.

He donned his pilgrim weeds again,

And his wanderings pursued.

17. The scorching sun, with a feverish glare,

On the burning sands cast radiance clear;

When weary and faint the knight drew near,

Where stately and tall a castle fair

From a green oasis rose.

The cool palms waving in golden light,

With music of murmuring fountains bright,

Beckoning called the fainting knight

To bowers of repose.

18. He passed the portals of the hall,

And stood 'mong squires and good knights tall,

Holding it seemed high festival.

19. A lady beautiful to see,

Sat 'neath a gorgeous canopy.

She was queen of that countrie,

Lady of generous chivalry,

And eke of lowly charity.

The holy Palmers with reverence,

Welcomed she to her residence;

Gentle and kind was she.

20. But the knight would not be comforted,

For restless recollection shed

A sadness over all.

In silent mood he wandered

Through tower and lofty hall.

21. It fell on a day the Queen with her guest

Were seated at the mid-day feast,

When entered her favorite page in haste.

In the early morning he went in quest

Of eaglets' eyries, and on the crest

Of a lofty mountain he found a nest,

With golden treasure hid in its breast,

Wrapped in a scarlet mantel.

22. No sooner beheld she the page's prize,

Than the tears o'erflowed the ladie's eyes.

My true and loyal knight she cries,

(The palmer looked on with mute surprise.)

Hast thou Sir Isumbras seen?

One moment they gazed in silent survey,

The mists of memory rolled away;

And locked within his arms she lay--

The lost one found again.

And there was feast and festival;

Resounded then through bower and hall,

The lute and joyous madrigal;

And joustings there were in tournament,

And breaking of lances in compliment,

To the beauty of ladies bright;

Then over the Sultan's fair domain,

In peace the knight and lady reign;

Till the king in all sincerity,

Strove with pious zeal to free

From the bonds of Infidelity,

_His Paynim lieges hight_.

23. But no one there his cause upheld,

Save God and the Queen, I trow;

And were they e'er so valorous,

Never could they withstand

An armament so numerous,

As the unbelievers' band.

24. Then by a chance miraculous,

The tide of war was turned.

As they might be sent in our Lady's name,

Three knights came pricking o'er the plain,

As if the ground they spurned.

Came the first on a lion strong;

On a leopard the second was borne--

The third bestrode a unicorn.

Tall men and brave were they;

The hosts of the Saracens fled in dismay,

And repenting of their disloyalty,

Returned they then to their fealty;

And the knight and lady peacefully

Together with their children, three

Restored to them so happily,

Reigned in tranquillity,

Prosperously and long.

25. They lived and died in good intent;

Unto Heaven their souls went.

When that they dead were,

Jesus Christ, Heaven's king,

Give us aye his blessing,

And shield us aye from care.

Rousing herself from the abstraction that had prevented her hearing the

song of her page, the queen remarked, "Thy story is somewhat long, and for

ourself we would have preferred that the husband had won the holy estate

of martyrdom 'neath the sword of the Soldan. But thou hast rhymed it right

dextrously, and we opine that the moral of thy lay accords well with the

ascetic manners of the north." She extended her wand. The herald then

stood forth, and sounding a few notes on a chalumeaux, cried,

"Comes there no cause of Arrets d'amour,

Our gracious liege and sovereign before,

From lady, knight, or troubadour?"

The flute-like call was thrice repeated, and then a low response to the

challenge issued from a mimic grotto, curiously roofed with overhanging

vines.

"The minstrel of our sister Petronilla has leave to present her cause

before our court," said the queen encouragingly, as the troop of the young

princess advanced from the shadow into the clear light, and knelt at the

footstool of justice.

"The lady Petronilla," began the Troubadour, "arraigns before the court

her recreant knight, Count Rudolph of Vermandois. Cold greeting gives he

for her fair looks, scant courtesy for her warm smiles; his ungloved hand

returns not the pressure of her slight fingers, and the banderol she sent

him flutters not from his gleaming lance." A slight pause followed this

accusation, and the herald again stood forth and demanded if any minstrel

or Troubadour could say aught in extenuation of the offence of the

accused. Not a voice answered, not a harp string stirred. At the third

call the page of Eleanor arose, and with a graceful obeisance begged to be

heard.

"Rudolph of Vermandois," said he, "witnesseth by me, that since he set

lance in rest to do his devoir for the fair Adelais of Champaigne, his eye

and smile, and heart and hand, as loyal husband and true knight, are due

and devote to her alone."

A general murmur attested the disapprobation of the assembly at this new

and strange defence; for it had already become a proverb in Guienne, that

"True love cannot exist between married persons." The importance of the

action, however, elicited a brilliant contest among the rival Troubadours,

and never was a case more warmly argued, more skilfully enveloped with the

subtleties of logic, or more thoroughly transpierced with the sallies of

wit, than that which arose from the efforts of the wily granddaughter of

Philippa of Toulouse, to fascinate the husband of the granddaughter of

Adela, Countess of Blois. The fair jurors finally, like their successors

in modern days, rendered their verdict in accordance with preconceived

opinions, independent of justice or argument. The defence being thus found

invalid, the culprit was put under ban of the court, and all true ladies

were forbidden to smile upon him, except by the grace of his slighted

lady-love. The fairy camp then adjourned its sitting to receive the royal

guests, who were already on the way to meet them. As Eleanor accepted the

assistance of her lover to climb the terraced pathway leading to the

castle, she said with her most bewitching smile, "We consign our young

sister, Petronilla, to the care of our noble cousin of Vermandois." The

count dissembling his reluctance bowed and offered his hand to the

sprightly sorceress, and the queen whispered her sister, "The hawk is

hooded, it must be thine to bind his jessies."

CHAPTER II.

Where is the antique glory now become,

That while some wont in woman to appear?

Where be the bold achievements done by some?

Where be the battles, where the shield and spear?

And all the conquests which them high did rear

Be they all dead, or shall again appear?

SPENSER.

The first of August, 1137, rose upon a brilliant ceremonial. The princely

capital of Bordeaux glittered with all the splendor that Guienne, and its

dependent fiefs could supply; for on that day the native subjects of

Eleanor assembled to accept the resignation of Duke William, and to give

the hand of their liege lady in marriage to the heir of France. Though

Eleanor was sufficiently dazzled by the prospect of ruling in the court of

Paris, she had the sagacity to accept the proposal of her barons and

refuse her consent to the arrangement, till by charter and deed she had

secured inviolate the laws and customs of Aquitaine, and the

administration of the government to herself alone. Upon the conclusion of

the ceremony the duke laid down his robes and insignia of sovereignty, and

in presence of his loving subjects and weeping grandchildren, took up the

hermit's cowl and staff and departed on his lonely pilgrimage.

The royal cortege set out the following day for the north, resting only at

the principal towns, where the young duke and duchess received the homage

of the feudal lords.

At Blois, the Count of Vermandois, who had by circumstances that seemed to

him wholly accidental been forced to give his constant attendance upon the

artful Petronilla, embraced once more his beautiful Adelais, and pleading

her ill health, obtained permission of the prince to absent himself for a

time from court. The disappointed Petronilla could scarcely conceal her

chagrin at this unlooked-for interruption in her proceedings, and from

that moment conceived the most violent hatred of her innocent rival. On

their entrance at Paris, instead of the enthusiastic greeting and splendid

festivities which Eleanor had anticipated, the bridal party was escorted

through silent streets by weeping attendants, who conducted them to the

death-bed of Louis VI. The great legislator of France gazed with a look of

solemn benignity upon the youthful pair that knelt to crave his parting

blessing, and reminding them, that their recent union involved not only

their individual happiness, but the peace and prosperity of both the north

and the south, added with his expiring breath, "Remember, royalty is a

public trust, for the exercise of which a rigorous account will be exacted

by Him who has the sole disposal of crowns and of sceptres."

On the conscientious mind of Louis, the words of his dying father made a

deep impression; but his thoughtless partner was no sooner crowned Queen

of France, than she entered upon her career of folly, exerting all her

talents, and exercising all her influence in the exciting games of court

intrigue. The impassioned verse in which Abelard celebrated the beauty and

love of the gifted but frail Heloise, furnished employment for Eleanor's

Provencal minstrels, and formed the topic of general remark among the

minions of the court. She assisted the persecuted monk in his defence

before the Council of Sens, and after his death caused his body to be

conveyed to the chapel of the Paraclete, and consigned to the care of the

melancholy Heloise. She persuaded Louis that the services of his prime

minister Vermandois, were indispensable at Paris, and thus, again, brought

that nobleman within the charmed sphere of Petronilla's attractions. She

contrived, at the same time, to secure for herself a devoted admirer in

the Count of Ponthieu, who became the agent of her slightest wish. Through

his gallantry she succeeded in involving the beautiful Adelais in some

matters of court scandal, and thus by exciting the jealousy of the Count

of Vermandois, and exposing him to the bewitching spells of her sister,

she finally persuaded him to divorce his lovely and amiable wife, and

espouse the designing Petronilla.

Adelais sought to hide her sorrow and her wrongs in the seclusion of a

convent; but her brother, the valiant Count Thibault of Champagne, was not

inclined to suffer the indignity in silence. Such, however, was Eleanor's

power over the plastic mind of her husband, that the count appealed in

vain to the sympathy or justice of the king. Finding that his remonstrance

could not reach the royal ear, he presented his cause before the pope, who

compelled Vermandois to put away the guilty Petronilla, and take back the

injured sister of Champagne. The repudiated wife enraged at her own

dishonor, and incensed at the undissembled joy with which Vermandois

exchanged her dazzling graces, for the long-regretted charms of the

weeping recluse, again had recourse to Eleanor. The queen, not less

vindictive than her sister, and more practised in diplomacy, succeeded in

fanning an ancient feud between Louis and Count Thibault, into the flame

of war. The king invaded Champagne at the head of a large army, and

commenced a devastating progress through the province. The town of Vitry,

strongly walled and fortified, for a long time resisted the royal forces;

but the queen, whose apprehensions of the temperate counsels of Suger,

prompted her to accompany her husband upon every occasion, privately

commissioned a body of Gascons to set fire to the town at the very moment

of its surrender. The flames spread from house to house, and finally

extended to the cathedral, and thirteen hundred persons who had taken

refuge there, were burned to death. The king stung by the cries of his

perishing subjects, exerted himself for their rescue, but in vain; and the

horrors of the scene made such a fearful impression on his mind, as

seriously to affect his health. The vision of his lamented father,

repeating in solemn tones, "Remember, my son, that royalty is a public

trust, for the exercise of which a rigorous account will be exacted by Him

who has the sole disposal of crowns and of sceptres," haunted his slumbers

and destroyed his rest. Queen Eleanor journeyed with him from one holy

place to another, to entreat the prayers of pious monks in his behalf,

but the dejection of his mind increased to such an extent, that even her

insinuating blandishments failed to recall him from his gloomy

contemplations. Wearied with fruitless endeavors, she petulantly remarked

to Petronilla, who now triumphed in the possession of a new lover, the

young Count Maurienne, "Fate has given me the name of queen with the

destiny of a nun. Would we were again in our native realm, for I tire of

this dull life. Instead of the gay minstrelsy of the sweet southwest, I am

jaded with perpetual psalmody, and my attempts to beguile the weary hours

with the 'joyous science,' are mocked with the mummery of muttered

prayers. I have married a monk rather than a monarch;" and the mortified

queen burst into tears.

While this state of feeling subsisted between the conscience-stricken

Louis and his discontented consort, news of the fall of Edessa and the

conquests of Noureddin reached Europe, and the sagacious Eleanor saw, in

the general sympathy which the intelligence excited, the means by which

she might make the melancholy of Louis the instrument of her own pleasure.

She forsook at once her gay amusements, joined her husband in alms, deeds

and prayers, expressed the greatest pity for the misfortunes of their

royal cousins, and constantly wished that she might be permitted to lead

her brave Provencals to restore the gallant Courtenays to their lost

principality of Edessa. The gracious change in the character of Eleanor

delighted the penitent monarch, and he began to listen with interest and

pleasure to her oft-repeated suggestion, that a pilgrimage would prove an

acceptable penance for the misdeed at Vitry. Animated by a renewed hope,

he called a council of the clergy and nobility of his kingdom to

deliberate on the propriety of an expedition to the Holy Land, and by

their advice despatched deputies to gain the sanction of Pope Eugenius.

The vicar of Christ entered readily into the design, and commissioned the

famous St. Bernard, abbot of Clairvaux, to preach the _Second Crusade_.

Louis and his queen, and all their court, attended on the ministry of the

holy man, and such crowds flocked to listen to the eloquent saint that no

cathedral, however large, could contain them. His auditors were impressed

by his sanctity, persuaded by his enthusiasm, and carried away by his

zeal. "The cross!" "The cross!" was echoed from every tongue. Louis and

his queen were the first to adopt the holy symbol, and as the multitudes

that pressed forward to follow their pious example soon exhausted the

supply already prepared, the reverend orator tore his monkish garment into

small pieces and fixed them to the shoulders of his kneeling converts.

Encouraged by his success, St. Bernard passed into Germany, and every city

and village from Constance to Carinthia responded to the call of war.

Those who understood not even the language which he spoke, were awed by

his gestures, and the dignity of his demeanor, and the miracles that

accompanied his presence. The mind of the emperor Conrad III. was moved by

his startling delineations of the judgment day, when punishment should be

inflicted upon the idle, and heavenly rewards showered upon the faithful,

and openly professed that the Lord of the Germans knew and would perform

his duty to the church.

The romantic purpose of becoming a female crusader now completely occupied

the light head of Eleanor, and as she was in the very plenitude of her

charms, and possessed sufficient wealth to practise any extravagance, she

soon made it the fashion among all the vain sentimentalists of her court.

The absurd arrangements which she made for the campaign, gave little

promise of rational conquest. The female recruits sent their useless

distaffs and embroidery-frames to all the knights and nobles who had the

good sense to suppose that Heaven would be better pleased with their

remaining in peace at home, than by their going abroad to destroy their

fellow-men; and this ingenious taunt had the desired effect upon the

doughty knights, who, fearing a woman's raillery, joined an expedition to

Syria to prove their valor. The fair warriors clothed themselves in helmet

and hauberk, having golden crosses tastefully embroidered upon the left

shoulder; gilded slippers, glittering spurs, and silver-sheathed

falchions suspended from the side completed the equipment, and mounted on

richly-caparisoned steeds, they formed a brilliant squadron, caricoled

about Paris and performed a thousand fantastic follies in public, calling

themselves the body-guard of the _Golden-footed Dame_.

CHAPTER III.

A voice, a flute, a dreamy lay,

Such as the southern breeze

Might waft, at golden fall of day

O'er blue transparent seas.

Louis took the cross in 1146, and in the following year, having received

from the pope the consecrated banner as a warrior, and the staff and scrip

as a pilgrim, set out for the general rendezvous at Mentz with his queen

and her grotesque cavalcade. Here they were joined by an immense number of

nobles and knights and soldiers, among whom were crusaders from England

and the remote islands of the northern sea. After the lapse of half a

century, the second crusade, consisting of two hundred thousand people,

tracked their way along the banks of the Danube by the whitening bones of

those who had fallen victims to the blind fanaticism of the first

expedition. Manuel Comnenus, who now sat on the throne of Constantinople,

adopted the same policy that had distinguished the councils of his

grandfather, Alexius. His envoys, bearing letters filled with flattery and

fair speeches, met the advancing warriors, but the imperial guides were

instructed to conduct the soldiers of the west by difficult and circuitous

routes, and the purveyors had secret orders to furnish them with sacks of

flour mixed with chalk and lime. Conrad, who was the brother-in-law of

Manuel, was so indignant at this breach of hospitality, that he crossed

the Bosphorus without meeting or conferring with the emperor--but the

splendid city of Constantinople presented too many attractions to the

female adventurers to be passed in so hurried a manner.

The wily Comnenus soon perceived that the readiest means to divide the

forces of the crusade would be to amuse the fickle Queen of France. All

the voluptuous refinements of the Greek court were accordingly put in

requisition to detain his unwelcome visitors, and if the avaricious

Bohemond was bribed with the contents of a treasure-chamber in the palace,

Eleanor might well be excused if her frivolous fancy was captivated by her

splendid suite of rooms adorned with all the luxury of eastern

magnificence, and the richly-attired slaves that waited her slightest

bidding, and when at last they set forward, the Damascene silks, costly

jewels, and precious gifts, which Manuel showered upon the finery-loving

Amazons, added not a little to the cumbrous baggage with which the

thoughtless queen loaded the expedition.

Louis, lulled into security by the flattering assurances of Manuel, had

lingered in the Greek empire till the defeat of Conrad at Iconium, when

convinced by the report of the discomfited Germans, of the treachery of

his royal host, he set forward with his troops along the coast of Asia

Minor. They passed Thyatira, Sardis, and Philadelphia without accident,

defeated the Turks on the banks of the Meander, and arrived in safety at

Laodicea. The freaks of Eleanor and her female warriors were the cause of

all the misfortunes that afterwards befell the French army. On the second

day after leaving Laodicea, their way led up the mountains, by a winding

and difficult ascent. The prudent king sent forward the queen and her

ladies, escorted by his choicest troops, under the guard of Count

Maurienne, charging them to entrench themselves upon the wooded heights

that overlooked the valley of Laodicea. Himself followed slowly with the

rearguard, encumbered by the useless baggage, and harassed by the Arabs.

The Count Maurienne, with Petronilla by his side, rode gallantly up the

steep, and halted at the place appointed, but when Eleanor reached the

spot she was so attracted by the appearance of an adjacent valley, cooled

by waterfalls, and shaded by thickets, which seemed to beckon them on with

an inviting grace, that she insisted upon pressing forward, and forming

the bivouac there. The Count Maurienne endeavored to dissuade the queen

from her purpose, by representing the danger of abandoning the commanding

position designated by the king, but opposition only increased her

pertinacity, and aided by the light artillery of Petronilla's eyes, she

soon brought the discomfited knight to terms. The scene that opened before

them as they descended into the valley, was sufficient to charm away all

fatigue and fear. The rocky heights at the west, behind which the sun was

just sinking, veiled their bold fronts in the misty fringes of the opal

clouds; the blue Mediterranean circled the horizon on the south; and far

to the east stretched every variety of woodland, meadow, and glade, till

the Taurus ridge, melting into the sky, shut out the sands of Syria. The

happy party soon entered the valley. The sumpter mules were speedily

unloaded, the light spars planted, the white canvass of the tents

stretched upon them, and a cold collation spread out for their

refreshment. When the repast was finished Eleanor caused her couch to be

placed at the door of the tent, so that wild roses nodded at its pillow,

and flinging herself upon it, as the brilliant stars of that eastern clime

looked down upon her, she exclaimed, "Petronilla, my sister, seems not

this like our own dear Provence? I could almost fancy myself once more in

the Rose Pavilion."

"Certes," said Petronilla, "and were it not a fitting time and place to

hold the festival of our Court of Love? Methinks yon, count," with a

mischievous glance at Maurienne, "withstood our entreaties to enter this

delightful retreat beyond the limits of gallantry."

"Gra'mercy, fair ladies," said the count, with mock gravity, "that I fear

the frowns of this august tribunal more than the displeasure of my royal

master, is perhaps my sin, and it is with unfeigned apprehensions that I

surrender to the court."

"I accuse the count--" began the princess. Maurienne interrupted her,

"Petronilla my accuser! Then am I lost indeed. I had hoped to hear her

eloquent lips plead my excuse."

"Nay! nay!" said Eleanor, striking the velvet turf with her tiny foot.

"The court forbids these disorderly proceedings. Henry de Blois, arrest

thou the Count Maurienne at the complaint of the princess, bind his hands

with this string of pearls, and confront him with his accuser. Our brave

Warrenne, take thy spear and stand sentinel by yon copse. A prowling

Saracen would make an awkward addition to our goodly company. Knights and

ladies, recline at ease upon these verdant cushions. When the cause of

this culprit shall have received verdict, perchance your own delinquencies

may pass review."

"Heaven forefend!" exclaimed a chorus of voices, mingling ejaculations

with merry laughter and gay pasquinade.

The queen, now in her element, succeeded in quelling the tumultuous mirth,

though an occasional titter was elicited by the solemn visages of

Maurienne and Petronilla, who played their part to admiration.

"Where is the petulant Peyrol?" inquired the queen, looking round the

circle, "we can no more proceed with our important affairs without the aid

of song than could the prophet without the inspiration of music."

"Peyrol, my liege, attends upon the king," replied a Spanish cavalier, who

had recently rode so constantly by the side of the queen that the

courtiers dubbed him her saddle-beau.

"Gonzalvo," returned Eleanor, "we have heard that thou stringest a lute

upon occasion. Let not our pastime be marred by the defection of this

truant boy. Give us a Moorish ballad, if thy memory serves thee with

nothing better. Our royal spouse will be here anon and summon us to

prayers."

"I am but a poor pilgrim, and little skilled in the 'Joyous Science,'"

said the Spaniard, with affected modesty; "but the command of my queen

must give me the fitting inspiration." He touched a melodious prelude, and

sung in a clear, manly voice:--

1. "I a minstrel of Grenada, Gonzalvo Bercio hight,

Once wandering as a pilgrim, found a meadow richly dight,

Green and peopled full of flowers, of flowers fair and bright,

A place where many a weary man would rest him with delight.

2. "And the flowers I beheld all looked and smelt so sweet,

That the senses and the soul they seemed alike to greet,

While on every side ran fountains through all this glad retreat,

Which in winter kindly warmth supplied, yet tempered summer's heat.

3. "And of rich and goodly trees there grew a boundless maze,

Rich grapes and apples bright, and figs of golden rays,

And many other fruits beyond my skill to praise,

But none that turneth sour, and none that e'er decays.

4. "The freshness of that meadow, the sweetness of its flowers,

The dewy shadows of the trees that fell like cooling showers,

Renewed within my frame its worn and wasted powers,

I deem the very odors would have nourished me for hours."

An arrow that pierced the tent, and fell among the strings of the

minstrel's harp, interrupted the symphony, and called forth discordant

screams of terror. A moment after the Earl of Warrenne, breathless and

bleeding, rushed into the assembly, and communicated the startling

intelligence, that the Turks had taken possession of the heights allotted

for their encampment, and that the king, unaware of his danger, was

proceeding to the snare, spread for his whole army. Maurienne hastily cast

away his mimic fetters, and counselling his lovely charge to remain as

close as possible beneath the shadow of the trees, stationed a small guard

to defend them, and hastened back to the assistance of his sovereign.

The Syrian moon now rose broad and clear in the east, and the frightened

females, huddling together like a flock of timid sheep, could distinctly

see the heavy-armed troops on which rested all their hopes, toiling slowly

up the mountain, in the face of a tremendous shower of arrows and loose

masses of stone which the Moslems threw upon them from above. Men, horses

and baggage, overborne by the sudden attack, rolled down the precipitous

steep, and the expiring cries of familiar voices could be distinctly heard

through the still air. Maurienne soon succeeded in putting to flight the

Arabs that had attacked the vanguard, but the most dreadful havoc was made

among the followers of Louis, and the king himself was only saved by the

greatest efforts of personal valor. Seven thousand of the flower of French

chivalry paid with their lives the penalty of the queen's caprice. The

baggage containing the fine array of the lady-warriors, was plundered by

the Arabs, and the fragments of their dainty supper was the only provision

left for their sustenance.

The further progress of the French was beset with dangers and privations.

The discipline of the army was broken, and they marched or rather

wandered, for they knew not the roads, along the coast of Pamphilia,

purchasing or plundering food of the frightened inhabitants; and famine

thinned the ranks with such rapidity, and so many horses and other beasts

of burden perished by the way, that it was finally determined to turn

aside from these scenes of desolation and proceed by sea to Antioch. But

upon reaching the coast, a new difficulty occurred. A sufficient number of

ships could not be procured to transport them all, and the brave peers of

France, with honorable pride, agreed that the simple pilgrims, with the

women and children, should alone make their passage with the king, while

themselves should continue their route on foot. Louis distributed what

money he had among the soldiers, who were left to surmount the higher

difficulties of the land route, and engaged a Greek escort and guide to

conduct them, and taking leave of the miserable beings who had followed

him to their own destruction, went on board the ships. The escort soon

deserted the French soldiers, the guide betrayed them, and but few if any

ever reached Syria.

The royal party arrived at Antioch in a condition little short of beggary;

but Prince Raimond, the uncle of Eleanor, opened his hospitable gates to

them, and by the beautiful stream of the Orontes, the distressed warriors

of the cross refreshed themselves after their fatigues, and the

thoughtless queen regained once more her roses and her smiles. Recent

experience had greatly cooled her military ardor, and the gaiety of the

court of Antioch presented greater attractions to her fancy than a journey

over the sandy plains of Syria. Prince Raimond, wishing to avail himself

of the panic which a new arrival of crusaders had spread among the Turks,

to extend the limits of his own territories, set himself at once to

prevent the immediate departure of Louis for Jerusalem. The prince was the

handsomest man of his time, and directly began to pay the most assiduous

court to his lovely niece. The queen, flattered by his attentions,

commenced such a series of coquetries with him as greatly scandalized and

incensed Louis; but it was not till she attempted to persuade her husband

to join Raimond in an expedition against Cesarea that she found she had at

last irritated the kind monarch beyond the limits of forbearance. Louis

left her in anger, and departed with his forces for Jerusalem, where he

was received with the greatest joy. Crowds of ecclesiastics and laymen

going out to meet him, conducted him within the holy gates, singing,

"Blessed is he that cometh in the name of the Lord."

Disappointed in the assistance of Louis, Raimond determined to secure an

ally in Saladin, a young Emir of the Sultan. Eleanor, who was at this time

moping with chagrin at the desertion of her husband, first saw the

handsome barbarian at a Passage of Arms given by Raimond for her

amusement, in which the dark-browed Saracen drove a javelin through the

target with such skill and grace as completely pierced her heart. She

immediately conceived the idea that if she should convert this powerful

Infidel to the Christian faith, she should achieve a greater conquest than

all the forces of Christendom. Prince Raimond, who gladly availed himself

of any attraction that should detain the Arab chief within the walls of

Antioch, smiled upon her pious project. But to bring a follower of the

Prophet devoutly to consider the tenets of the Latin church, required

more familiar intercourse and a greater exercise of personal influence

than the ceremonious observances of Eastern society permitted, or the

strictly virtuous deemed quite discreet. The zealous queen, however,

scorned to be controlled by such fastidious considerations. Her apartments

opened upon a terrace which conducted to a garden filled with every

variety of odoriferous shrub and fragrant flower, at the foot of which a

clump of olive-trees spread abroad their arms to hide a mossy seat from

the intrusive rays of the sun. A little wicket concealed by vines led from

the garden into the street, and Eleanor kept the key. Through this wicket

she admitted her young disciple, and in this retreat, with missionary

zeal, commenced her efforts for the conversion of the Mussulman. It was

some time before the European and Asiatic succeeded in coming to a perfect

understanding; for though Saladin was tolerably well versed in the Lingua

Franca, his vocabulary comprehended little else than those terms used in

common intercourse or war. Whether the philosophers of that day had taught

that though some languages may be deficient in expressions of abstract

ideas, all are replete in the dialect of love, certain it is, that both

teacher and pupil became aware of the fact in their own particular case.

But it was no part of Eleanor's religious plan to entangle herself in a

mesalliance, and when the fascinated Emir began to stammer forth his

admiration, she playfully told him she could understand love only in the

Provencal tongue. The Saracen took his departure, and though she watched

anxiously for the arrow tipped with the eagle feather, by which he was

wont to announce his coming, she saw him not again for twenty days. When

the long-wished-for token at length appeared, and the handsome youth in

his crimson robe and green baldric stood again before her, his face

radiant with joy, and his dark eyes sparkling with delight; when she heard

him pour forth his eloquent passion in the loved Provencal, with all the

fluency and ease of a native, she almost fancied a miracle had been

wrought, and felt convinced that not to lead such talents to the bosom of

the church would be a grievous sin. The Saracen soon persuaded her that

love for her alone had endowed him with supernatural powers, and the

delicate flattery determined her to exercise to the fullest extent the

influence that could produce such wonderful effects. The young Emir belted

his tunic with a silken girdle several yards in length. Upon this ribbon

Eleanor, still intent upon her design, embroidered a cross which the youth

accepted with his accustomed gallantry, saying, "I worship the Divinity it

represents." The next day he brought her a casket of diamonds, and an

ivory box filled with the sweetest perfumes. As he reclined at her feet

she opened the box, and twining his raven hair about her fingers poured

the precious liquid upon his head.

Peyrol who from his childhood had regarded the queen with the impassioned

devotion of the south, had hardly consented to share her heart with Louis.

Since her marriage, her ambition for conquest had kept him constantly in a

state of jealous excitement. His interested eyes had been the first to

discern her stolen interviews with Saladin; and on the day of her

acceptance of the diamonds, he contrived to secrete himself in the garden,

and thus witnessed the whole affair. Convinced of her danger, he set off

direct for Jerusalem, to advertise Louis of her conduct, and while Eleanor

fancied herself doing God service in her efforts to convert the lord of

the Saracens, though at some slight sacrifice of personal delicacy, the

king arrived at Antioch, and hurried her away with small leave-taking of

her uncle, and without even allowing her a parting interview with her

heathen convert. Eleanor submitted to this unaccustomed harshness of her

husband, with a very ill grace. She attempted to explain to him that she

was doing more for the preservation of the Sepulchre than King Baldwin

himself. She expressed the most violent anger at being the object of

unfounded suspicion, and entered the Holy City in a most indignant mood.

The upright mind of Louis could not be made to comprehend the piety that

led to such an ebullition of temper, nor could he well appreciate the

purity of a motive that induced a wife to exchange presents with a lover;

and from this time all confidence between them was at an end. The Queen of

France was, notwithstanding, received and entertained at Jerusalem, with

all the honors due her rank; but Peyrol was instructed to watch her

movements, and prevent any further communication with Raimond.

A council was held at Ptolemais, composed of the christian powers of Syria

and Palestine, and the crusaders from Europe, and though the restoration

of the Courtneys to their lost principality was the object of the

expedition, it was decided that Damascus was a far more dangerous neighbor

to Jerusalem than the remote city of Edessa. The decree to march to

Damascus was accordingly passed, and the kings Louis VII., Baldwin III.,

and Conrad III. brought their troops into the field.

The best disciplined parts of the army were the Knights of the Temple, and

of St. John. In the early days of pilgrimages, an institution for the care

of the sick had been established in Jerusalem. In this friendly hospital

the wounded and dying of the first crusade were received and tended with

the greatest care. King Godfrey with affectionate gratitude rewarded their

pious labors by the gift of an estate in Brabant, whence they derived a

steady revenue. The association acquired importance, and finally formed a

religious house under the tutelage of St. John the Baptist. They took the

usual vows of chastity, poverty, and obedience, and the patriarch of

Jerusalem invested them with a black robe, having a white linen cross of

eight points upon the left breast.

In A.D. 1113, the Hospital was put under the protection of the Holy See,

and their revenues increasing beyond the demands of charity, about A.D.

1130, they determined to draw the sword against the enemies of the faith.

The Hospitallers were accordingly arranged into three classes, nobility,

clergy, and serving brothers, who divided their duties between making

deadly war upon the Infidels, healing the wounds of the Christian soldier,

and praying for the souls of the departed. The admirers of valor and

piety either joined their standard or enriched their coffers. Great men

sent their sons to them for instruction, and the Knights Hospitallers soon

became a powerful monastic and military order.

A few years later, some French gentlemen founded the equally honorable

institution of the Red Cross Knights. The original design of this order,

was to watch the road and keep open the communication between Europe and

the Holy Land. At first they were fed and clothed by the Hospitallers, and

to indicate their poverty, adopted a seal with the figures of two men on

one horse. They bound themselves to the three great monastic virtues, and

added some austerities, which were supposed to give them power with God

and man. They were originally styled Milites Christi, but when Baldwin I.

assigned them a residence in the royal palace, adjacent to the Temple of

Solomon, they assumed the title of Templars, or Knights of the Temple.

They wore linen coifs with red caps close over them, shirts and stockings

of twisted mail, sapra vests and broad belts with swords inserted, and

over the whole was a white cloak touching the ground. This order, too,

rose into dignity and power; and the military friars of the Hospital, and

the Red Cross Knights of the Temple, soon became the bulwark of

Christendom, "the nurse of manly sentiment and heroic enterprise."

Acquainted with the roads, the Templars led the way to Damascus, and

accustomed to succor the weak, the Hospitallers brought up the rear of the

Christian army. The eastern and southern quarters of the city of Damascus

were defended by impregnable walls; but the north and west were faced by

fields and gardens, and protected only by towers and ditches. Here the

crusaders pitched their camps; and numerous and long-continued were the

engagements between the Christians and Moslems. They succeeded in driving

in the outposts of the Infidels and seizing several fortifications looked

upon Damascus as their own. But now a more serious contest arose. Should

Damascus become an appanage of Jerusalem, a fief of the French crown, or

a German principality? Days and weeks passed away in fruitless disputes

among the crusaders, and at length it was determined that the prize should

be given to the Count of Flanders, because he had twice visited the Holy

Land. This decision only increased the dissatisfaction. There were rumors

of treason in the camp, and the Templars were accused of accepting bribes.

A proposition was made to remove the camp to Ascalon, and while debate

fostered delay the Saracens had time to repair the fortifications of

Damascus, and to summon assistance from the Sultan. The German emperor,

terrified with the report that the Emir of Mosul was marching to the city,

was the first to abandon the siege; and the other leaders, discontented

with themselves and with each other, gloomily retraced their steps to

Jerusalem. Conrad, with the shattered relics of the German host,

immediately returned to Europe; but the king of the French lingered

several months, visiting the holy places, and seeking opportunities to do

military service worthy the expedition; till at length learning from

Peyrol that Eleanor, through the connivance of Petronilla, had exchanged

letters with Saladin, and was meditating a flight to Antioch; he gathered

together the miserable remnant of his army, amounting to three hundred

persons, and accompanied by his enraged queen and her crest-fallen

Amazons, embarked for Constantinople. Here Eleanor found some small

consolation in repairing the sad inroads made upon her wardrobe at the

defeat of Laodicea. From Constantinople the dissatisfied pair sailed for

France.

It was the intention of Louis to put away his wife immediately on his

return, but the sagacious Abbot Suger dissuaded him from this course,

since he would thus detach from the crown the great duchy of Aquitaine,

the probable inheritance of the young Princesses Mary and Alix. She was,

however, closely watched, and forbidden to visit her southern domains. In

A.D. 1150, Geoffrey Plantagenet, the Count Anjou, came to the court of

Louis VII., with his son Henry, a youth about the age of Saladin, whose

fine person and literary attainments made him an object of attraction to

all the ladies of Paris. To Geoffrey Eleanor confided her troubles, one of

the greatest of which was, the refusal of the king to adopt the courtly

adornings of the times, particularly the long-toed shoes, fastened to the

knee by golden chains; and she was especially vexed that he had, at the

suggestion of the clergy, parted with his long curls, handsome beard and

mustachios.

"Already," said she, "he wears the shaven chin and the serge robe, and he

needs only the tonsure and cowl to make him a priest."

The duke repaid her confidence by delineating his own domestic afflictions

arising from the haughty demeanor of his consort the Empress Matilda,

whose irritable temper had not been improved by her ineffectual struggles

with Stephen for the throne of England. Altogether they had a very

sympathizing meeting.

Two years after, Henry of Anjou once more visited Paris to do homage for

his domains, and the queen with a facility acquired by practice,

transferred to him the partiality she had entertained for his father. The

young Plantagenet was a noble, martial-looking prince, with a fair and

gracious countenance, and eyes that sparkled with intelligence and energy.

In the light of this new attachment, Eleanor discovered that King Louis

was her fourth cousin, and farther that the divorce he had threatened was

a matter of conscience and propriety. Louis for the first time in many

years seemed to find happiness in the same plan that pleased his queen. A

council of the church was called at Beaugencie, and in the presence of

Eleanor and Louis, and a numerous circle of relatives, the marriage was

declared invalid on account of consanguinity.

Leaving her daughters in the care of their father, the liberated princess

joyfully departed with her sister Petronilla and her Provencal attendants

to her own country. On her way southward she stopped some time at the

castle of Blois, where the old Count Thibaut, father of Adelais, whose

domestic peace she had so selfishly invaded, became enamored of the great

Provence dower, and offered his hand to his fair guest. Unabashed by the

lady's prompt refusal, the venerable suitor determined to detain her a

prisoner in his fortress till she should comply with his proposition; but

Peyrol accidentally learning the design, disguised his mistress and her

sister in his own apparel, conducted them through the postern by night,

and procuring a fisherman's boat, escaped with them down the Loire. Here a

new danger awaited them. Geoffrey of Anjou, the young brother of Henry

Plantagenet, captivated by the charms of the princess, stationed himself

with a strong guard, at the Pont de Tas, with the intention of carrying

her off. Before the fugitives reached the spot they perceived the ambush,

and the royal ladies, each seizing an oar, concealed their faces by

bending to their tasks, while Peyrol ingeniously evaded the questions of

the sentinel, by displaying the fishing-tackle and turning the boat into a

little creek, as if preparing to commence the morning's sport. Hidden by

the willows that shaded the stream, the party pursued their way with the

utmost rapidity, and before the count had discovered their escape, they

were beyond the reach of capture.

The enthusiastic greetings with which the Provencals hailed the return of

their beloved duchess, had scarcely subsided into the quiet demonstrations

of affectionate obedience, when the young Henry Plantagenet followed her

to Bordeaux, and in that wealthy city, with all the pomp that the

luxurious Provencal could command, they were married the first of May,

A.D. 1152. Thus the sweet provinces of the south became the appanage of

the English crown, and a foundation was laid for those desolating wars

that for centuries drained the best blood of both France and England.

CHAPTER IV.

"Imperial being! e'en though many a stain

Of error be upon thee,

There is power in thy commanding nature."

Henry immediately conveyed his bride to Normandy, and installed her in the

palace at Bayeux, once the residence of the family of William the

Conqueror. The marriage of Eleanor, but little more than a month after her

divorce, astonished all Europe. Especially was the King of France incensed

by a union which made his already too powerful vassal lord of seven more

beautiful and wealthy provinces.

He immediately entered into an alliance with Stephen to deprive Henry of

Normandy, and incited the baffled Geoffrey to make war upon his brother.

"Let the stupid king do his worst," said Eleanor to her husband, as she

despatched Peyrol to order the vessels of Bordeaux into the English

Channel. "The barons of _oc_ and _no_ will raise the banner of St. George

and the golden leopards far above the oriflamme of France, and rejoice at

having such fair cause of quarrel with the suzerain and jailer of their

princess."

The Provencal fleet that was thus brought to guard the coast of England,

was of essential service to Henry in quelling the agitations excited by

Louis not only, but in securing his peaceful accession to the throne of

his grandfather, Henry I. During the six weeks that elapsed after the

death of Stephen, before he was ready to assume his crown, the maritime

power anchored in the English harbors preserved the public tranquillity,

and kept all foreign enemies in awe. Henry and Eleanor, with a brilliant

train, landed on the coast of Hampshire, at the beginning of December,

A.D. 1154, and proceeded direct to Winchester. The prelates and nobles

gathered round them from every part of the kingdom, and their journey from

Winchester to London was a continual triumph.

Their coronation, which took place in Westminster Abbey, was without

parallel for magnificence. The silks, brocades, and velvets shot with

silver or embroidered with gold, which the new queen had brought from

Constantinople, and the jewels which she had hoarded as mementoes of her

self-denying efforts in Palestine, served to illuminate this august

ceremony. The dark beauty of the south wore her long, black hair closely

braided, and bound about her head, like an eastern tiara, from which

flashed the diamonds of her Paynim lover like jewels set in jet. Her snowy

kirtle, of the finest Indian fabric, confined at the throat by a collar of

gems, and fastened by a jewelled belt at the bodice, fell in an amplitude

of drapery to her feet, and the same transparent vesture covered, without

concealing, the exquisite roundness of her arms. Over this was thrown an

elegant pelisson, bordered with fur, having full loose sleeves, lined with

ermine. In fine contrast with his sparkling queen, stood Henry, the first

monarch of the warlike Plantagenets. The Saxon lineaments predominated in

his face and person, the wealth of his brown locks, and his thick, curling

mustachios gave an air of manliness to his somewhat boyish visage, but his

calm youthful countenance was not at that period marked with the strong

and violent passions that afterwards kindled in his eye, and darkened in

his frown. He wore a doublet of crimson damask, and a short Angevin cloak,

which gained for him the soubriquet of Courtmantle. The ecclesiastics who

graced this ceremony also appeared in gowns and cassocks of silk and

velvet, another importation of Eleanor from Constantinople. After the

celebration of the Christmas festivities, the royal pair took up their

residence in Bermondsey, a pastoral village, nearly opposite London, where

was an ancient Saxon palace and a priory.

While Eleanor remained in this quiet retreat, Henry devoted his energies

to settling the affairs of his government, with a prudence and discretion

beyond his years. In one council, he appointed the great officers of the

crown; in another he confirmed to his subjects, all the rights and

liberties secured under the famous charter of Henry Beauclerk, in a third

he induced the barons to do homage to his eldest son William, and in the

event of William's death, to his second son Henry, a child in the cradle.

He demolished many of the castles reared by the rebellious barons under

Stephen, dismissed the foreign mercenaries or Brabancons, that had long

infested the kingdom, and compelled Malcolm, grandson of David and Maude,

to exchange three northern counties for the earldom of Huntingdon, which

the King of the Scots claimed as the descendant of Earl Waltheof. During

the stormy period of Stephen's reign, the ecclesiastical tribunals had

acquired an authority above the judicial courts; and it was the ardent

desire of the monarch to reform this abuse. He owed so much, however, to

the friendship and constancy of Theobald, archbishop of Canterbury, that

he found it difficult to work any innovation upon the jurisdiction of the

church so dear to the heart of his venerable friend. Eleanor occupied in

her own pleasures, and it is charitably to be hoped in the duties of a

mother, took little interest in these affairs; for the death of her eldest

boy, and the birth of a daughter, had in some sort awakened her mind to

maternal responsibilities. She was particularly solicitous with regard to

the tutor to be chosen for her son Henry, and herself made a visit to the

archbishop to confer upon the subject. A few days after the king entered

her apartments in an unusually facetious mood.

"The good Theobald," said he, "who suffered banishment for my mother, has

parted with his right hand to benefit her son. He has sent us his own

archdeacon as a tutor for Henry."

"And how looks the candidate for our favor; is he fair and wise?" asked

Eleanor.

"Nay, for that," said Henry, "the archbishop, with his wonted sagacity,

has shown due regard for the tastes of the family, since the man he has

sent is half Saxon, half Saracen."

"A Pullani," exclaimed Eleanor, her curiosity at once excited. "I met many

of this class in Palestine. Comes he direct from the Holy Land?"

"Nay, he was born in London, and except some of the characteristics of his

wily race, is as good a Christian as ever attended mass. His father,

Guilbert Becket, was taken captive in the first crusade, and confined in

the palace of an emir. The daughter of the Infidel fell violently in love

with the young Christian, liberated him by night, and pawned her jewels to

a band of roving pirates, to engage them to convey him safe to Europe.

Thither she followed him through a great variety of dangers, replying only

'London,' 'Guilbert,' to all who questioned her. These two magic words

brought her to the metropolis, where she found the object of her search.

She was baptized by the Saxon name of Matilda, and Becket rewarded her

devotion by marrying her. Thomas a Becket was their only son. He passed

his childhood under the care of the canons of Merton; he has studied in

the schools of Oxford and Paris, frequented the lectures on Philosophy at

Bologna, been bred in a thorough knowledge of the civil and canon law, has

visited Rome, stands high in the favor of pope and primate, and with all

these qualifications," added Henry, in a tone of exultation, "_he is not a

priest_."

Eleanor was delighted with the story, and Becket was immediately installed

as tutor of Prince Henry. Becket's romantic origin, affable manners, but

more especially his nice tact in exhibiting intelligence or ignorance,

according to the demands of delicate emergencies, recommended him at once

to the favor of both king and queen. The principal residences of the royal

family were Westminster palace, Winchester, and the country palace of

Woodstock, the favorite abode of Henry Beauclerk and Matilda the good. In

this charming retirement, Eleanor amused herself and the ladies of her

court, with mysteries and mummeries, contrived and acted by the priests

and parish clerks. Even the miracles of the holy volume were degraded from

their sacred character, and made the subjects of clumsy efforts at

merriment. Eleanor, who delighted in scenic amusements, on one occasion

instructed the master of ceremonies to dramatize the miraculous trials of

St. Dunstan. So many characters were necessary for this important play,

that new recruits of abbots, clerks and scholars were imported from the

neighboring priory, and the queen's dames d'honneur were enlisted in the

choir, and faithfully drilled in the chanting of most unearthly melodies.

The usual services in the chapel were for several days omitted. The

carpenters displaced the priests, and instead of the sound of matins and

vespers, the walls echoed with the noise of workmen's hammers, preparing a

false floor for the mimic purgatory. The trees of the park were robbed of

their leafy honors, to fit up a forest over the high altar, which by the

removal of a panel, and the addition of dry leaves, pebbles and mosses,

answered very well for the hermit's cave. The eventful night arrived, and

expectation, so long on tiptoe, quietly settled itself upon the temporary

benches to enjoy the intellectual treat, while an imaginary moon broad as

the shield of their Saxon fathers, reflected the light of a supposed

invisible torch placed behind a window shutter. Owing to the imperfection

of the machinery there was some difficulty in raising the curtain, but the

queen was privately informed that the creaking was not intended as part of

the play. The learned and gifted Provencal must be pardoned if she

exchanged some sly criticisms and satirical smiles, with the witty Peyrol,

at the expense of the well-meaning performers.

The scene opened disclosing a barren heath, in the centre of which was a

mound of rubbish, strewed with grass and surmounted with a huge stone,

which had been transplanted with much care and labor, from an adjacent

cromlech. By its side stood a youth, who bashfully hanging his head and

awkwardly twirling a wand, thus unfolded the plan of the drama:--

"Here you see this hill and stone,

For that you may know anon.

The story of the blest St. Dunstan:

For dun is hill, and stone is stane,

That is what this here shall mean.

To the holy Saint was trouble sent,

As we here shall represent--"

When young Harlequin had concluded his prologue, he paused in great

embarrassment staring up at the curtain, till finding that it refused to

fall he stepped to the side of the stage and assisted its descent with all

his strength.

A considerable bustle then ensued behind the scenes, during which the

audience amused themselves as is usual in such cases, by suppressed

titters and whispers.

The reluctant curtain again rose, and instead of the notable hill and

stone, the individual typified thereby, St. Dunstan himself appeared, a

burly Saxon priest wedged into his altar-cave; an appropriate arrangement

admirably adapted to the tradition, since he could neither sit, stand, nor

lie down at ease in it. The holy man was professedly engaged at his

devotions, rattling off credos and ave maries in a style showing a

lamentable want of familiarity with Latin. The arch tempter was a little

behind his time, for the saint had evidently exhausted his stock of

prayers, and had commenced a repeat when Lucifer appeared in the disguise

of a laborer with spade in hand. Approaching the cave, he held out a bag

of gold and invited the holy Father to follow him. The hermit impatiently

waved his hand and turned his eyes resolutely away from the glittering

lure, while the baffled demon walked off the stage. Confused groans and

shrieks from the imps beneath followed his departure, while the choir of

unseen angels sung with great emphasis--

"With gold he doth the saint assail,

But not with this can the devil prevail."

The next scene was of a more striking character. The monk was this time

interrupted by the advent of a beautiful damsel, who, gliding like an

apparition of light from the greenwood, stopped before the cave, showered

roses upon his missal, and in the most enticing manner sought to win him

from his devotions. The saint, however, remained firm, and when she laid

hold of his arm, he snatched a pair of pincers, conveniently heated for

the occasion, and zealously seized the sorceress by the nose, who first

cried piteously and then bellowed most lustily--but the heart of the pious

priest was not to be moved. In the struggle, the glittering mask

unfortunately fell off, carrying with it the whole apparatus of the flimsy

disguise, and a saucy-looking page, thus unexpectedly revealed, scampered

off the stage, much to the discomfiture of the players and greatly to the

amusement of the spectators. This _contre-temps_ produced a most uncommon

roaring among the demons below, while the choir sung with renewed

vehemence--

"With love he doth the saint assail,

But not with this shall the devil prevail."

Hardly had the cheering and laughter subsided, when the curtain rose the

third time. A sulphurous vapor filled the apartment, and from a trap-door

in the staging, amid mimic thunders and faint attempts at lightning, rose

his Satanic majesty, in _propria persona_, with the usual adjuncts of

horns, hoofs and tail. As if to strengthen the trembling saint for the

final conflict, the choir reiterated with great excitement--

"With fear he doth your heart assail,

But not with this shall the devil prevail."

The fiend advanced with diabolical grimace, and the whole staging trembled

beneath his tread, while the terrified devotee shrank to the farthest

corner of the cell, and throwing his huge arms round the wooden crucifix,

told his beads with startling volubility. It was evidently the fiend's

object, to detach St. Dunstan from the cross; but the broad-shouldered

priest was more than a match for the sturdy boor, encumbered as he was

with the trappings of his new dignities. A terrible struggle ensued, but

such was the desperate energy with which the saint grasped the holy

symbol, and so intimately was it connected with the whole design of the

performance, that in attempting to drag the priest from its protection,

the stout yeoman tore the crucifix from the altar, the forest from its

foundations, and while the choir were preparing to vociferate a splendid

song of triumph, friar and fiend, angels and apparatus were precipitated

into the yawning purgatory beneath. At the same moment, the man with the

moon abruptly set, leaving the chapel in total darkness. The musical pitch

wavered and quavered, and terminated in shrieks of affright, and the

audience, apprehensive that the devil had not yet his due, fled in most

undignified haste. It was not until the queen had reached her own

apartments, and her tire-women one after another came hurrying to her

presence in ludicrous disarray, that she forgot her fright and gave way to

a genial burst of merriment. The forlorn damsels at length found it

impossible not to join in her mirth, and every fresh arrival was hailed

with irrepressible peals of laughter.

"Welcome, my angeliques," cried the queen. "I feared that your late

promotion would unfit you for mortal duties; but I perceive, with

pleasure, that a foretaste of the punishment that awaits the unfaithful,

has rendered you more than usually alert this evening. For ourself, we

feel the necessity for repose, and will gladly be disrobed for our couch."

Notwithstanding the unsuccessful efforts of her Saxon clerks, Eleanor was

not discouraged. She summoned from Blois a celebrated abbot named William,

who, under her patronage, and assisted by her genius, brought out his

tragedy of Flaura and Marcus, the first appearance of the regular drama in

England.

CHAPTER V.

For close designs and crooked counsels fit,

Sagacious, bold, and turbulent of wit;

Restless, unfixed in principle and place,

In power unpleased, impatient in disgrace.

Thomas a Becket had risen rapidly in the royal favor. His calm

discrimination and cool judgment had made him the chosen counsellor of his

patron, his sedulous attention to his pupil had won the heart of Eleanor,

while his courtly qualities and knightly address made him popular with all

classes of people. The king conferred upon him the honors of Eye, the

wardenship of the tower of London, and made him chancellor of the realm.

The versatility of his accomplishments enabled him to adapt himself to

Henry's various moods, and he thus became the monarch's inseparable

companion. The rapidity of his rise was equalled only by the splendor of

his course. He rivalled the king in the appointments of his household,

exercised the most unbounded hospitality towards those who visited the

court, and became the medium through which the subjects communicated with

their sovereign. The king was his frequent guest, and the monarch and the

favorite seemed bound by ties of real friendship. Queen Eleanor had

removed her court from Woodstock, to the palace of Beaumont, in Oxford,

where the celebrated Coeur de Lion was born, A.D. 1157. On the receipt of

this pleasing intelligence, the king set off with his chancellor and train

to join his family. As they rode along, conversing upon terms of the most

easy familiarity, a miserable beggar followed them asking an alms. The

king carelessly bestowed a few pence, and the chancellor observing the

tattered garments of the mendicant, facetiously remarked, that the command

was not to feed the hungry alone, but to clothe the naked.

"Thou sayest truth," said the king, "and art thyself worthy to illustrate

thy own doctrine."

So saying, he seized the chancellor's cloak, and began pulling it from his

shoulders. The favorite resisted this charitable impulse, and put spurs to

his horse. The king, however, retained his grasp, and urged his steed to

keep pace with that of the close-fisted courtier, and betwixt their

struggles and laughter, both had nearly been rolled in the dirt. Becket,

finally, released his hold, and the wondering beggar wrapped his shivering

limbs in the finest mantle in the kingdom.

As their road wound through the rich meadows of Evenlod, they caught

occasional glimpses of the nunnery at Godstow, half-hidden among the

trees, and before they reached the outer line of the convent walls, they

saw at a short distance before them, crossing a rustic bridge, the figure

of a beautiful girl, mounted upon a coal-black steed. The ease and grace

with which she reined the mettlesome animal, the exquisite symmetry of her

form, set off by the rich drapery of her robe, first attracted the king's

notice. Her hair of a golden brown escaping from a turban-like riding-cap,

floated like a veil over her shoulders, and air and exercise imparted a

brilliant bloom to a face of lily fairness, and gave additional lustre to

eyes, whose mirror-like depths seemed formed to reflect the light of

heaven. Henry instinctively drew rein as the beautiful being dashed across

their way and struck into a bridle-path, followed by a venerable-looking

serving man, in green livery.

"What dazzling vision is this?" said Henry, pausing as if to recall a

half-forgotten memory. "I have seen that face before, or my eye is, for

the first time, at fault."

"The appointments of the servant are those of the Clifford's," said

Becket, coldly.

"And what is the name of the fair creature with the golden locks?" pursued

Henry.

"If it be the daughter of Lord Walter de Clifford, her name is Rosamond,"

said Becket, little inclined to satisfy the monarch's inquiries.

"Walter de Clifford!" said the king, with a thrill of recollection. "I

mind me now, when the King of Scotland laid the sword of knighthood on my

shoulder, it was the Lord de Clifford that buckled on my spurs; and this

fair girl, then a child of exquisite beauty, sat among the maids of the

queen, who presided at the tournament. A king bred in a foreign land must

needs be a sad stranger in his own realm. Canst thou point me to the home

of this fair damsel?"

Becket, who perceived that the impetuosity of the monarch would not brook

evasion, answered; "Clifford castle is some two days' distance, on the

banks of the Wye. The Lord de Clifford has been a crusader in Palestine

this many a year, and his daughter, who after her mother's death, was in

care of the nuns of Godstow, is haply on her way to the convent. The

serving man, I see, is old Adam Henrid, her seneschal."

"Let us push on," said Henry, "to-night we sup at Godstow. Much I wonder,"

he added, musingly, "if the sweet girl holds in recollection the image of

the boy knight."

"Becket," he added, aloud, "there is little about me to betray the king. I

will be to-night, the simple Duke of Maine. Be thou my squire. Our men in

attendance may proceed to Oxford." So saying, the impatient monarch put

spurs to his horse, and galloped forward followed by his reluctant

courtier, and alighted at the nunnery just after Rosamond had been

received within its walls. The sound of the bell brought to the great gate

of the convent the portress, summoned from her evening meal, and still

holding in her hand the bunch of leeks and slice of brown bread, which

formed the repast.

"And what wouldst thou, sir knight?" she inquired, gruffly.

"Rest and refreshment," said Henry, in French. "We are weary travellers,

and seek shelter for the night."

"Ye are from beyond the sea," replied the portress, "and we will none of

your outlandish tongue. Yonder lies the way to Oxford."

"Becket," whispered the king, "let thy ready wit serve us in this time of

need, and thou shalt not find thy lord ungrateful." The wily chancellor,

who never lost the opportunity of laying the monarch under obligation to

himself, instantly rejoined in Saxon to the nun,

"Open to us, good mother. The Duke of Maine is a zealous patron of the

church, and perchance thine own convent will be none the poorer for

granting him entertainment."

The mollified portress immediately admitted them, muttering

apologetically, "The wayfarer and benighted are ever received with

Christian charity, by the sisters of the blessed St. Bernard."

* * * * *

The infant Richard was a child of great promise, and his ambitious mother

began, at once, to plan for his future advancement. She besought her

husband to bestow upon the prince the dukedom of Aquitaine, and to permit

her to convey him thither, to receive the homage of the barons, and to

arrange a betrothment between him and Philippa, the infant daughter of her

sister Petronilla and Raymond of Arragon. To her great joy and surprise

Henry acceded at once to the proposal, and co-operated in her scheme for

remaining some time as regent in her southern dominions.

Louis VII., King of France, had given his two daughters by Eleanor, in

marriage to the Counts of Blois and Champagne; and after the death of his

second wife Constantia, conferred the crown matrimonial upon their

father's sister, Adelais of Champagne, widow of the famous Rudolph of

Vermandois. He also bestowed upon the Count of Champagne the office of

seneschal of his kingdom, which of right belonged to Henry, as Duke of

Anjou, who, enraged at this measure, made war upon his liege lord. The

affair was finally compromised by the affiancing of Henry's eldest son

with Louis's third daughter Marguerite. Henry and Eleanor repaired to

Normandy to celebrate the nuptials, and Becket was sent to Paris to bring

the young bride to Rouen. On this important occasion the chancellor

travelled in the greatest state. When he entered a town two hundred and

fifty boys singing national airs led the procession, while from wagons

covered with skins and protected by guards and dogs the populace were

regaled with draughts of English beer. Other wagons, each drawn by five

horses, led by servants in splendid livery, followed with the furniture of

his chapel, bed-chamber and kitchen, his plate, wardrobe, and attendants.

Then came twelve sumpter horses each carrying a groom and monkey; then the

esquires, gentlemen's sons, falconers with hawks upon their wrists,

officers of the household, knights and clergymen, and last of all Becket

himself in familiar converse with a few friends. The French, when they saw

an ambassador affecting a magnificence greater than their own sovereign

could command, exclaimed, "What manner of man must the King of England be,

when his chancellor travels in such state." The King of France received

Becket with the most distinguishing courtesy, and committed the infant

Marguerite to his care. Becket conveyed the little princess to Rouen,

where the contract of marriage was solemnized, and the juvenile bride and

bridegroom were committed to him for education, and Louis gave to Henry

three cities as the dower of his daughter.

But a misunderstanding arising with regard to the matter, a fresh

compromise was effected by another match. The death of the little princess

of Arragon had left the hand of Richard again at liberty. This hand was

given as a pledge of amity to Alice, the infant daughter of France, who

was also conveyed to England for education. It was the policy of Henry to

strengthen his government by powerful alliances: and these early marriages

were followed in quick succession by similar unions between Geoffrey his

third son and Constance the heiress of Bretagne, and his eldest daughter

Matilda with Henry the lion Duke of Saxony.

In the midst of these domestic and political arrangements Theobald,

Archbishop of Canterbury, died; and the king entered upon his

long-meditated design of reforming the abuses of the church. He had loaded

Becket with every demonstration of favor and affection, and counting

confidently upon his co-operation, offered him the vacancy. The chancellor

objected that he was not a priest, but Henry insisted that the time

required to take orders was only a few hours. Still the chancellor seemed

to decline the dazzling gift. He protested that were he once a bishop he

must uphold the rights of the church, and solemnly told the king the night

before his consecration that the mitre would interpose an eternal barrier

between them. Henry persisted, and Becket at last modestly accepted the

first office in the kingdom.

Directly on his investment the new archbishop became as much distinguished

for his austerity as he had before been for his ostentation. He resigned

his office of chancellor, dismissed his knightly train, clothed himself in

sackcloth, fed upon the coarsest fare, drank water nauseous with fennel,

and daily upon his knees washed the feet of thirteen beggars, whom he

afterwards dismissed with alms. On all occasions he defended the rights of

the church in opposition to those of the crown. As he was the most learned

man in the kingdom, the most eloquent and the best beloved, he possessed

unbounded influence with all classes, and Henry soon found in the man whom

he trusted as an ally a most powerful adversary.

But the king did not on this account relinquish his plans for reform. A

parish priest had been guilty of murder under circumstances that

peculiarly aggravated the crime. The judicial courts sought to try the

criminal. The bishop contended that degradation from office was the

highest punishment that could be inflicted upon a son of the church. The

affair created great sensation throughout the kingdom, and Henry finally

convened a general council of the nobility and clergy. Several articles,

were drawn up called the Constitutions of Clarendon, the drift of which

was that no churchman should be entitled to privileges greater than those

enjoyed by his peers among the laity. Becket at first refused to sign the

articles and the other bishops followed his example. Being threatened with

exile or death he at length yielded; but afterwards, learning that the

pope did not approve his course, he retracted his consent. The king

incensed at the conduct of his favorite, ordered a succession of charges

to be prepared, on which the archbishop was cited to trial. Becket

declined the jurisdiction of the court and appealed to the pope, finally

escaped across the sea and made his way to the King of France.

Troubles in Aquitaine had made it necessary for Eleanor to take up her

abode there, where, in company with her children, she remained some time

exercising the functions of regent with great ability. To detach Prince

Henry, who was enthusiastically fond of his tutor, from the party of

Becket, the king sent for him to be crowned at Westminster, and admitted

to a share of the government. But when the princess Marguerite found that

Becket, the guardian of her youth, was not to place the diadem upon her

head, she trampled upon the coronation-robes, and perversely refused to

leave Aquitaine for London. King Louis took up his daughter's quarrel, and

entered Normandy at the head of an army. Henry hastened to defend his

domains, and hostilities were commenced, but the two monarchs had a

private conference, and Henry finally promised to seek an immediate

reconciliation with his exiled primate. The archbishop of Rouen and the

bishop of Nevers were authorized to arrange an interview, and the King of

England awaited the arrival of his rebellious subject in a spacious

meadow, on the borders of Touraine. As soon as Becket appeared Henry

spurred on his horse, with his cap in hand, thus preventing any formal

recognition, and discoursed with all the easy familiarity of former days.

At the gracious words of his master, the archbishop descended from his

horse, and threw himself at the feet of his sovereign; but Henry laid hold

of the stirrup, and insisted that he should remount, saying,

"Let us renew our ancient affection for each other,--only show me honor

before those who are now viewing our behavior." Then returning to his

nobles, he remarked, "I find the archbishop in the best of dispositions

towards me; were I otherwise toward him I should be the worst of men."

The king, however, adroitly avoided giving the kiss of peace, a

circumstance which the primate observed, and made the subject of the most

gloomy presage. Having waited in vain for the money which Henry had

promised him, Becket borrowed a sum sufficient to defray the expenses of

the journey, and contrary to the advice of his friends, returned to his

diocese. He despatched a letter to the king at Rouen, which closed thus:--

"It was my wish to have waited on you once more, but necessity compels me,

in the lowly state to which I am reduced, to revisit my afflicted church.

I go, sir, with your permission, perhaps to perish for its security,

unless you protect me; but whether I live or die, yours I am, and yours I

shall ever be in the Lord. Whatever may befall me or mine, may the

blessing of God rest on you and your children."

* * * * *

Before the meeting between Becket and the king, the pope had issued

letters of suspension against those who had assisted at the coronation of

the young prince, and Becket returned to England with those letters upon

his person, and immediately proceeded upon the work of excommunication.

These tidings were conveyed to Henry by the first ship that sailed for

Normandy, and the outraged monarch exclaimed in a fury of passion, "Of the

cowards who eat my bread is there not one to rid me of this turbulent

priest?" Four knights, at the head of whom was Reginald Fitzurse,

immediately set out for England, and proceeding straight to Canterbury,

entered the house of the archbishop, and required him, in the king's name,

to absolve the excommunicated prelates. Becket refused, and repaired to

the church with the utmost tranquillity to evening vespers. The solemn

tones of the organ had ceased, and the archbishop had opened the book and

commenced the lesson of the martyrdom of St. Stephen, "Princes sat and

spake against me," when the knights, with twelve companions, all in

complete armor, burst into the church. "Where is the traitor? Where is the

archbishop?" inquired Fitzurse. "Here am I," replied Becket, "the

archbishop, but no traitor." He read his doom in the eyes of his pursuers.

"Tyrant king," muttered he, "though I die I will be thy undoing." He wrote

hastily upon a tablet, "_Woodstock_," and giving it to his only attendant,

whispered, "Deliver this to Queen Eleanor. Tarry not till thou find her."

Then turning calmly to the knights,

"Reginald," said he, "I have granted thee many favors, what is thy object

now? If thou seekest my life, I command thee, in the name of God, not to

touch one of my people."

"I come not to take life," replied Reginald, "but to witness the

absolution of the bishops."

"Till they offer satisfaction I shall never absolve them," said the

prelate.

"Then die!" exclaimed the knight, aiming a blow at his head. The attendant

interposed his arm, which was broken, and the force of the stroke bore

away the prelate's cap, and wounded him on the crown. As he felt the blood

trickling down his face, he joined his hands and bowed his head, saying,

"In the name of Christ, and for the defence of his church I am ready to

die." Turning thus towards his murderers, he waited a second stroke, which

threw him on his knees, and the third prostrated him on the floor, at the

foot of St. Bennett's altar. He made no effort towards resistance or

escape, and without a groan expired. The assassins instantly fled, and the

people, who had by this time assembled, crowded into the cathedral. The

priests with pious reverence took up the body of the dead archbishop, and

laid it in state before the high altar. They tore his garments in pieces,

and distributed each shred as a sacred relic. The devout wiped up his

blood and treasured the holy stains, and the more fortunate obtained a

lock of hair from his honored head. Becket was interred with great

solemnity in Canterbury cathedral, and all the power he had exercised in

life was but a trifle to the influence of the miracles wrought at his

tomb.

Henry was celebrating the holidays in Normandy, when the news of this

event threw him into the deepest melancholy. The train of calamities,

which would inevitably follow the curse of the church, made him tremble

for his throne, and the natural horror of the crime alarmed his

imagination and partially disordered his reason. He knew not how to

receive the murderers, nor yet how to treat with the pope, and finally

concluded to give the matter over to the judgment of the spiritual courts.

The assassins in consequence travelled to Rome, and were sentenced by way

of expiation to make a pilgrimage to Jerusalem. To evade meeting the

legates of the pope, Henry determined to seize this opportunity for his

long meditated invasion of Ireland.

The same month that witnessed the splendid coronation of Henry and

Eleanor, had been signalized by the succession of Nicholas Breakspear, to

the throne of the Vatican. This prelate, consecrated under the name of

Adrian IV. was the only Englishman that ever sat in the chair of St.

Peter; and his partiality for his native sovereign had led him to bestow

upon Henry, a grant of the dominion of Ireland. Now when troubles arose in

that province and circumstances rendered absence from his own dominions

desirable, the king led an army into Ireland.

From the time of the marriage of her daughter Matilda with the Lion of

Saxony, Eleanor had not visited England. The arrival of Becket's messenger

in Bordeaux, conveyed to her the first intelligence of the prelate's

death; and the mysterious word _Woodstock_, immediately revived a

half-forgotten suspicion excited by the stratagems of Henry, to prevent

her return to her favorite residence. Her woman's curiosity prevailed over

her love of power, and she intrusted the regency to her son Henry,

repaired to England, and lost no time on her way to Woodstock. As she

approached the palace, her keen eye scanned every circumstance that might

lead curiosity or lull suspicion, but with the exception of a deserted and

unkept look, the appearance of the place indicated no marked change.

Though she came with a small train and unannounced, the drawbridge was

instantly lowered for her entrance, and the aged porter received her with

a smile of unfeigned satisfaction. The state rooms were thrown open and

hastily fitted up for the reception of the royal inmates, and the

servants, wearied with the listless inactivity of a life without motive or

excitement, bustled about the castle and executed the commands of their

mistress, with the most joyful alacrity. Under pretence of superintending

additions and repairs, Queen Eleanor ordered carpenters and masons, who

under her eye, visited every apartment, sounded every wall, and tore off

every panel, where by any possibility an individual might be concealed.

She did not hesitate even to penetrate the dungeons under the castle; and

whenever the superstition of the domestics made them hesitate in mortal

terror, she would seize a torch and unattended thread her way through the

darkest and dampest subterranean passages of the gloomy vaults. All these

investigations led to no discovery. The pleasance offered little to invite

her search. It had been originally laid out in the stiff and tasteless

manner of the age, with straight walks and close clipped shrubbery, but so

long neglected it was a tangled maze, to which her eye could detect no

entrance. Below the pleasance the postern by a wicket gate communicated

with a park, which was separated only by a stile from the great forest of

Oxfordshire. Mounted on her Spanish jennet, Eleanor galloped through this

park and sometimes ventured into the forest beyond, and she soon

discovered that the attendants avoided a thicket which skirted the park

wall. Commanding the grooms to lead in that direction, she was informed

that it was the ruins of the old menagerie, located there by Henry I.,

overgrown by thorns and ivy and trees, that shut out the light of the sun.

The aged porter assured her that no one had entered it in his day, that

wild beasts still howled therein, and that the common people deemed it

dangerous to visit its vicinity. He added, that one youth who had charge

of the wicket, had been carried off and never again seen; and that all the

exorcisms of the priests could never lay the ghost. The old man crossed

himself in devout horror and turned away; but the queen commanded him to

hold the bridle of her horse, while she should attempt the haunted

precincts alone. The thick underwood resisted all her efforts, and she

found it impossible to advance but a few steps, though her unwonted

intrusion aroused the beetles and bats, awakened the chatter of monkeys

and the startled twitter of birds, and gave her a glimpse of what she

thought were the glaring eyeballs of a wolf. A solemn owl flew out above

her head as she once more emerged into the light of day, and the timid

porter welcomed her return with numerous ejaculations of thanksgiving to

the watchful saints; but he shook his head with great gravity as he

assisted her to remount saying,

"I would yon dismal bird had kept his perch in the hollow oak. Our proverb

says, 'Woe follows the owl's wing as blood follows the steel.'"

Disappointed in the wood, Eleanor relinquished her fruitless search. But

by dint of questioning she learned, that though the palace wore the

appearance of desertion and decay, it had been the frequent resort of

Henry and Becket, and since the favorite's death, her husband had made it

a flying visit before leaving for Ireland. Farther than this all inquiries

were vain. The unexpected return of her husband, and his look of surprise

and anxiety at finding her at Woodstock, again awakened all her jealous

fears. His power of dissimulation, notwithstanding, kept her constantly at

fault, and during the week of his stay, nothing was elicited to throw

light upon the mystery. Henry had been negotiating with the pope to obtain

absolution for Becket's murder, and was now on his way to Normandy to meet

the legates. The morning before his departure, Queen Eleanor saw him

walking in the pleasance, and hastened to join him. As she approached she

observed a thread of silk, attached to his spur and apparently extending

through the walks of the shrubbery. Carefully breaking the thread she

devoted herself by the most sedulous attention to her husband, till he set

out for France, when she hastened back to the garden, and taking up the

silk followed it through numerous turnings and windings till she came to

a little open space near the garden wall, perfectly enclosed by shrubbery.

The ball from which the thread was unwound lay upon the grass. There the

path seemed to terminate; but her suspicions were now so far confirmed

that she determined not to give up the pursuit. A broken bough, on which

the leaves were not yet withered, riveted her attention, and pulling aside

the branch she discovered a concealed door. With great difficulty she

opened or rather lifted it, and descended by stairs winding beneath the

castle wall. Ascending on the opposite side by a path so narrow that she

could feel the earth and rocks on either hand, she emerged into what had

formerly been the cave of a leopard, fitted up in the most fanciful manner

with pebbles, mosses, and leaves. She made the entire circuit of the cave

ere she discovered a place of egress: but at length pushing away a verdant

screen, she advanced upon an open pathway which wound, now under the thick

branches of trees, now through the dilapidated barriers that had prevented

the forest denizens from making war upon each other, now among ruined

lodges which the keepers of the wild beasts had formerly inhabited; but

wherever she wandered she noted that some careful hand had planted tree,

and shrub, and flower in such a manner as to conceal the face of decay and

furnish in the midst of these sylvan shades a most delightful retreat. At

last she found herself inextricably involved in a labyrinth whose

apartments, divided by leafy partitions, seemed so numerous and so like

each other as to render it impossible for her to form any idea of the

distance she had come, or the point to which she must proceed. The sun was

going down when by accident, she laid her hand upon the stile. Following

its windings, though with great difficulty, she emerged into the path that

terminated in the forest. The low howl of a wolf-dog quickened her steps,

and she arrived at the palace breathless with fear and fatigue. Sleep

scarcely visited her pillow. She revolved the matter over and over again

in her mind. "Where could Henry find balls of silk? For whose pleasure

and privacy was the labyrinth contrived? What hand had planted the rare

exotic adjacent to the hawthorn and the sloe? Was this tortuous path the

road to a mortal habitation? And who was the fair inmate?" She could

hardly wait for the dawn of the morning, and when the morning came it only

increased her impatience, for heavy clouds veiled the sun, and a continued

rain confined her for several days to her apartments.

When she next set out on her voyage of discovery she took the necessary

precaution to secure a hearty coadjutor in the person of Peyrol, who

silently followed her with the faithfulness of early affection, wondering

to what point their mysterious journey might tend. At the secret door she

fastened a thread, and with more celerity than she had hoped, traced her

former course to the labyrinth; with much difficulty she again found the

stile, and after a diligent search perceived a rude stair, that winding

around the base of a rock assumed a regular shapely form, till by a long

arched passage it conducted to a tower screened by lofty trees, but

commanding through the interstices of the foliage a view of the adjacent

forest. Here all effort at concealment was at an end. The doors opened

into rooms fitted up with all the appliances of wealth, and with a

perfection of taste that showed that some female divinity presided there.

Vases of fresh-culled flowers regaled the senses with rich perfume. A harp

lay unstrung upon the table, a tambour frame on which was an unfinished

picture of the Holy Family leaned against the wall, while balls of silk

and children's toys lay scattered around in playful disorder. Everything

indicated that the tower had been recently occupied, but no inmate was to

be found. Retracing their steps into the forest they proceeded by a

well-beaten path along the banks of a little stream, to a pebbly basin in

which the waters welled up with a faint murmur that spoke of rest and

quiet. A sound of music made them pause, and they heard a low gentle voice

followed by the lisping accents of a child chanting the evening hymn to

the Virgin. Stepping stealthily along they saw, half shaded by a bower

inwoven with myrtle and eglantine, a beautiful female kneeling before a

crucifix hung with votive offerings. Her face was exquisitely fair, and

her eyes raised to the holy symbol seemed to borrow their hue from the

heavens above. A soft bloom suffused her cheek, and her coral lips parted

in prayer revealed her pearly teeth. The delicate contour of her finely

rounded throat and bust were displayed by her posture, and one dimpled

shoulder was visible through the wavy masses of bright hair that enveloped

her figure, as though the light of the golden sunset lingered lovingly

about her. An infant, fairer if possible than the mother, with eyes of the

same heavenly hue, lay by her side. He had drawn one tiny slipper from his

foot, and delighted with his prize laughed in every feature and seemed

crowing an accompaniment to her words. Startled by the sound of footsteps,

the mother turned, and meeting the dark menacing gaze of Eleanor, snatched

up the baby-boy, which clasped its little hands and looked up in her face,

instinctively suiting the action of entreaty to the smile of confident

affection. The elder boy before unnoticed advanced as if in doubt, whether

to grieve or frown.

The deep earnest gaze of his hazel eyes and his soft brown hair, clearly

indicated his Norman extraction, and when he passed his arm

half-fearfully, half-protectingly around his mother's neck, and the

eloquent blood mounted to his cheek Eleanor recognized the princely

bearing of the Plantagenets.

"False woman," said she, darting forward and confronting the trembling

mother with flashing eyes, "thou art the paramour of King Henry, and these

your base-born progeny." To the paleness of terror succeeded the flush of

indignation not unmingled with the crimson hue of shame, as the fair

creature raised her head and repelled the accusation.

"Rosamond de Clifford is not King Henry's paramour. My lord is the Duke of

Maine; and when he returns from the wars will acknowledge his babes before

the nobles of the land."

"Aye, the Duke of Maine," retorted Eleanor, in scornful mockery, "and of

Anjou, and of Normandy, and through his injured queen lord of the seven

beautiful provinces of the south. Thy white face has won a marvellous

conquest. The arch-dissimulator boasts many titles, but one that bars all

thy claims. He is the _husband_ of Eleanor of Aquitaine!" "Becket! where

is Becket, why comes not my friend and counsellor?" exclaimed Rosamond in

the accents of despair, as a conviction of the truth flashed upon her

mind. "Dead," replied the infuriated woman, approaching nearer and

speaking in a hoarse whisper. "Henry brooks no rival in his path, nor will

Eleanor." The implied threat and fierce gestures warned Rosamond of her

danger, and clasping her frightened children to her breast, she sank down

at the feet of the queen in the utmost terror and abasement. "Heaven

assoil thee of thy sin," said Eleanor, turning to depart, "at dawn we meet

again."

CHAPTER VI.

"Oh! think what anxious moments pass between

The birth of plots, and their last fatal periods;

Oh! 'tis a dreadful interval of time,

Fill'd up with horror, and big with death."

The first conference of Henry with the legates proved unsatisfactory, but

at the second, in the presence of the bishops, barons and people, with his

hand on the gospels, he solemnly swore that he was innocent both in word

and deed of the murder of Becket. Yet, as his passionate expression had

been the occasion of the prelate's death, he promised to maintain two

hundred knights for the defence of the Holy Land; to serve in person

against the Infidels three years, either in Palestine or Spain, and to

restore the confiscated estates of Becket's friends. Pleased with the

successful issue of this negotiation, Henry was preparing to return with

joyful haste to England, when his peace was disturbed by quarrels

originating in his own family. For some unaccountable reason his children

seemed all armed against him. His son Henry demanded immediate possession

of either England or Normandy, and on being refused appealed to his

father-in-law Louis VII. Before three days had elapsed, Richard and

Geoffrey followed their brother, and soon after Henry learned to his

dismay that Queen Eleanor had herself set off for the court of her former

husband. Remembering the perilous vicinity in which he had left the queen,

it at once occurred to him that she was the original instigator of the

plot. By a skilful manoeuvre, he intercepted her flight, and sent her

back to Winchester a prisoner. Immediately his undutiful sons, adding

their mother's quarrel to their own grievances, bound themselves by oath

to the King of France that they would never make peace with their father

except by Louis's consent. The Duke of Flanders joined the league of the

parricides, and the King of Scotland poured into the northern counties his

strongest forces. Never was the crown of Henry in such danger.

While repelling the attacks of the insurgents in Normandy, he received a

visit from the Bishop of Winchester, who entreated him to return once more

to England, as his presence alone could save the kingdom. Henry at once

set out. His countenance was gloomy and troubled, and his mind seemed

deeply affected by the rebellion of his children, the perfidy of his

barons and general combination of the neighboring princes, and above all,

by his fearful uncertainty with regard to the fate of those whom he had so

long and so carefully guarded. To ease the torment of his mind, he

secretly determined to make a pilgrimage to the tomb of the

recently-canonized martyr St. Thomas a Becket. He landed at Southampton,

and without waiting for rest or refreshment, rode all night towards

Canterbury. At the dawn of the morning, he descried the towers of Christ's

Church. Dismounting from his horse, he exchanged the garb of the king for

that of a penitent, and walked barefoot towards the city, so cruelly

cutting his feet with the stones that every step was marked with blood.

He entered the cathedral, descended to the crypt, knelt before the holy

relics of his former friend, confessed his sins; and then resorting to the

chapter-house, bared his shoulders, and submissively and gratefully

received three stripes from the knotted cords which each priest, to the

number of eighty, applied for his spiritual benefit. Bleeding and faint,

he again returned to the crypt, and passed the night in weary vigils upon

the cold stone floor. The following morning he attended mass, and then

mounted his horse and rode to London, where the fasting, fatigue and

anxiety he had undergone threw him into a fever. Scarcely had he

recovered, when he learned that his enemies had abandoned the idea of

invading England and were concentrating their efforts upon his continental

dominions, and that an army more numerous than any which Europe had seen

since the expedition of the crusades, was encamped under the walls of

Rouen. These circumstances made it necessary for him to embark again for

France.

In two successive campaigns he foiled the attempts of his rebel sons and

their foreign allies, and finally brought them to demand a general

pacification. The three princes engaged to pay due obedience to their

father, the King of the Scots agreed to hold his crown as a fief of

England, and this made it necessary for all parties to proceed to York.

Peace being again restored, after a great variety of detentions and

delays, Henry at last found himself at liberty to obey the promptings of

his heart, and visit Woodstock. He endured with such patience as he could

the enthusiastic greetings of the household, and at the imminent jeopardy

of his secret, took his way through the pleasance. He was first alarmed by

finding the concealed door in the wall wide open, and every step of his

advance added to his apprehensions. There were marks of a bloody struggle

at the entrance to the tower, and everything within indicated that the

occupants had been disturbed in the midst of their daily avocations. The

rocking-horse of Prince William stood with the rein across his neck, as if

the youthful rider had just dismounted, the pillow of the little Geoffrey

still retained the impression of his cherub head; the thimble and scissors

of Rosamond lay upon the table, but the embroidery was covered thick with

dust, and rust had corroded the strings of the harp.

The scene by the Hermit's Well was yet more desolate. Withered herbage and

leaves had stopped the welling fountain, and entirely choked the current

of the stream. Rosamond's bower, once invested with every attraction, now

neglected and deserted struck a chill upon his soul. Rank weeds had

overrun the verdant seats, the eglantine struggled in vain with the ivy,

whose long and pendulous branches waved and flapped in the night-breeze

like the mourning hatchments above a tomb. A bevy of swallows took wing at

his entrance, the timid rabbit fled at his intrusive step, and a green

lizard glided from beneath the hand with which he supported his agitated

frame against one of the columns. Rosamond was gone.

But by what means had she been conveyed from the retreat where she had so

long dwelt content with his love, and happy in the caresses of her

children? Was she a wanderer and an outcast, with a bleeding heart and a

blighted name? Had she made her couch in the cold, dark grave? Had her

indignant father returned from the Holy Land, and immured her in the

dungeons of Clifford castle to hide her shame? Or had some other hand

dared to blot out the life so dear to him?

The thought was madness. He ran, he flew to the palace. The old porter was

summoned and closely questioned. He remembered the time of the queen's

last visit, her anxiety to penetrate the wood and search the castle. The

night before her departure three of her French servants suddenly

disappeared, but as several horses were missing at the same time, and the

queen had been employed in writing letters, it was supposed that they were

couriers. There were lights seen, and cries heard in the wood. One of the

grooms affirmed that the ghost of the youth who some years before was

spirited away, appeared in the stable, and a boy belonging to a

neighboring peasant had never since been heard of. Though Henry traced

this story through all the interpolations and additions that ignorance and

credulity could give it, neither his utmost inquiries nor his subsequent

researches could elicit any further fact. Satisfied that nothing could be

learned at Woodstock, the king hurried to Winchester. The passionate

queen, amidst upbraidings and revilings, acknowledged that she had

discovered the retreat of his mistress, and that, stung by jealousy, she

had threatened to take her life by the poniard or poison; that to prevent

the escape of her fair rival, she had stationed two of her Gascon

servants, a guard at the tower-stair. But she declared that when she

returned on the following morning to execute her fell purpose, she found

the grass dripping with gore, and not far distant the dead bodies of her

servants, and the corpse of another whom she had known in her early days

as Sir Thomas, guarded by a wolf-dog just expiring from a sword-wound; and

that, assisted by Peyrol, she had dragged the bodies into the thicket, and

then vainly endeavored to trace the fugitives. Notwithstanding all the

threats that Henry employed to extort further confession, she persisted in

affirming her ignorance of the fate of Rosamond.

Little crediting her asseverations, he increased the rigor of her

confinement, and installed Alice, the affianced of Richard, with almost

regal honors, in the state apartments. This sudden partiality of his

father roused the jealousy of Richard, and he demanded the hand of his

bride in terms not the most respectful nor conciliatory. Henry felt that

the bond between his son and France was sufficiently strong, and

ingeniously delayed the nuptials.

Then ensued another rebellion led by young Henry; but before the day fixed

for battle arrived, anxiety and fatigue threw the prince into a fever,

from which he never recovered. On his death-bed his soul became agitated

with fear and remorse. He sent messengers to his father to implore

forgiveness for his unfilial conduct, and ordered the priests to lay him

on a bed of ashes, where having received the sacraments, he expired. The

king was about the same period called upon to part, in a more hopeful

manner, with his second daughter, Eleanor, who had been for some time

betrothed to Alphonso, King of Castile. Henry's affection for his children

in their early years, was of the most tender character; and Eleanor's

fondness for him for some time subsequent to their marriage, partook of

the passionate devotion of the south, but when her fickle attachment was

assailed by the demon of jealousy, her love was changed to hate: and as

Henry justly imagined, the rebellion of his sons was the consequence of

her instructions.

His domestic afflictions aggravated the melancholy occasioned by the

mysterious disappearance of Rosamond, and he lamented in bitterness of

spirit that the tempting lure of wealth and dominion offered in the

alliance of Eleanor, had bribed him from his boyish purpose of placing

Rosamond on the throne of England. He cursed the ambition that had

nurtured foes in his own household, and deplored the selfish passion that

had remorselessly poured sorrow into the young life that ventured all upon

his truth. The calm heroism of his early character was changed into

petulant arrogance. He frequently spent whole days hunting in the forests,

or riding alone in different parts of his dominions. In the simple garb of

a country knight, he had often sought admittance to the ancient seat of

the Cliffords, and the nunnery of Godstowe, but without success. The sight

of a crowd of people collected round a returned pilgrim at length

suggested another mode of disguise. Procuring a palmer's weeds, he

repaired to Herefordshire, and craved an alms from the servants, at

Clifford castle. He was at once admitted, and the curious household

gathered round the holy man to listen to his story.

It had been, he said, a long time since he had left the Holy Wars. He had

been a wanderer in many lands, but his heart had led him to his native

country, to seek for those whom he had known in his youth. He would fain

see, once more, the good Lord de Clifford, for he had saved his life in

Palestine. The servants replied that the Lord de Clifford had not been

heard from for many a year. "Might he gain a moment's audience of the Lady

de Clifford?" The lady died soon after her lord's departure. "Could he

speak with Adam Henrid?" The good seneschal had been long dead.

His voice faltered as he inquired for Rosamond. An ominous silence was the

only reply. "And Jaqueline, the lady's maid?" She, too, lay in her grave.

He ran his eye along the group, and said with a look of embarrassment and

pain, "There is none to welcome my return. It was not so in the good days

when my lord and my lady rode forth to the chase with their gallant train,

and the sound of feasting and wassail resounded in the castle hall.

Remains there none of Lord Walter's kin to offer welcome or charity in our

lady's name?" A proud boy stepped forth among the listeners, and with

princely courtesy extended his hand.

"Come with me, holy father," said he, "it shall never be said, that a

pilgrim went hungry and weary from the castle of the Cliffords." With a

step that accorded better with his impatience than his assumed character,

Henry followed the lad to an inner apartment, where a repast was soon

spread before him. As soon as the servants had withdrawn he entered into

conversation with his young host. "Thou art a De Clifford," said he, as

though it were an undoubted fact. "What is thy name?" "William," replied

the youth; "and this clerk," pointing to a fair boy who sat reading in the

deep embrasure of the window, "is my brother Geoffrey." "And how long have

you dwelt at the castle?" "Some winters," replied the boy, after a

moment's hesitation. "Who brought you hither?" "We came with Jaqueline,

from our cottage in the wood." "And where is your mother?" said Henry,

making a desperate effort to speak with calmness. "She went with Jaqueline

so long ago, that Geoffrey does not remember her." "And your father?" said

Henry, with increased agitation. "Jaqueline said our father was a king,

and we must never leave the castle till he came for us." "And why did

Jaqueline leave the castle?" "She went to the convent for confession; and

there was where she died: but it is a long way." The heart of the father

yearned towards his sons, as he gazed from one to the other, and compared

their features with the miniature that their infant charms had set in his

memory, but with the sweet certainty that he had at last found the objects

of his search, was born the thrilling hope that their mother yet lived.

Then a struggling crowd of thoughts, emotions, and purposes rushed through

his mind, and foremost among them all was the idea that Eleanor might be

divorced, Rosamond's wrongs repaired, the diadem of England placed upon

her brow, and his declining years solaced by the affection of these

duteous sons who should take the places and titles of the rebel princes.

Yet even in the midst of the tumult of his feelings his wonted

self-control taught him not to risk the safety of his new-found joys by

any premature discovery. Rising from the table with an air of solemnity,

he pronounced his parting blessing in a tone of the deepest fervor, and

hurriedly took his leave. Retaining his disguise, but occupied with

thoughts that ill-became a palmer's brain, he bent his steps towards the

nunnery of Godstowe. Near the close of the second day he entered the

confines of Oxfordshire, and found himself, little to his satisfaction, in

the vicinity of a country fair, with its attendant junketing, masquerade,

and feats of jugglery and legerdemain. To avoid the crowd, he determined

to seek lodging in a booth that stood a little apart from the main

encampment. The weary monarch had stretched himself to rest, when the

sound of uproarious mirth disturbed his slumbers, and a Welsh

ballad-singer, whom he remembered to have seen in the service of Giraldus

Cambrensis, the tutor of John, commenced in a voice of considerable power

and pathos, the following song:--

When as King Henry ruled this land,

The second of that name,

Besides the queen, he dearly loved

A fair and comely dame;

Most peerless was her beauty found,

Her favor and her face;

A sweeter creature in this world

Did never prince embrace.

Her crisped locks like threads of gold

Appeared to each man's sight,

Her sparkling eyes like orient pearls

Did cast a heavenly light;

The blood within her crystal cheeks

Did such a color drive,

As if the lily and the rose

For mastership did strive.

Yea, Rosamond, fair Rosamond,

Her name was called so,

To whom dame Eleanor our queen

Was known a deadly foe.

The king therefore for her defence

Against the furious queen,

At Woodstock builded such a bower,

The like was never seen.

Most curiously that bower was built

Of stone and timber strong,

One hundred and fifty doors

Did to this bower belong;

And they so cunningly contrived

With turnings round about,

That none but with a clew of thread

Could enter in or out.

And for his love and lady's sake

That was so fair and bright,

The keeping of this bower he gave

Unto a valiant knight.

But Fortune, that doth often frown

Where she before did smile,

The king's delight, the lady's joy

Full soon she did beguile.

For why, the king's ungracious son

Whom he did high advance,

Against his father raised wars

Within the realm of France.

But yet before our comely king

The English land forsook,

Of Rosamond, his lady fair,

His farewell thus he took.

"My Rosamond, my only Rose

That pleasest best mine eye,

The fairest flower in all the world

To feed my fantasy,

The flower of my affected heart,

Whose sweetness doth excel,

My royal Rose, a thousand times

I bid thee now farewell.

"For I must leave my fairest flower,

My sweetest Rose a space,

And cross the seas to famous France,

Proud rebels to abase.

But yet my Rose, be sure thou shalt

My coming shortly see,

And in my heart, when hence I am,

I'll bear my Rose with me."

When Rosamond, that lady bright,

Did hear the king say so,

The sorrow of her grieved heart

Her outward looks did show,

And from her clear and crystal eyes

Tears gushed out apace,

Which like the silver pearled dew

Ran down her comely face.

Her lips erst like the coral red,

Did wax both wan and pale,

And for the sorrow she conceived

Her vital spirits did fail.

And falling down all in a swoon,

Before King Henry's face,

Fell oft he in his princely arms

Her body did embrace.

And twenty times with watery eyes,

He kissed her tender cheek,

Until he had revived again

Her senses mild and meek.

"Why grieves my Rose, my sweetest Rose?"

The king did often say.

"Because," quoth she, "to bloody wars

My lord must pass away.

"But since your grace on foreign coasts,

Among your foes unkind,

Must go to hazard life and limb,

Why should I stay behind?

Nay, rather let me, like a page,

Your sword and target bear,

That on my breast the blows may light,

That should offend you there.

"Or let me in your royal tent

Prepare your bed at night,

And with sweet baths refresh your grace

At your return from fight.

So I your presence may enjoy,

No toil I will refuse;

But wanting you my life is death,

Nay, death I'd rather choose."

"Content thyself, my dearest love;

Thy rest at home shall be,

In England's sweet and pleasant soil;

For travel suits not thee.

Fair ladies brook not bloody wars;

Sweet peace, their pleasures breed

The nourisher of heart's content,

Which Fancy first did feed.

"My Rose shall rest in Woodstock's bower,

With music's sweet delight,

Whilst I among the piercing pikes

Against my foes do fight.

My Rose in robes of pearl and gold,

With diamonds richly dight,

Shall dance the galliards of my love,

While I my foes do smite.

"And you, Sir Thomas, whom I trust

To be my love's defence,

Be careful of my gallant Rose

When I am parted hence."

And therewithal he fetched a sigh,

As though his heart would break,

And Rosamond, for very grief,

Not one plain word could speak.

And at their parting well they might,

In heart be grieved sore,

After that day fair Rosamond

The king did see no more.

For when his grace had passed the seas,

And into France was gone,

Queen Eleanor with envious heart

To Woodstock came anon.

And forth she calls this trusty knight,

Who kept this curious bower,

Who with his clew of twined thread,

Came from this famous flower;

And when that they had wounded him,

The queen this thread did get,

And went where Lady Rosamond

Was like an angel set.

But when the queen, with steadfast eye,

Beheld her heavenly face,

She was amazed in her mind

At her exceeding grace.

"Cast off from thee these robes," she said,

"That rich and costly be;

And drink thou up this deadly draught,

Which I have brought to thee."

Then presently upon her knee,

Sweet Rosamond did fall;

And pardon of the queen she craved,

For her offences all.

"Take pity on my youthful years,"

Fair Rosamond did cry,

"And let me not with poison strong,

Enforced be to die.

"I will renounce my sinful life,

And in some cloister bide,

Or else be banished if you please,

To range the world so wide.

And for the fault which I have done,

Though I was forced thereto,

Preserve my life and punish me,

As you think good to do."

And with these words, her lily hands

She wrung full often there,

And down along her lovely face,

Proceeded many a tear.

But nothing could this furious queen

Therewith appeased be;

The cup of deadly poison strong,

As she sate on her knee,

She gave this comely dame to drink,

Who took it in her hand,

And from her bended knee arose,

And on her feet did stand,

And casting up her eyes to heaven,

She did for mercy call,

And drinking up the poison strong,

Her life she lost withal.

"Help! ho! Have done with your foolish madrigal," cried a stout yeoman,

who had watched the terrible agony depicted upon the face of the king,

during this rehearsal; "the holy palmer is well nigh suffocated with your

folly."

"Give him a taste of one of the psalms of David," hiccoughed a little man

from the opposite side of the booth, "the pious aye thrive upon the good

book," and he laughed at his own profanity.

"A horn of good English beer will do him better," roared a Yorkshire man,

pouring out a bumper of ale. "Build up the body, mon, and the soul will do

weel eneugh." "Gramercy!" cried the minstrel, going nearer and gazing upon

his distorted features. "Some evil demon possesses him. 'Tis a terror to

look upon his bloodshot eyes." "An if the evil demon is in him 'twere best

to cast him out," interposed the owner of the booth. Suiting the action to

the word, he dragged the senseless king from the couch of fern leaves, to

a more refreshing bed upon the dewy grass. The cool air at length revived

the miserable monarch, and the very torture of returning recollection gave

him strength to rise and pursue his course. On he sped through the night,

insensible to fatigue and regardless of rest. As he struck into the bridle

path where his eyes were dazzled by the bright vision that first led his

feet to Godstowe, the faint sound of the convent bell fell upon his ear.

He thought it the ringing of the matin chime; but approaching nearer, the

solemn toll smote heavily upon his heart, for he recognized in it the

knell of a parting soul. He quickened his steps, and by reason of his

friar's gown, gained ready admittance to the convent. The messenger that

had been despatched for a priest to shrive the dying nun had not yet

returned, and Henry's services were put in requisition to perform the holy

office. Without giving him time for question or explanation, the

frightened sisters hurried him through the long passages of the dormitory

and introduced him into a cell, where stretched upon a pallet of straw,

lay the pale and wasted form of Rosamond. The faint beams of morning

struggling through the open casement, mingled with the sickening glare of

waxen tapers, which according to the rites of the church, were placed at

the head and foot of the bed. The couch was surrounded with objects

intended to familiarize the mind with the idea of death, to fit the soul

for its final departure. A coffin half filled with ashes stood near,

whereon was placed the crown and robe, in which she had professed herself

the bride of Christ, now ready to adorn her for her burial, and the

necessary articles for administering extreme unction, were arranged upon a

small table, above which hung a cross bearing an image of the dying

Saviour. With a despairing glance at these terrible preparations, Henry

approached the bed, and gazed upon the unconscious sufferer. Unable to

command his voice, he waved his hand and the attendant devotees retired

from the room; the lady abbess whispering as she passed, "I fear our

sister is too far gone to confess." Hastily throwing back his cowl, he

bent over the sleeper, raised her head, clasped in his own the attenuated

hand that had so often returned his fond pressure, and in the accents of

love and despair, whispered her name. The dying one languidly lifted the

snowy lids that veiled her lustrous eyes, and looked upon him, but in the

vacant gaze was no recognition. "My Rosamond!" cried Henry, passionately

pressing a kiss upon her ashy lips. A thrill ran through her frame, her

slight fingers quivered in his clasp, and the world of recollections that

rushed back upon her brain, beamed from her dilating eyes. Her palsied

tongue assayed to speak, but Henry caught only the low sound, "My

children!" "My children"--reiterated the monarch--he said no more--her

breast heaved--her lips trembled with the last faint sigh, and a smile of

ineffable joy rested on the features of the dead.

CHAPTER VII.

Ingratitude! thou marble-hearted fiend,

More to be dreaded when thou showest thee in a child,

Than the sea-monster.

The protracted imprisonment of Queen Eleanor infuriated her Provencal

subjects. The southern court, deprived of its most brilliant gem, no

longer attracted the gifted and the gay from all parts of Europe. The

troubadours in effect hung their harps on the willows, and the faithful

Peyrol, banished from the presence of his beloved mistress, attempted to

console the weary hours of her captivity, by tender _Plaintes_, in which

with touching simplicity he bewailed her misfortunes. "Daughter of

Aquitaine," wrote he, "fair fruitful vine, thou hast been torn from thy

country, and led into a strange land. Thy harp is changed into the voice

of mourning, and thy songs into sounds of lamentation. Brought up in

delicacy and abundance, thou enjoyedst a royal liberty, living in the

bosom of wealth, delighting thyself with the sports of thy women, with

their songs, to the sound of the lute and tabor; and now thou mournest,

thou weepest, thou consumest thyself with sorrow. Return, poor

prisoner--return to thy cities, if thou canst; and if thou canst not, weep

and say, 'Alas! how long is my exile.' Weep, weep, and say, 'My tears are

my bread both day and night.' Where are thy guards, thy royal

escort?--where thy maiden train, thy counsellors of state? Thou criest,

but no one hears thee! for the king of the north keeps thee shut up like a

town that is besieged. Cry then--cease not to cry. Raise thy voice like a

trumpet, that thy sons may hear it; for the day is approaching when thy

sons shall deliver thee, and then shalt thou see again thy native land."

But the warlike chiefs of Guienne did not confine themselves to

expressions of tenderness. Richard and Geoffrey, though often hostile to

each other, were always ready to lead the barons of the south to battle,

and for two years the Angevin subjects of Henry and the Aquitaine subjects

of Eleanor, incited by her sons, gave battle in the cause of the captive

queen, and from Rochelle to Bayonne the whole south of France was in a

state of insurrection. The melancholy death of Geoffrey added to the

afflictions of his already wretched mother. In a grand tournament at Paris

he was thrown from his horse and trodden to death beneath the feet of the

coursers. He was distinguished for his manly beauty and martial grace, and

Eleanor had regarded him with an affection as intense as was the causeless

hatred she bore to his wife Constance. His infant son Arthur, for whom

Eleanor's namesake had been set aside, inherited the dower of his mother

both in possessions and enmity. Not long after the death of her favorite

son Eleanor was called upon to part with her youngest daughter Joanna, who

became the bride of William II. King of Sicily. Thus deprived of all

affection, Eleanor dragged on a monotonous existence during Henry's

protracted search for Rosamond.

The innocence of his queen being fully proved, the softened monarch began

to regard her with more complacency: but the vindictive spirit of Eleanor,

incensed by the indignities she had suffered, and enraged by being the

victim of unjust suspicions, could not so easily repass the barriers that

had been interposed between their affections, and though she accompanied

her lord to Bordeaux, she set herself to widen the breach between him and

Richard, and he soon found it necessary to remand her again to the

seclusion of Winchester palace.

When Henry received absolution from the pope for the murder of Becket, he

solemnly swore to visit the Holy Land in person, and the day had been

fixed for his departure with Louis King of France. The death of that

monarch prevented the expedition, and Henry had delayed it from time to

time, though the patriarch of Jerusalem and the grand-master of the

knights Hospitallers, had made the long and difficult journey to England,

and in name of Queen Sibylla, had delivered to him as the successor of

Fulk of Anjou, the royal banner and the keys of the Holy City and

Sepulchre. Now impressed with a sense of the vanity of human hopes, and

the fading grandeur of earthly distinction, he determined if possible, to

divert his mind from the endless train of sad recollections, by plunging

into the excitement of novel scenes and rekindling his wasting energies at

the fane of Religion. The eyes of all the European nations were at this

time directed, with peculiar anxiety to the distresses of the Christians

in Palestine. At the death of Baldwin III. the sceptre passed to the hands

of his brother Almeric, who wasted his subjects and treasure in a

fruitless war with the Vizier of Egypt. The crown from Almeric descended

to Baldwin IV., his son by Agnes de Courteney, heiress to the lost

principality of Edessa. Baldwin IV. was a leper; and finding that disease

incapacitated him for performing the royal functions, he committed the

government to his brother-in-law Guy de Lusignan, a French knight whom

Henry had banished for murder. At the death of Baldwin his sister Sibylla

and her husband Guy became King and Queen of Jerusalem, but the Count of

Tripoli refused to do them homage. At last he consented to proffer his

allegiance to the queen, on condition that she should be divorced from

Lusignan and choose a partner who should be able to protect the kingdom.

Sibylla was a woman of great beauty, majestic person and commanding

talents. She consented to the proposal of the Count of Tripoli, only

requiring in return the oath of the barons that they would accept for

sovereign whomsoever she should choose. The terms were settled, the

divorce obtained, and the ceremony of her coronation took place. As soon

as she was crowned, turning proudly to the rebel lords, she placed the

diadem on the head of Lusignan, saluted him as her husband, bent the knee

to him as king, and with a voice of authority, cried aloud, "Those whom

God has joined together let not man put asunder." The simple truth and

affection of the queen, and the grandeur of the spectacle awed the

assembly; and the astonished barons submitted without a murmur.

The famous Saladin, about the same time, began his career of conquest in

the East. Tiberius, Acre, Jaffa, Cesarea and Berytus were the trophies of

his victories. One hundred thousand people flying from the sword of the

Turks crowded into Jerusalem, and the feeble garrison was not able to

defend them. Saladin, unwilling to stain with human blood the place which

even the Moslems held in reverence, offered the inhabitants peace on

condition of the surrender of the city, and money and lands in Syria; but

the Christians declared that they would not resign to the Infidels the

place where the Saviour had suffered and died. Indignant at the rejection

of his offer, Saladin swore that he would enter the city sword in hand and

retaliate upon the Franks the carnage they had made in the days of Godfrey

de Boulogne. For fourteen days the battle raged around the walls with

almost unexampled fury. The Moslem fanatic fearlessly exposed his life,

expecting that death would give him at once to drink of the waters of

Paradise,--the Christian, hoping to exchange an earthly for a heavenly

Jerusalem, poured out his blood in protecting the Holy Sepulchre. When it

was found that the wall near the gate of St. Stephen was undermined, all

farther efforts at defence were abandoned; the clergy prayed for a

miraculous interposition of heaven, and the soldiers threw down their arms

and crowded into the churches. Saladin again offered favorable conditions

of peace. The miserable inhabitants spent four days in visiting the sacred

places, weeping over and embracing the Holy Sepulchre, and then, sadly

quitting the hallowed precincts, passed through the enemy's camp, and took

their disconsolate way towards Tyre, the last stronghold of the Latins in

Palestine.

Thus after the lapse of nearly a century, the Holy City that had cost

Europe so much blood and treasure, once more became the property of the

Infidel. The great cross was taken down from the church of the Sepulchre

and dragged through the mire of the street, the bells of the churches

were melted, while the floors and walls of the mosque of Omar, purified

with Damascene rose-water, were again consecrated to the worship of the

false prophet. The melancholy tidings of this event occasioned the

greatest sensation throughout the Christian world. The aged pontiff died

of a broken heart. The husband of Joanna put on sackcloth and vowed to

take the cross. Henry, Philip, the new King of France, the Earls of

Flanders and Champagne, and a great number of knights and barons resolved

to combine their forces for the redemption of the Holy City.

Immediately upon the death of Rosamond, Henry had made all the reparation

in his power to her injured name, by acknowledging her children and

placing them at Woodstock to be educated with his son John. The boys grew

up to manhood, and developed a perfection of personal elegance and

strength of character more befitting the sons of a king than any of the

children of Eleanor. He promoted them to offices of honor and trust, and

made Geoffrey chancellor of the realm.

Everything was now ready for the king's departure. In a general council

held at Northampton it was enacted that every man who did not join the

crusade should pay towards the expense of the expedition one tenth of all

his goods; and the Jews were fined for the same purpose one fourth of

their personal property. Henry wrote letters to the emperors of Germany,

Hungary and Constantinople, for liberty to pass through their dominions,

and receiving favorable answers, passed over to France to complete the

arrangement with Philip, when the whole plan was defeated by that

monarch's demanding that his sister Alice should be given to Richard, and

that the English should swear fealty to the prince as heir-apparent to the

throne. Henry refused; and his son Richard, in the public conference,

kneeling at the feet of the French monarch, presented him his sword,

saying, "To you, sir, I commit the protection of my rights, and to you I

now do homage for my father's dominions in France."

The king, amazed at this new act of rebellion, retired precipitately from

the council, and prepared with some of his former alacrity, to meet the

combination against him. But Fortune, that had hitherto smiled upon him,

seemed now to forsake him. He was defeated in every battle, driven from

city to city, his health became impaired, his spirits failed, and at last

he submitted to all the demands of his enemies, agreeing to pay twenty

thousand marks to Philip, to permit his vassals to do homage to Richard,

and above all, to give up Alice, the cause of so much domestic misery.

He stipulated only for a list of the disaffected barons who had joined the

French king. The first name that caught his eye was that of John, the

idolized child of his old age. He read no further, but throwing down the

paper, fell into one of those violent paroxysms of rage to which of late

years he had been so fearfully subject. He cursed the day of his birth,

called down maledictions upon his unnatural children and their treacherous

mother, flung himself upon the couch, tore the covers with his teeth, and

clutched the hair from his head, and swooned away in a transport of anger

and grief. A raging fever succeeded; but in his lucid moments he

superintended an artist, who, at his command, painted upon canvass, the

device of a young eaglet picking out the eyes of an eagle. Day after day

the monarch lingered and suffered between paroxysms of pain and grief, and

intervals of lassitude and insensibility; and when others forsook his

bedside in weariness or alarm, Geoffrey, unconscious of drowsiness or

fatigue, stood a patient watcher by his dying father. The feeble monarch

recognized in the voice of this son the tones which his ear had loved in

youth, and obeyed its slightest bidding; and the only alleviation of his

agony was found in gazing upon the face that revived the image of his lost

Rosamond. Taking the signet-ring from his finger, he placed it upon the

hand of Geoffrey; "Thou art my true and loyal son," said he. "The blessing

of heaven rest upon thee for thy filial service to thy guilty sire.

Commend me to thy brother William and his beautiful bride. As for the

others, give them yon parable," pointing to the picture of the eagle,

"with my everlasting curse." He leaned his head upon the breast of his

son, and supported in his arms, expired.

* * * * *

Eleanor survived her unhappy consort more than twenty years, and in that

time made some amends for the follies and vices of her early life. The

first step of her son Richard on his accession to the throne, was to

release his mother from her confinement, and make her regent of the

kingdom. She employed her freedom and her power in acts of mercy and

beneficence, making a progress through the kingdom, and setting at liberty

all persons confined for breach of the forest-laws, and other trivial

offences, and recalling the outlawed to their homes and families. During

the absence of Richard in the Holy Land, she administered the government

with prudence and discretion, and after the accession of John, resumed the

sceptre of her own dominions, slowly and painfully gathering, in the

crimes and miseries of her children, the fruit of the evil counsels she

had given them in their childhood. At the age of eighty she retired into

the convent of Fontevraud, and three years after died of sorrow, when the

peers of France branded her son John as the murderer of Arthur.

BERENGARIA OF NAVARRE.

[Illustration: Berengaria of Navarre.]

CHAPTER I.

"What thing so good which not some harm may bring?

E'en to be happy is a dangerous thing?"

"Sing no more, for thy song wearieth me," exclaimed the impatient daughter

of Navarre, tossing upon her couch with the heavy restlessness of one who

courts slumber when nature demands exercise. The Moorish maiden,

accustomed to the petulance of the beautiful Berengaria, arose from her

cushion and laying aside her lute, murmured despondingly, "The proverb

saith truly, ''Tis ill-pleasing him who is ill-pleased with himself.'"

Abandoning further attempts to soothe her mistress, the attendant retired

to the extremity of the long apartment and gazed listlessly from the

casement. "Art vexed that my ear loved not the sound of thy lute, peevish

child?" inquired the youthful princess. "Read me a riddle, or tell me a

marvellous tale of the Genii, such as thou hast learned in thy southern

land." With the air of one who performs an accustomed task while his

thoughts are far away, the girl resumed her seat, and recited

A TALE OF ARABY.

Once upon a time three Genii, returning from their missions to mortals

rested beside the well Zemzem. And as they sat recounting to each other

the things that they had seen, behold they fell into conversation

concerning the Eternal One (whose name be exalted), the destinies that

reign over the fate of men, the characteristics of the world, and the

misfortunes and calamities which happen unto all, both the righteous and

the wicked. And one said to another, "Declare unto us now what is thine

opinion, and what knowest thou concerning this thing. What is that,

diffused in air, dissolved in water or concealed in earth, the subtle

essence of which, being bestowed upon one of human mould, shall bring him

nearest to the throne of Allah, (blessed be his name), and give him right

to eat of the tree that standeth in the seventh heaven by the garden of

the Eternal Abode?" And the first said, "It is Beauty," and the second,

"It is Love," and the third, "It is Happiness." And there arose a

contention among them; and when they found that neither could convince the

others, they agreed to depart each on his way, to search the elements of

all things for that concordial mixture with which he would nourish a human

soul into immortality. So they went their way. And after the lapse of a

cycle of years, they returned again and sat by the well Zemzem. And each

bore in his hand a phial purer than crystal, sealed with the seal of

Solomon the wise, the magnificent. Then spake the first, saying, "Earth

hath no form of beauty from the flash of the diamond hidden in its deepest

caves, through all the brilliant variety of gems and sands of gold; no

delicate pencilling from the first faint tinge upon the rose-bud's cheek

to the gorgeous dyes of the flowers and fruits that deck the vale of

Cashmere; water hath no shade of coloring from the sea-green lining of its

coral caves, to the splendid iridescence of its pearly shells; air hath no

tint of the virgin stars, no ray of parted light; vapor beareth no beauty

in its morning clouds and rainbow hues, from which I have not ravished the

subtlest source. Whatever form of Beauty can become apparent to the sense,

either as breath of fragrance, sweetness of sound, or grace of motion,

sublimated to its purest element, lieth here enclosed for the endowment of

whomsoever we shall choose." And he held up the phial, and lo! it

contained a liquid having a faint coloring of the rose.

Then spake the second and said, "The Almighty (blessed be he) hath given

unto me that mysterious power by which I read the thoughts and purposes of

men, even as the Holy Prophet (on whom be benedictions) was wont to read

the 'Book of Life.'

"From the heart of the child that turneth ever to watch the movements of

its mother, from the heart of the servant that seeketh the favor of her

mistress, from the heart of the sister that exults with pride in the glory

of her brother, from the heart of the maiden that beateth bashfully and

tenderly at the sound of the footsteps of her lover, from the heart of the

bridegroom that yearneth with strong desire towards his bride, from the

heart of the father that expands in the fulness of joy at the sight of his

first-born, from the heart of the mother that watcheth ever the steps of

her child, whether he sporteth in innocence by her side or wandereth with

vice in foreign parts; I have gathered the sweetest and purest and truest

thought of Love. Its impalpable essence lies hidden in this phial," and he

placed it before them. And lo! it seemed filled with a vapor which flushed

in their gaze with the hue of the dawn.

Then spake the third and said, "It is not permitted unto me the servant of

Ifraz the Unknown, to declare unto you in what outward manifestations of

human hope or desire, in what inward workings of thought and feeling, I

have detected and imprisoned the elusive spirit of Happiness," and he held

up his phial before them. And with one voice they exclaimed, "It is

empty." And they laughed him to scorn.

Then spake he in anger and said, "Truly the fool proceedeth upon

probability, and the wise man requireth proof." And they replied, "Go to,

now, we will abide the proof."

And forthwith they took their way to the land of Suristan. And as they

passed by the well of Israel, Ben Izak (on whom be peace), they saw a

maiden bearing a pitcher of water. And the first said, "Behold, now,

immortality is given unto man by the Almighty the Ordainer of fate and

destiny (whose name be exalted), but unto woman it is not given except as

her _beauty_ shall delight the heart of man." But the second said, "Except

as _love_ gives her a seat by the Well of Life;" and the third, "Except

as _happiness_ translates her to Paradise." Then said the first, "Let us

contend no more, but let us take this damsel and bestow upon her, each our

separate gift, and she shall be a sign and a testimony concerning these

things." And thus they agreed together.

And when the maiden retired to her couch, and the angel of sleep had laid

his finger upon her eyelids, the first genii calling upon the name of God

the All-perfect (blessed be he) broke the seal of his phial, and poured a

portion of the liquid upon her lips. And the three genii watched her

slumbers till the dawn; and thus they did evening by evening. And they

beheld her form developing in loveliness, tall and straight as the palm,

but lithe and supple as the bending branch of the oriental willow. Her

smoothly rounded arms gleamed like polished ivory beneath the folds of her

transparent izar, and the tips of her rosy fingers were touched with the

lustre of henna. Her lips had the hue of the coral when it is wet with the

spray of the sea, her teeth were as strings of pearl, and the melting

fulness of her cheek was suffused with the soft bloom of the peach. In her

eyes was the light of the stars, and her eyelids were adorned with kohl.

Her hair was glossy and black as the plumage of the raven, and when she

covered it with her veil, her countenance beamed from it comely as the

full moon that walketh in the darkness of the night. Her speech was as the

murmur of the waterfall and the clear tones of the nightingales of the

Jordan. She was a wonder unto herself and unto her neighbors. Her step had

the lightness of the gazelle and the grace of the swan; and when she went

forth abroad, the eye that beheld her beauty exclaimed, "Glory be to him

who created her, perfected her, and completed her." But the genii beheld

with sorrow and mortification that she became vain, and that foolish

thoughts sprang up in her heart; so that it was said of her, "Hath God the

High, the Great, put an evil spirit in the perfection of beauty?" Then

said the second genii, "Ye shall see what the elixir of _love_ shall do."

And he entered into her chamber, and he broke the mystic seal which was

the seal of Solomon Ben David (on both of whom be peace), and a sweet odor

was diffused through the apartment. And the lips of the sleeper moved as

with a pleasant smile, and there beamed upon her countenance the nameless

charm with which the houris fill with delight the dwellers in the Garden

of Eternity. And it came to pass that all who looked upon her loved her

and said, "There is none among the created like her in excellence of

beauty, or in charms of disposition. Extolled be the perfection of the

Creator of mankind." And they strove one with another which should possess

the inestimable treasure. And contention and strife arose daily among

them; and her heart inclined unto all, and she feared to unite herself

with one, lest grievous wars should follow. Therefore her soul was filled

with grief, and she ceased not to weep by day and by night, and the tears

were on her cheeks. Then said the third genii, "Behold sorrow is of earth,

and the beauty and love ye have bestowed have gathered with them the

noxious principles inwoven in the basis of human things. Ye shall behold

the power of happiness." Then he took the colorless phial, and he broke

the seal thereof, calling upon the name of Ifraz the Unknown, and lo, hour

after hour the invisible, impalpable elixir seemed to permeate her being,

and the light of her eye was tempered to a holy ray, the color blanched on

her cheeks, and the vivacity of love gave place to the serenity of

content. And as she walked forth the voluptuous and the wise said, "Behold

she is too pure for earth, the Terminator of delights and Separator of

companions will soon call for her. Extolled be the perfections of the

Eternal in whose power it lieth to annul and to confirm."

And when the two genii saw that Beauty and Love availed not, they were

filled with envy, and they seized the damsel and conveyed her away to the

cave of enchantment. And the third genii being transported with grief and

disappointment, broke the phial, and that which remained of the elixir of

Happiness returned to its primeval source, and entered again into the

combinations of human things. But the seal being broken it became known to

mortals that the elixir of Life existed in the elements, and hence it is,

that those who are skilled in the mysteries of nature have searched its

grand arcanum with the powerful agencies of alchemy, and tortured the

genii with spells and incantations to wring from them the mighty secret.

Berengaria had listened to the story with unwonted interest, and at its

close started up from her couch and eagerly inquired, "What has been the

result? Have they discovered the long-sought principle? I have heard

wondrous tales concerning these alchemists. Men say they deal in the black

art; but were there one in Navarre, I would brave the imputation of

sorcery to question him concerning the elixir of beauty." "A Moorish

physician dwells in the suburbs of Pampeluna," replied Elsiebede,

measuring her sentences with timid hesitation, "whom I have often seen in

the byways, gathering herbs, it is said he readeth the fates of mortals in

the stars."

"Let us go to him," exclaimed the princess, "bring me my pelisson and

veil."

The girl obeyed with a trembling alacrity, that to a less occupied

observer, would have betrayed that the expedition was the unexpected

accomplishment of a long-cherished desire.

"This way," said Elsiebede, drawing her mistress from the public street,

now beginning to be thronged with laborers returning from their toil, "the

alchemist brooks not impertinent intrusion, and we must beware that no

officious attendant, nor curious retainer find the place of his abode."

Silently and swiftly the two maidens threaded a narrow alley, leading

through an unfrequented part of the town, turning and winding among

buildings more and more remote from each other, till it terminated on a

grassy heath, surrounding a dilapidated mansion. The sun had already set,

and Berengaria, never too courageous, began to shudder at the loneliness

of the place. With instinctive fear, she clung tremblingly to the arm of

her resolute dependent, whispering, "Whither dost thou lead me? There is

here no sign of human life. Let us return." But the spirited slave bent

the weak will of the mistress to her purpose; and with alternate

assurances of safety and incitements to curiosity, led the way to the rear

of the ruined pile, where descending a stone stair, she gave three raps

upon a low door. The grating of rusty bolts was heard, the door was

cautiously opened, and Berengaria felt herself suddenly drawn within the

portal. A glare of dazzling light blinded and bewildered her, and a

stifling vapor added to her former terror, almost stupefied her senses.

The voice of Elsiebede somewhat reassured her, and as her eyes became

accustomed to the light, she took a survey of the scene before her. The

apartment seemed to have been originally the kitchen of the castle, one

end being occupied by a wide, large chimney, now built up except in the

centre, where a furnace, covered with crucibles, glowed with the most

intense heat. A white screen with a small dark screen before it, nearly

concealed one side, of the apartment, while on the other side from three

serpent-formed tubes connected through the wall with retorts, gleamed

tongues of colored flame. Various gallipots, alembics, horologues,

diagrams, and dusty manuscripts were deposited upon shelves in angles of

the wall.

The principal occupant was a man of a lean, haggard figure, bowed less by

age than by toil and privation. A few black, uncombed locks escaping from

the folds of a turban, once white, now begrimed with smoke and dust,

straggled over a swarthy forehead, marked with lines caused by intense

thought, and abortive speculations. He was dressed in Moorish garments,

the sleeves tucked above the elbows, revealing his emaciated arms, while

his talon-like fingers grasped an immense triangular crystal, through

which he was casting refractions upon the screen. His deep, cavernous eyes

seemed to gleam with the fires of insanity, yet he spoke in a tone of deep

abstraction, though with something like the voice of affection. "Disturb

me not, my daughter, but stand aside till I have completed my

experiment." The maidens remained silently by the door, and Berengaria had

leisure to note the motions of a dwarf African, who sat diligently blowing

the bellows of the furnace, rolling his eyes, and saluting the ladies with

smiles which served at once to exhibit his white teeth and his

satisfaction at the interruption.

Notwithstanding her fears at finding herself in so strange a situation,

the curiosity of Berengaria was so excited by the novelty of the scene,

that she waited patiently while the philosopher experimented first with

one light and then with another, till apparently becoming dissatisfied

with the result, he attempted to change the position of the tubes. Scarce

was his purpose accomplished, when a deafening explosion rent the air,

followed by sounds as of the falling of the ruin overhead. Profound

darkness ensued, and the groans of the wounded alchemist mingled with the

demoniac laughter of the African, and the echo of her own shrieks

increased the terror of the princess almost to agony. Elsiebede alone

retained any share of self-possession. "A light, a light, Salaman,"

exclaimed she. Instantly a line of blue flame crept along the wall, and a

tiny torch in the hand of the dwarf mysteriously ignited, revealed again

his malevolent countenance, and threw his misshapen and magnified image in

full relief upon the screen. An odor of brimstone that seemed to accompany

the apparition, did not serve to allay Berengaria's apprehensions.

Elsiebede for once forgot her mistress. Hastily snatching the torch from

the negro, she lighted a lamp and raising her father from the stone floor,

began to examine his wounds. The blood was oozing from a contusion upon

the back of his head, one side of his face was dreadfully burned, and his

right hand lay utterly powerless. Giving hurried directions in Moorish to

the grinning Ethiope, Elsiebede with his assistance placed her father upon

a couch behind the screen, and bathed the painful wounds with a balmy

liquid from one of the dusty phials, accompanying her soothing appliances

with the soft and gentle expressions of affection. Their language was

foreign to the ear of Berengaria, but she discovered by the tones of the

father, and the tears of the daughter, that he was chiding her as the

cause of his misfortune. At length overcome by his upbraiding, Elsiebede

drew from her bosom a silken purse, and taking thence a jewel kissed it

fervently, and like one resigning her last treasure at the call of duty,

put it into his extended hand. The black meanwhile had prepared a cordial,

which he intimated would soon give her father rest. The alchemist eagerly

swallowed the draught, and soon sank into a heavy sleep.

Berengaria, whose impatience had scarcely brooked the delay necessary for

this happy consummation, hurried the reluctant Elsiebede away. "I knew

not, Elsie," said she, when they were at a safe distance from the ruin,

"that thy father dwelt in Pampeluna. I thought thou wert an orphan, when

my father moved by thy beauty and distress purchased thee of the rude

Castilian. Tell me thine history."

"My father," replied Elsiebede, "was when young the physician of the

Moorish prince, and occupied himself in separating the hidden virtues of

nature from the impurities with which they are combined. When walking

abroad to gather plants for the prosecution of his inquiries, he met every

day a young flower girl, carrying her fragrant wares to the palace of the

Alhambra. Attracted by her beauty, he purchased her flowers, and

interested himself in her history. He learned that she belonged to a band

of Saracens or Gyptianos, that had recently settled in Grenada. He loved

her and she became his wife.

"I was their only child. My youth was spent in listening to the wondrous

tales of the East, with which my mother delighted me, or in acquiring the

elements of science with my father. The sudden illness and death of my

mother destroyed all my happiness. My father betook himself again to the

most abstruse studies, spent whole nights in watching the stars, practised

incantations to the spirits of the air, and pondering continually upon the

mystery of death, commenced the search for that mighty principle which is

said to prolong human existence. Many wonderful secrets of nature were in

this process revealed to his sight; but he became so sad and gloomy, and

his eyes beamed on me with such an unwonted fire, that I feared lest grief

should dethrone the angel of reason. To divert his mind, I began to lead

him forth in his accustomed walks. One day when we had lingered rather

later than usual beyond the walls of Grenada, a band of armed Castilians

fell upon us, and carried us away captives. The noble Sancho found me

singing songs for my cruel master, and redeemed me from my fate."

"And what became of thy father?" inquired Berengaria. "He was enabled by

some of his medicines to heal a long-established malady of his captor, and

thus obtained his freedom: since which, until within a few months, he has

wandered through Spain in search of his lost child." "And wherefore didst

thou commit to a dying man the precious jewel which I saw in thy hand?"

The tears of Elsiebede began to fall fast, and with a choking voice she

replied, "Question me not, I entreat thee. Oh, my mistress, concerning the

ring, at another time I will tell thee all." Touched with the instinctive

reverence that nature always pays to genuine sorrow, the princess forbore

further inquiries, and the two maidens completed their walk in silence.

The terror that Berengaria had suffered took away all desire to prosecute

her inquiries with the alchemist, but with unusual consideration, on the

following day, she dismissed Elsiebede at an early hour, giving her

permission to pass the night with her father. The poor girl returned in

the morning overwhelmed with grief. The alchemist was dead. From her

self-reproaches and lamentations Berengaria learned, that in his

scientific researches he had consumed all his property, and melted every

valuable belonging to his daughter, except her mother's ring. This gem she

had steadily refused to give him, both on account of its being a memento

and a charm, and the failure of his experiment with its fatal results he

had in his dying hour attributed to the lack of the potency of the

precious gem. Stung with remorse, Elsiebede declared that if the ring

could not save her father's life, it should at least procure him a grave,

and telling her mistress that she could never again look upon the jewel

without a shudder, begged her to accept it, and to assist her in burying

him according to the rites of the Mohammedan religion. In catholic Navarre

this was next to an impossibility; but through the generosity of the

princess, and the ingenuity of Salaman, the corpse was secretly conveyed

to the Moorish cemetery in Grenada.

CHAPTER II.

"O, such a day

So fought, so followed, and so fairly won,

Came not till now, to dignify the times."

It was a gala-day in Navarre. Sancho the Strong, the gallant brother of

Berengaria, had proclaimed a tournament in compliment to his friend

Richard Plantagenet, Count of Poitou. In the domestic wars which had vexed

the south of France since the marriage of Eleanor of Aquitaine with Henry

of Anjou, these valiant youths had fought side by side, and from a

friendship cemented by intimacy as well as similarity of tastes and

pursuits, had become _fratres jurati_, or sworn brothers, according to the

customs of the age. Both were celebrated for their knightly

accomplishments and their skill in judging of Provencal poetry, and each

had proved the prowess of the other in chivalric encounter, and provoked

the genius of his friend in the refined and elegant contests of minstrelsy

and song. The brave Sancho had arranged the lists, giving to his friend

the first place as knight challenger, reserving the second for himself,

and bestowing the third upon their brother in arms, the young Count of

Champagne. The gay pavilions were set, a splendid concourse assembled,

and Berengaria, proclaimed Queen of Beauty and Love, had assumed her regal

state attended by all the beauties of Navarre, when to the infinite

disappointment and mortification of the prince, Count Raimond of Toulouse

arrived to say, that Richard, having received letters from his mother, had

found it necessary to depart suddenly for England; but that the

festivities of the day might not be marred by his absence, he entreated

that the bearer of the message, Count Raimond, might occupy his pavilion,

bestride his war-steed, and do his devoir in the lists. With a courtesy

that ill-concealed his chagrin the noble Sancho accepted the substitute,

and conducting him to the tent glittering with green and gold, consigned

him to the care of the esquires; while himself went to acquaint his sister

with the mortifying fact that the spectacle, for which they had prepared

with such enthusiastic anticipations, was yet to want the crowning grace

expected from the presence of that flower of knighthood, Richard

Plantagenet.

To conceal from the spectators the knowledge of this untoward event, their

father, Sancho the Wise, who held the post of honor as judge of the

combat, decided that Count Raimond of Toulouse should assume the armorial

bearings of Richard, and personate him in the lists. These preliminaries

being satisfactorily arranged, the heralds rode forth and proclaimed the

laws of the tournament, and the games proceeded. The Count of Champagne

and the royal Sancho, better practised in the exercises of the lance than

the Spanish cavaliers who opposed them, won applause from all beholders;

but the crowd seemed to take especial delight in the prowess of Count

Raimond, shouting at every gallant thrust, and every feat of horsemanship,

"A Richard, a Richard! A Plantagenet!" Notwithstanding the unfavorable

auspices under which the tournament commenced, the sports of the day were

as gay and animated as the most sanguine could have hoped. The three

challengers had overborne all opponents. With a heart fluttering with

pride and pleasure, the young Blanche of Navarre had seen her sister

confer a golden coronet upon the Count of Champagne, and Sancho had also

received from Berengaria a chaplet in honor of his knightly achievements.

But the first in honor as in place, was the warrior who had personated

Richard. When, however, he laid aside his vizor, to receive the well-won

laurel as leader of the victors, the multitude discovered that the hero

whom they had greeted with such enthusiastic applause was Count Raimond of

Toulouse, and new bursts of acclamations rent the air, while the marshals,

and squires, and heralds, forgetting for a moment their duties, gathered

round the throne of Love and Beauty to interchange congratulations with

the gratified count.

In the general excitement no one had noticed the entrance of a _knight

adventurous_, one of those wandering cavaliers who, to perfect themselves

in feats of arms, travelled from province to province, challenging the

skill of all comers in chivalrous combat. The appearance of this

knight-errant was such as attracted all eyes. He was mounted on a bay

horse of spirit and mettle that hardly yielded to the strong rein; his

helmet was surmounted with a crest of the figure of a red hound, while his

erect form shielded in brown armor, and the firmness with which he

maintained his seat gave him the appearance of a bronze statue, borne

along in the procession. Disregarding the indications that the fortunes of

the day were already decided, the stranger knight rode directly to the

pavilion emblazoned with the arms of Richard, and struck his spear with

such force upon the shield, as to summon at once the attendants to duty.

"Whom have we here?" exclaimed Sancho, with a hearty laugh. "By our Lady,

Count Raimond, this day's sun shall not set till the heathen hound on the

crest of yon crusading knight hath bit the dust. Pardieu, I almost envy

thee thy good fortune to tilt against so fair a foe." The interest which

this new-comer gave to the flagging sports was evinced by the eager

inquiries and hurried whispers that went round among the spectators. A

breathless silence ensued, as Count Raimond couched his lance and started

forward to meet his strange challenger. "A Raimond! A Raimond!" cried the

crowd, as the two combatants dashed upon each other.

"Long life to the Red Knight," "Success to the Crusaders," was echoed by

the fickle multitude, with increased satisfaction, as the hero of

Toulouse, overthrown by the violence of the shock, struggled beneath his

fallen charger, while the stranger applying rein and spur, caused his

gallant steed at one bound, to leap over the prostrate horse and rider,

then dexterously compelling the animal to caricole gracefully in front of

the queen's galley, and lowering his lance, the victorious knight

courteously bowed as if laying his honors at the feet of Love and Beauty.

The prizes for the day were already bestowed; but the enthusiastic

Berengaria found it impossible to let such prowess go unrewarded. Hastily

untying her scarf, she fastened it to the end of his spear, and the

Crusader, with the armorial bearings of Navarre streaming from his lance,

rode slowly and proudly from the lists.

The squires meanwhile had extricated the vanquished Raimond from his

perilous position, and conducted him to his tent, where his bruises were

found to require the skill of the leech. All were busy with conjectures

concerning the unknown, many sage surmises very wide of the truth were

hazarded by those best acquainted with heraldic devices, and arguments

were rapidly increasing to animosities, when the slight tinkling of a bell

again drew the attention of the concourse.

"A champion! A champion," exclaimed they again as a second knight, strong

and broad-shouldered, sheathed in shining black armor, entered the arena.

Glimpses of a ruddy complexion and sparkling eyes, were visible through

the jetty bars of his vizor, and a raven with smooth and glossy plumage,

its beak open, and a bell suspended from its neck, was perched upon his

helmet. His coal-black steed was a war-horse of powerful make,

deep-chested and of great strength of limb; his red nostrils distended by

his fiery impatience, glowed like the coals of a furnace, while the

gauntleted hand that with matchless skill controlled his speed, looked as

though it might have belonged to a giant of the olden time. The

impetuosity of the black knight left the spectators not long in doubt of

his purpose. Count Henry of Champagne was summoned to reassume his armor

and make good his claim to his recently won laurels. "Pray heaven thine

eye and hand falter not, Count Henry," exclaimed Sancho, as he personally

inspected the armor of his friend, and cautioned the squires to see that

each ring and buckle was securely fastened. "The issue of this combat

should depend upon thine own right arm, not upon a weak spring or careless

squire." The courtesy of the black knight seemed proportioned to his

strength and skill. Reining his horse to the left, he gave the count the

full advantage of the wind and sun, and instead of meeting him in full

career, eluded the shock, parried his thrusts with the most graceful ease,

and rode around him like a practised knight conducting the exercises of

the tilt-yard in such a manner, as to develop and display the prowess of

an ambitious squire; and when at last Count Henry lost his saddle, it was

rather the effect of his own rashness, than from any apparent purpose of

his antagonist; for exasperated to the last degree at being thus toyed

with, he retreated to the extremity of the lists, put his horse upon its

full speed and dashed upon his opponent. The black knight perceiving the

intent of this manoeuvre, brought his well-trained steed at once into an

attitude of perfect repose, and sitting immovable as an iron pillar,

received the full shock upon his impenetrable shield. The horse of the

count recoiling from the effect of the terrible collision, sank upon his

haunches, and the girth breaking, the rider rolled in the dust. Something

like a smothered laugh broke from beneath the bars of the stranger's

vizor, as he rode round his vanquished foe, and extended his hand as

though inviting him to rise. But his demeanor was grave and dignified,

when he presented himself before the admiring Berengaria, who in default

of a better chaplet stripped her tiny hand of its snowy covering, and

bestowed the embroidered glove as the guerdon of his skill. "Part we so

soon, sir knight?" said Sancho, reining his steed, so as to keep pace with

that of his unexpected guest. "I would fain set lance in rest against so

fair a foe." Without deigning a reply, the knight put spurs to his horse,

and leaping the barriers disappeared in the wood. Rejoining his two

friends in the pavilion who were condoling with each other over their

inglorious defeat, Sancho burst into a stream of invective. "Ungrateful

cravens," cried he, "to repine at heaven's grace. I would have given the

brightest jewel in the crown of Navarre, for leave to set lance in rest

against either of yon doughty knights." "Thou shouldst have been very

welcome," exclaimed Raimond, laying his hand upon his wounded limb. "Our

Lady grant henceforth that dame Fortune send all such favors to thee," and

he laughed in spite of his discomfiture. A startling blast from the wood

interrupted the colloquy, and Count Raimond petulantly exclaimed,

"Methinks the foul fiends have congregated in the forest! That hath the

sound of the last trumpet."

"Aye, verily," replied Count Henry, reconnoitering from the door of the

pavilion, "and yonder comes Death on the pale horse. Prince Sancho, thine

hour has come, prepare to meet thy final overthrow." There seemed a

terrible significance in the words, for upon a snowy charger, whose mane

and tail nearly swept the ground, just entering the lists, was seen a

knight, dressed in a suit of armor of such shining brilliancy as almost to

dazzle the eyes of the beholders. His crest was a white dove with its

wings spread, and conspicuous upon his right shoulder appeared a blood-red

cross. He carried neither lance nor spear, but an immense battle-axe hung

at his saddle-bow. "By my troth," said Sancho, "be he the angel of death

himself, I will dispute his empire, even though he bring twelve legions of

his mysterious retainers to back him. It shall not be said that the

chivalry of Spain, aye, and of France to boot," casting a glance at his

crest-fallen friends, "are but trophies of the prowess of these unknown

demi-gods." "Heaven grant thou mayest make good thy boast, for truly

these demi-gods wield no mortal weapons," said Count Raimond, with a

bitter smile, as the prince anticipating a challenge rode forth to meet

the white champion. Unpractised in the use of the mace, Sancho, whose ire

was completely roused at seeing the honors of the day borne off by

strangers, disregarded the laws of the tournament (which required the

challenger to use the same weapons as his adversary), and seizing his

spear, attacked his opponent with a fierce energy, which showed that he

fought for deadly combat, and not for trial of skill in knightly courtesy.

The brilliant figure, at the first rush, bowed his head, till the plumage

of the dove mingled with the flowing mane of his courser, and suffered the

animal to sheer to the right, thus compelling the prince, in his onward

career, to make a similar involuntary obeisance as the result of his

ineffectual thrust. Completing the demivolte, the two champions again

returned to the onset; and now the mace of the white knight describing

shining circles round his head, received upon its edge the spear of the

prince, clave the tough oak wood asunder, and sent the spear-head whirling

through the air almost to the feet of the spectators. A second, a third,

and a fourth spear met with the same fate. The welkin rang with the

applause of the beholders. "Bravo, sir white knight!" "Glory to the Red

Cross!" "Honor to the crusader!" "Death to the Paynim," accompanied the

flourish of trumpets and the shouts of heralds, which, together with the

flutter of pennons and the waving of signals from the galleries of the

ladies, showed the exciting interest of the scene. At length the

dove-crested warrior, by a skilful manoeuvre, brought himself into such

proximity as to be able with one blow to strike the helmet from the head

of his antagonist; at the same moment, however, he extended his hand and

prevented the unbonneted prince from falling prone beneath the feet of his

horse. The gallant Sancho thus compelled to yield, with knightly grace

accompanied his vanquisher to Berengaria's throne. "Thy best guerdon, my

sister, for thy brother's conqueror," said he. "Beside the arm of Richard

Plantagenet, I thought there was not another in Christendom that could

break the bars of my vizor and leave my skull unscathed. Why dost thou

hesitate?" exclaimed he, observing her embarrassment. "The daughter of

Sancho the Wise is not wont to be tardy when called upon to honor the

brave. Has the same blow that still keeps the blood dancing in the brain

of thy brother, paralyzed thy hand?" "Nay," said Berengaria, while a

brilliant blush suffused her cheeks, "but I would fain see the countenance

of the brave knight, who carries off the honors of the field from such a

competitor," and drawing the ring of Elsiebede from her finger, she

bestowed it upon the victor. Rising from his knees, the knight inclined

courteously to the squires, who with a celerity lent by curiosity, unlaced

his casque and unfastened his gorget, revealing the face of Richard

Plantagenet, beaming fair and ruddy from the bright yellow curls that

clustered round it, and eyes that sparkled in the full appreciation of the

surprise and merriment that his unexpected apparition occasioned. "Mon

cher frere," exclaimed Sancho, grasping his hand, "I am conquered by

Richard, then am I victor. Give me joy, knights, ladies, and squires." The

heralds taking up the word, sounded the tidings through the field, while

the spectators shouted, "A Richard! a Richard! Long live the gallant

Plantagenet!" The Counts of Toulouse and Champagne, assisted by their

attendants, hastened to the scene, and discovering the scarf and glove of

Berengaria resting beneath the loosened hauberk, recognized each his

conqueror, and found in that circumstance a greater balm for their wounded

pride, than all their bruises had experienced from the mollifying

appliances of leechcraft. The knights challengers thus all vanquished by

the single arm of Richard, left the field with the highest sense of

satisfaction, and the ready wit of their champion, pointed the sallies and

directed the mirth of the banquet, which followed, and continued long into

the night.

CHAPTER III.

"Beshrew your eyes,

They have o'erlooked me, and divided me;

One half of me is yours, the other half yours,

And so all yours."

In the general excitement attendant upon the discovery of Richard and the

breaking up of the tournament, Berengaria had remarked the agitation of

Elsiebede, and seized an early opportunity to learn the cause. "Where hast

thou known Count Richard?" said she in a tone of feigned indifference. "I

have never seen him till to-day," replied the attendant. "But thou didst

start and turn pale when the White Knight disclosed the features of

Plantagenet?" "Aye, because I saw my lady bring a curse upon his head." "A

curse upon him? How meanest thou, silly child?" replied the princess,

growing pale in her turn. "Pardon, my dear mistress," continued Elsiebede,

falling upon her knees, "I should have told you, the ring bestowed upon a

knight, is a fatal gift." "And why fatal?" inquired Berengaria, somewhat

relieved that she had no greater cause for disquiet. "I know not why. The

jewel of the ring has been in the possession of my mother's tribe for many

generations, and whenever man has called it his own, sorrow and distress

have followed, till this tradition has become a proverb.

"'Twill thwart his wish, and break his troth,

Betray him to his direst foe,

And drown him in the sea."

"Thou art too superstitious," said Berengaria, as her attendant recited

the malediction, with an appearance of the most profound sense of its

reality; "but to please thee, foolish child, I will regain the toy."

Berengaria secretly determined to lose no time in relieving Richard from

his dangerous possession, and accordingly lost no occasion for conversing

with the prince; but though he treated her with the most distinguished

courtesy, the term of his visit to Navarre expired before their

acquaintance had ripened into an intimacy that would warrant her venturing

upon the delicate task of reclaiming her gift. Months elapsed before

Berengaria again saw the knight who had made such an impression upon her

youthful imagination, and she began to fear that the ring had, in reality,

conducted him to his predestined sepulchre in the sea, when her brother

Sancho returning from a tour in France, brought intelligence of the most

gratifying character. "Rememberest thou, my sister," said he, "the valiant

Plantagenet, who so gallantly bore off the honors of our tournament?"

"Aye, verily," replied the princess, casting down her eyes. "He has been

wandering through Germany, challenging all true knights to chivalrous

combat, and has met with many strange adventures," continued Sancho.

"Recount them," said Berengaria, "I listen with attention." "Thou who

didst reward his valor, as red, and black, and white knight in one day,

canst well appreciate his partiality for disguises," resumed her brother:

"and it seems, that during this expedition, one had nearly cost him his

life. Passing through the dominions of the King of Almaine, he assumed the

dress of a palmer, but being discovered, was cast into prison. Ardour, the

son of the king, learning that a knight of remarkable strength and prowess

was confined in a dungeon, brought him forth and invited him to stand a

buffet. Richard accepted the challenge, and received a blow that laid him

prostrate. Recovering himself, he returned the stroke with so much force,

that he broke the cheek-bone of his antagonist, who sank to the ground and

instantly expired. The king awakened to fresh transports of fury, at the

loss of his son, gave orders that the prisoner should be closely fettered

and returned to the lowest dungeon of the castle. But the monarch had,

also, a daughter, a princess of great beauty, who became exceedingly

interested in the man that had so dexterously slain her brother. Learning

that a plan was on foot to make the bold knight the prey of a lion, she

found means to enter his cell, and acquaint him with his danger. The bold

heart of Plantagenet did not fail him in this extremity. Rewarding the

solicitude of the tender Margery with a kiss, he desired her to repair to

him in the evening, bringing forty ells of white silk, and a supper with

plenty of good beef and ale. Thus fortified in the outer and inner man, he

calmly awaited his fate. The next day, as soon as the roar of the monster

was heard, he wrapped his arm in the silk, and evading the spring of the

animal, gave it such a blow in the breast, as nearly felled it to the

ground. The lion lashing itself with its tail, and extending its dreadful

jaws, uttered a most hideous yell; but the hero suddenly darted upon the

beast, drove his arm down the throat, and grasping the heart tore it out

through the mouth, and marched with his trophy, yet quivering with life,

to the great hall of the palace, where the king with a grand company of

dukes and earls, sat at meat. Pressing the blood from the reeking heart,

Prince Richard dipped it in the salt, and offered the dainty morsel to the

company. The lords rose from the table, and declaring, that since the days

of Samson, no mortal had achieved so wonderful an exploit, dubbed him

Coeur de Lion, on the spot. The barbarian finding it impossible, longer to

detain a prisoner who seemed to enjoy the especial favor of Providence,

bestowed upon him gifts and presents, mounted him on a fleet horse, and

with great joy, saw him depart. A herald has this morning arrived, to say

that he wends his way hither; therefore, prepare, my sister, to receive

the lion-hearted prince, with a state becoming his new honors."

Berengaria needed no second bidding. She was already more interested in

the gallant Plantagenet than she dared confess, even to herself, while the

conduct of Richard, upon his arrival, intimated plainly the attraction

that had drawn him to Navarre, and the flattering attention with which

both the elder and younger Sancho treated him, promised fair speed to his

wooing. He was exceedingly fond of chess, and this game served to beguile

many hours when the weather precluded more active sports. Though a

practised, Richard was often a careless player, and his fair antagonist

gained many advantages over him, while he pertinaciously declared himself

vanquished by her beauty rather than her skill. The ready blush that

followed his compliments gave occasion for renewed expressions of

admiration, and often in the midst of triumph the victor found herself

covered with confusion. Many gages of trifling value were lost and won

between the amicable rivals, but it was not till after repeated defeats

that Richard began to suspect there was some article in his possession

that his beautiful opponent was particularly anxious to win. He playfully

proposed to stake his head against one lock of her hair, and when he lost

the game, gravely inquired whether she would accept the forfeit, with its

natural fixture, or whether like the vindictive daughter of Herodias, she

would require it to be brought in a charger, as was the head of John the

Baptist. Re-arranging the pieces before she could interpose a

remonstrance, he declared the stakes should next be his heart against her

hand. The game was terminated in his favor. Gallantly seizing her hand,

pressing his lips upon it, he protested that in all his tournaments he had

never won so fair a prize; then suddenly exclaiming, "What magic game is

this, in which a man may both lose and win?" he laid his broad palm upon

his side, and with an appearance of great concern, continued, "By the

blessed mother my heart is certainly gone; and I must hold thee

accountable for its restoration."

Making a strong effort at recovering her composure, Berengaria asserted

that she had neither lost nor won the game, since he had arranged the

pieces unfairly, and proceeded to capture her queen almost without her

knowledge, and certainly without her consent.

The sportive colloquy finally ended in a compromise, Richard agreeing that

the affair could justly be accommodated by Berengaria's staking her heart

against his hand, and she playfully avowing that a gamester so

unprincipled might expect to lose both body and soul, if he did not

commit the arrangements to one of greater probity. The keen eye of

Plantagenet soon discovered that this game possessed an interest for his

fair rival far beyond the preceding ones, and in doubt whether it arose

from her anxiety to gain his hand, or from her desire delicately to assure

him that he could never win her heart, he suffered himself to be beaten.

The result only increased his perplexity; for the princess, though

evidently elated by her success, seriously proposed to relinquish her

claim upon his hand, in consideration of the ring that glittered upon his

finger. Too much interested any longer to regard the game, Richard pushed

aside the chess-board, and fixing his eyes upon her, inquired, "Wherefore

wouldst thou the ring?"

The princess more than ever embarrassed by the seriousness of his voice

and manner, stammered forth, "The jewel is a charm." "True," said Richard,

with unaffected warmth, "Berengaria's gifts are all charms." "Nay, nay!"

said she, with uncontrollable trepidation, "I mean--I mean--it is a fatal

possession."--"Of which I am a most undoubted witness," interrupted he,

"since by its influence I have lost my head, my heart and my hand." "Have

done with this idle jesting, and listen to me," said Berengaria,

earnestly. "It will thwart thy dearest wish, and betray thee to thy direst

foe." "None but Berengaria can thwart my dearest wish," said Richard,

steadily regarding her, "and from my direst foe," he added, with a gesture

of defiance, "this good right arm is a sufficient defence." Tears shone in

Berengaria's eyes, and she added, "Why wilt thou misunderstand me? I tell

thee it will break thy troth." "Our Lady grant it," responded he, with a

shout of exultation. "Since the day I first received it, I have not ceased

to importune King Henry to cancel my engagement with Alice of France." The

baffled princess having no further resource burst into tears. "Nay, weep

not, my sweetest Berengaria," said Richard, tenderly, "the gem is indeed a

talisman, since by its aid only have I been able to discover the treasure

thou hadst so effectually concealed from my anxious search. Fear no evil

on my behalf, my poor life has double value since thou hast betrayed an

interest in my fate." He stooped to kiss the tears from her cheek, and

passing a chain with a diamond cross about her neck, left her alone to

recover her composure.

CHAPTER IV.

"Ah me! for aught that I could ever read,

Could ever hear by tale or history,

The course of true love never did run smooth."

"A long and secret engagement, replete with hope deferred, was the fate of

Richard the Lion-hearted and the fair flower of Navare." The vexatious

wars in which Eleanor of Aquitaine constantly involved her husband and

children occupied Richard in combats more dangerous than those of the

tourney. The heart of Berengaria was often agitated with fears for his

safety. She was also compelled to reject the addresses of numerous

suitors, attracted by her beauty and wealth, and she thus subjected

herself to the imputation of caprice, and the displeasure of her father,

when her thoughts were distracted by rumors that Richard was about to

consummate his marriage with Alice. An occasional troubadour who sang the

exploits of her gallant lover sometimes imparted new life to her dying

hopes, and again when a long period elapsed without tidings of any kind,

she bitterly reproached herself for permitting him to retain an amulet

which she was so well assured would change the current of his affections;

and notwithstanding the general frankness of his character, and the

unfeigned earnestness of his manner, which more than his words, had

convinced her of his truth; she was often tortured with the suspicion that

Richard had only amused himself with the artlessness of a silly girl, and

had no intention of demanding her of her father. Her only confidant in

the affair was her brother Sancho the Strong, who consoled her by

violently upbraiding her for the unjust suspicion, and resolutely

vindicating the honor of his absent friend. While the mind of Berengaria

was thus cruelly alternating between hope and fear, her sister Blanche was

wedded to Thibaut, brother of Count Henry of Champagne. On the festive

occasion Richard accompanied the bridegroom: and when Berengaria once more

read admiration and love in every glance of his speaking eyes, and

listened to his enthusiastic assurances of devotion, and above all, when

she heard his wrathful malediction against those who interposed the claims

of Alice, she wondered how she could ever have distrusted the sincerity of

his professions. But though her heart was thus reassured, the first

intelligence that she received from Champagne through the medium of

Blanche, overwhelmed her with new apprehensions. It was asserted, that an

alliance had been formed between Richard and Philip, the young King of

France, to wrest Alice from the custody of Henry, and that the two

princes, to prove that they looked upon each other as brothers, exchanged

clothing, ate at the same table, and occupied the same apartment. The

confident Sancho even, was somewhat shaken by this report; particularly as

the Gascon subjects of Richard began to prepare for war. Instigated by his

own doubts, but more especially by the mute appeals of Berengaria's

tearful eyes, Sancho made a journey to the north to prove the guilt or

innocence of his friend. At Bordeaux he learned that Richard had gone to

Poictiers. At Poictiers it was said he might be found at Tours. At Tours

the rumor was confirmed, that Richard had transferred his allegiance from

Henry to Philip, and that Henry, in consequence of his son's rebellion,

had fallen sick at Chinon, and that Richard had been summoned to that

place to attend the monarch's death-bed. Without delay, therefore, Sancho

posted forward to Chinon. As he ascended an eminence commanding a view of

the road for some distance, he saw a band of armed horsemen riding in

advance of him, and thought he discerned, in the van, the crest of Richard

Coeur de Lion. Putting spurs to his horse, he joined the rear of the

cavalcade, which proved to be the funeral procession of Henry II., led by

his erring son to the abbey of Fontevraud. The mournful tones of the bell

mingled with the clanging tread of the mail-clad nobles, as solemn and

slow they followed the prince up the long aisle of the church. The air was

heavy with the breath of burning incense, and the strong and ruddy glare

of the funeral torches, revealed with fearful distinctness the deep

furrows made by age, and care, and grief in the noble features of the

deceased monarch. The walls draped with the sable habiliments of woe,

returned the muffled tones of the organ, while drooping banners, that

canopied the bier, shook as with a boding shudder, at the approach of the

warrior train. One solitary mourner knelt beside the altar, a fair-haired

youth, whose features of classic purity, seemed to have borrowed their

aspect of repose from the dread presence before him. It was Geoffrey, the

younger son of Rosamond. The solemn chanting of the mass was hushed, and

the startled priests suppressed their very breath in awe, as heavy sobs

burst from the great heart of Coeur de Lion, and shook the steel corselet

that was belted above his breast. Geoffrey silently rose, and moving to

the head of the bier, left the place of honor to his repentant brother.

"My father!" exclaimed Richard, bending over the dead, and lifting the

palsied hand, "My father! oh canst thou not forgive?" He stopped in

speechless horror, for _blood_ oozed from the clammy lips that till now

had always responded to the call of affection.

The sensitive heart of Sancho, wrung with a kindred agony, could no longer

brook the terrible spectacle. He left the abbey, and was followed by one

and another of the crowd till the self-accusing parricide was left alone

with the body of his sire.

* * * * *

When the Prince of Navarre returned to Pampeluna, he forbore to pain his

sister's heart by a recital of the melancholy circumstances that had so

affected his own, but he carried to her an assurance that _Richard would

wed only Berengaria_, sealed with the mysterious jewel now reset as the

signet ring of the King of England. He described the splendid coronation

of his friend, the wealth of his new realm, and the enthusiastic rapture

with which his new subjects hailed his accession to the throne. He also

informed her that Richard, previous to his father's death, had taken the

cross for the Holy Land, and that all his time and thoughts were now

occupied in settling the affairs of the realm for this object; and that

the alliance with Philip, which had caused her so much anxiety, was an

engagement, not to marry Alice, but to enter with the French monarch upon

the _Third Crusade_.

The prospects of her mistress awakened all the enthusiasm of Elsiebede.

She dreamed by night and prophesied by day of long journeys on horseback

and by sea, and she interspersed her prognostications with agreeable tales

of distressed damsels carried off by unbelieving Afrites, and miraculous

escapes from shipwreck by the interposition of good Genii. But though her

tongue was thus busy, her hands were not idle. She set in motion all the

domestic springs to furnish forth the wardrobe of her mistress and herself

with suitable splendor, and amused the needle-women with such accounts of

eastern magnificence that they began to regard the rich fabrics upon which

they were employed as scarcely worthy of attention.

In the beginning of the autumn of 1190, Queen Eleanor arrived at the court

of Navarre to demand of her friend Sancho the Wise the hand of his

daughter for her son Richard. The king readily accepted the proposal, for

beside being Berengaria's lover, the gallant Plantagenet was the most

accomplished, if not the most powerful sovereign of Europe. Under the

escort of the queen dowager the royal fiancee journeyed to Naples, where

she learned to her mortification and dismay that her intended lord was not

yet released from the claims of Alice, and that the potentates assembled

for the crusade were in hourly expectation of seeing the armed forces of

Christendom embroiled in a bloody war to decide her title to the crown

matrimonial of England.

The forebodings of Elsiebede did not increase her equanimity. "It is all

the work of the fatal ring," said the superstitious maiden. "Did I not

tell thee it would thwart his dearest wish?" Berengaria could reply only

by her tears. Other circumstances made her apprehensive concerning the

fate of the expedition. The Emperor Frederic Barbarossa was among the

first of those whose grief arose to indignation at the fall of Jerusalem.

He wrote letters to Saladin demanding restitution of the city, and

threatening vengeance in the event of non-compliance. The courteous

Infidel replied, that if the Christians would give up to him Tyre, Tripoli

and Antioch, he would restore to them the piece of wood taken at the

battle of Tiberias, and permit the people of the west to visit Jerusalem

as pilgrims. The chivalry of Germany were exasperated at this haughty

reply, and the emperor, though advanced in age, with his son the Duke of

Suabia, the Dukes of Austria and Moravia, sixty-eight temporal and

spiritual lords, and innumerable hosts of crusaders, drawn out of every

class, from honorable knighthood down to meanest vassalage, set out from

Ratisbon for the East. The virtuous Barbarossa conducted the march with

prudence and humanity. Avoiding as much as possible the territories of the

timid and treacherous Greek Emperor, Isaac Angelus, he crossed the

Hellespont, passed through Asia Minor, defeated the Turks in a general

engagement at Iconium, and reached the Taurus Ridge, having accomplished

the difficult journey with more honor and dignity and success than had

fallen to the lot of any previous crusaders.

When the army approached the river Cydnus, the gallant Frederic, emulating

the example of Alexander, desired to bathe in its waters. His attendants

sought to dissuade him, declaring that the place had been marked by a

fatality from ancient times; and to give weight to their arguments,

pointed to this inscription upon an adjacent rock, "Here the greatest of

men shall perish." But the humility of the monarch prevented his listening

to their counsels. The icy coldness of the stream chilled the feeble

current in his aged veins, and the strong arms that had for so many years

buffeted the adverse waves of fortune, were now powerless to redeem him

from the eddying tide. He was drawn out by the attendants, but the spark

of life had become extinct.

The tidings of this melancholy event came to Berengaria, when her heart

was agitated by the perplexity of her own situation not only, but by the

intelligence that Richard's fleet had been wrecked off the port of Lisbon,

and that he was himself engaged in hostilities with Tancred. Coeur de Lion

was indeed justly incensed with the usurper of his sister's dominions.

Upon the first news of the fall of Jerusalem, William the Good had

prepared to join the crusade with one hundred galleys equipped and

provisioned for two years, sixty thousand measures of wine, sixty thousand

of wheat, the same number of barley, together with a table of solid gold

and a tent of silk, sufficiently capacious to accommodate two hundred

persons. Being seized with a fatal disease, he left these articles by will

to Henry II, and settling upon his beloved Joanna a princely dower,

intrusted to her the government of the island. No sooner was he deceased,

than Tancred, an illegitimate son of Roger of Apulia, seized upon the

inheritance and threw the fair widow into prison. The roar of the

advancing lion startled Tancred from his guilty security, and he lost no

time in unbarring the prison doors of his royal captive. But Richard

required complete restitution, and enforced his demands by the sword. He

seized upon Messina, but finally through the intervention of the French

king, accommodated the matter by accepting forty thousand ounces of gold,

as his father's legacy and his sister's dower. He also affianced his

nephew Arthur of Brittany, to the daughter of Tancred, the Sicilian prince

agreeing on his part to equip ten galleys and six horse transports for the

crusade. Completely reconciled to the English king, Tancred, in a moment

of confidence, showed him letters in which Philip had volunteered to

assist in hostilities against Richard. This treachery on the part of

Philip brought matters to a crisis. Seizing the evidences of perfidy,

Richard strode his way to the French camp, and with eyes sparkling with

rage, and a voice of terrible power, upbraided him with his baseness.

Philip strongly asserted his innocence, and declared the letters a

forgery, a mere trick of Richard to gain a pretext for breaking off the

affair with his sister. The other leaders interposed and shamed Philip

into acquiescence with Richard's desire to be released from his engagement

with Alice. Some days after the French king sailed for Acre.

But though the hand of the royal Plantagenet was thus free, the long

anticipated nuptials were still postponed. It was the period of the lenten

fast, when no devout Catholic is permitted to marry. Eleanor finding it

impossible longer to leave her regency in England, conducted Berengaria to

Messina, and consigned her to the care of Queen Joanna, who was also

preparing for the voyage. The English fleet, supposed lost, arrived in the

harbor of Messina about the same time, and arrangements were speedily made

for departure. As etiquette forbade the lovers sailing together, Richard

embarked his sister with her precious charge on board one of his finest

ships, in the care of the noble Stephen de Turnham, while himself led the

convoy in his favorite galley Trenc-the-mere, accompanied by twenty-four

knights, whom he had organized in honor of his betrothment, under a pledge

that they would with him scale the walls of Acre. From their badge, a

fillet of blue leather, they were called knights of the Blue Thong.

Thus with one hundred and fifty ships and fifty galleys, did the

lion-hearted Richard and his bride hoist sail for the Land of Promise,

that El Dorado of the middle ages, the Utopia of every enthusiast whether

of conquest, romance or religion.

CHAPTER V.

"The strife of fiends is on the battling clouds,

The glare of hell is in these sulphurous lightnings;

This is no earthly storm."

Trustfully and gaily as Infancy embarks upon the untried ocean of

existence, the lovers left the harbor of Messina, and moved forth with

their splendid convoy, upon the open sea. By day the galley of Berengaria

chased the flying shadows of the gallant Trenc-the-mere along the coast of

Greece, or followed in its rippling wake among the green isles of the

clustering Cyclades; by night, like sea-fowl folding their shining wings,

the vessels furled their snowy canvass, and with silver feet keeping time

to the waves, danced forward over the glassy floor of the blue

Mediterranean, like a charmed bride listening to the sound of pipe and

chalumeaux that accompanied the spontaneous verse with which the royal

troubadour wooed her willing ear.

The treacherous calm that had smiled upon the commencement of their

voyage, at length began to yield to the changeful moods of the stormy

equinox, which like a cruel sportsman, toyed with the hopes and fears of

its helpless prey. Clouds and sunshine hurried alternately across the face

of the sky. Fitful gusts of wind tossed the waves in air or plucked the

shrouds of the ships and darted away, wailing and moaning among the

waters. Then fell a calm--and then--with maddening roar the congregated

floods summoned their embattled strength to meet the mustering winds,

that, loosened from their caves, burst upon the sea with terrific power.

The females crept trembling to their couches, dizzy with pain and faint

with fear. The sickness of Berengaria increased to that state of

insensibility in which the body, palsied with agony, has only power to

assist the mind in shaping all outward circumstances into visions of

horror. She was again in the cell of the alchemist; saw lurid flames,

heard deafening explosions, with unearthly shrieks and groans proceeding

from myriads of fiends that thronged round her with ominous words and

gibing leer. She felt herself irresistibly borne on, on, with a speed ever

accelerated, and that defied all rescue, and with all there was an

appalling sense of falling, down, down, down, into interminable depths.

The fantasy sometimes changed from herself, but always to her dearer self.

Richard contending with mighty but ineffectual struggles against

inexorable Genii, was hurried through the unfathomable waters before her,

the fatal ring gleaming through all their hideous forms upon her aching

sight; and the confused din of strange sounds that whirled through her

giddy brain could never drown the endless vibrations of the whispered

words,

"'Twill thwart his wish and break his troth,

Betray him to his direst foe,

And drown him in the sea."

The capricious winds at length sounded a truce between the contending

elements. The baffled clouds, like a retiring enemy, discharging

occasional arrows from their exhausted quivers, hurried away in wild

confusion, while the triumphant sea, its vexed surface still agitated by

the tremendous conflict, murmured a sullen roar of proud defiance.

The Princess of Navarre, relieved from the thraldom of imaginary horrors,

became aware of the actual peril which the fleet had encountered. It was

in vain that the anxious attendants interposed, she persisted in being

conducted to the deck, whence with longing eyes she gazed in every

direction for the bark of her lover. Not a vessel was in sight. A wild

waste of waters mocked her anxious scrutiny. Her own galley was so far

disabled, that it was with much toiling and rowing, the mariners brought

it into Limousa, the capital of Cyprus, and no sooner had they cast

anchor, than Isaac Comnenus, the lord of the island, assailed the stranger

bark with so much violence, that they were forced to row again with all

speed into the offing. While the ship lay thus tossing at the mercy of the

waves, dismantled fragments of shattered wrecks floated by, the broken

masts and spars contending with the waters, like lost mariners struggling

for life.

While Berengaria gave way to the harrowing conviction that the

Trenc-the-mere, with its precious freight, had foundered in the storm,

Richard, whose ship had been driven into Rhodes, was collecting his

scattered fleet and scouring the sea for his lost treasure. Arrived off

Cyprus, he beheld the royal galley, and learning that it had been driven

from the harbor by the pitiless despot, he landed in great wrath, and sent

a message to Isaac, suggesting the propriety of calling his subjects from

the work of plundering the wrecks to the exercise of the rites of

hospitality.

The arrogant Cypriot answered that, "whatever goods the sea threw upon his

island, he should take without leave asked of any one." "By Jesu, Heaven's

king, they shall be bought full dear," retorted Richard, and seizing his

battle-axe, he led his crusaders to the rescue, and soon drove the

self-styled emperor, with his myrmidons, to the mountains. Without loss of

time, Richard pursued him thither, and guided by the heron of burnished

gold that gleamed from the imperial pavilion, penetrated the camp in the

darkness, made a great slaughter of the enemy, and brought away all the

treasure; Isaac again escaping with much difficulty. Two beautiful Arab

steeds, Fanuelle and Layard, fell to the lot of the conqueror.

"In the world was not their peer,

Dromedary nor destrere."

With this magnificent booty King Richard returned, and taking possession

of his enemies' capital, made signals for the entrance of the galley that

had so long kept unwilling quarantine without the port. Berengaria, almost

overcome with fatigue and fear, and fluttered with joy, was lifted on

shore by the strong arms of the conquering Coeur de Lion. As he assisted

her trembling steps towards the palace, a Cypriot of beggarly appearance

threw himself on his knees before them, and presented to their astonished

eyes the talismanic ring! Richard felt his gentle burden lean more heavily

upon his arm, and saw in her colorless face, that all her apprehensions

were reawakened. Gently whispering her words of encouragement, he turned

to the stranger, and bursting into a hearty laugh, exclaimed, "Ha! knave,

where got'st thou the bauble? Hast news of my chancellor?" The mendicant

replied, that a number of bodies had floated upon the beach, and that from

the hand of one he had drawn this ring, which he brought to the English

monarch in the hope of ransoming his wife and family, who had been taken

prisoners. Richard, rejoiced at the recovery of the valued jewel, readily

granted the request of the petitioner, adding as a bounty, a broad piece

of gold. Slipping the signet upon his finger, he turned to his fair

charge, saying, "Cheer thee, sweet-heart, thy ring has accomplished its

destiny. The poor chancellor is 'drowned in the sea,' and thou mayest

henceforth look upon it with favor, for to-day it shall _consummate_ my

'dearest wish,' since the good bishop now waits to crown thee Richard's

queen."

Relieved, that the ring, after all, boded no evil to Richard, and

reassured by his words, Berengaria yielded to the sweet emotions that

crowded upon her heart, and joyfully permitted him to conduct her into the

presence of the archbishop, who, with the knights and nobles, awaited

their coming. "And there," according to an ancient writer, "in the joyous

month of May, 1191, in the flourishing and spacious isle of Cyprus,

celebrated as the very abode of the goddess of love, did King Richard

solemnly take to wife his beloved lady Berengaria." The allied crusaders,

with the consent of the Cypriots, insisted that Richard should be crowned

King of Cyprus, and a double coronal of gems and Fleur-de-lis, was placed

upon the head of the bride, as Queen of Cyprus and of England. The

daughter of Isaac came soon after to crave the grace of the new

sovereigns, and the father, resigning his dominions, was bound in silver

chains, and presented a captive to Berengaria.

It was now early summer, and the fleet of Richard, refitted and

refreighted from the rich harbors of Cyprus, sailed once more for Acre. As

they approached the bay, they descried a large ship laden to the water's

edge, and despatched a light vessel to inquire whither she was bound, and

what was her cargo. They were answered by an interpreter, that she came

from Apulia, and was laden with provision for the French army. Perceiving

only one man, they insisted on seeing the rest of the crew. Suddenly a

multitude of Saracens appeared upon deck, and replied by a general shout

of defiance. Immediately Richard gave orders to board the stranger. The

officers of the light-armed galleys felt some hesitation in assailing the

lofty sides of the Turkish vessel. "I will crucify all my soldiers if she

escape," cried Plantagenet. His men, dreading more their sovereign's wrath

than all the arrows of the enemy, bent to the oars with all their

strength, and drove the sharp beaks of their galleys into the sides of the

foe. After a short contest the Infidels surrendered, and the English found

upon the prize great quantities of provision, barrels of Greek fire, arms,

and treasures of gold and silver, which they had hardly unloaded when the

vessel, scuttled by its despairing crew, sank like lead in the mighty

waters.

Elated by this important capture, the Christians proceeded on their way.

Just without the port of Acre they were met by a spy, who reported that

the harbor was rendered inaccessible by a vast chain of iron, which the

Saracens had stretched across the entrance. This formidable obstacle lent

new vigor to Richard's arm. Selecting the largest and strongest galley in

the fleet, he filled it with the stoutest rowers, took his station on the

bows of the vessel, ordered it to be directed against the middle of the

chain, and watching the moment of utmost tension, struck it so violently

with his battle-axe, that it gave way, and the whole fleet passed

triumphantly into the harbor.

CHAPTER VI.

SELECTED FROM THE CHRONICLE OF VINSAUF, 1191.

"On the Saturday before the festival of the blessed Apostle Barnabas, in

the Pentecost week, King Richard landed at Acre with his retinue, and the

earth was shaken by the acclamations of the exulting Christians. The

people testified their joy by shouts of welcome, and the clang of

trumpets; the day was kept as a jubilee, and universal gladness reigned

around, on account of the arrival of the king, long wished-for by all

nations. The Turks, on the other hand, were terrified and cast down by his

coming, for they perceived that all egress and return would be at an end,

in consequence of the multitude of the king's galleys. The two kings

conducted each other from the port, and paid one another the most

obsequious attention. Then King Richard retired to the tent, previously

prepared for him, and, forthwith, entered into arrangements about the

siege; for it was his most anxious care to find out by what means,

artifice, and machines they could capture the city without loss of time.

"No pen can sufficiently describe the joy of the people on the king's

arrival, nor tongue detail it. The very calmness of the night was thought

to smile upon them with a purer air; the trumpets clanged, horns sounded,

and the shrill intonations of the pipe, and the deeper notes of the

timbrel and harp, struck upon the ear; and soothing symphonies were heard,

like various voices blended in one; and there was not a man who did not,

after his own fashion, indulge in joy and praise; either singing popular

ballads to testify the gladness of his heart, or reciting the deeds of the

ancients, stimulating by their example the spirit of the moderns. Some

drank wine from costly cups, to the health of the singers; while others

mixing together, high and low, passed the night in constant dances.

"And their joy was heightened by the subjugation of the island of Cypruss,

by King Richard; a place so useful and necessary to them, and one which

would be of the utmost service to the army. As a further proof of the

exultation of their hearts, and to illume the darkness of the night, wax

torches, and flaming lights sparkled in profusion, so that night seemed to

be usurped by the brightness of the day, and the Turks thought the whole

valley was on fire."

CHAPTER VII.

"Out upon the fool! Go speak thy comforts

To spirits tame and abject as thyself;

They make me mad!"

BAILLIE.

From the port of Acre, the great plain of Esdraelon stretches east to the

Lake of Gennesareth, dividing the country into two parts. This plain has

been the Aceldama of the nations that have warred in Palestine. There the

stars in their courses fought against Sisera, there Saul and his sons fled

and fell down slain before the Philistines, there the good King Josiah was

conquered by the Egyptians, and there the Christians and Moslems with

deadly enmity contended for the sovereignty of the Holy Land. The city of

Acre was the possession of the Infidels. Around it the besiegers, gathered

out of every nation in Europe, lay in countless multitudes; splendid

pavilions, gorgeous ensigns, glittering weapons, and armorial cognizances

of every hue and form that individual fancy and national peculiarity could

suggest, studding the plain, with all the varied colors that light weaves

upon the changing texture of autumn foliage. Beyond the beleaguering

forces were encamped the sons of Islam, Turks, Tartars, Egyptians, and

Bedouins, covering mountains, valleys, hills, and plains, with white and

shining tents, while the black banner of Saladin floated above all in

proud defiance of the crimson standard of the cross. The arrival of the

English increased the camp of the crusaders, so that it stretched in a

semicircle round Acre, from sea to sea, precluding all intercourse between

the Soldan and the city, while the Pisans with their light galleys cut off

all supplies by sea.

Richard with the money he had brought from Cyprus, liberally rewarded the

valor of the soldiers and diffused new courage among the troops. The King

of England on the coast of Palestine, did not acknowledge himself the

vassal of the King of France. In the council of the chiefs he had equal,

if not greater influence, and in matters of general interest the rival

sovereigns were usually found upon opposite sides. Sybilla, wife of Guy de

Lusignan, was dead. Conrad of Montserrat, Prince of Tyre, having married

her sister Isabella, claimed the ideal crown of Jerusalem. Philip

supported the pretensions of Conrad, while Richard lent his powerful aid

to Lusignan. The Genoese and Templars sided with Philip, the Pisans and

Hospitallers with Richard. Philip strove to seduce the vassals of Richard

in right of his suzerainship, and offered three pieces of gold a month to

each of the Norman knights that would join his standard, while Richard,

more wealthy and less parsimonious, offered four pieces to such French

feudatories as would be induced to fight under the banner of England.

These factions destroyed the unanimity so essential to success, and

embarrassed every enterprise. In this posture of affairs, both monarchs

were attacked with the fever incident to the climate, and thus though the

garrison of Acre were suffering from famine, the besiegers were not in a

condition to press their advantage.

* * * * *

King Richard lay tossing upon his couch, consumed with fever and

impatience, and scarcely enduring the gentle endeavors of his beloved

queen to win him from the vexing thoughts that disturbed his repose.

"Drink, my lord," said Berengaria, presenting him a cooling draught, "and

compose thyself to rest. The leech saith that sleep is the best medicine

for these Syrian maladies."

"Talk of sleep to the steed that hears the war trump, but speak not of

rest and quiet to Richard while the banner of Islam floats in sight of the

Christian camp. But for this cursed fever I should have stood beside the

noble Alberic, and my gallant Knights of the Blue Thong on the walls of

Acre."

Berengaria repressed an involuntary shudder. "Nay then, must I thank God

for the fever, since else, we had this night to bewail not the loss of the

French count alone, but the destruction of the bulwark of Christendom."

"Thou reasonest like a woman, as thou art," said Richard, in a petulant

tone. "Thinkest thou the English curtel axe no better weapon than a

Gascon's spear?"

"My woman's reason follows the fears of my woman's heart," said the queen,

her eyes filling with tears, "and teaches me were Richard gone, both

Palestine and Berengaria would lie at the mercy of the French king."

"By my halidome thou speakest truth," said Richard, tossing uneasily upon

his side. "Therefore it chafes me to lie here inactive, lest perchance the

crafty Philip first plant his standard upon the towers of Acre."

Feeling her utter inability to select topics in which the irascible

monarch would not find causes of irritation, Berengaria summoned his

favorite Blondel with the lute. But scarcely had Richard consented to

listen to a Provencal chanson when the Earl of Salisbury entered.

"Ha! Longespee," exclaimed the monarch, "thou hast tidings from the

leaders of the christian host."

At the first entrance of Richard's warlike brother Berengaria had retired

so as to be invisible to her lord, and motioned to silence. Hastily

returning Richard's salutation, William conferred apart for a few moments

with the queen and Joanna.

"The malady increases," said she, in much agitation. "Chafe him not with

ill tidings, I do beseech thee. Already the fever burns to the verge of

madness. Life depends upon his repose."

"What whisper ye?" exclaimed Coeur de Lion, startling them by his energy.

"I tell you I will know all. Longsword, shamest thou the blood of the

Plantagenet by counselling with women and leeches? Speak, man, I command

thee."

Not daring farther to irritate the imperious invalid, the son of Rosamond

came forward and stated that the Turks, perceiving the christian army very

much dejected at the loss of Count Alberic and his scaling party, had sent

to beg a truce of eight days, promising at the same time, if the Soldan

did not send them speedy assistance, to give up the city, on condition

that all the Turks might be allowed to depart with their arms and

property. In consequence of the severe indisposition of Richard, the

chiefs had deemed it prudent not to disturb him with these matters; and

hence the King of France and the Duke of Austria had taken the

responsibility of returning a favorable answer to the proposition.

"By my father's soul," exclaimed Richard, "the son of France is more

craven than I deemed. To give up the prize when just within our grasp is

not to be thought of. Send the ambassadors to me. They shall find that

Coeur de Lion will not barter glory for a deserted city. Go," added he,

observing the hesitation of Longsword, "and venture not into my presence

again without the envoys."

"But the leech said--" interposed Berengaria. "The curse of sweet Jesus

upon the leech! Am I to be subject to nurses, dosed with physic, and

soothed with lullabys, like a muling child? Away! or my chamberlain shall

enforce thy absence," said he, darting his first angry glance at his

trembling queen.

Finding all remonstrance vain, the discomfited females yielded to his

impetuosity, only obtaining for themselves the grace of being present at

the interview. Ill as he was, the monarch was clothed in his robes of

state; and with a cheek glowing with fever and eyes sparkling with

unwonted brilliancy, was supported by cushions upon a settle, hastily

arranged to answer the purpose of a throne. Scarcely were these

preliminaries arranged, when the chamberlain ushered in Longsword with the

envoys. The swarthy Egyptian Mestoc, with his splendid caftan and white

turban, particularly attracted the admiration of the silent females, and

seemed to exercise a fascinating power upon Elsiebede, who perused his

countenance as though she discerned in it the familiar features of a

friend.

The anger which Richard had testified towards his attendants, was modified

into a haughty courtesy as he conversed with the noble Saracens. He cut

off at once all parley concerning the proposition for permitting the Turks

to leave the city without ransom, but he graciously accorded his assent to

the truce. Berengaria observed with terror that though Caracois exhibited

as lively an interest in the negotiations as the gravity of the Turks ever

allowed, Mestoc seemed more occupied in scanning the person of the

monarch, and regarded with wonder and curiosity the signet that glittered

upon his finger.

The conference was scarcely over, when Richard sank back pale and

exhausted from his recent exertion, and the leech being speedily summoned,

insisted that the king should be left alone with him for the remainder of

the night. Preparing a sleeping draught, and almost forcing it down the

throat of his refractory patient, he moved the light into the anteroom of

the tent, and giving the chamberlain strict orders not to admit any one,

upon whatever pretext, sat down to watch the effect of his remedies. After

a few uneasy tossings and muttered ejaculations of vexation and disquiet,

the monarch sank into a heavy slumber, broken only by occasional

imprecations against the Infidels, whom he battled in sleep with an

animosity that would have done credit to his waking vengeance.

As the twilight deepened into darkness, the coolness of the Syrian evening

shed the grateful dew of slumber upon the weary eyelids of those who had

answered the constant demands of the royal invalid, and brought the happy

oblivion of rest to those who had engaged in the more warlike duties of

the arblast and mangonel. The sounds of life gradually decreased, and a

profound silence reigned throughout the christian camp uninterrupted, save

by the tread of the patrol who took his weary round upon the outposts,

like the sentinel of a beleaguered city.

* * * * *

In her protracted efforts to quiet the sobbing queen, Elsiebede learned a

curious and inexplicable fact, namely, that a greater draft is made upon

the patience and energy of the nurse by the over-excited feelings of the

sensitive wife, than by the real wants of the sick man himself. Thus the

leech had long been dozing upon his watch, ere the anxious Moorish girl

had found it possible to leave the bedside of her mistress. At length the

incessant calls upon her sympathy subsided into sighs which gradually

relaxed into the regular breathing of healthy slumber, and the impatient

attendant stealing noiselessly from the apartment sought among the

attendants for the wily Salaman.

"Awake, Salaman," she whispered, softly. The black instantly arose,

without salutation or remark, and stood before her rolling his eyes in

perfect self-possession, as though to repel the suspicion that a person of

his active vigilance could have been detected in the weakness of slumber.

Laying her finger upon her lip, Elsiebede led the way among sleeping

guards to the little enclosure in front of the tent. "Bring me," said she,

"the signet-ring from the hand of the king." Salaman, who had long labored

under the hallucination that no feat could be beyond his ability, looked

absolutely sober at this unheard-of proposition, ejaculating, "It is to

put my head into the lion's mouth!" but instantly recovering his

self-complacency, he added, "Nothing can be easier. Remain here till I

come." Skilfully avoiding the tent ropes, he wormed himself under the

folds of the pavilion into the outer apartment, where the chamberlain and

guard were snoring in melodious concert, and carefully lifting the curtain

entered the royal presence. But through the darkness that reigned, he

could not readily discern the precise location of the monarch's couch.

Creeping stealthily over the floor, he first laid his hand upon the foot

of the physician, which with an instinctive kick warned him of his

dangerous vicinity. Finally, as his eyes became accustomed to the

darkness, he discovered the sparkle of the jewel upon the hand of the

monarch, hanging over the side of the bed. To withdraw the ring from the

somewhat attenuated finger was the work of a moment, but the touch,

however slight, was sufficient to disturb the slumbering lion. "Ha! the

foul fiend!" ejaculated the dreamer, clutching the woolly hair of the

negro. "The talisman is safe--cheer--thee--Berengaria--" Inarticulate

sounds followed, which finally died away in silence; when Salaman, with

practised caution, extricated his head from the lion's paw, and effected

his retreat by the same stealthy and tedious process. Elsiebede awaited

his coming with torturing impatience. Grasping the ring, she muffled her

face in the veil usually worn by eastern females, and bidding him follow

her took her way towards the city. The moon, just dipping its silver rim

in the Mediterranean with its parting beam, threw the lengthened shadow of

the patrol full across their way. Cowering behind the awning of a tent

they paused breathless and terrified, while the sentinel, turning his face

towards Jerusalem, shouted above their heads in a tone rendered clear and

startling by the stillness of the midnight, "Help! Help! Help for the Holy

Sepulchre!" The adjacent sentinel took up the cry, repeating the words to

his neighbor, who passed the watchword on, till "Help! Help! Help for the

Holy Sepulchre!" echoed in all the languages of Europe, smote upon the ear

of every sleeper in the christian camp. When the sounds died away in the

distance, the patrol continued his round. The terror of Elsiebede afforded

infinite amusement to Salaman, whose irrepressible laughter added to her

fears of being discovered, and increased her trepidation.

After this adventure they pursued their course with renewed speed, and

arrived without molestation at the outpost, where the guard challenged

their advance. Elsiebede presented the monarch's signet saying, "Delay

not our errand," and the guard muttering, "There is ever some woman's

prank in the light head of the queen," suffered them to pass. As they took

their solitary way between the camp and the walls of Acre, Salaman

ventured to inquire, "Whither goest thou, Elsiebede?"

"I scarce know," replied the girl, in a husky voice, "but this evening

there came before King Richard, one who looked upon me with my mother's

eyes; and as he left the pavilion, he whispered me in the language of the

Gyptianos, 'Meet me when the moon sets, at the tower of Maledictum.'"

"This way lieth the tower," said Salaman, drawing her to the right. They

now approached the black and frowning walls of Acre, and turning an angle

came close upon a small party of Turks sleeping upon the earth, and were

challenged in the Moorish tongue. Salaman readily answered in the same

language. Mestoc immediately advanced, and taking the hand of Elsiebede

led her apart, and a long and earnest conversation ensued.

When she returned to Salaman, tears were on her cheek, and hiding her face

in her veil, with no other explanation than, "He is the brother of my

mother," she led the way back to the royal tent. "Haste thee," said she,

thrusting the ring into his hand. "Should the prince awake, we are lost."

Salaman sped on his errand, and repeated his perilous adventure with

success. Not daring, however, to place the ring upon the monarch's finger,

he laid it upon the covering near his hand, and effected a retreat, as far

as the anteroom, where he unluckily stumbled against the settle on which

rested the guard. The chamberlain instantly started to his feet, and

Salaman quick as thought overturned the light, and escaped into the

sleeping apartment of the common attendants, but here his progress was

arrested by a half-awakened soldier, who seized his ankle and held him

fast. Hither as soon as the lamp could be relighted, he was pursued by the

chamberlain, but such was the confusion, betwixt the muttering of those

unwilling to be disturbed, and the blunders of those who fancied

themselves broad awake, such was the cursing of devil, Turk and Infidel,

that no one had the faintest idea of what had happened. Scarcely had the

chamberlain fixed his eyes upon the real culprit, when with the angry and

important air of a responsible person, most unceremoniously wakened,

Elsiebede entered, and advancing straight to Salaman, seized and began to

shake him with the greatest violence, thus freeing him from the grasp of

the guard. "Waken, minion," said she, "waken, I say. What gambols art thou

playing again in thy sleep? I warrant me, thou hast an unquiet conscience.

My lady will send thee from her service, if thou dost not confess thy

sins, and rest in peace." The black rubbed his eyes, and stumbling about

like one but half awake, succeeded in gaining his pallet, and joyfully

ensconced himself beneath the covering.

"Thou seest," said Elsiebede, turning to the chamberlain, "the knave hath

a trick of sleep-walking. Order these that they may remain quiet, for I

would not that my mistress should be disturbed." Thus saying, she quitted

the apartment.

"A trick of walking, he certainly hath," grumbled the chamberlain, "but

whether sleeping or waking, misdoubts me. The misshapen unbeliever can

bring no good to a christian household."

In the royal tent, there was still greater clamor. The monarch roused by

the first unlucky step of Salaman, and finding himself in darkness,

vociferated loudly for a light; but gaining no answer waxed wroth, and

seizing the medicine cup as the readiest missile, hurled it in the

direction of the snoring physician. The silver coming in contact with the

skull of the doctor, animated him to a remarkable degree; betwixt the

darkness and the pain, he plunged about the room without knowing for what

intent, till he fell prostrate across the couch of the king, who mistaking

him for an invading Turk, beat him terribly with the pillows; and roaring

for sword, spear and battle-axe, in the name of all the saints in the

calendar, defied him to mortal combat.

At this juncture the chamberlain returned with the light, and seeing the

king thus inflicting summary justice upon the leech, despite his own

vexation burst into a hearty laugh, in which Richard, having already

expended the superabundance of his choler, as soon as he comprehended the

state of the case, joined with the greatest glee. The doctor meanwhile

failed to see the point of the joke, and rubbing his head, declared with

professional authority that nothing could be worse for the patient than

such immoderate exercise and laughter. Picking up the cup, with a rueful

countenance he mixed a fresh potion, which the facetious monarch drank to

his health, and so composed himself again to rest.

Coeur de Lion received his ring when it was found upon the floor, without

any sign of surprise, and readily accounted for its loss, saying, "Our

royal signet is scarcely safe upon this emaciated hand, especially since

we are liable to do battle for Christendom without gauntlet or sword." The

castigation which he had given the doctor put him in such high good humor,

that he swallowed the necessary nostrums with great facility, and the

worthy leech fully appreciating this part of the joke availed himself of

the king's unwonted condescension, to administer those nauseous

restoratives which the monarch had before obstinately refused.

CHAPTER VIII.

"Ah, never shall the land forget

How gushed the life-blood of the brave,

Gushed warm with hope and courage yet

Upon the soil they fought to save."

BRYANT.

The eight days' truce was over, and Philip, recovered from his illness,

again led the assault to the walls of Acre. Richard, also slowly

convalescing, was borne to the scene of conflict, where he directed the

operations of his warlike engines, offering a reward for every stone the

soldiers dislodged from the tower Maledictum. The French had a machine of

great power which they called "Bad neighbor," and the Turks, on their

side, opposed to it a similar one named "Bad brother." These engines were

plied day and night, and the tower became the scene of every variety of

fierce attack and resolute defence, both by single combat and united

effort. One morning a gigantic Turk, wearing the armor of Count Alberic,

showed himself upon the wall in an attitude of defiance, when Richard, who

had yielded to the representations of the chiefs, so far as to refrain

from personal encounter, seized an arblast and sent an arrow winged with

death to the heart of the Infidel. The exasperated Turks ran together to

avenge his fall. The Christians met them with equal alacrity, and a

slaughter ensued which continued till the darkness of night separated the

combatants.

The Christians had commenced undermining the tower, and had proceeded to

some distance under the wall, when they encountered a party of Turks who

were mining for egress in the opposite direction. The noise of the digging

and the uncertain light had prevented each from discovering the other,

till the earth, suddenly giving way between them, the foes stood face to

face, mattocks and shovels in hand. But when the astonished Turks saw that

they had thus assisted the Christians to enter the city, they fled with

great precipitation, and at once closed up the entrance. That night a part

of the tower Maledictum fell, and the Saracens perceiving that all further

resistance would be vain, offered conditions of peace. They agreed to give

up the city of Acre with all the treasures contained in it, both in money,

arms, and clothing, to pay over two hundred thousand Saracenic talents,

and restore the true cross which had been taken by the Moslems in the

battle of Tiberias. After much debate the council of chiefs acceded to

these proposals, and all the Paynim noblemen in the city were given up as

hostages till the conditions should be fulfilled. The preliminaries

arranged, the gates were thrown open, and the Turks with grave but

cheerful countenance and undaunted demeanor passed out of the city through

the Christian camp towards Tiberias.

SELECTED FROM VINESAUF.

"At last when all the Turks had departed, the Christians with the two

kings at their head, entered the city without opposition through the open

gates with dances and joy, and loud vociferations, glorifying God, and

giving Him thanks, because he had magnified His mercy to them, and had

visited them and redeemed His people. Then the banners and various

standards of the two kings were raised on the walls and towers, and the

city was equally divided between them. They also made a proportionate

division of the arms and provisions they found; and the whole number of

captives being reckoned, was divided by lot. The noble Caracois, and a

large number fell to the lot of the King of France; and King Richard had

for his portion Mestoc and the remainder. Moreover, the King of France had

for his share the noble palace of the Templars, with all its

appurtenances; and King Richard had the royal palace, to which he sent the

queens with their damsels and handmaids; thus each obtained his portion in

peace. The army was distributed through the city, and after the

protracted contest of so long a siege, gave themselves indulgence, and

refreshed themselves with the rest they needed."

* * * * *

No sooner were the Crusaders settled in the city than new troubles arose.

Leopold, Duke of Austria, being a relative of Isaac Comnenus, who had

joined the Templars, insisted that the Cypriot lady should be transferred

to his custody; but Berengaria having become tenderly attached to her,

refused to give her up. The quarrel ran high, and the exasperated Richard,

in a moment of wrath, tore down the banner of Austria from the walls of

Acre. This indignity gave rise to a mortal enmity, which hindered the arms

and embarrassed the counsels of the croises during the whole campaign. The

Christians, however, repaired the shattered walls and dwellings of the

city, the clergy rebuilt and consecrated the altars, and the army watching

for the fulfilment of Saladin's promises, rested from their fatigues in

the enjoyment of security and luxury. Before the expiration of the period

granted for the redemption of the hostages, Philip Augustus, feigning

illness, but in reality suffering with a consuming jealousy of the

superiority of his rival, declared his intention of returning to Europe.

The chiefs assembled in council protested against this unworthy desertion

of the common cause, since Saladin, depressed by the fall of Acre, was in

no situation to contest their route to Jerusalem. When Richard heard of

Philip's determination, he outdid himself in the curses and maledictions

he called down upon the recreant prince, and peremptorily refused to hold

any communication upon the subject: but at last having expended the

violence of his anger, he compromised by giving his consent to the measure

on condition that the Duke of Burgundy and a large part of the French

should remain in Syria, and that Philip should make oath to leave the

realm of England unmolested, till forty days after Richard should himself

return to his dominions. The French monarch then left Acre amidst the

hisses and imprecations of the spectators. He stopped at Tyre, and

resigning to Conrad his claim upon the conquered city, and the ransom of

the Turkish captives, sailed for Europe. The term fixed for the redemption

of the hostages had well nigh expired, and still Saladin protested his

inability to find the true cross, and under different pretexts excused

himself from redeeming the prisoners.

The palace of the Emir in Acre, with its sheltered verandahs, cooling

fountains, and richly cultivated gardens afforded a delightful residence

for the household of Coeur de Lion. Elsiebede, in whom it revived the

recollections of her childhood in the Alhambra, revelled in luxuries, each

of which was endeared by happy associations.

A safe retreat being thus provided for his tender charge, Richard,

intending as soon as practicable to commence his route to Jerusalem,

ordered the petrarias, mangonels, and other warlike engines to be packed

for transportation. He also despatched messengers to Conrad, Prince of

Tyre, requiring him to repair with his hostages and army to Acre, to

receive his share of the ransom, and to be ready to march against the

Infidels. The marquis refused; declaring that he dared not venture into

Richard's presence, and that if the true cross were ever recovered, he was

to receive half of it for the King of France, and until that time he

should not give up the hostages.

A longer period having elapsed than that which had been assigned for the

treaty, the council of chiefs was called to deliberate upon the fate of

the captives. To leave three thousand prisoners without a sufficient

guard, would be to surrender the city again to the Turks. To attempt to

convey them with the army would be an inconceivable burden, attended with

infinite danger. To provision such a multitude, whether in the city or

camp, would be an intolerable tax upon the rapidly exhausting finances;

and to set them free would be to add that number of active warriors to the

ranks of their vigilant foe, and so to defeat the very end of the

expedition. It was therefore determined that the hostages, on the

following day, should be led forth upon an adjacent hill, and executed for

the discomfiture of the Mohammedans, and the edification of all true

Christians.

The noble Mestoc, considered as one of the most important and valuable of

the hostages, received distinguishing marks of favor. He was lodged

according to his rank, and enjoyed a freedom beyond that extended to the

other prisoners, and thus Elsiebede obtained frequent interviews without

giving rise to a suspicion of the relationship between them.

On the evening of the council of the chiefs, Salaman had managed, by means

best known to himself, to hear all that passed, which he faithfully

reported to Elsiebede.

The following night, as Mestoc was quietly reposing unconscious of the

fate that menaced the Turkish prisoners, he was surprised by a visit from

his niece, who, informing him of the purposes of the Christians, besought

him to make his escape in a disguise she had prepared for the purpose.

The noble Egyptian refused, but moved by her pleadings, said to her,

"Hadst thou a messenger by whom I might transmit a token to the

Soldan--but no, the gray of night already foretelleth the dawn. It is too

late. Had the Soldan valued the poor services of his servant, he had not

left him to die by the hand of a christian dog. Allah be praised, Death is

the key that opens the gate of Paradise."

Finding further importunity vain, Elsiebede with many tears took her

departure, revolving in her mind other methods of procuring a release.

At early morning, the prisoners were conducted in mournful procession

through the gates of the city, by a great multitude of the most devout and

warlike Christians, who, according to a contemporary writer, "marched

forward with delight to retaliate with the assent of Divine Grace, by

taking revenge upon those who had destroyed so many of the Christians with

missiles, bows, and arbalests."

A report from an unknown source was in circulation among the soldiers,

that fresh promises of ransom had been received from Saladin, and that if

the execution could be delayed till evening, messengers would arrive with

the treasure. By this artifice the chief emirs were preserved till long

past noon. But no sign of rescue then appearing, those who looked for the

downfall of Mohammedanism by the utter annihilation of its followers,

caused the work of vengeance to proceed.

The calm indifference with which the Turks regarded the terrific

preparations for their execution, elicited even the admiration of the

Christians. It was not in the heart of a chivalrous knight like Richard,

to look unmoved upon the destruction of his brave and gallant foes. "By

the holy saints," exclaimed he, "this is a hangman's work. It were enough

to tempt the sword of a Christian knight from its scabbard, to see yon

lion-hearted warriors slaughtered like a parcel of silly sheep held in the

butcher's shambles. Wore they but the cross upon their shoulders, I would

sooner reckon them among my followers than the stupid boors of Austria or

the tilting squires of France. Longsword, summon our good bishop of

Salisbury, with the symbols of our holy religion. Peradventure, Divine

Grace may turn the hearts of these brave men to the acknowledgment of the

true faith."

In obedience to the order of the king, the bishop came forward, and

holding up the cross, proclaimed life and liberty to all those who would

renounce their heathen superstitions, and reverence the holy symbol. Not a

voice replied to the offer of pardon, and as the priest, followed by the

executioner, like the destroying angel of the passover, moved among the

ranks of the doomed and presented the crucifix, each man answering, "God

is God and Mahomet is his prophet," bent his head to the fatal stroke,

till of the whole number the noble Mestoc alone remained. King Richard

regarded him with a troubled look, as the priest approached, and

involuntarily raised his hand to stay the blow. The executioner paused;

and the soldiers gazing in silent wonder, turned their eyes doubtfully

from their sovereign to his captive, who stood unmoved among the headless

bodies of the heroic band, that had with him defended the city to the

last extremity, and that now lay stretched around him, the bleeding

holocaust upon the altar of a strange faith.

The death-like silence that prevailed was broken by the faint sound of a

trumpet, and at a distance was seen the flutter of a truce flag borne by a

herald riding at full speed. The messenger advanced to the field of blood,

hastened to the royal presence and presented a letter. The king cutting

the silk with his sword, rapidly ran his eye over the contents, and then

advancing, frankly extended his hand to the rescued Mestoc, saying, "Thy

Soldan has at length fulfilled the conditions of thy ransom. I grieve that

he so little valued the lives of thy brave companions. His tardy measures

forced me upon an evil work. Heaven grant that one day I may, upon his own

person, be able to avenge their death." Then, ordering the squires to

prepare the Cypriot horses, he held the stirrup while the gallant Emir,

with the same grave and tranquil air, that had characterized him through

the whole of that eventful day, mounted Lyard, and himself vaulting upon

the saddle of the beautiful Fanuelle, led the way to the palace.

EXTRACT FROM VINESAUF.

"On the morrow, therefore, of St. Bartholomew, being Sunday, the army was

drawn up, early in the morning, to advance along the sea-coast, in the

name of the Lord. Oh! what fine soldiers they were! You might there see a

chosen company of virtuous and brave youth, whose equals it would have

been difficult to meet with, bright armor and pennons, with their

glittering emblazoning; banners of various forms; lances with gleaming

points; shining helmets, and coats of mail; an army well regulated in the

camp, and terrible to the foe! King Richard commanded the van, and kept

the foremost guard. The Normans and English defended the standard, the

Duke of Burgundy and the French brought up the rear, and by their tardy

movements and long delay incurred severe loss. The army marched from the

seashore, which was on its right, and the Turks watched its movements from

the heights on its left. On a sudden the clouds grew dark, the sky was

troubled, when the army arrived at the narrow roads impassable for the

provision wagons; here, owing to the narrowness of the way, the order of

march was thrown into confusion, and they advanced in extended line, and

without discipline. The Saracens, observing this, poured down suddenly

upon the pack-horses and loaded wagons, slew both horses and men in a

moment, and plundered a great deal of the baggage, boldly charging and

dispersing those who opposed them, as far as the seashore. Then there took

place a fierce and obstinate conflict; each fought for his life. Oh, how

dreadfully were our men then pressed! for the darts and arrows thrown at

them broke the heads, arms and other limbs, of our horsemen, so that they

bent, stunned to their saddle-bows; but having quickly regained their

spirits, and resumed their strength, and thirsting for vengeance, like a

lioness when her whelps are stolen, they charged the enemy and broke

through them like a net. Then you might have seen the horses with their

saddles displaced, the Turks fleeing and returning, and the battle raging

fiercer than before; the one side labored to crush, the other to repel;

both exerted their strength with the utmost fury, till King Richard

hearing that the rear was put into great confusion, rode at full gallop to

their assistance, cutting down the Turks right and left like lightning

with his sword. And quickly, as of yore the Philistines fled from

Maccabeus, so were the Turks now routed, and so did they fly from the face

of King Richard and make for the mountains; but some of them remained

amongst us, having lost their heads."

This extract is a fac-simile of all the chances and changes that occurred

to the Christians on their passage from Acre to Jaffa.

CHAPTER IX.

"He that hath nature in him, must be grateful;

'Tis the Creator's primary great law,

That links the chain of beings to each other."

At Jaffa a new contention arose. The French barons, fatigued with marching

and fruitless skirmishing, advocated the policy of remaining a time in the

city and rebuilding its fortifications; while Plantagenet, anxious to

press his advantage, was desirous of proceeding to Ascalon. The soldiers

remembering with regret the "loaves and fishes" of Acre, inclined to the

counsel of the Duke of Burgundy, and Richard was forced to submit his

better judgment to the unanimous voice of his followers.

It was in vain that the king urged the soldiers to a rapid completion of

the works. The summer faded into autumn, and the fortifications were still

incomplete. The Moslems began to collect in the vicinity of Jaffa, and all

parties of Christians, whether of foraging or falconry, were subject to

frequent surprise and attack. On one occasion, a party of Templars fell

into an ambuscade of the Turks, and Richard, hearing of their danger,

rushed out with a few troops to their assistance. The conflict was

dreadful. Hordes of Infidels fell upon the little band, who, struggling in

the midst of their foes, with great loss carved their way to the city. On

their return, William Longsword remonstrated with the monarch for this

useless exposure of life, to which the generous Coeur de Lion, changing

color with indignation, replied, "Richard Plantagenet knows not the

prudence that weighs safety against glory, and for the rest it is the

office of a king to defend his subjects, and the business of a crusader to

destroy the enemies of the cross."

The defences of Jaffa being complete, Richard prepared to prosecute the

war with vigor. Leaving the city with a small garrison, he led his troops

as far as Ramula, and made their camp on the bloody field where Stephen,

Earl of Blois, received his mortal wound. A winter of extraordinary

inclemency aggravated their hardships. The winds tore up the tents, and

the rain spoiled the provisions, and rusted the arms. Through the hovering

myriads of Saracens the Christians pressed their way almost in sight of

Jerusalem. Richard was animated by the most ardent expectation. But the

Templars, Hospitallers and Pisans, represented the impossibility of

capturing the city, with their army in its present condition, the

impracticability of garrisoning it against the Turks in the neighborhood,

and the certainty that the soldiers as soon as the sepulchre was

recovered, would return to Europe, leaving the rest of Palestine in the

hands of the Infidels. Influenced by these unanswerable arguments, the

disappointed king gave orders to fall back upon Ramula, and continued to

retrograde with his murmuring and discontented army to Ascalon, a city of

great consequence, being the link between the Turks in Jerusalem, and the

Turks in Egypt. The pains and perils of this backward march eclipsed all

former sufferings, and when the dismantled walls of Ascalon at length

received them, Famine stared upon them with her hollow eyes, and Faction

with its sharpened fangs tore asunder the remaining cords that bound

together the wasted body of the croises. The Duke of Burgundy deserted the

standard of Richard, part of the French soldiers retired to Jaffa, others

to Acre, and others to Tyre; and while the proudest nobles and the most

dignified of the clergy were employed like the meanest vassals, in

repairing the ruined fortifications, Leopold wrapped in haughty

selfishness surveyed the works with contemptuous sneers, and remarked,

"The father of Austria was neither a carpenter nor a mason."

The Turkish Soldan aware of the distress of his enemies, considered the

war as nearly at an end, and dismissed a portion of his troops. He even

extended the courtesies of civilized life to the valiant Richard,

furnished his table with Damascene pears, peaches, and other delicacies,

and with a liberal hand supplied the snow of Lebanon to cool his wines.

The chief emirs who, attracted by curiosity or admiration, visited the

court of the British Lion, returned with the most exaggerated accounts of

the urbanity and prowess of the gallant "Melech Ric."

One morning, at an hour somewhat earlier than his usual levee, Richard was

surprised by a visit from Mestoc, accompanied by a female closely veiled.

"Welcome, my noble Moor," exclaimed the king, as the Saracen advanced and

bowed with the ceremonious obeisance of eastern courtesy. "Heaven bless

the chance that hath brought thee hither. Next to a trusty friend,

Plantagenet holds in honor a worthy foe."

The Saracen gravely replied, "The Melech Ric wrongs the errand of his

servant, if he discern not in his ransomed captive, one whom he hath made

his friend."

"I doubt not the truth of thy saying," replied the king, "since reason and

experience teach that ingratitude is incompatible with true courage."

"The chief of the Egyptians is, indeed, thy friend," continued Mestoc;

"but were he twice thy foe, he brings a passport to the heart of the king,

for 'from the place of the beloved, a zephyr hath blown, and thou seest

one whose presence is as the breath of the heliotrope.'" Turning to his

companion, he lifted her veil, and disclosed the features of Elsiebede.

"Elsiebede!" exclaimed the monarch, in astonishment and alarm. "What of my

queen? of Joanna? of England?"

"My royal mistress is in health," replied Elsiebede, "and by this token,"

handing him a casket, "commendeth her love to her absent lord: and peace

resteth upon the household."

"And wherefore comest thou hither? and why under such convoy?" inquired

Richard.

"The errand of my mistress required a faithful messenger; and the chief

will explain the mystery of my coming," replied the girl.

With a puzzled look, Richard turned to Mestoc. "It is, perhaps, unknown

to the prince of the west," said the chieftain, "that this damsel,

Elsiebede, is the daughter of my sister."

"How?" exclaimed Richard, gazing with astonishment upon the Moorish girl.

"Our fair queen has long blinded our eyes to other beauty, or we should

have seen what the most careless observer could not fail to note, that she

has the countenance and bearing of a princess."

"The family of the Prophet (blessed be he)," said Mestoc, his swarthy

cheek reddening with a touch of pride, "boasts not a more noble origin,

than the Gyptianos slave of the Frankish queen."

"But by what means hath she discovered herself to thee in this strange

land?" inquired Richard.

"What saith the proverb?" replied the Saracen. "'The heart thrills at the

sound of the kinsman's voice.' When the Melech Ric gave audience to the

ambassadors of Saladin, the ring upon his finger, once the talisman of our

tribe, arrested my gaze; but the maiden's eyes, brighter than the jewel,

moved me to speak to her in the Egyptian tongue. She comprehended my

words, and met me that night at the tower Maledictum, where I learned her

history and made her acquainted with her kindred. She visited me in

prison, and when I refused to fly, despatched Salaman to the Sultan to beg

my life. For the rest, thou knowest that I thank the brave leader of the

Franks no less than the timely ransom for my rescue. Before leaving the

camp of the Latins I gave the zealous Ethiope a passport, commanding all

true Mussulmans to bring him wherever found, safe to my presence. When,

therefore, thy queen, distressed by the enemies in thine own household,

sought for means to communicate with thee, Salaman conducted Elsiebede to

my tent; and I have hasted to convey her to my deliverer. For what saith

the proverb? 'In the sky it is written, on the pages of the air, he who

doeth kind actions will experience the like.' Notwithstanding, let the

damsel, I pray thee, depart with me; in the tent of my women she shall

have careful attendance. If thou wouldst confer with her, the cunning

Ysop knows her place of rest." Richard assented, and the Saracens

withdrew.

The letters from the queen contained intelligence of the most startling

character. The Genoese and Pisans, rivals for the carrying trade of the

East, had made Acre their seaport, and to give dignity to their commercial

animosities had espoused, the one the party of Conrad, the other that of

Guy de Lusignan. Their feuds had kept the residents of the city in a

constant state of apprehension, and Berengaria entreated her lord to

return to Acre, or to cause her immediately to be transported to Jaffa. In

the same package were despatches from England, of a nature equally

alarming. No sooner had Philip reached Italy than he applied to Pope

Celestine for a dispensation from his oath to leave Richard's domains in

quiet. When that request was denied, he proceeded in a covert manner to

detach Prince John from his allegiance, promised him Alice in marriage,

and offered to make him lord of all Richard's possessions in France. The

prompt measures of Queen Eleanor had in some degree counteracted this

design. Forbidding John, under the penalty of a mother's curse, to invade

his brother's rights, she conveyed the hapless Alice to the strong castle

of Rouen, where she subjected her to an imprisonment more rigorous than

she had herself suffered in Winchester. The principal barons had leagued

with John, or against him, and the whole realm was in a state of ferment.

The political troubles of England, the treachery of the French king, the

solicitude of his beautiful queen, and the dubious prospects of the

crusade, raised a tumult of agitating thoughts in the mind of the king,

and he passed the night in a state of sleepless excitement. Scarcely

waiting for the dawn, he summoned Salaman and despatched him for Mestoc.

Impelled by the pressing exigencies of the case, he intrusted the generous

foe with a knowledge of the embarrassments of his position, and entreated

his good offices in bringing about an accommodation with Saladin,

stipulating only for the possession of Jerusalem and the restoration of

the true cross. The Saracen undertook the commission, and after three days

returned with the answer. With the stateliness of eastern formality the

Mussulman declared his strong desire of peace, and his admiration of the

courage and abilities of Plantagenet; but he asserted that he could never

resign Jerusalem, since the sacred city was as dear to the Moslem as the

Christian world, and that the principles of his religion forbade his

conniving at idolatry by permitting the worship of a piece of wood.

Thwarted in this negotiation, Richard again employed Mestoc to propose a

consolidation of the Christian and Mohammedan interests by the

establishment of a government at Jerusalem, partly European and partly

Asiatic, which should secure to the pilgrims free access to the Holy

Sepulchre, and feudal rights to all Christians who should choose to settle

in Palestine. Mestoc returned from this embassy accompanied by a young

Emir named Saphadin, a brother of the Turkish emperor. The overture of

Coeur de Lion had been favorably received by the sagacious Saladin, but

foreseeing that a stronger bond than a political alliance would be

necessary to bind the two nations together, he had added to the articles

the proposition of a union between his brother and the fair sister of

Melech Ric. Saphadin was also commissioned to conduct the English king and

his followers in safety to Acre.

CHAPTER X.

"A pen--to register; a key,--

That winds through secret wards;

Are well assigned to Memory,

By allegoric bards."

When Richard arrived at Acre, he found affairs in the greatest confusion.

The dissensions between the rival parties had terminated in open

hostilities, more pressing messages urging his return had arrived from

England, and he was forced to the conclusion that without some concession

on his part, the whole crusade would prove an entire failure. The military

abilities of Guy, were inferior to those of Conrad. Richard thus found it

easy to satisfy his claim by bestowing upon him the rich and beautiful

island of Cyprus, while he conciliated the Genoese, by consenting to the

coronation of the Marquis of Tyre.

Matters being thus accommodated between the jealous mercenaries, the mind

of the king recurred to the original project of identifying the interests

of the east and west, by uniting the heir of the thousand tribes, with the

daughter of Henry Plantagenet. But Joanna, less susceptible of romantic

enthusiasm than her mother, steadfastly rejected the offer of her Paynim

lover, and the bishop of Salisbury, with other zealous priests sustained

her decision, and Coeur de Lion overborne by their clamor, was forced to

relinquish his cherished project. As some slight compensation to the

disappointed Saphadin, he conferred upon him the honor of knighthood, and

dismissed him with the strongest expressions of favor. Coeur de Lion then

despatched a band of nobles to bring Conrad, the newly elected king, with

all due honor to Acre.

Delighted with his splendid prospects, Conrad ordered magnificent

preparations to be made for the ceremony of coronation, and gave himself

up to the most extravagant joy. But returning one day from an

entertainment given by the bishop, he was suddenly seized and stabbed by

two assassins, followers of the Old Man of the Mountain.

His sudden death threw affairs again into confusion. The French who were

encamped outside of Tyre, to the number of ten thousand, called upon the

widow to give up the city for the service of King Philip. This she

steadily refused to do; declaring that her lord had commanded her with his

dying breath to resign it to no one but Richard, or whosoever should be

elected King of Palestine. The French at once commenced hostilities, and

the siege of the city had been some time in progress, when Count Henry of

Champagne arrived in the camp. He was one of the most powerful vassals of

the King of France; his mother was the half-sister both of Richard and

Philip; his father had twice visited the Holy Land, and he was himself

faithful to the interest of the crusade, and a general favorite among the

warriors. The French leaders besought him to accept the crown of the

kingdom, marry the widow of the marquis, and heal the dissensions that

embarrassed the movements of the croises. Richard's consent to this

measure was easily obtained. The nuptials were solemnized with royal

magnificence, and the new king immediately published an edict, calling

upon all his subjects to arm for the ensuing campaign, and join the

English forces at Acre. Before they were ready to set out for the final

conquest of the Holy City, fresh accounts were received from England of

the increasing power of Prince John, and the treachery of Philip Augustus,

but Richard disregarding these pressing calls, determined to strike one

more blow for the Holy Sepulchre. Hymns and thanksgiving testified the

popular joy, and so sanguine were the soldiers of the speedy

accomplishment of their wishes, that they carried with them only a month's

provisions. When they reached Bethlehem, the heats of summer had already

commenced, and Richard began to feel that his force was not sufficient to

encounter the hardships of the siege, and keep up communication with the

stores upon the coast. It was therefore agreed that a council should be

held, consisting of twenty persons; five Templars, five Hospitallers, five

French nobles, and five native Christians of Syria, to decide upon the

measures to be adopted. They ascertained that the Turks had destroyed all

the cisterns within two miles of the city, that the waters of Siloa would

be insufficient for the use of the army, and as the siege was therefore

utterly impracticable, they gave it as their unanimous opinion that the

most eligible plan, would be to proceed direct against Babylon. The French

stoutly opposed this project, declaring that they would march nowhere else

than to the siege of Jerusalem. The debate grew so warm that the Duke of

Burgundy withdrew his forces from the main body of the army, and took up

a separate position.

Harassed by conjectures concerning the condition of his English subjects,

discouraged at the disaffection of his soldiers, grieved at the sight of

sufferings which he could not alleviate, and mortified with the prospect

of a final failure of his enterprise, Richard strolled from the camp to

the brow of an adjacent eminence. Occupied by sad and gloomy meditations,

he walked, with his eyes fixed on the ground, unaware of the extensive

prospect that spread out before him, nor was he conscious of

companionship, till William Longsword taking his arm, disturbed his revery

by saying, "This way, sire, from yonder point can be seen where the

setting sun gilds the towers of Jerusalem." Instinctively the lion-hearted

monarch raised his broad shield to shut out the view, while tears forced

themselves from his manly eyes. "Nay, my brother," said he, "since God

forbids to my unworthy arm the redemption of his Holy Sepulchre, I may not

bless myself with a sight of his sacred city." He turned away, and

silently retraced his steps.

That night as he lay tossing upon his couch unable to sleep, he was

surprised by a stealthy visit from Salaman. The officious black had gained

permission of Mestoc to conduct the king to the cell of a hermit, who

dwelt in one of the rocky caves with which the wilderness of Judea

abounds. The devout man, whose venerable countenance and solemn appearance

gave a strong guaranty for his truth, received the king with the deepest

respect, and declared to him that a long time ago he had concealed a piece

of the Holy Cross, in order to preserve it until Palestine should be

rescued from the Infidels. He stated that Saladin had often pressed him

with the most searching inquiries concerning it, but he had faithfully

guarded the secret, and to the King of England he now committed the

precious relic, for the adoration of those brave men who had so valiantly

fought in defence of the Christian faith. Reverently wrapping it in a

cloth of gold, Richard conveyed it to the camp, and the following day the

whole army were permitted to press their lips upon the sacred wood.

The troops had then orders to retire towards Jaffa, but civil rancor and

fierce dissensions prevailed to such an extent among the forces, that but

little discipline or order could be preserved. When they arrived before

the place, they found it closely besieged by the Saracens, and on the

point of surrender. The conflict which ensued was the most hotly contested

of any that occurred during the Third Crusade. Richard performed prodigies

of valor. His battle-axe gleamed everywhere in the van of the fight,

opening for his followers bloody paths through the centre of the Turkish

divisions. The gallant Fanuelle, plowing her way through the serried

ranks, bore him proudly on, while the arrows and javelins of the Saracens,

rattled idly upon his iron vest, till at length a fallen foe, pierced with

a spear the breast of his favorite, and amid the exulting yells of the

barbarians, horse and rider fell to the ground. Instantly starting to his

feet, he drew his sword, and continued the combat undaunted as before. The

generous Saphadin, who from a distance had watched the prowess of the

valiant European, despatched a groom to his rescue with a splendid Arabian

barb. Remounting, Richard continued the contest till the going down of the

sun, when darkness separated the combatants. Jaffa was rescued, and the

joy of this signal victory in some measure compensated the English for

their bitter disappointment in abandoning Jerusalem. On reviewing his

troops, Richard saw from their diminished numbers the utter hopelessness

of attempting any further conquest, and this sad conviction strengthened

the motives which determined his return to Europe. His late success gave

him the vantage-ground in soliciting an honorable peace with the Soldan,

who, now that Richard was preparing to depart, was better able to estimate

candidly, and appreciate fairly the knightly qualities and heroic courage

that had distinguished his career in the Holy Land.

The Emperor Saladin and Richard Plantagenet, each with a brilliant train

of attendants, met near Mount Tabor, to confer upon the momentous

interests that clustered round the Holy City, and to arrange a protracted

truce. The preliminaries occupied some days. The Saracens insisted upon

the destruction of the fort of Ascalon, the Christians negotiated for the

restoration of Jerusalem. It was at last settled, that Joppa and Tyre, and

the country between them should be ceded to Henry, Count of Champagne,

that Ascalon should be dismantled, and that the Christians should have

free access to the Holy Sepulchre without molestation or tribute. The

presence of Mestoc and Saphadin contributed not a little to the harmonious

adjustment of these intricate affairs. The treaty was to remain in force

three years, three months, three weeks, three days, and three hours, a

number of mysterious sanctity with the people of the East, and a space

which Richard thought sufficient for him to compose the factions in

England, and return to complete the conquest of Palestine.

Since her expedition to Jaffa, Elsiebede had remained in care of her

uncle; and Richard was now informed that Saphadin, disappointed in his

suit with the lady Joanna, had transferred his affections to the

bewitching Gyptianos. The crosses which Coeur de Lion had borne in the

crusade had somewhat moderated the imperiousness of his temper, and taught

him the policy of a seeming acquiescence in inevitable necessity; and thus

though vividly impressed with an anticipation of Berengaria's frowns, he

gracefully acceded to the request of Mestoc, and bestowed the Moorish girl

and her swarthy attendant upon his noble friend.

The Soldan had arranged the pavilion of the christian monarch with the

utmost magnificence, at the southern extremity of the encampment, while

his own sable tent had been pitched opposite on the north. Near the close

of a bright Syrian day, as Richard sat listening to the strains with which

Blondel beguiled the tedium of the listless hours, his chamberlain entered

to announce the emperor. The illustrious Soldan came without the usual

attendants of his rank, and Richard surprised and not ill-pleased by

this mark of friendly familiarity, received him with the frank cordiality

characteristic of his nature. The face of the noble Kurd wore a

seriousness that seemed the result of thought rather than the habitual

gravity of his nation and religion, and Richard, with instinctive

delicacy, dismissed the minstrel, and waited in silent wonder for the

communication of his honored guest. But what was his surprise when the

gifted Saracen, instead of employing the common Lingua Franca, addressed

him easily and fluently in the liquid Provencal. "The Melech Ric," said

he, "wonders to hear his mother-tongue in a foreign land, but not stranger

to thee than to me are my words. Forty and three times have the

constellations described their circles in the heavens since my lip assayed

this language; but thy presence has been to my heart like the beams of the

rising sun that causes the statue of Memnon to speak."

Astonishment prevented reply; but every feature of Coeur de Lion evinced

the intensest curiosity. "Know then," said Saladin, answering the mute

interrogation, "that as the warmth of our Eastern clime flushes the grape

with a deeper hue than the temperate north, so it earlier awakens and

strengthens the passions in the human breast. Hence was it that though but

a youth I saw and loved a beautiful daughter of Frangistan. Her eyes--God

said to them, Be--and they were, affecting my heart with the potency of

wine. Her voice--it made me forget the spirits that stand about the throne

of Allah (blessed be his name), and had not the Prophet ordained that she

should suddenly be torn from me, I might have become a convert to the

faith of the Nazarene."

"Would to heaven thou hadst!" ejaculated Richard, "for Godfrey of Boulogne

could not more worthily fill the throne of Jerusalem."

Without appearing to note the enthusiasm of Richard, the Saracen slowly

unfastened the scarf that bound his caftan, and exhibited the embroidered

cross of Aquitaine.

"Thou art a Christian in thy secret heart," said Richard, starting up at

the sight and grasping the hand of the Soldan. "It solves the mystery of

thy victories. I knew that no unbaptized Infidel could have so prevailed

against the armies of the Lord."

"Nay," said the Mussulman, smiling gravely, "think not the prince of the

thousand tribes worships a symbol as do the Franks, though for the memory

of her whose slender fingers wrought the emblem, I have sometimes spared

the lives of those whom our laws hold accursed--but there is no God but

one God, and Mohammed is his Prophet."

Somewhat abashed Richard sat holding the scarf in his hand and murmuring

half aloud, "The Provencal tongue; the cross of Aquitaine; a daughter of

Frangistan." Then raising his eyes he said, with a look of painful

embarrassment, "Noble Saladin, thy generous interest in the English

crusader is sufficiently explained. Destroy not, I pray thee, the

gratitude of the son of Eleanor by alluding to the follies of the mother."

"Nay," said Saladin, satisfied that he had correctly interpreted the

hereditary peculiarities, which his observant eye had detected in Richard,

"the name of the beloved is secure from reproach; but my memory still

looks upon her as she was, and I would fain teach my imagination to regard

her as she is. Dwells she in the trembling tent of age? or has the angel

Azrael drawn around her silent couch the curtain of perpetual night?"

"She lives," returns Richard, proudly, "regent of my noble realm.

Thousands receive benefits from her hands, which as thy poet saith, 'are

the keys of the supplies of Providence.'"

"I am content," replied the Saracen. "For the rest, hitherto, I have kept

my secret in a house with a lock, whose key is lost, and whose door is

sealed. So let it be henceforth between us. The peace of Allah rest upon

Melech Ric, and may he die among his kindred." As he arose to leave the

tent the voice of the muezzein was heard through the camp calling, "To

prayer, to prayer." The noble chief paused upon the threshold, and turning

his face toward Mecca, bowed his forehead to the dust, and reverently

repeated the Mohammedan blessing.

Early on the subsequent day, the Latins prepared for departure, and there

remained only the last formalities of ratifying the treaty. As the two

monarchs, disdaining the common obligation of an oath, advanced to the

centre of that fair and flowery meadow, and extended their hands above the

parchment, they seemed the representatives of Mohammedan superstition and

Christian enthusiasm, and a prophetic eye might have read in the

appearance of these leaders of the belligerent powers, that for a century

had caused the earth to tremble beneath their tread, the character and the

destiny of the nations which they represented. The form and countenance of

the Saracen, erect and calm, but lithe and wary, with a certain air of

majesty and repose, indicated a consciousness of the decay of youthful

vigor, but a sense of compensation however in the resources of wisdom and

skill laid up in the storehouse of experience, for the necessities of

declining years. In the compact and muscular frame, and sparkling eyes of

Richard, were expressed that reckless spirit of pursuit, that ardor of

passion, enthusiasm of love, romance, and religion, that steady

self-reliance, born of conscious strength and indomitable will, which

characterized the growing nations of Europe, and finally gave the dominion

of the world to the Anglo-Saxon race. Grasping each other's hands, these

two exponents of Oriental tactics and European chivalry mutually pledged

their faith to the treaty, and parted less like deadly foes, than faithful

friends, who hoped to meet again.

CHAPTER XI.

"He that can endure

To follow with allegiance a fallen lord,

Doth conquer him that did his master conquer,

And earns a place i' the story."

On his arrival at Acre, Richard learned that the friends of Conrad accused

him as the instigator of the assassination, and that reports had been

conveyed to Europe impeaching his honor as a king, and his fame as a

warrior. Deeming it unsafe to attempt the passage in the Trenc-the-mere,

he committed Berengaria and her ladies again to the care of Stephen de

Turnham and his faithful Blondel, and saw them safely embarked for

Navarre, Sept. 29, 1192. The following month, having provided for the safe

return of the soldiers and pilgrims who had accompanied him on his

fruitless expedition, he himself last of all, in the disguise of a

Templar, sailed from the port of Acre. As the rocky heights of Lebanon and

the lofty summit of Carmel faded from his view, he stretched his hands

towards the receding shores, and while tears streamed from his eyes,

prayed aloud, "Oh Holy Land, I commend thee to God; and, if his heavenly

grace shall grant me so long to live, I trust that I shall return

according to his good pleasure, and set thee free from all thine enemies."

The voyage proved more disastrous than was common, even in those days of

unpractised navigation. Many of the English vessels were wrecked upon the

shores of Africa, others fortunately reached friendly ports whence the

warriors returned by land to Britain. Six weeks after his departure from

Acre, the vessel of Richard encountered a pirate ship off the coast of

Barbary. Learning from the commander that his misfortunes had become

known, and that the French lords were prepared to seize him as soon as he

should land in Marseilles, he determined, as his ship was already

unseaworthy, to pass up the Adriatic, and make his way through Germany.

Landing not far from Venice with six companions, he pursued his route to

the north. But news of the dispersion of his fleet had already reached

Germany, and orders had been issued, that all travellers should be closely

interrogated. His companions were arrested; but the monarch escaped,

attended only by a boy who understood the language of the country, and

conducted him to houses of entertainment, unfrequented by persons of rank.

Thus resting by day and travelling by night, they reached the borders of

the Danube. Secure in his disguise, the king began to enjoy the frank

hilarity and hearty cheer of the inn kitchen, and with a good nature

appropriate to his assumed character, assisted in the preparations for the

evening repast. A loitering spy observing a costly jewel upon the finger

of the pretended friar, at once reported the suspicious circumstance to

the governor. A company of soldiers were immediately despatched to arrest

him, the leader of which was an Austrian who had served under him in

Palestine. The house was searched, and the landlord subjected to a close

scrutiny concerning harboring a man of the description of the hunted

monarch. "There be no such person here," indignantly exclaimed the boor,

"unless it be the Templar in the kitchen roasting fowls." The officers

immediately followed the hint, and surprised the fictitious palmer with

the spit in his hand. The Austrian cavalier recognized, at once, the

herculean frame and ruddy countenance of the king. "It is he. Seize him,"

cried he to his minions. Notwithstanding a valiant resistance, Richard was

overborne by numbers and conveyed to the castle of Tenebreuse, where for

several months all trace of him was lost.

* * * * *

Meanwhile the vessel containing the princesses arrived safely at Naples,

whence they journeyed to Rome. The enmity of Philip, and vague reports

concerning the shipwreck of her husband, so terrified Berengaria that she

remained here under the protection of the pope till the ensuing spring.

During the carnival, the services of the royal ladies were in requisition

for a brilliant masquerade. The affair, involving an uncommon call for

bijouterie, the queen found no little amusement in searching the shops of

the jewellers in pursuit of appropriate decorations. On one of these

excursions her attention was attracted by the appearance of a boy clad in

mean apparel who was offering a valuable jewel for sale. The eagerness and

suspicion with which the shopman regarded it excited her curiosity, and

stepping forward she recognized the signet ring of Richard. Hastily

purchasing the precious talisman she ordered the youth to follow her,

intending to question him further concerning his master; but when she

reached her apartments, he had disappeared. She sent messengers in every

direction, and caused the most searching inquiries to be made, but all in

vain; he was nowhere to be found. Her anxiety for the fate of Richard,

found vent in fruitless exertions and floods of tears. The mysterious

circumstances reawakened all her superstitious apprehensions. She was

convinced that the fatal ring which she had so foolishly given and so

weakly allowed him to retain, had finally accomplished his prediction,

"betrayed him to his direst foe, or drowned him in the sea." At one moment

she bewailed him as dead, at the next upbraided her friends for neglecting

to deliver him from the dungeon in which she was positive the Duke of

Austria had confined him. Blondel, whose devotion to his royal friend

equalled her own, set off at once under the character of a wandering

minstrel in search of his master.

At length the pope, moved by Berengaria's distress, placed her under the

escort of Count Raimond of Toulouse, the hero of the tournament, who, with

a strong guard, conducted the queens across the country to Navarre. The

valiant Raimond soon found it an easier and pleasanter task to soothe the

mind of the lovely Joanna, than to listen to the unavailing complaints of

the despairing Berengaria, and so resigned did he become to his grateful

duties, that before they reached the end of their journey he had become a

candidate for the office during life of sympathizer and protector.

In the joy of welcoming her youngest daughter, Queen Eleanor forgot her

hereditary enmity to her cousin of Toulouse, and Count Raimond received

the hand of Joanna with the resignation of the contested claim to that

splendid fief, which had so long filled the south of France with strife

and bloodshed. Deprived of the society of the tranquil and considerate

Joanna, Berengaria was more than ever lonely and disconsolate, and the

death of her father, Sancho the Wise, not long after, added another weight

to the sorrow that oppressed her.

Eleanor's detention of the Princess Alice had drawn upon Normandy a fierce

invasion by Philip Augustus, and the noble domain might have fallen a prey

to his rapacity had not Sancho the Strong, moved by the pleadings of his

sister, traversed France with a choice band of knights, and compelled his

grasping sovereign to abandon the siege of Rouen.

* * * * *

Meantime the faithful Blondel traverses many a weary league in search of

the lion-hearted king. His harp gives him ready entrance to the castles of

the great and the cottages of the lowly. Warriors mingle their rude voices

with the chorus of his soul-stirring tensons, and light-hearted maidens

weep pitying tears at the sound of his tender _plaintes_. Stern jailers,

like the Furies that guarded the lost Eurydice, leave their dismal

avocations, and "listening crowd the sweet musician's side." The lyre of

Orpheus draws back the rusty bolts and opens wide the ponderous doors, and

many a hapless prisoner is charmed with the strains of light and love that

for years had only visited his dreams.

But Richard is not among the minstrels; his voice echoes not in the chorus

of the warriors; his sad complaint is not heard among the wail of the

captives. The troubadour turns away disappointed from each new trial, but

restless affection prompts him to repeated endeavors, and ephemeral

hopes continually lead him on.

He wanders along the banks of the Danube, he sits beneath the dark shadow

of the Tenebreuse, from whose portals no ransomed captive has ever yet

come forth to the free light of day. He assays his most thrilling strains,

but the guards, insensible as the granite effigies that frown upon him

from the lofty turrets, remain unmoved. He throws down his lyre in

despair, and hot tears gush from his eyes. The image of Berengaria floats

before him, her cheek flushed with hope, and her eyes sparkling with love.

He sees her leaning enchanted from the vessel's side, listening to the

voice of her royal lover, while the wind with fairy fingers sweeps a wild

symphony through the straining cordage of the gallant Trenc-the-mere. With

the recollections come the long-forgotten emotions of that blissful

season. Instinctively his hand grasps the harp; his spirit kindles with

the inspiration; a melodious prelude rings out upon the still air, and he

sings,

"Your beauty, lady fair,

None views without delight;

But still so cold an air

No passion can excite.

Yet this I patient see,

While all are shunn'd like me."

Is it the voice of the warder mingling with his own in the concluding

strain, or has his rapt fancy taught the echoes to mock his impatience

with the loved tones of the royal troubadour? He pauses--'Tis neither

memory nor fancy. From the lonely turret and the closely barred casements

pours a liquid strain, and his fond ear drinks again the clear tones that

answered to his own, when in harmonious rivalry each sought the rich

reward of Berengaria's smile.

"No nymph my heart can wound,

If favors she divide,

And smile on all around,

Unwilling to decide:

I'd rather hatred bear

Than love with other share."

It is the voice of Plantagenet!! The song, the tune are his! He lives! He

may yet be ransomed.

A rough hand is laid upon the shoulder of the minstrel, and a surly voice

bids him, Begone! He departs without question or reply. He courts no

danger; for on his safety depends the life of his friend. The listless

stroll of the harper is exchanged for the quick firm pace of one who

hastes to the accomplishment of a worthy purpose. He avoids the populous

cities, and tarries not in the smiling villages. He reaches the

sea-coast--he finds a vessel--he lands in England--he obtains audience of

the queen regent. She who subscribes herself "Eleanora, by the _wrath_ of

God Queen of England," makes all Europe ring with the infamy of those

princes who have combined to keep her son in chains. The power of the pope

is implored, the mercy of the holy mother is invoked. The Emperor Henry

VI. requires the royal prisoner at the hands of Leopold. Richard is

brought before the diet at Worms, to answer for his crimes.

He is accused of making an alliance with Tancred, of turning the arms of

the crusade against the christian King of Cyprus, of affronting the Duke

of Austria before Acre, of obstructing the progress of the croises by his

quarrels with the King of France, of assassinating the Marquis Conrad

Prince of Tyre, and of concluding a truce with Saladin and leaving

Jerusalem in the hands of the Saracen emperor.

The noble Plantagenet arises in the majesty of his innocence and, "as the

lion shakes the dew-drops from his mane," dispels the false accusations of

his enemies. The eloquence of truth carries irresistible conviction to the

hearts of the congregated princes. They exclaim loudly against the conduct

of the emperor, the pope threatens him with excommunication, and the

reluctant Henry is compelled from very shame to consent to the prisoner's

release. But a heavy fine is required, and the monarch is remanded to his

captivity till the sum shall be paid. Every vassal in England and Normandy

is taxed for the ransom of his lord. The churches and monasteries melt

down their plate, the bishops, abbots, and nobles, contribute a portion

of their rent, the inferior clergy a tenth of their tithes, and Eleanor

conveys the treasure to Germany, and brings back her long lost-son!

CHAPTER XII.

"Do you like letter-reading? If you do,

I have some twenty dozen very pretty ones:

Gay, sober, rapturous, solemn, _very true_,

And very lying, stupid ones, and witty ones."

LETTER FROM THE KNIGHTS OF ST. JOHN TO RICHARD.

"To Richard Plantagenet, by the grace of God, King of England, your poor

and unworthy servants of the Hospital of St. John, humbly set forth these

things. We remember when it pleased the great Richard to depart from

Palestine, leaving the Holy City still in the hands of the Moslems, that

he pledged the honor of a knight, to return when the troubles of his own

kingdom should be composed, and once more do battle in the cause of the

saints.

"According to our poor ability we preserved the conditions of the treaty,

and the land had rest from war. The mighty sultan, Saladin, then kept his

goods in peace. But God has called him to the judgment to answer for his

crimes against the christian nations. His brother Saphadin usurps the

throne of Jerusalem, and his sons strive to rend the kingdom in pieces,

that each may take his share.

"Now the Scripture saith expressly, 'A house divided against itself shall

not stand,' and the fulfilment thereof is shown in that which they begin

to do. A scarcity of food exhausts their forces, and it were easy for a

christian army, while they lie torn with faction and reduced by famine, to

march through the length and breadth of the land, and make the strong

places our own. But the forces of the military friars are insufficient for

the pious work; therefore we turn our eyes towards Europe, we fix our

regards upon the islands of the sea, and lift our hands to Heaven and pray

that the lion-hearted monarch, with his valiant knights, would once more

'come up to the help of the Lord against the mighty.' May God and his

saints incline your heart to the divine undertaking, and may the counsels

of the Lord prevail. Amen.

"Written from Palestine A.D. 1195."

ENCYCLICAL LETTER OF CELESTIN III.

"To the most Potent Sovereigns of Europe, to the princes, nobles, and

barons, who by the favor of God, hold authority over the dominions and

vassals of our Lord and Saviour--to the cardinals, bishops, prelates, and

other clergy that rule the Church of God, Pope Celestin III. called to be

the vicar of Christ, and in virtue of his office heir to the Apostolic

See, sendeth greeting.

"My brethren, it hath been shown to us that Jerusalem, the city of the

Saviour's life and passion, still lieth in the hands of the Moslems, that

the Infidels mock the rites of our holy religion even in the land where

the sacred mysteries were first instituted, and that the Christians of

Syria cry unto the brethren of the west for aid. Wherefore we command you

all to spread again the crimson standard of the cross, and march against

the persecutors of the faith. By the authority of the blessed St. Peter,

from whom we hold the keys of the kingdom of Heaven, whereby we open and

no man can shut; we shut, and no man can open; we ordain that all those

who in heart and truth obey this, our holy mandate, shall have claim to

those indulgences needful for the flesh, in this toilsome warfare;

absolution from those sins which they have heretofore committed, or shall

hereafter fall into:--and we set before them an abundance of the honors of

this life, and in the life to come life everlasting.

"Given at Rome, under our hand and seal, this tenth day after Epiphany, in

the Year of Grace 1196."

LETTER FROM ELSIEBEDE TO BERENGARIA.

"Elsiebede to the most honored Queen Berengaria. My noble mistress will

pardon the wife of Saif Addin if she intrude upon her gracious attention

the story of the changes that have befallen one whom Allah (blessed be his

name) hath raised from the low estate of a servant, to the dignity of sole

wife of the monarch of the East. Though the voice of love charmed my ear,

and made my heart tremble with sweet delight, yet tears overflowed my eyes

when it was told me I should look no more upon the face of her whose

fostering care had sustained my youth, and brought me to the land of my

kindred. My beloved lady and her valiant lord have departed for their own

land, but still I hear their names echoed from the base of Carmel, to

Damascus the garden of delights. The Arab horseman threatens his steed

with the weight of King Richard's arm, the Saracen mother hushes her babe

with the fear of the Melech Ric, and blesses her daughter with the

benison, 'Allah make thee fair as Berengaria.' But 'The strength of the

mighty and the charm of the lovely availeth naught, since death, the

terminator of delights, waiteth at the threshhold of every dwelling.'

Scarce could the vessels that bore the croises have reached the shores of

Frangistan, when Disease, more potent than even the sword of the

lion-hearted Plantagenet, laid its hand upon Saladin the Powerful, the

Illustrious, and his life was consumed beneath its burning touch. Then the

black banner that awoke thy terrors at the first sight of Palestine, and

that so often like the wing of Azrael, waved over the fields of the slain,

by his last command, was rolled in the dust, and the shroud that was to

wrap his body in the grave, was borne aloft in the sight of his people,

while the imams and muezzins cried aloud with an exceeding bitter cry,

'Behold all that remains to the mighty Saladin, the prince of the thousand

tribes, the vizier of Egypt, the conqueror of Syria, the Emperor of the

East. Behold oh man, and prepare to die!'

"Until his death the virtuous Soldan had faithfully preserved the peace

made with the Melech Ric, and it was the wish of his brother, my lord Saif

Addin, upon whom the emirs and atabeks bestowed the kingdom of Syria,

still to keep faith and truce with the Christians, but as your holy

writing saith, 'A man's foes shall be they of his own household,' even so

hath it happened unto my lord. The undutiful sons of Saladin have seized

Aleppo, Damascus, and Egypt. They have drawn the sword of battle, and our

land again groaneth under the miseries of war. From these things it

chanced that certain timid Christians, fearing again the renewal of all

those sufferings, from which they had rested during the space of three

years, called again on their brethren of Europe for aid. And there came a

great company of crusading Germans, brutal and blood-thirsty, to wrest the

territory of Palestine from the hands of the sovereign. When the Latins of

Acre saw what manner of men they were, they represented to them the

virtues and moderation of the noble Saif Addin, and entreated that the

Christians of the Holy Land should have space for negotiation and treaty,

before the commencement of hostilities. But they would not hear; and so

the cruel war was again begun.

"Then my lord girding himself for the conflict, showed that the spirit of

Saladin survived in his brother. He advanced to the north to meet his

foes, and a terrible slaughter took place in the vale of Sidon. The

followers of the prophet were slain on every side, and the Latins also

were greatly discomfited, and took refuge in Tyre. A portion of the

Germans proceeded to Jaffa; thither Saif Addin pursued them, and after a

continued siege, took the city and put them all to the sword. On the same

night, Count Henry of Champagne, wearing the title, but not the crown of

the King of Jerusalem, was killed by a fall, and the Christians being thus

left without lord or ruler, concluded a peace with the Emperor. Isabella,

the widow of Count Henry, is again a wife, being taken in marriage by

Almeric, brother of Guy de Lusignan.

"The prophet saith truly, 'Though the storm rage without, there may be

peace in the tent,' and I dwell in safety within the sacred walls of

Jerusalem. Cohr Eddin, my first-born, already assays to bend the bow of

his father, and his infant brother nestling in my bosom, just lisps the

name of his warlike sire. Farewell. The blessing of her who was ready to

perish, rest upon thee and thine, and Allah make thee happy as Ayesha, the

best beloved wife of the prophet, on whom be peace.

"Written from Jerusalem in the year of the Hegyra 576, according to the

era of the Franks, 1198."

* * * * *

The _Fourth Crusade_, which the French monarch regarded with indifference,

and which the King of England despised as being the enterprise of his

German enemies, ended thus without advantage or glory to Christendom. The

hostilities which had been engendered in the Holy Land, continued to vex

and agitate Europe long after the causes had ceased to operate. The

Emperor Henry VI. died of poison administered by his wife Constance, and

the pope prohibited his interment until the hundred and fifty thousand

marks which he had received for Richard's ransom, should be paid over into

the treasury of the Holy See.

Insignificant wars exciting the baser passions of human nature and

developing few of its nobler qualities, occupied the remaining years of

the two great rivals, Richard Plantagenet and Philip Augustus. The

Princess Alice was at last surrendered to her brother, and at the mature

age of thirty-five, with a tarnished reputation and a splendid dower, was

given in marriage to the Count of Aumerle. Richard spent scarce four

months of his reign in England, and Berengaria never visited the island.

They resided upon his ducal estates in Normandy, or passed their time in

Anjou and Aquitaine. It was at the siege of the castle of Chaluz, in the

latter province, that Richard met his death. A peasant plowing in the

field, pretended that he had discovered a wondrous cave, in which were

concealed golden statues, and vases of precious stones, of unrivalled

beauty and value. "The lively imagination of the king, heated by the

splendid fictions of Arabian romance," led him at once to credit the

report, and determined him upon securing the enchanted treasure. He

immediately summoned the baron to give up to him as feudal lord, a share

of the rich prize. The Castellan declared that nothing had been found but

a pot of Roman coins which were at his service. The impetuous monarch

could not be satisfied with this explanation of the affair, and

immediately commenced a siege. He was pierced by an arrow from the walls,

and the wound though not mortal was so inflamed by the unskilfulness of

the physician, and the king's impatience under treatment, as to cause his

death. Queen Eleanora was at this time in England; but Berengaria attended

him in his last moments, and forgetting the years of neglect, and the

ebullitions of ill temper that had poisoned her domestic happiness,

watched and wept over him with the tenderest care.

Scarcely had he breathed his last, when Joanna, Countess of Toulouse,

arrived in Aquitaine. She had come to entreat the assistance of the

monarch against the haughty barons who had taken up arms against her

husband. But when she looked upon the kingly form of her beloved brother

stretched in the stillness of death; when she saw that the dull, cold eye

kindled not as of yore at the recitative of her wrongs; and when she

lifted the powerless hand ever ready for her defence, her long-tried

courage gave way and she sank fainting by his side. The weight of this new

grief, added to her former afflictions, pressed upon her enfeebled frame,

and on the third day she expired, entreating Berengaria to bury her with

her brother Richard. The sorrowing queen conveyed the royal remains of her

husband and sister for interment to the stately abbey of Fontevraud, and

laid them in the tomb of their father Henry II., and within a few short

weeks after paid the last tribute of affection to her sweet sister

Blanche, wife of Thibaut, Count of Champagne.

The world was now a desert to Berengaria. She retired to her dower estate

of Orleans, where she founded the noble abbey of L'Espan, and passed the

remainder of her life in acts of charity and beneficence.

ISABELLA.

[Illustration: Isabella of Angouleme.]

CHAPTER I.

"The lady I love will soon be a bride,

With a diadem on her brow;

Oh why did she flatter my boyish pride,

She's going to leave me now."

It is a marvel to those unacquainted with the philosophy of navigation,

that ships may sail with equal speed in opposite directions, under the

impelling force of the same breeze: and it is often an equal paradox with

casual observers of mental phenomena, that individuals may contribute as

really to the success of an enterprise by the law of repulsion as by the

more obvious exercise of voluntary influence. Thus Isabella of Angouleme,

who was perhaps as little occupied with plans military or religious, as

any beauty that counted warriors among her conquests could well be, as

effectually impelled a noble knight and leader to undertake the Holy War,

as did Adela, Countess of Blois, whose whole heart was in the work.

Isabella was the only child and heiress of the Count of Angouleme. Her

mother was of the family of Courteney, the first lords of Edessa. In very

early youth Isabella had been betrothed to Hugh X. de Lusignan, the

Marcher or guardian of the northern border of Aquitaine. The little bride

dwelt at the castle of her lord, flattered and caressed by every vassal

who hoped to win the favor of his master, while the gallant Hugh, surnamed

le Brun, watched over her interests, and directed her education with the

care of a man anticipating full fruition in the ripened charms and

unrivalled attractions of one who looked upon him as her future husband.

Count Hugh as a distinguished peer of France, had been summoned to form

one of the splendid cortege which Philip Augustus despatched into Spain,

to bring home the fair Blanche of Castile, the bride of his son Prince

Louis. During his absence the parents of Isabella sent messengers to the

castle of Valence, to request their daughter's presence on the occasion of

a high festival in Angouleme. The beautiful fiancee of Count Hugh was

required to recognize King John of England, as the sovereign of Aquitaine,

and feudal lord of the province of Angoumois.

Dressed in a simple robe of white, with her hair parted _a la vierge_ upon

the brow, and confined only by the golden coronet designating her rank,

she advanced with a timid step through the assembly, and kneeling at the

feet of the king, placed her tiny hands in his, while with a trembling

voice she pronounced the oath of homage. The first peep which the fair

child gained of the great world in this brilliant assembly, where she was

made to act so conspicuous a part, intoxicated her youthful imagination;

and the effect of her artless simplicity on the heart of the dissolute

monarch, already sated with the adulation of court beauties, was such as

one feels in turning from a crowded vase of gaudy exotics, to contemplate

the sweetness of the native violet. Hence was it that Isabella, though

scarcely fifteen, entered into all the schemes of her parents, for

preventing her return to the castle of her betrothed, and without

opposition, gave her hand to a man who had been for ten years engaged in

an ineffectual struggle against the canons of the church, for the

possession of his beautiful cousin, Avisa, whom he had married on the day

of Richard's coronation. Now smitten with the charms of Isabella, John

submitted at once to his spiritual fathers, and the archbishop of Bordeaux

having convoked a synod to consider the matter with the assent of the

bishops of Poitou, declared that no impediment existed to their marriage.

The nuptials were, therefore, celebrated at Bordeaux, in August, 1200.

Enraged at the loss of his bride, on his return from Castile, the valiant

Count Hugh challenged the royal felon to mortal combat; but the worthless

king despising the resentment of the outraged lover, sailed with Isabella

in triumph to England, where they passed the winter in a continual round

of feasting and voluptuousness. Thwarted in the usual method of redress,

Count Hugh had recourse to the pope, the acknowledged lord of both

potentate and peer. Innocent III. at once fulminated his thunders against

the lawless prince; but as the lands, if not the person of the heiress of

Aquitaine, were the property of King John as her lord paramount, not even

the Church could unbind the mystic links of feudal tenure that barred the

rights of Count Lusignan.

Disappointed in his hopes of vengeance in this quarter, the count became

suddenly impressed with the right of young Arthur of Bretagne, to the

throne of England, and being joined by the men of Anjou and Maine, he

suddenly laid siege to the castle of Mirabel, where Queen Eleanor, then

entering her eightieth year, had taken up her summer residence. The son of

Geoffrey entered readily into the plot, for he had little cause to love

the grandmother, who had advocated the setting aside his claims in favor

of those of his uncle; and it was the intention of Count Hugh to capture

the aged queen, and exchange her for his lost spouse.

In an age when decent people were expected to break their fast at the

early hour of five, King John was surprised at his midday breakfast by a

messenger, summoning him to his mother's rescue. Rising hastily in

terrible wrath, and swearing a horrid oath, he overset the table with his

foot, and leaving his bride to console herself as she could, set off

immediately for Aquitaine. Arrived before the castle of Mirabel, he gave

fierce battle to his enemies. The contest was very brief, and victory for

once alighted upon the banners of John. The unfortunate Count Hugh, and

the still more unfortunate Arthur, with twenty-four barons of Poitou were

taken prisoners, and chained hand and foot, were placed in tumbril carts

and drawn after the Conqueror wherever he went. The barons, by the orders

of King John, were starved to death in the dungeons of Corfe castle. The

fate of the hapless Arthur was never clearly known. Many circumstances

make it probable that he died by the hand of his uncle; and the twelve

peers of France convened to inquire into his fate, branded John as a

murderer, and declared the fief of Normandy a forfeit to the crown. Thus

was this important province restored to the dominion of France, after

having been in the possession of the descendants of Rollo nearly three

centuries.

The only male heir now remaining to the House of Plantagenet, was the

recreant John; and Queen Eleanor looking forward with fearful foreboding

to the destruction of her race, sought an asylum in the convent of

Fontevraud, where she died the following year.

The unhappy lover of Isabella dragged on a weary existence in the donjon

of Bristol castle, and the heart of the queen, already wounded by the

cruelty of John, and touched with pity for the sufferings of Lusignan,

began to recount in the ear of her imagination the tender devotion of her

first love, and to contrast her miserable, though splendid destiny with

the peace and happiness she enjoyed in the castle of Valence.

* * * * *

The controlling spirit of the thirteenth century was Innocent III. "Since

Gregory the Seventh's time the pope had claimed the empire of the world,

and taken upon himself the responsibility of its future state. Raised to a

towering height, he but saw the more clearly the perils by which he was

environed. He occupied the spire of the prodigious edifice of Christianity

in the middle age, that cathedral of human kind, and sat soaring in the

clouds on the apex of the cross, as when from the spire of Strasburg the

view takes in forty towns and villages on the banks of the Rhine." From

this eminence Pope Innocent surveyed the politics of Europe, and put forth

his mandates to bring the power and wealth of the nations into the

treasury of the church. No measures had ever been adopted which combined

so effectually to move the passions of an ardent age, in a direction

indicated by papal authority, as the expeditions to the Holy Land. Louis

and Philip of France and Henry of England had taxed their subjects for the

benefit of the crusade. Pope Innocent went a step farther, and gave a new

character to the sacred wars by imposing a similar tax upon the clergy.

The eloquent pontiff described the ruin of Jerusalem, the triumphs of the

Moslems, and the disgrace of Christendom; and, like his predecessors,

promised redemption from sins and plenary indulgence to all who should

serve in Palestine.

An ignorant priest, Fulk of Neuilly, took up the word of exhortation, and

with less piety than Peter the Hermit and greater zeal than St. Bernard,

itinerated through the cities and villages of France, publishing the

command of the successor of St. Peter.

The situation of the principal monarchs was unfavorable to the pious

undertaking. The sovereignty of Germany was disputed by the rival houses

of Brunswick and Suabia, the memorable factions of the Guelphs and

Ghibelines. Philip Augustus was engaged in projects to wrest from the King

of England his transmarine dominions, and John was incapable of any

project beyond the narrow circle of his personal pleasures and

preferences.

Notwithstanding, therefore, the power of the pope and the fanaticism of

Fulk, the whole matter might have fallen through but for the lofty

enthusiasm of the descendants of Adela Countess of Blois. In every

expedition to the Holy Land, there had not lacked a representative from

the house of Champagne; and Thibaut, fourth Count of the name, was the

first to unfurl the crimson standard in the _Fifth Crusade_. The young

Thibaut held a grand tournament at Troyes, to which he invited all the

neighboring princes and knights for a trial in feats of derring-do. The

festivities of the day were nearly over, and the victors were exchanging

congratulations and commenting upon the well-won field, when the intrepid

Fulk appeared in the lists and challenged the warriors to enforce an

appeal to arms in the cause of Christendom. Geoffrey Villehardouin, the

marechal of Champagne, who held the post of honor as judge of the combat,

immediately gave place to the holy man, and the unbonneted chieftains drew

around and with respectful regard listened while the subtle priest, from

the temporary throne, descanted upon the sufferings of lost Palestina.

Encouraged by the example of his ancestors, animated by the distinction

acquired by his elder brother as King of Jerusalem, fired with indignation

against the Infidel that claimed that brother's crown, and stimulated by a

holy ambition to inscribe his own name upon the rolls of honored

pilgrimage, the noble Thibaut came forward, and drawing his sword, laid it

at the feet of the priest, who blessed and consecrated both it and him to

the cause of God. His cousin Louis Count of Blois and Chartres,

immediately advanced to his side and made a similar dedication. Then

followed his brother-in-law, Baldwin Count of Flanders, Matthew de

Montmorenci, Simon de Montfort, Geoffrey Villehardouin, and a host of

others, till the whole assembly becoming infected with the spirit of

enthusiasm, sprang to their feet, and drawing their swords, held them up

in the sight of heaven, and with unanimous voice vowed to engage in the

Holy War. This vow was subsequently repeated in the churches, ratified in

tournaments, and debated in public assemblies till, among the two thousand

and two hundred knights that owed homage to the peerage of Champagne,

scarce a man could be found willing to forfeit his share in the glorious

enterprise by remaining at home.

As Sancho the Strong had died without children, Navarre acknowledged

Thibaut, the husband of Blanche, as king; and bands of hardy Gascons from

both sides of the Pyrenees flocked to his banners. The feudatories of the

other pilgrim warriors, animated by this glorious example, joined the

standards of their respective leaders, and crowds of prelates and barons

waited but the final arrangements for departure. The perils of the land

route to Jerusalem had been often tried. They were such as to intimidate

the bravest, and check the impetuosity of the most ardent.

At the extremity of the Adriatic sea, the Venetians had found a shelter,

during the dark and stormy interval that succeeded the downfall of the

Roman Empire. There nestling in the sedgy banks of the islands that

clustered around the Rialto, Commerce, through a long period of

incubation, had nourished her venturesome brood, and now the white wings

of her full-fledged progeny, like the albatross, skimmed the surface of

the seas and found ready entrance to every harbor on the coast of the

Mediterranean.

The Venetian republic had owed a nominal allegiance to the Greek empire,

but entering the field as a rival to the Genoese and Pisans for the

carrying-trade of Europe at the beginning of the crusades, she had

displayed from her towering masts the banner of the cross, while she

cultivated a friendly intercourse with the Infidels of every clime. To

this avaricious but neutral power the sacred militia determined to apply

for a passage to the Holy Land, and six deputies, at the head of whom was

Villehardouin, were despatched to the island city to settle the terms of

transportation.

The ambassadors were received with distinction, and a general assembly was

convened to listen to their proposals. The stately chapel and place of St.

Mark was crowded with citizens. The doge and the grand council of ten sat

in solemn dignity while the marechal of Champagne unfolded thus the

purposes of the embassy.

"Illustrious Venetians: the most noble and powerful barons of France have

sent us to you to entreat you in the name of God to have compassion on

Jerusalem which groans under the tyranny of the Turks, and to aid us on

this occasion in revenging the injury which has been done to your Lord and

Saviour. The peers of France have turned their eyes to you as the greatest

maritime power in Europe. They have commanded us to throw ourselves at

your feet, and never to change that supplicatory posture till you have

promised to aid them in recovering the Holy Land." The eloquence of their

words and tears touched the hearts of the people. Cries of "We grant your

request," sounded through the hall. The honored Doge Dandolo, though more

than ninety years of age and nearly blind, consecrated what might remain

to him of life to the pious work, and multitudes imitated his

self-devotion. The treaty was concluded, transcribed on parchment,

attested with oaths and seals, and despatched to Rome for the approbation

of the pope. Villehardouin repaired to France with the news of the success

of his embassy. The gallant Thibaut sprang from his bed of sickness,

called for his war-horse, summoned his vassals, and declared his intention

to set off immediately upon the pilgrimage. The exertion was too great for

his feeble frame; he sank fainting in the arms of his attendants, and

expired in the act of distributing among his feudatories the money he had

designed for the Holy War. A new leader was then to be chosen, and the lot

finally fell upon Boniface of Montserrat, younger brother of the

celebrated Conrad, Marquis of Tyre.

CHAPTER II.

"I'll laugh and I'll sing though my heart may bleed,

And join in the festive train,

And if I survive it I'll mount my steed

And off to the wars again."

In the spring of the year 1202, the crusaders being joined by numbers from

Italy and Germany, arrived at Venice. "On the Sunday before they were

ready for embarkation, a great multitude assembled in the place of St.

Mark. It was a high festival, and there were present the people of the

land, and most of the barons and pilgrims. Before high mass began, the

Doge of Venice, who was named Henry Dandolo, mounted the pulpit, and spoke

to the people, and said to them, 'Signors, there have joined themselves to

you the best nation in the world, and for the greatest business that ever

men undertook; and I am an old man and a feeble and should be thinking of

rest, and am frail and suffering of body. But I see that no one can order

and marshal you like I who am your lord. If you choose to grant to me to

take the sign of the cross, that I may guard you and instruct you, and

that my son may remain in my place to guard the land, I will go live or

die with you and the pilgrims.' And when they heard him they all cried out

with one voice, 'We beg you in God's name to grant it, and to do it, and