Transcriber's note:
Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).
Small capital text has been replaced with all capitals.
Variations in spelling, punctuation and hyphenation have been retained
except in obvious cases of typographical error.
[=] combined with a letter, example [=a], indicates a macron over the
letter.
* * * * *
"GOD WILLS IT"
[Illustration: logo]
[Illustration: "IN A TWINKLING RICHARD WAS AT THE HEAD OF THE RAGING
BRUTE"]
"GOD WILLS IT!"
A Tale of the First Crusade
BY
WILLIAM STEARNS DAVIS
AUTHOR OF "A FRIEND OF CÆSAR"
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY LOUIS BETTS
_"Who through faith subdued kingdoms, wrought righteousness,
obtained promises, stopped the mouths of lions, quenched the
violence of fire, escaped the edge of the sword, out of weakness
were made strong, waxed valiant in fight, turned to flight the
armies of the aliens."_
--HEBREWS xi. 33, 34.
New York
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
LONDON: MACMILLAN & CO., LTD.
1901
_All rights reserved_
COPYRIGHT, 1901,
BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.
_Norwood Press
J. S. Cushing & Co.--Berwick & Smith
Norwood, Mass., U.S.A._
To my long-time Friend
ARTHUR WASHBURN
I DEDICATE THIS TALE
OF THE DAYS OF FAITH
PREFACE
The First Crusade was the sacrifice of France for the sins of the Dark
Ages. Alone of all the Crusades it succeeded, despite its surrender of
countless lives. No Richard of England, no St. Louis led; its heroes
were the nobles and peasants of France and Norman Italy, who endured a
thousand perils and hewed their victorious way to Jerusalem. In this
Crusade united Feudalism and Papacy won their greatest triumph.
Notwithstanding the self-seeking of a few, the mass of the Crusaders
were true to their profession,--they sought no worldly gain, but to
wash out their sins in infidel blood. In this Crusade also the alien
civilizations of Christendom and Islam were brought into a dramatic
collision which has few historic counterparts.
Except in Scott's "Count Robert of Paris," which deals wholly with the
Constantinople episode, I believe the First Crusade has not been
interpreted in fiction. Possibly, therefore, the present book may have
a slight value, as seeking to tell the story of the greatest event of
a great age.
I have sometimes used modern spellings instead of unfamiliar
eleventh-century names. The Crusade chronicles often contradict one
another, and once or twice I have taken trifling liberties. To Mr. S.
S. Drury and Mr. Charles Hill, University friends who have rendered
kind aid on several historical details, I owe many thanks.
W. S. D.
HARVARD UNIVERSITY.
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
PAGE
HOW HILDEBRAND GAVE A BATTLE CRY 1
CHAPTER
I. HOW BARON WILLIAM SALLIED FORTH 13
II. HOW RICHARD WON THREE FRIENDS 24
III. HOW RICHARD WON A BROTHER 37
IV. HOW RICHARD WENT TO PALERMO 46
V. HOW RICHARD WON TWO FOES 53
VI. HOW ROLLO MET INSULT 64
VII. HOW DE VALMONT SENT HIS GAGE 74
VIII. HOW IFTIKHAR SPED A VAIN ARROW 81
IX. HOW TRENCHEFER DROVE HOME 94
X. HOW IFTIKHAR SAID FAREWELL TO SICILY 113
XI. HOW RICHARD FARED TO AUVERGNE 121
XII. HOW RICHARD CAME TO ST. JULIEN 127
XIII. HOW RICHARD SINNED AGAINST HEAVEN 138
XIV. HOW RICHARD'S SIN WAS REWARDED 148
XV. HOW RICHARD FOUND THE CRUCIFIX 158
XVI. HOW LADY IDE FORGAVE RICHARD 168
XVII. HOW RICHARD SAW PETER THE HERMIT 179
XVIII. HOW RICHARD MET GODFREY OF BOUILLON 187
XIX. HOW RICHARD TOOK THE CROSS 195
XX. HOW RICHARD RECEIVED GREAT MERCY 206
XXI. HOW RICHARD RETURNED TO LA HAYE 214
XXII. HOW RICHARD PARTED WITH HIS BROTHER 224
XXIII. HOW IFTIKHAR'S MESSENGER RETURNED 235
XXIV. HOW THEY SLEW THE FIRST INFIDEL 247
XXV. HOW DUKE GODFREY SAVED THE DAY 258
XXVI. HOW RICHARD WAS AGAIN CHASTENED 272
XXVII. HOW THE ARMY CAME TO ANTIOCH 283
XXVIII. HOW RICHARD REGAINED HIS BROTHER 293
XXIX. HOW IFTIKHAR BORE HOME HIS PRIZE 302
XXX. HOW THERE WAS FESTIVAL AT ALEPPO 315
XXXI. HOW MARY REDEEMED HER SOUL 328
XXXII. HOW MORGIANA PROFFERED TWO CUPS 341
XXXIII. HOW EYBEK TURNED GRAY 354
XXXIV. HOW MUSA PRACTISED MAGIC 367
XXXV. HOW RICHARD HEARD A SONG 381
XXXVI. HOW THE ISMAELIANS SAW TRENCHEFER 402
XXXVII. HOW ROLLO CARRIED WEIGHT 415
XXXVIII. HOW RICHARD AND MUSA AGAIN PARTED 428
XXXIX. HOW PETER BARTHELMY HAD A DREAM 444
XL. HOW THE HOLY LANCE WAS FOUND 457
XLI. HOW LIGHT SMOTE DARKNESS 472
XLII. HOW MORGIANA WOUND HER LAST SPELL 483
XLIII. HOW THE ARMY SAW JERUSALEM 489
XLIV. HOW MORGIANA BROUGHT WARNING 499
XLV. HOW RICHARD HAD SPEECH WITH MUSA 510
XLVI. HOW IFTIKHAR CEASED FROM TROUBLING 522
XLVII. HOW TRENCHEFER WAS BROKEN 535
XLVIII. HOW RICHARD SAW THE SUN RISE 546
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
"In a twinkling Richard was at the head of the raging brute" 16
"The cup trembled, as at the very thought she shuddered" 40
"The lad lay with his bright locks in a crimson pool" 146
"'How may I lift eyes to you when I belong to the cause of
Christ?'" 222
"Iftikhar took from the seat a little lute, touched the
strings, and sang" 327
"All blindly, he knew they were mounting stairways" 401
"And in his hand the rusted head of a lance" 462
"The infidel gave way" 542
GOD WILLS IT!
PROLOGUE
HOW HILDEBRAND GAVE A BATTLE CRY
High noon in Italy. Without, a hot sun, a blue bay, a slow sea-breeze;
within, a vaulted chamber, bare stone walls, a few blazoned pennons
upon the pillars, here and there pictured tapestries, where one might
see many a merry tourney and passage-at-arms. Very gentle were the
footfalls, though the room was not empty: the whispers were so low
that the droning buzz of a bee, which had stolen in at the narrow
window, sounded loud as a mill wheel. There were a score of persons in
the chamber: tonsured priests in white stoles, and monks in black
cassocks; knights in silvered hauberks; a white-robed Moor with the
eyes of a falcon and the teeth of a cat; and a young lad, Richard, son
of Sir William the castellan, a shy boy of twelve, who sat upon the
stone window seat, blinking his great eyes and wondering what it all
might mean. No eye rested on the lad: the company had thought only for
one object,--a figure that turned wearily on the velvet pillows, half
raised itself, sank once more. Then came a thin voice, gentle as a
woman's:--
"Abd Rahman, come: feel my wrist, and do not fear to speak the truth."
The Moor at the foot of the bed rose from the rushes whereon he had
been squatting; stole noiselessly to the sick man's side. From the
arch of the vault above dangled a silver ball. The Moor smote the
ball, and with his eye counted the slow vibrations while his hand held
the wrist. Even the vagrant bee stopped humming while the sphere
swung to and fro for a long minute. Then without a word Abd Rahman
crept to a low table where a lamp was heating a silver vial, and on
which other vials and spoons were lying. He turned the warm red elixir
into a spoon, and brought it to the dying man. There was a rush of
color to the pallid cheeks, with a striving to rise from the pillow;
but the Moor again held his wrist. Another long silence,--then the
question from the bed:--
"Do not hesitate. Is it near the end?"
Abd Rahman salaamed until his turban touched the rushes.
"Sheik Gregorius, all life save Allah's is mortal," said he in mongrel
Latin.
At the words, there ran a shiver and sobbing through all the company;
the priests were kissing their crucifixes; the monks were on their
knees,--and had begun to mutter _Agnus Dei, qui tolles peccata mundi,
miserere nobis!_ The sufferer's voice checked them.
"Sweet children, what is this? Sorrow? Tears? Rather should you not
rejoice that God has remembered my long travail, and opens wide the
doorway to the dwellings of His rest?" But the answer was renewed
sobbing. Only Abd Rahman crouched impassive. To him death was death,
for Nubian slave or lordly Kalif.
"Draw nearer, dear brothers, my children in Christ," came the voice
from the bed. "Let me see your faces; my sight grows dim. The end is
not far."
So they stood close by, those prelates and knights of the stout Norman
fortress city of Salerno, on that five-and-twentieth of May, in the
year of grace one thousand and eighty-five. None spoke. Each muttered
his own prayer, and looked upon the face of the dying. As they stood,
the sun dropped a beam athwart the pillows, and lit up the sick man's
face. It was a pale, thin, wasted face, the eyelids half drooping, the
eyes now lack-lustre, now touched by fretful and feverish fire; the
scanty gray hair tonsured, the shaven lips drawn tensely, so wan that
the blue veins showed, as they did through the delicate hands at rest
on the coverings. Yet the onlookers saw a majesty more than royal in
that wan face; for before them lay the "Servant of the Servants of
God." They looked upon Gregory VII, christened Hildebrand, heir of St.
Peter, Vicar of Christ, before whom the imperial successor of
Charlemagne and Cæsar had knelt as suppliant and vassal. The silence
was again waxing long.
"Dear children," said the dying Pope, "have you no word for me before
I go?" Whereupon the lordliest prelate of them all, the Archbishop of
Salerno, fell on his knees, and cried aloud:--
"Oh, _Sanctissime_! how can we endure when you are reft from us? Shall
we not be unshepherded sheep amongst ravening wolves; forsaken to the
devices of Satan! Oh, Father, if indeed you are the Vicar of Our Lord,
beg that He will spare us this loss; and even now He will lengthen out
your days, as God rewarded the good Hezekiah, and you will be restored
to us and to Holy Church!" But there was a weary smile upon Gregory's
pale face.
"No, my brother, be not afraid. I go to the visible presence of Our
Lord: before His very throne I will commend you all to His mercy."
Then the dim eyes wandered round the room. "Where is Odon? Where is
Odon, Bishop of Ostia? Not here?--"
"_Beatissime_" said old Desidarius, Abbot of Monte Casino, "we have
sent urgent messages to Capua, bidding him come with speed."
A wistful shadow passed across the face of Gregory.
"I pray God I may give him my blessing before I die."
He coughed violently; another vial of Abd Rahman's elixir quieted him,
but even the imperturbable face of the Moor told that the medicine
could profit little.
"Let us partake of the body and blood of Our Lord," said Gregory; and
the priests brought in a golden chalice and gilded pyx, containing the
holy mysteries. They chanted the _Gloria Patri_ with trembling voices;
the archbishop knelt at the bedside, proffering the pyx. But at that
instant the lad, Richard, as he sat and wondered, saw the Pope's
waxen face flush dark; he saw the thin hands crush the coverings into
folds, and put by the elements.
"I forget; I am first the Vicar of Christ; second, Hildebrand, the
sinner. I have yet one duty before I can stand at God's judgment
seat." The archbishop rose to his feet, and the holy vessel quaked in
his hand; for he saw on the brow of Gregory the black clouds,
foretelling the stroke of the lightning.
"What is your command, _Sanctissime_?" he faltered.
And the Pope answered, lifting himself unaided:--
"Speak! how has God dealt with the foes of Holy Church and His
Vicegerent? Has He abased Guibert of Ravenna, the Antipope, very
Antichrist? Has he humbled Henry, the German, Antichrist's friend?"
The voice was strong now; it thrilled through the vaulted chamber like
the roar of the wind that runs herald to the thunders.
And Desidarius answered feebly: "Holy Father, it is written, 'He that
is unjust let him be unjust still.' Guibert the Antipope, who
blasphemes, calling himself Clement the Third, still lords it in the
city of Peter; in Germany Henry the accursed is suffered to prosper
for yet a little season."
Whereupon Richard saw a terrible thing. The face of the Pope flushed
with an awful fury; he sat upright in the bed, his eyes darting fire,
and night on his forehead. Abd Rahman rose to quiet him--one glance
thrust the Moor back. None seconded. The Pope was still Pope; his were
the keys of heaven and hell,--perdition to deny! And now he spoke in
harsh command, as if handing down the doom of kingdoms, as indeed he
did.
"Hearken, bishops and prelates! I, Gregory, standing at the judgment
seat of God, am yet the Vicar of Christ. Of me it is said, 'Whatsoever
ye shall bind on earth shall be bound in heaven;' and let my last act
on this sinful earth be this--to devote to the devil and his angels
the souls of Henry, king of the Germans, who vaunts the name of
emperor, and Guibert, whose sin shall be forgiven never, for he is
Antichrist."
The pontiff gasped for breath; his voice sounded again.
"Take vellum, and write the formula of the greater excommunication
against the two accursed. Make haste: for all the rest of the world I
will forgive, but they shall be parched forever. Then let me, like
Pope Zacharias, sign the anathema with the very blood of Our Lord.
Haste; for the time grows short."
They obeyed like mute slaves. Richard saw a priest's pen racing over
the parchment, and shivered to his young self; for two of the world's
highest were being handed over to eternal torment. The Pope still sat.
In his eye flashed a fire born of passion passing reason.
"Yes," he ran on. "I am the son of the carpenter of Saona, the poor
monk at St. Mary of the Aventine. Yet I have been set above kings. At
Canossa the prince of this world has knelt at my feet, confessing his
imperial majesty lesser than mine. I have made and unmade kings; I
have raised up and pulled down; and the holy bride of Christ shall
come unblemished to her marriage. The Church--the Church--shall wax
forever; and this has been the work of my hands!" The Pope raved,--all
knew it,--but who should say him nay? Still he stormed on in his
passion: "They have driven me to exile, but mine is the victory. I
die, but the Church advances to triumph! Kingdoms fall,--the Church is
established. The earth passes away,--the Church sits down to the
marriage supper with the Lamb: for the gates of hell shall not prevail
against her!"
Gregory saw the priest lift his eyes from the writing-desk.
"Is it written?"
"It is written, Holy Father."
"Bring it to me, and bring the chalice and the pen; for I will sign."
The archbishop brought the vellum and the holy cup, and knelt at the
bedside; and others had brought lighted candles, twelve in number,
each held by a prelate or priest who stood in semicircle about the
bed. Then while they chanted the great psalm of wrath, they heard the
bell of the castle tolling,--tolling,--not for the death of the body,
but for the more grievous death of the soul. "_In consummatione, in
ira consummationis_"--"Consume them, in wrath consume them," swelled
the terrible chant.
"Give me the crucifix," commanded Gregory. Desidarius placed one of
silver in his hand. A priest at either side bore him up from the bed.
Softly, but solemnly as the Judge of the last Great Day, Gregory read
the major anathema:--
"I, Gregory, Servant of the Servants of God, to whom is given all
power in heaven, on earth, and in hell, do pronounce you, Henry, false
Emperor, and you, Guibert, false Pope, anathematized, excommunicate,
damned! Accursed in heaven and on earth,--may the pains of hell follow
you forever! Cursed be you in your food and your possessions, from the
dog that barks for you to the cock that crows for you! May you wax
blind; may your hands wither; like Dathan and Abiram, may hell swallow
you up quick; like Ananias and Sapphira, may you receive an ass's
burial! May your lot be that of Judas in the land of shades! May these
maledictions echo about you through the ages of ages!"
And at these words the priests cast down their candles, treading them
out, all crying: "Amen and amen! So let God quench all who contemn the
Vicar of Christ."
Then in a silence so tense that Richard felt his very eyeballs
beating, Gregory dipped in the chalice, and bent over the roll. The
lad heard the tip of the pen touch the vellum,--but the words were
never written....
Darkening the doorway was a figure, leaning upon a crooked staff; in
the right hand a withered palm branch,--the gaze fixed straight upon
the Vicegerent of God. And Gregory, as he glanced upward, saw,--gave a
cry and sigh in one breath; then every eye fastened upon the newcomer,
who without a word advanced with soft gliding step to the foot of the
bed, and looked upon the Pope.
None addressed him, for he was as it were a prophet, a Samuel called
up from his long rest to disclose the mysteries hid to human ken. The
strange visitor was of no great height; fasting and hardship had worn
him almost to a skeleton. From under his dust-soiled pilgrim's coat
could be seen the long arms, with the skin sun-dried, shrivelled. Over
his breast and broad shoulders streamed the snow-white hair and beard.
Beneath the shaggy brows, within deep sockets, were eyes, large, dark,
fiery, that held the onlooker captive against his will. The pilgrim's
nose seemed like the beak of a hawk, his fingers like dry talons. And
all looked and grew afraid, for he was as one who had wrestled with
the glamour and sin of the world for long, and had been more than
victor.
Pope and pilgrim gazed upon each other: first spoke Hildebrand:--
"Sebastian, my brother-monk!"
"Hildebrand, my fellow at St. Mary's!"
Then the apparition fell on his knees, saying humbly:--
"And will not the Pope bless Sebastian the palmer from Jerusalem?"
What the pontiff replied was lost to all about; then louder he
spoke:--
"And has Sebastian the palmer forgotten his love for Hildebrand the
monk, when he reverences the Vicar of Christ?"
But the stranger arose.
"I kneel, adoring Gregory, Vicegerent of God: I stand to lay bare to
Hildebrand, the man, his mortal sin."
A thrill of horror ran through all the churchmen, and the archbishop
whispered darkly to Desidarius, but the Pope reproved:--
"And I implore the prayers of Sebastian, a more righteous man than I;
let him speak, and all Christians honor him."
So they stood. The palmer drew close to the bedside, pointing into the
pontiff's face a finger bare as that of one long in the grave.
"Listen, Hildebrand of Saona! I am come from my pilgrimage to the tomb
of our dear Lord. I have come hither to fall at your feet, to bid you
remember the captivity of the city of Christ, and His sorrow at the
wrong done Him through His little ones. I come to find the Vicar of
Christ like the meanest of humankind, nigh to death, and preparing to
stand naked at God's tribunal. I find him not forgiving his enemies,
but devoting to hell. I find him going before God, his last breath a
curse--"
But the Pope was writhing in agony.
"Not this, my brother, my brother," rang his plea. "O Sebastian,
holier man than I," and he strove to turn from the palmer's terrible
gaze, but could not. "Not in my own wrath and hatred do I this. Henry
and Guibert blaspheme Christ and His church, not me. Did I not freely
forgive Censius the brigand, who sought my life? Have I ever been a
worldly prelate, whose cellars are full of wines, whose castles abound
with plate and falcons and chargers? Has simony or uncleanness ever
justly been laid at my door? Not so, not so,--I am innocent."
But Sebastian never wavered. "You and I were fellow-monks at St.
Mary's, friends, as one soul dwelling in two bodies. But the pleasure
of God led us wide apart; you became maker of popes, very Pope--I
remained a simple monk; for our Lord spared me the burdens of
greatness. Now for the third time I have been to the tomb of Christ,
to plead pardon for my many sins and I bring from Palestine treasures
more precious than gold."
The whole company was about the palmer when he drew forth a little
packet. "See--the finger-bone of the blessed St. Jerome; this flask is
filled with water of Jordan; this dust my poor hands gathered at the
Holy Sepulchre." And now all bowed very low. "This splinter is of that
wood whereon the price of all our sins was paid."
Hildebrand took the last relic, kissed it, placed it in his bosom
lovingly. Then came the slow question. "And are the Eastern Christians
still persecuted, the pilgrims outraged, the sacred places polluted?"
"Look, _Sanctissime_" was the answer, tinged half with bitterness and
scorn; and Sebastian bared his arm, showing upon it a ring of scarce
healed scars. "These are tokens of the tortures I endured by command
of the Emir of Jerusalem, when I rejoiced to be counted worthy to
suffer for Christ's dear sake."
"Wounds of Our Lord!" cried the archbishop on his knees, "we are
unworthy to wash the feet of such as you!"
"No," replied the palmer. "It was but merciful chastening. Yet my
heart burns when I behold Christians cursing and slaying one another,
while so many infidels rage unslain and the Holy City mourns their
captive. Therefore I stand here, _Sanctissime_, to reproach you for
your sin."
Again Gregory broke forth: "Unjust Sebastian, eleven years since I
pleaded with King Henry, setting forth the miseries of Jerusalem; ever
has my soul been torn for her captivity. Did I not profess myself
ready to lead over land and sea to the Holy Sepulchre? Then the devil
stirred Henry to his onslaught on the Church, and God has opened no
door for this righteous warfare."
Sebastian leaned over, speaking into the Pope's face.
"You have put your hand to the plough and looked back. You promised
Michael Ducas the Greek aid against the Turks. You anathematized him
for heresy. You wrote of holy war. War blazed forth in Saxony, where
your underling, Rudolf of Swabia, slew his fellow-Christians with your
blessing, while Christ's children in the East were perishing. You
called to Rome Robert Guiscard, that man of sin, whose half-paynim
army spared neither nun nor matron in its violence when it sacked, and
led thousands of Roman captives to endless bondage in Calabria. Where
then your anathemas? You cared more for humiliating Cæsar than for
removing the humiliation of Christ. Therefore I reproach."
There were great beads of sweat on the Pope's forehead; he was panting
in agony; again and again the splinter of the cross was pressed to his
breast, as if the very touch would quench the raging flame within.
"_Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa!_" he was repeating. Next he
spoke aloud: "Sweet friends, bear witness,--all my life I have loved
righteousness and hated iniquity; therefore, in exile, here at
Salerno, I die. Yet our old enemy, Satan, has been too strong. I am a
very sinful man, thinking too much of the glory of Peter, too little
of the sorrow of Christ. Pray for me,--for Hildebrand, chief of
sinners; for Gregory the Pope is nigh his end."
When the pontiff's breath failed, there were again shadows in the
doorway, and two figures entered treading softly; the one a tall and
handsome churchman, in a high prelate's dress, the second a cavalier,
not tall, but mighty of limb and shoulder, the jewels flashing on his
baldric, the gold spurs at his heels. The warrior threw back his helm,
and all saw the long, fair beard, the steel-blue eyes, the mien of
high command.
"Odon, Cardinal of Ostia, my dear son!" cried the fainting Pope, as
the prelate knelt at the bedside, beseeching the blessing. "But--you?"
and he wondered, looking upon the knight. The other bowed his head.
"Holy Father," said he, in the tongue of northern France, "do you not
know me? I have greatly sinned: I have fought with Henry against Holy
Church. I repent; assign any penance--for from Rome I have come,
seeking absolution at the hands of the true Vicar of Christ."
"And you are--?" came from Hildebrand's thin lips.
"Godfrey of Bouillon." And the knight knelt beside the cardinal.
The light was again in the Pope's eye. "Fear not," came his words. "As
you have been the foe of Holy Church, so now you shall become her
champion. Your sins are forgiven; what you shall do, learn hereafter."
Another spasm of coughing; Abd Rahman administered his last elixir.
All knew the end was very near. But again the pontiff spoke. "I must
say farewell, sweet children. Make Desidarius my successor, for he has
served Holy Church full long. But he is old, and after him"--his eyes
went over to Odon--"you shall sit upon the throne of Peter." The
prelate was in tears.
"Say it not," he cried. "Unworthy!--Anselm of Lucca, Hugh of Lyons,
they are better men than I."
"No," said Gregory, gently, "you will succeed in due time, and do not
refuse the service of the Lord." Then he turned to Sebastian. "Dear
brother, O for ten years of life, five, one! I have been an
unfaithful shepherd of my sheep! But God is all wise. Never in this
body shall I call the soldiers of the West to arm against the enemies
of Christ! Yet--yet--" the voice faltered, steadied again--"the time
cometh when God wills it, and you, Odon, shall call forth the warriors
of the Cross; and you, O Godfrey,--be this your penance,--you shall
lead the host to Jerusalem. And the host shall move victoriously,
Frank, German, Italian! The Holy City shall be rescued from her
spoilers! And this be your battle cry, against which paynim or devil
may not prevail, '_God wills it!_' For what God wills, may no man or
archfiend stay!"
His voice pealed like a trumpet, like the shout of a dauntless captain
leading through the deathly press. All looked on him. When his hands
stretched on high, every other hand was outstretched. Nearer they
crowded, and the swords of the Norman knights leaped from their
scabbards,--there was the clang of mail, the flash of light on bare
steel,--highest of all the sword of Godfrey. Hildebrand struggled to
rise; Sebastian upbore at one side, Odon at the other. The Pope gazed
upward toward the vaulting--seemingly through it--beyond--
"I see the heavens opened," was his cry. "I see horses and chariots; a
mighty host; and Michael and all his angels with swords of fire. I see
the earth covered with armies innumerable, and red with the carnage of
countless battles. I see the great host of those who have shed their
blood for Christ, ascending into heaven, with psalms of praise,
clothed in white robes, while their comrades below march on to
victory." A pause,--a final burst of ecstasy,--"I see the Cross
triumphant on the walls of Jerusalem! And all this shall be not now,
yet speedily; for so God wills it!"
The Pope reeled; Sebastian caught him; they laid him on the bed. Abd
Rahman was beside--no need of his skill--a great rush of blood surged
from Gregory's lips, one brief spasm--he was dead.
"Christians," spoke Sebastian the palmer, "think not the Vicar of
Christ has left us unaided in this sacred task. At the throne of God
he will pray that our fingers be taught the sword, that we be girded
with strength for the battle. And now while his spirit is borne on
high by angels, let us take on ourselves the vow of holy war."
The lad Richard, whose young wits had been sadly perplexed by all he
had seen since at early morn he had been sent to watch in the
sick-room, that his weary father the castellan might rest, made as if
to glide from the chamber; but Sebastian by a glance recalled. They
stood around the bed, looking upon the dead man's face, their arms
stretched on high.
"We swear it! That soon as the path is plain, we will free Jerusalem.
So God wills it!"
Thus cried Odon, thus all; but loudest of all Godfrey of Bouillon.
Then Sebastian, turning to Richard, said:--
"And you, fair young sir, whom the saints make the sprout of a mighty
warrior for Christ--will you vow also?"
Whereupon Richard, holding himself very lordly, as became his noble
Norman blood, replied with outstretched hand, in right manly
fashion:--
"Yes, with St. Maurice's help, I will slay my share of the infidels!"
"Amen," quoth Abbot Desidarius, solemnly, "Gregory the Pope is dead in
the body, but in the spirit he shall win new victories for Holy Church
and for God."
CHAPTER I
HOW BARON WILLIAM SALLIED FORTH
It was early dawn in May, 1094. The glowing sun had just touched the
eastern mountains with living fire; the green brakes and long
stretches of half-tropical woodland were springing out of the shadow;
a thin mist was drifting from the cool valleys; to the north the sea's
wide reach was dancing and darkling. Upon a little height overlooking
the Sicilian town of Cefalu three men were standing, very unlike in
age and dress, yet each with attention fixed on one object,--a white
falcon which the youngest of the party had perched on his fist. Two of
the men were past the prime of life. Of one, the swarthy countenance,
sharp features, bright Oriental dress, ponderous blue turban, and
crooked cimeter proclaimed him at once a Moor, undoubtedly a Moslem;
the other, taller, thinner than his comrade, wore a coarse, dark
mantle; his hood was thrust back, displaying a head crowned with a
tight-fitting steel cap, a face stern and tough, as if it were of
oxhide, marked almost to deformity by plentiful sword scars. He wore a
grizzled gray beard; at his side jangled a heavy sword in battered
sheath; and in his hands, which lacked more than one finger, he held a
crossbow, the bolts for which swung in a leathern case at his thigh.
The two stood by their third companion, who was holding up the falcon
on a gold-embroidered glove, while the other hand readjusted the
feather-tufted hood over the bird's eyes.
"By St. Michael," the young man was declaring, "say to me, Herbert,
and you also, Nasr, there was never such a falcon; no, not in all
Count Roger's mews."
The speaker stood at least a head taller than the others, and they
were not short men. He was a strong-limbed fellow of perhaps
two-and-twenty; with a face not regular and handsome certainly; the
cheek-bones were too high, the features too rugged, the mouth too
large for that. But it was an honest, ingenuous face; the brown eyes
snapped with lively spirits, and, if need be, with no trifling
passion; the mouth was affable; the little brown mustache twisted at a
determined curve; and the short dark hair--he was bare-headed--was
just curly enough to be unruly. He wore a bleaunt, an undercloak of
fine gray cloth, and over this was caught a loose mantle of scarlet
woollen,--a bright dress that marked out his figure from afar.
The young man had been speaking in Norman French, and his comrade in
the steel cap, who answered to the name of Herbert, broke out
loudly:--
"Aye, my Lord Richard, there is not such a falcon in all Sicily from
Syracuse to Trapani; not such a bird as will strike so huge a crane or
heron from so far, and go at the quarry so fearless." And the old man
held up a dead crane, as if in proof of his assertion.
"I am glad to think it," replied the other, "for I have no small hope
that when next I go to Palermo, I may show that haughty Louis De
Valmont I know somewhat of hawking, and can breed a bird to outmatch
his best."
"Allah!" grunted Nasr, the Moor, "the young _Cid_ is right. Never have
I seen a better falcon. And he does well to harbor the old grudge
against the boisterous De Valmont, who will get his dues if the Most
High will! Ha, ha!" And the old rascal began croaking in his throat,
thinking he was laughing.
Nasr had spoken in Arabic, but his companions understood him well
enough; for what tongue was not current in Sicily? The young man's
face was clouded, however, as if by no very pleasant recollection;
then he burst out:--
"By the Mass, but I will not forget the high words that pompous knight
spoke to me. If it be a sin to harbor an enmity, as Sebastian the
chaplain says, why then"--and he crossed himself--"I will do penance
in due time. But the quarrel must be wiped out first." And he clapped
his hand on his sword-hilt to confirm his word.
"_Ai!_" muttered Herbert, "the churchmen talk of the days when spears
shall be beaten into pruning-hooks--so they say it; but I say, let old
Herbert be dead before that time dawns. What is life without its
grudges? A good horse, a good sword, a good wife, and a good
grudge--what more can an honest man want, be he knight or 'villain'?"
Richard yawned and commenced to scratch his head.
"Ah!" he commented, "it was very early we rose! I have not yet rubbed
the vapors out of my crown. Sir Gerald, the knight travelling from
Palermo who lodged with us, was given hospitality in my bed, and we
talked of his horses and sweethearts till past midnight. Then
Brochart, my best dog, was not content to sleep under the bed, as is
his wont, but must needs climb up and lie upon me, and I was too
slumberous to roll him off; so I have dreamt of imps and devils all
night long."
He drew the strap tight that held the falcon to his glove, and led the
way down the slope, remarking that since he had tested the new bird
thus early, he would not hesitate to display her keenness to his
father the Baron, who proposed to ride hawking that day. So they
passed down the hill towards Cefalu with its white houses and
squat-domed churches spreading out below them, a fair picture to the
eye; for the summer sea, flecked by a few fishers' sails, stretched
beyond, and the green hills far to either hand. Before them on a sheer
eminence rose the battlemented keep of the castle, an ancient
Saracenic fortress lately remodelled by the new Norman lords, the dawn
falling bright and free on its amber-gray walls, and lending a rich
blush to the stately crimson banner that from topmost rampart was
trailing to the southern wind.
As the three went down the slope they struck the highroad just beyond
a little clump of palm trees, and at the turn they ran on a travelling
party that was evidently just setting forth from Cefalu. There were
several women and priests on palfreys and mules, one or two mounted
men-at-arms, and several pack animals; but the centre of the whole
party was found in an enormous black horse, who at that instant had
flung off his rider, and was tossing his forefeet in the air and
raging and stamping as if by a demon possessed. Two stout Lombard
serving-men were tugging at his bits, but he was kicking at them
viciously, and almost worrying out of their grasp at every plunge. The
women were giving little shrieks each time the great horse reared; the
priests were crossing themselves and mumbling in Latin; and all their
beasts were growing restive.
In a twinkling Richard was at the head of the raging brute, and with a
mighty grip close to the jaw taught the foaming monster that he felt a
master hand. A moment more and the horse was standing quiet and
submissive. Richard resigned his hold to a servant, and turned to the
strange travellers. A fat man in a prelate's dress, with a frosty red
face, was pushing his white mule forward; Richard fell at once on his
knees, for he recognized in the churchman My Lord Prelate Robert of
Evroult, the Bishop of Messina. The good father was all thanks.
"_Dominus vobiscum_, my son; you have subdued a savage beast, to which
I, a man of peace and not of war, should never have given harborage in
my stables. And who may you be, for I have seen your face before, yet
forget the name?"
"_Beatissime_, I am Richard Longsword, son of William Longsword,
seigneur of this Barony of Cefalu."
"A right noble knight you will prove yourself, no doubt," commented
the bishop; "when at Palermo do not fail to wait on me." And then,
when he had given his blessing, he signed for the cavalcade to
proceed.
"I thank your episcopal grace," quoth Richard, still very dutifully;
and then his eye lit on another of the travellers,--one much more to
his liking than the reverend prelate; for a lady sitting on a second
white mule had thrust back the yellow veil from before her face, and
the Norman caught a glimpse of cheeks red as a rose and white as milk,
and two very bright eyes. Only a glimpse; for the lady, the instant
he raised his gaze, dropped the veil; but she could not cover up those
dark, gleaming eyes. Richly dressed was she, after the fashion of the
Greeks, with red ribbons on her neck and a blue silk mantle and
riding-hood. Her mule had a saddle of fine, embossed leather, and
silver bits. At her side rode an old man in a horse-litter led by
foot-boys; he also daintily dressed, and with the handsome, clear-cut
features and venerable white beard of a Greek gentleman. The lady had
dropped her veil at his warning nod, but now she bent over the mule
and half motioned to Richard.
"You understand Greek, Sir Frank?" was her question; not in the
mongrel Sicilian dialect, but in the stately tongue of Constantinople.
In her voice was a little tremor and melody sweet as a springtime
brook. The Norman bowed low.
"I understand and speak, fair lady," replied he, in her own tongue.
"How brave you have been!" cried the Greek, ingenuously; "I feared the
raging horse would kill you."
Richard shrugged his shoulders and laughed:--
"It is nothing; I know horses as my second self."
But the lady shook her head, and made all the red ribbons and bright
veil flutter. "I am not wont to be contradicted," said she; "a brave
deed, I say. I did not think you Franks so modest."
The old man was leaning from the litter. "Let us ride, my daughter,"
he was commanding. The lady tapped her mule on the neck with the ivory
butt of her whip. "Farewell, Sir Frank; St. Theodore keep you, if you
make so light of peril!"
Richard bowed again in silence. He would not forget those eyes in a
day, though he had seen many bright eyes at Count Roger's court.
"_Ai_," cried he to his companions, "to the castle, or the hawking
begins without us."
So they struck a brisk pace, whilst Herbert related how he had heard
that the Greek gentleman, though a cripple, had stood high at the
court of Constantinople, and that he had come to Cefalu on a Pisan
ship a few days before. It was declared he was in exile, having fallen
out of the Emperor's favor, and had been waiting at Cefalu until the
bishop came up, giving them escort for the land journey to Palermo.
"As for the daughter, ah! she is what you have just seen,--more
precious than all the relics under a church altar; but her father
watches her as if she were made of gold!"
"I am vexed," replied the young man. "I did not know this before; it
was uncourtly that persons of their rank should lodge in Cefalu, and
no one of the castle wait on them." Then because one thought had led
to another: "Tell me, Nasr, have you learned anything of that Spanish
knight whom they say keeps himself at the country house of Hajib the
Kadi? Assuredly he is no true cavalier, or he would not thus
churlishly withdraw himself. There are none too many men of spirit
here at Cefalu, for me to stick at making acquaintance."
Nasr showed his sharp, white teeth.
"Yes, I have gained sight of the Spaniard. From the brother-in-law of
the cousin of the wife of the steward of the Kadi, I learn that he is
called Musa, and is of a great family among the Andalusian Moslems."
Richard chuckled at the circuit this bit of news had taken; then
pressed:--
"But you have seen him? What is he like?"
"If my lord's slave"--Nasr was always respectful--"may speak,--the
Spanish knight is a very noble cavalier. I saw him only once, yet my
eye tells if a man has the port of a good swordsman and rider.
Assuredly this one has, and his eyes are as keen and quick as a
shooting star."
"Yet he keeps himself very retired about the country house?"
"True, _Cid_, yet this, they say, is because he is an exile in Sicily,
and even here has fears for his life; so he remains quiet."
"Foh!" grunted Richard, "I am weary of quiet men and a quiet life. I
will go back to Palermo, and leave my father to eat his dinners and
doze over his barony. I have the old grudge with De Valmont to settle,
and some high words with Iftikhar, captain of the Saracen guards, will
breed into a very pretty quarrel if I am bent on using them. Better
ten broils than this sleepy hawking and feasting!"
So they crossed the drawbridge, entered the outer walls of the bailey,
with its squalid outbuildings, weather-beaten stables, the gray, bare
donjon looming up above; and entering a tiny chapel, Richard and
Herbert fell on their knees, while a priest--none other than
Sebastian, who had stood at Hildebrand's side--chanted through the
"_Gloria_" and "_Preface_" But when it came time for the sermon, the
baron's two bears, caged in the bailey, drowned the pious prosings
with an unholy roar as they fell on one another; and the good cleric
cried, "Amen!" that all might run and drag them asunder.
There by the cage Richard greeted his father,--a mighty man even in
his old age, though his face was hacked and scarred, and showed little
of the handsome young cavalier who had stolen the heart of every maid
in Rouen. But in his blue Norman eyes still burned the genial fire;
his tread was heavy as a charger's, his great frame straight as a
plummet; a stroke of his fist could fell a horse, and his flail-like
sword was a rush in his fingers. He was smooth-shaven; round his neck
strayed a few white locks, all his crown worn bare by the long rubbing
of his helmet. One could have learned his rank by the ermine lining on
his under-mantle, by the gold plates on his sword belt and samite
scabbard; but in a "villain's" dress he would have been known as one
of those lordly cavaliers who had carried the Norman name and fame
from the Scottish Marches to Thessaly.
Father and son embraced almost in bear-fashion, each with a crushing
hug. Then Richard must needs kiss his mother, the fair Lady Margaret
of Auvergne, sweet and stately in her embroidered bleaunt, with golden
circlet on her thick gray-gold hair; after her, Eleanor, a small
maiden of sixteen, prim, demure, and very like her mother, with two
golden braids that fell before her shoulders almost to her knees; and
lastly, Stephen, a slight, dark lad, with a dreamy, contemplative face
and an eye for books in place of arrow-heads, whom the family placed
great hopes on: should he not be bishop, nay Pope, some bright day, if
the saints favored?
"Hola, Richard!" cried the Baron, with a spade-like paw on his son's
shoulder. "So you made test of the white falcon; does she take
quarry?"
"A crane large enough to hold a dog at bay!"
"Praised be St. Maurice! Come, let us eat, and then to horse and
away!"
So they feasted in the great hall, the plates and trenchers
clattering, enough spiced wine to crack the heads of drinkers less
hardened, the busy Norman varlets and Greek serving-maids buzzing to
and fro like bees; for who could hawk with hunger under the girdle? A
brief feast; and all had scattered right and left to make ready; but
not for long.
Soon they were again in the court, the Baron, his sons, and Herbert,
with Aimeri, the falconer, who had brought out his pride, as fine a
half-dozen of goshawks and gerfalcons as might be found in all Sicily.
The birds were being strapped fast to each glove, the grooms were
leading out the tall palfreys, and the Baron stood with one hand on
the pommel of his saddle, ready to dig his spurs and be away, when a
mighty clangor arose from the bronze slab hanging by the gate.
"By St. Ouen," cried he, in a hot Norman oath, pausing in his spring,
"what din is that? I have no mind to put off the hawking to bandy
words with some wandering priest who would stop to swill my wine!"
But Herbert, the seneschal, had gone to the gate, and came back with
his wicked eyes dancing in his head.
"Ho! My lord, there will be no hawking to-day!" he was bawling with
all his lungs.
"Why not, rascal?" growled the Baron; yet he, too, began to sniff an
adventure, like a practised war-horse.
"These people will make it clear to my lord."
And after the seneschal trooped three very dissimilar persons, who all
broke out in a breath into howls and cries.
The first was a well-fed priest, but with a tattered cassock and a
great red welt swelling upon his bare poll; the second, a dark-eyed
Greek peasant of the country in a dress also much the worse for wear;
and the third, a tall, gaunt old Moor, whose one-time spotless white
kaftan and turban were dust-sprinkled and torn. They all cried and
bellowed at once, but the priest got out the first coherent word.
"Rescue, noble Baron, rescue, for the love of Christ! My master, the
Bishop of Messina, is fallen into the hands of the men of Belial, and
I, even I, of all his following, am escaped to tell the tale.
Rescue--"
And here the Greek broke in:--
"Oh! most august Frank, by St. Basil and St. Demetrius, I adjure you,
save my sister, whom the pirates have carried away."
But the old Moor, with tears in his eyes, knelt and kissed the Baron's
very feet.
"Oh! fountain of generosity, save my master, for the Berber raiders
seek not his ransom, but his life. Rescue, O champion of the
innocent!"
"By the splendor of God!" roared the Baron, with a great oath, "I make
nothing of all this wind. What mean they, Herbert?" And the seneschal,
who stood by all alert, replied curtly: "I gather, Moorish pirates
have landed below the town toward Lascari to kill or kidnap the
Spanish knight who dwells with Hajib the Kadi; and doubtless the
Bishop of Messina and his company have fallen into their hands while
passing along the road. It may be, my lord,"--and the sly fellow
winked, as if the hint would be needed,--"that if we ride forth, we
may nip them before they regain the ship. The Kadi's villa is far
inland."
Baron William was no man of words when deeds were needed. In a trice
he had clapped to his mouth the great olifant--the ivory horn that
dangled at his baldric, and its notes rang out sharp and clear. Twice
he wound a mighty blast; and almost before the last peal died away
the castle was transformed. The Norman men-at-arms, dozing and dicing
in the great hall, were tearing their shields from the wall, their
lances from the cupboards and presses. Forth sounded that merriest of
jingling, the clinking of good ring-steel hauberks as they dragged
them on. In the stables feverish grooms girt fast the saddles on the
stamping _destrers_--the huge war-horses. And up from other parts of
the castle rose the boom of kettledrums, the clash and brattle of
cymbals, as the Baron's Saracens, nigh half of his garrison, came
racing into the bailey, clattering their brass-studded targets with
their bow staves, and tossing their crooked cimeters. Richard and his
father had rushed into the donjon, but were back quick as thought with
their mail shirts jangling about them, and stout steel caps hiding all
the face save the eyes. The good Baron was snorting and dancing for
the fray as if it had been his first battle; or as if he were what the
_jongleurs_ said of Charlemagne, "two hundred years old, scarred by a
hundred fields, yet the last to weary of the mêlée."
Good Lady Margaret stood by the gate as the troops rode out, after her
son and husband had kissed her. Dear woman! it was not the first time
she had seen them ride forth perchance to deadlier fields, but she had
not yet learned to love the blasts of the war-horn. Until they
returned she would spend the time in the chapel, betwixt hope and
fear, telling it all to "Our Lady of Succors."
"Will you not come with us?" cried Richard, gayly, to Sebastian, the
old priest, who stood at his mother's side. "Play Roland's Bishop
Turpin, who slew so many infidels."
The good man shrugged his shoulders, and said with a sigh: "Not
slaying infidels, but slaying for slaying's sake you lust after, my
son. When you ride for Christ's love only, then perhaps I ride with
you; but St. George shield you--if not for your sake, at least for
ours."
The troops cantered forth, twenty good Norman men-at-arms; as many
light-mailed Saracen riders,--the Baron and his son in full armor. At
the turn in the road below the castle Richard waved his kite-shaped
shield, as last salute to the little group by the drawbridge.
"Let us go to the chapel, my children," said Lady Margaret to her
younger son and her daughter. "We can do nothing here."