HOW RICHARD WON TWO FOES
The "Palace of the Diadem" had been the pride of some haughty Kelbite
emir in the days when Palermo was a prime jewel in the Arabian crown;
but the glory of its builder's family had long since been laid low.
Moslem had slaughtered Moslem in the feuds that racked Sicily.
Byzantines and Pisans had menaced the capital and ravaged its emerald
vega. Now at last the Norman had come to conquer, and remained as
lord; so that the owners of the palace had long sought purchaser. Then
the Greek Cæsar came, an exile, but with a good store of bezants held
in trust by Venetian merchants, and the palace had passed into his
hands. It lay on the first slopes of the hills rising back of
Monreale, close by the Norman count's hunting lodge; the steep
mountain sides crowding down upon it from above; before it, to the
north, the broad sweeps of the Golden Shell; and around, dense groves
of locust and almond, palm trees and judas trees, with thickets in
perennial bloom. Here, all the year long, little brooks kept the
greensward moist and sweet; and in springtime the orange blossoms
glistered whiter than clouds against rare green foliage. At evening,
from behind clustered thickets would drift the notes of the
nightingale, while the still, shy moon crept upwards in the sky. Such
the gardens about the palace. And the palace itself? It was a lyric in
stone. One could wander through long halls and wide courts in a soft
half-light, with no rude sun venturing to touch a vulgar ray upon the
stalactite vaults, the mazy colonnades, the red granite and jasper
shafts, the tile work and moulding of red and blue and gold. Buried in
the midst of these halls, where the air ever breathed of musk, and
rose-water, and frankincense, what effort to lie through the round
year, and hear the fountains plash their music, and dream of love,
joy, and the kiss of the houris?
Here dwelt the Cæsar and his daughter. Not alone; thither came all
Palermo, from Count Roger downward. True, Manuel was in exile, but
there were many roads back to Alexius's favor, and once regained, the
Cæsar's friendship was worth the winning. And as for the princess, all
the young knights quarrelled in secret for the chance to offer her
holy water at church, or to ride in Countess Adelaide's train when she
took the fair Greek hawking. Much ill-blood was brewed, and some
little shed; for the Norman and Saracen knights alike would almost
have given their heads for one smile from her. Yet the hottest rivals
were the one-time friends, the great knight, Louis de Valmont of
Auvergne, far-famed as a jouster, and Iftikhar Eddauleh, commander of
Count Roger's Saracen guards, reputed the stoutest lance in Sicily.
Thus it befell that Louis and Iftikhar (who, despite his creed and
dark skin, was all gallantry to the Christian ladies) had ridden to
Monreale to pay their _devoirs_ to the princess on the selfsame day
Richard and his friend rode thither also. The Cæsar affected something
of his native state at Monreale; he met his guests in a marble court,
where a gilded swan was pouring tinkling water from its curving
throat; and scattered about the alabaster basin, in the mild
half-light, lay rug-covered divans, gay carpets, and a great cushioned
armchair for the aged Greek. The Cæsar wore the insignia of his
rank,--buskins of green leather, and a gem-set, open cap, whence
dangled a long lappet of pearls over either cheek. And his daughter,
too, was another and far statelier lady than she whom Richard
Longsword had plucked from the Berbers. She stood to greet her guests,
all radiant in purple tunic, a silken cape about her shoulders which
shone with gems worth a baron's ransom; and when she spoke, it was
with the nod and mien of one whose life it had been to command.
Yet they were very merry. De Valmont had equal fame as troubadour and
as cavalier. He had brought the princess an "improvised" _canso_,
wherein he protested his abject wretchedness when the light of her
face was hid from him, professed himself her slave, and conjured
heaven, since she still remained so cold, to take away his life, that
he might no more suffer. At this poem Mary professed herself
delighted; for she was long past blushing at lip service. Then
Iftikhar, swelling with jealousy, matched the Provençal with his
Arabic, which Mary, like any cosmopolitan Byzantine, understood well;
he sang how all the black-eyed maids of Paradise burned in jealousy of
the Greek, how before her beauty each nightingale forgot his song, and
a hundred genii flitted about her, feasting their ravished eyes.
Whereat Louis, in rivalry, would have capped his song with another,
when a serving-lad announced Richard Longsword and Musa of Granada.
Longsword knew Iftikhar and De Valmont well, yet in years to come he
dated their contact from this hour. Splendid was the emir in form and
face, with broad shoulders and lordly height and poise. His swarthy
Egyptian skin became him as a bay coat a charger; his ponderous hands,
full black beard, red morocco-shod feet, the huge cimeter at his side,
all spoke one word--"power"; a prince in very deed, from his jewelled
black turban downward. And beside him stood Louis,--short, but great
of limb, fair-haired, handsome, save for a certain smile more arrogant
than affable. His beard was trimmed to a little beak, his hair
carefully shaven across his forehead, as the fashion was; and he wore
his native high black boots, the bane of all Provençal-hating Normans.
On the gold plates of his sword-belt were jewel-set rosettes, and
despite the heat of the day he did not disdain to show a mantle lined
with rare sable,--no poor cavalier's dress.
Mary greeted the newcomers warmly; warmly--yet to Richard how
different was she from that merry girl who had pressed the cup to his
lips that fateful evening at Cefalu! He had come expecting to demand,
and to carry away; and behold! the laughing maid was a stately
princess; her suitor was one of a score of young men who loved
without hope; his rivals were the most valorous cavaliers in all the
broad island. He had but set eyes on De Valmont and the emir, when he
saw his day-dreams vanish in thin air. What had he, unknighted,
comparatively unrenowned, to proffer, when such champions sought her
grace?
Still, for a while the talk ran gayly. Mary told of her rescue, and
praised Longsword's valor; but his joy was tempered as he saw the
patronizing smile that sat on De Valmont's face, when the recital
finished.
"Our young friend comes of my own Auvergne stock," said the knight,
with venomous urbanity; "when he reaches due years he will break
lances with the best."
The Norman's cheek flushed, but he mastered his temper. "You say well,
fair sir; I am indeed a very young cavalier. Yet I hope I am not
unworthy of my mother's family of St. Julien, which has won some small
credit in its feuds with its neighbors."
There was an arrow in this reply; for the houses of St. Julien and
Valmont were at bitter strife, and thus far the saints had given glory
to the former. So the knight frowned in his turn, and shot back:--
"Yet, I think, good squire, that you are Norman rather than Provençal.
No gentleman of the South Country preserves that worthy old custom,
whereby the father hands down his festival clothes to the son through
three, and here, I imagine, four generations."
The insult was palpable enough, but Longsword reined in his anger.
"You are wrong, Sir Louis," quoth he, very softly; "my bleaunt is new,
though I have no Provençal tailor; for I remembered the saying of
certain holy churchmen: 'He who dresses after the godless fashion of
the men of the Languedoc, puts in peril his soul.'"
The parry and thrust had gone on long enough to promise little honor
to De Valmont, and the knight ended by saying blandly: "It grieves me,
dear friend, that you listen to such slanders. Be assured there are no
Christians better than those of Provence."
Richard affected to be appeased. Yet every moment his soul was crying
out against this rival, who disdained and mocked him as a mere boy.
And bitterer grew his wrath, when Louis continued:--
"Come, heir of Cefalu; can you not match with me in singing the praise
of the adorable mistress of our hearts, the ever incomparable Princess
Mary Kurkuas,--flower of the Greeks, star of the Moslems, sun of all
Christian cavaliers! Let us hold our _tenso_; and contend,--not with
sword,--but with verses, singing the matchless worth of our lady."
Richard felt the anger swelling within him. He had prudence in dealing
with Louis, but not to bear tamely a thrust of sheer malice, likely to
permit a display of his rival's superior accomplishments before the
princess. Well enough De Valmont had known that the Norman was no
troubadour.
"Louis de Valmont," answered Longsword, haughtily, "I am no clerk in
your 'courts of love,' whereof you Provençals boast so often. When I
will praise man or maid, I find blunt speech good enough, if they have
wit to hear. When I have difference with any gentleman, I have a good
horse and a good sword--and let St. Maurice judge between us."
"By St. Martin," cried the Provençal, bursting into a laugh, "hear you
this, my Lord Iftikhar! Our excellent Norman, when I speak of a
contest of _cansos_, at once talks of hauberks and lances."
The emir cast a disdainful eye upon Longsword.
"_Allah akhbar!_" he commenced, then more mildly: "yet how can we say
aught against so excellent a young man, as he who plucked our princess
from the pirates?"
Richard's gorge was rising; but before his hot words broke forth,
Musa, who had bided his time, interposed:--
"Tell me, Cid Louis," said he, in his broken Languedoc, "men say you
have served in Spain; is that not so?"
"I saw service there with Raymond of St. Gilles," was the answer, "and
with King Alfonso, and Cid Campeador."
"And brave cavaliers they are," continued the Andalusian. "None
better, Christian or Moslem, so far as knightly courtesy is known."
"You say well," asserted the Provençal; "they are splendid knights. By
the Cross," he added deprecatingly, "I count myself no poor lance,
with St. Martin's help; but in Spain every cavalier was nigh my peer."
"I rejoice you found such noble comrades; but, by Allah, know this, O
Frank: I have ridden against all the good lances of Spain, and Richard
Longsword of Cefalu is as firm a saddle as the best!"
The Spaniard had drawn himself up haughtily; there was fire in his
eye, half a threat in his voice. Neither De Valmont nor Iftikhar cared
to contradict him. And when Louis, vainly endeavoring to turn the tide
that was setting against him in the princess's presence, again
proposed a _tenso_, Richard was again able to answer in tones of lofty
scorn.
"Have you no shame, fair sir, to rehearse here the frivolous songs you
doubtless learned at the court of William of Aquitaine, whose _cansos_
and _tornadas_ are all in praise of his paramours--a new love and a
new song each day?"
"Have a care, young sir, have a care!" quoth the southern knight,
angrily.
"I seek no quarrel," was the reply;--"nor shun one." This last, under
the breath.
Louis stepped before the Norman with his hands on his hips.
"Heir of Cefalu," said he, in undertone, "if it is true you are a good
lance--well. But remember this, that is told in Auvergne. On the
mountains near the castle of Valmont lies a chapel, whither often I
went to pray, waiting some champion to come and test my valor; but
none has ever dared, nor have I ever ridden against my match, save
against my own brother Raoul, the Seigneur of Valmont."
"Do not threaten," said Richard, still in undertone.
"Threaten? I?" replied the knight. "I speak of the past, not of the
present. Yet those are sorry who cross my path."
They said no more. The emir and De Valmont were the first to take
leave. Mary gave Louis her hand to kiss, and Iftikhar salaamed very
low. When the two were gone, all who remained were happier; and the
princess, who had been silent long, found her tongue.
"You are not a friend of Sir Louis, or the emir?" said she.
"I would not be their foes," replied Longsword, looking into the
bubbling fountain; "yet it is true Sir Louis is very willing to think
himself above an unknighted cavalier. And the emir and I know each
other little."
"Ah," said the lady, her eyes also resting on the water, "it is sad it
is thus. Believe me, Lord Richard, you and De Valmont should be
friends. He is a gallant cavalier. I have heard much of his valor. He
is a poet also. What lady would not lose her heart at his
compliments?"
Now all this was gall and wormwood to Richard, but he made shift to
reply.
"Yes, doubtless he is a splendid knight."
"But you are not his friend? Why?"
"Lady," replied the Norman, a little sourly, "if to be the cavalier is
only to wear the wreath in the tourney, and sing _cansos_ in the
'courts of love'--behold Louis de Valmont; from the Scottish Marches
to our Sicily none knightlier. But," and his eye kindled, "with God's
help, when in my turn I win stroke of the accolade, they shall say of
Richard Longsword that he was more than mere jouster or troubadour;
for I am no soft Provençal like De Valmont. My ancestors snuffed the
bleak north wind, and laughed at the cold and storm. I hold that the
belted knight is consecrated priest: standing in the world, should
behold its sin and violence, and keep his own heart pure, should lay
low the wicked, and lift up the weak; for God has set him apart to
pray, not with his lips, but with his good sword; and he should ride
to each _mêlée_ as to a sacrament."
"Verily," cried she, smiling; "it is you that are now the poet!"
"Not so," was the half-gloomy answer; "I repeat the words of
Sebastian, our chaplain, who is one of the saints of God."
"You will be a noble cavalier," said Mary, when the two friends arose
to leave her. "Yet," she added, "I will not have you a foe to Louis de
Valmont. That my friends should be enemies among themselves, would be
a heavy grief."
Richard kissed Mary's hand, and rode away. He and Musa had been bidden
to come again and often to Monreale; but he had no great joy in the
prospect. Rather his thoughts were darksome as the night.
* * * * *
The shadows were falling when the Norman and his friend left the
Palace of the Diadem. The half-light of the marble arcade was fading
into a soft haze, wherein the gauzy tracery that pierced the pillared
stone work was barely visible. Manuel Kurkuas lay on his cushions,
sunk in silent reveries; his daughter had stolen to his side, cast one
arm about his neck, and with her other hand softly, slowly, stroked
his long white beard. Neither spoke for a long time. Presently in came
an Arab serving-man with noiseless step: tiny lamps began to twinkle
red and green up against the vaulting, throwing the mazy mosaic work
into flickering shadow. The tinkle, tinkle of the fountain never
ceased. They could hear the note of the nightingales from the grove,
sweet, tremulous, melancholy. The servants set a tray before the Cæsar
with silver cups, and fruit, and cakes, salaamed and retired. Then the
fountain and the _bulbuls_ alone broke the evening calm. Presently the
old Greek raised his head.
"They have brought the tray?" he asked, still dreamily.
"Yes, there is a sleeping powder in your wine. Will you drink?"
"Not yet," said the Cæsar, still musing; then half stirring: "Ah! my
daughter, do you remember where we were one year ago this night?"
"We were at our summer house by Chalcedon, and doubtless had just
returned from a sail to the Isles of the Princes on the Emperor's own
galley."
"It is beautiful, that Bosphorus; and our noble capital," ran on
Manuel, dreamily. "No church in the world like to our Hagia Sophia! No
dwelling like the 'Sacred Palace' of our Emperor! No river fairer than
the blue Bosphorus! Ours are all the trophies of the art of Greece at
her prime; ours the books preserving the ancient learning; the speech
of Plato, of Demosthenes, so unlike this Frankish magpies' chatter! Do
you not long to be back? I shall be recalled. You will be again a
great lady at Constantinople; marry some '_pan-sebastos_,' or perhaps
the heir of the purple buskins himself." Mary was silent; the old man
continued: "No reply? I know your thoughts. You are half a Frank and
love them better: better to watch these mad knights at tourney than
read Polybius with the Princess Anna?"
"Yes, my father," was the simple reply; "we have glory, art, learning,
a name never to die. But the future is with these Franks--so
boisterous, so brutish! For high resolve and higher action make people
great, not gazing at statues, and reading of brave deeds done of old."
More silence save for the bulbuls and the fountain.
"Daughter mine," replied the Cæsar, "you say well. We have fought a
good fight,--we of the Rome by the Bosphorus: we have flung back Avar
and Arab. The Turks press hard, yet we may hold them at bay a little
longer; but our race is indeed grown old, and our glory, too. And you
love the West? What wonder! your mother spoke this Languedoc in which
this De Valmont sings. And doubtless you will give your hand to him;
men say he is a mighty cavalier; as his wife you will be a great lady
among these Franks."
"Father!" cried out Mary, in protest.
"No," said the Greek, still smiling, "I will not give you away against
your will. If not he, whom? Does the Moslem Iftikhar find favor?
Religion sits light in this strange Sicily."
But Mary shook her head angrily.
"Ah, then you perhaps were glad when young Richard of Cefalu came
to-day. But he is no poet like De Valmont. His manners may prove as
rough as his blows."
"I will not give myself to a chamberlain or a troubadour. Shall I
receive _cansos_ when my hair is gray, or my face wrinkled? If I wish
soft manners, let it be one of the eunuch-courtiers about the
Emperor's palace."
The Cæsar laughed softly. "You have seen this Richard but little; he
saved us both; we owe him all gratitude. He shall come often. I am a
shrewd judge of men, and read their faces. His I like well. Just now
he thinks De Valmont has you snared, and is very sorrowful. But no
trial harms the lover. To-day he worships your face, as do all. Later
let us see if he looks deeper, and loves you with all your faults!"
"My faults?"
"Yes," with another soft laugh, "you are over-fond of the applause,
and glitter, and whir of admiration. You know your face is very fair
to see, and love to let men see it. And though in action you are often
prudent and demure, yet--as on that night at Cefalu--you are like a
coiled spring,--such as moves the singing bird of the Emperor: one
touch will make you flash forth in some madness. But beneath all I
know you are pure and strong, and will make a noble woman."
"You temper praise with blame, my father," was her answer.
"Now let me sup and go to rest; and while I drink, take your lute and
sing. Not from the choruses of Æschylus; nor Pindar nor Anacreon: sing
me Proclus's hymn to the Muses, the last pagan poem in our Greek,
which is worthy to stand beside our best; and the burden of the hymn,
too, fits with my mood to-night."
So Mary took up the lute, let her fingers wander over the strings, and
then, while the fountain babbled accompaniment, sang sweet as a silver
bell:--
"Glory and praise to those sweet lamps of Earth,
The nine fair daughters of Almighty Jove:
Who all the passage dark to death from birth
Lead wandering souls with their bright beams of love.
"Through cares of mortal life, through pain and woe,
The tender solace of their counsel saves:
The healing secrets of their songs forego
Despair: and when we tremble at the waves
"Of life's wild sea of murk incertitude,
Their gentle touch upon the helm is pressed,
Their hand points out the beacon star of good,
Where we shall make our harbor and have rest:--
"Hear, heavenly Sisters, hear! O ye who know
The winds of wisdom's sea, the course to steer;
Who light the flame that lightens all below,
And bring the spirits of the perfect there,
"Where the immortals are, when this life's fever
Is left behind as a dread gulf o'erpassed,
And souls, like mariners, escaped forever,
Throng on the happy foreland, saved at last!"
The lute was still. Naught but the plash, plash of the fountain, the
distant call of the birds. In through the marble tracery stole the
silent panels of moonlight. Manuel Kurkuas sat long in deeper
revery:--
"'Throng on the happy foreland, saved at last!'" he murmured; "ah!
daughter mine, it is late: we must seek rest."