HOW DE VALMONT SENT HIS GAGE
Richard's fury lasted more than one angry day, Musa's comforting
counting for nothing. Sebastian's warnings--twanging the same old
string--only made his rage the hotter. He wrote to Cefalu, saying it
was all over with his suit, and received a letter dictated by his
father (who wrote only with his battle-axe) that it was as well; he
could marry a daughter of the Baron's old friend, the Count of Foix.
William had not seen her, but she would bring a large dowry, and a
messenger could sail with proposals for Toulouse at once. Richard
returned answer that he could not marry the lady--she came within the
forbidden degrees through some ancient alliance of his mother's house
with that of Foix. But his heart burned more than ever. Then respite
came: Count Roger was summoned to Campania by his nephew and suzerain
Duke Roger Bursa, to help crush certain malcontent barons, and away he
sailed, taking Iftikhar and his much-prized Saracen guard. With him
also went Musa and Richard Longsword, who was finding Palermo a dreary
place, and gladly bartered gloomy thoughts for hard campaigning.
Louis de Valmont remained. Every morn he fared to Monreale to bask
under the smiles of Mary. Very pleasant these days to her. As Manuel
had said, she was more than fond of the praise of men; knew her eyes
darted madness, and was not ashamed to show them. Palermo was not
Constantinople; no polished Greek as spoken in the circle of Psellus,
the philosopher, and of Anna Comnena; no splendid state ceremonies.
But life was free; men spoke of their loves and hates plainly; did not
prattle friendship and misty compliment and stab in the dark.
Yet in the end Louis's homage began to pall on her. She heard
unpleasant stories touching him through Sylvana, her nurse, an
indefatigable gossip-monger. The Provençal, she learned, was accounted
a hard master to his men; his peers praised his courage, but not his
courtesy; he had fought a duel in Catalonia with a baron, in a broil
concerning the latter's lady; he had two Moslem sweethearts in
Palermo; some said three. All these tales did not go to prosper
Louis's suit, and he began to find the morning chatter growing dull
and the princess meeting his _cansos_ with sober and troublesome
questions.
Manuel Kurkuas said little; he was a shrewd man, and knew it was
easier to lead than to drive. What with De Valmont's hollow gallantry
and boasting of his own great deeds, he fell daily in the daughter's
eyes. Then one day two carrier pigeons fluttered to the casements of
the Palermo castle, and Sylvana came to Mary itching with a tale. The
princess had just bidden Louis farewell. His importunity was great,
her perplexity greater; for she did not love the man, yet things had
gone too far for her to dismiss him without bitterness and gossip all
over the city.
"_Hei, despoina!_" quoth the old woman; "Bardas, the groom, is come
from Palermo--a terrible story. Richard Longsword in deathly peril!"
And Sylvana, sly sinner, who knew Mary better than Mary knew herself,
had expected the start, and flush, and little cry. "No, by St. Basil,
he is safe enough," protested she, consequentially. "He was with Count
Roger in Italy in the war against William of Grantmesnil, who has
turned rebel. Let him tell the whole tale himself. But the chief part
is this: There was a castle which my Lord Count and his kinsman, Duke
Roger Bursa, swore they would take, but it was defended as though held
by very devils. The engines beat a breach in the walls, and the next
thing was the storming. But to make the breach and to go through it
are not the same thing, as Nicetas, who was my uncle's son, and fought
in Syria, once told."
"I have heard that story," cried the lady, impatiently; "go on."
"Well, as I said, the breach was stoutly defended. My Lord Count
orders up his boasted Saracen guard, and bids my Lord Iftikhar lead
the storm: once, twice, they charge--are beaten back--the third time
when ordered, say they are not fond of dying--too many comrades are
fallen already. Then while the emir hung back, forward comes my Lord
Richard and Musa, his friend; they will lead the storm. A few mad
Franks follow them. They win the breach and the castle. St. Theodore
must have aided. They say my Lord Richard had as many wounds as you
have fingers, when they took him up. No, do not stare about thus:
Bardas said he only lost a little blood. But they have made him a
knight after the fashion of these Franks, by Duke Roger's own hand;
and to Musa they gave I know not what presents. And now seeing that
the rebels have sued for mercy, the Count is coming back with all his
men, and sent off pigeons from Stromboli saying that he will arrive
to-morrow."
To-morrow came and went, and De Valmont held aloof, half to Mary's
satisfaction, half to her vexation. Nor did several succeeding days
see him. But finally it fell out that he and his rival sallied forth
from Palermo by different roads, and both came to Monreale and into
the Princess's presence at about the same time. And now it was Louis's
turn to let his sharp little beard curl up in impotent anger. For Mary
gave never a glance to his high-peaked Anjou boots with which he
swelled in pride, but only had eyes for the golden spurs that were
twinkling significantly upon Longsword's heels, and the broad white
belt that girt him.
"Ah! Sir Richard," cried she, with a pretty stress on the "sir," "now
at last you will not deny that you can do a brave deed or two!"
The Norman blushed manfully; for praise from her lips was dearer than
from Pope or Emperor.
"Dear lady," said he, humbly, "thanks to the valor of my good
comrades, and the help of the blessed angel Michael, men are pleased
to speak well of me."
"And the sword you wear," continued she, "it is not the one I saw
glance so bright at Cefalu. Who gave it?" And she added, while Richard
drew forth the weapon: "How long! How heavy! What magic letters are
these upon the blade?"
Richard had bared a mighty weapon, which he held outstretched while
the sun glinted on the long, polished steel, and the gold chased work
on the guard shone bright.
"Know," he said proudly, "that from this weapon we Longswords take our
name. This is 'Trenchefer,' passed from father to son, so far as
memory may reach to the days when our house came down from the
Northland with Duke Rollo, and hewed away our duchy from the weakling
Emperor. Never has a Longsword carried this blade and endured
captivity. Never has a hostile hand gripped its hilt; never has a
first-born of my race"--Richard held his head still higher--"lacked a
first-born who could not toss it like a twig." And he brandished the
great gleaming blade on high. "As for these strange characters, they
say they are an incantation, pagan no doubt, but it still holds good:
a rune-song, they call it, which makes Trenchefer cut iron like wool
and steel like fagots. Here in the hilt is the reliquary, set there by
my pious grandfather to destroy the sin of the spell, and make it
stronger; here is a tooth of St. Matthias, and a clot of the blood of
St. Gereon the Martyr. All his life my father has borne this, and
never yet has Trenchefer failed in the sorest need. Now that my father
is old, and I a belted knight, I have taken Trenchefer to bear until
my own first-born can wield it worthily."
Mary stepped beside him, took the hilt in both her little hands, and
made shift to raise the great sword. It was very heavy. The blood
mounted to her cheeks; she smiled, but bit her lips, and made a mighty
effort. Once she raised the blade, then dropped it with a clang, and
laughed merrily.
"_Eu!_ Sir Richard," she cried in Greek, "what a pretty toy for a maid
like myself! I will let you always swing it for me."
"It is not heavy," quoth the Norman, his iron wrist tossing it
lightly.
"Not heavy!" was the reply. "You Franks are born, I half think, in
armor; slaying is to you a pleasant art."
"And why not, sweet lady?" answered the other, seriously. "Is there
anything better befitting a brave gentleman, after a noble life, than
to be rocked to sleep in a fair battle with the swords clinking merry
music above, and angels to convoy his soul?"
But at this moment De Valmont, who had stood by gnawing his mustachios
all this while, stepped up and took the sword out of Richard's hand.
"Assuredly, Sir Richard," said he, holding up the sword, though truth
to tell he found it nothing easy, "you have here a mighty weapon. You
will be the thirteenth of Charlemagne's twelve peers, and contest the
captaincy with Roland's self." He sheathed the sword, and laughed
dryly.
There was no need for any special wits to see that Louis was seeking a
quarrel at last.
"I trust it will be found keen enough to satisfy any who question
_now_ my knighthood," came back the hot retort. But Mary intervened
with haughty mandate:--
"Sir Louis! Sir Richard! what is this in my presence? How often have I
bidden you be friends, if you would keep my favor! Must you brawl
under my very eyes?"
"I cry pardon of Sir Richard," began the Provençal, feeling he had
made a misstep; but Longsword cut him short.
"And I grant none; but this is no place. Let us begone!"
"I warn you!" cried De Valmont, in black fury, "if we meet, but one
shall ride away. Hitherto you have crossed swords with weaklings, and
I give you a proverb, 'Amongst the blind, the one-eyed man is king.'"
"And I return proverb for proverb," blazed back the Norman: "'It is
well to let the sleeping dog lie.' Let God judge if I have sought this
quarrel!"
"Sirs," commanded Mary Kurkuas, with her haughtiest gesture, "get you
gone both, nor return till this strife be ended!" And she pointed
towards the door.
Richard collected himself with a mighty effort.
"I obey, lady," was all he said; while he bowed, kissed the hem of her
mantle, and stalked out of the palace. De Valmont did not follow him,
but stood staring darkly about, as though wanting half his wits.
"Sir Louis," repeated the princess, still at her lordly poise, "did
you not hear what I said?"
"Ah! _Dona!_ beautiful mistress!" cried the Provençal, half
threatening, half entreating; "what words are these? Depart? Will you
dismiss me? By St. Martin, I swear life will be all night without you!
Oh, pity, favor me; have mercy on my distress!"
Mary looked upon him, and saw that half his profession sprang from his
troubadour gallantry; but the rest--the mad light in his eyes proved
how genuine!
"Give me your hand!" raged on De Valmont, half beside himself. Then
with a step nearer--"No, not your hand, your lips!"
Mary flushed in turn with her anger; quail she did not.
"Sir Louis, recollect yourself," she commanded sternly; "let what has
slipped you be forgotten. I repeat--depart, or I call my father's
servants; and come not again, until your quarrel with Richard
Longsword be ended."
"Then, by Christ's wounds, I will have his life!" roared the Provençal
with a great oath, and tore out of the room, leaving Mary quaking amid
hysteric laughter.
When Manuel Kurkuas heard what had passed, he grew very grave.
"Enemies they have been since first they met here at Monreale," was
his comment, "and now I fear they will strike friendship only in
heaven, unless," he added dryly, "their sins be such--and they are
many--they will perchance meet elsewhere."
So his daughter spent the remainder of the day in no little
trepidation and sorrow; for it was no pleasant thing to feel that two
gallant gentlemen, for whom she had cared much, were to risk immortal
souls, perhaps on her account. About noon the next day, Sylvana came
to her gleefully with the whole story.
"_Ei_, my lady," chattered she, "all Palermo is talking of it, and
Bardas has brought me all they say. It is told that this morning Sir
Richard went to the Cathedral, and confessed to a priest and received
the host; then he set hand on a box of holy relics and swore something
secret, but doubtless terrible. A little later, lo! in comes Sir Louis
and does the very same. Then right in the porch of the church they
came face to face, and Sir Louis broke out with revilings terrible to
hear, and finally cried, 'You are not an equal fit to kiss my cheek;
"villain" you are, or little better, who should kiss my spurs!'
Whereupon Sir Richard gave him a great box on the ear, which nearly
knocked him down, crying, 'This is the kiss I give you!' And then and
there they would have drawn, but other gentlemen dragged them asunder
by main force, and took them to Count Roger, who, when he found he
could not compose their quarrel, demanded of each his knightly word
that they would remain apart until the great tourney, which will be
when the envoys from the Egyptian emperor come. Then the two will
meet, and Our Lady guard their lives!"
Mary Kurkuas did not sleep soundly that night. Often as the dreams
came to her, they took form of champions in armor, charging, charging,
ever charging! And when she awoke, it was with the last words of De
Valmont ringing in her ears, "By Christ's wounds, I will have his
life!" A long time after all the palace was still, she arose, lit a
taper, and knelt before a stiff little Byzantine painting of the Holy
Mother that was by her bedside.
"O pure and blessed Lady," she prayed, "have mercy on me! Have mercy
on them both! I have sinned in leading them on so madly; they have
sinned in loving me so madly! Oh, pity, mercy; have compassion on us
all!"
So ran her prayer. After a while she was a little comforted, and fell
into troubled sleep.