HOW TRENCHEFER DROVE HOME
November sixth; feast of St. Leonard, the warrior hermit; third hour
of the morning. In the monastery church the monks were chanting
"terce" to an empty nave. When the muezzins climbed their minarets to
bid all Moslems "come to prayer," few heard. Mary Kurkuas sat in the
pavilion of Countess Adelaide, viewing the lists and wondering if even
the vision of the Golden Horn and Constantinople might be more fair.
The lists were set in the broad plain betwixt the city and Monte
Pellegrino, the loftier western height of Castellaccio and Monte
Cuccio. All about lay the matchless country--Palermo, its masses of
white buildings crowned with gilded minarets; the blooming "Golden
Shell" a sea of olive trees, palm, fig, orange, running down to that
other sea of emerald; and in the background rocks of saffron topped by
the broken peaks beyond.
Against the stout wooden barriers with pointed palings, pressed and
jostled a vast swarm of city folk,--Greek, Frank, Arab, Jew,--their
busy tongues making babel. Within the barriers, but behind the low
inner fence, loitered the impatient squires, splendid in bright
mantles and silvered casques, ready, the instant conflict joined, to
rush to the _mêlée_, and drag dismounted combatants from under the
horses. But for the ladies--"the stars of the tourney"--were set shady
pavilions,--wooden lodges, brightly painted, flag-covered. Now their
rising tiers of seats were filled by a buzzing throng, rustling their
silken mantles and satin bleaunts. And the sun was glancing on many a
gemmed fillet and many a ribbon-decked, blond tress that fell nigh to
its proud owner's knees. These on the western side. On the eastern
fluttered gauzy veils, feathery fans, blazing brocade of Mosul, and
kerchiefs of Kufa. Dark eyes flashed from beneath the veiling. But
Moslem watched Christian in peace. A clang of trumpets was drifting
down the wind--the tourneyers were coming from Palermo.
Fifty viols braying in the hands of marching Frankish _jongleurs_;
fifty Egyptian timbrels clattering; kettledrums, northern horns;
heralds in blue mantles, Christian and Moslem side by side--the
combatants two abreast--Norman, Provençal, Sicilian, Arab, Egyptians
of the embassy,--a goodly company; gold on every Toledo hauberk,
silver on each bit and bridle; a trailing pennon on every lance, save
when a prouder banner streamed--the silken stocking of some fair dame,
gift of love to her chosen cavalier. So the procession entered. Behind
them trailed a new horde of common folk who had come from watching two
blindfolded varlets chase a pig in a ring; these, too, now pressed
against the palings, peering and edging for a glimpse within. Then,
while the actual combatants rode to the tents at either end of the
lists, two cavaliers--Count Roger de Hauteville and Prince Tancred,
his nephew--came to take seats in the Countess's lodge; for they were
judges of the games.
A lordly cavalier was the Sicilian count despite threescore years and
more; fire still in his blue eyes, command and power in his voice;
worthy suzerain of so fair an isle. At his side stood his
nephew,--stranger as yet to Mary Kurkuas; but at once she noted his
flaxen hair and crafty "sea-green" eye, and stature above that of
common men. She was told he had fame as the most headlong cavalier in
all south Italy; but she little dreamed what deeds God destined him to
dare. Very ceremonious was the Prince, when he saluted the Greek lady.
He spoke her own tongue fluently, and never in Constantinople had she
met a gentleman more at his ease in courtly company. Their talk ran
soon to the tourney and the combatants.
"I wish you joy, fair princess," protested Tancred; "not often may any
lady see two stouter champions ride with her name on the lips of
both!"
Mary shook her head.
"Would God they might do anything else! They tell me Sir Louis has
sworn to have Sir Richard's life; and the Auvergner is a terrible
cavalier."
Tancred shot a glance keen as an arrow. Did he know that Mary's heart
would ride with one of the train and not with the other?
"Spare him your tears," was the answer. "Louis de Valmont is a famous
knight; but I do not think he will down Richard Longsword in one
joust,--or in seven."
"St. Basil spare both--and forgive both!" was the unuttered reply. But
she asked, "Yet I saw neither among the combatants?"
"True; both protested they could not meet in the regular tourney and
take the required oath to fight solely to gain skill. Fight on the
same side they will not; therefore they will come forward when the
general games end." Tancred was cut short by a word from the Count.
"See, my princess--a cavalier asks your favor."
None other than Musa had reined before the pavilion on a prancing
white Berber. His plain black mail fitted his fine form like a
doublet. His mettled horse caracoled under his touch with a grace that
made a long "Ah!" come from betwixt more than one pair of red lips.
His glance sought the Greek.
Mary rose deliberately; long since had she learned not to dread the
public eye.
"See, Sir Musa," cried she, loosing the red ribbon from her neck.
"Wear this in the games and do me honor!" More than two heads had come
together.
"Has De Valmont a new rival?" ran the whisper. But Mary knew her
ground.
"Your reward for service untold," she tossed forth; and only the Count
and two more knew what her words implied. Musa caught the ribbon with
a flourish of his lance; pressed it to his lips, then wound it deftly
around the green, peaked cap which he wore Andalusian fashion in lieu
of turban.
"You honor a gallant cavalier," said the Count, applauding. "I offered
him much to join my service; but he listens to the proffers of the
Egyptian envoys."
"Look!" came Tancred's voice; and Mary saw Iftikhar Eddauleh, on a
dappled Arabian and in his panoply of the night before, come plunging
down the lists. Abreast of Musa he drew rein in a twinkling, and the
two riders came together so close that no other might hear the words
which flew between them. But ten thousand saw Musa's hand clap to
hilt, and Iftikhar's lance half fall to rest.
"Holy Mother--keep them asunder!" was Mary's whispered prayer.
Count Roger had risen.
"Sirs--what is this? Brew quarrels under your lady's very eyes? Go
apart, or I forbid you to ride in the games." Iftikhar bowed his
head,--in no very good grace, it seemed,--and cantered sulkily to the
upper end of the lists.
"I fear Iftikhar Eddauleh and I must soon seek other masters,"
remarked the Count to Tancred, in Mary's hearing. "Rumor has it, he
has dealings with the Ismaelians. He grows haughty and insubordinate.
A good captain and a matchless cavalier; yet I shall not grieve to see
him return to the East."
But now the Christian heralds were calling on the Normans and
Provençals to range themselves in two companies and do battle, after
the rule of that knightly paragon, Geoffrey de Preully,--"for the love
of Christ, St. George, and all fair ladies." Of the passage at arms
that followed, needless here to tell. Many a stout blow was struck
despite blunted weapons; ten good knights fell senseless from their
horses; the squires took up two dead; sent for a priest to anoint a
third. Before the fray ended, little Countess Blanche and her ladies
had fluttered and shrieked till wild and hoarse. They had torn off
ribbons, necklaces, lockets, bracelets, and tossed forth madly
"gauntlets of love" to favorite cavaliers, until they sat--or stood
rather--dressed only in their robes and their long, bright hair.
Then came respite, while the lists were cleared for the Saracens'
games,--for the wise Count suffered no ill-blood to breed by letting
Christian ride against Moslem. The Egyptian cavaliers took
part--stately men, in red, silver-embroidered tunics, with blue,
gem-set aigrettes flashing in their turbans. No less gallant were the
Sicilian Saracens, and Iftikhar most brilliant of them all. A small
palm tree was set in the midst of the arena,--the trunk bronze, the
leaves one sheen of gold-foil. A silver dove dangled from a bough, in
the bill a golden ring. Then the Arab heralds proclaimed that each
horseman should ride in turn, catching the ring upon his lance; and he
who once failed should not try again.
So they rode, twenty or more. The first round none missed; three in
the second; and so till the ninth, when there were but two,--and these
Iftikhar and Musa the Andalusian.
"Beard of the Prophet!" cried Hasham, the Egyptian envoy, who sat at
the Count's side, "the two are as enchanted. Not in all Egypt--in all
Syria and Khorassan,--such horsemen!"
"And the All-wise alone knows," responded the Count, "which of the two
be the better! Yet I wish any save these two were contending. See!
Again!"
And the twain rode many times; till Mary, whose cheeks were very hot
and eyes very bright, forgot to count the rounds. At last a shout:--
"Iftikhar fails!" The ring was still in the dove's mouth. Musa swung
lightly his horse; dropped lance-point, dashed at the tree at a
gallop, fleet as the north wind, amid a cloud of dust; but as he flew
down the lists a mightier shout was rising. The ring glittered on his
spear. The Count placed the prize in Mary's hand, when the heralds led
the victor to the judges' lodge.
"Sir Musa," said she clearly, while he knelt and she fixed the
diamond-studded aigrette upon his cap, "you have so ridden that all
your friends grow proud. May it be ever thus!"
"Could each gem be a thousand," answered the Spaniard, in his musical
accent, "they were less precious than your words to-day."
"There spoke the true cavalier of Spain!" cried Count Roger, who loved
Moslems so that priests grumbled he dissuaded them from Christianity.
And Hasham added, "Verily, the efreets bewitched the Almoravide when
he exiled such a horseman!"
"By the brightness of Allah!" replied Musa, with a sweeping bow to the
ladies, "who could not ride through a thousand blades with such gaze
upon him!"
The Andalusian started to ride slowly back to his station, when the
Count summoned him again.
"Sir Musa, all is not smooth between you and Iftikhar Eddauleh. In the
game to follow I desire that you ride on the same side. I will not
have you meet. What were those words between you?"
The Spaniard's teeth shone white when he answered:--
"Bountiful lord, the emir deigned to tell me that if ever we met face
to face and naught hindered, I would do well to commend my soul to
Allah."
"And you?"
"Made answer that the secrets of Allah were hid, and no man knows
whether the Book of Doom assigns death to Iftikhar or to Musa when
they meet; as Musa for his part prays they may."
"Mad spirits!" laughed Roger; "but I cannot have more than De Valmont
and Longsword sacrifice themselves to-day. Your word that you will not
seek Iftikhar's mischief in the games!"
"Given, my lord."
"Good!"--then to an attendant knight, "Send the emir to the pavilion."
But the emir had withdrawn himself, and was not to be found, until
amid the clash of Eastern music the arena was cleared and the Moslem
game of the wands began. The ten riders who had contended best for the
rings were drawn up, five against five. Light round targets were
brought them, and in the place of pointed lances, long brittle reeds.
He who failed to break his reed on an opponent's target, when they
charged at gallop, fell out of the game, unless his rival fared no
better. Iftikhar Eddauleh and Musa were arrayed on the same side, with
three combatants between. The Count had seen the shadow flit across
Mary's face, and reassured: "They will not meet unless the other eight
are worsted before either of them--and that can scarcely be; for all
are great cavaliers."
Then the kettledrums boomed, while the ten dashed together. A fair
sight, without the bloodshed of the Christians' tourney. As each rider
swept forward after breaking his reed, he dashed on past attendants
standing with a sheaf of unbroken lances, dropped his shivered butt,
snatched another, and spurred back to the contest. The horses caught
their masters' spirit, and threw up their heels merrily as they flew
on charge after charge. Well matched were all; only on the seventh
round did an agile Sicilian, by a quick crouch in the saddle, elude an
Egyptian's reed while fairly breaking his own. The dust rose high. The
horses panted. One by one the combatants dropped out. At last, after
the multitude had howled and cheered till weary, the dust cloud
settled, and revealed that of one party of five not one remained
contesting; of the other, side by side sat Musa and Iftikhar Eddauleh.
The great Count shook his head, and Mary had little joy. They at least
knew what fires would spur on the emir, when he rode; but to deny the
crowd their sport would have meant riot,--nay, bloodshed,--what with
their thousands standing on the benches, pressing the palings, shaking
earth and air with tumult. The two contestants mounted new horses and
sat face to face; behind each stood an attendant with the sheaf of
reed lances. Count Roger swept his eye over the lists.
"Ha! who is that dwarfish fellow behind the emir?" demanded he; and a
knight beside answered:--
"Zeyneb, Iftikhar's body-servant and shadow."
Roger did not need to see the cloud that spread on Mary's face.
"Holla!" cried the Count, "_he_ is not admitted to the lists! A
venomous cat, I hear." A new roar from the benches drowned his voice.
The two had charged amid deafening din. Three times past, and the
reeds fairly broken; four times,--never drawing rein,--the emir broke
only by a great shift; five times, both shivered fairly; sixth time,
the Egyptian shattered only his tip, which still dangled from the
butt.
"The Spaniard wins!" cried a thousand throats. But the emir had
spurred by, dashed up to his attendant, snatched lance, wheeled
instantly, and thundered back, Musa flying to meet him.
"Ho!" trumpeted the Count, leaping up, "Iftikhar's lance! See!" In a
twinkling the lists rang as never before. The Spaniard reeled in his
saddle; his target flew in twain; he clapped his right hand to his
shoulder and drew it away--blood!
Prince Tancred had bounded into the arena.
"Felony!" his shout; "the emir had a pointed weapon. Sir Musa is run
through. Physicians--aid!"
A dozen squires and grooms buzzed around the Spaniard, making to lift
him from his horse. He sat erect--dispersed them with an angry
gesture.
"Nothing--_Bismillah!_ The lance turned as it split the target. My
side was grazed, and a little blood drawn--it is nothing!"
"Lead Iftikhar Eddauleh this way," raged Tancred, his green eyes fired
with his wrath. The emir had deliberately ridden back unbidden. From
the benches came countless curses and jeers--Frankish and Arabic; he
heeded none.
"What is this doing of yours?" demanded Tancred, very grave. "You rode
with a pointed lance--no reed."
The Egyptian drew himself up very proudly.
"By the soul of my father!" swore he, outstretching his hand to Musa,
"all men saw we were riding madly, and paying little heed to what was
thrust in our hands. Just as we struck, I saw the steel--too late. A
pointed lance must have been hidden in the reeds. Allah be praised,
you are not slain!"
"This is not easy to believe," began Tancred. Musa cut him short:--
"I accept his oath--I am not disabled. Ride again!"
He cantered to his stand at the head of the lists. Tancred returned to
the Count.
"Where is Zeyneb, the emir's dwarf?" demanded Roger.
"By Our Lady," cried the Prince, with a glance--"gone!"
"After him!" thundered Roger. "His was felony or foolishness, best
paid by hanging. Lay him by the heels!"
Men-at-arms rushed away; but in neither the multitude nor the city
found they Zeyneb.
The two rode once more--met; broke fairly. Men heard their voices for
an instant raised high--curse and defiance, doubtless. Who might say?
A second time--all eyes following. Mary saw the Spaniard swing nimbly
in his saddle. The emir's lance overshot harmlessly; his own snapped
fairly on the target. Another mighty shout--Musa had won!
"Again I wish you glory!" said Mary, as she fixed a second diamond
aigrette on the cap of the kneeling Spaniard. "May God ever guard you
as now, and let you shed glory on your friends!" But this last was in
a tone few around might hear.
"And I protest," replied Musa, no louder, "I crave no honor greater
than that of serving you."
Mary blushed. She knew the Andalusian meant all he said; yet she was
not afraid, as she had been if Iftikhar or De Valmont had so spoken. A
page served Musa courteously, bringing him a basin of perfumed water,
towels of sweet white linen, and a goblet of cool Aquillan wine. Then
he sat with the Count and his party during the noon interval,
protesting that Iftikhar had given him but a slight bruise which
needed no stanching, though Mary feared otherwise. Very tolerantly he
listened to the tale of Gerland, militant Bishop of Girgenti, how in
his diocese he had turned his cathedral into a castle--the unbelievers
being so many. The squires brought fruit and cakes and wine. The Greek
monks--Cosman and Eugenius--whom Count Roger patronized for their
poesy, sang a new hymn in honor of the Blessed Trinity; an Arab rival
presented a tale in verse of the Count's late raid to Malta, and so
the hour passed. The multitude scattered a little, but did not
disperse. The best wine had been kept till the last. What were blunted
swords or riding with reed lances, beside a duel betwixt gallant
knights under their lady's very eye; swords whetted, and
life--perchance soul--at stake!
Mary found her heart beating fast. The moments crept slowly. People,
she knew, were staring at her,--pointing, whispering her name. Sweet
no doubt to feel that scarce a young knight but would nigh give his
right hand for a gracious speech from her, hardly a woman but would
almost pawn hope of heaven to sit in her place! But when the pure
heart of the Greek turned to her dying father and the gallant
gentlemen who were hazarding body and soul on her account,--even the
bright sun shone darkly.
* * * * *
Richard Longsword had watched the tourney from a lodge at the northern
end of the lists beside his fidgeting father and grave-faced mother,
trying to enjoy the contests and to forget himself in the tale
Theroulde told, while they waited, of the redoubtable paynim knight
Chernubles, who could toss four mules' loads like a truss of straw.
Herbert growled advice in his ear. Sebastian said never a word, but
Richard knew he had lain all that night before the altar, outstretched
like a cross while invoking heavenly legions to speed his "spiritual
son." Only when Musa and Iftikhar contended, Longsword forgot himself;
thrilled at his friend's peril, rejoiced at his victory, and swore a
deep, if silent, oath that the emir should not go scatheless on so
poor excusings.
The interval ended at last--praised be all saints! The heedless
chatter of the ladies, the braying laughs of the men-at-arms, were a
little chilled. Slowly a great hush spread across the lists. Richard
kissed father and mother, wrung Herbert's great scarred paw, and
vanished in a tent at the northern end of the close. Here waited
Sebastian and friendly Bishop Robert of Evroult, who brought the Host
and heard Longsword's confession and shrived him. Richard vowed two
tall candlesticks of good red gold to Our Lady of the Victory, if all
went well; made testaments, if the day went ill. "_Dominus absolvat_,"
the Bishop had said ere the young man rose from his knees. But
Sebastian was murmuring in his heart, "Oh, if he were but to ride for
the love of Christ and His Holy City, and not for unchristian hate and
love of the eyes of a sinful maid!"
Then Musa came to the tent, thrusting all the Cefalu squires aside,
and himself put on the Norman's hauberk, drew the chainwork coif over
the head for shield of throat and cheeks, clapped on the silvered
helm, and made fast the leather laces, till Richard was hid save for
the flashing of his eyes.
When all was ready they led him out, and Theroulde strode before,
proud to play the knight's pursuivant. From the end of the lists the
_jongleur_ sounded his challenge:--
"Ho, Louis de Valmont! Ho, Louis de Valmont! My master awaits you!
Here stands the good knight, Sir Richard of Cefalu, armed for fair
battle, ready to make good on his body against cavalier or villain who
denies that Louis de Valmont is base-born, unknightly, unworthy to
wear his spurs of gold!"
Whereupon, from the other end of the arena, advanced a second
pursuivant, Bernier by name, a dapper Provençal in a fantastic blue
cloak, answering shrilly:--
"Ho, bold man! Who are you that mock Sir Louis de Valmont? He has no
lance save for his peers."
Then Theroulde threw back, still advancing:--
"So tell your master to be well shriven, for my Lord Richard of Cefalu
swears he will number him among the saints ere sunset!"
And Bernier paid in return:--
"Foolish crow cawing folly, you are! Not the saints, but the very
devil, shall be Richard Longsword's company this night!"
But Theroulde was undaunted, and boasted haughtily:--
"My master's sword is trenchant as Roland's 'Durindana'; his strength
that of all the paladins in one. He is terrible as King Oberon with
all his magic host!"
So they bandied their vauntings, and the crowd roared in mirth at each
sally, until two trumpets pealed forth, one from either end of the
lists, and out from the tents came the combatants in full armor, a
herald at each bridle. Louis de Valmont was a notable figure, mailed.
He bestrode a high-stepping white _destrer_, with huge crupper, hair
like silk, eyes like fire, ears carefully cropped away after the
French fashion. The high saddle glittered with gilding and chased
work; the brass knob of the kite-shaped shield on the left arm shone,
and the steel covering flashed as though of flame. Louis wore a
hauberk enamelled red, with black wire embroidered into the sleeves;
but the red crest of his tall helm was brighter than all the rest.
No less bravely panoplied in his white hauberk sat Longsword, but no
skill of his could give grace to the awkward gait and uncouth form of
Rollo. A great wave of jeering laughter swept down the benches as the
black monster passed.
"Ho, steed of Cefalu! Are you an unhorned ox?"
"Defend us, saints! This horse is sired by Satan!"
"His limbs are iron, they drag so heavily!"
These and a hundred more shouts flew out. Men did not see Richard's
muscles grow hard as steel, and his face set like rock, when he caught
their mockery; for every insult to the horse was the like to the
master. But the vows that rose then from his heart boded little good
to Louis de Valmont; for they were sparks from the anvil of a mighty
spirit. Neither did he know--as Mary Kurkuas knew--that the most
battle-scarred knights in the Count's pavilion jeered not, but
muttered darkly; and Prince Tancred whispered to Roger: "They are
wrong when they say De Valmont has the better chance. I know a horse
and a man at sight,--and here are both."
They brought the two knights to the barrier opposite the Count's
pavilion. Very lightly, though armed, the twain dismounted, and stood
side by side before their suzerain.
"Sir knights," quoth Roger, soberly, "I like this combat little. You
do ill, Sir Richard, to seek quarrel with a cavalier of long renown;
you too, Sir Louis, to press a contest that will breed small glory if
won, much sorrow if lost."
Before either could reply, Mary Kurkuas arose and spoke also. "Since
on my account you are at strife, as you love me, I command, even at
this late hour, put wrath by. Be reconciled, or perchance whoever
wins, I will forbid you both my face forever."
And Richard, as he looked on those red cheeks, the brown hair blown
out from the purple fillet and waving in little tresses to the wind,
nigh felt a spell spread over him,--was half-ready to bow obedient and
forget all hatred, not to displeasure so fair a vision. But Satan had
entered into Louis de Valmont's heart, prompting him to answer, hollow
and fierce, from the depths of his helmet.
"Sweet lady, gracious lord, I am touched in honor. Gladly will I put
all by with Sir Richard, if only he will confess freely that he spoke
presumptuously for one of his few years, and was indiscreet in
affecting to cross a cavalier of my fame in quest of gallantry."
If Louis had been bent on dashing the last bridge of retreat, he had
succeeded.
"After Sir Louis's words," came the reply from Richard's casque at its
haughty poise, "I see I need make no answer. Let us ride, my lord, and
St. Michael speed us!"
The Count frowned upon the Auvergner:--
"Except you call back your words, Sir Louis, I must perforce order the
combat. Yet you may well seek honorable reconciliation."
"I have offered my terms, my lord," returned Louis; and deliberately
mounting, he rode to his end of the lists.
Tancred had stepped beside Richard.
"Fair sir," said he, softly, "you are a young cavalier, but a right
knightly one. Trust in St. Michael and your own stout heart. De
Valmont seeks your life, but do not fear. And know this: I pass for a
keen judge of man and maid,--if it is you that conquer, the Princess
Mary will not greatly grieve."
"Holy Mother, how know you this?" and Richard's hands dropped from the
bridle. But Tancred only smiled.
"Does a woman speak only with her lips? I saw your sword-play in
Italy, and learned to love you. And now I tell you this, thinking it
may make your blade dance swifter. Go, then,--and all the saints go
with you!"
"Let God judge betwixt them; and let them do their battle!" announced
Count Roger, gravely, while the combatants were led to their places.
Before each horse attendants stretched a cord, made fast to posts.
Others measured two lances of equal length,--lances not blunted, but
with bright steel heads and little pennons, Louis's with golden
border; Longsword's, green blazoned with a silver lion. Then a herald
made sure that neither knight had fastened himself to his saddle.
The attendants scattered from the lists. De Valmont's horse was pawing
and sniffing uneasily, but Rollo stood firm as a rock. The champions
sat face to face, featureless, silent as of granite. No chatter now in
the pavilions. Theroulde broke the stillness with his cry, "Go
forward, brave son of a valiant father!" And Bernier forced a broad
jest as he glanced at the ladies, "Joy here to pick out one's wife!"
Richard was very calm. The moment had come. He and Louis de Valmont
were face to face, under the eyes of Mary Kurkuas. Betwixt his helmet
bars he could see that wonderful face, the head bent forward, the eyes
brighter by day than ever stars by night,--at least to him. Holy
saints! what deed could he not do with that gaze upon him, with the
love of the Greek staked upon his strong arm and ready eye! "For Mary
Kurkuas!" That was his battle-cry, though sounded only in his soul. It
became stiller--he could hear Rollo's deep breathing. Count Roger had
turned to Bishop Gerland. The prelate rose, held on high a brazen
crucifix, at which both champions made the sign of the cross with
their lance points. Four men with hatchets approached the cords before
the chargers.
"_In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen_," came the
words slowly; and at the last, Roger signed to the four. "Cut!" his
command. The axes fell as one. Their sound was hid by the bursting
tumult. Quick as light the horses caught the greensward with mighty
strides. Behind, the dust spumed thick. As they flew, each rider swung
lightly forward, lance level with thigh, shield over the crouching
chest.
Crash! Both steeds were hurled on haunches, and struggled, tearing the
ground. The riders reeled, staggered in the saddle. Then with a mighty
tug at the reins, brought their beasts standing, and rode apart,--in
the hands of each a broken butt, on the ground the flinders of stout
hornbeam lances.
Din unspeakable rang along the lists, as the two swung back to their
stations. No more banter and jeers at Rollo. Old Herbert, whose eyes
had danced with every gallop, muttered in the ear of poor Lady
Margaret:--
"Good cheer, sweet lady! The lad is a good lad. Did you see? The
Auvergner was half slung from the saddle, but Richard met his lance
like a rock."
They brought new lances to the knights, and, while both waited for
breath, Bernier came down the lists with his master's message.
"My lord bids me say, fair knight," declared he to Longsword, "that he
loves good jousting and did not expect so smart a tilt. Yet he warns
Sir Richard, in fair courtesy and no jesting, he will make this next
bout Sir Richard's last--therefore, if there be any parting message or
token--"
Sebastian, who stood by, cut him short.
"Bear this back to Louis de Valmont, the murderous man of sin: It is
written, 'Let not him that putteth on his armor, boast like him that
taketh it off.'" And while Bernier was returning, half crestfallen,
the good cleric was muttering: "Ah, blessed Mother of Pity, spare
Richard, thy poor child. Make him conscious of his sin--his unholy
passion, and presumption. Yet--it will be a rare thing to see De
Valmont on his back. Holy saints--what do I say!"
Again they rode; again the last vision before Richard's eyes, ere
Rollo shot on the course, was that figure,--white face and brown hair,
and those eyes upon him. All men knew Louis spurred with Satan behind
him on the charger. Another shivering crash--more lances broken. When
they parted, both shields were dinted by the shock. Many heard knights
cry that the two were riding more madly than ever. A third
time--behold! Louis de Valmont had been half lifted from his saddle;
one foot had lost its stirrup; but Longsword sat as a tower. Those at
the southern end heard the Auvergner cursing his squires and grooms,
calling for a new horse, and invoking aid of all powers in heaven and
hell when next he rode.
A great hush again down all the lists. The pursuivants had no heart to
cry. For a fourth time Richard Longsword and Louis de Valmont sat face
to face,--and rode. The horses shot like bolts of lightning. The crash
sounded from barrier to barrier. In the whirling murk of dust one
could see naught; but out of it all sounded a shout of triumph,--Richard's
voice: "St. Michael and Mary Kurkuas!" Then while men blinked, the
dust was settled, and Louis de Valmont was rising from the sand,
smitten clean from his horse. None beheld his face; but his mad cry of
rage they heard, as his great sword flashed forth, when on foot he ran
toward his foe. But lightly as a cat, Longsword had bounded from the
saddle, faced the Auvergner, whom the tall Norman towered high above;
and for the first time the multitude saw the sun glint on the long
blade of Trenchefer. Right before Roger's pavilion, under Mary's eye,
they fought, leaping in armor as though in silken vest, making their
huge swords dance in their hands like willow wands. The blade of De
Valmont rained down blows as of hail upon the bowing sedges. Fury and
wounded pride sped might through his arm. For a twinkling Longsword
gave way before his furious onset; as quickly stood firm, paying blow
for blow. Not for life the Auvergner battled,--for dearer than
life,--his knightly name. The best lance in the South Country
dismounted, then mastered by a boy scarce knighted? A thousand deaths
better! Thrice, all his strength flew with a downright stroke,--a
smithy's sledge less crushing. But when he smote on Trenchefer the
steels rang sharp; the blow was turned. From under their helms each
beheld madness in his foeman's eyes, and flashed back equal madness.
Richard fought the more slowly, his casque dented and his shield; but
the Valencia mail was proof. After the first, he yielded not a step;
and at each blow parried, at each stout stroke paid, the saints, if
none other, heard him mutter across his teeth: "This, to win Mary
Kurkuas! This, for the love of the Greek!"
But still the Provençal pressed, and still the Norman held him. Mary
saw De Valmont's blade shun Trenchefer. His sword half turned as
Richard attempted parry,--but smote the Norman's helm-crest. Mary
almost thought she could see the fire-spark leap in bright day. But
ere she could thrill with dread, Longsword had staggered, recovered,
returned the stroke. Quick, deep as from huge bellows, heard she their
breaths. Each moment her heart cried, "All is over!" as some doughty
blow fell. But it would be parried, or turned on the good mail. On
they fought,--fought till mild women rose from the benches and shouted
as not before in that day's mad games; and old cavaliers, who set a
battle before a feast, stood also with a terrible light in their eyes,
blessing the saints for showing them such sword-play! As Mary watched,
her thoughts raced thick and fast: now she longed to laugh, now to
weep; now only to hear no more of the click and clash of those long
swords. Would it never end?
But now Prince Tancred was again with his head beside Count Roger.
"The Auvergner fails!" Men began to cry out that De Valmont no longer
gave back the Norman's blows; only parried. And, of a sudden, Mary saw
the iron tower of Richard Longsword, that had stood firm so long, leap
as with new life. Twice Trenchefer sprang high, and crashed upon De
Valmont. Twice the Auvergner tottered. Thrice--De Valmont's guard
shivered as a rush--through shield, hauberk, gorget cleft the Vikings'
blade. The shield flew in twain. The Provençal fell with a clash of
mail, and, as he reeled, Mary could see the spout of blood where the
sword had bitten the shoulder.
The Count was standing. He beckoned to Longsword--tried to speak. One
mighty shout from Frank and Moslem drowned all else.
"Richard Longsword! Richard of Cefalu!"
All the lists were calling it. The bright mantles and gauzy veils were
all a-flutter. Richard stood over his adversary, Trenchefer swinging
in his hand. Again the Count beckoned--still uproar. Roger flung his
white judge's wand into the arena.
"_Ho! Ho!_" thundered he,--and there was hush at last.
"Sir Richard Longsword," spoke the Count, "you have won after such
sword-play as I have never seen before. De Valmont's life is yours, if
still he lives. Yet if you will, kill not--though he promised you
small mercy. For he is a gallant Cavalier, and proved to-day a mighty
knight, though no victor."
"And I," returned Longsword, under his helm, "give him his life. Let
him live--live to remember how Richard of Cefalu humbled him before
the eyes of Mary Kurkuas!"
So he turned to walk to the end of the lists, but others swarmed about
him; Musa foremost, who unlaced his casque in a trice, and kissed him
heartily on one cheek, while Herbert croaked and shed great bull tears
on the other. Prince Tancred ran down to him, and many nobles more,
while Baron William and his dame sat very stately in their lodge,
their hearts full, but saying nothing--a thousand eyes upon them.
Count Roger had turned to Mary:--
"My princess, I too must speak with this new paladin; and you need
have no shame to go with me."
The Greek's forehead was very red; but while her words were hanging on
her tongue, a serving-lad from Monreale touched her mantle:--
"Gracious mistress--my lord, the Cæsar Manuel, is newly stricken, and
lies very low. He sends for you."
Mary bowed to the Count:--
"My lord, you see it is impossible for me to go to Sir Richard. Yet
tell him I have prayed long he might have no hurt. And now I must go
to my father."
So Roger went down alone, and led the great throng that swept around
the victor as amid the din of harps, viols, and kettledrums uncounted
they bore him to his tent. Few saw the squires that carried Louis de
Valmont away. He still breathed. A Saracen physician said he was
fearfully smitten, but that life was strong within him, and he would
live. But who then cared for the fate of the vanquished?
They bore Richard back to Palermo in high procession. All the knights
swore that he had outdone all the cavaliers of the tourney, and must
receive the chief prize. A great banquet and dance was held at the
castle; the halls rang with music and the clink of wine-cups; the
floors shook beneath a thousand twinkling feet. The young knights to
prove their hardihood danced in the armor worn all day,--chain mail
jingling in time to the castanets. The _jongleurs_ sang new
_chansons_; the ladies blazed in brighter silks and velvet; a myriad
flambeaux flickered over all. Only Mary Kurkuas was not there, nor was
Emir Iftikhar, delight of the ladies. To Richard and to Musa there
were homage and flattery enough to addle wiser wits than theirs.
Richard danced till the morn was paling, despite two great welts on
his forehead. Two young ladies--"flowers of beauty," the _jongleurs_
cried--brought to him the prize of honor, a shield set with jewels and
blazoned with four stripes of gold. Each added to her pleasant words a
kiss. In truth, not a cavalier's daughter there that night would have
said nay to Richard Longsword, had he prayed for anything. When at
full dawn he fell asleep, it was to dream of gallant sword-play,
throbbing music, and bright eyes, but the eyes were always those of
Mary Kurkuas.