HOW RICHARD'S SIN WAS REWARDED
There was mirth and dancing in the St. Julien castle when Longsword
and his band returned. Seventy and more had they gone away, scarce
fifty came back, some of the women howled long for the husband or
brother whom they brought home on the shields; but save for these, who
was there but had a laugh and a cheer for Richard, who had borne
himself a very paladin in the fight? When the knight dismounted at the
castle gate, forth came the gray-haired steward with the great horn
goblet of the urus-ox,--a mighty cup centuries old, ornamented with
strangely wrought silver bands, and brimming with home-brewed mead.
"Drink, fair lord," he commanded, "for you have proved a right noble
seigneur of St. Julien. None but a cavalier of wondrous valor is
suffered to drink from this."
So Richard drained the great horn. "To the perdition of every
Valmonter, and to the bright eyes of Mary Kurkuas!"
Then he went to the chamber of his grandfather, who had sat all that
night, gnawing his nails, crying to the varlets to run to the parapet
to see if the sky was aglow toward Valmont. As Richard came in the old
man staggered up to him, caught him by the arm, and sniffled piteously
when Richard told how they won the outwork and the bridge and the
keep.
"By the Cross!" swore the Baron, half laughing, half moaning, "I would
have given half my life to be there,--there and strike one good blow,
and feel the steel eat through Raoul de Valmont."
"Raoul de Valmont will never feel another sword," said Richard,
softly; "he is gone to his account."
"Aye," cried the Baron; "gone, so the varlets who ran here told me;
gone, and a long time St. Peter will have of it reading off the list
of his sins. By Our Lady, they were not a few; and perhaps mine are as
many, ha! Well, even the devil will not frighten me much, after what I
have lived through!"
"You must live and undo your misdeeds if you can, dear grandfather,"
said Richard, whose own conscience was as yet very easy.
"Yes, I must have a talk with the abbot. Live like a demon, then
square at the end with the priests! Two or three fields added to the
glebe, a few _sols_ ready money, and the saints forget all about you,
and let you crawl under the gate of heaven--that is the way a man of
spirit should live and die! But the Valmonters--the boy Gilbert?"
"I killed him," said Richard, deliberately.
"Good; he had never done any harm; neither have wolf whelps; but we
kill them just the same. And John of the Iron Arm?"
"He is here. De Carnac struck him down, but he is alive; they have him
in the dungeon now."
"Good again; I can hear him whistle his tune before we let him die.
_Ai_, lad, you will be a right good seigneur for this old castle. I
shall sleep in the ground more snugly because I know you possess all.
I have fought, scraped, and lied to make the barony larger. No man
shall ever say Gaston forgave a foe, or failed to square off a grudge,
and now Raoul has been paid--ha!"
So Richard left the old man to chuckle in his darkness. The next day
the abbot came over with congratulations, blessings, and a request for
the great altar cross of Valmont,--which was due, because the
"_aggrave_ and _reaggrave_," double and triple anathema, he had
thundered against the Valmonters, doubtless went far to blast their
prowess; and Longsword all piously gave the cross. The monks chanted
_Te Deums_ and enough masses to lift every fallen St. Juliener promptly
out of purgatory. Richard went about with merry face and loud laugh.
"After the feast comes the dance!" he would cry, when all marvelled at
his nimbleness after so hard a _mêlée_.
At the great feast in honor of the victory, Richard sat at the head of
the long horseshoe table, drank with the deepest, and never blushed
when Theroulde likened him in valor to Huon of Bordeaux or even to
Roland.
"You seem very joyous to-night, dear son," said Sebastian, who
appeared gloomier than ever.
"And why should I not?" quoth Richard, stretching forth for more wine.
"Have I not blotted out my grandfather's enemy; have I not a noble
barony; have I not the love of the best of friends," with a glance at
Musa, "and of the fairest woman in the world?"
"Ah! sweet son," replied Sebastian, sighing, "all these shall pass
away! The grass withereth, the flower fadeth; there will come a time
when you will cry, 'Would God I had been mindful of my vow and gone to
Jerusalem.' Even now it is not too late; let us go and hear the holy
Peter of Amiens, called Peter the Hermit."
Richard cut him short with a direful oath. "Speak not again of
Jerusalem. I care more for Mary Kurkuas and for Musa than for ten
thousand Jerusalems! Let others who have more sin on their souls, and
are more frighted by priests' patter, go if they list. For me I give
you the good Arab saying:--
"'Begone all eating cares this night!
Who recks to see the morning light?'"
Then, to a serving-varlet: "Here, fellow, another horn." And Richard
stood up with all eyes upon him. "To Mary Kurkuas," he drank, "and
long may she be the liege lady of St. Julien."
Every man present, except Sebastian, roared out the pledge; but
Sebastian only sat still, and prayed to the saints.
Thus sped some weeks, and old Baron Gaston breathed his last. Before
he died John of the Iron Arm had gone before him, in a manner better
surmised than said. The Baron had felt his sins coming home upon him
as his time drew nigh. The abbot went to see him very often. Gaston
wished to die as a monk. The brethren put on him the monk's robe and
scapulary, the sub-prior pronounced over him some words of
consecration, and the dying sinner muttered some half-articulate vows.
Yet he seemed more concerned as to what would befall his good horse
Fleuri when he was gone, than about the welfare of his soul. Around
his bed night and day sat his petty nobles and neighbors watching in
solemn silence, except to cross themselves when a magpie croaked, or
when it was said that a vulture hovered over the castle--sure sign of
the death-angel's approach. The moment the Baron was dead, the
serving-boys ran through the castle, emptying every vessel of water,
lest in one the straying soul should drown itself. The monks gave him
a funeral as became one of their own order, and one who had made over
to them so wide a stretch of farm-land. Ten days after Gaston was
buried, they proclaimed Richard Baron of St. Julien. Lady Margaret was
her father's only heir; but she was far away, and a man with a strong
arm was needed in that troubled seigneury. So Richard Longsword sat
down in the Baron's high seat at the end of the great hall, and all
the lesser nobles came before him, knelt, placed their hands in his,
and swore themselves "his men." And Richard raised each up, kissed him
on the mouth, and promised love and protection so long as he observed
fealty. Fealty, Richard himself owed in name to the Count of Auvergne,
with the young William of Aquitaine as overlord of all. But times were
turbulent, Aquitaine and Toulouse at bitter feud. Richard looked upon
the castle, the stout men, the broad lands, and the blue sky: "No
power can say me nay," was his laugh, "saving God and Mary Kurkuas."
And one fears he did not greatly dread the former. But the barony he
ruled with a strong hand, and ended the petty tyrannies of the lesser
nobles upon their serfs; while Sebastian as chancellor chased from
office the chaplain of St. Julien, a rollicking, hard-swearing sinner,
with a consort, six children, and wide fame as a toper. In his stead
reigned Sebastian himself, who soon crossed swords even with the
abbot: first, because there were fowls in the abbey kettles Fridays;
second, because the brethren bartered smacks with the bouncing village
maids. "_Peccatum venale!_" cried the abbot to the last charge, and
defended the former by saying that fowls were created along with fish
on Friday, and who that day refused fish? So both good men complained
to Richard, but he merrily said that Nasr, as an impartial infidel,
should compose their quarrel. And ignoring their war, Longsword rode
up and down the barony, setting the crooked straight, making the
"villains" worship him for his ready laugh, his great storehouse of
humor, his willingness to stand with the weak against the strong. Only
men who had followed him at Valmont whispered about him. One day
Richard heard two men-at-arms with their heads together, while he sat
at chess with Musa.
"Our seigneur is a terrible man. You should have seen him in the
chapel."
"From what I was told, he smote the very relic box. He must shudder
lest the hand of God be laid on him."
"He shudder? Lord Richard would not shrink, if he saw a thousand
fiends. His heart is made of iron, like his hands, if only you could
see it. Yet sometimes I tremble lest we all be smitten a deadly blow
for his deed. We all stood by consenting, though the stroke was his."
Richard heard, and the whispers so shook his mind that he made a false
move, lost a piece, lost the game. Musa saw that he was silent for
once that evening. A messenger had come the day before from La Haye:
Mary was well and joyous; they would have a bridal that would be a
tale through all the South Country. Yet Richard was no longer merry.
Musa confided his anxiety to Herbert, who had become his firm friend.
"The Cid my brother is not well. He talks in his sleep; he boasts
before men, but fears to be left alone. Last night he cried out on
his bed to take away Gilbert de Valmont and his fair, blood-stained
hairs."
Herbert shook his head. "The 'little lord'"--for so he fondly called
his mighty nursling--"has done a deed, even I," he laughed grimly,
"who have a few things to tell the priests, would not like to dip
hands in. Slaying the lad was no wrong, mind you. But the altar! the
altar! Better kill fifty in cold blood than shatter a relic box!"
"No, I think he fears lest Allah requires the boy's blood at his
hands."
Herbert brayed out a great laugh. "God will never wink twice, caring
for those Valmonters. They say Louis is coming north with a band to
take vengeance. Pretty fighting--no music sweeter than that of
sword-blades."
"I would that the princess were here," said Musa, "to lift Richard
from his black mood." But when the news came that Louis was trying to
induce the Counts of Aquitaine and Toulouse to make peace and march
against St. Julien, Richard only laughed loudly as Herbert.
"By St. Maurice, let all come; and bring the king of France and Duke
of Lorraine. Valmont was too easy a task; let me match my strength
against great lords now!"
Musa only shook his head.
"Allah grant," was his prayer, "that naught befall unhappily, until we
go back to La Haye for the wedding. Mary Kurkuas's bright eyes will
scatter all this darkness."
But day after day went on, and no bolt fell. Richard continued to ride
hard, hunt hard, drink hard. Musa began to feel, however, that the
shadow was beginning to lift. Louis had been unable to induce Toulouse
and Aquitaine to compose their feud; there was little to fear from his
quarter. Then one afternoon came the stroke from heaven.
A fair sunny afternoon it was, in the late summer. Richard had been up
with the dawn, following a great boar over the mountains. The dogs had
brought the beast to bay, and his white tusks had killed three hounds,
before Longsword had ended all with a stroke of his Danish
hunting-axe. The boar was a giant of his kind. They brought him on a
packhorse, that staggered beneath the weight. The carcass was laid out
before the huge fireplace of the hall, and all the castle girls and
women stood round pinching his shaggy sides, feeling of his white
teeth, laughing, chattering, and screaming. Richard, having put off
his hunting-boots, was calling to a serving-boy for water, when the
bronze slab at the gate began to clang, proclaiming a stranger.
"_Héh_, porter, open to me!" was the cry without, and there was a
scurry of many feet on stairways, for few visitors made their way to
St. Julien.
Presently they led into the hall a wandering pedler. He had a weighty
pack of Paris pins, of ribbons, of Eastern silks, and fifty kinds of
petty gewgaws that set the women oh-ing and ah-ing. But when he undid
his bundles, he dragged forth a letter, a roll of parchment, carefully
sealed.
"This, fair lord," said he to Richard, "I was bidden to bring you from
Marseilles, where a shipmaster put it in my hands."
"From Sicily--from Cefalu, then." Richard had not expected a letter so
early, but so much the merrier. Only he was puzzled when he saw that
the superscription was not in the hand of his brother Stephen, the
usual scribe for his father. Richard broke the seal, which he did not
recognize, unrolled, and read; while the girls swarmed round the
pedler, ransacked his wares, and pleaded with the men to be generous
with the spoils of Valmont, and buy.
But Musa, as he looked at Richard reading, saw sudden sweat-beads
standing on his forehead. The letter ran thus:
"Robert of Evroult, Bishop of Messina, to his very dear spiritual
son, the valiant and most Christian knight, Sir Richard Longsword,
sends his greeting and episcopal blessing.
"May the grace of our Lord, the pity of our Blessed Lady, ever
Virgin, the sweet savor of the Holy Ghost, be upon you. May
Michael, Raphael, and Gabriel, the great and all-adorable
archangels, spread their shields about you, to deliver you. May
all the company of the saints on high intercede for you at the
throne of the Father of all mercies, and bless you; and may God
Himself grant unto you strength and peace.
"Fair son, it has pleased the Most High to lay upon me a burden
which makes my bones to cry out, and my nights to be spent in
tears and in roarings. Yet who better than I may write you? Bow to
the will of God, and listen. Ten days since it befell that Moslem
corsairs landed by night at Cefalu, and stormed your father's
castle. The tales we have heard are scanty, for few who saw what
befell are here to tell. From a man-at-arms who escaped, it would
seem that the castle was surprised about midnight. The garrison
was small; for my lord, your father, had sent many of his men into
the mountains to chastise some robbers. They say your father laid
about him as became a Christian and a cavalier, and slew many; yet
at the end, seeing there was no hope, stabbed your mother with his
own hands to spare her captivity amongst the infidels. They say,
too, that your brother Stephen died fighting with a valor worthy
of his father and brother. As for your sister Eleanor, I hear
nothing. Therefore, we dare hope, if indeed it is a thing to hope,
that she is not dead, but carried away captive by the unbelievers.
Soon as the alarm was spread, Prince Tancred, who was near Cefalu,
took ships and followed after the pirate's two vessels. One
outsailed him; he captured the other after much struggle. The
prisoners confessed their chief was the Emir Iftikhar, one time in
Count Roger's service. The emir was on the vessel which escaped
with your sister, so said the captives. The prince put to death
his prisoners in a manner meet to remind them of the greater
torments waiting their unbelieving souls. Rumor has it, Iftikhar
has sent a creature of his, one Zeyneb, to France to seek your
hurt. This is incredible, yet be guarded. I have had masses said
for the souls of your kinsfolk; and consider, sweet son, even in
your grief, how now they are removed far from this evil world, and
have their dwelling with the saints in light. May the tender pity
of Christ comfort you, and give you peace. Farewell."
A great cry, inarticulate, terrible, burst from Richard's lips. He
staggered as he stood. Herbert grasped him round, to steady. The
parchment fell heavily from his hand. Musa caught it, read a few
lines.
"My brother! Allah have compassion--" he sobbed, his own heart melting
fast.
"Where is Sebastian?" came the choking whisper from Longsword.
"Gone to the village, lord," hesitated Bertrand, "to confess two
thieves. He is staying to the feast for the executioner and priest
after the hanging!"
"My God! My God! Why hast Thou forsaken me?" Richard was moaning. His
face was ashen. They looked on him, some about to stop their ears at
his blasphemy; but one glance told it was no blasphemy, but bitter
truth. He was putting by Herbert lightly as a child, and springing
toward the door that led down to the drawbridge. At the sight of his
face the women began to weep.
"My brother! my brother! stay!" Musa was calling. He might better have
cried to the whirlwind.
"Halt him, men!" shouted Herbert, leaping after. "He is mad; he will
slay himself!"
Two or three men-at-arms leaped out, as if to stop him. At one flash
from his eyes they fell back, crossing themselves. Richard ran out
upon the drawbridge. They could see his feet totter; all held
breath--the moat was very deep; he recovered, ran on.
Herbert made a trumpet of his hands and shouted to the porter at the
outwork:--
"Stop him! Close the gate!"
But Richard ran right past the gazing fellow, and reached the open.
Musa had sped after him.
"Richard, you are mad! Where are you going?" was his despairing call.
Longsword only ran the faster. They saw him leave the beaten road, and
fly along over garden walls, ditches, hedges, with great bounds worthy
of a courser.
Musa pressed behind, but soon found himself completely outdistanced.
Richard was heading straight for the lowering mountain. The Arab
turned back, panting for breath. Already the Norman was out of sight,
lost in the forest. Musa hastened to the castle.
"Call out all the men, send word to the village," was his command to
De Carnac; "beat up the mountain with dogs, or you will never see your
baron again!"