HOW RICHARD MET GODFREY OF BOUILLON
Under the dead craters of the Monts Dôme in the teeming Limagne basin
lay Clermont, a sombre, lava-built town, with muddy lanes; and all
around, the bright, cold, autumn-touched country. Far beyond the walls
stretched a new city,--tents spread over the meadows even; for no
hospitable burghers could house the hundreds of prelates and abbots
come to the council; much less the host of lay nobles and "villains."
Daily into the Cathedral went the great bishops in blazing copes, and
the lordly abbots beneath gold-fringed mitres, to the Council where
presided the Holy Father,--where the truce of God was being proclaimed
between all Christians from each Wednesday set-of-sun till Monday
cockcrow, and where Philip of France and his paramour Queen Bertrade
were laid under the great anathema. But no man gave these decrees much
heed; for when Richard Longsword rode into Clermont on a November day,
and pitched his tents far out upon the meadows,--all near space being
taken,--he wondered at the flash in every eye at that one magic word,
"Jerusalem!" All had heard Peter; all burned for the miseries of the
City of Our Lord; knew that their own sins were very great. From
Pérignat to Clermont, Richard accompanied a great multitude, growing
as it went. After he had encamped, the roads were still black with
those coming from the north, from Berri; from the west, from
Aquitaine; from the east, from Forez. One could hear the chatter of
the Languedoil, of the Ile de France, and of Champagne--all France was
coming to Clermont!
Beside Richard encamped an embassy from the Count Raymond of Toulouse,
headed by a certain Raymond of Agiles, a fat, consequential,
good-natured priest, his lord's chaplain; a very hard drinker who soon
struck hands with Longsword,--much to the scandal of Sebastian, who
did not love tales of lasses and wine-cups. With him was a half-witted
clerk, one Peter Barthelmy, of whom more hereafter. But Richard cared
little for their jests. Could even the Holy Father give rest to his
soul? Could a journey to Jerusalem write again his name in the Book of
Life?
Richard went to the church of Our Lady of the Gate. Kneeling by the
transept portal, with strangely carved cherubim above him, he looked
into the long nave, where only dimly he could see the massy piers and
arches for the blaze of light from two high windows bright with
pictured saints. As he entered, a great hush and peace seemed to come
over him. He turned toward the high altar; the gleaming window above
seemed a doorway into heaven. He knelt at a little shrine by the
aisle. He would pray. Lo, of a sudden the choir broke forth from the
lower gloom:--
"That great Day of wrath and terror!
That last Day of woe and doom,
Like a thief that comes at midnight
On the sons of men shall come;
When the pride and pomp of ages
All shall utterly have passed,
And they stand in anguish owning
That the end is here at last!"
Richard heard, and his heart grew chill. Still the clear voices sang
on, till the words smote him:--
"Then to those upon the left hand
That most righteous Judge shall say:
'Go, you cursèd, to Gehenna
And the fire that is for aye.'"
Richard bowed his head and rocked with grief. But when he looked again
up toward the storied windows and saw the Virgin standing bathed in
light, her eyes seemed soft and pitiful. Still he listened as the
music swelled on:--
"But the righteous, upward soaring,
To the heavenly land shall go
'Midst the cohorts of the angels
Where is joy forevermo':
To Jerusalem, exulting,
They with shouts shall enter in:
That true 'sight of peace' and glory
That sets free from grief and sin,
Christ, they shall behold forever,
Seated at the Father's hand
As in Beatific Vision
His elect before Him stand."
Richard sprang to his feet. "_Ai!_" were his words, half aloud; "if
hewing my way to the earthly Jerusalem I may gain sight of the
heavenly, what joy! what joy!"
A hand touched him gently on the shoulder. He looked about, half
expecting to see a priest; his eye lit on a cavalier, soberly dressed,
with his hood pulled over his head. In the gloom of the church Richard
could only see that he was a man of powerful frame and wore a long
blond beard.
"Fair knight," said the stranger, in the Languedoil, in a voice low,
but ringing and penetrating, "you seem mightily moved by the singing;
do you also wish to win the fairer Holy City by seeking that below? I
heard your words." There was something in the tone and touch that won
confidence without asking. And Richard answered:--
"Gallant sir, if God is willing that I should be forgiven by going ten
score times to Jerusalem, and braving twelve myriad paynims, I would
gladly venture."
The strange knight smote his breast and cast down his eyes. "We are
all offenders in the sight of God, and I not the least. Ah! sweet
friend, I know not how you have sinned. At least, I trust you have not
done as I, borne arms against Holy Church. What grosser guilt than
that?"
The two knelt side by side at the little shrine for a long time,
saying nothing; then both left the church, and together threaded the
dirty lanes of the town, going southward to the meadows where was
Richard's encampment. As they stepped into the bright light of day,
Longsword saw that the stranger was an exceeding handsome man, with
flashing gray eyes, long fair hair, and, though his limbs were slender
and delicate, his muscles and frame seemed knit from iron. When they
passed the city gate, Richard asked the other to come to his tent.
"You are my elder, my lord; do not think my request presumption."
"And why do you say 'my lord'?" asked the stranger, smiling.
"Can I not see that your bleaunt, though sombre, is of costliest
_cendal_ silk? that your 'pelisson' is lined with rare marten? that
the chain at your neck is too heavy for any mean cavalier? And--I cry
pardon--I see that in your eye which makes me say, 'Here is a mighty
lord!'"
The knight laughed again, and stroked his beard thoughtfully.
"Good sir," said he, at length, "I see you are a 'sage' man. You
desire to go to Jerusalem?"
"Yes, by Our Lady!"
"So do I; and I have come no small journey to hear the Holy Father.
Let us seal friendship. Your name?"
"Richard Longsword, Baron of St. Julien," answered the Norman,
promptly, thrusting out his hand.
"And mine," replied the other, looking fairly into Longsword's face,
with a half-curious expression, "is Godfrey of Bouillon."
But Richard had dropped the proffered hand, and bowed very low.
"Godfrey of Bouillon? Godfrey of Lorraine? O my Lord Duke, what folly
is mine in thrusting myself upon you--" But Godfrey cut him short.
"Fair sir, do not be dismayed; your surmise is true! God willing, we
shall ride side by side in more than one brave battle for the Cross;
and I count every Christian cavalier who will fight with the love of
Our Lord in his heart to be my good comrade and brother."
"O my lord," began Richard again; and again the elder man stayed him
with, "And why not? Will God give a higher place in heaven to the
sinful duke than to the righteous peasant? Are we not told 'he that
exalteth himself shall be abased'? And why have I, man of sin from my
birth, cause to walk proudly?"
The last words came so naturally that Richard could only cry out in
despair: "_Ai_, Lord Duke, and if that be so, and you, who all men say
are more monk than cavalier, are so evil, what hope then for such as
I, who have sinned nigh past forgiveness?"
"And what was your sin, fair knight?"
"I slew an innocent boy with his hands upon the altar."
Godfrey crossed himself, but answered very mildly: "You have greatly
offended, yet not as I. For when you slew only a mortal boy, I
crucified My Lord afresh by bearing arms against His Holy Church.
Eleven years since with the Emperor Henry, in an evil hour, I aided
him to take Rome from the saintly Pope Gregory. For this God let me be
stricken by a great sickness. I was at death's door. Then His mercy
spared me. And when I recovered, I swore that I would ride forth to
the deliverance of the Holy City; in the meantime, under my silken
robe I wear this," and he showed a coarse haircloth shirt, "as a
remembrance of my sin and of my vow."
"But you are without state?" asked Richard, wondering; "no vassals--no
great company?"
Godfrey smiled. "What are the pomps of this world?" said he, crossing
himself again; "yet in the eyes of men I must maintain them; such is
the bondage of the ruler. Just now my affairs are such in Lorraine and
Brabant that were it to be noised abroad that the Duke were gone to
Clermont, there would be no small stir, and then, perhaps, many would
conspire to resist me. But now they think me hunting, to return any
day, and they dare not move in their plots. Yet my heart has burned to
see the Lord Pope, and hear the word that he must speak. Therefore I
have come hither, in the guise of a simple knight, riding with all my
speed, and only one faithful lord with me, who passes for my
man-at-arms. And I must get the blessing and mandate of the Holy
Father, and be back to Maestricht ere too many tongues begin wagging
over my stay." And then with a flash of his keen eyes he turned on
Richard: "And you, my Lord de St. Julien,--are you not the son of that
great Baron, William the Norman, who rode the length of Palermo in the
face of all the Moslems during the siege, and were you not also victor
in the famous tourney held last year by Count Roger?"
"I am, my Lord Duke; yet how could you know me?"
Godfrey laughed lightly. "I make no boast, fair sir," he answered,
"but there are very few cavaliers in all Christendom of whom I do not
know something. For this war for the Cross is no new thing in my
heart; and I strive to learn all I may of each good knight who may
ride at my side, when we battle with the paynim; and I rejoice that
your dwelling in half-Moslem Sicily has not made your hate for the
unbeliever less strong."
"Ah!" cried Richard, "only lately have I resolved to go to Jerusalem;
I have fought against it long. To go I must put by the wedding of the
fairest, purest woman in all the world,--perhaps forever. Yet my sin
is great; and the blood of my parents and brother, slain by the
infidels, will not let me rest. But it is very hard."
"Therefore," said Godfrey, solemnly, with the fervor of an enthusiast
kindling his eyes, "in the sight of God, your deed will have the more
merit. Be brave, sweet brother. Put by every worldly desire and lust.
I also have sworn to live as brother to mine own dear wife, till the
paynims defile the city of the Lord no more. Our Lady grant us both
the purer, uncarnal love, the glory passing thought, the seats at
God's right hand!" And the great Duke strode on, his head bowed in
deep revery, while Richard drew new strength and peace from his mere
presence. Richard brought Godfrey to his own tent, letting De Carnac
and the others know little of the story of his guest; and with the
Duke came Count Renard of Toul, his comrade, a splendid and handsome
cavalier, who seemed singularly ill-matched with his man-at-arms
jerkin and plain steel cap. Longsword called Theroulde, and the
_jongleur_ was at his best that night as he sang the direful battle of
Roncesvalles, the valor of Roland and Oliver, and the gallant Bishop
Turpin; and of Ganelon and his foul treason, King Marsillius and his
impious attack on the armies of Christ; the death of the dreadful
paynim Valdobrun, profaner of Jerusalem, and a hundred heroes more. As
the tale ran on, it was a thing to see how the Duke swelled with holy
rage against the infidel. As Theroulde sang, sitting by the camp-fire,
the Duke would forget himself, spring from the rugs, and dash his
scabbard upon the ground, until at last when the _jongleur_ told how
Roland wound his great horn thrice in anguish, after it was all too
late and the Frankish army far away, Godfrey could rein himself no
more: "By the Splendor of God!" was his shout, "would that I had been
there and my Lorrainers!" Then Theroulde was fain to keep silence till
the terrible lord (for so he guessed him) could be at peace. Late that
night they parted. On the morrow, report had it, the Pope would
address all the Christians at Clermont from a pulpit in the great
square.
"And then,--and then,"--repeated the Duke; but he said no more, for
they all knew their own hearts. Richard lay down with a heart lighter
than it had been for many a dreary day. "Jerusalem! Jerusalem!" The
name was talisman for every mortal woe.
* * * * *
Long after Richard had fallen asleep, Herbert sat with Theroulde,
matching good stories before the camp-fire. The man-at-arms lolled
back at full length by the blaze, his spade-like hands clasped under
his head, his sides shaking with horse-laughs at Theroulde's jests.
Suddenly the _jongleur_ cut his merry tale short.
"St. Michael! There is a man lurking in the gloom behind the Baron's
tent. Hist!"--and Theroulde pointed into the dark. Herbert was on his
feet, and a javelin in his hand, in a twinkling.
"Where?" he whispered, poising to take aim.
"He is gone," replied the _jongleur_; "the night has eaten him up."
"You are believing your own idle tales," growled the man-at-arms.
"Not so; I swear I saw him, and the light as on a drawn dagger. He was
a misshaped, dwarfish creature."
Herbert sped the javelin at random into the dark. It crashed on a
tent-pole. He ran and recovered it.
"No one is there," he muttered; "you dream with open eyes, Theroulde.
Tell no tale of this to Lord Richard. He has troubles enough."