HOW RICHARD RETURNED TO LA HAYE
Long before Assumption Day, the appointed time for setting forth, soon
as the balmy spring winds blew, all France was marching. Not the great
lords first,--for worldly wisdom was plentiest under gilded
helmets,--but the peasants took the road by thousands on thousands.
Day after day the long procession by St. Julien, serpent-like, trailed
on,--priests and bandits, petty nobles, old crones on crutches, little
children on lumbering wagons; for weapons, often only boar spears and
wood axes. "And is this fortress not Jerusalem?" the children would
often cry when they saw the castle; and their fathers and mothers
hardly knew if they ought to tell them nay. Hoary sires crept along on
their staffs, followed by sons and sons' sons and daughters also. To
each stranger they would cry: "Come! God wills it! Let us die at
Jerusalem!" And Richard's heart grew sad, knowing they would indeed
die, but far from the Holy City. At first he bade the butler and
cellarer open the castle vats, and supply food and drink to all; but
those worthies protested that three days of such charity would ruin
the fief, and Richard was forced to let the pilgrim hordes roll by,
subsisting on what they carried with them. Full soon their means would
be at an end; then they must plunder or starve. But Longsword's bounty
would have been only a drop in their bucket.
Sometimes, however, there came sturdy bands that clamored at the
castle gate, demanding food.
"Food?" roared old Herbert, one such day; "and have you taken nothing
in your wallets?"
"No," quoth a hulking peasant, showing an empty pouch; "the priests
say, 'God who nourishes the sparrows will not let His dear children
suffer;' so we have gone forth trusting in His bounty to feed us."
"Begone!" cried Sebastian, from behind the portcullis; for the
pilgrims had begun to threaten. "I also am a priest, and say to you,
as says the Apostle, 'If any would not work, neither should he eat.'
God has given you better wits than have sparrows. Sin not by misusing
them!"
But too often the rascals fell to plunder, and reluctantly Richard
sallied forth; slew some, and hanged others for a warning. Very grave
grew Longsword when he heard of the outrages wrought through the bands
led by Volkmar the priest and Count Emicio in the Rhine cities, for he
knew this was no way to win Heaven's blessing. "Their sins are great,"
commented Sebastian. "God is pleased to lead them to destruction." And
of Peter the Hermit, who headed a like band, as not a few had desired
Sebastian himself to do, he only prophesied, "He listens to the praise
of men; God will abase him!" As indeed came true.
So with the peasants. But at last the seigneurs were moving. Richard
rode from St. Julien with five-and-twenty petty nobles, thrice as many
full-armored men-at-arms, four hundred stout "villains" on foot; and
above his head the great banner of his house, St. Julien's white stag
blazoned on a red field. The baron's heart was gay when he saw the
long line of casques and lances. But beside them trailed a weeping
company; old men and women, who went a little way, making a long
farewell.
"Ah, sweet lord," the pretty maids would cry, "how long will it be,
ere you ride back with Peter and Anselm and Hugo?" and so with fifty
more, wailing out the name of husband, brother, or sweetheart. Then
Richard would bang Trenchefer in a way to hearten the most timorous,
and swear, "In two years you shall see them all again, and I will make
every good man-at-arms a knight!" So when the women saw his bold,
brave face, they took courage. But there were tears and to spare, when
they came to the last wayside cross, and Herbert went down the line,
calling gruffly to every man and maid not bound for Jerusalem to drop
from the ranks. So the lines were closed, and the long files of
helmets and hauberks went over the mountain side. Many an eye went
back to the groups of red, blue, and yellow clustered round the cross;
and many an eye was wet that had been seldom wet before, as they saw
tottering old Bosso, Sebastian's vicar in the parish, hold up the
crucifix, and all the bright gowns bend in prayer. But none fell from
the ranks, no step lagged.
Richard nodded to Theroulde, whose mule was plodding beside Rollo. The
_jongleur_ clapped his viol to his shoulder; the trumpets blew; the
kettledrums boomed until the crags echoed; and then once more the
shout went down the lines as so many times before: "God wills it! To
Jerusalem!" Whereupon the drums thundered faster, the feet twinkled
more nimbly. When they came to the pass of the mountains, Richard
ordered no halt; but he drew rein on Rollo, and let the column swing
past. Each man cast one glance over his shoulder; louder the viols,
the trumpets, the drums; again the cry: "God wills it! To Jerusalem!"
Richard saw the backs of the last rank and turned his gaze toward the
valley. There it lay--fair as when, nigh a year before, he had seen it
from that same hillside, crowned with the bursting summer. He could
see the tower of the great keep, the abbey, the village--all. And in
that year what had not befallen! His grandfather dead; Raoul de
Valmont dead; Gilbert de Valmont dead; ah! pity, his father, mother,
brother--all dead; and his sister worse than dead! And yet the sky
could be blue, and God sit calm above it, despite the wickedness of
His children! Richard's shield-strap had slipped; in readjusting it he
saw his face in the bright steel, clear as a mirror, and he knew lines
of pain and grim resolve and deathly battle were marked thereon that
would never in this world be smoothed away. Yet he was the same: the
same debonair young knight who had laughed when he looked upon this
valley, and vowed it should all be one love-bower for Mary Kurkuas.
And now he was the stern Baron of St. Julien, at whose nod five
hundred fighting-men trembled; who had blood on his hands, and,
merciful saints, more blood on his soul, even if the sin were
absolved! Mary, the soft, sweet life in Cefalu, the sunlit dreams of
one short year ago, of love, of bright tourneys, of victories won
without a pang--where were they now?
As he turned, he saw Sebastian riding his palfrey beside Rollo. "Ah,
dear father," said the Norman, half sadly, "this is a pleasant country
to leave behind. Is Palestine, even with Jerusalem, more fair than
Auvergne? When we have taken the Holy City, we will return, and I will
pray the Lord Pope to make St. Julien a bishopric, and you shall be
the _sanctissimus_ of the country-side!"
Sebastian smiled at this forced banter.
"Dear son," said he, "this is indeed a fair country, as I said when a
year ago we first saw it from this height. But something in my heart
says to me: 'Sebastian, God is hearkening to your prayers. Your
journey in this evil world will some day end. After you have seen the
Cross victorious on the walls of the earthly Zion, then you shall
straightway behold the heavenly.' Therefore I shall never see St.
Julien again."
"These are fancies, father," said the knight, laying his heavy hand
affectionately on the priest's tonsured head; "you shall live to a yet
riper age. You shall see the Holy City purged of infidels. Then at
last it will be no sin to fulfil my dream. Here in St. Julien Mary
Kurkuas and I will dwell, and you beside us; and if God bless us with
children, what greater joy for you than to teach them all things, as
you have taught me, and make them tenfold better (Christ pity me!)
than their father."
"Yes, sweet lad," replied Sebastian, gently, "that would indeed be
joy; but the will of Our Lord be done. And now let us be about His
business." Whereupon he turned his palfrey. Richard cast one glance
over mountain, valley, tower, and farm-land--a vision never to fade;
then:--
"Come, Rollo!" he urged, and flew after the column. The music crashed
ever faster; the marching men raised a mad war-song; Richard's voice
rose above them all. As they sang, they struck the downward slope, and
the crags hid St. Julien.
* * * * *
Southward they marched; for the Auvergners went in company with
Raymond of Toulouse, by the southern route across Italy, though
Richard would have desired the German route with Godfrey. At Orange
the Norman met the great Count of Toulouse and St. Gilles,--a tall,
haughty man, with flowing silver hair and beard; brusque to strangers,
but underneath the sternness a high-minded Christian soul. With him
was his handsome and valiant friend, Viscount Gaston of Béarn, a
winsome cavalier who became Longsword's close friend. At Orange
Richard rejoined the band with Raymond of Agiles, Toulouse's chaplain,
and found Louis de Valmont. On that spot was cemented a long-time
friendship, to be ended only after they had all seen deeds, knight or
cleric had never dreamt before.
But while the host lay at Orange, Richard's heart was elsewhere;
presently there came a letter that set him to mount and ride right
quickly.
"Mary Kurkuas, to her sweet lord Richard: kisses and greetings more
than words may tell.
"DEAR HEART: I have heard all from Musa, and I may not write how my
heart is torn for you. The fiends have been many in your soul, have
tempted you grievously, and you have fallen. Do you think I shrink
from you, that I bless the saints I am not yet your wife and can
escape a hateful bond? Sweet life,--love is not made of such feeble
stuff! You do well to go to Jerusalem, but will you go without one
word, one look? I have somewhat to say to you, which can only pass
when face to face. Come to La Haye. Musa tells me I am still as
beautiful as at Palermo, and I hope in your eyes also this will prove
true. I think my words, songs, and love will not make you a meaner
soldier for Christ. To Him you belong first, but after Him to me. Ride
swiftly, for I sit watching to see Rollo coming down the castle road
bearing my own true love. So come. Farewell."
Whereupon, when Richard read, all his resolution to go through
Provence, turning to neither right hand nor left, sped from him as
dust before the south wind. To his surprise Sebastian did not oppose.
"Dear son," said the churchman, "love is of God. There is a love of
man to woman; a love of man to the Most High; happy are they to whom
the higher and lesser are at one."
"But in former days you did not smile on my suit to Mary."
"Verily," said Sebastian, while Herbert made the horses ready, "I saw
in it the hand of Satan to prevent you from going to the Holy City.
But now that you have taken the great vow, and I see in your face that
you are strong, I have no fear. Yet remember, your duty is to God, and
not to women; when you ride toward Palestine, do not leave your soul
snared in a silken net in Provence."
"Ah," cried Richard, "you know not what you say. Did you ever have
love for a pure and beautiful maid?"
Sebastian's face was very grave.
"Many things have befallen in my life, God is lengthening my days. In
the years of my youth--what may not have happened? But she died--she
was very young; so was I. I have mastered all earthly lusts, praise be
to God!"
And this was the only word Richard had ever heard Sebastian speak, of
what befell him before he entered the monastery, and the long shadows
of his life's renunciation fell over him. But of more moment was the
speech Richard had with Herbert, as they rode along.
"I marvel that no mention was made in the letter of the messages I
sent to La Haye, to warn against that dark-faced devil, Zeyneb."
Herbert fell into a long study, his eyes fixed on the way that was
gliding by under their merry canter.
"The roads were safe. All the brigands have left their lairs to go to
Jerusalem--ha!"--this, with a sly grunt and chuckle. "However, if my
lady writes thus three days since, nothing has befallen."
"True," replied the Baron, spurring Rollo more hotly, "yet as I think
of it, I begin to misdoubt. Iftikhar Eddauleh is of that accursed
brotherhood amongst the infidels--the Ismaelians. Their guile reaches
to the ends of the earth. Twice he has sought my life, and only St.
Michael saved me. I would I could see that Zeyneb dancing at a rope's
end."
"The rope or the axe will be his confessor at last!" muttered Herbert;
then they all rode harder.
When Richard came within sight of the towers of the castle of La Haye,
not even Rollo's mighty stride made the ground speed swift enough. All
around stretched the vineyards and orchard bowers of the pleasant
South Country; the wind blew softly over great fields of blossoms; the
peasant and wayfarer trudged on peacefully with no sword at his side,
and feared not raid nor robbers, for safety and ease reigned
everywhere in fair Provence. When they drew near to the castle, they
could see a score of bright banners tossing on the rampart, while a
great crash of music greeted them; for the Baron of La Haye was a
valiant troubadour, and kept as many _jongleurs_ as grooms. But what
cared Richard? As he thundered up the way to the drawbridge, he reined
in Rollo short, was out of the saddle, and his arms were about some
one in white that had run from the orchard to greet him. And he felt a
soft breath on his cheeks, soft hands in his hands, soft words in his
ear; and his own words came so fast, they would scarce come at all.
Then he knew that all the castle folk were standing by, smiling and
laughing in friendly manner. Soon Baron Hardouin came down and gave
him a stately speech, after the best courtesy of the South Country;
and Richard, holding Mary's hand in his own, looked upon all about,
and spoke out boldly: "Fair lord and good people, I have no skill in
speech, but this I say: the Princess Mary Kurkuas is the fairest and
noblest maiden in all the earth, and to him who says me nay, I will
make it good upon my body." Whereupon he half drew Trenchefer, but all
cried out, "Long life to the valiant Baron de St. Julien! long life to
our fairest princess!" And Richard went into the castle with his head
in the air, seeing only one face out of the many, and that very close
to his own.
Only when Hardouin had feasted his guest, and had made him listen to a
dozen _jongleurs_ and their minstrelsy, Richard found himself alone
with Mary in the castle orchard, just as the long afternoon was
spreading out the shadows. They sat on the turf, with a gnarled old
apple tree rustling above them. All around the bees were humming over
the roses; the birds were just beginning to carol the evening. Then
the question was, "And where is Musa?"
Whereupon Mary answered: "He is gone forth hawking; for, said he, 'I
think Richard will come to-day; and though I am his brother, there are
hours when even brothers are better loved afar off.'"
"What a noble soul he is," said Richard, his eyes wandering dreamily
up into the waving canopy of green; "how often I wonder that he has
never courted you, nor you given him favor. Almost I love him too well
for jealousy."
"But not I!" cried the Greek, firing; then with a laugh: "See, your
eyes are open wide, for you are fearful lest I take your words in
earnest. Ah, dear life, I can love but one; and with you my heart is a
full cup. Yet to Musa I would give aught else--all but love. Yet fear
him not. He is the most generous of men. Often as we have been
together, his talk has been of you,--praising you after his Arab
fashion, till even I cry out at him, 'Richard Longsword is a wondrous
knight, yet not so wondrous as you make him!' Then he will laugh and
say, 'In my eyes there was never Moslem or Christian a greater
cavalier than my brother.'"
"So he has been at La Haye all the winter?"
"Yes; he sent away your Saracens to Sicily; and I need not tell the
shifts he had to save their skins, such was the cry against infidels
in all the country. But here in Provence, where there are so many Jews
and unbelievers, not to speak of the Cathari and other heretics that
are so strong, a Moslem knight may dwell without annoy; for I fear my
uncle--" and she fetched a sigh--"likes his troubadours and courts of
love too well to leave them for the war of the Holy City."
But at the mention of Jerusalem Richard's brow grew dark.
"Dear heart," said he, "what madness to come to La Haye! How may I
lift eyes to you, when I belong to the cause of Christ; and what time
is this for marriage and giving in marriage! And if God grants that I
return alive from Palestine,--and well I know the dangers, if some do
not,--how many years for you must it be of weary waiting--years
plucked out of the joyousness of your own dear life! Ah, sweetest of
the sweet, I hold your hand now, and see heaven in your eyes. But I
know you would not have me always thus; we cannot sit beneath the
trees forever."
"No, my beloved," said the Greek, very softly, "this is no time for
marriage or giving in marriage; yet--" and she spoke still more
softly--"shall I not go with you, to nurse the wounded, and give cold
water to the sick; to lay a cool hand on you--thus--if you are very
weary or tempted? Are there no noble ladies who go with the army,--the
Countess of Toulouse, the wife of Baldwin, brother of great Duke
Godfrey, and many more? And shall I not be one? Listen: my sins too
are very great; yes,"--for Richard was raising a hand in protest; "I
am too fond of the pomps and praise of this world, and my heart too
often will not bow to the will of God. For my own sins and for the
sins of him I love better than self, I would pray at the tomb of Our
Lord. Yet I cannot fly out alone--a poor defenceless song-bird,
amongst all the crows and hawks. Therefore I have sent to you, that
you might hear me say this, 'Let us be wedded by the priest full soon,
for the Holy Father has forbidden unprotected maids to go to
Jerusalem; but let us not be to each other truly as husband or wife
until the Sacred City is taken, and we can kneel side by side at the
Holy Sepulchre."
Richard had risen, and as he stood he held Mary's hands in his own,
and looked straight into her eyes.
[Illustration: "'HOW MAY I LIFT EYES TO YOU WHEN I BELONG TO THE CAUSE
OF CHRIST?'"]
"Dear life," cried he, "do you know what you say? Peril, toil,
hardships,--yes, death even, and worse than death,--captivity--all
these may await! And is your little body strong enough for the long,
long way to Jerusalem?"
"It is, Richard," said she, looking back into his face with a sweet,
grave smile; "how I wish I could do something very great, only to show
my love for you!"
He was bending over to snatch her in his arms; her hair was touching
his cheek; when Mary shrank back with a frightened scream:--
"Richard!"
And before the other word could pass her lips, a strange misshapen
form had darted from under the tree. A flash on bright steel, a cry, a
stroke--but at that stroke Mary snatched at the wrist, caught, held an
instant.
"The jinns curse you!" the hiss, and Mary felt the wrist whisk like
air from her hands. Another stroke, Richard half reeled. There was the
click of steel on steel. A second curse, and the assailant ghost-like
was gliding amongst the orchard trees. Longsword was still staring,
trembling, reaching for Trenchefer; but Mary gave a loud cry. And at
that cry, lo! Musa was swinging from his saddle, and grasping in no
gentle grip the cloak of the dwarf Zeyneb.