HOW DUKE GODFREY SAVED THE DAY
The host lay before Nicæa many a weary day before the starved and
despairing garrison declared for Emperor Alexius and the Franks saw
the Greek standards floating from the battlements. Loud was the rage
against this trick that robbed them of the plunder of so fair a city.
"Back to Constantinople!" howled the men-at-arms and petty nobles.
"The Greeks are schismatics and scarce better than Moslem!" But the
judicious presents of Alexius silenced the cries of the chiefs, and
they in turn controlled their people, though from that hour little
love was wasted on the Emperor. On the twenty-fifth day of June the
Army of the Cross struck its tents about Nicæa, and set out for the
march across Phrygia, through the heart of the dominions of Kilidge
Arslan.
Soon after starting the host divided; for water and forage would be
none too plentiful, the guides said, in the plains and mountains
before, and to keep together might mean ruin. So Duke Godfrey led away
the larger half of the army with Raymond, Adhemar, and Hugh the Great;
while the second corps followed Bohemond, Tancred, and Robert of
Normandy. Being himself Norman, Longsword went with this last
division, although he would gladly have kept company with the Duke of
Bouillon. He was ill pleased to see with how little order each host
marched, and how scant was the effort to keep close enough each to the
other for help in case of need. Still, for a day or two, all went
well. They passed through a pleasant rolling country, with abundant
grass and water. All the villages, to be sure, had been burned by the
Turks, and scarce a peasant met them. But around them like an
invisible net the Sultan's light-horsemen hovered, and now and then
the long line of baggage mules and plodding infantry would be
attacked, a few beasts hamstrung, a few footmen wounded, before the
knights could charge out and chase the Seljouks over the hills. On the
third day, however, the attacks grew more violent. Longsword had been
sent back by Bohemond to cover the trailing rear-guard, where were the
staggering sick, the defenceless _jongleurs_, and the women in heavy
carriages. As the afternoon advanced, he sent a message to the Count
of Chartres that unless he had speedy succor his St. Julien men could
not hold back the thickening squadrons; and quick as the
reënforcements came, there was a sturdy _mêlée_--lance to lance, sword
to cimeter--before the Turks broke. When at last they were flying,
Richard pushed the sure-footed Rollo up a hill where any horse saving
he would have stumbled; and behold, from the hilltop Longsword could
see a score of heavy dust clouds rising, north, south, east,
west,--cavalry galloping. When he rode down he met Tancred himself.
"Fair lord," was his report, "the infidels surely plan to attack us in
force to-morrow. If my eyes are good, there are thousands of Turkish
horse around us. Kilidge Arslan must have called round him all his
easternmost hordes, and intends battle. I advise that before nightfall
a strong escort be sent to Duke Godfrey, bidding him hasten to our
relief."
"By the Mass!" swore Tancred, his knightly honor touched. "Of all men,
you, De St. Julien, should be the last to cry 'Rescue!' We are well
able to scatter Kilidge Arslan's thousands, and Godfrey shall rob us
of no glory."
So Richard held his peace, though for some strange reason his heart
was not as gay as it should have been when about to engage in glorious
battle with the infidel. He accompanied the rear as it toiled into the
encampment, already plotted by the van. Longsword saw with anxiety
that, though the camp was protected in the rear by a reedy marsh, and
on one side by a shallow stream, no palisades were being raised, nor
any other defences. The weary men set their tents as they might,
lighted fires, feasted, and were asleep, heavy with the toilsome
march. Mary Kurkuas stood at the tent door as was her wont, and
greeted her husband.
"You ran more than your share of peril to-day. The fighting was hard.
Ah! I was frightened."
"_Ai!_" cried Richard, taking off his heavy helm, "if I never come
nearer death than to-day, like a stork I shall live to be a thousand.
But there is a bandage on your wrist--what? blood?" and his face grew
troubled.
"Yes," answered Mary, smiling now, and holding up the wrist. "While
you were so valiantly guarding the rear, a squadron of Turks flew out
of a defile just before us, and ere Prince Bohemond could ride up with
his knights, had charged very close, shooting arrows."
"Mother of Mercies, you were in danger! But were you frightened?"
"Not till it was all past. For Hossein sprang in front of me, at his
own peril, and covered me with his target, catching three shafts upon
it otherwise meant for me. Then the Prince flew up with his band and
chased the Turks away; and I found that my wrist was bleeding where a
barb had scratched."
"Ha, Herbert!" cried his master, "will not my lady make a noble
cavalier? She wins honorable wounds; she shall have lance and hauberk,
and ride beside me. As for Hossein, what do you say? Be he Moslem or
Christian, he has shielded your mistress at risk of life." The
man-at-arms scratched the thin hairs on his crown.
"True; perchance I have wronged him. Yet yesterday we could not
persuade him to taste a bit of pork, and he has that cast of eye which
'wise women' call malignant."
"You are all suspicions and jealousy," declared Mary, pouting. "Did I
let you, I believe you would clap Hossein in fetters."
"I would I saw them on his wrists!" muttered the veteran, as he went
away to his supper. But Richard and Mary sat a long time before their
tent, sipping the spiced wine of Lesbos they had brought from
Constantinople, and watching the stars peep out one by one from the
deepening sky. The camp buzzed all about, yet dimly, as if each man
was in love with quiet. It was very warm, and the soft wind bore the
scent of drying wild-flowers and parching heather, as it crept down
from the sun-loved uplands. It was a sweet and peaceful hour, one
which stayed as a pure and holy vision in both their minds for many a
long, sad day.
"Sweetheart," said Richard, when they grew tired of counting the
budding stars, "though Prince Tancred and the rest will not hear it,
there will be a mighty battle to-morrow. I have seen Kilidge Arslan's
hosts all around us. We shall fight in the morning as never at Nicæa."
"Ah! Richard," answered Mary, still in laughing mood, "you must let me
ride with you. See!"--and she caught the dagger from his belt--"can I
not strike as manfully as any dapper little squire, and make the
infidels flee before me, as ever did your Frank hero, great Roland?"
"Verily," cried her husband, his eyes on her face, "I think if the
Moslems saw you coming, they would drop every man his sword,--your
darts would pierce them."
"My darts?" asked she.
"Yes, truly,--these," and he laid his fingers on her eyes.
"No," was the answer, and she shook him off. "Listen: my eyes are my
sorrow,--first, because they captured the Baron de St. Julien, who
deserves no such bondage;" then, more gravely, "next, because they
nigh undid Louis de Valmont; and last--O Richard! still I have mighty
fear of Iftikhar Eddauleh; he is seeking your life, and God knows
whether his unholy passion for me is still in his heart! Swear, swear
to me, Richard, that rather with your own hands you will take my life
than suffer me to fall into _that_ man's power. He is Moslem, but on
that account I do not hate him; yet death were better than to be his
bride!"
Richard was accustomed to these changing flashes of gay and grave; but
he knew there was no common ring of entreaty in Mary's last words, and
he answered very soberly:--
"Heart of my heart, I am here in all my strength, with Trenchefer at
my side, and around are thousands of good Christian knights. When they
are all slain, and I also, then you may fear Iftikhar Eddauleh. Till
then, think of likelier things to dread."
Mary was silent, watching the stars for a moment, then replied:--
"You say well, Richard, you are very strong. I am proud of you. Yet I
have a strange fear that all your strength cannot shield me from
Iftikhar. But no more of my folly,--perchance I am moonstruck. Let me
go to the tent, to say one prayer to the Holy Mother to keep you safe
to-morrow, and then to sleep, to dream how happy we shall be when we
go back to France."
So he kissed her; and when the flaps of the tent had closed behind her
and her maids, he called Hossein.
"Good fellow, to-morrow we expect battle. To-day you have been a
gallant guard of the princess. Remain by her to-morrow; defend her
with your life. As I live, if you do your duty, reward shall not
fail."
"Cid," answered the Arab, kissing the Baron's feet, "I hear and obey.
I swear, on my head, no unfriendly hand shall touch your very noble
wife."
As Richard looked about, he saw Theroulde standing in the firelight.
"And you, too, Sir Minstrel," said he, "shall stand guard with Hossein
over your lady." As he spoke, he thought he heard a low curse, "Eblees
confound him!" burst from under Hossein's breath. "Ha! What said you,
Arab?" asked Longsword.
"I was but sighing as I thought of my many sins, Cid," answered the
fellow, very dutifully.
Richard did not reply, but repeated to himself ere he fell asleep: "It
is as well Theroulde will be with Mary. Despite everything, I mislike
this Hossein, for some reason."
* * * * *
Richard slept heavily, and was awakened by a hand on the shoulder. It
was the St. Julien knight, De Carnac, who commanded the watch of his
baron's command.
"Up, fair lord!" the warrior was urging, "the Seljouks are closing
round. Our sentinels are being driven in. I am bidden summon you to
council with the Prince of Tarentum." And with this Richard staggered
to his feet and stared around. It was very dark in the tent as he put
on hauberk and helmet. Without there was hum of many voices, distant
shouting, baggage cattle chafing and clinking their chains, and
presently a clear French war-cry, doubly piercing in the night,
"_Montjoye Saint Denis!_" A moment later a trumpet blared out, then
another and another.
Richard stepped from the tent; the sky was graying in the east;
encampment--men, horses, all--were vague black shadows just visible.
He was buckling fast Trenchefer when the flaps of the next tent
parted, and forth came a figure--his wife. In the dim twilight he
could only see the whiteness of her bare throat and the soft, unbound
hair, waving on forehead and shoulders. She came to him, and embraced
him without a word. Then at last she said, "Now, dear life, you must
ride out and fight God's battle, and if I cannot gallop at your side,
you shall know that my heart and my prayers ride with you; and you
must be very brave and very strong, and I will wait here and be brave
also."
"Ah! beautiful," answered he, before he swung into the saddle of the
waiting Rollo, "God will have pity on me for your dear sake. You know
no words can tell you all I feel."
"Our Lord be with you!" and with that word upon her lips she kissed
him; and he mounted, took lance, and rode away, with all the St.
Julien men saving a few grooms, also Theroulde and Hossein, who were
to remain by the tents.
With the breath of the last kiss on his lips, and his head held very
high, Richard Longsword led his troop out of the gray maze of the
encampment. Battle was before him--a great battle against countless
infidels, such as he and his peers had often made merry to think of;
yet Longsword felt no joy that morning. Fear for himself he had none;
the battle might sweep over him, the war-horns blow his funeral
mass--what matter? Yet in a way his heart was sad. It would have been
better had Mary remained at La Haye; better were he to fight for
himself and the cause of Christ alone. But he knew not why he should
grieve. That the Seljouks should so prevail over the soldiers of the
Cross as to menace the encampment, scarce entered his head. Only he
had been happier, could he have recalled his command to Hossein, taken
the Arab in his troops, left another to guard the lady. But the fellow
had twice proved his devotion. Why mistrust? And all such thoughts
sped from his mind when he saw, dimly ahead, armed cavaliers sitting
on their tall _destrers_, and Prince Bohemond's voice called:--
"Who rides? De St. Julien?"
"The same, my lord prince; what news?"
"Praise St. Michael, you are here! We need all our wits. The infidels
are closing round, and dark as it is we can hear the hoof-beats of
tens of thousands. We must prepare for battle with the dawn."
"And have you taken my advice, my Lord Tancred," asked Richard, "and
sent messengers to the Duke?"
"Two knights and ten men-at-arms have ridden an hour since," replied
Tancred, for he was among the horsemen. "Yet I would vow Our Lady two
gold candlesticks, were I sure they could get through the hordes. You
may mock me, De St. Julien, if you will, for not heeding your warning
last evening."
"Mockery is of little profit this morning, my lord," said Richard,
soberly; "how may I serve you?"
But at this moment came another cavalier, in armor that gleamed in the
wan light, and behind him a great train.
"Hail, fair Duke Robert!" cried Bohemond; "what news do your outposts
bring you?"
The son of William the Conqueror swore a deep Norman oath, and
replied: "In my quarter arrows pelt like hailstones; all the fiends
are broke loose. They only wait the light to strike us. God grant we
are all well shriven, for we may sleep with the saints ere another
morning!"
"Fair lords," said Tancred, "we must go to our posts and array the
battle. De St. Julien, bid the varlets and footmen place the baggage
wagons round the camp, to make what barricade they may. After that,
put your men at my right, for by the Virgin, we shall see stout
fighting!"
So the council broke up, there being nothing to advise save to fight
heartily. Richard sent the heralds through the camp and, with cry and
trumpet, roused the sleeping host, though the alarms of the night
already had waked many. A great confusion there was: a thousand voices
shouting at once, women wailing, war-horns blaring, wheels creaking,
all trebly loud in the murk of the breaking day. Long before the wagon
barrier, also, was as it should be, a great cry began to swell: "The
foe! the foe!" and the infantry commenced to bang their shields and
clatter their pike-staffs, for discipline was none the best. Richard
rode away with his hundred St. Julien troopers,--men that he could
trust to the last pinch,--and drew them up beside the personal command
of Prince Tancred. Prince Bohemond and the Norman Duke had arrayed
their mailed cavalry in a solid rank, the line stretching far down the
plain, every man in complete armor, with a good horse between his
knees. As the light strengthened, Richard could see the long files of
lances, ten thousand bright pennons whipping the wind, and the new sun
shone on as many burnished casques and flashing targets--noble sight;
yet not so strange as that which he beheld when he looked northward
just east of the little town called Dorylæum. The hills, so far as eye
could reach, were covered with an innumerable host, thousands on
thousands, and all on horseback. He could see the gay red and green
turbans, the bright scarfs and mantles, pennons, banners--past
counting; and even as the sun lifted above the hills, and sent its
weird red light over the valley, a mighty roar of tambour, kettledrum,
and cymbal came rolling from the foe, and a shout from myriad throats,
wild, beastlike, shrill as the winter wind. With the shout, as if at
magician's wand, all the hills seemed moving; and the Seljouk hordes
charged straight upon the Christian lines.
It was a wondrous spectacle; far as the eye might pierce, only
horsemen, and more horsemen, speeding at headlong gallop. "Christ pity
us!" more than one bronze-faced cavalier muttered in his beard. And
some cried, "Charge!" But Tancred held them steady. The hordes swept
on as one man, nearer, so near that the dust-cloud blew in the
Christians' faces; and all braced themselves for the shock. But just
as the crash was about to tremble on the air, lo! the foremost Turks
had wheeled like lightning, and arrows flew out that darkened the sky
by their number. And as the first horde rolled off to one flank, still
shooting, the next, the next, and yet another whirled past, pouring
forth their volleys.
"Stand fast, Christians!" was Tancred's shout, as the first shafts
dashed harmlessly on the good mail; and for a moment the Franks sat,
their steeds immovable, and let the blast of steel beat on them. Yet
only for a moment; though but one arrow in a hundred struck home, here
and there men were bleeding, wounded horses plunging. Each instant
Crusaders were falling; should they sit forever and be shot to death?
Duke Robert was the first to charge. "_Dex aiè!_" cried his Norman
knights, and lance in rest they spurred straight in the face of the
wheeling myriads. Vain courage! A few Seljouks they struck and rode
over in a twinkling; but the vast horde parted before them like water,
and rained in arrows and ever more arrows from safe distance. The Duke
regained his lines, but one-fourth of his men had been stricken, and
the terrible horse-archers were shooting a more deadly shower than
ever.
"The foot! the crossbowmen!" was the cry of the raging knights. And
their archers and arbalisters, coming to the front, tried to return
the fire as best they could. Many a Seljouk rode no more after their
volley, but their shafts were as a bucket on a holocaust. Horsemen,
and yet more horsemen, were rolling in. More and more rapid the arrow
fire, the sky was dark with flying dust, the ear deafened with the
thunders of hoofs uncounted, the clash of the kettledrums, the yell
and howl of the Seljouks. Flesh and blood could stand the strain no
more. Either the Turks must be routed, or the Franks would perish to
a man.
"Charge! Charge!" this time the cry went down the line on every lip.
Two arrows had grazed Rollo, despite his leathern armor. Thrice had
Richard felt the sting on his ribs, where the mail had turned the
shaft. Only one desire had he now,--to ride through or over his
tormenters.
"God wills it! Normandy! Normandy!" came from Duke Robert's cavaliers.
"_Montjoye Saint Denis!_" rang from the Count of Chartres. "_Biez!_"
thundered the Auvergners; and the whole steel-mailed line swept upon
the Seljouks, like an avalanche. And now a crash! They smote the Turks
with might irresistible; the _destrers_ trampled down the frail Tartar
horses by thousands. What guard were light targets and cotton turbans
to the swords of the men of France? For a moment, when Richard reined
in Rollo, he believed the foe annihilated.
"God wills it!" myriad voices were calling. Yet even as the dust hung
in the air, the arrows began to beat down again. Like flies the Turks
had scattered; like flies they returned, new hordes making good all
loss. And now the Christians were in deadly peril, for their ranks
were all broken into little handfuls, and the Seljouks swarmed round
each, trying to trample it down by weight of numbers. Richard led his
men back from the charge. Trenchefer was very red. How many Turks
opposed the St. Julieners he could not tell, but by the grace of the
saints the line was re-formed at last. Prince Bohemond, crafty of
heart, but a very lion in battle, flew down the line to steady it.
"We have slain a thousand infidels!" the Count of Chartres was crying.
"One more charge and we have victory!"
"One more such victory and we are crowned martyrs!" Prince Tancred
made answer. "Robert of Paris is slain, and William, my brother, and a
hundred good knights more; and we are being shot down like sparrows."
Another onrush of the Seljouks, this time nearer. Richard felt the
moments creeping by with leaden feet. The possibility of a disaster
beyond thought stared him in the face. It was one thing to go to death
in a fair fight with the sword hot in one's hand--another to sit
passive and feel destruction beating down. Yet he was thinking, not of
himself, but of another. Prince Tancred, burning to avenge his
brother's loss, charged out with his own troop. The Seljouks closed
around him like the sea. Bohemond flew to aid, and rescued his nephew.
Richard saw Tancred riding back within the lines bareheaded and
bloody, his lance broken. "Christ keep our souls, the Seljouks have
our bodies," murmured the Breton Count Rothold, "I will not die here!"
and he also charged out with his shrill native war-cry, "_Malo!
Malo!_" In a twinkling the hordes rolled round him; Richard and the
St. Julieners saved him. But now Robert, the Norman, spurred up to
Longsword. The Duke's casque was beaten and gory, his long white
pennon red-dyed, his horse wounded.
"De St. Julien, we are lost unless Godfrey and the rest rescue. The
first messengers are surely slain. Are your troop still left, and your
horses unwounded?" The noise of the Turks made his voice nigh
inaudible, but Richard bowed his head.
"Then for the love of Our Saviour, ride, and bring succor. On you hang
all our lives!"
"Men of St. Julien," cried Richard, "will you follow me?"
"Through ten thousand devils!" roared back De Carnac and the rest.
Richard clapped spurs to Rollo.
"Christ guard us!" was his cry; but his glance was toward the
encampment. He led the Auvergners to the left of the battle, where the
Seljouk horde seemed thinnest.
And what followed was ever to Richard Longsword as one long wild dream
whereof the memory lingered; the reality was blotted out. He knew that
he charged his men against the horde, and, as ever, the Turks gave way
before them--more victims to be swallowed in their quick-sands. But
these Franks, having made their charge, did not turn back. The arrow
fire smote them; yet on and on they spurred, still chasing back the
foe. And then, when the tribesmen saw that these mad Franks would not
wheel back to the encampment, from the fatal line around the Turks
closed in, shield to shield, lance to lance. Richard never knew what
saint gave strength to his arm that day, and made Trenchefer terrible
to the unbelievers. Only after a long delirium of hewing and riding,
he saw the open country before. A look backward--behold, he was upon a
hill. The Turkish lines stretched away to his left; he had cleared
their flank, and the battle raged in its mad carnival behind him. He
looked for his men--how few! They had ridden from camp a hundred;
scarce fifty were at his back. But the deed was done. They had cleared
the Seljouks, and now to Duke Godfrey!
"Lord, I am a very sinful man," prayed Richard, as they pushed their
wounded steeds down the hill southward; "unworthy of this mercy.
Surely it was through the prayers of a dear saint whose peril is still
great."
"Ride, men, ride!" he commanded, and gave head to Rollo, whose tough
hide had turned more than one barb. The great black horse tossed out
his hoofs and was away. No other St. Julien steed could pace him. He
left the band behind, and Richard flew toward the long line of tents
he saw nestling under a distant hill. The mighty steed ran like a
beast of steel, unwearying, unslacking; hillocks he raced over,
gullies he cleared with unfailing leap. The wind whistled in
Longsword's hair--his helmet had gone, the saints knew whither; he
felt the horse speeding too fast for thought. A few roving stragglers
from the Seljouk host pricked after him, two or three arrows twittered
overhead. Rollo dropped them all, their small steeds blown and weary,
while on the Northern monster ran.
And now he drew near the camp. Men were shouting to him, a great crowd
of varlets staring. Rollo ran down the streets of tents, a thousand
eyes upon the thundering black horse and his blood-stained rider.
"The Duke! the Duke!" Richard was shouting, as he drew rein before
the wide, silken pavilion. A score of knights and squires swarmed
around. A strong hand was needed to stay Rollo. Richard sprang
breathless to the ground, and stood face to face with Godfrey, just
emerging from the tent. "Lord de St. Julien," cried Bouillon, "alone?
Covered with blood?" But Richard cut him short.
"Rescue, rescue, as you love Christ! Our host is surrounded, and nigh
perishing; Robert of Paris and Prince William are slain. The Seljouk
arrows are hail. Rescue, or all is lost."
"By Our Lady of Antwerp!" thundered Godfrey, all action, "blow horns,
sound trumpets! Horses; arm; mount!"
No need of more! The word flew through the encampment swifter than
light. Now the Duke's war-horns sounded, now Count Hugh's, now Count
Raymond's. But Godfrey was foremost. Scarce had Richard quaffed a
helmet of water, before the Duke stood before him in his silvered
hauberk, and the fifty picked knights of his bodyguard were in saddle.
"Give me a horse!" cried Richard. "A horse, my lord duke! for mine has
ridden hard, and is wounded."
"By the splendor of God," cried Godfrey, "you will have your fill of
fighting! Bring the best spare _destrer_ and a new helm!"
So Richard was again on horseback; and if he was wounded and weary, he
did not know it till later on that fateful day. Rollo he left in safe
hands, and followed the Duke.
"To the east, my lord. Their flank is unguarded," he urged. "You may
have them all."
And Godfrey rode madly ahead with his bodyguard. After him streamed
the Christian heavy cavalry, they too thousands upon thousands--the
finest squadrons ever arrayed in sinful war. Then again for Richard
the mad delight of the ride! But this time with countless comrades
about him; and as the host swept up over the eastern hills, the sun
hung in mid-heaven, and made the arms and shields one tossing sea of
light. Before and below lay the Seljouk horde and the thin lines of
the Christians--very close now; for Kilidge Arslan was pressing in to
pluck his prey. But at the sight one mighty cry rolled from fifty
thousand throats, "God wills it!" For God had delivered the infidels
into Duke Godfrey's hands.