HOW RICHARD WAS AGAIN CHASTENED
Forward the great host swept. And if the sight of the onrushing Turks
had borne terror to the Christians that morning, what terror must have
sped among the hordesmen that noon. For the whole army of Kilidge
Arslan was caught in a fatal triangle,--the hills where no cavalry
might wheel, the lines of Bohemond and Tancred, and the squadrons of
Godfrey. "God wills it!" again the cry; and every knight in the
onrushing squadrons was holding his lance steady--no sitting in rank
now and feeling the beat, beat of the arrows. The Seljouks might not
scatter, if they would.
A howl of mortal fear was rising from the unbelievers. The tale later
spread that they saw two Christian knights in armor fiery-bright, who
rode before the advancing squadrons, whose mail was unpierced by the
stoutest lance-thrust, who slew with lightnings flashed from their
flaming swords. The cry grew louder and louder. The Christians knew
the Turks were calling on Allah and their Prophet to save them,--vain
hope! for all the host of Michael and his angels were fighting for the
Cross that day.
As he swept on, Richard saw the hordesmen dash their thousands upon
Bohemond's thin line,--no arrows now, but striving to crush by mere
weight of numbers. He saw the wearied Normans and Bretons spur out to
the charge. And then indeed there was fair battle,--the Christian host
nigh swallowed in the infidel myriads; but still over all tossed
Tancred's white silk banner blazoned with its blood-red cross; and
above the howl of the Seljouks rang the cry which the unbelievers that
day so learned to dread:--
"God wills it!"
At this moment Godfrey and Raymond, with their fifty thousand mailed
cavalry, struck the Turkish hordes, and swept them toward the hills
like dust that scurries before the west wind. "God wills it!" The
Seljouks were riding for life, the Christian knights trampling them
down with their huge _destrers_; and sword and battle-axe reaping
their bloody harvest. "God wills it!" Richard heard the horns of the
Sultan's picked guard sounding the retreat; and the last resistance
melted away as the Seljouks fled to a man toward the hills.
As Godfrey and his thousands came on, Bohemond, Tancred, and Robert of
Normandy charged forth with their wearied knights--not wearied
now--catching the hordesmen on flank and rear, trampling, slaying,
pursuing. And when the rescued cavaliers saw Longsword flying at
Bouillon's side, another great shout went down the line, "Richard
Longsword! Richard de St. Julien!" Then the Norman held his head very
proudly, for he thought, "What joy will this be to Mary!"
"On! on!" urged Duke Godfrey, never drawing rein, while the rout and
chase swept forward. "To the hills after them! Let none escape! God
and Our Lady are with us!"
"_Dex aiè_," thundered the rescued Normans, and the whole host flew
faster. Swift were the Seljouk horses; but the shivered hordes,
crowding together in the narrow valley, were mown as grass before the
Christian onset. Up among the rocks the pursuit was driven; steeds
fell, their riders trampled down instantly. The Seljouks gained the
crags where lay their camp, dismounted, stood at bay. But the Franks
had dismounted also, and spread around the hills a forest of lances.
On the front attacked Raymond; on the flanks Robert of Flanders, Duke
Robert, Godfrey, Hugh, and Tancred; while brave Bishop Adhemar led the
attack from the rear. Then came the final stand. The Turks fought as
beasts at bay. But the Christians were raging lions; they stormed the
camp, broke the spear wall, scattered the bodyguard of Kilidge Arslan
himself. The Seljouks, like frighted partridges, scampered over rocks
and craggy peaks, where their heavy-armed foe might not follow. So
some escaped, but a score of thousands then and there perished; for
quarter none asked or gave. Foremost in the press had been Richard. He
long since had cast away his shattered shield; but the hauberk of
Valencia was bulwark against a dozen deaths. Every time his good arm
brought low an infidel he was glad; was he not performing to God a
holy service? When the Seljouks broke once more after the storming of
the camp, Longsword regained his horse to chase down those who
hazarded flight in the plain country. The sun was hanging low in the
heavens now. Old knights were praying Charlemagne's prayer at
Roncesvalles--that the day might lengthen while they hunted the
Moslem.
Richard rode with Gaston of Béarn, who had been not the least valiant
of the many brave that day; and as he rode, again and again he came
across fugitives, not in the fantastic colors of the Seljouk, but in a
dress all white with red girdles and sandals. Often as they came on
such, the pursued would turn and charge Gaston's whole troop with a
mad fury that Frankish valor could scarce master. Presently, just as
the shadows began to spread on the hills, Longsword saw before him a
band of horsemen, clothed in white, in their midst the figure of a
mighty warrior in gilded mail, upon a tall bay charger, and across
that rider's saddle it seemed a prisoner in pale dress with fluttering
red ribbons,--to Richard's mind, a woman. "After! After! A prisoner!"
cried Gaston, putting his horse at a last burst of speed,--a good
steed, but he had been ridden hard; and the fugitives still drew
ahead. Richard clapped spurs to his mount; the beast, one of the best
of Duke Godfrey, shot past Gaston, and the distance betwixt Richard
and the strange rider lessened.
Richard could see now that the captive was indeed a woman, that she
was struggling in the arms of her captor. Once he thought he caught
her cry, despite the yells of the flying Moslems, who were invoking
all the jinns to give them speed. He rode past the rearmost fugitive,
who turned for fight, saw before him a brown-faced Arab, saw the
cimeter dancing in his face; felt the steel edge glance on his
helmet--a great rush of blood nigh blinding; a stroke of Trenchefer
cleaving something--the Arab was gone. Richard dashed away the blood
with his fist, pressed the spurs harder. The prisoner leaned out and
shook forth her ribbons--Mother of Mercies! how like the ribbons of
Mary! And had he never seen that splendid rider before? Again he
spurred, and slapped his steed with the flat of his sword. Faster and
faster; the blood once more blinded; once he brushed it away; long
since his lance had been shattered in pieces, but Trenchefer was
brazed to his arm. A last burst of speed; he could see the Arab
warrior struggling with his arms about the captive; one instant more
and he would breast the strange champion. But even as he pressed the
spur, the good horse stumbled, plunged, was down, and Richard dashed
upon the ground. An instant only. He was bruised; but he staggered to
his feet, Trenchefer still in hand. "_Allah akhbar!_" rang the shout
of the Arab, a voice he knew full well, yet had heard--where?
Longsword dragged the kicking _destrer_ from the ground. The good
horse stood, made a step--he was lamed; walking were pain. And as
Richard looked, his quarry sped over a hillock, was gone; while he
stood staring after, scarce knowing that from head to heels he was
bruised, and that the warm blood was streaming over his face. Only the
darkening landscape seemed circling round and round, and his ears were
ringing, yet not with the shout of receding battle. Gaston of Béarn
had ridden up with his men. "Holy St. Barbara," the viscount was
crying, "you are sorely hurt, fair friend. Your horse is lamed. Ho!
Peter, dismount and put my Lord de St. Julien in your saddle. We must
ride for the camp. Already it is darkening."
"No!" exhorted Richard, "continue the chase. Do not let those Arab
fiends escape. They have a Christian prisoner, a lady, I swear by the
four Gospels!"
"A lady!" exclaimed Gaston. "No prisoner! doubtless she is one of
their tent women, whom the riders are trying to save. How could any
Christian maid fall into their hands? Fighting we have had to a fill
to-day, and none more than you, fair knight."
They put Richard upon the man-at-arms's horse. He was so weak now that
Gaston rode at one side, and a squire at the other, to guard against a
fall. As they rode back toward the encampment the stars were peeping
out, and the moon had begun to climb above the hills. There was a thin
gray haze spreading from the shallow river and marsh. Men talked in
whispers, save as here and there they passed one lying wounded and
moaning. All over the plain torches were moving about, priests and
women seeking the Christian wounded, giving water to the dying, and
with them camp varlets,--rabbits during the battle, but brave enough
now,--plundering the fallen Turks, and slaying those who still
breathed. Richard saw the great spoil of the Seljouk camp borne off in
triumph: gold-threaded carpets, coin, horses,--many camels, that the
marvelling victors, who had never seen such ill-shaped bulks before,
thought the devil himself must have begotten.
Closer to the Christian camp the Frankish dead lay thickly on the
ground. Raymond of Agiles was making the sign of the cross above each.
"Blessed are these!" cried he; "already St. Michael leads them before
Our Father; they have white robes and palms, and raise the anthem
everlasting."
They rode on, and to them joined the Count of Chartres, shouting:
"Praised be all angels, De St. Julien! You saved us all; the infidels
were in the very camp!"
"The camp!" cried Richard, starting from his seat.
"Assuredly; Stephen of Blois and Bohemond strove to drive them out;
there is a rumor certain women were carried captive. A scared
horse-boy's tale, I trust! Holy Mother! You are wounded, my Baron! You
nigh fall from the saddle!"
And Gaston of Béarn and Chartres caught Longsword, as he reeled.
"Unhand me, sirs!" shouted Richard, thrusting them both back roughly;
"I am unhurt. I must go to the camp!"
And he spurred away headlong, his bruise nowhere, one horrible thought
mastering all.
Yet as he reached the camp, now very dim in the twilight, a deadly
sense of weakness and weariness was stealing over him. Food? Save for
a mouthful of bread while he buckled on his armor, he had tasted none
that direful day. Water? He had not touched a drop since leaving Duke
Godfrey's camp. Wounds? He was bleeding in a dozen places. He felt the
firm earth spinning. Would there never be end to the frightful pound,
pound of the horse under him? His sight was dimming, ears rang; but,
summoning all his will, he controlled himself.
"Dear Christ," was his prayer, "do not let me faint until, until"--but
he could go no farther. When, however, he passed more knights and
men-at-arms bringing in the spoil, laughing and boasting over their
valiant deeds, his breast grew lighter. When the infidels had been so
utterly broken, what was there to fear? The rush of faintness passed,
he again sat steady in the saddle. And as many as recognized him in
the dusk raised the cry that swelled as the rest caught it: "Ho! De
St. Julien! Hail! De St. Julien! Our Lady bless you, fair lord, you
have saved us all this day!" But the shout that had been music in his
ears two hours earlier he scarce heard. Prince Tancred passed him,
called on him to stay; he spurred on, though the poor soldier's horse
under him nigh dropped of weariness.
In the camp at last. The fires were being rekindled; around each
little groups, over the loot of the Turkish camps. The wounded were
groaning on the dry turf, men were bringing in the dead, and here and
there women wailing. Richard knew the way to his own encampment, as if
by instinct. And as he rode his blood chilled yet more when he saw
here and there tents down, their walls torn, pegs wrenched, poles
shattered, and contents scattered around. Then it was true the
Seljouks had stormed the camp! Before him he saw the little group of
pavilions over which the St. Julien banner had waved that
morning--the banner was gone! His horse stumbled over a body. He
dismounted. The moon was rising; in the pale light he saw the face of
one of his own grooms--set in death. Men were standing before the
tents, some tugging at the cords as if to retighten them, some
kindling a fire, some in groups, talking in low, scared whispers. In
the dimness they did not see Richard, as he came up on foot.
"Holy St. Maurice," one was muttering, "may I not be the first to tell
the tale to my lord!"
"Fellow!" thundered Richard, bursting into the little group, and
clapped a hand heavy as a millstone on the man-at-arms's shoulder.
"Rascal! Speak! Speak! What is this? Dumb as a mute? Why no banner?
The tents in disorder? Where is--" But the words came not, for his dry
tongue clove fast in his mouth.
No answer. The retainer turned as pale and quaking as if the devil's
self had accosted him.
"Speak! speak!" raged Richard, making his victim writhe under his iron
grip. Still nothing. He looked at those around; silent all. He was too
fearful to be angry.
"Mary! Mary de St. Julien!" cried he, finding the name at last; "if
you are here,--one word,--or I am in perdition!" Still silence. He saw
one of the men-at-arms crossing himself; he saw that the pavilion
where he had left his wife was half overturned; he saw lying across
the entrance a dead body, and the firelight showed the white dress and
the red girdle and shoes.
"For the love of Christ!" was his plea, "will no one speak? or must I
kill you all?" In his frenzy he half drew Trenchefer. And just as all
gave way, when they saw the moonlight waver on the blade still red,
there was a step, and a voice--Sebastian's voice--spoke:--
"Sweet son, bow to the will of God. Listen! I have just returned to
the camp with Herbert and the rest. Mary Kurkuas is not here.
Theroulde will tell all."
They heard a groan from Richard, that none forgot to his dying day. A
javelin was lying against a tent-pole; as Theroulde stepped
reluctantly out from the silent circle, the Baron sent the dart
whistling past his head.
"Die!--coward! traitor!" then Longsword cursed terribly when the cast
missed and flew into the dark.
Sebastian had him by the arm.
"Gilbert de Valmont!" whispered he, never trembling when Richard
raised his fist to strike. "Remember him! Add not one sin to another!
Listen to Theroulde!"
"Traitor!" stormed Richard, but the priest held him fast. "Why could
you not die defending your mistress?"
"Hearken, my Lord de St. Julien, then call me traitor and coward if
you will!" cried the minstrel, brave at last. "And see if there be no
worse traitors than I? Would God you had listened to the warnings of
us all against that smooth-tongued Hossein,--as if Christian faith
could ever lurk beneath so swart a skin."
Richard had steadied himself.
"Go on, my man," he said, very quietly now, yet in a tone that set all
a-quaking; for they could not comprehend. They only knew a strong
spirit was in agony.
"Lord," said Theroulde, "if one jot of what I say be other than truth,
so smite me dead, and let Satan own me forever. As we lay in the camp
after you had led forth most of the fighting-men, soon we heard the
rush and roar of battle, and presently some came flying, who said the
cavaliers were hard pressed, and many slain. And all the time my lady
sat before the tent upon the rugs we laid for her, resting her chin on
her hands, and saying nothing. Yet she was not tearful nor pale, at
which we marvelled, for we knew she thought that every roar and shout
might betoken your fall, and her mind had only room for that. Then
after the battle had raged long, and stragglers and wounded began
coming in with tales that grew ever blacker, I said to Hossein, who
sat by me, 'Brother, go to the edge of the camp, see if the St. Julien
banner still towers high, and bring back word to my lady.' For I did
not intend to quit her side, and was glad to have him gone. So he went
without delay and was gone a long time, while the din of battle
continually grew louder and nearer. Yet when he returned, he said, 'I
went so close to the battle lines that--see! two arrows grazed me!'
Then to your wife, 'Most august mistress, your lord's banner is not in
sight; but fear nothing. He is not slain, they tell me, but has ridden
to summon help from Duke Godfrey.' Then my lady's cheeks began to
glow, and I imagine she was thinking of your return and the victory."
"For Our Lord's sake, no more of what you imagine!" came from Richard.
"Tell only what you _know_!"
"Scarce had he returned"--went on Theroulde, his voice
faltering--"when we heard a frightful clamor from the rear and flank
of the camp by the river and marsh. Soon grooms and women ran by
crying, 'The infidels are on us, slaying all!' And sooner than
thought, we beheld the Seljouk horsemen, sword in hand, dashing among
the tents, cutting down old man, priest, and woman, without quarter.
Then I laid hands on a crossbow. 'Hossein,' cried I, 'if you are true
Christian, die with me for our mistress!' But he only smiled, and
drawing his cimeter, gave a mighty howl that rose above all other din.
Ere I could look upon my lady, lo,--there were horsemen by our
tents--Arabs--not Turks--in white, with red girdles; and Hossein
shouted in their speech, 'This way, Cid Iftikhar; here is the Star of
the Greeks!' And I saw Iftikhar Eddauleh himself upon a splendid
horse, in flashing armor. Then I sped a crossbow bolt through one of
his riders, cut down a second with my sword, and struck at Hossein,
thinking to end his treachery. But Iftikhar swung once at me,--I knew
no more. When I came to myself I found that I was under the wreck of
the tent. Hours had sped; the battle had drifted away. The emir's
sword had turned in his hand; the blunt edge smote me. I had a mighty
blow, but will be none the worse--praise the saints! I looked for my
lady--gone! All the grooms and varlets are slain, and old Sylvana the
nurse. Hossein gone--and the devils ride with him! And for me, my Lord
de St. Julien, if I have been coward or traitor, strike off my head.
You are my judge."
Richard tore from his neck his heavy gold chain.
"You are a right valiant man, Theroulde, and no boaster. I believe
your tale," said he, throwing him the gold links; "and now a horse--a
fresh horse!"
Sebastian still held him.
"Madness!" cried the priest; "it is dark; you have been up since
before dawn! For what is this horse?"
"To ride after Iftikhar Eddauleh," came from between Richard's teeth;
"and if I find him not--to slay as many of his cursed race as I may;
and then to curse God and die!"
While he spoke the moonbeams rested full on his face, and all
beholding saw that it had aged in one hour; the lines wrought on it by
the death of Gilbert were still there--and more. Had his hair shone
white, none would have been amazed. "Christ pity him!" muttered old
Herbert, the most fervent prayer of the veteran for many a wicked day.
But Sebastian would not let Richard go.
"As you fear God," commanded the priest, "be quiet; do not fling your
life away!"
"I fear God no longer," was Richard's cry. "I only hate Him!"
Sebastian led him into the tent, with a touch soft and tender as a
woman's. "Dear lad," he said gently, "God will not be angry unduly
with you for what you have just said, though its sin is very great.
You think, 'How can this thing be and God be still good?' Remember the
words of holy Anselm of Canterbury, 'I ask not to understand that I
may believe; but I believe that I may learn to understand.'"
"Father," said Richard, with a terrible calmness in his voice, "if for
my own sins I had been doomed to some great woe, I could say '_mea
culpa_,--merciful chastisement'; but since the chief suffering will be
that of as pure a saint as ever breathed this air, I cannot endure
without a groan. I only know that the hand of God is exceeding heavy
upon me, and my burden is more than I can bear." Then, to the infinite
relief of Sebastian and the rest, he let them take off his
blood-soaked armor and shirt, and stanch the wounds, which were none
very deep, but so many that he was weak from loss of blood. Presently
Herbert came in and reported: "Little lord, our men took thirty Turks
prisoners when the camp was stormed; shall we keep them to put to
ransom?" Richard was not too feeble to leap from the rugs. "Kill!
kill!" he foamed out; "if Satan wait long for their souls, let him
have mine too!"
Herbert smiled grimly and went out of the tent.
"_Ai_," cried Longsword to Sebastian, when the priest forced him to
lie down once more, "I do well to be cruel,--for there is no sweet
angel now to teach me mercy. God reward me double beyond present
griefs, if I slay not my share of the infidels! Therefore let me grow
pitiless and terrible."
"You should hate and slay the Lord's enemies, dear son," said
Sebastian, crossing himself; "yet beware lest you fight for your own
revenge, and not for the glory of God."
"Enough if I slay them!" was the answer. Then Richard took food and
drink, and toward morning slept.
So ended the day of Dorylæum, the battle where, as the pious
chronicler puts it, "by the aid of St. James and St. Maurice the
Christians had a great deliverance from their enemies, and
twenty-three thousand infidels were sped to perdition; such being the
singular favor of God."