THE COMRADES TAKE THE CROSS
"Kyrie Eleison!" wailed the man Matteo had rescued. "We are
delivered from one set of thieves to fall into the clutches of
another band more numerous."
Hugh eyed him with some amusement, noting, too, the flush that
stained the dusky cheeks of the girl in the green habit. He was a
well-made man, plump, with the air of a personage used to good
service and soft beds. His coat of rich eastern cloth was trimmed
with beaver. His face was handsome, even scholarly, but marred by a
certain petulant arrogance.
"Your fears are reasonless, father," said the girl sharply. "And
rather than bemoan our fate, we should thank these gallant knights
for their aid. But for them we should be on our way to the lair of
the outlaws."
"Indeed, lady, you make much of what is of no moment," remonstrated
Hugh. "And we are not knights, but plain squires."
"You fight like paladins, Messers," she returned with a flash of eyes
and teeth.
"My daughter saith truth," approved the man. "Squires you may be,
but knights you will become, an you perform many such deeds of arms.
I would it were in my power to recompense you as befits your prowess
and my degree, but I am an exile from my home, fair sirs, and my
means are limited. In so far as I may, I am at your command."
"There is no thought of debt," answered Hugh. "But I would I knew
who these men-at-arms may be. What think you, Matteo?"
"We shall learn anon," said the jongleur sententiously. "See!"
The forest of spears had halted in the entrance to the clearing, and
two men rode forward from the serried ranks. One wore the
habiliments of a priest, and his mount was a quick-footed mule. His
dress was mean, but the grim face that peered out from the wide cowl
challenged instant attention. Gaunt to the verge of emaciation and
seared with deep-riven lines, its mobile lips firm-shut, the
outstanding feature was the eyes that blazed with almost maniacal
brilliance in their hollow sockets.
The other rider was far different in aspect. He bestrode a
broad-flanked war-horse, and was sheathed in mail of proof. A
blood-red cross barred the left breast of his surcoat. All his
appointments were those of a warrior. He was of a middle-height,
apparently about forty years old, and his head, under its cap of
state, was large and finely shaped. He had a jutting beaked nose and
brown eyes that might look merry, but were now hard and stern. Hugh
knew this man for a leader, accustomed to command and to be obeyed.
But it was the priest who spoke first.
"What means this slaughter?" he cried threateningly, as he picked his
way amongst the bodies that cluttered the grass of the crossroads.
"Know ye not that knight-errantry is forbid? The Holy Apostle of
Rome hath banned all such who shed the blood of fellow-Christians
rather than go to slay the Infidels. Speak ere I curse you, and your
souls are condemned to Hell!"
"Curse, and 'tis to your liking, holy friar," returned Matteo, who
had been more directly addressed. "I never yet knew that the Church
countenanced robbery and murder."
The priest glared at him, and Hugh hastened to intervene.
"This hath been no fight of our choosing, fair sirs," he said. "In
passing this spot we found this lord and his lady daughter in the
power of a band of forest runners, who were murdering their servants.
We charged the varlets for the sake of kindliness, and were like to
have been killed ourselves, for they were exceeding desperate."
"Why, that is a reasonable tale," spoke up the knight who rode by the
friar.
The priest scowled.
"This man is a jongleur," he said, pointing accusingly to Matteo's
gittern, which was fastened to the back of his saddle.
"That is so," assented Matteo. "'Tis no crime in the Holy Land
whence I come, sir friar."
"Hast been in Outremer?" enquired the knight eagerly.
"Even so, lord."
The priest scowled fiercer still.
"Y'are no respecter of God's servants, 'twould seem," he snapped.
"Why left you the Holy Land? What better place to live than the
scene of Our Saviour's passion?"
"As to that, sir friar," answered Matteo coolly, "I came even to see
how it was the Christians of the West were so long in mustering to
the rescue of the Holy Sepulchre."
The priest gnashed his teeth.
"Ay, 'tis true," he cried, "and even this jongleur, this panderer to
the sinfulness of man, this singer of lewd songs and love
rhymes--even he taunteth us with our wickedness, for that we have
forgotten Our Lord who died for us! Woe, woe unto all ye who turn
not into the narrow path! Woe, I say, unto ye, all ye who do not
abandon the work of the world for the work of God! The sinful have
taunted us, and we may not answer! So far have we strayed from the
way our feet were set upon!"
He tossed his arms wildly overhead and rode on alone, heedless of the
rest of the company.
"A pleasant fellow," quoth Matteo. "He liked not the manner of my
face, I take it."
The knight laughed.
"'Tis Messer Fulke of Neuilly. He is the preacher of the Crusade by
the Holy Apostle's own writ. He is like unto the Sainted Peter the
Hermit, who preached the First Crusade to our fathers. A most pious
man, Messers, but certes, one not over-comfortable to live with. I
am glad he hath passed on before. I had wished myself a Paynim an I
had been afflicted much longer with his company."
He hesitated and regarded them enquiringly, his gaze sweeping from
Hugh and Matteo to the strange lord and his daughter, who had sat
quietly throughout the conversation.
"I, lords," he said courteously, bowing to the lady, "am the Lord
Geoffrey de Villehardouin, Marshal of Champagne, and I ride with the
knights and men-at-arms of my master, the Count of Champagne, to join
the Crusade which sails from Venice after Easter. Prithee, can I be
of service to you?"
"Lord Marshal," replied the strange lord pompously, "I am one unknown
to you, although perchance you have heard of my ill fate. I am the
Cæsar Michael Comnenus, an exile from Constantinople, and this is my
daughter the Lady Helena. We are riding from Germany into Italy to
seek news of our affairs. Of these brave squires I know not even
their names, but I can vouch for their gallantry. It had gone hard
with us had they not ridden to our rescue."
"Certes, I have heard of the troubles of the Cæsar Michael Comnenus,"
answered the Marshal of Champagne. "Yours is a sad story, lord, and
one all too common in these days in Byzantium, if the tales we hear
are true. I pray you, sir, do you and your daughter ride with us
south into Italy. So you shall be guarded against other mishaps.
And now, young sirs, may I have the pleasure of knowing you?"
"I am Hugh, lord of Chesby in England," returned Hugh. "I ride on a
quest to Outremer. This is Messer Matteo of Antioch, my friend and
comrade, who journeys with me."
"Chesby!" exclaimed the Marshal.
Even the Cæsar and his daughter leaned forward in their saddles at
the name.
"You are of the blood of Sir James?" asked Villehardouin.
"I am his son. I go to seek him."
"To seek him? But, lordling, he is----"
"He lives," interrupted Hugh coldly.
"Lives?" protested the Greek. "Sir James de Chesby lives? Where
heard you that, Messer Englishman?"
"It matters not, fair sir. I know."
The Lady Helena interposed.
"Is it not right and just that a son should seek news of a father who
hath been lost to him?" she said softly. "A brave quest, Lord Hugh.
May the Immaculate One walk beside you."
For an instant the long lashes lifted and her eyes beamed into his.
Then they were decorously veiled. Hugh's heart thumped faster, and
he pressed one hand against his hauberk where a hunting-glove nestled
beneath the mail.
"You are very kind, lady," he muttered.
But the Cæsar was not so readily satisfied. A weak man, he was
unconscionably stubborn.
"It is because I admire the courage and chivalry of the young English
lord that I would convince him of the uselessness of his search," he
persisted. "Sir James--the Panagia rest his soul!--is dead these
many years. Turn your arms to the task of the Crusade, Lord Hugh.
There you shall win honours to match your merit."
Hugh listened gravely. The man was his senior in age and of exalted
rank.
"I will consider your counsel, lord," he answered, and turned away.
Despite Hugh's reserve, Comnenus would have said more. But
Villehardouin picked up his reins.
"Your pardon, lords," he apologised, "but it is a long ride yet to
Troyes. We must be on our way. An you do me the honour, I would
fain have your company. I must hear more of this quest of yours,
Lord Hugh."
He raised in his stirrups and flung a bellow of command behind him.
The forest of lances stirred into motion and flowed after them.
As the column proceeded, other knights rode forward and joined the
group attending the Marshal. These new-comers gathered thickest
about the Lady Helena, and Hugh found occasion for a word in private
with Matteo.
"Hast any key to these Greeks?" he questioned.
Matteo's brows were furrowed by a puzzled frown.
"Only this: they are of the Comnenoi, an Imperial house, and they
were forced into exile after the death of Andronicus, your father's
friend, last of that line to sit on the throne of Byzantium. He was
assassinated by one of the Angeloi, and 'tis the brother of that
Angelos, you will remember, who rules now in Constantinople. This
pair are on some errand of intrigue."
"But why is this man so sure of my father's death?"
"Would that I knew, comrade! Why are all those with the taint of the
Greek Court so sure of it?"
"Ay, that is true," Hugh admitted sombrely. "Yet these two are
exiles. What interest can they have?"
"They are Greeks--and they hope some time to rule in Constantinople.
There are two causes for any lie."
"'Tis passing strange," Hugh conceded, "but mayhap I suffer from the
canker of suspicion. I will strive to banish it. I must not suspect
every stranger from Outremer of being an enemy to me."
"Banish it not, Hugh," advised Matteo earnestly. "Be ever on your
guard. Certes, it was more than strange our meeting here in France
with these two from Constantinople. Be on your guard against all
Greeks. A slippery, treacherous race!"
Before Hugh could answer the Marshal rode to his side.
"That was a pretty bicker you fought by the crossroads,"
Villehardouin said warmly. "These forest varlets are no mean foes.
Where got you those huge arrows I marked sticking in some of the
rogues?"
"My follower here shot them from his long-bow," explained Hugh.
"Ralph, do you show how 'tis done."
The Marshal cried out in wonder at the great yew bow, a man's-length
tall.
"Never have I seen such a weapon," he exclaimed. "Certes, it must be
stronger than a cross-bow. Is it common in England?"
"Not so, Lord Marshal," returned Hugh, while Ralph grinned
sheepishly, proud to have his pet noticed by the French knight.
"Ralph's father served in the wars on the Welsh March. The Welsh are
a mountain people, very nimble and swift of foot, and they make bows
somewhat like this, but not so big. Ralph's father took the Welsh
bow and made it longer and stouter, until he had this."
The Frenchman shook his head as he tried to draw the strung bow to
his shoulder.
"Never saw I the like," he repeated. "Arm a peasantry with it, and
they would be invincible."
"Mayhap some day we shall," said Hugh lightly.
"I would we had some companies of your archers for service against
the Paynims," replied the Marshal. "Our ranks are none too full,
Messers."
"How is that?"
"One accident or another--and all the Kings stand aside. But we are
not cast down, and 'tis a sturdy host will sail for Babylon. The
Venetians are lending us a fleet of war-galleys, and the picked
men-at-arms of Flanders, Champagne, Burgundy, Germany, Tuscany,
Lombardy and the Southern marches are riding in our train. What we
lack most are funds and in sooth, Messers, the Holy Apostle and his
Cardinals are not so generous as they might be with the pittances
they have collected from the stay-at-homes."
"I would we might ride with you," said Hugh.
"And why not?" Villehardouin proposed. "Every strong arm counts, and
you, Messer Matteo, would be invaluable to us, with your knowledge of
Outremer and the Saracens. Come, now, Messers. Consider the
opportunity. I do not boast when I say that you would ride in good
company."
"Ah, Lord Marshal," said Hugh sadly, "but you forget my quest. I may
not depart from that."
"Your quest takes you to Outremer. We voyage thither, too."
"But I must go first to Constantinople."
"Ah, so!" Villehardouin considered. "I would not have on my soul the
breaking of any man's vow. Yet I pray you, fair sirs, think well of
what I have said. It may be that we can compound the matter, so that
Messer Hugh will do no violence to his conscience. You, Messer
Matteo, will not part from your friend?"
"Where he rides, there I ride also," returned Matteo steadily.
"Well spoken!" applauded the Marshal. "By St. Remigius of Reims,
y'are a staunch pair, and I would I might have you by me! At the
least, ride with us into Italy. If you would journey to
Constantinople, you must take ship from Venice for Genoa, and it may
be I can assist you in some sort, for the Doge Dandolo is friendly to
me."
With the keen tact that characterised him, Villehardouin dropped the
subject there; but he talked on tirelessly, for he was a man
insatiable in his pursuit of knowledge. He asked Matteo concerning
the Saracens and their mode of warfare, and he was equally curious
regarding Hugh's training in England.
"An you have been well-exercised in arms, y'are no worse off for
delay in taking the field," he asserted. "Many a boy is thrown and
crippled in his first tourney for lack of strength to stand the
blows."
But what caused him to marvel most was the fact that Hugh had been
taught to read and write.
"What," he cried, "you can write fair script like the holy fathers?
'Tis wellnigh beyond belief, lordling. And you read? Latin, too,
say you? St. Remigius aid me! Ah, I would I had the art. All my
life have I longed for it, but the toil of arms and my seigneury have
left me no opportunity--or perchance furnished my idleness an excuse.
But in my embassages and visits to courts and parliaments of barons,
how great an aid would it have been to me had I been able to set down
that which happened in writing that it might never have been lost.
Ah, God, fair sirs, this is a matter very close to my heart!"
"If I can be of service to you on the journey. Lord Marshal, I shall
count it an honour," proffered Hugh.
"That is right courteously said," Villehardouin responded with boyish
alacrity. "Doubt not I shall make use of you, with your permission.
I like not to use the monkish scribes. They are too foreign in their
understanding. An you will bear with me, I shall have much for your
hand to write."
The pleasant company and the ceaseless clatter of thousands of hoofs
at their heels made the ride into Troyes seem very short; but it was
dusk when they entered the gates and passed up the main street, torch
and cresset glaring on hauberk and byrnie, shield and lance-point,
sword and battle-axe. From the marketplace came the clamour of a
crowd hysterically excited.
"Messer Fulke has aroused the good people again," commented
Villehardouin, with the cynicism of the great noble, to whom the
Crusade, first and last, was mainly an opportunity for adventure in a
good cause. "Lord Hugh, Messer Matteo, I shall meet you anon."
He turned into an inn courtyard, leaving the comrades in the street.
"Shall we seek quarters?" asked Matteo.
"Ay," said Hugh, "but first I would see this mad priest, an you
favour it. Ralph can find us an inn."
"Oh, if you will," agreed Matteo resignedly. "Belike he will curse
me in earnest this time."
A myriad torches illuminated the crowd that surged and swayed from
wall to wall across the market-place. In the centre, upon a heap of
faggots, stood the lean figure of the preacher, a crucifix in one
hand. He shook the holy emblem at his listeners as if it was a
weapon, and whenever he raised it in anger the people groaned and
whined like beaten dogs. Those nearest to him continually snatched
at his garments, content if they could kiss a fold of his robe or the
sandals on his feet. It was to these that Messer Fulke addressed
himself, as the comrades slowly forced their way through the throng.
"Ah, what fools ye be!" he shouted in his deep, ringing voice. "You
seek virtue in my garments, say you? Well, I will not guarantee that
you shall find what you seek there. But this I will warrant you:
Behold!"
He leaned down and plucked at the cloak of a man in the front rank of
those around him.
"On this I make the sign of the Cross--and it hath a virtue which
shall assoil all sins."
He caught the cloak from its owner and tore it into strips, talking
as he worked. From the strips he fashioned rude crosses, and the
thousands in the square fought to claim one.
"Here I can assure you the peace of Heaven and forgiveness of sins,"
he proclaimed, as he cast the crosses to all within reach. "By the
virtue they possess, if ye make good the obligation they carry with
them, your sins shall be assoiled. But think not to lay aside the
burden once assumed. There is a mighty task awaiting you, and Christ
calls upon you to begin. Rich and poor, old and young, merchant and
seigneur, serf and villein, all of ye hear Christ's call. Go forth
in his service, and ye shall win everlasting life."
The crowd were in a frenzy, moaning and weeping and beating their
breasts, calling upon saints, praying in the gutters.
"Show us a miracle, Messer Fulke," cried an hysterical voice from the
fringes of the throng.
The appeal was taken up and tossed about, until a chorus of voices
were demanding it.
"Show us a miracle, Messer Fulke! A miracle such as you showed the
people of Paris! Give us a miracle!"
The priest raised his gaunt arms in a magnificent gesture of command.
Instantly the crowd sobered into silence.
"A miracle ye call for!" he said slowly, his words falling distinct
as the tolling of a bell. "Oh, ye foolish ones, ye of little faith!
A miracle ye must have in order that ye shall believe!"
His tones became scornful.
"When did Fulke of Neuilly ever claim to be a worker of miracles?
But I will show you that which is all but a miracle, an ye ask for
it. I will show ye the haughty and highly-placed brought to serve
God's purpose against their will. Look carefully, oh, people!"
There was a deadly hush, and Fulke leaned forward from his heap of
faggots.
"Ride near, sir knights," he called to Hugh and Matteo. "Ay, to my
feet, an it please you."
By magic a lane opened before their horses, there was a pressure of
bodies from the rear, and the comrades found themselves immediately
under the preacher's stand.
"I thought I knew ye, slayers of outlaws, players of light music,
doers of errant deeds," he exclaimed sarcastically. "Here I give you
a chance to redeem your souls from the burden of sin that rests upon
them."
And before they could protest, he took strips from the citizen's
cloak and pinned crosses to their surcoats.
"There is a miracle for you," he shouted to the crowd, and a din of
rejoicing arose from the packed ranks.
The people pressed closer, not only kissing Fulke's clothing, but
striving to snatch bits of the comrades' surcoats, in which they
fancied some sure virtue to have been embodied. Hugh and Matteo were
forced to fight their way out of the throng. It was impossible for
them to protest against the priest's act. Had they done so they
would have been torn to pieces. As it was, they did not feel safe
until they were swallowed in the shadows of a side-street.
"Do you believe in God?" asked Hugh, as he fingered the coarse cloth
of the cross that sprawled across his breast.
"Sometimes," answered Matteo quietly. "And sometimes I believe in
the Fate of which the Saracens teach."
"Which brought this about?"
"God knows," said the jongleur.
And involuntarily he crossed himself.