God Wills It! A Tale of the First Crusade

"Come out of him, thou unclean demon," he was saying slowly and solemnly.

Richard looked left, looked right. Why did men stare at him, and shrink away from his glance? Why did his head throb as if the veins were bursting? He held up Trenchefer—how red the blade was! What had he been doing? Lady Ide on the hard flags was beginning to quiver and moan—how came she there? The other women had fled the chapel. The gray shadowy walls seemed turning round and round; Richard caught the altar-rail to stand steady.

Now a mightier shout in the halls above.

"Out! Out! The castle burns!" And with the shout a rising roar and crackle, and the sniff of creeping smoke.

Still Richard stood; almost he felt as a man waking from a dream. Would it not all flee away and leave him at Cefalu in his mother's bower? or at Palermo in the genii palace with Mary Kurkuas beside the plashing fountain?

Musa had stepped to him and touched his arm gently. "Dear brother, the castle burns quickly. We must haste, if all would get out!"

Richard shook himself; his head steadied.

"Come, my men!" He led them up from the chapel. Already the flames were mastering the upper lofts. The parapet was a pyramid of glowing fire. The victors rushed down the drawbridge with their spoil; a great copper dresser, plate, gold cups, tapestry—the plunder of Raoul de Valmont for many a long year. Only Musa stayed long enough in the chapel to bear the Lady Ide outside the bailey, where some of the castle women were not too terrified to care for her, and take her to the cottage of a peasant not far away.

Richard stood outside the gate. The fire was climbing downward and mounting upward. Now from every loophole spouted a blazing jet. The sky had cleared, but the eddying smoke veiled stars and moon. The great keep was a flaming beacon against the dark; ten leagues away lord and vassal would see it, and say that Raoul the Bull of Valmont had met his deserts at last. The St. Julien men crowded around their chief, gave him cheer on cheer, and cried out that with him to lead no emperor might withstand them. Richard stretched up his hands toward the glowing fire-mount.

"Let God Himself undo my deed this night!" he cried. Then they walked to the glen, took horse and were away, and saw St. Julien before dawn. All the ride Richard was laughing and boasting, and saying that he wished a Raoul every month that he might have such rare sport; but Sebastian and Musa said little, and their thoughts were none the most gay.

CHAPTER XIV

HOW RICHARD'S SIN WAS REWARDED

There was mirth and dancing in the St. Julien castle when Longsword and his band returned. Seventy and more had they gone away, scarce fifty came back, some of the women howled long for the husband or brother whom they brought home on the shields; but save for these, who was there but had a laugh and a cheer for Richard, who had borne himself a very paladin in the fight? When the knight dismounted at the castle gate, forth came the gray-haired steward with the great horn goblet of the urus-ox,—a mighty cup centuries old, ornamented with strangely wrought silver bands, and brimming with home-brewed mead.

"Drink, fair lord," he commanded, "for you have proved a right noble seigneur of St. Julien. None but a cavalier of wondrous valor is suffered to drink from this."

So Richard drained the great horn. "To the perdition of every Valmonter, and to the bright eyes of Mary Kurkuas!"

Then he went to the chamber of his grandfather, who had sat all that night, gnawing his nails, crying to the varlets to run to the parapet to see if the sky was aglow toward Valmont. As Richard came in the old man staggered up to him, caught him by the arm, and sniffled piteously when Richard told how they won the outwork and the bridge and the keep.

"By the Cross!" swore the Baron, half laughing, half moaning, "I would have given half my life to be there,—there and strike one good blow, and feel the steel eat through Raoul de Valmont."

"Raoul de Valmont will never feel another sword," said Richard, softly; "he is gone to his account."

"Aye," cried the Baron; "gone, so the varlets who ran here told me; gone, and a long time St. Peter will have of it reading off the list of his sins. By Our Lady, they were not a few; and perhaps mine are as many, ha! Well, even the devil will not frighten me much, after what I have lived through!"

"You must live and undo your misdeeds if you can, dear grandfather," said Richard, whose own conscience was as yet very easy.

"Yes, I must have a talk with the abbot. Live like a demon, then square at the end with the priests! Two or three fields added to the glebe, a few sols ready money, and the saints forget all about you, and let you crawl under the gate of heaven—that is the way a man of spirit should live and die! But the Valmonters—the boy Gilbert?"

"I killed him," said Richard, deliberately.

"Good; he had never done any harm; neither have wolf whelps; but we kill them just the same. And John of the Iron Arm?"

"He is here. De Carnac struck him down, but he is alive; they have him in the dungeon now."

"Good again; I can hear him whistle his tune before we let him die. Ai, lad, you will be a right good seigneur for this old castle. I shall sleep in the ground more snugly because I know you possess all. I have fought, scraped, and lied to make the barony larger. No man shall ever say Gaston forgave a foe, or failed to square off a grudge, and now Raoul has been paid—ha!"

So Richard left the old man to chuckle in his darkness. The next day the abbot came over with congratulations, blessings, and a request for the great altar cross of Valmont,—which was due, because the "aggrave and reaggrave," double and triple anathema, he had thundered against the Valmonters, doubtless went far to blast their prowess; and Longsword all piously gave the cross. The monks chanted Te Deums and enough masses to lift every fallen St. Juliener promptly out of purgatory. Richard went about with merry face and loud laugh. "After the feast comes the dance!" he would cry, when all marvelled at his nimbleness after so hard a mêlée.

At the great feast in honor of the victory, Richard sat at the head of the long horseshoe table, drank with the deepest, and never blushed when Theroulde likened him in valor to Huon of Bordeaux or even to Roland.

"You seem very joyous to-night, dear son," said Sebastian, who appeared gloomier than ever.

"And why should I not?" quoth Richard, stretching forth for more wine. "Have I not blotted out my grandfather's enemy; have I not a noble barony; have I not the love of the best of friends," with a glance at Musa, "and of the fairest woman in the world?"

"Ah! sweet son," replied Sebastian, sighing, "all these shall pass away! The grass withereth, the flower fadeth; there will come a time when you will cry, 'Would God I had been mindful of my vow and gone to Jerusalem.' Even now it is not too late; let us go and hear the holy Peter of Amiens, called Peter the Hermit."

Richard cut him short with a direful oath. "Speak not again of Jerusalem. I care more for Mary Kurkuas and for Musa than for ten thousand Jerusalems! Let others who have more sin on their souls, and are more frighted by priests' patter, go if they list. For me I give you the good Arab saying:—

"'Begone all eating cares this night!Who recks to see the morning light?'"

Then, to a serving-varlet: "Here, fellow, another horn." And Richard stood up with all eyes upon him. "To Mary Kurkuas," he drank, "and long may she be the liege lady of St. Julien."

Every man present, except Sebastian, roared out the pledge; but Sebastian only sat still, and prayed to the saints.

Thus sped some weeks, and old Baron Gaston breathed his last. Before he died John of the Iron Arm had gone before him, in a manner better surmised than said. The Baron had felt his sins coming home upon him as his time drew nigh. The abbot went to see him very often. Gaston wished to die as a monk. The brethren put on him the monk's robe and scapulary, the sub-prior pronounced over him some words of consecration, and the dying sinner muttered some half-articulate vows. Yet he seemed more concerned as to what would befall his good horse Fleuri when he was gone, than about the welfare of his soul. Around his bed night and day sat his petty nobles and neighbors watching in solemn silence, except to cross themselves when a magpie croaked, or when it was said that a vulture hovered over the castle—sure sign of the death-angel's approach. The moment the Baron was dead, the serving-boys ran through the castle, emptying every vessel of water, lest in one the straying soul should drown itself. The monks gave him a funeral as became one of their own order, and one who had made over to them so wide a stretch of farm-land. Ten days after Gaston was buried, they proclaimed Richard Baron of St. Julien. Lady Margaret was her father's only heir; but she was far away, and a man with a strong arm was needed in that troubled seigneury. So Richard Longsword sat down in the Baron's high seat at the end of the great hall, and all the lesser nobles came before him, knelt, placed their hands in his, and swore themselves "his men." And Richard raised each up, kissed him on the mouth, and promised love and protection so long as he observed fealty. Fealty, Richard himself owed in name to the Count of Auvergne, with the young William of Aquitaine as overlord of all. But times were turbulent, Aquitaine and Toulouse at bitter feud. Richard looked upon the castle, the stout men, the broad lands, and the blue sky: "No power can say me nay," was his laugh, "saving God and Mary Kurkuas." And one fears he did not greatly dread the former. But the barony he ruled with a strong hand, and ended the petty tyrannies of the lesser nobles upon their serfs; while Sebastian as chancellor chased from office the chaplain of St. Julien, a rollicking, hard-swearing sinner, with a consort, six children, and wide fame as a toper. In his stead reigned Sebastian himself, who soon crossed swords even with the abbot: first, because there were fowls in the abbey kettles Fridays; second, because the brethren bartered smacks with the bouncing village maids. "Peccatum venale!" cried the abbot to the last charge, and defended the former by saying that fowls were created along with fish on Friday, and who that day refused fish? So both good men complained to Richard, but he merrily said that Nasr, as an impartial infidel, should compose their quarrel. And ignoring their war, Longsword rode up and down the barony, setting the crooked straight, making the "villains" worship him for his ready laugh, his great storehouse of humor, his willingness to stand with the weak against the strong. Only men who had followed him at Valmont whispered about him. One day Richard heard two men-at-arms with their heads together, while he sat at chess with Musa.

"Our seigneur is a terrible man. You should have seen him in the chapel."

"From what I was told, he smote the very relic box. He must shudder lest the hand of God be laid on him."

"He shudder? Lord Richard would not shrink, if he saw a thousand fiends. His heart is made of iron, like his hands, if only you could see it. Yet sometimes I tremble lest we all be smitten a deadly blow for his deed. We all stood by consenting, though the stroke was his."

Richard heard, and the whispers so shook his mind that he made a false move, lost a piece, lost the game. Musa saw that he was silent for once that evening. A messenger had come the day before from La Haye: Mary was well and joyous; they would have a bridal that would be a tale through all the South Country. Yet Richard was no longer merry. Musa confided his anxiety to Herbert, who had become his firm friend.

"The Cid my brother is not well. He talks in his sleep; he boasts before men, but fears to be left alone. Last night he cried out on his bed to take away Gilbert de Valmont and his fair, blood-stained hairs."

Herbert shook his head. "The 'little lord'"—for so he fondly called his mighty nursling—"has done a deed, even I," he laughed grimly, "who have a few things to tell the priests, would not like to dip hands in. Slaying the lad was no wrong, mind you. But the altar! the altar! Better kill fifty in cold blood than shatter a relic box!"

"No, I think he fears lest Allah requires the boy's blood at his hands."

Herbert brayed out a great laugh. "God will never wink twice, caring for those Valmonters. They say Louis is coming north with a band to take vengeance. Pretty fighting—no music sweeter than that of sword-blades."

"I would that the princess were here," said Musa, "to lift Richard from his black mood." But when the news came that Louis was trying to induce the Counts of Aquitaine and Toulouse to make peace and march against St. Julien, Richard only laughed loudly as Herbert.

"By St. Maurice, let all come; and bring the king of France and Duke of Lorraine. Valmont was too easy a task; let me match my strength against great lords now!"

Musa only shook his head.

"Allah grant," was his prayer, "that naught befall unhappily, until we go back to La Haye for the wedding. Mary Kurkuas's bright eyes will scatter all this darkness."

But day after day went on, and no bolt fell. Richard continued to ride hard, hunt hard, drink hard. Musa began to feel, however, that the shadow was beginning to lift. Louis had been unable to induce Toulouse and Aquitaine to compose their feud; there was little to fear from his quarter. Then one afternoon came the stroke from heaven.

A fair sunny afternoon it was, in the late summer. Richard had been up with the dawn, following a great boar over the mountains. The dogs had brought the beast to bay, and his white tusks had killed three hounds, before Longsword had ended all with a stroke of his Danish hunting-axe. The boar was a giant of his kind. They brought him on a packhorse, that staggered beneath the weight. The carcass was laid out before the huge fireplace of the hall, and all the castle girls and women stood round pinching his shaggy sides, feeling of his white teeth, laughing, chattering, and screaming. Richard, having put off his hunting-boots, was calling to a serving-boy for water, when the bronze slab at the gate began to clang, proclaiming a stranger.

"Héh, porter, open to me!" was the cry without, and there was a scurry of many feet on stairways, for few visitors made their way to St. Julien.

Presently they led into the hall a wandering pedler. He had a weighty pack of Paris pins, of ribbons, of Eastern silks, and fifty kinds of petty gewgaws that set the women oh-ing and ah-ing. But when he undid his bundles, he dragged forth a letter, a roll of parchment, carefully sealed.

"This, fair lord," said he to Richard, "I was bidden to bring you from Marseilles, where a shipmaster put it in my hands."

"From Sicily—from Cefalu, then." Richard had not expected a letter so early, but so much the merrier. Only he was puzzled when he saw that the superscription was not in the hand of his brother Stephen, the usual scribe for his father. Richard broke the seal, which he did not recognize, unrolled, and read; while the girls swarmed round the pedler, ransacked his wares, and pleaded with the men to be generous with the spoils of Valmont, and buy.

But Musa, as he looked at Richard reading, saw sudden sweat-beads standing on his forehead. The letter ran thus:

"Robert of Evroult, Bishop of Messina, to his very dear spiritual son, the valiant and most Christian knight, Sir Richard Longsword, sends his greeting and episcopal blessing.

"May the grace of our Lord, the pity of our Blessed Lady, ever Virgin, the sweet savor of the Holy Ghost, be upon you. May Michael, Raphael, and Gabriel, the great and all-adorable archangels, spread their shields about you, to deliver you. May all the company of the saints on high intercede for you at the throne of the Father of all mercies, and bless you; and may God Himself grant unto you strength and peace.

"Fair son, it has pleased the Most High to lay upon me a burden which makes my bones to cry out, and my nights to be spent in tears and in roarings. Yet who better than I may write you? Bow to the will of God, and listen. Ten days since it befell that Moslem corsairs landed by night at Cefalu, and stormed your father's castle. The tales we have heard are scanty, for few who saw what befell are here to tell. From a man-at-arms who escaped, it would seem that the castle was surprised about midnight. The garrison was small; for my lord, your father, had sent many of his men into the mountains to chastise some robbers. They say your father laid about him as became a Christian and a cavalier, and slew many; yet at the end, seeing there was no hope, stabbed your mother with his own hands to spare her captivity amongst the infidels. They say, too, that your brother Stephen died fighting with a valor worthy of his father and brother. As for your sister Eleanor, I hear nothing. Therefore, we dare hope, if indeed it is a thing to hope, that she is not dead, but carried away captive by the unbelievers. Soon as the alarm was spread, Prince Tancred, who was near Cefalu, took ships and followed after the pirate's two vessels. One outsailed him; he captured the other after much struggle. The prisoners confessed their chief was the Emir Iftikhar, one time in Count Roger's service. The emir was on the vessel which escaped with your sister, so said the captives. The prince put to death his prisoners in a manner meet to remind them of the greater torments waiting their unbelieving souls. Rumor has it, Iftikhar has sent a creature of his, one Zeyneb, to France to seek your hurt. This is incredible, yet be guarded. I have had masses said for the souls of your kinsfolk; and consider, sweet son, even in your grief, how now they are removed far from this evil world, and have their dwelling with the saints in light. May the tender pity of Christ comfort you, and give you peace. Farewell."

A great cry, inarticulate, terrible, burst from Richard's lips. He staggered as he stood. Herbert grasped him round, to steady. The parchment fell heavily from his hand. Musa caught it, read a few lines.

"My brother! Allah have compassion—" he sobbed, his own heart melting fast.

"Where is Sebastian?" came the choking whisper from Longsword.

"Gone to the village, lord," hesitated Bertrand, "to confess two thieves. He is staying to the feast for the executioner and priest after the hanging!"

"My God! My God! Why hast Thou forsaken me?" Richard was moaning. His face was ashen. They looked on him, some about to stop their ears at his blasphemy; but one glance told it was no blasphemy, but bitter truth. He was putting by Herbert lightly as a child, and springing toward the door that led down to the drawbridge. At the sight of his face the women began to weep.

"My brother! my brother! stay!" Musa was calling. He might better have cried to the whirlwind.

"Halt him, men!" shouted Herbert, leaping after. "He is mad; he will slay himself!"

Two or three men-at-arms leaped out, as if to stop him. At one flash from his eyes they fell back, crossing themselves. Richard ran out upon the drawbridge. They could see his feet totter; all held breath—the moat was very deep; he recovered, ran on.

Herbert made a trumpet of his hands and shouted to the porter at the outwork:—

"Stop him! Close the gate!"

But Richard ran right past the gazing fellow, and reached the open. Musa had sped after him.

"Richard, you are mad! Where are you going?" was his despairing call. Longsword only ran the faster. They saw him leave the beaten road, and fly along over garden walls, ditches, hedges, with great bounds worthy of a courser.

Musa pressed behind, but soon found himself completely outdistanced. Richard was heading straight for the lowering mountain. The Arab turned back, panting for breath. Already the Norman was out of sight, lost in the forest. Musa hastened to the castle.

"Call out all the men, send word to the village," was his command to De Carnac; "beat up the mountain with dogs, or you will never see your baron again!"

CHAPTER XV

HOW RICHARD FOUND THE CRUCIFIX

As Richard Longsword ran across field and fallow that bright afternoon, had the warm sun turned to ink, he would scarce have known it. Sight he had not, nor hearing. He did not feel the bushes that whipped smartly in his face as he dashed through them; he did not see the wide ravine of the brook brawling at his feet. Only by some mad instinct he leaped and cleared it, and ran on and on; fleeing—from what? His head was throbbing, though he had touched no wine; there was a great weight in his breast, numbing, crushing. He even tried to stop himself, to look about, to call back sense and reason. Useless; the passion mastered him, and still he ran on.

As he ran, he prayed; prayed aloud, and knew not what he prayed. "Holy Mary, pray for me! Holy Mother of God, pray for me! Holy Virgin of Virgins, pray for me! Mother of divine grace, pray for me!"

And still on! Would the fire in his brain never quench? He stumbled over a fallen tree, and knew he was in the forest. He rose, glanced back; he could see at last,—the tower of St. Julien was still in sight. And in the tower were men and maids who could laugh, and chatter, and love the sunshine. Away from them! Richard broke in among the crowding trees, and ran yet faster. Presently, though his pain grew not the less, it ceased to be one aching blur of feelings. Forms, faces, were darting before his eyes; now among the trees; now peering from the thickets; now flitting along some grassy mead on the mountain side. They were not real. He knew it well. When he fastened his gaze on them, they were nowhere. But still he ran. His feet flew like those of the hunted roe. And was he not hunted? Was he not fleeing? From what?

Richard had known his Latin, cavalier that he was. The words of the service were ringing in his ears—who uttered them? "Whither shall I go from Thy spirit, or whither shall I flee from Thy presence? If I ascend up into heaven, Thou art there; if I make my bed in hell, behold Thou art there." The words sounded and sounded again. Richard clapped his fingers to his ears. Still he heard them. And he must run, run as never before, if he would escape from his pursuer.

Presently he stumbled over a second log; fell headlong beneath a pine tree upon a slipping carpet of dead needles. The fall was heavy; he felt his head thrill with a new pain. For a moment he lay still; and a cool fern pressed comfortingly against his cheek. It was good to rest quietly and look upward into the dark tracery far overhead. He could just see a little patch of the blue shimmering through the pine boughs, a very blue bit of sky. If heaven lay beyond that azure, how fair a land it must be! Richard pressed his hands to his brow, and held them there for long. The throbbing had a little abated. He sat up; looked around. Not a sound except the drone of a mountain honey-bee hanging over some blossom. Trees, trees, before, behind. His eye lost itself in the ranges and mazes of gray-black trunks. There was no path; he had no recollection of the way. He called aloud—only echoes from far-off glens.

Richard rose and sat upon the log; and his fingers tore at the wood's soft mould. Would God his mind had been in His hands! The Cefalu folk—they were all before him—father, mother, sister, brother. He should never see them more in this world—and in the next? Oh, horror! what part could his sainted mother have with her unholy, murderous son! His father had sinned after his kind, yet to him little had been given of holy teaching, and little would be required. But he, Richard Longsword, had he not been brought up gently by his mother, as became a high-born Christian cavalier? Were not her prayers still in his ears? Had there not been at his side for guide and counsellor Sebastian, who was one of the elect of God? Had he not given his mother a pious and holy kiss when he fared away to Auvergne? and did she not send him forth with his virgin knightly honor, to do great deeds for the love of Christ? and how had he kept that honor? He had slain Raoul, and there was never a stain upon his conscience; but Gilbert the lad, the innocent boy who had poured out his blood at the very altar—was it for the love of Christ that he had slain him? And that vaunt he had flung to heaven when the keep of Valmont burned: "Let God Himself undo the deed!" Lo, it was made good—not even God, were Gilbert de Valmont to stand forth with breath, could take back that sinful stroke of Trenchefer!