God Wills It! A Tale of the First Crusade

"Musa," said Richard, very directly, "we have been to each other as few brothers and fewer friends. God knows why you have run this peril. Yet I believe you care more for the Greek than for any woman, if you have loved any, save as a sister."

The Spaniard shrugged his shoulders almost gayly.

"If to any woman I could yield," said he, lightly, "it were to her, peerless from Andalus to Ind! Alas, I am clothed in some magic armor the darts of the eyes of the houris may not pierce; yet if any eyes could pierce, it would be those of Mary de St. Julien."

Richard held his lips close to the other's ear.

"Musa," said he, "I may get into Antioch; but a long road lies still to Jerusalem. Where the arrows sing, I must be. And if I fall"—he spoke lower—"Mary will be alone. She cannot go to La Haye and be wedded to another by her uncle, as would surely be her fate. Not a kinsman remains at Constantinople. You must"—he hesitated—"you must swear to me that you will love her; that if I die, she shall be your wife. For Moslem as you are, no man breathes I would rather see with his arms about her than you. You alone can make her forget me; make her look forward and laugh in the sunlight."

Why were beads of sweat on the Spaniard's brow? Why came his breath so swift and deep? But he answered steadily:—

"Brother mine, you ask a great thing; yet I accept it. If it is written by the stars that you fall, I swear I will stand in your place to the Star of the Greeks. May she never want love and service while life is mine! But till that day I will be to her as a brother, no more, no less; and let Allah speed the hour when I can give her back spotless to your arms."

They said no more, those two strong men; their clasped hands sealed the pledge. Richard walked back to Mary.

"Dear heart," said he, "we Franks have a proverb, 'Hunger drives the wolf from the woods.' We cannot stand here forever. Why should we grieve? Have I not seen your face two nights and a day; and do I not commit you to the noblest friend in all the wide earth? When I enter the city, I will show three red shields above the Gate of St. George; and if all goes well with you, let Musa contrive to set three lances with red pennons before it at an arrow's flight, as sign that your tale is credited and you are safe in Kerbogha's camp."

"We will not fail," said Musa, calmly. Richard adjusted the saddle of the captured horse so that Mary might ride. No stragglers were at the moment in sight. The Norman kissed his friend on both cheeks. He pressed the Greek once to his breast. Death was not paler than she; but she did not cry.

"You are my cavalier, my saviour, my husband," said she, lifting her eyes. "You are your Roland and our Greek Achilles! Dear God, what have I done that for an hour you should love me?"

"Our Lady keep you, sweet wife!" was the only answer.

"And you, Richard mine."

That was all that passed. Musa spoke his farewell with his eyes. Godfrey bowed ceremoniously to the Spaniard; kissed the lady's hand. His honest heart was too deeply moved for words. Richard swung onto Rollo without touching stirrup. He did not look back. Marchegai cantered beside. The horses whirled their riders over the hillside. Soon the view before and behind was hid by the close thickets that lined the foothills. Richard rode with his head bent over Rollo's black mane, letting the horse thunder at will at the heels of Marchegai. The Norman's thoughts? Drowning men, report has it, live a long life through in a twinkling. Richard's life was not long; yet not once, but many times, he lived it over during that ride—the good things, the evil; and the evil were so many! And always before his sight was the vision of that face, pale as marble, the eyes fairer than stars—that face he had put away because of the love for the unseen Christ.

Now of much that passed in that ride Richard remembered little; but he followed Godfrey blindly. And a voice seemed to repeat in his ears time and again: "Turn back, Richard Longsword, turn back. You can yet rejoin Musa and Mary. There is safety in the camp of Kerbogha. You are not needed in the threatened city. Leave the army to God. You have long since slain enough Moslems to clear your guilt and vow."

But Richard would cross himself and mutter prayers, calling on every saint to fight against the assailing devils. As he rode, he saw remnants all about of the old pagan world where there had been love of sunlight, of flowers, of fair forms, and men had never borne a pain or struck a blow for love of the suffering Christ or the single Allah. They were on a road, he knew, that led to the Grove of Daphne. He had heard Mary tell of the sinful heathen processions that once must have traversed this very way,—revellers brimming with unholy mirth, their souls devoted to the buffets of Satan.

Once he and Godfrey drew rein at a wayside spring to water the horses. Lo, beside the trickling brook was a block of weather-stained marble, carved into the fashion of a maiden fair as the dawn. Mother of Christ! Was it not enchantment that made that stony face take on the likeness of Mary the Greek? What heathen demon made the lips speak to him, "Back! back! Do not cast your life away"?

"St. Michael—away, the temptress!" he thundered, and with Trenchefer smote the stone, so that the smile and the beauty were dashed forever. "Kyrie eleison! Christe eleison!" prayed Richard; "Holy St. Julien, patron of my house, forbid these fiends to tempt me!"

Yet all the wood seemed full of witchery and the voices of devils,—the old pagan devils, Pan, and Apollin, and Dian, and Hercules, and countless more,—who whispered ever that Christ and His heaven were very far away; that life was sweet, the sun was sweet, and sweetest of all a woman's love. But Richard muttered his prayers and rode onward; trusting that they might meet the infidels in flesh and blood, not sprites of the air whose arrows no ring mail could turn.

At last, after the sun had climbed high, and the horses had dropped to a weary pacing, there was a shout behind, —an Arab yell,—the clatter of scabbards and targets. Down a leafy way charged a squadron of Bedouin light horse, twenty, perhaps, and more. But Rollo and Marchegai had a fair start, well out of arrow range; and the unbelievers soon learned the speed of Frankish steeds. A long race, though not such as that when Iftikhar had led the chase. When at last the Bedouins turned back, their beasts all spent, the knights' mounts too had little strength to spare. Woods were still on every hand, when the two painfully walked beside their horses. As they climbed the slopes of Mount Silpius in the early afternoon, on the last stage to the city, suddenly from beyond a bend in the trees came the pounding of horsemen, fifty at least; and the sound neared fast.

Richard cast a glance at Godfrey.

"My lord," said he, "Rollo is at the end of his speed. We cannot run from fresh horses."

The Duke shook his head when he heard the deep pants of Marchegai. "It is true," he answered. "I think we had best say 'Our Father,' and look to our swords."

But down the forest lane came a clear voice, singing lustily the sweet Languedoc:—

"Merrily under the greenwood flying,Zu, zu, away to my Mirabel!Swift! For my lady waits long,—is sighing!Zu, zu, more speed to my Mirabel!"

"De Valmont's voice, as I hope for heaven!" cried Richard, dropping the bridle. And straight toward them cantered a merry body of cavaliers and men-at-arms, Louis's broad pennon leading.

"Ahois! Forward! Infidels!" thundered the Valmonter, couching lance as he saw the two awaiting him. But there was a loud laugh when the two knights were recognized.

"Holy Mass!" swore Louis; "and were not you, my Lord Godfrey, on the foray to Urdeh?"

The Duke shook his head, the instinct of a leader once more uppermost.

"I was not," quoth he, curtly, explaining nothing. "And you, De Valmont? What means this party so far from the walls?"

"We rode after Sir Philip of Amiens, who rode with a few knights this way from the city this morning, and has not returned. We fear they met Arabs. It is rumored the Prince Kerbogha is as near as Afrin, and advancing!"

"By the Holy Trinity, he is advancing!" shouted the Duke, mounting with a leap. "Leave Philip of Amiens to God; he is long since passed from your aid. Back to the city with speed, if you wish not for martyrdom."

And wearied though Marchegai was, Godfrey made him outpace all the rest as they raced toward Antioch. Richard saw the Christian banners on the walls as he drew near. Once inside the gates he needed nothing to tell him the city had been sacked in a way that bred slight glory to the soldiers of the Cross. He left Godfrey to rouse the chiefs, and to spread the dread tidings of Kerbogha's approach. His own St. Julieners he found in the house of a Moslem merchant they had unceremoniously slaughtered. They were so drunken that only Herbert and Sebastian were able to receive him. A gloomy tale they gave him—the city stormed, then a massacre of the Antiochers,—Christian and Moslem alike,—so terrible that even the fiends must have trembled to find mortal spirits more bloody than they. After the orgy of killing had come days of unholy revellings, drunkenness, and deeds no pen may tell. To crown all, the provisions found in the city had been so wasted, that starvation was close at hand. Richard in his turn told how it had prospered with him at Aleppo. Sebastian sighed when he heard of Mary in the custody of Musa.

"Can honey come out of wormwood?" cried he. "God may allow this infidel to serve Christians in their peril; yet even then with danger to the soul. Ah, dear son, either you must break this friendship with the Spaniard of your own will, or rest assured God will break it for you. Doubt not—light and darkness cannot lie on the same pillow; neither can you serve God and this Mammon whose name is Musa."

"Father," said Richard, "had you stood as I and Musa did, both in the presence of death, you would not speak thus."

But the answer was unflinching.

"I declare that had you both died, your soul would have gone to heaven, or purgatory, and his to the nethermost hell, to lie bound forever with the false prophet and rebel angels."

Richard's thoughts were very dark after Sebastian's words. Was there a great gulf sundering him eternally from the Spaniard? But soon he had little time for brooding on puzzles for the churchmen. The walls had barely been manned on Duke Godfrey's orders, and the foraying parties called in, before the hosts of Kerbogha swarmed down the valley, seemingly numberless. The Moslem garrison of the citadel made desperate sallies. On the day following Richard's return the party led by the gallant Roger de Barnville was cut to pieces before the walls. Each day the bread-loaves grew dearer and smaller. There was ceaseless fighting by sunlight and starlight. Each day the taunts of the Arabs were flung in the Crusaders' teeth, "Franks, you are well on the way to Jerusalem!" Truly the besiegers were become the besieged. As the days crept by the Christians were few who did not expect to view the Holy City in heaven before the Holy City on earth.

CHAPTER XXXIX

HOW PETER BARTHELMY HAD A DREAM

On Saturday, the fifth day of June, in the Year of Grace one thousand and ninety-eight, Kerbogha appeared before Antioch with a countless host. On the Saturday following a small loaf of bread sold among the Christians for a gold byzant; an egg was worth six deniers; a pound of silver was none too much for the head of a horse. Men who had endured bitter sieges in the home-land, who had marched across the parching deserts of Isauria without a groan, now at last began to confess their sins to the priest, and to prepare to die. For help seemed possible from none save God—and God was visibly angry with His servants for the blood and passion at the city's sack.

On the day after his entrance, Richard Longsword showed three red shields on the minaret, and after a little, to his unspeakable joy, there were three lances with red pennons set close together before the Gate of St. George. Mary and Musa were safe in the camp of Kerbogha, and Richard blessed St. Michael and our Lady ever Virgin. Yet for a while he was angry with Heaven. If he had entered the city so easily, might not Mary have come in at his side? What need of parting? But he did not keep these feelings long; and his thankfulness was deep when he knew that at least his wife was not seeing gallant seigneurs, even the very Count of Flanders, begging in the city streets for a bit of bread, nor was herself enduring the awful hunger.

For the famine was the last stroke of the wrath of God upon His unworthy people. Thousands had died when the first hordes, led by Peter the Hermit and Walter Lackpenny, had been cut off by Kilidge Arslan; thousands more at Dorylæum; tens of thousands when they tracked the desert and besieged Antioch. But this was the crowning agony. When the news came that Kerbogha was approaching, the princes had indeed done what they could. Messengers had rushed down to the coast to bring up provisions landed by the friendly Italian merchants; foraging parties had been sent to sweep the country. But nine months long Syria had been harried by the armies. In a few days all the Christians were face to face with starvation. Pleasanter far to spend their last strength in the daily battles with Kerbogha, who ever pressed nearer, than to endure the slow agony in the city. Yet the infidels won success upon success. The Moslem garrison of the castle made continual sorties; the outlying forts of the Christians were defended gallantly, but in vain. Each day drifted into the starving city some tale of the pride and confidence of Kerbogha—how when squalid Frankish prisoners were haled before him, his atabegs had roared at his jest, "Are these shrunken-limbed creatures the men who chatter of taking Jerusalem?" and how he had written to the arch-sultan: "Eat, drink, be merry! The Franks are in my clutch. The wolf is less terrible than he boasted!"

In the city the cry again was, "God wills it!" But the meaning was, "God wills we should all perish or become slaves;" and on every hand was dumb lethargy or mad blasphemy.

New misfortunes trod upon old. In a sortie Bohemond the crafty and brave was wounded; Tancred's and Godfrey's valor ended in repulse. The foe pressed closer, damming the last tiny stream of provisions that trickled into the doomed city. Boiled grass, roots, leaves, leathern shields, and shoes; the corpses of slain Saracens—the Franks had come even to this! Richard feasted with Duke Godfrey on a morsel from a starved camel. The good Duke sacrificed his last war-horse except Marchegai, and then the lord of Lorraine was more pinched for food than the meanest villain on his distant lands. As day passed into day despair became deeper. Many, once among the bravest, strove to flee in the darkness down to the port of St. Simeon and escape by sea. Many went boldly to the Moslem camp, and confessed Islam in return for a bit of bread. "Rope-dancers," howled the survivors, of those who by night lowered themselves from the walls. And Bishop Adhemar talked of the fate of Judas Iscariot. But still desertions continued, from the great counts of Blois and of Melun down to the humblest.

One day Richard was cut to the quick by having Prince Tancred, who kept the walls, send him under guard one of his own St. Julien men, who had been caught while trying to desert. Richard had prided himself on the loyalty of his band, and his fury was unbounded.

"Ho! Herbert, rig a noose and gibbet. Turn the rascal off as soon as Sebastian has shriven him!" rang his command.

To his surprise a murmur burst from the men-at-arms about, and he surveyed them angrily.

"What is this, my men? Here is a foul traitor to his seigneur and his God! Shall he not die?"

Then a veteran man-at-arms came forward and kissed Richard's feet.

"Lord, we have served in the holy war leal and true. But it is plain to all men that God does not wish us to set eyes on Jerusalem! We have parents and wives and children in dear France. We have done all that good warriors may, now let us go back together. To-night lead us yourself along the river road, and let us escape to the port of St. Simeon."

No thundercloud was blacker than Richard Longsword's face when he answered, hardly keeping self-mastery:—

"And does this fellow speak for you all?"

"For all, lord," cried many voices. "Did you not promise to bring us home in safety, to lead us back safe and sound to Nicole, and Berta, and Aleïs? Surely we did not take the cross to die here, as starving dogs. Let us die with our good swords in our hands as becomes Christians, or in our beds, if God wills."

Richard had drawn out Trenchefer, and swept the great blade round. "My good vassals," he said in the lordly fashion he could put on so well, "you know your seigneur. Know that he is a man who has thus far gone share and share to the last crumb with his people, and will. Does not my belly pinch? do not I live without bread? But I say this: this man shall die and so shall every other die a felon's death who turns craven, or I am no Richard, Baron de St. Julien, whose word is never to be set at naught."

There was a long silence among all the company that stood in the broad court of the Antioch house. They knew well that Richard never made a threat in vain. They did not know how great was the pain in the heart of their seigneur. There was silence while the body of the deserter was launched into eternity.

"Amen! Even so perish all who deny their Lord!" declared Sebastian. Richard's heart was very dark when he visited Rollo that day. Thus far, by great shifts, he had secured forage. All the other St. Julien beasts had perished; men muttered at Longsword for sparing the horse. But after that ride from Aleppo he would sooner have butchered Herbert.

But was this to be the end of the Crusade? of the outpouring of the Holy Spirit at Clermont? of the agony of the march? Better if all had ended with the bowstring at Aleppo. No, not better; for Mary was saved.

A gloomy council came that afternoon at the Patriarch's palace, under Godfrey's presidency; no hope—the Greek Emperor they had awaited was reported retreating! The iron men at the council groaned. Guy, brother of Bohemond, cried out against God Himself.

"Where is Thy Power, now, Lord God?" rang his despairing blasphemy. "If Thou art all-powerful, why dost Thou let these things be? Are we not Thy soldiers, and Thy children? Where is the father or the king who would suffer his own to perish when he has power to save? If now Thou forsakest Thy champions, who will henceforth fight for Thee?"

"Peace!" interrupted Bishop Adhemar; "is not God angry with us enough already? Will you rouse Him further by your blasphemies?" And Guy retorted madly:—

"Angry, Sanctissime? Look on our faces, my lord bishop. Do they look as if we had feasted? There are mothers lying dead in the street this moment, with babes sucking at their milkless breasts. I say we have nothing more to fear from God. He has shown us His final anger; mercy, indeed, if with one great clap He could strike us all dead and end the agony. What is to be done, if not to die, one and all, cursing the day we put the cross upon our breasts?" And the speaker almost plucked the red emblem from his shoulder. Adhemar did not reply, and Raymond of Toulouse asked very gravely, turning to Godfrey:—

"Have you sent the heralds to Kerbogha, as the council agreed, offering to yield the city and return home, on sole condition that our baggage be left to us?"

Godfrey's face was even darker than before when he replied: "Yes, Lord Count; there is no need of many words, nor to examine the heralds. Kerbogha will listen to only one surrender—submission at discretion—after which he will decide which of us he will hale away into slavery, which put to death."

The Norman Duke and Gaston of Béarn had risen together.

"Fair princes," cried the latter, "we are at our wits' end. There will soon be no strength left in a man of us to strike a blow, and the Moslems will take us with bare hands. Dishonor to desert, and we will never separate. Yet let us bow to God's will. His favor is not with the Crusade. Let us cut our way down to the port, and escape as many as can."

"And so say I," called Duke Robert. "And I," came from Hugh of Vermandois. "And I," shouted many of the lesser barons. But Tancred, bravest of the brave, stood up with flashing eyes. "I speak for myself. I reproach no man, seigneur or villain. But while sixty companions remain by me, of whatever degree, I will trust God, and keep my face toward His city!"

"There spoke a true lover of Christ," cried Adhemar, his honest eyes beaming; and Godfrey's haggard face brightened a little. "You are a gallant knight, my Lord Prince," said he. "These others will think differently when they have slept on their words. Better starve here than return to France, if return we can. We have asked Kerbogha's terms—we have them. 'The tender mercies of the wicked are cruel,' as says Holy Writ. How can we return with all the paynim nations jeering at us, crying, 'See! See the boasted Frankish valor!' We can do no more to-day; let us meet again to-morrow."

"To-morrow we shall be yet hungrier," muttered Guy of Tarentum, as he went out at Longsword's side. "Except a miracle come of God, Kerbogha has us." "Except a miracle!" repeated Adhemar. Richard carried home the words. Had God turned away His face from His children? Were the brave days when the Red Sea swallowed Pharaoh's myriads, when four lepers delivered starving Samaria from the Syrian hosts but as jongleurs' tales of things long gone by? He told Sebastian what had passed among the chieftains, and Sebastian only answered with a wandering gaze toward heaven.

"These are the days of God's wrath! Now appears the host foretold in the Apocalypse—the four angels loosed from the river Euphrates, come forth with their army of horsemen, two hundred thousand, and for an hour, and a day, and a month, and a year, shall they slay the third part of mankind."

"Father," said Richard, "do you know what the princes say? 'Except a miracle, we are delivered to Kerbogha.' Are the days of God's mercy spent? Were the Jews more righteous than we, that they should be saved by wonders from heaven, and we perish like oxen? I speak not for my own sake—though the saints know it is hard to keep a stout heart over a nipping belly—but for my men, for the whole host. Pestilence is treading behind the famine. This day five thousand have died in Antioch—cursing the hour they took the cross and the God who led them forth. I say again: How can these things be—God sit silent in yonder blue heaven, and still be good?"

Sebastian brushed his bony hand across his face as though driving away a mist, and ran on wildly:—

"Kerbogha is the beast foretold in the beginning! The beast and the false prophet, which is Mohammed, have deceived those who have the mark of the beast; and all such with those that have worshipped his image shall share with the beast and the false prophet in the lake of fire, burning with brimstone."

"Yes, dear father," said Richard, simply; "but the vengeance of God is long delayed!"

Sebastian gave no answer. All that afternoon he went among the dying, who lay like dogs in the streets, holding up the crucifix, telling them of the martyrs' joys; that death by sickness and famine was no less a sacrifice to God than death by the sword.

"Fear not, beloved," were his words to those whose last speech was of home and longed-for faces, "you are going to a fair and pleasant country, very like dear France, only brighter and richer than France, if that may be. There, as far as you can see, is a plain of soft green grass, and the sky is always blue; and there is a lovely grove with whispering trees laden with fruit of gold; and the fountain of 'life and love' sparkling with a thousand jets, and from it flows a river broader and fairer than any in the South Country. Here all day long you will dance with the angels, clothed in bleaunts of red and green, and crowned with flowers as at a great tourney; and all your friends will come to you; there shall be love and no parting, health and no sickness; nor fear, nor war, nor labor, nor death; and God the Father will smile on you from His golden throne, and God the Son will be your dear companion."

So many a poor sufferer flickered out with a smile on his wan lips at Sebastian's words, while he thought he was catching visions of the heavenly country, though there was only before his dying eyes the memory of a sunny vineyard or green-bowered castle beside the stately Rhone or the circling Loire.