God Wills It! A Tale of the First Crusade

Thus Sebastian spent his day. But Richard heard him repeat many times—"A miracle! except we be saved by a miracle!" And toward evening the Norman saw his chaplain deep in talk with the half-witted priest, Peter Barthelmy, and another Provençal priest named Stephen.

Count Raymond sat at the end of the day in his tent before the castle, and facing him was Bishop Adhemar. There was no hope, no courage, left in the army at the close of that gloomy day. Bohemond had had to fire his followers' barracks to drive them forth to fight on the walls. When the alarm trumpets sounded an attack, men only muttered, "Better die by the sword than by a month-long death of starving." Gloomy had been the dialogue, and at last the Count asked:—

"Dear father, have masses been duly said, and prayers offered Our Lady that she will plead with Christ for His people?"

And Adhemar answered: "Prayer day and night. All night long I and the Bishop of Orange lay outstretched after the form of the cross, beseeching Our Lord. The cry rises to heaven unceasingly. But God remembers all our sins; there is no sign save of wrath."

And the good Bishop was stirred when he saw a tear on the bronzed cheek of the great Count of the South. "I must go among the men," said Raymond; "the saints know I can say little to hearten."

But he was halted by his worthy chaplain, Raymond of Agiles, now grave and consequential. "My Lord Count, and you, your Episcopal Grace," began he, importantly, "there has been a notable mercy vouchsafed this poor army,—a miracle,—a message sent down from very Heaven!"

"Miracle? Miracle of mercy?" cried the Count, banging his scabbard. "These are strange words, my good clerk; we have none such to hope for now!"

"Beware," interposed Adhemar, warningly, for he saw that the chaplain was flushed and excited. "When men's bodies are weak, the devil finds his darts lodge easily. Beware, lest Satan has cast over your eyes a mist, and held out false hopes."

But the chaplain would not be denied.

"Noble lords," quoth he, boldly, "here is a man who declares to me, 'St. Andrew has appeared in a dream, saying, "You shall find the Holy Lance that pierced our dear Lord's side, and by this talisman overcome the unbelievers!"' Will you not hear his tale?"

"And who is this fellow?" urged Adhemar.

"Who, save the unlettered and humble priest, Peter Barthelmy, whom your Episcopal Grace knows well."

Adhemar shook his head hopelessly. "There can be no help in Peter Barthelmy. There are in the host ten thousand saintlier than he, and wiser, and no vision has come to them."

"Yes, my Lord Bishop," cried the chaplain, eagerly; "but is it not written, 'Thou hast hid these things from the wise and prudent, and revealed them unto babes?' Cannot God, who made the dumb ass speak, and who appeared unto the child Samuel and not to the wise Eli, make His instrument the untaught clerk Peter of Marseilles?"

There was an honest ring in the chaplain's words and a pious faith behind them, that made Bishop Adhemar grow humble and cross himself.

"Mea culpa, Domine," he muttered, "grant that my pride in my own high estate and wisdom should be rebuked by making this unlearned priest indeed Thy instrument of deliverance." Then aloud, "Admit this man; let us question him, and see if he be of God or Satan." So Count Raymond waited, and his chaplain went forth and led in the priest Peter Barthelmy.

A rough-featured, heavy-handed peasant's son was this Peter. He had gone into holy orders, he scarce knew why; his highest hope had been a little village "cure," where he could tell saints' stories to the girls, and baptize the new-born babes, and enjoy a pot of wine on feast-days, and grow old in peace. But men said that he loved to pray, was very humble, also was fond of having long and circumstantial dreams. When he found himself before the great Count of the South, and Adhemar "the Father of the Army," his speech came thickly, and his knees smote together under his cassock. But Adhemar, whose heart was compassion to all save infidels, told him not to fear, if he had a clean conscience, but to tell them boldly; for they would not despise him, even if poor, untaught, and a villain's son. So Peter found his tongue, and his tale ran after this wise:—

During the siege of Antioch, one midnight there had been a great earthquake, and as Peter called to Heaven in his fear, lo, two men in bright garments stood before him in his hut,—one young and more beautiful than any born on earth, the other old, with hairs all gray and white, his beard long and divided, his eyes black, his countenance very terrible, and he bore a transverse cross. Then the elder man had said, "What do you?" And Peter, trembling, answered, "And who are you, good lord?" Then the other replied: "Arise, and fear not. I am Andrew, the Apostle. Gather the Bishop of Puy, and the Count of St. Gilles and Toulouse, and say, 'Why does the Bishop neglect to preach and to warn and to bless the people?'" Then St. Andrew told Peter he would show him the lance with which the pagan centurion, Longinus, pierced the side of Christ, and this lance he must give to Count Raymond, for such was the will of God. So St. Andrew led Peter through the Saracens into Antioch to the Church of St. Peter by the north gate, and opened the ground before the steps of the altar and showed him the lance. And Peter held in his hand the precious metal, with the water and blood still rusted upon it. St. Andrew commanded him to go to the church with twelve men, after the city was taken, and dig, and he should find it. Then the saint replaced the lance, led Peter back to his own hut, and disappeared.

"But why did you conceal this so long?" asked Adhemar; "why did you disobey the Holy Saint?"

"Ah, my Lord Bishop," was the answer, "your Grace sees I am a poor, stammering wretch. Not once, but four times, has the Holy Saint appeared to me, warning and threatening, because I feared to make bold and come before the princes and your Grace with my commission." Then Peter told how he had tried to escape the commands of the saint, and how the saint had pursued him, until his fear of punishment from heaven was greater than his fear of the scoffs of man, and thus he had come to the Count and Adhemar.

When the priest was finished, the Bishop and Count sent him away, and sat for a long time deep in thought; for whether he spoke out of malice, or fancy, or inspiration from above, who might say? The chaplain, Raymond of Agiles, waited without the tent, and received the decision of Adhemar.

"Let him abide until to-morrow. During the night let us pray again earnestly, and see if the night and the morning bring any sign that the wrath of God is turned away."

So the night came, and a thrill went through all the starving city, when it was rumored that the Bishop would go to the Church of St. Peter to offer solemn petition for a sign from God, whether He would vouchsafe a miracle. And as a hundred thousand despairing eyes watched the heavens, about midnight there came a sortie of the Turks from the citadel, and there was fighting in the streets. But, lo! just when the strife was fiercest, and the Christians almost gave way, there was a rushing noise in the upper heavens; Crusaders and Moslem saw a great star of glowing fire rush downward, so that the city and the camps of Kerbogha were lit bright as day. Then the star burst in three pieces over the paynim camp, as if God were raining down fire upon the unbeliever, as upon old Sodom; and for the first time in many weary days the Christians dared to raise their heads, and cry: "God wills it! He will still have mercy!"

The night passed; and in the morning there came the priest Stephen, who went before the princes as they sat in council beneath the castle. And he in turn told a story that made men cross themselves and mutter their Glorias. For according to Stephen's tale, he had gone to the Church of the Holy Virgin, believing the Turks were broken in, and wishing to die in God's house. But when the foe did not come, and all his companions slept, a young man with a blond beard, the most beautiful form he had ever seen, appeared to him, and a bright cross shone above the head, token that this was Our Lord. Then while Stephen adored, Christ said to him, "I am the God of Battles; tell me the name of the chief of the army." And Stephen replied, "Lord, there is no one chief; but Adhemar is most revered." Whereupon Our Lord answered: "Tell Bishop Adhemar to bid the people return unto me, and I will return unto them. Let the cavaliers invoke my name when they ride into battle. And after five days, if my commands are obeyed, I will have pity on my people." Then at Christ's side appeared a lady, more beautiful than day, who said, "Lord, it is for these folk in Antioch I have made intercession for Thy favor." So Our Lord and His Blessed Mother vanished, and Stephen could hardly wait for the day to tell his story to the army.

Now when the stories of Stephen and Peter Barthelmy had run through the host, it was a marvel surpassing to see how the skies were brightened; and if a man doubted, he stifled his doubts within his breast, as being little less than blasphemy. Richard Longsword in days to come was accustomed to wonder what it was that Sebastian had said to the two priests, when they talked so earnestly together. But he spoke to no man, only gave thanks in silence.

"Let us cast all sin from our hearts," admonished Adhemar in the council; "for it is manifest God will not keep His anger forever." Then all the princes took a great oath to remain faithful to the Holy War; and when the Arabs cried to the sentries on the walls: "Out, Franks, out! Show us the Christian valor!" the reply came boldly now: "Patience, Sons of Perdition! The devil double-heats his fires against your coming!"

So the appointed five days sped, and though many yet died, the very famine seemed easier to bear. Every gaunt Frank whetted his sword, and if prayer and vigil avail aught, or one cry to God from thousands on thousands, it should have availed them. No more blasphemy and scoffings now; only one desire: "The lance! the lance! Then rush against the infidel!"

"Sebastian," said Richard, "do you know, if the lance is not found, the whole host will curse God; perhaps turn infidel for a loaf of bread?"

"I know it," came the solemn answer; "but it is sin to doubt."

"Yes, but I am weak in faith. How great is the power of Kerbogha!"

Sebastian's answer was an uplifted hand.

"Would God I could do as did Elisha to his servant, and open your eyes; for now, as then, the host of the ungodly lie round the city, but behold the mountains are full of horses and chariots of fire to deliver the Lord's elect!"

CHAPTER XL

HOW THE HOLY LANCE WAS FOUND

In the morning the Crusading Chiefs prepared to dig for the Holy Lance. Richard was touched when he left his men, to see how, despite their murmurings, the honest fellows tried to put on a brave face. "Ha, Herbert!" cried De Carnac, "the rats we feasted on last night were better than a St. Julien boar." And the man-at-arms forced the counter-jest, "After so much rat-flesh I shall lose all taste for venison." "Three of our rats," snickered Theroulde, "are better than giant Renoart's dinners—five pasties and five capons all for himself."

But this was strained merriment. Richard at the council found he was appointed to go with Count Raymond, Raymond of Agiles, the Bishop of Orange, Pons de Balazan, Ferrard de Thouars, Sebastian, and five more, to dig for the lance. Bishop Adhemar, good soul, lay ill, but his prayers were with them. The twelve took Peter Barthelmy and went to the Church of the Blessed Peter, a gray stone building, domed after the Eastern manner. When they came to the threshold they knelt and said three Paternosters and a Credo; then the Bishop of Orange blessed their spades and crowbars, sprinkling each implement with holy water. All about the church in the narrow streets stood the people, far as the eye could see—gaunt skeletons, the bronzed skin drawn tight over the bones, the eyes glittering with the fire of dumb agony. When the company entered the church, there went through the multitude a half-audible sigh, as all breathed one prayer together; and many started to follow the twelve, though none cried out or spoke a word. But Count Raymond motioned them back. Then all who were in the church—and like all the churches during the siege, it was crowded with men and women—were bidden to rise from their knees and go away.

Slowly the church was emptied. Then when the last worshipper was gone, the twelve put-to the gates; and all, saving the Count and the Bishop, took a spade or crowbar. Peter Barthelmy led them up to the stairs leading to the high altar, at its south side. Here the priest turned, and pointing to the pavement said, in awestruck whisper, "Here! at this spot the holy saint took the lance from the ground, and laid it back again, in my dream."

"Amen! and amen!" repeated the Bishop. Then all the rest knelt a second time, while he blessed them, making over each the sign of the cross. When they arose, they remained standing until he gave the word. "In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost, Amen!"

The pickaxe in the hands of Raymond of Agiles smote first on the pavement. There was a crash, as the mosaic pattern shattered. Then the others bent to their toil. The costly glass and stone work flew out to every side, then the gray cement, then the chill, dark earth, and with all the speed and strength that was theirs the twelve slowly pushed downward.

It was a strange scene. The windows of the church were very small. Over the altar, with its painted and gem-crusted ikons of the saint, twinkled a pair of candles; above the heads of the thirteen, far up against the dark dome, shone a pair of silver lamps, flickering, with a ruddy glare. The shadows hung upon the cold pillars of the old basilica. They saw faint images of painted martyrs and angels peering down from the frieze and vaulting. Every stroke of their tools rang loud, and awakened echoes that died away behind the maze of far-off arches.

Digging and still digging, the earth flew fast under their eager hands. The Count forgot his proud title and broad baronies, caught a spade, and toiled as became a villain bred to the soil. All the time they labored the Bishop chanted psalm after psalm, and the sound of his voice was a double spur to the work, if spur were needed. But after they had labored a great while, and the trench was growing broad and deep, every man began to have a half-confessed sinking of heart. They laid down their tools, searched the great pile of earth that was rising in the aisle; found in it only pebbles and a few bits of broken pottery, but no wonder-working lance!

Yet Peter Barthelmy encouraged them.

"Dear lords and brothers," said he, undauntedly, "do not grieve. Believe me, the Blessed Andrew went far deeper into the earth than have we. You have not dug down yet to the sacred relic."

So, though their arms were growing weary, they fell again to the toil, and the Bishop chanted louder than ever:—

"'In my distress I cried unto the Lord, and He heard me.'"

More and more feverish grew the toil. Richard drove his own spade down, as if very life depended on each stroke, and who might deny it?

"By St. Michael!" was his oath, "we will find the lance, though we dig to Satan and his imps to pluck it up!"

So for a still longer time they wrought, until their hands were sore, arms and backs lame, and still only dark earth and sandy pebbles. When at last they paused for breath, each one looked in his fellow's face, and saw reflected there his own waning hope. But still Peter urged:—

"Be confident, dear friends and lords; deeper yet was the lance when I saw it. Do not distrust the saint!"

They toiled still longer, until by noting the shortening of the candles on the altar they knew that noon was long past, and the day was speeding. None dared utter his doubts. But at last Count Raymond declared that he could stay no more; it was his turn to go and command the fort before the Gate of St. George. Richard could see the anguish on the face of the great lord of the South.

"What shall I say to the people who are waiting without the church?" demanded he of Peter Barthelmy; "they will be plunged in despair when they know we have failed."

"Ah, Lord Count, do not lose faith in the saint! That were mortal sin! Can St. Andrew lie?" replied Peter, between the strokes of his mattock.

"St. Andrew cannot lie, but Provençal priests can," was the Count's menacing retort. "Think well on your sins, my good clerk. If you have been tempted by the devil to deceive us in this—rest assured the people will pluck you in pieces."

"I do not fear," said Peter, steadily, with the stolid resignation of the peasant born.

"You shall be taught to fear," muttered the Count; then to the others, "My Lord Bishop, my other lords, and you good Christians, I say farewell;" and he added bitterly,—"and let God have mercy upon our souls, for we can hope for nothing more on earth."

The Count was gone. And then for the first time, like the howling of a distant gale, they heard a raging and roaring around the basilica, creeping in through the thick walls and tiny windows.

"The multitude grows angry," muttered Pons de Balazan. "They have waited long." Then he went forth, and tried to calm the impatient people, and called in other proper men, to take the places of such of the twelve as had grown weary.

But no man took Richard's place. Not his own life, but the lives of a hundred thousand, shut up in that starving Antioch, hung on their toil. The chance of failure was so frightful, that not even he, whose fingers had learned so well to fight, to whom the life of a man was so small a matter, dared look that future in the face. Had the rest all forsaken, he would have toiled on, spading forth the earth, raising the dark mound higher, ever higher.

And all the company wore grim, set faces now, as they wrestled with their strengthening despair, except Peter Barthelmy and Sebastian. The monk was working with an energy surpassed only by Richard himself. Longsword saw that he was still calm, that the light in his usually terrible eyes was even mild; and as the two stood side by side in the trench, Sebastian said to him: "Why fear, dear son? Are we not in God's hands? Can He do wrong, or bring His own word to naught?"

The Norman answered with an angry gesture:—

"Truly our sins must be greater than we dreamed, to be punished thus—to be promised deliverance, and have Heaven mock us!"

Sebastian's reply was a finger pointed upward to the painted Christ, just behind the two lamps.

"Be not fearful, O ye of little faith!"

Richard fought back the doubts rising in his soul, and flung all his strength anew into his work.

The noise without the church was louder now. They could hear shouts, curses, threats, rising from a thousand throats.

"Deceiver, the devil has led him to blast us with false hopes! Impostor, he dreamed nothing! Out with them; out with them all! The whole company is leagued with Satan! Kill the false dreamer first, then yield to Kerbogha; he can only slay us!"

These and fifty more like shouts were ringing fiercely. Presently there was a crashing and pounding at the gates of the church. "Open, open! There is no lance! Slay the deceiver!"

Richard turned to the Bishop, who in sheer weariness had ceased chanting. "Reverendissime, the people are getting past control. In a moment they will break in on us and commit violence at the very altar; go and reason with them while there is yet time."

"Open! open! Death to Peter the Provençal!"

The roaring had swelled to thunders now. The strong iron-bound gates were yielding under the strokes of mace and battle-axe. Richard flung down his spade, and gripped Trenchefer. He would not defend the deceiving priest; but no unruly men-at-arms should touch a hair of Sebastian, if he also was menaced. But just as the portals began to give way, Peter Barthelmy, stripped of girdle and shoes, his hands empty, and only his shirt on his back, leaped into the deep black pit. Even as the doors flew open, but while the crowd stood awed and hesitant at sight of the dim splendor of the nigh empty church, Raymond of Agiles fell on his knees and prayed loudly:—

"O Lord God of battles and of mercy, have pity on Thy people. Have mercy! Give us the lance, sure token of victory!"

And the moment his words died away, Peter Barthelmy lifted one hand up from the pit—and in his hand the rusted head of a lance!…

Now what followed no man could tell in due order. For afterward Raymond, the chaplain, was sure that he was the first to seize the lance from Peter, and kiss it fervently; and Sebastian and the Bishop and Richard Longsword each claimed the same for themselves. But all the toilers were kneeling ranged behind the Bishop, as he stood in the centre of the great aisle, and upheld the relic in sight of the multitude thrusting its way in.

"Kneel! Thank God with trembling!" rang the words; "for He has had mercy on His army, has remembered His elect! Behold the lance that pierced our Saviour's side!"

And at these words a wondrous sobbing ran through the swelling company; after the sobbing, a strange, terrible laughter, and after the laughter one great shout, that made the dark vaulting echo with thunder.

"Gloria in excelsis Deo! et in terra pax hominibus bonæ voluntatis!" so they sang in the church. But now the tidings had flown on wings unseen to the thousands without, and all the streets were rolling on the greater doxology: "Laudemus te; benedicimus te, adoramus te, glorificamus te; gratias agimus tibi propter magnam gloriam tuam!"

When Richard came out of the church, he was met by a cry from countless voices: "Hail! Richard de St. Julien! You were one who found the Holy Lance! The favor of God and the love of Christ go with you! May you ever prosper. You were one of those who saved us all!"

"No, sweet friends," said the Norman to those who could hear. "We are all saved by the favor of God. I am only like you, a very sinful man." And he bowed his head, remembering his misdeeds, and wondering why he was chosen to have part in so great a mercy. But the people would not listen to him or his fellows. They carried the twelve, and Peter Barthelmy at their head, borne on high to the palace of the Patriarch; and there the dear Bishop Adhemar was roused from his sickness, and cured in a twinkling by the cry that shot on ahead of the company, "Gloria! Gloria! The lance! The lance! Let us fall upon Kerbogha!"

The cry came to the men on the walls, and to Duke Godfrey, who crossed himself and swore seven candlesticks of gold to our Lady of Antwerp. The Moslems heard it, and those who were wise said, "Let us pray Allah to shield against the Frankish valor, if once it be kindled."

Only one shout now throughout the city. From the weakest and hungriest, "Battle!" But Godfrey restrained those who wished to fight that very night. "Nothing rash," he urged; and it was determined to send an embassy to bid Kerbogha raise the siege or offer fair combat. They sent as envoys Peter the Hermit, and one Herluin who knew the infidels' speech; also Richard Longsword, because he likewise spoke Arabic, and could cast a soldier's eye on the emir's camp. The parley sounded, and a gorgeously dressed atabeg met the envoys at the Bridge Gate to lead them to Kerbogha. The Moslem made large eyes at the little monk with his rope girdle and tattered cassock, the humble interpreter, and the ponderous Frankish baron, in threadbare bleaunt and clattering a sword no arm from Tunis to Bokhara could wield.

"And is this embassy clothed with power to deal with our commander?" demanded the wondering atabeg. "The passions of the Lord Kerbogha are swift. Do not play with him."

"Friend," said Richard, soberly, "you shall find that we lack not authority."

Therefore the three were led into the paynim camp, of which the chief part lay north of the river. Here they saw that the might of the East had indeed gathered about Kerbogha: wiry Seljouks of Kilidge Arslan, brown Arabs from the Southern deserts, graceful Persians, dark-eyed Syrians in the white dress of the Ismaelians, gaudily clad Turkoman cavaliers from Khorassan and Kerman, Tartar hordesmen from the steppes of the far East; all stood about, pointing, whispering, jeering at the three Franks. "Were these the terrible men who had won Nicæa and Dorylæum, and taken Antioch?" ran the titter. But no one molested them, as the atabeg escorted through the avenues of black camel's-hair tents, interspersed with the gayer silken pavilions of the emirs. Then at last they found themselves before the palace tent of Kerbogha. Here they were led at once before the Moslem chief himself, who was clothed in gold, silk, and jewels, worth ten baronies in France. He was surrounded by the emirs and petty sultans, standing close about his throne; on his left hand was Kilidge Arslan the Seljouk, and Dekak lord of Damascus; on his right a figure Richard knew full well, clothed though he was in gilded, jewel-set armor from head to heel, Iftikhar Eddauleh! All around the tent were ranged Kerbogha's bodyguard, three thousand picked Turkish horsemen, panoplied in flashing steel; while the three envoys were led up a lane of giant negro mace-bearers, whose eyes followed the least beck of their lord, whose golden girdles and red loin-cloths shone doubly bright against their ebony skins. Richard, as he came, saw the stores of food and wine laid out for the pleasure of the infidels, while good Christians were starving. He saw the camels of the hospital corps of Kerbogha, and the host of physicians waiting here with their medicine chests, while in Antioch thousands had died of pestilence. Then his heart grew hard, and he held his head very high, as he and his companions walked down the file of negroes and stood before Kerbogha.