God Wills It! A Tale of the First Crusade

At last the Christians were at hand; and Mary, looking from her harem balcony, saw the hills covered with the familiar Frankish armor and the white-stoled priests and the forest of tossing lances. But though the eunuchs and city folk cowered and whimpered, Mary knew the Egyptian garrison was made of stouter stuff,—not blind fanatics, like the Ismaelians, but men who would defend the walls to the last.

On the next day Mary was fain to lie in her chamber, stopping her ears, and pleading with every saint; for the Christians were assaulting. Then at evening came silence. Musa returned, dust-covered, his cheek bleeding where an arrow grazed, but safe; and Mary knew the onslaught had failed. With her own hands she stripped off the weary Spaniard's armor.

"The Christians rush on ruin," was his bitter tale. "With only one ladder they tried to scale. With a second they might have mastered. They endured our rain of bolts, stones, and Greek fire as if pelted by dry leaves. They have perished by hundreds. Well that Allah is all-wise; He alone knows the need of this war!"

"And Richard?" asked Mary, scarce venturing the word.

"I saw him all reckless, in his open steel cap! My heart turned to ice when he began to climb the ladder with Trenchefer in his teeth. He laughed at our arrows. A stone overturned the ladder; he fell, then rose unhurt from under a heap of slain, and was about to mount once more when a priest—Sebastian, doubtless—dragged him out of view."

Mary blessed the saints for this mercy, and was constant in prayer; for women could only pray while strong men had the easier deeds of fighting and dying. While the Christians were building their siege engines, there were no more assaults. But this only postponed the days of evil. Mary could see that Musa was laboring under extreme excitement. In her presence he affected his old-time gayety and playful melancholy. But once she caught him in an unguarded moment, gazing upon her so fixedly, that had he been Iftikhar, she would have thrilled with danger; and once she overheard him in his chamber crying aloud to Allah as if beseeching deliverance from some great temptation, and from the evil jinns that were tearing his breast.

"Dear Musa," said Mary, "what is it that makes you grow so sad?"

But the only answer was the gentle laugh, and the remark, "Wallah,—and with your Christians pressing us night and day, and all preparing for the death grip, will you marvel I am not always merry?"

"True," she replied; "but I know it is not the siege that darkens you."

Musa said nothing. In fact she saw him seldom. The wretched Jerusalem Christians were kept at forced labor on the walls, and sight of their piteous state made Mary hate all Moslems save the Spaniard. Presently rumor had it the Franks had completed their engines. Mary saw the great procession around the city, after the fashion of the Israelites around Jericho,—the priests, the knights, the men-at-arms, a great company that marched from the valley of Rephaim, beside Calvary, to the Mount of Olives, where they halted for exhortings to brave deeds, by the chieftains and priests. The hymns and brave words Mary did not hear; but she did hear the blasphemies of the Moslems, as from the walls they held up crosses in the sight of all the Christians, heaping filth upon them, and shouting, "Look, Franks, look; behold the blessed cross!" But the Greek knew deep down in her heart that they blasphemed to their own destruction; and Musa half shared her thought, when that night he parted from her to go upon the walls.

"Star of the Greeks," he said, salaaming, "the Christians' engines are ready, and their host in array to attack with the morning. Allah alone knows what we shall see by another sunset. Keep close within the harem. I cannot return until about this time to-morrow evening."

And he was gone, leaving Mary to pass a sleepless night with awaking to a wretchedness she had never felt before. Not dread for herself this time. Richard would be face to face with death—and Musa! What if both should be cut down! Then let Iftikhar Eddauleh or any other demon in mortal guise possess her; this world would be one blackness, and trifles would matter little. She tossed on her pillow till daybreak, then rose to greater misery. What mockery to pray; to cry to God and the saints! If they were all righteous, why had they created in her that stubborn will which would not bow to their decree? Under her lattice in the narrow dirty streets the corps of the garrison were rushing to and fro. She could see the ebon Ethiopians clashing their huge targets and sabres as they ran toward the walls, while the war-horns and kettledrums blared and boomed unceasingly.

"This way, true believers!" came the shout. "The Franks are advancing. He who speeds one Christian to hell blots out ten thousand sins!" But over the din of arms sounded the cry of the muezzins from the Mosque el-Aksa, and all the other lesser fanes, calling the people to prayer. Looking up at a minaret close by, Mary could see the pigeons still nesting under the balcony; and when the waves of clangor hushed an instant, she could hear the coo, coo, of mate to mate, as if the brown earth were calm and peaceful as the azure dome.

So the day commenced. As the sun climbed higher, the rock on which Jerusalem was founded trembled under the crash of bursting war. Mary, sitting upon the house roof, could hear all the tumult in the city streets, and see the garrison massing on the battlements by the Gate of Herod.

How long a day! The eunuchs, timorous as their mistress, gave her little heed. But a few grapes and figs were all the food the Greek cared to touch. About the third hour of the morning she knew the conflict was joined. From that time till sunset the roar of assault and defence went up to heaven as one continuous thunder. The shouts of Christian and Moslem; the crash of mangonel and catapult; the hurtling of myriad arrows and stones,—all these made a raging babel that spoke but a single word—"Death!" For Mary, it was one long-drawn terror. Long since had she, with her woman's heart, ceased to care whether the blessed Christ or Allah reigned within the bulwarks of the Holy City. She only knew that her husband and a man who had become dearer to her than a brother were in the midst of that chaos. Again and again she heard a mighty crash from the battlements, sounding above the unending din, that told of a triumph won by besiegers or besieged. Twice her heart leaped to her throat, as shrieking men flew down the street, calling on Allah to "have mercy; the city was taken." And twice again others passed, bawling out their Bismillahs, telling how the Franks had been utterly crushed. It was noon, and still the thunders grew louder. The third hour after noon; were the heavens of adamant that they did not crack asunder at the roaring? The fourth hour, and under the balcony galloped an Egyptian officer.

"Allah akhbar! Rejoice, O Moslems! The Christians have been repulsed on all hands!" he was proclaiming; "they will never assault again. The Lord Iftikhar has made a sally from the breach, and all their engines are burning!"

"Victory for the true faith! Allah akhbar!" shouted the squadrons that raged after him. "To the gates! a sally! cut off the Franks ere they can flee to the hills!"

Mary bowed her head. The Franks repulsed, defeated, scattered; the Crusade lost, and Richard Longsword,—never, the Greek knew well, would her husband turn back from a stricken field to breathe out his fiery spirit on his bed. But the clangor of arms and shouting did not die away. The sun was dropping lower now, but the battle seemed blazing hotter than when the day was young. In the street women and city-folk ran this way and that. From their cries Mary knew not what to think. To remain longer on the housetop she could not, though Musa commanded a thousand times. She must know the worst or die. The cowering maids and eunuchs gave her never a thought. She cast a veil about her face and rushed down into the street. The way was plain before her. In a great press of soldiers, citizens, and shrieking women, she was swept on toward the Gate of Herod, scarce knowing whither she went. As she moved on blindly, jostled and thrust about by rude hands, she knew that the din was lessening, the thunder from the walls intermitting. Now, as she looked toward the battlements, she could see the engineers making fast the machines, the archers running from the towers. Through the gate was pouring a cavalry corps, the horses bleeding and panting, the men battered and bleeding also. Many bore shivered lances; many brandished red blades; many toiled wearily on foot. It needed none to tell her that the sally had failed, else why did the great gate clash to in a twinkling the instant the last rider passed under? And in through the closing portal rang the good French war-cry, almost at the riders' heels, "Montjoie St. Denis!" So the Franks had been repulsed, but not scattered. The leaguer had not been raised. There must be other days of horror.

"St. Theodore guide me!" prayed Mary to herself, "I must be back instantly. Musa would be justly angry if he found me in this throng." And she turned from the gate, thankful, yet fearful. What had befallen Richard and Musa that day of blood? The multitude surged backward, carrying her toward the inner city. In the rude press the veil was swept from her face. She knew that soldiers were pointing at her, and passing the word "Look—a houri!" But she heeded little, only forced her way up the narrow street to regain the house. The throng made space for her, for they knew she was an emir's lady, and many improper deeds were forgiven on a day like this. She reached the friendly portal; reëntered the harem. The cowering maids and eunuchs stared at her dishevelled hair and dress, but hardly knew that she had been gone. Mary returned to her post on the housetop, and from the shouting in the street below learned that the Christian attack on the walls had been entirely repulsed, but that Iftikhar had lost many men in the sally. Just after sunset came a cavalryman with a note scribbled on a bit of dirty vellum.

"Musa to the ever adorable Star of the Greeks. Allah has kept Richard Longsword safe through battle. I also am well. I think the Christian machines so wrecked by our Greek fire, no assaults will take place for many days. I will come to you before midnight. Farewell."

A brief letter, but it made the dying light on the western clouds very golden to Mary Kurkuas. So Richard lived, and Musa also. What thoughtfulness of the Spaniard to imagine her fears and send reassurance! The buzzing streets grew calmer. She heard the muezzins calling the evening "maghreb prayer" over the city. The eunuchs had so far awakened from their terror as to be able to bring her a few sweet cakes and some spiced wine. The Greek felt little weariness, despite her sleepless night. She would await Musa, hear from him the story of the battle, and how he knew Richard was well. With a quieting heart she left the roof balcony, ordered a lamp in her harem chamber, opened the book-closet and began to unroll her Pindar. She was just losing herself in the rhythm and splendor of a "Nemean" when a eunuch interrupted with his salaam.

"A woman to see the Citt Mary,—who will not be denied." Before Mary could answer, the curtain had been thrust aside, and she saw in the dim glint of the lamp the face of Morgiana!

CHAPTER XLV

HOW RICHARD HAD SPEECH WITH MUSA

In the days that the Christians lay about Jerusalem, after the first assault had failed, Richard learned to know every ring on that gilded coat of armor which shielded the commandant of Jerusalem. Iftikhar had borne a charmed life those four and twenty days of the siege; a thousand bolts had left him unscathed; his voice and example had been better than five hundred bowmen at a point of peril. Along with Iftikhar, Richard noted a second mailed figure upon the walls, more slender than the emir, nimble in his sombre black mail as a greyhound; and his presence also fired the Egyptians to fight like demons. Longsword bore about in his heart two resolves, to lay Iftikhar Eddauleh on his back (of this he was trebly resolved) and to discover who this black-armored warrior might be. Had he never seen that graceful figure make those valorous strokes before? So Longsword nursed his hate and his curiosity, and threw all his energy day and night into the siege works.

In the days that came it pleased Heaven to put a last test upon the faith and steadfastness of the army. Not even in burning Phrygia had they parched more with thirst. Midsummer, a Syrian sun, a country always nearly arid, and all the pools stopped by Iftikhar, ere he retired within the city;—no wonder there was misery!

"O for one cooling drop from some mountain stream of France!" Had the army joined in one prayer, it would have been this. For a skinful of fetid water, brought far, fetched three deniers, and when the multitude struggled around the one fountain Siloam, often as the scanty pool bubbled, what was it among so many? To secure water to keep the breath in Rollo, Richard went nigh to the bottom of a lightened purse; and still the heavens would cloud and darken and clear away, bringing no rain, but only the pitiless heat.

In Phrygia, and even at Antioch, men had been able to endure with grace. But now, with victory all but in their grasp, with the Tomb of Christ under their very eyes, how could mortal strength brook such delay? Yet the work on the siege engines never slackened. A rumor that a relieving army was coming from Egypt made them all speed. Out of the bare country Northern determination and Northern wit found timbers and water and munitions. They built catapults to cast arrows, mangonels to fling rocks. Gaston of Béarn directed the erecting of three huge movable towers for mounting the ramparts. There were prayers and vows and exhortations; then on Thursday, the fourteenth of July, came the attack—the repulse.

It must have been because Mary Kurkuas's prayers availed with God that Richard did not perish that day. If ever man sought destruction, it was he. When he saw the stoutest barons shrinking back, and all the siege towers shattered or fixed fast, he knew a sinking of heart, a blind rage of despair as never before. Then from the Gates of Herod and St. Stephen poured the Egyptians in their sally to burn the siege towers. Longsword was in the thickest of the human whirlpool. When he saw the garrison reeling back, and Iftikhar Eddauleh trying vainly to rally, he pressed in mad bravado under the very Gate of Herod, casting his war-cry in the infidels' teeth. But while a hundred javelins from the walls spun round him, of a sudden he heard a name—his own name, shouted from the battlements; and the blast of darts was checked as if by magic. The chieftain in the sombre armor had sprung upon the crest of the rampart, had doffed his casque, and was gesturing with his cimeter.

"Musa!" cried the Norman, falling back a step, scarce knowing what to hope or dread.

The Spaniard, while ten thousand stared at him, friend and foe, bowed and flourished in salutation, then, snatching up a light javelin, whirled it down into the earth at Longsword's feet.

"Death to the infidel!" the Christian crossbowmen at Richard's heels were crying as they levelled. But the Norman checked them with the threat:—

"Die yourselves if a bolt flies!"

Then he drew the dart from the ground, and removed a scrap of parchment wrapped round the butt.

"Be before the Gate of Herod two hours after sunset. Bear the shield with the St. Julien stag, and the sentinels will not shoot. Your wife is in the city and is well."

And while Richard read, the Spaniard had saluted the wondering Christians once more and vanished behind the rampart. The Norman walked away with a heart at once very light and very heavy. Musa in Jerusalem, Mary in Jerusalem, Iftikhar in Jerusalem! A great battle waged all day, and to all seeming lost,—the Crusade a failure! He heard men, who all those awful years had never blenched, whispering among themselves whether they could make their way to Joppa and escape to France, since God had turned His face away. As he passed through the camp, Tancred and Gaston both spoke to him, asking whether in duty to their men they ought to press the siege longer. Should they wait, the great Egyptian army would come, and not a Christian would escape. But Richard, with his vow and the blood of Gilbert de Valmont on his soul, replied:—

"Fair lords, answer each to your own conscience; as for me, I will see the Cross upon the walls of Jerusalem to-morrow, or die. There is no other way."

And both of these chieftains, who had been hoping against hope, answered stoutly:—

"Our Lady bless you, De St. Julien! You say well; there is no other way for those who love Christ!"

So Richard waited outside the Gate of Herod during the soft gloaming, while the night grew silent, and when, after the searchers for the dead and dying had gone their rounds, naught was heard save the whistling of the scorching wind as it beat against the walls and towers, laden with the dust and blight from the desert. No soldiers' laughter and chatter from the camp that night; no merriment upon the battlements. The Christians were numbed by their defeat; the Moslems knew the storm had not passed.

Then, when it had grown very dark, he heard a bird-call from the gateway,—a second,—and when he answered, a figure unarmed and in a sombre caftan drew from the blackness. The Norman and the Spaniard embraced many times in profoundest joy.

They sat together on the timber of a shattered catapult, and told each other the tale of the many things befallen since they parted on the hill before Antioch.

"And Mary?" Richard would ask time and again.

"She is more beautiful than the light, after the tempest passes and the rainbow comes. We talk of you daily, and of her joy and yours when the Crusade is ended."

Richard groaned from the bottom of his soul.

"Would God," he cried, "my own fate were woe or weal to me, and not to another. It must have been sinful to keep her love after I took the cross. For how can I have joy in heaven, if"—and he crossed himself—"I am ever worthy to pass thither, thinking that Mary is in tears?"

Musa pressed his hand tighter.

"You are sad to-night. Why not? I know the stake you set on the Crusade, yet bow to the will of Allah. What is destined is destined by Him; what is destined by Him is right. Cannot even a Christian say that? You have done all that mortal man can; the task is too hard. Your vow is cleared. Return to France. Mary shall go with you. Have joy in St. Julien, and think of Musa, your brother, kindly."

But Richard had leaped to his feet.

"No, as God lives and reigns!" he cried, "I will not bow. We have endured a great defeat. You know all; I betray no trust. Our towers are nigh wrecked, our throats are burned with drought, half our fighting-men are wounded, you have two warriors in the city to one in our camp. But know this, brother mine that you are: we Franks differ from you Moslems. For in the face of disaster you cry 'Doom,' and bend your necks; but we hold our heads proudly and cry 'On, once more!' And so we master very doom; for there is no doom to strong men who forget that black word 'fate'!"

Musa put his hand affectionately around the Norman's ponderous shoulders.

"Verily, O Richard, I think if the rebel jinns were to gather a squadron of Franks about them, they could shake even the throne of Allah!"

"I am in no jest," replied Richard, and his tone told that he spoke true. But Musa said, doubting:—

"I cannot believe you can attack again before the Egyptian army comes. It is right to fight so long as there is hope. Allah never commands men to invite death."

"Then answer this," demanded the Christian, hotly; "if you lay in my tent, would you turn back and hear all France say, 'This is one of the cavaliers who rode to Jerusalem, found the paynim arrows bitter, and rode away'? By the splendor of God, you would die ten thousand deaths before! You dare not deny; I know you well."

"No, my brother," said Musa, very simply, "I do not deny. But for Mary's sake do not throw your life away."

The Norman laughed bitterly.

"By your 'doom' I perish as soon over my cups at St. Julien as on the siege tower at Jerusalem. God knows what comes to-morrow. Tell Iftikhar Eddauleh that I ask no greater favor from Heaven than to meet him once more face to face. Yet after his craven flight at Antioch I wonder he has courage to bear himself so valiantly on the walls."

"I will tell him; and believe me, he was no coward, as I hear, at Antioch. From his own lips to-day I learned he wishes nothing better than to meet you."

"And you will guard Mary from him?—ever?"

"While Allah grants me breath."

"You are a true brother, Musa, son of Abdallah!" cried the Norman, pressing the other's hand in a grasp that brought pain even to those fingers of steel. "Sometimes I think you are a better friend to me than I to myself."

"And no message for Mary?" asked the Spaniard, softly.

Richard drew his hand across his face. He did not speak for a long while. Then the words came very slowly:—

"Either to-morrow at this time we are masters of the city, or you can know that I am discharged forever of all vows and warfare. Does Mary know what we said together, at parting at Antioch?"

"She knows. And she accepts."

"That is well. Tell her I can leave only this message: 'I have from the hour I left her carried myself as became a Christian cavalier. I have prayed for grace to live and grace to die. I know that after the first pain is past she will wonder why she ever had love for the rude Frankish baron, when she has the favor of the most gallant emir, the most courtly prince, the purest-hearted man, Christian or Moslem.' For though you cannot yearn for her with the fire that burns in me, I can trust you never to let her grow hungry for love."

"Yes: but—" Musa laughed a little nervously—"but if the city is taken? What of me? Will you lead me in fetters back to St. Julien?"

Richard saw the implication.

"No, by St. George," he protested, "you shall not die! I will go to every friend, and I have many, and beseech them if we conquer to spare you."

Musa only laughed again.

"And where you would scorn to live, I must hold back?"

Both were silent; for they saw the inevitable issue. Then Musa spoke again: "Again I say it, what is doomed, is doomed. We are in the Most High's hands. So long as you bear your St. Julien shield I shall know you, and if we meet no blows shall pass. But wear a closed helmet. I quaked when I saw you mocking the arrows in your open casque."

Both were standing. There was nothing more to say. Richard's heart was very sad, but Musa comforted.

"No fears—is not Allah over us both? Will He not dispose all aright,—to-night,—to-morrow,—forever,—though we may not see the path?"

The two men embraced; and, without another word, Richard saw the form of Musa vanish into the darkness.

Of all the councils of the chiefs, none at Antioch was so gloomy as the one held the night after that day of battle and defeat. Duke Robert the Norman spoke for all when he cried in his agony:—

"Miserable men are we! God judges us unworthy to enter His Holy City!"

"Have we endured all this pain in vain?" answered Godfrey. "Unworthy we are, but do we not fight for the glory of Christ?"

"We have fought stoutly as mortal men may!" groaned the son of William the Bastard. "Twice repulsed, half our men slain, our towers wrecked. Where are my brave cavaliers from Rouen and Harfleur? Dead—dead; all who were not happy and died on the march!"

Then silence, while the red torches in Godfrey's tent flickered. Robert the Norman bowed his head and wept, sobbed even as a child.

But Robert, Count of Flanders, broke out madly:—

"By St. Nicholas of Ghent, why sit we here as speechless oxen? Let us either curse God and the false monks who led us on this devil's dance, and every man speed back to his own seigneury, if so Satan aid him; or let us have an end of croaks and groans, bear our hurts with set teeth, and have Jerusalem, though we pluck down the wall with our naked hands." But not an answer or token followed his outburst; and after a pause he added bitterly: "Yes, fair lords; my cousin of Normandy speaks well; we are unworthy to deliver the Holy City. Let us go back to dear France, and think of our sins." Still silence; and then, with an ominous tread, Gaston of Béarn entered, in full armor and with drawn sword.