God Wills It! Part 24

His boyhood; his life in South Italy and Sicily; his first meeting with Mary; his duel with Louis; his parting with Mary; the storming of Valmont; his mother, ever his mother. She had nursed him herself--rare mark of devotion for a seigneur's lady. She had been proudest of the proud, when he had won his honors. She had whispered to him an hundred sweet admonitions that dear, bright night he was last at Cefalu. Did he love her more than Mary? Praises be to G.o.d, there are loves that never war; and such were these! Oh, had he but been at Cefalu, with his good right arm, and Musa, and Herbert, and Nasr--how different, how much better! And now all were dead save Eleanor, his bright-haired sister, and she--the captive of Iftikhar. Why, if G.o.d had been so wroth with him, had He not stricken him, and let the innocent go free? He was strong; his will was adamant as the blade of Trenchefer; to save those dear ones a single pang--what would he not suffer! Were they not--all save his sister--happy now? Surely the saints had taken joy to welcome his mother and brother; and within, his father's soul was white, if some little seared without.

"Ah!" cried Richard, "if my own heart were clean, I would not grieve.

I would pray for their souls, and love Mary Kurkuas, and know that pure angels intercede for me at G.o.d's throne; but now--what with the blood of Gilbert de Valmont, the shattering of the altar--what is mine but torment eternal!"

And Richard saw, he was quite sure, as he strained his eyes in the dark, a fair green country strewn with flowers, and in the midst a battlemented city, and within that a glittering throne with myriad bright angels, playing lute and harp unceasing. Upon the throne sat an old man, with a white beard falling to his girdle, crowned with gold, and holding an orb and sceptre; and Richard knew this was G.o.d the Father. Then he saw angels bringing up men before the throne: Raoul de Valmont, John of the Iron Arm, and all their sinful crew. And G.o.d said to them: "Why have you come here, your sins unrepented, unshriven, all unprepared to die?" And they answered: "Richard Longsword has sent us; he was wiser than Thou, Lord, and could not bear with us as Thou hadst done so long." Then G.o.d said: "Your sins are very great. Depart to the lake of fire!" Then they brought a fair-haired, girlish boy, and G.o.d said: "Why hast thou come, dear child, when thou hadst not done on earth that which I designed for thee?" And the boy answered: "Richard Longsword is wiser than Thou; he did not wish me to be on earth." So the angels gave the lad white wings like their own, and a great viol like a _jongleur's_. But G.o.d said: "Concerning Richard Longsword it is written, 'Whosoever shall offend one of these little ones, that believe in me, it were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and that he were drowned in the depth of the sea.'"

Then some angels, very terrible, approached Richard as he gazed, to lead him to the throne; and lo! he was stripped naked as an infant at the font, and all the strength had sped out of him!...

A mighty peal of thunder! the jagged lightnings springing above the trees; now all the woods were lit by the white bolts, now all was black; and on high, giants were dragging down pinnacles of a mighty fortress. Richard cowered on his seat. The raindrops smote him, but could not cool his glowing temples. The tale of the great storm that presaged Roland's death came to him--how from Mount St. Michael to Cologne there was pitch darkness at noonday. Would G.o.d this were omen of his death only--not of his perdition! Betwixt the lightnings could he not see children running about with two heads, and all the boughs swelling out with heads of serpents--sure sign of the presence of the devil? And, in the darkness, what was that flickering will-o'-the-wisp form, unless it was Herodias's daughter dancing, dancing with glee, as they said she ever did when she saw a soul devoted, like herself, to Satan? Would the night ever pa.s.s? Richard cowered on his seat. At last--and who might say how long it was in coming?--there was a faint tinge among the tree tops, a low flutter of wings on the branches. One shy bird commenced his morning call; another, another. The blank maze of tree trunks began to unravel into moss-strewn avenues. The dawning was at hand, and the sky fast coming blue. The only traces of the rain were the diamond drops hanging on twig and flower. A warm, moist odor was rising in the wood; the day would be very hot. Richard roused himself. His clothes were wet; he flung away his fur-lined "pelisson"; the heat of the heavy coat was intolerable. His head swam, as he stood up; but he summoned his strong will. His brain steadied. He looked about.

"I am lost," reasoned he; "there is only one way to find the path to St. Julien; I must go above the trees. From the mountain crest I can see which side to go down." So he climbed, though now his steps were no longer strong, and his feet ached wearily. At last--the saints above knew after how long--he saw the pines thinning, then the rocks shone black and bare in the sun. One last effort--and he was out of the forest; the jagged summit still towered above him, but he could look forth--on what a view! Far and wide stretched the pleasant Auvergne country; corn-land and orchard, green but browning with the dying summer. The mountains pressed in on every side, north and west the great volcanic _puys_ tossed their bleak crests far into the blue, as if piers to upbear the heavens. Away to the east were more hills--the Cevennes; and beyond, very near the sky line, what was that whiteness through the scattering haze--the Alps? As he looked up, an eagle rose with hoa.r.s.e scream from a crag above, and flew into the sky straight in the face of the sun, until his broad pinions were only a speck against the glowing blue. Richard looked downward. To his right and far away lay a village, monastery buildings, a tall bare tower--St. Julien--very small; he must have travelled far. But below him, at his feet, so that he felt he could cast a stone upon it, was another tower--black, smoke-stained; its bare parapet open to heaven, a great charred ma.s.s around--Valmont! Richard gazed and shuddered.

"Dear G.o.d," he cried softly, "why hast Thou led me here, to show me the place of my sin? Am I not enough punished?"

The scream of the eagle had died away. Higher and higher climbed the sun. All the valleys were springing out of the receding shadow. There was a soft, kind wind upon the mountain. Its kiss was sweet and comforting; but Richard needed more than the wind. It was not all pain of the heart that tore him now. His head was very heavy; he felt his knees beating together; at times his sight grew dim.

"I am ill, in fever," he muttered to himself; "I must hasten to some house, or I shall die, and then--" But he never completed. He could see peasants' cottages beyond the Valmont tower; perhaps the dwellers had been wronged by his men the night of the sack, and would make him scantly welcome; but it was better to risk that, than lie down on the naked crest of the _puy_. He staggered downward, ever downward. Thrice he fell; thrice rose by a mighty effort. At last he dimly realized that the ground before him no longer sloped; he was clear of rock and trees, and before him, seared and bare, was the keep of Valmont.

Richard fell again, this time on soft gra.s.s, and lay long. His head had ceased to pain him, but he felt weak as a little child. "I shall die! Christ pity me!" was all his thought. But again he rose, rose and staggered onward. The ruin drew him towards it, as by an enchanter's spell. He found his way past the outer wall, through the open gate where the weeds were already twining. One side of the tower had fallen, filling the moat; within, the other three walls rose, bare, fire-scarped, cavernous. Still Richard dragged forward. He was upon the cinders now; charred beams, benches. Here was a shivered target, there a shattered lance. As he advanced, three crows flew, coming from some carrion spoil they had found within. He was inside the enclosure of the keep; the sun no longer beat on him. It was cool and still. His strength was at an end. On a pile of dust and ashes were little green weeds springing. It was soft. He lay down, and tried to close his eyes and call back some prayers. "Here it is I shall die!" his wan lips muttered. But as he rested, something hard pressed his head. He took it, dragged it from the dust. Behold! a bra.s.s crucifix, and right across the body of Our Lord a deep, rude dint! "The crucifix held by the boy when I slew him!" moaned Richard. Then he looked on the face of the Christ. The lips moved not, the eyes gave no sign; but as Richard kept gazing, he felt the bra.s.s turning to fire in his hands,--pain, but pain infused with a wondrous gladness. "Christ died not for the sp.a.w.n of Valmont!" had been his blasphemy; had Christ died for _him_? "Ah! Sweet Son of G.o.d," cried Richard from his soul, "Thou didst not come to earth and suffer for the pure and righteous, but Thou didst come for such as I. Thou didst pardon the thief on the cross; canst Thou pardon even me? I have committed foul murder, and insulted holy relics, and made the heavens ring with my blasphemies. I have no merit; I were justly sent to perdition for my sins; I lie here, perhaps dying. Have mercy, Lord, have mercy!" Did a voice speak from the blue above? Was it only some forest bird that croaked in Richard's disordered ear? "Lord," cried Richard, half rising, "if Thou canst forgive, do not let me die; let me live, and, by Thy holy agony, I swear I will remember the vow of my youth; I will remember the sorrows of Thy Holy City; and I will rest not day nor night, I will spare not wealth nor love nor blood, till I see the Cross triumphant upon the walls of Jerusalem, or until I die--if so G.o.d wills it!" And he knew nothing more until some one was dashing water in his face, and above him he saw the villain, "Giles of the Mill," who had been the betrayer of Valmont.

"Ah, lord," he was saying, "well it was that Americ, the leper, wandering here in search for red adders, found you and told me!"

"Americ, the leper?" asked Richard, his wits wandering.

"Yes, lord; we keep him shut in a little hut outside the hamlet. But early in the mornings we let him go out hunting for red adders with white bellies; for if he eats enough of them with leeks, he is cured.

But you, fair sir, are grievously ill. I must take you to my cottage."

Then Richard lapsed again into a stupor; and when next he saw the world, he was in the miller's house. The good-wife was making a great fire with vine branches, and hanging a huge iron pot to heat water.

They had laid Richard on the bed, the only one in the whole house, broad enough for both parents and the half-dozen dirty, shock-headed brats, that were squalling round the single room, and chasing the little pigs who belonged there as much as themselves. The children would steal up to the bed softly on tiptoe, and make curious glances at the "great seigneur," who had avenged their elder brother by slaying the terrible Bull of Valmont. Then their mother would cry out to them to keep their distance: "Who were they to set eyes on the mighty lord, who could send them all to the gallows if he listed?" But Richard, as he gazed on the unkempt, freckled faces, said in his heart, "Ah, if I could give all the St. Julien lands for the one white conscience of that little girl!"

Giles of the Mill presently had out his plodding horse, and pounded away on the road to St. Julien, while his wife called in two wrinkled old crones, who looked at Richard, and shook their heads, then whispered almost loud enough to let him understand. The women put strange things into the pot: the feet of a toad, many weeds and flowers, the tail of a kitten, and a great spider. Then when the water was very hot, they brought some to him in a huge wooden spoon.

Richard, though he knew what Arabian physicians could do, was too weak to resist them. Presently there was a clatter of hoofs without, and Herbert, Musa, and Sebastian were coming into the cottage. The face of Musa was very grave when he touched Richard's wrist; his next act was to empty the kettle on the earthen floor. The Norman's last strength was gone: he had tried to rise to greet his friends, sank back; his words were but whispers. Sebastian bent over him.

"Dear father," the priest barely heard, "pray for me, pray for me; I have sworn to go to Jerusalem."

But Richard's eyes were too dim to see the light breaking on Sebastian's face. Herbert and Musa devised a litter, and they bore the knight back to St. Julien.

CHAPTER XVI

HOW LADY IDE FORGAVE RICHARD

Richard Longsword lay betwixt death and life for many a long day.

Sebastian hardly left him for an hour, nor did Herbert; but it was Musa that saved him. Sebastian had a plainly expressed dislike for the Spaniard's ministrations.

"It is suffering Satan to cast out Satan," said he, to the Andalusian's face, "to suffer an infidel, such as you, to try to heal Richard."

"Verily, learned sheik," answered Musa, with one of his grave smiles, "if it is better that Richard should die and dwell with your saints, I will not use my art."

"No," sighed Sebastian, who had not lived in Sicily with eyes quite closed, "the lad is reserved for great things, for G.o.d and Holy Church. He must not die; use your arts, and I will pray Our Lady that she will defeat the evil in your science, and retain the good."

So Richard was medicined according to the teachings of the world-famed Abul Kasim, and Sebastian went so far as to side with Musa, when the Arab forbade the officious sub-prior--who boasted himself a leech--to speak again of poulticing the Baron's head with sheep's lungs. A wandering Jewish doctor from the school of Montpellier gave more efficient aid. The abbot brought over a finger bone of St. Matthew to put under Richard's pillow,--sure talisman against madness. And it was sorely needed. Many a time those about the bed would shiver when they heard Longsword scream aloud that Gilbert was standing beside him, his face red with blood.

"Remember Mary's tale," Richard would cry, "of the evil Emperor Constans, who slew his brother, and how the dead man stood before him in sleep, holding forth a cup of blood, saying, 'Drink, my brother, drink!' So with me, Gilbert de Valmont holds the cup, I cannot drink it! Holy Saints, I cannot! Away, away with him!"

And in half-lucid moments, Richard would hear Sebastian pray, "Dear Lord, if by penance and sacrifice of mine I gain merit in Thy sight, lay it not up for me, but for Richard, my dear son. For I love him, Lord, more than any other, saving Thee; and he has sinned grievously, and Thy hand is heavy upon him. But pity him; he repents, he will go to deliver Thy tomb and Holy City."

After this, when Richard lapsed again into his mad spells, he would howl that he was being cast into the burning abyss of Baratron with the devils Berzebu and Nero. But at last the fever left him wan and weak, with a face grown ten years older in two months. The castle folk rejoiced. The abbot came with congratulations and a tale how Brother Matthias, admittedly a little near-sighted, had seen in broad day St.

Julien himself, accompanied by his stag, who had signified that the Baron should recover, and give five hundred "white deniers" to the abbey as thank-offering. Sebastian firmly forbade any generosity.

"Do you doubt the vision?" asked Richard.

Sebastian smiled grimly. "I do not doubt. But St. Julien asked for money for himself; and your all is dedicated to a higher than St.

Julien--Christ. Our Lord did not bid us bestow riches on the rich.

Need there will be of all money and good swords and strong right arms, before our sinful eyes see the deliverance of the Holy City. Let not even pious grat.i.tude turn your thoughts aside." So the monks growled helplessly, for Sebastian had the Baron's ear now, and all the people venerated him as being one who seldom touched fish or flesh, slept little, prayed long, and always cast down his eyes when he pa.s.sed a pretty maid.

Then came another letter, from La Haye, in Mary Kurkuas's neat Greek hand.

"Mary Kurkuas to her dearest heart, Richard Longsword, sends tears and many kisses. Life of my life, I have heard the news from Sicily, and my heart is torn. It was for my sake that you earned the wrath of Iftikhar, because I said 'I love you' to you, not to him. Each morning and sunset I kneel before my picture of the Blessed 'G.o.d-bearer,' praying her to have pity on you, to make you strong, to stanch your heart. From my wise Plato and Plutarch, I draw no healing; but when I look on the face of the Mother of G.o.d I know all is well, though human eye may not see. There has come a travelling _jongleur_ from Auvergne, who tells a wonderful tale of your deed at Valmont. In the midst of my sorrow I yet rejoice and thank the saints, that my own true cavalier was spared, and was suffered to slay that horrible Raoul. Yet I am glad it was all hid from me till safely over. I know you have a great work to do in Auvergne, and would not call you hence. Yet remember now that the summer is just sped, that I am waiting for you at La Haye. Then when you come, I can touch your face, and smooth away all the pain, and we will look no longer back but forward. And so with a thousand kisses more, farewell."

This letter made the gloom on Richard Longsword's brow settle more darkly than ever. She knew of his sorrow, of his storming of Valmont--of the death of Gilbert, not a word! Here was fresh sorrow; to his own mortal pain must be added that of giving anguish to one dearer than self. Who was he, with innocent blood almost reddening his hands, with blasphemies nigh upon his lips, to take in his arms a beautiful woman, pure as an angel of light? Richard ground his teeth in his pain.

"Dear Sebastian," cried he once, despairing, "can even the great pilgrimage wipe out my sin? Did not Foulques of Anjou go thrice to Jerusalem before earning peace for his soul?"

"My son," was the answer, "fear not; your sin is great, yet not as Foulques's, for he tortured his brother to death in a dungeon. No other pilgrimage--to St. James of Compostella, to St. Martin of Tours--is like to that to Jerusalem. And now you are to go, not with staff and scrip, but with a good sword, and to win great battles for G.o.d and His Christ!"

So for a moment Richard brightened; then, lapsing in gloom, he groaned: "Unworthy, all unworthy am I so much as to look upon the City of G.o.d! Let me turn monk, and seek peace in toil and fast and vigil."

But Sebastian shook his head: "Well I know that too often the very seat of Satan is within the cloister--spiritual arrogance, worldly l.u.s.t, even in the great abbey of Clugny itself. And did G.o.d give you a grip of steel and an arm of iron to let them grow weak in some monkish cell? You have a great work before you, sweet son. Fear not, be patient. G.o.d will bring it to pa.s.s!"

There was a strength, a simple majesty, about Sebastian, when he spoke, that made all doubts for the moment flee away. So Richard continued to possess himself in such peace as he might. Day by day he grew stronger; and at last, just as October began with its cool evenings and crystal mornings, he was again riding about upon Rollo.

All the St. Julien va.s.sals fell on their knees when their dread lord pa.s.sed their hamlets, and they put up a prayer of thanksgiving; for they said, "The seigneur is a kind and just man, with the love of G.o.d in his heart, despite his fury at Valmont."

But now came messengers out of the south. Louis de Valmont had raised a great force; all the roving bandits of the woods had gathered around him; the war between Aquitaine and Toulouse lagged, and many landless cavaliers had come under his banner. When Herbert heard the news he began to talk of victualling St. Julien for a long siege, and sending to Burgundy and Languedoc for help. But Richard would hear none of it.

"The saints know there has been enough Christian blood spilled, since I came to Auvergne. There shall be no more in my quarrel," declared he; and he sent back a messenger to Louis, saying that he prayed him to enter on no new feud, but to grant a meeting where they might compose their quarrels without arms. Three days sped, and back came the envoy with a letter, which three months earlier would have made Richard swear great oaths and draw out Trenchefer. "Louis de Valmont,"

ran the reply, "will come to St. Julien and there meet Richard Longsword, and five hundred lances will come with him. As for composition, let Richard make what terms he could with the saints, for on earth he need beg for no quarter."

"By the Glory of Allah!" declared Musa, when the letter was read, "we will make them cry 'Hold!' before many arrows fly!" And Herbert began to call to arms the va.s.sals of the barony, and chuckled when he thought of the brave times ahead. But Richard, when he had slept on the letter, called for Sebastian, and was with him long alone. Then he unbuckled Trenchefer, put on a soiled, brown bleaunt, and bade them bring a common palfrey for himself and a mule for Sebastian. He commanded Herbert to keep strict guard of the castle, to yield to none, to attack none. Even to Musa he would not tell the object of his journey. With the priest at his side he rode out of the village, and turned his face toward the south, where the road climbed over the mountains.

They journeyed on till the sun lacked a bare hour of setting. Then before them, on a smooth meadow where ran a little river, they saw many rude tents, horses picketed to lances thrust in the ground, the smoke of camp-fires; and heard the hum of a hundred voices. Presently into the road sprang half a dozen surly, hard-visaged men with tossing pole-axes and spiked clubs. They demanded of knight and priest their business, in no gentle tone.

"Tell your master, Louis de Valmont," said Sebastian, mildly, "that a cavalier and a servant of Holy Church would speak with him."

"A servant of Holy Church, ho!" cried one of the men-at-arms, with a covetous glance at the mule; but Sebastian fastened his firelike eyes upon the fellow, who dropped his gaze and began to mutter something about the evil eye.

They led the two into the midst of the camp, where a great press of disorderly varlets and petty n.o.bles swarmed around, pointing, laughing, whispering loudly. Only the largest tent was carefully closed, and about it stood sentries in armor. A man-at-arms went to this, thrust in his head, and was back with the message:--

"Sir Louis de Valmont and his mother, the n.o.ble Lady Ide, have no time to waste words with every wandering knight and priest that come this way. They bid you state your errand to me and begone, or we strip you of steeds and purses."