CHAPTER XXVI
HOW RICHARD WAS AGAIN CHASTENED
Forward the great host swept. And if the sight of the onrushing Turks had borne terror to the Christians that morning, what terror must have sped among the hordesmen that noon. For the whole army of Kilidge Arslan was caught in a fatal triangle,—the hills where no cavalry might wheel, the lines of Bohemond and Tancred, and the squadrons of Godfrey. "God wills it!" again the cry; and every knight in the onrushing squadrons was holding his lance steady—no sitting in rank now and feeling the beat, beat of the arrows. The Seljouks might not scatter, if they would.
A howl of mortal fear was rising from the unbelievers. The tale later spread that they saw two Christian knights in armor fiery-bright, who rode before the advancing squadrons, whose mail was unpierced by the stoutest lance-thrust, who slew with lightnings flashed from their flaming swords. The cry grew louder and louder. The Christians knew the Turks were calling on Allah and their Prophet to save them,—vain hope! for all the host of Michael and his angels were fighting for the Cross that day.
As he swept on, Richard saw the hordesmen dash their thousands upon Bohemond's thin line,—no arrows now, but striving to crush by mere weight of numbers. He saw the wearied Normans and Bretons spur out to the charge. And then indeed there was fair battle,—the Christian host nigh swallowed in the infidel myriads; but still over all tossed Tancred's white silk banner blazoned with its blood-red cross; and above the howl of the Seljouks rang the cry which the unbelievers that day so learned to dread:—
"God wills it!"
At this moment Godfrey and Raymond, with their fifty thousand mailed cavalry, struck the Turkish hordes, and swept them toward the hills like dust that scurries before the west wind. "God wills it!" The Seljouks were riding for life, the Christian knights trampling them down with their huge destrers; and sword and battle-axe reaping their bloody harvest. "God wills it!" Richard heard the horns of the Sultan's picked guard sounding the retreat; and the last resistance melted away as the Seljouks fled to a man toward the hills.
As Godfrey and his thousands came on, Bohemond, Tancred, and Robert of Normandy charged forth with their wearied knights—not wearied now—catching the hordesmen on flank and rear, trampling, slaying, pursuing. And when the rescued cavaliers saw Longsword flying at Bouillon's side, another great shout went down the line, "Richard Longsword! Richard de St. Julien!" Then the Norman held his head very proudly, for he thought, "What joy will this be to Mary!"
"On! on!" urged Duke Godfrey, never drawing rein, while the rout and chase swept forward. "To the hills after them! Let none escape! God and Our Lady are with us!"
"Dex aiè," thundered the rescued Normans, and the whole host flew faster. Swift were the Seljouk horses; but the shivered hordes, crowding together in the narrow valley, were mown as grass before the Christian onset. Up among the rocks the pursuit was driven; steeds fell, their riders trampled down instantly. The Seljouks gained the crags where lay their camp, dismounted, stood at bay. But the Franks had dismounted also, and spread around the hills a forest of lances. On the front attacked Raymond; on the flanks Robert of Flanders, Duke Robert, Godfrey, Hugh, and Tancred; while brave Bishop Adhemar led the attack from the rear. Then came the final stand. The Turks fought as beasts at bay. But the Christians were raging lions; they stormed the camp, broke the spear wall, scattered the bodyguard of Kilidge Arslan himself. The Seljouks, like frighted partridges, scampered over rocks and craggy peaks, where their heavy-armed foe might not follow. So some escaped, but a score of thousands then and there perished; for quarter none asked or gave. Foremost in the press had been Richard. He long since had cast away his shattered shield; but the hauberk of Valencia was bulwark against a dozen deaths. Every time his good arm brought low an infidel he was glad; was he not performing to God a holy service? When the Seljouks broke once more after the storming of the camp, Longsword regained his horse to chase down those who hazarded flight in the plain country. The sun was hanging low in the heavens now. Old knights were praying Charlemagne's prayer at Roncesvalles—that the day might lengthen while they hunted the Moslem.
Richard rode with Gaston of Béarn, who had been not the least valiant of the many brave that day; and as he rode, again and again he came across fugitives, not in the fantastic colors of the Seljouk, but in a dress all white with red girdles and sandals. Often as they came on such, the pursued would turn and charge Gaston's whole troop with a mad fury that Frankish valor could scarce master. Presently, just as the shadows began to spread on the hills, Longsword saw before him a band of horsemen, clothed in white, in their midst the figure of a mighty warrior in gilded mail, upon a tall bay charger, and across that rider's saddle it seemed a prisoner in pale dress with fluttering red ribbons,—to Richard's mind, a woman. "After! After! A prisoner!" cried Gaston, putting his horse at a last burst of speed,—a good steed, but he had been ridden hard; and the fugitives still drew ahead. Richard clapped spurs to his mount; the beast, one of the best of Duke Godfrey, shot past Gaston, and the distance betwixt Richard and the strange rider lessened.
Richard could see now that the captive was indeed a woman, that she was struggling in the arms of her captor. Once he thought he caught her cry, despite the yells of the flying Moslems, who were invoking all the jinns to give them speed. He rode past the rearmost fugitive, who turned for fight, saw before him a brown-faced Arab, saw the cimeter dancing in his face; felt the steel edge glance on his helmet—a great rush of blood nigh blinding; a stroke of Trenchefer cleaving something—the Arab was gone. Richard dashed away the blood with his fist, pressed the spurs harder. The prisoner leaned out and shook forth her ribbons—Mother of Mercies! how like the ribbons of Mary! And had he never seen that splendid rider before? Again he spurred, and slapped his steed with the flat of his sword. Faster and faster; the blood once more blinded; once he brushed it away; long since his lance had been shattered in pieces, but Trenchefer was brazed to his arm. A last burst of speed; he could see the Arab warrior struggling with his arms about the captive; one instant more and he would breast the strange champion. But even as he pressed the spur, the good horse stumbled, plunged, was down, and Richard dashed upon the ground. An instant only. He was bruised; but he staggered to his feet, Trenchefer still in hand. "Allah akhbar!" rang the shout of the Arab, a voice he knew full well, yet had heard—where? Longsword dragged the kicking destrer from the ground. The good horse stood, made a step—he was lamed; walking were pain. And as Richard looked, his quarry sped over a hillock, was gone; while he stood staring after, scarce knowing that from head to heels he was bruised, and that the warm blood was streaming over his face. Only the darkening landscape seemed circling round and round, and his ears were ringing, yet not with the shout of receding battle. Gaston of Béarn had ridden up with his men. "Holy St. Barbara," the viscount was crying, "you are sorely hurt, fair friend. Your horse is lamed. Ho! Peter, dismount and put my Lord de St. Julien in your saddle. We must ride for the camp. Already it is darkening."
"No!" exhorted Richard, "continue the chase. Do not let those Arab fiends escape. They have a Christian prisoner, a lady, I swear by the four Gospels!"
"A lady!" exclaimed Gaston. "No prisoner! doubtless she is one of their tent women, whom the riders are trying to save. How could any Christian maid fall into their hands? Fighting we have had to a fill to-day, and none more than you, fair knight."
They put Richard upon the man-at-arms's horse. He was so weak now that Gaston rode at one side, and a squire at the other, to guard against a fall. As they rode back toward the encampment the stars were peeping out, and the moon had begun to climb above the hills. There was a thin gray haze spreading from the shallow river and marsh. Men talked in whispers, save as here and there they passed one lying wounded and moaning. All over the plain torches were moving about, priests and women seeking the Christian wounded, giving water to the dying, and with them camp varlets,—rabbits during the battle, but brave enough now,—plundering the fallen Turks, and slaying those who still breathed. Richard saw the great spoil of the Seljouk camp borne off in triumph: gold-threaded carpets, coin, horses,—many camels, that the marvelling victors, who had never seen such ill-shaped bulks before, thought the devil himself must have begotten.
Closer to the Christian camp the Frankish dead lay thickly on the ground. Raymond of Agiles was making the sign of the cross above each. "Blessed are these!" cried he; "already St. Michael leads them before Our Father; they have white robes and palms, and raise the anthem everlasting."
They rode on, and to them joined the Count of Chartres, shouting: "Praised be all angels, De St. Julien! You saved us all; the infidels were in the very camp!"
"The camp!" cried Richard, starting from his seat.
"Assuredly; Stephen of Blois and Bohemond strove to drive them out; there is a rumor certain women were carried captive. A scared horse-boy's tale, I trust! Holy Mother! You are wounded, my Baron! You nigh fall from the saddle!"
And Gaston of Béarn and Chartres caught Longsword, as he reeled.
"Unhand me, sirs!" shouted Richard, thrusting them both back roughly; "I am unhurt. I must go to the camp!"
And he spurred away headlong, his bruise nowhere, one horrible thought mastering all.
Yet as he reached the camp, now very dim in the twilight, a deadly sense of weakness and weariness was stealing over him. Food? Save for a mouthful of bread while he buckled on his armor, he had tasted none that direful day. Water? He had not touched a drop since leaving Duke Godfrey's camp. Wounds? He was bleeding in a dozen places. He felt the firm earth spinning. Would there never be end to the frightful pound, pound of the horse under him? His sight was dimming, ears rang; but, summoning all his will, he controlled himself.
"Dear Christ," was his prayer, "do not let me faint until, until"—but he could go no farther. When, however, he passed more knights and men-at-arms bringing in the spoil, laughing and boasting over their valiant deeds, his breast grew lighter. When the infidels had been so utterly broken, what was there to fear? The rush of faintness passed, he again sat steady in the saddle. And as many as recognized him in the dusk raised the cry that swelled as the rest caught it: "Ho! De St. Julien! Hail! De St. Julien! Our Lady bless you, fair lord, you have saved us all this day!" But the shout that had been music in his ears two hours earlier he scarce heard. Prince Tancred passed him, called on him to stay; he spurred on, though the poor soldier's horse under him nigh dropped of weariness.
In the camp at last. The fires were being rekindled; around each little groups, over the loot of the Turkish camps. The wounded were groaning on the dry turf, men were bringing in the dead, and here and there women wailing. Richard knew the way to his own encampment, as if by instinct. And as he rode his blood chilled yet more when he saw here and there tents down, their walls torn, pegs wrenched, poles shattered, and contents scattered around. Then it was true the Seljouks had stormed the camp! Before him he saw the little group of pavilions over which the St. Julien banner had waved that morning—the banner was gone! His horse stumbled over a body. He dismounted. The moon was rising; in the pale light he saw the face of one of his own grooms—set in death. Men were standing before the tents, some tugging at the cords as if to retighten them, some kindling a fire, some in groups, talking in low, scared whispers. In the dimness they did not see Richard, as he came up on foot.
"Holy St. Maurice," one was muttering, "may I not be the first to tell the tale to my lord!"
"Fellow!" thundered Richard, bursting into the little group, and clapped a hand heavy as a millstone on the man-at-arms's shoulder. "Rascal! Speak! Speak! What is this? Dumb as a mute? Why no banner? The tents in disorder? Where is—" But the words came not, for his dry tongue clove fast in his mouth.
No answer. The retainer turned as pale and quaking as if the devil's self had accosted him.
"Speak! speak!" raged Richard, making his victim writhe under his iron grip. Still nothing. He looked at those around; silent all. He was too fearful to be angry.
"Mary! Mary de St. Julien!" cried he, finding the name at last; "if you are here,—one word,—or I am in perdition!" Still silence. He saw one of the men-at-arms crossing himself; he saw that the pavilion where he had left his wife was half overturned; he saw lying across the entrance a dead body, and the firelight showed the white dress and the red girdle and shoes.
"For the love of Christ!" was his plea, "will no one speak? or must I kill you all?" In his frenzy he half drew Trenchefer. And just as all gave way, when they saw the moonlight waver on the blade still red, there was a step, and a voice—Sebastian's voice—spoke:—
"Sweet son, bow to the will of God. Listen! I have just returned to the camp with Herbert and the rest. Mary Kurkuas is not here. Theroulde will tell all."
They heard a groan from Richard, that none forgot to his dying day. A javelin was lying against a tent-pole; as Theroulde stepped reluctantly out from the silent circle, the Baron sent the dart whistling past his head.
"Die!—coward! traitor!" then Longsword cursed terribly when the cast missed and flew into the dark.
Sebastian had him by the arm.
"Gilbert de Valmont!" whispered he, never trembling when Richard raised his fist to strike. "Remember him! Add not one sin to another! Listen to Theroulde!"
"Traitor!" stormed Richard, but the priest held him fast. "Why could you not die defending your mistress?"
"Hearken, my Lord de St. Julien, then call me traitor and coward if you will!" cried the minstrel, brave at last. "And see if there be no worse traitors than I? Would God you had listened to the warnings of us all against that smooth-tongued Hossein,—as if Christian faith could ever lurk beneath so swart a skin."
Richard had steadied himself.
"Go on, my man," he said, very quietly now, yet in a tone that set all a-quaking; for they could not comprehend. They only knew a strong spirit was in agony.
"Lord," said Theroulde, "if one jot of what I say be other than truth, so smite me dead, and let Satan own me forever. As we lay in the camp after you had led forth most of the fighting-men, soon we heard the rush and roar of battle, and presently some came flying, who said the cavaliers were hard pressed, and many slain. And all the time my lady sat before the tent upon the rugs we laid for her, resting her chin on her hands, and saying nothing. Yet she was not tearful nor pale, at which we marvelled, for we knew she thought that every roar and shout might betoken your fall, and her mind had only room for that. Then after the battle had raged long, and stragglers and wounded began coming in with tales that grew ever blacker, I said to Hossein, who sat by me, 'Brother, go to the edge of the camp, see if the St. Julien banner still towers high, and bring back word to my lady.' For I did not intend to quit her side, and was glad to have him gone. So he went without delay and was gone a long time, while the din of battle continually grew louder and nearer. Yet when he returned, he said, 'I went so close to the battle lines that—see! two arrows grazed me!' Then to your wife, 'Most august mistress, your lord's banner is not in sight; but fear nothing. He is not slain, they tell me, but has ridden to summon help from Duke Godfrey.' Then my lady's cheeks began to glow, and I imagine she was thinking of your return and the victory."
"For Our Lord's sake, no more of what you imagine!" came from Richard. "Tell only what you know!"
"Scarce had he returned"—went on Theroulde, his voice faltering—"when we heard a frightful clamor from the rear and flank of the camp by the river and marsh. Soon grooms and women ran by crying, 'The infidels are on us, slaying all!' And sooner than thought, we beheld the Seljouk horsemen, sword in hand, dashing among the tents, cutting down old man, priest, and woman, without quarter. Then I laid hands on a crossbow. 'Hossein,' cried I, 'if you are true Christian, die with me for our mistress!' But he only smiled, and drawing his cimeter, gave a mighty howl that rose above all other din. Ere I could look upon my lady, lo,—there were horsemen by our tents—Arabs—not Turks—in white, with red girdles; and Hossein shouted in their speech, 'This way, Cid Iftikhar; here is the Star of the Greeks!' And I saw Iftikhar Eddauleh himself upon a splendid horse, in flashing armor. Then I sped a crossbow bolt through one of his riders, cut down a second with my sword, and struck at Hossein, thinking to end his treachery. But Iftikhar swung once at me,—I knew no more. When I came to myself I found that I was under the wreck of the tent. Hours had sped; the battle had drifted away. The emir's sword had turned in his hand; the blunt edge smote me. I had a mighty blow, but will be none the worse—praise the saints! I looked for my lady—gone! All the grooms and varlets are slain, and old Sylvana the nurse. Hossein gone—and the devils ride with him! And for me, my Lord de St. Julien, if I have been coward or traitor, strike off my head. You are my judge."
Richard tore from his neck his heavy gold chain.
"You are a right valiant man, Theroulde, and no boaster. I believe your tale," said he, throwing him the gold links; "and now a horse—a fresh horse!"
Sebastian still held him.
"Madness!" cried the priest; "it is dark; you have been up since before dawn! For what is this horse?"
"To ride after Iftikhar Eddauleh," came from between Richard's teeth; "and if I find him not—to slay as many of his cursed race as I may; and then to curse God and die!"
While he spoke the moonbeams rested full on his face, and all beholding saw that it had aged in one hour; the lines wrought on it by the death of Gilbert were still there—and more. Had his hair shone white, none would have been amazed. "Christ pity him!" muttered old Herbert, the most fervent prayer of the veteran for many a wicked day.
But Sebastian would not let Richard go.
"As you fear God," commanded the priest, "be quiet; do not fling your life away!"
"I fear God no longer," was Richard's cry. "I only hate Him!"
Sebastian led him into the tent, with a touch soft and tender as a woman's. "Dear lad," he said gently, "God will not be angry unduly with you for what you have just said, though its sin is very great. You think, 'How can this thing be and God be still good?' Remember the words of holy Anselm of Canterbury, 'I ask not to understand that I may believe; but I believe that I may learn to understand.'"
"Father," said Richard, with a terrible calmness in his voice, "if for my own sins I had been doomed to some great woe, I could say 'mea culpa,—merciful chastisement'; but since the chief suffering will be that of as pure a saint as ever breathed this air, I cannot endure without a groan. I only know that the hand of God is exceeding heavy upon me, and my burden is more than I can bear." Then, to the infinite relief of Sebastian and the rest, he let them take off his blood-soaked armor and shirt, and stanch the wounds, which were none very deep, but so many that he was weak from loss of blood. Presently Herbert came in and reported: "Little lord, our men took thirty Turks prisoners when the camp was stormed; shall we keep them to put to ransom?" Richard was not too feeble to leap from the rugs. "Kill! kill!" he foamed out; "if Satan wait long for their souls, let him have mine too!"
Herbert smiled grimly and went out of the tent.
"Ai," cried Longsword to Sebastian, when the priest forced him to lie down once more, "I do well to be cruel,—for there is no sweet angel now to teach me mercy. God reward me double beyond present griefs, if I slay not my share of the infidels! Therefore let me grow pitiless and terrible."
"You should hate and slay the Lord's enemies, dear son," said Sebastian, crossing himself; "yet beware lest you fight for your own revenge, and not for the glory of God."
"Enough if I slay them!" was the answer. Then Richard took food and drink, and toward morning slept.
So ended the day of Dorylæum, the battle where, as the pious chronicler puts it, "by the aid of St. James and St. Maurice the Christians had a great deliverance from their enemies, and twenty-three thousand infidels were sped to perdition; such being the singular favor of God."