The coronation is fixed for Holy Cross Day. And Lady Sybil has undertaken, as soon as she is crowned, to select her future husband. One condition she has insisted on herself. Every noble, on the coronation day, is to take a solemn oath that he will be satisfied with and abide by her decision, and will serve the King of her choice for ever. This seems to me a very wise and politic move, as it will prevent any future disputes. Every body appears to have no doubt on whom her choice will fall. All expect the Count of Tripoli.Guy has requested permission to retire to Ascalon; and she has accorded it, but with the express stipulation that he is to be in his place, with the rest of her peers, at the coronation. It does seem to me a piece of needless cruelty. Surely she might have spared him this!I also have asked permission to retire from Court. Of course I go with Guy. Whoever forsakes him, the little sister shall be true.For about the first time in my life, I am thoroughly pleased with Amaury. He is nearly as angry as I am—which is saying a great deal. And he is the only person in whose presence I dare relieve my feelings by saying what I think of Sybil, for Guy will not hear a word.Eschine has the most extraordinary idea. She thinks that Sybil's heart is true, and that only her head is wrong. It is all nonsense! Heart and head go together.The worst item of the agony is over—the divorce.The ceremony was short enough. A speech—from Count Raymond—stating to the public the necessities of the case; a declaration from both parties that they acted of their own free will; a solemn sentence from the holy Patriarch:—and all was over, and Guy and Sybil were both free to wed again.I did think Sybil would have fainted before she could get through the few words she had to speak. But Guy was as calm and quiet as if he were making some knightly speech. I cannot understand him. It seems so unnatural for Guy.I expressed some surprise afterwards."O Lynette! how could I make it harder for her!"That was his answer. It was all for her. He seems to think himself not worth considering.We leave for Ascalon very early to-morrow; and as this was my last night, I went to Lady Judith's cell to say farewell to her. On my way I met Count Raymond, returning from an audience of Lady Sybil, with triumph flashing in his eyes as he met mine. He evidently agrees with the multitude that he has a good chance of the crown. My heart swelled against him, but I managed to return his bow with courtesy, and passing on, tapped at Lady Judith's door."Helena, dear child!—Come in," she said."I am come to bid you good-bye, holy Mother."Lady Judith silently motioned me to a seat on her bed, and sat down beside me."Is it quite as dark, my child?""Yes, quite!" I said, sighing."Poor child! I would give much to be able to comfort thee. But, please God, thou wilt be comforted one day.""The day seems a long way off, holy Mother.""It seemed a long way off, dear, to the holy Jacob, the very day before the waggons arrived to carry him down to his son Joseph. Yet it was very near, Helena."I listened with respect, of course: but I could not see what that had to do with me. The waggons were not coming for me—that one thing was certain."Wilt thou be here for the coronation, my child?""I shall be where Guy is," I said shortly. "But—O holy Mother, she might have spared him that!"Lady Judith's look was very pitiful. Yet she said—"Perhaps not, my child."Why, of course she might, if she would. What was to hinder her? But I did not say so, for it would have been discourteous.Even between me and my dear old Lady Judith there seemed a miserable constraint. Was it any marvel? I rose to go. Almost noiselessly the door opened, and before I could exclaim or escape, Sybil stood before me."And wert thou going without any farewell—me,—little sister, Helena?"I stood up, frozen into stone."I ask your Grace's pardon. We are not sistersnow."She turned aside, and covered her face with her hands."O Lynette! thou makest it so hard, so hard!""So hard?" said I coldly. "I hope I do. If your heart had not been harder than the nether millstone, Lady Sybil, you would never, never have required our presence at your coronation. God give you what you deserve!""That is a terrible prayer, in general," she said, turning and meeting my eyes. "And yet, Lynette, in this one thing, I dare to echo it. Ay, God render unto me what I deserve!"How could she? Oh, how could she?Lady Judith kissed me, and I went away. I believe Sybil would have kissed me too, but I would not have it from her.It was easy, after that, to say farewell to the rest."I wish I were going too!" growled Amaury.Then why does he not? He might if he chose. Just like Amaury!"Farewell, dear," said Eschine. "I shall miss thee, Elaine."—And nobody else. Yes, I know that.So we go forth. Driven out of our Paradise, like Adam and Eva. But the flaming sword is held by no angel of God.I always thought it such a dreadful thing, that our first parents should be driven out of Paradise. Why could not God have let them stay? It was not as if He had wanted it for the angels. If He had meant to use it for any thing, it would be on the earth now.I cannot understand! Oh, why, why,whyare all these terrible things?"I cannot understand either," says old Marguerite. "But I can trust the good God, and I can wait till He tells me. I am happier than my Damoiselle,—always wanting to know."Well, I see that I marvel if there is any maiden upon earth much more miserable than I am. Last night, only, I caught myself wishing—honestly wishing—that I could change with Marguerite, old and poor as she is. It must be such a comfort to think of God as she does. It seems to answer for every thing.The sultry quiet here is something almost unendurable to me. There is nothing in the world to see or hear but the water-carriers crying "The gift of God!" and strings of camels passing through the gateway, and women washing or grinding corn in the courts. And there is nothing to do but wait and bear, and prepare, after a rather sluggish fashion, for our return home when the coronation is over. Here, again, old Marguerite is better off than I am, for she has constantly things which she must do.I do not think it likely that Amaury will come with us. Things never take hold of him long. If he be furiously exasperated on Monday, he is calmly disgusted on Tuesday, supremely content on Wednesday, and by Thursday has forgotten that he was ever otherwise. And he seems disposed to make his home here.To me, it looks as though my life divided itself naturally into two portions, and the four years I have passed here were the larger half of it. I seem to have been a woman only since I came here.Three months to wait!—and all the time we are waiting for a dreadful ordeal, which we know must come. Why does Lady Sybil give us this suffering? And far more, why, why does the good God give it to us?If I could only understand, I could bear it better."Ha!" says Marguerite, with a rather pitying smile. "If my Damoiselle could but know every thing, she would be content not to know more!"Well! I suppose I am unreasonable. Yet it will be such a relief when the worst is over. But how can I wish the worst to come?CHAPTER XIV.SYBIL'S CHOICE."'Gifts!' cried the friend. He took: and, holding itHigh towards the heavens, as though to meet his star,Exclaimed,—'This, too, I owe to thee, Giafàr!'"LEIGH HUNT.It came at last—neither sooner for my dreading it, nor later for my wishing it—Holy Cross Day, the coronation morning.Guy and I reached the Holy City the night before, and took up our quarters with the holy Patriarch and his Lady Irene. We were just opposite the Palace. We could see lights flashing through the loop-holes, and now and then a shadow pass behind them. It was hard to know that that house held all that we loved, and we were the only ones that dared not enter it.The Patriarch was most disagreeably loquacious. He told us every thing. He might have been cooking the banquet and broidering the robes, for all the minute details he seemed to know. The Queen, he told us, was to be arrayed in golden baudekyn, and the Lady Isabel in rose and silver. Both the Princesses would be present, attired in gold and blue. Poor little Agnes and Helena! How little they would understand of their mother's actions!As little, perhaps, as any of us could understand of God's dealings in this matter!The officers of state were to surround the throne, which was to be placed on the highest step of the choir; the nobles of the Council were to stand, in order according to the date of their creation, round the nave below.Lady Irene was as silent as her lord was talkative. But at night, when she brought me up to the chamber she had prepared for me, she told me the one thing I did care to know. A place had been specially reserved for me, in the nave, immediately behind Guy; and the Lady Irene's own place was next to me."I am obliged to the Master of the Ceremonies," said I: for that was just where I wished to be."Nay," quietly said Lady Irene, as she took up her lamp; "the Damoiselle is obliged to the Lady Sybil."Had Sybil thought of my fancy? What a strange compound she was!—attending to one's insignificant likings, yet crushing one's very heart to dust!I did not sleep till very late, and I was aroused in the early morning by a flourish of trumpets, announcing that the grand day had dawned. I dressed myself, putting off my mourning for a suit of leaf-green baudekyn, for I knew that Guy would not be pleased if I wore any thing sombre, though it would have suited my feelings well enough. A golden under-tunic and kerchief, with my best coronet, were the remainder of my attire. I found Guy himself flashing in golden armour,[#] and wearing his beautiful embroidered surcoat, which Sybil herself wrought for him, with the arms of Lusignan.[#] This phrase was used of steel armour ornamented with gold.How could she bear to see that existing token of her own dead love? The surcoat had worn better than the heart.We took our appointed places—Lady Irene, Guy, and I,—and watched the nobles arrive,—now an odd one, now half-a-dozen together. The Patriarch of course left us, as he was to officiate.He told us last night that eighty out of every hundred felt no doubt at all that the Count of Tripoli would be the future King. (That Patriarch is the queerest mortal. It never seemed to enter his head that such information would not be highly entertaining to Guy and me.)Now was the time to discern our enemies from our friends. Those who did notice us risked Court favour. But Messire de Montluc came all the way from the choir to salute us; and I felt a throb of gratitude to him in my heart. The Count of Edessa was not able to see us, and Count Raymond—O serpent, demon that he is!—looked straight at us, as if he had never met us before.It was an additional pang, that the order of precedence placed Count Raymond the very next to Guy. I sincerely wished him at the other end of the nave, though it would have placed him close to the throne.And now the important persons began to arrive. Lady Judith, in the quiet brown habit of her Order, stopped and scanned the groups all round, till her eyes reached us, and then she gave us a full smile, so rich in love and peace, that my heart throbbed with sympathy, and yet ached with envy.Then came a lovely vision of rich rose and gleaming silver, which didnotlook for us, and I felt that was Lady Isabel. And then two sweet little fairy forms in blue and gold, and I saw Guy crush his under-lip as his eyes fell upon his children.Last came the Queen that was to be—a glorious ray of gold, four pages bearing her train, and her long fair hair, no less golden than her robes, streaming down them to her feet. She took her seat by Lady Isabel, on the velvet settle near the throne.Then the Patriarch came forward into the midst of the church, to a faldstool set there: and announced in loud tones, that all the nobles of the Council of Sybil, shortly to be crowned Queen of Jerusalem, should come forward in rotation to the faldstool, and swear between his hands[#] to bear true and faithful allegiance, as to his King, to that one of them all whom it should please her to choose for her lord.[#] Homage was always performed in this manner, the joined hands of the inferior, or oath-taker, being held between the hands of the superior lord, or person who administered the oath.One by one, they came forward: but I saw only two. Count Raymond knelt down with an air of triumphant command, as though he felt himself King already: Guy with an aspect of the most perfect quietness, as if he were thinking how he could spare Sybil.When all the nobles were sworn, the Patriarch went back to the choir, and Sybil, rising, came and stood just before the throne. The coronation ceremony followed, but I was not sufficiently at ease to enter into it. There were prayers in sonorous Greek, and incense, and the holy mass, and I cannot properly tell what else. The last item was the actual setting of the crown—the crown of all the world—on the head of Sybil of Anjou.And then came a gentle rush of intense expectation, as Sybil lifted the crown royal from her head, and prepared to descend the steps of the throne.Her choice was to be made now.Down the damask carpeting of the nave she came, very, very slowly: carrying the crown in both hands, the holy Patriarch following and swinging the holy censer behind her. Her eyes were cast down. It was evident that she knew perfectly well where he stood who was to wear that crown.Slowly, slowly, all along the nave. Past one eligible noble after another, face after face gathering blankness as she went. At last she turned, ever so little, to the right.I could bear no more. I covered my face with my mantle. Let who would gaze on me—let who would sneer! She was coming—no doubt any longer now—straight towards Count Raymond of Tripoli.And never—with the faint flush in her cheeks, and the sweet, downcast eyes—had I seen her look so beautiful. And all at once, athwart my anger, my indignation, my sense of bitter wrong, came one fervent gush of that old, deep love, which had been mine for Sybil: and I felt as though I could have laid down my life that hour to save, not Guy, but her, from the dreadful consequences of her own folly,—from that man who had crushed Guy's heart as he might have crushed a moth.Then came a dead hush, in which a butterfly's wing might almost have been heard to beat. Then, a low murmur, half assent, half dissent. Then, suddenly bursting forth, a cheer that went pealing to the roof, and died away in reverberations along the triforium. The choice was made.And then—I had not dared to look up—I heard Sybil's voice. She was close, close beside me."Sir Guy de Lusignan," she said, "I choose thee as my lord, and as Lord of the land of Jerusalem; for—" and a slight quiver came into the triumphant, ringing voice—"whom God hath joined together, let not man put asunder!"Then I looked up, and saw on my Guy's head the crown of the world, and in Sybil's dear eyes the tender, passionate love-light which she had locked out of them for months for love's own sake, and I knew her at last for the queen of women that she is.And then——I heard somebody speak my name, and felt Lady Irene's arms close round me, and darkness came upon me, and I knew no more.When I came to myself, I was lying in my own old chamber in the Palace, and beside me were old Marguerite fanning me with a handkerchief, and Lady Judith bending over me."Helena, darling,—all is well!" she said."Is all well?" I said, sadly, when I could speak. "It is well with Guy, and therefore all else matters little. But I wonder if I shall ever be forgiven?""By whom?" asked Lady Judith."God and Sybil," I answered in a low voice."Ask them both," she said softly. "Sybil is coming to thee, as soon as ever the banquet is over. And there is no need to wait to ask God.""Did you guess, holy Mother, how it would end?""No, Helena," she answered with a smile. "I knew.""All along?""Yes, from the first."I lay still and thought."Dost thou marvel why I did not tell thee, dear, and perhaps think it cruel? Ask Sybil why she made me her sole confidante. I think thou wilt be satisfied when thou hast heard her reason. But though I did not guess Sybil's purpose,—" and she turned with a smile to Marguerite,—"here, I fancy, is one who did.""Ay, very soon," said Margot quietly: "but not quite at first, Lady.""Thou wicked old Marguerite!" cried I. "And never to tell me!""Suppose I had been mistaken," she replied. "Would my Damoiselle have thanked me for telling her then?"I felt quite sufficiently restored to go down to the bower, though not able to bear the banquet. So Lady Judith and I went down. She told me all that had taken place after I fainted: how Messire de Montluc and Lady Irene had taken care of me; that the Patriarch had immediately bestowed the nuptial benediction upon Sybil and Guy, and had then anointed the King—(the King!)—that the Knights Templars had escorted the King and Queen to the banquet; and that after the banquet, homage was to be done by all the nobles. Guy and Sybil, therefore, were likely to be detained late.Suddenly something climbed up on the settle, and I felt myself seized round the neck, and tumultuously caressed."Tantine! Tantine!—Come—good! Baba and Tantine—bothcome. Good!—Oh, good!"Of course I knew who that was, and alternated between returning the warm kisses, and entreating Agnes not to murder me by suffocation.Then came a much calmer kiss on my brow, and I looked up at Eschine.And then strolled in Messire Amaury, with his hands in the pockets of his haut-de chausses, talking to Messire de Montluc."But the strangest thing, you know"—that sagacious youth was observing—"the strangest thing—O Elaine, is that thee!—the strangest thing is that a mere simple, ignorant woman could have formed and carried out such a project. Surely some man must have given her the idea! I can hardly—Oh,pure foy!"The last exclamation was due to a smart and sudden application of my right hand to the left ear of my respected brother. Messire de Montluc was convulsed with laughter."Well done, Damoiselle Elaine! You regard the honour of your sex.""The next time thou speakest contemptuously of women," said I, "look first whether any overhear thee.""Trust me, I will make sure of my sister Elaine," said Amaury, still rubbing his ear. "On my word, Lynette, thou art a spitfire!"One after another kept coming, and all expressing pleasure in seeing me. I could not help wondering whether all of them would have been quite so pleased to see Elaine de Lusignan, if she had not been the King's sister. Lady Judith and Eschine would, I believed. Nor do I think it would have made the least difference to Agnes. Considerations of that kind do not begin to affect us till we are over three years old.But time wore on, and Sybil was not released from her regal duties; and the strain which both body and mind had had to sustain told upon me, and I began to feel very tired. Lady Judith noticed it."Dear Helena," she said, "do put that white face to bed. Sybil will come to thee.""I have no right to ask it of her," I said huskily."Dost thou think she will wait till thou hast?"I was beginning to remonstrate that it would not be respectful, when Lady Judith put her arm round me, and said laughingly—"Sir Amaury, help me to carry this wilful child to bed.""Fair Mother, I dare not for all the gold in Palestine," said my slanderous brother. "My ear has not done stinging yet.""Am I wilful?" said I. "Well, then I will do as I am told.—As to thee, Amaury, thou hast just thy desert.""Then I am a very ill-deserving man," responded he.Lady Judith and Eschine both came with me to my chamber, and the latter helped me to undress. I had but just doffed my super-tunic, however, when a slight sound made me turn round towards the door, and I saw Sybil,—Sybil, still in her coronation robes, coming towards me with both hands held out, as she had done that last sad time we met. I threw myself on the ground before her, and tried to kiss the hem of her golden robe. But she would not let me."No, no, my darling, no!"And she stooped and drew me into her arms, and kissed me as if we had never disagreed,—as if I had never uttered one of those bitter words which it now made my cheeks burn even to remember.I could only sob out,—"Forgive me!""Dear little sister, forgive thee for loving Guy?""No, no!" I said, "but for not loving—for misunderstanding, and slandering, and tormenting thee!""Nay, dearest Helena!" she said, at once tenderly and playfully,—"Thou didst not slander me. It was that other Sybil with whom thou wert so angry,—the Sybil who was not true to her lord, and was about to forsake him. And I am sure she deserved every word. But that was not I, Helena.""But how my words must have tortured thee!""Not in one light, dear. It was a rich ray of hope and comfort, to know, through all my pain, how true the dear little sister was to Guy,—what a comfort she was likely to be to him,—that whoever forsook him, his Lynette would never do it. Now finish thine undressing. There is one other thing I want to say to thee, but let me see thee lying at rest first."She sat down on the settle, just as she was, while Bertrade finished undressing me. Then they all said "Good night," and left me alone with Sybil."Helena, darling!" she said, as she sat beside me, my hand clasped in hers,—"this one thing I wish thee to know. I could not spare thee this pain. If the faintest idea of my project had ever occurred to Count Raymond,—though it had been but the shadow of a shade,—it would have been fatal. Had he guessed it, I could never have carried it out.[#] And he has eyes like a lynx, and ears like a hare. And, little sister,—thy face talks! Thou couldst not, try as thou wouldst, have kept that knowledge out of thine eyes. And the Count would have read it there, with as little trouble as thou wouldst see a picture. The only chance, therefore, to preserve my crown for my lord, and him for me, was to leave him and thee in ignorance. Trust me, it cost me more than it did you!"[#] The extraordinary item of this series of incidents (which are historical) is, that Count Raymond did not guess it.Ah! had she not said that once before,—"Trust me!" And I had not trusted her. Yet how well she deserved it!I hardly know what I sobbed out. I only know that I was fully and undeservedly forgiven, that I was loved through all my mistrust and unworthiness and cruel anger,—and that Sybil knew how I loved her.Then she left me to rest.But as I lay there in the darkness, a thought came to me, which seemed to light up the dark wilderness of my life,—as though a lamp had been suddenly flashed into a hidden chamber.What if it be just so with God?And it seemed to me as if He stood there, at the summit of that ladder which Monseigneur Saint Jacob was permitted to behold: and He looked down on me, with a look tenderer and sweeter even than Sybil's; and He held forth His hands to me, as she had done, but in these there were the prints of the cruel nails,—and He said—"Elaine, I could not spare thee this pain. If I had done, in the end it would have been worse for thee. Look upon My hands and My feet, and see if I spared Myself, and, remembering that this was for thy sake, say whether, if it had been possible, I would not have spared thee!"I cannot tell whether I was dreaming or awake. But I crept to the foot of the ladder, and I said to Him who stood above it—"Fair Father, Jesu Christ, I put myself in Thy mercy.[#] I see now that I was foolish and ignorant. It was not that Thou wert cruel. It was not that Thou didst not care. Thou dost care. At every pang that rent my heart, Thine heart was touched too. Forgive me, for Sybil has done, and I have sinned more against Thee than against her. Teach me in future to give up my will, and to wish only to do Thine."[#] A rebel, who returned to his allegiance unconditionally, was said to "put himself in the King's mercy."I am afraid it was a very poor prayer. There was no Angelus nor Confiteor—not even an Ave in it. Yet was it all a dream, that a voice said to me, "Thy sins are forgiven thee: go in peace"? And I sank into dreamless sleep the next instant.It is all settled now. Next week, I shall be professed of Lady Judith's Order,—an Order which will just suit my wants, since the nuns have no abbess over them, are bound only by terminable vows, and (with assent of the community) may dwell where they think fit, even in their own homes if need be.Lady Judith thinks that she can easily obtain leave for me to dwell with Monseigneur, as she will kindly represent it to the Order that he is now an old man, and has no wife nor unmarried daughter to care for him but me.I think he is my first duty now. And I know he will be so glad, so glad!It will be hard to part with Guy and Sybil. But I think that is where the Lord is leading me,—home to Lusignan; and I do wish to follow His leading, not my own.Old Marguerite startled me very much last night."Damoiselle," she said, "the cross is shining out at last.""Where, Margot?" said I, rather puzzled."Where I have so longed to see it," she said, "on my darling's brow. Ah, the good God has not brought her through the fire for nothing! Where there used to be pride and mirth in her eyes, there is peace. He will let His old servant depart now, for it was all she had to live for."But I can never, never do without her! Oh, I do hope the good God will not take dear old Marguerite. Why, I am only just beginning to understand and value her. But I think I am learning, very slowly,—Oh, I am so slow and stupid!—that real happiness lies not in having my way, but in being satisfied with His,—not in trying to make myself happy, but in trying to please Him. I am constantly fancying that I have so learned this lesson that I shall never forget it again. And then, within an hour, I find myself acting as though I had never heard of it.And I see, too, what I never understood before.—that it is only by taking our Lord's yoke upon us, and becoming meek and lowly in heart, that we can find rest to our souls. Eschine's deep humility is the source of her calm endurance. Pride is not peace; it is its antidote. In Christ we have peace,—first through the purchase of His blood, and secondly, in growing like Him, which is, to grow in love and lowliness, and to lose ourselves in Him.I think I never before saw the loveliness of humility. And I am sure I never saw the fair beauty of Eschine's character and life. Oh, how far she rises above me! And to think that I once looked down upon her—dismissed her with a careless word of scorn, as having "nothing in her"—when the truth was that I was too low down to see her in reality.Oh, how much the good God has had, and will have, to forgive and bear with me!I am now only just beginning to understand Him. But that is a lesson which I may go on learning and enjoying for ever. And how happy it will be, if we all gather together in His halls above,—Guy, and Sybil, and me, and old Marguerite, and Lady Judith, and Monseigneur, and Eschine, and the little children, and all,—never again to hear Paynim cry nor woman's wail,—safe for ever, in the banquet-hall of God.At home again at last!How strangely glad they all seem to see me! I do not think I ever knew how they all loved me. I have lived for myself, and a little for Guy. Now, with His grace, I fain would live for God, and in Him for every one.We sat round the centre fire last night in the old hall,—I close to Monseigneur, with his hand upon my shoulder, now and then removed to stroke my hair—and we had all so much to say that it made us very silent. It was Alix who spoke first."Elaine," she said, "I want to give a name to my baby girl that shall mean 'truth' or 'fidelity.' And I do not like any of the French names that have those meanings; they are not pretty. Tell me the words for them in the tongue of the Holy Land."I did not answer that the Court language of Jerusalem was the Langue d'Oc, and that Alix would be no better off for knowing. A rush of feeling came over me, and I let it dictate my reply. And that was only—"Sybil."HISTORICAL APPENDIX.I. GUY DE LUSIGNANThe history of Guy and Sybil, after the story leaves them, is a sad one. Raymond Count of Tripoli, who had fancied himself sure of the crown matrimonial, never forgave either. He immediately entered into a secret alliance with Saladin, by which he promised to betray Guy into his hands in the next battle. On the fourth of July, 1187, Tripoli, who was standard-bearer, so behaved himself in battle that the King was taken prisoner. Sybil, in conjunction with the Patriarch Heraclius, held Jerusalem until the second of October, when she gave up the city to Saladin on terms including liberty of ransom to all who could afford it. The Queen now retired to Ascalon, within whose fortified walls she and her little daughters remained until 1189, when Guy's ransom was effected on the hard terms that Sybil should capitulate at Ascalon, that Guy should abdicate, and that he should go beyond sea. Guy, who had been kept in chains a whole year at Damascus, consulted the clergy as to the necessity of keeping faith with Saladin. They were all of the Roman, but unscriptural opinion, that no faith need be kept with a Paynim. Instead of abdicating and going abroad, Guy, with Sybil and the children, marched to Acre, which he invested, with a hundred thousand men who had flocked to his standard. The Queen and Princesses were lodged at Turon, looking towards the sea. In 1190 King Philippe of France arrived before Acre, and on June 10, 1191, King Richard Cœur-de-Lion; and at last, on July 12, Saladin gave up the city to the allied forces. But the pestilence had been very rife during the siege. Baldwin Archbishop of Canterbury, and numbers of French and English nobles, died in the camp: and among others the hero-Queen, Sybil of Anjou, and her two fragile children.Raymond of Tripoli was dead also. He died in his sleep, unabsolved; and evidence of his having formally apostatized to Mahometanism was found after his death.After thus taking "last leave of all he loved," Guy—brave, rash, impetuous Guy—appears to have become almost reckless. Of course, by right, Sybil was succeeded by her sister Isabel; but Guy still clung to his title of King, and the privileges appurtenant to it, and disputed with Conrado of Monferrato, the husband of Isabel, the right to the customs of the port of Acre. Conrado was an extremely quarrelsome man, and Guy's opposition seems to have been personally directed to him; for on his death (which of course Guy and Cœur-de-Lion were accused of forwarding) Guy readily acknowledged Isabel and her third husband, on condition of receiving the island of Cyprus as compensation for all his claims. King Richard had sold Cyprus to the Templars, but he coolly took it from them, and gave it to Guy, who, being apparently more honest of the two, paid a hundred thousand crowns to the Templars as compensation. This is the last that we hear of Guy de Lusignan, except the mere date of his death, which occurred, according to different authorities, from one to four years after the cession of Cyprus.Few historical characters have had less justice done them by modern writers, than Guy de Lusignan and Sybil his wife. In the first place, Guy is accused of having, in 1167-8, assassinated Patrick Earl of Salisbury, in returning from a pilgrimage to Saint Iago de Compostella. King Henry II., we are told, was greatly enraged, and banished Guy from Poitou, whereupon he assumed the cross, and set out for the Holy Land. Now the truth is that in 1167-8, it is scarcely possible that Guy could be above ten years old. Either it was another Guy de Lusignan, or the outrage was committed by persons of whom the child Guy was the nominal head. But all the circumstances tend to show that Guy's arrival in the Holy Land was little, if at all, before 1180, and that at that time he was a very young man.We next find Guy accused of such boundless ambition, that he not only induced King Baldwin IV. to put all the affairs of the kingdom into his hands, but even to promise him the succession after his death. But when Baldwin had bestowed upon Guy his sister and heir presumptive, Sybil, how could he either promise him the succession or lawfully deprive him of it? The reversion of the crown was hers. Baldwin did her a cruel injustice, and committed an illegal act, when he passed her over, and abdicated in favour of her infant son.Then, on the death of Baldwin V., we are actually told that Sybil, urged by her ambitious husband,usurpedthe crown. Usurped it from whom? Surely not from her own daughters!—surely not from her younger sister! Matthew of Westminster distinctly remarks that "there was none to succeed but his mother Sybilla." Sybil merely took back her own property, of which she had been unjustly deprived.Again, with respect to her action at her coronation, poor Sybil comes in again for her share of blame. She had no business, we are assured, to choose Guy, who had already proved himself an unsatisfactory governor; and in the interest of the kingdom, she ought to have married some one else. In other words, she ought to have committed sin in the interest of her subjects!Lastly, a wholesale charge of poisoning is brought against both Guy and Sybil. Probabilities are thrown overboard. They are accused of poisoning young Baldwin V.; and Guy is charged with the murder of his wife and children, though their death entirely destroyed his claim to the royal title. The truth is, that in the twelfth century, any death not easily to be accounted for was always set down to poison: and the nearest relatives, totally irrespective of character, were always suspected of having administered it. Men of Guy's disposition,—impulsive, rash, and generous even to a fault, loving and self-sacrificing,—are not usually in the habit of murdering those they love best: and considered merely from a political point of view, the simultaneous deaths of Sybil and her children were the worst calamities which could have fallen upon Guy.II. THE ROYAL FAMILY OF JERUSALEM.Melisende, Queen of Jerusalem, eldest of the four daughters of Baldwin II., and Morsise of Armenia,succeededher father in 1131, anddied in1141 or 1144. Shemarried—Foulques V., Count of Anjou;married1128;diedat Acre, by accident, November, 1142. [He had previously been married to Ermengarde of Maine, by whom he had four children,—Geoffrey Plantagenet; Hélie Count of Maine; Sybil, Countess of Flanders; and Alice, Crown Princess of England.]Issue of Queen Melisende:—
The coronation is fixed for Holy Cross Day. And Lady Sybil has undertaken, as soon as she is crowned, to select her future husband. One condition she has insisted on herself. Every noble, on the coronation day, is to take a solemn oath that he will be satisfied with and abide by her decision, and will serve the King of her choice for ever. This seems to me a very wise and politic move, as it will prevent any future disputes. Every body appears to have no doubt on whom her choice will fall. All expect the Count of Tripoli.
Guy has requested permission to retire to Ascalon; and she has accorded it, but with the express stipulation that he is to be in his place, with the rest of her peers, at the coronation. It does seem to me a piece of needless cruelty. Surely she might have spared him this!
I also have asked permission to retire from Court. Of course I go with Guy. Whoever forsakes him, the little sister shall be true.
For about the first time in my life, I am thoroughly pleased with Amaury. He is nearly as angry as I am—which is saying a great deal. And he is the only person in whose presence I dare relieve my feelings by saying what I think of Sybil, for Guy will not hear a word.
Eschine has the most extraordinary idea. She thinks that Sybil's heart is true, and that only her head is wrong. It is all nonsense! Heart and head go together.
The worst item of the agony is over—the divorce.
The ceremony was short enough. A speech—from Count Raymond—stating to the public the necessities of the case; a declaration from both parties that they acted of their own free will; a solemn sentence from the holy Patriarch:—and all was over, and Guy and Sybil were both free to wed again.
I did think Sybil would have fainted before she could get through the few words she had to speak. But Guy was as calm and quiet as if he were making some knightly speech. I cannot understand him. It seems so unnatural for Guy.
I expressed some surprise afterwards.
"O Lynette! how could I make it harder for her!"
That was his answer. It was all for her. He seems to think himself not worth considering.
We leave for Ascalon very early to-morrow; and as this was my last night, I went to Lady Judith's cell to say farewell to her. On my way I met Count Raymond, returning from an audience of Lady Sybil, with triumph flashing in his eyes as he met mine. He evidently agrees with the multitude that he has a good chance of the crown. My heart swelled against him, but I managed to return his bow with courtesy, and passing on, tapped at Lady Judith's door.
"Helena, dear child!—Come in," she said.
"I am come to bid you good-bye, holy Mother."
Lady Judith silently motioned me to a seat on her bed, and sat down beside me.
"Is it quite as dark, my child?"
"Yes, quite!" I said, sighing.
"Poor child! I would give much to be able to comfort thee. But, please God, thou wilt be comforted one day."
"The day seems a long way off, holy Mother."
"It seemed a long way off, dear, to the holy Jacob, the very day before the waggons arrived to carry him down to his son Joseph. Yet it was very near, Helena."
I listened with respect, of course: but I could not see what that had to do with me. The waggons were not coming for me—that one thing was certain.
"Wilt thou be here for the coronation, my child?"
"I shall be where Guy is," I said shortly. "But—O holy Mother, she might have spared him that!"
Lady Judith's look was very pitiful. Yet she said—
"Perhaps not, my child."
Why, of course she might, if she would. What was to hinder her? But I did not say so, for it would have been discourteous.
Even between me and my dear old Lady Judith there seemed a miserable constraint. Was it any marvel? I rose to go. Almost noiselessly the door opened, and before I could exclaim or escape, Sybil stood before me.
"And wert thou going without any farewell—me,—little sister, Helena?"
I stood up, frozen into stone.
"I ask your Grace's pardon. We are not sistersnow."
She turned aside, and covered her face with her hands.
"O Lynette! thou makest it so hard, so hard!"
"So hard?" said I coldly. "I hope I do. If your heart had not been harder than the nether millstone, Lady Sybil, you would never, never have required our presence at your coronation. God give you what you deserve!"
"That is a terrible prayer, in general," she said, turning and meeting my eyes. "And yet, Lynette, in this one thing, I dare to echo it. Ay, God render unto me what I deserve!"
How could she? Oh, how could she?
Lady Judith kissed me, and I went away. I believe Sybil would have kissed me too, but I would not have it from her.
It was easy, after that, to say farewell to the rest.
"I wish I were going too!" growled Amaury.
Then why does he not? He might if he chose. Just like Amaury!
"Farewell, dear," said Eschine. "I shall miss thee, Elaine."
—And nobody else. Yes, I know that.
So we go forth. Driven out of our Paradise, like Adam and Eva. But the flaming sword is held by no angel of God.
I always thought it such a dreadful thing, that our first parents should be driven out of Paradise. Why could not God have let them stay? It was not as if He had wanted it for the angels. If He had meant to use it for any thing, it would be on the earth now.
I cannot understand! Oh, why, why,whyare all these terrible things?
"I cannot understand either," says old Marguerite. "But I can trust the good God, and I can wait till He tells me. I am happier than my Damoiselle,—always wanting to know."
Well, I see that I marvel if there is any maiden upon earth much more miserable than I am. Last night, only, I caught myself wishing—honestly wishing—that I could change with Marguerite, old and poor as she is. It must be such a comfort to think of God as she does. It seems to answer for every thing.
The sultry quiet here is something almost unendurable to me. There is nothing in the world to see or hear but the water-carriers crying "The gift of God!" and strings of camels passing through the gateway, and women washing or grinding corn in the courts. And there is nothing to do but wait and bear, and prepare, after a rather sluggish fashion, for our return home when the coronation is over. Here, again, old Marguerite is better off than I am, for she has constantly things which she must do.
I do not think it likely that Amaury will come with us. Things never take hold of him long. If he be furiously exasperated on Monday, he is calmly disgusted on Tuesday, supremely content on Wednesday, and by Thursday has forgotten that he was ever otherwise. And he seems disposed to make his home here.
To me, it looks as though my life divided itself naturally into two portions, and the four years I have passed here were the larger half of it. I seem to have been a woman only since I came here.
Three months to wait!—and all the time we are waiting for a dreadful ordeal, which we know must come. Why does Lady Sybil give us this suffering? And far more, why, why does the good God give it to us?
If I could only understand, I could bear it better.
"Ha!" says Marguerite, with a rather pitying smile. "If my Damoiselle could but know every thing, she would be content not to know more!"
Well! I suppose I am unreasonable. Yet it will be such a relief when the worst is over. But how can I wish the worst to come?
CHAPTER XIV.
SYBIL'S CHOICE.
"'Gifts!' cried the friend. He took: and, holding itHigh towards the heavens, as though to meet his star,Exclaimed,—'This, too, I owe to thee, Giafàr!'"LEIGH HUNT.
"'Gifts!' cried the friend. He took: and, holding itHigh towards the heavens, as though to meet his star,Exclaimed,—'This, too, I owe to thee, Giafàr!'"LEIGH HUNT.
"'Gifts!' cried the friend. He took: and, holding it
High towards the heavens, as though to meet his star,
Exclaimed,—'This, too, I owe to thee, Giafàr!'"
LEIGH HUNT.
LEIGH HUNT.
It came at last—neither sooner for my dreading it, nor later for my wishing it—Holy Cross Day, the coronation morning.
Guy and I reached the Holy City the night before, and took up our quarters with the holy Patriarch and his Lady Irene. We were just opposite the Palace. We could see lights flashing through the loop-holes, and now and then a shadow pass behind them. It was hard to know that that house held all that we loved, and we were the only ones that dared not enter it.
The Patriarch was most disagreeably loquacious. He told us every thing. He might have been cooking the banquet and broidering the robes, for all the minute details he seemed to know. The Queen, he told us, was to be arrayed in golden baudekyn, and the Lady Isabel in rose and silver. Both the Princesses would be present, attired in gold and blue. Poor little Agnes and Helena! How little they would understand of their mother's actions!
As little, perhaps, as any of us could understand of God's dealings in this matter!
The officers of state were to surround the throne, which was to be placed on the highest step of the choir; the nobles of the Council were to stand, in order according to the date of their creation, round the nave below.
Lady Irene was as silent as her lord was talkative. But at night, when she brought me up to the chamber she had prepared for me, she told me the one thing I did care to know. A place had been specially reserved for me, in the nave, immediately behind Guy; and the Lady Irene's own place was next to me.
"I am obliged to the Master of the Ceremonies," said I: for that was just where I wished to be.
"Nay," quietly said Lady Irene, as she took up her lamp; "the Damoiselle is obliged to the Lady Sybil."
Had Sybil thought of my fancy? What a strange compound she was!—attending to one's insignificant likings, yet crushing one's very heart to dust!
I did not sleep till very late, and I was aroused in the early morning by a flourish of trumpets, announcing that the grand day had dawned. I dressed myself, putting off my mourning for a suit of leaf-green baudekyn, for I knew that Guy would not be pleased if I wore any thing sombre, though it would have suited my feelings well enough. A golden under-tunic and kerchief, with my best coronet, were the remainder of my attire. I found Guy himself flashing in golden armour,[#] and wearing his beautiful embroidered surcoat, which Sybil herself wrought for him, with the arms of Lusignan.
[#] This phrase was used of steel armour ornamented with gold.
How could she bear to see that existing token of her own dead love? The surcoat had worn better than the heart.
We took our appointed places—Lady Irene, Guy, and I,—and watched the nobles arrive,—now an odd one, now half-a-dozen together. The Patriarch of course left us, as he was to officiate.
He told us last night that eighty out of every hundred felt no doubt at all that the Count of Tripoli would be the future King. (That Patriarch is the queerest mortal. It never seemed to enter his head that such information would not be highly entertaining to Guy and me.)
Now was the time to discern our enemies from our friends. Those who did notice us risked Court favour. But Messire de Montluc came all the way from the choir to salute us; and I felt a throb of gratitude to him in my heart. The Count of Edessa was not able to see us, and Count Raymond—O serpent, demon that he is!—looked straight at us, as if he had never met us before.
It was an additional pang, that the order of precedence placed Count Raymond the very next to Guy. I sincerely wished him at the other end of the nave, though it would have placed him close to the throne.
And now the important persons began to arrive. Lady Judith, in the quiet brown habit of her Order, stopped and scanned the groups all round, till her eyes reached us, and then she gave us a full smile, so rich in love and peace, that my heart throbbed with sympathy, and yet ached with envy.
Then came a lovely vision of rich rose and gleaming silver, which didnotlook for us, and I felt that was Lady Isabel. And then two sweet little fairy forms in blue and gold, and I saw Guy crush his under-lip as his eyes fell upon his children.
Last came the Queen that was to be—a glorious ray of gold, four pages bearing her train, and her long fair hair, no less golden than her robes, streaming down them to her feet. She took her seat by Lady Isabel, on the velvet settle near the throne.
Then the Patriarch came forward into the midst of the church, to a faldstool set there: and announced in loud tones, that all the nobles of the Council of Sybil, shortly to be crowned Queen of Jerusalem, should come forward in rotation to the faldstool, and swear between his hands[#] to bear true and faithful allegiance, as to his King, to that one of them all whom it should please her to choose for her lord.
[#] Homage was always performed in this manner, the joined hands of the inferior, or oath-taker, being held between the hands of the superior lord, or person who administered the oath.
One by one, they came forward: but I saw only two. Count Raymond knelt down with an air of triumphant command, as though he felt himself King already: Guy with an aspect of the most perfect quietness, as if he were thinking how he could spare Sybil.
When all the nobles were sworn, the Patriarch went back to the choir, and Sybil, rising, came and stood just before the throne. The coronation ceremony followed, but I was not sufficiently at ease to enter into it. There were prayers in sonorous Greek, and incense, and the holy mass, and I cannot properly tell what else. The last item was the actual setting of the crown—the crown of all the world—on the head of Sybil of Anjou.
And then came a gentle rush of intense expectation, as Sybil lifted the crown royal from her head, and prepared to descend the steps of the throne.
Her choice was to be made now.
Down the damask carpeting of the nave she came, very, very slowly: carrying the crown in both hands, the holy Patriarch following and swinging the holy censer behind her. Her eyes were cast down. It was evident that she knew perfectly well where he stood who was to wear that crown.
Slowly, slowly, all along the nave. Past one eligible noble after another, face after face gathering blankness as she went. At last she turned, ever so little, to the right.
I could bear no more. I covered my face with my mantle. Let who would gaze on me—let who would sneer! She was coming—no doubt any longer now—straight towards Count Raymond of Tripoli.
And never—with the faint flush in her cheeks, and the sweet, downcast eyes—had I seen her look so beautiful. And all at once, athwart my anger, my indignation, my sense of bitter wrong, came one fervent gush of that old, deep love, which had been mine for Sybil: and I felt as though I could have laid down my life that hour to save, not Guy, but her, from the dreadful consequences of her own folly,—from that man who had crushed Guy's heart as he might have crushed a moth.
Then came a dead hush, in which a butterfly's wing might almost have been heard to beat. Then, a low murmur, half assent, half dissent. Then, suddenly bursting forth, a cheer that went pealing to the roof, and died away in reverberations along the triforium. The choice was made.
And then—I had not dared to look up—I heard Sybil's voice. She was close, close beside me.
"Sir Guy de Lusignan," she said, "I choose thee as my lord, and as Lord of the land of Jerusalem; for—" and a slight quiver came into the triumphant, ringing voice—"whom God hath joined together, let not man put asunder!"
Then I looked up, and saw on my Guy's head the crown of the world, and in Sybil's dear eyes the tender, passionate love-light which she had locked out of them for months for love's own sake, and I knew her at last for the queen of women that she is.
And then——I heard somebody speak my name, and felt Lady Irene's arms close round me, and darkness came upon me, and I knew no more.
When I came to myself, I was lying in my own old chamber in the Palace, and beside me were old Marguerite fanning me with a handkerchief, and Lady Judith bending over me.
"Helena, darling,—all is well!" she said.
"Is all well?" I said, sadly, when I could speak. "It is well with Guy, and therefore all else matters little. But I wonder if I shall ever be forgiven?"
"By whom?" asked Lady Judith.
"God and Sybil," I answered in a low voice.
"Ask them both," she said softly. "Sybil is coming to thee, as soon as ever the banquet is over. And there is no need to wait to ask God."
"Did you guess, holy Mother, how it would end?"
"No, Helena," she answered with a smile. "I knew."
"All along?"
"Yes, from the first."
I lay still and thought.
"Dost thou marvel why I did not tell thee, dear, and perhaps think it cruel? Ask Sybil why she made me her sole confidante. I think thou wilt be satisfied when thou hast heard her reason. But though I did not guess Sybil's purpose,—" and she turned with a smile to Marguerite,—"here, I fancy, is one who did."
"Ay, very soon," said Margot quietly: "but not quite at first, Lady."
"Thou wicked old Marguerite!" cried I. "And never to tell me!"
"Suppose I had been mistaken," she replied. "Would my Damoiselle have thanked me for telling her then?"
I felt quite sufficiently restored to go down to the bower, though not able to bear the banquet. So Lady Judith and I went down. She told me all that had taken place after I fainted: how Messire de Montluc and Lady Irene had taken care of me; that the Patriarch had immediately bestowed the nuptial benediction upon Sybil and Guy, and had then anointed the King—(the King!)—that the Knights Templars had escorted the King and Queen to the banquet; and that after the banquet, homage was to be done by all the nobles. Guy and Sybil, therefore, were likely to be detained late.
Suddenly something climbed up on the settle, and I felt myself seized round the neck, and tumultuously caressed.
"Tantine! Tantine!—Come—good! Baba and Tantine—bothcome. Good!—Oh, good!"
Of course I knew who that was, and alternated between returning the warm kisses, and entreating Agnes not to murder me by suffocation.
Then came a much calmer kiss on my brow, and I looked up at Eschine.
And then strolled in Messire Amaury, with his hands in the pockets of his haut-de chausses, talking to Messire de Montluc.
"But the strangest thing, you know"—that sagacious youth was observing—"the strangest thing—O Elaine, is that thee!—the strangest thing is that a mere simple, ignorant woman could have formed and carried out such a project. Surely some man must have given her the idea! I can hardly—Oh,pure foy!"
The last exclamation was due to a smart and sudden application of my right hand to the left ear of my respected brother. Messire de Montluc was convulsed with laughter.
"Well done, Damoiselle Elaine! You regard the honour of your sex."
"The next time thou speakest contemptuously of women," said I, "look first whether any overhear thee."
"Trust me, I will make sure of my sister Elaine," said Amaury, still rubbing his ear. "On my word, Lynette, thou art a spitfire!"
One after another kept coming, and all expressing pleasure in seeing me. I could not help wondering whether all of them would have been quite so pleased to see Elaine de Lusignan, if she had not been the King's sister. Lady Judith and Eschine would, I believed. Nor do I think it would have made the least difference to Agnes. Considerations of that kind do not begin to affect us till we are over three years old.
But time wore on, and Sybil was not released from her regal duties; and the strain which both body and mind had had to sustain told upon me, and I began to feel very tired. Lady Judith noticed it.
"Dear Helena," she said, "do put that white face to bed. Sybil will come to thee."
"I have no right to ask it of her," I said huskily.
"Dost thou think she will wait till thou hast?"
I was beginning to remonstrate that it would not be respectful, when Lady Judith put her arm round me, and said laughingly—"Sir Amaury, help me to carry this wilful child to bed."
"Fair Mother, I dare not for all the gold in Palestine," said my slanderous brother. "My ear has not done stinging yet."
"Am I wilful?" said I. "Well, then I will do as I am told.—As to thee, Amaury, thou hast just thy desert."
"Then I am a very ill-deserving man," responded he.
Lady Judith and Eschine both came with me to my chamber, and the latter helped me to undress. I had but just doffed my super-tunic, however, when a slight sound made me turn round towards the door, and I saw Sybil,—Sybil, still in her coronation robes, coming towards me with both hands held out, as she had done that last sad time we met. I threw myself on the ground before her, and tried to kiss the hem of her golden robe. But she would not let me.
"No, no, my darling, no!"
And she stooped and drew me into her arms, and kissed me as if we had never disagreed,—as if I had never uttered one of those bitter words which it now made my cheeks burn even to remember.
I could only sob out,—"Forgive me!"
"Dear little sister, forgive thee for loving Guy?"
"No, no!" I said, "but for not loving—for misunderstanding, and slandering, and tormenting thee!"
"Nay, dearest Helena!" she said, at once tenderly and playfully,—"Thou didst not slander me. It was that other Sybil with whom thou wert so angry,—the Sybil who was not true to her lord, and was about to forsake him. And I am sure she deserved every word. But that was not I, Helena."
"But how my words must have tortured thee!"
"Not in one light, dear. It was a rich ray of hope and comfort, to know, through all my pain, how true the dear little sister was to Guy,—what a comfort she was likely to be to him,—that whoever forsook him, his Lynette would never do it. Now finish thine undressing. There is one other thing I want to say to thee, but let me see thee lying at rest first."
She sat down on the settle, just as she was, while Bertrade finished undressing me. Then they all said "Good night," and left me alone with Sybil.
"Helena, darling!" she said, as she sat beside me, my hand clasped in hers,—"this one thing I wish thee to know. I could not spare thee this pain. If the faintest idea of my project had ever occurred to Count Raymond,—though it had been but the shadow of a shade,—it would have been fatal. Had he guessed it, I could never have carried it out.[#] And he has eyes like a lynx, and ears like a hare. And, little sister,—thy face talks! Thou couldst not, try as thou wouldst, have kept that knowledge out of thine eyes. And the Count would have read it there, with as little trouble as thou wouldst see a picture. The only chance, therefore, to preserve my crown for my lord, and him for me, was to leave him and thee in ignorance. Trust me, it cost me more than it did you!"
[#] The extraordinary item of this series of incidents (which are historical) is, that Count Raymond did not guess it.
Ah! had she not said that once before,—"Trust me!" And I had not trusted her. Yet how well she deserved it!
I hardly know what I sobbed out. I only know that I was fully and undeservedly forgiven, that I was loved through all my mistrust and unworthiness and cruel anger,—and that Sybil knew how I loved her.
Then she left me to rest.
But as I lay there in the darkness, a thought came to me, which seemed to light up the dark wilderness of my life,—as though a lamp had been suddenly flashed into a hidden chamber.
What if it be just so with God?
And it seemed to me as if He stood there, at the summit of that ladder which Monseigneur Saint Jacob was permitted to behold: and He looked down on me, with a look tenderer and sweeter even than Sybil's; and He held forth His hands to me, as she had done, but in these there were the prints of the cruel nails,—and He said—
"Elaine, I could not spare thee this pain. If I had done, in the end it would have been worse for thee. Look upon My hands and My feet, and see if I spared Myself, and, remembering that this was for thy sake, say whether, if it had been possible, I would not have spared thee!"
I cannot tell whether I was dreaming or awake. But I crept to the foot of the ladder, and I said to Him who stood above it—
"Fair Father, Jesu Christ, I put myself in Thy mercy.[#] I see now that I was foolish and ignorant. It was not that Thou wert cruel. It was not that Thou didst not care. Thou dost care. At every pang that rent my heart, Thine heart was touched too. Forgive me, for Sybil has done, and I have sinned more against Thee than against her. Teach me in future to give up my will, and to wish only to do Thine."
[#] A rebel, who returned to his allegiance unconditionally, was said to "put himself in the King's mercy."
I am afraid it was a very poor prayer. There was no Angelus nor Confiteor—not even an Ave in it. Yet was it all a dream, that a voice said to me, "Thy sins are forgiven thee: go in peace"? And I sank into dreamless sleep the next instant.
It is all settled now. Next week, I shall be professed of Lady Judith's Order,—an Order which will just suit my wants, since the nuns have no abbess over them, are bound only by terminable vows, and (with assent of the community) may dwell where they think fit, even in their own homes if need be.
Lady Judith thinks that she can easily obtain leave for me to dwell with Monseigneur, as she will kindly represent it to the Order that he is now an old man, and has no wife nor unmarried daughter to care for him but me.
I think he is my first duty now. And I know he will be so glad, so glad!
It will be hard to part with Guy and Sybil. But I think that is where the Lord is leading me,—home to Lusignan; and I do wish to follow His leading, not my own.
Old Marguerite startled me very much last night.
"Damoiselle," she said, "the cross is shining out at last."
"Where, Margot?" said I, rather puzzled.
"Where I have so longed to see it," she said, "on my darling's brow. Ah, the good God has not brought her through the fire for nothing! Where there used to be pride and mirth in her eyes, there is peace. He will let His old servant depart now, for it was all she had to live for."
But I can never, never do without her! Oh, I do hope the good God will not take dear old Marguerite. Why, I am only just beginning to understand and value her. But I think I am learning, very slowly,—Oh, I am so slow and stupid!—that real happiness lies not in having my way, but in being satisfied with His,—not in trying to make myself happy, but in trying to please Him. I am constantly fancying that I have so learned this lesson that I shall never forget it again. And then, within an hour, I find myself acting as though I had never heard of it.
And I see, too, what I never understood before.—that it is only by taking our Lord's yoke upon us, and becoming meek and lowly in heart, that we can find rest to our souls. Eschine's deep humility is the source of her calm endurance. Pride is not peace; it is its antidote. In Christ we have peace,—first through the purchase of His blood, and secondly, in growing like Him, which is, to grow in love and lowliness, and to lose ourselves in Him.
I think I never before saw the loveliness of humility. And I am sure I never saw the fair beauty of Eschine's character and life. Oh, how far she rises above me! And to think that I once looked down upon her—dismissed her with a careless word of scorn, as having "nothing in her"—when the truth was that I was too low down to see her in reality.
Oh, how much the good God has had, and will have, to forgive and bear with me!
I am now only just beginning to understand Him. But that is a lesson which I may go on learning and enjoying for ever. And how happy it will be, if we all gather together in His halls above,—Guy, and Sybil, and me, and old Marguerite, and Lady Judith, and Monseigneur, and Eschine, and the little children, and all,—never again to hear Paynim cry nor woman's wail,—safe for ever, in the banquet-hall of God.
At home again at last!
How strangely glad they all seem to see me! I do not think I ever knew how they all loved me. I have lived for myself, and a little for Guy. Now, with His grace, I fain would live for God, and in Him for every one.
We sat round the centre fire last night in the old hall,—I close to Monseigneur, with his hand upon my shoulder, now and then removed to stroke my hair—and we had all so much to say that it made us very silent. It was Alix who spoke first.
"Elaine," she said, "I want to give a name to my baby girl that shall mean 'truth' or 'fidelity.' And I do not like any of the French names that have those meanings; they are not pretty. Tell me the words for them in the tongue of the Holy Land."
I did not answer that the Court language of Jerusalem was the Langue d'Oc, and that Alix would be no better off for knowing. A rush of feeling came over me, and I let it dictate my reply. And that was only—
"Sybil."
HISTORICAL APPENDIX.
I. GUY DE LUSIGNAN
The history of Guy and Sybil, after the story leaves them, is a sad one. Raymond Count of Tripoli, who had fancied himself sure of the crown matrimonial, never forgave either. He immediately entered into a secret alliance with Saladin, by which he promised to betray Guy into his hands in the next battle. On the fourth of July, 1187, Tripoli, who was standard-bearer, so behaved himself in battle that the King was taken prisoner. Sybil, in conjunction with the Patriarch Heraclius, held Jerusalem until the second of October, when she gave up the city to Saladin on terms including liberty of ransom to all who could afford it. The Queen now retired to Ascalon, within whose fortified walls she and her little daughters remained until 1189, when Guy's ransom was effected on the hard terms that Sybil should capitulate at Ascalon, that Guy should abdicate, and that he should go beyond sea. Guy, who had been kept in chains a whole year at Damascus, consulted the clergy as to the necessity of keeping faith with Saladin. They were all of the Roman, but unscriptural opinion, that no faith need be kept with a Paynim. Instead of abdicating and going abroad, Guy, with Sybil and the children, marched to Acre, which he invested, with a hundred thousand men who had flocked to his standard. The Queen and Princesses were lodged at Turon, looking towards the sea. In 1190 King Philippe of France arrived before Acre, and on June 10, 1191, King Richard Cœur-de-Lion; and at last, on July 12, Saladin gave up the city to the allied forces. But the pestilence had been very rife during the siege. Baldwin Archbishop of Canterbury, and numbers of French and English nobles, died in the camp: and among others the hero-Queen, Sybil of Anjou, and her two fragile children.
Raymond of Tripoli was dead also. He died in his sleep, unabsolved; and evidence of his having formally apostatized to Mahometanism was found after his death.
After thus taking "last leave of all he loved," Guy—brave, rash, impetuous Guy—appears to have become almost reckless. Of course, by right, Sybil was succeeded by her sister Isabel; but Guy still clung to his title of King, and the privileges appurtenant to it, and disputed with Conrado of Monferrato, the husband of Isabel, the right to the customs of the port of Acre. Conrado was an extremely quarrelsome man, and Guy's opposition seems to have been personally directed to him; for on his death (which of course Guy and Cœur-de-Lion were accused of forwarding) Guy readily acknowledged Isabel and her third husband, on condition of receiving the island of Cyprus as compensation for all his claims. King Richard had sold Cyprus to the Templars, but he coolly took it from them, and gave it to Guy, who, being apparently more honest of the two, paid a hundred thousand crowns to the Templars as compensation. This is the last that we hear of Guy de Lusignan, except the mere date of his death, which occurred, according to different authorities, from one to four years after the cession of Cyprus.
Few historical characters have had less justice done them by modern writers, than Guy de Lusignan and Sybil his wife. In the first place, Guy is accused of having, in 1167-8, assassinated Patrick Earl of Salisbury, in returning from a pilgrimage to Saint Iago de Compostella. King Henry II., we are told, was greatly enraged, and banished Guy from Poitou, whereupon he assumed the cross, and set out for the Holy Land. Now the truth is that in 1167-8, it is scarcely possible that Guy could be above ten years old. Either it was another Guy de Lusignan, or the outrage was committed by persons of whom the child Guy was the nominal head. But all the circumstances tend to show that Guy's arrival in the Holy Land was little, if at all, before 1180, and that at that time he was a very young man.
We next find Guy accused of such boundless ambition, that he not only induced King Baldwin IV. to put all the affairs of the kingdom into his hands, but even to promise him the succession after his death. But when Baldwin had bestowed upon Guy his sister and heir presumptive, Sybil, how could he either promise him the succession or lawfully deprive him of it? The reversion of the crown was hers. Baldwin did her a cruel injustice, and committed an illegal act, when he passed her over, and abdicated in favour of her infant son.
Then, on the death of Baldwin V., we are actually told that Sybil, urged by her ambitious husband,usurpedthe crown. Usurped it from whom? Surely not from her own daughters!—surely not from her younger sister! Matthew of Westminster distinctly remarks that "there was none to succeed but his mother Sybilla." Sybil merely took back her own property, of which she had been unjustly deprived.
Again, with respect to her action at her coronation, poor Sybil comes in again for her share of blame. She had no business, we are assured, to choose Guy, who had already proved himself an unsatisfactory governor; and in the interest of the kingdom, she ought to have married some one else. In other words, she ought to have committed sin in the interest of her subjects!
Lastly, a wholesale charge of poisoning is brought against both Guy and Sybil. Probabilities are thrown overboard. They are accused of poisoning young Baldwin V.; and Guy is charged with the murder of his wife and children, though their death entirely destroyed his claim to the royal title. The truth is, that in the twelfth century, any death not easily to be accounted for was always set down to poison: and the nearest relatives, totally irrespective of character, were always suspected of having administered it. Men of Guy's disposition,—impulsive, rash, and generous even to a fault, loving and self-sacrificing,—are not usually in the habit of murdering those they love best: and considered merely from a political point of view, the simultaneous deaths of Sybil and her children were the worst calamities which could have fallen upon Guy.
II. THE ROYAL FAMILY OF JERUSALEM.
Melisende, Queen of Jerusalem, eldest of the four daughters of Baldwin II., and Morsise of Armenia,succeededher father in 1131, anddied in1141 or 1144. Shemarried—
Foulques V., Count of Anjou;married1128;diedat Acre, by accident, November, 1142. [He had previously been married to Ermengarde of Maine, by whom he had four children,—Geoffrey Plantagenet; Hélie Count of Maine; Sybil, Countess of Flanders; and Alice, Crown Princess of England.]
Issue of Queen Melisende:—