Maids who choose the slain,Disappointed now.The Hawk of the Mountain,The Wolf of the West,Meet in fierce combat.Sinks the bold Wolf-cub,Folds his wing the Falcon!Shall the soft priestlingStep before him to Valhal,Cheating Lok’s daughterOf weak-hearted prey?Lo! the Wolf wakens.Valkyr relaxes,Waits for a battlefield,Wolf-cub to claim.Friendly the Falcon,Friendly the Gray-Wolf.
So it ran on, to the great scandal of Lucius, who longed for better knowledge of the Gothic tongue to convince the old man of the folly of his heathen dreams. Meinhard, who was likewise rather shocked, explained that the father and son had been recent arrivals, who had been baptized because Euric required his followers to embrace his faith, but with little real knowledge or acceptance on the part of the father. Young Odorik had been a far more ardent convert; and, after the fashion of many a believer, had taken up the distinctions of sect rather than of religion, and, zealous in the faith he knew, had thought it incumbent on him to insult the Catholics where they seemed to him idolatrous.
A message on the road informed the travellers that they would find Odorik at the villa. Thither then they went, and soon saw the whole household on the steps in eager anticipation. A tall young figure, with a bandage still round his fair flowing locks, came down the steps as Verronax helped the blind man to dismount; and Odo, with a cry of ‘My son!’ with a ring of ecstasy in the sound, held the youth to his breast and felt him all over.
“Are we friends?” said Odorik, turning to Verronax, when his father released him.
“That is as thou wiliest,” returned the Arvernian gravely.
“Know then,” said Odorik, “that I know that I erred. I knew not thy Lord when I mocked thine honour to Him. Father, we had but half learnt the Christian’s God. I have seen it now. It was not thy blow, O Arvernian! that taught me; but the Master who inspired yonder youth to offer his life, and who sent the maiden there to wait upon her foe. He is more than man. I own in him the Eternal Creator, Redeemer, and Lord!”
“Yea,” said Sidonius to his friend Æmilius, “a great work hath been wrought out. Thus hath the parable of actual life led this zealous but half-taught youth to enter into the higher truth. Lucius will be none the worse priest for having trodden in the steps of Him who was High-priest and Victim. Who may abide strict Divine Justice, had not One stood between the sinner and the Judge? Thus ‘Mercy and Truth have met together; Righteousness and Peace have kissed each other.’”
A HAMPSHIRE TRADITION
I
The Dane! the Dane! The heathen DaneIs wasting Hampshire’s coast again—From ravaged church and plundered farmFlash the dread beacons of alarm—Fly, helpless peasants, fly!Ytene’s green banks and forest shades,Her heathery slopes and gorse-clad gladesRe-echo to the cry—Where is the King, whose strong right handHath oft from danger freed the land?Nor fleet nor covenant availsTo drive aloof those pirate sails,In vain is Alfred’s sword;Vain seems in every sacred faneThe chant—‘From fury of the Dane,Deliver us, good Lord.’
II
The long keels have the Needles past,Wight’s fairest bowers are flaming fast;From Solent’s waves rise many a mast,With swelling sails of gold and red,Dragon and serpent at each head,Havoc and slaughter breathing forth,Steer on these locusts of the north.Each vessel bears a deadly freight;Each Viking, fired with greed and hate,His axe is whetting for the strife,And counting how each Christian lifeShall win him fame in Skaldic lays,And in Valhalla endless praise.For Hamble’s river straight they steer;Prayer is in vain, no aid is near—Hopeless and helpless all must die.Oh, fainting heart and failing eye,Look forth upon the foe once more!Why leap they not upon the shore?Why pause their keels upon the strand,As checked by some resistless hand?The sail they spread, the oars they ply,Yet neither may advance nor fly.
III
Who is it holds them helpless there?’Tis He Who hears the anguished prayer;’Tis He Who to the waveHath fixed the bound—mud, rock, or sand—To mark how far upon the strandIts foaming sweep may rave.What is it, but the ebbing tide,That leaves them here, by Hamble’s side,So firm embedded in the mudNo force of stream, nor storm, nor flood,Shall ever these five ships bear forthTo fiords and islets of the north;A thousand years shall pass away,And leave those keels in Hamble’s bay.
IV
Ill were it in my rhyme to tellThe work of slaughter that befell;In sooth it was a savage time—Crime ever will engender crime.Each Viking, as he swam to land,Fell by a Saxon’s vengeful hand;Turn we from all that vengeance wild—Where on the deck there cowered a child,And, closely to his bosom prest,A snow-white kitten found a nest.That tender boy, with tresses fair,Was Edric, Egbert’s cherished heir;The plaything of the homestead he,Now fondled on his grandame’s knee;Or as beside the hearth he sat,Oft sporting with his snow-white cat;Now by the chaplain taught to read,And lisp his Pater and his Creed;Well nurtured at his mother’s side,And by his father trained to ride,To speak the truth, to draw the bow,And all an English Thane should know,His days had been as one bright dream—As smooth as his own river’s stream!Until, at good King Alfred’s call,Thane Egbert left his native hall.
V
Then, five days later, shout and yell,And shrieks and howls of slaughter fell,Upon the peaceful homestead came.’Mid flashing sword, and axe, and flame,Snatched by a Viking’s iron grasp,From his slain mother’s dying clasp,Saved from the household’s flaming grave,Edric was dragged, a destined slave,Some northern dame to serve, or heedThe flocks that on the Sæter feed.Still, with scarce conscious hold he clungTo the white cat, that closely hungSeeking her refuge in his arm,Her shelter in the wild alarm—And who can tell how oft his moanWas soothed by her soft purring tone?Time keeping with retracted claw,Or patting with her velvet paw;Although of home and friends bereft,Still this one comforter was left,So lithe, so swift, so soft, so white,She might have seemed his guardian sprite.The rude Danes deemed her such;And whispered tales of ‘disir’ boundTo human lords, as bird or hound.Nor one ’mid all the fleet was foundTo hurt one tender paw.And when the captive knelt to prayNone would his orisons gainsay;For as they marked him day by day,Increased their wondering awe.
VI
Crouched by the mast, the child and cat,Through the dire time of slaughter sat,By terror both spellbound;But when night came, a silence drearFell on the coast; and far or near,No voice caught Edric’s wakeful ear,Save water’s lapping sound.He wandered from the stern to prow,Ate of the stores, and marvelled howHe yet might reach the ground;Till low and lower sank the tide,Dark banks of mud spread far and wideAround that fast-bound wreck.Then the lone boy climbed down the ship,To cross the mud by bound and skip,His cat upon his neck.Light was his weight and swift his leap,Now would he softly tread, now creep,For treacherous was the mud, and deepFrom stone to weed, from weed to plank,Leaving a hole where’er he sank;With panting breath and sore taxed strengthThe solid earth he felt at length.Sheltered within the copse he lay,When dawn had brightened into day,For when one moment there was seen,His red cap glancing ’mid the green,A fearful cry arose—“Here lurks a Dane!” “The Dane seek out”With knife and axe, the rabble routMade the copse ring with yell and shoutTo find their dreaded foes.And Edric feared to meet a stroke,Before they knew the tongue he spoke.Hid ’mid the branches of an oak,He heard their calls and blows.Of food he had a simple store,And when the churls the chase gave o’er,And evening sunk upon the vale,With rubbing head and upright tail,Pacing before him to and fro,Puss lured him on the way to go—Coaxing him on, with tender wile,O’er heath and down for many a mile.Ask me not how her course she knows.He from Whom every instinct flowsHath breathed into His creatures power,Giving to each its needful dower;And strive and question as we will,We cannot trace the inborn skill,Nor fathom how, where’er she roam,The cat ne’er fails to find her home.
VII
What pen may dare to paint the woe,When Egbert saw his home laid low?Where, by the desolated hearth,The mother lay who gave him birth,And, close beside, his fair young wife,And servants, slain in bootless strife—Mournful the King stood near.Alfred, who came to be his guest,And deeply rued that his behestHad all unguarded left that nest,To meet such ruin drear.With hand, and heart, and lip, he gaveAll king or friend, both true and brave,Could give, one pang of grief to save,To comfort, or to cheer—As from the blackened walls they drewEach corpse, and laid with reverence due;And then it was that Egbert knewAll save the child were here.King Alfred’s noble head was bent,A monarch’s pain his bosom rent;Kindly he wrung Thane Egbert’s hand—“Lo! these have won the blissful land,Where foeman’s shout is heard no more,Nor wild waves beat upon the shore;Brief was the pang, the strife is o’er—They are at peace, my friend!Safe, where the weary are at rest;Safe, where the banish’d and opprestFind joys that never end.”Thane Egbert groaned, and scarce might speakFor tears that ploughed his hardy cheek,As his dread task was done.And for the slain, from monk and priestRose requiems that never ceased,While still he sought his son.“Oh, would to Heaven!” that father said,“There lay my darling calmly dead,Rather than as a thrall be bred—His Christian faith undone.”“Nay, life is hope!” bespake the King,“God o’er the child can spread His wingAnd shield him in the Northman’s powerSafe as in Alswyth’s guarded bower;Treaty and ransom may be foundTo win him back to English ground.”
VIII
The funeral obsequies were o’er,But lingered still the Thane,Hanging around his home once more,Feeding his bitter pain.The King would fain with friendly forceUrge him anew to mount his horse,Turn from the piteous sight away,And fresh begin life’s saddened day,His loved ones looking yet to greet,Where ne’er shall part the blest who meet.Just then a voice that well he knew,A sound that mixed the purr and mew,Went to the father’s heart.On a large stone King Alfred satAgainst his buskin rubbed a cat,Snow-white in every part,Though drenched and soiled from head to tail.The poor Thane’s tears poured down like hail—“Poor puss, in vain thy loving wail,”Then came a joyful start!A little hand was on his cloak—“Father!” a voice beside him spoke,Emerging from the wood.All travel-stained, and marked with mire,With trace of blood, and toil, and fire,Yet safe and sound beside his sire,Edric before them stood.And as his father wept for joy,King Alfred blessed the rescued boy,And thanked his Maker good!Who doth the captive’s prayer fulfil,Making His creatures work His willBy means not understood.
NOTE.—The remains of the five Danish vessels still lie embedded in the mud of the Hamble River near Southampton, though parts have been carried off and used as wood for furniture in the farm-houses. The neighbouring wood is known as Cat Copse, and a tradition has been handed down that a cat, and a boy in a red cap, escaped from the Danish ships, took refuge there.
I. DE FACTO
The later summer sunbeams lay on an expanse of slightly broken ground where purple and crimson heather were relieved by the golden blossoms of the dwarf gorse, interspersed with white stars of stitch-wort. Here and there, on the slopes, grew stunted oaks and hollies, whose polished leaves gleamed white with the reflection of the light; but there was not a trace of human habitation save a track, as if trodden by horses’ feet, clear of the furze and heath, and bordered by soft bent grass, beginning to grow brown.
Near this track—for path it could hardly be called—stood a slender lad waiting and watching, a little round cap covering his short-cut brown hair, a crimson tunic reaching to his knee, leggings and shoes of deerhide, and a sword at his side, fastened by a belt of the like skin, guarded and clasped with silver. His features were delicate, though sunburnt, and his eyes were riveted on the distance, where the path had disappeared amid the luxuriant spires of ling.
A hunting-horn sounded, and the youth drew himself together into an attitude of eager attention; the baying of hounds and trampling of horses’ hoofs came nearer and nearer, and by and by there came in view the ends of boar-spears, the tall points of bows, a cluster of heads of men and horses—strong, sturdy, shaggy, sure-footed creatures, almost ponies, but the only steeds fit to pursue the chase on this rough and encumbered ground.
Foremost rode, with ivory and gold hunting-horn slung in a rich Spanish baldrick, and a slender gilt circlet round his green hunting-cap, a stout figure, with a face tanned to a fiery colour, keen eyes of a dark auburn tint, and a shock of hair of the same deep red.
At sight of him, the lad flung himself on his knees on the path, with the cry, “Haro! Haro! Justice, Sir King!”
“Out of my way, English hound!” cried the King. “This is no time for thy Haro.”
“Nay, but one word, good fair King! I am French—French by my father’s side!” cried the lad, as there was a halt, more from the instinct of the horse than the will of the King. ‘Bertram de Maisonforte! My father married the Lady of Boyatt, and her inheritance was confirmed to him by your father, brave King William, my Lord; but now he is dead, and his kinsman, Roger de Maisonforte, hath ousted her and me, her son and lawful heir, from house and home, and we pray for justice, Sir King?’
‘Ha, Roger, thou there! What say’st thou to this bold beggar!’ shouted the Red King.
‘I say,’ returned a black, bronzed hunter, pressing to the front, ‘that what I hold of thee, King William, on tenure of homage, and of two good horses and staunch hounds yearly, I yield to no English mongrel churl, who dares to meddle with me.’
‘Thou hear’st, lad,’ said Rufus, with his accustomed oath, ‘homage hath been done to us for the land, nor may it be taken back. Out of our way, or—’
‘Sir! sir!’ entreated the lad, grasping the bridle, ‘if no more might be, we would be content if Sir Roger would but leave my mother enough for her maintenance among the nuns of Romsey, and give me a horse and suit of mail to go on the Holy War with Duke Robert.’
‘Ho! ho! a modest request for a beggarly English clown!’ cried the King, aiming a blow at the lad with his whip, and pushing on his horse, so as almost to throw him back on the heath. ‘Ho! ho! fit him out for a fool’s errand!’
‘We’ll fit him! We’ll teach him to take the cross at other men’s expense!’ shouted the followers, seizing on the boy.
‘Nay; we’ll bestow his cross on him for a free gift!’ exclaimed Roger de Maisonforte.
And Bertram, struggling desperately in vain among the band of ruffians, found his left arm bared, and two long and painful slashes, in the form of the Crusader’s cross, inflicted, amid loud laughter, as the blood sprang forth.
‘There, Sir Crusader,’ said Roger, grinding his teeth over him. ‘Go on thy way now—as a horse-boy, if so please thee, and know better than to throw thy mean false English pretension in the face of a gentle Norman.’
Men, horses, dogs, all seemed to trample and scoff at Bertram as he fell back on the elastic stems of the heath and gorse, whose prickles seemed to renew the insults by scratching his face. When the King’s horn, the calls, the brutal laughter, and the baying of the dogs had begun to die away in the distance, he gathered himself together, sat up, and tried to find some means of stanching the blood. Not only was the wound in a place hard to reach, but it had been ploughed with the point of a boar-spear, and was grievously torn. He could do nothing with it, and, as he perceived, he had further been robbed of his sword, his last possession, his father’s sword.
The large tears of mingled rage, grief, and pain might well spring from the poor boy’s eyes in his utter loneliness, as he clenched his hand with powerless wrath, and regained his feet, to retrace, as best he might, his way to where his widowed mother had found a temporary shelter in a small religious house.
The sun grew hotter and hotter, Bertram’s wound bled, though not profusely, the smart grew upon him, his tongue was parched with thirst, and though he kept resolutely on, his breath came panting, his head grew dizzy, his eyes dim, his feet faltered, and at last, just as he attained a wider and more trodden way, he dropped insensible by the side of the path, his dry lips trying to utter the cry, “Lord, have mercy on me!”
II. DE JURE
When Bertram de Maisonforte opened his eyes again cold waters were on his face, wine was moistening his lips, the burning of his wound was assuaged by cooling oil, while a bandage was being applied, and he was supported on a breast and in arms, clad indeed in a hauberk, but as tenderly kind as the full deep voice that spoke in English, “He comes round. How now, my child?”
“Father,” murmured Bertram, with dreamy senses.
“Better now; another sup from the flask, David,” again said the kind voice, and looking up, he became aware of the beautiful benignant face, deep blue eyes, and long light locks of the man in early middle age who had laid him on his knee, while a priest was binding his arm, and a fair and graceful boy, a little younger than himself, was standing by with the flask of wine in his hand, and a face of such girlish beauty that as he knelt to hold the wine to his lips, Bertram asked—
“Am I among the Angels?”
“Not yet,” said the elder man. “Art thou near thine home?”
“Alack! I have no home, kind sir,” said Bertram, now able to raise himself and to perceive that he was in the midst of a small hand of armed men, such as every knight or noble necessarily carried about with him for protection. There was a standard with a dragon, and their leader himself was armed, all save his head, and, as Bertram saw, was a man of massive strength, noble stature, and kingly appearance.
“What shall we do for thee?” he asked. “Who hath put thee in this evil case?”
Bertram gave his name, and at its Norman sound there was a start of repulsion from the boy. “French after all!” he exclaimed.
“Nay, David,” said the leader, “if I mind me rightly, the Lady Elftrud of Boyatt wedded a brave Norman of that name. Art thou her son? I see something of her face, and thou hast an English tongue.”
“I am; I am her only son!” exclaimed Bertram; and as he told of his wrongs and the usage he had met with, young David cried out with indignation—
“Uncle, uncle, how canst thou suffer that these things should be? Here are our faithful cnihts. Let us ride to the forest. Wherefore should it not be with Red William and his ruffians as with Scottish Duncan and Donald?”
“Hush thee, David, my nephew. Thou knowest that may not be. But for thee, young Bertram, we will see what can be done. Canst sit a horse now?”
“Yea, my lord, full well. I know not what came over me, even now,” said Bertram, much ashamed of the condition in which he had been found.
A sumpter horse was found for him, the leader of the party saying that they would go on to his own home, where the youth’s wound should be looked to, and they could then decide what could be done for him.
Bertram was still so far faint, suffering, weak, and weary, that he was hardly awake to curiosity as to his surroundings, and had quite enough to do to keep his seat in the saddle, and follow in the wake of the leader’s tall white horse, above which shone his bright chain mail and his still brighter golden locks, so that the exhausted boy began in some measure to feel as if he were following St. Michael on his way to some better world.
Now and then the tall figure turned to see how it was with him, and as he drooped more with fatigue and pain, bade one of the retainers keep beside him and support him.
Thus at length the cavalcade left the heathery expanse and reached a valley, green with meadow-land and waving corn, with silvery beards of barley rippling in the evening light, and cows and sheep being gathered for the night towards a dwelling where the river had been trained to form a moat round low green ramparts enclosing a number of one-storied thatched houses and barns, with one round tower, a strong embattled gateway, and at a little distance a square church tower, and other cottages standing outside.
A shout of ecstasy broke out from the village as the advancing party was seen and recognised. Men, women, and children, rudely but substantially clad, and many wearing the collar of the thrall, ran out from their houses, baring their heads, bowing low, and each in turn receiving some kind word or nod of greeting from the lord whom they welcomed, while one after another of his armed followers turned aside, and was absorbed into a happy family by wife or parent. A drawbridge crossed the moat, and there was a throng of joyful servants in the archway—foremost a priest, stretching out his hands in blessing, and a foreign-looking old woman, gray-haired and dark-eyed, who gathered young David into her embrace as he sprang from his horse, calling him her heart’s darling and her sunshine, and demanding, with a certain alarm, where were his brothers.
“In Scotland, dear Nurse Agnes—even where they should be,” was David’s answer. “We are conquerors, do you see! Edgar is a crowned and anointed King—seated on the holy stone of Scone, and Alexander is beside him to fight for him!”
“It is even so, nurse,” said the elder man, turning from the priest, to whom he had more briefly spoken; “God hath blessed our arms, and young Edgar has his right. God shield him in it! And now, nurse, here is a poor youth who needs thy care, after one of Red William’s rough jests.”
III. KING AT HOME
Weary, faint, and feverish as Bertram de Maisonforte was, he was past caring for anything but the relief of rest, cool drink, and the dressing of his wound; nor did he even ask where he was until he awoke in broad daylight the next morning, to the sound of church bells, to the sight of a low but spacious chamber, with stone walls, deerskins laid on the floor, and the old nurse standing by him with a cup of refreshing drink, and ready to attend to his wound.
It was then that, feeling greatly refreshed, he ventured upon asking her in whose house he was, and who was the good lord who had taken pity on him.
“Who should it be save him who should be the good lord of every Englishman,” she replied, “mine own dear foster-son, the princely Atheling—he who takes up the cause of every injured man save his own?”
Bertram was amazed, for he had only heard Normans speak of Edgar Atheling, the heir of the ancient race, as a poor, tame-spirited, wretched creature, unable to assert himself, and therefore left unmolested by the conquerors out of contempt. He proceeded to ask what the journey was from which the Atheling was returning, and the nurse, nothing loth, beguiled the tendance on his arm by explaining how she had long ago travelled from Hungary with her charges, Edgar, Margaret, and Christina; how it had come about that the crown, which should have been her darling’s, had been seized by the fierce duke from beyond the sea; how Edgar, then a mere child, had been forced to swear oaths of fealty by which he held himself still bound; how her sweetest pearl of ladies, her jewel Margaret, had been wedded to the rude wild King of Scots, and how her gentle sweetness and holiness had tamed and softened him, so that she had been the blessing of his kingdom till he and his eldest son had fallen at Alnwick while she lay a-dying; how the fierce savage Scots had risen and driven forth her young children; and how their uncle the Atheling had ridden forth, taken them to his home, bred them in all holiness and uprightness and good and knightly courage, and when Edgar and Alexander, the two eldest, were full grown, had gone northward with them once more, and had won back, in fair field, the throne of their father Malcolm.
Truly there might well be rejoicing and triumph on the estate where the Atheling ruled as a father and had been sorely missed. He was at his early mass of thanksgiving at present, and Bertram was so much better that Nurse Agnes did not withstand his desire to rise and join the household and villagers, who were all collected in the building, low and massive, but on which Edgar Atheling had lavished the rich ornamental work introduced by the Normans. The round arched doorway was set in a succession of elaborate zigzags, birds’ heads, lions’ faces, twists and knots; and within, the altar-hangings and the priest’s robes were stiff with the exquisite and elaborate embroidery for which the English nunneries were famed.
The whole building, with its low-browed roof, circular chancel arch still more richly adorned, and stout short columns, was filled with kneeling figures in rough homespun or sheepskin garments, and with shaggy heads, above which towered the shining golden locks of the Atheling, which were allowed to grow to a much greater length than was the Norman fashion, and beside him was the still fairer head of his young nephew, David of Scotland. It was a thanksgiving service for their victory and safe return; and Bertram was just in time for theTe Deumthat followed the mass.
The Atheling, after all was over, came forth, exchanging greetings with one after another of his franklins, cnihts, and thralls, all of whom seemed to be equally delighted to see him back again, and whom he bade to a feast in the hall, which would be prepared in the course of the day. Some, meantime, went to their homes near at hand, others would amuse themselves with games at ball, archery, singlestick, and the like, in an open space within the moat—where others fished.
Bertram was not neglected. The Atheling inquired after his health, heard his story in more detail, and after musing on it, said that after setting affairs in order at home, he meant to visit his sister and niece in the Abbey at Romsey, and would then make some arrangement for the Lady of Maisonforte; also he would endeavour to see the King on his return to Winchester, and endeavour to plead with him.
“William will at times hearken to an old comrade,” he said; “but it is an ill time to take him when he is hot upon the chase. Meantime, thou art scarce yet fit to ride, and needest more of good Agnes’s leech-craft.”
Bertram was indeed stiff and weary enough to be quite content to lie on a bearskin in the wide hall of the dwelling, or under the eaves without, and watch the doings with some amusement.
He had been bred in some contempt of the Saxons. His father’s marriage had been viewed as amésalliance, and though the knight of Maisonforte had been honourable and kindly, and the Lady Elftrud had fared better than many a Saxon bride, still the French and the Breton dames of the neighbourhood had looked down on her, and the retainers had taught her son to look on the English race as swine, boors, and churls, ignorant of all gentle arts, of skill and grace.
But here was young David among youths of his own age, tilting as gracefully and well as any young Norman could—making Bertram long that his arm should cease to be so heavy and burning, so that he might show his prowess.
Here was a contention with bow and arrow that would not have disgraced the best men-at-arms of Maisonforte—here again, later in the day, was minstrelsy of a higher order than his father’s ears had cared for, but of which his mother had whispered her traditions.
Here, again, was the chaplain showing his brother-priests with the greatest pride and delight a scroll of Latin, copied from a MS. Psalter of the holy and Venerable Beda by the hand of his own dear pupil, young David.
Bertram, who could neither read nor write, and knew no more Latin than his Paternoster, Credo, and Ave, absolutely did not believe his eyes and ears till he had asked the question, whether this were indeed the youth’s work. How could it be possible to wield pen as well as lance?
But the wonder of all was the Atheling. After an absence of more than a year, there was much to be adjusted, and his authority on his own lands was thoroughly judicial even for life or death, since even under Norman sway he held the power of an earl.
Seated in a high-backed, cross-legged chair—his majestic form commanding honour and respect—he heard one after another causes that came before him, reserved for his judgment, questions of heirship, disputes about cattle, complaints of thievery, encroachments on land; and Bertram, listening with the interest that judgment never fails to excite, was deeply impressed with the clear-headedness, the ready thought, and the justice of the decision, even when the dispute lay between Saxon and Norman, always with reference to the laws of Alfred and Edward which he seemed to carry in his head.
Indeed, ere long, two Norman knights, hearing of the Atheling’s return, came to congratulate him, and lay before him a dispute of boundaries which they declared they would rather entrust to him than to any other. And they treated him far more as a prince than as a Saxon churl.
They willingly accepted his invitation to go in to the feast of welcome, and a noble one it was, with music and minstrelsy, hospitality to all around, plenty and joy, wassail bowls going round, and the Atheling presiding over it, and with a strange and quiet influence, breaking up the entertainment in all good will, by the memory of his sweet sister Margaret’s grace-cup, ere mirth had become madness, or the English could incur their reproach of coarse revelry.
“And,” as the Norman knight who had prevailed said to Bertram, “Sir Edgar the Atheling had thus shown himself truly an uncrowned King.”
IV. WHO SHALL BE KING?
The noble cloisters of Romsey, with the grand church rising in their midst, had a lodging-place, strictly cut off from the nunnery, for male visitors.
Into this Edgar Atheling rode with his armed train, and as they entered, some strange expression in the faces of the porters and guards met them.
“Had my lord heard the news?” demanded a priest, who hastened forward, bowing low.
“No, Holy Father. No ill of my sister?” anxiously inquired the Prince.
“The Mother Abbess is well, my Lord Atheling; but the King—William the Red—is gone to his account. He was found two eves ago pierced to the heart with an arrow beneath an oak in Malwood Chace.”
“God have mercy on his poor soul!” ejaculated Edgar, crossing himself. “No moment vouchsafed for penitence! Alas! Who did the deed, Father Dunstan?”
“That is not known,” returned the priest, “save that Walter Tyrrel is fled like a hunted felon beyond seas, and my Lord Henry to Winchester.”
Young David pressed up to his uncle’s side.
“Sir, sir,” he said, “what a time is this! Duke Robert absent, none know where; our men used to war, all ready to gather round you. This rule will be ended, the old race restored. Say but the word, and I will ride back and raise our franklins as one man. Thou wilt, too, Bertram!”
“With all mine heart!” cried Bertram. “Let me be the first to do mine homage.”
And as Edgar Atheling stood in the outer court, with lofty head and noble thoughtful face, pure-complexioned and high-browed, each who beheld him felt that there stood a king of men. A shout of “King Edgar! Edgar, King of England,” echoed through the buildings; and priests, men-at-arms, and peasants began to press forward to do him homage. But he raised his hand—
“Hold, children,” he said. “I thank you all; but much must come ere ye imperil yourselves by making oaths to me that ye might soon have to break! Let me pass on and see my sister.”
Abbeys were not strictly cloistered then, and the Abbess Christina was at the door, a tall woman, older than her brother, and somewhat hard-featured, and beside her was a lovely fair girl, with peach-like cheeks and bright blue eyes, who threw herself into David’s arms, full of delight.
“Brother,” said Christina, “did I hear aright? And have they hailed thee King? Are the years of cruel wrong ended at last? Victor for others, wilt thou be victor for thyself?”
“What is consistent with God’s will, and with mine oaths, that I hope to do,” was Edgar’s reply.
But even as he stood beside the Abbess in the porch, without having yet entered, there was a clattering and trampling of horse, and through the gate came hastily a young man in a hauberk, with a ring of gold about his helmet, holding out his hands as he saw the Atheling.
“Sire Edgar,” he said, “I knew not I should find you here, when I came to pay my firstdevoirsas a King to the Lady Mother Abbess” (he kissed her unwilling hand) “and the Lady Edith.”
Edith turned away a blushing face, and the Abbess faltered—
“As a King?”
“Yea, lady. As such have I been owned by all at Winchester. I should be at Westminster for my Coronation, save that I turned from my course to win her who shall share my crown.”
“Is it even thus, Henry?” said Edgar. “Hast not thought of other rights?”
“Of that crazed fellow Robert’s?” demanded Henry. “Trouble not thine head for him! Even if he came back living from this Holy War in the East, my father had too much mercy on England to leave it to the like of him.”
“There be other and older rights, Sir Henry,” said the Abbess.
Henry looked up for a moment in some consternation. “Ho! Sir Edgar, thou hast been so long a peaceful man that I had forgotten. Thou knowest thy day went by with Hereward le Wake. See, fair Edith and I know one another—she shall be my Queen.”
“Veiled and vowed,” began the Abbess.
“Oh, not yet! Tell her not yet!” whispered Edith in David’s ear.
“Thou little traitress! Wed thy house’s foe, who takes thine uncle’s place? Nay! I will none of thee,” said David, shaking her off roughly; but her uncle threw his arm round her kindly.
At that moment a Norman knight spurred up to Henry with some communication that made him look uneasy, and Christina, laying her hand on Edgar’s arm, said: “Brother, we have vaults. Thy troop outnumbers his. The people of good old Wessex are with thee! Now is thy time! Save thy country. Restore the line and laws of Alfred and Edward.”
“Thou know’st not what thou wouldst have, Christina,” said Edgar. “One sea of blood wherever a Norman castle rises! I love my people too well to lead them to a fruitless struggle with all the might of Normandy unless I saw better hope than lies before me now! Mind thee, I swore to Duke William that I would withstand neither him nor any son of his whom the English duly hailed. Yet, I will see how it is with this young man,” he added, as she fell back muttering, “Craven! Who ever won throne without blood?”
Henry had an anxious face when he turned from his knight, who, no doubt, had told him how completely he was in the Atheling’s power.
“Sir Edgar,” he said, “a word with you. Winchester is not far off—nor Porchester—nor my brother William’s Free companies, and his treasure. Normans will scarce see Duke William’s son tampered with, nor bow their heads to the English!”
“Belike, Henry of Normandy,” said Edgar, rising above him in his grave majesty. “Yet have I a question or two to put to thee. Thou art a graver, more scholarly man than thy brother, less like to be led away by furies. Have the people of England and Normandy sworn to thee willingly as their King?”
“Even so, in the Minster,” Henry began, and would have said more, but Edgar again made his gesture of authority.
“Wilt thou grant them the charter of Alfred and Edward, with copies spread throughout the land?”
“I will.”
“Wilt thou do equal justice between English and Norman?”
“To the best of my power.”
“Wilt thou bring home the Archbishop, fill up the dioceses, do thy part by the Church?”
“So help me God, I will.”
“Then, Henry of Normandy, I, Edgar Atheling, kiss thine hand, and become thy man; and may God deal with thee, as thou dost with England.”
The noble form of Edgar bent before the slighter younger figure of Henry, who burst into tears, genuine at the moment, and vowed most earnestly to be a good King to the entire people. No doubt, he meant it—then.
And now—far more humbly, he made his suit to the Atheling for the hand of his niece.
Edgar took her apart. “Edith, canst thou brook this man?”
“Uncle, he was good to me when we were children together at the old King’s Court. I have made no vows, I tore the veil mine aunt threw over me from mine head. Methinks with me beside him he would never be hard to our people.”
“So be it then, Edith. If he holds to this purpose when he hath been crowned at Westminster, he shall have thee, though I fear thou hast chosen a hard lot, and wilt rue the day when thou didst quit these peaceful walls.”
And one more stipulation was made by Edgar the Atheling, ere he rode to own Henry as King in the face of the English people at Westminster—namely, that Boyatt should be restored to the true heiress the Lady Elftrud. And to Roger, compensation was secretly made at the Atheling’s expense, ere departing with Bertram in his train for the Holy War. For Bertram could not look at the scar without feeling himself a Crusader; and Edgar judged it better for England to remove himself for awhile, while he laid all earthly aspirations at the Feet of the King of kings.
The little English troop arrived just in time to share in the capture of the Holy City, to join in the eager procession of conquerors to the Holy Sepulchre, and to hear Godfrey de Bouillon elected to defend the sacred possession, refusing to wear a crown where the King of Saints and Lord of Heaven and Earth had worn a Crown of Thorns.
A feudal castle, of massive stone, with donjon keep and high crenellated wall, gateway tower, moat and drawbridge, was a strange, incongruous sight in one of the purple-red stony slopes of Palestine, with Hermon’s snowy peak rising high above. It was accounted for, however, by the golden crosses of the kingdom of Jerusalem waving above the watch-tower, that rose like a pointing finger above the keep, in company with a lesser ensign bearing a couchant hound, sable.
It was a narrow rocky pass that the Castle of Gebel-Aroun guarded, overlooking a winding ravine between the spurs of the hills, descending into the fertile plain of Esdraelon from the heights of Galilee Hills, noted in many an Israelite battle, and now held by the Crusaders.
Bare, hard, and rocky were the hills around—the slopes and the valley itself, which in the earlier season had been filled with rich grass, Calvary clover, blood-red anemones, and pale yellow amaryllis, only showed their arid brown or gray remnants. The moat had become a deep waterless cleft; and beneath, on the accessible sides towards the glen, clustered a collection of black horsehair tents, the foremost surmounted by the ill-omened crescent.
The burning sun had driven every creature under shelter, and no one was visible; but well was it known that watch and ward was closely kept from beneath those dark tents, that to the eyes within had the air of couching beasts of prey. Yes, couching to devour what could not fail to be theirs, in spite of the mighty walls of rock and impregnable keep, for those deadly and insidious foes, hunger and thirst, were within, gaining the battle for the Saracens without, who had merely to wait in patience for the result.
Some years previously, Sir William de Hundberg, a Norman knight, had been expelled from his English castle by the partisans of Stephen, and with wife and children had followed Count Fulk of Anjou to his kingdom of Palestine, and had been endowed by him with one of the fortresses which guarded the passes of Galilee, under that exaggeration of the feudal system which prevailed in the crusading kingdom of Jerusalem.
Climate speedily did its work with the lady, warfare with two of her sons, and there only remained of the family a youth of seventeen, Walter, and his sister Mabel, fourteen, who was already betrothed to the young Baron of Courtwood, then about to return to England. The treaty with Stephen and the success of young Henry of Anjou gave Sir William hopes of restitution; but just as he was about to conduct her to Jerusalem for the wedding, before going back to England, he fell sick of one of the recurring fevers of the country; and almost at the same time the castle was beleaguered by a troop of Arabs, under the command of a much-dreaded Sheik.
His constitution was already much shaken, and Sir William, after a few days of alternate torpor and delirium, passed away, without having been conscious enough to leave any counsel to his children, or any directions to Father Philip, the chaplain, or Sigbert, his English squire.
At the moment, sorrow was not disturbed by any great alarm, for the castle was well victualled, and had a good well, supplied by springs from the mountains; and Father Philip, after performing the funeral rites for his lord, undertook to make his way to Tiberias, or to Jerusalem, with tidings of their need; and it was fully anticipated that succour would arrive long before the stores in the castle had been exhausted.
But time went on, and, though food was not absolutely lacking, the spring of water which had hitherto supplied the garrison began to fail. Whether through summer heats, or whether the wily enemy had succeeded in cutting off the source, where once there had been a clear crystal pool in the rock, cold as the snow from which it came, there only dribbled a few scanty drops, caught with difficulty, and only imbibed from utter necessity, so great was the suspicion of their being poisoned by the enemy.
The wine was entirely gone, and the salted provision, which alone remained, made the misery of thirst almost unbearable.
On the cushions, richly embroidered in dainty Eastern colouring, lay Mabel de Hundberg, with dry lips half opened and panting, too weary to move, yet listening all intent.
Another moment, and in chamois leather coat, his helmet in hand, entered her brother from the turret stair, and threw himself down hopelessly, answering her gesture.
“No, no, of course no. The dust was only from another swarm of those hateful Saracens. I knew it would be so. Pah! it has made my tongue more like old boot leather than ever. Have no more drops been squeezed from the well? It’s time the cup was filled!”
“It was Roger’s turn. Sigbert said he should have the next,” said Mabel.
Walter uttered an imprecation upon Roger, and a still stronger one on Sigbert’s meddling. But instantly the cry was, “Where is Sigbert?”
Walter even took the trouble to shout up and down the stair for Sigbert, and to demand hotly of the weary, dejected men-at-arms where Sigbert was; but no one could tell.
“Gone over to the enemy, the old traitor,” said Walter, again dropping on the divan.
“Never! Sigbert is no traitor,” returned his sister.
“He is an English churl, and all churls are traitors,” responded Walter.
The old nurse, who was fitfully fanning Mabel with a dried palm-leaf, made a growl of utter dissent, and Mabel exclaimed, “None was ever so faithful as good old Sigbert.”
It was a promising quarrel, but their lips were too dry to keep it up for more than a snarl or two. Walter cast himself down, and bade old Tata fan him; why should Mabel have it all to herself?
Then sounds of wrangling were heard below, and Walter roused himself to go down and interfere. The men were disputing over some miserable dregs of wine at the bottom of a skin. Walter shouted to call them to order, but they paid little heed.
“Do not meddle and make, young sir,” said a low-browed, swarthy fellow. “There’s plenty of cool drink of the right sort out there.”
“Traitor!” cried Walter; “better die than yield.”
“If one have no mind for dying like an old crab in a rock,” said the man.
“They would think nought of making an end of us out there,” said another.
“I’d as lief be choked at once by a cord as by thirst,” was the answer.
“That you are like to be, if you talk such treason,” threatened Walter. “Seize him, Richard—Martin.”
Richard and Martin, however, hung back, one muttering that Gil had done nothing, and the other that he might be in the right of it; and when Walter burst out in angry threats he was answered in a gruff voice that he had better take care what he said, “There was no standing not only wasting with thirst and hunger, but besides being blustered at by a hot-headed lad, that scarce knew a hauberk from a helmet.”
Walter, in his rage, threw himself with drawn sword on the mutineer, but was seized and dragged back by half a dozen stalwart arms, such as he had no power to resist, and he was held fast amid rude laughs and brutal questions whether he should thus be carried to the Saracens, and his sister with him.
“The old Sheik would give a round sum for a fair young damsel like her!” were the words that maddened her brother into a desperate struggle, baffled with a hoarse laugh by the men-at-arms, who were keeping him down, hand and foot, when a new voice sounded: “How now, fellows! What’s this?”
In one moment Walter was released and on his feet, and the men fell back, ashamed and gloomy, as a sturdy figure, with sun-browned face, light locks worn away by the helmet, and slightly grizzled, stood among them, in a much-rubbed and soiled chamois leather garment.
Walter broke out into passionate exclamations; the men, evidently ashamed, met them with murmurs and growls. “Bad enough, bad enough!” broke in Sigbert; “but there’s no need to make it worse. Better to waste with hunger and thirst than be a nidering fellow—rising against your lord in his distress.”
“We would never have done it if he would have kept a civil tongue.”
“Civility’s hard to a tongue dried up,” returned Sigbert. “But look you here, comrades, leave me a word with my young lord here, and I plight my faith that you shall have enow to quench your thirst within six hours at the least.”
There was an attempt at a cheer, broken by the murmur, “We have heard enough of that! It is always six hours and six hours.”
“And the Saracen hounds outside would at least give us a draught of water ere they made away with us,” said another.
“Saracens, forsooth!” said Sigbert. “You shall leave the Saracens far behind you. A few words first with my lord, and you shall hear. Meanwhile, you, John Cook, take all the beef remaining; make it in small fardels, such as a man may easily carry.”
“That’s soon done,” muttered the cook. “The entire weight would scarce bow a lad’s shoulders.”
“The rest of you put together what you would save from the enemy, and is not too heavy to carry.” One man made some attempt at growling at a mere lad being consulted, while the stout warriors were kept in ignorance; but the spirit of discipline and confidence had returned with Sigbert, and no one heeded the murmur. Meantime, Sigbert followed the young Lord Walter up the rough winding stairs to the chamber where Mabel lay on her cushions. “What! what!” demanded the boy, pausing to enter. Sigbert, by way of answer, quietly produced from some hidden pouch two figs. Walter snatched at one with a cry of joy. Mabel held out her hand, then, with a gasp, drew it back. “Has Roger had one?”
Sigbert signed in the affirmative, and Mabel took a bite of the luscious fruit with a gasp of pleasure, yet paused once more to hold the remainder to her nurse.
“The Saints bless you, my sweet lamb!” exclaimed the old woman; “finish it yourself. I could not.”
“If you don’t want it, give it to me,” put in Walter.
“For shame, my lord,” Sigbert did not scruple to say, nor could the thirsty girl help finishing the refreshing morsel, while Walter, with some scanty murmur of excuse, demanded where it came from, and what Sigbert had meant by promises of safety.
“Sir,” said Sigbert, “you may remember how some time back your honoured father threw one of the fellaheen into the dungeon for maiming old Leo.”
“The villain! I remember. I thought he was hanged.”
“No, sir. He escaped. I went to take him food, and he was gone! I then found an opening in the vault, of which I spoke to none, save your father, for fear of mischief; but I built it up with stones. Now, in our extremity, I bethought me of it, and resolved to try whether the prisoner had truly escaped, for where he went, we might go. Long and darksome is the way underground, but it opens at last through one of the old burial-places of the Jews into the thickets upon the bank of the Jordan.”
“The Jordan! Little short of a league!” exclaimed Walter.
“A league, underground, and in the dark,” sighed Mabel.
“Better than starving here like a rat in a trap,” returned her brother.
“Ah yes; oh yes! I will think of the cool river and the trees at the end.”
“You will find chill enough, lady, long ere you reach the river,” said Sigbert. “You must wrap yourself well. ’Tis an ugsome passage; but your heart must not fail you, for it is the only hope left us.”
The two young people were far too glad to hear of any prospect of release, to think much of the dangers or discomforts of the mode. Walter danced for joy up and down the room like a young colt, as he thought of being in a few hours more in the free open air, with the sound of water rippling below, and the shade of trees above him. Mabel threw herself on her knees before her rude crucifix, partly in thankfulness, partly in dread of the passage that was to come first.
“Like going through the grave to life,” she murmured to her nurse.
And when the scanty garrison was gathered together, as many as possible provided with brands that might serve as torches, and Sigbert led them, lower and lower, down rugged steps hewn in the rock, through vaults where only a gleam came from above, and then through deeper cavernous places, intensely dark, there was a shudder perceptible by the clank and rattle of the armour which each had donned. In the midst, Walter paused and exclaimed—
“Our banner! How leave it to the Paynim dogs?”
“It’s here, sir,” said Sigbert, showing a bundle on his back.
“Warning to the foe to break in and seek us,” grumbled Gilbert.
“Not so,” replied Sigbert. “I borrowed an old wrapper of nurse’s that will cheat their eyes till we shall be far beyond their ken.”
In the last dungeon a black opening lay before them, just seen by the light of the lamp Sigbert carried, but so low that there was no entrance save on hands and knees.
“That den!” exclaimed Walter. “’Tis a rat-hole. Never can we go that way.”
“I have tried it, sir,” quoth Sigbert. “Where I can go, you can go. Your sister quails not.”
“It is fearful,” said Mabel, unable to repress a shiver; “but, Walter, think what is before us if we stay here! The Saints will guard us.”
“The worst and lowest part only lasts for a few rods,” explained Sigbert. “Now, sir, give your orders. Torches and lanterns, save Hubert’s and nurse’s, to be extinguished. We cannot waste them too soon, but beware of loosing hold on them.”
Walter repeated the orders thus dictated to him, and Sigbert arranged the file. It was absolutely needful that Sigbert should go first to lead the way. Mabel was to follow him for the sake of his help, then her brother, next nurse, happily the only other female. Between two stout and trustworthy men the wounded Roger came. Then one after another the rest of the men-at-arms and servants, five-and-twenty in number. The last of the file was Hubert, with a lamp; the others had to move in darkness. There had been no horse of any value in the castle, for the knight’s charger had been mortally hurt in his last expedition, and there had been no opportunity of procuring another. A deerhound, however, pushed and scrambled to the front, and Sigbert observed that he might be of great use in running before them. Before entering, however, Sigbert gave the caution that no word nor cry must be uttered aloud, hap what might, until permission was given, for they would pass under the Saracen camp, and there was no knowing whether the sounds would reach the ears above ground.
A strange plunge it was into the utter darkness, crawling on hands and knees, with the chill cavernous gloom and rock seeming to press in upon those who slowly crept along, the dim light of Sigbert’s lamp barely showing as he slowly moved on before. One of the two in the rear was dropped and extinguished in the dismal passage, a loss proclaimed by a suppressed groan passing along the line, and a louder exclamation from Walter, causing Sigbert to utter a sharp ‘Hush!’ enforced by a thud and tramp above, as if the rock were coming down on them, but which probably was the trampling of horses in the camp above.
The smoke of the lamp in front drifted back, and the air was more and more oppressive. Mabel, with set teeth and compressed lips, struggled on, clinging tight to the end of the cord which Sigbert had tied to his body for her to hold by, while in like manner Walter’s hand was upon her dress. It became more and more difficult to breathe, or crawl on, till at last, just as there was a sense that it was unbearable, and that it would be easier to lie still and die than be dragged an inch farther, the air became freer, the roof seemed to be farther away, the cavern wider, and the motion freer.
Sigbert helped his young lady to stand upright, and one by one all the train regained their feet. The lamp was passed along to be rekindled, speech was permitted, crevices above sometimes admitted air, sometimes dripped with water. The worst was over—probably the first part had been excavated, the farther portion was one of the many natural ‘dens and caves of the earth,’ in which Palestine abounds. There was still a considerable distance to be traversed, the lamps burnt out, and had to be succeeded by torches carefully husbanded, for the way was rough and rocky, and a stumble might end in a fall into an abyss. In time, however, openings of side galleries were seen, niches in the wall, and tokens that the outer portion of the cavern had been once a burial-place of the ancient Israelites—‘the dog Jews,’ as the Crusaders called them, with a shudder of loathing and contempt.
And joy infinite—clear daylight and a waving tree were perceptible beyond. It was daylight, was it? but the sun was low. Five hours at least had been spent in that dismal transit, before the exhausted, soiled, and chilled company stepped forth into a green thicket with the Jordan rushing far below. Five weeks’ siege in a narrow fortress, then the two miles of subterranean struggle—these might well make the grass beneath the wild sycamore, the cork-tree, the long reeds, the willows, above all, the sound of the flowing water, absolute ecstasy. There was an instant rush for the river, impeded by many a thorn-bush and creeper; but almost anything green was welcome at the moment, and the only disappointment was at the height and steepness of the banks of rock. However, at last one happy man found a place where it was possible to climb down to the shingly bed of the river, close to a great mass of the branching headed papyrus reed. Into the muddy but eminently sweet water most of them waded; helmets became cups, hands scooped up the water, there were gasps of joy and refreshment and blessing on the cool wave so long needed.
Sigbert and Walter between them helped down Mabel and her nurse, and found a secure spot for them, where weary faces, feet, and hands might be laved in the pool beneath a rock.
Then, taking up a bow and arrows laid down by one of the men, Sigbert applied himself to the endeavour to shoot some of the water-fowl which were flying wildly about over the reeds in the unwonted disturbance caused by the bathers. He brought down two or three of the duck kind, and another of the party had bethought him of angling with a string and one of the only too numerous insects, and had caught sundry of the unsuspecting and excellent fish. He had also carefully preserved a little fire, and, setting his boy to collect fuel, he produced embers enough to cook both fish and birds sufficiently to form an appetising meal for those who had been reduced to scraps of salt food for full a fortnight.
“All is well so far,” said Walter, with his little lordly air. “We have arranged our retreat with great skill. The only regret is that I have been forced to leave the castle to the enemy! the castle we were bound to defend.”
“Nay, sir, if it be your will,” said Sigbert, “the tables might yet be turned on the Saracen.”
With great eagerness Walter asked how this could be, and Sigbert reminded him that many a time it had been observed from the tower that, though the Saracens kept careful watch on the gates of the besieged so as to prevent a sally, they left the rear of their camp absolutely undefended, after the ordinary Eastern fashion, and Sigbert, with some dim recollection of rhymed chronicles of Gideon and of Jonathan, believed that these enemies might be surprised after the same fashion as theirs. Walter leapt up for joy, but Sigbert had to remind him that the sun was scarcely set, and that time must be given for the Saracens to fall asleep before the attack; besides that, his own men needed repose.
“There is all the distance to be traversed,” said Walter.
“Barely a league, sir.”
It was hard to believe that the space, so endless underground, was so short above, and Walter was utterly incredulous, till, climbing the side of the ravine so high as to be above the trees, Sigbert showed him the familiar landmarks known in hunting excursions with his father. He was all eagerness; but Sigbert insisted on waiting till past midnight before moving, that the men might have time to regain their vigour by sleep, and also that there might be time for the Saracens to fall into the deepest of all slumbers in full security.
The moon was low in the West when Sigbert roused the party, having calculated that it would light them on the way, but would be set by the time the attack was to be made.
For Mabel’s security it was arranged that a small and most unwilling guard should remain with her, near enough to be able to perceive how matters went; and if there appeared to be defeat and danger for her brother, there would probably be full time to reach Tiberias even on foot.
However, the men of the party had little fear that flight would be needed, for, though perhaps no one would have thought of the scheme for himself, there was a general sense that what Sigbert devised was prudent, and that he would not imperil his young lord and lady upon a desperate venture.
Keeping well and compactly together, the little band moved on, along arid, rocky paths, starting now and then at the howls of the jackals which gradually gathered into a pack, and began to follow, as if—some one whispered—they scented prey, “On whom?” was the question.
On a cliff looking down on the Arab camp, and above it on the dark mass of the castle, where, in the watch-tower, Sigbert had left a lamp burning, they halted just as the half-moon was dipping below the heights towards the Mediterranean. Here the Lady Mabel and her guard were to wait until they heard the sounds which to their practised ears would show how the fight went.
The Arab shout of victory they knew only too well, and it was to be the signal of flight towards Tiberias; but if success was with the assailants, the war-cry ‘Deus vult,’ and ‘St. Hubert for Hundberg,’ were to be followed by the hymn of victory as the token that it was safe to descend.
All was dark, save for the magnificent stars of an Eastern night, as Mabel, her nurse, and the five men, commanded by the wounded Roger, stood silently praying while listening intently to the muffled tramp of their own people, descending on the blacker mass denoting the Saracen tents.
The sounds of feet died away, only the jackal’s whine and moan, were heard. Then suddenly came a flash of lights in different directions, and shouts here, there, everywhere, cries, yells, darkness, an undistinguishable medley of noise, the shrill shriek of the Moslem, and the exulting war-cry of the Christian ringing farther and farther off, in the long valley leading towards the Jordan fords.
Dawn began to break—overthrown tents could be seen. Mabel had time to wonder whether she was forgotten, when the hymn began to sound, pealing on her ears up the pass, and she had not had time for more than an earnest thanksgiving, and a few steps down the rocky pathway, before a horse’s tread was heard, and a man-at-arms came towards her leading a slender, beautiful Arab horse. “All well! the young lord and all. The Saracens, surprised, fled without ever guessing the number of their foes. The Sheik made prisoner in his tent. Ay, and a greater still, the Emir Hussein Bey, who had arrived to take possession of the castle only that very evening. What a ransom he would pay! Horses and all were taken, the spoil of the country round, and Master Sigbert had sent this palfrey for Lady Mabel to ride down.”
Perhaps Sigbert, in all his haste and occupation, had been able to discern that the gentle little mare was not likely to display the Arab steed’s perilous attachment to a master, for Mabel was safely mounted, and ere sunrise was greeted by her joyous and victorious brother. “Is not this noble, sister? Down went the Pagan dogs before my good sword! There are a score of them dragged off to the dead man’s hollow for the jackals and vultures; but I kept one fellow uppermost to show you the gash I made! Come and see.”
Roger here observed that the horse might grow restive at the carcase, and Mabel was excused the sight, though Walter continued to relate his exploits, and demand whether he had not won his spurs by so grand a ruse and victory.
“Truly I think Sigbert has,” said his sister. “It was all his doing.”
“Sigbert, an English churl! What are you thinking of, Mabel?”
“I am thinking to whom the honour is due.”
“You are a mere child, sister, or you would know better. Sigbert is a very fair squire; but what is a squire’s business but to put his master in the way of honour? Do not talk such folly.”
Mabel was silenced, and after being conducted across the bare trampled ground among the tents of the Arabs, she re-entered the castle, where in the court groups of disarmed Arabs stood, their bournouses pulled over their brows, their long lances heaped in a corner, grim and disconsolate at their discomfiture and captivity.
A repast of stewed kid, fruit, and sherbet was prepared for her and her brother from the spoil, after which both were weary enough to throw themselves on their cushions for a long sound sleep.
Mabel slept the longer, and when she awoke, she found that the sun was setting, and that supper was nearly ready.
Walter met her just as she had arranged her dress, to bid nurse make ready her bales, for they were to start at dawn on the morrow for Tiberias. It was quite possible that the enemy might return in force to deliver their Emir. A small garrison, freshly provisioned, could hold out the castle until relief could be sent; but it would be best to conduct the two important prisoners direct to the King, to say nothing of Walter’s desire to present them and to display these testimonies of his prowess before the Court of Jerusalem.
The Emir was a tall, slim, courteous Arab, with the exquisite manners of the desert. Both he and the Sheik were invited to the meal. Both looked startled and shocked at the entrance of the fair-haired damsel, and the Sheik crouched in a corner, with a savage glare in his eye like a freshly caught wild beast, though the Emir sat cross-legged on the couch eating, and talking in thelingua Franca, which was almost a native tongue, to the son and daughter of the Crusader. From him Walter learnt that King Fulk was probably at Tiberias, and this quickened the eagerness of all for a start. It took place in the earliest morning, so as to avoid the heat of the day. How different from the departure in the dark underground passage!
Horses enough had been captured to afford the Emir and the Sheik each his own beautiful steed (the more readily that the creatures could hardly have been ridden by any one else), and their parole was trusted not to attempt to escape. Walter, Mabel, Sigbert, and Roger were also mounted, and asses were found in the camp for the nurse, and the men who had been hurt in the night’s surprise.
The only mischance on the way was that in the noontide halt, just as the shimmer of the Lake of Galilee met their eyes, under a huge terebinth-tree, growing on a rock, when all, except Sigbert, had composed themselves to a siesta, there was a sudden sound of loud and angry altercation, and, as the sleepers started up, the Emir was seen grasping the bridle of the horse on which the Sheik sat downcast and abject under the storm of fierce indignant words hurled at him for thus degrading his tribe and all Islam by breaking his plighted word to the Christian.
This was in Arabic, and the Emir further insisted on his prostrating himself to ask pardon, while he himself inlingua Francaexplained that the man was of a low and savage tribe of Bedouins, who knew not how to keep faith.
Walter broke out in loud threats, declaring that the traitor dog ought to be hung up at once on the tree, or dragged along with hands tied behind him; but Sigbert contented himself with placing a man at each side of his horse’s head, as they proceeded on their way to the strongly fortified town of the ancient Herods, perched at the head of the dark gray Lake of Galilee, shut in by mountain peaks. The second part of the journey was necessarily begun in glowing heat, for it was most undesirable to have to spend a night in the open country, and it was needful to push on to a fortified hospice or monastery of St. John, which formed a half-way house.
Weary, dusty, athirst, they came in sight of it in the evening; and Walter and Roger rode forward to request admittance. The porter begged them to wait when he heard that the party included women and Saracen prisoners; and Walter began to storm. However, a few moments more brought a tall old Knight Hospitalier to the gate, and he made no difficulties as to lodging the Saracens in a building at the end of the Court, where they could be well guarded; and Mabel and her nurse were received in a part of the precincts appropriated to female pilgrims.
It was a bare and empty place, a round turret over the gateway, with a stone floor, and a few mats rolled up in the corner, mats which former pilgrims had not left in an inviting condition.
However, the notions of comfort of the twelfth century were not exacting. Water to wash away the dust of travel was brought to the door, and was followed by a substantial meal on roasted kid and thin cakes of bread. Sigbert came up with permission for the women to attend compline, though only strictly veiled; and Mabel knelt in the little cool cryptlike chapel, almost like the late place of her escape, and returned thanks for the deliverance from their recent peril.