“Madam,” she said to the Queen, “lose not another word in speaking, but save life–if, indeed,” she added, her voice choking as she said it, “life may yet be saved.”
“It may, it may,” answered the Lady Calista. “I have just heard that he has been brought before the King. It is not yet over –but,” she added, bursting into a vehement flood of weeping, in which personal apprehensions had some share, “it will soon, unless some course be taken.”
“I will vow a golden candlestick to the Holy Sepulchre, a shrine of silver to our Lady of Engaddi, a pall, worth one hundred byzants, to Saint Thomas of Orthez,” said the Queen in extremity.
“Up, up, madam!” said Edith; “call on the saints if you list, but be your own best saint.”
“Indeed, madam,” said the terrified attendant, “the Lady Edith speaks truth. Up, madam, and let us to King Richard’s tent and beg the poor gentleman’s life.”
“I will go–I will go instantly,” said the Queen, rising and trembling excessively; while her women, in as great confusion as herself, were unable to render her those duties which were indispensable to her levee. Calm, composed, only pale as death, Edith ministered to the Queen with her own hand, and alone supplied the deficiencies of her numerous attendants.
“How you wait, wenches!” said the Queen, not able even then to forget frivolous distinctions. “Suffer ye the Lady Edith to do the duties of your attendance? Seest thou, Edith, they can do nothing; I shall never be attired in time. We will send for the Archbishop of Tyre, and employ him as a mediator.”
“Oh, no, no!” exclaimed Edith. “Go yourself madam; you have done the evil, do you confer the remedy.”
“I will go–I will go,” said the Queen; “but if Richard be in his mood, I dare not speak to him–he will kill me!”
“Yet go, gracious madam,” said the Lady Calista, who best knew her mistress’s temper; “not a lion, in his fury, could look upon such a face and form, and retain so much as an angry thought, far less a love-true knight like the royal Richard, to whom your slightest word would be a command.”
“Dost thou think so, Calista?” said the Queen. “Ah, thou little knowest yet I will go. But see you here, what means this? You have bedizened me in green, a colour he detests. Lo you! let me have a blue robe, and–search for the ruby carcanet, which was part of the King of Cyprus’s ransom; it is either in the steel casket, or somewhere else.”
“This, and a man’s life at stake!” said Edith indignantly; “it passes human patience. Remain at your ease, madam; I will go to King Richard. I am a party interested. I will know if the honour of a poor maiden of his blood is to be so far tampered with that her name shall be abused to train a brave gentleman from his duty, bring him within the compass of death and infamy, and make, at the same time, the glory of England a laughing-stock to the whole Christian army.”
At this unexpected burst of passion, Berengaria listened with an almost stupefied look of fear and wonder. But as Edith was about to leave the tent, she exclaimed, though faintly, “Stop her, stop her!”
“You must indeed stop, noble Lady Edith,” said Calista, taking her arm gently; “and you, royal madam, I am sure, will go, and without further dallying. If the Lady Edith goes alone to the King, he will be dreadfully incensed, nor will it be one life that will stay his fury.”
“I will go–I will go,” said the Queen, yielding to necessity; and Edith reluctantly halted to wait her movements.
They were now as speedy as she could have desired. The Queen hastily wrapped herself in a large loose mantle, which covered all inaccuracies of the toilet. In this guise, attended by Edith and her women, and preceded and followed by a few officers and men-at-arms, she hastened to the tent of her lionlike husband.
CHAPTER XVII.
Were every hair upon his head a life, And every life were to be supplicated
By numbers equal to those hairs quadrupled, Life after life should out like waning stars Before the daybreak–or as festive lamps, Which have lent lustre to the midnight revel, Each after each are quench’d when guests depart! OLD PLAY
The entrance of Queen Berengaria into the interior of Richard’s pavilion was withstood–in the most respectful and reverential manner indeed, but still withstood–by the chamberlains who watched in the outer tent. She could hear the stern command of the King from within, prohibiting their entrance.
“You see,” said the Queen, appealing to Edith, as if she had exhausted all means of intercession in her power; “I knew it–the King will not receive us.”
At the same time, they heard Richard speak to some one within: –“Go, speed thine office quickly, sirrah, for in that consists thy mercy–ten byzants if thou dealest on him at one blow. And hark thee, villain, observe if his cheek loses colour, or his eye falters; mark me the smallest twitch of the features, or wink of the eyelid. I love to know how brave souls meet death.”
“If he sees my blade waved aloft without shrinking, he is the first ever did so,” answered a harsh, deep voice, which a sense of unusual awe had softened into a sound much lower than its usual coarse tones.
Edith could remain silent no longer. “If your Grace,” she said to the Queen, “make not your own way, I make it for you; or if not for your Majesty, for myself at least.–Chamberlain, the Queen demands to see King Richard–the wife to speak with her husband.”
“Noble lady,” said the officer, lowering his wand of office, “it grieves me to gainsay you, but his Majesty is busied on matters of life and death.”
“And we seek also to speak with him on matters of life and death,” said Edith. “I will make entrance for your Grace.” And putting aside the chamberlain with one hand, she laid hold on the curtain with the other.
“I dare not gainsay her Majesty’s pleasure,” said the chamberlain, yielding to the vehemence of the fair petitioner; and as he gave way, the Queen found herself obliged to enter the apartment of Richard.
The Monarch was lying on his couch, and at some distance, as awaiting his further commands, stood a man whose profession it was not difficult to conjecture. He was clothed in a jerkin of red cloth, which reached scantly below the shoulders, leaving the arms bare from about half way above the elbow; and as an upper garment, he wore, when about as at present to betake himself to his dreadful office, a coat or tabard without sleeves, something like that of a herald, made of dressed bull’s hide, and stained in the front with many a broad spot and speckle of dull crimson. The jerkin, and the tabard over it, reached the knee; and the nether stocks, or covering of the legs, were of the same leather which composed the tabard. A cap of rough shag served to hide the upper part of a visage which, like that of a screech owl, seemed desirous to conceal itself from light, the lower part of the face being obscured by a huge red beard, mingling with shaggy locks of the same colour. What features were seen were stern and misanthropical. The man’s figure was short, strongly made, with a neck like a bull, very broad shoulders, arms of great and disproportioned length, a huge square trunk, and thick bandy legs. This truculent official leant on a sword, the blade of which was nearly four feet and a half in length, while the handle of twenty inches, surrounded by a ring of lead plummets to counterpoise the weight of such a blade, rose considerably above the man’s head as he rested his arm upon its hilt, waiting for King Richard’s further directions.
On the sudden entrance of the ladies, Richard, who was then lying on his couch with his face towards the entrance, and resting on his elbow as he spoke to his grisly attendant, flung himself hastily, as if displeased and surprised, to the other side, turning his back to the Queen and the females of her train, and drawing around him the covering of his couch, which, by his own choice, or more probably the flattering selection of his chamberlains, consisted of two large lions’ skins, dressed in Venice with such admirable skill that they seemed softer than the hide of the deer.
Berengaria, such as we have described her, knew well–what woman knows not?–her own road to victory. After a hurried glance of undisguised and unaffected terror at the ghastly companion of her husband’s secret counsels, she rushed at once to the side of Richard’s couch, dropped on her knees, flung her mantle from her shoulders, showing, as they hung down at their full length, her beautiful golden tresses, and while her countenance seemed like the sun bursting through a cloud, yet bearing on its pallid front traces that its splendours have been obscured, she seized upon the right hand of the King, which, as he assumed his wonted posture, had been employed in dragging the covering of his couch, and gradually pulling it to her with a force which was resisted, though but faintly, she possessed herself of that arm, the prop of Christendom and the dread of Heathenesse, and imprisoning its strength in both her little fairy hands, she bent upon it her brow, and united to it her lips.
“What needs this, Berengaria?” said Richard, his head still averted, but his hand remaining under her control.
“Send away that man, his look kills me!” muttered Berengaria.
“Begone, sirrah,” said Richard, still without looking round, “What wait’st thou for? art thou fit to look on these ladies?”
“Your Highness’s pleasure touching the head,” said the man.
“Out with thee, dog!” answered Richard–“a Christian burial!” The man disappeared, after casting a look upon the beautiful Queen, in her deranged dress and natural loveliness, with a smile of admiration more hideous in its expression than even his usual scowl of cynical hatred against humanity.
“And now, foolish wench, what wishest thou?” said Richard, turning slowly and half reluctantly round to his royal suppliant.
But it was not in nature for any one, far less an admirer of beauty like Richard, to whom it stood only in the second rank to glory, to look without emotion on the countenance and the tremor of a creature so beautiful as Berengaria, or to feel, without sympathy, that her lips, her brow, were on his hand, and that it was wetted by her tears. By degrees, he turned on her his manly countenance, with the softest expression of which his large blue eye, which so often gleamed with insufferable light, was capable. Caressing her fair head, and mingling his large fingers in her beautiful and dishevelled locks, he raised and tenderly kissed the cherub countenance which seemed desirous to hide itself in his hand. The robust form, the broad, noble brow and majestic looks, the naked arm and shoulder, the lions’ skins among which he lay, and the fair, fragile feminine creature that kneeled by his side, might have served for a model of Hercules reconciling himself, after a quarrel, to his wife Dejanira.
“And, once more, what seeks the lady of my heart in her knight’s pavilion at this early and unwonted hour?”
“Pardon, my most gracious liege–pardon!” said the Queen, whose fears began again to unfit her for the duty of intercessor.
“Pardon–for what?” asked the King.
“First, for entering your royal presence too boldly and unadvisedly–“
She stopped.
“THOU too boldly!–the sun might as well ask pardon because his rays entered the windows of some wretch’s dungeon. But I was busied with work unfit for thee to witness, my gentle one; and I was unwilling, besides, that thou shouldst risk thy precious health where sickness had been so lately rife.”
“But thou art now well?” said the Queen, still delaying the communication which she feared to make.
“Well enough to break a lance on the bold crest of that champion who shall refuse to acknowledge thee the fairest dame in Christendom.”
“Thou wilt not then refuse me one boon–only one–only a poor life?”
“Ha!–proceed,” said King Richard, bending his brows.
“This unhappy Scottish knight–” murmured the Queen.
“Speak not of him, madam,” exclaimed Richard sternly; “he dies –his doom is fixed.”
“Nay, my royal liege and love, ’tis but a silken banner neglected. Berengaria will give thee another broidered with her own hand, and rich as ever dallied with the wind. Every pearl I have shall go to bedeck it, and with every pearl I will drop a tear of thankfulness to my generous knight.”
“Thou knowest not what thou sayest,” said the King, interrupting her in anger. “Pearls! can all the pearls of the East atone for a speck upon England’s honour–all the tears that ever woman’s eye wept wash away a stain on Richard’s fame? Go to, madam, know your place, and your time, and your sphere. At present we have duties in which you cannot be our partner.”
“Thou hearest, Edith,” whispered the Queen; “we shall but incense him.”
“Be it so,” said Edith, stepping forward.–“My lord, I, your poor kinswoman, crave you for justice rather than mercy; and to the cry of justice the ears of a monarch should be open at every time, place, and circumstance.”
“Ha! our cousin Edith?” said Richard, rising and sitting upright on the side of his couch, covered with his long camiscia. “She speaks ever kinglike, and kinglike will I answer her, so she bring no request unworthy herself or me.”
The beauty of Edith was of a more intellectual and less voluptuous cast than that of the Queen; but impatience and anxiety had given her countenance a glow which it sometimes wanted, and her mien had a character of energetic dignity that imposed silence for a moment even on Richard himself, who, to judge by his looks, would willingly have interrupted her.
“My lord,” she said, “this good knight, whose blood you are about to spill, hath done, in his time, service to Christendom. He has fallen from his duty through a snare set for him in mere folly and idleness of spirit. A message sent to him in the name of one who–why should I not speak it?–it was in my own–induced him for an instant to leave his post. And what knight in the Christian camp might not have thus far transgressed at command of a maiden, who, poor howsoever in other qualities, hath yet the blood of Plantagenet in her veins?”
“And you saw him, then, cousin?” replied the King, biting his lips to keep down his passion.
“I did, my liege,” said Edith. “It is no time to explain wherefore. I am here neither to exculpate myself nor to blame others.”
“And where did you do him such a grace?”
“In the tent of her Majesty the Queen.”
“Of our royal consort!” said Richard. “Now by Heaven, by Saint George of England, and every other saint that treads its crystal floor, this is too audacious! I have noticed and overlooked this warrior’s insolent admiration of one so far above him, and I grudged him not that one of my blood should shed from her high-born sphere such influence as the sun bestows on the world
beneath. But, heaven and earth! that you should have admitted him to an audience by night, in the very tent of our royal consort!–and dare to offer this as an excuse for his disobedience and desertion! By my father’s soul, Edith, thou shalt rue this thy life long in a monastery!”
“My liege,” said Edith, “your greatness licenses tyranny. My honour, Lord King, is as little touched as yours, and my Lady the Queen can prove it if she think fit. But I have already said I am not here to excuse myself or inculpate others. I ask you but to extend to one, whose fault was committed under strong temptation, that mercy, which even you yourself, Lord King, must one day supplicate at a higher tribunal, and for faults, perhaps, less venial.”
“Can this be Edith Plantagenet?” said the King bitterly–“Edith Plantagenet, the wise and the noble? Or is it some lovesick woman who cares not for her own fame in comparison of the life of her paramour? Now, by King Henry’s soul! little hinders but I order thy minion’s skull to be brought from the gibbet, and fixed as a perpetual ornament by the crucifix in thy cell!”
“And if thou dost send it from the gibbet to be placed for ever in my sight,” said Edith, “I will say it is a relic of a good knight, cruelly and unworthily done to death by” (she checked herself)–“by one of whom I shall only say, he should have known better how to reward chivalry. Minion callest thou him?” she continued, with increasing vehemence. “He was indeed my lover, and a most true one; but never sought he grace from me by look or word–contented with such humble observance as men pay to the saints. And the good–the valiant–the faithful must die for this!”
“Oh, peace, peace, for pity’s sake,” whispered the Queen, “you do but offend him more!”
“I care not,” said Edith; “the spotless virgin fears not the raging lion. Let him work his will on this worthy knight. Edith, for whom he dies, will know how to weep his memory. To me no one shall speak more of politic alliances to be sanctioned with this poor hand. I could not–I would not –have been his bride living–our degrees were too distant. But death unites the high and the low–I am henceforward the spouse of the grave.”
The King was about to answer with much anger, when a Carmelite monk entered the apartment hastily, his head and person muffled in the long mantle and hood of striped cloth of the coarsest texture which distinguished his order, and, flinging himself on his knees before the King, conjured him, by every holy word and sign, to stop the execution.
“Now, by both sword and sceptre,” said Richard, “the world is leagued to drive me mad!–fools, women, and monks cross me at every step. How comes he to live still?”
“My gracious liege,” said the monk, “I entreated of the Lord of Gilsland to stay the execution until I had thrown myself at your royal–“
“And he was wilful enough to grant thy request,” said the King; “but it is of a piece with his wonted obstinacy. And what is it
thou hast to say? Speak, in the fiend’s name!”
“My lord, there is a weighty secret, but it rests under the seal of confession. I dare not tell or even whisper it; but I swear to thee by my holy order, by the habit which I wear, by the blessed Elias, our founder, even him who was translated without suffering the ordinary pangs of mortality, that this youth hath divulged to me a secret, which, if I might confide it to thee, would utterly turn thee from thy bloody purpose in regard to him.”
“Good father,” said Richard, “that I reverence the church, let the arms which I now wear for her sake bear witness. Give me to know this secret, and I will do what shall seem fitting in the matter. But I am no blind Bayard, to take a leap in the dark under the stroke of a pair of priestly spurs.”
“My lord,” said the holy man, throwing back his cowl and upper vesture, and discovering under the latter a garment of goatskin, and from beneath the former a visage so wildly wasted by climate, fast, and penance, as to resemble rather the apparition of an animated skeleton than a human face, “for twenty years have I macerated this miserable body in the caverns of Engaddi, doing penance for a great crime. Think you I, who am dead to the world, would contrive a falsehood to endanger my own soul; or that one, bound by the most sacred oaths to the contrary–one such as I, who have but one longing wish connected with earth, to wit, the rebuilding of our Christian Zion–would betray the secrets of the confessional? Both are alike abhorrent to my very soul.”
“So,” answered the King, “thou art that hermit of whom men speak so much? Thou art, I confess, like enough to those spirits which walk in dry places; but Richard fears no hobgoblins. And thou art he, too, as I bethink me, to whom the Christian princes sent this very criminal to open a communication with the Soldan, even while I, who ought to have been first consulted, lay on my sick-bed? Thou and they may content themselves–I will not put my
neck into the loop of a Carmelite’s girdle. And, for your envoy, he shall die the rather and the sooner that thou dost entreat for him.”
“Now God be gracious to thee, Lord King!” said the hermit, with much emotion; “thou art setting that mischief on foot which thou wilt hereafter wish thou hadst stopped, though it had cost thee a limb. Rash, blinded man, yet forbear!”
“Away, away,” cried the King, stamping; “the sun has risen on the dishonour of England, and it is not yet avenged.–Ladies and priest, withdraw, if you would not hear orders which would displease you; for, by St. George, I swear–“
“Swear NOT!” said the voice of one who had just then entered the pavilion.
“Ha! my learned Hakim,” said the King, “come, I hope, to tax our generosity.”
“I come to request instant speech with you–instant–and touching matters of deep interest.”
“First look on my wife, Hakim, and let her know in you the preserver of her husband.”
“It is not for me,” said the physician, folding his arms with an air of Oriental modesty and reverence, and bending his eyes on the ground–“it is not for me to look upon beauty unveiled, and armed in its splendours.”
“Retire, then, Berengaria,” said the Monarch; “and, Edith, do you retire also;–nay, renew not your importunities! This I give to them that the execution shall not be till high noon. Go and be pacified–dearest Berengaria, begone.–Edith,” he added, with a glance which struck terror even into the courageous soul of his kinswoman, “go, if you are wise.”
The females withdrew, or rather hurried from the tent, rank and ceremony forgotten, much like a flock of wild-fowl huddled together, against whom the falcon has made a recent stoop.
They returned from thence to the Queen’s pavilion to indulge in regrets and recriminations, equally unavailing. Edith was the only one who seemed to disdain these ordinary channels of sorrow. Without a sigh, without a tear, without a word of upbraiding, she attended upon the Queen, whose weak temperament showed her sorrow in violent hysterical ecstasies and passionate hypochondriacal effusions, in the course of which Edith sedulously and even affectionately attended her.
“It is impossible she can have loved this knight,” said Florise to Calista, her senior in attendance upon the Queen’s person. “We have been mistaken; she is but sorry for his fate, as for a stranger who has come to trouble on her account.”
“Hush, hush,” answered her more experienced and more observant comrade; “she is of that proud house of Plantagenet who never own that a hurt grieves them. While they have themselves been bleeding to death, under a mortal wound, they have been known to bind up the scratches sustained by their more faint-hearted comrades. Florise, we have done frightfully wrong, and, for my own part, I would buy with every jewel I have that our fatal jest had remained unacted.”
CHAPTER XVIII.
This work desires a planetary intelligence Of Jupiter and Sol; and those great spirits Are proud, fantastical. It asks great charges To entice them from the guiding of their spheres, To wait on mortals. ALBUMAZAR.
The hermit followed the ladies from the pavilion of Richard, as shadow follows a beam of sunshine when the clouds are driving over the face of the sun. But he turned on the threshold, and held up his hand towards the King in a warning, or almost a menacing posture, as he said, “Woe to him who rejects the counsel of the church, and betaketh himself to the foul divan of the infidel! King Richard, I do not yet shake the dust from my feet and depart from thy encampment; the sword falls not–but it hangs but by a hair. Haughty monarch, we shall meet again.”
“Be it so, haughty priest,” returned Richard, “prouder in thy goatskins than princes in purple and fine linen.”
The hermit vanished from the tent, and the King continued, addressing the Arabian, “Do the dervises of the East, wise Hakim, use such familiarity with their princes?”
“The dervise,” replied Adonbec, “should be either a sage or a madman; there is no middle course for him who wears the khirkhah, [Literally, the torn robe. The habit of the dervises is so called.] who watches by night, and fasts by day. Hence hath he either wisdom enough to bear himself discreetly in the presence of princes; or else, having no reason bestowed on him, he is not responsible for his own actions.”
“Methinks our monks have adopted chiefly the latter character,” said Richard. “But to the matter. In what can I pleasure you, my learned physician?”
“Great King,” said El Hakim, making his profound Oriental obeisance, “let thy servant speak one word, and yet live. I would remind thee that thou owest–not to me, their humble instrument–but to the Intelligences, whose benefits I dispense to mortals, a life–“
“And I warrant me thou wouldst have another in requital, ha?” interrupted the King.
“Such is my humble prayer,” said the Hakim, “to the great Melech Ric–even the life of this good knight, who is doomed to die, and but for such fault as was committed by the Sultan Adam, surnamed Aboulbeschar, or the father of all men.”
“And thy wisdom might remind thee, Hakim, that Adam died for it,” said the King, somewhat sternly, and then began to pace the narrow space of his tent with some emotion, and to talk to himself. “Why, God-a-mercy, I knew what he desired as soon as ever he entered the pavilion! Here is one poor life justly condemned to extinction, and I, a king and a soldier, who have slain thousands by my command, and scores with my own hand, am to have no power over it, although the honour of my arms, of my house, of my very Queen, hath been attainted by the culprit. By Saint George, it makes me laugh! By Saint Louis, it reminds me of Blondel’s tale of an enchanted castle, where the destined knight was withstood successively in his purpose of entrance by forms and figures the most dissimilar, but all hostile to his undertaking! No sooner one sunk than another appeared! Wife –kinswoman–hermit–Hakim-each appears in the lists as soon as the other is defeated! Why, this is a single knight fighting against the whole MELEE of the tournament–ha! ha! ha!” And Richard laughed aloud; for he had, in fact, begun to change his mood, his resentment being usually too violent to be of long endurance.
The physician meanwhile looked on him with a countenance of surprise, not unmingled with contempt; for the Eastern people make no allowance for these mercurial changes in the temper, and consider open laughter, upon almost any account, as derogatory to the dignity of man, and becoming only to women and children. At length the sage addressed the King when he saw him more composed:–
“A doom of death should not issue from laughing lips. Let thy servant hope that thou hast granted him this man’s life.”
“Take the freedom of a thousand captives instead,” said Richard; “restore so many of thy countrymen to their tents and families, and I will give the warrant instantly. This man’s life can avail thee nothing, and it is forfeited.”
“All our lives are forfeited,” said the Hakim, putting his hand to his cap. “But the great Creditor is merciful, and exacts not the pledge rigorously nor untimely.”
“Thou canst show me,” said Richard, “no special interest thou hast to become intercessor betwixt me and the execution of justice, to which I am sworn as a crowned king.”
“Thou art sworn to the dealing forth mercy as well as justice,” said El Hakim; “but what thou seekest, great King, is the execution of thine own will. And for the concern I have in this request, know that many a man’s life depends upon thy granting this boon.”
“Explain thy words,” said Richard; “but think not to impose upon me by false pretexts.”
“Be it far from thy servant!” said Adonbec. “Know, then, that the medicine to which thou, Sir King, and many one besides, owe their recovery, is a talisman, composed under certain aspects of the heavens, when the Divine Intelligences are most propitious. I am but the poor administrator of its virtues. I dip it in a cup of water, observe the fitting hour to administer it to the patient, and the potency of the draught works the cure.”
“A most rare medicine,” said the King, “and a commodious! and, as it may be carried in the leech’s purse, would save the whole caravan of camels which they require to convey drugs and physic stuff; I marvel there is any other in use.”
“It is written,” answered the Hakim, with imperturbable gravity, “‘Abuse not the steed which hath borne thee from the battle.’ Know that such talismans might indeed be framed, but rare has been the number of adepts who have dared to undertake the application of their virtue. Severe restrictions, painful observances, fasts, and penance, are necessary on the part of the sage who uses this mode of cure; and if, through neglect of these preparations, by his love of ease, or his indulgence of sensual appetite, he omits to cure at least twelve persons within the course of each moon, the virtue of the divine gift departs from the amulet, and both the last patient and the physician will be exposed to speedy misfortune, neither will they survive the year. I require yet one life to make up the appointed number.”
“Go out into the camp, good Hakim, where thou wilt find a-many,” said the King, “and do not seek to rob my headsman of HIS patients; it is unbecoming a mediciner of thine eminence to interfere with the practice of another. Besides, I cannot see how delivering a criminal from the death he deserves should go to make up thy tale of miraculous cures.”
“When thou canst show why a draught of cold water should have cured thee when the most precious drugs failed,” said the Hakim, “thou mayest reason on the other mysteries attendant on this matter. For myself, I am inefficient to the great work, having this morning touched an unclean animal. Ask, therefore, no further questions; it is enough that, by sparing this man’s life at my request, you will deliver yourself, great King, and thy servant, from a great danger.”
“Hark thee, Adonbec,” replied the King, “I have no objection that leeches should wrap their words in mist, and pretend to derive knowledge from the stars; but when you bid Richard Plantagenet fear that a danger will fall upon HIM from some idle omen, or omitted ceremonial, you speak to no ignorant Saxon, or doting old woman, who foregoes her purpose because a hare crosses the path, a raven croaks, or a cat sneezes.”
“I cannot hinder your doubt of my words,” said Adonbec; “but yet let my Lord the King grant that truth is on the tongue of his servant–will he think it just to deprive the world, and every wretch who may suffer by the pains which so lately reduced him to that couch, of the benefit of this most virtuous talisman, rather than extend his forgiveness to one poor criminal? Bethink you, Lord King, that, though thou canst slay thousands, thou canst not restore one man to health. Kings have the power of Satan to torment, sages that of Allah to heal–beware how thou hinderest the good to humanity which thou canst not thyself render. Thou canst cut off the head, but not cure the aching tooth.”
“This is over-insolent,” said the King, hardening himself, as the Hakim assumed a more lofty and almost a commanding tone. “We took thee for our leech, not for our counsellor or conscience-keeper.”
“And is it thus the most renowned Prince of Frangistan repays benefit done to his royal person?” said El Hakim, exchanging the humble and stooping posture in which he had hitherto solicited the King, for an attitude lofty and commanding. “Know, then,” he said, “that: through every court of Europe and Asia–to Moslem and Nazarene–to knight and lady–wherever harp is heard and sword worn –wherever honour is loved and infamy detested–to every quarter of the world–will I denounce thee, Melech Ric, as thankless and ungenerous; and even the lands–if there be any such–that never heard of thy renown shall yet be acquainted with thy shame!”
“Are these terms to me, vile infidel?” said Richard, striding up to him in fury. “Art weary of thy life?”
“Strike!” said El Hakim; “thine own deed shall then paint thee more worthless than could my words, though each had a hornet’s sting.”
Richard turned fiercely from him, folded his arms, traversed the tent as before, and then exclaimed, “Thankless and ungenerous! –as well be termed coward and infidel! Hakim, thou hast chosen thy boon; and though I had rather thou hadst asked my crown jewels, yet I may not, kinglike, refuse thee. Take this Scot, therefore, to thy keeping; the provost will deliver him to thee on this warrant.”
He hastily traced one or two lines, and gave them to the physician. “Use him as thy bond-slave, to be disposed of as thou wilt–only, let him beware how he comes before the eyes of Richard. Hark thee–thou art wise–he hath been over-bold among those in whose fair looks and weak judgments we trust our honour, as you of the East lodge your treasures in caskets of silver wire, as fine and as frail as the web of a gossamer.”
“Thy servant understands the words of the King,” said the sage, at once resuming the reverent style of address in which he had commenced. “When the rich carpet is soiled, the fool pointeth to the stain–the wise man covers it with his mantle. I have heard my lord’s pleasure, and to hear is to obey.”
“It is well,” said the King; “let him consult his own safety, and never appear in my presence more. Is there aught else in which I may do thee pleasure?”
“The bounty of the King hath filled my cup to the brim,” said the sage–” yea, it hath been abundant as the fountain which sprung up amid the camp of the descendants of Israel when the rock was stricken by the rod of Moussa Ben Amram.”
“Ay, but,” said the King, smiling, “it required, as in the desert, a hard blow on the rock ere it yielded its treasures. I would that I knew something to pleasure thee, which I might yield as freely as the natural fountain sends forth its waters.”
“Let me touch that victorious hand,” said the sage, “in token that if Adonbec el Hakim should hereafter demand a boon of Richard of England, he may do so, yet plead his command.”
“Thou hast hand and glove upon it, man,” replied Richard; “only, if thou couldst consistently make up thy tale of patients without craving me to deliver from punishment those who have deserved it, I would more willingly discharge my debt in some other form.”
“May thy days be multiplied!” answered the Hakim, and withdrew from the apartment after the usual deep obeisance.
King Richard gazed after him as he departed, like one but half-satisfied with what had passed.
“Strange pertinacity,” he said, “in this Hakim, and a wonderful chance to interfere between that audacious Scot and the chastisement he has merited so richly. Yet let him live! there is one brave man the more in the world. And now for the Austrian. Ho! is the Baron of Gilsland there without?”
Sir Thomas de Vaux thus summoned, his bulky form speedily darkened the opening of the pavilion, while behind him glided as a spectre, unannounced, yet unopposed, the savage form of the hermit of Engaddi, wrapped in his goatskin mantle.
Richard, without noticing his presence, called in a loud tone to the baron, “Sir Thomas de Vaux, of Lanercost and Gilsland, take trumpet and herald, and go instantly to the tent of him whom they call Archduke of Austria, and see that it be when the press of his knights and vassals is greatest around him, as is likely at this hour, for the German boar breakfasts ere he hears mass– enter his presence with as little reverence as thou mayest, and impeach him, on the part of Richard of England, that he hath this night, by his own hand, or that of others, stolen from its staff the Banner of England. Wherefore say to him our pleasure that within an hour from the time of my speaking he restore the said banner with all reverence–he himself and his principal barons waiting the whilst with heads uncovered, and without their robes of honour. And that, moreover, he pitch beside it, on the one hand, his own Banner of Austria reversed, as that which hath been dishonoured by theft and felony, and on the other, a lance, bearing the bloody head of him who was his nearest counsellor, or assistant, in this base injury. And say, that such our behests being punctually discharged we will, for the sake of our vow and the weal of the Holy Land, forgive his other forfeits.”
“And how if the Duke of Austria deny all accession to this act of wrong and of felony?” said Thomas de Vaux.
“Tell him,” replied the King, “we will prove it upon his body –ay, were he backed with his two bravest champions. Knightlike will we prove it, on foot or on horse, in the desert or in the field, time, place, and arms all at his own choice.”
“Bethink you of the peace of God and the church, my liege lord,” said the Baron of Gilsland, “among those princes engaged in this holy Crusade.”
“Bethink you how to execute my commands, my liege vassal,” answered Richard impatiently. “Methinks men expect to turn our purpose by their breath, as boys blow feathers to and fro. Peace of the church! Who, I prithee, minds it? The peace of the church, among Crusaders, implies war with the Saracens, with whom the princes have made truce; and the one ends with the other. And besides, see you not how every prince of them is seeking his own several ends? I will seek mine also–and that is honour. For honour I came hither; and if I may not win it upon the Saracens, at least I will not lose a jot from any respect to this paltry Duke, though he were bulwarked and buttressed by every prince in the Crusade.”
De Vaux turned to obey the King’s mandate, shrugging his shoulders at the same time, the bluntness of his nature being unable to conceal that its tenor went against his judgment. But the hermit of Engaddi stepped forward, and assumed the air of one charged with higher commands than those of a mere earthly potentate. Indeed, his dress of shaggy skins, his uncombed and untrimmed hair and beard, his lean, wild, and contorted features, and the almost insane fire which gleamed from under his bushy eyebrows, made him approach nearly to our idea of some seer of Scripture, who, charged with high mission to the sinful Kings of Judah or Israel, descended from the rocks and caverns in which he dwelt in abstracted solitude, to abash earthly tyrants in the midst of their pride, by discharging on them the blighting denunciations of Divine Majesty, even as the cloud discharges the lightnings with which it is fraught on the pinnacles and towers of castles and palaces. In the midst of his most wayward mood, Richard respected the church and its ministers; and though offended at the intrusion of the hermit into his tent, he greeted him with respect–at the same time, however, making a sign to Sir Thomas de Vaux to hasten on his message.
But the hermit prohibited the baron, by gesture, look, and word, to stir a yard on such an errand; and holding up his bare arm, from which the goatskin mantle fell back in the violence of his action, he waved it aloft, meagre with famine, and wealed with the blows of the discipline.
“In the name of God, and of the most holy Father, the vicegerent of the Christian Church upon earth, I prohibit this most profane, bloodthirsty, and brutal defiance betwixt two Christian princes, whose shoulders are signed with the blessed mark under which they swore brotherhood. Woe to him by whom it is broken!–Richard of England, recall the most unhallowed message thou hast given to that baron. Danger and death are nigh thee!–the dagger is glancing at thy very throat!–“
“Danger and death are playmates to Richard,” answered the Monarch proudly; “and he hath braved too many swords to fear a dagger.”
“Danger and death are near,” replied the seer, and sinking his voice to a hollow, unearthly tone, he added, “And after death the judgment!”
“Good and holy father,” said Richard, “I reverence thy person and thy sanctity–“
“Reverence not me!” interrupted the hermit; “reverence sooner the vilest insect that crawls by the shores of the Dead Sea, and feeds upon its accursed slime. But reverence Him whose commands I speak–reverence Him whose sepulchre you have vowed to rescue –revere the oath of concord which you have sworn, and break not the silver cord of union and fidelity with which you have bound yourself to your princely confederates.”
“Good father,” said the King, “you of the church seem to me to presume somewhat, if a layman may say so much, upon the dignity of your holy character. Without challenging your right to take charge of our conscience, methinks you might leave us the charge of our own honour.”
“Presume!” repeated the hermit. “Is it for me to presume, royal Richard, who am but the bell obeying the hand of the sexton–but the senseless and worthless trumpet carrying the command of him who sounds it? See, on my knees I throw myself before thee, imploring thee to have mercy on Christendom, on England, and on thyself!”
“Rise, rise,” said Richard, compelling him to stand up; “it beseems not that knees which are so frequently bended to the Deity should press the ground in honour of man. What danger awaits us, reverend father? and when stood the power of England so low that the noisy bluster of this new-made Duke’s displeasure should alarm her or her monarch?”
“I have looked forth from my mountain turret upon the starry host of heaven, as each in his midnight circuit uttered wisdom to another, and knowledge to the few who can understand their voice. There sits an enemy in thy House of Life, Lord King, malign at once to thy fame and thy prosperity–an emanation of Saturn, menacing thee with instant and bloody peril, and which, but thou yield thy proud will to the rule of thy duty, will presently crush thee even in thy pride.”
“Away, away–this is heathen science,” said the King. “Christians practise it not–wise men believe it not. Old man, thou dotest.”
“I dote not, Richard,” answered the hermit–“I am not so happy. I know my condition, and that some portion of reason is yet permitted me, not for my own use, but that of the Church and the advancement of the Cross. I am the blind man who holds a torch to others, though it yields no light to himself. Ask me touching what concerns the weal of Christendom, and of this Crusade, and I will speak with thee as the wisest counsellor on whose tongue persuasion ever sat. Speak to me of my own wretched being, and my words shall be those of the maniac outcast which I am.”
“I would not break the bands of unity asunder among the princes of the Crusade,” said Richard, with a mitigated tone and manner; “but what atonement can they render me for the injustice and insult which I have sustained?”
“Even of that I am prepared and commissioned to speak by the Council, which, meeting hastily at the summons of Philip of France, have taken measures for that effect.”
“Strange,” replied Richard, “that others should treat of what is due to the wounded majesty of England!”
“They are willing to anticipate your demands, if it be possible,” answered the hermit. “In a body, they consent that the Banner of England be replaced on Saint George’s Mount; and they lay under ban and condemnation the audacious criminal, or criminals, by whom it was outraged, and will announce a princely reward to any who shall denounce the delinquent’s guilt, and give his flesh to the wolves and ravens.”
“And Austria,” said Richard, “upon whom rest such strong presumptions that he was the author of the deed?”
“To prevent discord in the host,” replied the hermit, “Austria will clear himself of the suspicion by submitting to whatsoever ordeal the Patriarch of Jerusalem shall impose.”
“Will he clear himself by the trial by combat?” said King Richard.
“His oath prohibits it,” said the hermit; “and, moreover, the Council of the Princes–“
“Will neither authorize battle against the Saracens,” interrupted Richard, “nor against any one else. But it is enough, father– thou hast shown me the folly of proceeding as I designed in this matter. You shall sooner light your torch in a puddle of rain than bring a spark out of a cold-blooded coward. There is no honour to be gained on Austria, and so let him pass. I will have him perjure himself, however; I will insist on the ordeal. How I shall laugh to hear his clumsy fingers hiss, as he grasps the red-hot globe of iron! Ay, or his huge mouth riven, and his gullet swelling to suffocation, as he endeavours to swallow the consecrated bread!”
“Peace, Richard,” said the hermit–“oh, peace, for shame, if not for charity! Who shall praise or honour princes who insult and calumniate each other? Alas! that a creature so noble as thou art–so accomplished in princely thoughts and princely daring–so fitted to honour Christendom by thy actions, and, in thy calmer mood, to rule her by thy wisdom, should yet have the brute and wild fury of the lion mingled with the dignity and courage of that king of the forest!”
He remained an instant musing with his eyes fixed on the ground, and then proceeded–“But Heaven, that knows our imperfect nature, accepts of our imperfect obedience, and hath delayed, though not averted, the bloody end of thy daring life. The destroying angel hath stood still, as of old by the threshing-floor of Araunah the Jebusite, and the blade is drawn in his hand, by which, at no distant date, Richard, the lion-hearted, shall be as low as the meanest peasant.”
“Must it, then, be so soon?” said Richard. “Yet, even so be it. May my course be bright, if it be but brief!”
“Alas! noble King,” said the solitary, and it seemed as if a tear (unwonted guest) were gathering in his dry and glazened eye, “short and melancholy, marked with mortification, and calamity, and captivity, is the span that divides thee from the grave which yawns for thee–a grave in which thou shalt be laid without lineage to succeed thee–without the tears of a people, exhausted by thy ceaseless wars, to lament thee– without having extended the knowledge of thy subjects– without having done aught to enlarge their happiness.”
“But not without renown, monk–not without the tears of the lady of my love! These consolations, which thou canst neither know nor estimate, await upon Richard to his grave.”
“DO I not know, CAN I not estimate the value of minstrel’s praise and of lady’s love?” retorted the hermit, in a tone which for a moment seemed to emulate the enthusiasm of Richard himself. “King of England,” he continued, extending his emaciated arm, “the blood which boils in thy blue veins is not more noble than that which stagnates in mine. Few and cold as the drops are, they still are of the blood of the royal Lusignan–of the heroic and sainted Godfrey. I am–that is, I was when in the world– Alberick Mortemar–“
“Whose deeds,” said Richard, “have so often filled Fame’s trumpet! Is it so?–can it be so? Could such a light as thine fall from the horizon of chivalry, and yet men be uncertain where its embers had alighted?”
“Seek a fallen star,” said the hermit, “and thou shalt only light on some foul jelly, which, in shooting through the horizon, has assumed for a moment an appearance of splendour. Richard, if I thought that rending the bloody veil from my horrible fate could make thy proud heart stoop to the discipline of the church, I could find in my heart to tell thee a tale, which I have hitherto kept gnawing at my vitals in concealment, like the self-devoted youth of heathenesse. Listen, then, Richard, and may the grief and despair which cannot avail this wretched remnant of what was once a man be powerful as an example to so noble, yet so wild, a being as thou art! Yes–I will–I WILL tear open the long-hidden wounds, although in thy very presence they should bleed to death!”
King Richard, upon whom the history of Alberick of Mortemar had made a deep impression in his early years, when minstrels were regaling his father’s halls with legends of the Holy Land, listened with respect to the outlines of a tale, which, darkly and imperfectly sketched, indicated sufficiently the cause of the partial insanity of this singular and most unhappy being.
“I need not,” he said, “tell thee that I was noble in birth, high in fortune, strong in arms, wise in counsel. All these I was. But while the noblest ladies in Palestine strove which should wind garlands for my helmet, my love was fixed –unalterably and devotedly fixed–on a maiden of low degree. Her father, an ancient soldier of the Cross, saw our passion, and knowing the difference betwixt us, saw no other refuge for his daughter’s honour than to place her within the shadow of the cloister. I returned from a distant expedition, loaded with spoils and honour, to find my happiness was destroyed for ever! I too sought the cloister; and Satan, who had marked me for his own, breathed into my heart a vapour of spiritual pride, which could only have had its source in his own infernal regions. I had risen as high in the church as before in the state. I was, forsooth, the wise, the self-sufficient, the impeccable!–I was the counsellor of councils–I was the director of prelates. How should I stumble?–wherefore should I fear temptation? Alas! I became confessor to a sisterhood, and amongst that sisterhood I found the long-loved–the long-lost. Spare me further confession!–A fallen nun, whose guilt was avenged by self-murder, sleeps soundly in the vaults of Engaddi; while, above her
very grave, gibbers, moans, and roars a creature to whom but so much reason is left as may suffice to render him completely sensible to his fate!”
“Unhappy man!” said Richard, “I wonder no longer at thy misery. How didst thou escape the doom which the canons denounce against thy offence?”
“Ask one who is yet in the gall of worldly bitterness,” said the hermit, “and he will speak of a life spared for personal respects, and from consideration to high birth. But, Richard, I tell thee that Providence hath preserved me to lift me on high as a light and beacon, whose ashes, when this earthly fuel is burnt out, must yet be flung into Tophet. Withered and shrunk as this poor form is, it is yet animated with two spirits–one active, shrewd, and piercing, to advocate the cause of the Church of Jerusalem; one mean, abject, and despairing, fluctuating between madness and misery, to mourn over my own wretchedness, and to guard holy relics on which it would be most sinful for me even to cast my eye. Pity me not!–it is but sin to pity the loss of such an abject; pity me not, but profit by my example. Thou standest on the highest, and, therefore, on the most dangerous pinnacle occupied by any Christian prince. Thou art proud of heart, loose of life, bloody of hand. Put from thee the sins which are to thee as daughters–though they be dear to the sinful Adam, expel these adopted furies from thy breast–thy pride, thy luxury, thy bloodthirstiness.”
“He raves,” said Richard, turning from the solitary to De Vaux, as one who felt some pain from a sarcasm which yet he could not resent; then turned him calmly, and somewhat scornfully, to the anchoret, as he replied, “Thou hast found a fair bevy of daughters, reverend father, to one who hath been but few months married; but since I must put them from my roof, it were but like a father to provide them with suitable matches. Therefore, I will part with my pride to the noble canons of the church–my luxury, as thou callest it, to the monks of the rule–and my bloodthirstiness to the Knights of the Temple.”
“O heart of steel, and hand of iron,” said the anchoret, “upon whom example, as well as advice, is alike thrown away! Yet shalt thou be spared for a season, in case it so be thou shouldst turn, and do that which is acceptable in the sight of Heaven. For me I must return to my place. Kyrie Eleison! I am he through whom the rays of heavenly grace dart like those of the sun through a burning-glass, concentrating them on other objects, until they kindle and blaze, while the glass itself remains cold and uninfluenced. Kyrie Eleison!–the poor must be called, for the rich have refused the banquet–Kyrie Eleison!”
So saying, he burst from the tent, uttering loud cries.
“A mad priest!” said Richard, from whose mind the frantic exclamations of the hermit had partly obliterated the impression produced by the detail of his personal history and misfortunes. “After him, De Vaux, and see he comes to no harm; for, Crusaders as we are, a juggler hath more reverence amongst our varlets than a priest or a saint, and they may, perchance, put some scorn upon him.”
The knight obeyed, and Richard presently gave way to the thoughts which the wild prophecy of the monk had inspired. “To die early –without lineage–without lamentation! A heavy sentence, and well that it is not passed by a more competent judge. Yet the Saracens, who are accomplished in mystical knowledge, will often maintain that He, in whose eyes the wisdom of the sage is but as folly, inspires wisdom and prophecy into the seeming folly of the madman. Yonder hermit is said to read the stars, too, an art generally practised in these lands, where the heavenly host was of yore the object of idolatry. I would I had asked him touching the loss of my banner; for not the blessed Tishbite, the founder of his order, could seem more wildly rapt out of himself, or speak with a tongue more resembling that of a prophet.–How now, De Vaux, what news of the mad priest?”
“Mad priest, call you him, my lord?” answered De Vaux. “Methinks he resembles more the blessed Baptist himself, just issued from the wilderness. He has placed himself on one of the military engines, and from thence he preaches to the soldiers as never man preached since the time of Peter the Hermit. The camp, alarmed by his cries, crowd around him in thousands; and breaking off every now and then from the main thread of his discourse, he addresses the several nations, each in their own language, and presses upon each the arguments best qualified to urge them to perseverance in the delivery of Palestine.”
“By this light, a noble hermit!” said King Richard. “But what else could come from the blood of Godfrey? HE despair of safety, because he hath in former days lived PAR AMOURS? I will have the Pope send him an ample remission, and I would not less willingly be intercessor had his BELLE AMIE been an abbess.”
As he spoke, the Archbishop of Tyre craved audience, for the purpose of requesting Richard’s attendance, should his health permit, on a secret conclave of the chiefs of the Crusade, and to explain to him the military and political incidents which had occurred during his illness.
CHAPTER XIX.
Must we then sheathe our still victorious sword; Turn back our forward step, which ever trod O’er foemen’s necks the onward path of glory; Unclasp the mail, which with a solemn vow, In God’s own house, we hung upon our shoulders– That vow, as unaccomplish’d as the promise Which village nurses make to still their children, And after think no more of? THE CRUSADE, A TRAGEDY.
The Archbishop of Tyre was an emissary well chosen to communicate to Richard tidings, which from another voice the lion-hearted King would not have brooked to hear without the most unbounded explosions of resentment. Even this sagacious and reverend prelate found difficulty in inducing him to listen to news which destroyed all his hopes of gaining back the Holy Sepulchre by force of arms, and acquiring the renown which the universal all-hail of Christendom was ready to confer upon him as the Champion
of the Cross.
But, by the Archbishop’s report, it appeared that Saladin was assembling all the force of his hundred tribes, and that the monarchs of Europe, already disgusted from various motives with the expedition, which had proved so hazardous, and was daily growing more so, had resolved to abandon their purpose. In this they were countenanced by the example of Philip of France, who, with many protestations of regard, and assurances that he would first see his brother of England in safety, declared his intention to return to Europe. His great vassal, the Earl of Champagne, had adopted the same resolution; and it could not excite surprise that Leopold of Austria, affronted as he had been by Richard, was glad to embrace an opportunity of deserting a cause in which his haughty opponent was to be considered as chief. Others announced the same purpose; so that it was plain that the King of England was to be left, if he chose to remain, supported only by such volunteers as might, under such depressing circumstances, join themselves to the English army, and by the doubtful aid of Conrade of Montserrat and the military orders of the Temple and of Saint John, who, though they were sworn to wage battle against the Saracens, were at least equally jealous of any European monarch achieving the conquest of Palestine, where, with shortsighted and selfish policy, they proposed to establish independent dominions of their own.
It needed not many arguments to show Richard the truth of his situation; and indeed, after his first burst of passion, he sat him calmly down, and with gloomy looks, head depressed, and arms folded on his bosom, listened to the Archbishop’s reasoning on the impossibility of his carrying on the Crusade when deserted by his companions. Nay, he forbore interruption, even when the prelate ventured, in measured terms, to hint that Richard’s own impetuosity had been one main cause of disgusting the princes with the expedition.
“CONFITEOR,” answered Richard, with a dejected look, and something of a melancholy smile–“I confess, reverend father, that I ought on some accounts to sing CULPA MEA. But is it not hard that my frailties of temper should be visited with such a penance–that, for a burst or two of natural passion, I should be doomed to see fade before me ungathered such a rich harvest of glory to God and honour to chivalry? But it shall NOT fade. By the soul of the Conqueror, I will plant the Cross on the towers of Jerusalem, or it shall be planted over Richard’s grave!”
“Thou mayest do it,” said the prelate, “yet not another drop of Christian blood be shed in the quarrel.”
“Ah, you speak of compromise, Lord Prelate; but the blood of the infidel hounds must also cease to flow,” said Richard.
“There will be glory enough,” replied the Archbishop, “in having extorted from Saladin, by force of arms, and by the respect inspired by your fame, such conditions as at once restore the Holy Sepulchre, open the Holy Land to pilgrims, secure their safety by strong fortresses, and, stronger than all, assure the safety of the Holy City, by conferring on Richard the title of King Guardian of Jerusalem.”
“How!” said Richard, his eyes sparkling with unusual light. “I- -I–I the King Guardian of the Holy City! Victory itself, but that it is victory, could not gain more–scarce so much, when won with unwilling and disunited forces. But Saladin still proposes to retain his interest in the Holy Land?”
“As a joint sovereign, the sworn ally,” replied the prelate, “of the mighty Richard–his relative, if it may be permitted, by marriage.”
“By marriage!” said Richard, surprised, yet less so than the prelate had expected. “Ha!–ay–Edith Plantagenet. Did I dream this? or did some one tell me? My head is still weak from this fever, and has been agitated. Was it the Scot, or the Hakim, or yonder holy hermit, that hinted such a wild bargain?”
“The hermit of Engaddi, most likely,” said the Archbishop, “for he hath toiled much in this matter; and since the discontent of the princes has became apparent, and a separation of their forces unavoidable, he hath had many consultations, both with Christian and pagan, for arranging such a pacification as may give to Christendom, at least in part, the objects of this holy warfare.”
“My kinswoman to an infidel–ha!” exclaimed Richard, as his eyes began to sparkle.
The prelate hastened to avert his wrath.
“The Pope’s consent must doubtless be first attained, and the holy hermit, who is well known at Rome, will treat with the holy Father.”
“How?–without our consent first given?” said the King.
“Surely no,” said the Bishop, in a quieting and insinuating tone of voice–“only with and under your especial sanction.”
“My sanction to marry my kinswoman to an infidel!” said Richard; yet he spoke rather in a tone of doubt than as distinctly reprobating the measure proposed. “Could I have dreamed of such a composition when I leaped upon the Syrian shore from the prow of my galley, even as a lion springs on his prey! And now–But proceed–I will hear with patience.”
Equally delighted and surprised to find his task so much easier than he had apprehended, the Archbishop hastened to pour forth before Richard the instances of such alliances in Spain–not without countenance from the Holy See; the incalculable advantages which all Christendom would derive from the union of Richard and Saladin by a bond so sacred; and, above all, he spoke with great vehemence and unction on the probability that Saladin would, in case of the proposed alliance, exchange his false faith for the true one.
“Hath the Soldan shown any disposition to become Christian?” said Richard. “If so, the king lives not on earth to whom I would grant the hand of a kinswoman, ay, or sister, sooner than to my noble Saladin–ay, though the one came to lay crown and sceptre at her feet, and the other had nothing to offer but his good sword and better heart!”
“Saladin hath heard our Christian teachers,” said the Bishop, somewhat evasively–“my unworthy self, and others–and as he listens with patience, and replies with calmness, it can hardly be but that he be snatched as a brand from the burning. MAGNA EST VERITAS, ET PREVALEBIT! moreover, the hermit of Engaddi, few of whose words have fallen fruitless to the ground, is possessed fully with the belief that there is a calling of the Saracens and the other heathen approaching, to which this marriage shall be matter of induction. He readeth the course of the stars; and dwelling, with maceration of the flesh, in those divine places which the saints have trodden of old, the spirit of Elijah the Tishbite, the founder of his blessed order, hath been with him as it was with the prophet Elisha, the son of Shaphat, when he spread his mantle over him.”
King Richard listened to the Prelate’s reasoning with a downcast brow and a troubled look.
“I cannot tell,” he said, “How, it is with me, but methinks these cold counsels of the Princes of Christendom have infected me too with a lethargy of spirit. The time hath been that, had a layman proposed such alliance to me, I had struck him to earth–if a churchman, I had spit at him as a renegade and priest of Baal; yet now this counsel sounds not so strange in mine ear. For why should I not seek for brotherhood and alliance with a Saracen, brave, just, generous–who loves and honours a worthy foe, as if he were a friend–whilst the Princes of Christendom shrink from the side of their allies, and forsake the cause of Heaven and good knighthood? But I will possess my patience, and will not think of them. Only one attempt will I make to keep this gallant brotherhood together, if it be possible; and if I fail, Lord Archbishop, we will speak together of thy counsel, which, as now, I neither accept nor altogether reject. Wend we to the Council, my lord–the hour calls us. Thou sayest Richard is hasty and proud–thou shalt see him humble himself like the lowly broom-plant from which he derives his surname.”
With the assistance of those of his privy chamber, the King then hastily robed himself in a doublet and mantle of a dark and uniform colour; and without any mark of regal dignity, excepting a ring of gold upon his head, he hastened with the Archbishop of Tyre to attend the Council, which waited but his presence to commence its sitting.
The pavilion of the Council was an ample tent, having before it the large Banner of the Cross displayed, and another, on which was portrayed a female kneeling, with dishevelled hair and disordered dress, meant to represent the desolate and distressed Church of Jerusalem, and bearing the motto, AFFLICTAE SPONSAE NE OBLIVISCARIS. Warders, carefully selected, kept every one at a distance from the neighbourhood of this tent, lest the debates, which were sometimes of a loud and stormy character, should reach other ears than those they were designed for.
Here, therefore, the princes of the Crusade were assembled awaiting Richard’s arrival. And even the brief delay which was thus interposed was turned to his disadvantage by his enemies, various instances being circulated of his pride and undue assumption of superiority, of which even the necessity of the present short pause was quoted as an instance. Men strove to fortify each other in their evil opinion of the King of England, and vindicated the offence which each had taken, by putting the most severe construction upon circumstances the most trifling; and all this, perhaps, because they were conscious of an instinctive reverence for the heroic monarch, which it would require more than ordinary efforts to overcome.
They had settled, accordingly, that they should receive him on his entrance with slight notice, and no more respect than was exactly necessary to keep within the bounds of cold ceremonial. But when they beheld that noble form, that princely countenance, somewhat pale from his late illness– the eye which had been called by minstrels the bright star of battle and victory–when his feats, almost surpassing human strength and valour, rushed on their recollection, the Council of Princes simultaneously arose –even the jealous King of France and the sullen and offended Duke of Austria–arose with one consent, and the assembled princes burst forth with one voice in the acclamation, “God save King Richard of England! Long life to the valiant Lion’s-heart!”
With a countenance frank and open as the summer sun when it rises, Richard distributed his thanks around, and congratulated himself on being once more among his royal brethren of the Crusade.
“Some brief words he desired to say,” such was his address to the assembly, “though on a subject so unworthy as himself, even at the risk of delaying for a few minutes their consultations for the weal of Christendom and the advancement of their holy enterprise.”
The assembled princes resumed their seats, and there was a profound silence.
“This day,” continued the King of England, “is a high festival of the church, and it well becomes Christian men, at such a tide, to reconcile themselves with their brethren, and confess their faults to each other. Noble princes and fathers of this holy expedition, Richard is a soldier–his hand is ever readier than his tongue–and his tongue is but too much used to the rough language of his trade. But do not, for Plantagenet’s hasty speeches and ill-considered actions, forsake the noble cause of the redemption of Palestine–do not throw away earthly renown and eternal salvation, to be won here if ever they can be won by man, because the act of a soldier may have been hasty, and his speech as hard as the iron which he has worn from childhood. Is Richard in default to any of you, Richard will make compensation both by word and action.–Noble brother of France, have I been so unlucky as to offend you?”
“The Majesty of France has no atonement to seek from that of England,” answered Philip, with kingly dignity, accepting, at the same time, the offered hand of Richard; “and whatever opinion I may adopt concerning the prosecution of this enterprise will depend on reasons arising out of the state of my own kingdom– certainly on no jealousy or disgust at my royal and most valorous brother.”
“Austria,” said Richard, walking up to the Archduke, with a mixture of frankness and dignity, while Leopold arose from his seat, as if involuntarily, and with the action of an automaton, whose motions depended upon some external impulse–“Austria thinks he hath reason to be offended with England; England, that he hath cause to complain of Austria. Let them exchange forgiveness, that the peace of Europe and the concord of this host may remain unbroken. We are now joint supporters of a more glorious banner than ever blazed before an earthly prince, even the Banner of Salvation. Let not, therefore, strife be betwixt us for the symbol of our more worldly dignities; but let Leopold restore the pennon of England, if he has it in his power, and Richard will say, though from no motive save his love for Holy Church, that he repents him of the hasty mood in which he did insult the standard of Austria.”
The Archduke stood still, sullen and discontented, with his eyes fixed on the floor, and his countenance lowering with smothered displeasure, which awe, mingled with awkwardness, prevented his giving vent to in words.
The Patriarch of Jerusalem hastened to break the embarrassing silence, and to bear witness for the Archduke of Austria that he had exculpated himself, by a solemn oath, from all knowledge, direct or indirect, of the aggression done to the Banner of England.
“Then we have done the noble Archduke the greater wrong,” said Richard; “and craving his pardon for imputing to him an outrage so cowardly, we extend our hand to him in token of renewed peace and amity. But how is this? Austria refuses our uncovered hand, as he formerly refused our mailed glove? What! are we neither to be his mate in peace nor his antagonist in war? Well, let it be so. We will take the slight esteem in which he holds us as a penance for aught which we may have done against him in heat of blood, and will therefore hold the account between us cleared.”
So saying, he turned from the Archduke with an air rather of dignity than scorn, leaving the Austrian apparently as much relieved by the removal of his eye as is a sullen and truant schoolboy when the glance of his severe pedagogue is withdrawn.
“Noble Earl of Champagne–princely Marquis of Montserrat –valiant Grand Master of the Templars–I am here a penitent in the confessional. Do any of you bring a charge or claim amends from me?”
“I know not on what we could ground any,” said the smooth-tongued Conrade, “unless it were that the King of England carries off from his poor brothers of the war all the fame which they might have hoped to gain in the expedition.”
“My charge, if I am called on to make one,” said the Master of the Templars, “is graver and deeper than that of the Marquis of Montserrat. It may be thought ill to beseem a military monk such as I to raise his voice where so many noble princes remain silent; but it concerns our whole host, and not least this noble King of England, that he should hear from some one to his face those charges which there are enow to bring against him in his absence. We laud and honour the courage and high achievements of the King of England; but we feel aggrieved that he should on all occasions seize and maintain a precedence and superiority over us, which it becomes not independent princes to submit to. Much we might yield of our free will to his bravery, his zeal, his wealth, and his power; but he who snatches all as matter of right, and leaves nothing to grant out of courtesy and favour, degrades us from allies into retainers and vassals, and sullies in the eyes of our soldiers and subjects the lustre of our authority, which is no longer independently exercised. Since the royal Richard has asked the truth from us, he must neither be surprised nor angry when he hears one, to whom worldly pomp is prohibited, and secular authority is nothing, saving so far as it advances the prosperity of God’s Temple, and the prostration of the lion which goeth about seeking whom he may devour–when he hears, I say, such a one as I tell him the truth in reply to his question; which truth, even while I speak it, is, I know, confirmed by the heart of every one who hears me, however respect may stifle their voices.”
Richard coloured very highly while the Grand Master was making this direct and unvarnished attack upon his conduct, and the murmur of assent which followed it showed plainly that almost all who were present acquiesced in the justice of the accusation. Incensed, and at the same time mortified, he yet foresaw that to give way to his headlong resentment would be to give the cold and wary accuser the advantage over him which it was the Templar’s principal object to obtain. He therefore, with a strong effort, remained silent till he had repeated a pater noster, being the course which his confessor had enjoined him to pursue when anger was likely to obtain dominion over him. The King then spoke with composure, though not without an embittered tone, especially at the outset:–
“And is it even so? And are our brethren at such pains to note the infirmities of our natural temper, and the rough precipitance of our zeal, which may sometimes have urged us to issue commands when there was little time to hold council? I could not have thought that offences, casual and unpremeditated like mine, could find such deep root in the hearts of my allies in this most holy cause; that for my sake they should withdraw their hands from the plough when the furrow was near the end–for my sake turn aside from the direct path to Jerusalem, which their swords have opened. I vainly thought that my small services might have outweighed my rash errors–that if it were remembered that I pressed to the van in an assault, it would not be forgotten that I was ever the last in the retreat–that, if I elevated my banner upon conquered fields of battle, it was all the advantage that I sought, while others were dividing the spoil. I may have called the conquered city by my name, but it was to others that I yielded the dominion. If I have been headstrong in urging bold counsels, I have not, methinks, spared my own blood or my people’s in carrying them into as bold execution; or if I have, in the hurry of march or battle, assumed a command over the soldiers of others, such have been ever treated as my own when my wealth purchased the provisions and medicines which their own sovereigns could not procure. But it shames me to remind you of what all but myself seem to have forgotten. Let us rather look forward to our future measures; and believe me, brethren,” he continued, his face kindling with eagerness, “you shall not find the pride, or the wrath, or the ambition of Richard a stumbling-block of offence in the path to which religion and glory summon
you as with the trumpet of an archangel. Oh, no, no! never would I survive the thought that my frailties and infirmities had been the means to sever this goodly fellowship of assembled princes. I would cut off my left hand with my right, could my doing so attest my sincerity. I will yield up, voluntarily, all right to command in the host–even mine own liege subjects. They shall be led by such sovereigns as you may nominate; and their King, ever but too apt to exchange the leader’s baton for the adventurer’s lance, will serve under the banner of Beau-Seant among the Templars–ay, or under that of Austria, if Austria will name a brave man to lead his forces. Or if ye are yourselves a-weary of this war, and feel your armour chafe your tender bodies, leave but with Richard some ten or fifteen thousand of your soldiers to work out the accomplishment of your vow; and when Zion is won,” he exclaimed, waving his hand aloft, as if displaying the standard of the Cross over Jerusalem–“when Zion is won, we will write upon her gates, NOT the name of Richard Plantagenet, but of those generous princes who entrusted him with the means of conquest!”
The rough eloquence and determined expression of the military monarch at once roused the drooping spirits of the Crusaders, reanimated their devotion, and, fixing their attention on the principal object of the expedition, made most of them who were present blush for having been moved by such petty subjects of complaint as had before engrossed them. Eye caught fire from eye, voice lent courage to voice. They resumed, as with one accord, the war-cry with which the sermon of Peter the Hermit was echoed back, and shouted aloud, “Lead us on, gallant Lion’s-heart; none so worthy to lead where brave men follow. Lead us
on–to Jerusalem–to Jerusalem! It is the will of God–it is the will of God! Blessed is he who shall lend an arm to its fulfilment!”
The shout, so suddenly and generally raised, was heard beyond the ring of sentinels who guarded the pavilion of Council, and spread among the soldiers of the host, who, inactive and dispirited by disease and climate, had begun, like their leaders, to droop in resolution; but the reappearance of Richard in renewed vigour, and the well-known shout which echoed from the assembly of the princes, at once rekindled their enthusiasm, and thousands and tens of thousands answered with the same shout of “Zion, Zion! War, war! Instant battle with the infidels! It is the will of God–it is the will of God!”
The acclamations from without increased in their turn the enthusiasm which prevailed within the pavilion. Those who did not actually catch the flame were afraid–at least for the time –to seem colder than others. There was no more speech except of a proud advance towards Jerusalem upon the expiry of the truce, and the measures to be taken in the meantime for supplying and recruiting the army. The Council broke up, all apparently filled with the same enthusiastic purpose–which, however, soon faded in the bosom of most, and never had an existence in that of others.
Of the latter class were the Marquis Conrade and the Grand Master of the Templars, who retired together to their quarters ill at ease, and malcontent with the events of the day.
“I ever told it to thee,” said the latter, with the cold, sardonic expression peculiar to him, “that Richard would burst through the flimsy wiles you spread for him, as would a lion through a spider’s web. Thou seest he has but to speak, and his breath agitates these fickle fools as easily as the whirlwind catcheth scattered straws, and sweeps them together, or disperses them at its pleasure.”
“When the blast has passed away,” said Conrade, “the straws, which it made dance to its pipe, will settle to earth again.”
“But knowest thou not besides,” said the Templar, “that it seems, if this new purpose of conquest shall be abandoned and pass away, and each mighty prince shall again be left to such guidance as his own scanty brain can supply, Richard may yet probably become King of Jerusalem by compact, and establish those terms of treaty with the Soldan which thou thyself thought’st him so likely to spurn at?”
“Now, by Mahound and Termagaunt, for Christian oaths are out of fashion,” said Conrade, “sayest thou the proud King of England would unite his blood with a heathen Soldan? My policy threw in that ingredient to make the whole treaty an abomination to him. As bad for us that he become our master by an agreement, as by victory.”
“Thy policy hath ill calculated Richard’s digestion,” answered the Templar; “I know his mind by a whisper from the Archbishop. And then thy master-stroke respecting yonder banner–it has passed off with no more respect than two cubits of embroidered silk merited. Marquis Conrade, thy wit begins to halt; I will trust thy finespun measures no longer, but will try my own. Knowest thou not the people whom the Saracens call Charegites?”
“Surely,” answered the Marquis; “they are desperate and besotted enthusiasts, who devote their lives to the advancement of religion—somewhat like Templars, only they are never known to pause in the race of their calling.”
“Jest not,” answered the scowling monk. “Know that one of these men has set down in his bloody vow the name of the Island Emperor yonder, to be hewn down as the chief enemy of the Moslem faith.”
“A most judicious paynim,” said Conrade. “May Mohammed send him his paradise for a reward!”
“He was taken in the camp by one of our squires, and in private examination frankly avowed his fixed and determined purpose to me,” said the Grand Master.
“Now the heavens pardon them who prevented the purpose of this most judicious Charegite!” answered Conrade.
“He is my prisoner,” added the Templar, “and secluded from speech with others, as thou mayest suppose; but prisons have been broken–“
“Chains left unlocked, and captives have escaped,” answered the Marquis. “It is an ancient saying, no sure dungeon but the grave.”
“When loose, he resumes his quest,” continued the military priest; “for it is the nature of this sort of blood hound never to quit the suit of the prey he has once scented.”
“Say no more of it,” said the Marquis; “I see thy policy–it is dreadful, but the emergency is imminent.”
“I only told thee of it,” said the Templar, “that thou mayest keep thyself on thy guard; for the uproar will be dreadful, and there is no knowing on whom the English may vent their rage. Ay, and there is another risk. My page knows the counsels of this Charegite,” he continued; “and, moreover, he is a peevish, self-willed fool, whom I would I were rid of, as he thwarts me by
presuming to see with his own eyes, not mine. But our holy order gives me power to put a remedy to such inconvenience. Or stay– the Saracen may find a good dagger in his cell, and I warrant you he uses it as he breaks forth, which will be of a surety so soon as the page enters with his food.”
“It will give the affair a colour,” said Conrade; “and yet–“
“YET and BUT,” said the Templar, “are words for fools; wise men neither hesitate nor retract–they resolve and they execute.”
CHAPTER XX.
When beauty leads the lion in her toils, Such are her charms, he dare not raise his mane, Far less expand the terror of his fangs. So great Alcides made his club a distaff, And spun to please fair Omphale. ANONYMOUS.
Richard, the unsuspicious object of the dark treachery detailed in the closing part of the last chapter, having effected, for the present at least, the triumphant union of the Crusading princes in a resolution to prosecute the war with vigour, had it next at heart to establish tranquillity in his own family; and, now that he could judge more temperately, to inquire distinctly into the circumstances leading to the loss of his banner, and the nature and the extent of the connection betwixt his kinswoman Edith and the banished adventurer from Scotland.
Accordingly, the Queen and her household were startled with a visit from Sir Thomas de Vaux, requesting the present attendance of the Lady Calista of Montfaucon, the Queen’s principal bower-woman, upon King Richard.
“What am I to say, madam?” said the trembling attendant to the Queen, “He will slay us all.”
“Nay, fear not, madam,” said De Vaux. “His Majesty hath spared the life of the Scottish knight, who was the chief offender, and bestowed him upon the Moorish physician. He will not be severe upon a lady, though faulty.”
“Devise some cunning tale, wench,” said Berengaria. “My husband hath too little time to make inquiry into the truth.”
“Tell the tale as it really happened,” said Edith, “lest I tell it for thee.”
“With humble permission of her Majesty,” said De Vaux, “I would say Lady Edith adviseth well; for although King Richard is pleased to believe what it pleases your Grace to tell him, yet I doubt his having the same deference for the Lady Calista, and in this especial matter.”
“The Lord of Gilsland is right,” said the Lady Calista, much agitated at the thoughts of the investigation which was to take place; “and besides, if I had presence of mind enough to forge a plausible story, beshrew me if I think I should have the courage to tell it.”
In this candid humour, the Lady Calista was conducted by De Vaux to the King, and made, as she had proposed, a full confession of the decoy by which the unfortunate Knight of the Leopard had been induced to desert his post; exculpating the Lady Edith, who, she was aware, would not fail to exculpate herself, and laying the full burden on the Queen, her mistress, whose share of the frolic, she well knew, would appear the most venial in the eyes of Coeur de Lion. In truth, Richard was a fond, almost a uxorious husband. The first burst of his wrath had long since passed away, and he was not disposed severely to censure what could not now be amended. The wily Lady Calista, accustomed from her earliest childhood to fathom the intrigues of a court, and watch the indications of a sovereign’s will, hastened back to the Queen with the speed of a lapwing, charged with the King’s commands that she should expect a speedy visit from him; to which the bower-lady added a commentary founded on her own observation, tending to show that Richard meant just to preserve so much severity as might bring his royal consort to repent of her frolic, and then to extend to her and all concerned his gracious pardon.
“Sits the wind in that corner, wench?” said the Queen, much relieved by this intelligence. “Believe me that, great commander as he is, Richard will find it hard to circumvent us in this matter, and that, as the Pyrenean shepherds are wont to say in my native Navarre, Many a one comes for wool, and goes back shorn.”
Having possessed herself of all the information which Calista could communicate, the royal Berengaria arrayed herself in her most becoming dress, and awaited with confidence the arrival of the heroic Richard.
He arrived, and found himself in the situation of a prince entering an offending province, in the confidence that his business will only be to inflict rebuke, and receive submission, when he unexpectedly finds it in a state of complete defiance and insurrection. Berengaria well knew the power of her charms and the extent of Richard’s affection, and felt assured that she could make her own terms good, now that the first tremendous explosion of his anger had expended itself without mischief. Far from listening to the King’s intended rebuke, as what the levity of her conduct had justly deserved, she extenuated, nay, defended as a harmless frolic, that which she was accused of. She denied, indeed, with many a pretty form of negation, that she had directed Nectabanus absolutely to entice the knight farther than the brink of the Mount on which he kept watch–and, indeed, this was so far true, that she had not designed Sir Kenneth to be introduced into her tent–and then, eloquent in urging her own defence, the Queen was far more so in pressing upon Richard the charge of unkindness, in refusing her so poor a boon as the life of an unfortunate knight, who, by her thoughtless prank, had been brought within the danger of martial law. She wept and sobbed while she enlarged on her husband’s obduracy on this score, as a rigour which had threatened to make her unhappy for life, whenever she should reflect that she had given, unthinkingly, the remote cause for such a tragedy. The vision of the slaughtered victim would have haunted her dreams–nay, for aught she knew, since such things often happened, his actual spectre might have stood by her waking couch. To all this misery of the mind was she exposed by the severity of one who, while he pretended to dote upon her slightest glance, would not forego one act of poor revenge, though the issue was to render her miserable.
All this flow of female eloquence was accompanied with the usual arguments of tears and sighs, and uttered with such tone and action as seemed to show that the Queen’s resentment arose neither from pride nor sullenness, but from feelings hurt at finding her consequence with her husband less than she had expected to possess.
The good King Richard was considerably embarrassed. He tried in vain to reason with one whose very jealousy of his affection rendered her incapable of listening to argument, nor could he bring himself to use the restraint of lawful authority to a creature so beautiful in the midst of her unreasonable displeasure. He was therefore reduced to the defensive, endeavoured gently to chide her suspicions and soothe her displeasure, and recalled to her mind that she need not look back upon the past with recollections either of remorse or supernatural fear, since Sir Kenneth was alive and well, and had been bestowed by him upon the great Arabian physician, who, doubtless, of all men, knew best how to keep him living. But this seemed the unkindest cut of all, and the Queen’s sorrow was renewed at the idea of a Saracen–a mediciner–obtaining a boon for which, with bare head and on bended knee, she had petitioned her husband in vain. At this new charge Richard’s patience began rather to give way, and he said, in a serious tone of voice, “Berengaria, the physician saved my life. If it is of value in your eyes, you will not grudge him a higher recompense than the only one I could prevail on him to accept.”
The Queen was satisfied she had urged her coquettish displeasure to the verge of safety.
“My Richard,” she said, “why brought you not that sage to me, that England’s Queen might show how she esteemed him who could save from extinction the lamp of chivalry, the glory of England, and the light of poor Berengaria’s life and hope?”
In a word, the matrimonial dispute was ended; but, that some penalty might be paid to justice, both King and Queen accorded in laying the whole blame on the agent Nectabanus, who (the Queen being by this time well weary of the poor dwarf’s humour) was, with his royal consort Guenevra, sentenced to be banished from the Court; and the unlucky dwarf only escaped a supplementary whipping, from the Queen’s assurances that he had already sustained personal chastisement. It was decreed further that, as an envoy was shortly to be dispatched to Saladin, acquainting him with the resolution of the Council to resume hostilities so soon as the truce was ended, and as Richard proposed to send a valuable present to the Soldan, in acknowledgment of the high benefit he had derived from the services of El Hakim, the two unhappy creatures should be added to it as curiosities, which, from their extremely grotesque appearance, and the shattered state of their intellect, were gifts that might well pass between sovereign and sovereign.
Richard had that day yet another female encounter to sustain; but he advanced to it with comparative indifference, for Edith, though beautiful and highly esteemed by her royal relative–nay, although she had from his unjust suspicions actually sustained the injury of which Berengaria only affected to complain–still was neither Richard’s wife nor mistress, and he feared her reproaches less, although founded in reason, than those of the Queen, though unjust and fantastical. Having requested to speak with her apart, he was ushered into her apartment, adjoining that of the Queen, whose two female Coptish slaves remained on their knees in the most remote corner during the interview. A thin black veil extended its ample folds over the tall and graceful form of the high-born maiden, and she wore not upon her person any female ornament of what kind soever. She arose and made a low reverence when Richard entered, resumed her seat at his command, and, when he sat down beside her, waited, without uttering a syllable, until he should communicate his pleasure.
Richard, whose custom it was to be familiar with Edith, as their relationship authorized, felt this reception chilling, and opened the conversation with some embarrassment.
“Our fair cousin,” he at length said, “is angry with us; and we own that strong circumstances have induced us, without cause, to suspect her of conduct alien to what we have ever known in her course of life. But while we walk in this misty valley of humanity, men will mistake shadows for substances. Can my fair cousin not forgive her somewhat vehement kinsman Richard?”
“Who can refuse forgiveness to RICHARD,” answered Edith, “provided Richard can obtain pardon of the KING?”
“Come, my kinswoman,” replied Coeur de Lion, “this is all too solemn. By Our Lady, such a melancholy countenance, and this ample sable veil, might make men think thou wert a new-made widow, or had lost a betrothed lover, at least. Cheer up! Thou hast heard, doubtless, that there is no real cause for woe; why, then, keep up the form of mourning?”
“For the departed honour of Plantagenet–for the glory which hath left my father’s house.”
Richard frowned. “Departed honour! glory which hath left our house!” he repeated angrily. “But my cousin Edith is privileged. I have judged her too hastily; she has therefore a right to deem of me too harshly. But tell me at least in what I have faulted.”
“Plantagenet,” said Edith, “should have either pardoned an offence, or punished it. It misbecomes him to assign free men, Christians, and brave knights, to the fetters of the infidels. It becomes him not to compromise and barter, or to grunt life under the forfeiture of liberty. To have doomed the unfortunate to death might have been severity, but had a show of justice; to condemn him to slavery and exile was barefaced tyranny.”
“I see, my fair cousin,” said Richard, “you are of those pretty ones who think an absent lover as bad as none, or as a dead one. Be patient; half a score of light horsemen may yet follow and redeem the error, if thy gallant have in keeping any secret which might render his death more convenient than his banishment.”
“Peace with thy scurrile jests!” answered Edith, colouring deeply. “Think, rather, that for the indulgence of thy mood thou hast lopped from this great enterprise one goodly limb, deprived the Cross of one of its most brave supporters, and placed a servant of the true God in the hands of the heathen; hast given, too, to minds as suspicious as thou hast shown thine own in this matter, some right to say that Richard Coeur de Lion banished the bravest soldier in his camp lest his name in battle might match his own.”
“I–I!” exclaimed Richard, now indeed greatly moved–“am I one to be jealous of renown? I would he were here to profess such an equality! I would waive my rank and my crown, and meet him, manlike, in the lists, that it might appear whether Richard Plantagenet had room to fear or to envy the prowess of mortal man. Come, Edith, thou think’st not as thou sayest. Let not anger or grief for the absence of thy lover make thee unjust to thy kinsman, who, notwithstanding all thy techiness, values thy good report as high as that of any one living.”
“The absence of my lover?” said the Lady Edith, “But yes, he may be well termed my lover, who hath paid so dear for the title. Unworthy as I might be of such homage, I was to him like a light, leading him forward in the noble path of chivalry; but that I forgot my rank, or that he presumed beyond his, is false, were a king to speak it.”
“My fair cousin,” said Richard, “do not put words in my mouth which I have not spoken. I said not you had graced this man beyond the favour which a good knight may earn, even from a princess, whatever be his native condition. But, by Our Lady, I know something of this love-gear. It begins with mute respect and distant reverence; but when opportunities occur, familiarity increases, and so–But it skills not talking with one who thinks herself wiser than all the world.”
“My kinsman’s counsels I willingly listen to, when they are such,” said Edith, “as convey no insult to my rank and character.”
“Kings, my fair cousin, do not counsel, but rather command,” said Richard.
“Soldans do indeed command,” said Edith, “but it is because they have slaves to govern.”
“Come, you might learn to lay aside this scorn of Soldanrie, when you hold so high of a Scot,” said the King. “I hold Saladin to be truer to his word than this William of Scotland, who must needs be called a Lion, forsooth; he hath foully faulted towards me in failing to send the auxiliary aid he promised. Let me tell thee, Edith, thou mayest live to prefer a true Turk to a false Scot.”
“No–never!” answered Edith–“not should Richard himself embrace the false religion, which he crossed the seas to expel from Palestine.”
“Thou wilt have the last word,” said Richard, “and thou shalt have it. Even think of me what thou wilt, pretty Edith. I shall not forget that we are near and dear cousins.”
So saying, he took his leave in fair fashion, but very little satisfied with the result of his visit.
It was the fourth day after Sir Kenneth had been dismissed from the camp, and King Richard sat in his pavilion, enjoying an evening breeze from the west, which, with unusual coolness on her wings, seemed breathed from merry England for the refreshment of her adventurous Monarch, as he was gradually recovering the full strength which was necessary to carry on his gigantic projects. There was no one with him, De Vaux having been sent to Ascalon to bring up reinforcements and supplies of military munition, and most of his other attendants being occupied in different departments, all preparing for the re-opening of hostilities, and for a grand preparatory review of the army of the Crusaders, which was to take place the next day. The King sat listening to the busy hum among the soldiery, the clatter from the forges, where horseshoes were preparing, and from the tents of the armourers, who were repairing harness. The voice of the soldiers, too, as they passed and repassed, was loud and cheerful, carrying with its very tone an assurance of high and excited courage, and an omen of approaching victory. While Richard’s ear drank in these sounds with delight, and while he yielded himself to the visions of conquest and of glory which they suggested, an equerry told him that a messenger from Saladin waited without.
“Admit him instantly,” said the King, “and with due honour, Josceline.”
The English knight accordingly introduced a person, apparently of no higher rank than a Nubian slave, whose appearance was nevertheless highly interesting. He was of superb stature and nobly formed, and his commanding features, although almost jet-black, showed nothing of negro descent. He wore over his coal-black locks a milk-white turban, and over his shoulders a short mantle of the same colour, open in front and at the sleeves, under which appeared a doublet of dressed leopard’s skin reaching within a handbreadth of the knee. The rest of his muscular limbs, both legs and arms, were bare, excepting that he had sandals on his feet, and wore a collar and bracelets of silver. A straight broadsword, with a handle of box-wood and a sheath covered with snakeskin, was suspended from his waist. In his right hand he held a short javelin, with a broad, bright steel head, of a span in length, and in his left he led by a leash of twisted silk and gold a large and noble staghound.
The messenger prostrated himself, at the same time partially uncovering his shoulders, in sign of humiliation, and having touched the earth with his forehead, arose so far as to rest on one knee, while he delivered to the King a silken napkin, enclosing another of cloth of gold, within which was a letter from Saladin in the original Arabic, with a translation into Norman-English, which may be modernized thus:–
“Saladin, King of Kings, to Melech Ric, the Lion of England. Whereas, we are informed by thy last message that thou hast chosen war rather than peace, and our enmity rather than our friendship, we account thee as one blinded in this matter, and trust shortly to convince thee of thine error, by the help of our invincible forces of the thousand tribes, when Mohammed, the Prophet of God, and Allah, the God of the Prophet, shall judge the controversy betwixt us. In what remains, we make noble account of thee, and of the gifts which thou hast sent us, and of the two dwarfs, singular in their deformity as Ysop, and mirthful as the lute of Isaack. And in requital of these tokens from the treasure-house of thy bounty, behold we have sent thee a Nubian slave, named Zohauk, of whom judge not by his complexion,