God Wills It! A Tale of the First Crusade. William Stearns Davis

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СКАЧАТЬ a herald made sure that neither knight had fastened himself to his saddle.

      The attendants scattered from the lists. De Valmont's horse was pawing and sniffing uneasily, but Rollo stood firm as a rock. The champions sat face to face, featureless, silent as of granite. No chatter now in the pavilions. Theroulde broke the stillness with his cry, "Go forward, brave son of a valiant father!" And Bernier forced a broad jest as he glanced at the ladies, "Joy here to pick out one's wife!"

      Richard was very calm. The moment had come. He and Louis de Valmont were face to face, under the eyes of Mary Kurkuas. Betwixt his helmet bars he could see that wonderful face, the head bent forward, the eyes brighter by day than ever stars by night,—at least to him. Holy saints! what deed could he not do with that gaze upon him, with the love of the Greek staked upon his strong arm and ready eye! "For Mary Kurkuas!" That was his battle-cry, though sounded only in his soul. It became stiller—he could hear Rollo's deep breathing. Count Roger had turned to Bishop Gerland. The prelate rose, held on high a brazen crucifix, at which both champions made the sign of the cross with their lance points. Four men with hatchets approached the cords before the chargers.

      "In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen," came the words slowly; and at the last, Roger signed to the four. "Cut!" his command. The axes fell as one. Their sound was hid by the bursting tumult. Quick as light the horses caught the greensward with mighty strides. Behind, the dust spumed thick. As they flew, each rider swung lightly forward, lance level with thigh, shield over the crouching chest.

      Crash! Both steeds were hurled on haunches, and struggled, tearing the ground. The riders reeled, staggered in the saddle. Then with a mighty tug at the reins, brought their beasts standing, and rode apart,—in the hands of each a broken butt, on the ground the flinders of stout hornbeam lances.

      Din unspeakable rang along the lists, as the two swung back to their stations. No more banter and jeers at Rollo. Old Herbert, whose eyes had danced with every gallop, muttered in the ear of poor Lady Margaret:—

      "Good cheer, sweet lady! The lad is a good lad. Did you see? The Auvergner was half slung from the saddle, but Richard met his lance like a rock."

      They brought new lances to the knights, and, while both waited for breath, Bernier came down the lists with his master's message.

      "My lord bids me say, fair knight," declared he to Longsword, "that he loves good jousting and did not expect so smart a tilt. Yet he warns Sir Richard, in fair courtesy and no jesting, he will make this next bout Sir Richard's last—therefore, if there be any parting message or token—"

      Sebastian, who stood by, cut him short.

      "Bear this back to Louis de Valmont, the murderous man of sin: It is written, 'Let not him that putteth on his armor, boast like him that taketh it off.'" And while Bernier was returning, half crestfallen, the good cleric was muttering: "Ah, blessed Mother of Pity, spare Richard, thy poor child. Make him conscious of his sin—his unholy passion, and presumption. Yet—it will be a rare thing to see De Valmont on his back. Holy saints—what do I say!"

      Again they rode; again the last vision before Richard's eyes, ere Rollo shot on the course, was that figure,—white face and brown hair, and those eyes upon him. All men knew Louis spurred with Satan behind him on the charger. Another shivering crash—more lances broken. When they parted, both shields were dinted by the shock. Many heard knights cry that the two were riding more madly than ever. A third time—behold! Louis de Valmont had been half lifted from his saddle; one foot had lost its stirrup; but Longsword sat as a tower. Those at the southern end heard the Auvergner cursing his squires and grooms, calling for a new horse, and invoking aid of all powers in heaven and hell when next he rode.

      A great hush again down all the lists. The pursuivants had no heart to cry. For a fourth time Richard Longsword and Louis de Valmont sat face to face,—and rode. The horses shot like bolts of lightning. The crash sounded from barrier to barrier. In the whirling murk of dust one could see naught; but out of it all sounded a shout of triumph,—Richard's voice: "St. Michael and Mary Kurkuas!" Then while men blinked, the dust was settled, and Louis de Valmont was rising from the sand, smitten clean from his horse. None beheld his face; but his mad cry of rage they heard, as his great sword flashed forth, when on foot he ran toward his foe. But lightly as a cat, Longsword had bounded from the saddle, faced the Auvergner, whom the tall Norman towered high above; and for the first time the multitude saw the sun glint on the long blade of Trenchefer. Right before Roger's pavilion, under Mary's eye, they fought, leaping in armor as though in silken vest, making their huge swords dance in their hands like willow wands. The blade of De Valmont rained down blows as of hail upon the bowing sedges. Fury and wounded pride sped might through his arm. For a twinkling Longsword gave way before his furious onset; as quickly stood firm, paying blow for blow. Not for life the Auvergner battled,—for dearer than life,—his knightly name. The best lance in the South Country dismounted, then mastered by a boy scarce knighted? A thousand deaths better! Thrice, all his strength flew with a downright stroke,—a smithy's sledge less crushing. But when he smote on Trenchefer the steels rang sharp; the blow was turned. From under their helms each beheld madness in his foeman's eyes, and flashed back equal madness. Richard fought the more slowly, his casque dented and his shield; but the Valencia mail was proof. After the first, he yielded not a step; and at each blow parried, at each stout stroke paid, the saints, if none other, heard him mutter across his teeth: "This, to win Mary Kurkuas! This, for the love of the Greek!"

      But still the Provençal pressed, and still the Norman held him. Mary saw De Valmont's blade shun Trenchefer. His sword half turned as Richard attempted parry,—but smote the Norman's helm-crest. Mary almost thought she could see the fire-spark leap in bright day. But ere she could thrill with dread, Longsword had staggered, recovered, returned the stroke. Quick, deep as from huge bellows, heard she their breaths. Each moment her heart cried, "All is over!" as some doughty blow fell. But it would be parried, or turned on the good mail. On they fought,—fought till mild women rose from the benches and shouted as not before in that day's mad games; and old cavaliers, who set a battle before a feast, stood also with a terrible light in their eyes, blessing the saints for showing them such sword-play! As Mary watched, her thoughts raced thick and fast: now she longed to laugh, now to weep; now only to hear no more of the click and clash of those long swords. Would it never end?

      But now Prince Tancred was again with his head beside Count Roger. "The Auvergner fails!" Men began to cry out that De Valmont no longer gave back the Norman's blows; only parried. And, of a sudden, Mary saw the iron tower of Richard Longsword, that had stood firm so long, leap as with new life. Twice Trenchefer sprang high, and crashed upon De Valmont. Twice the Auvergner tottered. Thrice—De Valmont's guard shivered as a rush—through shield, hauberk, gorget cleft the Vikings' blade. The shield flew in twain. The Provençal fell with a clash of mail, and, as he reeled, Mary could see the spout of blood where the sword had bitten the shoulder.

      The Count was standing. He beckoned to Longsword—tried to speak. One mighty shout from Frank and Moslem drowned all else.

      "Richard Longsword! Richard of Cefalu!"

      All the lists were calling it. The bright mantles and gauzy veils were all a-flutter. Richard stood over his adversary, Trenchefer swinging in his hand. Again the Count beckoned—still uproar. Roger flung his white judge's wand into the arena.

      "Ho! Ho!" thundered he,—and there was hush at last.

      "Sir Richard Longsword," spoke the Count, "you have won after such sword-play as I have never seen before. De Valmont's life is yours, if still he lives. Yet if you will, kill not—though he promised you small mercy. For he is a gallant Cavalier, and proved to-day a mighty knight, though no victor."

      "And I," returned Longsword, under his helm, "give him his life. Let him live—live to remember how Richard of Cefalu humbled him before the eyes of Mary Kurkuas!"

      So СКАЧАТЬ