Part 37 (1/2)
”You are all suspicions and jealousy,” declared Mary, pouting. ”Did I let you, I believe you would clap Hossein in fetters.”
”I would I saw them on his wrists!” muttered the veteran, as he went away to his supper. But Richard and Mary sat a long time before their tent, sipping the spiced wine of Lesbos they had brought from Constantinople, and watching the stars peep out one by one from the deepening sky. The camp buzzed all about, yet dimly, as if each man was in love with quiet. It was very warm, and the soft wind bore the scent of drying wild-flowers and parching heather, as it crept down from the sun-loved uplands. It was a sweet and peaceful hour, one which stayed as a pure and holy vision in both their minds for many a long, sad day.
”Sweetheart,” said Richard, when they grew tired of counting the budding stars, ”though Prince Tancred and the rest will not hear it, there will be a mighty battle to-morrow. I have seen Kilidge Arslan's hosts all around us. We shall fight in the morning as never at Nicaea.”
”Ah! Richard,” answered Mary, still in laughing mood, ”you must let me ride with you. See!”--and she caught the dagger from his belt--”can I not strike as manfully as any dapper little squire, and make the infidels flee before me, as ever did your Frank hero, great Roland?”
”Verily,” cried her husband, his eyes on her face, ”I think if the Moslems saw you coming, they would drop every man his sword,--your darts would pierce them.”
”My darts?” asked she.
”Yes, truly,--these,” and he laid his fingers on her eyes.
”No,” was the answer, and she shook him off. ”Listen: my eyes are my sorrow,--first, because they captured the Baron de St. Julien, who deserves no such bondage;” then, more gravely, ”next, because they nigh undid Louis de Valmont; and last--O Richard! still I have mighty fear of Iftikhar Eddauleh; he is seeking your life, and G.o.d knows whether his unholy pa.s.sion for me is still in his heart! Swear, swear to me, Richard, that rather with your own hands you will take my life than suffer me to fall into _that_ man's power. He is Moslem, but on that account I do not hate him; yet death were better than to be his bride!”
Richard was accustomed to these changing flashes of gay and grave; but he knew there was no common ring of entreaty in Mary's last words, and he answered very soberly:--
”Heart of my heart, I am here in all my strength, with Trenchefer at my side, and around are thousands of good Christian knights. When they are all slain, and I also, then you may fear Iftikhar Eddauleh. Till then, think of likelier things to dread.”
Mary was silent, watching the stars for a moment, then replied:--
”You say well, Richard, you are very strong. I am proud of you. Yet I have a strange fear that all your strength cannot s.h.i.+eld me from Iftikhar. But no more of my folly,--perchance I am moonstruck. Let me go to the tent, to say one prayer to the Holy Mother to keep you safe to-morrow, and then to sleep, to dream how happy we shall be when we go back to France.”
So he kissed her; and when the flaps of the tent had closed behind her and her maids, he called Hossein.
”Good fellow, to-morrow we expect battle. To-day you have been a gallant guard of the princess. Remain by her to-morrow; defend her with your life. As I live, if you do your duty, reward shall not fail.”
”Cid,” answered the Arab, kissing the Baron's feet, ”I hear and obey.
I swear, on my head, no unfriendly hand shall touch your very n.o.ble wife.”
As Richard looked about, he saw Theroulde standing in the firelight.
”And you, too, Sir Minstrel,” said he, ”shall stand guard with Hossein over your lady.” As he spoke, he thought he heard a low curse, ”Eblees confound him!” burst from under Hossein's breath. ”Ha! What said you, Arab?” asked Longsword.
”I was but sighing as I thought of my many sins, Cid,” answered the fellow, very dutifully.
Richard did not reply, but repeated to himself ere he fell asleep: ”It is as well Theroulde will be with Mary. Despite everything, I mislike this Hossein, for some reason.”
Richard slept heavily, and was awakened by a hand on the shoulder. It was the St. Julien knight, De Carnac, who commanded the watch of his baron's command.
”Up, fair lord!” the warrior was urging, ”the Seljouks are closing round. Our sentinels are being driven in. I am bidden summon you to council with the Prince of Tarentum.” And with this Richard staggered to his feet and stared around. It was very dark in the tent as he put on hauberk and helmet. Without there was hum of many voices, distant shouting, baggage cattle chafing and clinking their chains, and presently a clear French war-cry, doubly piercing in the night, ”_Montjoye Saint Denis!_” A moment later a trumpet blared out, then another and another.
Richard stepped from the tent; the sky was graying in the east; encampment--men, horses, all--were vague black shadows just visible.
He was buckling fast Trenchefer when the flaps of the next tent parted, and forth came a figure--his wife. In the dim twilight he could only see the whiteness of her bare throat and the soft, unbound hair, waving on forehead and shoulders. She came to him, and embraced him without a word. Then at last she said, ”Now, dear life, you must ride out and fight G.o.d's battle, and if I cannot gallop at your side, you shall know that my heart and my prayers ride with you; and you must be very brave and very strong, and I will wait here and be brave also.”
”Ah! beautiful,” answered he, before he swung into the saddle of the waiting Rollo, ”G.o.d will have pity on me for your dear sake. You know no words can tell you all I feel.”
”Our Lord be with you!” and with that word upon her lips she kissed him; and he mounted, took lance, and rode away, with all the St.
Julien men saving a few grooms, also Theroulde and Hossein, who were to remain by the tents.
With the breath of the last kiss on his lips, and his head held very high, Richard Longsword led his troop out of the gray maze of the encampment. Battle was before him--a great battle against countless infidels, such as he and his peers had often made merry to think of; yet Longsword felt no joy that morning. Fear for himself he had none; the battle might sweep over him, the war-horns blow his funeral ma.s.s--what matter? Yet in a way his heart was sad. It would have been better had Mary remained at La Haye; better were he to fight for himself and the cause of Christ alone. But he knew not why he should grieve. That the Seljouks should so prevail over the soldiers of the Cross as to menace the encampment, scarce entered his head. Only he had been happier, could he have recalled his command to Hossein, taken the Arab in his troops, left another to guard the lady. But the fellow had twice proved his devotion. Why mistrust? And all such thoughts sped from his mind when he saw, dimly ahead, armed cavaliers sitting on their tall _destrers_, and Prince Bohemond's voice called:--