[Ill.u.s.tration: "THE LAD LAY WITH HIS BRIGHT LOCKS IN A CRIMSON POOL"]

Now a mightier shout in the halls above.

"Out! Out! The castle burns!" And with the shout a rising roar and crackle, and the sniff of creeping smoke.

Still Richard stood; almost he felt as a man waking from a dream.

Would it not all flee away and leave him at Cefalu in his mother's bower? or at Palermo in the genii palace with Mary Kurkuas beside the plashing fountain?

Musa had stepped to him and touched his arm gently. "Dear brother, the castle burns quickly. We must haste, if all would get out!"

Richard shook himself; his head steadied.

"Come, my men!" He led them up from the chapel. Already the flames were mastering the upper lofts. The parapet was a pyramid of glowing fire. The victors rushed down the drawbridge with their spoil; a great copper dresser, plate, gold cups, tapestry--the plunder of Raoul de Valmont for many a long year. Only Musa stayed long enough in the chapel to bear the Lady Ide outside the bailey, where some of the castle women were not too terrified to care for her, and take her to the cottage of a peasant not far away.

Richard stood outside the gate. The fire was climbing downward and mounting upward. Now from every loophole spouted a blazing jet. The sky had cleared, but the eddying smoke veiled stars and moon. The great keep was a flaming beacon against the dark; ten leagues away lord and va.s.sal would see it, and say that Raoul the Bull of Valmont had met his deserts at last. The St. Julien men crowded around their chief, gave him cheer on cheer, and cried out that with him to lead no emperor might withstand them. Richard stretched up his hands toward the glowing fire-mount.

"Let G.o.d Himself undo my deed this night!" he cried. Then they walked to the glen, took horse and were away, and saw St. Julien before dawn.

All the ride Richard was laughing and boasting, and saying that he wished a Raoul every month that he might have such rare sport; but Sebastian and Musa said little, and their thoughts were none the most gay.

CHAPTER XIV

HOW RICHARD'S SIN WAS REWARDED

There was mirth and dancing in the St. Julien castle when Longsword and his band returned. Seventy and more had they gone away, scarce fifty came back, some of the women howled long for the husband or brother whom they brought home on the shields; but save for these, who was there but had a laugh and a cheer for Richard, who had borne himself a very paladin in the fight? When the knight dismounted at the castle gate, forth came the gray-haired steward with the great horn goblet of the urus-ox,--a mighty cup centuries old, ornamented with strangely wrought silver bands, and br.i.m.m.i.n.g with home-brewed mead.

"Drink, fair lord," he commanded, "for you have proved a right n.o.ble seigneur of St. Julien. None but a cavalier of wondrous valor is suffered to drink from this."

So Richard drained the great horn. "To the perdition of every Valmonter, and to the bright eyes of Mary Kurkuas!"

Then he went to the chamber of his grandfather, who had sat all that night, gnawing his nails, crying to the varlets to run to the parapet to see if the sky was aglow toward Valmont. As Richard came in the old man staggered up to him, caught him by the arm, and sniffled piteously when Richard told how they won the outwork and the bridge and the keep.

"By the Cross!" swore the Baron, half laughing, half moaning, "I would have given half my life to be there,--there and strike one good blow, and feel the steel eat through Raoul de Valmont."

"Raoul de Valmont will never feel another sword," said Richard, softly; "he is gone to his account."

"Aye," cried the Baron; "gone, so the varlets who ran here told me; gone, and a long time St. Peter will have of it reading off the list of his sins. By Our Lady, they were not a few; and perhaps mine are as many, ha! Well, even the devil will not frighten me much, after what I have lived through!"

"You must live and undo your misdeeds if you can, dear grandfather,"

said Richard, whose own conscience was as yet very easy.

"Yes, I must have a talk with the abbot. Live like a demon, then square at the end with the priests! Two or three fields added to the glebe, a few _sols_ ready money, and the saints forget all about you, and let you crawl under the gate of heaven--that is the way a man of spirit should live and die! But the Valmonters--the boy Gilbert?"

"I killed him," said Richard, deliberately.

"Good; he had never done any harm; neither have wolf whelps; but we kill them just the same. And John of the Iron Arm?"

"He is here. De Carnac struck him down, but he is alive; they have him in the dungeon now."

"Good again; I can hear him whistle his tune before we let him die.

_Ai_, lad, you will be a right good seigneur for this old castle. I shall sleep in the ground more snugly because I know you possess all.

I have fought, sc.r.a.ped, and lied to make the barony larger. No man shall ever say Gaston forgave a foe, or failed to square off a grudge, and now Raoul has been paid--ha!"

So Richard left the old man to chuckle in his darkness. The next day the abbot came over with congratulations, blessings, and a request for the great altar cross of Valmont,--which was due, because the "_aggrave_ and _reaggrave_," double and triple anathema, he had thundered against the Valmonters, doubtless went far to blast their prowess; and Longsword all piously gave the cross. The monks chanted _Te Deums_ and enough ma.s.ses to lift every fallen St. Juliener promptly out of purgatory. Richard went about with merry face and loud laugh.

"After the feast comes the dance!" he would cry, when all marvelled at his nimbleness after so hard a _melee_.

At the great feast in honor of the victory, Richard sat at the head of the long horseshoe table, drank with the deepest, and never blushed when Theroulde likened him in valor to Huon of Bordeaux or even to Roland.

"You seem very joyous to-night, dear son," said Sebastian, who appeared gloomier than ever.

"And why should I not?" quoth Richard, stretching forth for more wine.

"Have I not blotted out my grandfather's enemy; have I not a n.o.ble barony; have I not the love of the best of friends," with a glance at Musa, "and of the fairest woman in the world?"

"Ah! sweet son," replied Sebastian, sighing, "all these shall pa.s.s away! The gra.s.s withereth, the flower fadeth; there will come a time when you will cry, 'Would G.o.d I had been mindful of my vow and gone to Jerusalem.' Even now it is not too late; let us go and hear the holy Peter of Amiens, called Peter the Hermit."

Richard cut him short with a direful oath. "Speak not again of Jerusalem. I care more for Mary Kurkuas and for Musa than for ten thousand Jerusalems! Let others who have more sin on their souls, and are more frighted by priests' patter, go if they list. For me I give you the good Arab saying:--

"'Begone all eating cares this night!

Who recks to see the morning light?'"

Then, to a serving-varlet: "Here, fellow, another horn." And Richard stood up with all eyes upon him. "To Mary Kurkuas," he drank, "and long may she be the liege lady of St. Julien."

Every man present, except Sebastian, roared out the pledge; but Sebastian only sat still, and prayed to the saints.

Thus sped some weeks, and old Baron Gaston breathed his last. Before he died John of the Iron Arm had gone before him, in a manner better surmised than said. The Baron had felt his sins coming home upon him as his time drew nigh. The abbot went to see him very often. Gaston wished to die as a monk. The brethren put on him the monk's robe and scapulary, the sub-prior p.r.o.nounced over him some words of consecration, and the dying sinner muttered some half-articulate vows.

Yet he seemed more concerned as to what would befall his good horse Fleuri when he was gone, than about the welfare of his soul. Around his bed night and day sat his petty n.o.bles and neighbors watching in solemn silence, except to cross themselves when a magpie croaked, or when it was said that a vulture hovered over the castle--sure sign of the death-angel's approach. The moment the Baron was dead, the serving-boys ran through the castle, emptying every vessel of water, lest in one the straying soul should drown itself. The monks gave him a funeral as became one of their own order, and one who had made over to them so wide a stretch of farm-land. Ten days after Gaston was buried, they proclaimed Richard Baron of St. Julien. Lady Margaret was her father's only heir; but she was far away, and a man with a strong arm was needed in that troubled seigneury. So Richard Longsword sat down in the Baron's high seat at the end of the great hall, and all the lesser n.o.bles came before him, knelt, placed their hands in his, and swore themselves "his men." And Richard raised each up, kissed him on the mouth, and promised love and protection so long as he observed fealty. Fealty, Richard himself owed in name to the Count of Auvergne, with the young William of Aquitaine as overlord of all. But times were turbulent, Aquitaine and Toulouse at bitter feud. Richard looked upon the castle, the stout men, the broad lands, and the blue sky: "No power can say me nay," was his laugh, "saving G.o.d and Mary Kurkuas."

And one fears he did not greatly dread the former. But the barony he ruled with a strong hand, and ended the petty tyrannies of the lesser n.o.bles upon their serfs; while Sebastian as chancellor chased from office the chaplain of St. Julien, a rollicking, hard-swearing sinner, with a consort, six children, and wide fame as a toper. In his stead reigned Sebastian himself, who soon crossed swords even with the abbot: first, because there were fowls in the abbey kettles Fridays; second, because the brethren bartered smacks with the bouncing village maids. "_Peccatum venale!_" cried the abbot to the last charge, and defended the former by saying that fowls were created along with fish on Friday, and who that day refused fish? So both good men complained to Richard, but he merrily said that Nasr, as an impartial infidel, should compose their quarrel. And ignoring their war, Longsword rode up and down the barony, setting the crooked straight, making the "villains" worship him for his ready laugh, his great storehouse of humor, his willingness to stand with the weak against the strong. Only men who had followed him at Valmont whispered about him. One day Richard heard two men-at-arms with their heads together, while he sat at chess with Musa.

"Our seigneur is a terrible man. You should have seen him in the chapel."

"From what I was told, he smote the very relic box. He must shudder lest the hand of G.o.d be laid on him."

"He shudder? Lord Richard would not shrink, if he saw a thousand fiends. His heart is made of iron, like his hands, if only you could see it. Yet sometimes I tremble lest we all be smitten a deadly blow for his deed. We all stood by consenting, though the stroke was his."

Richard heard, and the whispers so shook his mind that he made a false move, lost a piece, lost the game. Musa saw that he was silent for once that evening. A messenger had come the day before from La Haye: Mary was well and joyous; they would have a bridal that would be a tale through all the South Country. Yet Richard was no longer merry.

Musa confided his anxiety to Herbert, who had become his firm friend.

"The Cid my brother is not well. He talks in his sleep; he boasts before men, but fears to be left alone. Last night he cried out on his bed to take away Gilbert de Valmont and his fair, blood-stained hairs."

Herbert shook his head. "The 'little lord'"--for so he fondly called his mighty nursling--"has done a deed, even I," he laughed grimly, "who have a few things to tell the priests, would not like to dip hands in. Slaying the lad was no wrong, mind you. But the altar! the altar! Better kill fifty in cold blood than shatter a relic box!"

"No, I think he fears lest Allah requires the boy's blood at his hands."

Herbert brayed out a great laugh. "G.o.d will never wink twice, caring for those Valmonters. They say Louis is coming north with a band to take vengeance. Pretty fighting--no music sweeter than that of sword-blades."