CHAPTER XVII

HOW RICHARD SAW PETER THE HERMIT

Thus Richard returned to St. Julien, to the great joy and wonderment of Musa and Herbert, who had never expected to see him again after learning his quest. As the days of autumn advanced, Richard began to make ready for his progress to Clermont. For hither, report had it, all France was flocking, small and great. In July Urban II, who, as Cardinal of Ostia, had once knelt at the bed of the dying Gregory, had crossed the Alps to see once more his native land,--for he was a Frenchman, born near Chatillon-sur-Marne,--and now that he had become the Vicar of Christ he did not forget that the best servants of Our Lord prayed to Him in the Languedoc or the Languedoil. And so, leaving behind Italy, with its wrangling prelates, its sordid city-folk, its Antipope, and half-phantom emperor, he returned to his own people. And lo! all France felt a thrill at the pontiff's coming--for who did not know that wonders past thinking were at hand! The sense of sin hung heavy on each man's soul: fast, penance, alms, gifts to abbeys, gifts to rear cathedral walls, the vows of the monks--all these too feeble to lift the pall of guilt! Richard was not the only despairing baron who cried after this fashion,--"Miserable man that I am--who shall save me from the body of this death!" Sin there was in France, l.u.s.t, violence; but also a spark of "the fire not of this world." Let the breath of the spirit blow; let the prophet's voice cry to the four winds; and the spark would spring to a flame, the flame to a roaring, the roaring would echo to the ends of the earth. The sky was bright over beloved France; day by day new castles were rising, cities also, and cathedrals mounting up to heaven. All without grew more joyous every day; but men, looking within, saw their sins beyond reckoning.

With France so fair, and "heaven so like thee, dear France," who would not give all to possess so lovely a country forever!--yet their sins--they were so many!

Urban had crossed the Alps in July; in August he was at Nimes; in September he crossed the Rhone, thence to Clugny, "Queen of Abbeys,"

where he had been a humble monk years before. As November advanced, he set his face toward Clermont, in Auvergne; and when St. Julien's folk made preparation to journey thither, Sebastian could scarce restrain his own impatience. All day he roamed about, his eyes bright but vacant. Richard did not share his joy; for he thought not of the pilgrimage only, but of Musa, and his mind grew darker. How he loved the Arab! And yet was not this bond betwixt Christian and Moslem a sin not lightly to be punished?

"_Ai_, my brother!" Richard would cry in despair; "turn Christian; go with me to Jerusalem; when we return, take half of the St. Julien lands!" Whereupon Musa laughed in his melancholy way, replying:--

"And why may not I bid you become Moslem and speed to Egypt?"

"Well that my faith is strong!" returned the Norman, bitterly. "But we must part--must part! Yet G.o.d has made you flesh of my flesh. We see love in each other's eyes. We hear each other's voices, and hear joy!

Were we both of one faith, where we two were, there would be heaven!

Yet, O Musa, we are sundered by a gulf wider than the sea!"

The friends had been pacing along the clearing without the castle; and now Musa thrust his arm around the shoulder of the mighty Norman, and the two strode on a long time silent. Then Richard continued:--

"Tell me, Musa, if you go to Egypt, and we Franks to Jerusalem, and it befalls that you have chance to fight in defence of the Holy City, will you embrace it? You are not a strait Moslem."

The Spaniard answered very slowly, his eyes on the ground:--

"What is written in the book of our dooms, that may no kalif shun.

Says Al-Koran, 'The fate of every man, we have bound about his neck.'

And again it says, 'No soul can die unless by the will of Allah, according to that which is written in the book containing the destinies of all things.' Therefore why ask me? The Most High knows what will befall, whether you Christians will have your will, and see your cross above the Holy City, or whether you will all be lying with the dead."

"Amen!" answered Richard, solemnly. "Only to the Christian there can be no doubt as to the will of G.o.d, unless, by the unworthiness of our sinful hearts, we are denied the boon of setting free the tomb of Our Lord. But, my kind brother, it is not of this that I would speak. I dread this parting from you. Think! here stand I, with many va.s.sals to fear me, a few, like Herbert, to worship me; but--" and the strong voice was broken--"on all the wide earth there are but three that love me,--Sebastian, Mary Kurkuas, and you. And how may I lift eyes to Mary now? And you--you are to be taken away."

Musa only looked on the gra.s.s at his feet. Then he said sweetly:--

"Ah, my brother, though now we part, I do not think our friendship will have brought bitterness only. So long as we live we shall think each of the other as the half of one's own soul that has traversed away, but will in some bright future return. And who knows that your churchmen, and even our prophet (on whom be peace), are wrong alike?

That every man and maid who has walked humbly in the sight of the Most High, and striven to do His will, will not be denied the joy hereafter? Do you think Allah is less compa.s.sionate than we, who have dwelt together these many days, and to whom our faith has been no barrier to pure love?"

Richard shook his head.

"G.o.d knows," said he, half piteously; "Sebastian says to me each day: 'The Spaniard is of the devil. Take heed! He stands on the brink of the lake of quenchless fire; send him away, if you are truly devoted to the service of Our Lord.'"

"And he is right," answered Musa, bending down and plucking a late floweret; "our paths lie far asunder. You will go to Jerusalem, and if you fare prosperously, you will return with the great load lifted from your soul, and rule here as a mighty baron with Mary Kurkuas at your side. And I--doubtless I shall gain favor at Cairo. They will give me work to do. I shall become a great emir,--vizier perhaps--no--I will better that; what may not a good sword hope with favoring start? May I not be hailed in twenty years 'Commander of the Faithful'?"

And Richard, catching the lighter mood, answered: "And will you go forever mateless? At Palermo how many bright eyes smiled on you! As kalif the fifty houris of your harem will chase from mind the memory of Richard the Frank." Musa tore in pieces the floweret, and blew away the petals.

"A harem? Allah forefend! My father had three wives, and was the slave of each at once. Never wittingly will I yield myself to love, save of one who shall be the fairest of the daughters of Allah and gifted with His own wisdom!"

"You speak of Mary Kurkuas!" cried the Norman, starting.

"_Wallah_, to every lover his mistress is the only fair one!"

So Musa made merry. A few days afterward he rode away with the Saracens to La Haye, to tell Mary that for the sin of her betrothed, Richard dared not hail her his bride. A sorry story! but only Musa could make the best of it. Nasr and his Saracens were to be shipped back to Sicily. As for Longsword, he set forth with a few men-at-arms westward for Clermont.

As they travelled, more and more people met them, and all were going the selfsame way. At Chanterelle the lord of the castle had to send to Richard begging pardon, but there were already so many cavaliers with their retainers halting with him for the night, that he could offer no hospitality. At Valbelaix, lo! a great crowd of peasants, men with long hair and s.h.a.ggy beards, foot-sore women and little children, were on the road; and when Richard asked them how they durst leave their seigneur's lands and brave his wrath, an old man fell on his knees and answered:--

"Ah, gentle knight, our seigneur may be angry, but G.o.d is still more angry. For we have all many sins, and they say that at Clermont the Holy Father will tell us how we may be loosed from them."

Then Richard bowed his head very humbly and bade Herbert cast a whole bag of silver obols amongst the good people, and was very glad when the children cried out in their sweet, clear voices: "G.o.d bless you, good lord," and "Our Lady remember your kindness."

As the company rode toward Courgoul, they came on another knight with his train. The cavalier was a thick-pated, one-eyed old warrior, who had a life of hard fighting and foul living written all over his face.

But when Richard inquired whither he journeyed, the old sinner made reply:--

"To Clermont, brave sir."

"And why to Clermont?"

"Ah! you have two eyes. You can see; my sins are more than the leaves on the trees. I could never remember them all at confession. But even I," and he crossed himself, "am a Christian; and if by riding a few jousts with the infidels the saints will think more kindly of me, St.

Anastaise, it would be no irksome penance!"

So they travelled, and Richard began to see that he was not the only one who felt the hand of G.o.d very heavy upon him. When the troop came to Courgoul, a great band of country folk, farmers, petty n.o.bles, and two or three greater lords were overtaken, all hurrying and shouting, so that for a long time Longsword could learn nothing from them. Then, at last, men began to cry, "He is here! he is here!" just as they turned in before the little village church.

"Who is this 'he'?" pressed Richard. And twenty tongues tossed back: "Are you a stranger? Peter of Amiens! Peter the Hermit, the apostle of G.o.d!"

So the whole band swarmed to the church door, but could not enter, for within there was no room to stand. And an old priest came forth, and scarce obtained silence:--

"Back, back, good Christians, the saintly Peter will come and speak to you under the great tree."

Then all surged again to a wide-spreading oak before the church, and the building emptied like bees pouring from a hive; but last of all, with a sacristan guarding at either side to keep off the people, came a little man, almost a dwarf in stature. He had his eyes on the ground; his carriage was ungainly; head and feet were bare. His hair was unshorn, his brown beard fell upon his breast. One could see that his cheeks were wan with fasting. He wore a gray hermit's cloak, and beneath that a rude, dirty ca.s.sock, girt With a cord. And this was the man who was setting France aflame, and doing that which King Philip or his greatest va.s.sal could not with all their lieges! "Your blessing, father, your blessing!" voices began to cry. And now a woman, who had tried to kiss his cloak's hem, but had been thrust back by a sacristan, fell on her knees, and was kissing the sod where the hermit's foot had pressed. More voices: "Your blessing, father! Our sins are great! Pray to G.o.d for us--He will hear you!" And the baron whom Richard had met was on his knees before the anchorite, bowing his wicked old head, and moaning and sobbing and gasping out all sorts of pet.i.tions. Peter had reached the foot of the great tree. It stood on a slight rising, and the crowd all gave back a little. Peter fell on his knees, beat his breast, and prayed silently. And with him all knelt a long while, each repeating his _mea culpa_. Then the hermit rose. At the flash of his eyes, bright as carbuncles, a fire seemed to burn to each hearer's deepest soul.

"Listen, Christians of Auvergne!" One could hear a leaf rustle, it was so still. "You say your sins are many?" "Yes, yes!" came from a thousand voices, all moaning at once. A slight gesture; they were silent. "And you say well. G.o.d is very angry with you. He sent His dear son, Our Lord, to this world more than a thousand years ago. How wicked it still is! Who of you is guiltless? Let such go hence. I have no word for him. But you," with a lightning gaze about, "have given way to l.u.s.tful pa.s.sion; and you--have blasphemed the name of G.o.d; and you--have shed innocent blood. It is so. I see it in all your eyes."

And now a terrible commotion was shaking the crowd. Strong men were crying out in agony; women wailed; there were tears on the most iron cheek. Peter went on: "I am not the Holy Father. Come to Clermont, if you wish to learn how to be loosed from your sins. But hear my tale and consider if the acceptable day of the Lord be not at hand,--the day when your sins which are as scarlet shall be washed white as wool.

Know, good people, that not long since I was in Palestine, in the dear home land of our Blessed Lord. Ah, it would tear your hearts too much, were I to tell you all that I there saw: how the unbelievers pollute churches and holy altars with vile orgies; how the blood of the oppressed Christians has run in the streets of Jerusalem, like brooks in the springtime; how even the Rock of Calvary and the Church of the Holy Sepulchre have been defiled--by deeds which the tongue may not utter!" A pause. The crowd was swaying in emotion beyond control.

Peter held on high a large crucifix, and pointed to the Christ thereon: "Look at the body of Our Lord. His wounds bleed afresh; they bleed for His children who have forgotten Him, and turned away to paths of wickedness, and left His sacred city to unbelievers. O generation of vipers, who shall save you from eternal wrath?" The cord was strained nigh to breaking. The people were moaning and tossing their arms. A great outburst seemed impending. "Come to Clermont. For I say unto you that G.o.d has not turned away His face utterly. There the Holy Father will tell you what you shall do to be saved. Thus long has G.o.d seen your wickedness and been angry with you. But He has not kept His anger forever. Be sober and of good courage, for a great day is at hand. When I was in Jerusalem, I communed with the saintly Simeon, the patriarch, and wept bitterly over the griefs of the Christians there and the arrogancy of the unbelievers. And I declare to you that when I knelt one day at the Holy Sepulchre, I heard a voice: 'Peter of Amiens, arise! Hasten to proclaim the tribulations of My people; the time cometh for My servants to receive help and My holy tomb to be delivered!' And I knew it was Our Lord Himself that spoke.

Therefore I rested not day nor night until I had bidden the Christians of the West put forth their might in G.o.d's most holy war!"

For a moment stillness; then Peter broke forth again: "Awake, awake, put on strength, O arm of the Lord! Awake as in the ancient time, in the generations of old! Then shall the redeemed of the Lord return, and come singing into Zion; and they shall obtain gladness and joy, and sorrow and mourning shall flee away!"

Then there was a strange thing. The people did not cry out, the moaning was hushed, all kept motionless; and the hermit stood holding up the crucifix, with his hand outstretched in benediction!--

"To Clermont!" was his command; "to Clermont, men of Auvergne! There you shall have rest for your souls!"

He went down from the little rising, and the people again began to flock about him. But he called for his mule, and when he mounted it, made away, though the crowd pressed close, and found holy relics in the beast's very hairs. Richard had been stirred as never before in his whole life. Was it true that all the world was guilty and sinful even as he? He felt himself caught in a mighty eddy, bearing he knew not whither; he, one wavelet amid the sea's myriads. Yes, to Clermont he would go,--Musa, Mary Kurkuas, honor, life,--he would give them all if need be, only to have his part in the war ordained by G.o.d.

CHAPTER XVIII