HOW RICHARD MET G.o.dFREY OF BOUILLON

Under the dead craters of the Monts Dome in the teeming Limagne basin lay Clermont, a sombre, lava-built town, with muddy lanes; and all around, the bright, cold, autumn-touched country. Far beyond the walls stretched a new city,--tents spread over the meadows even; for no hospitable burghers could house the hundreds of prelates and abbots come to the council; much less the host of lay n.o.bles and "villains."

Daily into the Cathedral went the great bishops in blazing copes, and the lordly abbots beneath gold-fringed mitres, to the Council where presided the Holy Father,--where the truce of G.o.d was being proclaimed between all Christians from each Wednesday set-of-sun till Monday c.o.c.kcrow, and where Philip of France and his paramour Queen Bertrade were laid under the great anathema. But no man gave these decrees much heed; for when Richard Longsword rode into Clermont on a November day, and pitched his tents far out upon the meadows,--all near s.p.a.ce being taken,--he wondered at the flash in every eye at that one magic word, "Jerusalem!" All had heard Peter; all burned for the miseries of the City of Our Lord; knew that their own sins were very great. From Perignat to Clermont, Richard accompanied a great mult.i.tude, growing as it went. After he had encamped, the roads were still black with those coming from the north, from Berri; from the west, from Aquitaine; from the east, from Forez. One could hear the chatter of the Languedoil, of the Ile de France, and of Champagne--all France was coming to Clermont!

Beside Richard encamped an emba.s.sy from the Count Raymond of Toulouse, headed by a certain Raymond of Agiles, a fat, consequential, good-natured priest, his lord's chaplain; a very hard drinker who soon struck hands with Longsword,--much to the scandal of Sebastian, who did not love tales of la.s.ses and wine-cups. With him was a half-witted clerk, one Peter Barthelmy, of whom more hereafter. But Richard cared little for their jests. Could even the Holy Father give rest to his soul? Could a journey to Jerusalem write again his name in the Book of Life?

Richard went to the church of Our Lady of the Gate. Kneeling by the transept portal, with strangely carved cherubim above him, he looked into the long nave, where only dimly he could see the ma.s.sy piers and arches for the blaze of light from two high windows bright with pictured saints. As he entered, a great hush and peace seemed to come over him. He turned toward the high altar; the gleaming window above seemed a doorway into heaven. He knelt at a little shrine by the aisle. He would pray. Lo, of a sudden the choir broke forth from the lower gloom:--

"That great Day of wrath and terror!

That last Day of woe and doom, Like a thief that comes at midnight On the sons of men shall come; When the pride and pomp of ages All shall utterly have pa.s.sed, And they stand in anguish owning That the end is here at last!"

Richard heard, and his heart grew chill. Still the clear voices sang on, till the words smote him:--

"Then to those upon the left hand That most righteous Judge shall say: 'Go, you cursed, to Gehenna And the fire that is for aye.'"

Richard bowed his head and rocked with grief. But when he looked again up toward the storied windows and saw the Virgin standing bathed in light, her eyes seemed soft and pitiful. Still he listened as the music swelled on:--

"But the righteous, upward soaring, To the heavenly land shall go 'Midst the cohorts of the angels Where is joy forevermo': To Jerusalem, exulting, They with shouts shall enter in: That true 'sight of peace' and glory That sets free from grief and sin, Christ, they shall behold forever, Seated at the Father's hand As in Beatific Vision His elect before Him stand."

Richard sprang to his feet. "_Ai!_" were his words, half aloud; "if hewing my way to the earthly Jerusalem I may gain sight of the heavenly, what joy! what joy!"

A hand touched him gently on the shoulder. He looked about, half expecting to see a priest; his eye lit on a cavalier, soberly dressed, with his hood pulled over his head. In the gloom of the church Richard could only see that he was a man of powerful frame and wore a long blond beard.

"Fair knight," said the stranger, in the Languedoil, in a voice low, but ringing and penetrating, "you seem mightily moved by the singing; do you also wish to win the fairer Holy City by seeking that below? I heard your words." There was something in the tone and touch that won confidence without asking. And Richard answered:--

"Gallant sir, if G.o.d is willing that I should be forgiven by going ten score times to Jerusalem, and braving twelve myriad paynims, I would gladly venture."

The strange knight smote his breast and cast down his eyes. "We are all offenders in the sight of G.o.d, and I not the least. Ah! sweet friend, I know not how you have sinned. At least, I trust you have not done as I, borne arms against Holy Church. What grosser guilt than that?"

The two knelt side by side at the little shrine for a long time, saying nothing; then both left the church, and together threaded the dirty lanes of the town, going southward to the meadows where was Richard's encampment. As they stepped into the bright light of day, Longsword saw that the stranger was an exceeding handsome man, with flashing gray eyes, long fair hair, and, though his limbs were slender and delicate, his muscles and frame seemed knit from iron. When they pa.s.sed the city gate, Richard asked the other to come to his tent.

"You are my elder, my lord; do not think my request presumption."

"And why do you say 'my lord'?" asked the stranger, smiling.

"Can I not see that your bleaunt, though sombre, is of costliest _cendal_ silk? that your 'pelisson' is lined with rare marten? that the chain at your neck is too heavy for any mean cavalier? And--I cry pardon--I see that in your eye which makes me say, 'Here is a mighty lord!'"

The knight laughed again, and stroked his beard thoughtfully.

"Good sir," said he, at length, "I see you are a 'sage' man. You desire to go to Jerusalem?"

"Yes, by Our Lady!"

"So do I; and I have come no small journey to hear the Holy Father.

Let us seal friendship. Your name?"

"Richard Longsword, Baron of St. Julien," answered the Norman, promptly, thrusting out his hand.

"And mine," replied the other, looking fairly into Longsword's face, with a half-curious expression, "is G.o.dfrey of Bouillon."

But Richard had dropped the proffered hand, and bowed very low.

"G.o.dfrey of Bouillon? G.o.dfrey of Lorraine? O my Lord Duke, what folly is mine in thrusting myself upon you--" But G.o.dfrey cut him short.

"Fair sir, do not be dismayed; your surmise is true! G.o.d willing, we shall ride side by side in more than one brave battle for the Cross; and I count every Christian cavalier who will fight with the love of Our Lord in his heart to be my good comrade and brother."

"O my lord," began Richard again; and again the elder man stayed him with, "And why not? Will G.o.d give a higher place in heaven to the sinful duke than to the righteous peasant? Are we not told 'he that exalteth himself shall be abased'? And why have I, man of sin from my birth, cause to walk proudly?"

The last words came so naturally that Richard could only cry out in despair: "_Ai_, Lord Duke, and if that be so, and you, who all men say are more monk than cavalier, are so evil, what hope then for such as I, who have sinned nigh past forgiveness?"

"And what was your sin, fair knight?"

"I slew an innocent boy with his hands upon the altar."

G.o.dfrey crossed himself, but answered very mildly: "You have greatly offended, yet not as I. For when you slew only a mortal boy, I crucified My Lord afresh by bearing arms against His Holy Church.

Eleven years since with the Emperor Henry, in an evil hour, I aided him to take Rome from the saintly Pope Gregory. For this G.o.d let me be stricken by a great sickness. I was at death's door. Then His mercy spared me. And when I recovered, I swore that I would ride forth to the deliverance of the Holy City; in the meantime, under my silken robe I wear this," and he showed a coa.r.s.e haircloth shirt, "as a remembrance of my sin and of my vow."

"But you are without state?" asked Richard, wondering; "no va.s.sals--no great company?"

G.o.dfrey smiled. "What are the pomps of this world?" said he, crossing himself again; "yet in the eyes of men I must maintain them; such is the bondage of the ruler. Just now my affairs are such in Lorraine and Brabant that were it to be noised abroad that the Duke were gone to Clermont, there would be no small stir, and then, perhaps, many would conspire to resist me. But now they think me hunting, to return any day, and they dare not move in their plots. Yet my heart has burned to see the Lord Pope, and hear the word that he must speak. Therefore I have come hither, in the guise of a simple knight, riding with all my speed, and only one faithful lord with me, who pa.s.ses for my man-at-arms. And I must get the blessing and mandate of the Holy Father, and be back to Maestricht ere too many tongues begin wagging over my stay." And then with a flash of his keen eyes he turned on Richard: "And you, my Lord de St. Julien,--are you not the son of that great Baron, William the Norman, who rode the length of Palermo in the face of all the Moslems during the siege, and were you not also victor in the famous tourney held last year by Count Roger?"

"I am, my Lord Duke; yet how could you know me?"

G.o.dfrey laughed lightly. "I make no boast, fair sir," he answered, "but there are very few cavaliers in all Christendom of whom I do not know something. For this war for the Cross is no new thing in my heart; and I strive to learn all I may of each good knight who may ride at my side, when we battle with the paynim; and I rejoice that your dwelling in half-Moslem Sicily has not made your hate for the unbeliever less strong."

"Ah!" cried Richard, "only lately have I resolved to go to Jerusalem; I have fought against it long. To go I must put by the wedding of the fairest, purest woman in all the world,--perhaps forever. Yet my sin is great; and the blood of my parents and brother, slain by the infidels, will not let me rest. But it is very hard."

"Therefore," said G.o.dfrey, solemnly, with the fervor of an enthusiast kindling his eyes, "in the sight of G.o.d, your deed will have the more merit. Be brave, sweet brother. Put by every worldly desire and l.u.s.t.

I also have sworn to live as brother to mine own dear wife, till the paynims defile the city of the Lord no more. Our Lady grant us both the purer, uncarnal love, the glory pa.s.sing thought, the seats at G.o.d's right hand!" And the great Duke strode on, his head bowed in deep revery, while Richard drew new strength and peace from his mere presence. Richard brought G.o.dfrey to his own tent, letting De Carnac and the others know little of the story of his guest; and with the Duke came Count Renard of Toul, his comrade, a splendid and handsome cavalier, who seemed singularly ill-matched with his man-at-arms jerkin and plain steel cap. Longsword called Theroulde, and the _jongleur_ was at his best that night as he sang the direful battle of Roncesvalles, the valor of Roland and Oliver, and the gallant Bishop Turpin; and of Ganelon and his foul treason, King Marsillius and his impious attack on the armies of Christ; the death of the dreadful paynim Valdobrun, profaner of Jerusalem, and a hundred heroes more. As the tale ran on, it was a thing to see how the Duke swelled with holy rage against the infidel. As Theroulde sang, sitting by the camp-fire, the Duke would forget himself, spring from the rugs, and dash his scabbard upon the ground, until at last when the _jongleur_ told how Roland wound his great horn thrice in anguish, after it was all too late and the Frankish army far away, G.o.dfrey could rein himself no more: "By the Splendor of G.o.d!" was his shout, "would that I had been there and my Lorrainers!" Then Theroulde was fain to keep silence till the terrible lord (for so he guessed him) could be at peace. Late that night they parted. On the morrow, report had it, the Pope would address all the Christians at Clermont from a pulpit in the great square.

"And then,--and then,"--repeated the Duke; but he said no more, for they all knew their own hearts. Richard lay down with a heart lighter than it had been for many a dreary day. "Jerusalem! Jerusalem!" The name was talisman for every mortal woe.

Long after Richard had fallen asleep, Herbert sat with Theroulde, matching good stories before the camp-fire. The man-at-arms lolled back at full length by the blaze, his spade-like hands clasped under his head, his sides shaking with horse-laughs at Theroulde's jests.

Suddenly the _jongleur_ cut his merry tale short.

"St. Michael! There is a man lurking in the gloom behind the Baron's tent. Hist!"--and Theroulde pointed into the dark. Herbert was on his feet, and a javelin in his hand, in a twinkling.

"Where?" he whispered, poising to take aim.

"He is gone," replied the _jongleur_; "the night has eaten him up."

"You are believing your own idle tales," growled the man-at-arms.

"Not so; I swear I saw him, and the light as on a drawn dagger. He was a misshaped, dwarfish creature."

Herbert sped the javelin at random into the dark. It crashed on a tent-pole. He ran and recovered it.

"No one is there," he muttered; "you dream with open eyes, Theroulde.