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

But Herbert, the seneschal, had gone to the gate, and came back with his wicked eyes dancing in his head.

"Ho! My lord, there will be no hawking to-day!" he was bawling with all his lungs.

"Why not, rascal?" growled the Baron; yet he, too, began to sniff an adventure, like a practised war-horse.

"These people will make it clear to my lord."

And after the seneschal trooped three very dissimilar persons, who all broke out in a breath into howls and cries.

The first was a well-fed priest, but with a tattered cassock and a great red welt swelling upon his bare poll; the second, a dark-eyed Greek peasant of the country in a dress also much the worse for wear; and the third, a tall, gaunt old Moor, whose one-time spotless white kaftan and turban were dust-sprinkled and torn. They all cried and bellowed at once, but the priest got out the first coherent word.

"Rescue, noble Baron, rescue, for the love of Christ! My master, the Bishop of Messina, is fallen into the hands of the men of Belial, and I, even I, of all his following, am escaped to tell the tale. Rescue—"

And here the Greek broke in:—

"Oh! most august Frank, by St. Basil and St. Demetrius, I adjure you, save my sister, whom the pirates have carried away."

But the old Moor, with tears in his eyes, knelt and kissed the Baron's very feet.

"Oh! fountain of generosity, save my master, for the Berber raiders seek not his ransom, but his life. Rescue, O champion of the innocent!"

"By the splendor of God!" roared the Baron, with a great oath, "I make nothing of all this wind. What mean they, Herbert?" And the seneschal, who stood by all alert, replied curtly: "I gather, Moorish pirates have landed below the town toward Lascari to kill or kidnap the Spanish knight who dwells with Hajib the Kadi; and doubtless the Bishop of Messina and his company have fallen into their hands while passing along the road. It may be, my lord,"—and the sly fellow winked, as if the hint would be needed,—"that if we ride forth, we may nip them before they regain the ship. The Kadi's villa is far inland."

Baron William was no man of words when deeds were needed. In a trice he had clapped to his mouth the great olifant—the ivory horn that dangled at his baldric, and its notes rang out sharp and clear. Twice he wound a mighty blast; and almost before the last peal died away the castle was transformed. The Norman men-at-arms, dozing and dicing in the great hall, were tearing their shields from the wall, their lances from the cupboards and presses. Forth sounded that merriest of jingling, the clinking of good ring-steel hauberks as they dragged them on. In the stables feverish grooms girt fast the saddles on the stamping destrers —the huge war-horses. And up from other parts of the castle rose the boom of kettledrums, the clash and brattle of cymbals, as the Baron's Saracens, nigh half of his garrison, came racing into the bailey, clattering their brass-studded targets with their bow staves, and tossing their crooked cimeters. Richard and his father had rushed into the donjon, but were back quick as thought with their mail shirts jangling about them, and stout steel caps hiding all the face save the eyes. The good Baron was snorting and dancing for the fray as if it had been his first battle; or as if he were what the jongleurs said of Charlemagne, "two hundred years old, scarred by a hundred fields, yet the last to weary of the mêlée."

Good Lady Margaret stood by the gate as the troops rode out, after her son and husband had kissed her. Dear woman! it was not the first time she had seen them ride forth perchance to deadlier fields, but she had not yet learned to love the blasts of the war-horn. Until they returned she would spend the time in the chapel, betwixt hope and fear, telling it all to "Our Lady of Succors."

"Will you not come with us?" cried Richard, gayly, to Sebastian, the old priest, who stood at his mother's side. "Play Roland's Bishop Turpin, who slew so many infidels."

The good man shrugged his shoulders, and said with a sigh: "Not slaying infidels, but slaying for slaying's sake you lust after, my son. When you ride for Christ's love only, then perhaps I ride with you; but St. George shield you—if not for your sake, at least for ours."

The troops cantered forth, twenty good Norman men-at-arms; as many light-mailed Saracen riders,—the Baron and his son in full armor. At the turn in the road below the castle Richard waved his kite-shaped shield, as last salute to the little group by the drawbridge.

"Let us go to the chapel, my children," said Lady Margaret to her younger son and her daughter. "We can do nothing here."

Little heeded Richard Longsword the warnings of priest or mother, as with a good horse between his knees, a stout shield tossed over his back, and the white hawk blinking under her hood and perched upon his shoulder, he spurred ahead of his troop, leading their mad gallop. One thought, be it confessed, was uppermost in his mind,—the Greek lady with the yellow veil and red ribbons,—she the booty of Berber raiders, while he was near by with a keen sword in his scabbard! St. Maurice forbid! So furious was his riding that the Baron, who was foaming behind, must needs shout to him not to outpace the company. The ground sped fast under the flying hoofs. A fair and fruitful country it was, had he given it heed: fields of cotton, orchards of orange and lemon, flower masses scattered here and there bright as the rainbow, and the great mountains swelling up above all, with Pizzo Antenna and San Salvadore in the background, their mighty summits standing forth as brown and green crystal against the azure.

There was a kind, sweet wind creeping in from the sea, bearing a breath of the pure brine; and to the sea were threading the silver rivulets from the meadows, the racing brooks from the mountain sides. Small place had all this in the young Norman's mind. Already as they cantered westward toward the foothills, his keen eye had lit on a sluggish column of smoke, at sight whereof he gave his flying steed another thrust with the rowels; and all the riders at his back, when they saw, set up one gleeful yell,—they were on track of the raiders. Now frightened Moslem or Greek peasants scampered past them, too scared to whimper out more than a word as to where the foe awaited. Then as they swung round a turn in the road, and cleared a clump of manna trees, a woman came flying to meet them,—old, but decently dressed, and throwing up her hands she gave one mighty howl to Richard.

"Oh! Sir Frank; rescue, rescue for my dear mistress! Save her from the Hagarenes!" For so the Greeks called all the race of Ishmael.

Richard bent low in his saddle. "Never fear, good woman; where are the raiders? I will rescue your lady!"

"There!" cried the old woman, screaming again. "Oh! they will kill us all! St. Irene, St. John, St. Basil—"

But Longsword did not wait for her to finish her adjuration. Right at the turn in the road were advancing a knot of men in bright barbaric dresses with tossing spears and brandished cimeters. When they caught sight of their galloping pursuers, they set up a hideous din from horns and cymbals and tabors; and the shout of the Baron's party was met by a louder from fourfold as many throats.

The Baron had pricked up abreast of his son, and one sweeping glance over the freebooters' array told the story.

"Nigh two hundred," he muttered under his helmet, "and think themselves too strong to be molested. We have met them as they return to their ship. Berbers mostly, but I see the fair skins of some Christian renegadoes. They have captured some horses, and their prisoners are strapped to them, in the centre of the band. By the peacock! it will be a pretty fight ere we get at them! But we have our mounts, and one rider matches ten on the ground."