Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  Thus he spoke, and the King and Queen and all the great nobles heard him in silence. There were the great Counts of Flanders and Toulouse, of Savoy, of Montferrat and Dreux and Blois, and the lords of Lusignan, of Coucy, of Courtenay, and of Bourbon, and the Bishops of Toul and Metz, and all the great knights of Gascony and Poitou, with many others of high name and good blood, who heard the red-bearded Duke speak. But when he had finished, none answered him, and the French King sat on his throne, repeating the prayers for the dead in a low voice. But Eleanor’s eyes flashed fire and her gloved hand strained impatiently upon the carved arm of the chair of state.

  “Requiem eternam dona eis,” muttered the King.

  “Amen!” responded Eleanor, in a clear, contemptuous voice. “And now that prayers are over, let us do deeds. Let us mount and ride forth at dawn to meet the Emperor, and help him in his need at the last. Let us ride in even order, sending out scouts and skirmishers before us, and keeping good watch, armed and ready at all moments. Then, when all are safe who are alive, we will return here, that the Germans may rest themselves by this good lake; and afterward we will set forth again by the safest road, cautiously, not wasting upon skirmishes the strength we shall need hereafter for a great victory.”

  “The Emperor will surely be here to-morrow, without our help,” said the

  King, in manifest discontent. “It is of no use to go and meet him.”

  “If he is so near, let us mount to-night, this very hour, rather than have on us the shame of lying idly here while men who wear the cross are in need of us.”

  The King said nothing, but at Eleanor’s words a low murmur of assent ran through the assembly of brave men, from those at her feet to those farthest from her; and the impatient touch of each hand on sword or dagger, at the thought of fight, made a sound of softly moving steel and leather and buckle, which one may only hear among soldiers.

  Eleanor stood up, untired by her terrible ride, unshaken by her fall, her eyes full of the brightness of pride. It was her daily food and her perpetual necessity to have the better of the King in the eyes of men, whether the matter were great or small. She stood up to her height, as if to show all her beauty and strength to the world, and the low sun streamed through the wide entrance to the tent and fell full upon her face and her unblinking eyes.

  “My lords and barons, gentlemen of Guienne and France, our journey is over to-day, our battles begin to-morrow! Our brothers are in danger, the enemy is in sight! Men of the Cross, to arms!”

  “To arms!” rang the reply in many voices, both high and deep, like a major chord sounding from the heart.

  As she rose, the nobles had risen, too, and only the King kept his seat, his pale face bent, his hands folded upon the hilt of the sword that stood between his knees. The Queen said no more, and, without glancing at her husband, as if she alone were sovereign, she descended the two steps from the throne to the floor of the tent. Three knights, one of Gascony, one of Poitou, and one of her own Guienne, who were her guard of honour, followed her as she passed out, smiling to the great nobles on her right and left. And many showed that they desired to speak with her — first among them the Count of Montferrat.

  “Madam,” he said, when he had bowed low before her, “I praise God and the Holy Trinity that your Grace is alive to-day. I pray that you will deign to accept the homage and felicitations of Montferrat!”

  “Of Bourbon, Madam!” cried a voice beside her.

  “Of Savoy, your Grace!” said another.

  “Of Coucy, of Courtenay, of Metz—” the voices all rang at once, as the lords pressed round her, for she had not been seen since she had left the field after her fall.

  “I thank you,” she answered, with a careless smile. “But you should thank also the man who saved my life, if you love me.”

  “Madam, we have,” replied Montferrat. “And if your Grace will but let me have the man, I will do him much honour for your Highness’s sake.”

  “He is no vassal of mine,” Eleanor said. “He is a poor English gentleman, cheated of his lands, a friend of young Henry Plantagenet.”

  “The friend of a boy!” The Count laughed lightly.

  But Eleanor grew thoughtful on a sudden, for beyond her rare beauty and her splendid youth, and within her world of impatient passion, there were wisdom and knowledge of men.

  “A boy? Yes, he may be fourteen years old, not more. But there are boys who are not children, even in their cradles, and there are men who are nothing else — their swaddling-clothes outgrown, and their milk teeth cast, but not their whimpering and fretting.”

  The nobles were silent, for she spoke over-boldly and meant the King, as they knew.

  “As for this Englishman,” she continued after an instant’s pause, “he is not mine to give you, my lord Count. And as for doing him honour for his brave deed, though I would gladly please you, I should be loth to let you do my duty for your pleasure.”

  She smiled again very graciously, for she was glad that men should praise Gilbert Warde to her; and it was strangely pleasant to think that no one guessed half of what she would give him if he would take it. For among the nobles there were great lords, goodly men and young, who dreamed of her fair face, but would not have dared to lift up their eyes to her.

  So she passed out, with her knights behind her, and most of the lords and barons followed her at a distance, leaving the King within.

  When she was gone he rose slowly, and giving his sword to the chamberlain who stood waiting, he went to his chapel tent, with downcast eyes and clasped hands, as if walking in a solemn procession. A little bell rang, the sun was low, and it was the hour of the Benediction. The King knelt down before the rich altar, and when he had prayed earnestly for strength and courage, and for wisdom to win the war of the Cross, he prayed from the bottom of his unhappy heart that, if it were the will of Heaven, he might by some means be delivered from the woman of Belial who marred his life and burdened his soul.

  CHAPTER XVI

  TO THE SOUTH side of the camp the Germans came by thousands, all that day and far into the night, weary, half starved, on jaded beasts that could hardly set one foot before the other, or on foot themselves, reeling like men drunk, and almost blind with exhaustion. But the panic had not lasted long, for the few score of Seljuk riders who had fallen upon the van of the retreating column for the last time had been finally scattered by the Duke of Suabia, so that the remainder of the army came in with a show of order, bringing the greater part of the baggage. The Seljuks had not attempted to carry away plunder, which would have hampered them in their dashing charges and instant retreats.

  Last of all, before daybreak, came the Emperor himself, covering the rear of his army with chosen men, untired, though his great horse was staggering under him, alert and strong as if he had not been in the saddle the better part of four days and nights. He seemed a man of iron; and few could ride with him, or watch with him, or fight with him.

  When the sun rose, the great standard of the Holy Roman Empire waved before the imperial tent, and though he had not rested, Conrad knelt beside King Louis at early mass. Far to southward the German tents rose in long lines by the shore of the lake, where Eleanor had displayed her troop on the previous day, and countless little squads of men with mules came and went between the camp and the distant walled city of Nicaea. In the French lines, where the first preparations had been made for marching, men were again unpacking their belongings; for word had gone round at midnight that the Emperor was safe, and needed no help, and would be in the camp in the morning.

  Then there was secret rejoicing among the ladies, and those who had no bruise nor scratch from yesterday’s accidents called their tirewomen and spent happy hours, holding up their little silver mirrors to their hair, and holding them down to see the clasp at the throat, and trying some of the silks and embroideries which they had received as gifts from the Greek Emperor. It was almost a miracle that none but Beatrix should have been gravely hurt, but many were a little bruised a
nd much tired, and altogether inclined to ask sympathy of the rest, receiving visits in their tents and discussing the chances of the war and the beauty of Constantinople, until they began to discuss one another, after which the war was not spoken of again on that day.

  Then came the Queen with her attendants, from her tent in the midst of the ladies’ lines, pitched as far as possible from the King’s; and leaving outside those who were with her, she went in and sat down by Beatrix’s bedside.

  The girl was very pale and lay propped up by pillows, her eyelids half shut against the light, though there was little enough under the thick double canvas and a brazier of glowing woodcoals made the tent almost too warm. A great Norman woman with yellow hair crouched beside her, slowly fanning her face with a Greek fan of feathers. The Queen stood still a moment, for she had entered softly, and Beatrix had not opened her eyes, nor had the woman known her in the dimness. But when she recognized the Queen, the maid’s jaw dropped and her hand ceased to move. Eleanor took the fan from her, and with a gesture bade her make way, and then sat down in her place to do her duty.

  Hearing the rustle of skirts and feeling that another hand fanned her, the sick girl moved a little, but did not open her eyes, for her head hurt her, so that she feared the light.

  “Who is it?” she asked in the voice of pain.

  “Eleanor,” answered the Queen, softly.

  Still fanning, she took the beautiful little white hand that lay nearest to her on the edge of the bed. Beatrix opened her eyes in wonder, for though the Queen was kind, she was not familiar with her ladies. The girl started, as if she would have tried to rise.

  “No,” said Eleanor, quieting her like a child, “no, no! You must not move, my dear. I have come to see how you are — there, there! I did not mean to startle you!”

  She smoothed the soft brown hair, and then, with a sudden impulse, kissed the pale forehead, and fanned it, and kissed it again, as if Beatrix had been one of her own little daughters instead of being a grown woman not very far from her own age.

  “I thank your Grace,” said Beatrix, faintly.

  “We are nearer than thanks since yesterday. Or if there were to be thanking, it should be from me to you who followed me with one other, when three hundred stayed behind. And we are closer than that, for one man saved us both.”

  She stopped and looked round. The Norman woman was standing respectfully near the door of the tent, with eyes cast down and hands hidden under the folds of her skirt, which were drawn through her girdle in the servants’ fashion.

  “Go,” said Eleanor, quietly. “I will take care of your mistress for a while. And do not stay at the door of the tent, but go away.”

  The woman bent her head low and disappeared.

  “Yes,” Beatrix said, when they were alone, “I saw Gilbert Warde stop your horse, and yours stopped mine. He saved us both.”

  There was silence, and the fan moved softly in the Queen’s hand.

  “You have loved him long,” she said presently, in a tone that questioned.

  Beatrix did not answer at once, and on her smooth young forehead two straight lines made straight shadows that ended between her half-closed eyes. At last she spoke, with an effort.

  “Madam, as you have a soul, do not take him from me!”

  She sighed and withdrew her hand from Eleanor’s, as if by instinct. The Queen did not start, but for an instant her eyes gathered light into themselves and her mouth hardened. She glanced at the weak girl, broken and suffering, and looking so small beside her, and she was angry that Gilbert should have chosen anything so pitiful against her own lofty beauty. But presently her anger ceased, not because it was unopposed, but because she was too large-hearted for any meanness.

  “Forget that I am the Queen,” she said at last. “Only remember that I am a woman and that we two love one man.”

  Beatrix shivered and moved uneasily on her pillow, pressing her hand to her throat as if something choked her.

  “You are cruel!” Her voice would not serve her for more just then, and she stared at the roof of the tent.

  “Love is cruel,” answered Eleanor, in a low voice, and suddenly the hand that held the fan dropped upon her knee, and her eyes looked at it thoughtfully.

  But Beatrix roused herself. There was more courage and latent energy in the slight girl than any one dreamed. Her words came clearly.

  “Yours is — not mine! For his sake you call yourself a woman like me, but for his sake only. Is your face nothing, is your power nothing, is it nothing that you can hide me from him at your pleasure, or let me see him as you will? What is any one to you, who can toss a king aside like a broken toy when he thwarts you, who can make war upon empires with no man’s help, if you choose? Is Gilbert a god that he should not yield to you? Is he above men that he should not forget me, and go to you, the most beautiful woman in the world, and the most daring, and the most powerful — to you, Eleanor of Guienne, Queen of France? You have all; you want that one thing more which is all I have! You are right — love is cruel!”

  The Queen listened in silence, too generous still to smile at the girl, too much in earnest to be hurt.

  “A man has a right to choose for himself,” she answered when Beatrix paused at last.

  “Yes, but you take that right from him. You thrust a choice upon him — that is your cruelty.”

  “How?”

  “Look at me and look at yourself. Would any man think twice in choosing? And yet—” a faint smile flickered in the mask of pain— “in Constantinople — in the garden—”

  She stopped, happy for a moment in the memory of his defence of her. The Queen was silent and faintly blushed for her cruel speech on that day. She could have done worse deeds and been less ashamed before herself. But Beatrix went on.

  “Besides,” she said, turning her suffering eyes to Eleanor’s face, “your love is sinful, mine is not.”

  The Queen’s look darkened suddenly. This was different ground.

  “Leave priests’ talk to priests,” she answered curtly.

  “It will soon be the talk of other men besides priests,” reproved

  Beatrix.

  “For that matter, are you better?” retorted the Queen. “Have you not told me that your father has married his mother? You are far within the forbidden degrees of affinity. You cannot marry Gilbert Warde any more than I can. Where is the difference?”

  “You know it as well as I.” The young girl turned her face away. “You know as well as I that the Church can pass over what is a mere legal regulation to hinder marriages made only for fortune’s sake. I am not so ignorant as you think. And you know what your love for Gilbert Warde is, before God and man!”

  The blood rose in her white face as she spoke. After that there was silence for some time; but presently the Queen began to fan Beatrix again, and mechanically smoothed the coverlet. There are certain things which a womanly woman would do for her worst enemy almost unconsciously, and Eleanor was far from hating her rival. Strong and unthwarted from her childhood, and disappointed in her marriage, she had grown to look upon herself as a being above laws of heaven or earth, and answerable to no one for her deeds. Feminine in heart and passion, she was manlike in mind and in her indifference to opinion. Save for Gilbert, she liked Beatrix; yet, as matters stood, she both looked upon her as an obstacle and was sorry for her at the same time. Not being in any way confident of Gilbert’s love herself, the girl she pitied and half liked was as much her rival as the most beautiful woman in Europe could have been. She was made up of strong contrasts — generous yet often unforgiving; strong as a man yet capricious as a child; tender as a woman, and then in turn sudden, fierce, and dangerous as a tigress.

  Beatrix made a feeble gesture as if she would not be fanned by the hand that was against her, but the Queen paid no attention to the refusal. The silence lasted long, and then she spoke quietly and thoughtfully.

  “You have a right to say what you will,” she began, “for I sat down beside yo
u, as one woman by another, and you have taken me at my word. Love is the very blood of equality. You blame me, and I do not blame you, though I brought up the Church’s rule against your love. You are right in all you say, and I am sinful. I grant you that freely, and I will grant also that if I had my due I should be doing penance on my knees instead of defending my sins to you if indeed I am defending them. But do you think that our bad deeds are weighed only against the unattainable perfection of saints’ and martyrs’ lives, and never at all against the splendid temptations that are the royal garments of sin? God is just, and justice weaves a fair judgment. It is not an unchangeable standard. A learned Greek in Constantinople was telling me he other day a story of one Procrustes, a terrible highway robber. He had a bed which he offered to those he took captive, on condition that they should exactly fit its length; and if a man was too long, the robber hewed off his feet by so much, but if he was too short, he stretched him on a rack until he was tall enough. If God were to judge me as He judges you, by a ruled length of virtue, alike for all and without allowance for our moral height, God would not be God, but Procrustes, a robber of souls and a murderer of them.”

  “You speak very blasphemously,” said Beatrix, in a low voice.

  “No; I speak justly. You and I both love one man. In you, love is virtue, in me it is sin. You blame me with right, but you blame me too much. You tell me that I am beautiful, powerful, the Queen of France, and it is true. But even you do not tell me that I am happy, for you know that I am not.”

  “And therefore you would rob me of all I have, to make your happiness, when you have so much that I have not! Is that your justice?”

  “No,” answered Eleanor, almost sadly, “it is not justice. It is my excuse to God and man, before whom you say I am condemned.”

  The girl roused herself again, and though it was sharp pain to move, she raised her weight upon her elbow and looked straight into the Queen’s eyes.