The Making of the Morning Star/Chapter 2

HE glory of the sunset had dwindled when the two riders halted without the barbican gate of the castle of Montserrat. In the western sky the afterglow ran the length of the horizon, forming the semblance of a dull-red river flowing above the earth.

Light glimmered from the upper embrasures of the black. The wall behind the moat shut out the courtyard from the travelers' sight; but they heard voices and the clinking of bowls on wooden tables and a snatch of song.

Robert, who was mightily hungry, struck the bars of the peep-hole with his mailed fist. In the hall of the main keep he knew that Hugo, his liege lord, Marquis of Montserrat and master of Antioch, sat at table with a goodly company. And the castellan was eager to greet his peers, who thought him dead after an absence of two years in Egypt, and to satisfy his hunger.

“Ho, the gate!” he shouted. “Open in the name of Montserrat.”

But the face of the warder that peered through the barred opening in the portal did not withdraw.

“Thy name! And thy companion's name! Small thanks would be ours, I trow, if we unbarred to a Saracen after sundown.”

“Sir Robert, castellan of Antioch, am I—Longu' espée, Longsword, forsooth. And he with me is a paynim minstrel with a song for the marquis. What now?”

Robert's mustache twitched in a grin of amusement as he heard an exclamation, followed by whispered voices. Other faces pressed to the bars to scrutinize him in the dim light.

“Out upon thee for a lying wight,” growled one. “Sir Robert was racked, carted and buried by the accursed Mamelukes.”

Behind the gate was heard the grinding clink of a cross-bow, wound up to speed a shaft. Robert turned to Abdullah.

“Minstrel, are you resolved to enter this hold? Methinks they give but an ill welcome to wayfarers—though Hugo loves well a good tale and a tuneful voice. Forget not that I stand in no way your protector, and what befalls is e'en your hazard.”

“So be it.”

“'s death!”

Robert kicked the gate impatiently.

“Set wide the gate and make an end of words. Fetch a cresset, varlets, or I'll set the pack of you aswim in the moat.”

Some one remarked that this sounded rarely like the Longsword, and a torch was brought while they examined the visitors. Then the bars were let down slowly, and Robert pushed inside, followed by Abdullah.

A bearded captain of the warders crossed himself with a muttered—

“Mary preserve us—'tis he!”

The men who were lowering the drawbridge glanced at each other and whispered behind their hands, and it was several moments before the castellan and his companion dismounted in the courtyard and were greeted by a staring squire.

Word of their arrival had passed to the main hall before them. A slim poursuivant who bowed low at the door seemed to share the general hesitation in announcing them, and Robert was fain to chuckle again at the bewilderment of those who greeted him. At the end of the lofty hall candles gleamed on the table set on a dais for the master of the castle and his guests, and here a man stood up to peer over the candles as the knight strode forward between the long tables of the henchmen and commoners.

“Madre a Dios!” 

His broad, olive face paled, and he grasped the arm of his chair.

“If ye be a spirit, why—why, know then that I have mourned you right hardily, having given to the shave-pates a ten shekels, aye, and thirty soldi for clank of bell and patter of prayer for this your soul. If ye be Sir Robert, lad, i' the flesh, why”

“That am I, and sharp-set with hunger into the bargain.”

“Ha, that would be the Longu' espée. Why—boil me, lad, but we heard that you were cut down at the gate of Damietta. Aye, a Templar saw you carried within, and shortly thereafter your bare body hung out on the wall headless, to despite your comrades.”

Hugo shook his head doubtfully—a craggy head, yet covered with curled ringlets, oiled after the fashion of his native Italy. His broad, stooped body was clad in silk, covered with a damask mantle, fur-trimmed, that fell below the toes of his velvet shoes, which were turned up in the latest style and held by silver chains running from his girdle. His near-sighted eyes blinked at Abdullah, and Robert made known the minstrel.

“A fair greeting have we,” quoth the marquis, fingering his chin, “for trouvère and déchanteur, for makers and tellers of tales. But a noose and a fire beneath for spies. Bid him to the lower board.”

He turned to his companions.

“Messires, give greeting to this Englishman who is well come, having cheated the Saracens yet another time—though I vow to St. Bacchus my spleen rose to my gullet, when he fronted us.”

After removing his bascinet [sic] and handing his shield to a squire-at-arms, Robert hooked his sword over a chair and seated himself, to wash his hands in a silver bowl offered by a serving knave. Hugo divided his attention between his foot-gear and his guest impatiently until Robert had stayed his hunger.

“Olá, knaves—wine of Cyprus for our guests. Come, lad, the tale! Messer Guiblo—” he nodded at a thin, handsome Venetian whose rich velvets were the envy of the poorer liegemen—“made search for you in the camp of the king, and all reports had you dead.”

He bent forward to lean on the table addressing the other guests.

“Know, messers, that Sir Robert, called Longu' espée, did once save for us our city of Antioch, being rarely skilled at the making of stone-casters and fire-throwers, aye, at counterwalls and curtains, chat-castels  and all the engines of siege.”

Besides the Venetian, Guiblo, a young Provençal, sat at the side of the marquis. Hugo spoke of him as the Sieur de la Marra, a Hospitaler. On the far side of the knight of the Marra was a dark-faced Lombard whom Robert knew as Hugo's seneschal. Other warriors and a scattering of Venetian merchants he did not know. No other Englishmen sat at the table. But Robert had noticed a woman who had the chair on the right of the marquis.

“The Madonna del Bengli—” Hugo followed his glance—“honors our poor dwelling of Montserrat for sake of the hunting and hawking in the hills.”

Robert rose and bowed courteously, wondering why such a woman should come over the valley of the Orontes for the sake of a little sport. She was a Venetian undoubtedly, and, he learned later, the cousin of the man Guiblo. Certainly she was beautiful and aware of it, for her bronze-red hair was scented and coiled skilfully on her bare shoulders; her white skin gave no evidence of the sun's touch.

“Equally honored are we,” she added lightly, “in such a visitor and his grace of Montserrat in such a vassal.”

Her curving lips accented the word vassal, and she turned to stare at Robert out of clear blue eyes. Guiblo leaned back to pick his teeth and exchange a word with the seneschal. Robert was little skilled in the manners of a court, or in play of words, yet it struck him that his welcome at Montserrat lacked of heartiness.

“By Venus, her girdle,” lisped the young knight of the Hospital, whose cheeks were warmed by wine, “would we had a Provençal to make song out of Longu' espeé's tale. Nay, his name is already known from Antioch to Ascalon. Didst bind the infidel jailers with their own fetters, Sir Robert—or win the heart and abetment of some fair Saracen maid, as the fashion is?”

“Not so,” made answer Robert bluntly. “Your Grace, I bring but two words. One a warning, one a request.”

Hugo set down his cup.

“Then let us have the warning.”

“A hundred Saracens armed and mounted for war passed through your border within the day.”

“Now by the slipper of our fair madonna, that could not be. Out watchers on the borderland have seen no foray pass. Nay”

“I saw the tracks, across the river.”

The marquis pursed his lips and shook his head, then signed for a servant to fill the Longsword's cup.

“I pray you, Messer Englishman,” put in Guiblo incredulously, “how could you discern from tracks in the sand what manner of men passed over?”

“How? The hoofs were small—blooded Arabs or Turkomans. They were unshod—and so from the desert. To my thinking no pack-animals were among them, and so each horse had its rider.”

Mistress Bengli raised slim fingers in polite surprize, and by so doing displayed gleaming sapphire and turquoise rings, rarely fashioned.

“Truely [sic] we have a magician with us. Do they not say that the Egyptians are masters of the black arts?”

“Some band of villagers,” scoffed Hugo, “chanced to wander along the river. And now your boon. Hawk or horse, or—a fair maid of Circassia for your beguilement; 'tis granted ere asked.”

“My life it is,” Robert smiled, “I seek at your hand.”

“Misericordé—how?”

“At the Damietta wall I was struck down by a Mameluke's mace. It is true they pulled my body within the gates; but the hurt mended, and in time I could mount a horse. Being captive, they held me for ransom, yet could no letter be sent in the turmoil until truce was made between Saracens and Croises. Then did the paynim ameers grant me a year and a day to journey to my overlord and raise the payment for the freedom of my body.”

Some of the Venetians looked skeptical, for seldom did the enemy put trust in the crusaders to this extent. Yet they were aware that the Longsword had before this kept his promises to the Moslems.

“Well,” observed Hugo, “you are here, and you are free. The Cairenes can not lay hand on you now. On my life, I was not aware that you had a tongue to trick those unshriven dogs.”

“I gave my word to return to their camp if the ransom is not in their hands within a year and a day.”

“Oho, a prayer and a gold candlestick to the cathedral at Antioch will eke shrive you of a pledge to infidels. So say the monks.”

Robert shook his head gravely. “My word was passed.”

“But, fool, the Mamelukes would tie you to horses and split you. You have emptied too many of their saddles and wrought them wo too often for them to forego the pleasure of torturing you.”

He glanced sidewise at the set face of the youth and emptied his goblet, then laid his hand on the shoulder of the woman.

“Do you make shift to alter the mind of our stubborn vassal; perchance he will listen to reason from other lips than ours”

Seeing that Robert frowned, he thought for a moment.

“What then is the sum of your ransom?”

“Two thousand broad pieces of gold.”

“Horns of the fiend! Tis the release of a baron of the realm.”

A smile touched the lips of the knight.

“My lord, having fought against Longsword, it chances that the Saracens do hold me to be greater than I am."

HE demand of the vassal was a just one. By the feudal laws Robert was bound to serve in the wars of Montserrat, and to come mounted and fully armed at the summons of his lord. For this service, instead of a fief and lands, Hugo had appointed him castellan of Antioch, granting him the payment and perquisites of his office—for though the Englishman was young for such responsibility he had shown his ability to handle the defense of a stronghold against siege. If Hugo had been taken captive, Robert would have been obliged to raise his share of the marquis' ransom. So he had sworn when he placed his hands between the knees of Hugo, and his lord was equally bound.

The marquis flung himself back in his chair with an oath, and Mistress Bengli studied the jewels on her fingers, a slight frown creasing her smooth forehead.

“Two thousand bezants!” he muttered. “It passes reason—to raise such a sum for a mere punctilio, a splitting of hairs. Mort de ma vie! Shall we mortgage our souls to swell the wallets of filthy unbelievers. Eh?”

The woman close to his ear spoke softly, and the Italian shrugged.

“You went to Egypt on no mission of mine, Longsword; and, now I think of it, you are cursed with wandering. Let the matter stand for the nonce, and we will talk of it at a better time.”

“Not so, lord,” objected Robert at once. “If you can not advance to me the entire sum, I must make shift to find a share of it, and perchance sell my office of castellan.”

“Pardon, messire,” put in the Venetian, Guiblo, “you are no longer castellan, for the king hath appointed another.”

“Who?”

“Aye, now it comes to my mind,” laughed the marquis, “our new monarch out of France hath brought with him a vassal who hath rendered loyal service to the State. Believing you dead, he did appoint Messer Guiblo here castellan.”

The thin Venetian bowed.

“I regret the mischance suffered by the youth, and I would that he had seen fit to endeavor to advise his liege of his situation while in Egypt.”

“I give you thanks for your courtesy,” responded Robert, frowning; and Guiblo's eyes narrowed.

The Englishman had not kept his disappointment out of his voice. True, he could not quarrel with the turn matters had taken. The king whose standard he had followed, Baldwin, had died in the last years when Jerusalem had been lost, and the baron who had been chosen to succeed him was a favorite of the French king. But now, unless the marquis aided him, as he was bound to do, Robert would have no means of raising his ransom in Palestine. And not a man present at the table doubted that the Englishman would keep his promise to return to Damietta and his captors if the sum were not raised.

“My lord,” he asked, “what is your answer—yea or nay?”

Hugo curled an oiled ringlet around his forefinger and sucked in his lips. Silence fell on the company, and Mistress Bengli exchanged a quick glance with Guiblo.

“Alas,” she sighed audibly, “our table doth lack of gaiety since the coming of Sir Robert. Will your Grace permit me to answer the Englishman?”

“Aye,” quoth Hugo, pleased. “Let us hear the judgment of Diana. Pardi, Sir Robert, it would have availed you more to urge your suit more gallantly. Then the madonna might have smiled upon you—for you are comely enough to win favor with the fair.”

“The fairest face in Palestine,” murmured the Hospitaler a little vaguely.

“And now,” she added, “having heard the plea of the vassal, we must take counsel of the learned. How now, O seneschal and merchants—are not we in the hands of the money-lenders? Hath his Grace of Montserrat such a sum where it can be called in and rendered into gold?”

Piculph, the Lombard seneschal, had gaged the pleasure of the marquis and made answer accordingly.

“Nay, donna, the very jewels of the rings you wear are paying usury to the Jews.”

“Then must we pawn our very lives, that this dour Englishman”

A chuckle from Hugo interrupted her, and she wrinkled her brows in pretended displeasure. The marquis lolled in his chair, delighted with the word-play of his favorite, while he stroked the feathers of a favorite hawk perched beside him.

“—be safe,” she concluded, “unless he dare seek his ransom with his sword from the hands of those Moslems about whom he doth prate so roundly.”

It became clear to Robert that they were mocking him, for the marquis was lord of wide lands and great treasure. Guiblo disliked him, realizing that the former castellan of Antioch might urge his claim upon the king. Hugo, indifferent to everything that did not minister to his pleasure, had little desire to grant a small store of gold to the knight for what he held to be merely a quirk of conscience.

“And so,” said Mistress Rengli, smiling full upon Robert, “it is our pleasure that you should seek to gain your treasure from the castles of the paynims—a worthy quest for the Longu' espée”

“Aye, let the wild boar root i' the thicket,” shouted Piculph.

“—for a year and a day,” cried the wo man shrilly above the maudlin merriment of the feasters, “and that is the sentence of the court of his peers.”

“Is it yours, my lord?”

Robert leaned forward to address his host.

“It is so,” responded Hugo without looking up.

But up from the table rose the Sieur de la Marra unsteadily, yet with a purpose in his bleared eyes.

“By the throne of Antichrist, by the palladium of the Horned One, 'tis a foul wrong so to mischief a warrior of the Cross. Has your Grace forgotten that he kept your wall of Antioch against the Saracen spears when the waters of the moat were red with blood?”

Alone of those present the knight of the Marra was not bound to the fortunes of Montserrat by ties of ambition, and Guiblo frowned at his words. The recent truce had altered the situation in Palestine, and the mastery of the rich coast cities was passing into the hands of the Lombards and Venetians who had no wish to see the barons of England or France return to the court. Knowing that Hugo wished to be rid of the Longsword, Guiblo made answer accordingly:

“Hast wooed the cup too long this night, Sir Hospitaler. Art a fool to give belief to the tale of this wanderer. If my lord of Montserrat had not deemed his tale a lie, he would have granted the Longu' espée his boon. But two thousand pieces of gold for a vassal's ransom passes belief—when the asker rides with a Moslem.”

“Now by Venus, her girdle,” cried the Sieur de la Marra, reaching a quivering hand for his sword, “that touches upon mine honor”

“I give you thanks, Sir Hospitaler,” broke in Robert, “for your abetment, but no man's aid seek I.”

The red lips of Mistress Bengli curled, for here was a quarrel brewing, and she loved well to see men put themselves to the hazard of drawn steel. She did not fear for Guiblo, knowing that her cousin was well able to make shift for himself, and as for Hugo—a vassal might not strike or miscall his lord. But she was more than a little puzzled when Robert signed for his cup to be filled and waited until Hugo had done likewise.

“My lord,” he said slowly, “I greet you with this, my stirrup cup. In this hour I ride from Montserrat, and my allegiance is at an end. No vassal am I, but my own man henceforth, by your will. With Messer Guiblo and the seneschal I shall have other speech.”

He emptied his goblet and Hugo did the same. Then the Englishman beckoned to Abdullah at the lower table, and in the silence that had fallen upon the company his summons was clearly heard.

“O minstrel, a song for the people of the castle. We have had our dinner, it seems, and the wine thereof, and in this place a man must pay a reckoning for all that is bestowed upon him. Sing, O Abdullah, of gold and gear and treasure, that they may be pleasured, for my entertainment was but indifferent and dull.”

At this the marquis flushed, while his followers fingered the poniards in their belts; but Mistress Bengli laughed musically, for the Englishman promised to be entertaining after all. Abdullah rose without comment and salaamed to the marquis and the woman. Advancing to the edge of the dais, he lifted his lute and plucked softly at the strings.

“In the name of Allah, the All-Compassionate, the All-Wise,” he began in liquid Arabic, “will the illustrious lords harken to the tale of a poor wayfarer?”

His powerful hand swept over the lute, and he chanted, deep-voiced:

“With Allah are the keys of the unseen, and who is bold enough to take in hand the keys? Doth lack of gold, O king, or jewels for the hilts of swords, or horses fleeter than the desert storm or garments softer than the petals of flowers? Then harken to my tale of Khar, the Land of the Throne of Gold.”

Those of the listeners who understood Arabic, and they were many, glanced up in some surprize. The legend of Khar had come to their ears before this, but never in the same guise.

They had heard that beyond the eastern mountain wall was a wide desert and beyond this a sea of salt water. Far to the east lay the greatest of the Moslem kingdoms, so it was said. This was known as Khar or Khorassan, and many were the tales of its wealth.

Like Cathay or the land of Prester John, the myth was voiced by wandering minstrels, and no man knew the truth of it, and no warrior of the Croises had penetrated farther to the east than the city of Damascus.

“Know, O Auspicious Lord,” chanted Abdullah, “that it hath been my lot to follow the path of a wayfarer. From the Roof of the World I have looked down upon a land fairer than moonlight on a mountain lake; I have walked through gardens where roses were wrought of rubies, with emeralds for leaves; I have sat in a marble tower and beheld the passing of a monarch who hath more riders to his command than the Sultan of Damascus hath stones in his highways. Verily, as grains of sand is the number of warriors in this land. They walk in silvered mail with the plumes of birds upon their heads; their weapons are of blue steel, and the power of their host is such that the Mamelukes of Egypt would bow down to them, even as grass before a rising wind.”

Some of the guests smiled, and the Venetians, who were the wisest of the assemblage, sneered openly as at a palpable lie.

“Ya maulaya, O my lord, this is truth. The very trees of the palace gardens in this place are silver; and the monarch thereof hath a lake within his city—a lake built by the hands of his slaves. Within the courtyard of his castle stands a fountain, casting forth water perfumed with musk and aloes.”

Hugo of Montserrat sighed and curled the lock of hair upon his forehead.

“In this land the lords are carried about by their slaves; save to mount a horse they do not set foot to earth. When the king drinks nakars and trumpets sound; when he walks in his chambers, rolls of silk are spread before him. He dwells in a city so great that the eye can not measure it from one place. The women of his court are the fairest in the world, for they are brought from every land that his riders can adventure to.

“Verily,” said the teller of tales slowly, “this king is the lord of life and death, for men seeking the joys of his court oft-times perish in the journey thither. But, having come, their joys are the fullest that life can measure out.”