CHAPTER XXIV
HOW THE COMRADES RODE TO BLACHERNAE
The barons of the host made much of Sir James, and Boniface offered him command of the battalion left leaderless by the illness of Count Louis of Blois. But Sir James declined.
"To say truth, fair lord," he explained, "I have a matter of privy vengeance in hand. There is no want of puissant knights in this host, so prithee give the post to some other."
To the great satisfaction of the comrades, Sir James elected to cast in his lot with them, serving as a simple volunteer in the company of the Marshal of Champagne. But it was impossible for him to cast off the honours which were showered upon him. No feast was complete without him; no decision was reached by the chiefs without his advice. The pavilion which he shared with Hugh and Matteo was thronged daily with the best knights of the host.
The weather was still too severe to permit the resumption of active prosecution of the siege, but the news which came out of the city was encouraging to the Crusaders. Comnenus, after bringing about the overthrow of the Angeloi, had endeavoured to promote the selection as Emperor of Nicholas Canabus, a patrician of unblemished reputation, but colourless and weak. He had actually succeeded in having Canabus crowned in St. Sophia, when the other nobles, already jealous of the Chancellor's power, raised a counter-revolution in favour of Alexius Ducas, member of a family that had worn the purple in the past.
This movement demonstrated so much strength that Comnenus, in panic lest he lose his pre-eminence at Court, turned to the side of the Dukai and assisted the revolt which drove Canabus from the city and elevated in his place their candidate, who was known popularly as Murtzuphlus, because of his thick black eyebrows, which formed a solid ridge above his jutting nose. Murtzuphlus proved a leader of some ability, possessing his full share of the cruelty and selfish ambition which were the outstanding traits of practically all the Greek nobles.
He retained Comnenus as Chancellor, but on learning that the unfortunate Young Alexius had been permitted to live, after his eyes had been seared out, he directed that poison be administered. When this failed to remove the victim, the Emperor himself went to the youth's dungeon and strangled him with his own hands, remarking that in a matter of such importance it was well to leave nothing to chance.
This act of hideous cruelty removed the last scruples about the justice of their enterprise which lingered in the hearts of any of the Crusaders, and united the host in the determination to tear down the blood-stained Empire of the Eastern Rome. The bishops and abbots announced that the abolition of such wicked tyranny was a Christian duty, and warranted the granting of all the extraordinary privileges and remissions which were the ghostly rewards of Crusaders.
The situation was discussed, according to custom, in open parliament, and it was decided to restrict the attack of the city to the walls along the Golden Horn.
"By death, disease and accident, our numbers are now smaller than ever," Dandolo pointed out, "whilst our enemies are more numerous, and we may not reckon upon friendly interest within the walls. We are too few to make more than one attack. Moreover, you may recall, when we laid siege to the city before, the knights of the host were unable to carry the Blachernae walls, but from their ships the Venetians succeeded in seizing a stretch of the Golden Horn walls. It behooves us, lords, to concentrate our effort upon one spot."
There was no opposition to this strategy. The barons had learned by now that mounted knights could not ride over the walls of the strongest fortress in the world, and they had formed a high opinion of the seamanship and engineering skill of their Venetian allies. They joined heartily in the elaborate preparations, and in the meantime they established a loose blockade of the city by a series of forays on every side.
Lent came, and brought with it the moderating touch of spring. Icy winds blew no longer from the frost-bound waters of the Euxine. At last all was ready. The fleet was divided into squadrons, to each of which was assigned a battalion of the host, and on Thursday, April 8th, 1204, Boniface gave the order for embarkation. The galleys took the transports and ships in tow, and the long line, half a league from wing to wing, moved slowly across the harbour toward the crowded walls of the city.
Evening shut down as the fleet reached position just out of bowshot of the walls, and the anchors were lowered. The last rays of the sun were caught on waving banners and pennons, the blazonry of armorial shields, the polished tips of weapons. Trumpets brayed from ship to ship. Gittern, rubible, cymbal, nakir and drum taunted the proud, wicked city. Priestly voices chanted the order for vespers.
From the crowded walls there came a strident answer. There, too, processions of priests, bearing holy relics and ikons, marched along the battlements, imploring the powers of Heaven to guard the Imperial City—the city which had meant so much to mankind, for all its dark present, which had been the bulwark of Christianity since Constantine first traced its limits with his spear, whilst the Archangel walked before him. There, too, trumpets clanged, cymbals clashed and men shouted defiance.
Night quelled the tumult, but it could not erase hate from the hearts of men. They slept dreaming only of the death they hoped to deal to others on the morrow.
With the first hint of dawn, the fleet moved forward. Stones, nets of forged bolts, casks of Greek fire, arrows, cross-bow bolts, jagged balks of timber, huge javelins, whirling pieces of chain, whistled and droned and blazed through the air. Ships were crushed and battered, forced out of line; but all those that could pressed on into the hail of missiles. Each ship or galley that survived ran up to a tower and landed men on the bank at its foot or assailed the garrison from flying bridges and belfreys. The horse-transports lay off out of range, waiting until an entrance should be forced. But they waited in vain. Frequently the besiegers thought they were on the brink of victory, but every time the Greeks were reinforced and the assault pushed back.
Villehardouin's company on the Paradise were directed against a tower near the Gate of St. Theodosia, which was fronted by a broad strip of land. It was necessary for them to go ashore under the fire of catapults and archers, carry ladders across the open space and then endeavour to climb to the battlements. The task was hopeless, for they were always outnumbered three or four to one. Their ladders were swept by monstrous stones; their eyes were filled with quicklime; Greek fire boiled them in their armour. They returned to the attack again and again, but they knew they could not succeed. And when the signal for retirement was displayed from Dandolo's galley at nones, they collected their dead and wounded and withdrew sullenly with the rest of the host, the cheers of the exultant Greeks resounding in their ears.
It was a defeat, the bitterest the host had experienced, and the Doge summoned a parliament to meet at vespers in the church of Galata for consideration of their plight. The barons came, sore in pride, bleeding from wounds, disappointed and morose. Again dissension raised its head.
"We are well-punished for our sins," cried a German knight in the company of Boniface. "This is the judgment of Heaven upon us for our failure to go on to Outremer. We are under God's disfavour. Let us——"
"You speak like a child, Messer," interrupted Dandolo coldly. "We are fighting the battles of Heaven here just as much as if we levelled lances against the Saracens. We are fighting to bring back the Eastern Christians to acknowledge that the Holy Apostle of Rome holds Peter's keys. We are fighting to redeem a rich land from injustice and tyranny. We are fighting to erect a base whence greater armies may come after us and engage in the conquest of Jerusalem and all Outremer, with some hope of success."
A murmur of comment greeted this.
"It may be that all your Magnificence says hath truth in it," spoke up a Burgundian boldly. "Yet certes no man will deny we failed miserably where all thought victory would be easily won."
"Fools!" snarled Dandolo. "'Twas for that you were defeated!"
Those blind eyes hovered over the room, cowing the disaffected who had not spoken. But the Burgundian persisted.
"Mayhap, Lord Doge," he kept on doggedly. "But there were other reasons. We attacked where the Greeks were ready for us. Belike, we should have gone otherwhere. Why were we not led against the sea-walls? They are the lowest of all, and the Greeks were not there in force."
"If you had listened in our councils, you would not have asked that question," replied the Doge wearily. "Know, sir knight, that the current through the strait which washes the land walls is so swift that no vessel can remain stationary opposite the walls without risking being dashed to pieces against them."
The Burgundian and his friends were silenced, but the blanket of gloom was not lifted from the assembly. And when Sir James rose in his place, all eyes turned hopefully to his lean figure, erect and vigorous as a youth's, despite the snow-white hair which crowned his splendid head. Hugh, sitting beside him, wondered if others there were as proud as he was of this knight who had stepped so debonairly from the oblivion of the tomb back to the life of men.
"With your favour, Lord Doge," began Sir James.
"I speak for all the lords of the host when I say we are right glad to hear your counsel, sir knight," replied Dandolo courteously.
"I cry you thanks, Magnificence. I have listened here to what hath been said and it hath come to me that there is somewhat of justice in the complaint that our attack was ill-conceived—for which are we all to blame, in that we did not prepare as we should have done."
"How so?" asked Dandolo with interest.
"Thus. I noted that the galley upon which I fought was called upon to fight alone against a tower, and there were in that tower many times the men in our company. So ran the order all along the line. We were assailing, ship by ship, an hundred towers. But how had it been, fair lords, had we tied ship to ship, and every twain of us come against one tower? Bethink you, lords, by such means may we prevail."
There was a stir of interest.
"Messer James hath the right of it," said Boniface.
"Ay, so."
Villehardouin, Count Baldwin and a dozen others echoed the words. Dandolo nodded.
"'Tis a simple plan and well-conceived," he agreed. "Mayhap much can be achieved by it. How say you, lords? We are not yet defeated. Shall we accept Sir James's advice and show the Greeks they do exult too much?"
He inclined his head as he spoke, and in the momentary silence all could hear the far-off clamour of church-bells, ringing in Constantinople to celebrate the retreat of the besiegers.
"Forward! Lead us again! Victory for the host! Let us go back!"
Like the challenge of a tempest, the hoarse shouts reverberated through the stone aisles of the church. Sword-hilts rattled against shields. Wounds, weariness, losses of friends were forgotten. The knights surged around their leaders, clamouring to be led back to the attack. But Dandolo quieted the din with his first words.
"The spirit that you show doth do you honour, Messers," he said. "But you must be guided by wisdom, not anger. To-day you have done all that men may. Now do you rest at your ease. To-morrow and the next day we will spend in repairing our vessels, for certes they have suffered no less than you. On the third day we will attack again, and prove to the Greeks how the men-at-arms of the West can fight against odds."
The parliament broke up in a mood of hope and confidence which had seemed impossible to expect when it began. The following day was a Saturday, and all ranks of the host laboured from morning until night to make good damages to armour and equipment, whilst the Venetians hammered and sawed at the repairs to the fleet. On Sunday all rested, and the clerks shrived such as had cause to plead for Divine mercy. In the twilight of early morning, on Monday, April 12th, the armament moved from its moorings on the Galata shore, stealing through the wreathing mists, so that the Greeks might have no warning in advance of the new tactics which had been adopted.
The ships and galleys went two and two, bound rigidly together. The front of attack was reduced by half, and some fifty towers were singled out for assault, care being taken wherever possible to pick those which could be boarded directly from the vessels. But the Greeks were not caught unprepared. The walls were heavily garrisoned, and in an open space in the rear, swept bare by the two disastrous fires of the preceding summer, the Emperor Murtzuphlus waited at the head of a body of armoured knights equal in strength to the entire muster of the host.
From the flying bridge swung from the mainmast of the Paradise, the comrades had a clear view of the whole line of battle. Miles and miles of walls, hundreds of machines, a sky darkened by the flights of missiles, a deafening clamour of voices, and behind all the bulk of the mighty city, street after street, hill after hill, smoking and steaming and bellowing defiance at the puny array that threatened it.
"By St. Cuthbert, but 'tis a marvellous spectacle!" exclaimed Hugh.
"I saw the hordes of Saladin stream over the Mount of Olives against the Holy City," answered his father. "'Twas not like this. How say you, Matteo?"
"Ay, indeed, fair lord. I have heard men tell of that scene, and I doubt not this surpasses it."
"'Tis monstrous distressing to think how easy it makes the slaying of a body," remarked Ralph, as he pulled an arrow from his quiver and straddled his feet to meet the swaying of their perch.
"Art not afraid, Ralph?" queried Matteo humorously. "Belike the sea-sickness is gripping you again?"
"Art always poking fun, Messer Matteo," reproached the archer. "Certes, you know well I have never suffered from the sea-sickness since that first voyage over the Narrow Seas."
"Then it must be plain fear that hath gripped you, Ralph," said Hugh, mock-solemnly.
"Fear?" returned Ralph indignantly. "I should like to see anybody else telling me so! But I will admit, Messer Hugh, I am often giving up hope we shall ever see England again, what with all the ventures we run into."
Sir James laughed.
"Talk not to me of Ralph's fears," he said. "How many varlets would fare as far as hath he, and never know a qualm for home—ay, or what knight, either?"
He clapped Ralph on the back. "Fear naught, lad. An I still live, after eight years entombed, doubt not you shall win home. And when you do, Ralph, 'tis in my mind to make you constable of Chesby Castle and appoint you to the raising of a company of bowmen like yourself. How now, Hugh? What lord would hunger for our lands, an we had such a guard for them?"
"You say sooth, sweet lord," replied Hugh. "But—Ha!"
He raised his shield and deflected a crossbow quarrel which was aimed at his father's shoulder.
"Shoot fast, Ralph," he cried. "An you may, keep down the fire of yon archers!"
The Paradise, buckled by stout cables to the hull of the Pilgrim, Dandolo's flagship, was rowing clumsily toward a tower near the Gate of Ispigas, where there was almost no land betwixt the foot of the tower walls and the water. A constantly freshening wind had sprung up since the fleet began its advance, blowing against the sterns of the vessels and driving the water upon the city shore of the harbour, with the effect of deepening the channel adjacent to the walls. With this fortuitous circumstance to aid them the Venetians were able to approach closer than ever before.
Ralph shot as rapidly as he could nock his arrows and aim, and his clothyard shafts wrought havoc with the tower's defenders. They drove through mantlets, shields and armour, and the comrades gave him good cover with their shields when the Greek archers sought to answer him. Nearer and nearer rowed the Paradise. She was so close now that the catapults on the walls could not be brought to bear upon her. The stones and other missiles flew over the vessel and splashed harmlessly into the water.
The comrades, with Villehardouin and other knights, stepped out upon the flying bridge, which Venetian shipmen lowered by ropes and pulleys from the masthead to the level of the tower's top. Sir James and Hugh, leaning against the webbed ropes which guarded the end of their frail foot rest, crossed lances with the Greeks on the tower. Strange faces frowned at them; strange war-cries rang in their ears. Ralph shot his arrows between their shoulders, sometimes transfixing two and three of the enemy at one discharge. Nearer and nearer crept the Paradise and her mate the Pilgrim. Looking down for a fleeting instant from the dizzy height of the flying-bridge, Hugh saw the armoured figure of the Doge, the gonfalon of St. Mark beside him, standing impassively on the stern-castle of their companion-vessel.
Suddenly Hugh heard his father's voice through the eye-holes of his helm.
"Art ready, Hugh?"
He nodded for answer, and turned to see if Matteo was poised behind him. The jongleur's eyes met his with a cool smile. The next instant the end of the flying-bridge touched the tower's battlements, and Sir James leaped high in air. For the space of a breath Hugh hesitated, conscious though he was of others jostling his heels for the next chance. The tower looked so small, the ground and water so far below. But he shut his eyes and leaped.
He landed in a press of bodies, and caught a sword-stroke on his shield. There were Greeks all around him, and a few feet distant he saw his father similarly encompassed. But while he looked Matteo joined him. Then came Villehardouin and others. Soon there were as many Crusaders as Greeks on the tower. The Greeks began to cast down their arms and flee. The Crusaders leaped forward and quickly won the postern giving upon the wall. Villehardouin led a rush to the street behind the walls and flung open the nearby gate. A signal was displayed from the Pilgrim, and the horse-transports trimmed their sails to the favouring breeze and headed for the shore.
Demoralisation spread rapidly amongst the Greeks. Tower after tower was carried; gate after gate was opened. And presently columns of mounted knights were riding into the water-front streets of Constantinople.
Villehardouin's troop swung northward as soon as their horses were landed. They were directed to seize the Palace of Blachernae, and in advance of the column, rode the comrades, shoulder to shoulder, hoofs thundering on the cobbled way. Such Greeks as they encountered fled up the side-streets. They saw no soldiers all the way to the great gate of the Palace, which a parcel of frightened varlets were trying to shut.
These scurried off at first sight of the invaders, but Hugh ran down one in the courtyard and his father cross-questioned the man. The Court had gone, the fellow quavered. Everybody but the servants had left for the Palace of the Bucoleon—except those who were fighting upstairs.
"Who?" demanded Sir James.
"Nay, lord, I know not. I saw the black mutes on the stairs, and I fled."
The man was obviously hysterical with fright, and Sir James let him go.
"Put up your horses," he ordered. "We must look into this."
With swords drawn, they passed the outer courtyard and explored the vast emptiness of the Palace, hundreds of gorgeous rooms and corridors, scores of buildings and gardens. They did not find a trace of human existence until they came upon the body of a dead Varangian at the foot of the steps leading to the Hall of Audience. Farther up the steps, under the columned portico, lay a heap of Varangians and mutes of the Ethiopian Guard.
As they cautiously entered the doorway of the Hall itself a cry of horror escaped the lips of every one of them. The magnificent chamber, floored and walled and roofed with semi-precious stones, carpeted with ancient rugs and tapestries, was a shambles running blood. Dead men lay in windrows and scattered piles, and on the steps of the Imperial throne a wall of corpses was reared, topped by one body half-erect. The helmet had been hacked off; the gilded armour and scarlet surcoat were rent and torn and stained with blood; the grey beard was flecked with gore.
"Sir Cedric!" exclaimed Hugh in awe.
"Ay, 'tis the Grand Acolyth," said Sir James. "Here is foul work!"
They lifted the body from the corpses that cumbered it, and stretched it in a clear corner beside the dais. As they stood back, Sir Cedric's eyes flickered open.
"Mocenigo," he gasped, and lapsed into unconsciousness.
Hugh's face was twisted with pain.
"Edith!" he cried. "Ah, I knew he intended evil! 'Tis he and Helena Comnena, I will warrant!"
There was a wild shriek from the recess behind the throne. A fat, shapeless figure staggered out, and swayed back and forth, arms upraised.
"Oh, Messer Hugh! Is it you? In sooth, is it you? And Ralph Fletcher of Chesby that I knew as a babe—ay, from suckling-time, and the mother that bore him! Is it you? Say, is it you? By the Holy Virgin and all the company of blessed saints,—by St. Cuthbert of Crowden and the Blessed Cedric and Edward, Ethelreda and Swithin, Hubert and Agnes, St. Cornelia, St. Martha, St.——"
"Messer Hugh, 'tis Dame Alicia," shouted Ralph. "Now, is that not a favour from Heaven that——"
But Hugh had ears for none of them. He took the old nurse by the shoulders and shook her gently.
"'Tis I, in sooth, good dame," he assured her. "Prithee, calm yourself. Be at ease. You are safe. Naught shall harm you. Do but tell us what hath become of the Lady Edith?"
"Oh, sorry is the day that ever we came into this land of wicked, un-Christian people! I had warning of our doom ere we sailed, and certes, I told my lady, but——"
"Whither hath she gone?" insisted Hugh.
"Gone? Why, with that false Italian hound, Mocenigo—and Messer Comnenus and his harlot of a daughter. Sir Cedric was to garrison the Palace here after the Court left; and this morning Messer Comnenus and Mocenigo came hither with their black men and demanded of Sir Cedric that he give up my lady to them—and they fought."
"Ay," said Hugh, unable to check her flow of words. "But whither did they carry her?"
"I heard talk of a galley—ay, and as they left the room Messer Comnenus called back to Mocenigo: 'We meet at the Kontoscalion.'"
"The Harbour of the Kontoscalion!" exclaimed Sir James. "'Tis on the Marmora shore, west of the Bucoleon. They must be planning to slip across to Asia. We must hasten, Hugh, an we would catch them."
CHAPTER XXV
VENGEANCE
Dame Alicia twisted her fingers in the folds of Hugh's surcoat.
"Art never going off to leave me again, Messer Hugh?" she pleaded. "Ah, fair sir, the sight of English faces is like home! Certes, you will not abandon me in this awful place. They will come and cut my throat, the wretches. They will——"
Hugh contrived to wriggle free as gracefully as possible.
"Peace, peace," he adjured her. "There is no more to fear, good dame. The Greeks are fled. The French are occupying the Palace, and with them you are safe. Now, do you bestir yourself to see what may be done for your lord. He is sore wounded, but he still breathes."
"Harrow and alas that he should come to his end afar among strangers," she wailed. "Do but look at the blood on him! Oh, Messer Hugh, do not leave me with all these dead men. Alack for that I ever came hither, and a fool I was to listen to Sir Godfrey when he——"
But Hugh could stand no more. He turned and fled, his father and the others at his heels. In the courtyard outside they met Villehardouin and a party of knights, to whom Sir James reported the desertion of the Palace and the intention of the comrades to pursue the Comnenoi.
"I would lend you a foison of spears, an I had the men to spare," said Villehardouin, "but I have few enough to hold the Palace, and we can not risk its capture. May St. Remi aid you, sweet friends."
"Our numbers will serve—an we are in time," replied Sir James grimly. "In God's keeping, friends!"
They galloped out of the Palace gate and turned westward through a tangle of narrow streets, lined with high-built houses, interspersed with monasteries and nunneries. This route brought them to the Mesè, the main thoroughfare of Constantinople, a wide, handsome avenue, set with trees and terraced porticos. They passed the gigantic Cistern of Aspar on their left and began to meet advanced parties of the Crusaders and Venetians, plundering the fine buildings on either hand.
A horde of foot-sergeants had battered their way into the Church of the Apostles, whose gilded bronze roof sheltered the mausoleums of the most famous Emperors of the East—Constantine the Great, Justinian, Heraclius and dozens of others, with their Empresses. The rabble of the camp, composed mainly of the Latin colonists who had been driven from the city by the Greeks, were tearing open the tombs in search of jewelry and valuables. The contents of the vestry was scattered about the church, pearl-embroidered copes, dalmatics, chasubles and vestments, gold and silver relic-cases, the prey of whoever coveted them.
Beyond the Church of the Apostle the comrades rode under the shadow of the Aqueduct of Valens, whose sturdy arches marched across the valley between two of the city's seven hills. The street was crowded with people, Greeks and Crusaders, all in apparent amity. Indeed, the inhabitants of the city were forming processions to greet the conquerors, saluting the Franks and Venetians with songs and speeches of welcome.
But the comrades never stayed their pace to note what happened beside them, and those who stood in their path risked death. They thundered through the huge Forum of Theodosius, rimmed with palaces, baths, public buildings and luxurious shops. A short distance farther on they entered the Forum of Constantine, a beautiful elliptical space, surrounded by double tiers of marble porticos, crowned by verdant terraces, and pierced at either end by a marble arch. In the centre stood the statue of Constantine the Great in the rôle of Apollo, crowned with seven golden rays, high aloft on a soaring pedestal of porphyry. On the north side rose the Palace of the Senate, its broad flights of steps and columned porch, which had seen eight hundred years of history, jammed with curious Greeks, who watched the hurried passage of the little knot of Frankish warriors.
Ahead of them, as they emerged from the forum, loomed the white dome of St. Sophia, floating like a bubble above the houseroofs. To their right the stone walls of the Hippodrome, bristling with statues, cut off the view. Sir James turned here from the Mesè into a meaner street running southward. After passing the gates of the Hippodrome they saw in the distance, across a maze of smaller palaces, homes of merchants and better-class citizens, the far-flung walls of the Palace of the Bucoleon, the traditional residence of the Byzantine Emperors.
Onward they raced at headlong gait. People shouted to them as they went by. Parties of Greek soldiers scurried to cover. In the distance appeared a streak of silver—the waters of the Marmora glimpsed between the houses. Sir James spurred on. They came to a church on a hill, St. Thomas's, and there, drawing rein for an instant, the comrades saw below them a crescent indentation in the sea-walls, where the Imperial galleys lay in ordered ranks beside stone wharves.
"The Kontoscalion!" said Sir James.
Down the hill at a mad gallop, horses foaming and reeking with bloody sweat, and out upon the level again. The harbour gate gaped wide. Customs officers, naval guards and police had disappeared. There was nobody to halt the comrades as they rode through the gateway.
"See!" cried Matteo, pointing with his scimiter.
At the far end of the harbour a twelve-oared galley was backing from its slip. In order to reach the sea the vessel had to traverse the length of the basin and then row out through the narrow entrance between the mole which guarded the harbour and the tower at the apex of the sea-wall. Sir James grasped the situation in a single glance.
"Hither, Ralph!" he shouted. "'Tis for you to stop them. We must rely on your yew-bow this day. Pull string, lad, and St. Cuthbert be your aid!"
Ralph slipped from his horse and ran to the edge of the quay, notching his string with one crook of his knee. He loosed his first arrow whilst the galley was swinging around to set its head for the harbour entrance. The shaft quivered in the planking of the deck below the stern-castle.
Ralph pursed his lips.
"An my father hears of that shoot he will tan me with my own bow, belike," he muttered. "Steady arm, now. Ha!"
"Harrow! Harrow!" cheered Hugh. "Well shot!"
The galley's helmsman had pitched forward with a shaft in his breast. Another sprang to catch the tiller before the vessel yawed seriously, but Ralph was ready for him. The long bow twanged and the arrows buzzed like angry hornets. The second helmsman sank to the deck, pierced through the thigh. An oarsman choked and fell over his sweep. Another dropped his oar and leaped overboard in fright when a shaft drummed into the wood of his rowing-bench.
Mocenigo, in full armour, with shield upraised, sprang from the protection of the stern-castle to take the helm, but he was too late. The confusion amongst the rowers and the swaying rudder had thrown the galley off her course. She veered, even whilst Mocenigo tugged at the tiller, and drove her sharp bow amongst the boulders which were strewn about the base of the mole. The rowers backed water and strove to work her off; but the bow was anchored fast.
"Hast done right well, Ralph," said Sir James. "It will go hard with us, an we do not punish these caitiffs. Comrades, here is required an escalade. Forward!"
They left their horses on the quay, and clambered out over the slippery boulders of the mole. Mocenigo and Bartolommeo, with a handful of the Ethiopians, were bracing the crew to meet the attack. But when Ralph began to loose again, the shipmen broke and dived overboard, swimming for the quay across the harbour.
"Ralph," commanded Sir James gently, "do you wreak what harm you may on the blacks, but an you graze Mocenigo or his familiar I will leave you behind us when we fare home."
Ralph grinned and extended his quiver. Only two arrows remained.
"So!" exclaimed Sir James. "That is better, for I have a fancy for sword-play. The more knaves slain, the greater shall be our glory. But see that you make both shafts count."
They gained the cluster of rocks in which the galley's bow was wedged, and paused to study the approach to her deck.
"Ha, messers," Mocenigo hailed them ironically. "You are welcome guests. An you will come aboard we will do what we may to put you at your ease. Mayhap we have some small surprise in store for you."
"Mayhap," rejoined Sir James. "I have looked forward long to this day. What, Bartolommeo, hast no word for me?"
"Words in plenty when I have you on the rack," replied the ruffian composedly. "For the nonce, Messer James, I will trust to my sword."
Hugh surveyed the bare well of the galley, cluttered with oars and ropes and deserted save for the group of six Ethiopians headed by the renegades. There was no sign of Edith or Comnenus and his daughter.
"She that you seek is safe," jeered Mocenigo, noticing his glance. "But we hold her hostage for your retreat. An you threaten us, her fate will not be a pretty one."
Hugh jumped blindly from his boulder, a bleak fury gripping his soul. By sheer luck he dropped in the midst of the enemy, his mail shoes staving in the ribs of one of the blacks and the force of his impact scattering the others to right and left. But they picked themselves up and closed around him. Mocenigo hewed at him with a sword; Bartolommeo pounded him with a mace; the Ethiopians stabbed and slashed with their javelins and knives.
This moment of diversion was Ralph's opportunity. At such close range he could not miss. The first arrow drilled a black throat and lodged in the thigh of another man. The second went clean through the body of an Ethiopian and spattered on the deck. The pressure on Hugh was eased at once, as his opponents opened their ranks in fear of the deadly archer. Before they could surround him again Sir James and Matteo had gained his side.
The comrades were still outnumbered five to three, but their heavy armour was an advantage which the three surviving black men did not share. Ralph had disappeared after loosing his last arrow. Hugh wondered what had become of the archer, but Bartolommeo's mace allowed him scant time for reflection. If that spiked steel knob ever struck his helm with the muscles of those knotted arms behind it, he knew his skull must be shattered.
Sir James was fencing with Mocenigo, his wondrous dexterity matching the Italian's vigour. Matteo kept two of the blacks in play. But the third hovered near Hugh, darting in for a vicious stab whenever Bartolommeo had the upper hand. Hugh was menaced from groin to head, and to protect himself he must shift his guard with lightning rapidity. His shield dragged down his arm; his sword seemed burdened with lead. But at all costs he must ward off that terrible mace. When weariness slowed his guard and he could not counter two blows at once, he accepted the thrusts of javelin or knife, trusting to the strength of his mail.
He found himself despairing of being able to shake off these persistent foes. His shield-arm ached from the blows of the mace it had turned; his sword-hand tingled from the parries it had made. His whole body was sore from the thrusts of the Ethiopian's weapons. To keep his footing he was obliged to give ground, and he was out of touch with his father and Matteo.
Then, without any warning, Ralph came bounding over the rowing-benches in the rear of the enemy. The bowman lopped off the head of the black who had been menacing Hugh, and proceeded to relieve Matteo of half of his task. A weight seemed to be lifted from Hugh's shoulders. His mind cleared. Instead of standing on the defensive under Bartolommeo's hail of blows, he began to advance and delivered strokes as stout as those he had received. The burly ruffian roared with ferocious amazement.
"How now, my cockerel! Would you take liberties with old Bartolommeo that nursed you and fed you—ay, and treasured you safely? What gratitude is this? By the three-horned devil of Calabria, I never saw such a boy! Heaven opens wide its gates; the angels are tuning up to welcome him; he must have had a vision of the splendour ahead—an he tries to turn from the path! Have a care, Messer Hugh. You will lose your chance, an you disappoint Peter again. You will be going down to Hell to tend the spit that waits for old Bartolommeo. What! You never think to master me? Alackaday, what folly! Know, good youth, I have made a bargain with the Devil, and he must protect me. Ay, in sooth, he——"
Bartolommeo leaped backward with a lightness extraordinary in a man of his bulk, and retreated aft along the deck. Hugh glanced around, and saw the explanation. Mocenigo lay in a huddle across a rowing-bench, a cruel gash draining his side, and Matteo stood over the last of the Ethiopians. Bartolommeo was alone.
"Are you whole, fair lord?" Hugh called to his father.
"Ay, Hugh, and happier than I have been in many a day. I did not dwell those years in Blachernae without avail, now that I have slain this hound."
"Is he dead, indeed?"
"He soon will be."
Mocenigo's eyes fixed on Hugh's in a glare of baffled hate.
"The—end—is—not—yet," he gasped. "Shalt—not—have—your——"
He mouthed a word of vile import, the bloody foam on his lips mocking the bestiality of his tongue.
"Ay—you—shall—not—have—-her! Curse——"
He died.
Bartolommeo, standing beyond the galley's single mast, raised his visor.
"Is he sped?" he called.
"Ay. Prepare to follow him."
"Mayhap, but not alone."
Bartolommeo turned as he spoke and ran toward the stern-castle. He wrenched at the door of the cabin, and when it refused to open, raised his mace to shatter the panels.
"Quick, Messer Hugh!" shrieked Ralph. "He would murder Lady Edith!"
The mace rose and fell, but before it could achieve Bartolommeo's purpose the comrades were upon him. He ran to meet them, roaring like a bull.
"Out of my path! Who seeks to stay Bartolommeo? By St. Bacchus, a few have sought to do that who did not tell their fate in the wine-shops! Back! Back, there! Bartolommeo comes!"
He gained the rail and mounted it, clinging to the rigging of the mast with one hand.
"Spare your swords, fair sirs," he said, bowing courteously. "I have a mind to test the accomplishment of that sorcerer who bargained for my soul. An he spoke sooth, doubt not the Devil will save me. Farewell! Sir James, I had ever a warm place in my heart for you! Messer Hugh, you had the makings of a youth who would give fine sport on the rack. May you come to a good end."
He leaped, mace in hand, into the water. The ripples closed over him, as Ralph reached the railing where he had stood.
"Certes, my masters, he hath gone," said the bowman in an awed tone.
"A right valiant rogue," remarked Sir James.
"A rare treat he will provide for his master in hell," quoth Matteo.
"How was it that he failed to open the cabin-door?" demanded Hugh. "An he had won in there, he must have defied us, whilst he might——"
He shuddered.
"He did not get in for that I had entered before him," replied Ralph cheerfully. "And I bade Lady Edith bar the door after me when I left her."
The comrades stared at Ralph.
"When was this done?" asked Hugh.
"Whilst you and Sir James and Messer Matteo were fighting by your lone," explained Ralph. "I thought Messer Mocenigo might have some deviltry in store for your lady, so I ran along beside the galley as far as I might under the rocks, and clambered aboard behind those who contended with you. They did not see me, and I entered the stern-castle, where Messer Comnenus and the Lady Helena were watching the fray. Lady Edith was bound helpless; but I released her and set her to watch them whilst I went to your aid."
Sir James took Ralph's hand.
"The glory of this bicker belongs to you," he said solemnly. "Hast conducted in right knightly fashion. When we return to Chesby, Ralph, you shall have a quarter-hide of land in the beechwood next the forest and a halfling of pigs to stock it with."
"Nay, fair lord, 'twas naught," stammered Ralph.
"Naught!" repeated Hugh. "Perchance it meant the Lady Edith's life. But come. Let us have her forth of the cabin."
He pounded the door with his sword-hilt.
"Open, Edith! 'Tis Hugh!"
There was a noise of shifting bars, and the door was thrown back. Edith stood in the low portal, starry-eyed, cheeks aflame, her hair in tumbled masses.
"Is it you, in sooth, Hugh?" she whispered.
"Ay, sweet friend," he answered, and knelt before her.
But she placed her hands under his arms and raised him to his feet.
"Kneel not to me," she said. "I am not worthy. No woman may be so proud as I am of you, for none was ever served so nobly. Art my own knight and lord, faithful and always true."
For the second time she raised her lips to his, and Hugh's heart hammered so that it seemed it must burst through gambeson and hauberk. The domes and towers of Constantinople danced before his eyes. But he cast down his sword and caught her to him, straining her in his mailed arms until she sobbed:
"Oh, Hugh, have done! Prithee! I may not breathe."
As he let her go, a cold voice sneered close by:
"A touching sight! Ay, by the Panagia! The parted lovers meet at last!"
Helena Comnena swept out of the cabin, her lithe figure erect in a clinging gown of apple-green, her eyes blazing with a venom that belied her calm, still face. Behind her shambled her father, cringing and fearful, despite his fur-trimmed garments and the jewels that flashed in cap and chain and rings.
Hugh drew back to the rail.
"In you we are not interested," he answered civilly. "You have most foully wronged me and mine, lady. Certes, you deserve death. But we do not war on women. You are free to go whither you will outside of Constantinople. Here you may not stay. But as for you—" he turned upon Comnenus—"you, knave that you are, base-born for all your high estate, ingrate who turned against the hand that saved him, coward withal, you shall we deliver up to the lords of the host for judgment. Perchance they will see that you taste of the torment you devised for others."
Comnenus waved his hands before his face.
"No—no—no!" he screamed. "Never that! Save me—save me—save me—save me! I cannot! I——"
The words seemed to stick in his throat; he beat the air with his clenched fists, choked and crumpled in a motionless heap of silk and satin on the deck.
"He hath fainted from fright," said Sir James contemptuously.
"Nay," said Matteo, stooping to feel the man's heart. "He hath died of it."
There was a pause. Helena Comnena did not look at her father. From the time he had emerged from the cabin until he sank almost at her feet her eyes were fastened upon the face of Hugh.
"You think that you have won!" she mocked him now. "You think that you have beaten Helena Comnena—scorned her! You think that all hath been done, all hath been said! You fool! I do not know whether I pity you or hate you or love you most! But you shall not exult in your victory!"
She flashed across the deck like a green flame. She wound her supple body about Hugh, pinning his arms and legs, and fell with him over the rail. So swiftly did she move that Hugh had no inkling of her purpose. He was helpless, for the momentum of her rush threw him off his balance the instant she struck him and her garments and twining limbs restricted his movements. He had a brief sensation of falling, with her face pressed close to his, her eyes shining with insane brilliancy—then came a splash. His last thought was that he must perish exactly as Bartolommeo had perished, for he knew that no man weighted down with armour could hope to keep himself afloat. He felt himself sinking—sinking. Helena's limbs clung to him like cramping bands of ice. There was a deafening clamour in his ears....
When he came to himself he lay on the deck of the galley, his armour stripped off, wrapped around with rugs. His chest burned as though it had been seared with fire. Over him crouched Edith, the water dripping from her hair and gown, her hands chafing at his.
"See, his eyes are open," she cried. "Oh, the Virgin be praised! Certes, you will not die now that we have found one another, Hugh? Speak to me!"
"How came I here?" he croaked.
"Nay, I know not. It hath been all one nightmare to me."
"Nightmare, saith she!" It was Sir James who spoke, kneeling opposite Edith. "Belike! But you had been at the bottom of the Kontoscalion now, but for her brave self, Hugh."
Hugh's eyes mirrored his unspoken question.
"We none of us could aid you, for that we were in armour," explained Sir James, "but she leaped straight-way overside, snatching a rope from the ship's gear as she ran. In the water she tore off that she-devil's grip from you, and fastened the rope about your waist so that we might haul you on board."
"She is as brave as she is beautiful," said Matteo's voice at Hugh's feet. "Ah, comrade, there is not in all the world another lady it would be worth crossing the world to find."
Hugh looked up at the face that hung over him, tender as a mother's.
"Ay, she is, indeed," he said contentedly. "Now am I happy, for I have my dear lady and you, fair lord, my father, and the best comrades that ever a man knew."
CHAPTER XXVI
LORDS OF THE WORLD
Constantinople had fallen. Murtzuphlus abandoned his first intention of holding the Palace of the Bucoleon as a citadel of last resort and fled in the night. The next day the entire city was occupied by the Crusaders. From the Golden Horn to the Golden Gate the capital of the Eastern Empire—by actual fact the capital of the Christian world—was in their possession. The prize was the richest won by any army of their time—money, jewels, vessels of gold and silver, the costliest cloths and furs, works of art such as existed nowhere else in Europe, all the hoarded accumulation of centuries of conquest and security.
Every lord of the host had a palace assigned to him for his residence; every knight won a fortune; every sergeant and shipman of the fleet received enough to make him independent. The chiefs gave strict commands that order should be established and the lives and property of citizens respected; but it was impossible immediately to secure full recognition of this obligation. Only when punishments were inaugurated for those who abused their power was anarchy at an end. The Count of St. Paul hung one of his knights with his shield around his neck as a lesson to other marauders, and sergeants and camp followers were flogged.
So complete was the triumph of the host that men were bewildered by it. They wandered through the miles of streets of the city, gazing at the public parks, the cisterns like lakes, the hundreds of stately churches, the baths fitted up with a luxury unknown in the West, the palaces of the nobles and merchant-princes, the schools and colleges, and most of all at the tremendous walls. It was size and grandeur which impressed these rude Frankish warriors. Few among them had any conception of the store of art and learning at their feet, which outweighed in value the material wealth which committees of Crusaders and Venetians were reckoning and distributing.
Now and then a churchman joined with Hugh in admiration of a statue showing that pure outline of form which distinguished Greek sculpture of the golden age. There were thousands of statues, marble, porphyry, granite and bronze, scattered about the city. Every square or forum, the porticoes which lined the principal thoroughfares and market-places, the fountains, the public buildings, were decorated with them. Some were monumental in proportions like the bronze equestrian statue of Justinian, mounted on a structure of seven arches, in the Augustaion. Some were exquisite miniature representations of Pagan gods and goddesses.
Hugh found more among the clerks who appreciated the contents of the libraries of the palaces, the Senate, the churches and monasteries. Constantinople was the treasure-house of the learning of the ancient world. The complete works of the ancient Greek and Roman philosophers, poets, mathematicians, dramatists and historians were ranged on the library shelves of the capital. Manuscripts of priceless worth were common in the schools. Hugh could scarcely restrain his delight when he found himself able to secure the books of men of the past whom he had known only by their names or monkish corruptions of their liquid texts.
It was natural, perhaps, that the essentially sensuous beauty of Greek art and architecture should not appeal to the great body of the Crusaders, men whose own national souls were to find expression in the massive dignity of Gothic art. But it was deplorable. The whole artistic development of Western Europe, as well as the history of the world, might have been changed and human progress advanced centuries ahead of time, had the lords of the host perceived the full measure of their opportunity. They did not, and for that they cannot be blamed.
They rejoiced in the splendour of St. Sophia and the vast harmony of its echoing interior, decked with mosaics and frescoes, whose melting polychromes were brought out in fascinating detail by the myriad lamps of silver that hung on golden chains from the roof. They rioted in the fastidious comfort of the palaces, fitted with conveniences which were not to be common in Europe for six centuries to come. They regarded with respect the huge dimensions of the Hippodrome, with its tens of thousands of marble seats and the hundreds of statues that decorated it, including bronzes depicting the winners of the chariot races, standing in their chariots, life-size, beside the eastern goals.
But they could go no farther in their appreciation of the wonders which surrounded them. Statues to them were stone and bronze, and the value of the metal consisted in the possibility of melting it down to turn into so many denarii. The statue of Helen, the colossal figure of Juno from Samos, Paris presenting the apple of discord to Venus, the Hercules of Lysippus which had been brought from Tarentum, the ass and rider which had been cast by Augustus to commemorate his reception of the news of the battle of Actium, and, most precious of all, the very group of the wolf suckling Romulus and Remus, founders of the Elder Rome, which had been brought by Constantine from the Palatine—all these and many more as notable were consigned to the melting-pot.
Hugh saved what he could of the smaller objects which appealed to him. The Venetians reserved for themselves the four bronze horses which the Emperor Theodosius had brought from Chios and shipped them home to adorn the front of their new cathedral church of St. Mark. An occasional churchman, broader-minded than his fellows, obtained a bust of Emperor or general; but the delicate nude figures of old Greece were ruthlessly banished from view.
What did appeal to churchman, soldier and shipman alike was the remarkable accumulation of holy relics in Constantinople. It was by long odds the largest collection extant in Christendom. Its dispersal served to stock the churches and shrines of Western Europe. Spurious as it undoubtedly was in great part, nevertheless it exerted an influence of inestimable proportions. Not a saint recognised by the Eastern church was unrepresented in it. All the greater apostles and disciples were perpetuated by some garment or mortal fragment. There was not a knight in the host who did not send home some relic, more or less miraculous in its properties, to the church or monastery of the district whence he had come.
After the distribution of the booty, the question which confronted the host was the selection from among their number of a new Emperor. All were agreed that the rule of the Greeks must be ended, that for the sake of Western Christianity and the redemption of the Holy Land, the empire must be reorganised under Latin dominion.
"You are the lords of the world, Messers," declared Dandolo in the parliament which met in the Palace of the Bucoleon to decide the matter. "An you use rightly the power which God hath conferred upon you, it will multiply and increase a thousand fold. Certes, no empire was ever so powerful as this one in its prime. It hath fallen because of the wickedness of its rulers and the schism which its people affected. Now do you set about to rear it again, in accordance with Christian rule, giving justice to all and promoting commerce, for 'tis only by commerce that the best empire may prosper."
They debated the question this way and that, and in the end it was decided that twelve electors should be nominated from the host, six by the Crusaders and six by the Venetians. And lest there should be any question of feudal influence in the voting of the Crusaders' representatives, it was decreed that these six should all be churchmen, who were not bound by ties of service or blood to any of the lords of the host. The twelve, after attending high mass in St. Sophia on the morning of May 9th, 1204, were led into the Church of Our Lady the Illuminator, which was situated within the walls of the Palace of the Bucoleon, and the door was locked behind them.
All day the lords and knights thronged the halls and courts of the Palace, whilst the deliberation of the electors went on. Excitement filled the air and partisanship ran high. The Lombards and Italians, other than the Venetians, favoured the Marquis Boniface; the northern French were for Count Baldwin of Flanders; the Burgundians and Germans demanded that the sovereignty of the Eastern Roman Empire should be given to Philip, King of Suabia, who, in defiance of Pope Innocent, had claimed the title of Western Roman Emperor. The Venetians said little, and a rumour grew that the Doge was likely to be the choice of their electors. During the afternoon this rumour became so pronounced that Dandolo himself went to the door of the Church where the electors were sitting and in the presence of all who could crowd within hearing expressly forbade his election.
"I am a citizen of the Republic," he said. "By the suffrage of my fellow-citizens I have been elected to rule over them. But it would not be fitting for any Venetian to accept an Imperial crown. The Republic cannot permit it; I, as Doge, must forbid it."
"Who think you will receive it?" asked Hugh of Villehardouin after this renunciation had thrilled the thousands who heard of it.
"Messer Dandolo can tell you better than I," replied the Marshal shrewdly. "There can be no doubt he might have had it an he wished. There is no man in the host like him in wisdom."
"But why is there so little talk of Lord Boniface?" urged Hugh. Both Villehardouin and Sir James, who stood by, laughed at this question.
"Set a man over others and he makes enemies," said Sir James. "How say you, Lord Marshal?"
"Ay, you have put your finger on it," Villehardouin agreed. "Moreover—I say this of my own judgment—it is not to the interest of the Venetians to have Boniface for Emperor. His lands of Montferrat are too close for comfort to the confines of their state."
"Who then?" asked Hugh.
Count Baldwin of Flanders, tall, handsome in figure, in the flower of youth, a merry smile on his blonde face, made his way by them. He did not force others aside, as many a great noble might have done, but stepped slowly and with a pleasant word for all he met.
"By your leave, Messer! Ha, Sir James, I greet you well! Messer Fulk, we have not met this week past; prithee dine with me at Blachernae. Messer, I regret to trouble you, but——"
Villehardouin did not answer, but Matteo, who had been silent hitherto, raised his hand in a slight gesture.
"There walks a man" he said.
"God send that you be right, Messer," added Villehardouin.
The afternoon passed, and evening came on. Still the Bucoleon was crowded by all who had the right of admittance. The excitement increased. From the tensity in the atmosphere it might have been supposed that each knight anticipated his own election. Men forbore to eat and drink. The court in front of the Church of Our Lady the Illuminator was packed to suffocation. More rumours filled the air. It was said that the electors could not agree.
But at midnight the doors of the church were thrown open. Nevelon, Bishop of Soissons, appeared on the topmost step. He raised his arms in a benediction, and a hush fell upon the sea of faces upturned in the light of the torches.
"Messers," he said slowly, "thanks be to God, we are all agreed upon our choice. Ye have sworn that ye would accept him whom we should elect to be Emperor, and that you would support him against all opponents. This hour of the night, which saw the birth of God, sees also the birth of a new Empire. We proclaim as Emperor Count Baldwin of Flanders and Hainault."
For the space of a man's breath silence lasted, drawn taut as a bowstring to the breaking point. Then cheers rent the night, such cheers as had greeted no new Emperor of Rome since the legions elected their chosen generals.
"Harrow! Harrow! Long life to Emperor Baldwin! Success to him! Harrow! Harrow! Baldwin reigns!"
They tore him from his knights, and Boniface, Count Louis of Blois, Count Hugh of St. Paul, Villehardouin, Sir James and the chief lords of the host made a throne for him of their shields, then swung him up on it, shoulder-high above the throng. And an Emperor he looked, with his yellow beard sweeping his hauberk and his youthful face glowing with pride and satisfaction.
When Dandolo came to greet him, he leaped down from his shield-throne, and met the old Doge with arms spread wide.
"God keep and cherish you, Sire," the Doge said. "You are the best man of us all."
"Nay," protested Baldwin. "Certes, there is no one of us the equal of you."
"I am old," returned Dandolo. "My course is run. 'Tis for you, fair lord, to build up from the foundations we have laid for you. An you succeed, your children will sit upon a throne above all others."
"An you help me, I will," said Baldwin.
"That will I right cheerfully. And I pray for you the spiritual help of St. Mark, even as I promise you the physical help of the Republic."
On Sunday, May 16th, Baldwin was crowned in St. Sophia. The Papal Legate placed the Imperial crown on his head, saying: "He is worthy."
"He is worthy!" thundered back the knights.
The lords of the host elevated him again upon their shields. The Greek Empire of Constantinople was at an end.
On the following day Hugh and Edith were married in the Church of Our Lady of Blachernae. Sir Cedric had recovered sufficiently from his wounds to be present, and all the barons came to wish the couple happiness. The Emperor Baldwin himself stood at Hugh's elbow, and when the service was ended drew him to one side.
"The Marshal of Champagne is a close friend to me, Messer Hugh," he said, "and he has told me much of your merit. It is my desire that you will remain here and assist me in the work of conquering my Empire, for there is much to be done before we may move against the Saracens. How say you if I give you the Duchy of Adrianople?"
Duke of Adrianople! Hugh's head swam at the thought.
"Prithee, give me leave to think upon it for a day, Augustus," he answered.
The Emperor nodded.
"Be it so. I need a young, active lord to be Warden of the Bulgarian March. There will be great glory for you, Messer Hugh."
That night Hugh told Edith.
"What think you of becoming Duchess of Adrianople?" he asked.
She looked at him, troubled and uncertain.
"Whatever you wish, Hugh, that is my wish, too. But——"
She hesitated.
"But what?"
"I love our England."
"Ay, so do I," admitted Hugh.
He could not make up his mind, and in the middle of the night he sought his father's chamber. Sir James listened to his tale in silence.
"Duke of Adrianople," he repeated when Hugh had finished. "Ay, 'tis a vast honour. Boniface is to be King of Salonica, and chief feudatory of the Imperial Crown, but you would press him close. You should win great place and power, fair son. But——"
He hesitated as Edith had done.
"My mind is open, lord," said Hugh.
"Then hear my counsel," replied Sir James, with sudden decision. "Hugh, I would not have you make the mistake I made. 'Tis well enough for a man to go upon Crusade or aventuring to fulfil a vow, mayhap. But he who severs himself from home loses more than place and power can supply. Get you to England, Hugh. In England lies your lot. There will you be Lord of Chesby soon—ay, and of Blancherive, too, I make no doubt. England is your home. For England should you work. I say naught of those who remain here. But for myself——"
"Ay?" Hugh prompted.
"Nay, Hugh, I will do that which you do."
"You will stay, if I stay?"
"Ay, there must be work for old knights like me."
"Work!" retorted Hugh. "For you, with the Treasure of the Bucoleon in your power to disclose! You may have what you will!"
Sir James buried his face in his hands.
"It may not be," he answered tonelessly. "You know not what you say, fair son."
"But why?"
"For that this treasure is not mine. It belongs to a dead man—who trusted me. I may not betray his trust. My honour would be soiled thereby. It was his wish that this wealth, which he wrung from those he deemed to have defrauded their fellows, should be put to use to build up anew this broken Empire."
"Is not that what we do?" cried Hugh.
"Ay, but do we?" replied Sir James. "Bethink you, fair son. Our people are drunk with victory. Lords of the world, Dandolo called them, and lords of the world they may become, if they are content to serve as well as conquer, to deal righteously with those beneath them. I hope for much from Baldwin. I fain would see him succeed. But I will not give up to him the treasure that Andronicus amassed. 'Twould do no more than create discontent and grumbling because it might not be divided. And certes, he hath enough problems on his back, without that added to them. Let Baldwin—let the host—prove their worth. Let them make the most of the tools they have in hand. Then will I give up to them the secret—or if I am dead, 'twill be for you to do so, for ere I pass it is my purpose to render it to you."
Hugh stood up, a light shining in his face.
"I have learned my lesson," he said. "You have taught it to me, fair lord. I would have put place and power before all else. But you set honour over all, and I prefer to walk as you have walked."
"And England, Hugh?"
"I am for England—England and Chesby. I would rather hold one knight's fee in England than be Duke of Adrianople. Certes, and we labour aright, we may erect in England an Empire no less rich and powerful than this, which we have helped to conquer."
"That may we, fair son!" exclaimed Sir James. "Right knightly spoken! I rejoice in my heart at your decision. Doubt not you will never regret it."
But Hugh did find cause to regret—and almost to cancel his determination—when he told his decision to Matteo.
"So we sail for home by the first galley which leaves the Golden Horn," he concluded. "Ha, Matteo, think on the times we shall have at Chesby and in Crowden Wood! We shall live over again every venture we have made, and you shall sing gests and romaunts of them which will bring lords from all the country round."
"Nay, Hugh," said Matteo sadly. "I do not sail with you."
"Not sail with me? St. Cuthbert! comrade, dost think I'll be content to part with you?"
Matteo threw his arm around Hugh's shoulders. There were tears in his eyes.
"Ah, I would that I might cast in my lot with you until eternity! Art more than friend, Hugh—ay, more than brother! But this that you ask of me, I may not do. I have no place in England, save that which you make for me. I do not belong there. Your English lords care not for the jongleur's company. They seek the gleeman and juggler. An I went with you, I should be no more than a hanger-on in your train."
Hugh cried out in protest.
"Oh, well I know 'twould never seem so to you, Hugh! But my pride might not suffer it. In England you have a high rank to fill. You must take your part with the other barons of the realm. You will have your wife—children, in time. You do not need me—or I would come, ay, an it were to clean your stables! Nay, my place is here in Constantinople, or belike, in Outremer. My blood calls me here. Here there is work for me to do. Here men count it not against me that I am a jongleur or that my birth was unhallowed by wedlock.
"There is a rift in my heart at thought of losing you; but certes, you will treasure me in your memory, as I will treasure you in mine. And I will make a chanson of your deeds that men shall sing all the way from Outremer to the land of the Scots. Mayhap you will tell your sons of Matteo, and if you have friends who voyage to Outremer, you will bid them seek me out that I may know you are in life. And always, Hugh, there will be none other in my heart save you."
Hugh bowed his head in mute acceptance.
"Let it be as you wish, Matteo," he answered. "An I do not hold with all that you say, still I know right well that you would do naught which was not worthy and honourable. Only, prithee, take my sword and Beosund as keepsakes of the days we rode together."
"Gladly, Hugh."
That day week, Hugh, with Sir James, Edith, Sir Cedric and Ralph, set sail from the Golden Horn in the galley Good Adventure, Messer Contarini, Master.
——————
A charter in the possession of the Abbey Church of St. Cuthbert of Crowden, bearing date of All Hallows, A.D. 1204, provides for the celebration of a mass weekly for the salvation of the soul of a Paynim lady, mother of the jongleur, Matteo of Antioch, who perished in mortal sin.
There are still Chesbys in England, and men still find friends loyal and unselfish in adversity—and England is a greater Empire to-day than ever was the Eastern Rome.