Heroines of the Crusades

CHAPTER V.

THE DETERMINATION

After the battle of Evesham, in which Edward entirely overthrew the party of the rebel barons, and re-established Henry’s throne, Eleanora resided alternately in the palace of Savoy and at Windsor castle. The care of her three beautiful children occupied much of her attention, and in their nurture the streams of her affection deepened and widened, until they embraced all who came within the sphere of her influence. The now charming, but still volatile, Eva occasioned her infinite anxiety.

Since the day when Sir Francis had received her from the tall knight, at the ford of the Exe, he had held her by the two-fold cord of obligation and the possession of a secret; and from the first moment he discovered that she was sensitive upon the subject, he had not ceased to use his power to his own advantage. She was thus obliged to treat him with a favor which he ill deserved; yet such was the natural transparency of her character, that her real sentiments so often betrayed themselves, as to keep him in a constant state of irritation.

Sir Henry de Courtenay, whose sincere and ardent nature gave him little taste for mysteries, could not brook the inconsistencies that constantly presented themselves in her manner, and determining that his hand should never be bestowed where there was not the basis of confidence, withdrew himself from the sphere of her attractions. Eva grieved at his departure, but it was in vain that the princess represented, that the readiest escape from her difficulties was a courageous and candid confession of the truth.

Eva “did not care if he could be piqued by such trifles, as her smiling upon Sir Francis, when she heartily wished him among the Turks, he might e’en seek his fortune elsewhere. And for the matter of that, who could tell that it was desirable for the heiress of Strongbow to marry a simple knight.” But these heroics usually ended in violent fits of weeping, and profound regrets that she had ever forfeited the confidence of De Courtenay.

Meanwhile, Edward began to feel the languor of inglorious ease, and as his dreams of ambition returned upon him, his thoughts reverted again and again to the unsolved problem that had exercised the political mathematicians of Europe for nearly two centuries. Could a permanent christian kingdom be founded in Palestine? All the blood which the French had shed, and all the wise counsel that Louis lavished in the Seventh Crusade, had failed to erect the necessary defence, or compose the disorders that oppressed the Syrian Christians. Nor were the Mussulman lords of Syria in much better condition. The noble dynasty of Saphadin had fallen a prey to the ruthless Mamelukes, and a blood-stained revolution in Egypt had placed the fierce Almalek Bibers on the throne. An excuse was not wanting for the invasion of Palestine, and the holy places were again bathed in the blood of their gallant defenders. The military orders were nearly annihilated, and the country was ravaged with fire and sword, almost to the very walls of Acre.

About this time an event, no ways connected with the East, turned Edward’s attention to the adoption of the cross. He had challenged Sir Francis to a game of chess. In the midst of the play, from an impulse unaccountable to himself, he rose and sauntered towards the embroidery frame, to relate to Eva his adventure with the page whose ingenuity had once saved his life. Sir Francis, curious to enjoy her artful evasions, followed him; and a moment after, the centre stone of the groined ceiling fell with a terrible crash on the very spot where they had been sitting.

This almost miraculous preservation induced the prince to believe that he was destined to perform some great service for God. It recalled to his mind the benizon of our Lady at Walsingham, and, accompanied by Eleanora and a goodly train, he set off the following day to offer on her shrine at Norfolk an altar-cloth of gold brocade, and to crave her protection upon the expedition that he now seriously meditated.

“Eva,” said the princess, very gravely, when they sat one day alone, “thou knowest my lord contemplates a pilgrimage.”

“The saints preserve us!” said Eva. “Are there not holy places enough in England, but my lord must risk his life upon the sea, and encounter the black Infidels whose very presence is a terror?”

“’Tis not alone to visit the holy places,” replied Eleanora, “though that were a work well worthy knightly daring; but to redeem our christian brethren from the power of their foes, and to establish the kingdom of Christ, in the land where He died for his people.”

“And have not the holiest men and the bravest warriors in Europe, from Peter the Hermit to Fulk of Neuilly, and from Godfrey of Boulogne to the good St. Louis, all attempted it and failed? My lord, I warrant me, has been reading the tales of the romancers, or been deceived by the cunning manifestos of the pope,” returned Eva.

“Eva, dear one, when shall I teach thee to treat with respect those in authority.”

“I know that I am wrong,” said Eva, “but why does not his Holiness take the cross himself, if he considers it such a pious work?”

“And if the Sovereign Pontiff be one of those who say and do not, the Scriptures still require us to obey those who sit in Moses’ seat,” replied the queen.

“Thy goodness reproveth me beyond thy words. I would that I could be always truthful and pure as thou,” said Eva.

“Nay,” returned the queen, “I do but repeat that which the confessor this morning told me.”

“Forgive my irreverent prating,” replied the maiden, “but it seemeth strange to me that one, who lacks the grace of christian charity himself, should dictate the devotions of my lady who is love itself.”

“Ah! partial one,” returned the princess, “hadst thou lived in Beziers, St. Dominick would have had thy head for thy heresy. But seriously, my Eva, thy praises humble me, for methinks had my life really exhibited those graces for which thy partial fondness gives me credit, I might ere this have taught thy restless spirit the composure which trust in God always gives.”

Alarmed by the grave tone of her mistress, and anxious to conceal the emotions that welled up in her heart, Eva replied, with assumed gaiety, “Nay, what canst thou expect from a sea-sprite? Surely I must rise and fall like my native element.”

“Ah! darling, this is that which hath so often forced home upon me the thought I would not willingly apply to thee, ‘Unstable as water, thou shalt not excel.’ And this it is makes me solicitous to gain thy candid ear while I unfold my husband’s plans.” Tears rolled over the fair girl’s cheeks, but she remained perfectly silent. “Sir Warrenne Bassingbourn, whose noble heart thou knowest well, hath demanded thee of Edward, being pleased to say that thy fair hand would be sufficient guerdon for his gallant conduct in the wars. My royal father will give thee fitting dowry, and I would see my sweet friend well bestowed with some worthy protector before I embark upon that voyage from which I may never return.”

“Thou embark for Palestine!” exclaimed Eva, forgetting her own brilliant prospects in the contemplation of her lady’s purpose. “Bethink thee, my most honored mistress, of all the perils that beset thy course.”

“I have counted them over, one by one,” replied the princess, calmly.

“Thou hast thought of the dangers of the sea, perhaps, but rememberest thou the dreadful pestilence? – the horrors that Queen Margaret told? – how the leeches cut away the gums and cheeks of the sufferers, that they might swallow a drop of water to ease their torments?”

“I remember all – I have considered well,” returned the princess. “And this also do I know, that nothing ought to part those whom God hath joined; and the way to heaven is as near, if not nearer, from Syria as from England, or my native Spain.”

“Then I go with thee,” said Eva, throwing herself at the feet of Eleanora, and pressing her lips upon her hand, “for if God hath not joined me to thee, he hath left me alone in the world. Thou hast been to me more than Naomi, and I shall not fail to thee in the duty of Ruth. Where thou goest I will go, where thou diest I will die, and there will I be buried. Thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God. The poor, lone Eva, whose mother lieth in the deep, deep sea, and whose father is perchance a wanderer or an outlaw, shall no more strive to veil the sadness of her orphan heart by the false smiles and assumed gaiety that grieve her truest, only friend. Henceforth I will learn the lesson thou hast, with such gentle patience and sweet example, ever strove to teach me.”

Eleanora mingled her tears with those of the impassioned maiden, and, anxious to end the painful scene, said, “Thou shalt go with me, love, to danger, and perhaps to death, since such is thine election; but what answer shall Edward return to Sir Warrenne Bassingbourn?”

“Let my lord assure Sir Warrenne,” said she, rising proudly, “that Eva de la Mer is not insensible of the honor he intends, but that she will never add the shamrock to a knight’s escutcheon, till she knows by what title she claims the emblem.”

CHAPTER VI.

THE OLD MAN OF THE MOUNTAIN

The benevolent Louis could not rest in the palace of Vincennes while the Mamelukes were slaughtering the Christians, or destroying their souls by forcing them to renounce their faith. In his protracted devotions in the Sainte Chapelle, he fancied he heard the groans of the dying in Palestine, and his soul was stirred for their relief. He convened the barons in the great hall of the Louvre, and entered bearing the holy crown of thorns. He took the cross in their presence, and made his sons and brothers take it, and after those no one dared refuse. Especially did he exert himself to gain the concurrence of the English. Edward joyfully assented to the proposal, and Eleanora, with her female train, departed in the spring of 1270 for Bordeaux, where she superintended the preparations for the crusade campaign. Thither Edward followed her when his own arrangements were complete. From Bordeaux they sailed for Sicily, where they remained the winter, and where they heard the melancholy intelligence of the death of King Louis, who had advanced as far as Tunis on his way to Egypt. With his last breath, the sainted king whispered the name that was set as a seal upon his heart. “Oh! Jerusalem! Jerusalem!” His brother, Charles d’Anjou, King of Sicily, attempted to dissuade Edward from prosecuting the expedition. But the noble prince, striking his hand upon his breast, exclaimed, with energy, “Sangue de Dieu! if all should desert me, I would redeem Acre if only attended by my groom.”

When Edward turned the prow of his vessel up the Mediterranean, Acre was in a state of closer siege than it had formerly been, at the advent of Richard Cœur de Lion. But now it was the Mussulmans who lay encamped around its walls, and the Christians who feebly defended it from their fierce attack. The fate of the principality of Antioch was closely connected with that of the Latin kingdom of Jerusalem.

The family of Bohemond, the first sovereign, who married Constantia, daughter of Phillip I., King of France, had reigned there in unbroken succession nearly to the period of the last Crusade – though the State was tributary to Frederic II. and to his son Conrad. The last king was made a knight by St. Louis. When the Egyptians commenced their conquests in Syria, Antioch surrendered without even the formality of a siege, and thus the link between the Greek Empire and Palestine was sundered, and all prospect of aid from that quarter entirely cut off.

In Acre were assembled the last remains of all the Christian principalities of the East; the descendants of the heroes who, under Godfrey of Boulogne, took up their residence there; the remnants of the military friars who had so long and so strenuously battled for the ascendency of the “Hospital” and the “Temple” no less than for the redemption of the Holy Sepulchre; and all the proselytes who, through years of missionary efforts, had been gathered from the Pagan world. But the defenceless were more numerous than the defenders, and the factions which divided their councils would have ripened into treachery and ended in ruin, had it not been for the presence of Sir Henry Courtenay. From the day of his estrangement from Eva, he had bestowed his devotion upon those objects which he thought best calculated to fill the void in his heart. At the first news of the disasters in Palestine, he had assembled all the partisans and vassals of the noble house of Courtenay, and, furnishing them from his own purse, rallied them around the standard or torteaux, and led them to the rescue of their eastern brethren. He reached the city at the critical moment when, wearied with the strife, the Templars had begun to negotiate with Melech Bendocar upon the terms of a capitulation. His courteous and noble bearing harmonized the jarring spirits, and his ardent valor inspired them with new hopes, and enabled them to maintain the last stronghold in Palestine, till the arrival of Edward.

The knowledge that a Plantagenet had come to lift the dishonored banner of the cross from the dust, spread terror and dismay among the ranks of the Moslem, the Sultan of Egypt fled from the city of Acre, all the Latins in Palestine crowded round the standard of the English prince, and Edward found himself at the head of seven thousand veteran soldiers. With this force he made an expedition to Nazareth, which he besieged with the most determined valor. In the fight, Edward was unhorsed, and might have perished in the mêlée, had not Henry Courtenay relinquished his own steed for his master’s use. The gallant youth then took his station by the side of a tall knight, whose falchion gleamed in the front of the battle like the sword of Azrael. They were the first to mount the scaling-ladders and drive the Moslem from the walls. Nazareth was thus, by one decisive blow, added to the dominions of Christendom.

But the wing of victory was paralyzed by the scorching sun of Syria. Edward was prostrated by the acclimating fever that wasted the energies of Richard Cœur de Lion, and in the palace of Acre he longed, in vain, for the cooling draughts of iced sherbet, that the courteous Saladin had bestowed upon his royal predecessor. Sir Francis d’Essai had followed the fortunes of Edward, or rather of Eva, to Palestine, hoping to win the favor of his lady’s smiles. The sight of de Courtenay roused all his former jealousy, and the cordial manner of Eva towards his rival almost drove him to desperation. Various circumstances had excited an apprehension in Edward’s mind, that the count was seeking to make common cause with the Arabs, but as no tangible proof of treasonable practices appeared, the suspicion passed away.

The illness of the monarch continuing, Eleanora determined to make a pilgrimage to the Jordan, to pray at the shrine of St. John for her husband’s recovery, and, at his own earnest solicitations, Sir Francis was permitted to conduct the party. Eleanora afterwards remembered that he rode most of the way in close attendance upon Eva, and seemed engaged in earnest conversation, though several muttered oaths gave her the impression that the colloquy was not so satisfactory as he could have wished. They accomplished their pilgrimage safely, and commenced their return, when, stopping to refresh themselves in a small grove near Mount Tabor, a band of mounted Saracens fell upon them. There was a fierce struggle, and, for a few moments, the gleaming of swords and the flash of scimeters seemed to menace instant destruction. Both the assailants and defenders were scattered through the wood, and a few of the frantic females attempted flight. The Moslems at length retreated, but when the princess summoned her retainers to set forward, neither Sir Francis nor Eva could be found.

Alarmed for the safety of her lovely companion, Eleanora caused the vicinity to be searched in every direction. Her palfrey was discovered idly cropping the grass, but all trace of its fair rider was lost. With a bursting heart the princess gave orders to proceed with all haste to Acre, that scouts in greater numbers might be sent in quest of the lost jewel.

The state of Edward’s health was such, that it was not deemed advisable to acquaint him with the melancholy result of their pious enterprise. But de Courtenay at once comprehended the plot. Such a mêlée, without bloodshed, proved no hostile intention on the part of the Arabs, and there could be no doubt that Sir Francis was the instigator of the attack, and the possession of Eva, its object. His impatience to set off for her rescue did not prevent him from taking every precaution, both for the safety of Acre, and the success of his expedition. Eleanora, whose characteristic self-possession had left her at liberty to observe, described with the most scrupulous exactness the circumstances of the fray, and each trifling peculiarity in the appearance of the robbers.

Fortified with this intelligence, he set off at once, with a select party, and a few hours after leaving Acre, was unexpectedly joined by the tall knight, and a reinforcement of converted Pullani. From him he learned that the Arabs had taken the direction of Mt. Lebanon, and from his knowledge of the Assassin band, his heart sunk within him, at the thought of what might have been the fate of his lovely Eva. In his anxiety for her rescue, all her faults were forgotten, and he only remembered the gentle kindness that characterized every action, and the nameless charm, that made her friends as numerous as her acquaintances. Prompted by these considerations, they spurred forward, stopping only to refresh their wearied steeds, till they began to wind among the rocky passes of Mt. Lebanon.

The tall knight seemed perfectly familiar with the locality, and guided the pursuers directly to the tower, called The Vulture’s Nest, which was the chief residence of the Old Man of the Mountain. There seemed to be an intelligence between the tall knight and all the marabouts who guarded the entrance to this “Castle Dangerous.” Leaving their followers, the two leaders advanced, and the knight presenting a piece of shrivelled parchment to an Arab, who filled the office of porter, they were ushered into a long hall, at the door of which stood a swarthy Turk, partly leaning upon an immense battle-axe, the handle of which was stuck full of daggers. The Sheik received them with an obsequiousness scarcely to be expected from one of his bloody trade, and in answer to the knight’s eager inquiries, motioned his attendant, and instantly that which had appeared a solid masonry, rolled silently back, as if by magic, revealing an apartment fitted up with every appliance of eastern magnificence. Before they recovered from their surprise, voices were heard from the farther extremity of the room, soft female pleading, and then the loud menacing tones of passion.

“Eva, thou shalt be mine! I swear it by all the fiends of hell. Nay, anger me not by thy cold repulse. Thou art now beyond the protection of the smooth-tongued de Courtenay.” He seized her arm as he spoke, and a piercing shriek rang through the hall.

“Traitor! viper! release thy hold,” exclaimed de Courtenay, springing forward and receiving the fainting girl in his arms.

“And who art thou, that darest to cross the purpose of D’Essai? By what right dost thou interfere between me and my bride?”

“By the right of a father,” said a deep, stern voice at his side, and the tall knight advancing, tenderly clasped his unresisting daughter to his heart, and stood by like one lost in a tide of long-repressed emotions, while the two nobles fiercely drew their swords, and with deadly hatred, each sought the life of his foe. But the Sheik interposed, reminding them, that his castle walls were sacred, and that if his tributaries chose to slay one another, they must seek the open field for the pastime. Reluctantly, and with eyes that glared with baffled vengeance, the lords sheathed their swords, and the tall knight, laying his daughter gently upon a couch, spake a few words apart to the Sheik.

The Old Man made a sign of assent, and instantly two Arabs sprang forward, seized D’Essai, bound him with thongs, and conveyed him from the apartment. Relieved of her fears, and reassured by the presence of a father, for whose affection she had always pined, and a lover, on whom she now contrived to smile in a way that completely satisfied his heart, Eva declared herself impatient to set off immediately for Acre. The Sheik pressed them to partake of some refreshments, and while Eva enjoyed a few moments’ delicious conversation with her sire, a troop of slaves prepared and set before them an entertainment that would have done honor to the palace of a king. As the cavalcade set out, the tender heart of Eva was pained to see Sir Francis placed upon the back of a mule, blindfolded, with his face to the crupper, and his arms firmly pinioned to the body of the Arab who had him in charge.

“Thou seemest on excellent terms with the Sheik of the mountain, noble Clare,” said de Courtenay, as they rode along. “Had I not a guarantee in thy kindred,” said he glancing at Eva, “I should somewhat challenge the familiarity that has given such success to our expedition.”

“Nay, and that thou well mightst,” returned the Clare, “for the history of mankind does not furnish the idea of so daring and desperate a band as these assassins of Mt. Lebanon.”

“Heaven save us!” exclaimed Eva, her lips white with fear. “From what terrible fate have I been delivered! That vile Sir Francis declared that he had snatched me from the hostile Arabs, and would bring me safe to Acre, and that it was in pity for my fatigue he turned aside to a castle of christian natives. It makes me shudder, even now, to think that I have been in the presence of the man whose very name hath made me tremble, when beyond the sea, in merrie England.”

“Nay, love,” said her father, tenderly, “the Sheik owed thee no malice, and might have rescued thee, had not Sir Francis been his tributary.”

“They exact, then, toll and custom?” said Courtenay, inquiringly.

“Thou sayest well exact,” replied the knight. “Didst not mark the battle-axe of the rude seneschal? ’Tis said the Danish weapon once belonged to the founder of the band, and each dagger stuck in the oaken helve, inscribed with a sentence in a different dialect, is significantly pointed against the prince or ruler who shall dare withhold tribute from their chief. One of my ancestors, I reck not whom, once resided in the vicinity of Croyland, and received from the venerable abbot the parchment which thou sawest me use with such marvellous effect. My ancestor fought in the first crusade under the Atheling, and, unlike most of his companions, returned in safety, whence a tradition arose in the family that the scroll was a charm.

“On my setting out for the holy wars, I placed the heirloom in my aumonière, and had nearly forgotten its existence, when a startling circumstance recalled it to memory. My plan for the redemption of Palestine (for I have not been without ambition) was the organization of troops collected from the mixed races which are now an important part of the population. I was warned at the outset that tribute would be demanded by the chief of the assassins, but I steadily resisted every tax-gatherer who presented his claims, till I awoke one morning in my tent, surrounded by my faithful guard, and found a dagger stuck in the ground not two fingers’ breadth from my head. I examined the inscription upon the weapon and found it the same with that upon the scroll, and forthwith determined to form the acquaintance of this rival chief. He respected my passport and showed me the wonders of his habitation, which heaven grant I may never see again. So perfect is the discipline of his followers, so invincible their faith, that every word of their chief is a law. He led me up a lofty tower, at each battlement of which stood two Fedavis. At a sign from him, two of these devotees flung themselves from the tower, breaking their bones, and scattering their brains upon the rock below. ‘If you wish it,’ said the chief, ‘all these men shall do the same.’ But I had seen enough, and I resolved from that hour never to tempt the enmity of the Old Man of the Mountain.