They learned, for instance, then and afterwards, that the galley which had been thought to be a merchantman put into the river Crouch6 by design, feigning7 an injury to her rudder, and that on Christmas eve she had moved up with the tide, and anchored in the Blackwater about three miles from its mouth. Thence a great boat, which she towed behind her, and which was afterwards found abandoned, had rowed in the dusk, keeping along the further shore to avoid observation, to the mouth of Steeple Creek8, which she descended9 at dark, making fast to the Staithe, unseen of any. Her crew of thirty men or more, guided by the false palmer Nicholas, next hid themselves in the grove10 of trees about fifty yards from the house, where traces of them were found afterwards, waiting for the signal, and, if that were necessary, ready to attack and burn the Hall while all men feasted there. But it was not necessary, since the cunning scheme of the drugged wine, which only an Eastern could have devised, succeeded. So it happened that the one man they had to meet in arms was an old knight11, of which doubtless they were glad, as their numbers being few, they wished to avoid a desperate battle, wherein many must fall, and, if help came, they might be all destroyed.
When it was over they led Rosamund to the boat, felt their way down the creek, towing behind them the little skiff which they had taken from the water-house—laden12 with their dead and wounded. This, indeed, proved the most perilous13 part of their adventures, since it was very dark, and came on to snow; also twice they grounded upon mud banks. Still guided by Nicholas, who had studied the river, they reached the galley before dawn, and with the first light weighed anchor, and very cautiously rowed out to sea. The rest is known.
Two days later, since there was no time to spare, Sir Andrew was buried with great pomp at Stangate Abbey, in the same tomb where lay the heart of his brother, the father of the brethren, who had fallen in the Eastern wars. After he had been laid to rest amidst much lamentation14 and in the presence of a great concourse of people, for the fame of these strange happenings had travelled far and wide, his will was opened. Then it was found that with the exception of certain sums of money left to his nephews, a legacy15 to Stangate Abbey, and another to be devoted16 to masses for the repose17 of his soul, with some gifts to his servants and the poor, all his estate was devised to his daughter Rosamund. The brethren, or the survivor18 of them, however, held it in trust on her behalf, with the charge that they should keep watch and ward4 over her, and manage her lands till she took a husband.
These lands, together with their own, the brethren placed in the hands of Prior John of Stangate, in the presence of witnesses, to administer for them subject to the provisions of the will, taking a tithe19 of the rents and profits for his pains. The priceless jewels also that had been sent by Saladin were given into his keeping, and a receipt with a list of the same signed in duplicate, deposited with a clerk at Southminster. This, indeed, was necessary, seeing that none save the brethren and the Prior knew of these jewels, of which, being of so great a value, it was not safe to speak. Their affairs arranged, having first made their wills in favour of each other with remainder to their heirs-at-law, since it was scarcely to be hoped that both of them would return alive from such a quest, they received the Communion, and with it his blessing20 from the hands of the Prior John. Then early one morning, before any were astir, they rode quietly away to London.
On the top of Steeple Hill, sending forward the servant who led the mule21 laden with their baggage—that same mule which had been left by the spy Nicholas—the brethren turned their horses’ heads to look in farewell on their home. There to the north of them lay the Blackwater, and to the west the parish of Mayland, towards which the laden barges22 crept along the stream of Steeple Creek. Below was the wide flat plain, outlined with trees, and in it, marked by the plantation23 where the Saracens had hid, the Hall and church of Steeple, the home in which they had grown from childhood to youth, and from youth to man’s estate in the company of the fair, lost Rosamund, who was the love of both, and whom both went forth24 to seek. That past was all behind them, and in front a dark and troublous future, of which they could not read the mystery nor guess the end.
Would they ever look on Steeple Hall again? Were they who stood there about to match their strength and courage against all the might of Saladin, doomed25 to fail or gloriously to succeed?
Through the darkness that shrouded26 their forward path shone one bright star of love—but for which of them did that star shine, or was it perchance for neither? They knew not. How could they know aught save that the venture seemed very desperate? Indeed, the few to whom they had spoken of it thought them mad. Yet they remembered the last words of Sir Andrew, bidding them keep a high heart, since he believed that things would yet go well. It seemed to them, in truth, that they were not quite alone—as though his brave spirit companioned them on their search, guiding their feet, with ghostly counsel which they could not hear.
They remembered also their oaths to him, to one another, and to Rosamund; and in silent token that they would keep them to the death, pressed each other’s hands. Then, turning their horses southwards, they rode forward with light hearts, not caring what befell, if only at the last, living or dead, Rosamund and her father should, in his own words, find no cause to be ashamed of them.
Through the hot haze28 of a July morning a dromon, as certain merchant vessels29 of that time were called, might have been seen drifting before a light breeze into St. George’s Bay at Beirut, on the coast of Syria. Cyprus, whence she had sailed last, was not a hundred miles away, yet she had taken six days to do the journey, not on account of storms—of which there were none at this time of year, but through lack of wind to move her. Still, her captain and the motley crowd of passengers—for the most part Eastern merchants and their servants, together with a number of pilgrims of all nations—thanked God for so prosperous a voyage—for in those times he who crossed the seas without shipwreck30 was very fortunate.
Among these passengers were Godwin and Wulf, travelling, as their uncle had bidden them, unattended by squires31 or by servants. Upon the ship they passed themselves off as brothers named Peter and John of Lincoln, a town of which they knew something, having stayed there on their way to the Scottish wars; simple gentlemen of small estate, making a pilgrimage to the Holy Land in penitence32 for their sins and for the repose of the souls of their father and mother. At this tale their fellow-passengers, with whom they had sailed from Genoa, to which place they travelled overland, shrugged33 their shoulders. For these brethren looked what they were, knights34 of high degree; and considering their great stature35, long swords, and the coats of mail they always wore beneath their gambesons, none believed them but plain gentlefolk bent36 on a pious37 errand. Indeed, they nicknamed them Sir Peter and Sir John, and as such they were known throughout the voyage.
The brethren were seated together in a little place apart in the bow of the ship, and engaged, Godwin in reading from an Arabic translation of the Gospels made by some Egyptian monk38, and Wulf in following it with little ease in the Latin version. Of the former tongue, indeed, they had acquired much in their youth, since they learned it from Sir Andrew with Rosamund, although they could not talk it as she did, who had been taught to lisp it as an infant by her mother. Knowing, too, that much might hang upon a knowledge of this tongue, they occupied their long journey in studying it from such books as they could get; also in speaking it with a priest, who had spent many years in the East, and instructed them for a fee, and with certain Syrian merchants and sailors.
“Shut the book, brother,” said Wulf; “there is Lebanon at last,” and he pointed39 to the great line of mountains revealing themselves dimly through their wrappings of mist. “Glad I am to see them, who have had enough of these crooked40 scrolls41 and learnings.”
“Ay,” said Godwin, “the Promised Land.”
“And the Land of Promise for us,” answered his brother. “Well, thank God that the time has come to act, though how we are to set about it is more than I can say.”
“Doubtless time will show. As our uncle bade, we will seek out this Sheik Jebal—-”
“Hush!” said Wulf, for just then some merchants, and with them a number of pilgrims, their travel-worn faces full of rapture42 at the thought that the terrors of the voyage were done, and that they were about to set foot upon the ground their Lord had trodden, crowded forward to the bow to obtain their first view of it, and there burst into prayers and songs of thanksgiving. Indeed, one of these men—a trader known as Thomas of Ipswich—was, they found, standing close to them, and seemed as though he listened to their talk.
The brethren mingled43 with them while this same Thomas of Ipswich, who had visited the place before, or so it seemed, pointed out the beauties of the city, of the fertile country by which it was surrounded, and of the distant cedar-clad mountains where, as he said, Hiram, King of Tyre, had cut the timber for Solomon’s Temple.
“Have you been on them?” asked Wulf.
“Ay, following my business,” he answered, “so far.” And he showed them a great snow-capped peak to the north. “Few ever go further.”
“Why not?” asked Godwin.
“Because there begins the territory of the Sheik Al-je-bal”—and he looked at them meaningly—“whom,” he added, “neither Christian44 nor Saracen visit without an invitation, which is seldom given.”
Again they inquired why not.
“Because,” answered the trader, still watching them, “most men love their lives, and that man is the lord of death and magic. Strange things are to be seen in his castle, and about it lie wonderful gardens inhabited by lovely women that are evil spirits, who bring the souls of men to ruin. Also, this Old Man of the Mountain is a great murderer, of whom even all the princes of the East are terrified, for he speaks a word to his fedaïs—or servants—who are initiated45, and they go forth and bring to death any whom he hates. Young men, I like you well, and I say to you, be warned. In this Syria there are many wonders to be seen; leave those of Masyaf and its fearful lord alone if you desire to look again upon—the towers of Lincoln.”
“Fear not; we will,” answered Godwin, “who come to seek holy places—not haunts of devils.”
“Of course we will,” added Wulf. “Still, that country must be worth travelling in.”
Then boats came out to greet them from the shore—for at that time Beirut was in the hands of the Franks—and in the shouting and confusion which followed they saw no more of this merchant Thomas. Nor did they seek him out again, since they thought it unwise to show themselves too curious about the Sheik Al-je-bal. Indeed, it would have been useless, since that trader was ashore46 two full hours before they were suffered to leave the ship, from which he departed alone in a private boat.
At length they stood in the motley Eastern crowd upon the quay47, wondering where they could find an inn that was quiet and of cheap charges, since they did not wish to be considered persons of wealth or importance. As they lingered here, somewhat bewildered, a tall, veiled woman whom they had noted48 watching them, drew near, accompanied by a porter, who led a donkey. This man, without more ado, seized their baggage, and helped by other porters began to fasten it upon the back of the donkey with great rapidity, and when they would have forbidden him, pointed to the veiled woman.
“Your pardon,” said Godwin to her at length and speaking in French, “but this man—”
“Loads up your baggage to take it to my inn. It is cheap, quiet and comfortable—things which I heard you say you required just now, did I not?” she answered in a sweet voice, also speaking in good French.
Godwin looked at Wulf, and Wulf at Godwin, and they began to discuss together what they should do. When they had agreed that it seemed not wise to trust themselves to the care of a strange woman in this fashion, they looked up to see the donkey laden with their trunks being led away by the porter.
“Too late to say no, I fear me,” said the woman with a laugh, “so you must be my guests awhile if you would not lose your baggage. Come, after so long a journey you need to wash and eat. Follow me, sirs, I pray you.”
Then she walked through the crowd, which, they noted, parted for her as she went, to a post where a fine mule was tied. Loosing it, she leaped to the saddle without help, and began to ride away, looking back from time to time to see that they were following her, as, indeed, they must.
“Whither go we, I wonder,” said Godwin, as they trudged49 through the sands of Beirut, with the hot sun striking on their heads.
“Who can tell when a strange woman leads?” replied Wulf, with a laugh.
At last the woman on the mule turned through a doorway50 in a wall of unburnt brick, and they found themselves before the porch of a white, rambling51 house which stood in a large garden planted with mulberries, oranges and other fruit trees that were strange to them, and was situated52 on the borders of the city.
Here the woman dismounted and gave the mule to a Nubian who was waiting. Then, with a quick movement she unveiled herself, and turned towards them as though to show her beauty. Beautiful she was, of that there could be no doubt, with her graceful53, swaying shape, her dark and liquid eyes, her rounded features and strangely impassive countenance54. She was young also—perhaps twenty-five, no more—and very fair-skinned for an Eastern.
“My poor house is for pilgrims and merchants, not for famous knights; yet, sirs, I welcome you to it,” she said presently, scanning them out of the corners of her eyes.
“We are but squires in our own country, who make the pilgrimage,” replied Godwin. “For what sum each day will you give us board and a good room to sleep in?”
“These strangers,” she said in Arabic to the porter, “do not speak the truth.”
“What is that to you?” he answered, as he busied himself in loosening the baggage. “They will pay their score, and all sorts of mad folk come to this country, pretending to be what they are not. Also you sought them—why, I know not—not they you.”
“Mad or sane55, they are proper men,” said the impassive woman, as though to herself, then added in French, “Sirs, I repeat, this is but a humble56 place, scarce fit for knights like you, but if you will honour it, the charge is—so much.”
“We are satisfied,” said Godwin, “especially,” he added, with a bow and removing the cap from his head, “as, having brought us here without leave asked, we are sure that you will treat us who are strangers kindly57.”
“As kindly as you wish—I mean as you can pay for,” said the woman. “Nay, I will settle with the porter; he would cheat you.”
Then followed a wrangle58 five minutes long between this curious, handsome, still-faced woman and the porter who, after the eastern fashion, lashed59 himself into a
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