Heroines of the Crusades

by C. A. Bloss

CHAPTER II.

“O, such a day So fought, so followed, and so fairly won, Came not till now, to dignify the times.”

It was a gala-day in Navarre. Sancho the Strong, the gallant brother of Berengaria, had proclaimed a tournament in compliment to his friend Richard Plantagenet, Count of Poitou. In the domestic wars which had vexed the south of France since the marriage of Eleanor of Aquitaine with Henry of Anjou, these valiant youths had fought side by side, and from a friendship cemented by intimacy as well as similarity of tastes and pursuits, had become fratres jurati, or sworn brothers, according to the customs of the age. Both were celebrated for their knightly accomplishments and their skill in judging of Provençal poetry, and each had proved the prowess of the other in chivalric encounter, and provoked the genius of his friend in the refined and elegant contests of minstrelsy and song. The brave Sancho had arranged the lists, giving to his friend the first place as knight challenger, reserving the second for himself, and bestowing the third upon their brother in arms, the young Count of Champagne. The gay pavilions were set, a splendid concourse assembled, and Berengaria, proclaimed Queen of Beauty and Love, had assumed her regal state attended by all the beauties of Navarre, when to the infinite disappointment and mortification of the prince, Count Raimond of Toulouse arrived to say, that Richard, having received letters from his mother, had found it necessary to depart suddenly for England; but that the festivities of the day might not be marred by his absence, he entreated that the bearer of the message, Count Raimond, might occupy his pavilion, bestride his war-steed, and do his devoir in the lists. With a courtesy that ill-concealed his chagrin the noble Sancho accepted the substitute, and conducting him to the tent glittering with green and gold, consigned him to the care of the esquires; while himself went to acquaint his sister with the mortifying fact that the spectacle, for which they had prepared with such enthusiastic anticipations, was yet to want the crowning grace expected from the presence of that flower of knighthood, Richard Plantagenet.

To conceal from the spectators the knowledge of this untoward event, their father, Sancho the Wise, who held the post of honor as judge of the combat, decided that Count Raimond of Toulouse should assume the armorial bearings of Richard, and personate him in the lists. These preliminaries being satisfactorily arranged, the heralds rode forth and proclaimed the laws of the tournament, and the games proceeded. The Count of Champagne and the royal Sancho, better practised in the exercises of the lance than the Spanish cavaliers who opposed them, won applause from all beholders; but the crowd seemed to take especial delight in the prowess of Count Raimond, shouting at every gallant thrust, and every feat of horsemanship, “A Richard, a Richard! A Plantagenet!” Notwithstanding the unfavorable auspices under which the tournament commenced, the sports of the day were as gay and animated as the most sanguine could have hoped. The three challengers had overborne all opponents. With a heart fluttering with pride and pleasure, the young Blanche of Navarre had seen her sister confer a golden coronet upon the Count of Champagne, and Sancho had also received from Berengaria a chaplet in honor of his knightly achievements. But the first in honor as in place, was the warrior who had personated Richard. When, however, he laid aside his vizor, to receive the well-won laurel as leader of the victors, the multitude discovered that the hero whom they had greeted with such enthusiastic applause was Count Raimond of Toulouse, and new bursts of acclamations rent the air, while the marshals, and squires, and heralds, forgetting for a moment their duties, gathered round the throne of Love and Beauty to interchange congratulations with the gratified count.

In the general excitement no one had noticed the entrance of a knight adventurous, one of those wandering cavaliers who, to perfect themselves in feats of arms, travelled from province to province, challenging the skill of all comers in chivalrous combat. The appearance of this knight-errant was such as attracted all eyes. He was mounted on a bay horse of spirit and mettle that hardly yielded to the strong rein; his helmet was surmounted with a crest of the figure of a red hound, while his erect form shielded in brown armor, and the firmness with which he maintained his seat gave him the appearance of a bronze statue, borne along in the procession. Disregarding the indications that the fortunes of the day were already decided, the stranger knight rode directly to the pavilion emblazoned with the arms of Richard, and struck his spear with such force upon the shield, as to summon at once the attendants to duty.

“Whom have we here?” exclaimed Sancho, with a hearty laugh. “By our Lady, Count Raimond, this day’s sun shall not set till the heathen hound on the crest of yon crusading knight hath bit the dust. Pardieu, I almost envy thee thy good fortune to tilt against so fair a foe.” The interest which this new-comer gave to the flagging sports was evinced by the eager inquiries and hurried whispers that went round among the spectators. A breathless silence ensued, as Count Raimond couched his lance and started forward to meet his strange challenger. “A Raimond! A Raimond!” cried the crowd, as the two combatants dashed upon each other.

“Long life to the Red Knight,” “Success to the Crusaders,” was echoed by the fickle multitude, with increased satisfaction, as the hero of Toulouse, overthrown by the violence of the shock, struggled beneath his fallen charger, while the stranger applying rein and spur, caused his gallant steed at one bound, to leap over the prostrate horse and rider, then dexterously compelling the animal to caricole gracefully in front of the queen’s galley, and lowering his lance, the victorious knight courteously bowed as if laying his honors at the feet of Love and Beauty. The prizes for the day were already bestowed; but the enthusiastic Berengaria found it impossible to let such prowess go unrewarded. Hastily untying her scarf, she fastened it to the end of his spear, and the Crusader, with the armorial bearings of Navarre streaming from his lance, rode slowly and proudly from the lists.

The squires meanwhile had extricated the vanquished Raimond from his perilous position, and conducted him to his tent, where his bruises were found to require the skill of the leech. All were busy with conjectures concerning the unknown, many sage surmises very wide of the truth were hazarded by those best acquainted with heraldic devices, and arguments were rapidly increasing to animosities, when the slight tinkling of a bell again drew the attention of the concourse.

“A champion! A champion,” exclaimed they again as a second knight, strong and broad-shouldered, sheathed in shining black armor, entered the arena. Glimpses of a ruddy complexion and sparkling eyes, were visible through the jetty bars of his vizor, and a raven with smooth and glossy plumage, its beak open, and a bell suspended from its neck, was perched upon his helmet. His coal-black steed was a war-horse of powerful make, deep-chested and of great strength of limb; his red nostrils distended by his fiery impatience, glowed like the coals of a furnace, while the gauntleted hand that with matchless skill controlled his speed, looked as though it might have belonged to a giant of the olden time. The impetuosity of the black knight left the spectators not long in doubt of his purpose. Count Henry of Champagne was summoned to reassume his armor and make good his claim to his recently won laurels. “Pray heaven thine eye and hand falter not, Count Henry,” exclaimed Sancho, as he personally inspected the armor of his friend, and cautioned the squires to see that each ring and buckle was securely fastened. “The issue of this combat should depend upon thine own right arm, not upon a weak spring or careless squire.” The courtesy of the black knight seemed proportioned to his strength and skill. Reining his horse to the left, he gave the count the full advantage of the wind and sun, and instead of meeting him in full career, eluded the shock, parried his thrusts with the most graceful ease, and rode around him like a practised knight conducting the exercises of the tilt-yard in such a manner, as to develop and display the prowess of an ambitious squire; and when at last Count Henry lost his saddle, it was rather the effect of his own rashness, than from any apparent purpose of his antagonist; for exasperated to the last degree at being thus toyed with, he retreated to the extremity of the lists, put his horse upon its full speed and dashed upon his opponent. The black knight perceiving the intent of this manœuvre, brought his well-trained steed at once into an attitude of perfect repose, and sitting immovable as an iron pillar, received the full shock upon his impenetrable shield. The horse of the count recoiling from the effect of the terrible collision, sank upon his haunches, and the girth breaking, the rider rolled in the dust. Something like a smothered laugh broke from beneath the bars of the stranger’s vizor, as he rode round his vanquished foe, and extended his hand as though inviting him to rise. But his demeanor was grave and dignified, when he presented himself before the admiring Berengaria, who in default of a better chaplet stripped her tiny hand of its snowy covering, and bestowed the embroidered glove as the guerdon of his skill. “Part we so soon, sir knight?” said Sancho, reining his steed, so as to keep pace with that of his unexpected guest. “I would fain set lance in rest against so fair a foe.” Without deigning a reply, the knight put spurs to his horse, and leaping the barriers disappeared in the wood. Rejoining his two friends in the pavilion who were condoling with each other over their inglorious defeat, Sancho burst into a stream of invective. “Ungrateful cravens,” cried he, “to repine at heaven’s grace. I would have given the brightest jewel in the crown of Navarre, for leave to set lance in rest against either of yon doughty knights.” “Thou shouldst have been very welcome,” exclaimed Raimond, laying his hand upon his wounded limb. “Our Lady grant henceforth that dame Fortune send all such favors to thee,” and he laughed in spite of his discomfiture. A startling blast from the wood interrupted the colloquy, and Count Raimond petulantly exclaimed, “Methinks the foul fiends have congregated in the forest! That hath the sound of the last trumpet.”

“Aye, verily,” replied Count Henry, reconnoitering from the door of the pavilion, “and yonder comes Death on the pale horse. Prince Sancho, thine hour has come, prepare to meet thy final overthrow.” There seemed a terrible significance in the words, for upon a snowy charger, whose mane and tail nearly swept the ground, just entering the lists, was seen a knight, dressed in a suit of armor of such shining brilliancy as almost to dazzle the eyes of the beholders. His crest was a white dove with its wings spread, and conspicuous upon his right shoulder appeared a blood-red cross. He carried neither lance nor spear, but an immense battle-axe hung at his saddle-bow. “By my troth,” said Sancho, “be he the angel of death himself, I will dispute his empire, even though he bring twelve legions of his mysterious retainers to back him. It shall not be said that the chivalry of Spain, aye, and of France to boot,” casting a glance at his crest-fallen friends, “are but trophies of the prowess of these unknown demi-gods.” “Heaven grant thou mayest make good thy boast, for truly these demi-gods wield no mortal weapons,” said Count Raimond, with a bitter smile, as the prince anticipating a challenge rode forth to meet the white champion. Unpractised in the use of the mace, Sancho, whose ire was completely roused at seeing the honors of the day borne off by strangers, disregarded the laws of the tournament (which required the challenger to use the same weapons as his adversary), and seizing his spear, attacked his opponent with a fierce energy, which showed that he fought for deadly combat, and not for trial of skill in knightly courtesy. The brilliant figure, at the first rush, bowed his head, till the plumage of the dove mingled with the flowing mane of his courser, and suffered the animal to sheer to the right, thus compelling the prince, in his onward career, to make a similar involuntary obeisance as the result of his ineffectual thrust. Completing the demivolte, the two champions again returned to the onset; and now the mace of the white knight describing shining circles round his head, received upon its edge the spear of the prince, clave the tough oak wood asunder, and sent the spear-head whirling through the air almost to the feet of the spectators. A second, a third, and a fourth spear met with the same fate. The welkin rang with the applause of the beholders. “Bravo, sir white knight!” “Glory to the Red Cross!” “Honor to the crusader!” “Death to the Paynim,” accompanied the flourish of trumpets and the shouts of heralds, which, together with the flutter of pennons and the waving of signals from the galleries of the ladies, showed the exciting interest of the scene. At length the dove-crested warrior, by a skilful manœuvre, brought himself into such proximity as to be able with one blow to strike the helmet from the head of his antagonist; at the same moment, however, he extended his hand and prevented the unbonneted prince from falling prone beneath the feet of his horse. The gallant Sancho thus compelled to yield, with knightly grace accompanied his vanquisher to Berengaria’s throne. “Thy best guerdon, my sister, for thy brother’s conqueror,” said he. “Beside the arm of Richard Plantagenet, I thought there was not another in Christendom that could break the bars of my vizor and leave my skull unscathed. Why dost thou hesitate?” exclaimed he, observing her embarrassment. “The daughter of Sancho the Wise is not wont to be tardy when called upon to honor the brave. Has the same blow that still keeps the blood dancing in the brain of thy brother, paralyzed thy hand?” “Nay,” said Berengaria, while a brilliant blush suffused her cheeks, “but I would fain see the countenance of the brave knight, who carries off the honors of the field from such a competitor,” and drawing the ring of Elsiebede from her finger, she bestowed it upon the victor. Rising from his knees, the knight inclined courteously to the squires, who with a celerity lent by curiosity, unlaced his casque and unfastened his gorget, revealing the face of Richard Plantagenet, beaming fair and ruddy from the bright yellow curls that clustered round it, and eyes that sparkled in the full appreciation of the surprise and merriment that his unexpected apparition occasioned. “Mon cher frère,” exclaimed Sancho, grasping his hand, “I am conquered by Richard, then am I victor. Give me joy, knights, ladies, and squires.” The heralds taking up the word, sounded the tidings through the field, while the spectators shouted, “A Richard! a Richard! Long live the gallant Plantagenet!” The Counts of Toulouse and Champagne, assisted by their attendants, hastened to the scene, and discovering the scarf and glove of Berengaria resting beneath the loosened hauberk, recognized each his conqueror, and found in that circumstance a greater balm for their wounded pride, than all their bruises had experienced from the mollifying appliances of leechcraft. The knights challengers thus all vanquished by the single arm of Richard, left the field with the highest sense of satisfaction, and the ready wit of their champion, pointed the sallies and directed the mirth of the banquet, which followed, and continued long into the night.