Every man present, except Sebastian, roared out the pledge; but Sebastian only sat still, and prayed to the saints.
Thus sped some weeks, and old Baron Gaston breathed his last. Before he died John of the Iron Arm had gone before him, in a manner better surmised than said. The Baron had felt his sins coming home upon him as his time drew nigh. The abbot went to see him very often. Gaston wished to die as a monk. The brethren put on him the monk's robe and scapulary, the sub-prior pronounced over him some words of consecration, and the dying sinner muttered some half-articulate vows. Yet he seemed more concerned as to what would befall his good horse Fleuri when he was gone, than about the welfare of his soul. Around his bed night and day sat his petty nobles and neighbors watching in solemn silence, except to cross themselves when a magpie croaked, or when it was said that a vulture hovered over the castle—sure sign of the death-angel's approach. The moment the Baron was dead, the serving-boys ran through the castle, emptying every vessel of water, lest in one the straying soul should drown itself. The monks gave him a funeral as became one of their own order, and one who had made over to them so wide a stretch of farm-land. Ten days after Gaston was buried, they proclaimed Richard Baron of St. Julien. Lady Margaret was her father's only heir; but she was far away, and a man with a strong arm was needed in that troubled seigneury. So Richard Longsword sat down in the Baron's high seat at the end of the great hall, and all the lesser nobles came before him, knelt, placed their hands in his, and swore themselves "his men." And Richard raised each up, kissed him on the mouth, and promised love and protection so long as he observed fealty. Fealty, Richard himself owed in name to the Count of Auvergne, with the young William of Aquitaine as overlord of all. But times were turbulent, Aquitaine and Toulouse at bitter feud. Richard looked upon the castle, the stout men, the broad lands, and the blue sky: "No power can say me nay," was his laugh, "saving God and Mary Kurkuas." And one fears he did not greatly dread the former. But the barony he ruled with a strong hand, and ended the petty tyrannies of the lesser nobles upon their serfs; while Sebastian as chancellor chased from office the chaplain of St. Julien, a rollicking, hard-swearing sinner, with a consort, six children, and wide fame as a toper. In his stead reigned Sebastian himself, who soon crossed swords even with the abbot: first, because there were fowls in the abbey kettles Fridays; second, because the brethren bartered smacks with the bouncing village maids. "Peccatum venale!" cried the abbot to the last charge, and defended the former by saying that fowls were created along with fish on Friday, and who that day refused fish? So both good men complained to Richard, but he merrily said that Nasr, as an impartial infidel, should compose their quarrel. And ignoring their war, Longsword rode up and down the barony, setting the crooked straight, making the "villains" worship him for his ready laugh, his great storehouse of humor, his willingness to stand with the weak against the strong. Only men who had followed him at Valmont whispered about him. One day Richard heard two men-at-arms with their heads together, while he sat at chess with Musa.
"Our seigneur is a terrible man. You should have seen him in the chapel."
"From what I was told, he smote the very relic box. He must shudder lest the hand of God be laid on him."
"He shudder? Lord Richard would not shrink, if he saw a thousand fiends. His heart is made of iron, like his hands, if only you could see it. Yet sometimes I tremble lest we all be smitten a deadly blow for his deed. We all stood by consenting, though the stroke was his."
Richard heard, and the whispers so shook his mind that he made a false move, lost a piece, lost the game. Musa saw that he was silent for once that evening. A messenger had come the day before from La Haye: Mary was well and joyous; they would have a bridal that would be a tale through all the South Country. Yet Richard was no longer merry. Musa confided his anxiety to Herbert, who had become his firm friend.
"The Cid my brother is not well. He talks in his sleep; he boasts before men, but fears to be left alone. Last night he cried out on his bed to take away Gilbert de Valmont and his fair, blood-stained hairs."
Herbert shook his head. "The 'little lord'"—for so he fondly called his mighty nursling—"has done a deed, even I," he laughed grimly, "who have a few things to tell the priests, would not like to dip hands in. Slaying the lad was no wrong, mind you. But the altar! the altar! Better kill fifty in cold blood than shatter a relic box!"
"No, I think he fears lest Allah requires the boy's blood at his hands."
Herbert brayed out a great laugh. "God will never wink twice, caring for those Valmonters. They say Louis is coming north with a band to take vengeance. Pretty fighting—no music sweeter than that of sword-blades."