God Wills It! A Tale of the First Crusade. William Stearns Davis
Roger had risen.
"Sirs—what is this? Brew quarrels under your lady's very eyes? Go apart, or I forbid you to ride in the games." Iftikhar bowed his head,—in no very good grace, it seemed,—and cantered sulkily to the upper end of the lists.
"I fear Iftikhar Eddauleh and I must soon seek other masters," remarked the Count to Tancred, in Mary's hearing. "Rumor has it, he has dealings with the Ismaelians. He grows haughty and insubordinate. A good captain and a matchless cavalier; yet I shall not grieve to see him return to the East."
But now the Christian heralds were calling on the Normans and Provençals to range themselves in two companies and do battle, after the rule of that knightly paragon, Geoffrey de Preully,—"for the love of Christ, St. George, and all fair ladies." Of the passage at arms that followed, needless here to tell. Many a stout blow was struck despite blunted weapons; ten good knights fell senseless from their horses; the squires took up two dead; sent for a priest to anoint a third. Before the fray ended, little Countess Blanche and her ladies had fluttered and shrieked till wild and hoarse. They had torn off ribbons, necklaces, lockets, bracelets, and tossed forth madly "gauntlets of love" to favorite cavaliers, until they sat—or stood rather—dressed only in their robes and their long, bright hair.
Then came respite, while the lists were cleared for the Saracens' games,—for the wise Count suffered no ill-blood to breed by letting Christian ride against Moslem. The Egyptian cavaliers took part—stately men, in red, silver-embroidered tunics, with blue, gem-set aigrettes flashing in their turbans. No less gallant were the Sicilian Saracens, and Iftikhar most brilliant of them all. A small palm tree was set in the midst of the arena,—the trunk bronze, the leaves one sheen of gold-foil. A silver dove dangled from a bough, in the bill a golden ring. Then the Arab heralds proclaimed that each horseman should ride in turn, catching the ring upon his lance; and he who once failed should not try again.
So they rode, twenty or more. The first round none missed; three in the second; and so till the ninth, when there were but two,—and these Iftikhar and Musa the Andalusian.
"Beard of the Prophet!" cried Hasham, the Egyptian envoy, who sat at the Count's side, "the two are as enchanted. Not in all Egypt—in all Syria and Khorassan,—such horsemen!"
"And the All-wise alone knows," responded the Count, "which of the two be the better! Yet I wish any save these two were contending. See! Again!"
And the twain rode many times; till Mary, whose cheeks were very hot and eyes very bright, forgot to count the rounds. At last a shout:—
"Iftikhar fails!" The ring was still in the dove's mouth. Musa swung lightly his horse; dropped lance-point, dashed at the tree at a gallop, fleet as the north wind, amid a cloud of dust; but as he flew down the lists a mightier shout was rising. The ring glittered on his spear. The Count placed the prize in Mary's hand, when the heralds led the victor to the judges' lodge.
"Sir Musa," said she clearly, while he knelt and she fixed the diamond-studded aigrette upon his cap, "you have so ridden that all your friends grow proud. May it be ever thus!"
"Could each gem be a thousand," answered the Spaniard, in his musical accent, "they were less precious than your words to-day."
"There spoke the true cavalier of Spain!" cried Count Roger, who loved Moslems so that priests grumbled he dissuaded them from Christianity. And Hasham added, "Verily, the efreets bewitched the Almoravide when he exiled such a horseman!"
"By the brightness of Allah!" replied Musa, with a sweeping bow to the ladies, "who could not ride through a thousand blades with such gaze upon him!"
The Andalusian started to ride slowly back to his station, when the Count summoned him again.
"Sir Musa, all is not smooth between you and Iftikhar Eddauleh. In the game to follow I desire that you ride on the same side. I will not have you meet. What were those words between you?"
The Spaniard's teeth shone white when he answered:—
"Bountiful lord, the emir deigned to tell me that if ever we met face to face and naught hindered, I would do well to commend my soul to Allah."
"And you?"
"Made answer that the secrets of Allah were hid, and no man knows whether the Book of Doom assigns death to Iftikhar or to Musa when they meet; as Musa for his part prays they may."
"Mad spirits!" laughed Roger; "but I cannot have more than De Valmont and Longsword sacrifice themselves to-day. Your word that you will not seek Iftikhar's mischief in the games!"
"Given, my lord."
"Good!"—then to an attendant knight, "Send the emir to the pavilion."
But the emir had withdrawn himself, and was not to be found, until amid the clash of Eastern music the arena was cleared and the Moslem game of the wands began. The ten riders who had contended best for the rings were drawn up, five against five. Light round targets were brought them, and in the place of pointed lances, long brittle reeds. He who failed to break his reed on an opponent's target, when they charged at gallop, fell out of the game, unless his rival fared no better. Iftikhar Eddauleh and Musa were arrayed on the same side, with three combatants between. The Count had seen the shadow flit across Mary's face, and reassured: "They will not meet unless the other eight are worsted before either of them—and that can scarcely be; for all are great cavaliers."
Then the kettledrums boomed, while the ten dashed together. A fair sight, without the bloodshed of the Christians' tourney. As each rider swept forward after breaking his reed, he dashed on past attendants standing with a sheaf of unbroken lances, dropped his shivered butt, snatched another, and spurred back to the contest. The horses caught their masters' spirit, and threw up their heels merrily as they flew on charge after charge. Well matched were all; only on the seventh round did an agile Sicilian, by a quick crouch in the saddle, elude an Egyptian's reed while fairly breaking his own. The dust rose high. The horses panted. One by one the combatants dropped out. At last, after the multitude had howled and cheered till weary, the dust cloud settled, and revealed that of one party of five not one remained contesting; of the other, side by side sat Musa and Iftikhar Eddauleh.
The great Count shook his head, and Mary had little joy. They at least knew what fires would spur on the emir, when he rode; but to deny the crowd their sport would have meant riot,—nay, bloodshed,—what with their thousands standing on the benches, pressing the palings, shaking earth and air with tumult. The two contestants mounted new horses and sat face to face; behind each stood an attendant with the sheaf of reed lances. Count Roger swept his eye over the lists.
"Ha! who is that dwarfish fellow behind the emir?" demanded he; and a knight beside answered:—
"Zeyneb, Iftikhar's body-servant and shadow."
Roger did not need to see the cloud that spread on Mary's face. "Holla!" cried the Count, "he is not admitted to the lists! A venomous cat, I hear." A new roar from the benches drowned his voice. The two had charged amid deafening din. Three times past, and the reeds fairly broken; four times,—never drawing rein,—the emir broke only by a great shift; five times, both shivered fairly; sixth time, the Egyptian shattered only his tip, which still dangled from the butt.
"The Spaniard wins!" cried a thousand throats. But the emir had spurred by, dashed up to his attendant, snatched lance, wheeled instantly, and thundered back, Musa flying to meet him.
"Ho!" trumpeted the Count, leaping up, "Iftikhar's lance! See!" In a twinkling the lists rang as never before. The Spaniard reeled in his saddle; his target flew in twain; he clapped his right hand to his shoulder and drew it away—blood!
Prince Tancred had bounded into the arena.
"Felony!" his shout; "the emir had a pointed weapon. Sir Musa is run through. Physicians—aid!"
A dozen squires and grooms buzzed around the Spaniard, making to lift him from his horse. He sat erect—dispersed them with an angry gesture.
"Nothing—Bismillah! The lance turned as it split the target. My side was grazed, and a little blood drawn—it is nothing!"
"Lead Iftikhar Eddauleh this way," raged Tancred, his green