The Boy Crusaders: A Story of the Days of Louis IX.

Unfortunate were the consequences. A report immediately spread that the king was retreating because the Saracens were everywhere victorious, and immediately there was a panic, and several squadrons disbanded and rushed towards the canal. A terrible scene followed, and men and horses were drowned while struggling in the water. Nothing could have exceeded the disorder and dismay. Louis, indeed, made strenuous efforts to restore confidence, but his voice was scarcely heard in the tumult; and he must have rejoiced when night put an end to the conflict, and when Bibars Bendocdar retired to Mansourah, with the determination to attack the Crusaders on another day, as the tiger draws back to make a more terrible spring.

Repairing to Djédilé, Louis dismounted, and took possession of the camp which, at daybreak, had been occupied by the Emir Fakreddin; and when his red tent was pitched there, the Prior of Rosnay presented himself, and kissed the king's hand.

'Sire,' said he, wishing to break the news gently, 'I know not if you have heard tidings of your noble brother, the Count of Artois?'

'I know all,' answered Louis, mournfully.

'Sire,' said the prior, endeavouring to administer consolation, 'no King of France has ever reaped such honour as you have done this day. You have crossed a dangerous river; you have gained a victory; you have put your enemies to flight; you have captured their engines of war; and now you are taking possession of their camp.'

'May God be praised for all that I have, with His aid, been able to do in His cause,' said Louis, with a faltering voice, and tears rolling down his cheeks, as he entered his pavilion.

'On my faith, sir prior,' said John de Valery, with the tone of a man who has a presentiment of coming calamity, 'I marvel how you can speak of this day's work as a triumph of our arms. Often have I fought for victory; but this day I have felt too surely that I was fighting not for victory but for life.'

'In truth,' said the Lord of Joinville, who had joined them, 'I would fain hope for better fortune in the future; for, call this a victory if you will, such another victory would be worse than a defeat.'

CHAPTER XXIII.

HOW JOINVILLE KEPT THE BRIDGE

WHEN the Constable of France informed King Louis that the Count of Artois was in extreme peril, and when Louis made an effort to go to the rescue of his brother – the Lord of Joinville, having previously left the ruined house, and joined the king, endeavoured to keep in the royal warrior's company. But all efforts with this object proved vain. The Saracens, raising clouds of dust and uttering ferocious yells as they advanced, came down upon the Crusaders with a force that was irresistible. The French were scattered in all directions; and Joinville was separated from Louis some minutes before the person of the saintly monarch was in such imminent danger. But in the meantime the seneschal's band had been reduced to six persons, including Guy Muschamp, who adhered with determination to Joinville's side; and between them and the king, then struggling to save his liberty, intervened thousands of Saracens.

'Impossible for us to make our way through such a crowd,' said Joinville; 'much better, therefore, will it be to wheel round and get on the other side of them.'

Accordingly they wheeled round, and gained the bank of the river, and began to descend. But at this moment the aspect of the field became most alarming to the armed pilgrims. The Crusaders and Saracens met on the banks, and many of the French, attempting to cross and form a junction with the Duke of Burgundy, were drowned; and the river was covered with lances, pikes, shields, and horses and men struggling in vain to save themselves.

By this time the Lord of Joinville, heading his knights, had reached a bridge on one of the roads to Mansourah; and on perceiving the miserable state of the army he halted.

'It is better,' said he, after looking round, 'to remain where we are, and guard this bridge; for, if we leave it, the Saracens may come and attack the king on this side, and, if he is assaulted from two quarters, he will surely be discomfited.'

Accordingly they posted themselves on the bridge which was between the canal Achmoun and the gates of Mansourah, and prepared to defend it against the Saracens. But such was the danger, that Joinville's heart, brave as it was, beat with terror, and he cried aloud for the protection of St. James.

'Good Lord St. James,' exclaimed he; 'succour me, I beseech thee, and come to my aid in this hour of need.'

It seemed to him and his companions that his prayer was answered. Almost as he uttered it, the Count of Soissons, who was his kinsman, appeared riding past the bridge; and Joinville hastened to secure his company.

'Sir count,' said he; 'I beg you to remain with us and guard this bridge; for, should it be lost, the king will have his enemies upon him both in front and rear.'

'Willingly, seneschal,' replied the count; and he placed himself on Joinville's right hand, while a French knight who was with him took his station on the left.

While Joinville and his companions were seated on their horses, prepared to keep the bridge at all hazards against all comers, the Saracens made repeated efforts to drive them from their post. But they remained firm as rocks. Trusting to accomplish by stratagem what they could not do by force, the Saracens attempted to lure them from the spot; and one stalwart horseman, galloping suddenly forward, felled one of the French knights with his battle-axe, and then retreated to his own people, hoping that he would be followed. But Joinville, who comprehended the purpose, would not be decoyed, and resolutely kept his ground, though annoyed and wounded by a rabble of half-armed Saracens, who incessantly threw darts, and large stones, and hard clods.

At length, however, the Saracens began to make themselves much more formidable, and to discharge Greek fire, which threatened to do much mischief, and pressed forward with savage yells.

'On my faith, we must take order with this rabble,' said the Count of Soissons, growing angry.

'As you will,' replied Joinville; and, without further hesitation, they charged the crowd, put them to flight, and resumed their post.

But no sooner did the Saracens perceive that the immediate danger was over, than they turned round, and, keeping at a safe distance, yelled out defiance.

'Heed them not, seneschal,' said the Count of Soissons, who, in the midst of peril, retained all the gaiety of soul which distinguished the French chevaliers from the thoughtful Saxon, and the haughty and somewhat grim Norman. 'Heed them not. Let this rascal canaille bawl and bray as they please. By St. Denis, you and I will live to talk of this day's exploits in the chambers of our ladies.'

'May God and good St. James grant it,' said Joinville, gravely.

'But who comes hither, and in such a plight?' asked the Count of Soissons, suddenly, as a Crusader, mounted on a strong horse, came galloping from the direction of Mansourah – his face wounded, blood gushing from his mouth, the reins of his bridle cut, and his hands resting, as if for support, on his charger's neck.

'In truth,' replied Joinville, after examining the horseman, 'it is the Count of Brittany;' as, closely pursued by Saracens, the wounded warrior gained the bridge, and ever and anon turned round and shouted mockingly to his pursuers.

'By St. Denis,' exclaimed the count, 'one thing is certain: he is not afraid of his pursuers.'

And almost as the Count of Soissons spoke, the Count of Brittany was followed by two warriors, who made their way through the Saracens, literally smiting to the earth all who came in their way. Nothing, it seemed, could resist their progress; and their path was tracked with blood. On they came, scornfully scattering their foes till they reached the bridge, when reining up where the Lord of Joinville was posted, they stopped to take breath, after their almost superhuman exertions. One had in his hand a battle-axe; the other a sword. The battle-axe was stained red with gore; the sword was hacked till it looked 'like a saw of dark and purple tint.' One was Bisset, the English knight, the other was the Grand Master of the Temple. The horses of both were wounded all over; the helmets of both were deeply dinted. Bisset's mail was almost hacked to pieces; the Templar's vestments were torn to rags, his cuirass pierced, and his eye and face wounded and bleeding.

'You bring tidings of woe?' said the Count of Soissons.

'Woe, in truth,' answered Bisset; for the grand master could not even muster voice to speak; 'of all who rode into Mansourah this morning, not a man, save ourselves, lives to tell the tale.'

'And what of the Count of Artois, sir knight?' asked Joinville.

'I know not,' replied Bisset, briefly; 'the count disappeared early, and doubtless died with the comrades of his jeopardy.'

'No,' interrupted the Count of Brittany, faintly, 'he was drowned while attempting to save himself by flight. At least,' added he, 'so I have been told.'

And in truth, to this day it is somewhat uncertain what became of Robert, Count of Artois, though the most probable account is that, seeing all was lost, he turned his horse's head, with a vague hope of reaching the main body of the Crusaders, and, while attempting to cross one of the branches of the Nile, sank never more to rise.

It was about this time that King Louis had moved towards the Achmoun; and the Constable of France, with the king's crossbowmen under his command, just as the sun was setting came to the bridge which had been so bravely defended.

'Seneschal,' said he, addressing Joinville, 'you and your comrades have behaved well in guarding this bridge; and now, all danger being over in this quarter, I pray you to accompany the Lord John de Valery to the king, who is about to go to his pavilion.'

And Joinville went as the constable requested; and while his companions were pursuing their way towards the king's red pavilion – that pavilion in which the Emir Fakreddin had boasted he would dine on the day of St. Sebastian – Guy Muschamp approached Bisset, the English knight, and entreated his attention.

'Sir knight,' said he, 'I would fain enquire if you know what has befallen the English squire, by name Walter Espec?'

'Boy,' replied Bisset, 'I know not what may have befallen him; but, if I were to hazard a guess, I should say that he died, and died bravely. I remember me that he fought to the last; and I hoped that he was destined to escape, as I did; but I grieve to say that he failed so to do.'

'Alas! alas!' said Guy sadly, and he clasped his hands, as if muttering a prayer for his comrade's soul; 'woe is me, that I should live to hear that my brother-in-arms, the good Walter, has fallen.'

'My brave youth,' urged Bisset, kindly, as he observed that the boy's face was suffused with tears, 'death has this day been the portion of many thousands of valiant men; and, for your brother-in-arms, I can testify for your comfort that he fought to the last with the courage of a hero, and I doubt not, that he faced death with the courage of a martyr.'

'And if we are to give the faith which our fathers did to the words of holy men,' added Guy, solemnly, 'the souls of all such as fall, fighting for the Cross, are purified from sin, and admitted straight to Paradise.'

'By the mass, I have heard priests say so,' replied Bisset, after a pause, during which he eyed the boy with evident surprise; 'and mayhap,' continued he, 'in the days of Peter the Hermit, and Godfrey of Bouillon, such was the case. But, credit me, in our day, armed pilgrims are guilty of such flagrant sins during their pilgrimage, and while decked with the Cross, that I hardly deem them likely to get access to Paradise on such easy terms.'

'By St. John of Beverley,' exclaimed the squire, in great astonishment, 'deem you that matters are so much changed, sir knight?'

'So much so,' answered Bisset, shaking his head, 'that seeing, save myself, you are almost the only Englishman left in this army of pilgrims, I am free to confess to you my opinion, that for aught we are likely to do for the Holy Sepulchre, we might as well have stayed at home, and hunted, and hawked, and held our neighbours at feud. On my life, I have seen enough of this army to feel sure that Blacas, the troubadour knight, is a wise man, when on being asked whether he will go to the Holy Land, answers, that he loves and is beloved, and that he will remain at home with his ladye love.'

And already, forgetting his wounds, and his bruises, his hair-breadth escape, and the terrible scenes in which he had that day acted a part, the knight, as he reached the tent of King Louis, and prepared to dismount, half chanted, half sung, the lines with which Blacas concludes his simple song: —

Je ferai ma pénitence,
Entre mer et Durance,