The Life And Death Of Richard Yea And Nay Volume 91 by Maurice Hewlett (free books to read .txt) 📕

'The King Came To Me Very Early In The Morning Of Saints Primus And

Felician, While I Yet Lay In My Bed. "Milo, Milo," Said He, "What Must I

Do To Be Saved?" He Was Very White And Wild, Shaking All Over. I Said,

"Dear Master, Save Thy People. On All Sides They Cry To Thee--From

England, From Normandy, From Anjou, From Joppa Also, And Acre. There Is

No Lack Of Entreaty." He Shook His Head. "Here," He Said, "I Can Do No

More. God Is Against Me, The Work Too Holy For Such A Wretch." "Lord," I

Said, "We Are All Wretches, Heaven Save Us! If Your Grace Is Held Off

God's Inheritance, You Can At Least Hold Others From Your Own. Here, May

Be, You Took A Charge Too Heavy; But There, At Home, The Charge Was Laid

Upon You. Renouncing Here, You Shall Gain There. It Cannot Be

Otherwise." I Believed In What I Said; But He Gripped The Caps Of His

Knees And Rocked Himself About. "They Have Beaten Me, Milo. Saint-Pol,

Burgundy, Beauvais--I Am Bayed By Curs. What Am I, Milo?" "Sire," I

Said, "Your Father's Son. As They Bayed The Old Lion, So They Bay The

Young." He Gaped At Me, Open-Mouthed. "By God. Milo," He Said, "I Bayed

Him Myself, And Believed That He Deserved It." "Lord," I Answered, "Who

Am I To Judge A Great King? For My Part I Never Believed That Monstrous

Sin Was Upon Him." Here He Jumped Up. "I Am Going Home, Milo," He Said;

"I Am Going Home. I Am Going To My Father's Tomb. I Will Do Penance

There, And Serve My People, And Live Clean. Look Now, Milo, Shrive Me If

Thou Hast The Power, For My Need Is Great." The Thought Was Blessed To

Him. He Confessed His Sins Then And There, All A Huddle Of Them, Weeping

So Bitterly That I Should Have Wept Myself Had I Not Been Ready Rather

To Laugh And Crack My Fingers To See The Breaking Up Of His Long And

Deadly Frost. Before I Shrived Him, Moreover, I Dared To Speak Of Madame

Jehane, How He Had Now Lost Her For Ever, And Why; How She Was Now At

Last A Man's Wife, And That By Her Own Deliberate Will; And How Also He

Must Do His Duty By The Queen. To All Of Which He Gave Heed And Promises

Of Quiet Endurance. Then I Shrived Him, And That Very Morning Gave Him

The Lord's Sacred Body In The Church Of The Sepulchre. I Believed Him

Sane; And So For A Long Time He Was, As He Testified By Deeds Of

Incredible Valour.'

It Was Not Long After This That The Fleet Put Out To Sea, Shaping Course

For Acre. Message After Message Came In From Beleaguered Joppa; But King

Richard Paid Little Heed To Them, Pending The Issue Of New Treating With

Saladin. He Certainly Sailed With A Single Eye On Acre. But Joppa Lay On

His Course, And It Is Probable, He Being What He Was, That The Sight Of

No Means To Do Great Deeds Made Great Deeds Done. When His Red Galley

Sighted Joppa, Standing In For The Purpose, All Seemed Over With The

Doomed City. This, No Doubt (Since His Mood Was Hot), Urged Him To One

Of Those Impossible Acts, 'Incredible Deeds Of Valour,' As Milo Calls

Them, For Which His Name Lives, While Those Of Many Better Kings Are

Forgotten.

The Country About Joppa Slopes Sharply To The Sea, And Gives Little Or

No Shelter For Ships; But So Quick Is The Slope That A Galley May Ride

Under The Very Walls Of The Town And Take In Provision From The Seaward

Windows. On The Landward Side It Is Dangerously Placed, Seeing That The

Stoop Of The Country Runs From The Mountains To It. The Few Outlying

Forts, The Stone Bridge Over The River, Cannot Be Held Against A

Resolute Foe. When King Richard's Fleet Drew Near Enough To See, It Was

Plain What Had Been Done. The Saracens Had Carried The Outworks; They

Held The Bridge. At Leisure They Had Broached The Walls And Swarmed In.

The Flag On The Citadel Still Flew; Battle Or Carnage Was Raging In The

Streets All About It. Its Fall Was A Matter Of Hours.

Now King Richard Stood On The Poop Of His Galley, Watching All This. He

Saw A Man Come Running Down The Mole Chased By Half A Dozen Horsemen In

Yellow, A Priest By The Look Of Him; You Could See The Gleam Of His

Tonsure As He Plunged. For So He Did, Plunged Into The Sea And Swam For

His Life. The Pursuers Drew Up On The Verge And Shot At Him With Their

Long Bows. They Were Of Saladin's Bodyguard, Fine Marksmen Who Should

Never Have Missed Him. But The Priest Swam Like A Fish, And They Did

Miss Him. King Richard Himself Hooked Him Out By The Gown, And Then

Clipped Him In His Arms Like A Lover. 'Oh, Brave Priest! Oh, Hardy

Heart!' He Cried, Full Of The Man's Bravery. 'Give Him Room There. Let

Him Cough Up The Salt. By My Soul, Barons, I Wish That Any Draught Of

Wine May Be So Glorious Sweet.'

The Priest Sat Up And Told His Tale. The City Was A Shambles; Every Man,

Woman, Or Child Had Been Put To The Sword. Only The Citadel Held Out;

There Was No Time To Lose. No Time Was Lost; For King Richard, In His

Tunic And Breeches As He Was, In His Deck Shoes, Without A Helm,

Unmailed In Any Part, Snatched Up Shield And Axe. 'Who Follows Anjou?'

He Called Out, Then Plunged Into The Sea. Des Barres Immediately

Followed Him, Then Gaston Of Béarn (With A Yell) And The Earl Of

Leicester Neck And Neck; Then The Bishop Of Salisbury, A Stout-Hearted

Prince, Auvergne, Limoges, And Mercadet. These Eight Were All The Men In

Authority That _Trenchemer_ Held, Except Some Clerks, Fat Men Who Loved

Not Water. But As Soon As The Other Ships Saw What Was Afoot, A Man Here

And There Followed His King. The Rest Rowed Closer To The Shore And

Engaged The Saracen Horsemen With Their Archers. Long Before Any Men

Could Be Got Off The Eight Were On Dry Land, And Had Found A Way Into

The Sacked City.

How They Did What They Did The God Of Battles Knows Best; But That They

Did It Is Certain. All Accounts Of The Fray Agree, Bohadin With Vinsauf,

Moslem And Christian Alike. What Pent Rage, What Storm Curbed Up Short,

What Gall, What Mortification, What Smoulder Of Resentment, Bit Into

King Richard, We May Guess Who Know Him. Such It Was As To Nerve His

Arm, Nerve His Following To Be His Lovers, Make Him Unassailable, Make A

Devil Of Him. Not A Devil Of Blind Fury, But A Cold Devil Who Could

Devise A Scope For His Malice, Choose How To Do His Stabbing Work

Wiseliest. Inside The Town Gate They Took Up Close Order, Wedgewise,

Linked And Riveted; A Shield Before, Shields Beside, Richard With His

Double-Axe For The Wedge's Beak. They Took The Steep Street At A Brisk

Pace, Turning Neither Right Nor Left, But Heading Always For The

Citadel, Boring Through And Trampling Down What Met Them. This At First

Was Not Very Much, Only At One Corner A Company Of Nubian Spears Came

Pelting Down A Lane, Hoping To Cut Them Off By A Flank Movement. Richard

Stopped His Wedge; The Blacks Buffeted Into Their Shields With A Shock

That Scattered And Tossed Them Up Like Spray. The Wedge Held Firm; Red

Work For Axe And Swords While It Lasted. They Killed Most Of The

Nubians, Drove Bodily Through The Rabble At Their Heels; Then Into The

Square Of The Citadel They Came. It Was Packed With A Shrieking Horde,

Whose Drums Made The Day A Hell, Whose Great Banners Wagged And Rocked

Like Osiers In A Flood-Water. They Were Trying To Fire The Citadel, And

Some Were Swarming The Walls From Others' Backs. The Square Was Like A

Whirlpool In The Sea, A Sea Of Tense Faces Whose Waves Were Surging Men

And The Flying Wrack Their Gonfanons.

King Richard Saw How Matters Lay In This Horrible Hive; These Men Could

Not Fight So Close. Cavalry Can Do Nothing In A Dense Mass Of Foot,

Bowmen Cannot Shoot Confined; Spearmen Against Swords Are Little Worth,

Javelins Sped Once. So Much He Saw, And Also The Straining Crowd, The

Lifted, Threatening Arms, The Stretched Necks About The Citadel. 'O

Lord, The Heathen Are Come Into Thine Inheritance. At The Word, Sirs,

Cleave A Way.' And Then He Cried Above The Infernal Riot, 'Save, Holy

Sepulchre! Save, Saint George!' And The Wedge Drove Into The Thick Of

Them.

This Work Was Butcher's Work, Like Sawing Through Live Flesh. Too Much

Blood In The Business: After A While The Haft Of The King's Axe Got

Rotten With It, And At A Certain Last Blow Gave Way And Bent Like A

Pulpy Stock. He Helped Himself To A Beheaded Mameluke's Scimitar, And

Did His Affair With That. Once, Twice, Thrice, And Four Times They

Furrowed That Swarm Of Men; Nothing Broke Their Line. Richard Himself

Was Only Cut In The Feet, Where He Trod On Mailed Bodies Or Broken

Swords; The Others (Being Themselves In Mail) Were Without Scathe. They

Held The Square Until The Count Of Champagne Came Up With Knights And

Pisan Arbalestiers, And Then The Day Was Won. They Drove Out The

Invaders; On The Templars' House They Ran Up The English Dragon-Flag.

King Richard Rested Himself.

Two Days Later A Pitched Battle Was Fought On The Slopes Above Joppa.

Saladin Met Richard For The Last Time, And The Melek Worsted Him. Our

King With Fifteen Knights Played The Wedge Again When His Enemy Was

Packed To His Taste; And This Time (Being Known) With Less Carnage. But

The Left Wing Of The Invading Army Re-Entered The Town, The Garrison Had

A Panic. Richard Wheeled And Scoured Them Out At The Other End; So They

Perished In The Sea. Men Say, Who Saw Him, That He Did It Alone. So

Terrible A Name He Had With The Saracens, This May Very Well Be. There

Had Never Been Seen, Said They, Such A Fighter Before. Like Sheep They

Huddled At His Sight, And Like Sheep His Onset Scattered Them. 'Let God

Arise,' Says Milo With A Shaking Pen: 'And Lo! He Arose. O Lion In The

Path, Who Shall Stand Up Against Thee?'

He Drove Saladin Into The Hills, And Set Him Manning Once More The

Watch-Towers Of Jerusalem. But He Had Reached His Limit; Sickness

Fastened On Him, And On The Ebb Of His Fury Came Lagging Old Despair.

For A Week He Lay In His Bed Delirious, Babbling Breathless Foolish

Things Of Jehane And The Dark Tower,