Part 16

Then the Patriarch came forward into the midst of the church, to a faldstool set there: and announced in loud tones, that all the nobles of the Council of Sybil, shortly to be crowned Queen of Jerusalem, should come forward in rotation to the faldstool, and swear between his hands[#] to bear true and faithful allegiance, as to his King, to that one of them all whom it should please her to choose for her lord.

[#] Homage was always performed in this manner, the joined hands of the inferior, or oath-taker, being held between the hands of the superior lord, or person who administered the oath.

One by one, they came forward: but I saw only two. Count Raymond knelt down with an air of triumphant command, as though he felt himself King already: Guy with an aspect of the most perfect quietness, as if he were thinking how he could spare Sybil.

When all the nobles were sworn, the Patriarch went back to the choir, and Sybil, rising, came and stood just before the throne. The coronation ceremony followed, but I was not sufficiently at ease to enter into it. There were prayers in sonorous Greek, and incense, and the holy mass, and I cannot properly tell what else. The last item was the actual setting of the crown--the crown of all the world--on the head of Sybil of Anjou.

And then came a gentle rush of intense expectation, as Sybil lifted the crown royal from her head, and prepared to descend the steps of the throne.

Her choice was to be made now.

Down the damask carpeting of the nave she came, very, very slowly: carrying the crown in both hands, the holy Patriarch following and swinging the holy censer behind her. Her eyes were cast down. It was evident that she knew perfectly well where he stood who was to wear that crown.

Slowly, slowly, all along the nave. Past one eligible noble after another, face after face gathering blankness as she went. At last she turned, ever so little, to the right.

I could bear no more. I covered my face with my mantle. Let who would gaze on me--let who would sneer! She was coming--no doubt any longer now--straight towards Count Raymond of Tripoli.

And never--with the faint flush in her cheeks, and the sweet, downcast eyes--had I seen her look so beautiful. And all at once, athwart my anger, my indignation, my sense of bitter wrong, came one fervent gush of that old, deep love, which had been mine for Sybil: and I felt as though I could have laid down my life that hour to save, not Guy, but her, from the dreadful consequences of her own folly,--from that man who had crushed Guy's heart as he might have crushed a moth.

Then came a dead hush, in which a butterfly's wing might almost have been heard to beat. Then, a low murmur, half assent, half dissent. Then, suddenly bursting forth, a cheer that went pealing to the roof, and died away in reverberations along the triforium. The choice was made.

And then--I had not dared to look up--I heard Sybil's voice. She was close, close beside me.

"Sir Guy de Lusignan," she said, "I choose thee as my lord, and as Lord of the land of Jerusalem; for--" and a slight quiver came into the triumphant, ringing voice--"whom God hath joined together, let not man put asunder!"

Then I looked up, and saw on my Guy's head the crown of the world, and in Sybil's dear eyes the tender, passionate love-light which she had locked out of them for months for love's own sake, and I knew her at last for the queen of women that she is.

And then----I heard somebody speak my name, and felt Lady Irene's arms close round me, and darkness came upon me, and I knew no more.

When I came to myself, I was lying in my own old chamber in the Palace, and beside me were old Marguerite fanning me with a handkerchief, and Lady Judith bending over me.

"Helena, darling,--all is well!" she said.

"Is all well?" I said, sadly, when I could speak. "It is well with Guy, and therefore all else matters little. But I wonder if I shall ever be forgiven?"

"By whom?" asked Lady Judith.

"God and Sybil," I answered in a low voice.

"Ask them both," she said softly. "Sybil is coming to thee, as soon as ever the banquet is over. And there is no need to wait to ask God."

"Did you guess, holy Mother, how it would end?"

"No, Helena," she answered with a smile. "I knew."

"All along?"

"Yes, from the first."

I lay still and thought.

"Dost thou marvel why I did not tell thee, dear, and perhaps think it cruel? Ask Sybil why she made me her sole confidante. I think thou wilt be satisfied when thou hast heard her reason. But though I did not guess Sybil's purpose,--" and she turned with a smile to Marguerite,--"here, I fancy, is one who did."

"Ay, very soon," said Margot quietly: "but not quite at first, Lady."

"Thou wicked old Marguerite!" cried I. "And never to tell me!"

"Suppose I had been mistaken," she replied. "Would my Damoiselle have thanked me for telling her then?"

I felt quite sufficiently restored to go down to the bower, though not able to bear the banquet. So Lady Judith and I went down. She told me all that had taken place after I fainted: how Messire de Montluc and Lady Irene had taken care of me; that the Patriarch had immediately bestowed the nuptial benediction upon Sybil and Guy, and had then anointed the King--(the King!)--that the Knights Templars had escorted the King and Queen to the banquet; and that after the banquet, homage was to be done by all the nobles. Guy and Sybil, therefore, were likely to be detained late.

Suddenly something climbed up on the settle, and I felt myself seized round the neck, and tumultuously caressed.

"Tantine! Tantine!--Come--good! Baba and Tantine--_both_ come. Good!--Oh, good!"

Of course I knew who that was, and alternated between returning the warm kisses, and entreating Agnes not to murder me by suffocation.

Then came a much calmer kiss on my brow, and I looked up at Eschine.

And then strolled in Messire Amaury, with his hands in the pockets of his haut-de chausses, talking to Messire de Montluc.

"But the strangest thing, you know"--that sagacious youth was observing--"the strangest thing--O Elaine, is that thee!--the strangest thing is that a mere simple, ignorant woman could have formed and carried out such a project. Surely some man must have given her the idea! I can hardly--Oh, _pure foy_!"

The last exclamation was due to a smart and sudden application of my right hand to the left ear of my respected brother. Messire de Montluc was convulsed with laughter.

"Well done, Damoiselle Elaine! You regard the honour of your sex."

"The next time thou speakest contemptuously of women," said I, "look first whether any overhear thee."

"Trust me, I will make sure of my sister Elaine," said Amaury, still rubbing his ear. "On my word, Lynette, thou art a spitfire!"

One after another kept coming, and all expressing pleasure in seeing me. I could not help wondering whether all of them would have been quite so pleased to see Elaine de Lusignan, if she had not been the King's sister. Lady Judith and Eschine would, I believed. Nor do I think it would have made the least difference to Agnes. Considerations of that kind do not begin to affect us till we are over three years old.

But time wore on, and Sybil was not released from her regal duties; and the strain which both body and mind had had to sustain told upon me, and I began to feel very tired. Lady Judith noticed it.

"Dear Helena," she said, "do put that white face to bed. Sybil will come to thee."

"I have no right to ask it of her," I said huskily.

"Dost thou think she will wait till thou hast?"

I was beginning to remonstrate that it would not be respectful, when Lady Judith put her arm round me, and said laughingly--"Sir Amaury, help me to carry this wilful child to bed."

"Fair Mother, I dare not for all the gold in Palestine," said my slanderous brother. "My ear has not done stinging yet."

"Am I wilful?" said I. "Well, then I will do as I am told.--As to thee, Amaury, thou hast just thy desert."

"Then I am a very ill-deserving man," responded he.

Lady Judith and Eschine both came with me to my chamber, and the latter helped me to undress. I had but just doffed my super-tunic, however, when a slight sound made me turn round towards the door, and I saw Sybil,--Sybil, still in her coronation robes, coming towards me with both hands held out, as she had done that last sad time we met. I threw myself on the ground before her, and tried to kiss the hem of her golden robe. But she would not let me.

"No, no, my darling, no!"

And she stooped and drew me into her arms, and kissed me as if we had never disagreed,--as if I had never uttered one of those bitter words which it now made my cheeks burn even to remember.

I could only sob out,--"Forgive me!"

"Dear little sister, forgive thee for loving Guy?"

"No, no!" I said, "but for not loving--for misunderstanding, and slandering, and tormenting thee!"

"Nay, dearest Helena!" she said, at once tenderly and playfully,--"Thou didst not slander me. It was that other Sybil with whom thou wert so angry,--the Sybil who was not true to her lord, and was about to forsake him. And I am sure she deserved every word. But that was not I, Helena."

"But how my words must have tortured thee!"

"Not in one light, dear. It was a rich ray of hope and comfort, to know, through all my pain, how true the dear little sister was to Guy,--what a comfort she was likely to be to him,--that whoever forsook him, his Lynette would never do it. Now finish thine undressing. There is one other thing I want to say to thee, but let me see thee lying at rest first."

She sat down on the settle, just as she was, while Bertrade finished undressing me. Then they all said "Good night," and left me alone with Sybil.

"Helena, darling!" she said, as she sat beside me, my hand clasped in hers,--"this one thing I wish thee to know. I could not spare thee this pain. If the faintest idea of my project had ever occurred to Count Raymond,--though it had been but the shadow of a shade,--it would have been fatal. Had he guessed it, I could never have carried it out.[#] And he has eyes like a lynx, and ears like a hare. And, little sister,--thy face talks! Thou couldst not, try as thou wouldst, have kept that knowledge out of thine eyes. And the Count would have read it there, with as little trouble as thou wouldst see a picture. The only chance, therefore, to preserve my crown for my lord, and him for me, was to leave him and thee in ignorance. Trust me, it cost me more than it did you!"

[#] The extraordinary item of this series of incidents (which are historical) is, that Count Raymond did not guess it.

Ah! had she not said that once before,--"Trust me!" And I had not trusted her. Yet how well she deserved it!

I hardly know what I sobbed out. I only know that I was fully and undeservedly forgiven, that I was loved through all my mistrust and unworthiness and cruel anger,--and that Sybil knew how I loved her.

Then she left me to rest.

But as I lay there in the darkness, a thought came to me, which seemed to light up the dark wilderness of my life,--as though a lamp had been suddenly flashed into a hidden chamber.

What if it be just so with God?

And it seemed to me as if He stood there, at the summit of that ladder which Monseigneur Saint Jacob was permitted to behold: and He looked down on me, with a look tenderer and sweeter even than Sybil's; and He held forth His hands to me, as she had done, but in these there were the prints of the cruel nails,--and He said--

"Elaine, I could not spare thee this pain. If I had done, in the end it would have been worse for thee. Look upon My hands and My feet, and see if I spared Myself, and, remembering that this was for thy sake, say whether, if it had been possible, I would not have spared thee!"

I cannot tell whether I was dreaming or awake. But I crept to the foot of the ladder, and I said to Him who stood above it--

"Fair Father, Jesu Christ, I put myself in Thy mercy.[#] I see now that I was foolish and ignorant. It was not that Thou wert cruel. It was not that Thou didst not care. Thou dost care. At every pang that rent my heart, Thine heart was touched too. Forgive me, for Sybil has done, and I have sinned more against Thee than against her. Teach me in future to give up my will, and to wish only to do Thine."

[#] A rebel, who returned to his allegiance unconditionally, was said to "put himself in the King's mercy."

I am afraid it was a very poor prayer. There was no Angelus nor Confiteor--not even an Ave in it. Yet was it all a dream, that a voice said to me, "Thy sins are forgiven thee: go in peace"? And I sank into dreamless sleep the next instant.

It is all settled now. Next week, I shall be professed of Lady Judith's Order,--an Order which will just suit my wants, since the nuns have no abbess over them, are bound only by terminable vows, and (with assent of the community) may dwell where they think fit, even in their own homes if need be.

Lady Judith thinks that she can easily obtain leave for me to dwell with Monseigneur, as she will kindly represent it to the Order that he is now an old man, and has no wife nor unmarried daughter to care for him but me.

I think he is my first duty now. And I know he will be so glad, so glad!

It will be hard to part with Guy and Sybil. But I think that is where the Lord is leading me,--home to Lusignan; and I do wish to follow His leading, not my own.

Old Marguerite startled me very much last night.

"Damoiselle," she said, "the cross is shining out at last."

"Where, Margot?" said I, rather puzzled.

"Where I have so longed to see it," she said, "on my darling's brow. Ah, the good God has not brought her through the fire for nothing! Where there used to be pride and mirth in her eyes, there is peace. He will let His old servant depart now, for it was all she had to live for."

But I can never, never do without her! Oh, I do hope the good God will not take dear old Marguerite. Why, I am only just beginning to understand and value her. But I think I am learning, very slowly,--Oh, I am so slow and stupid!--that real happiness lies not in having my way, but in being satisfied with His,--not in trying to make myself happy, but in trying to please Him. I am constantly fancying that I have so learned this lesson that I shall never forget it again. And then, within an hour, I find myself acting as though I had never heard of it.

And I see, too, what I never understood before.--that it is only by taking our Lord's yoke upon us, and becoming meek and lowly in heart, that we can find rest to our souls. Eschine's deep humility is the source of her calm endurance. Pride is not peace; it is its antidote. In Christ we have peace,--first through the purchase of His blood, and secondly, in growing like Him, which is, to grow in love and lowliness, and to lose ourselves in Him.

I think I never before saw the loveliness of humility. And I am sure I never saw the fair beauty of Eschine's character and life. Oh, how far she rises above me! And to think that I once looked down upon her--dismissed her with a careless word of scorn, as having "nothing in her"--when the truth was that I was too low down to see her in reality.

Oh, how much the good God has had, and will have, to forgive and bear with me!

I am now only just beginning to understand Him. But that is a lesson which I may go on learning and enjoying for ever. And how happy it will be, if we all gather together in His halls above,--Guy, and Sybil, and me, and old Marguerite, and Lady Judith, and Monseigneur, and Eschine, and the little children, and all,--never again to hear Paynim cry nor woman's wail,--safe for ever, in the banquet-hall of God.

At home again at last!

How strangely glad they all seem to see me! I do not think I ever knew how they all loved me. I have lived for myself, and a little for Guy. Now, with His grace, I fain would live for God, and in Him for every one.

We sat round the centre fire last night in the old hall,--I close to Monseigneur, with his hand upon my shoulder, now and then removed to stroke my hair--and we had all so much to say that it made us very silent. It was Alix who spoke first.

"Elaine," she said, "I want to give a name to my baby girl that shall mean 'truth' or 'fidelity.' And I do not like any of the French names that have those meanings; they are not pretty. Tell me the words for them in the tongue of the Holy Land."

I did not answer that the Court language of Jerusalem was the Langue d'Oc, and that Alix would be no better off for knowing. A rush of feeling came over me, and I let it dictate my reply. And that was only--

*"Sybil."*

*HISTORICAL APPENDIX.*

*I. GUY DE LUSIGNAN*

The history of Guy and Sybil, after the story leaves them, is a sad one. Raymond Count of Tripoli, who had fancied himself sure of the crown matrimonial, never forgave either. He immediately entered into a secret alliance with Saladin, by which he promised to betray Guy into his hands in the next battle. On the fourth of July, 1187, Tripoli, who was standard-bearer, so behaved himself in battle that the King was taken prisoner. Sybil, in conjunction with the Patriarch Heraclius, held Jerusalem until the second of October, when she gave up the city to Saladin on terms including liberty of ransom to all who could afford it. The Queen now retired to Ascalon, within whose fortified walls she and her little daughters remained until 1189, when Guy's ransom was effected on the hard terms that Sybil should capitulate at Ascalon, that Guy should abdicate, and that he should go beyond sea. Guy, who had been kept in chains a whole year at Damascus, consulted the clergy as to the necessity of keeping faith with Saladin. They were all of the Roman, but unscriptural opinion, that no faith need be kept with a Paynim. Instead of abdicating and going abroad, Guy, with Sybil and the children, marched to Acre, which he invested, with a hundred thousand men who had flocked to his standard. The Queen and Princesses were lodged at Turon, looking towards the sea. In 1190 King Philippe of France arrived before Acre, and on June 10, 1191, King Richard Coeur-de-Lion; and at last, on July 12, Saladin gave up the city to the allied forces. But the pestilence had been very rife during the siege. Baldwin Archbishop of Canterbury, and numbers of French and English nobles, died in the camp: and among others the hero-Queen, Sybil of Anjou, and her two fragile children.

Raymond of Tripoli was dead also. He died in his sleep, unabsolved; and evidence of his having formally apostatized to Mahometanism was found after his death.

After thus taking "last leave of all he loved," Guy--brave, rash, impetuous Guy--appears to have become almost reckless. Of course, by right, Sybil was succeeded by her sister Isabel; but Guy still clung to his title of King, and the privileges appurtenant to it, and disputed with Conrado of Monferrato, the husband of Isabel, the right to the customs of the port of Acre. Conrado was an extremely quarrelsome man, and Guy's opposition seems to have been personally directed to him; for on his death (which of course Guy and Coeur-de-Lion were accused of forwarding) Guy readily acknowledged Isabel and her third husband, on condition of receiving the island of Cyprus as compensation for all his claims. King Richard had sold Cyprus to the Templars, but he coolly took it from them, and gave it to Guy, who, being apparently more honest of the two, paid a hundred thousand crowns to the Templars as compensation. This is the last that we hear of Guy de Lusignan, except the mere date of his death, which occurred, according to different authorities, from one to four years after the cession of Cyprus.

Few historical characters have had less justice done them by modern writers, than Guy de Lusignan and Sybil his wife. In the first place, Guy is accused of having, in 1167-8, assassinated Patrick Earl of Salisbury, in returning from a pilgrimage to Saint Iago de Compostella. King Henry II., we are told, was greatly enraged, and banished Guy from Poitou, whereupon he assumed the cross, and set out for the Holy Land. Now the truth is that in 1167-8, it is scarcely possible that Guy could be above ten years old. Either it was another Guy de Lusignan, or the outrage was committed by persons of whom the child Guy was the nominal head. But all the circumstances tend to show that Guy's arrival in the Holy Land was little, if at all, before 1180, and that at that time he was a very young man.

We next find Guy accused of such boundless ambition, that he not only induced King Baldwin IV. to put all the affairs of the kingdom into his hands, but even to promise him the succession after his death. But when Baldwin had bestowed upon Guy his sister and heir presumptive, Sybil, how could he either promise him the succession or lawfully deprive him of it? The reversion of the crown was hers. Baldwin did her a cruel injustice, and committed an illegal act, when he passed her over, and abdicated in favour of her infant son.

Then, on the death of Baldwin V., we are actually told that Sybil, urged by her ambitious husband, _usurped_ the crown. Usurped it from whom? Surely not from her own daughters!--surely not from her younger sister! Matthew of Westminster distinctly remarks that "there was none to succeed but his mother Sybilla." Sybil merely took back her own property, of which she had been unjustly deprived.

Again, with respect to her action at her coronation, poor Sybil comes in again for her share of blame. She had no business, we are assured, to choose Guy, who had already proved himself an unsatisfactory governor; and in the interest of the kingdom, she ought to have married some one else. In other words, she ought to have committed sin in the interest of her subjects!

Lastly, a wholesale charge of poisoning is brought against both Guy and Sybil. Probabilities are thrown overboard. They are accused of poisoning young Baldwin V.; and Guy is charged with the murder of his wife and children, though their death entirely destroyed his claim to the royal title. The truth is, that in the twelfth century, any death not easily to be accounted for was always set down to poison: and the nearest relatives, totally irrespective of character, were always suspected of having administered it. Men of Guy's disposition,--impulsive, rash, and generous even to a fault, loving and self-sacrificing,--are not usually in the habit of murdering those they love best: and considered merely from a political point of view, the simultaneous deaths of Sybil and her children were the worst calamities which could have fallen upon Guy.

*II. THE ROYAL FAMILY OF JERUSALEM.*

Melisende, Queen of Jerusalem, eldest of the four daughters of Baldwin II., and Morsise of Armenia, _succeeded_ her father in 1131, and _died in_ 1141 or 1144. She _married_--

Foulques V., Count of Anjou; _married_ 1128; _died_ at Acre, by accident, November, 1142. [He had previously been married to Ermengarde of Maine, by whom he had four children,--Geoffrey Plantagenet; Helie Count of Maine; Sybil, Countess of Flanders; and Alice, Crown Princess of England.]

_Issue of Queen Melisende_:--

1. Baldwin III, _born_ 1129, _died_ Feb., 1162, without issue. _Married_--

Theodora Comnena, daughter of Isaac I., Emperor of the East

2. Amaury I., _born_ 1132-6; _died_ July 11, 1173. _Married_--

(A) Agnes de Courtenay, daughter of Josceline, Count of Edessa: _divorced_.

(B) MARIA COMNENA, daughter or niece of Manuel I., Emperor of the East: living 1190. [Character imaginary.]

_Issue of Amaury I. By Agnes_:--

1. BALDWIN IV., the Leper; _born_ 1158; _abdicated_ 1183; _d._ March 16, 1185. Never married.

2. SYBIL I., _crowned_ Sept., 1186; _died_ at Acre, during the siege, 1190. [Character historical] _Married_--