Chapter V: Hugh Gains a Friend

The jongleur softly fingered the strings of his instrument. He sat with Hugh on the dais of the Great Hall in the keep of Chesby Castle, a counterpart of Blancherive, solidly-built in the Norman way, but crude and comfortless. The evening shadows lengthened on the rush-strewn floor. The ale-horns stood filled on the table before them.

"I would not have you take my word for gospel, Messer Hugh," he said slowly, as he put aside the gittern. "But what you say stirs echoes in my memory. In Outremer men sing and talk of Sir James as dead, but in their hearts they think of him as living. The jongleurs always say that he is gone, but will return to perform deeds of greater worth than those which won him deathless fame. In my romaunt, which you shall hear anon, I, too, sing of him as one over whom for a little space the curtain of time is drawn. Many proud lords have applauded me that song--and with cause, for I feel in my bones there is truth in the story. Sir James cometh again in his own good hour."

Hugh leaned forward in his chair, face tense with interest.

"You feel it, you say," he broke in. "Ay, but how? What reason have you?"

Matteo stared into the nut-brown ale.

"No reason that would justify my words, mayhap," he answered after a pause. "Hast ever tracked a deer in a well-worn slot, and sensed of a sudden the quarry had broached to right or left? Well, deem it so. But dismiss instinct, an you will. Consider this, lordling. I am a wanderer. My home is anywhere I am welcome. I sing my romaunts, tell my gests. In return men sing me songs, recount the stories they know. I have heard many a strange tale in many a strange place.

"When I was composing my romaunt of Sir James, I had heed for any bit of castle gossip or galley rumour that would shed light upon his life. Full oft I encountered men who told me there was more to the story of Sir James than his disappearance. 'Mark you,' quoth one, 'hast ever seen the master of the galley that bore him his last voyage? No, nor hath any mortal.' 'If he was drowned,' said a second, 'why heard we not so from a member of his company?'"

"The galley he sailed upon vanished from those seas," interrupted Hugh. "So much have I learned."

"Ay, with all her company," agreed the jongleur. "Passing strange, is it not? She was the _Holy Dove_, of Venetian registry, Messer Bartolommeo master, a craft well-known in the coasting-trade. She was accepted for entry by the Prefect of the Golden Horn the first Tuesday in Lent, 1196. Some time thereafterward she left Constantinople, and has not been seen since. But of Sir James we can say only that he sailed upon her from Tripoli, being escorted to his berth by the Master of the Hospitallers and other knights, who were loath to see him leave the Holy Land. If he ever landed at Constantinople, it is not known. It is not even known if he continued on the galley to the Golden Horn."

"In sooth, 'tis a sorry case you make out for me," said Hugh bitterly.

"Have patience," answered Matteo. "I am not ended, fair sir. It was told me by a knight who was of those who went down to the quay with the Master of the Hospitallers and Sir James--his bones lie now beyond Jordan, God rest his soul!--that when the Master remonstrated with Sir James at leaving them in such an hour, Sir James waxed very dolorous and made answer that it was not of his own choosing that he went. 'I am going in answer to a summons I may not disobey,' he said, 'since in a manner it nearly concerneth one who is dead and hath laid a task upon me.' The knights were very curious of his meaning, but he said nothing further. He kissed them right heartily, commended their souls to the protection of the Holy Virgin and Our Lord, and went to his seat in the stern-castle. Now, Messer Hugh, know you aught that would explain those last words of his?"

Hugh shook his head.

"They mean as little to me as they do to you," he replied.

Matteo dabbled his finger thoughtfully in the ale-lees on the table.

"You know that Sir James, on his first journey to the Holy Land, tarried in Constantinople some months and was made much of by the Emperor Andronicus Comnenus, who then sat on the throne?" he asked.

"Yes, he was there a year or close thereto," returned Hugh. "The Emperor pressed him to remain, but my father had taken a vow that he would serve Christ against the Paynims for the greater rest of my mother's soul."

"Ay, so it was. But it was passing strange for any man to win the friendship of Andronicus as did Sir James. You must know that Andronicus was one of the bloodiest tyrants who ever sat on the blood-stained throne of the Eastern Rome. But there is this to be said for him: he oppressed, robbed and tortured the noble and the rich amongst his subjects; the poor he cherished and honoured. He found corruption wide-spread, and he did what he could to cut it out, taking the ill-gotten gains of the officials to spend upon the Empire's needs. He lived only a few months after your father left him. He died by assassination, as he had lived by assassination."

"Interesting, but I see not where it leads us," returned Hugh.

"Only thus far," said Matteo quietly. "I have been told by one--who had it from another--that your father set sail from Tripoli in response to a message from the Emperor Isaac. Isaac was shortly afterward dethroned and blinded by his brother Alexius and rests now in the dungeons of the Tower of Anemas under the Palace of Blachernae. And 'twas Isaac who slew Andronicus, and so won to the throne."

"But the Emperor Alexius hath denied all knowledge of my father's fate," cried Hugh. "He hath offered his help--hath rendered it. Our King Lion-Heart himself pressed the case. And the Commander of the Emperor's Varangian Guards is Sir Cedric Halcroft, brother of my neighbour, the Lord of Blancherive and a boyhood friend of my father. He hath interested the Emperor in our suit. In all sooth, he must have heard if trickery bested my father."

"Not so," the jongleur disagreed. "I know Sir Cedric, and a braver, stouter heart never wore mail, but he is a soldier, bluff and honest--a thought dull-witted, too, like all your Saxons. By the very nature of his office he mixes not in the politics of the Court. He stands apart. A more unlikely aid you cannot find. He would believe whatever he was told. For the rest--fair sir, you know not these Greeks. A treacherous race, without honour, chivalry or virtue, and none of them more conscienceless than their Emperor, who reached the throne by overthrowing and blinding the brother who ransomed him from the Saracens."

"Then you think----"

Hugh hesitated.

"I would recommend that you begin your quest in Constantinople," said Matteo. "The road to the Holy Land leads through Byzantium. From there you can journey at need to Tripoli and Antioch, to the Land of the Assassins, to Jerusalem and Damascus, Emissa and Baalbec. But go first to Constantinople."

Hugh sat hunched down in his chair, twisting the alehorn on the table in front of him, his brows bent in thought. It was many minutes before he spoke, and whilst he thought, Matteo the jongleur watched him betwixt draughts of ale.

"I like your advice," said Hugh suddenly. "You are frank to say you are guided by instinct, and I trust you for it. Now, I would crave your opinion in another matter."

"Such as it is, you may have it, lord," the jongleur answered.

"I spoke to you on the road of an enemy who sent yon varlets against me. Hast ever heard in Outremer of one Andrea Mocenigo, who holdeth the confidence of the Emperor Alexius?"

"Andrea Mocenigo!" repeated Matteo. "There is no strangeness about that name, Messer Hugh. A greater rascal--and a defter--never drew breath."

"You know him, too?"

There was astonishment in Hugh's voice. Matteo laughed.

"I would not have you think me a boaster, fair sir," he said quaintly. "I have lived but some thirty years, 'tis true, but in that time I have travelled Outremer from Babylon to Constantinople. There are few men of note I have not sung before or exchanged gests with, and we jongleurs soon learn the inner natures of those we meet.

"This man, Mocenigo, is a renegade Venetian, exiled for stabbing the nephew of a Doge. He should have died for such a crime, but he hath powerful relatives, and so gained liberty. He is an agent of the Emperor Alexius, and if rumour is truth, a spy of the Sultan of Babylon at times. In sooth, he is no one to put your trust in."

"He is the enemy I spoke of," said Hugh.

The jongleur made a gesture of amazement.

"By Our Lady of Tortosa, this hath the makings of a pretty tale!" he exclaimed. "Tell me more."

So Hugh told at length of Mocenigo's coming to take Edith to Constantinople, of their meeting on the London Road, of Mocenigo's veiled warnings to him, of the attempt to knife him as he rode home from Blancherive that evening. The jongleur followed the story with an interest that never flagged.

"And see you not," he cried when Hugh had finished, "that this bears out fully what I have said to you?"

"How is that?"

"That your quest begins of right in Constantinople."

"I do not follow you, sir jongleur."

"But, Messer Hugh, here is an attempt, repeated, to keep you from setting forth upon your quest, and in it you think you trace the hand of one who is no less than the shadow of the Emperor Alexius. What more would you have?"

"True," admitted Hugh reflectively, "an your suspicions be justified."

"Have you a more definite plan to work upon?"

"No."

"Then why not accept them, failing somewhat more definite to follow? But I fear me, fair sir, I am over-bold in my interest. I cry your pardon, an you deem it impertinent----"

"Not so," protested Hugh warmly. "Messer Matteo, I take kindly all that you have said. I know not why it is, but by St. James, I have talked to you more freely than to any man, save it be my guardian, the Prior of Crowden. I like your counsel. You came to my aid when I was in mortal peril, and stood by me loyally until I was safe. Why should I not trust you?"

The jongleur's thin face flushed.

"Right knightly said, fair sir," he acknowledged. "You give me courage to ask of you a boon that I crave more than anything else in the world."

"It shall be yours, if it is within my power to grant it," answered Hugh.

He felt very lordly, for this was the first time a man his equal in rank had sought a boon from him.

"First, I shall burden your ears a little longer," said Matteo. "It is meet that before you undertake to grant the boon you should know somewhat of him who asks it."

He put down the alehorn, and picked up his gittern, and as he talked he plucked now and then at the strings, so that, although he played no set melody, there was an effect of accompanying music to the words that he recited, after the manner of the jongleurs, in a clear, bell-like voice, that was exquisitely sweet.

"Know, lordling," he began, "that your servant, Matteo of Antioch, is the son of a Christian knight and a Saracen lady, who was of the lineage of the Paynim Princes of Emessa. I was born in one of the Frank castles on the edge of the desert beyond the Dead Sea, a child of love and sorrow. In those days, before Jerusalem had fallen to the infidel, there was endless war between the Franks of the Holy Land and Saladin, and it chanced that in a foray into Saracen country a party of Christian knights captured a convoy of high-born Saracen maidens on their way from Emessa and the cities of Roum to Damascus. My father's share of the spoils was the lady who became my mother.

"Now, it chanced when I was a few years old that some of my mother's brethren learned of her fate, and they laid plans with Saladin for vengeance. My father's castle was built in a place whence it commanded the caravan routes of the Saracens from the north and the south, and Saladin was glad to help any effort to capture it. My mother's brethren concerted in secret, and when the time was ripe they swept down upon the castle in the dead of night. They climbed the walls whilst the warder slept--he may have been bribed--and the first the garrison knew of them was the sight of their bloodied scimiters.

"My father fought to his death with only his sword for armour, and when my mother spurned his murderers they slew her over his body, for a shame to their house and a reproach to Islam. I was saved by the diligence of a squire of my father's, who let me down from the wall and fled with me to Antioch. There I was taken under the protection of the Prince, who reared me with his pages and saw to my schooling in arms. But the story of my birth had reached his ears, and when I attained the grade of squire, I found that knighthood was denied me, for that I was but half of Christian blood and there was a blot on my name."

The eyes of the jongleur smouldered with that fire Hugh had seen in them when he first burst his way through the greenwood men. His fingers smote the strings with gusty passion. Through all his words there ran the soul-torn resentment of the outcast, who felt himself wronged and powerless to resent it.

"It is not for me to chant of my deeds," he went on, "I bore lance and sword in the last fights for the Holy Sepulchre. I learned the arts of war and music under the great Lion-Heart. 'Twas an idle word of praise from him made me resolve to wipe out the stigma put upon me by practising arms as a jongleur, instead of as an unsuccessful aspirant for knighthood. Messer Hugh, you may ask any knight of Outremer, the Grand Masters of the Templars and Hospitallers, any lord of the land--and he will tell you there is no shame in the past of Matteo of Antioch."

Hugh reached out his hand.

"I need not ask," he said. "The answer is in your face, Messer Matteo. And now your boon?"

The jongleur thrust aside his instrument and leaned forward across the table, his eyes fixed earnestly upon Hugh's.

"'Tis this: I would have your leave to travel with you on your quest. Not as a paid retainer, fair sir, but as a friend and comrade. I knew not why I ever came to England, until I saw your face amidst that crowd of knaves this afternoon. I crossed the Narrow Seas from France, because I had some vague wish to see the realm that bred a king like Lion-Heart. He was the friend and patron of jongleurs, a lover of brave songs and brave men! In my ignorance I thought to find many like him here. But you English lords consider me a travelling minstrel, to be seated below the salt and called upon for a song to pay for my meat.

"Your story hath interested me strangely, Messer Hugh. As you have heard, 'tis one not altogether new to me. I have seen your father and applauded him from afar--ay, ridden at the tail of his charger in more than one shock with the Paynims. It is my thought that I may be of use to you on a path sure to be set with pit-falls at every step. All the reward I seek is leave to turn your deeds into a romaunt that shall endure whilst men sing of brave ventures."

He looked Hugh squarely in the eye, and Hugh met his gaze. So they regarded each other for as long a space as men may without blinking. Then Hugh said, wonderingly:

"If a man had told me yestereve I would be eager to ride on my quest with one I knew not then I would have laughed him to scorn. Now, I can only say that St. James himself must have sent you hither, Messer Matteo."

"You grant my boon?"

"Ay, gladly. This day week we ride hence for Outremer."

Matteo tossed his gittern to the ceiling and caught it again.

"What a tale it will make!" he cried. "By Our Lady of Tortosa, Messer Hugh, this is a decision you shall never regret! Men will sing the romaunt of Sir Hugh the Venturous when Roland and Sir Huon of Bordeaux are forgotten!"

"I have yet to become Sir Hugh," returned Hugh, laughing.

"Have patience, fair sir. Knighthood should be the smallest reward in the path you have to travel."