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Charlotte M. Yonge >> The Prince and the Page
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15 This etext was produced by David Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk,
from the 1909 Macmillan and Co. edition.
THE PRINCE AND THE PAGE
by Charlotte M. Yonge
PREFACE
In these days of exactness even a child's historical romance must
point to what the French term its pieces justficatives. We own that
ours do not lie very deep. The picture of Simon de Montfort drawn by
his wife's own household books, as quoted by Mrs. Everett Green in
her Lives of the Princesses, and that of Edward I. in Carte's
History, and more recently in the Greatest of the Plantagenets,
furnished the two chief influences of the story. The household
accounts show that Earl Simon and Eleanor of England had five sons.
Henry fell with his father at Evesham. Simon and Guy deeply injured
his cause by their violence, and after holding out Kenilworth against
the Prince, retired to the Continent, where they sacrilegiously
murdered Henry, son of the King of the Romans--a crime so much
abhorred in Italy that Dante represents himself as meeting them in
torments in the Inferno, not however before Guy had become the
founder of the family of the Counts of Monforte in the Maremma.
Richard, the fourth son, appears in the household books as possessing
dogs, and having garments bought for him; but his history has not
been traced after his mother left England. The youngest son, Amaury,
obtained the hereditary French possessions of the family, and
continued the line of Montfort as a French subject. Eleanor, the
only daughter, called the Demoiselle de Montfort, married, as is well
known, the last native prince of Wales, and died after a few years.
The adventure of Edward with the outlaw of Alton Wood is one of the
stock anecdotes of history, and many years ago the romance of the
encounter led the author to begin a tale upon it, in which the outlaw
became the protector of one of the proscribed family of Montfort.
The commencement was placed in one of the manuscript magazines which
are so often the amusement of a circle of friends. It was not
particularly correct in its details, and the hero bore the peculiarly
improbable name of Wilfred (by which he has since appeared in the
Monthly Packet). The story slept for many years in MS., until
further reading and thought had brought stronger interest in the
period, and for better or for worse it was taken in hand again.
Joinville, together with the authorities quoted by Sismondi, assisted
in picturing the arrival of the English after the death of St. Louis,
and the murder of Henry of Almayne is related in all crusading
histories; but for Simon's further career, and for his implication in
the attempt on Edward's life at Acre, the author is alone
responsible, taking refuge in the entire uncertainty that prevails as
to the real originator of the crime, and perhaps an apology is
likewise due to Dante for having reversed his doom.
For the latter part of the story, the old ballad of The Blind Beggar
of Bethnal Green, gives the framework. That ballad is believed to be
Elizabethan in date, and the manners therein certainly are scarcely
accordant with the real thirteenth century, and still less with our
notions of the days of chivalry. Some liberties therefore have been
taken with it, the chief of them being that Bessee is not permitted
to go forth to seek her fortune in the inn at Romford, and the
readers are entreated to believe that the alteration was made by the
traditions which repeated Henry de Montfort's song.
It was the late Hugh Millar who alleged that the huge stone under
which Edward sleeps in Westminster Abbey agrees in structure with no
rocks nearer than those whence the mighty stones of the Temple at
Jerusalem were hewn, and there is no doubt that earth and stones were
frequently brought by crusaders from the Holy Land with a view to the
hallowing of their own tombs.
The author is well aware that this tale has all the incorrectnesses
and inconsistencies that are sure to attend a historical tale; but
the dream that has been pleasant to dream may be pleasant to listen
to; and there can be no doubt that, in spite of all inevitable
faults, this style of composition does tend to fix young people's
interest and attention on the scenes it treats of, and to vivify the
characters it describes; and if this sketch at all tends to prepare
young people's minds to look with sympathy and appreciation on any of
the great characters of our early annals, it will have done at least
one work.
December 12th, 1865.
CHAPTER I--THE STATELY HUNTER
"'Now who are thou of the darksome brow
Who wanderest here so free?'
"'Oh, I'm one that will walk the green green woods,
Nor ever ask leave of thee.'"--S. M.
A fine evening--six centuries ago--shed a bright parting light over
Alton Wood, illuminating the gray lichens that clung to the rugged
trunks of the old oak trees, and shining on the smoother bark of the
graceful beech, with that sidelong light that, towards evening, gives
an especial charm to woodland scenery. The long shadows lay across
an open green glade, narrowing towards one end, where a path, nearly
lost amid dwarf furze, crested heather, and soft bent-grass, led
towards a hut, rudely constructed of sods of turf and branches of
trees, whose gray crackling foliage contrasted with the fresh verdure
around. There was no endeavour at a window, nor chimney; but the
door of wattled boughs was carefully secured by a long twisted withe.
A halbert, a broken arrow, a deer-skin pegged out on the ground to
dry, a bundle of faggots, a bare and blackened patch of grass, strewn
with wood ashes, were tokens of recent habitation, though the
reiterations of the nightingale, the deep tones of the blackbird and
the hum of insects, were the only sounds that broke the stillness.
Suddenly the silence was interrupted by a clear, loud, ringing
whistle, repeated at brief intervals and now and then exchanged for
the call--"Leonillo! Leon!" A footstep approached, rapidly
overtaken and passed by the rushing gallop of a large animal; and
there broke on the scene a large tawny hound, prancing, bounding, and
turning round joyfully, pawing the air, and wagging his tail, in
welcome to the figure who followed him.
This was a youth thirteen years old, wearing such a dress as was
usual with foresters--namely, a garment of home-spun undyed wool,
reaching to the knee, and there met by buskins of deer-skin, with the
dappled hair outside; but the belt which crossed one shoulder was
clasped with gold, and sustained a dagger, whose hilt and sheath were
of exquisite workmanship. The cap on his head was of gray rabbit-
skin, but a heron's plume waved in it; the dark curling locks beneath
were carefully arranged; and the port of his head and shoulders, the
mould of his limbs, the cast of his features, and the fairness of his
complexion, made his appearance ill accord with the homeliness of his
garb. In one hand he carried a bow over his shoulder; in the other
he held by the ears a couple of dead rabbits, with which he playfully
tantalized the dog, holding them to his nose, and then lifting them
high aloft, while the hound, perfectly entering into the sport, leapt
high after them with open mouth, and pretended to seize them, then
bounded and careered round his young master with gay short barks,
till both were out of breath; and the boy, flinging the rabbits on
the turf, threw himself down on it, with one arm upon the neck of the
panting dog, whose great gasps, like a sobbing of laughter, heaved
his whole frame.
"Ay, good Leonillo, take your rest!" said the boy: "we have done
yeoman's service to-day, and shown ourselves fit to earn our own
livelihood! We are outlaws now, my lion of the Pyrenees; and you at
least lead a merrier life than in the castle halls, when we hunted
for sport, and not for sustenance! Well-a-day, my Leon!"--as the
creature closed his mouth, and looked wistfully up at him with almost
human sympathy and intelligence--"would that we knew where are all
that were once wont to go with us to the chase! But for them, I
would be well content to be a bold forester all my days! Better so,
than to be ever vexed and crossed in every design for the country's
weal--distrusted above--betrayed beneath! Alack! alack! my noble
father, why wert thou wrecked in every hope--in every aim!"
These murmurings were broken off as Leonillo suddenly crested his
head, and changed his expression of repose for one of intense
listening.
"Already!" exclaimed the boy, springing to his feet, as Leonillo
bounded forward to meet a stout hardy forester, who was advancing
from the opposite end of the glade. This was a man of the largest
and most sinewy mould, his face tanned by sun and wind to a uniform
hard ruddy brown, and his shaggy black hair untrimmed, as well as his
dark bristly beard. His jerkin was of rough leather, crossed by a
belt, sustaining sword and dagger; a bow and arrows were at his back;
a huge quarter-staff in his hand; and his whole aspect was that of a
ferocious outlaw, whose hand was against every man.
But the youth started towards him gleefully, as if the very sight of
him had dispelled all melancholy musings, and shouted merrily,
"Welcome--welcome, Adam! Why so early home? Have the Alton boors
turned surly? or are the King's prickers abroad, and the
neighbourhood unwholesome for bold clerks of St. Nicholas?"
"Worse!" was the gruff mutter in reply. "Down, Leon: I am in no
mood for thy freaks!"
"What is it, Adam? Have the keepers carried their complaints to the
King, of the venison we have consumed, with small thanks to him?"
"Prince Edward is at Alton! What think you of that, Sir? Come to
seek through copse and brake for the arrant deer-stealer and outlaw,
and all his gang!"
"Why, there's preferment for you!" said the boy, laughing. "High
game for the heir of the throne! And his gang! Hold up your head,
Leonillo: you and I come in for a share of the honour!"
"Hold up your head!" said the outlaw bitterly. "You may chance to
hold it as high as your father's is, for all your gibes and jests, my
young Lord, if the Longshanks gets a hold of you, which our Lady
forefend."
"Nay, I think better of my Cousin Longshanks. I loved him well when
I was his page at Hereford: he was tenderer to me than ever my
brothers were; and I scarce think he would hang, draw, and quarter me
now."
"You may try, if you are not the better guided."
"How did you hear these tidings?" inquired the boy, changing his mood
to a graver one.
"From the monk to whom you confessed a fortnight back. Did you let
him know your lineage?"
"How could I do otherwise?"
"He looked like a man who would keep a secret; and yet--"
"Shame--shame to doubt the good father!"
"Nay, I do not say that I do; but I would have the secret in as few
men's power as may be. Nevertheless, I thank the good brother. He
called out to me as he saw me about to enter the town, that if I had
any tenderness for my own life, I had best not show myself there; and
he went on to tell me how the Prince was come to his hunting-lodge,
with hawk and hound indeed, but for the following of men rather than
bird or beast."
"And what would you have me do?"
"Be instantly on the way to the coast, ere the search begins; and
there, either for love of Sir Simon the righteous or for that gilt
knife of yours, we may get ferried over to the Isle of Wight, whence-
-But what ails the dog! Whist, Leonillo! Hold your throat: I can
hear naught but your clamour!"
The hound was in fact barking with a tremendous lion-like note; and
when, on reiterated commands from his master and the outlaw, he
changed it for a low continuous growling like distant thunder, a step
and a rustling of the boughs became audible.
"They are upon us already!" cried the boy, snatching up and stringing
his bow.
"Leave me to deal with him!" returned the outlaw. "Off to Alton:
the good father will receive you to sanctuary!"
"Flee!--never!" cried the boy. "You teaching my father's son to
flee!"
"Tush!--'tis but one!" said the outlaw. "He is easily dealt with;
and he shall have no time to call his fellows."
So saying, the forester strode forward into the wood, where a tall
figure was seen through the trees; and with uplifted quarter-staff,
dealt a blow of sudden and deadly force as soon as the stranger came
within its sweep, totally without warning. The power of the stroke
might have felled an ox, and would have at once overthrown the new-
comer, but that he was a man of unusual stature; and this being
unperceived in the outlaw's haste, the blow lighted on his left
shoulder instead of on his head.
"Ha, caitiff!" he exclaimed; and shortening the hunting-pole in his
hand, he returned the stroke with interest, but the outlaw had
already prepared himself to receive the blow on his staff. For some
seconds there was a rapid exchange; and all that the boy could detect
in the fierce flourish of weapons was, that his champion was at least
equally matched. The height of the stranger was superior; and his
movements, if less quick and violent, had an equableness that showed
him a thorough master of his weapon. But ere the lad had time to
cross the heather to the scene of action, the fight was over; the
outlaw lay stunned and motionless on the ground, and the gigantic
stranger was leaning on his hunting-pole, regarding him with a grave
unmoved countenance, the fair skin of which was scarcely flushed by
the exertion.
"Spare him! spare him!" cried the boy, leaping forwards. "I am the
prey you seek!"
"Well met, my young Lord," was the stern reply. "You have found
yourself a worthy way of life, and an honourable companion."
"Honourable indeed, if faithfulness be honour!" replied the boy.
"Myself I yield, Sir; but spare him, if yet he lives!--O Adam, my
only friend!" he sobbed, as kneeling over him, he raised his head,
undid his collar, and parted the black locks, to seek for the mark of
the blow, whence blood was fast oozing.
"He lives--he will do well enough," said the hunter. "Now, tell me,
boy--what brought you here?"
"The loving fidelity of this man!" was the prompt reply:- "a
Poitevin, a falconer at Kenilworth, who found me sore wounded on the
field at Evesham, and ever since has tended me as never vassal tended
lord; and now--now hath he indeed died for me!" and the boy,
endeavouring to raise the inanimate form, dropped heavy tears on the
senseless face.
"True," rigidly spoke the hunter, though there was somewhat of a
quivering of the muscles of the cheek discernible amid the curls of
his chestnut beard: "robbery is not the wonted service demanded of
retainers."
"Poor Adam!" said the youth with a flash of spirit, "at least he
never stripped the peaceful homestead and humble farmer, like the
royal purveyors!"
"Ha--young rebel!" exclaimed the hunter. "Know you what you say?"
"I reck not," replied the boy: "you have slain my father and my
brothers, and now you have slain my last and only friend. Do as you
will with me--only for my mother's sake, let it not be a shameful
death; and let my sister Eleanor have my poor Leonillo. And let me,
too, leave this gold with the priest of Alton, that my true-hearted
loving Adam may have fit burial and masses."
"I tell thee, boy, he is in no more need of a burial than thou or I.
I touched him warily. Here--his face more to the air."
And the stranger bent down, and with his powerful strength lifted the
heavy form of Adam, so that the boy could better support him. Then
taking some wine from the hunting-flask slung to his own shoulder, he
applied some drops to the bruise. The smart produced signs of life,
and the hunter put his flask into the boy's hand, saying, "Give him a
draught, and then--" he put his finger to his own lips, and stood
somewhat apart.
Adam opened his eyes, and made some inarticulate murmurs; then, the
liquor being held to his lips, he drank, and with fresh vigour raised
himself.
"The boy!--where is he? What has chanced? Is it you, Sir? Where is
the rogue? Fled, the villain? We shall have the Prince upon us
next! I must after him, and cut his story short! Your hand, Sir!"
"Nay, Adam--your hurt!"
"A broken head! Tush, 'tis naught! Here, your hand! Canst not lend
a hand to help a man up in your own service?" he added testily, as
stiff and dizzy he sat up and tried to rise. "You might have sent an
arrow to stop his traitorous tongue; but there is no help in you!" he
added, provoked at seeing a certain embarrassment about the youth.
"Desert me at this pinch! It is not like his father's son!" and he
was sinking back, when at sight of the hunter he stumbled eagerly to
his feet, but only to stagger against a tree.
"You are my prisoner!" said the calm deep voice.
"Well and good," said Adam surlily. "But let the lad go free: he is
a yeoman's son, who came but to bear me company."
"And learn thy trade? Goodly lessons in falling unawares on the
King's huntsmen, and sending arrows after them! Fair breeding, in
sooth!" repeated the stranger, standing with his arms crossed upon
his mighty breadth of chest, and looking at Adam with a still, grave,
commanding blue eye, that seemed to pierce him and hold him down, as
it were, and a countenance whose youthfulness and perfect regularity
of feature did but enhance its exceeding severity of expression.
"You know the meed of robbery and murder?"
"A halter and a bough," said Adam readily. "Well and good; but I
tell thee that concerns not the boy--since," he added bitterly, "he
is too meek and tender so much as to lift a hand in his own cause!
He has never crossed the laws."
"I understand you, friend," said the hunter: "he is a valued charge-
-maybe the son of one of the traitor barons. Take my advice--yield
him to the King's justice, and secure your own pardon."
"Out, miscreant!" shouted Adam; and was about to spring at him again,
but the powerful arm collared him, and he recognized at once that he
was like a child in that grasp. He ground his teeth with rage and
muttered, "That a fellow with such thews should give such dastardly
counsel, and HE yonder not lift a finger to aid!"
"Wilt follow me," composedly demanded the stranger, "with hands free?
or must I bind them?"
"Follow?" replied Adam, ruefully looking at the boy with eyes full of
reproach--"ay, follow to any gallows thou wilt--and the nearest tree
were the best! Come on!"
"I have no warrant," returned the grave hunter.
"Tush! what warrant is needed for hanging a well-known outlaw--made
so by the Prince's tender mercies? The Prince will thank thee, man,
for ridding the realm of the robber who fell on the treasurer bearing
the bags from Leicester!"
And meanwhile, with uncouth cunning, Adam was striving to telegraph
by winks and gestures to the boy who had so grievously disappointed
him, that the moment of his own summary execution would be an
excellent one for his companion's escape.
But the eye, so steady yet so quick under its somewhat drooping
eyelid, detected the simple stratagem.
"I trow the Prince might thank me more for bringing in this charge of
thine."
"Small thanks, I trow, for laying hands on a poor orphan--the son of
a Poitevin man-at-arms--that I kept with me for love of his father,
though he is fitter for a convent than the green wood!" added Adam,
with the same sound of keen reproach and disappointment in his voice.
"That shall we learn at Guildford," replied the stranger. "There are
means of teaching a man to speak."
"None that will serve with me," stoutly responded Adam.
"That shall we see," was the brief answer.
And he signed to his prisoners to move on before him, taking care so
to interpose his stately person between them, that there should be no
communication by word, far less by look.
CHAPTER II--THE LADY OF THE FOREST
"Behold how mercy softeneth still
The haughtiest heart that beats:
Pride with disdain may he answered again,
But pardon at once defeats!"--S. M.
The so-called forest was in many parts mere open heath, thickly
adorned by the beautiful purple ling, blending into a rich carpet
with the dwarf furze, and backed by thickets of trees in the hollows
of the ground.
Across this wild country the tall forester conducted his captives in
silence--moving along with a pace that evidently cost him so little
exertion, and was so steady and even, that his companions might have
supposed it slow, had they only watched it, and not been obliged to
keep up with it. Light of foot as the youth was, he was at times
reduced to an almost breathless run; and Adam plodded along, with
strides that worked his arms and shoulders in sympathy.
After about three miles, when the boy was beginning to feel as if he
must soon be in danger of lagging, they came into a dip of the ground
where stood a long, low, irregular building, partly wood and partly
stone, roofed with shingle in some parts, in others with heather.
The last addition, a deep porch, still retained the fresh tints of
the bark on the timber sides, and the purple of the ling that roofed
it.
Sheds and out-houses surrounded it; dogs in couples, horses, grooms,
and foresters, were congregated in the background; but around this
new porch were gathered a troop of peasant women, children, and aged
men. The fine bald brow and profile of the old peasant, the eager
face of the curly-haired child, the worn countenance of the hard-
tasked mother, were all uplifted towards the doorway, in which stood,
slightly above them, a lady, with two long plaited flaxen tresses
descending on her shoulders, under a black silken veil, that
disclosed a youthful countenance, full of pure calm loveliness, of a
simple but dignified and devotional expression, that might have
befitted an angel of charity. A priest and a lady were dispensing
loaves and warm garments to the throng around; but each gift was
accompanied by a gentle word from the lady, framed with difficulty to
their homely English tongue, but listened to even by uncomprehending
ears like a strain of Church music.
Adam had expected the forester to turn aside to the group of
servants, but in blank amazement saw him lead the way through the
poor at the gate; and advancing to the porch with a courteous bending
of his head, he said in the soft Provencal--far more familiar than
English to Adam's ears--"Hast room for another suppliant, mi Dona?"
The sweet fair face lighted up with a sudden sunbeam of joy; and a
musical voice replied. "Welcome, my dearest Lord: much did I need
thee to hear the plaints of some of these thy lieges, which my ears
can scarce understand! But why art thou alone? or rather, why thus
strangely accompanied?"
"These are the captives won by my single arm, whom, according to all
laws of chivalry, thine own true knight thus lays at thy feet, fair
lady mine, to be disposed of at thine own gracious will and
pleasure."
And a smile of such sweetness lightened his features, that a murmur
of "Blessings on his comely face!" ran through the assembly; and Adam
indulged in a gruff startled murmur of "'Tis the Prince, or the devil
himself!" while his young master, comprehending the gesture of the
Prince, and overborne by the lovely winning graces of the Princess,
stepped forward, doffing his cap and bending his knee, and signing to
Adam to follow his example.
"Thou hast been daring peril again!" said the Princess, holding her
husband's arm, and looking up into his face with lovingly reproachful
yet exulting eyes. "Yet I will not be troubled! Naught is danger to
thee! And yet alone and unarmed to encounter such a sturdy savage as
I see yonder! But there is blood on his brow! Let his hurt be
looked to ere we speak of his fate."
"He is at thy disposal, mi Dona," returned Edward: "thou art the
judge of both, and shall decide their lot when thou hast heard their
tale."
"It can scarce be a very dark one," replied Eleanor, "or thou wouldst
never have led them to such a judge!" Then turning to the prisoners,
she began to say in her foreign English, "Follow the good father,
friends--" when she broke off at fuller sight of the boy's
countenance, and exclaimed in Provencal, "I know the like of that
face and mien!"
"Truly dost thou know it," her husband replied; "but peace till thou
hast cleared thy present court, and we can be private.--Follow the
priest," he added, "and await the Princess's pleasure."
They obeyed; and the priest led them through a side-door, through
which they could still hear Eleanor's sweet Castillian voice laying
before her husband her difficulties in comprehending her various
petitioners. The priest being English, was hardly more easily
understood than his flock; and her lady spoke little but langue
d'oui, the Northern French, which was as little serviceable in
dealing with her Spanish and Provencal as with the rude West-Saxon-
English. Edward's deep manly tones were to be heard, however, now
interrogating the peasants in their own tongue, now briefly
interpreting to his wife in Provencal; and a listener could easily
gather that his hand was as bounteous, his heart as merciful, as
hers, save where attacks on the royal game had been requited by the
trouble complained of; and that in such cases she pleaded in vain.
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