Books: The Prince and the Page
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Charlotte M. Yonge >> The Prince and the Page
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A wonderful place was that Hospital--infirmary, monastery, and
castle, all in one, and with a certain Eastern grace and beauty of
its own. The deep massive walls, heavy towers, and portcullised
gateway, were in the most elaborate and majestic style of defensive
architecture; and the main building rose to a great height, filled
with galleries of small, bare, rigid-looking cells, just large enough
for a knight, his pallet, and his armour. Below was a noble vaulted
hall, the walls hung with well-tried hawberks, and shields and
helmets which had stood many a dint; captured crescents and green
banners waved as trophies over crooked scymetars and Damascus blades
inlaid with sentences from the Koran in gold, and twisted cuirasses
rich with barbaric gold and gems; the blazoned arms of the noblest
families of France, Spain, England, Germany, and Italy, decked the
panels and brightened the windows; while the stone pulpit for the
reader showed that it was still a convent refectory.
The chapel was grave and massive, but at the same time gorgeous with
colouring suited to eyes accustomed to Oriental brightness of hue;
the chancel walls were inlaid with the porphyry, jasper, and marble,
of exquisite tints, that came from the mountains around; the shrines
were touched with gold, and the roofs and vaultings painted with
fretwork of unapproachable brilliance and purity of tints; yet all
harmonizing together, as only Eastern colouring can harmonize, and
giving a sense of rest and coolness.
Within those huge thick walls, whose windows, sunk deep into their
solid mass, only let in threads of jewelled light, under their solemn
circular richly carved brows, between those marble pillars; the elder
ones, round and solid, with Romanesque mighty strength; the new
graceful clusters of shining blood-red marble shafts, surrounding a
slender white one, all banded together with gold, under the vaults of
the stone roof, upon the mosaic floor--there was always a still
refreshing coolness, like the "shadow of a great rock in a weary
land." One transept had a window communicating with the upper room
of the Infirmary, so that the sick who there lay in their beds might
take part in the services in the chapel.
The outer court, with the great fortified gateway towards the street,
was a tilt-yard, where martial exercises took place as in any other
castle; but pass through the great hall to the inner court, of which
the chapel formed one side, and where could such cloisters have been
found in the West? Their heavy columns and deep-browed arches
clinging against the thick walls, afforded unfailing shelter from the
sun, and their coolness was increased by the marble of the pavement,
inlaid in rich intricate mosaics.
Extending around the interior of the external wall, they enclosed an
exquisite Eastern garden, perfumed with flowering shrubs, shady with
trees, and lovely with tall white lilies, hollyhocks, purple irises,
stars of Bethlehem, and many another Eastern flower, which would send
forth seeds or roots for the supply of the trim gardens of Western
convents. The soft bubbling of fountains gave a sense of delicious
freshness; doves flew hither and thither, and their soft murmuring
was heard in the branches; and at certain openings in their foliage
might be seen the azure of the Mediterranean, which little John of
Dunster persisted in calling too blue--why could it not be a sober
proper-coloured sea like his own Bristol Channel?
Richard was very happy here. There was something of the same charm
as in modern days is experienced in staying at a college. The
brethren were thorough monks in religious observance, but they were
also high-bred nobles, and had seen many wild adventures, and hard-
fought battles, and moreover, had entertained in turn almost every
variety of pilgrim who had visited the Holy Land; so that none could
have been found who had more of interest to tell, or more friendly
hospitable kindness towards their guests. Richard was a favourite
there, not only as a friend of Reginald Ferrers, but as acquainted
with the Grand Prior, Sir Robert Darcy, whose memory was still green
in Palestine. Tales of his feats of mighty strength still lingered
at Acre; how he had held together, by his single arm, the gates of a
house in the retreat from Damietta, against a whole troop of
Mamelukes, until every Christian had left it on the other side, and
then had slowly followed them, not a Moslem daring to attack him; how
he had borne off wounded knights on his back, and on sultry marches
would load himself with the armour of any one who was exhausted, and
never fail to declare it was exactly what he liked best! More than
once it had been intimated that Richard de Montfort would be gladly
accepted as a brother of the Order; and he often thought over the
offer, but not only was he unwilling to separate himself from the
Prince, but he felt it needful at any rate to return to England to
judge of the condition of his brother Henry, ere becoming one of an
Order where he could no longer dispose of himself.
He was resolved never to quit the Prince till he had seen him beyond
the reach of any machination of his brother's, nor indeed was it easy
to think of parting at all, for Edward, who had relaxed all coldness
of manner towards him ever since the affair at Trapani, had now
become warmly affectionate and confidential. The Prince was still
far from having regained his usual health, his arm was still in a
scarf, and was often painful, and the least exposure to the sun
brought on violent headache, which some attributed to the poison in
the scratch on his forehead, but the Hospitaliers, more reasonably,
ascribed to a slight sun-stroke. Their character of infirmarers
rendered them especially considerate hosts, and they never
overwhelmed their guest with the stiff formalities of courtesy for
his rank's sake, but allowed him to follow his inclination, and this
led him to spend great part of his time in a pavilion, a thoroughly
Eastern erection, which stood in the garden, at the top of the white
marble steps leading to a fountain of delicious sparkling water, and
sheltered from the sun by the dark solid horizontal branches of a
noble Cedar of Lebanon, which tradition connected with the visit of
the Empress Helena. Here, lying upon mats placed on the steps, the
convalescent Prince would rest for hours, sometimes holding converse
with the Grand Master, or counsel with his visitors from the camp;
but more often in the dreamy repose of recovery, silent or talking to
Richard of matters that lay deep within his heart; but which,
perhaps, nothing but this softening species of waking dream would
have drawn from him. He would dwell on those two hero models of his
boyhood, so diverse, yet so closely connected together by their
influence upon his character, Louis of France, and Simon of
Leicester; and of the impression both had left, that judgment, mercy,
faith, and the subject's welfare, were the primary duties of a
sovereign--an idea only now and then glimpsed by the feudal
sovereigns, who thought that the people lived for them rather than
they for the people. And when, as in England, the King's good-nature
had been abused by swarms of foreign-born relations, who had not even
his claims on the people, no wonder the yoke had been galling beyond
endurance. Of the end Edward could not bear to think--of the broken
friendships--the enmity of kindred--the faults on either side that
had embittered the strife, till he had been forced to become the
sword in the hands of the royal party to liberate his father--and
with consequences that had so far out-run his powers of controlling
them. To make England the land of law, peace, and order, that Simon
de Montfort would fain have seen it, was his present aspiration; and
then, he said, when all was purified at home, it might yet be
permitted to him to return and win back the Holy City, Jerusalem, to
the Christian world. In the meantime, as a memorial of this, his
earnest longing, he was causing, at great expense and labour, one of
the huge stones of the Temple to be transported over the hills, and
embarked on board a ship, to carry home with him. Richard, meantime,
learnt to know and love his Prince with a more devoted love, if that
were possible, and to grieve the more at the persistent hatred of his
brothers, who, utterly uncomprehending their father's high purposes
themselves, sought blindly to slake their vengeance for the ruin they
had themselves provoked, and upon one who mourned him far more truly
than they could ever do.
A few days had thus passed, when Richard was one day called by his
friend, Sir Raynald, into the Infirmary, to speak a few kind words to
a dying English pilgrim, who had come from his native country, and
confided to him his dearly-purchased palm and scallop shell, to be
conveyed to his aged mother.
As Richard was passing along the great lofty chamber, two rows of
beds were arranged; one of the patients rather hastily, as it seemed
to him, enveloped himself in his coverlet, leaving nothing visible
but a great black patch which seemed to cover the whole side of his
face.
"That is a strange varlet," said Raynald, as they passed him; "it is
an old wound that the patch covers, not what has brought him here;
and what the nature of his ailment may be, not one of our infirmarers
can make out; his tongue is purple, and he hath such strange
shiverings and contortions in all his limbs, that they are at their
wits' end, and some hold that he must have undergone some sorcery in
his passage through the Infidel domains."
"He came from the East, then?" asked Richard.
"Yea, verily. We have many more sick among the returning than the
out-going pilgrims."
"And what is his nation?"
"Nay; all the scanty words he hath spoken have been in Lingua Franca,
and he hath been in such trances and trembling fits that it hath not
been easy to question him. Nor is it our custom to trouble a pilgrim
with inquiries."
"How did he enter?" said Richard.
"Brother Antonio found him yester-eve cast down, gasping for breath,
by the gate of the Hospital, just able to entreat for the love of St.
John to be admitted. He had all the tokens of a pilgrim about him,
and seemed better at first, walked lustily to bath and bed, and did
not show himself helpless; but I much suspect his disease is the work
of the Arch Enemy, for he is always at his worst if one of our
Brethren in full orders comes near him. You saw how he cowered and
hid himself when I did but pass through the hall. I shall speak to
the Preceptor, and see if it were not best to try what exorcism will
do."
There was something in all this that made Richard vaguely uneasy.
After the recent attack upon the Prince, he suspected all that he did
not fully understand; and though in the guarded precincts of the
Hospital he had once dismissed his anxiety, it returned upon him in
redoubled force. He thought of Nick Dustifoot, but that worthy was
of a uniform tint of whitey brown, skin, hair and all; and Richard
had assured himself that the strange patient had black hair and a
brown skin, but that was all that he could guess at. The exorcism
would, however, be an effectual means of disclosing the "myster
wight's" person, and it sometimes included measures so strong, that
few pretences could hold out against them. But it was too serious
and complicated a ceremony to be got up at short notice; and when
they met in the Refectory for supper, Raynald told Richard that the
Grand Master intended to make a personal inspection next day, before
deciding on using his spiritual weapons.
"And then!" cried John of Dunster, dancing round, "you will let me be
there! Pray, good Father, let me be there! Oh, I hope there will be
a rare smell of brimstone, and the foul fiend will come out with huge
claws, and a forked tail. I don't care to see him if he only comes
out like a black crow; I can see crows enough in the trees at
Dunster."
"Peace, John; this is no place for idle talk," said Richard gravely.
"Stand aside, here comes the Prince."
The Prince had spent a fatiguing day over the terms of the ten years,
ten months, ten weeks, ten days, ten hours, and ten minutes' truce
with the Emir of Joppa; he ate little, and after the meal, took
Richard's arm, and craved leave from the Grand Master to seek the
fresh air beneath the cedar tree. And when there, he could not
endure the return to the closeness of his own apartment, but declared
his intention of sleeping in the pavilion. He dismissed his
attendants, saying he needed no one but Richard, who, since his
illness, had always slept upon cushions at his feet.
Where was Richard?
He presently appeared, carrying on one arm a mantle, and over the
other shoulder the Prince's immense two-handled sword; while his own
sword was in his belt. Leonillo followed him.
"How now!" said Edward, "are we to have a joust? Dost look for
phantom Saracens out of yonder fountain, such as my Dona tells me
rise out of the fair wells in Castille, wring their hands and pray
for baptism?"
"You said your hand should keep your head, my Lord," said Richard;
"this is but a lone place."
"What! amid all the guards of the good Fathers! Well, old comrade,"
as he took his sword in his right hand; "I am glad to handle thee
once more, and I hope soon to grasp thee as I am wont, with both
hands. Lay it down, Richard. There--thanks--that is well. I wonder
what my father would have thought if one of his many crusading vows
had led him hither. Should we ever have had him back again? How
well this dreamy leisure would have suited him! It would almost make
a troubadour of a rough warrior like me. See the towers and
pinnacles against the sky, and the lights within the windows--and the
stars above like lamps of gold, and the moonshine sparkling on the
bubbles of the water, ever floating off, yet ever in the same place.
Were the good old man here, how peacefully would he sing, and pray,
and dream, free from debts, parliament and barons. Ah! had his
kinsmen let him keep his vow, it had been happier for us all."
So mused the Prince, and with a weary smile resigned himself to rest.
But Richard was too full of vague uneasiness to sleep. He could not
dismiss from his mind the thought of the unknown pilgrim, and was
resolved to relax no point of vigilance until the full investigation
should have satisfied him that his fears were unfounded. He had been
accustomed to watching and broken rest during the Prince's illness,
and though he durst not pace up and down for fear of disturbing the
sleeper--nay, could hardly venture a movement--he strained his eyes
into the twilight, and told his beads fervently; but sleep hung on
him like a spell, and even while sitting upright there were strange
dreams before him, and one that he had had before, though with a
variation. It was the field of Evesham once more; but this time the
strange pilgrim rose in his dark wrappings before him, and suddenly
developed into that same shadowy form of his father, who again struck
him on the shoulder with his sword, and dubbed him again "The Knight
of Death."
Hark! there was a growl from Leonillo; a footstep, a dark figure--the
pilgrim himself! Richard shouted aloud, grasped at his sword, and
flung himself forward.
"Montfort's vengeance!" The sound rang in his ears as a sharp pang
thrilled through his side; the hot blood welled up, and he was dashed
to the ground; but even in falling he heard the Prince's "What
treason is this?" and felt the rising of the mighty form. At the
same moment the murderer was in the grasp of that strong right hand,
and was dragged forward into the full light of the lamp that hung
from the roof of the pavilion.
"Thou!" he gasped. "Who--what?"
"Richard!" exclaimed the Prince, and relaxing his hold, "Simon de
Montfort, thou hast slain thy brother!"
The sudden shock and awe had overwhelmed Simon, who was indeed
weaponless, since his dagger remained in Richard's wound. He
silently assisted the Prince in lifting Richard to the cushions of
the couch, and the low groan convinced them that he lived: looked
anxiously for the wound. The dagger had gone deep between the ribs,
and little but the haft could be seen.
"Poisoned?" Edward asked, looking up at Simon.
"No. It failed once. He may live," said Simon, with bent brows and
folded arms.
"No, no. My death-blow!" gasped Richard, with sobbing breath. "Best
so, if--Oh, could I but speak!"
The Prince raised him, supporting his head on his own broad breast
and shoulder, and signed to Simon to hold to his lips the cup of
water that stood near. Richard slightly revived, and in this posture
breathed more easily.
"He might yet live. Call speedy aid!" said the Prince, who seemed to
have utterly forgotten that he was practically alone with his
persevering and desperate enemy.
"Wait! Oh, wait!" cried Richard, holding out his hand; "it would be
vain; but it will be all joy did I but know that there will be no
more of this. Simon, he loved my father--he has spared thee again
and again."
"Simon," said the Prince, "for this dear youth's sake and thy
father's, I raise no hand against thee. Bitter wrong has been done
to thy house, by what persons, and how provoked, it skills not now to
ask. Twice thy fury has fallen on the guiltless. Enough blood has
been shed. Let there be peace henceforth."
Simon stood moody, with folded arms, and Richard groaned, and essayed
to speak.
"Peace, boy," tenderly said Edward; "and thou, Simon, hear me. I
loved thy father, and knew the upright noble spirit that arrayed him
against us. Heaven is my witness that I would have given my life to
have been able to save him on yon wretched battle-field. But he fell
in fair fight, in helm and corselet, like a good knight. Peace be
with him! Surely in this land of pardon and redemption his son and
nephew may cease to seek one another's blood for his sake! Cheer thy
brother by letting him feel his brave deed hath not been fruitless.
Free thou shalt go--do what thou wilt; no word of mine shall betray
that this deed is thine."
"Lay aside thy purpose," entreated Richard. "Bind him by oath, my
Lord."
"Nay," said the Prince. "Here, on foreign soil, the strife lies
between the cousins, the sons of Henry and of Eleanor; and if Simon
must needs still slake his revenge in my blood, he may have better
success another time. Or, so soon as I can wear my armour again, I
offer him a fair combat in the lists, man to man; better so than
staining his soul with privy murder--but I had far rather that it
should be peace between us--and that thou shouldst see it." And
Edward, still supporting Richard on his breast, held out his right
hand to Simon, adding, "Let not thy brother's blood be shed in vain."
Richard made a gesture of agonized entreaty.
"My father--my father!" he said. "He forgave--he hated blood; Simon,
didst but know--"
"I see," said Simon impatiently, "that Heaven and earth alike are set
against my purpose. Fear not for his days, Richard, they are safe
from me, and here is my hand upon it."
The tone was sullen and grudging, and Richard looked scarcely
comforted; but the Prince was in haste that he should be succoured at
once, and even while receiving Simon's unwilling hand, said, "We lose
time. Speed near enough to the Spital to be heard, and shout for
aid. Then seek thine own safety. I will say no more of thy share in
this matter."
Simon lingered one moment. "Boy," he said, "I told thee thou wast
over like him. Live, live if thou canst! Alas! I had thought to
make surer work this time; but thou dost pardon me the mischance?"
"More than pardon--thank thee--since he is safe," whispered Richard,
and as Simon bent over him the boy crossed his brow, and returned a
look of absolute joy.
Simon sped away; and the Prince, when left alone with Richard, put no
restraint upon the warmth of his feelings, and his tears fell fast
and freely.
"Boy, boy," he said; "I little thought thou wast to bear what was
meant for me!" And then, with tenderness that would have seemed
foreign to his nature, he inquired into the pain that Richard was
suffering, tried to make his position more easy, and lamented that he
could not venture to draw out the weapon until the leeches should
come.
"It has been my best hope," said Richard; "and now that it should
have been thus. With your goodness I have nothing--nothing to wish.
Sir Raynald will be here--I have only my charge for Henry to give
him--and poor Leonillo!"
"I will bear thy charges to Henry," said the Prince. "Nor shall he
think thou didst betray his secret. I will watch over him so far as
he will let me, and do all I may for his child. Yet it may be thou
wilt still return. I hear the stir in the House. They will be here
anon. Thou must live, Richard, my friend, where I have few friends.
I thought to have knighted thee, boy, when thou hadst won fame. Oh,
would that I had shown thee more of my love while it was time!"
"All, all I hoped or longed for I have," murmured Richard. "If you
see Henry, my Lord, bear him my greetings--and to poor Adam--yea, and
my mother. Oh! would that I could make them all know your kindness
and my joy--that it should be thus!"
By this time the whole Hospital was astir, and the knights and lay
brethren came flocking out in consternation and dread of finding
their royal host himself murdered within their cloisters.
Great was the confusion, and eager the search for the assassin, while
others crowded round the Prince, who still would not give up his post
of supporting the sufferer in his arms, while a few moments'
examination convinced the experienced infirmarers that the wound was
mortal, and that the extraction of the dagger would but hasten death,
which could not be other than very near. Indeed, Richard already
spoke with such difficulty that only the Prince's ear could detect
his entreaty that Raynald Ferrers might act as his priest. Raynald
was already near, only withheld by the crowd of knights of higher
degree who had thronged before him. Richard looked up to him with a
face that in all its mortal agony seemed to ask congratulation. The
power of making confession was gone, and when Raynald would have
offered to take him in his own arms, both he and the Prince showed
disinclination to the move. So thus they still remained, while the
young knightly priest spoke the words of Absolution, and then, across
the solemn darkness of the garden, amid the light of tapers, the Host
was borne from the Chapel, while the low subdued chant of the
brethren swelled up through the night air. Poor little John of
Dunster, with his arms round Leonillo's neck, to keep him from
disturbing his master, knelt, sobbing as though his heart would
break, but trying to stifle the sounds as the priest's voice came
grave and full on the silent air, responded to by the gathered tones
of the brethren: the fountain bubbled on, and the wakening birds
began to stir in the trees.
Once more Richard opened his eyes, looked up at his Prince, and
smiled. That smile remained while Edward kissed his brow with
fervour, laid him down on the cushions, and rising to his feet, bowed
his head to the Grand Master, but did not even strive to speak, and
gravely walked across the cloister, with a slow though steady step,
to his own chamber. No one saw him again till the sun was high,
when, with looks as composed as ever, he went forth to lay his page's
head in the grave, and thence visit and calm the fears of his
Princess.
Search had everywhere been made for the assassin, but no traces of
him were found. Only the strange pilgrim had vanished in the
confusion; and the Prince never contradicted the Grand Master in his
indignation that a Moslem hound should have assumed such a disguise.
CHAPTER XIII--THE BEGGAR AND THE PRINCE
"This favour only, that thou would'st stand out of my sunshine."
DIOGENES.
It was the last week of August, 1274, the morrow of the most splendid
coronation that England had ever beheld, either for the personal
qualities and appearance of the sovereigns, or for the magnificence
of the adornments, and the bounteous feasting of multitudes.
A whole fortnight of entertainments to rich and poor had been
somewhat exhausting, even to the guests; and the suburbs of London
wore an unusually sleepy and quiescent appearance in the hot beams of
the August sun. Bethnal Green lay very silent, parched, and weary,
not even enlivened by its usual gabbling flocks of geese, all of
whom, poor things! except the patriarchal gander, and one or two of
his ladies, had gone to the festival--but to return no more!
One of those who had been in the midst of the pageant, and had
returned unscathed, was Blind Hal of Bethnal Green. Many a coin had
gone into his scrip--uncontested king of the beggars as he was; many
a savoury morsel had been conveyed to him and his child by his
admiring brethren of the wallet; with many a gibing scoff had he
driven from the field presuming mendicants, not of his own
fraternity; and with half-bitter, half-amused remarks, had he
listened to the rapturous descriptions of the splendours of king,
queen, and their noble suite. And pretty Bessee had clung fast to
his hand, and discreetly guided him through every maze of the crowd,
with the strange dexterity of a child bred up in throngs. And now
tired out with the long-continued festivities, the beggar sat in
front of his hut, basking in the sun, and more than half asleep;
while Bessee, her lap full of heather-blossoms and long bents of
grass, was endeavouring to weave herself chains, bracelets, and
coronals, in imitation of those which had recently dazzled her eyes.
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