Books: The Prince and the Page
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Charlotte M. Yonge >> The Prince and the Page
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She had just encircled her dark auburn locks with a garland of purple
heather, studded here and there with white or gold, when, starting
upon her little bare but delicately clean pink feet, she laid her
hand on her father's lap, and said, "Father, hark! I see two of the
good red monks coming!"
"Well, child; and wherefore waken me? They are after their own
affairs, I trow. Moreover, I hear no horses' feet."
"They are not riding," said Bessee; "and they are walking this way.
They have a dog, too! Oh, such a gallant glorious dog, father! Ah,"
cried she joyfully, "'tis the good Father Grand Prior!" and she was
about to start forward, but the blind man's ear could now distinguish
the foot-falls; and holding her fast, he almost gasped--"And the
other, child--who is he?"
"No knight at our Spital! A stranger, father. So tall, so tall!
His mantle hardly reaches his knee his robe leaves his ankles bare.
O father, they are coming. Let me go to meet dear good Father
Robert! But what--Oh, is the fit coming? Father Robert will stop
it!"
"Hush thy prattle," said the beggar, clutching her fast, and
listening as one all ear; and by this time the two knights were close
at hand, the taller holding the dog, straining in a leash, while the
good Grand Prior spoke. "How fares it with thee, friend? And thou,
my pretty one? No mishaps among the throng?"
"None," returned Hal; "though the King and his suite DID let loose
five hundred chargers in the crowd at their dismounting, to trample
down helpless folk, and be caught by rogues. Largesse they called
it! Fair and convenient largesse--easily providing for those that
received it!"
"No harm was done," briefly but sharply exclaimed the strange knight;
and the blind man, who had, as little Bessee at least perceived, been
turning his acute ear in that direction all the time he had been
speaking, now let his features light up with sudden perception.
But Sir Robert Darcy, thinking that he only now became aware of the
stranger's presence, said, "A knight is here from the East, who
brings thee tidings, my son."
Sir Robert would have said more, but the beggar standing up, cut him
short, by saying, "So, cousin, you have yet to learn the vanity of
disguises and feignings towards a blind man."
"Nay, fair cousin," was the answer, "my feigning was not towards you;
but I doubted me whether you would have the world see me visit you in
my proper character. Will not you give me a hand, Henry?"
"First say to me," said Henry, embracing with his maimed arm his
staff, planted in front of him defiantly, and still holding tight his
little daughter in his hand, "what brings you here to break into the
peace of the poor remnant of a man you have left?"
"I come," said Edward patiently, "to fulfil my last--my parting
promise, to one who loved us both--and gave his life for me."
"Loved you, ay! and well enough to betray me to you!" said Henry
bitterly.
"No, Henry de Montfort, ten thousand times no!" said Edward. "I
would maintain in the lists the honour and loyalty of my Richard
towards you and me and all others. His faithfulness to you brought
him into peril of death and disgrace in the wretched matter of poor
Henry of Almayne; and he would have met both rather than have broken
his faith."
"Then," said Henry, still with the same mocking tone, "how was it
that my worthless existence became known to his Grace?"
"I knew of your having vanished from Evesham Abbey," returned Edward:
"and thus knowing, I understood a letter, the writing of which had
brought suspicion on Richard, and which was brought back to me when
we were seeking into--"
"Into the deed of Simon and Guy," said Henry. "Poor Henry! It was a
foul crime; and Father Robert can bear me witness that I did penance
for it, when that kindly heart of his was laid in St. Peter's Abbey."
"Then, Henry, thou own'st thy kinship to us still," said Edward
earnestly. Give me thine hand, man, and let me embrace my lovely
little kinswoman--a queen in her trappings. Ah, Henry! Heaven hath
dealt lovingly with thee in sparing thee thy child!"
"You have children left!" said Henry quickly, and not withholding a
hand--which, be it remarked, was as delicately shaped and well kept
as that which took it.
Twice had the beggar received a dole at Westminster at the obsequies
of Edward's little sons; yea, though he and all his brethren of the
dish had all the winter before had alms given them to purchase their
prayers for the health of the last.
"Three--but three out of six," answered Edward; "nor dare I reckon on
the life of the frail babe that England hailed yesterday as my heir.
I sometimes deem that the blight of broken covenants has fallen on my
sons."
"They were none of your breaking," said Henry.
"Say'st thou so!" exclaimed Edward, looking up, with the animation of
a man hearing an acquittal from a quarter whose sincerity he could
thoroughly trust.
But Henry made no courtly answer. "Pshaw! no living man that had to
deal with or for your father could keep a covenant. You were but the
spear-point of the broken reed, good cousin; and we pitied and
excused you accordingly."
"Your father did," said Edward hoarsely. He could brook pity from
the great Simon better than from the blind beggar.
"Ay, marry, that did he," returned Henry, "as he closed his visor
that last morn, after looking out on that wild Welsh border scum that
my fair brother-in-law had marshalled against us. 'By the arm of St.
James,' said he, 'if Edward take not heed, that rascaille will deal
with us in a way that will be worse for him than for us!'"
"A true foreboding," said the King. "Henry, do thou come and be with
me. All are gone! Scarce a face that I left in England has welcomed
me on my return. Come, thou, in what guise thou wilt--earl,
counsellor, or bedesman--only be with me, and speak to me thy
father's words."
"Who--I, my Lord?" returned Henry. "I am no man to speak my father's
words! They flew high over my head, and were only caught by grave
youths such as yourself. I, who was never trusted with so much as a
convoy. No, no; all the counsel I shall ever give, is to the
beggars, which coat-of-arms is like to rain clipped silver, and which
honest round penny pieces! Poor Richard! he bore the best brain of
us all, and might have served your purpose. Sit down, and tell me of
the lad.--Bessee, little one, bring out the joint-stool for the holy
Father."
And Henry de Montfort made way on the rude bench outside his hut,
with all the ease and courtesy of the Earl of Leicester receiving his
kinsman the King. But meantime, the dog, which had been straining in
the leash, held by Edward throughout the conference, leapt forward,
and vehemently solicited the beggar's caresses. "Ah, Leonillo!" he
said, recognizing him at once, "thou hast lost thy master! Poor dog!
thou art the one truly loyal to thy master's blood!"
"It was Richard's charge to take him to thee," said Edward: "but if
he be burdensome to thee, I would gladly cherish him, or would commit
him to faithful Gourdon, with whom he might be happier. Since he
lost his master the poor hound hath much pined away, and will take
food from none but me, or little John of Dunster."
Leonillo, however, who seemed to have an unfailing instinct for a
Montfort, was willingly accepting the eager and delighted attentions
of the little girl; though he preferred those of her father, and
cowered down beneath his hand, with depressed ears and gently waving
tail, as though there were something in the touch and voice that
conferred what was as near bliss as the faithful creature could enjoy
without his deity and master.
Meantime, the Grand Prior discreetly removed his joint-stool out of
hearing of the two cousins, and called the little maid to rehearse to
him the Credo and Ave, with their English equivalents--a task that
pretty Bessee highly disapproved after the fortnight's dissipation,
and would hardly have performed for one less beloved of children than
Father Robert.
The good Grand Prior knew that the King would have much to say that
would beseem no ear save his kinsman's; and in effect Edward told
what none besides would ever hear respecting the true author of the
attempts on his own life.
"Spiteful fox. Such Simon ever was!" was the beggar's muttered
comment. "Well that he knows not of my poor child! So, cousin, thou
hast kept his counsel," he added in a different tone. "I thank thee
in the name of Montfort and Leicester. It was well and nobly done."
And Henry de Montfort held out his hand with the dignity of head of
the family whose honour Edward had shielded.
"It was for thy father's sake and Richard's," said Edward, receiving
the acknowledgment as it was meant.
"Ah, well," said Henry, relapsing into his usual half-scoffing tone;
"in that boy our Montfort blood seems to have run clear of the taint
it got from the she-fiend of Anjou."
"Thy share was from a mocking fiend!" returned the King.
"Ay, and a fair portion it is!" said the beggar. "My jest and my
song have borne me through more than my sword and spurs ever did--and
have been more to me than English earldom or French county. Poor
Richard!" he added with feeling; "I told him his was the bondage and
mine the freedom!"
"Alas! I fear that so it was," said Edward. "My favour only
embittered his foes. Had I known how it would end, I had never taken
him to me; but my heart yearned to my uncle's goodly son."
"Maybe it is well," said Henry. "Had the boy grown up verily like my
father, thou and he might have fallen out; or if not--why, you
knights and nobles ride in miry bloody ways, and 'tis a wonder if
even the best of you does not bring his harness home befouled and
besmirched--not as shining bright as he took it out. Well, what
didst thou with the poor lad? Cut him in fragments? You mince your
best loved now as fine as if they were traitors."
"No," said Edward; "the boy lies sleeping in the Church of St. John,
at Acre. I rose from my sickbed that I might lay him in his grave as
a brother. Lights burn round him, and masses are said; and the
brethren were left in charge to place his effigy on his tomb, in
carven stone. One day I trust to see it. My brother Alexander of
Scotland, Llewellyn of Wales, and I, have sworn to one another to
bring all within these four seas into concord and good order; and
then we may look for such a blessing on our united arms as may bear
us onward to Jerusalem! Then come with us, Henry, and let us pray
together at Richard's grave."
"I may safely promise," said Henry, smiling, "if this same Crusade is
to be when peace and order are within the four seas. Moreover, thou
wilt have ruined my trade by that time!"
"Nay, Henry, cease fooling. See--if thou wilt not be thyself, I will
find thee a lodge in any park of mine. None shall know who thou art;
but thou shalt have free range, and--"
"And weary of my life! No, no, cousin. I am in thy power now; and
thou canst throw me into prison as the attainted Lord de Montfort.
Do so if thou wilt; but I were fooling indeed to give up my free
range, my power, my authority, to be a poor suspected, pitied, maimed
pensioner on thy bounty. Park, quotha! with none to speak to from
morn to night. I can have my will of any park of thine I please,
whenever I choose!"
Edward would have persisted, but Henry silenced him effectually, with
a sarcastic hint that his favours had done little for Richard. Then
the King prayed at least that he would consider his child; but to the
proposal of taking her to the palace, Henry returned an indignant
negative: "He had seen enough of the court ladies," he said.
A hot glow of anger lighted Edward's cheek, for he loved his mother;
but the blind beggar could not be the subject of his wrath, and he
merely said, "Thou didst not know my wife!"
"Ay, I will believe the court as perfect as thou thinkest to make the
isle; but Bessee shall not bide there. She is the blind beggar's
child, and such shall she remain. Send me to a dungeon, as I said,
and thou canst pen her in a convent, or make her a menial to thy
princesses, as thou wilt; but while my life and my freedom are my own
I keep my child."
"I could find it in my heart to arrest thee," said Edward, "when I
look at that beautiful child, and think to what thou wouldst bring
her."
"She is fair then," said the beggar eagerly.
"Fair! She is the loveliest child mine eyes have looked on: though
some of mine own have been very lovely. But she hath the very
features of our royal line--though with eyes deep and dark, like thy
father's, or my Richard's--and a dark glow of sunny health on her
fair skin. She bears her, too, right royally. Henry, thou canst not
wreck the fate of a child like that."
"No, assuredly," said Henry dryly. "I have not done so ill by her
hitherto, by thine own showing, that I should not be trusted with her
for the future."
"The parting would be bitter," began Edward "but thou shouldst see
her often."
"Slay me, and make her a ward of the crown," said Henry. "Otherwise
I will need no man's leave for seeing my daughter. But ask her. If
she will go with thee, I will say no more."
King Edward was fond of children--most indulgent to his own, and kind
to all little ones, who, attracted by the sweetness which his stern,
grave, beautiful countenance would assume when he looked at them--
always made friends with him readily. So he trusted to this
fascination in the case of the little Lady Elizabeth. He held out
his hands to her, and claimed her as his cousin; and she came readily
to him, and stood between his knees. "Little cousin, he said, "wilt
thou come home with me, to be with my two little maids, the elder
much of thine age?"
"You are a red monk!" said Bessee, amazed.
"That's his shell, Bessee," said her father; "he has come a-masking,
and forgot his part."
"I don't like masking," said Bessee, trying to get away.
"Then we will mask no more," said Edward. "Thou hast looked in my
face long enough with those great black eyes. Dost know me, child?"
Bessee cast the black eyes down, and coloured.
"Dost know me?" he repeated.
"I think," she whispered at last, "that you are masking still. You
are like--like the King that was crowned at the Abbey."
"Well said, little maid! And shall I take thee home, and give thee
pearls and emeralds to braid thy locks, instead of these heath-
bells?"
"Father," said Bessee, trying to withdraw her little hands out of
Edward's large one, which held both fast. "O father, is he masking
still?"
"No, child; it is the King indeed," said Henry. "Hear what he saith
to thee."
And again Edward spoke of all that would tempt a child.
"Father," said Bessee, "if father comes!"
"No, Bessee," said her father; "I have done with palaces. No places
they for blind beggars."
"Oh, let me go! let me go!" cried Bessee, struggling. And as the
King released her hands, she flew to her father. "He would lose
himself without me! I must be with father. O King, go away!
Father, don't let him take me! Let me cry for Jock of the Wooden
Spoon, and Trig One Leg, and Hedgerow Wat!"
"Hush, hush, Bess!" said Henry, not desirous that his royal cousin
should understand the strength of his body-guard of honour. "The
King here is as trusty and loyal as the boldest beggar among us. He
only gave thee thy choice between him and me!"
"Thee, thee, father. He can't want me. He has two eyes and two
hands, and a queen and two little girls; and thou hast only me!" and
she clung round her father's neck.
"Little one," said Edward, "thou need'st not shrink from me. I will
not take thee away. Thy father hath a treasure, and 'tis his part to
strive not to throw it away. Only should either thou or he ever
condescend so far as to seek for counsel with this poor cousin of
thine, send this token to me, and I will be with thee."
But it was full nine years ere Edward saw that jewel again. Meantime
he was not entirely without knowledge of his kinsman. On every great
occasion the figure, conspicuous for the scrupulous cleanliness of
the dark russet gown, and the careful arrangement of the hair and
beard, and the fillet which covered the eyes, as well as for a lordly
bearing, that even the stoop of blindness could not disguise, was to
be seen dominating over all the other beggars, sitting on the steps
of church or palace gates, as if they had been a throne; troubling
himself little to beg, but exchanging shrewd remarks with all who
addressed him, and raising many a laugh among the bystanders.
Leonillo lay contented at his feet; but after just enough time had
elapsed to show that he cared not for the King's remonstrance, he
ceased to be accompanied by his little daughter, and was led by a boy
in her stead.
The King, making inquiries of the Grand Prior, learnt that pretty
Bessee was daily deposited at the sisterhood of Poor Clares, where
she remained while her father was out on his begging expeditions, and
learnt such breeding as convents then gave.
"In sooth," said Sir Robert, "honest Hal believes it is all for good-
will and charity and love to the pretty little wench; and so it is in
great part: but methought it best to give a hint to the mother
prioress that the child came of good blood. She is a discreet lady,
and knows how to deal with her; and truly she tells me their house
has prospered since the little one came to them. Every feast-day
morn have they found their alms-dish weightier with coin than ever
she knew it before."
When Edward repeated this intelligence to his queen, she recollected
Dame Idonea's gossiping information--that brave Sir Robert, the
flower of the House of Darcy, had only entered the Order of St. John,
when fair Alda Braithwayte, in the strong enthusiasm of the
Franciscan preaching, had pleaded a vow of virginity against all
suitors, and had finally become a Sister of the Poor Clares. And
after all his wars and wanderings, the regulations of his Order had
ended by bringing the Hospitalier in his old age into the immediate
neighbourhood of Prioress Alda; and into that distant business
intercourse that the heads of religious houses had from time to time
to carry on together.
The world passed on. Eleanor de Montfort came from France, and the
King himself acted the part of a father to her at her marriage with
Llewellyn of Wales. He knew--though she little guessed--that the
beggar, by whom her jewelled train swept with rustling sound, was the
first-born of her father's house, and should have held her hand. Two
years only did that marriage last; Eleanor died, leaving an infant
daughter; and Llewellyn soon after was in arms against the English.
Perhaps Edward bethought him of his cousin's ironical promise to go
with him to the East after the pacification of the whole island, when
he found himself obliged to summon the fierce Pyrenean to pursue the
wild Welsh in their mountains.
CHAPTER XIV--THE QUEEN OF THE DEW-DROPS
"This is the prettiest low-born lass that ever
Ran on a green sward." --Winter's Tale.
It was the summer of 1283; the babe of Carnarvon had been accepted as
the native prince, speaking no tongue but Welsh, and Edward had since
been employed in establishing his dominion over Wales. His
Whitsuntide was kept by the Queen's special entreaty at St.
Winifred's Well. Such wonders had been told her of the miracles
wrought by this favourite Welsh saint, that she hoped that by early
placing her little Welsh-born son under such protection, she might
secure for him healthier and longer life than had been the share of
his brethren.
So to Holy-well went the court and army. Some lodged in the convent
attached to the well; but many and many more dwelt in tents, or
lodged in cottages, or raised huts of boughs of trees. Noble ladies
of Eleanor's suite were glad to obtain a lodging in rude Welsh huts;
and as the weather was beautiful, there was plenty of gay feasting,
dancing, and jousting on the greensward, when the religious
observances of the day were over. Pilgrims thronged from all parts,
attracted both by the presence of the court and the unusual
tranquillity of Wales; and for nearly a mile around the Holy-well it
was like one great motley fair, resorted to by persons of all
stations. Beggars of course were there in numbers, and among them
the unfailing blind beggar of Bethnal Green, who always made a
pilgrimage in the summer to some station of easy access from London,
but whom some wondered to see at such a distance.
"Had he scented that the court was coming?" asked the young nobles.
"Not he; he never haunted courts. He would have kept away had he
known that such a gabbling flock of popinjays were on the wing
thither!"
But the young gallants were chiefly bent on speculating on the vision
of loveliness that had flashed on the eyes of some early visitants at
the well. A maiden in a dark pilgrim dress, and broad hat, which,
however, could not entirely conceal a glowing complexion, at once
rich and pure; perfect features, magnificent dark eyes and hair, and
a tall form, which, though very youthful, was of unmistakable dignity
and grace. She was always at the well exceedingly early in the
morning, moving slowly round it on her beautiful bare feet, and never
looking up from the string of dark beads--the larger ones of amber,
which she held in her fingers--as her lips conned over the prayers
connected with each. No ring was on the delicate hand, no ear-ring
in the ear; there was no ornament in the dress, but such a garb was
wont to be assumed by ladies of any rank when performing a vow; and
its simplicity at once enhanced her beauty, and added to the general
curiosity. Between four and six in the dewy freshness of morning
seemed to be her time for devotion; and though the habits of the
court were early, it was only the first astir who caught a sight of
this Queen of the Dew-drops, as it was the fashion to call her. Late
comers never caught sight of her, and affected incredulity when the
younger and more active knights and squires raved about her. Then it
was reported that the King himself had been seen speaking to her; and
thereupon excitement grew the more intense, because Edward's
exclusive devotion to his Queen had been such, that from his youth up
the most determined scandal had never found a wandering glance to
note in him.
She was the Princess of France--of Navarre--of Aragon--in disguise;
nay, at the Whit-Sunday banquet there were those who cast anxious
glances to the door, expecting that, in the very land of King Arthur,
she would walk in like his errant dames at Pentecost, to demand a
champion. And when a joust was given on the sward, young Sir John de
Mohun, the Lord of Dunster, announced his intention of tilting in
honour of no one save the Queen of the Dew-drops. The ladies of the
court were rather scandalized, and appealed to the King whether the
choice of an unknown girl, of no acknowledged rank, should be
permitted; but the King, strict punctilious man as he was, only
laughed, and adjudged the Queen of the Dew-drops to be fully worthy
of the honour.
After this, early rising became the fashion of Holy-well. All the
gentlemen got up early to look at the Queen of the Dew-drops; and all
the ladies got up early to see that the gentlemen did not get into
mischief; and the maiden's devotions became far from solitary; but
she moved on, with a sort of superb unconcern, never lifting the dark
fringes that veiled the eyes so steadily fixed on the beads that
dropped through her fingers, until, as she finished, she raised up
her head with a straightforward fearless look at the way she was
going, so completely self-possessed that no one ventured to accost
her, and to follow her at less than such a respectful distance, that
she was always lost sight of in the wood.
At last, late one evening, there was a sudden start of exultant
satisfaction among some of the young men who were lounging on the
green; for the most part not the nobles of the court, but certain
young merchants of London and Bristol, who had followed the course of
pilgrimage by the magnetism of fashionable resort. The Queen of the
Dew-drops was seen, carrying a pitcher! Up started four or five
gallants, offering assistance, and standing round her, wrangling with
one another, and besetting her steps.
"Let me pass, gentles," she said with dignity, "I am carrying wine in
haste to my father."
"Nay, fair one, you pass not our bounds without toll," said the
portliest of the set.
"Hush, rudesby; fair dames in disguise must be treated after other
sort."
Every variety of half-insulting compliment was pouring upon her; but
she, with head erect, and steady foot, still quietly moved on, taking
no notice, till a hand was laid on her pitcher.
"Let go!" then she said in no terrified voice. "Let go, Sir, or I
can summon help."
And as if to realize her words, the intrusive hand was thrust aside
by a powerful arm, and a voice exclaimed -
"This lady is to pass free, Sir! None of your insolence!"
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