Books: The Prince and the Page

C >> Charlotte M. Yonge >> The Prince and the Page

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Well might John of Dunster stand dazzled and amazed, but hesitation
or delay there was none. Then and there, by the Grand Prior himself,
was the ceremony performed, without a word of further explanation.
The rite over, when the bridegroom took the bride's hand to follow,
as all were marshalled on their way, he knew not whither, she looked
up to him through her dark eyelashes, and murmured, "They would not
have it otherwise!"

"Deem you that I would?" said the knight fervently, pressing her
hand.

"I deemed that you should know all--who I am," she faltered.

"My wife, the Lady of Dunster. That is all I need to know," replied
Sir John, with the honest trustworthy look that showed it was indeed
enough to secure his heart-whole love and reverence.

The great hall of the Spital was decked for the bridal feast. The
bride and bridegroom were placed at the head of the table, and the
King gave up his place beside the bride to her blind father. All the
space within the cloister without was strewn with rushes, where sat
and feasted the whole fraternity of beggars; and well did the Grand
Prior and his knights do their part in the entertainment.

Then when the banquet was drawing to its close, the blind beggar bade
the boy that waited near him fetch his harp. And, as had often
before been his practice, he sang in a deep manly voice, to the boy's
accompaniment on his harp. But the song that then he sang had never
been heard before, nor was its exact like ever heard again; though
tradition has handed down a few of the main features, and (as may be
seen by this veracious narration) somewhat vulgarized them:-

"A poore beggar's daughter did dwell on a greene,
Who might for her faireness have well been a queene;
A blithe bonny lasse and a dainty was she,
And many one called her pretty Bessee."

Even the King, who had so well guarded the secret, was entirely
unprepared to hear the Montfort parentage thus publicly avowed; and
the bride, who had as little known of her father's intentions, sat
with downcast eyes, blushing and tearful, while the beggar's
recitative went briefly and somewhat tremulously over his
resuscitation, under the hands of the fair and faithful Isabel. Her
hand was held by her bridegroom from the first, with a pressure meant
to assure her that no discovery could alter his love and regard; but
when the name of Montfort sounded on his ear, the hand wrung hers
with anxiety; and when the entire tale had been told, and the last
chord was dying away, he murmured, "Look up at me, my loveliest. Now
I know why I first loved thine eyes. Thou art dearer to me than
ever, for the sake of my first and best friend!"

His words were only for herself. The King was saying aloud,

"Well sung, fair cousin! A health, my Lords and Knights, for Sir
Henry de Montfort, Earl of Leicester."

"Not so, Lords and Knights!" called this strange personage, the only
one who would thus have contradicted the King; "the Earl of Leicester
has long ago been dead, as you have heard. If you drink, let it be
to Blind Hal of Bethnal Green."

Nor could all the entreaties of daughter, son-in-law, nor King, move
him from his purpose of living and dying as Blind Hal, the beggar.
He had tasted too long of liberty, he said, to put himself under
constraint. To live in Somersetshire, as his daughter wished, would
have been banishment and solitude to one used to divert himself with
every humour of the city; and to be, as he declared, a far more
complete king of the beggars than ever his cousin Edward was over
England. All he would consent to, was that a room in a lodge in
Windsor Park should be set apart for him under charge of Adam de
Gourdon, who had been present at this scene, and was infinitely
rejoiced at the sight of a scion of the House of Montfort. For the
rest, he bade every one to forget his avowal, which, as he said, he
had only made that the blanch lion might share with the Mohun cross;
and as he added to Princess Eleanor, "that you court dames may never
flout at pretty Bessee! Had the Cheddar Yeoman been the true man,
none had ever known that she was a Montfort."

"Would you have given her to the Cheddar Yeoman?" burst out Joan
furiously.

"That he will say so, to anger thee, is certain, Joan," said the
King. "Farewell, Henry. Remember, I hold thee bound to be my
comrade when I can return to the Holy War."

"Ay, when you have tamed Scotland, even as you have tamed Wales,"
returned Henry.

"No fear of my good brother Alexander's realm needing such taming.
Heaven forbid!" said Edward.

But the beggar parted from him with a laugh.

CHAPTER XVI--THE PAGE'S MEMORY

The pure calm picture of a blameless friend.
Lyra Apostolica.

Ten years later, King Edward was walking in the park at Windsor with
slow and weary steps. His rich dark brown hair and beard were lined
with gray, his face was not only grave but worn and melancholy, and
more severe than ever. The sorrow of his life, his queen's death,
had fallen on him, and with her had gone much of softening influence;
the only son who had been spared to him was, though a mere child,
grieving him by the wayward frivolities not of a strong but of a weak
nature; he had wrought much for his country's good, but had often
been thwarted and never thanked; his mercies and benefits were
forgotten, his justice counted as harshness, and hatred and
opposition had met him everywhere. Above all, and weighting him
perhaps most severely, was that his first step beyond his just bounds
had been taken in the North. John Baliol was indeed king, but Edward
in his zeal for discipline had bound Scotland with obligations--for
her good indeed, but beyond his just right to impose; and the sense
of aggression was embittering him against the Scottish resistance,
while at the same time adding to his sadness.

A knight came forth from one of the paths that led into that along
which he was pacing with folded arms, and unwilling to break upon his
mood, stood waiting, till Edward himself looked up and asked
impatiently, "So, Sir John, what now? Another outbreak of those
intolerable Scotch?"

"Not so, my Lord; but the Bailiff of Acre awaits to see you."

"Bailiff of Acre! What is the Bailiff of Acre to me? I cannot hear
all their importunities for a crusade! Heaven knows how gladly I
would hasten to the Holy War, if these savage Scots would give me
peace at home. I am weary of their solicitations. Cannot you tell
him I would be private, John?"

"My Lord, he says he has matter for your private ear, concerning one
whom you met in Palestine--and, my Lord, you will sure remember him--
Sir Reginald Ferrers."

"The friend of Richard!" said Edward, with a changed countenance.
"Bring him with you to your father-in-law's lodge, John. If there be
aught to hear of the House of Montfort, it concerns him and you
likewise. I was on my way thither."

In a short time the woodland lodge, in one of the most beautiful
glades of Windsor Forest, beheld the King seated on a bench placed
beneath a magnificent oak, standing alone in its own glade, and
beside him the Blind Beggar in his russet suit; far less changed than
his royal cousin during these years. Since Edward's great sorrow,
Henry de Montfort had held less apart from him; and whenever the King
was at leisure to snatch a short retirement at one of his hunting
lodges, he always sent an intimation to the beggar, who would journey
down on a sober ass, and under the care of De Gourdon, now the chief
of the hunting staff, would meet the King in some sylvan glade. Why
it was a comfort to Edward to be with him, it would be hard to say;
probably from the habit of old fellowship, for Henry's humour had not
grown more courtly or less caustic.

From under the trees came John de Mohun, now a brave, stout, hearty-
looking English baron; and with him, wrapped in a battered and soiled
scarlet mantle, a war-worn soldier, his complexion tanned to deep
brown, his hair bleached with toil and sun, a scar on his cheek, a
halt on his step--altogether a man in whom none would have recognized
the bright, graceful, high-spirited young Hospitalier of twenty years
since. Only when he spoke, and the smiling light beamed in his eye,
could he be known for Sir Reginald Ferrers.

He would have bent his knee, but Edward took his hand, and bowing his
own bared head said, "It is we who should crave a blessing from you,
holy Father, last defender of the sacred land."

"Alas, my Lord," said Sir Raynald, as he made the gesture of
blessing; "Heaven's will he done! Had we but been worthier! Sir,"
he added, "I am in no guise for a royal presence, but I have been
sent home from Cyprus to recover from my wounds; and I had a message
for you which I deemed you would gladly hear before I had joined mine
Order."

"A message?" said Edward.

"A message from a dying penitent, craving pardon," replied Sir
Raynald.

"If it concerns the House of Montfort, speak on," said Edward. "None
are so near to it as those present with me!"

"Thou hast guessed right, my Lord King!" replied Sir Raynald. "It
does concern that House. Have I your license to tell my tale at some
length?"

Edward gave permission; and a seat having been brought, Sir Raynald
proceeded to speak of that last Siege of Acre, when, amid the
multitudinous tribunals of mixed races, and the many sanctuaries
which sheltered crime, the unhappy city had become a disgrace to the
Christian name. The Sultan Malek Seraf was concentrating his forces
on it; all the unwarlike inhabitants had been sent away; and the
Knights of the two Orders, with the King of Cyprus and his troops,
had shut themselves up for their last resistance--when among the
mercenaries, who enrolled themselves in the pay of the Hospitaliers,
came a sunburnt warrior, who had evidently had long experience of
Eastern warfare, though his speech was English, French, or Provencal,
according to the person who addressed him. Fierce and dreadful was
the daily strife; the new soldier fought well, but he was not
noticed, till one night. "Ah, Sir!" said the Hospitalier, "even then
our holy and beautiful house was in dire confusion, our garden
trodden down and desolate! One night, I heard strange choking sobs
as of one in anguish. I deemed that one of our wounded had in
delirium wandered into the garden, and was dying there. But I found-
-at the foot of the stone cross we set beside the fountain, where the
attempt on you, Sir, was made--this warrior lying, so writhing with
anguish, that I could scarce believe it was grief, not pain, that
thus wrought with him! I lifted him up, and spake of repentance and
pardon. No pardon for him, he said; it was here that he had slain
his brother! I spake long and earnestly with him, but he called
himself sacrilegious murderer again and again. Nay, he had even--
when after that wretched night you wot of, Sir, he left our House--in
his despair and hope to leave remorse behind, he had become a Moslem,
and fought in the Saracen ranks. All hope he spurned. No mercy for
him, was his cry! I would have deemed so--but oh! I thought of
Richard's parting hope; I remembered our German brethren's tale, how
the Holy Father, the Pope, said there was as little hope of pardon as
that his staff should bud and blossom; and lo, in one night it bore
bud and flower. I besought him for Richard's sake to let me strive
in prayer for him. All day we fought on the walls--all night, beside
Richard's cross, did he lie and weep and groan, and I would pray till
strength failed both of us. Day after day, night after night, and
still the miserable man looked gray with despair, and still he told
me that he knew Absolution would but mock his doom. He could fear,
but could not sorrow. And still I spoke of the Saviour's love of
man--and still I prayed, and all our house prayed with me, though
they knew not who the sinner was for whom I besought their prayers.
At last--it was the day when the towers on the walls had been won--I
came back from the breach, and scarce rested to eat bread, ere I went
on to the Cedar and the Cross. Beside it knelt Sir Simon. 'Father,'
he said, 'I trust that the pardon that takes away the sin of the
world, will take away mine. Grant me Absolution.' He was with us
when, ere dawn, such of us as still lived met for our last mass in
our beautiful chapel. He went forth with us to the wall. By and by,
the command was given that we should make a sally upon the enemy's
camp. We went back for the last time to our house to fetch our
horses; I knew there could be no return, and went for one last look
into our chapel, and at Richard's tomb. Upon it lay the knight,
horribly scathed with Greek fire--he had dragged him there to die.
He was dead, but his looks were upward; his face was as calm as
Richard's was, my Lord, when we laid him down by the fountain. And
now his message, my Lord. He bade me say, if I survived the siege,
that he had often cursed you for the worse revenge of letting him
live to his remorse--now he blessed you for sparing him to repent."

"And Richard's grave has passed to the Infidels!" said Edward, after
a long silence.

"Even as the graves of our brethren--the holiest Grave of all," said
the Knight Hospitalier.

"Cheer up and hope, Father," said the King. "Let me see peace and
order at home, and we will win back Acre, ay and Jerusalem, from the
Infidels. Alas! our young hopes and joys may never return; but, home
purified, then may God bless our arms beneath the Cross."

Fifteen years more, and in the beautiful Westminster Abbey, amid the
gorgeous tombs, there stood four sorrowful figures. A sturdy knight,
with bowed head and mournful look, carefully guided a white-haired,
white-bearded old man, while a beautiful matronly lady was handed by
her tall handsome son.

Among the richly inlaid shrines and monuments, they sought out one
the latest of all, but consisting of one enormous block of stone,
with no ornament save one slender band of inscription.

"Ah!" said the knight, "well do I remember the shipping of that stone
from Acre, little guessing its purpose!"

"Then it is indeed a stone from the ruined Temple of Jerusalem," said
the lady. "Read the inscription, my Son."

The young man read and translated -

"Edwardus Primus. Malleus Scotorum Pactum serva.
Edward the First. The Hammer of the Scots. Keep covenant."

"It was scarce worth while to bring a stone from Jerusalem, to mark
it with 'the Hammer of the Scots!'" said the lady.

"Alas, my cousin Edward!" sighed the beggar. "Ever with a great
scheme, ever going earnestly on to its fulfilment; with a mind too
far above those of other men to be understood or loved as thou
shouldst have been! Alack, that the Scottish temptation came between
thee and the brightness of thy glory! Art thou indeed gone--like
Richard--to Jerusalem; and shall I yet follow thee there? Let us
pray for the peace of his soul, children; for a greater and better
man lies here than England knows or heeds."

Footnotes:

{1} Psalm cxxvi. 6, 7.

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