Books: The Prince and the Page
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Charlotte M. Yonge >> The Prince and the Page
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"Oh yes, we know you are politic, Master Richard," was the sneering
reply, "but you need not fear my quarrelling with your citizen
friends. I would not be the man to face Prince Edward if I had made
too free with any of the caitiffs."
"Hark! Master Hamlyn, the tumult is louder than ever," interposed an
elderly man of lower rank, who was in charge of the stout rowers in
the royal colours of red and gold. "Young gentlemen, the Mass must
be ended; it were better to draw to the stairs, than to talk of you
know not what," he muttered.
Hamlyn de Valence, who held the rudder, steered towards the wide
stone steps that descended to the river, nearest to the apse in which
"St. Peter's Abbey Church" terminated before Henry VII. had added his
chapel. At that moment a louder burst of sound, half imprecation,
half shriek, was heard; there was a heavy splash a little way above,
and a small blue bundle was seen on the river, apparently totally
unheeded by the frantic crowd on the bank. No sooner was it seen by
Richard, however, than he threw back his mantle and sprang out of the
barge. There was a loud cry from the third page, a little fellow of
nine or ten years old; but Richard gallantly swam out, battled with
the current, and succeeded in laying hold of a young child, with whom
he made for the barge, partly aided by the stream; but he was
breathless, and heartily glad to reach the boat and support himself
against the gunwale.
"A pretty boat companion you!" said Hamlyn maliciously. "How are we
to take you in, over the velvet cushions?"
The little page gave an expostulating cry.
"Hold the child an instant, John," gasped Richard, raising it towards
his younger friend; "I will but recover breath, and then land and
seek out her friends."
"How is this?" said a voice above them; and looking up, they found
that while all had been absorbed in the rescue, the Prince, with his
little son in his arms and his wife hanging on his arm, had come to
the stone stairs, and was looking down. "Richard overboard!"
"A child fell over the bank, my Lord," eagerly shouted the little
John, with cap in hand, "and he swam out to pick it up."
"Into the barge instantly, Richard," commanded the Prince. "'Tis as
much as his life is worth to remain in this cold stream!"
And truly Richard was beginning to feel as much. He was assisted in
by two of the oarsmen, and the barge then putting towards the steps,
the Princess was handed into her place, and began instantly to ask
after the poor child. It had not been long enough in the water to
lose its consciousness, though it had hitherto been too much
frightened to cry; but it no sooner opened a wide pair of dark eyes
to find itself in strange hands, than it set up a lamentable wail,
calling in broken accents for "Da-da."
"Let me take it ashore at once, gracious lady," said Richard, revived
by a draught of wine from the stores provided for the long day; "I
will find its friends."
"Nay," said the Princess, "it were frenzy to take it thus in its wet
garments; and frenzy to remain in thine, Richard." As she spoke, the
Prince and the other persons of the suite had embarked, and the barge
was pushing away from the steps. "Give the child to me," she added,
holding out her arms, and disregarding a remonstrance from one of her
ladies, disregarding too the sobs and struggles of the child, whom
she strove to soothe, while hastily removing the little thing's
soaked blue frock and hood, and wrapping it up in a warm woollen
cloak. "It is a pretty little maiden," she said, "and not ill cared
for. Some mother's heart must be bursting for her!-- Hush thee! hush
thee, little one; we will take thee home and clothe thee, and then
thou shalt go to thy mother," she added, in better English than she
had spoken four years earlier in Alton Wood. But the child still
cried for her da-da, and the Princess asked again, "What is thy
father's name, little maid?"
"Pere," she answered, with a peculiar accent that made the Prince
say, "That is a Provencal tongue."
"They are Provencal eyes likewise," added Eleanor. "See how like
their hue is to Richard's own;" and in Provencal she repeated the
question what the father's name and the child's own might be. But
"Pere" again, and "Bessee, pretty Bessee," was all the answer she
obtained, the last in unmistakable English.
"I thought," said Eleanor, "that it was only my own children that
scarce knew whether they spoke English, Languedoc, or Langued'oui."
"It was the same with us, Lady," said Richard. "Father Adam was wont
to say we were a little Babel."
The child looked towards him on hearing his voice, and held out her
hands to go to him, reiterating an entreaty to be taken to her
father.
"She is probably the child of some minstrel or troubadour," said the
Prince. "We will send in search of him as soon as we have reached
the Savoy."
The Savoy Palace had been built for Queen Eleanor's obnoxious uncle,
Prince Thomas of Savoy, and had recently been purchased by the Queen
herself, as a wedding gift for her son Edmund; but in the meantime
Edward and his family were occupying it during their stay near
Westminster, and their barge was brought up to the wide stairs of its
noble court. Richard was obliged to give up the child to the
Princess and her ladies, though she shrieked after him so
pertinaciously, that Eleanor called to him to return so soon as he
should have changed his garments.
In a few minutes he again appeared, and found the little girl dressed
in a little garment of one of the royal children, but totally
insensible to the honour, turning away from all the dainties offered
to her, and sobbing for her father, much to the indignation of the
two little princes, Henry and John, who stood hand in hand staring at
her. She flew to him directly, with a broken entreaty that she might
be taken to her father. Again they tried questioning her, but
Richard, whether speaking English or Provencal, always succeeded in
obtaining readier and more comprehensible replies than did the
Princess. Whether she recognized him as her preserver, or whether
his language had a familiar tone, she seemed exclusively attracted by
him; and he it was who learnt that she lived at home--far off--on the
Green near the red monks, and that her father could not see--he would
be lost without Bessee to lead him. And the little creature, hardly
three years old if so much, was evidently in the greatest trouble at
her father having lost her guidance and protection.
Richard, touched and flattered by the little maiden's exclusive
preference, and owning in her Provencal eyes and speech something
strangely like his own young sister Eleanor, entreated permission to
be himself the person to take her in search of her friends. The
Princess added her persuasions, declaring it would be cruel to send
the poor little thing with another stranger, and that his Provencal
tongue was needed in order to discovering her father among the
troubadours.
Edward yielded to her persuasion, adding, however, that Richard must
take two men-at-arms with him, and gravely bidding him be on his
guard. Nor would he permit him to be accompanied by little John de
Mohun, who, half page, half hostage, had lately been added to the
Princess's train, and being often bullied and teased by Hamlyn and
his fellows, had vehemently attached himself to Richard, and now
entreated in vain to go with him on the adventure. In fact, Prince
Edward was a stern disciplinarian, equally severe against either
familiarity or insolence towards the external world, and especially
towards any one connected with London. If Richard ever gave him any
offence, it was by a certain freedom of manner towards inferiors,
such as the Earl of Leicester had diligently inculcated on his
family, but which more than once had excited a shade of vexation on
the Prince's part. Even after Richard had reached the door, he was
called back and commanded on no pretext to loiter or enter on any
dispute, and if his search should detain him late, to sleep at the
Tower, rather than be questioned and stopped at any of the gates
which were guarded at night by the citizens.
CHAPTER V--THE OLD KNIGHT OF THE HOSPITAL
"The warriors of the sacred grave,
Who looked to Christ for laws."
Lord Houghton.
Richard summoned a small boat, and with two stout men-at-arms, of
whom Adam de Gourdon was one, prepared again to cross the river.
Leonillo ran down the stone stairs with a wistful look of entreaty
and it occurred to both Richard and Adam, that, could the child only
lead them to the place where her father had sat, the dog's scent
might prove their most efficient guide.
Little Bessee seemed quite comforted when on her way back to her
father, and sat on Richard's knee, eating the comfits with which the
Princess had provided her, and making him cut a figure that seemed
somewhat to amaze the other boat-loads whom they encountered on the
river.
When they landed, the throng was more dispersed, but revelry and
sports of all kinds were going on fast and furiously; each door of
the Abbey was besieged by hungry crowds receiving their dole, and
Richard's inquiries for a blind man who had lost his child were
little heeded, or met with no satisfactory answer. Bessee herself
was bewildered, and incapable of finding her father's late station;
and Richard was becoming perplexed, and doubtful whether he ought to
take her back, as well as somewhat put out of countenance by the
laughter of Thomas de Clare, and other young nobles, who rallied him
on his strange charge.
At last the little girl's face lightened as at sight of something
familiar. "Good red monks," she said. "They give Bessee soup--make
father well."
With a ray of hope, Richard advanced to a party of Brethren of St.
John, who were mounting at the Abbey gate to return to their house at
Spitalfields, and doffing his bonnet, intimated a desire to address
the tall old war-worn knight with a benevolent face, who was
adjusting his scarlet cloak, before mounting a gray Arab steed
looking as old and worthy as himself.
"Ha! a young Crusader, I perceive," was the greeting of the old
knight, as his eye fell on the white cross on Richard's mantle.
"Welcome, brother! Dost thou need counsel on thy goodly Eastern
way?"
"Thanks, reverend Sir," returned Richard, "but my present purpose was
to seek for the father of this little one, who fell into the river in
the press. She pointed to you, saying she had received your bounty."
"It is Blind Hal's child, Sir Robert!" exclaimed a serving-brother in
black, coming eagerly forward; "the villeins on the green told me the
poor knave was distraught at having lost his child in the throng!"
"What brought he her there for?" exclaimed Sir Robert. "Poor fool!
his wits must have forsaken him!"
"The child had a craving to see the show," replied the Brother, "so
Hob the cobbler told me; and all went well till my Lord of Pembroke's
retainers forced all right and left to make way in the crowd. Hal
was thrown down, and the child thrust away till they feared she had
fallen over the bank. Hob and his wife were fain to get the poor man
away, for his moans and fierce words were awful: and he was not a
little hurt in the scuffle, so I e'en gave them leave to lay him in
the cart that brought up your reverence's vestments, and the gear we
lent the Abbey for the show."
"Right, Brother Hilary," said Sir Robert; "and now the poor knave
will have his best healing.--He must have been a good soldier once,"
he added to Richard; "but he is a mere fragment of a man, wasted in
your Earl of Leicester's wars."
"Where dwells he?" asked Richard, keenly interested in all his
father's old followers; "I would fain restore him his child."
"In a hut on Bednall Green," answered the serving-brother; "but twice
or thrice a week he comes to the Spital to have his hurts looked to."
"Ay! we tell him his little witch must soon be shut out! She turns
the heads of all our brethren," said Sir Robert, smiling. "Wild work
she makes with our novices."
"Wilder with our Knights Commanders, maybe, Sir," retorted, laughing,
a fair open-faced youth in his novitiate. "I shall some day warn Hal
how our brethren, the Templars, are said to play at ball with tender
babes on their lances."
"No scandal about our brethren of the Temple, Rayland," said Sir
Robert, looking grave for a moment.--"Young Sir, it would be a favour
if you would ride with us; we would gladly show you the way to
Bednall Green."
"I should rejoice to go, Sir," returned Richard, "but I am of Prince
Edward's household--Richard Fowen; and my horse is on the other side
of the river."
"That is soon remedied," said Sir Robert, who seemed to have taken a
great fancy to Richard, either for the sake of his crossed shoulder,
or of his kindness to the little plaything of the Spital. "Our young
brother, Engelbert von Fuchstein, has leave to tarry this night with
his brother in the train of the King of the Romans, and his horse is
at your service, if you will do our poor Spital the favour to tarry
there this night, and ride it back in the morn to meet him at
Westminster."
Richard knew that this invitation might be safely accepted without
danger of giving umbrage to the Prince, who was on the best terms
with the Knights of the Hospital. He therefore dismissed Gourdon and
the other man-at-arms with a message explaining the matter; and
warmly thanking the old Grand Prior, laid one hand on the saddle of
the great ponderous beast that was led up to him, and vaulted on its
back without touching the stirrup.
"Well done, my young master," said Sir Robert, "it is easy to see you
are of the Prince's household."
"I cannot yet do as the Prince can," said Richard,--"take this leap
in full armour."
"No; and let me give you a bit of counsel, fair Sir. Such pastimes
are very well for the tiltyard, but they should be laid aside in the
blessed Land, and strength reserved for the one cause and purpose."
He crossed himself; and in the meantime, Bessee intimated her
imperious purpose of not riding before Brother Hilary, but being
perched before Richard on the enormous cream-coloured animal, whence
he was looking down from a considerable elevation upon Sir Robert on
his slender Arab.
"These are the German monsters that our brethren bring over," said
Sir Robert. "Mark me, young brother, cumber not yourself with these
beasts of Europe, which are good for nothing but food for foul birds
in the East. Purvey yourself of an Arab as soon as you land. There
is a rogue at Acre, one Ali by name, who will not cheat you more than
is reasonable, so you mention my name to him, Sir Robert Darcy, at
your service."
"Thanks, reverend Father," returned Richard, "but I am but a landless
page, and the Prince mounts me. Said you this poor man had been
wounded in the late wars?"
"Ay, hacked and hewed worse than by the Infidels themselves! Woeful
it is that here, at home, men's blood should be wasted on your own
petty feuds. This same Barons' war now hath cost as much downright
courage as would have brought us back to Jerusalem, and all thrown
away, without a cause, with no honour, no hope."
"Not without a cause," Richard could not help saying.
"Nay," said the old knight; "no cause is worth the taking of a life,
save the cause of the Holy Sepulchre. What be these matters of taxes
and laws to ask a man to shed his blood for? Alack, the temper of
the cross-bearer is dying out! I pray I may not see this Crusade end
like half those I have beheld--and the cross on the shoulder become
no better than a mockery."
"That may scarcely be with such leaders as the Prince and the King of
France," said Richard.
"Well, well, the Prince is untried; and for King Louis, he is as holy
a man as ever lived since King Godfrey of blessed memory, but he has
bad luck, ever bad luck. The Saints forefend, but I trow he will
listen to some crazy counsel from Rome, belike, or some barefooted
hermit--very holy, no doubt, but who does not know a Greek from a
Saracen, or a horse's head from his tail--and will go to some
pestilential hole like that foul Egyptian swamp, where we stayed till
our skin was the colour of an old boot, in hopes of converting the
Sultan of Babylon, or the Old Man of the Mountain, or what not, and
there he will stay till the flower of his forces have wasted away."
"Were you in Egypt with King Louis?" eagerly exclaimed Richard.
"Ay, marry, was I, and a goodly land it is; but I saw many a good
man-at-arms perish miserably in a marsh, who might have been the
saving of the Holy City. Why, I myself have never been the same man
since! Never could do a month's service out of the infirmary at
Acre, though after all there's no work I like so well as the hospital
business, and for the last five years I have had to stay here
training young brethren! Oh, young man! I envy you your first
stroke for the Holy Sepulchre! Would that the Grand-Master would
hear my entreaty. I am too old to be worth sparing, and I would fain
have one more chance of dying under the banner of the Order!--But I
am setting you a bad example, son Raynal; a Hospitalier has no will.-
-And look you, young Sir Page, if you stay out at sunset in that
clime, 'tis all up with you. And you should veil your helmet well,
or the sun smites on your head as deadly as a flake of Greek fire."
So rambled on good old Sir Robert Darcy, Grand Prior of England, a
perfect dragon among the Saracens, but everywhere else the mildest
and most benevolent of men; his discourse strangely mingling together
the deepest enthusiasm with a business-like common-sense appreciation
of ways and means, and with minute directions, precautions, and
anecdotes, gathered from his practical experience both as captain in
the field, priest in the Church, and surgeon in the hospital, and all
seen from the most sunshiny point of view.
Meanwhile, they were riding along the Strand, a beautiful open road,
with grassy borders shelving down to the Thames. They passed through
the City of London. The Hospital lay beyond the walls, but the
Marshes of Moorfields that protected them were not passable without a
long circuit; and the fortified gates stood open at Temple Bar, where
the Hospitaliers, looking towards the Round Church and stately
buildings of the Preceptory, saluted the white-cloaked figures moving
about it, with courtesy grim and distant in all but Sir Robert Darcy,
who could not even hate a Templar, a creature to the ordinary
Hospitalier far more detestable than a Saracen. On then, up ground
beginning to rise, below which the little muddy stream called the
Flete stagnated along its way, meandering to the Thames. Thatched
hovels and wooden booths left so narrow a passage that the horsemen
were forced to move in single file, and did not gain a clearer space
even when the stone houses of merchants began to stand thick on
Ludgate Hill, their carved wooden balconies so projecting, that it
would seem to have been an object with the citizens to be able to
shake hands across the street. The city was comparatively empty and
quiet, as all the world were keeping holiday at Westminster; but even
as it was, the passengers seemed to swarm in the streets, and knots
of persons who had been unable to witness the spectacle, sat with
gazing children upon the stairs outside the houses, to admire the
fragments of the pageant that came their way. Acclamations of
delight greeted the appearance of the scarlet-mantled Hospitaliers,
such as Richard had often heard in his boyhood, when riding in his
father's train, but far less frequently since he had been a part of
the Prince's retinue. And equally diverse was the merry nod and
smile of Sir Robert to each gaping shouting group of little ones,
from the stately distant courtesy with which Edward returned the
popular salutations. He could be gracious--he could not be friendly
except to a few.
They passed the capitular buildings of St. Paul's, with the beautiful
cathedral towering over them, and in its rear, numerous booths for
the purchase of rosaries--recent inventions then of St. Dominic, the
great friend of Richard's stern grandfather, the persecutor of the
Albigenses. Sir Robert drew up, and declared he must buy one for the
little maid as a remembrance of the day, and then found she was fast
asleep; but he nevertheless purchased a black-beaded chaplet, giving
for it one of the sorely-clipped coins of King Henry.
"Prithee let me have one likewise, holy Sir," quoth Richard, "in
memory of the talk that hath taught me so much of the import of my
crusading vow."
"Thou shalt bring me for it one of the olive of Bethlehem," said Sir
Robert; "I have given away all I brought from the East. They are so
great a boon to our poor sick folk that I wish I had brought twice as
many, but to me they have always a Saracen look. Your Moslem always
fingers one much of the same fashion as he parleys."
Ludgate, freshly built, and adorned with new figures to represent the
fabulous King Lud, was not yet closed for the night; and the party
came forth beyond the walls, with the desolate Moorfields to their
left, and before them a number of rising villages clustered round
their churches.
The Hospital, a grand fortified monastery, was already to be seen
over the fields; but Sir Robert, sending home the rest of his troop,
turned aside with Richard and Brother Hilary towards the common, with
a border of cottages around it, which went by the name of Bednall
Green.
Brother Hilary knew the hut inhabited by Blind Hal, and led the way
to it. Low and mud-built, thatched, and with a wattled door, it had
a wretched appearance; but the old woman who came to the door was not
ill clad. "Blessings on you, holy Father!" she cried; "do I see the
child, my lamb, my lady-bird! Would that she may come in time to
cheer her poor father!"
"How is it with him then, Gammer?" demanded Sir Robert, springing to
the ground with the alacrity of a doctor anxious about his patient.
"Ill, very ill, Sir. Whether the horse's feet hurt his old wound, or
whether it be the loss of the child, he hath done nought but moan and
rave, and lie as one dead ever since they brought him home. He is
lying in one of the dead swoons now! It were not well that the child
saw him."
But Bessee, awakening with a cry of joy, saw her borne, and struggled
to go to her father, whose name she called on with all her might,
disregarding the caresses of the old woman, and the endeavour made by
Richard to restrain without alarming her, while Sir Robert went into
the hut to endeavour to restore the sufferer.
Suddenly a cry broke from within; and Richard, turning at the voice,
beheld the blind man sitting up on his pallet with arms outstretched.
"My child!--My Father! hast thou brought her to visit me in limbo?"
he cried.
"He raves!" said Richard, using his strength to withhold the child,
who broke out into a shriek.
"Nay, nay! she doth not abide here!" he exclaimed. "Her spirit is
pure! My sins are not visited on her beyond the grave!"
"Thou art on the earthly side of the grave still, my son," said Sir
Robert, at the same time as Bessee sprang from Richard, and nestled
on his breast, clinging to his neck.
"My babe--my Bessee!" he exclaimed, gathering her close to him.
"Living, living, indeed! Yet how may it be! Surely this is the
other world. That voice sounds not among the living!"
"It is the voice of the youth who saved thy child," said the Grand
Prior.
"Speak again! Let him speak again!" implored the beggar.
"Can I do aught for you, good man?" asked Richard.
Again there was a strange start and thrill of amazement.
"Only for Heaven's sake tell me who thou art!"
"A page of Prince Edward's good man. I am called Richard Fowen! And
who, for Heaven's sake, are you?" added Richard, as Leonillo, who had
been smelling about and investigating, threw himself on the blind man
in a transport of caresses. "Off, Leon--off!" cried Richard. "It is
but a dog!--Fear not, little one!--Tell me, tell me," he added,
trembling, as he knelt before the miserable object, holding back the
eager Leonillo with one arm round his neck, "who art thou, thou ghost
of former times?"
"Knowst me not, Richard?" returned a suppressed voice in Provencal.
"Henry! Henry!" exclaimed Richard, and fell upon the foot of the low
bed, weeping bitterly. "Is it come to this?"
"Ay, even to this," said the blind man, "that two sons of one father
meet unknown--one with a changed name, the other with none at all,
neither with the honoured one they were born to."
"Alack, alack!" was all Richard could say at the first moment, as he
lifted himself up to look again at the first-born of his parents, the
head of the brave troop of brethren, the gay, handsome, imperious
young Lord de Montfort, whose proud head and gallant bearing he had
looked at with a younger brother's imitative deference. What did he
see but a wreck of a man, sitting crouched on the wretched bed, the
left arm a mere stump, a bandage where the bright sarcastic eyes used
to flash forth their dark fire, deep scars on all the small portion
of the face that was visible through the over-grown masses of hair
and beard, so plentifully sprinkled with white, that it would have
seemed incredible that this man was but eight months older than the
Prince, whose rival he had always been in personal beauty and
activity. The beautiful child, clasped close to his breast, her face
buried on his shoulder under his shaggy locks, was a strange contrast
to his appearance, but only added to the look of piteous helplessness
and desolation, as she hung upon him in her alarm at the agitation
around her.
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