Books: The Prince and the Page
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Charlotte M. Yonge >> The Prince and the Page
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CHAPTER VIII--RICHARD'S WRAITH
"No distance breaks the tie of blood;
Brothers are brothers evermore;
Nor wrong, nor wrath of deadliest mood,
That magic may o'erpower."--Christian Year.
It was nearly dark when the Prince and the Page landed on the island,
and found the tents already set up in their due order and rank,
according to the discipline that no one durst transgress where Edward
was the commander.
Richard attended him to his pavilion, and being there dismissed until
supper-time, crossed the square space which was always left around
the royal banner, to the tent at the southern corner, which was
regularly appropriated to the pages' use. On lifting its curtain he
was, however, dismayed to see a kirtle there, and imagining that he
must have fallen upon the ladies' quarters, he was retreating with an
apology; when the sharp voice of Dame Idonea called out, "Oh yes,
Master Page! 'tis you that are at home here. I was merely tarrying
till 'twas the will of one of you to come in and look to the poor
child."
And little John of Dunster called from a couch of mantles, "Richard,
oh! is it he at last?"
"It is I," said Richard, advancing into the light of a brass lamp,
hung by chains from the top of the tent. "This is kind indeed, Lady!
But is he indeed so ill at ease?"
"How should he be otherwise, with none of you idle-pated pages
casting a thought to him?"
"I was grieved to leave him--but the Prince summoned me," began
Richard.
"Beshrew thee! Tell me not of princes, as though there were no one
whom thou couldst bid to have a care of the little lad!"
"I did bid Piers--," Richard made another attempt.
"Piers, quotha? Why didst not bid the Jackanapes that sits on the
luggage? A proper warder for a sick babe!"
"I am no babe!" here burst out John; "I am twelve years old come
Martinmas, and I need no tendance but Richard's."
"Ha, ha! So those are all the thanks we ladies get, when we are not
young and fair!" laughed Dame Idonea, rather amused.
"I want no women, young or old," petulantly repeated John; "I want
Richard.--Lift me up, Richard; take away this cloak."
"For his life, no!" returned the Dame; "he has the heats and the
chills on him, and to let him take cold would be mere slaughter."
"Alas!" said Richard, "I hoped nothing ailed him but the sea, and
that landing would make all well."
"As if the sea ever made a child shiver and burn by turns! Nay, 'tis
the trick of the sun in these parts. Strange that the sun himself
should be a mere ally of the Infidel! I tell thee, if the child is
ever to see Dunster again, thou must watch him well, keep him from
the sun by day and the chill by night; or he'll be like the poor
creatures in the French camp out there, whom, I suppose, you found in
fine case."
"Alack yes, Lady!"
"I've seen it many a time; and all their disorders will be creeping
into our camp next. Tell me, is it even as they told us, one king
dead and the other dying?"
Richard began to wonder whether he should ever get her out of his
tent, for she insisted on his telling her every possible particular--
who had died, who had lived, who was sick, who well; and as from the
close connection between the English, French, and Sicilian courts,
whose queens were all sisters, she knew who every one was, and
accounted for the history of each person she inquired after, back to
the last generation--happy if it were not to the third--her
conversation was not quickly over. She ended at last, by desiring
Richard to give her patient some of a febrifuge, which she had
brought with her, every two hours, and when it was all spent, or in
case of any change in the boy's state, to summon her from the ladies'
tent; adding, however, "But what's the use of leaving a pert
springald like thee in charge? Thou wilt sleep like a very dormouse,
I'll warrant! I'd best call Mother Jugge."
"Oh no, no!" cried John; to whom the attendance of Mother Jugge would
have been a worse indignity than the being nursed by Dame Idonea;
"let me have no one but Richard! Richard knows all I want.--Richard,
leave me not again."
"Ay, ay; a little lad ever hangs to a bigger, were he to torture the
life out of him. Small thanks for us women after our good looks be
past. But I'll look in on the child in early morn, thanks or no
thanks; for I know his mother well, and if I can help it, the hyenas
shall not make game of his bones, as I hear them doing by the French
yonder."
John strove to say that, indeed, he thanked her, and had been
infinitely comforted and refreshed by her care, and that all he meant
was to express his distaste to Mother Jugge, the lavender (i.e.
laundress), and his desire for Richard Fowen's company; but he was
little attended to, and apparently more than half offended, the brisk
old lady trotted away.
That island was a dreary place; without a tree or any shelter from
the glare of sun and sea, whose combined influences threatened
blindness, sun-stroke, or at the very least blistered the faces of
those who stepped beyond their tents by day. The Prince's orders,
however, strictly confined his army within its bounds, except that at
twilight parties were sent ashore for water and provisions, under
strict orders, however, to hold no parley with any one from the
French or Sicilian camps, lest they should bring home the infection
of the pestilence; and always under the command of some trustworthy
knight, able and willing to enforce the command.
The Prince himself refused all participation in the counsels of
Charles of Anjou, and confined himself, like his men, entirely to the
fleet and island. Charles contrived to spread a report, that his
displeasure was solely due to his disappointment at being balked of
fighting with the Tunisians; and that instead of indignant grief at
the perversion of the wrecked Crusade, he was only showing the
sullenness of an aggrieved swordsman. Even young Philippe le Hardi,
a dull, heavy, ignorant youth, was led to suppose this was the cause
of his offence, and though daily inquiries were sent through the
Genoese crews for his health, he made no demonstration of willingness
to see his cousin of England.
Thus Richard had no opportunity of ascertaining whether there were
any basis for the strange impression he had received in St. Louis's
death-chamber. It would have been an act of disobedience, not soon
overlooked by the Prince, had one of his immediate suite transgressed
his commands, and indeed, so strict was the discipline, that it would
scarcely have been possible to make the attempt. Besides, Richard's
time was entirely engrossed between his duties in attending on the
Prince, and his care of little John of Dunster, who had a sharp
attack of fever, and was no doubt only carried through it by the
experienced skill of Dame Idonea Osbright, and by Richard's tender
nursing. Somehow the dame's heart was not won, even by the elder
page's dutiful care and obedience to all her directions. Partly she
viewed him as a rival in the affections of the patient--who, poor
little fellow, would in his companion's absence be the child he was,
and let her treat him like his mother, or old nurse, chattering to
her freely about home, and his home-sick longings; whereas the
instant any male companion appeared, he made it a point of honour to
be the manly warrior and crusader, just succeeding so far as to be
sullen instead of plaintive; though when left to Richard, he could
again relax his dignity, and become natural and affectionate. But
besides this species of jealousy, Richard suspected that Lady
Osbright knew, or at least guessed, his own parentage, and disliked
him for it accordingly. She had never forgotten the distress and
degradation of his mother's stolen marriage, nor forgiven his father
for it; she had often stung the proud heart of his brother Henry,
when he shared the nursery of his cousins the princes; and her sturdy
English dislike of foreigners, and her strong narrow personal
loyalty, had alike resulted in the most vehement hatred of the Earl
of Leicester, whose head she would assuredly have welcomed with
barbarous exultation, worthy of her Danish ancestors. Little chance,
then, was there that she would regard with favour his son under a
feigned name, fostered in the Prince's own court and camp.
She was a constraint, and almost a vexation, to Richard, and he
heartily wished that the boy's recovery would free his tent from her.
The boy did recover favourably, in spite of all the discomforts of
the island, and was decidedly convalescent when, after nearly ten
days' isolation on the island, Edward drew out his whole force upon
the shore to do honour to the embarkation of the relics of Louis IX.
It was one of the most solemn and melancholy pageants that could be
conceived. A wide lane of mailed soldiers was drawn up, Sicilians
and Provencals on the one side, and on the other, English and the
Knights of the two Orders. All stood, or sat on horseback in shining
steel, guarding the way along which were carried the coffins. In
memory, perhaps, of Louis's own words, "I, your leader, am going
first," his remains headed the procession, closely followed by those
of his young son; and behind it marched his two brothers, Charles and
Alfonse, and his son-in-law, the King of Navarre (the two latter
already bearing the seeds of the fatal malady), and the three English
princes, Edward, Edmund, and Henry of Almayne, each followed by his
immediate suite. The long line of coffins of French counts and
nobles, whose lives had in like manner been sacrificed, brought up
the rear; and alas! how many nameless dead must have been left in the
ruins!
Each coffin when brought to the shore was placed in a boat, and with
muffled oars transplanted to the vessel ready to receive it, while
the troops remained drawn up on the shore. The procession that
ensued was almost more mournful. It was still of biers, but these
were not of the dead but of the living, and again the foremost was
the King of France, while next to him came his sister, the Queen of
Navarre. Edward went down to his litter, as it was brought on the
beach, and offered him his arm as he feebly stepped forth to enter
the boat. Philippe looked up to his tall cousin, and wrung his hands
as he murmured, "Alas! what is to be the end of all this?" Edward
made kind and cheerful reply, that things would look better when they
met at Trapani, and then almost lifted the young king into his boat.
Poor youth, he had not yet seen the end! He was yet to lose his
wife, his brother-in-law, and his uncle and aunt, ere he should see
his home again.
Richard and Hamlyn de Valence, as part of the Prince's train, had
moved in the procession; and they were for the rest of the day in
close attendance on their lord, conveying his numerous orders for the
embarkation of the troops on the morrow, on their return to Sicily.
It was not till night-fall that Richard returned to his tent, where
John of Dunster was sitting on the sand at the door, eagerly watching
for him. "Well, Jack, my lad, how hast thou sped?" asked he,
advancing. "Couldst see our doleful array?"
"Is it thou, indeed, this time?" said the boy, catching at his cloak.
"Why, who should it be?"
"Thy wraith! Thy double-ganger has been here Richard."
"What, dreaming again?"
'No no! I am well, I am strong. But this IS the land of
enchantment! Thou knowst it is. Did we not see a fleet of fairy
boats sailing on the sea? and a leaf eat up a fly here on this very
tent pole? And did not the Fay Morgaine show us towns and castles
and churches in the sea? Thou didst not call me light-headed then,
Richard; thou sawest it too!"
"But this wraith of mine! Where didst see it?"
"In this tent. I was lying on the sand, trying if I could make it
hold enough to build a castle of it, when the curtain was put back,
and there thou stoodest, Richard!"
"Well, did I speak or vanish?"
"Oh, thou spakest--I mean the THING spake, and it said, 'Is this the
tent of the young Lord of Montfort?' How now--what have I said?"
"Whom did he ask for?" demanded Richard breathlessly.
"Montfort--young Lord de Montfort!" replied John; "I know it was, for
he said it twice over."
"And what didst thou answer?"
"What should I answer? I said we had no Montforts here; for they
were all dishonoured traitors, slain and outlawed."
Richard could not restrain a sudden indignant exclamation that
startled the boy. "Every one says so! My father says so!" he
returned, somewhat defiantly.
"Not of the Earl," said Richard, recollecting himself.
"He said every one of the young Montforts was a foul traitor, and
man-sworn tyrant, as bad as King John had been ere the Charter,"
repeated John hotly, "and their father was as bad, since he would
give no redress. Thou knowst how they served us in Somerset and
Devon!"
"I have heard, I have heard," said Richard, cutting short the story,
and controlling his own burning pain, glad that the darkness
concealed his face. "No more of that; but tell me, what said this
stranger?"
"Thou thinkest it was really a stranger, and not thy wraith?" said
John anxiously. "I hope it was, for Dame Idonea said if it were a
wraith, it betokened that thou wouldst not--live long--and oh,
Richard! I could not spare thee!"
And the little fellow came nestling up to his friend's breast in an
access of tenderness, such as perhaps he would have disdained save in
the darkness.
"Did Dame Idonea see him?" asked Richard.
"No; but she came in soon after he had vanished."
"Vanished! What, like Fay Morgaine's castles? Tell me in sooth,
John; it imports me to know. What did this stranger, when thou
spakest thus of the House of Montfort?"
"He answered," said John; "he did not answer courteously--he said,
that I was a malapert little ass, and demanded again where this young
Montfort's tent was. So then I said, that if a Montfort dared to
show his traitor's face in this camp, the Prince would hang him as
high as Judas; for I wanted to be rid of him, Richard! it was so
dreadful to see thy face, and hear thy voice talking French, and
asking for dead traitors."
"French!" said Richard. "Methought thou knewst no French!"
"I--I have heard it long now, more's the pity," faltered John, "and--
and I'd have spoken anything to be rid of that shape."
"And wert thou rid? What befell then?"
"It cursed the Prince, and King, and all of them," said John with a
shudder; "it looked black and deadly, and I crossed myself, and said
the Blessed Name, and no doubt it writhed itself and went off in
brimstone and smoke, for I shut my eyes, and when I looked up again
it was gone!"
"Gone! Didst look after him?"
"Oh, no! Earthly things are all food for a brave man's sword," said
Master John, drawing himself up very valiantly, "but wraiths and
things from beneath--they do scare the very heart out of a man. And
I lay, I don't know how, till Dame Idonea came in; and she said
either the foul fiend had put on thy shape because he boded thee ill,
or it was one of the traitor brood looking for his like."
"Tell me, John," said Richard anxiously; "surely he was not in all
points like me. Had he our English white cross?"
"I cannot say as to the cross," said John; "meseemed it was all you--
yourself--and that was all--only I thought your voice was strange and
hollow--and--now I think of it--yes--he was bearded--brown bearded.
And," with a sudden thought, "stand up, prithee, in the opening of
the tent;" and then taking his post where he had been sitting at the
time of the apparition, "He was not so tall as thou art. Thy head
comes above the fold of the curtain, and his, I know, did not touch
it, for I saw the light over it. Then thou dost not think it was thy
wraith?" he added anxiously.
"I think my wraith would have measured me more exactly both in
stature and in age," said Richard lightly. "But how did Leonillo
comport himself? He brooks not a stranger in general; and dogs
cannot endure the presence of a spirit."
"Ah! but he fawned upon this one, and thrust his nose into his hand,"
said John, "and I think he must have run after him; for it was so
long ere he came back to me, that I had feared greatly he was gone,
and oh, Richard! then I must have gone too! I could never have met
you without Leonillo."
By this time Richard had little doubt that the visitor must have been
one of his brothers, Simon or Guy, who were not unlikely to be among
the Provencals, in the army of Charles of Anjou. He had not been
thought to resemble them as a boy, but he had observed how much more
alike brothers appear to strangers than they do to their own family;
and he knew by occasional observations from the Prince, as well as
from his brother Henry's recognition of his voice, that the old
Montfort characteristics must be strong in himself. He would not,
however, avow his belief to John of Dunster. Secrecy on his own
birth had been enjoined on him by his uncle the King; and
disobedience to the old man's most trifling commands was always
sharply resented by the Prince; nor was the boy's view of the House
of Montfort very favourable to such a declaration. Richard really
loved the brave little fellow, and trusted that some day when the
discovery must be made, it would be coupled with some exploit that
would show it was no name to be ashamed of. So he only told the boy
that he had no doubt the stranger was a foreign knight, who had once
known the old Leicester family; but bade him mention the circumstance
to no one. He feared, however, that the caution came too late, since
Dame Idonea was not only an inveterate gossip, but was likely to hold
in direful suspicion any one who had been inquired for by such a
name.
The personal disappointment of having missed his brother was great.
Richard was very lonely. The Princes, and Hamlyn de Valence, were
the only persons who knew his secret, and both by Prince Edmund and
De Valence he was treated with indifference or dislike. Edward
himself, though the object of his fervent affection, and his
protector in all essentials, was of a reserved nature, and kept all
his attendants at a great distance. On very rare occasions, when his
feelings had been strongly stirred--as in the instance of his visit
to his uncle's death-chamber--he might sometimes unbend; and
momentary flashes from the glow of his warm deep heart went further
in securing the love and devotion of those around him, than would the
daily affability of a lower nature; but in ordinary life, towards all
concerned with him except his nearest relations, he was a strict,
cold, grave disciplinarian, ever just, though on the side of
severity, and stern towards the slightest neglect or breach of
observance, nor did he make any exception in favour of Richard. If
the youth seldom received one of his brief annihilating reproofs, it
was because they were scarcely ever merited; but he had experienced
that any want of exactitude in his duties was quite as severely
visited as if he had not been the Prince's close kinsman,
romantically rescued by him, and placed near his person by his
special desire. And Eleanor, with all her gentle courtesy and
kindness, was strictly withheld by her husband from pampering or
cockering his pages; nor did she ever transgress his will.
The atmosphere was perhaps bracing, but it was bleak: and there were
times when Richard regretted his acceptance of the Prince's offer,
and yearned after family ties, equality, and freedom. Simon and Guy
had never been kind to him, but at least they were his brothers, and
with them disguise and constraint would be over--he should, too, be
in communication with his mother and sister. He was strongly
inclined to cast in his lot with them, and end this life of secrecy,
and distrust from all around him save one, and his loyal love ill
requited even by that one. It grieved him keenly that one of his
brothers should have been repulsed from his tent; an absolutely
famished longing for fraternal intercourse gained possession of him,
and as he lay on his pallet that night in the dark, he even shed
tears at the thought of the greeting and embrace that he had missed.
Still he had hopes for the future. There must be meetings and
possibilities of inquiries passing between the three armies, and he
would let no opportunity go by. The next day, however, there was no
chance. The English troops were embarked in their vessels, and after
a short and prosperous passage were again landed at Trapani, the
western angle of Sicily. The French had sailed first, but were not
in harbour when the English came in; and the Sicilians, who had
brought up the rear, arrived the next day, but still there was no
tidings of the French. Towards the evening, however, the royal
vessel bearing Philippe III. came into harbour, and all the rest were
in sight, when at sunset a frightful storm arose, and the ships were
in fearful case. Many foundered, many were wrecked on the rocky
islets around the port, and the French army was almost as much
reduced in numbers as it had been by the Plague of Carthage.
Charles of Anjou remained himself in the town of Trapani, but knowing
the evils of crowding a small space with troops, he at once sent his
men inland, and Richard was again disappointed of the hope of seeing
or hearing of his brothers; for the Prince still forbade all
intercourse with the shattered remnant of the French army, justly
dreading that they might still carry about them the seeds of the
infection of the camp.
The three heads of the Crusade, however, met in the Castle of Trapani
to hold council on their future proceedings. The place was the
state-chamber of the castle.
Each prince had brought with him a single attendant, and the three
stood in waiting near the door, in full view of their lords, though
out of earshot. It was an opportunity that Richard could not bear to
miss of asking for his brothers, unheard by any of those English ears
who would be suspicious about his solicitude for the House of
Montfort. A lively-looking Neapolitan lad was the attendant of King
Charles; and in spite of all the perils of attempting conversation
while thus waiting, Richard had--while the princes were greeting one
another, and taking their seats--ventured the question, whether any
of the sons of the English Earl of Leicester were in the Sicilian
army. Of Earl of Leicester the Italian knew nothing; but Count of
Montfort was a more familiar sound. "Si, si, vero!" Sicily had rung
with it; and Count Rosso Aldobrandini, of the Maremma Toscana, had
given his only daughter and heiress to the banished English knight,
Guido di Monforte, who had served in the king's army as a Provencal.
Richard's heart beat high. Guy a well-endowed count, with a castle,
lands, and home! He would have asked where Guy now was, and how far
off was the Maremma; but the conference between the princes was
actually commencing, and silence became necessary on the part of
their attendants.
They could only hear the murmur of voices; but could discern plainly
the keen looks and animated gestures of Charles of Anjou, the sickly
sullen indifference of Philippe, and the majestic gravity of Edward,
whose noble head towered above the other two as if he were their
natural judge. Charles was, in fact, trying to persuade the others
to sail with him for Greece, and there turn their forces on the
unfortunate Michael Palaeologos, who had lately recovered
Constantinople, the Empire that Charles hoped to win for himself, the
favoured champion of Rome.
Philippe merely replied that he had had enough of crusading, he was
sick and weary, he must go home and bury his father, and get himself
crowned. Charles might be then seen trying a little hypocrisy; and
telling Philippe that his saintly father would only have wished to
speed him on the way of the Cross. Then that trumpet voice of
Edward, whose tones Richard never missed, answered, "What is the way
of the Cross, fair uncle?"
It was well known that Louis IX. had refused to crusade against
Christians, even Greek Christians, and Philippe soon sheltered
himself under the plea that had not at first occurred to his dull
mind. In effect, he laid particulars before his uncle, that quickly
made it plain that the French army was in too miserable a condition
to do anything but return home; and Charles then addressed his
persuasions to Edward--striving to convince him in the first place of
the sanctity of a war against Greek heretics, and when Edward proved
past being persuaded that arms meant for the recovery of the Holy
Sepulchre ought not to be employed against Christians who reverenced
it, he tried to demonstrate the uselessness of hoping to conquer the
Holy Land, even by such a Crusade as had been at first planned, far
less with the few attached to Edward's individual banner. Long did
the king argue on. His low voice was scarcely audible, even without
the words; but Edward's brief, ringing, almost scornful, replies,
never failed to reach Richard's ear, and the last of them was, "It
skills not, my fair uncle. For the Holy Land I am vowed to fight,
and thither would I go had I none with me but Fowen, my groom!"
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