Books: The Prince and the Page
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Charlotte M. Yonge >> The Prince and the Page
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Only when on his way back to the camp was he sensible of the murmurs
of censure at his hypocrisy in joining the penitential procession at
all. Dame Idonea, in a complete suit of sackcloth, was informing her
friends that she had made a vow not to wash her face till the whole
adder brood of Montfort had been crushed; and that she trusted to see
the beginning of justice done to-morrow. She had offered a candle to
St. James to that effect, hoping to induce him to turn away his
patronage from the family.
Every one, knight or squire, shrank away from Richard, if he did but
look towards them; and he was seriously discomfited by the difficulty
of obtaining a godfather for the combat. No one chose even to be
asked, lest they might be suspected of approving of the murder of
Prince Henry; and the unhappy page re-entered his tent with the most
desolate sense of being abandoned by heaven and man.
Fastened upon the pole of the tent by an arrowhead, a small scroll of
parchment met his eyes. He read in English--"A steed and a lance are
ready for the lioncel who would rather avenge his father than lick
the tyrant's feet. A guide awaits thee."
Some weeks since, this might have been a tempting summons; but now
the sickening sense of the sacrilegious murder, and of the life of
outlawry utterly unrestrained, passed over Richard. Yet, if he
should not accept the offer, what was before him? A shameful death,
perhaps; if he failed in the ordeal, disgrace, captivity, or
expulsion; if he succeeded, bondage and distrust for ever. Some new
accusation! some deeper fall!
There was a low growl from Leonillo; the hangings of the tent were
raised, and an archer bending his head said, "A word with you, Sir."
"Who art thou?" demanded Richard.
"Hob Longbow, Sir. Remember you not old passages--in the forest,
there--and Master Adam?"
Richard did remember the archer in the days of his outlaw life, in a
very different capacity.
"You were grown so tall, Sir, and so hand and glove with the
Longshanks, that Nick Dustifoot and I knew not an if it were
yourself--but now your name is out, and the wind is in another
quarter"--he grinned, then seeing Richard impatient of the approach
to familiarity, "You did not know Nick Dustifoot? He was one of
young Sir Simon's men-at-arms, you see, and took to the woods, like
other folk, after Kenilworth was given up, till stout men were
awanting for this Crusade. And he knew Sir Guy when he came to the
camp yon by Tunis, and spake with him; moreover, he went in the train
of him of Almayne to Viterbo, and had speech again with Sir Simon,
who gave him this scroll. And if you will meet him at the Syren's
Rock to-night, my Lord Richard, he will bring you to those who will
conduct you to Sir Guy's brave castle, where he laughs kings and
counts to scorn! We have the guard, and will see you safe past the
gates of the camp."
The way to liberty was open: Richard deliberated. The atmosphere of
distrust and suspicion under the Prince's coldness was well-nigh
unbearable. Danger faced him for the next day! Disgrace was
everywhere. Should he leave it behind, where, at least, he would not
hear and feel it? Should he, when all had turned from him, meet a
brotherly welcome?
Then came back on him the thought of what Simon and Guy had made
themselves; the thought of his father's grief at former doings of
theirs, which had fallen so far short of the atrocity of this. He
knew that his father had rather have seen each one of his five sons
slain, or helpless cripples like the firstborn, than have been thus
avenged. Nay, had he this morning prayed for the pardon of a crime,
to which he would thus become a consenting party?
He looked up resolutely. "No, Hob Longbow. Hap what hap, my part
can never be with those who have stained the Church with blood. Let
my brothers know that my heart yearned to them before, but now all is
over between us. I can only bear the doom they have brought upon
me!"
It was not possible to remain and argue. A tent was a dangerous
place for secret conferences, and Hob Longbow could only growl, "As
you will, Sir. Now nor you nor any one else can say I have not done
my charge."
"Alack, alack!" sighed Richard, "would that, my honour once redeemed,
Hamlyn might make an end of me! But for thee, my poor Leonillo, I
have no comforter or friend!" and he flung his arms round the dog's
neck.
CHAPTER X--THE COMBAT
"And now with sae sharp of steele
They 'gan to lay on load."
Sir Cauline.
Heavy-hearted and pale-cheeked with his rigidly observed fast,
Richard armed himself in early morning, and set forth to the chapel
tent, where the previous solemnities had to be observed. He had made
up his mind to make an earnest appeal to the Earl of Gloucester, for
the sake of the old friendship with his father, to become his
godfather in the combat, as one whose character stood too high to be
injured by connection with him. Even this plan was frustrated, for
Hamlyn de Valence entered, led by Earl Gilbert as his sponsor.
Should he turn to his one other friend, the Prince himself? Nay, the
Prince was umpire and judge. Never stood warrior so lonely. Little
John of Dunster crept up to his side; and but for fear of injuring
the child, he would almost have asked him to be his sponsor. At that
moment, however, the tramp of horses' feet was heard, and Sir
Reginald de Ferrieres, with his squires, galloped up to the tent.
The young Hospitalier held out his hand cordially. "In time, I
hope," said he; "I have ridden ever since Lauds at Castel San
Giovanni, hoping to be with you, so as to stand by you in this
matter."
"It was kindly done of you," said Richard, tears of gratitude
swelling in his eyes, as he wrung Sir Raynald's hand. "I have not
even a godfather for the fight! How could you know of my need?"
"Some of our brethren came over from the camp, for our Ash Wednesday
procession, and spoke of the stress you were in--that your Montfort
lineage was out, and that you were thought to have writ a letter--but
stay, there's no time for words; methinks here's the Prince and all
his train."
Sir Raynald went through the solemnity of presenting Richard de
Montfort as about to fight in defence of his own innocence. The
Prince coldly accepted the presentation. Richard knew that Sir
Raynald was deemed anything but a satisfactory sponsor; but the young
knight's hearty sympathy, a sort of radiance caught from good old Sir
Robert, was too comforting not to be reposed on.
Each champion then confessed. Raynald heard Richard's shrift, and
nearly wept over it--it was the first the young priestly knight had
received, and he could scarcely clear his voice to speak the words of
absolution. Even as they left the confessional, he grasped Richard's
hand and said, "Cast in thy lot with us! St. John will find thee
father and home and brethren!"
And a gleam of joy and hope flashed on the youth's heart, and shone
brighter as he participated in the solemn Mass in preparation for the
combat. This over, each champion made oath of the justice of his
quarrel in the hands of his godfather before the Prince: Hamlyn de
Valence swearing that to the best of his belief, Richard de Montfort
was a traitor, in league with his brothers, and art and part in the
murder of Prince Henry of Almayne, and offering to prove it on his
body; while on the other hand Richard swore that he was a true and
faithful liegeman to the King, free from all intercourse with his
brethren, and sackless of the death of Prince Henry.
Then each mounted on horseback, the trumpets sounded, the sponsors
led them to their places, and the Prince's clear voice exclaimed,
"And so God show the right." One glance of pitying sympathy would
have filled Richard's arm with fresh vigour.
The two youths closed with shivered lances, and horses reeling from
the shock. Backing their steeds, each received a fresh lance. Again
they met; Richard felt the point of Hamlyn's lance glint against his
breastplate, glide down, enter, make its way into his flesh; but at
the same instant his lance was pushing, driving, bearing on Hamlyn
before him; the sheer force in his Plantagenet shoulders was telling
now, the very pain seemed as it were to add to the energy with which
he pressed on--on, till the hostile spear dropped from his own side,
and Hamlyn was borne backwards over the croup of the staggering
horse, till he fell with crashing ringing armour upon the ground.
Little John clapped his hands, and shouted for joy; but no one
responded.
Richard leapt down in another second, and stood over him. "Yield
thee, Hamlyn de Valence. Confess that thou hast slandered me with an
ungrounded accusation."
Hamlyn had no choice. "Let me rise," he said sullenly; "I will
confess, so thou letst me open my visor."
And Richard standing aside, Hamlyn spoke out in a dogged formal tone.
"I hereby own, that by the judgment of Heaven, Richard de Montfort
hath cleared himself of all share in the foul murder of Lord Henry,
whose soul Heaven assoilzie. Also that he hath disproven the charge
of leaguing with his brethren."
Richard was the victor, but where were the gratulations? Young
John's hearty but slender hurrah was lost in the general silence.
The Prince reared his stately form, and said, "The judgment of Heaven
is final. Richard de Montfort is pronounced free of all penalty for
treason in the matter of the death of our dear cousin, and is free to
go where he will."
Cold as ice was the Prince's face. That Richard meant murder to
Henry, he had never believed; but that he had hankered after his
brothers, and held dangerous communings with them, was evidently
still credited and unforgiven. The very form of words was a
dismissal--and the youth's heart was wrung.
He stood, looking earnestly up as the Prince moved from his place,
without a glance towards him. The next moment Raynald's kind hand
was on his shoulder, and his voice saying, "Well fought, brother, a
brave stroke! Come with me, thou art hurt."
"Would it were to the death!" murmured Richard dreamily, as Raynald,
throwing his arm round him, led him away; but before they had reached
the tent there was a plunging rush and scampering behind them, and
John of Dunster came dashing up. "I knew it! I knew it!" he cried.
"I knew he would overset spiteful Hamlyn! Hurrah! They can't keep
me away now, Richard--now the judgment of Heaven has gone for you!"
Richard smiled, and put his gauntleted hand caressingly on the boy's
shoulder.
"I was afraid," added John, "that you would think me like the rest of
them. Miscreants, all! Not one would shout for you--you, the
victor! They don't heed the judgment of Heaven one jot. And that's
what they call being warriors of the Cross! If the Prince were a
true-born Englishman, he would be ashamed of himself. But never
heed, Richard. Why don't you speak to me? Are you angered that I
told of the letter? Indeed, I never guessed--"
"Hush, varlet," said Sir Raynald, "see you not that he has neither
breath nor voice to speak? If you wish to do him a service, hie to
our tents--down yonder, to the east, where you see the eight-pointed
cross--"
"I know, Sir," said John, perfectly civil on hearing accents as
English as his own.
"And bring up Brother Bartlemy, he is a better infirmarer than I.
Bid him from me bring his salves and bandages."
Richard was barely conscious when he reached the tent, as much from
rigid fasting and sleeplessness as from the actual loss of blood.
His friend disarmed him tenderly, and revived him with bread and
wine, silencing a half-murmured scruple about Lenten diet with the
dispensation due to sickness. The wound was not likely to be serious
or disabling, and the cares of the Hospitalier and his infirmarer had
presently set their patient so much at ease that he dropped into a
sound sleep, having scarcely said a word, beyond a few faintly
uttered thanks, since he had fought the combat.
At first his sleep was profound, but by and by the associations of
blows and wounds carried him back to the field of Evesham. The wild
melee was renewed, he heard the voice of his father, but always in
that strange distressing manner peculiar to dreams of the departed,
always far away, and just beyond his reach, ever just about to give
him the succour he needed, but ever withheld. The thunderstorm that
broke over the contending armies roared again in his ears; and then
again recurred the calm still night, when he had lain helpless on the
battle-field; even the caress of Leonillo, and his low growl, were
vividly repeated; but as the dog moved, it was to Richard as if the
form of his father rose up in its armour from the dark field, and
said in a deep hollow voice, "Well fought, my son; I will give thee
knighthood." Then Richard thought he was kneeling before his father,
and hearing that same voice saying, "My son, be true and loyal. In
the name of God and St. James. I dub thee knight of death!" and
looking up, he beheld under the helmet, not Simon de Montfort's face
but the Prince's. He awoke with a start of disappointment--and there
stood Edward himself, leaning against the tent-pole, looking down at
him!
He sprang on his feet, scarcely knowing whether he slept or woke; but
Edward said, in that voice that at times was so ineffably sweet, "Be
still, Richard; I fear me thou hast suffered a wrong, and I am come
to repair it, as far as I can! Lay thee down again."
And the Prince seated himself on the oaken chest; while Richard,
after a few words, sat down on his couch.
"Is this the letter about which there has been such a coil?" said
Edward, giving him the scroll in its sepia ink.
"It is!" replied Richard in amazement and dismay.
"The only letter thou didst write?"
"The only one," repeated Richard.
"And," added Edward, "it concerns thy brother Henry.
Richard turned even paler than before, and could not suppress a gasp
of dismay. "My Lord, make me not forsworn!"
"Listen to me, Richard," said Edward. "My sweet lady gave me no rest
about thee. She held that I had withdrawn my trust over lightly, for
what was no blame to thine heart; and that having set thee here apart
from thy natural friends, we owed thee more notice than I have been
wont to think wholesome for untried striplings. Others, and I among
them, held that Raynald Ferrers' friendship and countenance showed
thee stubbornly set on old connections, and many thought the letter
to the Grand Prior Darcy a mere excuse. But when Hamlyn fell, and I
still held that thou wert merely cleared from wilful share in the
deadly crime of which I had never held thee guilty, then she spake
more earnestly. She of her own will sent for Raynald Ferrers to our
tent, and called me to speak with him, sure that, even though his
family had been our foes, he was too honourable a knight to have
espoused thy cause without good reason. Then it was that he told us
of thine interest for the blind beggar whose child thou didst save,
and of the Grand Prior's message. Also, as full exculpation of thee,
he gave me the letter, which, having failed to find a home-bound
messenger at San Giovanni, he had brought back to the camp. And now,
Richard, what can I say more, than that I did thee wrong, and pray
thee to give me thy hand in pardon?"
Richard hid his face and sobbed, completely overwhelmed by the simple
dignity of the humility of such a man as Edward. He held the
Prince's hand to his lips, and exclaimed, "Oh, how--how could I have
ever felt discontent, or faltered? not in truth--oh, no--but in trust
and patience? Oh! my Lord, that I could die for you!"
"Not yet," said Edward, smiling; "we have much to do together first.
And now tell me, Richard, this beggar is indeed Henry?"
Richard hung his head.
"What, thou mayst not betray him?"
"I am under an oath, my Lord."
"Nay, I know well-nigh all, Richard. I did indeed see my dear old
comrade laid in Evesham Church, so as it broke my heart to see him,
bleeding from many wounds, and even his hand lopped by the savage
Mortimers. Then, as I bent down, and gave his brow a last kiss, it
struck me, for a moment, that the touch was not that of a dead man's
skin. But I looked again at the deadly wounds of head and breast,
and thought it would be but cruelty to strive to bring back the
glimmer of life only to--to see the ruin of his house; and all that
he could not be saved from. O Richard, to no man in either host
could the day of Evesham have been so sore, as to me, who had to sit
in the gate, to gladden men's hearts, like holy King David, when he
would fain have been weeping for his son! But in early morning came
Abbot William of Whitchurch to my chamber, and with much secrecy told
me that the corpse of Henry de Montfort had been stolen from the
church by night, praying me to excuse that the monks, wearied out
with the day of alarms, and the care of our wounded, had not kept
better watch. Then knew I that some one had been less faithless than
I, and I hoped that poor Henry was at least dying in peace; I had
never deemed that he could survive. But when I saw thy billet, and
heard Ferrers' tale, I had no further doubt, remembering likewise how
strangely familiar was the face of that little one at Westminster."
"Yes, my Lord, it was even as a strange, wild, wilful, blind beggar
that I found poor Henry; and heavy was the curse he laid me under,
should I make him known to you. He calls himself thus a freer and
happier man than he could be even were he pardoned and reinstated;
and he can indulge his vein of mockery."
"I dare be sworn that consoles him for all," said Edward, nearly
laughing. "So long as he could utter his gibe, Henry little recked
which way the world passed round him; and I trow he has found some
mate of low degree, that he would be loth to produce in open day."
"Not so, my Lord: it is so wild a tale of true love that I can
sometimes scarce believe a minstrel did not sing it to me!" And
Richard told the history of Isabel Mortimer's fidelity. The Prince
was deeply touched, and then remembered the marked manner in which
the Baron of Mortimer had replied to his inquiry, in what convent he
had bestowed Henry de Montfort's betrothed. "She is dead, my Lord,
dead to us." Then he added suddenly, "So that black-eyed babe is the
heiress of Leicester and all the honours of Montfort!"
"It is one of the causes for Henry's resolve to be secret," said
Richard. "I thought it harsh and distrustful then, but he dreaded
Simon's knowledge of her."
"We will find a way of securing her from Simon," said the Prince.
"But fear not, Richard, Henry's secret shall be safe with me! I have
kept his secrets before now," he added, with a smile. "Only, when we
are at home again--so it please the Saints to spare us--thou shalt
strive to show him cause to trust my Lady with his child, if he doth
not seek to breed her up to scrip and wallet. I see such is thy
counsel in this scroll, and it is well."
"How could I say other?" said Richard, "and now, more than ever! I
long to thank the gracious Princess this very evening."
"Thy wound?' said the Prince.
"My wound is naught, I scarce feel it."
"Then," said the Prince, "unless the leech gainsay it, it would be as
well to be at our pavilion this evening, that men may see thou art
not in any disgrace. Rest then till supper-time." And as he spoke
he rose to depart, but Richard made a gesture of entreaty. "So
please your Grace, grant me a few farther words. I sware, and truly,
that I had heard nothing from my brothers when I was accused of
writing that letter to them. But see here, what yester-morn was
pinned to that tent-pole."
He gave Edward the scroll, at which the Prince looked half smiling.
"So! A dagger in store for me too, is there? Well, my cousins have
a goodly thirst for vengeance! Hast thou any suspicion how this
billet came here?"
"Ay, my Lord; and for that cause I would warn you against two of the
archers, one of whom was in Simon's troop, and went with the late
prince to Viterbo. I gave them no promise of silence."
"You spoke with them?"
"With one, who was charged to let me through the outposts to a spot
where means were provided for bringing me to Guy."
"And thou," said Edward, smiling, "didst choose to bide the buffet?"
"Sir," said Richard, "I did indeed long after my brethren when Guy
had been so near me in Africa; but now, I would far rather die than
cast in my lot with them."
"Thou art wise," said Edward; "not merely right, but wise. I have
sent Gloucester to my uncle of Sicily with such messages that he will
scarce dare to leave them scatheless! Then, at supper-time we meet
again--in thine own name, Richard, and as my kinsman and esquire.
Thou shalt bear thine own name and arms. I will cause a mourning
suit to be sent to thee--thou art equally of kin with myself to poor
Henry--and shalt mourn him with Edmund and me at the requiem to-
morrow. So will it best be manifest to the camp, that we exempt thee
from all blame." Again he was departing, when Richard added--"The
archers, my Lord--were it not good to dismiss them?"
"Tush," said Edward; "tell me not their names. So soon as the wind
veers, they will be beyond Guy's reach; and if I were to stand on my
guard against every man who loved thy father better than mine, what
good would my life do me? The poor knaves will be true enough when
they see a Saracen before them!"
And away went Edward, to be glanced at as he passed through the camp,
as a severe, hard, cruel tyrant. Had he only been gay, open-hearted,
and careless, he might have hung both the guilty archers, and a dozen
innocent ones into the bargain, and yet have never won the character
for harshness and unmercifulness that he had acquired even while
condoning many a dire offence, simply from his stern gravity, and his
punctilious exactitude in matters of discipline. But the evils of a
lax and easy-going court had been so fatal, and had produced such
suffering, that it was no marvel that he had adopted a rule of iron;
and in the pain and distress of seeing his closest friends, the
noblest subjects in the realm, pushed into a rebellion where he had
himself to maintain his father's cause, and then to watch, without
being able to hinder, the mean-spirited revenge of his own partizans,
his manner had acquired that silent reserve and coldness which made
him feared and hated by the many, while intensely beloved by the few.
Even towards those few it was absolutely difficult to him to unbend,
as he had done in this hour of effusion towards Richard; and the
youth was proportionably moved and agitated with fervent gratitude
and affection.
He had scarcely had so happy an evening since he had been a boy at
Odiham. He was indeed feeble and dizzy at times, but with a far from
painful languor; and the Princess, enjoying the permission to follow
the dictates of her own heart, was kind to him with a motherly or
sisterly kindness, could not bear to receive from him his wonted
attendance, but made him lie upon the cushions at her feet, and when
out of hearing of every one, talked of the faithful Isabel, and of
"pretty Bessee," on whom she already looked as the companion of her
little Eleanor, whom she had left at home.
It might be questioned whether Richard did not undergo more in
watching little John de Mohun's endeavours at waiting than he would
have suffered from doing it himself. And not a few dissatisfied
glances were levelled at the favoured stripling, besides the
literally as well as figuratively sour glances of Dame Idonea.
Edward, being of course unable to betray his real grounds for
acquitting Richard, had only deigned to inform Prince Edmund that he
knew all, and was perfectly satisfied. Now Prince Edmund, as well as
all the old court faction, deemed Edward's regard for the Barons'
party an unreasonable weakness that they durst not indeed combat
openly, but which angered them as a species of disaffection to his
own cause. The outer world thought him a tyrant, but there was an
inner world to whom he appeared weakly good-natured and generous; and
this inner world thought Richard had successfully hoodwinked him!
Therefore Edmund of Lancaster desired to adopt Hamlyn de Valence as
his own squire, to save him from association with Richard; and both
prince and squire, and all the rest of the train, made it perfectly
evident to the young Montfort that he was barely tolerated out of
respect for the Prince.
But Richard in his joy could have borne worse than this, for the
Prince had not relaxed in his kindness, and made his young cousin's
wound an excuse for showing him more tenderness and consideration
than he would otherwise have thought befitting. Moreover, an
esquire, as Richard had now become, might be in much closer relations
of intimacy with his master than was possible to a page; and the day
that had begun so sadly was like the dawn of a brighter period.
Sir Raynald Ferrers had been invited to the Prince's pavilion, but
the rules of his Order did not permit his joining a secular
entertainment in Lent, and he did not admit either the camp life or
the gravity of the Prince's mourning household as a dispensation.
However, when Richard, leaning fondly on little John's ready
shoulder, crossed to his own tent, he found his good friend waiting
there to attend to his wound, which Sir Raynald professed to regard
as an excellent subject to practise upon, and likewise to hear
whether all had been cleared up, and had gone right with him.
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