The Life And Death Of Richard Yea And Nay Volume 91, Maurice Hewlett [beautiful books to read .TXT] 📗

Called Him (To Distinguish Him From

An Elder Brother, Eudo Count Of Saint-Pol), Was A Blunt Copy Of His

Sister, Redder Than She Was, Lighter In The Hair, Much Lighter In The

Eyes. He Seemed An Affectionate Youth, And Clung To The Great Count

Richard Like Ivy To A Tree. Richard Gave Him The Sort Of Scornful

Affection One Has For A Little Dog, Between Patting And Slapping; But

Clearly Wanted To Be Rid Of Him. No Reference Was Made To The Journey,

Much Was Taken For Granted; Eustace Talked Of His Hawks, Richard Ate And

Drank, Jehane Sat Up Stiffly, Looking Into The Fire; Milo Watched Her

Between His Mouthfuls. The Moment Supper Was Done, Up Jumps Richard And

Claps Hands On The Two Shoulders Of Young Eustace. 'To Bed, To Bed, My

Falconer! It Grows Late,' Cries He. Eustace Pushed His Chair Back, Rose,

Kissed The Count's Hand And His Sister's Forehead, Saluted Milo, And

Went Out Humming A Tune. Milo Withdrew, The Servants Bowed Themselves

Away. Richard Stood Up, A Loose-Limbed Young Giant, And Narrowed His

Eyes.

 

'Nest Thee, Nest Thee, My Bird,' He Said Low; And Jehane's Lips Parted.

Slowly She Left Her Stool By The Fire, But Quickened As She Went; And At

Last Ran Tumbling Into His Arms.

 

His Right Hand Embraced Her, His Left At Her Chin Held Her Face At

Discretion. Like A Woman, She Reproached Him For What She Dearly Loved.

 

'Lord, Lord, How Shall I Serve The Cup And Platter If You Hold Me So

Fast?'

 

'Thou Art My Cup, Thou Art My Supper.'

 

'Thin Fare, Poor Soul,' She Said; But Was Glad Of His Foolishness.

 

Later, They Sat By The Hearth, Jehane On Richard's Knee, But Doubtfully

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His, Being Troubled By Many Things. He Had No Retrospects Nor

Afterthoughts; He Tried To Coax Her Into Pliancy. It Was The Fires In

The North That Distressed Her. Richard Made Light Of Them.

 

'Dear,' He Said, 'The King My Father Is Come Up With A Host To Drive The

Count His Son To Bed. Now The Count His Son Is Master Of A Good Bed, To

Which He Will Presently Go; But It Is Not The Bed Of The King His

Father. That, As You Know, Is Of French Make, Neither Good Norman, Nor

Good Angevin, Nor Seethed In The English Mists. By Saint Maclou And The

Astonishing Works He Did, I Should Be Bad Norman, And Worse Angevin, And

Less English Than I Am, If I Loved The French.'

 

He Tried To Draw Her In; But She, Rather, Strained Away From Him,

Elbowed Her Knee, And Rested Her Chin Upon Her Hand. She Looked Gravely

Down To The Whitening Logs, Where The Ashes Were Gaining On The Red.

 

'My Lord Loves Not The French,' She Said, 'But He Loves Honour. He Is

The King's Son, Loving His Father.'

 

'By My Soul, I Do Not,' He Assured Her, With Perfect Truth, Then He

Caught Her Round The Waist And Turned Her Bodily To Face Him. After He

Had Kissed Her Well He Began To Speak More Seriously.

 

'Jehane,' He Said, 'I Have Thought All This Stifling Night Upon The

Heath, Homing To Her I Am Seeking My Best. My Best? You Are All I Have

In The World. If Honour Is In My Hand, Do I Not Owe It To You? Or Shall

A Man Use Women Like Dogs, To Play With Them In Idle Moods, Toss Them

Bones Under The Table, Afterwards Kick Them Out Of Doors? Child, You

Know Me Better. What!' He Cried Out, With His Head Very High, 'Shall A

Man Not Choose His Own Wife?'

 

'No,' Said Jehane, Ready For Him; 'No, Richard, Unless The People Shall

Choose Their Own King.'

 

'God Chooses The King,' Says Richard, 'Or So We Choose To Believe.'

 

'Then God Must Appoint The Wife,' Jehane Said, And Tried To Get Free.

But This Could Not Be Allowed, As She Knew.

 

She Was Gentle With Him, Reasoning. 'The King Your Father Is An Old Man,

Richard. Old Men Love Their Way.'

 

'God Knows, He Is Old, And Passionate, And Indifferent Wicked,' Said

Richard, And Kissed Jehane. 'Look, My Girl, There Were Four Of Us:

Henry, And Me, And Geoffrey, And John, Whom He Sought To Drive In Team

By A Sop To-Day And A Stick To-Morrow. A Good Way, Done By A Judging

Hand. What Then? I Will Tell You How The Team Served The Teamster.

Henry Gave Sop For Sop, And It Was Found Well. Might He Not Give Stick

For Stick? He Thought So: God Rest Him, He Is Dead Of That. There Was

Much Simplicity In Henry. I Got No Sop At All. Why Should I Have Stick

Then? I Saw No Reason; But I Took What Came. If I Cried Out, It Is A

More Harmless Vent Than Many. Let Me Alone. Geoffrey, I Think, Was A

Villain. God Help Him If He Can: He Is Dead Too. He Took Sop And Gave

Stick: Ungentle In Geoffrey, But He Paid For It. He Was A Cross-Bred Dog

With Much Of The Devil In Him; He Bit Himself And Died Barking. Last,

There Is John. I Desire To Speak Reasonably Of John; But He Is Too Snug,

He Gets All Sop. This Is Not Fair. He Should Have Some Stick, That We

May Judge What Mettle He Has. There, My Jehane, You Have The Four Of Us,

A Fretful Team; Whereof One Has Rushed His Hills And Broken His Heart;

And One, Kicking His Yoke-Fellows, Squealing, Playing The Jade, Has

Broken His Back; And One, Poor Richard, Does Collar-Work And Gets Whip;

And One, Young Master John, Eases His Neck And Is Cajoled With, "So

Then, So Then, Boy!" Then Comes Pretty Jehane To The Ear Of The

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Collar-Horse, Whispering, "Good Richard, Get Thee To Stall, But Not

Here. Stable Thee Snug With The King Of France His Sister." 'Hey!'

Laughed Richard, 'What A Word For A Chosen Bride!' He Pinched Her Cheek

And Looked Gaily At Her, Triumphant In His Own Eloquence. He Was Most

Dangerous When That Devil Was Awake, So She Dared Not Look At Him Back.

Eagerly And Low She Replied.

 

'Yes, Richard, Yes, Yes, My King! The King Must Have The King's Sister,

And Jehane Go Back To The Byre. Eagles Do Not Mate With Buzzards.'

Hereupon He Snatched Her Up Altogether And Hid Her Face In His Breast.

 

'Never, Never, Never!' He Swore To The Rafters. 'As God Lives And

Reigns, So Live Thou And So Reign, Queen Of Me, My Picardy Rose.'

 

She Tried No More That Night, Fearing That His Love So Keen-Edged Might

Make His Will Ride Rough. The Watch-Fires At Louviers Trembled And

Streamed Up In The North. There Was No Need For Candles In The Dark

Tower.

 

They Rose Up Early To A Fair Dawn. The Cloud-Wrack Was Blown Off,

Leaving The Sky A Lake Of Burnt Yellow, Pure, Sweet, And Cool. Thus The

World Entered Upon The Summer Of Saint Luke, To A New-Risen Sun, To Thin

Mists Stealing Off The Moor, To Wet Flowers Hearted Anew, To Blue Air,

And Hope Left For Those Who Would Go Gleaning. While Eustace Saint-Pol

Was Snoring Abed And The Abbot Milo At His _Sursum Corda_, Richard Had

Jehane By The Hand. 'Come Forth, My Love; We Have The Broad Day Before

Us And An Empty Kingdom To Roam In. Come, My Red Rose, Let Me Set You

Among The Flowers.' What Could She Do But Harbour Up Her Thoughts?

 

He Took Her Afield, Where Flowers Made The Earth Still A Singing-Place,

And Gathered Of These To Deck Her Bosom And Hair. Of The Harebells He

Made Knots, The Ground-Colour Of Her Eyes; But Autumn Loves The Yellow,

So She Was Stuck With Gold Like A Princess. She Sat Enthroned By His

Command, This Young Girl In A High Place, With Downcast Eyes And A Face

All Fire-Colour, While He Worshipped Her To His Fancy. I Believe He Had

No After-Thought; But She Saw The Dun Smoke Of The Fires At Louviers,

And Knew They Would Make The Night Shudder Again. Yet Her Sweetness,

Patience, Staid Courtesy, Humility, Never Failed Her; Out Of The Deep

Wells Of Her Soul She Drew Them Forth In A Stream. Richard Adored.

'Queen Jehane, Queen Jehane!' He Cried Out, With His Arms Straightly

Round Her--'Was Ever Man In The World Blest So High Since God Said,

"Behold Thy Mother"? And So Art Thou Mother To Me, O Bride. Bride And

Queen As Thou Shalt Be.'

 

This Was Great Invention. She Put Her Hand Upon His Head. 'My Richard,

My Richard Yea-And-Nay,' She Said, As If Pitying His Wild Heart. The

Nickname Jarred.

 

'Never Call Me That,' He Told Her. 'Leave That To Bertran De Born, A

Fool's Word To The Fool Who Made It.'

 

'If I Could, If I Could!' Thought Jehane, And Sighed. There Were Tears

In Her Eyes, Also, As She Remembered What Generosity In Him Must Be

Frozen Up, And What Glory Of Her Own. But She Did Not Falter In What She

Had To Do, While He, Too Exalted To Be Pitied, Began To Sing A Southern

Song--

 

     Al' Entrada Del Tems Clair, Eya!

 

When Their Hair Commingled In Their Love, When They Were Close Together,

There Was Little Distinguishing Between Them; He Was More Her Pair Than

Eustace Her Blood-Brother, In Stature And Shape, In Hue And Tincture Of

Gold. Jehane You Know, But Not Richard. Of Him, Son Of A King, Heir Of A

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King, If You Wish Some Bodily Sign, I Will Say Shortly That He Was A

Very Tall Young Man, High-Coloured And Calm In The Face, Straight-Nosed,

Blue-Eyed, Spare Of Flesh, Lithe, Swift In Movement. He Was At Once Bold

And Sleek, Eager And Cold As Ice--An Odd Combination, But Not More Odd

Than The Blend Of Norman Dog And Angevin Cat Which Had Made Him So.

Furtive He Was Not, Yet Seeming To Crouch For A Spring; Not Savage, Yet

Primed For Savagery; Not Cruel, Yet Quick On The Affront, And On The

Watch For It. He Was Neither A Rogue Nor A Madman; And Yet He