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

Shall I Do? What Shall I Do?'

 

'God Knoweth,' Says The Abbot, 'This Was A Bad Case; But I Had A Good

Thought For It.' He Began To Speak Of Richard, Of What He Had Done And

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What Would Live To Do. 'They Say That The Strain Of The Fiend Is In That

Race, My Dear,' He Told Her. 'They Say That Geoffrey Grey-Gown Had

Intercourse With A Demon. And Certain It Is That In Richard, As In All

His Brothers, That Stinging Grain Lives In The Blood. For Testimony Look

At Their Cognisance Of Leopards, And Advise Yourself, Whether Any House

In Christendom Ever Took That Device But Had Known Familiarly The Devil

In Some Shape? And Look Again At The Deeds Of These Princes. What Turned

The Young King To Riot And Death, And Geoffrey To Rapine And Death? What

Else Will Turn John Sansterre To Treachery And Death, Or Our Tall

Richard To Violence And Death? Nothing Else, Nothing Else. But Before

He Dies You Shall See Him Glorious--'

 

'He Is Glorious Already,' Said Jehane, Wiping Her Eyes.

 

'Keep Him So, Then,' Said The Abbot Testily, Who Did Not Love To Have

His Periods Truncated.

 

'If I Go Back To Saint-Pol,' Said Jehane, 'I Shall Fall In With Gilles

De Gurdun, Who Has Sworn To Have Me.'

 

'Well,' Replied The Abbot, 'Why Should He Not? Does He Receive The

Assurance Of Your Brother The Count?'

 

Jehane Shook Her Head. 'No, No. My Brother Wished Me To Be My Lord

Richard's. But Gilles Needs No Assurance. He Will Buy My Marriage From

The King Of France. He Is Very Sufficient.'

 

'Hath He Substance? Hath He Lands? Is He Noble, Then, Jehane?'

 

'He Hath Knighthood, A Church Fief--Oh, Enough!'

 

'God Forgive Me If I Did Amiss,' Writes The Abbot Here; 'But Seeing Her

In A Melting Mood, Dewy, Soft, And Adorable, I Kissed That Beautiful

Person, And She Left The Chapel Of Saint Remy Somewhat Comforted.'

 

Not Only So, But The Same Day She Left The Dark Tower With Her Brother

Count Eustace, And Rode Towards Gisors And Saint-Pol-La-Marche. Nothing

She Could Do Could Be Shamefully Done, Because Of Her Silence, And The

High Head Upon Which She Carried It; Yet The Count Of Saint-Pol, When He

Heard Her Story, Sitting Bulky In His Chair (Like A Stalled Red Bull),

Did His Best To Put Shame Upon Her, That So He Might Cover His Own

Bitterness. It Was Eustace, A Generous Ardent Youth In Those Days, Who

Saved Her From Most Of Eudo's Wrath By Drawing It Upon Himself.

 

The Count Of Saint-Pol Swore A Great Oath.

 

'By The Teeth Of God, Jehane,' He Roared, 'I See How It Is. He Hath Made

Thee A Piece Of Ruin, And Now Runs Wasting Elsewhere.'

 

'You Shall Never Say That Of My Sister, My Lord,' Cries Eustace, Very

Red In The Face, 'Nor Yet Of The Greatest Knight In The World.'

 

'Why, You Egg,' Says The Count, 'What Have You To Do In This? Tell Me

The Rights Of It Before You Put Me In The Wrong. Is My House To Be The

Sport Of Anjou? Is That Long Son Of Pirates And The Devil To Batten On

Our Pastures, Tread Underfoot, Bruise And Blacken, Rout As He Will,

Break Hedge And Away? By My Father's Soul, Eustace, I Shall See Her

Righted.' He Turned To The Still Girl. 'You Tell Me That You Sent Him

Away? Where Did You Send Him? Where Did He Go?'

 

'He Went To The King Of England At Louviers, And To The Camp,' Said

Jehane. 'The King Sent For Him. I Sent Him Not.'

 

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'Who Is There Beside The King Of England?'

 

'Madame Alois Of France Is There.'

 

The Count Of Saint-Pol Put His Tongue In His Cheek.

 

'Oho!' He Said, 'Oho! That Is How It Stands? So She Is To Be Cuckoo,

Hey?' He Sat Square And Intent For A Moment Or Two, Working His Mouth

Like A Man Who Chews A Straw. Then He Slapped His Big Hand On His Knee,

And Rose Up. 'If I Cannot Spike This Wheel Of Vice, Trust Me Never. By

My Soul, A Plot Indeed. Oh, Horrible, Horrible Thief!' He Turned

Gnashing Upon His Brother. 'Now, Eustace, What Do You Say To Your

Greatest Knight In The World? And What Now Of Your Sister, Hey? Little

Fool, Do You Not Catch The Measure Of It Now? Two Honey Years Of Jehane

Saint-Pol, Gossamer Pledges Of Mouth And Mouth, Of Stealing Fingers,

Kiss And Clasp; But For The French King's Daughter--Pish! The Thing Of

Naught They Have Made Her--The Sacrament Of Marriage, The Treaty, The

Dowry-Fee. Oh, Heaven And Earth, Eustace, Answer Me If You Can.'

 

All Three Were Moved In Their Several Ways: The Count Red And Blinking,

Eustace Red And Trembling, Jehane White As A Cloth, Trembling Also, But

Very Silent. The Word Was With The Younger Man.

 

'I Know Nothing Of All This, Upon My Word, My Lord,' He Said, Confused.

'I Love Count Richard, I Love My Sister. There May Have Been That Which,

Had I Loved But One, I Had Condemned In The Other. I Know Not, But'--He

Saw Jehane's Marble Face, And Lifted His Hand Up--'By My Hope, I Will

Never Believe It. In Love They Came Together, My Lord; In Love, Says

Jehane, They Have Parted. I Have Heard Little Of Madame Alois, But My

Thought Is, That Kings And The Sons Of Kings May Marry Kings' Daughters,

Yet Not In The Way Of Love.'

 

The Count Fumed. 'You Are A Fool, I See, And Therefore Not To My

Purpose. I Must Talk With Men. Stay You Here, Eustace, And Watch Over

Her Till I Return. Let None Get At Her, On Your Dear Life. There Are

Those Who--Sniffing Rogues, Climbers, Boilers Of Their Pots--Keep Them

Out, Eustace, Keep Them Out. As For You'--He Turned Hectoring To The

Proud Girl--'As For You, Mistress, Keep The House. You Are Not In The

Market, You Are Spoilt Goods. You Shall Go Where You Should Be. I Am

Still Lord Of These Lands; There Shall Be No Rebellion Here. Keep The

House, I Say. I Return Ere Many Days.' He Stamped Out Of The Hall; They

Heard Him Next Rating The Grooms At The Gate.

 

Saint-Pol Was A Great House, A Noble House, No Doubt Of It. Its Counts

Drew No Limits In The Way Of Pedigree, But Built Themselves A Fair

Temple In That Kind, With The Twelfth Apostle Himself For Head Of The

Corner. So Far As Estate Went, Seeing Their Country Was Fruitful,

Compact, Snugly Bounded Between France And Normandy (Owing Fealty To The

First), They Might Have Been Sovereign Counts, Like The House Of Blois,

Like That Of Aquitaine, Like That Even Of Anjou, Which, From Nothing,

Had Risen To Be So High. More: By Marriage, By Robbery On That Great

Plan Where It Ceases To Be Robbery And Is Called Warfare, By Treaty And

Nice Use Of The Balances, There Was No Reason Why Kingship Should Not

Have Been Theirs, Or In Their Blood. Kingship, Even Now, Was Not Far

Off. They Called The Marquess Of Montferrat Cousin, And He (It Was

Understood) Intended To Be Throned At Jerusalem. The Emperor Himself

Might Call, And Once (Being In Liquor) Did Call Count Eudo Of Saint-Pol

'Cousin'; For The Fact Was So. You Must Understand That In The Gaul Of

That Day Things Were In This Ticklish State, That A Man (As They Say)

Was Worth The Scope Of His Sword: Reiver Yesterday, Warrior To-Morrow;

Yesterday Wearing A Hemp Collar, To-Day A Count's Belt, And To-Morrow,

May Be, A King's Crown. You Climbed In Various Ways, By The Field, By

The Board, By The Bed. A Handsome Daughter Was Nearly Worth A Stout Son.

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Count Eudo Reckoned Himself Stout Enough, And Reckoned Eustace Was So;

But The Beauty Of Jehane, That Stately Maid Who Might Uphold A Cornice,

That Still Wonder Of Ivory And Gold, Was An Emblement Which He, The

Tenant, Meant To Profit By; And So For An Hour (Two Years By The Clock)

He Saw His Profit Fair. The Infatuation Of The Girl For This Man Or That

Man Was Nothing; But The Infatuation Of The Great Count Of Poictou For

Her Set Eudo's Heart Ablaze. God Willing, Saint Maclou Assisting, He

Might Live To Call Jehane 'My Lady Queen.' He Shut His Ears To Report;

There Were Those Who Called Richard A Rake, And Others Who Called Him

'Yea-And-Nay'; That Was Bertran De Born's Name For Him, And All Paris

Knew It. He Shut His Eyes To Richard's Galling Unconcern With Himself

And His Dignity. Dignity Of Saint-Pol! He Would Wait For His Dignity. He

Shut His Mind To Jehane's Blown Fame, To The Threatenings Of His

Dreadful Norman Neighbour, Henry The Old King, Who Had Had An Archbishop

Pole-Axed Like A Steer; He Dared The Anger Of His Suzerain, In Whose

Hands Lay Jehane's Marriage; A Heady Gambler, He Staked The Fortunes Of

His House Upon This Clinging Of A Girl To A Wild Prince. And Now To Tell

Himself That He Deserved What He Had Got Was But To Feed His Rage. Again

He Swore By God's Teeth That He Would Have His Way; And When He Left His

Castle Of Saint-Pol-La-Marche It Was For Paris.

 

The Head Of His House, Under The Emperor Henry, Was There, Conrad Of

Montferrat, Trying To Negotiate The Crown Of Jerusalem. There Must Be A

Conference Before The House Of Saint-Pol Could Be Let To Fall. Surely

The Marquess Would Never Allow It! He Must Spike The Wheel. Was Not

Alois Of France Within The Degrees? She Was Sister To The French King:

Well, But What Was Richard's Mother? She Had Been Wife To Louis, Wife To

Alois' Father. Was This Decency? What Would The Pope Say--An Italian?

Was The Marquess Conrad An Italian For Nothing? Was 'Our Cousin' The

Emperor Of No Account, King Of The Romans? The Pope Italian, The

Marquess Italian, The Emperor On His Throne, And God In His Heaven--Eh,

Eh! There Should Be A Conference Of These High Powers. So, And With Such

Whirl Of Question And Answer, Did The Count Of