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

Here Is Lord Gunther Again,' Said He. 'Better Than Beer.'

 

'King Richard Of England,' Said The Austrian, White By Nature, Heat, And

His Feelings, 'I Make You My Prisoner.'

 

'So It Seems,' Replied The King; 'Sit Down, Gunther. I Offer You Beer

And A Most Indifferent Cheese.'

 

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But Gunther Would By No Means Sit Down In The Presence Of An Anointed

King For One Bidding.

 

'Ah, Sire, It Is Proper That I Should Stand Before You,' He Said

Huskily, Greatly Excited.

 

'It Is Not At All Proper When I Tell You To Be Seated,' Returned King

Richard. So Gunther Sat Down And Wiped His Head, Richard Finished His

Beer; And Then They Went To Sleep On The Floor. Early In The Morning The

Prisoner Woke Up His Gaoler.

 

'Come, Gunther,' He Says, 'We Had Better Take The Road.'

 

'I Am Ready, Sire,' Says Gunther, Manifestly Unready. He Rose And Shook

Himself.

 

'Lead, Then,' Richard Said.

 

'I Follow You, Sire.'

 

'Lead, You White Dog,' Said The King, And Showed His Teeth For A Moment.

The Austrian Obeyed. One Of Richard's Few Attendants, A Norman Called

Martin Vaux, Adopted For His Own Salvation The Simple Expedient Of

Staying Behind; And Gunther Was In Far Too Exalted A Mood To Notice Such

A Trifle. When He And His Troop Had Rounded The Forest Road, Martin Vaux

Rounded It Also, But In The Opposite Direction. He Was Rather A Fool,

Though Not Fool Enough To Go To Prison If He Could Help It. Being A

Seaman By Grace, He Smelt For His Element, And By Grace Found It After

Not Many Days. More Of Him Presently.

 

Archduke Luitpold Was In His Good Town Of Gratz When News Was Brought

Him, And The Man. 'Du Lieber Gott!' He Crowed. 'Ach, Mein Gunther!' And

Embraced His Vassal.

 

His Fiery Little Eyes Burned Red, As Mars When He Flickers; But He Was A

Gentleman. He Took Richard's Proffered Hand, And After Some Fumbling

About, Kissed It.

 

'Ha, Sire!' Came The Words, Deeply Exultant, From His Big Throat. 'Now

We Are On More Equal Terms, It Appears.'

 

'I Agree With You, Luitpold,' Said The King; And Then, Even As The

Archduke Was Wetting His Lips For The Purpose, He Added, 'But I Hope You

Will Not Stretch Your Privilege So Far As To Make Me A Speech.'

 

Austria Swallowed Hard. 'Sire, It Would Take Many Speeches To Wipe Out

The Provocations I Have Received At Your Hands. All The Speeches In The

Councils Of The World Could Not Excuse The Deaths Of My Second Cousin

The Count Of Saint-Pol And Of My First Cousin The Marquess Of

Montferrat.'

 

'That Is True,' Replied Richard, 'But Neither Could They Restore Them To

Life.'

 

'Sire, Sire!' Cried The Archduke, 'Upon My Soul I Believe You Guilty Of

The Marquess's Death.'

 

'I Assumed That You Did,' Was The King's Answer; 'And Your Protestation

Adds No Weight To My Theory, But Otherwise.'

 

'Do You Admit It, King Richard?' The Archduke, An Amazed Man, Looked

Foolish. His Mouth Fell Open And His Hair Stuck Out; This Gave Him The

Appearance Of A Perturbed Eagle In A Bush.

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'I Am Far From Denying It,' Says Richard. 'I Never Deny Any Charges, And

Never Make Any Unless I Am Prepared To Pursue Them; Which Is Not The

Case At Present.'

 

'I Must Keep You In Safe Hold, Sire,' The Archduke Said. 'I Must

Communicate With My Lord The Roman Emperor.'

 

'You Are In Your Right, Luitpold,' Said King Richard.

 

The End Of The Day's Work Was That The King Of England Was Lodged In A

High Tower, Some Sixty Feet Above The Town Wall.

 

 

Now Consider The Acts Of Martin Vaux, Smelling For The Sea. In A Little

Time He Did Better Than That, For He Saw It From The Top Of A High

Mountain, Shining Far Off In The Haze, And Then Had Nothing To Do But

Follow Down A River-Bed, Which Brought Him Duly To Trieste. Thence He

Got A Passage To Venice, Where The Wineshops Were Too Good Or Too Many

For Him. He Talked Of His Misfortunes, Of His Broken Shoes, Of Austrian

Beer, Of His Exalted Master, Of His Extreme Ingenuity And Capacity For

All Kinds Of Faithful Service. Now Venice Was, As It Is Now, A Place

_Colluvies Gentium_. Gaunt, Lonely Arabs Stalked The Narrow Streets, Or

Dreamed Motionless By The Walls Of The Quay. The City Was Full Of

Strayed Crusaders, Disastrous Broken Blades, Of Renegade Christians,

Renegade Moslems, Adaptable Jews, Of Pilgrims, And Chafferers Of Relics

From The Holy Places. Martin's Story Spread Like The Plague, But Not

(Unhappily) To Any Advantage Of King Richard Imperturbable In His Tower.

Martin Vaux Then, Having Drunk Up The Charity Of Venice, Shipped For

Ancona. There Too He Met With Attentions, For There He Met A Countryman

Of His, The Sieur Gilles De Gurdun, A Norman Knight.

 

When Sir Gilles Heard That King Richard Was In Prison, But That Jehane

Was Not With Him, He Grew Very Red. That He Had Never Learned Of Her

Deeds At Acre Need Not Surprise You. He Had Not Heard Because He Had Not

Been To Acre With The French Host, But Instead Had Gone Pilgrim To

Jerusalem, And Thence With Lusignan To Cyprus. So Now He Took Martin

Vaux By The Windpipe And Shook Him Till His Eyes Stared Like Agate

Balls. 'Tell Me Where Madame Jehane Is, You Clot, Or I Finish What I

Have Begun,' He Said Terribly. But Martin Could Tell Him No More, For He

Was Quite Dead. It Was Proper, Even In Ancona, To Be Moving After That;

And Gilles Was Very Ready To Move. The Hunger And Thirst For Jehane,

Which Had Never Left Him For Long, Came Aching Back To Such A Pitch That

He Felt He Must Now Find Her, See Her, Touch Her, Or Die. The King Was

Her Only Clue; He Must Hunt Him Out Wherever He Might Be. One Of Two

Things Had Occurred: Either Richard Had Tired Of Her, Or He Had Lost Her

By Mischance Of Travel. There Was A Third Possible Thing, That The Queen

Had Had Her Murdered. He Put That From Him, Being Sure She Was Not Dead.

'Death,' Said Gilles, 'Is Great, But Not Great Enough To Have Jehane In

Her Beauty.' He Really Believed This. So He Came Back To His Two

Positions. If The King Had Tired Of Her, He Would Not Scruple (Being As

He Was) To Admit As Much To Gilles. If He Had Lost Her, He Was Safe In

Prison; And Gilles Knew That With Time He Could Find Her. But He Must

Be Sure. He Thought Of Another Thing. 'If He Is In Prison, In Chains, He

Might Be Stabbed With Certain Ease.' His Heart Exulted At The Hot

Thought.

 

It Was Not Hard To Follow Back On Martin's Dallying Footsteps. He Traced

Him To Venice, To Trieste, Up The Mountains As Far As Blomau. There He

Lost Him, And Shot Very Wide Of The Mark. In Fact, The Slow-Witted Young

Man Went To Vienna On A False Rumour--But It Boots Not Recount His

Wanderings. Six Months After He Left Ancona, Ragged, Hatless, Unkempt,

Hungry, He Came Within Sight Of The Strong Towers Of Gratz; And As He

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Went Limping By The Town Ditch He Heard A Clear, High Voice Singing--

 

     Li Dous Consire

     Quem Don' Ainors Soven--

 

And Knew That He Had Run Down His Man.

 

One Other, Crouching Under The Wall, Most Intent Watcher, Saw Him Stop

As If Hit, Clap His Hand To His Shock-Head, Then Listen, Brooding,

Working His Jaws From Side To Side. The Voice Stayed; Gilles Turned And

Slowly Went His Way Back. He Limped Under The Gateway Into The Town, And

The Croucher By The Wall Peered At Him Between The Meshes Of Her

Dishevelled Hair.

Volume 91 Book 2 (The Book Of Nay) Chapter 11 (The Chapter Called A Latere) Pg 166

The Old Man Of Musse, Lord Of All The Assassins, Descendant Of Ali,

Fulness Of Light, Master Of Them That Eat Hemp, And Many Things Beside,

Wedded Jehane And Made Her His Principal Wife. He Valued In Her, Apart

From Her Bodily Perfections, Her Discretion, Obedience, Good Sense, And

That Extraordinary Sort Of Pride Which Makes Its Possessor Humble, So

Inset It Is; Too Proud, You May Say, To Give Pride A Thought. Esteeming

Her At This Price, It Is Not Remarkable If She Came To Be His Only Wife.

 

This Was The Manner Of Her Life. When Her Husband Left Her, Which Was

Very Early In The Morning, She Generally Slept For An Hour, Then Rose

And Went To The Bath. Her Boy Was Brought To Her In The Pavilion Of The

Garden Of Fountains; She Spent Two Hours Or More With Him, Teaching Him

His Prayers, The Honour Of His Father, Love And Duty To His Mother,

Respect For The Long Purposes Of God. At Ten O'clock She Broke Her Fast,

And Afterwards Her Women Sat With Her At Needlework; And One Would Sing,

Or One Tell A Good Tale; Or, Leave Being Given, They Would Gossip Among

Themselves, With A Look Ever At Her For Approval Or (What Rarely

Happened) Disapproval. There Was Not A Soul Among Her Slaves Who Did Not

Love Her, Nor One Who Did Not Fear Her. She Talked No More Than She Had

Ever Done, But She Judged No Less. Many Times A Day The Old Man Sent For

Her, Or Sometimes Came