The Prince and the Page: A Story of the Last Crusade, Charlotte M. Yonge [top e book reader .txt] 📗

to know and love his Prince with a more devoted love, if that were possible, and to grieve the more at the persistent hatred of his brothers, who, utterly uncomprehending their father’s high purposes themselves, sought blindly to slake their vengeance for the ruin they had themselves provoked, and upon one who mourned him far more truly than they could ever do.

A few days had thus passed, when Richard was one day called by his friend, Sir Raynald, into the Infirmary, to speak a few kind words to a dying English pilgrim, who had come from his native country, and confided to him his dearly-purchased palm and scallop shell, to be conveyed to his aged mother.

As Richard was passing along the great lofty chamber, two rows of beds were arranged; one of the patients rather hastily, as it seemed to him, enveloped himself in his coverlet, leaving nothing visible but a great black patch which seemed to cover the whole side of his face.

“That is a strange varlet,” said Raynald, as they passed him; “it is an old wound that the patch covers, not what has brought him here; and what the nature of his ailment may be, not one of our infirmarers can make out; his tongue is purple, and he hath such strange shiverings and contortions in all his limbs, that they are at their wits’ end, and some hold that he must have undergone some sorcery in his passage through the Infidel domains.”

“He came from the East, then?” asked Richard.

“Yea, verily.  We have many more sick among the returning than the out-going pilgrims.”

“And what is his nation?”

“Nay; all the scanty words he hath spoken have been in Lingua Franca, and he hath been in such trances and trembling fits that it hath not been easy to question him.  Nor is it our custom to trouble a pilgrim with inquiries.”

“How did he enter?” said Richard.

“Brother Antonio found him yester-eve cast down, gasping for breath, by the gate of the Hospital, just able to entreat for the love of St. John to be admitted.  He had all the tokens of a pilgrim about him, and seemed better at first, walked lustily to bath and bed, and did not show himself helpless; but I much suspect his disease is the work of the Arch Enemy, for he is always at his worst if one of our Brethren in full orders comes near him.  You saw how he cowered and hid himself when I did but pass through the hall.  I shall speak to the Preceptor, and see if it were not best to try what exorcism will do.”

There was something in all this that made Richard vaguely uneasy.  After the recent attack upon the Prince, he suspected all that he did not fully understand; and though in the guarded precincts of the Hospital he had once dismissed his anxiety, it returned upon him in redoubled force.  He thought of Nick Dustifoot, but that worthy was of a uniform tint of whitey brown, skin, hair and all; and Richard had assured himself that the strange patient had black hair and a brown skin, but that was all that he could guess at.  The exorcism would, however, be an effectual means of disclosing the “myster wight’s” person, and it sometimes included measures so strong, that few pretences could hold out against them.  But it was too serious and complicated a ceremony to be got up at short notice; and when they met in the Refectory for supper, Raynald told Richard that the Grand Master intended to make a personal inspection next day, before deciding on using his spiritual weapons.

“And then!” cried John of Dunster, dancing round, “you will let me be there!  Pray, good Father, let me be there!  Oh, I hope there will be a rare smell of brimstone, and the foul fiend will come out with huge claws, and a forked tail.  I don’t care to see him if he only comes out like a black crow; I can see crows enough in the trees at Dunster.”

“Peace, John; this is no place for idle talk,” said Richard gravely.  “Stand aside, here comes the Prince.”

The Prince had spent a fatiguing day over the terms of the ten years, ten months, ten weeks, ten days, ten hours, and ten minutes’ truce with the Emir of Joppa; he ate little, and after the meal, took Richard’s arm, and craved leave from the Grand Master to seek the fresh air beneath the cedar tree.  And when there, he could not endure the return to the closeness of his own apartment, but declared his intention of sleeping in the pavilion.  He dismissed his attendants, saying he needed no one but Richard, who, since his illness, had always slept upon cushions at his feet.

Where was Richard?

He presently appeared, carrying on one arm a mantle, and over the other shoulder the Prince’s immense two-handled sword; while his own sword was in his belt.  Leonillo followed him.

“How now!” said Edward, “are we to have a joust?  Dost look for phantom Saracens out of yonder fountain, such as my Doña tells me rise out of the fair wells in Castille, wring their hands and pray for baptism?”

“You said your hand should keep your head, my Lord,” said Richard; “this is but a lone place.”

“What! amid all the guards of the good Fathers!  Well, old comrade,” as he took his sword in his right hand; “I am glad to handle thee once more, and I hope soon to grasp thee as I am wont, with both hands.  Lay it down, Richard.  There—thanks—that is well.  I wonder what my father would have thought if one of his many crusading vows had led him hither.  Should we ever have had him back again?  How well this dreamy leisure would have suited him!  It would almost make a troubadour of a rough warrior like me.  See the towers and pinnacles against the sky, and the lights within the windows—and the stars above like lamps of gold, and the moonshine sparkling on the bubbles of the water, ever floating off, yet ever in the same place.  Were the good old man here, how peacefully would he sing, and pray, and dream, free from debts, parliament and barons.  Ah! had his kinsmen let him keep his vow, it had been happier for us all.”

So mused the Prince, and with a weary smile resigned himself to rest.

But Richard was too full of vague uneasiness to sleep.  He could not dismiss from his mind the thought of the unknown pilgrim, and was resolved to relax no point of vigilance until the full investigation should have satisfied him that his fears were unfounded.  He had been accustomed to watching and broken rest during the Prince’s illness, and though he durst not pace up and down for fear of disturbing the sleeper—nay, could hardly venture a movement—he strained his eyes into the twilight, and told his beads fervently; but sleep hung on him like a spell, and even while sitting upright there were strange dreams before him, and one that he had had before, though with a variation.  It was the field of Evesham once more; but this time the strange pilgrim rose in his dark wrappings before him, and suddenly developed into that same shadowy form of his father, who again struck him on the shoulder with his sword, and dubbed him again “The Knight of Death.”

Hark! there was a growl from Leonillo; a footstep, a dark figure—the pilgrim himself!  Richard shouted aloud, grasped at his sword, and flung himself forward.

“Montfort’s vengeance!”  The sound rang in his ears as a sharp pang thrilled through his side; the hot blood welled up, and he was dashed to the ground; but even in falling he heard the Prince’s “What treason is this?” and felt the rising of the mighty form.  At the same moment the murderer was in the grasp of that strong right hand, and was dragged forward into the full light of the lamp that hung from the roof of the pavilion.

“Thou!” he gasped.  “Who—what?”

“Richard!” exclaimed the Prince, and relaxing his hold, “Simon de Montfort, thou hast slain thy brother!”

The sudden shock and awe had overwhelmed Simon, who was indeed weaponless, since his dagger remained in Richard’s wound.  He silently assisted the Prince in lifting Richard to the cushions of the couch, and the low groan convinced them that he lived: looked anxiously for the wound.  The dagger had gone deep between the ribs, and little but the haft could be seen.

“Poisoned?” Edward asked, looking up at Simon.

“No.  It failed once.  He may live,” said Simon, with bent brows and folded arms.

“No, no.  My death-blow!” gasped Richard, with sobbing breath.  “Best so, if—Oh, could I but speak!”

The Prince raised him, supporting his head on his own broad breast and shoulder, and signed to Simon to hold to his lips the cup of water that stood near.  Richard slightly revived, and in this posture breathed more easily.

“He might yet live.  Call speedy aid!” said the Prince, who seemed to have utterly forgotten that he was practically alone with his persevering and desperate enemy.

“Wait!  Oh, wait!” cried Richard, holding out his hand; “it would be vain; but it will be all joy did I but know that there will be no more of this.  Simon, he loved my father—he has spared thee again and again.”

“Simon,” said the Prince, “for this dear youth’s sake and thy father’s, I raise no hand against thee.  Bitter wrong has been done to thy house, by what persons, and how provoked, it skills not now to ask.  Twice thy fury has fallen on the guiltless.  Enough blood has been shed.  Let there be peace henceforth.”

Simon stood moody, with folded arms, and Richard groaned, and essayed to speak.

“Peace, boy,” tenderly said Edward; “and thou, Simon, hear me.  I loved thy father, and knew the upright noble spirit that arrayed him against us.  Heaven is my witness that I would have given my life to have been able to save him on yon wretched battle-field.  But he fell in fair fight, in helm and corselet, like a good knight.  Peace be with him!  Surely in this land of pardon and redemption his son and nephew may cease to seek one another’s blood for his sake!  Cheer thy brother by letting him feel his brave deed hath not been fruitless.  Free thou shalt go—do what thou wilt; no word of mine shall betray that this deed is thine.”

“Lay aside thy purpose,” entreated Richard.  “Bind him by oath, my Lord.”

“Nay,” said the Prince.  “Here, on foreign soil, the strife lies between the cousins, the sons of Henry and of Eleanor; and if Simon must needs still slake his revenge in my blood, he may have better success another time.  Or, so soon as I can wear my armour again, I offer him a fair combat in the lists, man to man; better so than staining his soul with privy murder—but I had far rather that it should be peace between us—and that thou shouldst see it.”  And Edward, still supporting Richard on his breast, held out his right hand to Simon, adding, “Let not thy brother’s blood be shed in vain.”

Richard made a gesture of agonized entreaty.

“My father—my father!” he said.  “He forgave—he hated blood; Simon, didst but know—”

“I see,” said Simon impatiently, “that Heaven and earth alike are set against my purpose.  Fear not for his days, Richard, they are safe from me, and here is my hand upon it.”

The tone was sullen and grudging, and Richard looked scarcely comforted; but the Prince was in haste that he should be succoured at once, and even while receiving Simon’s unwilling hand, said, “We lose time.  Speed near enough to the Spital to be heard, and shout for aid.  Then seek thine own safety.  I will say no more of thy share in this matter.”

Simon lingered one moment.  “Boy,” he said, “I told thee thou wast over like him.  Live, live if thou canst!  Alas!  I had thought to make surer work this time; but thou dost pardon me the mischance?”

“More than pardon—thank thee—since he is safe,” whispered Richard, and as Simon bent over him the boy crossed his brow, and returned a look of absolute joy.

Simon sped away; and the Prince, when left alone with Richard, put no restraint upon the warmth of his feelings, and his tears fell fast and freely.

“Boy, boy,” he said; “I little thought thou wast to bear what was meant for me!”  And then, with tenderness that would have seemed foreign to his nature, he inquired into the pain that Richard was suffering, tried to make his position more easy, and lamented that he could not venture to draw out the weapon until the leeches should come.

“It has been my best hope,” said Richard; “and now that it should have been thus.  With your goodness I have nothing—nothing to wish.  Sir Raynald will be here—I have only my charge for Henry to give him—and poor Leonillo!”

“I will bear thy charges to Henry,” said the Prince.  “Nor shall he think thou didst betray his secret.  I will watch over him so far