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

could enjoy without his deity and master.

Meantime, the Grand Prior discreetly removed his joint-stool out of hearing of the two cousins, and called the little maid to rehearse to him the Credo and Ave, with their English equivalents—a task that pretty Bessee highly disapproved after the fortnight’s dissipation, and would hardly have performed for one less beloved of children than Father Robert.

The good Grand Prior knew that the King would have much to say that would beseem no ear save his kinsman’s; and in effect Edward told what none besides would ever hear respecting the true author of the attempts on his own life.

“Spiteful fox.  Such Simon ever was!” was the beggar’s muttered comment.  “Well that he knows not of my poor child!  So, cousin, thou hast kept his counsel,” he added in a different tone.  “I thank thee in the name of Montfort and Leicester.  It was well and nobly done.”

And Henry de Montfort held out his hand with the dignity of head of the family whose honour Edward had shielded.

“It was for thy father’s sake and Richard’s,” said Edward, receiving the acknowledgment as it was meant.

“Ah, well,” said Henry, relapsing into his usual half-scoffing tone; “in that boy our Montfort blood seems to have run clear of the taint it got from the she-fiend of Anjou.”

“Thy share was from a mocking fiend!” returned the King.

“Ay, and a fair portion it is!” said the beggar.  “My jest and my song have borne me through more than my sword and spurs ever did—and have been more to me than English earldom or French county.  Poor Richard!” he added with feeling; “I told him his was the bondage and mine the freedom!”

“Alas!  I fear that so it was,” said Edward.  “My favour only embittered his foes.  Had I known how it would end, I had never taken him to me; but my heart yearned to my uncle’s goodly son.”

“Maybe it is well,” said Henry.  “Had the boy grown up verily like my father, thou and he might have fallen out; or if not—why, you knights and nobles ride in miry bloody ways, and ’tis a wonder if even the best of you does not bring his harness home befouled and besmirched—not as shining bright as he took it out.  Well, what didst thou with the poor lad?  Cut him in fragments?  You mince your best loved now as fine as if they were traitors.”

“No,” said Edward; “the boy lies sleeping in the Church of St. John, at Acre.  I rose from my sickbed that I might lay him in his grave as a brother.  Lights burn round him, and masses are said; and the brethren were left in charge to place his effigy on his tomb, in carven stone.  One day I trust to see it.  My brother Alexander of Scotland, Llewellyn of Wales, and I, have sworn to one another to bring all within these four seas into concord and good order; and then we may look for such a blessing on our united arms as may bear us onward to Jerusalem!  Then come with us, Henry, and let us pray together at Richard’s grave.”

“I may safely promise,” said Henry, smiling, “if this same Crusade is to be when peace and order are within the four seas.  Moreover, thou wilt have ruined my trade by that time!”

“Nay, Henry, cease fooling.  See—if thou wilt not be thyself, I will find thee a lodge in any park of mine.  None shall know who thou art; but thou shalt have free range, and—”

“And weary of my life!  No, no, cousin.  I am in thy power now; and thou canst throw me into prison as the attainted Lord de Montfort.  Do so if thou wilt; but I were fooling indeed to give up my free range, my power, my authority, to be a poor suspected, pitied, maimed pensioner on thy bounty.  Park, quotha! with none to speak to from morn to night.  I can have my will of any park of thine I please, whenever I choose!”

Edward would have persisted, but Henry silenced him effectually, with a sarcastic hint that his favours had done little for Richard.  Then the King prayed at least that he would consider his child; but to the proposal of taking her to the palace, Henry returned an indignant negative: “He had seen enough of the court ladies,” he said.

A hot glow of anger lighted Edward’s cheek, for he loved his mother; but the blind beggar could not be the subject of his wrath, and he merely said, “Thou didst not know my wife!”

“Ay, I will believe the court as perfect as thou thinkest to make the isle; but Bessee shall not bide there.  She is the blind beggar’s child, and such shall she remain.  Send me to a dungeon, as I said, and thou canst pen her in a convent, or make her a menial to thy princesses, as thou wilt; but while my life and my freedom are my own I keep my child.”

“I could find it in my heart to arrest thee,” said Edward, “when I look at that beautiful child, and think to what thou wouldst bring her.”

“She is fair then,” said the beggar eagerly.

“Fair!  She is the loveliest child mine eyes have looked on: though some of mine own have been very lovely.  But she hath the very features of our royal line—though with eyes deep and dark, like thy father’s, or my Richard’s—and a dark glow of sunny health on her fair skin.  She bears her, too, right royally.  Henry, thou canst not wreck the fate of a child like that.”

“No, assuredly,” said Henry dryly.  “I have not done so ill by her hitherto, by thine own showing, that I should not be trusted with her for the future.”

“The parting would be bitter,” began Edward “but thou shouldst see her often.”

“Slay me, and make her a ward of the crown,” said Henry.  “Otherwise I will need no man’s leave for seeing my daughter.  But ask her.  If she will go with thee, I will say no more.”

King Edward was fond of children—most indulgent to his own, and kind to all little ones, who, attracted by the sweetness which his stern, grave, beautiful countenance would assume when he looked at them—always made friends with him readily.  So he trusted to this fascination in the case of the little Lady Elizabeth.  He held out his hands to her, and claimed her as his cousin; and she came readily to him, and stood between his knees.  “Little cousin,” he said, “wilt thou come home with me, to be with my two little maids, the elder much of thine age?”

“You are a red monk!” said Bessee, amazed.

“That’s his shell, Bessee,” said her father; “he has come a-masking, and forgot his part.”

“I don’t like masking,” said Bessee, trying to get away.

“Then we will mask no more,” said Edward.  “Thou hast looked in my face long enough with those great black eyes.  Dost know me, child?”

Bessee cast the black eyes down, and coloured.

“Dost know me?” he repeated.

“I think,” she whispered at last, “that you are masking still.  You are like—like the King that was crowned at the Abbey.”

“Well said, little maid!  And shall I take thee home, and give thee pearls and emeralds to braid thy locks, instead of these heath-bells?”

“Father,” said Bessee, trying to withdraw her little hands out of Edward’s large one, which held both fast.  “O father, is he masking still?”

“No, child; it is the King indeed,” said Henry.  “Hear what he saith to thee.”

And again Edward spoke of all that would tempt a child.

“Father,” said Bessee, “if father comes!”

“No, Bessee,” said her father; “I have done with palaces.  No places they for blind beggars.”

“Oh, let me go! let me go!” cried Bessee, struggling.  And as the King released her hands, she flew to her father.  “He would lose himself without me!  I must be with father.  O King, go away!  Father, don’t let him take me!  Let me cry for Jock of the Wooden Spoon, and Trig One Leg, and Hedgerow Wat!”

“Hush, hush, Bess!” said Henry, not desirous that his royal cousin should understand the strength of his body-guard of honour.  “The King here is as trusty and loyal as the boldest beggar among us.  He only gave thee thy choice between him and me!”

“Thee, thee, father.  He can’t want me.  He has two eyes and two hands, and a queen and two little girls; and thou hast only me!” and she clung round her father’s neck.

“Little one,” said Edward, “thou need’st not shrink from me.  I will not take thee away.  Thy father hath a treasure, and ’tis his part to strive not to throw it away.  Only should either thou or he ever condescend so far as to seek for counsel with this poor cousin of thine, send this token to me, and I will be with thee.”

But it was full nine years ere Edward saw that jewel again.  Meantime he was not entirely without knowledge of his kinsman.  On every great occasion the figure, conspicuous for the scrupulous cleanliness of the dark russet gown, and the careful arrangement of the hair and beard, and the fillet which covered the eyes, as well as for a lordly bearing, that even the stoop of blindness could not disguise, was to be seen dominating over all the other beggars, sitting on the steps of church or palace gates, as if they had been a throne; troubling himself little to beg, but exchanging shrewd remarks with all who addressed him, and raising many a laugh among the bystanders.  Leonillo lay contented at his feet; but after just enough time had elapsed to show that he cared not for the King’s remonstrance, he ceased to be accompanied by his little daughter, and was led by a boy in her stead.

The King, making inquiries of the Grand Prior, learnt that pretty Bessee was daily deposited at the sisterhood of Poor Clares, where she remained while her father was out on his begging expeditions, and learnt such breeding as convents then gave.

“In sooth,” said Sir Robert, “honest Hal believes it is all for good-will and charity and love to the pretty little wench; and so it is in great part: but methought it best to give a hint to the mother prioress that the child came of good blood.  She is a discreet lady, and knows how to deal with her; and truly she tells me their house has prospered since the little one came to them.  Every feast-day morn have they found their alms-dish weightier with coin than ever she knew it before.”

When Edward repeated this intelligence to his queen, she recollected Dame Idonea’s gossiping information—that brave Sir Robert, the flower of the House of Darcy, had only entered the Order of St. John, when fair Alda Braithwayte, in the strong enthusiasm of the Franciscan preaching, had pleaded a vow of virginity against all suitors, and had finally become a Sister of the Poor Clares.  And after all his wars and wanderings, the regulations of his Order had ended by bringing the Hospitalier in his old age into the immediate neighbourhood of Prioress Alda; and into that distant business intercourse that the heads of religious houses had from time to time to carry on together.

The world passed on.  Eleanor de Montfort came from France, and the King himself acted the part of a father to her at her marriage with Llewellyn of Wales.  He knew—though she little guessed—that the beggar, by whom her jewelled train swept with rustling sound, was the first-born of her father’s house, and should have held her hand.  Two years only did that marriage last; Eleanor died, leaving an infant daughter; and Llewellyn soon after was in arms against the English.  Perhaps Edward bethought him of his cousin’s ironical promise to go with him to the East after the pacification of the whole island, when he found himself obliged to summon the fierce Pyrenean to pursue the wild Welsh in their mountains.

CHAPTER XIV
THE QUEEN OF THE DEW-DROPS

“This is the prettiest low-born lass that ever
Ran on a green sward.”—Winter’s Tale.

It was the summer of 1283; the babe of Carnarvon had been accepted as the native prince, speaking no tongue but Welsh, and Edward had since been employed in establishing his dominion over Wales.  His Whitsuntide was kept by the Queen’s special entreaty at St. Winifred’s Well.  Such wonders had been told her of the miracles wrought by this favourite Welsh saint, that she hoped that by early placing her little Welsh-born son under such protection, she might secure for him healthier and longer life than had been the share of his brethren.

So to Holy-well went the court and army.  Some lodged in the convent attached to the well; but many and many more dwelt in tents, or lodged in cottages, or raised huts of boughs of trees.  Noble ladies of Eleanor’s suite were glad to obtain a lodging in rude Welsh huts; and as the weather was beautiful, there was plenty of gay feasting, dancing, and jousting on the greensward, when the religious observances of the day