The Caged Lion, Charlotte M. Yonge [dark books to read TXT] 📗

to commands showing so much confidence in a youth of his years.  They encouraged him by assurances that Sir Lewis Robsart, who had a curious kind of authority, half fatherly, half nurselike, over the Queen, would manage all for him.  And King James, provoked by his reluctance, began, as they left Bedford’s chamber, to chide him for ungraciousness in the time of distress, and insensibility to the honour conferred on him.

‘Nay, nay,’ disclaimed Malcolm, almost ready to weep, ‘but I have a whole world of penance!’

‘Penance!  Plague on the boy’s perverseness!  What penance is so good as obedience?’ said James, much displeased.

‘Sir, Sir,’ panted Malcolm, ‘’tis not only that.  Could any one but be sent in my stead?  My returning alone is what Madame of Hainault bade—for—for some scheme on—’

His voice was choked, and his face was burning.

‘Is the lad gone daft?’ cried James, in great anger.  ‘If Madame of Hainault were so lost to decorum as to hatch such schemes at such a moment, I trow you are neither puppet nor fool in her hands for her to do what she will with.  I’ll have no more fooling!’

Malcolm could only obey.

In the brief space while the horses were preparing, and he had to equip and take food, he sped in search of Dr. Bennet, hoping, he knew not what, from his interference, or trusting, at any rate, to explain his own sudden absence.

But, looking into the chapel, he recognized the chaplain as one of the leading priests in one of the lengthiest of masses, which was just commencing.  It was impossible to wait for the conclusion.  He could but kneel down, find himself too much hurried and confused to recollect any prayer, then dash back again to don his riding-gear, before King James should miss him, and be angered again.

‘Unabsolved—unvowed!’ he thought.  ‘Sent off thither against my will.  Whatever may fall out, it is no fault of mine!’

CHAPTER XIV: THE TROTH FLIGHT

Trembling and awed, the ladies waited at Paris.  It was well known how the King’s illness must end.  No one, save the Queen, professed to entertain any hope of his amendment; but Catherine appeared to be too lethargic to allow herself to be roused to any understanding of his danger; and as to the personal womanly tendance of wife to suffering husband, she seemed to have no notion of it.  Her mother had never been supposed to take the slightest care of King Charles; and Catherine, after her example, regarded the care either of husband or child as no more required of a royal lady than of a queen bee.

The little Lady Montagu, as Alice was now to be called, who had been scheming that her Richard should be wounded just enough to learn to call her his good little nurse-tender, was dreadfully scandalized, as indeed were wives of more experience, when they found all their endeavours to make their mistress understand how ill the King really was, and how much he wished for her, fall upon uncomprehending ears, and at last were desired by her mother Isabeau not to torment the poor Queen, or they would make her ill.

‘Make her ill!  I wish I could!’ muttered Lady Warwick, as she left the presence-chamber; ‘but it is like my little Nan telling her apple-stock baby that all her kin were burnt alive in one castle.  She heeds as much!’

But when at late evening Sir Lewis Robsart rode up to the hotel, and a hush went along with him, for all knew that he would never have left his King alive, Catherine’s composure gave way.  She had not imagination enough for apprehension of what was out of sight; but when she knew that she had lost her king, to whom she had owed the brief splendour of an otherwise dreary and neglected life, she fell into a passion of cries and tears, even at the mere sight of Sir Lewis, and continued to bewail her king, her lord, her husband, her light, her love, with the violence of an utterly unexpected bereavement.

But while her shrieks and sobs were rending the air, a hoarse voice gasped out, ‘What say you?  My son Henri dead!’ and white and ghastly, the gray hair hanging wildly from the temples, the eyes roaming with the wistful gaze of the half insane, poor King Charles stood among them, demanding, ‘Tell me I am sick again!  Tell me it is but one of my delusions!  So brave, so strong, so lively, so good to the poor old man!  My son Henri cannot die!  That is for the old, the sick!’

And when Sir Lewis with gentle words had made him understand the truth, he covered his face with his hands, and staggered away, led by his attendant knight, still murmuring in a dazed way, ‘Mon fils Henri, mon bon fils Henri—most loving of all my children!’

In truth, neither of his own sons had been thus mourned; nor had any person shown the poor crazed monarch the uniform deferential consideration he had received from Henry.  He crept back to his own chamber, and for many days hardly spoke, save to moan for his bon fils Henri, scarcely tasting food, and pining away day by day.  Those who had watched the likeness between the heroes of Monmouth and of Macedon, saw the resemblance carried out; for as the aged Persian queen perished away from grief for the courteous and gentle Alexander, so now the king of the conquered realm was actually wasting to death with mourning for his frank and kindly bon fils Henri.

As part of royal etiquette, Catherine betook herself to her bed, in a chamber hung with black, the light of day excluded, and ranks of wax tapers shedding a lugubrious light upon rows of gentlemen and ladies who had to stand there on duty, watching her as the mourners watched the King, though her lying-in-state was not always as silent; for though, there was much time spent in slumber, Catherine sometimes would indulge in a good deal of subdued prattle with her mother, or her more confidential attendants.  But at other times, chiefly when first awaking, or else when anything had crossed her will, she would fall into agonies of passionate grief—weeping, shrieking, and rending her hair with almost a frenzy of misery, as she called herself utterly desolate, and screamed aloud for her king to return to her.

She was quite past the management of her English ladies on these occasions; and her mother, declaring that she was becoming crazed like her father, declined having anything to do with her.  Even Sir Lewis Robsart she used to spurn aside; and nothing ever seemed effectual, but for the Demoiselle de Luxemburg, with her full sweet voice, and force of will in all the tenderness of strength, caressingly to hold her still, talk to her almost as to an infant, and sing away her violence with some long low ditty—sometimes a mere Flemish lullaby, sometimes a Church hymn.  As Lady Warwick said, when the ladies were all wearied out with the endeavour to control their Queen’s waywardness and violence, and it sighed away like a departing tempest before Esclairmonde, ‘It was as great a charity as ever ministering as a St. Katherine’s bedeswoman could be.’

To the young Lady Montagu, the blow was astounding.  It was the first realization that a great man could die, a great support be taken away; and, child-like, she moved about, bewildered and stunned, in the great household on which the dark cloud had descended—clinging to Esclairmonde as if to protect her from she knew not what; anything dreadful might happen, with the King dead, and her father and husband away.

Alas! poor Esclairmonde!  She was in much more real danger herself, as came to the bride’s mind presently, when, in the midst of her lamentations, she exclaimed, ‘And, ah, Clairette! there ends his goodly promise about the sisterhood of good works at Paris.’

Esclairmonde responded with a gesture of sorrow, and the murmur of the ‘In principibus non confide’ that is so often the echo of disappointment.

‘And what will you do?’ continued Alice, watching her anxiously, as her face, turning very pale, was nevertheless uplifted towards heaven.

‘Strive to trust more in God, less in princes,’ she breathed forth, clasping her hands, and compressing her lips.

‘Nay, but does it grieve you so intensely?’ asked Alice.  ‘Mayhap—’

‘Alas! sweet one!  I would that the fall of this device seemed like to be the worst effect to me of your good king’s death.  Pray for me, Alice, for now no earthly power stands between me and my kinsmen’s will.’

Alice cried aloud, ‘Nay, nay, lady, we are English still.  There are my father; my lord, the Duke of Bedford; they will not suffer any wrong to be done.’

‘Hush, Alice.  None of them hath any power to aid me.  Even good King Henry had no legal power to protect me; only he was so great, so strong in word or deed, that no man durst do before him what he declared a shame and a sin.  Now it will be expedient more than ever that nothing be done by the English to risk offending the Duke of Burgundy.  None will dare withhold me; none ought to dare, for they act not for themselves, but for their infant charge; and my countess is weary of me.  There is nothing to prevent my uncles from taking me away with them; or—’

‘Nothing!’ cried Alice.  ‘It cannot be!  Oh, that my father were here!’

‘He could do nothing for me.’

‘A convent!’

‘No convent here could keep me against the Bishop of Thérouenne.’

Alice wrung her hands.  ‘Oh, it cannot—shall not be!’

‘No, Alice, I do not believe it will be.  I have that confidence in Him to whom I have given myself, that I do not believe He will permit me to be snatched from Him, so long as my will does not consent.’  Esclairmonde faltered a moment, as she remembered her wavering, crossed her hands on her breast, and ejaculated, ‘May He deal mercifully with me!  Yet it may be at an exceeding cost—at that of all my cherished schemes, of all that was pride and self-seeking.  Alice, look not so terrified.  Nothing can be done immediately, or with violence, in this first mourning for the King; and I trust to make use of the time to disguise me, and escape to England, where I may keep my vow as anchoress, or as lay sister.  Let me keep that, and my self-exalting schemes shall be all put by!’

The question whether this should be to England, or to the southern parts of France held by the Armagnacs, remained for decision, as opportunity should direct: Alice constantly urging her own scheme of carrying her friend with her as her tire-woman, if, as seemed likely, she were sent home; and Esclairmonde refusing to consent to anything that might bring the bride into troubles with her father and husband; and the debates being only interrupted when the Lady Montagu was required to take her turn among the weary ladies-in-waiting around Catherine’s state bed.

Whenever she was not required to control, console, or persuade the Queen, Esclairmonde spent most of her time in a chamber apart from the chatter of Jaqueline’s little court, where she was weaving, in the delicate point-lace work she had learnt in her Flemish convent, an exquisite robe, such as were worn by priests at Mass.  She seldom worked, save for the poor; but she longed to do some honour to the one man who would have promoted her nearly vanished scheme, and this work she trusted to offer for a vestment to be used at his burial Mass.  Many a cherished plan was resigned, many an act of self-negation uttered, as she bent over the dainty web; many an entreaty breathed, that her moment’s wandering of fancy might not be reckoned against her, but that she might be aided to keep the promise of her infancy, and devote herself undivided to the direct service of God and of His poor, be it in ever so humble a station.

Here she sat alone, when steps approached, the door opened, and of all people he stood before her whom she least wished to see, the young Lord of Glenuskie.

Amazed as she was, she betrayed no confusion, and merely rose, saying quietly, ‘This is an error.  I will show you Madame’s apartment.’

But Malcolm, who had begun by looking far more confused than she, cried earnestly, ‘One moment, lady.  I came not willingly; the Countess sent for me to her.  But since I am here—listen while Heaven gives me strength to say it—I will trouble you never again.  I am come to a better mind.  Oh, forgive me!’

‘What are you here then for, Sir?’ said Esclairmonde, with the same defensive dignity.

‘My king sent me, against my will, on a mission to the Queen,’ panted Malcolm.  ‘I am forced to wait here; or, lady, I should have been this day doing penance for my pursuit of you.  Verily I am a penitent.