The Life And Death Of Richard Yea And Nay Volume 91 by Maurice Hewlett (free books to read .txt) 📕

The Abbot Milo _Urbi Et Orbi_, Concerning The Nature Of The Leopard

I Like This Good Man's Account Of Leopards, And Find It More Pertinent

To My Matter Than You Might Think. Milo Was A Carthusian Monk, Abbot Of

The Cloister Of Saint Mary-Of-The-Pine By Poictiers; It Was His

Distinction To Be The Life-Long Friend Of A Man Whose Friendships Were

Few: Certainly It May Be Said Of Him That He Knew As Much Of Leopards As

Any One Of His Time And Nation, And That His Knowledge Was Better

Grounded.

'Your Leopard,' He Writes, 'Is Alleged In The Books To Be Offspring Of

The Lioness And The Pard; And His Name, If The Realists Have Any Truth

On Their Side, Establishes The Fact. But I Think He Should Be Called

Leolupé, Which Is To Say, Got By Lion Out Of Bitch-Wolf, Since Two

Essences Burn In Him As Well As Two Sorts. This Is The Nature Of The

Leopard: It Is A Spotted Beast, Having Two Souls, A Bright Soul And A

Dark Soul. It Is Black And Golden, Slim And Strong, Cat And Dog. Hunger

Drives A Dog To Hunt, So The Leopard; Passion The Cat, So The Leopard. A

Cat Is Sufficient Unto Himself, And A Leopard Is So; But A Dog Hangs On

A Man's Nod, And A Leopard Can So Be Beguiled. A Leopard Is Sleek As A

Cat And Pleased By Stroking; Like A Cat He Will Scratch His Friend On

Occasion. Yet Again, He Has A Dog's Intrepidity, Knows No Fear, Is

Single-Purposed, Not To Be Called Off, Longanimous. But The Cat In Him

Makes Him Wary, Tempts Him To Treacherous Dealing, Keeps Him Apart From

Counsels, Advises Him To Keep His Own. So The Leopard Is A Lonely

Beast.' This Is Interesting, And May Be True. But Mark Him As He Goes

On.

'I Knew The Man, My Dear Master And A Great King, Who Brought The

Leopards Into The Shield Of England, More Proper To Do It Than His

Father, Being More The Thing He Signified. Of Him, Therefore, Torn By

Two Natures, Cast In Two Moulds, Sport Of Two Fates; The Hymned And

Reviled, The Loved And Loathed, Spendthrift And A Miser, King And A

Beggar, The Bond And The Free, God And Man; Of King Richard Yea-And-Nay,

So Made, So Called, And By That Unmade, I Thus Prepare My Account.'

So Far The Abbot With Much Learning And No Little Verbosity Casts His

Net. He Has The Weakness Of His Age, You Observe, And Must Begin At The

Beginning; But This Is Not Our Custom. Something Of Time Is Behind Us;

We Are Conscious Of A World Replete, And May Assume That We Have

Digested Part Of It. Milo, Indeed, Like All Candid Chroniclers, Has His

Value. He Is Excellent Upon Himself, A Good Relish With Your Meal.

However, As We Are Concerned With King Richard, You Shall Dip Into His

Bag For Refreshment, But Must Leave The Victualling To Me.

I Choose To Record How Richard Count Of Poictou Rode All Through One

Smouldering Night To See Jehane Saint-Pol A Last Time. It Had So Been

Named By The Lady; But He Rode In His Hottest Mood Of Nay To That, Yet

Careless Of First Or Last So He Could See Her Again. Nominally To Remit

His Master's Sins, Though Actually (As He Thought) To Pay For His Own,

The Abbot Milo Bore Him Company, If Company You Can Call It Which Left

The Good Man, In Pitchy Dark, Some Hundred Yards Behind. The Way, Which

Was Long, Led Over Saint Andrew's Plain, The Bleakest Stretch Of The

Norman March; The Pace, Being Richard's, Was Furious, A Pounding Gallop;

The Prize, Richard's Again, Showed Fitfully And Afar, A Twinkling Point

Of Light. Count Richard Knew It For Jehane's Torch, And Saw No Other

Spark; But Milo, Faintly Curious On The Lady's Account, Was More

Concerned With The Throbbing Glow Which Now And Again Shuddered In The

Northern Sky. Nature Had No Lamps That Night, And Made No Sign By Cry Of

Night-Bird Or Rustle Of Scared Beast: There Was No Wind, No Rain, No

Dew; She Offered Nothing But Heat, Dark, And Dense Oppression. Topping

The Ridge Of Sand, Where Was The Fosse Des Noyées, Place Of Shameful

Death, The Solitary Torch Showed A Steady Beam; And There Also, Ahead,

Could Be Seen On The Northern Horizon That Rim Of Throbbing Light.

'God Pity The Poor!' Said Count Richard, And Scourged Forward.

'God Pity Me!' Said Gasping Milo; 'I Believe My Stomach Is In My Head.'

So At Last They Crossed The Pebbly Ford And Found The Pines, Then

Cantered Up The Path Of Light Which Streamed From The Dark Tower. As

Core Of This They Saw The Lady Stand With A Torch Above Her Head; When

They Drew Rein She Did Not Move. Her Face, Moon-Shaped, Was As Pale As A

Moon; Her Loose Hair, Catching Light, Framed It With Gold. She Was All

White Against The Dark, Seemed To Loom In It Taller Than She Was Or

Could Have Been. She Was Jehane Saint-Pol, Jehane 'Of The Fair Girdle,'

So Called By Her Lovers And Friends, To Whom For A Matter Of Two Years

This Hot-Coloured, Tallest, And Coldest Of The Angevins Had Been Light

Of The World.

The Check Upon Their Greeting Was The Most Curious Part Of A Curious

Business, That One Should Have Travelled And The Other Watched So Long,

And Neither Urge The End Of Desire. The Count Sat Still Upon His Horse,

So For Duty's Sake Did The Aching Abbot; The Girl Stood Still In The

Entry-Way, Holding Up Her Dripping Torch. Then, 'Child, Child,' Cried

The Count, 'How Is It With Thee?' His Voice Trembled, And So Did He.

She Looked At Him, Slow To Answer, Though The Hand Upon Her Bosom Swayed

Up And Down.

'Do You See The Fires?' She Said. 'They Have Been There Six Nights.' He

Was Watching Them Then Through The Pine-Woods, How They Shot Into The

Sky Great Ribbons Of Light, Flickered, Fainted Out, Again Glowed

Steadily As If Gathering Volume, Again Leaped, Again Died, Ebbing And

Flowing Like A Tide Of Fire.

'The King Will Be At Louviers,' Said Richard. He Gave A Short Laugh.

'Well, He Shall Light Us To Bed. Heart Of A Man, I Am Sick Of All This.

Let Me In.'

She Stood Aside, And He Rode Boldly Into The Tower, Stooping As He

Passed Her To Touch Her Cheek. She Looked Up Quickly, Then Let In The

Abbot, Who, With Much Ceremony, Came Bowing, His Horse Led By The

Bridle. She Shut The Door Behind Them And Drove Home The Great Bolts.

Servants Came Tumbling Out To Take The Horses And Do Their Duty; Count

Eustace, A Brother Of Jehane's, Got Up From The Hearth, Where He Had

Been Asleep On A Bearskin, Rubbed His Eyes, Gulped A Yawn, Knelt, And

Was Kissed By Richard. Jehane Stood Apart, Mistress Of Herself As It

Seemed, But Conscious, Perhaps, That She Was Being Watched. So She Was.

In The Bustle Of Salutation The Abbot Milo Found Eyes To See What Manner

Of Sulky, Beautiful Girl This Was.

He Watched Shrewdly, And Has Described Her For Us With The Meticulous

Particularity Of His Time And Temper. He Runs Over Her Parts Like A

Virtuoso. The Iris Of Her Eyes, For Instance, Was Wet Grey, But Ringed

With Black And Shot With Yellow, Giving So The Effect Of Hot Green; Her

Mouth Was Of An Extraordinary Dark Red Colour, Very Firm In Texture,

Close-Grained, 'Like The Darker Sort Of Strawberries,' Says He. The

Upper Lip Had The Sulky Curve; She Looked Discontented, And Had Reason

To Be, Under Such A Scrutiny Of The Microscope. Her Hair Was Colour Of

Raw Silk, Eyebrows Set Rather High, Face A Thinnish Oval, Complexion

Like A Pink Rose's, Neck Thinnish Again, Feet, Hands, Long And Nervous,

'Good Working Members,' Etc. Etc. None Of This Helps Very Much; Too

Detailed. But He Noticed How Tall She Was And How Slim, Save For A Very

Beautiful Bosom, Too Full For Dian's (He Tells Us), Whom Else She

Resembled; How She Was Straight As A Birch-Tree; How In Walking It

Seemed As If Her Skirts Clung About Her Knees. There Was An Air Of

Mingled Surprise And Defiance About Her; She Was A Silent Girl. 'Fronted

Like Juno,' He Appears To Cry, 'Shaped Like Hebe, And Like Demeter In

Stature; Sullen With Most, But With One Most Sweetly Apt, She Looked

Watchful But Was Really Timid, Looked Cold But Was Secretly Afire. I

Knew Soon Enough How Her Case Stood, How Hope And Doubt Strove In Her

And Choked Her To Silence. I Guessed How Within Those Reticent Members

Swift Love Ran Like Wine; But Because Of This Proud, Brave Mask Of Hers

I Was Slow To Understand Her Worth. God Help Me, I Thought Her A Thing

Of Snow!'

He Records Her Dress At This Time, Remarkable If Becoming. It Was All

White, And Cut Wedge-Shaped In Front, Very Deep; But An Undervest Of

Crimson Crossed The V In The Midst And Saved Her Modesty, And His. Her

Hair, Which Was Long, Was Plaited In Two Plaits With Seed-Pearls,

Brought Round Her Neck Like A Scarf And The Two Ends Joined Between Her

Breasts, Thus Defining A Great Beauty Of Hers And Making A Gold Collar

To Her Gown. Round Her Smooth Throat Was A Little Chain With A Red

Jewel; On Her Head Another Jewel (A Carbuncle) Set In A Flower, With

Three Heron's Plumes Falling Back From It. She Had A Broad Belt Of Gold

And Sapphire Stones, And Slippers Of Vair. 'Oh, A Fine Straight Maid,'

Says Milo In Conclusion, 'Golden And Delicate, With Strangely Shaded

Eyes. They Knew Her As Jehane Of The Fair Girdle.'

The Brother, Count Eustace As They