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

Even Kings Observed.

 

'Dear Sire,'--His Voice Was Level And Cool--'Let Me Say My Whole Mind

Before The Marquess Recovers His. The Count Of Saint-Pol, For Beastly

Reasons, Spoke In My Hearing Either True Things Or False Things

Concerning Madame Alois. If They Were True I Was Ready To Die; If They

Were False I Hope He Was. Believing Them False, I Had Punished One Man

For Them Before; But He Had Them From Saint-Pol. Therefore I Called

Saint-Pol A Liar, And Other Proper Things. This Gave Him Occasion To

Save His Credit At The Risk Of His Back. He Broke The One And I The

Other. Now I Will Hear The Marquess.'

 

The Marquess Tugged At His Sword. 'And I, Count Of Poictou--'; But King

Philip Held Out His Sceptre, He Too Very Much A King.

 

'And We, Count Of Poictou,' He Said, 'Command You By Your Loyalty To

Tell Us What Saint-Pol Dared Say Of Our Sister Dame Alois.' Although His

Volume 91 Book 1 (The Book Of Yea) Chapter 6 (Fruits Of The Tenzon The Back Of Saint Pol And The Front Of Montferrat) Pg 39

Thin Boy's Voice Quavered, He Seemed The More Royal For The Human

Weakness. Richard Was Greatly Moved, Thawed In A Moment.

 

'God Forgive Me, Philip, But I Cannot Tell Thee--' Pity Broke Up His

Tones.

 

The Young King Almost Whimpered: 'Oh, Richard, What Is This?' But

Richard Turned Away His Face. It Was Now The Chance Of The Great

Italian.

 

'Now Listen, King Philip,' He Said, Grim And Square, 'And Listen You,

Count Of Poictou, Whose Account Is To Be Quieted Presently. Of This

Business I Happen To Know Something. If It Serve Not Your Honour I

Cannot Help It. It Serves My Murdered Cousin's Honour--Therefore

Listen.'

 

Richard's Head Was Up. 'Peace, Hound,' He Said, And The Marquess Snarled

Like An Old Dog; But Philip, With A Quivering Lip, Put Out His Hand Till

It Touched Richard's Shoulder. 'I Must Hear It, Richard,' He Said.

Richard Put His Arm Round The Lad's Neck: So The Marquess Told His

Story. At The End Of It Richard Dared Look Down Into Philip's Marred

Eyes. Then He Kissed His Forehead, And 'Oh, Philip,' Says He, 'Let Him

Who Is Hardy Enough To Tell This Tale Believe It, And Let Us Who Hear It

Do As We Must. But Now You Understand Why I Made An End Of Saint-Pol,

And Why, By Heaven And Earth, I Will Make An End Of This Brass Pot.' He

Turned Upon Montferrat With His Teeth Bare. 'Conrad, Conrad, Conrad!' He

Cried Terribly, 'Mark Your Goings About This Slippery World; For If When

I Get You Alone I Do Not Send You Quick Into Hell, May I Go Down Myself

Beyond Redemption Of The Church!'

 

'That You Will Surely Do, My Lord,' Says The Marquess Of Montferrat,

Greatly Disturbed.

 

'If I Get You There Also I Shall Be Reasonably Entertained For A Short

Time,' Richard Answered, Already Cooled And Ashamed Of His Heat. Then

King Philip Dismissed The Marquess, And As Soon As He Was Rid Of Him

Jumped Into Richard's Arms, And Cried His Heart Away.

 

Richard, Who Was Fond Of The Youth, Comforted Him As Well As He Was

Able, But On One Point Was A Rock. He Would Not Hear The Word 'Marriage'

Until He Had Seen The Lady. 'Oh, Richard, Marry Her Quick, Marry Her

Quick! So We Can Face The World,' The Young King Had Blubbered, Thinking

That Course The Simplest Answer To The Affront Upon His House. It Did

Not Seem So Simple To The Count, Or (Rather) It Seemed Too Simple By

Half. In His Private Mind He Knew Perfectly Well That He Could Not Marry

Madame Alois. So, For That Matter, Did King Philip By This Time. 'I

Must See Alois, Philip, I Must See Her Alone,' Was All Richard Had To

Say; And Really It Could Not Be Gainsaid.

 

He Went To Her After Proper Warning, And Saw The Truth The Moment He Had

View Of Her. Then Also He Knew That He Had Really Seen It Before. That

White, Furtive, Creeping Girl, From Whose Loose Hair Peered Out A Pair

Of Haunted Eyes; That Drooped Thing Backing Against The Wall, Feeling

For It, Flat Against It, With Open Shocked Mouth, Astare But Seeing

Nothing: The Whole Truth Flared Before Him Monstrously Naked. He Loathed

The Sight Of Her, But Had To Speak Her Smoothly.

 

'Princess--' He Said, And Came Forward To Touch Her Hand; But She

Slipped Away From Him, Crouching To The Wall. The Torment Of Breath In

Her Bosom Was Bad To See.

 

'Touch Me Not, Count Of Poictou;' She Whispered The Words, And Then

Moaned, 'O God, What Will Become Of Me?'

Volume 91 Book 1 (The Book Of Yea) Chapter 6 (Fruits Of The Tenzon The Back Of Saint Pol And The Front Of Montferrat) Pg 40

'Madame,' Said Richard, Rather Dry, 'God May Answer Your Question, Since

He Knows All Things, But Certainly I Cannot, Unless You First Tell Me

What Has Hitherto Become Of You.'

 

She Steadied Herself By The Wall, Her Palms Flat Upon It, And Leaned Her

Body Forward Like One Who Searches In A Dark Place. Then, Shaking Her

Head, She Let It Fall To Her Breast. 'Is There Any Sorrow Like My

Sorrow?' Says She To Herself, As Though He Had Not Been There.

 

Richard Grew Stern. 'So Asked In His Agony The Son Of High God,' He

Reproved Her. 'If You Dare Ask Him That In His Own Words Your Sorrow

Must Be Deep.'

 

She Said, 'It Is Most Deep.'

 

'But His,' Said Richard, 'Was Bitter Shame.' She Said, 'And Mine Is

Bitter.'

 

'But His Was Undeserved.' He Spoke Scorn; So Then She Lifted Up Her

Head, And With Eyes Most Piteous Searched His Face. 'But Mine, Richard,'

She Said, 'But Mine Is Deserved.'

 

'The Hearing Is Pertinent,' Said Richard. 'As A Son And Man Affianced It

Touches Me Pretty Close.'

 

Out Of The Hot And Desperate Struggle For Breath, Sounds Came From Her,

But No Words. But She Ran Forward Blindly, And Kneeling, Caught Him By

The Knees; He Could Not But Find Pity In His Heart For The Witless Poor

Wretch, Who Seemed To Be Fighting, Not With Regret Nor For Need Of His

Pity, But With Some Maggot In The Brain Which Drove Her Deeper Into The

Fiery Centre Of The Storm. Richard Did What He Could. A Religious Man

Himself, He Pointed Her To The Christ On The Wall; But She Waved It Out

Of Sight, Shook Her Wild Hair Back, And Clung To Him Still, Asking Some

Unguessed Mercy With Her Eyes And Sobbing Breath. 'God Help This

Tormented Soul, For I Cannot,' He Prayed; And Said Aloud, 'I Will Call

Your Women; Let Me Go.' So He Tried To Undo Her Hands, But She Clenched

Her Teeth Together And Held On With Frenzy, Whining, Grunting, Like Some

Pounded Animal. Dumbly They Strove Together For A Little Panting Space

Of Time.

 

'Ah, But You Shall Let Me Go,' He Said Then, Much Distressed, And

Forcibly Unknotted Her Mad Hands. She Fell Back Upon Her Heels, And

Looked Up At Him. Such Hopeless, Grinning Misery He Had Never Seen On A

Face Before. He Was Certain Now That She Was Out Of Her Wits.

 

Yet Once Again She Brushed Her Hands Over Her Face, As He Had Seen Her

Do Before, Like One Who Sweeps Gossamers Away On Autumn Mornings; And

Though She Was All In A Shiver And Shake With The Fever She Had, She

Found Her Voice At Last. 'Ah, Thanks! Ah, My Thanks, O Christ My

Saviour!' She Sighed. 'O Sweet Saviour Christ, Now I Will Tell Him All

The Truth.'

 

If He Had Listened To Her Then It Had Been Well For Him. But He Did Not.

The Struggle Had Fretted Him Likewise; If She Was Mad He Was Maddened.

He Got Angry Where He Should Have Been Most Patient. 'The Truth, By

Heaven!' He Snapped. 'Ah, If I Have Not Had Enough Of This Truth!' And

So He Left Her Shuddering. As He Went Down The Long Corridor He Heard

Shriek After Shriek, And Then The Scurrying Of Many Feet. Turning, He

Saw Carried Lights, Women Running. The Sounds Were Muffled, They Had Her

Safe. Richard Went To His House Over The River, And Slept For Ten Hours.

Volume 91 Book 1 (The Book Of Yea) Chapter 7 (Of The Crackling Of Thorns Under Pots) Pg 41

Just As No Two Pots Will Boil Alike, So With Men; They Seethe In Trouble

With A Difference. With One The Grief Is Taken Inly: This Was Richard's

Kind. The French King Was Feverish, The Marquess Explosive, John Of

England All Eyes And Alarms. So Richard's Remedy For Trouble Was Action,

Philip's Counsel, The Marquess's A Glut Of Hatred, And John's Plotting.

The Consequence Is, That In The Present Vexed State Of Things Richard

Threw Off His Discontent With His Bedclothes, And At Once Took The Lead

Of The Others, Because It Could Be Done At Once. He Declared Open War

Against The King His Father, Despatching Heralds With The Cartel The

Same Day; He Gave King Philip To Understand That The French Power Might

Be For Him Or Against Him As Seemed Fitting, But That No Power In Heaven

Or On Earth Would Engage Him To Marry Dame Alois. King Philip, Still

Clinging To His Friend, Made A Treaty Of Alliance With Him Against Henry

Of England. That Done, Sealed And Delivered, Richard Sent For His

Brother John. 'Brother,' He Said, 'I Have Declared War Against My

Father, And Philip Is To Be Of Our Party. In His Name And My Own I Am To

Tell You That One Of Two Things You Must Do. You May Stay In Our Lands

Or Leave Them; But If You Stay You Must Sign Our Treaty Of Alliance.'

Too Definite For John, All This: He Asked For Time, And Richard Gave Him

Till Nightfall. At Dusk He Sent For Him Again. John Chose To Stay In

Paris. Then Richard Thought He Would Go Home To Poictou. The Moment His

Back Was Turned Began Various Closetings Of The Magnates Left Behind,

With Which I Mean To Fatigue The Reader As Little As Possible.

 

One Such Chamber-Business I Must Record. To Paris In The Black February

Weather Came Pelting The Young Count Eustace, Now By His Brother's Death

Count Of Saint-Pol. Misfortune, They Say, Makes Of One A Man Or A Saint.

Of Eustace Saint-Pol It Had