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

Foot His Head Was Level With The Rider's Shield. 'Have At You Now!' He

Cried; But The Marshal Shook His Head, And Rode After His Flying Men.

The Day Was With Poictou, Le Mans Must Fall.

It Fell, But Not Yet; Nor Did Richard See It Fall. Gaston Of Béarn

Joined His Master The Next Day. 'Hasten, Hasten, Fair Lord!' He Cried

Out As Soon As He Saw Him. Richard Looked As If He Had Never Known The

Word.

'What News Of Normandy, Gaston?'

'The English Are Through, Richard. The Country Swarms With Them. They

Hold Avranches, And Now Are Moving South.'

'They Are Too Late,' Said Richard. 'Tell Me What Message You Have From

The Fair-Girdled.'

'Wed Or Unwed, She Is Yours. But She Is Kept In A Tower Until Palm

Sunday. Then They Bring Her Out And Marry Her To What Remains Of A Black

Normandy Pig. Not Very Much Remains, But (They Tell Me) Enough For The

Purpose.'

'Spine Of God,' Said Richard, Examining His Finger-Nails.

'Swear By His Heart, Rather, My Count,' Gaston Said, 'For You Have A Red

Heart In Your Keeping. Eh, Eh, What A Beautiful Person Is There! She

Leaned Her Body Out Of The Window--What A Shape That Girdle Confines!

Bowered Roses! Dian And The Nymphs! Bosomed Familiars Of Old Pan! And

What Emerald Fires! What Molten Hair! The Words Came Shortly From Her,

And Brokenly, As If Her Carved Lips Disdained Such Coarse Uses! Richard,

Her Words Were So: "Take A Message To My Lord," Quoth She. "I Am His In

Life Or Death. I Seek To Do Him Service. Wed Or Unwed, What Is That To

Me? I Am Still Jehane." Thus She--But I? Well, Well, My Sword Spake For

Me When I Carved That Beef-Bone Bare.' The Béarnais Pulled His Goatee,

And Looked At The Ends Of It For Split Hairs. But Richard Sat Very

Still.

'Do You Know, Gaston, Whom You Have Seen?' He Said Presently, In A

Trembling Whisper.

'Perfectly Well,' Said The Other. 'I Have Seen A Pale Flower Ripe For

The Sun.'

'You Have Seen The Countess Of Poictou, Gaston,' Said Richard, And Took

To His Prayers.

Through These Means, For The Time, He Was Held Off His Father's Throat.

But For Jehane And Her Urgent Affairs These Two Had Grappled At Le Mans.

As It Was, Not Richard's Hand Was To Fire The Cradle-City Which Had Seen

King Henry At The Breast. Before Nightfall He Had Made His Dispositions

For A Very Risky Business. He Set Aside The Viscount Of Béziers, Bertram

Count Of Roussillon, Gaston Of Béarn, To Go With Him, Not Because They

Were The Best Men By Any Means, But So That He Might Leave The Best Men

In Charge. These Were Certainly The Dauphin, The Viscount Of Limoges,

And The Count Of Angoulesme, Each Of Whom He Had Proved As An Enemy In

His Day. 'Gentlemen,' He Said To These Three, 'I Am About To Go Upon A

Journey. Of You I Shall Require A Little Attention, Certain Patience,

Exact Obedience. It Will Be Necessary That You Be Before The Walls Of Le

Mans In Three Days. Invest Them, My Lords, Keep Up Your Communications,

And Wait For The French King. Give No Battle, Offer No Provocation, Let

Hunger Do Your Affair. I Know Where The King Of England Is, And Shall Be

With You Before Him.' He Went On To Be More Precise, But I Omit The

Details. It Was Difficult For Them To Go Wrong, But If The Truth Is To

Be Known, He Was In A Mood Which Made Him Careless About That. He Was

Free. He Was Going On Insensate Adventure; But He Saw His Road Before

Him Once Again, Like A Long Avenue Of Light, Which Jehane Made For Him

With A Torch Uplifted. Before It Was Day, Armed From Head To Foot In

Chain Mail, With A Plain Shield, And A Double-Bladed Norman Axe In His

Saddle-Bucket, He And His Three Companions Set Out On Their Journey.

They Rode Leisurely, With Loose Reins And Much Turning In The Saddle To

Talk, As If For A Meet Of The Hounds.

Now Was That Vernal Season Of The Year When Winds Are Boon, The Gentle

Rain Never Far Off, The Stars In Heaven (Like The Flowers On Earth)

Washed Momently To A Freshness Which Urges Men To Be Pure. Riding Day

And Night Through The Green Breadth Of France, Though He Had Been

Plucked From The Roaring Pit Of War, Richard (I Know) Went With A Single

Aim Before Him--To See Jehane Again. Nothing Else In His Heart, I Say.

Whatever Purpose May Have Lurked In His Mind, In Heart He Went Clean,

Single In Desire, Chanting The Canticles Of Mary And The Virgin Saints.

It Was So. He Had Been Seethed In Wicked Doings From His Boyhood--I

Give Him You No Better Than He Was: Wild Work In Poictou, The Scour Of

Hot Blood; Devil's Work In Touraine, Riotous Work In Paris, Tyrannous In

Aquitaine. He Had Been Blown Upon By Every Ill Report; Hatred Against

Blood, Blasphemy Against God's Appointment, Violence, Clamour, Scandal

Against Charitable Dealing: All These Were Laid To His Name. He Had

Behind Him A File Of Dead Ancestors, Cut-Throats And Worse. He Had Faced

Unnameable Sin And Not Blenched, Laughed Where He Should Have Wept,

Promised And Broken His Promise; To Be Short, He Had Been A Creature Of

His House And Time, Too Young Acquainted With Pride And Too Proud

Himself To Deny It. But Now, With Eyes Alight Like A Boy's Because His

Heart Was Uplift, He Was Riding Between The New-Budded Woods, The

Melodies Of A Singing-Boy On His Lips, And Swaying Before His Heart's

Eye The Figure Of A Tall Girl With Green Eyes And A Sulky, Beautiful

Mouth. 'Lord, What Is Man?' Cried The Psalmist In Dejection. 'Lord, What

Is Man Not?' Cry We, Who Know More Of Him.

His Traverse Took Him Four Days And Nights. He Rested At La Ferté, At

Nogent-Le-Rotrou, Outside Dreux, And At Rosny. Here He Stayed A Day, The

Vigil Of The Feast Of Palms. He Had It In His Mind Not To See Jehane

Again Until The Very Moment When He Might Lose Her.

When In March The Chase Is Up, And The Hunting Wind Searches Out The

Fallow Places Of The Earth, Love Also Comes Questing, Desire Is Awake;

Man Seeks Maid, And Maid Seeks To Be Sought. If Man Or Maid Have Loved

Already The Case Is Worse; We Hear Love Crying, But Cannot Tell Where He

Is, How Or With What Honesty To Let Him In. All Those Ranging Days

Jehane--Whether In Bed Cuddling Her Letters, Or At The Window Of Her

Tower, Watching With Brimmed Eyes The Pairing Of The Birds--Showed A

Proud Front Of Sufferance, While Inly Her Heart Played A Wild Tune. Not

A Crying Girl, Nor One Capable Of Any Easy Utterance, She Could Do No

More Than Stand Still, And Wonder Why She Was Most Glad When Most

Wretched. She Ought To Have Felt The Taint, To Love The Man Who Had

Slain Her Brother; She Might Have Known Despair: She Did Neither. She

Sat Or Stood, Or Lay In Her Bed, And Pressed To Her Heart With Both

Hands The Words That Said, 'Never Doubt Me, Jehane,' Or 'Ma Mye, I Shall

Come To You.' When He Came, As He Surely Would, He Would Find Her A

Wife--Ah, Let Him Come, Let Him Come In His Time, So Only She Saw Him

Again!

March Went Out In Dusty Squalls, And April Came In To The Sound Of The

Young Lamb's Bleat. Willow-Palm Was Golden In The Hedges When The King

Of England's Men Filled Normandy, And Gilles De Gurdun, Having Been

Healed Of His Wounds, Rode Towards Rouen At The Head Of His Levy. He

Went Not Without An Understanding With Saint-Pol That He Should Have His

Sister On Palm Sunday In The Church Of Gisors. They Could Not Marry At

Saint-Pol-La-Marche, Because Gilles Was On His Service And Might Not Win

So Far; Nor Could They Have Married Before He Went, Because Of His

Ill-Treatment At The Hands Of The Béarnais. Of This Gilles Had Made

Light. 'He Got Worse Than He Gave,' He Told Saint-Pol. 'I Left Him Dead

In The Wood.'

'Would You See Jehane, Gilles?' Saint-Pol Had Asked Him Before He Went

Out. 'She Is In Her Turret As Meek As A Mouse.'

'Time Enough For That,' Said Gilles Quietly. 'She Loves Me Not. But I,

Eustace, Love Her So Hot That I Have Fear Of Myself. I Think I Will Not

See Her.'

'As You Will,' Said Saint-Pol. 'Farewell.'

In Gisors, Then A Walled Town, Trembling Like A Captive At The Knees Of

A Huge Castle, There Was A Long Grey Church Which Called Saint Sulpice

Lord. It Stood In A Little Square Midway Between The South Gate And The

Citadel, A Narrow Oblong Place Where They Held The Cattle Market On

Tuesdays, Flagged And Planted With Pollard-Limes. The West Door Of Saint

Sulpice, Resting On A Stepped Foundation, Formed A Solemn End To This

Humble Space, And The Great Gable Flanked By Turrets Threatened The

Huddled Tenements Of The Craftsmen. On This Morning Of Palm Sunday The

Shaven Crowns Of The Limes Were Budded Gold And Pink, The Sky A Fair

Sea-Blue Over Gisors, With A Scurrying Fleece Of Clouds Like Foam; The

Poplars About The Meadows Were In Their First Flush, All The Quicksets

Veiled In Green. The Town Was Early Afoot, For The Wedding Party Of The

Sieur De Gurdun Was To Come In; And Gurdun Belonged To The Archbishop,

And The Archbishop To The Duke. The Bride Also Was Reported Unwilling,

Which Added Zest To The Public Appetite For Her Known Beauty. Some Knew

For Truth That She Was The Cast-Off Mistress Of A Very Great Man, Driven

Into Gurdun's Arms To Dispose Of Scandal And Of Her. 'Eh, The Minion!'

Said Certain Sniggering Old Women To Whom This Was Told, 'She'll Not

Find So Soft A Lap At Gurdun!' But Others Said, 'Gurdun Is The Duke's,

And Will One Day Be The Duke's Son's. What Will Sieur Gilles Do Then

With His Straining Wife? You Cannot Keep Your Hawk On The Cadge For

Ever--Ah, Nor Hood Her For Ever!' And So On.