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

I Chronicle Wild Doings In This Place, And Have No Time For The Sweets

Of Love Long Denied. But Strange As The Bridal Had Been, So The Nuptials

Were Strange, One Like The Other Played To A Steel Undertone. When

Richard Had His Jehane, At First He Could Not Enjoy Her. He Rode Away

With Her Like A Storm; The Way Was Long, The Pace Furious. Not A Word

Had Passed Between Them, At Least Not A Reasoned Word. Once Or Twice At

First He Leaned Forward Over Her Shoulder And Set His Cheek To Her

Glowing Cheek. Then She, As If Swayed By A Tide, Strained Back To Him,

And Felt His Kisses Hot And Eager, His Few And Pelting Words, 'My

Bride--At Last--My Bride!' And The Pressure Of His Hand Upon Her Heart.

That Hand Knows What Tune The Heart Drummed Out. Mostly She Sat Up

Before Him Stiff As A Sapling, With Eyes And Ears Wide For Any Hint Of

Pursuit. But He Felt Her Tremble, And Knew She Would Be Glad Of Him Yet.

After All, They Had Six Burning Days For A Honeymoon, Days Which Made

Those Three Who With Them Held The Tower Wonder How Such A Match Could

Continue. Richard's Love Rushed Through Him Like A River In Flood, That

Brims Its Banks And Carries Down Bridges By Its Turbid Mass; But Hers

Was Like The Sea, Unresting, Ebbing, Flowing, Without Aim Or Sure

Direction. As Is Usual With Reserved Persons, Jehane's Transports, Far

From Assuaging, Tormented Her, Or Seemed A Torment. She Loved Uneasily,

By Hot And Cold Fits; Now Melting, Now Dry, Now Fierce In Demand, Next

Passionate In Refusal. To Snatch Of Love Succeeded Repulsion Of Love.

She Would Fling Herself Headlong Into Richard's Arms, And Sob There,

Feverish; Then, As Suddenly, Struggle For Release, As One Who Longs To

Hide Herself, And Finding That Refused, Lie Motionless Like A Woman Of

Wax. Whether Embraced Or Not, Out Of Touch With Him She Was Desperate.

She Could Not Bear That, But Sought (Unknown To Him) To Have Hold Of

Some Part Of Him--The Edge Of His Tunic, The Tip Of His Sword, His

Glove--Something She Must Have. Without It She Sat Quivering, Throbbing

All Over, Looking At Him From Under Her Brows And Biting Her Dumb Lips.

If At Such A Time As This Some Other Addressed Her The Word (As, To Free

Her From Her Anguish, One Would Sometimes Do), She Would Perhaps Answer

Him, Yes Or No, But Nothing More. Usually She Would Shake Her Head

Impatiently, As If All The World And Its Affairs (Like A Cloud Of Flies)

Were Buzzing About Her, Shutting Out Sound Or Sight Of Her Richard. Love

Like This, So Deep, Outwardly Still, Inwardly Ravening (Because

Insatiable), Is A Dreadful Thing. No One Who Saw Jehane With Richard In

Those Days Could Hope For The Poor Girl's Happiness. As For Him, He Was

More Expansive, Not At All Tortured By Love, Master Of That As Of

Everything Else. He Teased Her After The First Day, Pinched Her Ear,

Held Her By The Chin. He Used His Strange Powers Against Her; Stole Up

On His Noiseless Feet, Caught Her Hands Behind Her, Held Her Fast, And

Pulled Her Back To Be Kissed. Once He Lifted Her Up, A Sure Prisoner, To

The Top Shelf Of A Cupboard, Whence There Was No Escape But By The Way

She Had Gone. She Stayed There Quite Silent, And When He Opened The

Cupboard Doors Was Found In The Same Tremulous, Expectant State, Her

Eyes Still Fixed Upon Him. Neither He Nor She, Publicly At Least,

Discussed The Past, The Present Or Future; But It Was Known That He

Meant To Make Her His Countess As Soon As He Could Reach Poictiers. To

The Onlookers, At Any Rate To One Of Them, It Seemed That This Could

Never Be, And That She Knew Very Well That The Hours Of This Sharp,

Sweet, Piercing Intercourse Were Numbered. How Could It Last? How Could

She Find Either Reason Or Courage To Hope It? It Seemed To Béziers, On

The Watch, That She Was Awaiting The End Already. One Is Fretted To A

Rag By Waiting. So Jehane Dared Not Lose A Moment Of Richard, Yet Could

Enjoy Not One, Knowing That She Must Soon Lose All.

Those Six Clear Days Of Theirs Had Been Wiselier Spent Upon The West

Road; But Richard's Desire Outmastered Every Thought. Having Snatched

Jehane From The Very Horns Of The Altar, He Must Hold Her, Make Her His

Irrevocably At The First Breathing Place. Dealing With Any But Normans,

He Had Never Had His Six Days. But The Norman People, As Abbot Milo

Says, 'Slime-Blooded, Slow-Bellies, Are Withal Great Eaters Of Beef,

Which Breeds In Them, As Well As A Heaviness Of Motion, A Certain

Slumbrous Rage Very Dangerous To Mankind. They Crop Grief After Grief,

Chewing The Cud Of Grievance; For When They Are Full Of It They Disgorge

And Regorge The Abhorred Sum, And Have Stuff For Their Spleens For Many

A Year.' Even More Than This Smouldering Nursed Hate They Love A

Punctilio; They Walk By Forms, Whether The Road Is To A Lady's Heart Or

An Enemy's Throat. And So Saint-Pol Found, And So Des Barres, Frenchmen

Both And Fiery Young Men, Who Shook Their Fists In The Faces Of The

Gurduns And The Dust Of Such Blockish Hospitallers Off Their Feet, When

They Saw The Course Affairs Were To Run. Gilles De Gurdun, If You Will

Believe It, With The Advice Of His Father And The Countenance Of His

Young Brother Bartholomew, Would Not Budge An Inch Towards The Recovery

Of His Wife Or Her Ravisher's Punishment Until He Had Drawn Out His

Injury Fair On Parchment. This He Then Proposed To Carry To His Duke,

Old King Henry. 'Thus,' Said The Swart Youth, 'I Shall Be Within The Law

Of My Land, And Gain The Engines Of The Law On My Side.' He Seemed To

Think This Important.

'With Your Accursed Scruples,' Cried Saint-Pol, Smiting The Table, 'You

Will Gain Nothing Else. Within Your Country's Law, Blockhead! Why, My

Sister Is Within The Count's Country By This Time!'

'Oh, Leave Him, Leave Him, Eustace,' Said Des Barres, 'And Come With Me.

We Shall Meet Him In The Fair Way Yet, You And I Together.' So The

Frenchmen Rode Away, And Gilles, With His Father And His Parchments And

His Square Forehead, Went To Evreux, Where King Henry Then Was.

Kneeling Before Their Duke, Expounding Their Gravamens As If They Were

Suing Out A Writ Of _Mort D'ancestor_, They Very Soon Found Out That He

Was No More A Norman Than Saint-Pol. The Old King Made Short Work Of

Their '_Ut Predictum Ests_' And '_Quaesumus Igiturs_.'

'Good Sirs,' Says He, Knitting His Brows, 'Where Is This Lord Who Has

Done You So Much Injury?'

'My Lord,' They Report, 'He Has Her In His Strong Tower On The Plain Of

Saint-André, Some Ten Leagues From Here.'

Then Cries The Old King, 'Smoke Him Out, You Fools! What! A Badger. Draw

The Thief.'

Then Gilles The Elder Flattened His Lips Together And Afterwards Pursed

Them. 'Lord,' He Said, 'That We Dare Not Do Without Your Express

Commandment.'

'Why, Why,' Snaps The King, 'If I Give It You, My Solemn Fools?'

Young Gilles Stood Up, A Weighty Youth. 'Lord Duke,' He Said, 'This Lord

Is The Count Of Poictou, Your Son.' It Had Been A Fine Sight For Sinful

Men To See The Eyes Of The Old King Strike Fire At This Word. His

Speech, They Tell Me, Was Terrible, Glutted With Rage.

'Ha, God!' He Spluttered, Cracking His Fingers, 'So My Richard Is The

Badger, Ha? So Then I Have Him, Ha? If I Do Not Draw Him Myself, By The

Face!'

It Is Said That Longespée (A Son Of His By Madame Rosamund) And Geoffrey

(Another Bastard), With Bohun And De Lacy And Some More, Tried To Hinder

Him In This Design, Wherein (Said They) He Set Out To Be A Second

Thyestes; But They Might As Well Have Bandied Words With Destiny. 'War

Is War,' Said The Foaming Old Man, 'Whether With A Son Or A Grandmother

You Make It. Shall My Enemy Range The Field And I Sit At Home And Lap

Caudle? That Is Not The Way Of My House.' He Would By All Means Go That

Night, And Called For Volunteers. His English Barons, To Their Credit,

Flatly Refused Either To Entrap The Son Of Their Master Or To Abandon

The City At A Time So Critical. 'What, Sire!' Cried They, 'Are Private

Resentments, Like Threadworms, To Fret The Dams Of The State? The Floods

Are Out, My Lord King, And Brimming At The Sluices. Be Advised

Therefore.'

No Wearer Of The Cap Of Anjou Was Ever Advised Yet. I Can Hear In Fancy

The Gnashing Of The Old Lion's Fangs, In Fancy See The Foam He Churned

At The Corners Of His Mouth. He Went Out With Such Men As He Could

Gather In His Haste, Nineteen Of Them In All. There Were Old Gilles And

Young Gilles With Their Men; Eight Of The King's Own Choosing, Namely,

Drago De Merlou, Armand Taillefer, The Count Of Ponthieu, Fulk

Perceforest, Fulk D'oilly, Gilbert Fitzreinfrid, Ponce The Bastard Of

Caen, And A Butcher Called Rolf, To Whom The King, Mocking All Chivalry,

Gave The Gilt Spurs Before He Started. He Did Not Wear Them Long. The

Nineteenth Was That Great King, Bad Man, And Worse Father, Henry

Curtmantle Himself.

It Was A Very Dark Night, Without Moon Or Stars, A Hot And Still Night

Wherein A Man Weather-Wise Might Smell The Rain. The Going Upon The Moor

Was None Too Good In A Good Light; Yet They Tell Me That The Old King

Went Spurring Over Brush And Scrub, Over Tufted Roots, Through Ridge And

Hollow, With As Much Cheer As If The Hunt Was Up In Venvil Wood And

Himself A Young Man. When His Followers Besought Him To Take