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

Clasped His Knees, Could Not Speak Nor Cease From Looking Up; And He,

Tall And Kingly, Stoops, Lifts Her, Holds Her Upon His Breast, Strokes

Her Face, Kisses Her Eyes And Sorrowful Mouth. 'Child,' He Says, 'Art

Thou Glad Of Me?' Asking, As Lovers Love Best To Do, The Things They

Know Best Already. 'O Richard! O Richard!' Was All She Could Say, Poor

Fond Wretch; However, We Go Not By The Sense Of A Bride's Language, But

By The Passion That Breaks It Up. Every Agony Of Self-Reproach, Of Fear

Of Him, Of Mistrust, Of Lurking Fate, Lay In Those Sobbed Words, 'O

Richard! O Richard!'

 

When He Had Her Alone At Night, And She Had Found Her Voice, She Began

To Woo Him And Softly To Beguile Him With A Hand To His Chin, Judging It

A Propitious Time, While One Of His Held Her Head. All The Arts Of Woman

Were Hers That Night, But His Were The New Purposes Of A Man. He Had Had

A Rude Shock, Was Full Of The Sense Of His Sin; That Grim Old Mocking

Face, Grey Among The Candle-Flames, Was Plain Across The Bed-Chamber

Where They Lay. To Himself He Made Oath That He Would Sin No More. No,

No: A King, He Would Do Kingly. To Her, Clasped Close In His Arms, He

Gave Kisses And Sweet Words. Alas, She Wanted Not The Sugar Of His

Tongue; She Would Have Had Him Bitter, Though It Cost Her Dear. Lying

There, Lulled But Not Convinced, Her Sobs Grew Weaker. She Cried Herself

To Sleep, And He Kissed Her Sleeping.

 

In The Cathedral Church Of His Fathers He Did On, By The Hands Of The

Archbishop, The Red Cap And Girdle And Shoes Of Anjou; There He Held Up

The Leopard Shield For All To See. There Also Upon The Bent Head Of

Jehane--She Kneeling Before Him--He Laid For A Little While The Same

Cap, Then In Its Room A Circlet Of Golden Leaves. If He Was Sovereign

Count, Girt With The Sword, Then She Was Countess Of Anjou Before Her

Grudging World. What More Was She? Wife Of A Dead Man And His Killer!

The Words Stayed By Her, And Tinged The Whole Of Her Life.

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Miracles, As A Plain Man, I Hold To Be The Peculiar Of The Church. This

Chapter Must Be Milo's On That Ground, If There Were No Other. But There

Is One Strong Other. Milo Set The Tune Which Caused King Richard To

Dance. And A Very Good Tune It Is--According To Milo. Therefore Let Him

Speak.

 

'The Office Of Abbot,' He Writes, 'Is A Solemn, Great Office, Being No

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Less Than That Of Spiritual Father To A Family Of Men Consecrate (As It

Is Written, _Abba_, Father); Yet Not On That Account Should Vainglory

Puff The Cheeks Of A Pious Man. God Knows That I Am No Boaster. He,

Therefore, Will Not Misjudge Me, As Certain Others Have Done, When I

Record In This Place (For Positive Cause And Reason Good) The Exorbitant

Honours I Received On The Day Of My Lord Saint John Baptist In This Year

Of Thankful Redemption Eleven Hundred And Eighty-Nine. Forsooth, I

Myself, This Milo Of Saint Mary-Of-The-Pine, Was Chosen To Preach In The

Church Of The Nuns Of Fontevrault Before A Congregation Thus

Composed:--Two Kings (One Crowned), One Legate _A Latere_, A Reigning

Duke (Him Of Burgundy, I Mean), Five Cinctured Counts, Twice Three

Bishops, Abbots Without Number; Jehane Countess Of Anjou And Wife To

The King Of England, The Countess Of Roussillon, The Two Countesses Of

Angoulesme (The Old And The Young), Lady Elis Of Montfort (Reputed The

Most Witty Lady In Languedoc), Thirteen Pronounced Poets, And The

Hairdresser Of The King Of France--To Name No More. That Sermon Of

Mine--I Shame Not To Report It-Was Found Worthy The Inscription In The

Register Of Fontevrault; And In The Initial Letter Thereof, Garlanded In

Gold Work Very Beautiful To Be Seen, Is The Likeness Of Myself Vested,

With A Mitre On My Head, All Done By That Ingenious Craftsman And

Faithful Christian Man, Aristarchus Of Byzantium, _Suspirante Deo_.

There The Curious May Consult It, As Indeed They Do. I Hope I Know The

Demands Of History Upon Proportion Better Than To Write It All Here.

Briefly Then, A Second Peter, I Stood Up Before That Crowned Assembly

And Was Bold.

 

'What, I Said, Is Pharaoh But A Noise? How Else Is Father Abraham But

Dusty In His Cave? Duke Lot Hath A Monument Less Durable Than His Wicked

Wife's; And As For Noë, That Great Admiral, The Waters Of Oblivion Have

Him Whom The Waters Of God Might Not Drown. Conquered Lies Unconquered

Agamemnon; How Else Lies Julius Cæsar? Nabuchodonosor, Eater Of Grass,

What Is He? Kings Pass, And Their Royal Seat Gathereth A Little Dust.

Anon With A Besom Of Feathers Cometh. Time The Chamberlain, And Scareth

To His Hiding-Place The Lizard On The Wall. Think Soberly, O Ye Kings!

How Your Crowns Are But Yellow Metal, And Your Purple Robes The Food Of

Moths, And The Sceptres Of Your Power No Better Than Hedge-Twigs For The

Driving Of Rats. Round About Your Crystal Orbs Scurry The Fleas At Play

In The Night-Time; In A Little While The Joints Of Your Legs Will

Grapple The Degrees Of Your Thrones With No More Zest Than An Old

Bargeman's His Greasy Poop.

 

'At This King Philip Said Tush, And Fidgeted In His Chair. He Might Have

Put Me Out Of Countenance, But That I Saw King Richard Clasp His Knee

And Smile Into The Rafters, And Knew By The Peaking Of His Beard That I

Had Pleased Him.

 

'Thus By Precept, By Trope And Flower Of Speech, I Gaufred The Edges Of

My Discourse; Then Turning Eastward With A Cry, I Grasped The Pulpit

Firmly With One Hand, The While I Raised The Other. Sorrow, I Said, Is

More Enduring Than The Pride Of Life, My Lords, And To Renounce Than To

Heap Riches. Behold The King Of Sorrows! Behold The Man Beggared! Ai,

Ai, My Lords! Is There To Be No End To His Sorrows, Or Shall He Be

Stripped For Ever? Yesterday He Put Off Life Itself, And To-Day Ye Bid

Him Do Away With The Price Of Life. Yesterday He Hung Upon The Tree; And

To-Day Ye Hear It Said, Down With The Tree; Let Mahomet Kindle His

Hearth With It. Let Us Be Done, Say You, With Dead Lords And Wooden

Stocks: We Are Kings, And Our Stocks Golden. It Is Well Said, My Lords,

After The Fashion This World Holds Honourable. But I Ask, Did Job Fear

God For Nought? But I Say, Consider The Maccabees. All Your Broad Lands

Are Not Worth The Rent Of That Little Garden Enclosed, Where Among

Ranked Lilies Sat Mary Singing, God Rest Thee, Babe, I Am Thy Mother And

Daughter. You Wag The Head And An Enemy Dieth. You Say, Come Up, And

Some Wretch Getteth Title To Make Others Wretched. But No Power Of Life

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And Member, No Fountain Of Earthly Honour, No Great Breath Nor

Acclamation Of Trumpets, Nor Bearing Of Swords Naked, Nor Chrism, Nor

Broad Seal, Nor Homage, Nor Fealty Done, Is Worth That Doom Of The Lord

To A Man; Saying, I Was Naked (Christ Is Naked!) And Ye Clothed Me; I

Was Anhungered (Christ Is Hungry!) And Ye Gave Me Meat; I Was In Prison

(So Is Christ!) And Ye Visited Me. Therefore Again I Say Unto You,

Kings, By The Spirit Of The Lord Which Is In Me, Let Us Now Go Even Unto

Bethlehem. Awake, Do On Your Panoplies, Shake Your Sceptres Over The

Armied Earth! So Hierusalem, That Bride Among Brides, That Exalted

Virgin, That Elect Lady Crowned With Stars, Shall Sit No Longer Wasted

In The Brothel Of The Heathen: Amen!

 

'I Said; And A Great Silence Fell On All The Length And Breadth Of The

Church. King Richard Sat Up Stiff As A Tree, Staring At The Holy Rood As

Though He Had A Vision Of Something At Work. King Philip Of France,

Moody, Was Watching His Greater Brother. Count John Of Mortain Had His

Head Sunk To His Breast-Bone, His Thin Hands Not At Rest, But One Finger

Picking Ever At Another. Even The Duke Of Burgundy, The Burly Eater, Was

Moved, As Could Be Seen By The Working Of His Cheek-Bones. Two Nuns Were

Carried Out For Dead. All This I Saw Between My Hands As I Knelt In

Prayer. But Much More I Saw: It Seems That I Had Called Down Testimony

From On High. I Saw Countess Jehane, Half-Risen From Her Seat, White In

The Face, Open-Mouthed, Gaping At The Cross. "Saviour, The Rood! The

Rood!" She Cried Out, Choking, Then Fell Back And Lay Quite Still. Many

Rose To Their Feet, Some Dropped To Their Knees; All Looked.

 

'We Saw The Great Painted Christ On The Rood Stoop His Head Forward

Thrice. At The First And Second Times, Amid Cries Of Wonder, Men Looked

To See Whither He Bent His Head. But At The Third Time All With One

Consent Fell Upon Their Faces, Except Only Richard King Of England. He,

Indeed, Rose Up And Stood To His Full Height. I Saw His Blue Eyes Shine

Like Sapphires As He Began To Speak To The Christ. Though He Spoke

Measuredly And Low, You Could Mark The Exultation Singing Behind His

Tones.

 

'"Ah, Now, My Lord God," Said He, "I Perceive That Thou Hast Singled Me

Out Of All These Peers For A Work Of Thine; Which Is A Thing So Glorious

For Me That, If I Glory In It, I Am Justified, Since The Work Is

Glorious. I Take It Upon Me, My Lord, And Shall Not Falter In It Nor Be

Slow. Enough Said: Thou Askest Not Words Of Me. Now Let Me Go, That The

Work May Begin." After Which, Very Devoutly Kneeling, He