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

Because He Hated The Father, Or Because He Hated The Son? Or Because He

Served Prince John? Let That Alone For A Moment. This Story Of Alois: It

Must Be, He Thought, Either True Or False, But Was No Invention Of

Bertran's. Whichever It Was, King Philip Would Make War Upon King Henry,

Not Upon Richard; Since, Wanting Timber, You Cut At The Trunk, Not At

The Branches. He Believed Bertran So Far, That The Count Of Poictou Was

In His Country, And King Henry With A Host In His. War Between Philip

And The Count Was A Foolishness. Peace Between The Count And King Henry

Was Another. Don Sancho Believed (Since He Believed In God) That Old

King Henry Was At Death's Door; And He Saw Above All Things That, If The

Scandal Was Reasonably Founded, There Would Be A Bachelor Prince

Spoiling For Wedlock. On All Grounds, Therefore, He Decided To Write

Privily To His Kinswoman, Queen Eleanor Of England.

And So He Did, To A Very Different Tune From That Imagined By Bertran,

The Letter Which Follows:--

'Madame (Sister And Aunt),' He Wrote, 'This Day Has Brought Tidings To

My Private Ear Whereat In Part I Mourn With You, And Rejoice In Part, As

A Wise Physician Who, Hearing Of Some Great Lover In The Article Of

Death, Knows That He Has Both The Wit And The Remedy To Work His Cure.

Madame, With A Hand Upon My Heart I May Certify The Flow Of My Blood For

The Causes, Serious And Horrific, Which Have Led To Strife Between Your

Exalted Lord And Most Dear Consort In Christ Jesus, My Lord Henry The

Pious King Of England (Whom God Assoil) And His August Neighbour Of

France. But, Madame (Sister And Aunt), It Is No Less My Comfort To

Affirm That The Estate Of Your Noble Son, The Count Of Poictou, No Less

Moves My Anguish. What, Madame! So Fierce A Youth And So Strenuous,

Widowed Of His Hopeful Bed! The Face Of Paris With The Fate Of Menelaus!

The Sweet Accomplishments Of King David (Chief Of Trobadors) And The

Ignominy Of The Husband Of Bathsheba! You See That My Eloquence Burns Me

Up; And Verily, Madame (Sister And Aunt), The Hot Coal Of The Wrath Of

Your Son Has Touched My Mouth, So That At The Last I Speak With My

Tongue.

'I Ask Myself, Madame, Why Do Not The Virgins Of Christendom Arise And

Offer Their Unrifled Zones To His Noble Fingers? Sister And Aunt, There

Is One At Least, In Navarre, Who So Arises. I Offer My Child Berengère,

Called By Trobadors (Because Of Her Chaste Seclusion) Frozen Heart, To

Be Thawed In The Sun Of Your Son. I Offer, Moreover, My Great Fiefs Of

Oliocastro, Cingovilas, Monte Negro, And Sierra Alba As Far As Agreda;

And A Dowry Also Of 60,000 Marks In Gold Of Byzance, To Be Numbered By

Three Bishops, One Each Of Our Choosing, And The Third To Be Chosen By

Our Lord And Ghostly Father The Pope. And I Offer To You, Madame (Sister

And Aunt), The Devotion Of A Brother And Nephew, The Right Hand Of

Concord, And The Kiss Of Peace. I Pray God Daily To Preserve Your

Celsitude.--From Our Court Of Pampluna, Etc. Under The Privy Signet Of

The King Himself--Sanchius Navarrensium Rex, Sapiens, Pater Patriæ,

Pius, Catholicus.'

This Done, And Means Taken For Sure Despatch, He Sends For The Virgin

In Question, And Embracing Her With One Arm, Holds Her Close To His

Knee.

'My Child,' He Says, 'You Are To Be Wedded To The Greatest Prince Now On

Life, The Pattern Of Chivalry, The Mirror Of Manly Beauty, Heir To A

Great Throne. What Do You Say To This?'

The Virgin Kept Her Eyes Down; A Very Faint Flush Of Rose Troubled Her

Cheek.

'I Am In Your Hands, Sire,' She Said, Whereupon Don Sancho Enfolded Her.

'You Are In My Arms, Dear Child,' He Testified. 'Your Lord Will Be King

Of England, Duke Of Normandy And Aquitaine, Count Of Anjou, Poictou, And

Maine, And Lord Of Some Island In The Western Sea Whose Name I Have

Forgotten. He Is Also The Subject Of Prophecy, Which (As The Arabians

Know Very Well) Declares That He Will Rule Such An Empire As Alexander

Never Saw, Nor The Mighty Charles Dreamed Of. Does This Please You, My

Child?'

'He Is A Very Great Lord,' Said Berengère, 'And Will Be A Great King. I

Hope To Serve Him Faithfully.'

'By Saint James, And So You Shall!' Cried The Happy Don Sancho. 'Go, My

Child, And Say Your Prayers. You Will Have Something To Pray About At

Last.'

She Was The Only Daughter He Had Left, Exorbitantly Loved; A Little

Creature Too Much Brocaded To Move, Cold As Snow, Pious As A Virgin

Enclosed, With Small Regular Features Like A Fairy Queen's. She Had A

Narrow Mind, And Small Heart For Meeting Tribulation, Which, Indeed, She

Seemed Never Likely To Know. Sometimes, Being In Her Robes Of State,

Crusted With Gems, Crowned, Coifed, Ringed, She Looked Like Nothing So

Much As A Stiff Doll-Goddess Set In Glass Over An Altar. It Was Thus She

Showed Her Best, When With Fixed Eyes And A Frigid Smile She Stood Above

The Court, An Unapproachable Glittering Star Set In The Clear Sky Of A

Night To Give Men Hopes Of An Ordered Heaven. It Was Thus Bertran De

Born Had Seen Her, When For A Time His Hot And Wrong Heart Was At Rest,

And He Could Look On A Creature Of This World Without Desire To Mar It.

Half In Mockery, Half In Love, He Called Her Frozen Heart. Later On, You

Remember, He Called Jehane Bel Vezer. He Was The Nicknamer Of Europe In

His Day.

So Now, Or Almost So, He Saw Her New Come From Her Father's Side--A

Little Flushed, But Very Much The Great Small Lady, Ma Dame Berengère Of

Navarre.

'The Sun Shines Upon My Frozen Heart,' Said Bertran. She Gave Him Her

Hand To Kiss.

'No Heart Of Yours Am I, Bertran,' She Said; 'But Chosen For A King.'

'A King, Lady! Whom Then?'

She Answered, 'A King To Be. My Lord Richard Of Poictou.'

He Clacked His Tongue On His Palate, And Bolted This Pill As Best He

Could. Bad Was Best. He Saw Himself Made Newly So Great A Fool That He

Dared Not Think Of It. If He Had Known At That Time Of Richard's Dealing

With Jehane Saint-Pol, You May Be Sure He Would Have Squirted Some

Venom. But He Knew Nothing At All About It; And As To The Other Affair,

Even He Dared Not Speak.

'A Great Lord, A Hot Lord, A Very Strenuous Lord!' He Said In Jerks. It

Was All There Was To Say.

'He Is A Prince Who Might Claim A Lady's Love, I Suppose,' Said

Berengère, With Considering Looks.

'Ho Ho! And So He Has!' Cried Bertran. 'I Assure Your Grace He Is No

Novice. Many He Has Claimed, And Many Have Claimed Him. Shall I Number

Them?'

'I Beg That You Will Not,' She Said, Stiffening Herself. So Bertran

Grinned His Rage. But He Had One Thing To Say.

'This Much I Will Tell You, Princess. The Name I Give Him Is

Yea-And-Nay: Beware Of It. He Is Ever Of Two Minds: Hot Head And Cold

Heart, Flaming Heart And Chilled Head. He Will Be For God And The Enemy

Of God; Will Expect Heaven And Tamper With Hell. With Rage He Will Go

Up, Laughing Come Down. Ho! He Will Be For You And Against You; Eager,

Slow; A Wooer, A Scorner; A Singer Of Madrigals, Ah, And A Croaker

Afterwards. There Is No Stability In Him, Neither Length Of Love Nor Of

Hate, No Bottom, Little Faith.' Berengère Rose.

'You Vex Yourself, Bertran, And Me Also,' She Said. 'It Is Ill Talking

Between A Prince And His Friend.'

'Am I Not Your Friend Then, My Lady?' He Asked Her With Bitterness.

'You Cannot Be The Friend Of A Prince, Bertran,' Said Berengère Calmly.

His Muttered 'O God, The True Word!' Sufficed Him For Thought All His

Road From Navarre. He Went, As You Know Already, To Poictiers, Where

Richard Was Making Festival With Jehane.

But When, Unhappy Liar, He Found Out The Truth, It Came Too Late To Be

Of Service To His Designs. Don Sancho, He Learned, Was Beforehand With

Him Even There, Fully Informed Of The Outrage At Gisors And The Marriage

At Poictiers, With Very Clear Views Of The Worth Of Each Performance.

Bertran, Gnashing His Teeth, Took Up The Service Of The Man He Loathed;

Gnashing His Teeth, He Let Richard Kiss Him In The Lists And Shower

Favours Upon Him. When Presents Of Stallions Came From Navarre He Began

To See What Don Sancho Was About. Any Meeting Of Richard And That

Profound Schemer Would Have Been Bertran's Ruin. So When Richard Was

King, He Judged It Time To Be Off.

'Now Here,' Says Abbot Milo, Dealing With The Same Topics, 'I Make An

End Of Bertran De Born, Who Did Enough Mischief In His Life To Give

Three Kings Wretchedness--The Young King Henry, And The Old King Henry,

And The New King Richard. If He Was Not The Thorn Of Anjou, Whose Thorn

Was He? Some Time Afterwards He Died Alone And Miserable, Having Seen

(As He Thought) All His Plots Miscarry, The Object Of His Hatred Do The

Better For His Evil Designs, And The Object Of His Love The Better

Without Them. He Was Cast Off. His Peers Were At The Holy War, His Enemy

On A Throne. There Had Arisen A Generation Which Shrugged At His Eld,

And Remained One Which Still Thought Him A Misgoverned Youth. Great Poet

He Was, Great Thief, And A Silly Fool. So There's An End Of Him: Let Him

Be.'

It Was In The Gules Of August, We Read, That King Richard Set Out For

His Duchy And Kingdom, On Horseback, Riding Alone, Splendid In Red And

Gold; Countess Jehane In A Litter; His True Brother And His

Half-Brother, His Bishops, His Chancellor, And His Friends With Him,

Each According To His Degree. They Went By Alençon,