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

Cunning As The One And As Heedless As The Other, If That Is A Possible

Thing. He Was Arrogant, But His Smile Veiled The Fault; You Saw It Best

In A Sleepy Look He Had. His Blemishes Were Many, His Weaknesses Two. He

Trusted To His Own Force Too Much, And Despised Everybody Else In The

World. Not That He Thought Them Knaves; He Was Certain They Were Fools.

And So Most Of Them Were, No Doubt, But Not All. The First Flush Of Him

Moved Your Admiration: Great Height, Great Colour, The Red And The

Yellow; His Beard Which Ran Jutting To A Point And Gave His Jaw The

Clubbed Look Of A Big Cat's; His Shut Mouth, And Cold Considering Eyes;

The Eager Set Of His Head, His Soft, Padding Motions--A Leopard, A

Hunting Leopard, Quick To Strike, But Quick To Change Purpose. This,

Then, Was Richard Yea-And-Nay, Whom All Women Loved, And Very Few Men.

These Require To Be Trusted Before They Love; And Full Trust Richard

Gave To No Man, Because He Could Not Believe Him Worth It. Women Are

More Generous Givers, Expecting Not Again.

Here Was Jehane Saint-Pol, A Girl Of Two-And-Twenty To His

Two-And-Thirty, Well Born, Well Formed, Greatly Desired Among Her Peers,

Who, Having Let Her Soul Be Stolen, Was Prepared To Cut It Out Of

Herself For His Sake Who Took It, And Let It Die. She Was The Creature

Of His Love, In And Out By Now The Work Of His Hands. God Had Given Her

A Magnificent Body, But Richard Had Made It Glow. God Had Made Her Soul

A Fair Room; But His Love Had Filled It With Light, Decked It With

Flowers And Such Artful Furniture. He, In Fact, As She Very Well Knew,

Had Given Her The Grace To Deal Queenly With Herself. She Knew That She

Would Have Strength To Deny Him, Having Learned The Hardihood To Give

Him Her Soul. Fate Had Carried Her Too Young Into The Arms Of The Most

Glorious Prince In The World. Her Brother, Eudo The Count, Built Castles

On That In His Head. Now She Was To Tumble Them Down. Her Younger

Brother, Eustace, Loved This Splendid Richard. Now She Was To Hurt Him.

What Was To Become Of Herself? Mercy Upon Her, I Believe She Never

Thought Of That. His Honour Was Her Necessity: The Watch-Fires In The

North Told Her The Hour Was At Hand. The Old King Was Come Up With A

Host To Drive His Son To Bed. Richard Must Go, And She Woo Him Out. Son

Of A King, Heir Of A King, He Must Go To The King His Father; And He

Knew He Must Go. Two Days' Maddening Delight, Two Nights' Biting Of

Nails, Miserable Entreaty From Jehane, Grown Newly Pinched And Grey In

The Face, And He Owned It.

He Said To Her The Last Night, 'When I Saw You First, My Queen Of Snows,

In The Tribune At Vézelay, When The Knights Rode By For The Melée, The

Green Light From Your Eyes Shot Me, And Wounded I Cried Out, "That Maid

Or None!"'

She Bowed Her Head; But He Went On. 'When They Throned You Queen Of Them

All Because You Were So Proud And Still, And Had Such A High Untroubled

Head; And When Your Sleeve Was In My Helm, And My Heart In Your Lap, And

Men Fallen To My Spear Were Sent To Kneel Before You--What Caused Your

Cheek To Burn And Your Eyes To Shine So Bright?'

She Hid Her Face. 'Homage Of The Knights! The Love Of Me!' He Cried; And

Then, 'Ah, Jehane Of The Fair Girdle, When I Took You From The Pastures

Of Gisors, When I Taught You Love And Learned From Your Young Mouth What

Love Might Be, I Was Made Man. But Now You Ask Me To Become Dog.' And He

Swore Yet Again He Could Never Leave Her. But She Smiled Proudly, Being

In Pain. 'Nay, My Lord, But The Man In You Is Awake, And Not To Leave

You. You Shall Go Because You Are The King's Son, And I Shall Pray For

The New King.' So She Beat Him, And Had Him Weeping Terribly, His Face

In Her Lap. She Wept No More, But Dry-Eyed Kissed Him, And Dry-Lipped

Went To Bed. 'He Said Yea That Time,' Records The Abbot Milo, 'But I

Never Knew Then What She Paid For It. That Was Later.' He Went Next

Morning, And She Saw Him Go.

Betimes Is Best For An Ugly Business; Your Man Of Spirit Will Always

Rush What He Loathes But Yet Must Do. Count Richard Of Poictou, Having

Made Up His Mind And Confessed Himself Overnight, Must Leave With The

First Cock Of The Morning, Yet Must Take The Sacrament. Before It Was

Grey In The East He Did So, Fully Armed In Mail, With His Red Surcoat Of

Leopards Upon Him, His Sword Girt, His Spurs Strapped On. Outside The

Chapel In The Weeping Mirk A Squire Held His Shield, Another His Helm, A

Groom Walked His Horse. Milo The Abbot Was Celebrant, A Snuffling Boy

Served; The Count Knelt Before The Housel-Cloth Haloed By The Light Of

Two Thin Candles. Hardly Had The Priest Begun His _Introibo_ When Jehane

Saint-Pol, Who Had Been Awake All Night, Stole In With A Hood On Her

Head, And Holding Herself Very Stiffly, Knelt On The Floor. She Joined

Her Hands And Stuck Them Up Before Her, So That The Tips Of Her Fingers,

Pointing Upwards As Her Thoughts Would Fly, Were Nearly Level With Her

Chin. Thus Frozen In Prayer She Remained Throughout The Office; Nor Did

She Relax When At The Elevation Of The Host Richard Bowed Himself To The

Earth. It Seemed As If She Too, Bearing Between Her Hands Her Own Heart,

Was Lifting It Up For Sacrifice And For Worship.

The Count Was Communicated. He Was A Very Religious Man, Who Would

Sooner Have Gone Without His Sword Than His Saviour Upon Any Affairs.

Jehane Saw Him Fed Without A Twitch Of The Lips. She Was In A Great

Mood, A Rapt And Pillared Saint; But When Mass Was Over And His

Thanksgiving To Make, She Got Up And Hid Herself Away From Him In The

Shades. There She Lurked Darkling, And He, Lunging Out, Swept With His

Sword's Point The Very Edge Of Her Gown. She Did Not Hear Him Go, For He

Trod Like A Cat; But She Felt Him Touch Her With The Sword, And

Shuddered Once Or Twice. He Went Out Of The Courtyard At A Gallop.

While The Abbot Was Reciting His Own Thanksgiving Jehane Came Out Of Her

Corner, Minded To Speak With Him. So Much He Divined, Needing Not The

Beckoning Look She Sent Him From Her Guarded Eyes. He Sat Himself Down

By The Altar Of Saint Remy, And She Knelt Beside Him.

'Well, My Daughter?' Says Milo.

'I Think It Is Well,' She Took Him Up.

The Abbot Milo, A Red-Faced, Watery-Eyed Old Man, Rheumy And Weathered

Well, Then Opened His Mouth And Spake Such Wisdom As He Knew. He Held Up

His Forefinger Like A Claw, And Used It As If Describing Signs And

Wonders In The Air.

'Hearken, Madame Jehane,' He Said. 'I Say That You Have Done Well, And

Will Maintain It. That Great Prince, Whom I Love Like My Own Son, Is Not

For You, Nor For Another. No, No. He Is Married Already.'

He Hoped To Startle Her, The Old Rhetorician; But He Failed. Jehane Was

Too Dreary.

'He Is Married, My Daughter,' He Repeated; 'And To Whom? Why, To

Himself. That Man From The Birth Has Been A Lonely Soul. He Can Never

Wed, As You Understand It. You Think Him Your Lover! Believe Me, He Is

Not. He Is His Own Lover. He Is Called. He Has A Destiny. And What Is

That? You Ask Me.'

She Did Not, But Rhetoric Bade Him Suppose It. 'Salem Is His Destiny;

Salem Is His Bride, The Elect Lady In Bonds. He Will Not Wed Madame

Alois Of France, Nor You, Nor Any Virgin In Christendom Until That

Spiritual Wedlock Is Consummate. I Should Not Love Him As I Do If I Did

Not Believe It. For Why? Shall I Call My Own Son Apostate? He Is Signed

With The Cross, A Married Man, By Our Saviour!'

He Leaned Back In His Chair, Peering Down At Her To See How She Took It.

She Took It Stilly, And Turned Him A Marble, Storm-Purged Face, A Pair

Of Eyes Which Seemed All Black.

'What Shall I Do To Be Safe?' Her Voice Sounded Worn.

'Safe, My Child?' He Wondered. 'Bless Me, Is Not The Cross Safety?'

'Not With Him, Father.'

This Was Perfectly True, Though Tainted With Scandal, He Thought. The

Abbot, Who Was Trained To Blink All Such Facts, Had To Learn That This

Girl Blinked None. True To His Guidance, He Blinked.

'Go Home To Your Brother, My Daughter; Go Home To Saint-Pol-La-Marche.

At The Worst, Remember That There Are Always Two Arks For A Woman In

Flood-Time, A Convent And A Bed.'

'I Shall Never Choose A Convent,' Said Jehane.

'I Think,' Said The Abbot, 'That You Are Perfectly Wise.'

I Suppose The Alternative Struck A Sudden Terror Into Her; For The Abbot

Abruptly Records In His Book That 'Here Her Spirit Seemed To Flit Out Of

Her, And She Began To Tremble Very Much, And In Vain To Contend With

Tears. I Had Her All Dissolved At My Feet Within A Few Moments. She Was

Very Young, And Seemed Lost.'

'Come, Come,' He Said, 'You Have Shown Yourself A Brave Girl These Two

Days. It Is Not Every Maid Can Sacrifice Herself For A Count Of Poictou,

The Eldest Son Of A King. Come, Come, Let Us Have No More Of This.' He

Hoped, No Doubt, To Brace Her By A Roughness Which Was Far From His

Nature; And It Is Possible That He Succeeded In Heading Off A Mutiny Of

The Nerves. She Was Not Violent Under Her Despair, But Went On Crying

Very Miserably, Saying, 'Oh, What