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

Very Well That You Are No Countess At All In My Son's Right, But Are

What One Of Your Nurture Should Not Be. And You Shall Understand That I

Am A Plain-Dealer In Such Affairs When They Concern This Realm, And Have

Bled Little Heifers Like You Whiter Than Veal And As Cold As Most Of The

Dead; And Will Do It Again If Need Be.'

Jehane Did Not Flinch Nor Turn Her Eyes From Considering Her Whitening

Wrist.

'Oh, Madame,' She Says, 'You Will Never Bleed Me; I Am Quite Sure Of

That. Alas, It Would Be Well If You Could, Without Offence.'

'Why, Whom Should I Offend Then?' The Queen Said, Sniffing--'Your

Ladyship?'

'A Greater,' Said Jehane.

'You Think The King Would Be Offended?'

'Madame,' Jehane Said, 'He Could Be Offended; But So Would You Be.'

The Queen-Mother Tightened Hold. 'I Am Not Easily Offended, Mistress,'

She Said, And Smiled Rather Bleakly.

Jehane Also Smiled, But With Patience, Not Trying To Get Free Her Wrist.

'My Blood Would Offend You. You Dare Not Bleed Me.'

'Death In Life!' The Queen Cried, 'Is There Any But The King To Stop Me

Now?'

'Madame,' Jehane Answered, 'There Is The Spoken Word Against You, The

Spirit Of Prophecy.'

Then Her Jailer Saw That Jehane's Eyes Were Green, And Very Steady. This

Checked Her.

'Who Speaks? Who Prophesies?'

Jehane Told Her, 'The Leper In A Desert Place, Saying, "Beware The

Count's Cap And The Count's Bed; For So Sure As Thou Liest In Either

Thou Art Wife Of A Dead Man And Of His Killer."'

The Queen-Mother, A Very Religious Woman, Took This Saying Soberly. She

Dropped Jehane's Wrist, Stared At And About Her, Looked Up, Looked Down;

Then Said, 'Tell Me More Of This, My Girl.'

'Hey, Madame,' Said Jehane, 'I Will Gladly Tell You The Whole. The

Saying Of The Leper Was Very Dreadful To Me, For I Thought, Here Is A

Man Punished By God Indeed, But So Near Death As To Be Likely Familiar

With The Secrets Of Death. Such A One Cannot Be A Liar, Nor Would He

Speak Idly Who Has So Little Time Left To Pray In. Therefore I Urged My

Lord Richard By His Good Love For Me To Forgo His Purpose Of Wedding Me

In Poictiers. But He Would Not Listen, But Said That, As He Had Stolen

Me From My Betrothed, It Comported Not With His Honour To Dishonour Me.

So He Wedded Me, And Fulfilled Both Terms Of The Leper's Prophecy. Then

I Saw Myself In Peril, And Was Not At All Comforted By The Advice Of

Certain Nuns, Which Was That, Although I Had Lain In The Count's Bed, I

Had Not Lain, But Had Knelt, In The Count's Cap; And That Therefore The

Terms Were Not Fulfilled. I Thought That Foolishness, And Still Think

So. But This Is My Own Thought. I Have Never Rightly Been In Either As

The Leper Intended, For I Do Not Think The Marriage A Good One. If I Am

No Wife, Then, God Pity Me, I Have Done A Great Sin; But I Am No

Countess Of Anjou. So I Give The Prophet The Lie. On The Other Hand, If

I Am Put Away By My Lord The King That He May Make A Good Marriage, I

Shall Be Claimed Again By The Man To Whom I Was Betrothed Before, And So

The Doom Be In Danger Of Fulfilment. For, Look Now, Madame, The Leper

Said, "Wife Of A Dead Man And His Killer"; And There Is None So Sure To

Kill The King As Sir Gilles De Gurdun. Alas, Alas, Madame, To What A

Strait Am I Come, Who Sought No One's Hurt! I Have Considered Night And

Day What It Were Best To Do Since The King, At My Prayer, Left Me; And

Now My Judgment Is This. I Must Be With The King, Though Not The King's

_Mie_; Because So Surely As He Sends Me Away, So Surely Will Gilles De

Gurdun Have Me.'

She Stopped, Out Of Breath, Feeling Some Shame To Have Spoken So Much.

The Queen-Mother Came To Her At Once, With Her Hands Out. 'By My Soul,

Jehane,' She Said, 'You Are A Good Woman. Never Leave My Son.'

'I Never Mean To Leave Him,' Said Jehane. 'That Is My Punishment, And (I

Think) His Also.'

'His Punishment, My Child?'

'Why, Madame,' Said Jehane, 'You Think That The King Must Wed.'

'Yes, Yes.'

'And To Wed, He Must Put Me Away.'

'Yes, Yes, Child.'

'Therefore, Although He Loves Me, He May Never Have His Dear Desire; And

Although I Love Him, I May Give Him No Comfort. Yet We Can Never Leave

Each Other For Fear Of The Leper's Prophecy; But He Must Always Long And

I Grieve. That, I Think, Is Punishment For A Man And Woman.'

The Queen-Mother Sobbed. Terrible Punishment For A Little Pleasant Sin!

Yet I Doubt'--She Said, Politic Through All--'Yet I Doubt My Son, Being

A Fierce Lover, Will Have His Way With Thee.'

Jehane Shook Her Head. 'No Means,' She Said, Drawing In Her Breath, 'No

Means, Madame. I Have His Life To Think Of.' Here, Pitying Herself, She

Turned Away Her Face. The Queen-Mother Came Suddenly And Kissed Her.

They Cried Together, Jehane And The Flinty Old Shrew Of Aquitaine.

A Pact Was Made, And Sealed With Kisses, Between These Two Women Who

Loved King Richard, That Jehane Should Do Her Best To Further The

Navarrese Match. Circumstance Was Her Friend In This Pious Robbery Of

Herself: Richard, Who Stood So Deep Engaged In Honour To God Almighty,

Could Get No Money.

Busy As He Was With One Shift After Another To Redeem His Credit, Busy

Also Pushing On His Coronation, He Yet Continued To See His Mistress

Most Days, Either Walking With Her In The Garden Of The Nuns' House

Where She Lodged, Or Sitting By Her Within Doors. At These Snatched

Moments There Was A Beautiful Equality Between Them; The Girl No Longer

Subject To The Man, The Man More Master Of Himself For Being Less Master

Of Her. As Often As Not He Sat On The Floor At Her Feet While She Worked

At Those Age-Long Tapestries Which Her Generation Loved; Leaning His

Head Back To Her Knee, He Would So Lie And Search Her Face, And Wonder

To Himself What The World To Come Could Have More Fair To Show Than This

Calm Treasurer Of Lovely Flesh. This Was, At The Time, Her Chief Glory,

That With All Her Riches--Fragrant Allure, Soft Warmth, The Delicacy,

Nice Luxury Of Her Every Part, The Glow, The Tincture, The Throbbing

Fire--She Could Keep A Strong Hand Upon Herself; Sway Herself Modestly;

Have So Much And Give So Little; Be So Apt For A Bridal, And Yet Without

A Sigh Play The Nun! 'If She, Being Devirginate Through Me, Can Cry

Herself Virgin Again--Then Cannot I, By The King Of Heaven?' This Was

Richard's Day-Thought, A Very Mannish Thought; For Women Do Not Consider

Their Own Beauties So Closely, See No Divinity In Themselves, And Find A

Man To Be A Glorious Fool To Think One Of Them More Desirable Than

Another. He Never Spoke This Thought, But Worshipped Her Silently For

The Most Part; And She, Reading The Homage Of His Upturned Face, Steeled

Herself Against The Sweet Flattery, Held Her Peace, And In Her Fierce

Proud Mind Made Endless Plots Against His.

In Silence Their Souls Conversed Upon A Theme Never Mentioned Between

Them. His Restless Quest Of Her Face Taught Him Much, Disposed Him; She,

With All The Good Guile Of Women To Her Hand, Waited, Judging The Time.

Then One Day As They Sat Together In A Window She Suddenly Slipped Away

From His Hand, Dropped To Her Knees, And Began To Pray.

For A While He Let Her Alone, Finding The Act As Lovely As She. But

Presently He Stooped His Face Till It Almost Touched Her Cheek, And

'Tell Me Thy Prayer, Dear Heart! Let Me Pray Also!' He Whispered.

'I Pray For My Lord The King,' She Said. 'Let Me Pray.' But As He

Insisted, Urging, Leaning To Her, She Drew Her Head Back And Lifted To

His View Her Face, Blanched With Pure Patience.

'O King Christ,' She Prayed, 'Take From My Soiled Hand This Sacrifice!'

She Prayed To Christ, But Looked At Richard. He Dared Speak For Christ.

'What Sacrifice, My Child?'

'I Give Thee The Hero Who Has Lain Upon My Breast; I Give Thee The

Marriage-Bed, The Cap Of The Count. I Give Thee The Kisses, The Clinging

Together, The Vows, The Long Bliss Where None May Speak. I Give Thee The

Language Of Love, The Strife, The After-Calm, The Assurance, The Hope

And The Promise. But I Keep, Lord, The Memory Of Love As A Hostage Of

Thine.'

King Richard, Breathless Now, Looked In Her Face. It Was That Of A Mild

Angel, Steadfast, Grave, Hued Like Fire, Acquainted With Grief. 'O

God-Fraught! O Saint In The Battle! O Dipped In The Flame! Jehane,

Jehane, Jehane! Quicken Me!' So He Cried In Anguish Of Spirit.

'Quicken Thee, Richard?' She Said. 'Nay, But Thou Art Quick, My King.

The Cross Hath Made Thee Quick; Thou Hast Given More Than I.'

'I Will Give All By Thy Direction,' He Said, 'For I Know That Thou Wilt

Save My Honour.'

'Trust Me There,' Said Jehane, And Let Him Kiss Her Cheek.

She Got A Great Hold Upon Him By These Means. Quick With The Holy Ghost

Or Not, There Was No Doubting The Quickness Of His Mind. Here Jehane's

Wit Had Not Played Her False; He Read Her Whole Meaning; She Never Let

Go The Footing She Had Gained, But In All Her Commerce With Him Walked A

Saint, A Maid Ravished Only By A Great Thought. Visibly To Him She Stood

Symbol Of Belief, Sacramental, The Fire On The Altar, The Fine Shy

Spirit Of Love Lurking (Like A Rock-Flower) At The Cross's Foot. And So

This Fire With Which She Led Him, Like The Torch She Had Held Up To Show

Him His Earlier Way, Lifted Her; And So She Became Indeed What She

Signified.

She Stood Very Near The Queen-Mother When Richard Was Crowned And