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

Master Is Persuaded Your Grace Will Conform To His Desires. This And

Other Matters A Many.'

The King Got Up. 'Too Many Matters, Bishop Of Beauvais,' He Said, 'For

My Appetite, Which Is Poor Just Now. There Is No Debate. Say This To

Your Master, I Pay Homage Where It Is Due. If By His Own Act He Prove

That It Is Not Due, I Will Not Be Blamed. As To The Marquess, I Will

Never Get A Kingdom For Him, And I Marvel That King Philip Can Make No

Better Choice Than Of A Man Whose Only Title Is Rape, And Can Get No

Better Ally Than The Slanderer Of His Sister. And Upon The Subject Of

That Unhappy Lady, I Tell You This Upon The Holy Gospels, That I Will

Marry King Philip Himself Before I Will Marry Her; And So Much He Very

Well Knows. I Am Upon The Point To Depart In The Fulfilment Of My Vows.

Let Your Master Please Himself. He Is A Bad Sailor, He Tells Me. Am I To

Think Him A Bad Soldier? And If So, In Such A Cause, What Sort Of A

Christian, What Sort Of A King, Am I To Think Him?'

The Bishop, His Diplomacy At An End, Grew Very Red. He Had Nothing To

Say. Des Barres Must Needs Put In His Word.

'Bethink You, Fair Sire,' He Says: 'The Marquess Is Of My Kindred.'

'Oh, I Do Think, Des Barres,' The King Answered Him; 'And I Am Very

Sorry For You. But I Am Not Answerable For The Trespasses Of Your

Ancestry.'

Des Barres Glared About Him, As If He Hoped To Find A Reply Among The

Joists.

'My Lord,' He Began Again, 'It Is Laid In Charge Upon Us To Speak The

Mind Of France. Our Master Is Greatly Put About In His Sister's Affair,

And Not He Only, But His Allies With Him. Among Whom, Sire, You Must Be

Pleased To Reckon My Lord John Of Mortain.'

He Had Done Better To Leave John Out; Richard's Eyes Burnt Him, And His

Voice Cut. 'Let My Brother John Have Her, Who Knows Her Rights And

Wrongs. As For You, Des Barres, Take Back To Your Master Your Windy

Conversation, And This Also, That I Allow No Man To Dictate Marriages To

Me.' So Said, He Broke Up The Audience, And Would See No More Of The

Ambassadors. They, In Two Or Three Days, Departed With What Grace They

Had In Them.

The Immediate Effect Of This, You May Perhaps Expect, Was To Drive

Richard All The Road To Navarre. He Was Profoundly Offended, So Much So

That Not Jehane Herself Dared Speak To Him. As He Always Did When His

Heart Mastered His Head, He Acted Now Alone And At Once. In The Heart We

Choose To Seat Rage Of All Sorts, The Purest And The Most Base, The Most

Fervent And The Most Cold. It So Happened That There Was Business For

Our King In Gascony, Congenial Business. Guillem De Chisi, A Vassal Of

His, Had Been Robbing Pilgrims, So Guillem Was To Be Hanged. Richard

Went Swift-Foot To Cahors, Hanged Guillem In Front Of His Own

Gatehouse, Then Wrote Letters To Pampluna Inviting King Sancho To A

Conference 'Upon Many Affairs Touching Almighty God And Ourselves.' Thus

He Put It, And King Sancho Needed No Accents To The Vowels. The Wise Man

Set Out With A Great Train, His Virgin With Him.

The Day Of His Expectation, King Richard Heard Mass In A Most

Unchristian Frame Of Mind. There Was No _Sursum Corda_ For Him; But He

Knelt Like A Stone Image, Inert And Cold From Breast To Backbone; Said

Nothing, Moved Not. How Differently Do Men And Women Stand At The Gate

Of Sorrows! Not Far Off Him Knelt Countess Jehane, Who In Her Hands

Again (It May Be Said) Held Up Her Bleeding Heart. The Luxury Of This

Strange Sacrifice Made The Girl Glow Like A Fire Opal; She Was In A

Fierce Ecstasy, Her Lips Parted, Eyes Half-Shut; She Breathed Short, She

Panted. There Is No Moralising Over These Things: Love Is A Hearty

Feeder, And Thrives On A Fast-Day As Well As On A Gaudy. By Fasting Come

Visions, Tremors, Swoonings And Such Like, Dainty Perversions Of Sense.

But Part Of Jehane's Exaltation, You Must Know, Came Of Another Spur.

She Had A Sure And Certain Hope; She Knew What She Knew, Though No Other

Even Guessed It. With That To Carry She Could Lift Up Her Head. No Woman

In The World Need Grudge The Usurper Of Place While She May Go On,

Carrying Her Title Below The Heart. More Of This Presently. Two Hours

Before Noon, In That Clear October Weather, Over The Brown Hills Came A

Company Of Knights On White Destriers, With Their Pennons Flying And

White Cloaks Over Their Mail, The Outriders Of Navarre. They Were Met

In The Meadow Of The Charterhouse And Escorted To Their Quarters, Which

Were On The Right Of The King's Pavilion. That Same Pavilion Was Of

Purple Silk, Worked Over With Gold Leopards The Size Of Life. It Had Two

Standards Beside It, The Dragon Of The English, The Leopards Of Anjou.

The Pavilion Of King Sancho Was Of Green Silk With Silver Emblems--A

Heart, A Castle, A Stag; Saint George, Saint Michael, Saint James The

Great, And Saint Martin With His Split Cloak--A Shining Place Before

Whose Door Stood Twenty Ladies In White, Their Hair Let Loose, To

Receive Madame Berengère And Minister To Her. Chief Among These Was

Countess Jehane. King Richard Was Not In His Own Pavilion, But Would

Greet His Brother King In The Hail Of The Citadel.

So In Due Time, After Three Soundings On The Silver Trumpets And Much

Curious Ceremony Of Bread And Salt, Came Don Sancho The Wise In A Meinie

Of His Peers, Very Noble On A Roan Horse; And Dame Berengère His

Daughter In A Wine-Coloured Litter, With Her Ladies About Her On Ambling

Palfreys, The Colour Of Burnt Grass. When They Took This Little Princess

Out Of Her Silken Cage The First Face She Looked For And The First She

Saw Was That Of Jehane Saint-Pol, Who Received Her Courteously.

Jehane Always Wore Sumptuous Clothing, Being Aware, No Doubt, That Her

Person Justified The Display. For This Time She Had Dressed Herself In

Silver Brocade, Let Her Bosom Go Bare, And Brought The Strong Golden

Plaits Round About In Her Favourite Fashion. Upon Her Head She Had A

Coronet Of Silver Flowers, In Her Neck A Blue Jewel. All The Colour She

Had Lay In Her Hue Of Faint Rose, In Her Hair Like Corn In The Sun, In

Her Eyes Of Green, In Her Deep Red Lips. But Her Height, Free Build, And

Liberal Curves Marked Her Out Of A Bevy That Glowed In A More Southern

Fashion. She Had To Stoop Overmuch To Kiss Berengère's Hand; And This

Made The Little Spaniard Bite Her Lip.

Berengère Herself Was Like A Bell, In A Stiff Dress Of Crimson Sewn With

Great Pearls In Leaf And Scroll-Work. From The Waist Upwards She Was The

Handle Of The Bell. This Immoderation Of Her Clothes, The Fright She Was

In--So Nervous At First That She Could Hardly Stand--Became Her Very

Ill. She Was Quite White In The Face, With Solemn Black Eyes, Glazed And

Expressionless; Her Little Hands Stuck Out From Her Sides Like A

Puppet's. Handsome As No Doubt She Was, She Looked A Doll Beside The

Tall Jehane, Who Could Have Dandled Her Comfortably On Her Knee. She

Spoke No Language But Her Own, And That Not The _Langue D'oc_, But A

Blurred Dialect Of It, Rougher Even Than Gascon. Conversation Was Very

Difficult On These Terms. At First The Princess Was Shy; Then (When She

Grew Curious And Forgot Her Qualms) Jehane Was Shy. Berengère Fingered

The Jewel In The Other's Neck, Turned It About, Wanted To Know Whence It

Had Come, Whose Gift It Was, Etc., Etc. Jehane Blushed To Report It The

Gift Of A Friend; Whereupon The Princess Looked Her Up And Down In A Way

That Made Her Hot All Over.

But When It Came To The Time Of Meeting King Richard, Berengère's

Nervous Fears Came Crowding Back; The Poor Little Creature Began To

Shake, Clung To Jehane. 'How Tall Is The King, How Tall Is He? Taller

Than You?' She Asked, Looking Up At The Picard Girl.

'Oh, Yes, Madame, He Is Taller Than I.'

'They Say He Is Cruel. Did You--Do You Think Him Cruel?'

'Madame, No, No.'

'He Is A Poet, They Say. Has He Made Many Songs Of Me?'

Jehane Murmured Her Doubts, Exquisitely Confused.

'Fifty Poets,' Continued Nestling Berengère, 'Have Made Songs Of Me.

There Is A Wreath Of Songs. They Call Me Frozen Heart: Do You Know Why?

They Say I Am Too Proud To Love A Poet. But If The Poet Is A King! I

Have A Certain Fear Just Now. I Think I Will--' She Took Jehane's

Arm--'No! No!' She Drew Away. 'You Are Too Tall--I Will Never Take Your

Arm--I Am Ashamed. I Beg You To Go Before Me. Lead The Way.'

So Jehane Went First Of All The Ladies Who Led The Queen To The King.

King Richard, Who Himself Loved To Go Splendidly, Sat Upon His Throne In

The Citadel Looking Like A Statue Of Gold And Ivory. Upon His Head Was A

Crown Of Gold, He Had A Long Tunic Of White Velvet, Round His Shoulders

A Great Cope Of Figured Gold Brocade, Work Of Genoa, And Very Curious.

His Face And Hands Were Paler Than Their Wont Was, His Eyes Frosty Blue,

Like A Winter Sea That Is Made Bright, Not Warm, By The Sun. He Sat Up

Stiffly, Hands On Knees; And All About Him Stood The Lords And Prelates

Of The Most Sumptuous Court In The West. King Sancho The Wise Was Ready

To Stoop All His Wisdom And Burden Of Years Before Such Superb State As

This; But The Moment His Procession Entered The Hall Richard Went Down

From His Daïs To Meet It, Kissed Him On The Cheek, Asked How He Did, And

Set