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

Bites Me. I Vomit Black. My Skin Is As Dry As A Snake's. Yesterday They

Bled Me Three Ounces.' Richard Walked Back With Him Among The Tents,

Conversing Cheerfully, And For A Few Days Held His Old Ascendancy Over

Philip; But Only For A Few. Other Of The Leaders He Saw: Some Gave Him

No Welcome. The Marquess Of Montferrat Kept His Quarters, The Duke Of

Burgundy Was In Bed. The Archduke Of Austria, Luitpold, A Hairy Man With

Light Red Eyelashes, Professed Great Civility; But Richard Had A Bad Way

With Strangers. Not Being Receptive, He Took No Pains To Pretend That He

Was. The Archduke Made Long Speeches, Richard Short Replies; The

Archduke Made Longer Speeches, Richard No Replies. Then The Archduke

Grew Very Red, And Richard Nearly Yawned. This Was At The English King's

Formal Reception By The Leaders Of The Crusade. With The Grand Master Of

The Temple He Got On Better, Liking The Looks Of The Man. He Did Not

Observe Saint-Pol On King Philip's Left Hand; But There He Was, Flushed,

Excited, And Tensely Observant Of His Enemy. That Same Night, When They

Held A Council Of War, There Was Seen A Smoulder Of That Fire Which You

Might Have Decently Supposed Put Out. King Philip Came Down In A Mighty

Hurry, And Sat Himself In The Throne; Montferrat, Burgundy, And Others

Of That Faction Serried Round About Him. The English And Angevin Chiefs

Were Furious, And The Archduke Halted Between Two Opinions. By The Time

(Lateish) When King Richard Was Announced Gaston Of Béarn And Young

Saint-Pol Had Their Swords Half Out. But Richard Came And Stood In The

Doorway, A Magnificent Leisurely Figure. All His Party Rose Up. Richard

Waited, Watching. The Archduke (Who Really Had Not Seen Him Before) Rose

With Apologies; Then The French Followed Suit, Singly, One Here And One

There. There Only Remained Seated King Philip And The Marquess Of

Montferrat. Still Richard Waited By The Door; Presently, In A Quiet

Voice, He Said To The Usher, 'Take Your Wand, Usher, To That Paralytic

Over There. Tell Him That He Shall Use It, Or I Will.' The Message Was

Delivered: At An Angry Nod From King Philip The Marquess Got Darkly Up,

And Richard Came Into The Hall With King Guy Of Jerusalem. These Two Sat

Down One On Each Side Of France; And So The Council Began.

It Was Hopeless From The Outset--A _Posse_ Of Hornets Droned Into Fury

By The Archduke. While He Talked The Rest Maddened, Longing For Each

Other's Blood, Failing That Of Luitpold. Richard, Who As Yet Had No

Plans Of His Own, Took No Interest Whatever In Plans. He Acted

Throughout As If The Marquess Was Not There, And As If He Wished With

All His Heart That The Archduke Was Not There. On His Part, The Marquess

Would Have Given Nearly All He Owned To Have Behaved So To Guy Of

Lusignan Set Over Him; But The Marquess Had Not That Art Of Lazy Scorn

Which Belongs To The Royal Among Beasts: He Glowered, He Was Sulky.

Meantime The Archduke Buzzed His Age-Long Periods, And Richard (Clasping

His Knee) Looked At The Ceiling. At Last He Sighed Profoundly, And 'God

Of Heaven And Earth!' Escaped Him. King Philip Burst Into A Guffaw--His

First For Many A Day--And Broke Up The Assembly. Richard Had Himself

Rowed Out To Jehane In Her Ship.

He Had No Business There, Though His Business Was Innocent Enough; But

She Could Not Tell Him So Now. The Girl Was Dejected, Ill, And Very

Nervous About Herself. Moreover, She Had Suffered From Sea-Sickness. She

Could Not Hide Her Comfort To Have Him; So He Took Her Up And Kissed Her

As Of Old, And Ended By Settling Her On His Knee. There She Cried,

Quietly But Freely. He Stayed With Her Till She Slept; Then Went Back To

The Shore And Walked About The Trenches, Thinking Out The Business

Before Him. The Dawn Light Found Him At It. In A Day Or Two, Having Got

His Tackle Ashore, He Began The Assault Upon A Plan Of His Own, Without

Reference To Any Other Principality Or Power At All. By This Time King

Philip Lay Heaped In His Bed, And Had Had His Distempered Brain Wrought

Upon By Montferrat And His Kind, Saint-Pol, Des Barres, And Their Kind.

Richard Had With Him Poictevins And Angevins, Men Of Provence And

Languedoc, Normans And English, Scots And Welshry, Black Genoese,

Sicilians, Pisans, And Grifons From Cyprus. The Count Of Champagne Had

His Flemings To Hand; The Templars And The Hospitallers Served Him

Gladly. It Was An Agglomerate, A Horde, Not An Army, And Nobody But He

Could Have Wielded It. He, By The Virtue In Him, Had Them All At His

Nod. The English, Who Love To Be Commanded, Hauled Stones For Him All

Day, Though He Had Not A Word Of Their Language. The Swart, Praying

Italians Raved Themselves Hoarse Whenever He Came Into Their Lines; Even

The Cypriotes, Sullen And Timorous Creatures, Whom No Power Among

Themselves Could Have Driven To The Walls, Fixed The Great Petraries And

Mangonels, And Ran Grinning Into The Trap Of Death For This Tawny-Haired

Hero Who Stood Singing, Bareheaded, Within Bow-Shot Of The Turks, And

Laughed Like A Boy When Some Fellow Slipped On To His Back Upon The Dry

Grass. He Was Everywhere, Day After Day--In The Trenches, On The Towers,

Teaching The Bowmen Their Business, Crying 'Mort De Dieu!' When A

Mangonel Did Its Work, And Some Flung Rock Made The Wall To Fly; He

Crouched Under The Tortoise-Screens With The Miners, Took A Mattock

Himself As Indifferently As An Arbalest Or A Cross-Bow. He Could Do

Everything, And Have (If Not A Word) A Cheerful Grin For Every Man Who

Did His Duty. As It Was Evident That He Knew What Such Duty Should Be,

And Could Have Done It Better Himself, Men Sweated To Win His Praise. He

Was Nearly Killed On A Scaling-Ladder, Too Early Put Up, Or Too Long

Left So. Three Arrows Struck Him, And The Defenders, Calling On Allah,

Rolled An Enormous Boulder To The Edge Of The Wall, Which Must Have

Crushed Him Out Of Recognition On The Last Day. 'Garde, Sire!' 'Dornna

Del Ciel!' Came The Cries From Below; But 'Lady Virgin!' Growled A

Shockhead From Bocton-Under-Bleane, And Pulled His King Bodily Off The

Ladder. The Poor Fellow Was Shot In The Throat At The Next Moment; The

Stone Fell Harmless. King Richard Took Up His Dead Englishman In His

Arms And Carried Him To The Trenches. He Did No More Fighting Until He

Had Seen Him Buried, And Ordained A Mass For Him. Things Of Those Sort

Tempted Men To Love Him.

The Siege Lasted Ten Days Or More With Varying Successes. Day And Night

In The City They Heard The Drums Beat To Arms, The Cries Of The Sheiks,

And More Piercing, Drawn-Out Cries Than Theirs. To The Nightly Shrilled

Pronouncement Of The Greatness Of God Came As Answer The Christian's

Wailing Prayer, 'Save Us, Holy Sepulchre!' The King Of France Had An

Engine Which He Called The Bad Neighbour, And Did Well With It Until The

Turks Provided A Bad Kinsman, Much Bigger, Which Put The Neighbour To

Shame, And Finally Burned Him. King Richard Had A Belfry, And The Count

Of Flanders Could Throw Stones With His Sling From The Trenches Into The

Market-Place; At Any Rate He Said He Could, And They All Believed Him.

The Christians Caused The Accursed Tower To Totter; They Made A Breach

Below The Tower Of Flies, In A Most Horrible Part Of The Haven. Mine And

Countermine, Richard On The North Side Worked Night And Day, Denying

Himself Rest, Food, Reasonable Care, For A Week Forgetful Of Jehane And

Her Hope. The Weather Grew Stiflingly Hot, Night And Day There Was No

Breath Of Wind; The Whole Country Reeked Of Death And Abomination. Once,

Indeed, A Gate Was Set Fire To And Rushed. The Christians Saw Before

Them For The First Time The Ghostly Winding Way Of A Street, Where Blind

Pale Houses Heeled To Each Other, Six Feet Apart. There Was A Breathless

Fight In That Pent Way, A Strangling, Throttled Business; Richard With

His Peers Of Normandy, Swaying Banners, The Crashing Sound Of Steel On

Steel, The Splash Of Split Polls: But It Could Not Be Carried. The

Turks, Surging Down On Them, A Wall Of Men, Bodily Forced Them Out.

There Was No Room To Swing An Axe, No Space For A Horse To Fall, Least

Of All For Draught Of The Bow. Richard Cried The Retreat; They Could Not

Turn, So Walked Backwards Fighting, And The Turks Repaired The Gate.

Acre Did Not Fall By The Sword, But By Starvation Rather, And The

Diligent Negotiations Of Saladin With Our King. Richard's Terms Were,

Restore The True Cross, Empty Us Acre Of Men-At-Arms, Leave Two Thousand

Hostages. This Was Accepted At Last. The Kings Rode Into Acre On The

Twelfth Of July With Their Hosts, And The Hollow-Eyed Courtesans Watched

Them Furtively From Upper Windows. They Knew Their Harvest Was To Reap.

Harvest With Them Was Seed-Time With Others. It Was Seed-Time With The

Archduke. King Richard Set Up His Household In The Castle (With A Good

Lodging For Jehane In The Street Of The Camel); King Philip, Miserably

Ill, Went To The House Of The Templars; With Him, Sedulously His Friend,

The Marquess Of Montferrat. But Luitpold Of Austria Proposed Himself For

The Castle, And Richard Endured Him As Well As He Could. But Then

Luitpold Went Further. He Set Up His Banner On The Tower, Side By Side

With Richard's Dragon, Meaning No Offence At All. Now King Richard's Way

Was A Short Way. He Had Found The Archduke A Burdensome Ass, But No

More. The World Was Full Of Such; One Must Take Them As Part Of The

General Economy Of Providence. But He Knew His Own Worth Perfectly Well,

And His Own Standing In The Host; So When They Told Him Where The

Austrian's Flag Flew, He Said, 'Take It Down.' They Took It Down.

Luitpold Grew Red, Made A Long Speech In German At Which Richard

Frowned, And Another (Shorter) In Latin, At Which He Laughed. Luitpold

Put Up His Flag Again; Again Richard Said, 'Take It Down.' Luitpold Was

So Angry That He Made No Speeches At All; He Ran Up His Flag A Third

Time. When King Richard Was Told, He Laughed, And On This Occasion Said,

'Throw It Away.' Gaston Of Béarn, More Vivacious Than Discreet, Did So

With Ignominious Detail. That Day There Was A Council Of The Great

Estates, At Which King Philip Presided In A Furred Gown; For Though The

Weather Was Suffocating His Fever Kept Him Chill To The Bones. To The

Marquess, Pale With His Old Grudge, Was Now Added The Archduke, Flaming

With His New One. The Mottled Duke Of Burgundy Blinked Approval Of All

Grudges, And Young Saint-Pol Poured Fire Into The Fire. Richard Was Not

Present, Nor Any Of His Faction; They, Because They Had Not