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

Been

Advertised, He, Because He Was In The Street Of The Camel At The Knees

Of Jehane The Fair.

 

The Archduke Began On The Instant. 'By God, My Lords,' He Said, 'Is

There In The World A Beast More Flagrant Than The King Of England Not

Killed Already?' The Marquess Showed The White Rims Of His Eyes--'

Injurious, Desperate, Bloody Villain,' Was His Commentary; And Saint-Pol

Lifted Up His Hand To His Master For Leave To Speak Mischief. But King

Philip Said Fretfully, 'Well, Well, We Can All Speak Of Something, I

Suppose. He Scorns Me, He Has Always Scorned Me. He Refuses Me Homage,

He Shamed My Sister; And Now He Takes The Lead Of Me.'

 

The Marquess Kept Muttering To The Table, 'Hopeless Villain, Hopeless

Villain!' And The Archduke, After Staring About Him For Sympathy,

Claimed Attention, If Not That; For He Brought His Fist Down With A

Thump.

 

'By Thunder, But I Kill Him!' He Said Deep In His Throat. Saint-Pol Came

Running And Kissed His Knee, To Luitpold's Great Surprise.

 

Philip Shivered In His Furs. 'I Must Go Home,' He Fretted; 'I Am Smitten

To Death. I Must Die In France.'

 

'Where Is The King Of England?' Asked The, Marquess, Knowing Perfectly

Well.

Volume 91 Book 2 (The Book Of Nay) Chapter 3 (Who Fought At Acre) Pg 119

'Evil Light Upon Him,' Cried Saint-Pol, 'He Is In My Sister's House.

Between Them They Give Me A Nephew.'

 

'Oho!' Montferrat Said. 'Is That It? Why, Then, We Know Where To Strike

Him Quickest. We Should Make Navarre Of Our Party.'

 

'He Has Done That Himself, By All Accounts: Said The Duke Of Burgundy,

Wide-Awake.

 

The Archduke, Returning To His New Lodgings In The Bishop's House, Sent

For His Astrologers And Asked Them, Could He Kill The King Of England?

 

'My Lord,' Said They, 'You Cannot.'

 

'How Is That?' He Asked.

 

'Lord,' They Told Him, 'By Our Arts We Discover That He Will Live For A

Hundred Years.'

 

'It Is Very Remarkable,' Said The Archduke. 'What Sort Of Years Will

They Be?'

 

'Lord,' Said The Astrologers, 'They Are Divers In Complexion; But Many

Of Them Are Red.'

 

'I Will Provide That They Be,' Said The Archduke. 'Go Away.'

 

The Marquess Sought No Astrologers, But Instead The Street Of The Camel

And Jehane's House. He Observed This With Great Care, Watching From An

Entry To See How King Richard Would Come Out, Whether Attended Or Not.

He Observed More Than The House, For Much More Was Forced Upon Him.

Human Garbage Filled The Close Ways Of Acre, Men And Women Marred By

Themselves Or A Hideous Begetting, Hairless Persons And Snug Little

Chamberers, Botch-Faces, Scald-Heads, Minions Of Many Sorts,

Silent-Footed Arabians As Shameless As Dogs, Greeks, Pimps And Panders,

Abominable Women. Murder Was Swiftly And Secretly Done. Montferrat From

His Entry Saw The Manner Of It. A Norman Knight Called Hamon Le Rotrou

Came Out Of An Infamous House In The Dusk, And Stepped Into The Street

Of The Camel With His Cloak Delicately Round Him. Fine As He Was, He Was

Insanely A Lover Of The Vile Thing He Had Left; For He Knelt Down In The

Street To Kiss Her Well-Worn Doorstep. He Knelt Under The Light Of A

Small Lamp, And Out Of The Shadow Behind Him Stepped Catfoot A Tall

Thin Man, White From Head To Foot, Who, Saying 'All Hail, Master,'

Stabbed Hamon Deep In The Side. Hamon Jerked Up His Head, Tottered, Fell

Without More Than A Tired Man's Sigh Sideways Into The Arms Of His

Killer. This One Eased His Fall As Tenderly As If He Was Upholding A

Girl, Let Him Down Into The Kennel, Drew Him Thence By The Shoulders

Into The Dark, And Himself Vanished. Montferrat Swore Softly To Himself,

'That Was Neatly Done. I Must Find Out Who This Expert May Be.' He Went

Away Full Of It, Having Forgotten His Housed Enemy.

 

There Was A Sheik Moffadin In The Jail, One Of The Soldan's Hostages For

The Return Of The True Cross. The Marquess Went To See Him.

 

'Who Of Your People,' He Asked, 'Is Very Tall And Light-Footed, Robes

Him From Head To Foot In White Linen, And Kills Quietly, As If He Loved

The Dead, With An "All Hail, Master"?'

 

'We Call Him An Assassin In Our Language,' The Sheik Replied; 'But He Is

Not Of Our People By Any Means. He Is A Servant Of The Old Man Who

Dwells On Lebanon.'

Volume 91 Book 2 (The Book Of Nay) Chapter 3 (Who Fought At Acre) Pg 120

'What Old Man Is This, Moffadin?'

 

'I Can Tell You No More Of Him,' Said The Sheik, 'Save That He Is Master

Of Many Such Men, Who Serve Him Faithfully And In Silence. But He Hates

The Soldan, And The Soldan Him.'

 

'How Do They Serve Him, By Killing?'

 

'Yes. They Kill Whomsoever He Points Out, And So Receive (Or Think To

Receive) A Crown In Paradise.'

 

'Is This Old Man's Name Death, By Our Saviour?' Cried The Marquess.

 

The Sheik Answered, 'His Name Is Sinan. But The Name Of Death Would Suit

Him Very Well.'

 

'Where Should I Get Speech With Some Of His Servants?' The Marquess

Inquired; Adding, 'For My Life Is In Danger. I Have Enemies Who Are

Irksome To Me.'

 

'By The Tower Of Flies You Will Find Them,' Said The Sheik, 'And Late At

Night. There Are Always Some Of His People Walking There. Seek Out Such

A Man As You Have Seen, And Without Fear Accost Him After His Fashion,

Kissing Him And Saying, "Ah, Ali. Ah, Abdallah, Servant Of Ali."

 

'I Am Very Much Obliged To You, Moffadin,' Said The Marquess.

 

That Same Night Jehane Was In Pain, And King Richard Dared Not Leave

Her, Nor The Physicians Either. And In The Morning Early She Was

Delivered Of A Child, A Strong Boy, And Then Lay Back And Slept

Profoundly. Richard Set Two Black Women To Fan The Flies Off Her Without

Stopping Once Under Pain Of Death; And Having Seen To The Proper Care Of

The Child And Other Things, Returned Alone Through The Blanching

Streets, Glorifying And Praising God.

Volume 91 Book 2 (The Book Of Nay) Chapter 4 (Concerning The Tower Of Flies Saint Pol And The Marquess Of Montferrat) Pg 121

In The Church Of Saint Lazarus Of The Knights, On Lammas Day, The Son Of

Richard And Jehane Was Made A Christian By The Abbot Of Poictiers.

Gossips Were The Count Of Champagne, The Earl Of Leicester, And (By

Proxy) The Queen-Mother. He Was Named Fulke.

 

At The Moment Of Anointing The Church-Bell Was Rung; And At That Moment

Gilles De Gurdun Spat Upon The Pavement Outside. Saint-Pol Said To Him,

'We Must Do Better Than That, Gilles.'

Volume 91 Book 2 (The Book Of Nay) Chapter 4 (Concerning The Tower Of Flies Saint Pol And The Marquess Of Montferrat) Pg 122

And Gilles, 'I Pray God May Spit Him Out.'

 

'Oh, He!' Said Saint-Pol With A Bitter Laugh; 'He Helps Those Who Are

Helpful Of Themselves.'

 

'I Cannot Help Myself, Eustace,' Said Gurdun. 'I Have Tried. I Had Him

Unarmed Before Me At Messina, And He Looked Me Down, And I Could Not Do

It.'

 

'Have At His Back, Then.'

 

'I Hope It May Not Come To That, Said Gilles; 'And Yet It May, If It

Must.'

 

'Come With Me To-Night To The Tower Of Flies,' Said Saint-Pol. 'Here Is

My Shameful Sister Brought Out Of Church. I Cannot Stay.'

 

'I Stay,' Said Gilles De Gurdun. King Richard Came Out Of Church, And

Jehane, And The Child Carried On A Shield.

 

Jehane, Who Had Much Ado To Walk Without Falling, Saw Not Gilles; But

Gilles Saw Her, And The Red In His Face Took A Tinge Of Black. While She

Was Before Him He Gaped At Her, With A Dry Tongue Clacking In His Mouth,

Consumed By A Dreadful Despair; But When She Had Passed By, Swaying In

Her Weakness, Barely Able To Hold Up Her Lovely Head, He Lifted His Face

To The White Sky, And Looked Unwinking At The Sun, Wondering Where Else

An Equal Cruelty Could Abide. In This Golden King, As Cruel As The Sun,

And As Swift, And As Splendid! Ah, Dastard, Dastard! At The Minute

Gilles Could Have Leapt At Him And Mauled The Great Shoulders With A

Dog's Weapons. There Was No Solace For Him But To Bite. So He Dashed His

Forearm Into His Face, And Sluiced His Teeth In That.

 

But King Richard Of The High Head Mounted His Horse In The Churchyard,

And Rode Among The People Before Jehane's Bearers To The Street Of The

Camel. Squires Of His Threw Silver Coins Among The Crowds Who Filled The

Ways.

 

Within The House, He Laid Her On Her Bed, And Held Up The Child Before

Her, High In The Air. He Was In That Great Mood Where Nothing Could

Resist Him. She, Faint And Fragrant On The Bed, So Frail As To Seem

Transparent, A Disembodied Sprite, Smiled Because She Felt At Ease, As

The Feeble Do When They First Lie Down.

 

'Lo, Fulke Of Anjou!' Sang Richard--'Fulke, Son Of Richard, The Son Of

Henry, The Son Of Geoffrey, The Son Of Fulke! Fulke, My Son Fulke, I

Will Make Thee A Knight Even Now!' He Held The Babe In One Hand, With

The Free Hand Drew His Long Sword. The Flat Blade Touched The Nodding

Little Head.

 

'Rise Up, Sir Fulke Of Anjou, True Knight Of Thine House, Sieur De

Cuigny When I Have Thee Home Again. By The Face!' He Cried Shortly, As

If Remembering Something, 'We Must Get Him The Badge: A Switch Of Wild

Broom!'

 

'Dear Lord, Sweet Lord,' Murmured Jehane, Faint In Bed, Nearly Gone: But

He Raved On.

 

'When I Lay, Even