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

As Thou, Fulke, Naked By My Mother, My Father Sent For

A Branch Of The Broom, And Stuck It In The Pillow Against I Could Carry

It. And Shalt Thou Go Without It, Boy? Art Not Thou Of The

Broom-Bearers?' He Put The Child Into The Nurse's Arm And Went To The

Door. He Called For Gaston Of Béarn, For The Dauphin Of Auvergne, For

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Mercadet, For The Devil. The Bishop Of Salisbury Came Running In.

'Bishop,' Said King Richard, 'You Must Serve Me To-Day. You Must Take

Ship, My Friend, With Speed; You Must Go To Bordeaux, Thence A-Horseback

To The Moor Above Angers. Pluck Me A Branch Of The Wild Broom And

Return. I Must Have It, I Tell You; So Go. Haste, Bishop. God Be With

You.'

 

The Bishop Began To Splutter. 'Hey, Sire--!'

 

'Never Call Me That Again, Bishop, If Your Ship Is Within Sight By

Sunset,' He Said. 'Call Me Rather The Prince Of The Devils. See My

Chancellor, Take My Ring To Him, Omit Nothing. Off With You, And Back

With All Speed.'

 

'Ha, Sire, Look You Now,' Cried The Desperate Bishop, 'There Will Be No

Broom Before Next Easter. Here We Are At Lammas.'

 

'There Will Be A Miracle,' Said Richard; 'I Am Sure Of It. Go.' Fairly

Pushing Him From The Door, He Returned To Find Jehane In A Dead Faint.

This Set Him Raving A New Tune. He Fell Upon His Knees Incontinent,

Raised Her In His Arms, Carried Her About, Kissed Her All Over, Cried

Upon The Saints And God, Did Every Extravagance Under The Sun, Omitted

The One Wise Thing Of Letting In The Physicians. Abbot Milo At Last,

Coming In, Saved Jehane From Him For The Deeper Purposes Of God.

 

The Count Of Saint-Pol, Going To The Castle, To The Queen's Side, Found

The Marquess With Her. She Also Lay White And Twisting On A Couch,

Crisping And Uncrisping Her Little Hands. Montferrat Stood At Her Head;

Three Of Her Ladies Knelt About Her, Whispering In Her Own Tongue,

Proffering Orange Water, Sweetmeats, A Feather Whisk. Saint-Pol Knelt In

Her View.

 

'Madame, How Is It With Your Grace?' He Said. The Little Lady Quivered,

But Took No Notice.

 

'Madame,' Said Saint-Pol Again, 'I Am A Peer Of France, But A Knight

Before All. I Am Come To Serve Your Grace With My Manhood. I Pray You

Speak To Me.' The Marquess Folded His Arms; His Large White Face Was A

Sight To See.

 

Queen Berengère's Palms Were Bleeding A Little Where Her Nails Had

Broken The Skin. She Was Quite White; But Her Eyes, Burning Black, Had

No Pupils. When Saint-Pol Spoke For The Second Time She Shook Beyond All

Control And Threw Her Head About. Also She Spoke.

 

'I Suffer, I Suffer Horribly. It Is Cruel Beyond Understanding Or

Knowledge That A Girl Should Suffer As I Suffer. Where Is God? Where Is

Mary? Where Are The Angels?'

 

'Dearest Madame, Dearest Madame,' Said The Cooing Women, And One Stroked

Her Face. But The Queen Shook The Hand Off, And Went Wailing On, Saying

More Than She Could Have Meant.

 

'Is It Good Usage Of The Daughter Of A King, Lord Jesus? Is This The Way

Of Marriage, That The Bride Be Left On Her Wedding Day?' She Jumped Up

On Her Couch And Took Hold Of Her Bosom In The Sight Of Men. 'She Hath

Given Him A Child! He Is With Her Now. Am I Not Fit For Children? Shall

There Never Be Milk? Oh, Oh, Here Is More Shame Than I Can Bear!' She

Hid Her Face In Her Hands, And Rocked Herself About.

 

Montferrat (Really Moved) Said Low To Saint-Pol: 'Are We Knights To

Suffer These Wrongs To Be?' Said Saint-Pol With A Sob In His Voice, 'Ah,

God, Mend It!'

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'He Will,' Said Montferrat, 'If We Help To Mend.'

 

This Reminded Saint-Pol Of His Own Words To De Gurdun; So He Made Haste

To Throw Himself Before The Queen, That He Might Still Be Pure In His

Devotion. 'My Lady Berengère,' He Said Ardently, 'Take Me For Your

Soldier. I Am A Bad Man, But Surely Not So Bad As This. Let Me Fight Him

For You.'

 

The Queen Shook Her Head, Impatient. 'Hey! What Can You Do Against So

Glorious A Man? He Is The Greatest In The World.'

 

'Ha, Domeneddio!' Said The Marquess With A Snort. 'I Have That Which

Will Abate Such Glory. Dearest Madame, We Go To Pray For Your Health.'

He Kissed Her Hand, And Drew Away With Him Saint-Pol, Who Was Trembling

Under The Thoughts That Fired Him.

 

'Oh, My Soul, Marquess!' Said The Youth, When They Were In The Glare Of

Day Again. 'What Shall We Do To Mend This Wretchedness?' The Marquess

Looked Shrewdly.

 

'End The Wretch Who Wrought It.'

 

'Do We Go Clean To That, Marquess? Have We No Back-Thoughts Of Our Own?'

 

'The Work Is Clean Enough. You Come To-Night To The Tower Of Flies?'

 

'Yes, Yes, I Will Come,' Said Saint-Pol.

 

'I Shall Have One With Me,' The Marquess Went On, 'Who Will Be Of

Service, Mind You.'

 

'Ah,' Said Saint-Pol, 'And So Shall I.'

 

The Marquess Stroked His Nose. 'Hum,' He Said, Advising, 'Who Might Your

Man Be, Saint-Pol?'

 

'One,' Said Eustace, 'Who Has Reason To Hate Richard As Much As That

Poor Lady In There.'

 

'Who Is That?'

 

'My Sister Jehane's Lover.'

 

'By The Visible Host,' Said Montferrat,' We Shall Be A Loving Company,

All Told.' So They Parted For The Time.

 

The Tower Of Flies Stands Apart From The City On A Spit Of Sand Which

Splays Out Into Two Flanges, And So Embraces In Two Hooks A Lagoon Of

Scummy Ooze, Of Weeds And Garbage, Of All The Waste And Silt Of A Slack

Water. In Front Of It Only Is The Tidal Sea, Which There Flows Languidly

With A Half-Foot Rise; On The Other Is The Causeway Running Up To The

City Wall. Above And All About This Dead Marsh You Hear Day And Night

The Buzzing Of Innumerable Great Flies, And In The Daytime See Them

Hanging Like Gauze In The Thick Air. They Say The Reason Is That

Anciently The Pagans Sacrificed Hecatombs Hereabout To The Idols They

Worshipped; But Another (More Likely) Is That The Lagoon Is A Dead

Slack, And Stinks Abominably. All Dead Things Thrown From The City Walls

Come Floating Thither, And There Stay Rotting. The Flies Get What They

Can, Sharing With The Creatures Of Land And Sea; For Great Fish Feed

There; And At Night The Jackals And Hyænas Come Down, And Bicker Over

What They Can Drag Out. But More Than Once Or Twice The Sharks Drag Them

In, And Have Fresh Meat, If Their Brother Sharks Allow It. However All

Volume 91 Book 2 (The Book Of Nay) Chapter 4 (Concerning The Tower Of Flies Saint Pol And The Marquess Of Montferrat) Pg 125

This May Be, The Place Has A Dreadful Name, A Dreadful Smell, And A

Dreadful Sound, What With The Humming Of Flies And Dull Rippling Of The

Sharks. These Can Seldom Be Seen, Since The Water Is Too Thick; But You

Can Tell Their Movements By The Long Oily Waves (Like The Heads Of Large

Arrows) Which Their Fins Throw Behind Them As They Quest From Carcase To

Carcase Down There In The Ooze.

 

Thither In The Murk Of Night Came Montferrat In A Black Cloak, Holding

His Nose, But Made Feverish Through His Ears By The Veiled Chorus Of The

Flies. By The Starshine And Glow Of The Putrid Water He Saw A Tall Man

In A White Robe, Who Stood At The Extreme Edge Of The Spit And Looked At

The Sharks. Montferrat Hid His Guards Behind The Tower, Crossed Himself,

Drew His Sword To Hack A Way Through The Monstrous Flies, And So Came

Swishing Forward, Like A Man Who Mows A Swathe.

 

The Tall Man Saw Him, But Did Not Move. The Marquess Came Quite Close.

 

'What Are You Looking At, My Friend?' He Asked, In The Arabian Tongue.

 

'I Am Looking At The Sharks, Which Have A New Corpse In There,' Said The

Man. 'See What A Turmoil There Is In The Water. There Must Be Six

Monsters Together In That Swirl. See, See, There Speeds Another!'

 

The Marquess Turned Sick. 'God Help, I Cannot Look,' He Said.

 

'Why,' Said The Arabian, 'It Is A Dead Man They Fight Over.'

 

'May Be, May Be,' Said The Marquess. 'You, My Friend, Are Very Familiar

With Death. So Am I; Nor Do I Fear Living Man. But These Great Fish

Terrify Me.'

 

'You Are A Fool,' Returned The Other. 'They Seek Only Their Meat. But

You And I, And Our Like, Seek Nicer Things Than That. We Have Our Souls

To Feed; And The Soul Of A Man Is A Free Eater, Of Stranger Appetite

Than A Shark.'

 

The Marquess Looked At The Flies. 'O God, Arabian, Let Us Go Away From

This Place! Is There No Rest From The Flies?

 

'None At All,' Said The Arabian; 'For Thousands Have Been Slain Here;

And The Flies Also Must Be Fed.'

 

'Pah, Horrible!' Said The Marquess, All In A Sweat. The Arabian Turned;

But His Face Was Hidden, With A Horrible Appearance, As If A Hooded

Cloak Stood Up By Itself And A Voice Proceeded From A Fleshless Garb.

'You, Marquess Of Montferrat,' It Said, 'What Do You Want With Me By The

Tower Of Flies?'

 

The Marquess Remembered His Needs. 'I Want The Death Of A Man,' He Said;

'But Not Here, O Christ.'

 

'Who Sent You?' Asked The Arabian.

 

'The Sheik Moffadin, A Captive, In The Name Of Ali, And Of Abdallah,

Servant Of Ali.' So The Marquess, And Would Have Kissed The Man, But

That He Saw No Face Under The Hood, And Dared Not Kiss Emptiness.

 

'Come With Me,' Said The Arabian.

 

 

An Hour Later The Marquess Came Into The Tower Of Flies, Shaking. He

Found Saint-Pol There, The Archduke Of Austria, And Gilles De Gurdun.

There Were No Greetings.