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

Marquess Of Montferrat, And Terrible News Of Jehane Saint-Pol.

At Acre, By The Time September Was Set, The Sun Had Put All The Air To

The Sword, So That The City Lay Stifled, Stinking In Its Own Vice; And

The Nights Were Worse Than The Days. Then Was The Great Harvest Of The

Flies, When Men Died So Quickly That There Was No Time To Bury Them. So

Also Mothers Saw Their Children Flag Or Felt Their Force Grow Thin: One

Or Another Swooned Suddenly And Woke No More; Or A Woman Found A Dead

Child At The Breast, Or A Child Whimpered To Find His Mother So Cold. At

This Time, While Jehane Lay Panting In Bed, Awake Hour By Hour And

Fretting Over What She Should Do When The Fountains Of Her Milk Should

Be Dry, And This Little Fulke, Royal Glutton, Crave Without Getting Of

Her--She Heard The Women Set There To Fan Her Talking To Each Other In

Drowsy Murmurs, Believing That She Slept. By Now She Knew Their Speech.

Said One Between The Slow Passes Of The Fans, 'Giafar Ibn Mulk Hath Come

Into The City Secretly.' And The Other, 'Then We Have A Thief The More.'

'Peace,' Said The First, 'Thou Grudger. He Is One Of My Lovers, And

Telleth Me Whatsoever I Seek To Know. He Is Come In From Lebanon; So

Much, And More, I Know Already.'

'What Ill Report Doth He Bring Of His Master?' Asked The Second, A Lazy

Girl, Whose Name Was Misra, As The First Was Called Fanoum.

Fanoum Answered, 'Very Ill Report Of The Melek'--That Was King Richard's

Name Here--'But It Is According To The Desires Of The Marquess.'

'Ohè!' Said Misra, 'We Must Tell This Sleeper. She Is Moon Of The

Melek.'

'Thou Art A Fool To Think Me A Fool,' Said Fanoum. 'Why, Then, Shall I

Be One To Turn The Horn Of A Mad Cow, To Pierce My Own Thigh? Let The

Franks Kill Each Other, What Have We But Gain? They Are Dogs Alike.'

Misra Said, 'Hearken Thou, O Fanoum, The Melek Is No Dog. Nay, He Is

More Than A Man. He Is The Yellow-Haired King Of The West, Riding A

White Horse, Who Was Foretold By Various Prophets, That He Should Come

Up Against The Sultan. That I Know.'

'Then He Will Have More Than A Man's Death,' Said Fanoum. 'The Marquess

Goeth With Giafar To Lebanon, To See The Old Man Of Musse, Whom He

Serveth. The Melek Must Die, For Of All Men Living Or Dead The Marquess

Hateth Him.'

'Oh, King Of Kings!' Said Misra, With A Little Sob, 'And Thou Wilt Stand

By, Thou Sorrowful, While The Marquess Kills The Melek!'

Fanoum Answered, 'Certainly I Will; For Any Of Our Lord's People Can

Kill The Marquess; But It Needeth The Guile Of The Old Man To Kill The

Melek. Let The Wolf Slay The Lion While He Sleepeth: Anon Cometh The

Shepherd And Slayeth The Gorged Wolf. That Is Good Sense.'

'Well,' Said Misra, 'It May Be So. But I Am Sorry For His Favourite

Here. There Are No Daughters Of Au So Goodly As This One. The Melek Is

A Wise Lover Of Women.'

'Let Be For That,' Replied Fanoum Comfortably; 'The Old Man Of Musse Is

A Wiser. He Will Come And Have Her, And We Do Well Enough In Lebanon.'

They Would Have Said More, Had Jehane Needed Any More. But It Seemed To

Her That She Knew Enough. There Was Danger Brewing For King Richard,

Whom She, Faithless Wretch, Had Let Go Without Her. As She Thought Of

The Leper, Of Her Promise To The Queen-Mother, Of Richard Towering But

To Fall, Her Heart Grew Cold In Her Bosom, Then Filled With Fire And

Throbbed As If To Burst. It Is Extraordinary, However, How Soon She Saw

Her Way Clear, And On How Small A Knowledge. Who This Old Man Might Be,

Who Lived On Lebanon And Was Most Wise In The Matter Of Women, She Could

Have No Guess; But She Was Quite Sure Of Him, Was Certain That He Was

Wise. She Knew Something Of The Marquess, Her Cousin. Any Ally Of His

Must Be A Murdermonger. A Wise Lover Of Women, The Old Man Of Musse, Who

Dwelt On Lebanon! Wiser Than Richard! And She More Goodly Than The

Daughters Of Au! Who Were The Daughters Of Ali? Beautiful Women? What

Did It Matter If She Excelled Them? God Knew These Things; But Jehane

Knew That She Must Go To Market With The Old Man Of Musse. So Much She

Calmly Revolved In Her Mind As She Lay Her Length, With Shut Eyes, In

Her Bed.

With The First Cranny Of Light She Had Herself Dressed By Her Sulky,

Sleepy Women, And Went Abroad. There Were Very Few To See Her, None To

Dare Her Any Harm, So Well As She Was Known. Two Eunuchs At A Wicked

Door Spat As She Passed; She Saw The Feet Of A Murdered Man Sticking Out

Of A Drain, The Scurry Of A Little Troop Of Rats. Mostly, The Dogs Of

The City Had It To Themselves. No Women Were About, But Here And There A

Guarded Light Betrayed Sin Still Awake, And Here And There A Bell,

Calling The Faithful To Church, Sounded A Homely Note Of Peace. The

Morning Was Desperately Close, Without A Waft Of Air. She Found The

Abbot Milo At His Lodging, In The Act Of Setting Off To Mass At The

Church Of Saint Martha. The Sight Of Her Wild Face Stopped Him.

'No Time To Lose, My Child,' He Said, When He Had Heard Her. 'We Must Go

To The Queen: It Is Due To Her. Saviour Of Mankind!' He Cried With

Flacking Arms, 'For What Wast Thou Content To Lay Down Thy Life!' They

Hurried Out Together Just As The Sun Broke Upon The Tiles Of The Domed

Churches, And Acre Began To Creep Out Of Bed.

The Queen Was Not Yet Risen, But Sent Them Word That She Would Receive

The Abbot, 'But On No Account Madame De Saint-Pol.' Jehane Pushed Off

The Insult Just As She Pushed Her Hot Hair From Her Face. She Had No

Thoughts To Spare For Herself. The Abbot Went Into The Queen's House.

Berengère Looked Very Drowned, He Thought, In Her Great Bed. One Saw A

Sharp White Oval Floating In The Black Clouds Which Were Her Hair. She

Looked Younger Than Any Bride Could Be, Childish, A Child Ill Of A

Fever, Wilful, Querulous, Miserable. All The Time She Listened To What

Milo Had To Say Her Lips Twitched, And Her Fingers Plucked Gold Threads

Out Of The Cherubim On The Coverlet.

'Kill The King Of England? Kill My Lord' Montferrat? Eh, They Cannot

Kill Him! Oh, Oh, Oh!'--She Moaned Shudderingly--'I Would That They

Could! Then Perhaps I Should Sleep O' Nights.' Her Strained Eyes Pierced

Him For An Answer. What Answer Could He Give?

'My News Is Authentic, Madame. I Came At Once, As My Duty Was, To Your

Grace, As To The Proper Person--' Here She Sat Right Up In Her Bed,

Wide-Eyed, All Alight.

'Yes, Yes, I Am The Proper Person. I Will Do It, If No Other Can. Virgin

Mary!'--She Stretched Her Arms Out, Like One Crucified--'Look At Me. Am

I Worthy Of This?' If She Addressed The Virgin Mary Her Invitation Was

Pointedly To The Abbot, A Less Proper Spectator. He Did Look, However,

And Pitied Her Deeply; At Her Lips Dry With Hatred, Which Should Have

Been Freshly Kissed, At Her Drawn Cheeks, Into Her Amazed Young Heart:

Eh, God, He Knew Her Loveworthy Once, And Now Most Pitiful. He Had

Nothing To Say; She Went On Breathless, Gathering Speed.

'He Has Spurned Me Whom He Chose. He Has Left Me On My Wedding Day. I

Have Never Seen Him Alone--Do You Heed Me? Never, Never Once. Ah, Now,

He Has Chosen For His Minion: Let Her Save Him If She Can. What Have I

To Do With Him? I Am The Daughter Of A King; And What Is He To Me, Who

Treats Me So? If I Am Not To Be Mother Of England, I Am Still Daughter

Of Navarre. Let Him Die, Let Them Kill Him: What Else Can Serve Me Now?'

She Fell Back, And Lay Staring Up At Him. In Every Word She Said There

Was Sickening Justice: What Could Milo Do? In His Private Mind He

Confirmed A Suspicion--Being Still Loyal To His King--That One And The

Same Thing May Be At One And The Same Time All Black And All White. He

Did His Best To Put This Strange Case.

'Madame,' He Said, 'I Cannot Excuse Our Lord The King, Nor Will I; But I

Can Defend That Noble Lady Whose Only Faults Are Her Beauty And Strong

Heart.' Mentioning Jehane's Beauty, He Saw The Queen Look Quickly At

Him, Her First Intelligent Look. 'Yes, Madame, Her Beauty, And The Love

She Has Been Taught To Give Our Lord. The King Married Her,

Uncanonically, It Is True; But Who Was She To Hold Up Church Law Before

His Face? Well, Then She, By Her Own Pure Act, Caused Herself To Be Put

Away By The King, Abjuring Thus His Kingly Seat. Hey, But It Is So, That

By Her Own Prayers, Her Proper Pleading, Her Proper Tears, She Worked

Against Her Proper Honour, And Against The Child In Her Womb. What More

Could She Do? What More Could Any Wife, Any Mother, Than That? Ah, Say

That You Hate Her Without Stint, Would You Have Her Die? Why, No! For

What Pain Can Be Worse Than To Live As She Lives? My Lady, She Prevailed

Against The King; But She Could Not Prevail Against Her Own Holy Nature

Working Upon The King's Great Heart. No! When The King Found Out That

She Was To Be Mother Of His Child, He Loved Her So Well That, Though He