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

Quick Pain Strikes Us. To The Rest He Listened Without A Sign; And

Asked At The End, 'Where Is Milo?'

 

'He Is At Acre, Sire,' Says The Count; 'And In Prison.'

 

'Who Put Him There?'

 

'Myself, Sire.'

 

'You Did Wrong, Count. Get You Back To Acre And Bring Him To Me.'

Champagne Went Away.

 

 

Great Trouble, As You Know, Always Made Richard Dumb; The Grief Struck

Inwards And Congealed. He Became More Than Ever His Own Councillor, The

Worst In The World. Lucky For The Abbot Milo That He Was In Bonds; But

Now You See Why He Penned The Aphorism With Which I Began This Chapter.

 

After That Short, Stabbing Flash Across His Face, He Shut Down Misery In

A Vice. The Rest Of His Talk With The Count Might Have Been Held With A

Groom. Henry Of Champagne, Knowing The Man, Left Him The Moment He Got

The Word; And King Richard Sat Down By The Table, And For Three Hours

Never Stirred. He Was Literally Motionless. Straightly Rigid, A Little

Grey About The Face, White At The Cheek-Bones; His Clenched Hand Stiff

On The Board, White Also At The Knuckles; His Eyes Fixed On The

Door--Men Came In, Knelt And Said Their Say, Then Encountering His Blank

Eyes Bent Their Heads And Backed Out Quietly. If He Thought, None May

Learn His Thought; If He Felt, None May Touch The Place; If He Prayed,

Let Those Who Are Able Imagine His Prayers. What Jehane Had Been To Him

This Book May Have Shadowed Out: This Only I Say, That He Knew, From The

Volume 91 Book 2 (The Book Of Nay) Chapter 9 (How King Richard Reaped What Jehane Had Sowed, And The Soldan Was Gleaner) Pg 155

Very First Hint Of The Fact, Why She Had Gone Out With Milo And Sent

Milo Home Alone. The Queen Knew, Because Jehane Had Told Her; But He

Knew With No Telling At All. She Had Gone Away To Save Him From Herself.

Needing Him Not, Because She So Loved Him, It Was Her Beauty Which Was

Hungry For His Desire. Not Daring To Mar Her Beauty, She Had Sought To

Hide It. Greater Love Hath None Than This. If He Thought Of That It

Should Have Softened Him. He Did Not Think Of It: He Knew It.

 

At The End Of His Grim Vigil He Got Up And Went Out Of His House. He Was

Served With His Horse, His Esquires Came At Call To The Routine Of

Garrison Days And Nights. He Rode Round The Walls, Out At One Of The

Gates, On A Sharp Canter Of Reconnaissance In The Hills. Perhaps He

Spoke More Shortly Than Usual, And More Drily; There May Have Been A

Dead Quality In His Voice, Usually So Salient. There Was No Other Sign.

At Supper He Sat Before Them All, Ate And Drank At His Wont. Once Only

He Startled The Hallful Of Them. He Dropped His Great Gold Cup, And It

Split.

 

But As Day Followed Night, All Men Saw The Change In Him, Christians And

Saracens Alike. A Spirit Of Quiet Savagery Seemed To Possess Him; The

Cunning, With The Mad Interludes, Of A Devil. He Set Patient Traps For

The Saracens In The Hills, And Slaughtered All He Took. One Day He Fell

Upon A Great Caravan Of Camels Coming From Babylon To Jerusalem, And

Having Cut The Escort To Pieces, Slew Also The Merchants And Travellers.

He Seemed To Give The Sword The More Heartily In That He Sought It For

Himself, But Could Never Get It. No Doubt He Deserved To Get It. He

Performed Deeds Of Impossible Foolhardy Gallantry, The Deeds Of A

Knight-Errant; Rode Solitary, Made Single-Handed Rescues, Suffered

Himself To Be Cut Off From His Posts, And Then With A Handful Of

Knights, Or Alone, Indeed, Carved His Way Back To Darum. Des Barres, The

Earl Of Leicester And The Grand Master, Never Left His Side; Gaston Of

Béarn Used To Sleep At The Foot Of His Bed And Creep About After Him

Like A Cat; But This Terrible Mood Of His Wore Them Out. Then, At Last,

The Count Of Champagne Came Back With Milo And More Bad News. Joppa Was

In Sore Straits, Again Besieged; The Bishop Of Sarum Was Returned From

The West, Having A Branch Of Dead Broom In His Hand And Stories Of A

Throttled Kingdom On His Lips.

 

Before Any Other Richard Had Milo Alone. The Good Abbot Is Very Reticent

About The Interview In His Book. What He Omits Is More Significant Than

What He Says. 'I Found My Master,' He Writes, 'Sitting Up In His Bed In

His _Hauberk Of Mail_. They Told Me He Had Eaten Nothing For Two Days,

Yet Vomited Continually. He Had Killed Five Hundred Saracens Meantime. I

Suppose He Knew Who I Was. "Tell Me, My Good Man," He Said (Strange

Address!), "The Name Of The Person To Whom Madame D'anjou Took You."

 

'I Said, "Sire, We Went To The Lord Of The Assassins, Whom They Call Old

Man Of Musse."

 

'"Why Did You Go, Monk?" He Asked, And Felt About For His Sword, But

Could Not Find It. Yet It Was Close By. I Said, "Sire, Because Of A

Report Which Had Reached The Ears Of Madame That The Marquess And The

Old Man Were In League To Have You Murdered." To This He Made No Reply,

Except To Call Me A Fool. Later He Asked, "How Died The Marquess?"

 

'"Sire," I Answered, "Most Miserably. He Went Up Lebanon To See The Old

Man, And Came Presently Down Again With Two Of The Assassins In His

Company, But None Of His Train. These Persons, Being Near His City Of

Sidon, At A Signal Agreed Upon Stabbed Him With Their Long Knives, Then

Cut Off His Right Hand And Despatched It To The Old Man By One Of Them.

The Other Stayed By The Corpse, And Was So Found Peacefully Sleeping,

And Burned."

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'The King Said Nothing, But Gave Me Money And A Little Jewel He Used To

Wear, As If I Had Done Him A Service. Then He Nodded A Dismissal, And I,

Wondering, Left Him. He Did Not Speak To Me Again For Many Weeks.'

 

 

You May Collect That Richard Was Very Ill. He Was. The Disease Of His

Mind Fed Fat Upon The Disease Of His Body, And From The Spoils Of The

Feast Savagery Reared Its Clotted Head. Syrian Mothers Still Quell

Their Children With The Name Of Melek Richard, A Reminiscence Of The

Dreadful Time When He Was Without Ruth Or Rest. He Spoke Of His Purposes

To None, Listened To None. The Bishop Of Sarum Had Come In With A Budget

Of Disastrous News: Count John Had England Under His Heel, Philip Of

France Had Entered Normandy In Force, The Lords Of Aquitaine Were In

Revolt. If God Had No Use For Him In The East, Here Was Work To Do In

The West. But Had He None? What Of Joppa, Shuddering Under The Sword?

What Of Acre, Where The French Army Wallowed In Sloth, With Two Queens

At Its Mercy And Saint-Pol In The Mercy-Seat? What, Indeed, Of Jehane?

 

Nobody Breathed Her Name; Yet Night And Day The Image Of Her Floated,

Half-Hid In Scarlet Clouds, Before King Richard. These Clouds, A Torn

Regiment, Raced Across His Vision, Like Cavalry Broken, In Mad Retreat.

Out Of The Tumbled Mass Two Hands Would Throw Up, White, Long, Thin

Hands, Jehane's Hands Drowned In Frothy Blood. Then, In His Waking

Dream, When He Drove In The Spurs And Started To Save, The Colours

Changed, Black Swam Over The Blood; And One Hand Only Would Stay, Held

Up Warningly, Saying, 'Forbear, I Am Separate, Fenced, Set Apart.' Thus

It Was Always: Menace, Wicked Endeavour, Shipwreck, Ruin; Always So, Her

Agony And Denial, His Wrath And Defeat.

 

But This Was Wholesome Torment. There Was Other Not So

Purgatorial--Damned Torment. That Was When The Sudden Thought Of Her

Possession By Another Man, Of His Own Robbery, His Own Impotence To

Regain, Came Upon Him In A Surging Flood And Made His Neck Swell With

The Rage Of A Beast. And No Crouching To Spring, No Flash Through The

Air, No Snatching Here. Here Was No Gilles De Gurdun To Deal With. Only

The Beast's Resource Was His, Who Had The Beast's Desire Without His

Power. At Such Times Of Obsession He Lashed Up And Down His Chamber Or

The Flat Roof Of His House, All The Tragic Quest Of A Leopard In A Cage

Making Blank His Desperate Hunting Eyes. 'Lord, Lord, Lord, How Long Can

This Endure?' Alas, The Cage Was Wider Than Any Room, And Stronger By

Virtue Of His Own Fashioning Of The Locks. But To Do Him Justice,

Jehane's Grave Face Would Sail Like A Moon Among The Storm-Clouds Sooner

Or Later, And Humble Him To The Dust.

 

Sometimes, Mostly At Dawn, When A Cool Wind Stole Through The Trees, He

Saw The Trail Of Events More Clearly, And Knew Whom To Blame And Whom To

Praise. Generous As He Was Through And Through, At These Times He Did

Not Spare The Whip. But The Image He Set Up Before Whom To Scourge

Himself Was Jehane Saint-Pol, That Pure Cold Saint, Offering Up Her

Proud Body For His Needs; And So Sure As He Did That He Desired Her, And

So Sure As He Desired He Raged That He Had Been Robbed. Robber As He

Owned Himself, Now He Had Been Robbed. So The Old Black Strife Began

Again. Many And Many A Dawn, As He Thought Of These Things, He Went Out

Alone Into The Shadowless Places Of The Land, To The Quiet Lapping Sea,

To The Gardens, Or To The Housetop Fronting The New-Born Day, With

Prayer Throbbing For Utterance, But A Tongue Too Dry To Pray. Despair

Seized On Him, And He Led His Men Out To Death-Dealing, That So Haply

He Might Find Death For Himself. The Time Wore To Early Summer, While He

Was Nightly Visited By The Thought Of His Sin, And Daily Winning More

Stuff For Repentance. Then, One Morning, Instead Of Going Out Singly To

Battle With His Own Soul, He Went In To The Abbot Milo. What Follows

Shall Be Told In His Own Words.

Volume 91 Book 2 (The Book Of Nay) Chapter 9 (How King Richard Reaped What Jehane Had Sowed, And The Soldan Was Gleaner) Pg 157