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

Awoke Before It Was Really Light, And

Crept Out, Munching A Crust. The Suburb Was Dead Asleep, A Little Breeze

Ruffled The Poplars, And Blew Wrinkles On The Town Ditch. About And

About The Walls She Went, Peering Up At Their Ragged Edge, At The Huge

Crumbling Towers, At The Storks On Steep Roofs. 'Eh, Lord God, Here Lies

In Torment My Lovely King!' She Cried To Herself. The Keen Breeze

Freshened, The Cloud-Wrack Went Racing Westward; It Left The Sky Clean

And Bare. Out Of The East Came The Red Sun, And Struck Fire Upon The

Dome Of Saint Stanislas. Out Of A High Window Then Came The Sound Of A

Man Singing, A Sharp Strong Voice, Tremulous In The Open Notes. She Held

Her Bosom As She Heard--

 

     Al Entrada Del Tems Clar, Eya!

     Per Joja Recomençar, Eya!

     Vol La Regina Mostrar

     Qu'el' Es Si Amoroza.

 

The Sun Kindled Her Lifted Face, Filled Her Wet Eyes With Light, And

Glistened On Her Praying Lips.

 

After That Her Duty Was Clear, As She Conceived It. She Dared Not

Attempt The Tower: That Would Reveal Her To Him. But She Could Not Leave

It. She Must Wait To Learn The Effect Of Her Lord's Letter, Wait To See

The Bearer Of It: Here She Would Wait, Where She Could Press The Stones

Which Bore Up The Stones Pressed By Richard. So She Did, Crouching On

The Earth By The Wall, Sheltered Against The Wind Or The Wet By Either

Side Of A Buttress, Getting Her Food Sparingly From The Booths At The

Gate, Or Of Charity. The Townsmen Of Gratz, Hoarse-Voiced Touzleheads

Mostly, Divined Her To Be An Anchoress, A Saint, Or An Unfortunate. She

Was Not Of Their Country, For Her Hair Was Burnt Yellow Like A

Lombard's, And Her Eyes Green; Her Face, Tanned And Searching, Was Like

A Hungarian's; They Thought That She Wove Spells With Her Long Hands. On

This Account At First She Was Driven Away On To The Moors; But She

Always Returned To Her Place In The Angle, And Counted That A Day Gained

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When She Knew By Richard's Strong Singing That He Yet Lived. His Songs

Told Her More Than That: They Were All Of Love, And If Her Name Came Not

In Her Image Did. She Knew By The Mere Pitch Of His Voice--Who So

Well?--When He Was Occupied With Her And When Not. Mostly He Sang All

The Morning From The Moment The Sun Struck His Window. Thus She Judged

Him A Light Sleeper. From Noon To Four There Was No Sound; Surely Then

He Slept. He Sang Fitfully In The Evening, Not So Saliently; More At

Night, If There Was A Moon; And Generally He Closed His Eyes With A

Stave Of _Li Dous Consire_, That Song Which He Had Made Of And For Her.

 

When She Had Been Sitting There For Upwards Of A Month, And Still No

Sign From The Bearer Of The Letter, She Saw Gilles De Gurdun Come

Halting Up The Poplar Avenue And Pry About The Walls, Much As She

Herself Had Done. She Knew Him At Once For All His Tatters, This

Square-Faced, Low-Browed Norman. How He Came There, If Not As A

Slot-Hound Comes, She Could Not Guess; But She Knew Perfectly Well What

He Was About. The Blood-Instinct Had Led Him, Inflexible Man, From Far

Acre Across The Seas, Over The Sharp Mountains And Enormous Plains; The

Blood-Instinct Had Brought Him As Truly As Ever Love Led Her--More

Truly, Indeed. Here He Was, With Murder Still In His Heart.

 

Watching Him Through The Meshes Of Her Hair, Elbowing Her Arms On Her

Knees, She Thought, What Should She Do? Plead? Nay, Dare She Plead For

So Royal A Head, For So Great A Heart, So Great A King, For One So

Nearly God That, For A Sacrifice, She Could Have Yielded Up No More To

Very God? This Strife Tore Her To Pieces, While Gurdun Snuffled Round

The Walls, Actually Round The Buttress Where She Crouched, Spying Out

The Entries. On One Side She Feared Gilles, On The Other Scorned What He

Could Do. There Was The Leper! He Made Gilles Terrible; Even Her

Sacrifice On Lebanon Might Not Avail Against Such As He. But King

Richard! But This Strong Singer! But This God Of War! Gilles Came Round

The Walls For A Second Time, Nosing Here And There, Stopping, Shaking

His Head, Limping On. Then She Heard The King's Voice Singing, High And

Sharp And Spiring; His Glorious Voice, Keener Than Any Man's, As Pure As

Any Boy's, Singing With Astounding Gaiety, _'Al Entrada Del Tems Clar,

Eya!'_

 

Gilles Stopped As One Struck, And Gaped Up At The Tower. To See His

Stupid Mouth Open, Jehane's Bosom Heaved With Pride Well-Nigh

Insufferable. Had Any Woman, Since Mary Conceived, Such A Lover As Hers!

'Oh, Gilles, Gilles, Go You On With Your Knife In Your Vest. What Can

You Do, Little Oaf, Against King Richard?' Gilles Went In By The Gate,

And She Let Him Go. He Was Away Two Days, By Which Time She Had Cause To

Alter Her Mind. The Prisoner Sang Nothing; And Presently A Man Dressed

Like A Bohemian Came Out Of The Town And Spoke To Her. This Was Cogia,

The Assassin, Bearer Of The Letter.

 

'Well, Cogia?' Said Jehane, Holding Herself.

 

'Mistress, The Letter Of Our Lord Has Been Delivered. I Think It May Go

Hard With The Melek.'

 

'What, Cogia? Does The Archduke Dare?'

 

'The Archduke, Mistress, Desires Not The Melek's Death. He Is A Worthy

Man. But Many Do Desire It--Kings Of The West, Kinsmen Of The Marquess,

Above All The Melek's Blood-Brother. One Of That Prince's Men, As I

Judge Him, Is With Him Now--One Of Your Country, Mistress.'

 

In A Vision She Saw The Leper Again, A Dull Smear In The Sunny Waste,

Scratching Himself On A White Stone. She Saw Him Come Hopping From Rock

To Rock, His Wagging Finger, Shapeless Face, Tongueless Voice.

Volume 91 Book 2 (The Book Of Nay) Chapter 11 (The Chapter Called A Latere) Pg 171

'Mistress--' Said Cogia. She Turned Blank Eyes Upon Him. 'I Pray,' She

Said; 'I Pray. Has God No Pity?'

 

Cogia Shrugged. 'What Has God To Do With Pity? The End Of The World Is

In His Hand Already. The Melek Is A King, And The Norman Dung In His

Sight. Who Knows The End But God, And How Shall He Pity What He Hath

Decreed For Wisdom? This I Say, If The King Dies The Man Dies.'

 

Jehane Threw Up Her Head. 'The King Will Not Die, Cogia. Yet To-Morrow,

If The Man Comes Not Out, I Will Go To Seek Him.'

 

 

Early In The Morning Gilles Did Come Out, Turned The Angle Of The Ditch,

And Shuffled Towards Her, His Head Hung. Jehane Moved Swiftly Out From

The Shadow Of The Buttress And Confronted Him. She Folded Her Arms Over

Her Breast; And At That Moment The Shadow Of Richard's Tower Was Capped

With The Shadow Of Richard Himself. But She Saw Nothing Of This. 'Halt

There, Sir Gilles,' She Said. The Norman Gave A Squeal, Like A Hog

Startled At His Trough, And Went Dead-Fire Colour.

 

'Ha, Heart Of Jesus!' Said Gilles De Gurdun.

Volume 91 Book 2 (The Book Of Nay) Chapter 12 (The Chapter Of Strife In The Dark) Pg 172

One Very Great Power Of King Richard's Had Never Served Him Better Than

Now, The Power Of Immense Quiescence, Whereunder He Could Sit By Day Or

By Night As Inert As A Stone, A Block Hewn Into Shape Of A Man, Neither

To Be Moved By Outside Fret Nor By The Workings Of His Own Mind. Into

This Rapt State He Fell When The Prison Doors Shut On Him, And So

Remained For Three Or Four Weeks, Alone While The Fates Were Spinning.

The Archduke Came Daily To Him With Speeches, Injuries To Relate,

Injuries To Impart. King Richard Hardly Winked An Eyelid. The Archduke

Hinted At Ransom, And Richard Watched The Wall Behind His Head; He Spoke

Of Letters Received From This Great Man Or That, Which Made Ransom Not

To Be Thought Of; And Richard Went To Sleep. What Are You To Do With A

Man Who Meets Your Offers And Threats With The Same Vast Unconcern? If

It Is Matter For Resentment, Richard Gave It; If It Is A Matter Which

Money May Leaven, It Is To Be Observed That While Richard Offered No

Money His Enemies Offered Much.

 

These Letters To The Archduke Were Not Of The Sort Which Fill The

Volume 91 Book 2 (The Book Of Nay) Chapter 12 (The Chapter Of Strife In The Dark) Pg 173

Austere Folios Of The Codex Diplomaticus As Bins With Bran, Or Make

Rymer's Book As Dry As Ezekiel's Valley. They Were Pungent, Pertinent,

Allusive, Succinct, Supplementing, As With Meat, Those Others. The Count

Of Saint-Pol Wrote, For Instance, 'Kinsman, Kill The Killer Of Your

Kin,' And Could Hardly Have Expressed Himself Better Under The

Circumstances. King Philip Of France Sent Two Letters: One By A Herald,

Very Long, And Chiefly In The Language Of The Epistle Of Saint James,

Designed For The Codex. The Other Lay In The Vest Of A Savigniac Monk,

And Was To This Effect: 'In A Ridded Acre The Husbandman Can Sow With

Hopes Of Good Harvesting. When The Corn Is Garnered He Calleth About Him

His Friends And Fellow-Labourers, And Cheer Abounds. Labour And Pray. I

Pray.' Last Came A Limping Pilgrim From Aquitaine, Whose Hat Was Covered

With Metal Saints, And In His Left Shoe A