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

Made Him Limp. This Proved To Be A Letter From John Count Of Mortain,

Which Said, 'Now I See In Secret. But When I Am Come Into My Kingdom I

Will Reward Openly.' The Archduke Was By No Means A Wise Man; But It Was

Not Easy To Know Something Of European Politics And Mistake The Meaning

Of Letters Like These. If It Was A Question Of Money, Here Was Money.

And Imagine Now The Archduke, Bursting With The Urgent Secrets Of So

Many Princes, Making Speeches About Them--Through All Of Which King

Richard Slumbered! 'Damn It, He Flouts Me, Does He?' Said Austria At

Last; And Left Him Alone. From That Moment Richard Began To Sing.

Let Us Do No Wrong To Luitpold: It Was Not Merely A Question Of Money,

But Money Turned The Scale. Not Only Had Richard Mortally Affronted His

Gaoler; He Had Innumerably Offended Him. The Archduke Was Punctilious;

Richard With His Petulant Foot Stamped On Every Little Point He

Laboured, Or Else, Like A Buttress, Let Him Labour Them In Vain. He Did

Not For A Moment Disguise His Fatigue In Luitpold's Presence, His Relief

At His Absence, Or His Unconcern With His Properties. This Galled The

Man. He Could Not, For The Life Of Him, Affect Indifference To Richard's

Indifference. When The Messenger, Therefore, Arrived From The Old Man Of

Musse, The Insolence Of The Message Was Most Unfortunate. The Archduke,

Angry As He Was, Could Afford To Be Cool. He Played On The Old Man The

Very Part Which Richard Had Played On Him--That Is, Treated Him And His

Letter As Though They Were Not.

Then He Broke With Richard Altogether; And Then Came Gilles De Gurdun

With Secret Words And Offers.

The Archduke Drained His Beer-Horn, And With His Big Hand Wrung His

Beard Dry. He Winked Hard At Gilles, Whom He Thought To Be A Hired

Assassin Of Deplorable Address Sent, Probably, By Count John.

'Are You Angry Enough To Do What You Propose?' He Asked Him. 'I Am Not,

Let Me Tell You.'

'I Have Been Trying To Kill Him For Four Years,' Said Gilles.

'And Are You Man Enough, My Fellow?' Gilles Cast Down His Eyes.

'I Have Not Been Man Enough Yet, Since He Still Lives. I Think I Am

Now.' Then There Was A Pause.

'What Is Your Price?' Asked Luitpold After This.

Gilles Said, 'I Have No Price'; And The Archduke, 'You Suit My Humour

Exactly.'

Richard, I Say, Had Begun To Sing From The Day He Was Sure That The

Archduke Had Given Him Up. Physical Relief May Have Had Something To Do

With That, But Moral Certainty Had More. What Made Him Fume Or Freeze

Was Doubt. There Was Very Little Room For Doubt Just Now But That His

Enemies Would Prove Too Many For Austria's Scruples. His Friends? He Was

Not Aware That He Had Any Friends. Des Barres, Gaston, Auvergne, Milo?

What Did They Amount To? His Sister Joan, His Mother, His Brothers? Here

He Shrugged, Knowing His Own Race Too Well. He Had Never Heard Of The

Angevin Who Helped Any Angevin But Himself. Lastly, Jehane. He Had Lost

Her By His Own Fault And Her Extreme Nobility. Let Her Go, Glorious

Among Women! He Was Alone. Odd Creature, He Began To Sing.

Singing Like A Genius To The Broad Splash Of Sunlight On Brickwork,

Gilles De Gurdun Found Him. Richard Was Sitting On A Bench Against The

Wall, One Knee Clasped In His Hands, His Head Thrown Back, His Throat

Rippling With The Tide Of His Music. He Looked As Fresh And Gallant A

Figure As Ever In His Life; His Beard Trimmed Sharply, His Strong Hair

Brushed Back, His Doublet Green, His Trunks Of Fine Leather, His Shoes

Of Yet Finer. The Song He Was Upon Was _Li Chastel D' Amors_, Which

Runs--

     Las Portas Son De Parlar

     Al Eissir E Al Entrar:

     Qui Gen Non Sab Razonar,

     Defors Li Ven A Estar.

     E Las Claus Son De Prejar:

     Ab Cel Obron Li Cortes--

And So On Through Many Verses, Made Continuous By The Fact That The End

Of Each Sixth Line Forms The Rhyme Of The Next Five. Now, Gilles Knew

Nothing Of Southern Minstrelsy, And If He Had, The Pitch He Was Screwed

To Would Have Shrilled Such Knowledge Out Of Him. At '_Defors Li Ven A

Estar_,' He Came In, And Sturdily Forward. Richard Saw Him And Put Up

His Hand: On Went The Hammered Rhymes--

     E Las Claus Son De Prejar:

     Ab Cel Obron Li Cortes.

Here Was A Little Break. Gilles, Very Dark, Took A Step; Up Shot

Richard's Warning Hand--

     Dedinz La Clauson Qu'i Es

     Son Las Mazos Dels Borges . . .

On Went The Exulting Voice After The New Rhymes, Gayer And Yet More Gay.

_Li Chastel D'amors_ Has Twelve Linked Verses, And King Richard, Wound

Up In Their Music, Sang Them All. When At Last He Had Stopped, He Said,

'Now, Gurdun, What Do You Want Here?'

Gilles Came A Step Or Two Of His Way, And So Again A Step Or Two, And So

Again, By Jerks. When He Was So Near That It Was To Be Seen What He Had

In His Right Hand, The King Got Up. Gilles Saw That He Had Light Fetters

On His Ankles Which Could Not Stop His Walking. Richard Folded His Arms.

'Oh, Gurdun,' He Said, 'What A Fool You Are.'

Gurdun Vented A Sob Of Rage, And Flung Himself Forward At His Enemy. He

Was A Shorter Man, But Very Thickset, With Arms Like Steel. He Had A

Knife, Rage Like A Thirst, He Was Free. Richard, As He Came On, Hit Him

Full On The Chin, And Sent Him Flying. Gurdun Picked Himself Up Again,

His Mouth Twitching, His Eyes So Small As To Be Like Slits. Knife In

Hand He Leaned Against The Wall To Fetch Up His Breath.

'Well,' Said Richard, 'Have You Had Enough?'

'Yes, You Wolf,' Said Gurdun, 'I Shall Wait Till It Is Dark.'

'I Think It May Suit You Better,' Was The King's Comment As He Sat Down

On The Bed. Gurdun Squatted By The Wall, Watching Him. After About An

Hour Of Humming Airs To Himself Richard Lay Full Length, And In A Short

Time Gilles Ascertained That He Was Asleep. This Brought Tears Into The

Man's Eyes; He Began To Cry Freely. Virgin Mary! Virgin Mary! Why Could

He Not Kill This Frozen Devil Of A King? Was There A Race In The World

Which Bred Such Men, To Sleep With The Knife At The Throat? He Rose To

His Feet, Went To Look At The Sleeper; But He Knew He Could Not Do His

Work. He Ranged The Room Incessantly, And At Every Second Or Third Turn

Brought Up Short By The Bed. Sometimes He Flashed Up His Long Knife; It

Always Stayed The Length Of His Arm, Then Flapped Down To His Flank In

Dejection. 'If He Wakes Not I Must Go Away. I Cannot Do It So,' He Told

Himself, As Finally He Sat Down By The Wall. It Grew Dusk. He Was Tired,

Sick, Giddy; His Head Dropped, He Slept. When He Woke Up, As With A

Snort He Did, It Was Inky Dark. Now Was The Time, Not Even God Could

See Him Now. He Turned Himself About; Inch By Inch He Crept Forward,

Edging Along By The Bed's Edge. Painfully He Got On His Knees, Threw Up

His Head. 'Jehane, My Robbed Lost Soul!' He Howled, And Stabbed With All

His Might. King Richard, Cat-Like Behind Him, Caught Him By The Hair,

And Cuffed His Ears Till They Sang.

'Ah, Dastard Cur! Ah, Mongrel! Ah, White-Galled Norman Eft! God's Feet,

If I Pommel You For This!' Pommel Him He Did; And, Having Drawn Blood At

His Ears, He Turned Him Over His Knee As If He Had Been A Schoolboy, And

Lathered His Rump With A Chair-Leg. This Humiliating Punishment Had

Humiliating Effects. Gilles Believed Himself A Boy In The

Cloister-School Again, With His Smock Up. 'Mea Culpa, Mea Culpa! Hey,

Reverend Father, Have Pity!' He Began To Roar. Dropping Him At Last,

Richard Tumbled Him On To The Bed. 'Blubber Yourself To Sleep, Clown,'

He Told Him. 'Blessed Ass, I Have Heard You Snoring These Two Hours,

Snoring And Rootling Over Your Jack-Knife. Sleep, Man. But If You Rootle

Again I Flog Again: Mind You That.' Gilles Slept Long, And Was Awoken In

Full Light By The Sound Of King Richard Calling For His Breakfast.

The Gaoler Came Pale-Faced In. 'A Thousand Pardons, Sire, A Thousand

Pardons--'

'Bring My Food, Dietrich,' Says Richard, 'And Send The Barber. Also, The

Next Time The Archduke Desires Murder Done Let Him Find A Fellow Who

Knows His Trade. This One Is A Bungler. Here's The Third Time To My

Knowledge He Has Missed. Off With You.'

Gilles Lay Face Downwards, Abject On The Bed. In Came The King's

Breakfast, A Jug Of Wine, Some White Bread. The King's Beard Was

Trimmed, His Hair Brushed, Fresh Clothes Put On. He Dismissed His

Attendants, Crossed Over The Room Like A Stalking Cat, And Gave Gilles A

Clap Behind Which Made Him Leap In The Air.

'Get Up, Gurdun,' Said Richard. 'Tell Me That You Are Ashamed Of

Yourself, And Then Listen To Me.'

Gilles Went Down On One Knee. 'God Knows, My Lord King,' He Mumbled,

'That I Have Done Shamefully By You.' He Got Up, His Face Clouded, His

Jaw Went Square. 'But Not More Shamefully, By The Same God, Than You

Have Done By Me.'

The King Looked At Him. 'I Have Never Justified Myself To Any Man,' He

Said Quietly, 'Nor Shall I Now To You. I Take The Consequences Of All My

Deeds When And As They Come. But From The Like Of You None Will Ever

Come. I Speak Of Men. Now I Will Tell You This Very Plainly. The Next

Time You Cross My Path Adversely, I Shall Kill You. You Are A Nuisance,

Not Because You Desire My Life, But Because You Never Get It. Try No

More, Gurdun.'

'Where Is Jehane, My Lord?' Said