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

Shake Of The Head, As If Doing Violence To Himself, He Turned His Face

Westward And Pushed Through The Low Countries To The Sea. There He Was

Met By His English Peers, By Longchamp, By His Brother Of Rouen, By Men

Who Loved And Men Who Feared; But He Had No Word For Any. Grim And

Hungry He Stalked Through The Lane They Made Him, On To The Galley;

Folded In His Cloak There, Lonely He Paced The Bridge. He Was Rowed To

The West With His Eyes Fixed Always On The East, Away From His Kingdom

To Where He Supposed His Longing To Be. His Mother Met Him At Dunwich:

It Seemed He Knew Her Not. 'My Son, My Son Richard,' She Said As She

Knelt To Him. 'Get Up, Madame,' He Bid Her; 'I Have Work To Do.' He Rode

Savagely To London Through The Grey Essex Flats; Had Himself Crowned

Anew; Went North With A Force To Lay Lincolnshire Waste; Levelled

Castles, Exacted Relentless Punishment, Exorbitant Tribute, The Last

Acquittance. He Set A Red Smudge Over The Middle Of England, Being

Altogether In That Country Three Months, A Total To His Name And Reign

Of A Poor Six. Then He Left It For Good And All, Carrying Away With Him

Grudging Men And Grudged Money, And Leaving Behind The Memory Of A Stone

Face Which Always Looked East, A Sword, A Heart Aloof, The Myth Of A

Giant Knight Who Spoke No English And Did No Charity, But Was Without

Fear, Cruelly Just, And As Cold As An Outland Grave. If You Ask An

Englishman What He Thinks Of Richard Yea-And-Nay, He Will Tell

You:--That Was A King Without Pity Or Fear Or Love, Considering Neither

God, Nor The Enemy Of God, Nor Unhappy Men. If The Fear Of God Is The

Beginning Of Wisdom, The Love Of Him Is The End Of It. How Could King

Richard Love God, Who Did Not Fear Enough; Or We, Who Feared Too Much?

He Crossed Into Normandy, And At Honfleur Was Met By Them Who Loved Him

Well; But He Repaid Them Ill. Here Also They Seemed Remote From His

Acquaintance. Gaston Of Béarn, With Eyes Alight, Came Dancing Down The

Quay, To Be The First To Kiss Him. Richard, Shaking With Fever (Or What

Was Like Fever), Gave Him A Burning Dry Hand, But Looked Away From Him,

Always Hungrily To The East. Des Barres, Who Had Thrown Off Allegiance

For His Love, Got No Thanks For It. He May Have Known Abbot Milo Again,

Or Mercadet, His Lean Good Captain: He Said Nothing To Either Of Them.

His Friends Were Confounded: Here Was The Gallant Shell Of King Richard

With A New Insatiable Tenant. So Indeed They Found It. There Was Great

Business To Be Done: War, The Holding Of Assise, The Redressing Of

Wrongs From The Sea To The Pyrenees. He Did It, But In A Terrible, Hasty

Way. It Appeared That Every Formal Act Required Fretted Him To Waste,

That Every Violent Act Allowed Gave Him Little Solace. It Appeared That

He Was Living Desperately Fast, Straining To Fill Up Time, Rather Than

Use It, Towards Some Unknown, But (To Him) Certain End. His First Act In

Normandy, After New Coronation, Was To Besiege The Border Castles Which

The French Had Filched In His Absence. One Of These Was Gisors. He

Would Not Go Near Gisors; But Conducted The Leaguer From Rouen, As A

Blindfold Man Plays Chess; And From Rouen He Reduced The Great Castle In

Six Weeks. One Thing More He Did There, Which Gave Gaston A Clue To His

Mood. He Sent A Present Of Money, A Great Sum, To An Old Priest, Curate

Of Saint-Sulpice; And When They Told Him That The Man Was Dead, And A

Great Part Of The Church He Had Served Burnt Out By King Philip, His

Face Grew Bleak And Withered, And He Said, 'Then I Will Burn Philip

Out.' He Had Gisors, Castle, Churches, Burgher-Holds, The Whole Town,

Burned Level With The Ground. There Was Not To Be A Stone On A Stone:

And It Was So. Gaston Of Béarn Slapped His Thigh When He Heard Of This:

'Now,' He Said, 'Now At Last I Know What Ails My King. He Has Seen His

Lost Mistress.'

He Did So Ruthlessly In Normandy That He Went Far To Make His Power A

Standing Dread To The Fair Duchy. On The Rock At Les Andelys He Built A

Huge Castle, To Hang There Like A Thunder-Cloud Scowling Over The Flats

Of The Seine. He Called It, What His Temper Gave No Hint Of (So Dry With

Fever He Was), The Galliard Hold. 'Let Me See Chastel-Gaillard Stand

Ready In A Year,' He Said. 'Put On Every Living Man In Normandy If Need

Be.' He Planned It All Himself; Rock Of The Rock It Was To Be, Making

The Sheer Yet More Sheer. He Called It Again His Daughter, Daughter Of

His Conception Of Death. 'Build,' Said He, 'My Daughter Gaillarda. As I

Have Conceived Her Let The Great Birth Be.' And It Was So. For A Bitter

Christening, When All Was Done, He Had His French Prisoners Thrown Down

Into The Fosse; And They Say That It Rained Blood Upon Him And His

Artificers As They Stood By That Accursed Font. The Man Was Mad. Nothing

Stayed Him: For The First Time Since They Who Still Loved Him Had Had

Him Back, They Heard Him Laugh, When His Daughter Gaillarda Was Brought

Forth. And, 'Spine Of God,' He Cried, 'This Is A Saucy Child Of Mine,

And Saucily Shall She Do By The French Power.' Then His Face Was

Wrenched By Pain, As With A Sob He Said, 'I Had A Son Fulke.' Gaillarda

Did Saucily Enough, To Tyrannise Over Ten Years Of Philip's Life; In The

End, As All Know, She Played The Strumpet, And Served The Enemies Of Her

Father's House, But Not While Richard Lived To Rule Her.

He Drove Philip Into A Truce Of Years, Pushed Down Into Touraine, And

Thence Went To Anjou, But Not To Sit Still. He Was Never Still, Never

Seemed To Sleep, Or Get Any Of The Solace Of A Man. He Ate Voraciously,

But Was Not Nourished, Drank Long, But Was Never Drunken, Revelled

Without Mirth, Hunted, Fought, But Got No Joy. He Utterly Refused To See

The Queen, Who Was At Cahors In The South. 'She Is No Wife Of Mine,' He

Said; 'Let Her Go Home.' Tentative Messages Were Brought By Very

Tentative Messengers From His Brother John. Good Service, Such And Such,

Had Been Done In Languedoc; So And So Had Been Hanged, Or Gibbeted, So

And So Rewarded: What Had Our Dear And Royal Brother To Say? To Each He

Said The Same Thing: 'Let My Good Brother Come.' But John Never Came.

No One Knew What To Make Of Him; He Spoke To None Of His Affairs, None

Dared Speak To Him. Milo Writes In His Book, 'The King Came Back From

Styria As One Who Should Arise From The Grave With All The Secrets Of

The Chattering Ghosts To Brood Upon. Some Worm Gnawed His Vitals, Some

Maggot Had Drilled A Hole In His Brain. I Know Not What Possessed Him Or

What Could Possess Him Beside A Devil. This I Know, He Never Sent To Me

For Direction In Spiritual Affairs, Nor (So Far As I Could Learn) To Any

Other Religious Man. He Never Took The Sacrament, Nor Seemed To Want It.

But Be Sure He Wanted It Most Grievously.' So, Insanely Ridden, He Lived

For Three Years, One Of Which Would Have Worn A Common Man To The Bones.

But The Fire Still Crackled, Freely Fed; His Eyes Were Burning Bright,

His Mind (When He Gave It) Was Keen, His Head (When He Lent It) Seemed

Cool. What Was He Living For? Did Death Himself Look Askance At Such A

Man? Or Find Him A Good Customer Who Sent Him So Many Souls? Two Things

Only Were Clear: He Sent Messenger After Messenger To Rome, And He

Returned His Wife's Dowry. Those Must Mean Divorce Or Repudiation Of

Marriage. Certainly The Queen's Party Took It So, Though The Queen

Herself Clung Pitifully To Her Throne; And The Queen's Party Grew The

Larger For The Belief.

Such As It Was, The Queen's Party Nested In Aquitaine And The Limousin,

With All The Turbulent Lords Of That Duchy Under Its Flag. Prince John

Himself Was With Berengère At Cahors, Biting His Nails As Was Usual With

Him, One Eye Watching For Richard's Vengeance, One Eye Wide For Any

Peace-Offering From The French King. He Dared Not Act Overtly Against

Richard, Nor Dared To Take Up Arms For Him. So He Waited. The End Was

Not Very Far Off.

Count Eustace Of Saint-Pol Was The Moving Spirit In These Parts, Grown

To Be An Astute, Unscrupulous Man Of Near Thirty Years. His Spies Kept

Him Well Informed Of Richard's Intolerable State; He Knew Of The

Embassies To Rome, Of The Fierce Murdering Moods, Of The Black Moods, Of

The Cheerless Revelry And Fruitless Energy Of This Great Stricken

Angevin. 'In Some Such Hag-Ridden Day My Enemy May Be Led To Overtax

Himself,' He Considered. To That End He Laid A Trap. He Seized And

Fortified Two Hill-Castles In The Limousin, Between Which Lay Straggling

A Village Called Chaluz. 'Let Us Get Richard Down Here,' Was His Plan.

'He Will Think The Job A Light One, And We Shall Nip Him In The Hills.'

The Bishop Of Beauvais Lent A Hand, So Did Adhémar Viscount Of Limoges,

And Achard The Lord Of Chaluz, Not Because He Desired, But Because He

Was Forced By Limoges His Suzerain. Another Forced Labourer Was Sir

Gilles De Gurdun, Who Had Been Found By Saint-Pol Doing Work In Poictou

And Won Over After A Few Trials.

Now, When King Richard Had Been Some Four, Nearly Five, Years At Home,

Neither Nearer To His Rest Nor Fitter For It Than He Had Been When He

Landed, He Got Word From The South That A Great Treasure Had Been Found

In The Limousin. A Man Driving The Plough On A Hillside By Chaluz Had

Upturned A Gold Table, At Which Sat An Emperor, Charles Or Another, With

His Wife And Children And The Lords Of His Council, All Wrought In Fine

Gold. 'I Will Have That Golden Emperor,' Said Richard, 'Having Just Made

One Out Of Clay. Let Him Be Sent To Me.' He Spoke Carelessly, As They

All Thought, Simply To Get In His Gibe At The New Emperor Of The Romans,

His Nephew, Whom He Had Caused To Be Chosen; And Seeing That That Was

Not The Treasure He Craved, It Is Like Enough. But Somebody Took His

Word Into Languedoc, And Somebody Brought Back Word (Saint-Pol's Word)

That The Viscount Of Limoges, As Suzerain Of Chaluz, Claimed

Treasure-Trove In It. 'Then I Will Have The Viscount Of Limoges As

Well,' Said Richard. 'Let Him Be Sent To Me, And The Table With Him.'

The Viscount