The Prince and the Page: A Story of the Last Crusade by Charlotte M. Yonge (best motivational books for students .txt) 📕

me; and forth they sped, fearless of the spoilers, and made their way at nightfall even to the Abbey Church, where Edward, less savage than the fair countess, had caused us to be laid before the altar, awaiting our burial in the vaults.”

“Thou wert senseless all this time?”

“Ay, and so continued.  The pang when my hand was severed had roused me for a few moments, but only to darkness; and my effort to speak had been rewarded with as many Welsh knives as could pierce my flesh at once.”

“And thou didst not bleed to death?”

“The swoon checked my blood.  And the monks of Evesham must have staunched and bandaged so as to make a decent corpse of me.  Had they had a man-at-arms among them, they would have known that mine were not the wounds of a dead but of a living man.  The old nurse knew it, when my sweet lady would needs unbind my wrist, to place my hand in its right place.  An old crone such as Welsh Winny never stirs without her cordial potion.  They poured it into my lips—and if I were never more to awake to the light of day, I awoke to the sound that was yet dearer to me—while, alas! it still was left to me.”

He became silent, till Richard’s question drew him on.

“What with their care and support, when once on my feet I found strength to stumble out of the chapel and gain shelter in the woods ere day; and I believe the monks got credit for their zeal in casting out the excommunicate body.”

“Not credit,” said Richard; “the Prince was full of grief, more especially as they all disavowed the deed.  But, brother, art thou excommunicate still?”

“Far from it, most pious Crusader.  If seas of holy wells could assoil me, I should be pure enough.  My sweet Isabel deemed that some such washing might bring back mine eyesight; and from one to another we wandered as my limbs could bear it.  And at St. Winifred’s there was a priest who told us strange tales of the miracles wrought in the Mortimer household by my father’s severed hand; nay, that it had so worked on Lord Mortimer’s sister, that she had left the vanities of the world, and gone into a nunnery.  He seemed so convinced of my father’s saintliness, and so honest a fellow, that Isabel insisted on unbosoming ourselves to him under seal of confession.  No longer was the old nurse to be my mother and she my sister; and the good man made no difficulties, but absolved me, and wedded me to the truest, most loving wife that ever blessed a man bereft of all else.”

“And you begged!  O Henry, the noble lady—”

“At first we had the knightly chain and spurs in which the monks had kindly pranked me up.  Isabel too had worn a few jewels; but after all, a palmer need never hunger.  My father always said no trade was so well paid as begging, under King Henry, and verily we found it so.  She used at times to gather berries and thread them for chaplets to sell at the holy wells; but I trow sheer beggary throve better!”

“But wherefore?  Even had pardon not been ready, Simon held out Kenilworth for months.”

Henry laughed his dry laugh.

“Simple boy, dost think I would trust Simon with an elder brother whose hand could no longer keep his head?”

“And my mother—”

“She had always hated the Mortimers, even when the contract was matter of policy.  Would I have taken my sweet Isabel to abide her royal scorn, it might be incredulity of our marriage?  Though for that matter it is more unimpeachable than her own!  Nay, nay, out of ken and out of reach was our only security from our kin on either side, unless we desired that my head should follow my hand as a dainty dish for Countess Maud.”

“How could the lady brook it?”

“She dyed her fair skin with walnut, wore russet gown and hood, and was a very nightingale for blitheness and sweet song through that first year,” said Henry; “blither than ever when that little one was born in the sunshiny days of Whitsuntide.  I tell thee, those were happier days than ever I passed as Lord de Montfort at Kenilworth.  But after that, the bruised hurt in my side, which had never healed when the cleaner gashes did, became more painful and troublesome.  Holy wells did nothing for it; and she wasted with watching it, as though my pain had been hers.  Naught would serve her but coming here, because she had been told that the Knights of St. John had better experience of old battle-wounds than any men in the realm.  Much ado had we to get here—the young babe in her arms, and I well-nigh distraught with pain.  We crept into this same hut, and I had a weary sickness throughout the winter—living, I know not how, by the bounty of the Spital, and by the works of her fingers, which Winny would take out to sell on feast-days in the city.  Oh that eyes had been left me to note how she pined away! but I had scarce felt how thin and bony were her tender fingers ere the blasts of the cruel March wind finished the work.”

“Alack! alack! poor Henry,” said Richard; “never, never was lady of romaunt so noble, and so true!”

“No more,” said Henry hastily, leaning his brow on the top of his staff.  “Come hither, Bessee,” he added after a brief pause; “say thy prayer for thy blessed mother, child.”

And holding out his one hand, he inclosed her two clasped ones within it, as the little voice ran over an utterly unintelligible form of childishly clipped Latin, sounding, however, sweet and birdlike from the very liberties the little memory had taken in twisting its mellifluous words into a rhythm of her own.  And there was catchword enough for Richard to recognize and follow it, with bonnet doffed, and crossing himself.

“And now,” he said, “surely the need for secrecy is ended.  The land is tranquil, the King ruled by the Prince, the Prince owning all the past folly and want of faith that goaded our father into resistance.  Wherefore not seek his willing favour?  Thou art ever a pilgrim.  Be with us in the crusade.  Who knows what the Jordan waves may effect for thee?”

“No, no,” grimly laughed Henry.  “Dost think any favour would make it tolerable to be wept over and pitied by the King—pitied by the King,” he repeated in ineffable disgust; “or to be the show of the court, among all that knew me of old, when I was a man?  Hob the cobbler, and Martin the bagster, are better company than Pembroke and Gloucester, and I meet with more humours on Cheapside than I should at Winchester—more regard too.  Why, they deem me threescore years old at least, and I am a very oracle of wisdom among them.  Earl of Leicester, forsooth! he would be nobody compared with Blind Hal!  And as to freedom—with child and staff the whole country and city are before me—no shouts to dull retainers, and jackanape pages to set my blind lordship on horseback, without his bridle hand, and lead him at their will anywhere but at his own.

“All this I can understand for thyself,” said Richard; “but for thy child’s sake canst thou not be moved?”

“My child, quotha?  What, when her Uncle Simon is true grandson to King John?”

Richard started.  “I cannot believe what thou sayest of Simon,” he answered in displeasure.

“One day thou wilt,” calmly answered Henry; “but I had rather not have it proved upon the heiress of Leicester and Montfort.”

“Leicester is forfeit—Simon an outlawed man.”

“If the humour for pardon is set in, Cousin Edward is no man to do things by halves.  If he owned me at all, the lands would be mine again, and such a bait would be smelt out by Simon were he at the ends of the earth.  Or if not, that poor child would be granted to any needy kinsman or grasping baron that Edward wanted to portion.  My child shall be my own, and none other’s.  Better a beggar’s brat than an earl’s heiress!”

“She is a lovely little maiden.  I know not how thou canst endure letting her grow up in poverty, an alien from her birth and rank.”

“Poverty,” Henry laughed.  “Little knowest thou of the jolly beggar’s business!  I would fain wager thee, Richard, that pretty Bessee’s marriage-portion shall be a heavier bag of gold than the Lady Elizabeth de Montfort would gather by all the aids due to her father from his vassals—and won moreover without curses.”

“But who would be the bridegroom?”

“Her own choice, not the King’s,” answered Henry briefly.

“And this is all,” said Richard, perceiving that according to the previous day’s agreement the cream-coloured elephant of a German horse was being led forth for his use, and Sir Robert preparing to accompany him.  “I must leave thee in this strange condition?”

“Ay, that must thou.  Betray me, and thou shalt have the curse of the head of thine house.  Had thy voice not become so strangely like my father’s, I had never made myself known to thee.”

“I will see thee again.”

“That will be as thou canst.  I trow Edward hardly gives freedom enough to his pages for them to pay visits unknown,” replied Henry, with a strange sneering triumph in his own wild liberty.

“If aught ails thee, if I can aid thee, swear to me that thou wilt send to me.”

Henry laughed with somewhat of a tone of mockery, adding, “Well, well—keep thou thy plight to me so long as I want thee not, and I will keep mine to thee if ever I should need thee.  Now away with thee.  I hear the horses impatient for thee; and what would be the lot of the beggar if he were seen chattering longer with a lordly young page than might suffice for his plaint?  I hear voices.  Put a tester in my dish, fair Sir, for appearance’ sake.  Thou hast it not? aha—I told thee I was the richer as well as the freer man.  What’s that?  That is no ring of coin.”

“’Tis a fair jewel, father, green and sparkling,” cried Bessee.

“Nay, nay, I’ll have none of it.  Some token from thy new masters?  Ha, boy?”

“From the Princess, on New Year’s Day,” replied Richard.  “But keep it, oh, keep it, Henry; it breaks my heart to leave thee thus.”

“Keep it!  Not I.  What wouldst say to thy dainty dame?  Nor should I get half its value from the Jews.  No, no, take back thy jewel, Sir Page; I’ll not put thee in need of telling more lies than becomes thine office.”

Richard glowed with irritation; but what was the use of anger with a blind beggar?  And while Henry bestowed far more demonstration of affection on Leonillo than on his brother, it became needful to mount and ride off, resolving to tell the Prince and Princess, what would be no falsehood, that the child belonged to a Kenilworth man-at-arms, sorely wounded at Evesham, and at present befriended by the Knights of St. John.

Old Sir Robert Darcy knew so much that it was needful to confide fully in him; and he gave Richard some satisfaction by a promise to watch over his brother as far as was possible with a man of such uncertain vagrant habits; and he likewise engaged to let him know, even in the Holy Land, of any change in the beggar’s condition; and this, considering the wide-spread connections of the Order, and that some of its members were sure to be in any crusading army, was all that Richard could reasonably hope.

“Canst write?” asked Sir Robert.

“Yea, Father.”

“I could once!  But if there be need to send thee a scroll, I’ll take care it is writ by a trusty hand.”

More than this Richard could not hope.  There had always been a strange self-willed wildness of character about his eldest brother, who, though far less violent and overbearing in actual deed than the two next in age, Simon and Guy, had contrived to incur even greater odium than they, by his mocking careless manner and love of taunts and gibing.  Simon de Montfort the elder had indeed strangely failed in the bringing up of his sons.  Whether it were that their royal connection had inflated them with pride, or that the King’s indulgence had counteracted the good effects of the admirable education provided for them at home, they had done little justice to their parentage, or to their tutor, the excellent Robert Grostête.  Perhaps the Earl himself was too affectionate: perhaps his occupation in public affairs hindered him from enforcing family discipline.  At any rate, neither of the elder three could have been naturally endowed with his largeness of mind, and high unselfish views.  He was a man before his age; not only deeply pious, but with a devoted feeling for justice and mercy carried into all the details of life, till his loyalty to the law overcame his loyalty to the King.  Simon and Guy, on the other hand, were commonplace young