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

without his interposition; and when the council broke up, he fixed his clear deep eyes upon Richard in a manner which seemed to the boy to upbraid him with the want of confidence, for which, however, he would not condescend to ask.  Richard felt that, let the issue of the combat be what it would, he had lost that full trust on the part of the Prince, which had hitherto been his one drop of comfort; and if he were dismissed from the camp, he should be more than ever desolate, for his soul could scarce yet bring itself to grasp the horror of the crime of his brothers.

The combat could not take place for two days—waiting, on one, in order that Hamlyn might have time to rest, and recover his full strength after his voyage, and the next, because it was Ash Wednesday.  In the meantime Richard was left solitary; under no restraint, but universally avoided.  The judicial combat did not make him uneasy; the two youths had often measured their strength together, and though Hamlyn was the elder, Richard was the taller, and had inherited something of the Plantagenet frame, so remarkable in those two

Lords of the biting axe and beamy spear,

“wide conquering Edward” and “Lion Richard”; and each believed in the righteousness of his own cause sufficiently to have implicit confidence that the right would be shown on his side.

In fact, Richard soon understood that though Prince Edward, with a sense of the value of definite evidence far in advance of the time, and befitting the English Justinian, had only allowed the charge to be brought against him which could in a manner be substantiated, yet that the general belief went much further.  Proved to be a Montfort, and to have written a letter, he was therefore convicted, by universal consent, of a league with his brothers for the revenge of their house; to have instigated the assassination at Viterbo, and to be only biding his time for the like act at Trapani.  Even the Prince was deeply offended by his silence, and imputed it to no good motive; trust and affection were gone, and Richard felt no tie to retain him where he was, save his duty as a crusader.  Let him fail in the combat, and the best he could look for would be to be ignominiously branded and expelled: let him gain, and he much doubted whether, though the ordeal of battle was always respected, he would regain his former position.  With keen suffering and indignation, he rebelled against Edward’s harshness and distrust.  He—who had brought him there—who ought to have known him better!  Moreover, there was the crushing sense of the guilt of his brothers; guilt most horrible in its sacrilegious audacity, and doubly shocking to the feelings of a family where the grim sanctity of the first Simon de Montfort, and the enlightened devotion of the second, formed such a contrast to the savage outrage of him who now bore their name.  Richard, as with bare feet and ashes whitening his dark locks he knelt on the cold stones of the dark Norman church at Trapani, wept hot and bitter tears of humiliation over the family crimes that had brought them so low; prayed in an agony for repentance for his brothers; and for himself, some opening for expiating their sin against at least the generous royal family.  “O! could I but die for my Prince, and know that he forgave and they repented!”

Only when on his way back to the camp was he sensible of the murmurs of censure at his hypocrisy in joining the penitential procession at all.  Dame Idonea, in a complete suit of sackcloth, was informing her friends that she had made a vow not to wash her face till the whole adder brood of Montfort had been crushed; and that she trusted to see the beginning of justice done to-morrow.  She had offered a candle to St. James to that effect, hoping to induce him to turn away his patronage from the family.

Every one, knight or squire, shrank away from Richard, if he did but look towards them; and he was seriously discomfited by the difficulty of obtaining a godfather for the combat.  No one chose even to be asked, lest they might be suspected of approving of the murder of Prince Henry; and the unhappy page re-entered his tent with the most desolate sense of being abandoned by heaven and man.

Fastened upon the pole of the tent by an arrowhead, a small scroll of parchment met his eyes.  He read in English—“A steed and a lance are ready for the lioncel who would rather avenge his father than lick the tyrant’s feet.  A guide awaits thee.”

Some weeks since, this might have been a tempting summons; but now the sickening sense of the sacrilegious murder, and of the life of outlawry utterly unrestrained, passed over Richard.  Yet, if he should not accept the offer, what was before him?  A shameful death, perhaps; if he failed in the ordeal, disgrace, captivity, or expulsion; if he succeeded, bondage and distrust for ever.  Some new accusation! some deeper fall!

There was a low growl from Leonillo; the hangings of the tent were raised, and an archer bending his head said, “A word with you, Sir.”

“Who art thou?” demanded Richard.

“Hob Longbow, Sir.  Remember you not old passages—in the forest, there—and Master Adam?”

Richard did remember the archer in the days of his outlaw life, in a very different capacity.

“You were grown so tall, Sir, and so hand and glove with the Longshanks, that Nick Dustifoot and I knew not an if it were yourself—but now your name is out, and the wind is in another quarter”—he grinned, then seeing Richard impatient of the approach to familiarity, “You did not know Nick Dustifoot?  He was one of young Sir Simon’s men-at-arms, you see, and took to the woods, like other folk, after Kenilworth was given up, till stout men were awanting for this Crusade.  And he knew Sir Guy when he came to the camp yon by Tunis, and spake with him; moreover, he went in the train of him of Almayne to Viterbo, and had speech again with Sir Simon, who gave him this scroll.  And if you will meet him at the Syren’s Rock to-night, my Lord Richard, he will bring you to those who will conduct you to Sir Guy’s brave castle, where he laughs kings and counts to scorn!  We have the guard, and will see you safe past the gates of the camp.”

The way to liberty was open: Richard deliberated.  The atmosphere of distrust and suspicion under the Prince’s coldness was well-nigh unbearable.  Danger faced him for the next day!  Disgrace was everywhere.  Should he leave it behind, where, at least, he would not hear and feel it?  Should he, when all had turned from him, meet a brotherly welcome?

Then came back on him the thought of what Simon and Guy had made themselves; the thought of his father’s grief at former doings of theirs, which had fallen so far short of the atrocity of this.  He knew that his father had rather have seen each one of his five sons slain, or helpless cripples like the firstborn, than have been thus avenged.  Nay, had he this morning prayed for the pardon of a crime, to which he would thus become a consenting party?

He looked up resolutely.  “No, Hob Longbow.  Hap what hap, my part can never be with those who have stained the Church with blood.  Let my brothers know that my heart yearned to them before, but now all is over between us.  I can only bear the doom they have brought upon me!”

It was not possible to remain and argue.  A tent was a dangerous place for secret conferences, and Hob Longbow could only growl, “As you will, Sir.  Now nor you nor any one else can say I have not done my charge.”

“Alack, alack!” sighed Richard, “would that, my honour once redeemed, Hamlyn might make an end of me!  But for thee, my poor Leonillo, I have no comforter or friend!” and he flung his arms round the dog’s neck.

CHAPTER X
THE COMBAT

“And now with sae sharp of steele
They ’gan to lay on load.”

Sir Cauline.

Heavy-hearted and pale-cheeked with his rigidly observed fast, Richard armed himself in early morning, and set forth to the chapel tent, where the previous solemnities had to be observed.  He had made up his mind to make an earnest appeal to the Earl of Gloucester, for the sake of the old friendship with his father, to become his godfather in the combat, as one whose character stood too high to be injured by connection with him.  Even this plan was frustrated, for Hamlyn de Valence entered, led by Earl Gilbert as his sponsor.  Should he turn to his one other friend, the Prince himself?  Nay, the Prince was umpire and judge.  Never stood warrior so lonely.  Little John of Dunster crept up to his side; and but for fear of injuring the child, he would almost have asked him to be his sponsor.  At that moment, however, the tramp of horses’ feet was heard, and Sir Reginald de Ferrières, with his squires, galloped up to the tent.

The young Hospitalier held out his hand cordially.  “In time, I hope,” said he; “I have ridden ever since Lauds at Castel San Giovanni, hoping to be with you, so as to stand by you in this matter.”

“It was kindly done of you,” said Richard, tears of gratitude swelling in his eyes, as he wrung Sir Raynald’s hand.  “I have not even a godfather for the fight!  How could you know of my need?”

“Some of our brethren came over from the camp, for our Ash Wednesday procession, and spoke of the stress you were in—that your Montfort lineage was out, and that you were thought to have writ a letter—but stay, there’s no time for words; methinks here’s the Prince and all his train.”

Sir Raynald went through the solemnity of presenting Richard de Montfort as about to fight in defence of his own innocence.  The Prince coldly accepted the presentation.  Richard knew that Sir Raynald was deemed anything but a satisfactory sponsor; but the young knight’s hearty sympathy, a sort of radiance caught from good old Sir Robert, was too comforting not to be reposed on.

Each champion then confessed.  Raynald heard Richard’s shrift, and nearly wept over it—it was the first the young priestly knight had received, and he could scarcely clear his voice to speak the words of absolution.  Even as they left the confessional, he grasped Richard’s hand and said, “Cast in thy lot with us!  St. John will find thee father and home and brethren!”

And a gleam of joy and hope flashed on the youth’s heart, and shone brighter as he participated in the solemn Mass in preparation for the combat.  This over, each champion made oath of the justice of his quarrel in the hands of his godfather before the Prince: Hamlyn de Valence swearing that to the best of his belief, Richard de Montfort was a traitor, in league with his brothers, and art and part in the murder of Prince Henry of Almayne, and offering to prove it on his body; while on the other hand Richard swore that he was a true and faithful liegeman to the King, free from all intercourse with his brethren, and sackless of the death of Prince Henry.

Then each mounted on horseback, the trumpets sounded, the sponsors led them to their places, and the Prince’s clear voice exclaimed, “And so God show the right.”  One glance of pitying sympathy would have filled Richard’s arm with fresh vigour.

The two youths closed with shivered lances, and horses reeling from the shock.  Backing their steeds, each received a fresh lance.  Again they met; Richard felt the point of Hamlyn’s lance glint against his breastplate, glide down, enter, make its way into his flesh; but at the same instant his lance was pushing, driving, bearing on Hamlyn before him; the sheer force in his Plantagenet shoulders was telling now, the very pain seemed as it were to add to the energy with which he pressed on—on, till the hostile spear dropped from his own side, and Hamlyn was borne backwards over the croup of the staggering horse, till he fell with crashing ringing armour upon the ground.  Little John clapped his hands, and shouted for joy; but no one responded.

Richard leapt down in another second, and stood over him.  “Yield thee, Hamlyn de Valence.  Confess that thou hast slandered me with an ungrounded accusation.”

Hamlyn had no choice.  “Let me rise,” he said sullenly; “I will confess, so thou letst me open my visor.”

And Richard standing aside, Hamlyn spoke out in a dogged formal tone.  “I hereby own, that by the judgment of Heaven, Richard de Montfort hath cleared himself of all share in the foul murder of Lord Henry, whose soul Heaven assoilzie.  Also that he hath disproven the charge of leaguing with his brethren.”

Richard was the victor, but where were the gratulations?  Young John’s hearty but slender hurrah was