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

“Listen to me, girl.”

“Lady, hear me.”

“Hearken not to the popinjay foreigner.”

These, and many more tumultuary exclamations, threats, and entreaties, crowded on one another, and the various speakers were laying hand on staff or sword, and glaring angrily on one another, when the word “Peace,” in the maiden’s clear silvery notes, sounded among them.  They all turned as she stood in the doorway, drawn up to her full height.

“Peace,” she said; “I can have no brawling here!  My father was grievously sick yesterday, and is still ill at ease.  One by one speak your business, and begone.  You first, Sir,” to the Gascon, she said in French.

“Ah! fair Lady, what business could be mine, save to tell you how lovely you are?”

“You have said,” she answered, without a blush, waving him aside.  “Now you, Sir,” to the tuneful merchant of Bristol.

“I told you, Madam, he meant not well.  Those aliens never do.”

“You too have said,” she answered.

The merchant would have persisted, but a London merchant, a much more substantial and considerable character, pushed him aside, and the numbers being all against him, he was forced to give way.

“Young woman,” said the merchant, “you are plainly of better birth and breeding than you choose to affect.  Now I am thinking of getting married.  I have ships at sea, and stuffs and jewels coming from Venice and Araby; and I am like to be Lord Mayor ere long; but there’s that I like in your face and discreet bearing, and I’ll make you my wife, and give you all my keys—your father willing!”

“Your turn’s out, old burgher,” said a big, burly, and much younger man, pressing forward.  “Pretty wench!  I’m not like to be Lord Mayor, nor nothing of that sort; but I’m a score of years nigher thine age, and a lusty fellow to boot, that could floor any man at single-stick, within the four seas.  Ay, and have been thought comely too, though Joyce o’ the haugh did play me false; and I come o’ this pilgrimage just to be merry and forget it.  If thou wilt take me, and come back to spite Joyce, thou shalt be hostess of the Black Bull, at Brentford, where all the great folk from the North ever put up when they come to town; the merriest and richest hostel, and will have the comeliest host and hostess round about London town!”

The lady bowed her head.  Perhaps those rosy lips were trying hard to keep from laughing.

“A hostel’s no place for a discreet dame to bide in,” put forth an honest voice.  “Maiden, I know not who or what you are, but I came o’ this pilgrimage to please my old mother, who said I might do my soul good, and bring home a wife—better over the moor than over the mixen—and I know she would give thee a right good welcome.  I’m Baldric of the Cheddar Cliff, and we have held our land ever since the old days, or ever the Norman kings came here.  Three hundred kine, woman, and seven score swine, and many an acre of good corn land under the hill.”

The lady had never looked up while these suitors were speaking.  When Baldric of Cheddar had done, she gave one furtive glance through her long eyelashes, as if to see if there were any more, and then her cheek flushed.  There still remained the knight.  Some others had slunk away when brought to such close quarters, but he stepped forth more hesitatingly, and said, “Lady, I know not whether the bare rock and castle I have to offer can weigh against the ships, the hostel, or the swine.  I have few of either; I am but a poor baron, but such as I am, I am wholly yours.  Thine eyes have bound me to you for ever, and all I seek is leave to make myself better known, and to ask that your noble father may not deem me wholly unworthy to be your suitor.”

The lady trembled a little, but she held her place in the doorway.  “Gentles,” she said, “I thank ye for the honour ye have done me, but I may not dispose of mine own self.  My father is ill at ease, and can see no one; but he bids me tell you that he will meet all who have aught to say to him, under the trysting tree at Bethnal Green, the day after the Midsummer feast.”

With these words she retired into her hut, and closed the door.  She was seen again no more that day; and on the next the hut stood open, empty, and deserted.

“‘But first you shall promise and have it well knowne
The gold that you drop shall all be your owne;’
With that they replyed, ‘Contented we bee;’
‘Then here’s,’ quoth the beggar, ‘for pretty Bessee.’”

Old Ballad.

The day after Midsummer had come, and towards the fine elm tree that then adorned the centre of Bethnal Green, three horsemen were wending their way.  Each had his steed a good deal loaded: each looked about him anxiously.

“By St. Boniface,” said one, “the girl’s father is not there.  Saucy little baggage, was she deluding us all?”

“Belike he is bringing too long a train of mules with her dowry to make much speed,” quoth the merchant.  “He will think it needful to collect all his gear to meet the offers of Master Lambert of Cripple-gate.  Ha!  Sir Knight, well met!  You are going to try your venture!”

“I must!  So it were not all enchantment,” said the knight, almost breathlessly, gazing round him.  “Yet,” he said, almost to himself, “those eyes had a soul and memories that ne’er came out of fairyland!”

“Ha!” exclaimed the innkeeper, “there’s old Blind Hal under the tree!  I’ll tell him to get out of our way.  Hal!” he shouted, “here’s a tester for thee, but thou’st best keep out of the way of the mules.”

“What mules, Master Samson?” coolly demanded Hal, who had comfortably established himself under the tree with his back against the trunk.

“The mules that the brave burgess is going to bring his daughter’s dowry on.  They are cranky brutes, Hal; bad customers for blind men—best let me give thee a hand out of the way.”

“But who is this burgess that you talk of?” asked the beggar.

“The father of the pilgrim lass that prayed at St. Winifred’s Well,” said Samson.

“And was called Queen of the Dew-drops?”

“Ay, ay, old fellow!  Thou knowest every bird that flies!  She is to be my wife, I tell thee, and a right warm corner shall she keep for thee at the Black Bull, for thou canst make sport for the guests right well.”

“I hope she will keep a warm corner for me,” said the beggar; “for no man will treat for her marriage save myself.”

“Thou!  Old man, who sent thee here to insult us?” cried the merchant.

“None, Master Lambert.  I trysted you to meet me here if you purposed still to seek my child in marriage.”

“Thy child?” cried all three, vehemently.

“My child!” answered the beggar.  “Mine own lawful child.”

There was a silence.  Presently Samson growled, “I mind me he used to have a little black-eyed brat with him.”

“Caitiff!” exclaimed the merchant; “I’ll have thy old vagabond bones in the Fleet for daring so to cheat his Grace’s lieges.”

“If you can prove a cheat against me I will readily abye it, Sir,” returned the beggar.

“Palming a beggar’s brat off for a noble dame.”

“So please you, Sir,” interrupted the beggar, “keep truth with you.  What did the child or I ever profess, save what we were?  No foul words here.  I trysted you to meet me here, anent her marriage.  Have you any offers to make me?”

“Aye, of a cell in the Fleet if you persist in your insolence!” cried the merchant.

“Thanks,” quietly said the beggar.  “And you, Master Samson?”

“’Tis a sweet pretty lass,” said Samson, ruefully; “and pity of her too, but you see a man like me must look to his credit.  I’ll give her twenty marks to help her to a husband, Hal, only let her keep out of my sight for ever and a day.”

“I thought I heard another voice,” said the beggar.  “I trow the third suitor has made off without further ado.”

“Not so, fair Sir,” said a voice close to him, thick and choked with feeling.  “Your daughter is too dear to me for me thus to part, even were mine honour not pledged.”

“Sir knight,” interfered the merchant, “you will get into a desperate coil with your friends.”

“I am my own master,” answered the knight.  “My parents are dead.  I am of age, and, Sir, I offer myself and all that is mine to your fair daughter, as I did at Saint Winifred’s Well, as one bound both by honour and love.”

“It is spoken honourably,” said Hal; “but, Sir, canst thou answer me with her dowry?  Tell down coin for coin.”

He held up a heavy leathern bag.  The knight, who had come prepared, took down another such bag from his saddle-bow.  Down went one silver piece from the knight.  Down went another from the beggar.

“Stay, stay,” cried Samson.  “I can play at that game too.”

“No, no, Master Samson,” said the beggar; “your pretensions are resigned.  Your chance is over.”

Mark after mark—crown after crown—all the Dunster rents; all the old hoards, with queer figures of Saxon kings, lay on the grass, still for each the beggar had rained down its fellow, and inexhaustible seemed the bags that he sat upon.  Samson bit his lips, and the merchant muttered with vexation.  It could not be fairly come by: he must be the president of a den of robbers; it should be looked to.

The last bag of the knight lay thin and exhausted; the beggar clutched one bursting with repletion.

“I could not put the lands and castle of Dunster into a bag and add thereto,” said the knight, at last.  “Would that I could, my sword, my spurs, and knightly blood to boot, and lay them at your daughter’s feet.”

“Let them weigh in the balance,” said the beggar; “and therewith thy truth to thy word.”

“And will you own me?” exclaimed the knight.  “Will you take me to your daughter?”

“Nay, I said not so,” returned Blind Hal.  “I am not in such haste.  Come back on this day week, when I shall have learnt whether thou art worthy to match with my child.”

“Worthy!” John of Dunster chafed and bit his lips at such words from a beggar.

“Ay, worthy,” repeated the beggar, guessing his irritation.  “I like thee well, as a man of thy word, so far, but I must know more of him who is to mate with my pretty Bessee.”

It was that evening that a page entered the royal apartments, and giving a ring to the King, informed him that a blind beggar had sent it in, and entreated to speak with him.

“Pray him to come hither,” said the King; “and lead him carefully.  Thou, Joan, hadst better seek thy mother and sister.”

“O sweet father,” cried Joan, “don’t order me off.  This can be no state business.  Prithee let me hear it.”

“That must be as my guest pleases, Joan,” he answered; “and thou must be very discreet, or we shall have him reproaching me for trying to rule the realm when I cannot rule my own house.”

“Father, I verily think you are afraid of that beggar!  I am sure he is as mysterious as the Queen of the Dew-drops!” cried the mischievous girl.

The curtain over the doorway was drawn back, and the beggar was led into the chamber.  The King advanced to meet him, and took his hand to lead him to a seat.  “Good morrow to thee,” he said; “cousin, I am glad thou art come at last to see me.”

“Thanks, my Lord,” said the beggar, with more of courtly tone than when they had met before, and yet Joan thought she had never seen her father addressed so much as an equal; “are any here present with you?”

“Only my wilful little crusading daughter, Joan,” said Edward, beckoning to her, and putting her proud reluctant fingers into the hand of the beggar, who bent and raised them to his lips—as the fashion then was—while the maiden reddened and looked to her father, but saw him only smiling; “she shall leave us,” he added, “if thy matters are for my private ear.  In what can I aid thee?”

“In this matter of daughters,” answered the beggar; “not that I need aid of yours, but counsel.  I would know if the heir of old Reginald Mohun—John, I think they call him—be a worthy mate for my wench.”

Joan had in the meantime placed herself between her father’s knees, where she stood regarding this wonderful beggar with the most unmitigated astonishment.

“John of Dunster!” said the King, stroking down Joan’s hair, “thou knowst his lineage as well as I, cousin.”

“His lineage, true,” replied Henry; “but look you, my Lord, my child, the light of mine eyes, may not go from me without being assured that it is to one who will, I say, not equal her in birth, but will