The Life And Death Of Richard Yea And Nay Volume 91 by Maurice Hewlett (best books to read all time TXT) 📖

Whole Company, Till

Gaston Of Béarn, More Mad Than Most, Sprang Up, Shouting, "Hail, King Of

The English!" And Better, "Hail, Count Of Anjou!" We All Began On That

Cry; But He Stopped Us With A Poignant Look.

 

'"God Have Mercy On Me: I Am Very Wicked," He Said, And Covered Up His

Face. No One Spoke. Jehane Bent Herself Far Down And Kissed His Foot.

 

'Then He Sent For The Heralds, And In Burst Hugh Puiset, Bishop Of

Durham, With His Flaming Face, Outstripping All The Others And Decency

At Once. By This Time King Richard Had Recovered Himself. He Heard The

Tale Without Moving A Feature, And Gave A Few Short Commands. The First

Was That The Body Of The Dead King Should Be Carried Splendidly To

Fontevrault; And The Next That A Pall Should Be Set Up In His Private

Chapel Here At Poictiers, And Tall Candles Set Lighted About It. So Soon

As This Was Done He Left The Chamber, All Standing, And Went Alone To

The Chapel. He Spent The Night There On His Knees, Himself Only With A

Few Priests. He Neither Sent For Countess Jehane, Nor Did She Presume To

Seek Him. Her Women Tell Me That She Prayed All Night Before A Christ In

Her Bed-Chamber; And Well She Might, With A Queen's Crown In Fair View.

In Two Or Three Days' Time King Richard Pressed Out, Very Early, For

Fontevrault. I Went With Him, And So Did Hugh Of Durham, The Bishop Of

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Poictiers, And The Dauphin Of Auvergne. These, With The Chancellor Of

Poictou, The Household Servants And Guards, Were All We Had With Us. The

Countess Was To Be Ready Upon Word From Him To Go With Her Ladies And

The Court Whithersoever He Should Appoint. Bertran De Born Went Away In

The Night, And King Richard Never Saw Him Again; But I Shall Have To

Speak Of His Last _Tenzon_, And His Last Sirvente Of Kings, By Heaven!

 

'Before He Went King Richard Kissed The Countess Jehane Twice In The

Great Hall. "Farewell, My Queen," He Said Plainly, And, As Some Think,

But Not I, Deliberately. "God Be Thy Good Friend. I Shall See Thee

Before Many Days." If The Man Was Changed Already, She Was Not At All

Changed. She Was Very Grave, But Not Crying, And Put Up Her Face For

His Kisses As Meek As Any Baby. She Said Nothing At All, But Stood

Palely At The Door With Her Women As King Richard Rode Over The Bridge.

 

'For My Part,' He Concludes, 'When I Consider The Youth And Fierce

Untutored Blood Of This Noblest Of His Race; Or When I Remember Their

Terrible Names, Tortulf Forester, And Ingelger, Fulke The Black And

Fulke The Red, And Geoffrey Greygown And Geoffrey The Fair, And That Old

Henry, The Wickedest Of All; Their Deeds Also, How Father Warred Upon

His Sons, And Sons Conspired Against Their Fathers; How They Hated

Righteousness And Loved Iniquity, And Spurned Monks And Priests, And

Revelled In The Shambles They Had Made: Then I Say To Myself, Good Milo,

How Wouldst Thou Have Received Thy Calling To Be King And Sovereign

Count? Wouldst Thou Have Said, As Count John Said, "Lord Christ, Alain,

What Shall We Do?" Or Rather, "God Have Mercy, I Am Very Wicked." It Is

True That Count John Was Not Called To Those Estates, And That King

Richard Was. But I Choose Sooner To Think That Each Was Confronted With

His Dead Father, And Not The Emptied Throne. In Which Case Count John

Thought Of His Safety And King Richard Of His Sin. Such Musing Is A

Windy Business, Suitable To Old Men. But I Suppose That You Who Read Are

Very Young.'

 

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Communing With Himself As He Rode Alone Over The Broomy Downs, King

Richard Reined Up Shortly And Sent Back A Messenger For Milo The Abbot;

So Milo Flogged His Old Mule. Directly He Was Level With His Master,

That Master Spoke In A Quiet Voice, Like One Who Is Prepared For The

Worst: 'Milo, What Should A Man Do Who Has Slain His Own Father? Is

Repentance Possible For Such A One?'

 

Milo Looked Up First At The Blue Sky, Then About At The Earth, All Green

And Gold. He Wrinkled Close His Eyes And Let The Sun Play Upon His Face.

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The Air Was Soft, The Turf Springy Underfoot. He Found It Good To Be

There. 'Sire,' He Said, 'It Is A Hard Matter; Yet There Have Been Worse

Griefs Than That In The World.'

 

'Name One, My Friend,' Says The King, Whose Eyes Were Fixed On The Edge

Of The Hill.

 

Milo Said, 'There Was A Father, My Lord King Richard, Who Slew His Own

Son That The World Might Be The Better. That Was A Terrible Grief, I

Suppose.' The King Was Silent For A Few Paces; Then He Asked--

 

'And Was The World Much The Better?'

 

'Beau Sire,' Replied Milo, 'Not Very Much. But That Was Not God's Fault;

For It Had, And Still Has, The Chance Of Being The Better For It.'

 

'And Do You Dare, Milo,' Said The King, Turning Him A Stern Face, 'Set

My Horrible Offence Beside The Divine Sacrifice?'

 

'Not So, My Lord King,' Said Milo At Large; 'But I Draw This

Distinction. You Are Not So Guilty As You Suppose; For In This World The

Father Maketh The Son, Both In The Way Of Nature And Of Precept. In

Heaven It Is Otherwise. There The Son Was From The Beginning, Co-Eternal

With The Father, Begotten But Not Made. In The Divine Case There Was

Pure Sacrifice, And No Guilt At All. In The Earthly Case There Was Much

Guilt, But As Yet No Sacrifice.'

 

'That Guilt Was Mine, Milo,' Said Richard With A Sob.

 

'Lord, I Think Not,' Answered The Old Priest. 'You Are What Your Fathers

Have Made You. But Now Mark Me Well: In Doing Sacrifice You Can Be Very

Greatly Otherwise. Then If No More Guilt Be Upon You Than Hangs By The

Misfortunes Of Tainted Man, You Can Please Almighty God By Doing What

You Only Among Men Can Do, Wholesome Sacrifice.'

 

'Why, What Sacrifice Shall I Do?' Says The King.

 

Milo Stood Up In His Stirrups, Greatly Exalted In The Spirit.

 

'My Lord,' He Said, 'Behold, It Is For Two Years That You Have Borne The

Sign Of That Sacrifice Upon You, But Yet Have Done Nothing Of It. During

These Years God's Chosen Seat Hath Lain Dishonoured, Become The Wash-Pot

Of The Heathen. The Holy Tree, Stock Beyond Price, Rod Of Grace, Figure

Of Freedom, Is In Bonds. The Sepulchre Is Ensepulchred; Antichrist

Reigns. Lord, Lord,'--Here The Abbot Shook His Lifted Finger,--'How Long

Shall This Be? You Ask Me Of Sin And Sacrifice. Behold The Way.'

 

King Richard Jerked His Head, Then His Horse's. Get Back, Milo, And

Leave Me,' He Said Curtly, Struck In The Spurs, And Galloped Away Over

The Grey Down.

 

The Cavalcade Halted At Thouars, And Lay The Night In A Convent Of The

Order Of Savigny. King Richard Kept Himself To Himself, Ate Little,

Spoke Less. He Prayed Out The Night, Or Most Of It, Kneeling In His

Shirt In The Sanctuary, With His Bare Sword Held Before Him Like A

Cross. Next Morning He Called Up His Household By The First Cock, Had

Them Out On The Road Before The Sun, And Pushed Forward With Such Haste

That It Was One Hour Short Of Noon When They Saw The Great Church Of The

Nuns Of Fontevrault Like A Pile Of Dim Rock In Their Way.

 

At A Mile's Distance From The Walls The King Got Off His Horse, And Bid

His Squires Strip Him. He Ungirt His Sword, Took Off Helm And Circlet,

Cloak, Blazoned Surcoat, The Girdle Of His County. Beggared So Of All

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Emblems Of His Grace, Clad Only In Hauberk Of Steel, Bareheaded, Without

Weapon, And On Foot, He Walked Among His Mounted Men Into The Little

Town Of Fontevrault. That Which He Could Not Do Off, His Sovereign

Inches, Sovereign Eye, Gait Of Mastery, Prevailed Over All Other Robbery

Of His Estate. The People Bent Their Knees As He Passed; Not A

Few--Women With Babies In Their Shawls, Lads And Girls--Caught At His

Hand Or Hauberk's Edge, To Kiss It And Get The Virtue Out Of Him That

Is Known To Reside In A King. When He Came Within Sight Of The Church He

Knelt And Let His Head Sink Down To His Breast. But His Grief Seemed To

Strike Inwards Like A Frost; He Stiffened And Got Up, And Went Forward.

No One Would Have Guessed Him A Penitent Then, Who Saw Him Mount The

Broad Steps To Meet His Brother. Before The Shut Doors Of The Abbey Was

Count John, Very Splendid In A Purple Cloak, His Crown Of A Count Upon

His Yellow Hair. He Stood Like A King Among His Peers, But Flushed And

Restless, Twiddling His Fingers As Kings Do Not Twiddle Theirs.

 

Irresolution Kept Him Where He Was Until Richard Had Topped The First

Flight Of Steps. But Then He Came Down To Meet Him In Too Much Of A

Hurry, Tripping, Blundering The Degrees, Nodding And Poking His Head,

With Hands Stretched Out And Body Bent, Like His Who Supplicates What