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

Saint-Pol Beat Out To

Paris.

 

But Jehane Remained At Saint-Pol-La-Marche, Praying Much, Going Little

Abroad, Seeing Few Persons. Then Came (Since Rumour Is A Gadabout) Sir

Gilles De Gurdun, As She Knew He Would, And Knelt Before Her, And Kissed

Her Hand. Gilles Was A Square-Shouldered, Thick-Set Youth Of The Black

Norman Sort, Ruddy, Strong-Jawed, Small-Eyed, Low In The Brow,

Bullet-Headed. He Was No Taller Than She, Looked Shorter, And Had

Nothing To Say. He Had Loved Her Since The Time When She Was An

Overgrown Girl Of Twelve Years, And He A Squire About Her Father's House

Learning Mannishness. The King Of England Had Dubbed Him A Knight, But

She Had Made Him A Man. She Knew Him To Be A Good One; As Dull As A

Mud-Flat, But Honest, Wholesome, And Of Decent Estate. In A Moment,

When He Was Come Again, She Saw That He Was A Long Lover Who Would Treat

Her Well.

 

'God Help Me, And Him Also,' She Thought; 'It May Be That I Shall Need

Him Before Long.'

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At Evreux, Across The Heath, Count Richard Found His Company: The

Viscount Adhémar Of Limoges (Called For The Present The Good Viscount),

The Count Of Perigord, Sir Gaston Of Béarn (Who Really Loved Him), The

Bishop Of Castres, And The Monk Of Montauban (A Singing-Bird); Some

Dozen Of Knights With Their Esquires, Pages, And Men-At-Arms. He Waited

Two Days There For Abbot Milo To Come Up With Last News Of Jehane; Then

At The Head Of Sixty Spears He Rode Fleetly Over The Marshes Towards

Louviers. After His First, 'You Are Well Met, My Lords,' He Had Said

Very Little, Showing A Cold Humour; After A Colloquy With Milo, Which He

Had Before He Left His Bed, He Said Nothing At All. Alone, As Became One

Of His Race, He Rode Ahead Of His Force; Not Even The Chirping Monk (Who

Remembered His Brother Henry And Often Sighed For Him) Cared To Risk A

Shot From His Strong Eyes. They Were Like Blue Stones, Full Of The Cold

Glitter Of Their Fire. It Was At Times Like This, When A Man Stands

Naked Confronting His Purpose, That One Saw The Hag Riding On The Back

Of Anjou.

 

He Was Not Thinking Of It Now, But The Truth Is That There Had Hardly

Been A Time In His Short Life When He Had Not Been His Father's Open

Enemy. He Could Have Told You That It Had Not Been Always His Fault,

Though He Would Never Have Told You. But I Say That What He, A Youth Of

Thirty, Had Made Of His Inheritance Was As Nothing To That Elder's

Wasting Of His. In Moments Of Hot Rage Richard Knew This, And Justified

Himself; But The Melting Hour Came Again When He Heaped All Reproach

Upon Himself, Believing That But For Such And Such He Might Have Loved

This Rooted, Terrible Old Man Who Assuredly Loved Not Him. Richard Was

Neither Mule Nor Jade; He Was Open To Persuasion On Two Sides.

Compunction Was One: You Could Touch Him On The Heart And Bring Him

Weeping To His Knees; Affection Was Another: If He Loved The Petitioner

He Yielded Handsomely. Now, This Time It Was Jehane And Not His

Conscience Which Had Sent Him To Louviers. First Of All Jehane Had

Pleaded The Sepulchre, His Old Father, Filial Obedience, And He Had

Laughed At The Sweet Fool. But When She, Grown Wiser, Urged Him To

Pleasure Her By Treading On The Heart She Had Given Him, He Could Not

Deny Her. He Was Converted, Not Convinced. So He Rode Alone, Three

Hundred Yards From His Lieges, Reasoning Out How He Could Preserve His

Honour And Yet Yield. The More He Thought The Less He Liked It, But All

The More He Felt Necessity At His Throat. And, As Always With Him, When

He Thought He Seemed As If Turned To Stone. 'One Way Or Another,' Milo

Tells Us, 'Every Man Of The House Of Anjou Had His Unapproachable Side,

So Accustomed Were They To The Fortress-Life.'

 

A Broad Plain, Watered By Many Rivers, Showed The Towers Of Louviers And

Red Roofs Cinctured By The Greatest Of Them; Short Of The Walls Were

The Ranked White Tents, Columned Smoke, Waggons, With Men And Horses, As

Purposeless, Little, And Busy As A Swarm Of Bees. In The Midst Of This

Array Was A Red Pavilion With A Standard At The Side, Too Heavy For The

Wind. All Was Set In The Clear Sunless Air Of An Autumn Day In Normandy;

The Hour, One Short Of Noon. Richard Reined Up For His Company, On A

Little Hill.

 

'The Powers Of England, My Lords,' He Said, Pointing With His Hand. All

Stayed Beside Him. Gaston Of Béarn Tweaked His Black Beard.

 

'Let Us Be Done With The Business, Richard,' Said This Knight, 'Before

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The Irons Can Get Out.'

 

'What!' Cried The Count, 'Shall A Father Smite His Son?' No One

Answered: In A Moment He Was Ashamed Of Himself. 'Before God,' He Said,

'I Mean No Impiety. I Will Do What I Have Undertaken As Gently As May

Be. Come, Gentlemen.' He Rode On.

 

The Camp Was Defended By Fosse And Bridge. At The Barbican All The

Aquitanians Except Richard Dismounted, And All Stayed About Him While A

Herald Went Forward To Tell The King Who Was Come In. The King Knew Very

Well Who It Was, But Chose Not To Know It; He Kept The Herald Long

Enough To Make His Visitors Chafe, Then Sent Word That The Count Of

Poictou Would Be Received, But Alone. Claiming His Right To Ride In,

Richard Followed The Heralds At A Foot's Pace, Alone, Ungreeted By Any.

At The Mount Of The Standard He Got Off His Horse, Found The Ushers Of

The King's Door, And Went Swiftly To The Entry Of The Pavilion (Which

They Held Open For Him), As Though, Like Some Forest Beast, He Saw His

Prey. There In The Entry He Stiffened Suddenly, And Stiffly Went Down On

His Two Knees. Midway Of The Great Tent, Square And Rugged Before Him,

With Working Jaws And Restless Little Fired Eyes, Sat The Old King His

Father, Hands On Knees, Between Them A Long Bare Sword. Beside Him Was

His Son John, Thin And Flushed, And About, A Circle Of Peers: Two

Bishops In Purple, A Pock-Marked Monk Of Cluny, Bohun, Grantmesnil,

Drago De Merlou, And A Few More. On The Ground Was A Secretary Biting

His Pen.

 

The King Looked His Best On A Throne, For His Upper Part Was His Best.

It Was, At Least, The Mannish Part. With Scanty Red Hair Much Rubbed

Into Disorder, A Seamed Red Face, Blotched And Shining; With A Square

Jaw Awry, The Neck And Shoulders Of A Bull; With Gnarled Gross Hands At

The End Of Arms Long Out Of Measure, A Cruel Mouth And A Nose Like A

Bird's Beak--His Features Seemed To Have Been Hacked Coarsely Out Of

Wood And As Coarsely Painted; But What Might Have Passed By Such Means

For A Man Was Transformed By His Burning Eyes, With Their Fuel Of Pain,

Into The Similitude Of A Fallen Angel. The Devil Of Anjou Sat Eating

King Henry's Eyes, And You Saw Him At His Meal. It Gave The Man The Look

Of A Wild Boar Easing His Tusks Against A Tree, Horrible, Yet Content To

Be Abhorred, Splendid, Because So Strong And Lonely. But The Prospect

Was Not Comfortable. Little As He Knew Of His Father, Richard Could Make

No Mistake Here. The Old King Was In A Picksome Mood, Fretted By Rage:

Angry That His Son Should Kneel There, More Than Angry That He Had Not

Knelt Before.

 

The Play Began, Like A Farce. The King Affected Not To See Him, Let Him

Kneel On. Richard Did Kneel On, As Stiff As A Rod. The King Talked With

Obscene Jocosity, Every Snap Betraying His Humour, To Prince John; He

Scandalised Even His Bishops, He Abashed Even His Barons. He Infinitely

Degraded Himself, Yet Seemed To Wallow In Disgrace. So Richard's Gorge

(A Tender Organ) Rose To Hear Him. 'God, What Wast Thou About, To Let

Such A Hog Be Made?' He Muttered, Loud Enough For At Least Three People

To Hear. The King Heard It And Was Pleased; The Prince Heard It, And

With A Scared Eye Perceived That Bohun Had Heard It. The King Went

Grating On, John Fidgeted; Bohun, Greatly Daring, Whispered In His

Master's Ear.

 

The King Replied With A Roar Which All The Camp Might Have Heard. 'Ha!

Sacred Face, Let Him Kneel, Bohun. That Is A New Custom For Him, Useful

Science For A Man Of His Trade. All Men Of The Sword Come To It Sooner

Or Later--Sooner Or Later, By God!'

 

Hereupon Richard, Very Deliberately, Rose To His Feet And Stepped

Forward To The Throne. His Great Height Was A Crowning Abomination. The

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'What Now, Sir?' He Said.

 

'Later For Me, Sire, If Kneeling Is To Be Done By Soldiers,' Said

Richard. The King Controlled Himself By Swallowing.

 

'And Yet, Richard,' He Said, Dry As Dust, 'And Yet, Richard, You Have

Knelt To The French Lad Soon Enough.'

 

'To My Liege-Lord, Sire? Yes, It Is True.'

 

'He Is Not Your Liege-Lord, Man,' Roared The King. 'I Am Your

Liege-Lord, By Heaven. I Gave And I Can Take Away. Heed Me Now.'

 

'Fair Sire,' Says Richard, 'Observe That I Have Knelt To You. I Am Not

Here For Any Other Reason, And Least Of All To Try Conclusions Of The

Voice. I Have Come Out Of My Lands With My Company To Give You

Obedience. Be Sure That They, On Their Part, Will Pay You Proper Honour

(As I Do) If You Will Let Them.'

 

'You Come From Lands I Have Given You, As Henry Came, As Geoffrey Came,

To Defy Me,' Said The Old Man, Trembling In His Chair. 'What Is Your

Obedience Worth When I Have Measured Theirs: Henry's Obedience!

Geoffrey's Obedience! Pish, Man, What Words You Use.' He Got Up And

Stamped About The Tent Like An Irritable Dwarf, Crook-Legged And

Long-Armed, Pricked, Maddened At Every Point. 'And You Tell Me Of Your

Men,