Chivalry: Dizain des Reines by James Branch Cabell (top 10 motivational books TXT) 📖

“Catullus might have made of words that seek

With rippling sound, in soft recurrent ways,

The perfect song, or in remoter days

Theocritus have hymned you in glad Greek;

But I am not as they,—and dare not speak

Of you unworthily, and dare not praise

Perfection with imperfect roundelays,

And desecrate the prize I dare to seek.

“I do not woo you, then, by fashioning

Vext analogues ’twixt you and Guenevere,

Nor do I come with agile lips that bring

The sugared periods of a sonneteer,

And bring no more—but just with, lips that cling

To yours, in murmuring, ‘I love you, dear!’”

Richard had resolved that Branwen should believe him. Tinsel, indeed! then here was yet more tinsel which she must receive as gold. He was very angry, because his vanity was hurt, and the pin-prick spurred him to a counterfeit so specious that consciously he gloried in it. He was superb, and she believed him now; there was no questioning the fact, he saw it plainly, and with exultant cruelty; then curt as lightning came the knowledge that what Branwen believed was the truth.

Richard had taken just two strides toward this fair girl. Branwen stayed motionless, her lips a little parted. The affairs of earth and heaven were motionless throughout the moment, attendant, it seemed to him; and to him his whole life was like a wave that trembled now at full height, and he was aware of a new world all made of beauty and of pity. Then the lute fell from his spread out hands, and Richard sighed, and shrugged.

“There is a task set me,” he said—“it is God’s work, I think. But I do not know—I only know that you are very beautiful, Branwen,” he said, and in the name he found a new and piercing loveliness.

And he said also: “Go! For I have loved many women, and, God help me! I know that I have but to wheedle you and you, too, will yield! Yonder is God’s work to be done, and within me rages a commonwealth of devils. Child! child!” he cried, “I am, and ever was, a coward, too timid to face life without reserve, and always I laughed because I was afraid to concede that anything is serious!”

For a long while Richard lay at his ease in the lengthening shadows of the afternoon.

“I love her. She thinks me an elderly imbecile with a flat and reedy singing-voice, and she is perfectly right. She has never even entertained the notion of loving me. That is well, for to-morrow, or, it may be, the day after, we must part forever. I would not have the parting make her sorrowful—or not, at least, too unalterably sorrowful. It is very well that Branwen does not love me.

“Why should she? I am almost twice her age, an aging fellow now, battered and selfish and too indolent to love her—say, as Gwyllem loved her. I did well to kill that Gwyllem. I am profoundly glad I killed him, and I thoroughly enjoyed doing it; but, after all, the man loved her in his fashion, and to the uttermost reach of his gross nature. I love her in a rather more decorous and acceptable fashion, it is true, but only a half of me loves her. The other half of me remembers that I am aging, that Caradawc’s hut is leaky, that, in fine, bodily comfort is the single luxury of which one never tires. I am a very contemptible creature, the empty scabbard of a man, precisely as Owain said.” This settled, Richard whistled to his dog.

The sun had set. There were no shadows anywhere as Richard and his sheep went homeward, but on every side the colors of the world were more sombre. Twice his flock roused a covey of partridges which had settled for the night. The screech-owl had come out of his hole, and bats were already blundering about, and the air was cooling. There was as yet but one star in the green and cloudless heaven, and this was very large, like a beacon: it appeared to him symbolical that he trudged away from this star.

Next morning the Welshmen came, and now the trap was ready for Henry of Lancaster.

It befell just two days later, about noon, that while Richard idly talked with Branwen a party of soldiers, some fifteen in number, rode down the river’s bank from the ford above. Their leader paused, then gave an order. The men drew rein. He cantered forward.

“God give you joy, fair sir,” said Richard, when the cavalier was near him.

The new-comer raised his visor. “God give you eternal joy, my fair cousin,” he said, “and very soon. Now send away this woman before that happens which must happen.”

“Do you plan,” said Richard, “to disfigure the stage of our quiet pastorals with murder?”

“I design my own preservation,” King Henry answered, “for while you live my rule is insecure.”

“I am sorry,” Richard said, “that in part my blood is yours.”

Twice he sounded his horn, and everywhere from rustling underwoods arose the half-naked Welshmen. Said Richard: “You should read history more carefully, Cousin Henry. You might have profited, as I have done, by considering the trick which our grandfather, old Edward Longshanks, played on the French King at Mezelais. As matters stand, your men are one to ten. You are impotent. Now, now we balance our accounts! These persons here will first deal with your followers. Then they will conduct you to Glyndwyr, who has long desired to deal with you himself, in privacy, since that Whit-Monday when you murdered his son.”

The King began, “In mercy, sire—!” and Richard laughed a little, saying:

“That virtue is not overabundant among us of Oriander’s blood, as we both know. No, cousin, Fate and Time are merry jesters. See, now, their latest mockery! You the King of England ride to Sycharth to your death, and I the tender of sheep depart into London, without any hindrance, to reign henceforward over these islands. To-morrow you are worm’s-meat, Cousin Henry: to-morrow, as yesterday, I am King of England.”

Then Branwen gave one sharp, brief cry, and Richard forgot all things saving this girl, and strode to her. He had caught up her hard, lithe hands; against his lips he strained them close and very close.

“Branwen—!” he said. His eyes devoured her.

“Yes, King,” she answered. “O King of England! O fool that I have been to think you less!”

In a while Richard said: “Well, I at least am not fool enough to think of making you a king’s whore. So I must choose between a peasant wench and England. Now I choose, and how gladly! Branwen, help me to be more than King of England!”

Low and very low he spoke, and long and very long he gazed at her, and neither seemed to breathe. Of what she thought I cannot tell you; but in Richard there was no power of thought, only a great wonderment. Why, between this woman’s love and aught else there was no choice for him, he knew upon a sudden. Perhaps he would thus worship her always, he reflected: and then again, perhaps he would be