The Caged Lion by Charlotte M. Yonge (readict .txt) 📖

to tell the story of her exchange for a freight of gold and spices, only the ship sailed from Denmark,’

‘Maybe,’ said Henry; ‘but I would maintain the truth of Whittington’s cat with my lance, and would gladly have no worse cause!  You’ll see his cat painted beside him in the Guild Hall, and may hear the tale from him, as I loved to hear him when I was a lad.

“Turn again, Whittington,
Thrice Lord Mayor of London town!”

I told my good old friend I must have come over from France on purpose to keep his third mayoralty.  So I am for the City on Thursday; and whoever loves good wine, good sturgeon, good gold, or good men, had best come with me.’

Such inducements were not to be neglected, and though Queen Catherine minced and bridled, and apologized to Duchess Jaqueline for her husband’s taste for low company, neither princess wished to forego the chance of amusement; and a brilliant cavalcade set forth in full order of precedence.  The King and Queen were first; then, to his great disgust, the King of Scots, with Duchess Jaqueline; Bedford, with Lady Somerset; Gloucester, with the Countess of March; the Duke of Orleans, with the Countess of Exeter; and Malcolm of Glenuskie found himself paired off with his sovereign’s lady-love, Joan Beaufort, and a good deal overawed by the tall horned tower that crowned her flaxen locks, as well as by knowing that her uncle, the Bishop of Winchester, the stateliest, stiffest, and most unapproachable person in all the Court, was riding just behind him, beside the Demoiselle de Luxemburg.

Temple Bar was closed, and there was a flourish of trumpets and a parley ere the gate was flung open to admit the royal guests; but Malcolm, in his place, could not see the aldermen on horseback, in their robes of scarlet and white, drawn up to receive the King.  All that way up Holborn, every house was hung with tapestry, and the citizens formed a gorgeously-apparelled lane, shouting in unison, their greetings attuned to bursts of music from trumpets and nakers.

Beautiful old St. Paul’s, with the exquisite cross for open-air preaching in front, rose on their view; and before the lofty west door the princely guests dismounted, each gentleman leading his lady up the nave to the seat prepared in such manner that he might be opposite to her.  The clergy lined the stalls, and a magnificent mass was sung, and was concluded by the advance of the King to the altar step, followed by a fine old man in scarlet robes bordered with white fur, the collar of SS. round his neck, and his silvery hair and lofty brow crowning a face as sagacious as it was dignified and benevolent.

It seemed a reversal of the ordinary ceremonial when the slender agile young man took in hand the sword, and laid the honour of knighthood on the gray-headed substantial senior, whom he bade to arise Sir Richard Whittington.  Jaqueline of Hainault had the bad taste to glance across to Humfrey and titter, but the Duke valued popularity among the citizens, and would not catch her eye; and in the line behind the royal ladies there was a sweet elderly face, beautiful, though time-worn, with blue eyes misty with proud glad tears, and a mouth trembling with tender exultation.

After the ceremony was concluded, King Henry offered his hand to the Lady Mayoress, Dame Alice Whittington, making her bright tears drop in glad confusion at his frank, hearty congratulation and warm praise of her husband; and though the fair Catherine could have shuddered when Sir Richard advanced to lead her, she was too royal to compromise her dignity by visible scorn, and she soon found that the merchant could speak much better French than most of the nobles.

Malcolm felt as averse as did the French princesses to burgher wealth and splendour, and his mind had not opened to understand burgher worth and weight; and when he saw the princes John and Humfrey, and even his own king, seeking out city dames and accosting them with friendly looks, it seemed to him a degrading truckling to riches, from which he was anxious to save his future queen; but when he would have offered his arm to Lady Joan, he saw her already being led away by an alderman measuring at least a yard across the shoulders; and the good-natured Earl of March, seeing him at a loss, presented him to a round merry wife in a scarlet petticoat and black boddice, its plump curves wreathed with geld chains, who began pitying him for having been sent to the wars so young, being, as usual, charmed into pity by his soft appealing eyes and unconscious grace; would not believe his assertions that he was neither a captive nor a Frenchman;—‘don’t tell her, when he spoke like a stranger, and halted from a wound.’

Colouring to the ears, he explained that he had never walked otherwise; whereupon her pity redoubled, and she by turns advised him to consult Master Doctor Caius, and to obtain a recipe from Mistress—she meant Dame—Alice Whittington, the kindest soul living, and, Lady Mayoress as she was, with no more pride than the meanest scullion.  Pity she had no child—yet scarce pity either, since she and the good Lord Mayor were father and mother to all orphans and destitute—nay, to all who had any care on their minds.

Malcolm was in extreme alarm lest he should be walked up to the Lady Mayoress for inspection before all the world when they entered the Guild Hall, a building of grand proportions, which, as good Mistress Bolt informed him, had lately been paved and glazed at Sir Richard Whittington’s own expense.  The bright new red and yellow tiles, and the stained glass of the tall windows high up, as well as the panels of the wainscot, were embellished with trade-marks and the armorial bearings of the guilds; and the long tables, hung with snowy napery, groaned with gold and silver plate, such as, the Duke of Orleans observed to Catherine, no citizens would dare exhibit in France to any prince or noble, at peril of being mulcted of all, with or without excuse.

On an open hearth beneath the louvre, or opening for smoke, burnt a fire diffusing all around an incense-like fragrance, from the logs, composed of cinnamon and other choice woods and spices, that fed the flame.  The odour and the warmth on a bleak day of May were alike delicious; and King Henry, after heading Dame Alice up to it, stood warming his hands and extolling the choice scent, adding: ‘You spoil us, Sir Richard.  How are we to go back to the smoke of wood and peat, and fires puffed with our own mouths, after such pampering as this—the costliest fire I have seen in the two realms?’

‘It shall be choicer yet, Sir,’ said Sir Richard Whittington, who had just handed the Queen to her seat.

‘Scarce possible,’ replied Henry, ‘unless I threw in my crown, and that I cannot afford.  I shall be pawning it ere long.’

Instead of answering, the Lord Mayor quietly put his hand into his furred pouch, and drawing out a bundle of parchments tied with a ribbon, held them towards the King, with a grave smile.

‘Lo you now, Sir Richard,’ said Henry, with a playful face of disgust; ‘this is to save your dainty meats, by spoiling my appetite by that unwelcome sight.  What, man! have you bought up all the bonds I gave in my need to a whole synagogue of Jews and bench of Loin-bards?  I shall have to send for my crown before you let me go; though verily,’ he added, with frank, open face, ‘I’m better off with a good friend like you for my creditor—only I’m sorry for you, Sir Richard.  I fear it will be long ere you see your good gold in the stead of your dirty paper, even though I gave you an order on the tolls.  How now!  What, man, Dick Whittington!  Art raving?  Here, the tongs!’

For Sir Richard, gently smiling, had placed the bundle of bonds on the glowing bed of embers.

Henry, even while calling for the tongs, was raking them out with his sword, and would have grasped them in his hand in a moment, but the Lord Mayor caught his arm.

‘Pardon, my lord, and grant your new knight’s boon.’

‘When he is not moon-struck!’ said Henry, still guarding the documents.  ‘Why, my Lady Mayoress, know you what is here?’

‘Sixty thousand, my liege,’ composedly answered Dame Alice.  ‘My husband hath his whims, and I pray your Grace not to hinder what he hath so long been preparing.’

‘Yea, Sir,’ added Whittington, earnestly.  ‘You wot that God hath prospered us richly.  We have no child, and our nephews are well endowed.  How, then, can our goods belong to any save God, our king, and the poor?’

Henry drew one hand over his eyes, and with the other wrung that of Whittington.  ‘Had ever king such a subject?’ he murmured.

‘Had ever subject such a king?’ was Whittington’s return.

‘Thou hast conquered, Whittington,’ said the King, presently looking up with a sunny smile.  ‘To send me over the seas a free man, beholden to you in heart though not by purse, is, as I well believe, worth all that sum to thy loyal heart.  Thou art setting me far on my way to Jerusalem, my dear friend!  Thank him, Kate—he hath done much for thine husband!’

Catherine looked amiable, and held out a white hand to be kissed, aware that the King was pleased, though hardly understanding why he should be glad that an odour of singed parchment should overpower the gums and cinnamon.  This was soon remedied by the fresh handful of spices that were cast into the flame, and the banquet began, magnificent with peacocks, cranes, and swans in full plumage; the tusky bear crunched his apple, deer’s antlers adorned the haunch, the royal sturgeon floated in wine, fountains of perfumed waters sprang up from shells, towers of pastry and of jelly presented the endless allegorical devices of mediæval fancy, and, pre-eminent over all, a figure of the cat, with emerald eyes, fulfilled, as Henry said, the proverb, ‘A cat might look at a king;’ and truly the cat and her master had earned the right; therefore his first toast was, ‘To the Cat!’

Each guest found at his or her place a beautiful fragrant pair of gloves, in Spanish leather, on the back of which was once more embroidered, in all her tabby charms, the cat’s face.  Therewith began a lengthy meal; and Malcolm Stewart rejoiced at finding himself seated next to the Lady Esclairmonde, but he grudged her attention to her companion, a slender, dark, thoughtful representative of the Goldsmiths’ Company, to whom she talked with courtesy such as Malcolm had scorned to show his city dame.

‘Who,’ said Esclairmonde, presently, ‘was a dame in a religious garb whom I marked near the door here?  She hooked like one of the Béguines of my own country.’

‘We have no such order here, lady,’ said the goldsmiths, puzzled.

‘Hey, Master Price,’ cried Mistress Bolt, speaking across Malcolm, ‘I can tell the lady who it was.  ’Twas good Sister Avice Rodney, to whom the Lady Mayoress promised some of these curious cooling drinks for the poor shipwright who hath well-nigh cloven off his own foot with his axe.’

‘Yea, truly,’ returned the goldsmith; ‘it must have been one of the bedeswomen of St. Katharine’s whom the lady has seen.’

‘What order may that be?’ asked Esclairmonde.  ‘I have seen nothing so like my own country since I came hither.’

‘That may well be, madam,’ said Mistress Belt, ‘seeing that these bedeswomen were first instituted by a countrywoman of your own—Queen Philippa, of blessed memory.’

‘By your leave, Mistress Bolt,’ interposed Master Price, ‘the hospital of St. Katharine by the Tower is of far older foundation.’

‘By your leave, sir, I know what I say.  The hospital was founded I know not when, but these bedeswomen were especially added by the good Queen, by the same token that mine aunt Cis, who was tirewoman to the blessed Lady Joan, was one of the first.’

‘How was it?  What is their office?’ eagerly inquired Esclairmonde.  And Mistress Bolt arranged herself for a long discourse.

‘Well, fair sirs and sweet lady, though you be younger than I, you have surely heard of the Black Death.  Well named was it, for never was pestilence more dire; and the venom was so strong, that the very lips and eyelids grew livid black, and then there was no hope.  Little thought of such disease was there, I trow, in kings’ houses, and all the fair young lords and ladies, the children of King Edward, as then was, were full of sport and gamesomeness as you see these dukes be now.  And never a one was blither than the Lady Joan—she they called Joan of the Tower, being a true Londoner born—bless her!  My aunt Cis would talk by the