The Prince and the Page: A Story of the Last Crusade by Charlotte M. Yonge (ebook reader .TXT) 📖

not?  Did not I see the chaplain teaching thee to write at Guildford?”

“Ay—but that was when I was a babe!  Writing!  Why, my father never writes!”

“But the Prince does.  Thou hast seen him write.  Come now,” added Richard: “if thou wilt, I will help thee to write a letter to send thy greetings home to Dunster.  Thy father and mother will be right glad to hear thou hast ’scaped that African fever.”

“They!—They’d think me no better than a French monk!” said John.  “And none of them could read it either!  I’ll never write!  My grandsire only set his cross to the great charter!”

And John retreated—in fear perhaps that Richard would sully his manhood with a writing lesson!

The letter was rolled up in a scroll, bound with a silken thread, and committed to the charge of Sir Raynald Ferrers, who was going shortly to be commandery of his Order at Castel San Giovanni, whence he had no doubt of being able to send the letter safely to Sir Robert Darcy, at the Grand Priory.

It would perhaps have been more expeditious to have intrusted the letter to one of the suite of Prince Henry of Almayne, who had been recalled by the tidings of the state of his father’s health; but Richard dreaded betraying his brother’s secret too much to venture on confiding the missive to any of this party—none of whom were indeed likely to wish to oblige him.  Hamlyn de Valence was going with Henry as his esquire; and his absence seemed to Richard like the beginning of better days.

CHAPTER IX
ASH WEDNESDAY

“Mostrocci un ombra da l’ un canto sola
Dicendo ‘Colui feese in grembo a Dio
Lo cuor che’n su Tamigi ancor si cola.’”

Dante.  Inferno.

Shrovetide had come, and the Prince had, before leaving Trapani, been taking some share in the entertainments of the Carnival.  Personally, his grave reserve made gaieties distasteful to him; and the disastrous commencement of the Crusade weighed on his spirits.  But when state and show were necessary, he provided for them with royal bounty and magnificence, and caused them to be regulated with the admirable taste of that age of exceeding beauty in which he lived.

Thus, in this festal season, banquets were provided, and military shows took place, for the benefit of the Sicilian nobility and of the citizens of Trapani, on such a scale, that the English rose high in general esteem; and many were the secret wishes that Edmund of Lancaster rather than Charles of Anjou had been able to make good the grant from the Pope.

Splendid were the displays, and no slight toil did they involve on the part of the immediate train of the Prince, few in number as they were, and destitute of the appliances of the resident court.  Richard hurrying hither and thither, and waiting upon every one, had little of the diversion of the affair; but he would willingly have taken treble the care and toil in the relief it was to be free from the prying mistrustful eyes of Hamlyn de Valence.  Looking after little John of Dunster was, however, no small part of his trouble; the urchin was so certain to get into some mischief if left to himself—now treading on a lady’s train, now upsetting a flagon of wine, now nearly impaling himself upon the point of a whole spitful of ortolans that were being handed round to the company, now becoming uncivilly deaf upon his French ear.  Altogether, it was a relief to Richard’s mind when he stumbled upon the little fellow fast asleep, even though it was in the middle of the Princess’s violet velvet and ermine mantle, which she had laid down in order to tread a stately measure with Sire Guillaume de Porçeles.

After all Richard’s exertions that evening, it was no wonder that the morning found him fast asleep at the unexampled hour of eight!  His wakening was a strange one.  His little fellow-page was standing beside him with a strange frightened yet important air.

“What is the matter, John?  It is late?  Is the Prince gone to Mass?  Has he missed me?” cried Richard, starting up in dismay, for unpunctuality was a great offence with Edward.

“He is gone to Mass,” said John, “but, before he comes back,” he came near and lowered his voice, “Hob Longbow sent me to say you had better flee.”

“Flee!  Boy, why should I flee?  Are your senses fleeing?”

“O Richard,” cried John, his face clearing up, “then it is not true!  You are not one of the traitor Montforts!”

“If I were a hundred Montforts, what has that to do with it?”

“Then all is well,” exclaimed the boy.  “I said you were no such thing!  I’ll tell Hob he lied in his throat.”

“If he said I was a traitor, verily he did; but as to being a Montfort—But, how now, John, what means all this?”

“Then it is so!  O Richard, Richard, you cannot be one of them!  You cannot have written that letter to warn them to murder Prince Henry.”

“To murder Prince Henry!” Richard stood transfixed.  “Not the Prince’s little son!”

“Oh no, Prince Henry of Almayne!  At Viterbo!  Hamlyn de Valence saw it.  He is come back.  It was in the Cathedral.  O Richard—at the elevation of the Host!  Guy and Simon de Montfort fell on him, stabbed him to the heart, and rushed out.  Then they came back again, and dragged him by the hair of his head into the mire, and shouted that so their father had been dragged through the streets of Evesham.  And then they went off to the Maremma!  And,” continued the boy breathlessly, “Hob Long-bow is on guard, and he bade me tell you, that for love of your father he will let you pass; and then you can hide; if only you can go ere the Prince comes forth.”

“Hide!  Wherefore should I hide?  This is most horrible, but it is no deed of mine!” said Richard.  “Who dares to think it is?”

“Then you are none of them!  You had no part in it!  I shall tell Hob he is a villain—”

“Stay,” said Richard, laying a detaining hand on the boy.  “Why does Hob think me in danger?  Is anything stirring against me?”

“They all—all of poor Prince Henry’s meiné, that are come back with Hamlyn—say that you are a Montfort too, and—oh! do not look so fierce!—that you sent a letter to warn your brethren where to meet, and fall on the Prince.  And the murderers being fled, they are keen to have your life; and, Richard, you know I saw you write the letter.”

“That you saw me write a letter, is as certain as that my name is Montfort,” said Richard, “but I am not therefore leagued with traitors or murderers!  In the church, saidst thou?  Oh, well that the Prince forbade me to visit Guy!”

“Then you will not flee?”

“No, forsooth.  I will stay and prove my innocence.”

“But you are a Montfort!  And I saw you write the letter.”

“Did you speak of my having written the letter?” asked Richard, pausing.

The boy hung his head, and muttered something about Dame Idonea.

By this time, even if Richard had thought of flight, it would have been impossible.  Two archers made their presence apparent at the entrance of the tent, and in brief gruff tones informed Richard that the Prince required his presence.  The space between his tent and the royal pavilion was short, but in those few steps Richard had time to glance over the dangers of his position, and take up his resolution though with a certain stunned sense that nothing could be before the member of a proscribed family, but failure, suspicion, and ruin.

The two brothers, Edward and Edmund, with the Earl of Gloucester, and their other chief councillors, were assembled; and there were looks of deep concern on the faces of all, making Edward’s more than ever like a rigid marble statue; while Edmund had evidently been weeping bitterly, though his features were full of fierce indignation.  Hamlyn de Valence, and a few other members of the murdered Prince’s suite, stood near in deep mourning suits.

“Richard de Montfort,” said Prince Edward, looking at him with a sorrowful reproachful sternness that went to his heart, “we have sent for you to answer for yourself, on a grave charge.  You have heard of that which has befallen?”

“I have heard, my Lord, of a foul crime which my soul abhors.  I trust none present here think me capable of sharing in it!  Whoever dares to accuse me, shall be answered by my sword!” and he glanced fiercely at Hamlyn.

“Hold!” said Edward severely, “no one is so senseless as to accuse you of taking actual part in a crime that took place beyond the sea; but there is only too much reason to believe that you have been tampered with by your brothers.”

Then, as his brother Edmund made some suggestion to him, he added, “Is John de Mohun of Dunster here?”

“Yea, my Lord,” said the little boy, coming forward, with a flush on his face, and a bold though wistful look, “but verily Richard is no traitor, be he who he may!”

“That is not what we wished to ask of you,” said the Prince, too sad and earnest to be amused even for a moment.  “Tell us whom you said, even now, you had seen in the tent you shared with him in Africa.”

“I said I had seen his wraith,” said John.

No smile lighted upon the Prince’s features; they were as serious as those of the boy, as he commented, “His likeness—his exact likeness—you mean.”

“Ay,” said the boy; “but Richard proved to me after, that it had been less tall, and was bearded likewise.  So I hoped it did not bode him ill.”

“Worse, I fear, than if it had in sooth been his double,” said Gloucester to Prince Edmund.  The Prince added the question whether this visitor had spoken; and John related the inquiry for Richard by the name of Montfort, and his own reply, which elicited a murmur of amused applause among the bystanders.

The Prince, however, continued in the same grave manner to draw from the little witness his account of Richard’s injunction to secresy; and then asked about the letter-writing, of which John gave his plain account.  The Prince then said, “Speak now, Hamlyn.”

“This, then, I have to add, my Lord, that I, as all the world, remarked that Richard de Montfort consorted much with Sir Reginald de Ferrières, who, as we all remember, is the son of a family deeply concerned in the Mad Parliament.  By Sir Reginald, on his arrival at Castel San Giovanni, a messenger is despatched, bearing letters to the Hospital at Florence, and it is immediately after his arrival there, that the two Montforts speed from the Maremma to the unhappy and bloody Mass at Viterbo.”

“You hear, Richard!” said the Prince.  “I bade you choose between me and your brothers.  Had you believed me that you could not serve both, it had been better for you.  I credit not that you incited them to the assassination; but your tidings led them to perpetrate it.  I cannot retain the spy of the Montforts in my camp.”

“My Lord,” said Richard, at last finding space for speech, “I deny all collusion with my brothers.  I have neither seen, spoken with, nor sent to them by letter nor word.”

“Then to whom was this letter?” demanded the Prince.

“To Sir Robert Darcy, the Grand Prior of England,” answered Richard.

A murmur of incredulous amazement was heard.

“The purport?” continued Edward.

“That, my Lord, it consorts not with my duty to tell.”

“Look here, Richard,” interposed Gilbert of Gloucester, “this is an unlikely tale.  You can have no cause for secresy, save in connection with these brothers; and if you will point to some way of clearing yourself of being art and part in this foul act of murder, you may be sent scot free from the camp; but if you wilfully maintain this denial, what can we do but treat you as a traitor?  No obstinacy!  What can a lad like you have to say to good old Sir Robert Darcy, that all the world might not know?”

“My Lord of Gloucester,” said Richard, “I am bound in honour not to reveal the matters between me and Sir Robert; I can only declare on the faith of a Christian gentleman that I have neither had, nor attempted to have, any dealings with either of my brothers, Guy or Simon; and if any man says I have, I will prove his falsehood on his body.”  And Richard flung down his glove before the Prince.

At the same moment Hamlyn de Valence sprang forward.

“Then, Richard de Montfort, I take up the gage.  I give thee the lie in thy throat, and will prove on thy body that thou art a man-sworn traitor, in league with thy false brethren.”

“I commit me to the judgment of God,” said Richard, looking upwards.

“My Lord,” said Hamlyn, “have we your permission to fight out the matter?”

“You have,” said Edward, “since to that holy judgment Richard hath appealed.”

But the Prince looked far from contented with the appeal.  He allowed the preliminaries of place and time to be fixed