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

The Prince reared his stately form, and said, “The judgment of Heaven is final.  Richard de Montfort is pronounced free of all penalty for treason in the matter of the death of our dear cousin, and is free to go where he will.”

Cold as ice was the Prince’s face.  That Richard meant murder to Henry, he had never believed; but that he had hankered after his brothers, and held dangerous communings with them, was evidently still credited and unforgiven.  The very form of words was a dismissal—and the youth’s heart was wrung.

He stood, looking earnestly up as the Prince moved from his place, without a glance towards him.  The next moment Raynald’s kind hand was on his shoulder, and his voice saying, “Well fought, brother, a brave stroke!  Come with me, thou art hurt.”

“Would it were to the death!” murmured Richard dreamily, as Raynald, throwing his arm round him, led him away; but before they had reached the tent there was a plunging rush and scampering behind them, and John of Dunster came dashing up.  “I knew it!  I knew it!” he cried.  “I knew he would overset spiteful Hamlyn!  Hurrah!  They can’t keep me away now, Richard—now the judgment of Heaven has gone for you!”

Richard smiled, and put his gauntleted hand caressingly on the boy’s shoulder.

“I was afraid,” added John, “that you would think me like the rest of them.  Miscreants, all!  Not one would shout for you—you, the victor!  They don’t heed the judgment of Heaven one jot.  And that’s what they call being warriors of the Cross!  If the Prince were a true-born Englishman, he would be ashamed of himself.  But never heed, Richard.  Why don’t you speak to me?  Are you angered that I told of the letter?  Indeed, I never guessed—”

“Hush, varlet,” said Sir Raynald, “see you not that he has neither breath nor voice to speak?  If you wish to do him a service, hie to our tents—down yonder, to the east, where you see the eight-pointed cross—”

“I know, Sir,” said John, perfectly civil on hearing accents as English as his own.

“And bring up Brother Bartlemy, he is a better infirmarer than I.  Bid him from me bring his salves and bandages.”

Richard was barely conscious when he reached the tent, as much from rigid fasting and sleeplessness as from the actual loss of blood.  His friend disarmed him tenderly, and revived him with bread and wine, silencing a half-murmured scruple about Lenten diet with the dispensation due to sickness.  The wound was not likely to be serious or disabling, and the cares of the Hospitalier and his infirmarer had presently set their patient so much at ease that he dropped into a sound sleep, having scarcely said a word, beyond a few faintly uttered thanks, since he had fought the combat.

At first his sleep was profound, but by and by the associations of blows and wounds carried him back to the field of Evesham.  The wild mêlée was renewed, he heard the voice of his father, but always in that strange distressing manner peculiar to dreams of the departed, always far away, and just beyond his reach, ever just about to give him the succour he needed, but ever withheld.  The thunderstorm that broke over the contending armies roared again in his ears; and then again recurred the calm still night, when he had lain helpless on the battle-field; even the caress of Leonillo, and his low growl, were vividly repeated; but as the dog moved, it was to Richard as if the form of his father rose up in its armour from the dark field, and said in a deep hollow voice, “Well fought, my son; I will give thee knighthood.”  Then Richard thought he was kneeling before his father, and hearing that same voice saying, “My son, be true and loyal.  In the name of God and St. James.  I dub thee knight of death!” and looking up, he beheld under the helmet, not Simon de Montfort’s face but the Prince’s.  He awoke with a start of disappointment—and there stood Edward himself, leaning against the tent-pole, looking down at him!

He sprang on his feet, scarcely knowing whether he slept or woke; but Edward said, in that voice that at times was so ineffably sweet, “Be still, Richard; I fear me thou hast suffered a wrong, and I am come to repair it, as far as I can!  Lay thee down again.”

And the Prince seated himself on the oaken chest; while Richard, after a few words, sat down on his couch.

“Is this the letter about which there has been such a coil?” said Edward, giving him the scroll in its sepia ink.

“It is!” replied Richard in amazement and dismay.

“The only letter thou didst write?”

“The only one,” repeated Richard.

“And,” added Edward, “it concerns thy brother Henry.”

Richard turned even paler than before, and could not suppress a gasp of dismay.  “My Lord, make me not forsworn!”

“Listen to me, Richard,” said Edward.  “My sweet lady gave me no rest about thee.  She held that I had withdrawn my trust over lightly, for what was no blame to thine heart; and that having set thee here apart from thy natural friends, we owed thee more notice than I have been wont to think wholesome for untried striplings.  Others, and I among them, held that Raynald Ferrers’ friendship and countenance showed thee stubbornly set on old connections, and many thought the letter to the Grand Prior Darcy a mere excuse.  But when Hamlyn fell, and I still held that thou wert merely cleared from wilful share in the deadly crime of which I had never held thee guilty, then she spake more earnestly.  She of her own will sent for Raynald Ferrers to our tent, and called me to speak with him, sure that, even though his family had been our foes, he was too honourable a knight to have espoused thy cause without good reason.  Then it was that he told us of thine interest for the blind beggar whose child thou didst save, and of the Grand Prior’s message.  Also, as full exculpation of thee, he gave me the letter, which, having failed to find a home-bound messenger at San Giovanni, he had brought back to the camp.  And now, Richard, what can I say more, than that I did thee wrong, and pray thee to give me thy hand in pardon?”

Richard hid his face and sobbed, completely overwhelmed by the simple dignity of the humility of such a man as Edward.  He held the Prince’s hand to his lips, and exclaimed, “Oh, how—how could I have ever felt discontent, or faltered? not in truth—oh, no—but in trust and patience?  Oh! my Lord, that I could die for you!”

“Not yet,” said Edward, smiling; “we have much to do together first.  And now tell me, Richard, this beggar is indeed Henry?”

Richard hung his head.

“What, thou mayst not betray him?”

“I am under an oath, my Lord.”

“Nay, I know well-nigh all, Richard.  I did indeed see my dear old comrade laid in Evesham Church, so as it broke my heart to see him, bleeding from many wounds, and even his hand lopped by the savage Mortimers.  Then, as I bent down, and gave his brow a last kiss, it struck me, for a moment, that the touch was not that of a dead man’s skin.  But I looked again at the deadly wounds of head and breast, and thought it would be but cruelty to strive to bring back the glimmer of life only to—to see the ruin of his house; and all that he could not be saved from.  O Richard, to no man in either host could the day of Evesham have been so sore, as to me, who had to sit in the gate, to gladden men’s hearts, like holy King David, when he would fain have been weeping for his son!  But in early morning came Abbot William of Whitchurch to my chamber, and with much secrecy told me that the corpse of Henry de Montfort had been stolen from the church by night, praying me to excuse that the monks, wearied out with the day of alarms, and the care of our wounded, had not kept better watch.  Then knew I that some one had been less faithless than I, and I hoped that poor Henry was at least dying in peace; I had never deemed that he could survive.  But when I saw thy billet, and heard Ferrers’ tale, I had no further doubt, remembering likewise how strangely familiar was the face of that little one at Westminster.”

“Yes, my Lord, it was even as a strange, wild, wilful, blind beggar that I found poor Henry; and heavy was the curse he laid me under, should I make him known to you.  He calls himself thus a freer and happier man than he could be even were he pardoned and reinstated; and he can indulge his vein of mockery.”

“I dare be sworn that consoles him for all,” said Edward, nearly laughing.  “So long as he could utter his gibe, Henry little recked which way the world passed round him; and I trow he has found some mate of low degree, that he would be loth to produce in open day.”

“Not so, my Lord: it is so wild a tale of true love that I can sometimes scarce believe a minstrel did not sing it to me!”  And Richard told the history of Isabel Mortimer’s fidelity.  The Prince was deeply touched, and then remembered the marked manner in which the Baron of Mortimer had replied to his inquiry, in what convent he had bestowed Henry de Montfort’s betrothed.  “She is dead, my Lord, dead to us.”  Then he added suddenly, “So that black-eyed babe is the heiress of Leicester and all the honours of Montfort!”

“It is one of the causes for Henry’s resolve to be secret,” said Richard.  “I thought it harsh and distrustful then, but he dreaded Simon’s knowledge of her.”

“We will find a way of securing her from Simon,” said the Prince.  “But fear not, Richard, Henry’s secret shall be safe with me!  I have kept his secrets before now,” he added, with a smile.  “Only, when we are at home again—so it please the Saints to spare us—thou shalt strive to show him cause to trust my Lady with his child, if he doth not seek to breed her up to scrip and wallet.  I see such is thy counsel in this scroll, and it is well.”

“How could I say other?” said Richard, “and now, more than ever!  I long to thank the gracious Princess this very evening.”

“Thy wound?’ said the Prince.

“My wound is naught, I scarce feel it.”

“Then,” said the Prince, “unless the leech gainsay it, it would be as well to be at our pavilion this evening, that men may see thou art not in any disgrace.  Rest then till supper-time.”  And as he spoke he rose to depart, but Richard made a gesture of entreaty.  “So please your Grace, grant me a few farther words.  I sware, and truly, that I had heard nothing from my brothers when I was accused of writing that letter to them.  But see here, what yester-morn was pinned to that tent-pole.”

He gave Edward the scroll, at which the Prince looked half smiling.  “So!  A dagger in store for me too, is there?  Well, my cousins have a goodly thirst for vengeance!  Hast thou any suspicion how this billet came here?”

“Ay, my Lord; and for that cause I would warn you against two of the archers, one of whom was in Simon’s troop, and went with the late prince to Viterbo.  I gave them no promise of silence.”

“You spoke with them?”

“With one, who was charged to let me through the outposts to a spot where means were provided for bringing me to Guy.”

“And thou,” said Edward, smiling, “didst choose to bide the buffet?”

“Sir,” said Richard, “I did indeed long after my brethren when Guy had been so near me in Africa; but now, I would far rather die than cast in my lot with them.”

“Thou art wise,” said Edward; “not merely right, but wise.  I have sent Gloucester to my uncle of Sicily with such messages that he will scarce dare to leave them scatheless!  Then, at supper-time we meet again—in thine own name, Richard, and as my kinsman and esquire.  Thou shalt bear thine own name and arms.  I will cause a mourning suit to be sent to thee—thou art equally of kin with myself to poor Henry—and shalt mourn him with Edmund and me at the requiem to-morrow.  So will it best be manifest to the camp, that we exempt thee from all blame.”  Again he was departing, when Richard added—“The archers, my Lord—were it not good to dismiss them?”

“Tush,” said Edward; “tell me not their names.  So soon as the wind veers, they will be beyond Guy’s reach; and if I were to stand on my guard against every man who loved thy father better than mine, what good would my life do me?  The poor knaves will be true enough when they see a