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

were over.  Pilgrims thronged from all parts, attracted both by the presence of the court and the unusual tranquillity of Wales; and for nearly a mile around the Holy-well it was like one great motley fair, resorted to by persons of all stations.  Beggars of course were there in numbers, and among them the unfailing blind beggar of Bethnal Green, who always made a pilgrimage in the summer to some station of easy access from London, but whom some wondered to see at such a distance.

“Had he scented that the court was coming?” asked the young nobles.

“Not he; he never haunted courts.  He would have kept away had he known that such a gabbling flock of popinjays were on the wing thither!”

But the young gallants were chiefly bent on speculating on the vision of loveliness that had flashed on the eyes of some early visitants at the well.  A maiden in a dark pilgrim dress, and broad hat, which, however, could not entirely conceal a glowing complexion, at once rich and pure; perfect features, magnificent dark eyes and hair, and a tall form, which, though very youthful, was of unmistakable dignity and grace.  She was always at the well exceedingly early in the morning, moving slowly round it on her beautiful bare feet, and never looking up from the string of dark beads—the larger ones of amber, which she held in her fingers—as her lips conned over the prayers connected with each.  No ring was on the delicate hand, no ear-ring in the ear; there was no ornament in the dress, but such a garb was wont to be assumed by ladies of any rank when performing a vow; and its simplicity at once enhanced her beauty, and added to the general curiosity.  Between four and six in the dewy freshness of morning seemed to be her time for devotion; and though the habits of the court were early, it was only the first astir who caught a sight of this Queen of the Dew-drops, as it was the fashion to call her.  Late comers never caught sight of her, and affected incredulity when the younger and more active knights and squires raved about her.  Then it was reported that the King himself had been seen speaking to her; and thereupon excitement grew the more intense, because Edward’s exclusive devotion to his Queen had been such, that from his youth up the most determined scandal had never found a wandering glance to note in him.

She was the Princess of France—of Navarre—of Aragon—in disguise; nay, at the Whit-Sunday banquet there were those who cast anxious glances to the door, expecting that, in the very land of King Arthur, she would walk in like his errant dames at Pentecost, to demand a champion.  And when a joust was given on the sward, young Sir John de Mohun, the Lord of Dunster, announced his intention of tilting in honour of no one save the Queen of the Dew-drops.  The ladies of the court were rather scandalized, and appealed to the King whether the choice of an unknown girl, of no acknowledged rank, should be permitted; but the King, strict punctilious man as he was, only laughed, and adjudged the Queen of the Dew-drops to be fully worthy of the honour.

After this, early rising became the fashion of Holy-well.  All the gentlemen got up early to look at the Queen of the Dew-drops; and all the ladies got up early to see that the gentlemen did not get into mischief; and the maiden’s devotions became far from solitary; but she moved on, with a sort of superb unconcern, never lifting the dark fringes that veiled the eyes so steadily fixed on the beads that dropped through her fingers, until, as she finished, she raised up her head with a straightforward fearless look at the way she was going, so completely self-possessed that no one ventured to accost her, and to follow her at less than such a respectful distance, that she was always lost sight of in the wood.

At last, late one evening, there was a sudden start of exultant satisfaction among some of the young men who were lounging on the green; for the most part not the nobles of the court, but certain young merchants of London and Bristol, who had followed the course of pilgrimage by the magnetism of fashionable resort.  The Queen of the Dew-drops was seen, carrying a pitcher!  Up started four or five gallants, offering assistance, and standing round her, wrangling with one another, and besetting her steps.

“Let me pass, gentles,” she said with dignity, “I am carrying wine in haste to my father.”

“Nay, fair one, you pass not our bounds without toll,” said the portliest of the set.

“Hush, rudesby; fair dames in disguise must be treated after other sort.”

Every variety of half-insulting compliment was pouring upon her; but she, with head erect, and steady foot, still quietly moved on, taking no notice, till a hand was laid on her pitcher.

“Let go!” then she said in no terrified voice.  “Let go, Sir, or I can summon help.”

And as if to realize her words, the intrusive hand was thrust aside by a powerful arm, and a voice exclaimed—

“This lady is to pass free, Sir!  None of your insolence!”

“A court-gallant,” passed round the hostile bourgeoise; “none of your court airs, Sir.”

“No airs—but those of an honest Englishman, who will not see a woman cowardly beset!”

“Will Silk-jerkin not bide a buffet!” quoth the bully of the party, clenching his fist.

“As many as thou wilt,” returned Silk-jerkin, “so soon as I have seen the lady safe home!”

“Ho! ho!—a fetch that!” and the fellow, a coarse rude-looking man, though rather expensively dressed, flourished his fist in the face of the young man, but was requited that instant with a round blow that levelled him with the ground.  The others fell back from the tall strong-limbed, open-faced youth, and the girl took the opportunity of moving forward, swiftly indeed, but so steadily as to betray no air of terror.  Meantime, the young gentleman’s voice might be heard, assuring his adversaries that he was ready to encounter one or all of them so soon as he had escorted the lady safe home.  Perhaps she hoped that another attack would delay him; but if so, her expectations were disappointed, for in a second or two his quick firm tread followed her, and just as she had gained the mazy wood-path, he was beside her.

“Thanks, Sir,” she said, “for the service you have done me, but I am now in safety.”

“Nay, Lady, do me the grace of letting me bear your load.”

“Thanks,” again she said; “but I feel no weight.”

“But my knighthood does, seeing you thus laden.”

“Spare your knighthood the sight, then,” she said smiling, and looking up with a glance of brightness, such as her hitherto sedate face had never before revealed to him.

“That cannot be!” he exclaimed with fervency.  “You bid me in vain leave you till I see you safe; and while with you, all laws of courtesy call on me to bear your burthen!  So, Lady—”

And he laid his hand upon the leathern thong that sustained the pitcher; but at that moment three or four heaps of rags, that had been lying under the trees by the woodland path, erected themselves, and one in especial, whom the young knight had observed as a frightful cripple seated by day near the well, now came forward brandishing his crutch in a formidable manner, and uttering a howl of defiance.  But the lady silenced him at once—

“Peace, good Trig, nothing is amiss!  It is only this gentleman’s courtesy.  He hath done me good service on the green yonder!”

And as her strange body-guard retreated growling, she, perhaps to show her confidence, resigned her pitcher into the knight’s hand.

“So, fair Queen of the Dew-drops,” he said, half bewildered, “thou dost work miracles!”

“Ay, when the dew is on the grass, and the nightingale sings,” she returned gaily; “by day the enchantment is over.”

By this time they had reached a low turf hut; and the maiden, turning at the door, held out her hand, and said, “Thanks, fair Sir, I must enter my enchanted palace alone; but grammercy for thy kind service, and farewell.”

The maiden and the pitcher vanished.  The knight watched the rude door in vain—he only saw a few streaks of light through the boards.  Then he bethought him of questioning her guards, but when he reached their tree they were gone.  It was fast growing dark, and he was one of the King’s personal attendants, and subject to the strict regulations of his household; so, dazed and bewildered as he was, he walked hastily back to the hospice, where the King and Queen lodged.  Supper had already begun, and the glare of lights dazzled his eyes.  In his bewilderment, he served the King with mustard instead of honey from the great silver ship full of condiments, in the centre of the table.

“How’s this, Sir John?” said the King, who always had a kindly corner in his heart for this young knight.  “Are these the idle days of thy Crusade come again?”

“I could well-nigh think so!” half-whispered Sir John.

“He looks moonstruck!” cried that spoilt ten years old damsel, Joan of Acre, clasping her hands with mischievous fun.  “Oh! has he seen the Queen of the Dew-drops?”

“What dost thou know of the Queen of the Dew-drops, my Lady Malapert?” said King Edward, marking the red flush that mounted to the very brow of the downright young knight.

“Oh, I know that she is at the well every morning, and is as lovely as the dawn!  Ay, and vanishes so soon as the sun is up; but not ere she has bewitched every knight of them all!  And did not my Lord of Dunster hold the field in her honour against all comers?  No wonder she appears to him.—Oh! tell us, Sir John! what like was she?”

“Hush, Joan,” said Queen Eleanor, bending forward, “no infanta in my time ever said so much in a breath.”

“No, Lady-mother; because you had to speak whole mouthfuls of grave Castillian words.  Now, good English can be run off in a breath.  Reyna del Rocio—that’s more majestic, but not so like fairyland as Queen of the Dew-drops!”

Princess Joan’s mouth was effectually stopped this time.

The adventure of the evening had led to the discovery of the hut of the Queen of the Dew-drops.  The young knight had as usual been betimes at the well, but the maiden did not appear there.  Then he questioned the cripple—who by day was an absolute helpless cripple—but the man utterly denied all knowledge of any such circumstance.  He, why, poor wretch that he was, he never hobbled further than the shed close behind the well; he would give the world if he could get as far as the wood—he knew nothing about ladies or pilgrims—such a leg as his was enough to think about.  And the display to which he forthwith treated the Knight of Dunster was highly convincing as to his incapacity.

Into the wood wandered the much-confused knight, recognizing, step by step, the path of the night before.  The turf hut was before him—the door was open—and in the doorway sat the maiden herself, spinning, the distaff by her side, the spindle dancing on the ground, and the pilgrim’s hat no longer hiding her beauteous brow and wealth of dark braided hair.  But, intolerable sight, seven or eight of last night’s loungers were dispersed hither and thither in the bushes, gazing with all their eyes, endeavouring to attract her attention; some by conversations with one another; one richly-dressed Gascon squire, of the train of Edward’s ally, the Count de Béarn, by singing a Provençal love ditty; while a merchant of Bristol set up a counter attempt with a long doleful English ballad.  All the time the fair spinster sat in the doorway, with the utmost gravity, twisting her thread and twirling her spindle; but it might be observed that she had so placed herself as to have full command of the door, and to be able to shut herself in whenever she chose.

No one had yet ventured to accost her.  There was something in her air that rendered it almost impossible for any one to force himself upon her, and a sort of fear mingled with the impression she made.  However, the young knight, although a bashful man by nature, had one advantage in his court breeding, and another in the acquaintance he had made last night.  He walked straight up, and doffing his velvet cap, began, “Greet you well, fair Queen.  I could not but take your challenge to see whether your power lasted when the dew was off.”

The damsel rose with due courtesy as he approached, but ere she had attempted an answer, nay, even before the words were out of his mouth, the Gascon was shouting in French that this was no fair play, he had stolen a march; and the merchant had sprung forward saying, “Girl, beware, court gallants mean not well by country wenches.”

“Thou liest in thy throat,” burst forth the knight.  “Discourteous lubber, to call such a queen of beauty