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

of whom Catherine tells such tales!’ continued Marguerite.

‘Credit them not,’ said Esclairmonde.  ‘He never crosses her but when he would open her eyes to his brother’s failing health.’

‘Yes,’ interrupted Marguerite; ‘my lord brother swears that this king will not live a year; and if Catherine have no better luck with her child than poor Michelle, then there will be another good Queen Anne in England.’

‘If so,’ said Esclairmonde, looking at her friend with swimming eyes, ‘she will have the best of husbands—as good as even she deserves!’

Anne held her hand fast, and would have said many tender words on Esclairmonde’s own troubles; but the other ladies were arrayed, and Esclairmonde would not for worlds have been left behind in the Hôtel de Bourgogne.

Privacy was not an attainable luxury, and Esclairmonde could not commune with her throbbing heart, or find peace for her aching head, till night.  This must be a matter unconfided to any, even Alice Montagu.  And while the maiden lay smiling in her quiet sleep, after having fondly told her friend that Sir Richard Nevil had really noticed her new silken kirtle, she knelt on beneath the crucifix, mechanically reciting her prayers, and, as the beads dropped from her fingers, fighting out the fight with her own heart.

Her mind was made up; but her sense of the loss, her craving for the worthy affection which lay within her grasp—these dismayed her.  The life she had sighed for had become a blank; and she passionately detested the obligation that held her back from affection, usefulness, joy, and excellence—not ambition, for the greatest help to her lay in Bedford’s position, his exalted rank, and nearness to the crown.  Indeed, she really dreaded and loathed worldly pomp so much that the temptation would have been greater had he not been a prince.

It was this sense of renunciation that came to her aid.  She had at least a real sacrifice to offer; till now, as she became aware, she had made none.  She folded her hands, and laid her offering to be hallowed by the One all-sufficient Sacrifice.  She offered all those capacities for love that had been newly revealed to her; she offered up the bliss, whose golden dawn she had seen; she tried to tear out the earthliness of her heart and affections by the roots, and lay them on the altar, entreating that, come what might, her spirit might never stray from the Heavenly Spouse of her betrothal.

Therewith came a sense of His perfect sufficiency—of rest, peace, support, ineffable love, that kept her kneeling in a calm, almost ecstatic state, in which common hopes, fears, and affections had melted away.

CHAPTER XI: THE TWO PROMISES

After all, Alice Montagu was married almost privately, and without any preparation.  Tidings came that the Duke of Alençon was besieging Cosne, a city belonging to the Duke of Burgundy, and that instant relief was needed.  The Duke was urgent with Henry to save the place for him, and set off at once to collect his brilliant chivalry; while Henry, rousing at the trumpet-call, declared that nothing ailed him but pageants, sent orders to all his troops to collect from different quarters, and prepared to take the command in person; while reports daily came in of the great muster the Armagnacs were making, as though determined to offer battle.

Salisbury was determined not to abide the chances of the battle without first giving a protector to his little daughter; and therefore, as quietly as if she had been merely going to mass, the Lady Alice was wedded to her Sir Richard Nevil, who treated the affair as the simplest matter of course, and troubled himself with very slight demonstrations of affection.  The wedding took place at Senlis, whither the female part of the Court had accompanied the King, upon the very day of the parting.  No one was present, except one of Sir Richard’s brothers (the whole family numbered twenty-two), his esquire; and on Alice’s side, her father, Esclairmonde, and a few other ladies.

At the last moment, however, the King himself came up, leaning on Warwick’s arm, looking thin, ill, and flushed, but resolved to do honour to his faithful Salisbury, at whose request he had permitted the barony of Montagu to be at once transferred to Nevil, who would thenceforth be called by that title.

After the ceremony, King Henry kissed the gentle bride, placed a costly ring upon her finger, and gave his best and warmest wishes to the newly-married pair.  Little guessed any there present what the sound of Warwick and Salisbury would be in forty years’ time to the babe cradled at Windsor.

As the King passed Esclairmonde, he paused, and said, in an undertone, ‘Dear lady, deem not that I have forgotten your holy purpose; but you understand that there are some who are jealous of any benefit conferred on Paris save from themselves, and whose alliance I may not risk.  But if God be pleased to grant me this battle also, then, with His good pleasure, I shall not be forced to have such respect to persons; and when I return, lady, whether the endowment come from your bounty or no, God helping us, you shall begin the holy work of St. Katharine’s bedeswomen among the poor of Paris.’

But while Henry V., with all his grave sweetness, spoke these words to Esclairmonde de Luxemburg, this was the farewell of Countess Jaqueline of Hainault to Malcolm Stewart:

‘Look here, my languishing swain; never mind her scorn, but win your spurs in the battle that is to be, and then make some excuse to get back again to us before the two Kings, with all their scruples.  Then beshrew me but she shall be yours!  If Monseigneur de Thérouenne and I cannot manage one proud girl, I am not Countess of Hainault!’

This promise sent him away, planning the enjoyment of conquering Esclairmonde’s long resistance, and teaching her where to find happiness.  Should he punish her, by being stern and tyrannical at first? or should his kindness teach her to repent?  When he was a knight, he would be in a condition to assert his authority, he thought; and of knighthood both he and Ralf Percy felt almost certain, in that wholesale dubbing of knights that was wont to be the preliminary of a battle.  To be sure, they had indulged in a good many unlicensed pleasures at Paris—Ralf from sheer reckless love of sport, Malcolm in his endeavour to forget himself, and to be manly; but they had escaped detection, and they knew plenty of young Englishmen, and many more Burgundians and Gascons, who had plunged far deeper into mischief, and thought it no disgrace, but rather held that there was some special dispensation for the benefit of warriors.

Malcolm and Ralf were riding with a party of these young men.  King Henry had consented to make his first day’s journey as far as Corbeil in a litter, since only there he was to meet the larger number of his troops, whom Bedford and Warwick were assembling.  James was riding close beside him, with his immediate attendants; and the two youths, not being needed, had joined their comrades with the advanced guard of the escort.

It was always a fiction maintained by Henry, that he was marching in a friendly country; plunder was strictly forbidden, and everything was to be paid for; but unfortunately, the peasantry on his way never realized this, and the soldiery often took care they should not.  Therefore, when the advanced guard came to the village that had been marked out for their halt, instead of finding provisions and forage to be purchased, they met with only bare walls, and a few stray cats; and while storming and raving between hunger and disappointment, a report came from somewhere that the inhabitants had fled, and driven off their cattle to another village some four miles off, in the woods, on the heights above.  Of course, they must be taught reason.  It was true that the men-at-arms, who were under the command of Sir Christopher Kitson and Sir William Trenton, were obliged to abide where they were, much as Kitson growled at being unable to procure a draught of wine for Trenton, whom he had been nursing for weeks under intermitting fever, caught at Meaux; but the young gentlemen were well pleased to show themselves under no Yorkshireman’s orders, and galloped off en masse to procure refreshment for their horses and themselves, further stimulated by the report that the Armagnacs had left a sick man behind them there, who might be a valuable prisoner.

By and by, a woodland path brought the disorderly party, about forty in number, including their servants and the ruffians who always followed whenever plunder was to be scented, out upon a pretty French village of the better class, built round a green shaded with chestnuts, under which, sure enough, were hay-carts, cows, sheep, and goats, and their owners, taking refuge in a place thought to be out of the track of the invaders.

Here were the malicious defrauders of the hungry warriors.  Down upon them flew the angry foragers.  Soon the pretty tranquil scene was ringing with the oaths of the plundering and the cries of the plundered; the cattle were being driven off, the houses and farm-yards rifled, blood was flowing, and what could not be carried off was burning.  The search for the Armagnac prisoner had, however, relaxed after the first inquiry, and Malcolm, surprised that this had been forgotten, suddenly bethought him of the distinction he should secure by sending a valuable prize to Esclairmonde’s feet.  He seized on an old man who had not been able to fly, and stood trembling and panting in a corner, and demanded where the sick man was.  The old man pointed to a farm-house, round which clouds of smoke were rolling, and Malcolm hurried into it, shouting, ‘Dog of an Armagnac, come out!  Yield, ere thou be burnt!’

No answer; and he dashed forward.  In the lower room was a sight that opened his eyes with horror—no other than the shield of Drummond, with the three wavy lines; ay, and with it the helmet and suit of armour, whereof he knew each buckle and brace!

‘Patie!  Patrick!  Patrick Drummond!’ he wildly shouted, ‘are you there?’

No answer; and seeing through the smoke a stair, he rushed up.  There, in an upper room, on a bed, lay a senseless form, suffocated perhaps by the smoke, but unmistakably his cousin!  He called to him, seized him, shook him, dragged him out of bed, all in vain; there was no sign of animation.  The fire was gaining on the house; Malcolm’s own breath was failing, and his frenzied efforts to carry Patrick’s almost giant form to the stairs were quite unavailing.  Wild with horror, he flew shouting down-stairs to call Halbert, whom he had left with his horse, but neither Halbert nor horse was in sight, nor indeed any of the party.  Not a man was in sight, except a few hurrying far out of reach, as if something had alarmed them.  He wrung his hands in anguish, and was about to make another attempt to drag Patrick down from the already burning house, when suddenly a troop of horse was among the scene of desolation, and at their head King James himself.  Malcolm flew to the King, cutting short his angry exclamation with the cry, ‘Help! help! he will burn!  Patrick!  Patie Drummond!  There!’

James had scarce gathered the sense of the words, ere, leaping from his horse, he bounded up the stairs, through the smoke, amid flakes of burning thatch falling from the roof, groped in the dense clouds of smoke for the senseless weight, and holding the shoulders while Malcolm held the feet, they sped down the stair, and rested not till they had laid him under a chestnut tree, out of reach of the crash of the house, which fell in almost instantly.

‘Does he live?’ gasped Malcolm.

‘He will not,’ said the King, ‘if his nation be known here.  Keep out of his sight!  He must hear only French!’

Remembering how inexorably Henry hung every Scotch prisoner, Malcolm’s heart sank.  This was why no one had sought the prisoner.  A Scot was not available for ransom!  Should he be the murderer of his cousin, Lily’s love?

Meantime James hurriedly explained to Kitson that here was the sick man left by the enemy, summoned Sir Nigel to his side, closed his own visor, and called for water; then hung over the prisoner, anxious to prevent the first word from being broad Scotch.  In the free air, some long sobs showed that Patrick was struggling back to life; and James at once said, ‘Rendez vous, Messire;’ but he neither answered, nor was there meaning in his eyes.  And James perceived that he was bandaged as though for broken ribs, and that his right shoulder was dislocated, and no doubt had been a second time pulled out when Malcolm had grasped him by the arms.  He swooned again at the first attempt to lift him,