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

little serviceable in dealing with her Spanish and Provençal as with the rude West-Saxon-English.  Edward’s deep manly tones were to be heard, however, now interrogating the peasants in their own tongue, now briefly interpreting to his wife in Provençal; and a listener could easily gather that his hand was as bounteous, his heart as merciful, as hers, save where attacks on the royal game had been requited by the trouble complained of; and that in such cases she pleaded in vain.

The captives, whom her husband had surrendered to her mercy, had been led into a great, long, low hall, with rudely-timbered sides, and rough beams to the roof, with a stone floor, and great open fire, over which a man-cook was chattering French to his bewildered English scullion.  An oak table, and settles on either side of it, ran the whole length of the hall; and here the priest bade the two prisoners seat themselves.  They obeyed—the boy slouching his cap over his face, averting it, and keeping as far as possible from the group of servants near the fire.  The priest called for bread, meat, and beer, to be set before them; and after a moment’s examination of Adam’s bruise, applied the simple remedy that was all it required, and left them to their meal.  Adam took this opportunity to growl in an undertone, “Does he there know you?”  The reply was a nod of assent.  “And you knew him?”  Another nod; and then the boy, looking heedfully round, added in a quick, undertone, “Not till you were down.  Then he helped me to restore you.  You forgive me, Adam, now?” and he held out his hand, and wrung the rugged one of the forester.

“What should I forgive!  Poor lad! you could not have striven in the Longshanks’ grasp!  I was a fool not to guess how it was, when I saw you not knowing which way to look!”

“Hush!” broke in the youth with uplifted hand, as a page of about his own age came daintily into the hall, gathering his green robe about him as if he disdained the neighbourhood, and holding his head high under his jaunty tall feathered cap.

“Outlaws!” he said, speaking English, but with a strong foreign accent, and as if it were a great condescension, “the gracious Princess summons you to her presence.  Follow me!”

The colour rushed to the boy’s temples, and a retort was on his lips, but he struggled to withhold it; and likewise speaking English, said, “I would we could have some water, and make ourselves meeter for her presence.”

“Scarce worth the pains,” returned the page.  “As if thou couldst ever be meet for her presence!  She had rather be rid of thee promptly, than wait to be regaled with thy May-day braveries—honest lad!”

Again the answer was only restrained with exceeding difficulty; and there was a scornful smile on the young prisoner’s cheek, that caused the page to exclaim angrily, “What means that insolence, malapert boy?”

But there was no time for further strife; for the door was pushed open, and the Prince’s voice called, “Hamlyn de Valence, why tarry the prisoners?”

“Only, Sir,” returned Hamlyn, “that this young robber is offended that he hath not time to deck himself out in his last stolen gold chain, to gratify the Princess!”

“Peace, Hamlyn,” returned the Prince: “thou speakest thou knowest not what.—Come hither, boy,” he added, laying his hand on his young captive’s shoulder, and putting him through the door with a familiarity that astonished Hamlyn—all the more, when he found that while both prisoners were admitted, he himself was excluded!

Princess Eleanor was alone in another chamber of the sylvan lodge, hung with tapestry representing hunting scenes, the floor laid with deer-skins, and deer’s antlers projecting from the wall, to support the feminine properties that marked it as her special abode.  She was standing when they entered; and was turning eagerly with outstretched hand and face of recognition, when Prince Edward checked her by saying, “Nay, the cause is not yet tried:” and placing her in a large carved oaken chair, where she sat with a lily-like grace and dignity, half wondering, but following his lead, he proceeded, “Sit thou there, fair dame, and exercise thy right, as judge of the two captives whom I place at thy feet.”

“And you, my Lord?” she asked.

“I stand as their accuser,” said Edward.  “Advance, prisoners!—Now, most fair judge, what dost thou decree for the doom of Adam de Gourdon, rebel first, and since that the terror of our royal father’s lieges, the robber of his treasurers, the rifler of our Cousin Pembroke’s jewellery, the slayer of our deer?”

“Alas! my Lord, why put such questions to me,” said Eleanor imploringly, “unless, as I would fain hope, thou dost but jest?”

“Do I speak jest, Gourdon?” said Edward, regarding Adam with a lion-like glance.

“’Tis all true,” growled Adam.

“And,” proceeded the Prince, “if thy gentle lips refuse to utter the doom merited by such deeds, what wilt thou say to hear that, not content with these traitorous deeds of his own, he fosters the treason of others?  Here stands a young rebel, who would have perished at Evesham, but for the care and protection of this Gourdon—who healed his wounds, guarded him, robbed for him, for him spurned the offer of amnesty, and finally, set on thine own husband in Alton Wood—all to shelter yonder young traitor from the hands of justice!  Speak the sentence he merits, most just of judges!”

“The sentence he merits?” said Eleanor, with swimming eyes.  “Oh! would that I were indeed monarch, to dispense life or death!  What he merits he shall have, from my whole heart—mine own poor esteem for his fidelity, and our joint entreaties to the King for his pardon!  Brave man—thou shalt come with me to seek thy pardon from King Henry!”

“Thanks, Lady,” said Adam with rude courtesy; “but it were better to seek my young lord’s.”

“My own dear young cousin!” exclaimed Eleanor, laying aside her assumed judicial power, and again holding out her hands to him, “we deemed you slain!”

“Yes, come hither,” said Edward, “my jailer at Hereford—the rebel who drew his maiden sword against his King and uncle—the outlaw who would try whether Leicester fits as well as Huntingdon with a bandit life!  What hast thou to say for thyself, Richard de Montfort?”

“That my fate, be it what it may, must not stand in the way of Adam’s pardon!” said Richard, standing still, without response to the Princess’s invitation.  “My Lord, you have spoken much of his noble devotion to me for my father’s sake; but you know not the half of what he has done and dared for me.  Oh! plead for him, Lady!”

“Plead for him!” said Eleanor: “that will I do with all my heart; and well do I know that the good old King will weep with gratitude to him for having preserved the life of his young nephew.  Yes, Richard, oft have we grieved for thee, my husband’s kind young companion in his captivity, and mourned that no tidings could be gained of thee!”

It was not Richard who replied to this winning address.  He stood flushed, irresolute, with eyes resolutely cast down, as if to avoid seeing the Princess’s sweet face.

Adam, however, spoke: “Then, Lady, I am indeed beholden to you; provided that the boy is safe.”

“He is safe,” said Prince Edward.  “His age is protection sufficient.—My young cousin, thou art no outlaw: thine uncle will welcome thee gladly; and a career is open to thee where thou mayst redeem the honour of thy name.”

The colour came with deeper crimson to the boy’s cheek, as he answered in a choked voice, “My father’s name needs no redemption!”

Simultaneously a pleading interjection from the Princess, and a warning growl from De Gourdon, admonished Richard that he was on perilous ground; but the Prince responded in a tone of deep feeling, “Well said, Richard: the term does not befit that worthy name.  I should have said that I would fain help thee to maintain its honour.  My page once, wilt thou be so again? and one day my knight—my trusty baron?”

“How can I?” said Richard, still in the same undertone, subdued but determined: “it was you who slew him and my brothers!”

“Nay, nay!” exclaimed the Princess: “the poor boy thinks all his kindred are slain!”

“And they are not!” cried Richard, raising his face with sudden animation.  “They are safe?”

“Thy brother Henry died with—with the Earl,” said Eleanor; “but all the rest are safe, and in France.”

“And my mother and sister?” asked Richard.

“They are likewise abroad,” said the Prince.  “And, Richard, thou art free to join them if thou wilt.  But listen first to me.  We tarry yet two days at this forest lodge: remain with us for that space—thy name and rank unknown if thou wilt—and if thou shalt still look on me as guilty of thy father’s death, and not as a loving kinsman, who honoured him deeply, I will send thee safely to the coast, with letters to my uncle, the King of France.”

Richard raised his head with a searching glance, to see whether this were invitation or command.

“Thou art my captive,” said Eleanor softly, coming towards him with a young matron’s caressing manner to a boy whom she would win and encourage.

“Not captive, but guest,” said Edward; but Richard perceived in the tones that no choice was left him, as far as these two days were concerned.

CHAPTER III
ALTON LODGE

“Ever were his sons hawtayn,
And bold for their vilanye;
Bothe to knight and sweyn
Did they vilanye.”

Old Ballad of Simon de Montforte.

For the first time for many a month, Richard de Montfort lay down to sleep in a pallet bed, instead of a couch of heather; but his heart was ill at ease.  He was the fourth son of the great Earl of Leicester, Simon de Montfort; and for the earlier years of his life, he had been under the careful training of the excellent chaplain, Adam de Marisco, a pupil and disciple of the great Robert Grostête, Bishop of Lincoln.  His elder brothers had early left this wholesome control; pushed forward by the sad circumstances that finally drove their father to take up arms against the King, and strangers to the noble temper that actuated him in his championship of the English people, they became mere lawless rebels—fiercely profiting by his elevation, not for the good of the people, but for their own gratification.

Richard had been still a mere boy under constant control, and being intelligent, spirited, and docile, had been an especial favourite with his father.  To him the great Earl had been the model of all that was admirable, wise, and noble; deeply religious, just, and charitable, and perfect in all the arts of chivalry and accomplishments of peace—a tender and indulgent father, and a firm and wise head of a household—he had been ardently loved and looked up to by the young son, who had perhaps more in common with him by nature than any other of the family.

Wrongs and injuries had been heaped upon Montfort by the weak and fickle King, who would far better have understood him, if, like the selfish kinsmen who encircled the throne, he had struggled for his own advantage, and not for the maintenance of the Great Charter.  Richard was too young to remember the early days when his elder brothers had been companions, almost on equal terms, to their first cousins, the King’s sons; his whole impression of his parents’ relations with the court was of injustice and perfidy from the King and his counsellors, vehemently blamed by his mother and brothers, but sometimes palliated by his father, who almost always, even at the worst, pleaded the King’s helplessness, and Prince Edward’s honourable intentions.  Understanding little of the rights of the case, Richard only saw his father as the maintainer of the laws, and defender of the oppressed against covenant breakers; and when the appeal to arms was at length made, he saw the white cross assumed by his father and brothers, in full belief that the war in defence of Magna Carta was indeed as sacred as a crusade, and he had earnestly entreated to be allowed to bear arms; but he had been deemed as yet too young, and thus had had no share in the victory of Lewes, save the full triumph in it that was felt by all at Kenilworth.  Afterwards, when sent to be Prince Edward’s page at Hereford, he was prepared to regard his royal cousin as a ferocious enemy, and was much taken by surprise to find him a graceful courtly knight, peculiarly gentle in manner, loving music, romances, and all chivalrous accomplishments; and far from the pride and haughtiness that had been the theme of all the vassals who assembled at Kenilworth, he was gracious to all, and distinguished his young page by treating him as a kinsman and favourite companion; showing him indeed far more consideration than ever he had received from his unruly turbulent brothers.

When Edward had effected his escape, and had joined the Mortimers and Clares, Richard had gone home, where his expressions of affection for the Prince were listened to by his father, indeed,