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

son—King Harry VI.  Each was then to be signed by the Duke, and despatched by men-at-arms, who waited for the purpose.

Like men stunned, the half-dozen who sat at the council-table worked on, never daring to glance at the empty chair at the upper end.  The only words that passed were occasional inquiries of, and orders from, Bedford; and these he spoke with a strange alertness and metallic ring in his voice, as though the words were uttered by mechanism; yet in themselves they were as clear and judicious as possible, as if coming from a mind wound up exclusively to the one necessary object; and the face—though flushed at first, and gradually growing paler, with knitted brows and compressed lips—betrayed no sign of emotion.

Hours passed: he wrote, he ordered, he signed, he sealed; he mentioned name after name, of place and officer, never moving or looking up.  And James, who knew from Salisbury that he had neither slept nor eaten since sixty miles off he had met a worse report of his brother, watched him anxiously till, when evening began to fall, he murmured, ‘There is the captain of—of—at—but—’—the pen slipped from his fingers, and he said, ‘I can no more!’

The overtaxed powers, strained so long—mind, memory, and all—were giving way under the mere force of excessive fatigue.  He rose from his seat, but stumbled, like one blind, as James upheld him, and led him away to the nearest bed-chamber, where, almost while the attendants divested him of the heavy boots and cuirass he had never paused all these hours to remove, he dropped into a sleep of sheer exhaustion.

James, who was likewise wearied out with watching, turned towards his own quarters; but, in so doing, he could not but turn aside to the chapel, where before the altar had been laid all that was left of King Henry.  There he lay, his hands clasped over a crucifix, clad in the same rich green and crimson robes in which he had ridden to meet his Queen at Vincennes but three short months before; the golden circlet from his helmet was on his head, but it could not give additional majesty to the still and severe sweetness of his grand and pure countenance, so youthful in the lofty power that high aspirations had imprinted on it, yet so intensely calm in its marble rest, more than ever with the look of the avenging unpitying angel.  To James, it was chiefly the face of the man whom he had best loved and admired, in spite of their strange connection; but to Malcolm, who had as usual followed him closely, it was verily a look from the invisible world—a look of awful warning and reproof, almost as if the pale set lips were unclosing to demand of him where he was in the valley of shadows, through which the way lay to Jerusalem.  If Henry had turned back, and warned him at the gate of the heavenly Sion, surely such would have been his countenance; and Malcolm, when, like James, he had sprinkled the holy water on the white brow, and crossed himself while the low chant of Psalms from kneeling priests went up around him—clasped his two hands close together, and breathed forth the words, ‘Oh, I have wandered far!  O great King, I will never leave the straight way again!  I will cast aside all worldly aims!  O God, and the Saints, help me not to lose my way again!’

He would have tarried on still, in the fascination of that wonderful unearthly countenance, and in the inertness of faculties stunned by fatigue and excitement, but James summoned him by a touch, and he again followed him.

‘O Sir!’ he began, when they had turned away, ‘I repent me of my falling away to the world!  I give all up.  Let me back to my vows of old.’

‘We will talk of that another time,’ said James, gravely.  ‘Neither you nor I, Malcolm, can think reasonably under such a blow as this; and I forbid you rashly to bind yourself.’

‘Sir, Sir!’ cried Malcolm, petulantly.  ‘You took me from the straight way.  You shall not hinder my return!’

‘I hinder no true purpose,’ said King James.  ‘I only hinder another rash and hasty pledge, to be felt as a fetter, or left broken on your conscience.  Silence now.  When men are sad and spent they cannot speak as befits them, and had best hold their peace.’

These words were spoken on the way up the stair that led to the apartments of the King of Scots.  On opening the door of the larger room, the first thing they saw was the tall figure of a distinguished-looking knight, who, as they entered, flung himself at King James’s feet, fervently exclaiming, ‘O my liege! accept my homage!  Never was vassal so bound to his lord by thankfulness for his life, and for far more than his life!’

‘Sir Patrick Drummond, I am glad to see you better at ease,’ said James.  ‘Nay, suffer me,’ he added, giving his hand to raise the knight, but finding it grasped and kissed with passionate devotion, almost overpowering the only half-recovered knight, so that James was forced to use strength to support him, and would at once have lifted him up, but the warm-hearted Patrick resisted, almost sobbing out—‘Nay, Sir! king of my heart indeed! let me first thank you.  I knew not how much more I owed you than the poor life you saved—my father’s rescue, and that of all that was most dear.’

‘Speak of such things seated, my good friend,’ said James, trying to raise him; but Drummond still did not second his efforts.

‘I have not given my parole of honour as the captive whose life is again due to you.’

‘You must give that to the Duke of Bedford, Sir Patrick,’ said James.  ‘I know not if I am to be put into ward myself.  In any case you are safe, by the good King’s grace, so you pledge yourself to draw no sword against England in Scotland or France till ransom be accepted for you.’

‘Alack!’ said Patrick, ‘I have neither sword nor ransom.  I would I knew what was to be done with the life you have given me, my lord.’

‘I will find a use for it, never fear,’ said James, sadly, but kindly.  ‘Be my knight for the present, till better days come for us both.’

‘With my whole heart!’ said Patrick, fervently.  ‘Yours am I for ever, my liege.’

‘Then my first command is that you should rise, and rest,’ said James, assisting the knight to regain his feet, and placing him in the only chair in the room.  ‘You must become a whole man as soon as may be.’

For Patrick’s arm was in a sling, and evidently still painful and useless, and he sank back, breathless and unresisting, like one who had by no means regained perfect health, while his handsome features looked worn and pale.  ‘I fear me,’ said James, as the two cousins silently shook hands, ‘that you have moved over soon.—You surely had my message, Bairdsbrae?’

‘Oh yes, my lord,’ replied Baird; ‘but the lad was the harder to hold; and after the fever was gone, we deemed he could well brook the journey by water.  ’Twas time I was here to guide ye too, my lord; you and the callant baith look sair forfaughten.’

‘We have had a sad time of it, Nigel,’ said James, with trembling lip.

‘And if Brewster tells me right, ye’ve not tasted food the whole day?’ said Nigel, laying an authoritative hand on his royal pupil.  ‘Nay, sit ye down; here come the varlets with the meal I bade them have ready.’

James passively yielded, courteously signing to the others to share the food that was spread on a table; and with the same scarcely conscious grace, making inquiries, which elicited that Patrick Drummond’s hurts had been caused by his horse falling and rolling over with him, whilst with Sir John Swinton and other Scottish knights he was reconnoitring the line of the English march.  He was too much injured to be taken back to the far distant camp, and had accordingly been intrusted to the French farmer, with no attendant but a young French horse-boy, since he was too poor to keep a squire.  He knew nothing more, for fever had run high; and he had not even been sensible of his desertion by his French hosts on the approach of the English, far less of the fire, and of his rescue by the King and Malcolm; but for this he seemed inclined to compensate to the utmost, by the intense eagerness of devotion with which he regarded James, who sat meanwhile crushed down by the weight of his own grief.

‘I can eat no more, Baird,’ said he, swallowing down a draught of wine, and pushing aside his trencher.  ‘Your license, gentlemen.  I must be alone.  Take care of the lads, Nigel.  Malcolm is spent too.  His deft service was welcome to—to my dearest brother.’

And though he hastily shut himself into his own inner chamber, it was not till they had seen that his grief was becoming uncontrollable.

Patrick could not but murmur, ‘Dearest brother!’

‘Ay, like brothers they loved!’ said Baird, gravely.

‘A strange brotherhood,’ began Drummond.

But Malcolm cried, with much agitation, ‘Not a word, Patie!  You know not what you say.  Take heed of profaning the name of one who is gone to the Sion above.’

‘You turned English, our wee Malcolm!’ exclaimed Drummond, in amaze.

‘There is no English, French, or Scot where he is gone!’ cried Malcolm.  ‘No Babel!  O Patie, I have been far fallen!  I have done you in heart a grievous wrong! but if I have turned back in time, it is his doing that lies there.’

‘His! what, Harry of Lancaster’s?’ demanded the bewildered Patrick.  ‘What had he to do with you?’

‘He has been my only true friend here!’ cried Malcolm.  ‘Oh, if my hand be free from actual spoil and bloodshed, it was his doing!  Oh, that he could hear me bless him for the chastisement I took so bitterly!’

‘Chastisement!’ demanded Patrick.  ‘The English King dared chastise you! of Scots blood royal!  ’Tis well he is dead!’

‘The laddie’s well-nigh beside himself!’ said Baird.  ‘But he speaks true.  This king whom Heaven assolizie, kept a tight hand over the youngsters; and falling on Lord Malcolm and some other callants making free with a house at Meaux, dealt some blows, of which my young lord found it hard to stomach his share; though I am glad to see he is come to a better mind.  Ay, ’tis pity of this King Harry!  Brave and leal was he; never spake an untrue word; never turned eye for fear, nor foot for weariness, nor hand for toil, nor nose for ill savour.  A man, look you, to be trusted; never failing his word for good or ill!  Right little love has there been between him and me; but I could weep like my own lad in there, to think I shall never see that knightly presence more, nor hear those frank gladsome voices of the boys, as they used to shout up and down Windsor Forest.’

‘You too, Sir Nigel! and with a king like ours!’

‘Ay, Sir Patrick! and if he be such a king as Scotland never had since St. David, and maybe not then, I’m free to own as much of it is due to King Harry as to his own noble self.—Did ye say they had streekit him in the chapel, Lord Malcolm?  I’d fain look on the bonnie face of him; I’ll ne’er look on his like again.’

No sooner had old Bairdsbrae gone, than Malcolm flung himself down before his cousin, crying, ‘Oh, Patrick, you will hear me!  I cannot rest till you know how changed I have been.’

‘Changed!’ said Patrick; ‘ay, and for the better!  Why, Malcolm, I never durst hope to see you so sturdy and so heartsome.  My father would have been blithe to see you such a gallant young squire.  Even the halt is gone!’

‘Nearly,’ said Malcolm.  ‘But I would fain be puny and puling, to have the clear heart that once I had.  Oh, hear me! hear me! and pardon me, Patie!’

And Malcolm, in his agitation, poured forth the whole story of his having shifted from his old cherished purpose of devoting himself to the service of Heaven, and leaving lands and vassals to the stronger hands of Patrick and Lilias; how, having thus given himself to the world, he had fallen into temptation; how he had let himself be led to persecute with his suit a noble lady, vowed like himself; how he had almost agreed to marry her by force: and how he had been running into the ordinary dissipations of the camp, abstaining from confession, avoiding mass; disobeying orders, plunging into scenes of plunder, till he had almost been the death of Patrick, whom he had already so cruelly wronged.

So felt the boy.  Fresh from that death-bed,