An Island Story by H. E. Marshall (ebook pc reader .TXT) đź“–
- Author: H. E. Marshall
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Here it is in English words:—
“No captive ever sings so sweet a strain
As he who weareth not the prisoner’s chain,
Yet song may glad his days of weariness;
Friends fail me not, but shame for them I fear.
If I for lack of gold, this vile duresse
����������Sustain another year.
“Well know my knights and servants every one,
English, Poitevin, Norman, or Gascon,
That to no comrade would I help refuse,
But I would spend my wealth till he were free;
And this I say, yet them I not accuse
����������For my captivity.
“True it is said, and I have learned it sore.
Dead folk no lovers have, nor captives more,
But if to save their wealth here I do lie,
Disgrace and scorn shall unto them be still.
And if I suffer, more they suffer will.
����������Though I be left to die.”
Prince John felt that nothing now stood between him and the throne of England. He told the people that the King was dead and would never come back again. He seized the royal castles and what gold and jewels he could find belonging to the King in England. But the English would neither believe nor follow John.
Meanwhile Blondel, a minstrel or singer who loved King Richard, took his harp, and, wandering from castle to castle, sought his master through all Germany. For the Emperor kept secret where he had imprisoned Richard. Wherever Blondel heard of some unknown prisoner, there he stopped and sang a song which Richard and he had made and sung together.
Again and again Blondel sang this song, but no answering voice ever came from any of the grim castle walls. At last one evening, weary and almost hopeless, he began to sing beneath the walls of a castle called Trifels.
“O Richard! O my king!
Thou art by all forgot,
Through the wide world I sadly sing,
Lamenting thy drear lot.
Alone, I pass through many lands
Alone, I sigh to break thy bands
O Richard! O my king!
Thou art by all forgot,
Though the wide world I sadly sing,
Lamenting thy drear lot.”
Blondel’s voice was sad and broken, his heart was heavy, and he could scarcely sing for tears. But hardly had he finished the first verse when, from a window high above him, another voice took up the tune and sang:—
“The minstrel’s song
Is Love alone,
Fidelity and Constancy,
Though recompense be none.”
The voice rang out clear and full and strong. Blondel knew and loved it. It was the voice of Richard C�ur de Lion. Blondel leaned his head against the rough stone of the castle wall and wept for joy. He had found his King.
Back to England the minstrel went with his great news, and when the English people heard it, they were glad. But the Emperor would not set Richard free until the people paid a large sum of money called a ransom. The land had already been made very poor through the wars and robberies of John, but the English people wanted their king so much that they denied themselves almost everything in order to raise enough money. When they had gathered the money they sent it to the Emperor, and Richard was at last set free.
As soon as he was out of prison, Richard hurried to England. He must have been glad to see the white cliffs of his own land again. He had been away four years, and fourteen months of that time he had been shut up in a dark and lonely prison.
The people were so glad to see their King again that, poor though they were, they had such grand decorations and rejoicings that a German knight who came home with Richard was quite astonished. Had my lord the Emperor known, said he, how rich a country England still was, he would have demanded yet more money.
Richard set himself at once to bring order into the kingdom. Most of the people were on the side of the King, and Prince John soon submitted to him. Their mother, Queen Eleanor, begged Richard to forgive his brother.
“I forgive him,” said Richard, “and I hope I shall as easily forget the wrong he has done me as I know he will forget my pardon.” He knew John was not really sorry, and would rebel again as soon as he had a chance.
Richard remained in England only a few months, and then he went to France. There he spent the rest of his life, chiefly fighting with the king of that country.
But Richard left a good and wise man to rule England, and the people were happier, although they had to pay heavy taxes in order to help Richard in his French wars. This was very unfair, as these wars did England no good. But as long as the kings of England had possessions in France, the English had to pay for French wars. So it was a good thing for England when at last all the French possessions were lost.
Richard was killed in France in 1199 A.D., while besieging a castle called Chaluz. He was riding round the walls with one of his captains, looking for the best place of attack, when a young archer put an arrow to his bow, and saying, “Now, God speed my arrow,” let it fly.
The arrow hit Richard on the shoulder. The wound was not a bad one, but doctors in those days were not very clever, and the doctor who drew out the arrow-head did it so badly that the wound was made much worse.
In a day or two it became so bad that Richard felt he was going to die. But he swore that he would first take the castle and kill the archer who had caused his death.
The castle was taken, and Richard, in his terrible wrath, hanged all the soldiers except the archer. He was kept for some more dreadful death.
“Villain,” said the King, looking fiercely at him, “what have I done to you that you should kill me?”
The young man drew himself up, and looking proudly at the King, and not in the least afraid of his angry frown, replied, “With your own hand you killed my father and my two brothers. Kill me, torture me if you will. I am glad to die, having rid the world of one who has wrought so much ill in it.”
Then there was silence between these two proud, brave men, as they looked each other in the eyes, the one a poor soldier, the other a dying king.
But Richard, although fierce and hasty, was generous, and, above all things, he loved courage. “Boy,” he said, “I forgive you.” Then turning to his captains, “Loose his chains,” he added, “let him go free, and give him a hundred shillings to boot.”
So Richard C�ur de Lion died. He was so brave that all Europe rang with his fame. The Saracens stood in such awe of him that when little children were naughty their mothers would say to them, “Be good now, or Richard of England will come to you,” and the children would be good at once for fear of him. “Thinkest thou that Richard of England is in that bush?” a rider would say to his horse if it were startled, so great was the terror of his name.
Richard was a good knight and brave soldier, but he was not a good king. He reigned for ten years, yet only six months of that time did he spend in England. No doubt he thought it was a great and good thing to fight for Jerusalem, but how much better it would have been if he had tried to rule his own land peacefully, and bring happiness to his people.
JOHN LACKLAND—THE STORY OF PRINCE ARTHUR
WHEN Richard C�ur de Lion died, his brother John, who had plotted and rebelled against him when he was alive, became King. He was called by the French John Sans Terre, which means “without land”, and John Lackland by the English. He was so called because, when his father, Henry II. died, John had no kingdom left to him as his brothers had.
John was the youngest and the worst of all Henry’s sons, and he was not the heir to the throne of England.
The real heir was Prince Arthur of Brittany, the son of John’s elder brother Geoffrey. And now the French king, Philip, who had fought against Richard and helped John, suddenly turned round and began to fight against John because he would not let Arthur be king.
John was wicked and wily, and he easily got Arthur into his power and shut him up in prison. But John was not content with that. He greatly feared that the English people might want to have Arthur for their King, and he resolved to make that impossible.
Prince Arthur was placed in the charge of a man called Hubert, and wicked King John ordered this man to put out Arthur’s eyes.
Hubert actually said he would do this cruel deed. One morning he brought two men into Arthur’s room, ready to put out his pretty blue eyes with their dreadful hot irons.
Arthur was a gentle, loving boy, and he was fond of his stern gaoler, and Hubert in his own rough way was fond of the little prince. Now he felt sad and sick at heart at the thought of what he had to do.
“Are you ill?” said Arthur. “You look so pale. I wish you were a little ill so that I could nurse you and show you how much I love you,” he added.
When Arthur spoke to him so kindly the tears came into Hubert’s eyes. But he brushed them away and determined to do what the King had commanded.
“I am not ill, but your uncle has commanded me to put out your eyes,” he said roughly.
“To put out my eyes! Oh, you will not do it, Hubert?”
“I must.”
“Oh, Hubert! Hubert! How can you?” said Arthur, putting his arms round Hubert’s neck. “When your head ached only a little I sat up all night with you. Now you want to put out my eyes. These eyes that never did, nor never shall, so much as frown upon you.”
“I have sworn to do it,” said Hubert sadly.
“Oh, but you will not do it! You will not! You will not, Hubert?” and so Arthur begged and prayed till Hubert could resist no longer, and he sent the wicked men with their dreadful red-hot irons away.
But Hubert was afraid that King John would be angry because his orders had not been obeyed, so he told him the cruel deed had been done, and that Prince Arthur had died of grief and pain.
Then wicked King John was glad. But the people both in France and England were very sad when they heard this news. Every one mourned for the young prince. All through the land bells were tolled as if for a funeral.
There was so much anger against John, and so much sorrow for the prince, that at last Hubert told the people that what he said was not true, and that Arthur was still alive. Then everyone was glad. Even King John was glad at first because many of his nobles had told him plainly that he would find no knight to follow him to battle, nor to guard his castles at home, if he had really killed his little nephew.
But King Johns heart was black and wicked, and he could not rest while he knew that Prince Arthur lived. So one dark night he came to the castle in which his nephew was
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