“But man is more than law, and I may have
Some impress of myself upon the world;
One poor brief life, helping to feed the flame
Of chivalry, and keep alive the truth
That courage, honour, mercy, make a knight.”Queen Isabel, by S. M.
“Land in sight! Cheer up, John, my man!” said Richard, leaning over a bundle of cloaks that lay on the deck of a Genoese galley.
The cross floated high aloft, accompanied by the lions of English royalty; the bulwark was hung round with blazoned shields, and the graceful white sails were filled by a gay breeze that sent the good ship dancing over the crested waves of the Mediterranean, in company with many another of her gallant sisters, crowded with the chivalry of England.
Woeful was however the plight of great part of that chivalry. Merrily merrily bounded the bark, but her sport felt very like death to many of her freight, and among others to poor little John de Mohun.
His father, Baron Mohun of Dunster, had been deeply implicated in the Barons’ Wars, and had been a personal friend of the Earl of Leicester, from whom he had only separated himself in consequence of the outrageous exactions and acts of insolence perpetrated by the young Montforts. He had indeed received a disabling wound while fighting on the Prince’s side at Evesham; but his submission had been thought so insecure that his son and heir had been required of him, ostensibly as page, but really as hostage.
In spite of his Norman surname, little John of Dunster was, at twelve years old, a sturdy thoroughgoing English lad, with the strongest possible hatred to all foreigners, whom with grand indifference to natural history he termed “locusts sucking the blood of Englishmen.” Not a word or command would he understand except in his mother tongue; and no blows nor reproofs had sufficed to tame his sturdy obstinacy. The other pages had teased, fagged, and bullied him to their hearts’ content, without disturbing his determination to go his own way; and his only friend and protector had been Richard, whom, under the name of Fowen, he took for a genuine Englishman, and loved with all his heart. If anything would ever cure him of his wilful awkwardness and dogged bashfulness, it was likely to be the kindness of Richard—above all, in the absence of the tormentors, for Hamlyn de Valence alone of the other pages had been selected to attend upon the Prince in this expedition; and he, though scornful and peremptory, did not think the boy worthy of his attention, and did not actively tease him.
At present Hamlyn de Valence, as well as most others of the passengers, lay prostrate; scarcely alive even to the assurance of Richard, who had still kept his feet, that the outline of the hills was quickly becoming distinct, and that they were fast entering the gulf where lay the fleet that had brought the crusaders of France and Sicily, whom they hoped to join in the conquest and conversion of Tunis. On arriving at Aigues Mortes, they had found that the French King had already sailed for Sicily; and following him thither, learnt that his brother, Charles of Anjou, had persuaded him to begin his crusade by a descent on Tunis, to which the Sicilian crown was said to have some claim; that he had sailed thither at once, and Charles had followed him so soon as the Genoese transports could return for the Sicilian troops.
“I see the masts!” exclaimed Richard; “the bay is crowded with them! There must be a goodly force. Yonder are two headlands; within them we shall have smoother water—see—”
“What strikes thee so suddenly silent?” growled one of the muffled figures stretched on deck.
“The ensigns are but half-mast high, my Lord,” returned Richard in an awe-struck voice; “the lilies of France are hung drooping downward.”
“These plaguy southern winds at their tricks,” muttered at first Earl Gilbert of Gloucester, for he it was who had spoken, though Richard had not known him to be so near; then sitting up, he came to a fuller view: “Hm—it looks ill! Thou canst keep thy feet, Fowen, or what do they call thee? Down with thee to the cabin, and let the Prince know.”
Stepping across the prostrate forms, and meeting with vituperations as he trode, Richard made his way to the ladder that led below, and notified his presence behind the curtain that veiled the royal cabin. He was summoned to enter at once. The Prince was endeavouring to write at a swinging-table, the Princess lay white and resigned on a couch, attended on by Dame Idonea (or more properly Iduna) Osbright, a lady who had lost her husband in a former Crusade, and had ever since been a sort of high-born head nurse in the palace. A Danish skald, who had once been at the English court, had said that she seemed to have eaten her namesake’s apple of immortality, without her apple of beauty, for no one could ever remember to have seen her other than a tiny dried-up old witch, with keen gray eyes, a sharp tongue, an ever ready foot and hand, and a frame utterly unaffected by any of the influences so sinister to far younger and stronger ones. Devoted to all the royal family, her special passion was for Prince Edmund, who, in his mother’s repugnance to his deformity, had been left almost entirely to her, and she had accompanied the Princess Eleanor all the more willingly from her desire to look after her favourite nursling.
“There, Lady,” said Edward to his wife, “the tossing is all but over; here is Richard come to tell us that we are nigh on land.”
“Even so, my Lord,” returned Richard; “we are entering the gulf, but my Lord of Gloucester has sent me to report to you that in all the ships the colours are trailing.”
“Sayst thou?” exclaimed the Prince, hastily laying aside his writing materials. “Fear not, mi Dona, I will return anon and tell thee how it is. We are in smoother water already.”
“So much smoother that I will come with thee out of this stifling cabin,” said Eleanor. “O would that we had been in time for thee to have counselled thine uncles—”
“We will see what we have to grieve for ere we bemoan ourselves,” said the Prince. “My good uncle of France would put his whole fleet in mourning for one barefooted friar!”
“Depend on it, my Lord, ’tis mourning for something in earnest,” interposed Dame Iduna; “I said it was not for nothing that a single pyot came and rocked up his ill-omened tail while we were taking horse for this expedition, and my Lady there was kissing the little ones at home, nor that a hare ran over our road at Bagshot—”
“Well, Dame,” interposed the Prince good-humouredly, seeing his wife somewhat affected by the list of omens, “I know you have a horse-shoe in your luggage, so you will come safe off, whoever does not!”
“And what matters what my luck is,” returned the Dame, “an old beldame such as me, so long as you and your brother come off safe, and find the blessed princes at home well and sound? Would that we were out of this sandy hole, or that any one would resolve me why we cannot go straight to Jerusalem when we are about it!”
The Dame had delayed them while she spoke, in order to adjust the Princess’s muffler over her somewhat dishevelled locks; but Eleanor seeing that her husband was impatient, put a speedy end to her operations, and took his arm.
Meantime the vessel had come within the Gulf of Goletta, and others of the passengers had revived, and were standing on deck to watch their entrance into the very harbour that two thousand years before had sheltered the storm-tossed fleet of Æneas; but if the Trojan had there found a wooded haven, the groves and sylvan shades must long since have been destroyed, for to the new-comers the bay appeared inclosed by spits of sand, though there was a rising ground in front that cut off the view. In the centre of the bay was a low sandy islet, covered with remains of masonry, and with a fort in the midst. On this was mounted the French banner, but likewise drooping; and all around it lay the ships with furled sails and trailing ensigns, giving them an inexpressibly mysterious look of woe, like living creatures with folded wings and vailed crests, lying on the face of the waters in a silent sleep of sorrow. There was an awe of suspense that kept each one on the deck silent, unable to utter the conjecture that weighed upon his breast.
A boat was already putting off, and its quick movements seemed to mar the solemn stillness, as, impelled by the regular strokes of a dozen dark handsome Genoese mariners with gaily-tinted caps, it shot towards the vessel. A Genoese captain in graver garb sat at the helm, and as they came alongside, a whisper, almost a shudder, seemed to thrill upwards from the boat to the crew, and through them to the passengers, “Il Rè!” “il Rè santo,” “il Rè di Francia.” It seemed to have pervaded the whole ship even before the Genoese had had time to take the rope flung to him and to climb up the ship’s side, where as his fellow-captain greeted him, he asked hastily for the Principe Inglese.
For Edward had not come forward, but was standing with his back against the mainmast, with colourless cheek and eyes set and fixed. Eleanor looked up to him in silence, aware that he was mastering vehement agitation, and would endure no token of sympathy or sorrow that would unnerve him when dignity required firmness. To him, Louis IX., the husband of his mother’s sister, had been the guiding friend and noble pattern denied to him in his father; and Eleanor, intrusted to his uncle’s care during the troubles of England, a maiden wife in her first years of womanhood, had been formed and moulded by that holy and upright influence. To both the loss was as that of a father; and the murmur among the sailors was to them as a voice saying, “Knowest thou that God will take away thy master from thy head to-day?” For the moment, however, the Princess’s sole thought was how her husband would bear it, and she watched anxiously till the struggle was over, in the space of a few seconds, and he met the Genoese with his usual reserved courtesy; and returning his salutation, signed to him to communicate his tidings.
They were however brief, for the captain had held by his ship, and all he knew was that deadly sickness, fever, and plague had raged in the camp. The Papal Legate was dead, and the good King of France. His son was dead too, and many another beside.
“Which son?”
“Not the eldest—he lay sick, but there were hopes of him; but the little one—he had been carried on board his ship, but it had not saved him.”
“Poor little Tristan!” sighed Eleanor; “true Cross-bearer, born in one hapless Crusade to die in another.”
“The King of Sicily?” demanded Edward between his teeth.
“He had arrived the very day of his brother’s death,” said the Genoese; “and when he had seen how matters stood, he had concluded a truce with the King of Tunis, and intended to sail as soon as the new King of France could bear to be moved.”
In the meantime the vessel had been anchored, and preparations were made for landing; but the Princes impatience to hear details would not brook even the delay of waiting till his horse could be set ashore. He committed to the Earl of Gloucester the charge of encamping his men on the island, left a message with him for his brother Edmund, who was in another ship, and perceiving that Richard had suffered the least of all his suite, summoned him to attend him in the boat which was at once lowered.
This would have been a welcome call had not Richard found that poor little John de Mohun had not revived like the other passengers, but still lay inert and sometimes moaning. All Richard could do was to beg the groom specially attached to the pages’ service, to have a care of the little fellow, and get him sheltered in a tent as soon as possible; but the Prince never suffered any hesitation in obeying him, and it was needful to hurry at once into the boat.
Without a word, the Prince with long swift strides, in the light of the sinking sun, walked up the low hill, the same where erst the pious Æneas climbed with his faithful Achates following. From the brow the Trojan prince had beheld the rising city in the valley—the English prince came on its desolation. Yet nature had made the vale lovely—green with well-watered verdure, fields of beauteous green maize, graceful date palms, and majestic cork trees; and among them were white flat-roofed Moorish houses; but many a black stain on the fair landscape told of the fresh havoc of an invading army.
Utterly blotted out was Carthage. Half demolished, half choked with sand, the city of Dido, the city of Hannibal, the city of Cyprian—all had vanished alike, and nothing remained erect but a Moorish fortress, built up with fragments of the huge stones of the old Phoenicians, intermixed with the friezes and sculptures of Græcising Rome, and the whole fabric in the graceful Saracenic taste; while completing the strange mixture of periods, another of those mournful French banners drooped from the battlements, and around it spread the white tents of the armies of France and the Two Sicilies, like it with trailing banners; an orphaned plague-stricken host in a ruined city.
While the Prince paused for a moment’s glance, a party of knights came spurring up the hill, who had been ordered off to meet him on the first intelligence that his fleet was in sight, but had been taken by surprise by his alertness.
They met with bowed heads and dejected mien; and there was one who hid his face and wept aloud as he exclaimed, “Ah! Messire, our holy King loved you well!”
“Alas, beau sire Guillaume de Porçeles!” was all that Edward could say, as with tears in his eyes he held out his hand to the good Provençal knight, adding, “Let me hear!”
The knight, leading his horse and walking by Edward’s side, told how the King had been induced to make his descent on Tunis, from some wild hope of the king’s conversion, which had been magnified by Charles of Anjou, from his dislike to let so gallant an army pass by without endeavouring to obtain some personal advantage to his own realm of Sicily. Though a vassal of Beatrix of Provence, the Sire de Porçeles was no devoted admirer of her husband, Charles of Anjou, and spoke with no concealment of the unhappy perversion of the Crusade. Charles of Anjou was all-powerful with the court of Rome, and in crusading matters Louis deemed it right absolutely to surrender to the ecclesiastical power all that judgment which had made him so prudent and wise a king at home, while his crusades were lamentable failures. Thus in him it had been a piece of obedient self-denial not to press forward to the Holy Sepulchre; but to land in this malarious bay to fulfil aims that, had he but used his common sense, he would have seen to be merely those of private ambition. There it had been one scene of wasting sickness. A few deeds of arms had been done to refresh the spirits of the French, such as the taking of the fort of Carthage, and now and then a skirmish of some foraging party; but in general the Moors launched their spears and fled without staying for combat. Many who had hid themselves in the vaults and cellars of Carthage had been dragged out and put to death, and their bodies had aided in breeding pestilence. Name after name fell from the lips of the knight, like the roll of warriors fallen in a great battle, when
“They melted from the field like snow,
Their king, their lords, their mightiest low.”
And the last foreign embassy that ever reached Louis IX. had been that of the Greek Emperor Michael Palæologos, come to set before him the savage barbarities perpetrated upon Christians by this brother—
“Who had spoilt the purpose of his life.”
It was as Charles entered the port, that Louis, lying on a bed of ashes, with his hands crossed upon his breast, and the words, “O Jerusalem, Jerusalem!” entered not the Jerusalem of his earthly schemes, but the Jerusalem of his true aspirations.
“Shall we conduct you to my Lord the King of Sicily?” asked De Porçeles.
“No!” said Edward, with bitter sternness; “to my uncle of France.”
“Down, down, my Lord, and all of you instantly,” shouted Porçeles suddenly, throwing himself face downwards on the ground. Edward was too good a soldier not to follow the injunction instantaneously, and Richard did the same, as well as all the knights who had come up with Porçeles. Even the horses buried their noses in the hot sandy soil. A strange rushing roaring sound passed over them; there was a sense of intense suffocation, then of heat, pricking, and irritation. The Provençals were rising; and the Prince and his page doing the same, shook off a plentiful load of sand, and beheld, careering furiously away, between them and the western sun, what looked like a purple column, reaching from earth to heaven, and bespangled with living gold-dust, whirling round in giddy spirals, and all the time fleeting so fast that it was diminishing every moment, and was gone in a wink of the eye.
“Is it enchantment?” gasped Richard to the squire nearest him, as he strove to clear his eyes from the sand and gaze after the wonder.
“Worse than enchantment,” quoth the squire; “it is a sand whirlwind.”
They were soon crossing the ditch that had been dug around the camp among the ruins, and passed through lanes of tents erected among the thick foliage that mantled the broken walls; here and there tracks of mosaic pavement; of temples to Dido or Anna peeping forth beneath either the luxuriant vegetation or the heavy sand-drifts; or columns of the new Carthage lying veiled by acanthus; or remnants of churches destroyed by Genseric—all alike disregarded by the sickly drooping figures that moved feebly about among them, regarding them as little save stumbling-blocks.
A Moorish house in the midst of a once well-laid-out garden, now trampled and destroyed, was the place to which the Provençal knight led the English Prince. Entering the doorway of a court, where a fountain sparkled in the midst of a marble pavement, they saw the richly-latticed stone doorway of the house guarded by two figures in armour like iron statues; and passing between them, they came into the principal chamber, marble-floored, and with a divan of cushions round it; but full in the midst of the room lay a coffin, covered with the lilied banner, and the standard of the Cross; the crowned helmet, good sword, knightly spurs, and cross-marked shield lying upon it; solemn forms in armour guarded it, and priests knelt and chanted prayers and psalms around it. Within were only the bones of Louis, which were to be taken to St. Denis. The flesh, which had been removed by being boiled in wine and spices, was already on its way to Palermo in a vessel whose melancholy ensigns would have announced the loss to the English had they not passed it in the night.
Long did Edward kneel beside the remains of his uncle, with his face hidden and thoughts beyond our power to trace. Richard’s heart was full of that strange question “Wherefore?” Wherefore should the best and purest schemes planned by the highest souls fall over like a crested wave and become lost? So it had been, he would have said, with the Round Table under Arthur, so with England’s rights beneath his own noble father, so with the Crusade under such leaders as Edward of England and Louis of France. Did he mark the answer in those Psalms that the priests were singing around—
“Qui seminant in lacrymis, in exultatione metent,
Euntes ibant et flebant mittentes semina sua,
Venientes autem venient cum exultatione portantes manipulos suos.” [100]
Surely we may believe that Simon of Leicester and Louis of France were alike beyond grief at their marred visions, their errors of deed or of judgment were washed away, and their true purpose was accepted, both waiting the harvest when their works should follow them, and it should have been made manifest that the effect of what they had been and had suffered had told far more on future generations than what they had wrought out in their own lifetime.
It was at that moment that the sensation that an eye was upon him caused Richard to raise his eyes from the floor. One of the armed figures, who had hitherto stood as still as suits of armour in a castle hall, had partially lowered the visor of the helmet, and eyes, nose, and a part of the cheeks were visible. Richard looked up, and they were those of his father! was it a delusion of his fancy? He closed his eyes and looked again. Again it was the deep brown Montfort eye, the clearly-cut nose, the embrowned skin! He glanced at the bearings on the shield. Behold, it was his own—the red field and white lion rampant with a forked tail, which he had not seen for so long.
Almost at the same moment another person entered the chamber—a man with a sallow complexion, narrow French features, sharp gray eyes, and a certain royal bearing that even a cunning shrewdness of expression could not destroy. His face was composed to a look of melancholy, and he crossed himself and knelt down near Edward to await the conclusion of his devotions. Edward, who knelt absorbed in grief, with his cloak partly over his face, apparently did not perceive him, and after two or three unheeded endeavours at attracting notice, he at length rose and said in a low voice, “My fair nephew.” For a moment the Prince lifted up his face, and Richard had rather have died than have encountered that glance of mournful reproof; then hiding his face in his hands again, he continued his devotions.
When these were ended he rose from his knees; and when out of the death-chamber bowed his bead and with grave courtesy exchanged greetings with Charles of Anjou, asking at the same time to see his young cousin Philippe, the new King of France.
An inquiry from an attendant elicited that Philippe had just dropped asleep under the influence of a potion from his leech.
“Then, fair nephew,” said Charles of Sicily, “be content with your old uncle, and come to my apartments, where I will set before you the necessities that have led me to conclude the truce that is baffling your eager desire of deeds of arms.”
“Pardon me, royal uncle,” returned Edward, “I must see my camp set up. It is already late, and I must take order that my troops mingle not where contagion might seize them. Another time,” he added, “I may brook the argument better.”
Charles of Anjou did not press him further. There was that in his face and voice which betokened that his fierce indignation and overpowering grief were scarcely restrained, and that a word of excuse in his present mood would but have roused the lion.
Horses had been provided for him and his attendant. He flung himself on his steed at once, and Richard was obliged to follow without a moment’s opportunity of making inquiry about the wonderful apparition he had seen in the chamber of death.
For some distance Edward galloped rapidly over the sandy soil, then drawing up his horse when he had come to the brow from which he could see on the one side the valley of Carthage, on the other the bay, he made an exclamation which Richard took for a summons, and he came up asking if he were called. “No, boy, no! I only spoke my thoughts aloud! Failure and success! We’ve seen them both to-day—in the two kings! What thinkst thou of them?”
“Better be wrecked than work the wreck, my Lord,” said Richard.
“Ay! but why surrender the wit to the worker of the wreck?” said Edward. Then knitting his brow, “Two holy men have I known who did not blind their wit for their conscience’ sake—two alone—did it fare better with them? One was the good Bishop of Lincoln—the other thou knowst, Richard! Well, one goes after another—first good Bishop Grostête, then the Lord of Leicester, and now mine uncle of France; and if earth is to have no better than such as it pleases the Saints to leave in it, it will not be worth staying in much longer.”
“My Lord,” said Richard, coming near, “methought I saw my father’s face under a visor—one of the knightly guards beside the holy King.”
“Well might thy fancy call him up in such a presence,” said Edward. “They twain had hearts in the same place above, though they saw the world below on different sides, and knew each other little, and loved each other less, in life. That’s all at an end now! Well, back to our camp to make the best of the world they have left behind them!” And then in a tone that Richard was not meant to hear, “While mi dona Leonor remains to me there is something saintly and softening still in this world! Heaven help me—ay, and all my foes—were she gone from it too!”
“No distance breaks the tie of blood;
Brothers are brothers evermore;
Nor wrong, nor wrath of deadliest mood,
That magic may o’erpower.”—Christian Year.
It was nearly dark when the Prince and the Page landed on the island, and found the tents already set up in their due order and rank, according to the discipline that no one durst transgress where Edward was the commander.
Richard attended him to his pavilion, and being there dismissed until supper-time, crossed the square space which was always left around the royal banner, to the tent at the southern corner, which was regularly appropriated to the pages’ use. On lifting its curtain he was, however, dismayed to see a kirtle there, and imagining that he must have fallen upon the ladies’ quarters, he was retreating with an apology; when the sharp voice of Dame Idonea called out, “Oh yes, Master Page! ’tis you that are at home here. I was merely tarrying till ’twas the will of one of you to come in and look to the poor child.”
And little John of Dunster called from a couch of mantles, “Richard, oh! is it he at last?”
“It is I,” said Richard, advancing into the light of a brass lamp, hung by chains from the top of the tent. “This is kind indeed, Lady! But is he indeed so ill at ease?”
“How should he be otherwise, with none of you idle-pated pages casting a thought to him?”
“I was grieved to leave him—but the Prince summoned me,” began Richard.
“Beshrew thee! Tell me not of princes, as though there were no one whom thou couldst bid to have a care of the little lad!”
“I did bid Piers—,” Richard made another attempt.
“Piers, quotha? Why didst not bid the Jackanapes that sits on the luggage? A proper warder for a sick babe!”
“I am no babe!” here burst out John; “I am twelve years old come Martinmas, and I need no tendance but Richard’s.”
“Ha, ha! So those are all the thanks we ladies get, when we are not young and fair!” laughed Dame Idonea, rather amused.
“I want no women, young or old,” petulantly repeated John; “I want Richard.—Lift me up, Richard; take away this cloak.”
“For his life, no!” returned the Dame; “he has the heats and the chills on him, and to let him take cold would be mere slaughter.”
“Alas!” said Richard, “I hoped nothing ailed him but the sea, and that landing would make all well.”
“As if the sea ever made a child shiver and burn by turns! Nay, ’tis the trick of the sun in these parts. Strange that the sun himself should be a mere ally of the Infidel! I tell thee, if the child is ever to see Dunster again, thou must watch him well, keep him from the sun by day and the chill by night; or he’ll be like the poor creatures in the French camp out there, whom, I suppose, you found in fine case.”
“Alack yes, Lady!”
“I’ve seen it many a time; and all their disorders will be creeping into our camp next. Tell me, is it even as they told us, one king dead and the other dying?”
Richard began to wonder whether he should ever get her out of his tent, for she insisted on his telling her every possible particular—who had died, who had lived, who was sick, who well; and as from the close connection between the English, French, and Sicilian courts, whose queens were all sisters, she knew who every one was, and accounted for the history of each person she inquired after, back to the last generation—happy if it were not to the third—her conversation was not quickly over. She ended at last, by desiring Richard to give her patient some of a febrifuge, which she had brought with her, every two hours, and when it was all spent, or in case of any change in the boy’s state, to summon her from the ladies’ tent; adding, however, “But what’s the use of leaving a pert springald like thee in charge? Thou wilt sleep like a very dormouse, I’ll warrant! I’d best call Mother Jugge.”
“Oh no, no!” cried John; to whom the attendance of Mother Jugge would have been a worse indignity than the being nursed by Dame Idonea; “let me have no one but Richard! Richard knows all I want.—Richard, leave me not again.”
“Ay, ay; a little lad ever hangs to a bigger, were he to torture the life out of him. Small thanks for us women after our good looks be past. But I’ll look in on the child in early morn, thanks or no thanks; for I know his mother well, and if I can help it, the hyenas shall not make game of his bones, as I hear them doing by the French yonder.”
John strove to say that, indeed, he thanked her, and had been infinitely comforted and refreshed by her care, and that all he meant was to express his distaste to Mother Jugge, the lavender (i.e. laundress), and his desire for Richard Fowen’s company; but he was little attended to, and apparently more than half offended, the brisk old lady trotted away.
That island was a dreary place; without a tree or any shelter from the glare of sun and sea, whose combined influences threatened blindness, sun-stroke, or at the very least blistered the faces of those who stepped beyond their tents by day. The Prince’s orders, however, strictly confined his army within its bounds, except that at twilight parties were sent ashore for water and provisions, under strict orders, however, to hold no parley with any one from the French or Sicilian camps, lest they should bring home the infection of the pestilence; and always under the command of some trustworthy knight, able and willing to enforce the command.
The Prince himself refused all participation in the counsels of Charles of Anjou, and confined himself, like his men, entirely to the fleet and island. Charles contrived to spread a report, that his displeasure was solely due to his disappointment at being balked of fighting with the Tunisians; and that instead of indignant grief at the perversion of the wrecked Crusade, he was only showing the sullenness of an aggrieved swordsman. Even young Philippe le Hardi, a dull, heavy, ignorant youth, was led to suppose this was the cause of his offence, and though daily inquiries were sent through the Genoese crews for his health, he made no demonstration of willingness to see his cousin of England.
Thus Richard had no opportunity of ascertaining whether there were any basis for the strange impression he had received in St. Louis’s death-chamber. It would have been an act of disobedience, not soon overlooked by the Prince, had one of his immediate suite transgressed his commands, and indeed, so strict was the discipline, that it would scarcely have been possible to make the attempt. Besides, Richard’s time was entirely engrossed between his duties in attending on the Prince, and his care of little John of Dunster, who had a sharp attack of fever, and was no doubt only carried through it by the experienced skill of Dame Idonea Osbright, and by Richard’s tender nursing. Somehow the dame’s heart was not won, even by the elder page’s dutiful care and obedience to all her directions. Partly she viewed him as a rival in the affections of the patient—who, poor little fellow, would in his companion’s absence be the child he was, and let her treat him like his mother, or old nurse, chattering to her freely about home, and his home-sick longings; whereas the instant any male companion appeared, he made it a point of honour to be the manly warrior and crusader, just succeeding so far as to be sullen instead of plaintive; though when left to Richard, he could again relax his dignity, and become natural and affectionate. But besides this species of jealousy, Richard suspected that Lady Osbright knew, or at least guessed, his own parentage, and disliked him for it accordingly. She had never forgotten the distress and degradation of his mother’s stolen marriage, nor forgiven his father for it; she had often stung the proud heart of his brother Henry, when he shared the nursery of his cousins the princes; and her sturdy English dislike of foreigners, and her strong narrow personal loyalty, had alike resulted in the most vehement hatred of the Earl of Leicester, whose head she would assuredly have welcomed with barbarous exultation, worthy of her Danish ancestors. Little chance, then, was there that she would regard with favour his son under a feigned name, fostered in the Prince’s own court and camp.
She was a constraint, and almost a vexation, to Richard, and he heartily wished that the boy’s recovery would free his tent from her. The boy did recover favourably, in spite of all the discomforts of the island, and was decidedly convalescent when, after nearly ten days’ isolation on the island, Edward drew out his whole force upon the shore to do honour to the embarkation of the relics of Louis IX. It was one of the most solemn and melancholy pageants that could be conceived. A wide lane of mailed soldiers was drawn up, Sicilians and Provençals on the one side, and on the other, English and the Knights of the two Orders. All stood, or sat on horseback in shining steel, guarding the way along which were carried the coffins. In memory, perhaps, of Louis’s own words, “I, your leader, am going first,” his remains headed the procession, closely followed by those of his young son; and behind it marched his two brothers, Charles and Alfonse, and his son-in-law, the King of Navarre (the two latter already bearing the seeds of the fatal malady), and the three English princes, Edward, Edmund, and Henry of Almayne, each followed by his immediate suite. The long line of coffins of French counts and nobles, whose lives had in like manner been sacrificed, brought up the rear; and alas! how many nameless dead must have been left in the ruins!
Each coffin when brought to the shore was placed in a boat, and with muffled oars transplanted to the vessel ready to receive it, while the troops remained drawn up on the shore. The procession that ensued was almost more mournful. It was still of biers, but these were not of the dead but of the living, and again the foremost was the King of France, while next to him came his sister, the Queen of Navarre. Edward went down to his litter, as it was brought on the beach, and offered him his arm as he feebly stepped forth to enter the boat. Philippe looked up to his tall cousin, and wrung his hands as he murmured, “Alas! what is to be the end of all this?” Edward made kind and cheerful reply, that things would look better when they met at Trapani, and then almost lifted the young king into his boat. Poor youth, he had not yet seen the end! He was yet to lose his wife, his brother-in-law, and his uncle and aunt, ere he should see his home again.
Richard and Hamlyn de Valence, as part of the Prince’s train, had moved in the procession; and they were for the rest of the day in close attendance on their lord, conveying his numerous orders for the embarkation of the troops on the morrow, on their return to Sicily. It was not till night-fall that Richard returned to his tent, where John of Dunster was sitting on the sand at the door, eagerly watching for him. “Well, Jack, my lad, how hast thou sped?” asked he, advancing. “Couldst see our doleful array?”
“Is it thou, indeed, this time?” said the boy, catching at his cloak.
“Why, who should it be?”
“Thy wraith! Thy double-ganger has been here Richard.”
“What, dreaming again?”
“No no! I am well, I am strong. But this is the land of enchantment! Thou knowst it is. Did we not see a fleet of fairy boats sailing on the sea? and a leaf eat up a fly here on this very tent pole? And did not the Fay Morgaine show us towns and castles and churches in the sea? Thou didst not call me light-headed then, Richard; thou sawest it too!”
“But this wraith of mine! Where didst see it?”
“In this tent. I was lying on the sand, trying if I could make it hold enough to build a castle of it, when the curtain was put back, and there thou stoodest, Richard!”
“Well, did I speak or vanish?”
“Oh, thou spakest—I mean the thing spake, and it said, ‘Is this the tent of the young Lord of Montfort?’ How now—what have I said?”
“Whom did he ask for?” demanded Richard breathlessly.
“Montfort—young Lord de Montfort!” replied John; “I know it was, for he said it twice over.”
“And what didst thou answer?”
“What should I answer? I said we had no Montforts here; for they were all dishonoured traitors, slain and outlawed.”
Richard could not restrain a sudden indignant exclamation that startled the boy. “Every one says so! My father says so!” he returned, somewhat defiantly.
“Not of the Earl,” said Richard, recollecting himself.
“He said every one of the young Montforts was a foul traitor, and man-sworn tyrant, as bad as King John had been ere the Charter,” repeated John hotly, “and their father was as bad, since he would give no redress. Thou knowst how they served us in Somerset and Devon!”
“I have heard, I have heard,” said Richard, cutting short the story, and controlling his own burning pain, glad that the darkness concealed his face. “No more of that; but tell me, what said this stranger?”
“Thou thinkest it was really a stranger, and not thy wraith?” said John anxiously. “I hope it was, for Dame Idonea said if it were a wraith, it betokened that thou wouldst not—live long—and oh, Richard! I could not spare thee!”
And the little fellow came nestling up to his friend’s breast in an access of tenderness, such as perhaps he would have disdained save in the darkness.
“Did Dame Idonea see him?” asked Richard.
“No; but she came in soon after he had vanished.”
“Vanished! What, like Fay Morgaine’s castles? Tell me in sooth, John; it imports me to know. What did this stranger, when thou spakest thus of the House of Montfort?”
“He answered,” said John; “he did not answer courteously—he said, that I was a malapert little ass, and demanded again where this young Montfort’s tent was. So then I said, that if a Montfort dared to show his traitor’s face in this camp, the Prince would hang him as high as Judas; for I wanted to be rid of him, Richard! it was so dreadful to see thy face, and hear thy voice talking French, and asking for dead traitors.”
“French!” said Richard. “Methought thou knewst no French!”
“I—I have heard it long now, more’s the pity,” faltered John, “and—and I’d have spoken anything to be rid of that shape.”
“And wert thou rid? What befell then?”
“It cursed the Prince, and King, and all of them,” said John with a shudder; “it looked black and deadly, and I crossed myself, and said the Blessed Name, and no doubt it writhed itself and went off in brimstone and smoke, for I shut my eyes, and when I looked up again it was gone!”
“Gone! Didst look after him?”
“Oh, no! Earthly things are all food for a brave man’s sword,” said Master John, drawing himself up very valiantly, “but wraiths and things from beneath—they do scare the very heart out of a man. And I lay, I don’t know how, till Dame Idonea came in; and she said either the foul fiend had put on thy shape because he boded thee ill, or it was one of the traitor brood looking for his like.”
“Tell me, John,” said Richard anxiously; “surely he was not in all points like me. Had he our English white cross?”
“I cannot say as to the cross,” said John; “meseemed it was all you—yourself—and that was all—only I thought your voice was strange and hollow—and—now I think of it—yes—he was bearded—brown bearded. And,” with a sudden thought, “stand up, prithee, in the opening of the tent;” and then taking his post where he had been sitting at the time of the apparition, “He was not so tall as thou art. Thy head comes above the fold of the curtain, and his, I know, did not touch it, for I saw the light over it. Then thou dost not think it was thy wraith?” he added anxiously.
“I think my wraith would have measured me more exactly both in stature and in age,” said Richard lightly. “But how did Leonillo comport himself? He brooks not a stranger in general; and dogs cannot endure the presence of a spirit.”
“Ah! but he fawned upon this one, and thrust his nose into his hand,” said John, “and I think he must have run after him; for it was so long ere he came back to me, that I had feared greatly he was gone, and oh, Richard! then I must have gone too! I could never have met you without Leonillo.”
By this time Richard had little doubt that the visitor must have been one of his brothers, Simon or Guy, who were not unlikely to be among the Provençals, in the army of Charles of Anjou. He had not been thought to resemble them as a boy, but he had observed how much more alike brothers appear to strangers than they do to their own family; and he knew by occasional observations from the Prince, as well as from his brother Henry’s recognition of his voice, that the old Montfort characteristics must be strong in himself. He would not, however, avow his belief to John of Dunster. Secrecy on his own birth had been enjoined on him by his uncle the King; and disobedience to the old man’s most trifling commands was always sharply resented by the Prince; nor was the boy’s view of the House of Montfort very favourable to such a declaration. Richard really loved the brave little fellow, and trusted that some day when the discovery must be made, it would be coupled with some exploit that would show it was no name to be ashamed of. So he only told the boy that he had no doubt the stranger was a foreign knight, who had once known the old Leicester family; but bade him mention the circumstance to no one. He feared, however, that the caution came too late, since Dame Idonea was not only an inveterate gossip, but was likely to hold in direful suspicion any one who had been inquired for by such a name.
The personal disappointment of having missed his brother was great. Richard was very lonely. The Princes, and Hamlyn de Valence, were the only persons who knew his secret, and both by Prince Edmund and De Valence he was treated with indifference or dislike. Edward himself, though the object of his fervent affection, and his protector in all essentials, was of a reserved nature, and kept all his attendants at a great distance. On very rare occasions, when his feelings had been strongly stirred—as in the instance of his visit to his uncle’s death-chamber—he might sometimes unbend; and momentary flashes from the glow of his warm deep heart went further in securing the love and devotion of those around him, than would the daily affability of a lower nature; but in ordinary life, towards all concerned with him except his nearest relations, he was a strict, cold, grave disciplinarian, ever just, though on the side of severity, and stern towards the slightest neglect or breach of observance, nor did he make any exception in favour of Richard. If the youth seldom received one of his brief annihilating reproofs, it was because they were scarcely ever merited; but he had experienced that any want of exactitude in his duties was quite as severely visited as if he had not been the Prince’s close kinsman, romantically rescued by him, and placed near his person by his special desire. And Eleanor, with all her gentle courtesy and kindness, was strictly withheld by her husband from pampering or cockering his pages; nor did she ever transgress his will.
The atmosphere was perhaps bracing, but it was bleak: and there were times when Richard regretted his acceptance of the Prince’s offer, and yearned after family ties, equality, and freedom. Simon and Guy had never been kind to him, but at least they were his brothers, and with them disguise and constraint would be over—he should, too, be in communication with his mother and sister. He was strongly inclined to cast in his lot with them, and end this life of secrecy, and distrust from all around him save one, and his loyal love ill requited even by that one. It grieved him keenly that one of his brothers should have been repulsed from his tent; an absolutely famished longing for fraternal intercourse gained possession of him, and as he lay on his pallet that night in the dark, he even shed tears at the thought of the greeting and embrace that he had missed.
Still he had hopes for the future. There must be meetings and possibilities of inquiries passing between the three armies, and he would let no opportunity go by. The next day, however, there was no chance. The English troops were embarked in their vessels, and after a short and prosperous passage were again landed at Trapani, the western angle of Sicily. The French had sailed first, but were not in harbour when the English came in; and the Sicilians, who had brought up the rear, arrived the next day, but still there was no tidings of the French. Towards the evening, however, the royal vessel bearing Philippe III. came into harbour, and all the rest were in sight, when at sunset a frightful storm arose, and the ships were in fearful case. Many foundered, many were wrecked on the rocky islets around the port, and the French army was almost as much reduced in numbers as it had been by the Plague of Carthage.
Charles of Anjou remained himself in the town of Trapani, but knowing the evils of crowding a small space with troops, he at once sent his men inland, and Richard was again disappointed of the hope of seeing or hearing of his brothers; for the Prince still forbade all intercourse with the shattered remnant of the French army, justly dreading that they might still carry about them the seeds of the infection of the camp.
The three heads of the Crusade, however, met in the Castle of Trapani to hold council on their future proceedings. The place was the state-chamber of the castle.
Each prince had brought with him a single attendant, and the three stood in waiting near the door, in full view of their lords, though out of earshot. It was an opportunity that Richard could not bear to miss of asking for his brothers, unheard by any of those English ears who would be suspicious about his solicitude for the House of Montfort. A lively-looking Neapolitan lad was the attendant of King Charles; and in spite of all the perils of attempting conversation while thus waiting, Richard had—while the princes were greeting one another, and taking their seats—ventured the question, whether any of the sons of the English Earl of Leicester were in the Sicilian army. Of Earl of Leicester the Italian knew nothing; but Count of Montfort was a more familiar sound. “Si, si, vero!” Sicily had rung with it; and Count Rosso Aldobrandini, of the Maremma Toscana, had given his only daughter and heiress to the banished English knight, Guido di Monforte, who had served in the king’s army as a Provençal.
Richard’s heart beat high. Guy a well-endowed count, with a castle, lands, and home! He would have asked where Guy now was, and how far off was the Maremma; but the conference between the princes was actually commencing, and silence became necessary on the part of their attendants.
They could only hear the murmur of voices; but could discern plainly the keen looks and animated gestures of Charles of Anjou, the sickly sullen indifference of Philippe, and the majestic gravity of Edward, whose noble head towered above the other two as if he were their natural judge. Charles was, in fact, trying to persuade the others to sail with him for Greece, and there turn their forces on the unfortunate Michael Palæologos, who had lately recovered Constantinople, the Empire that Charles hoped to win for himself, the favoured champion of Rome.
Philippe merely replied that he had had enough of crusading, he was sick and weary, he must go home and bury his father, and get himself crowned. Charles might be then seen trying a little hypocrisy; and telling Philippe that his saintly father would only have wished to speed him on the way of the Cross. Then that trumpet voice of Edward, whose tones Richard never missed, answered, “What is the way of the Cross, fair uncle?”
It was well known that Louis IX. had refused to crusade against Christians, even Greek Christians, and Philippe soon sheltered himself under the plea that had not at first occurred to his dull mind. In effect, he laid particulars before his uncle, that quickly made it plain that the French army was in too miserable a condition to do anything but return home; and Charles then addressed his persuasions to Edward—striving to convince him in the first place of the sanctity of a war against Greek heretics, and when Edward proved past being persuaded that arms meant for the recovery of the Holy Sepulchre ought not to be employed against Christians who reverenced it, he tried to demonstrate the uselessness of hoping to conquer the Holy Land, even by such a Crusade as had been at first planned, far less with the few attached to Edward’s individual banner. Long did the king argue on. His low voice was scarcely audible, even without the words; but Edward’s brief, ringing, almost scornful, replies, never failed to reach Richard’s ear, and the last of them was, “It skills not, my fair uncle. For the Holy Land I am vowed to fight, and thither would I go had I none with me but Fowen, my groom!”
And withal his eye lit on Richard, with a look of certainty of response; of security that here was one to partake his genuine ardour, and of refreshment in the midst of his disgust with the selfish uncle and sluggish cousin. That look, that half smile, made the youth’s heart bound once more. Yes, with him he would go to the ends of the earth! What was the freedom of Guy’s castle, to the following of such a lord and leader in such a cause?
Richard could have thrown himself at his feet, and poured forth pledges of fidelity. But in ten minutes he was following home the unapproachable, silent, cold warrior.
And the lack of any outlet for his aspirations turned them back upon themselves, with a strange sense of bitterness and almost of resentment. Leonillo alone, as the creature lay at his feet, and looked up into his face with eyes of deep wistful meaning, seemed to him to have any feeling for him; and Leonillo became the recipient of many an outpouring of something between discontent and melancholy. Leonillo, the sole remnant of his home! He burnt for that Holy Land where he was to win the name and fame lacking to him; but there was to be long delay.
Fain would the Prince have proceeded at once to Palestine; but the Genoese, from whom, in the abeyance of the English navy, he had been obliged to hire his transports, absolutely refused to sail for the East until after the three winter months; and he was therefore obliged to remain in Sicily. King Charles invited him to spend Christmas at the court at Syracuse or Naples, in hopes, perhaps, of persuading him to the Greek expedition; but Edward was far too much displeased with the Angevin to accept his hospitality; recollecting, perhaps, that such a sojourn had been little beneficial to his great-uncle Cœur de Lion’s army. He decided upon staying where he was, in the remotest corner of Sicily, and keeping his three hundred crusaders as much to themselves and to strict military discipline as possible, maintaining them at his own cost, and avoiding as far as he could all transactions with the cruel and violent Provençal adventurers, with whom Charles had filled the island.
Thus Richard found his hopes of obtaining further intelligence about his brothers entirely passing away. He did, indeed, venture on one day saying to the Prince, “My Lord, I hear that my brother Guy hath become a Neapolitan count!”
“A Tuscan robber would be nearer the mark!” coldly replied Edward.
“And,” added Richard, “methought, while the host is in winter quarters, I would venture on craving your license, my Lord, to visit him?”
“Thou hast thy choice, Richard,” answered the Prince, with grave displeasure; “loyalty and honour with me, or lawlessness and violence with thy brother. Both cannot be thine!”
And returning to his study of the Lais of Marie de France, he made it evident that he would hear no more, and left Richard to a sharp struggle; in which hot irritation and wounded feeling would have carried him away at once from the stern superior who required the sacrifice of all his family, and gave not a word of sympathy in return. It was the crusading vow alone that detained the youth. He could not throw away his pledge to the wars of the Cross, and it was plain that if he went now to seek out Guy, he should never be allowed to return to the crusading army. But that vow once fulfilled, proud Edward should see, that not merely sufferance but friendliness was needed to bind the son of his father’s sister to his service. The brother at Bednall Green was right, this bondage was worse than beggary. Nor, under the influence of these feelings, had Richard’s service the alacrity and affection for which it had once been remarkable: the Prince rebuked his short-comings unsparingly, and thus added to the sense of injury that had caused them; Hamlyn de Valence sneered, and Dame Idonea took good care to point out both the youth’s neglects and his sullenness, and to whisper significantly that she did not wonder, considering the stock he came of. A soothing word or gentle excuse from the kind-hearted Princess were the only gleams of comfort that rendered the present state of things endurable.
Just after Christmas arrived a vessel with reinforcements from home. Among them came a small body of Hospitaliers, with the novice Raynal at their head, now a full-blown knight, in dazzling scarlet and white, as Sir Reginald Ferrers. Richard at once recognized him, when he came to present himself to the Prince, and was very desirous of learning whether he knew aught of that other brother, so mysteriously hidden in obscurity. Sir Raynal on his side seemed to share the desire; he exchanged a friendly glance with the page, and when the formality of the reception was over sought him out, saying, “I have a greeting for you, Master Fowen.”
“From Sir Robert Darcy?” asked Richard. “How fares it with the kind old knight?”
“Excellent well! Nay, nothing fares amiss with Father Robert!” said the young knight, smiling. “Everything is the very best that could have befallen him—to hear him speak. He is the very sunshine of the Spital, and had he been ordered on this Crusade, I think all the hamlets round would have risen to withhold him.”
“Ah!” said Richard, hoping he was acting indifference; “said he aught of the little maiden with the blind father?”
“Pretty Bessee and Blind Hal of Bednall Green? Verily, that was the purport of my message. The poor knave hath been sorely sick and more cracked than ever this autumn; insomuch that Father Robert spent whole nights with him; and though he be better now, and as much in his senses as e’er he will be, such another access is like to make an end of him. Now, Father Robert saith that you, Sir Page, know who the poor man is by birth, and that he prays you to send him word what had best be done with the child, in case either of his death or of his getting so frenzied as to be unable to take care of her.”
“Send him word!” repeated Richard in perplexity.
“We shall certainly have some one returning soon to the Spital,” replied Sir Raynal. “Indeed, methinks some of the princes will be like to return, for the old King of the Romans is failing fast, and King Henry implored that the Prince of Almayne would come to hearten him.”
“Then must I write to Sir Robert?” said Richard; “mine is scarce a message for word of mouth.”
“So he said it was like to be,” returned the knight, “and he took thought to send you a slip of parchment, knowing, he said, that such things are not wont to be found in a crusader’s budget. Moreover, if ink be wanting, he bade me tell you that there’s a fish in these seas, with many arms, and very like the foul fiend, that carries a bag of ink as good as any scrivener’s.”
“I have seen the monster,” said Richard, who had often been down to the beach to see the unlading of the fishermen’s boats, and to share little John of Dunster’s unfailing marvel, that the Mediterranean should produce such outlandish creatures, so alien to his Bristol Channel experiences.
And the very next time the boats came in, Richard made his way to the shore, on the beautiful, rocky, broken coast; and presently encountered a sepia, which fully justified Sir Robert’s comparison, lying at the bottom of a boat. The fisherman intended it for his own dinner, when all his choicer fish should have gone to supply the Friday’s meal of the English chivalry; and he was a good deal amazed when the young gentleman, making his Provençal as like Sicilian as he could, began to traffic with him for it, and at last made him understand that it was only its ink-bag that he wanted.
The said ink, secured in a shell, was brought home by Richard, together with a couple of the largest sea-bird’s quills that he could find—and which he shaped with his dagger, as best he might, in remembrance of Father Adam de Marisco’s writing lessons. He meditated what should be the language of his letter, which was not likely to be secure from the eyes of the few who could read it; and finally decided that English was the tongue known to the fewest readers, who, if they knew letters at all, were sure to be acquainted with French and Latin.
On a strip of parchment, then, about nine inches long and three wide, he proceeded to indite, in upright cramped letters, with many contractions, nearly in such terms as these—
Reverend and Knightly Father,
The good ghostly father and knight, Sir Raynald Ferrers, hath borne to me your tidings of my brother’s sickness, and of all your goodness to him—whereof I pray that our blessed Lady and good St. John may reward you, for I can only pray for you. Touching his poor little daughter, in case of his death or frenzy, which the Saints of their mercy forefend, I would entreat you of your goodness to place her in some nunnery, but without making known her name and quality until my return; so Heaven bring me home safe. But an if I should be slain in this Eastern land, then were it most for the little one’s good to present her to the gracious lady Princess, by whom she would be most lovingly and naturally cared for; and would be more safe than with such as might shun to own her rights of blood and heirship. Commend me to my brother, if so be that he cares to hear of me; and tell him that Guy hath wedded the lady of a castle in the land of Italy. And so praying you, ghostly father, for your blessing, I greet you well, and rest your grateful bedesman and servant,
Richard of Leicester.
Given at the Prince’s camp at Drepanum, in the realm of Sicilia, on the octave of the Epiphany, in the year of grace MCCLXX.; and so our Lord have you heartily in His keeping.
Letter-writing was a mighty task; and Richard’s extemporary implements were not of the best. He laboured hard over his composition, kneeling against a chest in the tent. When at length he raised his head, he encountered a face full of the most utter amazement. Little John of Dunster had come into the tent, and stood gazing at him with open eyes and gaping mouth, as if he were perpetrating an incantation. Richard could not help laughing.
“Why, Jack, dost think I am framing a spell for thee?”
“Writing!” gasped John, relieving his distended mouth by at length closing it.
“Wherefore not? Did not I see the chaplain teaching thee to write at Guildford?”
“Ay—but that was when I was a babe! Writing! Why, my father never writes!”
“But the Prince does. Thou hast seen him write. Come now,” added Richard: “if thou wilt, I will help thee to write a letter to send thy greetings home to Dunster. Thy father and mother will be right glad to hear thou hast ’scaped that African fever.”
“They!—They’d think me no better than a French monk!” said John. “And none of them could read it either! I’ll never write! My grandsire only set his cross to the great charter!”
And John retreated—in fear perhaps that Richard would sully his manhood with a writing lesson!
The letter was rolled up in a scroll, bound with a silken thread, and committed to the charge of Sir Raynald Ferrers, who was going shortly to be commandery of his Order at Castel San Giovanni, whence he had no doubt of being able to send the letter safely to Sir Robert Darcy, at the Grand Priory.
It would perhaps have been more expeditious to have intrusted the letter to one of the suite of Prince Henry of Almayne, who had been recalled by the tidings of the state of his father’s health; but Richard dreaded betraying his brother’s secret too much to venture on confiding the missive to any of this party—none of whom were indeed likely to wish to oblige him. Hamlyn de Valence was going with Henry as his esquire; and his absence seemed to Richard like the beginning of better days.
“Mostrocci un ombra da l’ un canto sola
Dicendo ‘Colui feese in grembo a Dio
Lo cuor che’n su Tamigi ancor si cola.’”Dante. Inferno.
Shrovetide had come, and the Prince had, before leaving Trapani, been taking some share in the entertainments of the Carnival. Personally, his grave reserve made gaieties distasteful to him; and the disastrous commencement of the Crusade weighed on his spirits. But when state and show were necessary, he provided for them with royal bounty and magnificence, and caused them to be regulated with the admirable taste of that age of exceeding beauty in which he lived.
Thus, in this festal season, banquets were provided, and military shows took place, for the benefit of the Sicilian nobility and of the citizens of Trapani, on such a scale, that the English rose high in general esteem; and many were the secret wishes that Edmund of Lancaster rather than Charles of Anjou had been able to make good the grant from the Pope.
Splendid were the displays, and no slight toil did they involve on the part of the immediate train of the Prince, few in number as they were, and destitute of the appliances of the resident court. Richard hurrying hither and thither, and waiting upon every one, had little of the diversion of the affair; but he would willingly have taken treble the care and toil in the relief it was to be free from the prying mistrustful eyes of Hamlyn de Valence. Looking after little John of Dunster was, however, no small part of his trouble; the urchin was so certain to get into some mischief if left to himself—now treading on a lady’s train, now upsetting a flagon of wine, now nearly impaling himself upon the point of a whole spitful of ortolans that were being handed round to the company, now becoming uncivilly deaf upon his French ear. Altogether, it was a relief to Richard’s mind when he stumbled upon the little fellow fast asleep, even though it was in the middle of the Princess’s violet velvet and ermine mantle, which she had laid down in order to tread a stately measure with Sire Guillaume de Porçeles.
After all Richard’s exertions that evening, it was no wonder that the morning found him fast asleep at the unexampled hour of eight! His wakening was a strange one. His little fellow-page was standing beside him with a strange frightened yet important air.
“What is the matter, John? It is late? Is the Prince gone to Mass? Has he missed me?” cried Richard, starting up in dismay, for unpunctuality was a great offence with Edward.
“He is gone to Mass,” said John, “but, before he comes back,” he came near and lowered his voice, “Hob Longbow sent me to say you had better flee.”
“Flee! Boy, why should I flee? Are your senses fleeing?”
“O Richard,” cried John, his face clearing up, “then it is not true! You are not one of the traitor Montforts!”
“If I were a hundred Montforts, what has that to do with it?”
“Then all is well,” exclaimed the boy. “I said you were no such thing! I’ll tell Hob he lied in his throat.”
“If he said I was a traitor, verily he did; but as to being a Montfort—But, how now, John, what means all this?”
“Then it is so! O Richard, Richard, you cannot be one of them! You cannot have written that letter to warn them to murder Prince Henry.”
“To murder Prince Henry!” Richard stood transfixed. “Not the Prince’s little son!”
“Oh no, Prince Henry of Almayne! At Viterbo! Hamlyn de Valence saw it. He is come back. It was in the Cathedral. O Richard—at the elevation of the Host! Guy and Simon de Montfort fell on him, stabbed him to the heart, and rushed out. Then they came back again, and dragged him by the hair of his head into the mire, and shouted that so their father had been dragged through the streets of Evesham. And then they went off to the Maremma! And,” continued the boy breathlessly, “Hob Long-bow is on guard, and he bade me tell you, that for love of your father he will let you pass; and then you can hide; if only you can go ere the Prince comes forth.”
“Hide! Wherefore should I hide? This is most horrible, but it is no deed of mine!” said Richard. “Who dares to think it is?”
“Then you are none of them! You had no part in it! I shall tell Hob he is a villain—”
“Stay,” said Richard, laying a detaining hand on the boy. “Why does Hob think me in danger? Is anything stirring against me?”
“They all—all of poor Prince Henry’s meiné, that are come back with Hamlyn—say that you are a Montfort too, and—oh! do not look so fierce!—that you sent a letter to warn your brethren where to meet, and fall on the Prince. And the murderers being fled, they are keen to have your life; and, Richard, you know I saw you write the letter.”
“That you saw me write a letter, is as certain as that my name is Montfort,” said Richard, “but I am not therefore leagued with traitors or murderers! In the church, saidst thou? Oh, well that the Prince forbade me to visit Guy!”
“Then you will not flee?”
“No, forsooth. I will stay and prove my innocence.”
“But you are a Montfort! And I saw you write the letter.”
“Did you speak of my having written the letter?” asked Richard, pausing.
The boy hung his head, and muttered something about Dame Idonea.
By this time, even if Richard had thought of flight, it would have been impossible. Two archers made their presence apparent at the entrance of the tent, and in brief gruff tones informed Richard that the Prince required his presence. The space between his tent and the royal pavilion was short, but in those few steps Richard had time to glance over the dangers of his position, and take up his resolution though with a certain stunned sense that nothing could be before the member of a proscribed family, but failure, suspicion, and ruin.
The two brothers, Edward and Edmund, with the Earl of Gloucester, and their other chief councillors, were assembled; and there were looks of deep concern on the faces of all, making Edward’s more than ever like a rigid marble statue; while Edmund had evidently been weeping bitterly, though his features were full of fierce indignation. Hamlyn de Valence, and a few other members of the murdered Prince’s suite, stood near in deep mourning suits.
“Richard de Montfort,” said Prince Edward, looking at him with a sorrowful reproachful sternness that went to his heart, “we have sent for you to answer for yourself, on a grave charge. You have heard of that which has befallen?”
“I have heard, my Lord, of a foul crime which my soul abhors. I trust none present here think me capable of sharing in it! Whoever dares to accuse me, shall be answered by my sword!” and he glanced fiercely at Hamlyn.
“Hold!” said Edward severely, “no one is so senseless as to accuse you of taking actual part in a crime that took place beyond the sea; but there is only too much reason to believe that you have been tampered with by your brothers.”
Then, as his brother Edmund made some suggestion to him, he added, “Is John de Mohun of Dunster here?”
“Yea, my Lord,” said the little boy, coming forward, with a flush on his face, and a bold though wistful look, “but verily Richard is no traitor, be he who he may!”
“That is not what we wished to ask of you,” said the Prince, too sad and earnest to be amused even for a moment. “Tell us whom you said, even now, you had seen in the tent you shared with him in Africa.”
“I said I had seen his wraith,” said John.
No smile lighted upon the Prince’s features; they were as serious as those of the boy, as he commented, “His likeness—his exact likeness—you mean.”
“Ay,” said the boy; “but Richard proved to me after, that it had been less tall, and was bearded likewise. So I hoped it did not bode him ill.”
“Worse, I fear, than if it had in sooth been his double,” said Gloucester to Prince Edmund. The Prince added the question whether this visitor had spoken; and John related the inquiry for Richard by the name of Montfort, and his own reply, which elicited a murmur of amused applause among the bystanders.
The Prince, however, continued in the same grave manner to draw from the little witness his account of Richard’s injunction to secresy; and then asked about the letter-writing, of which John gave his plain account. The Prince then said, “Speak now, Hamlyn.”
“This, then, I have to add, my Lord, that I, as all the world, remarked that Richard de Montfort consorted much with Sir Reginald de Ferrières, who, as we all remember, is the son of a family deeply concerned in the Mad Parliament. By Sir Reginald, on his arrival at Castel San Giovanni, a messenger is despatched, bearing letters to the Hospital at Florence, and it is immediately after his arrival there, that the two Montforts speed from the Maremma to the unhappy and bloody Mass at Viterbo.”