'Tis not her sense, for sure in that
There's nothing more than common;
And all her wit is only chat,
Like any other woman.
SONG.
The high-born Berengaria, daughter of Sanchez, King of Navarre, and
the Queen-Consort of the heroic Richard, was accounted one of the most
beautiful women of the period. Her form was slight, though exquisitely
moulded. She was graced with a complexion not common in her country, a
profusion of fair hair, and features so extremely juvenile as to make
her look several years younger than she really was, though in reality
she was not above one-and-twenty. Perhaps it was under the consciousness
of this extremely juvenile appearance that she affected, or at least
practised, a little childish petulance and wilfulness of manner, not
unbefitting, she might suppose, a youthful bride, whose rank and age
gave her a right to have her fantasies indulged and attended to. She was
by nature perfectly good-humoured, and if her due share of admiration
and homage (in her opinion a very large one) was duly resigned to her,
no one could possess better temper or a more friendly disposition; but
then, like all despots, the more power that was voluntarily yielded to
her, the more she desired to extend her sway. Sometimes, even when all
her ambition was gratified, she chose to be a little out of health, and
a little out of spirits; and physicians had to toil their wits to invent
names for imaginary maladies, while her ladies racked their imagination
for new games, new head-gear, and new court-scandal, to pass away those
unpleasant hours, during which their own situation was scarce to be
greatly envied. Their most frequent resource for diverting this malady
was some trick or piece of mischief practised upon each other; and
the good Queen, in the buoyancy of her reviving spirits, was, to speak
truth, rather too indifferent whether the frolics thus practised were
entirely befitting her own dignity, or whether the pain which those
suffered upon whom they were inflicted was not beyond the proportion of
pleasure which she herself derived from them. She was confident in her
husband's favour, in her high rank, and in her supposed power to make
good whatever such pranks might cost others. In a word, she gambolled
with the freedom of a young lioness, who is unconscious of the weight of
her own paws when laid on those whom she sports with.
The Queen Berengaria loved her husband passionately, but she feared the
loftiness and roughness of his character; and as she felt herself not
to be his match in intellect, was not much pleased to see that he would
often talk with Edith Plantagenet in preference to herself,
simply because he found more amusement in her conversation, a more
comprehensive understanding, and a more noble cast of thoughts and
sentiments, than his beautiful consort exhibited. Berengaria did
not hate Edith on this account, far less meditate her any harm; for,
allowing for some selfishness, her character was, on the whole, innocent
and generous. But the ladies of her train, sharpsighted in such matters,
had for some time discovered that a poignant jest at the expense of
the Lady Edith was a specific for relieving her Grace of England's low
spirits, and the discovery saved their imagination much toil.
There was something ungenerous in this, because the Lady Edith was
understood to be an orphan; and though she was called Plantagenet, and
the fair Maid of Anjou, and admitted by Richard to certain privileges
only granted to the royal family, and held her place in the circle
accordingly, yet few knew, and none acquainted with the Court of England
ventured to ask, in what exact degree of relationship she stood to
Coeur de Lion. She had come with Eleanor, the celebrated Queen Mother of
England, and joined Richard at Messina, as one of the ladies destined
to attend on Berengaria, whose nuptials then approached. Richard treated
his kinswoman with much respectful observance, and the Queen made her
her most constant attendant, and, even in despite of the petty jealousy
which we have observed, treated her, generally, with suitable respect.
The ladies of the household had, for a long time, no further advantage
over Edith than might be afforded by an opportunity of censuring a less
artfully disposed head attire or an unbecoming robe; for the lady was
judged to be inferior in these mysteries. The silent devotion of the
Scottish knight did not, indeed, pass unnoticed; his liveries, his
cognizances, his feats of arms, his mottoes and devices, were nearly
watched, and occasionally made the subject of a passing jest. But then
came the pilgrimage of the Queen and her ladies to Engaddi, a journey
which the Queen had undertaken under a vow for the recovery of her
husband's health, and which she had been encouraged to carry into effect
by the Archbishop of Tyre for a political purpose. It was then, and in
the chapel at that holy place, connected from above with a Carmelite
nunnery, from beneath with the cell of the anchorite, that one of the
Queen's attendants remarked that secret sign of intelligence which Edith
had made to her lover, and failed not instantly to communicate it to
her Majesty. The Queen returned from her pilgrimage enriched with this
admirable recipe against dullness or ennui; and her train was at
the same time augmented by a present of two wretched dwarfs from the
dethroned Queen of Jerusalem, as deformed and as crazy (the excellence
of that unhappy species) as any Queen could have desired. One of
Berengaria's idle amusements had been to try the effect of the sudden
appearance of such ghastly and fantastic forms on the nerves of the
Knight when left alone in the chapel; but the jest had been lost by the
composure of the Scot and the interference of the anchorite. She had now
tried another, of which the consequences promised to be more serious.
The ladies again met after Sir Kenneth had retired from the tent, and
the Queen, at first little moved by Edith's angry expostulations, only
replied to her by upbraiding her prudery, and by indulging her wit
at the expense of the garb, nation, and, above all the poverty of the
Knight of the Leopard, in which she displayed a good deal of playful
malice, mingled with some humour, until Edith was compelled to carry her
anxiety to her separate apartment. But when, in the morning, a female
whom Edith had entrusted to make inquiry brought word that the Standard
was missing, and its champion vanished, she burst into the Queen's
apartment, and implored her to rise and proceed to the King's tent
without delay, and use her powerful mediation to prevent the evil
consequences of her jest.
The Queen, frightened in her turn, cast, as is usual, the blame of her
own folly on those around her, and endeavoured to comfort Edith's grief,
and appease her displeasure, by a thousand inconsistent arguments. She
was sure no harm had chanced--the knight was sleeping, she fancied,
after his night-watch. What though, for fear of the King's displeasure,
he had deserted with the Standard--it was but a piece of silk, and he
but a needy adventurer; or if he was put under warding for a time,
she would soon get the King to pardon him--it was but waiting to let
Richard's mood pass away.
Thus she continued talking thick and fast, and heaping together all
sorts of inconsistencies, with the vain expectation of persuading both
Edith and herself that no harm could come of a frolic which in her heart
she now bitterly repented. But while Edith in vain strove to intercept
this torrent of idle talk, she caught the eye of one of the ladies who
entered the Queen's apartment. There was death in her look of affright
and horror, and Edith, at the first glance of her countenance, had sunk
at once on the earth, had not strong necessity and her own elevation of
character enabled her to maintain at least external composure.
“Madam,” she said to the Queen, “lose not another word in speaking, but
save life--if, indeed,” she added, her voice choking as she said it,
“life may yet be saved.”
“It may, it may,” answered the Lady Calista. “I have just heard that he
has been brought before the King. It is not yet over--but,” she
added, bursting into a vehement flood of weeping, in which personal
apprehensions had some share, “it will soon, unless some course be
taken.”
“I will vow a golden candlestick to the Holy Sepulchre, a shrine of
silver to our Lady of Engaddi, a pall, worth one hundred byzants, to
Saint Thomas of Orthez,” said the Queen in extremity.
“Up, up, madam!” said Edith; “call on the saints if you list, but be
your own best saint.”
“Indeed, madam,” said the terrified attendant, “the Lady Edith speaks
truth. Up, madam, and let us to King Richard's tent and beg the poor
gentleman's life.”
“I will go--I will go instantly,” said the Queen, rising and trembling
excessively; while her women, in as great confusion as herself, were
unable to render her those duties which were indispensable to her levee.
Calm, composed, only pale as death, Edith ministered to the Queen
with her own hand, and alone supplied the deficiencies of her numerous
attendants.
“How you wait, wenches!” said the Queen, not able even then to forget
frivolous distinctions. “Suffer ye the Lady Edith to do the duties of
your attendance? Seest thou, Edith, they can do nothing; I shall never
be attired in time. We will send for the Archbishop of Tyre, and employ
him as a mediator.”
“Oh, no, no!” exclaimed Edith. “Go yourself madam; you have done the
evil, do you confer the remedy.”
“I will go--I will go,” said the Queen; “but if Richard be in his mood,
I dare not speak to him--he will kill me!”
“Yet go, gracious madam,” said the Lady Calista, who best knew her
mistress's temper; “not a lion, in his fury, could look upon such a face
and form, and retain so much as an angry thought, far less a love-true
knight like the royal Richard, to whom your slightest word would be a
command.”
“Dost thou think so, Calista?” said the Queen. “Ah, thou little knowest
yet I will go. But see you here, what means this? You have bedizened
me in green, a colour he detests. Lo you! let me have a blue robe,
and--search for the ruby carcanet, which was part of the King of
Cyprus's ransom; it is either in the steel casket, or somewhere else.”
“This, and a man's life at stake!” said Edith indignantly; “it passes
human patience. Remain at your ease, madam; I will go to King Richard. I
am a party interested. I will know if the honour of a poor maiden of
his blood is to be so far tampered with that her name shall be abused to
train a brave gentleman from his duty, bring him within the compass of
death and infamy, and make, at the same time, the glory of England a
laughing-stock to the whole Christian army.”
At this unexpected burst of passion, Berengaria listened with an almost
stupefied look of fear and wonder. But as Edith was about to leave the
tent, she exclaimed, though faintly, “Stop her, stop her!”
“You must indeed stop, noble Lady Edith,” said Calista, taking her arm
gently; “and you, royal madam, I am sure, will go, and without
further dallying. If the Lady Edith goes alone to the King, he will be
dreadfully incensed, nor will it be one life that will stay his fury.”
“I will go--I will go,” said the Queen, yielding to necessity; and Edith
reluctantly halted to wait her movements.
They were now as speedy as she could have desired. The Queen hastily
wrapped herself in a large loose mantle, which covered all inaccuracies
of the toilet. In this guise, attended by Edith and her women, and
preceded and followed by a few officers and men-at-arms, she hastened to
the tent of her lionlike husband.