THE STORY OF THE HOUSEWIFE

"Selh que m blasma vostr' amor ni m defen

Non podon far en re mon cor mellor,

Ni'l dous dezir qu'ieu ai de vos major,

Ni l'enveya' ni'l dezir, ni'l talen."

THE FIFTH NOVEL.--PHILIPPA OF HAINAULT DARES TO LOVE UNTHRIFTILY, AND

WITH THE PRODIGALITY OF HER AFFECTION SHAMES TREACHERY, AND

COMMON-SENSE, AND HIGH ROMANCE, QUITE STOLIDLY; BUT, AS LOVING GOES,

IS OVERTOPPED BY HER MORE STOLID SQUIRE.

_The Story of the Housewife_

In the year of grace 1326, upon Walburga's Eve, some three hours after

sunset (thus Nicolas begins), had you visited a certain garden on the

outskirts of Valenciennes, you might there have stumbled upon a big,

handsome boy, prone on the turf, where by turns he groaned and vented

himself in sullen curses. His profanity had its palliation. Heir to

England though he was, you must know that this boy's father in the

flesh had hounded him from England, as more recently had the lad's

uncle Charles the Handsome driven him from France. Now had this boy

and his mother (the same Queen Ysabeau about whom I have told you in

the preceding tale) come as suppliants to the court of that stalwart

nobleman Sire William (Count of Hainault, Holland, and Zealand, and

Lord of Friesland), where their arrival had evoked the suggestion that

they depart at their earliest convenience. To-morrow, then, these

footsore royalties, the Queen of England and the Prince of Wales,

would be thrust out-of-doors to resume the weary beggarship, to knock

again upon the obdurate gates of this unsympathizing king or that deaf

emperor.

Accordingly the boy aspersed his destiny. At hand a nightingale

carolled as though an exiled prince were the blithest spectacle the

moon knew.

There came through the garden a tall girl, running, stumbling in her

haste. "Hail, King of England!" she said.

"Do not mock me, Philippa!" the boy half-sobbed. Sulkily he rose to

his feet.

"No mockery here, my fair sweet friend. No, I have told my father all

which happened yesterday. I pleaded for you. He questioned me very

closely. And when I had ended, he stroked his beard, and presently

struck one hand upon the table. 'Out of the mouth of babes!' he said.

Then he said: 'My dear, I believe for certain that this lady and her

son have been driven from their kingdom wrongfully. If it be for the

good of God to comfort the afflicted, how much more is it commendable

to help and succor one who is the daughter of a king, descended from

royal lineage, and to whose blood we ourselves are related!' And

accordingly he and your mother have their heads together yonder,

planning an invasion of England, no less, and the dethronement of your

wicked father, my Edward. And accordingly--hail, King of England!" The

girl clapped her hands gleefully. The nightingale sang.

But the boy kept momentary silence. Not even in youth were the men of

his race handicapped by excessively tender hearts; yesterday in the

shrubbery the boy had kissed this daughter of Count William, in part

because she was a healthy and handsome person, and partly because

great benefit might come of an alliance with her father. Well! the

Prince had found chance-taking not unfortunate. With the episode as

foundation, Count William had already builded up the future queenship

of England. The strong Count could do--and, as it seemed, was now in

train to do--indomitable deeds to serve his son-in-law; and now the

beggar of five minutes since foresaw himself, with this girl's love as

ladder, mounting to the high habitations of the King of England, the

Lord of Ireland, and the Duke of Aquitaine. Thus they would herald

him.

So he embraced the girl. "Hail, Queen of England!" said the Prince;

and then, "If I forget--" His voice broke awkwardly. "My dear, if ever

I forget--!" Their lips met now. The nightingale discoursed as if on a

wager.

Presently was mingled with the bird's descant another kind of singing.

Beyond the yew-hedge as these two stood silent, breast to breast,

passed young Jehan Kuypelant, one of the pages, fitting to the

accompaniment of a lute his paraphrase of the song which Archilochus

of Sicyon very anciently made in honor of Venus Melaenis, the tender

Venus of the Dark.

At a gap in the hedge the young Brabanter paused. His singing ended,

gulped. These two, who stood heart hammering against heart, saw for an

instant Jehan Kuypelant's lean face silvered by the moonlight, his

mouth a tiny abyss. Followed the beat of lessening footfalls, while

the nightingale improvised an envoi.

But earlier Jehan Kuypelant also had sung, as though in rivalry with

the bird.

Sang Jehan Kuypelant:

"Hearken and heed, Melaenis!

For all that the litany ceased

When Time had pilfered the victim,

And flouted thy pale-lipped priest,

And set astir in the temple

Where burned the fires of thy shrine

The owls and wolves of the desert--

Yet hearken, (the issue is thine!)

And let the heart of Atys,

At last, at last, be mine!

"For I have followed, nor faltered--

Adrift in a land of dreams

Where laughter and pity and terror

Commingle as confluent streams,

I have seen and adored the Sidonian,

Implacable, fair and divine--

And bending low, have implored thee

To hearken, (the issue is thine!)

And let the heart of Atys,

At last, at last, be mine!"

It is time, however, that we quit this subject and speak of other

matters. Just twenty years later, on one August day in the year of

grace 1346, Master John Copeland--as men now called Jehan Kuypelant,

now secretary to the Queen of England,--brought his mistress the

unhandsome tidings that David Bruce had invaded her realm with forty

thousand Scots to back him. The Brabanter found plump Queen Philippa

with the kingdom's arbitress--Dame Catherine de Salisbury, whom King

Edward, third of that name to reign in Britain, and now warring in

France, very notoriously adored and obeyed.

This king, indeed, had been despatched into France chiefly, they

narrate, to release the Countess' husband, William de Montacute, from

the French prison of the Châtelet. You may appraise her dominion by

this fact: chaste and shrewd, she had denied all to King Edward, and

in consequence he could deny her nothing; so she sent him to fetch

back her husband, whom she almost loved. That armament had sailed from

Southampton on Saint George's day.

These two women, then, shared the Brabanter's execrable news. Already

Northumberland, Westmoreland, and Durham were the broken meats of King

David.

The Countess presently exclaimed: "Let them weep for this that must!

My place is not here."

Philippa said, half hopefully, "Do you forsake Sire Edward,

Catherine?"

"Madame and Queen," the Countess answered, "in this world every man

must scratch his own back. My lord has entrusted to me his castle of

Wark, his fiefs in Northumberland. These, I hear, are being laid

waste. Were there a thousand men-at-arms left in England I would say

fight. As it is, our men are yonder in France and the island is

defenceless. Accordingly I ride for the north to make what terms I may

with the King of Scots."

Now you might have seen the Queen's eye brighten. "Undoubtedly," said

she, "in her lord's absence it is the wife's part to defend his

belongings. And my lord's fief is England. I bid you God-speed,

Catherine." And when the Countess was gone, Philippa turned, her round

face somewhat dazed and flushed. "She betrays him! she compounds with

the Scot! Mother of Christ, let me not fail!"

"A ship must be despatched to bid Sire Edward return," said the

secretary. "Otherwise all England is lost."

"Not so, John Copeland! We must let Sire Edward complete his

overrunning of France, if such be the Trinity's will. You know

perfectly well that he has always had a fancy to conquer France; and

if I bade him return now he would be vexed."

"The disappointment of the King," John Copeland considered, "is a

smaller evil than allowing all of us to be butchered."

"Not to me, John Copeland," the Queen said.

Now came many lords into the chamber, seeking Madame Philippa. "We

must make peace with the Scottish rascal!--England is lost!--A ship

must be sent entreating succor of Sire Edward!" So they shouted.

"Messieurs," said Queen Philippa, "who commands here? Am I, then, some

woman of the town?"

Ensued a sudden silence. John Copeland, standing by the seaward

window, had picked up a lute and was fingering the instrument

half-idly. Now the Marquess of Hastings stepped from the throng.

"Pardon, Highness. But the occasion is urgent."

"The occasion is very urgent, my lord," the Queen assented, deep in

meditation.

John Copeland flung back his head and without prelude began to carol

lustily.

Sang John Copeland:

"There are taller lads than Atys,

And many are wiser than he,--

How should I heed them?--whose fate is

Ever to serve and to be

Ever the lover of Atys,

And die that Atys may dine,

Live if he need me--Then heed me,

And speed me, (the moment is thine!)

And let the heart of Atys,

At last, at last, be mine!

"Fair is the form unbeholden,

And golden the glory of thee

Whose voice is the voice of a vision

Whose face is the foam of the sea,

And the fall of whose feet is the flutter

Of breezes in birches and pine,

When thou drawest near me, to hear me,

And cheer me, (the moment is thine!)

And let the heart of Atys,

At last, at last, be mine!"

I must tell you that the Queen shivered, as if with extreme cold. She

gazed toward John Copeland wonderingly. The secretary was fretting at

his lutestrings, with his head downcast. Then in a while the Queen

turned to Hastings.

"The occasion is very urgent, my lord," the Queen assented. "Therefore

it is my will that to-morrow one and all your men be mustered at

Blackheath. We will take the field without delay against the King of

Scots."

The riot began anew. "Madness!" they shouted; "lunar madness! We can

do nothing until our King returns with our army!"

"In his absence," the Queen said, "I command here."

"You are not Regent," the Marquess answered. Then he cried, "This is

the Regent's affair!"

"Let the Regent be fetched," Dame Philippa said, very quietly. They

brought in her son, Messire Lionel, now a boy of eight years, and, in

the King's absence, Regent of England.

Both the Queen and the Marquess held papers. "Highness," Lord Hastings

began, "for reasons of state which I lack time to explain, this

document requires your signature. It is an order that a ship be

despatched to ask the King's return. Your Highness may remember the

pony you admired yesterday?" The Marquess smiled ingratiatingly. "Just

here, your Highness--a crossmark."

"The dappled one?" said the Regent; "and all for making a little

mark?" The boy jumped for the pen.

"Lionel," said the Queen, "you are Regent of England, but you are also

my son. If you sign that paper you will beyond doubt get the pony, but

you will not, I think, care to ride him. You will not care to sit down

at all, Lionel."

The Regent considered. "Thank you very much, my lord," he said in the

ultimate, "but I do not like ponies any more. Do I sign here, Mother?"

Philippa handed the Marquess a subscribed order to muster the English

forces at Blackheath; then another, closing the English ports. "My

lords," the Queen said, "this boy is the King's vicar. In defying him,

you defy the King. Yes, Lionel, you have fairly earned a pot of jam

for supper."

Then Hastings went away without speaking. That night assembled at his

lodgings, by appointment, Viscount Heringaud, Adam Frere, the Marquess

of Orme, Lord Stourton, the Earls of Neville and Gage, and Sir Thomas

Rokeby. These seven found a long table there littered with pens and

parchment; to the rear of it, with a lackey behind him, sat the

Marquess of Hastings, meditative over a cup of Bordeaux.

Presently Hastings said: "My friends, in creating our womankind the

Maker of us all was beyond doubt actuated by laudable and cogent

reasons; so that I can merely lament my inability to fathom these

reasons. I shall obey the Queen faithfully, since if I did otherwise

Sire Edward would have my head off within a day of his return. In

consequence, I do not consider it convenient to oppose his vicar.

To-morrow I shall assemble the tatters of troops which remain to us,

and to-morrow we march northward to inevitable defeat. To-night I am

sending a courier into Northumberland. He is an obliging person, and

would convey--to cite an instance--eight letters quite as blithely as

one."

Each man glanced furtively about. England was in a panic by this, and

knew itself to lie before the Bruce defenceless. The all-powerful

Countess of Salisbury had compounded with King David; now Hastings,

too, their generalissimo, compounded. What the devil! loyalty was a

sonorous word, and so was patriotism, but, after all, one had estates

in the north.

The seven wrote in silence. I must tell you that when they had ended,

Hastings gathered the letters into a heap, and without glancing at the

superscriptures, handed all these letters to the attendant lackey.

"For the courier," he said.

The fellow left the apartment. Presently you heard a departing clatter

of hoofs, and Hastings rose. He was a gaunt, terrible old man,

gray-bearded, and having high eyebrows that twitched and jerked.

"We have saved our precious skins," said he. "Hey, you fidgeters, you

ferments of sour offal! I commend your common-sense, messieurs, and I

request you to withdraw. Even a damned rogue such as I has need of a

cleaner atmosphere in order to breathe comfortably." The seven went

away without further speech.

They narrate that next day the troops marched for Durham, where the

Queen took up her quarters. The Bruce had pillaged and burned his way

to a place called Beaurepair, within three miles of the city. He sent

word to the Queen that if her men were willing to come forth from the

town he would abide and give them battle.

She replied that she accepted his offer, and that the barons would

gladly risk their lives for the realm of their lord the King. The

Bruce grinned and kept silence, since he had in his pocket letters

from most of them protesting they would do nothing of the sort.

Here is comedy. On one side you have a horde of half-naked savages, a

shrewd master holding them in leash till the moment be auspicious; on

the other, a housewife at the head of a tiny force lieutenanted by

perjurers, by men already purchased. God knows what dreams she had of

miraculous victories, while her barons trafficked in secret with the

Bruce. It is recorded that, on the Saturday before Michaelmas, when

the opposing armies marshalled in the Bishop's Park, at Auckland, not

a captain on either side believed the day to be pregnant with battle.

There would be a decent counterfeit of resistance; afterward the

little English army would vanish pell-mell, and the Bruce would be

master of the island. The farce was prearranged, the actors therein

were letter-perfect.

That morning at daybreak John Copeland came to the Queen's tent, and

informed her quite explicitly how matters stood. He had been drinking

overnight with Adam Frere and the Earl of Gage, and after the third

bottle had found them candid. "Madame and Queen, we are betrayed. The

Marquess of Hastings, our commander, is inexplicably smitten with a

fever. He will not fight to-day. Not one of your lords will fight

to-day." Master Copeland laid bare such part of the scheme as

yesterday's conviviality had made familiar. "Therefore I counsel

retreat. Let the King be summoned out of France."

Queen Philippa shook her head, as she cut up squares of toast and

dipped them in milk for the Regent's breakfast. "Sire Edward would be

vexed. He has always wanted to conquer France. I shall visit the

Marquess as soon as Lionel is fed,--do you know, John Copeland, I am

anxious about Lionel; he is irritable and coughed five times during

the night,--and then I will attend to this affair."

She found the Marquess in bed, groaning, the coverlet pulled up to his

chin. "Pardon, Highness," said Lord Hastings, "but I am an ill man. I

cannot rise from this couch."

"I do not question the gravity of your disorder," the Queen retorted,

"since it is well known that the same illness brought about the death

of Iscariot. Nevertheless, I bid you get up and lead our troops

against the Scot."

Now the hand of the Marquess veiled his countenance. "I am an ill

man," he muttered, doggedly. "I cannot rise from this couch."

There was a silence.

"My lord," the Queen presently began, "without is an army

prepared--yes, and quite able--to defend our England. The one

requirement of this army is a leader. Afford them that, my lord--ah, I

know that our peers are sold to the Bruce, yet our yeomen at least are

honest. Give them, then, a leader, and they cannot but conquer, since

God also is honest and incorruptible. Pardieu! a woman might lead

these men, and lead them to victory!"