A MAID OF FRANCE
"The Duke of Friedwald!"
It was not the princess who thus exclaimed, but Jacqueline. Charles
had spoken loudly, and, drawn irresistibly to the scene, she had caught
his significant words at the moment she recognized, in his brave
accoutrements, him whom she had known as the duke's fool.
When she had heard, above the din of the fray, the cries with which the
new-comer had been greeted, no suspicion of his identity had crossed
her mind. She had wondered, been puzzled at the unexpected appearance
of Robert, Duke of Friedwald, but that he and the ailing fool were one
and the same was wide from her field of speculation. In amazement, she
regarded the knight who had turned the tide of conflict, and then
started, noticing the colors he wore, a paltry yellow ribbon on his
arm, the badge of her office. Much she had not understood now appeared
plain. His assurance in Fools' hall; his reckless daring; his skill
with the sword. He was a soldier, not a jester; a lord, not a lord's
servant.
Lost in no less wonder, the princess gazed from the free baron to
Charles, and back again to the lifeless form. Stooping, she looked
steadfastly into the face, as though she would read its secret.
Perhaps, too, as she studied those features, piece by piece she patched
together the scenes of the past. Her own countenance began to harden,
as though some part of that mask of death had fallen upon her, and when
she glanced once more at the emperor they saw she no longer doubted.
With forced self-control, she turned to the emperor.
"Doubtless, it is some brave pastime," she said to Charles. "Will your
Majesty deign to explain?"
"Nay," answered the emperor, dryly; "that thankless task I'll leave to
him who played the fool."
Uncovering, the Duke of Friedwald approached. The excitement of the
contest over, his pallid features marked the effects of his recent
injuries, the physical strain under which he had labored. Her cold
eyes swept over him haughtily, inquiringly.
"For the part I have played, Madam," he said, "I ask your forbearance.
If we both labored under a delusion, I have only regret--"
"Regret!" Was it an outburst of grief, or wounded pride? He flushed,
but continued firmly:
"Madame la Princesse, when first a marriage was proposed between us I
was younger in experience if not in years than I am now; more used to
the bivouac or hunters' camps than courts. And woman--" he
smiled--"well, she was a vague ideal. At times, she came to me when
sleeping before the huntsman's fire in the solitudes of the forest;
again, was reflected from the pages of classic lore. She seemed a part
of the woods and the streams, for by ancient art had she not been
turned into trees and running brooks? So she whispered in the boughs
and murmured among the rushes. Mere _Schwärmerei_. Do you care to
hear? 'Tis the only defense I can offer."
Her contemptuous blue eyes remained fastened on him; she disdained to
answer.
"It was a dreamer from brake and copse who went in the disguise of a
jester to be near her; to win her for himself--and then, declare his
identity. Well may you look scornful. Love!--it is not such a
romantic quality--at court. A momentary pastime, perhaps, but--a deep
passion--a passion stronger than rank, than death, than all--"
Above the face of her whom he addressed his glance rested upon
Jacqueline, and he paused. The princess could but note, and a derisive
expression crept about her mouth.
"Once I would have told you all," he resumed. "That night--when you
were Lady of the Lists. But--"
He broke off abruptly, wishing to spare her the bitter memory of her
own acts. Did she remember that day, when she had been queen of the
chaplet? When she had crowned him whom now death and dishonor had
overtaken?
"The rest, Madam, you know--save this." And stooping, he picked up the
ornament that had dropped from Louis of Hochfels' neck. "Here,
Princess, is the miniature you sent me. He, who used you so ill, stole
it from me in prison; through it, he recognized the fool for the duke;
with an assassin's blow he struck me down."
A moment he looked at that fair painted semblance. Did it recall the
past too vividly? His face showed no pain; only tranquillity. His eye
was rather that of a connoisseur than a lover. He smiled gently; then
held it to her.
Mechanically she let the portrait slip through her fingers, and it fell
to the moistened grass near the form of him who had wedded her. Then
she drew back her dress so that it might not touch the body at her feet.
"Have I your Majesty's permission to withdraw?" she said, coldly.
"If you will not accept our poor escort to the king," answered Charles.
"My ladies and myself will dispense with so much honor, Sire," she
returned.
"Such service as we can command is at your disposal, Madam," he
repeated.
"It is not far distant to the château, Sire."
"As you will," said the emperor.
With no further word she bowed deeply, turned, and slowly retracing her
steps, mounted her horse, and rode away, followed by her maids and the
troopers of France.
As she disappeared, without one backward glance, the duke gazed quickly
toward the spot where Jacqueline had been standing. He remembered the
young girl had heard his story; he had caught her eyes upon him while
he was telling it; very deep, serious, judicial, they seemed. Were
they weighing his past infatuation for the princess; holding the scales
to his acts? Swiftly he turned to her now, but she had vanished. Save
for rough nurses, companions in arms, moving here and there among the
wounded, he and the emperor stood alone. In the bushes a bird which
had left a nest of fledglings returned and caroled among the boughs; a
clarifying melody after the mad passions of the day. The elder man
noted the direction of the duke's glance, the yellow ribbon on his arm.
"So it was a jestress, not a princess you found, thou dreamer," he
said, half-ironically.
"The daughter of the Constable of Dubrois, Sire," was the reply.
The emperor nodded. "The family colors have changed," he observed
dryly.
"With fortune, Sire."
"Truly," said Charles, "fortune is a jestress. She had like to play on
us this day. But your fever?" he added, abruptly, setting his horse's
head toward camp.
"Is gone, Sire," answered the duke, riding by his side.
"And your injuries?"
"Were so slight they are forgotten."
"Then is the breath of battle better medicine than nostrum or salve.
In youth, 'tis the sword-point; in age, turn we to the hilt-cross. But
this maid--have you won her?"
The young man changed color. "Won her, Sire?" he replied. "That I
know not--no word has passed--"
"No word," said the emperor, doubtingly. "A knight-errant and a
castleless maid!"
The duke vouchsafed no answer.
"Humph!" added Charles. "Thus do our plans come to naught. If you got
her, and wore her, what end would be served?"
"No end of state, perhaps, Sire."
"Why," observed the monarch, "the state and the faith--what else is
there? But go your way. How smooth it may be no man can tell."
"Is the road like to be rougher than it has been, Sire?"
"The maid belongs to France," answered Charles, "and France belongs to
the king."
"The king!" exclaimed the duke, fiercely.
Involuntarily had they drawn rein in the shade of a tiny thicket
overlooking the valley. Even from this slight exercise, bowed and
weary appeared the emperor's form. The hand which controlled his steed
trembled, but the lines of his face spoke of unweakened sinew of
spirit, the iron grip of a will that only death might loosen.
"The king!" repeated the young man. "He is no king of mine, nor hers.
To you, Sire, only, I owe allegiance, or my life, at your need."
A gentler expression softened the emperor's features, as a gleam of
sunshine forces itself into the somberest forest depths.
"We have had our need," he said. "Not long since."
His glance swept the outlook below. "Heaven watches over monarchs," he
added, turning a keen, satirical look on the other, "but through the
vigilance of our earthly servitors."
The duke's response was interrupted by the appearance below of a
horseman, covered with dust, riding toward them, and urging his weary
steed up the incline with spur and voice. Deliberately the monarch
surveyed the new-comer.
"What make you of yonder fellow?" he said. "He is not of the guard,
nor of the bastard's following."
"His housings are the color of France, Sire."
"Then can I make a shrewd guess of his purpose," observed the monarch.
As he spoke the horseman drew nearer and a moment later had stopped
before the emperor.
"A message from the king, Sire!" exclaimed the man, dismounting and
kneeling to present a formidable-looking document, with a great disk of
lead through which a silken string was drawn.
Breaking the seal, the emperor opened the missive. "It is well," he
said at length, folding the parchment. "The king was even on his way
to the château to await our coming, when he met Caillette and received
our communication. Go you to the camp"--to the messenger--"where we
shall presently return." And as the man rode away: "The king begs we
will continue our journey at our leisure," he added, "and announces he
will receive us at the château."
"And have I your permission to return to Friedwald, Sire?" asked the
other in a low voice.
"Alone?"
"Nay; I would conduct the constable's daughter there to safety."
"And thus needlessly court Francis' resentment? Not yet."
The young man said no word, but his face hardened.
"Tut!" said the emperor, dryly, although not unkindly. "Where's fealty
now? Fine words; fine words! A slender chit of a maid, forsooth.
Without lands, without dowry; with naught--save herself."
"Is she not enough, Sire?"
"Francis is more easily disarmed in his own castle by his own
hospitality than in the battle-field," observed Charles, without
replying to this question. "In field have we conquered him; in palace
hath he conquered himself, and our friendship. Therefore you and the
maid return in our train to the king's court."
"At your order, Sire."
But the young man's voice was cold, ominous.