Transcribed from the 1909 Macmillan and Co. edition by David Price, email
ccx074@pglaf.org
[Picture: Book cover]
THE
PRINCE AND THE PAGE
A STORY OF THE LAST CRUSADE
* * * * *
BY THE AUTHOR OF
“THE HEIR OF REDCLYFFE,”
ETC.
* * * * *
WITH A FRONTISPIECE BY ADRIAN STOKES
* * * * *
MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED
ST. MARTIN’S STREET, LONDON
1909
* * * * *
RICHARD CLAY AND SONS, LIMITED,
BREAD STREET HILL, E.C. AND
BUNGAY, SUFFOLK.
_First Edition printed_ 1865 (_Pott_ 8_vo_). _Reprinted_ 1873, 1875,
1877, 1878, 1881
(_Globe_ 8_vo_), _March and November_ 1883, 1886. _Second Edition_ 1891
(_Crown_ 8_vo_)
_Reprinted_ 1893, 1898, 1899, 1901, 1903, 1906, 1909.
_Shilling Edition_, 1908.
[Picture: Frontispiece]
PREFACE
IN these days of exactness even a child’s historical romance must point
to what the French term its _pièces justficatives_. We own that ours do
not lie very deep. The picture of Simon de Montfort drawn by his wife’s
own household books, as quoted by Mrs. Everett Green in her Lives of the
Princesses, and that of Edward I. in Carte’s History, and more recently
in the Greatest of the Plantagenets, furnished the two chief influences
of the story. The household accounts show that Earl Simon and Eleanor of
England had five sons. Henry fell with his father at Evesham. Simon and
Guy deeply injured his cause by their violence, and after holding out
Kenilworth against the Prince, retired to the Continent, where they
sacrilegiously murdered Henry, son of the King of the Romans—a crime so
much abhorred in Italy that Dante represents himself as meeting them in
torments in the _Inferno_, not however before Guy had become the founder
of the family of the Counts of Monforte in the Maremma. Richard, the
fourth son, appears in the household books as possessing dogs, and having
garments bought for him; but his history has not been traced after his
mother left England. The youngest son, Amaury, obtained the hereditary
French possessions of the family, and continued the line of Montfort as a
French subject. Eleanor, the only daughter, called the Demoiselle de
Montfort, married, as is well known, the last native prince of Wales, and
died after a few years.
The adventure of Edward with the outlaw of Alton Wood is one of the stock
anecdotes of history, and many years ago the romance of the encounter led
the author to begin a tale upon it, in which the outlaw became the
protector of one of the proscribed family of Montfort. The commencement
was placed in one of the manuscript magazines which are so often the
amusement of a circle of friends. It was not particularly correct in its
details, and the hero bore the peculiarly improbable name of Wilfred (by
which he has since appeared in the _Monthly Packet_). The story slept
for many years in MS., until further reading and thought had brought
stronger interest in the period, and for better or for worse it was taken
in hand again. Joinville, together with the authorities quoted by
Sismondi, assisted in picturing the arrival of the English after the
death of St. Louis, and the murder of Henry of Almayne is related in all
crusading histories; but for Simon’s further career, and for his
implication in the attempt on Edward’s life at Acre, the author is alone
responsible, taking refuge in the entire uncertainty that prevails as to
the real originator of the crime, and perhaps an apology is likewise due
to Dante for having reversed his doom.
For the latter part of the story, the old ballad of The Blind Beggar of
Bethnal Green, gives the framework. That ballad is believed to be
Elizabethan in date, and the manners therein certainly are scarcely
accordant with the real thirteenth century, and still less with our
notions of the days of chivalry. Some liberties therefore have been
taken with it, the chief of them being that Bessee is not permitted to go
forth to seek her fortune in the inn at Romford, and the readers are
entreated to believe that the alteration was made by the traditions which
repeated Henry de Montfort’s song.
It was the late Hugh Millar who alleged that the huge stone under which
Edward sleeps in Westminster Abbey agrees in structure with no rocks
nearer than those whence the mighty stones of the Temple at Jerusalem
were hewn, and there is no doubt that earth and stones were frequently
brought by crusaders from the Holy Land with a view to the hallowing of
their own tombs.
The author is well aware that this tale has all the incorrectnesses and
inconsistencies that are sure to attend a historical tale; but the dream
that has been pleasant to dream may be pleasant to listen to; and there
can be no doubt that, in spite of all inevitable faults, this style of
composition does tend to fix young people’s interest and attention on the
scenes it treats of, and to vivify the characters it describes; and if
this sketch at all tends to prepare young people’s minds to look with
sympathy and appreciation on any of the great characters of our early
annals, it will have done at least one work.
_December_ 12_th_, 1865.
CHAPTER I
THE STATELY HUNTER
“‘Now who are thou of the darksome brow
Who wanderest here so free?’
“‘Oh, I’m one that will walk the green green woods,
Nor ever ask leave of thee.’”—S. M.
A FINE EVENING—six centuries ago—shed a bright parting light over Alton
Wood, illuminating the gray lichens that clung to the rugged trunks of
the old oak trees, and shining on the smoother bark of the graceful
beech, with that sidelong light that, towards evening, gives an especial
charm to woodland scenery. The long shadows lay across an open green
glade, narrowing towards one end, where a path, nearly lost amid dwarf
furze, crested heather, and soft bent-grass, led towards a hut, rudely
constructed of sods of turf and branches of trees, whose gray crackling
foliage contrasted with the fresh verdure around. There was no endeavour
at a window, nor chimney; but the door of wattled boughs was carefully
secured by a long twisted withe.
A halbert, a broken arrow, a deer-skin pegged out on the ground to dry, a
bundle of faggots, a bare and blackened patch of grass, strewn with wood
ashes, were tokens of recent habitation, though the reiterations of the
nightingale, the deep tones of the blackbird and the hum of insects, were
the only sounds that broke the stillness.
Suddenly the silence was interrupted by a clear, loud, ringing whistle,
repeated at brief intervals and now and then exchanged for the
call—“Leonillo! Leon!” A footstep approached, rapidly overtaken and
passed by the rushing gallop of a large animal; and there broke on the
scene a large tawny hound, prancing, bounding, and turning round
joyfully, pawing the air, and wagging his tail, in welcome to the figure
who followed him.
This was a youth thirteen years old, wearing such a dress as was usual
with foresters—namely, a garment of home-spun undyed wool, reaching to
the knee, and there met by buskins of deer-skin, with the dappled hair
outside; but the belt which crossed one shoulder was clasped with gold,
and sustained a dagger, whose hilt and sheath were of exquisite
workmanship. The cap on his head was of gray rabbit-skin, but a heron’s
plume waved in it; the dark curling locks beneath were carefully
arranged; and the port of his head and shoulders, the mould of his limbs,
the cast of his features, and the fairness of his complexion, made his
appearance ill accord with the homeliness of his garb. In one hand he
carried a bow over his shoulder; in the other he held by the ears a
couple of dead rabbits, with which he playfully tantalized the dog,
holding them to his nose, and then lifting them high aloft, while the
hound, perfectly entering into the sport, leapt high after them with open
mouth, and pretended to seize them, then bounded and careered round his
young master with gay short barks, till both were out of breath; and the
boy, flinging the rabbits on the turf, threw himself down on it, with one
arm upon the neck of the panting dog, whose great gasps, like a sobbing
of laughter, heaved his whole frame.
“Ay, good Leonillo, take your rest!” said the boy: “we have done yeoman’s
service to-day, and shown ourselves fit to earn our own livelihood! We
are outlaws now, my lion of the Pyrenees; and you at least lead a merrier
life than in the castle halls, when we hunted for sport, and not for
sustenance! Well-a-day, my Leon!”—as the creature closed his mouth, and
looked wistfully up at him with almost human sympathy and
intelligence—“would that we knew where are all that were once wont to go
with us to the chase! But for them, I would be well content to be a bold
forester all my days! Better so, than to be ever vexed and crossed in
every design for the country’s weal—distrusted above—betrayed beneath!
Alack! alack! my noble father, why wert thou wrecked in every hope—in
every aim!”
These murmurings were broken off as Leonillo suddenly crested his head,
and changed his expression of repose for one of intense listening.
“Already!” exclaimed the boy, springing to his feet, as Leonillo bounded
forward to meet a stout hardy forester, who was advancing from the
opposite end of the glade. This was a man of the largest and most sinewy
mould, his face tanned by sun and wind to a uniform hard ruddy brown, and
his shaggy black hair untrimmed, as well as his dark bristly beard. His
jerkin was of rough leather, crossed by a belt, sustaining sword and
dagger; a bow and arrows were at his back; a huge quarter-staff in his
hand; and his whole aspect was that of a ferocious outlaw, whose hand was
against every man.
But the youth started towards him gleefully, as if the very sight of him
had dispelled all melancholy musings, and shouted merrily,
“Welcome—welcome, Adam! Why so early home? Have the Alton boors turned
surly? or are the King’s prickers abroad, and the neighbourhood
unwholesome for bold clerks of St. Nicholas?”
“Worse!” was the gruff mutter in reply. “Down, Leon: I am in no mood for
thy freaks!”
“What is it, Adam? Have the keepers carried their complaints to the
King, of the venison we have consumed, with small thanks to him?”
“Prince Edward is at Alton! What think you of that, Sir? Come to seek
through copse and brake for the arrant deer-stealer and outlaw, and all
his gang!”
“Why, there’s preferment for you!” said the boy, laughing. “High game
for the heir of the throne! And his gang! Hold up your head, Leonillo:
you and I come in for a share of the honour!”
“Hold up your head!” said the outlaw bitterly. “You may chance to hold
it as high as your father’s is, for all your gibes and jests, my young
Lord, if the Longshanks gets a hold of you, which our Lady forefend.”
“Nay, I think better of my Cousin Longshanks. I loved him well when I
was his page at Hereford: he was tenderer to me than ever my brothers
were; and I scarce think he would hang, draw, and quarter me now.”
“You may try, if you are not the better guided.”
“How did you hear these tidings?” inquired the boy, changing his mood to
a graver one.
“From the monk to whom you confessed a fortnight back. Did you let him
know your lineage?”
“How could I do otherwise?”
“He looked like a man who would keep a secret; and yet—”
“Shame—shame to doubt the good father!”
“Nay, I do not say that I do; but I would have the secret in as few men’s
power as may be. Nevertheless, I thank the good brother. He called out
to me as he saw me about to enter the town, that if I had any tenderness
for my own life, I had best not show myself there; and he went on to tell
me how the Prince was come to his hunting-lodge, with hawk and hound
indeed, but for the following of men rather than bird or beast.”
“And what would you have me do?”
“Be instantly on the way to the coast, ere the search begins; and there,
either for love of Sir Simon the righteous or for that gilt knife of
yours, we may get ferried over to the Isle of Wight, whence—But what ails
the dog! Whist, Leonillo! Hold your throat: I can hear naught but your
clamour!”
The hound was in fact barking with a tremendous lion-like note; and when,
on reiterated commands from his master and the outlaw, he changed it for
a low continuous growling like distant thunder, a step and a rustling of
the boughs became audible.
“They are upon us already!” cried the boy, snatching up and stringing his
bow.
“Leave me to deal with him!” returned the outlaw. “Off to Alton: the
good father will receive you to sanctuary!”
“Flee!—never!” cried the boy. “You teaching my father’s son to flee!”
“Tush!—’tis but one!” said the outlaw. “He is easily dealt with; and he
shall have no time to call his fellows.”
So saying, the forester strode forward into the wood, where a tall figure
was seen through the trees; and with uplifted quarter-staff, dealt a blow
of sudden and deadly force as soon as the stranger came within its sweep,
totally without warning. The power of the stroke might have felled an
ox, and would have at once overthrown the new-comer, but that he was a
man of unusual stature; and this being unperceived in the outlaw’s haste,
the blow lighted on his left shoulder instead of on his head.
“Ha, caitiff!” he exclaimed; and shortening the hunting-pole in his hand,
he returned the stroke with interest, but the outlaw had already prepared
himself to receive the blow on his staff. For some seconds there was a
rapid exchange; and all that the boy could detect in the fierce flourish
of weapons was, that his champion was at least equally matched. The
height of the stranger was superior; and his movements, if less quick and
violent, had an equableness that showed him a thorough master of his
weapon. But ere the lad had time to cross the heather to the scene of
action, the fight was over; the outlaw lay stunned and motionless on the
ground, and the gigantic stranger was leaning on his hunting-pole,
regarding him with a grave unmoved countenance, the fair skin of which
was scarcely flushed by the exertion.
“Spare him! spare him!” cried the boy, leaping forwards. “I am the prey
you seek!”
“Well met, my young Lord,” was the stern reply. “You have found yourself
a worthy way of life, and an honourable companion.”
“Honourable indeed, if faithfulness be honour!” replied the boy. “Myself
I yield, Sir; but spare him, if yet he lives!—O Adam, my only friend!” he
sobbed, as kneeling over him, he raised his head, undid his collar, and
parted the black locks, to seek for the mark of the blow, whence blood
was fast oozing.
“He lives—he will do well enough,” said the hunter. “Now, tell me,
boy—what brought you here?”
“The loving fidelity of this man!” was the prompt reply:—“a Poitevin, a
falconer at Kenilworth, who found me sore wounded on the field at
Evesham, and ever since has tended me as never vassal tended lord; and
now—now hath he indeed died for me!” and the boy, endeavouring to raise
the inanimate form, dropped heavy tears on the senseless face.
“True,” rigidly spoke the hunter, though there was somewhat of a
quivering of the muscles of the cheek discernible amid the curls of his
chestnut beard: “robbery is not the wonted service demanded of
retainers.”
“Poor Adam!” said the youth with a flash of spirit, “at least he never
stripped the peaceful homestead and humble farmer, like the royal
purveyors!”
“Ha—young rebel!” exclaimed the hunter. “Know you what you say?”
“I reck not,” replied the boy: “you have slain my father and my brothers,
and now you have slain my last and only friend. Do as you will with
me—only for my mother’s sake, let it not be a shameful death; and let my
sister Eleanor have my poor Leonillo. And let me, too, leave this gold
with the priest of Alton, that my true-hearted loving Adam may have fit
burial and masses.”
“I tell thee, boy, he is in no more need of a burial than thou or I. I
touched him warily. Here—his face more to the air.”
And the stranger bent down, and with his powerful strength lifted the
heavy form of Adam, so that the boy could better support him. Then
taking some wine from the hunting-flask slung to his own shoulder, he
applied some drops to the bruise. The smart produced signs of life, and
the hunter put his flask into the boy’s hand, saying, “Give him a
draught, and then—” he put his finger to his own lips, and stood somewhat
apart.
Adam opened his eyes, and made some inarticulate murmurs; then, the
liquor being held to his lips, he drank, and with fresh vigour raised
himself.
“The boy!—where is he? What has chanced? Is it you, Sir? Where is the
rogue? Fled, the villain? We shall have the Prince upon us next! I
must after him, and cut his story short! Your hand, Sir!”
“Nay, Adam—your hurt!”
“A broken head! Tush, ’tis naught! Here, your hand! Canst not lend a
hand to help a man up in your own service?” he added testily, as stiff
and dizzy he sat up and tried to rise. “You might have sent an arrow to
stop his traitorous tongue; but there is no help in you!” he added,
provoked at seeing a certain embarrassment about the youth. “Desert me
at this pinch! It is not like his father’s son!” and he was sinking
back, when at sight of the hunter he stumbled eagerly to his feet, but
only to stagger against a tree.
“You are my prisoner!” said the calm deep voice.
“Well and good,” said Adam surlily. “But let the lad go free: he is a
yeoman’s son, who came but to bear me company.”
“And learn thy trade? Goodly lessons in falling unawares on the King’s
huntsmen, and sending arrows after them! Fair breeding, in sooth!”
repeated the stranger, standing with his arms crossed upon his mighty
breadth of chest, and looking at Adam with a still, grave, commanding
blue eye, that seemed to pierce him and hold him down, as it were, and a
countenance whose youthfulness and perfect regularity of feature did but
enhance its exceeding severity of expression. “You know the meed of
robbery and murder?”
“A halter and a bough,” said Adam readily. “Well and good; but I tell
thee that concerns not the boy—since,” he added bitterly, “he is too meek
and tender so much as to lift a hand in his own cause! He has never
crossed the laws.”
“I understand you, friend,” said the hunter: “he is a valued charge—maybe
the son of one of the traitor barons. Take my advice—yield him to the
King’s justice, and secure your own pardon.”
“Out, miscreant!” shouted Adam; and was about to spring at him again, but
the powerful arm collared him, and he recognized at once that he was like
a child in that grasp. He ground his teeth with rage and muttered, “That
a fellow with such thews should give such dastardly counsel, and _he_
yonder not lift a finger to aid!”
“Wilt follow me,” composedly demanded the stranger, “with hands free? or
must I bind them?”
“Follow?” replied Adam, ruefully looking at the boy with eyes full of
reproach—“ay, follow to any gallows thou wilt—and the nearest tree were
the best! Come on!”
“I have no warrant,” returned the grave hunter.
“Tush! what warrant is needed for hanging a well-known outlaw—made so by
the Prince’s tender mercies? The Prince will thank thee, man, for
ridding the realm of the robber who fell on the treasurer bearing the
bags from Leicester!”
And meanwhile, with uncouth cunning, Adam was striving to telegraph by
winks and gestures to the boy who had so grievously disappointed him,
that the moment of his own summary execution would be an excellent one
for his companion’s escape.
But the eye, so steady yet so quick under its somewhat drooping eyelid,
detected the simple stratagem.
“I trow the Prince might thank me more for bringing in this charge of
thine.”
“Small thanks, I trow, for laying hands on a poor orphan—the son of a
Poitevin man-at-arms—that I kept with me for love of his father, though
he is fitter for a convent than the green wood!” added Adam, with the
same sound of keen reproach and disappointment in his voice.
“That shall we learn at Guildford,” replied the stranger. “There are
means of teaching a man to speak.”
“None that will serve with me,” stoutly responded Adam.
“That shall we see,” was the brief answer.
And he signed to his prisoners to move on before him, taking care so to
interpose his stately person between them, that there should be no
communication by word, far less by look.