ALTON LODGE
“Ever were his sons hawtayn,
And bold for their vilanye;
Bothe to knight and sweyn
Did they vilanye.”
_Old Ballad of Simon de Montforte_.
FOR the first time for many a month, Richard de Montfort lay down to
sleep in a pallet bed, instead of a couch of heather; but his heart was
ill at ease. He was the fourth son of the great Earl of Leicester, Simon
de Montfort; and for the earlier years of his life, he had been under the
careful training of the excellent chaplain, Adam de Marisco, a pupil and
disciple of the great Robert Grostête, Bishop of Lincoln. His elder
brothers had early left this wholesome control; pushed forward by the sad
circumstances that finally drove their father to take up arms against the
King, and strangers to the noble temper that actuated him in his
championship of the English people, they became mere lawless
rebels—fiercely profiting by his elevation, not for the good of the
people, but for their own gratification.
Richard had been still a mere boy under constant control, and being
intelligent, spirited, and docile, had been an especial favourite with
his father. To him the great Earl had been the model of all that was
admirable, wise, and noble; deeply religious, just, and charitable, and
perfect in all the arts of chivalry and accomplishments of peace—a tender
and indulgent father, and a firm and wise head of a household—he had been
ardently loved and looked up to by the young son, who had perhaps more in
common with him by nature than any other of the family.
Wrongs and injuries had been heaped upon Montfort by the weak and fickle
King, who would far better have understood him, if, like the selfish
kinsmen who encircled the throne, he had struggled for his own advantage,
and not for the maintenance of the Great Charter. Richard was too young
to remember the early days when his elder brothers had been companions,
almost on equal terms, to their first cousins, the King’s sons; his whole
impression of his parents’ relations with the court was of injustice and
perfidy from the King and his counsellors, vehemently blamed by his
mother and brothers, but sometimes palliated by his father, who almost
always, even at the worst, pleaded the King’s helplessness, and Prince
Edward’s honourable intentions. Understanding little of the rights of
the case, Richard only saw his father as the maintainer of the laws, and
defender of the oppressed against covenant breakers; and when the appeal
to arms was at length made, he saw the white cross assumed by his father
and brothers, in full belief that the war in defence of Magna Carta was
indeed as sacred as a crusade, and he had earnestly entreated to be
allowed to bear arms; but he had been deemed as yet too young, and thus
had had no share in the victory of Lewes, save the full triumph in it
that was felt by all at Kenilworth. Afterwards, when sent to be Prince
Edward’s page at Hereford, he was prepared to regard his royal cousin as
a ferocious enemy, and was much taken by surprise to find him a graceful
courtly knight, peculiarly gentle in manner, loving music, romances, and
all chivalrous accomplishments; and far from the pride and haughtiness
that had been the theme of all the vassals who assembled at Kenilworth,
he was gracious to all, and distinguished his young page by treating him
as a kinsman and favourite companion; showing him indeed far more
consideration than ever he had received from his unruly turbulent
brothers.
When Edward had effected his escape, and had joined the Mortimers and
Clares, Richard had gone home, where his expressions of affection for the
Prince were listened to by his father, indeed, with a well-pleased though
melancholy smile, and an augury that one day his brave godson would shake
off the old King’s evil counsellors, and show himself in his true and
noble colouring. His brothers, however, laughed and chid any word about
the Prince’s kindness. Edward’s flattery and seduction, they declared,
had won the young De Clare from their cause. And in vain did their
father assure them that they had lost the alliance of the house of
Gloucester solely by their own over-bearing injustice—a tyranny worse
than had been exercised under the name of the King.
With Henry of Winchester in their hands, however, theirs seemed the loyal
cause; and Richard had, by the influence of his elders, been made ashamed
of his regard for the Prince, and looked upon it as a treacherous
rebellion, when Edward mustered his forces, and fell upon Leicester and
his followers. His father had mournfully yielded to the boy’s entreaty
to remain with him, instead of being sent away with his mother and the
younger ones for security: an honourable death, said the Earl, might be
better for him than an outlawed and proscribed life. And thus Richard
had heard his father’s exclamation on marking the well-ordered advance of
the Royalists: “They have learnt this style from me. Now, God have mercy
on our souls, for our bodies are the Prince’s!”
And when Henry, his eldest son, spoke words of confidence, entreating him
not to despair, he had answered, “I do not, my son; but your presumption,
and the pride of thy brothers, have brought me to this pass. I firmly
believe I shall die for the cause of God and justice.”
Richard had shared his father’s last Communion, received his last
blessing, and had stood beside him in the desperate ring, which in true
English fashion died on the field of battle, but never was driven from
it. Since that time, the boy’s life had been a wandering amid outlaws
and peasants—all in one mind of bitter hatred to the court for its cruel
vexations and oppressions, and of intense love and regret for their
champion, Sir Simon the Righteous, of whose beneficence tales were
everywhere told, rising at every step into greater wonder, until at
length they were enhanced into miracles, wrought by his severed head and
hands. Each day had made the boy prouder of his father’s memory, more
deeply incensed against the Court party that had brought about his fall;
and keen and bitter were his feelings at finding himself in the hands of
the Prince himself. He chafed all the more at feeling the ascendency
which Edward’s lofty demeanour and personal kindness had formerly exerted
over him, reviving again by force of habit; he hated himself for not
having at once challenged his father’s murderer; so as, if he could not
do more, to have died by his hand; and he despised himself the more, for
knowing that all he could have said would have been good-naturedly put
down by the Prince; all he could have done would have been but like a
gnat’s efforts against that mighty strength. Then how despicable it was
to be sensible, in spite of himself, that this atmosphere of courtly
refinement was far more natural to him—the son of a Provençal noble, and
of a princess mother—than the rude forest life he had lately led. The
greenwood liberty had its charms; and he had truly loved Adam de Gourdon;
but the soft tones and refined accents were like a note of home to him;
and though he had never seen the Princess before—she having been sent to
the Court of St. Louis during the troubles—yet the whole of the interview
gave him an inexplicable sense of being again among kindred and friends.
He told himself that it was base, resolved that he would show himself
determined to cast in his lot with his exiled brethren, and made up his
mind to maintain a dignified silence during these two days, and at the
end of them to leave with the Prince a challenge, to be fought out when
he should have attained manly strength and skill in arms.
In pursuance of this resolution, he appeared at the morning mass and meal
still grave and silent, and especially avoiding young Hamlyn de Valence,
who, as the son of one of the half brothers of Henry III., stood in the
same relationship to Prince Edward and to Richard, whose mother was the
sister of King Henry. Probably Hamlyn had had a hint from the Prince,
for though he regarded young Montfort with no friendly eyes, he yielded
him an equality of precedence, which hardly consorted with Richard’s rude
forest garments.
The chase was the order of the day. The Prince rode forth with a boar
spear to hunt one of these monsters of the wood, of which vague reports
had reached him, unconfirmed, till Adam de Gourdon had undertaken to show
him the creature’s lair. He had proposed to Richard to join the hunt;
but the boy, firm to his resolution of accepting no favour from him, that
could be helped, had refused as curtly as he could; and then, not without
a feeling of disappointment, had stood holding Leonillo in, as the
gallant train of hunters rode down the woodland glade, and he figured to
himself the brave sport in which they would soon be engaged.
The most part of the day was spent by him in lying under a tree, with his
dog by his side, thinking over the scenes of his earlier life, which had
passed by his childish mind like those of a drama, in which he had no
part nor comprehension, but which now, with clearer perceptions, he
strove to recall and explain to himself. Ever his father’s stately
figure was the centre of his recollections, whether receiving tidings of
infractions of engagements, taking prompt measures for action, or
striving to repress the violence of his sons and partizans, or it might
be gazing on his younger boys with sad anxiety. Richard well remembered
his saying, when he heard that his sons, Simon and Guy, had been
plundering the merchant ships in the Channel: “Alas! alas! when I was
more loyal to the law than to the Crown, I little deemed that I was
rearing a brood who would scorn all law and loyalty!”
And well too did Richard recollect that when the proposal had been made
that he should become the attendant of the Prince at Hereford, his father
had told him that here he would see the mirror of all that was knightly
and virtuous; and had added, on the loud outcry of the more prejudiced
brothers: “It is only the truth. Were it not that the King’s folly and
his perjured counsellors had come between my nephew Edward and his better
self, we should have in him a sovereign who might fitly be reckoned as a
tenth worthy. It is his very duty to a misruled father that has ranged
him against us.”
“Yet,” thought Richard, “on the man who thus thought and spoke of him the
Prince could make savage warfare; nay, offer his senseless corpse foul
despite. How can I tarry these two days in such keeping? I had
rather—if he will still keep me—be a captive in his lowest dungeon, than
eat of his bread as a guest! By our Lady, I will tell him so to his
face! I will none of his favours! Alone I will go to the coast—alone
make my way to Simon and Guy, with no letters to the French king! All
kings, however saintly they may be called, are in league, and make common
cause; as said my poor brother Henry, when the Mise of Lewes was to be
laid before this Frenchman! I will none of them! Pshaw! is this the
Princess coming? I trust she will not see me. I want none of her fair
words.”
He had prepared himself to be ungracious; but his courtly breeding was
too much of an instinct with him for him not to rise, doff his cap, and
stand aside, as Eleanor of Castille slowly moved towards the woodland
path, with her graceful Spanish step, followed, but at some distance, by
two of her women. She turned as she was passing him, and smiled with a
sweet radiance that would have won him instantly, had he not heard his
elder brothers sneer at the cheap coin of royal smiles. He only bowed;
but Leonillo was more accessible, and started forward to pay his homage
of dignified blandishments to the queenly sweetness that pleased his
canine appreciation. Richard was forced to step forth, call him in, and
make his excuses; but the Princess responded by praises of the noble
animal, and caresses, to which Leonillo replied with a grand gratitude,
that showed him as nobly bred as his young master.
“Thou art a gallant creature,” said Eleanor, her hand upon the proud
head; “and no doubt as faithful as beautiful!”
“Faithful to the death, Lady,” replied Richard warmly.
“He is thine own, I trow,” said the Princess,—“not thy groom’s? I
remember, that when thy brave father brought my lord and me back from our
bridal at Burgos, he procured two hounds in the Pyrenees, of meseems,
such a breed.”
“True, Lady; they were the parents of my Leonillo,” said Richard,
gratified, in spite of himself.
“How well I remember,” continued Eleanor, “that first sight of the great
Earl. My brothers had teased me for going so far north, and told me the
English were mere rude islanders—boorish, and unlettered; but, child as I
was, scarce eleven years old, I could perceive the nobleness of the Earl.
‘If all thy new subjects be like him,’ said my brother to me, ‘thou wilt
reign over a race of kings.’ And how good he was to me when I wept at
leaving my home and friends! How he framed his tongue to speak my own
Castillian to me; how he comforted me, when the Queen, my mother-in-law,
required more dignity of me than I yet knew how to assume; and how he
chid my boy bridegroom for showing scant regard for his girl bride!” said
Eleanor, smiling at the recollection, as the beloved wife of eleven years
could well afford to do. “I mind me well that he found me weeping,
because my Edward had tied the scarf I gave him on the neck of one of
those very dogs, and the fatherly counsel he gave me. Ah, Leonillo, thy
wise wistful face brings back many thoughts to my mind! I am glad I may
honour thee for fidelity!”
“Indeed you may, Lady,” said Richard. “It was he that above all saved my
life.”
“Prithee let me hear,” said the Princess, who had already so moved on,
while herself speaking, as to draw Richard into walking with her along
the path that had been cleared under the beech trees. “We have so much
longed to know thy fate.”
“I cannot tell you much, Lady,” returned Richard. “The last thing I
recollect on that dreadful day was, that my father asked for quarter—for
us—for my brother Henry and me. We heard the reply: ‘No quarter for
traitors!’ and Henry fell before us a dead man. My father shouted, ‘By
the arm of St. James, it is time for me to die!’ I saw him, with his
sword in both hands, cut down a wild Welshman who was rushing on me.
Then I saw no more, till in the moonlight I was awakened by this dog’s
cool tongue licking the blood from my face, and heard his low whining
over me.”
“Good dog, good dog!” murmured Eleanor, caressing the animal. “And thou,
Richard, thou wert sorely wounded?”
“Sorely,” said Richard; “my side had been pierced with a lance, a Welsh
two-handed sword had broken through my helmet, and well-nigh cleft my
skull; and the men-at-arms, riding over me I suppose, must have broken my
leg, for I could not move: and oh! I felt it hard that I had yet to die.
Then, Lady, came lights and murmuring voices. They were Mortimer’s
plundering Welsh robbers. I heard their wild gibbering tongue; and I
knew how it would be with me, should they see the white cross on my
breast. But, Lady, Leonillo stood over me. His lion bark chased them
aside; and when one bolder than the rest came near the mound where we
lay, good Leonillo flew at his savage throat. I heard the struggle as I
lay—the growls of the dog, the howls of the man; and then they were cut
short. And next I heard de Gourdon’s gruff voice commending the good
hound, whose note had led him to the spot, from the woods, where he was
hiding after the battle. The faithful beast sprang from him, and in a
moment more had led him to me. Then—ah, then, Lady! when Adam had freed
me from my broken helm, and lifted me in his arms, what a sight had I!
Oh, what a field that harvest moon shone upon! how thickly heaped was
that little mound! And there was my father’s face up-turned in the white
moonlight! O Lady, never in hall or bower could it have been so
peaceful, or so majestic! I bade Adam lay me down by his side, and keep
guard through the night with Leonillo; but he said that the plunderers
would come in numbers too great for him, and that he must care for the
living rather than the dead; and withstand him as I would, he bore me
away. O Lady, Lady, foul wrong was done when we were gone!”
“Think not on that,” said Eleanor; “it bitterly grieved my lord that so
it should have been. Thou knowest, I hope, that he was the chief mourner
when those honoured limbs were laid in the holy ground at Evesham Abbey.
They told me, who saw him that day, that his weeping for his godfather
and his Cousin Henry overcame all joy in his victory. And I can assure
thee, dear Richard, that when, three months after, I came to him at
Canterbury, just after he had been with thy mother at Dover, even then he
was sad and mournful. He said that the wisest and best baron in England
had been made a rebel of, and then slain; and he was full of sorrow for
thee, only then understanding from thy mother that thou hadst been in the
battle at all, and that nothing had been heard of thee. He said thou
wert the most like to thy father of all his sons; and truly I knew thee
at once by thine eyes, Richard. Where wast thou all these months?”
“At first,” said Richard, “I was in an anchoret’s cell, in the wall of a
church. So please you, Madame, I must not name names; but when Adam,
bearing me faint and well-nigh dying on his back, saw the twinkling light
in the churchyard, he knocked, and entreated aid. The good anchoret
pitied my need at first, and when he learnt my name, he gave me shelter
for my father’s sake, the friend of all religious men. I lay on his
little bed, in the chamber in the wall, till I could again walk.
Meanwhile, Adam watched in the woods at hand, and from time to time came
at night to see how I fared, and bring me tidings. Simon was still
holding out Kenilworth, and we hoped to join him there; but when we set
forth I was still lame, and too feeble to go far in a day; and we fell in
with—within short, with a band of robbers, who detained us, half as
guests, half as captives. They needed Adam’s stout arm; and there was a
shrewd, gray, tough old fellow, who had been in Robin Hood’s band, and
was looked up to as a sort of prince among them, who was bent on making
us one with them. Lady, you would smile to hear how the old man used to
sit by me as I lay on the rushes, and talk of outlawry, as Father Adam de
Marisco used to talk of learning—as a good and noble science, decaying
for want of spirit and valour in these days. It was all laziness, he
said; barons and princes must needs have their wars, and use up all the
stout men that were fit to bend a bow in a thicket. If the Prince went
on at this rate, he said, there would soon be not an honest outlaw to be
found in England! But he was a kind old man, and very good to me; and he
taught me how to shoot with the long bow better than ever our master at
Odiham could. However, I could not brook the spoiler’s life, and the
band did not trust me; so, as we found that Kenilworth had fallen, as
soon as my strength had returned to me, we stole away from the outlaws,
and came southwards, hoping to find my mother at Odiham. Hearing that
Odiham too was gone from us, we have lurked in Alton Wood till means
should serve us for reaching the coast.”
“Till thou hast found the friend who has longed for thee, and sought for
thee,” replied Eleanor. “What didst thou do, young Richard, to win my
husband’s heart so entirely in his captivity?”
“I know not, Lady, why he should take thought for me,” bluntly said
Richard, with a return of the sensation of being coaxed and talked over.
“Methinks I can tell thee one cause,” returned the Princess. “Was there
not a time when thou didst overhear him concerting with Thomas de Clare
the plan of an escape, and thou didst warn them that thou wast at hand;
ay, and yet didst send notice to thy father?”
“Yes,” answered Richard with surprise; “I could do no other.”
“Even so,” said Eleanor. “And thus didst thou win the esteem of thy
kinsman. ‘The stripling is loyal and trustworthy,’ he has said to me;
‘pity that such a heart should be pierced in an inglorious field. Would
that I could find him, and strive to return to him something of what his
father’s care hath wrought for me.’ Richard, trust me, it would be a
real joy and lightening of his grief to have thee with him.”
“Grief, Madame!” repeated Richard. “I little thought he grieved for my
father, who, but for him, would be—” and a sob checked him, as the
contrast rose before him of the great Earl and beautiful Countess
presiding over their large family and princely household, and the
scattered ruined state of all at present.
“He shall answer that question himself,” said Eleanor. “See, here he
comes to meet us by the beechwood alley.”
And in fact, a form, well suited to its setting within the stately aisles
of the beech trees, was pacing towards them. The chase had ended, and
hearing that his wife had walked forth into the wood, the Prince had come
by another path to meet her, and his rare and beautiful smile shone out
as he saw who was her companion. “Art making friends with my young
cousin?” he said affectionately.
“I would fain do so,” replied Eleanor; “but alas, my Lord! he feels that
there is a long dark reckoning behind, that stands in the way of our
friendship.”
Richard looked down, and did not speak. The Princess had put his thought
into words.
“Richard,” said the Prince, “I feel the same. It is for that very cause
that I seek to have thee with me. Hear me. Thou art grown older, and
hast seen man’s work and man’s sorrows, since I left thee on the
hill-side at Hereford. Thou canst see, perchance, that a question hath
two sides—though it is not given to all men to do so. Hearken then.—Thy
father was the greatest man I have known—nay, but for the thought of my
uncle of France, I should say the holiest. He was my teacher in all
knightly doings, and in all kingly thoughts, such as I pray may be with
me through life. It was from him I learnt that this royal, this noble
power, is not given to exalt ourselves, but as a trust for the welfare of
others. It was the spring of action that was with him through life.”
“It was,” murmured Richard, calling to mind many a saying of his
father’s.
“And fain would he have impressed it on all around,” added Edward: “but
there were others who deemed that kingly power was but a means of
enjoyment, and that restraint was an outrage on the crown. They drew one
way, the Earl drew the other, and, as his noble nature prompted him, made
common cause with the injured. It skills not to go through the past.
Those whom he joined had selfish aims, and pushed him on; and as the
crown had been led to invade the rights of the vassals, so the vassals
invaded my father’s rights. Oaths were extorted, though both sides knew
they could never be observed; and between violences, now on one side, now
on the other, the right course could scarce be kept. The Earl imagined
that, with my father in his hands, removed from all other influences, he
could give England the happy days they talk of her having enjoyed under
my patron St. Edward; but, as thou knowest, Richard, the authority he
held, being unlawful, was unregarded, and its worst transgressors came
out of his own bosom. He could not enforce the terms on which I had
yielded myself—he could not even prevent my father from being a mere
captive; and for the English folk, their miseries were but multiplied by
the tyrants who had arisen.”
“It was no doing of his,” said Richard, with cheek hotly glowing.
“None know that better than I,” said the Prince; “but if he had snatched
the bridle from a feeble hand, it was only to find that the steed could
not be ruled by him. What was left for me but to break my bonds, and
deliver my father, in the hope that, being come to man’s estate, I might
set matters on a surer footing? I had hoped—I had greatly hoped, so to
rule affairs, that the Earl might own that his training had not been lost
on his nephew, and that the Crown might be trusted not to infringe the
Charter. I had hoped that he might yet be my wisest counsellor. But,
Richard, I too had supporters who outran my commands. Bitter hatred and
malice had been awakened, and cruel resolves that none should be spared.
When I returned from bearing my father, bleeding and dismayed, from the
battle, whither he had been cruelly led, it was to find that my orders
had been disobeyed—that there had been foul and cruel slaughter; and that
all my hopes that my uncle of Leicester would forgive me and look
friendly on me were ended!”
The Prince’s lip trembled as he spoke, and tears glistened in his eyes;
and the evident struggle to repress his feelings, brought home deeply and
forcibly the conviction to Richard that his sorrow was genuine.
He could not speak for some seconds; then he added: “I marvel not that I
am looked on among you as guilty of his blood. Simon and Guy regard me
as one with whom they are at deadly feud, and cannot understand that it
was their own excesses that armed those merciless hands against him.
Even my aunt shrank from me, and implored my mercy as though I were a
ruthless tyrant. But thou, Richard, thou hast inherited enough of thy
father’s mind to be able to understand how unwillingly was my share in
his fall, and how great would be my comfort and joy in being good kinsman
to one of his sons.”
The strong man’s generous pleading was most touching. Richard bowed his
head; the Princess watched him eagerly. The boy spoke at last in
perplexity. “My Lord, you know better than I. Would it be knightly,
would it be honourable?”
The Princess started in some indignation at such a question to her
husband; but Edward understood the boy better, and said, “That which is
most Christian is most knightly.” Then pausing: “Ask thine heart,
Richard; which would thy father choose for thee—to live in such guidance
as I hope will ever be found in my household, or to share the wandering,
I fear me freebooting, life of thy brothers?”
Richard could not forget how his father had sternly withheld him from
going with Simon to besiege Pevensey. He knew that these two brethren
had long been a pain and grief to his father; and began to understand
that the nephew, with whom the Earl’s last battle had been fought, was
nevertheless his truest pupil.
“Thou wilt remain,” said Edward decisively; “and let us strive one day to
bring to pass the state of things for which thy father and I fought
alike, though, alas! in opposite ranks.”
“If my mother consents,” said Richard, his head bent down, and uttering
the words with the more difficulty, because he felt so strongly drawn
towards his cousin, who never seemed so mighty as in his condescension.
“Then, Richard de Montfort,” said Edward gravely, “let us render to one
another the kiss of peace, as kinsmen who have put away all thought of
wrong between them.”
Richard looked up; and the Prince bending his lofty head, there was
exchanged between them that solemn embrace, which in the early middle
ages was the deepest token of amity.
And with that kiss, it was as though the soul of Richard de Montfort were
knit to the soul of Edward of England with the heart-whole devotion,
composed of affection and loyal homage to a great character, which ever
since the days of the bond between the son of the doomed King of Israel
and the youthful slayer of the Philistine champion, has been one of the
noblest passions of a young heart.