THE TRANSLATION
“Now in gems their relics lie,
And their names in blazonry,
And their forms in storied panes
Gleam athwart their own loved fanes.”
_Lyra Innocentium_.
IF novelty has its charms, so has old age, and to us the great abbey
church of Westminster has become doubly beloved by long generations of
affection, and doubly beautiful by the softening handiwork of time and of
smoke.
Yet what a glorious sight must it not have been when it was fresh from
the hands of the builder, the creamy stone clear and sharp at every
angle, and each moulding and flower true and perfect as the chisel had
newly left it. The deep archway of the west front opened in stately
magnificence, and yet with a light loftiness hitherto unknown in England,
and somewhat approaching to the style in which the great French
cathedrals were then rising. And its accompaniments were, on the one
hand the palace and hall, on the other hand the monastery, with its high
walled courts and deep-browed cloisters, its noble refectory and vaulted
kitchen, the herbarium or garden, shady with trees, and enriched with
curious plants of Palestine, sloping down to the broad and majestic
Thames, pure and blue as he pursued his silver winding way through
emerald meadows and softly rising hills clothed with copses and woods.
To the east, seated upon her hills, stood the crowned and battlemented
city, the massive White Tower rising above the fortifications.
The autumn brilliance of October, 1269, never enlightened a more gorgeous
scene than when it shone upon the ceremony still noted in our Calendar as
the Translation of King Edward. Buried at first in his own low-browed
heavy-arched Norman structure, which he had built, as he believed, at the
express bidding of St. Peter; the Confessor, whose tender-hearted and
devout nature had, by force of contrast with those of his fierce foreign
successors, come to assume a saintly halo in the eyes not merely of the
English, but of their Angevin lords themselves, was, now to reign on
almost equal terms with the great Apostle himself, as one of the
hallowing patrons of the Abbey—nay, since at least his relics were entire
and undoubted, as its chief attraction.
The new chapel in his especial honour, behind the exquisite bayed apsidal
chancel, was at length complete; and on this day he was to take
possession of it. An ark of pure gold, chased and ornamented with the
surpassing grace of that period of perfect taste, had received the
royally robed corpse, which Churchmen averred lay calm and beautiful,
untainted by decay; and this was now uplifted by the arms of King Henry
himself, of Richard King of the Romans his brother, and of the two
princes, Edward and Edmund.
It was a striking sight to see those two pairs of brothers. The two
kings, nearly of an age, and so fondly attached that they could hardly
brook a separation, till the death of the one broke the wearied heart of
the other, were both gray-haired prematurely-aged men, of features that
time instead of hardening had rendered more feeble and uncertain. Their
faces were much alike, but Henry might be known from Richard by a certain
inequality in the outline of his eyebrows; and their dress, though both
alike wore long flowing gowns, the side seams only coming down as far as
the thigh so as to allow play for the limbs, so far differed that Henry’s
was of blue, with the English lions embroidered in red and gold on his
breast, and Richard was in the imperial purple, or rather scarlet, and
the eagle of the empire on his breast testified to the futile election
which he had purchased with the wealth of his Cornish mines. Both the
elders together, with all their best will and their simple faith in the
availing merit of the action they were performing, would have been
physically incapable of proceeding many steps with their burden, but for
the support it received from the two younger men who sustained the feet
of the saint, using some dexterity in adapting their strength so that the
coffin might be carried evenly.
One was the hunter we have already seen in Alton Wood. His features wore
their characteristic stamp of deep awe and enthusiasm, and even as he
slowly and calmly moved, sustaining the chief of the weight with scarcely
an effort of his giant strength, his head towering high above all those
around, his eyes might be observed to be seeing, though not marking, what
was before them, but to be fixed as though the soul were in
contemplation, far far away. He did not see in the present scene four
princes rendering homage to a royal saint, who, from personal connection
and by a brilliant display of devotion, might be propitiated into
becoming a valuable patron amid intercessor; still less did it present
itself to him as a pageant in which he was to bow his splendid powers,
mental and bodily, to aid two feeble-minded old men to totter under the
gold-cased corpse of a still more foolish and mischievous prince, dead
two hundred years back. No, rather thought and eye were alike upon the
great invisible world, the echo of whose chants might perchance be
ringing on his ear; that world where holy kings cast their crowns before
the Throne, and where the lamb-like spirit of the Confessor might be
joining in the praise, and offering these tokens of honour to Him to whom
all honour and praise and glory and blessing are due.
Of shorter stature, darker browed, of less regular feature and less clear
complexion, so as to look as if he were the elder of the brothers, Prince
Edmund moved by his side, using much exertion, and bending with the
effort, so as to increase the slight sloop that had led to his historical
nickname of the Crouchback, though some think this was merely taken from
his crusading cross. He bore the arms of Sicily, to which he had not yet
resigned his claim. His eye wandered, but not far away, like that of his
brother. It was in search of his young betrothed, the Lady Aveline of
Lancaster, the fair young heiress to whom he was to owe the great earldom
that was a fair portion for a younger brother even of royalty.
All the four were bare-footed, and both princes were in robes much
resembling that of their father, except that upon the left shoulder of
each might be seen, in white cloth, the two lines of the Cross, that
marked them as pilgrims and Crusaders, already on the eve of departure
for the Holy Land.
The shrine where the golden coffin was to rest is substantially the same
in our own day, with its triple-cusped arches below, the stage of six and
stage of four above them, and the twisted columns in imitation of that
which was supposed to have come from the Beautiful Gate of the Temple.
But at that time it was a glittering fabric of mosaic work, in gold,
lapis-lazuli, and precious stones, aided here and there by fragments of
coloured glass, the only part of the costly workmanship that has come
down to us. Around this shrine the preceding members of the procession
had taken their places. Archbishop Boniface of Savoy was there, old age
ennobling a countenance that once had been light and frivolous, and all
his bishops in the splendour of their richest copes, solidly embroidered
with absolute scenes and portraits in embroidery, with tall mitres worked
with gold wire and jewels, and crosiers of beauteous workmanship in gold,
ivory, and enamel. Mitred abbots, no less glorious in array, stood in
another rank; the scarlet-mantled Grand Prior of the Hospital, and the
white-cloaked Templar, made a link between the ecclesiastic and the
warrior. Priests and monks, selected for their voices’ sake, clustered
in every available space; and, in full radiance, on a stage on the
further side, were seated the ladies of the court, mostly with their hair
uncovered, and surrounded by a garland of precious stones. Queen Eleanor
of Provence, still bent on youthfulness, looked somewhat haggard in this
garb; but it well became Beatrix von Falkmorite, the young German girl
whom Richard King of the Romans had wedded in his old age for the sake of
her fair face. Smiling, plump, and rosy, she sat opening her wide blue
eyes, wearing her emerald and ruby wreath as though it had been a coronal
of daisies, and gazing with childish whisperings as she watched the
movements of her king, and clung for direction and help in her own part
of the pageant to the Princess Eleanor, who sat beside her, little the
elder in years, less beautiful in colouring, but how far surpassing her
in queenly pensive grace and dignity! Leaning on Eleanor’s lap was a
bright-eyed, bright-haired boy of four years old, watching with puzzled
looks the brilliant ceremony, which he only half understood, and his
glances wandering between his father and the blue and white robed little
acolytes who stood nearest to the shrine, holding by chains the silver
censers, which from time to time sent forth a fragrant vapour, curling
round the heads of the nearest figures, and floating away in the lofty
vaultings of the roof.
The actual ceremony could only be beheld by a favoured few; the official
clergy, the many connections of royalty, and the chief nobility, filled
the church to overflowing, but the rest of the world repaid itself by
making a magnificent holiday. Good-natured King Henry had been permitted
by his son, who had now, though behind the scenes, assumed the reins of
government, to spend freely, and make a feast to his heart’s content.
Roasting and boiling were going on on a fast and furious scale, not only
in the palace and abbey, but in booths erected in the fields; and tables
were spreading and rushes strewing for the accommodation of all ranks.
Near the entrance of the Abbey, the trains of the personages within
awaited their coming forth in some sort of order, the more reverent
listening to the sounds from within, and bending or crossing themselves
as the familiar words of higher notes of praise rose loud enough to reach
their ears; but for the most part, the tones and gestures were as various
as the appearance of the attendants. Here were black Benedictines, there
white Augustinians clustered round the sleek mules of their abbots; there
scornful dark Templars, in their black and white, sowed the seeds of
hatred against their order, and scarlet Hospitaliers looked bright and
friendly even while repelling the jostling of the crowd. A hoary old
squire, who had been with the King through all his troubles, kept
together his immediate attendants; a party of boorish-looking Germans
waited for Richard of Cornwall; and the slender, richly-caparisoned
palfreys of the ladies were in charge of high-born pages, who sometimes,
with means fair or foul, pushed back the throng, sometimes themselves
became enamoured of its humours.
For not only had the neighbouring city of London poured forth her
merchants and artizans, to gaze, wonder, and censure the extravagance—not
only had beggars of every degree been attracted by the largesse that
Henry delighted to dispense, and peasants had poured in from all the
villages around, but no sort of entertainment was lacking. Here were
minstrels and story-tellers gathering groups around them; here was the
mountebank, clearing a stage in which to perform feats of jugglery,
tossing from one hand to another a never-ending circle of balls,
balancing a lance upon his nose, with a popinjay on its point; here were
a bevy of girls with strange garments fastened to their ankles, who would
dance on their hands instead of their feet, while their uplifted toes
jangled little bells.
Peasant and beggar, citizen and performer, sightseer and professional,
all alike strove to get into the space before the great entrance, where
the procession must come forth to gratify the eyes of the gazers, and
mayhap shower down such bounty as the elder mendicants averred had been
given when Prince Edward (the saints defend him!) had been weighed at
five years old, and, to avert ill luck, the counterbalance of pure gold
had been thrown among the poor to purchase their prayers.
His weight in gold at his present stature could hardly be expected by the
wildest imaginations, but hungry eyes had been estimating the weight of
his little heir, and discontented lips had declared that the child was of
too slender make to be ever worth so much to them as his father. Yet a
whisper of the possibility had quickly been magnified to a certainty of
such a largesse, and the multitude were thus stimulated to furious
exertions to win the most favourable spot for gathering up such a golden
rain as even little Prince Henry’s counterpoise would afford; and ever as
time waxed later, the throng grew denser and more unruly, and the
struggle fiercer and more violent.
The screams and expostulations of the weak, elbowed and trampled down,
mingled with more festive sounds; and the attendants who waited on the
river in the large and beautifully-ornamented barges which were the usual
conveyances of distinguished personages, began to agree with one another
that if they saw less than if they were on the bank, they escaped a
considerable amount of discomfort as well as danger.
“For,” murmured one of the pages, “I suppose it would be a dire offence
to the Prince to lay about among the churls as they deserve.”
“Ay, truly, among Londoners above all,” was the answer of his companion,
whom the last four years had rendered considerably taller than when we
saw him last.
“Not that there is much love lost between them. He hath never forgotten
the day when they pelted the Queen with rotten eggs, and sang their
ribald songs; nor they the day he rode them down at Lewes like corn
before the reaper.”
“And lost the day,” muttered the other page; then added, “The less love,
the more cause for caution.”
“Oh yes, we know you are politic, Master Richard,” was the sneering
reply, “but you need not fear my quarrelling with your citizen friends.
I would not be the man to face Prince Edward if I had made too free with
any of the caitiffs.”
“Hark! Master Hamlyn, the tumult is louder than ever,” interposed an
elderly man of lower rank, who was in charge of the stout rowers in the
royal colours of red and gold. “Young gentlemen, the Mass must be ended;
it were better to draw to the stairs, than to talk of you know not what,”
he muttered.
Hamlyn de Valence, who held the rudder, steered towards the wide stone
steps that descended to the river, nearest to the apse in which “St.
Peter’s Abbey Church” terminated before Henry VII. had added his chapel.
At that moment a louder burst of sound, half imprecation, half shriek,
was heard; there was a heavy splash a little way above, and a small blue
bundle was seen on the river, apparently totally unheeded by the frantic
crowd on the bank. No sooner was it seen by Richard, however, than he
threw back his mantle and sprang out of the barge. There was a loud cry
from the third page, a little fellow of nine or ten years old; but
Richard gallantly swam out, battled with the current, and succeeded in
laying hold of a young child, with whom he made for the barge, partly
aided by the stream; but he was breathless, and heartily glad to reach
the boat and support himself against the gunwale.
“A pretty boat companion you!” said Hamlyn maliciously. “How are we to
take you in, over the velvet cushions?”
The little page gave an expostulating cry.
“Hold the child an instant, John,” gasped Richard, raising it towards his
younger friend; “I will but recover breath, and then land and seek out
her friends.”
“How is this?” said a voice above them; and looking up, they found that
while all had been absorbed in the rescue, the Prince, with his little
son in his arms and his wife hanging on his arm, had come to the stone
stairs, and was looking down. “Richard overboard!”
“A child fell over the bank, my Lord,” eagerly shouted the little John,
with cap in hand, “and he swam out to pick it up.”
“Into the barge instantly, Richard,” commanded the Prince. “’Tis as much
as his life is worth to remain in this cold stream!”
And truly Richard was beginning to feel as much. He was assisted in by
two of the oarsmen, and the barge then putting towards the steps, the
Princess was handed into her place, and began instantly to ask after the
poor child. It had not been long enough in the water to lose its
consciousness, though it had hitherto been too much frightened to cry;
but it no sooner opened a wide pair of dark eyes to find itself in
strange hands, than it set up a lamentable wail, calling in broken
accents for “Da-da.”
“Let me take it ashore at once, gracious lady,” said Richard, revived by
a draught of wine from the stores provided for the long day; “I will find
its friends.”
“Nay,” said the Princess, “it were frenzy to take it thus in its wet
garments; and frenzy to remain in thine, Richard.” As she spoke, the
Prince and the other persons of the suite had embarked, and the barge was
pushing away from the steps. “Give the child to me,” she added, holding
out her arms, and disregarding a remonstrance from one of her ladies,
disregarding too the sobs and struggles of the child, whom she strove to
soothe, while hastily removing the little thing’s soaked blue frock and
hood, and wrapping it up in a warm woollen cloak. “It is a pretty little
maiden,” she said, “and not ill cared for. Some mother’s heart must be
bursting for her!—Hush thee! hush thee, little one; we will take thee
home and clothe thee, and then thou shalt go to thy mother,” she added,
in better English than she had spoken four years earlier in Alton Wood.
But the child still cried for her da-da, and the Princess asked again,
“What is thy father’s name, little maid?”
“Père,” she answered, with a peculiar accent that made the Prince say,
“That is a Provençal tongue.”
“They are Provençal eyes likewise,” added Eleanor. “See how like their
hue is to Richard’s own;” and in Provençal she repeated the question what
the father’s name and the child’s own might be. But “Père” again, and
“Bessee, pretty Bessee,” was all the answer she obtained, the last in
unmistakable English.
“I thought,” said Eleanor, “that it was only my own children that scarce
knew whether they spoke English, Languédoc, or Languéd’ouì.”
“It was the same with us, Lady,” said Richard. “Father Adam was wont to
say we were a little Babel.”
The child looked towards him on hearing his voice, and held out her hands
to go to him, reiterating an entreaty to be taken to her father.
“She is probably the child of some minstrel or troubadour,” said the
Prince. “We will send in search of him as soon as we have reached the
Savoy.”
The Savoy Palace had been built for Queen Eleanor’s obnoxious uncle,
Prince Thomas of Savoy, and had recently been purchased by the Queen
herself, as a wedding gift for her son Edmund; but in the meantime Edward
and his family were occupying it during their stay near Westminster, and
their barge was brought up to the wide stairs of its noble court.
Richard was obliged to give up the child to the Princess and her ladies,
though she shrieked after him so pertinaciously, that Eleanor called to
him to return so soon as he should have changed his garments.
In a few minutes he again appeared, and found the little girl dressed in
a little garment of one of the royal children, but totally insensible to
the honour, turning away from all the dainties offered to her, and
sobbing for her father, much to the indignation of the two little
princes, Henry and John, who stood hand in hand staring at her. She flew
to him directly, with a broken entreaty that she might be taken to her
father. Again they tried questioning her, but Richard, whether speaking
English or Provençal, always succeeded in obtaining readier and more
comprehensible replies than did the Princess. Whether she recognized him
as her preserver, or whether his language had a familiar tone, she seemed
exclusively attracted by him; and he it was who learnt that she lived at
home—far off—on the Green near the red monks, and that her father could
not see—he would be lost without Bessee to lead him. And the little
creature, hardly three years old if so much, was evidently in the
greatest trouble at her father having lost her guidance and protection.
Richard, touched and flattered by the little maiden’s exclusive
preference, and owning in her Provençal eyes and speech something
strangely like his own young sister Eleanor, entreated permission to be
himself the person to take her in search of her friends. The Princess
added her persuasions, declaring it would be cruel to send the poor
little thing with another stranger, and that his Provençal tongue was
needed in order to discovering her father among the troubadours.
Edward yielded to her persuasion, adding, however, that Richard must take
two men-at-arms with him, and gravely bidding him be on his guard. Nor
would he permit him to be accompanied by little John de Mohun, who, half
page, half hostage, had lately been added to the Princess’s train, and
being often bullied and teased by Hamlyn and his fellows, had vehemently
attached himself to Richard, and now entreated in vain to go with him on
the adventure. In fact, Prince Edward was a stern disciplinarian,
equally severe against either familiarity or insolence towards the
external world, and especially towards any one connected with London. If
Richard ever gave him any offence, it was by a certain freedom of manner
towards inferiors, such as the Earl of Leicester had diligently
inculcated on his family, but which more than once had excited a shade of
vexation on the Prince’s part. Even after Richard had reached the door,
he was called back and commanded on no pretext to loiter or enter on any
dispute, and if his search should detain him late, to sleep at the Tower,
rather than be questioned and stopped at any of the gates which were
guarded at night by the citizens.