THE BEGGAR EARL
“Along with the nobles that fell at that tyde,
His eldest son Henrye, who fought by his syde,
Was felde by a blow he receivde in the fight;
A blow that for ever deprivde him of sight.”
_Old Beggar_.
THE chapel at the Spital was open to all who chose to attend. The deep
choir was filled with the members of the Order, half a dozen knights in
the stalls, and the novices and serving-brothers so ranged as to give
full effect to the body of voice. Richard knelt on the stone floor
outside the choir, intending after early mass to seek his brother; but to
his surprise he found the blind man with his child at his feet in what
was evidently his accustomed place, just within the door. His hair and
beard were now arranged, his appearance was no longer squalid; but when
he rose to depart, guided in part by the child, but also groping with a
stick, he looked even more helpless than on his bed, and Richard sprang
forward to proffer an arm for his support.
“Flemish cloth and frieze gown,” said the object of his solicitude in a
strange gibing voice; “court page and street beggar—how now, my master?”
“Lord Earl and elder brother,” returned Richard, “thine is my service
through life.”
“Mine? Ho, ho! That much for thy service!” with a disdainful gesture of
his fingers. “A strapping lad like thee would be the ruin of my trade.
I might as well give up bag and staff at once.”
“Nay, surely, wilt thou not?” exclaimed Richard in broken words from his
extreme surprise. “The King and Prince only long to pardon and restore,
and—”
“And thou wouldst well like to lord it at Kenilworth, earl in all but the
name? Thou mayst do so yet without being cumbered with me or mine!”
“Thou dost me wrong, Henry,” said Richard, much distressed. “I love the
Prince, for none so truly honoured our blessed father as he, and for his
sake he hath been most kind lord to me; but thou art the head of my
house, my brother, and with all my heart do I long to render thee such
service as—as may lighten these piteous sufferings.”
“I believe thee, Richard; thou wert ever an honest simple-hearted lad,”
said Henry, in a different tone; “but the only service thou canst render
me is to let me alone, and keep my secret. Here—I feel that we are at
the stone bench, where I bask in the sun, and lay out my dish for the
visitors of the gracious Order.—Here, Bessee, child, put the dish down,”
he added, retaining his hold of his brother, as if to feel whether
Richard winced at this persistence in his strange profession. The little
girl obeyed, and betook herself to the quiet sports of a lonely child,
amusing herself with Leonillo, and sometimes returning to her father and
obtaining his attention for a few moments, sometimes prattling to some
passing brother of the Order, who perhaps made all the more of the pretty
creature because this might be called an innocent breach of discipline.
“And now, Master Page,” said Henry in his tone of authority, yet with
some sarcasm, “let us hear how long-legged Edward finished the work he
had began on thee at Hereford—made thee captive in the battle, eh?”
Richard briefly narrated his life with Gourdon, and his capture by the
Prince, adding, “My mother was willing I should remain with him; she bade
me do anything rather than join Simon and Guy; and verily, brother, save
that the Prince is less free of speech, his whole life seems moulded upon
our blessed father’s—”
“Speak not of them in the same breath,” cried Henry hastily. “And
wherefore—if such be his honour to him whom he slew and mutilated—art
thou to disown thy name, and stand before him like some chance
foundling?”
“That was the King’s doing,” said Richard. “The Prince was averse to it,
but King Henry, though he wept over me and called me his dear nephew,
made it his special desire that he might not hear the name of Montfort;
and the Prince, though overruling him in all that pertains to matters of
state, is most dutiful in all lesser matters. I hoped at least to be
called Fitz Simon, but some mumble of the King turned it into Fowen, and
so it has continued. I believe no one at court is really ignorant of my
lineage; but among the people, Montfort is still a trumpet-call, and the
King fears to hear it.”
“Well he may!” laughed Henry. “Rememberest thou, Richard, the sorry
figure our good uncle cut, when we armed him so courteously, and put him
on his horse to meet the rebels at Evesham—how he durst not hang back,
and loved still less to go onward, and kept calling me his loving nephew
all the time?”
“Ah! Henry—but didst thou not hear my father mutter, when he saw the
crowned helm under the standard, that it was ill done, and no good could
come of seething the kid in the mother’s milk? And verily, had not the
Prince been carrying his father from the field, I trow the Mortimers had
not refused us quarter, nor had their cruel will of us.”
“Oh ho! thou art come to have opinions of thine own!” laughed Henry, with
the scoff of a senior unable to brook that his younger brother should
think for himself. Yet this tone was so familiar to Richard’s ears, that
it absolutely encouraged him to a nearer step to intimacy. He said, “But
how scapedst thou, Henry? I could have sworn that I saw thee fall, skull
and helmet cleft, a dead man!”
Instead of answering, Henry put his hand under the chin of his child, who
was leaning against him, and holding up her face to his brother, said,
“Thou canst see this child’s face? Tell me what like she is.”
“Like little Eleanor, like Amaury. The home-look of her eyes won my
heart at once. Even the Princess remarked their resemblance to mine.
Think of Eleanor and thy mind’s eye will see her.”
“No other likeness?” said the blind man wistfully; “but no—thou wast at
Hereford when she was at Odiham.”
“Who?”
He grasped Richard’s hand, and under his breath uttered the name
“Isabel.”
“Isabel Mortimer!” exclaimed Richard, who had been, of course, aware of
his brother’s betrothal, when the two families of Montfort and Mortimer
had been on friendly terms; “we heard she had taken the veil!”
“And so thou sawst me slain!” said Henry de Montfort dryly.
“But how—how was it?” asked Richard eagerly.
“Men sometimes tie knots faster than they intend,” said Henry. “When
Roger Mortimer took Simon’s doings in wrath, and vowed that his sister
should never wed a Montfort, he knew not what he did. He and his proud
wife could flout and scorn my Isabel—they might not break her faith to
me. Thou knowst, perhaps, Richard, since thou art hand and glove with
our foes, that like a raven to the slaughter, the Lady Mortimer came as
near the battle-field as her care for her dainty person would allow; and
there was one whom she brought with her. And, gentle dame, what doth she
do but carry her sister-in-law a sweet and womanly gift? What thinkst
thou it was, Richard?”
“I fear I know,” said Richard, choked; “my father’s hand.”
“Nay, that was a choicer morsel reserved for my lady countess herself.
It was mine own, with our betrothal-ring thereon. Now, quoth that loving
sister, might Isabel resume her ring. No plighted troth could be her
excuse any longer for refusing to wed my Lord of Gloucester. Then rose
up my love, ‘It beckons me!’ she said, and bade them leave it with her.
They deemed that it was for death that it beckoned. So mayhap did she.
I wot Countess Maud had little grieved. But little dreamed they of her
true purpose—my perfect jewel of constant love—namely, to restore the
lopped hand to the poor corpse, that it might likewise have Christian
burial. Her old nurse, Welsh Winny, was as true to her as she was to me;
and forth they sped, fearless of the spoilers, and made their way at
nightfall even to the Abbey Church, where Edward, less savage than the
fair countess, had caused us to be laid before the altar, awaiting our
burial in the vaults.”
“Thou wert senseless all this time?”
“Ay, and so continued. The pang when my hand was severed had roused me
for a few moments, but only to darkness; and my effort to speak had been
rewarded with as many Welsh knives as could pierce my flesh at once.”
“And thou didst not bleed to death?”
“The swoon checked my blood. And the monks of Evesham must have
staunched and bandaged so as to make a decent corpse of me. Had they had
a man-at-arms among them, they would have known that mine were not the
wounds of a dead but of a living man. The old nurse knew it, when my
sweet lady would needs unbind my wrist, to place my hand in its right
place. An old crone such as Welsh Winny never stirs without her cordial
potion. They poured it into my lips—and if I were never more to awake to
the light of day, I awoke to the sound that was yet dearer to me—while,
alas! it still was left to me.”
He became silent, till Richard’s question drew him on.
“What with their care and support, when once on my feet I found strength
to stumble out of the chapel and gain shelter in the woods ere day; and I
believe the monks got credit for their zeal in casting out the
excommunicate body.”
“Not credit,” said Richard; “the Prince was full of grief, more
especially as they all disavowed the deed. But, brother, art thou
excommunicate still?”
“Far from it, most pious Crusader. If seas of holy wells could assoil
me, I should be pure enough. My sweet Isabel deemed that some such
washing might bring back mine eyesight; and from one to another we
wandered as my limbs could bear it. And at St. Winifred’s there was a
priest who told us strange tales of the miracles wrought in the Mortimer
household by my father’s severed hand; nay, that it had so worked on Lord
Mortimer’s sister, that she had left the vanities of the world, and gone
into a nunnery. He seemed so convinced of my father’s saintliness, and
so honest a fellow, that Isabel insisted on unbosoming ourselves to him
under seal of confession. No longer was the old nurse to be my mother
and she my sister; and the good man made no difficulties, but absolved
me, and wedded me to the truest, most loving wife that ever blessed a man
bereft of all else.”
“And you begged! O Henry, the noble lady—”
“At first we had the knightly chain and spurs in which the monks had
kindly pranked me up. Isabel too had worn a few jewels; but after all, a
palmer need never hunger. My father always said no trade was so well
paid as begging, under King Henry, and verily we found it so. She used
at times to gather berries and thread them for chaplets to sell at the
holy wells; but I trow sheer beggary throve better!”
“But wherefore? Even had pardon not been ready, Simon held out
Kenilworth for months.”
Henry laughed his dry laugh.
“Simple boy, dost think I would trust Simon with an elder brother whose
hand could no longer keep his head?”
“And my mother—”
“She had always hated the Mortimers, even when the contract was matter of
policy. Would I have taken my sweet Isabel to abide her royal scorn, it
might be incredulity of our marriage? Though for that matter it is more
unimpeachable than her own! Nay, nay, out of ken and out of reach was
our only security from our kin on either side, unless we desired that my
head should follow my hand as a dainty dish for Countess Maud.”
“How could the lady brook it?”
“She dyed her fair skin with walnut, wore russet gown and hood, and was a
very nightingale for blitheness and sweet song through that first year,”
said Henry; “blither than ever when that little one was born in the
sunshiny days of Whitsuntide. I tell thee, those were happier days than
ever I passed as Lord de Montfort at Kenilworth. But after that, the
bruised hurt in my side, which had never healed when the cleaner gashes
did, became more painful and troublesome. Holy wells did nothing for it;
and she wasted with watching it, as though my pain had been hers. Naught
would serve her but coming here, because she had been told that the
Knights of St. John had better experience of old battle-wounds than any
men in the realm. Much ado had we to get here—the young babe in her
arms, and I well-nigh distraught with pain. We crept into this same hut,
and I had a weary sickness throughout the winter—living, I know not how,
by the bounty of the Spital, and by the works of her fingers, which Winny
would take out to sell on feast-days in the city. Oh that eyes had been
left me to note how she pined away! but I had scarce felt how thin and
bony were her tender fingers ere the blasts of the cruel March wind
finished the work.”
“Alack! alack! poor Henry,” said Richard; “never, never was lady of
romaunt so noble, and so true!”
“No more,” said Henry hastily, leaning his brow on the top of his staff.
“Come hither, Bessee,” he added after a brief pause; “say thy prayer for
thy blessed mother, child.”
And holding out his one hand, he inclosed her two clasped ones within it,
as the little voice ran over an utterly unintelligible form of childishly
clipped Latin, sounding, however, sweet and birdlike from the very
liberties the little memory had taken in twisting its mellifluous words
into a rhythm of her own. And there was catchword enough for Richard to
recognize and follow it, with bonnet doffed, and crossing himself.
“And now,” he said, “surely the need for secrecy is ended. The land is
tranquil, the King ruled by the Prince, the Prince owning all the past
folly and want of faith that goaded our father into resistance.
Wherefore not seek his willing favour? Thou art ever a pilgrim. Be with
us in the crusade. Who knows what the Jordan waves may effect for thee?”
“No, no,” grimly laughed Henry. “Dost think any favour would make it
tolerable to be wept over and pitied by the King—pitied by _the King_,”
he repeated in ineffable disgust; “or to be the show of the court, among
all that knew me of old, when I _was_ a man? Hob the cobbler, and Martin
the bagster, are better company than Pembroke and Gloucester, and I meet
with more humours on Cheapside than I should at Winchester—more regard
too. Why, they deem me threescore years old at least, and I am a very
oracle of wisdom among them. Earl of Leicester, forsooth! he would be
nobody compared with Blind Hal! And as to freedom—with child and staff
the whole country and city are before me—no shouts to dull retainers, and
jackanape pages to set my blind lordship on horseback, without his bridle
hand, and lead him at their will anywhere but at his own.
“All this I can understand for thyself,” said Richard; “but for thy
child’s sake canst thou not be moved?”
“My child, quotha? What, when her Uncle Simon is true grandson to King
John?”
Richard started. “I cannot believe what thou sayest of Simon,” he
answered in displeasure.
“One day thou wilt,” calmly answered Henry; “but I had rather not have it
proved upon the heiress of Leicester and Montfort.”
“Leicester is forfeit—Simon an outlawed man.”
“If the humour for pardon is set in, Cousin Edward is no man to do things
by halves. If he owned me at all, the lands would be mine again, and
such a bait would be smelt out by Simon were he at the ends of the earth.
Or if not, that poor child would be granted to any needy kinsman or
grasping baron that Edward wanted to portion. My child shall be my own,
and none other’s. Better a beggar’s brat than an earl’s heiress!”
“She is a lovely little maiden. I know not how thou canst endure letting
her grow up in poverty, an alien from her birth and rank.”
“Poverty,” Henry laughed. “Little knowest thou of the jolly beggar’s
business! I would fain wager thee, Richard, that pretty Bessee’s
marriage-portion shall be a heavier bag of gold than the Lady Elizabeth
de Montfort would gather by all the aids due to her father from his
vassals—and won moreover without curses.”
“But who would be the bridegroom?”
“Her own choice, not the King’s,” answered Henry briefly.
“And this is all,” said Richard, perceiving that according to the
previous day’s agreement the cream-coloured elephant of a German horse
was being led forth for his use, and Sir Robert preparing to accompany
him. “I must leave thee in this strange condition?”
“Ay, that must thou. Betray me, and thou shalt have the curse of the
head of thine house. Had thy voice not become so strangely like my
father’s, I had never made myself known to thee.”
“I will see thee again.”
“That will be as thou canst. I trow Edward hardly gives freedom enough
to his pages for them to pay visits unknown,” replied Henry, with a
strange sneering triumph in his own wild liberty.
“If aught ails thee, if I can aid thee, swear to me that thou wilt send
to me.”
Henry laughed with somewhat of a tone of mockery, adding, “Well,
well—keep thou thy plight to me so long as I want thee not, and I will
keep mine to thee if ever I should need thee. Now away with thee. I
hear the horses impatient for thee; and what would be the lot of the
beggar if he were seen chattering longer with a lordly young page than
might suffice for his plaint? I hear voices. Put a tester in my dish,
fair Sir, for appearance’ sake. Thou hast it not? aha—I told thee I was
the richer as well as the freer man. What’s that? That is no ring of
coin.”
“’Tis a fair jewel, father, green and sparkling,” cried Bessee.
“Nay, nay, I’ll have none of it. Some token from thy new masters? Ha,
boy?”
“From the Princess, on New Year’s Day,” replied Richard. “But keep it,
oh, keep it, Henry; it breaks my heart to leave thee thus.”
“Keep it! Not I. What wouldst say to thy dainty dame? Nor should I get
half its value from the Jews. No, no, take back thy jewel, Sir Page;
I’ll not put thee in need of telling more lies than becomes thine
office.”
Richard glowed with irritation; but what was the use of anger with a
blind beggar? And while Henry bestowed far more demonstration of
affection on Leonillo than on his brother, it became needful to mount and
ride off, resolving to tell the Prince and Princess, what would be no
falsehood, that the child belonged to a Kenilworth man-at-arms, sorely
wounded at Evesham, and at present befriended by the Knights of St. John.
Old Sir Robert Darcy knew so much that it was needful to confide fully in
him; and he gave Richard some satisfaction by a promise to watch over his
brother as far as was possible with a man of such uncertain vagrant
habits; and he likewise engaged to let him know, even in the Holy Land,
of any change in the beggar’s condition; and this, considering the
wide-spread connections of the Order, and that some of its members were
sure to be in any crusading army, was all that Richard could reasonably
hope.
“Canst write?” asked Sir Robert.
“Yea, Father.”
“I could once! But if there be need to send thee a scroll, I’ll take
care it is writ by a trusty hand.”
More than this Richard could not hope. There had always been a strange
self-willed wildness of character about his eldest brother, who, though
far less violent and overbearing in actual deed than the two next in age,
Simon and Guy, had contrived to incur even greater odium than they, by
his mocking careless manner and love of taunts and gibing. Simon de
Montfort the elder had indeed strangely failed in the bringing up of his
sons. Whether it were that their royal connection had inflated them with
pride, or that the King’s indulgence had counteracted the good effects of
the admirable education provided for them at home, they had done little
justice to their parentage, or to their tutor, the excellent Robert
Grostête. Perhaps the Earl himself was too affectionate: perhaps his
occupation in public affairs hindered him from enforcing family
discipline. At any rate, neither of the elder three could have been
naturally endowed with his largeness of mind, and high unselfish views.
He was a man before his age; not only deeply pious, but with a devoted
feeling for justice and mercy carried into all the details of life, till
his loyalty to the law overcame his loyalty to the King. Simon and Guy,
on the other hand, were commonplace young nobles of the thirteenth
century, heedless of all but themselves, and disdaining all beneath them;
and when their father had seized the reins of government in order to
enforce the laws that the King would not observe, they saw in his
elevation a means of gratifying themselves, and being above all law. The
cry throughout England had been that Simon’s “sons made themselves vile,
and he restrained them not.”
Henry de Montfort had not indeed, like his brothers, plundered the ships
in the Channel, extorted money from peaceful yeomen, nor insulted the
poor old captive King to his face; but his deference had been more
galling than their defiance; his scornful smiles and keen cutting jests
had mortally offended many a partizan; and when positive work was to be
done, Simon with all his fierceness and cruelty was far more to be
depended on than Henry, who might at any time fly off upon some
incalculable freak. To Richard’s boyish recollection, if Simon had been
the most tyrannical towards him in deed, Henry had been infinitely more
annoying and provoking in the lesser arts of teasing.
And looking back on the past, he could understand how intolerable a life
of helplessness would be among the equals whom Henry had so often stung
with his keen wit, and that to a man of his peculiar tone of mind there
was infinitely more liberty in thus sinking to the lowest depths, where
his infirmities were absolute capital to him, than in being hedged about
with the restraints of his rank. Any way, it was impossible to
interfere, even for the child’s sake, and all Richard could do to console
himself was to look forward to his return from the Crusade an esquire or
even a knight, with exploits that Henry might respect—a standing in the
Court that would give him some right to speak—perhaps in time a home and
lady wife to whom his brother would intrust his child, who would then be
growing out of a mere toy. Or might not his services win him a fresh
grant of the earldom, and could he not then prove his sincerity by laying
it at the true Earl’s feet?
Pretty Bessee, too! Richard remembered stories current in the family, of
their grandmother, Amicia, Countess of Leicester in her own right, being
forced when a young girl to wed the stern grim old persecuting Simon de
Montfort, and how vain had been her struggles against her doom. He lost
himself in graceful romantic visions of the young knight whose love he
would watch and foster, and whose marriage to his lovely niece should be
securely concluded ere her rank should be made known, when her guardian
uncle would yield all to her. And from that day forth Richard looked out
with keen eyes among the playfellows of the little princes for Bessee’s
future knight.