RICHARD’S WRAITH
“No distance breaks the tie of blood;
Brothers are brothers evermore;
Nor wrong, nor wrath of deadliest mood,
That magic may o’erpower.”—_Christian Year_.
IT was nearly dark when the Prince and the Page landed on the island, and
found the tents already set up in their due order and rank, according to
the discipline that no one durst transgress where Edward was the
commander.
Richard attended him to his pavilion, and being there dismissed until
supper-time, crossed the square space which was always left around the
royal banner, to the tent at the southern corner, which was regularly
appropriated to the pages’ use. On lifting its curtain he was, however,
dismayed to see a kirtle there, and imagining that he must have fallen
upon the ladies’ quarters, he was retreating with an apology; when the
sharp voice of Dame Idonea called out, “Oh yes, Master Page! ’tis you
that are at home here. I was merely tarrying till ’twas the will of one
of you to come in and look to the poor child.”
And little John of Dunster called from a couch of mantles, “Richard, oh!
is it he at last?”
“It is I,” said Richard, advancing into the light of a brass lamp, hung
by chains from the top of the tent. “This is kind indeed, Lady! But is
he indeed so ill at ease?”
“How should he be otherwise, with none of you idle-pated pages casting a
thought to him?”
“I was grieved to leave him—but the Prince summoned me,” began Richard.
“Beshrew thee! Tell me not of princes, as though there were no one whom
thou couldst bid to have a care of the little lad!”
“I did bid Piers—,” Richard made another attempt.
“Piers, quotha? Why didst not bid the Jackanapes that sits on the
luggage? A proper warder for a sick babe!”
“I am no babe!” here burst out John; “I am twelve years old come
Martinmas, and I need no tendance but Richard’s.”
“Ha, ha! So those are all the thanks we ladies get, when we are not
young and fair!” laughed Dame Idonea, rather amused.
“I want no women, young or old,” petulantly repeated John; “I want
Richard.—Lift me up, Richard; take away this cloak.”
“For his life, no!” returned the Dame; “he has the heats and the chills
on him, and to let him take cold would be mere slaughter.”
“Alas!” said Richard, “I hoped nothing ailed him but the sea, and that
landing would make all well.”
“As if the sea ever made a child shiver and burn by turns! Nay, ’tis the
trick of the sun in these parts. Strange that the sun himself should be
a mere ally of the Infidel! I tell thee, if the child is ever to see
Dunster again, thou must watch him well, keep him from the sun by day and
the chill by night; or he’ll be like the poor creatures in the French
camp out there, whom, I suppose, you found in fine case.”
“Alack yes, Lady!”
“I’ve seen it many a time; and all their disorders will be creeping into
our camp next. Tell me, is it even as they told us, one king dead and
the other dying?”
Richard began to wonder whether he should ever get her out of his tent,
for she insisted on his telling her every possible particular—who had
died, who had lived, who was sick, who well; and as from the close
connection between the English, French, and Sicilian courts, whose queens
were all sisters, she knew who every one was, and accounted for the
history of each person she inquired after, back to the last
generation—happy if it were not to the third—her conversation was not
quickly over. She ended at last, by desiring Richard to give her patient
some of a febrifuge, which she had brought with her, every two hours, and
when it was all spent, or in case of any change in the boy’s state, to
summon her from the ladies’ tent; adding, however, “But what’s the use of
leaving a pert springald like thee in charge? Thou wilt sleep like a
very dormouse, I’ll warrant! I’d best call Mother Jugge.”
“Oh no, no!” cried John; to whom the attendance of Mother Jugge would
have been a worse indignity than the being nursed by Dame Idonea; “let me
have no one but Richard! Richard knows all I want.—Richard, leave me not
again.”
“Ay, ay; a little lad ever hangs to a bigger, were he to torture the life
out of him. Small thanks for us women after our good looks be past. But
I’ll look in on the child in early morn, thanks or no thanks; for I know
his mother well, and if I can help it, the hyenas shall not make game of
his bones, as I hear them doing by the French yonder.”
John strove to say that, indeed, he thanked her, and had been infinitely
comforted and refreshed by her care, and that all he meant was to express
his distaste to Mother Jugge, the lavender (_i.e._ laundress), and his
desire for Richard Fowen’s company; but he was little attended to, and
apparently more than half offended, the brisk old lady trotted away.
That island was a dreary place; without a tree or any shelter from the
glare of sun and sea, whose combined influences threatened blindness,
sun-stroke, or at the very least blistered the faces of those who stepped
beyond their tents by day. The Prince’s orders, however, strictly
confined his army within its bounds, except that at twilight parties were
sent ashore for water and provisions, under strict orders, however, to
hold no parley with any one from the French or Sicilian camps, lest they
should bring home the infection of the pestilence; and always under the
command of some trustworthy knight, able and willing to enforce the
command.
The Prince himself refused all participation in the counsels of Charles
of Anjou, and confined himself, like his men, entirely to the fleet and
island. Charles contrived to spread a report, that his displeasure was
solely due to his disappointment at being balked of fighting with the
Tunisians; and that instead of indignant grief at the perversion of the
wrecked Crusade, he was only showing the sullenness of an aggrieved
swordsman. Even young Philippe le Hardi, a dull, heavy, ignorant youth,
was led to suppose this was the cause of his offence, and though daily
inquiries were sent through the Genoese crews for his health, he made no
demonstration of willingness to see his cousin of England.
Thus Richard had no opportunity of ascertaining whether there were any
basis for the strange impression he had received in St. Louis’s
death-chamber. It would have been an act of disobedience, not soon
overlooked by the Prince, had one of his immediate suite transgressed his
commands, and indeed, so strict was the discipline, that it would
scarcely have been possible to make the attempt. Besides, Richard’s time
was entirely engrossed between his duties in attending on the Prince, and
his care of little John of Dunster, who had a sharp attack of fever, and
was no doubt only carried through it by the experienced skill of Dame
Idonea Osbright, and by Richard’s tender nursing. Somehow the dame’s
heart was not won, even by the elder page’s dutiful care and obedience to
all her directions. Partly she viewed him as a rival in the affections
of the patient—who, poor little fellow, would in his companion’s absence
be the child he was, and let her treat him like his mother, or old nurse,
chattering to her freely about home, and his home-sick longings; whereas
the instant any male companion appeared, he made it a point of honour to
be the manly warrior and crusader, just succeeding so far as to be sullen
instead of plaintive; though when left to Richard, he could again relax
his dignity, and become natural and affectionate. But besides this
species of jealousy, Richard suspected that Lady Osbright knew, or at
least guessed, his own parentage, and disliked him for it accordingly.
She had never forgotten the distress and degradation of his mother’s
stolen marriage, nor forgiven his father for it; she had often stung the
proud heart of his brother Henry, when he shared the nursery of his
cousins the princes; and her sturdy English dislike of foreigners, and
her strong narrow personal loyalty, had alike resulted in the most
vehement hatred of the Earl of Leicester, whose head she would assuredly
have welcomed with barbarous exultation, worthy of her Danish ancestors.
Little chance, then, was there that she would regard with favour his son
under a feigned name, fostered in the Prince’s own court and camp.
She was a constraint, and almost a vexation, to Richard, and he heartily
wished that the boy’s recovery would free his tent from her. The boy did
recover favourably, in spite of all the discomforts of the island, and
was decidedly convalescent when, after nearly ten days’ isolation on the
island, Edward drew out his whole force upon the shore to do honour to
the embarkation of the relics of Louis IX. It was one of the most solemn
and melancholy pageants that could be conceived. A wide lane of mailed
soldiers was drawn up, Sicilians and Provençals on the one side, and on
the other, English and the Knights of the two Orders. All stood, or sat
on horseback in shining steel, guarding the way along which were carried
the coffins. In memory, perhaps, of Louis’s own words, “I, your leader,
am going first,” his remains headed the procession, closely followed by
those of his young son; and behind it marched his two brothers, Charles
and Alfonse, and his son-in-law, the King of Navarre (the two latter
already bearing the seeds of the fatal malady), and the three English
princes, Edward, Edmund, and Henry of Almayne, each followed by his
immediate suite. The long line of coffins of French counts and nobles,
whose lives had in like manner been sacrificed, brought up the rear; and
alas! how many nameless dead must have been left in the ruins!
Each coffin when brought to the shore was placed in a boat, and with
muffled oars transplanted to the vessel ready to receive it, while the
troops remained drawn up on the shore. The procession that ensued was
almost more mournful. It was still of biers, but these were not of the
dead but of the living, and again the foremost was the King of France,
while next to him came his sister, the Queen of Navarre. Edward went
down to his litter, as it was brought on the beach, and offered him his
arm as he feebly stepped forth to enter the boat. Philippe looked up to
his tall cousin, and wrung his hands as he murmured, “Alas! what is to be
the end of all this?” Edward made kind and cheerful reply, that things
would look better when they met at Trapani, and then almost lifted the
young king into his boat. Poor youth, he had not yet seen the end! He
was yet to lose his wife, his brother-in-law, and his uncle and aunt, ere
he should see his home again.
Richard and Hamlyn de Valence, as part of the Prince’s train, had moved
in the procession; and they were for the rest of the day in close
attendance on their lord, conveying his numerous orders for the
embarkation of the troops on the morrow, on their return to Sicily. It
was not till night-fall that Richard returned to his tent, where John of
Dunster was sitting on the sand at the door, eagerly watching for him.
“Well, Jack, my lad, how hast thou sped?” asked he, advancing. “Couldst
see our doleful array?”
“Is it thou, indeed, this time?” said the boy, catching at his cloak.
“Why, who should it be?”
“Thy wraith! Thy double-ganger has been here Richard.”
“What, dreaming again?”
“No no! I am well, I am strong. But this _is_ the land of enchantment!
Thou knowst it is. Did we not see a fleet of fairy boats sailing on the
sea? and a leaf eat up a fly here on this very tent pole? And did not
the Fay Morgaine show us towns and castles and churches in the sea? Thou
didst not call me light-headed then, Richard; thou sawest it too!”
“But this wraith of mine! Where didst see it?”
“In this tent. I was lying on the sand, trying if I could make it hold
enough to build a castle of it, when the curtain was put back, and there
thou stoodest, Richard!”
“Well, did I speak or vanish?”
“Oh, thou spakest—I mean the _thing_ spake, and it said, ‘Is this the
tent of the young Lord of Montfort?’ How now—what have I said?”
“Whom did he ask for?” demanded Richard breathlessly.
“Montfort—young Lord de Montfort!” replied John; “I know it was, for he
said it twice over.”
“And what didst thou answer?”
“What should I answer? I said we had no Montforts here; for they were
all dishonoured traitors, slain and outlawed.”
Richard could not restrain a sudden indignant exclamation that startled
the boy. “Every one says so! My father says so!” he returned, somewhat
defiantly.
“Not of the Earl,” said Richard, recollecting himself.
“He said every one of the young Montforts was a foul traitor, and
man-sworn tyrant, as bad as King John had been ere the Charter,” repeated
John hotly, “and their father was as bad, since he would give no redress.
Thou knowst how they served us in Somerset and Devon!”
“I have heard, I have heard,” said Richard, cutting short the story, and
controlling his own burning pain, glad that the darkness concealed his
face. “No more of that; but tell me, what said this stranger?”
“Thou thinkest it was really a stranger, and not thy wraith?” said John
anxiously. “I hope it was, for Dame Idonea said if it were a wraith, it
betokened that thou wouldst not—live long—and oh, Richard! I could not
spare thee!”
And the little fellow came nestling up to his friend’s breast in an
access of tenderness, such as perhaps he would have disdained save in the
darkness.
“Did Dame Idonea see him?” asked Richard.
“No; but she came in soon after he had vanished.”
“Vanished! What, like Fay Morgaine’s castles? Tell me in sooth, John;
it imports me to know. What did this stranger, when thou spakest thus of
the House of Montfort?”
“He answered,” said John; “he did not answer courteously—he said, that I
was a malapert little ass, and demanded again where this young Montfort’s
tent was. So then I said, that if a Montfort dared to show his traitor’s
face in this camp, the Prince would hang him as high as Judas; for I
wanted to be rid of him, Richard! it was so dreadful to see thy face, and
hear thy voice talking French, and asking for dead traitors.”
“French!” said Richard. “Methought thou knewst no French!”
“I—I have heard it long now, more’s the pity,” faltered John, “and—and
I’d have spoken anything to be rid of that shape.”
“And wert thou rid? What befell then?”
“It cursed the Prince, and King, and all of them,” said John with a
shudder; “it looked black and deadly, and I crossed myself, and said the
Blessed Name, and no doubt it writhed itself and went off in brimstone
and smoke, for I shut my eyes, and when I looked up again it was gone!”
“Gone! Didst look after him?”
“Oh, no! Earthly things are all food for a brave man’s sword,” said
Master John, drawing himself up very valiantly, “but wraiths and things
from beneath—they do scare the very heart out of a man. And I lay, I
don’t know how, till Dame Idonea came in; and she said either the foul
fiend had put on thy shape because he boded thee ill, or it was one of
the traitor brood looking for his like.”
“Tell me, John,” said Richard anxiously; “surely he was not in all points
like me. Had he our English white cross?”
“I cannot say as to the cross,” said John; “meseemed it was all
you—yourself—and that was all—only I thought your voice was strange and
hollow—and—now I think of it—yes—he was bearded—brown bearded. And,”
with a sudden thought, “stand up, prithee, in the opening of the tent;”
and then taking his post where he had been sitting at the time of the
apparition, “He was not so tall as thou art. Thy head comes above the
fold of the curtain, and his, I know, did not touch it, for I saw the
light over it. Then thou dost not think it was thy wraith?” he added
anxiously.
“I think my wraith would have measured me more exactly both in stature
and in age,” said Richard lightly. “But how did Leonillo comport
himself? He brooks not a stranger in general; and dogs cannot endure the
presence of a spirit.”
“Ah! but he fawned upon this one, and thrust his nose into his hand,”
said John, “and I think he must have run after him; for it was so long
ere he came back to me, that I had feared greatly he was gone, and oh,
Richard! then I must have gone too! I could never have met you without
Leonillo.”
By this time Richard had little doubt that the visitor must have been one
of his brothers, Simon or Guy, who were not unlikely to be among the
Provençals, in the army of Charles of Anjou. He had not been thought to
resemble them as a boy, but he had observed how much more alike brothers
appear to strangers than they do to their own family; and he knew by
occasional observations from the Prince, as well as from his brother
Henry’s recognition of his voice, that the old Montfort characteristics
must be strong in himself. He would not, however, avow his belief to
John of Dunster. Secrecy on his own birth had been enjoined on him by
his uncle the King; and disobedience to the old man’s most trifling
commands was always sharply resented by the Prince; nor was the boy’s
view of the House of Montfort very favourable to such a declaration.
Richard really loved the brave little fellow, and trusted that some day
when the discovery must be made, it would be coupled with some exploit
that would show it was no name to be ashamed of. So he only told the boy
that he had no doubt the stranger was a foreign knight, who had once
known the old Leicester family; but bade him mention the circumstance to
no one. He feared, however, that the caution came too late, since Dame
Idonea was not only an inveterate gossip, but was likely to hold in
direful suspicion any one who had been inquired for by such a name.
The personal disappointment of having missed his brother was great.
Richard was very lonely. The Princes, and Hamlyn de Valence, were the
only persons who knew his secret, and both by Prince Edmund and De
Valence he was treated with indifference or dislike. Edward himself,
though the object of his fervent affection, and his protector in all
essentials, was of a reserved nature, and kept all his attendants at a
great distance. On very rare occasions, when his feelings had been
strongly stirred—as in the instance of his visit to his uncle’s
death-chamber—he might sometimes unbend; and momentary flashes from the
glow of his warm deep heart went further in securing the love and
devotion of those around him, than would the daily affability of a lower
nature; but in ordinary life, towards all concerned with him except his
nearest relations, he was a strict, cold, grave disciplinarian, ever
just, though on the side of severity, and stern towards the slightest
neglect or breach of observance, nor did he make any exception in favour
of Richard. If the youth seldom received one of his brief annihilating
reproofs, it was because they were scarcely ever merited; but he had
experienced that any want of exactitude in his duties was quite as
severely visited as if he had not been the Prince’s close kinsman,
romantically rescued by him, and placed near his person by his special
desire. And Eleanor, with all her gentle courtesy and kindness, was
strictly withheld by her husband from pampering or cockering his pages;
nor did she ever transgress his will.
The atmosphere was perhaps bracing, but it was bleak: and there were
times when Richard regretted his acceptance of the Prince’s offer, and
yearned after family ties, equality, and freedom. Simon and Guy had
never been kind to him, but at least they were his brothers, and with
them disguise and constraint would be over—he should, too, be in
communication with his mother and sister. He was strongly inclined to
cast in his lot with them, and end this life of secrecy, and distrust
from all around him save one, and his loyal love ill requited even by
that one. It grieved him keenly that one of his brothers should have
been repulsed from his tent; an absolutely famished longing for fraternal
intercourse gained possession of him, and as he lay on his pallet that
night in the dark, he even shed tears at the thought of the greeting and
embrace that he had missed.
Still he had hopes for the future. There must be meetings and
possibilities of inquiries passing between the three armies, and he would
let no opportunity go by. The next day, however, there was no chance.
The English troops were embarked in their vessels, and after a short and
prosperous passage were again landed at Trapani, the western angle of
Sicily. The French had sailed first, but were not in harbour when the
English came in; and the Sicilians, who had brought up the rear, arrived
the next day, but still there was no tidings of the French. Towards the
evening, however, the royal vessel bearing Philippe III. came into
harbour, and all the rest were in sight, when at sunset a frightful storm
arose, and the ships were in fearful case. Many foundered, many were
wrecked on the rocky islets around the port, and the French army was
almost as much reduced in numbers as it had been by the Plague of
Carthage.
Charles of Anjou remained himself in the town of Trapani, but knowing the
evils of crowding a small space with troops, he at once sent his men
inland, and Richard was again disappointed of the hope of seeing or
hearing of his brothers; for the Prince still forbade all intercourse
with the shattered remnant of the French army, justly dreading that they
might still carry about them the seeds of the infection of the camp.
The three heads of the Crusade, however, met in the Castle of Trapani to
hold council on their future proceedings. The place was the
state-chamber of the castle.
Each prince had brought with him a single attendant, and the three stood
in waiting near the door, in full view of their lords, though out of
earshot. It was an opportunity that Richard could not bear to miss of
asking for his brothers, unheard by any of those English ears who would
be suspicious about his solicitude for the House of Montfort. A
lively-looking Neapolitan lad was the attendant of King Charles; and in
spite of all the perils of attempting conversation while thus waiting,
Richard had—while the princes were greeting one another, and taking their
seats—ventured the question, whether any of the sons of the English Earl
of Leicester were in the Sicilian army. Of Earl of Leicester the Italian
knew nothing; but Count of Montfort was a more familiar sound. “Si, si,
vero!” Sicily had rung with it; and Count Rosso Aldobrandini, of the
Maremma Toscana, had given his only daughter and heiress to the banished
English knight, Guido di Monforte, who had served in the king’s army as a
Provençal.
Richard’s heart beat high. Guy a well-endowed count, with a castle,
lands, and home! He would have asked where Guy now was, and how far off
was the Maremma; but the conference between the princes was actually
commencing, and silence became necessary on the part of their attendants.
They could only hear the murmur of voices; but could discern plainly the
keen looks and animated gestures of Charles of Anjou, the sickly sullen
indifference of Philippe, and the majestic gravity of Edward, whose noble
head towered above the other two as if he were their natural judge.
Charles was, in fact, trying to persuade the others to sail with him for
Greece, and there turn their forces on the unfortunate Michael
Palæologos, who had lately recovered Constantinople, the Empire that
Charles hoped to win for himself, the favoured champion of Rome.
Philippe merely replied that he had had enough of crusading, he was sick
and weary, he must go home and bury his father, and get himself crowned.
Charles might be then seen trying a little hypocrisy; and telling
Philippe that his saintly father would only have wished to speed him on
the way of the Cross. Then that trumpet voice of Edward, whose tones
Richard never missed, answered, “What is the way of the Cross, fair
uncle?”
It was well known that Louis IX. had refused to crusade against
Christians, even Greek Christians, and Philippe soon sheltered himself
under the plea that had not at first occurred to his dull mind. In
effect, he laid particulars before his uncle, that quickly made it plain
that the French army was in too miserable a condition to do anything but
return home; and Charles then addressed his persuasions to
Edward—striving to convince him in the first place of the sanctity of a
war against Greek heretics, and when Edward proved past being persuaded
that arms meant for the recovery of the Holy Sepulchre ought not to be
employed against Christians who reverenced it, he tried to demonstrate
the uselessness of hoping to conquer the Holy Land, even by such a
Crusade as had been at first planned, far less with the few attached to
Edward’s individual banner. Long did the king argue on. His low voice
was scarcely audible, even without the words; but Edward’s brief,
ringing, almost scornful, replies, never failed to reach Richard’s ear,
and the last of them was, “It skills not, my fair uncle. For the Holy
Land I am vowed to fight, and thither would I go had I none with me but
Fowen, my groom!”
And withal his eye lit on Richard, with a look of certainty of response;
of security that here was one to partake his genuine ardour, and of
refreshment in the midst of his disgust with the selfish uncle and
sluggish cousin. That look, that half smile, made the youth’s heart
bound once more. Yes, with him he would go to the ends of the earth!
What was the freedom of Guy’s castle, to the following of such a lord and
leader in such a cause?
Richard could have thrown himself at his feet, and poured forth pledges
of fidelity. But in ten minutes he was following home the
unapproachable, silent, cold warrior.
And the lack of any outlet for his aspirations turned them back upon
themselves, with a strange sense of bitterness and almost of resentment.
Leonillo alone, as the creature lay at his feet, and looked up into his
face with eyes of deep wistful meaning, seemed to him to have any feeling
for him; and Leonillo became the recipient of many an outpouring of
something between discontent and melancholy. Leonillo, the sole remnant
of his home! He burnt for that Holy Land where he was to win the name
and fame lacking to him; but there was to be long delay.
Fain would the Prince have proceeded at once to Palestine; but the
Genoese, from whom, in the abeyance of the English navy, he had been
obliged to hire his transports, absolutely refused to sail for the East
until after the three winter months; and he was therefore obliged to
remain in Sicily. King Charles invited him to spend Christmas at the
court at Syracuse or Naples, in hopes, perhaps, of persuading him to the
Greek expedition; but Edward was far too much displeased with the Angevin
to accept his hospitality; recollecting, perhaps, that such a sojourn had
been little beneficial to his great-uncle Cœur de Lion’s army. He
decided upon staying where he was, in the remotest corner of Sicily, and
keeping his three hundred crusaders as much to themselves and to strict
military discipline as possible, maintaining them at his own cost, and
avoiding as far as he could all transactions with the cruel and violent
Provençal adventurers, with whom Charles had filled the island.
Thus Richard found his hopes of obtaining further intelligence about his
brothers entirely passing away. He did, indeed, venture on one day
saying to the Prince, “My Lord, I hear that my brother Guy hath become a
Neapolitan count!”
“A Tuscan robber would be nearer the mark!” coldly replied Edward.
“And,” added Richard, “methought, while the host is in winter quarters, I
would venture on craving your license, my Lord, to visit him?”
“Thou hast thy choice, Richard,” answered the Prince, with grave
displeasure; “loyalty and honour with me, or lawlessness and violence
with thy brother. Both cannot be thine!”
And returning to his study of the Lais of Marie de France, he made it
evident that he would hear no more, and left Richard to a sharp struggle;
in which hot irritation and wounded feeling would have carried him away
at once from the stern superior who required the sacrifice of all his
family, and gave not a word of sympathy in return. It was the crusading
vow alone that detained the youth. He could not throw away his pledge to
the wars of the Cross, and it was plain that if he went now to seek out
Guy, he should never be allowed to return to the crusading army. But
that vow once fulfilled, proud Edward should see, that not merely
sufferance but friendliness was needed to bind the son of his father’s
sister to his service. The brother at Bednall Green was right, this
bondage was worse than beggary. Nor, under the influence of these
feelings, had Richard’s service the alacrity and affection for which it
had once been remarkable: the Prince rebuked his short-comings
unsparingly, and thus added to the sense of injury that had caused them;
Hamlyn de Valence sneered, and Dame Idonea took good care to point out
both the youth’s neglects and his sullenness, and to whisper
significantly that she did not wonder, considering the stock he came of.
A soothing word or gentle excuse from the kind-hearted Princess were the
only gleams of comfort that rendered the present state of things
endurable.
Just after Christmas arrived a vessel with reinforcements from home.
Among them came a small body of Hospitaliers, with the novice Raynal at
their head, now a full-blown knight, in dazzling scarlet and white, as
Sir Reginald Ferrers. Richard at once recognized him, when he came to
present himself to the Prince, and was very desirous of learning whether
he knew aught of that other brother, so mysteriously hidden in obscurity.
Sir Raynal on his side seemed to share the desire; he exchanged a
friendly glance with the page, and when the formality of the reception
was over sought him out, saying, “I have a greeting for you, Master
Fowen.”
“From Sir Robert Darcy?” asked Richard. “How fares it with the kind old
knight?”
“Excellent well! Nay, nothing fares amiss with Father Robert!” said the
young knight, smiling. “Everything is the very best that could have
befallen him—to hear him speak. He is the very sunshine of the Spital,
and had he been ordered on this Crusade, I think all the hamlets round
would have risen to withhold him.”
“Ah!” said Richard, hoping he was acting indifference; “said he aught of
the little maiden with the blind father?”
“Pretty Bessee and Blind Hal of Bednall Green? Verily, that was the
purport of my message. The poor knave hath been sorely sick and more
cracked than ever this autumn; insomuch that Father Robert spent whole
nights with him; and though he be better now, and as much in his senses
as e’er he will be, such another access is like to make an end of him.
Now, Father Robert saith that you, Sir Page, know who the poor man is by
birth, and that he prays you to send him word what had best be done with
the child, in case either of his death or of his getting so frenzied as
to be unable to take care of her.”
“Send him word!” repeated Richard in perplexity.
“We shall certainly have some one returning soon to the Spital,” replied
Sir Raynal. “Indeed, methinks some of the princes will be like to
return, for the old King of the Romans is failing fast, and King Henry
implored that the Prince of Almayne would come to hearten him.”
“Then must I write to Sir Robert?” said Richard; “mine is scarce a
message for word of mouth.”
“So he said it was like to be,” returned the knight, “and he took thought
to send you a slip of parchment, knowing, he said, that such things are
not wont to be found in a crusader’s budget. Moreover, if ink be
wanting, he bade me tell you that there’s a fish in these seas, with many
arms, and very like the foul fiend, that carries a bag of ink as good as
any scrivener’s.”
“I have seen the monster,” said Richard, who had often been down to the
beach to see the unlading of the fishermen’s boats, and to share little
John of Dunster’s unfailing marvel, that the Mediterranean should produce
such outlandish creatures, so alien to his Bristol Channel experiences.
And the very next time the boats came in, Richard made his way to the
shore, on the beautiful, rocky, broken coast; and presently encountered a
sepia, which fully justified Sir Robert’s comparison, lying at the bottom
of a boat. The fisherman intended it for his own dinner, when all his
choicer fish should have gone to supply the Friday’s meal of the English
chivalry; and he was a good deal amazed when the young gentleman, making
his Provençal as like Sicilian as he could, began to traffic with him for
it, and at last made him understand that it was only its ink-bag that he
wanted.
The said ink, secured in a shell, was brought home by Richard, together
with a couple of the largest sea-bird’s quills that he could find—and
which he shaped with his dagger, as best he might, in remembrance of
Father Adam de Marisco’s writing lessons. He meditated what should be
the language of his letter, which was not likely to be secure from the
eyes of the few who could read it; and finally decided that English was
the tongue known to the fewest readers, who, if they knew letters at all,
were sure to be acquainted with French and Latin.
On a strip of parchment, then, about nine inches long and three wide, he
proceeded to indite, in upright cramped letters, with many contractions,
nearly in such terms as these—
REVEREND AND KNIGHTLY FATHER,
The good ghostly father and knight, Sir Raynald Ferrers, hath borne
to me your tidings of my brother’s sickness, and of all your goodness
to him—whereof I pray that our blessed Lady and good St. John may
reward you, for I can only pray for you. Touching his poor little
daughter, in case of his death or frenzy, which the Saints of their
mercy forefend, I would entreat you of your goodness to place her in
some nunnery, but without making known her name and quality until my
return; so Heaven bring me home safe. But an if I should be slain in
this Eastern land, then were it most for the little one’s good to
present her to the gracious lady Princess, by whom she would be most
lovingly and naturally cared for; and would be more safe than with
such as might shun to own her rights of blood and heirship. Commend
me to my brother, if so be that he cares to hear of me; and tell him
that Guy hath wedded the lady of a castle in the land of Italy. And
so praying you, ghostly father, for your blessing, I greet you well,
and rest your grateful bedesman and servant,
RICHARD OF LEICESTER.
Given at the Prince’s camp at Drepanum, in the realm of Sicilia, on
the octave of the Epiphany, in the year of grace MCCLXX.; and so our
Lord have you heartily in His keeping.
Letter-writing was a mighty task; and Richard’s extemporary implements
were not of the best. He laboured hard over his composition, kneeling
against a chest in the tent. When at length he raised his head, he
encountered a face full of the most utter amazement. Little John of
Dunster had come into the tent, and stood gazing at him with open eyes
and gaping mouth, as if he were perpetrating an incantation. Richard
could not help laughing.
“Why, Jack, dost think I am framing a spell for thee?”
“Writing!” gasped John, relieving his distended mouth by at length
closing it.
“Wherefore not? Did not I see the chaplain teaching thee to write at
Guildford?”
“Ay—but that was when I was a babe! Writing! Why, my father never
writes!”
“But the Prince does. Thou hast seen him write. Come now,” added
Richard: “if thou wilt, I will help thee to write a letter to send thy
greetings home to Dunster. Thy father and mother will be right glad to
hear thou hast ’scaped that African fever.”
“They!—They’d think me no better than a French monk!” said John. “And
none of them could read it either! I’ll never write! My grandsire only
set his cross to the great charter!”
And John retreated—in fear perhaps that Richard would sully his manhood
with a writing lesson!
The letter was rolled up in a scroll, bound with a silken thread, and
committed to the charge of Sir Raynald Ferrers, who was going shortly to
be commandery of his Order at Castel San Giovanni, whence he had no doubt
of being able to send the letter safely to Sir Robert Darcy, at the Grand
Priory.
It would perhaps have been more expeditious to have intrusted the letter
to one of the suite of Prince Henry of Almayne, who had been recalled by
the tidings of the state of his father’s health; but Richard dreaded
betraying his brother’s secret too much to venture on confiding the
missive to any of this party—none of whom were indeed likely to wish to
oblige him. Hamlyn de Valence was going with Henry as his esquire; and
his absence seemed to Richard like the beginning of better days.