THE COMBAT
“And now with sae sharp of steele
They ’gan to lay on load.”
_Sir Cauline_.
HEAVY-hearted and pale-cheeked with his rigidly observed fast, Richard
armed himself in early morning, and set forth to the chapel tent, where
the previous solemnities had to be observed. He had made up his mind to
make an earnest appeal to the Earl of Gloucester, for the sake of the old
friendship with his father, to become his godfather in the combat, as one
whose character stood too high to be injured by connection with him.
Even this plan was frustrated, for Hamlyn de Valence entered, led by Earl
Gilbert as his sponsor. Should he turn to his one other friend, the
Prince himself? Nay, the Prince was umpire and judge. Never stood
warrior so lonely. Little John of Dunster crept up to his side; and but
for fear of injuring the child, he would almost have asked him to be his
sponsor. At that moment, however, the tramp of horses’ feet was heard,
and Sir Reginald de Ferrières, with his squires, galloped up to the tent.
The young Hospitalier held out his hand cordially. “In time, I hope,”
said he; “I have ridden ever since Lauds at Castel San Giovanni, hoping
to be with you, so as to stand by you in this matter.”
“It was kindly done of you,” said Richard, tears of gratitude swelling in
his eyes, as he wrung Sir Raynald’s hand. “I have not even a godfather
for the fight! How could you know of my need?”
“Some of our brethren came over from the camp, for our Ash Wednesday
procession, and spoke of the stress you were in—that your Montfort
lineage was out, and that you were thought to have writ a letter—but
stay, there’s no time for words; methinks here’s the Prince and all his
train.”
Sir Raynald went through the solemnity of presenting Richard de Montfort
as about to fight in defence of his own innocence. The Prince coldly
accepted the presentation. Richard knew that Sir Raynald was deemed
anything but a satisfactory sponsor; but the young knight’s hearty
sympathy, a sort of radiance caught from good old Sir Robert, was too
comforting not to be reposed on.
Each champion then confessed. Raynald heard Richard’s shrift, and nearly
wept over it—it was the first the young priestly knight had received, and
he could scarcely clear his voice to speak the words of absolution. Even
as they left the confessional, he grasped Richard’s hand and said, “Cast
in thy lot with us! St. John will find thee father and home and
brethren!”
And a gleam of joy and hope flashed on the youth’s heart, and shone
brighter as he participated in the solemn Mass in preparation for the
combat. This over, each champion made oath of the justice of his quarrel
in the hands of his godfather before the Prince: Hamlyn de Valence
swearing that to the best of his belief, Richard de Montfort was a
traitor, in league with his brothers, and art and part in the murder of
Prince Henry of Almayne, and offering to prove it on his body; while on
the other hand Richard swore that he was a true and faithful liegeman to
the King, free from all intercourse with his brethren, and sackless of
the death of Prince Henry.
Then each mounted on horseback, the trumpets sounded, the sponsors led
them to their places, and the Prince’s clear voice exclaimed, “And so God
show the right.” One glance of pitying sympathy would have filled
Richard’s arm with fresh vigour.
The two youths closed with shivered lances, and horses reeling from the
shock. Backing their steeds, each received a fresh lance. Again they
met; Richard felt the point of Hamlyn’s lance glint against his
breastplate, glide down, enter, make its way into his flesh; but at the
same instant his lance was pushing, driving, bearing on Hamlyn before
him; the sheer force in his Plantagenet shoulders was telling now, the
very pain seemed as it were to add to the energy with which he pressed
on—on, till the hostile spear dropped from his own side, and Hamlyn was
borne backwards over the croup of the staggering horse, till he fell with
crashing ringing armour upon the ground. Little John clapped his hands,
and shouted for joy; but no one responded.
Richard leapt down in another second, and stood over him. “Yield thee,
Hamlyn de Valence. Confess that thou hast slandered me with an
ungrounded accusation.”
Hamlyn had no choice. “Let me rise,” he said sullenly; “I will confess,
so thou letst me open my visor.”
And Richard standing aside, Hamlyn spoke out in a dogged formal tone. “I
hereby own, that by the judgment of Heaven, Richard de Montfort hath
cleared himself of all share in the foul murder of Lord Henry, whose soul
Heaven assoilzie. Also that he hath disproven the charge of leaguing
with his brethren.”
Richard was the victor, but where were the gratulations? Young John’s
hearty but slender hurrah was lost in the general silence.
The Prince reared his stately form, and said, “The judgment of Heaven is
final. Richard de Montfort is pronounced free of all penalty for treason
in the matter of the death of our dear cousin, and is free to go where he
will.”
Cold as ice was the Prince’s face. That Richard meant murder to Henry,
he had never believed; but that he had hankered after his brothers, and
held dangerous communings with them, was evidently still credited and
unforgiven. The very form of words was a dismissal—and the youth’s heart
was wrung.
He stood, looking earnestly up as the Prince moved from his place,
without a glance towards him. The next moment Raynald’s kind hand was on
his shoulder, and his voice saying, “Well fought, brother, a brave
stroke! Come with me, thou art hurt.”
“Would it were to the death!” murmured Richard dreamily, as Raynald,
throwing his arm round him, led him away; but before they had reached the
tent there was a plunging rush and scampering behind them, and John of
Dunster came dashing up. “I knew it! I knew it!” he cried. “I knew he
would overset spiteful Hamlyn! Hurrah! They can’t keep me away now,
Richard—now the judgment of Heaven has gone for you!”
Richard smiled, and put his gauntleted hand caressingly on the boy’s
shoulder.
“I was afraid,” added John, “that you would think me like the rest of
them. Miscreants, all! Not one would shout for you—you, the victor!
They don’t heed the judgment of Heaven one jot. And that’s what they
call being warriors of the Cross! If the Prince were a true-born
Englishman, he would be ashamed of himself. But never heed, Richard.
Why don’t you speak to me? Are you angered that I told of the letter?
Indeed, I never guessed—”
“Hush, varlet,” said Sir Raynald, “see you not that he has neither breath
nor voice to speak? If you wish to do him a service, hie to our
tents—down yonder, to the east, where you see the eight-pointed cross—”
“I know, Sir,” said John, perfectly civil on hearing accents as English
as his own.
“And bring up Brother Bartlemy, he is a better infirmarer than I. Bid
him from me bring his salves and bandages.”
Richard was barely conscious when he reached the tent, as much from rigid
fasting and sleeplessness as from the actual loss of blood. His friend
disarmed him tenderly, and revived him with bread and wine, silencing a
half-murmured scruple about Lenten diet with the dispensation due to
sickness. The wound was not likely to be serious or disabling, and the
cares of the Hospitalier and his infirmarer had presently set their
patient so much at ease that he dropped into a sound sleep, having
scarcely said a word, beyond a few faintly uttered thanks, since he had
fought the combat.
At first his sleep was profound, but by and by the associations of blows
and wounds carried him back to the field of Evesham. The wild _mêlée_
was renewed, he heard the voice of his father, but always in that strange
distressing manner peculiar to dreams of the departed, always far away,
and just beyond his reach, ever just about to give him the succour he
needed, but ever withheld. The thunderstorm that broke over the
contending armies roared again in his ears; and then again recurred the
calm still night, when he had lain helpless on the battle-field; even the
caress of Leonillo, and his low growl, were vividly repeated; but as the
dog moved, it was to Richard as if the form of his father rose up in its
armour from the dark field, and said in a deep hollow voice, “Well
fought, my son; I will give thee knighthood.” Then Richard thought he
was kneeling before his father, and hearing that same voice saying, “My
son, be true and loyal. In the name of God and St. James. I dub thee
knight of death!” and looking up, he beheld under the helmet, not Simon
de Montfort’s face but the Prince’s. He awoke with a start of
disappointment—and there stood Edward himself, leaning against the
tent-pole, looking down at him!
He sprang on his feet, scarcely knowing whether he slept or woke; but
Edward said, in that voice that at times was so ineffably sweet, “Be
still, Richard; I fear me thou hast suffered a wrong, and I am come to
repair it, as far as I can! Lay thee down again.”
And the Prince seated himself on the oaken chest; while Richard, after a
few words, sat down on his couch.
“Is this the letter about which there has been such a coil?” said Edward,
giving him the scroll in its sepia ink.
“It is!” replied Richard in amazement and dismay.
“The only letter thou didst write?”
“The only one,” repeated Richard.
“And,” added Edward, “it concerns thy brother Henry.”
Richard turned even paler than before, and could not suppress a gasp of
dismay. “My Lord, make me not forsworn!”
“Listen to me, Richard,” said Edward. “My sweet lady gave me no rest
about thee. She held that I had withdrawn my trust over lightly, for
what was no blame to thine heart; and that having set thee here apart
from thy natural friends, we owed thee more notice than I have been wont
to think wholesome for untried striplings. Others, and I among them,
held that Raynald Ferrers’ friendship and countenance showed thee
stubbornly set on old connections, and many thought the letter to the
Grand Prior Darcy a mere excuse. But when Hamlyn fell, and I still held
that thou wert merely cleared from wilful share in the deadly crime of
which I had never held thee guilty, then she spake more earnestly. She
of her own will sent for Raynald Ferrers to our tent, and called me to
speak with him, sure that, even though his family had been our foes, he
was too honourable a knight to have espoused thy cause without good
reason. Then it was that he told us of thine interest for the blind
beggar whose child thou didst save, and of the Grand Prior’s message.
Also, as full exculpation of thee, he gave me the letter, which, having
failed to find a home-bound messenger at San Giovanni, he had brought
back to the camp. And now, Richard, what can I say more, than that I did
thee wrong, and pray thee to give me thy hand in pardon?”
Richard hid his face and sobbed, completely overwhelmed by the simple
dignity of the humility of such a man as Edward. He held the Prince’s
hand to his lips, and exclaimed, “Oh, how—how could I have ever felt
discontent, or faltered? not in truth—oh, no—but in trust and patience?
Oh! my Lord, that I could die for you!”
“Not yet,” said Edward, smiling; “we have much to do together first. And
now tell me, Richard, this beggar is indeed Henry?”
Richard hung his head.
“What, thou mayst not betray him?”
“I am under an oath, my Lord.”
“Nay, I know well-nigh all, Richard. I did indeed see my dear old
comrade laid in Evesham Church, so as it broke my heart to see him,
bleeding from many wounds, and even his hand lopped by the savage
Mortimers. Then, as I bent down, and gave his brow a last kiss, it
struck me, for a moment, that the touch was not that of a dead man’s
skin. But I looked again at the deadly wounds of head and breast, and
thought it would be but cruelty to strive to bring back the glimmer of
life only to—to see the ruin of his house; and all that he could not be
saved from. O Richard, to no man in either host could the day of Evesham
have been so sore, as to me, who had to sit in the gate, to gladden men’s
hearts, like holy King David, when he would fain have been weeping for
his son! But in early morning came Abbot William of Whitchurch to my
chamber, and with much secrecy told me that the corpse of Henry de
Montfort had been stolen from the church by night, praying me to excuse
that the monks, wearied out with the day of alarms, and the care of our
wounded, had not kept better watch. Then knew I that some one had been
less faithless than I, and I hoped that poor Henry was at least dying in
peace; I had never deemed that he could survive. But when I saw thy
billet, and heard Ferrers’ tale, I had no further doubt, remembering
likewise how strangely familiar was the face of that little one at
Westminster.”
“Yes, my Lord, it was even as a strange, wild, wilful, blind beggar that
I found poor Henry; and heavy was the curse he laid me under, should I
make him known to you. He calls himself thus a freer and happier man
than he could be even were he pardoned and reinstated; and he can indulge
his vein of mockery.”
“I dare be sworn that consoles him for all,” said Edward, nearly
laughing. “So long as he could utter his gibe, Henry little recked which
way the world passed round him; and I trow he has found some mate of low
degree, that he would be loth to produce in open day.”
“Not so, my Lord: it is so wild a tale of true love that I can sometimes
scarce believe a minstrel did not sing it to me!” And Richard told the
history of Isabel Mortimer’s fidelity. The Prince was deeply touched,
and then remembered the marked manner in which the Baron of Mortimer had
replied to his inquiry, in what convent he had bestowed Henry de
Montfort’s betrothed. “She is dead, my Lord, dead to us.” Then he added
suddenly, “So that black-eyed babe is the heiress of Leicester and all
the honours of Montfort!”
“It is one of the causes for Henry’s resolve to be secret,” said Richard.
“I thought it harsh and distrustful then, but he dreaded Simon’s
knowledge of her.”
“We will find a way of securing her from Simon,” said the Prince. “But
fear not, Richard, Henry’s secret shall be safe with me! I have kept his
secrets before now,” he added, with a smile. “Only, when we are at home
again—so it please the Saints to spare us—thou shalt strive to show him
cause to trust my Lady with his child, if he doth not seek to breed her
up to scrip and wallet. I see such is thy counsel in this scroll, and it
is well.”
“How could I say other?” said Richard, “and now, more than ever! I long
to thank the gracious Princess this very evening.”
“Thy wound?’ said the Prince.
“My wound is naught, I scarce feel it.”
“Then,” said the Prince, “unless the leech gainsay it, it would be as
well to be at our pavilion this evening, that men may see thou art not in
any disgrace. Rest then till supper-time.” And as he spoke he rose to
depart, but Richard made a gesture of entreaty. “So please your Grace,
grant me a few farther words. I sware, and truly, that I had heard
nothing from my brothers when I was accused of writing that letter to
them. But see here, what yester-morn was pinned to that tent-pole.”
He gave Edward the scroll, at which the Prince looked half smiling. “So!
A dagger in store for me too, is there? Well, my cousins have a goodly
thirst for vengeance! Hast thou any suspicion how this billet came
here?”
“Ay, my Lord; and for that cause I would warn you against two of the
archers, one of whom was in Simon’s troop, and went with the late prince
to Viterbo. I gave them no promise of silence.”
“You spoke with them?”
“With one, who was charged to let me through the outposts to a spot where
means were provided for bringing me to Guy.”
“And thou,” said Edward, smiling, “didst choose to bide the buffet?”
“Sir,” said Richard, “I did indeed long after my brethren when Guy had
been so near me in Africa; but now, I would far rather die than cast in
my lot with them.”
“Thou art wise,” said Edward; “not merely right, but wise. I have sent
Gloucester to my uncle of Sicily with such messages that he will scarce
dare to leave them scatheless! Then, at supper-time we meet again—in
thine own name, Richard, and as my kinsman and esquire. Thou shalt bear
thine own name and arms. I will cause a mourning suit to be sent to
thee—thou art equally of kin with myself to poor Henry—and shalt mourn
him with Edmund and me at the requiem to-morrow. So will it best be
manifest to the camp, that we exempt thee from all blame.” Again he was
departing, when Richard added—“The archers, my Lord—were it not good to
dismiss them?”
“Tush,” said Edward; “tell me not their names. So soon as the wind
veers, they will be beyond Guy’s reach; and if I were to stand on my
guard against every man who loved thy father better than mine, what good
would my life do me? The poor knaves will be true enough when they see a
Saracen before them!”
And away went Edward, to be glanced at as he passed through the camp, as
a severe, hard, cruel tyrant. Had he only been gay, open-hearted, and
careless, he might have hung both the guilty archers, and a dozen
innocent ones into the bargain, and yet have never won the character for
harshness and unmercifulness that he had acquired even while condoning
many a dire offence, simply from his stern gravity, and his punctilious
exactitude in matters of discipline. But the evils of a lax and
easy-going court had been so fatal, and had produced such suffering, that
it was no marvel that he had adopted a rule of iron; and in the pain and
distress of seeing his closest friends, the noblest subjects in the
realm, pushed into a rebellion where he had himself to maintain his
father’s cause, and then to watch, without being able to hinder, the
mean-spirited revenge of his own partizans, his manner had acquired that
silent reserve and coldness which made him feared and hated by the many,
while intensely beloved by the few. Even towards those few it was
absolutely difficult to him to unbend, as he had done in this hour of
effusion towards Richard; and the youth was proportionably moved and
agitated with fervent gratitude and affection.
He had scarcely had so happy an evening since he had been a boy at
Odiham. He was indeed feeble and dizzy at times, but with a far from
painful languor; and the Princess, enjoying the permission to follow the
dictates of her own heart, was kind to him with a motherly or sisterly
kindness, could not bear to receive from him his wonted attendance, but
made him lie upon the cushions at her feet, and when out of hearing of
every one, talked of the faithful Isabel, and of “pretty Bessee,” on whom
she already looked as the companion of her little Eleanor, whom she had
left at home.
It might be questioned whether Richard did not undergo more in watching
little John de Mohun’s endeavours at waiting than he would have suffered
from doing it himself. And not a few dissatisfied glances were levelled
at the favoured stripling, besides the literally as well as figuratively
sour glances of Dame Idonea.
Edward, being of course unable to betray his real grounds for acquitting
Richard, had only deigned to inform Prince Edmund that he knew all, and
was perfectly satisfied. Now Prince Edmund, as well as all the old court
faction, deemed Edward’s regard for the Barons’ party an unreasonable
weakness that they durst not indeed combat openly, but which angered them
as a species of disaffection to his own cause. The outer world thought
him a tyrant, but there was an inner world to whom he appeared weakly
good-natured and generous; and this inner world thought Richard had
successfully hoodwinked him!
Therefore Edmund of Lancaster desired to adopt Hamlyn de Valence as his
own squire, to save him from association with Richard; and both prince
and squire, and all the rest of the train, made it perfectly evident to
the young Montfort that he was barely tolerated out of respect for the
Prince.
But Richard in his joy could have borne worse than this, for the Prince
had not relaxed in his kindness, and made his young cousin’s wound an
excuse for showing him more tenderness and consideration than he would
otherwise have thought befitting. Moreover, an esquire, as Richard had
now become, might be in much closer relations of intimacy with his master
than was possible to a page; and the day that had begun so sadly was like
the dawn of a brighter period.
Sir Raynald Ferrers had been invited to the Prince’s pavilion, but the
rules of his Order did not permit his joining a secular entertainment in
Lent, and he did not admit either the camp life or the gravity of the
Prince’s mourning household as a dispensation. However, when Richard,
leaning fondly on little John’s ready shoulder, crossed to his own tent,
he found his good friend waiting there to attend to his wound, which Sir
Raynald professed to regard as an excellent subject to practise upon, and
likewise to hear whether all had been cleared up, and had gone right with
him.
“Though,” he said, “I could not doubt of it when that fair and lovely
Princess had taken your matters in hand. Tell me, Richard, have you
secular men many such dames as that abroad in the world?”
“Not many such as she,” said Richard, smiling.
“Well, I have not spoken to a female thing, save perhaps pretty Bessee,
since I went into the Spital, ten years ago; and verily the sound of the
lady’s voice was to me as if St. Margaret had begun talking to me! And
so wise and clear of wit too. I thought women were feather-pated wilful
beings, from whom there was no choice but to shut oneself up! I trow,
that now all is well with thee, thou wilt scarce turn a thought again
towards our brotherhood, where to glance at such a being becomes a sin.”
And Raynald crossed himself, with an effort to recall his wonted
asceticism.
“Ladies’ love is not like to be mine,” said Richard, laughing, as one not
yet awake to the force of the motive. “No! Gladly would I be one of
your noble brotherhood, where alone have I met with kindness—but, Sir
Raynald, my first duty under Heaven must be to redeem my father’s name,
by my service to the Prince. My brothers think they uphold it by deadly
revenge. I want to show what a true Montfort can be with such a master
as my father never had! And, Raynald, I cannot but fear that further
schemes of vengeance may be afloat. The Prince is too fearless to take
heed to himself, and who is so bound to watch for him as I?”