THE GARDEN OF THE HOSPITAL
“And who is yon page lying cold at his knee?”—SCOTT.
EDWARD differed from Cœur de Lion in this, that he was one of the most
abstemious men in his army, and disciplined himself at least as rigidly
as he did other people. And it was probably on this account that he did
not fulfil Dame Idonea’s predictions, but recovered favourably, and by
the end of a fortnight was able, in the first coolness of early morning,
to ride gently into the city of Acre, where a few days previously the
Princess Eleanor had given birth to a daughter. She was christened Joan
on the day of her father’s arrival, and afterwards became the special
spoilt favourite of Edward, whose sternness gave place to excessive
fondness among his children. Moreover, she in the end became the wife of
that same red-haired Earl Gilbert of Gloucester, who at this time stood
holding his wax taper, and looking at the small swaddled morsel of
royalty with all a bachelor’s contempt for infancy, and little dreaming
that he beheld his future Countess.
Prince Edward had accepted the invitation of Sir Hugh de Revel, Grand
Master of the Order of St. John, to take up his quarters in the
Commandery of the brotherhood; and Richard was greatly relieved to have
him there, since no watch or ward in the open camp could be so secure as
this double fortress, protected in the first place by the walls of the
city, and in the second by those of the Hospital itself, with its strict
military and monastic discipline.
A wonderful place was that Hospital—infirmary, monastery, and castle, all
in one, and with a certain Eastern grace and beauty of its own. The deep
massive walls, heavy towers, and portcullised gateway, were in the most
elaborate and majestic style of defensive architecture; and the main
building rose to a great height, filled with galleries of small, bare,
rigid-looking cells, just large enough for a knight, his pallet, and his
armour. Below was a noble vaulted hall, the walls hung with well-tried
hawberks, and shields and helmets which had stood many a dint; captured
crescents and green banners waved as trophies over crooked scymetars and
Damascus blades inlaid with sentences from the Koran in gold, and twisted
cuirasses rich with barbaric gold and gems; the blazoned arms of the
noblest families of France, Spain, England, Germany, and Italy, decked
the panels and brightened the windows; while the stone pulpit for the
reader showed that it was still a convent refectory.
The chapel was grave and massive, but at the same time gorgeous with
colouring suited to eyes accustomed to Oriental brightness of hue; the
chancel walls were inlaid with the porphyry, jasper, and marble, of
exquisite tints, that came from the mountains around; the shrines were
touched with gold, and the roofs and vaultings painted with fretwork of
unapproachable brilliance and purity of tints; yet all harmonizing
together, as only Eastern colouring can harmonize, and giving a sense of
rest and coolness.
Within those huge thick walls, whose windows, sunk deep into their solid
mass, only let in threads of jewelled light, under their solemn circular
richly carved brows, between those marble pillars; the elder ones, round
and solid, with Romanesque mighty strength; the new graceful clusters of
shining blood-red marble shafts, surrounding a slender white one, all
banded together with gold, under the vaults of the stone roof, upon the
mosaic floor—there was always a still refreshing coolness, like the
“shadow of a great rock in a weary land.” One transept had a window
communicating with the upper room of the Infirmary, so that the sick who
there lay in their beds might take part in the services in the chapel.
The outer court, with the great fortified gateway towards the street, was
a tilt-yard, where martial exercises took place as in any other castle;
but pass through the great hall to the inner court, of which the chapel
formed one side, and where could such cloisters have been found in the
West? Their heavy columns and deep-browed arches clinging against the
thick walls, afforded unfailing shelter from the sun, and their coolness
was increased by the marble of the pavement, inlaid in rich intricate
mosaics.
Extending around the interior of the external wall, they enclosed an
exquisite Eastern garden, perfumed with flowering shrubs, shady with
trees, and lovely with tall white lilies, hollyhocks, purple irises,
stars of Bethlehem, and many another Eastern flower, which would send
forth seeds or roots for the supply of the trim gardens of Western
convents. The soft bubbling of fountains gave a sense of delicious
freshness; doves flew hither and thither, and their soft murmuring was
heard in the branches; and at certain openings in their foliage might be
seen the azure of the Mediterranean, which little John of Dunster
persisted in calling too blue—why could it not be a sober proper-coloured
sea like his own Bristol Channel?
Richard was very happy here. There was something of the same charm as in
modern days is experienced in staying at a college. The brethren were
thorough monks in religious observance, but they were also high-bred
nobles, and had seen many wild adventures, and hard-fought battles, and
moreover, had entertained in turn almost every variety of pilgrim who had
visited the Holy Land; so that none could have been found who had more of
interest to tell, or more friendly hospitable kindness towards their
guests. Richard was a favourite there, not only as a friend of Reginald
Ferrers, but as acquainted with the Grand Prior, Sir Robert Darcy, whose
memory was still green in Palestine. Tales of his feats of mighty
strength still lingered at Acre; how he had held together, by his single
arm, the gates of a house in the retreat from Damietta, against a whole
troop of Mamelukes, until every Christian had left it on the other side,
and then had slowly followed them, not a Moslem daring to attack him; how
he had borne off wounded knights on his back, and on sultry marches would
load himself with the armour of any one who was exhausted, and never fail
to declare it was exactly what he liked best! More than once it had been
intimated that Richard de Montfort would be gladly accepted as a brother
of the Order; and he often thought over the offer, but not only was he
unwilling to separate himself from the Prince, but he felt it needful at
any rate to return to England to judge of the condition of his brother
Henry, ere becoming one of an Order where he could no longer dispose of
himself.
He was resolved never to quit the Prince till he had seen him beyond the
reach of any machination of his brother’s, nor indeed was it easy to
think of parting at all, for Edward, who had relaxed all coldness of
manner towards him ever since the affair at Trapani, had now become
warmly affectionate and confidential. The Prince was still far from
having regained his usual health, his arm was still in a scarf, and was
often painful, and the least exposure to the sun brought on violent
headache, which some attributed to the poison in the scratch on his
forehead, but the Hospitaliers, more reasonably, ascribed to a slight
sun-stroke. Their character of infirmarers rendered them especially
considerate hosts, and they never overwhelmed their guest with the stiff
formalities of courtesy for his rank’s sake, but allowed him to follow
his inclination, and this led him to spend great part of his time in a
pavilion, a thoroughly Eastern erection, which stood in the garden, at
the top of the white marble steps leading to a fountain of delicious
sparkling water, and sheltered from the sun by the dark solid horizontal
branches of a noble Cedar of Lebanon, which tradition connected with the
visit of the Empress Helena. Here, lying upon mats placed on the steps,
the convalescent Prince would rest for hours, sometimes holding converse
with the Grand Master, or counsel with his visitors from the camp; but
more often in the dreamy repose of recovery, silent or talking to Richard
of matters that lay deep within his heart; but which, perhaps, nothing
but this softening species of waking dream would have drawn from him. He
would dwell on those two hero models of his boyhood, so diverse, yet so
closely connected together by their influence upon his character, Louis
of France, and Simon of Leicester; and of the impression both had left,
that judgment, mercy, faith, and the subject’s welfare, were the primary
duties of a sovereign—an idea only now and then glimpsed by the feudal
sovereigns, who thought that the people lived for them rather than they
for the people. And when, as in England, the King’s good-nature had been
abused by swarms of foreign-born relations, who had not even his claims
on the people, no wonder the yoke had been galling beyond endurance. Of
the end Edward could not bear to think—of the broken friendships—the
enmity of kindred—the faults on either side that had embittered the
strife, till he had been forced to become the sword in the hands of the
royal party to liberate his father—and with consequences that had so far
out-run his powers of controlling them. To make England the land of law,
peace, and order, that Simon de Montfort would fain have seen it, was his
present aspiration; and then, he said, when all was purified at home, it
might yet be permitted to him to return and win back the Holy City,
Jerusalem, to the Christian world. In the meantime, as a memorial of
this, his earnest longing, he was causing, at great expense and labour,
one of the huge stones of the Temple to be transported over the hills,
and embarked on board a ship, to carry home with him. Richard, meantime,
learnt to know and love his Prince with a more devoted love, if that were
possible, and to grieve the more at the persistent hatred of his
brothers, who, utterly uncomprehending their father’s high purposes
themselves, sought blindly to slake their vengeance for the ruin they had
themselves provoked, and upon one who mourned him far more truly than
they could ever do.
A few days had thus passed, when Richard was one day called by his
friend, Sir Raynald, into the Infirmary, to speak a few kind words to a
dying English pilgrim, who had come from his native country, and confided
to him his dearly-purchased palm and scallop shell, to be conveyed to his
aged mother.
As Richard was passing along the great lofty chamber, two rows of beds
were arranged; one of the patients rather hastily, as it seemed to him,
enveloped himself in his coverlet, leaving nothing visible but a great
black patch which seemed to cover the whole side of his face.
“That is a strange varlet,” said Raynald, as they passed him; “it is an
old wound that the patch covers, not what has brought him here; and what
the nature of his ailment may be, not one of our infirmarers can make
out; his tongue is purple, and he hath such strange shiverings and
contortions in all his limbs, that they are at their wits’ end, and some
hold that he must have undergone some sorcery in his passage through the
Infidel domains.”
“He came from the East, then?” asked Richard.
“Yea, verily. We have many more sick among the returning than the
out-going pilgrims.”
“And what is his nation?”
“Nay; all the scanty words he hath spoken have been in Lingua Franca, and
he hath been in such trances and trembling fits that it hath not been
easy to question him. Nor is it our custom to trouble a pilgrim with
inquiries.”
“How did he enter?” said Richard.
“Brother Antonio found him yester-eve cast down, gasping for breath, by
the gate of the Hospital, just able to entreat for the love of St. John
to be admitted. He had all the tokens of a pilgrim about him, and seemed
better at first, walked lustily to bath and bed, and did not show himself
helpless; but I much suspect his disease is the work of the Arch Enemy,
for he is always at his worst if one of our Brethren in full orders comes
near him. You saw how he cowered and hid himself when I did but pass
through the hall. I shall speak to the Preceptor, and see if it were not
best to try what exorcism will do.”
There was something in all this that made Richard vaguely uneasy. After
the recent attack upon the Prince, he suspected all that he did not fully
understand; and though in the guarded precincts of the Hospital he had
once dismissed his anxiety, it returned upon him in redoubled force. He
thought of Nick Dustifoot, but that worthy was of a uniform tint of
whitey brown, skin, hair and all; and Richard had assured himself that
the strange patient had black hair and a brown skin, but that was all
that he could guess at. The exorcism would, however, be an effectual
means of disclosing the “myster wight’s” person, and it sometimes
included measures so strong, that few pretences could hold out against
them. But it was too serious and complicated a ceremony to be got up at
short notice; and when they met in the Refectory for supper, Raynald told
Richard that the Grand Master intended to make a personal inspection next
day, before deciding on using his spiritual weapons.
“And then!” cried John of Dunster, dancing round, “you will let me be
there! Pray, good Father, let me be there! Oh, I hope there will be a
rare smell of brimstone, and the foul fiend will come out with huge
claws, and a forked tail. I don’t care to see him if he only comes out
like a black crow; I can see crows enough in the trees at Dunster.”
“Peace, John; this is no place for idle talk,” said Richard gravely.
“Stand aside, here comes the Prince.”
The Prince had spent a fatiguing day over the terms of the ten years, ten
months, ten weeks, ten days, ten hours, and ten minutes’ truce with the
Emir of Joppa; he ate little, and after the meal, took Richard’s arm, and
craved leave from the Grand Master to seek the fresh air beneath the
cedar tree. And when there, he could not endure the return to the
closeness of his own apartment, but declared his intention of sleeping in
the pavilion. He dismissed his attendants, saying he needed no one but
Richard, who, since his illness, had always slept upon cushions at his
feet.
Where was Richard?
He presently appeared, carrying on one arm a mantle, and over the other
shoulder the Prince’s immense two-handled sword; while his own sword was
in his belt. Leonillo followed him.
“How now!” said Edward, “are we to have a joust? Dost look for phantom
Saracens out of yonder fountain, such as my Doña tells me rise out of the
fair wells in Castille, wring their hands and pray for baptism?”
“You said your hand should keep your head, my Lord,” said Richard; “this
is but a lone place.”
“What! amid all the guards of the good Fathers! Well, old comrade,” as
he took his sword in his right hand; “I am glad to handle thee once more,
and I hope soon to grasp thee as I am wont, with both hands. Lay it
down, Richard. There—thanks—that is well. I wonder what my father would
have thought if one of his many crusading vows had led him hither.
Should we ever have had him back again? How well this dreamy leisure
would have suited him! It would almost make a troubadour of a rough
warrior like me. See the towers and pinnacles against the sky, and the
lights within the windows—and the stars above like lamps of gold, and the
moonshine sparkling on the bubbles of the water, ever floating off, yet
ever in the same place. Were the good old man here, how peacefully would
he sing, and pray, and dream, free from debts, parliament and barons.
Ah! had his kinsmen let him keep his vow, it had been happier for us
all.”
So mused the Prince, and with a weary smile resigned himself to rest.
But Richard was too full of vague uneasiness to sleep. He could not
dismiss from his mind the thought of the unknown pilgrim, and was
resolved to relax no point of vigilance until the full investigation
should have satisfied him that his fears were unfounded. He had been
accustomed to watching and broken rest during the Prince’s illness, and
though he durst not pace up and down for fear of disturbing the
sleeper—nay, could hardly venture a movement—he strained his eyes into
the twilight, and told his beads fervently; but sleep hung on him like a
spell, and even while sitting upright there were strange dreams before
him, and one that he had had before, though with a variation. It was the
field of Evesham once more; but this time the strange pilgrim rose in his
dark wrappings before him, and suddenly developed into that same shadowy
form of his father, who again struck him on the shoulder with his sword,
and dubbed him again “The Knight of Death.”
Hark! there was a growl from Leonillo; a footstep, a dark figure—the
pilgrim himself! Richard shouted aloud, grasped at his sword, and flung
himself forward.
“Montfort’s vengeance!” The sound rang in his ears as a sharp pang
thrilled through his side; the hot blood welled up, and he was dashed to
the ground; but even in falling he heard the Prince’s “What treason is
this?” and felt the rising of the mighty form. At the same moment the
murderer was in the grasp of that strong right hand, and was dragged
forward into the full light of the lamp that hung from the roof of the
pavilion.
“Thou!” he gasped. “Who—what?”
“Richard!” exclaimed the Prince, and relaxing his hold, “Simon de
Montfort, thou hast slain thy brother!”
The sudden shock and awe had overwhelmed Simon, who was indeed
weaponless, since his dagger remained in Richard’s wound. He silently
assisted the Prince in lifting Richard to the cushions of the couch, and
the low groan convinced them that he lived: looked anxiously for the
wound. The dagger had gone deep between the ribs, and little but the
haft could be seen.
“Poisoned?” Edward asked, looking up at Simon.
“No. It failed once. He may live,” said Simon, with bent brows and
folded arms.
“No, no. My death-blow!” gasped Richard, with sobbing breath. “Best so,
if—Oh, could I but speak!”
The Prince raised him, supporting his head on his own broad breast and
shoulder, and signed to Simon to hold to his lips the cup of water that
stood near. Richard slightly revived, and in this posture breathed more
easily.
“He might yet live. Call speedy aid!” said the Prince, who seemed to
have utterly forgotten that he was practically alone with his persevering
and desperate enemy.
“Wait! Oh, wait!” cried Richard, holding out his hand; “it would be
vain; but it will be all joy did I but know that there will be no more of
this. Simon, he loved my father—he has spared thee again and again.”
“Simon,” said the Prince, “for this dear youth’s sake and thy father’s, I
raise no hand against thee. Bitter wrong has been done to thy house, by
what persons, and how provoked, it skills not now to ask. Twice thy fury
has fallen on the guiltless. Enough blood has been shed. Let there be
peace henceforth.”
Simon stood moody, with folded arms, and Richard groaned, and essayed to
speak.
“Peace, boy,” tenderly said Edward; “and thou, Simon, hear me. I loved
thy father, and knew the upright noble spirit that arrayed him against
us. Heaven is my witness that I would have given my life to have been
able to save him on yon wretched battle-field. But he fell in fair
fight, in helm and corselet, like a good knight. Peace be with him!
Surely in this land of pardon and redemption his son and nephew may cease
to seek one another’s blood for his sake! Cheer thy brother by letting
him feel his brave deed hath not been fruitless. Free thou shalt go—do
what thou wilt; no word of mine shall betray that this deed is thine.”
“Lay aside thy purpose,” entreated Richard. “Bind him by oath, my Lord.”
“Nay,” said the Prince. “Here, on foreign soil, the strife lies between
the cousins, the sons of Henry and of Eleanor; and if Simon must needs
still slake his revenge in my blood, he may have better success another
time. Or, so soon as I can wear my armour again, I offer him a fair
combat in the lists, man to man; better so than staining his soul with
privy murder—but I had far rather that it should be peace between us—and
that thou shouldst see it.” And Edward, still supporting Richard on his
breast, held out his right hand to Simon, adding, “Let not thy brother’s
blood be shed in vain.”
Richard made a gesture of agonized entreaty.
“My father—my father!” he said. “He forgave—he hated blood; Simon, didst
but know—”
“I see,” said Simon impatiently, “that Heaven and earth alike are set
against my purpose. Fear not for his days, Richard, they are safe from
me, and here is my hand upon it.”
The tone was sullen and grudging, and Richard looked scarcely comforted;
but the Prince was in haste that he should be succoured at once, and even
while receiving Simon’s unwilling hand, said, “We lose time. Speed near
enough to the Spital to be heard, and shout for aid. Then seek thine own
safety. I will say no more of thy share in this matter.”
Simon lingered one moment. “Boy,” he said, “I told thee thou wast over
like him. Live, live if thou canst! Alas! I had thought to make surer
work this time; but thou dost pardon me the mischance?”
“More than pardon—thank thee—since he is safe,” whispered Richard, and as
Simon bent over him the boy crossed his brow, and returned a look of
absolute joy.
Simon sped away; and the Prince, when left alone with Richard, put no
restraint upon the warmth of his feelings, and his tears fell fast and
freely.
“Boy, boy,” he said; “I little thought thou wast to bear what was meant
for me!” And then, with tenderness that would have seemed foreign to his
nature, he inquired into the pain that Richard was suffering, tried to
make his position more easy, and lamented that he could not venture to
draw out the weapon until the leeches should come.
“It has been my best hope,” said Richard; “and now that it should have
been thus. With your goodness I have nothing—nothing to wish. Sir
Raynald will be here—I have only my charge for Henry to give him—and poor
Leonillo!”
“I will bear thy charges to Henry,” said the Prince. “Nor shall he think
thou didst betray his secret. I will watch over him so far as he will
let me, and do all I may for his child. Yet it may be thou wilt still
return. I hear the stir in the House. They will be here anon. Thou
must live, Richard, my friend, where I have few friends. I thought to
have knighted thee, boy, when thou hadst won fame. Oh, would that I had
shown thee more of my love while it was time!”
“All, all I hoped or longed for I have,” murmured Richard. “If you see
Henry, my Lord, bear him my greetings—and to poor Adam—yea, and my
mother. Oh! would that I could make them all know your kindness and my
joy—that it should be thus!”
By this time the whole Hospital was astir, and the knights and lay
brethren came flocking out in consternation and dread of finding their
royal host himself murdered within their cloisters.
Great was the confusion, and eager the search for the assassin, while
others crowded round the Prince, who still would not give up his post of
supporting the sufferer in his arms, while a few moments’ examination
convinced the experienced infirmarers that the wound was mortal, and that
the extraction of the dagger would but hasten death, which could not be
other than very near. Indeed, Richard already spoke with such difficulty
that only the Prince’s ear could detect his entreaty that Raynald Ferrers
might act as his priest. Raynald was already near, only withheld by the
crowd of knights of higher degree who had thronged before him. Richard
looked up to him with a face that in all its mortal agony seemed to ask
congratulation. The power of making confession was gone, and when
Raynald would have offered to take him in his own arms, both he and the
Prince showed disinclination to the move. So thus they still remained,
while the young knightly priest spoke the words of Absolution, and then,
across the solemn darkness of the garden, amid the light of tapers, the
Host was borne from the Chapel, while the low subdued chant of the
brethren swelled up through the night air. Poor little John of Dunster,
with his arms round Leonillo’s neck, to keep him from disturbing his
master, knelt, sobbing as though his heart would break, but trying to
stifle the sounds as the priest’s voice came grave and full on the silent
air, responded to by the gathered tones of the brethren: the fountain
bubbled on, and the wakening birds began to stir in the trees.
Once more Richard opened his eyes, looked up at his Prince, and smiled.
That smile remained while Edward kissed his brow with fervour, laid him
down on the cushions, and rising to his feet, bowed his head to the Grand
Master, but did not even strive to speak, and gravely walked across the
cloister, with a slow though steady step, to his own chamber. No one saw
him again till the sun was high, when, with looks as composed as ever, he
went forth to lay his page’s head in the grave, and thence visit and calm
the fears of his Princess.
Search had everywhere been made for the assassin, but no traces of him
were found. Only the strange pilgrim had vanished in the confusion; and
the Prince never contradicted the Grand Master in his indignation that a
Moslem hound should have assumed such a disguise.