THE BEGGAR AND THE PRINCE
“This favour only, that thou would’st stand out of my sunshine.”
DIOGENES.
IT was the last week of August, 1274, the morrow of the most splendid
coronation that England had ever beheld, either for the personal
qualities and appearance of the sovereigns, or for the magnificence of
the adornments, and the bounteous feasting of multitudes.
A whole fortnight of entertainments to rich and poor had been somewhat
exhausting, even to the guests; and the suburbs of London wore an
unusually sleepy and quiescent appearance in the hot beams of the August
sun. Bethnal Green lay very silent, parched, and weary, not even
enlivened by its usual gabbling flocks of geese, all of whom, poor
things! except the patriarchal gander, and one or two of his ladies, had
gone to the festival—but to return no more!
One of those who had been in the midst of the pageant, and had returned
unscathed, was Blind Hal of Bethnal Green. Many a coin had gone into his
scrip—uncontested king of the beggars as he was; many a savoury morsel
had been conveyed to him and his child by his admiring brethren of the
wallet; with many a gibing scoff had he driven from the field presuming
mendicants, not of his own fraternity; and with half-bitter, half-amused
remarks, had he listened to the rapturous descriptions of the splendours
of king, queen, and their noble suite. And pretty Bessee had clung fast
to his hand, and discreetly guided him through every maze of the crowd,
with the strange dexterity of a child bred up in throngs. And now tired
out with the long-continued festivities, the beggar sat in front of his
hut, basking in the sun, and more than half asleep; while Bessee, her lap
full of heather-blossoms and long bents of grass, was endeavouring to
weave herself chains, bracelets, and coronals, in imitation of those
which had recently dazzled her eyes.
She had just encircled her dark auburn locks with a garland of purple
heather, studded here and there with white or gold, when, starting upon
her little bare but delicately clean pink feet, she laid her hand on her
father’s lap, and said, “Father, hark! I see two of the good red monks
coming!”
“Well, child; and wherefore waken me? They are after their own affairs,
I trow. Moreover, I hear no horses’ feet.”
“They are not riding,” said Bessee; “and they are walking this way. They
have a dog, too! Oh, such a gallant glorious dog, father! Ah,” cried
she joyfully, “’tis the good Father Grand Prior!” and she was about to
start forward, but the blind man’s ear could now distinguish the
foot-falls; and holding her fast, he almost gasped—“And the other,
child—who is he?”
“No knight at our Spital! A stranger, father. So tall, so tall! His
mantle hardly reaches his knee his robe leaves his ankles bare. O
father, they are coming. Let me go to meet dear good Father Robert! But
what—Oh, is the fit coming? Father Robert will stop it!”
“Hush thy prattle,” said the beggar, clutching her fast, and listening as
one all ear; and by this time the two knights were close at hand, the
taller holding the dog, straining in a leash, while the good Grand Prior
spoke. “How fares it with thee, friend? And thou, my pretty one? No
mishaps among the throng?”
“None,” returned Hal; “though the King and his suite _did_ let loose five
hundred chargers in the crowd at their dismounting, to trample down
helpless folk, and be caught by rogues. Largesse they called it! Fair
and convenient largesse—easily providing for those that received it!”
“No harm was done,” briefly but sharply exclaimed the strange knight; and
the blind man, who had, as little Bessee at least perceived, been turning
his acute ear in that direction all the time he had been speaking, now
let his features light up with sudden perception.
But Sir Robert Darcy, thinking that he only now became aware of the
stranger’s presence, said, “A knight is here from the East, who brings
thee tidings, my son.”
Sir Robert would have said more, but the beggar standing up, cut him
short, by saying, “So, cousin, you have yet to learn the vanity of
disguises and feignings towards a blind man.”
“Nay, fair cousin,” was the answer, “my feigning was not towards you; but
I doubted me whether you would have the world see me visit you in my
proper character. Will not you give me a hand, Henry?”
“First say to me,” said Henry, embracing with his maimed arm his staff,
planted in front of him defiantly, and still holding tight his little
daughter in his hand, “what brings you here to break into the peace of
the poor remnant of a man you have left?”
“I come,” said Edward patiently, “to fulfil my last—my parting promise,
to one who loved us both—and gave his life for me.”
“Loved you, ay! and well enough to betray me to you!” said Henry
bitterly.
“No, Henry de Montfort, ten thousand times no!” said Edward. “I would
maintain in the lists the honour and loyalty of my Richard towards you
and me and all others. His faithfulness to you brought him into peril of
death and disgrace in the wretched matter of poor Henry of Almayne; and
he would have met both rather than have broken his faith.”
“Then,” said Henry, still with the same mocking tone, “how was it that my
worthless existence became known to his Grace?”
“I knew of your having vanished from Evesham Abbey,” returned Edward:
“and thus knowing, I understood a letter, the writing of which had
brought suspicion on Richard, and which was brought back to me when we
were seeking into—”
“Into the deed of Simon and Guy,” said Henry. “Poor Henry! It was a
foul crime; and Father Robert can bear me witness that I did penance for
it, when that kindly heart of his was laid in St. Peter’s Abbey.”
“Then, Henry, thou own’st thy kinship to us still,” said Edward
earnestly. “Give me thine hand, man, and let me embrace my lovely little
kinswoman—a queen in her trappings. Ah, Henry! Heaven hath dealt
lovingly with thee in sparing thee thy child!”
“You have children left!” said Henry quickly, and not withholding a
hand—which, be it remarked, was as delicately shaped and well kept as
that which took it.
Twice had the beggar received a dole at Westminster at the obsequies of
Edward’s little sons; yea, though he and all his brethren of the dish had
all the winter before had alms given them to purchase their prayers for
the health of the last.
“Three—but three out of six,” answered Edward; “nor dare I reckon on the
life of the frail babe that England hailed yesterday as my heir. I
sometimes deem that the blight of broken covenants has fallen on my
sons.”
“They were none of your breaking,” said Henry.
“Say’st thou so!” exclaimed Edward, looking up, with the animation of a
man hearing an acquittal from a quarter whose sincerity he could
thoroughly trust.
But Henry made no courtly answer. “Pshaw! no living man that had to deal
with or for your father could keep a covenant. You were but the
spear-point of the broken reed, good cousin; and we pitied and excused
you accordingly.”
“Your father did,” said Edward hoarsely. He could brook pity from the
great Simon better than from the blind beggar.
“Ay, marry, that did he,” returned Henry, “as he closed his visor that
last morn, after looking out on that wild Welsh border scum that my fair
brother-in-law had marshalled against us. ‘By the arm of St. James,’
said he, ‘if Edward take not heed, that rascaille will deal with us in a
way that will be worse for him than for us!’”
“A true foreboding,” said the King. “Henry, do thou come and be with me.
All are gone! Scarce a face that I left in England has welcomed me on my
return. Come, thou, in what guise thou wilt—earl, counsellor, or
bedesman—only be with me, and speak to me thy father’s words.”
“Who—I, my Lord?” returned Henry. “I am no man to speak my father’s
words! They flew high over my head, and were only caught by grave youths
such as yourself. I, who was never trusted with so much as a convoy.
No, no; all the counsel I shall ever give, is to the beggars, which
coat-of-arms is like to rain clipped silver, and which honest round penny
pieces! Poor Richard! he bore the best brain of us all, and might have
served your purpose. Sit down, and tell me of the lad.—Bessee, little
one, bring out the joint-stool for the holy Father.”
And Henry de Montfort made way on the rude bench outside his hut, with
all the ease and courtesy of the Earl of Leicester receiving his kinsman
the King. But meantime, the dog, which had been straining in the leash,
held by Edward throughout the conference, leapt forward, and vehemently
solicited the beggar’s caresses. “Ah, Leonillo!” he said, recognizing
him at once, “thou hast lost thy master! Poor dog! thou art the one
truly loyal to thy master’s blood!”
“It was Richard’s charge to take him to thee,” said Edward: “but if he be
burdensome to thee, I would gladly cherish him, or would commit him to
faithful Gourdon, with whom he might be happier. Since he lost his
master the poor hound hath much pined away, and will take food from none
but me, or little John of Dunster.”
Leonillo, however, who seemed to have an unfailing instinct for a
Montfort, was willingly accepting the eager and delighted attentions of
the little girl; though he preferred those of her father, and cowered
down beneath his hand, with depressed ears and gently waving tail, as
though there were something in the touch and voice that conferred what
was as near bliss as the faithful creature could enjoy without his deity
and master.
Meantime, the Grand Prior discreetly removed his joint-stool out of
hearing of the two cousins, and called the little maid to rehearse to him
the Credo and Ave, with their English equivalents—a task that pretty
Bessee highly disapproved after the fortnight’s dissipation, and would
hardly have performed for one less beloved of children than Father
Robert.
The good Grand Prior knew that the King would have much to say that would
beseem no ear save his kinsman’s; and in effect Edward told what none
besides would ever hear respecting the true author of the attempts on his
own life.
“Spiteful fox. Such Simon ever was!” was the beggar’s muttered comment.
“Well that he knows not of my poor child! So, cousin, thou hast kept his
counsel,” he added in a different tone. “I thank thee in the name of
Montfort and Leicester. It was well and nobly done.”
And Henry de Montfort held out his hand with the dignity of head of the
family whose honour Edward had shielded.
“It was for thy father’s sake and Richard’s,” said Edward, receiving the
acknowledgment as it was meant.
“Ah, well,” said Henry, relapsing into his usual half-scoffing tone; “in
that boy our Montfort blood seems to have run clear of the taint it got
from the she-fiend of Anjou.”
“Thy share was from a mocking fiend!” returned the King.
“Ay, and a fair portion it is!” said the beggar. “My jest and my song
have borne me through more than my sword and spurs ever did—and have been
more to me than English earldom or French county. Poor Richard!” he
added with feeling; “I told him his was the bondage and mine the
freedom!”
“Alas! I fear that so it was,” said Edward. “My favour only embittered
his foes. Had I known how it would end, I had never taken him to me; but
my heart yearned to my uncle’s goodly son.”
“Maybe it is well,” said Henry. “Had the boy grown up verily like my
father, thou and he might have fallen out; or if not—why, you knights and
nobles ride in miry bloody ways, and ’tis a wonder if even the best of
you does not bring his harness home befouled and besmirched—not as
shining bright as he took it out. Well, what didst thou with the poor
lad? Cut him in fragments? You mince your best loved now as fine as if
they were traitors.”
“No,” said Edward; “the boy lies sleeping in the Church of St. John, at
Acre. I rose from my sickbed that I might lay him in his grave as a
brother. Lights burn round him, and masses are said; and the brethren
were left in charge to place his effigy on his tomb, in carven stone.
One day I trust to see it. My brother Alexander of Scotland, Llewellyn
of Wales, and I, have sworn to one another to bring all within these four
seas into concord and good order; and then we may look for such a
blessing on our united arms as may bear us onward to Jerusalem! Then
come with us, Henry, and let us pray together at Richard’s grave.”
“I may safely promise,” said Henry, smiling, “if this same Crusade is to
be when peace and order are within the four seas. Moreover, thou wilt
have ruined my trade by that time!”
“Nay, Henry, cease fooling. See—if thou wilt not be thyself, I will find
thee a lodge in any park of mine. None shall know who thou art; but thou
shalt have free range, and—”
“And weary of my life! No, no, cousin. I am in thy power now; and thou
canst throw me into prison as the attainted Lord de Montfort. Do so if
thou wilt; but I were fooling indeed to give up my free range, my power,
my authority, to be a poor suspected, pitied, maimed pensioner on thy
bounty. Park, quotha! with none to speak to from morn to night. I can
have my will of any park of thine I please, whenever I choose!”
Edward would have persisted, but Henry silenced him effectually, with a
sarcastic hint that his favours had done little for Richard. Then the
King prayed at least that he would consider his child; but to the
proposal of taking her to the palace, Henry returned an indignant
negative: “He had seen enough of the court ladies,” he said.
A hot glow of anger lighted Edward’s cheek, for he loved his mother; but
the blind beggar could not be the subject of his wrath, and he merely
said, “Thou didst not know my wife!”
“Ay, I will believe the court as perfect as thou thinkest to make the
isle; but Bessee shall not bide there. She is the blind beggar’s child,
and such shall she remain. Send me to a dungeon, as I said, and thou
canst pen her in a convent, or make her a menial to thy princesses, as
thou wilt; but while my life and my freedom are my own I keep my child.”
“I could find it in my heart to arrest thee,” said Edward, “when I look
at that beautiful child, and think to what thou wouldst bring her.”
“She is fair then,” said the beggar eagerly.
“Fair! She is the loveliest child mine eyes have looked on: though some
of mine own have been very lovely. But she hath the very features of our
royal line—though with eyes deep and dark, like thy father’s, or my
Richard’s—and a dark glow of sunny health on her fair skin. She bears
her, too, right royally. Henry, thou canst not wreck the fate of a child
like that.”
“No, assuredly,” said Henry dryly. “I have not done so ill by her
hitherto, by thine own showing, that I should not be trusted with her for
the future.”
“The parting would be bitter,” began Edward “but thou shouldst see her
often.”
“Slay me, and make her a ward of the crown,” said Henry. “Otherwise I
will need no man’s leave for seeing my daughter. But ask her. If she
will go with thee, I will say no more.”
King Edward was fond of children—most indulgent to his own, and kind to
all little ones, who, attracted by the sweetness which his stern, grave,
beautiful countenance would assume when he looked at them—always made
friends with him readily. So he trusted to this fascination in the case
of the little Lady Elizabeth. He held out his hands to her, and claimed
her as his cousin; and she came readily to him, and stood between his
knees. “Little cousin,” he said, “wilt thou come home with me, to be
with my two little maids, the elder much of thine age?”
“You are a red monk!” said Bessee, amazed.
“That’s his shell, Bessee,” said her father; “he has come a-masking, and
forgot his part.”
“I don’t like masking,” said Bessee, trying to get away.
“Then we will mask no more,” said Edward. “Thou hast looked in my face
long enough with those great black eyes. Dost know me, child?”
Bessee cast the black eyes down, and coloured.
“Dost know me?” he repeated.
“I think,” she whispered at last, “that you are masking still. You are
like—like the King that was crowned at the Abbey.”
“Well said, little maid! And shall I take thee home, and give thee
pearls and emeralds to braid thy locks, instead of these heath-bells?”
“Father,” said Bessee, trying to withdraw her little hands out of
Edward’s large one, which held both fast. “O father, is he masking
still?”
“No, child; it is the King indeed,” said Henry. “Hear what he saith to
thee.”
And again Edward spoke of all that would tempt a child.
“Father,” said Bessee, “if father comes!”
“No, Bessee,” said her father; “I have done with palaces. No places they
for blind beggars.”
“Oh, let me go! let me go!” cried Bessee, struggling. And as the King
released her hands, she flew to her father. “He would lose himself
without me! I must be with father. O King, go away! Father, don’t let
him take me! Let me cry for Jock of the Wooden Spoon, and Trig One Leg,
and Hedgerow Wat!”
“Hush, hush, Bess!” said Henry, not desirous that his royal cousin should
understand the strength of his body-guard of honour. “The King here is
as trusty and loyal as the boldest beggar among us. He only gave thee
thy choice between him and me!”
“Thee, thee, father. He can’t want me. He has two eyes and two hands,
and a queen and two little girls; and thou hast only me!” and she clung
round her father’s neck.
“Little one,” said Edward, “thou need’st not shrink from me. I will not
take thee away. Thy father hath a treasure, and ’tis his part to strive
not to throw it away. Only should either thou or he ever condescend so
far as to seek for counsel with this poor cousin of thine, send this
token to me, and I will be with thee.”
But it was full nine years ere Edward saw that jewel again. Meantime he
was not entirely without knowledge of his kinsman. On every great
occasion the figure, conspicuous for the scrupulous cleanliness of the
dark russet gown, and the careful arrangement of the hair and beard, and
the fillet which covered the eyes, as well as for a lordly bearing, that
even the stoop of blindness could not disguise, was to be seen dominating
over all the other beggars, sitting on the steps of church or palace
gates, as if they had been a throne; troubling himself little to beg, but
exchanging shrewd remarks with all who addressed him, and raising many a
laugh among the bystanders. Leonillo lay contented at his feet; but
after just enough time had elapsed to show that he cared not for the
King’s remonstrance, he ceased to be accompanied by his little daughter,
and was led by a boy in her stead.
The King, making inquiries of the Grand Prior, learnt that pretty Bessee
was daily deposited at the sisterhood of Poor Clares, where she remained
while her father was out on his begging expeditions, and learnt such
breeding as convents then gave.
“In sooth,” said Sir Robert, “honest Hal believes it is all for good-will
and charity and love to the pretty little wench; and so it is in great
part: but methought it best to give a hint to the mother prioress that
the child came of good blood. She is a discreet lady, and knows how to
deal with her; and truly she tells me their house has prospered since the
little one came to them. Every feast-day morn have they found their
alms-dish weightier with coin than ever she knew it before.”
When Edward repeated this intelligence to his queen, she recollected Dame
Idonea’s gossiping information—that brave Sir Robert, the flower of the
House of Darcy, had only entered the Order of St. John, when fair Alda
Braithwayte, in the strong enthusiasm of the Franciscan preaching, had
pleaded a vow of virginity against all suitors, and had finally become a
Sister of the Poor Clares. And after all his wars and wanderings, the
regulations of his Order had ended by bringing the Hospitalier in his old
age into the immediate neighbourhood of Prioress Alda; and into that
distant business intercourse that the heads of religious houses had from
time to time to carry on together.
The world passed on. Eleanor de Montfort came from France, and the King
himself acted the part of a father to her at her marriage with Llewellyn
of Wales. He knew—though she little guessed—that the beggar, by whom her
jewelled train swept with rustling sound, was the first-born of her
father’s house, and should have held her hand. Two years only did that
marriage last; Eleanor died, leaving an infant daughter; and Llewellyn
soon after was in arms against the English. Perhaps Edward bethought him
of his cousin’s ironical promise to go with him to the East after the
pacification of the whole island, when he found himself obliged to summon
the fierce Pyrenean to pursue the wild Welsh in their mountains.