THE QUEEN OF THE DEW-DROPS
“This is the prettiest low-born lass that ever
Ran on a green sward.”—_Winter’s Tale_.
IT was the summer of 1283; the babe of Carnarvon had been accepted as the
native prince, speaking no tongue but Welsh, and Edward had since been
employed in establishing his dominion over Wales. His Whitsuntide was
kept by the Queen’s special entreaty at St. Winifred’s Well. Such
wonders had been told her of the miracles wrought by this favourite Welsh
saint, that she hoped that by early placing her little Welsh-born son
under such protection, she might secure for him healthier and longer life
than had been the share of his brethren.
So to Holy-well went the court and army. Some lodged in the convent
attached to the well; but many and many more dwelt in tents, or lodged in
cottages, or raised huts of boughs of trees. Noble ladies of Eleanor’s
suite were glad to obtain a lodging in rude Welsh huts; and as the
weather was beautiful, there was plenty of gay feasting, dancing, and
jousting on the greensward, when the religious observances of the day
were over. Pilgrims thronged from all parts, attracted both by the
presence of the court and the unusual tranquillity of Wales; and for
nearly a mile around the Holy-well it was like one great motley fair,
resorted to by persons of all stations. Beggars of course were there in
numbers, and among them the unfailing blind beggar of Bethnal Green, who
always made a pilgrimage in the summer to some station of easy access
from London, but whom some wondered to see at such a distance.
“Had he scented that the court was coming?” asked the young nobles.
“Not he; he never haunted courts. He would have kept away had he known
that such a gabbling flock of popinjays were on the wing thither!”
But the young gallants were chiefly bent on speculating on the vision of
loveliness that had flashed on the eyes of some early visitants at the
well. A maiden in a dark pilgrim dress, and broad hat, which, however,
could not entirely conceal a glowing complexion, at once rich and pure;
perfect features, magnificent dark eyes and hair, and a tall form, which,
though very youthful, was of unmistakable dignity and grace. She was
always at the well exceedingly early in the morning, moving slowly round
it on her beautiful bare feet, and never looking up from the string of
dark beads—the larger ones of amber, which she held in her fingers—as her
lips conned over the prayers connected with each. No ring was on the
delicate hand, no ear-ring in the ear; there was no ornament in the
dress, but such a garb was wont to be assumed by ladies of any rank when
performing a vow; and its simplicity at once enhanced her beauty, and
added to the general curiosity. Between four and six in the dewy
freshness of morning seemed to be her time for devotion; and though the
habits of the court were early, it was only the first astir who caught a
sight of this Queen of the Dew-drops, as it was the fashion to call her.
Late comers never caught sight of her, and affected incredulity when the
younger and more active knights and squires raved about her. Then it was
reported that the King himself had been seen speaking to her; and
thereupon excitement grew the more intense, because Edward’s exclusive
devotion to his Queen had been such, that from his youth up the most
determined scandal had never found a wandering glance to note in him.
She was the Princess of France—of Navarre—of Aragon—in disguise; nay, at
the Whit-Sunday banquet there were those who cast anxious glances to the
door, expecting that, in the very land of King Arthur, she would walk in
like his errant dames at Pentecost, to demand a champion. And when a
joust was given on the sward, young Sir John de Mohun, the Lord of
Dunster, announced his intention of tilting in honour of no one save the
Queen of the Dew-drops. The ladies of the court were rather scandalized,
and appealed to the King whether the choice of an unknown girl, of no
acknowledged rank, should be permitted; but the King, strict punctilious
man as he was, only laughed, and adjudged the Queen of the Dew-drops to
be fully worthy of the honour.
After this, early rising became the fashion of Holy-well. All the
gentlemen got up early to look at the Queen of the Dew-drops; and all the
ladies got up early to see that the gentlemen did not get into mischief;
and the maiden’s devotions became far from solitary; but she moved on,
with a sort of superb unconcern, never lifting the dark fringes that
veiled the eyes so steadily fixed on the beads that dropped through her
fingers, until, as she finished, she raised up her head with a
straightforward fearless look at the way she was going, so completely
self-possessed that no one ventured to accost her, and to follow her at
less than such a respectful distance, that she was always lost sight of
in the wood.
At last, late one evening, there was a sudden start of exultant
satisfaction among some of the young men who were lounging on the green;
for the most part not the nobles of the court, but certain young
merchants of London and Bristol, who had followed the course of
pilgrimage by the magnetism of fashionable resort. The Queen of the
Dew-drops was seen, carrying a pitcher! Up started four or five
gallants, offering assistance, and standing round her, wrangling with one
another, and besetting her steps.
“Let me pass, gentles,” she said with dignity, “I am carrying wine in
haste to my father.”
“Nay, fair one, you pass not our bounds without toll,” said the portliest
of the set.
“Hush, rudesby; fair dames in disguise must be treated after other sort.”
Every variety of half-insulting compliment was pouring upon her; but she,
with head erect, and steady foot, still quietly moved on, taking no
notice, till a hand was laid on her pitcher.
“Let go!” then she said in no terrified voice. “Let go, Sir, or I can
summon help.”
And as if to realize her words, the intrusive hand was thrust aside by a
powerful arm, and a voice exclaimed—
“This lady is to pass free, Sir! None of your insolence!”
“A court-gallant,” passed round the hostile bourgeoise; “none of your
court airs, Sir.”
“No airs—but those of an honest Englishman, who will not see a woman
cowardly beset!”
“Will Silk-jerkin not bide a buffet!” quoth the bully of the party,
clenching his fist.
“As many as thou wilt,” returned Silk-jerkin, “so soon as I have seen the
lady safe home!”
“Ho! ho!—a fetch that!” and the fellow, a coarse rude-looking man, though
rather expensively dressed, flourished his fist in the face of the young
man, but was requited that instant with a round blow that levelled him
with the ground. The others fell back from the tall strong-limbed,
open-faced youth, and the girl took the opportunity of moving forward,
swiftly indeed, but so steadily as to betray no air of terror. Meantime,
the young gentleman’s voice might be heard, assuring his adversaries that
he was ready to encounter one or all of them so soon as he had escorted
the lady safe home. Perhaps she hoped that another attack would delay
him; but if so, her expectations were disappointed, for in a second or
two his quick firm tread followed her, and just as she had gained the
mazy wood-path, he was beside her.
“Thanks, Sir,” she said, “for the service you have done me, but I am now
in safety.”
“Nay, Lady, do me the grace of letting me bear your load.”
“Thanks,” again she said; “but I feel no weight.”
“But my knighthood does, seeing you thus laden.”
“Spare your knighthood the sight, then,” she said smiling, and looking up
with a glance of brightness, such as her hitherto sedate face had never
before revealed to him.
“That cannot be!” he exclaimed with fervency. “You bid me in vain leave
you till I see you safe; and while with you, all laws of courtesy call on
me to bear your burthen! So, Lady—”
And he laid his hand upon the leathern thong that sustained the pitcher;
but at that moment three or four heaps of rags, that had been lying under
the trees by the woodland path, erected themselves, and one in especial,
whom the young knight had observed as a frightful cripple seated by day
near the well, now came forward brandishing his crutch in a formidable
manner, and uttering a howl of defiance. But the lady silenced him at
once—
“Peace, good Trig, nothing is amiss! It is only this gentleman’s
courtesy. He hath done me good service on the green yonder!”
And as her strange body-guard retreated growling, she, perhaps to show
her confidence, resigned her pitcher into the knight’s hand.
“So, fair Queen of the Dew-drops,” he said, half bewildered, “thou dost
work miracles!”
“Ay, when the dew is on the grass, and the nightingale sings,” she
returned gaily; “by day the enchantment is over.”
By this time they had reached a low turf hut; and the maiden, turning at
the door, held out her hand, and said, “Thanks, fair Sir, I must enter my
enchanted palace alone; but grammercy for thy kind service, and
farewell.”
The maiden and the pitcher vanished. The knight watched the rude door in
vain—he only saw a few streaks of light through the boards. Then he
bethought him of questioning her guards, but when he reached their tree
they were gone. It was fast growing dark, and he was one of the King’s
personal attendants, and subject to the strict regulations of his
household; so, dazed and bewildered as he was, he walked hastily back to
the hospice, where the King and Queen lodged. Supper had already begun,
and the glare of lights dazzled his eyes. In his bewilderment, he served
the King with mustard instead of honey from the great silver ship full of
condiments, in the centre of the table.
“How’s this, Sir John?” said the King, who always had a kindly corner in
his heart for this young knight. “Are these the idle days of thy Crusade
come again?”
“I could well-nigh think so!” half-whispered Sir John.
“He looks moonstruck!” cried that spoilt ten years old damsel, Joan of
Acre, clasping her hands with mischievous fun. “Oh! has he seen the
Queen of the Dew-drops?”
“What dost thou know of the Queen of the Dew-drops, my Lady Malapert?”
said King Edward, marking the red flush that mounted to the very brow of
the downright young knight.
“Oh, I know that she is at the well every morning, and is as lovely as
the dawn! Ay, and vanishes so soon as the sun is up; but not ere she has
bewitched every knight of them all! And did not my Lord of Dunster hold
the field in her honour against all comers? No wonder she appears to
him.—Oh! tell us, Sir John! what like was she?”
“Hush, Joan,” said Queen Eleanor, bending forward, “no infanta in my time
ever said so much in a breath.”
“No, Lady-mother; because you had to speak whole mouthfuls of grave
Castillian words. Now, good English can be run off in a breath. Reyna
del Rocio—that’s more majestic, but not so like fairyland as Queen of the
Dew-drops!”
Princess Joan’s mouth was effectually stopped this time.
The adventure of the evening had led to the discovery of the hut of the
Queen of the Dew-drops. The young knight had as usual been betimes at
the well, but the maiden did not appear there. Then he questioned the
cripple—who by day was an absolute helpless cripple—but the man utterly
denied all knowledge of any such circumstance. He, why, poor wretch that
he was, he never hobbled further than the shed close behind the well; he
would give the world if he could get as far as the wood—he knew nothing
about ladies or pilgrims—such a leg as his was enough to think about.
And the display to which he forthwith treated the Knight of Dunster was
highly convincing as to his incapacity.
Into the wood wandered the much-confused knight, recognizing, step by
step, the path of the night before. The turf hut was before him—the door
was open—and in the doorway sat the maiden herself, spinning, the distaff
by her side, the spindle dancing on the ground, and the pilgrim’s hat no
longer hiding her beauteous brow and wealth of dark braided hair. But,
intolerable sight, seven or eight of last night’s loungers were dispersed
hither and thither in the bushes, gazing with all their eyes,
endeavouring to attract her attention; some by conversations with one
another; one richly-dressed Gascon squire, of the train of Edward’s ally,
the Count de Béarn, by singing a Provençal love ditty; while a merchant
of Bristol set up a counter attempt with a long doleful English ballad.
All the time the fair spinster sat in the doorway, with the utmost
gravity, twisting her thread and twirling her spindle; but it might be
observed that she had so placed herself as to have full command of the
door, and to be able to shut herself in whenever she chose.
No one had yet ventured to accost her. There was something in her air
that rendered it almost impossible for any one to force himself upon her,
and a sort of fear mingled with the impression she made. However, the
young knight, although a bashful man by nature, had one advantage in his
court breeding, and another in the acquaintance he had made last night.
He walked straight up, and doffing his velvet cap, began, “Greet you
well, fair Queen. I could not but take your challenge to see whether
your power lasted when the dew was off.”
The damsel rose with due courtesy as he approached, but ere she had
attempted an answer, nay, even before the words were out of his mouth,
the Gascon was shouting in French that this was no fair play, he had
stolen a march; and the merchant had sprung forward saying, “Girl,
beware, court gallants mean not well by country wenches.”
“Thou liest in thy throat,” burst forth the knight. “Discourteous
lubber, to call such a queen of beauty a country wench!”
“Listen to me, girl.”
“Lady, hear me.”
“Hearken not to the popinjay foreigner.”
These, and many more tumultuary exclamations, threats, and entreaties,
crowded on one another, and the various speakers were laying hand on
staff or sword, and glaring angrily on one another, when the word
“Peace,” in the maiden’s clear silvery notes, sounded among them. They
all turned as she stood in the doorway, drawn up to her full height.
“Peace,” she said; “I can have no brawling here! My father was
grievously sick yesterday, and is still ill at ease. One by one speak
your business, and begone. You first, Sir,” to the Gascon, she said in
French.
“Ah! fair Lady, what business could be mine, save to tell you how lovely
you are?”
“You have said,” she answered, without a blush, waving him aside. “Now
you, Sir,” to the tuneful merchant of Bristol.
“I told you, Madam, he meant not well. Those aliens never do.”
“You too have said,” she answered.
The merchant would have persisted, but a London merchant, a much more
substantial and considerable character, pushed him aside, and the numbers
being all against him, he was forced to give way.
“Young woman,” said the merchant, “you are plainly of better birth and
breeding than you choose to affect. Now I am thinking of getting
married. I have ships at sea, and stuffs and jewels coming from Venice
and Araby; and I am like to be Lord Mayor ere long; but there’s that I
like in your face and discreet bearing, and I’ll make you my wife, and
give you all my keys—your father willing!”
“Your turn’s out, old burgher,” said a big, burly, and much younger man,
pressing forward. “Pretty wench! I’m not like to be Lord Mayor, nor
nothing of that sort; but I’m a score of years nigher thine age, and a
lusty fellow to boot, that could floor any man at single-stick, within
the four seas. Ay, and have been thought comely too, though Joyce o’ the
haugh did play me false; and I come o’ this pilgrimage just to be merry
and forget it. If thou wilt take me, and come back to spite Joyce, thou
shalt be hostess of the Black Bull, at Brentford, where all the great
folk from the North ever put up when they come to town; the merriest and
richest hostel, and will have the comeliest host and hostess round about
London town!”
The lady bowed her head. Perhaps those rosy lips were trying hard to
keep from laughing.
“A hostel’s no place for a discreet dame to bide in,” put forth an honest
voice. “Maiden, I know not who or what you are, but I came o’ this
pilgrimage to please my old mother, who said I might do my soul good, and
bring home a wife—better over the moor than over the mixen—and I know she
would give thee a right good welcome. I’m Baldric of the Cheddar Cliff,
and we have held our land ever since the old days, or ever the Norman
kings came here. Three hundred kine, woman, and seven score swine, and
many an acre of good corn land under the hill.”
The lady had never looked up while these suitors were speaking. When
Baldric of Cheddar had done, she gave one furtive glance through her long
eyelashes, as if to see if there were any more, and then her cheek
flushed. There still remained the knight. Some others had slunk away
when brought to such close quarters, but he stepped forth more
hesitatingly, and said, “Lady, I know not whether the bare rock and
castle I have to offer can weigh against the ships, the hostel, or the
swine. I have few of either; I am but a poor baron, but such as I am, I
am wholly yours. Thine eyes have bound me to you for ever, and all I
seek is leave to make myself better known, and to ask that your noble
father may not deem me wholly unworthy to be your suitor.”
The lady trembled a little, but she held her place in the doorway.
“Gentles,” she said, “I thank ye for the honour ye have done me, but I
may not dispose of mine own self. My father is ill at ease, and can see
no one; but he bids me tell you that he will meet all who have aught to
say to him, under the trysting tree at Bethnal Green, the day after the
Midsummer feast.”
With these words she retired into her hut, and closed the door. She was
seen again no more that day; and on the next the hut stood open, empty,
and deserted.