THE BEGGAR’S DOWRY
“‘But first you shall promise and have it well knowne
The gold that you drop shall all be your owne;’
With that they replyed, ‘Contented we bee;’
‘Then here’s,’ quoth the beggar, ‘for pretty Bessee.’”
_Old Ballad_.
THE day after Midsummer had come, and towards the fine elm tree that then
adorned the centre of Bethnal Green, three horsemen were wending their
way. Each had his steed a good deal loaded: each looked about him
anxiously.
“By St. Boniface,” said one, “the girl’s father is not there. Saucy
little baggage, was she deluding us all?”
“Belike he is bringing too long a train of mules with her dowry to make
much speed,” quoth the merchant. “He will think it needful to collect
all his gear to meet the offers of Master Lambert of Cripple-gate. Ha!
Sir Knight, well met! You are going to try your venture!”
“I must! So it were not all enchantment,” said the knight, almost
breathlessly, gazing round him. “Yet,” he said, almost to himself,
“those eyes had a soul and memories that ne’er came out of fairyland!”
“Ha!” exclaimed the innkeeper, “there’s old Blind Hal under the tree!
I’ll tell him to get out of our way. Hal!” he shouted, “here’s a tester
for thee, but thou’st best keep out of the way of the mules.”
“What mules, Master Samson?” coolly demanded Hal, who had comfortably
established himself under the tree with his back against the trunk.
“The mules that the brave burgess is going to bring his daughter’s dowry
on. They are cranky brutes, Hal; bad customers for blind men—best let me
give thee a hand out of the way.”
“But who is this burgess that you talk of?” asked the beggar.
“The father of the pilgrim lass that prayed at St. Winifred’s Well,” said
Samson.
“And was called Queen of the Dew-drops?”
“Ay, ay, old fellow! Thou knowest every bird that flies! She is to be
my wife, I tell thee, and a right warm corner shall she keep for thee at
the Black Bull, for thou canst make sport for the guests right well.”
“I hope she will keep a warm corner for me,” said the beggar; “for no man
will treat for her marriage save myself.”
“Thou! Old man, who sent thee here to insult us?” cried the merchant.
“None, Master Lambert. I trysted you to meet me here if you purposed
still to seek my child in marriage.”
“Thy child?” cried all three, vehemently.
“My child!” answered the beggar. “Mine own lawful child.”
There was a silence. Presently Samson growled, “I mind me he used to
have a little black-eyed brat with him.”
“Caitiff!” exclaimed the merchant; “I’ll have thy old vagabond bones in
the Fleet for daring so to cheat his Grace’s lieges.”
“If you can prove a cheat against me I will readily abye it, Sir,”
returned the beggar.
“Palming a beggar’s brat off for a noble dame.”
“So please you, Sir,” interrupted the beggar, “keep truth with you. What
did the child or I ever profess, save what we were? No foul words here.
I trysted you to meet me here, anent her marriage. Have you any offers
to make me?”
“Aye, of a cell in the Fleet if you persist in your insolence!” cried the
merchant.
“Thanks,” quietly said the beggar. “And you, Master Samson?”
“’Tis a sweet pretty lass,” said Samson, ruefully; “and pity of her too,
but you see a man like me must look to his credit. I’ll give her twenty
marks to help her to a husband, Hal, only let her keep out of my sight
for ever and a day.”
“I thought I heard another voice,” said the beggar. “I trow the third
suitor has made off without further ado.”
“Not so, fair Sir,” said a voice close to him, thick and choked with
feeling. “Your daughter is too dear to me for me thus to part, even were
mine honour not pledged.”
“Sir knight,” interfered the merchant, “you will get into a desperate
coil with your friends.”
“I am my own master,” answered the knight. “My parents are dead. I am
of age, and, Sir, I offer myself and all that is mine to your fair
daughter, as I did at Saint Winifred’s Well, as one bound both by honour
and love.”
“It is spoken honourably,” said Hal; “but, Sir, canst thou answer me with
her dowry? Tell down coin for coin.”
He held up a heavy leathern bag. The knight, who had come prepared, took
down another such bag from his saddle-bow. Down went one silver piece
from the knight. Down went another from the beggar.
“Stay, stay,” cried Samson. “I can play at that game too.”
“No, no, Master Samson,” said the beggar; “your pretensions are resigned.
Your chance is over.”
Mark after mark—crown after crown—all the Dunster rents; all the old
hoards, with queer figures of Saxon kings, lay on the grass, still for
each the beggar had rained down its fellow, and inexhaustible seemed the
bags that he sat upon. Samson bit his lips, and the merchant muttered
with vexation. It could not be fairly come by: he must be the president
of a den of robbers; it should be looked to.
The last bag of the knight lay thin and exhausted; the beggar clutched
one bursting with repletion.
“I could not put the lands and castle of Dunster into a bag and add
thereto,” said the knight, at last. “Would that I could, my sword, my
spurs, and knightly blood to boot, and lay them at your daughter’s feet.”
“Let them weigh in the balance,” said the beggar; “and therewith thy
truth to thy word.”
“And will you own me?” exclaimed the knight. “Will you take me to your
daughter?”
“Nay, I said not so,” returned Blind Hal. “I am not in such haste. Come
back on this day week, when I shall have learnt whether thou art worthy
to match with my child.”
“Worthy!” John of Dunster chafed and bit his lips at such words from a
beggar.
“Ay, worthy,” repeated the beggar, guessing his irritation. “I like thee
well, as a man of thy word, so far, but I must know more of him who is to
mate with my pretty Bessee.”
It was that evening that a page entered the royal apartments, and giving
a ring to the King, informed him that a blind beggar had sent it in, and
entreated to speak with him.
“Pray him to come hither,” said the King; “and lead him carefully. Thou,
Joan, hadst better seek thy mother and sister.”
“O sweet father,” cried Joan, “don’t order me off. This can be no state
business. Prithee let me hear it.”
“That must be as my guest pleases, Joan,” he answered; “and thou must be
very discreet, or we shall have him reproaching me for trying to rule the
realm when I cannot rule my own house.”
“Father, I verily think you are afraid of that beggar! I am sure he is
as mysterious as the Queen of the Dew-drops!” cried the mischievous girl.
The curtain over the doorway was drawn back, and the beggar was led into
the chamber. The King advanced to meet him, and took his hand to lead
him to a seat. “Good morrow to thee,” he said; “cousin, I am glad thou
art come at last to see me.”
“Thanks, my Lord,” said the beggar, with more of courtly tone than when
they had met before, and yet Joan thought she had never seen her father
addressed so much as an equal; “are any here present with you?”
“Only my wilful little crusading daughter, Joan,” said Edward, beckoning
to her, and putting her proud reluctant fingers into the hand of the
beggar, who bent and raised them to his lips—as the fashion then
was—while the maiden reddened and looked to her father, but saw him only
smiling; “she shall leave us,” he added, “if thy matters are for my
private ear. In what can I aid thee?”
“In this matter of daughters,” answered the beggar; “not that I need aid
of yours, but counsel. I would know if the heir of old Reginald
Mohun—John, I think they call him—be a worthy mate for my wench.”
Joan had in the meantime placed herself between her father’s knees, where
she stood regarding this wonderful beggar with the most unmitigated
astonishment.
“John of Dunster!” said the King, stroking down Joan’s hair, “thou knowst
his lineage as well as I, cousin.”
“His lineage, true,” replied Henry; “but look you, my Lord, my child, the
light of mine eyes, may not go from me without being assured that it is
to one who will, I say, not equal her in birth, but will be a faithful
and loving lord to her.”
“Hath he sought her?” asked the King.
“Even so, my liege. The maid is scarce sixteen; I thought to have kept
her longer; but so it was—old Winny, her mother’s old nurse, fell sick
and died in the winter; and the Dominican, who came to shrive her, must
needs craze the poor fool with threats that she did a deadly sin in
bringing my sweet wife and me together; and for all the Grand Prior, who,
monk as he is, has a soldier’s sense, could say of the love that
conquered death, nothing would serve the poor woman to die in peace till
my Bessee had vowed to make a six weeks’ station at her patroness’s well,
where we were wedded, and pray for her soul and her blessed mother’s. So
there we journeyed for our summer roaming; and all had been well, had you
not come down on us with all the idle danglers of the court to gaze and
rhyme and tilt about the first fair face they saw. Even then so discreet
was the girl that no more had befallen, but as ill-luck would have it, my
old Evesham keepsake,” touching his side, “burst forth again one evening,
and left me so spent, that Bessee sent the boy to get me a draught of
wine. The boy—mountebank as he is—lost her groat, and played truant; and
she, poor wench, got into such fear for me that she went herself, and
fell in with a sort of insolent masterful rogues, from whom this young
knight saved her. I took her home safe enough after that, and thought to
be rid of the knaves when they saw my wallet; and so truly I am, all save
this lad!”
“O father! it is true love!” whispered Joan.
“What hast to do with true love, popinjay? And so John of Dunster came
undaunted to the breach, did he, Henry?”
“Not a whit dismayed he! Now either that is making light of his honour,
or ’tis an honour higher than most lads understand. Cousin, I would have
the child be loved as her father and mother loved! And methinks she
affects this blade. The child hath been less like my merry lark since we
met him. A plague on the springalds! But you know him. Has he your
good word?”
“John of Dunster?” said the King. “Henry, didst thou not know for whose
sake I had loved and proved him? He was Richard’s pupil. I was forced
to take the child with me, for old Sir Reginald had been unruly enough,
and I thought would be the less troublesome to my father were his son in
my keeping. But I half repented when I saw what a small urchin it was,
to be cast about among grooms and pages! But Richard aided the little
uncouth varlet, nursed him when sick, guarded him when well, trained him
to be loyal and steadfast. The little fellow came bravely to my aid in
my grapple with the traitor before Acre; and when the blow had fallen on
Richard, the boy’s grief was such that I loved him ever after. And of
late I have had no truer trustier warrior. I warrant me he was too shy
to tell thee that I knighted him last year in the midst of some of the
best feats of arms I ever beheld against the Welsh! Whatever John de
Mohun saith is sooth, and I would rather mate my daughter with him than
with many a man of fairer speech.”
“Then shall he have my pretty Bessee!” said the beggar, lingering over
the words. “But one boon I would further ask, cousin; that thou breathe
no word to him of my having sought thee.”
The young Lord of Dunster had not been noted for choiceness of apparel;
but when he repaired to the trysting-tree, none could have found fault
with the folds of his long crimson tunic, worked with the black and gold
colours of his family, nor with the sit of the broad belt that sustained
his sword, assuredly none with his beautiful sleek black charger.
But under the tree stood not the blind beggar, but the beggar’s boy.
“Blind Hal bids you meet him at the Spital, at your good pleasure,” said
the boy; and like the mountebank he was, tumbled three times head over
heels.
John de Mohun looked round and about, and saw no alternative but to obey.
All his love was required to endure so strange a father-in-law, who did
not seem in the least grateful for the honour intended to his daughter;
but the knight’s word was pledged, and he rode towards the Hospital.
The court of the Hospital was full of steeds and serving-men. A strange
conviction came over John that he saw the King’s strong white charger—ay,
and the palfreys of the elder princesses; and he asked the lay-brother
who offered to take his horse, if the King were there. The brother only
replied by motioning him towards the inner quadrangle.
He passed on accordingly, and as he went, the bells broke forth into a
merry peal. On the top of the steps leading to the arched doorway, he
saw a scarlet cluster of knights, and among them the Grand Prior, robed
as for Mass. A space was clear within the deep porch, and there stood
the beggar in his russet suit.
“Sir John de Mohun of Dunster,” he said, “thou art come hither to espouse
my daughter?”
“I hope, so, Sir,” said John, somewhat taken by surprise.
“Come hither, maiden,” said her father.
The cluster of knights opened, and from within the church there appeared
before the astonished bridegroom the stately form of King Edward, leading
in his hand the dark-tressed, dark-haired maiden, dressed in spotless
white, the only adornment she wore a circlet of diamonds round her
flowing dark hair—the Queen indeed of the Dew-drops. And behind her
walked with calm dignity the beautiful Princess Eleanor, now nearly a
woman, holding with a warning hand the merry mischievous Joan.
Well might John of Dunster stand dazzled and amazed, but hesitation or
delay there was none. Then and there, by the Grand Prior himself, was
the ceremony performed, without a word of further explanation. The rite
over, when the bridegroom took the bride’s hand to follow, as all were
marshalled on their way, he knew not whither, she looked up to him
through her dark eyelashes, and murmured, “They would not have it
otherwise!”
“Deem you that I would?” said the knight fervently, pressing her hand.
“I deemed that you should know all—who I am,” she faltered.
“My wife, the Lady of Dunster. That is all I need to know,” replied Sir
John, with the honest trustworthy look that showed it was indeed enough
to secure his heart-whole love and reverence.
The great hall of the Spital was decked for the bridal feast. The bride
and bridegroom were placed at the head of the table, and the King gave up
his place beside the bride to her blind father. All the space within the
cloister without was strewn with rushes, where sat and feasted the whole
fraternity of beggars; and well did the Grand Prior and his knights do
their part in the entertainment.
Then when the banquet was drawing to its close, the blind beggar bade the
boy that waited near him fetch his harp. And, as had often before been
his practice, he sang in a deep manly voice, to the boy’s accompaniment
on his harp. But the song that then he sang had never been heard before,
nor was its exact like ever heard again; though tradition has handed down
a few of the main features, and (as may be seen by this veracious
narration) somewhat vulgarized them:—
“A poore beggar’s daughter did dwell on a greene,
Who might for her faireness have well been a queene;
A blithe bonny lasse and a dainty was she,
And many one callèd her pretty Bessee.”
Even the King, who had so well guarded the secret, was entirely
unprepared to hear the Montfort parentage thus publicly avowed; and the
bride, who had as little known of her father’s intentions, sat with
downcast eyes, blushing and tearful, while the beggar’s recitative went
briefly and somewhat tremulously over his resuscitation, under the hands
of the fair and faithful Isabel. Her hand was held by her bridegroom
from the first, with a pressure meant to assure her that no discovery
could alter his love and regard; but when the name of Montfort sounded on
his ear, the hand wrung hers with anxiety; and when the entire tale had
been told, and the last chord was dying away, he murmured, “Look up at
me, my loveliest. Now I know why I first loved thine eyes. Thou art
dearer to me than ever, for the sake of my first and best friend!”
His words were only for herself. The King was saying aloud,
“Well sung, fair cousin! A health, my Lords and Knights, for Sir Henry
de Montfort, Earl of Leicester.”
“Not so, Lords and Knights!” called this strange personage, the only one
who would thus have contradicted the King; “the Earl of Leicester has
long ago been dead, as you have heard. If you drink, let it be to Blind
Hal of Bethnal Green.”
Nor could all the entreaties of daughter, son-in-law, nor King, move him
from his purpose of living and dying as Blind Hal, the beggar. He had
tasted too long of liberty, he said, to put himself under constraint. To
live in Somersetshire, as his daughter wished, would have been banishment
and solitude to one used to divert himself with every humour of the city;
and to be, as he declared, a far more complete king of the beggars than
ever his cousin Edward was over England. All he would consent to, was
that a room in a lodge in Windsor Park should be set apart for him under
charge of Adam de Gourdon, who had been present at this scene, and was
infinitely rejoiced at the sight of a scion of the House of Montfort.
For the rest, he bade every one to forget his avowal, which, as he said,
he had only made that the blanch lion might share with the Mohun cross;
and as he added to Princess Eleanor, “that you court dames may never
flout at pretty Bessee! Had the Cheddar Yeoman been the true man, none
had ever known that she was a Montfort.”
“Would you have given her to the Cheddar Yeoman?” burst out Joan
furiously.
“That he will say so, to anger thee, is certain, Joan,” said the King.
“Farewell, Henry. Remember, I hold thee bound to be my comrade when I
can return to the Holy War.”
“Ay, when you have tamed Scotland, even as you have tamed Wales,”
returned Henry.
“No fear of my good brother Alexander’s realm needing such taming.
Heaven forbid!” said Edward.
But the beggar parted from him with a laugh.