THE PAGE’S MEMORY
The pure calm picture of a blameless friend.
_Lyra Apostolica_.
TEN years later, King Edward was walking in the park at Windsor with slow
and weary steps. His rich dark brown hair and beard were lined with
gray, his face was not only grave but worn and melancholy, and more
severe than ever. The sorrow of his life, his queen’s death, had fallen
on him, and with her had gone much of softening influence; the only son
who had been spared to him was, though a mere child, grieving him by the
wayward frivolities not of a strong but of a weak nature; he had wrought
much for his country’s good, but had often been thwarted and never
thanked; his mercies and benefits were forgotten, his justice counted as
harshness, and hatred and opposition had met him everywhere. Above all,
and weighting him perhaps most severely, was that his first step beyond
his just bounds had been taken in the North. John Baliol was indeed
king, but Edward in his zeal for discipline had bound Scotland with
obligations—for her good indeed, but beyond his just right to impose; and
the sense of aggression was embittering him against the Scottish
resistance, while at the same time adding to his sadness.
A knight came forth from one of the paths that led into that along which
he was pacing with folded arms, and unwilling to break upon his mood,
stood waiting, till Edward himself looked up and asked impatiently, “So,
Sir John, what now? Another outbreak of those intolerable Scotch?”
“Not so, my Lord; but the Bailiff of Acre awaits to see you.”
“Bailiff of Acre! What is the Bailiff of Acre to me? I cannot hear all
their importunities for a crusade! Heaven knows how gladly I would
hasten to the Holy War, if these savage Scots would give me peace at
home. I am weary of their solicitations. Cannot you tell him I would be
private, John?”
“My Lord, he says he has matter for your private ear, concerning one whom
you met in Palestine—and, my Lord, you will sure remember him—Sir
Reginald Ferrers.”
“The friend of Richard!” said Edward, with a changed countenance. “Bring
him with you to your father-in-law’s lodge, John. If there be aught to
hear of the House of Montfort, it concerns him and you likewise. I was
on my way thither.”
In a short time the woodland lodge, in one of the most beautiful glades
of Windsor Forest, beheld the King seated on a bench placed beneath a
magnificent oak, standing alone in its own glade, and beside him the
Blind Beggar in his russet suit; far less changed than his royal cousin
during these years. Since Edward’s great sorrow, Henry de Montfort had
held less apart from him; and whenever the King was at leisure to snatch
a short retirement at one of his hunting lodges, he always sent an
intimation to the beggar, who would journey down on a sober ass, and
under the care of De Gourdon, now the chief of the hunting staff, would
meet the King in some sylvan glade. Why it was a comfort to Edward to be
with him, it would be hard to say; probably from the habit of old
fellowship, for Henry’s humour had not grown more courtly or less
caustic.
From under the trees came John de Mohun, now a brave, stout,
hearty-looking English baron; and with him, wrapped in a battered and
soiled scarlet mantle, a war-worn soldier, his complexion tanned to deep
brown, his hair bleached with toil and sun, a scar on his cheek, a halt
on his step—altogether a man in whom none would have recognized the
bright, graceful, high-spirited young Hospitalier of twenty years since.
Only when he spoke, and the smiling light beamed in his eye, could he be
known for Sir Reginald Ferrers.
He would have bent his knee, but Edward took his hand, and bowing his own
bared head said, “It is we who should crave a blessing from you, holy
Father, last defender of the sacred land.”
“Alas, my Lord,” said Sir Raynald, as he made the gesture of blessing;
“Heaven’s will he done! Had we but been worthier! Sir,” he added, “I am
in no guise for a royal presence, but I have been sent home from Cyprus
to recover from my wounds; and I had a message for you which I deemed you
would gladly hear before I had joined mine Order.”
“A message?” said Edward.
“A message from a dying penitent, craving pardon,” replied Sir Raynald.
“If it concerns the House of Montfort, speak on,” said Edward. “None are
so near to it as those present with me!”
“Thou hast guessed right, my Lord King!” replied Sir Raynald. “It does
concern that House. Have I your license to tell my tale at some length?”
Edward gave permission; and a seat having been brought, Sir Raynald
proceeded to speak of that last Siege of Acre, when, amid the
multitudinous tribunals of mixed races, and the many sanctuaries which
sheltered crime, the unhappy city had become a disgrace to the Christian
name. The Sultan Malek Seraf was concentrating his forces on it; all the
unwarlike inhabitants had been sent away; and the Knights of the two
Orders, with the King of Cyprus and his troops, had shut themselves up
for their last resistance—when among the mercenaries, who enrolled
themselves in the pay of the Hospitaliers, came a sunburnt warrior, who
had evidently had long experience of Eastern warfare, though his speech
was English, French, or Provençal, according to the person who addressed
him. Fierce and dreadful was the daily strife; the new soldier fought
well, but he was not noticed, till one night. “Ah, Sir!” said the
Hospitalier, “even then our holy and beautiful house was in dire
confusion, our garden trodden down and desolate! One night, I heard
strange choking sobs as of one in anguish. I deemed that one of our
wounded had in delirium wandered into the garden, and was dying there.
But I found—at the foot of the stone cross we set beside the fountain,
where the attempt on you, Sir, was made—this warrior lying, so writhing
with anguish, that I could scarce believe it was grief, not pain, that
thus wrought with him! I lifted him up, and spake of repentance and
pardon. No pardon for him, he said; it was here that he had slain his
brother! I spake long and earnestly with him, but he called himself
sacrilegious murderer again and again. Nay, he had even—when after that
wretched night you wot of, Sir, he left our House—in his despair and hope
to leave remorse behind, he had become a Moslem, and fought in the
Saracen ranks. All hope he spurned. No mercy for him, was his cry! I
would have deemed so—but oh! I thought of Richard’s parting hope; I
remembered our German brethren’s tale, how the Holy Father, the Pope,
said there was as little hope of pardon as that his staff should bud and
blossom; and lo, in one night it bore bud and flower. I besought him for
Richard’s sake to let me strive in prayer for him. All day we fought on
the walls—all night, beside Richard’s cross, did he lie and weep and
groan, and I would pray till strength failed both of us. Day after day,
night after night, and still the miserable man looked gray with despair,
and still he told me that he knew Absolution would but mock his doom. He
could fear, but could not sorrow. And still I spoke of the Saviour’s
love of man—and still I prayed, and all our house prayed with me, though
they knew not who the sinner was for whom I besought their prayers. At
last—it was the day when the towers on the walls had been won—I came back
from the breach, and scarce rested to eat bread, ere I went on to the
Cedar and the Cross. Beside it knelt Sir Simon. ‘Father,’ he said, ‘I
trust that the pardon that takes away the sin of the world, will take
away mine. Grant me Absolution.’ He was with us when, ere dawn, such of
us as still lived met for our last mass in our beautiful chapel. He went
forth with us to the wall. By and by, the command was given that we
should make a sally upon the enemy’s camp. We went back for the last
time to our house to fetch our horses; I knew there could be no return,
and went for one last look into our chapel, and at Richard’s tomb. Upon
it lay the knight, horribly scathed with Greek fire—he had dragged him
there to die. He was dead, but his looks were upward; his face was as
calm as Richard’s was, my Lord, when we laid him down by the fountain.
And now his message, my Lord. He bade me say, if I survived the siege,
that he had often cursed you for the worse revenge of letting him live to
his remorse—now he blessed you for sparing him to repent.”
“And Richard’s grave has passed to the Infidels!” said Edward, after a
long silence.
“Even as the graves of our brethren—the holiest Grave of all,” said the
Knight Hospitalier.
“Cheer up and hope, Father,” said the King. “Let me see peace and order
at home, and we will win back Acre, ay and Jerusalem, from the Infidels.
Alas! our young hopes and joys may never return; but, home purified, then
may God bless our arms beneath the Cross.”
* * * * *
Fifteen years more, and in the beautiful Westminster Abbey, amid the
gorgeous tombs, there stood four sorrowful figures. A sturdy knight,
with bowed head and mournful look, carefully guided a white-haired,
white-bearded old man, while a beautiful matronly lady was handed by her
tall handsome son.
Among the richly inlaid shrines and monuments, they sought out one the
latest of all, but consisting of one enormous block of stone, with no
ornament save one slender band of inscription.
“Ah!” said the knight, “well do I remember the shipping of that stone
from Acre, little guessing its purpose!”
“Then it is indeed a stone from the ruined Temple of Jerusalem,” said the
lady. “Read the inscription, my Son.”
The young man read and translated—
“Edwardus Primus. Malleus Scotorum Pactum serva.
Edward the First. The Hammer of the Scots. Keep covenant.”
“It was scarce worth while to bring a stone from Jerusalem, to mark it
with ‘the Hammer of the Scots!’” said the lady.
“Alas, my cousin Edward!” sighed the beggar. “Ever with a great scheme,
ever going earnestly on to its fulfilment; with a mind too far above
those of other men to be understood or loved as thou shouldst have been!
Alack, that the Scottish temptation came between thee and the brightness
of thy glory! Art thou indeed gone—like Richard—to Jerusalem; and shall
I yet follow thee there? Let us pray for the peace of his soul,
children; for a greater and better man lies here than England knows or
heeds.”
FOOTNOTES
{100} Psalm cxxvi. 6, 7.