OF WHAT JEHANE LOOKED FOR, AND WHAT BERENGÈRE HAD
Milo the abbot writes, 'When the spring airs, moving warmly over the
earth, ruffled the surface of the deep, and that to a tune so winning
that there was no thought of the treachery below, we took to the ships
and steered a course south-east by south. This was in the quindenes of
Easter. The two queens (if I may call them so, of whom one had been and
one hoped to be of that estate), Joan and Berengère, went in a great
ship which they call a dromond, a heavy-timbered ship carrying a crowd
of sail. With them, by request of Madame Berengère, went Countess
Jehane, not by any request of her own. The King himself led her aboard,
and by the hand into the state pavilion on the poop.
'"Madame," he said to his affianced, "I bring you your desired mate. Use
her as you would use me, for if I have a friend upon earth it is she."
'"Oh, sire," says Berengère, "I am acquainted with this lady. She has
nothing to fear from me."
'Queen Joan said nothing, being afraid of her brother. So Madame Jehane
kissed the hands of the pair of queens, meekly kneeling to each in turn;
and so far as I know she did them faithful service through all the
mischances of a voyage whereon every woman and every other man was
horribly sick.
'Having made the Pharos in favourable weather, and kept Mount Gibello
and the wild Calabrian coast upon our lee (as is fitting), we stood out
for the straight course over the immense waste of water. Now was no more
land to be seen at either hand; but the sky fitted close upon the edges
of the sea like a dome of glass on a man's forehead. There was neither
cover from the sun nor hiding-place from the prying concourse of the
stars; the wind came searchingly, the waters stirred beneath it, or,
being driven, heaped themselves up into towers of ruin. The cordage
flacked, the strong ribs creaked; like a beast over-burdened the whole
ship groaned, wallowing in a sea-trough without breath to climb. So we
endured for many days, a straggling host of men, ordinarily capable,
powerless now beneath that dumb tyrant the sky. Where else could be our
refuge? We all looked to King Richard--by day to his royal ensign, by
night to the great wax candle which he always had lighted and stuck in a
lantern. His commands were shouted from ship to ship over two miles or
more of sea; if any strayed or dropped behind we lay-to that he might
come up. But very often, after a day's idle rolling, we knew that the
sea had claimed some boatload of our poor souls, and went on. The
galleys kept touch with the dromonds, enclosing them (as it were) within
the cusps of a new moon, and so driving them forward. To see this light
of our King's moving, now fast, now slow, now up, now down, restlessly
over the field of the night, was to remember the God of the Israelites,
who (for their sakes and ours) became a pillar of fire at that season,
and transformed himself into a tall cloud in the daytime. Busy as it
was, this point of light, it only figured the unresting spirit of the
King, careful of all these children of his, ordering the hosts of the
Lord.
'Storms drove us at length on to the island of Crete, where Minos once
had his kingly habitation, and his wife died of pleasure. Again they
drove us, more unfortunately, out of our course upon the inhospitable
coasts of Rhodes, where the salt wind suffers no trees to live, nor safe
anchorage to be, nor shelter from the ravage of the sea. In this vexed
place there was no sign of land but a long line of surf beating upon a
rocky shore, the mist of spray and blown sand, spars of drowned ships,
innumerable anxious flocks of birds. Here was no roadstead for us; yet
here, but for the signal providence of heaven, we had likely all have
perished (as many did perish), miserably failing at once of purpose, the
sacraments of Christ, and reasonable beds. The fleet was scattered wide,
no ship could see his neighbour; we called on the King, on the Saviour,
on the Father of all. But deep answered to deep, and the prayer of so
many Christians, as it appeared, skilled little to change the eternal
purposes of God.
'Then one inspired among us climbed up to the masthead, having in his
teeth a piece of the True Cross set in a silver heart; and called aloud
to the wild weather, "Save, Lord, we perish!" as was said of old by very
sacred persons. To which palpable truth so urgently declared an answer
was vouchsafed, not indeed according to our full desires, yet
(doubtless) level with our deserts. The wind veered to the north; and
though it abated nothing of its force, preserved us from the teeth of
the rocks. Before it now, under bare poles, without need of oars, we
drove to the southward; and while a little light still endured descried
a great mountainous and naked coast rising out of the heaped waters,
which we knew to be the land of Cyprus. Off the western face of this
dark shore, in a little shelter at last, we lay-to and tossed all night.
Next day in fairer weather, hoisting sail, we made a good haven defended
by stout sea-walls, a mole and two lighthouses: these were of a city
called Limasol. Upon my galley, at least, there was one who sang _Lauda
Sion_, whose tune before had been _Adhæsit pavimento_, when he rested
tired eyes upon the clustered spires of a white city, smokeless and
asleep in the early morning light.'
So far without weariness I hope Milo may have conducted the reader. In
relation to the sea you may take him for an expert in the terrors he
describes. Not so in Cyprus. War tempts him to prolixity, to classical
allusion, even to hexameters of astonishingly loose joints. Every stroke
of his hero's sword-arm seems to him of weight. No doubt it was, once;
but not in a chronicle of this sort, where the Cypriote gests must take
a lowly place among others fair and foul of this King-errant. Let me put
Milo on the shelf for a little, and abridge.
I tell you then that the Emperor of Cyprus, by name Isaac, was a
thin-faced man with high cheek-bones. A Greek of the Greeks, he
undervalued what he had never seen, precisely for that reason. When
heralds went up to Nikosia to announce the coming-in of King Richard,
Isaac mumbled his lips. 'Prutt!' he said, 'I am the Emperor. What have I
to do with your kings?' Richard showed him that with one king he had
plenty to do, by assaulting Limasol and putting armies to flight in the
plains about Nikosia. Shall I sing the battle of the fifty against five
thousand; tell how King Richard with precisely half a hundred knights
came cantering against the sun and a host, as gay and debonair as to a
driving of stags? They say that he himself led the charge, covered in a
wonderful silken surcoat, colour of a bullfinch's breast, and wrought
upon in black and white heraldry. They say that at the sight of the
pensils a-flutter, at the sound of the hunting-horns, the Grifons let
fly a shaft a-piece; then threw down their bows and scattered. But the
knights caught them. Isaac was on a hill to watch the battle. 'Who is
that marvellous tall knight who seems to be swimming among my horse?'
'Splendour, it is Rikardos, King of the West,' they told him, 'reputed a
fierce swimmer.' 'He drowns, he drowns!' cried the Emperor, as the red
plumes were whelmed in black. 'Nay, but he dives rather, Majesty.' He
heard the death-shouts, he saw white faces turned his way; then the mass
was cleft asunder, blown off and dispersed like the sparks from a
smithy. The thing was of little moment in a time of much; there was no
fighting left in the Cypriotes after that sunny morning's work. Nikosia
fell, and the Emperor Isaac, in silver chains, heard from his
prison-house the shouts which welcomed the Emperor Richard. These things
were accomplished by the first week in May. Then came Guy of Lusignan
with bad news of Acre and worse of himself. Philip was before the town,
Montferrat with him. Montferrat had the Archduke's of Austria as well as
French support; with these worthies, and the ravished wife of old King
Baldwin for title-deed, he claimed the throne of Jerusalem; and King Guy
of Lusignan (but for the name of the thing) was of no account at all.
Guy said that the siege of Acre was a foppery. King Philip was ill, or
thought he was; Montferrat was treating with Saladin; the French knights
openly visited the Saracen women; and the Duke of Burgundy got drunk.
'What else could he get, poor fool?' asked Richard; then said, 'But I
promise you this: Montferrat shall never be King of Jerusalem while I
live--not because I love you, my friend, but because I love the law. I
shall come as soon as I can to Acre, when I have done here the things
which must be done.' He meant his marriage.
Little Madame Berengère was lodged, as became her, in the Emperor's
palace at Limasol, having with her Queen Joan of Sicily, and among her
women the young fair lady Jehane, none too fair, poor girl, by this
time. Berengère herself, who was not very intelligent, remarked her, and
gave her the cold shoulder. As day swallowed up day, and Richard, at his
affairs, gave her no thought, or at least no sign, Jehane's condition
became an abominable eyesore to the Queendesignate; so Queen Joan
plucked up her courage age to the point, and seeking out her brother,
let him know that she had tidings for his private ear.
'I do not admit that I have such an ear,' said Richard. It is no part of
a king's baggage. Yet by all means name your tidings, my sister.'
'Dear sire,' said Joan, 'it appears that you have sown a seed, and must
look before long for the harvest.' The King laughed.
'God knows, I have sown enough seeds. But mostly they come up tares, I
am apt to find. My harvesting is of little worth. What now, sister?'
'Beau sire,' says the Queen, I know not how you will take it. Your
bonamy, the Picardy lady, is with child, and not so far from her time
neither. My sister Berengère is greatly offended.'
King Richard began to tremble; but whether from the ague which was never
long out of him, or from joy, or from trouble, who knows?
'Oh, sister,' he said, 'Oh, sister, are you very sure of this?
'I was sure of it,' replied the lady, 'the moment I saw her in the
autumn at Messina. But now your question is not worth the asking.'
The King abruptly left his sister and went over to the Queen's side of
the palace. Berengère was sitting upon a balcony, all her ladies with
her; but Jehane a little apart. When the King was announced all rose to
their feet. He looked neither right nor left of him, but fixedly at
Jehane, with a high bright flush upon his sharp face and fever sparks in
his eyes. To these signals Jehane, because of her great exaltation, flew
the answering flags. Richard touched Berengère's hand with the hair on
his lip: to Jehane he said, 'Come, ma mye,' and led her out of the
balcony.
This was not as it should have been; but Richard, used to his way, took
it, and Richard moved could move bigger mountains than those of
ceremony. He lunged forward along the corridors, Jehane following as she
might, led by the hand, but not against her will. No doubt she was with
child, no doubt she was glorious on that account. She was a very proud
girl.
Alone, those two who had loved so fondly gazed each at the work wrought
upon the other without a word said, the King all luminous with love, and
she all dewy. If soul spoke to soul ever in this world, said Richard's
soul, 'O Vase, that bearest the pledge of my love!' and hers, 'O Strong
Wine, that brimmest in my cup!'
He came forward and embraced her with his arm. He felt her heart beat,
he guessed her pride; he felt her thrill, he knew his own defeat. He
felt her so strong and salient under his hand--so strong, so
full-budded, so hopeful of fruit--that despair of her loss seized him
again, terrible rage. He sickened, while in her the warm blood leaped.
He wanted everything; she, nothing in the world. He, the king of men,
was the bond; she, the cast-off minion, she, this Jehane Saint-Pol, was
the free. So God, making war upon the great, rights the balances of this
world.
But he was extraordinarily gentle with her; he gripped himself and
throttled the animal close. Gaining grace as he went, his heart throve
upon its own blood. Balm was shed on his burning face, he sucked peace
as it fell. Then he, too, discerned the God near by; to him, too, came
with beating wings the pure young Love, that best of all, which hath no
needs save them of spending.
His voice was hushed to a boy's murmur.
'Jehane, ma mye, is it true?'
'I am the mother of a son,' she said.
'Give God the glory!'
But she said, 'He hath given it to me.' Her face was turned to where God
might be: Richard, looking down, kissed her on the mouth. Tremblingly
they kissed and long, not as young lovers, but as spouse and spouse,
drinking their common joy.
After a while his present troubles came thronging back, and he said
bitterly: 'Ah, child, thou art widowed of me while yet we both live. Yet
it was in thy power to be mother of a king.'
Said she, leaning her head on his breast, 'Every woman that beareth a
child is mother of a king; but not every woman's child hath a king to
his father. Thus it is with me, Richard, who am doubly blessed.'
'Ah, God!' he cried, poignantly concerned, 'Ah God, Jehane, see what
trammels I have enmeshed us in, thee in one net and me in another! So
that neither can I help thee, being roped down to this work, nor thou
thyself, trapped by my fault. How shall I do? Lo, my sin, my sin! I
cried Yea; and now cometh God, and, Nay, King Richard, He saith. The sin
is mine, and the burden of the sin is thine. Is this a horrible thing?
Jehane smiled up in his face. 'And dost thou think it, Richard, a
burden so grievous,' she said, 'to be mother of thy son? Dost thou think
that the world can be harsh to me after that; or that in the life to
come there will be no remembrance to make the long days sweet?' She
looked very proudly upon him, smiling all the time; she put her hands up
and crowned his head with them. 'Oh, my dear life, my pride and my
master,' said Jehane, 'let all come to me that must come now; I am rich
above all my desires, and my lowliness has been of no account with God.
Now let me go, blessing His name.'
He would not let her go, but still looked earnestly down at her,
struggling with himself against himself.
'I must be married, Jehane,' says he presently. And she, 'In a good
hour, my lord.'
'It is an accursed hour,' he said; 'nothing but ill can come of it.'
'Lord,' said she, 'thou art vowed to this work.'
'I know it very well,' he replied; 'but a man does as he can.'
'You, my King Richard, do as you will,' said Jehane. So he kissed her
and let her go.
Among the multitudinous affairs now heaped upon him--business of his new
empire and his old, business of Guy's, business of the war, business of
marriage--he set first and foremost this business of Jehane's. He
removed her from the Queen's house, gave her house and household of her
own. It was in Limasol, a pleasant place overlooking the sea and the
ships, a square white house set deep in myrtle woods and oleanders. Once
more the 'Countess of Poictou' had her seneschal, chaplain, ladies of
honour. That done, he fixed Saint Pancras' day for his marriage, had the
ships got out, furnished, and appointed for sea. The night before Saint
Pancras he sent for Abbot Milo in a hurry. Milo found him walking about
his room, taking long, carefully accurate strides from flagstone to
flagstone.
He continued this feverish devotion for some minutes after his
confessor's coming-in; and seeing him deep in thought, the good man
stood patient by the doorway. So presently Richard seemed aware of him,
stopped in mid walk, and looking at him, said--
'Milo, continence is, I suppose, of all virtues the most excellent?'
Milo prepared to expatiate.
'Undoubtedly, sire, it is so, because of all virtues the least
comfortable. Saint Chrysostom, indeed, goes so far as to declare--'; but
Richard broke in.
'And therefore, Milo, it is urged upon the clergy by the ordinances of
many honourable popes and patriarchs?'
'_Distinguo_, sire,' said Milo, '_distinguo_. There are other reasons.
It is written, So run that ye may obtain. Now, no man can run after the
prize we seek if he carrieth a woman on his back. And that for two
reasons: first, because she is so much dead weight; and second, because
a woman is so made that, if her bearer did achieve the reward, she would
immediately claim a share in it. But that is no part of the divine plan,
as I understand it.'
'Let us talk of the laity, Milo,' said the King, abstractedly. 'If one
of them set up for a runner, should he not be a virgin?'
'Lord,' replied the abbot, 'if he can. But that is not so convenient.'
'How not so?' asked King Richard.
'My lord,' Milo said, if all the laity were virgins there would soon be
no laity at all, and then there would be no priests--a state of affairs
not provided for by the Holy Church. Moreover, the laity have a kingdom
in this world; but the religious not of this world. Now, this world is
too excellent a good place not to be peopled; and God hath appointed a
pleasant way.'
Said the King, 'A way of sorrow and shame.'
'Not so, sire,' said Milo, 'but a way of honour. And if I rejoice that
the same way is before your Grace, I am not alone in happiness.'
'A king's business,' said Richard, 'is to govern himself wisely (having
paid his debts), and his people wisely. It may be that he should get
heirs if none are. But if heirs there be, then what is his business with
more? Why should his son be better king than his brother, for example?'
'Lord,' Milo admonished, 'a king who is sure of himself will make sure
of his issue. That too is a king's business.'
Said Richard moodily, 'Who is sure of himself?' He turned away his head,
bidding Milo a good night. As the abbot made his reverence he added, 'I
am to be married to-morrow.'
'I devoutly hope so,' said the good man. 'And then your Grace will have
a surer hope than in your Grace's brother.'
'Get you to bed, Milo,' Richard said, 'and let me be alone.'
Married he was, so far as the Church could provide, in the Basilica of
Limasol, with the Bishop of Salisbury to celebrate. Vassals of his, and
allies, great lords of three realms, bishops and noble knights filled
the church and saw the rites done. High above them afterwards, before
the altar, he sat crowned and vested in purple, holding in his right
hand the sceptre of his power, and the orb of his dominion in his left
hand. Then Berengère, daughter of Navarre, kneeling before him, was by
him thrice crowned: Queen of England, Empress of Cyprus, Duchess of
Normandy. But she never got upon her little dark head the red cap of
Anjou which had covered up Jehane's gold hair. Jehane was neither at the
church nor at the great feast that followed. She, on Richard's bidding,
was in her ship, _Li Chastel Orgoilous_, whose head swayed to the
running tide.
But a great feast was held, at which Queen Berengère sat by the King in
a gold chair, and was served on knees by the chief officers of the
household, the kingdom, and the duchy. Also, after dinner, full and free
homage was done her--a desperate long ceremony. The little lady had
great dignity; and if they found her stiff, it is to be hoped they
remembered her very young. But although everybody saw that Richard was
in the clutches of his ague throughout these performances, so much so
that when he was not talking his teeth chattered in his head, and his
hand spilt the wine on its way to the mouth--none were prepared for
what was to come, unless such intimates as Gaston of Béarn or Mercadet,
his Gascon con captain, may have known it. At the close of the
homage-giving he rose up in his throne, threw back his purple robe, and
showed to all beholders the wrinkled mail beneath it. He was, in fact,
in chain-armour from shoulders to feet. For a moment all looked
open-mouthed. He drew his sword with a great gesture, and held it on
high.
'Peers and noble vassals,' he called out in measured tones (in which,
nevertheless, deep down the shaking fit could be discerned, vibrating
the music), 'the work calls us; Acre is in peril. Kings, who are
servants of the King of Kings, put by their private concerns; queens,
who bow to one throne only, to that bow with haste. Now, you of the
Cross, who follows me to win the Cross? The ships are ready, my lords.
Shall we go?'
The great hall was struck dumb. Queen Berengère, only half
understanding, looked scared about her. One could not but pity the
extinguishment of her poor little great affairs. Queen Joan grew very
red. She had the spirit of her family, was angry, fiercely whispered in
her brother's ear. He barely heard her; he shook her words from his
ears, stamped on the pavement.
'Never, never! I am for the Cross! Lord Jesus, behold thy knight! The
work is ready, shall I not do it? I call Yea! for this turn. Ha, Anjou!
To the ships, to the ships!'
His sword flickered in the air; there followed it, leaping after the
beam, a great swish of steel, soon a forest of swords.
'Ha, Richard! Ha, Anjou! Ha, Saint George!' So they made the rafters
volley; and so headlong after King Richard tumbled out into the dusk and
sought the ships. The new Queen was crying miserably on the daïs, Queen
Joan tapping her foot beside her. Late at night they also put out to
sea. On his knees, facing the shrouded East, King Richard spent his
wedding night, with his bare sword for his partner.