"Eh, sire, I intend to. You left England undefended that you might
posture a little in the eyes of Europe. And meanwhile a woman
preserves England, a woman gives you all Scotland as a gift, and in
return demands nothing--God ha' mercy on us!--save that you nightly
chafe your feet with a bit of woollen. You hear of it--and ask,
'_Where is Madame de Salisbury?_' Here beyond doubt is the cock of
AEsop's fable," snarled John Copeland, "who unearthed a gem and
grumbled that his diamond was not a grain of corn."
"You will be hanged ere dawn," the King replied, and yet by this one
hand had screened his face. "Meanwhile spit out your venom."
"I say to you, then," John Copeland continued, "that to-day you are
master of Europe. That but for this woman whom for twenty years you
have neglected you would to-day be mouldering in some pauper's grave.
Eh, without question, you most magnanimously loved that shrew of
Salisbury! because you fancied the color of her eyes, Sire Edward, and
admired the angle between her nose and her forehead. Minstrels unborn
will sing of this great love of yours. Meantime I say to you"--now the
man's rage was monstrous--"I say to you, go home to your too-tedious
wife, the source of all your glory! sit at her feet! and let her teach
you what love is!" He flung away the dagger. "There you have the
truth. Now summon your attendants, my très beau sire, and have me
hanged."
The King gave no movement. "You have been bold--" he said at last.
"But you have been far bolder, sire. For twenty years you have dared
to flout that love which is God made manifest as His main heritage to
His children."
King Edward sat in meditation for a long while. "I consider my wife's
clerk," he drily said, "to discourse of love in somewhat too much the
tone of a lover." And a flush was his reward.
But when this Copeland spoke he was as one transfigured. His voice was
grave and very tender.
"As the fish have their life in the waters, so I have and always shall
have mine in love. Love made me choose and dare to emulate a lady,
long ago, through whom I live contented, without expecting any other
good. Her purity is so inestimable that I cannot say whether I derive
more pride or sorrow from its pre-eminence. She does not love me, and
she never will. She would condemn me to be hewed in fragments sooner
than permit her husband's little finger to be injured. Yet she
surpasses all others so utterly that I would rather hunger in her
presence than enjoy from another all which a lover can devise."
Sire Edward stroked the table through this while, with an inverted pen.
He cleared his throat. He said, half-fretfully:
"Now, by the Face! it is not given every man to love precisely in this
troubadourish fashion. Even the most generous person cannot render to
love any more than that person happens to possess. I had a vision
once: The devil sat upon a cathedral spire and white doves flew about
him. Monks came and told him to begone. 'Do not the spires show you,
O son of darkness,' they clamored, 'that the place is holy?' And Satan
(in my vision) said these spires were capable of various
interpretations. I speak of symbols, John. Yet I also have loved, in
my own fashion--and, it would seem, I win the same reward as you."
He said more lately: "And so she is at Stirling now? with Robert
Stewart?" He laughed, not overpleasantly. "Eh, yes, it needed a bold
person to bring all your tidings! But you Brabanters are a very
thorough-going people."
The King rose and flung back his big head as a lion might. "John, the
loyal service you have done us and our esteem for your valor are so
great that they may well serve you as an excuse. May shame fall on
those who bear you any ill-will! You will now return home, and take
your prisoner, the King of Scotland, and deliver him to my wife, to do
with as she may elect. You will convey to her my entreaty--not my
orders, John--that she come to me here at Calais. As remuneration for
this evening's insolence, I assign lands as near your house as you can
choose them to the value of £500 a year for you and for your heirs."
You must know that John Copeland fell upon his knees before King
Edward. "Sire--" he stammered.
But the King raised him. "Nay," he said, "you are the better man.
Were there any equity in Fate, John Copeland, your lady had loved you,
not me. As it is, I shall strive to prove not altogether unworthy of
my fortune. Go, then, John Copeland--go, my squire, and bring me back
my Queen."
Presently he heard John Copeland singing without. And through that
instant was youth returned to Edward Plantagenet, and all the scents
and shadows and faint sounds of Valenciennes on that ancient night when
a tall girl came to him, running, stumbling in her haste to bring him
kingship. Now at last he understood the heart of Philippa.
"Let me live!" the King prayed; "O Eternal Father, let me live a little
while that I may make atonement!" And meantime John Copeland sang
without and the Brabanter's heart was big with joy.
Sang John Copeland:
"_Long I besought thee, nor vainly,
Daughter of water and air--
Charis! Idalia! Hortensis!
Hast thou not heard the prayer,
When the blood stood still with loving,
And the blood in me leapt like wine,
And I murmured thy name, Melaenis?--
That heard me, (the glory is thine!)
And let the heart of Atys,
At last, at last, be mine!_
"_Falsely they tell of thy dying,
Thou that art older than Death,
And never the Hörselberg hid thee,
Whatever the slanderer saith,
For the stars are as heralds forerunning,
When laughter and love combine
At twilight, in thy light, Melaenis--
That heard me, (the glory is thine!)
And let the heart of Atys,
At last, at last, be mine!_"