Trembling and awed, the ladies waited at Paris. It was well known how
the King's illness must end. No one, save the Queen, professed to
entertain any hope of his amendment; but Catherine appeared to be too
lethargic to allow herself to be roused to any understanding of his
danger; and as to the personal womanly tendance of wife to suffering
husband, she seemed to have no notion of it. Her mother had never been
supposed to take the slightest care of King Charles; and Catherine, after
her example, regarded the care either of husband or child as no more
required of a royal lady than of a queen bee.
The little Lady Montagu, as Alice was now to be called, who had been
scheming that her Richard should be wounded just enough to learn to call
her his good little nurse-tender, was dreadfully scandalized, as indeed
were wives of more experience, when they found all their endeavours to
make their mistress understand how ill the King really was, and how much
he wished for her, fall upon uncomprehending ears, and at last were
desired by her mother Isabeau not to torment the poor Queen, or they
would make her ill.
'Make her ill! I wish I could!' muttered Lady Warwick, as she left the
presence-chamber; 'but it is like my little Nan telling her apple-stock
baby that all her kin were burnt alive in one castle. She heeds as
much!'
But when at late evening Sir Lewis Robsart rode up to the hotel, and a
hush went along with him, for all knew that he would never have left his
King alive, Catherine's composure gave way. She had not imagination
enough for apprehension of what was out of sight; but when she knew that
she had lost her king, to whom she had owed the brief splendour of an
otherwise dreary and neglected life, she fell into a passion of cries and
tears, even at the mere sight of Sir Lewis, and continued to bewail her
king, her lord, her husband, her light, her love, with the violence of an
utterly unexpected bereavement.
But while her shrieks and sobs were rending the air, a hoarse voice
gasped out, 'What say you? My son Henri dead!' and white and ghastly,
the gray hair hanging wildly from the temples, the eyes roaming with the
wistful gaze of the half insane, poor King Charles stood among them,
demanding, 'Tell me I am sick again! Tell me it is but one of my
delusions! So brave, so strong, so lively, so good to the poor old man!
My son Henri cannot die! That is for the old, the sick!'
And when Sir Lewis with gentle words had made him understand the truth,
he covered his face with his hands, and staggered away, led by his
attendant knight, still murmuring in a dazed way, '_Mon fils Henri, mon
bon fils Henri_--most loving of all my children!'
In truth, neither of his own sons had been thus mourned; nor had any
person shown the poor crazed monarch the uniform deferential
consideration he had received from Henry. He crept back to his own
chamber, and for many days hardly spoke, save to moan for his _bon fils
Henri_, scarcely tasting food, and pining away day by day. Those who had
watched the likeness between the heroes of Monmouth and of Macedon, saw
the resemblance carried out; for as the aged Persian queen perished away
from grief for the courteous and gentle Alexander, so now the king of the
conquered realm was actually wasting to death with mourning for his frank
and kindly _bon fils Henri_.
As part of royal etiquette, Catherine betook herself to her bed, in a
chamber hung with black, the light of day excluded, and ranks of wax
tapers shedding a lugubrious light upon rows of gentlemen and ladies who
had to stand there on duty, watching her as the mourners watched the
King, though her lying-in-state was not always as silent; for though,
there was much time spent in slumber, Catherine sometimes would indulge
in a good deal of subdued prattle with her mother, or her more
confidential attendants. But at other times, chiefly when first awaking,
or else when anything had crossed her will, she would fall into agonies
of passionate grief--weeping, shrieking, and rending her hair with almost
a frenzy of misery, as she called herself utterly desolate, and screamed
aloud for her king to return to her.
She was quite past the management of her English ladies on these
occasions; and her mother, declaring that she was becoming crazed like
her father, declined having anything to do with her. Even Sir Lewis
Robsart she used to spurn aside; and nothing ever seemed effectual, but
for the Demoiselle de Luxemburg, with her full sweet voice, and force of
will in all the tenderness of strength, caressingly to hold her still,
talk to her almost as to an infant, and sing away her violence with some
long low ditty--sometimes a mere Flemish lullaby, sometimes a Church
hymn. As Lady Warwick said, when the ladies were all wearied out with
the endeavour to control their Queen's waywardness and violence, and it
sighed away like a departing tempest before Esclairmonde, 'It was as
great a charity as ever ministering as a St. Katherine's bedeswoman could
be.'
To the young Lady Montagu, the blow was astounding. It was the first
realization that a great man could die, a great support be taken away;
and, child-like, she moved about, bewildered and stunned, in the great
household on which the dark cloud had descended--clinging to Esclairmonde
as if to protect her from she knew not what; anything dreadful might
happen, with the King dead, and her father and husband away.
Alas! poor Esclairmonde! She was in much more real danger herself, as
came to the bride's mind presently, when, in the midst of her
lamentations, she exclaimed, 'And, ah, Clairette! there ends his goodly
promise about the sisterhood of good works at Paris.'
Esclairmonde responded with a gesture of sorrow, and the murmur of the
'_In principibus non confide_' that is so often the echo of
disappointment.
'And what will you do?' continued Alice, watching her anxiously, as her
face, turning very pale, was nevertheless uplifted towards heaven.
'Strive to trust more in God, less in princes,' she breathed forth,
clasping her hands, and compressing her lips.
'Nay, but does it grieve you so intensely?' asked Alice. 'Mayhap--'
'Alas! sweet one! I would that the fall of this device seemed like to be
the worst effect to me of your good king's death. Pray for me, Alice,
for now no earthly power stands between me and my kinsmen's will.'
Alice cried aloud, 'Nay, nay, lady, we are English still. There are my
father; my lord, the Duke of Bedford; they will not suffer any wrong to
be done.'
'Hush, Alice. None of them hath any power to aid me. Even good King
Henry had no legal power to protect me; only he was so great, so strong
in word or deed, that no man durst do before him what he declared a shame
and a sin. Now it will be expedient more than ever that nothing be done
by the English to risk offending the Duke of Burgundy. None will dare
withhold me; none ought to dare, for they act not for themselves, but for
their infant charge; and my countess is weary of me. There is nothing to
prevent my uncles from taking me away with them; or--'
'Nothing!' cried Alice. 'It cannot be! Oh, that my father were here!'
'He could do nothing for me.'
'A convent!'
'No convent here could keep me against the Bishop of Therouenne.'
Alice wrung her hands. 'Oh, it cannot--shall not be!'
'No, Alice, I do not believe it will be. I have that confidence in Him
to whom I have given myself, that I do not believe He will permit me to
be snatched from Him, so long as my will does not consent.' Esclairmonde
faltered a moment, as she remembered her wavering, crossed her hands on
her breast, and ejaculated, 'May He deal mercifully with me! Yet it may
be at an exceeding cost--at that of all my cherished schemes, of all that
was pride and self-seeking. Alice, look not so terrified. Nothing can
be done immediately, or with violence, in this first mourning for the
King; and I trust to make use of the time to disguise me, and escape to
England, where I may keep my vow as anchoress, or as lay sister. Let me
keep that, and my self-exalting schemes shall be all put by!'
The question whether this should be to England, or to the southern parts
of France held by the Armagnacs, remained for decision, as opportunity
should direct: Alice constantly urging her own scheme of carrying her
friend with her as her tire-woman, if, as seemed likely, she were sent
home; and Esclairmonde refusing to consent to anything that might bring
the bride into troubles with her father and husband; and the debates
being only interrupted when the Lady Montagu was required to take her
turn among the weary ladies-in-waiting around Catherine's state bed.
Whenever she was not required to control, console, or persuade the Queen,
Esclairmonde spent most of her time in a chamber apart from the chatter
of Jaqueline's little court, where she was weaving, in the delicate point-
lace work she had learnt in her Flemish convent, an exquisite robe, such
as were worn by priests at Mass. She seldom worked, save for the poor;
but she longed to do some honour to the one man who would have promoted
her nearly vanished scheme, and this work she trusted to offer for a
vestment to be used at his burial Mass. Many a cherished plan was
resigned, many an act of self-negation uttered, as she bent over the
dainty web; many an entreaty breathed, that her moment's wandering of
fancy might not be reckoned against her, but that she might be aided to
keep the promise of her infancy, and devote herself undivided to the
direct service of God and of His poor, be it in ever so humble a station.
Here she sat alone, when steps approached, the door opened, and of all
people he stood before her whom she least wished to see, the young Lord
of Glenuskie.
Amazed as she was, she betrayed no confusion, and merely rose, saying
quietly, 'This is an error. I will show you Madame's apartment.'
But Malcolm, who had begun by looking far more confused than she, cried
earnestly, 'One moment, lady. I came not willingly; the Countess sent
for me to her. But since I am here--listen while Heaven gives me
strength to say it--I will trouble you never again. I am come to a
better mind. Oh, forgive me!'
'What are you here then for, Sir?' said Esclairmonde, with the same
defensive dignity.
'My king sent me, against my will, on a mission to the Queen,' panted
Malcolm. 'I am forced to wait here; or, lady, I should have been this
day doing penance for my pursuit of you. Verily I am a penitent. Mayhap
Heaven will forgive me, if you will.'
'If I understand you aright, it is well,' said Esclairmonde, still
gravely and doubtfully.
'It is so indeed,' protested Malcolm, with a terrible wrench to his
heart, yet a sensation of freeing his conscience. 'Fear me no longer
now. After that which I saw at Vincennes, I know what it is to be on the
straight path, and--oh! what it is to have fallen from it. How could I
dream of dragging you down to be with one so unworthy, becoming more
worthless each day? Lady, if I never see you more, pardon me, pray for
me, as a saint for a poor outcast on earth!'
'Hush,' said Esclairmonde; 'I am no saint--only a maiden pledged. But,
Sir, I thank you fervently. You have lightened my heart of one of my
fears.'
Malcolm could not but be cheered by being for once spoken to by her in so
friendly a tone; and he added, gravely and resolutely: 'My suit, then, I
yield up, lady--yield for ever. Am I permitted once to kiss that fair
and holy hand, as I resign my presumptuous hopes thereof?'
'Mayhap it were wiser left undone,' said Esclairmonde. 'My mind misgives
me that this meeting is planned to bring us into trouble. Farewell, my
lord.'
As she had apprehended, the door was flung back, and Countess Jaqueline
rushed in, clasping her hands in an affectation of merry surprise, as she
cried, 'Here they are! See, Monseigneur! No keeping doves apart!'
'Madame,' said Esclairmonde, turning on her with cold dignity, 'I have
been thanking Monsieur de Glenuskie for having resigned the suit that I
always declared to be in vain.'
'You misunderstood, Clairette,' said Jaqueline. 'No gentleman ever so
spoke! No, no; my young lord has kept his promise to me, and I will not
fail him.'
'Madame,' faltered Malcolm, 'I came by command of the King of Scots.'
'So much the better,' cried Jaqueline. 'So he can play into our hands,
for all his grandeur! It will lose him his wager, though! Here is
bride--there is priest--nay, bishop!' pointing to him of Therouenne, who
had accompanied her, but hitherto had stood silent.
'Madame,' said Malcolm, 'the time and state of the household forbid.'
'_Ma foi_! What is that to us? King Henry is neither our brother nor
our father; and Catherine will soon laugh at it as a good joke.'
'Nay,' said the Bishop, with more propriety, 'it is the contract and
troth-plight alone that could take place at present. That secure, the
full solemnities will await a fitting time; but it is necessary that the
troth be exchanged at once.'
'Monseigneur,' said Esclairmonde, 'mine is in other keeping.'
'And, Monseigneur,' added Malcolm, 'I have just told the lady that I
repent of having fallen from my vocation, and persecuted her.'
'How, Sir!' said the Bishop, turning on him; 'do you thus lightly treat a
lady of the house of Luxemburg? Beware! There are those who know how to
visit an insult on a malapert lad, who meddles with the honour of the
family.'
'Be not threatened, Lord Malcolm,' said Esclairmonde, with a gleam in her
eye.
And Malcolm was Stewart enough to answer with spirit: 'My lord, I will
meet them if needed. This lady is so affianced, that it is sacrilege to
aspire to her.'
'Ah!' said the Bishop, in an audible aside to the giggling Countess:
'this comes of her having thrown herself at the youth's head. Now he
will no more of her.'
Crimson with wrath, and also with a wild sense of hope that the
obligation had become absolute, Malcolm made a vehement incoherent
exclamation; but Esclairmonde retained her composure.
'Monseigneur and Madame both know better,' she said. 'This is but
another menace.'
'Peace, minion,' said the Bishop of Therouenne, 'and listen to me. If
this young gentleman, after professing himself willing to wed you, now
draws back, so much the worse for him. But if you terrify him out of it
with your humours, then will my brother St. Pol and the Duke of Burgundy
soon be here, with no King of England to meddle; and by St. Adrian, Sir
Boemond will be daunted by no airs, like Monsieur there. A bride shall
you be, Esclairmonde de Luxemburg, ere the week is out, if not to
Monsieur de Glenuskie, to the Chevalier Boemond de Bourgogne.'
'Look not at me,' said Jaqueline. 'I am weary of your contumacy. All I
shall do is to watch you well. I've suspected for some days that you
were concocting mischief with the little Montagu; but you'll not escape
again, as when I was fool enough to help you.'
The two stood a few paces apart, where they had been discovered;
Esclairmonde's eyes were closed, her hands clasped, as if in silent
prayer for aid.
'Girl--your choice!' said the Bishop, peremptorily. 'Wedlock on the spot
to this gentleman, or to Sir Boemond a week hence.'
Esclairmonde was very white.
'My will shall not consent to a present breach of vow to save a future
one,' she said, in a scarce audible voice.
A sudden thought darted into Malcolm's mind. With colour flooding his
face to his very temples, he stepped nearer to her, and said, in a
tremulous under-tone, 'Lady, trust me.'
The Bishop withheld Jaqueline almost by force, so soon as he saw that the
pair were whispering together, and that there was something of relaxation
in Esclairmonde's face as she looked up at him in silent interrogation.
He spoke low, but solemnly and imploringly. 'Trust me with your plight,
lady, and I will restore it when you are free.'
Hardly able to speak, she however murmured, 'You will indeed do this?'
'So help me Heaven!' he said, and his eyes grew large and bright; he held
his head with the majesty of his race.
'Heaven has sent you,' said Esclairmonde, with a long sigh, and holding
out her hand to him, as though therewith she conferred a high-souled
woman's full trust.
And Malcolm took it with a strange pang of pain and exultation at the
heart. The trust was won, but the hope of earthly joy was gone for ever.
The Countess broke out with a shout of triumph: 'There, there! they have
come to reason at last. There's an end of her folly.'
Malcolm felt himself a man, and Esclairmonde's protector, all at once, as
he stood forth, still holding her hand.
'Monseigneur,' he said, 'this lady consents to intrust her troth to me,
and be affianced to me'--his chest heaved, but he still spoke firmly--'on
condition that no word be spoken of the matter, nor any completion of the
rite take place until the mourning for King Henry be at an end;' and, at
a sort of shiver from Esclairmonde, he added: 'Not for a year, by which
time I shall be of full age.'
'A strange bridegroom!' said Jaqueline; 'but maybe you do well to get her
on what terms you can. Do you agree, Monseigneur?'
In truth, Monseigneur may have been relieved that the trial of strength
between him and his ward had thus terminated. He was only anxious to
have the matter concluded.
The agreement, binding Malcolm to accept a stated number of crowns in
instalments, as the value of Esclairmonde's lands, under the guarantee of
the Duke of Burgundy and King James of Scotland, had all been long ago
signed, sealed, and secured; and there was nothing to prevent the
_fiancailles_, or espousals, from taking place at once.
It was a much more real ceremony than a mere betrothal, being, in fact,
in the eye of the civil law a marriage, though the full blessing and the
sacramental words of union were deferred for the completion of the rite.
It was the first part of the Marriage Service, binding the pair so
indissolubly to one another, that neither could enter into wedlock with
any one else as long as the other lived--except, of course, by Papal
dispensation; and in cases of stolen weddings, it was all that was deemed
needful.
All therefore that remained to be done was, that the Bishop summoned his
chaplain to serve as a witness and as scribe; and then the two young
people, in their deep mourning dresses, standing before the Bishop, vowed
to belong to none other than to one another, and the betrothal rings
being produced, were placed on their fingers, and their hands were
clasped. Malcolm's was steady, as he felt Esclairmonde's rest in his
untrembling, but with the quietness of one who trusted all in all where
she trusted at all.
'Poor children! they have all to learn,' hilariously shouted the
Countess. 'They have forgotten the kiss!'
'Will you suffer it, my sister?' said Malcolm, with burning cheeks.
'My brother and my guardian!' responded Esclairmonde, raising the white
brow to his lips.
At that moment back went the door, and in flew Alice Montagu, crying
aloud, 'Clairette! the Queen--oh, Madame, your pardon! but I am sent for
Esclairmonde. The Queen is in worse fits than ever. Sir Lewis can't get
the ring from her. They think she will rave like her father presently!
Come!'
Esclairmonde could only hurry away at this; while Alice, grasping her
hand, continued:
'Oh, have they been persecuting you? I dreaded it when I saw yon little
wretch; but--oh, Esclairmonde, what is this?' in an utterly changed
voice.
'He holds my faith in trust. He will restore it,' said Esclairmonde,
hurriedly.
But Lady Montagu spoke not another word; and, indeed, they were hard upon
the English queen's rooms, whence they already heard hysterical screams
of passion.
Jaqueline had immediately set forth in the same direction out of
curiosity; and Malcolm in much anxiety, since the mission that he had
been cautioned to guard so jealously seemed in danger of being known
everywhere. He had himself been allowed to stand by the Queen's bedside,
and rehearse James's message; but when he had further hinted of his being
sent by Bedford to bring the ring, the Queen, perhaps at the mention of
the brother-in-law, pouted, knew nothing of any ring, and supposed M. le
Duc meant to strip her, a poor desolate widow, of all her jewels.
Then Malcolm had spoken in private with Sir Lewis Robsart, who knew the
ring was among her jewels, and promised to get it for him as soon as was
possible; and it was while waiting for this that Malcolm had been
summoned to the Countess of Hainault's apartments.
But ere Sir Lewis could get the ear of the Queen, as he now told Malcolm,
her mother had been with her. Catherine was dull, jealous, unwilling to
part with anything, but always easily coaxed over. Her mother Isabeau
had, on the other hand, a good deal of low cunning and selfishness, and
understood how valuable an instrument might be a duplicate seal of a
deceased monarch. Therefore she instigated her daughter to deny that she
possessed it, and worked her up into a state of impracticability, in
which Sir Lewis Robsart was unable to deal with her, and only produced so
wild a tempest of passion as perfectly to appal both him and her ladies.
That the Duke of Bedford had sent for a ring, which she would not give
up, was known over the whole palace; the only matter still not perhaps
known was, what was the value of that individual ring.
Robsart, however, promised to exonerate Malcolm from having shown any
indiscretion; he charged it all on himself for having left his Queen for
an instant to Isabeau.
Meanwhile, Malcolm and he, with other nobles and ladies, waited, waited
in the outer chamber, listening to the fearful storm of shrieks and
cries, till they began to spend themselves and die away; and then they
heard Esclairmonde's low voice singing her lullaby, and every one
breathed freer, as though relieved, and murmurs of conversation rose
again. Malcolm moved across to greet the Lady Montagu; and though she
looked at him with all the disdain her little gentle face could
accomplish, he had somehow a spring and strength in him that could not
now be brow-beaten.
He bent over her, and said, 'Lady, I see you know all. It is but a
trust.'
'If you so treat it, Sir, you will do well,' responded the young matron,
with as much stern gravity as she could assume; the fact being that she
longed to break down and cry heartily, that Esclairmonde should so far
have failed, and become like other people.
Long, long they waited--Malcolm with a strange dreamy feeling at his
heart, neither triumph nor disappointment, but something between both,
and peace above all. Dinner was served in the hall; the company returned
to the outer apartment, yet still all was silent within; till at last,
late in the afternoon, there came a black figure forth from under the
black hangings, and Esclairmonde, turning to Lady Warwick, said, 'The
Queen is awake, and desires her ladies' presence.' And then coming
towards Malcolm, who was standing near Sir Lewis Robsart, she placed in
his hand the signet-ring.
Both, while the attendants of the Queen filed back into her chamber,
eagerly demanded how the ring had been obtained.
'Poor lady!' said Esclairmonde, 'she was too much spent to withhold
anything. She was weak and exhausted with cries and tears; and when she
had slept, she was as meek as a lamb; and there was no more ado but to
bid her remember that the blessed King her lord would have bidden her let
the ring be broken up at once, lest it should be used so as to harm her
son.'
That Esclairmonde had prevailed by that gentle force of character which
no one could easily resist, could not, however, be doubted for a moment;
and a fresh thrill of amazement, and almost of joy, came over Malcolm at
the sense that he had become the protector of such a being, and that in a
sort she belonged to him, and was in his power, having trusted herself to
him.
Robsart advised, and Esclairmonde concurred in the counsel, that Lord
Glenuskie should set forth for Vincennes immediately, before there should
be time for any more cabals, or for Queen Isabeau to have made her
daughter repent of having delivered up the signet-ring.
Malcolm therefore at once took leave of his affianced, venturing to kiss
her hand as he looked wistfully in her face, and said, 'Dear lady, how
shall I thank you for this trust?'
Esclairmonde gave her sweet grave smile, as she said, 'To God's keeping I
commend you, Sir.' She would not even bid him be true to his trust; it
would have seemed to her to insult him in whom her confidence was placed,
and she only added: 'I shall ever bless you for having saved me.
Farewell! Now am I bound for ever to pray for you and your sister.'
And it would be impossible to tell how the sense of Esclairmonde's trust,
and of the resolute self-denial it would require of him, elevated
Malcolm's whole tone, and braced his mind. The taking away of his
original high purpose had rendered him as aimless and pleasure-loving as
any ordinary lad; but the situation in which he now stood--guarding this
saintly being for her chosen destiny, at the expense of all possible
earthly projects for his own happiness or ambition--was such as to bring
out that higher side of his nature that had well-nigh collapsed. As he
stood alone in the ante-room, waiting until his horse and escort should
be ready for his return, a flood of happiness seemed to gush over him.
Esclairmonde was no more his own, indeed, than was King Henry's signet;
but the trust was very precious, and gave him at least the power of
thinking of her as joined by a closer link than even his sister Lilias.
And towards her his conscience was again clear, for this very betrothal
put marriage out of the question for him, and was a real seal of his
dedication. He only felt as if his heart ought not to be so light and
peaceful, while his penance was still unsaid, his absolution not yet
pronounced.