"It was well thought and boldly executed, my son," said the King of
England, as he looked with fatherly pride at his bright-faced boy. "Thou
wilt win thy spurs ere long, I doubt not, an thou goest on thus. But it
must be an exploit more worthy thy race and state that shall win thee
the knighthood which thou dost rightly covet. England's Prince must be
knighted upon some glorious battlefield -- upon a day of victory that I
trow will come ere long for thee and me. And now to thy mother, boy, and
ask her pardon for the fright thou madest her to suffer, when thy
sisters betrayed to her the wild chase upon which thou and thy boy
comrades were bent. Well was it for all that our trusty huntsmen were
with you, else might England be mourning sore this day for a life cut
off ere it had seen its first youthful prime. Yet, boy, I have not heart
to chide thee; all I ask is that when thou art bent on some quest of
glory or peril another time, thou wilt tell thy father first. Trust him
not to say thee nay; it is his wish that thou shouldst prove a worthy
scion of thy house. He will never stand in thy path if thy purpose be
right and wise."
The Prince accepted this paternal admonition with all becoming grace and
humility, and bent his knee before his mother, to be raised and warmly
embraced both by her and the little princesses, who had come in all
haste to the Palace of Guildford before the good Rector had had time to
send a message of warning to the King. Queen Philippa had heard from her
daughters of the proposed escapade on the part of the little band
surrounding the Prince, and the fear lest the bold boy might expose
himself to real peril had induced the royal family to hasten to
Guildford only two days after the Prince had gone thither. They had met
a messenger from Master Bernard as they had neared the Palace, and the
King, after assuring himself of the safety of his son, made kindly
inquiries after those of his companions who had been with him on his
somewhat foolhardy adventure.
John de Brocas was lying dangerously ill in one of the apartments of the
Palace. The King was greatly concerned at hearing how severely he had
been hurt; and when the story came to be told more in its details, and
it appeared that to John's fidelity and the stanch support of Audley's
two youthful esquires the heir of England owed his life, Edward and his
Queen both paid a visit to the room where the sick youth lay, and with
their own hands bestowed liberal rewards upon the twin brothers, who had
stood beside the Prince in the stress of the fight, and had both
received minor hurts in shielding him.
Sir James Audley was himself in the King's train; but he was about to
leave the south for a secret mission in Scotland, entrusted to him by
his sovereign. He was going to travel rapidly and without any large
escort, and for the present he had no further need for the services of
the Gascon twins. Neither of the lads would be fit for the saddle for
more than a week to come, and they had already made good use of their
time in England, and had interested both the King and the Prince in
them, and had also earned liberal rewards. In their heart of hearts they
were anxious to remain in the neighbourhood of Guildford, for they knew
that there they were not far from Basildene. Wherefore when they
understood that their master had no present occasion for any further
service from them, they were not a little excited and pleased by the
thought that they were now in a position to prosecute their own quest in
such manner as seemed best to them.
They had made a wonderfully good beginning to their life of adventure.
They had won the favour not only of their own kinsfolk, but of the King
and the Prince. They had money and clothes and arms. They had the
prospect of service with Sir James in the future, when he should have
returned from his mission and require a larger train. Everything seemed
to be falling in with their own desires; and it was with faces of eager
satisfaction that they turned to each other when the knight had left
them alone again, after a visit to the long rush-carpeted room, by the
glowing hearth of which they were sitting when he had come to seek them
soon after the King had visited John's couch.
John lay in a semi-conscious state upon the tall canopied bed, beneath a
heavy pall of velvet, that gave a funereal aspect to the whole room. He
had been aroused by the King's visit, and had spoken a few words in
reply to the kind ones addressed to him; but afterwards he had sunk back
into the lethargy of extreme weakness, and the brothers were to all
intents and purposes alone in the long dormitory they had shared with
John, and with two more comrades who had also received slight hurts, but
who had now been summoned to attend the Prince on the return journey to
Windsor, which was to be taken leisurely and by short stages.
Oliver and Bernard de Brocas had likewise gone, and John was, they knew,
to be moved as soon as possible to Master Bernard's rectory, not far
away. The kindly priest had said something about taking the brothers
there also till they were quite healed of their wounds and bruises, and
John invariably asked for Raymond if ever he awoke to consciousness.
What was to be the end of it all the twins had no idea, but it certainly
seemed as though for the present they were to be the guests of their own
uncle, who knew nothing of the tie that existed betwixt them.
"Shall we say aught to him, Gaston?" asked Raymond, in a low whisper, as
the pair sat over the glowing fire together. "He is a good man and a
kind one, and perchance if he knew us for kinsmen he might --"
"Might be kinder than before?" questioned Gaston, with a proud smile.
"Is it that thou wouldst say, brother? Ay, it is possible, but it is
also likely enough that he would at once look coldly and harshly upon
us. Raymond, I have learned many lessons since we left our peaceful
home, and one of these is that men love not unsuccess. It is the
prosperous, the favoured of fortune, upon whom the smiles of the great
are bent. Perchance it was because he succeeded not well that by his own
brothers our father was passed by. Raymond, I have seen likewise this --
if our kinsmen are kind, they are also proud. They have won kingly
favour, kingly rewards; all men speak well of them; they are placed high
in the land. Doubtless they could help us if they would; but are we to
come suing humbly to them for favours, when they would scarce listen to
our father when he lived? Shall we run into the peril of having their
smiles turned to frowns by striving to claim kinship with them, when
perchance they would spurn us from their doors? And if in days to come
we rise to fame and fortune, as by good hap we may, shall we put it in
their power to say that it is to their favour we owe it all? No -- a
thousand times no! I will carve out mine own fortune with mine own good
sword and mine own strong arm. I will be beholden to none for that which
some day I will call mine own. The King himself has said that I shall
make a valiant knight. I have fought by the Prince's side once; I trow
that in days to come I shall do the like again. When my knighthood's
spurs are won, then perchance I will to mine uncle and say to him,
'Sire, I am thy brother Arnald's son -- thine own nephew;' but not till
then will I divulge the secret. Sir John de Brocas -- no, nor Master
Bernard either -- shall never say that they have made Sir Gaston's
fortune for him!"
The lad's eyes flashed fire; the haughty look upon his face was not
unlike the one sometimes to be seen upon that of the King's Master of
the Horse.
Raymond listened with a smile to these bold words, and then said quietly:
"Perhaps thou art right, Gaston; but I trust thou bearest no ill will
towards our two uncles?"
Gaston's face cleared, and he smiled frankly enough.
"Nay, Brother, none in the world. It is only as I think sometimes of the
story of our parents' wrongs that my hot blood seems to rise against
them. They have been kind to us. I trow we need not fear to take such
kindness as may be offered to us as strangers; but to come as suppliant
kinsmen, humble and unknown, I neither can nor will. Let us keep our
secret; let us carve out our own fortunes. A day shall come when we may
stand forth before all the world as of the old line of De Brocas, but
first we will win for ourselves the welcome we would fain receive."
"Ay, and we will seek our lost inheritance of Basildene," added Raymond.
"That shall be our next quest, Gaston. I would fain look upon our
mother's home. Methinks it lies not many miles from here."
"I misdoubt me if Basildene be aught of great moment," said Gaston,
shaking back his curly hair. "Like enough it is but a Manor such as we
have seen by the score as we have ridden through this land. It may be no
such proud inheritance when we do find it, Raymond. It is of our lost
possessions in Gascony that I chiefly think. What can any English house,
of which even here scarce any man has heard, be as compared with our
vast forest lands of Gascony -- our Castle of Saut -- of Orthez -- where
the false Sieur de Navailles rules with the rod of iron? It is there
that I would be; it is there that I would rule. When the Roy Outremer
wages war with the French King, and I fight beneath his banner and win
his favour, as I will do ere many years have passed, and when he calls
me to receive my rewards at his kingly hands, then will I tell him of
yon false and cruel tyrant there, and how our people groan beneath his
harsh rule. I will ask but his leave to win mine own again, and then I
will ride forth with my own knights in my train, and there shall be once
again a lord of the old race ruling at Saut, and the tyrant usurper
shall be brought to the very dust!"
"Ay," answered Raymond, with a smile that made his face look older for
the moment than that of his twin brother, "thou, Gaston, shalt reign in
Saut, and I will try to win and to reign at Basildene, content with the
smaller inheritance. Methinks the quiet English Manor will suit me well.
By thy side for a while will I fight, too, winning, if it may be, my
spurs of knighthood likewise; but when the days of fighting be past, I
would fain find a quiet haven in this fair land -- in the very place
where our mother longed to end her days."
It may be seen, from the foregoing fragment of talk, that already the
twin brothers were developing in different directions. So long as they
had lived in the quiet of the humble home, they had scarce known a
thought or aspiration not shared alike by both; but the experiences of
the past months had left a mark upon them, and the mark was not
altogether the same in the case of each. They had shared all adventures,
all perils, all amusements; their hearts were as much bound up as ever
one with the other; but they were already looking at life differently,
forming a different ideal of the future. The soldier spirit was coming
out with greater intensity in one nature than in the other. Gaston had
no ambition, no interest beyond that of winning fame and glory by the
sword. Raymond was just beginning to see that there were other aims and
interests in life, and to feel that there might even come a day when
these other interests should prove more to him than any laurels of battle.
In the days that followed, this feeling grew more and more upon him. His
hurt was more slow to heal than Gaston's, and long after his brother was
riding out daily into the forest with the keepers to slay a fat buck for
the prelate's table or fly a falcon for practice or sport, Raymond
remained within the house, generally the companion of the studious John;
and as the latter grew strong enough to talk, he was always imparting
new ideas to the untutored but receptive mind of the Gascon boy.
They had quickly removed from the Royal Palace to the more cozy and
comfortable quarters within the Rectory, which belonged to Master
Bernard in right of his office. John was as much at home in his uncle's
house as in his father's, having spent much of his youth with the
priest. Indeed it may be questioned whether he felt as much at ease
anywhere as he did in this sheltered and retired place, and Raymond
began to feel the subtle charm of the life there almost at once.
The Rector possessed what was for that age a fine collection of books.
These were of course all manuscripts, and very costly of their kind,
some being beautifully illuminated and others very lengthy. These
manuscripts and books were well known to John, who had read the majority
of them, and was never weary of reading them again and again. Some were
writings of the ancient fathers; others were the works of pagan writers
and philosophers who had lived in the dark ages of the world's history,
yet who had had thoughts and aspirations in advance of their day, and
who had striven without the light of Christianity to construct a code of
morals that should do the work for humanity which never could have been
done till the Light came into the world with the Incarnation.
As Raymond sat day by day beside John's couch, hearing him read out of
these wonderful books, learning himself to read also with a sense of
quickened pleasure that it was a surprise to experience, he began to
realize that there was a world around and about him of which he had had
no conception hitherto, to feel his mental horizon widening, and to see
that life held weightier questions than any that could be settled at the
sword's point.
"In truth I have long held that myself," answered John, to whom some
such remark had been made; and upon the pale face of the student there
shone a light which Raymond had seen there before, and marked with a dim
sense of awe. "We hear men talk of the days of chivalry, and mourn
because they seem to be passing away. Yet methinks there may be a holier
and a higher form of chivalry than the world has yet seen that may rise
upon the ashes of what has gone before, and lead men to higher and
better things. Raymond, I would that I might live to see such a day -- a
day when battle and bloodshed should be no longer men's favourite
pastime, but when they should come to feel as our Blessed Lord has
bidden us feel, brothers in love, for that we love Him, and that we walk
forward hand in hand towards the light, warring no more with our
brethren of the faith, but only with such things as are contrary to His
Word, and are hindering His purpose concerning the earth."
Raymond listened with but small comprehension to a thought so vastly in
advance of the spirit of the day; but despite his lack of true
understanding, he felt a quick thrill of sympathy as he looked into
John's luminous eyes, and he spoke with reverence in his tone even
though his words seemed to dissent from those of his companion.
"Nay, but how would the world go on without wars and gallant feats of
arms? And sure in a good cause men must fight with all their might and
main? Truly I would gladly seek for paynim and pagan foes if they might
be found; but men go not to the Holy Land as once they did. There be
foes nigher at home against whom we have to turn our arms. Good John,
thou surely dost not call it a wicked thing to fight beneath the banner
of our noble King when he goes forth upon his wars?"
John smiled one of those thoughtful, flickering smiles that puzzled his
companion and aroused his speculative curiosity.
"Nay, Raymond," he answered, speaking slowly, as though it were no easy
matter to put his thought in such words as would be comprehensible to
his companion, "it is not that I would condemn any man or any cause. We
are placed in the midst of warlike and stirring times, and it may be
that some great purpose is being worked out by all these wars and
tumults in which we bear our share. It is only as I lie here and think
(I have, as thou knowest, been here many times before amongst these
books and parchments, able for little but study and thought) that there
comes over me a strange sense of the hollowness of these earthly
strivings and search after fame and glory, a solemn conviction -- I
scarce know how to frame it in words -- that there must be other work to
be done in the world, stronger and more heroic deeds than men will ever
do with swords and spears. Methinks the holy saints and martyrs who went
before us knew something of that work; and though it be not given to us
to dare and suffer as they did, yet there come to me moments when I feel
assured that God may still have works of faith and patience for us to do
for Him here, which (albeit the world will never know it) may be more
blessed in His eyes than those great deeds the fame of which goes
through the world. Perchance were I a man of thews and sinews like my
brothers, I might think only of the glory of feats of arms and the
stress and strife of the battle. But being as I am, I cannot but think
of other matters; and so thinking and dreaming, there has come to me the
sense that if I may never win the knighthood and the fame which may
attend on others, I may yet be called upon to serve the Great King in
some other way. Raymond, I think that I could gladly die content if I
might but feel that I had been called to some task for Him, and having
been called had been found faithful."
John's eyes were shining brightly as he spoke. Raymond felt a slight
shiver run through his frame as he answered impulsively:
"Thou hast done a deed already of which any belted knight might well be
proud. It was thou who saved the life of the Prince of Wales by taking
upon thy shoulder the blow aimed at his head. The King himself has
spoken in thy praise. How canst thou speak as though no fame or glory
would be thine?"
A look of natural pride and pleasure stole for a moment over John's pale
face; but the thoughtful brightness in his eyes deepened during the
silence that followed, and presently he said musingly:
"I am glad to think of that. I like to feel that my arm has struck one
good blow for my King and country; though, good Raymond, to thee and to
Gaston, as much as to me, belongs the credit of saving the young Prince.
Yet though I too love deeds of glory and chivalry, and rejoice to have
borne a part in one such struggle undertaken in defence of the poor and
the weak, I still think there be higher tasks, higher quests, yet to be
undertaken by man in this world."
"What quest?" asked Raymond wonderingly, as John paused, enwrapped, as
it seemed, in his own thoughts.
It was some time before the question was answered, and then John spoke
dreamily and slow, as though his thoughts were far away from his
wondering listener.
"The quest after that whose glory shall not be of this world alone; the
quest that shall raise man heavenward to his Maker. Is that thought new
in the heart of man? I trow not. We have heard of late much of that
great King Arthur, the founder of chivalry, and of his knights. Were
feats of arms alone enough for them? or those exploits undertaken in the
cause of the helpless or oppressed, great and noble as these must ever
be? Did not one or more of their number feel that there was yet another
and a holier quest asked of a true knight? Did not Sir Galahad leave all
else to seek after the Holy Grail? Thou knowest all the story; have we
not read it often together? And seems it not to thee to point us ever
onward and upward, away from things of earth towards the things of
heaven, showing that even chivalry itself is but an earthly thing,
unless it have its final hopes and aspirations fixed far above this earth?"
John's face was illumined by a strange radiance. It seemed to Raymond as
though something of the spirit of the Knight of the Grail shone out from
those hollow eyes. A subtle sympathy fired his own soul, and taking his
cousin's thin hand in his he cried quickly and impetuously:
"Such a knight as that would I fain be. Good John, tell me, I pray thee,
where such a quest may be found."
At that literal question, put with an air of the most impulsive good
faith, John's face slightly changed. The rapt look faded from his eyes,
and a reflective smile took its place, as the young man gazed long and
earnestly into the bright face of the eager boy.
"Why shouldst thou come to me to know, good lad?" he questioned. "It is
of others that thou wilt learn these matters better than of me. Do they
not call me the man of books -- of dreams -- of fancies?"
"I know not and I care not," answered Raymond impetuously. "It is of
thee and of thee only that I would learn."
"And I scarce know how to answer thee," replied the youth, "though
gladly would I help thee to fuller, clearer knowledge if I knew how. I
trow that many men would smile at me were I to put my thoughts into
words, for it seems to me that for us who call ourselves after the
sacred name of Christ there can be no higher or holier service than the
service in which He himself embarked, and bid His followers do likewise
-- feeding the hungry, ministering to the sick, cheering the desolate,
binding up the broken heart, being eyes to the blind and feet to the
lame. He that would be the greatest, let him be the servant of all.
Those were His own words. Yet how little do we think of them now."
Raymond sat silent and amazed. Formerly such words would have seemed
comprehensible enough to him; but of late he had seen life under vastly
different aspects than any he had known in his quiet village home. The
great ones of the earth did not teach men thus to think or speak. Not to
serve but to rule was the aim and object of life.
"Wouldst have me enter the cloister, then?" he asked, a look of distaste
and shrinking upon his face; for the quiet, colourless life (as it
seemed to him) of those who entered the service of the Church was little
to the taste of the ardent boy. But John's answer was a bright smile and
a decided negative; whereupon Raymond breathed more freely.
"Nay; I trow we have priests and monks enow, holy and pious men as they
are. It has often been asked of me if I will not follow in the steps of
my good uncle here; but I have never felt the wish. It seems to me that
the habit of the monk or the cassock of the priest too often seems to
separate betwixt him and his fellow man, and that it were not good for
the world for all its holiest men to don that habit and divide
themselves from their brethren. Sir Galahad's spotless heart beat
beneath his silver armour. Would he have been to story and romance the
star and pattern he now is had he donned the monkish vesture and turned
his armed quest into a friar's pilgrimage?"
"Nay, verily not."
"I think with thee, and therefore say I, Let not all those who would
fain lead the spotless life think to do so by withdrawing from the
world. Rather let them carry about the spotless heart beneath the coat
of mail or the gay habit. Their quest need not be the less exalted --"
"But what is that quest to be?" cried Raymond eagerly; "that is what I
fain would know. Good John, give me some task to perform. What wouldst
thou do thyself in my place?"
"Thou wouldst laugh were I to tell thee."
"Try me and see."
"I will. If I were sound and whole tomorrow, I should forth into the
forest whence we came, and I should seek and find that aged woodman, who
seemed so sorely bowed down with sorrow, and I should bid him unfold his
tale to me, and see if in any wise I might help him. He is poor,
helpless, wretched, and by the words he spoke, I knew that he had
suffered heavy sorrow. Perchance that sorrow might be alleviated could
one but know the story of it. His face has haunted my fevered dreams. To
me it seems as though perchance this were an errand of mercy sent to me
to do. Deeds of knightly prowess I trow will never now be mine. It must
be enough for me to show my chivalry by acts of love and care for the
helpless, the sorrowful, the oppressed."
Raymond's eyes suddenly glowed. Something of the underlying poetry of
the thought struck an answering chord in his heart, though the words
themselves had been plain and bald enough.
"I will perform that task for thee, good John," he said. "I well
remember the place, ay, and the old man and his sorrowful mien. I will
thither tomorrow, and will bring thee word again. If he may be helped by
any act of mine, be assured that act shall not be lacking."
John pressed his comrade's hand and thanked him; but Raymond little knew
to what this quest, of apparently so little moment, was to lead, nor
what a link it was to form with the story of the lost inheritance of
Basildene.