Richard was very happy here. There was something of the same charm as in modern days is experienced in staying at a college. The brethren were thorough monks in religious observance, but they were also high-bred nobles, and had seen many wild adventures, and hard- fought battles, and moreover, had entertained in turn almost every variety of pilgrim who had visited the Holy Land; so that none could have been found who had more of interest to tell, or more friendly hospitable kindness towards their guests. Richard was a favourite there, not only as a friend of Reginald Ferrers, but as acquainted with the Grand Prior, Sir Robert Darcy, whose memory was still green in Palestine. Tales of his feats of mighty strength still lingered at Acre; how he had held together, by his single arm, the gates of a house in the retreat from Damietta, against a whole troop of Mamelukes, until every Christian had left it on the other side, and then had slowly followed them, not a Moslem daring to attack him; how he had borne off wounded knights on his back, and on sultry marches would load himself with the armour of any one who was exhausted, and never fail to declare it was exactly what he liked best! More than once it had been intimated that Richard de Montfort would be gladly accepted as a brother of the Order; and he often thought over the offer, but not only was he unwilling to separate himself from the Prince, but he felt it needful at any rate to return to England to judge of the condition of his brother Henry, ere becoming one of an Order where he could no longer dispose of himself.

He was resolved never to quit the Prince till he had seen him beyond the reach of any machination of his brother's, nor indeed was it easy to think of parting at all, for Edward, who had relaxed all coldness of manner towards him ever since the affair at Trapani, had now become warmly affectionate and confidential. The Prince was still far from having regained his usual health, his arm was still in a scarf, and was often painful, and the least exposure to the sun brought on violent headache, which some attributed to the poison in the scratch on his forehead, but the Hospitaliers, more reasonably, ascribed to a slight sun-stroke. Their character of infirmarers rendered them especially considerate hosts, and they never overwhelmed their guest with the stiff formalities of courtesy for his rank's sake, but allowed him to follow his inclination, and this led him to spend great part of his time in a pavilion, a thoroughly Eastern erection, which stood in the garden, at the top of the white marble steps leading to a fountain of delicious sparkling water, and sheltered from the sun by the dark solid horizontal branches of a noble Cedar of Lebanon, which tradition connected with the visit of the Empress Helena. Here, lying upon mats placed on the steps, the convalescent Prince would rest for hours, sometimes holding converse with the Grand Master, or counsel with his visitors from the camp; but more often in the dreamy repose of recovery, silent or talking to Richard of matters that lay deep within his heart; but which, perhaps, nothing but this softening species of waking dream would have drawn from him. He would dwell on those two hero models of his boyhood, so diverse, yet so closely connected together by their influence upon his character, Louis of France, and Simon of Leicester; and of the impression both had left, that judgment, mercy, faith, and the subject's welfare, were the primary duties of a sovereign—an idea only now and then glimpsed by the feudal sovereigns, who thought that the people lived for them rather than they for the people. And when, as in England, the King's good-nature had been abused by swarms of foreign-born relations, who had not even his claims on the people, no wonder the yoke had been galling beyond endurance. Of the end Edward could not bear to think—of the broken friendships—the enmity of kindred—the faults on either side that had embittered the strife, till he had been forced to become the sword in the hands of the royal party to liberate his father—and with consequences that had so far out-run his powers of controlling them. To make England the land of law, peace, and order, that Simon de Montfort would fain have seen it, was his present aspiration; and then, he said, when all was purified at home, it might yet be permitted to him to return and win back the Holy City, Jerusalem, to the Christian world. In the meantime, as a memorial of this, his earnest longing, he was causing, at great expense and labour, one of the huge stones of the Temple to be transported over the hills, and embarked on board a ship, to carry home with him. Richard, meantime, learnt to know and love his Prince with a more devoted love, if that were possible, and to grieve the more at the persistent hatred of his brothers, who, utterly uncomprehending their father's high purposes themselves, sought blindly to slake their vengeance for the ruin they had themselves provoked, and upon one who mourned him far more truly than they could ever do.

A few days had thus passed, when Richard was one day called by his friend, Sir Raynald, into the Infirmary, to speak a few kind words to a dying English pilgrim, who had come from his native country, and confided to him his dearly-purchased palm and scallop shell, to be conveyed to his aged mother.

As Richard was passing along the great lofty chamber, two rows of beds were arranged; one of the patients rather hastily, as it seemed to him, enveloped himself in his coverlet, leaving nothing visible but a great black patch which seemed to cover the whole side of his face.

"That is a strange varlet," said Raynald, as they passed him; "it is an old wound that the patch covers, not what has brought him here; and what the nature of his ailment may be, not one of our infirmarers can make out; his tongue is purple, and he hath such strange shiverings and contortions in all his limbs, that they are at their wits' end, and some hold that he must have undergone some sorcery in his passage through the Infidel domains."

"He came from the East, then?" asked Richard.

"Yea, verily. We have many more sick among the returning than the out-going pilgrims."

"And what is his nation?"

"Nay; all the scanty words he hath spoken have been in Lingua Franca, and he hath been in such trances and trembling fits that it hath not been easy to question him. Nor is it our custom to trouble a pilgrim with inquiries."

"How did he enter?" said Richard.

"Brother Antonio found him yester-eve cast down, gasping for breath, by the gate of the Hospital, just able to entreat for the love of St. John to be admitted. He had all the tokens of a pilgrim about him, and seemed better at first, walked lustily to bath and bed, and did not show himself helpless; but I much suspect his disease is the work of the Arch Enemy, for he is always at his worst if one of our Brethren in full orders comes near him. You saw how he cowered and hid himself when I did but pass through the hall. I shall speak to the Preceptor, and see if it were not best to try what exorcism will do."

There was something in all this that made Richard vaguely uneasy. After the recent attack upon the Prince, he suspected all that he did not fully understand; and though in the guarded precincts of the Hospital he had once dismissed his anxiety, it returned upon him in redoubled force. He thought of Nick Dustifoot, but that worthy was of a uniform tint of whitey brown, skin, hair and all; and Richard had assured himself that the strange patient had black hair and a brown skin, but that was all that he could guess at. The exorcism would, however, be an effectual means of disclosing the "myster wight's" person, and it sometimes included measures so strong, that few pretences could hold out against them. But it was too serious and complicated a ceremony to be got up at short notice; and when they met in the Refectory for supper, Raynald told Richard that the Grand Master intended to make a personal inspection next day, before deciding on using his spiritual weapons.

"And then!" cried John of Dunster, dancing round, "you will let me be there! Pray, good Father, let me be there! Oh, I hope there will be a rare smell of brimstone, and the foul fiend will come out with huge claws, and a forked tail. I don't care to see him if he only comes out like a black crow; I can see crows enough in the trees at Dunster."

"Peace, John; this is no place for idle talk," said Richard gravely. "Stand aside, here comes the Prince."

The Prince had spent a fatiguing day over the terms of the ten years, ten months, ten weeks, ten days, ten hours, and ten minutes' truce with the Emir of Joppa; he ate little, and after the meal, took Richard's arm, and craved leave from the Grand Master to seek the fresh air beneath the cedar tree. And when there, he could not endure the return to the closeness of his own apartment, but declared his intention of sleeping in the pavilion. He dismissed his attendants, saying he needed no one but Richard, who, since his illness, had always slept upon cushions at his feet.

Where was Richard?

He presently appeared, carrying on one arm a mantle, and over the other shoulder the Prince's immense two-handled sword; while his own sword was in his belt. Leonillo followed him.

"How now!" said Edward, "are we to have a joust? Dost look for phantom Saracens out of yonder fountain, such as my Dona tells me rise out of the fair wells in Castille, wring their hands and pray for baptism?"

"You said your hand should keep your head, my Lord," said Richard; "this is but a lone place."

"What! amid all the guards of the good Fathers! Well, old comrade," as he took his sword in his right hand; "I am glad to handle thee once more, and I hope soon to grasp thee as I am wont, with both hands. Lay it down, Richard. There—thanks—that is well. I wonder what my father would have thought if one of his many crusading vows had led him hither. Should we ever have had him back again? How well this dreamy leisure would have suited him! It would almost make a troubadour of a rough warrior like me. See the towers and pinnacles against the sky, and the lights within the windows—and the stars above like lamps of gold, and the moonshine sparkling on the bubbles of the water, ever floating off, yet ever in the same place. Were the good old man here, how peacefully would he sing, and pray, and dream, free from debts, parliament and barons. Ah! had his kinsmen let him keep his vow, it had been happier for us all."

So mused the Prince, and with a weary smile resigned himself to rest.

But Richard was too full of vague uneasiness to sleep. He could not dismiss from his mind the thought of the unknown pilgrim, and was resolved to relax no point of vigilance until the full investigation should have satisfied him that his fears were unfounded. He had been accustomed to watching and broken rest during the Prince's illness, and though he durst not pace up and down for fear of disturbing the sleeper—nay, could hardly venture a movement—he strained his eyes into the twilight, and told his beads fervently; but sleep hung on him like a spell, and even while sitting upright there were strange dreams before him, and one that he had had before, though with a variation. It was the field of Evesham once more; but this time the strange pilgrim rose in his dark wrappings before him, and suddenly developed into that same shadowy form of his father, who again struck him on the shoulder with his sword, and dubbed him again "The Knight of Death."

Hark! there was a growl from Leonillo; a footstep, a dark figure—the pilgrim himself! Richard shouted aloud, grasped at his sword, and flung himself forward.

"Montfort's vengeance!" The sound rang in his ears as a sharp pang thrilled through his side; the hot blood welled up, and he was dashed to the ground; but even in falling he heard the Prince's "What treason is this?" and felt the rising of the mighty form. At the same moment the murderer was in the grasp of that strong right hand, and was dragged forward into the full light of the lamp that hung from the roof of the pavilion.

"Thou!" he gasped. "Who—what?"

"Richard!" exclaimed the Prince, and relaxing his hold, "Simon de Montfort, thou hast slain thy brother!"

The sudden shock and awe had overwhelmed Simon, who was indeed weaponless, since his dagger remained in Richard's wound. He silently assisted the Prince in lifting Richard to the cushions of the couch, and the low groan convinced them that he lived: looked anxiously for the wound. The dagger had gone deep between the ribs, and little but the haft could be seen.

"Poisoned?" Edward asked, looking up at Simon.

"No. It failed once. He may live," said Simon, with bent brows and folded arms.

"No, no. My death-blow!" gasped Richard, with sobbing breath. "Best so, if—Oh, could I but speak!"

The Prince raised him, supporting his head on his own broad breast and shoulder, and signed to Simon to hold to his lips the cup of water that stood near. Richard slightly revived, and in this posture breathed more easily.

"He might yet live. Call speedy aid!" said the Prince, who seemed to have utterly forgotten that he was practically alone with his persevering and desperate enemy.

"Wait! Oh, wait!" cried Richard, holding out his hand; "it would be vain; but it will be all joy did I but know that there will be no more of this. Simon, he loved my father—he has spared thee again and again."

"Simon," said the Prince, "for this dear youth's sake and thy father's, I raise no hand against thee. Bitter wrong has been done to thy house, by what persons, and how provoked, it skills not now to ask. Twice thy fury has fallen on the guiltless. Enough blood has been shed. Let there be peace henceforth."

Simon stood moody, with folded arms, and Richard groaned, and essayed to speak.

"Peace, boy," tenderly said Edward; "and thou, Simon, hear me. I loved thy father, and knew the upright noble spirit that arrayed him against us. Heaven is my witness that I would have given my life to have been able to save him on yon wretched battle-field. But he fell in fair fight, in helm and corselet, like a good knight. Peace be with him! Surely in this land of pardon and redemption his son and nephew may cease to seek one another's blood for his sake! Cheer thy brother by letting him feel his brave deed hath not been fruitless. Free thou shalt go—do what thou wilt; no word of mine shall betray that this deed is thine."

"Lay aside thy purpose," entreated Richard. "Bind him by oath, my Lord."

"Nay," said the Prince. "Here, on foreign soil, the strife lies between the cousins, the sons of Henry and of Eleanor; and if Simon must needs still slake his revenge in my blood, he may have better success another time. Or, so soon as I can wear my armour again, I offer him a fair combat in the lists, man to man; better so than staining his soul with privy murder—but I had far rather that it should be peace between us—and that thou shouldst see it." And Edward, still supporting Richard on his breast, held out his right hand to Simon, adding, "Let not thy brother's blood be shed in vain."

Richard made a gesture of agonized entreaty.

"My father—my father!" he said. "He forgave—he hated blood; Simon, didst but know—"

"I see," said Simon impatiently, "that Heaven and earth alike are set against my purpose. Fear not for his days, Richard, they are safe from me, and here is my hand upon it."

The tone was sullen and grudging, and Richard looked scarcely comforted; but the Prince was in haste that he should be succoured at once, and even while receiving Simon's unwilling hand, said, "We lose time. Speed near enough to the Spital to be heard, and shout for aid. Then seek thine own safety. I will say no more of thy share in this matter."

Simon lingered one moment. "Boy," he said, "I told thee thou wast over like him. Live, live if thou canst! Alas! I had thought to make surer work this time; but thou dost pardon me the mischance?"

"More than pardon—thank thee—since he is safe," whispered Richard, and as Simon bent over him the boy crossed his brow, and returned a look of absolute joy.

Simon sped away; and the Prince, when left alone with Richard, put no restraint upon the warmth of his feelings, and his tears fell fast and freely.

"Boy, boy," he said; "I little thought thou wast to bear what was meant for me!" And then, with tenderness that would have seemed foreign to his nature, he inquired into the pain that Richard was suffering, tried to make his position more easy, and lamented that he could not venture to draw out the weapon until the leeches should come.

"It has been my best hope," said Richard; "and now that it should have been thus. With your goodness I have nothing—nothing to wish. Sir Raynald will be here—I have only my charge for Henry to give him—and poor Leonillo!"

"I will bear thy charges to Henry," said the Prince. "Nor shall he think thou didst betray his secret. I will watch over him so far as he will let me, and do all I may for his child. Yet it may be thou wilt still return. I hear the stir in the House. They will be here anon. Thou must live, Richard, my friend, where I have few friends. I thought to have knighted thee, boy, when thou hadst won fame. Oh, would that I had shown thee more of my love while it was time!"

"All, all I hoped or longed for I have," murmured Richard. "If you see Henry, my Lord, bear him my greetings—and to poor Adam—yea, and my mother. Oh! would that I could make them all know your kindness and my joy—that it should be thus!"

By this time the whole Hospital was astir, and the knights and lay brethren came flocking out in consternation and dread of finding their royal host himself murdered within their cloisters.

Great was the confusion, and eager the search for the assassin, while others crowded round the Prince, who still would not give up his post of supporting the sufferer in his arms, while a few moments' examination convinced the experienced infirmarers that the wound was mortal, and that the extraction of the dagger would but hasten death, which could not be other than very near. Indeed, Richard already spoke with such difficulty that only the Prince's ear could detect his entreaty that Raynald Ferrers might act as his priest. Raynald was already near, only withheld by the crowd of knights of higher degree who had thronged before him. Richard looked up to him with a face that in all its mortal agony seemed to ask congratulation. The power of making confession was gone, and when Raynald would have offered to take him in his own arms, both he and the Prince showed disinclination to the move. So thus they still remained, while the young knightly priest spoke the words of Absolution, and then, across the solemn darkness of the garden, amid the light of tapers, the Host was borne from the Chapel, while the low subdued chant of the brethren swelled up through the night air. Poor little John of Dunster, with his arms round Leonillo's neck, to keep him from disturbing his master, knelt, sobbing as though his heart would break, but trying to stifle the sounds as the priest's voice came grave and full on the silent air, responded to by the gathered tones of the brethren: the fountain bubbled on, and the wakening birds began to stir in the trees.

Once more Richard opened his eyes, looked up at his Prince, and smiled. That smile remained while Edward kissed his brow with fervour, laid him down on the cushions, and rising to his feet, bowed his head to the Grand Master, but did not even strive to speak, and gravely walked across the cloister, with a slow though steady step, to his own chamber. No one saw him again till the sun was high, when, with looks as composed as ever, he went forth to lay his page's head in the grave, and thence visit and calm the fears of his Princess.

Search had everywhere been made for the assassin, but no traces of him were found. Only the strange pilgrim had vanished in the confusion; and the Prince never contradicted the Grand Master in his indignation that a Moslem hound should have assumed such a disguise.



CHAPTER XIII—THE BEGGAR AND THE PRINCE



"This favour only, that thou would'st stand out of my sunshine." DIOGENES.

It was the last week of August, 1274, the morrow of the most splendid coronation that England had ever beheld, either for the personal qualities and appearance of the sovereigns, or for the magnificence of the adornments, and the bounteous feasting of multitudes.

A whole fortnight of entertainments to rich and poor had been somewhat exhausting, even to the guests; and the suburbs of London wore an unusually sleepy and quiescent appearance in the hot beams of the August sun. Bethnal Green lay very silent, parched, and weary, not even enlivened by its usual gabbling flocks of geese, all of whom, poor things! except the patriarchal gander, and one or two of his ladies, had gone to the festival—but to return no more!

One of those who had been in the midst of the pageant, and had returned unscathed, was Blind Hal of Bethnal Green. Many a coin had gone into his scrip—uncontested king of the beggars as he was; many a savoury morsel had been conveyed to him and his child by his admiring brethren of the wallet; with many a gibing scoff had he driven from the field presuming mendicants, not of his own fraternity; and with half-bitter, half-amused remarks, had he listened to the rapturous descriptions of the splendours of king, queen, and their noble suite. And pretty Bessee had clung fast to his hand, and discreetly guided him through every maze of the crowd, with the strange dexterity of a child bred up in throngs. And now tired out with the long-continued festivities, the beggar sat in front of his hut, basking in the sun, and more than half asleep; while Bessee, her lap full of heather-blossoms and long bents of grass, was endeavouring to weave herself chains, bracelets, and coronals, in imitation of those which had recently dazzled her eyes.

She had just encircled her dark auburn locks with a garland of purple heather, studded here and there with white or gold, when, starting upon her little bare but delicately clean pink feet, she laid her hand on her father's lap, and said, "Father, hark! I see two of the good red monks coming!"

"Well, child; and wherefore waken me? They are after their own affairs, I trow. Moreover, I hear no horses' feet."

"They are not riding," said Bessee; "and they are walking this way. They have a dog, too! Oh, such a gallant glorious dog, father! Ah," cried she joyfully, "'tis the good Father Grand Prior!" and she was about to start forward, but the blind man's ear could now distinguish the foot-falls; and holding her fast, he almost gasped—"And the other, child—who is he?"

"No knight at our Spital! A stranger, father. So tall, so tall! His mantle hardly reaches his knee his robe leaves his ankles bare. O father, they are coming. Let me go to meet dear good Father Robert! But what—Oh, is the fit coming? Father Robert will stop it!"

"Hush thy prattle," said the beggar, clutching her fast, and listening as one all ear; and by this time the two knights were close at hand, the taller holding the dog, straining in a leash, while the good Grand Prior spoke. "How fares it with thee, friend? And thou, my pretty one? No mishaps among the throng?"

"None," returned Hal; "though the King and his suite DID let loose five hundred chargers in the crowd at their dismounting, to trample down helpless folk, and be caught by rogues. Largesse they called it! Fair and convenient largesse—easily providing for those that received it!"

"No harm was done," briefly but sharply exclaimed the strange knight; and the blind man, who had, as little Bessee at least perceived, been turning his acute ear in that direction all the time he had been speaking, now let his features light up with sudden perception.

But Sir Robert Darcy, thinking that he only now became aware of the stranger's presence, said, "A knight is here from the East, who brings thee tidings, my son."

Sir Robert would have said more, but the beggar standing up, cut him short, by saying, "So, cousin, you have yet to learn the vanity of disguises and feignings towards a blind man."

"Nay, fair cousin," was the answer, "my feigning was not towards you; but I doubted me whether you would have the world see me visit you in my proper character. Will not you give me a hand, Henry?"

"First say to me," said Henry, embracing with his maimed arm his staff, planted in front of him defiantly, and still holding tight his little daughter in his hand, "what brings you here to break into the peace of the poor remnant of a man you have left?"

"I come," said Edward patiently, "to fulfil my last—my parting promise, to one who loved us both—and gave his life for me."

"Loved you, ay! and well enough to betray me to you!" said Henry bitterly.

"No, Henry de Montfort, ten thousand times no!" said Edward. "I would maintain in the lists the honour and loyalty of my Richard towards you and me and all others. His faithfulness to you brought him into peril of death and disgrace in the wretched matter of poor Henry of Almayne; and he would have met both rather than have broken his faith."

"Then," said Henry, still with the same mocking tone, "how was it that my worthless existence became known to his Grace?"

"I knew of your having vanished from Evesham Abbey," returned Edward: "and thus knowing, I understood a letter, the writing of which had brought suspicion on Richard, and which was brought back to me when we were seeking into—"

"Into the deed of Simon and Guy," said Henry. "Poor Henry! It was a foul crime; and Father Robert can bear me witness that I did penance for it, when that kindly heart of his was laid in St. Peter's Abbey."

"Then, Henry, thou own'st thy kinship to us still," said Edward earnestly. Give me thine hand, man, and let me embrace my lovely little kinswoman—a queen in her trappings. Ah, Henry! Heaven hath dealt lovingly with thee in sparing thee thy child!"

"You have children left!" said Henry quickly, and not withholding a hand—which, be it remarked, was as delicately shaped and well kept as that which took it.

Twice had the beggar received a dole at Westminster at the obsequies of Edward's little sons; yea, though he and all his brethren of the dish had all the winter before had alms given them to purchase their prayers for the health of the last.

"Three—but three out of six," answered Edward; "nor dare I reckon on the life of the frail babe that England hailed yesterday as my heir. I sometimes deem that the blight of broken covenants has fallen on my sons."

"They were none of your breaking," said Henry.

"Say'st thou so!" exclaimed Edward, looking up, with the animation of a man hearing an acquittal from a quarter whose sincerity he could thoroughly trust.

But Henry made no courtly answer. "Pshaw! no living man that had to deal with or for your father could keep a covenant. You were but the spear-point of the broken reed, good cousin; and we pitied and excused you accordingly."

"Your father did," said Edward hoarsely. He could brook pity from the great Simon better than from the blind beggar.

"Ay, marry, that did he," returned Henry, "as he closed his visor that last morn, after looking out on that wild Welsh border scum that my fair brother-in-law had marshalled against us. 'By the arm of St. James,' said he, 'if Edward take not heed, that rascaille will deal with us in a way that will be worse for him than for us!'"

"A true foreboding," said the King. "Henry, do thou come and be with me. All are gone! Scarce a face that I left in England has welcomed me on my return. Come, thou, in what guise thou wilt—earl, counsellor, or bedesman—only be with me, and speak to me thy father's words."

"Who—I, my Lord?" returned Henry. "I am no man to speak my father's words! They flew high over my head, and were only caught by grave youths such as yourself. I, who was never trusted with so much as a convoy. No, no; all the counsel I shall ever give, is to the beggars, which coat-of-arms is like to rain clipped silver, and which honest round penny pieces! Poor Richard! he bore the best brain of us all, and might have served your purpose. Sit down, and tell me of the lad.—Bessee, little one, bring out the joint-stool for the holy Father."

And Henry de Montfort made way on the rude bench outside his hut, with all the ease and courtesy of the Earl of Leicester receiving his kinsman the King. But meantime, the dog, which had been straining in the leash, held by Edward throughout the conference, leapt forward, and vehemently solicited the beggar's caresses. "Ah, Leonillo!" he said, recognizing him at once, "thou hast lost thy master! Poor dog! thou art the one truly loyal to thy master's blood!"

"It was Richard's charge to take him to thee," said Edward: "but if he be burdensome to thee, I would gladly cherish him, or would commit him to faithful Gourdon, with whom he might be happier. Since he lost his master the poor hound hath much pined away, and will take food from none but me, or little John of Dunster."

Leonillo, however, who seemed to have an unfailing instinct for a Montfort, was willingly accepting the eager and delighted attentions of the little girl; though he preferred those of her father, and cowered down beneath his hand, with depressed ears and gently waving tail, as though there were something in the touch and voice that conferred what was as near bliss as the faithful creature could enjoy without his deity and master.

Meantime, the Grand Prior discreetly removed his joint-stool out of hearing of the two cousins, and called the little maid to rehearse to him the Credo and Ave, with their English equivalents—a task that pretty Bessee highly disapproved after the fortnight's dissipation, and would hardly have performed for one less beloved of children than Father Robert.

The good Grand Prior knew that the King would have much to say that would beseem no ear save his kinsman's; and in effect Edward told what none besides would ever hear respecting the true author of the attempts on his own life.

"Spiteful fox. Such Simon ever was!" was the beggar's muttered comment. "Well that he knows not of my poor child! So, cousin, thou hast kept his counsel," he added in a different tone. "I thank thee in the name of Montfort and Leicester. It was well and nobly done."

And Henry de Montfort held out his hand with the dignity of head of the family whose honour Edward had shielded.

"It was for thy father's sake and Richard's," said Edward, receiving the acknowledgment as it was meant.

"Ah, well," said Henry, relapsing into his usual half-scoffing tone; "in that boy our Montfort blood seems to have run clear of the taint it got from the she-fiend of Anjou."

"Thy share was from a mocking fiend!" returned the King.

"Ay, and a fair portion it is!" said the beggar. "My jest and my song have borne me through more than my sword and spurs ever did—and have been more to me than English earldom or French county. Poor Richard!" he added with feeling; "I told him his was the bondage and mine the freedom!"

"Alas! I fear that so it was," said Edward. "My favour only embittered his foes. Had I known how it would end, I had never taken him to me; but my heart yearned to my uncle's goodly son."

"Maybe it is well," said Henry. "Had the boy grown up verily like my father, thou and he might have fallen out; or if not—why, you knights and nobles ride in miry bloody ways, and 'tis a wonder if even the best of you does not bring his harness home befouled and besmirched—not as shining bright as he took it out. Well, what didst thou with the poor lad? Cut him in fragments? You mince your best loved now as fine as if they were traitors."

"No," said Edward; "the boy lies sleeping in the Church of St. John, at Acre. I rose from my sickbed that I might lay him in his grave as a brother. Lights burn round him, and masses are said; and the brethren were left in charge to place his effigy on his tomb, in carven stone. One day I trust to see it. My brother Alexander of Scotland, Llewellyn of Wales, and I, have sworn to one another to bring all within these four seas into concord and good order; and then we may look for such a blessing on our united arms as may bear us onward to Jerusalem! Then come with us, Henry, and let us pray together at Richard's grave."

"I may safely promise," said Henry, smiling, "if this same Crusade is to be when peace and order are within the four seas. Moreover, thou wilt have ruined my trade by that time!"

"Nay, Henry, cease fooling. See—if thou wilt not be thyself, I will find thee a lodge in any park of mine. None shall know who thou art; but thou shalt have free range, and—"

"And weary of my life! No, no, cousin. I am in thy power now; and thou canst throw me into prison as the attainted Lord de Montfort. Do so if thou wilt; but I were fooling indeed to give up my free range, my power, my authority, to be a poor suspected, pitied, maimed pensioner on thy bounty. Park, quotha! with none to speak to from morn to night. I can have my will of any park of thine I please, whenever I choose!"

Edward would have persisted, but Henry silenced him effectually, with a sarcastic hint that his favours had done little for Richard. Then the King prayed at least that he would consider his child; but to the proposal of taking her to the palace, Henry returned an indignant negative: "He had seen enough of the court ladies," he said.

A hot glow of anger lighted Edward's cheek, for he loved his mother; but the blind beggar could not be the subject of his wrath, and he merely said, "Thou didst not know my wife!"

"Ay, I will believe the court as perfect as thou thinkest to make the isle; but Bessee shall not bide there. She is the blind beggar's child, and such shall she remain. Send me to a dungeon, as I said, and thou canst pen her in a convent, or make her a menial to thy princesses, as thou wilt; but while my life and my freedom are my own I keep my child."

"I could find it in my heart to arrest thee," said Edward, "when I look at that beautiful child, and think to what thou wouldst bring her."

"She is fair then," said the beggar eagerly.

"Fair! She is the loveliest child mine eyes have looked on: though some of mine own have been very lovely. But she hath the very features of our royal line—though with eyes deep and dark, like thy father's, or my Richard's—and a dark glow of sunny health on her fair skin. She bears her, too, right royally. Henry, thou canst not wreck the fate of a child like that."

"No, assuredly," said Henry dryly. "I have not done so ill by her hitherto, by thine own showing, that I should not be trusted with her for the future."

"The parting would be bitter," began Edward "but thou shouldst see her often."

"Slay me, and make her a ward of the crown," said Henry. "Otherwise I will need no man's leave for seeing my daughter. But ask her. If she will go with thee, I will say no more."

King Edward was fond of children—most indulgent to his own, and kind to all little ones, who, attracted by the sweetness which his stern, grave, beautiful countenance would assume when he looked at them— always made friends with him readily. So he trusted to this fascination in the case of the little Lady Elizabeth. He held out his hands to her, and claimed her as his cousin; and she came readily to him, and stood between his knees. "Little cousin, he said, "wilt thou come home with me, to be with my two little maids, the elder much of thine age?"

"You are a red monk!" said Bessee, amazed.

"That's his shell, Bessee," said her father; "he has come a-masking, and forgot his part."

"I don't like masking," said Bessee, trying to get away.

"Then we will mask no more," said Edward. "Thou hast looked in my face long enough with those great black eyes. Dost know me, child?"

Bessee cast the black eyes down, and coloured.

"Dost know me?" he repeated.

"I think," she whispered at last, "that you are masking still. You are like—like the King that was crowned at the Abbey."

"Well said, little maid! And shall I take thee home, and give thee pearls and emeralds to braid thy locks, instead of these heath- bells?"

"Father," said Bessee, trying to withdraw her little hands out of Edward's large one, which held both fast. "O father, is he masking still?"

"No, child; it is the King indeed," said Henry. "Hear what he saith to thee."

And again Edward spoke of all that would tempt a child.

"Father," said Bessee, "if father comes!"

"No, Bessee," said her father; "I have done with palaces. No places they for blind beggars."

"Oh, let me go! let me go!" cried Bessee, struggling. And as the King released her hands, she flew to her father. "He would lose himself without me! I must be with father. O King, go away! Father, don't let him take me! Let me cry for Jock of the Wooden Spoon, and Trig One Leg, and Hedgerow Wat!"

"Hush, hush, Bess!" said Henry, not desirous that his royal cousin should understand the strength of his body-guard of honour. "The King here is as trusty and loyal as the boldest beggar among us. He only gave thee thy choice between him and me!"

"Thee, thee, father. He can't want me. He has two eyes and two hands, and a queen and two little girls; and thou hast only me!" and she clung round her father's neck.

"Little one," said Edward, "thou need'st not shrink from me. I will not take thee away. Thy father hath a treasure, and 'tis his part to strive not to throw it away. Only should either thou or he ever condescend so far as to seek for counsel with this poor cousin of thine, send this token to me, and I will be with thee."

But it was full nine years ere Edward saw that jewel again. Meantime he was not entirely without knowledge of his kinsman. On every great occasion the figure, conspicuous for the scrupulous cleanliness of the dark russet gown, and the careful arrangement of the hair and beard, and the fillet which covered the eyes, as well as for a lordly bearing, that even the stoop of blindness could not disguise, was to be seen dominating over all the other beggars, sitting on the steps of church or palace gates, as if they had been a throne; troubling himself little to beg, but exchanging shrewd remarks with all who addressed him, and raising many a laugh among the bystanders. Leonillo lay contented at his feet; but after just enough time had elapsed to show that he cared not for the King's remonstrance, he ceased to be accompanied by his little daughter, and was led by a boy in her stead.

The King, making inquiries of the Grand Prior, learnt that pretty Bessee was daily deposited at the sisterhood of Poor Clares, where she remained while her father was out on his begging expeditions, and learnt such breeding as convents then gave.

"In sooth," said Sir Robert, "honest Hal believes it is all for good- will and charity and love to the pretty little wench; and so it is in great part: but methought it best to give a hint to the mother prioress that the child came of good blood. She is a discreet lady, and knows how to deal with her; and truly she tells me their house has prospered since the little one came to them. Every feast-day morn have they found their alms-dish weightier with coin than ever she knew it before."

When Edward repeated this intelligence to his queen, she recollected Dame Idonea's gossiping information—that brave Sir Robert, the flower of the House of Darcy, had only entered the Order of St. John, when fair Alda Braithwayte, in the strong enthusiasm of the Franciscan preaching, had pleaded a vow of virginity against all suitors, and had finally become a Sister of the Poor Clares. And after all his wars and wanderings, the regulations of his Order had ended by bringing the Hospitalier in his old age into the immediate neighbourhood of Prioress Alda; and into that distant business intercourse that the heads of religious houses had from time to time to carry on together.

The world passed on. Eleanor de Montfort came from France, and the King himself acted the part of a father to her at her marriage with Llewellyn of Wales. He knew—though she little guessed—that the beggar, by whom her jewelled train swept with rustling sound, was the first-born of her father's house, and should have held her hand. Two years only did that marriage last; Eleanor died, leaving an infant daughter; and Llewellyn soon after was in arms against the English. Perhaps Edward bethought him of his cousin's ironical promise to go with him to the East after the pacification of the whole island, when he found himself obliged to summon the fierce Pyrenean to pursue the wild Welsh in their mountains.



CHAPTER XIV—THE QUEEN OF THE DEW-DROPS



"This is the prettiest low-born lass that ever Ran on a green sward." —Winter's Tale.

It was the summer of 1283; the babe of Carnarvon had been accepted as the native prince, speaking no tongue but Welsh, and Edward had since been employed in establishing his dominion over Wales. His Whitsuntide was kept by the Queen's special entreaty at St. Winifred's Well. Such wonders had been told her of the miracles wrought by this favourite Welsh saint, that she hoped that by early placing her little Welsh-born son under such protection, she might secure for him healthier and longer life than had been the share of his brethren.

So to Holy-well went the court and army. Some lodged in the convent attached to the well; but many and many more dwelt in tents, or lodged in cottages, or raised huts of boughs of trees. Noble ladies of Eleanor's suite were glad to obtain a lodging in rude Welsh huts; and as the weather was beautiful, there was plenty of gay feasting, dancing, and jousting on the greensward, when the religious observances of the day were over. Pilgrims thronged from all parts, attracted both by the presence of the court and the unusual tranquillity of Wales; and for nearly a mile around the Holy-well it was like one great motley fair, resorted to by persons of all stations. Beggars of course were there in numbers, and among them the unfailing blind beggar of Bethnal Green, who always made a pilgrimage in the summer to some station of easy access from London, but whom some wondered to see at such a distance.

"Had he scented that the court was coming?" asked the young nobles.

"Not he; he never haunted courts. He would have kept away had he known that such a gabbling flock of popinjays were on the wing thither!"

But the young gallants were chiefly bent on speculating on the vision of loveliness that had flashed on the eyes of some early visitants at the well. A maiden in a dark pilgrim dress, and broad hat, which, however, could not entirely conceal a glowing complexion, at once rich and pure; perfect features, magnificent dark eyes and hair, and a tall form, which, though very youthful, was of unmistakable dignity and grace. She was always at the well exceedingly early in the morning, moving slowly round it on her beautiful bare feet, and never looking up from the string of dark beads—the larger ones of amber, which she held in her fingers—as her lips conned over the prayers connected with each. No ring was on the delicate hand, no ear-ring in the ear; there was no ornament in the dress, but such a garb was wont to be assumed by ladies of any rank when performing a vow; and its simplicity at once enhanced her beauty, and added to the general curiosity. Between four and six in the dewy freshness of morning seemed to be her time for devotion; and though the habits of the court were early, it was only the first astir who caught a sight of this Queen of the Dew-drops, as it was the fashion to call her. Late comers never caught sight of her, and affected incredulity when the younger and more active knights and squires raved about her. Then it was reported that the King himself had been seen speaking to her; and thereupon excitement grew the more intense, because Edward's exclusive devotion to his Queen had been such, that from his youth up the most determined scandal had never found a wandering glance to note in him.

She was the Princess of France—of Navarre—of Aragon—in disguise; nay, at the Whit-Sunday banquet there were those who cast anxious glances to the door, expecting that, in the very land of King Arthur, she would walk in like his errant dames at Pentecost, to demand a champion. And when a joust was given on the sward, young Sir John de Mohun, the Lord of Dunster, announced his intention of tilting in honour of no one save the Queen of the Dew-drops. The ladies of the court were rather scandalized, and appealed to the King whether the choice of an unknown girl, of no acknowledged rank, should be permitted; but the King, strict punctilious man as he was, only laughed, and adjudged the Queen of the Dew-drops to be fully worthy of the honour.

After this, early rising became the fashion of Holy-well. All the gentlemen got up early to look at the Queen of the Dew-drops; and all the ladies got up early to see that the gentlemen did not get into mischief; and the maiden's devotions became far from solitary; but she moved on, with a sort of superb unconcern, never lifting the dark fringes that veiled the eyes so steadily fixed on the beads that dropped through her fingers, until, as she finished, she raised up her head with a straightforward fearless look at the way she was going, so completely self-possessed that no one ventured to accost her, and to follow her at less than such a respectful distance, that she was always lost sight of in the wood.

At last, late one evening, there was a sudden start of exultant satisfaction among some of the young men who were lounging on the green; for the most part not the nobles of the court, but certain young merchants of London and Bristol, who had followed the course of pilgrimage by the magnetism of fashionable resort. The Queen of the Dew-drops was seen, carrying a pitcher! Up started four or five gallants, offering assistance, and standing round her, wrangling with one another, and besetting her steps.

"Let me pass, gentles," she said with dignity, "I am carrying wine in haste to my father."

"Nay, fair one, you pass not our bounds without toll," said the portliest of the set.

"Hush, rudesby; fair dames in disguise must be treated after other sort."

Every variety of half-insulting compliment was pouring upon her; but she, with head erect, and steady foot, still quietly moved on, taking no notice, till a hand was laid on her pitcher.

"Let go!" then she said in no terrified voice. "Let go, Sir, or I can summon help."

And as if to realize her words, the intrusive hand was thrust aside by a powerful arm, and a voice exclaimed -

"This lady is to pass free, Sir! None of your insolence!"

"A court-gallant," passed round the hostile bourgeoise; "none of your court airs, Sir."

"No airs—but those of an honest Englishman, who will not see a woman cowardly beset!"

"Will Silk-jerkin not bide a buffet!" quoth the bully of the party, clenching his fist.

"As many as thou wilt," returned Silk-jerkin, "so soon as I have seen the lady safe home!"

"Ho! ho!—a fetch that!" and the fellow, a coarse rude-looking man, though rather expensively dressed, flourished his fist in the face of the young man, but was requited that instant with a round blow that levelled him with the ground. The others fell back from the tall strong-limbed, open-faced youth, and the girl took the opportunity of moving forward, swiftly indeed, but so steadily as to betray no air of terror. Meantime, the young gentleman's voice might be heard, assuring his adversaries that he was ready to encounter one or all of them so soon as he had escorted the lady safe home. Perhaps she hoped that another attack would delay him; but if so, her expectations were disappointed, for in a second or two his quick firm tread followed her, and just as she had gained the mazy wood-path, he was beside her.

"Thanks, Sir," she said, "for the service you have done me, but I am now in safety."

"Nay, Lady, do me the grace of letting me bear your load."

"Thanks," again she said; "but I feel no weight."

"But my knighthood does, seeing you thus laden."

"Spare your knighthood the sight, then," she said smiling, and looking up with a glance of brightness, such as her hitherto sedate face had never before revealed to him.

"That cannot be!" he exclaimed with fervency. "You bid me in vain leave you till I see you safe; and while with you, all laws of courtesy call on me to bear your burthen! So, Lady—"

And he laid his hand upon the leathern thong that sustained the pitcher; but at that moment three or four heaps of rags, that had been lying under the trees by the woodland path, erected themselves, and one in especial, whom the young knight had observed as a frightful cripple seated by day near the well, now came forward brandishing his crutch in a formidable manner, and uttering a howl of defiance. But the lady silenced him at once -

"Peace, good Trig, nothing is amiss! It is only this gentleman's courtesy. He hath done me good service on the green yonder!"

And as her strange body-guard retreated growling, she, perhaps to show her confidence, resigned her pitcher into the knight's hand.

"So, fair Queen of the Dew-drops," he said, half bewildered, "thou dost work miracles!"

"Ay, when the dew is on the grass, and the nightingale sings," she returned gaily; "by day the enchantment is over."

By this time they had reached a low turf hut; and the maiden, turning at the door, held out her hand, and said, "Thanks, fair Sir, I must enter my enchanted palace alone; but grammercy for thy kind service, and farewell."

The maiden and the pitcher vanished. The knight watched the rude door in vain—he only saw a few streaks of light through the boards. Then he bethought him of questioning her guards, but when he reached their tree they were gone. It was fast growing dark, and he was one of the King's personal attendants, and subject to the strict regulations of his household; so, dazed and bewildered as he was, he walked hastily back to the hospice, where the King and Queen lodged. Supper had already begun, and the glare of lights dazzled his eyes. In his bewilderment, he served the King with mustard instead of honey from the great silver ship full of condiments, in the centre of the table.

"How's this, Sir John?" said the King, who always had a kindly corner in his heart for this young knight. "Are these the idle days of thy Crusade come again?"

"I could well-nigh think so!" half-whispered Sir John.

"He looks moonstruck!" cried that spoilt ten years old damsel, Joan of Acre, clasping her hands with mischievous fun. "Oh! has he seen the Queen of the Dew-drops?"

"What dost thou know of the Queen of the Dew-drops, my Lady Malapert?" said King Edward, marking the red flush that mounted to the very brow of the downright young knight.

"Oh, I know that she is at the well every morning, and is as lovely as the dawn! Ay, and vanishes so soon as the sun is up; but not ere she has bewitched every knight of them all! And did not my Lord of Dunster hold the field in her honour against all comers? No wonder she appears to him.—Oh! tell us, Sir John! what like was she?"

"Hush, Joan," said Queen Eleanor, bending forward, "no infanta in my time ever said so much in a breath."

"No, Lady-mother; because you had to speak whole mouthfuls of grave Castillian words. Now, good English can be run off in a breath. Reyna del Rocio—that's more majestic, but not so like fairyland as Queen of the Dew-drops!"

Princess Joan's mouth was effectually stopped this time.

The adventure of the evening had led to the discovery of the hut of the Queen of the Dew-drops. The young knight had as usual been betimes at the well, but the maiden did not appear there. Then he questioned the cripple—who by day was an absolute helpless cripple— but the man utterly denied all knowledge of any such circumstance. He, why, poor wretch that he was, he never hobbled further than the shed close behind the well; he would give the world if he could get as far as the wood—he knew nothing about ladies or pilgrims—such a leg as his was enough to think about. And the display to which he forthwith treated the Knight of Dunster was highly convincing as to his incapacity.

Into the wood wandered the much-confused knight, recognizing, step by step, the path of the night before. The turf hut was before him—the door was open—and in the doorway sat the maiden herself, spinning, the distaff by her side, the spindle dancing on the ground, and the pilgrim's hat no longer hiding her beauteous brow and wealth of dark braided hair. But, intolerable sight, seven or eight of last night's loungers were dispersed hither and thither in the bushes, gazing with all their eyes, endeavouring to attract her attention; some by conversations with one another; one richly-dressed Gascon squire, of the train of Edward's ally, the Count de Bearn, by singing a Provencal love ditty; while a merchant of Bristol set up a counter attempt with a long doleful English ballad. All the time the fair spinster sat in the doorway, with the utmost gravity, twisting her thread and twirling her spindle; but it might be observed that she had so placed herself as to have full command of the door, and to be able to shut herself in whenever she chose.

No one had yet ventured to accost her. There was something in her air that rendered it almost impossible for any one to force himself upon her, and a sort of fear mingled with the impression she made. However, the young knight, although a bashful man by nature, had one advantage in his court breeding, and another in the acquaintance he had made last night. He walked straight up, and doffing his velvet cap, began, "Greet you well, fair Queen. I could not but take your challenge to see whether your power lasted when the dew was off."

The damsel rose with due courtesy as he approached, but ere she had attempted an answer, nay, even before the words were out of his mouth, the Gascon was shouting in French that this was no fair play, he had stolen a march; and the merchant had sprung forward saying, "Girl, beware, court gallants mean not well by country wenches."

"Thou liest in thy throat," burst forth the knight. "Discourteous lubber, to call such a queen of beauty a country wench!"

"Listen to me, girl."

"Lady, hear me."

"Hearken not to the popinjay foreigner."

These, and many more tumultuary exclamations, threats, and entreaties, crowded on one another, and the various speakers were laying hand on staff or sword, and glaring angrily on one another, when the word "Peace," in the maiden's clear silvery notes, sounded among them. They all turned as she stood in the doorway, drawn up to her full height.

"Peace," she said; "I can have no brawling here! My father was grievously sick yesterday, and is still ill at ease. One by one speak your business, and begone. You first, Sir," to the Gascon, she said in French.

"Ah! fair Lady, what business could be mine, save to tell you how lovely you are?"

"You have said," she answered, without a blush, waving him aside. "Now you, Sir," to the tuneful merchant of Bristol.

"I told you, Madam, he meant not well. Those aliens never do."

"You too have said," she answered.

The merchant would have persisted, but a London merchant, a much more substantial and considerable character, pushed him aside, and the numbers being all against him, he was forced to give way.

"Young woman," said the merchant, "you are plainly of better birth and breeding than you choose to affect. Now I am thinking of getting married. I have ships at sea, and stuffs and jewels coming from Venice and Araby; and I am like to be Lord Mayor ere long; but there's that I like in your face and discreet bearing, and I'll make you my wife, and give you all my keys—your father willing!"

"Your turn's out, old burgher," said a big, burly, and much younger man, pressing forward. "Pretty wench! I'm not like to be Lord Mayor, nor nothing of that sort; but I'm a score of years nigher thine age, and a lusty fellow to boot, that could floor any man at single-stick, within the four seas. Ay, and have been thought comely too, though Joyce o' the haugh did play me false; and I come o' this pilgrimage just to be merry and forget it. If thou wilt take me, and come back to spite Joyce, thou shalt be hostess of the Black Bull, at Brentford, where all the great folk from the North ever put up when they come to town; the merriest and richest hostel, and will have the comeliest host and hostess round about London town!"

The lady bowed her head. Perhaps those rosy lips were trying hard to keep from laughing.

"A hostel's no place for a discreet dame to bide in," put forth an honest voice. "Maiden, I know not who or what you are, but I came o' this pilgrimage to please my old mother, who said I might do my soul good, and bring home a wife—better over the moor than over the mixen—and I know she would give thee a right good welcome. I'm Baldric of the Cheddar Cliff, and we have held our land ever since the old days, or ever the Norman kings came here. Three hundred kine, woman, and seven score swine, and many an acre of good corn land under the hill."

The lady had never looked up while these suitors were speaking. When Baldric of Cheddar had done, she gave one furtive glance through her long eyelashes, as if to see if there were any more, and then her cheek flushed. There still remained the knight. Some others had slunk away when brought to such close quarters, but he stepped forth more hesitatingly, and said, "Lady, I know not whether the bare rock and castle I have to offer can weigh against the ships, the hostel, or the swine. I have few of either; I am but a poor baron, but such as I am, I am wholly yours. Thine eyes have bound me to you for ever, and all I seek is leave to make myself better known, and to ask that your noble father may not deem me wholly unworthy to be your suitor."

The lady trembled a little, but she held her place in the doorway. "Gentles," she said, "I thank ye for the honour ye have done me, but I may not dispose of mine own self. My father is ill at ease, and can see no one; but he bids me tell you that he will meet all who have aught to say to him, under the trysting tree at Bethnal Green, the day after the Midsummer feast."

With these words she retired into her hut, and closed the door. She was seen again no more that day; and on the next the hut stood open, empty, and deserted.



CHAPTER XV—THE BEGGAR'S DOWRY



"'But first you shall promise and have it well knowne The gold that you drop shall all be your owne;' With that they replyed, 'Contented we bee;' 'Then here's,' quoth the beggar, 'for pretty Bessee.'" Old Ballad.

The day after Midsummer had come, and towards the fine elm tree that then adorned the centre of Bethnal Green, three horsemen were wending their way. Each had his steed a good deal loaded: each looked about him anxiously.

"By St. Boniface," said one, "the girl's father is not there. Saucy little baggage, was she deluding us all?"

"Belike he is bringing too long a train of mules with her dowry to make much speed," quoth the merchant. "He will think it needful to collect all his gear to meet the offers of Master Lambert of Cripple- gate. Ha! Sir Knight, well met! You are going to try your venture!"

"I must! So it were not all enchantment," said the knight, almost breathlessly, gazing round him. "Yet," he said, almost to himself, "those eyes had a soul and memories that ne'er came out of fairyland!"

"Ha!" exclaimed the innkeeper, "there's old Blind Hal under the tree! I'll tell him to get out of our way. Hal!" he shouted, "here's a tester for thee, but thou'st best keep out of the way of the mules."

"What mules, Master Samson?" coolly demanded Hal, who had comfortably established himself under the tree with his back against the trunk.

"The mules that the brave burgess is going to bring his daughter's dowry on. They are cranky brutes, Hal; bad customers for blind men— best let me give thee a hand out of the way."

"But who is this burgess that you talk of?" asked the beggar.

"The father of the pilgrim lass that prayed at St. Winifred's Well," said Samson.

"And was called Queen of the Dew-drops?"

"Ay, ay, old fellow! Thou knowest every bird that flies! She is to be my wife, I tell thee, and a right warm corner shall she keep for thee at the Black Bull, for thou canst make sport for the guests right well."

"I hope she will keep a warm corner for me," said the beggar; "for no man will treat for her marriage save myself."

"Thou! Old man, who sent thee here to insult us?" cried the merchant.

"None, Master Lambert. I trysted you to meet me here if you purposed still to seek my child in marriage."

"Thy child?" cried all three, vehemently.

"My child!" answered the beggar. "Mine own lawful child."

There was a silence. Presently Samson growled, "I mind me he used to have a little black-eyed brat with him."

"Caitiff!" exclaimed the merchant; "I'll have thy old vagabond bones in the Fleet for daring so to cheat his Grace's lieges."

"If you can prove a cheat against me I will readily abye it, Sir," returned the beggar.

"Palming a beggar's brat off for a noble dame."

"So please you, Sir," interrupted the beggar, "keep truth with you. What did the child or I ever profess, save what we were? No foul words here. I trysted you to meet me here, anent her marriage. Have you any offers to make me?"

"Aye, of a cell in the Fleet if you persist in your insolence!" cried the merchant.

"Thanks," quietly said the beggar. "And you, Master Samson?"

"'Tis a sweet pretty lass," said Samson, ruefully; "and pity of her too, but you see a man like me must look to his credit. I'll give her twenty marks to help her to a husband, Hal, only let her keep out of my sight for ever and a day."

"I thought I heard another voice," said the beggar. "I trow the third suitor has made off without further ado."

"Not so, fair Sir," said a voice close to him, thick and choked with feeling. "Your daughter is too dear to me for me thus to part, even were mine honour not pledged."

"Sir knight," interfered the merchant, "you will get into a desperate coil with your friends."

"I am my own master," answered the knight. "My parents are dead. I am of age, and, Sir, I offer myself and all that is mine to your fair daughter, as I did at Saint Winifred's Well, as one bound both by honour and love."

"It is spoken honourably," said Hal; "but, Sir, canst thou answer me with her dowry? Tell down coin for coin."

He held up a heavy leathern bag. The knight, who had come prepared, took down another such bag from his saddle-bow. Down went one silver piece from the knight. Down went another from the beggar.

"Stay, stay," cried Samson. "I can play at that game too."

"No, no, Master Samson," said the beggar; "your pretensions are resigned. Your chance is over."

Mark after mark—crown after crown—all the Dunster rents; all the old hoards, with queer figures of Saxon kings, lay on the grass, still for each the beggar had rained down its fellow, and inexhaustible seemed the bags that he sat upon. Samson bit his lips, and the merchant muttered with vexation. It could not be fairly come by: he must be the president of a den of robbers; it should be looked to.

The last bag of the knight lay thin and exhausted; the beggar clutched one bursting with repletion.

"I could not put the lands and castle of Dunster into a bag and add thereto," said the knight, at last. "Would that I could, my sword, my spurs, and knightly blood to boot, and lay them at your daughter's feet."

"Let them weigh in the balance," said the beggar; "and therewith thy truth to thy word."

"And will you own me?" exclaimed the knight. "Will you take me to your daughter?"

"Nay, I said not so," returned Blind Hal. "I am not in such haste. Come back on this day week, when I shall have learnt whether thou art worthy to match with my child."

"Worthy!" John of Dunster chafed and bit his lips at such words from a beggar.

"Ay, worthy," repeated the beggar, guessing his irritation. "I like thee well, as a man of thy word, so far, but I must know more of him who is to mate with my pretty Bessee."

It was that evening that a page entered the royal apartments, and giving a ring to the King, informed him that a blind beggar had sent it in, and entreated to speak with him.

"Pray him to come hither," said the King; "and lead him carefully. Thou, Joan, hadst better seek thy mother and sister."

"O sweet father," cried Joan, "don't order me off. This can be no state business. Prithee let me hear it."

"That must be as my guest pleases, Joan," he answered; "and thou must be very discreet, or we shall have him reproaching me for trying to rule the realm when I cannot rule my own house."

"Father, I verily think you are afraid of that beggar! I am sure he is as mysterious as the Queen of the Dew-drops!" cried the mischievous girl.

The curtain over the doorway was drawn back, and the beggar was led into the chamber. The King advanced to meet him, and took his hand to lead him to a seat. "Good morrow to thee," he said; "cousin, I am glad thou art come at last to see me."

"Thanks, my Lord," said the beggar, with more of courtly tone than when they had met before, and yet Joan thought she had never seen her father addressed so much as an equal; "are any here present with you?"

"Only my wilful little crusading daughter, Joan," said Edward, beckoning to her, and putting her proud reluctant fingers into the hand of the beggar, who bent and raised them to his lips—as the fashion then was—while the maiden reddened and looked to her father, but saw him only smiling; "she shall leave us," he added, "if thy matters are for my private ear. In what can I aid thee?"

"In this matter of daughters," answered the beggar; "not that I need aid of yours, but counsel. I would know if the heir of old Reginald Mohun—John, I think they call him—be a worthy mate for my wench."

Joan had in the meantime placed herself between her father's knees, where she stood regarding this wonderful beggar with the most unmitigated astonishment.

"John of Dunster!" said the King, stroking down Joan's hair, "thou knowst his lineage as well as I, cousin."

"His lineage, true," replied Henry; "but look you, my Lord, my child, the light of mine eyes, may not go from me without being assured that it is to one who will, I say, not equal her in birth, but will be a faithful and loving lord to her."

"Hath he sought her?" asked the King.

"Even so, my liege. The maid is scarce sixteen; I thought to have kept her longer; but so it was—old Winny, her mother's old nurse, fell sick and died in the winter; and the Dominican, who came to shrive her, must needs craze the poor fool with threats that she did a deadly sin in bringing my sweet wife and me together; and for all the Grand Prior, who, monk as he is, has a soldier's sense, could say of the love that conquered death, nothing would serve the poor woman to die in peace till my Bessee had vowed to make a six weeks' station at her patroness's well, where we were wedded, and pray for her soul and her blessed mother's. So there we journeyed for our summer roaming; and all had been well, had you not come down on us with all the idle danglers of the court to gaze and rhyme and tilt about the first fair face they saw. Even then so discreet was the girl that no more had befallen, but as ill-luck would have it, my old Evesham keepsake," touching his side, "burst forth again one evening, and left me so spent, that Bessee sent the boy to get me a draught of wine. The boy—mountebank as he is—lost her groat, and played truant; and she, poor wench, got into such fear for me that she went herself, and fell in with a sort of insolent masterful rogues, from whom this young knight saved her. I took her home safe enough after that, and thought to be rid of the knaves when they saw my wallet; and so truly I am, all save this lad!"

"O father! it is true love!" whispered Joan.

"What hast to do with true love, popinjay? And so John of Dunster came undaunted to the breach, did he, Henry?"

"Not a whit dismayed he! Now either that is making light of his honour, or 'tis an honour higher than most lads understand. Cousin, I would have the child be loved as her father and mother loved! And methinks she affects this blade. The child hath been less like my merry lark since we met him. A plague on the springalds! But you know him. Has he your good word?"

"John of Dunster?" said the King. "Henry, didst thou not know for whose sake I had loved and proved him? He was Richard's pupil. I was forced to take the child with me, for old Sir Reginald had been unruly enough, and I thought would be the less troublesome to my father were his son in my keeping. But I half repented when I saw what a small urchin it was, to be cast about among grooms and pages! But Richard aided the little uncouth varlet, nursed him when sick, guarded him when well, trained him to be loyal and steadfast. The little fellow came bravely to my aid in my grapple with the traitor before Acre; and when the blow had fallen on Richard, the boy's grief was such that I loved him ever after. And of late I have had no truer trustier warrior. I warrant me he was too shy to tell thee that I knighted him last year in the midst of some of the best feats of arms I ever beheld against the Welsh! Whatever John de Mohun saith is sooth, and I would rather mate my daughter with him than with many a man of fairer speech."

"Then shall he have my pretty Bessee!" said the beggar, lingering over the words. "But one boon I would further ask, cousin; that thou breathe no word to him of my having sought thee."

The young Lord of Dunster had not been noted for choiceness of apparel; but when he repaired to the trysting-tree, none could have found fault with the folds of his long crimson tunic, worked with the black and gold colours of his family, nor with the sit of the broad belt that sustained his sword, assuredly none with his beautiful sleek black charger.

But under the tree stood not the blind beggar, but the beggar's boy.

"Blind Hal bids you meet him at the Spital, at your good pleasure," said the boy; and like the mountebank he was, tumbled three times head over heels.

John de Mohun looked round and about, and saw no alternative but to obey. All his love was required to endure so strange a father-in- law, who did not seem in the least grateful for the honour intended to his daughter; but the knight's word was pledged, and he rode towards the Hospital.

The court of the Hospital was full of steeds and serving-men. A strange conviction came over John that he saw the King's strong white charger—ay, and the palfreys of the elder princesses; and he asked the lay-brother who offered to take his horse, if the King were there. The brother only replied by motioning him towards the inner quadrangle.

He passed on accordingly, and as he went, the bells broke forth into a merry peal. On the top of the steps leading to the arched doorway, he saw a scarlet cluster of knights, and among them the Grand Prior, robed as for Mass. A space was clear within the deep porch, and there stood the beggar in his russet suit.

"Sir John de Mohun of Dunster," he said, "thou art come hither to espouse my daughter?"

"I hope, so, Sir," said John, somewhat taken by surprise.

"Come hither, maiden," said her father.

The cluster of knights opened, and from within the church there appeared before the astonished bridegroom the stately form of King Edward, leading in his hand the dark-tressed, dark-haired maiden, dressed in spotless white, the only adornment she wore a circlet of diamonds round her flowing dark hair—the Queen indeed of the Dew- drops. And behind her walked with calm dignity the beautiful Princess Eleanor, now nearly a woman, holding with a warning hand the merry mischievous Joan.

Well might John of Dunster stand dazzled and amazed, but hesitation or delay there was none. Then and there, by the Grand Prior himself, was the ceremony performed, without a word of further explanation. The rite over, when the bridegroom took the bride's hand to follow, as all were marshalled on their way, he knew not whither, she looked up to him through her dark eyelashes, and murmured, "They would not have it otherwise!"

"Deem you that I would?" said the knight fervently, pressing her hand.

"I deemed that you should know all—who I am," she faltered.

"My wife, the Lady of Dunster. That is all I need to know," replied Sir John, with the honest trustworthy look that showed it was indeed enough to secure his heart-whole love and reverence.

The great hall of the Spital was decked for the bridal feast. The bride and bridegroom were placed at the head of the table, and the King gave up his place beside the bride to her blind father. All the space within the cloister without was strewn with rushes, where sat and feasted the whole fraternity of beggars; and well did the Grand Prior and his knights do their part in the entertainment.

Then when the banquet was drawing to its close, the blind beggar bade the boy that waited near him fetch his harp. And, as had often before been his practice, he sang in a deep manly voice, to the boy's accompaniment on his harp. But the song that then he sang had never been heard before, nor was its exact like ever heard again; though tradition has handed down a few of the main features, and (as may be seen by this veracious narration) somewhat vulgarized them:-

"A poore beggar's daughter did dwell on a greene, Who might for her faireness have well been a queene; A blithe bonny lasse and a dainty was she, And many one called her pretty Bessee."

Even the King, who had so well guarded the secret, was entirely unprepared to hear the Montfort parentage thus publicly avowed; and the bride, who had as little known of her father's intentions, sat with downcast eyes, blushing and tearful, while the beggar's recitative went briefly and somewhat tremulously over his resuscitation, under the hands of the fair and faithful Isabel. Her hand was held by her bridegroom from the first, with a pressure meant to assure her that no discovery could alter his love and regard; but when the name of Montfort sounded on his ear, the hand wrung hers with anxiety; and when the entire tale had been told, and the last chord was dying away, he murmured, "Look up at me, my loveliest. Now I know why I first loved thine eyes. Thou art dearer to me than ever, for the sake of my first and best friend!"

His words were only for herself. The King was saying aloud,

"Well sung, fair cousin! A health, my Lords and Knights, for Sir Henry de Montfort, Earl of Leicester."

"Not so, Lords and Knights!" called this strange personage, the only one who would thus have contradicted the King; "the Earl of Leicester has long ago been dead, as you have heard. If you drink, let it be to Blind Hal of Bethnal Green."

Nor could all the entreaties of daughter, son-in-law, nor King, move him from his purpose of living and dying as Blind Hal, the beggar. He had tasted too long of liberty, he said, to put himself under constraint. To live in Somersetshire, as his daughter wished, would have been banishment and solitude to one used to divert himself with every humour of the city; and to be, as he declared, a far more complete king of the beggars than ever his cousin Edward was over England. All he would consent to, was that a room in a lodge in Windsor Park should be set apart for him under charge of Adam de Gourdon, who had been present at this scene, and was infinitely rejoiced at the sight of a scion of the House of Montfort. For the rest, he bade every one to forget his avowal, which, as he said, he had only made that the blanch lion might share with the Mohun cross; and as he added to Princess Eleanor, "that you court dames may never flout at pretty Bessee! Had the Cheddar Yeoman been the true man, none had ever known that she was a Montfort."

"Would you have given her to the Cheddar Yeoman?" burst out Joan furiously.

"That he will say so, to anger thee, is certain, Joan," said the King. "Farewell, Henry. Remember, I hold thee bound to be my comrade when I can return to the Holy War."

"Ay, when you have tamed Scotland, even as you have tamed Wales," returned Henry.

"No fear of my good brother Alexander's realm needing such taming. Heaven forbid!" said Edward.

But the beggar parted from him with a laugh.



CHAPTER XVI—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 Provencal, 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:

{1} Psalm cxxvi. 6, 7.

THE END