Chivalry (12 page)

"There lies the choice which every man must face,—whether rationally,
as his reason goes, to accept his own limitations and make the best of
his allotted prison-yard? or stupendously to play the fool and swear
even to himself (while his own judgment shrieks and proves a flat
denial), that he is at will omnipotent? You have chosen long ago, my
poor proud Ysabeau; and I choose now, and differently: for poltroon that
I am! being now in a cold drench of terror, I steadfastly protest I am
not very much afraid, and I choose death without any more debate."

It was toward Rosamund that the Queen looked, and smiled a little
pitifully. "Should Queen Ysabeau be angry or vexed or very cruel now, my
Rosamund? for at bottom she is glad."

And the Queen said also: "I give you back your plighted word. I ride
homeward to my husks, but you remain. Or rather, the Countess of
Farrington departs for the convent of Ambresbury, disconsolate in her
widowhood and desirous to have done with worldly affairs. It is most
natural she should relinquish to her beloved and only brother all her
dower-lands—or so at least Messire de Berners acknowledges. Here, then,
is the grant, my Gregory, that conveys to you those lands of Ralph de
Belomys which last year I confiscated. And this tedious Messire de
Berners is willing now—he is eager to have you for a son-in-law."

About them fell the dying leaves, of many glorious colors, but the air
of this new day seemed raw and chill, while, very calmly, Dame Ysabeau
took Sir Gregory's hand and laid it upon the hand of Rosamund Eastney.
"Our paladin is, in the outcome, a mortal man, and therefore I do not
altogether envy you. Yet he has his moments, and you are capable. Serve,
then, not only his desires but mine also, dear Rosamund."

There was a silence. The girl spoke as though it was a sacrament. "I
will, madame and Queen."

Thus did the Queen end her holiday.

A little later the Countess of Farrington rode from Ordish with all her
train save one; and riding from that place, where love was, she sang
very softly.

Sang Ysabeau:

"As with her dupes dealt Circe
Life deals with hers, for she
Reshapes them without mercy,
And shapes them swinishly,
To wallow swinishly,
And for eternity;

"Though, harder than the witch was,
Life, changing not the whole,
Transmutes the body, which was
Proud garment of the soul,
And briefly drugs the soul,
Whose ruin is her goal;

"And means by this thereafter
A subtler mirth to get,
And mock with bitterer laughter
Her helpless dupes' regret,
Their swinish dull regret
For what they half forget."

And within the hour came Hubert Frayne to Ordish, on a foam-specked
horse, as he rode to announce to the King's men the King's barbaric
murder overnight, at Berkeley Castle, by Queen Ysabeau's order.

"Ride southward," said Lord Berners, and panted as they buckled on his
disused armor; "but harkee, Frayne! if you pass the Countess of
Farrington's company, speak no syllable of your news, since it is not
convenient that a lady so thoroughly and so praise-worthily—Lord, Lord,
how I have fattened!—so intent on holy things, in fine, should have her
meditations disturbed by any such unsettling tidings. Hey, son-in-law?"

Sir Gregory Darrell laughed, very bitterly. "He that is without blemish
among you—" he said. Then they armed completely, and went forth to
battle against the murderous harlot.

"Selh que m blasma vostr' amor ni m defen
Non podon far en re mon cor mellor,
Ni'l dous dezir qu'ieu ai de vos major,
Ni l'enveya' ni'l dezir, ni'l talen."

THE FIFTH NOVEL.—PHILIPPA OF HAINAULT DARES TO LOVE UNTHRIFTILY, AND
WITH THE PRODIGALITY OF HER AFFECTION SHAMES TREACHERY, AND
COMMON-SENSE, AND HIGH ROMANCE, QUITE STOLIDLY; BUT, AS LOVING GOES,
IS OVERTOPPED BY HER MORE STOLID SQUIRE.

In the year of grace 1326, upon Walburga's Eve, some three hours after
sunset (thus Nicolas begins), had you visited a certain garden on the
outskirts of Valenciennes, you might there have stumbled upon a big,
handsome boy, prone on the turf, where by turns he groaned and vented
himself in sullen curses. His profanity had its palliation. Heir to
England though he was, you must know that this boy's father in the
flesh had hounded him from England, as more recently had the lad's
uncle Charles the Handsome driven him from France. Now had this boy
and his mother (the same Queen Ysabeau about whom I have told you in
the preceding tale) come as suppliants to the court of that stalwart
nobleman Sire William (Count of Hainault, Holland, and Zealand, and
Lord of Friesland), where their arrival had evoked the suggestion that
they depart at their earliest convenience. To-morrow, then, these
footsore royalties, the Queen of England and the Prince of Wales,
would be thrust out-of-doors to resume the weary beggarship, to knock
again upon the obdurate gates of this unsympathizing king or that deaf
emperor.

Accordingly the boy aspersed his destiny. At hand a nightingale
carolled as though an exiled prince were the blithest spectacle the
moon knew.

There came through the garden a tall girl, running, stumbling in her
haste. "Hail, King of England!" she said.

"Do not mock me, Philippa!" the boy half-sobbed. Sulkily he rose to
his feet.

"No mockery here, my fair sweet friend. No, I have told my father all
which happened yesterday. I pleaded for you. He questioned me very
closely. And when I had ended, he stroked his beard, and presently
struck one hand upon the table. 'Out of the mouth of babes!' he said.
Then he said: 'My dear, I believe for certain that this lady and her
son have been driven from their kingdom wrongfully. If it be for the
good of God to comfort the afflicted, how much more is it commendable
to help and succor one who is the daughter of a king, descended from
royal lineage, and to whose blood we ourselves are related!' And
accordingly he and your mother have their heads together yonder,
planning an invasion of England, no less, and the dethronement of your
wicked father, my Edward. And accordingly—hail, King of England!" The
girl clapped her hands gleefully. The nightingale sang.

But the boy kept momentary silence. Not even in youth were the men of
his race handicapped by excessively tender hearts; yesterday in the
shrubbery the boy had kissed this daughter of Count William, in part
because she was a healthy and handsome person, and partly because
great benefit might come of an alliance with her father. Well! the
Prince had found chance-taking not unfortunate. With the episode as
foundation, Count William had already builded up the future queenship
of England. The strong Count could do—and, as it seemed, was now in
train to do—indomitable deeds to serve his son-in-law; and now the
beggar of five minutes since foresaw himself, with this girl's love as
ladder, mounting to the high habitations of the King of England, the
Lord of Ireland, and the Duke of Aquitaine. Thus they would herald
him.

So he embraced the girl. "Hail, Queen of England!" said the Prince;
and then, "If I forget—" His voice broke awkwardly. "My dear, if ever
I forget—!" Their lips met now. The nightingale discoursed as if on a
wager.

Presently was mingled with the bird's descant another kind of singing.
Beyond the yew-hedge as these two stood silent, breast to breast,
passed young Jehan Kuypelant, one of the pages, fitting to the
accompaniment of a lute his paraphrase of the song which Archilochus
of Sicyon very anciently made in honor of Venus Melaenis, the tender
Venus of the Dark.

At a gap in the hedge the young Brabanter paused. His singing ended,
gulped. These two, who stood heart hammering against heart, saw for an
instant Jehan Kuypelant's lean face silvered by the moonlight, his
mouth a tiny abyss. Followed the beat of lessening footfalls, while
the nightingale improvised an envoi.

But earlier Jehan Kuypelant also had sung, as though in rivalry with
the bird.

Sang Jehan Kuypelant:

"Hearken and heed, Melaenis!
For all that the litany ceased
When Time had pilfered the victim,
And flouted thy pale-lipped priest,
And set astir in the temple
Where burned the fires of thy shrine
The owls and wolves of the desert—
Yet hearken, (the issue is thine!)
And let the heart of Atys,
At last, at last, be mine!

"For I have followed, nor faltered—
Adrift in a land of dreams
Where laughter and pity and terror
Commingle as confluent streams,
I have seen and adored the Sidonian,
Implacable, fair and divine—
And bending low, have implored thee
To hearken, (the issue is thine!)
And let the heart of Atys,
At last, at last, be mine!"

It is time, however, that we quit this subject and speak of other
matters. Just twenty years later, on one August day in the year of
grace 1346, Master John Copeland—as men now called Jehan Kuypelant,
now secretary to the Queen of England,—brought his mistress the
unhandsome tidings that David Bruce had invaded her realm with forty
thousand Scots to back him. The Brabanter found plump Queen Philippa
with the kingdom's arbitress—Dame Catherine de Salisbury, whom King
Edward, third of that name to reign in Britain, and now warring in
France, very notoriously adored and obeyed.

This king, indeed, had been despatched into France chiefly, they
narrate, to release the Countess' husband, William de Montacute, from
the French prison of the Chatelet. You may appraise her dominion by
this fact: chaste and shrewd, she had denied all to King Edward, and
in consequence he could deny her nothing; so she sent him to fetch
back her husband, whom she almost loved. That armament had sailed from
Southampton on Saint George's day.

These two women, then, shared the Brabanter's execrable news. Already
Northumberland, Westmoreland, and Durham were the broken meats of King
David.

The Countess presently exclaimed: "Let them weep for this that must!
My place is not here."

Philippa said, half hopefully, "Do you forsake Sire Edward,
Catherine?"

"Madame and Queen," the Countess answered, "in this world every man
must scratch his own back. My lord has entrusted to me his castle of
Wark, his fiefs in Northumberland. These, I hear, are being laid
waste. Were there a thousand men-at-arms left in England I would say
fight. As it is, our men are yonder in France and the island is
defenceless. Accordingly I ride for the north to make what terms I may
with the King of Scots."

Now you might have seen the Queen's eye brighten. "Undoubtedly," said
she, "in her lord's absence it is the wife's part to defend his
belongings. And my lord's fief is England. I bid you God-speed,
Catherine." And when the Countess was gone, Philippa turned, her round
face somewhat dazed and flushed. "She betrays him! she compounds with
the Scot! Mother of Christ, let me not fail!"

"A ship must be despatched to bid Sire Edward return," said the
secretary. "Otherwise all England is lost."

"Not so, John Copeland! We must let Sire Edward complete his
overrunning of France, if such be the Trinity's will. You know
perfectly well that he has always had a fancy to conquer France; and
if I bade him return now he would be vexed."

"The disappointment of the King," John Copeland considered, "is a
smaller evil than allowing all of us to be butchered."

"Not to me, John Copeland," the Queen said.

Now came many lords into the chamber, seeking Madame Philippa. "We
must make peace with the Scottish rascal!—England is lost!—A ship
must be sent entreating succor of Sire Edward!" So they shouted.

"Messieurs," said Queen Philippa, "who commands here? Am I, then, some
woman of the town?"

Ensued a sudden silence. John Copeland, standing by the seaward
window, had picked up a lute and was fingering the instrument
half-idly. Now the Marquess of Hastings stepped from the throng.
"Pardon, Highness. But the occasion is urgent."

"The occasion is very urgent, my lord," the Queen assented, deep in
meditation.

John Copeland flung back his head and without prelude began to carol
lustily.

Sang John Copeland:

"There are taller lads than Atys,
And many are wiser than he,—
How should I heed them?—whose fate is
Ever to serve and to be
Ever the lover of Atys,
And die that Atys may dine,
Live if he need me—Then heed me,
And speed me, (the moment is thine!)
And let the heart of Atys,
At last, at last, be mine!

"Fair is the form unbeholden,
And golden the glory of thee
Whose voice is the voice of a vision
Whose face is the foam of the sea,
And the fall of whose feet is the flutter
Of breezes in birches and pine,
When thou drawest near me, to hear me,
And cheer me, (the moment is thine!)
And let the heart of Atys,
At last, at last, be mine!"

I must tell you that the Queen shivered, as if with extreme cold. She
gazed toward John Copeland wonderingly. The secretary was fretting at
his lutestrings, with his head downcast. Then in a while the Queen
turned to Hastings.

"The occasion is very urgent, my lord," the Queen assented. "Therefore
it is my will that to-morrow one and all your men be mustered at
Blackheath. We will take the field without delay against the King of
Scots."

The riot began anew. "Madness!" they shouted; "lunar madness! We can
do nothing until our King returns with our army!"

"In his absence," the Queen said, "I command here."

"You are not Regent," the Marquess answered. Then he cried, "This is
the Regent's affair!"

"Let the Regent be fetched," Dame Philippa said, very quietly. They
brought in her son, Messire Lionel, now a boy of eight years, and, in
the King's absence, Regent of England.

Both the Queen and the Marquess held papers. "Highness," Lord Hastings
began, "for reasons of state which I lack time to explain, this
document requires your signature. It is an order that a ship be
despatched to ask the King's return. Your Highness may remember the
pony you admired yesterday?" The Marquess smiled ingratiatingly. "Just
here, your Highness—a crossmark."