CHAPTER XXV
RICHARD LION-HEART
THE sun came up and lighted Angoulême, town and castle, hill andvalley. Light and warmth increased. The town began to murmur like ahive, clack like a mill, clang and sound as though armourers wereworking. Angoulême had breakfast and turned with vigour the wheel ofthe day. The Count of Beauvoisin rode with a small following to theAbbey of the Fountain, to see his kinswoman the Abbess Madeleine. DukeRichard Lion-Heart did what he did, and felt what he felt, and believedwhat he believed, with intensity. He was as religious as an acquiescentthunderbolt in Jehovah’s hand. Where-ever he came, a kind of jewelledsunshine played about the branches, in that place, of the Vine theChurch. It might shine with fitfulness, but the fitfulness was lessthan the shining. His vassals knew his quality; when they were with himor where his eye oversaw their conduct, the ritual of a religious lifereceived sharpened attention.
The Abbey of the Fountain was a noble House of Nuns, known afar for itspiety, scholarship, and good works. Richard, coming to Angoulême, hadsent a gift and asked for the prayers of the Abbess Madeleine, whomthe region held for nigh a saint. Offering and request had been borneby the Count of Beauvoisin, who was the Abbess’s kinsman. It was notstrange in the eyes of any that he should ride again to the Abbey ofthe Fountain, this time, perhaps, with his own soul’s good in mind.
With him rode the knight who had come to the count’s house in Angoulêmein the guise of a jongleur. That was not strange, either—if the knightwere acquaintance or friend, and if some wolfish danger had forcedhim to become a fugitive from his own proper setting, or if romanceand whim were responsible, or if he had taken a vow. Yesterday he hadbeen a jongleur with a very golden voice. To-day he appeared a beltedknight, dressed by the count, given a horse and a place in his train.He was called the “Knight of the Wood.” Probably it was not his truename. Chivalry knew these transformations, and upheld them as aninteger in its own sum of rights. The knight would have a reason, beit as solid as the ground, or be it formed of rose-hued mist, solidonly to his own imagination! For the rest, he seemed a noble knight.The count showed him favour, but not enough to awaken criticism, makingothers fear displacement.
All rode through the streets of Angoulême, in the bright keen day.Robert of Mercœur was neighbour of the Knight of the Wood, and lookedaslant at him with an intuitive eye. They passed out by the west gateand wound down to the valley floor. It was no distance from the townto the Abbey of the Fountain; the latter’s great leafless trees werepresently about them. The count with a word drew Garin to ride at hisbridle-hand. The two or three following fell a little back. Beauvoisinspoke. “Richard says that he will be a week in Angoulême. But he knowsnot when his mood may change, and in all save three or four things hefollows his mood.”
The Knight of the Wood looked east and south. “I will answer for therebeing a vision of many in extremity, and a wild heartbeat to win andbegone!”
“‘Win.’—I know not, nor can you know as to that.”
“The schools would say ‘True, lord count!’ But there is learning beyondlearning.”
They rode in silence, each pursuing his own thought. Beauvoisin rodewith lifted head, gazing before him down the vista of trees, to wherethe grey wall closed it. Presently he spoke, but spoke as though he didnot know that he was speaking. “We were within the prohibited degreesof kin.”
The great trees stood widely apart, gave way to the grassy space beforethe Abbey.
The Count of Beauvoisin, his cap in his hand, was granted admittanceat the Abbey portal; might, in the abbess’s room, grey nuns attendingher, speak with the veiled abbess. But they who were with him waitedwithout, quietly, as the place demanded, in the grassy space. TheKnight of the Wood waited.
The minutes passed. When an hour had gone by, Beauvoisin came from thegrey building. He mounted his horse, looked steadfastly at the place,then, with the air of a man in a dream, turned toward Angoulême. Theknights followed him, riding between huge boles of trees that towered.Robert of Mercœur was again at Garin’s side.
“Do you mark that look of exaltation? One man has one heaven andanother, another—or that is the case while they are men. Count Rainierhas seen his heaven—felt the waving of its hands over his head!”
In Angoulême, in its widest street, they saw approaching a cavalcadefrom the castle, a brilliant troop, glittering steel, shimmeringfine apparel, pushing with gaiety through the town upon some shortjourney, half errand of state, half of pleasure. At its head rodeone who had the noblest steed, the richest dress. He was a man veryfair, long-armed, sinewy, of medium height. There was great vigour ofbearing, warmth from within out, an apparent quality that drew, savewhen from another quarter of the nature came, scudding, wrath andtempest. The mien of command was not lacking, nor, to a given point,of self-command. He drew rein to speak to the Count of Beauvoisin;who with his following had given room, backing their horses into theopening of a narrower street.
“Ha, Beauvoisin, we sent for you but found you not!—Come to supper,man, with me to-night!” His roving blue eye found out Robert ofMercœur. “Do you come with him, Robert—and we will talk of how theworld will seem when all are poets!”
“Beausire,” said the count, “at your will! Now I turn beggar and begfor you for guest in my house to-morrow.”
“I will come—I will come!” said Richard.
He nodded to Beauvoisin, put his horse into motion, clattered down theill-paved street. His train followed, lords and knights speaking to thecount as they passed. When all were gone in noise and colour, those whohad ridden to the Abbey of the Fountain reëntered the wider street andso came to the house whence they had started. Dismounting in the courtwhere Garin had sung, they went, one to this business or pleasure,one to that. But the count, entering, mounted a great echoing flightof stairs to his chamber, and here, obeying his signal, came also theKnight of the Wood. Beauvoisin dismissed all attendants, and the twowere alone.
“I have seen your princess,” said Beauvoisin. “She is a gallant lady,though not fair.”
“Ah, what is ‘fair’? The time tells the eyes that such and such isbeauty. Then comes another time with its reversal! But all the time, ifthe soul is ‘fair’? The princess is ‘fair’ to me.”
Beauvoisin looked at him steadily. “I see,” he said “that we have alike fate—God He knoweth all, and what the great cup of life holds,holds, holds!... Well, that princess has courage and is wise! I hadheard as much of her, and I see that it is so. In her first womanhoodthe Abbess Madeleine was a long while at the court of Roche-de-Frêne.Your princess is her friend.” He paced the room, then, coming to thefire, bent over the flame.
“I see, my lord count,” said Garin, “devotion and generousness!”
Beauvoisin was silent, warming himself at the flame. Garin of theGolden Island, standing at the window, looked toward Roche-de-Frêne.His mind’s eye saw assault and repulse and again assault, the pushagainst walls and gates, the men upon the walls, at the gates, theengines of war, the reeking fury of fight. The keener ear heard thewar-cries, the clangour and the shouting, and underneath, the groan. Hesaw the banner that attacked, and above the castle, above Red Tower andLion Tower, the banner that defended. He turned toward the room again.
The count spoke, “_Jaufre de Montmaure!_ I have no love for CountJaufre, nor friendship with him. I was of those who, an they could,would have kept Richard from this huge support he has given. My partywould still see it withdrawn.—But Richard treads a road of his own....Were Jaufre Richard, your princess, being here, would be in the lion’sden! But just her coming—the first outbursting of his anger over—willput her person safe with Richard.”
“That has been felt—knowing by old rumour certain qualities in him.”
“It was truly felt. But as to the gain for which all wasrisked!—Jaufre has been to him an evil companion, but a companion.But,” said the Count of Beauvoisin, “even at my proper danger, I willget for her who, by Saint Michael! with courage has come here, themee
ting she asks!”
* * * * *
The castle of Angoulême was not so huge and strong a place as thecastle of Roche-de-Frêne, but still was it great and strong enough. Thehigh of rank among its usual population remained within its walls, butthe lesser sort were crowded out and flowed into the town, so makingroom for Duke Richard’s great train. Martialness was the tone where hewent, with traceable threads of song, threads of religiousness. Colourshad violence, and yet with suddenness and for short whiles mightsoften to tenderness. There was brazen clangour, rattle as of armour,dominance of trumpets, yet flute notes might come in the interstices,and lute and harp had their recognized times. And all and whatever wasin presence showed with him intense and glowing. Idea clothed itselfpromptly in emotion, emotion ran hotfoot into action, but none of thethree were film-like, momentary. Impetuous, they owned a solidity. Hecould do, he had done, many an evil thing, but there was room for asense of realms that were not evil.
It was afternoon, and the red sun reddened the castle hall. Therehad been planned some manner of indoor festivity, pageantry. Theworld of chivalry, men and women, gathered in Angoulême about RichardLion-Heart, was there to see and be seen. But after the first half-hourRichard rose and went away. His immediate court was used to that, too.His mood had countered the agreed-upon mood for the hour: naught was todo but to watch him depart. Music that was playing played more loudly;a miracle-story in pantomime was urged to more passionate action; asbest might be, the chasm was covered. “It is the Duke’s way—applaudthe entertainers or the thing will drag!”
The duke went away to a great room in another part of the castle. Withhim he drew two or three of his intimates; in the room itself attendedthe Count of Beauvoisin and several knights of fame and worthiness.Among these stood that newcomer to Angoulême, the Knight of theWood. The room was richly furnished, lit by the red light of the sunstreaming through three deep windows. A door in the opposite wall gaveinto a smaller room.
Richard, entering, flung himself into the chair set for him in themiddle of a great square of cloth worked with gold. His brow was dark;when he spoke, his voice had the ominous, lion note.
“My lord of Beauvoisin!”
Beauvoisin came near. “Lord, all is arranged—”
The duke made a violent movement of impatience, of anger beginning towork.
“This is a madness that leads to naught! Does this princess think I amso fickle—?”
His blue eye, roving the room, came to the group of knights at the farend. “Yonder knight—is he Garin of the Golden Island?”
“Yes, lord.”
Duke Richard gazed at Garin of the Golden Island. “By the rood, helooks a man!” He turned to his anger again. “But now this woman—thisPrincess of Roche-de-Frêne—” His impatient foot wrinkled the silkencarpet. “She may count it for happiness if I do not hold her herewhile I send messengers to Count Jaufre, ‘Lo, I have caged your bridefor you!’” He nursed his anger. Beauvoisin saw with apprehension howhe fanned it. “What woman comprehends man’s loyalty to man? I said toMontmaure I would aid him—”
“My lord, the princess is here—within yonder room.”
“Ha!” cried Richard; and that in his nature that gave back, touchfor touch, Jaufre de Montmaure, came through the doors his anger hadopened. “Let her then come to me here as would the smallest petitioner!God’s blood! Montmaure has her land. I hold her not as reigningprincess and my peer!”
Beauvoisin stepped to the door of the lesser room, opened it, andhaving spoken to one within, stood aside. Duke Richard turned in hisseat, looked at the red sun out of window. He showed a tension: themovement of his foot upon the floor-cloth might have stood for thelion’s pacing to and fro, lashing himself to fury. At a sign fromBeauvoisin the knights had drawn farther into the shadow at the end ofthe room. Garin watched from this dusk.
The Princess of Roche-de-Frêne came with simplicity and quietnessfrom the lesser room. She was not dressed now as a herd-girl, but asa princess. There followed her two grey nuns who, taking their standby the door, remained there with lowered eyes and fingers upon theirrosaries. The princess came to the edge of the gold-wrought square. “Mylord duke,” she said; and when Garin heard her voice he knew that powerwas in her.
When Richard turned from the window she kneeled and that withoutoutward or inner cavilling.
“Ha, madame!” said Richard. “Blood of God! did you think to gain aughtby coming here?”
She answered him; then, after a moment’s silence which he did notbreak, began again to speak. The tones of her voice, now sustained, nowchanging, came to those afar in the room, but not all the words shesaid. Without words, they gave to those by the wall a tingling of thenerves, a feeling of wave on wave of force—not hostile, uniting withsomething in themselves, giving to that something volume and momentum,wealth.... There were slight movements, then stillness answering thestill, intense burning, the burning white, of her passion, will, andpower.
She rested from speech. Richard left his chair, came to her and givingher his hand, aided her to rise. He sent his voice down the room toBeauvoisin. “My lord count, bring yonder chair for the princess.” Hehad moved and spoken as one not in a dream, but among visions. When thechair was brought and placed upon the golden cloth and she had seatedherself in it, he retook his own. “Jaufre de Montmaure,” he said, “wasmy friend, and he wanted you for bride—”
She began again to speak, and the immortal power and desire of hernature, burning deep and high and rapidly, coloured and shook the room.“Lord, lord,” she said. “The right of it—” Sentence by sentence, waveon wave, the right of it made way, seeing that deep within Duke Richardthere was one of its own household who must answer.
That meeting lasted an hour. The Princess of Roche-de-Frêne, risingfrom her chair, stretched out her hands to Richard Lion-Heart. “I wouldrest all now, my lord duke. The sun is sinking, but for all that we yetwill live by its light. In the morning it comes again.”
“I will ride to-morrow to the Abbey of the Fountain. We will speakfurther together. I have promised naught.”
“No. But give room and maintenance to-night, my Lord Richard, to allthat I have said that is verity. Let all that is not verity go byyou—go by you!”
Beauvoisin and his men gave her and the nuns with her escort backto the Abbey of the Fountain. Going, she put upon her head and drewforward so that it shadowed her face, a long veil of eastern make,threaded with gold and silver. Her robe was blue, a strange, soft, deepcolour.
The next morning, Duke Richard rode to the Abbey. He went again the dayafter, and this day the sheaf was made. The Princess of Roche-de-Frêneand Jaufre de Montmaure appealed each to a man in Duke Richard, ahigher man and a lower man. In these winter days, but sun-lighted, thehigher man won.