Chivalry (22 page)

Thereafter, somewhere below, a peasant sang as he passed supperward
through the green twilight, lit as yet by one low-hanging star alone.

Sang the peasant:

"King Jesus hung upon the Cross,
'And have ye sinned?' quo' He,—.
'Nay, Dysmas, 'tis no honest loss
When Satan cogs the dice ye toss,
And thou shall sup with Me,—
Sedebis apud angelos,
Quia amavisti!'

"At Heaven's Gate was Heaven's Queen,
'And have ye sinned?' quo' She,—
'And would I hold him worth a bean
That durst not seek, because unclean,
My cleansing charity?—
Speak thou that wast the Magdalene,
Quia amavisti!'"

"It may be that in some sort the jingle answers me!" then said Jehane;
and she began with an odd breathlessness, "Friend, when King Henry
dies—and even now he dies—shall I not as Regent possess such power
as no woman has ever wielded in Europe? can aught prevent this?"

"It is true," he answered. "You leave this prison to rule over England
again, and over conquered France as well, and naught can prevent it."

"Unless, friend, I were wedded to a Frenchman. Then would the stern
English lords never permit that I have any finger in the government."
She came to him with conspicuous deliberation and rested her hands
upon his breast. "Friend, I am weary of these tinsel splendors. What
are this England and this France to me, who crave the real kingdom?"

Her mouth was tremulous and lax, and her gray eyes were more brilliant
than the star yonder. The man's arms were about her, and of the man's
face I cannot tell you. "King's daughter! mistress of half Europe! I
am a beggar, an outcast, as a leper among honorable persons."

But it was as though he had not spoken. "Friend, it was for this I
have outlived these garish, fevered years, it was this which made me
glad when I was a child and laughed without knowing why. That I might
to-day give up this so-great power for love of you, my all-incapable
and soiled Antoine, was, as I now know, the end to which the Eternal
Father created me. For, look you," she pleaded, "to surrender absolute
dominion over half Europe is a sacrifice. Assure me that it is a
sacrifice, Antoine! O glorious fool, delude me into the belief that I
surrender much in choosing you! Nay, I know it is as nothing beside
what you have given up for me, but it is all I have—it is all I have,
Antoine!"

He drew a deep and big-lunged breath that seemed to inform his being
with an indomitable vigor; and grief and doubtfulness went quite away
from him. "Love leads us," he said, "and through the sunlight of the
world Love leads us, and through the filth of it Love leads us, but
always in the end, if we but follow without swerving, Love leads
upward. Yet, O God upon the Cross! Thou that in the article of death
didst pardon Dysmas! as what maimed warriors of life, as what bemired
travellers in muddied byways, must we presently come to Thee!"

"Ah, but we will come hand in hand," she answered; "and He will
comprehend."

"Dame serez de mon cueur, sans debat,
Entierement, jusques mort me consume.
Laurier souef qui pour mon droit combat,
Olivier franc, m'ostant toute amertume."

THE TENTH NOVEL.—KATHARINE OF VALOIS IS LOVED BY A HUNTSMAN, AND
LOVES HIM GREATLY; THEN FINDS HIM, TO HER HORROR, AN IMPOSTOR; AND FOR
A SUFFICIENT REASON CONSENTS TO MARRY QUITE ANOTHER PERSON, NOT ALL
UNWILLINGLY.

In the year of grace 1417, about Martinmas (thus Nicolas begins),
Queen Isabeau fled with her daughter the Lady Katharine to Chartres.
There the Queen was met by the Duke of Burgundy, and these two laid
their heads together to such good effect that presently they got back
into Paris, and in its public places massacred some three thousand
Armagnacs. That, however, is a matter which touches history; the root
of our concernment is that, when the Queen and the Duke rode off to
attend to this butcher's business, the Lady Katharine was left behind
in the Convent of Saint Scholastica, which then stood upon the
outskirts of Chartres, in the bend of the Eure just south of that
city. She dwelt for a year in this well-ordered place.

There one finds her upon the day of the decollation of Saint John the
Baptist, the fine August morning that starts the tale. Katharine the
Fair, men called her, with considerable show of reason. She was very
tall, and slim as a rush. Her eyes were large and black, having an
extreme lustre, like the gleam of undried ink,—a lustre at some times
uncanny. Her abundant hair, too, was black, and to-day seemed doubly
sombre by contrast with the gold netting which confined it. Her mouth
was scarlet, all curves, and her complexion was famous for its
brilliancy; only a precisian would have objected that she possessed
the Valois nose, long and thin and somewhat unduly overhanging the
mouth.

To-day as she came through the orchard, crimson garbed, she paused
with lifted eyebrows. Beyond the orchard wall there was a hodgepodge
of noises, among which a nice ear might distinguish the clatter of
hoofs, a yelping and scurrying, and a contention of soft bodies, and
above all a man's voice commanding the turmoil. She was seventeen, so
she climbed into the crotch of an apple-tree and peered over the wall.

He was in rusty brown and not unshabby; but her regard swept over this
to his face, and there noted how his eyes shone like blue winter stars
under the tumbled yellow hair, and noted the flash of his big teeth as
he swore between them. He held a dead fox by the brush, which he was
cutting off; two hounds, lank and wolfish, were scaling his huge body
in frantic attempts to get at the carrion. A horse grazed close at
hand.

So for a heart-beat she saw him. Then he flung the tailless body to
the hounds, and in the act spied two black eyes peeping through the
apple-leaves. He laughed, all mirth to the heels of him.
"Mademoiselle, I fear we have disturbed your devotions. But I had not
heard that it was a Benedictine custom to rehearse aves in tree-tops."
Then, as she leaned forward, both elbows resting more comfortably upon
the wall, and thereby disclosing her slim body among the foliage like
a crimson flower green-calyxed, he said, "You are not a nun—Blood of
God! you are the Princess Katharine!"

The nuns, her present guardians, would have declared the ensuing
action horrific, for Katharine smiled frankly at him and asked how
could he thus recognise her at one glance.

He answered slowly: "I have seen your portrait. Hah, your portrait!"
he jeered, head flung back and big teeth glinting in the sunlight.
"There is a painter who merits crucifixion."

She considered this indicative of a cruel disposition, but also of a
fine taste in the liberal arts. Aloud she stated:

"You are not a Frenchman, messire. I do not understand how you can
have seen my portrait."

The man stood for a moment twiddling the fox-brush. "I am a harper, my
Princess. I have visited the courts of many kings, though never that
of France. I perceive I have been woefully unwise."

This trenched upon insolence—the look of his eyes, indeed, carried it
well past the frontier,—but she found the statement interesting.
Straightway she touched the kernel of those fear-blurred legends
whispered about Dom Manuel's reputed descendants.

"You have, then, seen the King of England?"

"Yes, Highness."

"Is it true that in him, the devil blood of Oriander has gone mad, and
that he eats children—like Agrapard and Angoulaffre of the Broken
Teeth?"

His gaze widened. "I have heard a deal of scandal concerning the man.
But certainly I never heard that."

Katharine settled back, luxuriously, in the crotch of the apple-tree.
"Tell me about him."

Composedly he sat down upon the grass and began to acquaint her with
his knowledge and opinions concerning Henry, the fifth of that name to
reign in England, and the son of that squinting Harry of Derby about
whom I have told you so much before.

Katharine punctuated the harper's discourse with eager questionings,
which are not absolutely to our purpose. In the main, this harper
thought the man now buffeting France a just king, and he had heard,
when the crown was laid aside, Sire Henry was sufficiently jovial, and
even prankish. The harper educed anecdotes. He considered that the
King would manifestly take Rouen, which the insatiable man was now
besieging. Was the King in treaty for the hand of the Infanta of
Aragon? Yes, he undoubtedly was.

Katharine sighed her pity for this ill-starred woman. "And now tell me
about yourself."

He was, it appeared, Alain Maquedonnieux, a harper by vocation, and by
birth a native of Ireland. Beyond the fact that it was a savage
kingdom adjoining Cataia, Katharine knew nothing of Ireland. The
harper assured her that in this she was misinformed, since the kings
of England claimed Ireland as an appanage, though the Irish themselves
were of two minds as to the justice of these pretensions; all in all,
he considered that Ireland belonged to Saint Patrick, and that the
holy man had never accredited a vicar.

"Doubtless, by the advice of God," Alain said: "for I have read in
Master Roger de Wendover's Chronicles of how at the dread day of
judgment all the Irish are to muster before the high and pious
Patrick, as their liege lord and father in the spirit, and by him be
conducted into the presence of God; and of how, by virtue of Saint
Patrick's request, all the Irish will die seven years to an hour
before the second coming of Christ, in order to give the blessed saint
sufficient time to marshal his company, which is considerable."
Katharine admitted the convenience of this arrangement, as well as the
neglect of her education. Alain gazed up at her for a long while, as
if in reflection, and presently said: "Doubtless the Lady Heleine of
Argos also was thus starry-eyed and found in books less diverting
reading than in the faces of men." It flooded Katharine's cheeks with
a livelier hue, but did not vex her irretrievably; if she chose to
read this man's face, the meaning was plain enough.

I give you the gist of their talk, and that in all conscience is
trivial. But it was a day when one entered love's wardship with a
plunge, not in more modern fashion venturing forward bit by bit, as
though love were so much cold water. So they talked for a long while,
with laughter mutually provoked and shared, with divers eloquent and
dangerous pauses. The harper squatted upon the ground, the Princess
leaned over the wall; but to all intent they sat together upon the
loftiest turret of Paradise, and it was a full two hours before
Katharine hinted at departure.

Alain rose, approaching the wall. "To-morrow I ride for Milan to take
service with Duke Filippo. I had broken my journey these three days
past at Chateauneuf yonder, where this fox has been harrying my host's
chickens. To-day I went out to slay him, and he led me, his murderer,
to the fairest lady earth may boast. Do you not think that, in
returning good for evil, this fox was a true Christian, my Princess?"

Katharine said: "I lament his destruction. Farewell, Messire Alain!
And since chance brought you hither—"

"Destiny brought me hither," Alain affirmed, a mastering hunger in his
eyes. "Destiny has been kind; I shall make a prayer to her that she
continue so." But when Katharine demanded what this prayer would be,
Alain shook his tawny head. "Presently you shall know, Highness, but
not now. I return to Chateauneuf on certain necessary businesses;
to-morrow I set out at cockcrow for Milan and the Visconti's livery.
Farewell!" He mounted and rode away in the golden August sunlight, the
hounds frisking about him. The fox-brush was fastened in his hat. Thus
Tristran de Leonois may have ridden a-hawking in drowned Cornwall,
thus statelily and composedly, Katharine thought, gazing after him.
She went to her apartments, singing an inane song about the amorous
and joyful time of spring when everything and everybody is happy,—

"El tems amoreus plein de joie,
El tems ou tote riens s'esgaie,—"

and burst into a sudden passion of tears. There were born every day,
she reflected, such hosts of women-children, who were not princesses,
and therefore compelled to marry detestable kings.

Dawn found her in the orchard. She was to remember that it was a
cloudy morning, and that mist-tatters trailed from the more distant
trees. In the slaty twilight the garden's verdure was lustreless, the
grass and foliage were uniformly sombre save where dewdrops showed
like beryls. Nowhere in the orchard was there absolute shadow, nowhere
a vista unblurred; in the east, half-way between horizon and zenith,
two belts of coppery light flared against the gray sky like embers
swaddled by ashes. The birds were waking; there were occasional
scurryings in tree-tops and outbursts of peevish twittering to attest
as much; and presently came a singing, less musical than that of many
a bird perhaps, but far more grateful to the girl who heard it, heart
in mouth. A lute accompanied the song demurely.

Sang Alain:

"O Madam Destiny, omnipotent,
Be not too obdurate to us who pray
That this our transient grant of youth be spent
In laughter as befits a holiday,
From which the evening summons us away,
From which to-morrow wakens us to strife
And toil and grief and wisdom,—and to-day
Grudge us not life!

"O Madam Destiny, omnipotent,
Why need our elders trouble us at play?
We know that very soon we shall repent
The idle follies of our holiday,
And being old, shall be as wise as they:
But now we are not wise, and lute and fife
Plead sweetlier than axioms,—so to-day
Grudge us not life!

"O Madam Destiny, omnipotent,
You have given us youth—and must we cast away
The cup undrained and our one coin unspent
Because our elders' beards and hearts are gray?
They have forgotten that if we delay
Death claps us on the shoulder, and with knife
Or cord or fever flouts the prayer we pray—
'Grudge us not life!'