RICHARD LION-HEART

The sun came up and lighted AngoulÊme, town and castle, hill and valley. Light and warmth increased. The town began to murmur like a hive, clack like a mill, clang and sound as though armourers were working. AngoulÊme had breakfast and turned with vigour the wheel of the day. The Count of Beauvoisin rode with a small following to the Abbey of the Fountain, to see his kinswoman the Abbess Madeleine. Duke Richard Lion-Heart did what he did, and felt what he felt, and believed what he believed, with intensity. He was as religious as an acquiescent thunderbolt in Jehovah’s hand. Where-ever he came, a kind of jewelled sunshine played about the branches, in that place, of the Vine the Church. It might shine with fitfulness, but the fitfulness was less than the shining. His vassals knew his quality; when they were with him or where his eye oversaw their conduct, the ritual of a religious life received sharpened attention.

The Abbey of the Fountain was a noble House of Nuns, known afar for its piety, scholarship, and good works. Richard, coming to AngoulÊme, had sent a gift and asked for the prayers of the Abbess Madeleine, whom the region held for nigh a saint. Offering and request had been borne by the Count of Beauvoisin, who was the Abbess’s kinsman. It was not strange in the eyes of any that he should ride again to the Abbey of the 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 AngoulÊme in the guise of a jongleur. That was not strange, either—if the knight were acquaintance or friend, and if some wolfish danger had forced him to become a fugitive from his own proper setting, or if romance and whim were responsible, or if he had taken a vow. Yesterday he had been a jongleur with a very golden voice. To-day he appeared a belted knight, 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 true name. Chivalry knew these transformations, and upheld them as an integer in its own sum of rights. The knight would have a reason, be it as solid as the ground, or be it formed of rose-hued mist, solid only to his own imagination! For the rest, he seemed a noble knight. The count showed him favour, but not enough to awaken criticism, making others fear displacement.

All rode through the streets of AngoulÊme, in the bright keen day. Robert of Mercoeur was neighbour of the Knight of the Wood, and looked aslant at him with an intuitive eye. They passed out by the west gate and wound down to the valley floor. It was no distance from the town to the Abbey of the Fountain; the latter’s great leafless trees were presently about them. The count with a word drew Garin to ride at his bridle-hand. The two or three following fell a little back. Beauvoisin spoke. “Richard says that he will be a week in AngoulÊme. But he knows not when his mood may change, and in all save three or four things he follows his mood.”

The Knight of the Wood looked east and south. “I will answer for there being a vision of many in extremity, and a wild heartbeat to win and begone!”

“‘Win.’—I know not, nor can you know as to that.”

“The schools would say ‘True, lord count!’ But there is learning beyond learning.”

They rode in silence, each pursuing his own thought. Beauvoisin rode with lifted head, gazing before him down the vista of trees, to where the grey wall closed it. Presently he spoke, but spoke as though he did not know that he was speaking. “We were within the prohibited degrees of kin.”

The great trees stood widely apart, gave way to the grassy space before the Abbey.

The Count of Beauvoisin, his cap in his hand, was granted admittance at the Abbey portal; might, in the abbess’s room, grey nuns attending her, speak with the veiled abbess. But they who were with him waited without, quietly, as the place demanded, in the grassy space. The Knight of the Wood waited.

The minutes passed. When an hour had gone by, Beauvoisin came from the grey building. He mounted his horse, looked steadfastly at the place, then, with the air of a man in a dream, turned toward AngoulÊme. The knights followed him, riding between huge boles of trees that towered. Robert of Mercoeur was again at Garin’s side.

“Do you mark that look of exaltation? One man has one heaven and another, another—or that is the case while they are men. Count Rainier has seen his heaven—felt the waving of its hands over his head!”

In AngoulÊme, in its widest street, they saw approaching a cavalcade from the castle, a brilliant troop, glittering steel, shimmering fine apparel, pushing with gaiety through the town upon some short journey, half errand of state, half of pleasure. At its head rode one who had the noblest steed, the richest dress. He was a man very fair, long-armed, sinewy, of medium height. There was great vigour of bearing, warmth from within out, an apparent quality that drew, save when from another quarter of the nature came, scudding, wrath and tempest. 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 the opening 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 of Mercoeur. “Do you come with him, Robert—and we will talk of how the world will seem when all are poets!”

“Beausire,” said the count, “at your will! Now I turn beggar and beg for 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 the ill-paved street. His train followed, lords and knights speaking to the count as they passed. When all were gone in noise and colour, those who had ridden to the Abbey of the Fountain reËntered the wider street and so came to the house whence they had started. Dismounting in the court where Garin had sung, they went, one to this business or pleasure, one to that. But the count, entering, mounted a great echoing flight of stairs to his chamber, and here, obeying his signal, came also the Knight of the Wood. Beauvoisin dismissed all attendants, and the two were 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 is beauty. Then comes another time with its reversal! But all the time, if the soul is ‘fair’? The princess is ‘fair’ to me.”

Beauvoisin looked at him steadily. “I see,” he said “that we have a like fate—God He knoweth all, and what the great cup of life holds, holds, holds!... Well, that princess has courage and is wise! I had heard as much of her, and I see that it is so. In her first womanhood the 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 the fire, bent over the flame.

“I see, my lord count,” said Garin, “devotion and generousness!”

Beauvoisin was silent, warming himself at the flame. Garin of the Golden Island, standing at the window, looked toward Roche-de-FrÊne. His mind’s eye saw assault and repulse and again assault, the push against walls and gates, the men upon the walls, at the gates, the engines of war, the reeking fury of fight. The keener ear heard the war-cries, the clangour and the shouting, and underneath, the groan. He saw the banner that attacked, and above the castle, above Red Tower and Lion Tower, the banner that defended. He turned toward the room again.

The count spoke, “Jaufre de Montmaure! I have no love for Count Jaufre, nor friendship with him. I was of those who, an they could, would have kept Richard from this huge support he has given. My party would still see it withdrawn.—But Richard treads a road of his own.... Were Jaufre Richard, your princess, being here, would be in the lion’s den! But just her coming—the first outbursting of his anger over—will put 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 was risked!—Jaufre has been to him an evil companion, but a companion. But,” said the Count of Beauvoisin, “even at my proper danger, I will get for her who, by Saint Michael! with courage has come here, the meeting she asks!”

The castle of AngoulÊme was not so huge and strong a place as the castle of Roche-de-FrÊne, but still was it great and strong enough. The high of rank among its usual population remained within its walls, but the lesser sort were crowded out and flowed into the town, so making room for Duke Richard’s great train. Martialness was the tone where he went, with traceable threads of song, threads of religiousness. Colours had violence, and yet with suddenness and for short whiles might soften 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 was in presence showed with him intense and glowing. Idea clothed itself promptly in emotion, emotion ran hotfoot into action, but none of the three were film-like, momentary. Impetuous, they owned a solidity. He could do, he had done, many an evil thing, but there was room for a sense of realms that were not evil.

It was afternoon, and the red sun reddened the castle hall. There had been planned some manner of indoor festivity, pageantry. The world of chivalry, men and women, gathered in AngoulÊme about Richard Lion-Heart, was there to see and be seen. But after the first half-hour Richard 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 to do but to watch him depart. Music that was playing played more loudly; a miracle-story in pantomime was urged to more passionate action; as best might be, the chasm was covered. “It is the Duke’s way—applaud the entertainers or the thing will drag!”

The duke went away to a great room in another part of the castle. With him he drew two or three of his intimates; in the room itself attended the Count of Beauvoisin and several knights of fame and worthiness. Among these stood that newcomer to AngoulÊme, the Knight of the Wood. The room was richly furnished, lit by the red light of the sun streaming through three deep windows. A door in the opposite wall gave into a smaller room.

Richard, entering, flung himself into the chair set for him in the middle 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 to work.

“This is a madness that leads to naught! Does this princess think I am so fickle—?”

His blue eye, roving the room, came to the group of knights at the far end. “Yonder knight—is he Garin of the Golden Island?”

“Yes, lord.”

Duke Richard gazed at Garin of the Golden Island. “By the rood, he looks a man!” He turned to his anger again. “But now this woman—this Princess of Roche-de-FrÊne—” His impatient foot wrinkled the silken carpet. “She may count it for happiness if I do not hold her here while I send messengers to Count Jaufre, ‘Lo, I have caged your bride for you!’” He nursed his anger. Beauvoisin saw with apprehension how he fanned it. “What woman comprehends man’s loyalty to man? I said to Montmaure I would aid him—”

“My lord, the princess is here—within yonder room.”

“Ha!” cried Richard; and that in his nature that gave back, touch for touch, Jaufre de Montmaure, came through the doors his anger had opened. “Let her then come to me here as would the smallest petitioner! God’s blood! Montmaure has her land. I hold her not as reigning princess and my peer!”

Beauvoisin stepped to the door of the lesser room, opened it, and having spoken to one within, stood aside. Duke Richard turned in his seat, looked at the red sun out of window. He showed a tension: the movement of his foot upon the floor-cloth might have stood for the lion’s pacing to and fro, lashing himself to fury. At a sign from Beauvoisin the knights had drawn farther into the shadow at the end of the room. Garin watched from this dusk.

The Princess of Roche-de-FrÊne came with simplicity and quietness from the lesser room. She was not dressed now as a herd-girl, but as a princess. There followed her two grey nuns who, taking their stand by the door, remained there with lowered eyes and fingers upon their rosaries. The princess came to the edge of the gold-wrought square. “My lord duke,” she said; and when Garin heard her voice he knew that power was in her.

When Richard turned from the window she kneeled and that without outward or inner cavilling.

“Ha, madame!” said Richard. “Blood of God! did you think to gain aught by coming here?”

She answered him; then, after a moment’s silence which he did not break, began again to speak. The tones of her voice, now sustained, now changing, came to those afar in the room, but not all the words she said. Without words, they gave to those by the wall a tingling of the nerves, a feeling of wave on wave of force—not hostile, uniting with something in themselves, giving to that something volume and momentum, wealth.... There were slight movements, then stillness answering the still, intense burning, the burning white, of her passion, will, and power.

She rested from speech. Richard left his chair, came to her and giving her his hand, aided her to rise. He sent his voice down the room to Beauvoisin. “My lord count, bring yonder chair for the princess.” He had moved and spoken as one not in a dream, but among visions. When the chair was brought and placed upon the golden cloth and she had seated herself in it, he retook his own. “Jaufre de Montmaure,” he said, “was my friend, and he wanted you for bride—”

She began again to speak, and the immortal power and desire of her nature, burning deep and high and rapidly, coloured and shook the room. “Lord, lord,” she said. “The right of it—” Sentence by sentence, wave on wave, the right of it made way, seeing that deep within Duke Richard there was one of its own household who must answer.

That meeting lasted an hour. The Princess of Roche-de-FrÊne, rising from her chair, stretched out her hands to Richard Lion-Heart. “I would rest all now, my lord duke. The sun is sinking, but for all that we yet will live by its light. In the morning it comes again.”

“I will ride to-morrow to the Abbey of the Fountain. We will speak further together. I have promised naught.”

“No. But give room and maintenance to-night, my Lord Richard, to all that I have said that is verity. Let all that is not verity go by you—go by you!”

Beauvoisin and his men gave her and the nuns with her escort back to the Abbey of the Fountain. Going, she put upon her head and drew forward so that it shadowed her face, a long veil of eastern make, threaded with gold and silver. Her robe was blue, a strange, soft, deep colour.

The next morning, Duke Richard rode to the Abbey. He went again the day after, and this day the sheaf was made. The Princess of Roche-de-FrÊne and Jaufre de Montmaure appealed each to a man in Duke Richard, a higher man and a lower man. In these winter days, but sun-lighted, the higher man won.