In his perplexity, James had suggested young Malcolm, who had assisted in the search for the lost ring, and been witness to its discovery; and whom he could easily send as bearer of his condolences to the widowed Queen; who had indeed theentréeof the palace, but had no political standing, was neither French nor English, and had shown himself discreet enough with other secrets to deserve confidence.
Bedford caught at the proposal. And Malcolm now received orders to take horse, with a sufficient escort, and hasten at once to Paris, where he should try if possible to obtain the ring from the Queen herself; but if he could not speak to her in private, he might apply to Sir Lewis Robsart. No other person was to be informed of the real object of the mission, and he was to get back to Vincennes as soon as possible.
Neither prince could understand the scared, distressed looks with which Malcolm listened to commands showing so much confidence in a youth of his years. They encouraged him by assurances that Sir Lewis Robsart, who had a curious kind of authority, half fatherly, half nurselike, over the Queen, would manage all for him. And King James, provoked by his reluctance, began, as they left Bedford’s chamber, to chide him for ungraciousness in the time of distress, and insensibility to the honour conferred on him.
‘Nay, nay,’ disclaimed Malcolm, almost ready to weep, ‘but I have a whole world of penance!’
‘Penance! Plague on the boy’s perverseness! What penance is so good as obedience?’ said James, much displeased.
‘Sir, Sir,’ panted Malcolm, ‘’tis not only that. Could any one but be sent in my stead? My returning alone is what Madame of Hainault bade—for—for some scheme on—’
His voice was choked, and his face was burning.
‘Is the lad gone daft?’ cried James, in great anger. ‘If Madame of Hainault were so lost to decorum as to hatch such schemes at such a moment, I trow you are neither puppet nor fool in her hands for her to do what she will with. I’ll have no more fooling!’
Malcolm could only obey.
In the brief space while the horses were preparing, and he had to equip and take food, he sped in search of Dr. Bennet, hoping, he knew not what, from his interference, or trusting, at any rate, to explain his own sudden absence.
But, looking into the chapel, he recognized the chaplain as one of the leading priests in one of the lengthiest of masses, which was just commencing. It was impossible to wait for the conclusion. He could but kneel down, find himself too much hurried and confused to recollect any prayer, then dash back again to don his riding-gear, before King James should miss him, and be angered again.
‘Unabsolved—unvowed!’ he thought. ‘Sent off thither against my will. Whatever may fall out, it is no fault of mine!’
Trembling and awed, the ladies waited at Paris. It was well known how the King’s illness must end. No one, save the Queen, professed to entertain any hope of his amendment; but Catherine appeared to be too lethargic to allow herself to be roused to any understanding of his danger; and as to the personal womanly tendance of wife to suffering husband, she seemed to have no notion of it. Her mother had never been supposed to take the slightest care of King Charles; and Catherine, after her example, regarded the care either of husband or child as no more required of a royal lady than of a queen bee.
The little Lady Montagu, as Alice was now to be called, who had been scheming that her Richard should be wounded just enough to learn to call her his good little nurse-tender, was dreadfully scandalized, as indeed were wives of more experience, when they found all their endeavours to make their mistress understand how ill the King really was, and how much he wished for her, fall upon uncomprehending ears, and at last were desired by her mother Isabeau not to torment the poor Queen, or they would make her ill.
‘Make her ill! I wish I could!’ muttered Lady Warwick, as she left the presence-chamber; ‘but it is like my little Nan telling her apple-stock baby that all her kin were burnt alive in one castle. She heeds as much!’
But when at late evening Sir Lewis Robsart rode up to the hotel, and a hush went along with him, for all knew that he would never have left his King alive, Catherine’s composure gave way. She had not imagination enough for apprehension of what was out of sight; but when she knew that she had lost her king, to whom she had owed the brief splendour of an otherwise dreary and neglected life, she fell into a passion of cries and tears, even at the mere sight of Sir Lewis, and continued to bewail her king, her lord, her husband, her light, her love, with the violence of an utterly unexpected bereavement.
But while her shrieks and sobs were rending the air, a hoarse voice gasped out, ‘What say you? My son Henri dead!’ and white and ghastly, the gray hair hanging wildly from the temples, the eyes roaming with the wistful gaze of the half insane, poor King Charles stood among them, demanding, ‘Tell me I am sick again! Tell me it is but one of my delusions! So brave, so strong, so lively, so good to the poor old man! My son Henri cannot die! That is for the old, the sick!’
And when Sir Lewis with gentle words had made him understand the truth, he covered his face with his hands, and staggered away, led by his attendant knight, still murmuring in a dazed way, ‘Mon fils Henri, mon bon fils Henri—most loving of all my children!’
In truth, neither of his own sons had been thus mourned; nor had any person shown the poor crazed monarch the uniform deferential consideration he had received from Henry. He crept back to his own chamber, and for many days hardly spoke, save to moan for hisbon fils Henri, scarcely tasting food, and pining away day by day. Those who had watched the likeness between the heroes of Monmouth and of Macedon, saw the resemblance carried out; for as the aged Persian queen perished away from grief for the courteous and gentle Alexander, so now the king of the conquered realm was actually wasting to death with mourning for his frank and kindlybon fils Henri.
As part of royal etiquette, Catherine betook herself to her bed, in a chamber hung with black, the light of day excluded, and ranks of wax tapers shedding a lugubrious light upon rows of gentlemen and ladies who had to stand there on duty, watching her as the mourners watched the King, though her lying-in-state was not always as silent; for though, there was much time spent in slumber, Catherine sometimes would indulge in a good deal of subdued prattle with her mother, or her more confidential attendants. But at other times, chiefly when first awaking, or else when anything had crossed her will, she would fall into agonies of passionate grief—weeping, shrieking, and rending her hair with almost a frenzy of misery, as she called herself utterly desolate, and screamed aloud for her king to return to her.
She was quite past the management of her English ladies on these occasions; and her mother, declaring that she was becoming crazed like her father, declined having anything to do with her. Even Sir Lewis Robsart she used to spurn aside; and nothing ever seemed effectual, but for the Demoiselle de Luxemburg, with her full sweet voice, and force of will in all the tenderness of strength, caressingly to hold her still, talk to her almost as to an infant, and sing away her violence with some long low ditty—sometimes a mere Flemish lullaby, sometimes a Church hymn. As Lady Warwick said, when the ladies were all wearied out with the endeavour to control their Queen’s waywardness and violence, and it sighed away like a departing tempest before Esclairmonde, ‘It was as great a charity as ever ministering as a St. Katherine’s bedeswoman could be.’
To the young Lady Montagu, the blow was astounding. It was the first realization that a great man could die, a great support be taken away; and, child-like, she moved about, bewildered and stunned, in the great household on which the dark cloud had descended—clinging to Esclairmonde as if to protect her from she knew not what; anything dreadful might happen, with the King dead, and her father and husband away.
Alas! poor Esclairmonde! She was in much more real danger herself, as came to the bride’s mind presently, when, in the midst of her lamentations, she exclaimed, ‘And, ah, Clairette! there ends his goodly promise about the sisterhood of good works at Paris.’
Esclairmonde responded with a gesture of sorrow, and the murmur of the ‘In principibus non confide’ that is so often the echo of disappointment.
‘And what will you do?’ continued Alice, watching her anxiously, as her face, turning very pale, was nevertheless uplifted towards heaven.
‘Strive to trust more in God, less in princes,’ she breathed forth, clasping her hands, and compressing her lips.
‘Nay, but does it grieve you so intensely?’ asked Alice. ‘Mayhap—’
‘Alas! sweet one! I would that the fall of this device seemed like to be the worst effect to me of your good king’s death. Pray for me, Alice, for now no earthly power stands between me and my kinsmen’s will.’
Alice cried aloud, ‘Nay, nay, lady, we are English still. There are my father; my lord, the Duke of Bedford; they will not suffer any wrong to be done.’
‘Hush, Alice. None of them hath any power to aid me. Even good King Henry had no legal power to protect me; only he was so great, so strong in word or deed, that no man durst do before him what he declared a shame and a sin. Now it will be expedient more than ever that nothing be done by the English to risk offending the Duke of Burgundy. None will dare withhold me; none ought to dare, for they act not for themselves, but for their infant charge; and my countess is weary of me. There is nothing to prevent my uncles from taking me away with them; or—’
‘Nothing!’ cried Alice. ‘It cannot be! Oh, that my father were here!’
‘He could do nothing for me.’
‘A convent!’
‘No convent here could keep me against the Bishop of Thérouenne.’
Alice wrung her hands. ‘Oh, it cannot—shall not be!’
‘No, Alice, I do not believe it will be. I have that confidence in Him to whom I have given myself, that I do not believe He will permit me to be snatched from Him, so long as my will does not consent.’ Esclairmonde faltered a moment, as she remembered her wavering, crossed her hands on her breast, and ejaculated, ‘May He deal mercifully with me! Yet it may be at an exceeding cost—at that of all my cherished schemes, of all that was pride and self-seeking. Alice, look not so terrified. Nothing can be done immediately, or with violence, in this first mourning for the King; and I trust to make use of the time to disguise me, and escape to England, where I may keep my vow as anchoress, or as lay sister. Let me keep that, and my self-exalting schemes shall be all put by!’
The question whether this should be to England, or to the southern parts of France held by the Armagnacs, remained for decision, as opportunity should direct: Alice constantly urging her own scheme of carrying her friend with her as her tire-woman, if, as seemed likely, she were sent home; and Esclairmonde refusing to consent to anything that might bring the bride into troubles with her father and husband; and the debates being only interrupted when the Lady Montagu was required to take her turn among the weary ladies-in-waiting around Catherine’s state bed.
Whenever she was not required to control, console, or persuade the Queen, Esclairmonde spent most of her time in a chamber apart from the chatter of Jaqueline’s little court, where she was weaving, in the delicate point-lace work she had learnt in her Flemish convent, an exquisite robe, such as were worn by priests at Mass. She seldom worked, save for the poor; but she longed to do some honour to the one man who would have promoted her nearly vanished scheme, and this work she trusted to offer for a vestment to be used at his burial Mass. Many a cherished plan was resigned, many an act of self-negation uttered, as she bent over the dainty web; many an entreaty breathed, that her moment’s wandering of fancy might not be reckoned against her, but that she might be aided to keep the promise of her infancy, and devote herself undivided to the direct service of God and of His poor, be it in ever so humble a station.
Here she sat alone, when steps approached, the door opened, and of all people he stood before her whom she least wished to see, the young Lord of Glenuskie.
Amazed as she was, she betrayed no confusion, and merely rose, saying quietly, ‘This is an error. I will show you Madame’s apartment.’
But Malcolm, who had begun by looking far more confused than she, cried earnestly, ‘One moment, lady. I came not willingly; the Countess sent for me to her. But since I am here—listen while Heaven gives me strength to say it—I will trouble you never again. I am come to a better mind. Oh, forgive me!’
‘What are you here then for, Sir?’ said Esclairmonde, with the same defensive dignity.
‘My king sent me, against my will, on a mission to the Queen,’ panted Malcolm. ‘I am forced to wait here; or, lady, I should have been this day doing penance for my pursuit of you. Verily I am a penitent. Mayhap Heaven will forgive me, if you will.’
‘If I understand you aright, it is well,’ said Esclairmonde, still gravely and doubtfully.
‘It is so indeed,’ protested Malcolm, with a terrible wrench to his heart, yet a sensation of freeing his conscience. ‘Fear me no longer now. After that which I saw at Vincennes, I know what it is to be on the straight path, and—oh! what it is to have fallen from it. How could I dream of dragging you down to be with one so unworthy, becoming more worthless each day? Lady, if I never see you more, pardon me, pray for me, as a saint for a poor outcast on earth!’
‘Hush,’ said Esclairmonde; ‘I am no saint—only a maiden pledged. But, Sir, I thank you fervently. You have lightened my heart of one of my fears.’
Malcolm could not but be cheered by being for once spoken to by her in so friendly a tone; and he added, gravely and resolutely: ‘My suit, then, I yield up, lady—yield for ever. Am I permitted once to kiss that fair and holy hand, as I resign my presumptuous hopes thereof?’
‘Mayhap it were wiser left undone,’ said Esclairmonde. ‘My mind misgives me that this meeting is planned to bring us into trouble. Farewell, my lord.’
As she had apprehended, the door was flung back, and Countess Jaqueline rushed in, clasping her hands in an affectation of merry surprise, as she cried, ‘Here they are! See, Monseigneur! No keeping doves apart!’
‘Madame,’ said Esclairmonde, turning on her with cold dignity, ‘I have been thanking Monsieur de Glenuskie for having resigned the suit that I always declared to be in vain.’
‘You misunderstood, Clairette,’ said Jaqueline. ‘No gentleman ever so spoke! No, no; my young lord has kept his promise to me, and I will not fail him.’
‘Madame,’ faltered Malcolm, ‘I came by command of the King of Scots.’
‘So much the better,’ cried Jaqueline. ‘So he can play into our hands, for all his grandeur! It will lose him his wager, though! Here is bride—there is priest—nay, bishop!’ pointing to him of Thérouenne, who had accompanied her, but hitherto had stood silent.
‘Madame,’ said Malcolm, ‘the time and state of the household forbid.’
‘Ma foi! What is that to us? King Henry is neither our brother nor our father; and Catherine will soon laugh at it as a good joke.’
‘Nay,’ said the Bishop, with more propriety, ‘it is the contract and troth-plight alone that could take place at present. That secure, the full solemnities will await a fitting time; but it is necessary that the troth be exchanged at once.’
‘Monseigneur,’ said Esclairmonde, ‘mine is in other keeping.’
‘And, Monseigneur,’ added Malcolm, ‘I have just told the lady that I repent of having fallen from my vocation, and persecuted her.’
‘How, Sir!’ said the Bishop, turning on him; ‘do you thus lightly treat a lady of the house of Luxemburg? Beware! There are those who know how to visit an insult on a malapert lad, who meddles with the honour of the family.’
‘Be not threatened, Lord Malcolm,’ said Esclairmonde, with a gleam in her eye.
And Malcolm was Stewart enough to answer with spirit: ‘My lord, I will meet them if needed. This lady is so affianced, that it is sacrilege to aspire to her.’
‘Ah!’ said the Bishop, in an audible aside to the giggling Countess: ‘this comes of her having thrown herself at the youth’s head. Now he will no more of her.’
Crimson with wrath, and also with a wild sense of hope that the obligation had become absolute, Malcolm made a vehement incoherent exclamation; but Esclairmonde retained her composure.
‘Monseigneur and Madame both know better,’ she said. ‘This is but another menace.’
‘Peace, minion,’ said the Bishop of Thérouenne, ‘and listen to me. If this young gentleman, after professing himself willing to wed you, now draws back, so much the worse for him. But if you terrify him out of it with your humours, then will my brother St. Pol and the Duke of Burgundy soon be here, with no King of England to meddle; and by St. Adrian, Sir Boëmond will be daunted by no airs, like Monsieur there. A bride shall you be, Esclairmonde de Luxemburg, ere the week is out, if not to Monsieur de Glenuskie, to the Chevalier Boëmond de Bourgogne.’
‘Look not at me,’ said Jaqueline. ‘I am weary of your contumacy. All I shall do is to watch you well. I’ve suspected for some days that you were concocting mischief with the little Montagu; but you’ll not escape again, as when I was fool enough to help you.’
The two stood a few paces apart, where they had been discovered; Esclairmonde’s eyes were closed, her hands clasped, as if in silent prayer for aid.
‘Girl—your choice!’ said the Bishop, peremptorily. ‘Wedlock on the spot to this gentleman, or to Sir Boëmond a week hence.’
Esclairmonde was very white.
‘My will shall not consent to a present breach of vow to save a future one,’ she said, in a scarce audible voice.
A sudden thought darted into Malcolm’s mind. With colour flooding his face to his very temples, he stepped nearer to her, and said, in a tremulous under-tone, ‘Lady, trust me.’
The Bishop withheld Jaqueline almost by force, so soon as he saw that the pair were whispering together, and that there was something of relaxation in Esclairmonde’s face as she looked up at him in silent interrogation.
He spoke low, but solemnly and imploringly. ‘Trust me with your plight, lady, and I will restore it when you are free.’
Hardly able to speak, she however murmured, ‘You will indeed do this?’
‘So help me Heaven!’ he said, and his eyes grew large and bright; he held his head with the majesty of his race.
‘Heaven has sent you,’ said Esclairmonde, with a long sigh, and holding out her hand to him, as though therewith she conferred a high-souled woman’s full trust.
And Malcolm took it with a strange pang of pain and exultation at the heart. The trust was won, but the hope of earthly joy was gone for ever.
The Countess broke out with a shout of triumph: ‘There, there! they have come to reason at last. There’s an end of her folly.’
Malcolm felt himself a man, and Esclairmonde’s protector, all at once, as he stood forth, still holding her hand.
‘Monseigneur,’ he said, ‘this lady consents to intrust her troth to me, and be affianced to me’—his chest heaved, but he still spoke firmly—‘on condition that no word be spoken of the matter, nor any completion of the rite take place until the mourning for King Henry be at an end;’ and, at a sort of shiver from Esclairmonde, he added: ‘Not for a year, by which time I shall be of full age.’
‘A strange bridegroom!’ said Jaqueline; ‘but maybe you do well to get her on what terms you can. Do you agree, Monseigneur?’
In truth, Monseigneur may have been relieved that the trial of strength between him and his ward had thus terminated. He was only anxious to have the matter concluded.
The agreement, binding Malcolm to accept a stated number of crowns in instalments, as the value of Esclairmonde’s lands, under the guarantee of the Duke of Burgundy and King James of Scotland, had all been long ago signed, sealed, and secured; and there was nothing to prevent thefiancailles, or espousals, from taking place at once.
It was a much more real ceremony than a mere betrothal, being, in fact, in the eye of the civil law a marriage, though the full blessing and the sacramental words of union were deferred for the completion of the rite. It was the first part of the Marriage Service, binding the pair so indissolubly to one another, that neither could enter into wedlock with any one else as long as the other lived—except, of course, by Papal dispensation; and in cases of stolen weddings, it was all that was deemed needful.
All therefore that remained to be done was, that the Bishop summoned his chaplain to serve as a witness and as scribe; and then the two young people, in their deep mourning dresses, standing before the Bishop, vowed to belong to none other than to one another, and the betrothal rings being produced, were placed on their fingers, and their hands were clasped. Malcolm’s was steady, as he felt Esclairmonde’s rest in his untrembling, but with the quietness of one who trusted all in all where she trusted at all.
‘Poor children! they have all to learn,’ hilariously shouted the Countess. ‘They have forgotten the kiss!’
‘Will you suffer it, my sister?’ said Malcolm, with burning cheeks.
‘My brother and my guardian!’ responded Esclairmonde, raising the white brow to his lips.
At that moment back went the door, and in flew Alice Montagu, crying aloud, ‘Clairette! the Queen—oh, Madame, your pardon! but I am sent for Esclairmonde. The Queen is in worse fits than ever. Sir Lewis can’t get the ring from her. They think she will rave like her father presently! Come!’
Esclairmonde could only hurry away at this; while Alice, grasping her hand, continued:
‘Oh, have they been persecuting you? I dreaded it when I saw yon little wretch; but—oh, Esclairmonde, what is this?’ in an utterly changed voice.
‘He holds my faith in trust. He will restore it,’ said Esclairmonde, hurriedly.
But Lady Montagu spoke not another word; and, indeed, they were hard upon the English queen’s rooms, whence they already heard hysterical screams of passion.
Jaqueline had immediately set forth in the same direction out of curiosity; and Malcolm in much anxiety, since the mission that he had been cautioned to guard so jealously seemed in danger of being known everywhere. He had himself been allowed to stand by the Queen’s bedside, and rehearse James’s message; but when he had further hinted of his being sent by Bedford to bring the ring, the Queen, perhaps at the mention of the brother-in-law, pouted, knew nothing of any ring, and supposed M. le Duc meant to strip her, a poor desolate widow, of all her jewels.
Then Malcolm had spoken in private with Sir Lewis Robsart, who knew the ring was among her jewels, and promised to get it for him as soon as was possible; and it was while waiting for this that Malcolm had been summoned to the Countess of Hainault’s apartments.
But ere Sir Lewis could get the ear of the Queen, as he now told Malcolm, her mother had been with her. Catherine was dull, jealous, unwilling to part with anything, but always easily coaxed over. Her mother Isabeau had, on the other hand, a good deal of low cunning and selfishness, and understood how valuable an instrument might be a duplicate seal of a deceased monarch. Therefore she instigated her daughter to deny that she possessed it, and worked her up into a state of impracticability, in which Sir Lewis Robsart was unable to deal with her, and only produced so wild a tempest of passion as perfectly to appal both him and her ladies.
That the Duke of Bedford had sent for a ring, which she would not give up, was known over the whole palace; the only matter still not perhaps known was, what was the value of that individual ring.
Robsart, however, promised to exonerate Malcolm from having shown any indiscretion; he charged it all on himself for having left his Queen for an instant to Isabeau.
Meanwhile, Malcolm and he, with other nobles and ladies, waited, waited in the outer chamber, listening to the fearful storm of shrieks and cries, till they began to spend themselves and die away; and then they heard Esclairmonde’s low voice singing her lullaby, and every one breathed freer, as though relieved, and murmurs of conversation rose again. Malcolm moved across to greet the Lady Montagu; and though she looked at him with all the disdain her little gentle face could accomplish, he had somehow a spring and strength in him that could not now be brow-beaten.
He bent over her, and said, ‘Lady, I see you know all. It is but a trust.’
‘If you so treat it, Sir, you will do well,’ responded the young matron, with as much stern gravity as she could assume; the fact being that she longed to break down and cry heartily, that Esclairmonde should so far have failed, and become like other people.
Long, long they waited—Malcolm with a strange dreamy feeling at his heart, neither triumph nor disappointment, but something between both, and peace above all. Dinner was served in the hall; the company returned to the outer apartment, yet still all was silent within; till at last, late in the afternoon, there came a black figure forth from under the black hangings, and Esclairmonde, turning to Lady Warwick, said, ‘The Queen is awake, and desires her ladies’ presence.’ And then coming towards Malcolm, who was standing near Sir Lewis Robsart, she placed in his hand the signet-ring.
Both, while the attendants of the Queen filed back into her chamber, eagerly demanded how the ring had been obtained.
‘Poor lady!’ said Esclairmonde, ‘she was too much spent to withhold anything. She was weak and exhausted with cries and tears; and when she had slept, she was as meek as a lamb; and there was no more ado but to bid her remember that the blessed King her lord would have bidden her let the ring be broken up at once, lest it should be used so as to harm her son.’
That Esclairmonde had prevailed by that gentle force of character which no one could easily resist, could not, however, be doubted for a moment; and a fresh thrill of amazement, and almost of joy, came over Malcolm at the sense that he had become the protector of such a being, and that in a sort she belonged to him, and was in his power, having trusted herself to him.
Robsart advised, and Esclairmonde concurred in the counsel, that Lord Glenuskie should set forth for Vincennes immediately, before there should be time for any more cabals, or for Queen Isabeau to have made her daughter repent of having delivered up the signet-ring.
Malcolm therefore at once took leave of his affianced, venturing to kiss her hand as he looked wistfully in her face, and said, ‘Dear lady, how shall I thank you for this trust?’
Esclairmonde gave her sweet grave smile, as she said, ‘To God’s keeping I commend you, Sir.’ She would not even bid him be true to his trust; it would have seemed to her to insult him in whom her confidence was placed, and she only added: ‘I shall ever bless you for having saved me. Farewell! Now am I bound for ever to pray for you and your sister.’
And it would be impossible to tell how the sense of Esclairmonde’s trust, and of the resolute self-denial it would require of him, elevated Malcolm’s whole tone, and braced his mind. The taking away of his original high purpose had rendered him as aimless and pleasure-loving as any ordinary lad; but the situation in which he now stood—guarding this saintly being for her chosen destiny, at the expense of all possible earthly projects for his own happiness or ambition—was such as to bring out that higher side of his nature that had well-nigh collapsed. As he stood alone in the ante-room, waiting until his horse and escort should be ready for his return, a flood of happiness seemed to gush over him. Esclairmonde was no more his own, indeed, than was King Henry’s signet; but the trust was very precious, and gave him at least the power of thinking of her as joined by a closer link than even his sister Lilias. And towards her his conscience was again clear, for this very betrothal put marriage out of the question for him, and was a real seal of his dedication. He only felt as if his heart ought not to be so light and peaceful, while his penance was still unsaid, his absolution not yet pronounced.
James of Scotland and John of Bedford sat together in the twilight of a long and weary day, spent by the one in standing like a statue at the head of his deceased friend as a part of the pageant of the lying-in-state in the chapel, whither multitudes had crowded throughout the day to see the ‘mighty victor, mighty lord, lie low on his funeral couch;’ the nobles gazing with a certain silent and bitter satisfaction at him who had not only broken the pride of their country, but had with his iron hand repressed their own private exactions, while the poor and the peasants openly bewailed him as the father and the friend who had stood between them and their harsh feudal lords. By the other, the hours had passed in the press of toil and perplexity that had fallen on him as the yet unaccredited representative of English power in France, and in writing letters to those persons at home from whom he must derive his authority. The hour of rest and relaxation was welcome to both, though they chiefly spent it each leaning back in his chair in silence.
‘Your messenger is not come back,’ said Bedford, presently, rousing himself.
‘It may have been no easy task,’ replied James, not however without uneasiness.
‘I would,’ said Bedford, presently, ‘that I had writ the matter straight to Robsart. The lad is weak, and may be tampered with.’
‘He knows that I have pledged my honour for him,’ said James.
Bedford’s thin lips moved at the corners.
‘Nay,’ said James, not angrily, ‘the youth hath in some measure disappointed me. The evil in him shot forth faster than the good under this camp life; but methinks there is in him a certain rare quality of soul that I loved him for at the first, and though it hath lain asleep all this time, yet what he hath now seen seemed to me about to work the change in him.’
‘It may be so,’ said Bedford; ‘and yet I would I had not consented to his going where that woman of Hainault might work on him to fret the Lady Esclairmonde.’
James started somewhat as he remembered overruling this objection of Malcolm’s own making. ‘She cannot have the insolence,’ he said.
At that moment a hasty step approached; the door was opened with scant ceremony, and Ralf Percy, covered from head to foot with blood, hurried in breathless and panting.
‘My lord Duke, your license! Here is Malcolm Stewart set upon in the forest by robbers and stabbed!’
‘Slain? Dead?’ cried both princes, springing up in horror.
‘Alive still—in the chapel—asking for you, my lord,’ said Percy. ‘He bade us lay him there at the King’s feet; and as it was the readiest way to a priest, we did his bidding.’
‘My poor Malcolm!’ sighed James; and he and Bedford hastened to obey the summons.
There was time on the way for Ralf Percy to give them the particulars. ‘We had gone forth—Trenton, Kitson, altogether some half-dozen of us—for a mouthful of air in the forest after our guard all day in the chapel, when about a mile from the Castle we heard a scuffle, and clashing of arms. So breaking through the thicket, we saw a score of fellows on horseback fully armed, and in the midst poor Glenuskie dragged to the ground and struggling hard with two of them. We drew our swords, hallooed, and leapt out; and the knaves never stayed to see how many of us there were, but made off like the dastards they were, but not till one had dealt poor Stewart this parting stroke. He hath been bleeding like a sheep all the way home, and hath scarce spoken but a thanksgiving for our having come in time, as he called it, and to ask for Dr. Bennet and the Duke.’
The words brought them to the door of the chapel, where for a time the chants around King Henry had paused in the agitation of the new arrival. As the black and white crowd of priests and monks opened and made way for the King and Duke, they saw, in the full light of the wax tapers, laid on a pile of cushions not far from King Henry’s feet, the figure of Malcolm, his riding-gown open at the breast, and kerchiefs dyed and soaked with blood upon it; the black of his garments and hair enhancing the ghastly whiteness of his face, and yet an air of peace and joy in the eyes and in the folded hands, as Dr. Bennet and another priest stood over him, administering those abbreviated rites of farewell blessing which the Church sanctioned in cases of sudden and violent death. The princes both stood aside, and presently Malcolm faintly said, ‘Thank God! I trusted to His mercy to pardon! Now all would be well could I but see the Duke.’
‘I am here, dear youth,’ said Bedford, kneeling on one side of him; while James, coming to the other side, spoke to him affectionately; but to him Malcolm only replied by a fond clasp of the hand, giving his sole attention to Bedford, to whom he held the signet.
‘It has cost too much,’ said Bedford, sadly.
‘Oh, Sir, this would be naught, save that I am all that lies between her—the Lady Esclairmonde—and Boëmond of Burgundy;’ and as at that moment Bedford saw the gold betrothal ring on the finger, his countenance lost something of the pitying concern it had worn. Malcolm detected the expression, and rallying his powers the more, continued: ‘Sir, there was no help—they vowed that she must choose between Boëmond and me. On the faith of a dying man, I hold her troth but in trust; I pledged myself to her to restore it when her way is clear to her purpose. She would never be mine but in name. And now who will save her? My life alone is between her and yonder wolf. Oh, Sir Duke, promise me to save her, and I die content.’
‘This is mere waste of time!’ broke in the Duke. ‘Where are the knave chirurgeons?—See, James, if the lad dies, ’twill be from mere loss of blood; there is no inward bleeding; and if there be no more loitering, he will do well.’
And seeing the surgeons at hand, he would have risen to make way, but Malcolm held him fast, reiterating, ‘Save her, Sir.’
‘If your life guards her, throw it not away by thus dallying,’ said Bedford, disengaging himself; while Malcolm groaned heavily, and turned his heavy eyes to his royal friend, who said kindly, ‘Fear not, dear cousin; either thou wilt live, or he will be better than his word.’
‘God will guard her, I know,’ said Malcolm; ‘and oh! my own dear lord, I need not ask you to be the brother to my poor sister you have been to me. At least all will be clear for her and Patie!’
‘I trust not yet,’ said James, smiling in encouragement. ‘Thou wilt live, my faithful laddie.’
Malcolm was spent and nearly fainting by this time, and all his reply was a few gasps of ‘Only say you pardon me all, my lord, and will speak forherto the Duke! askherprayers for me!’ and as James sealed his few words of reply with a kiss, he closed his eyes, and became unconscious; in which state he was conveyed to his bed.
‘You might have set his mind at rest,’ said James, somewhat hurt, to the Duke.
‘Who? I!’ said Bedford. ‘I cannot stir a finger that could set us at enmity with Burgundy, for any lady in the land. Moreover, if she have found means to secure herself once, she can do so again.’
‘I would you could have been more kind to my poor boy,’ said James.
‘Methought I was the most reasonably kind of you all! Had it not been mere murder to keep him there prating and bleeding, I had asked of him what indiscretion had blown the secret and perilled the signet. No robbers were those between Paris and Vincennes in our midst, but men who knew what he bore. I’ll never—’
Bedford just restrained himself from saying, ‘trust a Scot again;’ but his manner had vexed and pained James, who returned to Malcolm, and left him no more till called by necessity to his post as King Henry’s chief mourner, when the care of him was left to Patrick Drummond and old Bairdsbrae; and Malcolm was a very tranquil patient, who seemed to need nothing but the pleasure of looking at the ring on his finger. The weapon had evidently touched no vital part, and he was decidedly on the way to recovery, when on the second evening Bedford met James, saying: ‘I have seen Robsart. It was no indiscretion of young Glenuskie’s. It was only what comes of dealing with women. Can I see the boy without peril to him?’
Malcolm was so much better, that there was no reason against the Duke’s admission, and soon Bedford’s falcon-face looked down on him in all its melancholy.
‘Thanks, my Lord Glenuskie,’ he said; ‘I thought not to be sending you on a service of such risk.’
‘It was a welcome service,’ said Malcolm.
Bedford’s brows knitted themselves for a moment as he said, ‘I came to ask whether you deem that this hurt was from a common robber orroutier.’
‘Assuredly not,’ said Malcolm, but very low; and looking up into his face, as he added, ‘This should be for your ear alone, Sir.’
They were left alone, and the Duke said: ‘I have heard from Robsart how the ring was obtained. You may spare that part of the story.’
‘Sir,’ said Malcolm, ‘when the Lady Esclairmonde’ (for he was not to be balked of dwelling on that name with prolonged delight) ‘had brought me the ring, Sir Lewis Robsart advised my setting forth without loss of time.’
‘So he told me,’ said the Duke; ‘and likewise that you took his words so literally as to set out with only three followers.’
‘Ay, Sir; but he knew not wherefore. My escort had gone forth into the city, and while they were being collected, a message bade me to the Lady Esclairmonde’s presence. I went, suspecting naught, but I found myself in presence of Madame of Hainault, and of a veiled lady—who, my Lord—’ He paused. ‘She was broad in form, and had a trick of gasping as though over-fat.’
Bedford nodded. Every one knew Queen Isabeau by these tokens.
‘She scarce spoke, my Lord; but the Countess Jaqueline pretended to be in one of her merry moods. She told me one good turn deserved another, and that, as in gratitude and courtesy bound, I must do her the favour of either lending her the signet, or, if I would not let it out of my hands, of setting it to a couple of parchments, which she declared King Henry had promised to grant.’
‘The false woman!’
‘Sir, words told not on her. She laughed and clapped her hands at whatever I said of honour, faith, or trust. She would have it that it was a jest—nay, romping fashion, she seized my hand, which I let her have, knowing it was only my own seal that was on it. Never was I so glad that the signet being too small for my fingers, it was in my bosom.’
‘Knew you what the parchments bore?’ asked, Bedford, anxiously.
‘One—so far as I could see—was of the Duke of Orleans’ liberty,’ said Malcolm. ‘The other—pardon me, Sir—it bore the names of Duke Humfrey and Countess Jaqueline.’
‘The shameless wanton!’ broke forth Bedford. ‘How did you escape her at last, boy?’
‘Sir,’ said Malcolm, turning as red as loss of blood permitted, ‘she had not kept her hands off me; therefore when she stood between me and the door, I told her that discourtesy was better than trust-breaking, and while she jeered at my talking out of a book of chivalry, I e’en took her by the hands, lifted her aside, opened the door, ran down-stairs, and so to the stables, where I mounted with the only three men I could get together.’
Bedford could not but laugh, as he added, ‘Bravely done, Lord Malcolm; but, I fear me, she will never forgive you. What next?’
‘I left word for the other fellows to join us at the hostel by the gate, and tarried for them till I feared being here after the gates were fast; then set out without them, and rode till, just within the forest, a band of men, how many I cannot tell, were on us, and before my sword was well drawn they had surrounded me, and seized my bridle. One of them bade me submit quietly, and they would not harm me, if I would yield up that which I wist of. I said I would sooner yield my life than my trust; whereupon they mastered me, and dragged me off my horse, and were rifling me, when I—knowing the Flemish accent of that drunken fellow of the Countess’s—called out, “Shame on you, Ghisbert!” Then it was that he stabbed me, even at the moment when the holy Saints sent brave Percy and the rest to rush in upon them.’
‘You are sure it was Ghisbert?’ repeated Bedford, anxiously.
‘As certain as a man’s voice can make me,’ said Malcolm. ‘Methinks, had I not named him, he would perhaps have bound me to a tree, and left it to be thought that they were but common thieves.’
‘Belike,’ said Bedford, thoughtfully. ‘We are beholden to you, my Lord Glenuskie; the whole state of England is beholden to you for the saving of the confusion and evils the loss of that ring would have caused. You can keep counsel, I wot well. Then let all this matter of the Queen and Countess rest a secret.’
Malcolm looked amazed; and Bedford added: ‘I cannot quarrel with the woman, nor banish her from Court. Did we accuse her, Holland would become Armagnac; nor is she subject of ours, to have justice done on her. It is for her interest to hush the matter up, and it must be ours too. If that knave Ghisbert ever gives me the chance, he shall hang like a dog; but for the rest—’ he shrugged his shoulders.
‘And,’ said Malcolm, ‘Ghisbert only meant to serve his lady. Any vassal of mine would do the like for me or my sister.’
Bedford half smiled; then sighed and said: ‘Once we were like to get laws more obeyed than lords; but that is all over now! Yet you, young Sir, have seen a great pattern; you will have great powers!’
‘Sir,’ interrupted Malcolm, ‘I pray you believe me, great powers I shall not have. As I told you last night, I do but hold this precious troth in trust! It must be a secret, or it would not save her; but you—oh, Sir! you will believe that!’
‘If it be so,’ said Bedford, gravely, ‘it is too sacred a trust to be spoken of. You will deserve greater honour if you keep your word, than ever you will receive from the world. Farewell—and recover fast.’
Malcolm did not meet with much encouragement from the few to whom he thought fit to confide the conditions of his espousal. The King allowed that he could not have acted otherwise, but was concerned at it, because of the hindrance that might for years be interposed in the way of his welfare; and secretly hoped that Malcolm, in his new capacity, would so gain on Esclairmonde’s esteem and gratitude, as to win her affection, and that by mutual consent they would lay aside their loftier promises, and take up their espousal where they had left it.
And what James secretly desired, Sir Patrick Drummond openly recommended. In his eyes, Malcolm would be no better than a fool if he let his ladye-love, with all her lands, slip through his fingers, when she was lawfully his own. Patrick held that a monastery was a good place to be nursed in if wounded, and a convenience for disposing of dull or weakly younger sons; and he preferred that there should be some holy men to pray for those who did the hard and bloody work of the world; but he had no desire that any one belonging to himself should plunge into extra sanctity; and the more he saw Malcolm developing into a man among men, the more he opposed the notion of his dedicating himself.
A man! Yes; Malcolm was rising from his bed notably advanced in manliness. As the King’s keen eye had seen from the first, and as Esclairmonde had felt, there was an elevation, tenderness, and refinement in his cast of character, which if left to his natural destiny would have either worn out his life early in the world, or carried him to the obscure shelter of a convent. In the novelty of the secular life, and temptations of all kinds, dread of ridicule, and the flood of excitements which came with reviving health, that very sensitiveness led him astray; and the elevated aims fell with a heavier fall when diverted from heavenly palaces to earthly ones. Self-reproach and dejection drove him further from the right course, and in proportion to the greater amount of conscience he had by nature, his character was the more deteriorating. His deeds were far less evil in themselves than those of many of his companions, but inasmuch as they were not thoughtless in him, they were injuring him more. But the sudden shock of Patrick’s danger roused him to a new sense of shame. King Henry’s death had lifted his mind out of the earthly atmosphere, and then the treasure of Esclairmonde’s pure and perfect trust seemed to be the one thing to be guarded worthily and truly. It gave him weight, drew him out of himself, lifted him above the boyish atmosphere of random self-indulgence and amusement. To be the protector who should guard her vows for the heavenly Bridegroom to whom her soul was devoted, was indeed a championship that in his eyes could only have befitted Sir Galahad; and a Galahad would he strive to be, so long as that championship held him to the secular life. James and Bedford both told him he had won his spurs, and should have them on the next fit occasion; but he had ceased to care for knighthood, save in that half-consecrated aspect which he thought would render his guardianship less unmeet for Esclairmonde.
She had not shunned to send him a kind greeting on hearing of his wound, and by way of token a fresh leaf of vellum with a few more of those meditations from Zwoll—meditations that he spelled over from Latin into English, and dwelt upon in great tranquillity and soothing of spirit during the days that he was confined to his bed.
These were not many. He was on his feet by the time the funeral cavalcade was in readiness to move from Vincennes to convey Henry of Monmouth to his last resting-place in Westminster Abbey. Bedford could not be spared to return to England, and was only to go as far as Calais; and James of Scotland was therefore to act as chief mourner, attended by his own small personal suite.
Sir Patrick Drummond—though, shrugging his shoulders, he muttered that he should as soon have thought of becoming mourner at the foul fiend’s funeral as at the King of England’s—could not object to swell the retinue of his sovereign by his knighthood; and though neither he nor Malcolm were in condition for a campaign, both could ride at the slow pace of the mournful procession.
The coffin was laid on a great car, drawn by four black horses, and surmounted by Henry’s effigy, made in boiled leather and coloured to the life, robed in purple and ermine, crown on head, sceptre and orb in either hand. The great knights and nobles rode on each side, carrying the banners of the Saints; and close behind came James and Bedford, each with his immediate attendants; then the household officers of the King, Fitzhugh his chamberlain, Montagu his cup-bearer, Ralf Percy and his other squires, and all the rest. Four hundred men-at-arms in black armour, with lances pointed downwards, formed the guard behind; and the vanguard was of clergy, robed in white, bearing banners and wax lights, and chanting psalms. At the border of every parish, all the ecclesiastics thereto appertaining, parochial, chantry, and monastic, turned out to meet the procession with their tapers; escorted it to the principal church; performed Mass there, if it were in the forenoon; and then accompanied the coffin to the other limit of their ground, and consigned it to the clerks of the next parish. At night, the royal remains always rested in a church, guarded by alternate watches of the English men-at-arms, and sung over by the local clergy, while the escort were quartered in the town, village, or abbey where the halt chanced to be made. Very slow was this progress; almost like a continual dream was that long column, moving, moving on—white in front, black behind—when seen winding over a hill, or, sometimes, the banners peering over the autumn foliage of some thicket, all composed to profound silence and tardy measured tread; while the chants rose and fell with the breeze, like unearthly music. Many moved on more than half asleep; and others of the younger men felt like Ralf Percy, who, for all his real sorrow for the King, declared that, were it not for rushing out, morning and evening, for a bathe and a gallop, to fly a hawk or chase a hare, he should some day run crazed, blow out all the wax lights, or play some mad prank to break the intolerable oppression. Malcolm smiled at this; but to him, still in the dreamy inertness of recovery, this tranquil onward movement in the still autumn weather had some thing in it of healing influence; and the sweet chants, the continual offices of devotion, were accordant with his present tone of mind, and deepened the purpose he had formed.
Queen Catherine and her ladies joined the funeral march at Rouen, or rather followed it at a mile’s interval; but the two trains kept apart, and only occasional messages were sent from one to the other. Some of the gentlemen, who had a wife or sister in the Queen’s suite, would ride at nightfall to pay her a hasty visit; but Malcolm—though he longed to be sent—durst not intrude upon Esclairmonde; and the Duke of Bedford was not only forced to spend all the evening and half the night in business, but was not loth to put off the day of the meeting with his dear sister Catherine—to say nothing of the ‘Woman of Hainault.’
Therefore it was not until all had arrived at Calais, where a fleet was waiting to meet them, that any visits were openly made by the one party to the other.
Bedford and James went together to the apartments of the Queen, and while they saw her in private, Malcolm came blushing towards Esclairmonde, and was welcomed by her with a frank smile, outstretched hand, and kind inquiry after his recovery.
She treated him indeed as a brother, as one on whom she depended, and had really wished to see and arrange with. She told him that Alice Montagu and her husband were returning to England, and that her little friend had so earnestly prayed her to abide with her at Middleham for the present, that she had consented—‘until such time as the way be open,’ said Esclairmonde, with her steady patient smile.
Malcolm bowed his head. ‘I am glad you will not be forced to be with your Countess,’ he said.
‘My poor lady! Maybe I have spoken too plainly. But I owe her much. I must ever pray for her. And you, my lord?’
‘I,’ said Malcolm, ‘shall go to study at Oxford. Dr. Bennet intends returning thither to continue his course of teaching, and my king has consented to my studying with him. It will not cut me off, lady, from that which you permit me to be. King Henry and his brothers have all been scholars there.’
‘I understand,’ said Esclairmonde, slightly colouring. ‘It is well. And truly I trust that matters may be so guided, that care for me may not long detain you from more lasting vows—be they of heaven or earth.’
‘Lady,’ said Malcolm, earnestly, ‘none who had been plighted to youcouldpledge himself to aught else save One above!’
Then, feeling in himself, or seeing in Esclairmonde’s face, that he was treading on dangerous ground, he asked leave to present to her his cousin, Patrick Drummond: and this was accordingly done; the lady comporting herself with so much sweet graciousness, that the good knight, as they left the hall, exclaimed: ‘By St. Andrew, Malcolm, if you let that maiden escape you now she is more than half-wedded to you, you’ll be the greatest fool in broad Scotland. Why, she is a very queen for beauty, and would rule Glenuskie like a princess—ay, and defend the Castle like Black Agnes of Dunbar herself! If you give her up, ye’ll be no better than a clod.’
Malcolm and Patrick had been borne off by James’s quitting the Castle; Bedford remained longer, having affairs to arrange with the Queen. As he left her, he too turned aside to the window where Esclairmonde sat as usual spinning, and Lady Montagu not far off, but at present absorbed by her father, who was to remain in France.
One moment’s hesitation, and then Bedford stepped towards the Demoiselle de Luxemburg, and greeted her. She looked up in his face, and saw its settled look of sad patient energy, which made it full ten years older in appearance than when they had sat together at Pentecost, and she marked the badge that he had assumed, a torn-up root with the motto, ‘The root is dead.’
‘Ah! my lord, things are changed,’ she could not help saying, as she felt that he yearned for comfort.
‘Changed indeed!’ he said; ‘God’s will be done! Lady,’ he added, ‘you wot of that which once passed between us. I was grieved at first that you chose a different protector in your need.’
‘Youcouldnot, my lord,’ faltered Esclairmonde, crimson as she never had been when speaking to Malcolm.
‘No, Icouldnot,’ said Bedford; ‘and, lady, my purpose was to thank you for the generous soul that perceived that so it is. You spared me from a cruel case. I have no self any longer, Esclairmonde; all I am, all I have, all I can, must be spent in guarding Harry’s work for his boy. To all else I am henceforth dead; and all I can do is to be thankful, lady, that you have spared me the sorest trial of all, both to heart and honour.’
Esclairmonde’s eyes were downcast, as she said, ‘Heaven is the protector of those of true and kind purpose;’ and then gathering courage, as being perfectly aware to whom Bedford must give his hand if he would conciliate Burgundy, she added, ‘And, verily, Sir, the way of policy is this time a happy one. Let me but tell you how I have known and loved gentle Lady Anne.’
Bedford shook his head with a half smile and a heavy sigh. ‘Time fails me, dear lady,’ he said; ‘and I cannot brook any maiden’s praise, even from you. I only wait to ask whether there be any way yet left wherein I can serve you. I will strive to deal with your kinsmen to restore your lands.’
‘Hold!’ said Esclairmonde. ‘Never for lands of mine will I have your difficulties added to. No—let them go! It was a vain, proud dream when I thought myself most humble, to become a foundress; and if I know my kinsmen, they will be too much angered to bestow on me the dower required by a convent. No, Sir; all I would dare to inquire would be, whether you have any voice in choosing the bedeswomen of St. Katharine’s Hospital?’
‘The bedeswomen! They come chiefly from the citizens, not from princely houses like yours!’ said John, in consternation.
‘I have done with princely houses,’ said Esclairmonde. ‘A Flemish maiden would be of no small service among the many whom trade brings to your port from the Netherlands, and my longing has ever been to serve my Lord through His poor and afflicted.’
‘It is my father’s widow who holds the appointments,’ said John. ‘Between her and me there hath been little good-will, but my dear brother’s last act towards her was of forgiveness. She may wish to keep well with us of the Regency—and more like still, she will be pleased that one of so great a house as yours should sue to her. I will give you a letter to her, praying her to remember you at the next vacancy; and mayhap, if the Lady Montagu could take you to visit her, you could prevail with her! But, surely, some nunnery more worthy of your rank—’
‘There is none that I should love so well,’ said Esclairmonde, smiling. ‘Mayhap I have learnt to be a vagabond, but I cannot but desire to toil as well as pray.’
‘And you are willing to wait for a vacancy?’
‘When once safe from my kinsmen, in England, I will wait under my kind Alice’s wing till—till it becomes expedient that yonder gentleman be set free.’
‘You trust him?’ said Bedford.
‘Entirely,’ responded Esclairmonde, heartily.
‘Happy lad!’ half sighed the Duke; but, even as he did so, he stood up to bid the lady adieu—lingering for a moment more, to gaze at the face he had longed for permission to love—and thus take leave of all his youth and joy, addressing himself again to that burthen of care which in thirteen years laid him in his grave at Rouen.
As he left the Castle and came out into the steep fortified street, Ralf Percy came up to him, laughing. ‘Here, my lord, are those two honest Yorkshire knights running all over Calais to make a petition to you.’
‘What—Trenton and Kitson! I thought their year of service was up, and they were going home!’
‘Ay, my lord,’ said Kitson, who with his comrade had followed close in Percy’s wake, ‘we were going home to bid Mistress Agnes take her choice of us; but this morn we’ve met a pursuivant that is come with Norroy King-at-arms, and what doth he but tell us that no sooner were our backs turned, than what doth Mistress Agnes but wed—ay, wed outright—one Tom of the Lee, a sneaking rogue that either of us would have beat black and blue, had we ever seen him utter a word to her? A knight’s lady—not to say two—as she might have been! So, my lord, we not being willing to go home and be a laughing-stock, crave your license to be of your guard as we were of King Harry’s, and show how far we can go among the French.’
‘And welcome; no good swords can be other than welcome!’ said Bedford, not diverted as his brother would have been, but with a heartiness that never failed to win respectful affection.
Long did James and Bedford walk up and down the Castle court together, while the embarkation was going on. The question weighed on them both whether they should ever meet more, after eighteen years of youth spent together.
‘Youth is gone,’ said Bedford. ‘We have been under a mighty master, and now God help us to do his work.’
‘You!’ said James; ‘but for me—it is like to be the library and the Round Tower again.’
‘Scarcely,’ said Bedford, ‘the Beauforts will never rest till Joan is on a throne.’
James smiled.
‘Ay,’ said Bedford, ‘the Bishop of Winchester will be no small power, you will find. Would that I could throw up this France and come home, for he and Humfrey will clash for ever. James, an you love me, see Humfrey alone, and remind him that all the welfare of Harry’s child may hang on his forbearance—on union with the Bishop. Tell him, if he ever loved the noblest brother that ever lived, to rein himself in, and live only for the child’s good, not his own. Tell him that Bedford and Gloucester must be nothing henceforth—only heads and hands doing Harry’s will for his babe. Oh, James, what can you tell Humfrey that will make him put himself aside?’
‘You have writ to him Harry’s words as to Dame Jac?’
‘The wanton! ay, I have; and if you can whisper in his ear that matter of Malcolm and the signet, it might lessen his inclination. But,’ he sighed, ‘I have little hope, James; I see nothing for Lancaster but that which the old man at York invoked upon us!’
‘Yet, when I look at you and Humfrey, and think of the contrast with my own father’s brethren, I see nothing but hope and promise for England,’ said James.
‘We must do our best, however heavy-hearted,’ said John of Bedford, pausing in his walk, and standing steadfast. ‘The rod becomes a palm to those who do not freshly bring it on themselves. May this poor child of Harry’s be bred up so that he may be fit to meet evil or good!’
‘Poor child,’ repeated James. ‘Were he not there, and you—’
‘Peace, James,’ said Bedford; ‘it is well that such a weight is not added! While I act for my nephew, I know my duty; were it for myself, methinks I should be crazed with doubts and questions. Well,’ as a messenger came up with tidings that all was ready, ‘fare thee well, Jamie. In you I lose the only man with whom I can speak my mind, or take counsel. You’ll not let me gain a foe, as well as lose a friend, when you get home?’
‘Never, in heart, John!’ said the King. ‘As to hand—Scotland must be to England what she will have her. Would that I saw my way thither! Windsor will have lost all that made captivity well-nigh sweet. And so farewell, dear brother. I thank you for the granting to me of this sacred charge.’
And so, with hands clasped and wrung together, with tears raining from James’s eyes, and a dry settled melancholy more sad than tears on John’s countenance, the two friends parted, never again to meet; each to run a course true, brave, and short—extinguished the one in bitter grief, the other in blood.
On All Saints’ Day, while James stood with Humfrey of Gloucester at the head of the grave at Westminster, where Henry’s earthly form was laid to rest amid the kings his fathers, amid the wail of a people as sorrowful as if they knew all the woes that were to ensue, Bedford was in like manner standing over a grave at the Royal Abbey of St. Denis. He, the victor’s brother, represented all the princely kindred of Charles VI. of France, and, with his heart at Westminster, filled the chief mourner’s place over the king who had pined to death for his conqueror.
The same infant was proclaimed king over each grave—heir to France and England, to Valois and Lancaster. Poor child, his real heirloom was the insanity of the one and the doom of the other! Well for him that there was within him that holy innocence that made his life a martyrdom!