The King had supped and was playing at “tables” with one of his gentlemen. The room was hung with blue arras, covered with lions rampant in gold. The sun had long set, and a soft, blue-black sky showed through the open window, with here and there a star showing. Candles burnt in sconces on the walls, and the floor was littered with rushes and sweet herbs.
A page came in, a child with flaxen hair.
“Sire, Madame the Princess would see you. She is in the great gallery, and coming hither.”
Richard was not pleased.
“Bid her come, little fool. Sit you still, Falconbridge; we play on.”
They were intent on the game when the Princess entered, and Richard did not raise his eyes to see that Knollys and Salisbury were with her. Knollys had closed the door, and they stood gazing at the King.
“Richard!”
There was such a whipping sharpness in her voice that the King looked up startled, and saw Salisbury and Knollys. Nor did their grim faces please him.
“Ah, my Lord of Salisbury!”
“Falconbridge, leave us.”
“Madame—mother, the game is not done.”
She stepped forward, swept the pieces off the board, her face like stone. Falconbridge rose incontinently and went out, pushing past Fulk, who was standing in the passage.
“What means all this?”
“Son, there are words to be spoken between us, words that I for one would gladly not hear.”
He looked at her uneasily.
“What spoil-sport business is this?”
She stretched out a closed hand, and, opening her fingers suddenly, showed the ring lying in her palm.
“Richard, this was lost to you. Take back your own.”
They were watching him, and they saw his lower lip loosen, his eyes grow shallow with a kind of fear.
“That ring of mine! I had mislaid it.”
He was lying, and his flaccid face betrayed him.
“Mislaid! That is a word to use! Mislaid! Soul of my God, it is your honour that you have mislaid!”
He tried to bluster.
“What foolery is this? I lose a ring, and strange words come back with it.”
“Tell me, son, how did you lose the ring to the grey friar? How came it that a certain man was betrayed? How was it that your ring wrought murder?”
He was white to the lips now.
“It is false.”
She saw him shrink and falter, and a bitter, scornful cry escaped from her.
“Son, son, you shame me to the death; but by the fear of God that is in me I will bring you down into the dust. For out of the dust you must rise. Let Fulk Ferrers come to us.”
Knollys went to the door, and Richard’s eyes followed him—eyes that seemed to expect a ghost. He saw Fulk enter—Fulk the young man in his own likeness, bareheaded, calm, with a steadfast look about his eyes. And he sat back in his chair, shrinking, moistening his lips.
“Son, behold your brother! He is alive, not dead. Give God thanks for it.”
A moment’s silence prevailed. It was as though no words were great enough to sound the deeps of that silence.
Then Fulk was inspired. He crossed the room and stood before Richard’s chair.
“Brother, why should hate live between us? Let us take hands and swear comradeship. Then I will go and trouble you and this land no longer.”
Richard rose slowly, falteringly, his eyes on Fulk’s. The other’s manhood seemed to flow into him. His lips grew firmer, his bearing more steady.
“Brother!”
He bowed his head suddenly, caught at Fulk’s hands, and burst into tears.
Again there was silence, save for the sound of his weeping. They let him weep. Presently he raised his head, and his face had a new nobility.
“I, Richard of England, stand here in my shame. Mother, look on me with pity.”
“Son, there is a new heart in you.”
His wet eyes flashed.
“Fulk Ferrers, God forgive me my littleness and my coward thoughts. And of you, Sir Robert Knollys, and of you, my Lord of Salisbury, I ask pardon. Tell me, sirs, what can be done?”
Knollys drew his sword out of its scabbard.
“Knighthood helps in the wars.”
Richard looked questioningly at Fulk.
“Will you take it at my hands?”
“They are a King’s hands.”
“Then kneel, brother, kneel.”
Fulk knelt, and Knollys’ sword served to give the stroke on the shoulder.
“Rise, Sir Fulk Ferrers. If thou art minded to leave this English land, by this shame of mine, thou shalt go as the son of a prince should go.”
“Let him have men and money, sir.”
Fulk rose, and Richard gave him Knollys’ sword.
“Keep it, brother. Knollys shall be recompensed. And I am thinking that thou art leaving something of thyself behind with me. My Lord of Salisbury, let all things be done nobly. It is the King’s will.”
They rode back to the Black Mere next morning, and a buxom old gentleman on a white palfrey rode with them, even Father Hilarius, whom Knollys had chartered and sworn to secrecy and discretion. Father Hilarius was a merry soul. He cracked jests by the way, and the sly good humour oozed out of him like honey out of a broken comb. Nothing pleased him better than a marriage. He liked the cup of wine at the end of it, and the sententious benignity of his own words concerning love and the begetting of children.
Fulk took the quips in good part. Father Hilarius’s wit blew like a blithe west wind; it harmed nobody on a hot day in summer.
At the Black Mere they had refloated the barge, buried the dead in defiance of all crowners, and cleansed the hall. Some lover-sense had made blunt Cavendish order the place to be strewn with fresh herbs and flowers, and Isoult had smiled when she had seen these men of the sword at their labours.
So Fulk, Knollys, and Father Hilarius were ferried over, and Isoult met them at the water’s edge. She was a splendour that morning, and the shine of her lit a light in men’s eyes.
Knollys was a little boisterous and exultant.
“Madame Isoult, we have brought back knighthood and a shipload of fine plunder, not to speak of that very great saint and cenobite, Father Hilarius.”
Father Hilarius bobbed and looked sly.
“Daughter, I am the most timid of men. Sir Robert here is a terrible fellow! I was his chaplain in France. Ahem! I will say no more.”
They left Fulk and Isoult together, and that togetherness of theirs ended in the orchard, where Knollys, Cavendish, and Father Hilarius set the seal to a great adventure. The priest smacked his lips over it, and was ready to wink at a man who was married with his head in an iron pot.
Knollys made a feast for them in the hall, and when they had feasted Isoult brought her lute and sang them songs. And Father Hilarius extended his toes in an ecstasy, and drank more wine.
“Surely never was such a voice heard in heaven! My son, you will grow into an angel.”
Knollys chuckled.
“A devil of an angel with a coal-black beard! Isoult, would it please you to be married to an angel?”
She laughed and looked at Fulk.
“I would sooner have the man.”
Which saying Father Hilarius took to be a most excellent and subtle jest, for he spread himself and exulted.
Printed by Cassell & Company, Limited, La Belle Sauvage, London, E.C.
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE:
Misspelled words and printer's errors have been corrected.Inconsistency in hyphenation has been retained.Inconsistency in accents has been retained.The book cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.
Misspelled words and printer's errors have been corrected.
Inconsistency in hyphenation has been retained.
Inconsistency in accents has been retained.
The book cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.