CHAPTER XXIII
BROTHERS
FOR some while nothing went ill. The young King had more appetite for pomp and show than his father, his manners were better, his temper easier and so his court was the gayer, but all else was as if his father still ruled at Westminster. Under the justiciar's hand the machine of government did its work with the old force and certainty, and Henry the younger showed no ambition to meddle. But as the months went by more of the great barons came to court, men who had stood aloof from the old King, men who bore him no good will, men who had quarrelled with him. To all of them Henry Fitz Henry was gracious and something more, as though he sought their favour. He gave the justiciar and the old King's friends no cause of offence, but he seemed to prefer these lords of famous blood and vast possessions to the able men whom his father had raised out of nothing to hold office. And a day came when he made known that he would leave Westminster and go to Windsor and after, if so he pleased, make a progress through the country, and he did not bid the justiciar nor any of the officers of state go with him. It was plainly within his right, it was conspicuously not his father's way.
"How do you read this, master Bran?" the justiciar said.
"A young man's youth will say its say, and every dog must have his day," Bran shrugged.
"I like it not when the sheep dog runs with the wolves."
"Like no man till his head is gray, youth it buys what age must pay."
"Why, if this were a boy's fling, no harm. But what company does he keep? My lord of Leicester, old Hugh Bigod, the Earl of Clare. You are a younger man yourself, old Bran. It is a green head seeking the grey—and them who have grown grey as his father's enemies. God's my life, I think his mother's spirit works in him. She ever leaned to the barons."
"If it be so, so it were said. Yet I tell you the boy is but a boy."
"God send you right," quoth the justiciar.
To Windsor the young King went and more than one great baron in his train and hunted and feasted merrily. And on a night Bran rode out alone across the forest to that bare land beyond the Surrey border which he had crossed with the King. The moon was rising behind driven clouds and a dim grey light bathed the heath. Bran tied up his horse to a tree on the verge of the forest and strode on. Here and there in the hollows points of light twinkled like tiny stars upon earth. On the wind came a murmur of sound as from soft voices far away. "Yes, yea, there is life here," Bran said, and in a while he began to sing, a strange song, gentle music but weird with no words. He sat himself down and still sang. Then he broke off suddenly to say, "I am of the earth, brother," though he saw no one. "From the chalk of the hills I come."
The heath rustled about him. "From the black land of the river, I," a voice said, but still he saw no one. "Come, brother. My ring is near. We have honey and curds and spring water."
"Na, na, I have all and naught but news I seek. Is it well with the little people, brother?"
"Here is no ill."
"You be many here, here on the heath where no food is. And you are of the river land."
"We be very many. From the river land and the clay and the tilled sand and the forest. Ill comes, brother. Men hate again."
"Fie, fie," Bran said, "you are not fled far from men. I remember in my days when we fled many a mile where none could come."
"You are old and wise, brother. We remember. But men are not hungry now. Men are not naked. They will not long kill. We live in the heath till their hate grows cool."
"It is well said, brother. Peace to the little people."
"Peace, brother, peace."
On his way back Bran sang the Benedicite: "All ye works of the Lord, bless ye the Lord"; and he came to the castle again about the time that young Henry was lurching to bed. "God save you, brother fool," he steadied himself by Bran's shoulder, "a sad, sober fool are you. Where were you this merry while?"
"I have heard what the wind hears, I have learned what the old earth knows, I have seen what the running water sees. I am a wise man this night."
The young King hiccoughed and rolled on.
In the morning Bran saw the court was breaking up. My lord of Leicester was off betimes and after some talk together Hugh of Norfolk and the Earl of Clare went each his way. To the young King, Bran came, a King who was making his breakfast of spiced wine and crayfish. "Blessed are you among Kings, Henry my son. What a thirst is there! But tell me, child, have you put on the cross? Do you go a pilgrimage?"
"What is in the fool's head now?"
"Naught, child, naught. A drum is my head and things beat on it and you hear the din. All your lords have taken staff and scrip and gone to seek their saints. Who is your saint, son Henry?"
"The red deer. I go to hunt in Guildford chase, fool."
Bran rolled his eyes. "Yea, yea. And the old men have other game. But tell poor Bran. What ails the deer of Windsor, child?"
"They are too tame for me. They show no sport."
"Yea, yea, the beast you know not is better than the beast you know. Do you know me, child? Na, na, youth seeks ever a foe and a friend, age it runs from both in the end." And he flung himself upon one of the hounds at the King's feet and fought a desperate grotesque battle.
So to Guildford they rode that day, the young King with none but his own train. They had been at Guildford no more than a night when the Earl of Clare came to the castle, the Earl of Clare with his knights and their ladies, a splendid company. From where he lay in the rushes on the floor of the hall Bran scratched the young King's knee. "My son," said he, "call his name Gad: for a troop cometh." He rolled over and, his head between his hands, blinked at them, while the lad was gracious and debonair in his welcome. When the men had all knelt and kissed and the women curtsied and been kissed, "Hail, cousin Clare," he called from the floor. "Like the poor are you. For we have you with us always. Yet the fool bids you welcome."
The old Earl scowled at him. "One fool and his folly are not soon parted, my lord," Henry laughed.
"Sooth, sooth, child. But you should not tell him so. Respect a grey head."
"Let your fool get o' horseback, he rides to the devil," said the Earl. "Wanton rogues are they all. I hate the tribe, my lord."
"God ha' mercy, cousin, keep your temper. For if you should lose it no man would find it for a thousand crowns."
"If you were mine, my grooms' whips should know your ribs."
"Nay, nay, my lord, old Bran is a gentle merry fool and we love him well," the young King said.
My lord made his bow, and then the King nodded Bran away and was forward to please him.
In the chimney corner Bran sat by himself and talked to himself. "Yea, yea, a kind heart are you, Henry my son, but in the head you are naught and for a King, God help you. Fie, how he fawns on the old robber! Your father never feared the face of man, child, nay, not when he was landless and friendless. And you who have the power that he made for you, you cringe. There is base blood in you though his son you be. God have mercy, boy. What is de Clare that you should seek his favour? Proud he is, yea, proud as Lucifer, and a good gaunt shape of a man and he looks down on you and you are humbled. Why, he is naught but a robber chief, and for all his lauds and his knights your father would have broken him between bed and breakfast at need. Nay, but who is the wench? A large, luscious girl are you, and with a beckoning eye. I would sprinkle holy water on you ere I touched you. Our niece, Adela de Clare! So, so. And the boy looks on her like a dog on his dinner. Now God have mercy, every woman was a woman to your father when he was young, but never one saw him a fool. Aye, aye, sit down to your meat between her and the old man who has brought her to buy your little soul withal. Say grace for her, child. Eat, drink and be merry, for to-morrow you die. Fie, fie, see her work her black eyes! Smile and languish, then. Amor vincit omnia. Love conquers all. Love, quotha! And you, you are the son of a man."
He lay among the dogs munching a crust and watched. The plan was plain as his hand. Old de Clare and his friends meant to win the young King for their party and set him against his father, and the full-blown beauty of Dame Adela was the bait for the lad. She knew her part, she was merry and coy, she ogled and looked down, she made a show of every part of herself and withdrew. And from the shadow by the fire a sad, bitter face watched each turn and trick of the game.
In the morning he was by the lad's bedside, "How does it taste, child?" he said. "How does it taste in the morning?"
The lad stared and rubbed his eyes and took his morning draught of piment, "Old Bran, old solemn face!" he laughed. "God's my life, you are the saddest fool in Christendom."
"Yes, yea. For I love your father's son."
"What? Oh, a good fellow, a good fellow," the lad patted him as if he were a dog. "I like you well. Never fear. I will stand your friend. But for God's sake give us something blither."
"Do you stand your own friend, child?"
"Why, would you be preaching? Good father Bran, a priest is often a fool, but who would have a fool play priest?"
"Bran is no priest in head nor heart, not fast but feast gives Bran his part. I would have you blithe and gay, but look you, child, you miss the way. God have mercy, what would they make of you, this rabble of de Clare's? Your father's enemy."
The young King started up. "Good words, fool! I am my own man."
"Then wisdom comes in the morning."
"What do you mean, rogue?"
"Would he have you your own man, the old Earl who sat prompting her?"
Then the lad laughed loud. "You hate well, old Bran. Aye, he is a fierce fellow. Never fear. He shall do you no hurt."
"Hate? God have mercy, child, not I, not such as he is. I have seen your father break sturdier rogues a many. But he and his are beneath my King."
He was not ill pleased with that, when he thought it over, best pleased that he had said nothing against the woman. He was not ill pleased with its effect. The young King was magnificent to Dame Adela and condescending, which she took ill enough. But her uncle had his plans. The most of his company took their leave. He stayed, but he had affairs, he was much absent. And so he contrived that Dame Adela and the young King were in the castle with none to be in the way but those who were careful to be out of the way. And Bran sent letters to the justiciar and to the King. More than once he comforted himself in Siward's house with la. It was only an hour's ride from the castle, the one good thing of that stay at Guildford. On a day as he made out of the forest to the old road he came upon a huge fellow who let his horse go as it would and chanted jovially a French hunting song. "God save you, brother fool," he called out.
"And bring you peace, Richard my son."
"Death of my life, it is old Bran!" He ranged alongside and threw a heavy arm round Bran's body and came near to hugging him out of the saddle. "And how goes my pretty brother, wise man?"
"The sun shines all day for him, child. And whence comes brother Richard? "
"From going to and fro in the world and walking up and down in it. Like the devil. From the devil we come, we men of Anjou, and to the devil we go. So pretty brother has not gone yet? I will help him. Why do you look at me so, old Bran?"
"I am thinking you arc the grandest body of a man ever I saw."
Richard laughed. "But for the soul—well, God mend all!"
In a little while they came to the castle and the young King where he sat with Dame Adela. The brothers kissed—say Henry kissed and Richard was kissed and laughed the while. The woman's dark eyes sought one and the other. They were unlike enough. Henry passed for a well-made man, but against Richard's huge frame he was puny. Henry had a pleasant comely face, as neat and smooth as his sober gown. Richard was in red and gold, all splashed and stained and frayed. Richard looked out of a mane of yellow hair, rough-hewn, jovial, reckless. "Well, my pretty boy," he flicked Henry's cheek, "you find the sun like a cat. Who is your lady?"
"Here is the rogue of our family, Adela. It is the Lady Adela de Clare, Richard. I will uphold her against all your sunburnt beauties of Aquitaine."
"Death of my life, you choose wisely, boy," he laughed, but there was a shrewd gleam in his blue eyes. "I kiss your feet and your hands, my dear," which he did, "and so win to your lips." She was lost in his arms.
"Oh! You are too big for a man, my lord." She was released, flushed and breathless, but her eyes still played with him and she preened herself and made poses.
"But you would pass for a woman anywhere."
"On my soul, Richard, you are a boor," his brother cried.
"Say you so, sweet chuck? Why then, I will be judged by Dame Adela. Choose between us, pretty one. Which is the lord for a lady?"
"Now the Virgin defend me!" she laughed. "What shall become of me if you both assail me?"
"I vow you know better than I, my dear," Richard laughed.
"I, my lord?" she looked at him full, looked down and smiled. "Nay you frighten me."
"Death of my life, I wish I could." He put his arm round her. "And you—you have a mind to wish I did."
"Wish?" she looked up at him under her eye-lashes. Her bosom heaved. "I cannot tell what I wish. You trouble me so."
"Not I, faith," he laughed and kissed her. "There's for you. Go your ways," and he thrust her off. She gave a cry, she turned and saw Henry glowering at her.
"You make a mock of me, my lords. It is base," and she swept out.
"There is for you, pretty boy," Richard chuckled. "Faith, I have brought you sport."
"What in the fiend's name has brought you?"
"Not so wrong neither, faith. For it was my mother. Death of my life, she has a spirit, the old woman. Here it is, boy. She has a mind to raise Aquitaine against goodman Henry if{bar|2}}" His brother seized him and pointed to the corner where Bran crouched whittling a stick. "What, are you there, old wisdom?"
"Yea, child, yea. Poor Bran is always here."
"By the bones of God, you must have seen some days in your life. What were they like when they were young, goodman Henry and goody Eleanor?"
"They made you, child. Peace."
"Well said, old wisdom! Wild work! Aye, my pretty boy, and wild work we will do now, if you raised England against the old man while goody Eleanor and I{bar"}}
"Are you mad?" Henry whispered. "The fool hears all and he is our father's, body and soul."
"Why, man, let him hear. The better sport. Hark ye, old Bran, take horse and ride and tell my father his sons are out against him and he must mount and fight."
"Tell no such tale," Henry cried in a hurry.
But Bran sat still. "Make you a suit of motley, Richard," he said, "take ass's ears and a cap with bells. That is your need, child. Fool, fool, what you can plan, Henry my brother has known as your big head shaped the thought."
"He is right, Richard," Henry grasped his brother.
"Death of my life, I will not say he is wrong. Goodman Henry is a wise old fox. But what of it? The better the hunting of him."
"If a fox be he, what beasts are ye who would hunt the father that set you high and gave you his all ere he came to die?"
"Nay, I like it not," Henry said. "It looks ill."
"Blow hot, blow cold, what were you doing before I came? Hand and glove with old de Clare and his niece to your leman."
"She is not."
"The more fool you. Let it go. You were{bar|2}}"
"Who are you to school me, sirrah? I am King in England."
"Not while your father reigns, little King. Think of it." He swaggered out laughing.
"The devil is in him," Henry muttered.
"Yea, child, yea, the devil is here," Bran said.
"Must you still be preaching?" the lad turned on him and drove him out; and that night other letters went their way to London. But what the young King would do. Bran could not guess. Richard settled himself in the castle, made mischief with Adela, who was plainly half frightened of him, half angry, and altogether in his hand, and mocked at his brother. And the young King fretted and glowered.
"What he would not, that he does, what he makes, that he mars, our Richard," Bran said as he watched.
"In the right, old wisdom," Richard laughed. "A man's life!"