CHAPTER XXVI
THE QUEEN'S EMBROIDERY
IN her own town, in Poitiers, Queen Eleanor cherished her age. She had no sovereignty. To whomsoever that might pass it could not come to her hand again. She knew it and watched still. The wide land that was her birthright she had given to one man and another, to Louis of France, till she broke from marriage with him to marry Henry of England, now she willed it should go to her son Richard, though his elder brother claimed overlordship, and King Henry, their father, would still be master of all. No one of them owned debt to wife or mother. She had bred strife all her days and would still be breeding. But within the castle of Poitiers she was queen and free, free after long years of prison in England, the evil, dank country. Her life was spent unloving and unloved, she had won no man to trust her, but cold and resolute she nursed the last of her strength. She had still a realm to destroy.
She sat working embroidery, quick with her hands, but in all else still as death. Time had spared her the bold majesty of her body, she was closely swathed and draped, her grey hair hidden and her neck in stiff white linen, from which her face looked out like a mask wrought in ivory. She made an inch of her pattern and then pulled out the stitches and worked it again patiently. And in the corner by the window Bran the fool sat and sang to himself.
"Is the fool turned monk?" she said. "I am weary of these holy dronings."
Bran gave her one more verse of his Latin hymn:
O Thou who on the Cross wast borne,
For all poor souls by Thy world torn,
For all whom life hath left forlorn,
I pray Thee peace.
"I pray for you, lady queen," said he.
"Pray for yourself, fool."
"Yea, yea, and that do I. But who shall pray for you, lady?"
"None but a fool. My soul is my own. Naught else I have. That I will keep."
"And for what, lady queen?"
"To do my will."
"God ha' mercy, God ha' mercy upon you. What is your will? You sew your cloth and undo your sewing."
The still face smiled. "That is my life, Bran."
"You have said. One man you married and unmarried him. Another man you married and bore him children. And you turned from him and turned him from you. And now his children know neither mother nor father. What is your will? You sew and pull out the thread. What you do that you undo."
"Who do not my will do naught," she said. "Speak no more, fool. You are turned priest in your age. You prate like a saint."
"Na, na, Bran is for this world, Goody. Bran is of the earth and the hills, oh, the good chalk hills. Bran is bone of their bone. Here is Bran's heaven."
"You are mad, old man."
"Old I am, and like shadows you pass me by. But when I was young I loved a Queen."
She looked at him, her hands idle, and suddenly she laughed. "You remember? You came to me when Louis had cast me into prison and set me free. Free—to marry Henry. Good thanks, fool. And he cast me in prison again. And here we sit, old folks by a dying fire."
"I do not die," Bran thundered, "by oak and ash and thorn I do not die."
King Henry came in a hurry and flung himself into a chair and thrust out his short legs and sat breathing hard. lie was grown something fat, which his height could not bear, so that he looked gross beside her, yet little. His bulky face was weathered to purple and the red hair above it worn thin and grizzled.
"God's my life," he broke out, "what a brood is ours, Eleanor! Master Richard will not do homage to Master Henry, and Master Henry will remit him nothing, and they are hand upon sword for it."
"It is the way of your blood, my lord. Brother ever turns upon brother and son upon father in the house of Anjou."
He scowled at her. "Good comfort, wife."
"I made them in your image. I am for nothing in them."
"If it is so, it is well."
She laughed. "What matter now to you or me? Our day is dead."
"Good comfort, I say!" he cried, and turned this way and that, biting his nails. "What, the little one? And how is it with my John?"
The youngest of the brood, a lad almost a man, came in and kissed his mother's hand and stood beside his father. He was well made and handsome, and if he knew it, so did the father who flung an arm about him and drew him close. Prince John smiled and consented to be caressed. "The great Kings, my brothers, are coming, sir?"
"Aye, and they will eat us all, child."
"And then each other, sir. That would please every one."
"Oh, wise John. But what shall an old man do with young men who will not be at peace?"
"Laugh at them, sir. Nay, but they will not eat you. You are too tough—and too strong, my father."
"John, my John," the old King held him close, "you have the best head of them all. And the best heart. Love me well, child."
"How should I not?" John said softly.
"God bless you. Heigho, a weary world. Come, let us go down and meet these great lords. We must keep the peace this day. Richard brings Philip of France, Eleanor."
She started. "Why, then?"
"To hear the sermon. Or to spy out the land. He is his father's son."
So they went down to the hall, and there was already Henry the young King chafing because the old King had not been there to do him honour, because Richard was waited for who should have waited for him, because Richard had
John laughed. "Because brother Richard is the devil, brother Henry. And what is brother Henry?"
"Who bade you speak, baby?" Henry turned from him and paced to and fro under the glow of old colour from the round arches. He was aged already, his face worn and lined, and set in a look of disappointment.
John fell behind, and spoke to Bran loud enough for the old King to hear. "See the hungry man, lord fool. Do you know what ails him? He hath not stomach for what he would eat."
"Oh, wise child." Bran looked at him without love. "And for what do you hunger, my son?"
"I am my father's man." And the old King made him sit at his feet.
Then trumpets sounded, and with a great and splendid company came Richard and King Philip Augustus of France, Richard huge and jovial, the French King so much the smaller man that he seemed like Richard's child, but his pretty youth veiled by a calm restraint.
"God save you, father," Richard laughed, "and give my lady mother joy of you. What, little King, are you there? You make no growth, boy You will still look hungry. I vow you do not pay for your corn."
"Our royal Richard! The world cannot show such another. Let us thank God. But prithee, brother, do not joke or we shall all be shamed."
"Well crowed, cockerel!" Richard slapped him on the shoulder so that he reeled. "But what brought you here? We are to talk of fighting this day."
John came between them. "Peace, my masters, peace. None has profit of this but they who love neither."
"Oh, wise youth!" Richard laughed. "And who are they, little John?"
John linked arms with him and looked round the hall, and his glance dwelt upon his father, and the old King, who had seen his peacemaking, nodded to him and smiled. John smiled back, and smiling still looked up at Richard.
"You are a knave," Richard laughed.
John broke from him. "I cannot tell what he means, Henry," he protested.
"Nor no man can. For he means naught."
The old King was busy with the King of France, showing him grave and ceremonious respect, the more impressive from an old man to a young, and Philip Augustus met him gracefully. And Queen Eleanor listened and watched. King Philip was led to her chair, said something neat, and kissed her hand as though she were a stranger, had never been his father's wife, accused, divorced, his enemy. But she would not have him forget.
"How should I make you welcome? I should have been your mother," she said.
A moment went in amazement and silence, the old King swaying and chewing his lip, even Philip startled out of his self-command. Then he recovered himself: "A sorrow for me. But you have worthier sons," he said smoothly. "Let me give them a brother's kindness," and he slid away into easy civilities and passed on to the three brothers behind her.
"God's my life, are you mad?" the old King growled in her ear. "Would you have him at war with us all?"
"Let me be. I think of old days. He is so like his father that I hate him. Death of my life, when I see him I am with Louis again. Let me be." And then there came into the hall borne on many voices the chant of a Latin hymn:
Urbs Sion aurea, patria lactea, cive decora,
Omne cor obruis, omnibus obstruis et cor et ora.
Nescio, nescio, quae jubilatio…
You know it in English, though it does not sound so well:
Jerusalem the golden
With milk and honey blest.
Beneath thy contemplation
Sink heart and voice opprest…
But it was written for that time when to all Christian men the Holy City was dear for the age of the Crusaders.
Stant Sion atria conjubilantia, matryre plena,
Cive micantia, Principe stantia, luce serena.…
The chant came louder and nearer.
"Here is pomp," the old King said. "God have mercy, will he bring his choir in upon us?"
But into the hall the singing monks came not. He who came, came alone, an old man in the simple robes of a priest, but the lords gave way and knelt as he passed by, and the Kings stood up and went to meet him.
"Do me no honour," he cried, "do me no service. Serve my Master and honour Him."
"So humbly we seek in our poor wise, my father," Philip said. "Yet must we honour the Patriarch of Jerusalem."
"Mock not, that you be not mocked! Heraclius the Patriarch I am, but I walk the world a beggar for the dear home of Christ. What are ye in your pride?"
"We are met to hear you who asked it of us. Say on, say on." The old King drummed upon his knees.
"Once there came kings out of the east to worship our Lord when He was a babe. What will you do for Him, you kings of the west, now that He is risen in glory?" Again he waited.
"God's my life, we do as we can," the old King cried. "Say on, man. Speak your need."
"Not my need but my Lord's. Not my soul but yours I seek. You do as you can, and naught is done. In the days that are gone your kin put on the Cross and redeemed the Holy City from the infidel. But you are not sons of your fathers. You are a little folk. Now the hosts of Mahound are gathered again, and there is none to stand against them, and soon the Holy Places will be defiled. Who shall deliver the City of God, who?"
"It is a great task, my father," Philip said.
"It were a great task to save your little soul. Golden Sion, by the blood of Christ she was consecrated, she was redeemed by the blood of your kin. She is the mother of all Christian men. The abominations of the heathen came upon her. Her honour is your honour."
"Aye, aye, we have heard," the old King fidgeted. "And not now first. It is a good plea, but an old plea. What we can that we do. You may have men and money from my realm, all there is to spare."
"Not thus shall you save your soul nor the heritage of Christ! Men and money, I may call for them here and there, and they shall start from the ground. The need is princes and kings, captains of men. How say you, kings of the west? I challenge you to the Cross! Forward, forward, and deliver your Lord's dear home and win you Paradise."
The old King shuffled with his feet in the rushes and looked covertly at Philip. "Nobly and well you have spoken, my father," Philip said. "It is a high emprise and my heart stirs within me. Oh, that I were a free man! I will consider of it and with right good will, and you shall hear of me presently."
"'When I have a convenient season I will call for thee.' Even so said the heathen King to St. Paul. But the season came not, King Philip, and he died in his sin and to hell went he."
"Good speed, cousin Philip," Richard laughed.
"Tell me a thing, my lord Heraclius. Who is king among the heathen?"
"Saladin his name is called."
"And is he a bold knight?"
"Bold he is, ruthless and terrible, and no man yet makes head against him."
"And how many in his company?"
"A thousand thousand fierce as the fiend who die to do his wicked will."
Richard laughed loud. "A thousand thousand! This were a noble venture, my father."
The old King muttered to himself and Henry jeered, "Aye, Richard, you would eat them all."
"How say you. King of England?" Heraclius cried. "Will you be God's knight ere you die? Will you march for the Holy City?"
"You are a priest of Jerusalem. I am King of England. I have served God and man all my days, and God has found me work enough. The city of God is here; as God lives, it is here. I will not peril my realm on any venture afar."
The Patriarch started back. "Blasphemy! Blasphemy!" he cried. "What, is your power holy? Is your realm the city of God? Great are you among kings, great have you been. I prophesy unto you. Henry of England, as you have forsaken God this day, so shall He forsake you, and, destitute of His grace, shall you go till your glory be turned into disaster and your honour into shame. Anathema! Anathema!" and he swept from the hall.
"For a round curse there is none like a priest," Richard laughed. "Nay, but he is a stanch old hound and bold."
"This is unhappy, my brother Henry," said King Philip meekly, and the lords about them looked all ways and murmured.
The old King beat his foot on the ground. "They have barked at my heels all my life," he said. "And still I live, Philip."
"His cause is good and he will set men's hearts aflame."
"Burn who will, I do my work."
"You have seen many days and are wise. Yet I would not so answer him,"
The old King lifted weary eyes at him. "Aye, aye, the wild blood of youth rules in you, Philip," and he smiled on the sedate young man.
"It were a gallant course to run." Philip turned to the old King's sons. "How say you, Richard?"
"Death of my life, I seek no better. What, cousin, shall you and I call out our knights and take horse for Jerusalem? But I mark this fierce Soldan for mine. Sir Saladin to my lance, Philip."
"And his thousand thousand for dinner. How you brag, boy," his brother Henry said.
"What, little King, are you still there? Never fear, you shall stay at home and play with the women."
"Nay, cousin, deal gently," Philip put a hand on his arm.
"Let the rogue be, my lord. He knows well that no one marks him. Else he were not so bold."
"God have mercy, little brother," Richard laughed loud, "do I fear you?"
"Peace, peace," the old King growled. "You are wild rogues both."
"Who, I, my lord?" Henry cried. "I take you to witness, I have borne with his folly for your sake more than becomes his King."
"God's death, you are no King of mine!" Richard shouted, his hand on his sword.
"Ha, that irks you! Your King and your overlord am I, and of me you hold."
Richard thrust him aside so that he reeled and strode upon his father. "Speak out now! Who is the master of us?"
"Peace, child, peace. Nor he, nor you. Both hold of me."
"By the blood of God, you forswear yourself," Henry cried. "You gave"
The old King started up: "If all the men of my realm were gathered in one body and spoke with one mouth, they would not dare say this to me. Hold your peace, boy, I am the King."
"And King am I," Henry thrust forward, "I am the first-born and my birthright it is, and you gave it me in your life. God's body, God's body, you shall not take it back. King I am and will be against all your power." And he stormed out of the hall.
"Henry!" the old King called, but he was gone.
"The little man throws down his little glove, by my faith," Richard laughed.
"This day goes ill, my brother," Philip said gently. "Ill may be mended yet. Let me go now and I will follow after him and reason with him. He is of a noble heart, like all your house."
"Go your way," the old King muttered.
And when he had taken his ceremonious leave, "Philip the smooth," Richard laughed.
"Yea, yea, smooth as the snake, child," said Bran in his ear.
"What, master fool," Richard took him in his great arm, "How the fiend could you keep a still tongue in this?"
"God ha' mercy, child, there were fools so many a-talking, no chance for old Bran, there were ghosts so many a-walking, no place for live man."
"Ghosts? God's eyes, we were all live enough and loud."
"Yea, child, yea, and the ghosts were gay, ghosts of hate and ghosts of sorrow, came to your strife to win them life, drank your blood and are strong for the morrow."
"Good fighting!" Richard laughed. "I never rode at a ghost."
"They will ride at you, child, all your days," Bran said, and followed the old King.
He shut himself up and would have speech of none. On the next day he sent letters after his son, but the men brought back the letters unopened. "Aye, he means me ill," the old King laughed bitterly. "God's my life, he could never do what he means or child or man." Then came news that he was in arms and declared himself King alone and his father of no right nor power in all the realm.
"Mene, mene, tekel, upharsin," the old King cried out. "We are weighed in the balance and found wanting, Dame Eleanor. Our kingdom is taken from us and given to little Harry. By my soul, this is a dread day. And has your lapdog a mind to be Queen?"
But Eleanor sat silent, and went on unpicking her embroidery.
"Nay, God's my life, I must be merry or I shall weep for him. What a son have we made, Eleanor! He knows not himself nor any man else. He to win crowns by the sword, God help him!"
"It is well for you to laugh, sir," John cried. "For my part, I would strike at him and strike hard. This is treason and black sin and there is ruin in it. Out on him, I say."
"Aye, you would be fierce for me, John, my John," the old King smiled. "I shall endure, boy. I think of the blows when he struck me long ago, a little child in his rage."
"Oh, sir, you are too gentle. He will plunder us all. Let us march and overthrow him."
"Peace, peace, I know him. He cannot stand alone."
Afterwards when they rode hawking and John was merry with one of Eleanor's women galloping for a stricken heron, Bran came beside the King. "Your heart doubts, brother," he said.
"It is naught, what is. I think of time to come."
"Yea, yea, wild he flies and light he strikes."
"A true word. How shall it go with him when I am gone?"
"He is young yet, brother. He is weak, not base."
"Which is worse? I think of my realm, old Bran, my realm which I built. Must he be young all his days? Here is about him Philip who was sired and bred by cold craft, and Richard who is an axe for any man's hand. How shall it go with him when I am gone?"
"Na, na. Work the day's work though your cares irk. Stone makes the iron, and iron makes the sword. What we leave unwrought is wrought by the Lord. Let me go to the boy, brother. He heard me of old time. He loves me yet."
"God's my life, all love you. You are the happy one, old Bran. Go in God's name."
But before Bran could reach him, the young King was harrying near and far. He raged through Aquitaine, he beset Limoges, he made a raid on Angoulême. For Aquitaine was Richard's land. But Richard, who was planning to make a crusade with Philip, or thought he was, called him a gnat and would not stir for him. He won few to his banner, he did no great harm, for he would never drive home a blow, but he pillaged far and wide to feed his men and buy more, and town and country cursed him.
Bran rode southward up over the rockstrewn heaths where the oxen wandered, had word of him here and there, and came at last to the cliff rising out of a green gulf that is crowned with the holy towers of the town of Rocamadour. Thither from all Christendom, pilgrims came to see the wooden sculpture of the Virgin Mary that was wrought by the very hand of the Blessed Amadour, who before he made his hermitage there on the cliff in Perigord was called Zaccheus the publican, he that climbed up into a tree to see Christ. And pilgrims many Bran found there, but they knelt along the steep path up to the shrine and prayed and rent their gowns. When they were asked of Henry Fitz Henry, Henry Court-Mantel, if he had passed that way, they cried out and cursed him. To Rocamadour he had come, the devil at his elbow, and pillaged the shrine of all the gold piety had brought in a thousand years, yea and taken the sword of Roland the Paladin for his own and was gone.
"Blessed are they that have not a child. It is in the scripture," Bran groaned as he turned his weary horse. "What is there in fatherhood that such a father should make such a son? Rob Rocamadour? Better he had stripped the Pope. All the world will turn from him all his days. Ah, child, child, you have nor heart nor head to bear the burden of it. You will he down with fear and rise up with shame. And you would play the Paladin! Oh, child, child!"
He rode on his quest and guided by men who had deserted the banner of sacrilege he came at last, riding down through vines and walnut trees, to the little town of Martel. Only a few men-at-arms loitered about the streets, and when he asked news of the army they jeered at him. "There was an army. There was snow last winter."
"Where is the King, brother?"
"There was a King, fool," and they laughed.
"Speak me true! Has God taken him?"
"The devil waits at his door. There he lies in the smith's house, sick to death."
To a little, low-browed house Bran came and there found a knight watching. "Aye, the fool should be with us," he said. "Welcome, fool."
"I would I had been with him this many a day."
"Then you are a fool indeed."
"You were with him, Sir William le Marshal."
"The more fool I."
"God ha' mercy, you were true man of old. Could you not guide him?"
"O fool. If I could should I be here? He has broken himself and broken me. Yet I serve him. I have lived bitter days, master Bran."
"Is he gone yet?"
"Fever has his body. He is stricken in soul. A priest watches by him, but he will hear no priest. That black day at Rocamadour laid him low."
Bran went up to the dark room where the young King lay tossing on a straw pallet. The priest sat by him on the ground droning over his beads. Bran knelt and touched the knotted brow: "Oh my son, Henry my son," he whispered.
"Who calls me son?"
"Poor Bran the fool, child."
Henry tried to raise himself, and Bran caught him and held him. "You come from my father?"
"Yea, yea. He loves you well, child."
"He loves me, he? He would forgive?"
"The father forgives, child. That is his trade."
"God!" the lad cried hoarsely. "God!" The priest began to speak.… "You prate! You prate! Give me your girdle. The rope!" He plucked with his shaking hands at the cord upon the priest's loins, and when it was given to him put it about his neck. They tried to stay him, but he had no strength to do himself hurt. "Let be, let be. I know what I must do. I know better than you all. Cast ashes on the floor." And when that was done, "Now, now," he held up the cord, "hale me forth. I must go. Hale me forth, I say."
"Do his will, brother," Bran said through his tears.
So by the rope about his neck William le Marshal dragged him from his bed to the ground, and he lay upon the ashes and flung out his arms so that he lay like a cross. And in a little while he died.
When they had laid him in the church, "Whither now, brother?" says the fool to the knight.
"I know not. I have laid my heart there. Little good had any man of him in his days, but he made me love him so that whatsoever befalls me henceforth of my life is neither good nor ill."
"Such a man does deeds. Such my King needs. Serve him."
"By my faith, so the boy said when the fever came on him and he bade me go. And what should the father have but a hanging for them that rode with the son? I care not. Let him do what he will. Lead on, master fool."
So to the old King at Poitiers they came and told him his son's end. He listened, fretting at his gown, and said no word, but sometimes he raised his eyes and looked at John, who stood very close to him. Then in the silence, "God have mercy on his soul," said John.
"One is gone," the old King said. "He was my first-born." And Queen Eleanor sat silent, unpicking her embroidery.
"Unworthy, oh my father, unworthy," John cried. "God forgive him. God shall do right."
"He dies who should have seen me die. I am weary of my days. I look into the dark. Na, na, he is at rest and for him it is well. There was naught for him here, such as he was. But I made him, I. And I have no comfort. Na, na, I have no hope of my realm."
"My father!" John cried.
The old King heaved himself up and strode away. "Lean on me, my lord, lean on me," John cried, and took his arm.
"That man is a King, be his sons what they may," William le Marshal said as they followed him out. "He may have what he will of me."
And Queen Eleanor drew out a thread from her embroidery.