The Life and Death of Richard Yea and Nay by Maurice Hewlett
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Maurice Hewlett >> The Life and Death of Richard Yea and Nay
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24 [Illustration: Ornate lettering/text The MM Co.]
THE LIFE AND DEATH
OF
RICHARD YEA-AND-NAY
BY
MAURICE HEWLETT
AUTHOR OF "THE FOREST LOVERS," "LITTLE NOVELS
OF ITALY," ETC.
Si che a bene sperar mi era cagione
Di quella fera alla gaietta pelle.
_Inf._ i. 41.
NEW YORK
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
LONDON; MACMILLAN & CO., LTD.
1901
Set up and electrotyped October, 1900. Reprinted November,
December, twice, 1900; January, February, twice, 1901
Norwood Press
J.B. Cushing & Co.--Berwick & Smith
Norwood Mass. U.S.A.
TO
HIS FRIEND
EDMUND GOSSE
(ALWAYS BENEVOLENT TO HIS INVENTION)
THIS CHRONICLE OF
ANJOU AND A NOBLE LADY
IS DEDICATED
BY
M.H.
CONTENTS
BOOK I--THE BOOK OF YEA
EXORDIUM PAGE
The Abbot Milo _urbi el orbi_, concerning the Nature of
the Leopard 3
CHAPTER I
Of Count Richard, and the Fires by Night 5
CHAPTER II
How the Fair Jehane bestowed herself 18
CHAPTER III
In what Harbour they found the Old Lion 29
CHAPTER IV
How Jehane stroked what Alois had made Fierce 41
CHAPTER V
How Bertran de Born and Count Richard strove in a
_Tenzon_ 56
CHAPTER VI
Fruits of the Tenzon: the Back of Saint-Pol, and the
Front of Montferrat 69
CHAPTER VII
Of the Crackling of Thorns under Pots 84
CHAPTER VIII
How they held Richard off from his Father's Throat 93
CHAPTER IX
Wild Work in the Church of Gisors 102
CHAPTER X
Night-work by the Dark Tower 111
CHAPTER XI
Of Prophecy; and Jehane in the Perilous Bed 123
CHAPTER XII
How they bayed the Old Lion 134
CHAPTER XIII
How they met at Fontevrault 145
CHAPTER XIV
Of what King Richard said to the Bowing Rood; and
what Jehane to King Richard 156
CHAPTER XV
Last _Tenzon_ of Bertran de Born 168
CHAPTER XVI
Conversation in England of Jehane the Fair 179
CHAPTER XVII
Frozen Heart and Red Heart: Cahors 193
* * * * *
BOOK II--THE BOOK OF NAY
CHAPTER I
The Chapter called Mate-Grifon 209
CHAPTER II
Of what Jehane looked for, and what Berengere had 220
CHAPTER III
Who Fought at Acre 235
CHAPTER IV
Concerning the Tower of Flies, Saint-Pol, and the Marquess
of Montferrat 248
CHAPTER V
The Chapter of Forbidding: how De Gurdun looked,
and King Richard hid his Face 262
CHAPTER VI
The Chapter called Clytemnestra 282
CHAPTER VII
The Chapter of the Sacrifice on Lebanon; also called
Cassandra 293
CHAPTER VIII
Of the Going-up and Going-down of the Marquess 302
CHAPTER IX
How King Richard reaped what Jehane had sowed, and
the Soldan was Gleaner 311
CHAPTER X
The Chapter called Bonds 327
CHAPTER XI
The Chapter called _A Latere_ 338
CHAPTER XII
The Chapter of Strife in the Dark 350
CHAPTER XIII
Of the Love of Women 362
CHAPTER XIV
How the Leopard was loosed 369
CHAPTER XV
Oeconomic Reflections of the Old Man of Musse 380
CHAPTER XVI
The Chapter called Chaluz 386
CHAPTER XVII
The Keening 396
EPILOGUE OF THE ABBOT MILO 408
BOOK I
THE BOOK OF YEA
EXORDIUM
THE ABBOT MILO _URBI ET ORBI_, CONCERNING THE NATURE OF THE LEOPARD
I like this good man's account of leopards, and find it more pertinent
to my matter than you might think. Milo was a Carthusian monk, abbot of
the cloister of Saint Mary-of-the-Pine by Poictiers; it was his
distinction to be the life-long friend of a man whose friendships were
few: certainly it may be said of him that he knew as much of leopards as
any one of his time and nation, and that his knowledge was better
grounded.
'Your leopard,' he writes, 'is alleged in the books to be offspring of
the Lioness and the Pard; and his name, if the Realists have any truth
on their side, establishes the fact. But I think he should be called
Leolupe, which is to say, got by lion out of bitch-wolf, since two
essences burn in him as well as two sorts. This is the nature of the
leopard: it is a spotted beast, having two souls, a bright soul and a
dark soul. It is black and golden, slim and strong, cat and dog. Hunger
drives a dog to hunt, so the leopard; passion the cat, so the leopard. A
cat is sufficient unto himself, and a leopard is so; but a dog hangs on
a man's nod, and a leopard can so be beguiled. A leopard is sleek as a
cat and pleased by stroking; like a cat he will scratch his friend on
occasion. Yet again, he has a dog's intrepidity, knows no fear, is
single-purposed, not to be called off, longanimous. But the cat in him
makes him wary, tempts him to treacherous dealing, keeps him apart from
counsels, advises him to keep his own. So the leopard is a lonely
beast.' This is interesting, and may be true. But mark him as he goes
on.
'I knew the man, my dear master and a great king, who brought the
leopards into the shield of England, more proper to do it than his
father, being more the thing he signified. Of him, therefore, torn by
two natures, cast in two moulds, sport of two fates; the hymned and
reviled, the loved and loathed, spendthrift and a miser, king and a
beggar, the bond and the free, god and man; of King Richard Yea-and-Nay,
so made, so called, and by that unmade, I thus prepare my account.'
So far the abbot with much learning and no little verbosity casts his
net. He has the weakness of his age, you observe, and must begin at the
beginning; but this is not our custom. Something of Time is behind us;
we are conscious of a world replete, and may assume that we have
digested part of it. Milo, indeed, like all candid chroniclers, has his
value. He is excellent upon himself, a good relish with your meal.
However, as we are concerned with King Richard, you shall dip into his
bag for refreshment, but must leave the victualling to me.
CHAPTER I
OF COUNT RICHARD, AND THE FIRES BY NIGHT
I choose to record how Richard Count of Poictou rode all through one
smouldering night to see Jehane Saint-Pol a last time. It had so been
named by the lady; but he rode in his hottest mood of Nay to that, yet
careless of first or last so he could see her again. Nominally to remit
his master's sins, though actually (as he thought) to pay for his own,
the Abbot Milo bore him company, if company you can call it which left
the good man, in pitchy dark, some hundred yards behind. The way, which
was long, led over Saint Andrew's Plain, the bleakest stretch of the
Norman march; the pace, being Richard's, was furious, a pounding gallop;
the prize, Richard's again, showed fitfully and afar, a twinkling point
of light. Count Richard knew it for Jehane's torch, and saw no other
spark; but Milo, faintly curious on the lady's account, was more
concerned with the throbbing glow which now and again shuddered in the
northern sky. Nature had no lamps that night, and made no sign by cry of
night-bird or rustle of scared beast: there was no wind, no rain, no
dew; she offered nothing but heat, dark, and dense oppression. Topping
the ridge of sand, where was the Fosse des Noyees, place of shameful
death, the solitary torch showed a steady beam; and there also, ahead,
could be seen on the northern horizon that rim of throbbing light.
'God pity the poor!' said Count Richard, and scourged forward.
'God pity me!' said gasping Milo; 'I believe my stomach is in my head.'
So at last they crossed the pebbly ford and found the pines, then
cantered up the path of light which streamed from the Dark Tower. As
core of this they saw the lady stand with a torch above her head; when
they drew rein she did not move. Her face, moon-shaped, was as pale as a
moon; her loose hair, catching light, framed it with gold. She was all
white against the dark, seemed to loom in it taller than she was or
could have been. She was Jehane Saint-Pol, Jehane 'of the Fair Girdle,'
so called by her lovers and friends, to whom for a matter of two years
this hot-coloured, tallest, and coldest of the Angevins had been light
of the world.
The check upon their greeting was the most curious part of a curious
business, that one should have travelled and the other watched so long,
and neither urge the end of desire. The Count sat still upon his horse,
so for duty's sake did the aching abbot; the girl stood still in the
entry-way, holding up her dripping torch. Then, 'Child, child,' cried
the Count, 'how is it with thee?' His voice trembled, and so did he.
She looked at him, slow to answer, though the hand upon her bosom swayed
up and down.
'Do you see the fires?' she said. 'They have been there six nights.' He
was watching them then through the pine-woods, how they shot into the
sky great ribbons of light, flickered, fainted out, again glowed
steadily as if gathering volume, again leaped, again died, ebbing and
flowing like a tide of fire.
'The King will be at Louviers,' said Richard. He gave a short laugh.
'Well, he shall light us to bed. Heart of a man, I am sick of all this.
Let me in.'
She stood aside, and he rode boldly into the tower, stooping as he
passed her to touch her cheek. She looked up quickly, then let in the
abbot, who, with much ceremony, came bowing, his horse led by the
bridle. She shut the door behind them and drove home the great bolts.
Servants came tumbling out to take the horses and do their duty; Count
Eustace, a brother of Jehane's, got up from the hearth, where he had
been asleep on a bearskin, rubbed his eyes, gulped a yawn, knelt, and
was kissed by Richard. Jehane stood apart, mistress of herself as it
seemed, but conscious, perhaps, that she was being watched. So she was.
In the bustle of salutation the Abbot Milo found eyes to see what manner
of sulky, beautiful girl this was.
He watched shrewdly, and has described her for us with the meticulous
particularity of his time and temper. He runs over her parts like a
virtuoso. The iris of her eyes, for instance, was wet grey, but ringed
with black and shot with yellow, giving so the effect of hot green; her
mouth was of an extraordinary dark red colour, very firm in texture,
close-grained, 'like the darker sort of strawberries,' says he. The
upper lip had the sulky curve; she looked discontented, and had reason
to be, under such a scrutiny of the microscope. Her hair was colour of
raw silk, eyebrows set rather high, face a thinnish oval, complexion
like a pink rose's, neck thinnish again, feet, hands, long and nervous,
'good working members,' etc. etc. None of this helps very much; too
detailed. But he noticed how tall she was and how slim, save for a very
beautiful bosom, too full for Dian's (he tells us), whom else she
resembled; how she was straight as a birch-tree; how in walking it
seemed as if her skirts clung about her knees. There was an air of
mingled surprise and defiance about her; she was a silent girl. 'Fronted
like Juno,' he appears to cry, 'shaped like Hebe, and like Demeter in
stature; sullen with most, but with one most sweetly apt, she looked
watchful but was really timid, looked cold but was secretly afire. I
knew soon enough how her case stood, how hope and doubt strove in her
and choked her to silence. I guessed how within those reticent members
swift love ran like wine; but because of this proud, brave mask of hers
I was slow to understand her worth. God help me, I thought her a thing
of snow!'
He records her dress at this time, remarkable if becoming. It was all
white, and cut wedge-shaped in front, very deep; but an undervest of
crimson crossed the V in the midst and saved her modesty, and his. Her
hair, which was long, was plaited in two plaits with seed-pearls,
brought round her neck like a scarf and the two ends joined between her
breasts, thus defining a great beauty of hers and making a gold collar
to her gown. Round her smooth throat was a little chain with a red
jewel; on her head another jewel (a carbuncle) set in a flower, with
three heron's plumes falling back from it. She had a broad belt of gold
and sapphire stones, and slippers of vair. 'Oh, a fine straight maid,'
says Milo in conclusion, 'golden and delicate, with strangely shaded
eyes. They knew her as Jehane of the Fair Girdle.'
The brother, Count Eustace as they called him (to distinguish him from
an elder brother, Eudo Count of Saint-Pol), was a blunt copy of his
sister, redder than she was, lighter in the hair, much lighter in the
eyes. He seemed an affectionate youth, and clung to the great Count
Richard like ivy to a tree. Richard gave him the sort of scornful
affection one has for a little dog, between patting and slapping; but
clearly wanted to be rid of him. No reference was made to the journey,
much was taken for granted; Eustace talked of his hawks, Richard ate and
drank, Jehane sat up stiffly, looking into the fire; Milo watched her
between his mouthfuls. The moment supper was done, up jumps Richard and
claps hands on the two shoulders of young Eustace. 'To bed, to bed, my
falconer! It grows late,' cries he. Eustace pushed his chair back, rose,
kissed the Count's hand and his sister's forehead, saluted Milo, and
went out humming a tune. Milo withdrew, the servants bowed themselves
away. Richard stood up, a loose-limbed young giant, and narrowed his
eyes.
'Nest thee, nest thee, my bird,' he said low; and Jehane's lips parted.
Slowly she left her stool by the fire, but quickened as she went; and at
last ran tumbling into his arms.
His right hand embraced her, his left at her chin held her face at
discretion. Like a woman, she reproached him for what she dearly loved.
'Lord, lord, how shall I serve the cup and platter if you hold me so
fast?'
'Thou art my cup, thou art my supper.'
'Thin fare, poor soul,' she said; but was glad of his foolishness.
Later, they sat by the hearth, Jehane on Richard's knee, but doubtfully
his, being troubled by many things. He had no retrospects nor
afterthoughts; he tried to coax her into pliancy. It was the fires in
the north that distressed her. Richard made light of them.
'Dear,' he said, 'the King my father is come up with a host to drive the
Count his son to bed. Now the Count his son is master of a good bed, to
which he will presently go; but it is not the bed of the King his
father. That, as you know, is of French make, neither good Norman, nor
good Angevin, nor seethed in the English mists. By Saint Maclou and the
astonishing works he did, I should be bad Norman, and worse Angevin, and
less English than I am, if I loved the French.'
He tried to draw her in; but she, rather, strained away from him,
elbowed her knee, and rested her chin upon her hand. She looked gravely
down to the whitening logs, where the ashes were gaining on the red.
'My lord loves not the French,' she said, 'but he loves honour. He is
the King's son, loving his father.'
'By my soul, I do not,' he assured her, with perfect truth, then he
caught her round the waist and turned her bodily to face him. After he
had kissed her well he began to speak more seriously.
'Jehane,' he said, 'I have thought all this stifling night upon the
heath, Homing to her I am seeking my best. My best? You are all I have
in the world. If honour is in my hand, do I not owe it to you? Or shall
a man use women like dogs, to play with them in idle moods, toss them
bones under the table, afterwards kick them out of doors? Child, you
know me better. What!' he cried out, with his head very high, 'Shall a
man not choose his own wife?'
'No,' said Jehane, ready for him; 'no, Richard, unless the people shall
choose their own king.'
'God chooses the king,' says Richard, 'or so we choose to believe.'
'Then God must appoint the wife,' Jehane said, and tried to get free.
But this could not be allowed, as she knew.
She was gentle with him, reasoning. 'The King your father is an old man,
Richard. Old men love their way.'
'God knows, he is old, and passionate, and indifferent wicked,' said
Richard, and kissed Jehane. 'Look, my girl, there were four of us:
Henry, and me, and Geoffrey, and John, whom he sought to drive in team
by a sop to-day and a stick to-morrow. A good way, done by a judging
hand. What then? I will tell you how the team served the teamster.
Henry gave sop for sop, and it was found well. Might he not give stick
for stick? He thought so: God rest him, he is dead of that. There was
much simplicity in Henry. I got no sop at all. Why should I have stick
then? I saw no reason; but I took what came. If I cried out, it is a
more harmless vent than many. Let me alone. Geoffrey, I think, was a
villain. God help him if He can: he is dead too. He took sop and gave
stick: ungentle in Geoffrey, but he paid for it. He was a cross-bred dog
with much of the devil in him; he bit himself and died barking. Last,
there is John. I desire to speak reasonably of John; but he is too snug,
he gets all sop. This is not fair. He should have some stick, that we
may judge what mettle he has. There, my Jehane, you have the four of us,
a fretful team; whereof one has rushed his hills and broken his heart;
and one, kicking his yoke-fellows, squealing, playing the jade, has
broken his back; and one, poor Richard, does collar-work and gets whip;
and one, young Master John, eases his neck and is cajoled with, "So
then, so then, boy!" Then comes pretty Jehane to the ear of the
collar-horse, whispering, "Good Richard, get thee to stall, but not
here. Stable thee snug with the King of France his sister." 'Hey!'
laughed Richard, 'what a word for a chosen bride!' He pinched her cheek
and looked gaily at her, triumphant in his own eloquence. He was most
dangerous when that devil was awake, so she dared not look at him back.
Eagerly and low she replied.
'Yes, Richard, yes, yes, my king! The king must have the king's sister,
and Jehane go back to the byre. Eagles do not mate with buzzards.'
Hereupon he snatched her up altogether and hid her face in his breast.
'Never, never, never!' he swore to the rafters. 'As God lives and
reigns, so live thou and so reign, queen of me, my Picardy rose.'
She tried no more that night, fearing that his love so keen-edged might
make his will ride rough. The watch-fires at Louviers trembled and
streamed up in the north. There was no need for candles in the Dark
Tower.
They rose up early to a fair dawn. The cloud-wrack was blown off,
leaving the sky a lake of burnt yellow, pure, sweet, and cool. Thus the
world entered upon the summer of Saint Luke, to a new-risen sun, to thin
mists stealing off the moor, to wet flowers hearted anew, to blue air,
and hope left for those who would go gleaning. While Eustace Saint-Pol
was snoring abed and the Abbot Milo at his _Sursum Corda_, Richard had
Jehane by the hand. 'Come forth, my love; we have the broad day before
us and an empty kingdom to roam in. Come, my red rose, let me set you
among the flowers.' What could she do but harbour up her thoughts?
He took her afield, where flowers made the earth still a singing-place,
and gathered of these to deck her bosom and hair. Of the harebells he
made knots, the ground-colour of her eyes; but autumn loves the yellow,
so she was stuck with gold like a princess. She sat enthroned by his
command, this young girl in a high place, with downcast eyes and a face
all fire-colour, while he worshipped her to his fancy. I believe he had
no after-thought; but she saw the dun smoke of the fires at Louviers,
and knew they would make the night shudder again. Yet her sweetness,
patience, staid courtesy, humility, never failed her; out of the deep
wells of her soul she drew them forth in a stream. Richard adored.
'Queen Jehane, Queen Jehane!' he cried out, with his arms straightly
round her--'Was ever man in the world blest so high since God said,
"Behold thy mother"? And so art thou mother to me, O bride. Bride and
queen as thou shalt be.'
This was great invention. She put her hand upon his head. 'My Richard,
my Richard Yea-and-Nay,' she said, as if pitying his wild heart. The
nickname jarred.
'Never call me that,' he told her. 'Leave that to Bertran de Born, a
fool's word to the fool who made it.'
'If I could, if I could!' thought Jehane, and sighed. There were tears
in her eyes, also, as she remembered what generosity in him must be
frozen up, and what glory of her own. But she did not falter in what she
had to do, while he, too exalted to be pitied, began to sing a Southern
song--
Al' entrada del tems clair, eya!
When their hair commingled in their love, when they were close together,
there was little distinguishing between them; he was more her pair than
Eustace her blood-brother, in stature and shape, in hue and tincture of
gold. Jehane you know, but not Richard. Of him, son of a king, heir of a
king, if you wish some bodily sign, I will say shortly that he was a
very tall young man, high-coloured and calm in the face, straight-nosed,
blue-eyed, spare of flesh, lithe, swift in movement. He was at once bold
and sleek, eager and cold as ice--an odd combination, but not more odd
than the blend of Norman dog and Angevin cat which had made him so.
Furtive he was not, yet seeming to crouch for a spring; not savage, yet
primed for savagery; not cruel, yet quick on the affront, and on the
watch for it. He was neither a rogue nor a madman; and yet he was as
cunning as the one and as heedless as the other, if that is a possible
thing. He was arrogant, but his smile veiled the fault; you saw it best
in a sleepy look he had. His blemishes were many, his weaknesses two. He
trusted to his own force too much, and despised everybody else in the
world. Not that he thought them knaves; he was certain they were fools.
And so most of them were, no doubt, but not all. The first flush of him
moved your admiration: great height, great colour, the red and the
yellow; his beard which ran jutting to a point and gave his jaw the
clubbed look of a big cat's; his shut mouth, and cold considering eyes;
the eager set of his head, his soft, padding motions--a leopard, a
hunting leopard, quick to strike, but quick to change purpose. This,
then, was Richard Yea-and-Nay, whom all women loved, and very few men.
These require to be trusted before they love; and full trust Richard
gave to no man, because he could not believe him worth it. Women are
more generous givers, expecting not again.
Here was Jehane Saint-Pol, a girl of two-and-twenty to his
two-and-thirty, well born, well formed, greatly desired among her peers,
who, having let her soul be stolen, was prepared to cut it out of
herself for his sake who took it, and let it die. She was the creature
of his love, in and out by now the work of his hands. God had given her
a magnificent body, but Richard had made it glow. God had made her soul
a fair room; but his love had filled it with light, decked it with
flowers and such artful furniture. He, in fact, as she very well knew,
had given her the grace to deal queenly with herself. She knew that she
would have strength to deny him, having learned the hardihood to give
him her soul. Fate had carried her too young into the arms of the most
glorious prince in the world. Her brother, Eudo the Count, built castles
on that in his head. Now she was to tumble them down. Her younger
brother, Eustace, loved this splendid Richard. Now she was to hurt him.
What was to become of herself? Mercy upon her, I believe she never
thought of that. His honour was her necessity: the watch-fires in the
north told her the hour was at hand. The old King was come up with a
host to drive his son to bed. Richard must go, and she woo him out. Son
of a king, heir of a king, he must go to the king his father; and he
knew he must go. Two days' maddening delight, two nights' biting of
nails, miserable entreaty from Jehane, grown newly pinched and grey in
the face, and he owned it.
He said to her the last night, 'When I saw you first, my Queen of Snows,
in the tribune at Vezelay, when the knights rode by for the melee, the
green light from your eyes shot me, and wounded I cried out, "That maid
or none!"'
She bowed her head; but he went on. 'When they throned you queen of them
all because you were so proud and still, and had such a high untroubled
head; and when your sleeve was in my helm, and my heart in your lap, and
men fallen to my spear were sent to kneel before you--what caused your
cheek to burn and your eyes to shine so bright?'
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