CHAPTER I.
THE PARENTS OF EDWARD I.
Of all the royal suitors that ever stooped to woo the love of woman, Henry
III. son of John Lackland and Isabella of Angoulême, appears to have been
the most luckless and unfortunate. He first fixed his affections upon the
Princess of Scotland, who was dissuaded from listening to his suit, by her
brother’s assurance that the king was a squint-eyed fool, deceitful,
perjured, more faint-hearted than a woman, and utterly unfit for the
company of any fair and noble lady.
Disappointed in Scotland, the monarch next offered his hand to the heiress
of Brittany, but the rugged Bretons, too well remembering the cruelty of
his father, to their beloved Prince Arthur, returned a haughty refusal.
He then proposed to confer the honor of his alliance upon a daughter of
Austria, but the fair descendant of Leopold inherited all her
grandfather’s enmity to the princely house of Plantagenet, and rejected
his addresses with disdain.
The Duke of Bohemia, to whom he next applied, civilly answered that his
child was already plighted to another, and it was not until Henry reached
the mature age of thirty that he received a favorable response to his
matrimonial proposal; and when at last the marriage contract was signed
between himself and Joanna, daughter of Alice of France, the roving
affections of this royal Cœlebs were beguiled from their allegiance by
the sweet strains of the youthful poetess of Provence.
Eleanor la Belle, second daughter of Count Berenger, perhaps the youngest
female writer on record, attracted the attention of the fickle King of
England, by a poem which she composed on the conquest of Ireland.
Dazzled by her genius and personal charms, Henry’s vows to Joanna were
forgotten, and his ambassadors received orders to break off the
negotiations, while his obliging counsellors recommended a union with the
very lady he so ardently admired.
His habitual covetousness intruded however into the courtship, and had
well-nigh subjected him to a sixth disappointment. He intrusted his
seneschal to demand twenty thousand marks as the dower of Eleanor, but
privately empowering him to lessen the sum if necessary to fifteen, ten,
seven, five or three thousand. He quite disgusted the haughty count her
father, by his sordid bargaining, and at last wrote in great terror, to
conclude the marriage forthwith, either with money or without, but at all
events to secure the lady for him and conduct her safely to England
without delay.
In the splendid festivities with which Henry welcomed his young bride to
London, and in the preparation of her coronation robes, he displayed a
taste for lavish expenditure altogether inconsistent with the state of his
finances, and in ridiculous contrast to his former penuriousness.
Like his father the greatest fop in Europe, but not like him content with
the adornment of his own person, he issued the most liberal orders for
apparelling the royal household in satin, velvet, cloth of gold and
ermine, expending in the queen’s jewelry alone a sum not less than one
hundred and fifty thousand dollars.
About the same time he bestowed his sister Isabella upon the Imperial
widower Frederic II., and personally designated every article of her
sumptuous wardrobe.
It was on this occasion that he first learned how imperative a check a
sturdy British Parliament may be on the lawless extravagance of a king;
for when he petitioned the Lords for a relief from his pecuniary
difficulties, they told him they had amply supplied funds both for his
marriage and that of the empress, and as he had wasted the money he might
defray the expenses of his wedding as best he could.
It would be difficult to say whether the king, the queen, or the royal
relations, proved the greatest scourges to Britain during the long and
impotent reign of Henry III.
One of Eleanor’s uncles became prime minister; to another was given the
rich Earldom of Warrenne, and a third was made Archbishop of Canterbury,
and numerous young lady friends of the romantic queen were imported from
Provence and married to the king’s wealthy wards.
Henry’s mother, not content with sending over all her younger children to
be provided for by the impoverished monarch, involved him in a war with
Louis IX., which ended disastrously for the English arms, in the loss of a
great part of the rich southern fiefs and the military chests and costly
ornaments of the king’s chapel.
Henry’s ambition for his children brought still greater difficulties upon
the realm. His eldest son, Edward, was appointed viceroy of the disputed
possessions in Aquitaine, and being too young to discharge his important
trusts with discretion, so mismanaged affairs as greatly to increase the
discontent of his father’s French subjects.
His eldest daughter Margaret, married to her cousin Alexander III., the
young King of Scotland, was taken prisoner by Sir John Baliol, and
subjected to the most rigorous confinement, thus making it necessary for
Henry to undertake a Northern campaign for the rescue of his child.
But his second son, Edmund, proved more expensive to the British nation,
and innocently did more to project the civil war than any other member of
the royal family; for the pope, having conferred the crown of Sicily upon
the young prince, the delighted father eagerly engaged in a prospective
war, and promised to defray the whole expense of substantiating the claim.
Again the barons resisted the onerous tax which this new attempt at family
aggrandizement would impose upon them, and the first subsidy was raised
from the benefices of the church only by the exercise of spiritual
authority. When the ambitious king had exhausted all his resources, the
pontiff coolly transferred the coveted crown to Charles d’Anjou, brother
to the King of France, leaving poor Henry to cancel his debt with the
lords of exchequer as best he might, getting to himself in the eyes of his
subjects little glory and great loss.
Such was the character, the political and the social position of the
parents of Edward I., who commenced about the middle of the thirteenth
century to take an active part in the affairs of Europe.
A splendid concourse were gathered in the spacious palace of the old
temple at Paris, A.D. 1254. The royal families of England and France were
convened on terms of cordiality and kindness, such as they had never
enjoyed since the day when Normandy was wrested from the descendants of
Charlemagne. The banquet was given in honor of Edward, the heir-apparent
of England, and his sweet young bride, Eleanora of Castile. In the place
of honor sat the good St. Louis King of France, on his right, Henry III.
of England, and on his left, the King of Navarre, the royal descendant of
Thibaut of Champagne, and Blanche the sister of Berengaria. At this
magnificent entertainment, Beatrice the Countess of Provence enjoyed a
reunion with her beautiful daughters, their noble husbands and blooming
offspring. The eldest, Margaret, was the wife of Louis IX., Eleanor, of
Henry III., Beatrice, of Charles d’Anjou, and Sancha, of Richard of
Cornwall, King of the Romans.
But the queen of this Feast of kings, the fair young Infanta, around whom
were gathered the nobility of a Continent, though but a child of scarce
ten years, concentrated in herself more romantic associations and excited
higher hopes than any of the crowned heads present. Her brother Alphonso
X., the astronomer, was the most learned prince in Europe, and neither
priest or peer could boast that devotion to the arts, or that success in
scientific discoveries that characterized the King of Castile, surnamed
Il Sabio, the wise. Her mother Joanna, had been the affianced bride of
her royal father-in-law Henry III., had been rejected for the more poetic
daughter of the Count of Provence; and her grandmother, Alice of France,
had been refused by the gallant King Richard, in favor of Berengaria of
Navarre. Her brother Alphonso, and her husband’s uncle, Richard of
Cornwall, were candidates for the crown of the German Empire, in
opposition to the rights of Conrad, son of Frederic and Violante, and her
husband, a graceful youth of fifteen, who had received the honors of
knighthood at his wedding tournament, was heir to the goodly realm of
England and the beautiful provinces of Southern France.
The tourney, the banquet, and the procession, had marked their progress
from Burgos, in Spain, to the Parisian court. At Bordeaux, King Henry
expended 300,000 marks on their marriage feast, a sum, at that time so
extravagant, that when reproached for it, he exclaimed in a dolorous tone,
“Oh! pour la tête de Dieu, say no more of it, lest men should stand amazed
at the relation thereof.” At Chartres, the palace once occupied by Count
Stephen and Adela, was ornamented with the most brilliant decorations to
honor their presence. St. Louis advanced to meet, and escort them to
Paris. The cavalcade consisted of one thousand mounted knights in full
armor, each with some lady by his side, upon a steed whose broidered
housings rivalled the richness of the flowing habiliments of the fair
rider, while a splendid train of carriages, sumpter mules, and grooms, and
vassals completed the magnificent retinue.
The nuptial festival with its usual accompaniments of hunting, hawking,
and holiday sports, continued through eight days, and a brilliant cortêge
attended the bridal party to the coast of France, on their departure for
England. The passage was rough and gloomy, and the fleet that conveyed
Eleanora to her new home encountered a storm upon the Channel, and
approached the harbor under the cover of a fog so dense, that the white
cliffs of Dover were entirely veiled from sight.
The child queen, terrified at the profound darkness, strove to silence her
own agonizing apprehensions, by repeating those words of sacred writ,
which she supposed exercised some mysterious influence upon the elements.
Suddenly a terrible crash made the ship groan through all its timbers.
Piercing shrieks from without told a tale of horrors, and the echoing
screams within rendered it impossible to ascertain the nature or extent of
the danger. At length it was found, that the royal vessel had in the
darkness encountered and sunk a small bark, supposed to be a fishing
smack, that had been driven out to sea by the wind.
Prince Edward immediately ordered the small boat to be lowered, and
despite the entreaties of his parents and little bride, sprang into it, in
hope of rescuing the perishing crew.
Alarmed for his safety, Eleanora added to the anxieties of her parents, by
hastening to the deck, where leaning from the vessel’s side, she scanned
with intensest gaze the narrow circle of waters illuminated by the lights
of the ship. A brave sailor, buffeting the waves with powerful arm,
escaped the eddies made by the sinking craft, and grasping the rope which
was flung to his assistance, sprang up to the vessel’s side. Another
object soon after appeared rising and sinking upon the crest of the
billow. Now it seemed but the sparkling foam, and now it lay white and
motionless in the dark trough of the sea. At length it floated beyond the
line of light, and seemed lost in the impenetrable gloom, but not till the
prince had fixed his eye upon it, and ordered his rowers to pull in the
direction of its disappearance. One moment of agonizing suspense, and the
heir of England again appeared nearing the vessel, carefully folding a
motionless form in his arms; the sailors plied the windlass, and the boat
with its crew was safely received on board.
Scarcely heeding the curious inquiries of those who gathered around him,
the prince made his way to the cabin and deposited the precious burden
upon a couch. The dripping coverings were speedily removed, and delight,
admiration, and pity, were instantly excited in the hearts of the
spectators, at the sight of a lovely child, apparently less than two
years of age. Eleanora watched the resuscitation of the little stranger,
with anxious tenderness. She chafed its dimpled hands in her own, and
strove to recall animation by soft kisses and gentle caresses. As vital
warmth gradually returned, and the faint hue of life glowed on the pallid
cheek, the suffering one opened her blue eyes, and whispering some
indistinct words, among which they could distinguish only “Eva,” sank
again into unconsciousness.
The clothing of the little foundling was such as indicated rank and
wealth, and a bracelet of Eastern manufacture, clasped upon her tiny arm,
excited much wonder and curiosity among the queens and their attendants.
The prince had found the infant lashed to an oar with a scarf of exquisite
embroidery. There seemed to be also an armorial design upon it, but the
green shamrock, with a rose of Sharon, was a device which none present
could decipher. The rescued sailor stated that the lost ship was a
coasting vessel, and that, in an Irish harbor, they had taken on board a
lady and child; but, as he had only seen them at the time of their
embarkation, he could give no farther account of them.
The partiality which Eleanora manifested to the orphan, thus suddenly
bereft of every friend, gained for it a home in the bosom of the royal
family, and at the castle of Guilford, where her father-in-law established
her with much state, she passed many pleasant hours in the care of her
tender charge. The little Eva added to her infantile charms a disposition
of invincible sweetness, relieved by a sportive wilfulness that elicited a
constant interest, not unmixed with anxiety, lest a heart so warm might
become a prey to influences against which no caution or admonition could
shield her. She could give no account of her parentage or home; but
sometimes spoke of her mamma, and birds and flowers, as though her
childish memory retained associations that linked her thoughts with
pleasant walks and tender care. Her perceptions were exceedingly quick,
but her best resolutions were often evanescent, and she lacked a
steadiness of purpose in the pursuit of the studies to which Eleanora
invited her attention. An appeal to her heart never failed to induce
immediate repentance for any fault, and she was altogether the most
winning, but vexatious pupil, that ever engaged the affections of a queen.
But the accomplishments of Eleanora herself were not complete, and in 1256
she was again conveyed to Bordeaux, for the purpose of receiving
instruction from masters better qualified to conduct her education. At her
earnest request, Eva was permitted to accompany her.
Her young husband was meanwhile engaged perfecting himself in every
knightly accomplishment, “haunting tournaments,” and carrying off the
prizes from all competitors, with a skill and grace that gave him a
renown, not inferior to that of his great uncle Richard Cœur de Lion.
At Paris, he formed an intimacy with the Sire de Joinville, companion of
St. Louis in the seventh crusade, and he listened to the account of
affairs in the East with an interest that inflamed his young and ardent
imagination. The Lord de Joinville, high seneschal of Champagne, was one
of the most erudite and affable nobles of the thirteenth century, and it
was an agreeable occupation for the experienced soldier, to enlighten the
mind of the young prince with an account of the customs and manners of the
East, and the state of the Latin kingdom in Jerusalem, which had so much
influenced the politics of Europe.
After the return of Frederic, Gregory IX. excommunicated him for declining
to combat the enemy of God; but so long had been the contest between the
emperor and the pontiff, and so divided were the minds of men upon the
rights of the cause, that the clergy published the sentence with many
explanatory clauses, that greatly modified its effect. A curé at Paris,
instead of reading the bull from the pulpit in the usual form, said to his
parishioners, “You know, my brethren, that I am ordered to fulminate an
excommunication against Frederic. I know not the motive. All that I know
is, that there has been a quarrel between that prince and the pope. God
alone knows who is right. I excommunicate him who has injured the other;
and I absolve the sufferer.”
Frederic, in revenge, employed his Saracen troops, of which he commanded
not a few, in southern Italy, to ravage the dominions of the church, and
convinced all his subjects of the wisdom of his former refusals, by taxing
them heavily for the expenses of the expedition on which he determined to
embark. Finding that Frederic was thus placing himself in a posture to
enlist the sympathies of Christendom, the pope prohibited his undertaking
the Holy War till he should be relieved from ecclesiastical censure. The
emperor notwithstanding sailed directly for Acre, and was received with
great joy by the Christians. The next ships from Europe brought letters
from the pontiff to the patriarch, repeating the sentence of
excommunication, forbidding the Templars and Hospitallers to fight under
the banner of the son of perdition.
In this state of embarrassment, Frederic found his military operations
limited to the suburbs of Acre; and dwelling in the palace, and gazing on
the scenes which Violante had so often and so eloquently portrayed, his
mind reverted, with a touch of remorseful tenderness, to the enthusiasm
with which she had anticipated a return to her eastern home. The rapture
with which she had dwelt upon the virtues of the Empress Elsiebede, and
her noble son Melech Camel, inspired him with the thought that he might
avail himself of the generous friendship entertained for his much injured
wife, to further his own plans in Palestine. Acting upon this selfish
policy, he opened negotiations with the Sultan of Egypt, now heir to all
Saphadin’s dominions by the death of Cohr-Eddin. The Saracen emperor lent
a gracious ear to the overtures of the successor of Jean de Brienne, and a
truce of ten years was concluded between the belligerent powers.
Jerusalem, Joppa, Bethlehem and Nazareth, with their appendages, were
restored to the Latins. The Holy Sepulchre was also ceded, and both
Christians and Mussulmans, were guaranteed the right to worship in the
sacred edifice, known to the former as the temple of Solomon, and to the
latter as the mosque of Omar. The Emperor repaired to Jerusalem, but no
hosannahs welcomed his approach. The patriarch forbade the celebration of
all religious ceremonies during his stay, and no prelate could be induced
to place upon his brow accursed, the crown of Godfrey of Boulogne.
Frederic, notwithstanding, advanced to the church of the Sepulchre, took
the crown from the altar, placed it upon his own head, and then listened
with great apparent satisfaction, to a laudatory oration, pronounced by
one of his German followers. Thus the memory of the gentle and loving
Violante, more powerful than the heroic frenzy of King Richard, or the
misguided devotion of the military orders, established the kingdom of
Palestine, once more upon a firm basis, and gave the sceptre into the
hands of one able to defend its rights.
CHAPTER II.
DE JOINVILLE’S STORY OF THE SEVENTH CRUSADE
These particulars de Joinville faithfully narrated, at various times, to
Prince Edward, who was an indefatigable listener to whatever pertained to
feats of chivalry and arms.—But he dwelt with far greater circumlocution
and precision upon the events of the Seventh Crusade, in which he was
personally engaged with Louis IX.
“You must know, gracious prince,” said the good knight, in the quaint
language of the times, “that though the Christians in Asia had possession
of the holy places, by the treaty with Melech Camel, the mildew of discord
continually blighted all their plans for the improvement of the state, and
as soon as the truce had expired, the Saracens again fell upon them in
their weakened condition, and slaughtered great multitudes of pilgrims.
For this cause it was, that Gregory IX. called again upon the devout
children of the church, to take arms against the Infidels.”
“I remember,” replied Edward, “the departure of my uncle Richard of
Cornwall, and the valiant Longsword, with their knights, and retainers for
Palestine, and I have heard that his very name was a terror to the
Saracens, inasmuch as they mistook him for the great Richard Cœur de
Lion. God willing, Sire de Joinville, the name of Edward shall one day,
frighten his enemies as well.”
To this De Joinville gravely replied, “Thou wouldst do well to remember
that which the good King Louis said, when, to secure the tranquillity of
his subjects, he relinquished so great a portion of his territory to thy
royal sire: I would rather be like our Lord, who giveth freely to all,
than like the conquerors of the earth who have made to themselves enemies
in grasping the rights of others!”
“In sooth,” replied Edward, “the sentiment savoreth more of the saint than
of the king,” a little piqued that his ambitious tendencies elicited no
warmer approbation.
“And yet,” returned de Joinville, “King Louis is the greatest monarch in
Europe, and often by his wise counsel accommodates those differences which
involve other countries in bloodshed. He has, thou knowest well, already
composed the dissensions between thy father and his haughty
brother-in-law, Earl Leicester.”
“Aye, verily,” returned Edward, his eyes flashing with the presentiment of
vengeance, “this good sword shall one day teach the misproud earl better
manners.—Had my father, less of those meek virtues which thou prizest so
highly, he would never have ratified the statutes of Oxford, and made
England the prey of Simon de Montfort’s rapacity.”
“The poor inhabitants of Albi and Carcassonne, albeit many of them, I fear
me, were miserable heretics, teach their children to curse the name even
more bitterly,” answered de Joinville, “than thou dost.”
“He who slaughters women and children,” answered Edward, with proud
disdain, “even though it be by the commands of the church, stains his
fair fame more deeply than his sword. To my poor wit it seems good sire,
that this crusade against our own vassals in happy France, bears a hue far
different from the wars in Palestine.”
“So thought my good lord,” returned de Joinville, “for though his soul
loveth peace, his conscience was often unquiet with the thought of the
sufferings of the Christians, who, pressed by the Turks, cried out for
aid, and yet he knew not how he might leave his people for a foreign war.
At length his doubts were resolved on this wise.—Being grievously ill at
Paris, his soul as it were departed from his body. He saw standing before
him Count Raimond of Toulouse, who, being in the torment of purgatory,
cried out, ‘Oh! that I had employed my people in chasing the children of
Satan from the Holy Land, then would they not have had leisure to have
devised those heresies by which they have destroyed both their souls and
bodies in hell.’ When the soul of the king returned, he heard those who
had nursed him speaking together, and one would have covered his face with
a cloth, thinking that all was over, but another (so God willed it)
declared continually that he was alive. Then he opened his eyes and looked
upon them, and he desired one of them to bring him the crucifix, and he
swore upon it that if God should please restore him to health, he would,
in person, undertake the Holy War. In like manner as the king put on the
cross, so did his three brothers, Robert, Count d’Artois, Alphonzo, Count
de Poitiers, and Charles, Count d’Anjou, the venerable Hugh le Brun, Count
le Marche and his sons, with many others of rank and dignity, and many
lords whom Simon de Montfort had deprived of their patrimony in Languedoc,
and many others who had fought against the heretics. Thus did the pious
king make the Holy War the means of expiation and of universal
reconcilement. But so wise was he withal, and so careful of his people,
that he thought also to make the expedition the foundation of a great
colony in Egypt. Thus many of the transports were laden with spades,
pitch-forks, plows, and other implements for the tilling of the ground,
together with seeds of various kinds, for the better prospering of the new
state. You must know, before the king left the realm, he summoned all the
barons to Paris, and there made them renew their homage and swear loyalty
to his children, should any unfortunate event happen to himself during
this expedition.
“Magnificent dresses were on this occasion bestowed upon all the
courtiers, and the next day the cavaliers were surprised to find, that to
every cloak a splendid gold cross had been affixed by the art of the
goldsmith, thereby intimating the king’s desire that they should join him
in the Crusade.
“It was in the month of August that we embarked at the rock Marseilles,
and the priest and clerks standing round the king, sang the beautiful
hymn, ‘Veni Creator,’ from the beginning to the end. While they were
singing, the mariners set their sails in the name of God, and soon, with a
favorable wind, the coast disappeared from our view, and we saw nothing
but the sea and sky. We landed first at Cyprus, where we made a long stay,
waiting for Count Alphonzo, who headed the reserve. Here ambassadors from
all nations came to pay their court to the French monarch. The great Chan
of Tartary paid him many fine compliments, and bade his servants say that
their master was ready to assist him in delivering Jerusalem from the
hands of the Saracens. The King of France sent likewise to the Chan a
tent, in the form of a chapel, of fine scarlet cloth, embroidered on the
inside with the mysteries of our faith. Two black monks had charge of it,
and were also instructed to exhort the Tartars, and show them how they
ought to put their belief in God.”
“Are not the Tartars of the same race as the Turks?” inquired Edward, with
great curiosity.
“I understand not well the genealogy of the people of the East,” replied
de Joinville, “but I consider Tartary as a general name for a vast
country, whence have issued, at various times, certain tribes called
Scythians, Hungarians, Turks, and Mongols, which have overrun the fertile
provinces that skirt the Mediterranean.”
The prince, feeling greatly enlightened at this comprehensive answer,
listened respectfully while de Joinville resumed. “There came also
ambassadors from the Christians of Constantinople, Armenia and Syria.
Envoys likewise from the ‘Old Man of the Mountain,’ of whom there runs so
many strange stories. King Louis also formed a league with the leader of
the Mongols against the two great popes of Islamism, the Sultans of Cairo
and Bagdad. From Cyprus we sailed to Damietta, which King Louis attacked
sword in hand. The Infidels, by the favor of God, were put to the worse,
and the city fell into our hands. We found great spoil in Damietta, and
were comfortably lodged there. But the king’s officers, instead of
well-treating the merchants, who would have supplied the army with
provisions, hired out to them stalls and workmen, at so dear a rate, that
they departed from us, which was a great evil and loss. Barons and knights
began to give sumptuous banquets, one to the other; the commonalty also
gave themselves up to all kinds of dissipation, which lasted until the day
we set forward toward Cairo, on the route formerly travelled by Jean de
Brienne. We were stopped at Mansourah many days by a branch of the Nile,
where it was necessary to construct a dyke, and there they assailed us
with the Greek fire, by which we were in great danger of perishing. This
fire was in appearance like a great tun, and its tail was of the length of
a long spear, and the noise which it made was like thunder, and it seemed
a great dragon of fire flying through the air, giving such light by its
flame, that we saw in our camp as clearly as in broad day; and when it
fell upon a knight in armor, it penetrated through the scales thereof, and
burned to the very bone. Thus our army suffered greatly, and were
prevented from making farther progress.
“The king called his barons to council, and it was concluded to return to
Damietta. But so many of our army had fallen sick, that it was necessary
to make preparations to embark upon the Nile. The king himself suffered
greatly with the pestilence, and our march was stopped by the Saracens,
who lay in wait for us upon the banks of the river, and as the prince
would not desert his people, we were all made prisoners together. After we
had suffered many things, both in body and spirit, the Sultan, who had
been recently elected by the Mamelukes, agreed to accept as ransom for the
captives, the city of Damietta and the sum of 500,000 livres. When the
Sultan found that King Louis complied with the first demand without
striving to drive a bargain, ‘Go and tell him from me,’ he said, ‘that I
retract one-fifth of the sum, because I have found him both generous and
liberal.’
“After the affair was concluded, my royal master empowered me to accompany
the envoys to Damietta, and to receive from Queen Margaret the money for
the ransom. When I came to the palace where the queen was lodged, I found
her apartment guarded by an aged knight, whom, when she heard of her royal
husband’s captivity, she had caused to take oath that, should the Saracens
enter the town, he would himself put an end to her life before they could
seize her person. My royal mistress received me graciously, and gave me
the money which the king had commanded, and she also bade me look upon the
son she had borne to Louis during his absence, that I might assure him of
their health and comfort. The misfortunes that had attended our arms
caused us to quit Egypt; and, sailing at once for Acre, we were received
with great joy by the Christians of the East. We employed ourselves in
restoring the fortifications of the principal towns, but the monarch,
through dejection at the failure of his enterprise, returned to France
without making a pilgrimage to the holy places.”
“By my faith,” replied the young prince, “it were a matter of surprise
that such well-appointed expeditions should suffer such total loss.
Methinks a good soldier should never sheathe his sword till the hour of
victory.”
De Joinville regarded the inexperienced youth with a benevolent smile,
remarking only, that caution and prudence are virtues as essential to a
ruler, as courage and prowess.
CHAPTER III.
THE RELICS BROUGHT FROM CONSTANTINOPLE.
The young bride Eleanora, in her residence at Bordeaux, had formed the
acquaintance of Guy de Lusignan, second son of the ex-queen Isabella and
Count Hugh le Marche, and through his kindly attentions she had been
apprized of the events that agitated England. She learned that her royal
parents had been under the necessity of taking up their residence in the
Tower of London, almost in the condition of state prisoners, and that her
gallant husband had exchanged the sports of a knight for “the game of
kings.” Anxious for his safety, and desirous to assist in the release of
the royal family, or share their captivity, she besought Count Guy to
conduct her thither. He represented the danger of such a proceeding, and
strove by every argument to induce her to remain in France, but in vain.
The traits of character, that subsequently made her the heroine, already
developed in unchanging affection, and invincible firmness, overbore all
opposition, and with a retinue scarcely suitable for her rank, and
insufficient for her protection in case of attack, she set off for
England.
They reached the island without accident, and had approached in sight of
London, when the great bell of St. Paul’s startled them with its hurried
peal, and they almost instantly found themselves surrounded by an
infuriated mob. The simplicity of their attire shielded them from
observation, and they passed some time unmolested among the crowd, but the
vindictive shouts of the multitude, crying, “Down with the Jews! down with
the followers of the virago of Provence!” so alarmed the little Eva, that
she was unable to keep her seat upon the pillion of the knight who had her
in charge, and Sir Guy at length obtained for them a shelter in an humble
tenement upon the banks of the Thames.
From the window of the cottage, they beheld the terrible massacre that
characterized the first popular outbreak against the government of Henry
III. The harmless Jews were dragged from their houses and mercilessly
slaughtered, amidst protestations of innocence, and heart-rending cries
for pity, while the furniture of their dwellings, and valuables of every
kind, were hurled into the streets, and distributed among the crowd. A
venerable man, Ben Abraham, of majestic demeanor, was pursued to the door
of the house in which the royal fugitives had taken refuge.
Count Guy in his agitation sprang to bar the entrance, but the young queen
with readier tact removed the bolt, and throwing open an opposite door,
motioned all the armed retainers to retire. Scarcely had the helpless old
man crossed the threshold, when the mob with demoniac cries, rushed in
after him, and the leader seizing him by his long white beard, severed his
head from his body, and held it up a grim and ghastly spectacle for the
plaudits of his followers. The terrified Eva, clinging close to Eleanora,
shrunk behind the open door, and the queen controlling her own agitation,
placed her hand over the child’s mouth to repress her screams, while the
murderers dragging the bleeding corpse upon the pavement, began to search
the body for gold. Down the street rolled the tide of blood. Mad yells of
vengeance and frantic cries of terror mingled on the air, and swept away
toward the river.
Now the roar seemed advancing and now retreating, when a barge loosing
from the tower stairs, drew the concourse in that direction. It was the
Queen of Henry III. with her children, seeking to escape to Windsor
castle, where Prince Edward was quartered with his troops. Cries of “Drown
the Witch! Down with the Witch! No favor to foreigners! Death to the
Italians!” rent the air. The mob tore up the paving stones, stripped the
tiles from the houses, plundered butchers’ shambles, and hucksters’ shops,
and a shower of deadly missiles rained upon the river. The boat approached
the bridge, at the west end of which thousands of fierce eyes glared for
its appearance, and thousands of bloody hands were raised for its
destruction. At this moment the figure of an armed knight, of lofty
stature, appeared upon the bridge. Forcing his way through the mob, he
shouted to the sailors as the boat was about to shoot the arch, “Back!
Bear back!! upon your lives!!! Return to the tower!!!!” The frightened
boatmen turned at the critical moment, and the knight, by the prowess of
his single arm, diverted the attack to himself, till the queen was again
sheltered by the walls of the fortress.
Roar upon roar again swelled through the streets. The crowd hurried on in
search of prey, swaying to and fro, like trees in a tempest. Again the
feeble walls that sheltered the fair Castilian, felt the terrible presence
of demons in human form. The sight of a French attendant again raised the
cry of “Death to foreigners,” and madly they rushed to the onslaught. But
the strange knight was already at the door, and backed by Guy de Lusignan
and the retainers, for some hours kept the infuriated multitude at bay,
but at every moment the crowd became denser, the cries more terrific, and
Eleanora drawing the little Eva to her bosom, and surrounded by her own
maidens, and the females of the household, was striving to recall the
prayers for the dying, when a distant shout of rescue swelled upon the
breeze. The shrill blast of a trumpet confirmed the uncertain hope, and
the defiant threats of the multitude began to give place to the howlings
of baffled rage. On came the tramp of horsemen, the clangor of armor;
louder roared the din of the fight; not now the sounds of falling
dwellings, flying missiles, and female shrieks, but the ringing clash of
Damascus steel, and the regular tramp of mounted horsemen. The warlike
shout of “Edward to the rescue,” “Give way to the prince,” drove on the
motley mass like sands before the desert wind, and scattered them through
all the lanes and alleys of the vast metropolis. At the sound of her
husband’s name, Eleanora sprang from her knees and rushed to the door-way,
where she beheld, advancing at the head of the troops, taller than all
his compeers, more firmly seated upon his noble destriar, and more
gracefully managing the rein and wielding the sword, her long-absent lord.
He raised his vizor, as he paused to return the salutation of his uncle,
De Lusignan, and his fine, manly features, radiant with pleasure, and
flushed with triumph, his fair hair curling round his helmet, made him
appear to Eleanora, more brave and beautiful than a hero of romance. But
the eye that “kindled in war, now melted in love” at the unexpected
apparition of his bride, who with tearful eyes gazed upon him, uncertain
whether her presence would more embarrass or pleasure him. It was not,
however, in the heart of a chivalric prince to frown upon any distressed
damsel, much less upon the beautiful young being, whose fair face, the
sensitive index of every emotion, now paled with fear, now flushed with
joy, seemed each moment changing to a lovelier hue, while she awaited his
approach in doubt as to the greeting she should receive from her lord. The
generous prince hastily dismounting, and clasping her in his arms,
tenderly reassured her with words of affectionate welcome, not however,
without a gentle upbraiding, that she had not tarried at Dover till he had
been able, with a retinue befitting her rank, himself to escort her to
Windsor. The little Eva, meanwhile, had found a safe asylum in the arms of
the stranger knight, and, through the bars of his vizor, obtained a
glimpse of eyes, whose color and expression she never forgot, and listened
to words that made a lasting impression upon her mind.
Prince Edward found it necessary to establish his mother and queen, with
the ladies and attendants, under a strong guard, at Bristol castle, where
they remained during a part of that stormy period, consequent upon
Leicester’s rebellion. Restricted to the narrow enjoyments which the
castle walls afforded, and to the society of the few knights who had them
in charge, the royal ladies found their chief entertainment in the
volatile spirits, and restless gaiety of the orphan Eva. No caution nor
command could prevent her mingling with the dependents, and listening to
and relating to her mistress every flying report that reached the castle.
But so gentle was her temper, and so ready her submission, that it was
impossible to be seriously offended with her, and her light footsteps and
joyous laugh were equally welcome in the royal apartments, and in the
servants’ kitchen. The maids of honor, who were the most frequent victims
of her pranks, surnamed her, “Dame Madcap,” while her cordial interest in
inferiors caused the retainers to dub her with the equally appropriate
soubriquet of “Little Sunbeam.”
One day, the Princess Eleanora, passing the hall of audience, was
surprised by hearing shouts of irrepressible laughter. Suspecting that her
protegée was engaged in some frolic, she cautiously opened the door and
stood an unobserved spectator. Every piece of furniture capable of being
moved, had been torn from its mooring, and placed in some fantastic
position. The arras had been stripped from the walls, and hung in
grotesque festoons at the farther extremity of the room, above and around
a throne, ornamented with every article of embroidered velvet and silk
brocade, that the royal wardrobe afforded, on which was seated her Madcap
majesty, bedecked and bedizened with all sorts of holiday finery, while
every maid and retainer, not on duty, was passing before her, and
repeating the oath of fealty in giggling succession. The fair queen,
meanwhile, diversified her state duties by lecturing her new subjects upon
the indecorum of such ill-timed levity. The princess, in doubt what notice
to take of the affair, prudently withdrew, but not till Eva had caught
sight of her retreating figure, whereon, she assured her vassals, that
they had all been guilty of high treason, and that, no doubt, the Don Jon,
or some other Spanish cavalier would soon have them in close keeping.
When Eva again appeared in the presence of the princess, she fell on her
knees and begged pardon with an air of mock humility that changed
Eleanora’s frowns to smiles in spite of herself, though she felt it
necessary to remonstrate with her upon the oft-reiterated subject of her
undignified familiarity with dependents. “I was but acting the queen,
your majesty, and would be glad of more exalted subjects,” said she,
archly, in extenuation of her fault. “Royalty is but a pageant, and I
shall doubtless exercise the prerogative of a sovereign, when it is proved
that the wicked little Eva de la Mer is heiress of the gallant Strongbow.”
“Thou, Queen of Ireland!” exclaimed Eleanora. “Who has put this foolish
conceit into thy young head? Thou must beware, sweet one, of these odd
fancies. Rememberest thou not the words of the confessor, that the pomps
and vanities of the world lead the soul astray?”
Tears filled the blue eyes of Eva, but instantly dashing them away with
spirit, she exclaimed, “And why not I a queen! ’Tis sure I would be a
better sovereign than most. They should not say as they do of our liege,
King Henry, that I robbed my subjects to make presents to my favorites.”
“Eva, Eva,” gravely rejoined the princess, “the Scripture saith we should
not speak evil of dignities.” But Eva was in the vein, and her volubility
was not to be silenced.
“I would not be a queen,” exclaimed she, “for then I should have none to
love me or to tell me the truth.”
“None to love thee!” replied Eleanora. “Do not the people love her
gracious majesty, my royal mother?”
“Thou shouldst hear what all men say of her,” exclaimed the child, almost
frightened at her own audacity.
“And what do men say?” inquired Eleanora, her curiosity getting the better
of her judgment.
“They say,” continued Eva, “that all the troubles in England are owing to
the queen and her relations. That King Henry took the marriage portion of
his sister Isabella to furnish the decorations for the coronation; and
thou knowest well, my lady, that she hath nine garlands for her hair,
besides a great gold crown most glorious with gems.”
“In sooth,” returned the princess, “thou knowest more than I of the
queen’s wardrobe. But how learnedst thou these things?”
“Her maidens, who love her none too well, tell me everything.”
“And dost thou encourage them in evil speaking of their mistress, by
listening to their idle tales?”
“Nay, I told them they were sinners, and that the father of evil would
surely get them; but they only laughed, and said, in that case, I should
certainly bear them company.”
Eleanora, looking gravely, said, “I fear my darling is learning sad ways,
and I must henceforth keep her always by my side.”
Eva threw her arms around the princess, and pillowing her fair cheek upon
her bosom, whispered, “Let not my noble mistress omit this punishment, for
in her presence ’tis easy to be good.” There was a pause of some minutes,
when the child gently resumed, “My lady will one day be a queen, shall Eva
then speak only the words of adulation, such as the false dames d’honneur
employ in the presence of her majesty? I heard them whispering low
concerning the queen’s gold, and the extortions and exactions she had
brought upon the people, and when she inquired what they whispered, they
turned it with some fine compliment. I sought to tell her of the
falsehood, but the ladies would not give me entrance to her apartment. I
will tell thee, for thou art wise and mayest perchance warn her of her
false friends. What first caught my ear was the name of my lord, Prince
Edward. They said that when he was a lad of eight years, his royal father
brought him forth with his brother Edmund and his sisters Margaret and
Beatrice, and had them all weighed up like the calves at the butchers, and
then scattered their weight in coin among the ragged beggar children that
stood in the court below, laughing at the screams of the royal babies.”
“Eva! Eva! How couldst thou listen to such vain parlance?”
“Oh! my lady, this is not the half of the vile things they told. They said
that when the king had oppressed the people till he could wring no more
money from them, he broke up his court, and then, to avoid the expense of
keeping his family, he invited himself with his retinue to the castles of
the nobles, and after being feasted right royally, he begged gifts at his
departure, telling them it was a greater charity to bestow alms upon him
than upon any beggar in the realm.”
“Eva! darling! no more of this,” said Eleanora, in a decided tone. “I will
give thee for thy penance three paternosters and a creed. Repair to my
oriel, and let me hear thee prate no more.”
Eva received so much spiritual benefit from her devotions in the oratory,
that the next day she was permitted to go where she pleased, and her first
works of supererogation were distributed among those who had participated
in her offence. Accordingly, the princess found her robed in the
chaplain’s gown, and receiving the confessions of those who had assisted
at her coronation the previous day, in which capacity she exhibited a
wonderful facility in prompting treacherous memories and callous
consciences. In the midst of the scene, a sharp blast from the warder’s
horn startled the merry group. In times of public calamity, every
unexpected event seems fraught with a fearful interest. Each vassal
hurried to his post, and the females hastened away, while Eva, dropping
her sacred character, ran with all speed to reconnoitre from the
arrow-slit of the turret. The portcullis was raised, the sound of hoofs
was heard upon the drawbridge, and the next moment a messenger, toil worn
and travel-stained, dashed into the court. The tidings which he brought
were of the most important character. King Henry, apparently on the most
friendly terms with Leicester, was, in reality, a prisoner in his castle,
and subject to the will of the earl. Prince Edward was rapidly preparing
for war with the rebel barons, and, deeming the royal ladies unsafe in
England, had sent to bid them haste with all speed to the court of the
good King of France. Straining her eyes to command a view beyond the
castle walls, Eva discerned a band of huntsmen lingering in the skirts of
an adjoining wood, but in the bustle of departure, she could not find
opportunity to communicate the suspicious circumstance to any in
authority.
Apparelled in the utmost haste, the parties set forth, and slacked not
their riding till they reached the port. There seemed to be a great crowd
in the vicinity, of sailors, boatmen, clowns, in cartmen’s frocks, and
occasionally a man in armor. Eva fancied that she discerned among them the
huntsmen of the wood, and her fears were confirmed when a moment after the
royal train were completely environed by the band. But so adroitly was the
manœuvre effected, that the fugitives had scarcely time to feel
themselves prisoners, when a troop of Leicester’s men appeared in the
distance, and they comprehended that, but for the timely interposition of
these unknown friends, their retreat would have been cut off. As the
vessel receded from shore, swords were drawn, and a fierce contest ensued
between the huntsmen and the soldiers, and Eva recognized in the leader of
their defenders the figure of the tall knight who had rescued them at
London bridge.
At the court of Queen Margaret, the exiled princesses received a cordial
welcome, and the piety of Eleanora was strengthened by intercourse with
the good St. Louis: while Eva’s vivacity soon made her a favorite with the
ladies of the French court. The unaffected piety of the saintly monarch
was scarcely a fit subject for the humor which Eva exercised without
discrimination, upon the grave and gay. But many of the superstitious
observances of the church, ridiculous in themselves, excited her native
merriment; nor could all the penances of the confessor restrict the
playful license of her tongue.
The Latin dynasty of Constantinople was now tottering to its fall. The
young Greek emperor Baldwin, deprived of the counsels of his
father-in-law, Jean de Brienne (who had taken the habit of St. Francis,
and died on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem), was exposed to the attacks of
every disaffected noble that chose to rebel against him. He had made every
possible concession to avoid open warfare with his enemies, and had
suffered every conceivable inconvenience from utter poverty. He had given
his niece in marriage to a Turkish emir, and ratified a treaty with a
haughty pagan by tasting his blood. He demolished vacant houses in
Constantinople for winter fuel, stripped the lead from the churches for
the daily expense of his family; mortgaged his father’s estates in France
to increase the public revenue; and pawned the heir of the purple at
Venice, as security for a debt. One only treasure yet remained, the Holy
Crown of Thorns; but piety forbade him to make merchandise of that which
all Christendom regarded with such superstitious veneration. It was
therefore determined to present the precious bauble to the most honorable
prince in Europe, and rely upon his pious gratitude to make suitable
return. A wooden box conveyed the inestimable relic to France. It was
opened in the presence of the nobility, discovering within a silver shrine
in which was preserved the monument of the Passion, enclosed in a golden
vase. St. Louis, with all his court, made a pilgrimage to Troyes, to
receive the precious deposit. And the devout monarch, barefoot, and
without other clothing than a simple tunic, carried it in triumph through
the streets of Paris, and placed it in La Sainte Chapelle, which he
prepared for the purpose. This solemn ceremony roused all the mirthfulness
of Eva, nor could the habitual reverence of Eleanora so far prevail over
her good sense, as to prevent some slight misgivings concerning the
authenticity of the various and multiplied relics that then formed so
lucrative a branch of commerce.
“I warrant me,” said the madcap, Eva, to the maidens, “we shall all of us
be compelled to kneel upon the cold pavement before that prickly emblem,
as a punishment for our many transgressions.” Shocked at her impiety, yet
inwardly amused, the merry party mingled their reproaches with encouraging
peals of laughter.
“No doubt,” continued she, “it will cure all diseases, at least it has
humbled the holy king like St. Paul’s thorn in the flesh. For me, though I
strove to wear a devout face, I could not help laughing at the sight of
his royal shins.” The volatile French ladies, who had experienced very
much the same sensation, joined in the merriment. “I hear,” said Eva, “we
are to have another procession of the same kind ere long, and mayhaps they
will require us to transport the holy relic in the same flimsy guise.
Thou, Felice, who art so jealous of Sir Francis d’Essai’s attentions to
me, shall carry the cross. And the sharp-witted Beatrice shall bear the
lance. Thou, Caliste, who hearest all and sayest naught, shall wear the
sponge, and as for me, I shall take the rod of Moses and smite your rocky
hearts, till the waters of repentance flow forth.” “Hush! hush!” exclaimed
the damsels, “her majesty approaches.”
Scarcely were their countenances composed to the approved pattern of court
propriety, and their eyes fixed upon their embroidery, when Queen Margaret
entered, and, in her serenely gracious manner, informed them that his
highness, the Emperor Baldwin, had presented another invaluable gift to
her royal husband, and she counselled them, by fasting and prayer, to put
themselves in readiness to join the court in a procession to deposit the
sacred relic in St. Chapelle. While each maiden dropped her head with
apparent assent, but in reality to conceal her smiles brought up by the
prospective realization of Eva’s panorama, the facile girl devoutly
crossed herself, and with a demure look replied, “We have heard of the
noble Courtenay’s munificence, and have endeavored, according to our poor
ability, to prepare our minds for the solemn duty.” No sooner had the
queen departed, than in a tone of mock gravity, she exhorted them to be
diligent in their worship, for now she thought of it, she resolved to
smile upon the young Squire Courtenay, who had besought her to embroider a
shamrock upon his pennon. Winning him, she should doubtless one day share
the imperial purple, in which case she should reclaim those sacred
treasures, and they would then be under the necessity of making a
pilgrimage to Constantinople, for as Baldwin’s last heir was in pawn, the
crown would doubtless descend to the younger branches of his house.
CHAPTER IV.
THE ESCAPE.
In the court of France, the royal princesses received constant
intelligence of the progress of the struggle between the English barons
and the king, or rather, between Simon de Montfort and Prince Edward, who
headed the opposite factions. Their hopes were raised by accounts of the
gallant conduct of the young prince, and by the disaffection that arose
between the confederate barons, but sudden misery overwhelmed them, when,
after several years of torturing suspense, Wm. de Valence arrived at
Paris, bringing news of the death of Guy de Lusignan, in the disastrous
action at Lewes, and the captivity of King Henry and his gallant son.
Queen Eleanor immediately determined to proceed to England, and her
daughter-in-law Eleanora insisted upon accompanying her. Young de
Courtenay, who had recently received the honors of knighthood, from his
royal master, and Sir Francis, who had enlisted as his rival for the
smiles of Eva, now a beautiful girl of fifteen, begged permission to join
the escort, with a band of armed retainers. They landed at Plymouth, and
lay concealed for some time in the wilds of Devonshire, while the gallant
knights, Sir Henry and Sir Francis, scoured the country in all directions,
for information concerning the captive princes. They learned that the
royal army had retreated to Bristol castle, under the command of seven
knights, who had reared seven banners on the walls, and with determined
valor held out against Leicester, and that the princes were confined in
Kenilworth castle. The difficulty of communicating with the prisoners
exercised the ingenuity of the little council for many days, but every
plan involved danger, both to themselves and to the royal cause.
Eleanora, whose clear sense and unwavering reliance on a higher power,
led her to a practical demonstration of the sentiment, “To hope the best
is pious, brave, and wise,” was the life and soul of every arrangement,
and the soother of those fainter spirits, who were ready to yield, to
despair at every sign of failure. Their residence was in a little hamlet
of the better class of peasants, faithful to the interests of the king. A
deep forest extended on the west to a great distance, and in those wilds,
spite of all caution, Eva delighted to ramble. One day she had been so
long absent that even Eleanora, becoming alarmed, despatched her attendant
in quest of her, and herself joined the search. As she passed along
through the glades of the deep wood, her attention was arrested by the
sight of a pretty boy, lying asleep beneath the shade of a spreading oak,
whose dress from his embroidered shoes, to the ruby that fastened the
plume in his velvet cap, was of the most exquisite beauty, and taste. The
page was clad in a hunting suit of “Lincoln green,” slashed with cloth of
gold, that gleamed from the mossy bank upon which he rested, as though the
sunshine had fallen and lingered there. A crimson baldric curiously
wrought with strange devices, lay across his breast, a sword with
burnished sheath, was suspended from his belt. As Eleanora approached, and
gazed upon the sleeping boy, she thought she had never beheld so lovely a
youth, and an instinctive desire rose up in her heart, to enroll him in
her service.
“Wake, pretty one,” said she, softly touching his cheek, “wake, and go
with me.” The youth started and gazed upon her, and a flush of surprise
and pleasure suffused his countenance. “Whose page art thou?” said
Eleanora, “and how hast thou wandered into this wild?”
“Noble lady,” returned the boy, casting down his eyes with modest
hesitation, “my hawk hath gone astray, and I sought him till aweary, I
fell asleep.”
“Thy friends have left thee in the greenwood,” returned the princess, “and
thou may’st not find them. Wilt go with me, and I will give thee gold and
benison, and if thou art loyal, an errand worthy thy knightly ambition.”
“Nay, treason may be loyal, or loyalty treason, in these troublous times,”
said the boy. “One says follow my lord of Leicester, another, draw thy
sword for the good Prince Edward.”
“And if I say, draw thy sword for the good Prince Edward, wilt follow me?”
The youth replied evasively, “I love my lady, and I may not engage in
other service, till I bring her proud bird back to the perch.”
Something in his earnest tone arrested the attention of the princess, and
scanning the countenance of the youth with more curious scrutiny, she
marked the rosy hue in his cheek, and the tear trembling in his blue eye,
and exclaimed,
“Eva! Eva!! How is this?”
“Nay, an thou knowest me, I will e’en venture on thy knightly errand,”
said the blushing girl, falling on her knees, and repeating the oath of
fealty, rapidly as possible to hide her emotions.
“Rise,” said the princess, with all the sternness she could command, “and
tell me whence this disguise.”
“I know not, lady, more than thou, save this. Scarce a week since, I met
in this wood the tall knight who hath so nobly defended us, and
yesternight I braved the fear of thy frown, and came to this
trysting-place. He hath concerted a plan for the liberation of my royal
master, and brought me this disguise, which must be sufficient, since it
so long baffled thy quick discernment. Accident has betrayed me, else it
had not rested with my lady, whether Eva should trust the stranger, and
aid in restoring the proud bird of England to his royal perch.” Eleanora
paused one moment, while her mind, ever clearest and most active in
emergency, poised between the possibility of danger to her favorite, and
rescue to her lord.
“The knight has twice preserved our lives, he must be bold and true, and
heaven hath raised him up for our deliverance, since God conceals us from
our enemies, and reveals our lurking-place to him. It were treason to
doubt this divine Providence, since it would imply neither trust in man,
nor faith in God. Go, Eva,” said the princess, her eyes filling with
tears, as she pressed her to her bosom, and imprinted a warm kiss upon her
cheek. “Heaven will protect and prosper thee, and my noble Edward know how
to reward thy devotion.” She stood gazing fondly on her in silence, while
Eva’s color went and came as though she essayed, what yet she feared, to
utter. At length she stammered forth, “My lady will send Sir Francis with
his band to guard the fords of the Exe till my return.”
“Sir Francis,” reiterated the queen, in a tone of surprise; “methought Sir
Henry were more agreeable escort.”
Eva tried to hide her crimson blushes beneath her delicate fingers, as she
whispered, “If my mistress please, I would that Sir Henry should be
ignorant of this unmaidenly disguise.”
“Thou lovest Sir Henry, then?” said Eleanora.
“Nay, lady, I know not that,” replied Eva; “but there is something in him
that commands my regard despite my will, and I would not needlessly
forfeit his esteem.”
“I will answer for thee, sweet,” replied the princess. “Sir Francis shall
go according to thy wish. But must I leave thee here alone and
unprotected?”
“The monarch of the forest spreads his broad arm for my protection, and
thou shalt envy my repose, in my sylvan eyrie,” replied Eva, lightly
springing into a fantastic seat, formed by the twisted branches of a
gnarled oak, and completely concealed by the foliage. Firmly ensconced in
her rustic lodge, she leaned forward and whispered a gentle farewell, as
the princess, bearing in her mind a vision of a bright face, peeping out
from among the green leaves, turned and rapidly retraced her steps to the
hamlet.
That night Sir Francis set out with his train, and as two maidens
accompanied the band, one wearing the dress of Eva, her absence excited no
suspicion.
Meanwhile the sprite remained in her place of concealment, till the
gathering shadows of the trees stretched stealthily across the glade the
appointed signal for the gathering of the outlawed bands. The tall knight
soon appeared, and, lifting her gently from the tree, placed her on a
beautiful Spanish jennet, and smilingly handing her an ivory whistle,
terminating in a silver cross, bade her summon her satyrs. She placed it
to her lips, and blew a shrill call, and forthwith from the leafy bosom of
every bush and shrub there issued a huntsman, clad in forest green, and
carrying only such weapons as were used in the chase. The knight gave them
hasty directions for the different points of rendezvous, at which they
were to watch the safety of the young squire, warned them against those
places where they would be most likely to encounter the malcontents, and
then mounting the noble steed that stood pawing the turf in impatience by
his side, and laying his hand upon the rein, recalled Eva to herself, by
saying, with emphasis, “Sir Launfal, we must away, or morning will dawn
ere we cross the fords of Exe.”
They rode at a brisk pace for some time in silence, the mind of each being
too much occupied for words.
The knight at length spoke abruptly. “Thou hast a turn for adventure,
pretty page, and I’ll warrant me, ready tongue, but how dost thou think to
gain speech with Prince Edward?”
“Nay, that I leave with thee,” returned Eva, “since I know neither the
place to which I am bound, nor the duty I am to perform.”
“And that I scarce know myself,” replied the knight. “The lady Maud
Mortimer has the swiftest courser in all England, a coal-black Arabian,
brought by Richard of Cornwall as a gift to her ladyship, on his return
from the Holy Land. My Lord Mortimer is a partisan of Leicester, but is
somewhat cooled in his devotion to the proud earl, from an affront
received since the battle of Lewes. The lady, therefore, to be revenged,
has volunteered her steed for the escape of Edward. There riseth, however,
another difficulty. The prince is constantly surrounded with guards, so
that no stranger may accost him. My merry men have beset the castle in
every kind of disguise, but to no purpose. Of late, the prince rides forth
of a morning, closely attended, and I have brought thee, hoping that thy
woman’s wit may effect more than all our dull brains have yet
accomplished.”
As the captive prince, sick with hope deferred, languidly mounted his
horse and rode forth upon his monotonous round, he was surprised by the
appearance of a saucy-looking page, who mingled carelessly among the
attendants, and challenged the younger squires to test the speed of their
horses.
“And who art thou, pert boy?” inquired the captain of the guard.
“Who but the squire to my Lord de Mortimer? Thou must be learned in
heraldry an thou knowest not the device of the noble earl,” replied the
page, with an air of nonchalance that easily satisfied his interrogator,
and eager of sport the whole party joined in the race. They were thus led
far beyond their usual limits. But the prince, whose heart was sad,
evinced little interest in the animated scene till the page, loudly
entreating him to put his steed to the mettle, found opportunity at
intervals to whisper, “To-morrow when the horses of the guards are blown,
seek the copse by the Hazel Glen.” As if disgusted with the familiarity of
the page, the prince slowly turned away, but not till he had exchanged a
glance of intelligence with his new friend.
The following morning the gallant Sir Launfal stood in the copse holding
the reins of his own palfrey, and the steed of Lady Mortimer, till he was
faint and weary. The expected hour for Edward’s arrival had long passed,
and notwithstanding his effort to appear the brave squire he personated,
it must be confessed he felt very like a timid girl, whose active
imagination peopled the wood with a thousand unknown dangers. He turned
the whistle nervously in his fingers, and almost essayed to try its magic
powers in summoning around him the brave outlaws who waited his bidding,
when the welcome sound of advancing hoofs reassured him, and a moment
after the prince dashed into the thicket.
“Keep to the highway till we meet at the cross-roads,” said the page,
resigning the rein into his hand.
The shouts of the pursuers were already on the air, as the prince vaulted
into the saddle and took the direction indicated. Striking into a bridle
path, Sir Launfal reached the cross-roads just as the prince appeared, and
together they rode gaily on towards Bristol. The pursuers soon after
gained the same point, where they encountered a woodman, jogging on slowly
after two loaded mules, of whom they inquired concerning the fugitive.
“He be’s gone yonder,” replied the boor, pointing in the direction
opposite to the one which the prince had taken, where upon an eminence
appeared an armed force. The baffled guards, fearing that the conspiracy
might have been more extensive than they had anticipated, made the best of
their way back to Kenilworth.
“And who art thou, my pretty page?” inquired Edward, “that hast so
dexterously redeemed thy prince, and whither dost thou conduct me?”
“I wear the badge of Mortimer,” replied Sir Launfal. “The Lady Maude is
the constant friend of thy royal mother.”
“Canst tell me aught of the movements of the rebel barons, or the fate of
my brave knights?”
“Nay, my giddy brain recks little of politics or war,” returned the boy,
“but there are can give thee tidings.”
A moment after they turned an angle in the road, and the boy putting the
whistle to his mouth sounded a sharp note, and a party of huntsmen,
apparently in quest of game, darted across the path, while one shouted, as
if to his companions, “To the right, the game lies by the Hermit’s Cross.”
The page immediately turned his palfrey, motioning to silence, and led off
into the path through the wood, and after several hours’ hard riding
arrived at the appointed place of rendezvous.
At the foot of a large wooden cross, weather-stained and somewhat decayed,
sat a monk, closely robed in gown and cowl, who rose at their approach,
saying in a low voice, “The benison of our Lady of Walsingham rest upon
you;” and with great strides conducted them deeper and deeper into the
wood, till they came to a hunter’s lodge, which, though much in ruins,
gave signs of having been recently repaired, with some view to the rank
and comfort of those who were to occupy it.
The prince made light of the trifling inconveniences to which they were
subjected, remarking, “A soldier has little choice of resting-place.” But
poor Eva, wearied almost to death from the unaccustomed fatigues of the
day, now that the stimulus of excitement was over, had leisure to think of
her own situation; and scarcely able to restrain her tears, crept silently
to her couch of fern, and beneath the russet covering, soon slept from
very exhaustion. The prince and the monk meanwhile conferred apart in low
tones, concerting measures for present and future security.
“Gloucester is with us,” said the priest, “and Sir Roger de Mortimer has a
party of picked men on the road to Evesham. My band have charge of every
ford and pass between this and Hereford. The scouts report that
Leicester’s men are much wasted by their long residence on the Welsh
frontier, and my jolly fellows are this night engaged in breaking down the
bridges across the Severn. For we churchmen have a fancy, that baptism is
necessary to wash away the sins of rebels.”
“I fear not all the rites of the Church can absolve the black-hearted
traitor,” returned Edward, with great asperity. “But proceed with thy
news.”
“The country is beset with Leicester’s spies,” continued the monk, “else
had I been less guarded in my communications with thee. Bands of men are
daily mustering in every direction, making the high-roads unsafe for
honest travellers like myself.”
“Thou wilt join our forces with the brethren of thy chapter,” suggested
the prince.
“Our chapter are somewhat too much tinctured with heresy to hail the
ascendency of the odious De Montforts,” replied the monk; “thou mayst,
therefore, depend upon their most earnest intercessions in thy behalf.
But for me, I must restore pretty one,” nodding his head significantly
towards the spot where Eva lay asleep, “to his mistress. It is a matter,
not of selfish interest alone, that the loyal page be restored unharmed.”
“Thou art right,” returned Edward. “I would not that the charming boy
should lose one raven curl for me, though he hath risked his freedom and,
perhaps, his life to save me.”
CHAPTER V.
THE DETERMINATION.
After the battle of Evesham, in which Edward entirely overthrew the party
of the rebel barons, and re-established Henry’s throne, Eleanora resided
alternately in the palace of Savoy and at Windsor castle. The care of her
three beautiful children occupied much of her attention, and in their
nurture the streams of her affection deepened and widened, until they
embraced all who came within the sphere of her influence. The now
charming, but still volatile, Eva occasioned her infinite anxiety.
Since the day when Sir Francis had received her from the tall knight, at
the ford of the Exe, he had held her by the two-fold cord of obligation
and the possession of a secret; and from the first moment he discovered
that she was sensitive upon the subject, he had not ceased to use his
power to his own advantage. She was thus obliged to treat him with a favor
which he ill deserved; yet such was the natural transparency of her
character, that her real sentiments so often betrayed themselves, as to
keep him in a constant state of irritation.
Sir Henry de Courtenay, whose sincere and ardent nature gave him little
taste for mysteries, could not brook the inconsistencies that constantly
presented themselves in her manner, and determining that his hand should
never be bestowed where there was not the basis of confidence, withdrew
himself from the sphere of her attractions. Eva grieved at his departure,
but it was in vain that the princess represented, that the readiest escape
from her difficulties was a courageous and candid confession of the truth.
Eva “did not care if he could be piqued by such trifles, as her smiling
upon Sir Francis, when she heartily wished him among the Turks, he might
e’en seek his fortune elsewhere. And for the matter of that, who could
tell that it was desirable for the heiress of Strongbow to marry a simple
knight.” But these heroics usually ended in violent fits of weeping, and
profound regrets that she had ever forfeited the confidence of De
Courtenay.
Meanwhile, Edward began to feel the languor of inglorious ease, and as his
dreams of ambition returned upon him, his thoughts reverted again and
again to the unsolved problem that had exercised the political
mathematicians of Europe for nearly two centuries. Could a permanent
christian kingdom be founded in Palestine? All the blood which the French
had shed, and all the wise counsel that Louis lavished in the Seventh
Crusade, had failed to erect the necessary defence, or compose the
disorders that oppressed the Syrian Christians. Nor were the Mussulman
lords of Syria in much better condition. The noble dynasty of Saphadin had
fallen a prey to the ruthless Mamelukes, and a blood-stained revolution in
Egypt had placed the fierce Almalek Bibers on the throne. An excuse was
not wanting for the invasion of Palestine, and the holy places were again
bathed in the blood of their gallant defenders. The military orders were
nearly annihilated, and the country was ravaged with fire and sword,
almost to the very walls of Acre.
About this time an event, no ways connected with the East, turned Edward’s
attention to the adoption of the cross. He had challenged Sir Francis to a
game of chess. In the midst of the play, from an impulse unaccountable to
himself, he rose and sauntered towards the embroidery frame, to relate to
Eva his adventure with the page whose ingenuity had once saved his life.
Sir Francis, curious to enjoy her artful evasions, followed him; and a
moment after, the centre stone of the groined ceiling fell with a terrible
crash on the very spot where they had been sitting.
This almost miraculous preservation induced the prince to believe that he
was destined to perform some great service for God. It recalled to his
mind the benizon of our Lady at Walsingham, and, accompanied by Eleanora
and a goodly train, he set off the following day to offer on her shrine at
Norfolk an altar-cloth of gold brocade, and to crave her protection upon
the expedition that he now seriously meditated.
“Eva,” said the princess, very gravely, when they sat one day alone, “thou
knowest my lord contemplates a pilgrimage.”
“The saints preserve us!” said Eva. “Are there not holy places enough in
England, but my lord must risk his life upon the sea, and encounter the
black Infidels whose very presence is a terror?”
“’Tis not alone to visit the holy places,” replied Eleanora, “though that
were a work well worthy knightly daring; but to redeem our christian
brethren from the power of their foes, and to establish the kingdom of
Christ, in the land where He died for his people.”
“And have not the holiest men and the bravest warriors in Europe, from
Peter the Hermit to Fulk of Neuilly, and from Godfrey of Boulogne to the
good St. Louis, all attempted it and failed? My lord, I warrant me, has
been reading the tales of the romancers, or been deceived by the cunning
manifestos of the pope,” returned Eva.
“Eva, dear one, when shall I teach thee to treat with respect those in
authority.”
“I know that I am wrong,” said Eva, “but why does not his Holiness take
the cross himself, if he considers it such a pious work?”
“And if the Sovereign Pontiff be one of those who say and do not, the
Scriptures still require us to obey those who sit in Moses’ seat,” replied
the queen.
“Thy goodness reproveth me beyond thy words. I would that I could be
always truthful and pure as thou,” said Eva.
“Nay,” returned the queen, “I do but repeat that which the confessor this
morning told me.”
“Forgive my irreverent prating,” replied the maiden, “but it seemeth
strange to me that one, who lacks the grace of christian charity himself,
should dictate the devotions of my lady who is love itself.”
“Ah! partial one,” returned the princess, “hadst thou lived in Beziers,
St. Dominick would have had thy head for thy heresy. But seriously, my
Eva, thy praises humble me, for methinks had my life really exhibited
those graces for which thy partial fondness gives me credit, I might ere
this have taught thy restless spirit the composure which trust in God
always gives.”
Alarmed by the grave tone of her mistress, and anxious to conceal the
emotions that welled up in her heart, Eva replied, with assumed gaiety,
“Nay, what canst thou expect from a sea-sprite? Surely I must rise and
fall like my native element.”
“Ah! darling, this is that which hath so often forced home upon me the
thought I would not willingly apply to thee, ‘Unstable as water, thou
shalt not excel.’ And this it is makes me solicitous to gain thy candid
ear while I unfold my husband’s plans.” Tears rolled over the fair girl’s
cheeks, but she remained perfectly silent. “Sir Warrenne Bassingbourn,
whose noble heart thou knowest well, hath demanded thee of Edward, being
pleased to say that thy fair hand would be sufficient guerdon for his
gallant conduct in the wars. My royal father will give thee fitting dowry,
and I would see my sweet friend well bestowed with some worthy protector
before I embark upon that voyage from which I may never return.”
“Thou embark for Palestine!” exclaimed Eva, forgetting her own brilliant
prospects in the contemplation of her lady’s purpose. “Bethink thee, my
most honored mistress, of all the perils that beset thy course.”
“I have counted them over, one by one,” replied the princess, calmly.
“Thou hast thought of the dangers of the sea, perhaps, but rememberest
thou the dreadful pestilence?—the horrors that Queen Margaret told?—how
the leeches cut away the gums and cheeks of the sufferers, that they might
swallow a drop of water to ease their torments?”
“I remember all—I have considered well,” returned the princess. “And this
also do I know, that nothing ought to part those whom God hath joined; and
the way to heaven is as near, if not nearer, from Syria as from England,
or my native Spain.”
“Then I go with thee,” said Eva, throwing herself at the feet of Eleanora,
and pressing her lips upon her hand, “for if God hath not joined me to
thee, he hath left me alone in the world. Thou hast been to me more than
Naomi, and I shall not fail to thee in the duty of Ruth. Where thou goest
I will go, where thou diest I will die, and there will I be buried. Thy
people shall be my people, and thy God my God. The poor, lone Eva, whose
mother lieth in the deep, deep sea, and whose father is perchance a
wanderer or an outlaw, shall no more strive to veil the sadness of her
orphan heart by the false smiles and assumed gaiety that grieve her
truest, only friend. Henceforth I will learn the lesson thou hast, with
such gentle patience and sweet example, ever strove to teach me.”
Eleanora mingled her tears with those of the impassioned maiden, and,
anxious to end the painful scene, said, “Thou shalt go with me, love, to
danger, and perhaps to death, since such is thine election; but what
answer shall Edward return to Sir Warrenne Bassingbourn?”
“Let my lord assure Sir Warrenne,” said she, rising proudly, “that Eva de
la Mer is not insensible of the honor he intends, but that she will never
add the shamrock to a knight’s escutcheon, till she knows by what title
she claims the emblem.”
CHAPTER VI.
THE OLD MAN OF THE MOUNTAIN.
The benevolent Louis could not rest in the palace of Vincennes while the
Mamelukes were slaughtering the Christians, or destroying their souls by
forcing them to renounce their faith. In his protracted devotions in the
Sainte Chapelle, he fancied he heard the groans of the dying in Palestine,
and his soul was stirred for their relief. He convened the barons in the
great hall of the Louvre, and entered bearing the holy crown of thorns. He
took the cross in their presence, and made his sons and brothers take it,
and after those no one dared refuse. Especially did he exert himself to
gain the concurrence of the English. Edward joyfully assented to the
proposal, and Eleanora, with her female train, departed in the spring of
1270 for Bordeaux, where she superintended the preparations for the
crusade campaign. Thither Edward followed her when his own arrangements
were complete. From Bordeaux they sailed for Sicily, where they remained
the winter, and where they heard the melancholy intelligence of the death
of King Louis, who had advanced as far as Tunis on his way to Egypt. With
his last breath, the sainted king whispered the name that was set as a
seal upon his heart. “Oh! Jerusalem! Jerusalem!” His brother, Charles
d’Anjou, King of Sicily, attempted to dissuade Edward from prosecuting the
expedition. But the noble prince, striking his hand upon his breast,
exclaimed, with energy, “Sangue de Dieu! if all should desert me, I would
redeem Acre if only attended by my groom.”
When Edward turned the prow of his vessel up the Mediterranean, Acre was
in a state of closer siege than it had formerly been, at the advent of
Richard Cœur de Lion. But now it was the Mussulmans who lay encamped
around its walls, and the Christians who feebly defended it from their
fierce attack. The fate of the principality of Antioch was closely
connected with that of the Latin kingdom of Jerusalem.
The family of Bohemond, the first sovereign, who married Constantia,
daughter of Phillip I., King of France, had reigned there in unbroken
succession nearly to the period of the last Crusade—though the State was
tributary to Frederic II. and to his son Conrad. The last king was made a
knight by St. Louis. When the Egyptians commenced their conquests in
Syria, Antioch surrendered without even the formality of a siege, and thus
the link between the Greek Empire and Palestine was sundered, and all
prospect of aid from that quarter entirely cut off.
In Acre were assembled the last remains of all the Christian
principalities of the East; the descendants of the heroes who, under
Godfrey of Boulogne, took up their residence there; the remnants of the
military friars who had so long and so strenuously battled for the
ascendency of the “Hospital” and the “Temple” no less than for the
redemption of the Holy Sepulchre; and all the proselytes who, through
years of missionary efforts, had been gathered from the Pagan world. But
the defenceless were more numerous than the defenders, and the factions
which divided their councils would have ripened into treachery and ended
in ruin, had it not been for the presence of Sir Henry Courtenay. From the
day of his estrangement from Eva, he had bestowed his devotion upon those
objects which he thought best calculated to fill the void in his heart. At
the first news of the disasters in Palestine, he had assembled all the
partisans and vassals of the noble house of Courtenay, and, furnishing
them from his own purse, rallied them around the standard or torteaux,
and led them to the rescue of their eastern brethren. He reached the city
at the critical moment when, wearied with the strife, the Templars had
begun to negotiate with Melech Bendocar upon the terms of a capitulation.
His courteous and noble bearing harmonized the jarring spirits, and his
ardent valor inspired them with new hopes, and enabled them to maintain
the last stronghold in Palestine, till the arrival of Edward.
The knowledge that a Plantagenet had come to lift the dishonored banner of
the cross from the dust, spread terror and dismay among the ranks of the
Moslem, the Sultan of Egypt fled from the city of Acre, all the Latins in
Palestine crowded round the standard of the English prince, and Edward
found himself at the head of seven thousand veteran soldiers. With this
force he made an expedition to Nazareth, which he besieged with the most
determined valor. In the fight, Edward was unhorsed, and might have
perished in the mêlée, had not Henry Courtenay relinquished his own steed
for his master’s use. The gallant youth then took his station by the side
of a tall knight, whose falchion gleamed in the front of the battle like
the sword of Azrael. They were the first to mount the scaling-ladders and
drive the Moslem from the walls. Nazareth was thus, by one decisive blow,
added to the dominions of Christendom.
But the wing of victory was paralyzed by the scorching sun of Syria.
Edward was prostrated by the acclimating fever that wasted the energies of
Richard Cœur de Lion, and in the palace of Acre he longed, in vain, for
the cooling draughts of iced sherbet, that the courteous Saladin had
bestowed upon his royal predecessor. Sir Francis d’Essai had followed the
fortunes of Edward, or rather of Eva, to Palestine, hoping to win the
favor of his lady’s smiles. The sight of de Courtenay roused all his
former jealousy, and the cordial manner of Eva towards his rival almost
drove him to desperation. Various circumstances had excited an
apprehension in Edward’s mind, that the count was seeking to make common
cause with the Arabs, but as no tangible proof of treasonable practices
appeared, the suspicion passed away.
The illness of the monarch continuing, Eleanora determined to make a
pilgrimage to the Jordan, to pray at the shrine of St. John for her
husband’s recovery, and, at his own earnest solicitations, Sir Francis was
permitted to conduct the party. Eleanora afterwards remembered that he
rode most of the way in close attendance upon Eva, and seemed engaged in
earnest conversation, though several muttered oaths gave her the
impression that the colloquy was not so satisfactory as he could have
wished. They accomplished their pilgrimage safely, and commenced their
return, when, stopping to refresh themselves in a small grove near Mount
Tabor, a band of mounted Saracens fell upon them. There was a fierce
struggle, and, for a few moments, the gleaming of swords and the flash of
scimeters seemed to menace instant destruction. Both the assailants and
defenders were scattered through the wood, and a few of the frantic
females attempted flight. The Moslems at length retreated, but when the
princess summoned her retainers to set forward, neither Sir Francis nor
Eva could be found.
Alarmed for the safety of her lovely companion, Eleanora caused the
vicinity to be searched in every direction. Her palfrey was discovered
idly cropping the grass, but all trace of its fair rider was lost. With a
bursting heart the princess gave orders to proceed with all haste to Acre,
that scouts in greater numbers might be sent in quest of the lost jewel.
The state of Edward’s health was such, that it was not deemed advisable to
acquaint him with the melancholy result of their pious enterprise. But de
Courtenay at once comprehended the plot. Such a mêlée, without bloodshed,
proved no hostile intention on the part of the Arabs, and there could be
no doubt that Sir Francis was the instigator of the attack, and the
possession of Eva, its object. His impatience to set off for her rescue
did not prevent him from taking every precaution, both for the safety of
Acre, and the success of his expedition. Eleanora, whose characteristic
self-possession had left her at liberty to observe, described with the
most scrupulous exactness the circumstances of the fray, and each trifling
peculiarity in the appearance of the robbers.
Fortified with this intelligence, he set off at once, with a select
party, and a few hours after leaving Acre, was unexpectedly joined by the
tall knight, and a reinforcement of converted Pullani. From him he
learned that the Arabs had taken the direction of Mt. Lebanon, and from
his knowledge of the Assassin band, his heart sunk within him, at the
thought of what might have been the fate of his lovely Eva. In his anxiety
for her rescue, all her faults were forgotten, and he only remembered the
gentle kindness that characterized every action, and the nameless charm,
that made her friends as numerous as her acquaintances. Prompted by these
considerations, they spurred forward, stopping only to refresh their
wearied steeds, till they began to wind among the rocky passes of Mt.
Lebanon.
The tall knight seemed perfectly familiar with the locality, and guided
the pursuers directly to the tower, called The Vulture’s Nest, which was
the chief residence of the Old Man of the Mountain. There seemed to be an
intelligence between the tall knight and all the marabouts who guarded the
entrance to this “Castle Dangerous.” Leaving their followers, the two
leaders advanced, and the knight presenting a piece of shrivelled
parchment to an Arab, who filled the office of porter, they were ushered
into a long hall, at the door of which stood a swarthy Turk, partly
leaning upon an immense battle-axe, the handle of which was stuck full of
daggers. The Sheik received them with an obsequiousness scarcely to be
expected from one of his bloody trade, and in answer to the knight’s eager
inquiries, motioned his attendant, and instantly that which had appeared a
solid masonry, rolled silently back, as if by magic, revealing an
apartment fitted up with every appliance of eastern magnificence. Before
they recovered from their surprise, voices were heard from the farther
extremity of the room, soft female pleading, and then the loud menacing
tones of passion.
“Eva, thou shalt be mine! I swear it by all the fiends of hell. Nay, anger
me not by thy cold repulse. Thou art now beyond the protection of the
smooth-tongued de Courtenay.” He seized her arm as he spoke, and a
piercing shriek rang through the hall.
“Traitor! viper! release thy hold,” exclaimed de Courtenay, springing
forward and receiving the fainting girl in his arms.
“And who art thou, that darest to cross the purpose of D’Essai? By what
right dost thou interfere between me and my bride?”
“By the right of a father,” said a deep, stern voice at his side, and the
tall knight advancing, tenderly clasped his unresisting daughter to his
heart, and stood by like one lost in a tide of long-repressed emotions,
while the two nobles fiercely drew their swords, and with deadly hatred,
each sought the life of his foe. But the Sheik interposed, reminding them,
that his castle walls were sacred, and that if his tributaries chose to
slay one another, they must seek the open field for the pastime.
Reluctantly, and with eyes that glared with baffled vengeance, the lords
sheathed their swords, and the tall knight, laying his daughter gently
upon a couch, spake a few words apart to the Sheik.
The Old Man made a sign of assent, and instantly two Arabs sprang forward,
seized D’Essai, bound him with thongs, and conveyed him from the
apartment. Relieved of her fears, and reassured by the presence of a
father, for whose affection she had always pined, and a lover, on whom she
now contrived to smile in a way that completely satisfied his heart, Eva
declared herself impatient to set off immediately for Acre. The Sheik
pressed them to partake of some refreshments, and while Eva enjoyed a few
moments’ delicious conversation with her sire, a troop of slaves prepared
and set before them an entertainment that would have done honor to the
palace of a king. As the cavalcade set out, the tender heart of Eva was
pained to see Sir Francis placed upon the back of a mule, blindfolded,
with his face to the crupper, and his arms firmly pinioned to the body of
the Arab who had him in charge.
“Thou seemest on excellent terms with the Sheik of the mountain, noble
Clare,” said de Courtenay, as they rode along. “Had I not a guarantee in
thy kindred,” said he glancing at Eva, “I should somewhat challenge the
familiarity that has given such success to our expedition.”
“Nay, and that thou well mightst,” returned the Clare, “for the history of
mankind does not furnish the idea of so daring and desperate a band as
these assassins of Mt. Lebanon.”
“Heaven save us!” exclaimed Eva, her lips white with fear. “From what
terrible fate have I been delivered! That vile Sir Francis declared that
he had snatched me from the hostile Arabs, and would bring me safe to
Acre, and that it was in pity for my fatigue he turned aside to a castle
of christian natives. It makes me shudder, even now, to think that I have
been in the presence of the man whose very name hath made me tremble, when
beyond the sea, in merrie England.”
“Nay, love,” said her father, tenderly, “the Sheik owed thee no malice,
and might have rescued thee, had not Sir Francis been his tributary.”
“They exact, then, toll and custom?” said Courtenay, inquiringly.
“Thou sayest well exact,” replied the knight. “Didst not mark the
battle-axe of the rude seneschal? ’Tis said the Danish weapon once
belonged to the founder of the band, and each dagger stuck in the oaken
helve, inscribed with a sentence in a different dialect, is significantly
pointed against the prince or ruler who shall dare withhold tribute from
their chief. One of my ancestors, I reck not whom, once resided in the
vicinity of Croyland, and received from the venerable abbot the parchment
which thou sawest me use with such marvellous effect. My ancestor fought
in the first crusade under the Atheling, and, unlike most of his
companions, returned in safety, whence a tradition arose in the family
that the scroll was a charm.
“On my setting out for the holy wars, I placed the heirloom in my
aumonière, and had nearly forgotten its existence, when a startling
circumstance recalled it to memory. My plan for the redemption of
Palestine (for I have not been without ambition) was the organization of
troops collected from the mixed races which are now an important part of
the population. I was warned at the outset that tribute would be demanded
by the chief of the assassins, but I steadily resisted every tax-gatherer
who presented his claims, till I awoke one morning in my tent, surrounded
by my faithful guard, and found a dagger stuck in the ground not two
fingers’ breadth from my head. I examined the inscription upon the weapon
and found it the same with that upon the scroll, and forthwith determined
to form the acquaintance of this rival chief. He respected my passport and
showed me the wonders of his habitation, which heaven grant I may never
see again. So perfect is the discipline of his followers, so invincible
their faith, that every word of their chief is a law. He led me up a lofty
tower, at each battlement of which stood two Fedavis. At a sign from him,
two of these devotees flung themselves from the tower, breaking their
bones, and scattering their brains upon the rock below. ‘If you wish it,’
said the chief, ‘all these men shall do the same.’ But I had seen enough,
and I resolved from that hour never to tempt the enmity of the Old Man of
the Mountain.
“I have ransomed yon traitor, at heavy cost, for I would that Edward
should know and punish his baseness. You are now beyond the reach of
danger. I may not enter Acre—the reasons shall be told ere long.
Farewell, my daughter, sweet image of thy sainted mother; guard my secret
safely till we meet again. Adieu.”
He dashed the rowels into his steed, and was soon lost among the hills.
CHAPTER VII.
Meantime the palace of Acre had been witness of a fearful scene. Since the
fall of Nazareth the Emir of Joppa had opened negotiations with Edward,
professing a desire to become a christian convert. So eager was the king
for this happy consummation that he cherished the deceitful hope, held out
by the Infidel, and granted him every opportunity for gaining information
concerning the tenets and practices of the church.
Letters and messages frequently passed between them, and so accustomed had
the English guards become to the brown haick and green turban of the
swarthy Mohammedan, who carried the despatches, that they gave him free
ingress to the city and admitted him to the palace, and even ushered him
into the king’s ante-chamber almost without question or suspicion.
The day had been unusually sultry, even for the Syrian climate. The heat
of the atmosphere somewhat aggravated the symptoms of the disease from
which Edward was slowly recovering, and Eleanora had passed many weary
hours in vain endeavors to soothe his restlessness and induce repose.
As the sun declined a cooling breeze sprang up from the sea, seeming to
the patient wife to bear healing on its wings, and the invalid, stretched
on his couch before the casement, began at length to yield to the soothing
influence of slumber, when the chamberlain entered to say that the
emissary from Joppa waited an audience.
“Now have I no faith in the conversion of this Infidel,” said Eleanora,
with an impatience unusual to her gentle spirit, “since his messenger
disturbs my lord’s repose.”
“Verily thou lackest thine accustomed charity,” replied Edward. “I had
thought to hear thee declare the conversion of this Saracen my crowning
glory in Palestine. But thou art weary, my love. Go to thy rest, thy long
vigils by my side have already gathered the carnation from thy cheek.”
“Yet, my lord—” interposed Eleanora.
“Nay, nay,” said Edward, “disturb not thy sweet soul; perchance more than
my life depends upon the interview. I will straight dismiss the envoy, and
then thou canst entrust my slumbers to the care of the faithful Eva.”
At the mention of Eva a new and not less painful train of associations was
awakened in the mind of Eleanora, and with a heavy sigh she withdrew as
the messenger entered.
A moment after there were sounds as of a violent struggle and of the fall
of a heavy body, and Eleanora, who had lingered in the ante-chamber,
scarcely knowing why, rushed back into the apartment, followed by the
chamberlain and guards.
The assassin lay upon the floor in the agonies of death, his head broken
by the oaken tressel from which she had just risen. Prostrate by his side
lay the prince, in a state of insensibility, the blood faintly oozing from
a wound in his arm. The princess comprehended at once the risk her husband
had incurred, and shuddered with apprehension at the thought of the danger
that yet might menace him; and while the attendants lifted him from the
floor, she tenderly raised his arm to her lips, and began to draw the
venom from the wound. But no sooner did Edward revive from his swoon,
than, forcibly thrusting her aside, he exclaimed, “Eleanora my life,
knowest thou not the dagger was poisoned?”
“Even so, my lord,” said she, with steadfast composure, still firmly
persisting in her purpose, notwithstanding his constant remonstrance.
The fearful intelligence of their leader’s peril spread with lightning
speed through the city, and self-sent messengers hurried in every
direction, and summoned leeches and priests to cure or shrive the dying
monarch. The Grand Master of the Temple, who was somewhat practised in the
habits of the assassins, appeared in the midst of the exciting scene, and
commending the timely application of Eleanora’s loving lips, bound up the
wound with a soft emollient, and prescribed for the princess an antidote
of sovereign efficacy.
Scarcely had silence resumed her dominion in the palace, when the porter
was again aroused to admit de Courtenay and his rescued Eva. The traitor
D’Essai had been lodged in the tower of Maledictum, to wait Edward’s
pleasure concerning him; and Eva, her heart overflowing with rapture in
the assurance of Sir Henry’s restored confidence, and the security of a
father’s love, passed the livelong night with Eleanora, in that free
communion of soul which generous natures experience when the gushings of a
common emotion overleap the barriers of conventionalism and formality.
Edward was himself again. The steady ray of reason had subdued the fevered
gleam of his eye, and the ruddy hue of health replaced the pallor of
wasting sickness upon his cheek. His athletic frame had wrestled with
disease, and come off conqueror over weakness and pain; and as he assumed
his seat of judgment, clad in his warlike panoply, the royal Plantagenet
“looked every inch a king.” The great church of Acre was thrown open, and
knights in brilliant armor, and Templars and Hospitallers in the
habiliments of their orders, bishops and priests in their sacred robes,
and vassals in their holiday array, crowded up the long aisles, and filled
the spacious choir, as though eager to witness some splendid ceremonial.
But instead of gorgeous decorations, wainscot and window draped with black
diffused a funereal gloom, and the solemn reverberation of the tolling
bell seemed to sound a requiem over the grave of Hope.
Sir Francis d’Essai had been tried in a council of his peers, and found
guilty of treason to religion and knightly devoir; and this day, the
anniversary of his admission to the rank of knighthood, his companions in
arms, the vassals whom he despised, and all those actuated by curiosity or
enmity, were assembled to witness his degradation. Eva shuddered at the
terrible doom of her former lover, and de Courtenay, with instinctive
delicacy, had obtained permission to absent himself from the scene on a
visit to the Holy Sepulchre. As king-of-arms, and first in rank, it was
the duty of Edward to preside over this fearful ceremony, which, by the
true and loyal, was regarded as more terrible than death itself.
At the first stroke of the great bell, the pursuivants, having robed Sir
Francis for the last time in his knightly habiliments, conducted him from
the Cursed Tower toward the church. As they entered the door, the
doleful peal sank in silence, and, after one awful moment, his
fellow-knights, with broken voices, began to chant the burial service.
An elevated stage, hung with black, had been erected in the centre of the
nave, and upon this the pursuivants, whose business it was to divest him
of every outward insignia of courage and truth, placed the culprit, in
full view of all the vast concourse.
When the chanting ceased, Prince Edward spoke in a voice that thrilled to
every heart, “Sir Francis d’Essai! thou who didst receive the sword of
knighthood from the hand of the good St. Louis, dost stand before us this
day attaint of treason to thy God, thy truth, and the lady of thy love.
Wherefore thy peers have willed that the order of knighthood, by the which
thou hast received all the honor and worship upon thy body, be brought to
nought, and thy state be undone, and thou be driven forth outcast and
dishonored according to thy base deserts.” Instantly the brazen tongue
from the belfry ratified the fiat, and announced the hour of doom. At the
word, the squire with trembling hand removed the helmet, the defence of
disloyal eyes, revealing the pale and haggard countenance of the recreant
knight, and the choir resumed the mournful dirge. Then each pursuivant
advanced in his order to the performance of his unwelcome duty. One by one
the knightly trappings of D’Essai were torn from his body, and as cuirass,
greaves, brassarts, and gauntlets rang upon the pavements, the heralds
exclaimed, “Behold the harness of a miscreant!”
Trembling and bent beneath the weight of shame, the craven stood, while
they smote the golden spurs from his heels, and brake his dishonored sword
above his head, and the terrible requiem wailed over the perished emblems
of his former innocence.
The Grand Master of the Templars then entered upon the stage, bearing a
silver basin filled with tepid water, and the herald, holding it up,
exclaimed, “By what name call men the knight before us?”
The pursuivants answered, “The name which was given him in baptism,—the
name by which his father was known,—the name confirmed to him in chivalry
is Sir Francis d’Essai.”
The heralds again replied, “Falsehood sits upon his tongue and rules in
his heart; he is miscreant, traitor, and Infidel.”
Immediately the Grand Master, in imitation of baptism, dashed the water in
his face, saying, “Henceforth be thou called by thy right name, Traitor!”
Then the heralds rang out a shrill note upon the trumpets, expressive of
the demand, “What shall be done with the false-hearted knave?” Prince
Edward in his majesty arose, and in a voice agitated with a sense of the
awful penalty, replied, “Let him with dishonor and shame be banished from
the kingdom of Christ—Let his brethren curse him, and let not the angels
of God intercede for him.”
Immediately each knight drew his sword, and presenting its gleaming point
against the now defenceless D’Essai, crowded him down the steps to the
altar, where the pursuivants seized him, and forced him into his coffin,
and placed him on the bier, and the attendant priests completed the
burial-service over his polluted name and perjured soul. At a sign from
the king, the bearers took up the bier, and all the vast congregation
followed in sad procession, to the city-gates, where they thrust him out,
a thing accursed, while the great bell from the lofty tower of the
cathedral told the tale of his infamy in tones of terrible significance,
“Gone—gone—gone—virtue, faith, and truth;
lost—lost—lost—honor, fame, and love.” From Carmel’s hoary height to Tabor’s sacred top, each
hallowed hill and vale reverberated the awful knell, “Gone and lost—lost
and gone”—and the breeze that swept the plain of Esdraelon caught up
the dismal echo, and seemed hurrying across the Mediterranean to whisper
to the chivalry of Europe the dreadful story of his degradation.
Stung by the weight of woe that had fallen upon him, the miserable D’Essai
rose and gazed across the plain. An arid waste spread out before him like
the prospect of his own dreary future, blackened and desolate by the reign
of evil passions.
Life, what had it been to him? A feverish dream, a burning thirst, a
restless, unsatisfied desire! Virtue—honor—truth—idle words, their
solemn mockery yet rang in his ears. He ran—he flew—anywhere, anywhere
to flee the haunting thoughts that trooped like fiends upon his track.
He neared the banks of the river, its cooling waters rolling on in their
eternal channel, promised to allay his fever and bury his dishonored name
in oblivion. He plunged in—that ancient river swept him away, the river
Kishon, and as he sank to rise no more, a deep voice exclaimed, “So perish
thine enemies, O Lord!” It was the voice of Dermot de la Clare, who,
passing southward at the head of his troop, from the opposite bank became
an involuntary witness of the frantic suicide.
The week following the ceremony last described, Eva entered the apartment
of Eleanora, each fair feature radiant with pleasure, bearing in her hand
a carrier-pigeon, whose fluttering heart betokened the weary length of way
that had tried the strength of its glossy pinions.
“Whence hast thou the dove, and what is his errand?” exclaimed the
princess, equally eager for any intelligence that might affect the fate of
the East.
“A Pullani brought it to the palace,” she replied, and hastily cutting the
silken thread, she detached a letter from beneath the wing of the bird. It
contained but these words: “The Sultan of Egypt is hard pressed by the
Moslems. It is a favorable moment to commence negotiations.”
The seal of the Shamrock was the only signature, but Eva well understood
that the Clare had been engaged in devising an honorable scheme to release
Edward from an expedition which could not result in glory to the christian
arms.
The prince had now been fourteen months in the Holy Land. His army, never
sufficient to allow of his undertaking any military enterprise of
importance, was reduced by sickness, want and desertion, and he therefore
gladly accepted the hint of his unknown friend, and despatched de
Courtenay to Egypt with proposals of peace.
It was a glad errand to the knight, though the timid and (she could not
conceal it) loving Eva warned him most strenuously against the artifices
of the Sultan, Al Malek al Dhaker Rokneddin Abulfeth Bibers al Alai al
Bendokdari al Saheli, whose name, at least, she said, was legion.
“And were he the prince of darkness himself, the love of my guardian Eva
would protect me against his wiles,” gallantly returned the count.
“Alas!” said Eva, humbly, “thou little knowest the broken reed on which
thou leanest. My weak will mocks my bravest resolutions, and makes me feel
the need of a firmer spirit for my guide.”
“Heaven grant that I may one day receive the grateful office,” returned
her lover.
“Heaven help me become worthy of thy noble devotion,” said Eva,
remembering with regret the cruel test to which she had subjected his
generous affection.
De Courtenay found little difficulty in settling the terms of a ten years’
truce with the formidable Mameluke; for the Sultan had far greater reason
to fear his Moslem than his Christian foes.
There was no occasion for the farther sojourn of the English in Palestine;
and Edward, having accomplished nothing more than his great-uncle, and
leaving a reputation scarcely inferior to Cœur de Lion, departed with
his retinue for Europe.
Notwithstanding the peaceful termination of the expedition, this crusade,
the last of the chivalrous offspring of Feudalism and Enthusiasm, like its
elder brethren, found a premature grave in darkness and gloom.
The son of St. Louis, Philip the Hardy, returning from Tunis, deposited
five coffins in the crypts of St. Denis. They contained the remains of his
sainted father, Louis IX., of his brother Tristan, of his brother-in-law,
Thibaut, descendant of Adela, of his beloved queen and their infant son.
Weak and dying himself, he was almost the only heir of his royal family.
The ambitious Charles d’Anjou, the rival and the murderer of Corradino,
grandson of Frederic and Violante, plundered the stranded vessels of the
returning crusaders, and thus enriched his kingdom of Sicily, by the great
shipwreck of the empire and the church.
Death, too, had been busy in the palace of Windsor. The two beautiful
children of Edward and Eleanora had been laid in the tomb, and their
grandfather, Henry III., with their aunt Margaret, Queen of Scotland, soon
followed them to the great charnel-house of England, Westminster Abbey.
The melancholy tidings of these repeated bereavements met the royal pair
in Sicily, and cast a pall over the land to which they had anticipated a
triumphant return.
The great problem of the conquest of Palestine was not yet solved to the
mind of Edward, but the progress of the age trammelled his powers and
limited his ambitious aspirations. The orders of knighthood, exhausted by
the repeated drafts made upon their forces, by these eastern expeditions,
began to decline in the scale of power; and the lower ranks, finding new
avenues to wealth in productive labor and commerce, began the great battle
with military organizations and hereditary aristocracy, which has been
going on with increased advantage to the working classes from the middle
ages to the present glorious era.
Gregory X. made some feeble attempts to rouse Europe once more for the
redemption of the Holy Sepulchre, but his earnest appeal received no
response from the sovereigns of Christendom, and within three years the
last strain of the great anthem “Hierosolyma liberati” that began with the
swelling tones of mustering warriors and sounded on through two centuries
in the soul-stirring harmonies of jubilante peans, alternating with the
mournful measures of funeral dirges, ended in a last sad refrain over the
diminished remnants of the military orders, who, in a vain defence of
Acre, dyed the sands of Syria with their blood.
From Sicily the royal crusaders proceeded to Rome, where they were
cordially welcomed and splendidly entertained by Pope Gregory X., who,
having long filled the office of confessor in their household, had been
recalled from the Holy Land, to occupy the chair of St. Peter.
In the train of the King of England was his cousin, Henry, son of Richard
of Cornwall, a gallant young noble who had led the detachment that opposed
the band of Leicester, and, by his warlike prowess, greatly contributed to
the successful issue of the sanguinary conflict at Evesham. His zeal and
loyalty during this doubtful period, commended him to the confidence of
Edward, and he had still more endeared himself to his royal patron, by his
ardor in battling against the Infidels, and his brilliant achievements at
the siege of Nazareth.
The young Henry was the affianced husband of the Princess Mary, in
consequence of which, Eleanora had admitted him to an intimacy, and
evinced for him an affection almost equal to that enjoyed by the royal
children themselves.
During the stay of the king at Rome, the devoted Henry obtained permission
to make a pilgrimage to a celebrated shrine near Naples, for the
consecration of sundry relics which he had collected in Palestine. As he
knelt at the foot of the altar and closed his eyes in prayer, he was not
aware of the entrance of his mortal enemy, Guy de Montfort, son of the
Earl of Leicester. With stealthy tread the assassin approached, bent over
the suppliant youth, and exclaiming, “Die! murderer of my father!” thrust
his sword into the heart, beating warm with life and hope, and sprinkled
the holy relics with the blood of another martyr. With a vengeful frown of
satisfied hate, he wiped the sword, returned it to its scabbard, and
strode from the church. One of his knights, fit follower of such a master,
inquired as he rejoined his troop,
“What has my lord Guy de Montfort done?”
“Taken vengeance,” was the fiendish reply.
“How so?” rejoined the knight. “Was not your father, the great Leicester,
dragged a public spectacle, by the hair of the head through the streets of
Evesham?”
Without a word the demon turned to his yet more malignant triumph, and
seizing the victim, whose pale lips yet moved with the instinct of prayer,
dragged him from the attendants, who were vainly striving to staunch the
life-blood welling from the wound, to the public place, and left him a
ghastly spectacle to the horror-stricken crowd.
It was now necessary for the murderers to think of self-defence. The
English retainers of Earl Henry had raised the cry of revenge, and the
Italian populace excited by the fearful tragedy that had been enacted in
the very presence of the virgin and child, began to run together and join
the parties of attack or defence. The train of de Montfort immediately
raised the shout of, “d’Anjou! Down with the Ghibelines!” and when the
armed forces of the Duke Charles rode into the midst of the throng to
investigate the cause of the tumult, Sir Guy joined their ranks, and
departed for Naples under their escort.
Tidings of this melancholy event were soon carried to Rome, and Edward
immediately appealed to the pope for justice upon the murderer. Gregory,
who feared to offend Edward, and who was almost equally alarmed at the
prospect of a rupture with the tyrant of Sicily, had recourse to various
ingenious methods of delay. Finding however that the King of England had
determined to postpone the obsequies of his noble relative, until a curse
was pronounced upon the assassin, he was forced to the exercise of
ecclesiastical measures.
Clothed in his pontifical robes, Gregory X. entered the church at
Orvietto, and proceeding to the high altar, took the bible in his hand,
and, after setting before the awestruck assembly the guilt of the culprit,
proceeded thus to fulminate his anathema against the assassin.
“For the murder of Henry of Germany, slain before the shrine of St. Mary,
in the face of day, we lay upon Guy de Montfort the curse of our Holy
Church. In virtue of the authority bestowed upon us as the successor of
St. Peter, we do pronounce him excommunicate, and alien to all the
privileges and consolations which our blessed religion affords. We permit
every one to seize him—we order the governors of provinces to arrest
him—we place under interdict all who shall render him an asylum—we
prohibit all Christians from lending him aid, and we dispense his vassals
from all oaths of fidelity they have made to him; may none of the
blessings of this holy book descend upon him, and may all the curses
contained therein, cleave unto him;” and he dashed the bible to the
ground.
Lifting the waxen taper, he continued, “Let the light of life be withdrawn
from him, and let his soul sink in eternal night.” With the word he
threw the candle upon the pavement, and instantly every light in the
church was extinguished, and amid the gloom, the trembling congregation
heard the voice of the pontiff, ringing out full and clear, “I curse him
by book, by candle, and by bell.” A solemn toll proclaimed the
malediction, and amid the darkness and the silence, the multitude crept
one by one from the church, as though fearful of being implicated in the
terrible denunciation.
Edward, having thus placed his cousin under the ban of the church,
disdained to persecute him with farther vengeance, and taking an amicable
leave of the pontiff continued his route to France. Learning that England
was quiet under the regency of the queen-mother, he improved the
opportunity to make the tour of his southern dominions, and, in gallant
sports and knightly adventures passed several months upon the continent.
Edward and Eleanora arrived in England, August 2d, 1273. The English
welcomed their return with the greatest exultation. Both houses of
parliament assembled to do honor to their entrance into London, and the
streets were hung with garlands of flowers and festoons of silk; while the
wealthy inhabitants, showered gold and silver on the royal retinue as they
passed.
Preparations were made for their coronation on a scale of magnificence
hitherto unrivalled. Fourteen days were spent in erecting booths for the
accommodation of the populace, and temporary kitchens for the purpose of
roasting oxen, sheep, and fowls, and preparing cakes and pastry, for the
expected banquet. Hogsheads of Bordeaux wine, and pipes of good stout
English ale, were ranged at convenient intervals, and flagon-masters
appointed to deal them out to the thirsty crowds.
The night before the expected ceremony, the presumptive king and queen
were indulging in reminiscences of the early days of their married life,
and comparing those troublous times, with the splendid future that seemed
to stretch in bright perspective before them.
“Methinks, sweet life,” said Edward, tenderly taking her hand, “those days
when thou dwelt a fugitive in the wilds of Devonshire, and I languished
within the walls of Kenilworth, gave little promise of our present
peaceful state.”
“True, my lord, yet had I not dwelt in the humble hamlet, I might never
have known the pure loyalty of English hearts.”
“By our Lady, thou hast a better alchemy than thy clerkly brother, the
Castilian monarch, for his science finds only gold in everything, while
thy diviner art finds good in all, and loyalty in outlaws.”
“I remember me,” replied Eleanora, with an arch smile, “there was a
gallant outlaw, in whom my woman’s heart discerned every noble and
knightly quality. But small credit can I claim for my science, since it
was the alchemy of love that revealed his virtues.”
“No other alchemy hath e’er found good in man, and, sinner as I am, I
might fear the judgment of thy purity, did not the same sweet charity that
discovers undeveloped virtues transmute even errors into promises of good.
To-morrow, God willing, it will be in Edward’s power to constitute
Eleanora the dispenser of bounty. Whom would she first delight to honor?”
“Since the prince of outlaws puts it in my power,” said Eleanora, with a
look of grateful affection, “I would e’en reward those bold foresters who
delivered my Edward from the enemies that sought his life.”
“Thou sayest well, dearest,” replied Edward, “and now that thou remindest
me of my escape from thraldom, I pray our Lady of Walsingham aid me to
discharge an obligation that hath long laid heavy on my conscience.
Yesternight, methought I saw, among the yeomen busy in the preparations
for the approaching pageant, the tall outlaw, who, in his gown and cowl,
one moment gave me priestly benizon, and the next, advised me of
Leicester’s movements, with the sagacity of a practised warrior. Such
length of limb and strength of arm, once seen, does not escape my memory;
and, if my eye deceive me not, ’twas he, with Courtenay, who led the
assault at Nazareth; and furthermore, it runneth in my mind, that I have
seen him elsewhere and in other guise.”
“Mayhap it was the tall knight who defended Eleanora at the Jews’
massacre, till thy arrival dispersed the rabble mob,” returned the queen.
“By the soul of St. Bartholomew thou divinest well,” said the king; “and,
since thou knowest the monk, perhaps thou canst give me tidings concerning
the shrewd-witted boy, who managed to gain speech with me, when all my
partisans had failed. So fair a squire must, ere this, have earned the
spurs of knighthood; and much would it pleasure me, to lay the accolade
upon his shoulder, in return for his dextrous plotting. That the lad
pertained not to the household of Mortimer, I knew right well; but whether
he were a retainer of the bold outlaw who organized the royal forces, or
some young noble whose love of adventure set him upon the work, I could
never yet decide.”
“And if he were retainer of the outlaw?” said Eleanora, inquiringly.
“My gratitude should none the less reward the service of one who risked
his life for mine,” replied the king.
A smile of satisfaction beamed on the countenance of Eleanora, and opening
her gypsire, and taking thence the small ivory whistle, she despatched an
attendant with the token to Eva.
Shortly after, the conversation was interrupted by the entrance of an
attendant, who announced that a page from Lady Mortimer craved an audience
of his majesty.
“Let him be at once admitted,” said Edward, casting a significant glance
at Eleanora.
The door was thrown open, and the beautiful boy, whose image at that
moment filled the mind of the king, entered with trembling step, and
proceeding straight to the monarch, knelt at his feet, and with clasped
hands began to plead earnestly for the pardon of the banished Earl Dermot
de la Clare.
“How is this?” exclaimed Edward, gazing with astonishment, first upon the
kneeling page, and then upon his wife. “How is this? by the Holy Rood, my
heart misgives me, thou art witch as well as alchemist. Here is the
identical page I have vainly sought for nine long years, conjured up by
the magic of an ivory whistle.”
“Earl Dermot de la Clare!” said he to Eva, lifting the boy tenderly from
his knees, “why has the banished outlaw sought thy fair lips to plead his
cause? Let himself present his claims to our clemency, and we will promise
justice for ourself, and perchance a better guerdon from our loving
spouse, who would ever have mercy rejoice above judgment.
“And thou, sweet dove,” said he, gazing admiringly upon the doubting Eva,
“‘who wearest the badge of Mortimer,’ and whose ‘giddy brain recks not of
politics,’ demandest manor and lordship for an outlawed man! Didst crave
it for thyself, not twice the boon could make me say thee nay.”
“’Tis for myself I crave the boon, royal liege,” said Eva, falling again
upon her knees. “Dermot de la Clare is the sire of thy poor orphan
charge.”
“Thy sire!” exclaimed the prince, greatly moved. “How knowest thou this?”
“First, by the story of the rescued sailor, who was one of the band with
which my father thought to regain possession of his fief, when the act of
attainder had branded him an outlaw. He it was with the cartman’s frock,
who waited our coming at the cross-road on the memorable day of my lord’s
escape. Next, by the shamrock, the ancient cognizance of the house of
Strongbow, and by the rose of Sharon, which my mother wrought upon the
scarf in memory of her husband’s pilgrimage. But Eva finds the strongest
proof in the promptings of her heart; for from the day since she rested in
his arms at London bridge, to the time when he drew her from the Vulture’s
Nest at Mount Lebanon, she hath trusted in his love, and obeyed his
bidding, with such confidence as none but a father could inspire.”
“Thy eloquence hath proved thy cause,” said the king, raising her and
seating her by his side; “and were I a needy knight, requiring royal
favor, I’d bribe thy pleading eyes to back my suit, and never fear
denial.”
Eva essayed to stammer forth her thanks, but tears choked her utterance,
and Eleanora, pitying her confusion, reassured her with playful allusions
to her childish aspirations for the sovereignty of Ireland.
“I fear me,” said Edward, gazing upon her varying color with admiration,
“that to reward all my subjects and vassals, according to their merit,
will exhaust my exchequer. The audacity of these benefactors exceeds all
belief! It was but this morning that one more bold than his fellows
demanded the fairest flower of our court as a recompense for his knightly
service in the eastern campaign.”
The conscious Eva looked imploringly at her mistress, who graciously
accorded her permission to depart, while Edward continued his raillery.
“I referred the gallant unto thee, love,” said he, “for he must be a brave
man who dares transfer the possessions of his wife.”
“To the marriage of de Courtenay with our beautiful ward,” returned the
queen, “there riseth but one objection. From the similarity of her name,
she ever fancied herself the heiress of the former King of Leinster, and
hath cultivated a taste for decorations befitting royalty. I fear me that
Sir Henry, being but the younger branch of his house, will scarce be able
to maintain a state suited to her desires.”
“God grant she have not the ambition of Earl Strigul, else might we find
it necessary to do battle for our fief of Ireland,” said Edward.
“Nay, from the ambition of Eva, thou hast nought to fear; her heart would
incline her rather to bestow benefices upon her friends, than to hoard
treasures for herself. Therefore it is that I desire for her worthy
alliance and princely dower,” returned the queen.
“Thou hast it in thy power, best one, to obviate thine own objections and
to bless the loyal hamlet that protected thy seclusion, by giving them so
gracious a mistress.”
Tears of gratitude filled the eyes of the queen, as looking affectionately
upon her husband she replied, “How lost were Eleanora to the love of God
did she not daily thank Him for making her the wife of one who finds his
own happiness in promoting the welfare of his subjects.”
“Not all his subjects regard him with thy partial fondness,” said the
king. “Our brother, Alexander of Scotland, has refused to renew the oath
of homage, which his ancestor made to Henry II. for his crown, and will
attend our coronation only as kingly guest; while the bold Llewellyn
refuses to set foot in London.”
“The troublous period through which the realm so lately passed, pleads
their best excuse for these unjust suspicions,” suggested the queen. “When
the wisdom and magnanimity of my Edward shall become known, they will
learn to trust their interest in his hands with the confidence of
vassals.”
“Thou would’st fain persuade me,” said Edward, laughing, “that I may love
my enemies.”
“I would persuade thee,” said Eleanora, with a smile of confident
affection, “to make thine enemies thy friends. Suspicion ever breeds
hatred. There be many warm, true hearts in England, at this hour, who,
having followed the fortunes of Leicester, for what they deemed the public
good, are withheld by fear, from uttering the shout of loyalty.”
“And how would’st thou purpose that I should bind them to their
allegiance?” said Edward, curiously.
“By the same rule that our blessed Lord restored this fallen world,”
returned the queen, timidly. “He declareth his love toward us, even while
we are sinners, and thus we learn to confide in Him.”
“Verily, there seems truth in what thou sayest,” said the king,
thoughtfully; “but it were a thing unheard of—for a ruler to illustrate
the principles of forgiveness, and place his kingdom at the mercy of
traitors.”
“The good St. Louis,” urged Eleanora, almost fearful of pressing the
matter too far, “leaned ever to the side of mercy; and no king of France
hath enjoyed a more peaceful or glorious reign.”
“It shall be as thou sayest,” said Edward, after a pause, during which he
gazed upon her pleading countenance, whose every feature mirrored the
intense interest of her heart in the welfare of their subjects, and the
honor of her lord. “It shall be as thou sayest. Heaven cannot suffer me to
err in this matter, since it hath sent an angel for my counsellor.” Then
resuming his accustomed tone of affectionate pleasantry, he added, “Thou
think’st it well, dearest, for a warrior like myself to perform some work
of supererogation, to cancel the sins into which my love of power may yet
lead me. But small merit may I claim for my clemency, since it were not in
the nature of man to withstand the sweet earnestness with which thou dost
enforce thy gentle counsels.”
CHAPTER VIII.
THE CORONATION.
Nearly a century had elapsed since an occasion like the present had called
together the different ranks and orders of the English population. Native
Britons, Saxons, Danes and Normans, hereditary enemies, had, by years of
unavoidable intercourse, and by a community of interests, been fused into
one mass, and now vied with each other in manifesting their loyalty to a
king in whose veins mingled the several streams of the great Scandinavian
race. The independent Franklin, the stout yeoman from the country, and the
rich citizen and industrious artisan, the curious vassal, the stately
knight, and lordly baron, alike instinct with love for feasting and
holiday show, hastened to witness the ceremony.
The coronation of John had been unpopular, both from the well known
malevolence of his disposition and the rival claims of his injured nephew.
That of Henry III. took place in a remote part of the kingdom, when a
portion of the island was in the possession of the French, and the minds
of the people were distracted between a fear of foreigners and a
detestation of the reigning family. Not a man in the realm, therefore,
could remember so grand a spectacle as the coronation of Edward and the
beautiful Eleanora of Castile.
When the crown was placed upon their heads by the Archbishop of
Canterbury, a murmur of joy arose from the assembled throngs; but when the
herald stood forth and proclaimed an indemnity to all those who had been
engaged in the civil commotions of the former reign, and the repeal of the
cruel statutes, that had made so many worthy citizens outlaws and aliens
in the sight of their English homes, the enraptured multitude made the
welkin ring with shouts of—Long live King Edward!—Long live our gracious
Queen Eleanora!
Tears dimmed the beautiful eyes of the gratified queen, for she read in
the enthusiastic acclamations with which the act of Indemnity was
received, an incontrovertible testimony to the wisdom of the course she
had so warmly advocated, and an earnest of the peace which this display of
her husband’s magnanimity would secure to his realm.
Foremost among those who hailed his accession, Edward discerned the
commanding figure of the outlaw, who had so long and so successfully
eluded his search. No sooner was he seated upon his throne, than he
commissioned the lord-high seneschal to cause the mysterious personage to
approach. As he came forward, and knelt at the monarch’s feet, Eleanora
recognized the tall knight to whom she owed her own life and her husband’s
liberty, and heard him with more pleasure than surprise announced as
Dermot de la Clare.
“Rise, noble Clare!” exclaimed Edward, “to thee thy monarch owes his life
and the security of his realm, and the honors and titles of thy house are
henceforth restored, to which we add the forfeited manors of Leicester,
not more a recompense for thy knightly service than a guerdon for the
sweet affection of thy lovely daughter.” Scarcely had Earl Dermot retired
among the nobles, who crowded around him with words of congratulation,
when the monarch summoned Henry de Courtenay, and, in consideration of his
services in the holy wars, created him Earl of Devon—whispering aside to
the conscious noble, “Our gracious queen, who excelleth in charity, will
give thee pity and dole of that which she hath in royal keeping, and for
which thou wilt doubtless be more grateful than for all the lands of which
we have this day made thee lord.”
Other faithful vassals of the crown were rewarded, and then the joyous
multitude adjourned to the feasting and games, with which the day was
closed; and the marriage of Eva and Sir Henry, which took place the
following day, added another fête to the coronation festivities.
Among the various disorders to which the kingdom had fallen a prey during
the weak and uncertain rule of Henry III., none excited more universal
dissatisfaction, than the adulteration of the coin. As the Jews were the
principal money-lenders in the kingdom all embarrassments of this kind,
were by common consent attributed to their characteristic avarice.
Edward’s crusade to the Holy Land, had not softened his prejudices towards
this people, who, more than the Infidels poured contempt upon the rites of
Christianity. In his zeal for the public welfare he proscribed the
obnoxious race and confiscated their estates to the crown, and banished no
less than fifteen thousand valuable inhabitants from the kingdom.
Notwithstanding these rigorous measures he still retained in his employ
certain of the hated sect to assist in the correction of the currency.
The trivial circumstance of a change in the form of the penny gave rise to
some of the most important occurrences that transpired during his eventful
reign.
The Welsh, deriving their ancestry from the early Britons, placed the most
implicit confidence in the prophecies of Merlin, which in an oracular
manner set forth the destiny of the nation. One of these half-forgotten
traditions, asserted that when the English penny should become round, a
prince, born in Wales, should be the acknowledged king of the whole
British island. No sooner, therefore, had the new coin begun to circulate
west of the Menai, than the bards commenced to ring their changes upon the
mysterious circumstance, and to inflate the minds of their countrymen with
the hopes of conquest. The successes of Llewellyn, their prince, in
reconquering all the territory that had been wrested from them by the
Normans, gave great encouragement to their ambition.
Not availing himself of the act of indemnity the Welsh prince still
maintained his allegiance to the party of the Montforts, and was plotting
with the remaining adherents of that powerful faction for assistance from
France. To intercept these hostile communications, Edward ordered his
fleet into the channel under the command of Earl Dermot de la Clare, both
to testify a regard for the Irish noble, and a confidence in his
abilities. De Courtenay was residing with his bride at Exeter, when he
received intelligence that the Earl of Clare was on his way to pay them a
visit, and the following day Eva welcomed her father to her new home. The
earl was accompanied by a lady whom he intrusted to his daughter’s care,
desiring that she might be kept in safety till Edward’s pleasure
concerning her should be known. At first the fair captive was
inconsolable, but she at length found some alleviation of her grief in
recounting her eventful history in the sympathizing ear of Eva, now
Marchioness of Devon. The Lady Eleanora was the only daughter of Simon de
Montfort, and inherited the firm and relentless characteristics of her
house, which the sedulous instructions of her mother Eleanor Plantagenet
had somewhat softened and subdued. Her brother Guy, having gained
absolution from the terrible malediction of the church, had sought to
carry out his plans of vengeance by making an alliance with the Welsh, and
to cement the treaty, he had consented to bestow his sister upon
Llewellyn, and the young lady was on her way to meet her bridegroom when
her vessel was intercepted, and herself made prisoner by Earl Clare. Her
position as the prospective Queen of Wales more than the enmity of her
brother, made her fear the severity of her cousin, the King of England,
but Eva assured her that the sentiments of Edward were characterized by
the most generous chivalry, and that no feelings of malice or revenge
could actuate him to any ungallant procedure against her. Notwithstanding
the confidence with which Eva made this asseveration, the fair bride of
Llewellyn listened with a faint smile of incredulity, and answered with a
sigh, “Ah! lady, the poor daughter of de Montfort covets thine ignorance
of the dark passions that rankle in the human breast!” “Thy fair young
face gives little evidence of experience in worldly ills,” returned Eva,
with some surprise. “Events, not years, confer experience,” replied Elin,
“and young as I am, I have marked cherished resentment ripen into deadly
enmity. The unjust aspersion of Henry III. wrought upon the mind of my
father, till it well nigh ruined the broad realm of England. Thou canst
never know the bitter sorrow that weighed upon my mother’s heart during
all the cruel strife between her husband and her brother. I well
remember,” said the agitated girl, proceeding impetuously with her sad
reminiscences, “the fatal day of Evesham—how, chilled with fear at my
mother’s agony, I laid aside my childish sports and crept cowering to a
corner of her apartment in Kenilworth castle, while she paced the floor
beseeching heaven alternately to spare her husband and save her brother.
O! it was terrible,” added she, pressing her hands upon her eyes, while
the tears gushed between her fingers, “when my brother Guy rushed in with
the tidings of our father’s defeat and death, and took his awful oath of
vengeance.” “Speak not of it,” exclaimed Eva, shuddering in her turn at
the recollection of the murder of young Henry, and the subsequent anathema
pronounced upon Sir Guy. “It is little pleasure to recall these dreadful
scenes,” said Elin, gloomily, “but thou mayst learn from my brief history
how little hope I have in one who aspires to power or has aught to
revenge.” “But her gracious majesty Queen Eleanora,” said Eva, “will
delight to soothe thy sorrows, and the sweet companionship of her
daughters will win thee to happier thoughts.” “Nay, sweet lady, think me
not ungrateful that I cannot trust thy kind presages. Whether it be a
retribution, I know not, but since my grandsire’s crusade against the
Albigeois, evil has been the lot of our house. Hope, that seems ever to
light the pathway of the young, hath never smiled on me.” This despondency
continued to depress the mind of the captive during all the period of her
residence at Exeter, nor could Eva’s ingenuity in devising schemes for her
diversion, nor hopeful predictions concerning her future happiness with
Llewellyn lure her to happier thoughts. But the courteous manner of
Edward, when he came to receive his cousin and conduct her to Windsor,
confirmed these promises; and the unaffected kindness of Eleanora, while
it soothed her afflictions, had the effect to awaken some degree of
confidence in the mind of the despairing maiden.
The capture of his bride infuriated Llewellyn beyond all bounds, and led
him to invade England with the fiercest valor. His efforts were repulsed
by the gallant conduct of the troops under the command of the Earl of
Devon, and after four years of fruitless endeavor he consented to the
required homage, and came to Worcester to claim his bride.
The cherishing sympathy of Eleanora had not been lost upon the heart of
her stricken ward, and these years of tranquillity, the first the orphan
Elin had enjoyed, so enhanced to her mind the blessings of peaceful
security that she steadfastly refused to fulfil her engagement with
Llewellyn, without his solemn pledge of continued amity to the English
nation. When the bridegroom finding all other expedients in vain consented
to the required homage, the King of England gave away his fair kinswoman
with his own hand, and Eleanora supported the bride at the altar and
presided at the nuptial feast with the affability and grace so peculiarly
her own. The Prince and Princess of Wales then accompanied their suzerains
to London and performed the stipulated ceremony, the Snowdon barons
looking on fiercely the while, with the air of warriors who were resigning
their ancient rights. This discontent gave rise to various murmurings.
They disdained the English bread, they were disgusted with the milk of
stall-fed kine, they detested the acridity of the London porter, and they
pined for the sparkling mead concocted from the honeyed sweets gathered
from their own breezy hills. They saw that their national costume and
dialect conferred an uncomfortable notoriety upon them, and they more than
suspected that they were the objects of jeering contempt. They therefore
endured with great impatience the protracted entertainments with which
Edward honored his guests, and finally left their uncomfortable quarters
murmuring with stifled imprecations, “We will never more visit Islington
except as conquerors.” The unremitting influence of Elin, notwithstanding,
counteracted the complaints of the malcontents, and Llewellyn religiously
maintained friendly relations with England during her brief life. This
interval of uninterrupted peace was employed by Eleanora in prompting her
husband to measures for the public good, and England long enjoyed through
the wise administration of her beneficent sovereign a respite from those
evils under which the nation had groaned since the Norman conquest. By a
royal patent Edward erected boroughs within the demesne lands and
conferred upon them liberty of trade, and profiting by the example of
Leicester, permitted them to send representatives to parliament, which was
the true epoch of the House of Commons—the first dawn of popular
government in England. The lower or more industrious orders of the state
were thus encouraged and protected, and an interest in the commonwealth
diffused through all the ranks of society.
CHAPTER IX.
CONQUEST OF WALES.
The death of Joanna, mother of Eleanora, leaving the domains of Ponthieu
and Aumerle, made it necessary for the king and queen to visit France, to
do homage to Philip the Bold for their new possessions. They passed
several months on the continent ordering the affairs of their
feudaltories, but their return was hastened by tidings of fresh
disturbances in Wales.
On her arrival at Windsor her daughter, Joanna of Acre, presented the
queen with a letter which she said had been brought to the castle by a
strange-looking priest who refused for some time to give it into any hand
save that of Eleanora, but who was finally persuaded to intrust the
precious document to herself on her promise to deliver in person to her
mother. The letter was from Elin the Princess of Wales. It read as
follows:—“To my gracious sovereign Lady Eleanora of England the wife of
Llewellyn sendeth love and greeting.
“I had hoped once more to see the face of my noble mistress, and to visit
the scenes hallowed by the first happy hours of my sad life. I had thought
to crave thy blessing on my lovely infant, for my lord had promised that
on the return of spring we should be conveyed to England, and this hath
cheered me through the weary hours of sickness and languishing when my
heart hath pined for the sweet communion which I sometimes enjoyed in the
castle at Windsor. But the hills are already changing under the softening
airs of spring, and my step is more feeble and my breath more faint, and I
no longer indulge the anticipation of thanking thy goodness for the
pleasant thoughts with which thy holy counsels hath blessed my memory. But
I am resigned to die! and I know that before the flowers come forth my sad
heart will find rest in the grave. One anxiety alone disturbs the serenity
of my few remaining days.
“Already my little Guendoline returns her mother’s smile. Who will cherish
her infant years and guide her youthful footsteps to those fountains of
peace which the light of thine example hath so lately revealed to my
erring sight?
“Struggling with weakness and pain, thy dying Elin pens this last earnest
prayer. Let the damsel abide with thee. Let her be nurtured in the
practice of those gentle virtues which her obdurate race have abjured.
“Commend me to Edward, our sovereign, and those fair daughters that
cluster round thy board and gladden thy life with their smiles. Again let
me beg a place in thy heart for my orphan child, and oh! remember in thy
prayer the soul of the exile, who from thy lips first learned to hope in
the mercy of Heaven.”
The letter bore the date of March, and it was now early June, and to
Eleanora’s anxious inquiries for further tidings concerning the lady Elin
and her child no answer could be given. The king however had better
sources of information. Scarcely was he recovered from the fatigue of
travel when the lords were summoned in council to deliberate upon the
petition of David and Rodric, brothers of Llewellyn, who had applied to
the English court for assistance.
From these barons Edward learned that the Welsh prince had violated the
promise made to his princess on her death-bed, of conveying their daughter
to the care of Eleanora, and that stimulated by the songs of the bards and
the long-smothered anger of the malcontent barons, he had resolved to
break his oath of allegiance to the King of England, and had dispossessed
his brothers of their inheritance as a punishment for their loyalty.
The council decided to assist David and Rodric in the recovery of their
possessions, and Edward not displeased with the occasion of making an
absolute conquest of the country, advanced with his army into Wales.
The English at first suffered some reverses, but in the great battle of
Builth, Llewellyn was slain, his forces put to flight, and the gold
coronet taken from his head was offered by Prince Alphonso at the shrine
of Edward the Confessor. But the war was not yet ended. Prince David now
claiming the title of king, as the heir of his brother, assumed the
command of the Welsh, and it needed the constant presence of Edward to
keep down the rebellious spirit of the people. The same steadfast
affection which had supported Eleanora during the tedious hours of her
anxious sojourn in the wilds of Devon, and that had prompted her to brave
the varied dangers of the Syrian campaign, led her now to follow her
lord’s fortunes through the rugged defiles and rocky fastnesses of the
Welsh mountains.
For her security, Edward built and fortified the strong castle of
Caernarvon, which now, after the lapse of nearly six centuries, presents
the same external appearance as on the day when Queen Eleanora first
entered its stupendous gateway in company with her royal lord.
The battlements with which the walls were defended, stand unchanged in
their hoary strength and grandeur, and the statue of Edward I., carved to
the life, still protects the entrance of the castle, and with its drawn
dagger, menaces the intruder who would venture within its guarded
precincts. The eagle tower yet nestles in the defences of the rocks,
though the royal fledglings have deserted the comfortless eyrie of
Snowdon for the softer luxuries of Windsor Castle and Hampton Court, and
the oaken cradle of the second Edward, suspended by ring and staples from
carved supporters, yet occupies its little nook in the secluded chamber
where his infant eyes first opened on the light. Eleanora’s experience of
the conquering power of love, made her solicitous to employ a Welsh
attendant for her son, but such was the fear which her husband’s name had
inspired among the families of the fierce mountaineers that she was forced
to abandon the project till accident procured for the amiable queen the
domestic she needed not only, but threw into her hands the fate of Wales.
From the irregular surface of their territory the Welsh were necessarily a
pastoral people, and their simple manner of life exposed them to certain
defeat when the conquest of their country was steadily and prudently
pursued by the well-trained warriors of England. But like the hardy sons
of all mountainous districts, the Welsh seemed to inhale the spirit of
liberty from the free breath of their native hills, and hunted as they
were from one retreat to another, they still rallied around their ancient
standard, and listened with rapture to predictions of their future
greatness. Edward followed them with untiring patience through rugged
defiles and rocky fastnesses till his heavy armed troops were ready to
sink with fatigue.
Everywhere they found evidences of the straits to which the miserable
inhabitants were reduced. Deserted hamlets, abandoned fields, and
famishing animals, betokened the last extremity of suffering. It was just
at night-fall when they came suddenly upon a strong body posted within the
narrow precincts of a valley.
The lowing of the herds that began to suffer from the want of forage, was
the first sound that attracted the attention of the English scouts, and by
a circuitous path the whole detachment were conducted to a position
commanding a full view of the enemy. The bivouac consisted of rude huts or
booths, constructed for shelter rather than defence, in and around which
sat barbarians in various attitudes of attention or repose.
The watch-fires gleamed luridly upon the wild figures that circled around
them, with dark and frowning brows, while from the centre of the
encampment echoed the sounds of hoarse voices, accompanied by the martial
strains of music. The barbarous language made the song of the bards
incomprehensible to the English, but they divined its spirit from the
effect upon the rude auditors, who, at every pause in the agitating
refrain, sprang to their feet, struck their spears upon their shields, and
mingled their shrill voices in a responsive chorus of muttered vengeance.
In the enthusiasm which the patriotic songs awakened, Edward read the
secret of the protracted resistance, and saw that the destruction of these
bards would insure his conquest. The trumpets were immediately ordered to
sound, and his army, wearied as they were, summoned their fainting
energies and rushed to the conflict.
The Welsh, surprised in the midst of their fancied security, stood to
their arms, and fought with the courage of desperation, the exhilarating
strains of the bards rose to a shrill wail of agony, then sank in the
voiceless silence of death.
This final strain of the national poetry, was the requiem of Welsh
liberty. King David made his escape through the defile of a mountain
followed by a few of his nobles, and the Earl of Devon, in attempting to
cut off his retreat, surprised and captured a company of frightened
females who had been lodged in the rocky fastness for greater security.
With knightly courtesy he extended to his helpless captives every delicate
attention that would soften the rigor of their fate.
His sympathies were especially excited by the distress of a woman of an
appearance somewhat superior to her companions, who exhibited the greatest
solicitude for the safety of a child that, all unconscious of the tumult,
lay quietly sleeping in its cradle of twisted reeds.
De Courtenay approached, anxious to relieve her fears, when the nurse,
expecting to be torn from her tender charge, exclaimed, in barbarous
English, “Take not the princess from me! I promised the Lady Elin never to
resign her save to the hands of the good Queen of England.”
“Comfort thee, good woman,” said the earl, kindly. “I will myself convey
thee, with the babe, to Caernarvon, where thou mayest discharge thy trust
by bestowing the little orphan with the royal friend of her mother.”
Consigning the other captives to the care of his knights, he gave the
nurse in charge to his groom, and himself carefully lifting the wicker
cradle with its lovely occupant to the horse before him, led the way
towards the castle.
Eleanora received the daughter of Elin de Montfort with tears of tender
welcome, and lavished upon the child the same affection that she bestowed
upon her own infant Edward. The little cousins were nurtured together, and
the nurse soon became tenderly attached to both children, and conceived an
almost reverential devotion to the pious queen; and as Eleanora gave her
frequent opportunities for communion with the natives of the vicinity, she
lost no occasion of publishing the virtues of her mistress.
She represented that Eleanora and little Edward were scarce inferior in
beauty to the Madonna and child, and that they were as good as they were
beautiful; and, she added, on her own responsibility, that since the queen
treated Guendoline with as much affection as though she were her own
daughter, there could be no doubt that she looked upon her as the future
bride of the young prince.
Meantime, Edward had prospered in his military plans. David could never
collect an army sufficient to face the English in the field, being chased
from hill to hill, and hunted from one retreat to another, and was finally
betrayed to his enemy and sent to England.
The Snowdon barons, deprived of their leader, and aware that their
princess Guendoline was in possession of the English king, and somewhat
mollified by the prognostication of her future greatness, at length obeyed
the summons of Edward to a conference at Caernarvon. The hardy
mountaineers agreed to tender their final submission to him as lord
paramount, if he would appoint them a native Welshman for their prince,
who could speak neither Saxon nor French, for those barbarous languages
they declared they could never understand.
Edward graciously acceded to the request, and the preliminaries being
arranged he brought from the eagle tower the little Edward, assuring them
that he was a native of Wales, could speak neither of the reprobated
tongues, and, under the tutelage of his lovely instructress Guendoline,
would doubtless soon become a proficient in Welsh. “The fierce
mountaineers little expected such a ruler. They had, however, no
alternative but submission, and with as good grace as they might, kissed
the tiny hand which was to sway their sceptre, and vowed fealty to the
babe of the faithful Eleanora.”
CHAPTER X.
THE ASTRONOMER AND THE JEW.
Peace being thus happily established, King Edward transferred the
residence of his queen from the rugged strength of Caernarvon to the
magnificent refinements of Conway castle; where, surrounded by her ladies
and children, she enjoyed, for a brief period, a repose from anxiety and
care.
Here seated in a chamber of state, whose windows of stained glass opened
upon a terrace, commanding a beautiful view of the varied landscape,
Eleanora passed her mornings, receiving those who were honored by being
present at her levée, while her tire-women combed and braided the long
silken tresses which shaded and adorned her serene and lovely features.
This condescension of the queen, had a most gracious and softening effect
upon the rude customs of the Welsh, and the first aspirations of this
semi-barbarous nation for christian refinement, date from the period in
which they felt the winning influence of her gentle manners.
But though Eleanora was thus happy in her domestic relations, blessed in
the love of her subjects, and thrice blessed in the consciousness of
exercising her power for the happiness of others, she did not forget the
kindred ties that bound her to her native Spain.
Indeed there seems to be this peculiarity, observable in the influence of
the gospel on the character, a paradox in philosophy, but a fact in
christian experience, that while it increases the intensity of the social
affections, it expands the heart to the remoter relations of life,
awakening a cordial response to the command, “Thou shalt love thy neighbor
as thyself.”
For Eleanora to know that she could render assistance to another, was
sufficient motive to arouse her activity; and constant habit made that an
inspiring impulse, which had commenced in a rigid adherence to the
requisitions of duty. When she learned, therefore, that her beloved
brother Alphonso X. had been deposed by his undutiful son, Sancho, she
besought her heroic husband to undertake the difficult task of his
restoration.
Edward, whose principles of government were of a very different character
from those of the royal philosopher, listened somewhat reluctantly to her
anxious pleadings, but at last consented to accompany her into Castile.
The royal progress was one of the utmost pomp and splendor. Their cousin
Philip received them in Paris with the greatest distinction. They reposed
some months among the elegancies of Bordeaux, and thence journeyed across
the Pyrenees to Burgos.
The brave Sancho welcomed them to his palace with unaffected pleasure, and
listened with easy good-humor to the questions and remonstrances of the
queen.
“My father,” said he, “is happier in the retirement of his prison, than he
was ever in the administration of public affairs. In truth, he has for
these last years been so occupied with the motions of Mars and Jupiter,
that he has had little leisure to attend to the movements of his subjects,
and, but for what seemeth my undutiful interposition, our fair Castile
would have been one scene of anarchy and confusion.”
“But if my brother desired the repose of private life, he had surely the
right to appoint his successor,” suggested Eleanora.
“Nay, concerning that, men differ in opinion,” replied Sancho. “Our
ancestors, the Goths, confer the crown upon the second son, in preference
to the heirs of the elder brother, and by this right I reign.”
“But by this right, thou takest from the prince all power,” returned the
queen.
“And wherefore,” said Sancho, “should the word of a prince prevail against
the will of the people, whose interest no king has a right to sacrifice to
his ambition?”
“Certes, there is great semblance of truth in what thou sayest,” added
Eleanora, thoughtfully; “and much I wonder me that, while some are born to
such high estate, others in heart possessed of noble feelings are doomed
to perpetual servitude. My poor brain has been ofttimes sadly puzzled in
this matter; but when I bethink me of the miseries fair England suffered
during the rebellion of Leicester, I content myself to believe the holy
writ, ‘The powers that be, are ordained of God.’”
“Thy scripture well establishes my claim,” cried Sancho, laughing
heartily.
Eleanora sighed. “Forgettest thou, brave Sancho,” said she, “that the God
who gave to thee the estate and rule of king, (since thou dost so wrest my
words to prove thy usurpation,) forgettest thou that He hath also
ordained, ‘Thou shalt honor thy father?’”
“Nay, nay, my most gracious aunt, now thou accusest me beyond my desert.
The wise Alphonso is not restrained from his clerkly studies, but—”
“He is in prison,” interrupted Eleanora.
“It is my care,” continued Sancho, “to grant him everything, but freedom
to disturb my kingdom. Jews and Arabs, his chosen friends, doctors of
Salerno and Salamanca, friars and priests, (though, sooth to say for them,
he careth little save as they bring him mouldy manuscripts from the
monasteries,) jugglers and mummers, a worthy retinue, have free access to
his presence. To-morrow thou mayest see the philosopher, surrounded by his
motley courtiers, and methinks thou wilt then pronounce him as do others,
either fool or madman.”
King Edward, who from conversation with the nobles of Castile, no less
than with Sancho, had arrived at the same conclusion with his royal
nephew, made no efforts to release Alphonso from his confinement, but
gladly accepted an invitation to accompany the King of Castile on an
expedition against the Moors in southern Spain.
During their absence Eleanora remained in Burgos, and devoted herself to
the care of her brother, for whose sanity she began to entertain serious
fears. Alphonso’s affection for his lovely sister so far prevailed over
his excitable temperament, that he permitted her to enter his apartments
at all hours without exhibiting any annoyance, and often turned aside from
his abstruse studies to indulge in reminiscences of their youthful sports,
and to satisfy her inquiries concerning his present pursuits.
Eleanora possessed that genial spirit which discovers something of
interest in every occupation, and that exquisite tact which enabled her to
insinuate a truth, even while seeming not to contradict an error; and it
was soon apparent that, though the philosopher still uttered his
absurdities with great complacency,—his temper became more tranquil, and
his manners far more affable to all who approached him. The queen listened
patiently to his tedious explanations of the motions of the planets, and
exerted her utmost powers of perception to comprehend the diagrams which
he contended were illustrative of the whole theory of Nature, and the
great end and purpose of her solemn mysteries inscribed on the scroll of
the heavens, forming an elder Scripture more authoritative than the
divine oracles themselves.
“Thou seest, my sister,” said the enthusiast, “that our maturity like our
childhood is amused by fables: hence do the ignorant believe that this
great array of worlds was formed for the contemptible purpose of revolving
around our insignificant planet, and all the glittering circle of the
stars made to serve no better end than to enliven a winter night.”
“In truth the doctrine savors much of the arrogance of man,” gently
returned the queen, “and reminds one of the false systems of a monarch who
considers his subjects but tributaries to his pleasure.”
“False systems,” returned the astronomer, apparently unheeding the point
of her remark, “have disgraced the world in every age. Pythagoras
approached nearest the true idea, and yet was lost in the wilderness of
error.”
“Heaven save us from a fate so evil,” solemnly ejaculated the queen.
“The philosopher, who rejecting the dogmas of the church, listens to the
voice of Nature speaking to the ear of reason, is in no danger of error,”
said Alphonso pompously. “Thy Mosaic Testament asserts that God created
the heavens and the earth in six days; but they bear no marks of such
creation. Their course is eternal. And as for appointing the glorious sun
with no higher mission than to enlighten the earth, had the Almighty
called me to his counsel, I would have taught Him a wiser plan of
compassing day and night.”
Shocked at his impiety, Eleanora calmly replied, “The Holy Word which thou
despisest, directs us to ‘prove all things.’ How canst thou sustain such
assertions?”
Alphonso, pleased with what he considered her docility, lifted a small
globe, and placing it at a convenient distance from the lamp, caused it to
revolve upon its axis, making her observe that the regular vicissitudes of
light and darkness were produced without any change in the position of the
luminary.
“At what infinite expense,” said he, “would the lamp revolve around the
globe to produce only the same effect, and to furnish only one world with
light; while any number of globes might gyrate about the lamp without
loss, save an occasional eclipse.”
Struck with the simplicity and evident truth of the illustration, Eleanora
gazed admiringly upon her brother, but scarcely had she essayed to frame
an answer, when the conversation was interrupted by the entrance of an
individual—the expression of whose countenance awoke a painful
association in her mind, although in vain she tasked her memory to decide
where or when she had before beheld him. His figure, though concealed by a
Spanish doublet, and slightly bent with age, had evidently been once tall
and commanding, and his swarthy countenance was illuminated by keen black
eyes, whose quick penetrating glance, seemed at once to fathom the
purposes, and divine the thoughts of those about him; and a long flowing
beard, somewhat inclining to gray, imparted an air of dignity to his whole
appearance. With a profound, though silent salutation to the royal pair,
he crossed the apartment, and carefully laying aside his cloak, quietly
seated himself at a side table covered with manuscripts, and commenced his
labors; while Alphonso answered the inquiring gaze of Eleanora, by
remarking, “’Tis our excellent Procida, my trusty Hebrew scribe.”
“Hebrew or Arab,” said Eleanora, in a low tone, “I have seen that face
before.”
At the sound of her voice the stranger looked up, while Eleanora placed
her hands before her eyes, as if to shut out some dreadful vision.
“It cannot, cannot be,” she exclaimed, “but so looked the Jew, slain at my
feet on that dreadful day when I first entered London.”
“My good Procida,” said Alphonso, misinterpreting her emotion, “I fear me
we must dispense with thy presence, since my sister is too good a
Christian to look upon a Jew, save with feelings of abhorrence.”
The Jew arose. “Nay, my good brother,” said the queen, “forgive this
weakness. I would fain speak with thy friend.”
Procida came forward and stood in respectful silence waiting her commands.
“Hast ever been in London?” inquired she, earnestly regarding him.
“My noble queen recalls not then the face of Raymond Lullius, who coined
rose nobles for her royal lord. She may, perhaps, remember the curiosity
of the young Prince Alphonso, whose little hand no doubt still bears the
scar of the melted metal he snatched from the crucible.”
At the mention of her son, the mother’s tears began to flow. “My sweet
Alphonso sleeps in the tomb of his ancestors,” replied she, when she had
somewhat recovered her composure; “but I mind me of the accident, though
surely ’tis another scene that hath impressed thy features on my memory.”
“Your majesty refers to the slaughter of the Jews,” returned Procida, in a
sorrowful tone, “and the victim slain at your feet was my aged father
Ben-Abraham. Of all my family I alone escaped, through the timely
interposition of the gallant Prince Edward.”
“Ah! now I comprehend thy haste to serve my brother,” interrupted
Alphonso. “Thou must know, sweet sister mine,” said he, turning to the
queen, “that the secrets of our art are for the learned alone, but king as
I am, I found it impossible to prevent my worthy Procida from leaving my
court to aid the English sovereign in increasing his revenue by
transmuting mercury into gold.”
“It is then true that metals can be thus transmuted,” said Eleanora, with
an incredulous smile.
The alchemists exchanged glances of intelligence, but Alphonso,
remembering her ready appreciation of his astronomical theory, answered
Procida’s hesitating look, with “Nay, ’tis but for once—our sister is an
earnest seeker of truth, and if she comprehend will not betray our
secret.” Thus saying, Alphonso threw open a door and conducted the queen,
followed by Procida, into a small laboratory filled with all the
mysterious appurtenances of his art. The learned doctor busied himself in
clearing a space in the centre of the apartment and arranging in a circle
sundry jars and a brazier, while the philosopher king, opening a cabinet,
took thence some dried and withered sea-weed, which he threw into the
brazier and kindled into a flame. The blazing kelp was soon reduced to
ashes, which Procida carefully gathered into an old empty crucible, and
set before the queen. Alphonso advancing took up the crucible, saying,
“What seest thou, my sister?”
“A dull, gray powder,” she replied.
He then placed a tube from one of the jars within the crucible, and
bidding her regard it attentively, submitted it to a chemical process
which she did not understand, repeating his question.
“I now see,” replied Eleanora, with astonishment, “the dull powder
transformed into little shining globules like silver.”
“Thou mayst take them in thine hand,” said the philosopher, after a pause;
“they will not harm thee.”
With some timidity the wondering queen received the metallic drops, almost
fearing that her brother was a necromancer as the priests affirmed.
“Canst judge if it be a metal?” said Alphonso, enjoying her confusion.
“My sight and touch assure me of the fact. Yet whence—”
“Is it not a miracle,” interrupted the philosopher, laughing, “more real
than thy fancied transubstantiation?”
A frown gathered on the serene brow of the lovely queen—but commiserating
his impiety as sincerely as he pitied her ignorance, with forced gayety
she replied, “Nay, heaven works not miracles by the hands of such
unbelievers as thou. I fear me lest evil spirits have aided thee, as they
did the Egyptians with their enchantments;” and she handed the globules to
the philosopher.
“Keep them safely until the morrow,” said he, “they may form the basis of
another experiment.”
As the Queen of England left the prison, Procida followed her and craved
an audience.
CHAPTER XI.
THE JEWESS.
The conference between the queen and Procida was not limited to one
audience. Day after day he sought her presence, under various
pretexts—some unimportant business, some message from Alphonso—and each
time he lingered as if anxious to prolong the interview; till at length
his strange manner convinced Eleanora that something more momentous than
philosophical researches detained him in Castile.
When the mind is agitated upon any particular subject, fancy connects
every mysterious appearance with the prevailing thought; and the lovely
queen became impressed with the idea that some impending danger threatened
her royal brother.
She therefore strove to win the confidence of Procida, and encouraged him
to confide his secret to her keeping.
“Is there aught,” said she, “of interest to thyself or others in which I
can aid thee?” finding that his anxiety and hesitation seemed rather to
increase than diminish.
“Most gracious sovereign,” returned Procida, apologetically, “the despised
outcasts of Israel have little hope to enlist the sympathies of Christians
in their behalf.”
“Nay,” replied the queen, “thou forgettest that our gospel saith, God
hath made of one blood all the nations of the earth.”
“And if I have forgotten it,” said Procida bitterly, “it is because the
practice of the church agreeth not with the precept.”
“It is true,” returned Eleanora, with a sigh, “that our lives exhibit
too little the holy influence of the faith we profess: but tell me, how
can the wife of Edward serve the alchemist?”
“Noble queen,” said Procida, speaking earnestly and with great agitation,
“thou knowest not the peril in which thy generosity may involve thee.”
“Speak, and fear not,” reiterated she, “Eleanora fears no evil in the
practice of kindness.”
Fixing his keen eyes upon her face, as if to detect every emotion which
his words might awaken, the Jew replied bitterly, “Procida for his
attachment to the noble house of Swabia, is proscribed and hunted from
Sicily, his daughter, a Jewess, can scarce claim the protection of law;
and concealed as she is in the suburbs of Burgos, her beauty has already
attracted the curiosity of those from whom her father cannot defend her.
Did I dare claim so great a boon I would beg a place for her among thy
maidens.”
Eleanora paused. The prejudice against the Jews was so intense as to
affect even her upright mind; and the scandal it might bring upon the
royal household to enroll an unbeliever among its inmates, startled her
apprehensions: but the father stood before her with the air of one who had
intrusted his last treasure to her keeping, and she could not find it in
her heart to crush his confidence in her generosity.
“Bring thy daughter hither,” added she, thoughtfully, “with me she shall
be safe.”
“The blessing of him that is ready to perish, rest upon thee,” said the
scholar, fervently, as he left her presence.
When the Queen of England next visited the apartments of her brother, she
was accompanied by a young girl of such surpassing loveliness as to
attract the attention of the philosopher himself. Her features were of
that perfect form generally described as Grecian, while her dark hair and
soft black eyes, suggested the idea of a brunette; but the fairness of her
complexion and the brilliant color of her cheek, that varied with every
emotion, gave a character of exquisite delicacy and sensibility to her
countenance.
“Does thy realm of England abound in such comely damsels?” inquired
Alphonso, while Agnes blushed at the king’s encomium.
“England may rival Spain in the beauty of her daughters,” answered
Eleanora, evasively. “My gentle Agnes is curious like her mistress to
learn the wonders of thy art: hence do we crave thine indulgence to pass
some weary hours of my lord’s absence among thy folios.”
“Thou art ever welcome,” returned Alphonso, benignantly, “and this young
disciple shall receive the benefit of serving so good a mistress.”
“I have pondered much,” said the queen, who had been for some time
attentively regarding the care-worn lineaments of his face, “upon thy
theory of the planets. The globe moved around the lamp because thou didst
bear it in thine hand. By what power is our Earth carried around the Sun?”
“There is some invisible influence which retains it with its sister-orbs
in the eternal round, but the subtle essence has thus far eluded my
investigations,” replied Alphonso.
“Thou believest then, my brother,” said Eleanora, in her gentlest tone,
“in a power whose existence thou canst not demonstrate by thy ‘Tables’ or
diograms?”
“Verily, such a power is a matter of necessity,” returned the monarch.
“And thy unlearned sister,” replied the queen, hesitating, “finds the same
necessity to believe in a God, whose existence she can demonstrate only
by the contemplation of his glorious works.”
“It is well for the ignorant to repose in this idea,” replied Alphonso,
“and it may perchance restrain the wicked from his misdeeds, to believe
that an ever-present Intelligence regards his actions.”
“And it may comfort the sorrowing,” said Eleanora, “to feel that this
Infinite Power can satisfy the needs of the human soul.”
“Hast thou brought the metal I gave thee?” said Alphonso, abruptly
changing the conversation.
“I have it in my gypsire,” said she, unclasping the bag and unfolding the
paper—“Lo! my brother, what a transformation is here,” exclaimed the
queen, in amazement. “Thy silver has again become ashes.”
“Grieve not,” said the alchemist, with an air of superior wisdom, “Science
will achieve new wonders with these dull atoms.”
He now placed the powder in the crucible as before, and taking from a
shelf what seemed a fragment of rock, pulverized it to a like powder, and
mingled both in the crucible, which he placed upon the brazier and
subjected it to a most intense heat.
“What dost thou now observe?” said the alchemist.
“A melted glowing mass of a ruby color,” said Eleanora, with great
interest.
Taking a small rod in his hand he lifted the adhering particles, and drew
them into thin, fine hair, like threads of a shining whiteness, which he
presented to Agnes, saying, with a smile, “I will bestow these frail
crystals upon thee, fair one; perchance thou mayst preserve them in memory
of the mad philosopher.”
Every day the Queen of England became more interested in the society of
her lovely ward, whose sprightliness was tempered by a sweetness, and a
delicate discrimination, that never gave offence. It was gratifying to
observe, in a fancy cultivated by the poetic legends of the South, and
stored with the splendid fictions of Arabian romance, an ardent love of
truth, and a strict adherence to its dictates; and Eleanora saw with
pleasure that her most playful and entertaining sallies, though sometimes
pointed at the peculiarities of those around her, never betrayed
ill-humor, nor degenerated into sarcasm. Her beauty and gayety forcibly
recalled the image of Eva; but the reliance which the obedient Jewess
inspired, was in strong contrast to the anxiety ever awakened by the
lovely, but volatile daughter of Clare.
The charming Agnes not only amused the queen with her vivacity, but
afforded her a sense of repose, by her amiable observance of every
admonition, and her evident desire to regard the wishes no less than the
positive commands of her royal benefactress, and especially did she win
the love of the mother by her graceful attentions to the infant Princess
Beatrice.
While Agnes was actuated by the most dutiful affection to her father, she
seemed by a happy trustfulness to escape participation in that gloom and
care which daily deepened upon the clouded brow of the Sicilian.
Desirous to relieve what she deemed his apprehensions for the future
welfare of his daughter, the queen took occasion, upon one of his visits,
to assure him of her increasing attachment to her lovely charge.
“Thy generous interest in the despised exile softens my bitter fate,” said
he, “but could the unhappy Procida enlist the influence of England’s
gracious sovereign in the great project that preys upon his being, he
would feel that he had not lived in vain.”
“My lord the king is ever ready to assist the unfortunate,” said Eleanora,
encouragingly, “and is free from those prejudices which embarrass weaker
minds. If thou deemest it proper to reveal thy secret, his queen will
herself endeavor to redress thy wrongs.”
“Procida seeks not the redress of a personal affront, nor restoration to
his island home; my project is,” said the Sicilian, drawing near the
queen, and speaking in a low tone of terrible emphasis, “revenge!—death
to the infamous Charles d’Anjou!”
The startled Eleanora essayed no reply, but gazed in mute terror at the
dark and malignant face of the conspirator.
“Yes,” continued he, his tall figure dilating with long repressed and
cherished passion, “I will rouse all Europe with the wrongs of the noble
house of Suabia.”
“I know,” said the queen, the words faintly struggling through her white
lips, “the woes inflicted upon our cousins of Suabia by the relentless
fury of the Guelphs, but I dare not assume the office of their judge. It
is written, ‘Vengeance is mine, I will repay it, saith the Lord.’”
“Aye, verily,” replied the Jew, fiercely, “but how does the Lord repay
vengeance? Is it not by the hand of man he brings retribution upon the
guilty? Did he not commission the sword to cut off the Canaanites, the
Midianites, the Assyrians, and those who vexed his people in every age?
Who can say he hath not inspired the heart, and nerved the arm of the
proscribed and outcast Jew to execute his wrath upon the proud tyrant of
Sicily?”
“Thou,” inquired the queen. “By what title claimest thou allegiance to
that fallen house?”
“I know,” said Procida, stung by her remark, “full well I know, that your
Holy Church denies to the son of Abraham all the tender ties that bind the
lord to his vassal, or the vassal to his lord. He may have neither house
nor land, he may not dwell in Jerusalem the city of his fathers, or be
buried in consecrated ground. His possessions become the spoil of the
tyrant, his innocent offspring the victims of brutal passion; and yet your
priests say,—Be meek—Be patient—Obey the precepts of that gospel which
we trample under foot.”
He paused, struck by the compassionate gaze of Eleanora, who, for the
first time, comprehended the hopeless misery of the hapless race.
“Thy pardon, noble queen,” said Procida, softened by her tender pity.
“Were there more like thee, ’twere easier for the Jew to embrace the faith
of the Nazarene. Thou didst inquire by what tie I followed the changing
fortunes of Hohenstaufen.” In a gentler tone he continued—
“The Jew loves gold. Loves he aught else? Yea, to the death his friend.
The Emperor Frederic was free from the chains of superstition. Christian,
Saracen, or Jew, found equal favor in his eye, and learning and genius not
less than military prowess were rewarded with titles and lands.
“Know me, then, royal lady, miserable and destitute as I appear, as
favorite physician of the emperor, created by him Count de Procida, lord
of the fairest island in the Bay of Naples.”
CHAPTER XII.
THE FATE OF THE HOUSE OF SUABIA.
The soft climate of the south, and the rich and varied scenery upon the
banks of the Arlanzon, invited Eleanora to long walks in the suburbs of
Burgos: and she found the greatest delight in watching the changing
foliage, which announced the approach of the mellow autumn.
Her recent interviews with the philosopher had given a new direction to
her thoughts. She experienced a pleasure before unknown in studying the
various aspects of nature, and contemplating the subtle arrangement by
which all these beautiful phenomena were produced. New proofs of an
All-creative Intelligence were daily forced upon her with peculiar
distinctness, and her mind was thus fortified against the cold,
insinuating doubts, with which her brother continually assailed her faith.
Often she became so lost in reflection as to be insensible to all external
circumstances, and her ladies, loosed from the restraints of court
etiquette, revelled in the unwonted freedom of these rural strolls.
Eleanora was often lured from her speculative abstraction by the sportive
gayety of their amusements, and she saw with benevolent pleasure the ready
tact with which the young Jewess avoided every inquiry that might lead to
a discovery of her nation or position, without in the least compromising
her truthfulness or transgressing the rules of courtesy.
During one of these rambles, a mendicant of the order of St. Francis
approached the queen, and asked an alms. The smoothly-shaven chin of the
monk, closely clipped hair, and unsandalled feet, at first completely
imposed upon her credulity, but his voice at once betrayed Procida.
With a troubled look she gave him a few denier, as if desirous to escape
all parley. But the monk lingered; and after a pause, hesitatingly
remarked in a low tone, “I am about to leave Burgos, and I would fain
confer with the queen before my departure.”
“But wherefore the monkish habit? Has the Jew resolved to do penance for
his sins?” inquired Eleanora.
“Nay,” replied Procida, evasively, “if my gracious mistress will grant me
an audience, I will unfold to her the purpose that hath moved me to this
disguise.”
“I cannot tell,” replied the queen, with a tone of unwonted reproach, “if
it be desirable to entrust thy plans to my keeping, since I may not
encourage deceit, and I would not that thy Agnes, so innocent of guile,
should learn that her father, for some dark purpose, has assumed the garb
he abhors.”
Tears glistened in the eyes of Procida, as he replied, “Thou sayest well
and wisely. The sweet child knoweth not more of the secret schemes of her
father, than do the angels of the dark deeds of fiends. But—”
“I hear the voice of my maidens,” exclaimed the queen impatiently, “expose
not thyself to their observation.”
“Benedicite,” murmured the counterfeit priest, turning away to avoid the
scrutiny of the approaching group.
But Procida was so determined to secure the approbation of the queen, that
the following day he craved an audience at the palace.
“My royal mistress,” said he, “must permit me once more, to plead the
rights of the illustrious house of Suabia, before I depart on my
pilgrimage, that if I never return, she may justify my acts in the eyes of
my daughter.”
“Speak,” said Eleanora, moved by the sorrowful earnestness of his manner.
“My royal master Frederic,” began the Jew, “had little cause to love the
church. Hated by the pope, for that with a strong arm he claimed his
hereditary possessions in Italy, he was excommunicated for refusing the
pilgrimage, and again cursed for fulfilling his vow; and had not the
honest pagan, Melech Camel, been more his friend than the christian troops
by whom he was surrounded, he would have perished by treason in the Holy
City itself.
“Freed from superstition, he looked upon all religions as formed to impose
upon the vulgar; and it was through his instructions, that I learned the
policy of conforming to the prejudices of mankind, and now avail myself of
the privileges of an order, who wander everywhere, and are everywhere well
received.
“The emperor, like thy brother Alphonso, was a man of science. He opened
schools in Sicily, and maintained poor scholars from his own purse, and by
every means promoted the welfare of his subjects; but he could not escape
the toils spread around him by his great enemy the church.”
As he said these words the queen beheld in his eyes the same vengeful fire
that once had before so startled and shocked her.
“Thy pardon, sovereign lady,” said he, recollecting himself, “but the
wrongs of the master have well-nigh maddened the brain of the servant.
“His own son Henry, wrought upon by the malicious representations of the
pope, revolted, and his beautiful boy Enzio, pined away his young life in
the prison of Bologna. The great Frederic died; and his wretched Procida
vowed to avenge him upon his murderers.” He paused a moment overcome by
his emotions, and then continued, “There yet remained Conrad and Manfred:
the former, only son of the Queen of Jerusalem, and the latter,
illegitimate offspring of a Saracen woman. Conrad passed into Italy to
claim his inheritance, only to be poisoned by the pope; while Manfred,
calling around him the friends of his mother, battled for his father’s
strongholds and treasures. He was brave, generous and noble. He would have
made peace even with his enemy, but the tyrant d’Anjou spurned his
overtures, and insultingly replied to the messenger, ‘Go tell the Sultan
of Nocera, that I desire war only, and this very day I will send him to
hell, or he shall send me to Paradise.’ He prepared for the conflict. As
he fastened on his helmet it twice slipped from his grasp. ‘It is the hand
of God,’ was his exclamation, and with a presentiment of his fall, he
hurried to the fight. I stood by his side in the bloody battle of
Benevento, and we made a holocaust of our enemies; but a fatal spear
pierced his brain! The implacable d’Anjou would have the poor
excommunicated corpse remain unburied, but the French soldiers, less
barbarous than their master, brought each a stone, and so reared him a
tomb.”
“Tell me no more horrors,” exclaimed the queen, with a look of painful
emotion.
“Ah! lady,” said the artful Procida, sadly, satisfied that his recital had
so moved his royal auditor, “thou art grieved at the very hearing of
these atrocities, but bethink thee of the misery of the poor daughter of
Frederic, wife of the Duke of Saxony. When the family fell, the duke
repented of his alliance with the house of Suabia. From cold neglect and
scorn, he proceeded to violence—he brutally struck her. She, unhappy
woman, thinking he sought her life, endeavored to escape. The castle rose
upon a rock overhanging the Elbe. A faithful servant kept a boat upon the
river, and by a rope, she could let herself down the precipitous descent.
An agonizing thought stayed her footsteps. Her only son lay asleep in the
cradle. She would once more fold him to her breast. She would imprint her
last kiss upon his cheek. With a maddening pang she closed her teeth in
the tender flesh, and fled, pursued by the screams of her wounded child.
The treacherous rope eluded her grasp, and the frantic mother fell,
another victim from the doomed race of Hohenstaufen.
“The little Corradino, who should have been King of Jerusalem, had also a
mother, tender and fond, who would fain have detained him from funereal
Italy, where all his family had found a sepulchre; but ere he attained the
age of manhood the Ghibelline cities called to him for aid, and no
entreaties could withhold the valiant youth. Accompanied by his dearest
friend, Frederic of Austria, and a band of knights, he passed the Alps to
claim his inheritance. There was a battle—there was a defeat—there was a
prisoner—The Vicar of Christ, showed he mercy? He wrote to d’Anjou,
‘Corradino’s life is Charles’s death.’ Judges were named, a strange and
unheard-of proceeding; but of these some defended Corradino, and the rest
remained silent. One alone, found him guilty, and began to read his
sentence upon the scaffold. But outraged nature asserted her rights,
d’Anjou’s own son-in-law leaped upon the scaffold and slew the inhuman
judge with one stroke of his sword, exclaiming, ‘’Tis not for a wretch
like thee to condemn to death so noble and gentle a lord.’ But the
execution proceeded. I stood among the spectators a shaven priest,
honoring the decrees of the church! I heard the piteous exclamation of
the hapless youth, ‘Oh my mother, what sad news will bring thee of thy
son.’ His eye caught mine, he slipped a ring from his finger, and threw it
into the crowd. I seized the precious jewel, and renewed my vow of
vengeance. The faithful Frederic of Austria stood by his side, and was the
first to receive the fatal stroke. Corradino caught the bleeding head, as
it fell, pressed his own upon the quivering lips, and perished like his
friend. ‘Lovely and pleasant in their lives, in death they were not
divided.’”
Tears for a moment quenched the fire in the old man’s eyes, and Eleanora
wept in sympathy. “And Enzio—?” she said, mournfully.
“Enzio yet languished in prison, the delicate boy, the idol of his
imperial father. I found my way to Bologna, gold bribed his guard. An
empty wine-cask was at hand, I enclosed him therein, and brought him
safely to the gates. A single lock of hair betrayed my secret. ‘Ha!’
exclaimed the sentinel, ‘’tis only King Enzio has such beautiful fair
hair.’ I escaped with difficulty, but the boy was slain.”
“Lives there not one of all the princely house?” inquired the queen.
“Frederic the Bitten lives, the deadly enemy of his father, and the
daughter of Manfred is the wife of the Prince of Arragon. To her I carry
the ring. A Saracen servant of the emperor ascribes to it magic virtues.
It shall be the talisman to bind Europe in a league against the infamous
d’Anjou.”
“My brother! knows he of thy purpose?” inquired Eleanora, apprehensively.
“I entered Castile to secure his assistance, and devoted myself to the
practice of alchemy, to gain his confidence; but the philosopher is too
intent upon the science of dull atoms to mingle in political strife.”
“Thank heaven! that his studies keep him innocent of human blood,”
ejaculated the queen. “Wouldst ought with me?” inquired she, after a
pause, observing that the Jew remained silent with his eyes fixed upon
her.
“Let my gracious queen pardon her servant, that he hath so long detained
her with his tale of horror. Something I would add concerning my sweet
Agnes. Call her not a Jewess. Her father hath long since abjured the
burdensome rites of Judaism, and her mother—’tis enough to say that she
resembled the Queen of England. Though I trust not in the pious fables of
the priests, they seemed to charm her gentle spirit into peace. Let Agnes,
therefore, I pray thee, be instructed in her mother’s faith.”
“Thy wishes shall be strictly regarded,” replied Eleanora, “and may the
same peace thou covetest for thy daughter, yet find its way to thy own
unquiet breast.”
CHAPTER XIII.
TRANSLATION OF THE BIBLE.
Each time the queen visited the laboratory of Alphonso, he made her
acquainted with some new fact in philosophy, or some new device of
alchemy, which awakened curiosity and gave rise to inquiry. The Spanish
king, having made some discoveries in advance of the age, had fallen into
the popular error of philosophers, that of repudiating all pre-established
doctrines and maxims. Having laid down the theory that matter was eternal,
and all external appearances the result of natural change, he was at
infinite pains to account for all phenomena so as not to conflict with
this proposition. The unbiased mind of Eleanora often detected in his
assertions a vagueness of expression which passed for argument, but which
evidently imposed less upon his auditors than upon himself.
“Nature,” said he, “arranges her work in circles: hence is the sky a dome,
the earth a convex ball, and each minute atom of a globular form. The
seasons roll their perpetual round, and as a ring hath neither beginning
nor end, so must the material universe be eternal. The acorn groweth into
the oak, and the oak again produceth the acorn; all outward manifestations
are but parts in the great universal machine.”
Eleanora, who had been attentively regarding an ingenious invention of the
king’s, interrupted this tirade, by remarking, “A few months before I left
England, I visited the cell of friar Bacon, in Oxford. But I saw nothing
in his laboratory so curious and wonderful as this work of my brother’s.”
The philosopher, flattered with the encomium, turned at once to exhibit
the design of the machine. She followed his explanation with the greatest
apparent interest; and when he had finished, replied, “In all these
curious arrangements, I trace the wisdom of my brother; and it is that
which gives me the greatest pleasure; and when I see the beneficent
purposes for which it is designed, I feel a deeper veneration for the mind
that could plan so skilfully.”
She took a bunch of flowers from the hand of Agnes and approached the
king. “I have been observing,” said she, “the curious arrangement of these
frail leaves, five green supporters, five yellow petals, five slender
threads, and one central spire. I have gathered thousands of them in my
rambles, and the same perfect number is found in every one. It has led me
to inquire if Nature be not like my brother, a mathematician.”
The workings of Alphonso’s face showed how closely the simple truth of
this proposition had driven home. “Nature,” said he, “is an active
principle, whose changes neither add to, nor detract from, the original
matter of the universe. The metals,” continued he, seeing she was about to
respond, “the metals, my philosophical sister, form the basis of
everything. I have detected iron in human blood, and a lustrous substance
like that thou sawest in common ashes; hence do the alchemists believe
that gold, the most precious of all, is scattered through nature, as the
seeds of vegetation are scattered in earth, requiring only the proper
gases to develop it and make it abundant as the pebbles on the shore.”
“And have these gases been able to effect the desirable changes?” inquired
the queen.
“There are innumerable obstacles in the way of these momentous inquiries,”
said the enthusiast. “Nature resists intrusion into her arcana, and I
grieve to say, that we have not yet been able to bring about a definite
result. Science has achieved only the procuring of the gases, while there
remains still the nicer problem—to mix them in their right proportions,
at their proper temperatures; for the nascent metal is more delicate than
the embryo plant, and an excess of heat or cold destroys like frost or
blight.”
“Ah, me!” said Eleanora, with a sigh; “before this great end be
accomplished I fear me my brother will have passed away, and then all this
toil and research will be lost.”
“My sister,” said Alphonso, abandoning his labors and seating himself,
“thou hast unconsciously touched the thorn that rankles deepest in my
breast. In nature, nothing seems made in vain; even decay produces new
life, and man alone, the crowning work of all, seems made to no purpose.”
“I have sometimes thought,” said Eleanora, as if answering her own
reflections, rather than replying to her brother’s remarks, “that man
might perhaps be made for the pleasure of a higher order of intelligence,
as the lower orders of creation seem formed for our gratification, and
that all our miseries spring from an attempt to thwart this plan.”
“If thy thought be not the true solution of man’s destiny, I know not what
end he serves in the great scheme of existence,” returned Alphonso, sadly;
“I have passed through various vicissitudes of life, from the greatness of
earthly state to the poverty of a prison, and I have derived more pleasure
from the achievements of science than from all my hereditary honors. And
yet even these do not satisfy the longings of my nature.”
“The scripture teaches us, that the superior intelligences find delight in
benefitting mortals; and acting upon this hint the good have taught us,
that to be blest ourselves we must seek to bless others,” said Eleanora.
“True,” replied the philosopher, breaking out once more into his old
enthusiasm, “I have sometimes found alleviation from the weariness of my
thoughts in the reflection, that the sciences in which I am engaged will
one day exercise a wider and more perfect control over the destiny of the
human race, than all the military orders backed by the sanction of
ecclesiastical decrees. Science will open the door to Art; and her
triumphant offspring, in a train of skillful inventions, shall pass on
through long ages, breaking down the stern barriers of kingdoms, and
uniting mankind in a common interest; war shall give place to useful
Labor, and Science abrogating labor in its turn, shall satisfy the wants
of the human race, accomplishing by a touch that which requires the might
of thousands. Men shall then have leisure to perform the rites that lift
the veil of Isis, and perhaps find means to question Nature even in the
innermost recesses of her temple.”
“Oh! life! life!” said the philosopher, in an accent of despair, “why art
thou so brief? Why must I die without discovering the sublime agencies?”
Eleanora waited in compassionate silence till her brother resumed in a
calmer tone, “Think me not mad, my sister. If the feeble attempts of an
imprisoned king, and a cloistered friar, can produce the wondrous results
of which thou hast been witness, what shall the end be, when men free to
pursue these investigations shall win the rich guerdon of fame and
pecuniary reward? Thou hast heard, perchance, of the magician Albertus
Magnus, who constructed a human figure, which performed the office of a
servant; and of the stupid priest Thomas Aquinas, who, alarmed by the
appearance of the automaton which opened the door and ushered him in with
ceremonious obeisance, destroyed with one blow the work of years.”
“I can forgive his terror,” said Eleanora, “for I well remember my own
affright, when the brazen head contrived by Friar Bacon, rolled along on
the table towards me, and uttered ‘pax vobiscum’ with startling
distinctness.”
“Albertus Magnus performed a still more astonishing work,” continued
Alphonso. “At a banquet which he gave in the garden of his cloister, in
the depth of winter, trees appeared covered with leaves and flowers, which
vanished as if by enchantment, when the guests rose to depart.”
“By what means were these wonderful works produced?” said Eleanora, with
astonishment.
“With the mode of this operation I am not familiar,” returned the
philosopher. “Doubtless by some of the powerful agents alchemy reveals to
its votaries.”
“And what dost thou consider the chief agent in the universe?” said
Eleanora, with the air of one inquiring after truth.
“Nature,” returned the philosopher, emphatically.
“And will it pain my brother, if his unlearned sister call that great
agent, who brings the flowers and leaves upon the trees in their season,
by the name of God?”
“Certainly, the name can affect nothing,” replied Alphonso; “and if thy
priest require it of thee, sin not against him, by a more liberal view.”
“And if the ignorant mass, who cannot be enlightened by thy theories, are
restrained from vice by the thought that an Omniscient Being takes note of
their actions, would it be well to free them from the necessary monitor?”
inquired his sister.
“It is doubtless well for man to be deterred from evil by salutary fear,
till he rises to more exalted capabilities,” replied Alphonso.
“And art willing,” suggested Eleanora, cautiously, “to administer to this
wholesome necessity until thy divine philosophy become sufficiently
perfected to renovate their character.”
“What priestly scheme hast thou in hand?” said her brother, regarding her
with a look of mirthful curiosity.
“Thou knowest how dearly I love the Castilian language,” returned the
queen, “and I would that my brother should perpetuate his fame by that
which will benefit his subjects. The sight of thy Jewish scribes,
suggested the thought that it would be easy for thee to procure the
translation of the Scriptures into our mother tongue.”
The philosopher remained silent for a moment, and then answered, “knowest
thou the effect of the measures thou proposest?”
“I conceive,” replied Eleanora, “that it will make thy people more
virtuous and happy, and,” added she, mindful of his foible, “prepare them
to receive all the additional light to which thy investigations may lead.”
“There will be another effect, which, perhaps thou dost not anticipate,”
replied Alphonso. “It will overthrow the power of the priesthood; for as
now each man inquires of his confessor concerning his duty, he will, if
enabled to read the boasted oracles, claim the right to interpret for
himself. But thy experiment shall be tried, and now I bethink me, those
learned scribes which our benevolent son Sancho hath permitted us to
employ in transcribing the laws of Spain into the language of Castile,
shall be placed under thy direction for this important work.”
Thus the object for which Eleanora had so long and so patiently prayed and
planned, progressed under the auspices of a man who affected to despise
the truths he yet condescended to propagate; and while the philosopher
gave critical attention to the correctness of the work, he found leisure
to complete his Astronomical tables, and to commence the first general
history of Spain.
CHAPTER XIV.
AN ACCIDENT.
To the monotony of a winter which the absence of the gallant cavaliers had
rendered doubly tedious to the ladies of the royal household, succeeded a
balmy spring. The favorite haunt of Eleanora, by the side of a noisy
stream, which escaping from its icy chain among the hills, hurried away
through the ravine, leaping up to clasp the overhanging rock in its wild
embrace, and showering its silver spray upon the weeping boughs that
fringed its bank, was again carpeted with mossy green, and draped with the
bright garniture of May.
The view from this romantic spot commanded upon the right the city of
Burgos, built upon the declivity of a hill, and on the left, a flowery
path leading along the bank of the stream, which it crossed by a
foot-bridge, wound up the cliff till it entered upon extensive plains that
stretched out to the west, and afforded rich pasturage for numerous flocks
which fed upon the luxuriant herbage.
One sunny afternoon, Eleanora, becoming deeply absorbed in her brother’s
history of the reign of their father, Ferdinand the Holy, allowed the
maidens, protected by the squires and pages, to climb the prohibited
cliff, which, ever since it had begun to assume its summer garb, had been
a strong temptation to their footsteps. Occupied with her manuscript, she
was unconscious of the lapse of time, but an occasional sound of merry
voices, mingling harmoniously with the pleasant reflections that filled
her mind, inspired her with a feeling of security and peace. It was nearly
sunset when she finished her task, and the chill dews admonished her of
the lateness of the hour; but when she raised her eyes, not a human being
was within call. The sentinel page, presuming upon his mistress’
abstraction, had strolled across the bridge and ascended the hill after
his companions, and the queen began to be alarmed lest the giddy party
should defer their return till darkness had increased the danger of the
mountain path. She gazed in every direction, and listened intently to
every sound. The breeze rustled the branches, and the river gurgled on its
way, but all else was still. Suddenly she perceived on the extremity of
the cliff, the rocks of which sank sheer down to the water’s edge, her
maidens hurrying to the rescue of a lamb, that, having strayed from the
care of the shepherd, startled the echoes with its piteous cries. Agnes
was foremost, and as she tripped along unconscious of the abyss which the
pendant foliage concealed from her sight, and clasped the snowy foundling
to her lovely breast, her slight figure bathed in the bright gold of the
western sky seemed the impersonation of the angel of mercy. With a glad
shout of exultation she turned to exhibit her prize, when the treacherous
earth gave way beneath her feet, and with her fleecy burden she was
precipitated into the stream, nearly opposite the spot which the queen,
breathless with alarm, had just reached. Screams of helpless terror rent
the air. The squires ran each in a different direction, hoping to find
some point from which they could descend the cliff, while the poor girl
floated rapidly down the stream, rising and sinking with the swelling
waves. Quick as thought, Eleanora caught up a fallen branch that lay upon
the bank, and extended it for her rescue. The drowning Agnes seized it
with one hand, and the queen, with great exertion, had drawn her almost to
the shore, when the frail support gave way, and the mad waters again
enveloped her form. As she sank, the animal struggled from her grasp and
gained the bank.
“Save her! Oh God in mercy save her!” exclaimed Eleanora, clasping her
hands in agony. At this moment a solitary pedestrian turning an angle in
the path, approached, and attracted by the cry of distress quickened his
pace. “There! there!” exclaimed the queen, pointing with a frantic gesture
to the spot where Agnes had disappeared. Without a word, the stranger
threw his staff and cloak upon the ground, and plunged into the stream.
But the rapacious tide had borne her beyond his reach. On he swam,
buffeting the waves with a strong arm, now searching the depths, and now
scanning the ruffled surface, till finding every effort unavailing, he
paused amid the whirling eddies, as if irresolute to seek the shore or
continue the fruitless search. At this moment a small fair hand gleamed in
the water before him, vainly clasping the idle waves, as if reaching for
the broken reed that had so deceived its hope. He grasped the tiny hand in
his own, raised the sinking form, and, renerved by the joy of success, and
the shouts of those who approached in tumultuous haste, by a few strokes
of his powerful arm gained the shore. Every hand was extended for his
assistance; but the stranger heeded not the proffered aid, and kneeling
upon the velvet turf he pressed the senseless form in his arms, and
regarded the face that lay so fixed and still upon his breast, with a mute
anxiety that held his features almost as rigid as those on which he gazed.
While the balance thus trembles between life and death, every voice is
dumb and every breath suppressed. The queen hangs motionless over her
unconscious favorite, and the attendants stand chilled and paralyzed with
doubt and dread, till a sudden gleam of satisfaction irradiates the
stranger’s face, and a faint sigh heaves the bosom of Agnes. “My God, I
thank thee!” exclaims Eleanora, fervently, while every frame dilates with
a full deep inspiration of returning hope. But the stranger, with an
authoritative wave of his hand, repels all attempts to relieve him of his
lovely charge. Gently he disengages the long silken locks that cling
dripping to his arm, tenderly he raises her head to catch the breeze that
fans her pallid cheek, and ’tis not till returning life quivers in the
languid eyelids, that pressing his lips upon her snowy hand, he resigns
her to her royal mistress. At once the maidens crowded around, some
weeping and some laughing under the excess of the same emotion, eager to
assist in the resuscitation of their lovely friend; and the squires and
pages busied themselves in constructing a litter of boughs, upon which
Agnes was conveyed to the palace.
Meanwhile, the innocent cause of the catastrophe crept shivering to the
feet of the queen, who compassionately ordered one of the attendants to
carry it forward; and thus while the shades of evening stretched over the
landscape, the saddened party re-entered the streets of Burgos. In the
general confusion the strange deliverer had disappeared, and no one knew
the direction he had taken; but the ladies had not been so much occupied
with their anxiety, that they had failed to mark his noble figure and
princely bearing; and Eleanora remembered that his face was one of
peculiar beauty, though marked by a scar, conspicuous upon the right
cheek.
CHAPTER XV.
FREDERIC THE BITTEN.
The slight illness that followed the accident which had so nearly proved
fatal to the young Jewess, was attended by no dangerous symptoms, and the
maidens amused her convalescence with conjectures concerning her
mysterious deliverer. Their pleasantries acquired new zest, when they
discovered that a rosy blush, no less than an evasive reply, answered
their reiterated prediction that the stranger would one day return, no
longer a simple knight, but a noble lord, or powerful prince, and claim
the fair hand on which he imprinted his parting kiss. Thus the weeks wore
away, and the affair at length ceased to be the engrossing topic of
conversation: the inhabitants of the palace resumed their accustomed
employments, and indulged in their usual rambles.
Eleanora received frequent despatches of the most satisfactory character
from her husband. The Christian arms had been everywhere successful
against the Moors, and the King of Arragon had added to his former
conquests, Majorca and Valencia, together with numerous castles and
churches taken from the Infidels. Edward proposed to return by sea to
Bordeaux, where he appointed his queen to meet him within the following
month.
But the tidings she received from Procida, through an ambassador that
craved a private audience, created a more agitating interest than even the
affairs of their own realm could awaken. At sight of the stranger, she
recognized the saviour of Agnes, and her first impulse was to thank him
for his generous exertions in behalf of her fair ward. But the grave
formality of his manner checked the graceful condescension. He seemed but
the bearer of a letter, and received her greeting merely as the messenger
of Procida, and presuming upon his avowed character, she proceeded to
peruse the despatch in his presence.
The epistle from the Jew commenced abruptly without date. It acquainted
the queen with the rank and title of the bearer, “Frederic the Bitten,”
Duke of Saxony, grandson of the illustrious Emperor of Germany, and
commended him to her courtesy as the suitor of the young Agnes. Procida
alluded darkly to negotiations and plots, which he trusted would
accomplish the deliverance of his country, but towards the close of the
epistle, the father triumphed over the conspirator, and the
expressions of paternal love subdued the tone of vengeance to the accents
of tenderness and apprehension.
“I was anxious my royal friend,” said he, “now that rugged winter has been
smoothed by a softer breath, I was anxious to write and to address thee
some grateful strain, as the first-fruits of the spring. But the mournful
news presages to me new storms; my songs sink into tears. In vain do the
heavens smile; in vain do the gardens and groves inspire me with
unseasonable joy, and the returning concert of the birds tempt me to
resume my own. I cannot behold with dry eyes the approaching desolation of
my kind nurse Sicily. Which shall I choose for her, the yoke, or honor? I
see that in the confusion of insurrection numbers of her innocent children
must perish. Shall I then leave her under the power of the tyrant? Shall
our beautiful Palermo be defiled by strangers? Shall the powerful and
noble Messina rest in quiet with the foot of her oppressor on her neck; or
shall I, while feigning peace, organize a war, rousing Sicily and the
world to revenge? Revenge! at the word all thoughts of pity and tenderness
leave me. The concentrated rage of Etna seems warring in my bosom; it
heaves at sight of the miseries of my unhappy people. The island is full
of preparations against the Greeks: but, when the sword is drawn, shall it
not be buried in the breast of him who drains the life blood from his
helpless subjects?
“But in that hour Procida may perish, and the King of Arragon fail to
restore the sister of Manfred to her ancient rights. There will then
remain of the house of Suabia only ‘Frederic the Bitten.’ If the daughter
of Procida favor his suit, detain him till the ‘Ides of March’ be
passed, for with Frederic, dies the last hope of the Hohenstaufen.”
Eleanora closed the letter and pondered a moment upon its contents. In the
plan of Procida to detain Frederic from the approaching conflict in
Sicily, she most readily acquiesced, but the difficulty of managing so
delicate an affair became instantly apparent to her ready perception.
When, however, she adroitly endeavored to draw from the young duke his
knowledge of the purposes of Procida, her apprehension was relieved by
discovering that the affair had been planned in such a manner as to
require from her, neither entreaty nor subterfuge, since the wily Jew had
exacted a promise from the young noble, that he would spend a twelvemonth,
at the court of his cousin Edward, before he demanded the hand of Agnes in
marriage. Procida had not indeed, left the duke ignorant of his ultimate
purpose, but he had led him to look for its accomplishment at a much more
distant date than that designated in the letter, and Frederic consequently
feeling no anxiety for an immediate return to Sicily, readily accepted the
queen’s invitation to form part of the royal escort to Bordeaux.
Eleanora in taking leave of her brother, was comforted with the thought,
that he was occupied with a more healthful and profitable pursuit than
were the abstruse researches into the mysteries of nature, in which she
had found him engaged. She had also the satisfaction of knowing that the
deposed monarch had laid aside all his ambitious projects for empire, and
now busied his thoughts in calculating the immense advantage and glory
that would accrue to mankind from the Castilian literature he had in
preparation. The affectionate farewells were exchanged, and, accompanied
by her two beautiful children, Beatrice and Berengaria, her maidens and
the attendant squires, and a small band of Spanish cavaliers, among whom
rode the Duke of Saxony, she set off to meet her lord in Aquitaine. In the
genial society of the queen and her maidens, whose spirits were
exhilarated by the exercise and incidents of the journey, Frederic seemed
to breathe an atmosphere to which he had been unaccustomed, and which
served to enliven his habitual gravity, and develop the gentler qualities
of his naturally generous character. The maidens amused themselves with
constant allusions to the happy accomplishment of their prediction, and
the wit of the fair Agnes was sorely tested, in meeting and parrying their
playful attacks. The courteous attentions of the duke, were so impartially
distributed among the ladies, that not even jealousy itself could find
cause for complaint; yet it was only the voice of Agnes that had power to
rouse him from his frequent reveries, and when he spoke, his eye
instinctively turned to read in her countenance approbation or dissent.
Disciplined in the school of adversity, he manifested a strength and
severity of character, tempered by a pensive tenderness, which showed that
his mother’s wrongs had wrought in his heart a sentiment of sympathy for
the suffering which made him hesitate to involve his country in the
exterminating wars, that he foresaw would follow a renewal of the strife
between the Guelphs and Ghibellines; and though he felt an enthusiastic
admiration for the ardor and zeal of Procida, yet the unscrupulous Jew,
who studied the character of all he met with reference to their
availability in the approaching crisis, too accurately estimated the
probity and truth of the young noble, to attempt to engage him in the dark
plot for the overthrow of d’Anjou. Still he loved the duke, as the
descendant of his great patron, and honored him for those qualities, of
which he felt himself destitute; and thus it was with a feeling of joyful
security, rather than of pride at the princely alliance, that he consented
to bestow his only treasure upon the man, who least of all sympathised in
the one purpose of his life.
The royal party arrived at Bordeaux a few days in advance of the King of
England, and during these hours of leisure, Frederic unfolded to the queen
the mystery of his first appearance in Burgos.
Procida had entrusted him with despatches for the King of Arragon; and to
execute his commission with the more secresy, and at the same time to
enjoy the freedom of the mountain solitudes, he travelled without retinue
or insignia of rank. Thus he was leisurely pursuing his way along the bank
of the stream, communing pleasantly with his own thoughts, when the cries
of Eleanora attracted him, just in time to save Agnes from a watery grave.
Time had so developed her loveliness that at first he failed to recognize
in the fair being before him, the beautiful child he had been accustomed
to admire in her father’s castle of Prochyta; but when the first flush of
returning life glowed upon her countenance, his admiration became lost in
a deeper emotion, and from that hour he determined to lay the ducal
coronet of Saxony at the feet of the beautiful daughter of Sicily.
The return of the royal family was an era in the annals of English
prosperity, from the number of valuables imported from Spain. In the
catalogue of the queen’s plate, mention is made of a crystal fork, the
parting gift of her brother Alphonso, from which the first idea of these
articles of table luxury was derived: but the lamb, which had so nearly
cost the life of Agnes, proved a benefit to the nation, whose value can
never be estimated; and the shepherd of Cotswold to this day, has reason
to bless the queen, who bestowed the cherished pet in an English fold.
During his southern campaign, King Edward had contracted an alliance
between his eldest daughter Eleanora, and Alphonso, the young Prince of
Arragon. The next sister, Joanna of Acre, who most of all resembled her
mother in beauty and strength of character, was about the same time,
married to the first peer of the realm, Gilbert the red Earl of
Gloucester, and the third daughter wedded to John, the Duke of Brabant. At
these nuptials the queen presented a golden cup of benison to each of the
brides, inscribed with appropriate passages of Holy Writ; and though, in
consequence of Frederic’s promise to her father, the betrothment between
himself and Agnes could not then take place, Eleanora bestowed upon her
lovely ward a similar gift, bearing these words, “Thou hast been unto me
as a daughter.”
CHAPTER XVI.
LETTER FROM PROCIDA TO DON PEDRO, KING OF ARRAGON.
* * * * * * * “Thou didst tell me in Arragon, that to restore Sicily to
the house of Suabia, was the chimera of a maddened brain; that the strong
arm of the church would be lifted to crush the Ghibellines in their final
struggle; that gold was wanting to bribe the soldier to draw his sword in
behalf of the doomed race, and that the enemies of Charles of Anjou could
not be brought to act together against their common foe. Recall now the
cruel words that drove Procida from thy court, a Mendicant, ‘Conquer
these impossibilities, and the fleet of Arragon is ready to substantiate
the claim of the daughter of Manfred to the throne of Sicily.’ Goaded by
the mocking promise, the mendicant wanders in Sicily. Now, companion of
the tax-gatherer, he wrings the last drachmè from the hard hand of toil,
and now with the agents of tyranny, he hides the skins of stags or deer in
the huts of the peasant, and then robs the goatherd as a penalty for the
offence. Thus, he listens and observes. Thus, he tugs at the chain that
festers in their shrinking flesh, to show his countrymen their thraldom.
Anon, a shepherd or a herdsman, he traverses the valley, or scales the
rock, joins the youthful throng that stealthily sport beneath the mountain
chesnut, or mingles with the vexed vassals who wait their sovereigns’
will, and whispers in the ear of each repining soul, ‘The avenger of
Manfred holds the vigils of Freedom in the cave of the forest of Palermo.’
At sunset, a traveller, he seeks the rendezvous: the husbandman is
returning to his cottage, his reaping-hook hanging idly from his arm, the
Frenchman has gathered the grain from his fields. The herdsman drives his
lowing flocks across the lea—the kine and the goat have been robbed of
their young, and their fleecy robes been stripped from the bleating
tenants of the fold. The peasant of Hibla returns mourning the swarm which
the wind bore beyond his reclaim, but still more the honied stores which
during his absence the hand of the spoiler ravished from his unprotected
apiary. There comes no voice from the vineyard—the vintagers have trodden
the wine-press, but the ruby current flows in the goblets that enliven the
banquets of their foreign masters. Oh my people, Sicilians! Listen to him
who whispers in the ear of each, ‘Carry thy wrongs to the cave of the
forest of Palermo.’ They come—barbarians, Arabs, Jews, Normans and
Germans—those who rejoiced in the tolerant reign of the Suabians, those
who have suffered from the tyrant French—Etna groans with the prescience
of coming vengeance, and with her thousand tongues of flame, summons the
guilty oppressor to abide the ‘judgment of God’ before the altar.
* * * * * * “A vessel sails from Brundusium, the mariners, hardy
Calabrians, spread their sails and bend to their oars with patient
purpose; but there is one among them who never leaves his post, in calm
or in storm—one thought gives strength and vigor to his iron arm; and
though a scorner of puerile beadsmen, he almost prays the God of the wind
to speed him on his course. Should the Greek Emperor refuse his aid—he
will tell him that, which will make him tremble for his throne and force
the gold from the reluctant coffers. The crafty Paleologus hesitates, but
he stands aghast, when Procida acquaints him that Venice hath lent her
ships to D’Anjou, and another Dandolo is already embarked to repeat the
Fifth Crusade! The Greek exclaims in despair, ‘I know not what to do.’
‘Give me money,’ replies the mariner, ‘and I will find you a defender,
who has no money, but who has arms.’ Michael Paleologus opens his
treasures and satisfies even a Jew’s thirst for gold. Most of all,
Paleologus desires a complete reconciliation with the pope; most of all
Procida desires an interview with the sovereign pontiff.
“More swiftly returns the galley; and the ambassador of the Greek stands
upon the prow, wrapped in courtly vestments; but not the less anxiously
does he watch the winds and waves that return him to Rome. The feeble
Nicholas trembles at thought of the vast undertaking, but Procida has
fathomed the old man’s ambition for his house. He reminds him of the reply
of D’Anjou, when the pope proposed a marriage between his neice and
Charles’ son, ‘Does Nicholas fancy because he wears red stockings that the
blood of Orsini can mingle with the blood of France?’ The stinging
remembrance of the taunt determines the pontiff, and the treaty with
Paleologus is delivered into the hands of the ambassador. Behold now, King
of Arragon, ‘The impossibilities are conquered,’ and thou art bound by
the very vow of thine unbelief to ‘substantiate the claim of the daughter
of Manfred to the throne of Sicily.’”
Before the letter of Procida reached Don Pedro, Pope Nicholas died, and
Charles had sufficient interest with the college of cardinals to procure
the election of one of his own creatures to the Holy See.
These events darkened the horizon above the Sicilians: but the dauntless
spirit of Procida rose superior to this alarming turn of affairs. Though
aware that Charles had been made acquainted with his designs, he remained
upon the island, stealthily riveting the links of the conspiracy, and
binding the discordant interests of the various ranks in an indissoluble
confederacy, for the overthrow of foreign oppression. The cave of the
forest of Palermo was piled with bundles of faggots, in which were
concealed the weapons that the inhabitants had forged in secresy and in
darkness, for by the prohibition of the French no Sicilian was permitted
to wear arms. The grand conspirator knew well the Sicilian character,
ardent, gay, voluptuous,—he chose his time with his wonted sagacity, when
the beautiful island rejoicing in the fullness of bloom, invites her
children to banquet upon her charms; when the long abstinence of Lent
being over, the senses, reanimated by flesh and wine, start from languor
to revel in the enjoyment of luxury and the exhilaration of passion.
Easter-Monday, March 30th, 1282, dawns upon Sicily with fair promise for
the festal day. The citizens of Palermo look one upon another with furtive
glances of restrained impatience, and prepared for the annual fête with
busy alacrity, while the foreigners, made apprehensive by the gathering
multitudes, come armed to assist in garlanding the very church of God.
At sunset a bride and bridegroom go forth, attended by all the inhabitants
of the city, both men and women, up the beautiful hill Monréale, to
present their vows at the altar of the blessed Virgin:—a traitor whispers
the warning, “The Sicilians have arms beneath their robes.” The leader of
the French hurries forward and seizes the weapon of the bridegroom—he
lays his licentious hand upon the bride. Procida draws his sword, and with
a cry of “Death to the French!” buries it in the heart of the brutal
enemy. At the moment the sound of the Vesper bell floats from the temple
of our lady, on the mount of Monréale. It is the appointed signal for
vengeance, and “Death to the French!” echoes from lip to lip, through all
the ranks of the Sicilians. Everywhere the tyrants are cut down—the
houses of the foreigners bear each a fatal mark, and the Destroying Angel
spares not even women and children, and the night spreads her solemn pall
over the bodies of slaughtered thousands.
Intelligence of the accomplishment of Procida’s purpose soon reached
Eleanora; but the horrors of the massacre were suppressed, nor did Agnes
ever know the cruel part her father had played in the grand tragedy of the
Sicilian Vespers. She learned, indeed, that the Queen of Arragon had
rescued the only son of D’Anjou from his pursuers, and conveyed him away
in safety from the island; but the insurrection had not reached its final
triumph, when she left the court of England as the Duchess of Saxony; and
it was from that time the care of her husband that her gentle spirit
should not be pained by a knowledge of the sanguinary scenes that resulted
in the death of D’Anjou, and in the re-establishment of the house of
Suabia upon the throne of Sicily.
It would have been natural for Edward, in this struggle, to throw the
weight of his influence on the side of his uncle D’Anjou; but the
circumstance of his daughter’s betrothment to Alphonso of Arragon, held
him neutral. He, however, negotiated a peace between the pope and
Alphonso, by which D’Anjou’s son, Charles the Lame, was released from his
captivity in Arragon, and permitted to assume his authority in Naples.
Eleanora’s love for her husband, not less than her delicate appreciation
of excellence, had led her to weigh with wise discrimination the effect of
political events upon his character; and the truth was reluctantly forced
upon her, that ambition, nurtured by the uniform success of his
enterprises, was gradually absorbing the nobler qualities of his nature,
and steeling his heart against the claims of justice and humanity.
King Alexander III. of Scotland, the last direct heir in the male line
from Maude, died 1285, and this circumstance was the precursor of that
period, fatal to Edward’s honor, and to the long-established amity between
the two kingdoms.
To avert the consequences which she foresaw would follow Alexander’s
demise, she had influenced Edward to propose a matrimonial alliance
between the Prince of Wales and the Maid of Norway, heiress of the
Scottish crown. The states of Scotland readily assented to the proposition
of the English, and even consented that their young sovereign should be
educated at the court of her royal father-in-law. But, while Eleanora was
anticipating the pleasant task of rearing the future Queen of England, she
was overwhelmed with sorrow by the intelligence, that the tender frame of
the priceless child, unable to sustain the rigors of the voyage, had
fallen a victim to death at the Orkneys, on her way to England. Her loss
was the greatest calamity that ever befell the Scottish nation, fully
justifying the touching couplet,
“The North wind sobs where Margaret sleeps,
And still in tears of blood her memory Scotland steeps.”
The succession of the Scottish crown became at once a matter of dispute,
and all the evils which Eleanora had foreseen began to darken the
political horizon.
The line of Alexander being extinct, the crown devolved on the issue of
David, Earl of Huntington, who figures as Sir Kenneth, in the “Talisman”.
The earl had three daughters, from one of whom descended John Baliol, from
another Robert Bruce; and the rival claims of these two competitors having
for some time agitated the kingdom, it was agreed to submit the
arbitration of the affair to Edward, in the same manner as Henry III. had
made Louis IX. umpire of his difficulties upon the continent. But the
noble virtues of the saintly monarch were poorly represented in the
English king. Edward at once claimed the crown for himself as lord
paramount of the country, appointed Baliol as his deputy, and sent six
regents to take possession of Scotland. The brave men of the north
resisted this aggression with a spirit that fully proved their
Scandinavian origin, and Edward hastened to the Scottish border to enforce
his claims.
Queen Eleanora was absent in Ambresbury, to witness the profession of her
daughter Mary, who there, with the Welsh Princess Guendoline, was veiled a
nun under the care of her royal mother-in-law, Eleanora of Provence. But
no sooner was the ceremony concluded, than she complied with her husband’s
earnest request, that she should follow him to Scotland.
Regardless of fatigue, she hurried forward, though sensible that an
incipient fever preyed upon her strength. As the dangerous symptoms
increased, she redoubled her speed, hoping at least to reach Alnwick
castle, and die in her husband’s arms. But at Grantham, in Lincolnshire,
her strength utterly failed, and in the residence of a private gentleman,
who had belonged to their household in Palestine, she awaited the coming
of the King of Terrors. A courier was immediately despatched to Edward,
with news of her alarming illness. At the gentle call of conjugal love,
all other considerations gave way in the heart of Edward. He turned
southward instantly, and by forced stages, hurried towards Grantham. The
dying Eleanora watched for his coming with an anxiety born of an intense
devotion to the welfare of her husband and his subjects. She longed to
repeat with her last breath the tender counsels that had ever influenced
him to clemency and mercy, and which she had enforced by the strongest of
all arguments, the daily example of a holy life. But the last sad duty to
the cold remains of his beloved consort, was the only consolation left to
the bereaved monarch, when he arrived at Lincolnshire. With a sorrow that
found relief in every outward testimonial of woe, he followed her corpse
in person during thirteen days in progress of the funeral to Westminster.
In every town where the royal bier rested the ecclesiastics assembled, and
in solemn procession conducted it to the high altar of the principal
church, and at each resting-place, Edward set up a crucifix in memory of
“La chere reine,” as he passionately called his lost Eleanora. Charing
Cross, erected upon the site now occupied by the statue of Charles I., was
the London monument of this saintly queen.
An English writer, in a tribute to her memory, thus enumerates her
virtues, “To our nation she was a loving mother, the column and pillar of
the whole realm; therefore, to her glory, the king her husband caused all
those famous trophies to be erected, wherever her noble corpse did rest;
for he loved her above all earthly creatures. She was a godly, modest and
merciful princess; the English nation in her time was not harassed by
foreigners, nor the country people by the purveyors of the crown. The
sorrow-stricken she consoled, as became her dignity, and she made them
friends that were at discord.”
Her sorrowing lord endowed the Abbey of Winchester with rich donations for
the perpetual celebration of dirges and masses for her soul, and waxen
tapers were burned about her tomb, till the light of the Reformation
outshone the lights of superstition; but her imperishable virtues survive
every monumental device, illume the annals of history, and illustrate the
true philosophy of female Heroism.
