When these were ended he rose from his knees; and when out of the death-chamber bowed his bead and with grave courtesy exchanged greetings with Charles of Anjou, asking at the same time to see his young cousin Philippe, the new King of France.
An inquiry from an attendant elicited that Philippe had just dropped asleep under the influence of a potion from his leech.
"Then, fair nephew," said Charles of Sicily, "be content with your old uncle, and come to my apartments, where I will set before you the necessities that have led me to conclude the truce that is baffling your eager desire of deeds of arms."
"Pardon me, royal uncle," returned Edward, "I must see my camp set up. It is already late, and I must take order that my troops mingle not where contagion might seize them. Another time," he added, "I may brook the argument better."
Charles of Anjou did not press him further. There was that in his face and voice which betokened that his fierce indignation and overpowering grief were scarcely restrained, and that a word of excuse in his present mood would but have roused the lion.
Horses had been provided for him and his attendant. He flung himself on his steed at once, and Richard was obliged to follow without a moment's opportunity of making inquiry about the wonderful apparition he had seen in the chamber of death.
For some distance Edward galloped rapidly over the sandy soil, then drawing up his horse when he had come to the brow from which he could see on the one side the valley of Carthage, on the other the bay, he made an exclamation which Richard took for a summons, and he came up asking if he were called. "No, boy, no! I only spoke my thoughts aloud! Failure and success! We've seen them both to-day-in the two kings! What thinkst thou of them?"
"Better be wrecked than work the wreck, my Lord," said Richard.
"Ay! but why surrender the wit to the worker of the wreck?" said Edward. Then knitting his brow, "Two holy men have I known who did not blind their wit for their conscience' sake-two alone-did it fare better with them? One was the good Bishop of Lincoln-the other thou knowst, Richard! Well, one goes after another-first good Bishop Grostete, then the Lord of Leicester, and now mine uncle of France; and if earth is to have no better than such as it pleases the Saints to leave in it, it will not be worth staying in much longer."
"My Lord," said Richard, coming near, "methought I saw my father's face under a visor-one of the knightly guards beside the holy King."
"Well might thy fancy call him up in such a presence," said Edward. "They twain had hearts in the same place above, though they saw the world below on different sides, and knew each other little, and loved each other less, in life. That's all at an end now! Well, back to our camp to make the best of the world they have left behind them!" And then in a tone that Richard was not meant to hear, "While mi dona Leonor remains to me there is something saintly and softening still in this world! Heaven help me-ay, and all my foes-were she gone from it too!"
CHAPTER VIII-RICHARD'S WRAITH
"No distance breaks the tie of blood; Brothers are brothers evermore; Nor wrong, nor wrath of deadliest mood, That magic may o'erpower."-Christian Year.
It was nearly dark when the Prince and the Page landed on the island, and found the tents already set up in their due order and rank, according to the discipline that no one durst transgress where Edward was the commander.
Richard attended him to his pavilion, and being there dismissed until supper-time, crossed the square space which was always left around the royal banner, to the tent at the southern corner, which was regularly appropriated to the pages' use. On lifting its curtain he was, however, dismayed to see a kirtle there, and imagining that he must have fallen upon the ladies' quarters, he was retreating with an apology; when the sharp voice of Dame Idonea called out, "Oh yes, Master Page! 'tis you that are at home here. I was merely tarrying till 'twas the will of one of you to come in and look to the poor child."
And little John of Dunster called from a couch of mantles, "Richard, oh! is it he at last?"
"It is I," said Richard, advancing into the light of a brass lamp, hung by chains from the top of the tent. "This is kind indeed, Lady! But is he indeed so ill at ease?"
"How should he be otherwise, with none of you idle-pated pages casting a thought to him?"
"I was grieved to leave him-but the Prince summoned me," began Richard.
"Beshrew thee! Tell me not of princes, as though there were no one whom thou couldst bid to have a care of the little lad!"
"I did bid Piers-," Richard made another attempt.
"Piers, quotha? Why didst not bid the Jackanapes that sits on the luggage? A proper warder for a sick babe!"
"I am no babe!" here burst out John; "I am twelve years old come Martinmas, and I need no tendance but Richard's."
"Ha, ha! So those are all the thanks we ladies get, when we are not young and fair!" laughed Dame Idonea, rather amused.
"I want no women, young or old," petulantly repeated John; "I want Richard.-Lift me up, Richard; take away this cloak."
"For his life, no!" returned the Dame; "he has the heats and the chills on him, and to let him take cold would be mere slaughter."
"Alas!" said Richard, "I hoped nothing ailed him but the sea, and that landing would make all well."
"As if the sea ever made a child shiver and burn by turns! Nay, 'tis the trick of the sun in these parts. Strange that the sun himself should be a mere ally of the Infidel! I tell thee, if the child is ever to see Dunster again, thou must watch him well, keep him from the sun by day and the chill by night; or he'll be like the poor creatures in the French camp out there, whom, I suppose, you found in fine case."
"Alack yes, Lady!"
"I've seen it many a time; and all their disorders will be creeping into our camp next. Tell me, is it even as they told us, one king dead and the other dying?"
Richard began to wonder whether he should ever get her out of his tent, for she insisted on his telling her every possible particular- who had died, who had lived, who was sick, who well; and as from the close connection between the English, French, and Sicilian courts, whose queens were all sisters, she knew who every one was, and accounted for the history of each person she inquired after, back to the last generation-happy if it were not to the third-her conversation was not quickly over. She ended at last, by desiring Richard to give her patient some of a febrifuge, which she had brought with her, every two hours, and when it was all spent, or in case of any change in the boy's state, to summon her from the ladies' tent; adding, however, "But what's the use of leaving a pert springald like thee in charge? Thou wilt sleep like a very dormouse, I'll warrant! I'd best call Mother Jugge."
"Oh no, no!" cried John; to whom the attendance of Mother Jugge would have been a worse indignity than the being nursed by Dame Idonea; "let me have no one but Richard! Richard knows all I want.-Richard, leave me not again."
"Ay, ay; a little lad ever hangs to a bigger, were he to torture the life out of him. Small thanks for us women after our good looks be past. But I'll look in on the child in early morn, thanks or no thanks; for I know his mother well, and if I can help it, the hyenas shall not make game of his bones, as I hear them doing by the French yonder."
John strove to say that, indeed, he thanked her, and had been infinitely comforted and refreshed by her care, and that all he meant was to express his distaste to Mother Jugge, the lavender (i.e. laundress), and his desire for Richard Fowen's company; but he was little attended to, and apparently more than half offended, the brisk old lady trotted away.