"Sir John de Mohun of Dunster," he said, "thou art come hither to espouse my daughter?"
"I hope, so, Sir," said John, somewhat taken by surprise.
"Come hither, maiden," said her father.
The cluster of knights opened, and from within the church there appeared before the astonished bridegroom the stately form of King Edward, leading in his hand the dark-tressed, dark-haired maiden, dressed in spotless white, the only adornment she wore a circlet of diamonds round her flowing dark hair-the Queen indeed of the Dew- drops. And behind her walked with calm dignity the beautiful Princess Eleanor, now nearly a woman, holding with a warning hand the merry mischievous Joan.
Well might John of Dunster stand dazzled and amazed, but hesitation or delay there was none. Then and there, by the Grand Prior himself, was the ceremony performed, without a word of further explanation. The rite over, when the bridegroom took the bride's hand to follow, as all were marshalled on their way, he knew not whither, she looked up to him through her dark eyelashes, and murmured, "They would not have it otherwise!"
"Deem you that I would?" said the knight fervently, pressing her hand.
"I deemed that you should know all-who I am," she faltered.
"My wife, the Lady of Dunster. That is all I need to know," replied Sir John, with the honest trustworthy look that showed it was indeed enough to secure his heart-whole love and reverence.
The great hall of the Spital was decked for the bridal feast. The bride and bridegroom were placed at the head of the table, and the King gave up his place beside the bride to her blind father. All the space within the cloister without was strewn with rushes, where sat and feasted the whole fraternity of beggars; and well did the Grand Prior and his knights do their part in the entertainment.
Then when the banquet was drawing to its close, the blind beggar bade the boy that waited near him fetch his harp. And, as had often before been his practice, he sang in a deep manly voice, to the boy's accompaniment on his harp. But the song that then he sang had never been heard before, nor was its exact like ever heard again; though tradition has handed down a few of the main features, and (as may be seen by this veracious narration) somewhat vulgarized them:-
"A poore beggar's daughter did dwell on a greene, Who might for her faireness have well been a queene; A blithe bonny lasse and a dainty was she, And many one called her pretty Bessee."
Even the King, who had so well guarded the secret, was entirely unprepared to hear the Montfort parentage thus publicly avowed; and the bride, who had as little known of her father's intentions, sat with downcast eyes, blushing and tearful, while the beggar's recitative went briefly and somewhat tremulously over his resuscitation, under the hands of the fair and faithful Isabel. Her hand was held by her bridegroom from the first, with a pressure meant to assure her that no discovery could alter his love and regard; but when the name of Montfort sounded on his ear, the hand wrung hers with anxiety; and when the entire tale had been told, and the last chord was dying away, he murmured, "Look up at me, my loveliest. Now I know why I first loved thine eyes. Thou art dearer to me than ever, for the sake of my first and best friend!"
His words were only for herself. The King was saying aloud,
"Well sung, fair cousin! A health, my Lords and Knights, for Sir Henry de Montfort, Earl of Leicester."
"Not so, Lords and Knights!" called this strange personage, the only one who would thus have contradicted the King; "the Earl of Leicester has long ago been dead, as you have heard. If you drink, let it be to Blind Hal of Bethnal Green."
Nor could all the entreaties of daughter, son-in-law, nor King, move him from his purpose of living and dying as Blind Hal, the beggar. He had tasted too long of liberty, he said, to put himself under constraint. To live in Somersetshire, as his daughter wished, would have been banishment and solitude to one used to divert himself with every humour of the city; and to be, as he declared, a far more complete king of the beggars than ever his cousin Edward was over England. All he would consent to, was that a room in a lodge in Windsor Park should be set apart for him under charge of Adam de Gourdon, who had been present at this scene, and was infinitely rejoiced at the sight of a scion of the House of Montfort. For the rest, he bade every one to forget his avowal, which, as he said, he had only made that the blanch lion might share with the Mohun cross; and as he added to Princess Eleanor, "that you court dames may never flout at pretty Bessee! Had the Cheddar Yeoman been the true man, none had ever known that she was a Montfort."
"Would you have given her to the Cheddar Yeoman?" burst out Joan furiously.
"That he will say so, to anger thee, is certain, Joan," said the King. "Farewell, Henry. Remember, I hold thee bound to be my comrade when I can return to the Holy War."
"Ay, when you have tamed Scotland, even as you have tamed Wales," returned Henry.
"No fear of my good brother Alexander's realm needing such taming. Heaven forbid!" said Edward.
But the beggar parted from him with a laugh.
CHAPTER XVI-THE PAGE'S MEMORY
The pure calm picture of a blameless friend. Lyra Apostolica.
Ten years later, King Edward was walking in the park at Windsor with slow and weary steps. His rich dark brown hair and beard were lined with gray, his face was not only grave but worn and melancholy, and more severe than ever. The sorrow of his life, his queen's death, had fallen on him, and with her had gone much of softening influence; the only son who had been spared to him was, though a mere child, grieving him by the wayward frivolities not of a strong but of a weak nature; he had wrought much for his country's good, but had often been thwarted and never thanked; his mercies and benefits were forgotten, his justice counted as harshness, and hatred and opposition had met him everywhere. Above all, and weighting him perhaps most severely, was that his first step beyond his just bounds had been taken in the North. John Baliol was indeed king, but Edward in his zeal for discipline had bound Scotland with obligations-for her good indeed, but beyond his just right to impose; and the sense of aggression was embittering him against the Scottish resistance, while at the same time adding to his sadness.
A knight came forth from one of the paths that led into that along which he was pacing with folded arms, and unwilling to break upon his mood, stood waiting, till Edward himself looked up and asked impatiently, "So, Sir John, what now? Another outbreak of those intolerable Scotch?"
"Not so, my Lord; but the Bailiff of Acre awaits to see you."
"Bailiff of Acre! What is the Bailiff of Acre to me? I cannot hear all their importunities for a crusade! Heaven knows how gladly I would hasten to the Holy War, if these savage Scots would give me peace at home. I am weary of their solicitations. Cannot you tell him I would be private, John?"
"My Lord, he says he has matter for your private ear, concerning one whom you met in Palestine-and, my Lord, you will sure remember him- Sir Reginald Ferrers."
"The friend of Richard!" said Edward, with a changed countenance. "Bring him with you to your father-in-law's lodge, John. If there be aught to hear of the House of Montfort, it concerns him and you likewise. I was on my way thither."
In a short time the woodland lodge, in one of the most beautiful glades of Windsor Forest, beheld the King seated on a bench placed beneath a magnificent oak, standing alone in its own glade, and beside him the Blind Beggar in his russet suit; far less changed than his royal cousin during these years. Since Edward's great sorrow, Henry de Montfort had held less apart from him; and whenever the King was at leisure to snatch a short retirement at one of his hunting lodges, he always sent an intimation to the beggar, who would journey down on a sober ass, and under the care of De Gourdon, now the chief of the hunting staff, would meet the King in some sylvan glade. Why it was a comfort to Edward to be with him, it would be hard to say; probably from the habit of old fellowship, for Henry's humour had not grown more courtly or less caustic.