Chivalry (14 page)

Intently gazing into the man's shallow eyes, Philippa assented. Master
Copeland had acted unwarrantably in riding off with his captive. Let
him be sought at once. She dictated to Neville's secretary a letter,
which informed John Copeland that he had done what was not agreeable
in purloining her prisoner. Let him without delay deliver the King to
her good friend the Earl of Neville.

To Neville this was satisfactory, since he intended that once in his
possession David Bruce should escape forthwith. The letter, I repeat,
suited this smirking gentleman in its tiniest syllable, and the single
difficulty was to convey it to John Copeland, for as to his
whereabouts neither Neville nor any one else had the least notion.

This was immaterial, however, for they narrate that next day a letter
signed with John Copeland's name was found pinned to the front of
Neville's tent. I cite a passage therefrom: "I will not give up my
royal prisoner to a woman or a child, but only to my own lord, Sire
Edward, for to him I have sworn allegiance, and not to any woman. Yet
you may tell the Queen she may depend on my taking excellent care of
King David. I have poulticed his nose, as she directed."

Here was a nonplus, not without its comical side. Two great realms had
met in battle, and the king of one of them had vanished like a
soap-bubble. Philippa was in a rage,—you could see that both by her
demeanor and by the indignant letters she dictated; true, none of
these letters could be delivered, since they were all addressed to
John Copeland. Meanwhile, Scotland was in despair, whereas the traitor
English barons were in a frenzy, because they did not know what had
become of their fatal letters to the Bruce, or of him either. The
circumstances were unique, and they remained unchanged for three
feverish weeks.

We will now return to affairs in France, where on the day of the
Nativity, as night gathered about Calais, John Copeland came
unheralded to the quarters of King Edward, then besieging that city.
Master Copeland entreated audience, and got it readily enough, since
there was no man alive whom Sire Edward more cordially desired to lay
his fingers upon.

A page brought Master Copeland to the King, that stupendous, blond and
incredibly big person. With Sire Edward were that careful Italian,
Almerigo di Pavia, who afterward betrayed Sire Edward, and a lean
soldier whom Master Copeland recognized as John Chandos. These three
were drawing up an account of the recent victory at Creci, to be
forwarded to all mayors and sheriffs in England, with a cogent
postscript as to the King's incidental and immediate need of money.

Now King Edward sat leaning far back in his chair, a hand on either
hip, and with his eyes narrowing as he regarded Master Copeland. Had
the Brabanter flinched, the King would probably have hanged him within
the next ten minutes; finding his gaze unwavering, the King was
pleased. Here was a novelty; most people blinked quite honestly under
the scrutiny of those fierce big eyes, which were blue and cold and of
an astounding lustre. The lid of the left eye drooped a little: this
was Count Manuel's legacy, they whispered.

The King rose with a jerk and took John Copeland's hand. "Ha!" he
grunted, "I welcome the squire who by his valor has captured the King
of Scots. And now, my man, what have you done with Davie?"

John Copeland answered: "Highness, you may find him at your
convenience safely locked in Bamborough Castle. Meanwhile, I entreat
you, sire, do not take it amiss if I did not surrender King David to
the orders of my lady Queen, for I hold my lands of you, and not of
her, and my oath is to you, and not to her, unless indeed by choice."

"John," the King sternly replied, "the loyal service you have done us
is considerable, whereas your excuse for kidnapping Davie is a farce.
Hey, Almerigo, do you and Chandos avoid the chamber! I have something
in private with this fellow." When they had gone, the King sat down
and composedly said, "Now tell me the truth, John Copeland."

"Sire," Copeland began, "it is necessary you first understand I bear a
letter from Madame Philippa—"

"Then read it," said the King. "Heart of God! have I an eternity to
waste on you slow-dealing Brabanters!"

John Copeland read aloud, while the King trifled with a pen, half
negligent, and in part attendant.

Read John Copeland:

"My DEAR LORD,—
recommend me to your lordship with soul and body and
all my poor might, and with all this I thank you, as my dear lord,
dearest and best beloved of all earthly lords I protest to me, and
thank you, my dear lord, with all this as I say before. Your
comfortable letter came to me on Saint Gregory's day, and I was never
so glad as when I heard by your letter that ye were strong enough in
Ponthieu by the grace of God for to keep you from your enemies. Among
them I estimate Madame Catherine de Salisbury, who would have betrayed
you to the Scot. And, dear lord, if it be pleasing to your high
lordship that as soon as ye may that I might hear of your gracious
speed, which may God Almighty continue and increase, I shall be glad,
and also if ye do continue each night to chafe your feet with a rag of
woollen stuff, as your physician directed. And, my dear lord, if it
like you for to know of my fare, John Copeland will acquaint you
concerning the Bruce his capture, and the syrup he brings for our son
Lord Edward's cough, and the great malice-workers in these shires
which would have so despitefully wrought to you, and of the manner of
taking it after each meal. I am lately informed that Madame Catherine
is now at Stirling with Robert Stewart and has lost all her good looks
through a fever. God is invariably gracious to His servants. Farewell,
my dear lord, and may the Holy Trinity keep you from your adversaries
and ever send me comfortable tidings of you. Written at York, in the
Castle, on Saint Gregory's day last past, by your own poor

"PHILIPPA.

"To my true lord."

"H'm!" said the King; "and now give me the entire story."

John Copeland obeyed. I must tell you that early in the narrative King
Edward arose and strode toward a window. "Catherine!" he said. He
remained motionless while Master Copeland went on without any manifest
emotion. When he had ended, King Edward said, "And where is Madame de
Salisbury now?"

At this the Brabanter went mad. As a leopard springs he leaped upon
the King, and grasping him by each shoulder, shook that monarch as one
punishing a child.

"Now by the splendor of God—!" King Edward began, very terrible in
his wrath. He saw that John Copeland held a dagger to his breast, and
he shrugged. "Well, my man, you perceive I am defenceless."

"First you will hear me out," John Copeland said.

"It would appear," the King retorted, "that I have little choice."

At this time John Copeland began: "Sire, you are the mightiest monarch
your race has known. England is yours, France is yours, conquered
Scotland lies prostrate at your feet. To-day there is no other man in
all the world who possesses a tithe of your glory; yet twenty years
ago Madame Philippa first beheld you and loved you, an outcast, an
exiled, empty-pocketed prince. Twenty years ago the love of Madame
Philippa, great Count William's daughter, got for you the armament
with which England was regained. Twenty years ago but for Madame
Philippa you had died naked in some ditch."

"Go on," the King said presently.

"Afterward you took a fancy to reign in France. You learned then that
we Brabanters are a frugal people: Madame Philippa was wealthy when
she married you, and twenty years had quadrupled her private fortune.
She gave you every penny of it that you might fit out this expedition;
now her very crown is in pawn at Ghent. In fine, the love of Madame
Philippa gave you France as lightly as one might bestow a toy upon a
child who whined for it."

The King fiercely said, "Go on."

"Eh, sire, I intend to. You left England undefended that you might
posture a little in the eyes of Europe. And meanwhile a woman
preserves England, a woman gives you Scotland as a gift, and in return
asks nothing—God have mercy on us!—save that you nightly chafe your
feet with a bit of woollen. You hear of it—and inquire, '
Where is
Madame de Salisbury?
' Here beyond doubt is the cock of Aesop's
fable," snarled John Copeland, "who unearthed a gem and grumbled that
his diamond was not a grain of corn."

"You shall be hanged at dawn," the King replied. "Meanwhile spit out
your venom."

"I say to you, then," John Copeland continued, "that to-day you are
master of Europe. I say to you that, but for this woman whom for
twenty years you have neglected, you would to-day be mouldering in some
pauper's grave. Eh, without question, you most magnanimously loved
that shrew of Salisbury! because you fancied the color of her eyes,
Sire Edward, and admired the angle between her nose and her forehead.
Minstrels unborn will sing of this great love of yours. Meantime I say
to you"—now the man's rage was monstrous—"I say to you, go home to
your too-tedious wife, the source of all your glory! sit at her feet!
and let her teach you what love is!" He flung away the dagger. "There
you have the truth. Now summon your attendants, my tres beau sire, and
have me hanged."

The King made no movement. "You have been bold—" he said at last.

"But you have been far bolder, sire. For twenty years you have dared
to flout that love which is God's noblest heritage to His children."

King Edward sat in meditation for a long while. The squinting of his
left eye was now very noticeable. "I consider my wife's clerk," he
drily said, "to discourse of love in somewhat too much the tone of a
lover." And a flush was his reward.

But when this Copeland spoke he was like one transfigured. His voice
was grave and very tender, and he said:

"As the fish have their life in the waters, so I have and always shall
have mine in love. Love made me choose and dare to emulate a lady,
long ago, through whom I live contented, without expecting any other
good. Her purity is so inestimable that I cannot say whether I derive
more pride or sorrow from its preeminence. She does not love me, and
she will never love me. She would condemn me to be hewed in fragments
sooner than permit her husband's finger to be injured. Yet she
surpasses all others so utterly that I would rather hunger in her
presence than enjoy from another all which a lover can devise."

Sire Edward stroked the table through this while, with an inverted
pen. He cleared his throat. He said, half-fretfully:

"Now, by the Face! it is not given every man to love precisely in this
troubadourish fashion. Even the most generous person cannot render to
love any more than that person happens to possess. I have read in an
old tale how the devil sat upon a cathedral spire and white doves flew
about him. Monks came and told him to begone. 'Do not the spires show
you, O son of darkness' they clamored, 'that the place is holy?' And
Satan (in this old tale) replied that these spires were capable of
various interpretations. I speak of symbols, John. Yet I also have
loved, in my own fashion,—and, it would seem, I win the same reward
as you."

The King said more lately: "And so she is at Stirling now? hobnob with
my armed enemies, and cajoling that red lecher Robert Stewart?" He
laughed, not overpleasantly. "Eh, yes, it needed a bold person to
bring all your tidings! But you Brabanters are a very thorough-going
people."

The King rose and flung back his high head. "John, the loyal service
you have done us and our esteem for your valor are so great that they
may well serve you as an excuse. May shame fall on those who bear you
any ill-will! You will now return home, and take your prisoner, the
King of Scotland, and deliver him to my wife, to do with as she may
elect. You will convey to her my entreaty—not my orders, John,—that
she come to me here at Calais. As remuneration for this evening's
insolence, I assign lands as near your house as you can choose them to
the value of £500 a year for you and for your heirs."

You must know that John Copeland fell upon his knees before King
Edward. "Sire—" he stammered.

But the King raised him. "No, no," he said, "you are the better man.
Were there any equity in fate, John Copeland, your lady had loved you,
not me. As it is, I must strive to prove not altogether unworthy of my
fortune. But I make no large promises," he added, squinting horribly,
"because the most generous person cannot render to love any more than
that person happens to possess. So be off with you, John
Copeland,—go, my squire, and bring me back my Queen!"

Presently he heard John Copeland singing without. And through that
instant, they say, his youth returned to Edward Plantagenet, and all
the scents and shadows and faint sounds of Valenciennes on that
ancient night when a tall girl came to him, running, stumbling in her
haste to bring him kingship. "She waddles now," he thought forlornly.
"Still, I am blessed." But Copeland sang, and the Brabanter's heart
was big with joy.

Sang John Copeland:

"Long I besought thee, nor vainly,
Daughter of Water and Air—
Charis! Idalia! Hortensis!
Hast thou not heard the prayer,
When the blood stood still with loving,
And the blood in me leapt like wine,
And I cried on thy name, Melaenis?—
That heard me, (the glory is thine!)
And let the heart of Atys,
At last, at last, be mine!

"Falsely they tell of thy dying,
Thou that art older than Death,
And never the Hoerselberg hid thee,
Whatever the slanderer saith,
For the stars are as heralds forerunning,
When laughter and love combine
At twilight, in thy light, Melaenis—
That heard me, (the glory is thine!)
And let the heart of Atys,
At last, at last, be mine!"