First, "If the woman be hungry," spoke a high and peevish voice, "feed her. If she need money, give it to her. But do not annoy me."
"This woman demands to see the master of the house," the steward then retorted.
"O incredible Boeotian, inform her that the master of the house has no time to waste upon vagabonds who select the middle of the night as an eligible time to pop out of nowhere. Why did you not do so in the beginning, you dolt?" The speaker got for answer only a deferential cough, and very shortly continued: "This is remarkably vexatious. _Vox et praeterea nihil_--which signifies, Yeck, that to converse with women is always delightful. Admit her." This was done, and Dame Alianora came into an apartment littered with papers, where a neat and shriveled gentleman of fifty-odd sat at a desk and scowled.
He presently said, "You may go, Yeck." He had risen, the magisterial attitude with which he had awaited her entrance cast aside. "Oh, God!" he said; "you, madame!" His thin hands, scholarly hands, were plucking at the air.
Dame Alianora had paused, greatly astonished, and there was an interval before she said, "I do not recognize you, messire."
"And yet, madame, I recall very clearly that some thirty years ago the King-Count Raymond Brenger, then reigning in Provence, had about his court four daughters, each one of whom was afterward wedded to a king. First, Meregrett, the eldest, now regnant in France; then Alianora, the second and most beautiful of these daughters, whom troubadours hymned as the Unattainable Princess. She was married a long while ago, madame, to the King of England, Lord Henry, third of that name to reign in these islands."
Dame Alianora's eyes were narrowing. "There is something in your voice," she said, "which I recall."
He answered: "Madame and Queen, that is very likely, for it is a voice which sang a deal in Provence when both of us were younger. I concede with the Roman that I have somewhat deteriorated since the reign of Cynara. Yet have you quite forgotten the Englishman who made so many songs of you? They called him Osmund Heleigh."
"He made the Sestina of Spring which won the violet crown at my betrothal," the Queen said; and then, with eagerness: "Messire, can it be that you are Osmund Heleigh?" He shrugged assent. She looked at him for a long time, rather sadly, and demanded if he were the King's man or of the barons' party.
The nervous hands were raised in deprecation. "I have no politics," Messire Heleigh began, and altered it, gallantly enough, to, "I am the Queen's man, madame."
"Then aid me, Osmund," she said.
He answered with a gravity which singularly became him, "You have reason to understand that to my fullest power I will aid you."
"You know that at Lewes these swine overcame us." He nodded assent. "Now they hold the King, my husband, captive at Kenilworth. I am content that he remain there, for he is of all the King's enemies the most dangerous. But, at Wallingford, Leicester has imprisoned my son, Prince Edward. The Prince must be freed, my Osmund. Warren de Basingbourne commands what is left of the royal army, now entrenched at Bristol, and it is he who must liberate my son. Get me to Bristol, then. Afterward we will take Wallingford." The Queen issued these orders in cheery, practical fashion, and did not admit opposition into the account, for she was a capable woman.
"But you, madame?" he stammered. "You came alone?"
"I come from France, where I have been entreating--and vainly entreating--succor from yet another monkish king, the holy Lewis of that realm. Eh, what is God about when He enthrones these whining pieties! Were I a king, were I even a man, I would drive these smug English out of their foggy isle in three days' space! I would leave alive not one of these curs that dare yelp at me! I would--" She paused, anger veering into amusement. "See how I enrage myself when I think of what your people have made me suffer," the Queen said, and shrugged her shoulders. "In effect, I skulked back in disguise to this detestable island, accompanied by Avenel de Giars and Hubert Fitz-Herveis. To-night some half-dozen fellows--robbers, thorough knaves, like all you English,--attacked us on the common yonder and slew the men of our party. While they were cutting de Giars' throat I slipped away in the dark and tumbled through many ditches till I spied your light. There you have my story. Now get me an escort to Bristol."
It was a long while before Messire Heleigh spoke. Then, "These men," he said--"this de Giars and this Fitz-Herveis--they gave their lives for yours, as I understand it,--_pro caris amicis_. And yet you do not grieve for them."
"I shall regret de Giars," the Queen acknowledged, "for he made excellent songs. But Fitz-Herveis?--foh! the man had a face like a horse." Again her mood changed. "Many persons have died for me, my friend. At first I wept for them, but now I am dry of tears."
He shook his head. "Cato very wisely says, 'If thou hast need of help, ask it of thy friends.' But the sweet friend that I remember was a clean eyed girl, joyous and exceedingly beautiful. Now you appear to me one of those ladies of remoter times--Faustina, or Jael, or Artemis, the King's wife of Tauris,--they that slew men, laughing. I am somewhat afraid of you, madame."
She was angry at first; then her face softened. "You English!" she said, only half mirthful. "Eh, my God! you remember me when I was a high hearted young sorceress. Now the powers of the Apsarasas have departed from me, and time has thrust that Alianora, who was once the Unattainable Princess, chin deep in misery. Yet even now I am your Queen, messire, and it is not yours to pass judgment upon me." "I do not judge you," he returned. "Rather I cry with him of old, _Omnia incerta ratione!_ and I cry with Salomon that he who meddles with the strife of another man is like to him that takes a hound by the ears. Yet listen, madame and Queen. I cannot afford you an escort to Bristol. This house, of which I am in temporary charge, is Longaville, my brother's manor. Lord Brudenel, as you doubtless know, is of the barons' party and--scant cause for grief!--is with Leicester at this moment. I can trust none of my brother's people, for I believe them to be of much the same opinion as those Londoners who not long ago stoned you and would have sunk your barge in Thames River. Oh, let us not blink the fact that you are not overbeloved in England. So an escort is out of the question. Yet I, madame, if you so elect, will see you safe to Bristol."
"You? Singly?" the Queen demanded.
"My plan is this: Singing folk alone travel whither they will. We will go as jongleurs, then. I can yet manage a song to the viol, I dare affirm. And you must pass as my wife."
He said this with simplicity. The plan seemed unreasonable, and at first Dame Alianora waved it aside. Out of the question! But reflection suggested nothing better; it was impossible to remain at Longaville, and the man spoke sober truth when he declared any escort other than himself to be unprocurable. Besides, the lunar madness of the scheme was its strength; that the Queen would venture to cross half England unprotected--and Messire Heleigh on the face of him was a paste-board buckler--was an event which Leicester would neither anticipate nor on report credit. There you were! these English had no imagination. The Queen snapped her fingers and said: "Very willingly will I be your wife, my Osmund. But how do I know that I can trust you? Leicester would give a deal for me; he would pay any price for the pious joy of burning the Sorceress of Provence. And you are not wealthy, I suspect."
"You may trust me, mon bel esper,"--his eyes here were those of a beaten child--"because my memory is better than yours." Messire Osmund Heleigh gathered his papers into a neat pile. "This room is mine. To-night I keep guard in the corridor, madame. We will start at dawn."
