the temple Where burned the fires of thy shrine The owls and wolves of the desert-- Yet hearken, (the issue is thine!) And let the heart of Atys, At last, at last, be mine!
"For I have followed, nor faltered-- Adrift in a land of dreams Where laughter and pity and terror Commingle as confluent streams, I have seen and adored the Sidonian, Implacable, fair and divine-- And bending low, have implored thee To hearken, (the issue is thine!) And let the heart of Atys, At last, at last, be mine!"
It is time, however, that we quit this subject and speak of other matters. Just twenty years later, on one August day in the year of grace 1346, Master John Copeland--as men now called Jehan Kuypelant, now secretary to the Queen of England,--brought his mistress the unhandsome tidings that David Bruce had invaded her realm with forty thousand Scots to back him. The Brabanter found plump Queen Philippa with the kingdom's arbitress--Dame Catherine de Salisbury, whom King Edward, third of that name to reign in Britain, and now warring in France, very notoriously adored and obeyed.
This king, indeed, had been despatched into France chiefly, they narrate, to release the Countess' husband, William de Montacute, from the French prison of the Chtelet. You may appraise her dominion by this fact: chaste and shrewd, she had denied all to King Edward, and in consequence he could deny her nothing; so she sent him to fetch back her husband, whom she almost loved. That armament had sailed from Southampton on Saint George's day.
These two women, then, shared the Brabanter's execrable news. Already Northumberland, Westmoreland, and Durham were the broken meats of King David.
The Countess presently exclaimed: "Let them weep for this that must! My place is not here."
Philippa said, half hopefully, "Do you forsake Sire Edward, Catherine?"
"Madame and Queen," the Countess answered, "in this world every man must scratch his own back. My lord has entrusted to me his castle of Wark, his fiefs in Northumberland. These, I hear, are being laid waste. Were there a thousand men-at-arms left in England I would say fight. As it is, our men are yonder in France and the island is defenceless. Accordingly I ride for the north to make what terms I may with the King of Scots."
Now you might have seen the Queen's eye brighten. "Undoubtedly," said she, "in her lord's absence it is the wife's part to defend his belongings. And my lord's fief is England. I bid you God-speed, Catherine." And when the Countess was gone, Philippa turned, her round face somewhat dazed and flushed. "She betrays him! she compounds with the Scot! Mother of Christ, let me not fail!"
"A ship must be despatched to bid Sire Edward return," said the secretary. "Otherwise all England is lost."
"Not so, John Copeland! We must let Sire Edward complete his overrunning of France, if such be the Trinity's will. You know perfectly well that he has always had a fancy to conquer France; and if I bade him return now he would be vexed."
"The disappointment of the King," John Copeland considered, "is a smaller evil than allowing all of us to be butchered."
"Not to me, John Copeland," the Queen said.
Now came many lords into the chamber, seeking Madame Philippa. "We must make peace with the Scottish rascal!--England is lost!--A ship must be sent entreating succor of Sire Edward!" So they shouted.
"Messieurs," said Queen Philippa, "who commands here? Am I, then, some woman of the town?"
Ensued a sudden silence. John Copeland, standing by the seaward window, had picked up a lute and was fingering the instrument half-idly. Now the Marquess of Hastings stepped from the throng. "Pardon, Highness. But the occasion is urgent."
"The occasion is very urgent, my lord," the Queen assented, deep in meditation.
John Copeland flung back his head and without prelude began to carol lustily.
Sang John Copeland:
"There are taller lads than Atys, And many are wiser than he,-- How should I heed them?--whose fate is Ever to serve and to be Ever the lover of Atys, And die that Atys may dine, Live if he need me--Then heed me, And speed me, (the moment is thine!) And let the heart of Atys, At last, at last, be mine!
"Fair is the form unbeholden, And golden the glory of thee Whose voice is the voice of a vision Whose face is the foam of the sea, And the fall of whose feet is the flutter Of breezes in birches and pine, When thou drawest near me, to hear me, And cheer me, (the moment is thine!) And let the heart of Atys, At last, at last, be mine!"
I must tell you that the Queen shivered, as if with extreme cold. She gazed toward John Copeland wonderingly. The secretary was fretting at his lutestrings, with his head downcast. Then in a while the Queen turned to Hastings.
"The occasion is very urgent, my lord," the Queen assented. "Therefore it is my will that to-morrow one and all your men be mustered at Blackheath. We will take the field without delay against the King of Scots."
The riot began anew. "Madness!" they shouted; "lunar madness! We can do nothing until our King returns with our army!"
"In his absence," the Queen said, "I command here."
"You are not Regent," the Marquess answered. Then he cried, "This is the Regent's affair!"
"Let the Regent be fetched," Dame Philippa said, very quietly. They brought in her son, Messire Lionel, now a boy of eight years, and, in the King's absence, Regent of England.
Both the Queen and the Marquess held papers. "Highness," Lord Hastings began, "for reasons of state which I lack time to explain, this document requires your signature. It is an order that a ship be despatched to ask the King's return. Your Highness may remember the pony you admired yesterday?" The Marquess smiled ingratiatingly. "Just here, your Highness--a crossmark."
"The dappled one?" said the Regent; "and all for making a little mark?" The boy jumped for the pen.
"Lionel," said the Queen, "you are Regent of England, but you are also my son. If you sign that paper you will beyond doubt get the pony, but you will not, I think, care to ride him. You will not care to sit down at all, Lionel."
The Regent considered. "Thank you very much, my lord," he said in the ultimate, "but I do not like ponies any more. Do I sign here, Mother?"
Philippa handed the Marquess a subscribed order to muster the English forces at Blackheath; then another, closing the English ports. "My lords," the Queen said, "this boy is the King's vicar. In defying him, you defy the King. Yes, Lionel, you have fairly earned a pot of jam for supper."
Then Hastings went away without speaking. That night assembled at his lodgings, by appointment, Viscount Heringaud, Adam Frere, the Marquess of Orme, Lord Stourton, the Earls of Neville and Gage, and Sir Thomas Rokeby. These seven found a long table there littered with pens and parchment; to the rear of it, with a lackey behind him, sat the Marquess of Hastings, meditative over a cup of Bordeaux.
Presently Hastings said: "My friends, in creating our womankind the Maker of us all was beyond doubt actuated by laudable and cogent reasons;
