The Tale of a Triumph

by H. C. Bailey

The Tale of a Triumph

 

The Author Lifts Us Out of the Prosaic Present and Plants Us in a Far-off and Strangely Romantic Age

 

By H. C. Bailey

 

THE king was handling his new arrows and talking law to his new chancellor. The king's fool chuckled as he drew the portraits of chancellor and king. For King Henry was squat and bulky with bristling red hair above a coarse red face and shabby withal; but his chancellor stood stately in a brocaded robe, darkly handsome, of a look to win hearts and minds. The king stabbed his finger with an arrow, swore and sucked it, and sucking, continued to argue about what Gratian said in his Decretum. The chancellor set him right and the king flung the book at his head; the chancellor caught it, found the disputed place and set it down in front of him, saying,

"God be with you."

"What, priest, when I am wrong?"

"Even so, my lord," and the chancellor went out laughing.

"By my faith, I love that fellow," the king turned and slapped his fool on the shoulder. "And what is your work, brother?"

Bran held out his picture at arm's length. "Riddle me, riddle me ree, can you tell which the king may be?"

"Rogue," said the king with that short loud laugh of his, for the picture was so drawn that in it Thomas Becket was a king making mock of some bailiff or groom. "Am I so?" he tweaked Bran's ear. "Well, God made us all."

"Nenny, nenny, brother. You made Dan Becket. And, faith, he can deck it, until he shall wreck it."

"How now?" The big brow gathered. "What has the fool against my friend?"

"Speak good words, brother. The fool is the older friend."

"And the friend is jealous of the new?" Henry flung an arm about him. "Bran, Bran, you are a child."

"Nenny, brother. Bran fears naught nor needs aught," he touched the king's hand.

"What, then? The man is a true man."

"Yea, yea. The man is true and the man is wise. But the violent man shall not live out half his days."

"Violent? God's body, he is the courtliest of us all. What, man; has he been harsh with my fool?"

"Na, na. He is blithe to Bran; he is good. But he is a hard man, Henry."

The king laughed loud. "Fear not, brother. I am hard enough."

"Said the flint to the steel. And thereof came fire."

"Oh, Bran, old Bran, you are a dreamer."

"Yea, yea. Old I am in my soul and I dream dreams. And I fear what I see in my dreams. Do you dream never, Henry?"

"I have only one life to live, brother," the king said and started up and went off with his arrows and his book of law.

BRAN went on working at another lecture, a picture of a king in his crown washing the feet of beggars and in a while the chancellor came back with a sheaf of parchments. "The king is gone, friend?"

"And Thomas is come. God save us all."

"Now what has Bran against poor Thomas?" He came and stood by Bran's side and Bran looked up at him.

"You have a long nose, brother."

"I confess the nose. But it harms none but me."

"I like it not when a man has a long nose."

"You mistake me and know not why. It is not Christian, brother fool."

"Na, na, but human it is. Are you Christian, brother?"

"I trust in God."

"Then forgive your enemies."

"How now? Who is mine enemy?"

"A hit, a hit. That struck home, Thomas."

The chancellor made merry no more. "You strike shrewdly, brother."

"Then forgive poor Bran."

"By my faith, I dare not. Nay, brother, I forgive no man who is a better man than I am."

And Bran watched him keenly. "Yes, you speak from the heart," he said. "There is greatness in you, brother. I am sorry."

"This is a strange fellow." Becket laid his hand on the big head. "What do you see that I see not?"

Bran thrust forward his picture of the crowned king serving beggars. "That is for me, brother?" Becket said in a moment. "Well, I need the lesson, God knows. And what is this other?" Bran drew it away, but he laid hands on the mocking picture of king and chancellor. "Oh, rogue," he laughed. "This must to the king."

"He has had it, brother. And is gone away merry."

"Aye, and where is he gone? For here is a day's work to do."

"Three things, yea, and four, Solomon he had found that his wisdom might not know, and a fifth there is which is darker yet: the way of an eagle in the air, the way of a ship in the midst of the sea, the way a serpent on a rock and the way of a man with a maid. But who knows the way of Henry our king, cousin Solomon?"

The chancellor looked at him gravely. "I would seek it out, brother!"

"Yea, yea, if you were a fool," Bran said.

THE king was among his people, away across the river in the fields beyond the Abbey. There the guilds of Shrewsbury made holiday in honor of new rights of market and there was archery and cock-fighting and bull-baiting and quarterstaff play and joys less bloody.

In and out of the frolic went the king in his shabby, short cloak as hearty and jolly as any of them. He limped in his English, a man of many tongues, but he understood it and he had a laugh for every jest and a knowing eye for every girl and if any dared to know him and do him reverence there was a cuff and a coarse joke.

He was arm in arm with some merry wife in the circle about two dancing bears, shouting and rocking with laughter like her, when riding by came his queen with Roger Mortimer, lord of the Marches, and a splendid company. The king, who saw everything, saw her, but seemed not to see and roared to his bears. Queen Eleanor, checked to a foot's pace by the press of the crowd, would not see what she saw and rode like a statue of majesty.

"By the bones of the Conqueror this rabble needs a master," Mortimer said, but she answered nothing and he pushed on and bade his men ride down who stood in their way. So they broke through and the crowd surged and scoffed and howled and turned to its sport again.

In a while after the king drew off and, trudging across country, came to a copse where a girl stood waiting. While he was still far off she had seen him and watched, her hand shading her eyes, but when he was come she stood as though there were no life in her, very still and pale and her eyes looked beyond him.

"Good child," said he and he laughed and took her and kissed her.

She was at his will, she did not move in his arms. When he let her go she turned from him, her hand at her throat. He grasped it and with it made her look at him. "Ah, my lord!" she cried.

"What now, Izan?" he said gently.

"That is my soul cries out in me."

"And is it not mine?"

"I do not know what I am, no, nor who I am now. I am here with you."

"Why, child, does that make you sad?"

"I can not tell. You bid me come and I must come. You know and I know no more."

"Dear woman," he said and caressed her. She was small, this Izan de Bocland, and frail, her body lost in her flowing blue gown, her hands and feet like a child's, but from her delicate keen face looked forth a life eager and brave.

"What do you need of me, my lord?"

"To feel you with me, child." He drew her little arm through his and since he could never be still, walked to and fro with her while he made her talk of what she had done all day, of all her tasks and her ways and her thoughts. A tale of the smallest things, of the simple life of a poor knight's daughter; but her talk was as if she showed him herself and gave it. And he listened while the darkness gathered about them till she fell silent and looked at him, her eyes dark as the night sky, but her face was white. "Dear life," he said and kissed her. "Come to me again, come."

"My lord," she said like a prayer and watched him hurrying into the dark.

TO THE castle at Shrewsbury the queen had come long before him and Roger Mortimer led her to her bower and there in due form was grateful for the honor she had done him in visiting his poor lands and house.

She gave him her hand to kiss. "We have had good entertainment, my lord," and turned to her women and bade them bring the prince.

"You are gracious, madam. I can not pardon myself that you were troubled by the herds of these brute common folk."

"It is no blame of yours, Roger."

"By my honor, if I were lord in Shrewsbury it would be a sad town on the morrow." He looked at her keenly. "But the way is now to let the base rogues have their will. God's blood, it can not last nor shall not!"

"Is that a threat, my lord?"

"You are my queen. None knows it as I know it, Lady Eleanor." He came nearer, looking down into her eyes; he was a man very sure of his magnificence, not without cause, for he was made in the grand style, large and handsome, with the fair bright color of the old Norse race before it was made Norman in France. He took her hand. "My queen," he said again.

And the women brought in her little Prince Henry, who came in a rage scolding and beating them. "Here is one who is made to rule, Roger," she smiled.

"Aye, there is royalty in him," the man said and, seeing there was no more to be done with her then, made a graceful departure.

The king was late, the king was in a hurry and his court, hungry with long waiting, found him sitting down to supper before they were in their places, a distressing thing, but not new. On his own high table a third cup was set and he looked at it and from it to the queen. "I have bidden Roger Mortimer," she said.

"A bold girl," he said with his loud, short laugh. "But she says come and his mightiness comes not. Cry aloud, for he is a god."

"You are merry, my lord. God knows why. The man has been my host to-day. Now I am his."

"What shall be done to the man whom the queen delights to honor? Nay, what shall not be done?"

"Aye, mock me," she said fiercely. "Be sure that I honor no man base-born, no, nor of base likings, my lord."

"See where he comes! Do I bid the trumpets sound, Eleanor?"

And Roger came in dignity. He made the speech that was due, something about asking pardon, something about the honor done him.

"God's body, man, you should be a herald," the king cried. "Sit down to your meat or you will have us gone while you are empty."

Roger made the best of it. He risked a glance at the queen and sat down and began to talk easily of horse and hawk and hound. The king would not have it. Eating, as his wont was, like a man who has but one minute to spare for the hunger of a day, he engaged Roger with great affairs. The right order of the realm, how it stood with the barons, how the commons fared, what was the need of the time, on all this the king urgently sought Roger's thoughts. No doubt that he was jeering at the man; he used no pains to hide it. But Roger came off well enough, making grave earnest of the business, like one conscious of ill-bred folly, but ruling it out of his thought.

"This is the sum of my mind," he said at last. "The common folk must have a master."

"Solomon Mortimer!" The king pushed back his chair. "My father chastised them with whips, but I will chastise them with scorpions, said Solomon." He turned and kicked at Bran. "Eh, fool, was it Solomon?"

Bran was huddled on his stool in a quest for marrow. "Peace, brother, peace," he mumbled. "Let me suck me my bone."

"God's body, it is well said. There is the king's part, Solomon: give the folk peace to suck their bones." He started up. "Yet there is some sooth in you. The land must have a master. Go find him, Solomon." He flung out his hand to the queen. "Come with us, my fool," he called over his shoulder.

"Oh, Henry, my brother," Bran groaned at them, "is this your peace?"

When they came to his room of audience, the king thrust a kiss on her and cried "Good dreams, Eleanor," and fell into a chair and drew parchments to him.

She stood over him. "Let the fool be gone, Henry."

"God's my judge, I thought we were rid of him," the king laughed, and feigned to look round the room, "Aye, aye, all is well. Sleep sound, my woman. We have done with Roger Mortimer."

She stamped her foot. "You need no fool who fool it so well. Out, Bran. I have talk for your master."

"Heigho, come and go, hit me high, hit me low. Quoth I, Dan Shuttlecock." Bran lounged away.

But the king tripped him up. "Lie down, brother. Nay, good wife, if you must talk, none so fit to hear as brother Bran."

Bran had made an elaborate stagger and a ludicrous fall, but the queen was in no temper to laugh. And from the ground he groaned. "Eleanor, Eleanor, hear poor Bran: Queen is queen but man is man, woman may win what no queen can."

The king threw a strange look at him. The queen cried out: "Why, then, let all the world hear. I say you use me vilely, Henry—Henry the Angevin."

"My gentle girl of Poitou," the king laughed.

"It was a king that I came to wed. A king you are called, but no king indeed. A king of the greasy commons, a king of villains and serfs. Not a baron in your land, no knight nor man nobly born but spits upon you."

"Hear the words of Solomon Mortimer."

"You, you have no friends but churls. You live among the hovels. You choose out men base-born, no man's sons, to honor, like this son of earth that is your new chancellor, like the fool who lies there. These are our king's men. Death of God, what a king! I am weary of, it, Master Angevin."

And here came in the chancellor laden with his parchment sheaves. He stopped and bowed and with something of a a sigh, was going out again.

"Nay, nay, it is naught, Thomas. Have you done, sweet wife?" the king laughed.

"Look to yourself," she cried. "Aye, there you are well set betwixt your cleric and your fool," and she stormed out.

The chancellor sat himself down and smoothly began to talk of scutage.

"Oh, Henry, brother Henry, here is no right but double wrong," Bran groaned.

The king started round. "You have your word, too? What is your word, wise man?"

"Both be wrong and neither is right, O Henry, my brother, God give you light!"

The red brow bent. "What wrong have I wrought, fool?"

Bran dragged himself along the floor to the king's feet. "Who is your child's mother, she is like none other."

"Bran, Bran," the king said, and his head lay on the big head. "What a man gives, that he is given."

"Yea, brother, yea."

"Aye, but he can give only what will be taken," And Bran bowed his head on the king's knees.

IT WAS the next day and the queen was walking on the walls when Roger Mortimer came up behind her. How should their tale be told now? Nor he nor she could think that in what they did there was wrong: both were well assured that to them intolerable wrong was done. Yet so the world goes that you will despise them heart and head. And they well believed that they struck for the right and at God's command. How could such people and such deeds now be?

That Queen Eleanor was a woman shrewd and of a great will none deny. I hold it a vulgar error to write Roger Mortimer off as a ballad-monger's villain. He had something more in him than passion. Or, if you please, less. But the tale must hurry or it is not true.

The Queen stood there looking out over the vale of Severn and Roger Mortimer came beside her.

"You watch like a princess in prison, my queen."

She did not turn nor speak; she stood like a woman of stone.

"Where is the king, madam?"

Then she flung round upon him. "Death of God, do you tempt me?" she cried.

"Not I, by the rood. I bid you think of your honor."

She laughed. "A word, man, a word. What honor have I left? Naught I am and less than naught."

"You have said, and it is your shame that you say."

"You are a bold man, Roger Mortimer."

"And when will you be bold, madam?"

Her hand clutched at the battlements till the knuckles stood out. She commanded herself. "Speak, man, speak," she said in a low voice. "What is in your heart?"

"I said, where is the king, madam?"

"Blood of God, man, I know not nor care. Chaffering with this scullion or that."

"It is like enough. But in a little while he will be with a scullion's wench. He has marked one down as your stoat marks down a coney. Each creature does after his kind, Eleanor, and such is he. He spends himself for a broken man's daughter and day by day seeks her out. A blowsy milkmaid has him. And you—nay, what are you?"

"Are you true, Roger?"

"I lie to no man nor for no woman's sake. Are you true, Eleanor?"

"You dare—" she turned on him.

"Aye, madam, I dare all for your honor. And what dare you? By the bones of the Conqueror we have borne enough from this scullions' king. There is no lord in all the land that is not wronged by him. And you that made him great most foully wronged. I say it is the hour to strike."

"Show me this girl."

He laughed. "Girl and man too. Coney and stoat. I swear to you I will snatch them up and bear them off to my hold in Bridgenorth if you will give me your banner to bear. Come! All the marches will rise for me and if we strike under the queen's banner the lords of the north will join hands with us and we will make an end of this king of scullions and Eleanor shall be the lady of England. Do you dare?"

She grasped at his hand. "Fail not you."

"Faith of God, not I! I shall have him caged this night."

She laughed. "And I—I shall speak with him in his cage."

"Ride out before the sun sets. He will be hungry for. you."

ON THAT morning, Izan, having set in order her dairy and her little household, left her father in a chair in the sun with arrows to plume and his old hound at his knee and wandered away to the copse that was her shrine. She had no thought of her lord's coming then, for she had schooled herself to count upon nothing from him. Twice he would come and seem to live for it, then fail her thrice; but she loved to be in the place and remember, poor child, and dream.

But on this morning the king broke loose from his chancellor's burden of tasks betimes and left that shrewd man wondering. "God guide you, brother, you walk like a man in his sleep," said Bran, making way for him on the stair.

"Say like one who walks in the dark, good friend," Becket said. "Can you give me light?"

But Bran made a miserable face and shook his head and went on groping.

So on this morning the king came to Izan where she sat in the shadow of the hazels. She started as she saw him and the cowslips fell from her lap. She stood and clasped her hands, her eyes large and dark in a white face. He rushed upon her, the short, burly man, red and laughing, and she was lost in his arms. But then he kissed her gently enough and held her away to look at her. "Why, child, what is it?"

"I do not know, I do not know," she trembled. "It is strange and terrible."

"There is fear in you. God's body, Izan, you must not fear."

"There is no fear," she said quietly. "But I—I can not see."

"Make me welcome, my heart."

"Ah, welcome, welcome," she put her little hands on his breast, "if it is well for you."

"Child," he kissed her hands, "you are sweet life in my veins."

"You are all power, you charge upon me and carry me off and I know nothing but you. I am to serve you, my lord."

"I come to you, I need you, I seek you like clean air, like freedom to a man who has broke prison. You are sun and wind and running water and flowers."

"My lord, my lord and my king," she breathed.

And then out of the copse men-at-arms broke upon them. The king was borne down before he could strike and they fell on him and bound him. He shouted and the woods rang to it and they filled his mouth with a cloth. They tied him on his horse and rode away with him and Izan was flung across their captain's saddle-bow.

You may guess how the blood pumped in that bull neck, how he gnawed at the gag and foamed and set his muscles against the creaking cords till his doublet was wet from bleeding flesh. The men who had mocked began to look at him with something like fear. "There is a devil in that one. God save us, they are the devil's own seed, those Angevins. Nay, but no man can live in such a madness as that. What if he die upon our hands?" So they talked and Henry heard nothing, knew nothing but his own passion.

When he rode out from Shrewsbury in the morning there was one who marked him far off beyond the river, one who saw the queen with Roger Mortimer on the walls; Bran, his fool, and of all that he saw Bran liked nothing. So in a while, groaning, he saddled his mule. "Into the dark, Vergil," quoth he, "into the dark. Naught in the dark but ghosts I see, O Lady St. Mary, they frighten me; from ghosts of the past I might win free, but I quail at the ghosts of what is to be. Nenny, nenny, poor Bran is a fool. There is no past nor time to come. Now is all. What hath been is naught and hath no power over what shall come, if what now is is wisely done and well. That is the faith for man. Now is all, Bran, my brother. But you are no man. You have no life. You are a dreamer and a dream. You are a word in the air, you are a thought in the mind, you are a hope in the heart. You come and go and naught is done. Na, Na, God have mercy, brother, but what should I do, I? If I could make the man to my pleasure, naught should fall him but grief beyond measure. What can I give him with all my care but a burden all too heavy to bear? Tell him his wife hates him for him what is best in him, hath a mind to wrong him for what he does right, bid him cherish her who will have no cherishing—oh, Bran, work for a fool."

But he rode on. He had marked well the way the king went, and not that day first. He guessed, I suppose, to what it led. He rode easily, his reins on the mule's neck, having no purpose to come on the king unawares or spy. And so while he was still far off the copse he saw that company of men-at-arms sweep across a hillside, riding south, and the king among them, bound. They were blue upon yellow, the colors of Mortimer's band of Flemish spears.

He turned and the mule Vergil felt whip and heel.

THOMAS BECKET, the chancellor, working on the roll of the new sheriffs with clerks busy all about him, was startled by a red and breathless fool. "Why, goodman Bran, what hounds have hunted you?"

"Hark in your ear, brother," Bran gasped.

"Get you gone, children. I hear confession," and as the clerks fled Becket came to him. "Now, man, what is the marrow of it?"

"The king is taken, brother," Bran said and steadied himself on Becket's arm. "I saw him among Roger Mortimer's Flemings. Bound he was and they rode southward. He is an hour away."

Becket put him off and he swayed to the window and leaned upon the sill, breathing deeply. Becket clapped his hands and the clerks scurried in again. "Walter, go you to Sir Richard de Lucy. I greet him and it is the king's need that he sound to horse. Swift, man. Antony to Sir Roger and bid him muster every spear, and his trustiest squire must ride hard to Ludlow to my Lord of Leicester: the king's good greeting to him and the word is that his power come swift to Bridgenorth. My horse at the gate, Francis. Bid Peter bring me my harness." He clapped his hand on Bran's Moulder. "Courage, brother. This wolf hath long been marked and all is ready for his hunting. We have a pack to lay on Master Mortimer that shall pull him down in the first gallop."

Bran turned, "God have mercy, brother; a man might say you were glad of your lord's peril."

"Say not you so. He is dearer to me than brother. I know our Roger a weak man in grain. He will dare, but not do. The king shall live out his days for Roger. God is my trust, I know he shall be safe. But Roger hath troubled the land too long. Now may we strike and strike home."

"Yea, yea. It is a wise Thomas. Swift it thinks and clear. Yet to the heart of things it sees not."

"What is the heart, then?"

"See where she goes, madam queen." He pointed out to the courtyard, where Eleanor stood with a squire of her household cloaked for the saddle.

"God's body, she would ride to Bridgenorth," Becket cried.

"You have said, brother. There is the sad heart of all."

Becket leaned from the window and shouted: "Warders, ho warders! Down portcullis!" From the gate-tower an arm was raised in answer. Slowly the iron bars slid down into the open archway and clashed upon the stones.

Becket turned and cast off his gown and went into the inner room where his squires waited with helmet and coat of mail. So, clad like a knight, he went down to the courtyard. The queen was in the saddle. "Death of God, sirrah, what folly is this?" she cried. "When was your clerkship dubbed knight? Who made you lord of our castle?"

"Lady Eleanor, none born of woman rides out of Shrewsbury this day but by the king's own order."

"I go riding, rogue."

"It can not be. You go no whither, lady."

"You—you are to hold me at your will?"

"I dare not risk you, lady. Here are you safe. Without these walls you go upon you know not what. There be evil men abroad."

"Fie, you prate like the coward clerk you are. Where is your king, then?"

"Nay, if the queen knows not, who am I to know? This only I know, that I do his will. When the king comes again let him judge if I have done you wrong."

She cried out an oath at him. "Rogue, rogue, you threaten me?"

"With what, then?" And she was silent glaring at him. He bowed to her. "I go upon the king's business, lady," and he strode away.

THE castle of Bridgenorth stood on a cliff above Severn. When they came there, the king and Izan bound still, and he still gagged, were flung into a cell beneath the gate-tower and in the dark he heard her whisper to him and ask that he would forgive her, and he dragged himself to her feet and lay touching her. But not long were they left go. When Roger Mortimer heard of their coming he made much of the captain of the Flemings, Baldwin of Ghent, promising him great things still to be won, and set a fresh watch on his towers and sent out a party on the Shrewsbury road to bring the queen. Then to his great chamber in the northern tower he went and called for wine and his prisoners.

They could but stumble and shuffle, so closely were they bound, and Roger laughed as he heard them coming. When they stood before him, dirty and torn and helpless, he fed his eyes on them and drank a cup of wine and "By the bones of the Conqueror, now you look what you are, Henry, a slave king of slaves," he said and he laughed again. "And you, wench, fit mire for him to wallow in, how like you your lover now?" But Izan would not answer and the king could not and this disappointed him. "Prick the cat with your dagger, Osbert, and let us hear her sweet voice. Tell us your love story, sweet." So one of the men-at-arms put his dagger-point into her bosom, but she neither flinched nor cried and he plucked it away in a hurry.

"My lord, she would fall on it!"

"Nay, nay, not so easy a death, dear heart. Nor so soon. Pluck the cloth out of his foul mouth. I would hear his royal speech."

Free of the gag, the king looked round the room; there were four men-at-arms guarding him, and he laughed. "Give you good night," said he. Izan stole one glance at him and shrank away behind him and leaned by the window, her bound hands at the wound in her breast.

"God's blood, the Angevin shows sport," Roger cried and drank again.

"To a merry meeting in hell! Drink it down, Roger. We shall all be there soon enough."

"You are something nearer than I, Henry."

"Yes, faith! By an hour. To-day for me, to-morrow for you, Roger. How many be here will see the sun o' Sunday?"

"Care not you for that. You have——"

"God's body, not I. It will be a merry onfall in Bridgenorth. But that is your share. I shall lie warm with the devil."

"By my father's soul, the fool threatens!" Roger laughed loud.

"Who, I? Good Roger, where are your wits? I am sped. So are we all. Never a king was done to death but a thousand die for his killing. The wolf hath the sheep and the hounds are upon the wolf."

"Angevin!" Roger cried, for at last he saw his men's faces. "Your craft serves you not now. Out, fellows, out. Leave me alone with them."

"The brave Roger!" the king laughed. "Alone with a bound man and a woman bound. O gallant knight."

"Aye, fool it to the last, Henry. There is nothing left you but your tongue. Now hear you me. Not at my will only you lie bound, but for the lady your queen. She shall have her way with you ere you go to your grave. She comes to me this night and she shall judge you and your leman there and the fame of it shall go through all Christianity how you play her false with a wench from the byre and were taken with her. We will give you to shame and you shall be all men's jest in your death. And——"

Izan was by the window and as he spoke she reeled as though she would faint and lay there upon the sill. Once she turned and looked at the king. Then she flung herself forward and was gone.

Roger ran to the window. She lay a little huddled heap on the rock a hundred feet below and lay still.

But the king did not look. The king bent his head and spoke softly in Latin: "Into thy hands, O Lord. Christ Jesus, receive her soul and St. Mary the Mother, comfort her!"

There was no blood in Roger's face. "The wench is dead," he said and he stared at the king.

"Nay, good Roger, she lives," the king smiled and went on talking Latin: "O God Almighty, forgive not this man's sin, but give him according to his deeds and let thine angels persecute him forever."

"What say you?" Roger stammered.

"Now nay, good Roger, it is you to say. You are the speaker, are not you? Say on. Now a new tale is to make for the old tale has gone away."

"I hold you still."

"Yea, O wise man. You hold your king bound. And none but your king. What tale is now to tell?"

"By the bones of the Conqueror it were well told if you lay then with her. That would glad your queen's heart, Henry."

The king laughed. "She tarries, good Roger, she tarries. Women are wayward. What if she comes not? Look and see. What if she hath mocked our Roger?"

"God's blood, you shall not mock me," Roger cried and drew his sword and rushed at him. The king flung up his bound arms, to meet the blow. He turned it, not without blood, but as it fell it sheared through the cords and the straining arms sprang apart. Then the king fell upon him within the long sword's sweep and cast his arms about him and bore him back into the window embrasure and flung his weight upon him and bent him backward across the sill and fear took hold of him and he shouted shrill in his ear. But now the king's body held his body and the king's broad hands were at his throat and his head went backward and out and his strength passed and he moaned and the king trust him down and leaned out, watching him roll in the air.

INTO the room breathless broke Baldwin of Ghent crying, "My lord, my lord."

The king turned smiling and sat himself down and began to tear the sleeves of his shirt to bind his arms.

"In the fiend's name, where is my lord Roger?"

"Well spoken, friend," the king laughed. "Look and see." So Baldwin ran to the window. "See where he is gone. And see who comes." And Baldwin rumbled to himself in Flemish.

"Is this your work, my master?" he turned threatening, his hand on his sword.

The king sprang up. "God's body, fellow, that well you know. It is his work who lies there. The fool who must needs be villain too. But these be my men who come upon you."

And while he spoke there ran in a man spattered with mud and horse's foam. "My lord—Baldwin—Baldwin, it is the king's banner they bear. I have seen it and de Lucy's and there is another company afar."

"There is your answer, rogues."

"You we hold still," Baldwin growled.

"At cost of your lives."

"You must be our ransom, my lord. This is the end of it," the Fleming shrugged.

"No ransom I. Out, dog, and open your gates. Or soon or late you hang."

The Fleming looked again at the power that was closing upon the castle, looked long and fled.

So when the trumpets sounded the gates were already open and Baldwin of Ghent was gone. To the room in the tower Becket came and found the king on his knees.

When he made an end of his prayer he started up and "Thomas, my friend," he took the man and kissed him. "Swift and sure are you."

"My most dear lord. I thank God this night. But it is not I that saved you; it is Bran the fool. He saw you taken. He brought me news."

"Aye, aye, true brother Bran," the king laughed.

"But how has it chanced, my lord?"

"Look from the window."

"That thing was Roger," the chancellor said coldly. "But another lies there, my lord."

"By my folly and to my shame she lies dead. This was a saint, Thomas, and like a saint I will honor her, who knew not how to honor her in life. I am a desolate man. Hear the tale, friend," and he told it.

Becket crossed himself. "St. Mary crown her," he said. "She was holy." And then he turned away and plucked at his chin.

"What is in your mind, man?"

Becket's face set like stone but his eyes glittered. "My lord, I have no will to speak. But just it is and right you know all. This is true that the knave Roger said. The queen was to ride here to meet him this night. We stayed her already in the saddle and hardly stayed her."

"God's body, that viper made the plot!"

"I say not that, my lord. Judge you."

"False she is and was ever false. Her lean hands are wet with Izan's blood. And I—I—" he gnawed at his fingers.

"The king is just," Becket said. "Let justice be done."

"Doubt me not," the king started up. "To horse, to horse!"

So in Bridgenorth to hold the castle de Lucy was left and the king stormed back to Shrewsbury.

YOU see him again in that room where the story began, Becket standing before him, grave and austere, Bran at his feet fondling him. "My brother, my brother, there are wounds on you."

"The fox snaps when you break him. It is nothing. Where is my true queen, Bran?"

"Nay, brother, I know not. The best of all is you are safe. Oh, give God thanks and be kind."

"Fool, fool," the king put a hand on the big head. "You would cry heaven in hell. Bid her come, my lord."

"O Henry, my brother, speak peace, peace. There is no right in vengeance. You have made children, the woman and you. The past is dead. You are still to live and peace wins all."

"My fool," the king said gently. "Aye, the past is dead. Speak no more."

"Oh, my brother, my brother," Bran groaned.

The queen swept in and stood silent.

"You gave me no welcome, madam?"

"I give you no welcome," she said. "Your fool was there to welcome you."

"You ask no pardon?"

And she laughed.

"You have chosen. Be it so. I have no more honor for you and I will not live with you; but free I may not trust you. You are held in ward, madam."

"I am your queen," she cried.

"You are—" he stopped a moment—"my prisoner. Go."

"I claim my children, Henry."

He looked at her heavily. "Yes. My children are yours."

She laughed again and swept out.

The king lay back with his head fallen on his breast. "Let me alone, good friends, let me alone." Bran kissed his hand and Bran's tears were wet on it. As they went out he fell on his knees and they heard him pray.

On the dark stair Bran reeled and Becket stayed him: "Why, man; courage. He hath dealt with her wisely and well."

"Yea, a hard man are you," Bran said.

"This is not I. But this is just, this is merciful. For the king is more than all."

"Na, na, na, God's peace is more than all," Bran cried. "Oh, wise man Thomas, what peace shall he see in all his days?"