The Fool (Bailey)/Chapter 27

N the next day they were singing mass in the castle chapel for the dead lad's soul, the King was on his knees, when Sir William de Mandeville sought the King's side and whispered an anxious tale. When the mass was over the King went near the altar and thrice he bowed low, and thrice he crossed himself and hurried away. And afterwards alone in his council chamber he called Bran to him and said, "Have you ever seen Thomas Becket, brother Bran?"

"God have mercy, lord, not since he lay dead."

"Yet you loved him well."

"No man but you loved him better, brother."

"You may say it. But William de Mandeville hath seen him this night in a vision."

"Na, na. I see no visions nor dream no dreams. Let him that has them make them come to me."

"William de Mandeville was sent to save him and saved him not. To William de Mandeville he might come. And the man believes it. St. Thomas he saw in robes of glory, but Thomas Becket it was, swart and stern, and in his hand he bore a shining sword, and he said this sword was newly forged to pierce through Henry the King."

"If Thomas Becket be saint in heaven, he sends no malice by vision nor sweven: no hate in heart, in hand no sword, for him who dwells with Christ our Lord. Na, na, brother: what men fear that they dream."

"Well said, old Bran. But God's my life, there is fear enough among us in these days."

And on the morrow there came messengers with letters out of Normandy, and when he had read them the King sat awhile like a man in a swoon and presently after he cried out: "The sword! The sword hath stricken me."

"No sword of man, my lord," John said, hanging over him and caressing him.

"Na, na, the sword of heaven, the sword of hell. All is one. Richard and Philip have joined together, and march against me."

John drew back watching him. "God's eyes, we are stricken, indeed."

"You are left, you only are left"—the old King stretched out his hand to him—"stand by me, John."

"Oh, my father!"

"They cannot hold together. They cannot! Fox and bull coupled! And I, God's eyes, there is life in me yet."

He mustered every man he had, he sent into England to summon all knights howsoever exhausted and poor to come to his aid, and he marched northward. But Philip and Richard had a great power and they were engaged to ruin him. Philip proclaimed himself sovereign of all French land, Normandy, Aquitaine, Anjou and the rest, and Richard was to hold his inheritance as fiefs of the King of France. When the old King heard it, he mocked: "What am I, then, that I should be sire to an ass? Many a man have I known that was traitor for his profit. But Richard is the first that would work treason to make himself a beggar." And then he called down curses on the madman who would destroy his own house. "Nay, but if I live, I will baulk knave and fool. I will establish my realm. I will heal the land again. Oh John, little John, stand we together. All comes to you at the last."

"Whom have I but you, my lord?" John said.

What Richard had in his wild head was soon plain. He loved war indeed for its own sake, and war with his father had spice that he relished. But what he coveted was resources to have at his will for a great Crusade. When he held the rich fiefs, of whomsoever he held them, he was to make a levy and lead a host to the Holy Land. And Philip had sworn that when he was King of all France he would take the Cross too, and be his brother in arms. "Trusty brethren, by the bones of God!" the old King laughed. "The fox and the bull to win the Holy City! God's my life, and my fair realm must be harried that they shall find men for the heathen to slay."

For there was no doubt of the power of the strange allies. Richard raised Brittany in revolt, Philip marched into Normandy, and as the old King came northward they joined their forces and fell on his own birthland, Anjou. The more swiftly he pressed on, though he had no army that could stand against them. But when the clash was near, John fell ill. He was full of courage for his father, full of noble words, but he could not sit his horse. He would have no guard left with him, he trusted his father's arms.

And the old King led on a scanty company in a passion of bitterness. He found William de Mandeville praying at a wayside shrine, and cursed him for it. "Why should I honour Christ?" he cried. "Why should I think Him worthy of honour, who takes from me all honour and leaves me naked in my age to my enemies?" He flung himself into Le Mans, the prize of Anjou, his own town, to hold that if he could, and Philip and Richard came and encamped round about. The next day they broke through his men who held the bridge, they set fire to the town. With a handful of horsemen the old King fled. "His hour has struck, brother," said William de Mandeville to William le Marshal. "It is the first time ever he turned his back on foemen."

"Say you so? Then I will guard his back," quoth William le Marshal, and gathered a few of the stoutest and rode in the rearward.

On a hill-top two miles out of the town the old King halted and looked back on the smoke of its burning. "The city which I have loved best on the earth," he cried, "the city wherein I was born and bred, where my father lies buried! Thou hast taken it from me, oh God, my God! My Holy City! May the heathen deal with Thine as Thou hast dealt with mine. But I will requite Thee! I will rob Thee, too, of that thing in me which Thou lovest best." He turned his horse and rode on furiously under the burning June sun. There was bitter need. Richard and his knights followed after, shouting and sounding horns as it were a hunt, and riding light, riding fresh horses, pressed him hard.

Richard had his quarry full in sight when they came to the stream that runs by La Frenaye, a stream too deep to ford. The road went over by a wooden bridge. When the old King and his company were over, William le Marshal took an axe from a Flemish knight and hewed at the timbers and hewed still when the chase was upon him. Horsemen and bridge crashed down together, and were swept away and their comrades checked and quested down stream and up. But Richard jumped his horse into the water and flinging himself from the saddle swam with the beast and so made the farther bank.

Then William le Marshal tossed his axe to the Fleming Mdio still stood by him. "Ride on, brother," he cried. "This gallant is mine or I am his," and he mounted and laid lance in rest. "Come up, Count Richard, come up."

Richard struggled out of the water laughing. "God's feet, Marshal, slay me not. I have no lance nor hauberk," and he mounted and held out open hands.

"Pray to your father," cried William le Marshal, and rode upon him and hurled horse and man headlong into the stream again. "I kill you not, Richard," he shouted, "let the devil kill you." And he turned and galloped after the King.

Through the marches of Normandy and Anjou they fled, riding hard all day and every day in the summer heat, turning and doubling through the forests, and horse and man fell and died of weariness, and all the while the towns and the castles were falling to Philip's hand. And no succour came, so all the roads were guarded. The old King's body began to play him false. He was beset by feverish pains that racked every nerve. He could neither eat nor drink but in tiny portions. His strength went out of him. But his will endured, and his shrewd foresight. "They are too strong for me," he said. "I must bend. But it shall go hard if I cannot turn each against other at last. Cost what it may, time I must buy. I will grant whatsoever they ask to give me peace. But God's my life, I shall yet see these cursed bedfellows kick each other out into the cold."

And so he sent to Philip to offer any terms, and was bidden render himself at Tours. There in the pleasant land by the Loire, in a blaze of summer sunshine, a great array of lords and knights was gathered in pomp to see him humbled. He came leading his miserable company of hunted men, so much enfeebled that he could hardly keep the saddle.

"God's eyes, the old lion is tamed," Richard said.

King Philip was smoothly courteous, and bade spread cloaks on the ground, and begged him sit at his ease. But he would not, and there was no other gentleness. He must do homage to Philip, he must hold himself at Philip's mercy to do whatsoever Philip should decree, he must own Richard the heir of all his lands, he must grant pardon and safeguard to all men of his who had joined with Richard and Philip to subdue him.

The bitter words were read and his knights who stood by him supporting him in the saddle looked up at the old King's face and dared not look again. While he wrought with his passions came from the clear sky a roll of thunder. He reeled and was hardly held. Philip reined his horse back and crossed himself. And again the thunder rumbled.

"The voice of God!" Philip muttered.

"What says God?" Richard laughed.

"Make short, short," the old King cried, and gave his submission and took from Philip the kiss of peace. When it was given, Philip drew back, looking at him strangely.

"Fever is upon you, my lord," he said.

"I burn this day, in this life," the old King laughed.

"Kiss me also, my father," Richard pushed his horse alongside. "God's eyes, I have earned it."

So to him, too, the old King gave the kiss of peace, and clinging to him whispered: "May God not let me die till I have worthily avenged myself on you."

Then they lifted him from his horse and laid him in a litter and carried him away to Chinon, and there found the first safe rest for him in many weary days.

"Old Bran, old Bran," he groaned, fighting with pain, "the sword of Becket has pierced me through my loins, yea, through and through."

"Na, na, brother, if he hated, he loved also. It is only in hell a man would hate when life is done."

"Then to hell go I."

"Oh Henry, my brother, you brought peace to my land, and for you there shall be peace."

"God's my life, I want not peace but a sword. Where is that knave that hath the tale of the traitors I am sworn to love?"

"Na, na, rest you now, rest. How shall this poor body serve you if you ride it so hard? Time enough-"

"By the eyes of God, all time were too little time for my vengeance. Cozen me not, fool. Do my will. If I die now, I would die knowing mine enemies." He struggled up shouting for his clerk.

The man came with empty hands, and was slow to understand what the King wanted of him, but at long last he brought it, the roll of the lords who had joined with Philip and Richard, a writing sent betimes by Philip the careful man, that the King should know his humiliation well.

"Read it out," said the King eagerly, "read it out."

"Please you, my lord, I cannot see," the man faltered. The King raised himself groaning. "You lie, you mock me with your lies. God's blood, are you all sworn to cozen me?"

"Oh, my lord, my lord, may Christ Jesus help me, the first name that stands written here is the name of Count John your son."

The King cried out and tore the parchment from his hands, and pored over it, and crushed it, and cast it down and fought for breath. "John, my very heart," he gasped, "John, whom I loved beyond all my sons, he has forsaken me. While I wore out my life to keep the realm for him, he betrayed me." Then he laid himself down again and turned his face to the wall. "Now let the rest go as it will," he muttered. "I care no more for myself nor for the world."

Queen Eleanor had drawn out the last thread of her embroidery.

So he lay speaking only in dreams or in delirium while day passed into night and night into day, and Bran watched over him. In the dawn he woke and saw Bran there kneeling beside him covering him again. "What, fool, do you pray?" he said.

"Na, na, brother. I love. That is all."

"You are a fool in your soul," the King turned from him and Bran touched him gently and he writhed and flung off the hand.

"Oh Henry, my brother," Bran murmured and kissed at the air, but the King spoke to him no more, and he crouched down and watched through tears.

With the light came one and another of those who were still faithful, but he did not know them or would not know them. He lay restless, he groaned out wild, broken words, living over again all the worst of his life, he cursed his wife and his sons and fell to wilder laughter. "The Holy City," quoth he, "God's Holy City! It is gone to the heathen unless I save it, I. And let it go and the fiend dwell in it! I had a city that I loved. I had a realm that I made. All is gone to the fire. And I am gone, I. Shame, shame on a conquered King," and he gasped, and was shaken, and blood gushed out of him.…

That night into the room where he lay came his son Richard in helm and mail, and the candles burning by the bed gleamed on the steel of his huge strength. He stood over by that low mound which lay like a grave on the bed, he drew back the red robe from the face that lay shrunken, dark and terrible.

"He is dead in truth," he said slowly. "God's eyes, I could not believe till I saw." He drew his sword and kissed the cross hilt, and held it up in salute. "You were a King and a knight," he said.

From the dead man's feet rose up Bran. "Yea, child, yea, love him in his death," he said. "He does not die, he does not die!"

"What, old Bran, is there none but his fool to weep for him?" "Na, na, child. I weep not for him. He is gone to the peace. I weep for Bran, who is alone all his days."

"True man are you. I have a place for you, old Bran. Follow you me. God's death, serve me as you served him and I am well served."

"Na, na. It is a life too late. I have given what I had." He turned and looked at the bed. "Cover his face, child, cover his face," he cried.

Richard stood a moment looking down at the dead: "I will win your realm glory, my father," he cried, and carelessly tossed back the red robe and strode out and away to fight for the Holy City.

Away in England, by the old road along the Surrey hills, that strip of bare chalk and close chalk turf between forest and forest, came a man in motley riding a mule. When he saw the gleam of water flash up through the trees he turned and made down hill. He came to the great pond where the wheel beat out its heavy rhythm through the laughter of the falling water. From the furnaces beyond a haze rose into the clear air, and the hammers that worked the iron made merry. He rode on to the gate in the wall and, none hindering him, came to the long low house of red sandstone.

"All journeys end, King Philip," says he to his mule, and swung out of the saddle with a jingle of bells. "Is there ever a man who knows poor Bran?" he called.

"Bran!" a deep voice shouted, and hurrying came a mass of a man, white-bearded, but sturdy for all his bulk and age. "Yea and yea, brother. Here is man and woman and child to make you right welcome." He grasped both hands. "So Bran is come home at the last."

"I am weary, Siward my brother, and it is dark about me. I make for home."

Siward the ironmaster brought him in and sat him down and gave him mead and drank with him. "We heard that the King was dead," said he. "God give you comfort, brother."

"He is gone to the peace," Bran said. "He does not die. He does not die."

Siward considered of that and then: "Well said," he answered. "He built what stands. He gave England to Englishmen. He made us one. He taught us law. We shall not fall." He drank and made lines on the table with his finger awhile, then looked up: "And now Count Richard is King?"

"Na, na, there is no King but Henry my King. Richard he is a minstrel's knight, he will travel the world for the joy of a light and that is the song of him and his might. He goes a Crusade, brother. He will deliver the Holy City. He that delivered his father to death and shame. Let him go, let him go down the wind. My King is gone."

"Peace be with him in his rest," Siward said.

"Yea, yea, and to the peace go I. I have given all, and have naught to warm me but the old earth. Out of the hills I came, and to the hills go I, the good chalk hills."

And again Siward considered of it and in a while he said: "You have given well, brother. I know one who gives. Come with me, old Bran."

He took the fool's arm and led him out and away from the forges to the green glade in the forest where the stream ran clear over red sand. There, among the purple loose strife and willow herb and the creamy fragrance of the meadowsweet two children were playing, little brown arms and legs in a dance about a woman who lay in the flowers and sang. She was little and slight, a girl's bosom and a girl's face the sunshine kissed, but in her likeness and her happiness their mother confessed.

She saw the sharp colours of the motley, the grotesque shape, she started up, lithe and eager, and ran upon the fool and flung herself into his arms. "Bran, dear Bran. Oh, you are come to us at last," and she kissed him, and laid her face against his. "Dear, my father," she said, "how I have wanted you, I, who have all! Father of me."

"He is come home," Siward said, and turned away.

The little children came to him.