The Great Emprise

By Marjorie Bowen

The Prince Lyon of Clarence and the Prince Edmond of York were playing chess in a long gallery that overlooked the Thames and  the orchards on its banks.

The window behind them was open, and the sun struck fire from the leopards of England quartered on the crimson glass.

The chess men were large and right delicately carved in pure ivory and ivory dyed scarlet; the two Princes bent their gay faces over the board, and the debonair breeze from the river ruffled their fair amber-coloured locks; and at the feet of Prince Lyon slept a fine white hound wearing a collar of silver bells; while Prince Edmond was arrayed in a long gown of green samite, edged with vair, that was bright as the green of water-sedges against the dark tapestry of his chair.

Presently Prince Lyon looked up at his brother.

“There is Johan,” he said in a meaning tone.

The other smiled, and moved his vermilion king.

“Johan is cast down,” he answered, “for he walks with a laggard step.”

Slowly the King's fourth son came down the gallery; his hands were clasped behind him, and he looked in a destroubled way at the floor; his houplande of dark red was embroidered all over with golden roses that glittered as he moved; his appearance was of well-faring splendour. When he saw his brothers he smiled grudgingly, and was passing on, but the elder called out to him.

“Johan, by charity, you look sad.”

And sour,” added Prince Lyon, raising a fragrant face.

Prince Johan paused and glanced at him over his shoulder with soft, dark eyes; he was different from these princes, being of a brown complexion, and of a bearing more remote and reserved; and it appeared from his person that he was not so gentle and lovable in his nature; yet he was a most beautiful knight, taller than his brothers, and nearly as tall as the King, though not yet nineteen years of age.

“Why did you call me?” he asked. “God wot it is no great matter to see you twain play the chess.”

“It is something to see you look so sad, by the mass,” returned Prince Edmond cheerfully.

“I am not sad,” Johan of Gaunt said, and frowned and flushed.

The elder Prince looked at him kindly.

“Johan,” he answered, “truly she thinks well of you—she said as much to Lyon and to me.”

Prince Johan came to the chess-table and stood towering above his brothers.

“What did she say?” he asked, and it seemed that he trembled in great ruth.

“She was standing by the window with her dulcimere and the story of Octavian in her hand, and she looked up at us suddenly. 'Pardi,' she said, 'I think so well of your brother that I would put him to the test, and yet I am afraid.'”

The lover drew a passionate breath.

“There are no more dragons” he murmured.

“There are giants in Cornwall,” said Prince Lyon. “A lady might think somewhat of a giant—but there are dragons somewhere, I wot—maybe in France.”

“Truly she despises me,” answered Johan hopelessly, “or why does she say—'I am afraid?'”

“She dreads that you may come to harm,” suggested Edmond.

“Alas, she is the most debonair and marvellous lady in the world, and her two eyes look through me and see that I am not worthy.”

He sighed, and stared beyond his brothers at the glittering waters of the lovely river.

“There is a new knight come to court,” said Prince Edmond. “Sir Hew's son, and mad to do a feat.”

“Speak not of feats,” said Johan. “I am weary of all displays of arms.”

“The new knight is arrogant and does not know his manners yet,” said Lyon; “and I tell you this, an hour agone he asked the lady Blaunche for a favour to wear at the tourney.”

Johan of Gaunt stared at them mutely.

“He!” he cried after a moment.

Prince Lyon moved, shaking his purple silk robe into shudders of light.

“Even he.”

“Even he,” nodded Prince Edmond,

“What is his name?” asked Prince Johan with a flush of dark distress,

“'Tis Sir Maryon, son of Sir Hew, newly come from Picardy.”

“Did she” began Johan faintly.

“By Ovid, I think she gave him nothing—was it likely? Would he have asked if he had known—anything?”

“Here he approaches,” said Prince Lyon with a little smile. “Maybe because the Lady Blaunche comes this way from the chapel—does he know that already? Ah, dan Cupid!”

“Oh, peace!” murmured Johan in a tone of anguish; he turned his dark head and gazed passionately at the two knights who were entering the long gallery.

Sir Hew was a tall and well-favoured man, but his son, Sir Maryon, though well enough, was over fair and had a look of weakness; but to Johan's jealous eyes he loomed a very Phœbus, scattering light and conquering.

Prince Lyon saw his brother's anguish and gave what comfort he could.

“'Tis a poor, untried boy,” he said. “Calm thyself, Johan.”

The lover scorned all help.

“If she favours him” he said hoarsely and fiercely, then bit his lip and turned away.

He walked with something of the soft strength and ease of a leopard; it had been noticed that even when he wore heavy mail he made no sound as he stepped, and now he was on the two knights, who had drawn into the window embrasure, before Sir Maryon noticed him. Sir Hew was looking out of the window, and Sir Maryon did not know him for the King's son, and so returned his fierce look haughtily.

Johan of Gaunt hesitated a moment, with a challenging expression in his violet eyes, then passed on disdainfully, and in a blind and absorbed passion of hopelessness and bitterness he stared at the arms of England, carved in the wall at the end of the gallery, and traced with his forefinger the threads of gold in the arras that hung over the door. When he looked round again, almost fearfully, he saw that Sir Maryon, with an anxious face, was pacing up and down the shining boards, and that the two princes were whispering together over the chess-board. Full well he knew that the stranger was waiting for the passing of his beloved, and that his brothers made talk of it, and he felt his limbs weak beneath him; he had to lean against the wall for support and clasp his hand to his heart, such a dizziness of wrath came over him; he pressed his face against the tapestry and felt the gold threads rough against his cheek.

He heard one of his brothers laugh, and hated him for it; he felt the breeze from the open lattice through his hair, and shivered; when he at last lifted sick eyes again and stared down the gallery he saw Sir Maryon move forward expectantly.

Softly Prince Johan turned and paced lightly back down the gallery.

Before the third window he came face to face with Sir Maryon.

The painful colour flushed into the face of each.

“I do not know you,” said Johan of Gaunt discourteously.

Sir Maryon was angered by this show of arrogance.

“When I have dealings with you I will tell you my name,” he returned.

“You are like to have dealings with me soon enow,” said Prince Johan, showing his teeth.

Sir Maryon was scornful.

“Sir, what is this?” he asked, and his whole figure tightened.

“By the Rood and the Mass,” swore Prince Johan, “I will not endure such as you in my way.”

“As I am a knight,” said Sir Maryon, "you are none to speak so to a stranger.”

“Pardi,” answered Johan of Gaunt deeply. “I think you are a very inconsiderable fool and a man of great insolence.” Sir Maryon half shrunk from the bared fierceness in his face; the Prince pointed his hesitancy with a quick laugh.

“Stand from me,” he said; then he half stepped back himself, for he saw Blaunche of Lancaster walking down the gallery towards them.

“I would speak to this Princess,” said Sir Maryon, spurred by the sight of her.

Johan of Gaunt turned round softly.

“Why, so would I,” he said, “and I am a Prince of England.”

And with that he struck Sir Maryon evilly on the face, so that he sprang back.

And the Lady Blaunche beheld the blow.

She was so fair that there seemed to be a radiance round her; she had a missal in her hand, and a branch of May flowers; startled she looked, and ashamed.

“Alas!” she said, her deep eyes turned to Prince Johan. “Ah, where is thy gentlehood?”

And he stood at fault, not daring to speak to her; for a moment she hesitated, and the three men (for Sir Hew had come up hotly behind his son) were dumb; then in silence she passed on, the silver borders of her blue gown making a little clink on the smooth floor.

When she had gone Sir Hew spoke up fiercely.

“Lord, you have insulted us in an unknightly fashion”

Johan of Gaunt stared at him; he had been so wounded by the look in Blaunche of Lancaster's eyes that all lesser hurts were of no matter.

Sir Maryon came forward, holding his cheek. He laughed weakly. “I will get some honour out of this,” he said. “I will make this forgotten, so I swear, or I return to Picardy a disgraced knight.”

Johan of Gaunt gave them both a wild glance and turned away He went straight to his chamber and flung himself along the floor with his face in the cushions of the window-seat.

The spring sunshine fell full and pure over his bowed dark head, his red and gold gown, and the embroidered cushions, but in his heart was stormy darkness, and lonely bitterness and fierce woe.

After a while he moved and moaned, savagely wrenched the window open, and stared out at the river.

A painted barge was passing, and a heron, disturbed by the oars, flew up from the sedges; the sky was an arc of pure blue flecked with clouds on the horizon.

The Prince sat in wretched idleness gazing at a world he hated and loathing himself; before the sun had moved from the window-seat his younger brother, who was still but a squire, entered the chamber.

He was gentle and kind, and Johan loved him.

“Little Thomas,” he cried, when he saw him, “help me to put my armour on—for I must go abroad and do a feat of arms—else, God wot, I am a lost soul, cast from the heaven of my lady's graces.” And when he came to put it into words his throat tightened with a sob and his eyes were wet.

Thomas of Woodstock came to his side.

“Is it the Lady Blaunche?” he asked.

“Alas!” said Johan.

“I saw her in the garden,” continued Prince Thomas, “and there were stains of tears on her cheeks.”

“Alas!” groaned Johan.

“What hath occurred—have you angered her?” ventured the younger Prince.

Johan bit his thumb and looked sorrowfully out at the river.

“I am disgraced,” he murmured thickly. “I must get me abroad to do some feat of arms. Edmond said there were giants in Cornwall.”

Thomas of Woodstock paled.

“Cornwall is full of wonderful things. You could not go so far into the wilderness as Cornwall, Johan?”

“God wot, I might,” was the desperate answer.

“Sooner would I go to Picardy,” said Thomas, regarding his brother with shining, troubled eyes, “where there are snakes and witches.”

“I have no fancy for a snake,” returned Johan of Gaunt gloomily, “unless he have ten heads, and they be rare, and I am afraid of witches who cast spells.”

“What would you?” asked Prince Thomas anxiously.

“A dragon,” said Prince Johan.

“There are none in London or Westminster, Johan.”

“Certes, I know it.”

Prince Thomas hesitated.

“I do think the Lady Blaunche does not put such value on dragons” he ventured.

His brother interrupted him with a heavy and sorrowful speech.

“I am an unworthy knight. I would I was like our brother Edward, he knows the way of chivalry, but I have much to learn. I would rather be lying dead, with the ravens pecking my eyes, than be the scorn of my cousin Blaunche.”

“She cannot scorn you,” said Prince Thomas stoutly.

“Alas! alas!” answered Johan. “I have disgraced myself.”

Prince Thomas did not dare to ask him how. He stared in mute sympathy while Johan continued to bewail himself bitterly.

“Edmond is fortunate. He is always in love, and never with the same lady for more days than two. Lyon is to have the daughter of Sir Galeas of Milan, and has her picture cunningly cut on a jewel that he makes his prayer to; but no one gives heed to my grief, who must live in sight of my lady's disdain.”

“Alas!” said Thomas of Woodstock gently.

“Get me my armour,” commanded Johan drearily.

“You will go out?”

“Yes,”

“Not—to Cornwall?”

“I know not where I shall go,” returned Johan rather fiercely.

Obediently, but fearfully, the little Prince went into the inner chamber and brought out his brother’s armour.

Slowly, and with a miserable mien, Johan of Gaunt took off his houplande, and with Thomas of Woodstock for page, was strapped and buckled into greaves, hauberk and vambraces.

“If the King should see you,” said the little Prince in an awed tone “he would wonder what you did in mail.”

“No one will see me,” answered Johan, with gloom.

“Where are you going?”

“I know not.”

“May I come, Johan?”

“No.”

“Alas! I wish I might.”

No, I must go alone.”

“Johan, I could be your squire.”

“I will not take you, Thomas,” returned his brother sadly. “And do not tell the others that I am gone.”

“No, Johan,” said the little Prince dutifully. “I will tell no one—not even the King.”

“Not even the King,” repeated Johan impressively. He took a turn across the room; in his bright and polished mail he looked very splendid. Gently, yet imperiously, he dismissed his brother, who went reluctantly and with sighs.

Johan walked about his room a little longer, groaning to himself; then he got his sword and fastened it round his waist, put on his helmet and his gloves with a certain gloomy satisfaction in the feel of these warlike things.

Armed now from head to foot, and almost brushing his crest against the painted rafters of the ceiling he went to a little cabinet that was carved all over with running figures, and took from it a roll of parchment.

With a shy, guilty look, he read over the few lines it contained:

This was the first song he had ever written in honour of Blaunche of Lancaster. Seeing it, he sighed and sighed again and cast it down on the floor, and so went out of his chamber and the palace of the Savoy, and walked down by the river.

As he turned towards the country his way was set with all the flowers of spring-time, daffodils, narcissi, violets, primroses and windflowers, grasses swaying sadly, and trails of eglantine. He thought on the stories of Phyllis and Demophoon, on Lucrece, on Penelope, on Dido, Ector and Achilles, for these tales came into his head at the sight of the blossoms.

He walked some way and then looked back; London was lying close and golden about the blue river; the orchards of apple bloom, made a haze of colour on either bank; under the low arches of the bridge dark shadows rippled with the movement of the water; above the city the regal standard quivered in the warm, blue welkin.

Johan of Gaunt went on heavily towards the abbey and church of St. Peter.

He walked round the low convent walls and saw the monks within moving among the fruit-trees; he passed by the double towers of the great church and saw the craftsmen, who had been carving the stone, resting and eating bread and meat in the shade of the buttresses, and came out into the fields behind the holy lands where there was a little grove of trees, all flushed into radiant hues of amber, orange, pink and clear green.

Johan of Gaunt sat on a little hillock of grass, grown with buttercups, and lifted his eyes to the still, blue heavens and lamented himself.

“I would I had the beauty of Alcipiades, the strength of Ercules, the worthiness of Alisaundre, all the riches that ever were in Babyloyne, in Cartage, in Macedoyne, in Rome or Ninive. I would I were as hardy as Ector, and as wise as Minerva, that I might do my lady the service she deserves, instead of being the wretched I am!”

So he lamented himself, and the hawthorn blooms fell at the breath of the west wind and touched his casque.

So he lamented himself, and presently looked round, wildly hoping a strange, grim beast might come out of the wood.

“For I must do,” he said, “some great emprise.”

But he saw nothing wonderful—only Sir Maryon coming, clad in full armour, across the long grass.

Johan of Gaunt blushed and sat silent with his sword across his knees; he did not wish to see Sir Maryon, the sight of whom made him feel ashamed, and no longer was he wroth with the stranger, but angry with himself.

Sir Maryon paused opposite the Prince and set his back against an oak sapling.

Johan looked at him, then away, then slowly gazed at him again.

Sir Maryon took off his helmet and his hair was like plated gold in the sunlight; at the sight of it jealousy sprang up again in the heart of Johan of Gaunt.

“I am as black as a Moor,” he said to himself, “why should she look at me?”

Then Sir Maryon fetched a sigh.

“Prince, I have followed you.”

Johan said nothing.

“Prince, I must fight you.”

“Why?” asked Johan gloomily.

“For my manhood and my honour’s sake,” replied Sir Maryon, and he groaned.

“I do not wish to fight with you,” said Johan, staring at the grove of trees. “I am out to do some great feat.”

“Pardi, nor do I wish to fight,” returned Sir Maryon.

Prince Johan looked at him sharply; he was interested.

“Why?” he demanded frowning.

“You will beat me—you are already a famous knight—and when you have defeated me, what am I? As good as dead—for what have I but my honour? And have I not vowed, and has not Sir Hew, my father, vowed that I must have grace for that blow or be shamed?”

“I will not fight with you,” said Johan of Gaunt hastily. “Go your ways for me.”

Sir Maryon bewailed himself.

“It may not be—-my father has vowed—if I were disgraced now I must leave the court and the brightest lady I have ever seen.”

“Ah!” said Johan of Gaunt darkly.

“Certes, she is the phænix of all ladies,” continued Sir Maryon, “and even that bird of Araby was not so rare”;

“Din not talk of birds of Araby into mine ears,” said Johan of Gaunt bitterly. “I am no poet, nor are you, I wot—I would to God that you were very far away from me, for certes, I mislike you, and if you anger me I shall fight you and maybe do you a hurt, and I did not come here for that.”

“But I came for that and nothing else,” returned Sir Maryon sadly.

The bells of St. Peter’s church broke into chimes for the Angelus.

Sir Maryon bent his head, and Johan of Gaunt went on his knees; when his prayer was ended he rose up and was going his way, but Sir Maryon came after him and goaded him.

“No true knight are you, Sir Johan, if you refuse to fight with me—and I shall go back and speak of it before the King and before the Lady Blaunche.”

“For one new come to court you are very easy with my cousin’s name,” returned Johan. “And I will fight since you will not be satisfied another way.”

And he took out his sword and looked at it lovingly, and Sir Maryon sighed, drawing his weapon, and under the may trees they fought, until the bright blood ran out of the joints of their shining armour and stained the wind-flowers and the daisies. And after a very little while Johan of Gaunt overcame Sir Maryon, and took his sword away, and cast him down on the grass.

He felt no matter of vanity, nor any pride nor joy in his victory, for Sir Maryon was but a weak knight, and now he moaned pitifully. The victor sat down on the knoll of daisies and grass and put his stained sword from him; he was not weary, for he had great strength, but his heart was faint with woe and shame.

After a while Sir Maryon staggered up.

“Now am I utterly undone,” he said, and moved away heavily towards the city.

The Prince took his head in his hands and shuddered.

“Before God,” he said to himself, “I would my strength was taken from me, for what use is it to me save to defeat a poor wight who is forlorn. I wot my heart is sad for his woe, and that I shall never be holy nor full of chivalry; nor are there any longer dragons nor great beasts by way of whom a man may come to honour, and so I am miserable, being a scorn in the eyes of my cousin Blaunche.”

So he railed against himself, tasting exceeding bitterness; and his prowess was a reproach to him, and his enterprise a mock, for he had set out to do a feat to redeem himself in his lady’s eyes, and it had ended in a very paltry thing.

And he noticed not how the time passed, nor how the throstle cock and the singing fowls made music in the grove; he flung himself his great length along the sward, and wept wildly, with his face pressed into the daisies.

And the moon was shining over the river, and the nightingale warbling behind St. Peter’s church before he had sobbed his passion out, and risen, a sad and sober man.

Disconsolately he went back to the Palace of the Savoy, drearily stole unobserved to his chamber, and called his page and was unarmed. The hanging lamps were lit in the halls of the palace and he could hear his brothers laughing and smell the rich odour of the supper, which added to his loneliness.

He could not show himself, and so sat alone by his window, his sick head resting against the mullions, his hot eyes turned towards the friendly river that flowed beneath.

Presently Prince Thomas came to him, creeping softly through the dark.

Johan.”

The watcher at the window turned about with a little start.

“Johan, the King wonders where you tarry.”

“Say I am sick.”

Thomas of Woodstock put his hand on his brother’s shoulder.

“Johan, Sir Maryon is returned.”

A groan out of the darkness answered him.

“Johan—Sir Maryon” the little Prince paused.

“I fear,” said his brother, “that I have wronged that knight full evilly.”

“But he says—that he overthrew you.”

Johan of Gaunt rose swiftly.

“Sir Maryon says he overthrew me?”

“Yes; in the fields behind St. Peter’s church. Ah, Johan!”

The elder Prince was all bewildered, for he had never considered a lie possible to any but a varlet; a very great rage burnt in his blood; he put his hand to his brow and strode from the chamber, little Thomas fearfully after him. They reached the supper hall and found it full of company.

The great King sat at the head of the board, and Sir Hew stood beside him: before them was Sir Maryon, white and erect.

Edward of England looked at his fourth and beckoned him to approach, and Johan of Gaunt came with his light, silent step, and a heart bitter against the miscreant knight.

“Johan,” said the King, “I am doing Sir Maryon honour, for he is the first who has bested you in fight.”

And his blue eyes were angry.

Johan turned and was about to speak with gathered scorn when he saw the face of Sir Maryon, strained, desperate, unhappy.

He paused and glanced at Sir Hew, and on his face was such an expression of proud, radiant happiness that it was a marvellous thing.

And Johan of Gaunt said: “Certainly I lost much honour in the Abbey fields to-day, lord.... And I was overcome.”

The King lowered his glance from him, and the Princes and courtiers wondered.

But Johan of Gaunt felt a little ease in his heart until he saw Blaunche of Lancaster sitting at the board.

“Now am I utterly undone,” he said to himself, “and no better than dead, for I have declared myself a craven and she must scorn me utterly.”

And he went from the room heavily, and some laughed at his discomfiture, because he was usually so proud, and not beloved like his brothers, who were debonair and gentle. Out into the garden he went, and walked up and down under the stars.

“Truly,” he said, “my father, who is Edward of England, can better endure a little shame in me than that poor knight of Picardy can endure dishonour in his son, for he has but one, and he is a miscreant.”

And then, thinking of what he had wished to do, and how he had failed wretchedly, he struck his breast and moaned: “To love is a great emprise!”

Through the dark he heard the river lapping at the garden wall, and presently a footstep, and the moonlight showed a lady hooded in ermine.

And he knew it was Blaunche of Lancaster and he trembled.

“Johan,” she said, “Will you still be my knight?”

“Oh, lady of all ladies the alderbest!” he asked, dazed, “do you mock me?”

“Oh, Johan,” she said, and “Oh, love, I will take you for my servant.”

And she stood nearer him than ever before.

“Ah, mercy!” he cried, and went on his knees before her. “Oh, forgive me, that I am so unworthy.”

And he lifted her kirtle hem to his breast.

Delicately through the dark came her speech:

“You have begun to learn, not when you overthrew Sir Maryon, but when you passed his lie, and it was a better thing than the conquest of dragons; so be not destroubled, for I have taken you to be my knight.