The Pageant of England/King John Comes to Heel

HE fog moved cold upon an oily sea, and under one square sail a silent ship came slowly. From her poop two pilgrims watched the grey robes wreathe and fall and the cliffs stand naked white, to be veiled again in the sterner threat of mystery. “I have thought of death like that,” one said.

The captain, peering keen beneath drawn, dank brows, stood by a steady helm. A black mass loomed out of the greyness. He moved his hand, and the sail rattled down. Holding right on, the ship came neatly to the jetty. At once the pilgrims stepped ashore. The uplifted hand gave blessing without a word. They turned and were lost in the fog.

Out of the narrow harbour lanes, beset by the voices of men they could not see, they came to sweeter air and the Saxon tower of St. Mary's. A throng had gathered there, for in the porch was a priest striving to free himself of a woman who wept upon his feet. She pled miserably for a dead child, that it might lie by its father's side. “Good wife, I dare not. No creature may rest in holy ground till we are purged of the King's sin. It is the Lord Pope's strait command. Thou knowest.” And the woman sobbed bitterly.

There was a mutter in the crowd, and a gaunt yeoman spoke out. “The King shears us so close that we cannot live, and quarrels with God so that we cannot comfortably die. Brothers, I have heard of a knight that cut off his legs for the fun of hurting them.”

Again the mutter of passion ran through the crowd. But a fat voice came above it: “Methinks there be some here that covet a garment of thorns in the cell of little ease,” and in haste the crowd broke and left the port-bailiff smiling sleek in the midst. The priest scowled grim at him, but he came to the moaning woman and thrust at her breast with his foot. “Bess Vintner, a dead brat is but dirt wherever it lie. Howl for thine own folly that could not keep it alive. Get home! Edward of Hougham, that jest was worth a price; the sheriff shall go through thy homestead again. And ye,” he turned upon the shrinking crowd, “what are ye to question your King, knaves? His men ye are, body and soul, and who denies it earns dainty torment for both. Get ye home!” They slunk away grumbling, and he, well pleased, kicked at the woman.

“Kind sir,” said one of the pilgrims, “which way go we to the good canons of St. Martin's priory?”

The bailiff looked his sombre holiness up and down. “By the turn devilward,” quoth he, “whither we have driven the lazy swine. Hark in the ear: for lying rogues of your trade, England is a worse place than very hell.”

“Poor soul,” said the pilgrim, “thou wilt be sore surprised”; and he laughed gently as he turned away.

The mayor looked after them something puzzled. When some meaning penetrated, he turned and swore at the priest.

“Said I not it was a merry land?” quoth the other pilgrim sadly to his fellow.

“I love no men who yield themselves to woe.”

“The martyrs yielded not, yet their part was woe.”

The elder man's eyes glanced light. “I profess the Lord asks not a nation of martyrs. That were to make heaven dull. Nay, Craddock, it is not written, Render under Cæsar the things that are your own. Will any martyr have heart enough to give us two saints a lodging, despite King Devil?”

“The castle had a warm hearth of old.”

“Forward with galliard foot! This weeping fog of your land makes my marrow shiver. Master Adam hath a syllogism to prove that the pains of hell are raw cold. No honest Englishman could think so. But for me, 'tis an almighty spur to godliness.”

“If this were thine own land, thy heart would not mock.”

“Why not? I am ever blithe when I see men sorrowful. They prove me my great soul.”

“England is sick unto death, and thou art lightly glad. Is that thy tale for the Holy Father?”

“Good friend Craddock, if the Lord Pope had wanted a saint's thoughts on thy land, he had never sent me. I always tell the truth. There is nothing which more deludes the weaker brethren.”

“A man's words tell his heart,” the Englishman growled, “and so do thine.”

There was no answer save a gentle ripple of laughter, and the Englishman allowed himself unholy muttering. He liked King John's grinding tyranny, his defiance of its punishment, the interdict upon all the rites of God, better than this smooth mirth; and said so.

So, one fuming, the other well content, they climbed the steep hill to the castle. On a blast of the horn the porter looked through a grating. “Two poor souls on pilgrimage ask bed and board for Our Lady's honour.”

To a cry of surprise the great gate swung. “Pass, i' the good name of St. Martin, pass. We see few of your kind now,” quoth the porter, and the elder man blessed him benignly.

The drawbridge crashed down, and as they crossed the dark gulf of the moat the portcullis rose before them and a serving- man, with low obeisance, led them through the inner bailey and on. The mass of the keep rose dim, starred with the silver gleam of many a kindly window. They climbed the stairway and came dazzled to the altar lights of a little chapel. The elder man went straightway and knelt, and began to tell his beads, but the other held off, frowning in no devout humour. The light reveals them clad alike in shapeless grey robe and hood, with long staff and weighty scrip. Their faded hats bore the like leaden images of St. John's head, and the Virgin, and the Holy Sudary. The younger man was square and English in every line, his elder a sleek fellow of little, neat bones and a sensuous face in ivory. His prayers endured long.

They were brought to the great hall, where Gilbert d'Avranches, the constable, sat at meat with his household. A vast place it was, and the banners from the roof were lost in the lofty dark, but beneath all was bright with the blazing fire-glow and candles to spare. The walls were a galaxy of steel glittering before the grave hues of tapestry. Close ranks of men-at-arms lined the board and wrought doughtily upon giant masses of smoking flesh, and kept the black jacks busy. But the pilgrims were beckoned above the salt to higher things.

Gilbert d'Avranches fixed on them a dull, careless stare. He was plainly slow of mind as of heavy limb, but both might be sinewy. His wife had the graces. Her form was of motherly strength, and the mother's vision of life had quenched the light of her eyes and lined her full brow, but the spirit of youth dowered her still. She drew her cloth of gold about her and made them place at her side. “God's couriers are goodly guests.”

“I would that all England said so,” quoth Craddock the Englishman.

The constable turned with a frown; her kindly air was frozen. “England hath true welcome for true men, father.”

“And a fog for foggy wits, Craddock,” his companion said suavely.

“Ye come from over sea?” the constable questioned. “We see few of your kind.”

“I hold you unhappy in that, my lord. And the more reason you should see us.”

“If ye be what ye should be—ay.”

“We are what we can be, being sinful men. Good my lord, though your King be at odds with the Pope, should his people fall out with God?”

The smooth voice had checked the feast, and all were at gaze.

The constable beat his hand on the table. “I hold this castle for my lord the King!” he cried.

Mild surprise was marked on that sensuous face. “It is not my heart speaks doubt of your duty, my lord.”

“By the body of God!” The constable fell suddenly silent and flushed, and stared with keen eyes, long. “Take heed,” he said in a quieter tone; “not grey gown nor shaven crown will save a man who devises against the King.”

“If I had not known his power, surely I had learnt it of you, my lord.” The pilgrim bowed.

The constable filled his wine-cup. “God save the King!” he cried, and the long ranks of men-at-arms thundered the prayer and drank.

“With all my heart,” said the pilgrim. “God save the King!”

But still the constable eyed him keenly. “And whence come ye, good father?”

“Even from Our Lady of Rocamadour”—he muttered a small ave—“and from St. John Baptist of Amiens, and from great St. James of Compostella, and from the body of St. Mark, and the ear of St. Paul in happy Venice, where also they have St. Lawrence in powder.”

“Truly thou art a kindly honour to our board,” quoth the lady in some awe.

“But hast thou seen a real ?” It was a clear, eager voice, and he looked up to smile at a girl, slight and lithe as a silver birch, and eyes aglow with the brave yearnings of innocence.

Then he laughed, and told of swart Saracens and yellow Tartarian slaves from Cathay, which held their fathers the only gods, and black men with hair like sheep, that pined for lack of men's flesh to eat, till she was gasping and crying for more in a child's delicious horror.

But the constable held apart with gloomy brow, and anon he muttered to himself and anon to his wife. In equal rage Craddock frowned at him and the blithe teller of tales.

The constable thrust back his chair. “God and King John is the word,” he cried, and talk was broken short and the guard strode off to the walls.

When the two pilgrims were left alone in a chamber of clean rushes and a hair bolster and the like luxury, “Laus Deo,” quoth the elder, and laughed and laid him down.

Craddock glowered at him. “Praise God for the devil's power, Master Bernard. What hope is there while these brute barons stand fast by their King?”

“By my faith, Craddock, no man sees his nose better than thou,” said the elder, and turned and spake no word more till morning.

The sea lay turquoise beneath a turquoise sky, the long foam-line of the flowing tide agleam. Beyond the green valley and the silver haze of the township's smoke the vast cliff rose sharp and white. A morning wind moved quick with the spirit of spring. On the battlements stood Master Bernard, his sensuous face marked with rich delight, and the girl Alais came to him. His thought found her like a daffodil, so slender she was and fragrant, and her hair so bright. It was bound in two braids that came to her child's bosom, and met in a clasp of silver and moonstone. So, from a frame of gold, rosy cheeks dimpled and her eyes were gay. “Not the Madonna,” said Master Bernard to himself. “And yet—before the angel came, maybe.”

“Is 't not all fair?” cried Alais; and then, reproved by the grave garb of holiness, “Good father, may not the saints love this world too?”

“A sad saint is but a sorry saint, child. The true men love all of God, not half, and give glad thanks for all.”

She was quaintly solemn. Thou wouldst make it so easy to be good; not like our priests.”

“Thought of ill is no way to good.”

“And the wind blows over the sea!” she cried, and her voice rippled laughter.

“And the joy of the morning lasts this world through,” quoth Master Bernard; but his eyes were grave and gazed beyond her. The constable was riding out and away. “By my faith, ye use the morning in Dover,” he said carelessly. “Thy father is early afield.”

“He rides to the King at Temple Ewell.”

“God give him grace,” quoth Master Bernard. “But, in truth, I am shamed for a sluggard,” and something abruptly he left her.

Soon with Craddock at his side he was striding gallantly up the valley. The grey-green swell of the downs closed upon either hand, and as the road stole up the flank of the ranging crests they saw the banished Templars' preceptory stand white, and before it a very forest of banners and broken gleams of steel. “It is an army,” cried Craddock.

Master Bernard shrugged. “If the devil had no strength, would he stay the devil?”

King John's strength was not of Englishmen, They came upon a babel of tongues, Flemish and Provençal loudest. Master Bernard held Craddock's sleeve and stayed behind a hedgerow at gaze. It was a great host, built of dangerous men, scarred mercenaries of many wars.

Delicately Master Bernard went forward and mingled with them. In good humour he gave joke back for brutal jibe, and was alert to dodge blows. Soon he had made friends.

But he never went far with them. He was stayed when the houses of Ewell vomited flame and a turbulent mob of ruffians came driving the hapless village folk like sheep to the slaughter.

“What ill have they done?” cried Master Bernard.

“What matter? They are English,” quoth a Spaniard.

Gay as girls in May the foreign soldiery ran to make a double line, and down the midst the wretched villagers were driven, while the soldiers lashed at them with staff and sword. Master Bernard has told of that hour in words that stab still: of men fighting with handless arms against the steel, of children shrieking in maimed torment, of the bare maiden bosoms bathed in blood, of a mother's ghastly wound, and the spring sunshine over all.

A horseman sped by to the preceptory, and in a moment King John came out. He saw the sport and threw back his shoulders and laughed loud. “A jocund race!” he cried. “Lay on! Lay on! Scourge them back home again!”

With yells of new delight it was done. The hapless bodies that could yet move were beaten on and on by lash of steel to the blazing village, and some cast themselves upon the sword for the easier death, and some in madness leapt into the midst of the fire. The air throbbed to their torture. And King John's mirth shook his fat body mightily.

Master Bernard, still and pale, watched him with curious eyes. It was but a moment before a troop of horsemen rode up, and one approached the King laughing: “Good hunting, my lord!” This was a cumbrous man with dark face pitted by the stains of debauchery.

“Ha, my fair Eude, how was it done? Sweetly? Tastily?”

“The dam is dead with her cub, my lord. I shut them into the straitest cell of Corfe with a flitch of raw bacon and a sheaf of oats

“Thistles, I would have had it. But on! On!”

“So were they left, and each day I came unto them, and they wept upon me very pleasantly, asking water.”

“Thou shalt tell me all at leisure. On! on!”

“This while their minds endured. On the seventh day they raved. On the eleventh I found them dead, the mother between the knees of her son, the son sitting against the wall. She had gnawed his cheeks in her agony.”

“My trusty Eude! My best servant! Exquisite! Exquisite! Come in, come in; let me have more. I am as thirsty for it as she.”

Eude blinked down at the King. “There was a something promised.”

“Thou shalt have it, even to the last inch of her. Come, come!”

Together they went to the preceptory, and Master Bernard stole away. The shrieks from the fire had fallen silent. Beyond sight of it he stayed, and, with bowed head, “Salvator mundi, miserere,” he murmured. “O Deus omnipotens, populo subvenias!”

“Hast thou seen enough?” A harsh voice spoke in his ear.

He opened his eyes upon Craddock's white rage. “I would that I had a quicker mind,” he said.

“Let us be gone. Each hour we linger is sin unpardonable.”

“The Sieur Gilbert d'Avranches went in to the King,” said Master Bernard, “I would see him out again.”

“What is that brute baron to us?”

“No more than those innocent bodies I availed not to save. Yet as much.”

“By the Rood this is madness!” Craddock cried. “What was our charge? To find if the people suffered as was told and bring sure word with speed. I do protest to linger more is the very sin against the Holy Ghost.”

“Go, then, and be guiltless.”

“How darest thou stay?”

“To serve.”

“Thou art of higher order than I, and craftier far. But this is no hour for craft.”

“Wait and see.”

So they sat down there under the hedgerow and waited the morning through while the hapless villagers who had dared cry out against plunder smouldered to ashes. But Gilbert d'Avranches came not. At last there was the clash of parade in the camp, and they saw King John ride out.

“Swiftly to Dover now, if I read all this aright,” quoth Master Bernard; and though they made the best of their speed they were hardly upon the castle walls before they saw the lances turn to climb the hill. The warder hied away to Dame Eleanor with tidings that the King's banner was coming with a great host. To the warder's tower she came in haste, and Master Bernard, giving room, watched her white face.

“Surely he comes, my lord's guest,” she murmured, but her eyes were afraid.

“Then will your lord cry you the entry,” quoth Master Bernard. “Till then let drawbridge be up and portcullis down.”

She turned with a start and red alarm. “How say you?”

“As one who would trust thy lord's honour much, and the King not at all.”

She gazed at him keenly, trying to pierce the mask of that calm, sensuous face, and he smiled.

Already the King's company was close at hand, and a man-at-arms spurred on ahead and wound the horn at the gate and shouted: “The King commands entry to his castle of Dover.”

“The pawn's move,” quoth Master Bernard. To which one might answer a pawn: The King commands the duty of Gilbert d'Avranches, and Gilbert d'Avranches hath that of Dame Eleanor his wife, who upon his order will do his will.”

“What means that?” she cried. “Hath he my lord in duress?”

“By that answer we shall learn,” quoth Master Bernard, and so it was made.

Now the girl Alais came dancing delight. “Oh, the brave company! I love their gay banners and that sea of steel. Shall we make high feast for them, mother?”

Her mother caught her close with a strained, sobbing laugh. “My sweet life, God aid thee!”

“What is it, then?”—her eyes were wide in brave innocent wonder; she saw tears breaking—“dear mother of mine!”

Already another horseman was coming to the gate.

“The knight's move,” said Master Bernard, and bent to hear.

“The King commands instant entry to his castle of Dover, on pain of traitor's doom for all who deny him and a slow death for Gilbert d'Avranches, who is held upon arrest of treason.”

“Mother!” the girl's cry rang, and quivering, she clung to her mother's bosom.

There was mingled movement in the King's host, and a little company drew out and came nigh the walls. Then the girl cried wildly, and her mother swayed and leant against the stone panting. For in the midst, on a naked horse, his hands bound like a malefactor, rode Gilbert d'Avranches. Unhelmed, unarmoured he was, and he had a gag in his teeth and a halter about his neck,

It was a gay young gentleman, a swarthy Poitevin, who spurred up to the barbican, laughing. “If goodwife Eleanor opens not her gate straightway that the King may come into his castle, if she gives not her blithe maiden daughter to his hand to be wife for the Sieur Eude de Laon, then shall goodman Gilbert hang here and his limbs be burnt before his eyes, according to the right doom of a traitor.”

The girl cried out. She was red, and her eyes flamed; but her mother made no sound nor sign. Long and long she gazed at her lord held in the grip of death. Then she drew a deep breath that made all her body tremble, and turned to her daughter with terrible eyes. There was no fear on that maiden brow, but a gallant passion of rage.

The Poitevin shouted again. “The maid in de Laon's hungry arms, goodwife, or goodman hangs straightway.”

Master Bernard contemplated the two women with benevolent eyes. “Yield!” quoth he.

Dame Eleanor caught the girl to her bosom fiercely, and fiercely her eyes blazed.

“By my faith, this passes all!” Craddock sprang forward. This counsel is of the devil! Lady, what would thy lord have thee do? Would he buy his life with thy daughter's honour? Not he, nor any man of knightly heart. Do his will. Let him bear the villain's doom, and fight it out with these true men of thine. So shall God stand by thee in all.”

“He doth now,” said Master Bernard calmly. “Yield!”

Craddock turned upon him. “Sayest thou so? And is it God's will to give a maiden into the hands of Eude de Laon, the prime minister of his master's passions, the exemplar of all wickedness?”

“God's ways are manifold,” quoth Master Bernard. “Yield!”

The mother gazed at him with eyes that bore her pain to his soul. About them rose a murmur of rage. Geoffrey, the seneschal, was there, and Ranulf, the captain of the main guard, and other high servants, and Ranulf spoke out: “My master would say, fight! He would never buy life with a maiden. Fight then, by St. Martin, and let us take some deaths for his death.”

“Lady, go in,” quoth the seneschal, “and your vassals shall have vengeance for their lord.” And the men-at-arms muttered hoarse oaths of good will.

But now, before her eyes, they had driven her husband's horse beneath a tree, and the rope from his neck was flung over a bough and drawn tight, and a man stood by the bridle ready to urge the horse away, and the grinning Poitevin at the gate cried out, “Hastily, goodwife, hastily!”

“Mother, mother, I dare not,” the girl gasped. “I will be this man's at his will. Tell them swiftly. Ah, what matter am am I?”

The mother groaned, clasping her child closer and closer yet. “Child ... child ... thou dost not know....”

“Yield,” said Master Bernard. “Thou canst no other. Deny him, and thy lord dies, yet the maiden shall not escape. What can thy little company do against that host? She must to it at last. Save him while thou canst.”

The mother trembled, muttering, “O Christ, Son of God, have mercy!”

“Mother, it must be.” Alais's voice throbbed with passion. “I will save him. By my faith, I will go out alone.”

“God forgive me!” her mother sobbed.

Master Bernard leaned over the battlements. The Lady Eleanor yields!” he cried.

“Down drawbridge then, traitors!” the Poitevin shouted. “By the devil's hoof, you have lost me a pretty sight.”

“Down drawbridge!” Master Bernard repeated for the men-at-arms. But they scowled at him.

The mother was weeping, and had no words.

“Give the entry, Ranulf,” said Alais, quietly. “I will go meet them. Mother, go in.” And she kissed her mother's brow.”

“Nay—nay—I dare not leave thee.”

Sulkily swearing, the men-at-arms went about their business. Alais led her mother down. Craddock gripped Master Bernard's arm. “Our Lord the Pope shall hear of this hour,” he growled.

“Of each moment. From my lips.” He followed the women down to the courtyard.

The host on the steep hill side was mingled and broken. When drawbridge was down and portcullis raised, King John rode in the first with Gilbert d'Avranches bound still and gagged by his side, and he jested as he came. “Who could have thought any woman so mad as to hold thy carcass dear? I will see to it that the tender Dame Eleanor is by when we get the butcher to work on thee at last. But first thou shalt see thy maid in the arms of fair Eude. 'Tis a lover of Scripture. Cunningly he'll visit the sins of the father upon the maid. 'Tis a man of dainty fancy. Ha, here is the good wife.” He laughed out, beckoning her. “Good wife and fair maid. I doubt she will not make as hale a spouse as thou. The loves of our fair Eude live hard. Come close, good wife; goodman hath much to thank thee for.”

With faltering steps, trusting to the girl's strength, she came. Her fear-strained eyes were not for the King but for her lord. His brows were drawn in passion. The King looked from one to other, smiling gay.

“Ivo, hale the gentle souls away together. They would have some love talk before we carve them for the devil.”

Ivo, a ruddy Angevin, pulled Gilbert d'Avranches to the ground and his men snatched the wife and drove them on.

“Thy promise!” Alais's cry rang brave challenge to the King. “Thy promise of life!”

He showed his yellow teeth. “I promised thee a taskmaster, wench. Have at her, Eude!”

The man of the stained face swung down and marched upon her with an evil smile.

“Now move we our bishop,” said Master Bernard quietly, and came and stood before her. He held out a parchment to the King. “Check, as I think.”

In the dark guard-room of the constable's tower Gilbert d'Avranches fronted his wife. Ivo tore the gag away. “Speak your farewells,” he said with a bluff oath. “Our King is like to leave you little time.”

But she had no words. Only her hands went out to her lord in a piteous quest of pardon. His eyes blazed at her. “Thou hast betrayed trust,” he cried. “Oh, fool and false heart, was it for thee to damn the child to this?” A harsh sob broke from her, and she fell on her knees before him clasping at him with trembling hands. “Weep not to me! I have no heart for thee. What baseness is it that fears a death more than this shame?”

She moaned his name.

“Good words, good words!” Ivo put a heavy hand on his shoulder, and with a rough kindliness. “Make not ill worse. Death is near, and I never knew a rage soothe it.”

But Gilbert d'Avranches shook him off. “Let knaves counsel knaves! And for thee, woman, I would hear no more of thy wailings. Thou hast failed me at most need.”

“God forgive thee,” she muttered. “Gilbert—'tis not thou nor I could judge. What were life for Alais if she had let thee die?”

“What shall her life be now?”

“Better ... better ...”

“In John's hand—sacrifice to all the foul evil of his minions—and this de Laon the vilest! Oh, thou knowest how maids have fared! What end? O fool, to trust the brood of Aquitaine! She is doomed, and we die, and die with shame.”

And the woman moaned, “O Lord Christ, be kind.”

Suddenly a shrill roar rent the air. Ivo started out, swearing. “What dog has bitten fat John now?” and suddenly all was silent again.

When Master Bernard came with his parchment, Eude de Laon made to buffet him aside, but a horseman on the King's right hand, a heavy man of long wooden face, thrust out a sturdy arm and took the parchment. His eyes changed a long look with Master Bernard. Then he gave the parchment to the King, showing the seal. It bore the triple crown of Rome.

The King saw it, and his fat face turned purple, and with wet lips he broke out in a shrill roar of rage, wordless like a beast's. Then he commanded himself. The lips curled back from his yellow teeth and his eyes dilated. “I had not thought a rat would dare come to my kennel.”

“Many a dog is short of wit,” said Master Bernard blandly.

“Thou shalt feel, thou shalt feel!” the King snarled. “Eude, couldst find me a carding iron and a flesher of craft?”

Eude de Laon laughed and made a sign to one of his men.

But the long-faced man put out his hand and drew the seal of the letter close before the King's eyes. With an oath the King snatched it and broke it. Then he mumbled to himself: “Innocens, episcopus, servus servorum Dei...” Innocent, bishop, servant of the servants of God, greeted John, King of England, who, since he would take no care for his salvation hereafter, was bidden tremble for his salvation on earth. To which end Innocent, bishop, commended to him, “Bernard of Noventa, our familiar, and faithful chancellor.”

King John's eyes were bloodshot. He made noises to himself. “Ay, thou art worthily commended, and worthily shalt thou be entreated.”

“An equal honour shall be thine,” quoth Master Bernard blandly.

The King swore foully. “Come in, good friend, come in, and talk with me awhile,” and he dismounted.

“For my part, all thy host may hear.”

The King gripped his arm and dragged him off, but not before he had changed another look with the man of the long face.

It was needed. They were hardly gone before Eude de Laon marched upon Alais. Then the long-faced man rode his horse in between. “Hold off,” quoth he.

“What, for thee? Shall a De Burgh stay me?”

“Ay, thee, and all thy brothers from hell.”

“Thou sottish Englishman! Oh, thou shalt answer me this.”

The long-faced man shrugged one shoulder, but made no way. He mumbled a word or two and men-at-arms drew about him. Eude de Laon jeered at them awhile, but getting nothing of that rushed after the King. Then Alais, trembling, but brave still, looked at Hubert de Burgh and he at her with grave eyes.

King John bore Master Bernard up the stairs to the hall, while Craddock followed, his honest eyes round in wonder; but half way the King thought better of being alone, and waited to call for a Score of men-at-arms. Master Bernard went on alone, and they found him upon his knees in the little chapel. The King tapped his shoulder impatiently. “Come, sirrah, come.”

“Why, what better place than this?”

The King turned away with a shudder.

In the richer light of the hall you see his robe shine purple and cloth of gold. His fat face, his bald head, with the rings of red hair, are not much less gorgeous. Beneath the swollen pulp of gluttony and drunkenness and vice you may trace lines of virile strength.

The calm grey man before him spoke no word.

“Well, father, well? What is thine errand?”

“Thou hast despoiled the Church, which is to despoil the bride of Christ.” The King laughed loud. “Thou hast been a ravening wolf to all Christenty, which is to be traitor to thy sovereign God, Whose vassal art thou. Thou hast afflicted thine own people with cruel tortures, which is to insult the image of God.”

Craddock drew away and eyed him with a new reverence.

The King went on laughing. “God's self made a merry mock of it when He made thee.”

“Now the world cries out against thee. The devil is hungry for thee. The writing is upon the wall.”

“Sayest thou?” The King's hands clenched.

“Thou art weighed in the balance and found wanting. Thy kingdom is divided and given to the Medes and Persians.”

“My kingdom?”

“There is yet time. Thou shalt submit thine all unto the vicar of God. Thou shalt receive the reverend father Stephen Langton into Canterbury, and all the holy men whom thou hast plundered. Thou shalt keep peace with thy people; yea, thou shalt go forth from this castle leaving its good lord and lady and their maiden daughter scathless of thy villainy; and humble as the day thou wast born thou shalt sue God for pardon. I speak the words of the vicar of God.”

A moment the King sat stupefied. Then he started up. “By the feet of God, every nerve of thy body shall make moan for this! Ho, knaves, seize him! Have the cord of dolour about his head, Seize him, I say! seize him!”

The men-at-arms flung themselves upon Master Bernard, and holding. him helpless bound a knotted cord about his temples and twisted it.

“Give the fool the parchment out of my breast,” said Master Bernard, and bit his lip hard. It was plucked from him swiftly and thrust upon the King's eager hands, and he, tearing it open, gazed a moment, and then broke into yell after yell of mad rage, and cast it upon the floor and stamped upon it. “Fool, if I am not back on Calais shore to-morrow with thy most humble submission, that bull shall be published by Master Pandulf, and King Philip of France will sail to possess thy kingdom.”

The King flung himself down and rolled and writhed like a wounded dog, growling and gnawing the rushes that strewed the floor.

Then the torturers let the cord fall and drew away, looking askance, now at the King's bestial frenzy, now at the man who with words and a parchment could so smite sovereignty; and they began to tremble and muttered to themselves.

Master Bernard picked up the crumpled parchment and began to read. “Hostem humani generis, immo perfidum inimicum Domini Dei....” That John, King of England, was the enemy of the human race and a traitorous foe to the Lord God was plain. Therefore Innocent, bishop, in the seat and apostolic ministration of St. Peter, gave and assigned the realm of England to his most beloved son in Christ, Philip Augustus, the illustrious and glorious King of the French.

King John dragged himself along the ground and embraced Master Bernard's knees, unrestrained in abasement as in cruelty. He whined like a cowardly child. “No, no, take it back. Hold it unread. I will make full submission. I will do great penance, I vow, by St. Thomas of Canterbury. All shall be given—yea, all. And there shall be a thousand marks by the year for St. Peter, and something for thy pocket, good father. Shrive me, shrive me, my sins are heavy upon me, and I will make thee rich. Nay, give me not to that devil Philip. Oh, the hand of the Lord is more than I can bear.”

“There can be no shrift till penance be done. Set the good folks of this castle in honour again and begone.”

King John staggered to his feet. “I will do it, oh, I will do it speedily, and they shall be the very apple of my eye, even as thou. And thou, good father,” he cringed, “thou wilt put up that cruel parchment and sail away and stay that devil Philip?”

“I will be gone when the work here is done, and Pandulf the sub-deacon shall come to take thy homage to the Lord Pope, and Stephen Langton shall shrive thee.”

“So may God give me salvation!” the King cried. “I go, I go, and, good father, do thou go too.” He fled, and spent the bitter rage of fear upon his men.

Then there was turmoil in the courtyard, and soon his host streamed away down the hill, muttering sourly as they went. By the barbican Master Bernard watched and smiled. Hubert de Burgh, who held the rear, checked at his side an instant. The wise eyes met. “Hath Rome kept tryst?”

“She strikes for the people to-day,” said Hubert under his breath. “'To-morrow”

“To-morrow is the infidel's nightmare.”

Hubert de Burgh shrugged and rode out.

Turning, smiling, Master Bernard saw Alais bring her father and mother out to the glad light again. She laughed through tears, and they tried to speak and failed, and tried still. “Up drawbridge!” she cried. “Portcullis down! Invicta, ay, invicta still!”

Master Bernard cocked his ear to the creak of the chains. He pruned himself. “Surely this world hath nothing pleasanter than power,” said he—then his eyes fell on the girl, every line of her rippling with delicious life as she clung to her mother and father, and they held her close—“if a man could believe it.”

Craddock was at his elbow. “Give me grace,” he said humbly. “Surely thou art a higher man than I.”

A discord rang in Master Bernard's laugh.

When Alais came seeking him, he was gone.