When Edward repeated this intelligence to his queen, she recollected Dame Idonea’s gossiping information—that brave Sir Robert, the flower of the House of Darcy, had only entered the Order of St. John, when fair Alda Braithwayte, in the strong enthusiasm of the Franciscan preaching, had pleaded a vow of virginity against all suitors, and had finally become a Sister of the Poor Clares. And after all his wars and wanderings, the regulations of his Order had ended by bringing the Hospitalier in his old age into the immediate neighbourhood of Prioress Alda; and into that distant business intercourse that the heads of religious houses had from time to time to carry on together.
The world passed on. Eleanor de Montfort came from France, and the King himself acted the part of a father to her at her marriage with Llewellyn of Wales. He knew—though she little guessed—that the beggar, by whom her jewelled train swept with rustling sound, was the first-born of her father’s house, and should have held her hand. Two years only did that marriage last; Eleanor died, leaving an infant daughter; and Llewellyn soon after was in arms against the English. Perhaps Edward bethought him of his cousin’s ironical promise to go with him to the East after the pacification of the whole island, when he found himself obliged to summon the fierce Pyrenean to pursue the wild Welsh in their mountains.
CHAPTER XIV
THE QUEEN OF THE DEW-DROPS
“This is the prettiest low-born lass that ever
Ran on a green sward.”—Winter’s Tale.
It was the summer of 1283; the babe of Carnarvon had been accepted as the native prince, speaking no tongue but Welsh, and Edward had since been employed in establishing his dominion over Wales. His Whitsuntide was kept by the Queen’s special entreaty at St. Winifred’s Well. Such wonders had been told her of the miracles wrought by this favourite Welsh saint, that she hoped that by early placing her little Welsh-born son under such protection, she might secure for him healthier and longer life than had been the share of his brethren.
So to Holy-well went the court and army. Some lodged in the convent attached to the well; but many and many more dwelt in tents, or lodged in cottages, or raised huts of boughs of trees. Noble ladies of Eleanor’s suite were glad to obtain a lodging in rude Welsh huts; and as the weather was beautiful, there was plenty of gay feasting, dancing, and jousting on the greensward, when the religious observances of the day were over. Pilgrims thronged from all parts, attracted both by the presence of the court and the unusual tranquillity of Wales; and for nearly a mile around the Holy-well it was like one great motley fair, resorted to by persons of all stations. Beggars of course were there in numbers, and among them the unfailing blind beggar of Bethnal Green, who always made a pilgrimage in the summer to some station of easy access from London, but whom some wondered to see at such a distance.
“Had he scented that the court was coming?” asked the young nobles.
“Not he; he never haunted courts. He would have kept away had he known that such a gabbling flock of popinjays were on the wing thither!”
But the young gallants were chiefly bent on speculating on the vision of loveliness that had flashed on the eyes of some early visitants at the well. A maiden in a dark pilgrim dress, and broad hat, which, however, could not entirely conceal a glowing complexion, at once rich and pure; perfect features, magnificent dark eyes and hair, and a tall form, which, though very youthful, was of unmistakable dignity and grace. She was always at the well exceedingly early in the morning, moving slowly round it on her beautiful bare feet, and never looking up from the string of dark beads—the larger ones of amber, which she held in her fingers—as her lips conned over the prayers connected with each. No ring was on the delicate hand, no ear-ring in the ear; there was no ornament in the dress, but such a garb was wont to be assumed by ladies of any rank when performing a vow; and its simplicity at once enhanced her beauty, and added to the general curiosity. Between four and six in the dewy freshness of morning seemed to be her time for devotion; and though the habits of the court were early, it was only the first astir who caught a sight of this Queen of the Dew-drops, as it was the fashion to call her. Late comers never caught sight of her, and affected incredulity when the younger and more active knights and squires raved about her. Then it was reported that the King himself had been seen speaking to her; and thereupon excitement grew the more intense, because Edward’s exclusive devotion to his Queen had been such, that from his youth up the most determined scandal had never found a wandering glance to note in him.
She was the Princess of France—of Navarre—of Aragon—in disguise; nay, at the Whit-Sunday banquet there were those who cast anxious glances to the door, expecting that, in the very land of King Arthur, she would walk in like his errant dames at Pentecost, to demand a champion. And when a joust was given on the sward, young Sir John de Mohun, the Lord of Dunster, announced his intention of tilting in honour of no one save the Queen of the Dew-drops. The ladies of the court were rather scandalized, and appealed to the King whether the choice of an unknown girl, of no acknowledged rank, should be permitted; but the King, strict punctilious man as he was, only laughed, and adjudged the Queen of the Dew-drops to be fully worthy of the honour.