“Would you have given her to the Cheddar Yeoman?” burst out Joan furiously.
“That he will say so, to anger thee, is certain, Joan,” said the King. “Farewell, Henry. Remember, I hold thee bound to be my comrade when I can return to the Holy War.”
“Ay, when you have tamed Scotland, even as you have tamed Wales,” returned Henry.
“No fear of my good brother Alexander’s realm needing such taming. Heaven forbid!” said Edward.
But the beggar parted from him with a laugh.
CHAPTER XVI
THE PAGE’S MEMORY
The pure calm picture of a blameless friend.
Lyra Apostolica.
Ten years later, King Edward was walking in the park at Windsor with slow and weary steps. His rich dark brown hair and beard were lined with gray, his face was not only grave but worn and melancholy, and more severe than ever. The sorrow of his life, his queen’s death, had fallen on him, and with her had gone much of softening influence; the only son who had been spared to him was, though a mere child, grieving him by the wayward frivolities not of a strong but of a weak nature; he had wrought much for his country’s good, but had often been thwarted and never thanked; his mercies and benefits were forgotten, his justice counted as harshness, and hatred and opposition had met him everywhere. Above all, and weighting him perhaps most severely, was that his first step beyond his just bounds had been taken in the North. John Baliol was indeed king, but Edward in his zeal for discipline had bound Scotland with obligations—for her good indeed, but beyond his just right to impose; and the sense of aggression was embittering him against the Scottish resistance, while at the same time adding to his sadness.
A knight came forth from one of the paths that led into that along which he was pacing with folded arms, and unwilling to break upon his mood, stood waiting, till Edward himself looked up and asked impatiently, “So, Sir John, what now? Another outbreak of those intolerable Scotch?”
“Not so, my Lord; but the Bailiff of Acre awaits to see you.”