“Bailiff of Acre! What is the Bailiff of Acre to me? I cannot hear all their importunities for a crusade! Heaven knows how gladly I would hasten to the Holy War, if these savage Scots would give me peace at home. I am weary of their solicitations. Cannot you tell him I would be private, John?”
“My Lord, he says he has matter for your private ear, concerning one whom you met in Palestine—and, my Lord, you will sure remember him—Sir Reginald Ferrers.”
“The friend of Richard!” said Edward, with a changed countenance. “Bring him with you to your father-in-law’s lodge, John. If there be aught to hear of the House of Montfort, it concerns him and you likewise. I was on my way thither.”
In a short time the woodland lodge, in one of the most beautiful glades of Windsor Forest, beheld the King seated on a bench placed beneath a magnificent oak, standing alone in its own glade, and beside him the Blind Beggar in his russet suit; far less changed than his royal cousin during these years. Since Edward’s great sorrow, Henry de Montfort had held less apart from him; and whenever the King was at leisure to snatch a short retirement at one of his hunting lodges, he always sent an intimation to the beggar, who would journey down on a sober ass, and under the care of De Gourdon, now the chief of the hunting staff, would meet the King in some sylvan glade. Why it was a comfort to Edward to be with him, it would be hard to say; probably from the habit of old fellowship, for Henry’s humour had not grown more courtly or less caustic.
From under the trees came John de Mohun, now a brave, stout, hearty-looking English baron; and with him, wrapped in a battered and soiled scarlet mantle, a war-worn soldier, his complexion tanned to deep brown, his hair bleached with toil and sun, a scar on his cheek, a halt on his step—altogether a man in whom none would have recognized the bright, graceful, high-spirited young Hospitalier of twenty years since. Only when he spoke, and the smiling light beamed in his eye, could he be known for Sir Reginald Ferrers.
He would have bent his knee, but Edward took his hand, and bowing his own bared head said, “It is we who should crave a blessing from you, holy Father, last defender of the sacred land.”
“Alas, my Lord,” said Sir Raynald, as he made the gesture of blessing; “Heaven’s will he done! Had we but been worthier! Sir,” he added, “I am in no guise for a royal presence, but I have been sent home from Cyprus to recover from my wounds; and I had a message for you which I deemed you would gladly hear before I had joined mine Order.”
“A message?” said Edward.
“A message from a dying penitent, craving pardon,” replied Sir Raynald.
“If it concerns the House of Montfort, speak on,” said Edward. “None are so near to it as those present with me!”