“Flemish cloth and frieze gown,” said the object of his solicitude in a strange gibing voice; “court page and street beggar—how now, my master?”
“Lord Earl and elder brother,” returned Richard, “thine is my service through life.”
“Mine? Ho, ho! That much for thy service!” with a disdainful gesture of his fingers. “A strapping lad like thee would be the ruin of my trade. I might as well give up bag and staff at once.”
“Nay, surely, wilt thou not?” exclaimed Richard in broken words from his extreme surprise. “The King and Prince only long to pardon and restore, and—”
“And thou wouldst well like to lord it at Kenilworth, earl in all but the name? Thou mayst do so yet without being cumbered with me or mine!”
“Thou dost me wrong, Henry,” said Richard, much distressed. “I love the Prince, for none so truly honoured our blessed father as he, and for his sake he hath been most kind lord to me; but thou art the head of my house, my brother, and with all my heart do I long to render thee such service as—as may lighten these piteous sufferings.”
“I believe thee, Richard; thou wert ever an honest simple-hearted lad,” said Henry, in a different tone; “but the only service thou canst render me is to let me alone, and keep my secret. Here—I feel that we are at the stone bench, where I bask in the sun, and lay out my dish for the visitors of the gracious Order.—Here, Bessee, child, put the dish down,” he added, retaining his hold of his brother, as if to feel whether Richard winced at this persistence in his strange profession. The little girl obeyed, and betook herself to the quiet sports of a lonely child, amusing herself with Leonillo, and sometimes returning to her father and obtaining his attention for a few moments, sometimes prattling to some passing brother of the Order, who perhaps made all the more of the pretty creature because this might be called an innocent breach of discipline. “And now, Master Page,” said Henry in his tone of authority, yet with some sarcasm, “let us hear how long-legged Edward finished the work he had began on thee at Hereford—made thee captive in the battle, eh?”
Richard briefly narrated his life with Gourdon, and his capture by the Prince, adding, “My mother was willing I should remain with him; she bade me do anything rather than join Simon and Guy; and verily, brother, save that the Prince is less free of speech, his whole life seems moulded upon our blessed father’s—”
“Speak not of them in the same breath,” cried Henry hastily. “And wherefore—if such be his honour to him whom he slew and mutilated—art thou to disown thy name, and stand before him like some chance foundling?”
“That was the King’s doing,” said Richard. “The Prince was averse to it, but King Henry, though he wept over me and called me his dear nephew, made it his special desire that he might not hear the name of Montfort; and the Prince, though overruling him in all that pertains to matters of state, is most dutiful in all lesser matters. I hoped at least to be called Fitz Simon, but some mumble of the King turned it into Fowen, and so it has continued. I believe no one at court is really ignorant of my lineage; but among the people, Montfort is still a trumpet-call, and the King fears to hear it.”