“She dyed her fair skin with walnut, wore russet gown and hood, and was a very nightingale for blitheness and sweet song through that first year,” said Henry; “blither than ever when that little one was born in the sunshiny days of Whitsuntide. I tell thee, those were happier days than ever I passed as Lord de Montfort at Kenilworth. But after that, the bruised hurt in my side, which had never healed when the cleaner gashes did, became more painful and troublesome. Holy wells did nothing for it; and she wasted with watching it, as though my pain had been hers. Naught would serve her but coming here, because she had been told that the Knights of St. John had better experience of old battle-wounds than any men in the realm. Much ado had we to get here—the young babe in her arms, and I well-nigh distraught with pain. We crept into this same hut, and I had a weary sickness throughout the winter—living, I know not how, by the bounty of the Spital, and by the works of her fingers, which Winny would take out to sell on feast-days in the city. Oh that eyes had been left me to note how she pined away! but I had scarce felt how thin and bony were her tender fingers ere the blasts of the cruel March wind finished the work.”
“Alack! alack! poor Henry,” said Richard; “never, never was lady of romaunt so noble, and so true!”
“No more,” said Henry hastily, leaning his brow on the top of his staff. “Come hither, Bessee,” he added after a brief pause; “say thy prayer for thy blessed mother, child.”
And holding out his one hand, he inclosed her two clasped ones within it, as the little voice ran over an utterly unintelligible form of childishly clipped Latin, sounding, however, sweet and birdlike from the very liberties the little memory had taken in twisting its mellifluous words into a rhythm of her own. And there was catchword enough for Richard to recognize and follow it, with bonnet doffed, and crossing himself.
“And now,” he said, “surely the need for secrecy is ended. The land is tranquil, the King ruled by the Prince, the Prince owning all the past folly and want of faith that goaded our father into resistance. Wherefore not seek his willing favour? Thou art ever a pilgrim. Be with us in the crusade. Who knows what the Jordan waves may effect for thee?”
“No, no,” grimly laughed Henry. “Dost think any favour would make it tolerable to be wept over and pitied by the King—pitied by the King,” he repeated in ineffable disgust; “or to be the show of the court, among all that knew me of old, when I was a man? Hob the cobbler, and Martin the bagster, are better company than Pembroke and Gloucester, and I meet with more humours on Cheapside than I should at Winchester—more regard too. Why, they deem me threescore years old at least, and I am a very oracle of wisdom among them. Earl of Leicester, forsooth! he would be nobody compared with Blind Hal! And as to freedom—with child and staff the whole country and city are before me—no shouts to dull retainers, and jackanape pages to set my blind lordship on horseback, without his bridle hand, and lead him at their will anywhere but at his own.
“All this I can understand for thyself,” said Richard; “but for thy child’s sake canst thou not be moved?”
“My child, quotha? What, when her Uncle Simon is true grandson to King John?”
Richard started. “I cannot believe what thou sayest of Simon,” he answered in displeasure.
“One day thou wilt,” calmly answered Henry; “but I had rather not have it proved upon the heiress of Leicester and Montfort.”