“Nay, I know well-nigh all, Richard. I did indeed see my dear old comrade laid in Evesham Church, so as it broke my heart to see him, bleeding from many wounds, and even his hand lopped by the savage Mortimers. Then, as I bent down, and gave his brow a last kiss, it struck me, for a moment, that the touch was not that of a dead man’s skin. But I looked again at the deadly wounds of head and breast, and thought it would be but cruelty to strive to bring back the glimmer of life only to—to see the ruin of his house; and all that he could not be saved from. O Richard, to no man in either host could the day of Evesham have been so sore, as to me, who had to sit in the gate, to gladden men’s hearts, like holy King David, when he would fain have been weeping for his son! But in early morning came Abbot William of Whitchurch to my chamber, and with much secrecy told me that the corpse of Henry de Montfort had been stolen from the church by night, praying me to excuse that the monks, wearied out with the day of alarms, and the care of our wounded, had not kept better watch. Then knew I that some one had been less faithless than I, and I hoped that poor Henry was at least dying in peace; I had never deemed that he could survive. But when I saw thy billet, and heard Ferrers’ tale, I had no further doubt, remembering likewise how strangely familiar was the face of that little one at Westminster.”
“Yes, my Lord, it was even as a strange, wild, wilful, blind beggar that I found poor Henry; and heavy was the curse he laid me under, should I make him known to you. He calls himself thus a freer and happier man than he could be even were he pardoned and reinstated; and he can indulge his vein of mockery.”
“I dare be sworn that consoles him for all,” said Edward, nearly laughing. “So long as he could utter his gibe, Henry little recked which way the world passed round him; and I trow he has found some mate of low degree, that he would be loth to produce in open day.”
“Not so, my Lord: it is so wild a tale of true love that I can sometimes scarce believe a minstrel did not sing it to me!” And Richard told the history of Isabel Mortimer’s fidelity. The Prince was deeply touched, and then remembered the marked manner in which the Baron of Mortimer had replied to his inquiry, in what convent he had bestowed Henry de Montfort’s betrothed. “She is dead, my Lord, dead to us.” Then he added suddenly, “So that black-eyed babe is the heiress of Leicester and all the honours of Montfort!”
“It is one of the causes for Henry’s resolve to be secret,” said Richard. “I thought it harsh and distrustful then, but he dreaded Simon’s knowledge of her.”
“We will find a way of securing her from Simon,” said the Prince. “But fear not, Richard, Henry’s secret shall be safe with me! I have kept his secrets before now,” he added, with a smile. “Only, when we are at home again—so it please the Saints to spare us—thou shalt strive to show him cause to trust my Lady with his child, if he doth not seek to breed her up to scrip and wallet. I see such is thy counsel in this scroll, and it is well.”
“How could I say other?” said Richard, “and now, more than ever! I long to thank the gracious Princess this very evening.”
“Thy wound?’ said the Prince.
“My wound is naught, I scarce feel it.”
“Then,” said the Prince, “unless the leech gainsay it, it would be as well to be at our pavilion this evening, that men may see thou art not in any disgrace. Rest then till supper-time.” And as he spoke he rose to depart, but Richard made a gesture of entreaty. “So please your Grace, grant me a few farther words. I sware, and truly, that I had heard nothing from my brothers when I was accused of writing that letter to them. But see here, what yester-morn was pinned to that tent-pole.”