He gave Edward the scroll, at which the Prince looked half smiling. “So! A dagger in store for me too, is there? Well, my cousins have a goodly thirst for vengeance! Hast thou any suspicion how this billet came here?”
“Ay, my Lord; and for that cause I would warn you against two of the archers, one of whom was in Simon’s troop, and went with the late prince to Viterbo. I gave them no promise of silence.”
“You spoke with them?”
“With one, who was charged to let me through the outposts to a spot where means were provided for bringing me to Guy.”
“And thou,” said Edward, smiling, “didst choose to bide the buffet?”
“Sir,” said Richard, “I did indeed long after my brethren when Guy had been so near me in Africa; but now, I would far rather die than cast in my lot with them.”
“Thou art wise,” said Edward; “not merely right, but wise. I have sent Gloucester to my uncle of Sicily with such messages that he will scarce dare to leave them scatheless! Then, at supper-time we meet again—in thine own name, Richard, and as my kinsman and esquire. Thou shalt bear thine own name and arms. I will cause a mourning suit to be sent to thee—thou art equally of kin with myself to poor Henry—and shalt mourn him with Edmund and me at the requiem to-morrow. So will it best be manifest to the camp, that we exempt thee from all blame.” Again he was departing, when Richard added—“The archers, my Lord—were it not good to dismiss them?”
“Tush,” said Edward; “tell me not their names. So soon as the wind veers, they will be beyond Guy’s reach; and if I were to stand on my guard against every man who loved thy father better than mine, what good would my life do me? The poor knaves will be true enough when they see a Saracen before them!”
And away went Edward, to be glanced at as he passed through the camp, as a severe, hard, cruel tyrant. Had he only been gay, open-hearted, and careless, he might have hung both the guilty archers, and a dozen innocent ones into the bargain, and yet have never won the character for harshness and unmercifulness that he had acquired even while condoning many a dire offence, simply from his stern gravity, and his punctilious exactitude in matters of discipline. But the evils of a lax and easy-going court had been so fatal, and had produced such suffering, that it was no marvel that he had adopted a rule of iron; and in the pain and distress of seeing his closest friends, the noblest subjects in the realm, pushed into a rebellion where he had himself to maintain his father’s cause, and then to watch, without being able to hinder, the mean-spirited revenge of his own partizans, his manner had acquired that silent reserve and coldness which made him feared and hated by the many, while intensely beloved by the few. Even towards those few it was absolutely difficult to him to unbend, as he had done in this hour of effusion towards Richard; and the youth was proportionably moved and agitated with fervent gratitude and affection.
He had scarcely had so happy an evening since he had been a boy at Odiham. He was indeed feeble and dizzy at times, but with a far from painful languor; and the Princess, enjoying the permission to follow the dictates of her own heart, was kind to him with a motherly or sisterly kindness, could not bear to receive from him his wonted attendance, but made him lie upon the cushions at her feet, and when out of hearing of every one, talked of the faithful Isabel, and of “pretty Bessee,” on whom she already looked as the companion of her little Eleanor, whom she had left at home.