“It was for thy father’s sake and Richard’s,” said Edward, receiving the acknowledgment as it was meant.
“Ah, well,” said Henry, relapsing into his usual half-scoffing tone; “in that boy our Montfort blood seems to have run clear of the taint it got from the she-fiend of Anjou.”
“Thy share was from a mocking fiend!” returned the King.
“Ay, and a fair portion it is!” said the beggar. “My jest and my song have borne me through more than my sword and spurs ever did—and have been more to me than English earldom or French county. Poor Richard!” he added with feeling; “I told him his was the bondage and mine the freedom!”
“Alas! I fear that so it was,” said Edward. “My favour only embittered his foes. Had I known how it would end, I had never taken him to me; but my heart yearned to my uncle’s goodly son.”
“Maybe it is well,” said Henry. “Had the boy grown up verily like my father, thou and he might have fallen out; or if not—why, you knights and nobles ride in miry bloody ways, and ’tis a wonder if even the best of you does not bring his harness home befouled and besmirched—not as shining bright as he took it out. Well, what didst thou with the poor lad? Cut him in fragments? You mince your best loved now as fine as if they were traitors.”
“No,” said Edward; “the boy lies sleeping in the Church of St. John, at Acre. I rose from my sickbed that I might lay him in his grave as a brother. Lights burn round him, and masses are said; and the brethren were left in charge to place his effigy on his tomb, in carven stone. One day I trust to see it. My brother Alexander of Scotland, Llewellyn of Wales, and I, have sworn to one another to bring all within these four seas into concord and good order; and then we may look for such a blessing on our united arms as may bear us onward to Jerusalem! Then come with us, Henry, and let us pray together at Richard’s grave.”
“I may safely promise,” said Henry, smiling, “if this same Crusade is to be when peace and order are within the four seas. Moreover, thou wilt have ruined my trade by that time!”
“Nay, Henry, cease fooling. See—if thou wilt not be thyself, I will find thee a lodge in any park of mine. None shall know who thou art; but thou shalt have free range, and—”
“And weary of my life! No, no, cousin. I am in thy power now; and thou canst throw me into prison as the attainted Lord de Montfort. Do so if thou wilt; but I were fooling indeed to give up my free range, my power, my authority, to be a poor suspected, pitied, maimed pensioner on thy bounty. Park, quotha! with none to speak to from morn to night. I can have my will of any park of thine I please, whenever I choose!”