Richard Cœur de Lion was called an excellent judge of a hound, a characteristic remembered by Scott in his novel of “The Talisman”; but a life of crusading left him small leisure for canine friendships. His brother John is thought to have given the famous Gellert to Llewellyn, but this is far from certain. Perhaps, as modern authorities seem to think, the pathetic story of this hound is only a myth, but in any case it is too well-known for repetition, and we pass on to the hound of Richard II.
“It was informed me,” says Froissart, “that Kynge Richard had a grayhounde, who always wayted upon the kynge, and wolde knowe no man els. For whensoever the kynge did ryde, he that kept the grayhounde dyd lette hym lose, and he wolde streyght runne to the kynge, and faun uppon hym, and lepe with his fore-fete uppon the kynge’s shoulders. And as the kynge and the Erle of Derby talked togyder in the courte, the grayhounde, who was wonte to leape uppon the kynge, left the kynge, and came to the Erle of Derby, Duke of Lancastre, and made hym the same friendly countenance and chere he was wonte to do to the kynge. The Duke, who knew not the grayhounde demanded of the kynge what the grayhounde wolde do; ‘Cosin,’ quod the kynge, ‘it is a greate goode token to you and an evyl sygne to me.’ ‘Sir, how know ye that?’ quod the Duke. ‘I know it well,’ quod the kynge; ‘the grayhounde maketh you chere this day as king of Englaunde, as ye shal be, and I shal be deposed. The grayhounde hath this knowledge naturally, therefore take hym to you: he will followe you and forsake me.’ The Duke understood well these words, and cheryshed the grayhounde, who wolde never after followe Kynge Richard, but followed the Duke of Lancastre.”
Such is the tragic legend whose embroidery does not hide the underlying fact. It is easy to see that, with crown, and queen, and life itself in the balance, the king had yet another pang to endure, when his own dear hound turned from him, and fawned upon his rival.
Of the hapless princes who were murdered in the tower, little is known. There is a picture of them, however, painted long years afterward by Paul Delaroche, which everybody knows. Seated on the antique bed, they have been looking together at a book, when, all at once, speech and motion are arrested by the sound of a stealthy step, or it may be a whisper in the passage outside their room. With tense gaze and bated breath they listen; meanwhile, their little spaniel peers around the corner of the bed, in an attitude of keen attention. Like his masters, he is aware of danger, if indeed he was not the first to detect it. And thus united by a common fear, the three remain—a tragic, listening group—immortal forever on the painter’s canvas.
QUEEN ELIZABETH IN HER PEACOCK GOWN.
(From the painting by Zucchero, at Hampton Court. )
Several English kings kept a menagerie, Henry I. having formed one at Woodstock, and Henry III. at the Tower, while their successors kept up and amplified the collections already formed. In this connection an unpleasant story is told of Henry VII., a story that proves him no lover of the canine race. It seems that a lion from the royal menagerie was baited one day for the king’s amusement, its opponents being four noble English mastiffs. The struggle was long and severe, but in the end the mastiffs conquered. Then Henry, who feigned to believe that the lion was lawful king over other beasts, caused the four luckless victors to be hung, as traitors to their lord. In this way he pointed a moral for the use of his turbulent nobles.
A pleasanter story concerns his parrot. It fell from a window in Westminster Palace into the Thames. “A boat! twenty pounds for a boat!” screamed Polly at this dreadful crisis; and twenty pounds the king actually paid to the waterman who restored his pet. This was doing pretty well for a parsimonious king.