About the hour the golden daylight had begun to stream through the shutters of our royal lodging, the English giant had had himself crowned by the Archbishop of Seville; he had led to the altar the Countess Sylvia, who, he said, after due consideration of the merits of Betty Tucker, his accomplished countrywoman, was in some ways the more fitted to be the royal consort if he were called to the Spanish monarchy; and further, he had conferred great place in his household upon the Count of Nullepart and myself, being good enough to declare that we could be trusted to fill it worthily.
Later in the morning, however, when we repaired to the audience-chamber to receive the King’s decision, these rosy visions did not appear so bright. For we came upon another aspect of the great King Louis. Although not indisposed to lend ten thousand men to his Spanish aunt upon terms thereafter to be mentioned, because it seemed we had come in a season when his cousins of Navarre and Burgundy were behaving reasonably, yet there was a condition to observe; and this was the key to the negotiation. The sum of one hundred thousand crowns in gold must be lodged in the King’s treasure chest ere a single soldier of France found his way across the Pyrenees.
Such a condition had not been foreseen by Sir Richard Pendragon’s diplomacy. The blow to him was sore; yet he contrived to dissemble his chagrin skilfully, and with all the cunning imaginable strove to purchase the aid of France upon lighter terms. In despite, however, of Sir Richard Pendragon’s wiles, his flatteries, and the rosy hues in which he painted the future, King Louis remained obdurate. In fact, in this matter the first prince of his age discovered a side to his character for which only a sour spirit could have been prepared. As Sir Richard Pendragon declared subsequently, “he haggled like a Fleming.” He declined to abate a penny of emolument for the proposed service to his Spanish aunt. And not only this, but in regard to such affairs as leadership, conduct of the troops in the field, and division of the spoil he rendered it clear to us that we were sadly out of our reckoning.
Sir Richard Pendragon spent two hours in council with King Louis and his advisers. He then bade them farewell in no very amiable humour. It was abundantly clear that our embassy had failed completely. Even one of the Englishman’s ingenuity could devise no means of surmounting the heavy demands of this covetous prince.
Straightaway we left the palace. It was then our chief desire to set a goodly number of leagues between us and this unlucky city of Paris. For the period of twenty-four hours I think I have never seen a man in such high dudgeon, so out of humour with all the world save himself, as was our redoubtable leader. So sanguine had been his visions that he had almost come to feel the rim of the Spanish crown upon his forehead. Alas for his dreams! He now abused King Louis for “a poor-blooded French dog that was fitter to be a grocer, a purveyor of hog’s lard and garlic, than a true prince whose emoluments should have been one half of a fair dominion—he would have been agreeable to allow the rascal one half of the kingdom—had he not borne himself like a Fleming.”
As we turned our horses towards the Spanish frontier, seldom have I heard such bitter curses. Yet, even making abatement for Sir Richard’s sanguine temper, I marvelled that one of such wisdom as this Englishman should have built such towering hopes upon such a poor foundation. As I was fain to remark to the Count of Nullepart, “How could we suppose that such as the King of France would give us an easy bargain? And how could one so accomplished in the world as Sir Richard Pendragon deceive himself so sorely upon such a subject?”
To this the Count of Nullepart rejoined, “My dear friend, a high poetic temper puts a continual affront upon its possessor. This wonderful Englishman travels three continents, ordering his ideas not by the light of reason but by the light of fantasy. He takes no heed of those obstacles which pedestrian minds cannot surmount. And although it is true that on occasion he knocks his brains against them with no better reward than a broken pate, yet through the world he goes, assailing them with the winged heels of his imagination, so that, by my faith, he is prone to overleap these barriers altogether. And I conceive, my dear, that you and I, who are his humble followers, who, moving after him at a respectful distance, are yet sworn to serve his whims, will be not a little beguiled—we who are amateurs of the human heart—to observe into what courses his fantasy will presently be leading him.”
In this the Count of Nullepart spoke correctly. We awaited the further exploits of our remarkable leader with the highest curiosity.
CHAPTER XXIX
SIR RICHARD PENDRAGON’S STRATEGY
It was not until we were clear of the soil of France that the Englishman was able to shake off his resentment against King Louis, “the pock-marked Flemish grocer,” as he dubbed him. Then it was that in some mysterious manner his sanguine temper came again to his aid. I cannot remember one who came near this Englishman in that power of self-belief which renders a man in his own esteem not less than the peer of nature.