“My DEAR LORD,—recommend me to your lordship with soul and body and all my poor might, and with all this I thank you, as my dear lord, dearest and best beloved of all earthly lords I protest to me, and thank you, my dear lord, with all this as I say before. Your comfortable letter came to me on Saint Gregory’s day, and I was never so glad as when I heard by your letter that ye were strong enough in Ponthieu by the grace of God for to keep you from your enemies. Among them I estimate Madame Catherine de Salisbury, who would have betrayed you to the Scot. And, dear lord, if it be pleasing to your high lordship that as soon as ye may that I might hear of your gracious speed, which may God Almighty continue and increase, I shall be glad, and also if ye do continue each night to chafe your feet with a rag of woollen stuff, as your physician directed. And, my dear lord, if it like you for to know of my fare, John Copeland will acquaint you concerning the Bruce his capture, and the syrup he brings for our son Lord Edward’s cough, and the great malice-workers in these shires which would have so despitefully wrought to you, and of the manner of taking it after each meal. I am lately informed that Madame Catherine is now at Stirling with Robert Stewart and has lost all her good looks through a fever. God is invariably gracious to His servants. Farewell, my dear lord, and may the Holy Trinity keep you from your adversaries and ever send me comfortable tidings of you. Written at York, in the Castle, on Saint Gregory’s day last past, by your own poor
“PHILIPPA.
“To my true lord.”
“H’m!” said the King; “and now give me the entire story.”
John Copeland obeyed. I must tell you that early in the narrative King Edward arose and strode toward a window. “Catherine!” he said. He remained motionless while Master Copeland went on without any manifest emotion. When he had ended, King Edward said, “And where is Madame de Salisbury now?”
At this the Brabanter went mad. As a leopard springs he leaped upon the King, and grasping him by each shoulder, shook that monarch as one punishing a child.
“Now by the splendor of God—!” King Edward began, very terrible in his wrath. He saw that John Copeland held a dagger to his breast, and he shrugged. “Well, my man, you perceive I am defenceless.”
“First you will hear me out,” John Copeland said.
“It would appear,” the King retorted, “that I have little choice.”
At this time John Copeland began: “Sire, you are the mightiest monarch your race has known. England is yours, France is yours, conquered Scotland lies prostrate at your feet. To-day there is no other man in all the world who possesses a tithe of your glory; yet twenty years ago Madame Philippa first beheld you and loved you, an outcast, an exiled, empty-pocketed prince. Twenty years ago the love of Madame Philippa, great Count William’s daughter, got for you the armament with which England was regained. Twenty years ago but for Madame Philippa you had died naked in some ditch.”
“Go on,” the King said presently.
“Afterward you took a fancy to reign in France. You learned then that we Brabanters are a frugal people: Madame Philippa was wealthy when she married you, and twenty years had quadrupled her private fortune. She gave you every penny of it that you might fit out this expedition; now her very crown is in pawn at Ghent. In fine, the love of Madame Philippa gave you France as lightly as one might bestow a toy upon a child who whined for it.”