God's Playthings 11

God's Playthings 11

“Seigneur!” he whispered, seeing his father; he smiled. “Shall we be

going to England soon?”

 

“Even now they load the boats,” answered the Prince. “You wish to

return to England?”

 

“_Certès_,” said the child wistfully. “Is the war over?” he added.

 

“What should you know of that?” asked the Prince, startled.

 

“I did hear the knights all talking of the war.”

 

“It is not over,” answered Edward sombrely. “Your Uncle Lancaster will

finish that business.”

 

“_Hèlas!_ I would I were a big knight, Seigneur,” murmured the child.

 

“There is time for that,” said the Prince.

 

His son stared at him for a moment’s silence, then said–

 

“When the knights showed us feats with the lance in the courtyard,

Richard was afraid.”

 

“Nay,” replied Edward angrily, “not _afraid_!”

 

The child nodded.

 

“Richard has a new silk cote hardie which pleases him mightily; but

when I am well I shall have a shirt of mail, shall I not?”

 

“Ay!” answered the Prince, “if the armourer can make one so small.”

 

The child closed his eyes.

 

“Why am I sick, Seigneur?” he muttered. “Did I do wrong?”

 

Edward shivered.

 

“You are not sorely sick?” he demanded hoarsely.

 

His son put out a hot hand, which the Prince clasped tightly.

 

“I feel so tired,” he whispered, still with his eyes closed; “but when

I sleep the dragons come and crawl over the bed—”

 

Jehanne had crept round to the other side of the pillow.

 

“Let him sleep, Edward,” she whispered anxiously.

 

“He can sleep while I hold his hand,” answered the Prince, never

lifting his eyes from his son’s face.

 

“Nay, but you should rest,” she insisted. “Have you not come a long

journey, and are you not sick?”

 

“I rested at Lormont,” answered Edward.

 

The Princess lifted her red kirtle from her feet and crossed to the

doctor, who stood between the two women on the hearth, and whispered to

him, her pretty face quivering with agitation.

 

A wind was rising from the sea, ruffling the waves, shaking the cordage

of the anchored ships and lifting the little pennons of England that

struggled at the main masts. This wind beat at the diamond-shaped

leaded casements and scattered the leaves from the poplar tree without

in a yellow shower like golden ducats dropped by a reluctant hand

across the prospect of sea and town.

 

The Princess Jehanne came back to the bed with the doctor; he was a

Spaniard, who had been in the service of Don Pedro and was renowned for

his knowledge of Eastern medicine.

 

He spoke in French to the Prince, with a courteous humility.

 

“Fair Seigneur, permit me to look to the little Prince. And for

yourself, it would be wiser that you should rest.”

 

Edward glanced up into his cool, composed face; then rose heavily and

seated himself in the stiff chair against the wall.

 

The doctor bent over the child, delicately touched his brow, then

called, in soft Spanish, one of the women, who came with a small horn

beaker in her hand.

 

The little Prince was moaning. When he saw the draught he tried to push

it away, and shut his lips obstinately.

 

“Ah, _par dè_!” cried the father, “what manner of knight will you

become?”

 

The child sat up, shuddering, but meek, and swallowed the noisome

liquid without a protest.

 

“Is he better?” whispered the Princess Jehanne, drawing the coverlet

anxiously up over him as he lay down.

 

The doctor shook his head.

 

“Not–worse?” she faltered.

 

“That I cannot say,” he replied. “The fever is very high.”

 

She glanced at her husband sitting gloomy and silent, and beckoned one

of the women and whispered to her to fetch Prince Richard, who might

charm the Prince out of his melancholy.

 

But when his second son was brought and led up to him, Edward showed no

manner of interest.

 

Yet the child was of a neat and exact beauty and very richly dressed in

brown silk and very humble in his duty.

 

“Were you afraid of the lance play?” asked his father.

 

Richard looked up in a mischievous and charming manner.

 

“I do prefer, Seigneur, to go in a litter to horseback,” he lisped.

 

“Do you not love to see the jousts?” frowned Edward.

 

“I like to play at the ball,” returned Richard.

 

“Take him away for a false knight,” said the Prince wearily.

 

“_Ahè_, at four years old!” cried Jehanne of Kent indignantly. She came

round the bed and caught the younger Prince to her bosom swiftly.

 

“He is my son,” flashed Edward, “and he loves not arms. Take him hence.”

 

The Princess gave Richard to the lady who had brought him, and as

he found himself being carried away he began to wail and cry, which

completed the Prince’s contempt; in truth he was angry with Richard for

being well and lusty while his brother lay sick. The Princess noticed

his exclamation of annoyance as the child broke into sobs.

 

“You are not fair to Richard,” she said, flushing.

 

“_Pardi_, you must have your favourite,” he retorted gloomily. “If you

had given the care to Edward you do to Richard he might have been on

his feet to welcome me.”

 

Jehanne turned abruptly away, smarting from the injustice of the rebuke.

 

“If you had spared Limoges,” she answered, “God’s judgment would not

have fallen on you in this matter.”

 

The Prince shrank against the wall and lifted tortured eyes.

 

Instantly she was on her knees before him.

 

“Forgive me,” she said passionately.

 

He did not speak a word; his thin hand lightly touched the silver caul

that bound her fair hair, but his eyes had moved to his son.

 

The little Prince slept again, though uneasily, with moans and

twitchings in his limbs.

 

“I might have spared Limoges,” muttered Edward, “but I had sworn by my

father’s soul.”

 

Jehanne kissed the hand that had been withdrawn from her head.

 

“Come away for a little while,” she pleaded, “while he sleeps.”

 

He rose and suffered her to lead him into the next chamber, where he

lay exhausted along the couch by the oriel window and sent for his

beloved brother, the Duke of Lancaster.

 

Jehanne sat silently by his side on a little stool, her brow furrowed

and her cheeks colourless; she had never seen the Prince so silent, so

weak, so troubled.

 

She was relieved when the magnificent Johan, still in his camail and

surtout, full of vigour and energy, entered the chamber.

 

“How goes the lading of the ship?” asked Edward of Wales. “We sail

with the first fair wind.”

 

“_Pardi_,” said the Duke in his deep voice, “I have no time to go down

to the shore yet, but I do not think they will make delays.”

 

“Surely,” said the Prince. “I am right weary of Acquitaine.”

 

And he gave a sigh as if he would burst his bosom.

 

“Yet I must see more of it,” returned Johan, coming to salute the

Princess, which he did with good will, being close in sincere

friendship with this lady.

 

The Prince lay back languidly.

 

“How can you keep a foothold without money?” he asked impatiently.

 

Johan’s deep eyes rested lovingly on his brother’s changed face.

 

“By St. George,” he said, “if I can keep these fiefs no other way, I

will out of my own revenues and charges support the war—”

 

Edward looked at him fully, and the tears washed the eyes of the

Princess.