God's Playthings 12

God's Playthings 12

“Seigneur,” she said, “you can with a very comfortable heart return to

England, knowing how loyally Johan will uphold you here.”

 

She felt warmly towards Johan, for she knew that it was he who had

turned aside the Prince’s vengeance from Jean le Cros and saved him

from the crime of taking the life of a son of the Church.

 

Perhaps the Prince thought of that too; perhaps he thought that the

blood of the three thousand slain in Limoges was as heavy a burden to

bear as the blood of a bishop.

 

“Ay, save Acquitaine, Johan,” he murmured, “for the honour of England.”

 

His eyes turned wistfully to the fading day that died beyond the

oriel window. Surely, he thought, I have drunk of the last drop of

bitterness. I, Edward of Wales, to return to England a useless man,

leaving defeat behind for a younger knight to redeem.

 

The Duke of Lancaster stood watching him, with many thoughts in his

heart, and presently Edward turned to him and spoke, in a voice earnest

and feeble.

 

“Johan, when the King dies I shall be in my grave.”

 

The Princess broke his speech by a sharp, piteous intake of breath, and

caught desperately at his slack hand.

 

“Oh, Jehanne,” he said, “I have flattered your fears long enough. And

now I must speak straightly.”

 

He paused, for his breath failed him.

 

“Speak,” answered Johan, “for I am ready to take any charge that you

may give me—”

 

“My son Edward will be King of England,” whispered the Prince; “and

he is a young child. Stand you by him and by his mother in their

difficulties.”

 

“I will,” said the Duke gravely.

 

“I entreat this of you now,” added Edward, “for it well may be that I

shall never see you again. I think,” and the bitterness of his failure

echoed in his voice, “that I shall die before we regain Acquitaine.”

 

“Be of better cheer, brother,” answered the Duke, “for I have great

hopes that you will recover in England.”

 

“Nay, I am past mending,” said the Prince; “and were it not that I have

some desire to draw my last breath in English air, I would die here and

leave my bones where I have left my knighthood and my chivalry.”

 

“You scarcely think of me,” said Jehanne of Kent, and her eyes reminded

him how much he had loved her once; lately he had seemed to fall away

from the close confines of her affection.

 

He returned her gaze sadly.

 

“Yea, I think of you,” he answered, “but men’s matters fill my mind.

Yet be content. You are a sweet woman, Jehanne.”

 

He caressed her cheek with languid fingers, and again his eyes sought

the window and the pale sky beyond, and his face was moody, as if he

saw passing in the windy spaces without all the pageants, battles,

triumphs, achievements and glories that had gone to make his life–all

the great world that was still full of feats of arms, of ambitions, of

splendour, of laughter, whirling, receding, leaving him in this quiet

chamber, useless, sick, and defeated.

 

The Duke of Lancaster, who was in command of the troops who had

escorted the Prince to Bordeaux and had a hundred matters on his mind,

left the chamber.

 

Jehanne sat silent, forgotten, unnoticed, beside the Prince, who, with

his head sunk on his breast, was dreaming of the life that was past and

the life he had hoped to live.

 

Presently candles were brought in, but he made no movement nor did the

Princess, stiff and cold on her stool.

 

The wind, with a gentle persistence, shook the tall window-frame and

lifted the arras on the wall; clouds were coming up from beyond the sea

and blotting the tawny crimson streaks of the sunset.

 

Dark settled in the chamber and the candles winked, little points of

light in a great gloom.

 

Pleasant, cheerful noises of horses and men came from the courtyard

where the lading and unlading was proceeding; the sounds of the mules

and their drivers could be heard as a long procession of them laden

with baggage started for the ships.

 

At last the Prince spoke.

 

“This is a homeward wind,” he said.

 

As he raised his head to speak he saw the door open and the Spanish

doctor enter.

 

Jehanne turned, and, fearful of bad news, put her finger to her lips.

 

But Edward got to his feet, caught her aside, and said in the voice of

a strong man–

 

“What news of my son?”

 

The doctor answered steadily, without fear or hesitancy.

 

“The Prince is worse, Seigneur, and it were well that you should come.”

 

Edward of Wales bowed his head and followed the doctor into the next

apartment.

 

The candles were lit and the curtains drawn; a smell of herbs, of wax,

of incense, was heavy in the air. A priest was kneeling at the foot of

the bed; the full Latin words of his whispered prayer came clearly to

the Prince’s ears.

 

The little Edward lay on his back with his head flung upwards.

 

An awful change had come over him since last his father had looked

on him; an __EXPRESSION__ of pain had also given him an __EXPRESSION__ of

maturity, the unnatural flush had faded, leaving him bluish-white,

while under his bright eyes was a purple stain.

 

The Prince staggered to the bed.

 

“Limoges, Limoges,” he muttered.

 

He cast himself on his knees and clutched the coverlet.

 

“Dear Lord Jesus, what is this coming to me!” he whispered.

 

Another doctor moved about; Jehanne stopped and spoke to him. He could

tell her nothing save that, despite all the most approved remedies, the

Prince had within the last hour become rapidly worse and finally lost

consciousness.

 

Jehanne turned desperately to the great bed where her child lay,

breathing heavily, with glazed fixed eyes and dry lips.

 

“Is it the plague?” she asked.

 

They could not tell her.

 

“Oh, dear, dear Lord and St. George,” prayed the Prince, “put not this

loss on England; punish me not this way!”

 

The child turned on his side and muttered a few words, all relating to

arms and horses and war; his eyes closed jerkily and then fluttered

open.

 

Johan of Lancaster entered; he whispered to the doctors, then came

lightly to the bed, walking as softly as a woman for all his great

stature and bulk.

 

He glanced at the child, he glanced at his brother, then touched the

kneeling priest on the shoulder.

 

“He will not die,” said the Prince; “in a little while he will wake and

be well again.”

 

The priest rose and left the room.

 

A long swell of wind lifted the Eastern tapestry on the floor,

fluttered the long curtains and stirred the aromatic scents and the

clouds of incense that hung in the air.

 

Jehanne of Kent stood rigid, staring down at the pillow; her yellow

hair had slipped and hung loose in the silver caul.

 

And her face showed hollow in the fluttering candlelight.

 

The little Prince turned from side to side, catching his breath in his

throat.

 

“Seigneur …” he gasped, “let me … mount the white horse … the great

horse.…”

 

He began to cough, and his small fingers pulled at the pillow; he

stared straight at his father.

 

“He does not see me,” whispered Edward; “he is blind.”

 

“Why do you leave me alone?” complained the child; “but I … am … not …

afraid–never … afraid.”

 

The Prince caught his arm passionately, then turned in a slow horror,

for he saw Jehanne and his brother sink to their knees. He looked over

his shoulder.

 

In the doorway stood three priests; the centre one held with upraised hands an object swathed in white silk.