in England has welcomed me on my return. Come, thou, in what guise thou wilt-earl, counsellor, or bedesman-only be with me, and speak to me thy father's words.'
'Who-I, my Lord?' returned Henry. 'I am no man to speak my father's words! They flew high over my head, and were only caught by grave youths such as yourself. I, who was never trusted with so much as a convoy. No, no; all the counsel I shall ever give, is to the beggars, which coat-of-arms is like to rain clipped silver, and which honest round penny pieces! Poor Richard! he bore the best brain of us all, and might have served your purpose. Sit down, and tell me of the lad.-Bessee, little one, bring out the joint-stool for the holy Father.'
And Henry de Montfort made way on the rude bench outside his hut, with all the ease and courtesy of the Earl of Leicester receiving his kinsman the King. But meantime, the dog, which had been straining in the leash, held by Edward throughout the conference, leapt forward, and vehemently solicited the beggar's caresses. 'Ah, Leonillo!' he said, recognizing him at once, 'thou hast lost thy master! Poor dog! thou art the one truly loyal to thy master's blood!'
'It was Richard's charge to take him to thee,' said Edward: 'but if he be burdensome to thee, I would gladly cherish him, or would commit him to faithful Gourdon, with whom he might be happier. Since he lost his master the poor hound hath much pined away, and will take food from none but me, or little John of Dunster.'
Leonillo, however, who seemed to have an unfailing instinct for a Montfort, was willingly accepting the eager and delighted attentions of the little girl; though he preferred those of her father, and cowered down beneath his hand, with depressed ears and gently waving tail, as though there were something in the touch and voice that conferred what was as near bliss as the faithful creature could enjoy without his deity and master.
Meantime, the Grand Prior discreetly removed his joint-stool out of hearing of the two cousins, and called the little maid to rehearse to him the Credo and Ave, with their English equivalents-a task that pretty Bessee highly disapproved after the fortnight's dissipation, and would hardly have performed for one less beloved of children than Father Robert.
The good Grand Prior knew that the King would have much to say that would beseem no ear save his kinsman's; and in effect Edward told what none besides would ever hear respecting the true author of the attempts on his own life.
'Spiteful fox. Such Simon ever was!' was the beggar's muttered comment. 'Well that he knows not of my poor child! So, cousin, thou hast kept his counsel,' he added in a different tone. 'I thank thee in the name of Montfort and Leicester. It was well and nobly done.'
And Henry de Montfort held out his hand with the dignity of head of the family whose honour Edward had shielded.
'It was for thy father's sake and Richard's,' said Edward, receiving the acknowledgment as it was meant.
'Ah, well,' said Henry, relapsing into his usual half-scoffing tone; 'in that boy our Montfort blood seems to have run clear of the taint it got from the she-fiend of Anjou.'
'Thy share was from a mocking fiend!' returned the King.
'Ay, and a fair portion it is!' said the beggar. 'My jest and my song have borne me through more than my sword and spurs ever did-and have been more to me than English earldom or French county. Poor Richard!' he added with feeling; 'I told him his was the bondage and mine the freedom!'
'Alas! I fear that so it was,' said Edward. 'My favour only embittered his foes. Had I known how it would end, I had never taken him to me; but my heart yearned to my uncle's goodly son.'
'Maybe it is well,' said Henry. 'Had the boy grown up verily like my father, thou and he might have fallen out; or if not-why, you knights and nobles ride in miry bloody ways, and 'tis a wonder if even the best of you does not bring his harness home befouled and besmirched-not as shining bright as he took it out. Well, what didst thou with the poor lad? Cut him in fragments? You mince your best loved now as fine as if they were traitors.'
'No,' said Edward; 'the boy lies sleeping in the Church of St. John, at Acre. I rose from my sickbed that I might lay him in his grave as a brother. Lights burn round him, and masses are said; and the brethren were left in charge to place his effigy on his tomb, in carven stone. One day I trust to see it. My brother Alexander of Scotland, Llewellyn of Wales, and I, have sworn to one another to bring all within these four seas into concord and good order; and then we may look for such a blessing on our united arms as may bear us onward to Jerusalem! Then come with us, Henry, and let us pray together at Richard's grave.'
'I may safely promise,' said Henry, smiling, 'if this same Crusade is to be when peace and order are within the four seas. Moreover, thou wilt have ruined my trade by that time!'
'Nay, Henry, cease fooling. See-if thou wilt not be thyself, I will find thee a lodge in any park of mine. None shall know who thou art; but thou shalt have free range, and-'
'And weary of my life! No, no, cousin. I am in thy power now; and thou canst throw me into prison as the attainted Lord de Montfort. Do so if thou wilt; but I were fooling indeed to give up my free range, my power, my authority, to be a poor suspected, pitied, maimed pensioner on thy bounty. Park, quotha! with none to speak to from morn to night. I can have my will of any park of thine I please, whenever I choose!'
Edward would have persisted, but Henry silenced him effectually, with a sarcastic hint that his favours had done little for Richard. Then the King prayed at least that he would consider his child; but to the proposal of taking her to the palace, Henry returned an indignant negative: 'He had seen enough of the court ladies,' he said.
A hot glow of anger lighted Edward's cheek, for he loved his mother; but the blind beggar could not be the subject of his wrath, and he merely said, 'Thou didst not know my wife!'
'Ay, I will believe the court as perfect as thou thinkest to make the isle; but Bessee shall not bide there. She is the blind beggar's child, and such shall she remain. Send me to a dungeon, as I said, and thou canst pen her in a convent, or make her a menial to thy princesses, as thou wilt; but while my life and my freedom are my own I keep my child.'
'I could find it in my heart to arrest thee,' said Edward, 'when I look at that beautiful child, and think to what thou wouldst bring her.'
'She is fair then,' said the beggar eagerly.
'Fair! She is the loveliest child mine eyes have looked on: though some of mine own have been very lovely. But she hath the very features of our royal line-though with eyes deep and dark, like thy father's, or my Richard's-and a dark glow of sunny health on her fair skin. She bears her, too, right royally. Henry, thou canst not wreck the fate of a child like that.'
'No, assuredly,' said Henry dryly. 'I have not done so ill by her hitherto, by thine own showing, that I should not be trusted with her for the future.'
'The parting would be bitter,' began Edward 'but thou shouldst see her often.'
'Slay me, and make her a ward of the crown,' said Henry. 'Otherwise I will need no man's leave for seeing my daughter. But ask her. If she will go with thee, I will say no more.'
King Edward was fond of children-most indulgent to his own, and kind to all little ones, who, attracted by the sweetness which his stern, grave, beautiful countenance would assume when he looked at them- always made friends with him readily. So he trusted to this fascination in the case of the little Lady Elizabeth. He held out his hands to her, and claimed her as his cousin; and she came readily to him, and stood between his knees. 'Little cousin, he said, 'wilt thou come home with me, to be with my two little maids, the elder much of thine age?'
'You are a red monk!' said Bessee, amazed.
'That's his shell, Bessee,' said her father; 'he has come a-masking, and forgot his part.'
'I don't like masking,' said Bessee, trying to get away.
'Then we will mask no more,' said Edward. 'Thou hast looked in my face long enough with those great black eyes. Dost know me, child?'
Bessee cast the black eyes down, and coloured.
'Dost know me?' he repeated.
'I think,' she whispered at last, 'that you are masking still. You are like-like the King that was crowned at the Abbey.'
'Well said, little maid! And shall I take thee home, and give thee pearls and emeralds to braid thy locks, instead of these heath- bells?'
'Father,' said Bessee, trying to withdraw her little hands out of Edward's large one, which held both fast. 'O father, is he masking still?'
'No, child; it is the King indeed,' said Henry. 'Hear what he saith to thee.'
And again Edward spoke of all that would tempt a child.
