The Caged Lion

‘Beshrew thee, man!’ said Henry; ‘but I thought thou wast just off a flight!’

‘Dost think one can ride fast only for a flight?’ said Bedford.  ‘Ah, would that it had been the loss of ten battles rather than this!’

And he fell on his knees, grasping Henry’s hand, and hiding his face against the bed, with the same instinct of turning to him for comfort with which the young motherless children of Henry of Bolingbroke, when turned adrift among the rude Beaufort progeny of John of Gaunt, had clung to their eldest brother, and found tenderness in his love and protection in his fearlessness; so that few royal brethren ever loved better than Henry and John of Lancaster.

‘It was well and kindly done, John,’ said Henry; ‘and thou hast come at a good time; for, thanks be to God, the pain hath left me; and if it were not for this burthen of heaviness and weariness, I should be more at ease than I have been for many weeks.’

But as he spoke, there was that both in his face and voice that chilled with a dread certainty the hearts of those who hung over him.

‘Is my wife come?  I could see her now,’ he wistfully asked.

Alas! no.  Sir Lewis Robsart, the knight attached to her service, faltered, with a certain shame and difficulty, that the Queen would come when her orisons at Notre Dame were performed.

It was his last disappointment; but still he bore it cheerily.

‘Best,’ he said.  ‘My fair one was not made for sights like this; and were she here’—his lip trembled—‘I might bear me less as a Christian man should.  My sweet Catherine!  Take care of her, John; she will be the most desolate being in the world.’

John promised with all his heart; though pity for cold-hearted Catherine was not the predominant feeling there.

‘I would I had seen my child’s face, and blessed him,’ continued Henry.  ‘Poor boy!  I would have him Warwick’s charge.’

‘Warwick is waiting admission,’ said Bedford.  ‘He and Salisbury and Exeter rode with me.’

The King’s face lighted up with joy as he heard this.  ‘It is good for a man to have his friends about him,’ he said; and as they entered he held out his hand to them and thanked them.

Then took place the well-known scene, when, looking back on his career, he pronounced it to have been his endeavour to serve God and his people, and declared himself ready to face death fearlessly, since such was the will of his Maker: grieving only for the infancy of his son, but placing his hope and comfort in his brother John, and commending the babe to the fatherly charge of Warwick.  ‘You cannot love him for his own sake as yet; but if you think you owe me aught, repay it to him.’  And as he thought over the fate of other infant kings, he spoke of some having hated the father and loved the child, others who had loved the father and hated the child.

To Humfrey of Gloucester he sent stringent warnings against giving way to his hot and fiery nature, offending Burgundy, or rushing into a doubtful wedlock with Jaqueline of Hainault; speaking of him with an elder brother’s fatherly affection, but turning ever to John of Bedford with full trust and reliance, as one like-minded, and able to carry out all his intentions.  For the French prisoners, they might not be released, ‘lest more fire be kindled in one day than can be quenched in three.’

‘And for you, Jamie,’ he said, affectionately holding out his hand, ‘my friend, my brother-in-arms, I must say the same as ever.  Pardon me, Jamie; but I have not kept you out of malice, such as man must needs renounce on his death-bed.  I trust to John, and to the rest, for giving you freedom at such time as you can safely return to be such a king indeed as we have ever hoped to be.  Do you pardon me, James, for this, as for any harshness or rudeness you may have suffered from me?’

James, with full heart, murmured out his ardent love, his sense that no captive had ever been so generously treated as he.

‘And you, my young lord,’ said Henry, looking towards Malcolm, whose light touch and tender hands had made him a welcome attendant in the illness, ‘I have many a kind service to thank you for.  And I believe I mightily angered you once; but, boy, remember—ay, and you too, Ralf Percy—that he is your friend who turns you back from things sore to remember in a case like mine!’

After these, and other calm collected farewells, Henry required to know from his physicians how long his time might yet be.  There was hesitation in answering, plainly as they saw that mortification had set in.

‘What,’ he said, ‘do ye think I have faced death so many times to fear it now?’

Then came the reply given by the weeping, kneeling physician: ‘Sir, think of your soul, for, without a miracle, you cannot live two hours.’

The King beckoned his confessor, and his friends retired, to return again to take their part in the last rites, the Viaticum and Unction.

Henry was collected, and alive to all that was passing, responding duly, and evidently entering deeply into the devotions that were to aid his spirit in that awful passage; his face gravely set, but firm and fearless as ever.  The ceremonial ended, he was still sensible, though with little power of voice or motion left; but the tone, though low, was steady as ever, when he asked for the Penitential Psalms.  Still they doubted whether he were following them, for his eyes closed, and his lips ceased to move, until, as they chanted the revival note of David’s mournful penance—‘O be favourable and gracious unto Sion; build Thou the walls of Jerusalem;’—at that much-loved word, the light of the blue eyes once more beamed out, and he spoke again.  ‘Jerusalem!  On the faith of a dying king, it was my earnest purpose to have composed matters here into peace and union, and so to have delivered Jerusalem.  But the will of God be done, since He saw me unworthy.’

Then his eyes closed again; he slept, or seemed to sleep; and then a strange quivering came over the face, the lips moved again, and the words broke from them, ‘Thou liest, foul spirit! thou liest!’ but, as though the parting soul had gained the victory in that conflict, peace came down on the wasted features; and with the very words of his Redeemer Himself, ‘Into Thy hands I commend my spirit,’ he did indeed fall asleep; the mighty soul passed from the worn-out frame.

CHAPTER XIII: THE RING AND THE EMPTY THRONE

No one knows how great a tree has been till it has fallen; nor how large a space a mighty man has occupied till he is removed.

King Henry V. left his friends and foes alike almost dizzy, as in place of his grand figure they found a blank; instead of the hand whose force they had constantly felt, mere emptiness.

Malcolm of Glenuskie, who had been asserting constantly that King Henry was no master of his, and had no rights over him, had nevertheless, for the last year or more, been among those to whom the King’s will was the moving spring, fixing the disposal of almost every hour, and making everything dependent thereon.

When the death-hush was broken by the ‘Depart, O Christian soul,’ and Bedford, with a face white and set like a statue, stood up from his knees, and crossed and kissed the still white brow, it was to Malcolm as if the whole universe had become as nothing.  To him there remained only the great God, the heavenly Jerusalem into which the King had entered, and himself far off from the straight way, wandering from his promise and his purpose into what seemed to him a mere hollow painted scene, such as came and went in the midst of a banquet.  Or, again, it was the grisly Dance of Death that was the only reality; Death had clutched the mightiest in the ring.  Whom would he clutch next?

He stood motionless, as one in a dream, or rather as if not knowing which was reality, and which phantom; gazing, gazing on at the bed where the King lay, round which the ecclesiastics were busying themselves, unperceiving that James, Bedford, and the nobles had quitted the apartment, till Percy first spoke to him in a whisper, then almost shook him, and led him out of the room.  ‘I am sent for you,’ he said, in a much shaken voice; ‘your king says you can be of use.’  Then tightening his grasp with the force of intense grief, ‘Oh, what a day! what a day!  My father! my father!  I never knew mine own father!  But he has been all to Harry and to me!  Oh, woe worth the day!’  And dropping into a window-seat, he covered his face with his hands, and gave way to his grief: pointing, however, to the council-room, where Malcolm found Bedford writing at the table, King James, and a few others, engaged in the same manner.

A few words from James informed him (or would have done so if he could have understood) that the Duke of Bedford, on whom at that terrible moment the weight of two kingdoms and of the war had descended, could not pause to rest, or to grieve, till letters and orders had been sent to the council in England, and to every garrison, every ally in France, to guard against any sudden panic, or faltering in friendship to England and her infant heir.  Warwick and Salisbury were already riding post haste to take charge of the army; Robsart was gone to the Queen, Exeter to the Duke of Burgundy; and as the clergy were all engaged with the tendance of the royal corpse, there was scarcely any one to lessen the Duke’s toil.  James, knowing Malcolm’s pen to be ready, had sent for him to assist in copying the brief scrolls, addressed to each captain of a fortress or town, announcing the father’s death, and commanding him to do his duty to the son—King Harry VI.  Each was then to be signed by the Duke, and despatched by men-at-arms, who waited for the purpose.

Like men stunned, the half-dozen who sat at the council-table worked on, never daring to glance at the empty chair at the upper end.  The only words that passed were occasional inquiries of, and orders from, Bedford; and these he spoke with a strange alertness and metallic ring in his voice, as though the words were uttered by mechanism; yet in themselves they were as clear and judicious as possible, as if coming from a mind wound up exclusively to the one necessary object; and the face—though flushed at first, and gradually growing paler, with knitted brows and compressed lips—betrayed no sign of emotion.

Hours passed: he wrote, he ordered, he signed, he sealed; he mentioned name after name, of place and officer, never moving or looking up.  And James, who knew from Salisbury that he had neither slept nor eaten since sixty miles off he had met a worse report of his brother, watched him anxiously till, when evening began to fall, he murmured, ‘There is the captain of—of—at—but—’—the pen slipped from his fingers, and he said, ‘I can no more!’

The overtaxed powers, strained so long—mind, memory, and all—were giving way under the mere force of excessive fatigue.  He rose from his seat, but stumbled, like one blind, as James upheld him, and led him away to the nearest bed-chamber, where, almost while the attendants divested him of the heavy boots and cuirass he had never paused all these hours to remove, he dropped into a sleep of sheer exhaustion.

James, who was likewise wearied out with watching, turned towards his own quarters; but, in so doing, he could not but turn aside to the chapel, where before the altar had been laid all that was left of King Henry.  There he lay, his hands clasped over a crucifix, clad in the same rich green and crimson robes in which he had ridden to meet his Queen at Vincennes but three short months before; the golden circlet from his helmet was on his head, but it could not give additional majesty to the still and severe sweetness of his grand and pure countenance, so youthful in the lofty power that high aspirations had imprinted on it, yet so intensely calm in its marble rest, more than ever with the look of the avenging unpitying angel.  To James, it was chiefly the face of the man whom he had best loved and admired, in spite of their strange connection; but to Malcolm, who had as usual followed him closely, it was verily a look from the invisible world—a look of awful warning and reproof, almost as if the pale set lips were unclosing to demand of him where he was in the valley of shadows, through which the way lay to Jerusalem.  If Henry had turned back, and warned him at the gate of the heavenly Sion, surely such would have been his countenance; and Malcolm, when, like James, he had sprinkled the holy water on the white brow, and crossed himself while the low chant of Psalms from kneeling priests went up around him—clasped his two hands close together, and breathed forth the words, ‘Oh, I have wandered far!  O great King, I will never leave the straight way again!  I will cast aside all worldly aims!  O God, and the Saints, help me not to lose my way again!’

He would have tarried on still, in the fascination of that wonderful unearthly countenance, and in the inertness of faculties stunned by fatigue and excitement, but James summoned him by a touch, and he again followed him.

‘O Sir!’ he began, when they had turned away, ‘I repent me of my falling away to the world!  I give all up.  Let me back to my vows of old.’

‘We will talk of that another time,’ said James, gravely.  ‘Neither you nor I, Malcolm, can think reasonably under such a blow as this; and I forbid you rashly to bind yourself.’

‘Sir, Sir!’ cried Malcolm, petulantly.  ‘You took me from the straight way.  You shall not hinder my return!’

‘I hinder no true purpose,’ said King James.  ‘I only hinder another rash and hasty pledge, to be felt as a fetter, or left broken on your conscience.  Silence now.  When men are sad and spent they cannot speak as befits them, and had best hold their peace.’

These words were spoken on the way up the stair that led to the apartments of the King of Scots.  On opening the door of the larger room, the first thing they saw was the tall figure of a distinguished-looking knight, who, as they entered, flung himself at King James’s feet, fervently exclaiming, ‘O my liege! accept my homage!  Never was vassal so bound to his lord by thankfulness for his life, and for far more than his life!’

‘Sir Patrick Drummond, I am glad to see you better at ease,’ said James.  ‘Nay, suffer me,’ he added, giving his hand to raise the knight, but finding it grasped and kissed with passionate devotion, almost overpowering the only half-recovered knight, so that James was forced to use strength to support him, and would at once have lifted him up, but the warm-hearted Patrick resisted, almost sobbing out—‘Nay, Sir! king of my heart indeed! let me first thank you.  I knew not how much more I owed you than the poor life you saved—my father’s rescue, and that of all that was most dear.’

‘Speak of such things seated, my good friend,’ said James, trying to raise him; but Drummond still did not second his efforts.

‘I have not given my parole of honour as the captive whose life is again due to you.’

‘You must give that to the Duke of Bedford, Sir Patrick,’ said James.  ‘I know not if I am to be put into ward myself.  In any case you are safe, by the good King’s grace, so you pledge yourself to draw no sword against England in Scotland or France till ransom be accepted for you.’

‘Alack!’ said Patrick, ‘I have neither sword nor ransom.  I would I knew what was to be done with the life you have given me, my lord.’

‘I will find a use for it, never fear,’ said James, sadly, but kindly.  ‘Be my knight for the present, till better days come for us both.’

‘With my whole heart!’ said Patrick, fervently.  ‘Yours am I for ever, my liege.’

‘Then my first command is that you should rise, and rest,’ said James, assisting the knight to regain his feet, and placing him in the only chair in the room.  ‘You must become a whole man as soon as may be.’

For Patrick’s arm was in a sling, and evidently still painful and useless, and he sank back, breathless and unresisting, like one who had by no means regained perfect health, while his handsome features looked worn and pale.  ‘I fear me,’ said James, as the two cousins silently shook hands, ‘that you have moved over soon.—You surely had my message, Bairdsbrae?’

‘Oh yes, my lord,’ replied Baird; ‘but the lad was the harder to hold; and after the fever was gone, we deemed he could well brook the journey by water.  ’Twas time I was here to guide ye too, my lord; you and the callant baith look sair forfaughten.’

‘We have had a sad time of it, Nigel,’ said James, with trembling lip.

‘And if Brewster tells me right, ye’ve not tasted food the whole day?’ said Nigel, laying an authoritative hand on his royal pupil.  ‘Nay, sit ye down; here come the varlets with the meal I bade them have ready.’

James passively yielded, courteously signing to the others to share the food that was spread on a table; and with the same scarcely conscious grace, making inquiries, which elicited that Patrick Drummond’s hurts had been caused by his horse falling and rolling over with him, whilst with Sir John Swinton and other Scottish knights he was reconnoitring the line of the English march.  He was too much injured to be taken back to the far distant camp, and had accordingly been intrusted to the French farmer, with no attendant but a young French horse-boy, since he was too poor to keep a squire.  He knew nothing more, for fever had run high; and he had not even been sensible of his desertion by his French hosts on the approach of the English, far less of the fire, and of his rescue by the King and Malcolm; but for this he seemed inclined to compensate to the utmost, by the intense eagerness of devotion with which he regarded James, who sat meanwhile crushed down by the weight of his own grief.

‘I can eat no more, Baird,’ said he, swallowing down a draught of wine, and pushing aside his trencher.  ‘Your license, gentlemen.  I must be alone.  Take care of the lads, Nigel.  Malcolm is spent too.  His deft service was welcome to—to my dearest brother.’

And though he hastily shut himself into his own inner chamber, it was not till they had seen that his grief was becoming uncontrollable.

Patrick could not but murmur, ‘Dearest brother!’

‘Ay, like brothers they loved!’ said Baird, gravely.

‘A strange brotherhood,’ began Drummond.

But Malcolm cried, with much agitation, ‘Not a word, Patie!  You know not what you say.  Take heed of profaning the name of one who is gone to the Sion above.’

‘You turned English, our wee Malcolm!’ exclaimed Drummond, in amaze.

‘There is no English, French, or Scot where he is gone!’ cried Malcolm.  ‘No Babel!  O Patie, I have been far fallen!  I have done you in heart a grievous wrong! but if I have turned back in time, it is his doing that lies there.’

‘His! what, Harry of Lancaster’s?’ demanded the bewildered Patrick.  ‘What had he to do with you?’

‘He has been my only true friend here!’ cried Malcolm.  ‘Oh, if my hand be free from actual spoil and bloodshed, it was his doing!  Oh, that he could hear me bless him for the chastisement I took so bitterly!’

‘Chastisement!’ demanded Patrick.  ‘The English King dared chastise you! of Scots blood royal!  ’Tis well he is dead!’

‘The laddie’s well-nigh beside himself!’ said Baird.  ‘But he speaks true.  This king whom Heaven assolizie, kept a tight hand over the youngsters; and falling on Lord Malcolm and some other callants making free with a house at Meaux, dealt some blows, of which my young lord found it hard to stomach his share; though I am glad to see he is come to a better mind.  Ay, ’tis pity of this King Harry!  Brave and leal was he; never spake an untrue word; never turned eye for fear, nor foot for weariness, nor hand for toil, nor nose for ill savour.  A man, look you, to be trusted; never failing his word for good or ill!  Right little love has there been between him and me; but I could weep like my own lad in there, to think I shall never see that knightly presence more, nor hear those frank gladsome voices of the boys, as they used to shout up and down Windsor Forest.’

‘You too, Sir Nigel! and with a king like ours!’

‘Ay, Sir Patrick! and if he be such a king as Scotland never had since St. David, and maybe not then, I’m free to own as much of it is due to King Harry as to his own noble self.—Did ye say they had streekit him in the chapel, Lord Malcolm?  I’d fain look on the bonnie face of him; I’ll ne’er look on his like again.’

No sooner had old Bairdsbrae gone, than Malcolm flung himself down before his cousin, crying, ‘Oh, Patrick, you will hear me!  I cannot rest till you know how changed I have been.’

‘Changed!’ said Patrick; ‘ay, and for the better!  Why, Malcolm, I never durst hope to see you so sturdy and so heartsome.  My father would have been blithe to see you such a gallant young squire.  Even the halt is gone!’

‘Nearly,’ said Malcolm.  ‘But I would fain be puny and puling, to have the clear heart that once I had.  Oh, hear me! hear me! and pardon me, Patie!’

And Malcolm, in his agitation, poured forth the whole story of his having shifted from his old cherished purpose of devoting himself to the service of Heaven, and leaving lands and vassals to the stronger hands of Patrick and Lilias; how, having thus given himself to the world, he had fallen into temptation; how he had let himself be led to persecute with his suit a noble lady, vowed like himself; how he had almost agreed to marry her by force: and how he had been running into the ordinary dissipations of the camp, abstaining from confession, avoiding mass; disobeying orders, plunging into scenes of plunder, till he had almost been the death of Patrick, whom he had already so cruelly wronged.

So felt the boy.  Fresh from that death-bed, the evils his conscience had protested against from the first appeared to him frightfully heinous, and his anguish of self-reproach was such, that Patrick listened in the greatest anxiety lest he should hear of some deadly stain on his young kinsman’s scutcheon; but when the tale was told, and he had demanded ‘Is that all?’ and found that no further overt act was alleged against Malcolm, he breathed a long sigh, and muttered, ‘You daft laddie! you had fairly startled me!  So this is the coil, is it?  Who ever told you to put on a cowl, I should like to know?  Why, ’twas what my poor father ever declared against.  I take your lands!  By my troth! ‘twould be enough to make me break faith with your sister, if I could!’

‘The vow was in my heart,’ faltered Malcolm.

‘In a fule’s head!’ said Patrick.  ‘What right have babes to be talking of vows?  ‘Twould be the best tidings I’ve heard for many a long day, that you were wedded to a lass with a good tocher, and fit to guide your silly pate.  What’s that?  Her vows!  If they are no better than yours, the sooner they are forgot the better.  If she had another love, ‘twould be another matter, but with a bishop on your side, you’ve naught to fear.’

Malcolm turned away, sick at heart.  To him his present position had become absolute terror.  His own words had worked him up to an alarming sense of having lapsed from high aims to mere selfishness; of having profaned vows, consented to violence, and fallen away from grace; and he was in an almost feverish passion to utter something that would irrevocably bind him to his former intentions; but here were the King and Patrick both conspiring to silence him, and hold him back to his fallen and perilous state.  Nay, Patrick even derided his penitence.  Patrick was an honourable knight, a religious man, as times went, but he had been brought up in a much rougher and more unscrupulous school than Malcolm, and had been hardened by years of service as a soldier of fortune.  The Armagnac camp was not like that of England.  Warriors of such piety and strictness as Henry and Bedford had never come within his ken; and that any man, professing to be a soldier, should hesitate at the license of war, was incomprehensible to him.  The discipline of Henry’s army had been scoffed at in the French camp, and every infraction of it hailed as a token of hypocrisy; and to the stout Scot Malcolm’s grief for the rapine at Meaux, which after all he had not committed, seemed a simple absurdity.  Even his own danger, on the second occasion, did not make him alter his opinion; it was all the fortune of war.  And he was not sure that he had not best have been stifled at once, since his hands were tied from warfare.  And as for Lily—how was he to win her now?  Then, as Malcolm opened his mouth, Patrick sharply charged him to hold his tongue as to that folly, unless he wanted to drive him to make a vow on his side, that he would turn Knight of Rhodes, and never wed.