Heroines of the Crusades
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“Eva! Eva! How couldst thou listen to such vain parlance?”
“Oh! my lady, this is not the half of the vile things they told. They said that when the king had oppressed the people till he could wring no more money from them, he broke up his court, and then, to avoid the expense of keeping his family, he invited himself with his retinue to the castles of the nobles, and after being feasted right royally, he begged gifts at his departure, telling them it was a greater charity to bestow alms upon him than upon any beggar in the realm.”
“Eva! darling! no more of this,” said Eleanora, in a decided tone. “I will give thee for thy penance three paternosters and a creed. Repair to my oriel, and let me hear thee prate no more.”
Eva received so much spiritual benefit from her devotions in the oratory, that the next day she was permitted to go where she pleased, and her first works of supererogation were distributed among those who had participated in her offence. Accordingly, the princess found her robed in the chaplain’s gown, and receiving the confessions of those who had assisted at her coronation the previous day, in which capacity she exhibited a wonderful facility in prompting treacherous memories and callous consciences. In the midst of the scene, a sharp blast from the warder’s horn startled the merry group. In times of public calamity, every unexpected event seems fraught with a fearful interest. Each vassal hurried to his post, and the females hastened away, while Eva, dropping her sacred character, ran with all speed to reconnoitre from the arrow-slit of the turret. The portcullis was raised, the sound of hoofs was heard upon the drawbridge, and the next moment a messenger, toil worn and travel-stained, dashed into the court. The tidings which he brought were of the most important character. King Henry, apparently on the most friendly terms with Leicester, was, in reality, a prisoner in his castle, and subject to the will of the earl. Prince Edward was rapidly preparing for war with the rebel barons, and, deeming the royal ladies unsafe in England, had sent to bid them haste with all speed to the court of the good King of France. Straining her eyes to command a view beyond the castle walls, Eva discerned a band of huntsmen lingering in the skirts of an adjoining wood, but in the bustle of departure, she could not find opportunity to communicate the suspicious circumstance to any in authority.
Apparelled in the utmost haste, the parties set forth, and slacked not their riding till they reached the port. There seemed to be a great crowd in the vicinity, of sailors, boatmen, clowns, in cartmen’s frocks, and occasionally a man in armor. Eva fancied that she discerned among them the huntsmen of the wood, and her fears were confirmed when a moment after the royal train were completely environed by the band. But so adroitly was the manœuvre effected, that the fugitives had scarcely time to feel themselves prisoners, when a troop of Leicester’s men appeared in the distance, and they comprehended that, but for the timely interposition of these unknown friends, their retreat would have been cut off. As the vessel receded from shore, swords were drawn, and a fierce contest ensued between the huntsmen and the soldiers, and Eva recognized in the leader of their defenders the figure of the tall knight who had rescued them at London bridge.
At the court of Queen Margaret, the exiled princesses received a cordial welcome, and the piety of Eleanora was strengthened by intercourse with the good St. Louis: while Eva’s vivacity soon made her a favorite with the ladies of the French court. The unaffected piety of the saintly monarch was scarcely a fit subject for the humor which Eva exercised without discrimination, upon the grave and gay. But many of the superstitious observances of the church, ridiculous in themselves, excited her native merriment; nor could all the penances of the confessor restrict the playful license of her tongue.
The Latin dynasty of Constantinople was now tottering to its fall. The young Greek emperor Baldwin, deprived of the counsels of his father-in-law, Jean de Brienne (who had taken the habit of St. Francis, and died on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem), was exposed to the attacks of every disaffected noble that chose to rebel against him. He had made every possible concession to avoid open warfare with his enemies, and had suffered every conceivable inconvenience from utter poverty. He had given his niece in marriage to a Turkish emir, and ratified a treaty with a haughty pagan by tasting his blood. He demolished vacant houses in Constantinople for winter fuel, stripped the lead from the churches for the daily expense of his family; mortgaged his father’s estates in France to increase the public revenue; and pawned the heir of the purple at Venice, as security for a debt. One only treasure yet remained, the Holy Crown of Thorns; but piety forbade him to make merchandise of that which all Christendom regarded with such superstitious veneration. It was therefore determined to present the precious bauble to the most honorable prince in Europe, and rely upon his pious gratitude to make suitable return. A wooden box conveyed the inestimable relic to France. It was opened in the presence of the nobility, discovering within a silver shrine in which was preserved the monument of the Passion, enclosed in a golden vase. St. Louis, with all his court, made a pilgrimage to Troyes, to receive the precious deposit. And the devout monarch, barefoot, and without other clothing than a simple tunic, carried it in triumph through the streets of Paris, and placed it in La Sainte Chapelle, which he prepared for the purpose. This solemn ceremony roused all the mirthfulness of Eva, nor could the habitual reverence of Eleanora so far prevail over her good sense, as to prevent some slight misgivings concerning the authenticity of the various and multiplied relics that then formed so lucrative a branch of commerce.
“I warrant me,” said the madcap, Eva, to the maidens, “we shall all of us be compelled to kneel upon the cold pavement before that prickly emblem, as a punishment for our many transgressions.” Shocked at her impiety, yet inwardly amused, the merry party mingled their reproaches with encouraging peals of laughter.
“No doubt,” continued she, “it will cure all diseases, at least it has humbled the holy king like St. Paul’s thorn in the flesh. For me, though I strove to wear a devout face, I could not help laughing at the sight of his royal shins.” The volatile French ladies, who had experienced very much the same sensation, joined in the merriment. “I hear,” said Eva, “we are to have another procession of the same kind ere long, and mayhaps they will require us to transport the holy relic in the same flimsy guise. Thou, Felice, who art so jealous of Sir Francis d’Essai’s attentions to me, shall carry the cross. And the sharp-witted Beatrice shall bear the lance. Thou, Caliste, who hearest all and sayest naught, shall wear the sponge, and as for me, I shall take the rod of Moses and smite your rocky hearts, till the waters of repentance flow forth.” “Hush! hush!” exclaimed the damsels, “her majesty approaches.”
Scarcely were their countenances composed to the approved pattern of court propriety, and their eyes fixed upon their embroidery, when Queen Margaret entered, and, in her serenely gracious manner, informed them that his highness, the Emperor Baldwin, had presented another invaluable gift to her royal husband, and she counselled them, by fasting and prayer, to put themselves in readiness to join the court in a procession to deposit the sacred relic in St. Chapelle. While each maiden dropped her head with apparent assent, but in reality to conceal her smiles brought up by the prospective realization of Eva’s panorama, the facile girl devoutly crossed herself, and with a demure look replied, “We have heard of the noble Courtenay’s munificence, and have endeavored, according to our poor ability, to prepare our minds for the solemn duty.” No sooner had the queen departed, than in a tone of mock gravity, she exhorted them to be diligent in their worship, for now she thought of it, she resolved to smile upon the young Squire Courtenay, who had besought her to embroider a shamrock upon his pennon. Winning him, she should doubtless one day share the imperial purple, in which case she should reclaim those sacred treasures, and they would then be under the necessity of making a pilgrimage to Constantinople, for as Baldwin’s last heir was in pawn, the crown would doubtless descend to the younger branches of his house.
CHAPTER IV.
THE ESCAPE
In the court of France, the royal princesses received constant intelligence of the progress of the struggle between the English barons and the king, or rather, between Simon de Montfort and Prince Edward, who headed the opposite factions. Their hopes were raised by accounts of the gallant conduct of the young prince, and by the disaffection that arose between the confederate barons, but sudden misery overwhelmed them, when, after several years of torturing suspense, Wm. de Valence arrived at Paris, bringing news of the death of Guy de Lusignan, in the disastrous action at Lewes, and the captivity of King Henry and his gallant son.
Queen Eleanor immediately determined to proceed to England, and her daughter-in-law Eleanora insisted upon accompanying her. Young de Courtenay, who had recently received the honors of knighthood, from his royal master, and Sir Francis, who had enlisted as his rival for the smiles of Eva, now a beautiful girl of fifteen, begged permission to join the escort, with a band of armed retainers. They landed at Plymouth, and lay concealed for some time in the wilds of Devonshire, while the gallant knights, Sir Henry and Sir Francis, scoured the country in all directions, for information concerning the captive princes. They learned that the royal army had retreated to Bristol castle, under the command of seven knights, who had reared seven banners on the walls, and with determined valor held out against Leicester, and that the princes were confined in Kenilworth castle. The difficulty of communicating with the prisoners exercised the ingenuity of the little council for many days, but every plan involved danger, both to themselves and to the royal cause.
Eleanora, whose clear sense and unwavering reliance on a higher power, led her to a practical demonstration of the sentiment, “To hope the best is pious, brave, and wise,” was the life and soul of every arrangement, and the soother of those fainter spirits, who were ready to yield, to despair at every sign of failure. Their residence was in a little hamlet of the better class of peasants, faithful to the interests of the king. A deep forest extended on the west to a great distance, and in those wilds, spite of all caution, Eva delighted to ramble. One day she had been so long absent that even Eleanora, becoming alarmed, despatched her attendant in quest of her, and herself joined the search. As she passed along through the glades of the deep wood, her attention was arrested by the sight of a pretty boy, lying asleep beneath the shade of a spreading oak, whose dress from his embroidered shoes, to the ruby that fastened the plume in his velvet cap, was of the most exquisite beauty, and taste. The page was clad in a hunting suit of “Lincoln green,” slashed with cloth of gold, that gleamed from the mossy bank upon which he rested, as though the sunshine had fallen and lingered there. A crimson baldric curiously wrought with strange devices, lay across his breast, a sword with burnished sheath, was suspended from his belt. As Eleanora approached, and gazed upon the sleeping boy, she thought she had never beheld so lovely a youth, and an instinctive desire rose up in her heart, to enroll him in her service.
“Wake, pretty one,” said she, softly touching his cheek, “wake, and go with me.” The youth started and gazed upon her, and a flush of surprise and pleasure suffused his countenance. “Whose page art thou?” said Eleanora, “and how hast thou wandered into this wild?”
“Noble lady,” returned the boy, casting down his eyes with modest hesitation, “my hawk hath gone astray, and I sought him till aweary, I fell asleep.”
“Thy friends have left thee in the greenwood,” returned the princess, “and thou may’st not find them. Wilt go with me, and I will give thee gold and benison, and if thou art loyal, an errand worthy thy knightly ambition.”
“Nay, treason may be loyal, or loyalty treason, in these troublous times,” said the boy. “One says follow my lord of Leicester, another, draw thy sword for the good Prince Edward.”
“And if I say, draw thy sword for the good Prince Edward, wilt follow me?”
The youth replied evasively, “I love my lady, and I may not engage in other service, till I bring her proud bird back to the perch.”
Something in his earnest tone arrested the attention of the princess, and scanning the countenance of the youth with more curious scrutiny, she marked the rosy hue in his cheek, and the tear trembling in his blue eye, and exclaimed,
“Eva! Eva!! How is this?”
“Nay, an thou knowest me, I will e’en venture on thy knightly errand,” said the blushing girl, falling on her knees, and repeating the oath of fealty, rapidly as possible to hide her emotions.
“Rise,” said the princess, with all the sternness she could command, “and tell me whence this disguise.”
“I know not, lady, more than thou, save this. Scarce a week since, I met in this wood the tall knight who hath so nobly defended us, and yesternight I braved the fear of thy frown, and came to this trysting-place. He hath concerted a plan for the liberation of my royal master, and brought me this disguise, which must be sufficient, since it so long baffled thy quick discernment. Accident has betrayed me, else it had not rested with my lady, whether Eva should trust the stranger, and aid in restoring the proud bird of England to his royal perch.” Eleanora paused one moment, while her mind, ever clearest and most active in emergency, poised between the possibility of danger to her favorite, and rescue to her lord.
“The knight has twice preserved our lives, he must be bold and true, and heaven hath raised him up for our deliverance, since God conceals us from our enemies, and reveals our lurking-place to him. It were treason to doubt this divine Providence, since it would imply neither trust in man, nor faith in God. Go, Eva,” said the princess, her eyes filling with tears, as she pressed her to her bosom, and imprinted a warm kiss upon her cheek. “Heaven will protect and prosper thee, and my noble Edward know how to reward thy devotion.” She stood gazing fondly on her in silence, while Eva’s color went and came as though she essayed, what yet she feared, to utter. At length she stammered forth, “My lady will send Sir Francis with his band to guard the fords of the Exe till my return.”
“Sir Francis,” reiterated the queen, in a tone of surprise; “methought Sir Henry were more agreeable escort.”
Eva tried to hide her crimson blushes beneath her delicate fingers, as she whispered, “If my mistress please, I would that Sir Henry should be ignorant of this unmaidenly disguise.”
“Thou lovest Sir Henry, then?” said Eleanora.
“Nay, lady, I know not that,” replied Eva; “but there is something in him that commands my regard despite my will, and I would not needlessly forfeit his esteem.”
“I will answer for thee, sweet,” replied the princess. “Sir Francis shall go according to thy wish. But must I leave thee here alone and unprotected?”
“The monarch of the forest spreads his broad arm for my protection, and thou shalt envy my repose, in my sylvan eyrie,” replied Eva, lightly springing into a fantastic seat, formed by the twisted branches of a gnarled oak, and completely concealed by the foliage. Firmly ensconced in her rustic lodge, she leaned forward and whispered a gentle farewell, as the princess, bearing in her mind a vision of a bright face, peeping out from among the green leaves, turned and rapidly retraced her steps to the hamlet.
That night Sir Francis set out with his train, and as two maidens accompanied the band, one wearing the dress of Eva, her absence excited no suspicion.
Meanwhile the sprite remained in her place of concealment, till the gathering shadows of the trees stretched stealthily across the glade the appointed signal for the gathering of the outlawed bands. The tall knight soon appeared, and, lifting her gently from the tree, placed her on a beautiful Spanish jennet, and smilingly handing her an ivory whistle, terminating in a silver cross, bade her summon her satyrs. She placed it to her lips, and blew a shrill call, and forthwith from the leafy bosom of every bush and shrub there issued a huntsman, clad in forest green, and carrying only such weapons as were used in the chase. The knight gave them hasty directions for the different points of rendezvous, at which they were to watch the safety of the young squire, warned them against those places where they would be most likely to encounter the malcontents, and then mounting the noble steed that stood pawing the turf in impatience by his side, and laying his hand upon the rein, recalled Eva to herself, by saying, with emphasis, “Sir Launfal, we must away, or morning will dawn ere we cross the fords of Exe.”
They rode at a brisk pace for some time in silence, the mind of each being too much occupied for words.
The knight at length spoke abruptly. “Thou hast a turn for adventure, pretty page, and I’ll warrant me, ready tongue, but how dost thou think to gain speech with Prince Edward?”
“Nay, that I leave with thee,” returned Eva, “since I know neither the place to which I am bound, nor the duty I am to perform.”
“And that I scarce know myself,” replied the knight. “The lady Maud Mortimer has the swiftest courser in all England, a coal-black Arabian, brought by Richard of Cornwall as a gift to her ladyship, on his return from the Holy Land. My Lord Mortimer is a partisan of Leicester, but is somewhat cooled in his devotion to the proud earl, from an affront received since the battle of Lewes. The lady, therefore, to be revenged, has volunteered her steed for the escape of Edward. There riseth, however, another difficulty. The prince is constantly surrounded with guards, so that no stranger may accost him. My merry men have beset the castle in every kind of disguise, but to no purpose. Of late, the prince rides forth of a morning, closely attended, and I have brought thee, hoping that thy woman’s wit may effect more than all our dull brains have yet accomplished.”
As the captive prince, sick with hope deferred, languidly mounted his horse and rode forth upon his monotonous round, he was surprised by the appearance of a saucy-looking page, who mingled carelessly among the attendants, and challenged the younger squires to test the speed of their horses.
“And who art thou, pert boy?” inquired the captain of the guard.
“Who but the squire to my Lord de Mortimer? Thou must be learned in heraldry an thou knowest not the device of the noble earl,” replied the page, with an air of nonchalance that easily satisfied his interrogator, and eager of sport the whole party joined in the race. They were thus led far beyond their usual limits. But the prince, whose heart was sad, evinced little interest in the animated scene till the page, loudly entreating him to put his steed to the mettle, found opportunity at intervals to whisper, “To-morrow when the horses of the guards are blown, seek the copse by the Hazel Glen.” As if disgusted with the familiarity of the page, the prince slowly turned away, but not till he had exchanged a glance of intelligence with his new friend.
The following morning the gallant Sir Launfal stood in the copse holding the reins of his own palfrey, and the steed of Lady Mortimer, till he was faint and weary. The expected hour for Edward’s arrival had long passed, and notwithstanding his effort to appear the brave squire he personated, it must be confessed he felt very like a timid girl, whose active imagination peopled the wood with a thousand unknown dangers. He turned the whistle nervously in his fingers, and almost essayed to try its magic powers in summoning around him the brave outlaws who waited his bidding, when the welcome sound of advancing hoofs reassured him, and a moment after the prince dashed into the thicket.
“Keep to the highway till we meet at the cross-roads,” said the page, resigning the rein into his hand.
The shouts of the pursuers were already on the air, as the prince vaulted into the saddle and took the direction indicated. Striking into a bridle path, Sir Launfal reached the cross-roads just as the prince appeared, and together they rode gaily on towards Bristol. The pursuers soon after gained the same point, where they encountered a woodman, jogging on slowly after two loaded mules, of whom they inquired concerning the fugitive.
“He be’s gone yonder,” replied the boor, pointing in the direction opposite to the one which the prince had taken, where upon an eminence appeared an armed force. The baffled guards, fearing that the conspiracy might have been more extensive than they had anticipated, made the best of their way back to Kenilworth.
“And who art thou, my pretty page?” inquired Edward, “that hast so dexterously redeemed thy prince, and whither dost thou conduct me?”
“I wear the badge of Mortimer,” replied Sir Launfal. “The Lady Maude is the constant friend of thy royal mother.”
“Canst tell me aught of the movements of the rebel barons, or the fate of my brave knights?”
“Nay, my giddy brain recks little of politics or war,” returned the boy, “but there are can give thee tidings.”
A moment after they turned an angle in the road, and the boy putting the whistle to his mouth sounded a sharp note, and a party of huntsmen, apparently in quest of game, darted across the path, while one shouted, as if to his companions, “To the right, the game lies by the Hermit’s Cross.” The page immediately turned his palfrey, motioning to silence, and led off into the path through the wood, and after several hours’ hard riding arrived at the appointed place of rendezvous.
At the foot of a large wooden cross, weather-stained and somewhat decayed, sat a monk, closely robed in gown and cowl, who rose at their approach, saying in a low voice, “The benison of our Lady of Walsingham rest upon you;” and with great strides conducted them deeper and deeper into the wood, till they came to a hunter’s lodge, which, though much in ruins, gave signs of having been recently repaired, with some view to the rank and comfort of those who were to occupy it.
The prince made light of the trifling inconveniences to which they were subjected, remarking, “A soldier has little choice of resting-place.” But poor Eva, wearied almost to death from the unaccustomed fatigues of the day, now that the stimulus of excitement was over, had leisure to think of her own situation; and scarcely able to restrain her tears, crept silently to her couch of fern, and beneath the russet covering, soon slept from very exhaustion. The prince and the monk meanwhile conferred apart in low tones, concerting measures for present and future security.
“Gloucester is with us,” said the priest, “and Sir Roger de Mortimer has a party of picked men on the road to Evesham. My band have charge of every ford and pass between this and Hereford. The scouts report that Leicester’s men are much wasted by their long residence on the Welsh frontier, and my jolly fellows are this night engaged in breaking down the bridges across the Severn. For we churchmen have a fancy, that baptism is necessary to wash away the sins of rebels.”
“I fear not all the rites of the Church can absolve the black-hearted traitor,” returned Edward, with great asperity. “But proceed with thy news.”
“The country is beset with Leicester’s spies,” continued the monk, “else had I been less guarded in my communications with thee. Bands of men are daily mustering in every direction, making the high-roads unsafe for honest travellers like myself.”
“Thou wilt join our forces with the brethren of thy chapter,” suggested the prince.
“Our chapter are somewhat too much tinctured with heresy to hail the ascendency of the odious De Montforts,” replied the monk; “thou mayst, therefore, depend upon their most earnest intercessions in thy behalf. But for me, I must restore pretty one,” nodding his head significantly towards the spot where Eva lay asleep, “to his mistress. It is a matter, not of selfish interest alone, that the loyal page be restored unharmed.”