A Prince of Good Fellows

The king looked fixedly at the perturbed young man, and a faint smile chased away the sternness of his countenance.

“I have never known an instance,” he said slowly, “where the burden of a crown was urged as an objection even by the most romantic of women.”

“It would be so urged by Mary of Vendôme, were she allowed to give utterance to her wishes.”

“You know her then?”

“I am proud to claim her as a friend, and to assert she is the very pearl of France.”

“Ha, you interest me. You hint, then, that I come a bootless wooer? That is turning the tables indeed, and now you rouse an emulation which heretofore was absent in me. You think I cannot win and wear this jewel of the realm?”

“That you may wear it there is no doubt; that you may win it is another matter. Mary will place her listless hand in yours, knowing thus she pleases the king and her father, but it is rumoured her affections are fixed upon another.”

“Sir, you stir me up to competition. Now we enter the lists. You bring the keen incentive of rivalry into play.”

“Such, your majesty, was far from my intention. I spoke as a friend of the lady. She has no more choice in this bargain than you deplored the lack of a moment since.”

The former gloom again overspread the king’s face.

“There is the devil of it,” he cried impatiently. “If I could meet her on even terms, plain man and woman, then if I loved her I would win her, were all the nobles of France in the scales against me. But I come to her chained; a jingling captive, and she approaches me alike in thrall. It is a cursed fate, and I chafe at the clanking links, though they hold me nevertheless. And all my life I can never be sure of her; the chiming metal ever between us. I come in pomp and display, as public as the street I walk on, and the union is as brazen as a slave market, despite cathedral bells and archbishop’s blessing. Ah, well, there is nothing gained by ranting. Do you ride to Loches with me?”

“I follow your majesty a day behind, but hope to overtake you before you are well past Tours.”

“I am glad of it. Good-night. I see you stand my friend, and before this comes to a climax we may have need to consult together. Good-night; good-night!”

Next morning early the itinerants were on horseback again, facing southward. The day was wild and stormy, and so was the next that followed it; but after leaving Tours they seemed to have entered an enchanted land, for the clouds were dispersed and the warm sun came forth, endowing the travellers with a genial climate like late springtime in Scotland. As they approached Loches even the king was amazed by the striking sight of the castle, a place formidable in its strength, and in extent resembling a small city.

The gay and gallant Francis received his fellow monarch with a cordiality that left no doubt of its genuine character. The French king had the geniality to meet James in the courtyard itself; he embraced him at the very gates as soon as James had dismounted from his horse. Notwithstanding his twenty years of seniority Francis seemed as young as the Scottish king.

“By Saint Denis, James,” he cried, “you are a visitor of good omen, for you have brought fine weather with you and the breath of spring. All this winter we have endured the climate of Hades itself, without its warmth.”

The two rulers stood together in the courtyard, entirely alone, for no man dare frequent their immediate neighbourhood; but in a circle some distance removed from their centre, the Scotch and the French fraternised together, a preeminent assemblage numbering a thousand or more; and from the balconies beautiful ladies looked down on the inspiring scene.

The gates were still open and the drawbridge down, when a horseman came clattering over the causeway, and, heedless of the distinguished audience, which he scattered to right and left, amid curses on his clumsiness, drew up his foaming horse in the very presence of royalty itself.

Francis cried out angrily at this interruption.

“Unmannerly varlet, how dare you come dashing through this throng like a drunken ploughman!”

The rider flung himself off the panting horse and knelt before his enraged master.

“Sire,” he said, “my news may perhaps plead for me. The army of the Emperor Charles, in Provence, is broken and in flight. Spain has met a crushing defeat, and no foe insults the soil of France except by lying dead upon it.”

“Now, my good fellow,” cried the king with dancing eyes, “you are forgiven if you had ridden down half of my nobility.”

The joyous news spread like wildfire, and cheer upon cheer rose to heaven like vocal flame to mark its advance.

“Brother,” cried the great king to his newly arrived guest, placing an arm lovingly over his shoulder, his voice with suspicion of tremulousness about it, “you stalwart Scots have always brought luck to our fair land of France. This glad news is the more welcome to me that you are here when I receive it.”

And so the two, like affectionate kinsmen, walked together into the castle which, although James did not then know it, was to be his home for many months.

There was a dinner of state that evening, so gay and on a scale so grand that James had little time or opportunity for reflection on his mission. Here indeed, as Talbot had truly said, was the flower garden of the human race; and the Scottish king saw many a proud lady to whom probably he would have been delighted to bend the knee. But his bride was not among the number. The Duchesse de Vendôme explained to the king that her daughter was suffering from a slight illness, and apart from this was anxious to greet her future husband in a conference more private than the present occasion afforded. This was certainly reasonable enough, and the important meeting took place the following afternoon.

Mary of Vendôme might truly be called the Pearl of France, if whiteness of visage gave claim to that title. The king found himself confronted by a drooping young woman whose stern mother gave her a support which was certainly needed. Her face was of the pallor of wax; and never once during that fateful interview did she raise the heavy lids from her eyes. That she had once been beautiful was undoubted, but now her face was almost gaunt in its excessive thinness. The death-like hue of her delicate skin, the fact that she seemed scarce to breathe, and that she never ventured to speak, gave her suitor the impression that she more resembled one preparing for the tomb than a young girl anticipating her bridal. She courtesied like one in a trance; but the keen eyes of the king saw the tightening of her mother’s firm hand on her wrist while she made the obeisance which etiquette demanded. Short as was their formal greeting, it was too long for this anæmic creature, who would have sunk to the floor were it not for the clutch in which the determined mother held her. Even the king, self-contained as he usually was, found little to say beyond empty expressions of concern regarding her recent illness, ending with a brief remark to the effect that he hoped she would soon recover from her indisposition. But once the ordeal was over, James was filled with a frenzy to be alone, tortured as he was by an agony of mind which made any encounter with his fellows intolerable. He strode through the seemingly interminable corridors of the great castle, paying slight heed to his direction. All doors opened before him, and sentinels saluted as he passed. At last, not knowing where he was, or how to get outside, he said to one of the human statues who held a pike, —

“Tell me, good fellow, the quickest way to the outer air; some spot where I can be entirely alone?”

The guard, saluting, called a page, whispered a word to him, and the boy led the king to a door which gave access to a secluded garden, enclosed on every side by high battlements, yet nevertheless filled with great trees, under which ran paths both straight and winding. Beside one wall lay the longest walk of this little park, and up and down this gravelled way, his hands clasped behind him, the young king strode in more disturbance of mind than had ever before afflicted him.

“Oh, God save me; God save me!” he cried; “am I to be wedded to a ghost? That woman is not even alive, to say whether she is willing or no. Have I come to France to act the ghoul and rob the grave of its due? Saints in heaven, help me! What am I to do? I cannot insult France, yet I cannot chain my living body to that dead woman. Why is not Talbot here? He said he would overtake me at Tours, and yet is he not come. The Pearl of France, said he, the jewel of a toad’s head, say I. My honour staked, and to that unbreathing image of tallow! Is this my punishment? Do the sins of our youth thus overtake us, and in such ghastly form? Bones of my ancestors, I will not wed the grave, though war and slaughter come of it. And yet – and yet, my faith is plighted; blindly, unknowingly plighted. Why does not Talbot come? He knew what my emotions would be on seeing that denizen of another world, and so warned me.”

These muttered meditations were suddenly interrupted by a clear sweet voice from above.

“Écossais! Scottish knight! Please rescue for me my handkerchief, which I have, alas, let fall. Wrap a stone in it and throw it hither, I beg of you.”

The startled king looked up and beheld, peering over at him from the battlements above, one of the most piquant and pretty, laughing faces he had ever seen. Innocent mischief sparkled in the luscious dark eyes, which regarded him from a seemingly inaccessible perch. A wealth of dark tousled hair made a midnight frame for a lovely countenance in the first flush of maidenly youth. Nothing could be more marked than the difference between the reality which thus came unexpectedly into view, and his sombre vision of another. There also sifted down to him from aloft, whisperings that were evidently protests, from persons unseen; but the minx who was the cause of them merrily bade her counsellors be quiet. She must get her handkerchief, she said, and the Scot was the only one to recover it. Fluttering white from one of the lower branches was a dainty bit of filmy lace, much too fragile a covering for the stone she had suggested. The despair which enveloped the king was dispelled as the mist vanishes before the beaming sun. He whipped out his thin rapier and deftly disentangled the light burden from the detaining branch. It fluttered to his hand and was raised gallantly to his lips, at which the girl laughed most joyfully, as if this action were intensely humorous. Other faces peeped momentarily over the balustrade to be as quickly withdrawn when they saw the stranger looking up at them; but the hussy herself, whoever she was, seemed troubled by no such timorousness, resting her arms upon the stone balustrade, with her chin above them, her inviting eyes gazing mockingly on the man below. The king placed the handkerchief in the bosom of his doublet, thrust home the rapier in its scabbard, grasped the lower branch of the tree and swung himself up on it with the agility of an acrobat. Now the insolence of those eyes was chased away by a look of alarm.

“No, no,” she cried, “stay where you are. You are too bold, Scottish knight.”

But she had to reckon with one who was a nimble wall climber, either up or down, whose expertness in descent had often saved him from the consequences of too ambitious climbing. The young man answered not a word, but made his way speedily up along the branches until he stood at a level with the parapet. Across the chasm which divided him from the wall he saw a broad platform, railed round with a stone balustrade, this elevated floor forming an ample promenade that was nevertheless secluded because of the higher castle walls on every side, walls that were unpierced by any window. A door at the farther end of the platform gave access to the interior of the palace. A short distance back from the balustrade stood a group of some half-dozen very frightened women. But the first cause of all this commotion remained in the forefront of the assemblage, angry and defiant.

“How dare you, sir?” she cried. “Go back, I command you.” Then seeing he made no motion to obey her, but was measuring with his keen eye the distance between the bending limb on which he held his precarious position, and the parapet, something more of supplication came into her voice, and she continued, —

“My good fellow, place the handkerchief on the point of your sword and one of my women will reach for it. Be careful, I beg of you; that bough will break under your weight if you venture further. The outreached arm and the sword will span the space.”

“Madam,” said the king, “the sword’s point is for my enemy. On bended knee must I present a lady that which belongs to her.”

And with this, before further expostulation was possible, the young man made his perilous leap, clutched the parapet with his left arm, hung suspended for one breathless moment, then flung his right leg, a most shapely member, over the balustrade, and next instant was kneeling at her feet, offering the gosamer token. In the instant of crisis the young lady had given utterance to a little shriek which she instantly suppressed, glancing nervously over her shoulder. One of her women ran towards the door, but the girl peremptorily ordered her to return.

“The Scot will not eat you,” she cried impatiently, “even if he is a savage.”

“Madam, your handkerchief,” explained the savage, still offering it.

“I shall not accept it,” she exclaimed, her eyes blazing with resentment at his presumption.

The king sprang to his feet and swept off his plumed hat with the air of an Italian.

“Ten thousand thanks, madam, for your cherished gift.” Saying which he thrust the slight web back into his doublet again.

“’Tis not a gift; render it to me at once, sir,” she demanded with feminine inconsistency. She extended her hand, but the king, instead of returning the article in dispute, grasped her fingers unawares and raised them to his lips. She drew away her hand with an expression of the utmost contempt, but nevertheless stood her ground, in spite of the evident anxiety to be elsewhere of the bevy behind her.

“Sir, you are unmannerly. No one has ever ventured to treat me thus.”

“Then I am delighted to be the first to introduce to you so amiable a custom. Unmannerly? Not so. We savages learn our manners from the charming land of France; and I have been told that in one or two instances, this country has known not only the fingers, but the lips to be kissed.”

“I implore you, sir, to desist and take your departure the way you came; further, I warn you that danger threatens.”

“I need no such warning, my lady. The danger has already encompassed me, and my heart shall never free itself from its presence, while remembrance of the lightning of those eyes abides with me.”

The girl laughed with a trace of nervousness, and the rich colour mounted to her cheek.

“Sir, you are learning your lesson well in France.”

“My lady, the lowest hind in my country could not do otherwise under such tutelage.”

“You should turn your gifts to the service of your master. Go, woo for him poor Mary of Vendôme, and see if you can cure her who is dying of love for young Talbot of Falaise.”

For a moment the king stood as if struck by the lightning he had just referred to, then staggering back a step, rested his hand on the parapet and steadied himself.

“Good God!” he muttered in low tones, “is that true?”

All coquetry disappeared from the girl as she saw the dramatic effect her words had produced. She moved lightly forward, then held back again, anxiety on her brow.

“Sir, what is wrong with you? Are you ill? Are you a friend of Talbot’s?”

“Yes, I am a friend of his.”

“And did you not know this? I thought every one knew it. Does not the King of Scotland know? What will he do when he learns, think you, or will it make a difference?”

“The King of Scotland is a blind fool; a conceited coxcomb, who thinks every woman that sees him must fall in love with him.”

“Sir, you amaze me. Are you not a subject of his? You would not speak so in his hearing.”

“Indeed and that I would, without hesitation, and he knows it.”

“Is he so handsome as they say? Alas, I am thought too young to engage in court festivities, and in spite of my pleadings I was not allowed even to see his arrival.”

The king had now recovered his composure, and there was a return of his gallant bearing.

“Madam, tell me your name, and I shall intercede that so rigid a rule for one so fair may be relaxed.”

“Ah, now your impudence reasserts itself. My name is not for you. How can a humble Scottish knight hope to soften a rule promulgated by the King of France himself?”

“Madam, you forget that we are guests of France, and in this courteous country nothing is denied us. We meet with no refusals except from proud ladies like yourself. I shall ask my captain, he shall pass my request to the general, who will speak to the King of Scotland, and the king, when he knows how beautiful you are, will beg the favour from Francis himself.”

The girl clasped her hands with exuberant delight.

“I wonder if it is possible,” she said, leaning towards the gay cavalier, as if he were now her dearest friend – for indeed it was quite evident that she thought much of him in spite of his irregular approach. She was too young to feel the rules of etiquette otherwise than annoying bonds, and like an imprisoned wild bird, was willing to take any course that promised liberty.

“Your name, then, madam?”

“My name is Madeleine.”

“I need not ask if you are noble.”

“I am at least as noble as Mary of Vendôme, whom your king is to marry, if he is cruel enough.”

At this point one of the women, who had stationed herself near the door, came running towards the group and warned them that somebody was approaching. The attendants, who had hitherto remained passive, probably with some womanly curiosity regarding the strange interview, now became wild with excitement, and joined their mistress in begging the stranger to depart.

“Not until I have whispered in your ear,” he said stoutly.

“I cannot permit it; I cannot permit it. Go, go at once, I implore you.”

“Then I escort you within the hall to meet whoever comes.”

“Sir, you are importunate. Well, it doesn’t matter; whisper.”

He bent toward her and said: —

“Madeleine, you must meet me here alone at this time to-morrow.”

“Never, never,” she cried resolutely.

“Very well then; here I stay until you consent.”

“You are cruel,” she said, tears springing in her eyes. Then appealingly, as a knock sounded against the door, she added, “I promise. Go at once.”

The young man precipitated himself over the parapet into the tree. The fortune which attends lovers and drunkards favoured him, and the last bending branch lowered him as gently to the gravel of the walk as if he were a son of the forest. He glanced upward, and saw that the luminous face, in its diaphanous environment of dark hair was again bent over the parapet, the lips apart and still, saying nothing, but the eloquent eyes questioning; indeed he fancied he saw in them some slight solicitude for his safety. He doffed his hat, kissed the tips of his fingers and wafted the salutation toward her, while a glow of satisfaction filled his breast as he actually saw a similar movement on the part of her own fair fingers, which was quickly translated into a gesture pointing to the garden door, and then she placed a finger-tip to her lips, a silent injunction for silence. He knew when to obey, as well as when to disobey, and vanished quickly through the door. He retreated in no such despairing phase of mind as he had advanced, but now paid some attention to the geography of the place that he might return unquestioning to his tryst. Arriving at the more public corridors of the palace, his first encounter was with the Constable of Falaise. Talbot’s dress was travel-stained, and his youthful face wore almost the haggardness of age. He looked like a man who had ridden hard and slept little, finding now small comfort at the end of a toilsome journey. The king, with a cry of pleasure at the meeting, smote his two hands down on the shoulders of the other, who seemed unconsciously to shrink from the boisterous touch.

“Talbot,” he cried, “you promised to overtake me at Tours, but you did not.”

“It is not given to every man to overtake your majesty,” said Talbot hoarsely.

“Constable of Falaise, you were not honest with me that night in your castle. I spoke to you freely from the bottom of my heart; you answered me from your lips outward.”

“I do not understand your majesty,” replied the young man grimly.

“Yes, you do. You love Mary of Vendôme. Why did you not tell me so?”

“To what purpose should I have made such a confession, even if it were the fact?”

“To the purpose of truth, if for nothing else. God’s sake, man, is it thus you love in France! Cold Scotland can be in that your tutor. In your place, there had been a quick divorce between my sword and scabbard. Were my rival twenty times a king, I’d face him out and say, by Cupid’s bow, return or fight.”

“What! This in your castle to your guest?” exclaimed Talbot.

“No, perhaps not. You are in the right, constable, you are in the right. I had forgotten your situation for the moment. I should have been polite to him within my own walls, but I should have followed him across my marches and slit his gullet on the king’s highway.”

Notwithstanding his distraction of mind the newcomer smiled somewhat wanly at the impetuosity of the other.

“You must remember that while your foot presses French soil, you are still the guest of all true Frenchmen, nevertheless your majesty’s words have put new life into my veins. Did you see Mary of Vendôme?”

“Yes, and there is not three months’ life left to her unless she draws vitality from your presence. Man, man, why stand you here idling? Climb walls, force bolts, kidnap the girl and marry her in spite of all the world.”

“Alas, there is not a priest in all France would dare to marry us, knowing her pledged to your majesty.”

“Priests of France! I have priests in my own train who will, at a word from me, link you tighter than these stones are cemented together. God’s will, Talbot, these obstacles but lend interest to the chase.”

“Is it possible that you, having opportunity, care not to marry Mary of Vendôme?” cried the amazed young man, who could not comprehend that where his preference fell another might be indifferent; for she was, as he had said, the Pearl of France to him, and it seemed absurd to imagine that she might not be so to all the world.

“United Europe, with Francis and the Emperor Charles for once combined could not force me to marry where I did not love. I failed to understand this when I left Scotland, but I have grown in wisdom since then.”

“Who is she?” asked the constable, with eager interest.

“Hark ye, Talbot,” said the king, lowering his voice and placing an arm affectionately over the shoulder of the other. “You shall be my guide. Who is the Lady Madeleine of this court?”

“The Lady Madeleine? There are several.”

“No, there is but one, the youngest, the most beautiful, the most witty, the most charming. Who is she?”

The constable wrinkled his brows in thought.

“That must be Madeleine de Montmorency. She is the youngest of her name, and is by many accounted beautiful. I never heard that she was esteemed witty until your majesty said so. Rather reserved and proud. Is that the lady?”

“Proud, yes. Reserved – um, yes, that is, perhaps not when she meets a man who knows enough to appreciate her. However, I shall speedily solve the riddle, and must remember that you do not see the lady through a lover’s eyes. But I will not further keep you. A change of costume may prove to your advantage, and I doubt not an untroubled night’s sleep will further it.”

“Your majesty overwhelms me with kindness,” murmured the young lover, warmly grasping the hand extended to him. “Have I your permission to tell Mary of Vendôme?”

“You have my permission to tell her anything, but you will bring her no news, for I am now on my way to see her.”

The king gaily marched on, his head held high, a man not to be denied, and as he passed along all bowed at his coming, for everyone in the court admired him. There was something unexpectedly French in the dash of this young Scotchman. He strode across the court and up the steps which led into the Palais Vendôme. The duchess herself met him with a hard smile on her thin lips.