Heroines of the Crusades

CHAPTER VI

“Oh! think what anxious moments pass betweenThe birth of plots, and their last fatal periods;Oh! ’tis a dreadful interval of time,Fill’d up with horror, and big with death.”

The first conference of Henry with the legates proved unsatisfactory, but at the second, in the presence of the bishops, barons and people, with his hand on the gospels, he solemnly swore that he was innocent both in word and deed of the murder of Becket. Yet, as his passionate expression had been the occasion of the prelate’s death, he promised to maintain two hundred knights for the defence of the Holy Land; to serve in person against the Infidels three years, either in Palestine or Spain, and to restore the confiscated estates of Becket’s friends. Pleased with the successful issue of this negotiation, Henry was preparing to return with joyful haste to England, when his peace was disturbed by quarrels originating in his own family. For some unaccountable reason his children seemed all armed against him. His son Henry demanded immediate possession of either England or Normandy, and on being refused appealed to his father-in-law Louis VII. Before three days had elapsed, Richard and Geoffrey followed their brother, and soon after Henry learned to his dismay that Queen Eleanor had herself set off for the court of her former husband. Remembering the perilous vicinity in which he had left the queen, it at once occurred to him that she was the original instigator of the plot. By a skilful manœuvre, he intercepted her flight, and sent her back to Winchester a prisoner. Immediately his undutiful sons, adding their mother’s quarrel to their own grievances, bound themselves by oath to the King of France that they would never make peace with their father except by Louis’s consent. The Duke of Flanders joined the league of the parricides, and the King of Scotland poured into the northern counties his strongest forces. Never was the crown of Henry in such danger.

While repelling the attacks of the insurgents in Normandy, he received a visit from the Bishop of Winchester, who entreated him to return once more to England, as his presence alone could save the kingdom. Henry at once set out. His countenance was gloomy and troubled, and his mind seemed deeply affected by the rebellion of his children, the perfidy of his barons and general combination of the neighboring princes, and above all, by his fearful uncertainty with regard to the fate of those whom he had so long and so carefully guarded. To ease the torment of his mind, he secretly determined to make a pilgrimage to the tomb of the recently-canonized martyr St. Thomas à Becket. He landed at Southampton, and without waiting for rest or refreshment, rode all night towards Canterbury. At the dawn of the morning, he descried the towers of Christ’s Church. Dismounting from his horse, he exchanged the garb of the king for that of a penitent, and walked barefoot towards the city, so cruelly cutting his feet with the stones that every step was marked with blood. He entered the cathedral, descended to the crypt, knelt before the holy relics of his former friend, confessed his sins; and then resorting to the chapter-house, bared his shoulders, and submissively and gratefully received three stripes from the knotted cords which each priest, to the number of eighty, applied for his spiritual benefit. Bleeding and faint, he again returned to the crypt, and passed the night in weary vigils upon the cold stone floor. The following morning he attended mass, and then mounted his horse and rode to London, where the fasting, fatigue and anxiety he had undergone threw him into a fever. Scarcely had he recovered, when he learned that his enemies had abandoned the idea of invading England and were concentrating their efforts upon his continental dominions, and that an army more numerous than any which Europe had seen since the expedition of the crusades, was encamped under the walls of Rouen. These circumstances made it necessary for him to embark again for France.

In two successive campaigns he foiled the attempts of his rebel sons and their foreign allies, and finally brought them to demand a general pacification. The three princes engaged to pay due obedience to their father, the King of the Scots agreed to hold his crown as a fief of England, and this made it necessary for all parties to proceed to York.

Peace being again restored, after a great variety of detentions and delays, Henry at last found himself at liberty to obey the promptings of his heart, and visit Woodstock. He endured with such patience as he could the enthusiastic greetings of the household, and at the imminent jeopardy of his secret, took his way through the pleasance. He was first alarmed by finding the concealed door in the wall wide open, and every step of his advance added to his apprehensions. There were marks of a bloody struggle at the entrance to the tower, and everything within indicated that the occupants had been disturbed in the midst of their daily avocations. The rocking-horse of Prince William stood with the rein across his neck, as if the youthful rider had just dismounted, the pillow of the little Geoffrey still retained the impression of his cherub head; the thimble and scissors of Rosamond lay upon the table, but the embroidery was covered thick with dust, and rust had corroded the strings of the harp.

The scene by the Hermit’s Well was yet more desolate. Withered herbage and leaves had stopped the welling fountain, and entirely choked the current of the stream. Rosamond’s bower, once invested with every attraction, now neglected and deserted struck a chill upon his soul. Rank weeds had overrun the verdant seats, the eglantine struggled in vain with the ivy, whose long and pendulous branches waved and flapped in the night-breeze like the mourning hatchments above a tomb. A bevy of swallows took wing at his entrance, the timid rabbit fled at his intrusive step, and a green lizard glided from beneath the hand with which he supported his agitated frame against one of the columns. Rosamond was gone.

But by what means had she been conveyed from the retreat where she had so long dwelt content with his love, and happy in the caresses of her children? Was she a wanderer and an outcast, with a bleeding heart and a blighted name? Had she made her couch in the cold, dark grave? Had her indignant father returned from the Holy Land, and immured her in the dungeons of Clifford castle to hide her shame? Or had some other hand dared to blot out the life so dear to him?

The thought was madness. He ran, he flew to the palace. The old porter was summoned and closely questioned. He remembered the time of the queen’s last visit, her anxiety to penetrate the wood and search the castle. The night before her departure three of her French servants suddenly disappeared, but as several horses were missing at the same time, and the queen had been employed in writing letters, it was supposed that they were couriers. There were lights seen, and cries heard in the wood. One of the grooms affirmed that the ghost of the youth who some years before was spirited away, appeared in the stable, and a boy belonging to a neighboring peasant had never since been heard of. Though Henry traced this story through all the interpolations and additions that ignorance and credulity could give it, neither his utmost inquiries nor his subsequent researches could elicit any further fact. Satisfied that nothing could be learned at Woodstock, the king hurried to Winchester. The passionate queen, amidst upbraidings and revilings, acknowledged that she had discovered the retreat of his mistress, and that, stung by jealousy, she had threatened to take her life by the poniard or poison; that to prevent the escape of her fair rival, she had stationed two of her Gascon servants, a guard at the tower-stair. But she declared that when she returned on the following morning to execute her fell purpose, she found the grass dripping with gore, and not far distant the dead bodies of her servants, and the corpse of another whom she had known in her early days as Sir Thomas, guarded by a wolf-dog just expiring from a sword-wound; and that, assisted by Peyrol, she had dragged the bodies into the thicket, and then vainly endeavored to trace the fugitives. Notwithstanding all the threats that Henry employed to extort further confession, she persisted in affirming her ignorance of the fate of Rosamond.

Little crediting her asseverations, he increased the rigor of her confinement, and installed Alice, the affianced of Richard, with almost regal honors, in the state apartments. This sudden partiality of his father roused the jealousy of Richard, and he demanded the hand of his bride in terms not the most respectful nor conciliatory. Henry felt that the bond between his son and France was sufficiently strong, and ingeniously delayed the nuptials.

Then ensued another rebellion led by young Henry; but before the day fixed for battle arrived, anxiety and fatigue threw the prince into a fever, from which he never recovered. On his death-bed his soul became agitated with fear and remorse. He sent messengers to his father to implore forgiveness for his unfilial conduct, and ordered the priests to lay him on a bed of ashes, where having received the sacraments, he expired. The king was about the same period called upon to part, in a more hopeful manner, with his second daughter, Eleanor, who had been for some time betrothed to Alphonso, King of Castile. Henry’s affection for his children in their early years, was of the most tender character; and Eleanor’s fondness for him for some time subsequent to their marriage, partook of the passionate devotion of the south, but when her fickle attachment was assailed by the demon of jealousy, her love was changed to hate: and as Henry justly imagined, the rebellion of his sons was the consequence of her instructions.

His domestic afflictions aggravated the melancholy occasioned by the mysterious disappearance of Rosamond, and he lamented in bitterness of spirit that the tempting lure of wealth and dominion offered in the alliance of Eleanor, had bribed him from his boyish purpose of placing Rosamond on the throne of England. He cursed the ambition that had nurtured foes in his own household, and deplored the selfish passion that had remorselessly poured sorrow into the young life that ventured all upon his truth. The calm heroism of his early character was changed into petulant arrogance. He frequently spent whole days hunting in the forests, or riding alone in different parts of his dominions. In the simple garb of a country knight, he had often sought admittance to the ancient seat of the Cliffords, and the nunnery of Godstowe, but without success. The sight of a crowd of people collected round a returned pilgrim at length suggested another mode of disguise. Procuring a palmer’s weeds, he repaired to Herefordshire, and craved an alms from the servants, at Clifford castle. He was at once admitted, and the curious household gathered round the holy man to listen to his story.

It had been, he said, a long time since he had left the Holy Wars. He had been a wanderer in many lands, but his heart had led him to his native country, to seek for those whom he had known in his youth. He would fain see, once more, the good Lord de Clifford, for he had saved his life in Palestine. The servants replied that the Lord de Clifford had not been heard from for many a year. “Might he gain a moment’s audience of the Lady de Clifford?” The lady died soon after her lord’s departure. “Could he speak with Adam Henrid?” The good seneschal had been long dead.

His voice faltered as he inquired for Rosamond. An ominous silence was the only reply. “And Jaqueline, the lady’s maid?” She, too, lay in her grave. He ran his eye along the group, and said with a look of embarrassment and pain, “There is none to welcome my return. It was not so in the good days when my lord and my lady rode forth to the chase with their gallant train, and the sound of feasting and wassail resounded in the castle hall. Remains there none of Lord Walter’s kin to offer welcome or charity in our lady’s name?” A proud boy stepped forth among the listeners, and with princely courtesy extended his hand.

“Come with me, holy father,” said he, “it shall never be said, that a pilgrim went hungry and weary from the castle of the Cliffords.” With a step that accorded better with his impatience than his assumed character, Henry followed the lad to an inner apartment, where a repast was soon spread before him. As soon as the servants had withdrawn he entered into conversation with his young host. “Thou art a De Clifford,” said he, as though it were an undoubted fact. “What is thy name?” “William,” replied the youth; “and this clerk,” pointing to a fair boy who sat reading in the deep embrasure of the window, “is my brother Geoffrey.” “And how long have you dwelt at the castle?” “Some winters,” replied the boy, after a moment’s hesitation. “Who brought you hither?” “We came with Jaqueline, from our cottage in the wood.” “And where is your mother?” said Henry, making a desperate effort to speak with calmness. “She went with Jaqueline so long ago, that Geoffrey does not remember her.” “And your father?” said Henry, with increased agitation. “Jaqueline said our father was a king, and we must never leave the castle till he came for us.” “And why did Jaqueline leave the castle?” “She went to the convent for confession; and there was where she died: but it is a long way.” The heart of the father yearned towards his sons, as he gazed from one to the other, and compared their features with the miniature that their infant charms had set in his memory, but with the sweet certainty that he had at last found the objects of his search, was born the thrilling hope that their mother yet lived. Then a struggling crowd of thoughts, emotions, and purposes rushed through his mind, and foremost among them all was the idea that Eleanor might be divorced, Rosamond’s wrongs repaired, the diadem of England placed upon her brow, and his declining years solaced by the affection of these duteous sons who should take the places and titles of the rebel princes. Yet even in the midst of the tumult of his feelings his wonted self-control taught him not to risk the safety of his new-found joys by any premature discovery. Rising from the table with an air of solemnity, he pronounced his parting blessing in a tone of the deepest fervor, and hurriedly took his leave. Retaining his disguise, but occupied with thoughts that ill-became a palmer’s brain, he bent his steps towards the nunnery of Godstowe. Near the close of the second day he entered the confines of Oxfordshire, and found himself, little to his satisfaction, in the vicinity of a country fair, with its attendant junketing, masquerade, and feats of jugglery and legerdemain. To avoid the crowd, he determined to seek lodging in a booth that stood a little apart from the main encampment. The weary monarch had stretched himself to rest, when the sound of uproarious mirth disturbed his slumbers, and a Welsh ballad-singer, whom he remembered to have seen in the service of Giraldus Cambrensis, the tutor of John, commenced in a voice of considerable power and pathos, the following song: —

When as King Henry ruled this land,The second of that name,Besides the queen, he dearly lovedA fair and comely dame;Most peerless was her beauty found,Her favor and her face;A sweeter creature in this worldDid never prince embrace.Her crisped locks like threads of goldAppeared to each man’s sight,Her sparkling eyes like orient pearlsDid cast a heavenly light;The blood within her crystal cheeksDid such a color drive,As if the lily and the roseFor mastership did strive.Yea, Rosamond, fair Rosamond,Her name was called so,To whom dame Eleanor our queenWas known a deadly foe.The king therefore for her defenceAgainst the furious queen,At Woodstock builded such a bower,The like was never seen.Most curiously that bower was builtOf stone and timber strong,One hundred and fifty doorsDid to this bower belong;And they so cunningly contrivedWith turnings round about,That none but with a clew of threadCould enter in or out.And for his love and lady’s sakeThat was so fair and bright,The keeping of this bower he gaveUnto a valiant knight.But Fortune, that doth often frownWhere she before did smile,The king’s delight, the lady’s joyFull soon she did beguile.For why, the king’s ungracious sonWhom he did high advance,Against his father raised warsWithin the realm of France.But yet before our comely kingThe English land forsook,Of Rosamond, his lady fair,His farewell thus he took.“My Rosamond, my only RoseThat pleasest best mine eye,The fairest flower in all the worldTo feed my fantasy,The flower of my affected heart,Whose sweetness doth excel,My royal Rose, a thousand timesI bid thee now farewell.“For I must leave my fairest flower,My sweetest Rose a space,And cross the seas to famous France,Proud rebels to abase.But yet my Rose, be sure thou shaltMy coming shortly see,And in my heart, when hence I am,I’ll bear my Rose with me.”When Rosamond, that lady bright,Did hear the king say so,The sorrow of her grieved heartHer outward looks did show,And from her clear and crystal eyesTears gushed out apace,Which like the silver pearled dewRan down her comely face.Her lips erst like the coral red,Did wax both wan and pale,And for the sorrow she conceivedHer vital spirits did fail.And falling down all in a swoon,Before King Henry’s face,Fell oft he in his princely armsHer body did embrace.And twenty times with watery eyes,He kissed her tender cheek,Until he had revived againHer senses mild and meek.“Why grieves my Rose, my sweetest Rose?”The king did often say.“Because,” quoth she, “to bloody warsMy lord must pass away.“But since your grace on foreign coasts,Among your foes unkind,Must go to hazard life and limb,Why should I stay behind?Nay, rather let me, like a page,Your sword and target bear,That on my breast the blows may light,That should offend you there.“Or let me in your royal tentPrepare your bed at night,And with sweet baths refresh your graceAt your return from fight.So I your presence may enjoy,No toil I will refuse;But wanting you my life is death,Nay, death I’d rather choose.”“Content thyself, my dearest love;Thy rest at home shall be,In England’s sweet and pleasant soil;For travel suits not thee.Fair ladies brook not bloody wars;Sweet peace, their pleasures breedThe nourisher of heart’s content,Which Fancy first did feed.“My Rose shall rest in Woodstock’s bower,With music’s sweet delight,Whilst I among the piercing pikesAgainst my foes do fight.My Rose in robes of pearl and gold,With diamonds richly dight,Shall dance the galliards of my love,While I my foes do smite.“And you, Sir Thomas, whom I trustTo be my love’s defence,Be careful of my gallant RoseWhen I am parted hence.”And therewithal he fetched a sigh,As though his heart would break,And Rosamond, for very grief,Not one plain word could speak.And at their parting well they might,In heart be grieved sore,After that day fair RosamondThe king did see no more.For when his grace had passed the seas,And into France was gone,Queen Eleanor with envious heartTo Woodstock came anon.And forth she calls this trusty knight,Who kept this curious bower,Who with his clew of twined thread,Came from this famous flower;And when that they had wounded him,The queen this thread did get,And went where Lady RosamondWas like an angel set.But when the queen, with steadfast eye,Beheld her heavenly face,She was amazed in her mindAt her exceeding grace.“Cast off from thee these robes,” she said,“That rich and costly be;And drink thou up this deadly draught,Which I have brought to thee.”Then presently upon her knee,Sweet Rosamond did fall;And pardon of the queen she craved,For her offences all.“Take pity on my youthful years,”Fair Rosamond did cry,“And let me not with poison strong,Enforced be to die.“I will renounce my sinful life,And in some cloister bide,Or else be banished if you please,To range the world so wide.And for the fault which I have done,Though I was forced thereto,Preserve my life and punish me,As you think good to do.”And with these words, her lily handsShe wrung full often there,And down along her lovely face,Proceeded many a tear.But nothing could this furious queenTherewith appeased be;The cup of deadly poison strong,As she sate on her knee,She gave this comely dame to drink,Who took it in her hand,And from her bended knee arose,And on her feet did stand,And casting up her eyes to heaven,She did for mercy call,And drinking up the poison strong,Her life she lost withal.

“Help! ho! Have done with your foolish madrigal,” cried a stout yeoman, who had watched the terrible agony depicted upon the face of the king, during this rehearsal; “the holy palmer is well nigh suffocated with your folly.”

“Give him a taste of one of the psalms of David,” hiccoughed a little man from the opposite side of the booth, “the pious aye thrive upon the good book,” and he laughed at his own profanity.

“A horn of good English beer will do him better,” roared a Yorkshire man, pouring out a bumper of ale. “Build up the body, mon, and the soul will do weel eneugh.” “Gramercy!” cried the minstrel, going nearer and gazing upon his distorted features. “Some evil demon possesses him. ’Tis a terror to look upon his bloodshot eyes.” “An if the evil demon is in him ’twere best to cast him out,” interposed the owner of the booth. Suiting the action to the word, he dragged the senseless king from the couch of fern leaves, to a more refreshing bed upon the dewy grass. The cool air at length revived the miserable monarch, and the very torture of returning recollection gave him strength to rise and pursue his course. On he sped through the night, insensible to fatigue and regardless of rest. As he struck into the bridle path where his eyes were dazzled by the bright vision that first led his feet to Godstowe, the faint sound of the convent bell fell upon his ear. He thought it the ringing of the matin chime; but approaching nearer, the solemn toll smote heavily upon his heart, for he recognized in it the knell of a parting soul. He quickened his steps, and by reason of his friar’s gown, gained ready admittance to the convent. The messenger that had been despatched for a priest to shrive the dying nun had not yet returned, and Henry’s services were put in requisition to perform the holy office. Without giving him time for question or explanation, the frightened sisters hurried him through the long passages of the dormitory and introduced him into a cell, where stretched upon a pallet of straw, lay the pale and wasted form of Rosamond. The faint beams of morning struggling through the open casement, mingled with the sickening glare of waxen tapers, which according to the rites of the church, were placed at the head and foot of the bed. The couch was surrounded with objects intended to familiarize the mind with the idea of death, to fit the soul for its final departure. A coffin half filled with ashes stood near, whereon was placed the crown and robe, in which she had professed herself the bride of Christ, now ready to adorn her for her burial, and the necessary articles for administering extreme unction, were arranged upon a small table, above which hung a cross bearing an image of the dying Saviour. With a despairing glance at these terrible preparations, Henry approached the bed, and gazed upon the unconscious sufferer. Unable to command his voice, he waved his hand and the attendant devotees retired from the room; the lady abbess whispering as she passed, “I fear our sister is too far gone to confess.” Hastily throwing back his cowl, he bent over the sleeper, raised her head, clasped in his own the attenuated hand that had so often returned his fond pressure, and in the accents of love and despair, whispered her name. The dying one languidly lifted the snowy lids that veiled her lustrous eyes, and looked upon him, but in the vacant gaze was no recognition. “My Rosamond!” cried Henry, passionately pressing a kiss upon her ashy lips. A thrill ran through her frame, her slight fingers quivered in his clasp, and the world of recollections that rushed back upon her brain, beamed from her dilating eyes. Her palsied tongue assayed to speak, but Henry caught only the low sound, “My children!” “My children” – reiterated the monarch – he said no more – her breast heaved – her lips trembled with the last faint sigh, and a smile of ineffable joy rested on the features of the dead.

CHAPTER VII

Ingratitude! thou marble-hearted fiend,More to be dreaded when thou showest thee in a child,Than the sea-monster.

The protracted imprisonment of Queen Eleanor infuriated her Provençal subjects. The southern court, deprived of its most brilliant gem, no longer attracted the gifted and the gay from all parts of Europe. The troubadours in effect hung their harps on the willows, and the faithful Peyrol, banished from the presence of his beloved mistress, attempted to console the weary hours of her captivity, by tender Plaintes, in which with touching simplicity he bewailed her misfortunes. “Daughter of Aquitaine,” wrote he, “fair fruitful vine, thou hast been torn from thy country, and led into a strange land. Thy harp is changed into the voice of mourning, and thy songs into sounds of lamentation. Brought up in delicacy and abundance, thou enjoyedst a royal liberty, living in the bosom of wealth, delighting thyself with the sports of thy women, with their songs, to the sound of the lute and tabor; and now thou mournest, thou weepest, thou consumest thyself with sorrow. Return, poor prisoner – return to thy cities, if thou canst; and if thou canst not, weep and say, ‘Alas! how long is my exile.’ Weep, weep, and say, ‘My tears are my bread both day and night.’ Where are thy guards, thy royal escort? – where thy maiden train, thy counsellors of state? Thou criest, but no one hears thee! for the king of the north keeps thee shut up like a town that is besieged. Cry then – cease not to cry. Raise thy voice like a trumpet, that thy sons may hear it; for the day is approaching when thy sons shall deliver thee, and then shalt thou see again thy native land.”