Barr Robert
A Prince of Good Fellows
“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.
“Madam,” he said bruskly, “I would see your daughter alone.”
The grim duchesse hesitated.
“Mary is so shy,” she said at last.
But the king interrupted her.
“I have a cure for that. Shyness flees in my presence. I would see your daughter alone, madam; send her to me.”
There being no remedy when a king commands, the lady made the best of a dubious proceeding.
James was pacing up and down the splendid drawing-room when, from the further door the drooping girl appeared, still with downcast eyes, nun-like in her meek obedience. She came forward perhaps a third the length of the room, faltered, and stood.
“Mary,” said the king, “they told me you were beautiful, but I come to announce to you that such is not my opinion. You are ambitious, it would seem, so I tell you frankly, you will never be Queen of Scotland.”
For the first time in his presence the girl uncovered her eyes and looked up at him.
“Yes,” said the king, “your eyes are fine. I am constrained to concede that much, and if I do not wed you myself it is but right I should nominate a candidate for your hand. There is a friend of mine for whom I shall use my influence with Francis and your father that they may persuade you to marry him. He is young Talbot, Constable of Falaise, a demented stripling who calls you the Pearl of France. Ah, now the colour comes to your cheeks. I would not have believed it. All this demureness then – ” But the girl had sunk at his feet, grasped his hand and pressed it to her lips.
“Tut, tut,” he cried hastily, “that is a reversal of the order of nature. Rise, and when I send young Talbot to you, see that you welcome him; and now, good-day to you.”
As he passed through the outer room the duchesse lay in wait for him and began murmuring apologies for her daughter’s diffidence.
“We have arranged all about the wedding, madam,” said the king reassuringly as he left the palace.
The next day at the hour when the king had met Madeleine for the first time, he threaded his way eagerly through the mazes of the old castle until he came to the door that led him out into the Elysian garden. The weather still befriended him, being of an almost summer mildness.
For several minutes he paced impatiently up and down the gravel walk, but no laughing face greeted him from the battlements above. At last, swearing a good round Scottish oath he said, “I’ll solve the mystery of the balcony,” and seizing the lower branch of the tree, he was about to climb as he had done before, when a tantalizing silvery laugh brought his arms down to his sides again. It seemed to come from an arbour at the further end of the grounds, but when he reached there the place proved empty. He pretended to search among the bushes, but nevertheless kept an eye on the arbour, when his sharp ear caught a rustling of silk from behind the summer-house. He made a dash towards it, then reversed his direction, speeding like the wind, and next instant this illusive specimen of Gallic womanhood ran plump into his arms, not seeing where she was going, her head averted to watch the danger that threatened from another quarter.
Before she could give utterance to more than one exclamatory “Oh,” he had kissed her thrice full on the lips. She struggled in his arms like a frightened bird, nobly indignant with shame-crimsoned cheeks, smiting him with her powerless little snowflake of a hand. Her royal lover laughed.
“Ha, my Madeleine, this is the second stage of the game. The hand was paradise on earth; the lips are the seventh heaven itself.”
“Release me, you Scottish clown!” cried Madeleine, her black eyes snapping fire. “I will have you whipped from the court for your insolence.”
“My dear, you could not be so cruel. Remember that poor Cupid’s back is naked, and he would quiver under every stroke.”
“I’d never have condescended to meet you, did I dream of your acting so. ’Tis intolerable, the forwardness of you beggarly Scots!”
“Nay, never beggarly, my dear, except where a woman is concerned, and then we beg for favours.”
“You little suspect who I am or you would not venture to misuse me thus, and be so free with your ‘my dears.’”
“Indeed, lass, in that you are mistaken. I not only found you in the garden, but I found your name as well. You are Madeleine de Montmorency.”
She ceased to struggle, and actually laughed a little.
“How clever you are to have discovered so much in such a short time. Now let me go, and I will thank you; nay more, I promise that if you ask the Duke of Montmorency for his permission, and he grants it, I will see you as often as you please.”
“Now Madeleine, I hold you to that, and I will seek an introduction to the duke at once.”
She stepped back from him panting, and sank into a deep courtesy that seemed to be characterised more by ridicule than politeness.
“Oh, thank you, sir,” she said. “I should dearly love to be an eavesdropper at your conference.”
Before he could reply, the door opened by which he had entered the park.
“In the fiend’s name, the king!” muttered James, in no manner pleased by the unwelcome interruption.
All colour left the girl’s face, and she hastily endeavoured to arrange in brief measure the disordered masses of her hair, somewhat tangled in the struggle. As Francis advanced up the walk, the genial smile froze on his lips, and an expression of deep displeasure overshadowed his countenance, a look of stern resentment coming into his eyes that would have made any man in his realm quail before him. The girl was the first to break the embarrassing silence, saying breathlessly, —
“Your majesty must not blame this Scottish knight. It is all my fault, for I lured him hither.”
“Peace, child,” exclaimed Francis in a voice of cold anger. “You know not what you say. What do you here alone with the King of Scotland?”
“The King of Scotland!” echoed Madeleine, in surprise, her eyes opening wide with renewed interest as she gazed upon him. Then she laughed. “They told me the King of Scotland was a handsome man!”
James smiled at this imputation on his appearance, and even the rigour of the lord of France relaxed a trifle, and a gleam of affection for the wayward girl that was not to be concealed, rose in his eyes.
“Sire,” said James slowly, “we are neither of us to blame. ’Tis the accident that brought us together must bear the brunt of consequence. I cannot marry Mary of Vendôme, and indeed I was about to beg your majesty to issue your command that she may wed your Constable of Falaise. If there is to be a union between France and Scotland other than now exists, this lady, and this lady alone, must say yes or no to it. Premising her free consent, I ask her hand in marriage.”
“She is but a child,” objected Francis, breathing a sigh, which had, however, something of relief in it.
“I am fully seventeen,” expostulated Madeleine, with a promptness that made both men laugh.
“Sire, Youth is a fault, which alas, travels continually with Time, its antidote,” said James. “If I have your good wishes in this project, on which, I confess, my heart is set, I shall at once approach the Duke of Montmorency and solicit his consent.”
The face of Francis had cleared as if a ray of sunshine had fallen upon it.
“The Duke of Montmorency!” he cried in astonishment; “what has he to do with the marriage of my daughter?”
James murmured something that may have been a prayer, but sounded otherwise, as he turned to the girl, whose delight at thus mystifying the great of earth was only too evident.
“I told him he little suspected who I was,” said Madeleine, with what might have been termed a giggle in one less highly placed; “but these confident Scots think they know everything. Indeed, it is all your own fault, father, in keeping me practically a prisoner, when the whole castle is throbbing with joy and festivity.” Then the irrepressible princess buried her flushed face in her hands, and laughed and laughed, as if this were the most irresistible comedy in the world, instead of a grave affair of state, until at last the two monarchs were forced to laugh in sympathy.
“I could not wish her a braver husband,” said Francis at last. “I see she has bewitched you as is her habit with all of us.”
And thus it came about that James the Fifth of Scotland married the fair Madeleine of France.
