Tale of the King's Heir

by H. C. Bailey

The Fool

II—Tale of the King's Heir

By H. C. Bailey

 

This medieval romance, second in a series by Mr. Bailey, again features Bran, versatile jester, juggler and minstrel. The odd, great-hearted fool, sport of coarse feudal barons and servant of swashbuckling bullies, on occasion matches his wits against the keenest and in victory proves generous as the noblest.

 

“IT IS ugly here,” said the girl. “I hope it ends soon.”

“Verily and amen,” said the man. “An ugly world, though you are in it, Edith. Pray God it ends soon.”

“You always take me wrong,” said the girl. “You will always be solemn.”

“For I am a fool,” said the man.

The year of the Lord 1153 was drawing toward Michaelmas. They were riding through what was even eight centuries ago cornland, but the fields were neither ripe to harvest nor bare stubble. The corn had been burned and all that countryside lay black and stinking.

“Then came the devil by night and sowed tares,” the man said. “Oh, Mother Mary, Mother Mary, there will be hungry children in this shire before the corn is ripe again.”

They made a bright patch of color in the black land, he and the girl, for he wore a cloak of saffron yellow with a red hood fashioned like a cock's comb, and her mantle was green. He was on a pony and she astride a mule, and as they rode they jangled. for besides the bells on his hood their steeds were hung with much merry baggage, a little drum, a tambourine and two brass horns. Bran, jester, juggler and minstrel, was on his way to the harvest fair of St. Edmundsbury where the girl would make music while he juggled and danced. A pair well matched to make folk gay: he was a little man and grotesque, bowed down by his big head, arms and legs and hands and feet, and she was shapely, buxom for her youth, and of a soft smiling prettiness.

They came after a while to a town, a place of a hundred houses built of wattle and plaster and some two or three of stone, a town of dignity, and there they made a halt. Seeking out the hovel which by a pole thrust out above the door to bear a bunch of branches, announced itself a tavern, they tied up pony and mule under a penthouse, and went in to dine upon eels stewed with saffron and mustard and bread and wine, which cost them the great price of four silver pennies, so that Bran questioned the reckoning, and was told there was a cruel dearth of all food of man and beast.

“YEA,” Bran nodded. “When the poor grudge the poor, hell is upon earth. Take up the moneys, good fellow.”

So the man of the tavern, knowing himself an extortioner, blessed him and warmed to him and asked where he was going. But when Bran spoke of the fair at St. Edmundsbury the taverner threw up his hands.

“St. Edmund's fair! God have mercy, minstrel! Whence have you come that you know no better?”

“Out of the land where fools are born, brother. Tell me, then, what ails St. Edmund?”

Then the man told him that Count Eustace, the king's son, claiming money and men of the abbot of Edmundsbury, had ravaged all the lands of the abbey near and far and the land of every man who was reckoned loyal to the monks, so that the country was a desert without corn or beast, and there would be no fair at Edmundsbury, but mourning and ruined folk asking alms of the empty abbey.

“Yea, yea,” Bran nodded. “When wise men go crying, a fool must turn wise. When children go crying, our life is but lies.”

“I was to have a new coif at Edmundsbury,” the girl said, “a new coif of silk. A thing always goes wrong with us.”

“Na, na, na. All is well for us always, for God lets us laugh at ourselves,” and he coaxed her and was droll till she put off pouting and he promised they would go back to London again and she was merry.

But when they went out into the market-place there were so many people there and they so wretched that Bran swore it was but God's charity to give them a dance and a jest.

“They have not a penny among them,” said Edith.

“Then God ha' mercy, child, let them forget it a while. Play, play,” and he beat a roll on the drum and struck up a merry ballad while she played on a lute, and then he plucked out his bagpipe and making it drone and squeak danced grotesquely. Soon they had a ring about them and the girl slipped off her green cloak and stood out in a golden dress that clung about her and danced while he played upon the horn. Then Bran juggled with knives and the poor folk forgot themselves and began to shout and stamp, and when the girl stood out to sing them a love-song they loved her, and said so and she was the prettier.

So Bran made fun for them like the men of his trade yesterday and to-day and forever, coming out into the ring with an absurd gait and telling an absurd tale of nothing and breaking it off to turn to one and another, telling their fortunes and promising them the wildest nonsense. But in the midst of it, snatching a moment in the midst of laughter, “Who is the great lord, brother?” says he in a whisper to a grave fellow.

From the best house, the only stone house in the market-place, had come out some men richly dressed. They watched and one was drawing nearer. He walked unsteadily, a big man and young and of some beauty of face, but it was sunken already and flushed and he frowned and made mouths.

“Count Eustace it is, the king's son,” the man muttered to Bran, and as he came the crowd fell apart from him and was hushed. “Ay, stand off, swine, you stink,” he said.

But Bran rattled on in a swift patter of nonsense. “What is this folly, fool? Do you tell fortunes? Tell mine, you rogue.”

Bran came up to him in zigzags like a dog conscious of sin, grinning and squirming and bowing. Then on a sudden he stopped and shot out his long arm with his long finger pointing straight and shrieked and trembled all over.

“Jesu mercy!” he gasped and cried shrilly. “What stands behind you, lord? Look, look! Oh, the black monk behind you and his eyes in his hood”; and he put up his hands, making the sign of the evil eye and staggered back and back into the crowd.

Count Eustace started, looked round on this side and on that, turned about and turned again wildly and clutched at the air. He tried to speak and said no word. His face was wrought with terror. He swayed and he fell.

THE people shrank from him, murmuring holy words, crossing themselves, and he was left lying alone. None too quickly his knights came to him and stood a little while fearing to touch him. Then the gaping lips closed and quivered and gave out a hoarse oath, and he raised himself and again looked over his shoulder and shuddered. Talking to each other with their eyes, his knights drew near and bore him away.

Before that Bran and the girl were gone, making the best speed their beasts could give them. And when they were well away Bran laughed. “Yea, yea. Ever he stands my friend, good brother Fear. He is the great lord, big brother Fear.”

But the girl looked at him askance. “Bran,” she said timdily, “Bran, what did you see?”

“See, child?” he laughed again. “Nought but a lewd, drunken boy. He saw the rest. But he is a great lord. He can see things. Not Bran, no. Bran is but a poor fool.”

“Sometimes I think you have the evil eye yourself,” she said.

It was late in that day they met the man from the North. He wore a good cloak, but it was plain. He rode a good horse, but it was a beast for use, not show. He might have been a merchant or some lord's steward. He was halted on a hill in the burned country, gazing at it, and when they came up: “How call you this, good fellow?” he said. “Whose work is it?”

So Bran told him.

“A king's son!” said he and swore. “A man would say it was the king's work to make the corn grow, not to blast it.”

“A MAN would say so, cousin, if no king could hear him,” Bran grinned. “I have ridden three hundred miles in England and, by the rood, each mile is worse. Pray you, good fellow, what manner of king is this you have in your country?”

“By my faith, cousin, a very kingly king.”

“Say you so? God's mercy, you are easy to please in England.”

“Sing soft, cousin.”

I come from France where the corn is reaped and the kine grow fat, and here—” he waved his hand to the black fields—“but they have a king in France.”

“But one, cousin. But here there is Stephen who is king and Eustace, his son, who hopes to be king, and one Henry of Anjou, his cousin, who would be king, and the land hath no peace.”

“I have heard of it,” says the Frenchman. “But which of them do you choose in England?”

“I am but a poor fool, cousin.”

“God's mercy, it is time one of them made order. This is very hell.” It was said vehemently and thereafter he fell silent, glowering at the black black land. And Bran looked at him. He was a very solid fellow, as tall as a man need be, but so thick everywhere that he seemed short, bull-necked, deep of chest and of belly, and massive in the leg. His face was handsome in a bold, fierce kind, but red all over, and his eyes were bloodshot and the redder it look for the other red in his hair. No doubt of his vigor, none of his passions. And yet—suddenly he turned upon Bran.

“What are you thinking of me, sirrah?”

“Why, cousin, I am wondering whether you are a boy or a man.”

“Well said, fool.” He laughed as loud as he talked. “That is the very heart of it. I like you for that.” Then it was as if a veil were drawn over his staring gray eyes. “Well, know me then. I am a Frenchman born and come to England to look at certain lands and traffic for them if I think well. And you? Who is your lord?”

“Nenny, nenny. Bran is a masterless man, cousin. Bran goes to and fro in the earth and walks up and down in it, all men's servant, no man's slave. Like a king, cousin.”

The Frenchman laughed again and thrust out a big clumsy hand and gripped his arm. “I love you, I say.”

“That is what no man has ever said.” Bran looked at him wistfully.

“But a pretty wench on a time, rogue?” The Frenchman jerked his head at Edith.

“Fie, then!” says she and laughed and looked away.

“Na, na. Edith is Bran's sister and Bran's daughter. Edith is my good maid who dances when I play.”

“God's body! it is what women are for,” says the Frenchman. “And you, what is your part?”

“He talks his follies, sir,” said Edith, with a beckoning glance, and then smiling malice at Bran: “Yes and he tells fortunes.”

“Oh, a sage fool! By the stars, brother fool? By art magic? By——”

“Nay, brother, by the eyes,” says Bran and looked into his.

“God's body! tell my fortune then. I do not fear.” He stopped his horse.

“Have your will,” Bran said. “Come down to earth and eat bread with me. We are all one life then,” and he slid off his pony and opening his scrip set bread and meat and salt upon the grass. The Frenchman laughed at him but sat down and held out his hand.

“Eat, brother,” says Bran, grave as a priest.

“Nay, faith, he is quite mad, sir,” says the girl. “He will see death in your face as like as not.”

“I defy him.” The Frenchman began to munch, and Bran ate too and brought out a flask of wine and drank with him and looked. And after a long time:

“Now have I eaten your salt, fool. And I am your man. What now?”

“Yea, yea,” Bran said. “You do not fear. That is strange. The first man ever I saw. You do not fear. You are sure, so sure, brother.”

“WHY man, I had a devil to my granddad's granddad. So the tale goes in my country.”

“Yea, yea. The old tales are true tales. I see the devil, brother. He is your lord whiles. But you are greater. Only you have ever two souls in you. You love and you are cold. You are cruel and are gentle, rash and very wise, a wild rogue and good. I see a great fortune, brother, and sorrowful, sorrowful.” He put out his hand and touched the man timidly and still gazed at him.

“God's blood! it is a fortune I like,” the man cried. “What, brother, is that the devil speaks?”

“Nay, that is no devil. That is more like a fairy man,” Bran smiled.

“Do you say so? My granddam's mother was a fairy and all in a night she was gone into the air. So they tell of us in— By the rood, man, you are a seer.”

“Na, na. Bran is but a poor fool, brother.”

Whatever persuaded him, whether he was taken by Bran or the girl's buxom prettiness or by the shrewd calculation that if he traveled with a minstrel and his wench, he was not likely to be taken for a person of importance, and I suppose all these three reasons worked in him, he joined himself to their company. He too was going to London; he would be some days in London if all went well. They lodged in a tavern at Westminster. Why, he would like to see something of the court and this king of theirs.

“It is a boy that you are, brother,” said Bran.

“He is a very comely man, King Stephen,” said Edith.

“As comely as I, fair lady?”

She laughed. “I dare not look at you, you are so quick.”

They found each other mighty pleasant, these two, and made a merry journey of it. And indeed the Frenchman was good company, a spirited fellow, taking his world with gusto, of ready mirth, full of talk, and the girl liked him none the worse for his restlessness and his sudden vehemence. But Bran was silent and distraught. In this fashion they came to their tavern.

When the Frenchman came down in the morning, and that was betimes, he heard that Bran was gone out already, and afterward as he sat at breakfast came Edith and pouted and said that this was ever the fool's way to go off and mope and maunder by himself and it was hard to bear and she was the loneliest maid. Whereat the Frenchman made merry, and mended the breakfast of bacon and small beer with a capon and mulberry wine, though he gave himself little. But she clapped her hands and was so naïvely delighted that he kissed her. She was indeed as fresh as a flower. And the end of it was that Bran came back to find her sitting on his knee with her arm about his neck and his lips at hers.

Bran stood at the door and beckoned. “Brother, I have news for you,” he said, and beckoned again and went out. The girl had sprung up and away. She stood an ignoble spectacle, preening herself and defiant. The Frenchman laughed and kissed his hand to her and followed the fool.

He clapped him on the shoulder. “Speak out, man.” But the fool shook him off and walked on swiftly beyond the houses and out to the river bank. There he flung himself on the shingle and began to throw stones into the falling tide. The Frenchman stood over him smiling good-humored contempt. “And now your news,” said he.

“The poor fool,” Bran said, “he had nothing save one poor little ewe lamb which he had bought and nourished up. It did eat of his own meat and drank of his own cup and was unto him as a daughter.”

“So.” The Frenchman shrugged. “You need not talk scripture.”

“Will you say holy writ is not well writ, brother?”

“God's body, man, do not whine like a priest. I did the wench no harm. And what is it to you? She is not your wife nor love. You told me so.”

“YEA, yea. What should Bran do with love of woman?” He made himself like a hunchback, he grimaced. “Bran is a fool born. But the poor fool holds that maid dear. He would not have her broken, brother. She is all that he has.”

“Why, man, do you think you can keep her a nun?”

Bran looked up at him. “And you, brother, do you think you could take her to wife?”

“God have mercy, fool, you are too righteous. Man and maid must have their fun.”

“There is other work for you, brother. You were not born to spoil poor men's maids.”

The Frenchman glowered at him. “The devil burn you and your homilies.”

“Yea, yea.” Bran threw another stone into the water. “And kings are but men and nen are but kings. So God save all.”

The Frenchman laughed. “Now God have mercy, fool, what is this?”

“Why this is thus, brother. You are but King Stephen without a crown.”

“God's body, man, give me no more riddles.”

“Na, na. Bran is a simple man. No riddles in him. See, brother, because I will not let you do your will, you send me to the devil. Because the bishops will not let him do his will King Stephen holds them all prisoners. Ergo, brother, ergo, you are as like as brothers, you and my lord king.”

“Is it true, good fellow?”

“That you are his brother? Nay, ask your mother. The tale is true as the sky is blue, but oh my brother, what is it to you?”

THE Frenchman laughed, but his staring gray eyes were grave. “By my faith, a king is a strange king that throws down the glove to Holy Church! Bishops prisoned! I will not believe it.”

“Nay, then, come and hear. It is in every man's mouth.”

“What ails him with his bishops?”

“Why, brother, he would have had his son, Lord Eustace, crowned to be king after him.”

“Would he so?” the Frenchman muttered and bit his lip.

“But the bishops answered him nay and they lie in duress till they do his will.”

“He breaks them or they break him,” said the Frenchman. “So. A man is a bold man who drives Holy Church to that.”

They went toward the palace then, to hear if it were true and hear more of it. The twisted byways were full of people, chattering the story, and the thing was what Bran had told, and by all men's judgment a great grim deed. The Frenchman moved among them eager and adroit in his talk and each moment more jovial. And in the end, coming near the palace, which a crowd watched as a place where something awful was in doing, unseen they saw King Stephen ride in, a big man and stately, but already old. He rode alone, he looked right on, he seemed to see nothing, he was pathetically earnest.

“Oh, he is handsome as a saint,” a woman said.

The Frenchman laughed. “And he would be king!” he said in Bran's ear.

“Yea, yea. But I do not laugh, brother, I. God give you the right when you be gray.”

Now when they came back to the tavern it was still early, and they went into the garden to drink piment, and drinking heard a murmur of voices and laughter. The Frenchman looked at Bran and shrugged, and taking him by the arm walked him along by the yew hedge. In the field beyond the girl Edith sat, as she had sat on the Frenchman's knee, with another man. He was a short plump creature, low-browed and of a base, sensual face.

Bran drew back and with a loud laugh the Frenchman followed him. “God's body! We are not honored, friend, neither you nor I.”

But Bran sat himself down on the grass and began to throw daisies in the air.

There was rustling and a scurry behind the hedge and in a moment they saw the gleam of the girl's yellow dress as she ran to the house. The man came swaggering through the orchard; he wore the king's colors, he was plainly one of the Flemish mercenaries whom the king kept for a guard. “Give you goood day, fool,” he said and laughed. But his little eyes were on the Frenchman. “Why, who is your fine friend?”

“Friend, brother? Na, na. Bran has no friends.” He tossed daisies into the man's face and ran away.

The Frenchman and the Fleming were left staring at each other. Then the Frenchman laughed in his face and went in. And the Fleming stood watching him,

They made a grim dinner of it. The Frenchman chose to make game of Edith and she was sullen and Bran muttered to himself and cut queer figures out of apples, and set them in array, and sometimes he looked at the girl with a queer smile, and sometimes wistfully at the man. But he had no word for either.

There came the tramp of men marching in order. The girl started and looked at the Frenchman with the gleam of a smile, mocking, malicious. Bran turned to the window. “Get you gone, brother,” he said over his shoulder. “Out by the kitchen, out and away.”

“Why, what now?” the Frenchman started up.

“My lord, you know,” Bran turned on him.

“So.” The Frenchman laid a hand on his shoulder. “Go you, good fellow. No man bears my burdens for me. God's body, go!”

“Na, na,” Bran said. “You——”

The girl laughed. Already the Flemish men-at-arms were in the room, and first of them the plump fellow of the orchard.

“Away, my lord, away,” Bran muttered and thrust in front of him and with grotesque antics, contorting himself, affecting spasms of surprise, pretending to see difficulty and from afar approached the Fleming. “But nay, but yea, it is Paul of Tournai, my little brother Paul,” he cried, and fell upon the man and hugged him and kissed him and clung to him.

HIS brother Paul, cursing, threw him off at last. “You are too much a fool or too little. Lie down, dog, or you will taste rope.” But the Frenchman had not used the chance to escape. He stood his ground and the Fleming turned to him and looked him over and grinned. “Who are you, friend?” he said.

“Away to kennel,” the Frenchman said.

“Now look you, there is pride for a fellow that lurks in a low tavern. I think you must be better lodged, friend. Come to the palace.”

“God's body! rogue, do you give orders to me?” the Frenchman thundered.

The Fleming hesitated and licked his lips. "De par le roi—in the name of the king,” he said.

“God save your king,” the Frenchman shrugged. “Let him come and seek me.”

The Fleming grinned again. “You betray yourself, my lord. Come, we are many and you are one.”

“Do you match yourselves with me, rogue?”

“By the mass, if I did not know you, you have told me your name now,” the Fleming laughed. “Come, my lord, it is an order.” He drew near, yet faltered, and then making bold, “Henry of Anjou,” he cried, and laid his hand on the Frenchman's shoulder, “in the king's name I——”

“Dog!" the Frenchman shouted at the touch and flung him so violently that he fell full length and lay.

“It is done, it is done,” Bran darted forward, plucking out his knife. “Go, my lord, go,” and he put himself before the men-at-arms.

“Nay, good lad, peace!” The Frenchman set him aside. “Do you call yourselves the king's men? March on before, and tell King Stephen that Henry of Anjou comes to his palace.”

Paul of Tournai staggered to his feet. “Hold him, guard him! Take the fool there too. He has drawn steel on the king's guard.”

Henry turned. “So. How are you called, dog? Paul of Tournai? I do not forget.” Marching in the midst of them he came to the palace and with hands bound behind him, beaten and kicked, there followed Bran, a sight which hardly a moment drew the eyes of the crowd. The like was often seen and these were plainly men of no account in the world.

As soon as he was in the palace courtyard Henry stopped short, and out of the confusion which he made, for the guard having no order marched on, he called out in a loud voice, “Let King Stephen be told that Henry of Anjou is come to have speech with him.”

THEN every man who was about the courtyard, servants and men-at-arms and clerks and knights, turned to stare. Paul of Tournai ran up to him. “I have my orders, my lord, and you are my prisoner. March on, march on.” And the guard closed, pressing on him, and he was borne away.

A bare room built in the wall and half below the ground, lit by a loophole above his head, received him, and the door-bolts clanged and he was left alone. He leaned in the corner—there was nothing in the place but the stone which made it—and folded his arms and broke out in that sudden loud laugh of his.

“Now has the hart caught a hound,” said he. “Here is sport,” and he fell silent and very still and calm for a while and let his mind work. But then on a sudden he roared out.

“The foul fiend tear that wench,” and a flow of vile words and blasphemy, forgetting her in a moment, but raving against his plight and his fortune and all the world, and he struck with his bare hands at the wall like a madman and flung himself down and writhed and rolled and gnawed his clothes.

So he lay when he was aware of more light and a voice saying: “By the holy rood, this is the blood of Anjou!”

The door shut, the light was dim again. He started to his feet and stood before a man with a drawn sword. “Who are you, fellow?” His voice was cold enough.

“Yves d'Eu, boy.”

“Stephen has no better man than you are?”

“As you say, my lord,” the knight laughed.

“And a timid fellow, too.” Henry pointed to the drawn sword.

“Faith, who deals with a madman guards against a bite.”

“Do you think you can kill me in the dark?” He sprang upon Sir Yves and bore him down, wrenching his sword arm, and from the struggle rose grasping the sword.

“God save you, boy, who thought of killing you?” Sir Yves gasped, scrambling to his feet. “You are mad as a hare.”

“Go back to your King Stephen and tell him that Henry of Anjou waits him sword in hand.”

“What? What? By the mass, it is a challenge!”

“And you a knight, Sir Yves d'Eu. Carry it or be shamed.”

“None so made neither,” Sir Yves muttered. “Pray you, my lord, stand in that light there. Ay, it is so. You are Henry of Anjou.” Henry raised the sword in salute and Sir Yves lifted his hand. “My lord, you well know that King Stephen is the most gallant knight alive. A challenge hath he never denied nor will ever from any man who hath the right to give him challenge.”

“Henry of Anjou may touch the shield of any man that lives.”

“I do not gainsay it, my lord. But king Stephen is old and you are young.”

“If you be a knight, Sir Yves d'Eu, say to your king what I have said.”

In a while came back Sir Yves and another knight and said, “We bring you to the king, my lord.”

“It is well. Carry my sword till I ask it of you again.”

Sir Yves bowed and took it and they went before him across the courtyard. “This is he we called a boy,” said Sir Yves to his fellow, “but he hath a devil in him.”

“Ay, brother. It is the patron saint of his house.”

King Stephen sat in his hall in a great chair on the dais and about him stood a little company, but he sat as if he were alone; he looked right on at nothing. Henry marched in, the stone ringing to his stride, and stood square, young and full of life and very ruddy before the sallow, white-bearded king. The dull eyes became aware of him, but without a gleam in their heaviness.

“Ay, ay. You are Henry of Anjou.”

“And you Stephen of Blois.”

“I am king of England, young man,”

“Anointed and crowned.” Henry lifted his hand in salute and smiled.

“Give him a stool,” the king said. “You are a bold boy, sirrah.”

“I SENT you a challenge, Stephen. God have mercy, do you call that bold?” he laughed. “But what now? Shall we talk in a crowd, cousin? Do you want guards?”

“Give us room,” the king cried and his knights drew down the hall.

“I sent you a challenge; ay, and I will make it good where you will and as you will.”

“I am king in England and you are a landless boy.”

“Yesterday is yours, to-morrow is mine. But I sent you a challenge because I sought speech with you. I come to your city alone and you send a base-born fellow to lay hands on me. I have no word of lord or knight till one comes to me in my dungeon with his sword out. Grammercy! At least it was a knight who was to murder me. A better knight than you, Stephen. For he was ashamed.”

“By the cross, there was no thought to murder you. You were not known. You came by stealth, you lurked in hiding. The Fleming brought word of you and was bidden bring what he found. But nought was sure. And the sword—it was said you were mad, boy. You raved.”

“Who raves here, cousin? I was not known? Why was I made prisoner? Speak truth, man; you knew and you feared. It is writ in your face.”

“I fear no man,” the king said. “There is none can do me hurt. What do you want of me?”

“God's body! what do you want of me? I come to England alone, a naked man, and you set your men-at-arms on me and drag me to your castle.”

“Why did you come to England?”

“You hold what is mine.”

“I am the king by right and by might. You come to harry the realm like your mother before you. You have no claim to mercy.”

“ASK mercy for yourself, Stephen. You took the realm which was my mother's by a trick. By arms you have held it. I could forgive you that——”

“Holy saints, are you to be my judge?”

“Yes, by God's blood, I am your judge, I and every man who hath a right in England. You are the king. And all the land is waste and no man is sure of life and living. Ay, your own son burns the fields black——”

“Be silent!” The king started up.

“I fight my challenge, Stephen.” Henry came nearer and spoke into his face. “King by right and might! You are no king. A king is he who rules men that they thrive. You are the bane of the land. And now you throw God's bishops into prison till they will anoint your son to be its bane after you and curse the land when you are gone to your doom.” He stopped, for the king turned away with his hand to his brow. “What, do you yield yourself, Stephen?”

“My son is dead, boy,” the king said.

Henry stood silent. “That I did not know,” he said after a while and bent his head and crossed himself. “God receive his soul. I have fought a stricken man, cousin.”

“You say well,” the king muttered.

“How did he die?”

“It is the hand of God. He died in fear. He was at feud with the abbey in Edmundsbury (you who know so much, you know that). And on a day he met a fool telling fortunes, and this fool bade him look at a black monk that was behind him. Then Eustace fell in a swoon and thereafter by night and by day he talked of the monk and his eyes, and presently he died.”

And again Henry crossed himself and said a prayer.

“This is the end of all. I am the last of my house. I am old and a lone man. What do you ask of me, Henry of Anjou?”

“I claim my right.”

“Right? The only right a man has is to death, which is deliverance.”

“My life is yet to live. I claim my right.”

“You would be king! You who have seen me this day.”

“Each man has his own fate. I do not fear, Stephen.”

“I have feared nothing, boy. And stand here desolate. Remember me when your own hour comes. What I have done, I have done for my honor and the son which was mine. I have my reward.” He spread out his arms, grasped at nothing and let them fall. “What is to do?”

“You have said it, Stephen. I would be king. Why, cousin, it must be so. There is none other man left. It is God's will”

The king flushed. “You—you boast that over my son's grave! God's wounds, boy, I hold you in my power. If I will it, you lie dead with Eustace. That—is that God's will?”

“You know. For you do not dare," Henry said coolly.

“Shame, shame!” the king said and beat his breast. “There is baseness in your soul.”

“I fight a stricken man. I have said it. I fight but as I must, cousin. I would not beat you down. King you shall be while you live if you will write me your heir.”

“Call you to his place!” the King muttered.

“What is, it is, cousin.”

“My heir?” The king looked at him keenly. “Oh, if I had the strength of the old years to meet you with a horse between my thighs and a sword in my hand!” He raised his right arm, fist clenched, and it trembled. “That is what I wish my heir, Henry of Anjou. Think of it when you leave all.”

“We waste words, cousin,” Henry shrugged. The summer twilight was falling when he came out of the king's council chamber. Yves d'Eu, very carefully respectful, led him to a big stately room which looked out upon the river. He went all about it in a hurry, prying, like a dog in a strange place, then flung himself into a chair and sat twisting his hands and shuffling in the rushes on the floor.

“Pray you, my lord, does it content you?”

“No—ay—it will serve, it will serve.”

“Will you sup, my lord?”

HENRY stared at him. “God's body! I will not eat nor drink till that dog Fleming is laid by the heels. You know him, sir, the knave Paul of Tournai.”

“My lord, the poor rogue had his duty to do——”

“And so had you, ha? Why, man, you did yours like a knight and he like a false foul knave. No man suffers of me because he is King Stephen's man. But the rope for all rogues. Go, tie him up. You heard the king give him to me. And hark ye, the poor fool who was taken with me, bring him here. He is my man.”

Sir Yves looked away. “It—it was not known, my lord.”

“Say you so?” the red brows bent. “It shall be known.”

And after a while when the wine and meat were on the board came Bran, shambling, wriggling, muttering. He blinked at the candle-light. “Now God have mercy, brother,” he said and dropped on his knees and fell to fondling Henry's hand and kissing it.

“What, man, am I so precious to you?”

Bran looked up at him. “You remembered, brother. None other ever remembered Bran.”

“Yes, I remember. I pay all debts. Up and eat, man.”

The fool heaved himself up painfully and stared round the room. “Is it real, brother? What should I eat? King Stephen in a pasty? What have you done, brother? The world is upside down.”

“I have fought with Stephen and he is a conquered king this night. Well, God is over all. His soul was weak in him. I came to him when he had heard his son was dead.”

Bran drank off his wine. “And how died he?”

“A strange tale. He met a fool who said there was a monk at his shoulder. And Eustace fell in a swoon, and is dead raving of a monk and his eyes.”

“Yea, yea,” Bran said. “That fool was I, brother.”

“You—ay, I had my guess of that.” He reached across the table and grasped the fool's hand. “You tell fortunes, do not you?” he laughed. “Do you see what you tell?”

“Bran sees men, brother. There was no monk to see, but Bran saw fear in him.”

“And the devil in me?”

“Yea, yea. And God.”

Henry laughed and let him go. “So. I am content.”

“What is the end of it all, brother?”

“WHY, man, you come with me where I go. But first we will pay that dog Fleming his due. He is mine.”

“Na, na,” Bran cried. “He goes free.”

“What? I swear he has not been gentle with you all this while. Speak out, fool. He had you flogged?”

“Bran has no evil for him.”

“God's body! man, pluck up heart. I hold him now. What of your maid?”

Bran looked at him miserably and looked away. “She saw. It is finished. She laughed.”

“So, I had my own desire to that Fleming. Now——”

“Na, na, na. He goes free, Henry. It is the first thing I ask or the last. He goes free. It makes me feel greater.”

Henry looked at his wine and made it run round in the cup. “Well,” he said, “well. He shall have no more of hanging than the fear. Men will call it kingly," and he laughed. “But you I call fool. By the cross, the queerest boon ever a king was asked since Christ.”

“A king?”

“Stephen writes me his heir and I let the old man reign in peace for the little days that are his. Then comes my time!"

“Yea, yea, and you covet it! Fools are we, the world's poor fools, Henry my brother. Good heart on your cross.”