The Caged Lion. Yonge Charlotte Mary

Bedford, with a shudder; ‘he belonged to Archbishop Scrope.’

      ‘A traitor, too,’ said James.

      ‘Nay, there was too much cause for his words.  Never shall I forget the day when Scrope was put to death on this very moor on which we are entering.  There sat my father on his horse, with us four boys around him, when the old man passed in front of us, and looked at him with a face pitiful and terrible.  “Harry of Bolingbroke,” he said, “because thou hast done these things, therefore shall thy foes be of thine own household; the sword shall never depart therefrom, but all the increase of thy house shall die in the flower of their age, and in the fourth generation shall their name be clean cut off.”  The commons will have it that at that moment my father was struck with leprosy; and struck to the heart assuredly he was, nor was he ever the same man again.  I always believed that those words made him harder upon every prank of poor Hal’s, till any son save Hal would have become his foe!  And see now, the old bedesman may be in the right; poor pretty Blanche has long been in her grave, Thomas is with her now, and Jamie,’—he lowered his voice,—‘when men say that Harry hath more of Alexander in him than there is in other men, it strikes to my heart to think of the ring lying on the empty throne.’

      ‘Now,’ said James, ‘what strikes me is, what doleful bodings can come into a brave man’s head on a chill morning before he has broken his fast.  A tankard of hot ale will chase away omens, whether of bishop or bedesman.’

      ‘It may chase them from the mind, but will not make away with them,’ said John.  ‘But I might have known better than to speak to you of such things—you who are well-nigh a Lollard in disbelief of all beyond nature.’

      ‘No Lollard am I,’ said James.  ‘What Holy Church tells me, I believe devoutly; but not in that which she bids me loathe as either craft of devils or of men.’

      ‘Ay, of which?  There lies the question,’ said John.

      ‘Of men,’ said the Scottish king; ‘of men who have wit enough to lay hold of the weaker side even of a sober youth such as Lord John of Lancaster!  Your proneness to believe in sayings and prophecies, in sorceries and magic, is the weakest point of all of you.’

      ‘And it is the weakest point in you, James, that you will not credit upon proof, such proof as was the fulfilment of the prophecy of the place of my father’s death.’

      ‘One such saying as that, fulfilled to the ear, though not in truth, is made the plea for all this heart-sinking—ay, and what is worse, for the durance of your father’s widow as a witch, and of her brave young son, because forsooth his name is Arthur of Richemont, and some old Welsh rhymester hath whispered to Harry that Richmond shall come out of Brittany, and be king of England.’

      ‘Arthur is no worse off than any other captive of Agincourt,’ said Bedford; ‘and I tell you, James, the day may come when you will rue your want of heed to timely warnings.’

      ‘Better rue once than pine under them all my life, and far better than let them betray me into deeming some grewsome crime an act of justice, as you may yet let them do,’ said James.

      Such converse passed between the two princes, while King Henry rode in advance, for the most part silent, and only desirous of reaching Pontefract Castle, where he had left the young wife whose presence he longed for the more in his trouble.  The afternoon set in with heavy rain, but he would not halt, although he gave free permission to any of his suite to do so; and James recommended Malcolm to remain, and come on the next day with Brewster.  The boy, however, disclaimed all weariness, partly because bashfulness made him unwilling to venture from under his royal kinsman’s wing, and partly because he could not bear to let the English suppose that a Scotsman and a Stewart could be afraid of weather.  As the rain became harder with the evening twilight, silence sank upon the whole troop, and they went splashing on through the deep lanes, in mud and mire, until the lights of Pontefract Castle shimmered on high from its hill.  The gates were opened, the horses clattered in, torches came forth, flickering and hissing in the darkness.  The travellers went through what seemed to Malcolm an interminable number of courts and gateways, and at length flung themselves off their horses, when Henry, striding on, mounted the steps, entered the building, and, turning the corner of a great carved screen, he and his brother, with James and Malcolm, found themselves in the midst of a blaze of cressets and tapers, which lighted up the wainscoted part of the hall.

      The whole scene was dazzling to eyes coming in from the dark, and only after a moment or two could Malcolm perceive that, close to the great fire, sat a party of four, playing at what he supposed to be that French game with painted cards of which Patrick Drummond had told him, and that the rest seemed to be in attendance upon them.

      Dark eyed and haired, with a creamy ivory skin, and faultless form and feature, the fair Catherine would have been unmistakable, save that as Henry hurried forward, the lights glancing on his jaded face, matted hair, and soaked dress, the first to spring forward to meet him was a handsome young man, who wrung his hand, crying, ‘Ah, Harry, Harry, then ’tis too true!’ while the lady made scarcely a step forwards: no shade of colour tinged her delicate cheek; and though she did not resist his fervent embrace, it was with a sort of recoil, and all she was heard to say was, ‘Eh, Messire, vos bottes sont crottées!’

      ‘You know all, Kate?’ he asked, still holding her hand, and looking afraid of inflicting a blow.

      ‘The battle?  Is it then so great a disaster?’ and, seeing his amazed glance, ‘The poor Messire de Clarence! it was pity of him; he was a handsome prince.’

      ‘Ah, sweet, he held thee dear,’ said Henry, catching at the crumb of sympathy.

      ‘But yes,’ said Catherine, evidently perplexed by the strength of his feeling, and repeating, ‘He was a beau sieur courtois.  But surely it will not give the Armagnacs the advantage?’

      ‘With Heaven’s aid, no!  But how fares it with poor Madge—his wife, I mean?’

      ‘She is away to her estates.  She went this morn, and wished to have taken with her the Demoiselle de Beaufort; but I forbade that—I could not be left without one lady of the blood.’

      ‘Alack, Joan—’ and Henry was turning, but Catherine interrupted him.  ‘You have not spoken to Madame of Hainault, nor to the Duke of Orleans.  Nay, you are in no guise to speak to any one,’ she added, looking with repugnance at the splashes of mud that reached even to his waist.

      ‘I will don a fresh doublet, sweetheart,’ said Henry, more rebuked than seemed fitting, ‘and be ready to sup anon.’

      ‘Supper!  We supped long ago.’

      ‘That may be; but we have ridden long since we snatched our meal, that I might be with thee the sooner, my Kate.’

      ‘That was not well in you, my Lord, to come in thus dishevelled, steaming with wet—not like a king.  You will be sick, my Lord.’

      The little word of solicitude recalled his sweet tender smile of gratitude.  No fear, ma belle; sickness dares not touch me.’

      ‘Then,’ said the Queen, ‘you will be served in your chamber, and we will finish our game.’

      Henry turned submissively away; but Bedford tarried an instant to say, ‘Fair sister, he is sore distressed.  It would comfort him to have you with him.  He has longed for you.’

      Catherine opened her beautiful brown eyes in a stare of surprise and reproof at the infraction of the rules of ceremony which she had brought with her.  John of Bedford had never seemed to her either beau or courtois, and she looked unutterable things, to which he replied by an elevation of his marked eyebrows.

      She sat down to her game, utterly ignoring the other princes in their weather-beaten condition; and they were forced to follow the King, and make their way to their several chambers, for Queen Catherine’s will was law in matters of etiquette.

      ‘The proud peat!  She is jealous of every word Harry speaks—even to his cousin,’ muttered James, as he reached his own room.  ‘You saw her, though,—you saw her!’ he added, smiling, as he laid