The Life and Death of Richard Yea-and-NayHewlett, Maurice
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The Life and Death of Richard Yea-and-Nay
Hewlett, Maurice
Richard I, King of England, 1157-1199 -- Fiction
William Marshal interposed. 'I have seen much of the Countess of Anjou,
Madame,' said this honest gentleman. 'Let me tell your Grace that she is
a most exalted lady.' He would have said more had the Queen-Mother
endured it, but she cried out upon him.
'Anjou! Who dares put her up there?'
'Madame,' said William, 'it was my lord the King.' The Queen fumed.
Then the Archbishop said, 'She is nobly born, of the house of Saint-Pol.
I understand that she has a clear mind.'
'More,' cried the Marshal, 'she has a clear heart!'
'If she had nothing clear about her I have that which would bleach her
white enough,' said the Queen-Mother; and Longchamp, who had said
nothing at all, grinned.
In the event, the Queen one day took to her barge, crossed the river,
and confronted the girl who stood between England and Navarre.
Jehane, who was sitting with her ladies at needlework, was not so scared
as they were. Like the nymphs of the hunting Maid they all clustered
about her, showing the Queen-Mother how tall she was and how nobly
figured. She flushed a little and breathed a little faster; but making
her reverence she recovered herself, and stood with that curious look on
her face, half surprise, half discontent, which made men call her the
sulky fair. So the Queen-Mother read the look.
'No pouting with me, mistress,' she said. 'Send these women away. It is
with you I have to deal.'
'Do we deal singly, Madame?' said Jehane. 'Then my ladies shall seek for
yours the comforts of a discomfortable lodging. I am sorry I have no
better.' The Queen-Mother nodded her people out of the room; so she and
Jehane were left alone together.
'Mistress,' said the Queen-Mother, 'what is this between you and my son?
Playing and kissing are to be left below the degrees of a throne. Let
there be no more of it. Do you dare, are you so hardy in the eyes, as to
look up to a kingly seat, or measure your head for a king's crown?'
Jehane had plenty of spirit, which a very little of this sort of talk
would have fanned into a flame; but she had irony too.
'Madame, alas!' she said, with a hint of shrugging; 'if I have worn the
Count's cap I know the measure of my head.'
The Queen-Mother took her by the wrist 'My girl,' said she, 'you know
very well that you are no Countess at all in my son's right, but are
what one of your nurture should not be. And you shall understand that I
am a plain-dealer in such affairs when they concern this realm, and have
bled little heifers like you whiter than veal and as cold as most of the
dead; and will do it again if need be.'
Jehane did not flinch nor turn her eyes from considering her whitening
wrist.
'Oh, Madame,' she says, 'you will never bleed me; I am quite sure of
that. Alas, it would be well if you could, without offence.'
'Why, whom should I offend then?' the Queen said, sniffing--'your
ladyship?'
'A greater,' said Jehane.
'You think the King would be offended?'
'Madame,' Jehane said, 'he could be offended; but so would you be.'
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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