Part 14

As if to show that joys, as well as misfortunes, do not come single, this afternoon arrived a courier with letters from Lusignan,--one from Monseigneur to Guy, another from Raoul for Amaury, and one from Alix for me. All are well, thank the saints!--and Alix has now three children, of whom two are boys. Raoul is about to make a grand match, with one of the richest heiresses in Normandy,--the Lady Alix, Countess of Eu. Little Valence, Guillot's elder child, has been betrothed to the young Seigneur de Parthenay. I am rather surprised that Guillot did not look higher, especially after Guy's marriage and Raoul's.

Guy asked me to-day when I meant to be married.

"Oh, please, Guy, don't talk about it!" said I. "I would so much rather not."

"Dost thou mean to be a nun, then?" asked he. I think he hardly expected it.

"Well," said I, "if I must, I must. But I want to know why I could not go on living quietly without either?"

"Ah, one of the original notions of the Damoiselle de Lusignan," said he. "Because, my eccentric Elaine, nobody ever does."

"But why does nobody?" said I. "And why should not I begin it? Every thing must begin some time, and with somebody."

But Guy seemed so much amused that I did not pursue the topic.

"Please thyself," said he, when he had finished laughing. "But why dost thou prefer single life?"

"For various reasons," said I. "For one, I like to have my own way."

"Well, now, women are queer folks!" said Guy. "Oh my most rational sister, wilt thou not have to obey thine abbess? And how much better will that be than obeying thine husband?"

"It will be better in two respects," I answered. "In the first place, an abbess is a woman, and would therefore be more reasonable than a man; and in"----

"Oh dear! I did not understand that!" said Guy. "I am rather ignorant and stupid."

"Thou art," said I. "And in the second, I should try, as soon as possible, to be an abbess myself."

"My best wishes attend thy speedy promotion, most holy Mother!" said Guy, bowing low, but laughing. "I perceive I was very stupid. But thou seest, I really did not know that women were such extremely reasonable beings. I fancied that, just now and then, they were slightly unreasonable."

"Now, Guy, give over!" said I. "But can I not wait a while? Must I decide at once?"

"Of course not, if that be thy wish," said Guy. "But thou art past the usual age for profession."

"Then I shall be all the more likely to receive promotion quickly," I replied.

"Fairest of nuns, here is my sword!" said Guy, kneeling and offering me the hilt. "I surrender myself, a vanquished prisoner, to thy superior wisdom."

So the matter passed off in a good laugh.

Now that the truce is concluded, all is peaceful and happy. It is so nice, after the tumult, and suspense, and anxiety, to have nothing to think of but what robe one shall wear to this feast, and how one shall arrange one's jewels for that dance. I wish it would last for ever!--if only one did not get tired even of pleasant things, when they have gone on for a while. If one could get hold of some pleasure of which one never got tired!

I want to introduce our national dance of Poitou, the minuet. I have taught it to Lady Isabel, and two or three of the damsels in waiting: and Perette and Bertrade will help. Lady Isabel admires it very much; she says it is a grand, stately dance, and fit for a princess.

It seems very odd to me, that the ladies of this country look upon it as beneath them to superintend the cooking, and leave it all to their servants. How strange it would be if we did that in Poitou! They order what is to be done, but they never put their own hands to the work. I know what Alix would look like, if I told her.

The first banquet was to have been on Monday, but it is an unlucky day, as the moon will be in opposition to Mars; so it had to be deferred. We heard yesterday that the Countess of Edessa actually gave a banquet last week on a vigil, and what should she do but invite just enough to make thirteen! I suppose she never thought about either. She is the most thoughtless woman I ever saw. Messire de Montluc was one of the guests, and when he perceived the calamity, he feigned to bleed at the nose, and asked leave to retire. I suppose he did not wish to run the risk of dying within a year and a day. How can people be so careless? Why, it is almost as bad as murder.

*CHAPTER XII.*

_*WILL SHE GIVE HIM UP?*_

_Elmina_.--We can bear all things! _Gonsalez_.--Can ye bear disgrace? _Ximena_.--We were not born for this. --FELICIA HEMANS.

I suppose it is only about thirty hours, yet it looks as if it might be as many weeks, since I sat in the bower with Lady Judith, broidering a mantle of cramoisie for Lady Sybil. We were talking of different things, carrying on no special train of conversation. Lady Sybil had been with us; but, a few minutes before, Guy had called her into the hall, to assist in receiving a messenger just arrived with letters from the Regent. Something which Lady Judith said amused me, and I was making a playful reply, when all at once there broke on us, from the hall, such a bitter, wailing cry, as instantly told us that something terrible must have happened. The mantle was dropped upon the rushes, and Lady Judith and I were both in the hall in an instant.

The messenger, a young knight, stood at the further side of the dais, where were Guy and Lady Sybil. She had apparently fainted, or was very near it, and he was holding her in his arms, and endeavouring to whisper comfort.

"Oh, what is the matter?" broke from me, as my eyes sought first Guy and then the messenger.

Guy did not answer. I am not sure that he heard me. It was the young knight who replied.

"Damoiselle, if it please your Nobility, our young Lord Beaudouin the King has been commanded to the Lord."

I never wished I was not noble until that minute. Had I been a villein, he would have told me without considering the pleasure of my Nobility, and I should have been out of suspense one second sooner.

Lady Judith's one thought seemed to be for the poor mother, who was utterly overcome by the sudden news of her first-born's death. She actually opened the casement with her own hands, though there were plenty of damsels and squires in the hall, whom she might have called to do it. One she sent for water, and sprinkled a few drops on Lady Sybil's face, entreating her to drink some wine which a squire brought in haste. She appeared to swallow with difficulty, but it seemed to revive her, and her voice came back.

"Oh, my boy, my boy!" she cried piteously. "And I was not there! It was not in my arms he died. My first-born, my darling! I was not there."

Ay, that seemed the climax of her misery--she was not there! I was very, very sorry, both for her and for the child. But another thought soon darted into my brain, and it was too hard for me to solve. Who was the King of Jerusalem now? When I thought it meet, I whispered the question to Guy. He made me no answer in words, but his quick downward glance at the golden head still bowed upon his arm told me what he thought. And all at once the full significance of that death flashed upon me. Lady Sybil was the Queen of the World, and might have to do battle for her glorious heritage.

There was no doubt concerning the right. Only two remained of the House of Anjou: and there could be no question as to whether the elder or younger sister should succeed. Lady Sybil's right had been originally set aside: and now it had come back to her.

In an instant I saw, as by a flash of lightning, that the idea had occurred to others; for the squire had offered the wine upon the knee.

But the Regent! Would he acquiesce meekly in a change which would drive him back to his original insignificance, and restore Guy to his place of supreme honour? Lady Sybil is no child, but a woman of full age. There might (in a man's eyes) be an excuse in putting her aside for her son, but there could be none for her sister or her daughter.

It was not for some hours that I saw the Regent's letter; not till Lady Sybil's bitter wailing had died down to peace, and we were able to turn our eyes from the past to the future. Then Guy showed it me. I was astonished at the quiet matter-of-fact way in which Count Raymond recognised Lady Sybil's right, and deferred to Guy as the person to decide upon every thing. I asked Lady Judith, this morning, what she thought it meant. Was this man better than we had supposed? Had we been unjust to him?

"I cannot tell yet, Helena," she said; "but I think we shall know now very soon. It either bodes great good to Sybil,--or else most serious mischief."

"He says no word about his Lady Countess," I suggested.

"No," said Lady Judith. "I should have liked it better if he had done."

"Then what can we do?" I asked.

"Wait and pray," responded she.

"Wait!" Oh dear me!--it is always waiting. I detest it. Why can't things happen in a lump and get done with themselves?

Count Raymond--for I must give over calling him the Regent,--(and dear me! I must learn to call Lady Sybil the Queen as soon as she is crowned,--however shall I do it?)--Count Raymond says, in the end of his letter, that he will reach the Holy City, if it please the saints, about ten days hence, with the coffin of the young Lord King, that he may be laid with his fathers in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. So, I suppose, for these ten days we shall know nothing. I would scratch them out of the calendar, if I had pumice-stone of the right quality.

And yet--it comes over me, though I do hate to think it!--suppose these ten days should be the last days of peace which we are to know!

"Holy Mother, how _can_ you wait to know things?" I asked Lady Judith.

"How canst thou?" said she with a little laugh.

"Why, I must!" said I. "But as to doing it patiently!"----

"It is easier to wait patiently than impatiently, my child."

"O holy Mother!" cried I.

"It is," she gently persisted. "But that patience, Helena, is only to be had from God."

"But can you help longing to know?" said I.

"Rebelliously and feverishly thirsting to know, I can. But it is only in God's strength that I can do it. Certainly I cannot help feeling that I shall be relieved when His time is come. I should be more or less than woman, if I could."

"But how," said I, "do you keep yourself patient?"

"_He_ keeps me patient, Helena. I cannot keep myself. He knows: He is at the helm: He will guide me to the haven where I would be. Ah, my child, thou hast yet to learn what that meaneth,--'When He giveth quietness, who shall then condemn?'"

Indeed I have. And I do not know how to begin.

We have been very busy, after all, during the terrible interval, and it hardly seems ten days since the news came. All the mourning robes were to be made of sackcloth--bah! how rough and coarse it is!--one need be a villein to stand it!--and the hoods of cloth of Cyprus. I never remember being in mourning before Amaury's poor little baby was born and died in one day, and I did hope then that I should never need it again. It is so abominable to wear such stuff--and how it smells!--and to have to lay aside one's gloves, just like a bourgeoise! Count Raymond is expected to-night.

I did not properly guess what a dreadful scene it would be, when the coffin was borne into the hall by four knights, and laid down on the dais, and the lid opened, and the embalmed body of the fair child brought to view, clad in the cowl of the holy brethren of Saint Benedict, which was put on him just before he died. The holy Patriarch--I suppose he is holy, being a patriarch--held the holy censer, which he swung to and fro by the head of the coffin; and a royal chaplain at his side bore the benitier, from which each of us, coming forward, took the asperge, and sprinkled the still face with holy water.

It was Lady Sybil's turn last, of course. But she, the poor mother, broke down utterly, and dropped the asperge, and if Guy had not sprung forward and caught her, I think she would have fainted and fallen on the coffin of her child. Oh, it was terrible!

Later in the evening, there was a family council, at which Count Raymond suggested--and Guy said it was an excellent idea--that Lady Sybil should convene a council of all the nobles, when her title should be solemnly recognised, and no room be left for any dissension about it in future. The council, therefore, will meet on Midsummer Day next, and at the same time it will be decided what to do after the truce with Saladin has expired.

I tapped at Lady Judith's door as I went up to bed.

"Well, holy Mother," said I, when I was inside, and the door shut, "what think you now of the Count of Tripoli?"

"What thinkest thou, Helena?" answered she.

"Truly, I hardly know what to think," I said. "He speaks fair."

"Ay," she said; "he speaks fair."

I thought I detected the slightest possible emphasis on the verb.

"I think you mean something, holy Mother," said I bluntly.

"Helena, when the Lord Count was proposing the convention of the council, and all that was to follow, and Count Guy assented, and said he thought it a good idea,--didst thou happen to look at Count Raymond's face?"

"No, holy Mother, I did not."

"I did. And at the instant when Count Guy assented to his proposal, I caught one triumphant flash in his eyes. From that hour I was certain he meant mischief."

My heart fell,--fell.

"What sort of mischief?" I asked fearfully.

"The Lord knoweth," quietly said she; "and the Lord reigneth, Helena. 'Wonderful are the ragings of the sea: wonderful in the heights is the Lord.'"

And that seems to comfort her. I wish it would comfort me.

The Council is holding its sitting: and so serious are its deliberations considered, that only one woman beside Lady Sybil herself is permitted to attend it. Of course it was not meet she should be without any lady or damsel. But she chose Lady Judith, with a pretty little apology to me, lest I should fancy myself slighted.

"Lady Judith is old and very wise," she said. "I should like her to hear the deliberations of the nobles, that I may have, if need be, the benefit of her counsel afterwards."

I suppose it is the swearing of allegiance that takes such a long time. They have been four hours already.

Sir God, have mercy upon me! I never dreamed of the anguish that was in store for me. I do not know how to bear it. O fair Father, Jesu Christ, by the memory of Thine own cross and passion, help me, if it be only to live through it!

I wondered why, when the Council broke up, Lady Sybil shut herself up and refused to admit any one, and Guy was nowhere to be found. I felt a vague sort of uneasiness, but no more, till a soft hand was laid upon my shoulder, and I looked up in Lady Judith's face.

And then, in an instant, the vague uneasiness changed to acute terror.

Her look was one of such deep, overwhelming compassion, that I knew at once she had that to tell me which she justly feared might break my heart.

"What--?" I gasped.

"Come here with me," she said; and she took me into her own cell, and barred the door. "Helena, dear child, there is something to tell thee which thou wilt find very bitter, and thy brother and Sybil think best that I should tell it."

"Go on, if you please, holy Mother. Any thing but suspense!"

"The Council of nobles," she said, "are agreed to admit Sybil's right, and to pay their homage to her as Queen, if she on her part will accept one condition dictated by them. But if she refuse the condition, they refuse the allegiance; and will raise against her the banner of Isabel, who was called into the Council, and declared herself ready to accept it."

"And--the condition?"

"That she shall divorce Count Guy, and wed with one of themselves."

It seemed to me as though my head went round, but my heart stood still. And then a cry broke from me, which was a mixture of fear, and indignation, and disdain, and cruel, cruel anguish.

Sybil to divorce Guy! Our sweet-eyed, silver-voiced Sybil, whom we so loved, to divorce my Guy, my king of men! To be willing to do it!--to purchase her fair, proud inheritance at the price of the heart which loved her, and which she loved! My heart and brain alike cried out, Impossible!

Was I dreaming? This thing could not be,--should not be! Holy Saints, let me wake and know it!

"It is not possible!" I shrieked. "She will not--she cannot! Did she not say so?"

"Her first words," said Lady Judith, "were utterly and indignantly to refuse compliance."

"Well!--and then?"

"Then several of the nobles pressed it upon her, endeavouring to show her the advantages to be derived from the divorce."

"Advantages!" I cried.

"To the country, dear," said Lady Judith gently. "But for four hours she held out. No word was to be wrung from her but 'I could not dream of such a thing!' 'Then, Lady,' said the Lord Count of Edessa, 'you can no longer be our Queen.'"

"And did that sway her?" I cried indignantly.

"Nothing seemed to sway her, till Count Guy rose himself, and, though with faltering lips, earnestly entreated her assent. Then she gave way so far as to promise to consider the question."

That was like Guy. If he thought it for her good, I am sure he would urge it upon her, though it broke his own heart. But for her to give way _then_----!

"Holy Mother, tell me she will not do it!" I cried.

"She has locked herself up, to think and pray," said Lady Judith. "But it is well to know the worst at once,--I think she will, Helena."

"Holy Mother, you must have gone mad!"

I did not mean to be rude. I was only in too great agony to see any thing but itself. And Lady Judith seemed to understand.

"Who proposed it?" I demanded.

Ah! I knew what the answer would be. "Count Raymond of Tripoli."

"Well, he cannot be the one she weds!" said I, grinding my teeth.

"He can, Helena. The Countess has been dead these four months. He says he wrote to tell us, and his letter must have miscarried."

"And is Satan to have it all his own way?" I cried.

"No, assuredly, dear child. Christ is stronger than he."

"Holy Mother, can you see one speck of light in this thick and horrible darkness?"

"I never see but one light in any darkness," she said. "'God is light, and darkness in Him there is none at all.' Dear Helena, wilt thou not put thine hand in His, and let Him lead thee to the light?"

"Could the good God not have prevented all this?" I wailed.

"Perhaps not, for thy sake," she said softly.

"Oh, she will not, she will not!" I moaned. "Holy Mother, tell me she never will!"

"I cannot, dear. On the contrary, I think she will."

"I never could have believed it of Lady Sybil!"

Lady Judith made no reply; but I thought the expression of pain deepened in her face.

"Dear Helena," was her gentle answer, "sometimes we misunderstand our friends. And very often we misunderstand our Father."

She tried to comfort me: but I was past comfort. I was past food, sleep,--every thing. I went to bed,--it was a miserable relief to get away from the daylight; but I could not sleep, and no tears would come. Only one exceeding bitter cry,--

"Help me, Jesu Christ!"

Would He help me? What had I ever been to Him, or done for Him, that He should? He had shed His life-blood on the holy rood for me; and I had barely ever so much as thanked Him for it. I had never cared about Him. Where was the good of asking Him?

Yet I must cry to Him, for who else was there? Of course there were Mary Mother and the holy saints: but--Oh, I hope it was not wicked!--it seemed as if in my agony I pushed them all aside, and went straight up to Him to whom all prayer must come at last.

"Help me, Jesu Christ!"

Where was Guy?--feeling, in his darkened chamber, as if his heart were breaking?

Where was Sybil?--awake, perhaps, with a lighted lamp, wrestling between the one love of her heart and the pride of life.

And where was God? Did He hear me? Would He hear? And the cry came again, wrung from my very life as if I must have help.

"Help me, Jesu Christ! I have no help. I can do nothing. I can even think of nothing. I can bear no more. Help me, not because I deserve help, but because I want Thee!"

And the darkness went on, and the quiet beats of the water-clock, and the low, musical cry of the watchmen outside; and the clang of arms as they changed guard: but no holy angel came down from Heaven to tell me that my prayer was heard, and that it should be to me even as I would.

Was there no help?--was there no hope?--was there no God in Heaven?

Oh, it cannot, cannot be that she will decide against him! Yet Lady Judith thinks she will. I cannot imagine why. Our own sweet Sybil, to whom he has seemed like the very life of her life! No, it can never be true! She will never, never give him up.

*CHAPTER XIII.*

_*WAITING FOR THE INEVITABLE*_*.*

"Oh, hard to watch the shore-lights, And yet no signal make! Hardest, to him the back on Love, For Love's own blessed sake! For me the darkness riseth, But not for me the light; I breast the waters' heaving foam For love of Love, to-night."

She has given him up,--my Guy, my hero, my king of men!

No, I could never have believed it! One short month ago, if all the prophets and wise women and holy monks in Palestine had come in a body and told me this thing, I should have laughed them to scorn,--I should have thought the dead would rise first.

Ah! this is not our Sybil who has played this part. The Sybil whom I loved, next to Guy himself, has vanished into nothingness, and in her stead has come a creature that wears her face, and speaks with her voice,--cold, calculating, false!

It was again Lady Judith who told me. I thought I was prepared for this. But I found that I was not. By the crushing pain which struck me, I knew that I had not really believed it would be thus,--that I had clung, like a drowning man, to the rope which failed me in this extremity--that I had honestly thought that the God to whom I had cried all night long would have come and saved me.

That Sybil should fail was bitterness enough. But what was I to do when Christ failed me? Either He could not hear at all, or He would not hear me. And I did not see that it was of much consequence which it was, since, so far as I was concerned, both came to the same thing.

The comfort Lady Judith tried to offer me sounded like cruel mockery. Even the soft pressure of her hand upon my head rasped my heart like a file.

"Poor, dear child!" she said. "It is so hard to walk in the dark. If the Lord have marked thee for His own--as by the strivings of His Spirit with thee, I trust He has--how sorry He must be for thee, just now!"

Sorry! Then why did He do it? When I am sorry for one I love, I do not give him bitter pain. I felt as if I should sink and die, if I did not get relief by pouring out my heart. I broke from Lady Judith,--she tried in vain to stop me--and I dashed into Lady Sybil's chamber. Queen or villein, it was all one to me then. I was far past any considerations of that sort. If she had ordered me to be instantly beheaded, I should not have thought it signified a straw.

I found her seated on the settle in the window. Oh, how white and worn and weary she looked! Dark rings were round her eyes, worn by pain and weeping and watching through that dreadful night. But I heeded not the signs of her woe. She deserved them. Guy's wrong burned in my heart, and consumed every thing but itself.

She rose hastily when she saw me, and a faint flush came to her white cheek.

"Ah,--Helena!"

She spoke in a hesitating tone, as if she scarcely knew what to say. She might well tremble before Guy's sister!