THE PRINCE'S CLOAK

A STORY OF THE LITTLE CRIPPLED SON OF KING HENRY III.

BY

LAURA SPENCER PORTOR

From School Girl's Stories.

Chapter I

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The firelight leaped up in the great hall where the monk sat among the children to tell them the Easter story. It was told in its entirety but once a year, and then no child was missing. They gathered closely about him; some laid their crutches by them and made themselves comfortable on the floor, which was strewn with rushes.  All got as near to him as they could, allowing the youngest of all to stand nearest or to come within the circle of his arm. There was the little shifting here or there for more comfort and better hearing, then silence and a little sea of eager, upturned faces; then the story began—

That Easter Day when I returned from the cathedral the little Prince began at once with his questions—

“Was the cathedral bright with lights, Benedict? Did they employ the white and gold banners? What service chanted they?”

I answered his questions one by one. Then he ran his little pointed finger over the rough veins on my hand, as was his very loving custom.

“What prayers did they pray, Benedict?”

Now the Queen, knowing my master to be worse, and having heard from the physicians of the court that day that he could live not longer than a year at most, had commanded my Lord Bishop to say more especial prayers for him. So I said—

“They prayed that God in His goodness would spare thee to them.”

“What dost thou mean by that, Benedict?” and he looked up at me.

“I mean that the people would have thee well.”

I said this and no more, remembering the Queen, for the Queen had forbidden strongly that he know how ill he was. Instead, she told him great, expectant tales of how he was some day to be crowned king over some vast country overseas, when this little England had proved herself a fit foe; or perhaps he would rule some day over her father’s court in Provence—the greatest court of all Europe—or perhaps some day over France in place of his uncle, King Louis. Such tales troubled me much, for I knew that even were there such a kingdom for him, he would never live to reign over it. But of these things I said nothing.

“And concerning what did my Lord Bishop teach the people?”

“Concerning a mighty matter,” said I. “He told them of how there is no death, but that it is no more than a sleep, and the waking is life everlasting; and of how Easter doth show clearly this truth.”

“How? In what way?” he said, “for I do not get the meaning.”

“Little master,” I said, bethinking me of my Lord Bishop’s own words, “in winter the earth is stripped of life and the flowers are no more; the grasses lie dead and the leaves are stricken from the boughs, so that not knowing, wouldst thou not say the life of the summer was forever gone?”

He nodded at me.

“Well, so it is with death,” I said, “for it is a bare season in which we see not the beauty, yet there is life ready to bloom forth again in greater glory. Lo, the springtimes of this world wear and change, but of that other world they endure. Thou knowest the russet velvet cloak of Berold, thy father’s page, how it is worn, so that he must needs have a new one for to-day’s pageant?”

He nodded at me again, listening intently.

“Well, it is even so that the body wears like the wearing away of an old cloak.” He thought of this with his brows bent. “But that which the cloak covers lives on,” I said, for I thought he should begin to know of such matters. “So we must not fret ourselves, even if the body wears, for that which this bodily cloak of ours covers no time can mar.”

He listened to the end; then, when I had done, he put his two arms about my neck, and said brightly—

“It is all true, doubtless, Benedict, all that thou sayest, because thou never tellest aught but the truth; yet oh, I am most glad that I shall live long, long to wear my cloak, and that I shall come to be a great king overseas, as my mother, the Queen, hath promised me.”

Perhaps I should have told him then and there that it is God, and not an earthly queen—no, not even Eleanor la Belle of Provence—who shall portion out our lives to us; and I might even have told him that it was a wrong so to cloak and cover with human lies the lot that God had seen fit to bestow upon him; but even at that moment the arras moved and the Queen entered the chamber.

Often have I seen her fair, but never so fair as she looked that day, decked out for the ceremony of the knighting. It was little wonder that men surnamed her la Belle. She made him a deep and sweeping obeisance, as though he had indeed been a king.

“Good day, my little Prince,” she said, very gay. “Hast thou eaten and drunk to please thy body; laughed and been glad to satisfy thy soul, and in all things behaved thee as befits one who is to be so great a monarch?”

“That I have,” he said, and smiled, with his little hands clasped against his breast, as was his custom when he was very happy.

She came and sat by his bed.

“Then thou shalt have the fillet of thy father’s queen to play with as thou wilt; and some day, some day thou shalt have many, many more—great coffers of jewels all thine own, when thou comest to thy kingdom.”

So saying, she took the fillet of precious stones from her hair and let it drop all golden and full of its coloured glitter into the thin white cup of his little upturned hands. Then she unfastened a chaplet of beryl and chrysoprase, and a belt of wrought gold, which she wore, all clustered and studded with gems, and gave them to him.

“So does thy Queen, the wife of Henry III. of England, the daughter of Berenger of Provence, do thee homage,” she said with her pretty gaiety, that was the best pale sunshine of pleasure that he had.

“See,” she said, “there is more that I have brought thee—a gift befitting thy royalty. Benedict, draw back the arras by the doorway.”

She knelt by his bed and took his hand in hers, and kept her eyes fixed on his face to note his pleasure.

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I did as she bade me. Behind the arras was the King’s page, Berold. He wore his new cloak. His head was back and his stomach forward, very proud. He bore a great silver salver, and on it such a device as I had never seen before, a great glittering peacock.

“Thy aunt, the Queen of France, hath sent it to thee and to me and to thy father, the King.” Then the page, Berold, came forward and knelt down on one fat knee before my little master, so that my little master might touch the strange fowl. The peacock was made of silver and gold, its train gorgeous and spreading; the ends of the silver feathers were set in with a great glitter of sapphires and pearls and rubies and other precious things, so that they winked and shone as the heavy bird and the salver trembled a little in the page’s hands. Never have I seen such a bauble.

The Queen, her arm about him still, watched the little Prince’s face for the joy in it, and delighted to see him make a great examination of the peacock, ordering Berold to turn it about so that he might see it from all sides. When he had done, and sat wrapped in wonder and pleasure, she said—

“There is still more to see! Feel about and thou shalt find it.” Then he felt about the body of the bird, but found nothing. His little hand came at last to the beak.

“There! There! Have a care!” she said. “With thy fingers pull the beak down softly, so.”

He did as she bade him, and there began to drop from the peacock’s beak, into a silver bowl below, drops of a sweet-smelling perfume. Then nothing would do but he must have the sweet-smelling water drip and drip and drip until the silver bowl was full and rippled to the brim.

In time he wearied of the plaything and leaned back among his cushions. A look of fear came over the Queen’s face. It was as though she would have distracted him from his illness and herself from the truth by renewed gaiety.

“Shall I tell thee of the great tournament to be held for the knights newly knighted?” she said.

At this he rallied to pleasure again.

“I would rather hear tales of Provence,” he said.

So the Queen smiled again, and began in the old way—“At my father’s court——”

So she told him wonderful tales of Provence; of the old days there, before she came to sombre England; of the splendours of her father’s court; of her magnificent journey hither, attended by a great company of nobles, minstrels, ladies of the court and horsemen bearing golden cups; and of how the people flung garlands and rich cloths and trophies under her horse’s feet as she rode to her crowning.

“It shall be so, also, when I am crowned!” he said, his eyes bright with pleasure.

“Yes, even as it was with me,” she said, pleased to have drawn him once more away from the greyness of English truth into the gay colour of foreign lies.

“Yet it is wearying,” he answered, “that I must stay here in this painted oaken chamber. When shall I leave it and ride about, and hear the people shout my name, and see them bear gold cups for me, also?”

There was the trampling of hoofs in the court below. The Queen rose, and glancing at herself in the burnished shield that hung by the casement, set the fillet again in her hair.

“Next Easter we will have thee knighted. Perhaps then thou mayst go escorted, as was I, to visit the court of Provence.” She stooped and pinched his cheeks. “Keep thy heart light, thy cheeks red, and thyself proud; so mayst thou be a king whom even owlish England shall hail! So mayst thou be a grandson worthy thy grandsire, Berenger of Provence! No gloom, hear you!” She took a quick sharp glance at me. “I like not your English heaviness.”

The clang of armour and the trampling of hoofs in the court below continued. The men-at-arms and knights were assembling. The little Prince lifted himself on his elbow.

“Madam, the Queen, is it not meet that these men below should do my bidding now? I pray thee, say to them that it is my will to see them pass in array before me. Benedict shall hold me yonder at the casement.”

He waved his slim little hand royally with a gesture almost exactly the Queen’s own.

I think the Queen was not a little pleased to see mimicked in him her own great pride and haughty love of command. She stooped to kiss him, and then, with a wave of her hand to him, left us. The King’s page, Berold, being commanded by her to leave the peacock where it was, followed her pompously and fatly, his nose in the air, as he held the edges of her mantle.

I took my little master in my arms. I wrapped him about with a scarf of the Queen’s and stood by the casement, that he might look out.

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Below in the courtyard the knights and men-at-arms and pages were already receiving the Queen’s message. They arrayed themselves and mounted, such as were not already in their saddles, and so, serried themselves at last into ranks. It was done indeed with as much pomp and brave courtesy as if it were the King himself whom they honoured.

My little master straightened himself up slimly in my arms, very keen with pleasure. Then he waved his hand to them in salute.

At this, and also no doubt by the Queen’s command, there was a great clang of armour and there went up a din of shouts and hurrahs, the very horses champing and arching their necks. Also at this moment Berold hastened into the court from the Queen’s doorway, flung up his arms, and cried, “Long live the Prince!” which shout the rest took up.

“See, Benedict!” said my little master joyfully, turning toward me in my arms, “I am indeed a great Prince!”

I made no answer.

He was content to stay in my arms and watch them, until the King himself came forth and the cavalcade made ready to depart. Once the Queen from her casement waved her scarf to him and made motion to the King, and seemed vexed that the King did not look up nor take notice of him. But my little master thought naught of this. He rarely saw the King, save in some such fashion as this. Indeed, it was so seldom that he saw any of the royal family save the Queen, that he gave himself little concern for them. Yet he always spoke with reverence of his father, Henry of England; but I think that was more because his father was a king than that the King was his father.

When the last of the knights had clanged forth from the courtyard, he turned and let his head rest very wearily against my cheek.

“Benedict, I am glad to be a great prince.”

I carried him, little and frail, back to his cushions, and answered him—

“True greatness lies in goodness, my Prince. It seems to me thou art indeed very good. Thou hast been very patient under all thy suffering.”

“I shall be most glad,” he said wearily, “when it is gone, this illness—as my mother, the Queen, says it soon shall be. Then I shall ride, also, and carry armour, like any king, and straddle Red Roland, as strong as any knight. Thou knowest how my mother, the Queen, hath said that Red Roland is kept ever saddled and ready. Some day, when I shall suddenly grow strong—and she says it may be any day, perhaps to-morrow!—then shall I leap on Red Roland, and ride away, seeking adventure! Shall I not, Benedict? Thou knowest how I shall!”

I strode to the casement and back, and to the casement again, my heart heavy with bitterness against the Queen. He was so little and so frail to be set about by so many lies.

When I turned again his eyes were closed, and he had fallen asleep from weariness. Once, as I watched, a look of pain came over his face, then happiness again. You have seen swift cloud shadows speed rapidly over the windy sweet March meadows?

From the direction of the Abbey came the far, mellow sound of the King’s trumpeters, where the knights rode forth to the knighting. My little master must have heard them in his sleep, for his lips smiled, and once more, doubtless, he thought he was a king.

Chapter II

With the coming of the dusk there came to the palace one Sir Guilbert, a brave knight from the North. Hearing this, my little master begged to have him come and tell him of his adventures. It was the Queen’s custom that all knights from abroad who visited us should pay their homage to my little master.

I heaped the logs high in the fireplace, for the nights were still cool, and the little Prince loved to watch the shadows dance and leap, and he would pretend that they were the wolves and rabbits that dance and play together so friendly in the moonlight on St. John’s Day.

It was for the most part a happy evening. The Queen and her ladies came too, and listened to the tales of Sir Guilbert.

Sir Guilbert was a great, broad-shouldered knight, and had many adventures to tell, some grave, some gay. But it was the grave ones of great daring which the little Prince liked best. When Sir Guilbert’s account was ended my little master pressed his hands together, and said softly—

“Such things shall I, too, do.”

“Yes, that thou shalt,” answered the Queen, “and even greater when thou art grown.” Whereat all the Queen’s ladies stopped their soft chattering, and fell silent.

Then the little Prince said—

“Good Sir Guilbert, lay thy sword where I may feel of it.”

So Sir Guilbert put his good sword, called “Marvellous,” into my little master’s hands, so that he could feel of the great hilt and the bright blade.

The Queen’s head drooped a moment toward Sir Guilbert’s ear, and her lips moved softly; but my little master did not see, his gaze being intent on the sword. The next moment Sir Guilbert dropped on one knee by the bed, and said—

“Though I have received knighthood of thy uncle, King Louis of France, yet if thou wouldst touch my shoulder with the blade, and dub me thy servant, I should be glad.”

The Queen’s ladies all leaned forward, and the Queen looked on proudly at my little master.

He was very pleased, and tried to take the great sword in his two hands, but could not lift it an inch. The Queen gave me a swift look, haughty, full of meaning, a wordless command. So I, too, was made a part of her false pageantries. I reached and lifted the sword from the bed, just under where his two hands clasped it; and together he and I laid its blade on Sir Guilbert’s shoulder—my little master with delight in his face, and I with bitterness in my heart. I dropped my eyes to shut out the Queen, and heard my master say in his sweet and slender voice, very kingly, and without a break—

“In the name of St. George, and St. Michael the Archangel, I dub thee knight. So shalt thou protect women, the poor and the distressed; so shalt thou practise courtesy; shalt pursue the infidels, and, despising ease and safety, maintain thy honour in every perilous adventure; so shalt thou maintain the right, and for ever speak naught else but God’s truth only. So shalt thou serve God always, and me, thy Prince, all the years of thy life and mine, God sparing thee.”

There was a moment’s silence all around the room, then Sir Guilbert got to his feet. I noted that his eyes were moist, and I knew by that that he, too, knew what the Queen’s physicians had determined concerning the little Prince’s illness. So it was that all of us seemed under the Queen’s spell to deceive him.

Sir Guilbert lifted the great sword “Marvellous,” and stood with his eyes bent, putting it in his sheath.

The Queen rose, and all the Queen’s ladies with her. They made their several curtsies to the little Prince, and finally all gathered at the arras and swept out with soft flutter, like so many gay-coloured leaves before an autumn wind.

Sir Guilbert followed them more slowly, the arras fell, and so we went, all of us, to our beds—I to mine in the little Prince’s chamber.

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Chapter III

For a long while I lay without sleeping.  Then I thought I heard him moan. I rose and went to him. He was not asleep. I sat down by the bedside. The fire had died down to embers. The round spring moon stood full in the casement. My little master loosed his hold on a jewelled garland which the Queen had left with him, and put his hand on mine.

“Benedict,” he said, “I do not care now for either jewels or fine tales. I am weary, and my head hurts as though it were no prince’s head—as a prince’s head hath no right to hurt.”

“It is that thou art over-weary,” I said, “weary and ill.”

“Of what use is it, then, to be a prince, if one must be weary and ill?”

He lay quite still. Then it was as though he was meeting some great fear suddenly.

“Benedict,” he said, “thou art sure I shall get well? Thou art sure I shall grow up to be a great king? Shall I not, Benedict?”

“Always as God wills,” I answered.

Then I told him once again the story of Easter, and how there is no death—for I began to believe that even the Queen’s lies no longer cheated him.

“Benedict, thou sayest the body may wear away like an old cloak. That I do not like. What part of us is it that does not wear, but lives?”

“That part of us which thinks and loves,” I answered: “also the good we do.”

“But I have done no good.”

“But, my little master, thou hast been too weak and ill.”

He caught at this.

“Can the weak and ill do no good?” he said.

“Yes. But thou art born the son of a King, the child of a Queen. Every one has waited upon thee, and hastened to do thy bidding——”

“Is it, then, useless to be a prince?” said he.

For a moment I could not answer him. Then he put his head down, and cried softly, like one very weary.

I tried to comfort him. I pointed out to him that he had much indeed for which to give God thanks: and that there were many not princes, but poor and without comfort who were, even as he was, crippled.

“Even as I, Benedict?”

“Even as thou. But many suffer more. Thou hast thy mother’s jewels, and the great peacock, and the visits of the knights and ladies to help thee pass the hours; but there are those who have no such things, and who are often even hungry, who in the winter have not thy comforts, the good, warm garments, the friendly fire.”

“There are many such?”

“Yes, many.”

“Knowest thou any—thou, thyself?”

“I knew once a little lad like thee, who could not run about, but must sit still all day in a dreary hovel, where no sunshine came. Thou playest with the jewels of thy mother, little master—of thy mother, the Queen; he played patiently all day with but little sticks and pebbles, and naught else. And he was alone hour after hour. The times were bleak, and my mother and I—I was but a young lad—had to work hard, and could not be with him.”

“Thou and thy mother——”

“Yes; it is of my little brother that I tell thee. At last, one winter, colder than any other, lacking all the comforts that thou hast, he died.”

At this he would have me tell him everything. Question after question he put, and would have the story over from the beginning. It was a sad tale, and the Queen would have been angered had she known. Yet I think God put the story upon my lips, for my master would have it over again from the beginning, and then once more over again.

When I had finished it for the third time, he said to me, his face very thoughtful in the moonlight—

“Benedict, my mother, the Queen, hath promised me a great palace—as thou well knowest—when I come into my kingdom. If it were builded now! If it were, instead, a house for such poor crippled children to live in! Benedict, I shall command my mother to build it. She will do whatsoever I ask. Would that, thinkest thou, be good to do?”

Now what he said was indeed true. Let him but ask persistently of the Queen, and she would, of a certainty, grant whatever was in her power. Yet this might rouse her anger, too, this new fancy. My feelings went two ways. What were it best for me to do?

Then I was ashamed of my arrogance. Who was I to decide so grave a matter? “It is God’s affair,” I told myself. And I thanked Him silently that by His goodness even the suffering life of my little brother, long gone, might perhaps live again in this sweet way, and be used to His service. Then I recalled the Prince’s question.

“Yes, master,” I said, “that would be good to do.”

After this, for a long while, he talked eagerly of how it should be built, this hospice, this hostel of God, for the little children, sick and crippled, of the kingdom. In the midst of his plans his face grew very serious.

“How long must the builders work, Benedict, before it is finished?”

“Perhaps a long time,” said I.

“Will my cloak wear so long, thinkest thou, Benedict?” he said, using my Lord Bishop’s own simile of death.

“As God wills,” I answered.

“Then thou dost not know?” he urged.

Now, despite the Queen’s lies, I who loved him so could not lie to him; no, I could not. So I only said—

“Little master, thy mother, the Queen, wishes thee to think that thou shalt live to be a great king.”

“But thou thinkest I shall not? Dost thou know, Benedict?”

Having heard the learned men say over again that very day that he could at best live no more than a year, I sat dumb, not knowing what to answer.

“I am thy Prince,” he said then, half in anger. “If I command thee to tell me, thou shalt. I have need to know how much time I have in which to do the good that will live on after the cloak is worn.” (It was so that he still chose to speak of death.) “God commands thee to tell no lies; this thou hast often said to me. Also it is thy Prince’s command that if thou knowest thou shalt say. How long will the cloak wear? Ten years? Twenty?”

Then I put myself in God’s hands. I raised my head and looked at the little Prince.

“God help me, little master!” I said. “At most, for a year’s time.”

I think his face grew even whiter. It was, without doubt, hard news for him.

“But that is such a little, little time, Benedict,” he said at last. “Such a little, little time. There is, then, not enough time left for me to do any good.” The tears stood in his eyes.

Half doubting whether it had not been wrong to tell him such news, I took his two hands.

“Little master,” I said, “thou and twelve months can do nothing, but thou and God—thou and God——”

“But can the hospice be builded in great haste?” he answered. “Can that be done?”

“Art thou the son of a King?” I said. “Hast thou a queen—Eleanor la Belle—to be thy mother?”

So without shame, but for God’s ends, I used the Queen’s own methods, and made appeal to his pride.

So he fell again to planning all that must be done, and grew very sleepy only at a late hour.

Chapter IV

The next morning I found him as wide awake as a starling, the April sunshine all about him. He was very impatient to have his mother, the Queen, brought to him. When she came, in her gay, pretty humour, he watched her, as a king might a subject, while she curtsied to him. Then he began at once telling her of his wish. He did not tell her of our talk of the night before, but merely that it was his wish that there should be begun, at once, with all haste, a building, a home for the little children of the kingdom, crippled like himself.

The Queen was very astonished at this, and would have lightly dissuaded him. She offered him her jewels, and would have persuaded him to lighter and less gloomy fancies. But he would not be gainsaid. Indeed, he urged her so much that at last she attempted to refuse him.

“This thou mayest have, and that”—and she unclasped the garland from her hair, and a chain of jewels from her neck—“and the jewelled peacock to be thy very own, but not what thou askest.”

Then the colour grew in his cheeks; and he set before her very earnestly that since he was a prince, and since she never refused him aught, this, too, she should grant him.

Then she pleaded lack of gold.

At this his eyes grew wide, and his soft voice had the ring of her own in it.

“Thou jestest! Thou, the Queen! Thou, Eleanor la Belle! Thou! Thou, sister to my uncle, Louis of France! Thou, wife to my father, England’s king! Thou, daughter to Berenger!”

The Queen turned to me. Her cheeks were hot, and her look very haughty.

“It is thou, Benedict, who hast put this maudlin notion in the Prince’s head.”

Before I could answer, he spoke up very quickly, and there was even a little quaver of anger in his slender voice.

“Nay, I tell thee it is my notion; not his, nor any other’s, but mine, mine. Thinkest thou the grandson of Berenger of Provence must borrow his notions of a poor and English monk!”

So he spoke very proudly to her, as she stood there queenly and beautiful, and he little and weak, yet with a royal face and royal ways.

So God, who can make use of all things, yea, even the meanest and least, saw fit in that moment to make use of his arrogance and hers. Yea, took it up in His hand, even like a tool.

At the little Prince’s words, so like her own, and his manner, so like an unfurled bud of her own full-blown pride, the Queen’s eyes melted into that almost foolish fondness that she had for all her children, but especially for him who seemed more than the others her son. She stooped, and put her arms about him, and kissed him; and he stroked her cheek and handled her in such a kingly way that even I began to see how she could not further dissuade him, but would yield to his wish.

So three days later the hospice was begun, in very sight of the palace, where he could watch the men building it.

From now on I noted that even the Queen’s jewels no longer pleased him much. Often they lay idle and forgotten, while he talked of the hospice, or he watched the builders come and go.

These days were indeed full of happiness for him. He smiled much, and was so glad, that many in the palace hearing of it, took heart, and began to believe that he would, after all, grow strong; but those of us who were close to him—all save the Queen—saw that his strength grew less, even despite his happiness.

The Queen talked often with him about the following Easter, when, for the sake of the mere pleasure it would give him, she planned to have him carried to the Abbey to witness the ceremonies of knighthood, and also planned that the King should then bestow on him one of those several meaningless titles with which both the King and the Queen were lavish.

The summer and autumn sped by. So unceasingly did the builders work, that by the first snowfall the hospice was nearly completed. Many of the sick and poor children of the kingdom, and mostly the crippled children of Saint Dunstan’s—a place very poor in comforts—were brought to the hospice to be cheered, and to be cared for there, by the Brothers of God’s Mercy, a little band under the orders of my Lord Bishop.

It was a motley crowd that gathered about the gateway of the hospice, and some even carried thither on beds of boughs. My master could only watch from his casement in the palace, while I went, as he commanded me, and offered prayer, and talked with the brothers, and told the children they were welcome, and saw that they had whatever comforts they had need of.

When I returned, my little master was propped up in bed in the firelight, his eyes eager and his cheeks flushed.

“Oh, Benedict,” he said, as I entered, “this is the hardest task thou hast ever set me—this of waiting for thy coming! Now tell me everything thou hast to tell! Everything!”

So I told him, even down to the least happening; and never had I seen so deep a happiness as was in his face. Little as he was, he was learning what many of us learn only late—how good it is to be used by God.

After that I had to go often to the hospice, to bring him news of it, and of the children, and how they fared. And no less, each time that I went, I was forced to tell them about him. For though they had not seen him, yet they heard his name often; and he was like a little royal brother to them. That he was afflicted, even as they were, endeared him to them only the more.

So the winter went, and the gentle season came. The happiness still shone in my little master’s face; but to those who watched, it was plain the frail body was wearing, wearing. Though the birds returned, and the fields were reclad; though the flowers came back to their own; though the trees held out sweet blossoming boughs to the returning spring, and song was once more in the dry throats of the brooks, and all things were come again, yet his power was slipping away bit by bit, and his strength was going.

It was as though the dear springtime had forgotten him.

Chapter V

It seemed almost that the Queen ignored that God was so close by, or pretended not to see, for she continued to lay great plans of pomp and splendour for the coming Easter.

As the day drew near, there rode in brave knights and squires, summoned from all the country about, to be present at the ceremonies of the knighting. In the palace all was astir. Shields and lances and helmets were burnished; rich cloths and stuffs were brought from London town.

The Queen, partly because he seemed so happy, partly because she loved to cheat herself, made sure my little master would be so well by Easter Day that he could ride to the Abbey, not on Red Roland, perhaps, but in a royal litter of red and gold, drawn by milk-white horses.

The little Prince, loving grandeur and pomp as he did, listened and loved to hear.

“Red Roland hath so long stood saddled!” he said to me one day. “When I leave the palace on Easter Day I would not have him left behind. Thou shalt see to it that he follows the litter. See thou that this is done—to please him!” So it was that he was thoughtful and loving towards all things—even Red Roland, who knew him not.

In the week before Easter the good knight Guilbert came again to the palace. My little master was greatly pleased to see him, and asked eagerly what adventures had befallen him in the year past. But even as Sir Guilbert was telling him, the little Prince put out his hand on mine and looked up at me so white and weary that Sir Guilbert, seeing this, ended the tale soon, and bending on one knee, bade the little Prince good-night.

The following morning my little master was so weak that he did not even care to look—as was usually his first desire—at the hospice in the valley. The whole palace became hushed. In the late afternoon he rallied to his old brightness, and the Queen sent forth word that he was strong and that the preparations should go forward again.

But as the sun began to set he wearied once more. The Queen would not leave him, but tried to please him with offering him fresh jewels she had lately got from France; but he only put his hand on them, and did not take them up. Then Berold was summoned to show the little Prince once more the wondrous peacock; but from this, too, which he loved so much, he soon turned to me. He was not content unless his hand was on mine. So he lay a long while, thinking of I know not what.

At last it was as though some thought more grave than the others roused him.

“Benedict,” he said, and I thought there was some fear in his face, “I shall live to be a great king, shall I not? I like it not that the cloak wears. I like it not. I am the son of a King. I am the grandson of Berenger—the grandson of Berenger.”

“That indeed art thou,” interrupted the Queen, “the grandson of Berenger of Provence, and lord over great kingdoms.”

“Hast thou forgot,” said I, “the truth concerning Easter? It is not God’s wish that we should fear Death.”

“Nay,” once more interrupted the Queen, with a glance at me—a glance half angry, half pleading; then with her old pride she bent toward him. “Thou who art thyself so great a prince—what hast thou to fear? He is a King, too—thou shalt go before Him proud, with many jewels and with precious gifts.” Her voice faltered and she could say no more.

He turned to me.

“Benedict, thou dost always speak the truth,” and he waited.

“Thou mindest what I have told thee of Easter,” I said. “Lo, Easter is again at hand. Thy little royal cloak is almost worn through, and thou must soon lay it aside. But thou shalt not grieve over so small a matter. Thou knowest that God in His goodness has permitted thy little life to be full of mercy. The kingdom of Berenger shall not be thine, but thou art of God’s kingdom. The peacock and the jewels thou must leave, but the sweet mercy and the loving deeds shall follow thee. Hast thou forgot the little subjects, poor and crippled, of thy kingdom? What wouldst thou rather—that great kings salute thee, or that these who have suffered call thee brother? That great monarchs give thee jewels, or that these who have not so much as one jewel amongst them, bless thee all the days of their lives? What wouldst thou rather?”

He leaned a little forward against me.

“Thou knowest,” he said.

The soft twilight fell on his face. There was in it now that content and sweet wisdom, without fear, which is to be seen on the faces of all those who have served God.

After that the night came quickly. Sir Guilbert, who loved him, laid his great body down outside my little master’s door and slept there in his mail, and with his sword “Marvellous” unsheathed.

Once far into the night my little master, still mindful of others, half wakened, and spoke to me, saying—

“He hath stood so long saddled! Thou wilt see, Benedict, that Red Roland follows close behind.”

After this I remember no more. I think God laid a deep slumber on us, as He was wont of old to do when He would hide His presence from men. While Sir Guilbert slept, and the Queen, too, was given over to weariness—and I, also—our dear and gentle Lord Himself came—of this I am certain—and led my master’s knightly spirit away into that greater kingdom in which I doubt not, if the Saints be saints, he found a right royal welcome.

With the first streak of dawn I wakened. Never have I seen so fair a resurrection. The hospice stood in the valley like a white spirit thing, new risen from the dead of night. At its feet were mists, and above it the unquenched morning star hung like one of the Queen’s own jewels. God grant I was not grown worldly, too! But as I saw the sweet, gem-like glitter of it, I thought with no little solemn pleasure, “There, too, shall he have jewels—the KING’S own!”

Instead of the festivities which were to have been, we had a grave palace. But the Easter sunshine and the Easter earth were glad, and those who knew and loved him could not be sad. Later the knights and trumpeters and pages followed the little Prince’s frail body to the Abbey, and Red Roland, too, without saddle, led step by step by Berold, the page.

There were many nobles and gallant knights in the train—I think it would have pleased him.

When the cortège had wound down the hill, and came to the hospice, those who were strong enough to be about on their crutches came to the courtyard gate, and stood there—little pensioners of his goodness—to see it pass. Those stronger than the rest hobbled away from the gate, and joining the knights and guards, limped along by the little Prince’s body, and would not be gainsaid. So they continued, all save one, who, growing weak and stumbling, the good knight Guilbert lifted to his steed and carried in his arms.

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