The Life and Death of Richard Yea-and-Nay | Page 4

moment supper was done, up jumps Richard and claps
hands on the two shoulders of young Eustace. 'To bed, to bed, my
falconer! It grows late,' cries he. Eustace pushed his chair back, rose,
kissed the Count's hand and his sister's forehead, saluted Milo, and
went out humming a tune. Milo withdrew, the servants bowed
themselves away. Richard stood up, a loose-limbed young giant, and
narrowed his eyes.
'Nest thee, nest thee, my bird,' he said low; and Jehane's lips parted.
Slowly she left her stool by the fire, but quickened as she went; and at
last ran tumbling into his arms.
His right hand embraced her, his left at her chin held her face at
discretion. Like a woman, she reproached him for what she dearly
loved.
'Lord, lord, how shall I serve the cup and platter if you hold me so fast?'

'Thou art my cup, thou art my supper.'
'Thin fare, poor soul,' she said; but was glad of his foolishness.
Later, they sat by the hearth, Jehane on Richard's knee, but doubtfully
his, being troubled by many things. He had no retrospects nor
afterthoughts; he tried to coax her into pliancy. It was the fires in the
north that distressed her. Richard made light of them.
'Dear,' he said, 'the King my father is come up with a host to drive the
Count his son to bed. Now the Count his son is master of a good bed, to
which he will presently go; but it is not the bed of the King his father.
That, as you know, is of French make, neither good Norman, nor good
Angevin, nor seethed in the English mists. By Saint Maclou and the
astonishing works he did, I should be bad Norman, and worse Angevin,
and less English than I am, if I loved the French.'
He tried to draw her in; but she, rather, strained away from him,
elbowed her knee, and rested her chin upon her hand. She looked
gravely down to the whitening logs, where the ashes were gaining on
the red.
'My lord loves not the French,' she said, 'but he loves honour. He is the
King's son, loving his father.'
'By my soul, I do not,' he assured her, with perfect truth, then he caught
her round the waist and turned her bodily to face him. After he had
kissed her well he began to speak more seriously.
'Jehane,' he said, 'I have thought all this stifling night upon the heath,
Homing to her I am seeking my best. My best? You are all I have in the
world. If honour is in my hand, do I not owe it to you? Or shall a man
use women like dogs, to play with them in idle moods, toss them bones
under the table, afterwards kick them out of doors? Child, you know
me better. What!' he cried out, with his head very high, 'Shall a man not
choose his own wife?'
'No,' said Jehane, ready for him; 'no, Richard, unless the people shall

choose their own king.'
'God chooses the king,' says Richard, 'or so we choose to believe.'
'Then God must appoint the wife,' Jehane said, and tried to get free. But
this could not be allowed, as she knew.
She was gentle with him, reasoning. 'The King your father is an old
man, Richard. Old men love their way.'
'God knows, he is old, and passionate, and indifferent wicked,' said
Richard, and kissed Jehane. 'Look, my girl, there were four of us:
Henry, and me, and Geoffrey, and John, whom he sought to drive in
team by a sop to-day and a stick to-morrow. A good way, done by a
judging hand. What then? I will tell you how the team served the
teamster. Henry gave sop for sop, and it was found well. Might he not
give stick for stick? He thought so: God rest him, he is dead of that.
There was much simplicity in Henry. I got no sop at all. Why should I
have stick then? I saw no reason; but I took what came. If I cried out, it
is a more harmless vent than many. Let me alone. Geoffrey, I think,
was a villain. God help him if He can: he is dead too. He took sop and
gave stick: ungentle in Geoffrey, but he paid for it. He was a cross-bred
dog with much of the devil in him; he bit himself and died barking.
Last, there is John. I desire to speak reasonably of John; but he is too
snug, he gets all sop. This is not fair. He should have some stick, that
we may judge what mettle he has. There, my Jehane, you have the four
of us, a fretful team; whereof one has