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AS soon as Miles Hendon and the little prince were clear of the
mob, they struck down through back lanes and alleys toward the
river. Their way was unobstructed until they approached London Bridge;
then they plowed into the multitude again, Hendon keeping a fast
grip upon the prince's- no, the king's- wrist. The tremendous news was
already abroad, and the boy learned it from a thousand voices at once-
'The king is dead!' The tidings struck a chill to the heart of the
poor little waif, and sent a shudder through his frame. He realized
the greatness of his loss, and was filled with a bitter grief; for the
grim tyrant who had been such a terror to others had always been
gentle with him. The tears sprung to his eyes and blurred all objects.
For an instant he felt himself the most forlorn, outcast, and forsaken
of God's creatures- then another cry shook the night with its
far-reaching thunders: 'Long live King Edward the Sixth!' and this
made his eyes kindle, and thrilled him with pride to his fingers'
ends. 'Ah,' he thought, 'how grand and strange it seems- I AM KING!'
Our friends threaded their way slowly through the throngs upon the
Bridge. This structure, which had stood for six hundred years, and had
been a noisy and populous thoroughfare all that time, was a curious
affair, for a closely packed rank of stores and shops, with family
quarters overhead, stretched along both sides of it, from one bank
of the river to the other. The Bridge was a sort of town to itself; it
had its inn, its beerhouses, its bakeries, its haberdasheries, its
food markets, its manufacturing industries, and even its church. It
looked upon the two neighbors which it linked together- London and
Southwark- as being well enough, as suburbs, but not otherwise
particularly important. It was a close corporation, so to speak; it
was a narrow town, of a single street a fifth of a mile long, its
population was but a village population, and everybody in it knew
all his fellow-townsmen intimately, and had known their fathers and
mothers before them- and all their little family affairs into the
bargain. It had its aristocracy, of course- its fine old families of
butchers, and bakers, and what not, who had occupied the same old
premises for five or six hundred years, and knew the great history
of the Bridge from beginning to end, and all its strange legends;
and who always talked bridgy talk, and thought bridgy thoughts, and
lied in a long, level, direct, substantial bridgy way. It was just the
sort of population to be narrow and ignorant and self-conceited.
Children were born on the Bridge, were reared there, grew to old age
and finally died without ever having set a foot upon any part of the
world but London Bridge alone. Such people would naturally imagine
that the mighty and interminable procession which moved through its
street night and day, with its confused roar of shouts and cries,
its neighings and bellowings and bleatings and its muffled
thunder-tramp, was the one great thing in this world, and themselves
somehow the proprietors of it. And so they were in effect- at least
they could exhibit it from their windows, and did- for a
consideration- whenever a returning king or hero gave it a fleeting
splendor, for there was no place like it for affording a long,
straight, uninterrupted view of marching columns.
Men born and reared upon the Bridge found life unendurably dull
and inane elsewhere. History tells of one of these who left the Bridge
at the age of seventy-one and retired to the country. But he could
only fret and toss in his bed; he could not go to sleep, the deep
stillness was so painful, so awful, so oppressive. When he was worn
out with it, at last, he fled back to his old home, a lean and haggard
specter, and fell peacefully to rest and pleasant dreams under the
lulling music of the lashing waters and the boom and crash and thunder
of London Bridge.
In the times of which we are writing, the Bridge furnished 'object
lessons' in English history, for its children- namely, the livid and
decaying heads of renowned men impaled upon iron spikes atop of its
gateways. But we digress.
Hendon's lodgings were in the little inn on the Bridge. As he
neared the door with his small friend, a rough voice said:
'So, thou'rt come at last! Thou'lt not escape again. I warrant
thee; and if pounding thy bones to a pudding can teach thee
somewhat, thou'lt not keep us waiting another time, mayhap'- and
John Canty put out his hand to seize the boy.
Miles Hendon stepped in the way, and said:
'Not too fast, friend. Thou art needlessly rough, methinks. What
is the lad to thee?'
'If it be any business of thine to make and meddle in others'
affairs, he is my son.'
''Tis a lie!' cried the little king, hotly.
'Boldly said, and I believe thee, whether thy small head-piece
be sound or cracked, my boy. But whether this scurvy ruffian be thy
father or no, 'tis all one, he shall not have thee to beat thee and
abuse, according to his threat, so thou prefer to abide with me.'
'I do, I do- I know him not, I loathe him, and will die before I
will go with him.'
'Then 'tis settled, and there is naught more to say.'
'We will see, as to that!' exclaimed John Canty, striding past
Hendon to get at the boy; 'by force shall he-'
'If thou do but touch him, thou animated offal, I will spit thee
like a goose!' said Hendon, barring the way and laying his hand upon
his sword-hilt. Canty drew back. 'Now mark ye,' continued Hendon, 'I
took this lad under my protection when a mob such as thou would have
mishandled him, mayhap killed him; dost imagine I will desert him
now to a worser fate?- for whether thou art his father or no- and
sooth to say, I think it is a lie- a decent swift death were better
for such a lad than life in such brute hands as thine. So go thy ways,
and set quick about it, for I like not much bandying of words, being
not overpatient in my nature.'
John Canty moved off, muttering threats and curses, and was
swallowed from sight in the crowd. Hendon ascended three flights of
stairs to his room, with his charge, after ordering a meal to be
sent thither. It was a poor apartment, with a shabby bed and some odds
and ends of old furniture in it, and was vaguely lighted by a couple
of sickly candles. The little king dragged himself to the bed and
lay down upon it, almost exhausted with hunger and fatigue. He had
been on his feet a good part of a day and a night, for it was now
two or three o'clock in the morning, and had eaten nothing meantime.
He murmured drowsily:
'Prithee, call me when the table is spread,' and sunk into a
deep sleep immediately.
A smile twinkled in Hendon's eye, and he said to himself:
'By the mass, the little beggar takes to one's quarters and usurps
one's bed with as natural and easy a grace as if he owned them- with
never a by-your-leave or so-please-it-you, or anything of the sort. In
his diseased ravings he called himself the Prince of Wales, and
bravely doth he keep up the character. Poor little friendless rat,
doubtless his mind has been disordered with ill usage. Well, I will be
his friend; I have saved him, and it draweth me strongly to him;
already I love the bold-tongued little rascal. How soldierlike he
faced the smutty rabble and flung back his high defiance! And what a
comely, sweet and gentle face he hath, now that sleep hath conjured
away its troubles and its griefs. I will teach him, I will cure his
malady; yea, I will be his elder brother, and care for him and watch
over him; and who so would shame him or do him hurt, may order his
shroud, for though I be burnt for it he shall need it!'
He bent over the boy and contemplated him with kind and pitying
interest, tapping the young cheek tenderly and smoothing back the
tangled curls with his great brown hand. A slight shiver passed over
the boy's form. Hendon muttered:
'See, now, how like a man it was to let him lie here uncovered and
fill his body with deadly rheums. Now what shall I do? 'Twill wake him
to take him up and put him within the bed, and he sorely needeth
sleep.'
He looked about for extra covering, but finding none, doffed his
doublet and wrapped the lad in it, saying, 'I am used to nipping air
and scant apparel, 'tis little I shall mind the cold'- then walked
up and down the room to keep his blood in motion, soliloquizing as
before.
'His injured mind persuades him he is Prince of Wales; 'twill be
odd to have a Prince of Wales still with us, now that he that was
the prince is prince no more, but king- for this poor mind is set upon
the one fantasy, and will not reason out that now it should cast by
the prince and call itself the king.... If my father liveth still,
after these seven years that I have heard naught from home in my
foreign dungeon, he will welcome the poor lad and give him generous
shelter for my sake; so will my good elder brother, Arthur; my other
brother, Hugh- but I will crack his crown, an he interfere, the
fox-hearted, ill-conditioned animal! Yes, thither will we fare- and
straightway, too.'
A servant entered with a smoking meal, disposed it upon a small
deal table, placed the chairs, and took his departure, leaving such
cheap lodgers as these to wait upon themselves. The door slammed after
him, and the noise woke the boy, who sprung to a sitting posture,
and shot a glad glance about him; then a grieved look came into his
face and he murmured to himself, with a deep sigh, 'Alack, it was
but a dream. Woe is me.' Next he noticed Miles Hendon's doublet-
glanced from that to Hendon, comprehended the sacrifice that had
been made for him, and said, gently:
'Thou art good to me, yes, thou art very good to me. Take it and
put it on- I shall not need it more.'
Then he got up and walked to the washstand in the corner, and
stood there waiting. Hendon said in a cheery voice:
'We'll have a right hearty sup and bite now, for everything is
savory and smoking hot, and that and thy nap together will make thee a
little man again, never fear!'
The boy made no answer, but bent a steady look, that was filled
with grave surprise, and also somewhat touched with impatience, upon
the tall knight of the sword. Hendon was puzzled, and said:
'What's amiss?'
'Good sir, I would wash me.'
'Oh, is that all! Ask no permission of Miles Hendon for aught thou
cravest. Make thyself perfectly free here and welcome, with all that
are his belongings.'
Still the boy stood, and moved not; more, he tapped the floor once
or twice with his small impatient foot. Hendon was wholly perplexed.
Said he:
'Bless us, what is it?'
'Prithee, pour the water, and make not so many words!'
Hendon, suppressing a horse-laugh, and saying to himself, 'By
all the saints, but this is admirable!' stepped briskly forward and
did the small insolent's bidding; then stood by, in a sort of
stupefaction, until the command, 'Come- the towel!' woke him sharply
up. He took up a towel from under the boy's nose and handed it to him,
without comment. He now proceeded to comfort his own face with a wash,
and while he was at it his adopted child seated himself at the table
and prepared to fall to. Hendon despatched his ablutions with
alacrity, then drew back the other chair and was about to place
himself at table, when the boy said, indignantly:
'Forbear! Wouldst sit in the presence of the king?'
This blow staggered Hendon to his foundations. He muttered to
himself, 'Lo, the poor thing's madness is up with the time! it hath
changed with the great change that is come to the realm, and now in
fancy is he king! Good lack, I must humor the conceit, too- there is
no other way- faith, he would order me to the Tower, else!'
And pleased with this jest, he removed the chair from the table,
took his stand behind the king, and proceeded to wait upon him in
the courtliest way he was capable of.
When the king ate, the rigor of his royal dignity relaxed a
little, and with his growing contentment came a desire to talk. He
said:
'I think thou callest thyself Miles Hendon, if I heard thee
aright?'
'Yes, sire,' Miles replied then observed to himself, 'If I must
humor the poor lad's madness, I must sire him, I must majesty him, I
must not go by halves, I must stick at nothing that belongeth to the
part I play, else shall I play it ill and work evil to this charitable
and kindly cause.'
The king warmed his heart with a second glass of wine, and said:
'I would know thee- tell me thy story. Thou hast a gallant way with
thee, and a noble- art nobly born?'
'We are of the tail of the nobility, good your majesty. My
father is a baronet- one of the smaller lords, by knight
service*(8)- Sir Richard Hendon, of Hendon Hall, by Monk's Holm in
Kent.'
'The name has escaped my memory. Go on- tell me thy story.'
''Tis not much, your majesty, yet perchance it may beguile a short
half-hour for want of a better. My father, Sir Richard, is very
rich, and of a most generous nature. My mother died whilst I was yet a
boy. I have two brothers: Arthur, my elder, with a soul like to his
father's; and Hugh, younger than I, a mean spirit, covetous,
treacherous, vicious, underhanded- a reptile. Such was he from the
cradle; such was he ten years past, when I last saw him- a ripe rascal
at nineteen, I being twenty then, and Arthur twenty-two. There is none
other of us but the Lady Edith, my cousin- she was sixteen, then-
beautiful, gentle, good, the daughter of an earl, the last of her
race, heiress of a great fortune and a lapsed title. My father was her
guardian. I loved her and she loved me; but she was betrothed to
Arthur from the cradle, and Sir Richard would not suffer the
contract to be broken. Arthur loved another maid, and bade us be of
good cheer and hold fast to the hope that delay and luck together
would some day give success to our several causes. Hugh loved the Lady
Edith's fortune, though in truth he said it was herself he loved-
but then 'twas his way, alway, to say one thing and mean the other.
But he lost his arts upon the girl; he could deceive my father, but
none else. My father loved him best of us all, and trusted and
believed him; for he was the youngest child and others hated him-
these qualities being in all ages sufficient to win a parent's dearest
love; and he had a smooth persuasive tongue, with an admirable gift of
lying- and these be qualities which do mightily assist a blind
affection to cozen itself. I was wild- in troth I might go yet farther
and say very wild, though 'twas a wildness of an innocent sort,
since it hurt none but me, brought shame to none, nor loss, nor had in
it any taint of crime or baseness, or what might not beseem mine
honorable degree.
'Yet did my brother Hugh turn these faults to good account- he
seeing that our brother Arthur's health was but indifferent, and
hoping the worst might work him profit were I swept out of the path-
so- but 'twere a long tale, good my liege, and little worth the
telling. Briefly, then, this brother did deftly magnify my faults
and make them crimes; ending his base work with finding a silken
ladder in mine apartments- conveyed thither by his own means- and
did convince my father by this, and suborned evidence of servants
and other lying knaves, that I was minded to carry off my Edith and
marry with her, in rank defiance of his will.
'Three years of banishment from home and England might make a
soldier and a man of me, my father said, and teach me some degree of
wisdom. I fought out my long probation in the continental wars,
tasting sumptuously of hard knocks, privation, and adventure; but in
my last battle I was taken captive, and during the seven years that
have waxed and waned since then, a foreign dungeon hath harbored me.
Through wit and courage I won to the free air at last, and fled hither
straight; and am but just arrived, right poor in purse and raiment,
and poorer still in knowledge of what these dull seven years have
wrought at Hendon Hall, its people and belongings. So please you, sir,
my meager tale is told.'
'Thou hast been shamefully abused!' said the little king, with a
flashing eye. 'But I will right thee- by the cross will I! The king
hath said it.'
Then, fired by the story of Miles's wrongs, he loosed his tongue
and poured the history of his own recent misfortunes into the ears
of his astonished listener. When he had finished, Miles said to
himself.
'Lo, what an imagination he hath! Verily this is no common mind;
else, crazed or sane, it could not weave so straight and gaudy a
tale as this out of the airy nothings wherewith it hath wrought this
curious romaunt. Poor ruined little head, it shall not lack friend
or shelter whilst I bide with the living. He shall never leave my
side; he shall be my pet, my little comrade. And he shall be cured!-
aye, made whole and sound- then will he make himself a name- and proud
shall I be to say, "Yes, he is mine- I took him, a homeless little
ragamuffin, but I saw what was in him, and I said his name would be
heard some day- behold him, observe him- was I right?"'
The king spoke- in a thoughtful, measured voice:
'Thou didst save me injury and shame, perchance my life, and so my
crown. Such service demandeth rich reward. Name thy desire, and so
it be within the compass of my royal power, it is thine.'
This fantastic suggestion startled Hendon out of his reverie. He
was about to thank the king and put the matter aside with saying he
bad only done his duty and desired no reward, but a wiser thought came
into his head, and he asked leave to be silent a few moments and
consider the gracious offer- an idea which the king gravely
approved, remarking that it was best to be not too hasty with a
thing of such great import.
Miles reflected during some moments, then said to himself, 'Yes,
that is the thing to do- by any other means it were impossible to
get at it- and certes, this hour's experience has taught me 'twould be
most wearing and inconvenient to continue it as it is. Yes, I will
propose it; 'twas a happy accident that I did not throw the chance
away.' Then he dropped upon one knee and said:
'My poor service went not beyond the limit of a subject's simple
duty, and therefore hath no merit; but since your majesty is pleased
to hold it worthy some reward, I take heart of grace to make
petition to this effect. Near four hundred years ago, as your grace
knoweth, there being ill blood betwixt John, king of England, and
the king of France, it was decreed that two champions should fight
together in the lists, and so settle the dispute by what is called the
arbitrament of God. These two kings, and the Spanish king, being
assembled to witness and judge the conflict, the French champion
appeared; but so redoubtable was he that our English knights refused
to measure weapons with him. So the matter, which was a weighty one,
was like to go against the English monarch by default. Now in the
Tower lay the Lord de Courcy, the mightiest arm in England, stripped
of his honors and possessions, and wasting with long captivity. Appeal
was made to him; he gave assent, and came forth arrayed for battle;
but no sooner did the Frenchman glimpse his huge frame and hear his
famous name but he fled away, and the French king's cause was lost.
King John restored De Courcy's titles and possessions, and said, "Name
thy wish and thou shalt have it, though it cost me half my kingdom";
whereat De Courcy, kneeling, as I do now, made answerer, "This,
then, I ask, my liege; that I and my successors may have and hold
the privilege of remaining covered in the presence of the kings of
England, henceforth while the throne shall last." The boon was
granted, as your majesty knoweth; and there hath been no time, these
four hundred years, that that line has failed of an heir; and so, even
unto this day, the head of that ancient house still weareth his hat or
helm before the king's majesty, without let or hindrance, and this
none other may do.*(9) Invoking this precedent in aid of my prayer,
I beseech the king to grant to me but this one grace and privilege- to
my more than sufficient reward- and none other, to wit: that I and
my heirs, forever, may sit in the presence of the majesty of England!'
'Rise, Sir Miles Hendon, knight,' said the king, gravely- giving
the accolade with Hendon's sword- 'rise, and seat thyself. Thy
petition is granted. While England remains, and the crown continues,
the privilege shall not lapse.'
His majesty walked apart, musing, and Hendon dropped into a
chair at table, observing to himself, ''Twas a brave thought, and hath
wrought me a mighty deliverance; my legs are grievously wearied. An
I had not thought of that, I must have had to stand for weeks, till my
poor lad's wits are cured.' After a little he went on, 'And so I am
become a knight of the Kingdom of Dreams and Shadows! A most odd and
strange position, truly, for one so matter-of-fact as I. I will not
laugh- no, God forbid, for this thing which is so substanceless to
me is real to him. And to me, also, in one way, it is not a falsity,
for it reflects with truth the sweet and generous spirit that is in
him.' After a pause: 'Ah, what if he should call me by my fine title
before folk!- there'd be a merry contrast betwixt my glory and my
raiment! But no matter; let him call me what he will, so it please
him; I shall be content.'
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