ULKE, the little lay brother, he that six hundred years ago wrote in very strange Latin a book of noble histories (that is Fulke's own phrase), has given me the bones and sinew of this tale. I think from a certain archness in Fulke's style—and Fulke's Latin, when it strives to be arch, is most wonderful reading—that the little man thought it a tale of humour. Myself, I hold it for a most moral relation and a warning to sundry my friends.
For the cause of all was nothing but the King's hurry. You cannot think it right that a King should ever be in a hurry. Now, hear what came of that deplorable moment, perpend and hereafter be leisurely.
In the spring of the year of grace 1282, Llywelyn ab Gruffydd broke out of Anglesey and ravaged the four lantreds of Perveddwlad and the marches as far as the very battlements of Chester. But that, of course, we all know. So it happened that, in the summer of 1282, King Edward I. moved westward with a great host to speak with Llywelyn. Now, the gout had laid the Chancellor, Robert Burnell, by the heels, and in his place was only Anthony Bek, the Bishop of Durham. On a day in June, at Market Drayton, Anthony Bek consulted the King on an infinity of small matters. Thus:
"Arises also," says Anthony Bek, sniffing, "the matter of the Lady Elinor of" The King was in a hurry and—
"Now, why must the Lady Elinor arise?" he snapped.
"—of Tarporley, of Chertsey, of Fawkham, of Meopham and de Lorgnac," says Anthony Bek, who always finished a sentence.
"Does she need more than that?"
"Surely, sir, no," says the Bishop very seriously. "But she being by the decease of her father, Sir Roger of Tarporley, of Chertsey, of"
"Of heaven, we trust!" cried the King in haste. The Bishop crossed himself.
"This lady, then, sir, the Lady Elinor of"
"All the earth. My lord bishop, be short!"
"I try, sir, zealously. This Lady Elinor of—of these manors, sir—hath come into wardship of the Crown"
"Humph. Marry her. Is that all?" Sir Stephen, captain of the King's House, strode in, gleaming in his mail, and to him the King turned eagerly to talk of the host, and heard not the Bishop's—
"She would then need a husband, sir." A moment the King pondered on Sir Stephen's words. Then—
"I keep you but the time to arm me," he cried, and was going.
"But, sir, arises need of a husband," said the Bishop anxiously, and Sir Stephen gaped, knowing not why a bishop needed one.
"Roger de Belesme," snapped the King in a hurry, and went out. It was the first name that rose to his lips.
"Beelzebub!" muttered Sir Stephen, who had met Roger.
"Sir?" said the Bishop, who had not heard, nor yet knew Roger.
"A nom de guerre, my lord," said Sir Stephen.
The Bishop had no knowledge of the lady nor the spouse. To him they were names on a piece of parchment. Wherefore he indited, with flourishes of pen and style, a letter to the Lady Elinor that called her to the Court and advised her of her happy fate. Then the Bishop went to Sir Bertram, the lieutenant of Sir Stephen, and begged him go, take the letter, and bring the lady back. So all things went fairly.
Now see Sir Bertram and his men riding over the mead in the golden dawn, mark the flash and flicker of light on lance-point and mail, hear the melody of steel. Riding two and two, a score of them, they came to the old moss-green house beyond Tarporley. Maids and men running up swept the ground in bows and curtsies. Then it was told Sir Bertram that the Lady Elinor was in the apple-orchard. So Sir Bertram's great charger, Bedivere, must needs pick his feet daintily down the narrow path and through the narrow gap in the high yew hedge, and the huge pair of them, man and horse, backed by the golden sun of a morning in June, came to the orchard and the Dew Pond and a vision. There, standing in the dark dappled water, was an apple-green goddess. Was the hair of her brown, or rich gold? Now this, now that, Sir Bertram saw it. Was the round neck white, or cream as a peach? Or either, or both, it was adorable. For sure she was tall and—the stupid horse must needs toss his head and make her turn to the rattling bridle ere Sir Bertram had looked an instant long. The lady saw a man that in every way was very large. I cannot find out what she thought.
Sir Bertram bowed: "Pardon, lady, and again pardon. I am Bertram, of the King's House, and I bear a letter from the King."