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Arthur Of Brittany, The Boy Who Should Have Been King Of England
by
The boy sprang from his bed, and seized Hubert by the knees.
“What! Are they going to kill me? Must they take away my life?”
“Not so,” said Hubert; “it is not thy life that is required, but thine eyes.” And as he spoke he stamped on the floor, as the signal to those two who waited without to enter.
At sight of their horrid instruments, the cords which were to bind him, and the cruel faces of the executioners, Arthur fell on his knees and implored mercy of the stubborn Hubert.
It was a strange and pitiful sight to see that weak and helpless boy kneeling, and with tears entreating that stout old warrior, whose bosom heaved and whose ringers twitched, and whose face winced, as he listened; while the two others stood motionless, grasping their irons and cords, ready for the word of command to step forward and do their cruel deed.
But the cries and entreaties of the helpless and beautiful prince prevailed. Hubert wavered and hesitated; he bade the men advance, and then bade them withhold; he looked at the prince, and he looked at the glowing irons; he pushed the suppliant from him, and then suffered him to cling to him. The executioners themselves were moved to pity, and lay down their instruments. Finally, with a mighty effort, the warden yielded, and said, “Retire, men, and take with you your tools, till I require you.” Then turning to Arthur, he said, “Prince, thou shalt keep thy sight and thy life while I am by to protect thee.” And the rough hand of the old warrior stroked the hair of the weeping boy as it might have been his own son’s.
The answer that Hubert de Burgh sent back that day by the king’s messenger was an earnest appeal for mercy on behalf of his young and now beloved charge.
But King John was a stranger to all feelings of pity, and his vengeance was quick and dreadful. Foiled of his cruel design upon the eyesight of his hapless nephew, he determined now to have his life. So he ordered him to be removed from Falaise, and the custody of the humane De Burgh, to the castle of Rouen, under whose walls flowed the waters of the River Seine. But the prince did not remain long there. One night a jailor entered his dungeon, and, waking him from his sleep, ordered him to follow him. The boy obeyed in silence, as the jailor conducted him down the winding staircase which led to the foot of the tower, beside which the Seine flowed. A boat was waiting at the bottom, in which sat two men. The torch of the jailor cast a sudden glare over the dark waters, and by its light Arthur recognised, with horror and despair, in one of the two the cruel features of his Uncle John. It was useless for him to pray and entreat; it was useless for him to struggle or cry out. They dragged him into the boat, and held him fast as she drifted under the shadow of those gloomy walls into mid stream. What happened then no one can tell; but had any listened that still, dark night, they might have heard a boy’s wild cry across the waters, and then a dull, heavy splash–and that was all.
The story is that of those two, King John with his own hand did the foul deed. However that may be, Arthur of Brittany was never even heard of more.