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“Selh que m blasma vostr’ amor ni m defen
Non podon far en re mon cor mellor,
Ni’l dous dezir qu’ieu ai de vos major,
Ni l’enveya’ ni’l dezir, ni’l talen.”

PHILIPPA OF HAINAULT DARES TO
LOVE UNTHRIFTILY, AND BY THE PRODIGALITY OF HER
AFFECTION SHAMES TREACHERY, AND COMMON-SENSE,
AND HIGH ROMANCE, QUITE STOLIDLY; BUT, AS LOVING
GOES, IS OVERTOPPED BY HER MORE STOLID SQUIRE.

In the year of grace 1326, upon Walburga’s Eve, some three hours after sunset (thus Nicolas begins), had you visited a certain garden on the outskirts of Valenciennes, you might there have stumbled upon a big, handsome boy, prone on the turf, where by turns he groaned and vented himself in sullen curses. The profanity had its poor palliation. Heir to England though he was, you must know that his father in the flesh had hounded him from England, as more recently his uncle Charles the Handsome had driven him from France. Now had this boy’s mother and he come as suppliants to the court of that stalwart nobleman Sire William (Count of Hainault, Holland, and Zealand, and Lord of Friesland), where their arrival had evoked the suggestion that they depart at their earliest convenience. To-morrow, then, these footsore royalties, the Queen of England and the Prince of Wales, would be thrust out-o’-doors to resume the weary beggarship, to knock again upon the obdurate gates of this unsympathizing king or that deaf emperor.

Accordingly the boy aspersed his destiny. At hand a nightingale carolled as though an exiled prince were the blithest spectacle the moon knew.

There came through the garden a tall girl, running, stumbling in her haste. “Hail, King of England!” she panted.

“Do not mock me, Philippa!” the boy half-sobbed. Sulkily he rose to his feet.

“No mockery here, my fair sweet friend. Nay, I have told my father all which happened yesterday. I pleaded for you. He questioned me very closely. And when I had ended, he stroked his beard, and presently struck one hand upon the table. ‘Out of the mouth of babes!’ he said. Then he said: ‘My dear, I believe for certain that this lady and her son have been driven from their kingdom wrongfully. If it be for the good of God to comfort the afflicted, how much more is it commendable to help and succor one who is the daughter of a king, descended from royal lineage, and to whose blood we ourselves are related!’ And accordingly he and your mother have their heads together yonder, planning an invasion of England, no less, and the dethronement of your wicked father, my Edward. And accordingly–hail, King of England!” The girl clapped her hands gleefully, what time the nightingale sang on.

But the boy kept momentary silence. Even in youth the Plantagenets were never handicapped by excessively tender hearts; yesterday in the shrubbery the boy had kissed this daughter of Count William, in part because she was a healthy and handsome person, and partly, and with consciousness of the fact, as a necessitated hazard of futurity. Well! he had found chance-taking not unfortunate. With the episode as foundation, Count William had already builded up the future queenship of England. A wealthy count could do–and, as it seemed, was now in train to do–indomitable deeds to serve his son-in-law; and now the beggar of five minutes since foresaw himself, with this girl’s love as ladder, mounting to the high habitations of the King of England, the Lord of Ireland, and the Duke of Aquitaine. Thus they would herald him.

So he embraced the girl. “Hail, Queen of England!” said the Prince; and then, “If I forget–” His voice broke awkwardly. “My dear, if ever I forget–!” Their lips met now, what time the nightingale discoursed as on a wager.