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The Housewife
by
But Queen Philippa shook her head, as she cut up squares of toast and dipped them in milk for the Regent’s breakfast. “Sire Edward would be vexed. He has always intended to conquer France. I shall visit the Marquess as soon as Lionel is fed–do you know, John Copeland, I am anxious about Lionel; he is irritable and coughed five times during the night–and then I will attend to this affair.”
She found the Marquess in bed, groaning, the coverlet pulled up to his chin. “Pardon, Highness,” said Lord Hastings, “but I am an ill man. I cannot rise from this couch.”
“I do not question the gravity of your disorder,” the Queen retorted, “since it is well known that the same illness brought about the death of Iscariot. Nevertheless, I bid you get up and lead our troops against the Scot.”
Now the hand of the Marquess veiled his countenance. But, “I am an ill man,” he muttered, doggedly. “I cannot rise from this couch.”
There was a silence.
“My lord,” the Queen presently began, “without is an army prepared–ay, and quite able–to defend our England. The one requirement of this army is a leader. Afford them that, my lord–ah, I know that our peers are sold to the Bruce, yet our yeomen at least are honest. Give them, then, a leader, and they cannot but conquer, since God also is honest and incorruptible. Pardieu! a woman might lead these men, and lead them to victory!”
Hastings answered: “I am an ill man. I cannot rise from this couch.”
You saw that Philippa was not beautiful. You perceived that to the contrary she was superb, saw the soul of the woman aglow, gilding the mediocrities of color and curve as a conflagration does a hovel.
“There is no man left in England,” said the Queen, “since Sire Edward went into France. Praise God, I am his wife!” And she was gone without flurry.
Through the tent-flap Hastings beheld all that which followed. The English force was marshalled in four divisions, each commanded by a bishop and a baron. You could see the men fidgeting, puzzled by the delay; as a wind goes about a corn-field, vague rumors were going about those wavering spears. Toward them rode Philippa, upon a white palfrey, alone and perfectly tranquil. Her eight lieutenants were now gathered about her in voluble protestation, and she heard them out. Afterward she spoke, without any particular violence, as one might order a strange cur from his room. Then the Queen rode on, as though these eight declaiming persons had ceased to be of interest, and reined up before her standard-bearer, and took the standard in her hand. She began again to speak, and immediately the army was in an uproar; the barons were clustering behind her, in stealthy groups of two or three whisperers each; all were in the greatest amazement and knew not what to do; but the army was shouting the Queen’s name.
“Now is England shamed,” said Hastings, “since a woman alone dares to encounter the Scot. She will lead them into battle–and by God! there is no braver person under heaven than yonder Dutch Frau! Friend David, I perceive that your venture is lost, for those men would within the moment follow her to storm hell if she desired it.”
He meditated and more lately shrugged. “And so would I,” said Hastings.
A little afterward a gaunt and haggard old man, bare-headed and very hastily dressed, reined his horse by the Queen’s side. “Madame and Queen,” said Hastings, “I rejoice that my recent illness is departed. I shall, by God’s grace, on this day drive the Bruce from England.”
Philippa was not given to verbiage. Doubtless she had her emotions, but none was visible upon the honest face; yet one plump hand had fallen into the big-veined hand of Hastings. “I welcome back the gallant gentleman of yesterday. I was about to lead your army, my friend, since there was no one else to do it, but I was hideously afraid. At bottom every woman is a coward.”