The White Rose of Langley, a Story of the Olden Time, by Emily SarahHolt. 

________________________________________________________________________This book is set in aristocratic circles in the fifteenth century. Forthat reason there is a great deal of mediaeval English. However, mostof the unusual words are explained as they occur, so there is no problemwith comprehension. The last chapter is headed "Historical Appendix", and contains potted lives of most of the people whom we meet in thebook, since the majority of them really existed. Of course the detailof the conversations in the book is made up, but we can well believethat something very like them might well have happened. What is veryevident is that many of these people were plotters, the object of theirdesires being in some way to increase their own wealth or status. Evensmall children may be imprisoned and murdered, as we remember from thesad tale of "the Princes in the Tower". 

If you are fond of reading historical novels, and are familiar with thegeneral history of the fifteenth century, you will enjoy this view ofthe lives of the figures that made that history. 

________________________________________________________________________THE WHITE ROSE OF LANGLEY, A STORY OF THE OLDEN TIME, BY EMILY SARAHHOLT. 

CHAPTER ONE. 

NOBODY'S CHILD. 

 "Oh, how full of briars is this working-day world!"

 _Shakspere_. 

"It is so cold, Mother!"

The woman addressed languidly roused herself from the half-shelterednook of the forest in which she and her child had taken refuge. She wasleaning with her back supported by a giant oak, and the child was in herarms. The age of the child was about eight. The mother, though stillyoung in years, was old before her time, with hard work and exposure, and it might be also with sorrow. She sat up, and looked wearily overthe winter scene before her. There was nothing of the querulous, complaining tone of the little girl's voice in hers; only the dull, sullen apathy of hopeless endurance. 

"Cold, child!" she said. "'Tis like to be colder yet when the nightcometh. "

"O Mother! and all snow now!"

"There be chiller gear than snow, maid, " replied the mother bitterly. 

"But it had been warmer in London, Mother?--if we had not lost ourroad. "

"May-be, " was the answer, in a tone which seemed to imply that it didnot signify. 

The child did not reply; and the woman continued to sit upright, andlook forward, with an absent expression in her face, indicating that themind was not where the eyes were. 

"Only snow and frost!" she muttered--not speaking to the child. "Noughtbeyond, nor here ne there. Nay, snow is better than snowed-up hearts. Had it been warmer in London? May-be the hearts there had been asfrosty as at Pleshy. Well! it will be warm in the grave, and we shallsoon win yonder. "

"Be there fires yonder, Mother?" asked the child innocently. 

The woman laughed--a bitter, harsh laugh, in which there was no mirth. 

"The devil keepeth, " she said. "At least so say the priests. But whatwit they? They never went thither to see. They will, belike, someday. "

The little girl was silent again, and the mother, after a moment'spause, resumed her interrupted soliloquy. 

"If there were nought beyond, only!" she murmured; and her look and toneof dull misery sharpened into vivid pain. "If a man might die, and havedone with it all! But to meet God! And 'tis no sweven, [dream] nefallacy, this dread undeadliness [immortality]--it is real. O all yeblessed saints and martyrs in Heaven! how shall I meet God?"

"Is that holy Mary's Son, Mother?"

"Ay. "

"Holy Mary will plead for us, " suggested the child. "She can alwaypeace her Son. But methought _He_ was good to folks, Mother. SisterChristian was wont to say so. "

"To saints and good women like Sister Christian, may-be. "

"Art thou not good, Mother?"

The question was put in all innocence. But it struck the heart of themiserable mother like a poisoned arrow. 

"Good!" she cried, again in that tone of intense pain. "_I_ good? No, Maude!--I am bad, bad, bad! From the crown of mine head to the sole ofmy foot, there is nothing in me beside evil; such evil as thou, unwemmed[undefiled, innocent] dove as thou art, canst not even conceive! God isgood to saints--not to sinners. Sister Christian--and thou, yet!--beamongst the saints. I am of the sinners. "

"But why art thou not a saint, Mother?" demanded the child, asinnocently as before. 

"I was on the road once, " said the woman, with a heavy sigh. "I was tohave been an holy sister of Saint Clare. I knew no more of ill thanthou whiteling in mine arms. If I had died then, when my soul wasfair!"

Suddenly her mood changed. She clasped the child close to her breast, and showered kisses on the little wan face. 

"My babe Maude, my bird Maude!" she said. "My dove that God sped downfrom Heaven unto me, thinking me not too ill ne wicked to have thee!The angels may love thee, my bird in bower! for thou art white andunwemmed. The robes of thy chrism [see Note 1] are not yet soiled; but, O sinner that I am! how am I to meet God? And I must meet Him--andsoon. "

"Did not God die on the rood, Mother?"

The woman assented, the old listless tone returning to her voice. 

"Wherefore, Mother?"

"God wot, child. "

"Sister Christian told me He had no need for Himself, but that He lovedus; yet why that should cause Him to die I wis not. "

The mother made no answer. Her thoughts had drifted away, back throughher weary past, to a little village church where a fresco painting stoodon the wall, sketched in days long before, of a company of guests at afeast, clad in Saxon robes; and of One, behind whom knelt a womanweeping and kissing His feet, while her flowing hair almost hid themfrom sight. And back to her memory, along with the scene, came a linefrom a popular ballad ["The Ploughman's Complaint"] which referred toit. She repeated it aloud--

 "`Christ suffered a sinful to kisse His fete. '

"Suffered her, for that she was a saint?" she asked of herself, in thedreamy languor which the intense cold had brought over her. "Nay, forshe was `a sinful. ' Suffered her, then, for that she sinned? Were notthat to impeach His holiness? Or was He so holy and high that no sin ofhers could soil the feet she touched? What good did it her to touchthem? Made it her holy?--fit to meet God in the Doom [Judgment], whenshe had thus met Him here in His lowliness? How wis I? And could itmake me fit to meet Him? But I can never kiss His feet. Nor lack theythe ournment [adornment] of any kiss of mine. Yet methinks it were she, not He, which lacked it then. And He let her kiss His feet. O ChristJesu! if in very deed it were in love for us that Thou barest death onthe bitter rood, hast Thou no love left to welcome the dying sinner?Thou who didst pity her at yonder feast, hast Thou no mercy for EleanorGerard too?"

The words were spoken only half aloud, but they were heard by the childcradled in her arms. 

"Mother, why christened you me not Eleanor?" she asked dreamily. 

"Hush, child, and go to sleep!" answered the mother, startled out of herreverie. 

Maude was silent, and Eleanor wrapped her closer in the old cloak whichenfolded both of them. But before the woman yielded herself up to thestupor which was benumbing her faculties, she passed her hand into herbosom, and drew out a little flat parcel, folded in linen, which shesecreted in the breast of the child's dress. 

"Keep this, Maude, " she said gravely. 

"What is it, Mother?" was Maude's sleepy answer. 

"It is what thou shalt find it hereafter, " was the mysterious rejoinder. "But let none take it away, neither beguile thee thereof. 'Tis all Ihave to give thee. "

Maude seemed too nearly asleep for her curiosity to be roused; andEleanor, leaning back against the tree, resigned herself to slumberalso. 

Not long afterwards, a goatherd passing that way in search of a strayedkid, came on the unconscious pair, wrapped in each other's arms. He ranfor help to his hut, and had them conveyed to a convent at a littledistance, which the wanderers had failed to find. The rescue was justin time to bring the life back to the numbed limbs of the child. Butfor the mother there was no waking in this world. Eleanor Gerard hadmet God. 

Four years after that winter evening, in the guest-chamber of theConvent of Sopwell sat a nun of middle age and cheerful look, inconversation with a woman in ordinary costume, but to whom the samedescription would very nearly apply. 

"Then what were the manner of maid you seek, good Ursula?" inquired thenun. 

"By Saint Luke's face, holy Sister, but I would not have her too cunning[clever]. I count (though I say it that need not) I am none ill one tolearn her her work; and me loveth not to be checked ne taunted of mineunderlings. "

The nun, who had known Ursula Drew for some time, was quite aware thatsuperfluity of meekness did not rank among that worthy woman's failings. 

"I would fain have a small maid of some twelve or thirteen years. An'ye have them elder, they will needs count they know as much as you, andcan return a sharp answer betimes. I love not masterful childre. "

"But would you not she were something learned?"

"Nay! So she wit not a pig's head from a crustade Almayne, [A kind ofpie of custard or batter, with currants] 'tis all one to me, an' shewill do my bidding. "

"Then methinks I could right well fit you. We have here at this instantmoment a small maid of twelve years, that my Lady the Prioress were wellfain to put with such as you be, and she bade me give heed to the same. 'Tis a waif that Anthony, our goatherd, found in the forest, with hermother, that was frozen to death in an hard winter; but the child abode, and was saved. Truly, for cunning there is little in her; but formeekness and readiness to do your will, the maid is as good as any. Butye shall see her I think on. "

Sister Oliva stepped to the door, and spoke in a low tone to some personoutside. She came back and reseated herself, and a minute afterwardsthere was a low, timid tap at the door. 

"Come in, child, " said the nun. 

And Maude came in. 

She was small and slight for her twelve years, and preternaturallygrave. A quantity of long dark hair hung round her head in a conditionof seemingly hopeless tanglement, and the dark eyes, proportionatelylarger than the rest of the features, wore an expression of mingledapathy and suspicion, alike strange and painful to see in the eyes of achild. 

"Come forward, Maude, and speak with Mistress Drew. Mercy on us, child!how hast moiled thine hair like a fowl his pennes!" [Feathers. ]

Maude made no reply. She came a few steps nearer, dropped a rusticcourtesy, and stood to be questioned. 

"What is thy name?" inquired Mistress Ursula, as though she werebeginning the catechism. 

"Maude, " said the child under her breath. 

"And what years hast--twelve?"

"Twelve, the last Saint Margaret. "

"And where wert born? Dost know?"

Maude knew, though for some reason with which she herself was bestacquainted, she had been much more chary of her information to my Ladythe Prioress than she now chose to be. 

"At Pleshy, in Essex. "

"And what work did thy father?"

Maude looked up with a troubled air, as if the idea of that relative'spossible existence had never suggested itself to her. 

"I never had any father!" she said, in a pained tone. "Cousin Hawisehad a father, and he wrought iron on the anvil. But I had none--never!I had a mother--that was all. "

"And what called men thy mother?"

"Eleanor Gerard. "

"Then thy name is Maude Gerard, " said Oliva, sharply. 

Maude's silence appeared to indicate that she declined to commit herselfeither affirmatively or negatively. 

"And what canst do, maid?" inquired Ursula, changing the subject to oneof more practical purport. 

Perhaps the topic was too large for reply, for Maude's only response wasa nervous twisting of her fingers. Sister Oliva answered for her. 

"Marry, she can pluck a chick, and roll pastry, and use a bedstaff, andscour a floor, and sew, and the like. She hath not been idle, I warrantyou. "

"Couldst cleanse out a pan an' thou wert set about it?"

"Ay, " said Maude, under her breath. 

"And couldst run of a message?"

"Ay. "

"And couldst do as folk bid thee?"

"Ay. "

But each time the child's voice grew fainter. 

"Sister Oliva, I will essay the little maid, by your leave. "

"And with my very good will, friend Ursula. "

"Me counteth I shall make the best cook of her in all Herts. Whatsayest, maid?--wilt of thy good will be a cook?"

Maude looked up, looked down, and said nothing. But nature had not madeher a cook, and the utmost Ursula Drew could do in that direction was tospoil a good milliner. 

So little Maude went with Ursula--into a very different sphere of lifefrom any which she could hitherto remember. The first home which sherecollected was her grandfather's cottage, with the great elms on oneside of it and the forge on the other, at which the old man had wroughtso long as his strength permitted, and had then handed over, as thefamily inheritance, to his son. Since the world began for Maude, thatcottage and the forge had always stood there, and its inhabitants hadalways been Grandfather, and Uncle David, and Aunt Elizabeth, and CousinHawise, and Cousin Jack, and Mother. 

At some unknown time in the remote past there had been a grandmother, for Maude had heard of her; but with that exception, there had neverbeen anybody else, and her father was to her an utterly mythicindividual. She had never heard such a person named until Ursula Drewinquired his calling. And then, one awful winter night, somethingdreadful had happened. What it was Maude never precisely knew. Sheonly knew that there was a great noise in the night, and strange voicesin the cottage, and cries for mercy; and that when morning broke UncleDavid was gone, and was seen afterwards no more. So then they tried tokeep on the old forge a little longer; but Grandfather was past work, and Cousin Jack was young and inexperienced, and customers would notcome as they had done to brawny-armed Uncle David, to whose ringingblows on the anvil Maude had loved to listen. And one day she heardAunt Elizabeth say to Grandfather that the forge brought in nothing, andthey must go up to the castle and ask the great Lord there, whosevassals they were, to find them food until Jack was able to work: butthe old man rose up from the settle and answered, his voice tremblingwith passion, that he would starve to death ere he would take food fromthe cruel hand which had deprived him of his boy. So then, Cousin Jackused to go roaming in the forest and bring home roots and wild fruits, and sometimes the neighbours would give them alms in kind or in money, and so for a while they tried to live. But Grandfather grew weaker, andMother and Aunt Elizabeth very thin and worn, and the bloom faded fromCousin Hawise's cheeks, and the gloss died away from her shining hair. And at last Grandfather died. And then Aunt Elizabeth went to aneighbouring franklin's farm, to serve the franklin's dame; and CousinJack went away to sea; and Maude could not recollect how they lived fora time. And then came another mournful day, when strange people came tothe cottage and roughly ordered the three who were left to go away. They took Cousin Hawise with them, for they said she would be comely ifshe were well fed, and the Lady had seen her, and she must go and servethe Lady. And Maude never knew what became of her. But Mother weptbitterly, and seemed to think that Hawise's lot was a very unhappy one. So then they set out, Mother and Maude, for London. The reasons forgoing to London were very dim and vague to Maude's apprehension. Theywere going to look for somebody; so much she knew: and she thought itwas some relation of Grandmother's, who might perchance give them a homeagain. London was a very grand place, only a little less than theworld: but it could not fill quite all the world, because there was roomleft for Pleshy and one or two other places. The King lived in London, who never did any thing all day long but sit on a golden throne, with acrown on his head, and eat bread and marmalade, and drink Gascon wine;and the Queen, who of course sat on another golden throne, and sharedthe good things, and wore minever dresses and velvet robes which trailedall across the room. Perhaps the houses were not all built of gold;some of them might be silver; but at any rate the streets were pavedwith one or other of the precious metals. And of course, nobody inLondon was at all poor, and everybody had as much as he could possiblyeat, and was quite warm and comfortable, and life was all music, andflowers, and sunshine. Poor little Maude! was her illusion much moreextravagant than some of ours?

But, as we have seen, the hapless travellers never reached their bourne. And now even Mother was gone, and Maude was left alone in all theworld. The nuns had not been particularly unkind to her; they hadtaught her many things, though they had not made her work beyond herstrength; yet not one of them had given her what she missed most--sympathy. The result was that the child had been unhappy in theconvent, and yet she could not have said why, had she been asked. Butnobody ever asked that of little Maude. She was alone in all theworld--the great, bare, hard, practical world. 

For this was the side of the world presented to Maude. 

The world is many-sided, and it presents various sides and corners tovarious people. The side which Maude saw was hard and bare. Hard bed, hard fare, hard work, hard words sometimes. Had she any opportunity ofthinking the world a soft, comfortable, cushioned place, as some of hersisters find it?

This had been the child's life up to the moment when Ursula Drew madeher appearance on the scene. But now a new element was introduced; forMaude's third home was a stately palace, filled with beautiful carvings, and delicate tracery, and exquisite colours, all which, lowest of thelow as she was, she enjoyed with an intensity till then unknown toherself, and certainly not shared by any other in her sphere. Thatsense of the beautiful, which, trained in different directions, makesmen poets, painters, and architects, was very strong in little Maude. She could not have explained in the least _how_ it was that the curvesin the stonework, or the rich colours in the windows of the great hall, gave her a mysterious sensation of pleasure, which she could not avoiddetecting that they never gave to any of her kitchen associates; and sheobtained many a scolding for her habit of what my Lady the Prioress hadcalled "idle dreaming, " and Mistress Drew was pleased to term "litherlaziness;" when, instead of cleaning pans, Maude was thinking poetry. Alas for little Maude! her vocation was not to think poetry; and it wasto scour pans. 

The Palace of Langley, which had become the scene of Maude'span-cleaning, was built in a large irregular pile. The kitchen and itsattendant offices were at one end, and over them reigned Ursula Drew, who, though supreme in her government of Maude, was in reality only avice-queen. Over Ursula ruled a man-cook, by name Warine de laMisericorde, concerning whom his subordinate's standing joke was that"Misericorde was rarely [extremely] merciless. " But this potentate inhis turn owed submission to the master of the household, a very greatgentleman with gold embroidery on his coat, concerning whom Maude's onlydefinite notion was that he must be courtesied to very low indeed. 

Master and mistress were mere names to Maude. The child wasnear-sighted, and though, like every other servant in the Palace, sheate daily in the great hall, her eyes were not sufficiently clear, fromher low place at the extreme end, to make out anything on the distantdais beyond a number of grey shapeless shadows. She knew when theroyal, and in her eyes semi-celestial persons in question were, or werenot, at home; she had a dim idea that they bore the titles of Earl andCountess of Cambridge, and that they were nearly related to majestyitself; she now and then heard Ursula informed that my Lord was pleasedto command a certain dish, or that my Lady had condescended to approve aparticular sauce. She had noticed, moreover, that two of the greyshadows at the very top of the hall, and therefore among the mostdistinguished persons, were smaller than the rest; she inferred thatthese ineffable superiors had at least two children, and she oftenlonged to inspect them within comfortable seeing distance. But no suchgood fortune had as yet befallen her. Their apartments wereinaccessible fairy-land, and themselves beings scarcely to be gazed onwith undazzled eyes. 

Very monotonous was Maude's new life:--cleaning pans, washing jars, sorting herbs, scouring pails, running numberless infinitesimal errands, doing everything that nobody else liked, hard-worked from morning tonight, and called up from her hard pallet to recommence her toil beforeshe had realised that she was asleep. Ursula's temper, too, did notimprove with time; and Parnel, the associate and contemporary of Maude, was by no means to be mistaken for an angel. 

Parnel was three years older than Maude, and much better acquainted withher work. She could accomplish a marvellous quantity within a giventime, when it pleased her; and it generally did please her to rush tothe end of her task, and to spend the remaining time in teasing Maude. She had no positive unkind feeling towards the child, but she wasextremely mischievous, and Maude being extremely teasable, thetemptation of amusing her leisure by worrying the nervous andinexperienced child was too strong to be resisted. The occupations ofher present life disgusted Maude beyond measure. The scullery-work, ofwhich Ursula gave her the most unpleasant parts, was unspeakablyrevolting to her quick sense of artistic beauty, and to a certaindelicacy and refinement of nature which she had inherited, not acquired;and which Ursula, if she could have comprehended it, would have despisedwith the intense contempt of the coarse mind for the fine. The childwas one morning engaged in cleaning a very greasy saucepan, close to theopen window, when, to her surprise, she was accosted by a strange voicein the base court, or back yard of the palace. 

"Is that pleasant work--frotting [rubbing] yonder thing?"

Maude looked up into a pair of bright, kindly eyes, which belonged to aboy attired as a page, some three or four years older than herself. Something in the lad's good-natured face won her confidence. 

"No, " she answered honestly, "'tis right displeasant to have ado withsuch feune!" [dirt. ]

"So me counted, " replied the boy. "What name hast thou, little maid?"

"Maude. "

"I have not seen thee here aforetime, " resumed the page. 

"Nor I you, " said Maude. "I have bidden hither no long time. Whereabout sit you in hall?"

"Nigh the high end, " said he. "But we are only this day come fromClarendon with the Lord Edward, whom I and my fellows serve. Fare theewell, little maid!"

The bright eyes smiled at her, and the head nodded kindly, and passedon. But insignificant as the remarks were, Maude felt as if she hadfound a friend in the great wilderness of Langley Palace. 

The next time the page's head paused at her window, Maude summonedcourage to ask him his name. 

"Bertram Lyngern, " said he smilingly. "I have a longer name than thou. "[See Note 2. ]

"And a father and mother?" asked Maude. 

"A father, " said the boy. "He is one of my Lord's knights; but for mymother, --the women say she died the day I was born. "

"I have ne father ne mother, " responded Maude, sorrowfully, "ne none tocare for me in all the wide world. "

"Careth Mistress Drew nought for thee?"

Maude's laugh was bitterly negative. 

"Ne Parnel, thy fellow?"

"She striveth alway to abash [frighten] and trouble me, " sighed Maude. 

"Poor Maude!" said Bertram, looking concerned. "Wouldst have me carefor thee? May be I could render thy life somewhat lighter. If I talkedwith Parnel--"

"It were to no good, " said Maude, brushing away to get her sink clean. "There is nothing but sharp words and snybbyngs [scoldings] all daylong; and if I give her word back, then will she challenge [accuse] meto Mistress, and soothly I am aweary of life. "

Weary of life at twelve years old! It was a new idea to Bertram, and hehad found no answer, when the sharp voice of Ursula Drew summoned Maudeaway. 

"Haste, child!" cried Ursula. "Thou art as long of coming as AdventSunday at Christmas. Now, by the time I be back, lay thou out for me onthe table four bundles of herbs from the dry herb closet--an handful ofknot-grass, and the like of shepherd's pouch, and of bramble-seeds, andof plantain. Now, mark thou, the top leaves of the plantain only!Leave me not find thee idling; but have yonder row of pans as bright asa new tester when I come, and the herbs ready. " [See note 3. ]

Ursula bustled off, and Maude set to work at the pans. When they weresufficiently scrubbed, she pulled off the dirty apron in which she hadbeen working, and went towards the dry herb closet. But she had notreached it, when her wrist was caught and held in a grasp like that of avice. 

"Whither goest, Mistress Maude?" demanded an unwelcome voice. 

"Stay me not, I pray thee, Parnel!" said the child entreatingly. "Mistress Drew hath bidden me lay out divers herbs against she cometh. "

"What herbs be they?" inquired Parnel demurely, with an assumption ofgravity and superior knowledge which Maude knew, from sad experience, tomask some project of mischief. But knowing also that peril lay insilence, no less than in compliance, she reluctantly gave theinformation. 

"There is no shepherd's pouch in the closet, " responded Parnel. 

"Then whither must I seek it?" asked Maude. 

"In the fields, " said Parnel. 

"Ay me!" exclaimed the child. 

"And 'tis not in leaf, let be flower, " added her tormentor. 

"What can I do?" cried Maude in dismay. 

Still keeping tight hold of her wrist, Parnel answered the query by theexecution of a war-dance around Maude. 

"Parnel, do leave go!" supplicated the prisoner. 

"Mistress Maude is bidden lay out herbs!" sang the gaoler in amateurrecitative. "Mistress Maude hath no shepherd's pouch! Mistress Maudeis loth to go and pluck it!"

"Parnel, _do_ leave me go!"

"Mistress Maude doth not her mistress' bidding! Mistr--"

Suddenly breaking off, Parnel, who could be as quick as a lizard whenshe chose, quitted her hold, and vanished out of sight in someincomprehensible manner, as Ursula Drew marched into the kitchen. 

"Now, then, where be those herbs?" demanded that authority, in a toneindicative of a whipping. 

"Mistress, I could not help it!" sobbed the worried child. 

"By'r Lady, but thou canst help it if thou wilt!" returned Ursula. "Reach me down the rod; thy laziness shall be well a-paid for once. "

Maude sobbed helplessly, but made no effort to obey. 

"Where be thine ears? Reach the rod!" reiterated Ursula. 

"Whom chastise you, Mistress Drew?" inquired Bertram's voice through thedoor; "she that demeriteth the same, or she that no doth?"

"This lazy maid demeriteth fifty rods!" was the pleasing answer. 

"I cry you mercy, but I think not so, " said Bertram judicially. "An'you whipped the demeritous party, it should be Parnel. I saw all thatchanced, by the lattice, but the maids saw not me. "

Parnel was not whipped, for her quickness made her a favourite; butneither was Maude, for Bertram's intercession rescued her. 

"The saints bless you, Master Bertram!" said Maude, at the nextopportunity. "And the saints help me, for verily I have an hard life. I am all of a bire [hurry, confusion], and sore strangled [tired], frommorn to night. "

"Poor little Maude!" answered Bertram pityingly. "Would I might shapethy matters better-good. Do the saints help, thinkest? Hugh Calverleysaith no. "

"Talk you with such like evil fawtors, [factor, doer], Master Bertram?"asked Maude in a shocked voice. 

"Evil fawtors, forsooth! Hugh is no evil fawtor. How can I help butrede [attend to] his sayings? He is one of my fellows. And 'tis butwhat he hath from his father. Master Calverley is a squire of theQueen's Grace, and one of Sir John de Wycliffe's following. "

"Who is Sir John de Wycliffe?" said Maude. 

"One of the Lord Pope his Cardinals, " laughed Bertram. "Get thee tothine herbs and pans, little Maude; and burden not thy head with SirJohn de Wycliffe nor John de Northampton neither. Fare thee well, mymaid. I must after my master for the hawking. "

But before Bertram turned away, Maude seized the opportunity to ask aquestion which had been troubling her for many a month. 

"If you be not in heavy bire, Master Bertram--"

"Go to! What maketh a minute more nor less?"

"Would it like you of your goodness to tell me, an' you wit, whodwelleth in the Castle of Pleshy?"

"`An' I wit'! Well wis I. 'Tis my gracious Lord of Buckingham, brotherunto our Lord of Cambridge. "

"Were you ever at Pleshy, Master Bertram?"

"Truly, but a year gone, for the christening of the young LordHumphrey. "

"And liked it you to tell me if you wot at all of one Hawise Gerardamong the Lady's maidens?"

Maude awaited the answer in no little suppressed eagerness. She hadloved Cousin Hawise; and if she yet lived, though apart, she would notfeel herself so utterly alone. Perhaps they might even meet again, someday. But Bertram shook his head. 

"I heard never the name, " he said. "The Lady of Buckingham her maidensbe Mistress Polegna and Mistress Sarah [fictitious persons]: theirfurther names I wis not. But no Mistress Hawise saw I never. "

"I thank you much, Master Bertram, and will not stay you longer. "

But another shadow fell upon Maude's life. Poor, pretty, gentle, timidCousin Hawise! What had become of her? The next opportunity she had, Maude inquired from Bertram, "What like dame were my Lady ofBuckingham's greathood?"

Bertram shrugged his shoulders, as if the question took him out of hisdepth. 

"Marry, she is a woman!" said he; "and all women be alike. There is notone but will screech an' she see a spider. "

"Mistress Drew and Mother be not alike, " answered Maude, falling back onher own small experience. "Neither were Hawise and I alike. She wouldalway stay at holy Mary her image, to see if the lamp were alight; butI--the saints forgive me!--I never cared thereabout. So good was CousinHawise. "

"Maude, " suggested Bertram in a low voice, as if he felt half afraid ofhis own idea, "Countest that blessed Mary looketh ever her own self towit if the lamp be alight?"

Maude was properly shocked. 

"Save you All Hallows, Master Bertram! How come you by such fantasies?"

Bertram laughed and went away, chanting a stave of the "Ploughman'sComplaint"--[See Note 4. ]

 "Christ hath twelve apostles here; Now, say they, there may be but one, That may not erre in no manere-- Who 'leveth [believeth] not this ben lost echone. [each one] Peter erred--so did not Jhon; Why is he cleped the principal? [See note 5. ] Christ cleped him Peter, but Himself the Stone-- All false faitours [doers] foule hem fall!" [Evil befall them. ]

Late that evening a mounted messenger crossed the drawbridge, and stayedhis weary horse in the snows-prinkled base court. He was quicklyrecognised by the household as a royal letter-bearer from London. 

"And what news abroad, Master Matthew?"

"Why, the King's Highness keepeth his Christmas at Eltham; and certainof the Council would fain have the Queen's Bohemians sent forth, but Imisdoubt if it shall be done. And Sir Nicholas Brembre is the newmayor. There is no news else. Oh, ay! The parson of Lutterworth, SirJohn de Wycliffe--"

"The lither heretic!" muttered Warine, for he was the questioner. "Whatmisturnment [perversion] would he now?"

"He will never turn ne misturn more, " said the messenger. "The morrowafter Holy Innocents a second fit of the palsy took him as he stood atthe altar at mass, and they bare him home to die. And the eve of theCircumcision [December 31st, 1384], two days thereafter, the good manwas commanded to God. "

"Good man, forsooth!" growled Warine. 

"Master Warine, " said Hugh Calverley's voice behind him, "the day maycome when thou and I would be full fain to creep into Heaven at theheels of the Lutterworth parson. "

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1. The anointing at baptism, when a white cloth was always placedon the head. 

Note 2. Bertram, Ursula, Parnel, Warine, and Maude and her family, areall fictitious persons. 

Note 3. The herbs were to be boiled and the liquid drunk, for a sprain, bruise, or broken bone. 

Note 4. Wright's _Political Poems_, one 304, _et seq_. The date of thepoem given by Wright is anticipated by about nine years. 

Note 5. Why is Peter called the "Prince of the Apostles?"

CHAPTER TWO. 

SOMEBODY'S CHILD. 

 "`Now God, that is of mightes most, Grant him grace of the Holy Ghost His heritage to win: And Mary moder of mercy fre Save our King and his meynie Fro' sorrow and shame and sin. '"

The song was trilled in a pleasant voice by an old lady who sat spinningin an upper chamber of Langley Palace. She paused a moment in her work, and then took up again the latter half of the strain. 

"`And Mary moder of mercy fre'--Called any yonder?"

"May I come in, Dame Agnes?" said a child's voice at the door. 

The old lady rose hastily, laid down her distaff, and opening the door, courtesied low to the little girl of ten years old who stood outside. 

"Enter freely, most gracious Lady! Wherefore abide without?"

It was a pretty vision which entered. Not that there was any specialbeauty in the child herself, for in that respect she was merely on thepretty side of ordinary. She was tall for her age--as tall as Maude, though she was two years younger. Her complexion was very fair, herhair light with a golden tinge, and her eyes of a peculiar shade ofblue, bright, yet deep--the shade known as blue eyes in Spain, butrarely seen in England. But her costume was a study for a painter. Little girls dressed like women in the fourteenth century; and thischild wore a blue silk tunic embroidered with silver harebells, over abrown velvet skirt spangled with rings of gold. Her hair was put up ina net of golden tissue, ornamented with pearls. The dress was cutsquare at the neck; she wore a pearl necklace, and a girdle of turquoiseand pearls. Two rows of pearls and turquoise finished the sleeves atthe wrist; they were of brown velvet, like the skirt. This finery wasevidently nothing new to the little wearer. She came into the room andflung herself carelessly down on a small stool, close to the chair whereDame Agnes had been sitting--to the unfeigned horror of that courtlyperson. 

"Lady, Lady! Not on a stool, for love of the blessed Mary!"

And drawing forward an immense old arm-chair, Dame Agnes motioned thechild to take it. 

"Remember, pray you, that you be a Prince's daughter!" [See Note 1. ]

The child rose with some reluctance, and climbed into the enormouschair, in which she seemed almost lost. 

"Prithee, Dame Agnes, is it because I be a Prince's daughter that I mustneeds be let from sitting whither I would?"

"There is meetness in all things, " said the old lady, picking up herdistaff. 

"And what meetness is in setting the like of me in a chair that wouldwell hold Charlemagne and his twelve Peers?" demanded the little girl, laughing. 

"The twelve Peers of Charlemagne, such saved as were Princes, were notthe like of _you_, Lady Custance, " said Dame Agnes, almost severely. 

"Ah me!" and Constance gaped (or, as she would herself have said, "goxide. ") "I would I were a woodman's daughter. "

Dame Agnes de La Marche, [see Note 2], whose whole existence had beenspent in the scented atmosphere of Court life, stared at the child invoiceless amazement. 

"I would so, Dame. I might sit then of the rushes, let be the stools, or in a fieldy nook amid the wild flowers. And Dona Juana would not beever laying siege to me--with `Dona Constanca, you will soil yourrobes!'--or, `Dona Constanca, you will rend your lace!'--or, `DonaConstanca, you will dirty your fingers!' Where is the good of beingrich and well-born, if I must needs sit under a cloth of estate [acanopy] all the days of my life, and dare not so much as to lift a pinfrom the floor, lest I dirty my puissant and royal fingers? I wouldliefer have a blacksmith to my grandsire than a King. "

"Lady Custance! With which of her Grace's scullion maidens have youdemeaned yourself to talk?"

"I will tell thee, when thou wilt answer when I was suffered to say somuch as `Good morrow' to any maid under the degree of a knight'sdaughter. "

"Holy Mary, be our aid!" interjected the horrified old lady. 

"I am aweary, Dame Agnes, " said the child, laying herself down in thechair, as nearly at full length as its size would allow. "I have playedthe damosel [person of rank--used of the younger nobility of both sexes]so long time, I would fain be a little maid a season. I looked forthfrom the lattice this morrow, and I saw far down in the base court alittle maid the bigness of me, washing of pans at a window. Now, prithee, have yon little maid up hither, and set her under the cloth ofestate in my velvets, and leave me run down to the base court and washthe pans. It were rare mirth for both of us. "

Dame Agnes shook her head, as if words failed to express her feelings atso unparalleled a proposal. 

"What sangst thou as I was a-coming in?" asked the child, dropping asubject on which she found no sympathy. 

"'Twas but an old song, Lady, of your Grace's grandsire King Edward(whom God assoil! [pardon]) and his war of France. "

"That was ere I was born. Was it ere thou wert, Dame?"

"Truly no, Lady, " said Agnes, smiling; "nor ere my Lord your father. "

"What manner of lad was my Lord my father, when he was little?"

"Rare meek and gent, Lady, --for a lad, and his ire saved. " [Except whenhe was angry. ]

Dame Agnes saved her conscience by the last clause, for gentle as PrinceEdmund had generally been, he was as capable of going into a genuinePlantagenet passion as any of his more fiery brothers. 

"But a maiden must be meeker and gentler?"

"Certes, Damosel, " said Agnes, spinning away. 

The child reclined in her chair for a time in silence. Perhaps it wasthe suddenness of the next question which made the old lady drop herdistaff. 

"Dame, who is Sir John de Wycliffe?"

The distaff had to be recovered before the question could be considered. 

"Ask at Dame Joan, Lady, " was the discreet reply. 

"So I did; and she bade me ask at thee. "

"A priest, methinks, " said Agnes vaguely. 

"Why, I knew that, " answered the child. "But what did he, or held he?--for 'tis somewhat naughty, folk say. "

"If it be somewhat naughty, Lady Custance, you should not seek to knowit. "

"But my Lady my mother wagged her head, though she spake not. So I wantto know. "

"Then your best way, Damosel, " suggested the troubled Agnes, "were toask at her Grace. "

"I did ask at her. "

"And what said she?"

"She said she would tell me another day. But I want to know now. "

"Her Grace's answer might have served you, Lady. "

"It did not serve Ned. He said he would know. And so will I. "

"The Lord Edward is two years your elder, Lady. "

"Truth, " said the child shrewdly, "and you be sixty years mine elder, soyou should know more than he by thirty. "

Agnes could not help smiling, but she was sadly perplexed how to dismissthe unwelcome topic. 

"Let be. If thou wilt not tell me, I will blandish some that will. There be other beside thee in the university [world, universe]. --What isyonder bruit?" [a noise. ]

It was little Maude, flying in frantic terror, with Parnel in hotpursuit, both too much absorbed to note in what direction they wererunning. The cause was not far to seek. 

After Maude had recovered from the effects of her exposure in theforest, she lighted unexpectedly on the little flat parcel which hermother had charged her to keep. It was carefully sewn up in linen, andthe sewing cost Maude some trouble to penetrate. She reached the coreat last. It was something thin and flat, with curious black and redpatterns all over it. This would have been the child's description. Itwas, in truth, a vellum leaf of a manuscript, elaborately written, butnot illuminated, unless capitals in red ink can be termed illumination. Remembering her mother's charge, to let "none beguile her of it, " Maudehad striven to keep its possession a secret from every one, first fromthe nuns, and then from Ursula Drew. Strange to say, she had succeededuntil that morning. It was to her a priceless treasure--all the moreinestimable because she could not read a word of it. But on thatunlucky morning, Parnel had caught a glimpse of the precious parcel, always hidden in Maude's bosom, and had immediately endeavoured tosnatch it from her. Contriving to elude her grasp, yet fearful of itsrepetition, Maude rushed out of the kitchen door, and finding that hertormentor followed, fled across the base court, took refuge in an openarchway, dashed up a flight of steps, and sped along a wide corridor, neither knowing nor caring that her flying feet were bearing herstraight in the direction of the royal apartments. Parnel was the firstto see where they were going, and at the last corner she stayed herpursuit, daring to proceed no further. But Maude did not know thatParnel was no longer on her track, and she fled wildly on, till her foottripped at an inequality in the stone passage, and she came down justopposite an open door. 

For a minute the child was too much stunned by her fall to think of anything. Then, as her recollection returned, she cast a terrified glancebehind her, and saw that her pursuer had not yet appeared round thecorner. And then, before she could rise, she heard a voice in front ofher. 

"What is this, my child?"

Maude looked up, past a gorgeous spread of blue and gold drapery, into ameek, quiet face--a face whose expression reassured and comforted her. A calm, pale, oval face, in which were set eyes of sapphire blue, framedby soft, light hair, and wearing a look of suffering, past or present. Maude answered the gentle voice which belonged to that face as she mighthave answered her mother. 

"I pray you of pardon, Mistress! Parnel, my fellow, ran after me andaffrighted me. "

"Wherefore ran she after thee?"

"Because she would needs see what I bare in my bosom, and I was loth sheso should, lest she should do it hurt. "

"What is that? I will do it no hurt. "

Maude looked up again, and felt as if she could trust that face with anything. So merely saying--"You will not give it Parnel, Mistress?" shedrew forth her treasure and put it into the lady's hand. 

"I will give it to none saving thine own self. Dost know what it is, little maid?"

"No, Mistress, in good sooth. "

"How earnest by it? 'Tis a part of a book. "

"My mother, that is dead, charged me to keep it; for it was all she hadfor to give me. I know not, in very deed, whether it be Charlemagne orArthur"--the only two books of which poor Maude had ever heard. "Butan' I could meet with one that wist to read, and that were my truefriend, I would fain cause her to tell me what I would know thereabout. "

"And hast no true friend?" inquired the lady. 

"Not one, " said Maude sorrowfully. 

"Well, little maid, I can read, and I would be thy true friend. What isit thou wouldst fain know?"

"Why, " said Maude, in an interested tone, "whether the great knight, ofwhose mighty deeds this book doth tell, should win his 'trothed love atthe last, or no. "

For the novel-reader of the fourteenth century was not very differentfrom the novel-reader of the nineteenth. The lady smiled, but grewgrave again directly. She sat down in one of the cushionedwindow-seats, keeping Maude's treasured leaf in her hand. 

"List, little maid, and thou shalt hear--that the great Knight, of whosemighty prowess this book doth tell, shall win His 'trothed love atlast. "

And she began to read--very different words from any Maude expected. The child listened, entranced. 

"And I saigh [saw] newe heuene and newe erthe; for the firste heuene andthe firste erthe wenten awei; and the see is not now. And I ioon [John]saigh the hooli citee ierusalim newe comynge doun fro heuene maad rediof god as a wyf ourned to hir husbonde. And I herde a greet voice frothe trone seiynge [saying], lo a tabernacle of god is with men, and heschal dwelle with hem, and thei schulen be his peple, and he, god withhem, schal be her [their] god. And god schal wipe awei ech teer fro theighen [eyes] of hem, and deeth schal no more be, neithir mournyngneither criyng neither sorewe schal be ouer, whiche thing is firste[first things] wenten awei. And he seide that sat in the trone, lo Imake alle thingis newe. And he seide to me, write thou, for thesewordis ben [are] moost feithful and trewe. And he seide to me, it isdon, I am alpha and oo [omega] the bigynnyng and ende, I schal ghyue[give] freli of the welle of quyk [quick, living] water to him thatthirstith. He that schal ouercome schal welde [possess] these thingis, and I schal be god to him, and he schal be sone to me. But to ferdfulmen, and unbileueful, and cursid, and manquelleris, and fornicatours, and to witchis and worschiperis of ydols and to alle lyeris the part ofhem schal be in the pool brenynge with fyer and brymstoon, that is thesecounde deeth. And oon [one] cam of the seuene aungelis hauynge violisful of seuene the laste ueniauncis [vengeances, plagues], and he spakwith me and seide, come thou and I schal schewe to thee the spousesse[bride] the wyf of the lombe. And he took me up in spirit into a greethill and high, and he schewide to me the hooli cite ierusalem comyngedoun fro heuene of god, hauynge the cleerte [glory] of god; and thelight of it lyk a precious stoon as the stoon iaspis [jasper], ascristal. And it hadde a wall greet and high hauynge twelue ghatis[gates], and in the ghatis of it twelue aungelis and names writen ynthat ben the names of twelue lynagis [lineages, tribes] of the sones ofisrael. Fro the eest three ghatis, and fro the north three ghatis, andfro the south three ghatis, and fro the west three ghatis. And the wallof the citee hadde twelue foundamentis, and in hem the twelue names oftwelue apostlis and of the lombe. And he that spak with me hadde agoldun mesure of a rehed [reed] that he schulde mete the citee and theghatis of it and the wall. And the citee was sett in a square, and thelengthe of it is so mych as mych as is the brede [breadth], and he mat[meted, measured] the citee with the rehed bi furlongis tweluethousyndis, and the highthe and the lengthe and breede of it ben euene. And he maat [meted, measured] the wallis of it of an hundride and foureand fourti cubitis bi mesure of man, that is, of an aungel. And thebilding of the wall thereoff was of the stoon iaspis and the citee itsilff was cleen gold lyk cleen glas. And the foundamentis of the wal ofthe cite weren ourned [adorned] with al precious stoon, the firstefoundament iaspis, the secound saphirus, the thridde calsedonyus, thefourthe smaragdus [emerald], the fifthe sardony [sardonyx], the sixtesardyus [ruby], the seuenthe crisolitus, the eighthe berillus, thenynthe topasius, the tenthe crisopassus, the elleuenthe iacinctus[jacinth], the tweluethe amiatistus [amethyst]. And twelue ghatis bentwelue margaritis [pearls] bi ech [each], and ech ghate was of ech[each] margarite and the streetis of the citee weren cleen gold as ofglas ful schinynge. And I saigh no temple in it, for the lord godalmyghti and the lomb is temple of it, and the citee hath not nede ofsunne neither moone that thei schine in it, for the cleerite of godschal lightne it, and the lombe is the lanterne of it, and the kyngis oferthe schulen bringe her glorie and onour into it. And the ghatis of itschulen not be closid bi dai, and nyght schal not be there, and theischulen bringe the glorie and onour of folkis into it, neither ony mandefouled and doynge abomynacioun and leesyng [lying] schal entre intoit, but thei that ben writun in the book of lyf and of the lombe. "

When the soft, quiet voice ceased, it was like the sudden cessation ofsweet music to the enchanted ears of little Maude. The child was veryimaginative, and in her mental eyes the City had grown as she listened, till it now lay spread before her--the streets of gold, and the gates ofpearl, and the foundations of precious stones. Of any thing typical orsupernatural she had not the faintest idea. In her mind it was at oncesettled that the City was London, and yet was in some dreamy wayJerusalem; for of any third city Maude knew nothing. The King, ofcourse, had his Palace there; and a strong desire sprang up in thechild's mind to know whether the royal mistress, who was to her a kindof far-off fairy queen, had a palace there also. If so--but no! it wastoo good to be true that Maude would ever go to wash the golden pans anddiamond dishes which must be used in that City. 

"Mistress!" said Maude to her new friend, after a short silence, duringwhich both were thinking deeply. 

The lady brought her eyes down to the child from the sky, where they hadbeen fixed, and smiled a reply to the appeal. 

"Would you tell me, of your grace, whether our Lady mistresshood'sgraciousness hath in yonder city a dwelling?"

Maude wondered exceedingly to see tears slowly gather in the sapphireeyes. 

"God grant it, little maid!" was, to her, the incomprehensible answer. 

"And if so were, Mistress, counteth your Madamship that our saidpuissant Lady should ever lack her pans cleansed yonder?"

"Wherefore, little maid?" asked the lady very gently. 

"Because, an' I so might, I would fain dwell in yonder city, " saidMaude, with glittering eyes. 

"And thy work is to cleanse pans?"

Little Maude sighed heavily. "Ay, yonder is my work. "

"Which thou little lovest, as methinks. "

"Should you love it, Mistress, think you?" demanded Maude. 

"Truly, little maid, that should I not, " answered the lady. "Now tellme freely, what wouldst liefer do?"

"Aught that were clean and fair and honest!" [pretty] said Maudeconfidentially, her eyes kindling again. "An' they lack any 'prenticesin that City, I would fain be bound yonder. Verily, I would love totwine flowers, or to weave dovecotes [the golden nets which confinedladies' hair], or to guard brave gowns with lace, and the like of that, an' I could be learned. Save that, methinks, over there, I would beever and alway a-gazing from the lattice. "

"Wherefore?"

"And yet I wis not, " added Maude, thinking aloud. "Where the streets begold, and the gates margarites, what shall the gowns be?"

"Pure, bright stones [see Note 3], little maid, " said the lady. "Butthere be no 'prentices yonder. "

"What! be they all masters?" said the child. 

"`A kingdom and priests, '" she said. "But there be no 'prentices, seeing there is no work, save the King's work. "

Little Maude wondered privately whether that were to sew stars uponsunbeams. 

"But there shall not enter any defouled thing into that City, " pursuedthe lady seriously; "no leasing, neither no manner of wrongfulness. "

Little Maude's face fell considerably. 

"Then I could not go to cleanse the pans yonder!" she said sorrowfully. "I did tell a lie once to Mistress Drew. "

"Who is Mistress Drew?" enquired the lady. 

The child looked up in astonishment, wondering how it came to pass thatany one living in Langley Palace should not know her who, to Maude'sapprehension, was monarch of all she surveyed--inside the kitchen. 

"She is Mistress Ursula Drew, that is over me and Parnel. "

"Doth she cleanse pans?" said the lady smilingly. 

"Nay, verily! She biddeth us. "

"I see--she is queen of the kitchen. And is there none over her?"

"Ay, Master Warine. "

"And who is over Master Warine?"

A question beyond little Maude's power to answer. 

"The King must be, of force, " said she meditatively. "But who is else--saving his gracious mastership and our Lady her mistresshood--in goodsooth I wis not. "

The lady looked at her for a minute with a smile on her lips. Then, alittle to Maude's surprise, she clapped her hands. A handsomely attiredwoman--to the child's eyes, the counterpart of the lady who had beentalking with her--appeared in the doorway. 

"Senora!" she said, with a reverence. 

The two ladies thereupon began a conversation, in a language totallyincomprehensible to little Maude. They were both Spanish by birth, andthey were speaking their own tongue. They said:--

"Dona Juana, is there any vacancy among my maids?"

"Senora, we live to fulfil your august pleasure. "

"Do you think this child could be taught fine needlework?"

"The Infanta has only to command. "

"I wish it tried, Dona Juana. "

"I lie at the Infanta's feet. "

The lady turned back to Maude. 

"Thy name, little maid?" she gently asked. 

"Maude, and your servant, Mistress, " responded the child. 

"Then, little Maude, have here thy treasure"--and she held forth theleaf to her--"and thy wish. Follow this dame, and she will see if thoucanst guard gowns. If so be, and thou canst be willing and gent, another may cleanse the pans, for thou shalt turn again to the kitchenno more. "

Little Maude clasped her hands in ecstasy. 

"Our Lady Mary, and Peter and Paul, bless your Ladyship's mistresshood!Be you good enough for to ensure me of the same?"

"Thou shalt not win back, an' thou do well, " repeated the lady, smiling. "Now follow this dame. "

Dona Juana was not at all astonished. Similar sudden transformationswere comparatively of frequent occurrence at that time; and to call inquestion any act of the King of Castilla's daughter would have been inher eyes the most impossible impropriety. She merely noted mentally theextremely dirty state of Maude's frock, calculated how long it wouldtake to make her three new ones, wondered if she would be verytroublesome to teach, and finally asked her if she had any better dress. Maude owned that she possessed a serge one for holidays, upon whichDona Juana, after a minute's hesitation, looked back into the room shehad left, and said, "Alvena!" A lively-looking woman, past girlhood inage, but retaining much of the character, answered the call. 

"Hie unto Mistress Ursula Drew, that is over the kitchen, and do her towit that her Grace's pleasure is to advance Maude, the scullion, untoroom [situation] of tire-woman; bid her to give thee all that 'longethunto the maid, and bear it hither. "

Alvena departed on her errand, and Maude followed Dona Juana into fairyland. Gorgeous hangings covered the walls; here and there a soft mossycarpet was spread over the stone floor--for it was not the time of yearfor rushes. The guide's own dress--crimson velvet, heavilyembroidered--was a marvel of art, and the pretty articles strewn on thetables were wonders of the world. They had passed through four roomsere Maude found her tongue. 

"Might it like your Madamship, " she asked timidly, her curiosity at lastovercoming her reserve, though she felt less at home with Dona Juanathan with the other lady, "to tell me the name of the fair mistress thatdid give me into your charge?"

"That is our Lady's Grace, maiden, " said Juana rather stiffly, "the LadyInfanta Dona Isabel, Countess of Cambridge. "

"What, she that doth bear rule over us all?" said Maude amazedly. 

"She, " replied Juana. 

"Had I wist the same, as wot the saints, I had been sore afeard, "responded Maude. "And what call men your Grace's Ladyship, an' I mayknow?"

Dona Juana condescended to smile at the child's simplicity. 

"My name is Juana Fernandez, " she said. "Thou canst call me Dame Joan. "

At this point the hangings were suddenly lifted, and something whichseemed to Maude the very Queen of the Fairies crept out and stood beforethem. Juana stopped and courtesied, an act which Maude was toofascinated to imitate. 

"Whither go you, Dona Juana?" asked the vision. "In good sooth, this isthe very little maid I saw a-washing the pans. Art come to sit underthe cloth of estate in my stead?"

Little Maude gazed on her Fairy Queen, and was silent. 

"What means your Grace, Dona Constanca?" asked Juana. 

"What is thy name, and wherefore earnest hither?" resumed Constance, still addressing herself to Maude. 

"Maude, " said the child shyly. 

"Maude! That is a pretty name, " pronounced the little Princess. 

"The Senora Infanta, your Grace's mother, will have me essay to learnthe maid needlework, " added Juana in explanation. 

"Leave me learn her!" said Constance eagerly. "I can learn her all Iknow; and I am well assured I can be as patient as you, Dona Juana. "

"At your Ladyship's feet, " responded Juana quietly, using her customaryformula. She felt the suggestion highly improper and exceedinglyabsurd, but she was far too great a courtier to say so. 

"Come hither!" said Constance gleefully, beckoning to Maude. "Sue[follow] thou me unto Dame Agnes de La Marche her chamber. I would faintalk with thee. "

Maude glanced at Juana for permission. 

"Sue thou the Senorita Dona Constanca, " was the reply. "Be thou warenot to gainsay her in any thing. "

There was little need of the warning, for Maude was completelyenthralled. She followed her Fairy Queen in silence into the room whereDame Agnes still sat spinning. 

"Sit thou down on yonder stool, " said Constance. "My gracious Ladyshipwill take this giant's chair. (I have learned my lesson, Dame Agnes. )Now--where is thy mother?"

"A fathom underground. "

"Poor Maude! hast no mother?--And thy father?"

"Never had I. "

"And thy brethren and sustren?" [Sisters. ]

"Ne had I never none. "

"Maiden!" interjected Dame Agnes, "wist not how to speak unto a damoselof high degree? Thou shalt say `Lady' or `Madam. '"

"`Lady' or `Madam, '" repeated Maude obediently. 

"How long hast washed yonder pans?" asked Constance, leaning her head onthe arm of the chair. 

"`Lady' or `Madam, '" answered Maude, remembering her lesson, "by thespace of ten months. "

"The sely hilding!" [sely=simple, hilding=young person of either sex]exclaimed Agnes; while Constance flung herself into another attitude, and laughed with great enjoyment. 

"Flyte [scold] her not, Dame Agnes. I do foresee she and I shall begreat friends. "

"Lady Custance! The dirt under your feet is no meet friend ne fellow[companion] for the like of you. "

"Truly, no, saving to make pies thereof, " laughed the little Princess. "Nathless, take my word for it, Maude and I shall be good friends. "

Was there a recording angel hovering near to note the words? For thetwo lives, which had that day come in contact, were to run thenceforthside by side so long as both should last in this world. 

But the little Princess was soon tired of questioning her newacquaintance. She sauntered away ere long in search of some more novelamusement, and Dame Agnes desired Maude to change her dress, and then toreturn to the ante-chamber, there to await the orders of Dame Joan, asDona Juana was termed by all but the Royal Family. Maude obeyed, and inthe ante-chamber she found, not Juana, but Alvena [a fictitious person], and another younger woman, whom she subsequently heard addressed asMistress Sybil [a fictitious person]. 

"So thou shalt be learned?" [you have to be taught] said Alvena, as herwelcome to Maude. "Come, look hither on this gown. What is it?"

"'Tis somewhat marvellous shene!" [bright] said Maude, timidly strokingthe glossy material. 

Alvena only laughed, apparently enjoying the child's ignorance; butSybil said gently, "'Tis satin, little maid. "

"Is it for our Lady's Grace?" asked Maude. 

"Ay, when 'tis purfiled, " replied Alvena. 

"Pray you, Mistress Alvena, what is `purfiled?'"

"Why, maid! Where hast dwelt all thy life? `Purfiled' signifiethguarded with peltry. "

"But under your good allowance, Mistress Alvena, what is `peltry'?"

"By my Lady Saint Mary! heard one ever the like?"

"Peltry, " quietly explained Sybil, "is the skin of beast with thedressed fur thereon--such like as minever, and gris [marten], and thelike. "

"Thurstan, " said Alvena suddenly, turning to a little errand boy [afictitious person] who sat on a stool in the window, and whose especialbusiness it was to do the bidding of the Countess's waiting-women, "Hiethee down to Adam [a fictitious person] the peltier [furrier. Ladies ofhigh rank kept a private furrier in the household], and do him to witthat the Lady would have four ells of peltry of beasts ermines for thebordure of her gown of blue satin that is in making. The peltry shallbe of the breadth of thine hand, and no lesser; and say unto him that itshall be of the best sort, and none other. An' he send me up such evilgear as he did of gris for the cloak of velvet, he may look to see itback with a fardel [parcel] of flyting lapped [wrapped] therein. Haste, lad! and be back ere my scissors meet. "

Thurstan disappeared, and Alvena threw herself down on the settle whileshe waited for her messenger. 

"Ay me! I am sore aweary of all this gear--snipping, and sewing, andfitting. If I would not as lief as forty shillings have done withbroidery and peltry, then the moon is made of green cheese. Is thatstrange unto thee, child?"

"Verily, Mistress Alvena, methinks you be aweary of Fairy Land, " saidlittle Maude in surprise. 

"Callest this Fairy Land?" laughed Alvena. "If so be, child, I werefain to dwell a season on middle earth. "

"In good sooth, so count I it, " answered Maude, allowing her eyes torove delightedly among all the marvels of the ante-chamber, "and theLady Custance the very Queen of Faery. "

"The Lady Custance is made of flesh and blood, trust me. An' thou hadsthad need to bear her to her bed, kicking and striving all the way, whenshe was somewhat lesser than now, thou shouldst be little tempted tocount her immortal. "

"An' it like you, Mistress Alvena--"

"Marry, Master Thurstan, it liketh me right well to see thee backwithout the peltry wherefor I sent thee! Where hast loitered, thouknave?"

"Master Adam saith he is unfurnished at this time of the peltry youwould have, Mistress, and without fox will serve your turn--"

"Fox me no fox, as thou set store by thy golden locks!" said Alvena, advancing towards the luckless Thurstan in a threatening attitude, withthe scissors open in her hand. "I'll fox him, and thee likewise. Goand bring me the four ells of peltry of beasts ermines, and that of thebest, or thou shalt wake up to-morrow to find thy poll as clean as theend of thine ugsome [ugly] nose. "

Poor Thurstan, who was only a child of about ten years old, mistookAlvena's jesting for earnest, and began to sob. 

"But what can I, Mistress?" urged the terrified urchin. "Master Adamsaith he hath never a nail thereof, never name an ell. "

"Alvena, trouble not the child, " interposed Sybil. 

But Sybil's gentle intercession would have availed little if it had notbeen seconded by the unexpected appearance of the only person whomAlvena feared. 

"What is this?" inquired Dona Juana, in a tone of authority. 

Thurstan, with a relieved air, subsided into his recess, and Alvena, with a rather abashed one, began to explain that no ermine could be hadfor the trimming of the blue satin dress. 

"Then let it wait, " decided the Mistress--for this was Juana's officialtitle. "Alvena, set the child a-work, and watch that she goeth rightlythereabout. Sybil, sue thou me. "

The departure of Juana and Sybil, for which Maude was privately rathersorry, set Alvena's tongue again at liberty. She set Maude at work, ona long hem, which was not particularly interesting; and herself began topin some trimming on a tunic of scarlet cloth. 

"Pray you, Mistress Alvena, " asked Maude at length--wedging her questionin among a quantity of small-talk--"hath the Lady Custance brethren orsustren?"

"Sustren, not one; and trust me, child, an' thou knewest her as I do, thou shouldst say one of her were enough. But she hath brethren twain--the Lord Edward, which is her elder, and the Lord Richard, her younger. The little Lord Richard is a sweet child as may lightly be seen; anddearly the Lady Custance loveth him. But as for the Lord Edward--an' hecan do an ill turn, trust him for it. "

"And what like is my Lord our master?" asked Maude. 

Alvena laughed. "Sawest ever Ursula Drew bake bread, child?"

"Oh ay!" sighed the ex-scullery-maid. 

"And hast marked how the dough, ere he be set in the oven, should takeany pattern thou list to set him on?"

"Ay. "

"Then thou hast seen what the Lord Earl is like. "

"But who setteth pattern on the Lord Earl?" inquired Maude, looking upin some surprise. 

"All the world, saving my Lady his wife, and likewise in his wrath. Hast ever seen one of our Princes in a passion of ire?"

"Never had I luck yet to see one of their Graces, " said Maudereverently. 

"Then thou wist not what a man _can_ be like when he is angered. "

"But not, I ensure me, the Lady Custance!" objected Maude, loth tosurrender her Fairy Queen. 

"Wait awhile and see!" was the ominous answer. 

"Methought she were sweet and fair as my Lady her mother, " said Maude ina disappointed tone. 

"`Sweet and fair'!--and soft, is my Lady Countess. Why, child, sheshould hardly say this kirtle were red, an' Dame Joan told her it weregreen. Thou mayest do aught with her, an' thou wist how to take her. "

"How take you her?" demanded Maude gravely. 

"By 'r Lady! have yonder fond [foolish] books of the Lutterworth parsonat thy tongue's end, and make up a sad face, and talk of faith and graceand forgiving of sins and the like, and mine head to yon shred of tinselan' she give thee not a gown within the se'nnight. "

"But, Mistress Alvena! that were to be an hypocrite, an' you felt itnot. "

"Hu-te-tu! We be all hypocrites. Some of us feign for one matter, andsome for other. I wis somewhat thereabout, child; for ere I came hitherwas I maid unto the Lady Julian [a fictitious person], recluse ofTamworth Priory. By our dear Lady her girdle! saw I nothing ofhypocrisy there!"

"You never signify, Mistress, that the blessed recluse was anhypocrite?"

"The blessed recluse was mighty fond of sweetbreads, " said Alvena, taking a pin out of her mouth, "and many an one smuggled I in to herunder my cloak, when Father Luke thought she was a-fasting on bread andwater. And one clereful [glorious] night had we, she and I, when onethat I knew had shot me a brace of curlews, and coming over moorland bythe church, he dropped them--all by chance, thou wist!--by the door ofthe cell. And I, oping the door--to see if it rained, trow!--foundthese birds a-lying there. Had we no supper that night!--and 'twas avigil even. The blessed martyr or apostle (for I mind me not what dayit were) forgive us!"

"But how dressed you them?" said Maude. 

Alvena stopped in her fitting and pinning to laugh. 

"Thou sely maid! The sacristan was my mother's brother. "

Maude looked up as if she did not see the inference. 

"I roasted them in the sacristy, child. The priests were all gone hometo bed; and so soon as the ground were clear, mine uncle rapped of thedoor; and the Lady Julian came after me to the sacristy, close lapped inmy cloak--"

How long Alvena might have proceeded to shock Maude's susceptibilitiesand outrage her preconceived opinions, it is impossible to say; for atthis moment Thurstan opened the door and announced in a ratherconsequential manner--

"The Lord Le Despenser, to visit the Lady Custance, and Dame Margarethis sister. "

Maude lifted her eyes to the height of Alvena, and found that she had tolower them to her own. A young lady of about sixteen entered, dressedin a rose-coloured silk striped with gold, and a gold-coloured mantlelined with the palest blue. She led by the hand a very pretty littleboy of ten or eleven years of age, attired in a velvet tunic of thatlight, bright shade of apple-green which our forefathers largely used. It was edged at the neck by a little white frill. He carried in hishand a black velvet cap, from which depended a long and very full redplume of ostrich feathers. His stockings were white silk, his boots redleather, fastened with white buttons. The brother and sister werealike, but the small, delicately-cut features of both were the moredelicate in the boy, and on his dark brown hair was a golden gloss whichwas not visible on that of his sister. 

"Give you good morrow, Mistress Alvena, " said Dame Margaret pleasantly. "The Lady Custance--may one have speech of her?"

Before Alvena could reply, the curtain which shrouded the door leadingto the Countess's rooms was drawn aside, and Constance came forwardherself. 

"Good morrow, Meg, " said she, kissing the young lady. "Thou hastmistaken thy road, Tom. "

"Wherefore so?" asked Dame Margaret; for her little brother was silent, except that he offered a kiss in his turn, and looked ratherdisconcerted when no notice was taken of it. 

"Why, Ned is playing quoits below, and Tom should have bidden with him. Come hither, Meg; I have a pretty thing to show thee. "

"But Tom came to see your Ladyship. "

"Well, he has seen me!" said the little Princess impatiently. "I lovenot lads. They are fit for nought better than playing quoits. Let themgo and do it. "

"What, Dickon?" said Margaret, smiling. 

"Oh, Dickon!" returned Constance in a changed tone. "But Tom is notDickon. Neither is he an angel, I wis, for I heard him gainsay once hispreceptor. "

Tom looked very unhappy at this raking up of bygone misdeeds. 

"Methinks your Ladyship is in ill humour this morrow, " said Margaret. "Be not so hard on the lad, for he loveth you. "

"When I love him, I will do him to wit, " said Constance cuttingly. "Come, Meg. "

Dame Margaret obeyed the command, but she kept hold of the hand of herlittle brother. When they were gone, Alvena laid down her work andlaughed. 

"Thy Queen of Faery is passing gracious, Maude. "

"She scarce seemed to matter the lad, " was Maude's reply. 

"Yet she hath sworn to do his bidding all the days of her life, " saidAlvena. 

"Why, " said Maude, looking up in surprise, "would you say the LadyCustance is troth-plight unto this imp?" [Little boy. ]

"Nay, she is wedded wife. 'Tis five years or more sithence they werewed. My Lady Custance had years four, and my Lord Le Despenser five. They could but just syllable their vows. And I mind me, the LadyCustance stuck at `obey, ' and she had to be threatened with afustigation [beating, whipping] ere she would go on. "

"But who dared threaten her?" inquired Maude. 

"Marry, my Lord her father, which fell into a fit of ire to see herperversity. --There goeth the dinner bell; lap thy work, child. For me, I am well fain to hear it. "

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Note 1. The child was Constance, only daughter of Edmund Duke of York(seventh son of Edward the Third) and Isabel of Castilla. 

Note 2. Agnes de La Marche had been the nurse of two of Edward theThird's sons, Lionel and Edmund. She lived to old age, and was long inreceipt of a pension from the Crown for her former service. 

Note 3. Wycliffe's rendering of Revelations sixteen 6. In variousplaces he follows what are now determined to be the best and mostancient authorities. 

CHAPTER THREE. 

STRANGE TALES. 

 "Oh stay me not, thou holy friar! Oh stay me not, I pray! No drizzling rain that falls on me Can wash my fault away. "--Bishop Percy. 

On entering the banquet-hall of Langley Palace, Maude the tire-maidenfound herself promoted to a very different position from that which hadbeen filled by Maude the scullion. Her former place had been near thedoor, and far below that important salt-cellar which was then thetable-indicator of rank. She was directed now to take her seat as thelowest of the Countess's maidens, on a form just opposite thesalt-cellar, which was more than half-way up the hall. Maude had hardlysat down when her next neighbour below accosted her in a familiar voice. 

"Why, little Maude! I looked for thee in vain at yon board end, and Iwas but now marvelling what had befallen thee. How earnest up hither?"Maude smiled back at Bertram Lyngern. 

"It pleased the Lady's Grace to make me of her especial following. "

"Long life to the Lady!--Now will I cause thee to wit who be all myfriends. This on my left hand is Master Hugh Calverley, Mistress Maude(for thou art now of good degree, and must be spoken unto belike); he ismine especial friend, and a very knight-errant in succour of all unceli[distressed, unhappy] damsels. "

"And who is he that is next unto the Lady Custance?"

"On her right hand, the Lord Edward, and the Lord Richard at her left--her brethren both. "

Lord Richard pleased Maude. He was a winning little fellow of eightyears old. But Edward she disliked instinctively:--a tall, handsome boyof twelve, but completely spoiled by the supercilious curl of his lipand the proud carriage of his head. 

"And the Lord Earl?" she whispered to Bertram, who pointed out his royalmaster. 

He was very tall, and extremely slender; not exactly ungraceful, but hegave the impression that his arms and legs were perpetually in his way. In fact, he was a nervous man, always self-conscious, and thereforenever natural nor at ease. His hair was dark auburn; and in his lowerlip there was a tremulous fulness which denoted at once greatgood-nature and great indecision. 

It is a singular fact that the four English Princes who have borne thename of Edmund have all shared this character, of mingled gentleness andweakness; but in each the weakness was more and the amiability less, until the dual character terminated in this last of our royal Edmunds. He was the obedient servant of any person who chose to take the troubleto be his master. And there was one person who found it worth his whileto take that trouble. This individual--the Earl's youngest brother--will come across our path presently. 

The dinner to-day was more elaborate than usual, for there were severalguests present. Since the host was a Prince, the birds presented wereserved whole; had both he and his guests been commoners, they would havebeen "chopped on gobbets. " More interesting than any fictitiousdelineation on my part will be a genuine _menu_ of the period, "Thepurveyance made for King Richard, being with the Duke of Lancaster atthe Bishop's Palace of Durham at London, " of course accompanied by theirsuites. That the suites were of no small size we gather from theprovision made. It consisted of "14 oxen lying in salt, 2 oxen fresh, 120 heads of sheep fresh, 120 carcases of sheep fresh, 12 boars, 14calves, 140 pigs; 300 marrow-bones, of lard and grease enough, 3 tons ofsalt venison, 3 does of fresh venison. The poultry:--50 swans, 210geese, 50 capons of grease (fat capons), 8 dozen other capons, 60 dozenhens, 200 couple conies (rabbits), 4 pheasants, 5 herons and bitterns, 6kids, 5 dozen pullets for jelly, 12 dozen to roast, 100 dozen peions(peacocks), 12 dozen partridges, 8 dozen rabbits, 10 dozen curlews, 12dozen brewes (doubtful), 12 cranes, wild fowl enough: 120 gallons milk, 12 gallons cream, 40 gallons of curds, 3 bushels of apples, eleventhousand eggs. "

This tremendous supply was served in the following manner:

"The first course:--Venison with furmety; a potage called viaundbruse(broth made with pork and onions); heads of boars; great flesh (probablyroast joints); swans roasted, pigs roasted; crustade lumbard (custard)in paste; and a subtlety. " (The subtlety was an ornamental dish, representing a castle, ship, human figures, etcetera. )

"The second course:--A potage called jelly (jellies of meat or fish wereserved as entrees); a potage of blandesore (a white soup); pigs roasted;cranes roasted; pheasants roasted; herons roasted; chickens roasted;breme (possibly pork broth); tarts; brokebrawn; conies roasted; and asubtlety. 

"The third course:--Potage brewet of almonds (another white soup, madewith almonds and rabbit or chicken broth); sewde lumbarde (probably somekind of stew); venison roasted; chickens roasted; rabbits roasted;partridges roasted; peions roasted; quails roasted; larks roasted; paynepuff (a pudding); a dish of jelly; long fruits (a sweetmeat); and asubtlety. "

It must not be inferred that no vegetables were used, but simply thatthey were not thought worth mention. Our forefathers ate, either invegetable or salad, almost every green thing that grew. 

Before Maude had been many days in her new position, she made variousdiscoveries--not all pleasant ones, and some at complete variance withher own preconceived fancies. In the first place she discovered thather Fairy Queen, Constance, was neither more nor less than a spoiledchild. While the young Princess's affections were very warm, she hadbeen little accustomed to defer to any wishes but her own or those ofher two brothers. The pair of boys governed their sister, but theyswayed different sceptres. Edward ruled by fear, Richard by love. "Ned" must be attended to, because his wont was to make himself verydisagreeable if he were not; but "Dickon" must have every thing hewanted, because Constance could not bear to deny her darling any thing. Bertram told Maude, however, that nobody could be more fascinating thanEdward when he liked: the unfortunate item being that the happycircumstance very rarely occurred. 

But Bertram's information was not exhausted. 

"Hast heard that the Lady of Buckingham cometh hither?"

"When?" Maude whispered back. 

"To-morrow, to sup and bide the night. So thou mayest search herfollowing for thy Mistress Hawise. "

"But shall all her following follow her?" inquired Maude. 

"Every one, for she goeth anon unto her place in London to tarry thewinter, and shall be here on her way thither. And hark thou, Maude! inher train--as thou shalt see--is the fairest lady in all the world. "

"And what name hath she?" was Maude's answer. 

"The fair Lady de Narbonne, widow of Sir Robert de Narbonne, a goodknight and true, that fell in these late wars. She hath but some twentyyears e'en now, and 'tis full three summers sithence his death. "

"And what like is she?"

"Like the angels in Paradise!" said Bertram enthusiastically. "I tellthee, there is none like her in all the world. "

Maude awaited the following evening with two-fold interest. She mightpossibly see Hawise, and she should certainly see some one who was likethe angels in Paradise. The evening came, and with it the guests. Onelook at the Countess of Buckingham was enough. She certainly did notresemble the angels, unless they looked very cross and discontented. Her good qualities were not apparent to Maude, for they consisted of twocoronets and an enormous fortune. Her ladies were much more interestingto Maude than herself. The first who entered behind her was a stiffmiddle-aged woman with dark hair. 

"That is Dame Edusa, " [A fictitious person] whispered Bertram, "the LadyMistress. Here is Mistress Polegna--yonder little damsel with the darklocks; and the high upright dame is Mistress Sarah. She that comethafter is the Lady de Say. "

Not one of these was the golden-haired Cousin Hawise, whose years barelynumbered twenty. Maude's eyes had come back in disappointment, whenBertram touched her arm. 

"Now, Maude--look now! Look, the beauteous Lady de Narbonne! [Afictitious person. ] Sawest ever maiden meet to be her peer?"

Maude looked, and saw a young girlish figure, splendidly attired, --arich red and white complexion, beautiful blue eyes, and a sunny halo ofshining fair hair. But she saw as well, a cold, hard curve of thedelicate lips, a proud cynical expression in the handsome eyes, a bold, forward manner. Yes, Maude admitted, the Lady de Narbonne wasbeautiful; yet she did not care to look at her. Bertram wasdisappointed. And so was Maude, for all hope of finding Hawise haddisappeared. 

When supper was over, the tables were lifted. The festive board was atthis time literally a board or boards, which were simply set upontrestles to form a table. At the close of a meal, the tables werereduced to their primitive elements, and boards and trestles were eithercarried away, or heaped in one corner of the hall. The dining-room wasthus virtually transmuted into the drawing-room, ceremony and precedencebeing discarded for the rest of the evening--state occasions of courseexcepted, and the royal persons present not being addressed unless theychose to commence a conversation. 

Maude kept pretty strictly to her corner all that evening. She wasgenerally shy of strangers, and none of these were sufficientlyattractive to make her break through her usual habits. Least attractiveof all, to her, was the lovely Lady de Narbonne. Her light, airy ways, which seemed to enchant the Earl's knights and squires, simply disgustedMaude. She was the perpetual centre of a group of frivolous idlers, whodangled round her in the hope of leading her to a seat, or picking up adropped glove. She laughed and chatted freely with them all, distributing her smiles and frowns with entire impartiality--except inone instance. One member of the Earl's household never came within hercircle, and he was the only one whom she seemed at all desirous toattract. This was Hugh Calverley. He held aloof from the bright lamparound which all the other moths were fluttering, and Maude fancied thathe admired the queen of the evening as little as she did herself. 

All at once, by no means to Maude's gratification, the lady chose torise and walk across the room to her corner. 

"And what name hast thou, little maid?" she asked, with a light swing ofher golden pomander--the vinaigrette of the Middle Ages. 

Maude had become very tired of being asked her name, the more so sinceit was the manner in which strangers usually opened negotiations withher. She found it the less agreeable because she was conscious of noright to any surname, her mother's being the only one she knew. So sheanswered "Maude" rather shortly. 

"Maude--only Maude?"

"Only Maude. Madam, might it like your Ladyship to tell me if you witof one Hawise Gerard anything?"

If the Lady de Narbonne would talk to her, Maude resolved to utilise theoccasion; though she felt there could be little indeed in common betweenher gentle, modest cousin, and this far from retiring young widow. Thatthey could not have been intimate friends Maude was sure; butacquaintances they might be--and must be, unless the Lady de Narbonnehad been too short a time at Pleshy to know Hawise. As Maude inspeaking lifted her eyes to the lady's face, she saw the smiling lipsgrow suddenly grave, and the cold bright light die out of the beamingeyes. 

"Child, " said the Lady de Narbonne seriously, "Hawise Gerard is dead. "

"Woe is me! I feared so much, " answered Maude sorrowfully. "And mightit please you, Madam, to arede [tell] me fully when she died, and how, and where?"

"She died to thee, little maid, when she went to the Castle of Pleshy, "was the unsatisfactory answer. 

"May I wit no more, Madam? Your Ladyship knew her, trow?"

"Once, " said the lady, with a slight quiver of her lower lip, --"long, long ago!" And she suddenly turned her head, which had been for amoment averted from Maude, round towards her. "`When, and how, andwhere?'" she repeated. "Little maid, some dying is slower than men maytell the hour, and there be graves that are not dug in earth. Thycousin Hawise is dead and gone. Forget her. "

"That can I never!" replied Maude tenderly, as the memory of her deadcame fresh and warm upon her. 

The Lady de Narbonne rose abruptly, and walked away, without anotherword, to the further end of the room. Half an hour later, Maude saw herin the midst of a gay group, laughing and jesting in the cheeriestmanner. Of what sort of stuff could the woman be made?

The Countess of Buckingham did not leave Langley until after dinner thenext day--that is to say, about eleven a. M. A little before dinner, asMaude, not being wanted at the moment, stood alone at the window of thehall, leaning her arms on the wide window-ledge, a voice asked behindher, --"Art yet thinking of Hawise Gerard?"

"I was so but this moment, Madam, " replied Maude, turning round to meetthe eyes of the Lady de Narbonne, now quiet and grave enough. "'Tislittle marvel, for I loved her dear. "

"And love lasteth with thee--how long time?"

"Till death, assuredly, " said Maude. "What may lie beyond death I wisnothing. "

"Till what manner of death? The resurrection, men say, shall give backthe dead. But what shall give back a dead heart or a lost soul? Canthy love pass such death as this, Maude Gerard?"

"Madam, I said never unto your Ladyship that Hawise Gerard was kinswomanof mine. How wit you the same?"

A faint, soft smile, very unlike her usual one, so bright and cold, flickered for a moment on the lips of the Lady de Narbonne. 

"Not too far gone for that, Cousin Maude, " she said. 

"`Cousin'--Madam! You are--"

"I am Avice de Narbonne, waiting-dame unto my Lady of Buckingham'sGrace. I was Hawise Gerard, David Gerard's daughter. "

"Hawise! Thou toldest me she was dead!" cried Maude confusedly. 

"That Hawise Gerard whom thou knewest is dead and gone, long ago. Thouwilt never see her again. Thy mother Eleanor is not more dead than she;but the one may return to thee on the resurrection morrow, and the othernever can. Tell me now whether I could arede thee, as thou wouldst havehad it, how, or where, or when, thy cousin Hawise died?"

"Our dear Lady be thine aid, Hawise! What has changed thee so sore?"asked Maude, the tears running down her cheeks. 

"Call me Avice, Maude. Hawise is old-fashioned, " said the lady coolly. 

Maude seized her cousin's hands, and looking into her eyes, spoke asgirls of her age rarely speak, though they think frequently. 

"Come back to me, Hawise Gerard!--from the dead, if thou wilt have itso. Cousin Hawise--fair, gent, shamefaced, loving, holy!--come back tome, and speak with the olden voice, and give me to wit what terriblething hath been, to take away thyself, and leave but this instead ofthee!"

Maude's own earnestness was so intense, that she felt as if herpassionate words must have moved a granite mountain; but they fell coldand powerless upon Avice de Narbonne. 

"Look out into the dark this night, Maude, and call thy mother, and seewhether she will answer. The dead _cannot_ come back. I have no morepower to call back to thee the maiden I was of old, than thou. Rest, maid; and do what thou wilt and canst with that which is. "

"What can I?" said Maude bitterly. "At least thou canst tell me whathath wrought this fearful change in thee. "

"Can I?" replied Avice, seating herself on the window-seat, andmotioning her cousin to do the same. "And what shall I say it were--call it light or darkness, love or hate? For six months after I lefthome I was right woesome. (It is all gone, Maude--the old cottage, andthe forge, and the elms--they razed them all!) And then there came intomy life a fair false face, and a voice that spake well, and an heartthat was black as night. And I trusted him, for I loved him. Lovedhim--ay, better than all the saints in Heaven! I could have died tosave a pang of pain to him, and smiled in doing it. But he was false, false, false! And on the day that I knew it--O that horrible day!--mylove turned to black hate within me. I knelt and prayed that my wrongshould be avenged--that some sorrow should befal him. But I never meantthat. Holy Mary, Lady of Sorrows, thou knewest I never meant that! Andthat very night I knelt and prayed, he died on the field of battle faraway. I knew not he was in danger till four days after. When I so did, I prayed as fervently for his safety. The old love came back upon me, and I could have rent the heavens if my weak hands had reached them, toundo that fearful prayer. But she heard me not--she, the Lady of Pity!She had heard me once too well. And fifteen days later, I knew that Iwas a widow--that he had died that night, with none to pillow his heador wipe the death-dews from his brow--died unassoiled, unatoned witheither God or me! And I had done it. Child, my heart was closed upthat day as with a wall of stone. It will never open again. It is notmy love that is dead--it is my heart. "

"But, Hawise, hadst no masses sung for his soul?" asked Maude in lovingpity. 

"Too late, " she said, dropping her face upon her hands. "Too late!"

"Too late for what?" softly inquired a third voice--so gently andcompassionately that no annoyance could be felt. 

Avice was silent, and Maude answered for her. 

"For the winning of a soul from Purgatory that hath passed thitherwithout housel ne chrism. "

"Too late for the mercy of God?" replied Hugh Calverley gently. "Forthe housel and the chrism, they be mercies of man. But the mercies ofGod are infinite and unchangeable unto all such as grip hold on JesuChrist. "

"Unto them that die in mortal sin?" said Avice, not lifting her head. 

"All sin is mortal, " said Hugh in the same quiet manner; "but for Hispeople, He hath made an end of sin, and hath `distreiede [destroyed]deeth, and lightnide [brought to light] lyf. '"

"That is, for the saints?" said Maude sadly. 

"Mistress, an' it had not been for the sinners, you and I must needshave fared ill. Who be saints saving they that were once sinners?"

"Soothly, Master Calverley, these be matters too high for me. I am nosaint, God wot. "

"Doth God wot that, Mistress Maude? Then of a surety I am sorry foryou. "

Maude was silent, though she thought it strange doctrine. But Avicesaid in a low voice, recurring to her former subject, --"You believe, Master Calverley, that God can raise the dead; but think you that He canquicken again to life an heart that is dead, and cold, and hard asyonder stone? Is there any again rising for such?"

"Madam, if no, there had been never none for neither you nor me. We beall dead souls by nature. "

"Ay, afore baptism, so wit I; but what of mortal sin done afterbaptism?"

"I speak but as I am learned, Madam, " said Hugh modestly. "I am youngereven than you, methinks, and far more witless. But I have heard themsay that have been deep skilled, as methinks, in the ministeries[mysteries] of God, that wherein it is said that `He mai save withoutenende, ' it scarce signifieth only afore baptism. "

"Ah!" said Maude, with a sigh, "to do away sin done after baptism is amighty hard and grievous matter. Good sooth, at my first communion, this last summer, so abashed [nervous] was I, and in so painful bire[confused haste], that I let drop the holy wafer upon the ground; andfor all I gat it again unbroke, and licked well with my tongue the stide[spot] where it had fallen, Father Dominic [a fictitious person] said Ihad done dreadful sin, and he caused me to crawl upon my knees allaround the church, and to say an hundred Ave Marys and ten Paternostersat every altar. And in very deed I was right sorrowful for mine illmischance; nor could I help the same, for I saw not the matter rightly. But Father Dominic said our Lord should be right sore offenced with me, and mine only hope lay in moving the mercy of our dear worthy Lady toplead with Him. If it be not wicked to say the same, " added shetimidly, "I would God were not angered with us for such like small gear. But I count our Lady heard me, sith Father Dominic was pleased toabsolve me at last. "

"Will you give me leave to say a thing, Mistress Maude?"

"I pray you so do, Master Calverley. "

"Then if the same hap should chance unto you again, I counsel you totravail [trouble] yourself neither with Father Dominic nor our Lady, butto go straight to our Lord Himself. Maybe He were pleased to absolveyou something sooner than Father Dominic. Look you, the priest died notto atone God for your sins, neither our Lady did not. And if it be, asmen do say, that commonly the mother is more fond [foolishly indulgent]unto the child than any other, by reason she hath known more travail andpain [labour] with him, then surely in like manner He that hath bornedeath for our sins shall be more readier to assoil them than he that nodid. "

These were bold words to speak in the year of grace 1385. But theQueen's squire, John Calverley, was one of those advanced Lollards ofwhom there were very few, and his son had learned of him. Even Wycliffehimself would scarcely have dared to venture so far as this, until thelatter years of his life. It takes long to convince men that no lesseradvocate is needed between them and the one Mediator with God. Andwhere they are taught that "Mary is the human side of Jesus, " the resultgenerally is that they lose sight of the humanity of Jesus altogether. 

It was not, therefore, unnatural that Maude's answer should havebeen, --"But, Master Calverley! so saying you should have no need of ourLady. " She expected Hugh to reply by an indignant denial; and itastounded her no little to hear him quietly accept the unheard-ofalternative. 

"Do you as you list, Mistress Maude, " he answered. "For me, I amcontent with our Lord. "

"Well-a-day! methought all pity [piety] lay in worship of our Lady!"said Maude, in that peculiar constrained tone which implies that thespeaker feels himself the infinitely distant superior of his antagonist. 

"Mistress, " was Hugh's answer, "I never said that I was content withoutour Lord. I lack an advocate, to the full as well as any; but SaintPaul saith that `oo [one] God and a mediatour is of God and of men, aman, Christ Jesu. ' And methinks he should be a sorry mediator thatlacked an advocate himself. "

Avice had lifted her head, and had fixed her eyes intently on Hugh. Shehad said nothing more; she was learning. 

"Likewise saith He, " resumed Hugh, "that `no man cometh to the Fadir butby me. ' Again, `no man may come to me but if the Fadir that hath senteme drawe him:' yet `all thing that the Fadir gyueth me schal come tome. '"

Avice spoke at last. 

"`All thing given' and none other? Then without we be given, we may notcome. And how shall a man wit so much?"

"Methinks, Madam, " said Hugh, thoughtfully, "that if a man be willing tocome, and to give himself, he hath therein witness that he was given ofthe Father. "

"But to give himself wholly unto God, " added Maude, "signifieth that heshall take no more pleasure in this life?"

"Try it, " responded Hugh, "and see if it signifieth not rather that aman shall enter into joys he never knew aforetime. God's gifts to usprevent our gifts to Him. "

"Lady Avice! Dame Edusa hath asked twice where you be, " said Polegna, running into the hall. "The bell shall sound in an other minute, andour Lady maketh no tarrying after dinner. "

So the trio were parted. There was no opportunity after dinner foranything beyond a farewell, and Maude, with her heart full of manythoughts, went back to her sewing in the antechamber. 

About an hour after Maude had resumed her work, Constance strolled intothe room in search of amusement. She looked at the crimson tunic andblack velvet skirt which were in making for her own wear at the comingEaster festival; gazed out of the window for ten minutes; sat andwatched Maude work for about five; and at last, a bright idea strikingher, put it into action. 

"Dona Juana! lacked you Maude a season?"

Half an hour previous, Juana had been urging on her workwomen withreminders that very little time was left before the dresses must beready; but Maude had learned now that in the eyes of the Mistress, Constance's will was law, and she therefore received with littlesurprise the order to "sue the Senorita. " Resigning her work into thehands of Sybil, Maude followed her imperious little lady into thechamber of Dame Agnes de La Marche, who was busy arranging fresh flaxfor her spinning. 

"Your fingers be busy, Dame Agnes, " observed the little Princess. "Isyour tongue at leisure?"

"Both be alway at your service, Damosel, " replied the courtly old lady. 

"Then, I pray you, tell to me and Maude your fair story of theLyonesse. "

"With a very good will. "

"Then, prithee, set about it, " said Constance, ensconcing herself in thebig chair. "Sit thou on that stool, Maude. "

The old lady took her distaff, now ready, and sat down, smiling at theimpatience of the capricious child. 

"Once upon a time, " she began, "the ending of the realm of England wasnot that stide [place] which men now call the Land's End in Cornwall. Far beyond, even as far as the Isles of Scilly, stretched the fair greenplains: a kingdom lay betwixt the two, and men called it La Lyonesse. And in the good olden days, when Arthur was king, the Lyonesse had herprince, and on her plains and hills were fair rich cities, and throughher forests pricked good knights on the quest of the Holy Grail, [seenote 2] that none, save unsinning eyes, might ever see. For of all thefour-and-twenty Knights of the Round Table, none ever saw the Holy Grailsave one, and that was Sir Galahad, that was pure of heart and clean oflife. Howbeit, one night came a mighty tempest. The sea raged androared on the Cornish coast, and dashed its waters far up the rocks, washing the very walls of the Castle of Tintagel. And they that sawupon that night told after, that there came one wild flash of lightningthat lightened sky and earth; and men looked and saw by its light, statelily standing, the rich cities and green forests of the Lyonesse;and then came black darkness, and a roar, and a crash, and a rending, asthough all the rocks and the mountains should be torent [violently tornasunder]; and then another wild flash lightened sky and earth, and menlooked, and the rich cities and green forests of the Lyonesse weregone. "

Maude was listening entranced, with parted lips; Constance carelessly, as if she knew all about it beforehand, and were chiefly amusing herselfby watching the rapt face of her fellow-listener. 

"Long years thereafter, " resumed Dame Agnes, "ay, and even now, men saidand say, that at times ye may yet hear the sound and see the sight ofthe drowned cities of the Lyonesse. Ever sithence that tempestuousnight, the deep green sea lies heavy on the bosom of the lost land; andno man of unpure heart, nor of evil life, ne unbaptised, ne unshriven, may see nor hear. But if one of Christian blood, a christened man, pureof heart and clean in life, that is newly shriven, whether man or maid, will sail forth at midnight over the green sea, and when he cometh tothe place where lieth the Lyonesse, will bend him down from the boat, and look and listen, then shall come up around his ears soft weird musicfrom the church bells in the silver steeples of the doomed cities: yea, and there have been so pure, and our Lady hath shown them such grace, that they have seen the very self streets down at the bottom of the sea, where the dead walk and speak as they did of old--the knights and theladies, as in the days gone by, when Arthur was King, a thousand yearsago, when he held his court in the palaces of the lost land. And theIslands of Scilly, as men say, be the summits of the mountains, thattowered once hoary and barren over the green forests and the richcities. " [This story is a veritable legend of the Middle Ages. ]

The story was being told to an uncritical and unchronological audience, or Dame Agnes might have received a gentle intimation that she wasantedating the reign of King Arthur by the short period of two hundredyears. 

The silence which followed--for both the little girls were meditating onthe story, and Dame Agnes's flax was just then entangled in atroublesome knot--was broken, suddenly and very thoroughly, by theunexpected entrance, quiet though it were, of the Countess herself. Dame Agnes gave no heed to her broken thread, but rose instantly, distaff in hand, with a low reverence; Constance rubbed her sleepy eyesand slowly descended from her great chair; while Maude, recalled to thepresent, dropped her lowest courtesy and stood waiting. 

There was a peculiar air about the Countess Isabel, which suggested tobystanders the idea of a tired, worn-out woman. It was not discontent, not irritability, not exactly even sadness; it was the tone of one whohad never fitted rightly into the place assigned to her, and who neverfelt at home. Though it disappeared when she spoke, yet as soon as herfeatures were at rest it came again. It was little wonder that her facewore such an expression, for she was the daughter of a murdered fatherand a slandered mother, and the wife of a man who valued her very highlyas the Infanta of Castilla, but as Isabel his wife not at all. Duringher early years, she had sought rest and comfort in the world. Sheplunged wildly into every manner of dissipation and pleasure; likeSolomon, she withheld not her heart from any good; and like Solomon's, her verdict at the close was "Vanity and vexation of spirit. " Andthen--just when she had arrived at the conclusion that there was nothingupon earth worth living for--when she had "come to the end ofeverything, and cared for nothing, " she met with an old priest ofvenerable aspect, a trusted servant of King Edward, whose first wordstouched the deepest chord in her heart, while his second brought thehealing balm. His name was John de Wycliffe. Was it any wonder thatshe accepted him as a very angel of God?

For he showed her where rest was, not within, but without; not frombeneath, nor from around, but from above. So the tired heart rested inJesus here, looking forward to its perfected rest in the presence ofJesus hereafter. 

For so far as the world was concerned, there was no rest any longer. Itwas fearfully up-hill work for Isabel to aim at such a walk as shouldplease God. Her husband did not oppose her; he was as profoundlyindifferent to her new opinions and practices as he had been to her oldones, as he was to herself. So far as her life was concerned, of thetwo he considered that she had altered for the better. There had neverbeen but one heart which had loved Isabel, and that heart she pierced aswith a sword when she entered her new path on the narrow way. 

To Constanca of Castilla, the sister who had shared with her their"heritage of woe, " this younger sister was inexpressibly dear. The twosisters had married two brothers, and they saw a good deal of each otheruntil that time; but after Isabel cast in her lot with Wycliffe, verylittle. The Gospel parted these loving sisters as with a sword; themagnet was received by each at an opposite end. It attracted Isabel, and repelled Constanca. The elder wanted nothing more than she hadalways had; the gorgeous ceremonies and absolving priests of the oldChurch satisfied her, and she demanded no further comfort. She was "awoman devout above all others" in the eyes of the monkish chroniclers. And that usually meant that in this world she never awoke to her soul'suttermost need, and she was therefore content with the meagre supply shefound. So the difference between the sisters was that Constanca sleptpeacefully while Isabel had awoke. 

It was because Isabel had awoke, that she was unsatisfied with the roundof ritual observances which were all in all to her sister. She couldconfess to man, and be absolved by man; but how could she wrestleagainst the conviction that she rose from the confessional with a soulnone the cleaner, with a heart just as disinclined to go and sin nomore? The branches might be lopped; but what mattered that while theroot of bitterness remained? It is only when we hear God say, "Thy sinsare forgiven thee, " that it is possible to go in peace. And Isabelnever heard it until she came to Him. Then, when she came empty-handed, He filled her hands with gifts; He breathed into the harassed soul restand hope. 

This was what God gave her. But men gave her something very different. They had nothing better for this woman that had been a sinner, than theold comment of Simon the Pharisee. They were not ready to cast theremembrance of her iniquities into the depths of the sea--far from it. What they gave her was a scorned and slandered name, a charactersketched in words that dwelt gloatingly on her early devotion to theworld, the flesh, and the Devil, and left unwritten the story of hersubsequent devotion to God. The later portion of her life is passedover in silence. We see something of its probable character in thesupreme contempt of the monkish chroniclers; in the heretical epithet of"pestilent" applied to her; in the Lollard terms of her last will; inher choice of eminent Lollards as executors; in her bosom friendshipwith the Lollard Queen. 

But at another Table from that of Simon the Pharisee, "many that arefirst shall be last, and the last first. "

We have kept Maude standing for a long while, before her mistress, seated in the great chair in Dame Agnes de La Marche's chamber. 

"And how lovest thy new fashion of life, my maid?" demanded theCountess, when she had taken her seat. 

"Right well, an' it like your Grace. "

"Thou art here welsomer [more comfortable] than in the kitchen?"

"Surely so, Madam. "

"Dame Joan speaketh well of thy cunning. " [Skill. ]

Maude smiled and courtesied. She was gradually learning Court manners. 

"And hast thou yet thy book-leaf, the which I read unto thee?"

"Oh ay, Madam!"

"`Thy book-leaf!'" interjected Constance. "What book hast thou?"

"A part of God's Word, my daughter, " replied her mother gravely;"touching His great City, the holy Jerusalem, which shall come down fromGod out of Heaven, and is lightened with His glory. "

"When will it come?" said Constance, with unwonted gravity. 

"God wot. To all seeming, not ere thou and I be either within the same, or without His gates for ever. "

The Countess turned back to Maude. 

"My maid, thou wouldst fain know at that time whether I had any dwellingin that city. Wist thou that an' thou wilt, there thou mayest dwell?"

"I, Madam! In very sooth, should it like your Grace to take me?" AndMaude's eyes sparkled with delight. 

"I cannot take thee, my child!" was the reply, spoken in a tone so gravethat it was almost sad. "If thou wouldst go, it is Another must bearthee thither. "

"The Lady Custance?" inquired Maude, glancing at her. 

"The Lord Jesus Christ. "

Agnes mechanically crossed herself. Maude's memory ran far back. 

"Sister Christian, that was a nun at Pleshy, " she observed, dreamily, "was wont to say, long time agone, unto Mother and me, that holy Mary'sSon did love us and die for us; but I never wist nought beyond that. Would your Grace, of your goodness, tell me wherefore it were?"

"Wherefore He died? It was in the stead of thee, my maid, if thou wilthave it so: He died that thou mightest never die withouten end. --Orwherefore He loved, wouldst know? Truly, I can but bid thee ask that ofHimself, for none wist that mystery save His own great heart. There wasnought in us that He should love us; but there was every cause inHimself wherefore He should love. "

Maude was silent; but the thought which she was revolving in her mindwas whether any great saint had ever asked such a question of Him who toher was only "holy Mary's Son. " Of course it would have to be askedthrough Mary. No one, not even the greatest saint, considered Maude, had ever spoken direct to Him, except in a vision. The next remark ofthe Countess rather startled her. 

"My maid, dost ever pray?"

"An' it like your Grace, I do say every even the Hail Mary, and everymorrow the Credo; and of Sundays and holy days likewise thePaternoster. "

"And didst never feel no want ne lack, for the which thou findest notwords in the Hail Mary ne in the Credo, if it be not an holy day?"

Ay, many a want, as Maude well knew, but what had Credo or Angelus to dowith wants? Prayer, in her eyes, meant either long repetitions imposedas penances by the priest, or else the daily use of a charm, theomission of which might entail evil consequences. Of prayer as a realmeans of procuring something about which she cared, she had no morenotion than Dame Agnes's squirrel, at that moment running round hiscage, had of the distance and extent of Sherwood Forest. Maude lookedup in the face of her mistress with an expression of deep perplexity. 

"Child, " said the Countess, "when Dame Joan would send word touchingsome matter unto Dame Agnes here, falleth she a-saying unto herself ofDan Chaucer's brave Romaunt of The Flower and the Leaf?"

"Surely, no, Madam. "

"Then what doth she?"

"She cometh unto her, " said Maude, immediately adding, in amatter-of-fact way, "without she should send Mistress Sybil or someother. "

"Good. Then arede [inform] me wherefore thou shouldst fall a-saying theCredo when thou wouldst send word of thy need unto God, any more thanDame Joan should fall a-saying the Romaunt?"

"But God heareth us, and conceiveth us, Madam, " said Maude timidly, "andDame Agnes no doth. "

"Truth, my maid. Therein faileth my parable. But setting this aside, tell me, --how shall the Credo give to wit thy need?"

Maude cogitated for a minute in silence. Then she answered--

"No shall it, Madam. "

"Then wherefore not speak thy lack straightway?"

Maude was silent, but not because she was stupid. 

"My maid, what saith the Credo? When thus thou prayest, dost thou aughtsave look up to Heaven, and say, `God, I believe in Thee'? So far as itgoeth, good. But seest not that an' thou shouldst say to me, `Madam, Icrede and trust you, ' thou shouldst have asked nought from me--haveneither confessed need, ne presented petition? The Credo is matter saidto men--not to God. Were it not better to say, `Lord, I love Thee?' Orbest of all, `Lord, love Thou me?'"

"I wis, Madam, that our Lord loveth the saints, " said Maude in a lowvoice. 

She felt very much in the condition graphically described by John Bunyanas "tumbled up and down in one's mind. "

"Ah, child!" was the Countess's answer, "they be lost sheep whom Christseeketh. And whoso Christ setteth out to seek shall, sooner or later, find the way to Him. "

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1. Harl. Ms. 4016, folios 1, 2. 

Note 2. The "Holy Grail" was one of the most singular of Romishsuperstitions. A glass vessel, supported by a foot, was shown to thepeople as the cup in which Christ gave the wine to His disciples at theLast Supper; and they were taught, not only that Joseph of Arimathea hadcaught the blood from His side in the same vessel, but that he and MaryMagdalene, sailing on Joseph's shirt, had brought over the relic fromPalestine to Glastonbury. "The Quest of the Saint Graal" was thehighest achievement of the Knights of the Round Table. 

CHAPTER FOUR. 

IN THE SCRIPTORIUM. 

 "There are days of deepest sorrow In the season of our life; There are wild, despairing moments, There are hours of mental strife; There are times of stony anguish, When the tears refuse to fall; But the waiting time, my brothers, Is the hardest time of all. " _Sarah Doudney_. 

Beside a Gothic window, and under a groined stone roof, that afternoonsat a monk at his work. The work was illumination. The room was bareof all kinds of furniture, with the exception of a wooden erection whichwas chair and desk in one. On the desk lay a large square piece ofparchment, a future leaf of a book, in which the text was alreadywritten, but the illuminated border was not yet begun. There was a penin the monk's hand, with which he was about to execute the outline; butthe pen was dry, and the old man's eyes were fixed dreamily upon thelandscape without. 

"`In wisdom hast Thou made them all, '" he murmured half audibly. "OLord, `the earth is full of Thy riches!'"

It was early morning, for the illuminator was at work betimes. From alittle cottage visible across the green, he saw a peasant go forth tohis daily work, his wife watching him a moment from the door of the hut, and two little children calling to him lovingly to come back soon. 

"And life also is full of Thy riches, " whispered the solitary monk. "This poor hind hath none other riches than what Thine hand hath givenhim. Is he in truth the poorer for it? We live on Thy daily bountyeven more than he; for like Thy lilies, we toil not, neither do we spin. Yet Thou hast given to him, as sweetening to his toil, solace denied byThy holy will to us. Wherefore denied to us? Because we are set apartfor Thee. So were Thy priests of old, in Thy Temple at Jerusalem: yetit was not denied to them. Why should we love Thee less for lovinglittle children?"

The monk turned back abruptly to his work. 

"Ah me! these be problems beyond mine art. And whatso be the solving ofthe general matter, I have no doubt as to Thy will _for me_. The joysof earth be not for me; but Thou art my portion, O Lord! And I amcontent--ay, satisfied abundantly. Maybe, on the golden hills of the_Urbs Beata_, we shall find joys far passing the sweetest here, kept forthat undefouled company which shall sue the Lamb whithersoever He goeth. And could any joy pass that?"

The venerable head was bent over the parchment, upon which the grotesqueoutline of a griffin began to grow, twisted round a very conventionaltree, with the stem issuing from its mouth, and its elongated tailexecuting marvellous spiral curves. The illuminator was taken bysurprise the next instant, and the curve of the griffin's tail thenpending was by no means round in consequence. 

"Alway at work, Father Wilfred?" [A fictitious person. ]

"Bertram Lyngern, " said the monk calmly, "thou hast marred my griffin. "

"What, have I made him a wyvern?"

"That had less mattered. A twist of his tail is square, thy suddenspeech being the cause thereof. "

"Let be, Father Wilfred. 'Tis a new pattern. "

The monk smiled, but shook his head, and proceeded to erase the faultystrokes by means of a large piece of pumice-stone. Bertram satcontemplating his friend's work, curled up in the wide stonewindow-ledge, to which he had climbed from the horse-block below it. The lattice was open, so there was no hindrance to conversation. 

"I would I were a knight!" said Bertram suddenly, after a few minutes'silence on both sides. 

"To wear gilded spurs?" inquired Wilfred calmly resuming his pen, andgoing on with the griffin. 

"Thou countest me surely not such a loon, Father Wilfred? No, --I longto be great. I feel as though greatness stirred within me. But whatcan I do, --a squire? If I were a knight I could sign my shoulder withthe holy cross, and go fight for our Lord's sepulchre. That weresomething worth. But to dangle at the heels of my Lord Edward all theday long, and fly an half-dozen hawks, and meditate on pretty sayings tothe Lady's damsels, and eat venison, and dance--Father Wilfred, is thislife meet for a man's living?"

The illuminator laid his pen down, and looked up at the lad. 

"Bertram, " he said, "just fifty years gone, I was what thou art, and mythoughts then were thine. "

"Thou wert, Father?" responded Bertram in an interested tone. "Well, and what was the end?"

"The end is not yet. But the next thing was, that I did as thou fainwouldst do:--I signed me with the good red cross, and I went to the HolyLand. "

"And thou earnest back, great of name, and blessed in soul?"

"I came back, having won no name, and with no blessing, for I knew moreof evil than when I set forth. "

"But, Father, at our Lord's sepulchre!" urged Bertram. 

"Youngling, " said Wilfred, a rare, sweet smile flitting across his lips, "dost thou blunder as Mary did? Is the Lord yet in the sepulchre? `Heis not here; He is risen. ' And why then should His sepulchre be holierthan other graves, when He that made the holiness is there no longer?"

"But where then is our Lord?" asked Bertram, rather perplexed. 

"He is where thou wouldst have Him, " was the quiet answer. "If that bein thine heart, ay:--and if no, no. "

Bertram meditated for a little while upon this reply. 

"But seest thou any reason, Father, wherefore I should not become agreat man?" he said, reverting to his original topic. 

"I see no reason at all, Bertram Lyngern, wherefore thou shouldst notbecome a very great man. "

Still Bertram was dissatisfied. He had an instinctive suspicion thathis great man and Wilfred's were not exactly the same person. 

"But what meanest by a great man, Father?"

"What meanest thou?"

"I mean a warrior, " said the lad, "dauntless in war, and faithful inlove--brave, noble, and high-souled, alway and every whither. "

"And so mean I. "

"But I mean one that men shall talk of, and tell much of his noble deedsand mighty prowess. "

"Were he less brave without?"

"He were less puissant, Father. "

Wilfred did not reply for a minute, but devoted himself to hanginggolden apples from the stiff boughs of his very medieval tree. 

"The heroes of the world and those of the Church, " he said at last, "berarely the same men. A man cannot be an hero in all things. Thewarrior is not the statesman, nor is neither of them the bishop. Thoumust choose thy calling, lad. "

"Yet a true hero must be an hero all the world over, Father--in everycalling. "

"How much hast heard of one Master Vegelius?"

"Never afore this minute. "

"I thought so much. "

"Who was he?" inquired Bertram. 

"The best and most cunning limner of this or any land. "

"Oh! Only a scriptorius?"

"Only a scriptorius, " said the monk quietly--not at all offended. "Andit may be that he never heard of some of thy heroes. "

"My heroes are Alexander and Charlemagne, " said Bertram proudly. "Hemust have heard of them. "

Wilfred dipped his pen in the ink with a rather amused smile. 

"Now, Father Wilfred!"

"I was only thinking, lad, that when I set up my hero, he shall not be aman that met his death in a wine-butt. "

"What?--Oh! Alexander. Well, we have all our failings, " admittedBertram, reluctant to give up his favourite. 

"Thou sayest sooth, lad. "

"Father Wilfred, who is thine hero?"

"Wist thou who is God's hero?" asked the illuminator, laying down hispen, and fixing his eyes on the boy. "God Himself once told men who wastheir greatest. And who was it, countest?"

"Was it Charlemagne?" eagerly responded the unchronological Bertram. 

"`Among men that are born of women, there hath not risen a greaterthan--'"

"Whom?" interpolated the boy, when Wilfred paused. 

"`John the Baptist. '"

Bertram's face fell with a most disappointed look. 

"Why, what did he? How was he great?"

"He was great in four matters, methinks, in one whereof only thou or Imay not have leave to follow him. In that he foreran our Lord, his deedis beyond our reach: but in three other concernments, in no wise. Firstly, he preached Christ. "

"That the priests do, " interjected Bertram. 

"Do they so?" asked Wilfred rather drily. "Secondly, he feared not, when need were, to gainsay a master in whose hand lay his life. Andlastly, he knew how to deny himself. "

"But, Father Wilfred! all those be easy enough. "

"Be they so, lad? How many times hast tried them?"

"In good sooth, never tried I any of them, " said Bertram honestly. 

"Then wait ere thou say so much. "

There was another pause; and then Bertram found another question. 

"Father Wilfred, what thinkest of Sir John de Wycliffe?"

"I never brake bread with him, lad, " said the monk, busy with thegriffin. 

"But what thinkest?"

"How should I know?"

Evidently the illuminator did not mean to commit himself. 

"Is he a great man or a small?"

"God wot, " said the monk. 

"Hugh Calverley saith he is the greatest man that ever lived, " saidBertram. 

"Greater than Saint John Baptist?"

"His work is of the like sort, " pursued Bertram meditatively. "'Tispreaching and reproving men of their sins. "

"God speed all His work!" said the monk. 

"Father, what didst after thy turning back from Holy Land?"

"What all men do once a life. What thou wilt do. "

"Marry, what so?"

"Why, I became a fool. "

"Father Wilfred! I counted thee alway a wise man. "

"A sorry blunder, lad, " said Wilfred, putting in the griffin's teeth. 

"Wouldst say a Court fool?"

"Nay--a worser fool than that. "

"How so?"

"I trusted a woman, " answered Wilfred, --bitterly, for him. 

"Father! hadst thou ever a lady-love?"

Bertram's interest was intense at this juncture. 

"Go to, Bertram Lyngern!" answered the monk, looking up with a smile. "Be thy thoughts on lady-loves already? Nay, lad; she that I trustedwas a kinswoman--no love. Little love in very deed was there betwixtus. And yet"--his voice altered suddenly--"I knew what that was too--once. "

"And she mocked thee, trow?" asked Bertram, who expected a smallsensation novel to spring out of this avowal. 

Wilfred worked in silence for a minute. Then he said in a low tone, "Forty years' violets have freshened and faded on her grave; nor one ofall of them more fair ne sweet than she. " But there was something inhis manner which said, "Question me no further. " And, curious asBertram was, he obeyed the tacit request. 

"And what stood next in thy life, Father?"

"This, lad, " said the monk, touching his cowl. 

Bertram did not consider this by any means satisfactory. 

"Well! All said, Father Wilfred, we come back to the first matter. What wouldst thou do an' thou wert I?"

"Soothly, that wis I not, " said the illuminator rather drily. "Whatthou shouldst do an' thou wert I, might be easier gear. "

"Well--and that were?"

"To set claws unto this griffin. "

"Now, Father Wilfred! My work is not to paint griffins. "

"What thy work is, do, " replied the monk sententiously. 

"But 'tis sheer idlesse! 'Tis not work at all. It is but to wait tillI am called to work. "

"The waiting is harder than the work, " replied Wilfred, again layingdown his pen. "If thou be well assured that waiting is thy work, witthou that 'tis matter worthy of the wits of angels, for there is no workharder than to wait for God. "

"But 'tis not _work_, Father!"

"If thou so think, thou art not yet master of that art. "

"Of what art?"

"Waiting. " Wilfred's pen pursued its journey for a moment before headded, "Lad, this that I am on is but play and revelry. But the lackthereof--the time passed in awaiting till the lad that enscribeth thetext have fresh parchment ready--that is work. "

Bertram frowned and pursed his lips as if he could not see it. 

"For forty years, Bertram, all the wisdom of the wisest nation in theworld was sometime taught unto a man named Moyses. His work was to leadthe chosen folk of God into the land that God should give them. But atthe end of that forty years, he was but half learned. So for otherforty years, he was sent into a wilderness for to keep sheep. "

"Why, he were past work then!"

"Nay, he was but then ready for it. "

"And did he lead the folk after all?"

"He did so. "

"And what gave him our Lord for guerdon, when his toil was done?"

"Was the work no guerdon?" responded Wilfred thoughtfully. "Well, lad, He gave him--a grave in Moab, far away from home and friends andcountry, and from His land. "

"Father, what mean you? That was no guerdon!"

"Then thou wist not that jewels be alway covered with stone-crust, erethe cutter polish them?"

"Soothly, Father, I can see the stone-crust yonder, but verily mine eyesbe too weak to pierce to the gem. "

"Ah! our eyes be rarely strong enough for that. It taketh God's eyesmany times. They say, "--Wilfred went on dreamily, scanning the whiteclouds which floated across the blue--"they say, the old writers of theJews, that this man Moyses died by the kiss of God. Methinks that werebrave payment for the grave in Moab. And after all, every man of usmust have his grave dug some whither. Is it of heavy moment, mewondereth, whether men delve it in the swamps of Somerset or in thePriory at Langley? God shall see the dust as clear in either; and shallknow, moreover, to count it His treasure. "

"Father Wilfred, where wouldst thou fain be buried?"

"What matter, lad?"

"I know where I would:--in the holy minster at Canterbury, nigh unto thetomb of Edward the Prince, that was so great an hero, and not far fromthe blessed shrine of Saint Thomas the martyr. "

"Ah!" said the monk with a sigh, "there is a little church among thehills of Cumberland, that I had chosen rather. But the days of mychoosing are over. I would have God choose for me. "

"But that might be the sea, Father Wilfred, or the traitors' elms[Tyburn. ] by London, or the plague dead-pit. "

"Child! when the Lord cometh with all His saints, there will be nolabels on the raised bodies, to note where the dust was found lying. "

And Wilfred turned back to his desk, and took up his pen. Both weresilent for a time; but it was the old monk who resumed the conversation. 

"Thou wouldst fain attain greatness, Bertram, " he said. "Shall I tellthee of two deeds done but this sennight past, that I saw through yonderlattice as I sat at my painting? Go to! I saw, firstly, a poorshepherd lad crossing the green one morrow, on his needful toil, clad inrough russet; and another lad lesser than he, clad in goodly velvets andbrave broidery, bade him scornfully thence out of his sight, calling himrascal, fool, lither oaf, and the like noisome words--the shepherd ladhaving in nowise offended save by his presence. And I say, lad, thatwas a little deed--the deed of a little soul; a mean, base deed; and hethat did it, except God touch his heart, will never be a great man. "

"But, Father Wilfred! I saw it--it was the Lord Edward; and he is greateven now, and like to be greater. "

"Mark my words, lad, --he will never be a great man. "

Bertram looked as if he thought the proposition incomprehensible. 

"Well, the day thereafter, " pursued Wilfred, "I was aware, in the verysame place, of other two lads--bravely clad, though not so brave as he--bearing betwixt them a pail of water, for the easement of an halt andaged wife that might scarce lift it from the ground. And I heard theone say to the other, as they came by this lattice, --`How if some of ourfellows see us now?'--with his answer returned, --`Be it so; we do nowrong. ' And I say, boy, that was a great deed, the deed of a greatsoul; and I look for both those lads to be great men, though I verilythink the greater to have been he that was in no wise shamed of hisdeed. "

Bertram's face was crimson, for he very well knew that on this occasionthe heroes of Wilfred's adventure were himself and his friend, HughCalverley. He remembered, moreover, that he had felt ashamed, andafraid to be seen, and had taken his share in the act, partly from hisown kindness of heart, but partly from a wish to retain Hugh's goodopinion. 

"Shall I tell thee another tale, lad?"

"Prithee, Father, so do. "

"Touching greatness in a woman?"

"By my Lady Saint Mary! can a woman be great?"

"Methinks, Bertram, _she_ was, " said Wilfred quietly, "But it was not ofSaint Mary, nor of any other saint, that I had intent to tell thee, butof one whom no Pope ever took the pain to canonise, and who yet, asmethinks, was the greatest woman of whom ever I heard. It may perchanceastound thee somewhat, to learn that I am not purely an English man. Mymother came from far over seas, --from Dutchland, [Germany. ] in thedominions of the Duke's Grace of Austria. And when she was a youngmaid, at home in her country, that befel of which I am about to tellthee. It happed that in the Court of the Emperor's Majesty, [Note 1]which at that time was Albright [Albert] the First, was a young noble, by name Rudolph, Count von der Wart. My mother was handmaid unto myLady Gertrude his wife, and she spake right well of her mistress. Ayoung gentle lady, said she, meek and soft of speech, loving andobedient unto her lord, and in especial shamefaced, shrinking from anypublic note of herself or any deed she did. This lady had not been wedlong time, when the Emperor Albright died. And he died by poison. Someamong his following had given it; and his judges sat to try whom. Godwot who it were, and assoil [forgive] him! But some men thought thathis cousin, Sir Henry of Luxemburg, which was Emperor at after him, hadbeen more in his place at the bar than on the bench. The sentence ofthe court was that divers men were cast for death. And one of them thusconvinced [convicted] was the young Count von der Wart. "

"But was he not innocent, Father?"

"He was innocent. But he was doomed to the awful death of the wheel, and he suffered it. "

"Pity of his soul!" cried Bertram indignantly. 

"And when the news was brought to the Lady Gertrude, she went white asdeath, and fell back in a swoon into the arms of my mother. "

"And she was borne to her bed, and brake her heart, and so died!"interjected Bertram, who thought that this would be the proper poeticalending of the story. 

"Thou shalt hear. When the day of execution came, a great throng of mengathered in the market-place for to see the same. And when all wasdone, "--Wilfred evidently shrank from any lingering over the harrowingdetails--"when the dusk fell, and the prisoners had suffered theirtorments, such as yet overlived were left bound on the wheel to diethere. Left, amid the jeers and mockings of the fool [foolish] throng, which dispersed not, but waited to behold their woe--left, with unboundwounds, to the chill night, and with no mercy to look for saving mercyof God. But no sooner were the executioners gone, than, lapped in afurred cloak, the Lady Gertrude left her house, and went out into themidst of the cruel, taunting crowd. "

"But what did she?"

Wilfred's answer was in that low, tremulous voice, which would havehinted to a more experienced listener that his sympathies were deeplystirred by the story he was telling. 

"She climbed up on the great wheel, lad, and sat upon the rim of it; andshe did off her fur cloak, and laid it over her dying lord; and whenthat served not, so strong was the shivering which had seized him, shestripped off her gown, and spread that over him likewise. And when inhis death-thirst he craved for water, she clomb down again, and drewfrom the well in her shoe, for she had nought else:--and there sat she, all that woeful night, giving him to drink, bathing his brows, coveringhis wounds, whispering holy and loving words. And when the morrowbrake, there below were the throng, mocking her all they might, andcalling her by every evil name their tongues might utter. "

"How could she hear it, and abide?" [bear] broke forth Bertram. 

"Did she hear it?" answered Wilfred in the same low voice. "Ah, child!love is stronger than death. So, when all was over--when CountRudolph's eyes had looked their last upon her--when his voice hadwhispered the last loving word--`Gertrude, thou hast been faithful untildeath!'--and it was not till high noon, --then she laid her hand upon hiseyes, and clomb down from the wheel, and went back to her void andlonely home. Boy, I never heard of any woman greater than Gertrude vonder Wart. " [Note 2. ]

"I marvel how she bare it!" said Bertram, under his breath. 

"And to worsen her sorrow, " added Wilfred, "when day brake, came theDuke's Grace of Austria, and his sister, Queen Agnes of Hungary, and alltheir following, to behold the scene--men and women amongst whom she haddwelt, that had touched hand or lip with her many a time--all mockingand jibing. Methinks that were not the least bitter thing for her tosee--if by that time she could see anything, save Rudolph in his agony, and God in His Heaven. "

"And after that--she died, of force?" said Bertram, clinging still tothe proper and conventional close of the tale. 

"She was alive thirty years thereafter, " replied Wilfred quietly, turning his attention to a bunch of leaves which ended a bough of histree. 

Bertram privately thought this a lame and impotent conclusion. For afew minutes he sat thinking deeply, while Wilfred sketched in silence. 

"Father Wilfred!" the boy broke forth at last, "why letteth God suchthings be?"

"If thou canst perceive the answer to that, lad, thou hast sharper sightthan I. God knoweth. But what He doth, we know not now. Passing thatword, none other response cometh unto us from Him unto whose eyes aloneis present the eternal future. "

"Must we then never know it?" asked Bertram drearily. 

"Ay--`thou shalt know hereafter. ' Yet this behest [promise] is givenalonely unto them that sue the Lamb whithersoever He goeth above; andthey which begin not that suing through the mire of the base court, shall never end it in the golden banquet hall. "

"But what is it to sue the Lamb?" replied Bertram almost impatiently. 

Wilfred laid down his pen, and looked up into the boy's face, with oneof his sweet smiles flitting across his lips. The sketch was finishedat last. 

"Dear lad!" he said lovingly, "Bertram Lyngern, ask the Lamb to showthee. "

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Note 1. A title at this time restricted to the Emperor of Germany. Thefirst English King to whom it was applied, was Richard the Second. Itis often said that Henry the Eighth was the first to assume it, but thisis an error. 

Note 2. It is surely not the least interesting association with theCastle of the Wartburg, whose best-known memories are connected withLuther, to remember that it was the home of Rudolph and Gertrude von derWart. 

CHAPTER FIVE. 

CHANGES AND CHANCES OF THIS MORTAL LIFE. 

 "Now is done thy long day's work; Fold thy palms across thy breast, Fold thine arms, turn to thy rest, Let them rave. " _Tennyson_. 

The Earl and Countess were away from home, during the whole spring ofthe next year; but Constance stayed at Langley, and so did Alvena andMaude. There was a grand gala day in the following August, when theLord of Langley was raised from the dignity of Earl of Cambridge to thehigher title of Duke of York: but three days later, the cloth of goldwas changed for mourning serge. A royal courier, on his way fromReading to London, stayed a few hours at Langley; and he brought wordthat the mother of the King, "the Lady Princess, " was lying dead atWallingford. 

The blow was in reality far heavier than it appeared on the surface, andto the infant Church of the Lollards the loss was irreparable. For thePrincess was a Lollard; and being a woman of most able and energeticcharacter, she had been until now the _de facto_ Queen of England. Shemust have been possessed of consummate tact and prudence, for shecontrived to live on excellent terms with half-a-dozen people ofcompletely incompatible tempers. When the reins dropped from her deadhand a struggle ensued among these incompatible persons, who should pickthem up. The struggle was sharp, but short. The elder brothers retiredfrom the contest, and the reins were left in the Duke of Gloucester'shand. And woe to the infant Church of the Lollards, when Gloucesterheld the reins!

He began his reign--for henceforward he was virtually King--by buyingover his brother of York. Edmund, already the passive servant ofGloucester, was bribed to active adherence by a grant of a thousandpounds. The Duke of Lancaster, who was not his brother's tool, wasquietly disposed of for the moment, by making him so exceedinglyuncomfortable, that with the miserable _laisser-aller_, which was thebane of his fine character, he went home to enjoy himself as a countrygentleman, leaving politics to take care of themselves. 

But an incident happened which disconcerted for a moment the plans ofthe Regent. The young King, without consulting his powerful uncle, declared his second cousin, Roger Mortimer, Earl of March, heirpresumptive of England, and--in obedience to a previous suggestion ofthe Princess--broke off March's engagement with a lady of the Arundelfamily, and married him to Richard's own niece, the Lady Alianora deHoland. 

The annoyance to Gloucester, consisted in two points: first, that itrecognised female inheritance and representation, which put him a gooddeal further from the throne; and secondly, that Roger Mortimer, owingto the education received from his Montacute grandmother, had steppedout of his family ranks, and was the sole Lollard ever known in theHouse of March. 

Gloucester carried his trouble to his confessor. The appointed heir tothe throne a Lollard!--nor only that, but married to a grand-daughter ofthe Lollard Princess, a niece of the semi-Lollard King! What was to bedone to save England to Catholicism?

Sir Thomas de Arundel laughed a low, quiet laugh in answer. 

"What matters all that, my Lord? Is not Alianora my sister's daughter?The lad is young, yielding, lazy, and lusty [self-indulgent, pleasure-loving. ] Leave all to me. "

Arundel saw further than the Princess had done. 

And Gloucester was Arundel's slave. Item by item he worked the will ofhis master, and no one suspected for a moment whither those acts weretending. The obnoxious, politically-Lollard Duke of Lancaster wasshunted out of the way, by being induced to undertake a voyage toCastilla for the recovery of the inheritance of his wife Constanca andher sister Isabel; a statute was passed conferring plenipotentiarypowers on "our dearest uncle of Gloucester;" all vacant offices underthe Crown were filled with orthodox nominees of the Regent; the LollardEarl of Suffolk was impeached; a secret meeting was held at Huntingdon, when Gloucester and four other nobles solemnly renounced theirallegiance to the King, and declared themselves at liberty to do whatwas right in their own eyes. The other four (of whom we shall hearagain) were Henry Earl of Derby, son of the Duke of Lancaster; RichardEarl of Arundel, brother of Gloucester's confessor; Thomas Earl ofNottingham his brother-in-law; and Thomas Earl of Warwick, a weakwaverer, the least guilty of the evil five. The conspirators conferredupon themselves the grand title of "the Lords Appellants;" and to divertfrom themselves and their doings the public mind, they amused thatinnocent, unsuspecting creature by a splendid tournament in Smithfield. 

Of one fact, as we follow their track, we must never lose sight:--thatbehind these visible five, securely hidden, stood the invisible one, SirThomas de Arundel, setting all these puppets in motion according to hispleasure, and for "the good of the Church;" working on the insufferablepride of Gloucester, the baffled ambition of Derby, the arrogantrashness of Arundel, the vain, time-serving nature of Nottingham, andthe weak fears of Warwick. Did he think he was doing God service? Didhe ever care to think of God at all?

The further career of the Lords Appellants must be told as shortly aspossible, but without some account of it much of the remainder of mystory will be unintelligible. They drew a cordon of forty thousand menround London, capturing the King like a bird taken in a net; granted tothemselves, for their own purposes, twenty thousand pounds out of theroyal revenues; met and utterly routed a little band raised by the Dukeof Ireland with the object of rescuing the sovereign from their power;impeached those members of the Council who were loyalists and Lollards;plotted to murder the King and the whole Council, which included nearblood relations of their own; prohibited the possession of any ofWycliffe's books under severe penalties; murdered three, and banishedtwo, of the five faithful friends of the King left in the Council. TheChurch stood to them above all human ties; and Sir Thomas de Arundel wasready to say "_Absolvo te_" to every one of them. 

This reign of terror is known as the session of the MercilessParliament, and it closed with the cruel mockery of a renewal of theoath of allegiance to the hapless and helpless King. Then Gloucesterproceeded to distribute his rewards. The archbishopric of York wasconferred on Sir Thomas de Arundel, and Gloucester appropriated as hisown share of the rich spoil, the vast estates of the banished Duke ofIreland. 

And then the traitor, robber, and murderer, knelt down at the feet ofArchbishop Arundel, and heard--from man's lips--"Thy sins are forgiventhee"--but not "Go, and sin no more. "

"Master Calverley, you? God have mercy! what aileth you?"

For Hugh Calverley stood at one of the hall windows of Langley Palace, on the brightest of May mornings, in the year 1388, his face hidden inhis hands, and his whole mien and aspect bearing the traces of suddenand intense anguish. 

"God had no mercy, Mistress Maude!" he wailed under his voice. "We hadno friend save Him, and He was silent to us. He cared nought for us--Heleft us alone in the uttermost hour of our woe. "

"Nay, sweet Hugh! it was men, not God!" said Bertram's voice soothinglybehind them. 

"He gave them leave, " replied Hugh in an agonised tone. 

It was the old reproachful cry, "Lord, carest thou not that we perish?"but Maude could not understand it at all. That cry, when it riseswithin the fold, is sometimes a triumph, and always a mystery, to thosethat are without. "You believe yourselves even now as safe as theangels, and shortly to be as happy, and you complain thus!" True; butwe are not angels yet. Poor weak, suffering humanity is alwaysrebellious, without an accompanying unction from the Holy One. But itis not good for us to forget that such moods are rebellion, and thatthey often cause the enemies of the Lord to blaspheme. 

Bertram quietly drew Maude aside into the next window. 

"Let the poor fellow be!" he said compassionately. "Alack, 'tis nomarvel. These traitor loons have hanged his father. And never, methinks, did son love father more. "

"Master Calverley's father!--the Queen's squire?"

"He. And look you, Maude, --heard man ever the like! the Queen's ownGrace was on her knees three hours unto my Lord of Arundel, praying himto spare Master Calverley's life. Think of it, Maude!--Caesar'sdaughter!"

"Mercy, Jesu!"--Maude could imagine nothing more frightful. It seemedto her equivalent to the whole world tumbling into chaos. What was tobecome of "slender folk, " such as Bertram and herself, when men breathedwho could hear unmoved the pleadings of "Caesar's daughter?"

"But what said he?"

"Who--my Lord of Arundel? The unpiteous, traitorous, hang-dog litheroaf!" Bertram would apparently have chosen more opprobrious words ifthey would kindly have occurred to him. "Why, he said--`Pray foryourself and your lord, Lady, and let this be; it were the better foryou. ' The great Devil, to whom he 'longeth, be _his_ aid in the likecase!"

"Truly, he may be in the like case one day, " said Maude. 

"And that were at undern [Eleven o'clock a. M. ] this morrow, an' I wereKing!" cried Bertram wrathfully. 

"But what had Master Calverley done?" Bertram dared only whisper thename of the horrible crime of which alone poor Calverley stood accused. "He was a Lollard--a Gospeller. "

"Be they such ill fawtors?" asked Maude in a shocked tone. 

"Judge for yourself what manner of men they be, " said Bertramindignantly, "when the King's Highness and the Queen, and our own Lady'sGrace, and the Lady Princess that was, and the Duke of Lancaster, be ofthem. Ay, and many another could I name beyond these. "

"I will never crede any ill of our Lady's Grace!" said Maude warmly. 

"Good morrow, Bertram, my son, " said a voice behind them--a voicestrange to Maude, but familiar to Bertram. 

"Father Wilfred! Christ save you, right heartily! You be here in thenick of time. You are come--"

"I am come, by ordainment of the Lord Prior, to receive certain commandsof my Lord Duke touching a book that he desireth to have written andourned [ornamented] with painting in the Priory, " said Wilfred in hisquiet manner. "But what aileth yonder young master?--for he seemeth mein trouble. "

What ailed poor Hugh was soon told; and Wilfred, after a critical lookat him, went up and spoke to him. 

"So thou hast a quarrel with God, my son?"

"Nay! Who may quarrel with God?" answered Hugh drearily. 

"Only men and devils, " said Wilfred. "Such as be God's enemies be alwayquarrelling with Him; but such as be His own dear children--should theyso?"

"Dealeth He thus with His children?" was the bitter answer. 

"Ay, oftentimes; so oft, that He aredeth [tells] us, that they which bealway out of chastising be no sons of His. "

Hugh could take no comfort. "You know not what it is!" he said, withthe impatience of pain. 

"Know I not?" said Wilfred, very tenderly, laying his hand upon Hugh'sshoulder. "Youngling, my father fell in fight with the Saracens, and mymother--my blessed mother--was brent for Christ's sake at Cologne. "

Hugh looked up at last. The words, the tone, the fellowship ofsuffering, touched the wrung heart through its own sorrow. 

"You know, then!" he said, his voice softer and less bitter. 

"`Bithenke ghe on him that suffride such aghenseiynge of synful menaghens himsilff, that ghe be not maad weri, failynge in ghoure soulis. 'Bethink ye: the which signifieth, meditate on Him, arm ye with Hispatience. Look on Him, and look to Him. "

Bertram stared in astonishment. The cautious scriptorius, who neverbroke bread with Wycliffe, and declined to decide upon his great orsmall position, was quoting his Bible word for word. 

Hugh looked up in Wilfred's face, with the expression of one who had atlast found somebody to understand him. 

"Father, " he said, "did you ever doubt of _every_ thing?"

"Ay, " said Wilfred, quietly. 

"Even of God's love? yea, even of God?"

"Ay. "

Bertram was horrified to hear such words. And from Hugh, of all people!But Wilfred, to his surprise, took them as quietly as if Hugh had beenrepeating the Creed. 

"And what was your remedy?"

"I know but one remedy for all manner of doubt, and travail, and sorrow, Master; and that is to take them unto Christ. "

"Yet how so, " asked Hugh, heaving a deep sigh, "when we cannot seeChrist to take them to Him?"

"I know not that your seeing matters, Master, so that He seeth. Andwhen your doubts come in and vex you, do you but call upon Him with atrue heart, desiring to find Him, and He will soon show you that He is. Ah!" and Wilfred's eyes lighted up, "the solving of all riddles touchingChrist's being, is only to talk with Christ. "

Bertram could not see that Wilfred had offered Hugh the faintest shadowof comfort; but in some manner inexplicable to him, Hugh seemedcomforted thenceforward. 

There was a great stir at Langley in the April of 1389; for the King andQueen stayed there a night on their way to Westminster. Maude was inthe highest excitement: she had never seen a live King before, and sheexpected a formidable creature of the lion-rampant type, who would orderevery body about in the most tyrannical manner, and command MasterWarine to be instantly hanged if dinner were not punctual. She saw avery handsome young man of three and twenty years of age, dressed in amuch quieter style than any of his suite; of the gentlest manners, amodel of courtesy even to the meanest, delicately considerate of everyone but himself, and especially and tenderly careful of that darlingwife who was the only true friend he had left. Ever after that day, thefaintest disparagement of her King would have met with no reception fromMaude short of burning indignation. 

King Richard recovered his power by a _coup d'etat_, on the 3rd of May, 1389. He suddenly dissolved and reconstituted his Council, leaving outthe traitor Lords Appellants. It was done at the first moment when hehad the power to do it. But a year and a half later, Gloucester creptin again, a professedly reformed penitent; and from the hour that he didso, Richard was King no longer. 

During all this struggle the Duke of York had kept extremely quiet. TheKing marked his sense of his uncle's allegiance by creating his sonEdward Earl of Rutland. Perhaps, after all, Isabel had more power overher husband than he cared to allow; for when her gentle influence wasremoved, his conduct altered for the worse. But a stronger influencewas at work on him; for his brother of Lancaster had come home; andthough Gloucester moulded York at his will when Lancaster was absent, yet in his presence he was powerless. So peace reigned for a time. 

And meanwhile, what was passing in the domestic circle at Langley?

In the first place, Maude had once more changed her position. From thelower-place of tire-woman, or dresser, to the Duchess, she was nowpromoted to be bower-maiden to the Lady Constance. This meant that shewas henceforth to be her young mistress's constant companion andhabitual confidant. She was to sleep on a pallet in her room, to gowherever she went, to be entrusted with the care alike of her jewels andher secrets, and to do everything for her which required the highestresponsibility and caution. 

In the second place, both Constance and Maude were no longer children, but women. The Princess was now eighteen years of age, while herbower-maiden had reached twenty. 

And in the third place, over the calm horizon of Langley had appeared alittle cloud, as yet no more than "a man's hand, " which was destined inits effects to change the whole current of life there. No one about herhad in the least realised it as yet; but the Duchess Isabel was dying. 

Very gently and slowly, at a rate which alarmed not even her physician, the Lollard Infanta descended to the portals of the grave. She knewherself whither she was going before any other eyes perceived it; andnoiselessly she set her house in order. She executed her last will interms which show that she died a Gospeller, as distinctly as if she hadwritten it at the outset; she left bequests to her friends--"a fret ofpearls to her dear daughter, Constance Le Despenser;" she named two ofthe most eminent Lollards living (Sir Lewis Clifford and Sir RichardStury) as her executors; she showed that she retained, like the majorityof the Lollards, a belief in Purgatory, by one bequest for masses to besung for her soul; and lastly--a very Protestant item when consideredwith the rest--she desired to be interred, not by the shrine of anysaint or martyr, but "whithersoever her Lord should appoint. "

The priests said that she died "very penitent. " But for what? For herearly follies and sins, no doubt she did. But of course they wished itto be understood that it was for her Wycliffite heresies. 

It was about the beginning of February, 1393, that the Duchess died. Her husband never awoke fully to his irreparable loss until long afterhe had lost her. But he held her memory in honour at her burial, with agentle respect which showed some faint sense of it. The cemetery whichhe selected for her resting-place was that nearest her home--the PrioryChurch of Langley. There the dust slept quietly; and the soul which hadnever nestled down on earth, found its first and final home in Heaven. 

It might not unreasonably have been expected that Constance, now leftthe only woman of her family, would have remembered that there wasanother family to which she also belonged, and a far-off individual whostood to her in the nominal relation of husband. But it did not pleaseher Ladyship to remember any such thing. She liked queening it in herfather's palace; and she did not like the prospect of yieldingprecedence to her mother-in-law, which would have been a necessity ofher married life. As to the Lord Le Despenser, she was absolutelyindifferent to him. Her childish feeling of contempt had not beenreplaced by any kindlier one. It was not that she disliked him: shecared too little about him even to hate him. When the thought of goingto Cardiff crossed her mind, which was not often, it was alwaysassociated with the old Lady Le Despenser, not at all with the youngLord. 

Now and then the husband and wife met for a few minutes. The Lord LeDespenser had grown into a handsome and most graceful gentleman, ofaccomplished manners and noble bearing. When they thus met, theygreeted each other with formal reverences; the Baron kissed the hand ofthe Princess; each hoped the other was well; they exchanged a fewremarks on the prominent topics of the day, and then took leave withequal ceremony, and saw no more of one another for some months. 

The Lady Le Despenser, it must be admitted, was not the woman calculatedto attract such a nature as that of Constance. She was a Lollard, bybirth no less than by marriage; but in her creed she was an ascetic ofthe sternest and most unbending type. In her judgment a laugh wasindecorum, and smelling a rose was indulgence of the flesh. Herbehaviour to her royal daughter-in-law was marked by the utmost outwarddeference, yet she never failed to leave the impression on Constance'smind that she regarded her as an outsider and a reprobate. Moreover, the Lady Le Despenser had some singular notions on the subject of love. Fortunately for her children, her heart was larger than her creed, andoften overstepped the bounds assigned; but her theory was that humanaffections should be kept made up in labelled parcels, so much and nomore to be allowed in each case. Favouritism was idolatry affectionatewords were foolish condescensions to the flesh; while loving caressessavoured altogether of the evil one. 

Now Constance liked dearly both to pet and to be petted. She loved, asshe hated, intensely. The calm, sedate personal regard, inconsideration of the meritorious qualities of the individual inquestion, which the Lady Le Despenser termed love, was not love at allin the eyes of Constance. The Dowager, moreover, was cool anddeliberate; she objected to impulses, and after her calm fashiondisliked impulsive people, whom she thought were not to be trusted. AndConstance was all impulse. The squeaking of a mouse would have calledforth gestures and ejaculations from the one, which the other would havedeemed too extreme to be appropriate to an earthquake. 

The Lord Le Despenser was the last of his mother's three sons--theyoungest-born, and the only survivor; and she loved him in reality farmore than she would have been willing to allow, and to an extent whichshe would have deemed iniquitous idolatry in any other woman. Incharacter he resembled her but slightly. The narrow-mindedness andobstinacy inherent in her family--for no Burghersh was ever known to seemore than one side of any thing--was softened and modified in him intofirmness and fidelity. His heart was large enough to hold a deepreservoir of love, but not so wide at its exit as to allow the stream toflow forth in all directions at once. If this be narrow-mindedness, then he was narrow-minded. But he was loyal to the heart's core, faithful unto death, true in every fibre of his being. "He loved oneonly, and he clave to her, " and there was room in his heart for noneother. 

The Dowager had several times hinted to the Duke of York that sheconsidered it high time that Constance should take up her residence atCardiff, for she was a firm believer in "the eternal fitness of things, "and while too much love was in her eyes deeply reprehensible, a properquantity of matrimony, at a suitable age, was a highly respectablething, and a state into which every man and woman ought to enter, withdue prudence and decorum. And as a wife married in childhood wasusually resigned to her husband at an age some years earlier thanConstance had now attained, the Dowager was scandalised by herpersistent absence. The Duke, who recognised in his daughter a moreself-reliant character than his own, and was therefore afraid of her, had passed over the intimation, accompanied with a request that shewould do as she liked about it. That Constance would do as she likedher father well knew; and she did it. She stayed at home, the Queen ofLangley, where no oppressive pseudo-maternal atmosphere interfered withher perfect freedom. 

But in the October following the death of her mother, a thunderbolt fellat Constance's feet, which eventually drove her to Cardiff. 

The Duke was from home, and, as everybody supposed, at Court. He wasreally in mischief; for mischief it proved, to himself and all hisfamily. Late one evening a courier reached Langley, where in her bowerConstance was disrobing for the night, and Maude was combing out hermistress's long light hair. A sudden application for admission, initself an unusual event at that hour, brought Maude to the door, whereDona Juana, pale and excited, besought immediate audience of herSenorita. 

The Princess, without looking back, desired her to come forward. 

"Senorita, my Lord's courier, Rodrigo, is arrived hither fromBrockenhurst, and he bringeth his Lord's bidding that we make ready hisGrace's chamber for to-morrow. "

"From Brockenhurst! Well, what further?"

"And likewise _her_ Grace's chamber--whom Jesu pardon!--for the Ladynewly-espoused that cometh with my Lord. "

"Mary Mother!" exclaimed Maude, dropping the silver comb in her suddensurprise. 

Constance had sprung up from her seat with such quick abruptness thatthe chair, though no light one, fell to the ground behind her. 

"Say that again!" she commanded, in a hard, steel-like voice; and, in amore excited tone than ever, Dona Juana repeated her unwelcome tidings. 

"So I must needs have a mistress over me! Who is she?"

"From all that Rodrigo heard, Senorita, he counteth that it should bethe Lady Joan de Holand, sister unto my Lord of Kent and my Lady ofMarch. She is, saith he, of a rare beauty, and of most royal presence. "

"Royal presence, quotha!--and a small child of ten years!" cried theindignant girl of nineteen. "Marry, I guess wherefore he told me notaforetime. He was afeard of me. "

She pressed her lips together till they looked like a crimson thread, and a bright spot of anger burned on either cheek. But all at once herusual expression returned, and she resumed her seat quietly enough onthe chair which Maude had mechanically restored to its place. 

"Go, Dona Juana, and bid the chambers be prepared, as is meet. But nogarnishing of the chambers of my heart shall be for this wedding. Makean end, Maude. `A thing done cannot be undone. ' I will abide and seethis small damsel's conditions [disposition]; but my heart misgiveth meif it were not better dwelling with my Lord Le Despenser than with her. "

Maude obeyed, feeling rather sorry for the Lord Le Despenser, whoseloving spouse seemed to regard him as the less of two evils. 

The new Duchess proved to be, like most of the Holands, very tall andextremely fair. No one would have supposed her to be only ten yearsold, and her proud, demure, unbashful bearing helped to make her lookolder than she was. The whole current of life at Langley changed withher coming. From morning to night every day was filled with feasts, junkets, hawking parties, picnics, joustings, and dances. The Duke wasdevoted to her, und fulfilled, if he did not anticipate, her every wish. Her youthful Grace was entirely devoid of shyness, and she made a pointof letting Constance feel her inferiority by addressing her on everyoccasion as "Fair Daughter. " She also ordered a much stricterobservance of etiquette than had been usual during the life of theInfanta, whose rule, Spaniard though she was, had been rather lax inthis particular. The stiff manners commonly expected from girls towardstheir mothers had only hitherto been exacted from Constance upon stateoccasions. But the new Duchess quickly let it be understood that sherequired them to the smallest detail. She was particular that herstep-daughter's chair should not be set one inch further under thecanopy than was precisely proper; her fur trimmings must be carefullyregulated, so as not to equal those of the Duchess in breadth; insteadof the old home name of "the Lady Custance, " she must be styled "theLady Le Despenser;" and the Duchess strongly objected to her using suchvulgar nicknames as "Ned" and "Dickon, " desiring that she would infuture address her brothers properly as "my Lord. " Angrily the royallioness chafed against this tyranny. Many a time Maude noticed theflush of annoyance which rose to her lady's cheek, and the tremor of herlip, as if she could with difficulty restrain herself from wrathfulwords. It evidently vexed her to be given her married name; but theinterference with the pet name of the pet brother was what she felt mostbitterly of all. And Maude began to wonder how long it would last. 

It was a calm, mild evening in January, 1394, and in the Princess'sbower, or bedroom, stood Maude, re-arranging a portion of her lady'swardrobe. The Duchess had been that day more than usually exacting andprecise, much to the amusement of Bertram Lyngern, at present at Langleyin the train of his master. The door of Constance's bower was suddenlyopened and dashed to again, and the Princess herself entered, and beganpacing up and down the room like a chafed lioness--a habit of all thePlantagenets when in a passion. She stopped a minute opposite Maude, and said in a determined voice:

"Make ready for Cardiff!"

And she resumed her angry march. 

In this manner the Lady Le Despenser intimated her condescendingintention of fulfilling her matrimonial duties at last. Maude knew hertoo well to reply by anything beyond a respectful indication ofobedience. Constance only gave her one day to prepare. The nextmorning but one the whole train of the Lady Le Despenser set forth ontheir eventful journey. 

CHAPTER SIX. 

TRUE GOLD AND FALSE. 

 "Woe be to fearful hearts and faint hands, and the sinner that goeth two ways!"--Ecclus. Two 12. 

Whatever may have been the feeling which possessed the mind of Constanceon her departure from Langley, the incident was felt by Maude as awrench and an uprooting, surpassing any previous incident of her lifesince leaving Pleshy. The old house itself had come to feel like a mutefriend; the people left behind were acquaintances of many years; theground was all familiar. She was going now once more into a new world, to new acquaintances, new scenes, new incidents. The journey over landwas in itself very pleasant. But the journey over sea from Bristol wasso exceedingly unpleasant, that poor Maude found herself acquainted witha degree of physical misery which until then she had never imagined toexist. And when at last the great, grim, square towers of the Castle ofCardiff, which was to be her new home, rose before her eyes, she thoughtthem absolutely lovely--because they were _terra firma_. It can only beascribed to her unusual haste on the one hand, or to her usual capriceon the other, that it had not pleased the Lady of Cardiff to give anynotice of her approach. Of course nobody expected her; and when hertrumpeter sounded his blast outside the moat, the warder looked forth insome surprise. It was late in the evening for a guest to arrive. 

"Who goeth yonder?"

"The Lady and her train. "

"Saint Taffy and Saint Guenhyfar!" said the warder. 

"Put forth the bridge!" roared the trumpeter. 

"It had peen better to send word, " calmly returned the warder. 

"Send word to thy Lord, thou lither oaf!" cried the irate trumpeter, "and see whether it liketh him to keep the Lady awaiting hither on aneven in January, while thou pratest in chopped English!"

Thereupon arose a passage of arms between the two affronted persons ofdiverse nationalities, which was terminated by Constance, with one ofher sudden impulses, riding forward to the front, and taking thebusiness on herself. 

"Sir Warder, " she said--with that exquisite grace and lofty courtesywhich was natural to every Plantagenet, be the other features of hischaracter what they might, --"I am your Lady, and I pray you to notifyunto your Lord that I am come hither. "

The warder was instantly mollified, and blew his horn to announce thearrival of a guest. There was a minute's bustle among the minorofficials about the gate, a little running to and fro, and then thedrawbridge was thrown across, and the next moment the Lord Le Despenserknelt low to his royal spouse. He could have had no idea of her comingfive minutes before, but he did his best to show her that any omissionsin her welcome were no fault on his part. 

Thomas Le Despenser was just twenty years of age. He was only ofmoderate height for a man; and Constance, who was a tall woman, nearlyequalled him. His Norman blood showed itself in his dark glossy hair, his semi-bronzed complexion, and his dark liquid eyes, the expression ofwhich was grave almost to sadness. An extremely short upper lip perhapsindicated blue blood, but it gave a haughty appearance to his features, which was not indicative of his character. He had a sweet low-tonedvoice, and an extremely winning smile. 

The Princess suffered her husband to lift her from the pillion on whichshe rode behind Bertram Lyngern, who had been transferred to her serviceby her father's wish. At the door of the banquet-hall the Dowager Ladymet them. Maude's impression of her was not exactly pleasant. Shethought her a stiff, solemn-looking, elderly woman, in widow's garb. The Lady Elizabeth received her royal guest with the lowest ofcourtesies, and taking her hand, conducted her with great formality to astate chair on the dais, the Lord Le Despenser standing, bare-headed, onthe step below. 

The ensuing ten minutes were painfully irksome to all parties. Everybody was shy of everybody else. A few common-place questions wereasked and answered; but when the Dowager suggested that "the Lady" mustbe tired with her journey, and would probably like to rest for an hourere the rear-supper was served, it was a manifest relief to all. 

A sudden incursion of so many persons into an unprepared house was lessannoying in the fourteenth century than it would be in the nineteenth. There was then always superfluous provision for guests who mightsuddenly arrive; a castle was invariably victualled in advance of theconsumption expected; and as to sleeping accommodation, a sack filledwith chaff and a couple of blankets was all that any person anticipatedwho was not of "high degree. " Maude slept the first night in a longgallery, with ten other women; for the future she would occupy thepallet in her lady's chamber. Bertram was provided for along with theother squires, in the banquet-hall, the chaff beds and blankets beingcarried out of the way in the morning; and as to draughts, ourforefathers were never out of one inside their houses, and therefore didnot trouble themselves on that score. The washing arrangements, likewise, were of the most primitive description. Princes and thehigher class of peers washed in silver basins in their own rooms; but asquire or a knight's daughter would have been thought unwarrantablyfastidious who was not fully satisfied with a tub and a towel. A combwas the only instrument used for dressing the hair, except wherecrisping-pins were required; and mirrors were always fixtures againstthe wall. 

A long time elapsed before Maude felt at home at Cardiff; and she couldnot avoid seeing that a still longer period passed before Constance didso. The latter was restless and unsettled. She had escaped from therule of her step-mother to that of her mother-in-law, and she dislikedthe one only a little less than the other; though "Daughter" fell verydifferently on the ear from the lips of a child of ten, and from thoseof a woman who was approaching sixty. But the worst point ofConstance's new life was her utter indifference to her husband. Shelooked upon his gentle deference to her wishes as want of spirit, andupon his quiet, reserved, undemonstrative manner as want of brains. From loving him she was as far as she had been in those old days whenshe had so cruelly told his sister Margaret that "when she loved Tom, she would let him know. "

That he loved her, and that very dearly, was patent to the mostsuperficial observer. Maude, who was not very observant of others, usedto notice how his eyes followed her wherever she went, brightened at thesound of her step, and kindled eagerly when she spoke. The Dowager sawit too, with considerable disapproval; and thought it desirable to turnher observations to profit by a grave admonition to her son upon the sinand folly of idolatry. She meant rightly enough, yet it sounded harshand cruel, when she bluntly reminded him that Constance manifestly carednothing for him. 

Le Despenser's lip quivered with pain. 

"Let be, fair Mother, " he said gently. "It may be yet, one day, that myLady's heart shall come home to God and me, and that she shall then sayunto me, `I love thee. '"

Did that day ever come? Ay, it did come; but not during his day. Thetime came when no music could have been comparable to the sound of hisvoice--when she would have given all the world for one glimpse of hissmile--when she felt, like Avice, as though she could have climbed andrent the heavens to have won him back to her. But the heavens hadclosed between them before that day came. While they journeyed side byside in this mortal world, he never heard her say, "I love thee. "

The news received during the next few months was not likely to makeConstance feel more at home at Cardiff than before. It was one constantfuneral wail. On the 24th of March, 1394, her aunt Constanca, Duchessof Lancaster, died of the plague at Leicester; in the close of May, ofthe same disease, the beloved Lollard Queen; and on the first of Julyher cousin, Mary Countess of Derby. Constance grew so restless, thatwhen orders came for her husband to attend the King at Haverford, wherehe was about to embark on his journey to Ireland, she determined to gothere also. 

"I can breathe better any whither than at Cardiff!" she saidconfidentially to Maude. 

But in truth it was not Cardiff from which he fled, but her own restlessspirit. The vine had been transplanted, and its tendrils refused totwine round the strange boughs offered for its support. 

The Princess found her father at Haverford, but the pair were very shyof one another. The Duke was beginning to discover that he had made ablunder, that his fair young wife's temper was not all sunshine, andthat his intended plaything was likely to prove his eventual tyrant. Constance, on her part, felt a twinge of conscience for her pettishdesertion of him in his old age; for to her apprehension he was now anold man: and she was privately conscious that she could not honestlyplead any preconsideration for her husband. She had merely pleasedherself, both in going and staying, and she knew it. But she spent herwhole life in gathering apples of Sodom, and flinging away one afteranother in bitter disappointment. Yet the next which offered was alwaysgrasped as eagerly as any that had gone before it. 

Perhaps it was due to some feeling of regret on the Duke's part that heinvited his daughter and son-in-law to return with him. Constanceaccepted the offer readily. The Duke was Regent all that winter, duringthe King's absence in Ireland; and, as was usual, he took up hisresidence in the royal Palace of Westminster. Constance liked her visitto Westminster; she was nearly as tired of Langley as of Cardiff, andthis was something new. And a slight bond of union sprang up betweenherself and her husband; for she made him, as well as Maude, theconfidant of all her complaints and vexations regarding her step-mother. Le Despenser was satisfied if she would make a friend of him aboutanything, and he was anxious to shield her from every annoyance in hispower. 

It appeared to Maude, who had grown into a quiet, meditative woman, thatthe feeling of the Duchess towards her step-daughter was not far frompositive hatred. She seemed to seek occasions to mortify her, and tomanufacture quarrels which it would have been no trouble to avoid. Itwas some time before Maude could discern the cause. But one day, in aquiet talk with Bertram Lyngern, still her chief friend, she asked himwhether he had noticed it. 

"Have I eyes, trow?" responded Bertram with a smile. 

"But wherefore is it, count you?"

"Marry, the old tale, methinks. Two men seldom discern alike; and hethat looketh on the blue side of a changeable sarcenet [shot silk], cannever join hands with him that seeth nought save the red. "

"You riddle, Master Lyngern. "

"Why, look you, our Lady Custance was rocked in a Lollard cradle; but myLady Duchess' Grace had a saint's bone for her rattle. And her motheris an Arundel. "

"But so is my Lord's Grace of York [the archbishop] himself an Arundel. "

"Ay--as mecounteth you shall see, one day. "

"Doth not the doctrine of Sir John de Wycliffe like, him well?"

"Time will show, " said Bertram, drily. 

It was quite true that Archbishop Arundel had for some two years beenthrowing dust in Lollard eyes by plausible professions of conversion tosome of the views of that party. At a time when I was less acquaintedwith his character and antecedents, I gave him credit for sincerity. [Note 1. ] I know him better now. He was merely playing a very deepgame, and this was one of his subtlest moves. His assumption ofLollardism, or of certain items of it, was only the assumption of amask, to be worn as long as it proved serviceable, and then to bedropped and forgotten. The time for the mask to drop had come now. Thedeath of Archbishop Courtenay, July 31, 1396, left open to Thomas deArundel the sole seat of honour in which he was not already installed. Almost born in the purple [Note 2], he had climbed up fromecclesiastical dignity to dignity, till at last there was only onefurther height left for him to scale. It could surprise no one to seethe vacant mitre set on the astute head of Gloucester's confessor andprompter. 

The Earl of Rutland presented himself at Westminster Palace before hissister left it, attended as usual by his squire, Hugh Calverley. Bertram and Maude at once wished to know all the news of Langley, fromwhich place they had come. Hugh seemed acquainted with no news exceptone item, which was that Father Dominic, having obtained a canonry, hadresigned his post of household confessor to the Palace; and a newconfessor had been appointed in his stead. 

"And who is the new priest?" asked Bertram. "One Sir Marmaduke deTyneworth. " [A fictitious person. ]

"And what manner of man is he?"

"A right honest man and a proper [a fitting, satisfactory man], say theywho have confessed unto him; more kindly and courteous than FatherDominic. "

"He hath then not yet confessed thee?"

"I never confess, " said Hugh quietly. The impression made uponBertram's feelings by this statement was very much that which would beleft on ours, if we heard a man with a high reputation for piety calmlyremark that he never prayed. 

"Never confess!" he repeated in astonished tones. "Not to men. Iconfess unto God only. "

"But how canst, other than by the priest?"

"What hardship, trow? Can I not speak save by the priest?"

"But thou canst receive no absolving!"

"No can I? Ay verily, friend, I can!"

"But--" Bertram stopped, with a puzzled look. 

"Come, out with all thy _buts_, " said Hugh, smilingly. 

"Why, methinks--and holy Church saith it--that this is God's meanswhereby men shall approach unto Him: nor hath He given unto us other. "

"Holy Church saith it? Ay so. But where saith God such a thing?"

Bertram was by no means ignorant of Wycliffe's Bible, and he searchedhis memory for authority or precedent. 

"Well, thou wist that the man which had leprosy was bidden to show himunto the priest, the which was to declare if his malady were trueleprosy or no. "

"The priest being therein an emblem or mystery of Christ, which is trueHealer of the malady of sin. "

"Ah!" said Bertram triumphantly, "but lo' thou, when our Lord Himselfdid heal one that had leprosy, what quoth He? `Show thyself to thepriest, ' saith He: not, `I am the true Priest, and therefore thou mayestslack to show thee to yon other priest, which is but the emblem of Me. '"

"Because, " replied Hugh, "He did fulfil the law, and made it honourable. Therefore saith He, `Show thyself to the priest. ' The law held gooduntil He should have fulfilled the same. "

"But mind thou, " urged Bertram eagerly, "it was but the lither [wicked, abandoned] Pharisees which did speak like unto thee. What said theysave the very thing thou wouldst fain utter--to wit, `Who may forgyvesynnes but God aloone?' And alway our Lord did snyb and rebuke theseill fawtors. "

"Friend, countest thou that the Jew which had leprosy, and betook himunto the high priest, did meet with contakes because he went notlikewise unto one of the lesser? Either this confession unto the priestis to be used with, or without, the confession unto God. If to be usedwithout, what is this but saying the priest to be God? And if to beused with, what but saying that God is not sufficient, and the HighPriest may not act without the lesser priest do aid Him?"

"But what sayest touching the Pharisees?" repeated Bertram, who was notable to answer Hugh's argument, and considered his own unanswerable. 

"What say I?" was the calm answer. "Why, I say they spake very sooth, saving that they pushed not the matter to its full issue. Had theyfollowed their reasoning on to the further end, then would they havesaid, and spoken truly, `If this man can in very deed forgive sin, thenis He God. ' Mark, I pray thee, what did our Lord in this matter. Hebrought forth His letters of warrant. He healed the palsied man aforethem--`that ye wite, ' saith He, `that mannes sone hath power in erthe toforgyve synnes. ' As though He had said unto them, `Ye say well; nonemay forgive sins but God alone: wherefore see, in My forgiving of sin, the plain proof that I am God's Son. ' To show them that He had power toforgive sin, He did heal this man of his malady. And verily I ask nomore of any priest that would confess me, but only that he bring forthhis letters of warrant, as did his Master and mine. When I shall I seehim to heal the sick with a word, then will I crede that he can forgivesin in like manner. Lo' thou, if he can forgive, he can heal: if he canheal by his word, then can _he_ forgive. "

The waters were rather too deep for Bertram to wade in. He triedanother line of argument. 

"Saint James also saith that men should confess their sins. "

"`Ech to othire'--well: when it liketh Sir Marmaduke to knowledge hissins unto me, then will I mine unto him, if we have done any wrong eachto other. But look thou into that matter of Saint James, and thou shaltfind it to touch not well men, but only sick; which, knowledging theirsins when their conscience is troubled, and praying each for other, shall be healed of their sickness. "

"Moreover, Achan did confession unto Josue, " said Bertram, startinganother hare. 

"Ah! Josue was a priest, trow?"

"Nay, but if it be well to knowledge our sins each to other, it shallnot be worse because the man is a priest. "

"Nor better, " said Hugh, in his quietest manner. 

"Nay!" urged Bertram, who thought he had the advantage here, "but an' itbe well to confess at all, it is good to confess unto any: and if toany, to a woman; or if to a woman, to a man; or to a man, then to apriest. "

Hugh gave a soft little laugh. 

"Good friend, I could prove any gear in the world by that manner ofreasoning. If it be good to confess unto any, then unto anything thatliveth; and if so, then to a beast; and if to a beast, then to yondercat. Come hither, Puss, and hear this my friend his confession!"

"Have done with thy mocking!" cried Bertram. "And mind thou, the Lorddid charge the holy apostles with power to forgive sins. "

"Granting that so be--what then?"

"What then? Why, that priests have now the like power. "

"But what toucheth it the priests?"

"In that they be successors unto the apostles. "

"In what manner?"

Hugh was evidently not disposed to take any links of the chain forgranted. 

"Man!" exclaimed Bertram, almost in a pet, "wist not that Paul didordain Timothy Bishop of Ephesus, and bade him do the like to other, --and so from each to other was the blessed grace handed down, till it gatat the priests that now be?"

"Was it so?" said Hugh coolly. "But when and where bade Paul thatTimothy should forgive sins?"

Bertram found it much harder to prove his assertion than to state it. He could only answer that he did not know. 

"Nor I neither, " returned Hugh. "Nor Timothy neither, without I muchmistake. "

"I must needs give thee up. Thou art the worst caitiff to reasonwithal, ever mortal man did see!"

Hugh laughed. 

"Lo' you, friend, I ask but for one instance of authority. Show unto meany passage of authority in God's Word, whereby any priest shall forgivesins; or show unto me any priest that now liveth, which shall bringforth his letters of warrant by healing a man all suddenly of hissickness whatsoever, and I am at a point. Bring him forth, prithee; orelse confess thou hast no such to bring. "

"Hold thy peace, for love of Mary Mother!" said Bertram, passing hisirrepressible opponent a plateful of smoking pasty, for the party wereat supper; "and fill thy jaws herewith, the which is so hot thou shaltoccupy it some time. "

"My words being, somewhat too hot for thee, trow?" rejoined Hughcomically. "Good. I can hold my peace right well when I am wanted soto do. "

When Constance returned home to Cardiff, she remained there for somelittle time without any further visit to Court. She alone of all thePrincesses was absent from the Church of Saint Nicholas at Calais, whenthe King was married there to the Princess Isabelle of France--a childof only eight years old. Something far more interesting to herselfdetained her at Cardiff; where, on the 30th of November, 1396, an heirwas born to the House of Le Despenser. 

That the will of "the Lady" stood paramount we see in the name given tothe infant. He was christened after her favourite brother, Richard--aname unknown in his father's line, whose family names were always Hughand Edward. 

In their unfeigned admiration of this paragon of babies, its mother andgrandmother sank all their previous differences. But when the difficultquestion of education arose, the differences reappeared as strongly asever. The only notion which Constance had of bringing up a child was togive it everything it cried for; while the Dowager was prepared to go along way in the opposite direction, and give it nothing in respect towhich it showed the slightest temper. The practical result was that theboy was committed to the care of Maude, whom both agreed in trusting, with the most contradictory orders concerning his training. Maudefollowed the dictates of her own common sense, and implicitly obeyed thecommands of neither of the rival authorities; but as little Richardthrove well under her care, she was never called to account by either. 

The year 1397 brought a political earthquake, which ended in thedestruction of three of the five grand traitors, the Lords Appellants. The commons had at last opened their eyes to the real state of affairs. The conspirators were meditating fresh projects of treachery, when bythe advice of the Dukes of Lancaster and York, Gloucester was arrestedand imprisoned at Calais, where he died on the 15th of September, eitherfrom apoplexy or by a private execution. Richard Earl of Arundel, thetool of his priestly brother, was beheaded six days later. The Earl ofWarwick, who had been merely the blind dupe of the others, was banishedto the Isle of Man. The remaining two--the ambitious Derby, and theconceited Nottingham--contrived in the cleverest manner, not only toescape punishment, but to obtain substantial rewards for their loyalty!Derby presented a very humble petition on behalf of both, in which heowned, with so exquisite a show of penitence, to having _listened_ tothe suggestions of the deceased traitors, and been concerned in "severalriotous disturbances"--professed himself and his friend to be soabjectly repentant, and so irrevocably faithful for ever henceforward--that King Richard, as easily deceived as usual, hastened to pardon therepenting sinners. But there was one man in the world who was notdeceived by Derby's plausible professions. Old Lancaster shook hiswhite head when he heard that his son was not only pardoned, butrestored to favour. 

"'Tis hard matter for father thus to speak of son, " he said to his royalnephew; "nathless, my gracious Lord, I do you to wit that you have donea fool deed this day. You shall never have peace while Hal is in thiskingdom. "

"Fair Uncle, I am sure he will repay me!" was the response of thewarm-hearted Richard. 

"Ha!" said John of Gaunt, and sipped his ipocras with a grim smile. "_Sans doute, Monseigneur, sans doute_!"

Westminster Hall beheld a grand and imposing ceremony on the MichaelmasDay of 1397. The King sat in state upon his throne at the further end, the little Queen beside him, and the various members of the royal lineon either side--Princes on the right, Princesses on the left. TheDuchess of Lancaster had the first place; then the Duchess of York, particularly complacent and resplendent; the Duchess of Gloucester, whoshould have sat third, was closely secluded (of her free will) in theConvent of Bermondsey. Next sat the Countess of March, the elder sisterof the Duchess Joan, and wife of the Lollard heir of England. Thedaughters of the Princes followed her. Elizabeth, Countess ofHuntingdon, daughter of the Duke of Lancaster, whom that day was to makea duchess, and who bore away the palm from the rest as "the best singerand the best dancer" of all the royal ladies, held her place, beamingwith smiles, and radiant with rubies and crimson velvet. Next, arrayedin blue velvet, sat the only daughter of York, Constance Lady LeDespenser. Round the hall sat the nobles of England in their"Parliament robes, " each of the married peers with his lady at his side;while below came the House of Commons, and lower yet, outside therailing, the people of England, in the shape of an eager, sight-seeingmob. There was to be a great creation of peers, and one by one thenames were called. As each of the candidates heard his name, he rosefrom his seat, and was led up to the throne by two nobles of the orderto which he was about to be raised. 

"Sir Henry of Bolingbroke, Earl of Derby!" The gentleman whoseunswerving loyalty was about to be recompensed by the gift of a coronet(!) rose with his customary grace from his seat, third on the right handof the King, and was led up by his father of Lancaster and his uncle ofYork. He knelt, bareheaded, before the throne. A sword was girt to hisside, a ducal coronet set on his head by the royal hand, and he roseDuke of Hereford. As old Lancaster resumed his seat, he smiled grimlyunder his white beard, and muttered to himself--"_Sans doute_!"

"Sir Edward of Langley, Earl of Rutland!"

Constance's brother was similarly led up by his father and his cousin, the newly-created Duke, and he resumed his princely seat, Duke ofAumerle, or Albemarle. 

"Sir Thomas de Holand, Earl of Kent, Baron Wake!"

Hereford and Aumerle were the two to lead up the candidate. He was theson of the King's half-brother, and was reputed the handsomest of thenobles: a tall, finely-developed man, with the shining golden hair ofhis Plantagenet ancestors. He was created Duke of Surrey. 

Hereford sat down, and Surrey and Aumerle conducted John Earl ofHuntingdon to the throne. He was half-brother of the King, uncle ofSurrey, and husband of the royal songstress who sat and smiled incrimson velvet. He had stepped out of the family ranks; for instead ofbeing tall, fair, and good-looking, like the rest of his house, he was alittle dark-haired man, whom no artist would have selected as a model ofbeauty. A strong anti-Lollard was this nobleman, a good hater, aprejudiced, violent, unprincipled man; possessed of two virtues only--honesty and loyalty. He had been cajoled for a time by Gloucester, buthis brother knew him too well to doubt his sincerity or affection. Hewas made Duke of Exeter. 

The next call was for--"Sir Thomas de Mowbray, Earl of Nottingham!" Andup came the last of the "Lords Appellants, " painfully conscious in hisheart of hearts that while he might have been in his right place on thescaffold in Cheapside, he was very much out of it in Westminster Hall, kneeling to receive the coronet of Norfolk. 

A coronet was now laid aside, for the recipient was not present. Shewas an old lady of royal blood, above seventy years of age, the secondcousin of the King, and great-grandmother of Nottingham. Her style andtitles were duly proclaimed as Duchess of Norfolk for life. 

But when "Sir John de Beaufort, Earl of Somerset!" was called for, thepeer summoned rose and walked forward alone. He was to be created amarquis--a title of King Richard's own devising, and at that momentborne by no one else. The Earl came reluctantly, for he was veryunwilling to be made unlike other people; and he dropped his new title, and returned to the old one, as soon as he conveniently could. He had atall, fine figure, but not a pleasant face; and his religion, no lessthan his politics, he wore like a glove--well-fitting when on, butcapable of being changed at pleasure. Just now, when Lollardism was"walking in silver slippers, " my Lord Marquis of Dorset was a Lollard. Rome rarely persecutes men of this sort, for she makes them useful inpreference. 

And now the herald cried--"Sir Thomas Le Despenser, Baron of Cardiff!"

The Earls of Northumberland and Suffolk were the supporters of LeDespenser, who walked forward with a slow, graceful step, to receivefrom the King's hand an earl's coronet, accompanied by the ominous nameof Gloucester--a title stained by its last bearer beyond remedy. Intruth, the royal dukedom had been an interpolation of the line, and theKing was merely giving Le Despenser back his own--the coronet which hadbelonged to the grand old family of Clare, whose co-heiress was thegreat-grandmother of Thomas Le Despenser. The title had been kept as itwere in suspense ever since the attainder of her husband, the ill-fatedEarl Hugh, though two persons had borne it in the interim without anygenuine right. 

Three other peers were created, but they do not concern the story. Andthen the King rose from his throne, the ceremony was over; and ConstanceLe Despenser left the hall among the Princesses by right of her birth, but wearing her new coronet as Countess of Gloucester. 

Four months later, the Duke of Hereford knelt before the throne, andsolemnly accused his late friend and colleague, the Duke of Norfolk, oftreason. He averred that Norfolk had tempted him to join another secretconspiracy. Norfolk, when questioned, turned the tables by denying theaccusation, and adding that it was Hereford who had tempted him. Sinceneither of these noble gentlemen was particularly worthy of credit, andthey both swore very hard on this occasion, it is impossible to decidewhich (if either) was telling the truth. The decision finally arrivedat was that both the accusers should settle their quarrel by wager ofbattle, for which purpose they were commanded to meet at Coventry in thefollowing autumn. 

Before the duel took place, an important event occurred in the death ofRoger Mortimer, the Lollard Earl of March, whom the King had proclaimedheir presumptive of England. He was Viceroy of Ireland, and was killedin a skirmish by the "wild Irish. " March, who was only 24 years of age, left four children, of whom we shall hear more anon, to be educated bytheir mother, Archbishop Arundel's niece, in her own Popish views. Heis described by the monkish chroniclers as "very handsome and verycourteous, most dissolute of life, and extremely remiss in all mattersof religion. " We can guess pretty well what that means. "Remiss inmatters of religion, " of course, refers to his Lollardism, while theaccusation of "dissolute life" is notoriously Rome's pet charge againstthose who escape from her toils. Such was the sad and early end of thefirst and only Lollard of the House of Mortimer. 

The duel between Hereford and Norfolk was appointed to take place onGosford Green, near Coventry, on the 16th of September. The combatantsmet accordingly; but before a blow was struck, the King took the matterupon himself and forbade the engagement. On the 3rd of October, licencewas granted to Hereford to travel abroad, this being honourablebanishment; no penalty was inflicted upon Norfolk. But some event--perhaps never to be discovered--occurred, or came to light during thefollowing ten days, which altered the whole aspect of affairs. Eitherthe King found out some deed of treason, of which he had been previouslyignorant, or else some further offence was committed by both Herefordand Norfolk. On the 13th both were banished--Hereford for ten years, Norfolk for life; the sentence in the former case being afterwardscommuted to six years. Those who know the Brutus-like character of Johnof Gaunt, and his real opinion of his son's proceedings, may accept, ifthey can, the representations of the monastic chroniclers that thecommutation of Hereford's sentence was made at his intercession. 

In the interim, between the duel and the sentence, Archbishop Arundelwas formally adjudged a traitor, and the penalty of banishment wasinflicted on him also. 

Constance was too busy with her nursery to leave Cardiff, where thisautumn little Richard was joined by a baby sister, who received the nameof Elizabeth after the Dowager Lady. But the infant was not many weeksold, when, to use the beautiful phrase of the chroniclers, she"journeyed to the Lord. " She was taken away from the evil to come. 

It was appropriate enough that the last dread year of the fourteenthcentury should be ushered in by funeral knells. And he who died on thethird of February in that year, though not a very sure stay, was thebest and last support of the Gospel and the throne. It was withtroubled faces and sad tones that the Lollards who met in the streets ofLondon told one to another that "old John of Gaunt, time-honouredLancaster, " was lying dead in the Bishop of Ely's Palace. 

But the storm was deferred for a few weeks longer. There were royalvisits to Langley and Cardiff, on the way to Ireland, the Earl ofGloucester accompanying the King to that country. And then, whenRichard had left the reins of government in the feeble hands of York, the tempest burst over England which had been lowering for so long. 

The Lady Le Despenser and the Countess of Gloucester were seated atbreakfast in Cardiff Castle, on a soft, bright morning in the middle ofJuly. Breakfast consisted of fresh and salt fish, for it was afast-day; plain and fancy bread, different kinds of biscuits (but allmade without eggs or butter); small beer, and claret. Little Richardwas energetically teasing Maude, by whom he sat, for another piece ofred-herring, and the Dowager, deliberate in all her movements, wasslowly helping herself to Gascon wine. The blast of a horn without themoat announced the arrival of a guest or a letter, and Bertram Lyngernwent out to see what it was. Ten minutes later he returned to the hall, with letters in his hand, and his face white with some terrible news. 

"Ill tidings, noble ladies!"

"Is it Dickon?" cried the Countess. 

"Is it Tom?" said the Dowager. 

"There be no news of my Lord, nor from Langley, " said Bertram. "But myLord's Grace of Hereford, and Sir Thomas de Arundel, sometimeArchbishop, be landed at Ravenspur. "

"Landed at Ravenspur!--Banished men!"

The loyal soul of Elizabeth Le Despenser could imagine nothing moreatrocious. 

"Well, let them land!" she added in a minute. "The Duke's Grace of Yorkshall wit how to deal with them. Be any gathered to them?"

"Hundreds and thousands, " was the ominous answer. 

"Ay me!" sighed the Dowager. "Well! `the Lord reigneth. '"

Constance's only comment on the remarks was a quiet, incredulous shrugof her shoulders. She knew her father. 

And she was right. Like many another, literally and figuratively, Yorkwent over to the enemy's ground to parley, and ended in staying there. One of the two was talked over--but that one was not the rebel, but theRegent. 

Poor York! Looking back on those days, out of the smoke of the battle, one sees him a man so wretchedly weak and incapable that it is hardlypossible to be angry with him. It does not appear to have beenconviction, nor cowardice, nor choice in any sense, which caused hisdesertion, but simply his miserable incapacity to stand alone, or toresist the influence of any stronger character on either side. _He_ goto parley with the enemy! He might as well have sent his baby grandsonto parley with a box of sugar-plums. 

Fresh news--always bad news--now came into Cardiff nearly every day. 

The King hurried back from Ireland to Conway, and there gathered hisloyal peers around him. There were only sixteen of them. Dorset, always on the winning side, deserted the sinking ship at once. Aumerlemore prudently waited to see which side would eventually prove thewinner. 

Exeter and Surrey were sent to parley with the traitors. They were bothdetained, Surrey as a prisoner, Exeter with a show of friendship. Thelatter was too fertile in resources, and too eloquent in speech, not tobe a dangerous foe. He was therefore secured while the opportunityoffered. 

Then came the treacherous Northumberland as ambassador from Hereford, whom we must henceforth designate by his new title of Lancaster. 

Northumberland's lips dropped honey, but war was in his heart. Heoffered the sweetest promises. What did they cost? They were made tobe broken. So gentle, so affectionate were his solicitations to theroyal hart to enter the leopard's den--so ready was he to pledge wordand oath that Lancaster was irrevocably true and faithful--that the Kinglistened, and believed him. He set forth with his little guard, quitting the stronghold of Flint Castle, and in the gorge of Gwrych hewas met by Northumberland and his army, seized, and carried a prisonerto Chester. 

This was the testing moment for the hitherto loyal sixteen. Aumerle, who had satisfied himself now which way the game was going, went over tohis cousin at once. Worcester broke his white wand of office, andretired from the contest. Some fled in terror. When all the faithlesshad either gone or joined Lancaster, there remained six, who loved theirmaster better than themselves, and followed, voluntary prisoners, outwardly in the train of Henry of Lancaster, but really in that ofRichard of Bordeaux. 

These six loyal, faithful, honourable men our story follows. Theywere--Thomas Le Despenser, Earl of Gloucester; John de Montacute, Earlof Salisbury; Thomas de Holand, Duke of Surrey; William Le Scrope, Earlof Wilts; Richard Maudeleyn, chaplain to the King; John Maudeleyn(probably his brother), varlet of the robes. 

Slowly the conqueror marched Londonwards, with the royal captive in histrain. Westminster was reached on the first of September. From thatdate the coercion exercised over the King was openly and shamelesslyacknowledged. His decrees were declared to be issued "with the assentof our dearest cousin, Henry Duke of Lancaster. " At last, on MichaelmasDay, the orders of that loving and beloved relative culminated in theabdication of the Sovereign. 

The little group of loyalists had now grown to seven, by the addition ofExeter, who joined himself to them as soon as he was set at liberty. They remained in London during that terrible October, and most of themwere present when, on the 13th of that month, Henry of Lancaster wascrowned King of England. 

There stood the vacant throne, draped in gold-spangled red; and by it, on either hand, the Lords Spiritual and Temporal. The hierarchy were, on the right, Arundel at their head, having coolly repossessed himselfof the see from which he had been ejected as a traitor; an expression ofcontemptuous amusement hovering about his lips, which might be easilytranslated into the famous (but rather apocryphal) speech of QueenElizabeth to the men of Coventry--"Good lack! What fools ye be!" Onthe left hand of the throne stood Lancaster, his lofty statureconspicuous among his peers, waiting with mock humility for the farce oftheir acknowledgment of his right. Next him was his uncle of York, wearing a forced smile at that which his conscience disapproved, but hiswill was impotent to reject. Aumerle came next, his face so plainly amask to hide his thoughts that it is difficult to judge what they were. Then Surrey, with a half-astonished, half-puzzled air, as though he hadnever expected matters really to come to this pass. His uncle Exeter, who sat next him, looked sullen and discontented. The other peers camein turn, but their faces are not visible in the remarkable painting byan eye-witness from which those above are described, with the exceptionof the tellers, the traitor Northumberland, and the cheery round-facedWestmoreland. These went round to take the votes of the peers. Therewere not likely to be many dissenting voices, where to vote No wasdeath. 

Henry stated his assumption of power to rest upon three points. First, he had conquered the kingdom; secondly, his cousin, King Richard, hadvoluntarily abdicated in his favour; and lastly, he was the true heirmale of the crown. 

"Ha!" said the little Earl of March, the dispossessed heir general, "_haeres malus_, is he?"

It was not a bad pun for seven years old. 

If Henry of Bolingbroke may be credited, the majority of the loyal six, and Thomas Le Despenser among them, not only sat in his firstParliament, but pleaded compulsion as the cause of their petitionagainst Gloucester, and consented to the deposition of King Richard, while some earnestly requested the usurper to put the Sovereign todeath. While some of these allegations are true, the last certainly isfalse. One of those named as having joined in the last petition isSurrey; and his alleged participation is proved to be a lie. Knowinghow lightly Henry of Bolingbroke could lie, it is hardly possible tobelieve otherwise of any member of the group, except indeed thetime-serving Aumerle. 

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Note 1. See "Mistress Margery, " preface, page six. 

Note 2. His mother, Alianora of Lancaster, was the daughter of EarlHenry, son of Prince Edmund, son of Henry the Third. 

CHAPTER SEVEN. 

FAITHFUL UNTO DEATH. 

 "Long since we parted! I to life's stormy wave-- Thou to thy quiet grave, Leal and true-hearted!"

The first regnal act of Henry the Eighth was to strip the loyal lords ofthe titles conferred upon them just two years before. Once more, Aumerle became Earl of Rutland; Surrey, Earl of Kent Exeter, Earl ofHuntingdon; Wiltshire, Sir William Le Scrope; and Gloucester, Lord LeDespenser. 

Hitherto, King Richard had been imprisoned in the Tower, a lonelycaptive. But now, possessed by jealous fears of insurrection andrestoration, the usurper hurried his royal prisoner from dungeon todungeon:--to Leeds Castle, Pickering, Knaresborough, and lastly, aboutthe middle of December, to Pomfret, which he was never to leave alive. 

The guilty fears of Henry were not unfounded; but perhaps the judicialmurder of Lord Wiltshire at Bristol quickened the action of the littleband, now again reduced to six. They met quietly at Oxford in December, to concert measures for King Richard's release and restoration, resolving that in case of his death they would support the title ofMarch. But there was a seventh person present, whom it isincomprehensible that any of the six should have been willing to trust. This was Aumerle, vexed with the loss of his title, and always as readyto join a conspiracy at the outset as he was to play the traitor at theclose. The extraordinary manner in which this man was always trustedafresh by the friends whom he perpetually betrayed, is one of themysteries of psychological history. His plausibility and powers offascination must have been marvellous. An agreement was drawn up, signed by the six, and entrusted to Aumerle (who cleverly slipped out ofthe inconvenience of signing it himself), containing promises to raiseamong them a force estimated at 8, 000 archers and 300 lance-men, to meeton the fourth of January at Kingston, and thence march to Colnbrook, where Aumerle was to join them. 

On the day appointed for the meeting at Kingston, Aumerle, attired in ahandsome furred gown, went to dine with his father. The Duchess appearsto have been absent. Aumerle carried the perilous agreement in hisbosom, and when he sat down to dinner, he pulled it forth, andostentatiously placed it by the side of his silver plate. The six sealscaught the old Duke's eye, as his son intended they should; and hiscuriosity was not unnaturally aroused. 

"What is that, fair son?" inquired his father. 

Aumerle ceremoniously took off his hat--then always worn at dinner--andbowed low. 

"Monseigneur, " said he obsequiously, "it is not for you. "

Of course, after that, York was determined to see it. 

"Show it me!" he said impatiently; "I will know what it is. "

Aumerle must have laughed in his traitor heart, as with feignedreluctance he handed the document to his father. York read it through;and then rose from the table with one of his stormy bursts of anger. 

"Saddle the horses!" he shouted forth to the grooms at the lower end ofthe hall. And, turning to his son, --"Ha, thou thief! False traitor!thou wert false to King Richard; well might it be looked for that thoushouldst be false to thy cousin King Henry. And thou well knowest, rascal! that I am pledged for thee in Parliament, and have put my bodyand mine heritage to pawn for thy fidelity. I see thou wouldst fainhave me hanged; but, by Saint George! I had liefer thou wert hangedthan I!"

York strode out of the hall, calling to the grooms to hasten. Aumerlegave him time to mount the stairs to assume his riding-suit, and thenhimself went quietly to the stable, saddled a fleet barb, and rode forhis life to Windsor. 

"Who goes there?" rang the royal warder's challenge. 

"The Lord of Rutland, to have instant speech of the King. Is mygracious Lord of York here?"

York had not arrived, and his son was safe. The warder had pushed tothe great gates, and was leading the way to the court-yard, when to hisastounded dismay, Aumerle's dagger was at his throat. 

"How have I offended, my Lord?" faltered the poor man. 

"No hast, " was the response; "but if thou lock not up the gatesincontinent, and give the keys to me--"

The keys were in Aumerle's pocket the next minute. An hour later, whenhis story was told, and his pardon solemnly promised, York and his traincame lumbering to the gate, to find his news forestalled. When Henryhad read the agreement, which York brought with him, he set outimmediately for London, while Aumerle calmly repaired to his tryst atColnbrook. Here Exeter was the first to join him. Aumerle informed hisfriends that Henry was coming to meet them with a large army, but theydetermined nevertheless to advance. They passed Maidenhead Bridge insafety, but as soon as they crossed it, the vanguard of Henry's army wasvisible. To the amazement of his colleagues, Aumerle, on whom they hadcounted as staunch and loyal, doffed his bonnet with a laugh, and, spurring forward, was received by the enemy as an expected ally. Therecould be no doubt now that he had betrayed his too trusting friends. Yet even then, the little band held the bridge till midnight. But bymidnight all hope was over. There was left only one alternative--flightor death. The loyal six set spurs to their horses; and Surrey's steedbeing fleetest, he soon outdistanced the others. All that night Surreyrode at a breathless gallop, and when morning broke he was dashing pastOsney Abbey into the gates of Oxford. Exeter came up an hour or twolater; the rest followed afterwards. But they did not mean to stop atOxford for more than a few hours' rest. Then they spurred on toCirencester. On reaching the city gate, Surrey, with his usualimpulsive eagerness, shouted to the Constable, "Arm for King Richard!"The Constable, supposing that "the luck had turned, " obeyed; but thenext morning brought an archer from Henry, who must have discovered orguessed whither the fugitives had gone. Surrey received Henry's messageand messenger with sovereign contempt; but the Constable, finding thatHenry was still in power, immediately went over to the winning side, andthere was a town riot. The peers had taken up their temporary abode inan inn, which was surrounded and besieged by the mob. Surrey, impetuousas usual, rushed to the window to address the mob. He was received witha shower of arrows. His friends sprang forward to rescue him; but timeand the things of time were over for the young, dauntless, gallantSurrey. They could only lay him gently down on the rushes to breatheout his life. It was a sad end. Fairest and almost highest of thenobles of England, of royal blood, of unblemished character, of greatwealth, and only twenty-five--to die on the floor of an inn, in a mobriot!

But what was to become of the rest? Exeter's fertile brain suggested away of escape. 

"Quick--fire the rushes! And then ope the back windows, and drop downinto the fosse. "

It is manifest from the circumstances, that the back windows of the innopened from the town wall upon the ditch which ran round it, and whichin all probability was filled with water. John Maudeleyn gathered ahandful of the rushes, with which he set fire to the room in two orthree places. The five who remained--Exeter, Salisbury, Le Despenser, and the two Maudeleyns, --then dropped down from the window, swam acrossthe fosse, and fled into the fields, where the scattered relics of theirown army were advancing to join them. But Exeter's idea had been ashade too brilliant. He frightened by the fire not only his foes, buthis friends. 

His troops fancied that Henry had come up, and was burning Cirencester;and, panic-stricken, they dispersed in all directions. The five partedinto three divisions, and fled themselves. 

They fled to death. 

Exeter set out alone. His destination was Pleshy, whence he meant toescape to France. But the angel of death met him there in the guise ofa woman, Joan Countess of Hereford, mother-in-law of Henry, and sisterof Archbishop Arundel. She had never forgiven Exeter for sitting injudgment on her brother the Earl of Arundel, and she rested not now tillshe saw him stretched before her, a headless corpse. 

The two Maudeleyns went towards Scotland. Richard was apprehended, andexecuted. There is good reason to believe that John, escaped, and thatit was he who, in after years, personated King Richard at the ScottishCourt. 

The Lollard friends, Salisbury and Le Despenser, determined to attempttheir escape together. 

For a minute they waited, looking regretfully after Exeter: then LeDespenser said to his squire--

"Haste, Lyngern!--for Cardiff!"

They rode hard all that day--wearily all that night. Over hill anddale, fording rivers, pushing through dense forests, threading mountainpasses, wading across trackless swamps. Town after town was leftbehind; river after river was followed or crossed; till at last, as thesun was setting, they cantered along the banks of the broad Severn, withthe towers of Berkeley Castle rising in the distance. 

It was here that Salisbury drew bridle. 

"'Tis no good!" he said. "I can no more. My Lord, mine heart misgivethme that you be wending but to death. Had it been the pleasure of theLord that we should escape our enemies, well: but if we be to meetdeath, let me meet it at home. Go you on to your home, an' it like you;but for me, I rest this night at Berkeley, and with the morrow I turnback to Bisham. "

Le Despenser looked sadly in his face. It seemed as though his lastfriend were leaving him. 

"Be it as you list, my Lord of Salisbury, " he said. "Only God go withboth of us!"

Who shall say that He did not, though the road lay through the darkriver? For on the other side was Paradise. 

So the Lollard friends parted: and so went Salisbury to his death. Forhe never reached Bisham; he only crept back to Cirencester, and there hewas recognised and taken, and beheaded by the mob. 

A weary way lay still before Le Despenser and Bertram. They journeyedover land; and many a Welsh mountain had to be scaled, and many a brookforded, before--when men and horses were so exhausted that another dayof such toil felt like a physical impossibility--spread before them laythe silver sea, and the sun shone on the grim square towers of Cardiff. 

"Home!" whispered the noble fugitive, slackening his pace an instant, asthe beloved panorama broke upon his sight. "Now forward, Lyngern--home!"

Down they galloped wearily to the gates, walked through the town--stopped every moment by demands for news--till at last the Castle wasreached, and in the base court they alighted from their exhaustedsteeds. And then up-stairs, to Constance's bower, occupied by herself, the Dowager, little Richard, and Maude. Bertram hurriedly preceded hismaster into the room. The ladies, who were quietly seated at work, andwere evidently ignorant of any cause for excitement, looked up insurprise at his entrance. 

"Please it the Lady, --the Lord!"

Constance rose quickly, with a more decided welcome than she usuallyvouchsafed to her husband. 

"Why, my Lord! I thought you were in London. "

"What ill hath happed, son?" was the more penetrating remark of theDowager. 

"Well nigh all such as could hap, Madam, " said Le Despenser wearily. "Iam escaped with life--if I have so 'scaped!--but with nought else. AndI come now, only to look on your beloved faces, and to bid farewell. --Maybe a last farewell, my Lady!"

He stood looking into her face with his dark, sad eyes, --looking as ifhe believed indeed that it would be a last farewell. Constance wasstartled; and his mother's theories broke down at once, and she sobbedout in an agony--

"O Tom, Tom! My lad, my last one!"

"You mean it, my Lord?" asked Constance, in a tone which showed that shewas not wholly indifferent to the question. 

"I mean it right sadly, my Lady. "

"But you go not hence this moment?"

Le Despenser sank down on the settle like the exhausted man he was. 

"This moment!" he repeated. "Nay, not so, even for life. I am wearyand worn beyond measure. And to part so soon! One night to rest; andthen!--"

"My Lord, are you well assured of your peril?" suggested Constance. "This your castle is strong and good, and your serving-men and retainersmany, and the townsmen leal--"

She stopped, tacitly answered by her husband's sorrowful smile, which soplainly replied, "_Cui bono_?"

"My Lady!" he said quietly, "think ye there is this moment a tower, or anoble, or a rood of land, that the Duke of Lancaster will leave unto us?I cast no doubt that all our lands and goods be forfeit, some days erenow. "

He judged truly enough. On the day of the fugitives' flight from Oxfordto Cirencester, a writ of confiscation was issued in Parliament againstevery one of them. That was the 5th of January; and this was theevening of the 10th. There was a mournful rear-supper at Cardiff Castlethat night; and no member of the household, except the wearied BertramLyngern, thought of sleep. Maude was busied in making up money andjewels into numberless small packages, under the orders of the Dowager, to be concealed on the persons of Le Despenser and his attendant squire. The intention of her master was to take passage on some boat bound forIreland, and thence to escape into Scotland or France. 

Le Despenser slept late into the morning--no wonder for a man who hadscarcely been out of his saddle for six days and nights. Thepreparations for the continuation of his flight were nearly completed;but he had not yet been disturbed, when a strange horn was heard outsidethe fosse of the Castle. Constance, who had risen early, and was in anexcited state of mind, hastily opened a lattice to hear who was thevisitor. 

"Who goes there?" demanded the warder's deep voice. 

"Sir William Hankeford, Justice of the King's Bench, bearing hisHighness' warrant. Open quickly!"

There could be no question as to his object--the arrest of Le Despenser. Constance breathlessly shut the window, bade Maude sweep the littlepackets of jewellery and coin into her pocket, dashed into her bower, and awoke her still slumbering husband. 

"Rise, my Lord, this instant! Harry of Bolingbroke hath sent to takeyou. We must hide you some whither. "

Le Despenser was almost too tired and depressed to care forapprehension. 

"Whither, my Lady?" he asked hopelessly. "Better yield, maybe. "

"_Ninerias_!" [Nonsense!--literally, _childishness_] cried Constancehastily, using a word of her mother's tongue, which she had frequentlyheard from the lips of Dona Juana. And springing to the wardrobe in theante-chamber, she was back in a second, with a thick furred winter gown. 

"Lo' you, my Lord! Lap you in this, and--"

And Constance glanced round the room for a safe hiding-place. 

"And!"--said Le Despenser, smiling sadly, but doing as he was requested. 

"Go up the chimney!" said Constance hurriedly. "They will never lookthere, and there is little warmth in yon ashes. "

She caught up the shovel, and flung a quantity of cinders on the almostextinct fire. The idea was not a bad one. The chimney was as wide as asmall closet; there were several rests for the sweep; and at one sidewas a little chamber hollowed out, specially intended for some suchemergency as the present. With the help of the two ladies and Maude, LeDespenser climbed up into his hiding-place. 

Ten minutes later, Sir William Hankeford was bowing low in thebanquet-hall before the royal lady of the Castle, who gravely and verycourteously assured him of her deep regret that her lord was not at hometo receive him. 

"An' it like you, Madam, " returned the acute old judge, "I am bidden ofthe King's Grace to ensure me thereof. "

"Oh, certes, " said Constance accommodatingly. "Maude! call hitherMaster Giles, and bid him to lead my learned and worshipful Lord intoevery chamber of the Castle. "

The judge, a little disarmed by her perfect coolness, instituted thesearch on which he was bound. He turned up beds, opened closets, shookgowns, pinched cushions, and looked behind tapestry. So determined washe to secure his intended prisoner, that he went through the wholeprocess in person. But he was forced to confess at last that, so far ashe could discover, Cardiff Castle was devoid of its master. The baffledjudge and his subordinates took their departure, after putting a seriesof questions to various persons, which were answered without theslightest regard to truth, the replicants being ignorant of any penaltyattached to lying beyond confession and penance; and considering, indeed, that in an instance like the present it was rather a virtue thana sin. When they were fairly out of sight, Constance went leisurelyback to her bower, and called up the chimney. 

"Now, my good Lord, you may descend in safety. "

Le Despenser obeyed; but he came down looking so like a chimney-sweepthat Constance, whose versatile moods changed with the rapidity oflightning, flung herself on the bed in fits of laughter. Theinterrupted preparations were quickly resumed and completed; and whenall was ready, and the boatman waiting at the Castle pier, Le Despenserwent into the hall to bid farewell to his mother. She was sitting onthe settle with an anxious, care-worn look. Maude stood in the window;and at the lower end three or four servants were hurrying about, ratherrestlessly than necessarily. 

The old lady rose when her son entered, and her often-repressed loveflowed out in unwonted fervour, as she clasped him in her arms, knowingthat it might be for the last time. 

"Our Lord be thine aid, my lad, my lad! Be true to thy King; but whatsoshall befall thee, be truest to thy God!"

"God helping me, so will I!" replied he solemnly. 

"And--Tom, dearest lad!--is there aught I can do to pleasure thee?"

The tears sprang to his eyes at such words from her. 

"Mother dear, have a care of my Lady!"

"I will, so!" answered the Dowager; but she added, with a pang ofjealous love which she would have rebuked sorely in another--"I wouldshe held thee more in regard. "

"She may, one day, " he said, mournfully, as if quietly accepting theincontrovertible fact. "I told you once, and I yet trust, that the daymay dawn wherein my Lady's heart shall come home to God and me. "

Maude remembered those words five years later. 

"And now, Mother, farewell! I trust to be other-whither ere Wednesdayset in. "

His mother kissed him, and blessed him, and let him go. 

Le Despenser took his usual leave of the household, with a kind word, aswas his wont, even to the meanest drudge; and then he went back to hislady's bower for that last, and to him saddest farewell of all. 

His grave, tender manner touched Constance's impressible heart. Shetook her leave of him more affectionately than usual. 

"Farewell, my Lady!" he faltered, holding her to his breast. "We meetagain--where God will, and when. "

"And that will be in France, ere long, " said Constance, sanguinely. "You will send me speedy word of your landing, my Lord?"

"You will learn it, my Lady. "

Why did he speak so vaguely? Had he some dim presentiment that his"other-whither" might be Jerusalem the Golden?

No such hidden meaning occurred to Constance. She was almost startledby the sudden flood of pent-up, passionate feeling, which swept all theusual conventionalities out of his way, and made him whisper in accentsof inexpressible love--

"My darling! my darling! God keep and bless thee! Farewell once more--Custance!"

They had never come so near to each other's hearts as in that moment ofparting. And the moment after, he was gone. 

In the court-yard little Richard was running and dancing about underMaude's supervision; and his father stayed an instant, to take the childagain into his arms and bless him once more. And then he left hisCastle by the little postern gate which led down to the jetty. Therewere barges passing up and down the Channel, and Le Despenser'sintention was to row out to one of those bound for Ireland, and soprosecute his voyage. He wore, we are told, a coat of furred damask;and carried with him a cloak of motley velvet. The term "motley" wasapplied to any combination of colours, from the simplest black and whiteto the showiest red, blue, and yellow. In the one portrait occurring inCreton's life-like illuminations, which I am disposed to identify withthat of Le Despenser, he wears a grey gown, relieved by very narrowstripes of red. Perhaps it was that identical cloak or gown which hungupon the arm of Bertram Lyngern, just outside the postern gate. 

"Nay, good friend!" objected Le Despenser, with his customary kindlyconsideration. "I have wearied thee enough these six days. MasterGiles shall go with me now. "

"My Lord, " replied Bertram, deferentially, yet firmly, "your especialcommand except, we part not, by your leave. "

Le Despenser acquiesced with a smile, and both entered the boat. WhenDavy the ferryman returned, an hour later, he reported that his masterhad embarked safely on a barge bound for Ireland. 

"Then all will be well, " said Constance lightly. 

"God allowing!" gravely interposed the old lady. "There be winds andwaves atween Cardiff and Ireland, fair Daughter. "

Did she think only of winds and waves?

No news reached them until the evening of the following Thursday. Theyhad sat down to supper, about four o'clock, when the blast of a hornoutside broke the stillness. The Lady Le Despenser, whom the basin ofrose-water had just reached for the opening washing of hands, droppedthe towel and grew white as death. 

"Jesu have mercy! yonder is Master Lyngern's horn!"

"He is maybe returned with a message, Lady, " suggested Father Ademar, the chaplain; but all eyes were fixed on the door of the hall untilBertram entered. 

The worst apprehensions which each imagination could form took vividshape in the minds of all, when they saw his face. So white andwoe-begone he looked--so weary and unutterably sorrowful, that allanticipated the news of some heavy and irreparable calamity, from whichhe only had escaped alone to tell them. 

"Where left you your Lord, Master Lyngern?"

It was the Dowager who was the first to break the spell of silence. 

"Madam, " said Bertram, in a husky, faltering voice, "I left him not atall--till he left me. "

He evidently had some secret meaning, and he was afraid to tell theawful truth at once. Constance had risen, and stood nervously graspingthe arm of her state chair, with a white, excited face; but she did notask a question. 

"Speak the worst, Bertram Lyngern!" cried the old lady. "Thy Lord--"

It seemed to Bertram as if the only words that would come to his lips inreply were two lines of an inscription set up in many a church, and asfamiliar to all present as any hackneyed proverb to us. 

"`_Pur ta pite, Jesu, regarde, Et met cest alme en sauve garde_. '"

There was an instant's dead silence. It was broken by the mother's cryof anguish--

"Tom, Tom! My lad, my last lad!"

"Drowned, Master Lyngern?" asked a score of voices. 

Bertram tacitly ignored the question. He walked languidly up the hall, and dropping on one knee before the Princess, presented to her asapphire signet-ring--the last token sent by her dead husband. Constance took it mechanically; and Bertram, going back to his usualseat, filled a goblet with Gascon wine, and drank it like a man who wasfaint and exhausted. 

"Sit, Master Lyngern, and rest you, " pursued the Dowager; "but when yoube refreshed, give us to wit the rest. "

The tone of her voice seemed to say that the worst which could come, hadcome; and the dreadful fact known, the details mattered little. 

Bertram attempted to eat, but almost immediately he pushed away histrencher, and regardless of etiquette, laid his forehead upon his arm onthe table. 

"I cannot eat! And how shall I speak what I must say? I would havedied for him. " Then, suddenly lifting his head, he spoke quickly, as ifhe wished to come at once to the end of his miserable task. "Nobleladies, my Lord of Salisbury is beheaden of the rabble at Cirencester, and my Lord of Exeter at Pleshy; and men say that Lord Richard the Kinglieth dead at Pomfret, and that God wot how. "

Constance spoke at last, but in a voice not like her own. 

"God doom Henry of Bolingbroke!"

The words, if repeated, might have doomed her; but she feared no man. 

That evening, Bertram told the details of that woeful story. 

The barge-master whom they had accosted was sailing westwards, and hereadily agreed to take Le Despenser and his suite over to Ireland. Somewhat too readily, Bertram thought; and he feared treachery from thefirst. When the boat had pulled off to some distance, the barge-masterasked to what port his passengers wished to go. He was told that anyIrish port on the eastern coast would suit them; and he then altered histone, and roughly refused to carry them anywhere but to Bristol. Theman's evil intentions were manifest now; and Le Despenser, drawing hissword, sternly commanded him to continue his voyage to Ireland, if hevalued his life. The barge-master's only reply was a lowsignal-whistle, in answer to which twenty men, concealed in the hold, sprang on deck and overwhelmed the little band of fugitives. The bargethen put about for Bristol, and on landing, the noble captive wasdelivered by the treacherous barge-master into the custody of the Mayor. That officer put him in close prison, and despatched a fleet messengerto Henry to inquire what should be done with him. But before the answerarrived, the capture became known in Bristol, and a clamorous mobassembled before the Castle. The Mayor, to his credit, did his best toresist the rabble, and to save his prisoner; but the mob were strongerthan authority. They carried the gates, rushed pell-mell into theCastle, and dragged the captive forth into the market-place. And thenBertram saw his master again--a helpless prisoner, in the hands of afurious mob, among whom several priests were active. As he appeared, there was a great shout of "Traitor!" and a few cries, lower yet moreterrible, of "Heretic!" They dragged him to the block erected in themidst of the market-place, by which stood the public executioner. LeDespenser saw unmistakably that his last hour had come; and he had notbeen so far from anticipating that closing scene, that he was unpreparedfor its coming. 

"Sir, " he said, turning to the executioner with his ordinary courtesy, "I pray you of your grace to grant me time for prayer, and strike notere"--touching his handkerchief--"I shall let this fall. "

The executioner, a quiet, practical man, unpossessed by the fury of themob, promised what was asked of him. Meantime Bertram Lyngern contrivedto squeeze himself inch by inch through the crowd, until at last hestood beside his master. 

"Ah, my trusty squire!" was the prisoner's greeting. "Look you--havehere my signet, which with Master Mayor's gentle allowing, you shallbear unto my Lady. "

The Mayor nodded permission. He was vexed and ashamed. 

"Farewell, good friend, " resumed Le Despenser, with a parting grasp ofhis squire's hand. "Be sure to tell Madam my mother that I died true toGod and the King--and say unto my Lady that my last thought was of her. "

Then he knelt down to commune with God. But he asked for no priest; andwhen they saw it, the cries of the mob became fiercer than ever. 

"Traitor!" and "Heretic!" were roared from every part of the vastsquare. 

Le Despenser rose, and faced his enemies. 

"I am no traitor to my true King, and no heretic to the living God!" hecried earnestly. "I was ever a true man to God, and to the King, and tomy Lady: touching which ye are not my judge, but God. "

His voice was drowned by another roar of execration. Then he kneltagain--and the handkerchief fell. But just as the executioner raisedhis arm--

 "Just ere the falling axe did part The burning brain from the true heart--"

One word trembled on the dying lips--"Custance!"

In another minute, lifting the severed head by its dark auburn hair, theexecutioner shouted to the sovereign mob--"This is the head of atraitor!"

"Thou liest!" broke in a low fierce whisper from Bertram Lyngern. 

"I wis that, Master!" returned the poor executioner. 

He was not the first man, nor the last, who has been required topronounce officially what his conscience individually refused tosanction. 

The severed head was sent to London, a ghastly gift to the usurper. Itwas set up on London Bridge, beside that of Exeter. The body wascarried into the Castle, saved by the Mayor from insult; and a few daysafterwards they bore it by slow stages to Tewkesbury Abbey, and laid himin his father's grave. 

Surrey and Exeter died for their King alone. But it was only half forKing Richard that Salisbury and Le Despenser died; and the other halfwas for the word of God, and for the testimony of Jesus Christ. Theywere both hereditary Lollards and chiefs of the Lollard party; and theywere both beheaded, not by Henry's authority, but by a priest-riddenmob. And at that Bar where the cup of cold water shall in no wise loseits reward, surely such semi-martyrdom as that day beheld at Bristolwill not be forgotten before God. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1. 

 "Jesu, in Thy dear love behold, And set this soul in Thy safe fold. "

These lines were spoken by the figure called "Pity, " in the paintingtermed the "Five Wells" or wounds of Christ. 

CHAPTER EIGHT. 

MOVES ON THE CHESSBOARD. 

 "O purblind race of miserable men, How many among us at this very hour Do forge a life-long trouble for themselves, By taking true for false, or false for true!"

 _Tennyson_. 

Three months had rolled away since that thirteenth of January which hadmade Constance a widow. Her versatile, volatile nature soon recoveredthe shock of her husband's violent death. The white garments ofwidowhood which draped her found little response either in the gravityof her demeanour or in the expression of her face. But on the DowagerLady the effect was very different. She became an old, infirm woman allat once; but her manner was softer and gentler. She learned to makemore allowance for temperaments which entirely differed from hers. There were no further efforts to repress her little grandson's noisyglee, no more cold responses to his occasionally troublesomedemonstrations of affection. The alteration was quiet, but lasting. 

It was an hour after dinner, and Maude sat alone at work in thebanquet-hall. She was almost unconsciously humming to herself the airof a troubadour chanson--an air as well-known to ourselves as to her, though we have turned it into a hymn tune, and have christened itInnocents, or Durham. A fresh stave was just begun, when the hall dooropened, and a voice at the further end announced--

"A messenger from my Lord of Aumerle!"

Maude rose as the messenger approached her. 

"Your servant, sir! If you bear any letter, I will carry the same untomy Lady. "

"Here is the letter, Mistress Maude, " replied the messenger with asmile. "Methinks I am more changed than you be. "

Maude looked more narrowly at him. 

"I know you now, Master Calverley, " she said, a smile breaking over herlips. "But you ware not that beard the last time I did see you. "

She took the letter to Constance, and when she returned, she found Hughand his old friend Bertram in close conversation. 

"Verily, sweet Hugh, "--Bertram was saying--"there is one thing in thisworld I can in no wise fathom! How thy Lord--"

"There be full many things in this world that I cannot, " interposedHugh. 

"How thy Lord ordereth his dealings is beyond me, " ended Bertram. 

"In good sooth, I have enough ado to look to mine own dealings, though Ishould let other men's be, " answered Hugh. 

"Lo' you now, Mistress Maude! Here is my Lord of Aumerle--you wissomewhat of his deeds--high in favour with the King, and prevailing uponhis Grace to grant all manner of delicates [good things] unto our Lady. He hath soothly-stirred [persuaded] him unto the bestowal of every manorthat was our late Lord's father's (whom God assoil!) and of all hisjewels, and of the custody of the young Lord. And 'tis not four monthsgone since he sold our Lord to his death! What signifieth he by thiswhileness?" [Whirling, turning round. ]

Maude shook her head, as if to say that she could not tell. She hadresumed her work, the hemming of what she (not very elegantly) calleda sudary, and we, euphemistically but tautologically, apocket-handkerchief. 

"Ah! 'tis a blessed thing to have a brother!" observed Bertram withirony. "Well!--and what news, sweet Hugh, of olden friends?"

"None overmuch, " responded Hugh, "unless it be of the death of FatherWilfred, of the Priory at Langley. "

"Ah me!" exclaimed Bertram regretfully. 

"Master Calverley, " said Maude, looking up, "do me to wit, of yourgoodness, if you wot any thing touching the Lady Avice de Narbonne?"

"But so much, " answered he, "that she hath taken veil upon herself inthe Minoresses' convent at Aldgate, and is, I do hear, accounted of thesisters a right holy and devout woman. "

"Marry, I am well fain to hear so good news, " said Maude. 

"Good news, Mistress Maude! forsooth, were I lover or kinsman of thefair lady, I would account them right evil news, " commented Bertram, ina tone of some surprise. 

"Methinks I conceive what Mistress Maude signifieth, " quietly observedHugh. "She accounteth that the Lady Avice shall find help and comfortin the Minoresses' house. "

"Ay, in very deed, " said Maude, "the which methinks she could never havefound without. "

"God have it so!" answered Hugh, gently. "Yet I trust, Mistress Maude, that our Lord may be found without convent cell, as lightly [easily] aswithin it. "

"Be these all thy news, sweet Hugh?" inquired Bertram. "Is nought atwork in the outer world?"

"Matters be reasonable peaceful at this present. But methinks KingHenry sitteth not over delightsomely on his throne, seeing he hathcaptivated [captured] the four childre of my sometime Lord of March, andshut them close in the Castle of Windsor. "

"Hath he so?" asked Bertram, with interest. "Poor hearts!"

"Be they small childre?" said Maude, compassionately. 

"The Lady Anne, that is eldest, hath but nine years, I do hear. "

"Ay me, Master Calverley! Have they any mother?"

"Trust me, ay!" broke in Bertram. "Why, have you forgot that my Lady ofMarch is sister unto the Duchess' Grace of York?"

"And is she prisoned with the childre?"

"Holy Mary! the King's Grace lacketh not her, " said Bertram. 

"She was dancing at the Court a few weeks gone, " returned Hugh ratherdrily, "with her servant [lover], the Baron of Powys, a-waiting uponher; and so was likewise the Lady Elizabeth, my Lord of Exeter hiswidow, with the Lord Fanhope. Men say there shall be divers weddings atCourt this next summer, and these, as I reckon, among them. "

"Ah! the Lady Elizabeth's Grace danceth right well!" said Bertramsarcastically. "Marry, Robin Falconer, of my Lord's Grace of York'sfollowing, which bare hither certain letters this last month, told methey had dances at Court in Epiphany octave, when we rade for our livesfrom Oxford; and that very night my Lord's Grace of Exeter was beheadenat Pleshy, his wife, the Lady Elizabeth, was at the cushion dance andsinging to her lute in the Lady Blanche [the Princess Royal] herchamber, where all the Court was gathered. "

"Aid us, our Lady of Pity!" whispered Maude in a shocked voice. 

"There be some women hard as stones!" pursued Bertram disgustedly. 

For men knew the Lady Elizabeth well in those days, as fairest andgayest of the Princesses. She was King Henry's favourite sister, thoughthat royal gentleman showed his favour rather oddly, by granting her aquantity of damaged goods of her late husband, among which were sundrytowels, "used and torn. " During the terrible struggle which had justoccurred, she had sided with her brother, against King Richard, of whomher husband Exeter was a fervent partisan. Perhaps such vacillation aswas occasionally to be seen in Exeter's conduct may be traced to herinfluence. The night that King Richard was taken, she "made goodcheer, " though the event was almost equivalent to the signing of herhusband's death-warrant. I doubt if we must not class this accomplishedand beautiful Elizabeth among the most heartless women whose names havecome down to us on the roll of history. And where a woman is heartless, she is heartless indeed. 

"Forsooth, Master Lyngern, methinks I wis what you mean by women hard asstones, " observed Maude with a slight shudder. "They do give me alwaythe horrors. "

"Think you there is naught of the stone in the Lady Custance?" said Hughin a low voice. 

Maude energetically repudiated the imputation. 

"She a stone? nay!--she is a butterfly, " said Bertram. 

"And, pray you, which were better--to have a stone or a butterfly toyour wife?" asked Hugh, laughingly. 

"The stone, in good surety, " said Bertram. "I were allgates [always]afeard of hurting the butterfly. "

"Very well, " responded Hugh, rather drily; "but the stone might hurtthee. "

The summer passed very quietly at Cardiff, except for one incident. Maude spent it in learning to read, for which she had always had astrong wish, and now coaxed Father Ademar to teach her. The confessorwas a Lollard, and was therefore not deterred by any fear of herbecoming acquainted with forbidden books. He willingly complied withMaude's wish. 

The incident which disturbed the calm was a hostile visit of OwainGlyndwr, who appeared with a large force on the tenth of July, and heldthe Church of Saint Mary against all comers, until driven out with greatslaughter. On the very morning of his appearance, the last baby came toCardiff Castle--a baby which would never see its father. The Bishop ofLlandaff, who was a guest in the Castle, was obliged to reconsecrate thechurch before the child could be christened. It was not till late inthe evening that the little lady was baptised by the name of Isabel, after the dead Infanta. She might have been born to illustrateBertram's observations, for her heart was as hard as a stone, and ascold. 

When Maude became able to read well, she was installed in the post ofdaily reader to the Dowager. Constance had never cared for books; butthe old lady, who had been a great reader for her time, missed her usualluxury now that age was dimming her eyes, and was very glad to employMaude's younger sight. The book was nearly always one of Wycliffe's, and the reading invariably closed with a chapter of his Testament. Nowand then, but only now and then, she would ask for a little poetry--taking by preference that courtly writer whom she knew as a greatinnovator, but whom we call the father of English poetry. But she wasvery particular which of his poems was selected. The Knight's, theSquire's, the Man of Law's, the Prioress's, and the Clerk's Tales, wereall that she would have of that book by which we know Geoffrey Chaucerbest. She liked better the graceful fairy tale of the Flower and theLeaf, written for the deceased Lollard Queen; and best of all that mostpathetic lamentation for the Duchess Blanche of Lancaster, whomElizabeth Le Despenser had known personally in her youth. Maude wouldnever have suspected the Dowager of the least respect for poetry; andshe was surprised to watch her sit by the open casement, dreamilylooking out on the landscape, while she read to her of the "whiteycrowned Queen" of the Daisy, or of the providential interpositions bywhich "Crist unwemmed kept Custance, " or oftener yet--

 "But what visage had she thereto? Alas, my heart is wonder woe That I ne can discriven it Me lacketh both English and wit. . . For certes Nature had such lest To make that fair, that truly she Was her chief patron of beaute, And chief ensample of all her work And monstre--for be 't ne'er so derk, Methinketh I see her evermo'!"

[Note: Monstre was then employed in the sense in which we now use_phoenix_. ]

But this, as has been said, was only now and then. The words which werefar more common were Wycliffe's; and those which were invariable wereChrist's. 

When Maude began this work, she had not the remotest idea of changingher faith, nor even of inquiring into the grounds on which it rested. She entertained no personal prejudice against the Lollards, with whomshe associated her dead mistress the Infanta, and her young murderedmaster; but she vaguely supposed their doctrines to be somehowunorthodox, and considered herself as good a "Catholic" as any one. Shenoticed that Father Ademar gave her fewer penances than Father Dominicused to do; that he treated her mistakes as mistakes only, and not assins; that generally his ideas of sin had to do rather with the root ofevil in the heart than with the diligent pruning of particular branches;that he said a great deal about Christ, and not much about the saints. So Maude's change of opinion came, over her so gradually and noiselesslythat she never realised herself to have undergone any change at alluntil it was unalterable and complete. 

The realisation came suddenly at last, with a passing word from DameAudrey, the mistress of the household at Cardiff. 

"Nay, " she had said, a little contemptuously, in answer to some remark:"Mistress Maude is too good to consort with us poor Catholics. She is agreat clerk, quotha! and hath Sir John de Wycliffe his homilies andevangels at her tongue's end. Marry, I count in another twelvemonthevery soul in this Castle saving me shall be a Lollard. "

Maude was startled. Was the charge true--that she was no longer a"Catholic, " but a Lollard? And if so, in what did the change consist ofwhich she was herself unconscious?

That afternoon, when she sat down to read to the Dowager as usual, Maudeasked timidly--

"Madam, under your Ladyship's good leave, there is a thing I would fainask at you. "

"Ask freely, my maid, " was the kindly answer. 

"Might it like you to arede me, Madam, of your grace--in what regard, and to what greatness, the Lollards do differ from the Catholics?"

The Dowager smiled, but she looked a little surprised. 

"A short question, forsooth, my maid, the which to answer shortly shouldlack sharper wit than mine. But I will give thee to wit so far as Ican. We do believe that all things which be needful for a Christian manto know, be founden in God's Word, yclept Holy Scripture: so that allother our differences take root in this one. For the which encheson[reason] we do deny the Pope to have right and rule over this our Churchof England, which lieth not in his diocese, neither find we in HolyScripture that the Bishop of Rome should wield rule over other Bishops;but that in every realm the King thereof should be highest in estateover the priests as over any other of his subjects. Wherefore likewisewe call not upon the saints, seeing that Holy Scripture saith `oo Godand a Mediatour is of God and of men, a man, Crist Jesu:' neither may weallow the holy bread of the blessed Sacrament of the Altar to be thevery carnal flesh of our Saviour Christ, there bodily present, seeingboth that Paul sayeth of it `this breed' after that it be consecrate, and moreover that our own very bodily senses do deny it to be any othermatter. So neither will any of us use swearing, which is utterly forbidin God's Word; neither hold we good the right of sanctuary, ne the powerof the Pope's indulgence, ne virginity of the priesthood--seeing that noone of all these be bidden by Holy Scripture. "

The old lady paused, and cut off her loose threads before she continued, in a rather more constrained voice. 

"Beyond all these, " she then added, "there be other matters whereincertain of us do differ from other. To wit, some of us do love to singunto symphony [music] the praise and laud of God; the which othersome(of whom am I myself) do account to be but a vain indulgence of theflesh, and a thing unmeet for its vanity to be done of God's servantsdwelling in this evil world. Some do hold that childre ought not to bebaptised, but only them that be of age to perceive the signification ofthat holy rite: herein I see not with them. Likewise there be othersomethat would have the old prayers for to abide, being but a form of words;while other (of whom be I) do understand such forms to be but thingsdead and dry, and we rather would pray unto our Lord with such words asHe in the instant moment shall show unto us--the which (nowise contaking[reproaching] other) we do nathless judge to be more agreeable with HolyScripture. But wherefore wouldst know all this, my maid?"

Maude's answer was not a reply according to grammar, but it showed herthoughts plainly enough. She had been carefully comparing her owninward convictions with the catalogue as it proceeded. She certainlycould see no harm either in infant baptism or sacred music: as to thequestion of forms of prayer, she had never considered it. But on allthe other points, though to her own dismay, she found herself exactly inagreement with the description given by the Dowager. 

"Then I _am_ a Lollard, I account!" she said at last, with a sigh. 

"And what if so, my maid?" quietly asked the old lady. 

"Good Madam, can I so be, and yet be in unity with the Catholic Church?"said Maude in a tone of distress. "Methinks 'tis little comfort to benot yet excommunicate, if I do wit that an' holy Church knew of mineerrors, she should cut me away as a dry branch. And yet--" and a verypuzzled, troubled look came into Maude's face--"what I crede, I crede;ne can I thereof uncharge [disburden] me. "

"My maid, " said the Dowager earnestly, looking up, "the true unity ofthe Church Catholic is the unity of Christ. He said not `Come into theChurch, ' but `Come to Me. ' He that is one with Christ cannot bewithoutenside Christ's Church. "

No more was said at that time; but what she had heard already leftMaude's mind in a turmoil. She next, but very cautiously, endeavouredto ascertain the opinions of her mistress. Constance made her explainher motive in asking, and then laughed heartily. 

"By Saint Veronica her sudary, what matter? Names be but names. Solong as a man deal uprightly and keep him from deadly sin--call himCatholic, call him Lollard--is he the worser man? There be good and illof every sort. I have known some weary tykes [really, a sheep-dog; usedas a term of reproach] that were rare Catholics; and I once had a motherthat is with God and His angels now, and men called her a Lollard. "

Evidently Constance's practical religion was summed up in the childishphrase--"Be good. " An excellent medicine--if the patient were notunable to swallow. 

Maude tried Bertram next, and felt, to use her own phrase, more "of abire" [confused] than ever. For she found him nearly in the same stateof mind as herself, but advanced one step further. Convinced that thetrue meaning of Lollardism was plain adhesion to Holy Scripture, he wasprepared to accept the full consequences. He had not only been thinkingfor himself, but talking with Hugh Calverley: and Hugh, like his father, was a Lollard of the most extreme type. 

"It seemeth me, Mistress Maude, " he said boldly, "less dread to say thatthe Church Catholic must needs have erred, than to say that God in HisWord can err. "

"But the whole Church Catholic!" objected Maude in a most troubledvoice. "All the holy doctors and bishops that have ever been--yea, andthe very Fathers of the Church!"

"`Nyle ye clepe to you a fadir on erthe, '" replied Bertram gravely. 

"But, Master Lyngern, think you, the Holy Ghost dwelleth in the priests, and so He doth not in slender folk like to you and me. "

"Ay so?" answered he, with a slight curl of his lip. "He dwelleth insuch men as my Lord of Canterbury, trow? Our Lord saith the tree isknown by his fruits. It were a new thing, mereckoneth, for a man to beindwelt of the Holy Ghost, and to bring forth fruits of the Devil. "

"But our Lord behote [promised] to dwell in His Church alway, " urgedMaude, though she was arguing against herself. 

"He behote to dwell in all humble and faithful souls--they be HisChurch, Mistress Maude. I never read in no Scripture that He behote towrite all the Pope's decretals, nor to see that no Archbishop ofCanterbury should blunder in his pastorals. "

"But the Church, Master Lyngern--_the Church_ cannot err! HolyScripture saith it. "

"Ay so?" said Bertram again. "Where?"

Maude was obliged to confess that she did not know where; she had "alwayheard say the same;" but finding Bertram rather too much for her inargument, she carried her difficulty to Father Ademar when she next wentto confession. She would never have propounded such a query to FatherDominic at Langley, since it would most certainly have ensured her asevere scolding and some oppressive penance; perhaps to lie flat on thethreshold of the chapel and let every one pass over her, perhaps to lickthe dust all round the base of the Virgin's pedestal. And Maude's ownprivate conviction was that penances of this kind never did her theleast good. Father Dominic told her that they humbled her. It was truethey made her feel humiliated; but was that the same as feeling humble?They also made her feel irritated and angry--with whom, or with what, she hardly knew; but certainly with some person or thing outside ofherself. But they never made her think that she had done wrong--onlythat she had been misunderstood and badly used. 

Matters were very different with Father Ademar. He was so quiet andgentle that Maude never felt afraid of him. Confession to FatherDominic bore the awful aspect cast over a visit to a dentist's surgery;but confession to Father Ademar was (at least to Maude) merely talkingover her difficulties with a friend. He often said, "Pray our Lord togrant thee wisdom in this matter, " but he never said, "Repeat fifty Avesand ten Paternosters. " And when Maude now laid her troubles before himas lucidly as she could, he gave her an answer which, she thought atfirst, did not touch the case at all, and yet which in the end settledevery difficulty connected with it. 

"Daughter, " said the Lollard priest, "there is another question whichmust be first answered. Thou hast taken up the golden rod by the wrongend. Turn it around and have the other ensured; then we will talk ofthis. "

"What other question, Father?"

"The same that our Lord asked of the sick man at the cistern[pool]--`Wilt thou be made whole?' Art thou of the unity of Christ?--art thou one with Him? Hast thou closed with Him? Wist thou that `Heloved _thee_, and gave Himself for thee?' For without thou be firstensured of this, it shall serve thee but little to search all the tomesof the Fathers touching the unity of the Church. "

"But if I be in the true Church, Father, I must needs be of the unity ofChrist. "

"Truth, " said Father Ademar, in his quietest manner. "Then turn thematter about, as I bade thee, and see whether thou art in Christ. Soshalt thou plainly see thyself to be in the true Church. "

Maude was silenced, but at first she was not convinced. Ademar did notpress her answer. He left her to decide the question for herself. Butmany months passed away, fraught with many struggles and heartsearchings and deep studies of Wycliffe's Bible, before Maude was ableto decide it. Bertram, whose mental nature was less self-conscious andanalytical than hers, was at peace long before she was. But the daycame at last when Maude was able to answer Ademar's question--when shecould say, "Father, I am of the true Church, because I am one withChrist. "

The life at Cardiff Castle was very quiet--much too quiet to pleaseConstance, who was again becoming extremely restless. They heard ofwars and rumours of war--conspiracy after conspiracy, all more or lessfutile: some to free King Richard, whom a great number believed to bestill living; some to release and crown the little Earl of March, yet aclose prisoner in Windsor Castle; some to depose or assassinate Henry. But they were all to the dwellers in Cardiff Castle like the sounds ofdistant tempest, until the summer of 1402, when two terrible eventshappened almost simultaneously, and one at their very doors. OwainGlyndwr, the faithful Welsh henchman of King Richard, took and burntCardiff in one of his insurrectionary marches; sparing the Castle andone of the monasteries on account of the loyalty (to Richard) of theirinmates; and about the same time Hugh Calverley came one day fromBristol, to summon the Princess to come immediately to Langley. Herfather was dying. 

Constance reached Langley in time to receive his last blessing. He diedin the same quiet, apathetic manner in which he had lived--his intellectinsufficient to realise all the mischief of which he had been guilty, but having realised one mistake he had made--his second marriage. Hedesired to be buried in the Priory Church at Langley, by the side of his"dear wife Isabel, " whose worth he had never discovered until she waslost to him for ever. 

It was on the first of August that Edmund of Langley died. After hisfuneral, the Duchess Joan--now a young woman of nineteen--intimated herintention of paying a visit to Court, as soon as her first mourning wasover, and blandishingly hoped that her dear daughter would do her thepleasure of accompanying her. Maude would have liked her mistress todecline the invitation, for she would far rather have gone home. ButConstance accepted it eagerly. It was exactly what she wished. Theyreached Westminster Palace just after the King had returned from hisautumn progress, and he expressed a hope that his aunt and cousin wouldstay with him long enough to be present at the approaching ceremony ofhis second marriage with the Duchess Dowager of Bretagne. 

It was the evening after their arrival at Westminster, and Maude sat ona stool in the great hall, every now and then recognising and addressingsome acquaintance of old time. On the dais was a brilliant crowd ofroyal and semi-royal persons, among whom Constance sat engaged inanimated conversation, and evidently enjoying herself. Maude knew mostof them by sight, but as her eyes roved here and there, they lighted ona young man coming up towards the dais whom she did not know. Hestopped almost close to her, to speak to Aumerle, now Duke of York, sothat Maude had time and opportunity to study him. 

He was dressed in the height of the fashion. In the present day hiscostume would be thought supremely ridiculous for a man; but when hewore it, it was considered perfectly enchanting. It consisted of agown--similar to a long dressing-gown, nearly touching the feet--of bluevelvet, spangled with gold fleur-de-lis, and lined with white satin; anunder-tunic (equivalent to a waistcoat) of bright apple-green satin, with wide sweeping sleeves of the same, cut at the edge into imitationsof oak-leaves. Under these were tight sleeves of pink velvet, edged atthe wrist by white frills, and a similar white frill finished the gownat the neck. His boots were black velvet, with white buttons; they wereabout a yard long, tapering to a point, and were tied up to the garterby silver chains, a pattern resembling a church window being cut throughthe upper portion of the boot. These very fashionable and mostuncomfortable articles were known as cracowes, having come over fromGermany with the late Queen Anne. In the young man's hand was a blackvelvet cap, covered by a spreading plume of apple-green feathers. Roundthe waist, outside the gown, was a tight black velvet band, to which wasfastened the scabbard of a golden-hilted sword. 

This extremely smart young gentleman was Sir Edmund de Holand, Earl ofKent, --brother and heir of the Duke of Surrey, and brother also ofConstance's step-mother. He was a true Holand in appearance, nearly sixfeet in height, most graceful in carriage, very fair in complexion, hishair a glossy golden colour, with a moustache of similar shade. His agewas just twenty-one. He was pre-eminently handsome--surpassing evenSurrey. His eyes were of the softest blue, clear and bright; his voicesoft, musical, and insinuating. 

I am careful to describe the Earl of Kent fully, because he is about tobecome a prominent person in the story, and also because he hadabsolutely nothing to recommend him beyond his physical courage, histaste in dress, his fascinating manners, and his very handsome person. These points have to be dwelt upon, since his virtues lay entirely inthem. 

Kent and York conversed in a low tone for some minutes. When thesubject seemed exhausted, York turned quickly round to his sister, as ifa sudden idea had occurred to him. 

"Lady Custance! You remember my Lord of Kent, trow?--though methinksyou have scarce met together sithence we were all childre. "

Constance lifted up her eyes, and offered her hand to Kent's kiss ofhomage. Ay, to her utter misery and undoing, like Elaine--

 --"she lifted up her eyes, And loved him, with that love which was her doom. "

Not worth such love as that, Constance! Not worth one beat of that trueheart which was stilled at Bristol, and which now lies, dust to dust, inTewkesbury Abbey. This man will not love you as he did, to the end. Hewill only give you what love he can spare from himself, for he is hisown most cherished treasure. And it will be--as, a few hours later, youwhisper to yourself, pulling the petals from a white daisy--"_unpeu_--_beaucoup_--_point du tout_:"--a little yesterday, intense to-day, and none at all to-morrow. 

Constance and Kent saw a good deal of each other during her visit toWestminster. Her brother of York evidently furthered his suit to theutmost of his power. Maude, who had learned utterly to distrust theDuke of York, set herself to consider what his reason could be. ThatYork rarely did any thing except with some ulterior and selfish object, she was satisfied. But the more she thought about the matter, thefurther she found herself from arriving at any conclusion. The secretwas to be revealed to her before long. The plotting brain of the Princewas busy as usual in the concoction of another conspiracy, and toforward his purposes on this occasion he intended to make a catspaw ofhis sister. The plot was not yet quite ripe; but when it should be, forConstance to be Kent's wife would make her all the more eligible as atool. 

The ceremonies attendant on the royal marriage were over; the King wasabout to take the field against another insurrection of Glyndwr, and theEarl of Kent had undertaken to guard him to Shrewsbury. Maude, in closeattendance on her mistress, heard the parting words between Kent andConstance. 

"You will render me visit at Cardiff, my Lord?"

"Sweet Lady, were it possible I could neglect such bidding?"

Constance journeyed in the royal train for a distance, and turned offtowards Cardiff, when their ways parted. 

Her manner when she arrived at home was particularly affectionate, bothto the Dowager and her children, of whom little Richard was now eightyears old, while Isabel had just reached four. The keen eyes of the oldlady--much sharper mentally than physically--soon discerned the presenceof some new element in her daughter-in-law's mind. She closelyquestioned Maude as to what had happened, or was about to happen; andafter a minute's hesitation, Maude told her all she knew and feared. For some time after receiving this information, Elizabeth Le Despensersat gazing uneasily from the lattice, with unwontedly idle hands. 

"Sister's son unto our adversary!" she murmured to herself at last. "Whither shall this tend? Verily, there is One stronger than Thomas deArundel. Is He leading us blind by a way that we know not?--for in verysooth _I_ cannot discern the way. If so it be, then--Lord, lead Thouon!"

Kent paid his visit to Cardiff in the winter, accompanied by Constance'spet brother, Lord Richard of Conisborough, who had been promoted to hisfather's old dignity of Earl of Cambridge. It was the first time thatthe Dowager had seen either; and she afterwards communicated herimpressions of the pair to Maude, as they sat together at work. 

"As touching the Lord Richard, he is gent and courteous enough; he wereno ill companion, an' he knew his own mind a little better. Mayhapthree of him, or four, might make a man amongst them. "

For Cambridge, though in a much fainter degree, reflected his father'scharacter by finding it very difficult to say no. 

"And what thinks your Ladyship of my Lord of Kent?" asked Maude withsome anxiety. 

The Dowager shook the loose threads from her work with a peculiar littlelaugh. 

"Marry, my maid, what think I of my Lord of Kent his barber, and histailor?" said she; "for they made my Lord of Kent betwixt them. He isnot a man of God's making. "

"But think you, Madam, he is to be trusted or no?"

"Trusted!--for what? To oil his golden locks, and perfume well hissudary, and have his sleeves of the newest cutting? Ay, forsooth, andthat right worthily!"

"I meant, " explained Maude, "to have a care of our Lady. "

"Maybe he shall keep her in ointment for her hair, " returned theDowager. 

The Earl of Kent returned to Court, and for some time stayed there. Hewas rather too busy to prosecute his wooing. The Lord Thomas ofLancaster, one of the King's sons, was projecting and executing anexpedition from Calais to Sluys, and he took Kent with him; so that, with one or another obstacle arising, Constance's second marriage wasnot quite so quick in coming as Maude had expected. But at last it didcome. 

The Duke of York and his Duchess--not long married--and the Earl ofCambridge, journeyed to Cardiff for their sister's wedding. The Duchessof York, though both an heiress and a beauty, left no mark on her time. She was by profession at least a Lollard; and since Lollardism was notnow walking in silver slippers, this says something for her. But in allother respects she appears to have been one of those beautiful, mindlesswomen whom clever men frequently marry. Perhaps no woman with a decidedcharacter of her own would have ventured on such a husband as EdwardDuke of York. 

It was a mild winter day, and a picnic was projected in the woods nearCardiff. The wedding was to take place in about a week. Maude rode ona pillion to the scene where the rustic dinner was to be behind BertramLyngern, who seemed in a particularly bright and amiable mood. When awoman rode on a pillion, it must be remembered that she was in a veryinsecure position; and it was an absolute necessity for the fair riderto clasp her arms round the waist of the man who sat before her, and, when the road was rough, to cling pretty tightly. It was thereforedesirable that the pair should be at least reasonably civil to oneanother, and should not get on quarrelsome terms. There was littlelikelihood of Maude's quarrelling with Bertram, her friend of twentyyears' standing; but she did not share his evident light-heartedness ashe rode carolling along, now breaking out into a snatch of one song, andnow of another, and constantly interrupting himself with playfulremarks. 

 "`Sitteth all still, and hearkeneth to me: The King of Almayne, by my leaute, Thritti thousand pound asked he--'

"A squirrel, Mistress Maude! shall I catch it?

"_Dame avec l'oeil de beaute_--

"So, my good lad, softly! so, Lyard! How clereful a day! Nigh as softas summer. 

 "`Summer is ycomen in-- Merry sing, cuckoo! Groweth glede, and bloweth mead, And springeth wood anew. '

"Be merry, Mistress Maude, I pray you! you mope not, surely?"

"I scarce know, Master Lyngern. Mayhap so. "

"Shame to mope on such a day!" said Bertram, springing from the saddle, and holding his hand to help Maude to jump down also. "There hath notbeen so fair a morrow this month gone. "

He was soon busy unpacking the sumpter-mules' bags, with two or threemore; and dinner was served under the shade of the trees, without anyconsideration of ceremony. Our fathers spent so much of their time outof doors, and dressed for the season so much more warmly than we do, that they chose days for picnics at which we should shudder. Afterdinner Maude wandered about a little by herself, and at length sat downat the foot of a lofty oak. She had not been there many minutes beforeshe saw Constance and York coming slowly towards her, evidently inearnest conversation. 

"Lo' you here, Ned!" said Constance eagerly, when she caught sight ofMaude. "Here is one true as steel. If that you say must have noeavesdroppers, sit we on the further side of this tree; and Maude, holdwhere thou art, and if any come this way, give a privy pluck at my gown, and we will speak other. "

They sat down on the other side of the oak. 

"Custance, " began her brother, "I misconceive not, trow, to account theeyet true to the cause of King Richard, be he where he may?"

York knew, as certainly as he knew of his own existence, that Richardhad been dead five years. But it suited his purpose to speakdoubtfully. 

"Certes, Ned, of very inwitte!" [Most heartily. ]

"Well. And if King Richard were dead, who standeth next heir?"

"My Lord of March, no manner of doubt. "

"Good again. Then we thus stand: King Henry that reigneth hath noright; and the true King is shut up in Pomfret, or, granting he be dead, is then shut up in Windsor. "

"Well, Ned?"

"Shall we--thou and I--free young March and his brother and sisters?"

"Thou and I!"

She was evidently doubtful. Edward took a stronger bolt from hisquiver. 

"Custance, Dickon loves Anne Mortimer. "

That was a different matter. If Dickon wanted Anne Mortimer or anythingelse, in his sister's eyes, he must have it. To refuse to help Ned wasone thing, but to refuse to help Dickon was quite another. 

"But how should we win in?"

Edward drew a silver key from his pocket. 

"I gat this made of a smith, Custance, a year gone. 'Tis a key for mystrong-room at Langley, the which was lost with other my baggage fordingthe Thames, and I took the mould of the lock in wax, and gave it untothe smith. "

He looked in her face, pausing a little between the sentences, to makesure that she understood him; and he saw by her eyes that she did. Thevery peril and uncertainty involved in such an adventure gave it a charmfor her. 

"When, Ned?"

"When I send word. "

"Very well. I will be ready. "

Before Edward could reply, Bertram Lyngern's horn sounded through theforest, saying distinctly to all who heard it, "Time to go home!" Thethree rose and walked towards the trysting-place, both Constance andMaude possessed of some ideas which had never presented themselves tothem before. 

Bertram and Maude rode back as they had come. Maude was very silent, which was no wonder; and so, for ten minutes, was Bertram. Then hebegan:--

"How liked you this forest life, Mistress Maude?"

"Well, Master Lyngern, and I thank you, " said she absently. 

"And to-morrow is a week our Lady's Grace shall wed?"

"Why, Master Lyngern, you know that as well as I. "

Maude wished he would have left her to her own thoughts, from which hisquestions were no diversion in any sense. 

"Mistress Maude, when will you be wed?"

The diversion was effected. 

"I, Master Lyngern! I am not about to wed. "

"Are you well avised of that, Mistress Maude?"

"Marry, Master Lyngern!" said Maude, feeling rather affronted. 

"If you will take mine avisement, you will be wed likewise, " saidBertram gravely. 

"What mean you, Master Lyngern?"

Maude was really hurt. She liked Bertram, and here he was making fun ofher, without the least consideration for her feelings. 

"Marry, I mean that same, " responded Bertram coolly. "Would it likeyou, Mistress Maude?"

"Methinks you had better do me to wit whom your avisement should have meto wed, " said Maude, standing on her dignity, and manufacturing an angrytone to keep herself from crying. She would certainly have released herhold of Bertram, and have sat on her pillion in indignant solitude, ifshe had not felt almost sure that the result would be a fall in the mud. Bertram's answer was quick and decided. 

"Me!"

Maude would have answered with properly injured dignity if she could;but a disagreeable lump of something came into her throat which spoiltthe effect. 

"Thou hadst better wed me, Maude, " said Bertram coaxingly, dropping hisvoice and his conventionalities together. "There is not a soul loveththee as I do; and thou likest me well. "

"I pray you, Master Lyngern, when said I so much?" responded Maude, stung into speech again. 

"Just twenty years gone, little Maude, " was the gentle answer. 

Bertram's voice had changed from its bantering tone into a tender, quietone, and Maude felt more inclined to cry than ever. 

"Is that saying truth no longer, Maude?"

Maude's conscience whispered to her that she must not say any thing ofthe sort. Still she thought it only proper to hold out a little longer. She was silent; and Bertram, who thought she was coming round, let heralone for a short time. The grey towers of Cardiff slowly rose to view, and in a few seconds more they would no longer be alone. 

"Well, Maude?" asked Bertram softly. "Is it ay or nay?"

"As you will, Master Lyngern. "

This was Bertram's wooing; and Maude wondered, when she was alone, ifany woman had been so wooed before. 

Constance expressed the greatest satisfaction when she heard of herbower-woman's approaching marriage; but one item of Bertram's projectshe commanded altered--namely, that Maude's nuptials should not takeplace on the same day as her own. 

"Why, Maude!" she said, "if our two weddings be one day, I shall havebut an half-day's rejoical, and thou likewise! Nay, good maid! we willhave each her full day, and a bonfire in the base court, and feasting, and dancing to boot. Both on one day, quotha! marry, but that wereniggardly. "

So Maude was married on the Saturday previous to her mistress. She wasdressed in lilac damask, trimmed with swansdown, and her hair, for thelast time in her life, streamed over her shoulders and fell at its ownsweet will. Matrons always tucked away their hair in the dove-cote, while widows were careful not to show a single lock. Bertram exhibitedextraordinary splendour, for he was generally rather careless about hisdress. He wore a red damask gown, trimmed with rabbit's fur; a brightblue under-tunic; a pair of red boots with white buttons; and he bore inhis hand a copped hat of blue serge. The copped hat had no brim, andwas about a foot and a half in height. Bertram's appearance, therefore, to say the least, was striking. 

When the ceremony was just completed, without any previous intimation, the Duke of York, who was present, drew his sword, and lightly struckthe shoulder of the bridegroom, before he could rise from his knees. 

"Rise, Sir Bertram Lyngern!"

So Maude became entitled at once to the honourable prefix of "Dame. "

The grander wedding was on the following Thursday. The Earl of Kent'scostume baffles description. Suffice it to say that it cost twothousand pounds. The royal bride doffed her widow's weeds, and appearedin a crimson silk deeply edged with ermine, low in the neck, but withlong sleeves to the wrist. She wore the dovecote, and over it an opencirclet of gold and gems, to mark her royal rank. 

At the threshold of Constance's bower, after the ceremony, the old LadyLe Despenser met the Earl and Countess of Kent. 

"The Lord bless you, fair daughter!" she said, laying her hands on thebowed head of the bride. 

But a little later the same evening, she said unexpectedly, "Ay me! Iam but a blind thing, Dame Maude; yet this match of the Lady Custancedoth sorely misgive me. "

At the other end of the room, the Duke of York was saying, "You willvisit me at Langley, fair sister, this coming spring?"

"With a very good will, Ned. "

It only remains to be noted that Father Ademar officiated at bothmarriages; and that as in those days people went home for the honeymoon, not away from it, the Earl and Countess set out from Cardiff in a fewdays for Brockenhurst, the birthplace and favourite residence of theyoung Earl. The children were left with their grandmother; they were tofollow, in charge of Maude and Bertram, to Langley, where their motherintended to rejoin them. Maude continued to be bowerwoman to hermistress; but some of the more menial functions usually discharged byone who filled that office, were now given to a younger girl, who borethe name of Eva de Scanteby. 

It was in the evening of a lovely spring day that Constance, accompaniedby Kent, rejoined Maude and her children at Langley. 

CHAPTER NINE. 

PLOT AND COUNTERPLOT. 

 "He that hath a thousand friends hath not a friend to spare, And he that hath one enemy shall find him everywhere. "

On the evening of Constance's arrival at Langley, two men sat in closeconference in the Jerusalem Chamber of the Palace of Westminster. Oneof them was a priest, the other a layman. The first priest, and thefirst layman, in the realm; for the elder was Thomas de Arundel, Archbishop of Canterbury, and the younger was Henry of Bolingbroke, Kingof England. 

The Archbishop was a tall, stout, portly man, with a round, fair, fatface, on which sat an expression of extreme self-complacency. A fineforehead, both broad and high, though slightly too retreating, surmounted a pair of clear, bright grey eyes, a well-formed nose, andlips in which there was no weakness, but they were just a shade toosmiling for sincerity. Though his age was only fifty-one, his hair wassnow-white. Of course his face was closely shaven; for it is an oddfact that the higher a man's sacerdotal pretensions rise, the moreunlike a man he usually makes himself--resembling the weaker sex as muchas possible, both in person and costume. This man's sacerdotalpretensions ran very high, and accordingly his black cassock fell abouthis feet like a woman's dress, and his face was guiltless of beard orwhisker. 

The age of the King was thirty-eight, and he was one of the tallest menin his kingdom. The colour of his hair, whiskers, and small forkedbeard, was only one remove from black. Dark pencilled eyebrows, of thatsurprised shape which many persons admire, arched over keen liquid darkeyes. The general type of the features was Grecian; their regularitywas perfect, but the nose was a trifle too prominent for pure Grecian. About the set of the lips, delicately as they were cut, there was apeculiarity which a physiognomist might have interpreted to mean thatwhen their owner had once placed a particular end before him, noconsiderations of right on the one hand, or of friendship on the other, would be allowed to interfere with its attainment. This was a veryclever man, a very sagacious, far-seeing man, a very handsome man, avery popular man; yet a man whom no human heart ever loved, and whonever loved any human being--a man who could stand alone, and who didstand alone, to the hour when, "with all his imperfections on his head, "he stood before the bar of God. 

"The match is no serviceable one, " said the Archbishop. 

"Truth to tell, " replied the King a little doubtfully, "I scarce doaccount my cousin herself an heretic:--yet I wis not--she may be. Butshe hath been rocked in the heresy in her cradle, and ever sithence hathbeen within earshot thereof. You wot well, holy Father, what her lordwas; and his mother, with whom she hath dwelt these ten years or more, is worser than himself. Now it shall never serve to have Kent lost tothe Church her cause. You set affiance on him, I know, and I the like:and if he be not misturned, methinks he may yet prove a good servant. But here is this alliance cast in our way! I know they be wed withoutmy licence: yet what should it serve to fine or prison him? To prisonher might be other matter; but we cannot touch her. So this done shouldnot serve our turn. Father, is there any means that you can devise tobreak this marriage?"

"The priest that wed them is a Gospeller, " returned the Archbishop witha peculiar smile. 

"A priest in full orders, " objected the King, "of good life andunblemished conversation. Even you, holy Father, so fertile in wiseplans, shall scarce, methinks, be able to lay finger on him. "

"Scantly; without he were excommunicate of heresy at the time thiswedding were celebrate. "

"Which he was not, " answered the King rather impatiently. "Would toSaint Edmund he had so been! It were then no marriage. "

The Archbishop made no reply in words, but drawing towards him a sheetof paper which lay upon the table, he slowly traced upon it a date sometwo months previous--the date of the Sunday before Constance's marriage. The King watched him in equal silence, with knitted brows and set lips. Then the two conspirators' eyes met. 

"Could that be done?" asked the royal layman, under his breath. 

"Is it not done, Sire?" calmly responded the priestly villain, pointingto the paper. 

The King was silent for a minute; but, unprincipled as he was, hisconscience was not quite so seared as that of Arundel. 

"The end halloweth the means, trow?" he said inquiringly. 

"All means be holy, Sire, where the end is the glory of God, " repliedArundel, with a hypocritical assumption of piety. "And the glory of Godis the service and avancement of holy Church. "

Still Henry's mind misgave him. His conscience appears at times to havetortured him in his later years, and he shrank from burdening it yetfurther. 

"Father, if sin be herein, you must bear this burden!"

"I have borne heavier, " replied Arundel with a cynical smile. 

And truly, to a man upon whose soul eleven murders lay lightly, aninvalidated marriage was likely to be no oppressive weight. 

"Yet even now, " resumed the King, again knitting his brows uneasily, "methinks all hardships be scarce vanished. Our good cousin of Kent ishe that should not be turned aside from his quarry [object of pursuit; ahunting phrase] by a brook in his way. "

"Not if an eagle arose beyond the heron he pursued?" suggested Arundel, significantly. 

"Ha!" said the King. 

"He is marvellous taken with beauty, " resumed his priestly counsellor. "And the Lady Custance is not the sole woman in the world. "

"You have some further thought, Father, " urged Henry. 

"Methinks your Grace hath a good friend in the Lord Galeas, Duke ofMilan?"

"Ay, of olden time, " answered the King, with a sigh. Was it caused bythe regretful thought that if he could bring back that olden time, whenyoung Henry of Bolingbroke was learning Italian at Milan and Venice, hemight be a happier man than now?

"He hath sisters, methinks, that bear high fame for fair and lovesome?"

"None higher in Christendom. "

"And the youngest-born, the Lady Lucy, I take it, is yet unwed?"

"She is so. "

"And cometh not behind her sisters for beauty?"

"She was but a little child when I was at Milan, " said the King; "but Ihear tell of her as fairest of all the fair Visconti. "

"Were it impossible, Sire, that the lady, in company of her youngbrothers, should visit your Highness' Court?"

Henry readily owned that it was by no means impossible, if he were toask it: but he reminded the Archbishop that the Duke of Milan was poor, though proud; and that while he would consider the Princess Luciaeternally disgraced by marrying beneath her, he probably would notscruple to sell her hand to the highest bidder of those illustriouspersons who stood on the list of eligibles. And Kent, semi-royal thoughhe were, was not a rich man, his family having suffered severely fromrepeated attainders. 

"And what riches he hath goeth in velvet and ouches, " [jewellery] saidthe Archbishop, with his cold, sarcastic smile. "Well--if the Duke'sGrace would fain pick up ducats even in the mire, mayhap he shall findthem as plenty in England as otherwhere. Your Highness can heald [pourforth] gold with any Prince in Italy. And when the lady is hither, 'twere easy to bid an hunting party, an' your Grace so list. My cousinof Kent loveth good hawking. "

Again that keen, cruel smile parted the priestly lips. 

"Moreover, Sire, she must be a Prince's daughter, or my cousin, wholikewise loveth grandeur and high degree, may count the cost ere heswallow the bait. The Lady Custance is not lightly matched for blood. "

"You desire this thing, holy Father?"

The eyes of the two evil counsellors met again. 

"It were an holy and demeritous work, Sire, " said the priest. 

"Be it as you will, " returned Henry hastily. "But mind you, holyFather! you bear what there may be of sin. "

"I can carry it, Sire!"

The royal and reverend conspirators parted; and the Archbishop, mountinghis richly-caparisoned mule (an animal used by priests out of affectedhumility, in imitation of the ass's colt on which Christ rode intoJerusalem), rode straight to Coldharbour, the town residence of hisniece, Joan Duchess Dowager of York. He found her at work in the midstof her bower-women; but no sooner did she hear the announcement of herMost Reverend uncle, than she hurriedly commanded them all to leave theroom. 

"Well?" she said breathlessly, as soon as they were alone. 

"Thy woman's wit hath triumphed, Joan. 'Twas a brave thought of thine, touching the Lady Lucy of Milan. The King fell in therewith, like afowl into a net. "

"Nay, the Lady Lucy was your thought, holy Father; I did but counsel totempt him with some other. Then it shall be done?"

"It shall be done. "

"Thanks be to All-Hallows!" cried the Duchess, with mirth which it wouldscarcely be too strong a term to call fiend-like. "Now shall the proudminx be brought to lower her lofty head! I hate her!"

"'Tis allowed to hate an heretic, " said the Archbishop calmly. "And ifthe Lady Le Despenser be no heretic, she hath sorely abused heropportunities. "

"She shall never be Nym's true wife!" cried the Duchess fierily. "Iwill not have it! I would sooner follow both her and him to thechurchyard! I hate, I hate her!"

"Thou mayest yet do that following, Joan. But I must not tarry. Peacebe with thee!"

Peace!--of what sort? We are told, indeed, of one who is like a strongman armed, and who keepeth his goods in peace. And the dead sleeppeacefully enough--not only dead bodies, but dead souls. 

The Earl and Countess of Kent had been about a week at Langley, when aletter arrived from the King, commanding the attendance of the Earl atCourt, as feudal service for one of his estates held on that tenure. The Countess was not invited to accompany him. The Duke of York seizedhis opportunity, for his plot was fully ripe, and suggested that sheshould obtain the royal permission to pay a visit to Windsor, where thehapless heirs of March were imprisoned. Permission to do so was askedand granted, for the King never suspected his cousin of any sinisterintention. 

The Earl set out first for Westminster. Constance stood at her lattice, and waved a loving farewell to him as he rode away, turning severaltimes to catch another glimpse of her, and to bend his graceful head inyet another farewell. He had not quite recovered from the glamour ofhis enchantment. 

"Farewell!" said the Princess at last, though her husband was far beyondhearing. "Hark, Maude, to the Priory bells--dost hear them? What saythey to thee? I hear them say--`He will come--he will come--safely backagain!'" And she sang the words in the tone of the chime. 

Maude was silent. A dark, sudden presentiment seemed to seize upon herof unknown coming evil, and to her ear also the bells had a voice. Butthey rang--"He will come--he will come--never any more!"

The bells told the truth--to one of them. 

The Duke of York escorted his sister to Windsor. She was accompanied byBertram and Maude, Eva, and several minor domestics. He left her fulldirections how to proceed, promising to meet her with a guard of men afew miles beyond Eton, and go with her overland as far as Hereford. Thefinal destination of Constance and her recaptured charges was to be herown home at Cardiff, but a rather roundabout way was to be taken tobaffle the probable pursuers. York promised to let Kent know of theescapade through one of his squires on the morning of their departurefrom Windsor, with orders to join them as quickly as possible by seafrom Bideford. At Cardiff the final stand was to be made, in favour ofRichard, if living--of March, if he were proved to be dead. The eveningof a saint's day, about ten days later, was selected for the attemptedrescue; in the hope that the sentinels, having honoured the saint byextra feasting and potations, might be the less disposed to extravigilance. 

The first point to be ascertained was the exact rooms in the Castleoccupied by the youthful captives. This was easily found out byBertram. He and Maude were the sole confidants of their mistress'ssecret. The second scene of the drama--which might turn either tocomedy or tragedy--was to obtain a mould of the lock in wax. This alsowas done by Bertram, who further achieved the third point--that ofprocuring false keys from a smith. Constance, whose ideas of truth wereelastic and accommodating, had instructed her messenger to say that thekeys had been lost, and the new ones were wanted to replace them; butBertram kept a conscience which declined to be burdened with thisfalsehood, and accordingly he merely reported that the person who hadsent him required duplicates of the keys. 

No idea of wrongfulness in aiding the plot ever occurred either toBertram or Maude. In their eyes King Henry was no king at all, but arebel, a usurper, and a murderer; and the true King, to whom alone theirfealty was due, was (if Richard were dead) the boy unjustly confined inWindsor Castle. To work his freedom, therefore, was not a bad deed, buta good one; nor could it fairly be called treachery to circumvent atraitor. 

The keys were safely secreted in Constance's jewel-box until the nightappointed for the rescue came. 

It proved to be fair, but cloudy, with a low damp mist filling the valeof the Thames. Bertram took no one into his confidence but his ownsquire, William Maydeston, whom he posted in the forest, at a sufficientdistance from the Castle, in charge of the four horses necessary tomount the party. 

The Princess went to bed as usual--about eight o'clock, for she keptlate hours for her time--with Maude and Eva in attendance. Both weredismissed; and Eva at least went peacefully to sleep, in happy ignoranceof the kind of awakening which was in store for her. At half-past ten, an hour then esteemed in the middle of the night, Maude, according toinstructions previously received, softly opened the door of her lady'sbedchamber. She found her not only risen, but already fully equippedfor her journey, and in a state of feverish excitement. She came out atonce, and they joined Bertram, who was waiting in the corridor outside. The little trio of plotters crept slowly down the stairs, and across thecourt-yard to the foot of the Beauchamp Tower, within which the childrenwere confined. It was necessary to use the utmost caution, to avoidbeing heard by the sentinels. Bertram fitted the false key into thegreat iron lock of the outer door. The door opened, but with such acreak that Maude shuddered in terror lest the sentinels should hear it. She was reassured by a peal of laughter which came from beyond the wall. The sentinels were awake, but were making too much noise themselves tobe easily roused to action. Then the party went silently up into theBeauchamp Tower, unlocked the door which they sought, and leavingBertram outside it to give an alarm if necessary, Constance and Maudeentered the first of the two rooms. 

A white, frightened face was the first thing they saw. In the outerchamber, as the less valuable pair of prisoners, slept the sisters, Anneand Alianora Mortimer, whose ages were fifteen and eleven. Alianora, the younger, slept quietly; but Anne sat up, wide awake, and said in atremulous voice which she tried in vain to render firm--

"What is it? Are you a spirit?"

Constance was by her side in a moment, and assured the girl at least ofher humanity by taking Anne's face between her hands. She looked on itwith deep interest; for this was the face that Dickon loved. A soft, gentle face it was, which would have been pretty if it had been lessthin and wan with prison life, and less tired with suspense and care. To her--

 "The future was all dark, And the past a troubled sea, And Memory sat in her heart, Wailing where Hope should be. "

For Anne Mortimer was one of those hapless girls who are not motherless, but what is far worse, unmothered. Her father, who lay in his bloodygrave in Ireland, she had loved dearly; but her mother was a merestranger somewhere in the world, who had never cared for her at all. Tothe younger ones Anne herself had been the virtual mother; they had beentended by her fostering care, but who save God had ever tended her?Thus, from the time of her father's death, when she was eight years old, Anne's life had been a flowerless, up-hill road, with nothing to lookforward to at the end. Was it any wonder that the face looked worn withcare, though only fifteen years had passed over it?

The sole breaks to the monotony of this weary life occurred when theCourt was at Windsor. Then the poor little prisoners were permitted tocome out of durance, and--still under strict surveillance--to join theroyal party. These times were delightful to the younger three, but theywould have been periods of unmixed pain to Anne, if it had not been forthe presence and uniform kindness of one person. She shuddered withinherself when the King or his Mentor the Archbishop addressed her, shrinking from both with the instinctive aversion of a song-bird to aserpent; but Richard of Conisborough spoke as no one else spoke to her--so courteously, so gently, so kindly, that no room was left for fear. No one had ever spoken so to this girl since her father died. And thus, without the faintest suspicion of his feelings towards her, the lonelymaiden's imagination wove its sweet fancies around this hero of herdreams, and she began unconsciously to look forward to the time when sheshould meet him again. Well for her that it was so! for she was a "palemeek blossom" unsuited for rough blasts, and the only ray of sunshinewhich was ever to fall across her life lay in the love of Richard ofConisborough. 

"Who is it?" Anne repeated, in a rather less frightened tone. 

"Hast thou forgot me, Nannette?" said Constance affectionately. "I amthe Lady Le Despenser--thine aunt now, the wife of thine uncle of Kent. "

"Oh!" responded Anne, with a long-drawn sigh of relief. The tone said, "How delightful!"

"I thought you were a ghost. "

"Well, so I am, but within the body, " whispered Constance with a littlelaugh. 

"That makes all the difference, " said Anne, whose response did not gobeyond a faint smile. "Has your Ladyship then won allowance to visitus?"

Her voice expressed some surprise, for certainly the middle of the nightwas a singular time for a visitor to choose for a call. 

"Nay, sweet heart. I come without allowance--hush!--to bear you allaway hence. Wake thy sister, and arise both, and busk [dress] youquickly. Where be thy brothers?"

"In the inner cowche, " [bedroom]. 

Constance desired Maude to hasten the girls in dressing, which must bedone by the fitful moonlight, as best it could, and went herself intothe inner chamber. Both the boys were asleep. They were Edmund, theyoung Earl, whose age was nearly thirteen, and his little brother Roger, who was not yet eight. Constance laid her hand lightly on the shoulderof the future King. 

"Nym!" she said. "Hush! make no bruit. "

The boy was sleeping too heavily to be roused at once; but his littlebrother Roger awoke, and looked up with two very bright, intelligenteyes. 

"Are we to be killed?" he wanted to know; but his query was not put inthe frightened tone of his sister. 

"Not so, little one. Wake thy brother, and rise quickly. "

"'Tis no light gear to wake Nym, " said little Roger. "You must shakehim. "

Constance put the advice in practice, but Edmund only gave a grunt andturned over. 

"Nym!" said his little brother in a loud whisper. "Nym! wake up. "

Edmund growled an inarticulate request to be "let be. "

"Then you must pinch him, " said little Roger. "Nip him well--be notafeard. "

Constance, extremely amused, acted on this recommendation also. Edmundgave another growl. 

"Nay, then you must needs slap him!" was the third piece of advicegiven. 

Constance laughingly suggested that the child should do it for her. Little Roger jumped up, boxed his brother's ears in a decided manner, and finally, burying his small hands in Edmund's light curly hair, gavehim a dose of sensation which would have roused a dormouse. 

"Is he in this wise every morrow?" asked Constance. 

"Master Gaoler bringeth alway a wet mop, " said little Rogerconfidentially. "Wake up, Nym! If thou fallest to sleep again, I musttweak thee by the nose!"

This terrible threat seemed to be nearly as effectual as the mop. Edmund stretched himself lazily, and in very sleepy accents desired toknow what his brother could possibly mean by such wanton cruelty. 

"Where is thy breeding, churl, to use such thewis [manners] with alady?" demanded little Roger in a scandalised voice. 

"Lady!--where is one?" murmured Edmund, whose eyes were still shut. 

"Methinks thou art roused now, Nym, " said Constance. "But when thoushalt be a knight, I pity thy squire. Haste, lad, rise and busk thee insilence, but make as good speed as ever thou canst Roger, see he turnethnot back to sleep. I go to thy sisters. "

"Nay, but he will, an' you pluck him not out of bed!" said little Roger, who evidently felt himself unfit to cope with the emergency. 

"Thou canst wring him by the nose, then, " said Constance, laughing. "Come, Nym! turn out--quick!" Edmund turned over on his face, buried itin the pillow, and tacitly intimated that to get up at the presentmoment was an impossibility. 

"He'll have another nap!" said little Roger, in the mournful tone of aprophet who foresaw the speedy accomplishment of his tragicalpredictions. 

"But he must not!" exclaimed Constance, returning. "Then you must pluckhim out, and set him on the floor, " repeated little Roger earnestly. "'Twill be all I can do to let him to [hinder him from] get in againthen--without you clap his chaucers [slippers] about his ears, " he addedmeditatively, as if this expedient might possibly answer. 

Constance took the future master of England by his shoulders, and pulledhim out of bed without any further quarter. The monarch elect grumbledexceedingly, but in so inarticulate a style that very little could beunderstood. 

"Now, Nym!" said Constance warningly to her refractory and dilatorynephew, "if thou get into bed again, we will leave thee behind, andcrown Roger, that is worth ten of thee. By my Lady Saint Mary! a prettyKing thou wilt make!"

"Eh?" inquired Edmund, brightening up. "Let be. Go on and busk thee. Roger! if he is not speedy, come to the door and say it. "

Constance went back to the girls. She found Anne nearly ready, butAlianora, who apparently shared the indolent disposition of her elderbrother, was dressing in the most deliberate manner, though Maude andAnne were both hastening her as much as they could. 

"Now, Nell!" said Constance, employing the weapon which had proveduseful with Edmund, "if thou make not good speed, we will leave theebehind. "

"Well, what if so?" demanded Alianora coolly, tying a string in the mostleisurely style. 

"If I have not as great a mind to leave you both behind!"--criedConstance in an annoyed tone. "I will bear away Nan and Roger, and washmine hands of you!"

"Please, I'm ready!" announced little Roger in a whisper through thecrack of the door, in an incredibly short space of time. 

"Why wert thou not the firstborn?" exclaimed the Princess. "I wouldthou hadst been! What is Nym about?"

"Combing his hair, " said Roger, glancing back at him, "and hath beenthis never so long. "

Constance dashed back into the room with one of her quick, impulsivemovements, snatched the comb from his dilatory young Majesty, smoothedhis hair in a second, ordered him to wash his hands, and to put on hisgown and tunic, and stood over him while he did it. 

"The saints have mercy on thee, Nym, and send thee a wise council!" saidshe, half in earnest and half in jest. "The whole realm will go tosleep else. "

"Well, they might do worser, " responded Edmund calmly. 

The two sluggards were ready at last, but not before Constance had losther temper, and had noticed the unruffled endurance of Anne. 

"Why, Nan, thou hast patience enough!" she said. 

"I have had need these seven years, " answered the maiden quietly. 

"Now, Maude, take thou Lord Roger by the hand; and Nan, take thy sister. Nym, thou comest with me. Lead on, Sir Bertram; and mind all of you--no bruit, not enough to wake a mouse!"

"It would not wake Nym, then!" said little Roger. 

They crept down the stairs of the Beauchamp Tower as slowly andcautiously as they had come. Down to the little postern gate, leftunguarded by the careless sentinel, who was carousing with his fellowson another side of the Castle; out and away to the still glade inWindsor Forest, where Maydeston stood waiting with the horses, allfitted with pillion and saddle. 

"Here come we, Maydeston!" exclaimed Bertram. "Now, Madam, an' it likeyour Grace to mount with help of Master Maydeston, will it list you thatI ride afore?"

For it was little short of absolute necessity that the gentleman shouldbe seated on his saddle before the lady mounted the pillion. 

"Nay--the King that shall be, the first!" said Constance. 

Bertram bowed and apologised. He was always in the habit of givingprecedence to his mistress, and he really had forgotten for a momentthat the somnolent Nym was to be regarded as his Sovereign. So hisfuture Majesty, with Bertram's assistance, mounted the bay charger, andhis sister Alianora was placed on the pillion behind him. 

The next horse was mounted by Constance, with Bertram before her; thethird by little Roger, very proud of his position, with Maude set on thepillion in charge of her small cavalier, and the bridle firmly tied toBertram's saddle. Last came Maydeston and Anne. They were just readyto start when Constance broke into a peal of merry laughter. 

"I do but laugh to think of Eva's face, when she shall find neither theenor me, " she said to Maude, "and likewise his Highness' gaolers, wakingup to an empty cage where the little birds should be. "

Maude's heart was too heavy and anxious about the issue of the adventureto enable her to reply lightly. 

Through the most unfrequented bridle-paths they crept slowly on, tillfirst Windsor, and then Eton, was left behind. They were about twomiles beyond Eton, when a hand was suddenly laid on Constance's bridle, and the summons to "Stand and deliver!" jestingly uttered in a familiarand most welcome voice. 

"Ha, Dickon! right glad am I to hear thee!" cried his sister. 

"Is all well, Custance?"

"Sweet as Spanish must [new wine]. But where is Ned?"

"Within earshot, fair Sister, " said Edward's equally well-known anddeeper tones. "Methinks a somewhat other settlement should serve betterfor quick riding, though thine were well enough to creep withal. SirBertram, I pray you alight--you shall ride with your dame, and I withthe Lady Countess. Can you set the Lord Roger afore? Good! then so do. Lord Sele! I pray you to squire the Lady Alianora's Grace. HisHighness will ride single, as shall be more to his pleasure. Now, Dickon, I am right sorry to trouble thee, but mefeareth I must needs setthee to squire the Lady Anne. "

Semi-sarcastic speeches of this kind were usually Edward's nearestapproach to fun. The fresh arrangement was made as he suggested; andthough little Roger would not have acknowledged it publicly on anyconsideration, yet privately he felt the change in his position arelief. Lord Richard of Conisborough was the last of the illustriouspersons to mount, and his squire helped Anne Mortimer to spring to herplace behind him. The only notice which Richard outwardly took of herwas to say, as he glanced behind him--

"We ride now at quick gallop; clasp me close, Lady Anne. "

They were off as soon as he had spoken--at such a gallop as Anne hadnever ridden in all her life. But she felt no fear, for the one personin the world whom she trusted implicitly was he who sat before her. 

During part of the way, they followed the same route which Le Despenserand Bertram had taken five years before; and Bertram found a painfulinterest in pointing out to Maude the different spots where theincidents of the journey had happened. Meanwhile a dialogue was passingbetween Edward and Constance which the former had expected, and had madehis arrangements for the journey with the special view that her querieson that topic should be answered by no one but himself. 

"Ned, hast seen my Lord?"

"But once sithence I saw thee. "

"How is it with him?"

"Passing well, for aught I know. "

"Thou didst him to wit of all this matter?"

"Said I not that I so would?"

"But didst thou?" she repeated, noting the evasion. 

"I did so. "

In saying which, Edward told a deliberate falsehood. 

"And when will he be at Cardiff?"

"When the wind bloweth him thither, " said the Duke drily. 

"Now, Ned!"

"Nay, Custance--what know I more than thou? The winds be no squires ofmine. "

"But he will come with speed?"

"No doubt. "

"Sent he no word unto me?"

"Oh, ay--an hogshead full!"

"Ned, thou caitiff! [miserable wretch]--what were they?"

"Stuff and folly. "

"Thou unassoiled villain, tell me them this minute, or--"

"Thou wilt drop from the pillion? By all means, an' it so like thee. Ishall but be left where I am. "

"Ned! I will nip thee like a pasty, an' thou torment me thus. "

"Forsooth, Custance, I charged no memory of mine with such drastis, "[dross, rubbish]. 

"Drastis!"

"I cry thee mercy--cates [delicates, good things] and honey, if thouwilt have it so. 'Twas all froth and thistle-down. "

"I have done, Ned. I will not speak to thee again this month. "

"And wilt keep that resolve--ten minutes? By 'r Lady, I am no squire ofdames, Custance. Prithee, burden not me with an heap of fond glose, "[foolish flattery]. 

"By Saint Mary her hosen, but I would my Lord had chosen a bettermessenger!"

Constance was really vexed. Edward himself was in a little difficulty, for he had only been amusing himself with his sister's anxieties. Inreality, he was charged with no message, and he did not want the troubleof devising one suitable to Kent's character. 

"By Saint Mary her galoches, " [loose over-shoes], he said jocularly, "what wouldst have of me, Custance? I cannot carry love-letters in minehead. "

"But canst not tell me one word?"

Edward would have given a manor if she would have been quiet, or wouldhave passed to some other topic. But he said--

"Lo' you, Custance! I cannot gallop and talk. "

"Hast found that out but now?" was the ironical response. 

"Well, if thou must needs have a word, " replied he testily, "he said heloved thee better than all the world. Will that do?"

"Ay, that shall serve, " said Constance in a low voice. 

So it might have done--had it been true. 

There was silence for half an hour; when Edward said in his gravesttone--

"Custance! I would fain have thee hearken me. "

"For a flyting?" demanded his sister in a tone which was not at allgrave. "Thy voice hath sound solemn enough for a justiciary. "

"_Ninerias_ [nonsense], Custance! I speak in sober earnest. "

"Say on, my Lord Judge!"

"When I have seen thee in safety, I look to turn back to the Court. "

"Sweet welcome thou shalt find there!"

"Maybe--if I scale yet again the walls of Eltham Palace, where the Kingnow abideth--as I sought in vain to do this last Christmas. "

"Scale the walls!--What to do, Ned?"

"What thinkest, Custance?"

"Ned! surely thou meanest not to take the King's life? caitiff though hebe!"

"Nay, " said Edward slowly; "scantly that, Custance--without I wereforced thereto. It might be enough to seize him and lock him up, as hedid to our Lord, King Richard. "

"I will have no hand in murder, caitiff!"

Constance spoke too sternly to be disregarded. And it was in her natureto have turned back to Windsor that moment, had she been left withoutreassurance that all would go right. 

"Softly, fair Sister!--who spake of so horrid a thing? Most assuredly Imean no such, nor have any intent thereto. "

"Scale walls at thy pleasure, " she said in a calmer tone, "and lockHarry of Bolingbroke under forty keys if thou list: I will not let thee. But no blood, Ned, or I leave thee and thy gear this minute. "

"Fair sister Custance, never had I no such intent, by All Hallows!"

"Have a care!" she said warningly. 

After that they galloped in silence. 

The journey went on till the Welsh Marches were reached, of which theEarl of March was lord. Edmund began to hold his head higher, for heknew that the Welsh loyalists were ready to welcome him as King. LittleRoger innocently asked if he would be Prince of Wales when his brotherwas King of England; because in that case, he would pull down some ofthe big hills which it took so long to climb. At last only one day'smarch lay between them and the Principality. 

And on that morning Edward left them. Constance could not understandwhy he did not go with them to Cardiff. He was determined not to do so;and to the disappointment of every one, he induced his brother toaccompany him. Richard would rather have stayed; but he had been toolong accustomed to obey the stronger will of his brother to begin theassertion of his own. The yielding character which he had inheritedfrom his father prevailed; and however unwillingly, he followed Edward. 

On the morning of that last day's march, they had to traverse a narrowrocky pass. The path, though rough and stony, was tolerably level; andfeeling themselves almost safe, they slackened their pace. They hadjust been laughing at some remark of little Roger's, and they were allin more or less good spirits, feeling so near the end of their perilousjourney; when all at once, in a turn of the pass, the leading horse cameto a sudden halt. 

"Stand, in the King's name!"

Before them was a small, compact body of cavalry; and at their head, resplendent in official ermine, Sir William Hankeford, Judge of theKing's Bench. 

Resistance and flight were equally impossible. Constance addressedherself to the old man whom she had cheated five years before, and who, having subsequently discovered her craftiness, had by no means forgottenit. 

"Sir William, you will do your commission; but I pray you remember thathere be five of the King your master's cousins, and we claim to be usedas such. "

The old Judge's eyes twinkled as he surveyed the royal lady. 

"So, Madam! Your Ladyship hath the right: my commission I shall do, andset the King my master's cousins in safe keeping--with a chimney-boardclapped to the louvre, " [chimney]. 

Constance fairly laughed. 

"Come, Sir, I should scantly play the same trick on you twice. "

"No, Madam, I will have a care you no do. "

"And for what look we, Sir William? May we know?"

"Madam, " said Hankeford drily, "you may look for what you shall find, and you may know so much as you be told. "

"We may bid farewell, trow?"

"So it lie not over too much time. "

"Well! needs must, Nym, " said Constance, turning to the boy who had sonearly worn the crown of England. "And after all, belike, it shall beworser for me than thee. "

"Nym won't care, " spoke up little Roger boldly, "if my master yonderwill let him lie till seven of the clock of a morrow. "

"Till nine, if it like him, " said Sir William. 

"Then he'll be as happy as a king!" added little Roger. 

"Nay, you be all too young to care overmuch--save Nan, " respondedConstance, looking at Anne's white troubled face. "Poor maid! 'tis hardfor thee. "

"I can bear what God sendeth, Madam, " said Anne in a low voice. 

"Well said, brave heart!" answered Constance, only half understandingher. "The blessed saints aid thee so to do!--Now, Sir William, disposeof us. "

Hankeford obeyed the intimation by separating them into two bands. Constance, Bertram, and Maude, he placed in the care of Elmingo Leget, an old servant of the Crown, with orders to conduct them direct toLondon, where Constance guessed that she at least was to undergo trial. The four young Mortimers he took into his own charge, but declined tosay what he was going to do with them. The three officers of the Dukeof York were desired to return to their master, the old Judge cynicallyadding that they could please themselves whether they told him of therecapture or not; while Maydeston was as cynically informed that SirWilliam saw no sufficient reason wherefore the King's Grace should be atthe charges of his journey home, but that he might ride in the companyif he listed to pay for the lodgings of his beast and his carcase. Towhich most elegant intimation Maydeston replied that he was ready to payhis own expenses without troubling his Majesty, and that he did preferto keep his master company. 

So the little group of friends were parted, and Constance began herreturn journey to London as a prisoner of state. 

But what was happening at Cardiff? And where was the Earl of Kent?

We shall see both in the next chapter. 

CHAPTER TEN. 

HOW THE ROSE WAS GRAFTED. 

 "To drive the deer with hound and horne Earl Percy took his way; The child may rue that is unborne The hunting of that day. "

 _Ballad of Chevy Chase_. 

"Willemina!" said the old Lady Le Despenser to her bower-maiden, "whathorn was that I heard but now without?"

"Shall I certify your Ladyship?" asked Willemina, rising and gatheringtogether the embroidered quilt on which she was working. 

"Ay, child, " said the Dowager; "so do. " But when Willemina came back, she looked very important. 

"Madam, 'tis a sumner from my Lord's Grace of Canterbury, that bearethletter for Sir Ademar. Counteth your Ladyship that he shall be madebishop or the like?"

"With Harry of Bolingbroke in the throne, and Thomas de Arundel bearingthe mitre?" responded the old lady with a laugh. "Marry, my maid, thatwere a new thing. "

"Were it so, Madam?" asked Willemina innocently. "Truly, Sir Ademar iswell defamed [has a good reputation] of all around here. "

"This is not the world, child!" said the Dowager. 

"'Tis more like--Well, Sir Ademar? Hath my Lord's Grace--_Jesu, pour tapite_!"

Ademar had walked quietly into the room, and placed a paper in the handsof the Dowager. It was a solemn writ of excommunication against Ademarde Milford, clerk in orders, and it was dated on the Sunday which hadintervened between the marriage of Maude and that of Constance. Allofficial acts of Ademar since that day were invalidated. Maude'smarriage, therefore, was not affected, but Constance was no longerCountess of Kent. 

"Sir Ademar, this is dread!" exclaimed the old lady in tremblingaccents. "What can my Lord's Grace have against you? This--thistoucheth right nearly the Lady, our daughter--Christ aid her of Hismercy!"

"Maybe, Madam, it were so intended, " said Ademar shrewdly. "For me, truly I wis little what my Lord hath against me--saving that I see notin all matters by his most reverend eyes. I know better what the Lordhath against me--yet what need I note it, seeing it is cancelled in theblood of His Son?--But for our Lady--ah me!"

"Sir Ademar!"--and the dark sunken eyes of the Dowager looked verykeenly into his--"arede me your thought--is my Lord of Kent he thatshould repair this wrong, or no?"

Ademar's voice was silent; but his eyes said, --"No!"

"God comfort her!" murmured the old lady, turning away. "For, ill asshe should brook the loss of him, yet methinks, if I know her well, shemight bear even that lighter than the witting that her name was made aname of scorn for ever. "

"Lady, " said Ademar, quietly, "even God can only comfort them that lackcomforting. "

She looked at him in silence. Ademar pointed out of the window to twolittle children who were dancing merrily on the shore, and laughing tillthey could scarcely dance. 

"How would you comfort them, Madam?"

"They need it not, " she murmured, absently. 

"In verity, " said Ademar; "neither wasteth our Lord His comfort on themthat dance, nor His pitifulness on them that be at ease. And I haveseen ere now, Madam, that while He holdeth wide the door of His fold forall His sheep to enter in, yet there be some that will not come in tillthey be driven. Yea, and some lack a sharp rap of the shepherd's rodere they will quit the wayside herbage. "

"And you think she feedeth thereby?"

"I think that an' she be of the sheep, she must be fetched within; andmaybe not one nor two strokes shall be spent in so doing. "

"Amen, even if so! But this rap hath fallen on the tenderest side. "

"The Shepherd knoweth the tender side, Madam; and lo' you, that sodoing, He witteth not only where to smite with the rod, but where to laythe plaister. "

"And you, Sir Ademar--lack you no plaister?"

"Madam, I have but received a gift. `For it is _ghouun_ [given] to youfor Christ, that not oonli ghe [ye] bileuen in him, but also that ghesuffren for him. '"

"Can you so take it, it is well. " And the old lady turned aside with asigh. 

"Ay, " said the Lollard priest, "it was well with the Shunammitegentlewoman. And after all, it is but a little while ere our Lord iscoming. 'Tis light gear to watch for the full day, when you see the sungilding the crests of the mountains. "

"Yet when you see _not_ the sun--?"

"Then, Lady, you long the more for his coming. "

------------------------------------------------------------------------

There was no slight stir that morning on Berkhamsted Green. The wholeCourt was gathered there, fringed on its outskirts by a respectful andadmiring crowd of sight-seers. Under a spreading tree sat the King, ona fine black charger, a hooded hawk borne upon his wrist. Close besidehim was a little white palfrey, bearing a lady, and on her wrist alsowas a hooded hawk. They were apparently waiting for somebody. Infront, the Prince of Wales, being of an active turn of mind, was amusinghimself by making his horse prance and curvet all about the green, andlevelling invisible lances at imperceptible foes--to the intenseinterest of the outside crowd. 

"Late, late, my Lord of Kent!" he cried lightly, as a bay charger shotpast him, its rider doffing his plumed cap. 

Kent merely bowed again in answer, and rode rapidly up to the King. 

"Better late than never, fair Cousin!" was Henry's greeting. "We willforth at once. Will you ride by our fair guest?--The Lady Lucy ofMilan!"

The lady who sat on the white palfrey turned her face towards the Earlof Kent, and, slightly blushing and smiling, spoke a few words ofcourteous French, indicating her acceptance of his society for the day. 

She was the most beautiful woman whom Kent had ever seen. Her figurewas very slight, and her carriage easy and graceful; her age was abouttwenty. Glossy, luxuriant hair, of the deepest black, shaded a delicateface, in shape midway between round and oval, the features of which, though very regular, could not strictly be termed either Roman orGrecian, for the nose was too straight for the former, while theforehead was too prominent and too fully developed for the latter. Hereyes were usually cast down, so that they were rarely seen; but when sheraised them, they showed themselves large, lustrous, and clear, of arich, deep, gleaming brown. Her complexion was formed neither of liliesnor roses; it was that pure, perfect cream-colour, which one WilliamShakspere knew was beautiful, though some of his commentators haverashly differed from him. Add to this description a low, musical voice, strangely clear for her nationality, and a smile of singularfascination, --and it will not seem strange that Kent fell into the snarelaid for him, and had no eyes thenceforward but for Lucia Visconti. 

The King kept all day near his decoy and his victim. He neverinterfered with their conversation, but when it languished he was alwaysat hand to supply some fresh topic. They spoke French, which wasunderstood and employed fluently by all three; but Kent knew no Italian, and Lucia no English. The King spoke Lucia's language well--a factwhich greatly assisted an occasional "aside. " But Lucia was only halfaware of the state of affairs, and it would not have suited Henry'spurpose to inform her too fully. She knew that she was expected to makeherself agreeable to the Earl of Kent, and that he was a cousin andfavourite of the King--so far as a man of Henry's stamp can be said tohave had any favourites. But of the plot for which she was made theinnocent decoy, she had not the faintest idea. 

The shades of evening began to fall at last, and the royal bugle-hornwas sounded to call the stragglers home. 

Kent and Lucia were riding together. They had reached a fork in theroad, where the right-hand path branched off to Berkhamsted, and theleft to Langley. And all at once there arose before Kent's soul ahaunting memory--a memory which was to haunt him for many a daythereafter; and between his eyes and the fair face of the ItalianPrincess came another face, shaded with soft light hair, and lighted bysapphire eyes, which, he thought, were probably watching even now fromthe oriel window at Langley. He checked his horse, and waveredirresolutely for an instant. 

He did not know that Constance was no longer at Langley. He did notknow that at the very moment when he paused at the cross-roads, she waspassing the threshold of the Tower as a prisoner of state. For that onemoment Kent's better angel strove with his weak nature. But the phaseof "_beaucoup_" was over, and "_point du tout_" was beginning. 

Lucia saw the momentary irresolution. She touched her palfrey lightlywith the whip, and turned her splendid eyes on her votary. 

"This way, Monseigneur--come!" The struggle was over. Kent spurred onhis charger, and followed his enchantress. 

There was another scene enacting at the same time, and not far away. The Duke of York and Lord Richard of Conisborough were riding home toLangley. The brothers were very silent; Richard because he was sad andanxious, Edward because he was vexed and sullen. They had just heard oftheir sister's arrest. 

The portcullis at Langley was visible, when Edward smote his hand on thepommel of his saddle--a much more elaborate structure than gentlemen'ssaddles now--with a few words of proverbial Spanish. 

"Patience, and shuffle the cards! I may yet go to Rome, and come backSaint Peter. "

Richard lifted his mournful eyes to his brother's face. 

"Ned!" he said in a low voice, "it were better to abide a forest hind, methinks, than to come back Jude the Iscariot. "

"What meanest, Dickon?"

"Take no heed what I meant, so it come not true. "

"So what come not true?" Edward's voice, at any rate, expressedsurprise and perplexity. 

"If thou wist not, Ned, I am thereof, fain. "

"Save thee All Hallows, Dickon! I can no more arede thy speech than theman in the moon. "

"So better, brother mine. "

They rode on for a little while without further words. Just before theycame within earshot of the porters, Richard added quietly--

"I marvel at times, Ned, if it shall not seem strange one day that weever set heart overmuch on anything, save only to have `washen ourstolis in the blood of the Lamb, that the power of us be in the tree oflife, and enter by the gates into the city. '"

"When art thou shorn priest?" asked Edward cynically. 

"I will do thee to wit in time to see it, " said Richard more lightly, asthey rode across the drawbridge at Langley. 

How far did Edward play the traitor in this matter of the attemptedrescue of the Mortimers? It cannot be said distinctly that he did atall; but he had played the traitor on so many previous occasions--he hadassisted in hatching so many conspiracies for the mere object ofdenouncing his associates--that the suspicion of his having done so inthis instance is difficult to avoid. And the strangest point of all is, that to the last hour of his life this man played with Lollardism. Heused it like a cloak, throwing it on or off as circumstances demanded. He spent his life in deceiving and betraying every friend in turn, andat last told the truth in dying, when he styled himself "of all sinnersthe most wicked. "

Three days after that evening, the House of Lords sat in "Parliamentrobes, " in Westminster Hall. But the King was not present: and therewere several peers absent, in attendance on His Majesty; among them theDuke of York, the Earl of Cambridge, and the Earl of Kent. The Househad met to try a prisoner: and the prisoner was solemnly summoned by aherald's voice to the bar. 

"Custance of Langley, Baroness of Cardiff!"

Forward she came, with firm step and erect head, clad in velvet andermine, as beseemed a Princess of England: and with a most princess-likebend of her stately head, she awaited the reading of the charge againsther. 

The charge was high treason. The prisoner's answer was a simplepoint-blank denial of its truth. 

"What mean you?" demanded the Lords. "No did you, by means of falsekeys, gain entrance into the privy chambers of our Lord the King in theCastle of Windsor?"

"I did so. "

"How gat you those false keys?"

"From a blacksmith, as you can well guess. "

"From what smith?"

"I cannot tell you; for I know not. "

"Through whom gat you them?"

"I gat them, and I used them: that is enough. "

"Through whom gat you them?"

"Fair Lords, you get no more of me. "

"Through whom gat you them?" was repeated the third time. 

The answer was dead silence. The question was repeated a fourth time. 

"My Lords, an' ye ask me four hundred times, I will say what I say now:ye get no more of me. "

"We have means to make men speak!" said one of the peers, threateningly. 

"That may be; but not women. "

"They can talk fast enough, as I know to my cost!" observed the lord ofa very loquacious lady. 

"Ay, and hold their peace likewise, as I will show you!" said Constance. 

"Is it not true, " enquired the Chancellor further, "that you stale awayout of the Castle of Windsor the four childre of Roger Mortimer, sometime Earl of March?"

"It is very true. "

"And wherefore did you so?"

"Because I chose it!" she said, lifting her head royally. 

"Madam, you well wot you be a subject. "

"I better wot you be, " returned the unabashed Princess. 

"And who aided and counselled you thereto?" asked the Chancellor--whowas the prisoner's own cousin, Henry Beaufort, Bishop of Lincoln, andbrother of the King. 

"I can aid myself, and counsel myself, " answered the prisoner. 

"My question is not answered, Dame. "

"Ay so, Sir. And 'tis like to abide thus a while longer. "

"I must know who were your counsellors. Name but one man. "

"Very well. I will name one an' you press me so to do. "

"So do. "

"Sir Henry de Beaufort, Chancellor of England. "

A peal of laughter rang through the House. 

"What mean you, Madam?" sternly demanded the affronted Chancellor. 

"Marry, my Lord, you pressed me to name a man--and I have named a man. "

The merriment of the august assembly was not decreased by the fact thatthe Chancellor was rather unpopular. 

"Are you of ability, Madam, to declare unto us right-wisely that neitherof my Lords your brothers did aid you in this matter?"

"I have passed no word, Sir, touching either of my brothers. "

"The which I do now desire of you, Dame. "

"Do you so, my Lord? I fear your Lordship may weary of waiting. "

"I will wait no longer!" cried Beaufort, angrily and impatiently. "I--"

"Say you so, Sir?" responded the Princess in her coolest manner. "ThenI bid your Lordship a merry morrow. --I am ready, Master Gaoler. "

"I said not we were ready, Madam!" exclaimed Beaufort. 

"No did, Sir? Then I cry your Lordship mercy that I misconceived you. "

"Dame, I demand of you whether your brothers gave unto you no aid inthis matter?"

Constance was in a sore strait. She did not much care to whatconclusion the House came as concerned Edward: he was the prime mover inthe affair, and richly deserved any thing he might get, irrespective ofthis proceeding altogether. But that any harm should come to Richardwas a thought not to be borne. She was at her wits' end what to answer, and was on the point of denying that either had assisted her, when theChancellor's next remark gave her a clue. 

"If ne my Lord of York ne my Lord of Cambridge did aid you, how comethit to pass that three servants of the Duke's Grace were with you in yourjourney?"

"Ask at their master, not me, " said Constance coolly. 

"'Tis plain, Madam, that his Grace of York did give you aid, methinks. "

"You be full welcome, Sir Keeper, to draw your own conclusions. "

"Lo' you, my Lords, the prisoner denieth it not!--And my Lord ofCambridge--what part took he. Lady?"

"Never a whit, Sir, " answered Constance audaciously. 

"May I crede you, mewondereth?"

"You did but this moment, my Lord. If my word be worth aught in the onematter, let it weigh in the other. "

The Chancellor meditated a minute, but he could not deny the justice ofthe plea. 

"Moreover, Lady, we heard, "--how had they heard it?--"that some trialwere to be made of scaling the walls of the King's Grace's Palace ofEltham. "

Constance grew paler. If they had heard this of Edward, what might theyhave heard of Richard's presence in the journey to Hereford?

"Have you so, Sir?" she answered, losing none of her apparent coolness. 

"We have so, Madam!" replied Beaufort sternly; "and moreover ofconspiration to steal away his Highness' person, and prison him--if notworser matter than this. "

"Not of my doing, " said Constance. 

"How far you were privy thereto or no, that I leave. But can you denythat it were of my Lord of York his doing?"

"I was not there, " she quickly rejoined. "How then wis I?"

"Can you deny that my Lord of Cambridge was therein concerned?"

"I can!" cried Constance in an agony--too hastily. 

"Oh, you can so?" retorted Beaufort, seeing and instantly pressing hisadvantage. "Then you do wis thereof something?"

She was silent. 

"My Lord of York--he was there, trow?"

No answer. 

"He was there?"

"Sir Keeper, I was not there. What more can I say?"

"Who was there, Dame?--for I am assured you know. "

"Who was where?" retorted the Princess satirically. "If no man scaledthe Palace walls, how ask you such questions?"

"Nay, ask that at your Ladyship's own conscience; for it was not I, butyou, that said first you were not there. "

She was becoming entangled in the meshes. 

"Lock you up whom your Lordship will!" she exclaimed. "The truth of allI have said can be proven, and thereto I do offer Master Will Maydestonmine esquire, which shall prove my truth with his body against such, asdo accuse me [by duel; a resource then permitted by law]. And furtherwill I say nought. "

"But you must needs have had further aid, Lady. "

"Ay so, Sir?"

"Most surely. Who were it, I demand of you?"

"I have said my saying. "

"And you do deny, Madam, to further justice?"

"Right surely, without justice were of my side. " What was to be donewith such a prisoner? Beaufort at last gave up in despair the attemptto make her criminate her accomplices any further, though he couldhardly avoid guessing that Bertram and Maude had helped her more orless. The sentence pronounced was a remarkably light one, so far asConstance was concerned. In fact, the poor smith, who was the mostinnocent of the group, suffered the most. How he was found can but beguessed; but his life paid the forfeit of his forgery. The Princess wascondemned to close imprisonment in Kenilworth Castle during the King'spleasure. Maude was sentenced to share her mistress's durance; andBertram's penalty was even easier, for he was allowed free passagewithin the walls, as a prisoner on parole. 

It was in the beginning of March that the captive trio, in charge ofElmingo Leget, arrived at Kenilworth. Two rooms were allotted for theuse of Constance and Maude. The innermost was the bedchamber, fromwhich projected a little oratory with an oriel window; the outer, the"withdrawing chamber, " which opened only into a guardroom alwaysoccupied by soldiers. Bertram was permitted access to the Princess'sdrawing-room at her pleasure, and her pleasure was to admit him veryfrequently. She found her prison-life insufferably wearisome, and eventhe scraps of extremely local news, brought in by Bertram from thecourtyard, were a relief to the monotony of having nothing at all to do. She grew absolutely interested in such infinitesimal facts as thearrival of a barrel of salt sprats, the sprained ankle of Mark Milksop[a genuine surname of the time] of the garrison, the Governor's newcrimson damask gown, and the solitary cowslip which his shy little girloffered to Bertram "for the Lady. "

But having nothing to do, by no means implied having nothing to thinkabout. On the contrary, of that there was a great deal. The last itemswhich Constance knew concerning her friends were, that Kent had beentold of her flight from Windsor (if York's word could be trusted); thather children were left at Langley; and that her admissions on her trialhad placed York in serious peril, for liberty if not life. As to thechildren, they were probably safe, either at Langley or Cardiff; yetthere remained the possibility that they might have shared the fate ofthe Mortimers, and be closely confined in some stronghold. It was notin Isabel's nature to fret much over any thing; but Richard was agentle, playful, affectionate child, to whom the absence of all familiarfaces would be a serious trouble. Then what would become of Edward, whom she had tacitly criminated? What would become of Richard, thedarling brother, whom not to criminate she had sacrificed truth, andwould have sacrificed life? And, last and worst of all, what had becomeof Kent? If he had set out to join her, the gravest suspicion wouldinstantly fall on him. If he had not, and were ignorant what hadbefallen her, Constance--who did not yet know his real character--pictured him as tortured with apprehension on her account. 

"O Maude!" she said one evening, "if I could know what is befallen myLord, methinks I might the lighter bear this grievance!"

Would it have been any relief if she could have known--if the curtainhad been lifted, and had revealed the cushion-dance which was in fullprogress in the Lady Blanche's chamber at Westminster, where the Earl ofKent, resplendent in violet and gold, was dropping the embroideredcushion at the feet of the Princess Lucia?

"Dear my Lady, " said Maude in answer, "our Lord wot what is befallenhim. "

"What reck I, the while I wis it not?"

And Maude remembered that the thought which was a comfort to her wouldbe none to Constance. The reflection that God knows is re-assuring onlyto those who know God. What could she say which would be consoling toone who knew Him not?

"Maude, " resumed her mistress, "'tis my very thought that King Harry, mycousin, doth this spite and ire against me, to some count [extent], because he maketh account of me as a Lollard. "

Maude looked up quickly; but dropped her eyes again in silence. 

"Thou wist I have dwelt with them all my life, " proceeded Constance. "My Lord that was, and my Lady his mother, and my Lady my mother--allthey were Lollards. My fair Castle of Llantrissan to a shoe-latchet, but he reckoneth the like of me!"

"Would it were true!" said Maude under her breath. 

"`Would it were true!'" repeated Constance, laughing. "Nay, by the headof Saint John Baptist, but this Maude would have me an heretic!Prithee, turn thy wit to better use, woman. I may be taken for aGospeller, yet not be one. "

"But, sweet Lady, " said Maude, earnestly, "wherefore will ye take thedisgrace, and deny yourself of the blessing?"

"When I can see the blessing, Maude, I will do thee to wit, " repliedConstance, laughingly. 

"Methinks it is scarce seen, " returned Maude, thoughtfully. "Madam, younever yet saw happiness, but ye have felt it, and ye wit such a thing tobe. And I have felt the blessing of our Lord's love and pity, though yeno have. "

"Fantasies, child!" said Constance. 

"If so be, Dame, how come so many to know it?"

"By reason the world is full of fantastical fools, " answered Constance, lightly. "We be all nigh fools, sweeting--big fools and little fools--that is all. "

Maude gave up the attempt to make her understand. She only said, "Wouldyour Grace that I read unto you a season?" privately intending, if heroffer were accepted, to read from the gospel of Saint Luke, which shehad with her. But Constance laughingly declined the offer; and Maudefelt that nothing more could be done, except to pray for her. 

Time rolled away wearily enough till the summer was drawing to itsclose. And then a new interest awoke for both Maude and her lady. Forthe leaves were just beginning to droop on the trees around KenilworthCastle, when the disinherited heiress of Kent, a prisoner from herbirth, opened her eyes upon the world which had prepared for her suchcold and cruel welcome. 

There was plenty to do and to talk about after this. Constance wasperplexed what name to give her baby. She had never consulted any willbut her own before, for she had not cared about pleasing Le Despenser. But she wanted to please Kent, and she did not know what name wouldgratify him. At length she decided on Alianora, a name borne by two ofhis sisters, of whom the eldest, the Countess of March, she believed tobe his favourite sister. 

A few weeks after the birth of Alianora, on a close, warm autumnafternoon, Constance was lying on her bed to rest, feeling languid andtired with the heat; and Maude sat by the window near her, singingsoftly to the baby in her arms. Hearing a gentle call from Bertramoutside, Maude laid the child down and opened the door. Bertram wasthere, in the drawing-room, and with him were two sisters of SaintClare, robed in the habit of their order. 

"These holy sisters would have speech of the Lady, " explained Bertram. "May the same be?"

Certainly it might, so far as Constance was concerned. She was so wearyof her isolation that she would have welcomed even the Duchess Joan. She bade the immediate admission of the nuns, who were evidentlyprovided with permission from the authorities. They were both tallwomen, but with that item the likeness began and ended. One was afair-complexioned woman of forty years, --stern-looking, spare, haggard-faced, --in whose cold blue eyes there might be intelligence, butthere was no warmth of human kindness. The other was acomfortable-looking girl of eighteen, rosy-cheeked, with dark eyes andhair. 

"Christ save you, holy sisters!" said Constance as they approached her. "Ye be of these parts, trow?"

"Nay, " answered the younger nun, "we be of the House of Minoressesbeyond Aldgate; and though thine eyes have not told thee so much, Custance, I am Isabel of Pleshy. "

"Lady Isabel of Pleshy! Be right welcome, fair cousin mine!"

Isabel was the youngest daughter of that Duke of Gloucester who had beenfor so many years the evil angel of King and realm. Constance had notseen her since childhood, so that it was no wonder that she failed torecognise her. Meanwhile Maude had turned courteously to the elder nun. 

"Pray you, take the pain to sit in the window. "

"I never sit, " replied the nun in a harsh, rasping voice. 

"Truly, that is more than I could say, " observed Maude with a smile. "Shall it like you to drink a draught of small ale?"

"I never drink ale. "

This assertion would not sound strange to us, but it was astounding toMaude. 

"Would you ipocras and spice rather?"

"I never eat spice. "

"Will you eat a marchpane?"

"I never eat marchpane. "

Maude wondered what this impracticable being did condescend to do. 

"Then a shive of bread and tryacle?"

"Bread, an' you will: I am no babe, that I should lack sugar andtryacle. "

Maude procured refreshments, and the elder nun, first making the sign ofthe cross over her dry bread, began to eat; while Lady Isabel, whoevidently had not reached an equal height of monastic sanctity, did notrefuse any of the good things offered. But when Maude attempted furtherconversation, the ascetic and acetic lady, intimating that it wasprayer-time, and she could talk no more, pulled forth a huge rosary ofwooden beads, from which the paint was nearly worn away, and beganmuttering Ave Marys in apparently interminable succession. "Now, Isabel, " said Constance, "prithee do me to wit of divers matters I wouldfain know. Mind thou, I have been shut up from all manner of tidings, good or ill, sithence this last March, and I have a sumpter-mule's loadof questions to ask at thee. But, first of all, how earnest thouhither?"

"Maybe thou shalt find so much in the answers to thy questions, " repliedIsabel--a smile parting her lips which had in it more keenness thanmirth. 

"Well, then, to fall to:--Where is my Lord?"

"In Tewkesbury Abbey, as methought. "

"A truce to thy fooling, child! Thou wist well enough that I would saymy Lord of Kent. "

"How lookest I should wit, Custance? We sisters of Saint Clare be nonews-mongers. --Well, so far as I knowledge, my Lord of Kent is with theCourt. I saw him at Westminster a month gone. "

"Is it well with him?"

"Very well, I would say, from what I saw. " Constance's mind was toomuch engrossed with her own thoughts to put the right interpretation onthat cold, mocking smile which kept flitting across her cousin's lips. 

"And wist where be my little Dickon, and Nib?" [Isabel]. 

"At Langley, in care of Philippa, our fair cousin, " [then synonymouswith relative]. 

"Good. And Dickon my brother?"

"I scantly wis--marry, methinks with the Court, at this present. "

"And my brother Ned?"

"In Pevensey Castle. "

"What, governor thereof?"

But Constance guessed her cousin's answer. 

"Nay, --prisoner. "

"For this matter?"

"Ay, for the like gear thyself art hither. "

"Truly, I am sorry. And what came of our cousins of March?"

"What had come aforetime. "

"They be had back to their durance at Windsor?"

"Ay. "

"And what did my Lord when thou sawest him? Arede me all thingstouching him. What ware he?--and what said he?--and how looked he?Knew he thou shouldst see me?--and sent he me no word by thee?"

"Six questions in a breath, Custance!"

"Go to--one after other. What ware he?"

"By my mistress Saint Clare! how should I wit? An hundred yards ofgolden baudekyn, and fifty of pink velvet; and pennes [plumes] ofostriches enough to set up a peltier [furrier] in trade. "

"And how looked he?"

"As his wont is--right goodly, and preux [brave] and courteous. "

"Ay so!" said Constance tenderly. "And knew he thou shouldst see me?"

"I am not well assured, but methinks rather ay than nay. "

"And what word sent he by thee?"

"None. "

"What, not one word?"

"Nay. "

Constance's voice sank to a less animated tone. 

"And what did he?"

"They were about going in the hall to supper. "

"Handed he thee?"

"Nay, my cousin the King's Grace handed me. "

"Then who was with my Lord?"

"The Lady Lucy of Milan. "

"Lucy of Milan!--is she not rarely beauteous?"

"I wis nought about beauty. If it lie in great staring black eyes, anda soft, debonere [amiable, pleasant] manner, like a black cat, belikeso. "

For the first time, Constance fairly noticed Isabel's peculiar smile. She sat up in her bed, with contracted brow. 

"Isabel, there is worser behind. "

"There is more behind, Custance, " said Isabel coolly. 

"Speak, and quickly!"

"Well, mayhap better so. Wit thou then, fair Cousin, that thy weddingwith my Lord of Kent is found not good, sith--"

"Not good!" Constance said, or rather shrieked. "God in Heaven havemercy!--not good!"

"Not good, fair Cousin mine, " resumed Isabel's even tones, "seeing thatthe priest which wedded you was ere that day excommunicate of heresy, nor could lawfully marry any. "

Maude's face grew as white as her lady's, though she gave no audiblesign of her terrible apprehension that her marriage was invalid also. Isabel, who seemed to notice nothing, yet saw everything, turned quietlyto her. And though the sisters of Saint Clare might be no news-mongers, the royal nun had evidently received full information on that subject. 

"There is no cause for your travail [trouble, vexation], Dame Lyngern, "she said calmly. "The writ bare date but on Sunday, and you were wedthe even afore; so you be no wise touched. --Marry, Custance, thou seestthat so being, my Lord of Kent--and thou likewise--be left free to wed;wherefore it pleased the King's Grace, of his rare goodness, to commendhim unto the Lady Lucy of Milan by way of marriage. They shall be wedthis next January. "

Isabel spoke as quietly as people generally do who are not personallyconcerned in the calamity they proclaim. But perhaps she hardlyanticipated what followed. Her eyes were scarcely ready for the sightof that white livid face, quivering in every nerve with human agony, norher ears for the fierce cry which broke from the parched bloodless lips. 

"Thou liest!"

Isabel shrank back with a look of uneasy apprehension in her round rosyface. 

"Nay, burden not me withal, Custance! 'Tis no work of mine. I am but amessenger. "

"Poor fool! I shall not harm thee! But whose messenger art?"

"The King's Grace himself bade me to see thee. "

"And tell me _that_?"

"He bade me do thee to wit so much. "

"`So much'--how much? What I have heard hath killed me. Hast yet illnews left to bury me withal?"

"Only this, Custance, " replied her cousin in a deprecating tone, "thatsithence, though it were not good by law of holy Church, yet there wassome matter of marriage betwixt thee and my Lord of Kent; and men'stongues, thou wist, will roll and rumble unseemlily, --it seemed goodunto his Highness that it should be fully exhibit to the world howlittle true import were therein; and accordingly he would have thee toput thine hand to a paper, wherein thou shalt knowledge that themarriage had betwixt you two was against the law of holy Church, and istherefore null and void. If thou wilt do the same, I am bid to tellthee, thou shalt have free liberty to come forth hence, and all lands ofthy dower restored. "

"Art at an end?"

"Ay; therewith closeth my commission. "

"Then have back at thy leisure, and tell Harry of Bolingbroke from methat I defy him and Satan his master alike. I will set mine hand to nosuch lie, as there is a Heaven above me, and beneath him an Hell!"

"Custance!" remonstrated her cousin in a scandalised tone. 

But Constance lifted her head, and flung up her hands towards heaven. 

"O God of Paradise!" she cried, "holy and true, just in Thy judgments, look upon us two--this King and me--and betwixt us judge this day! Lookupon us, Lady of Pity, Lily of Christendom, and say whether of us two isthe sinner! O all ye Angels, all ye Saints in Heaven! that sin not, butplead for us sinners, --plead ye this day with God that He will render toeach of us two his due, as he hath demerited! Before you, before holyChurch, before God in Heaven, I denounce this man Harry of Bolingbroke!Render unto him, O Lord! render unto him his desert!"

"Custance, thou mayest better take this matter more meekly, " observedIsabel with quiet propriety, very different from her cousin's tone andmien of frenzied passion. "I have told thee truth, and no lie. Whatshould it serve? The priest is excommunicate, and my Lord of Kent shallwed the Lady Lucy, and the King will have thine hand thereto, ere thoucome forth. "

"Not if I die here a thousand times!"

"I do thee to wit, Custance, that there is grave doubt cast of thy truthand fealty--"

"To Harry of Bolingbroke?" she asked contemptuously. "When lent I _him_any?"

"Custance!--Of thy truth and fealty unto holy Church our mother. Nor, maybe, shall she be over ready to lift up out of the mire one whom allthe holy doctors do esteem an heretic. "

"What, I?"

"Thou. "

"I never was an heretic yet, Isabel, but I do thee to wit thou goest theway to make me so. As to holy Church, she never was my mother. I canbreathe without her frankincense, belike, and maybe all the freer. "

"Alas, Custance! Me feareth sore thou art gone a long way on that illroad, else hadst thou never spoken such unseemly words. "

"Be it so!" said Constance, with the recklessness of overwhelmingmisery. "An heretic's daughter, and an heretic's widow--what less mightye look for? If thou hast mangled mine heart enough to serve thee, Isabel, I would thou wert out of my sight!"

"Fair Cousin, I do ensure thee mine own lieth bleeding for thy pain. "

"Ay, forsooth! I see the drops a-dripping!" said Constance in bittermockery. "Marry, get thee hence--'tis the sole mercy thou canst do me. "

"So will I; but, Custance, I ensure thee, I am bidden to abide hitherthe setting of thine hand to that paper. "

"Then haste and bid measure be taken for a coffin, for one shall lackeither for thee or me ere thou depart!"

"Alack, alack!"

But Isabel rose and withdrew, signing to her companion to follow. Theelder nun, who had not yet finished her rosary, stopped in the middle ofa Paternoster, and obeyed. 

"Leave me likewise, thou, Maude, " said Constance, in a voice in whichanguish and languor strove for the predominance. 

"Dear my Lady, could I not--?" Maude began pityingly. 

"Nay, my good Maude, nought canst thou do. Unless it _were_ true thatGod would hearken prayer, and then, perchance--"

"Trust me for that, Lady mine!--Take I the babe withal?"

"Poor little maid!--Ay, --take her to thee. "

Maude followed the nuns into the drawing-room. She found thebeads-woman still busy, on her knees in the window, and Isabel seated inthe one chair sacred to royalty. 

"'Tis a soft morrow, Dame Lyngern, " complacently remarked the lady whoseheart lay bleeding. "Be that your little maid?"

Maude's tone was just a little stiff. 

"The Lady Alianora de Holand, Madam. "

"Ah! our fair cousin her babe?--Poor heart!"

Maude was silent. 

"Verily, had I wist the pain it should take us to come hither, " pursuedIsabel, apparently quite careless about interrupting the spirituallabours of her sister nun, "methinks I had prayed my Lord the King tochoose another messenger. By the rainfall of late, divers streams haveso bisched [overflowed] their banks, that me verily counted my mule hadbeen swept away, not once ne twice. It waked my laughter to see how oursteward, that rade with us, strave and struggled with his beast. "

Maude's heart was too heavy to answer; but Isabel went on chatteringlightly, to a murmured under-current of "_Ora pro nobis_" as bead afterbead, in the hands of the kneeling nun, pursued its fellow down thestring of the rosary. Maude sat on the settle, with the sleeping childin her arms, listening as if she heard not, and feeling as though shehad lost all power of reply. At last the rosary came to its final bead, and, crossing herself, the elder nun arose. 

"Sister, I pray you of your Paternoster, sith you be terminate, " saidIsabel, holding out her hand. "Mine brake, fording the river astont[near], and half the beads were gone ere I could gather the same. 'Tispity, for they were good cornelian. "

The rosary changed hands, and Isabel began to say her prayers, neitherleaving her chair nor stopping her conversation. 

"'Twas when we reached the diversory [inn] last afore Stafford, DameLyngern--_Janua Coeli, ora pro nobis_!--we were aware of a jollydebonere pardoner [Note 1], --_Stella Matutina, ora pro nobis_!--thatrade afore, on a fat mule, as well-liking as he--_Refugium Peccatorum, ora pro nobis_!--and coming anigh us, quoth he to me, that firstrade--_Regina Angelorum, ora pro nobis_!--`Sister, ' quoth my master thepardoner--. "

"Sister Isabel, you have dropped a bead!" snapped the elder nun. 

"Thanks, Sister Avice. --By my Lady Saint Mary! where was I? Ohay!--_Regina Patriarcharum, ora pro nobis_!--Well, Dame Lyngern, I willdo you to wit what befell. "

But Maude's eyes and attention were riveted. 

"Be there two Avices in the Priory at Aldgate?--crying your Ladyshipmercy. "

"Nay, --but one, " said Isabel. "Wherefore, Dame?"

"But--this is not my Avice!" faltered Maude. 

"I am Saint Clare's Avice, and none other, " said the nun stonily. 

"But--Avice de Narbonne?"

"Avice de Narbonne I was; and thou wert Maude Gerard. "

"Christ's mercy on thee!"

"What signifiest?" responded Avice, sternly. "I am an holy sister, andas Sister Isabel shall certify unto thee, am defamed for holiest of allour house. "

"Ay so, " admitted Isabel. 

"I am sorry for thee, Cousin!" whispered Maude, her eyes full of tears. 

"Sorry!" said Isabel. 

"Sorry!" repeated Avice. "When I have ensured mine own salvation, andwon mine husband's soul from Purgatory, and heaped up great store ofmerit belike!--Woman, I live but of bread and water, with here and therea lettuce leaf; a draught of milk of Sundays, but meat never savingholydays. I sleep never beyond three hours of a night, and of a Fridaynight not at all. I creep round our chapel on my bare knees everyFriday morrow and Saturday even, and do lick a cross in the dust atevery shrine. I tell our Lady's litany morrow and even. Sorry! Whenevery sister of our house doth reckon me a very saint!"

A vision rose before Maude's eyes, of a man clad in blue fringes andphylacteries, who stood, head upright, in the Holy Place, and thankedGod that he was not as other men. But she only said--

"O Avice!--what doth God reckon thee?"

Isabel stared at her. 

"The like, of force!" said Avice, with a sneer. 

"Avice, I deemed thee once not far from the kingdom of God. But I findthee further off than of old time. "

"Thou art bereft of thy wits, sure!" said Avice, contemptuously. 

"By the Holy Coat of Treves, but this passeth!" [surpasses expectationor reason] exclaimed Isabel, looking decidedly astonished. 

"This world is no garden of pleasance, woman!" resumed Avice, harshly. "We must needs buy Heaven, and with heavy coin. "

"Buy thou it, an' thou canst, " said Maude, rocking the child to and fro, while one or two tears fell upon its little frock. "For me, I thank ourLord that He hath paid down the price. "

She rose, for the child was beginning to cry, and walked to the windowto try and engage its attention. 

"A Gospeller, by my troth!" whispered Isabel, with a shrug of hershoulders. 

"Maude was alway given unto Romaunts and the like fooling!" respondedAvice as scornfully as before. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1. An officer of the Bishop's Court, whose business was to carryto their destination written absolutions and indulgences. 

CHAPTER ELEVEN. 

THE ROUGH NIGHT WIND. 

 "Whan cockle-shells ha'e siller bells, And mussels grow on every tree-- Whan frost and snaw shall warm us a'-- Then shall my luve prove true to me!"

 _Old Ballad_. 

It was the evening of the third day succeeding Isabel's visit, and whileshe and Avice were seated in the banquet-hall with the Governor and hisfamily, the scene lit up by blazing pine torches, a single earthen lampthrew a dull and unsteady light over the silent bedchamber of the royalprisoner. The little Alianora was asleep in her cradle, and on the bedlay her mother, not asleep, but as still and silent as though she were. Near the cradle, on a settle, sat Maude Lyngern, trying with ratherdoubtful success to read by the flickering light. 

Custance had not quitted her bed during all that time. She never spokebut to express a want or reply to a question. When Maude brought herfood, she submitted to be fed like an infant. Of what thoughts werepassing in her mind, she gave no indication. 

At last Maude came to the conclusion that the spell of silence ought tobe broken. The passionate utterances which Isabel's news had evoked atfirst were better than this dead level of silent suffering. But shedetermined to break it by no arguments or consolations of her own, butby the inspired words of God. She felt doubtful what to select; so shechose a passage which, half knowing it by heart, would be the easier tomake out in the uncertain light. 

"`And oon of the Farisees preiede [prayed] Jhesus that he schulde etewith him; and he entride into the hous of the Farisee, and sat at themete. And lo, a synful woman that was in the cytee, as sche knewe thatJhesus sat at the mete in the hous of the Farisee, she broughte analabastre box of oynement, and sche stood bihynde bisidis hise feet, andbigan to moiste hise feet with teeris, and wypide with the heeris of hirheed, and kiste hise feet, and anoyntide with oynement. And the Fariseeseyng [seeing] that had clepide him seide within himsilf, seiyinge, ifthis were a profete, he schulde wete who and what maner womman it werethat touchide him, for sche is a synful womman. And Jhesus answerde andseide to him, Symount, I han sum thing to seye to thee. And he seide, Maistir, seye thou. And he answerde, Tweye dettouris weren to oo lener[one lender]; and oon oughte fyve hundrid pens [pence] and the totherfifty. But whanne thei hadden not wherof thei schulen yelde, [yield, pay] he forgaf to bothe. Who thanne loueth him more? Symount answerdeand seide, I gesse that he to whom he forgaf more. And he answeride tohim, Thou hast demed [doomed, judged] rightly. And he turnide to thewomman, and seyde to Symount, Seest thou this womman? I entride intothin hous, thou gaf no watir to my feet; but this hath moistid my feetwith teeris, and wipide with her heeris. Thou hast not gouen to me acosse [kiss]; but this, sithen sche entride, ceeside not to kisse myfeet. Thou anointidst not myn heed with oyle; but this anointide myfeet with oynement. For the which thing I seye to thee, manye synnesben forgiuen to hir, for sche hath loued myche; and to whom is lesseforgyuen to hir, he loueth lesse. And Jhesus seyde to hir, Thi synnesben forgiuen to thee. And thei that saten togider at the mete bigunnento seye withinne hemsilf, [themselves], Who is this that forgyvethsynnes? But he seide to the womman, Thei feith hath maad thee saaf; gothou in pees. '"

Maude added no words of her own. She closed the book, and relapsed intosilence. But Custance's solemn stillness was broken at last. 

"`He seide to the womman!'--Wherefore no, having so spoken to thePharisee, have left?" [concluded]. 

"Nay, dear my Lady, " answered Maude, "it were not enough. So dearloveth our good and gentle Lord, that He will not have so much as one ofHis children to feel any the least unsurety touching His mercy. Wherefore He were not aseeth [contented] to say it only unto thePharisee; but on her face, bowed down as she knelt behind Him, Helooked, and bade her to be of good cheer, for that she was forgiven. OLady mine! 'tis great and blessed matter when a man hath God to hisfriend!"

"Thy words sound well, " said the low voice from the bed. "Very well, like the sound of sweet waters far away. "

"Far away, dear my Lady?"

"Ay, far away, Maude, --without [outside] my life and me. "

"Sweet Lady, if ye will but lift the portcullis, our Lord is ready andwilling to come within. And whereinsoever He entereth, He bringethwithal rest and peace. "

"Rest! Peace!--Ay so. I guess there be such like gear some whither--for some folks. "

"They dwell whereso Christ dwelleth, Lady mine. "

"In Paradise, then! I told thee it were far hence. "

"Is Paradise far hence, Lady? I once heard say Father Ademar that itwere not over three hours' journey at the most; for the thief on thecross went there in one day, and it were high noon ere he set out. "

Maude stopped sooner than she intended, suddenly checked by a moan ofpain from Custance. The mere mention of Ademar's name seemed to evokeher overwhelming distress, as if it brought back the memory of all themiserable events over which she had been brooding for three days past. She rocked herself from side to side, as though her suffering werealmost unendurable. 

"If he could come back! O Maude, Maude!--if only he could come back!"

"Sweet Lady, an' he were hither, methinks Father Ademar--"

"No, no--not Father Ademar. Oh, if I could rend the grave open!--if Icould tear asunder the blue veil of Heaven! I set no store by it allthen; but now! He would forgive me: he would not scorn me! He wouldnot count me too vile for his mercy. O my Lord, mine own dear Lord! youwould never have served me thus!"

And down rained the blessed tears, and relieved the dry, parched soil ofthe agonised heart. She lay quieter after that torrent of pain andpassion. The terrible spell of dark silence was broken; and Maude knewat last, that through this bitterest trial she had ever yet experienced, the wandering heart was coming home--at least to Le Despenser. 

Was it needful that she should pass through yet deeper waters, beforeshe would come home to God?

------------------------------------------------------------------------

The leaves were carpeting the ground around Kenilworth, when Custancegranted a second interview to her cousin Isabel. There was more newsfor her by that time. Edward had been once more pardoned, and was againin his usual place at Court. How this inscrutable man procured hispardon, and what sum he paid for it, in cash or service, is among themysteries of the medieval "back-stairs. " He had to be forgiven for morethan Custance knew. Among his other political speculations, he had beenmaking love to the Queen; a fact which, though there can be little doubtthat it was a mere piece of policy on his part, was unlikely to beacceptable to the King. But the one item which most closely concernedhis sister was indicated in plain terms by his pardon--that she needlook for no help at her brother's hands until she too "put herself inthe King's mercy. "

The King's mercy! What that meant depended on the King. In the reignof Richard of Bordeaux, that prisoner must be heavily-charged to whom itdid not mean at least a smile of pardon--not unfrequently a grant oflands, or sometimes a coronet. But in the reign of Henry ofBolingbroke, it meant rigid justice, as he understood justice. And hismercy, to any Lollard, convicted or suspected, usually meant solitaryconfinement in a prison cell. What inducement was there for Custance tothrow herself on such mercy as that? Nor was she further encouraged byhearing of another outbreak on behalf of King Richard or the Earl ofMarch, headed by Archbishop Scrope and Lord Mowbray, and the heads ofthe ringleaders had fallen on the scaffold. 

Isabel had sat and talked for an hour without winning any answer beyondmonosyllables. She was busy with her rosary--a new coral one--while sheunfolded her budget of news, and tried to persuade her cousin intocompliance with the King's wish. The last bead was just escaping fromher fingers with an Amen, when Custance turned to her with a directquestion. 

"Now speak plainly, fair Cousin;--what wouldst have me to do?"

"In good sooth, to put thee in the King's mercy. "

"In _his_ mercy!" murmured the prisoner significantly. "The whichshould be--wist how much?"

"Truly, to free thee hence, and thou shouldst go up to London to waitupon his Grace. "

"And then--?"

Isabel knew what the King intended to exact, but the time was not yetcome to say too much, lest Custance should be alarmed and draw backaltogether. So she replied evasively--

"Then his Highness should restore to thee thy lands, on due submissiondone. "

"And yield me back my childre?"

"Most surely. "

A knot was tied upon Isabel's memory, unknown to her cousin. IfCustance cared much for her children, they might prove a most effectiveinstrument of torture. 

"Well!--and then?"

"Nay, ask at thine own self. Me supposeth thou shouldst choose toreturn to thine own Castle of Cardiff. But if it pleased thee rather toabide in the Court, I cast no doubt--"

"Let be!--and then?"

"Then, in very deed, " resumed Isabel, warming with her subject, "thoushouldst have chance to make good alliance for Nib and Dickon, and seethem well set in fair estate. "

"Ah!--and then?"

"Why, then thou mayest match thy grandchildre yet better, " answeredIsabel, laughing. 

"And after all, Isabel, " returned Custance, in a manner much graver thanwas usual with her, "there abideth yet one further _then_--death, andGod's judgment. "

"Holy Mary aid us!--avaunt with such thoughts!"

"Canst thou avaunt with such thoughts, child?" said Custance, with aheavy sigh. "Ah me! they come unbidden, when the shadows of night beover the soul, and the thick darkness hath closed in upon the life. AndI, at the least, have no spell to bid them avaunt. If holy Mary aidthee in that avoidment, 'tis more than she doth for me. "

Isabel seemed at a loss for a reply. "I have had no lack of time forthought, fair Cousin, while I yonder lay. And the thought would notaway, --when we stand together, I and Harry of Bolingbroke, at that Barof God's judgment, shall I desire in that day that I had said ay or nayto him now?"

"Forsooth, Custance, I am not thy confessor. These be priests'matters--not gear for women like thee and me. "

"What, child! is thy soul matter for the priest's concernment only? Isit not rather matter for thee--thee by thyself, beyond all priests thatbe? Thou and the priest may walk handed [walk hand in hand] up to thatBar, but methinks he will be full fain to leave thee to bide thewhipping. "

"Nay, in very deed, Custance, thou art a Lollard, else hadst thou neverspoken no such a thing!"

"What, be Lollards the only men that have a care for their own souls?But be it as thou wilt--what will it matter _then_? Isabel, in goodsooth I have sins enough to answer for, neither will I by my good-willadd thereto. And if it be no sin to stand up afore God and men, andswear right solemnly unto His dread face that I did not that which I didbefore His sun in Heaven--good lack! I do marvel what sin may be. There is no such thing as sin, if it be no sin to swear to a lie!"

"But, Custance, the King's Highness asketh not thee to deny that thouwert wed unto my Lord of Kent, but only to allow openly that the samewere not good in law. "

"Can a law go backwards-way?"

"Fair Cousin, the priest was excommunicate afore. "

"God wot if he were!" said Custance shrewdly. 

"Bishops use not to leave their letters tarry two months on the road, child. There have been riddles writ ere now; ay, and black treacherydone--by shaven crowns too. Canst thou crede that story? 'Tis morethan I can. "

"Custance, I do ensure thee, the King's Grace sware into me his ownself, by the holy Face of Lucca, and said, if thou didst cast any doubtof the same, my Lord Archbishop should lay to pledge his corporal oaththereon. "

"His corporal oath ensure me! nay, nor an' he sware by Saint Beelzebub!"cried Custance in bitter scorn. "I have heard of a corporal oath erenow, child. I know of one that was taken at Conway, by an oldwhite-haired man [Note 1], whose reverend head should have lent weightto his words: but they were words, and nought else. How many days were, ere it was broken to shivers? I tell thee, Nib, Harry of Bolingbrokemay swear an' it like him by every saint in the calendar from Aaron toZachary; and when he is through, my faith in his oaths will go by theeye of a needle. Why, what need of oath if a man be but true? If Iwould know somewhat of Maude yonder, I shall never set her to swear bySaint Nicholas; I can crede her word. And if a man's word be nottrustworthy, how much more worth is his oath?"

"But, Custance! the King's Grace and my Lord Archbishop--"

"How thou clarifiest [glorifiest] the King's Grace! Satan ruleth awider realm than he, child, but I would not trust his oath. What causedthem to take account that I should not believe them, unless their ownill consciences?"

Isabel was silent. 

"Isabel!" said her cousin, suddenly turning to her, "have they _his_oath for the same?"

"Whose, Custance?--my Lord of Kent?"

Custance nodded impatiently. 

"Oh, ay. "

"He hath allowed our wedding void in law?"

"Ay so. "

"What manner of talk held his conscience with him, sithence, mewondereth?" suggested Custance, in a low, troubled voice. "But maybe, like thee, he accounteth if but priest's gear. "

"Marry, 'tis far lighter travail. I list not to carry mine own sins: Ihad the liefer by the worth of the Queen's Highness' gems they were onthe priest's back. "

"Ah, Nib!--but how if God charge them on thy back at the last?"

"Good lack! a white lie or twain, spiced with a little matter offrowardness by times! My back is broad enough. "

"I am fain to hear it, for so is not mine. "

"Ah! thou art secular--no marvel. "

"Much thanks for thy glosing [flattery], mine holy sister!" saidCustance sarcastically. "The angels come down from Heaven, to set theeevery morrow in a bath of rose-water, trow? While I, poor sinner that Iam, having been twice wed, may journey to Heaven as best I can in themire. 'Tis well, methinks, there be some secular in the world, forthese monks and nuns be so holy that elsewise there were no use forGod's mercy. "

"Nay, Custance!"

"Well, have it as thou wilt, child! What matter?" returned her cousinwith a weary air. "I am no doctor of the schools, to break lances withthee. Only methinks I have learned, these last months, a lesson ortwain, which maybe even thy holiness were not the worser to spell over. Now let me be. "

Isabel thought that the victim was coming round by degrees, and shewisely forbore to press her beyond the point to which she chose to go ofherself. So the interview ended. It was not till October that they metagain. 

Maude fancied that Avice eschewed any renewal of intercourse with her. She kept herself strictly secluded in the chamber which had beenallotted to the nuns; and since Maude had no power to pass beyond thedoor of the guard-room, the choice lay in Avice's own hands. At neitherof the subsequent interviews was she present. 

"Well, fair Cousin! what cheer?" was Isabel's greeting, when shepresented herself anew. 

"Thus much, " replied Custance; "that, leave given, I will go with theeto London. "

"Well said!" was the answer, in a tone which intimated that it was morethan Isabel expected. 

"But mark me, Isabel! I byhote [promise] nought beyond. "

"Oh ay!--well and good. "

"And for thus much yielding, I demand to have again the keeping of mychildre. "

"Good lack! thou treatest with the King's Grace as though thou wertqueen of some land thyself, " said Isabel, with a little laugh. "Verily, that goeth beyond my commission: but methinks I can make bold to saythus much: that an' thou come with me, they shall be suffered at theleast to see thee and speak with thee. "

Custance shook her head decidedly. 

"That shall not serve. "

"Nay, then, we be again at a point. I can but give mine avisement untothee to come thither and see. "

The point was sturdily fought over on both sides. Isabel dared promisenothing more than that Custance should be allowed to see her children, and that she herself would do her utmost to obtain further concessions. At last it was settled that the King should be appealed to, and therequest urged upon him by his emissary, by letter. Isabel, however, wasevidently gifted with no slight ambassadorial powers; for when sheselected Bertram Lyngern as her messenger, the Governor did not hesitateto let him go. 

But Bertram's projected journey never took place, for a most unexpectedevent intervened to stop it. 

It was the seventh of November, and a warm, close, damp day, inducinglanguor and depression in any person sensitive to the influence ofweather. Custance and Maude had received no visit that day from any onebut Bertram, who was busy preparing for his journey. There werefrequent comers and goers to Kenilworth Castle, so that the sound of abugle-horn without was likely to cause no great curiosity; nor, asCustance's drawing-room window opened on a little quiet corner of theinner court-yard, did she often witness the arrival of guests. So thatthree horns rang out on that afternoon without awakening more than apassing wonder "who it might be;" and when an unusual commotion washeard in the guard-room, the cause remained unsurmised. But when thedoor of the drawing-room was opened, a most unexpected sight dawned onthe eyes of the prisoners. Unannounced and completely unlooked-for, inthe doorway stood Henry of Bolingbroke, the King. 

It was no wonder that Maude's work dropped from her hands as she rosehastily; nor that Custance's eyes passed hurriedly on to see whocomposed the suite. But the suite consisted of a solitary individual, and this was her ubiquitous brother, Edward of York. 

"God give you good even, fair Cousin!" said Henry, with a bend of hisstately head. His manners in public, though less really considerate, were stiffer and more ceremonious than those of his predecessor. "Youscantly looked, as methinks, for a visit of ours this even?"; "YourHighness' servant!" was all chat Custance said, in a voice theconstrained tone of which had its source rather in coldness than inreverence. 

"Christ save thee, Custance!" said Edward, sauntering in behind hisroyal master. "Thou hast here a fine look-out, in very deed. "

"Truth, Ned; and time to mark it!" rejoined his sister. 

The door opened again, and with a lout [the old English courtesy, nowconsidered rustic] of the deepest veneration, Isabel made herappearance. 

"I pray you sit, ladies, " commanded the King. 

The Princesses obeyed, but Maude did not consider herself included. TheKing took the isolated chair with which the room was provided. 

"An' you be served, our fair Cousins, " he remarked, "we will tobusiness, seeing our tarrying hither shall be but unto Monday; and ifyour leisure serve, Lady Le Despenser, we would fain bear you with usunto London. Our fair cousin Isabel, as methinks, did you to wit of ourpleasure?"

What was the occult power within this man--whom no one liked, yet whoseemed mysteriously to fascinate all who came inside the charmed circleof his personal influence? Instead of answering defiantly, as she haddone to Isabel, Custance contented herself with the meek response--

"She so did, Sire. "

"You told her all?" pursued the King, turning his keen eyes upon Isabel. 

"To speak very truth, Sire, " hesitated Isabel, "I did leave one littlematter. "

She seemed reluctant to confess the omission; and Custance's face paledvisibly at this prospect of further sorrow in store. 

"Which was that, fair Cousin?"

Henry was a perfect master of the art of expressing displeasure withoutany use of words to convey it. Isabel knew in an instant that heconsidered her to have failed in her mission. 

"Under your gracious leave, my Liege, " she said deprecatingly, "had yourGrace seen how my fair cousin took that which I did say, it had causedyou no marvel that I stayed ere more were spoken. "

"We blamed you not, fair Cousin, " responded Henry coldly. "What matterleft you unspoken?"

"An' it like your Grace to pardon me, touching her presence desired--"

"Enough said. All else spake you?"

"All else, your Highness' pleasure served, " answered Isabel meekly. 

"My `presence desired'!" broke in Custance. "What meaneth your Grace, an' it like you? Our fair cousin did verily arede [tell] me that yourGrace commandeth mine appearing in London; and thither I had gone, hadit not pleased your Grace to win hither. "

"So quoth she; but this was other matter, " calmly rejoined the King. "Our Council thought good, fair Cousin, that you should be of the guestsbidden unto the wedding of our cousin of Kent with the fair Lady Lucy ofMilan. "

For one instant after the words were spoken, there was dead silencethrough the room--the silence which marks the midst of a cyclone. Thenext moment, Custance rose, and faced the man who held her life in hishands. The spell of his mysterious power was suddenly broken; and theold fiery spirit of Plantagenet, which was stronger in her than in him, flamed in her eyes and nerved her voice. 

"You meant _that_?" she demanded, dropping etiquette. 

"It hath been reckoned expedient, " was the calm reply. 

"Then you may drag me thither in my coffin, for alive will I never go!"

"This, Custance, to the King's Highness' face!" deprecated her pardonedand (just then) subservient brother. 

"To his face? Ay, --better than behind his back!" cried the defiantPrincess. "And to thy face, Harry of Bolingbroke, I do thee to wit thatthou art no king of mine, nor I owe thee no allegiance! Wreak thy willon me for saying it! After all, I can die but once; and I can die asbeseems a King's daughter; and I would as lief die and be rid of thee as'bide in a world vexed with thy governance. "

"Custance! Custance!" cried Edward and Isabel in concert. 

"Let be, fair Cousins, " answered the cool unmoved tones of the King. "We can make large allowance for our cousin's words--they be butnature. "

This astute man knew how to overlook angry words. And certainly nowords he could have used would have vexed Custance half so much as thisassumption of calm superiority. 

"Speak your will, Lady, " he quietly added. "To all likelihood it shalldo you some relievance to uncharge your mind after this fashion; and Iwere loth to let you of that ease. For us, we are used to hear ourintent misconceived. But all said, hear our pleasure. "

Which was as much as to say with contemptuous pity, --Poor captive bird!beat your wings against the iron bars of your cage as much as you fancyit; they are iron, after all. 

"Fair Cousin, " resumed the King, "you must be at this wedding, clad inyour widow's garb; and you must set your hand to the paper which ourcousin Isabel holdeth. Know that if you be obedient, the custody andmarriage of your son, with all lands of your sometime Lord, shall beyours, and you shall forthwith be set at full liberty, nor word furtherspoken touching past offences. But you still refusing, then every roodof your land is forfeit, and the marriages and custody of all yourchildre shall be given unto our fair aunt, the Duchess Dowager of York. We await your answer. "

It was not in words that the answer came at first. Only in an exceedingbitter cry--

 "As of a wild thing taken in a trap, Which sees the trapper coming through the wood. "

Custance saw now the full depth of misery to which she was doomed. Theutmost concession hitherto wrung from her was that she would go toLondon and confront the King. And now it was calmly required of herthat she should not only sign away her own fair name, but shouldconfront Kent himself--should sit a quiet spectator of a ceremony whichwould publicly declare the invalidity of her right to bear his name--should by her own act consign her child to degradation and penury--should be a witness and a consenting party to the utter destruction ofall her hopes of happiness. She knew that the lark might as well pleadwith the iron bars as she with Henry of Bolingbroke. And the penalty ofher refusal was not merely poverty and homelessness. She could haveborne that; indeed, the sentence about the estates passed by her, hardlynoted. The bitterest sting lay in the assurance thus placidly givenher, that her loving little Richard would be consigned to the keeping ofa woman whom she knew to hate her fiercely--that he would be taught tohate and despise her himself. He would be brought up as a stranger toher; he would be led to associate her name with scorn and disgrace. Andhow was Joan likely to treat the children, when she had perpetuallystriven to vex and humiliate the mother?

The words came at last. But they were of very different character fromthose which had preceded them. 

"Grant me one further mercy, Sire, " she said in a low voice, looking upto him:--"the one greater grace of death. "

"Fair Cousin, we would fain grant you abundant grace, so you put it notfrom you with your own perversity. We have proffered unto you fullrestorance to our favour, and to endow you with every of your lateLord's lands, on condition only of your obedience in one small matter. We take of you neither life nor liberty. "

"Life? no!--only all that maketh life worthy the having. "

"We wist not, fair Cousin, that our cousin of Kent were so precious, "replied the King, with the faintest accent of satire in his calm, polished voice. 

But Custance, like a spring let loose, had returned to her previousmood. 

"What, take you nought from me but only him?" she cried indignantly. "Is it not rather mine own good name whereof you would undo me? Ye havebereaved me of him already. I tare him from mine heart long ago, thoughI tare mine own heart in the doing of it. He is not worth the love Ihave wasted on him, and have repreved [denied, rejected] thereof one tenthousand times his better! God assoil [forgive] my blindness!--for mineeyes be opened now. But you, Sire, --you ask of me that I shall signaway mine own honourable name and my child's birthright, and as bribe tobid me thereunto, you proffer me my lands! What saw you ever inCustance of Langley to give you the thought that she should thus lightlysell her soul for gold, or weigh your paltry acres in the balancesagainst her truth and honour?"

Every nerve of the outraged soul was quivering with excitement. In thecalm even tones which responded, there was no more excitement than in aniceberg. 

"Fair Cousin, you do but utterly mistake. The matter is done and over;nor shall your 'knowledgment thereof make but little difference. 'Tisneither for our own sake, neither for our cousin of Kent, but for yours, that we would fain sway you unto a better mind. Nor need you count, fair Cousin, that your denial should let by so much as one day ourcousin of Kent his bridal with the Lady Lucy. We do you to wit that youstand but in your own light. Your marriage is annulled. What good thenshall come of your 'knowledgment, saving your own easement? But forother sake, if ye do persist yet in your unwisdom, we must needs makenote of you as a disobedient subject. "

There was silence again, only broken by the quiet regular dripping ofthe water-clock in a corner of the room. Silence, until Custance sankslowly on her knees, and buried her face upon the cushion of the settle. 

"God, help me; for I have none other help!" sobbed the agitated voice. "Help me to make this unceli [miserable] choice betwixt wrong and wrong, betwixt sorrow and sorrow!"

A less impulsive and demonstrative woman would not have spoken herthoughts aloud. But Custance wore her heart upon her sleeve. Whatwonder if the daws pecked at it?

"Not betwixt wrong and wrong, fair Cousin, " responded the cool voice ofthe King. "Rather, betwixt wrong and right. Nor betwixt sorrow andsorrow, but betwixt sorrow and pleasance. "

With another sudden change in her mood, Custance lifted her head, andasked in a tone which was almost peremptory--

"Is it the desire of my Lord himself that I be present?"

To reply in the affirmative was to lie; for Kent was entirely innocentand ignorant of the King's demand. But what mattered a few lies, whenArchbishop Arundel, the fountain of absolution, was seated in thebanquet-hall? So Henry had no scruple in answering unconcernedly--

"It is our cousin of Kent his most earnest desire. "

"And yet once more, " she said, fixing her eyes upon him, as if to watchthe expression of his face while she put her test-question. "Yonderwrit of excommunication:--was it verily and indeed forth against SirAdemar de Milford, the Sunday afore I was wed?"

Did she expect to read any admission of fraud in that handsomepassionless face? If she did, she found herself utterly mistaken. 

"Fair Cousin, have ye so unworthy thoughts of your friends? Certes, thewrit was forth. "

"My friends! where be my friends?--The writ was forth?"

"Assuredly. "

"Then wreak your will--you and Satan together!"

"How conceive we by that, fair Cousin?" inquired the King rathersatirically. 

"Have your will, man!" she said wearily, as if she were tired of keepingmeasures with him any longer. "Things be sorely acrazed in this world. If there be an other world where they be set straight, there shall besome travail to iron out the creases. "

"Signify you that you will sign this paper?"

Isabel passed the paper quietly to Henry. 

"What matter what I signify, or what I sign? If my name must needs bewrit up in black soot, it were as well done on that paper as an other. "

The King laid the document on the table, where the standish was already, and with much show of courtesy, offered a pen to his prisoner. Sheknelt down to sign, holding the pen a moment idle in her fingers. 

"What a little matter art thou!" she said, soliloquising dreamily. "Agrey goose quill! Yet on one stroke of thee all my coming lifehangeth. "

The pen was lifted to sign the fatal document, when the proceedings werestopped by an unexpected little wail from something in Maude's arms. Custance dashed down the quill, and springing up, took her littleAlianora to her bosom. 

"Sign away thy birthright, my star, my dove! Wretched mother that I am, to dream thereof! How could I ever meet thine innocent eyes again? Iwill not sign it!"

"As it like you, fair Cousin, " was the quiet response of that voicegifted with such inexplicable power. "For us, we have striven but toavance you unto your better estate. 'Tis nought to us whether ye signor no. "

She hesitated; she wavered; she held out the child to Maude. 

"I would but add, " observed the King, "that yonder babe is no wisetouched by your signing of that paper. Her birthright is gone already;or more verily, she had never none to go. Your name unto yon papermaketh no diversity thereabout. "

Still the final struggle was terrible. Twice she resumed the pen; twiceshe flung it down in passionate though transient determination not byher own act to alienate her child's inheritance and blot her own fairname. But every time the memory of her favourite, her loving littleRichard, rose up before her, and she could not utter the refusal whichwould deprive her of him for ever. Perhaps she might even yet have heldout, had the alternative been that of resigning him to any person butJoan. But the certain knowledge that he would be taught to despise andhate her was beyond the mother's power to endure. At last she snatchedup the pen, and dashed her name on the paper. It was signed in regalform, without a surname. 

"There!" she cried passionately: "behold all ye get of me! If I may notsign `Custance Kent, ' content you with `Custance. ' Never `Custance LeDespenser!' My Lord was true to his heart's core; and never sign I_his_ name to a dishonour and a lie!--O my Dickon, my pretty, prettyDickon! thou little knowest the price thine hapless mother hath paid forthee this day!"

Henry the Fourth was not a man who loved cruelty for its own sake: hewas simply a calculating, politic one. He never wasted power onunnecessary torture. When his purpose was served, he let his victim go. 

"Fully enough, fair Cousin!" he said with apparent kindness. "You signas a Prince's daughter--and such are you. We thank you right heartilyfor this your wise submission, and as you shall shortly see, you shallnot lose thereby. "

Not another word was said about her presence at the wedding. Thatwould, come later. His present object was to get her to London. Theevening of the 17th of November saw them at Westminster Palace. 

During the journey, Avice carefully avoided any private intercourse withMaude. The latter tried once or twice to renew the interruptedconversation; but it was either dinner-time, or it was prayer-time, orthere was some excellent reason why Avice could not listen. And at lastMaude resigned the hope. They never met again. But one winter day, eighteen years later, Maude Lyngern heard that Sister Avice, of theMinoresses' house at Aldgate, had died in the odour of sanctity; andthat the sisters were not without hope that the holy Father mightpronounce her a saint, or at least "beata. " It was added that she hadworn herself to a skeleton by fasting, and for three weeks before herdeath had refused all sustenance but the sacrament, which she receiveddaily. And that was the last of Cousin Hawise. 

We return from this digression to Westminster Palace. 

News met them as they stepped over the threshold--news of death. Alianora, Countess of March, sister of Kent, and mother of theMortimers, had died at Powys Castle. 

When Custance reached the chamber allotted to her at Westminster, shefound there all the personal property which she had left at Langleytwelve months earlier. 

"Maude!" she said that night, as she laid her head on the pillow. 

"Lady?" was the response. 

"To-morrow make thou ready for me my widow's garb. I shall never wearany other again. "

"Ay, Lady, " said Maude quietly. 

"And--hast here any book of Sir John de Wycliffe?"

"The Evangel after Lucas, Lady. "

"Wilt read me to sleep therewith?"

"Surely, Lady mine. "

"Was it thence thou readst once unto me, of a woman that was sinful, which washed our Lord's feet?"

"Ay so, Madam. "

"Read that again. "

The words were repeated softly in the quiet chamber, by the dim light ofthe silver lamp. Maude paused when she had read them. 

"When thou and I speak of such as we love, Maude, we make allowance fortheir short-comings. `She did but little ill, ' quoth we, or, `She hadsore provoking thereto, ' and the like. But he saith, `Manye synnes benforgiuen to hir'--yet not too many to be forgiven!"

"Ah, dear my Lady, " said Maude affectionately, "methinks our Lord canafford to take full measure of the sins of His chosen ones, sith Hehath, to bless them, so full and free forgiveness. "

"Yet that must needs cost somewhat. "

"Cost!" repeated Maude with deep feeling. "Lady, the cost thereof toHim was the cross. "

"But to us?" suggested Custance. 

"Is there any cost to us, beyond the holding forth of empty hands toreceive His great gift? I count, Madam, that as it is His best glory togive all, so it must be ours to receive all. "

"O Maude!" she wailed with a weary sigh, "when can I make me cleanenough in His sight to receive this His gift?"

"Methinks, Lady mine, this woman which came into the Pharisee's housewas no cleaner ne fairer than other women. And, tarrying to make herclean, she might have come over late. Be not the emptiest meetest toreceive gifts, and the uncleanest they that have most need of washing?"

"The most need, --ay. "

"And did ever an almoner 'plain that poor beggars came for his dole, --ora mother that her child were too much bemired to be cleansed?"

"Is there woman on middle earth this night, Maude, poorer beggar than I, or more bemired?"

"Sweet Lady!" said Maude very earnestly, "if you would but make trial ofour Lord's heart toward you! `Alle ye that traveilen and ben chargid, come to Me'--this is His bidding, dear my Lady! And His promise is, `Iwill fulfille you'--`ye schal fynde reste to your soulis. '"

"I would come, if I knew how!" she moaned. 

"Maybe, " said Maude softly, "they which would come an' they knew how, docome after His reckoning. Howbeit, this wis I, --that an' your Ladyshiphave will to come unto Him, He hath full good will to show you the way. "

There was no more said on either side at the time. But if ever a weary, heavy-laden sinner came to Christ, Custance Le Despenser came thatnight. 

The next day she resumed her widow's garb. At that period the weeds ofwidowhood were pure white, the veil bound tightly round the face, apiece of embroidered linen crossing the forehead, and another the chin, so that the only portion of the face visible was from the eyebrows tothe lips. Indeed, the head-dress of a widow and that of a nun were sosimilar that inexperienced eyes might easily mistake one for the other. The costume was not by any means attractive. 

The hour was yet early when the Duchess of York was announced; and whenthe door was opened, the little Richard, whose presence had beenpurchased at so heavy a cost, sprang into his mother's arms. His littlesister, who followed, was shy and hung back, clinging close to theDuchess. The year which had elapsed since she had seen Custance andMaude seemed to have obliterated both from her recollection. With allher faults, Custance was an affectionate mother, with that sort ofaffection which develops itself in petting; and it pained her to see howIsabel shrank away from her. The only comfort lay in the hope that timewould accustom her to her mother again; and beyond the mere affection ofcustom, Isabel's nature would never reach. 

It soon became evident that King Henry meant to keep his word. Twomonths after her arrival at Westminster, Custance received a grant ofall her late husband's goods forfeited to the Crown; and five days laterwas the marriage of Edmund of Kent and Lucia of Milan. 

They were married in the Church of Saint Mary Overy, Southwark, the Kinghimself giving the bride. The Queen and the whole Court were present;but Kent never knew who was present or absent; his eyes and thoughtswere absorbed with Lucia. He never saw a white-draped figure whichshrank behind the Queen, with eyes unlifted from the beginning of massto the end. So, on that last occasion when the separated pair met, neither saw the face of the other. 

But Custance was not left to pass through her terrible ordeal alone. Asthe Queen's procession filed into the church, Richard of Conisboroughplaced himself by the side of his sister, and clasped her hand in his:He left her again at the door of her own chamber. No words were spokenbetween the brother and sister; the hearts were too near each other toneed them. 

Maude was waiting for her mistress. The latter lay down on thetrussing-bed--the medieval sofa--and turned her face away towards thewall. Maude quietly sat down with her work; and the slow hours passedon. Custance was totally silent, beyond a simple "Nay" when asked ifshe wanted anything. With more consideration than might have beenexpected, the King did not require her presence at the wedding-banquet;he permitted her to be served in her own room. But the suffererdeclined to eat. 

The twilight came at last, and Maude folded her needlework, unable tosee longer, and doubtful whether her mistress would wish the lamp to belighted. She had sat idle only for a' few minutes when at last Custancespoke--her words having evidently a meaning deeper than the surface. 

"The light has died out!" she said. 

"In the City of God, " answered Maude gently, "`night schal not bethere, ' for the lantern of it is the Lamb, and He is `the schynyngmorewe sterre. ' And He is `with us in alle daies, into the endyng ofthe world. '"

"Maude, is not somewhat spoken in the Evangel, touching the taking up onus of His cross?"

"Ay, dear my Lady:--`He that berith not his cross and cometh after Me, may not be My disciple. ' And moreover:--`He that takith not his crossand sueth [followeth] Me is not worthi to Me. '"

"I can never be worthy to Him!" she said, with a new, strange lowlinesswhich touched Maude deeply. "But hitherto I have but lain charing underthe cross--I have not taken ne borne it, neither sued Him any whither. I will essay now to take it on me, humbly submitting me, andendeavouring myself to come after Him. "

"Methinks, Lady mine, that so doing, ye shall find that He beareth theheavier end. At the least, He shall bear _you_, and He must needs bearyour burden with you. Yet in very sooth there is some gear we mustneeds get by rote ere we be witful enough to conceive the use thereof. The littlemaster [a schoolmaster] witteth what he doth in setting thetask to his scholar. How much rather the great Master of all things?"

"Me feareth I shall be slow scholar, Maude. And I have all to learn!"

"Nor loved any yet the learning of letters, Madam. Yet meseemeth, an' Ispeak not too boldly, that beside the lessons which be especial, that Heonly learneth [teaches], all this world is God's great picture-book tohelp His children at their tasks. Our Lord likeneth Him unto all mannerof gear--easy, common matter at our very hands--for to aid our slowwits. He is Bread of Life, and Water for cleansing, and Raiment to puton, and Staff for leaning upon, and Shepherd, and Comforter. "

"Enough, now, " said Custance, with that strange gentleness which seemedso unlike her old bright, wilful self. "Leave me learn that lesson ereI crave a new one. "

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1. The Earl of Northumberland, to induce King Richard to placehimself in the power of his cousin Henry. 

CHAPTER TWELVE. 

FROST AND SNOW. 

 "Whan bells were rung, and mass was sung, And every lady went hame, Than ilka lady had her yong sonne, But Lady Helen had nane. "

 _Old Ballad_. 

"I have come home, Mother!"

It was Constance who spoke, standing in the hall at Cardiff, wrapped inthe arms of the Dowager Lady Le Despenser. And in every sense, from thelightest to the deepest, the words were true. The wanderer had comehome. Home to the Castle of Cardiff, which she was never to leave anymore; home to the warm motherly arms of Elizabeth Le Despenser, who castall her worn-out theories to the winds, and took her dead son's haplessdarling to her heart of hearts; home to the great heart of God. And theear of the elder woman was open to a sound unheard by the younger. Thevoice of that dead son echoed in her heart, repeating his dying chargeto her--"Have a care of my Lady!"

"My poor stricken dove!" sobbed the Lady Elizabeth. "Child, men's cruelhandling hath robbed thee of much, yet it hath left thee God and thymother!"

Constance looked up, with tears gleaming in her sapphire eyes, now somuch calmer and sadder than of old. 

"Ay, " she said, the remembrance thrilling through her of the heavy priceat which she had bought back her children; "and I have paid nought forGod and thee. "

"Nay, daughter dear, Christ paid that wyte [forfeit] for thee. We maytrust Him to have a care of the quittance, " [receipt]. 

The children now claimed their share of notice. Richard kissed the oldlady in an energetic devouring style, and proclaimed himself "so glad, Grammer, so glad!" Isabel offered her cheek in her cold unchildlikeway. The baby Alianora at once accepted the new element as a perfectlysatisfactory grandmamma, and submitted to be dandled and talked nonsenseto with pleased equanimity. 

"O Bertram!" said Maude that night, "surely our Lady's troubles andtravails be now over!"

"It is well, wife, that God loveth her better than thou, " was theanswer. "He will not leave his jewel but half polished, because thesound of the cutting grieveth thine ears. "

"But how could she bear aught more?"

"Dear heart! how know we what any man can bear--aye, even our ownselves? Only God knoweth; and we trust Him. The heavenly Goldsmithbreaketh none of His gems in the cutting. "

The doors of the prison in Windsor Castle were opened that spring torelease two of the state prisoners. The dangerous prisoner, Edmund Earlof March, remained in durance; and his bright little brother Roger hadbeen set free already, by a higher decree than any of Henry ofBolingbroke. The child died in his dungeon, aged probably about tenyears. Now Anne and Alianora were summoned to Court, and placed underthe care of the Queen. They were described by the King as "deprived ofall their relatives and friends. " They were not quite that; but in sofar as they were, he was mainly responsible for having made them so. 

The manner in which King Henry provided the purchase-money required bythe Duke of Milan for Lucia is amusing for its ingenuity. The sumagreed upon was seventy thousand florins; and the King paid it out ofthe pockets of five of his nobles. One was his own son, Thomas Duke ofClarence; the second and third were husbands of two of Kent's sisters--Sir John Neville and Thomas Earl of Salisbury--the latter being the sonof the murdered Lollard; the fourth was Lord Scrope, whose characterappears to have been simple to an extreme; and the last was assuredlynever asked to consent to the exaction, for he was the hapless March, still close prisoner in Windsor Castle. 

In the summer, Constance received a grant of all her late husband'slands. The Court was very gay that summer with royal weddings. Thefirst bride was Constance's young stepmother, the Duchess Joan of York, who bestowed her hand on Lord Willoughby de Eresby: the second was theKing's younger daughter, the Princess Philippa, who was consigned to theungentle keeping of the far-off King of Denmark. Richard ofConisborough was selected to attend the Princess to Elsinore; but he wasso poor that the King was obliged to make all the provision he requiredfor the journey. It was not his own fault that his purse was light: hisgodfather, King Richard, had left him a sufficient competence; but thegrants of Richard of Bordeaux were not held always to bind Henry ofBolingbroke. But when the Earl of Cambridge returned to Elsinore, hewas rewarded for his labours, not with money nor lands, but by a grantof the only thing for which he cared--the gift of Anne Mortimer. He waspenniless, and so was she. But though poverty was an habitual residentwithin the doors, love did not fly out at the window. 

The year 1408 brought another sanguinary struggle in favour of March'stitle, headed by the old white-haired sinner Northumberland, who fell inhis attempt, at the battle of Bramham Moor, on the 29th of February. Hehad armed in the cause of Rome, which he hoped to induce March toespouse yet more warmly than Henry the Fourth. He probably did not knowthe boy personally, and imagined him the counterpart of his gallant, fervent father. He was as far from it as possible. Nothing on earthwould have induced March to espouse any cause warmly. He valued far toohighly his own dearly beloved ease. 

Matters dragged themselves along that autumn as lazily as even Marchcould have wished. All over England the rain came down, sometimes in adashing shower, but generally in an idle dreary dripping from eaves andramparts. Nothing particular was happening to any body. At Cardiff allwas extremely quiet. Constance had recovered as much brightness as shewould ever recover, but never any more would she be the Constance of oldtime. 

"Surely our Lady's troubles be over now!" said Maude sanguinely. 

On the evening on which that remark was made, --the fifteenth ofSeptember--two sisters of Saint Clare sat watching, in a small Frenchconvent, by the dying bed of a knight. At the siege of Briac Castle, five days earlier, he had been mortally wounded in the head by a boltfrom a crossbow; and his squires bore him into the little convent to diein peace. The sufferer had never fully recovered his consciousness. Heseemed but dimly aware of any thing--not fully sensible even to pain. His words were few, incoherent, scarcely intelligible. What the nunscould occasionally disentangle from his low mutterings was somethingabout "blue eyes, " and "watching from the lattice. " The last rites ofthe Church were administered, but there could be no confession; acrucifix was held before his eyes, but they doubted if he recognisedwhat it was. And about sunset of that autumn evening he died. 

So closed the few and evil days of the vain, weak, self-loving Kent. His age was only twenty-six; he left no child but the disinheritedAlianora, and his sisters took good care that she should remaindisinherited. They pounced upon the lands of the dead brother with aneagerness which would have been rather more decent had it been a littleless apparent; and to the widowed Lucia, who was the least guilty partyto the conspiracy for which she had been made the decoy, they leftlittle beyond her wardrobe. She was actually reduced to appeal to theKing's mercy for means to live. Henry responded to her piteous petitionby the offer of his brother of Dorset as a second husband. Lucia wasone of those women who are born actresses, and whose nature it is to dothings which seem forced and unnatural to others. She flattered theKing with anticipations that she was on the point of complying with hiswishes, till the last moment; and then she eloped with Sir Henry deMortimer, possibly a distant connection of the Earl of March. It may beadded, since Lucia now disappears from the story, that she survived hersecond marriage for fourteen years, and showed herself at her death amost devout member of the orthodox Church, by a will which was frombeginning to end a string of bequests for masses, to be sung for therepose of her soul, and of the soul of Kent. 

Bertram and Maude, to whom the news came first, scarcely knew how totell Constance of Kent's death. At last Maude thought of dressing thelittle Alianora in daughter's mourning, and sending her into hermother's room alone. The gradations of mourning were at that time sodistinct and minute that Constance's practised eye would read theparable in an instant. So they broke in that manner the news they darednot tell her. 

For the whole day there was no sign from Constance that she had evennoticed the hint. Her voice and manner showed no change. But at night, when the little child of three years old knelt at her mother's knee forher evening prayer, said Lollard-wise in simple English, they found ithad not escaped her. As the child came to the usual "God bless myfather and mother, "--which, fatherless as she had always been, she hadbeen taught to say, --Constance quietly checked her, and made her say, "God bless my mother" only. And at the close, little Alianora wasinstructed to add, --"God pardon my father's soul. "

Knowing how passionately Constance had once loved Kent, this calm showof indifference puzzled Maude Lyngern sorely. But to the Dowager Ladyit was no such riddle. 

"Her love is dead, child, " she said, when Maude timidly expressed hersurprise. "And when that is verily thus, it were lighter to bid a deadcorpse live than a dead love. "

All this time the Lollard persecution slowly waxed hotter and hotter. Men began to thank God when any "heretics" among their friends werepermitted to die in their beds, and to whisper in hushed accents thatwhen the Prince of Wales should be King, whose nature was more mercifulthan his father's, matters might perchance mend. They little knew whatthe future was to bring. The worst was not yet over, --was not even tocome during the reign of Henry of Bolingbroke. 

Seeing that Constance was now restored to her lands, and basking in thesunshine of Court favour, it struck Lady Abergavenny, a niece ofArchbishop Arundel, who was a politic woman--as most of his nieceswere--that an alliance between her son and Isabel Le Despenser would bea good speculation. And her Ladyship, being moreover a strong-mindedwoman, whose husband was of very little public and less privateconsequence, carried her point, and the marriage of Isabel with youngRichard Beauchamp took place at Cardiff on the eleventh birthday of thebride. 

The ceremony was slightly hastened at the wish of the Dowager Lady LeDespenser. She was anxious not to distress Constance by breaking thenews too suddenly to her, but she felt within herself that the goldenbowl was nearing its breaking at the fountain, and that the silver cordsof her earthly house of this tabernacle were not far from being takendown. She was an old woman, --very old, for a period wherein few livedto old age; she had long outlived her husband, and had seen the funeralsof nearly all her children. The greater part even of her earthlytreasures were already safe where moth and rust corrupt not, and her ownfeeling of earnest longing to rejoin them grew daily stronger. It wasfor the daughter's sake alone that she cared to live now; the daughterto whom men had left only God and that mother. A new lesson was now tobe taught to Constance--to rest wholly upon God. 

It was very tranquilly at last that Elizabeth Le Despenser passed awayfrom earth. She took most loving leave of Constance, blessed and saidfarewell to all her children, and charged Bertram and Maude to remainwith her and be faithful to her. 

Twenty years' companionship, fellowship in sorrow, and fellowship infaith, had effected a complete revolution in the feelings of Constancetowards her mother-in-law. 

"O Mother, Mother!" she sobbed; "what shall I do without you!"

"My child, " answered Elizabeth, "had the heavenly Master not seen thatthou shouldst well do without me, He had left me yet here. "

"You yourself said, Mother, that He had left me but Him and you!"

"Ay, dear daughter; and yet He hath left thee Himself. Every hour Heshall be with thee; and every hour of thy life moreover shall be an hourthe less betwixt thee and me. "

The last thing that they heard her murmur, which had reference to thatland whither she was going, was--"Neither schulen they die more. "

They laid her in the family vault at Tewkesbury Abbey; and once morethere was mourning at Cardiff. 

It was only just begun when news came of another death, far moreunexpected than hers. Richard of Conisborough and Anne Mortimer werealready the parents of a daughter; and two months after the death of theLady Le Despenser a son was born, who was hereafter to become the fatherof all the future kings of England. And while the young mother laywrapped in her first tender gladness over her new treasure, God calledher to come away to Him. So she left the little children who wouldnever call her "mother, " left the husband who was all the world to her;and--fragile White Rose as she was--Anne Mortimer "perished with theflowers. " She died "with all the sunshine on her, " aged only twenty-oneyears. Perhaps those who stood round her coffin thought it a very sadand strange dispensation of Providence. But we, who know what layhidden in the coming years, can see that God's time for her to die wasthe best and kindest time. And indications are not quite wanting, slight though they may be, that Richard of Conisborough was not apolitical, but a religious Lollard, and that this autumn journey of AnneMortimer to the unknown land may have been a triumphal entry into theCity of God. 

The news that Constance had of set purpose cast in her lot with theLollards was not long in travelling to Westminster. And she soon foundthat the lot of a Lollard was no bed of roses. In his anger, Henry ofBolingbroke departed from his usual rule of rigid justice, and revokedthe grant which Constance may be said to have purchased with her heart'sblood. Her favourite Richard, now a fine youth of sixteen, was takenfrom her, and his custody, possessions, and marriage were granted totrustees, of whom the chief persons were Archbishop Arundel and EdwardDuke of York. This meant that the trustees were to sell his hand to thefather of some eligible damsel, and pocket the proceeds; and also toconvert to their own use the rents of young Richard's estates until hewas of age. The Duke of York was just now a most devout and orthodoxperson. It was time, for any one who cared to save his life, as Edwarddid; for a solemn decree against Wycliffe's writings had just beenfulminated at Rome; and while Henry of Bolingbroke sat on the throne, England lay at the feet of the Pope. The trustees took advantage atonce of the favour done them, and sold young Richard (without consultingConstance) to the Earl of Westmoreland, for the benefit of one of hisnumerous daughters, the Lady Alianora Neville. She was a little girl ofabout ten years old, and remained in the charge of her mother, theKing's sister. In the April following it pleased the Duke of York topay a visit to his sister, and to bring her son in his train. Edwardwas particularly silent at first. He appeared to have heard no news, tobe actuated by no motive in coming, and generally to have nothing tosay. Richard, on the contrary, was evidently labouring under suppressedexcitement of some kind. But when they sat down to supper, York calledfor Malvoisie, and threw a bomb into the midst of the company by thewish which he uttered as he carried the goblet to his lips. 

"God pardon King Henry's soul!"

He was answered by varying exclamations in different tones. 

"Ay, Madam, 'tis too true!" broke forth young Richard, addressing hismother; "but mine uncle's Grace willed me not to speak thereof until heso should. "

"Harry of Bolingbroke is dead?--Surely no!"

"Dead as a door-nail, " said York unfeelingly. 

"Was he sick of long-time?"

"Long enough!" responded York in the same manner. "Long enough to wearyevery soul that ministered to his fantasies, and to cause them ring thechurch bells for joy that their toil was over. Leprosy, by my troth!--asweet disorder to die withal!"

"Ned, I pray thee keep some measure in speech. "

"By the Holy Coat of Treves! but if thou wouldst love to deal withal, Custance, thy tarrying at Kenilworth hath wrought mighty change in thee. Marry, it pleased the Lady Queen to proffer unto me an even's watch inthe chamber. `Good lack! I thank your Grace, ' quoth I, `but 'tis mineuttermost sorrow that I should covenant with one at Hackney to meet withme this even, and I must right woefully deny me the ease that it shoulddo me to abide with his Highness. ' An honest preferment, to be his sicknurse, by Saint Lawrence his gridiron! Nay, by Saint Zachary hisshoe-strings, but there were two words to that bargain!"

"Then what did your Grace, Uncle?" said Isabel in her cool, grown-upstyle. 

"Did? Marry, little cousin, I rade down to Norwich House, and played agood hour at the cards with my Lord's Grace of Norwich; and then I layme down on the settle and gat me a nap; and after spices served, Iturned back to Westminster, and did her Grace to wit that it were rarecold riding from Hackney. "

"Is your Grace yet shriven sithence, Uncle?" inquired young Richardrather comically. 

"The very next morrow, lad, my said Lord of Norwich the confessor. Ibare it but a night, nor it did me not no disease in sleeping. "

"Maybe it should take a heavy sin to do that, fair Uncle, " said Isabelwith a sneer. 

"What wist, such a chick as thou?" returned York, holding out his gobletto the dispenser of Malvoisie. 

A little lower down the table, Sir Bertram Lyngern and Master HughCalverley were discussing less serious subjects in a more sober andbecoming manner. 

"Truly, our new King hath well begun, " said Hugh. "My Lord of March isreleased of his prison, and shall be wed this next summer to the LadyAnne of Stafford, and his sister the Lady Alianora unto my Lord of Devonhis son; and all faithful friends and servants of King Richard be set infavour; and 'tis rumoured about the Court that your Lady shall receiveconfirmation of every of his father's grants made unto her. "

"I trust it shall so be verily, " said Bertram. 

"And further yet, " pursued Hugh, slightly dropping his voice, "'tis saidthat the King considereth to take unto the Crown great part of themoneys and lands of the Church. "

"Surely no!"

"Ay, so far as my judgment serveth, 'tis so soothly. "

"But that were sacrilege!"

"Were it?" asked Hugh coolly. 

For the extreme Lollards, of whom he was one, looked upon the twopolitical acts which we have learned to call disestablishment anddisendowment, as not only permissible, but desirable. In so saying, Ispeak of the political Lollards. All political Lollards, however, werenot religious ones, nor were all religious Lollards sharers in thesepolitical views. John of Gaunt, a strong political Lollard, was never areligious one in his life; while King Richard, who decidedly leaned tothem in religion, disliked their politics exceedingly. In fact, it wasrather the fervent, energetic, practical reformers who took up with suchaims; while those among them who walked quietly with God let the matteralone. Hugh Calverley had been drawn into these questions rather bycircumstances than choice. While he was emphatically one that "sighedand that cried for all the abominations that were done in the midst of"his Israel, he was sagacious enough to know that even from his own pointof view, the abolition of the hierarchy, or the suppression of themonastic orders, were no more than lopping off branches, while the rootremained. 

It was perfectly true that Henry the Fifth seriously contemplated thepolicy of disendowment, which Parliament had in vain suggested to hisfather. And it continued to be true for some six months longer. Theclue has not yet been discovered to the mysterious and sudden changewhich at that date came over, not only the policy, but the wholecharacter of Henry of Monmouth. Up to that date he had himself beensomething very like a political Lollard; ever after it he was ferventlyorthodox. The suddenness of the change was not less remarkable than itscompleteness. It took place about the first of October, 1413; and itexactly coincides in date with a visit from Archbishop Arundel, to urgeupon the reluctant King the apprehension of his friend Lord Cobham. Whatever may have been the means of the alteration, there can be butlittle question as to who was the agent. 

The King's confirmation of grants to his cousin Constance occurredbefore this ominous date; and, revoking the last penalty inflicted, itrestored her son to her custody. Richard therefore came home in July, where he remained until September. His attendance was then commanded atCourt, and he left Cardiff accordingly. 

"Farewell, Madam!" he said brightly, as his mother gave him her farewellkiss and blessing. "God allowing, I trust to be at home again ereChristmas; and from London I will seek to bring your Grace and mysisters some gear of pleasance. "

"Farewell, my Dickon!" said Constance, lovingly. "Have a care ofthyself, fair son. Remember, thou art now my dearest treasure. "

"No fear, sweet Lady!"

So he sailed off, waving his hand or his cap from the boat, so long ashe could be seen. 

A letter came from him three weeks later--a doubtful, uneasy letter, showing that the mind of the writer was by no means at rest concerningthe future. The King had received him most graciously, and every one atCourt was kind to him; but the sky was lowering ominously over thestruggling Church of God--that little section of the Holy CatholicChurch, on which the "mother and mistress of all churches" looked downwith such supreme contempt. The waves of persecution were rising highernow than to the level of poor tailors like John Badby, or even ofpriestly graduates like William Sautre. 

"Lady, I do you to wit, " wrote young Richard, "that as this day, SirJohn Oldcastle, Lord Cobham, was put to his trial, and being convinced[convicted], was cast [sentenced]; the beginning and end of whoseoffence is that he is a Lollard confessed, and hath harboured other menof the like opinions. And the said Lord is now close prisoner in theTower of London, nor any of his kin ne lovers [friends] suffered to comeanigh him. And at the Court it is rumoured that Sir William Hankeford(whom your Ladyship shall well remember) should be sent into our partsof South Wales, there to put down both heresy and sedition: whichsedition, methinks, your Ladyship's favour allowing, shall point at SirOwain Glendordy [the name is usually spelt thus in contemporaryrecords]; and the heresy so called, both your Ladyship and I, yourhumble son and servant, do well know what it doth signify. So no moreat this present writing; but praying our Lord that He would have yourLadyship in His good keeping, and that all we may do His good pleasure, I rest. "

Twelve days later came another letter, written in a strange hand. Itwas dated from Merton Abbey, in Surrey, was attested by the Abbot'sofficial cross and seal, and contained only a few lines. But neverthroughout her troubled life had any letter so wrung the heart ofConstance Le Despenser. For those few formal lines brought the newsthat never again would her eyes be gladdened by her heart's dearesttreasure--that the Angel of Death had claimed for his own her bright, loving, fair-haired Richard. 

No details have been handed down concerning that early and lamenteddeath of the last Lord Le Despenser. We do not even know how the boydied--whether by the visitation of God in sudden illness, or by the fiatof Thomas de Arundel, making the twelfth murder which lay upon thatblack, seared soul. He was buried where he died, in the Abbey ofMerton--far from his home, far from his mother's tears and his father'sgrave. It was always the lot of the hapless buds of the White Rose tobe scattered in death. 

There was only one person at Cardiff who did not mourn bitterly for itsyoung Lord. To his sister Isabel, the inheritance to which she nowbecame sole heiress--the change of her title from "Lady Isabel deBeauchamp" to "The Lady Le Despenser"--were amply sufficientcompensation to outweigh the loss of a brother. But little Alianorawept bitterly. 

"Ay me! what a break is this in our Lady's line!" lamented Maude toBertram. "God grant it the last, _if_ His will is!"

It was only one funeral of a long procession. 

The Issue Roll for Michaelmas, 1413 to 1414, bears two terriblysignificant entries--the expenses for the custody of Katherine Mortimerand her daughters, who were "in the King's keeping"--and the costs ofthe funerals of the same persons, buried in Saint Swithin's Church, London. This was the hapless daughter of Owain Glyndwr, the wife ofEdmund Mortimer, uncle of the Earl of March. A mother and two or moredaughters do not usually require burial together, unless they die ofcontagious disease. Of course that may have been the case; but theentry looks miserably like a judicial murder. 

Stirring events followed in rapid succession. Lord Cobham escapedmysteriously from the Tower, and as mysteriously from an armed band sentto apprehend him by Abbot Heyworth of Saint Albans. Old Judge Hankefordmade his anticipated visit to South Wales, and ceremoniously paid hisrespects to the Lady of Cardiff, whose associations with his name werenot of the most agreeable order. With the new year came the unfortunateinsurrection of the political Lollards, goaded to revolt partly by thefierce persecution, partly by a chivalrous desire to restore the belovedKing Richard, whom many of them believed to be still living in Scotland. Wales and its Marches were their head-quarters. Thomas Earl ofArundel--son of a persecutor--was sent to the Principality at the headof an army, to "subdue the rebels;" Sir Roger Acton and Sir JohnBeverley, two of the foremost Lollards of the new generation, were putto death; and strict watch was set in every quarter for Lord Cobham, once more escaped as if by miracle. 

And then suddenly came another death--this time by the distinct andawful sentence of God Almighty. He stooped to disconcert for a momentthe puny plans of men who had set themselves in array against the Lordand His Christ. On the chief of all the persecutors, Sir Thomas deArundel himself, the angel of God's vengeance laid his irresistiblehand. Cut off in the blossom of his sin--struck down in a moment byparalysis of the throat, which deprived him of all power of speech orswallowing--the dreaded Archbishop passed to that awful tribunal wherehis earthly eloquence was changed to silence and shame. He died, probably, not unabsolved; they could still lay the consecrated waferupon the silent tongue, and touch with the chrism the furrowed brow andbrilliant eyes: but he must have died unconfessed--a terrible thing tohim, if he really believed himself the doctrines which he spent his lifein forcing upon others. 

Arundel was dead; but the infernal generalissimo of the persecutors, whocould not die, was ready with a worthy successor. Henry Chichelestepped into the vacant seat, and the fierce battle against the saintswent on. 

The nephew of the deceased Archbishop, Thomas Earl of Arundel, presentedhimself at Cardiff early in the year. He lost no time in delicateinsinuations, but came at once to his point. Was the Lady of Cardiffready to give all possible aid to himself and his troops, against thosetraitors and heretics called Lollards? The answer was equally distinct. With some semblance of the old fire flashing in her eyes, the Lady ofCardiff refused to give him any aid whatever. 

The Earl hinted in answer, with a sarcastic smile, that judging by therumours which had reached the Court, he had scarcely expected any otherconduct from her. 

"Look ye for what ye will, " returned the dauntless Princess. "Never yetfurled I my colours in peace; and I were double craven if I should do itin war!"

Her words were reported to the relentless hearts at Westminster. Theresult was an order to seize all the manors of the Despenser heritage, and to deliver them to Edward Duke of York, the King's dearly belovedcousin, by way of compensation (said the grant) for the loss which hehad sustained by the death of Richard Le Despenser. But thecompensation was estimated at a high figure. 

There were some curious contradictory statutes passed this year. Ahundred and ten monasteries were suppressed by order of Council, and atthe same time another order was issued for the extirpation of heresy. But, as usual, "the blood of the martyrs was the seed of the Church. "Wycliffism increased rapidly among the common people. Meanwhile Henrywas preparing for his French campaign; and at Constance the seventeenthGeneral Council of Christendom was just gathering, and John Huss, withthe Emperor's worthless safe-conduct in his pocket, was hasteningtowards his prison--not much larger than a coffin--in the Monastery ofSaint Maurice. The Council ended their labours by burning Huss. Theywould have liked to burn Wycliffe; but as he had been at rest with Godfor over thirty years, they took refuge in the childish revenge ofdisinterring and burning his senseless bones. And "after that, they hadno more that they could do. "

The day that heard Huss's sentence pronounced in the white-walledCathedral of Constance, Edward Duke of York--accompanied by a littlegroup of knights and squires, one of whom was Hugh Calverley--walked hisoppressed horse across the draw-bridge at Cardiff. Life had agreed sowell with York that he had become very fat upon it. He had no children, his wife never contradicted him, and he did not keep that troublesomearticle called a conscience; so his sorrows and perplexities were few. On the whole, he had found treachery an excellent investment--for onelife; and York left the consideration of the other to his death-bed. Itmay be that at times, even to this Dives, the voice from Heavenmercifully whispered, "Thou fool!" But he never stayed hischariot-wheels to listen--until one autumn evening, by SouthamptonWater, when the end loomed full in view, the Angel of Death came verynear, and there rose before him, suddenly and awfully, the dreadpossibility of a life which might not close with a death-bed. But itwas yet bright summer when he reached Cardiff; and not yet had come thatdark, solemn August hour, when Edward Duke of York should dictate histrue character as "of all sinners the most wicked. "

On this particular summer day at Cardiff, York was, for him, especiallygay and bright. Yet that night in the Cathedral of Constance stood JohnHuss before his judges; and in the Convent of Coimbra an EnglishPrincess [Philippa Queen of Portugal, eldest daughter of John of Gaunt], long ago forgotten in England, yet gentlest and best daughters ofLancaster, lay waiting for death. Somewhere in this troublesome worldthe bridal is always matched by the burial, the festal song by thefuneral dirge. Men and women are always mourning, somewhere. 

York's mind was full of one subject, the forthcoming campaign in France. He was to sail from Southampton with his royal master in August. Bedford was to be left Regent, the King's brother--Bedford, who, whatever else he were, was no Lollard, and was not likely to let aLollard escape his fangs. And on this interesting topic York's tongueran on glibly--how King Henry meant to march at once upon Paris, proclaim himself King of France, be crowned at Saint Denis, marry one ofthe French Princesses--which, it did not much signify--and return home aconquering hero, mighty enough to brave even the Emperor himself on anyEuropean battle-plain. 

A little lower down the table, Hugh Calverley's mind was also full ofone subject. 

"Nay, " he whispered earnestly to Bertram: "he is yet hid some whither, --here, in Wales. Men wit not where; and God forbid too many should!"

"Then men be yet a-searching for him?"

"High and low, leaving no stone unturned. God keep His true servantsafe, unto His honour!"

It needs no far-fetched conjecture to divine that they were speaking ofLord Cobham. 

"And goest unto these French wars, sweet Hugh?"

"Needs must; my Lord's Grace hath so bidden me. "

"But thou wert wont to hold that no Christian man should of right beararms, neither fight. "

"Truth; and yet do, " said Hugh quietly. This was the view of theextreme Lollards. 

"Then how shall thine opinion serve in the thick of fight?"

"As it hath aforetime. I cannot fight. "

"But how then?" asked Bertram, opening his eyes. 

"I can die, Bertram Lyngern, " answered the calm, resolute voice. "Andit may be that I should die as truly for my Master Christ there, as atthe martyr's stake. For sith God's will hath made yonder noble Lord mymaster, and hath set me under him to do his bidding, in all matters notsinful, his will is God's will for me; and I can follow him to yonderbattle-plain with as easy an heart and light as though I went to liedown on my bed to sleep. Not to fight, good friend; not to resist norcontend with any man; only to do God's will. And is that not worthdying for?"

Bertram made no reply. But his memory ran far back to the olden days atLangley--to a scriptorius who had laid down his pen to speak of twolads, both of whom he looked to see great men, but he deemed him thegreater who was not ashamed of his deed. And Bertram's heart whisperedto him that, knight as he was, while Hugh remained only a simple squire, yet now as ever, Hugh was the greater hero. For he knew that it wouldhave cost him a very bitter struggle to accept an unhonoured grave suchas Hugh anticipated, only because he thought it was God's will. 

They parted the next morning. Edward's last words to his sister were"Adieu, Custance, I will send thee a fleur-de-lis banner as trophy fromthe fight. The oriflamme [Note 1], if the saints will have it so!"

But Hugh's were--"Farewell, dear friend Bertram. Remember, both thouand I may do God's will!"

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Note 1. The oriflamme was _the_ banner of France, kept in the Cathedralof Saint Denis, and held almost sacred. 

CHAPTER THIRTEEN. 

THE GARDEN OF GOD. 

 I'm kneeling at the threshold, aweary, faint, and sore; I'm waiting for the dawning, for the opening of the door; I'm waiting till the Master shall bid me rise and come To the glory of His presence, the gladness of His home. 

 A weary path I've travelled, mid darkness, storm, and strife, Bearing many a burden, contending for my life; But now the morn is breaking, --my toil will soon be o'er; I'm kneeling at the threshold, my hand is at the door. 

 O Lord, I wait Thy pleasure! Thy time and way are best: But I'm wasted, worn, and weary:--my Father, bid me rest!

 _Dr Alexander_. 

The full glory of summer had come at last. Over Southampton Water brokea cloudless August day. The musical cries of the sailors who were atwork on the Saint Mary, the James, and the Catherine, in the offing--preparing for the King's voyage to France--came pleasantly from thedistance. From the country farms, girls with baskets poised on theirheads, filled with market produce, came into the crowded sea-port town, where the whole Court awaited a fair wind. There was no wind from anyquarter that day. Earth and sea and sky presented a dead calm: and theonly place which was not calm was the heart of fallen man. For a fewsteps from the busy gates and the crowded market is Southampton Green, and there, draped in mourning, stands the scaffold, and beside it thestate headsman. 

All the Court are gathered here. It is a break in the monotony ofexistence--the tiresome dead level of waiting for the wind to change. 

The first victim is brought out. Trembling and timidly he comes--HenryLe Scrope of Upsal, the luckless husband of the Duchess Dowager of York, Treasurer of the Household, only a few days since in the highest favour. He was arrested, tried, and sentenced in twenty-four hours, just a weekbefore. No voice pleads for poor Scrope, --a simple, single-minded man, who never made an enemy till now. He dies to-day--"on suspicion ofbeing suspected" of high treason. 

The block and the axe are wiped clean of Scrope's blood, and theheadsman stands waiting for the Sheriff to bring the second victim. 

He comes forward calmly, with quiet dignity; a stately, fair-hairedman, --ready to die, because ready to meet God. And we know the face ofRichard of Conisborough, the finest and purest character of the royalline, the fairest bud of the White Rose. He has little wish to livelonger. Life was stripped of its flowers for him four years ago, whenhe heard the earth cast on the coffin of his pale desert flower. She isin Heaven; and Christ is in Heaven; and Heaven is better than earth. Sowhat matter, though the passage be low and dark which leads up to thegate of the Garden of God? Yet this is no easy nor honourable death todie. No easy death to a man of high sense of chivalrous honour; nolight burden, thus to be led forth before the multitude, to a death ofshame, --on his part undeserved. Perhaps men will know some day howlittle he deserved it. At any rate, God knows. And whatever shamefulend be decreed for the servant, it can never surpass that of the Master. The utmost that any child of God can suffer for Christ, can never equalwhat Christ has suffered for him. 

And so, calm in mien, willing in heart, Richard of Conisborough wentthrough the dark passage, to the Garden of God. But if ever a judicialmurder were committed in this world, it was done that day on SouthamptonGreen, when the blood of the Lollard Prince dyed the dust of thescaffold. 

The accusation brought against the victims was high treason. Theindictment bore falsehood on its face by going too far. It asserted, not only that they had conspired to raise March to the throne--whichmight perhaps have been believed; but also that they had plotted theassassination of King Henry--which no one who knew them could believe;that March, taken into their counsels, had asked for an hour to considerthe matter, and had then gone straight to the King and revealed theplot--which no one who knew March could believe. The whole accusationwas a tissue of improbabilities and inconsistencies. No evidence wasoffered; the conclusion was foregone from the beginning. So they diedon Southampton Green. 

Perhaps Henry's heart failed him at the last moment. For some reason, Richard of Conisborough was spared the last and worst ignominy of atraitor's death--the exposure of the severed head on some city gate. Henry allowed his remains to receive quiet and honourable burial. 

The next day a decree was passed, pardoning March for all crimes andoffences. The only offence which he had ever committed against theHouse of Lancaster was his own existence; and for that he could scarcelybe held responsible, either in law or equity. But can we say as muchfor the offence against God and man which he committed on that sixth ofAugust, when he suffered himself to be dragged to the judge's bench, onwhich he sat with others to condemn the husband of that sister Anne whohad been his all but mother?

We shall see no more of Edmund Mortimer. He ended life as he began it--as much like a vegetable as a human being could well make himself. FewMortimers attained old age, nor did he. He died in his thirty-fourthyear, issueless and unwept; and Richard Duke of York, the son of AnneMortimer and Richard of Conisborough, succeeded to the White Rose's"heritage of woe. "

A week after the execution, the King sailed for Harfleur. 

The campaign was short, for those days of long campaigns; but pestilenceraged among the troops, and cut off some of the finest men. The Earl ofSuffolk died before they left Harfleur, and ere they reached Picardy, the Earl of Arundel. But the King pressed onward, till on the night ofthe 24th of October, he encamped, ready to give battle, near the littlevillage of Azincour, to be thenceforward for ever famous, under itsEnglish name of Agincourt. 

The army was in a very sober mood. The night was spent quietly, by themore careless in sleep, by the more thoughtful in prayer. The Duke ofYork was among the former; the King among the latter. Henry is said tohave wrestled earnestly with God that no sins of his might be rememberedagainst him, to lead to the discomfiture of his army. There was needfor the entreaty. Perchance, had he slept that night, some such ghostlyvisions, born of his own conscience, might have disturbed his sleep, asthose which troubled one of his successors on the eve of Bosworth Field. 

When morning came, and the King was at breakfast with his brother PrinceHumphrey, the Duke of York presented himself with a request that hemight be permitted to lead the vanguard. 

Humphrey, who was of a sarcastic turn of mind, amused himself by a fewjokes on the obesity of the royal applicant; but the request wasgranted, and York rode off well pleased. 

"Stand thou at my stirrup, Calverley, " said York to his squire. "I castno doubt thou wilt win this day thy spurs; and for me, I look to comeoff covered with glory. "

"How many yards of glory shall it take to cover his Grace?" whisperedone of the irreverent varlets behind them. 

"Howsoe'er, little matter, " pursued the Duke. "I can scantly go higherthan I am: wherefore howso I leave the field, little reck I. "

Hugh Calverley looked up earnestly at his master. 

"Sir Duke, " he said, "hath it come into your Grace's mind that no lessyourself than your servants may leave this field dead corpses?"

"Tut, man! croak not, " said York. "I have no intent to leave it otherthan alive--thou canst do as it list thee. "

Two months had elapsed since that August evening when, terrified by hisbrother's sudden and violent death, Edward Duke of York had dictated hiswill in terms of such abject penitence. The effect of that terror waswearing away. The unseen world, which had come very near, receded intothe far distance; and the visible world returned to its usualprominence. And York's aim had always been, not "so to pass throughthings temporal that he lost not the things eternal, " but so to passtowards things eternal that he lost not the things temporal. His ownchoice proved his heaviest punishment: "for he in his life-time receivedhis good things. "

It was a terrible battle which that day witnessed at Agincourt. In onequarter of the field Prince Humphrey lay half dead upon the sward; whenthe King, riding up and recognising his brother, sprang from his saddle, took his stand over the prostrate body, and waving his good battle-axein his strong firm hand, kept the enemy at bay, and saved his brother'slife. In another direction, a sudden charge of the French pressed alittle band of English officers and men close together, till not one inthe inner ranks could move hand or foot--crushed them closer, closer, asif the object had been to compress them into a consolidated mass. Atlast help came, the French were beaten off, and the living wall was freeto separate into its component atoms of human bodies. But as it did so, from the interior of the mass one man fell to the ground, dead. No oneneeded to ask who it was. The royal fleurs-de-lis and lions on thesurcoat, with an escocheon of pretence bearing the arms of Leon andCastilla--the princely coronet surrounding the helmet--were enough totell the tale. Other men might come alive out of the fight ofAgincourt, but Edward Duke of York would only leave it a corpse. 

He stands on the page of history, a beacon for all time. No man livingin his day better knew the way of righteousness; no man living took lesscare to walk in it. During the later years of his life, it seemed as ifthat dread Divine decree might have gone forth, most awful even ofDivine decrees--"Let him alone. " He had refused to be troubled withGod, and the penalty was that God would not be troubled with him: Hewould not force His salvation on this unwilling soul. And now, when"behind, he heard Time's iron gates close faintly, " it was too late forrenewing to repentance. He that was unholy must be unholy still. Verily, he had his reward. 

The end of the struggle was now approaching. On every side the Frenchwere hemmed in and beaten down. Prince Humphrey had been earned to theroyal tent, but the King was still in the field--here, there, andeverywhere, as nearly ubiquitous as a man could be--riding from point topoint, and now and then engaging in single-handed skirmish. A Frencharcher, waiting for an opportunity to distinguish himself, levelled hiscrossbow at the royal warrior, while he remained for a momentstationary. In another second the victory of Agincourt would have beenturned into a defeat, and probably a panic. But at the critical instanta squire flung himself before the King, and received the shaft intendedfor his Sovereign. He fell, but uttered no word. 

"Truly, a gallant deed, Master Squire!" cried Henry. "Whatso be yourname, rise a knight banneret. "

"The squire will arise no more, Sire, " said the voice of the Earl ofHuntingdon behind him. "Your Highness' grace hath come too late; he isdead. "

"In good sooth, I am sorry therefor, " returned the King. "Never saw Ibraver deed, ne better done. Well! if he leave son or widow, they mayreceive our grace in his guerdon. Who is he? Ho, archer! thou bearestour cousin of York his livery, and so doth this squire. Win hither--unlace his helm, and give us to wit if thou know him. "

And when the helm was unlaced, and the archer had recognised the deadface, they knew that the Lollard squire, Hugh Calverley, had saved thelife of the persecutor at the cost of his own. 

He had spoken the simple truth. He could not fight, but he could die. He could not write his name upon the world's roll of glory, but he coulddo God's will. 

The public opinion of earth accounts this a mean and unworthy object. The public opinion of Heaven is probably of a different character. 

Nothing was to be done for widow or child, for Hugh Calverley leftneither. He was no ascetic; he was merely a man who thought first ofhow he might please the Lord, and who felt himself least fettered bysingle life. So there was no love in his heart but the love of Christ, and nothing on earth that he desired in comparison of Him. 

And on earth he had no guerdon. Even the royal words of praise he didnot live to hear. But on the other side of the dark river passed soquickly, there were the garland of honour, and the palm of victory, andthe King's "Well done, good and faithful servant!" Verily, also, he hadhis reward. 

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The autumn was passing into winter before the news reached Constanceeither of the battle of Agincourt or of the murder on Southampton Green. At first she was utterly crushed and prostrated. The old legal leaven, so hard to work out of the human conscience, wrought upon her withtenfold force, and she declared that God was against her, and waswreaking His wrath upon her for the lie which she had told in denyingthe validity of her marriage. Was it not evidently so? she asked. HadHe not first bereft her of her darling, the precious boy whom her sinhad preserved to her? And now not only Edward, but the favouritebrother, Dickon, were gone likewise. Herself, her stepmother, herwidowed sisters-in-law [Note 1], and the two little children of Richard, were alone left of the House of York. The news of Edward's death shebore with comparative equanimity: it was the sudden and dreadful end ofRichard which so completely overpowered her. 

"Hold thy peace, Maude!" she said mournfully, in answer to Maude'stender efforts to console her. "God is against me and all mine House. We have sinned; or rather, _I_ have sinned, --and have thus brought downsorrow and mourning upon the hearts that were dearest to me. I owe adebt; and it must needs be paid, even to the uttermost farthing. "

"But, dear my Lady, " urged Maude, not holding her peace asrequested, --"what do you, to pay so much as one farthing of that debt?Christ our Lord hath taken the same upon Him. A debt cannot be twicepaid. "

"I do verily trust, " she said humbly, "that He hath paid for me the debteternal; yet is there a debt earthly, and this is for my paying. "

"Never a whit!" cried Maude earnestly. "Dear my Lady, not one cross[farthing] thereof! That which we suffer at the hand of our Father isnot debt, but discipline; the chastising of the son, not the work wrungby lash from the slave. `The children are free. '"

"Ay, free from the curse and the second death, " she said, stilldespondingly; "but from pains and penalties of sin in this life, Maude, not freed. An' I cut mine hand with yonder knife, God shall not healthe wound by miracle because I am His child. "

Maude felt that the illustration was true, but she was not sure that itwas apposite, neither was she convinced that her own view was mistaken. She glanced at Sir Ademar de Milford, who sat on the settle, studyingthe works of Saint Augustine, as if to ask him to answer for her. Ademar was no longer the family confessor, for the family had given overconfessing; but Archbishop Chichele, professing himself satisfied of hisorthodoxy, had revoked the now useless writ of excommunication, and thepriest had resumed his duties as chaplain. Ademar laid down his book inanswer to the appealing glance from Maude's eyes. 

"Lady, " he said, "how much, I pray you, is owing to your Grace from theyoung ladies your daughters, for food and lodging?"

"Owing from my little maids!" exclaimed Constance. 

"That is it which I would know, " replied Ademar gravely. 

"From my little maids!" she repeated in astonishment. 

"It is written, Madam, in His book, that as one whom his mothercomforteth, He comforteth us. Wherefore, seeing that the comfort yourGrace looketh for at His hands is to have you afore the reeve forpayment of your debts, it setteth me to think that you shall needs useyour children likewise. "

"Never!" cried Constance emphatically. "And so say I, Lady, " returnedAdemar significantly. "But, Sir Ademar, God doth chastise Hischildren!"

"Truly so, Madam, as you yours. But I marvel which is the moresufferer--yourself or the child. "

He spoke pointedly, for only the day before Isabel had chosen to be verynaughty, and had imperatively required correction, which he knew hadcost far more to Constance to administer than to her refractory child toreceive. 

"Then, Sir Ademar, you do think He suffereth when He chastiseth us?" sheasked, her voice faltering a little. "I cannot think, Dame, that Heloveth the rod. Only He loveth too well the child to leave himuncorrected. "

"O, Sir Ademar!" she cried suddenly--"I do trust He shall not find needto try me yet again through these childre! I am so feared I should failand fall. Ah me! weak and wretched woman that I am, --I could not bearto see these two forced from me! God help and pardon me; but me fearethif it should come to this yet again, I would do anything to keep them!"

"The Lord can heal the waters, Lady, ere He fetch you to drink them. "

"He did not this draught aforetime, " she said sadly. 

"Maybe, " replied Ademar, "because He saw that your Ladyship's disorderneeded a bitter medicine. "

There was a respite for just one year. But ever after the news of herbrother Richard's death, Constance drooped and pined; and when the freshstorm broke, it found her an invalid almost confined to her bed. Itbegan with a strong manifesto from Archbishop Chichele against theLollards. Then came a harshly-worded order for all landed proprietorsin the Marches of South Wales to reside on their estates and "keep offthe rebels. " One of these was specially directed to Constance LeDespenser. 

But who were the rebels? Owain Glyndwr had died twelve months before. It could not mean him; and there was only one person whom it could mean. It meant Lord Cobham, still in hiding, whom Lord Powys was in the fieldto capture, and on whose head a rich reward was set. The authoritieswere trembling in fear of a second outbreak under his guidance. Bertramgave the missive to Maude, who carried it to Constance. Disobediencewas to be visited by penalty; and how it was likely to be punished inher case, Constance knew only too well. She received it with a moan ofanguish. 

"My little maids! my little, little maids!"

She said no more: she only grew worse and weaker. 

Then Lord Powys, in search for the "rebels, " marched up and demandedaid. He was answered by silence: and he marched on and away, helped byno hand or voice in Cardiff Castle. 

"I must give them up!" Constance whispered to Maude, in accents sohopelessly mournful that it wrung her tender heart to hear them. "Icannot give Him up!"

For just then, in the eyes of every Lollard, to follow Lord Cobham wasequivalent to following Christ. 

Weaker and weaker she grew now; always confined to bed; worse from dayto day. 

And at last, on the 28th of November, 1416, the ominous horn soundedwithout the moat, and the Sheriff of the county, armed with all thepower of the law, entered the Castle of Cardiff, to call the Lady LeDespenser to account for her repeated and contumacious neglect of theroyal command. 

"Lady mine, " said Maude, tenderly, kneeling by her, "the Sheriff ishere. "

"It is come, then!" replied Constance very quietly. "Bring my littlemaids to me. Let me kiss them once more ere they tear them away fromme. God help me to bear the rest!"

She kissed them both, and blessed them fervently, bidding them "be goodmaids and serve God. " Then she lay back again in the bed, and softlyturned her face to the wall so that the intruders would not see it. 

"The Sheriff may enter in, " she said in a low voice. "Lord, I have leftall, and have followed Thee!"

Does it seem a small matter for which to sacrifice all? The balances ofthe Sanctuary are not used with weights of earth. 

The Sheriff came in. Maude stood up boldly, indignantly, and demandedto know wherefore he had come. The answer was what she expected. 

"To seize the persons of the Lady Le Despenser and her daughters, accused of disobedience to the law, and perverse contumacy, in that shedid deny to aid with money and men the search for one John Oldcastle, aprison-breaker convict of heresy and sedition. "

"Is he taken?" said Bertram almost involuntarily. 

"Nay, not so yet; but the good Lord Powys is now a-hunting after him. He that shall take him shall net a thousand marks thereby, and twentymarks by the year further. "

Maude drew a long sigh. 

"Much good do they him!" exclaimed Bertram ironically. 

Maude went back to the bed and spoke to her mistress. 

"Lady, heard you what he said?"

There was no answer, and Maude spoke again. Still the silence wasunbroken. She touched the shoulder, and yet no response. 

"An' it like you, Madam, you must arise and come with me, " said theSheriff bluntly, as Maude bent over the sufferer. Then, with a lowmoan, she sank on her knees by the bedside, and a cry which was not allbitterness broke from her. 

"`And thus hath Christ unwemmed kept Custance'!"

"What matter, wife?" said Bertram in a tone of sudden apprehension. 

"No matter any more!" replied Maude, lifting her white face. "MasterSheriff, she was dying ere you came to prison her, --on a sendel thread[a linen cloth of the finest quality] hung her life: but ere you touchedher, God snapped yon thread, and set her free. "

Ay, what matter?--though they seized on the poor relic of mortalitywhich had once been Constance Le Despenser?--though the mean vengeancewas taken of leaving her coffin unburied for four dreary years? "Afterthat, they had no more that they could do. " It was only the witheredleaves that were left in their hands; the White Rose was free. 

"What shall become of the young ladies, Master Sheriff?"

"Nay, " growled the surly official, "the hen being departed, I lacknought of the chicks. They may go whither it list them; only thisCastle and all therein is confiscate. "

Maude turned to Isabel, now a tall statuesque maiden of sixteen years. 

"I shall send to my Lord, of force, " she answered coldly, "and desirethat he come and fetch me hence. "

"And your sister, the Lady Alianora?"

The child was kneeling by the side of her dead mother, wrapped inunutterable grief. Isabel cast a contemptuous glance upon her. 

"No sister of mine!" she said in the same tone. "I cannot be burdenedwith nameless childre. "

For an instant Maude's indignation rose above both her discretion andher sorrow. She cried--"Girl, God pardon you those cruel words!"--butthen with a strong effort she bridled her tongue, and sitting down bythe bed, drew the sobbing child's head upon her bosom. 

"My poor homeless darling! doth none want thee, my dove?--not even thineown mother's daughter?--Bertram, good husband, thou wilt not let[hinder] me?--Sweet, come then with us, and be our daughter--to whombeside thee God hath given none. Meseemeth as though He now saith, `Take this child and nurse it for Me. ' Lord, so be it!"

At the end of those four years, men's revenge was satiated, andpermission was given for the funeral of the unburied coffin. But theylaid her, as they had laid her son, far from the scene of her home, andfrom the graves of her beloved. The long unused royal vault in theBenedictine Abbey of Reading, in which the latest burial had taken placenearly two hundred years before, was opened to receive its last tenant. There she sleeps calmly, waiting for the resurrection morning. 

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Three historical tableaux will complete the story. 

First, a quiet little village home, where a knight and his wife arecalmly passing the later half of life. The knight was rendered uselessfor battle some years ago by a severe wound, resulting in permanentlameness. In the chimney-corner, distaff in hand, sits the dame, --asmall, slight woman, with gentle dark eyes, and a meek, lovingexpression, which will make her face lovely to the close of life. Opposite to her, occupied with another distaff, is a tall, fair, queenlygirl, who can surely be no daughter of the dame. By the knight's chair, in hunting costume, stands a young man with a very open, pleasantcountenance, who is evidently pleading for some favour which the knightand dame are a little reluctant to grant. 

"Sir Bertram, not one word would she hear me, but bade me betake medirectly unto yourself. So here behold me to beseech your gentleness infavour of my suit. "

"Lord de Audley, " said the knight, quietly, "this is not the first timeby many that I have heard of your name, neither of your goodness. Youseek to wed my daughter. But I would have you well aware that she hathno portion: and what, I pray you, shall all your friends and lovers sayunto your wedding of a poor knight's portionless daughter?"

"Say! Let them say as they list!" cried the young man. "For portion, Ido account Mistress Nell portion and lineage in herself. And they besorry friends of mine that desire not my best welfare. Her do I love, and only her will I wed. "

Bertram looked across at his wife with a smile. 

"Must we tell him, Dame?"

"I think we may, husband. "

"Then know, Lord James de Audley, that you have asked more than youwist. This maid is no daughter of mine. Wedding her, you should wednot Nell Lyngern, a poor knight's daughter; but the Lady Alianora deHoland, Countess of Kent, of the royal line, whose mother was daughterunto a son of King Edward. Now what say you?"

The young man's face changed painfully. 

"Sir, I thank you, " he said in a low voice. "I am no man fit to matewith the blood royal. Lady Countess, I cry you mercy for mine ignoranceand mine unwisdom. "

"Tarry yet a moment, Lord de Audley, " said Bertram, smiling again; forthe girl's colour came and went, the distaff trembled in her hand, andher eyes sought his with a look of troubled entreaty. "Well, Nell?--speak out, maiden mine!"

"Father!" she said in an agitated voice, "he loved Nell Lyngern!"

"Come, Lord James, " said Bertram, laughing, "methinks you be not goingempty away. God bless you, man and maid!--only, good knight and true, see thou leave not to love Nell Lyngern. "

The picture fades away, and another comes on the scene. 

The bar of the House of Lords. Peers in their Parliament robes fill allthe benches, and at their head sits the Regent, --Prince Humphrey, Dukeof Gloucester, the representative Rationalist of the fifteenth century. He was no Papist, for he disliked and despised Romish superstitions; yetno Lollard, for he was utterly incapable of receiving the things of theSpirit of God. Henry the Fifth now lies entombed at Westminster, and onthe throne is his little son of nine years old, for whom his uncleHumphrey reigns and rules. There comes forward to the bar afair-haired, stately woman, robed in the ermine and velvet of acountess. She is asked to state her name and her business. The replycomes in a clear voice. 

"My name is Alianora Touchet, Lady de Audley; and I am the only daughterand heir of Sir Edmund de Holand, sometime Earl of Kent, and of Custancehis wife, daughter unto Sir Edmund of Langley, Duke of York. I claimthe lands and coronets of this my father--the earldom of Kent, and thebarony of Wake de Lydel. "

Her evidences are received and examined. The case shall be considered, and the petitioner shall receive her answer that day month. She bowsand retires. 

And then down from her eyrie, like a vengeful eagle, swoops the oldDuchess Joan of York--the sister of Kent, the step-mother of Constance--who has two passions to gratify, her hatred to the memory of the one, and her desire to retain her share of the estates of the other. Shedraws up her answer to the claim, --astutely disappearing into thebackground, and pushing forward her simpler sister Margaret, entirelygoverned by her influence, as the prominent objector. She forgetsnothing. She urges the assent and consent of Henry the Fourth to themarriage of Lucia, the presence of Constance at the ceremony, and everypoint which can give weight to her objection. She prays, therefore--orMargaret does for her--that the claim of the aforesaid Alianora may beadjudged invalid, and the earldom of Kent extinct. 

Lady Audley reappears on the day appointed. It is the same scene again, with Duke Humphrey as president; who informs her, with calm judicialimpartiality, that her petition is rejected, her claim disallowed, andher name branded with the bar sinister for ever. But as she leaves thebar, denied and humiliated, her hand is drawn gently into another hand, and a voice softly asks her--"Am not I better to thee than tencoronets?"

And so they pass away. 

The second dissolving view has disappeared; and the last slowly growsbefore our sight. 

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A dungeon in the Tower of London. There is only a solitary prisoner, --aman of fifty years of age, moderate in stature, but very slightly built, with hands and feet which would be small even in a woman. His face hasnever been handsome; there are deep furrows in the forehead, andsomething more than time has turned the brown hair grey, and given tothe strongly-marked features that pensive, weary look, which hiscountenance always wears when in repose. Ask his name of his gaolers, and they will say it is "Sir Henry of Lancaster, the usurper;" but askit of himself, and a momentary flash lights up the sunken eyes as heanswers, "I am the King. "

Neither Pharisee nor Sadducee is Henry the Sixth. He is not a Lollard, simply because he never knew what Lollardism was. During his reign itlay dormant--the old Wycliffite plant violently uprooted, the newLutheran shoots not yet visible above the ground. He was one of thevery few men divinely taught without ostensible human agency, --withinwhom God is pleased to dwell by His Spirit at an age so early that thedawn of the heavenly instinct cannot be perceived. From the follies, the cruelties, and the iniquities of Romanism he shrank with thatHeaven-born instinct; and by the dim flickering light which he had, hewalked with God. His way led over very rough ground, full of ruggedstones, on which his weary feet were bruised and torn. But it was theway Home. 

And now, to-night, on the 22nd of May, 1471, the prisoner is very wornand weary. He sits with a book before him--a small square volume, inilluminated Latin, with delicately-wrought borders, and occasionalfull-page illuminations; a Psalter, which came into his hands from thoseof another prisoner in like case with himself, for the book oncebelonged to Richard of Bordeaux [Note 2]. He turns slowly over theleaves, now and then reading a sentence aloud:--sentences all of whichindicate a longing for home and rest. 

"`My soul is also sore vexed; but Thou, O Lord, how long?'

"`Lord, how long wilt Thou look on? Rescue my soul from theirdestructions, mine only one from the lions. '

"`And now, Lord, what wait I for?'

"`Who shall give me wings like a dove?--and I will flee away, and be atrest!'" [Vulgate version]. 

At last the prisoner closed the book, and spoke in his own words to hisheavenly Friend--the only friend whom he had in all the world, exceptthe wife who was a helpless prisoner like himself. 

"Lord God, Thy will be done! Grant unto me patience to await Thy time;but, O fair Father, I lack rest!"

And just as his voice ceased, the heavy door rolled back, and themessenger of rest came in. 

He did not look like a messenger of rest. But all God's messengers arenot angels. And there was little indeed of the angel in this man'scomposition. His figure would have been tall but for a deformity whichhis enemies called a hump back, and his friends merely an overgrownshoulder; and his face would have been handsome but for its morose, scowling expression, which by no means betokened an amiable character. 

The two cousins stood and looked at each other. The prisoner was thegrandson of Henry of Bolingbroke, and the visitor was the grandson ofRichard of Conisborough. 

There were a few words on each side--contemptuous taunts, and sharpaccusations, on the one side, --low, patient replies on the other. Thencame a gleam of something flashing in the dim light, and the dagger ofthe visitor was sheathed in the pale prisoner's heart. 

At rest, at last: safe, and saved, and with God. 

It was a cruel, brutal, cold-blooded murder. But was it nothing else?Was there in it no operation of those Divine wheels which "grind slowly, yet exceeding small?"--no visitation, by Him to whom vengeancebelongeth, of the sins of the guilty fathers upon the guiltless son--vengeance for the broken heart of Richard of Bordeaux, for the judicialmurder of Richard of Conisborough, for the dreary imprisoned girlhood ofAnne Mortimer, and--last, not least--for the long, slow years of moraltorture, ending with the bitter cup forced into the dying hand of theWhite Rose of Langley?

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Note 1. Richard of Conisborough married secondly, and probably chieflywith the view of securing a mother for his children, Maude Clifford, adaughter of the great Lollard House of Clifford of Cumberland. Shesurvived him many years. 

Note 2. The Psalter is still extant, in the British Museum: Cott. Ms. Domit. A. Xvii. 

CHAPTER FOURTEEN. 

HISTORICAL APPENDIX. 

The condensed biographical sketches which follow, of such persons asfigure principally in the story, will help to show to those who wish toread it intelligently, how much of it is genuine history. They will seethat the tale is mainly constructed on a succession of hypotheses, butthat every hypothesis rests on a substratum of fact, however slender, and in many cases on careful weighing and comparison of a number offacts together. Some of these conjectures are perhaps the only oneswhich will fully and satisfactorily account for the sequence of events. For convenience of reference, the names are arranged in alphabeticalorder. 

ARUNDEL, THOMAS DE, ARCHBISHOP OF CANTERBURY. 

Third son of Richard the Copped Hat, ninth Earl of Arundel, and Alianoraof Lancaster; born 1352-3. Bishop of Ely, 1374; translated to York, ofwhich see consecrated Archbishop, April 3rd, 1388, on the expulsion ofArchbishop Neville. In 1390 he joined with Archbishop Courtenay ofCanterbury in refusing assent to statutes passed in restraint of thePope's prerogative. In the winter of 1394-5 he went over to Irelandwith the special purpose of exciting King Richard's jealousy andsuspicion against the political Lollards, after having for two yearsprofessed to favour them himself. He was translated to Canterbury onthe death of Courtenay, and consecrated Archbishop, January 11th, 1397. On September 19th of the same year, Arundel was commanded to keep hishouse; and the day after was solemnly impeached by the House of Commonsof high treason, "he having in the eleventh year of the King [1387-8]counselled the said Duke [Thomas of Gloucester] and Earl [Richard ofArundel, his brother], to take on themselves royal power. " (_Rot. Pari_, iii. 353. ) The Commons entreated on the 25th that the Archbishopmight be banished. The decree of banishment was issued, and he wasordered to sail from Dover, on the 29th of that month. His see wasdeclared vacant, and Roger Walden was elected Archbishop in his stead. But Arundel came back, landing at Ravenspur with Henry of Bolingbroke, July 4th, 1399; and Roger Walden sank into such instant and completeoblivion that some well-informed writers have dogmatically asserted thatthere never was an Archbishop of that name. In October, 1404, Arundelsignalised himself by a violent quarrel with the Speaker in fullParliament. He issued his rigid "constitution" against the Lollards in1409; and he was the principal agent in the persecution of Lord Cobham. He died February 20th, 1414, lingering for a few days after a paralyticstroke, as stated in the story. His age was 61. The mantle of thiscleverest man of his day--clever for evil--descended, a hundred yearslater, upon Stephen Gardiner. Any believer in transmigration could feelno doubt that the soul of the one man inhabited the other. 

CAMBRIDGE, RICHARD PLANTAGENET, EARL OF ("DICKON"). 

Third and youngest child of Edmund Duke of York and his first wifeIsabel of Castilla: born at Conisborough Castle, Yorkshire, whence, according to the custom of his time, he was usually known as Richard ofConisborough. The only record extant of his father's visiting thecastle is a charter dated thence, September 11th, 1376. (_Rot. Pat_. 50 E. III, Part 2. ) This is probably therefore about the time ofRichard's birth. He was left in England with his sister during theeighteen months (May, 1381, to October, 1382) which his parents spent inPortugal. His mother, dying in 1393, bequeathed him to the care of KingRichard the Second, who had been his godfather, though the King was onlynine years older than his godson and namesake; and she constituted hisMajesty her residuary legatee in trust for her son, desiring that hewould allow him 500 marks annually for life. This sum would beequivalent now to about 6, 500 pounds per annum. So long as King Richardwas in power, the money was paid faithfully, 100 from the issues of theCounty of York, and 233 pounds 6 shillings 8 pence from the Exchequer. (Lansd. _Ms_. 860, A, folio 274; Nicolas' _Test. Vet_, i. 134; _Rot. Pat_. 16 R. II, Part 3. ) During the sanguinary struggles between KingRichard and his cousin Henry the Fourth, nothing is seen of Richard ofConisborough. He was not with the King in Ireland nor at Conway, neither does he appear in Henry's suite. He probably kept himself veryquiet. When his brother and sister were imprisoned in 1405 for theattempted rescue of the Mortimers, no suspicion fell on Richard. Whether he was really concerned in the plot can only be guessed. In1406 he was chosen to escort the Princess Philippa to Denmark, and onaccount of his poverty a grant was made to cover his expenses. Thepoverty was no great wonder, for though a show of confirming his royalgodfather's grant had been made, yet practically poor Richard's incomewas reduced to 40 pounds per annum. (_Rot. Pat_. 1 H. IV, Part 3;_Rot. Ex, Pose_, 3 H. V. ) He was probably created, or allowed toassume the title of, Earl of Cambridge, which really appertained to hisbrother, only a short time before his death; for up to December 5th, 1414, he is styled in the state papers Richard of York. The accusationsbrought against him, by which he was done to death, were so absurdlyimprobable as to be incredible. It was asserted that Charles the Sixthof France had sent over "a hundred thousand in gold, " (which probablymeans crowns) to Richard Earl of Cambridge, Henry Lord Scrope of Upsal, and Sir Thomas Grey de Wark, urging them to betray Henry the Fifth intohis hands, or murder him before he should arrive in Normandy; thatthereupon the trio conspired to lead March into Wales (a simplerepetition of Constance's defeated attempt), and to proclaim him King, if King Richard were dead--which Henry the Fifth perfectly well knew hewas, and so did the accused trio; that they carried into Wales thebanner and crown of Spain, for the purpose of crowning March, the saidarticles being pawned to the Earl of Cambridge--which crown had inreality been bequeathed by the Infanta Isabel to her son Edward, and indefault of his issue to Richard, and had never been in possession of theHouse of Lancaster at all; that they had sent to Scotland for twopersonators of King Richard, Trumpington and another (probably JohnMaudeleyn) whom they intended to pass off to the people as KingRichard--which is in itself a contradiction to the charge of setting upMarch as King. Cambridge and Scrope pleaded their peerage. Acommission was issued, August 5th, 1415, by which their judges wereappointed--Thomas Duke of Clarence, Humphrey Duke of Gloucester(brothers of the King), Thomas Earl of Dorset (the King's half-brother), who sat as proxy of Edward Duke of York; Edmund Earl of March, the veryman whom they were accused of making King; and fourteen other peers. Neither Cambridge nor Scrope was allowed to speak in his own defence. Sentence was passed at once, and they were beheaded the day following onSouthampton Green. There is no evidence that Richard had conspired forany purpose; the whole affair was apparently a mere pretext to be rid ofhim. In character, Richard seems to have been noble and honourable, with a slight taint of his father's indecision: there is no portrait ofhim known. The traces of Lollardism are very slight, but I think theymay be fairly considered "proven;" and if this be the case, it fullyaccounts for the acrimony with which he was hunted to death. His agewhen he died was about 39. Richard of Conisborough was twice married;his wives were--1. Anne, eldest child of Roger Mortimer, fifth Earl ofMarch, and his wife Alianora de Holand; born about 1390; very likelyimprisoned in Windsor Castle with her brothers on the usurpation ofHenry the Fourth, 1400; released, if so, with her sister Alianora, andboth provided for by the King (being described as "_omnibus suisparentibus et amicis destitutis_"), and all fiefs of their mothergranted to them, May 13th, 1406 (_Rot. Pat_. 7 H. IV, Part 2);married, probably, 1408; most likely died in childbed, September1410-11, aged about 20 years. 2. Maude, only daughter of Thomas, LordClifford of Cumberland (one of the two most uncompromisingly Lollardhouses in the kingdom) and his wife Elizabeth de Ros of Hamlake; bornprobably about 1390, married, 1412-15; married, secondly, John Neville, sixth and last Lord Latimer of Danby; died without issue, August 26, 1446 (_Inq. Post Mortem_ 25 H. VI, 21), aged about 56. The childrenof Richard of Conisborough (both by Anne Mortimer) were:--1. Isabel, born about 1409, married (1) to Thomas Grey de Wark (son of the mancondemned with her father), before February 18, 1412 (_Rot. Pat_. 13 H. IV, Part 2); (2) her second cousin, Henry Bourchier, Earl of Essex andCount of Eu; died (leaving issue by second marriage) October 2nd, 1484, aged about 75. (_Inq. Post Mortem_ 2 R. III, 53. ) 2. Richard, Dukeof York and Albemarle, Earl of Cambridge, Lord of Teviotdale andHolderness: born September 21st, 1410 or 1411 (more likely the earlieryear. (_Inq. Post Mortem_ 11 H. VI, 39, _Anna Comitissa Marchia_; 3H. VI, 32, _Edmundi Comitis Marchice_; 3 H. V, 45, _Edmundi DudsEbor_; 12 H. VI, 43, _Johanna Ducissa Ebor_. ) He afterwards set up hisclaims against the House of Lancaster, which were brought to asuccessful issue by his sons, though he himself never was King. Marriedabout 1438, Cicely Neville, daughter of Ralph, first Earl ofWestmoreland and his wife Joan Beaufort; called the Rose of Raby. Beheaded after the battle of Wakefield, December 30th, 1460 (_Inq. PostMortem_ 18 E. IV, 60), aged 50; buried at Pomfret, 1466; Fotheringay, 1476. 

DESPENSER, CONSTANCE PLANTAGENET, LADY LE, COUNTESS OF GLOUCESTER. 

Only daughter of Edmund Duke of York and his wife Isabel of Castilla;most likely born at Langley, in or about 1374. On the 16th of April, 1378, the marriage of Edward, son and heir of Edward late Lord LeDespenser, was granted to her father for her benefit. (_Rot. Pat_. 1R. II, Part 5. ) But the infant bridegroom was dead on the 30th of Mayfollowing, and his brother Thomas was evidently substituted in hisstead. (_Rot. Pat_. 1 R. II, Part 6. ) Thomas and Constance weremarried before the 7th of November, 1379, as on that day her uncle, Johnof Gaunt, paid 22 pounds 0 shillings 4 pence for his wedding present tothe bride, a silver-gilt cup and ewer on a stand, and he speaks of themarriage as then past (_Register of John Duke of Lancaster_, ii, folio19, _b_. ) Constance remained in England during the absence of herparents in Portugal, 1381-2. Eighty marks per annum were granted to herfrom the Despenser lands, January 14th, 1384. When she took up herresidence at Cardiff with her husband is uncertain; but there is everyprobability that it was not till after the death of her mother, inFebruary, 1393, and very likely not till after her father's secondmarriage, about the following October. The approximate date may begiven as 1394-5. Two pardons are recorded of persons accused of murder, June 22nd, 1395, and April 27th, 1396, "at the request of our belovedkinswoman the Countess of Gloucester. " There was no Countess ofGloucester at the time, for Constance had not yet attained that title. The words _may_ be slips of the scribe's pen for the Duchess ofGloucester. It was not until September 29th, 1397, that Thomas LeDespenser was created Earl of Gloucester. There is no evidence to showthe presence of Constance in London during the stormy period of hercousin Henry's usurpation; she seems to have remained at Cardiff. Onthe 22nd of February, 1400, about six weeks after her husband's murder, a grant of 60 pounds per annum was made to the King's son, John Duke ofBedford, out of the issues of her lands (_Rot Pat. _ 1 H. IV, Part 8);but on the 3rd of March, the custody of her son Richard was granted toher, and 30 pounds worth of gold and silver of her late husband's goodsin the hands of the Mayor of Bristol. (_Ibidem_, Part 6. ) Moreover, onthe 19th of February, a concession was made to her of eleven manors, twotowns, two castles, two lordships, and other lands (_Ibidem_, Part 5);followed by a grant of "the price of certain vessels of silver, brooches, jewels, and other goods" which had belonged to her husband. (_Rot. Ex, Pasc_, 1 H. IV. ) In 1404 she was restored to her dower byAct of Parliament. (_Inq. Post. Mortem_ 4 H. V 52. ) When and whereshe met with her second husband can only be guessed; for that EdmundEarl of Kent was really her second husband I think there is thestrongest reason to believe. His sisters afterwards chose to deny themarriage; it was their interest to do so, for had the legitimacy of hischild been established, they would have been obliged to resign to herher father's estates, which, as his presumptive heirs, they hadinherited. Their excessive anxiety to prove her illegitimate, thepersecution which Constance subsequently underwent, the resolutedetermination of Henry the Fourth that Kent should marry Lucia, and theremarkable coincidence of time between Constance's imprisonment andLucia's marriage, go far to show that the marriage (though perhapsclandestine) was genuine, as alleged by Alianora; and I cannot avoid astrong conviction that a great deal of this hate and persecution weredue to the fact that Constance was actually or suspectedly a Lollard. The denials of Kent's sisters may be attributed to their wish to retainhis estates; while as for his nephews and nieces, who nominally joinedin the petition, they could only know what they were told; for JoyceLady Tibetot, the eldest of the group, was only three years old at thedeath of Kent. But to what cause can be attributed the violentdetermination of Henry the Fourth? If it be supposed that he wished tobenefit and advance Kent, how did he do it by preventing hisacknowledged marriage with a well-dowered Princess of England?--or if tolower him, how was this done by purchasing for him, at the cost of70, 000 florins, the hand of a foreign Princess? Beside this, Henryshowed throughout that while he had no mercy for Constance, he was onthe best possible terms with Kent. Modern writers are altogether atfault on the subject, most of them alleging that Constance's daughterAlianora was born before her marriage with Thomas Le Despenser; whereasit is shown by the Register that when Le Despenser and Constance weremarried, the latter was only four or five years old, while Kent was noteven born. The rescue of the Mortimers comes in to complicate matters;but what shall be said, from the point of view of some writers, whosubmit that the whole was a mere pretext to imprison Constance and herbrother, that the Mortimers were never stolen away at all, or that thereal agents remained undiscovered, and that Constance's allegedconfession is a pure fiction from beginning to end? One thing is plain:there was evidently _some_ reason in the mind of the King why Kent mustnot openly marry Constance: and knowing Henry's character, and Kent'scharacter as well, I can see none that suits all the facts of the case, unless Constance were one of the hated and proscribed Lollards. Themarriage of Constance and Kent, if it really occurred, of which I cannotfeel the least doubt, must have taken place between 1401 and 1404inclusive. It was about February, 1405, that (if this part of the storybe true) she broke into Windsor Castle and carried off the youngMortimers, by means of false keys; and she and they had nearly reachedWales when they were recaptured. She was tried before Parliament. Henry the Fourth's records (but he was an atrocious falsifier of statepapers) tell us that she confessed that her brother Edward had been herinstigator; and that he had attempted, the Christmas before, to scalethe walls of Eltham Palace, and assassinate or at least imprison KingHenry. This may or may not be true. What is undoubtedly true is thatEdward and Constance were arrested and imprisoned; the latter inKenilworth Castle, whither she was taken at a cost of 10 pounds, incharge of Elmingo Leget (_Rot. Ex, Michs_, 6 H. IV); and that all theestates, goods, and chattels of both were seized by the Crown. (_Ibidem_. ) But Kent remained in favour. The length of time which mustnecessarily have elapsed shows that no sooner was Constance safely shutup than Henry began negotiating with his old friend, Galeazzo Visconti, for the hand of his beautiful cousin Lucia as the bride of Kent. Whenall was arranged, but not sooner, in November he presented himself atKenilworth. (_Rot. Pat_, 7 H. IV, Part i. ) What means were taken totorture his unhappy cousin into compliance with his iron will can onlybe conjectured. She did at last consent to disown her marriage, unlessthe facts alleged in the petition of Kent's sisters are fictions. OnJanuary 19th, 1406, "all the goods that belonged to the said Constance, in the custody of the Treasurer of our Household, and were lately seisedin our hands for certain causes, " were munificently granted to her "ofour gift. " (_Ibidem_. ) On the 24th of the same month, Kent and Luciawere married, and--if his sisters may be believed--Constance waspresent. (_Rot. Pari_, iv. 375. ) And on the 18th of June following, all the lands and tenements of Thomas Le Despenser were restored to hiswidow. (_Rot. Pat_, 7 H. IV, Part 2. ) In May, 1412, she had againoffended; for her son was taken from her, and his custody and marriagewere granted to trustees, one of whom was his uncle, Edward Duke ofYork. (_Ibidem_, 13 H. IV, Part 2. ) No more is heard of her until theaccession of Henry the Fifth, when the immediate favour shown to herconfirms the suspicion that her offence was in some way connected withpolitical, if not religious, Lollardism. On the 18th of July, 1413, theyoung King confirmed _all_ his father's grants to Constance (_Ibidem_, 1H. V, Part 3), which concession restored her boy to her custody. Butwhen Henry the Fifth turned against Lollardism, he turned against hiscousin with it. All the Despenser lands were granted to her brotherEdward for life, April 16th, 1414, in compensation for the loss which hehad sustained by Richard Le Despenser's death (_Ibidem_, 2 H. V, Part1); the truth being that the grant to him in 1412 had been cancelled bythe subsequent concession to his sister, so that he had sustained noloss at all. Troubles came thickly upon Constance now. The sudden andviolent deaths of her brothers, within three months of each other, musthave been no slight shock to her; and shortly after that she was againunder royal displeasure. The nature of her offence is matter forconjecture. We only know with certainty that she died on the 28th ofNovember, 1416, aged about 42 (_Inq. Post Mortem_, 4 H. V 52); andthat she died under a dark cloud of royal wrath, which was manifested bythe withholding of permission for honourable burial for four years. Constance was interred in Reading Abbey, in 1420. No portrait of her isknown. Her character appears to have been as I have represented it--warm-hearted, impulsive, and eager, but wayward and obstinate. Herchildren were four in number; three by her first marriage, who were:--1. Richard, born at Cardiff, November 30th, 1396. On the 23rd of May, 1412, he was removed from his mother's keeping, and his custody andmarriage were granted, "at the request of Edward Duke of York, " to tentrustees: Archbishop Arundel, Thomas Bishop of Durham, Edward Duke ofYork, Sir John Pelham, Robert Tirwhit, Robert W yntryngham, clerk, JohnBokeland, clerk, Thomas Walwayn, Henry Bracy, and John Adam. They werecharged with the custody of "all lands whatsoever now inherited by thesaid Richard, and in our hands, or any lands that may or can descend tohim; and all that since the death of Thomas his father, for whatsoevercause or pretext, has been seized by us. " More comprehensive termscould scarcely be used. Richard's marriage took place immediately underthis grant. The bride chosen by the trustees was Alianora, seconddaughter of Ralph Neville, first Earl of Westmoreland, by his secondwife Joan Beaufort, half-sister of King Henry. On the accession ofHenry the Fifth, March 20th, 1413, this grant was revoked, and Richardrestored to his mother. He survived his return home only six months, dying at Merton Abbey, Surrey--to all appearance unexpectedly--October6th, 1413, aged nearly 17. How he came to be at Merton is an unsolvedquestion; for it looks as if he were in Arundel's keeping still, and asif the concession to Constance had remained ineffectual. Hischild-widow re-married Henry Percy, second Earl of Northumberland, andbecame the mother of a large family. --2. Elizabeth, born and died atCardiff, probably in 1398. --3. Isabel, born at Cardiff, "on the feastof the Seven Holy Sleepers, " July 10th, 1400; baptised in the Church ofSaint Mary in that town, the same day, by Thomas Bishop of Llandaff(_Prob. At. Dicta Isabella_, 2 H. V 23); married (1) July 10th, 1411, Richard Beauchamp, Earl of Worcester (2) 1422--4, his cousin, RichardNeville, Earl of Warwick; died December 26th, 1439, aged 39 (_Inq. Post. Mortem_ 18 H. VI 3), leaving issue by both marriages; buried inTewkesbury Abbey. (_Harl. Ms_. 154, folio 31. );--The fourth and lastwas the unfortunate, disinherited Alianora, born between 1402 and 1405, both inclusive, and most likely, at Kenilworth, in 1405; married (dateunknown) James Touchet, Lord Audley of Heleigh; date of death, portrait, and character unknown: left issue. In 1430 she claimed the coronet andestates of her father, alleging herself to be the legitimate daughter ofEdmund Earl of Kent, and Constance his wife. A counter-petition waspresented by Joan Duchess of York, Constance's step-mother; MargaretDuchess of Clarence, her sister (and contrary to all mediaeval usage, the younger sister is named first); and five nephews and nieces, all ofwhom were unborn or in the cradle when the events referred to tookplace. The sisters of Kent pleaded that "never any espousals were hadne solemnised in deed betwixt the said Edmund and Custance; but that thesaid Edmund, _by the ordinance, will, and agreement of the full nobleLord late King Henry the Fourth_, that God rest, after great, notable, and _long_ ambassad' had and sent unto the Duke of Melane for marriageto be had betwixt the said Edmund and Luce, sister to the said Duke ofMilan, took to wife and openly and solemnly wedded the said Luce atLondon, living and then and there present the said Custance, notclaiming the said Edmund unto her husband, ne any dower of his landsafter his decease. The said espousals so had and solemnised betwixt thesaid Edmund and Luce continued withouten any interruption of the saidCustance, or any oyer during the life of the said Edmund. " These ladieswere very wrathful against the "subtlety, imagined process, privy labourand coloured means" whereby certain persons had been so wicked as todepose that the said Alianora was born "in espousals had and solemnisedbetween Edmund and Custance, " particularly considering that "the saidsuppliants" were "none of them warned" of her intention to appear andmake her claim. (_Rot. Pari_. IV. 375-6. ) The passage in Italics, when viewed with the surrounding circumstances, told as much, if notmore, in Alianora's favour, as against her. And it did not please theDuchess Joan to mention a few other little circumstances, which it wasmore convenient than just to leave out of the account. The fact that itwas not the first time that Henry had applied to Galeazzo for assistancein what is expressively termed "dirty work" (Froissart, book iv chapter94); that Constance, however willing to protest against the projectedmarriage of Edmund and Lucia, had been physically unable, being aprisoner in Kenilworth Castle; that she had been set free just in timeto appear at the wedding (if she did appear); and that the bundle ofgrants to her, dated about the same time, suspiciously point to apurchase of her consent:--such facts as these, it was more convenient toleave in the background. The petitions were received by Humphrey Dukeof Gloucester, a Gallio who cared for none of these things, whose crueltreatment of his own hapless wife shows that no chivalrous feeling couldactuate him, and no desire to right a wronged woman influence his acts;but who probably was not desirous to blacken the memory of his father, and had no wish to disturb his brother's wife in the enjoyment of Kent'sestates. So the answer returned to Joan's petition was--"_Soit faitcomme il est desire_"--an answer fatal to the hopes the claim, and thebirthright, of the unfortunate Alianora. 

DESPENSER, ELIZABETH LE, BARONESS OF CARDIFF. 

Only daughter and heir of Bartholomew, fourth Baron Burghersh, by hisfirst wife Cicely de Weyland; and Baroness Burghersh in her own right. She was born probably about 1340, and brought up under the care of herstep-mother Margaret de Badlesmere. About 1360 or earlier, she marriedEdward Lord Le Despenser, who left her a widow November 11th, 1375. Herfamily numbered eight, of whom Edward, Hugh, and Cicely, died infants;Elizabeth married John de Arundel and William third Lord de La Zouche;Anne married Hugh Hastings and Thomas fourth Lord Morley; Margaretmarried Robert, fifth Lord Ferrers of Chartley; Philippa apparently diedunmarried; for Thomas, the youngest, see the next article. Elizabethstood sponsor in 1382 to Richard Neville, afterwards the second husbandof her grand-daughter Isabel. (_Prob. Cet. Dicti Ricardi_, 4 H. IV44. ) The custody of her son Thomas was granted to her during hisminority (_Rot. Pat_. 11 R. II, Part 2. ) She died "on the feast ofSaint Anne, " July 26th, 1411, aged probably about 70. (_Ing. PostMortem_ 4 H. V 52, _Constancies Le Despenser_. ) The inferences areslight which tend to show her Lollardism. The terms of her last willare decidedly Lollard; she was joined in the baptism of Richard Nevilleby Alice, widow of Sir Richard Stury; and she was niece of Joan, LadyMohun of Dunster--two of the most prominent Lollards of the period. LeDespenser was a Lollard house by tradition and inheritance. No portraitknown; character imaginary. 

DESPENSER, THOMAS LE, BARON OF CARDIFF, GLAMORGAN, AND MORGAN. 

Youngest of the eight children of Edward fourth Lord Le Despenser (aname sometimes mistakenly abbreviated to Spencer, for it is _ledepenseur_, "the spender, ") and Elizabeth Baroness Burghersh. BornSeptember 21st or 22nd, 1373 (_Inq. Post Mortem_ 49 E. III ii. 46, _Edwardi Le Despenser_), and named after his father's younger brother. He was left fatherless when only two years old, November 11th, 1375. (_Ibidem_. ) During his minority he was committed to the custody of hismother. (_Rot. Pat_. 11 R. II, Part 2. ) In or about May, 1378, hebecame Lord Le Despenser by the death of his elder brother, Edward, andwas also substituted for him as bridegroom of the Princess Constance ofYork, whom he married between May 30th, 1378, and November 7th, 1379. (_Ibidem_, 1 R. II, Part 6; _Register of John of Gaunt_, II, folio 19, _b_. ) Shortly afterwards, February 16th, 1380, all the Despenser landswere granted to his father-in-law during his minority--an unusual step, for which there must have been some private reason in the mind of theRegent, Thomas Duke of Gloucester. We next hear of Le Despenser when alad of fifteen as at sea in the King's service, in the suite of the Earlof Arundel, and his mother was formally exonerated from allresponsibility concerning his custody until he should return. (_Rot. Pat_. 11 R. II, Part 2. ) On the 20th of May, 1391, when eighteen, hereceived the royal licence to journey to Prussia--then a semi-civilisedand partly heathen country--with fifty persons, and the arms and goodsnecessary. (_Ibidem_ 14 R. II, Part 2. ) He doubtless accompanied theKing to Ireland in September, 1394, since letters of attorney wereissued for him on the 10th of that month. (_Ibidem_, 18 R. II, Part1. ) Two indentures show us that Le Despenser spent the autumn of 1395at Cardiff. (_Ibidem_, 1 H. IV, Parts 5, 8. ) Certain manors which hadbelonged to the Duke of Gloucester and Earl of Warwick were granted toLe Despenser and Constance, September 28th, 1397. He is styled in thisgrant Earl of Gloucester, (_Ibidem_, 21 R. II, Part 1), though it wasnot until the day following that his creation took place. The custodyof the Castle of Gloucester was also granted to him for life; and themanors were conceded with a (then unusual) limitation to heirs male. The next day, September 29th, he was created Earl of Gloucester inWestminster Hall, "girded with sword, and a coronet set on his head bythe King in manner and form accustomed. " (_Harl. Ms_. 298, folio 85. )Letters of attorney were issued April 16th, 1399, for the persons whoformed the King's suite in Ireland--Thomas Earl of Gloucester beingnamed third. The King was his guest on the journey, reaching Cardiffabout the 9th of May, and Morgan on the 11th. They embarked at MilfordHaven about the 27th, and were at Waterford on the 31st. But on thefourth of July Henry of Bolingbroke and Archbishop Arundel landed atRavenspur, and the King hurried back as soon as he heard of it, landingin Wales, and securing himself, as he hoped, first at Conway and then atFlint. According to Froissart, Aumerle and Le Despenser had remainedbehind in Bristol, and when they heard that the King was taken, theyretired to Heulle, a manor in Wales belonging to the latter. ButCreton, an eye-witness, expressly tells us that "the brave Earl ofGloucester" was with King Richard in Wales, and his indenture mentionedon the Patent Roll shows that he was in London in October. (Froissart's_Chronicles, book_ iv, _chapter_ 114; _Harl. Ms_. 1319; _Rot. Pat_, 1H. IV, Part 6. ) It was on the 19th of August that King Richard and hisfaithful few were seized in the gorge of Gwrych. (_Harl. Ms_. 1319. )The route taken to London was by Chester, Nantwich, Newcastle, Stafford, Lichfield (where the King all but effected his escape), Coventry, Daventry, Northampton, Dunstable, Saint Albans, and Westminster, reaching the last place on the first of September. It is difficult tosay whether Le Despenser was present, or what part he took, at thecoronation of Henry the Fourth. According to Cretan's continuator, thecanopy was held by four dukes--York, Aumerle, Surrey (who accepted hispost very unwillingly), and Gloucester. There was no Duke of Gloucesterat this time. It might be supposed that Le Despenser, Earl ofGloucester, was meant, were it not that the writer more than onceintimates that there were four _dukes_ concerned. The probability isthat he mistook the name, and that the fourth duke was the only otherwhom it well could be, and who we know was present--Exeter. LeDespenser was still in London on the 27th of October. On the fourth ofJanuary, 1400, the six loyal friends met at Kingston, as detailed in thetext. The account there given is strictly accurate up to the point ofSurrey's death and the escape of the survivors from Cirencester, withthe simple exceptions that it is not stated who suggested firing thehotel, nor who executed it. From this point the main incidents aretrue:--the parting of Le Despenser and Salisbury near Berkeley Castle, the flight of the former to Cardiff, his escape (we are not told how)from officers sent to apprehend him, his adventure with the traitorousbargeman, imprisonment in Bristol Castle, seizure by the mob, andbeheading in the market-place. All chroniclers who name the incidentrecord that his death took place by no official sentence, but at thehands of the mob; and this is confirmed by his Inquisition, which statesthe day of death, not that of forfeiture--contrary to the custom withrespect to any person judicially condemned. In fact, Le Despenser neverwas attainted. He died January 13th, 1400 (_Inq. Post Mortem_ 1 H. IV, i. 2, _Tho. Le Despenser_), aged 27. The particulars of his burialare given in the text. 

HENRY THE FOURTH, KING OF ENGLAND. 

Fourth and youngest son of John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, and hisfirst wife Blanche of Lancaster; born at Bolingbroke Castle (not, asusually stated, in 1366, but) April 3rd, 1367, the day of the battle ofNavareta, in which his father was engaged. (_Compotus Hugonis deWaterton_, Duchy of Lancaster Documents, folio 4, ) In 1377 he wasattached to the suite of the young Prince of Wales, afterwards Richardthe Second. (_Comp. Will'i de Bughbrigg, Ibidem_. ) His tutors wereThomas de Burton and William Montendre. (_Ibidem_. ) In 1380 he wasmarried to Mary de Bohun, youngest daughter and co-heir of Humphrey, last Earl of Hereford, and his wife Joan de Arundel. The ages of brideand bridegroom were ten and thirteen. A gold ring with a ruby wasbought for the bridal, at a cost of eight marks; and for the making ofthis and another ring with a diamond, 28 shillings 8 pence was paid. The offering at mass was 13 shillings 4 pence, and 40 shillings were puton the book, to be appropriated by the little bride at the words, "Withall my worldly goods I thee endow. " (_Register of John of Gaunt, II, folio 48, b_. ) The allowance made to Henry by his father was 250 marksper annum--equivalent in modern times to about 850. He was not yettwenty when he became one of the five "Lords Appellants, " who renouncedtheir homage at Huntingdon, December 10th, 1386. Having succeeded incompelling King Richard to swear that for twelve months he would notoppose them, towards the end of that time they assumed an openly hostileattitude. At the head of 40, 000 men, they reached Hornsey Park, November 11th, 1387; but it was not till the 14th that Henry and hisfriend Nottingham joined the rest. On the 20th of December was theencounter between the Dukes of Gloucester and Ireland at Radcote Bridge. The Lords Appellants appeared before the City on the 26th, and encampedat Clerkenwell on the 27th. They next granted themselves 20, 000 pounds. (_Rot. Pari_, iii. 248; _Issue Roll, Michs_, 14 R. II. ) After theKing had recovered his power, May 3rd, 1389, Henry retired toKenilworth. (_Rot. Pat_. 22 R. II, part 3. ) It was probably about1390 that he committed the atrocity of drawing his sword on the King inthe Queen's presence, for which he was sent into honourable banishment. His first journey abroad was to Barbary; but during 1391 we find him athome, at Bolingbroke and Peterborough. In 1392 he visited Prussia andthe Holy Land. A safe-conduct had to be obtained from the King ofFrance, in May. Two immense sums of money were lent him by his father--first 666 pounds 13 shillings 4 pence, and afterwards 1, 333 pounds 6shillings 8 pence. Sir Thomas Erpyngham was his fellow-traveller. Hewas at Venice on December 4th (_Comp. Rob'ti de Whitteby_, 15-16 R. II, Duchy Documents, folios 18, 19), and there or at Milan, in thisjourney, he probably made the acquaintance of Galeazzo of Milan. Hiswife died July 4th, 1394, at Peterborough. On November 25th, 1395, atreaty was signed between the Dukes of Lancaster and Bretagne, by theprovisions of which Henry was to marry Marie of Bretagne, who afterwardsbecame his step-daughter. The treaty was not carried into effect; andMarie married Jean Duke of Alencon, June 26th, 1396. The five nobleconspirators met again, to renew their guilty attempts, at Arundel, July28th, 1397. Henry slipped out of discovery and penalty as is recordedin the story; and was created Duke of Hereford, with remainder only toheirs male, September 29th, 1397. A full pardon was granted to him, January 25th, 1398 (_Rot. Pat_. 21 R. II, Part 2. ) His petitionimpeaching his former friend Norfolk was presented January 30th. Thetwo appeared at Windsor, April 28th, and were commanded the next day tosettle their quarrel by wager of battle. In the interim Henry visitedhis father at Pomfret. The combatants met on Gosford Green, September16th, and were separated by the King. Henry was allowed licence totravel October 3rd, for which sentence of banishment was substituted onthe 13th. (_Rot. Pat_. 22 R. II, Part 1. ) He took leave of the Kingat Eltham. The armour in which the duel was to be fought had been sentby Galeazzo of Milan, "out of his abundant love for the Earl, " atHenry's request. (Froissart, book four, chapter 94. ) Henry meant tohave gone to Hainault; but by his father's advice, he settled in Paris. (_Ibidem, chapters_ 96, 97. ) Here he fell in love--such love as was inhim--with the beautiful Marie of Berri, whom he would have married hadnot the King interfered and prevented it. Henry never forgave Richardfor this step. On the 3rd of February, 1399, John of Gaunt died, andHenry became Duke of Lancaster. He landed at Ravenspur with ArchbishopArundel, July 4th, marching at once in open defiance of the Crown, though his own son was in the royal suite. Had Richard the Second beenthe weak and unscrupulous tyrant which modern writers represent him, that father and son would never have met again. On the 7th of JulyHenry reached Saint Albans, where, if not earlier, his uncle of York methim and went over to his side. Thence he marched to Oxford, where hisbrother of Dorset probably joined him. His march Londonward is given inthe last article. From the 3rd of September all the royal decrees bearthe significant words, "with the assent of our dearest cousin Henry Dukeof Lancaster. " He commenced his reign on the 29th of September inreality, when he forced Richard to abdicate; but officially, on the 1stof October, 1399. His first regnal act was to grant to himself all the"honours of descent" derived from his father; in other words, to revokehis own attainder. He was crowned on the 13th of October. A yearlater, November 25th, 1400, Archbishop Arundel received him into thefraternity of Christ Church, Canterbury, which must have been an orderinstituted for those who remained "in the world, " since a largeproportion of its brethren were married men. From this point there isno need to pursue Henry's history, further than with respect to suchitems of it as bear upon the narrative. In 1404 he refused the requestof the Commons that the superfluous revenues of the priesthood might beconfiscated, and the money applied to military affairs. At this time, it is said, one-third of all the estates in England was in the hands ofthe clergy. For the part that he took with regard to the marriage ofhis cousin Constance with Kent, see the article under the former name. He died of leprosy, at Westminster, March 20th, 1413, aged 46. Hissecond wife, by whom he had no issue, was Jeanne, daughter of Charlesthe Second, King of Navarre, and Jeanne of France; she survived himtwenty-four years. The children of Henry the Fourth, several of whomare mentioned in the story, were:--1. Henry the Fifth, born at MonmouthCastle, August 9th, 1387; married, at Troyes, Katherine, daughter ofCharles the Sixth, King of France, and Isabeau of Bavaria, June 3rd, 1420; died at Vincennes, August 31st, 1422, aged 35. --2. Thomas Duke ofClarence, born in London, 1388 (probably in May); a "brother" ofCanterbury; married, 1412, Margaret de Holand, sister of Edmund Earl ofKent, and widow of John Marquis of Dorset; killed in the battle ofBaugi, March 29th, 1421, aged 33. --3. John Duke of Bedford, born 1389;married (1) Anne, daughter of Jean Sans Peur, Duke of Burgundy, atTroyes, April 17th, 1423; (2) Jaquette, daughter of a Count of SaintPol, at Therouenne, April, 1433; he died September 14th, 1435, aged46. --4. Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester, born 1390, admitted a "brother"of Canterbury 1408; married (1) Jaqueline, Duchess of Holland andHainault, 1422, and repudiating her without any formal divorce, married(2) Alianora, daughter of Reginald Lord Cobham of Sterborough, about1428; murdered at Saint Edmund's Bury, by his uncle Cardinal Beaufort, February 23rd, 1447, aged 57. --5. Blanche, born at Peterborough, 1392;married, at Cologne, July, 1402, Ludwig of the Pfalz; died at Neustadt, May 22nd, 1409, aged 17. --6. Philippa, born at Peterborough, July, 1394; married, at Lund, October 26th, 1406, Eric King of Denmark; diedat Wadstena, January 5th, 1430, aged 36. 

KENT, EDMUND DE HOLAND, 7TH AND LAST EARL. 

Probably _youngest_ son of Thomas De Holand, fifth Earl, and his wifeAlesia de Arundel; born at Brokenhurst, January 6th, 1382 (_Prob. Cet. Dicti. Edmundi_, 5 H. IV 38); baptised in Saint Thomas's Church, January 8th. (_Ibidem_. ) In 1403 he guarded the King to Shrewsbury; in1404 he joined in the Duke of Clarence's expedition to Sluys; and Henrythe Fourth made him Lord High Admiral. He was received into thefraternity at Canterbury, May 8th, 1405, about two months after theimprisonment of Constance. About New Year's Day, 1406, "when he assumedhis arms, " he made a grand tournament in Smithfield; the Earl of Moraychallenged him to single combat, and was triumphantly vanquished byKent. He appears to have lent himself with the most easy indifferenceto Henry the Fourth's scheme for getting rid of Constance. Theprobability is that he was tired of her, and was deeply in love withLucia. He was wounded in the head at the siege of Briac Castle, September 10th, 1408, and died after lingering five days. His body wasbrought over to England, and buried in Bourne Abbey, Lincolnshire. 

KENT, LUCIA VISCONTI, COUNTESS. 

Youngest child of Barnabb Visconti and Beatrice Scaligero (surnamedRegina for her pride), and cousin, not sister, of Galeazzo the Second, Duke of Milan. She was probably born about 1383, and was most likelystill in her cradle when in 1384 she was contracted with great pomp andceremony to Louis Duke of Anjou, afterwards King of Sicily. TheVisconti ladies were renowned for beauty, and Lucia's cousin Valentina, Duchess of Orleans, was one of the most renowned beauties of her day. Lucia was still in infancy when her father was deposed and imprisoned byhis nephew Gian Galeazzo, May 6th, 1385; and she lost her mother aboutthe same time. Louis of Anjou did not fulfil his contract, and Galeazzosold Lucia for 70, 000 florins, as stated in the text. She was marriedto Earl Edmund at the Church of Saint Mary Overy, Southwark, January24th, 1406. After her husband's death Henry the Fourth tried to induceher to marry Thomas Beaufort, Earl of Dorset, his own half-brother. Itis commonly said that Lucia refused Dorset, and she certainly does notdescribe herself as Countess of Dorset, but only as Countess of Kent, inher will (printed in _Test. Vet_. I. 205). But she is twice styled byHenry "our dear sister Lucia" (March 16th and 28th, 1409--_Rot. Pat_. 10 H. IV), which looks as if she did marry Dorset. Stow says that shemarried Sir Henry de Mortimer, and had a daughter Anne. However thismay be, in 1421 she was petitioning the Crown for aid on account of deeppoverty, caused by the overwhelming mass of debts left behind by Edmund, who died intestate. (_Rot. Pari_, iv. 143-5. ) Nothing more is knownof her except the date of her death, April 14th, 1424, when aged about40. (_Inq. Post. Mortem_ 2 H. VI 35, _Lucitz Comitissae Kane_'. )She was buried in the Church of the Augustine Friars, London. (_Harl. Ms_ 544, folio 78. ) The English mistook Lucia for Galeazzo's sister. 

MARCH, EDMUND MORTIMER, SIXTH AND LAST EARL. 

Eldest son of Roger, fifth Earl, and his wife Alianora de Holand; bornNovember 4th, 1391; imprisoned in Windsor Castle, about Christmas, 1399;stolen away by Constance Le Despenser, about February 14th, 1405;recaptured and again consigned to prison; bound with four others assurety for 70, 000 florins, to be paid to Duke of Milan, January, 1406;marriage granted to Queen Jeanne of Navarre, February 24th, 1408 (_Rot. Pat_. 9 H. IV, Part 1), and afterwards sold by her to the Prince ofWales for 200 pounds (_Rot. Ex, Michs_, 1 H. V); apparently releasedon accession of Henry the Fifth, 1413; married, 1414-16, Anne, daughterof Edmund Earl of Stafford, and his wife Princess Anne of Gloucester;sat as judge on his brother-in-law's trial--with regard to whose crime, if the indictment were true, March must have been himself chiefwitness, --August 5th, 1415; received pardon for all offences, August7th. The next mention of him is that he was living in Ireland, July10th, 1424; and it was in Ireland, at Trim Castle, that he died, January19th, 1425, aged 33. He was buried at Stoke Clare. He left no issue, and his widow remarried John de Holand, Earl of Huntingdon. The lastmention of his brother Roger as living occurs on the Rolls, August 26th, 1404; but we are told that he was one of the boys stolen by Constance inFebruary, 1405. After that nothing is heard of him but that he diedyoung; probably before his brother's release, as his age would then havebeen at least fifteen. His sister Alianora married Edward Courtenay, and died issueless. 

YORK, EDMUND PLANTAGENET, FIRST DUKE. 

Sixth son (but fourth who reached manhood) of Edward the Third andPhilippa of Hainault Born at Langley, June 5th, 1341; baptised byNicholas Abbot of Saint Albans; and committed to the care of Joan deOxenford, Agnes de La Marche, and Margery de Wyght. He was brought upin the nursery palace at Chilterne, or Children's Langley, Herts. Onthe 8th of February, 1362, ambassadors were appointed to contractmarriage between Edmund and Margaret Duchess of Burgundy. The marriagewas appointed to take place at Bruges, February 4th, 1365; but PopeUrban refused to grant a dispensation (urged by the King of France, whowanted the Princess for his son), and the negotiations came to nothing. Edmund was created Earl of Cambridge and Lord of Teviotdale, November14th, 1362. In 1366 his name appears in the marriage treaty of hisbrother Lionel with Violante Visconti of Milan, which provided thatEdmund should be substituted for Lionel if his brother died before themarriage. From 1369 to 1371 the Earl was on the Continent with hisbrothers, the Black Prince and the Duke of Lancaster. It was atRochefort, near Bordeaux, about November, 1369, that Edmund first sawhis future wife, the Infanta Isabel of Castilla; but he did not marryher until 1372. In 1374 he was Governor of Bretagne; Constable of Doverand Warden of the Cinque Ports, July 12th, 1376. At the coronation ofRichard the Second, July 16th, 1377, Edmund was second of the homagers, and walked next but one after the King. In May, 1381, he sailed forPortugal, accompanied by his wife and eldest son. Little was done inrespect of the errand on which he had gone--the furtherance of theInfanta's claims to Castilla; and he came back, disappointed, inOctober, 1382. He was created Duke of York, at Hoselow Lodge, August6th, 1385, "by cincture of sword and imposition of gold coronet on hishead. " (_Harl. Ms. 298, folio_. 84, _b_. ) A grant of 1000 pounds perannum was made to him on the 15th of November following. During thelong struggle between the various members of the Royal Family, Yorkalways sided with Gloucester, except when Lancaster was present. In1388 he was co-surety (with Gloucester, Derby, and others) for 5000borrowed from the Londoners for Gloucester's purposes. (_Rot. Pat_. 11R. II, _Part_ 2. ) The King visited him at Langley, April 18th, 1389. About September, 1391, he and his brother of Lancaster concluded a trucewith France. His first wife died, and he married the second, in 1393. (See subsequent articles. ) He was created Regent of England, for thefirst time, September 29th, 1394, during the King's first voyage toIreland. King Richard relieved him of this charge by returning homeabout May 11th, 1395. His second regency was from August 6th, 1396, toabout November 14th following. It was by the advice of Lancaster andYork--but the latter was really the mere echo of the former, --thatGloucester was arrested, August, 1397. Some of his brother Gloucester'slands were granted to York. After this, both York and Lancaster retiredfrom Court to their own country homes. In 1399, on the death ofLancaster, York was created Steward of England _pro tem_, "until HenryEarl of Derby shall sue for the same. " (_Rot. Pat_. 22 R. II, _Part_2. ) In May, 1399, he was created Regent for the third and last time. About the 7th of July he met, and at once went over to, his rebelliousand banished nephew, Henry of Lancaster. He was present at Henry theFourth's coronation, and remained a guest at Court for the rest of thatyear, where we find him several times during 1400. On November 25th, 1400, he made his will; and in 1401 he was received into the fraternityat Canterbury. His last recorded visit to Court was on the opening ofParliament, January 20th, 1402; and on the following first of August hedied at Langley, aged 61. He was buried in the Church of the FriarsPredicants, Langley. Edmund was unquestionably a weak man, both incharacter and abilities: indeed, Froissart goes so far as to hint thathe was deficient in intellect. (Book four, chapter 73. ) His being madeRegent by no means disproves this; for the post was chiefly honorary, and his brother Lionel had filled it when only seven years old. For hiswives see the later articles. 

YORK, EDWARD PLANTAGENET, SECOND DUKE. 

Eldest son of Edmund Duke of York and Isabel of Castilla; born probablyabout New Year's Day, 1373. He accompanied his parents to Portugal inMay, 1382, and was formally affianced to the Infanta Beatriz; but herfather subsequently broke off the engagement, by dispensation from thePope, and married her to the rival King of Castilla. King Richard wasdeeply attached to him, or perhaps rather to the ideal being whom hebelieved him to be. He granted him the stewardship of Bury, January22nd, 1390; created him Earl of Rutland, May 2nd, in the same year; gavehim the reversion of the Constableship of the Tower, January 27th, 13925employed him in embassy to France, February 26th, 1394, and again, July1395; created him Constable of England, July-12th, 1397, and Duke ofAumerle, September 29th, 1397. A grant was made to him from the landsof Archbishop Arundel, September 27th; and his patent as Constable ofthe Tower was renewed, October 30th. In May, 1399, he went with theKing to Ireland. When Lancaster's rebellion broke out, Aumerle merelywaited to make sure which was the winning side, and then went over tohis cousin Henry without a thought of the Sovereign who had styled him"brother, " and had been the author of all his prosperity. In the midstof the tumult his patent as Constable of the Tower was once morerenewed, August 31st. At the coronation of Henry the Fourth, Aumerlewas one of the peers who held the canopy. He is named as one of thosewho requested the usurper to put the King to death. How he betrayed hisfriends at Maidenhead Bridge is recounted in the text. Henry the Fourthtrusted Aumerle as he trusted few others, in a manner incomprehensibleto any one acquainted with the character of either. On March 10th, 1400, he pardoned Aumerle's debts; then he made him Lord Lieutenant ofIreland; and then Governor of Aquitaine. Edward became Duke of York byhis father's death, August 1st, 1402. The next escapade of thissingular individual was to address to Queen Jeanne a series of verses, painfully laboured, of which the first is the least uncouth, and eventhat halts in the rhyme. 

 "Excellent Sovereign seemly to see, Proved prudence peerless of price, Bright blossom of benignity, Of figure fairest, and freshest of days!"

It is evident that Nature never intended Edward for a poet. His nextadventure was a futile endeavour to scale the wall of Eltham Palace, andseize the King; and the third was his share in Constance's theft of theMortimers. He and his sister were both arrested, and all his lands, goods, and chattels confiscated. He was sent to Pevensey Castle, andthere placed in keeping of Sir John Stanley; but his imprisonment wasnot long, for on the fourth of November he was free and in London. Perhaps his experience was useful in curbing his plotting temper, for hekept very quiet after this, and we hear of him next engaged in a piousand orthodox manner, founding Fotheringay College. York did not sit onthe bench at his brother's trial; he had the grace to prefer a proxy inthe person of Dorset. He made his will August 22nd, 1415, wherein hestyled himself "of all sinners the most wicked;" desired to be buried atFotheringay, and ordered that the expenses of his funeral should notexceed 100 pounds. His death took place at Agincourt, October 25th, 1415, in the manner described in the text; and his obsequies werecelebrated at London on the 1st of December. He married Philippa, daughter and co-heir of John Lord Mohun of Dunster, and his wife JoanBurghersh, one of the most eminent Lollards of her day. Philippa wasmarried (1) before March 6th, 1382 (_Reg. Joh'is Ducis Lanc, folio_ 60, _b_), to Walter, Lord Fitzwalter; (2) between 1386 and 1393, to Sir JohnGolafre; (3) after 1397, to Edward Duke of York; and according to someauthors (4) after 1415, to John Vescy. She died July 17th, 1431. (_Inq. Post Mortem_ 10 H. VI, 45; _Ph'ae. Ducissa Ebor_. )

YORK, ISABEL OF CASTILLA, DUCHESS. 

Third and youngest daughter of Don Pedro the First, surnamed The Cruel, and Maria Padilla, whose marriage is usually considered a fiction bymodern writers, though Pedro himself solemnly affirmed it, and theirdaughters were treated as Princesses through life. Isabel was born atMorales or Tordesillas, in 1355. In 1365, when Don Pedro fled beforehis rebel brother, he was accompanied by his third wife, Juana, and histhree daughters, Beatriz, Constanga, and Isabel. They fled from Sevillato Bayonne, and did not return to Sevilla till 1368, after the victoryof Navareta. After the loss of the battle of Montiel and the murder oftheir father, in 1369, the Princesses were hastily taken again by theirguardians to Bayonne. Constancy was married to John of Gaunt, Duke ofLancaster, at Rochefort, near Bordeaux, about November, 1369. Isabelremained with her sister, and accompanied her to England in 1371. In1372--between January 1st and April 30th--she married Edmund Earl ofCambridge, the brother of her sister's husband. It was at Hertford, March 1st, 1372, that John of Gaunt and Constanca assumed the titles ofKing and Queen of Leon and Castilla; and as sixteen months had thenelapsed since their own marriage, the probability seems to be that thisdate marks the marriage of Isabel, and the consent of her bridegroom tothe exclusive assumption of queenship by the elder sister. (The otherand really eldest sister, Beatriz, had become a nun. ) Isabel is alludedto as Edmund's wife on April 30th, 1372. In May, 1381, she accompaniedher husband to Portugal, on an expedition undertaken with the object ofsecuring the recognition of herself and her sister as the true heirs ofCastilla. The expedition failed; and Isabel returned to England withher husband in October, 1382. 

Several pardons appear on the rolls, granted at the instance of Isabel. Dona Juana Fernandez, who appears in the story, was at first one of herdamsels, but in 1377 became Mistress of the Household. Isabel becameDuchess of York, August 6th, 1385. Her will was made December 6th, 1389. A grant of 100 pounds was given to her, October 3rd, 1390, to payher debts; but notwithstanding this and further grants of money, she wasstill obliged to borrow 400 from her brother-in-law of Lancaster, January 25th, 1393. This was her last recorded act, for on the third ofFebruary she was dead. (_Rot. Ex. Michs_, 14 R. II; _CompotusSoberti de Whitteby_, 1392-3, _folio_ 19; _Rot. Pat_. 16 R. II, Part3. )--Much misconception exists as to the terms of her will. She isrepresented by some writers as having been driven to provide for her sonRichard by the purchase of the King's favour, having bequeathed all hergoods to his Majesty on a species of compulsion. The fact is that shebequeathed to him her son and her goods together, requesting him toprovide for the one from the proceeds of the other. She made the Kingsimply trustee for her boy, his own godson. And how much King Richardgained or lost by the transaction is set down in plain figures: for thejewels, etcetera, bequeathed by Isabel sold for 666 pounds 13 shillings4 pence--just two years' income of the annuity paid for seven years (therest of his reign) to Richard. (_Rot. Ex, Michs_, 17 R. II. ) Themonastic chroniclers speak of Isabel in terms of unqualified contempt--particularly Walsingham, who invariably vilifies a Lollard. And thatshe was a Lollard few can doubt who read her will with attention. Possibly the entire accusation brought against her in early life is acalumny; possibly it is a fact. Many women that _were_ sinners havewashed Christ's feet with tears; and perhaps they will not be found thelowest in the kingdom of Heaven. 

YORK, JOAN DE HOLAND, DUCHESS. 

Second daughter of Thomas Earl of Kent and his wife Alesia de Arundel;sister of Thomas Duke of Surrey, Edmund Earl of Kent, and AlianoraCountess of March; born 1383, married (1) before November 4th, 1393, Edmund Duke of York; (2) William, Lord Willoughby de Eresby, --pardon forunlicenced marriage May 14th, 1409, but named as husband and wife, March26th, 1406; (3) before December 9th, 1410, Henry Lord Scrope of Upsal;(4) Henry de Vescy, Lord Bromflete--pardon for unlicenced marriage, August 14th, 1416. She died April 12th, 1434, aged 51--during theabsence of her husband at the Council of Basel--leaving no issue by anyof her marriages. Her character is shown in several small matters, butabove all in the rancour of her petition against Alianora de Audley, andthe deceit which prompted the putting forward of her younger sisterMargaret in her place. The indication in the story that the device forannulling Constance's marriage proceeded from Joan is suppositious, butby no means improbable.