Red and White: A Tale of the Wars of the Roses

  *CHAPTER X.*

  *AT THE PARCHMENT-MAKER'S.*

  "My life hath been a search for Thee, 'Mid thorns left red with Thy dear blood; In many a dark Gethsemane I seemed to stand where Thou hadst stood: And, scorned in this world's judgment-place, At times, through tears, to catch Thy face." --ROBERT, EARL LYTTON.

  The shadow was falling very low on the sun-dial in a small back yardlooking into the fields to the north of Chicken Lane, which crossed theFleet River, one end abutting upon Lither Lane (running northwards fromHolborn) and the other entering Smithfield at its north-western corner.Over the sundial for a moment bent a youth of some twenty years or more,clad in a buff jerkin and working apron. His face was remarkable forthe extremely good-humoured expression of the lips, and for the perfectfrankness of the clear, honest eyes. Having satisfied himself as to thetime of day, he re-entered the house by the back-door, which led himinto a low, narrow room, fitted with a long table and sundry benches.Here half-a-dozen men and boys were at work, some engaged in preparingskins for use by scraping off the hair, some arrived at the furtherstages of straining or bleaching, some at the concluding point ofcutting the parallelograms of parchment, the manufacture of which wasmanifestly their trade.

  "Put up work, lads'" said the young man, as he came in, in a tone whichshowed him, notwithstanding his youth, to be the master. "The'prentice-lads may be gone. I have more ado yet with Dick and Robin."

  He was obeyed with that alacrity which usually finds its way into thecessation of work more readily than into its commencement, and one ofthe men, with the three apprentices, shouldered their tools anddeparted, exchanging "God be wi' you!" with the rest. When they weregone, and the two men remaining had gathered their tools into baskets,one of them said,--

  "Monition to-night, Master?"

  "Even so, Dick. Come you both into the kitchen."

  The two men nodded, and followed their master into a small but cheerfulkitchen, where a large fire blazed in the wide chimney. In a woodenchair in the chimney corner, propped up by cushions, sat a silver-hairedold woman, and a girl in the chimney corner at work, while an elder girland a middle-aged woman were arranging forms as though some gathering ofpersons was expected.

  "Time, Jack?" said the old woman.

  "Aye so, Mother," returned he cheerily, setting to work with the forms.

  He called her mother, for none other had he ever known: but the oldwoman was really the grandmother of the young man and the girls. Themiddle-aged woman was their one servant.

  "There!" said Jack at length, glancing over the forms when thearrangement was finished. "Me reckoneth those shall be so many as weare like to have need."

  "Who be a-coming, Jack?"

  "No more than custom is, Mother--without Will Sterys bring yon friend ofhis that he spake of t'other night. Very like he may."

  "Who shall he be?"

  "I wot not, Mother: only Will said he was one safe to be trusted."

  Before the words were well out of Jack's lips, a low knock came on thehouse-door--a peculiar knock; three little taps, a pause, two more.

  "Here they come," said Jack, and darted to the door.

  A somewhat motley assemblage dropped in by twos and threes. Here came alame man on crutches; a blind man led by a girl; two wan, tired-lookingwomen; a very old man, bent nearly double; another woman; a young man inhis prime. All, however, had as yet one peculiarity--they were dressedin a style which indicated that many of the good things of this life hadnot come in their way. There was a pause while they spoke kindgreetings to the family and each other: and then, at another low knock,Jack let in first one man, and a minute afterwards, two more. All theguests expected had evidently now arrived, for Jack bolted the door andreturned to the kitchen.

  The man who came by himself, first of the concluding three, proved to bea monk of the Order of St. Austin: a man of about thirty, spare andactive, with keen dark eyes which looked as if they saw every thing atonce. Coming in with uplifted hand in the traditional attitude ofblessing, and "Christ's peace be on all here!" he took his stand at asmall table, and unfastened from his girdle one of those leather booksbound with a projecting end and a knot, for the purpose of being carriedin that manner. This he set down on the table, and waited a moment forthe other two to appear.

  These last arrivals were both wrapped in cloaks, as though they wereanxious not to be recognised. The first, throwing his cloak off, showedthat he was dressed in livery, in a style peculiar to the latter half ofthe Middle Ages. He wore a tabard, or loose short coat, something likea smock-frock in shape, but only reaching to the hips; with wide sleeveswhich ended at the elbow. The right half of this coat was blue; theleft half blue and red in stripes, with yellow fleurs-de-lis worked onthe blue stripes. On his left arm, just below the shoulder, wasembroidered a silver cresset filled with red and yellow flames. In dayswhen every servant bore his master's badge, and every body knew whosebadge it was, no one could doubt for a moment whence this man came. Thefiery cresset, borne aloft on the silvered pole, was the familiar badgeof the De Holands, Dukes of Exeter.

  The second man laid his cloak aside more slowly. But when he did so, herevealed a costume indicating a very high rung on the social ladder.That gold chain and those slashed sleeves marked an esquire at thelowest; the gilt spurs could be worn by none under a knight; and thepeculiar cut of the cloak revealed to the initiated that he who bore itmust be a peer of the realm. It was no wonder if Jack and hisgrandmother felt slightly nervous when they discovered that the friendwhom Master William Sterys--himself the grandest person they knew--hadasked leave to bring, was no other than his noble master, Henry Duke ofExeter.

  There was one person in the room, however, who was not in the leastaffected by the discovery. This was the Austin Friar who was about toconduct the little conventicle. He felt, as one long after himexpressed it, that he had always one Hearer of such supreme distinction,that the rank of all the remainder faded into nothingness. Now he saidsimply, before the others had time to recover themselves,--"Let uspray."

  They knelt down on the brick floor--peer, and parchment-maker, andpoor--and the voice of the Austin Friar rose in prayer.

  "Lord, Thou art made a refuge to us, from generation to generation!"

  Oldest of all Psalms, that has been and will be the Psalm of thewilderness Church for ever. First sung in the desert, there is in it abreathing of desert air, a perpetual reminiscence of those who had nocity to dwell in, but who sought one to come. These who prayed it thatnight were all desert-dwellers: and no one of them felt the journey soweary, or the wilderness air so keen, as that one handsomely robedworshipper with the gold chain about his neck, whom one or two of thepoorer ones were almost unconsciously envying, and imagining that he hadnever breathed the air, nor felt a second's weariness from the journey.

  "His thoughts they scanned not: but I ween That could their import have been seen, The meanest groom in all the hall That e'er tied courser to a stall, Would scarce have wished to be their prey, For Lutterward and Fountenay."[#]

  [#] Scott's Marmion.

  After the prayer came the monition. There was no singing. The voice ofthe spiritual singer was silent during the corrupt ages of the Church.Britons and Anglo-Saxons had sung hymns freely: but one after anotherthe voices were hushed, and no new ones rose. Except in her authorisedservices, and to words chosen by herself, the Church frowned upon sacredmusic. This was especially remarkable, in an age when the popular lovefor secular music was at a height to which, in England at least, it hasnever risen since. It was reserved for Martin Luther to unlock thesealed spring, and let the frozen waters dash downwards in a joyouscataract.

  The text was taken from the fifty-fifth Psalm,[#] "There is no mutationto them, and they fear not God." The preacher touched lightly, first,on the changes and chances of this mortal life. In the eyes ofinexperienced youth, change is a glad thing, for it is alw
ays expectedto be for the better, and it accords with that eager restlessness whichis the natural feeling of youthful minds. But when middle age isreached, and when men have known trouble, change ceases to be sowelcome. It may be good still: we are not so ready to take it forgranted that it must be. And when old age is come, or when men havelived through much sorrow, we become afraid of all change, and averse toit. What we desire then is not change and variety; it is rest andpeace.

  [#] Verse 19.

  "Brethren," said the monk in that low, quiet voice of his, which yet wasso distinct that it penetrated every corner, "this is a world of change,wherein we ourselves are the most changeable of all things. There isonly one Man that changeth not, who is the same to-day, and yesterday,and to all the ages. There is only one Land where is no autumn. Changeis not needed there, for all is perfect. But here, no mutationsignifieth no betterment. It is the nature of earthly things to becomeworser: it is the nature of heavenly things to grow fairer, purer,better. And here, were there no worser changes in things around us,there would be no better change in things within us. Nay! but all we beapt to think the very contrary. Oh! saith one, if I had not lost minehaving--if I had not lost my children--if I were but better off, with nofear of losing the same, then I would live to God. Brethren, if yecannot live to God in the place where He has set you, ye will never dothe same in the place where you set yourselves.

  "Think you, in spiritual things, no change is death. Growth is life.While a plant liveth, it must needs grow and bud and put forth leaves.Let that cease, and what say you at once? The plant is dead.

  "Look, I pray you, what the prophet saith of Moab. Quoth he, 'Moab hathprospered from his youth up, and hath rested on the dregs of him: norhath he been poured from bowl to bowl, and hath not gone a-journeying:wherefore his taste abideth in him, and his scent is not changed.'[#]And what saith God unto His people that had gone far fromHim--'Wherefore should ye be stricken more?'[#]

  [#] Jer. xlviii. 11, Vulgate.

  [#] Isaiah i. 5.

  "These late years, brethren, have been changeful ones. Verily we havebeen poured from bowl to bowl. Are we the better for it? How many ofus be resting on our dregs? How many of us be choked up, and bringingno fruit to perfection? Fruit, may-be: the plant is not dead; but poor,little, stunted fruits, half blasted before they be grown. Note, I prayyou, in that our Lord's parable which methinks ye know, touching thesower and his seed, He saith the fruit is choked, not only bydeceitfulness of riches, but by cares of this life as well. Beware howye move God to shake you out of slumber! Keep yourselves awake: soshall He not need to wake you with sudden terror. There is scarce afearfuller passage in all His Word than this: 'Because I desired tocleanse thee, and thou art not cleansed from thy filthiness, thereforecleansed shalt thou not be, until I have caused Mine indignation to restupon thee.'[#]

  [#] Ezek. xxiv. 13.

  "But ye whom the Lord hath poured from bowl to bowl, thank Him if thedregs be left behind. This is His purpose, that ye should be partakersof His holiness. Grudge not if ye be poured, even with violence, solong as thereby ye are purified. Look you, the dregs must be got rid of.'Blessed are the clean in heart: for they shall see God.'[#]

  [#] Matt v. 8

  "But ere I go further, friends, I must cast up a fence, that ye straynot on wrong paths. Herein is the weakness of mortal man, and of thetongues of men. One emblem showeth but one side of the matter. If wewould show all sides, we must have so many emblems as there be sides toshow.

  "Our Lord saith, 'Be ye perfect.'[#] Yet perfect we cannot be. To thevery last day of life, the dregs will be left in the wine so long as itabideth in earthly vessels. There be three kinds of perfectness,brethren: the perfectness of imputation, which is Christ's work done forus; this we have of Him. 'Perfect in His comeliness, which He hath puton us.'[#] This we have now, on earth. But this is not wrought in us,much less by us: it is wrought for us. The second fashion ofperfectness is the perfectness of a sincere heart and a single eye.This we must see to, each man for himself. This it is to which our Lordpointeth us when He saith, Be perfect. This it is which is said ofDavid and other, that their hearts were perfect with the Lord. But thatwhereof I speak now is neither of these, but the third fashion ofperfectness; to wit, the perfectness of a soul hallowed unto God, andset apart for Him. This is not done for us, like the first manner; norby us, like the second manner; but in us, by the power of the HolyGhost. This is the cleansing out of these dregs, which shall leave thewine pure and meet for the King's use. And this, though it be begun thevery moment the heart turneth unto God, will never be ended till westand before Him in glory.

  [#] Matt v. 48.

  [#] Ezek. xvi. 14.

  "Doth one of you say in his heart, How can I tell what be dregs? Well,oft-times we cannot. We be apt to mistake therein. But He can. Pray Himto purge you from your dregs, and then let Him take what He will. Lord,give to us what we need! But look you, it must be what He seeth you toneed, not what ye see.

  "Brethren, let us thank God that in His infinite perfectness He changethnot. Let us thank Him also that He is changing us, into the likeness ofthat perfectness. Let us thank Him that the day is at hand when weshall need no further mutation, but shall be with Him, and shall be likeHim, for ever."

  Then the Friar read from his leather book a portion of the Gospel of St.John in Wycliffe's version: offered another short prayer: blessed hishearers, and departed with rapid steps, like a man who had much work todo, and but little time to do it.

  One by one, the little congregation took leave of host and hostess, andpassed out into the fresh night air. But the Duke of Exeter sat on: andWilliam Sterys waited his Lord's pleasure. When all were gone, thenoble guest rose.

  "May I pray you of your name, good master?" he said to Jack.

  "Truly, my gracious Lord, it might be bettered. I am but a Goose, atyour Lordship's bidding--John Goose, an' it like you."

  "I would fain wit, good Master Goose, if you do ever lodge any in yourhouse? Is there a spare chamber that you were willing to let out toany?"

  John's eyes went to his grandmother for a reply.

  "Well-a-day!" murmured the old woman, apparently rather staggered by thesuddenness of the proposition, and requiring some time to consider it."I scarce can tell. There is the chamber o'er here, that might becleared forth, and the gear set in the porch-chamber. Yet mefeareth,did we our best, it should scarce be meet for any servant of such asyour gracious Lordship."

  "I ask it not for my servant; I want it for myself," said the Dukequietly.

  Poor Mrs. Goose looked dumb-foundered, as she felt.

  "My gracious Lord, so poor a lodging as we could"---- began John Goose.

  "Nay, Master Goose, but my need is to lie hid. I desire to be where menshall not think lightly to look for me. And I seek an house whereonGod's peace cometh. Moreover, I would gladly hear more of FatherAlcock's monitions."

  "My Lord," said the old woman with some dignity, "if that be what yourLordship seeks, you shall find it here. You be not the first peer ofEngland that hath lain hid in this house. Sixty years gone, when hethat was sometime mine husband was a little lad, for divers weeksconcealed in this house was Sir John Oldcastle, sometime Lord Cobham,that died for Christ's sake and the Gospel's. If it content yourLordship to be as well--nay, better lodged than he was, come."

  "Abundantly, good Mother!" said the Duke. "And was that true man in thechamber where ye would put me?"

  "Nay, my Lord, he had worser lodging than you shall find.--Jack, light acandle, and show his Lordship where my Lord Cobham lay."

  John obeyed, and the Duke followed him, out of the kitchen and throughthe workshop, into a large closet in the wall of the latter room.Clearing away an armful of skins from the latter, John slipped back asliding panel, by some mechanism known to himself, and disclosed asmall, dark, dusty room, a little larger than the closet into which itopened, and furnished only with a leaf-table and a stool.

  "Here,
as I have heard," said John, "his Lordship lay during the day:and at night, when work was over, he came forth into the chamber whichyour Lordship shall have, and there he commonly sat a-writing till lateinto the night. Once, when a party came that 'twas thought might knowthe chamber, his Lordship donned an apron and a jerkin, and was set towork in the shop. 'Tis said," added John with a merry laugh, "hespoiled a skin thereby: but my grandfather recked not, but would have itset by as a precious thing, and 'twas so kept, some years."

  "And did the men at work here never hear him?"

  "Nay, I reckon they made too much noise themselves. Only one that wasnext unto him when he was in the shop said after unto my grandsire thathe had taken a raw hand a-work, which should be some cost to train,"said John, laughing.

  "That can I conceive," replied the Duke, with a smile. "Well, MasterGoose, so you and yours be willing, I will gladly engage this chamber.For the hire, charge you what is meet."

  The whole transaction was so unwonted that the Duke really did not knowwhat to offer.

  "Oh, my gracious Lord, we shall find no bones in that matter," returnedJohn Goose, metaphorically. "I will leave that to Mother, seeing thecharge shall be hers and my sisters'. Mefeareth, howbeit, that our rudecookery shall little content your good Lordship."

  "Bread and water would content me," answered the Duke, "so your cookeryis little like to fail."

  There were at this time as many delicate gradations of rank in cookingas in costume. Peers were entitled to five dishes at a meal; gentlemento three, and meaner persons to two, exclusive of pottage. Thedistinctions of bread have been already mentioned. The daily provisionmade for the household of the Duke of Clarence is on record, and itreads almost like the details of an army commissariat. For a man whowas accustomed to a provision of two oxen, twelve sheep, twelve pigs,and thirty-six barrels of fish--with a great many other things--as thedaily consumption of his household, to come down to the style of livingof a small tradesman, was a descent indeed. Trade was then held in verylow estimation, even a first-class merchant being reckoned below agentleman's servant. The supply customary for such a house as that ofJohn Goose, was bread and dripping for breakfast, with ale to drink; onedish of meat, with a vegetable and bread, for dinner; the same forsupper on grand occasions, perhaps with a pudding or pie in addition;but in all ordinary cases, the supper was brown bread and buttermilk.Only one thing, therefore, could more have astonished old Mrs. Goosethan the Duke's expressed indifference on this point; and that wouldhave been to find that he was willing to sleep on a mattress. Down bedsfor the upper ten--mattresses for the common folks--was the arrangementin the fifteenth century. I said, only one thing; but there was indeeda lower depth even than this, which to see would have reduced Mrs. Gooseto the furthest point of amazement. Had the Duke--for any purpose shortof disguise--made his appearance with a long cloak, a buff jerkin, afustian doublet, and neither gloves nor rings, she would almost havethought the world was coming to an end.

  It was, therefore, as may be conjectured, with some trepidation, thatMrs. Goose ventured to superintend her grand-daughters, Joan and Cicely,in the preparation of the room destined for so superior an occupant.The estimation in which a Brahmin of the highest caste is held by aPariah is alone to be compared with the feelings wherewith Mrs. Gooseregarded her lodger elect. She was deeply concerned to remember thatthe Duke would be accustomed to sleep on cambric sheets, and to eat fromgold plate, while she had nothing better to offer him than blankets inthe first place, and wooden trenchers in the second. But she was farfrom realising that, during many years now, the Duke had been accustomedto sleep on whatever he could get to sleep on; and that a good mealserved on a wooden trencher was luxury to a man who had begged his breadfor months in exile. The cloth of Rennes and the gold plate which werethe proper adjuncts of his rank had receded into the far distance,behind the long years of want and pain which Providence had decreed forhim.

  "Eh dear!" exclaimed Mrs. Goose, surveying her preparations whencomplete, with her head on one side, as if that would assist her sight."Gramercy, but it shall be a come-down for the like of him!"

  "'Tis the best we can do, Mother," said Cicely. "And 'somewhat isbetter than nought.'"

  "Eh, good lack, but 'tis a small somewhat!" returned the old woman."Why, I trow he shall have washed him in silver basins set with turkeystones,[#] and drank out of cups of gold all bordered with pearls."

  [#] Turquoise.

  "Mighty discomfortous, in good sooth!" said Cicely. "I would lieferhave a good cow's horn any day. It should hold the drink every whit aswell, and be a deal smoother to take in your lips."

  "And, dear heart! how shall we find to our hands aught fit for such anone to drink? Why, the meanest matter that hath passed his lips, Iwarrant you, shall be Malmsey or claret wine at sixpence the gallon.[#]And I doubt not he hath ate pike[#] and marmalade every day to hisdinner; aye, peacocks and rice, too."

  [#] A high price at this time; threepence or fourpence a gallon was thecost of ordinary wine.

  [#] Pike was now the most costly fish in the market, being ten times thevalue of cod and turbot. Marmalade was about two shillings orhalf-a-crown the pound; peacocks, about three shillings each, werereserved for the nobility; rice was very scarce and dear.

  "Well, then," rejoined Cicely, "it shall be a change for him to comedown to cod and bacon. I dare reckon he never tasted them."

  A few days later, Mrs. Goose made a deprecatory remark of the same kindto the Duke himself. It was met with a smile which was a blending ofsadness and amusement, and an assurance that for eighteen mouths of hislife he had never dined at all, and could therefore easily afford to putup with inexpensive fare now. Mrs. Goose was struck to silence--untilshe reached the kitchen, when she made up for it in notes ofexclamation.

  The life passed by the Duke in his retirement was very quiet. He hadbrought with him a collection of books which struck the unaccustomedeyes of his hosts with the magnitude of a public library. But John, whowas used to make quiet observation of all that passed under his eyes,noticed that one after another of these was gradually laid aside uponthe shelf and left unused, until the number was reduced to two, whichcontinued in daily employment. He was curious to know what they were:but as he could not read, it was of no use to open them. At last, oneday when Father Alcock came, and the Duke was out, John brought the twobooks to the Friar, and asked to be told what they were.

  "The Confessions of St. Austin, my son," answered the monk, opening theone that came first: "an holy volume, and good."

  "And this, Father?" pursued John, offering the other.

  "A better, my son, for it is the best of all--the true Word of God, thatliveth and abideth for ever. Here be the Psalms of David, and the NewTestament, bound in one, and in the Latin tongue."

  John put the volumes back in his lodger's room with a feeling ofsatisfaction. It gratified him also to see how regularly the Dukeattended the weekly "monition." In all other respects, the lodger madelittle impression on the household, and less on the world outside. Hedressed as an ordinary gentleman: and as soon as he had ceased to be anine days' wonder to the Joans and Megs of the neighbourhood, nobodytook further notice of him. John Goose found him a very silent man, whodealt chiefly in matter-of-fact when he spoke at all, and sometimesheaved sighs which went to his young host's tender heart. No one evercame to see him but his servant Will Sterys: and he kept indoors untilthe dusk had fallen. And so the days went on.