The White Lady of Hazelwood: A Tale of the Fourteenth Century

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

  MY LORD ELECT OF YORK.

  "She only said,--`The day is dreary, He will not come,' she said: She wept,--`I am aweary, weary,-- O God, that I were dead!'"

  Tennyson.

  "What, ho! Gate, ho! Open unto my Lord elect of York!"

  The cry startled the porter at Hazelwood Manor from an afternoon nap.He sprang up and hurried out, in utter confusion at his negligence. Tokeep a priest waiting would have been bad manners enough, and an abbotstill worse; but an archbishop was, in the porter's estimate, asemi-celestial being. True, this Archbishop was not yet consecrated,nor had he received his pallium from Rome, both which considerationsdetracted from his holiness, and therefore from his importance; but hewas the Archbishop of the province, and the shadow of his future dignitywas imposing to an insignificant porter. Poor Wilkin went down on hisknees in a puddle, as soon as he had got the gate open, to beg thepotentate's pardon and blessing, and only rose from them summarily tocollar Colle, who had so little notion of the paramount claims of anarchbishop that he received the cavalcade with barks as noisy as hewould have bestowed on any worldly pedlar. Nay, so very unmannerly wasColle, that when he was let go, he marched straight to the Archbishop,and after a prolonged sniff at the archiepiscopal boots, presumed so faras to wag his very secular tail, and even to give an uninvited lick tothe archiepiscopal glove. The Archbishop, instead of excommunicatingColle, laid his hand gently on the dog's head and patted him; which soemboldened that audacious quadruped that he actually climbed up theprelate, with more decided wagging than before.

  "Nay, my son!" said the Archbishop, gently, to an officious young priestin his suite, who would have dragged the dog away--"grudge me not mywelcome. Dogs be honest creatures, and dissemble not. Hast thou neverheard the saw, that `they be ill folks that dogs and children will notgo withal'?"

  And with another pat of Colle's head, the Archbishop dismissed him, andwalked into the hall to meet a further welcome from the whole family andhousehold, all upon their knees. Blessing them in the usual priestlymanner, he commanded them to rise, and Sir Godfrey then presented hissons and squire, while Lady Foljambe did the same for the young ladies.

  "Mistress Margaret Foljambe, my son's wife, an' it please your Grace;and Mistress Perrote de Carhaix, my head chamberer. These be mybower-women, Agatha de La Beche and Amphillis Neville."

  "Neville!" echoed the Archbishop, instantly. "Of what Nevilles comestthou, my maid?"

  "Please it you, holy Father," said the confused Amphillis, morefrightened still to hear a sharp "your Grace!" whispered from LadyFoljambe; "I know little of my kin, an' it like your Grace. My fatherwas Walter Neville, and his father a Ralph, but more know I not, underyour Grace's pleasure."

  "How comes it thou wist no more?"

  "May it please your Grace, my father dwelt in Hertfordshire, and hewedded under his estate, so that his family cast him off, as I haveheard," said Amphillis, growing every moment more hot and confused, forit was no light ordeal for one in her position to be singled out forconversation by an archbishop, and she sorely feared an after ebullitionof Lady Foljambe's wrath.

  "My child!" said the Archbishop with great interest, and very gently,"did thy father wed one Margery Altham, of London, whose father dwelt inthe Strand, and was a baker?"

  "He did so, under your Grace's pardon," said poor Amphillis, blushingfor the paternal shortcomings; "but, may it please your Grace, he was amaster-pastiller, not a baker."

  A little smile of amusement at the delicate distinction played about theArchbishop's lips.

  "Why, then, Cousin Amphillis, I think thy cousin may ask thee for akiss," said he, softly touching the girl's cheek with his lips. "MyLady Foljambe, I am full glad to meet here so near a kinswoman, and I doheartily entreat you that my word may weigh with you to deal well withthis my cousin."

  Lady Foljambe, with a low reverence, assured his Grace that she had beenentirely unaware, like Amphillis herself, that her bower-woman couldclaim even remote kindred with so exalted a house and so dignified aperson; and that in future she should assume the position proper to herbirth. And to her astonishment, Amphillis was passed by her Ladyship upthe table, above Agatha, above even Perrote--nay, above MistressMargaret--and seated, not by any means to her comfort, next to LadyFoljambe herself. From that day she was no more addressed with thefamiliar _thou_, but always with the _you_, which denoted equality orrespect. When Lady Foljambe styled her Mistress Amphillis, she enduredit with a blush. But when Perrote substituted it for the affectionate"Phyllis" usual on her lips, she was tearfully entreated not to make achange.

  The Archbishop was on his way south for the ceremony of consecration,which required a dispensation if performed anywhere outside theCathedral of Canterbury, unless bestowed by the Pope himself. His visitset Sir Godfrey thinking. Here was a man who might safely be allowed tovisit the dying Countess--being, of course, told the need for secrecy--and if he requested it of him, Perrote must cease to worry him afterthat. No poor priest, nor all the poor priests put together, could bethe equivalent of a live Archbishop.

  He consulted Lady Foljambe, and found her of the same mind as himself.It would be awkward, she admitted, if the Countess died, to findthemselves censured for not having supplied her with spiritualministrations proper for her rank. Here was a perfect opportunity. Itwould be a sin to lose it.

  It was, indeed, in a different sense to that in which she used thewords, a perfect opportunity. The name of Alexander Neville has comedown to us as that of the gentlest man of his day, one of the mostlovable that ever lived. Beside this quality, which rendered him apeculiarly fit ministrant to the sick and dying, he was among the mostprominent Lollards; he had drunk deep into the Scriptures, and,therefore, while not free from superstition--no man then was--he wasvery much more free than the majority. Charms and incantations, textstied round the neck, and threads or hairs swallowed in holy water, hadlittle value to the masculine intellect of Alexander Neville. And alongwith this masculine intellect was a heart of feminine tenderness, whichwould enable him to enter, so far as it was possible for a celibatepriest to enter, into the sad yearnings of the dying mother, whosechildren did not care to come to her, and held aloof even in the lasthour of her weary life. In those times, when worldliness had eaten likea canker into the heart of the Church, almost as much as in our own--when preferment was set higher than truth, and Court favour was held ofmore worth than faithfulness, one of the most unworldly men living wasthis elect Archbishop. The rank of his penitent would weigh nothingwith him. She would be to him only a passing soul, a wronged woman, alonely widow, a neglected mother.

  After supper, Sir Godfrey drew the Archbishop aside into his privateroom, and told him, with fervent injunctions to secrecy, the sorrowfultale of his secluded prisoner. As much sternness as was in ArchbishopNeville's heart contracted his brows and drew his lips into a frown.

  "Does my Lord Duke of Brittany know his mother's condition?"

  "Ay, if it please your Grace." Sir Godfrey repeated the substance ofthe answer already imparted to Perrote.

  "Holy saints!" exclaimed the Archbishop. "And my Lady Basset, whatsaith she?"

  "An' it like your Grace, I sent not unto her."

  "But wherefore, my son? An' the son will not come, then should thedaughter. I pray you, send off a messenger to my Lady Basset at once;and suffer me to see your prisoner. Is she verily nigh death, or mayshe linger yet a season?"

  "Father Jordan reckoneth she may yet abide divers weeks, your Grace; inespecial if the spring be mild, as it biddeth fair. She fadeth but fullslow."

  Sir Godfrey's tone was that of an injured man, who was not properlytreated, either by the Countess or Providence, through this very gradualdemise of the former. The Archbishop's reply--"Poor lady!" was inaccents of unmitigated compassion.

  Lady Foljambe was summoned by her husband, and she conducted the prelateto the turret-chamber, where the Countess sat in her chair by thewindow, and Amphi
llis was in attendance. He entered with uplifted hand,and the benediction of "Christ, save all here!"

  Amphillis rose, hastily gathering her work upon one arm. The Countess,who had heard nothing, for she had been sleeping since her bower-maidenreturned from supper, looked up with more interest than she usuallyshowed. The entrance of a complete stranger was something veryunexpected and unaccountable.

  "Christ save you, holy Father! I pray you, pardon me that I arise not,being ill at ease, to entreat your blessing. Well, Avena, what hasmoved thee to bring a fresh face into this my dungeon, prithee? Itshould be somewhat of import."

  "Madame, this is my Lord's Grace elect of York, who, coming hither onhis way southwards, mine husband counted it good for your Grace's soulto shrive you of his Grace's hand. My Lord, if your Grace have need ofa crucifix, or of holy water, both be behind this curtain. Come,Mistress Amphillis. His Grace will be pleased to rap on the door, whenit list him to come forth; and I pray you, abide in your chamber, andhearken for the same."

  "I thank thee, Avena," said the Countess, with her curt laugh. "Soothto say, I wist not my soul was of such worth in thine eyes, and stillless in thine husband's. I would my body weighed a little more with thepair of you. So I am to confess my sins, forsooth? That shall be alight matter, methinks; I have but little chance to sin, shut up in thiscage. Truly, I should find myself hard put to it to do damage to any ofthe Ten Commandments, hereaway. A dungeon's all out praisable forkeeping folks good--nigh as well as a sick bed. And when man has bothtogether, he should be marvellous innocent. There, go thy ways; I'llsend for thee when I lack thee."

  Lady Foljambe almost slammed the door behind her, and, locking it,charged Amphillis to listen carefully for the Archbishop's knock, and tounlock the door the moment she should hear it.

  The Archbishop, meanwhile, had seated himself in the only chair in theroom corresponding to that of the Countess. A chair was an object ofconsequence in the eyes of a mediaeval gentleman, for none but personsof high rank might sit on a chair; all others were relegated to a form,styled a bench when it had a back to it. Stools, however, were allowedto all. That certain formalities or styles of magnificence should havebeen restricted to persons of rank may be reasonable; but it does seemabsurd that no others should have been allowed to be comfortable. "Thegood old times" were decidedly inconvenient for such as had no handlesto their names.

  "I speak, as I have been told, to the Lady Marguerite, Duchess ofBrittany, and mother to my Lord Duke?" inquired the Archbishop.

  "And Countess of Montfort," was the answer. "Pray your Grace, give meall my names, for nought else is left me to pleasure me withal--saving atwo-three ounces of slea-silk and an ell of gold fringe."

  "And what else would you?"

  "What else?" The question was asked in passionate tones, and the darkflashing eyes went longingly across the valley to the Alport heights."I would have my life back again," she said. "I have not had a fairchance. I have done with my life not that I willed, but only that whichothers gave leave for me to do. Six and twenty years have I beentethered, and fretted, and limited, granted only the semblance of power,the picture of life, and thrust and pulled back whensoever I strained inthe least at the leash wherein I was held. No dog has been more pennedup and chained than I! And now, for eight years have I been cabined inone chamber, shut up from the very air of heaven whereunto God made allmen free--shut up from every face that I knew and loved, saving one ofmine ancient waiting-maids--verily, if they would use me worser than so,they shall be hard put to it, save to thrust me into my coffin andfasten down the lid on me. I want my life back again! I want thebright harvest of my youth, which these slugs and maggots have devoured,which I never had. I want the bloom of my dead happiness which men tareaway from me. I want my dead lord, and mine estranged children, and mylost life! Tell me, has God no treasury whence He pays compensation forsuch wrongs as mine? Must I never see my little child again, the babylad that clung to me and would not see me weep? My pillow is wet now,and no man careth for it--nay, nor God Himself. I was alway true woman;I never wronged human soul, that I know. I paid my dues, and shrived meclean, and lived honestly. Wherefore is all this come upon me?"

  "Lady Marguerite, if you lost a penny and gained a gold noble, would youthink you were repaid the loss or no?"

  "In very deed I should," the sick woman replied, languidly; the fire hadspent itself in that outburst, and the embers had little warmth left inthem.

  "Yet," said the Archbishop, significantly, "you would not have won thelost thing back."

  "What matter, so I had its better?"

  "We will return to that. But first I have another thing to ask. Yousay you never wronged man to your knowledge. Have you always paid allyour dues to Him that is above men?"

  "I never robbed the Church of a penny!"

  "There be other debts than pence, my daughter. Have you kept, to thebest of your power, all the commandments of God?"

  "In very deed I have."

  "You never worshipped any other God?"

  "I never worshipped neither Jupiter nor Juno, nor Venus, nor Diana, norMars, nor Mercury."

  "That can I full readily believe. But as there be other debts thanmoney, so there be other gods than Jupiter. Honoured you no man northing above God? Cared you alway more for His glory than for the fameof Marguerite of Flanders, or the comfort of Jean de Bretagne?"

  "Marry, you come close!" said the Countess, with a laugh. "Fame andease be not gods, good Father."

  "They be not God," was the significant answer. "`Ye are servants to himwhom ye obey,' saith the apostle, and man may obey other than his lawfulmaster. Whatsoever you set, or suffer to set himself, in God's place,that is your god. What has been your god, my daughter?"

  "I am never a bit worse than my neighbours," said the Countess, leavingthat inconvenient question without answer, and repairing, as thousandsdo, to that very much broken cistern of equality in transgression.

  "You must be better than your neighbours ere God shall suffer you in Hisholy Heaven. You must be as good as He is, or you shall not winthither. And since man cannot be so, the only refuge for him is to takeshelter under the cross of Christ, which wrought righteousness to coverhim."

  "Then man may live as he list, and cover him with Christ'srighteousness?" slily responded the Countess, with that instant recourseto the Antinomianism inherent in fallen man.

  "`If man say he knoweth Him, and keepeth not His commandments, he is aliar,'" quoted the Archbishop in reply. "`He that saith he abideth inHim, ought to walk as He walked.' Man cannot abide in Christ, andcommit sin, for He hath no sin. You left unanswered my question, Lady:what has been your god?"

  "I have paid due worship to God and the Church," was the rather stubbornanswer. "Pass on, I pray you. I worshipped no false god; I took notGod's name in vain no more than other folks; I always heard mass of aSunday and festival day; I never murdered nor stole; and as to tellingfalse witness, beshrew me if it were false witness to tell AvenaFoljambe she is a born fool, the which I have done many a time in theday. Come now, let me off gently, Father. There are scores of worserwomen in this world than me."

  "God will not judge you, Lady, for the sins of other women; neither willHe let you go free for the goodness of other. There is but One otherfor whose sake you shall be suffered to go free, and that only if you beone with Him in such wise that your deeds and His be reckoned as one,like as the debts of a wife be reckoned to her husband, and his honoursbe shared by her. Are you thus one with Jesu Christ our Lord?"

  "In good sooth, I know not what you mean. I am in the Church: what morelack I? The Church must see to it that I come safe, so long as I shriveme and keep me clear of mortal sin: and little chance of mortal sin haveI, cooped up in this cage."

  "Daughter, the Church is every righteous man that is joined with Christ.If you wist not what I mean, can you be thus joined? Could a woman bewedded to a man, and not know it? Could two knights enter intocovenant,
to live and die each with other, and be all unsure whetherthey had so done or no? It were far more impossible than this, that youshould be a member of Christ's body, and not know what it meaneth so tobe."

  "But I am in Holy Church!" urged the Countess, uneasily.

  "I fear not so, my daughter."

  "Father, you be marvellous different from all other priests that everspake to me. With all other, I have shrived me and been absolved, andthere ended the matter. I had sins to confess, be sure; and they lookedI should so have, and no more. But you--would you have me perfectsaint, without sin? None but great saints be thus, as I have beentaught."

  "Not the greatest of saints, truly. There is no man alive that sinnethnot. What is sin?"

  "Breaking the commandments, I reckon."

  "Ay, and in especial that first and greatest--`Thou shalt love the Lordthy God with all thine heart, and with all thy mind, and with all thysoul, and with all thy strength.' Daughter, hast thou so loved Him--sothat neither ease nor pleasure, neither fame nor life, neither earth norself, came between your love and Him, was set above Him, and servedafore Him? Speak truly, like the true woman you are. I wait youranswer."

  It was several moments before the answer came.

  "Father, is that sin?"

  "My daughter, it is the sin of sins: the sin whence all other sinsflow--this estrangement of the heart from God. For if we truly lovedGod, and perfectly, should we commit sin?--could we so do? Could wedesire to worship any other than Him, or to set anything before Him?--could we bear to profane His name, to neglect His commands, to gocontrary to His will? Should we then bear ill-will to other men wholove Him, and whom He loveth? Should we speak falsely in His ears whois the Truth? Should we suffer pride to defile our souls, knowing thatHe dwelleth with the lowly in heart? Answer me, Lady Marguerite."

  "Father, you are sore hard. Think you God, that is up in Heaven, takethnote of a white lie or twain, or a few cross words by nows and thens?not to name a mere wish that passeth athwart man's heart and is gone?"

  "God taketh note of sin, daughter. And sin is _sin_--it is rebellionagainst the King of Heaven. What think you your son would say to acaptain of his, which pleaded that he did but surrender one littlepostern gate to the enemy, and that there were four other strong portalsthat led into the town, all whereof he had well defended?"

  "Why, the enemy might enter as well through the postern as any other.To be in, is to be in, no matter how he find entrance."

  "Truth. And the lightest desire can be sin, as well as the wickedestdeed. Verily, if the desire never arose, the deed should be ill-set tofollow."

  "Then God is punishing me?" she said, wistfully.

  "God is looking for you," was the quiet answer. "The sheep hath goneastray over moor and morass, and the night is dark and cold, and itbleateth piteously: and the Shepherd is come out of the warm fold, andis tracking it on the lonely hills, and calling to it. Lady, will thesheep answer His voice? will it bleat again and again, until He find it?or will it refuse to hear, and run further into the morass, and beengulfed and fully lost in the dark waters, or snatched and carried intothe wolf's den? God is not punishing you now; He is loving you; He iswaiting to see if you will take His way of escape from punishment. Butthe punishment of your sins must be laid upon some one, and it is foryou to choose whether you will bear it yourself, or will lay it upon Himwho came down from Heaven that He might bear it for you. It must beeither upon you or Him."

  The face lighted up suddenly, and the thin weak hands were stretchedout.

  "If God love me," she said, "let Him give me back my children! Hewould, if He did. Let them come back to me, and I shall believe it.Without this I cannot. Father, I mean none ill; I would fain think asyou say. But my heart is weak, and my life ebbs low, and I cannot bleatback again. O God, for my children!--for only one of them! I would becontent with one. If Thou lovest me--if I have sinned, and Thou wouldstspare me, give me back my child! `Thou madest far from me friend andneighbour'--give me back _one_, O God!"

  "Daughter, we may not dictate to our King," said the Archbishop, gently."Yet I doubt not there be times when He stoops mercifully to weaknessand misery, and helps our unbelief. May He grant your petition! Andnow, I think you lack rest, and have had converse enough. I will seeyou again ere I depart. _Benedicite_!"