Our Little Lady

  CHAPTER FOUR.

  BABY.

  A very quiet life was led by Avice and Bertha. The house work was doneby the two in the early morning--cleaning, washing, baking, churning,and brewing, as they were severally needed; and in the afternoon theysat down to their work, enlivened either by singing or conversation.Sometimes both were silent, and when that was the case, unknown toAvice, Bertha was generally watching her features, and trying to readtheir meaning. At length, one evening after a long silence, shesuddenly broke the stillness with a blunt question.

  "Aunt, I wish you would tell me what you are thinking of when you lookso."

  "How do I look, Bertha?"

  "As if you were looking at something which nobody could see butyourself. Sometimes it seems to be something pretty, and sometimessomething shocking; but oftener than either, something just a littlesad, and yet as if there were pleasantness about it. I don't knowexactly how to describe it."

  "That will do. When a woman comes to fifty years, little Bertha, thereare plenty of things in the past of her life, which nobody can see whodid not go through them with her. And often those who did so cannot seethem. That will leave a scar upon one which makes not a scratch uponanother."

  "But of what were you thinking, Aunt, if I may know?"

  "That thou mayest. I fancy, when thou spakest, I was thinking--as Ivery often do--about my little Lady."

  "Now, if Aunt Avice is _very_ good," said Bertha insinuatingly, and withbrightened eyes, "that means a story."

  Aunt Avice smiled. "Ay, thou shalt have thy story. Only let us be surefirst that all is done which need be. Cast a few more chips on thefire, and light another pine-torch; that is burnt nigh out. And see thybodkin on the floor--careless child!"

  Bertha jumped up and obeyed. From one corner of the room, where lay aheap of neatly-cut faggots, she brought a handful, and threw it into thewide fire-place, which stretched across half one side of the room, andhad no grate, the fire burning on the stone hearth: then from a pile oflong pointed stakes of pitch pine, she brought one, lighted it, and setit in an iron frame by the fire-place made for that purpose; and lastly,she picked up from the brick floor an article of iron, about a foot inlength, and nearly as thick as her little finger, which she called abodkin, but which we should think very rude and clumsy indeed.

  "Hast thou heard, Bertha," said Avice, "that when I was young, I dweltfor a season in the Castle of Windsor, and my mother was nurse to someof the children of the Lord King that then was? Brothers and sisterthey were of our Lord King Edward that reigns now."

  Bertha's eyes brightened. She liked, as all girls do, to hear a storywhich had to do with great people.

  "No, Aunt Avice, I never knew that. Won't you tell me all about it?"

  So Avice began and told her what we know already--how the Bishop hadrecommended Agnes to the Queen, and all about the journey, and theCastle, and the Queen herself. Then she went on to tell the rest of thestory.

  "We lived nigh five years," said Avice, "in the Castle of Windsor--untilthe Lord Richard was dead, and the Lord William was nearly four yearsold. Then the Lady Queen removed to the royal Palace of Westminster,for the Lord King was gone over seas, and she with Earl Richard hisbrother was left to keep England. It was in August, the year of ourLord 1253, at we took up our abode in Thorney Island, where the Palaceof Westminster stands. It is a marshy place--not over healthy, somefolks say; but I never was ill while we dwelt there. And it was there,on Saint Katherine's Day"--which is the 25th of November--"that ourlittle Lady was born. Her royal mother named her Katherine, after theblessed saint. She was the loveliest babe that eye could rest on, andshe was christened with great pomp. And on Saint Edward's Day, when theLady Queen was purified"--namely, churched--"there was such a feast as Inever saw again while I dwelt with her. The provisions brought in forthat feast were fourteen wild boars, twenty-four swans, one hundred andthirty-five rabbits, two hundred and fifty partridges, sixteen hundredand fifty fowls, fifty hares, two hundred and fifty wild ducks,thirty-six geese, and sixty-one thousand eggs."

  "Only think!" cried Bertha. "Did you get some, Aunt?"

  "Surely I did, child. The Lady Queen, I told thee, was then keeper ofEngland, for the Lord King was away across the seas; and good provisionshe made. Truly, she was free-handed enough at spending. Would she hadbeen as just in the way she came by her money!"

  "Why, Aunt, what mean you?" asked Bertha, when Avice expressed her wishthat Queen Eleanor had been as just in gaining money as she was liberalin spending it.

  "Why, child, taxes came heavy in those days. When the Lord King neededmoney, he sent home to his treasurer, and it was had as he could getit--sometimes by selling up divers rich folks, or by levying a good sumfrom the Jews, or any way man could; not always by equal tenths orfifteenths, as now, which comes not nigh so heavy on one or two when itis equally meted out to all. But never was there king like our lateLord King Henry (whom God pardon) for squeezing money out of his poorsubjects. Yet old folks did use to say his father King John was as illor worse."

  Taxes, in those days, were a very different thing from what they arenow, and were far more at the mere pleasure of the King, not only as tothe collecting of them, but as to the spending. Ignorant people fancythat this is the case still; but it is not so. Queen Victoria has nomoney from the taxes for her private spending. When she became Queen,she gave up all the land belonging to her as Queen, on condition thather daughters should be portioned, and that she should receive a certainsum of money every year, of less value than the land she gave up; sothat it would be fraud and breach of trust in the people if they did notkeep their word to pay the sum agreed on to the Queen. There is so muchmisunderstanding on this point that it is worth while to mention it.

  "Then were the King and Queen--" Bertha began.

  Avice answered the half-asked question. "They were like other folks,child. They liked their own way, and tried to get it. And they likedfine clothes, and great feasts, and plenty of company, and so forth; sothey spent their money that way. I'll not say they were bad folks,though they did some bad things they were folks that only thought whatthey liked, and did it; and folks that do that are sure to bring sorrowto themselves and others too, whether they be kings and queens or cooksand haymakers. The kings and queens can do it on a larger scale; thatis all the difference. There are few enough that think what God likes,as holy Bishop Robert did, and like to do His will better than theirown; those that do scatter happiness around them, as the other sortscatter misery.

  "Well, after a while, the Lady Queen left England, to join the Lord Kingacross seas; but before she went, she took our little Lady down to theCastle of Windsor to the rest of the King's children. There was firstthe Lady Beatrice, who was a maiden of twelve years; and the LordEdmund, a very pretty little boy of nine; and the Lord William, who wasbut four; and there were also with them other children of different agesthat were brought up with them; but only one was near our little Lady'sage, or had much to do with her. That was Alianora de Montfort,daughter of Earl Simon of Leicester, that bold baron that headed thelords against the King; and her mother was the King's own sister, theLady Alianora. She was fifteen months older than our little Lady, andbeing youngest of all, the two used to play together. A sweet child shewas, too; but not like my own little Lady--there never was a child likeher."

  "What was she like, Aunt?"

  "Tell me what the angels are like in Heaven, and thou shalt hear then.She is an angel now--she hath been one these three-and-twenty years.But methinks there can have been little to change in her face when sheblossomed into a cherub, and the wings would unfold themselves from heras by nature. Never a child like her!--no, there never was one. Shehad bright, dark eyes, wonderful eyes--eyes that her whole soul shonein, and that took in everything which passed. She spoke with her eyes;she had no other way. The souls of other children came out of theirlips; but she had not spent many months in this lower world, before wesaw with bitter apprehension
and deep sorrow that God had sealed hersweet lips with eternal silence. She saw all; she heard nothing; shecould never speak. My darling was deaf and dumb."

  "O Aunt Avice!"

  "Ay, verily at times I wondered if she were indeed an angel that God hadsent down to earth, for whose pure lips our English was too rough, andour French too rude, and who could only speak the tongue they speak inHeaven. She went back but whence she came; we were not fit company forher. Methinks she was sent to let our earthbound hearts have oneglimpse of that upper world; and when her work was done, her Father sentfor her back home.

  "Though our little Lady could never speak, yet long before we discoveredthat, we found how lively, and earnest, and intelligent she was. As Itold thee, she talked with her eyes. Nothing could be done in herpresence but she must see and know all about it. A little pull at mygown would tell me she was there; and then I turned to see the brighteager eyes looking into mine, and asking me as plainly as eyes could askto let her know all about it. She would never rest till she knew whatshe wanted. Ay me, those eager eyes look into angels' faces now, andmaybe into the face of God upon the throne."

  "But, Aunt, how could she understand, if she could not hear?"

  "God told her somehow, child. He taught her, not we. We did our best,truly; but our best would have been a poor business, if He had not takenher in hand. Many a time, before I had finished trying to explainsomething to her, that quick little nod would come which meant, `Iunderstand.' Then she had certain signs for different things. She madethose herself; we never taught them to her. She stroked what she liked,as man would stroke a dog; when she disliked anything, she made a feintof throwing her open hand out from her, as though she were pushing itaway. She had odd little ways of indicating different persons, bysomething in them which struck her. Master Russell, the Queen's clerk,and keeper of the royal children, used often to have a sprig of mint orthyme in his lips as he went about; her sign for him was a bit of stickor thread between her lips. For the priest, she tolled a bell. For theLady Beatrice, her sister, who had a little airy way of putting her headon one side when anything vexed her, and my Lord Henry de Lacy, whopouted if he were cross (which he was pretty often)--my little Ladyimitated them exactly. The Lady Alianora flourished her hands when shespoke; that was the sign for her. For the Lord King, her father, whoseleft eyelid drooped over his eye, she pulled her own down. She had somesuch sign for everybody. She noticed everything."

  "Could she not say one word, Aunt?"

  "Yes, she could say three. Verily, sometimes I marvelled if she mightnot have been taught more; but we knew not how, and how she got hold ofthose three we could never tell."

  "What were they?"

  "They were, `up,' `who,' and `poor.'"

  "Well, she could not do much with those."

  "Could she not! `Who' asked all her questions. It answered for who,what, where, when, how, and why. She went on saying it until weunderstood and replied to the sense in which she meant it. `Poor' wasthe word of emotion; it signified `I pity you,' `I love you,' `I amsorry,' and `Forgive me.' And sometimes it meant, `Forgive him,' or`Don't you feel sorry for her?' And I think `up' served for everythingelse."

  "Aunt," said Bertha softly, "how did you teach the little Lady to pray?She could tell her beads, I suppose; but would she know what theymeant?"

  For Bertha, like everybody else at that time, thought it necessary tokeep count of her prayers. Prayer, in her eyes, was not so muchcommunion with God, as it was a kind of charm which in someunaccountable way brought you good luck.

  "Beads would have meant nothing to her but toys," was Avice's reply."The Lady de la Mothe taught her the holy sign"--by which Avice meantthe cross--"and led her to the image of blessed Mary, that she might doit before her. But I do not think she ever properly understood that Sheseemed only to have an idea that it was something she must do when shesaw an image; and she did it to the statue of the Lady Queen in thegreat hall. We could not make her understand that one image was not thesame thing as another image. But I fancy she had some idea--strange anddim it might be--of what we meant when we knelt and put our handstogether and looked up. I know she did it very often, without telling--always at night, before she slept. But it was strange that she neverwent to the holy images at that time; she always seemed to go away fromthem, and kneel down in a corner. And in her last illness, severaltimes, coming into the chamber, I found her lying with her hands foldedin prayer, and her eyes lifted up to Heaven. Perhaps God Himself toldher how to speak to Him. One of the strangest things of all was whenthe little Lord William died; she was nearly three years old then. Shehad been very fond of her little brother; he was nearest her age of allher brothers and sisters, though he was almost four years older thanherself. She came to me sobbing bitterly, and with her little cry of`Who? who?' I took it to mean `What has happened to him?' and I wascompletely puzzled how to explain it to her. But all at once, while Iwas beating my brains to think what I could say that would make hercomprehend it, she told me herself what I could not tell her. Makingthe sign for the little Lord who was dead, she laid her head upon herhand, and closed her eyes; and then all at once, with a peculiar gracethat I never saw in any child but herself, she lifted her arms,fluttering her fingers like a bird flaps its wings, and gazing up intothe sky, while she said, `Up! up!' in a kind of rapture. And I couldonly smile and bow my head to the truth which God had told her." [SeeNote 1.]

  "But how could she know it?" asked astonished Bertha.

  Avice shook her head. "I cannot explain it; I can only tell whathappened. She was always very tender-hearted; she never could bear tosee any quarrelling, or cruelty, or injustice. If two of the childrenstrove together, our little Lady would run to them with a face of deepdistress, and take a hand of each and draw them together, as though shewere begging them to be friends; and if she could not get them to kisseach other, she would kiss first one and then the other. I missed herone day, and, after hunting a long while, I found her in the gallerybefore a fresco of our Lord upon the Cross. She was stroking it andkissing it, with tears in her eyes; and she turned to me saying, `Poor!poor!' Her eyes always filled with tears when she saw the crucifix.The moon used to interest her exceedingly; she would sit and watch it,and kiss her hand to it. But, dear me! how the time must be getting on!Jump up, Bertha, and prepare supper."

  Bertha folded up her work and put it aside. She drew one of the highstools between her aunt and herself, and put out upon it the two woodentrenchers and two tin mugs. Going to a corner cupboard, Bertha broughtout a few cakes of black bread, which she set on a smaller stool besidethe other; and then, lifting a pan upon the fire, she threw into it somepieces of mutton fat. As soon as these were melted, Bertha broke foureggs into them, stirring this indigestible mixture with a woodenthible--an article of which my northern readers will not require adescription, but the southern must be told that it is a long flatinstrument with which porridge is stirred. For the eggs were not merelyfried in the fat, but were beaten up with it, the dish when finishedbearing the name of franche-mule. A sprig or two of dried herbs werethen shred into the pan, and the whole poured out, half on each of thetrenchers. It is more than possible that the extraordinarily rich,incongruous, indigestible dishes wherein our fathers delighted, may havesomething to do with the weaker digestions of their children. The tinmugs were filled with weak ale from a barrel which stood under theladder. It was an oddity at that time to drink water.

  When supper was finished, Bertha washed the mugs and scraped thetrenchers clean (water never touched those), putting them back in theirplaces. She had scarcely ended when a tap was heard at the door.

  "Step in, Hildith," said Bertha, as she opened it. "Christ give thee agood even!"

  "The like to thee," was the answer, as a rather worn-looking woman camein. "Mistress Avice, your servant. Pray you, would you lend me theloan of a tinder-box? I am but now come home from work, and am thatweary I may scarce move; and yon careless Jaket hath let
the fire out,and I must needs kindle the same again ere I may dress supper for thechildren."

  It was no wonder if Hildith looked worn out, or if she could not afforda tinder-box. That precious article cost a penny, and her wages werefifteen pence a year. If we do a sum to find out what that would benow, when money is much more plentiful, we shall find that Hildith'swages come to twenty-two shillings and sixpence, and the tinder-box wasworth eighteen-pence. We should fancy that nobody could live on such asum. But we must remember two things: first, they then did a great dealfor themselves which we pay for; they spun and wove their own linen andwoollen, did their own washing, brewed their own ale and cider, madetheir own butter and cheese, and physicked themselves with herbs.Secondly, prices were very much lower as respected the necessaries oflife; bread was four loaves, or cakes, for a penny, of the very bestquality; a lamb or a goose cost fourpence, eight chickens were sold forfivepence, and twenty-four eggs for a penny. Clothing stuffs were dear,but then (as people sometimes say) they wore "for everlasting," andladies of rank would send half-worn gowns to one another as veryhandsome presents. Fourpence was a good price to give for a pair ofshoes, and a halfpenny a day for food was a liberal allowance.

  "Any news to-night, Hildith?" asked Avice, as she handed her neighbourthe tinder-box.

  "Well, nay; without you call it news that sheriffs man brought word thismorrow that the Lord King had granted the half of her goods to oldBarnaba o' the Lichgate."

  "She that was a Jew, and was baptised at Whitsuntide? I am glad to hearthat."

  "Ay, she. I am not o'er sorry; she is a good neighbour, Jew though shebe."

  "Then I reckon she will tarry here, and not go to dwell in the House ofConverts in London town?"

  "Marry, she will so, if she have any wisdom teeth left. I would notlike to be carried away from all I know, up to yon big town, though theydo say the houses be made o' gold and silver."

  Avice smiled, for she knew better.

  "Nay, Hildith, London town is built of brick and stone like Lincoln."

  "Is it, now? I always heard it was made o' gold. But aren't there avast sight o' folk there? nigh upon ten thousand?"

  "Ay, and more."

  "However do they get victuals for them all?"

  "I got mine when I lived there," said Avice, laughing.

  "And don't they burn sea-coal?"

  "They did once; it is forbidden now."

  "Dirty, poisonous stuff! I wouldn't touch it. Well, good-even. Shutthe door quick, Bertha, and don't watch me out o' sight; 'tis theunluckiest thing man can do."

  And Bertha believed it, as she showed by shutting the door.

  Old Barnaba, the Jewess, had been dealt with tenderly. In those days,if a Jew were baptised, he forfeited all he had to the King. Mostunaccountable it is that any Christian country should have let such alaw exist for an hour! These destitute Jews, however, were provided forin the House of Converts, in London, which stood at the bottom ofChancery Lane, between it and Saint Dunstan's Church.

  It was bed-time soon after. Avice put away her distaff, Bertha foldedup her sewing, and they mounted the ladder. This was about seveno'clock, which was then as late an hour as it was thought thatrespectable people ought to be about. But by two o'clock the nextmorning, Bertha was sweeping the kitchen, and Avice carding flax in thecorner. They did not trouble themselves about breakfast; it was anunknown luxury, except for people who were very old or very delicate.Two meals a day were the rule: dinner, at nine in the morning: supper,at three in the afternoon. In those days they lived in a far harder andless comfortable way than we do, and they had generally better health.But, it must be admitted, they did not live nearly so long, and theinfant mortality among them was very great.

  Morning was no time for story-telling. The rooms had to be swept, thebread to be baked, the clothes to be washed, the pigs and chickens to befed. Moreover, to-day was the first day of the Michaelmas fair, andthings must be bought in to last till Christmas. The active work wasfinished by about seven o'clock. Dinner was now got ready. Itconsisted of two bowls of broth, then boiled dumplings, and lastly somestewed giblets. Having made things tidy, our friends now tied onwoollen hoods, and each taking down from the rafter-hooks a capaciousbasket, they went forth to do their shopping.

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  Note 1. The peculiar ways attributed to the little Princess, andespecially this incident, are taken from an account of a real deaf anddumb child, published many years ago. There was certainly somethingabout the Princess which her attendants considered wonderful andbeautiful.