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."
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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 mo
ment 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.
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Note 1. An officer of the Bishop's Court, whose business was to carryto their destination written absolutions and indulgences.