PART ONE, CHAPTER 2.
WHEREIN CICELY BEGINS TO SEE.
"Tempt not the Tempter; he is near enough."
Dr Horatius Bonar.
Now can any man tell what it is in folks that causeth other folks tofancy them? for I have oft-times been sorely pestered to find out.Truly, if man be very fair, or have full winning ways, and sweet words,and so forth, then may it be seen without difficulty. I never waspuzzled to know why Sir Roger or any other should have fallen o' lovewith Queen Isabel. But what on earth could draw her to him, thatpuzzled me sore. He was not young--about ten years elder than she, andshe was now a woman of thirty years. Nor was he over comely, as mengo,--I have seen better-favoured men, and I have seen worser. Nor werehis manners sweet and winning, but the very contrary thereof, for theywere rough and rude even to women, he alway seemed to me the veryincarnation of pride. Men charged Sir Hugh Le Despenser with pride, butSir Roger de Mortimer was worse than he tenfold. One of his own sonscalled him the King of Folly: and though the charge came ill from hislips that brought it, yet was it true as truth could be. His prideshowed every where--in his dress, in the way he bore himself, in hiswords,--yea, in the very tones of his voice. And his temper was furiousas ever I saw. Verily, he was one of the least lovesome men that I knewin all my life: yet for him, the fairest lady of that age bewrayed herown soul, and sold the noblest gentleman to the death. Truly, men andwomen be strange gear!
I had written thus far when I laid down my pen, and fell a-meditating,on the strangeness of such things as folks be and do in this world. Andas I there sat, I was aware of Father Philip in the chamber, that hadcome in softly and unheard of me, so lost in thought was I. He smiledwhen I looked up on him.
"How goeth the chronicle, my daughter?" saith he.
"Diversely, Father," I made answer. "Some days my pen will run apace,but on others it laggeth like oxen at plough when the ground is heavywith rain."
"The ground was full heavy when I entered," saith he, "for the ploughwas standing still."
I laughed. "So it was, trow. But I do not think I was idle, Father; Iwas but meditating."
"Wise meditations, that be fruitful in good works, be far away fromidlesse," quoth he. "And on what wert thou thinking thus busily, mydaughter?"
"On the strange ways of men and women, Father."
"Did the list include Dame Cicely de Chaucombe?" saith Father Philip,with one of his quiet smiles.
"No," I made answer. "I had not reached her."
"Or Philip de Edyngdon? Perchance thou hadst not reached him."
"Why, Father, I might never think of sitting in judgment on you. No, Iwas thinking of some I had wist long ago: and in especial of Dame Isabelthe Queen, and other that were about her. What is it moveth folks tolove one another, or to hate belike?"
"There be but three things can move thee to aught, my daughter: God,Satan, and thine own human heart."
"And my conscience?" said I.
"Men do oftentimes set down to conscience," saith he, "that which iseither God or Satan. The enlightened conscience of the righteous manworketh as God's Holy Spirit move him. The defiled conscience of theevil man listeneth to the promptings of Satan. And the searedconscience is as dead, and moveth not at all."
"Father, can a man then kill his conscience?"
"He may lay it asleep for this life, daughter: may so crush it withweights thereon laid that it is as though it had the sickness of palsy,and cannot move limb. But I count, when this life is over, it shallshake off the weight, and wake up, to a life and a torment that shallnever end."
"I marvel if she did," said I, rather to myself than him.
"Daughter," he made answer, "whoso _she_ be, let her be. God saith notto thee, _He_, and _she_, but _I_, and _thou_. When Christ knocketh atthy door, if thou open not, shall He take it as tideful answer that thouwert full busy watching other folks' doors to see if they would open?"
"Yet may we not learn, Father, from other folks' blunders?"
"Hast thou so learned, daughter?"
"Well, not much," said I. "A little, now and then, maybe."
"I never learned much," saith he, "from the blunders of any man savePhilip de Edyngdon. What I learned from other folks' evil deeds wasmostly to despise and be angered with them--not to beware for myself.And that lore cometh not of God. Thou mayest learn from such things setdown in Holy Writ: but verily it takes God to pen them, so that we mayindeed profit and not scorn,--that we may win and not lose. Be surethat whenever God puts in thine hand a golden coin of His realm, withthe King's image stamped fair thereon, Satan is near at hand, with agold-washed copper counterfeit stamped with his image, and made so likethat thou hast need to look close, to make sure which is the true.`Hold not all gold that shineth'--a wise saw, my daughter, whether it bea thing heavenly or earthly."
"I will endeavour myself to profit by your good counsel, Father," saidI. "But mine husband bade me write this chronicle, though, sooth tosay, I had no list thereto. And if I shall leave to deal with he andshe, how then may my chronicle be writ?"
"Write thy chronicle, my daughter," he answered. "But write it as Godhath writ His Chronicles. Set down that which men did, that which thousawest and heardest. Beware only of digging into men's purposes wherethou knewest them not, and sawest but the half thereof. And it israrely possible for men to see the whole of that which passeth in theirown day. Beware of setting down a man as all evil for one evil thingthou mayest see him to do. We see them we live amongst something tooclose to judge them truly. And beware, most of all, of imagining thatthou canst get behind God's purposes, and lay bare all His reasons.Verily, the wisest saint on earth cannot reach to the thousandth partthereof. God can be fully understood, only of God."
I have set down these wise words of good Father Philip, for though theybe too high and wide for mine understanding, maybe some that shall readmy chronicle may have better brains than she that writ.
So now once again to my chronicling, and let me endeavour to do the sameas Father Philip bade me.
It was on the eve of Saint Michael, 1325, that the Queen and her meynie(I being of them) reached Paris. We were ferried over the Seine to thegate of Nully [Note 1], and thence we clattered over the stones to theHotel de Saint Pol [Note 2], where the Queen was lodged in theeasternmost tower, next to our Lady Church, and we her meynie above.Dame Isabel de Lapyoun and I were appointed to lie in the pallet byturns. The Queen's bedchamber was hung with red sindon, broidered inthe border with golden swans, and her cabinet with blue say, powderedwith lily-flowers in gold, which is the arms of France, as every manknoweth, seeing they are borne by our King that now is, in right of thissame Queen Isabel his mother. He, that was then my Lord of Chester, wasalso of the cortege, having sailed from Dover two days before Holy Cross[Note 3], and joined the Queen in Guienne; but the Queen went over inMarch, and was all that time in Guienne.
Dear heart! but Jack--which loveth to be square and precise in hismatters--should say this were strange fashion wherein to writechronicles, to date first September and then the March afore it! I hadbetter go back a bit.
It was, then, the 9th of March the Queen crossed from Dover to Whitsand,which the French call Guissant. She dwelt first, as I said, in Guienne,for all that summer; very quiet and peaceful were we, letters going toand fro betwixt our Queen and her lord, and likewise betwixt her and theKing of France; but no visitors (without there were one that eveningDame Isabel lay in the pallet in my stead, and was so late up, andpassed by the antechamber door with her shoes in her hands, as littleMeliora the sub-damsel would have it she saw by the keyhole): and wemight nearhand as well have been in nunnery for all the folks we sawthat were not of the house. Verily, I grew sick irked [wearied,distressed] of the calm, that was like a dead calm at sea, when shipslie to, and can win neither forward nor backward. Ah, foolish Cicely!thou hadst better have given thanks for the last peace thou wert to seefor many a year.
Well, my Lord of Chester come, which
was the week after Holy Cross, weset forth with few days' delay, and came to Paris, as I said, the eve ofMichaelmas. Marvellous weary was I with riding, for I rade of an horsethe whole way, and not, as Dame Isabel did, with the Queen in her char.I was so ill tired that I could but eat a two-three wafers [Note 4], anddrink a cup of wine, and then hied I to my bed, which, I thank thesaints, was not the pallet that night.
The King and Queen of France were then at Compiegne, King Charles havingbeen wed that same summer to his third wife, Dame Jeanne of Evreux: anda good woman I do believe was she, for all (as I said aforetime) therebe but few. But I do think, and ever shall, that three wives be morethan any man's share. The next morrow, they came in from Compiegne, tospend Michaelmas in Paris: and then was enough noise and merriment.First, mass in our Lady Church, whereto both Dame Isabel and I waited onthe Queen; and by the same token, she was donned of one of the fairestrobes that ever she bare, which was of velvet blue of Malyns [Malines],broidered with apple-blossom and with diapering of gold. It did notbecome her, by reason of her dark complexion, so well as it should havedone S--
"Hold! Man spelleth not Cicely with an S."
"Jack, if thou start me like this any more, then will I turn the key inthe lock when I sit down to write," cried I, for verily mine heart wasgoing pitter-patter to come up in my throat, and out at my mouth, foraught I know. "Thou irksome man, I went about to write `some folks,'not `Cicely.'"
"But wherefore?" saith Jack, looking innocent as a year-old babe. "Whenit meaneth Cicely, then would I put Cicely."
"But I meant _not_ Cicely, man o' life, bless thee!"
"I thank thee for thy blessing, Sissot; and I will fain hope thou didstmean that any way. I will go bail thy pen meant not Cicely, good wife;but if it were not in thine heart that Sissot's fair hair, and rose-redcomplexion, and grey eyes, should have gone better with that blue velvetgown than Queen Isabel's dusky hair and brown eyes, then do I knowlittle of man or woman. And I dare be bound it would, belike."
And Jack lifteth his hat to me right courteously, and is gone afore Iwell know whether to laugh or to be angered. So I ween I had betterlaugh.
Where was I, trow? Oh, at mass in our Lady Church of Paris, where thatday was a miracle done on two that were possessed of the Devil, whosenames were Geoffrey Boder and Jeanne La Petite; and the girdle of SaintMary being shown on the high altar, they were allowed to touch the same,whereon they were healed straightway. And the Queen, with her ownhands, gave them alms, a crown; and her oblation to the image of SaintMary in the said church, being a festival, was a crown (her dailyoblation being seven-pence the day); and to the said holy girdle acrown, and to the holy relics, yet another. Then came we home by thewater of Seyne, for which the boatman had twelve pence. [Note 5.]
We dwelt after this full peacefully at Paris for divers weeks, savingthat we made short journeys to towns in the neighbourhood; as, one dayto the house of the Sisters Predicants of Poissy, and another to God'sHouse of Loure [Note 6], and another to Villers, where tarried the Queenof France, and so forth. And some days spent we likewise at Reyns andSessouns. [Note 7.]
At Paris she had her robes made, of purple and colour of Malbryn, forthe feast of All Saints, and they were furred with miniver and beastsermines. And to me Cicely was delivered, to make my robe for the same,three ells rayed [striped] cloth and a lamb fur, and an hood of budge.
The Queen spent nigh an whole day at Sessouns, and another at Reyns, invisiting the churches; and the last can I well remember, by reason ofthat which came after. First, we went to the church of Saint Nicholas,where she offered a cloth of Turk, price forty shillings; and to SaintRemy she gave another, price forty-five shillings; and to the high altarof the Cathedral one something better. And to the ampulla [Note 7] andshrine of Saint Remy a crown, and likewise a crown to the holy relicsthere kept. Then to the Friars Minors, where at the high altar sheoffered a cloth of Lucca bought in the town, price three and an halfmarks [Note 8]. And (which I had nearhand forgot) to the head of SaintNicasius in the Cathedral, a crown.
The last night ere we left Sessouns, I remember, as I came into theQueen's lodging from vespers in the Cathedral,--Jack, that went with me,having tarried at the potter's to see wherefore he sent not home threedozen glasses for the Queen's table (and by the same token, the knaveasked fifteen pence for the same when they did come, which is a price tomake the hair stand on end)--well, as I said, I was a-coming in, when Imet one coming forth that at first sight I wist not. And yet, when Imeditated, I did know him, but I could not tell his name. He had takenno note of me, save to hap his mantle somewhat closer about his face, asthough he cared not to be known--or it might be only that he felt thecold, for it was sharp for the time of year. Up went I into the Queen'slodging, which was then in the house of one John de Gyse, that was anhonester man than Master Bolard, with whom she lodged at Burgette, forthat last charged her three shillings and seven-pence for a worserlodging than Master Gyse gave her for two shillings.
I had writ thus far when I heard behind me a little bruit that I knew.
"Well, Jack?" said I, not looking up.
"Would thou wert better flyer of falcons, Sissot!" saith he.
"Dear heart! what means that, trow?" quoth I.
"Then shouldst thou know," he made answer, "that to suffer a secondquarry to turn thee from thy first is oft-times to lose both."
"Verily, Jack, I conceive not thy meaning."
"Why, look on yon last piece. It begins with thee coming home fromvespers. Then it flieth to me, to the potter and his glasses, to theknavery of his charges, and cometh back to the man whom thou didst meetcoming forth of the door--whom it hath no sooner touched, than it is offagain to the cold even; then comest thou into the Queen's lodging, anddown `grees' [degrees, that is, stairs] once more to the landlord'sbill. Do, prithee, keep to one heron till thou hast bagged him."
"_Ha, chetife_!" cried I. "Must I have firstly, secondly, thirdly, yea,up to thirty-seventhly, like old Father Edison's homilies?"
"Better so," saith he, "than to course three hares together and catchnone."
"I'll catch mine hare yet, as thou shall see," saith I.
"Be it done. Gee up!" saith he. [Note 9].
Well, up came I into the Queen's antechamber, where were sat DameElizabeth, and Dame Isabel de Lapyoun, and Dame Joan de Vaux, and littleMeliora. And right as I came in at the door, Dame Joan dropped hersewing off her knee, and saith--
"Lack-a-day! I am aweary of living in this world!"
"Well, if so," saith Dame Elizabeth, peacefully waxing her thread, "youhad best look about for a better."
"Nay!" quoth she, "how to get there?"
"Ask my Lord of Winchester," saith Dame Isabel.
"I shall lack the knowledge ill ere I trouble him," she made answer."Is it he with the Queen this even?"
"There's none with the Queen!" quoth Dame Isabel, as sharp as if sheshould have snapped her head off.
Dame Joan looked up in some astonishment.
"Dear heart!" said she, "I thought I heard voices in her chamber."
"There was one with her," answereth Meliora, "when I passed the doorsome minutes gone."
"Maybe the visitor is gone," said I. "As I came in but now, I met onecoming forth."
"Who were it, marry?" quoth Dame Joan.
"It was none of the household," said I. "A tall, personable man,wrapped in a great cloak, wherewith he hid his face; but whether it werefrom me or from the November even, that will I not say."
"There hath been none such here," saith Dame Elizabeth.
"Not in this chamber," saith Meliora.
"Meliora Servelady!" Dame Isabel made answer, "who gave thee leave tojoin converse with thy betters?" [Note 10].
The sub-damsel looked set down for a minute, but nought ever daunted herfor long. She was as pert a little maid as ever I knew, and but littledeserved her name of Meliora. (Ah me, is this another hare? Haveback.)
"There hath been none of any sort c
ome to the Queen to-day," said DameIsabel, in so angered a tone that I began at once to marvel who had comeof whom she feared talk.
"Nay, but there so hath!" makes response Dame Joan: "have you forgotMaster Almoner that was with her this morrow nigh an hour touching hisaccounts?--and Ralph Richepois with his lute after dinner?"
"Marry, and the Lady Gibine, Prioress of Oremont," addeth DameElizabeth.
"And the two Beguines--" began Meliora; but she ended not, for DameIsabel boxed her ears.
"Ay, and Jack Bonard, that she sent with letters to the Queen ofFrance," saith Dame Joan.
"Yea, and Ivo le Breton came a-begging, yon poor old man that had servedher when a child," made answer Dame Elizabeth.
"And Ma--" Poor Meliora got no further, for Dame Isabel gave her abuffet on the side of her head that nigh knocked her off the form. Icould not but think that some part of that buffet was owing to us three,though Meliora had it all. But what so angered Dame Isabel, that mightI not know.
At that time came the summons to supper, so the matter ended. But assupper was passing, Dame Joan de Vaux, by whom I sat, with MasterAlmoner on mine other hand, saith to me--
"Pray you, Dame Cicely, have you any guess who it were that you metcoming forth?"
"I have, and I have not," said I. "There was that in his face which Iknew full well, yet cannot I bethink me of his name."
"It was not Master Madefray, trow?"
"In no wise: a higher man than he, and of fairer hair."
"Not a priest neither?"
"Nay, certes."
"Leave not to sup your soup, Dame Cicely, nor show no astonishment, Ipray, while I ask yet a question. Was it--Sir Roger the Mortimer ofLudlow?"
For all Dame Joan's warnful words, I nigh dropped my spoon, and I neverknew how the rest of the soup tasted.
"Wala wa!" said I, under my breath, "but I do believe it was he."
"I saw him," saith she, quietly. "And take my word for it, friend--thatman cometh for no good."
"Marry!" cried I in some heat, "how dare he come nigh the Queen at all?he, a banished man! Without, soothly, he came humbly to entreat herintercession with the King for his pardon. But e'en then, he might farmore meetly have sent his petition by some other. Verily, I marvel shewould see him!"
"Do you so?" saith Dame Joan in that low quiet voice. "So do not I.She will see him yet again, or I mistake much."
"_Ha, chetife_!" I made answer. "It is full well we be on our roadback to Paris, for there at least will he not dare to come."
"Not dare?"
"Surely not, for the King of France, which himself hath banished him,should never suffer it."
Dame Joan helped herself to a roasted plover with a smile. When thesewer was gone, quoth she--
"I think, Dame Cicely, you know full little whether of Sir Roger deMortimer or of the King of France. For the last, he is as easilyblinded a man as you may lightly see; and if our Queen his sister toldhim black was white, he should but suppose that she saw better than he.And for the other--is there aught in all this world, whether as tobravery or as to wickedness, that Sir Roger de Mortimer would _not_dare?"
"Dear heart!" cried I. "I made account we had done with men of thatorder."
"You did?" Dame Joan's tone, and the somewhat dry smile which went withit, said full plainly, "In no wise."
"Well, soothly we had enough and to spare!" quoth I. "There was my Lordof Lancaster--God rest his soul!--and Sir Piers de Gavaston (if he wereas ill man as some said)."
"He was not a saint, I think," she said: "yet could I name far worsermen than he."
"And my sometime Lord of Warwick," said I, "was no saint likewise, or Imistake."
"Therein," saith she, "have you the right."
"Well," pursued I, "all they be gone: and soothly, I had hoped therewere no more such left."
"Then should there be no original sin left," she made answer; "yea, andSathanas should be clean gone forth of this world."
The rest of the converse I mind not, but that last sentence tarried inmy mind for many a day, and hath oft-times come back to me touchingother matters.
We reached Loure on Saint Martin's Day [November 11th], and Paris thenext morrow. There found we the Bishops of Winchester and Exeter,[Stratford and Stapleton], whom King Edward had sent over to join theQueen's Council. Now I never loved overmuch neither of these ReverendFathers, though it were for very diverse causes. Of course, beingpriests, they were holy men; but I misdoubt if either were perfect manapart from his priesthood--my Lord of Winchester more in especial.Against my Lord of Exeter have I but little to say; he was fumish[irritable, captious] man, but no worse. But my Lord of Winchester didI never trust, nor did I cease to marvel that man could. As to KingEdward, betray him to his enemies to-day, and he should put his life inyour hands again to-morrow: never saw I man like to him, that noexperience would learn mistrust. Queen Isabel trusted few: but of themmy said Lord of Winchester was one. I have noted at times that theywhich be untrue themselves be little given to trust other. She trustednone save them she had tried: and she had tried this Bishop, not oncenor twice. He never brake faith with her; but with King Edward he brakeit a score of times twice told, and with his son that is now Kingbelike. I wis not whether at this time the Queen was ready to putaffiance in him; I scarce think she was: for she shut both Bishops outof her Council from the day she came to Paris. But not at this time,nor for long after did I guess what it signified.
November was nigh run out, when one morrow Dame Joan de Vaux broughtword that the Queen, being a-cold, commanded her velvet mantle taken toher cabinet: and I, as the dame in waiting then on duty, took the sameto her. I found her sat of a chair of carven wood, beside the brasier,and two gentlemen of the other side of the hearth. Behind her chairDame Elizabeth waited, and I gave the mantle to her to cast over theQueen's shoulders. The gentlemen stood with their backs to the light,and I paid little note to them at first, save to see that one was apriest: but as I went about to go forth, the one that was not a priestturned his face, and I perceived to mine amaze that it was Sir Roger deMortimer. Soothly, it needed all my courtly self-command that I shouldnot cry out when I beheld him. Had I followed the prompting of mine ownheart, I should have cried, "Get thee gone, thou banished traitor!" He,who had returned unlicenced from Scotland ere the war was over, in thetime of old King Edward of Westminster; that had borne arms against hisson, then King, under my Lord of Lancaster; that, having his lifespared, and being but sent to the Tower, had there plotted to seizethree of the chief fortresses of the Crown--namely, the said Tower, andthe Castles of Windsor and Wallingford,--and had thereupon been cast fordeath, and only spared through the intercession of the Queen and theBishop of Hereford: yet, after all this, had he broken prison, bribingone of his keepers and drugging the rest, and was now a banished felon,in refuge over seas: _he_ to dare so much as to breathe the same airwith the wife of his Sovereign, with her that had been his advocate, andthat knew all his treacheries! Could any worser insult to the Queenhave been devised? But all at once, as I passed along the gallery,another thought came in upon me. What of her? who, knowing all this andmore, yet gave leave for this man--not to kneel at her feet and cry hermercy--that had been grace beyond any reasonable hope: but suffered himto stand in her presence, to appear in her privy cabinet--nay, to act asthough he were a noble appointed of her Council! Had she forgot all thepast?
I travelled no further for that time. The time was to come when Ishould perceive that forgetfulness was all too little to account for herdeeds.
That night, Dame Tiffany being appointed to the pallet, it so fell outthat Dame Elizabeth, Dame Joan, and I, lay in the antechamber. We hadbut began to doff ourselves, and Dame Elizabeth was stood afore themirror, a-combing of her long hair--and rare long hair it was, and of afine colour (but I must not pursue the same, or Jack shall find in thehair an hare)--when I said to her--
"Dame Elizabeth, pray you tell me, were you in waiting when Sir Roger deMortime
r came to the Queen?"
"Ay," saith she, and combed away.
"And," said I, "with what excuse came he?"
"Excuse?" quoth she. "Marry, I heard none at all."
"None!" I cried, tarrying in the doffing of my subtunic. "Were you notill angered to behold such a traitor?"
"Dame Cicely," saith she, slowly pulling the loose hairs forth of thecomb, "if you would take pattern by me, and leave troubling yourselftouching your neighbours' doings, you should have fewer griefs to mournover."
Could the left sleeve of my subtunic, which I was then a-doffing, havespoke unto me, I am secure he should have 'plained that he met with fullrough treatment at my hands.
"Good for you, Dame, an' you so can!" said I somewhat of a heat. "Solong as my neighbours do well, I desire not to mell [meddle] nor make intheir matters. But if they do ill--"
"Why, then do I desire it even less," saith she, "for I were more liketo get me into a muddle. Mine own troubles be enough for me, and fulltoo many."
"Dear heart! had you ever any?" quoth I.
"In very deed, I do ensure you," saith she, "for this comb hath one ofhis teeth split, and he doth not only tangle mine hair, but giveth mevile wrenches betimes, when I look not for them. And 'tis but a monthgone, at Betesi [Bethizy], that I paid half-a-crown for him. The roguecheated me, as my name is Bess. I could find in mine heart to give hima talking."
"Only a talking?" saith Dame Joan, and laughed. "You be happy woman, ingood sooth, if your worsest trouble be a comb that hath his teethsplit."
"Do but try him!" quoth Dame Elizabeth, and snorked [twisted, contorted]up her mouth, as the comb that instant moment came to a spot where herhair was louked [fastened] together. "Bless the comb!" saith she, and Iguess she meant it but little. "Wala wa! Dame Joan, think you 'tismatter for laughter?"
"More like than greeting," [weeping], she made answer.
"Verily," said I, "but I see much worser matter for tears than yourcomb, Dame Elizabeth. Either the Queen is sore ill-usen of her brother,that such ill companions should be allowed near her, or else--"
Well for me, my lace snapped at that moment, and I ended not thesentence. When I was laid down beside Dame Joan, it came to me like aflash of lightning--"Or else--what?" And at that minute Dame Joanturned her on the pillows, and set her lips to mine ear.
"Dame Cicely," quoth she, "mine heart misdoubts me it is the `or else.'Pray you, govern your tongue, and use your eyes in time to come. Trustnot her in the red bed too much, and her in the green-hung chamber notat all."
The first was Dame Elizabeth, and the last Dame Isabel de Lapyoun, thatlay in a chamber hung with green, with Dame Tiffany. I was secure shemeant not the other, but to make certain I whispered the name, and shesaith, "She."
I reckoned it not ill counsel, for mine own thoughts assented thereto,in especial as touched Dame Isabel.
After that day wherein Sir Roger de Mortimer was in the Queen's cabinet,I trow I kept mine eyes open.
For a few days he came and went: but scarce more than a sennight hadpassed ere I learned that he had come to dwell in Paris all out; and butlittle more time was spent when one even, Dame Isabel de Lapyoun cameinto our chamber as we were about to hie us abed, and saith she,speaking to none in especial, but to all--
"Sir Roger de Mortimer is made of the Prince's following, and shall asto-morrow take up his abode in the Queen's hostel."
"Dear heart!" saith Dame Elizabeth, making pause with one hand all wet,and in the other the napkin whereon she went about to dry it. "Well, nobusiness of mine, trow."
I could not help to cry, "_Ha, chetife_!"
Dame Isabel made answer to neither the one nor the other, but marchedforth of the door with her nose an inch higher than she came in. Shewas appointed to the pallet for that night, so we three lay all in ourchamber.
"This passeth!" saith Dame Elizabeth, drying of her fingers, calmenough, on the napkin.
"Even as I looked for," saith Dame Joan, but her voice was not so calm.There was in it a note of grief [a tone of indignation].
"_I_ ne'er trouble me to look for nought," quoth Dame Elizabeth. "Whatgood, trow? Better to leave folks come and go, as they list, so long asthey let [hinder] you not to come and go likewise."
"I knew not you were one of Cain's following, Dame Bess."
"Cain's following!" saith she, drawing off her fillet. "Who was Cain,trow? Wala wa! but if my fillet be not all tarnished o' this side. Iwould things would go right!"
"So would I, and so did not Cain," Dame Joan makes answer. "Who was he,quotha? Why, he that slew his brother Abel."
"Oh, some of those old Scripture matters? I wis nought o' those folks.But what so? I have not slain my brother, nor my sister neither."
"It looks as though your brother and your sister too might go astray andbe lost ere you should soil your fingers and strain your arms a-pullingthem forth."
"Gramercy! Every man for himself!" saith Dame Elizabeth, a-pulling offher hood. "Now, here's a string come off! Alway my luck! If a bodymight but bide in peace--"
"And never have no troubles, nor strings come off, nor buttons broke,nor stitches come loose--" adds Dame Joan, a-laughing.
"Right so--man might have a bit of piece of man's life, then. Why, lookyou, the string is all chafen, that it is not worth setting on anew; andso much as a yard of red ribbon have I not. I must needs don my hood ofgreen of Louvaine."
She said it in a voice which might have gone with the direst calamitythat could befall.
"Dame Elizabeth de Mohun, you be a full happy woman!"
"What will the woman say next?"
"That somewhat hangeth on what you may next say."
"Well, what I next say is that I am full ill-used to have in one hour atarnished fillet and a broken string, and--Saint Lucy love us! here betwo of my buttons gone!"
I could thole no longer, and forth brake I in laughter. Dame Joanjoined with me, and some ado had we to peace Dame Elizabeth, that wassore grieved by our laughing.
"Will you leave man be?" quoth she. "They be right [real] silverbuttons, and not one more have I of this pattern: I ensure you they costme four shillings the dozen at John Fairhair's in London [a Londongoldsmith]. I'll be bound I can never match them without I have themwrought of set purpose. Deary, deary me!"
"Well!" saith Dame Joan, "I may break my heart afore I die, but I countit will not be over buttons."
"Not o'er your buttons, belike," saith Dame Elizabeth. "And here, thisvery day, was Hilda la Vileyne at me, begging and praying me that Iwould pay her charges for that hood of scarlet wrought with gold andpearls the which I had made last year when I was here with the Queen.Truly, I forgat the same at that time; and now I have not the money tomine hand. But deary me, the pitiful tale she told!--of her mother ill,and her two poor little sisters without meet raiment for winter, andnever a bit of food nor fuel in the house--I marvel what maids would beat, to make up such tales!"
"It was not true, trow?"
"True?" saith Dame Elizabeth, pulling off her rings. "It might be trueas Damascus steel, for aught I know. But what was that to me? I lackedthe money for somewhat that liked me better than to buy fuel for aparcel of common folks like such. They be used to lack comforts, andnot I. And I hate to hear such stories, belike. Forsooth, man might aswell let down a black curtain over the window on a sunshine day as beplagued with like tales when he would fain be jolly. I sent her off inhot haste, I can tell you."
"With the money?"
"The saints be about us! Not I."
"And the little maids may greet them asleep for lack of food?" saithDame Joan.
"How wis I there be any such? I dare be bound it was all a made-up taleto win payment."
"You went not to see?"
"I go to see! I! Dame Joan, you be verily--"
"I am verily one for whom Christ our Lord deigned to die on the bitterrood, and so is Hilda la Vileyne. Tell me but where she dwelleth, and_I_ will go to see if
the tale be true."
"Good lack! I carry not folks' addresses in mine head o' that fashion.Let be; she shall be here again in a day or twain. She hath granted melittle peace these last ten days."
"And you verily wis not where she dwelleth?"
"I wis nought thereabout, and an' I did I would never tell you to-night.Dear heart, do hie you abed and sleep in peace, and let other folks dothe like! I never harry me with other men's troubles. Good even!"
And Dame Elizabeth laid her down and happed the coverlet about her, andwas fast asleep in a few minutes.
The next even, when we came into hall for supper, was Sir Roger deMortimer on the dais, looking as though the world belonged to him.Maybe he thought it was soon to do the same; and therein was he notdeceived. The first day, he sat in his right place, at the high table,after the knights and barons of France whom the King of France hadappointed to the charge of our Queen: but not many days were over ere hecrept up above them--and then above the bishops themselves, until atlast he sat on the left hand of Queen Isabel, my Lord of Chester beingat her right. But this first night he kept his place.
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Note 1. Neuilly. Queen Isabelle's scribe is responsible for theorthography in this and subsequent places.
Note 2. The old Palace of the French Kings, the remaining part of whichis now known as the Conciergerie.
Note 3. September 12th.
Note 4. Cakes made with honey. Three pennyworth were served daily atthe royal table.
Note 5. Wardrobe Account, 19 Edward the Second, 25/15.
Note 6. Rheims and Soissons. An idea of the difficulties of travellingat that time maybe gathered from the entry of "Guides for the Queenbetween Paris and Rheims, 18 shillings."
Note 7. The vessel containing the oil wherewith the Kings of Francewere anointed, oil and ampulla being fabled to have come from Heaven.
Note 8. 2 pounds 13 shillings 4 pence.--Wardrobe Account, 19 Edward theSecond, 25/15.
Note 9. Gee. This is one of the few words in our tongue directlyderivable from the ancient Britons.
Note 10. "Avice Serueladi" occurs on the Close Roll for 1308.