



Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England




In Convent Walls, by Emily Sarah Holt.



PREFACE.

The historical portion of this tale has been partially narrated in one
of my previous volumes, "In All Time of our Tribulation," in which the
Despenser story is begun, and its end told from another point of view.
That volume left Isabelle of France at the height of her ambition, in
the place to reach which she had been plotting so long and so
unscrupulously.  Here we see the Nemesis come upon her and the chief
partner of her guilt; the proof that there is a God that judgeth in the
earth.  It is surely one of the saddest stories of history--sad as all
stories are which tell of men and women whom God has endowed richly with
gifts, and who, casting from them the Divine hand which would fain lift
them up into the light of the Golden City, deliberately choose the
pathway of death, and the blackness of darkness for ever.  Few women
have had grander opportunities given them than Isabelle for serving God
and making their names blessed and immortal.  She chose rather to serve
self: and thereby inscribed her name on one of the blackest pages of
England's history, and handed down her memory to eternal execration.
For "life is to do the will of God"--the true blessedness and glory of
life here, no less than the life hereafter.

  "Oh, the bitter shame and sorrow,
  That a time should ever be
  When I let the Saviour's pity
  Plead in vain, and proudly answered--
  `All of self, and none of Thee!'

  "Yet He found me; I beheld Him
  Bleeding on the accursed tree,--
  Heard Him pray, `Forgive them, Father!'
  And my wistful heart said faintly,
  `Some of self, and some of Thee!'

  "Day by day, His tender mercy,
  Healing, helping, full and free,
  Sweet and strong, and, ah! so patient,
  Brought me lower, while I whispered,
  `Less of self, and more of Thee!'

  "Higher than the highest heaven,
  Deeper than the deepest sea,
  Lord, Thy love at last hast conquered:
  Grant me now my heart's desire--
  `None of self, and all of Thee!'"



PART ONE, CHAPTER 1.

WHEREIN DAME CICELY DE CHAUCOMBE SCRIBETH SOOTHLINESS (1360).

WHEREIN COMMENCE THE ANNALS OF CICELY.

  "Heaven does with us, as we with torches do--
  Not light them for themselves."

  Shakespeare.

"It is of no use, Jack," quoth I.  "I never did love her, I never can,
and never shall."

"And I never bade you, Sissot," answered he.  "Put that in belike,
prithee."

"But you bade me write the story out," said I.  "Ay, I did so.  But I
left you free to speak your mind of any body that should come therein,
from a bishop to a baa-lamb," said he.

"Where shall I go for mine ink?"  I made answer: "seeing that some part
of my tale, to correspond to the matter, should need to be writ in
vernage, [Note 1] and some other in verjuice."

"Keep two quills by you," saith he, "with inkhorns of the twain, and use
either according to the matter."

"Ay me!" said I.  "It should be the strangest and woefullest tale ever
writ by woman."

"The more need that it should be writ," quoth Jack, "by them that have
lived it, and can tell the sooth-fastness [truth] thereof.  Look you,
Sissot, there are men enough will tell the tale of hearsay, such as they
may win of one and another, and that is like to be full of guile and
contrariousness.  And many will tell it to win favour of those in high
place, and so shall but the half be told.  Thou hast lived through it,
and wist all the inwards thereof, at least from thine own standing-spot.
Let there be one tale told just as it was, of one that verily knew, and
had no purpose to win gold or favour, but only to speak sooth-fastness."

"You set me an hard task, Jack!"  I said, and I think I sighed.

"Easier to do, maybe, than to reckon on," saith he, in his dry,
tholemode [Note 2] way.  "Thou needest write but one word at once, and
thou canst take thine own time to think what word to write."

"But I have no parchment," said I.  I am a little afraid I coveted not
any, for I fancied not the business at all.  It was Jack who wanted the
story writ out fair, not I.

"Well, I have," saith Jack calmly.

"Nor any quills," said I.

"I have," saith Jack, after the same fashion.

"And the ink is dried-up."

"Then will we buy more."

"But--" I stayed, for I thought I had better hold my tongue.

"But--I have no mind to it," saith Jack.  "That might have come first,
Sissot.  It shows, when it doth, that thou hast come to an end of thine
excuses.  Nay, sweet heart, do but begin, and the mind will have after."

"Lack-a-daisy!" said I, trying to laugh, though I felt somewhat irked
[worried, irritated]: "I reckon, then, I had best do mine husband's
bidding without more ado."

"There spake my Sissot," saith he.  "Good dame!"

So here am I, sat at this desk, with a roll of parchment that Jack hath
cut in even leches [strips] for to make a book, and an inkhorn of fresh
ink, and divers quills--O me! must all this be writ up?

Well, have forth!  I shall so content Jack, and if I content not myself,
that shall pay me.

It was through being one of Queen Isabel's gentlewomen that I came to
know these things, and, as Jack saith, to live through my story.  And I
might go a step further back, for I came to that dignity by reason of
being daughter unto Dame Alice de Lethegreve, that was of old time nurse
to King Edward.  So long as I was a young maid, I was one of the Queen's
sub-damsels; but when I wedded my Jack (and a better Jack never did
maiden wed) I was preferred to be damsel of the chamber: and in such
fashion journeyed I with the Queen to France, and tarried with her all
the time she dwelt beyond seas, and came home with her again, and was
with her the four years following, until all brake up, and she was
appointed to keep house at Rising Castle.  So the whole play was played
before mine own eyes.

I spake only sooth-fastness when I told Jack I could never love her.
How can man love whom he cannot trust?  It would have been as easy to
put faith in a snake because it had lovesome marks and colouring, as in
that fair, fair face--ay, I will not deny that it was marvellous fair--
with the gleaming eyes, which now seemed to flash with golden light, and
now to look like the dark depths of a stagnant pool.  Wonderful eyes
they were!  I am glad I never trusted them.

Nor did I never trust her voice.  It was as marvellous as the eyes.  It
could be sweet as honey and sharp as a two-edged sword; soft as dove's
down, and hard as an agate stone.  Too soft and sweet to be sooth-fast!
She meant her words only when they were sword and agate.

And the King--what shall I say of him?  In good sooth, I will say
nothing, but leave him to unfold himself in the story.  I was not the
King's foster-sister in sooth, for I was ten years the younger; and it
was Robin, my brother, that claimed kin with him on that hand.  But he
was ever hendy [amiable, kindly, courteous] to me.  God rest his hapless
soul!

But where shall my tale begin?  Verily, I have no mind to set forth from
the creation, as chroniclers are wont.  I was not there then, and lived
not through that, nor of a long while after.  Must I then begin from my
creation? aswhasay [as who should say--that is to say], as near it as my
remembrance taketh me.  Nay, I think not so: for then should I tell much
of the reign of King Edward of Westminster [Edward the First], that were
right beside the real story.  I think I shall take date from the time of
the Queen's first departure to France, which was the year of our Lord
God, 1324.

I was a young maid of seventeen years when I entered the Queen's
household,--her own age.  But in another sense, I was tenfold the child
that she was.  Indeed, I marvel if she ever were a child.  I rather
think she was born grown-up, as the old heathen fabled Minerva to have
been.  While on waiting, I often used to see and hear things that I did
not understand, yet which I could feel were disapproved by something
inside me: I suppose it must have been my conscience.  And if at those
times I looked on my mother's face, I could often read disapproval in
her eyes also.  I never loved the long secret discourses there used to
be betwixt the Queen and her uncle, my Lord of Lancaster: they always
had to me the air of plotting mischief.  Nor did I ever love my Lord of
Lancaster; there was no simplicity nor courtesy in him.  His natural
manner (when he let it be seen) was stern and abrupt; but he did very
rarely allow it to be seen; it was nearly always some affectation put
on.  And I hate that, and so doth Jack.

At that time I loved and hated instinctively, as I think children do;
and at seventeen years, I was a child in all things save by the almanac.
I could rarely tell why I did not love people--only, I did not love
them.  I knew oftener why I did.  I never thought much of Sir Piers de
Gavaston, that the King so dearly affected, but I never hated him in a
deadly fashion, as some did that I knew.  I loved better Sir Hugh Le
Despenser, that was afterwards Earl of Gloucester, for he--

"Sissot," saith a voice behind me, "what is the name of that chronicle?"

"I cannot tell, Jack," said I.  "What wouldst have it called?"

"`The Annals of Cicely,'" quoth he; "for she is beginning, middle, and
end of it."

I felt as though he had cast a pitcher of cold water over me.  I sat
looking at my parchment.

"Read it over, prithee," saith he, "and count how many great I's be
therein."

So did I, and by my troth there were seventy-seven.  Seventy-seven of
me! and all in six leaves of parchment, forsooth.  How many soever shall
there be by the time I make an end?

"That's an ill beginning, Jack!" said I, and I felt ready to cry.  "Must
I begin over again?"

"Sissot," quoth he, "nothing is ever undone in this world."

"What mean you?" said I.

"There was man died the year before thou wert born," he made answer,
"that was great friend of my father.  He was old when my father was
young, yet for all that were they right good friends.  He was a very
learned man; so wise in respect of things known but to few, that most
men accounted him a very magician, and no good Christian.  Howbeit, my
father said that was but folly and slander.  He told my father some of
the strange matters that he found in nature; and amongst them, one
thing, which hath ever stuck by me.  Saith Friar Roger, Nothing is ever
destroyed.  Nothing that hath once had being, can ever cease to be."

"Why, Jack!" cried I.  "Verily that must be folly!  I cast this scrap of
parchment on the chafer, and it burneth up.  It is gone, see thou.
Surely it hath ceased to be?"

"No," saith he.  "It is gone into ashes and smoke."

"What be ashes and smoke?" asked I, laughing.

"Why, they be ashes and smoke," he made answer.  "And the smoke curleth
up chimney, and goeth out into the air: and the air cometh up Sissot's
nose-thirls, and feedeth her bodily life; and Sissot maketh
seventy-seven I's to six pages of parchment."

"Now, Jack, softly!" said I.

"So it is, my dame," pursueth he.  "Every thing that dieth, feedeth
somewhat that liveth.  But I can go further an' thou wilt.  Friar Roger
thought (though he had not proved it) that every word spoken might as it
were dwell in the air, and at bidding of God hereafter, all those words
should return to life and be heard again by all the world."

I could not help but laugh.

"Why, what a din!" said I.  "Do but think, all the words, in all
languages, buzzing about man's ears, that were ever spoken since Adam
dwelt in the Garden of Eden!"

"Wouldst thou like all thy words repeated thus, Sissot?"

"I would not mind, Jack."

"Wouldst not?  Then I am worser than thou, which is like enough.  I
would not like to hear all my foolish words, all my angry words, all my
sinful words, echoed back to me from the starry walls of heaven.  And
suppose, Sissot--only suppose that God should do as much with our
thoughts!  I dare say He knows how."

I covered my face with mine hands.

"That would be dreadful!"  I whispered.

"It will be, in very deed," softly said Jack, "when the Books are
opened, and the names read out, in the light of that great white Throne
which shall be brighter than noon-day.  I reckon in that day we shall
not be hearkening for Sir Piers de Gavaston's name, nor for Sir Hugh Le
Despenser's, but only for those of John and Cicely de Chaucombe.  Now,
set again to thy chronicling, my Sissot, and do it in the light of that
Throne, and in the expectation of that Book: so shall it be done well."

And so Jack left me.  But to speak sooth, seeing the matter thus makes
me to feel as though I scarce dared do it at all.  Howsobe, I have it to
do: and stedfast way maketh stedfast heart.

There were plenty of people who hated Sir Hugh Le Despenser, but I and
my mother Dame Alice were not amongst them.  He had been brought up with
the King from his youth, but the King never loved him till after the
death of Sir Piers de Gavaston.  The Queen loved him, just so long as
the King did not.  That was always her way; the moment that she saw he
cared for anything which was not herself, she at once began to hate it.
And verily he never gave her cause, for he held her ever dearest of any
mortal thing.

Sir Hugh was as goodly a gentleman as man's eyes might see.  Those who
loved him not called him proud--yea, the very spirit of pride.  But the
manner they thought pride seemed to me rather a kind of sternness or
shortness of speech, as if he wished to have done with the matter in
hand.  Some people call every thing pride; if man talk much, they say he
loves to hear his own voice; if he be silent, he despises his company.
Now it seems to me that I often speak and am silent from many other
causes than pride, and therefore it may be the like with other folk.  Do
those which are ever accusing other of pride, do all their actions for
that reason?  If not so, how or why should they suspect it in other men?
I do not think Sir Hugh was so much prouder than other.  He knew his
own value, I dare say; and very like he did not enjoy being set at
nought--who doth so?  Other said he was ambitious: and there might be
some sooth-fastness in the accusation; yet I fancy the accusers loved a
slice of worldly grandeur no less than most men.  And some said he was
wicked man: that did I never believe.

As for his wife, Dame Alianora, I scarcely know what to say of her.  She
was a curious mixture of qualities.  She clung to the King her uncle
when others forsook him, she was free-handed, and she could feel for man
in trouble: those were her good points.  Yet she seemed to feel but what
she saw; it was "out of sight, out of mind," with her; and she loved new
faces rather too well to please me.  I think, for one thing, she was
timid; and that oft-times causes man to appear what he is not.  But she
was better woman than either of her sisters--the Lady Margaret Audley
and the Lady Elizabeth de Clare.  I never saw her do, nor heard her say,
the heartless acts and speeches whereof I knew both of them guilty.  I
dare say, as women go, she was not ill woman.  For, alas!  I have lived
long enough to know that there be not many good ones.

Well, I said--no did I?--that I would begin with the year 1324 of our
Lord God.  But, lack-a-day! there were matters afore 1324, like as there
were men before Agamemnon.  Truly, methinks there be a two-three I did
well not to omit: aswhasay, the dying of Queen Margaret, widow of King
Edward of Westminster, which deceased seven years earlier than so.  I
shall never cease to marvel how it came to pass that two women of the
same nation, of the same family, being aunt and niece by blood, should
have been so strangely diverse as those two Queens.  All that was good,
wise, and gentle, was in Queen Margaret: what was in Queen Isabel will
my chronicle best tell.  This most reverend lady led a very retired life
after her husband's death, being but a rare visitor to the Court,
dwelling as quietly and holily as any nun might dwell, and winning love
and respect from all that knew her.  Very charitable was she and most
devout: and (if it be lawful to say thus) had I been Pope, I had sooner
canonised her than a goodly number that hath been.  But I do ill to
speak thus, seeing the holy Father is infallible, and acts in such
matters but by the leading of God's Spirit, as saith the Church.  Good
lack, but there be queer things in this world!  I saw once Father Philip
screw up his mouth when one said the same in his hearing, and saith he--

"The Lord Pope is infallible when he speaketh _ex cathedra_, but so
only."

"But how," saith he that spake, "shall we know when he is sat in his
chair and when he is out of it?"

An odd look came into Father Philip's eyes.

"Master," saith he, "when I was a little lad, my mother told me divers
times that it was not seemly to ask curious questions."

But I guess what the good Friar thought, though it be not always
discreet to speak out man's thoughts.  Ah me! will the time ever come
when man may say what he will, with no worse thereafter than a sneer or
a sharp rebuke from his neighbour?  If so were, I would I had been born
in those merry days--but I should want Jack to be born then belike.

"Sissot," saith a voice over my shoulder, "wist thou the full meaning of
thy wish?"

Jack is given to coming in quietly--I never knew him make a noise--and
peeping over my shoulder to see how my chronicle maketh progress: for he
can well read, though he write not.

"What so, Jack?" said I.

"I reckon we should be the younger by some centuries," quoth he, "and
perchance should not be at all.  But allowing it, dost thou perceive
that such a difference should mean a change in all things?--that no fear
should in likelihood mean no reverence nor obedience, and might come to
mean more than that?"

"That were dread!" said I.  "What manner of times should they be?"

"I think," saith he, "those very `_tempora periculosa_' whereof Saint
Paul speaketh, when men shall love their own selves, and be proud,
unthankful, without affection, peace, or benignity, loving their
pleasures rather than God.  And if it serve thee, I would not like to
live in those times."

"Dear heart, nor would I!" quoth I.  "Yet surely, Jack, that seemeth a
gainsaying.  Were all men free to speak what they would, and not be
called to account therefor, it were soothly to love their neighbours and
show benignity."

"Ay, if it were done for that end," he made answer.  "But the heart of
man is a cage of deceits.  Much must befall the world, I take it, ere
that cometh to pass: and while they that bring it about may be good men
that mean well, they that come to use it may be evil, and mean ill.  The
Devil is not come to an end of his shifts, be thou sure.  Let man run as
fast and far as he will, Satan shall wit how to keep alongside."

I said nought.  Jack is very wise, a deal more than I, yet I cannot
always see through his eye-glasses.  Mayhap it is not always because I
am wiser of the twain.

"Freedom to do good and be good is a good thing," then saith he: "but
freedom to be ill, and do ill, must needs be an ill thing.  And man
being what he is, how makest thou sure that he shall always use his
freedom for good, and not for ill?"

"Why, that must man chance," said I.

"A sorry chance," answereth he.  "I were liever not to chance it.  I
thought I heard thee deny Fina this last week to go to the dance at
Underby Fair?"

"So thou didst," said I.  "She is too young, and too giddy belike, to
trust with a bevy of idle damosels as giddy as she."

"Well, we are none of us so far grown-up in all wisdom that it were safe
to trust us with our own reins in all things.  Hast never heard the saw,
`He that ruleth his own way hath a fool to his governor'?"

"Well!" said I; "but then let the wise men be picked out to rule us, and
the fools to obey."

"Excellent doctrine, my Sissot!" quoth Jack, smiling in his eyes: "at
least, for the fools.  I might somewhat pity the wise men.  But how to
bring it about?  Be the fools to pick out the wise men? and are they
wise enough to do it?  I sorely fear we shall have a sorry lot of
governors when thy law comes to be tried.  I think, Wife, thou and I had
better leave God to rule the world, for I suspect we should do it
something worser than He."

Let me fall back to my chronicling.  Another matter happed in the year
1319, the which I trow I shall not lightly forget.  The Queen abode at
Brotherton, the King being absent.  The year afore, had the Scots made
great raids on the northern parts of England, had burned the outlying
parts of York while the King was there, and taken the Earl of Richmond
prisoner: and now, hearing of the Queen at Brotherton, but slenderly
guarded, down they marched into Yorkshire, and we, suspecting nought,
were well-nigh caught in the trap.

Well I mind that night, when I was awoke by pebbles cast up at my
casement, for I lay in a turret chamber, that looked outward.  So soon
as I knew what the sound meant, I rose from my bed and cast a mantle
about me, and opened the casement.

"Is any there?" said I.

"Is that thou, Sissot?" quoth a voice which I knew at once for my
brother Robert's, "Lose not one moment, but arouse the Queen, and pray
her to take horse as speedily as may be, or she shall be captured of the
Scots, which come in great force by the Aire Valley, and are nearhand
[nearly] at mine heels.  And send one to bid the garrison be alert, and
to let me in, that I may tell my news more fully."

I wis not whether I shut the casement or no, for ere man might count ten
was I in the Queen's antechamber, and shaking of Dame Elizabeth by the
shoulders.  But, good lack, she took it as easy as might be.  She was
alway one to take matters easy, Dame Elizabeth de Mohun.

"Oh, let be till daylight," quoth she, as she turned on her pillow.
"'Tis but one of Robin Lethegreve's fumes and frets, I'll be bound.  He
is for ever a-reckoning that the Scots be at hand or the house o' fire,
and he looks for man to vault out of his warm bed that instant minute
when his fearsome news be spoken.  Go to sleep, Cicely, and let folks
be."

And round turned she, and, I warrant, was asleep ere I could bring forth
another word.  So then I fell to shaking Joan de Vilers, that lay at
tother end of the chamber.  But she was right as bad, though of another
fashion.

"Wherefore rouse me?" saith she.  "I can do nought.  'Tis not my place.
If Dame Elizabeth arise not, I cannot.  Thou wert best go back abed,
dear heart.  Thou shalt but set thyself in trouble."

Well, there was no time to reason with such a goose; but I longed to
shake her yet again.  Howbeit, I tarried no longer in the antechamber,
but burst into the Queen's own chamber where she lay abed, with Dame
Tiffany in the pallet--taking no heed that Joan called after me--

"Cicely!  Cicely! how darest thou?  Come back, or thou shall be mispaid
or tint!"  [Held in displeasure or ruined.]

But I cared not at that moment, whether for mispayment or tinsel.  I had
my duty to do, and I did it.  If the news were true, the Queen was
little like to snyb [blame] me when she found it so: and if no, well, I
had but done as I should.  And I knew that Dame Tiffany, which tended
her like a hen with one chicken, should hear my tidings of another
fashion from the rest.  Had Dame Elizabeth lain that night in the
pallet, and Dame Tiffany in the antechamber, my work had been the
lighter.  But afore I might win to the pallet--which to do I had need to
cross the chamber,--Queen Isabel's own voice saith from the state
bed--"Who is there?"

"Dame," said I,--forgetting to kneel, in such a fluster was I--"my
brother hath now brought tidings that the Scots come in force by the
Aire Valley, with all speed, and are nearhand at the very gate;
wherefore--"

The Queen heard me no further.  She was out of her bed, and herself
donning her raiment, ere I might win thus far.

"Send Dame Elizabeth to me," was all she said, "and thyself bid De
Nantoil alarm the garrison.  Well done!"

I count I am not perfect nor a saint, else had I less relished that
second shake of Dame Elizabeth--that was fast asleep--and deliverance of
the Queen's bidding.  I stayed me not to hear her mingled contakes and
wayments [reproaches and lamentations], but flew off to the outermost
door, and unbarring the same, spake through the crack that wherewith I
was charged to Oliver de Nantoil, the usher of the Queen's chamber,
which lay that night at her outer door.  Then was nought but bustle and
stir, both within and without.  The Queen would have up Robin, and
hearkened to his tale while Alice Conan combed her hair, the which she
bade bound up at the readiest, to lose not a moment.  In less than an
hour, methinks, she won to horse, and all we behind, and set forth for
York, which was the contrary way to that the Scots were coming.  And, ah
me!  I rade with Dame Elizabeth, that did nought but grieve over her
lost night's rest, and harry poor me for breaking the same.  I asked at
her if she had better loved to be taken of the Scots; since if so, the
Queen's leave accorded, we might have left her behind.

"Scots!" quoth she.  "Where be these ghostly [fabulous, figurative]
Scots?  I will go bail they be wrapped of their foldings [plaids] fast
asleep on some moor an hundred miles hence.  'Tis but Robin, the clown!
that is so clumst [stupid] with his rashness, that he seeth a Scot full
armed under every bush, and heareth a trumpeter in every corncrake: and
as if that were not enough, he has a sister as ill as himself, that must
take all for gospel as if Friar Robert preached it.  Mary love us! but I
quoke when thou gattest hold on me by the shoulders!  I count it was a
good hour ere I might sleep again."

"Dear heart, Dame!" cried I, "but it was not two minutes!  It is scantly
an hour by now."

"Then that is thy blame, Cicely, routing like a bedel [shouting like a
town-crier], and oncoming [assaulting] folks as thou dost.  I marvel
thou canst not be peaceable!  I alway am.  Canst mind the night that
ever I shaked thee awake and made thee run out of thy warm bed as if a
bear were after thee?"

I trust I kept out of my voice the laughter that was in my throat as I
said, "No, Dame: that cannot I."  The self notion of Dame Elizabeth ever
doing thus to any was so exceeding laughable.

"Well! then why canst--Body o' me! what ever is yonder flaming light?"

Master Oliver was just alongside, and quoth he drily--

"Burden not your Ladyship; 'tis but the Scots that have reached
Brotherton, and be firing the suburbs."

"Holy Mary, pray for us!" skraighs Dame Elizabeth, at last verily
feared: "Cicely, how canst thou ride so slow?  For love of all the
saints; let us get on!"

Then fell she to her beads, and began to invoke all the Calendar, while
she urged on her horse till his rapid trotting brake up the _aves_ and
_oras_ into fragments that man might scarce hear and keep him sober.  I
warrant I was well pleased, for all my weariness, when we rade in at
Micklebar of York; and so, I warrant, was Dame Elizabeth, for all her
impassibility.  We tarried not long at York, for, hearing that the Scots
came on, the Queen removed to Nottingham for safer keeping.  And so
ended that year.

But no contakes had I, save of Dame Elizabeth, that for the rest of that
month put on a sorrowful look at the sight of me.  On the contrary part,
Robin had brave reward from the King, and my Lady the Queen was pleased
to advance me, as shall now be told, shortly thereafter: and ever
afterwards did she seem to affy her more in me, as in one that had been
tried and proved faithful unto trust.

Thus far had I won when I heard a little bruit behind me, and looking
up, as I guessed, I saw Jack, over my shoulder.

"Dear heart, Jack!" said I, "but thou hast set me a merry task!  Two
days have I been a-work, and not yet won to the Queen's former journey
to France; yet I do thee to wit, I am full disheartened at the stretch
of road I see afore me.  Must I needs tell every thing that happed for
every year?  Mary love us! but I feel very nigh at my wits' end but to
think of it.  Why, my Chronicle shall be bigger than the Golden Legend
and the Morte Arthur put together, and all Underby Common shall not
furnish geese enow to keep me in quills!"

I ended betwixt laughter and tears.  To say sooth, I was very nigh the
latter.

"Take breath, Sissot," saith Jack, quietly.

"But dost thou mean that, Jack?"

"I mean not to make a nief [serf] of my wife," saith he.  I was
something comforted to hear that.

"As for time, dear heart," he pursueth, "take thou an hour or twain by
the day, so thou weary not thyself; and for events, I counsel thee to
make a diverse form of chronicle from any ever yet written."

"How so, Jack?"

"Set down nothing because it should go in a chronicle, but only those
matters wherein thyself was interested."

"But that, Jack," said I, laughing as I looked up on him, "shall be the
`Annals of Cicely' over again; wherewith I thought thou wert not
compatient."  [Pleased, satisfied; the adjective of compassion.]

"Nay, the Annals of Cicely were Cicely's fancies and feelings," he made
answer: "this should be what Cicely heard and saw."

I sat and meditated thereon.

"And afore thou wear thy fingers to the bone with thy much scribing,"
saith he, with that manner of smile of his eyes which Jack hath, "call
thou Father Philip to write at thy mouth, good wife."

"Nay, verily!" quoth I.  "I would be loth to call off Father Philip from
his godly meditations, though I cast no doubt he were both fairer scribe
and better chronicler than I."

To speak sooth, it was Father Philip learned me to write, and the master
should be better than the scholar.  I marvel more that have leisure
learn not to write.  Jack cannot, nor my mother, and this it was that
made my said mother desirous to have me taught, for she said, had she
wist the same, she could have kept a rare chronicle when she dwelt at
the Court, and sith my life was like to be there also, she would fain
have me able to do so.  I prayed Father Philip to learn my discreet
Alice, for I could trust her not to make an ill use thereof; but I
feared to trust my giddy little Vivien with such edged tools as Jack
saith pen and ink be.  And in very sooth it were a dread thing if any
amongst us should be entrapped into intelligence with the King's
enemies, or such treasonable matter; and of this are wise men ever
afeared, when their wives or daughters learn to write.  For me, I were
little feared of such matter as that: and should rather have feared (for
such as Vivien) the secret scribing of love-letters to unworthy persons.
Howbeit, Jack is wiser than I, and he saith it were dangerous to put
such power into the hands of most men and women.

Lo! here again am I falling into the Annals of Cicely.  Have back, Dame
Cicely, an' it like you.  Methinks I had best win back: yet how shall I
get out of the said Annals, and forward on my journey, when the very
next thing that standeth to be writ is mine own marriage?

It was on the morrow of the Epiphany, 1320, that I was wedded to my Jack
in the Chapel of York Castle.  I have not set down the inwards of my
love-tale, nor shall I, for good cause; for then should I not only fall
into the Annals of Cicely, but should belike never make end thereof.
Howbeit, this will I say,--that when King Edward bestowed me on my Jack,
I rather count he had his eyes about him, and likewise that there had
been a few little passages that might have justified him in so doing:
for Jack was of the household, and we had sat the one by the other at
table more than once or twice, and had not always held our tongues when
so were.  So we were no strangers, forsooth, but pretty well to the
contrary: and verily, I fell on my feet that morrow.  I am not so sure
of Jack.  And soothly, it were well I should leave other folks to blow
my trumpet, if any care to waste his breath at that business.

I was appointed damsel of the chamber on my marriage, and at after that
saw I far more of the Queen than aforetime.  Now and again it was my
turn to lie in that pallet in her chamber.  Eh, but I loved not that
work!  I used to feel all out [altogether] terrified when those great
dark eyes flashed their shining flashes, and there were not so many
nights in the seven that they did not.  She was as easy to put out as to
shut one's eyes, but to bring in again--eh, that was weary work!

I am not like to forget that July even when, in the Palace of
Westminster, my Lord of Exeter came to the Queen, bearing the Great
Seal.  It was a full warm eve, and the Queen was late abed.  Joan de
Vilers was that night tire-woman, and I was in waiting.  I mind that
when one scratched on the door, we thought it Master Oliver, and instead
of going to see myself, I but bade one of the sub-damsels in a whisper.
But no sooner said she,--"Dame, if it shall serve you, here is my Lord
of Exeter and Sir Robert de Ayleston,"--than there was a full great
commotion.  The Queen rose up with her hair yet unbound, and bade them
be suffered to enter: and when my Lord of Exeter came in, she--and after
her all we of her following--set her on her knees afore him to pray his
blessing.  This my Lord gave, but something hastily, as though his
thoughts were elsewhere.  Then said he--

"Dame, the King sends you the Great Seal, to be kept of you until such
time as he shall ask it again."

And he motioned forward Sir Robert de Ayleston, that held in his arms
the great bag of white leather, wherein was the Great Seal of gold.

Saw I ever in all my life face change as hers changed then!  To judge
from her look, she might have been entering the gates of Heaven.  (A
sorry Heaven, thought I, that gold and white leather could make betwixt
them.)  Her eyes glowed, and flashed, and danced, all at once: and she
sat her down in a chair of state, and received the Seal in her own
hands, and saith she--

"Bear with you my duty to the King my lord, and tell him that I will
keep his great charge in safety."

So her words ran.  But her eyes said--and eyes be apt to speak truer
than voices--"This day am I proudest of all the women in England, and I
let not go this Seal so long as I can keep it!"

Then she called Dame Elizabeth, which received the Seal upon the knee,
and the Queen bade her commit it to the great cypress coffer wherein her
royal robes were kept.

Not long after that, the Queen took her chamber at the Tower afore the
Lady Joan was born; and the Great Seal was then returned to the King's
Wardrobe.  Master Thomas de Cherleton was then Comptroller of the
Wardrobe: but he was not over careful of his office, and left much in
the hands of his clerks; and as at that time Jack was clerk in charge,
he was truly Keeper of the Great Seal so long as the Queen abode in the
Tower.  He told me he would be rare thankful when the charge was over,
for he might not sleep o' nights for thinking on the same.  I do think
folks in high place, that be set in great charge, should do their own
work, and not leave it to them beneath, so that Master Comptroller hath
all the credit when things go well, and poor John Clerk payeth all the
wyte if things go wrong.  But, dear heart! if man set forth to amend all
the crooked ways of this world, when shall he ever have done?  Maybe if
I set a-work to amend me, Cicely, it shall be my best deed, and more
than I am like to have done in any hurry.

Now come I to the Queen's journey to France in 1324, and my tale shall
thereupon grow more particular.  The King sent her over to remonstrate
with the King of France her brother for his theft of Guienne--for it was
no less; and to conclude a treaty with him to restore the same.  It was
in May she left England and just before that something had happened
wherein I have always thought she had an hand.  In the August of the
year before, Sir Roger de Mortimer brake prison from the Tower, and made
good his escape to Normandy; where, after tarrying a small season with
his mother's kinsmen, the Seigneurs de Fienles, he shifted his refuge to
Paris, where he was out of the King's jurisdiction.  Now in regard of
that matter it did seem to me that King Edward was full childish and
unwise.  Had his father been on the throne, no such thing had ever
happed: he wist how to deal with traitors.  But now, with so slack an
hand did the King rule, that not only Sir Roger gat free of the Tower by
bribing one of his keepers and drugging the rest, but twenty good days
at the least were lost while he stale down to the coast and so won away.
There was indeed a hue and cry, but it wrought nothing, and even that
was not for a week.  There was more diligence used to seize his lands
than to seize him.  And at the end of all, just afore the Queen's
journey, if my Lady Mortimer his wife, that had gone down to Southampton
thinking to join him, was not taken and had to Skipton Castle, and the
young damsels, her children, that were with her, sent to separate
convents!  I have ever believed that was the Queen's doing.  It was she
that loved not the Lady Mortimer should go to France: it should have
interfered with her game.  But what weakness and folly was it that the
King should hearken her!  Well--

"Soft you, now!"

"O Jack, how thou didst start me!  I very nigh let my pen fall."

"Then shouldst thou have inked thy tunic, Sissot; and it were pity, so
good Cologne sindon as it is.  But whither goest thou with thy
goose-quill a-flying, good wife?  Who was Sir Roger de Mortimer? and
what like was he?"

"Who was he, Jack?" quoth I, feeling somewhat took aback.  "Why, he
was--he was Sir Roger de Mortimer."

"How like a woman!" saith Jack, setting his hands in the pockets of his
singlet.

"Now, Jack!" said I.  "And what was he like, saidst thou?  Why, he was
as like a traitor, and a wastrel, and every thing that was bad, as ever
I saw man in all my life."

"Horns, belike--and cloven feet--and a long tail?" quoth Jack.  "I'll
give it up, Sissot.  Thou wert best write thy chronicle thine own way.
But it goeth about to be rarely like a woman."

"Why, how should it not, when a woman is she that writeth it?" said I,
laughing.  But Jack had turned away, with that comical twist of his
mouth which shows him secretly diverted.

Verily, I know not who to say Sir Roger was, only that he was Lord of
Wigmore and Ludlow, and son of the Lady Margaret that was born a
Fienles, and husband of the Lady Joan that was born a Geneville; and the
proudest caitiff and worst man that ever was, as shall be shown ere I
lay down my pen.  He was man that caused the loss of himself and of
other far his betters, and that should have been the loss of England
herself but for God's mercy.  The friend of Sathanas and of all evil,
the foe of God and of all good--this, and no less, it seemeth me, was
Sir Roger de Mortimer of Wigmore.  God pardon him as He may [if such a
thing be possible]!

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1.  A very sweet, luscious wine.  Verjuice was the most acid type
of vinegar.

Note 2.  Quiet, calm, patient.  In Lowland Scotch, to _thole_ is still
to endure; and _thole-mood_ must mean calm endurance.



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 to
fancy 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 was
puzzled to know why Sir Roger or any other should have fallen o' love
with Queen Isabel.  But what on earth could draw her to him, that
puzzled me sore.  He was not young--about ten years elder than she, and
she was now a woman of thirty years.  Nor was he over comely, as men
go,--I have seen better-favoured men, and I have seen worser.  Nor were
his manners sweet and winning, but the very contrary thereof, for they
were rough and rude even to women, he alway seemed to me the very
incarnation of pride.  Men charged Sir Hugh Le Despenser with pride, but
Sir Roger de Mortimer was worse than he tenfold.  One of his own sons
called him the King of Folly: and though the charge came ill from his
lips that brought it, yet was it true as truth could be.  His pride
showed every where--in his dress, in the way he bore himself, in his
words,--yea, in the very tones of his voice.  And his temper was furious
as ever I saw.  Verily, he was one of the least lovesome men that I knew
in all my life: yet for him, the fairest lady of that age bewrayed her
own soul, and sold the noblest gentleman to the death.  Truly, men and
women 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.  And
as I there sat, I was aware of Father Philip in the chamber, that had
come in softly and unheard of me, so lost in thought was I.  He smiled
when 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 heavy
with rain."

"The ground was full heavy when I entered," saith he, "for the plough
was standing still."

I laughed.  "So it was, trow.  But I do not think I was idle, Father; I
was but meditating."

"Wise meditations, that be fruitful in good works, be far away from
idlesse," quoth he.  "And on what wert thou thinking thus busily, my
daughter?"

"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, I
was thinking of some I had wist long ago: and in especial of Dame Isabel
the Queen, and other that were about her.  What is it moveth folks to
love 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 is
either God or Satan.  The enlightened conscience of the righteous man
worketh as God's Holy Spirit move him.  The defiled conscience of the
evil man listeneth to the promptings of Satan.  And the seared
conscience 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 with
weights 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 shall
shake off the weight, and wake up, to a life and a torment that shall
never 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 not
to thee, _He_, and _she_, but _I_, and _thou_.  When Christ knocketh at
thy door, if thou open not, shall He take it as tideful answer that thou
wert 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 save
Philip de Edyngdon.  What I learned from other folks' evil deeds was
mostly 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 set
down in Holy Writ: but verily it takes God to pen them, so that we may
indeed profit and not scorn,--that we may win and not lose.  Be sure
that whenever God puts in thine hand a golden coin of His realm, with
the King's image stamped fair thereon, Satan is near at hand, with a
gold-washed copper counterfeit stamped with his image, and made so like
that 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 be
a thing heavenly or earthly."

"I will endeavour myself to profit by your good counsel, Father," said
I.  "But mine husband bade me write this chronicle, though, sooth to
say, I had no list thereto.  And if I shall leave to deal with he and
she, how then may my chronicle be writ?"

"Write thy chronicle, my daughter," he answered.  "But write it as God
hath writ His Chronicles.  Set down that which men did, that which thou
sawest and heardest.  Beware only of digging into men's purposes where
thou knewest them not, and sawest but the half thereof.  And it is
rarely possible for men to see the whole of that which passeth in their
own day.  Beware of setting down a man as all evil for one evil thing
thou mayest see him to do.  We see them we live amongst something too
close to judge them truly.  And beware, most of all, of imagining that
thou canst get behind God's purposes, and lay bare all His reasons.
Verily, the wisest saint on earth cannot reach to the thousandth part
thereof.  God can be fully understood, only of God."

I have set down these wise words of good Father Philip, for though they
be too high and wide for mine understanding, maybe some that shall read
my chronicle may have better brains than she that writ.

So now once again to my chronicling, and let me endeavour to do the same
as 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 the
gate of Nully [Note 1], and thence we clattered over the stones to the
Hotel de Saint Pol [Note 2], where the Queen was lodged in the
easternmost tower, next to our Lady Church, and we her meynie above.
Dame Isabel de Lapyoun and I were appointed to lie in the pallet by
turns.  The Queen's bedchamber was hung with red sindon, broidered in
the border with golden swans, and her cabinet with blue say, powdered
with lily-flowers in gold, which is the arms of France, as every man
knoweth, seeing they are borne by our King that now is, in right of this
same Queen Isabel his mother.  He, that was then my Lord of Chester, was
also 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 in
March, and was all that time in Guienne.

Dear heart! but Jack--which loveth to be square and precise in his
matters--should say this were strange fashion wherein to write
chronicles, to date first September and then the March afore it!  I had
better 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 to
and fro betwixt our Queen and her lord, and likewise betwixt her and the
King of France; but no visitors (without there were one that evening
Dame Isabel lay in the pallet in my stead, and was so late up, and
passed by the antechamber door with her shoes in her hands, as little
Meliora the sub-damsel would have it she saw by the keyhole): and we
might nearhand as well have been in nunnery for all the folks we saw
that were not of the house.  Verily, I grew sick irked [wearied,
distressed] of the calm, that was like a dead calm at sea, when ships
lie to, and can win neither forward nor backward.  Ah, foolish Cicely!
thou hadst better have given thanks for the last peace thou wert to see
for many a year.

Well, my Lord of Chester come, which was the week after Holy Cross, we
set forth with few days' delay, and came to Paris, as I said, the eve of
Michaelmas.  Marvellous weary was I with riding, for I rade of an horse
the 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], and
drink a cup of wine, and then hied I to my bed, which, I thank the
saints, was not the pallet that night.

The King and Queen of France were then at Compiegne, King Charles having
been wed that same summer to his third wife, Dame Jeanne of Evreux: and
a good woman I do believe was she, for all (as I said aforetime) there
be but few.  But I do think, and ever shall, that three wives be more
than any man's share.  The next morrow, they came in from Compiegne, to
spend Michaelmas in Paris: and then was enough noise and merriment.
First, mass in our Lady Church, whereto both Dame Isabel and I waited on
the Queen; and by the same token, she was donned of one of the fairest
robes that ever she bare, which was of velvet blue of Malyns [Malines],
broidered with apple-blossom and with diapering of gold.  It did not
become her, by reason of her dark complexion, so well as it should have
done S--

"Hold!  Man spelleth not Cicely with an S."

"Jack, if thou start me like this any more, then will I turn the key in
the lock when I sit down to write," cried I, for verily mine heart was
going pitter-patter to come up in my throat, and out at my mouth, for
aught 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.  "When
it 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 didst
mean 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-red
complexion, and grey eyes, should have gone better with that blue velvet
gown than Queen Isabel's dusky hair and brown eyes, then do I know
little 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 I
well know whether to laugh or to be angered.  So I ween I had better
laugh.

Where was I, trow?  Oh, at mass in our Lady Church of Paris, where that
day was a miracle done on two that were possessed of the Devil, whose
names were Geoffrey Boder and Jeanne La Petite; and the girdle of Saint
Mary being shown on the high altar, they were allowed to touch the same,
whereon they were healed straightway.  And the Queen, with her own
hands, gave them alms, a crown; and her oblation to the image of Saint
Mary in the said church, being a festival, was a crown (her daily
oblation being seven-pence the day); and to the said holy girdle a
crown, and to the holy relics, yet another.  Then came we home by the
water of Seyne, for which the boatman had twelve pence.  [Note 5.]

We dwelt after this full peacefully at Paris for divers weeks, saving
that we made short journeys to towns in the neighbourhood; as, one day
to the house of the Sisters Predicants of Poissy, and another to God's
House of Loure [Note 6], and another to Villers, where tarried the Queen
of France, and so forth.  And some days spent we likewise at Reyns and
Sessouns.  [Note 7.]

At Paris she had her robes made, of purple and colour of Malbryn, for
the feast of All Saints, and they were furred with miniver and beasts
ermines.  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, in
visiting the churches; and the last can I well remember, by reason of
that which came after.  First, we went to the church of Saint Nicholas,
where she offered a cloth of Turk, price forty shillings; and to Saint
Remy she gave another, price forty-five shillings; and to the high altar
of the Cathedral one something better.  And to the ampulla [Note 7] and
shrine of Saint Remy a crown, and likewise a crown to the holy relics
there kept.  Then to the Friars Minors, where at the high altar she
offered a cloth of Lucca bought in the town, price three and an half
marks [Note 8].  And (which I had nearhand forgot) to the head of Saint
Nicasius in the Cathedral, a crown.

The last night ere we left Sessouns, I remember, as I came into the
Queen'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 three
dozen glasses for the Queen's table (and by the same token, the knave
asked fifteen pence for the same when they did come, which is a price to
make the hair stand on end)--well, as I said, I was a-coming in, when I
met one coming forth that at first sight I wist not.  And yet, when I
meditated, I did know him, but I could not tell his name.  He had taken
no note of me, save to hap his mantle somewhat closer about his face, as
though he cared not to be known--or it might be only that he felt the
cold, for it was sharp for the time of year.  Up went I into the Queen's
lodging, which was then in the house of one John de Gyse, that was an
honester man than Master Bolard, with whom she lodged at Burgette, for
that last charged her three shillings and seven-pence for a worser
lodging 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 second
quarry 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 from
vespers.  Then it flieth to me, to the potter and his glasses, to the
knavery of his charges, and cometh back to the man whom thou didst meet
coming forth of the door--whom it hath no sooner touched, than it is off
again to the cold even; then comest thou into the Queen's lodging, and
down `grees' [degrees, that is, stairs] once more to the landlord's
bill.  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 catch
none."

"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 Dame
Elizabeth, and Dame Isabel de Lapyoun, and Dame Joan de Vaux, and little
Meliora.  And right as I came in at the door, Dame Joan dropped her
sewing 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, "you
had 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 she
should 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 door
some minutes gone."

"Maybe the visitor is gone," said I.  "As I came in but now, I met one
coming 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 were
from 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 to
join converse with thy betters?"  [Note 10].

The sub-damsel looked set down for a minute, but nought ever daunted her
for long.  She was as pert a little maid as ever I knew, and but little
deserved her name of Meliora.  (Ah me, is this another hare?  Have
back.)

"There hath been none of any sort come to the Queen to-day," said Dame
Isabel, in so angered a tone that I began at once to marvel who had come
of whom she feared talk.

"Nay, but there so hath!" makes response Dame Joan: "have you forgot
Master Almoner that was with her this morrow nigh an hour touching his
accounts?--and Ralph Richepois with his lute after dinner?"

"Marry, and the Lady Gibine, Prioress of Oremont," addeth Dame
Elizabeth.

"And the two Beguines--" began Meliora; but she ended not, for Dame
Isabel boxed her ears.

"Ay, and Jack Bonard, that she sent with letters to the Queen of
France," saith Dame Joan.

"Yea, and Ivo le Breton came a-begging, yon poor old man that had served
her when a child," made answer Dame Elizabeth.

"And Ma--" Poor Meliora got no further, for Dame Isabel gave her a
buffet on the side of her head that nigh knocked her off the form.  I
could 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 might
I not know.

At that time came the summons to supper, so the matter ended.  But as
supper was passing, Dame Joan de Vaux, by whom I sat, with Master
Almoner on mine other hand, saith to me--

"Pray you, Dame Cicely, have you any guess who it were that you met
coming forth?"

"I have, and I have not," said I.  "There was that in his face which I
knew 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, I
pray, while I ask yet a question.  Was it--Sir Roger the Mortimer of
Ludlow?"

For all Dame Joan's warnful words, I nigh dropped my spoon, and I never
knew 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--that
man 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 her
intercession with the King for his pardon.  But e'en then, he might far
more meetly have sent his petition by some other.  Verily, I marvel she
would 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 road
back 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 the
sewer was gone, quoth she--

"I think, Dame Cicely, you know full little whether of Sir Roger de
Mortimer or of the King of France.  For the last, he is as easily
blinded a man as you may lightly see; and if our Queen his sister told
him 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 to
bravery 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 that
order."

"You did?"  Dame Joan's tone, and the somewhat dry smile which went with
it, said full plainly, "In no wise."

"Well, soothly we had enough and to spare!" quoth I.  "There was my Lord
of Lancaster--God rest his soul!--and Sir Piers de Gavaston (if he were
as ill man as some said)."

"He was not a saint, I think," she said: "yet could I name far worser
men than he."

"And my sometime Lord of Warwick," said I, "was no saint likewise, or I
mistake."

"Therein," saith she, "have you the right."

"Well," pursued I, "all they be gone: and soothly, I had hoped there
were no more such left."

"Then should there be no original sin left," she made answer; "yea, and
Sathanas should be clean gone forth of this world."

The rest of the converse I mind not, but that last sentence tarried in
my mind for many a day, and hath oft-times come back to me touching
other matters.

We reached Loure on Saint Martin's Day [November 11th], and Paris the
next morrow.  There found we the Bishops of Winchester and Exeter,
[Stratford and Stapleton], whom King Edward had sent over to join the
Queen's Council.  Now I never loved overmuch neither of these Reverend
Fathers, though it were for very diverse causes.  Of course, being
priests, they were holy men; but I misdoubt if either were perfect man
apart 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 did
I never trust, nor did I cease to marvel that man could.  As to King
Edward, betray him to his enemies to-day, and he should put his life in
your hands again to-morrow: never saw I man like to him, that no
experience would learn mistrust.  Queen Isabel trusted few: but of them
my said Lord of Winchester was one.  I have noted at times that they
which be untrue themselves be little given to trust other.  She trusted
none save them she had tried: and she had tried this Bishop, not once
nor twice.  He never brake faith with her; but with King Edward he brake
it a score of times twice told, and with his son that is now King
belike.  I wis not whether at this time the Queen was ready to put
affiance in him; I scarce think she was: for she shut both Bishops out
of 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 brought
word that the Queen, being a-cold, commanded her velvet mantle taken to
her cabinet: and I, as the dame in waiting then on duty, took the same
to 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 chair
Dame Elizabeth waited, and I gave the mantle to her to cast over the
Queen'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 a
priest: but as I went about to go forth, the one that was not a priest
turned his face, and I perceived to mine amaze that it was Sir Roger de
Mortimer.  Soothly, it needed all my courtly self-command that I should
not cry out when I beheld him.  Had I followed the prompting of mine own
heart, I should have cried, "Get thee gone, thou banished traitor!"  He,
who had returned unlicenced from Scotland ere the war was over, in the
time of old King Edward of Westminster; that had borne arms against his
son, then King, under my Lord of Lancaster; that, having his life
spared, and being but sent to the Tower, had there plotted to seize
three of the chief fortresses of the Crown--namely, the said Tower, and
the Castles of Windsor and Wallingford,--and had thereupon been cast for
death, and only spared through the intercession of the Queen and the
Bishop of Hereford: yet, after all this, had he broken prison, bribing
one 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 air
with the wife of his Sovereign, with her that had been his advocate, and
that knew all his treacheries!  Could any worser insult to the Queen
have 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 and
more, yet gave leave for this man--not to kneel at her feet and cry her
mercy--that had been grace beyond any reasonable hope: but suffered him
to stand in her presence, to appear in her privy cabinet--nay, to act as
though he were a noble appointed of her Council!  Had she forgot all the
past?

I travelled no further for that time.  The time was to come when I
should perceive that forgetfulness was all too little to account for her
deeds.

That night, Dame Tiffany being appointed to the pallet, it so fell out
that Dame Elizabeth, Dame Joan, and I, lay in the antechamber.  We had
but began to doff ourselves, and Dame Elizabeth was stood afore the
mirror, a-combing of her long hair--and rare long hair it was, and of a
fine colour (but I must not pursue the same, or Jack shall find in the
hair an hare)--when I said to her--

"Dame Elizabeth, pray you tell me, were you in waiting when Sir Roger de
Mortimer 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 not
ill angered to behold such a traitor?"

"Dame Cicely," saith she, slowly pulling the loose hairs forth of the
comb, "if you would take pattern by me, and leave troubling yourself
touching your neighbours' doings, you should have fewer griefs to mourn
over."

Could the left sleeve of my subtunic, which I was then a-doffing, have
spoke unto me, I am secure he should have 'plained that he met with full
rough treatment at my hands.

"Good for you, Dame, an' you so can!" said I somewhat of a heat.  "So
long as my neighbours do well, I desire not to mell [meddle] nor make in
their matters.  But if they do ill--"

"Why, then do I desire it even less," saith she, "for I were more like
to get me into a muddle.  Mine own troubles be enough for me, and full
too many."

"Dear heart! had you ever any?" quoth I.

"In very deed, I do ensure you," saith she, "for this comb hath one of
his teeth split, and he doth not only tangle mine hair, but giveth me
vile wrenches betimes, when I look not for them.  And 'tis but a month
gone, at Betesi [Bethizy], that I paid half-a-crown for him.  The rogue
cheated me, as my name is Bess.  I could find in mine heart to give him
a talking."

"Only a talking?" saith Dame Joan, and laughed.  "You be happy woman, in
good sooth, if your worsest trouble be a comb that hath his teeth
split."

"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 her
hair was louked [fastened] together.  "Bless the comb!" saith she, and I
guess she meant it but little.  "Wala wa!  Dame Joan, think you 'tis
matter for laughter?"

"More like than greeting," [weeping], she made answer.

"Verily," said I, "but I see much worser matter for tears than your
comb, 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 the
sentence.  When I was laid down beside Dame Joan, it came to me like a
flash of lightning--"Or else--what?"  And at that minute Dame Joan
turned 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.  Trust
not her in the red bed too much, and her in the green-hung chamber not
at all."

The first was Dame Elizabeth, and the last Dame Isabel de Lapyoun, that
lay in a chamber hung with green, with Dame Tiffany.  I was secure she
meant not the other, but to make certain I whispered the name, and she
saith, "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 had
passed ere I learned that he had come to dwell in Paris all out; and but
little more time was spent when one even, Dame Isabel de Lapyoun came
into 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 as
to-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, no
business of mine, trow."

I could not help to cry, "_Ha, chetife_!"

Dame Isabel made answer to neither the one nor the other, but marched
forth of the door with her nose an inch higher than she came in.  She
was appointed to the pallet for that night, so we three lay all in our
chamber.

"This passeth!" saith Dame Elizabeth, drying of her fingers, calm
enough, 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.  "What
good, trow?  Better to leave folks come and go, as they list, so long as
they 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.  I
would 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 and
be lost ere you should soil your fingers and strain your arms a-pulling
them forth."

"Gramercy!  Every man for himself!" saith Dame Elizabeth, a-pulling off
her hood.  "Now, here's a string come off!  Alway my luck!  If a body
might 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, look
you, the string is all chafen, that it is not worth setting on anew; and
so much as a yard of red ribbon have I not.  I must needs don my hood of
green of Louvaine."

She said it in a voice which might have gone with the direst calamity
that 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 a
tarnished fillet and a broken string, and--Saint Lucy love us! here be
two of my buttons gone!"

I could thole no longer, and forth brake I in laughter.  Dame Joan
joined with me, and some ado had we to peace Dame Elizabeth, that was
sore grieved by our laughing.

"Will you leave man be?" quoth she.  "They be right [real] silver
buttons, and not one more have I of this pattern: I ensure you they cost
me four shillings the dozen at John Fairhair's in London [a London
goldsmith].  I'll be bound I can never match them without I have them
wrought of set purpose.  Deary, deary me!"

"Well!" saith Dame Joan, "I may break my heart afore I die, but I count
it will not be over buttons."

"Not o'er your buttons, belike," saith Dame Elizabeth.  "And here, this
very day, was Hilda la Vileyne at me, begging and praying me that I
would pay her charges for that hood of scarlet wrought with gold and
pearls 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 to
mine hand.  But deary me, the pitiful tale she told!--of her mother ill,
and her two poor little sisters without meet raiment for winter, and
never a bit of food nor fuel in the house--I marvel what maids would be
at, to make up such tales!"

"It was not true, trow?"

"True?" saith Dame Elizabeth, pulling off her rings.  "It might be true
as Damascus steel, for aught I know.  But what was that to me?  I lacked
the money for somewhat that liked me better than to buy fuel for a
parcel of common folks like such.  They be used to lack comforts, and
not I.  And I hate to hear such stories, belike.  Forsooth, man might as
well let down a black curtain over the window on a sunshine day as be
plagued with like tales when he would fain be jolly.  I sent her off in
hot 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?" saith
Dame Joan.

"How wis I there be any such?  I dare be bound it was all a made-up tale
to 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 bitter
rood, 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 me
little 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 do
the like!  I never harry me with other men's troubles.  Good even!"

And Dame Elizabeth laid her down and happed the coverlet about her, and
was fast asleep in a few minutes.

The next even, when we came into hall for supper, was Sir Roger de
Mortimer 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 not
deceived.  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 had
appointed to the charge of our Queen: but not many days were over ere he
crept up above them--and then above the bishops themselves, until at
last he sat on the left hand of Queen Isabel, my Lord of Chester being
at her right.  But this first night he kept his place.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1.  Neuilly.  Queen Isabelle's scribe is responsible for the
orthography in this and subsequent places.

Note 2.  The old Palace of the French Kings, the remaining part of which
is now known as the Conciergerie.

Note 3.  September 12th.

Note 4.  Cakes made with honey.  Three pennyworth were served daily at
the royal table.

Note 5.  Wardrobe Account, 19 Edward the Second, 25/15.

Note 6.  Rheims and Soissons.  An idea of the difficulties of travelling
at that time maybe gathered from the entry of "Guides for the Queen
between Paris and Rheims, 18 shillings."

Note 7.  The vessel containing the oil wherewith the Kings of France
were anointed, oil and ampulla being fabled to have come from Heaven.

Note 8. 2 pounds 13 shillings 4 pence.--Wardrobe Account, 19 Edward the
Second, 25/15.

Note 9.  Gee.  This is one of the few words in our tongue directly
derivable from the ancient Britons.

Note 10.  "Avice Serueladi" occurs on the Close Roll for 1308.



PART ONE, CHAPTER 3.

HOW DAME ELIZABETH'S BILL WAS PAID.

  "And yet it never was in my soul
  To play so ill a part:
  But evil is wrought by want of thought
  As well as by want of heart."

  Thomas Hood.

As I came forth of hall, after supper, that even, and we were entered
into the long gallery whereinto the Queen's degrees opened, I was aware
of a full slender and white-faced young maid, that held by the hand a
small [little child] of mayhap five or six years.  She looked as though
she waited for some man.  The Queen had tarried in hall to receive a
messenger, and Dame Joan de Vaux was in waiting, so Dame Elizabeth, Dame
Isabel, Dame Tiffany, and I were those that passed along the gallery.
Dame Isabel and Dame Tiffany the maid let pass, with no more than a
pitiful look at the former, that deigned her no word: but when Dame
Elizabeth came next, on the further side, I being betwixt, the maid
stepped forward into the midst, as if to stay her.  Her thin hands were
clasped over her bosom, and the pitifullest look ever I saw was in her
eyes.

"_Dame, ayez pitie_!" was all she said; and it was rather breathed than
spoken.

"Bless us, Saint Mary!--art thou here again?" quoth Dame Elizabeth of a
testier fashion than she was wont.  "Get thee gone, child; I have no
time to waste.  Dear heart, what a fuss is here over a crown or twain!
Dost think thy money is lost?  I will pay thee when it liketh me; I have
not my purse to mine hand at this minute."

And on she walked, brushing past the maid.  I tarried.

"Are you Hilda la Vileyne?"  I said unto her.

"Dame, that is my name, and here is my little sister Iolande.  She hath
not tasted meat [food] this day, nor should not yesterday, had not a
kindly gentleman, given me a denier to buy soup.  But truly I do not ask
for charity--only to be paid what I have honestly earned."

"And hadst thou some soup yesterday?"

"Yes--no--Oh, I am older; I can wait better than the little ones.  The
mother is sick: she and the babes must not wait.  It does not signify
for me."

Oh, how hungered were those great eyes, that looked too large for the
white face!  The very name of soup seemed to have brought the craving
look therein.

I turned to the small.  "Tell me, Iolande, had Hilda any of the soup
yesterday?"

"No," said the child; "I and Madeleine drank it, every drop, that our
mother left."

"And had Hilda nothing?"

"There was a mouldy crust in the cupboard," said the child.  "It had
dropped behind the cup, and Hilda found it when she took the cup down.
We could not see it behind.  We can only just reach to take the cup
down, and put it up again.  That was what Hilda had, and she wiped the
cup with one end of it."

"The cup that had held the soup?"

"Yes, surely," said the child, with a surprised look.  "We only have
one,--does not Madame know?"

"It is an esquelle [porringer; a shallow bowl], not a cup," said Hilda,
reddening a little: "the child hardly knows the difference."

I felt nearhand as though I could have twisted Dame Elizabeth's neck for
meat for those children.

"And are you, in good sooth, so ill off as that?" said I.  "No meat, and
only one esquelle in all the house?"

"Dame," said Hilda meekly, as in excuse, "our father was long ill, and
now is our mother likewise; and many things had to be sold to pay the
apothecary, and also while I waited on them could I not be at work; and
my little sisters are not old enough to do much.  But truly it is only
these last few weeks that we have been quite so ill off as to have no
food, and I have been able to earn but a few deniers now and then--
enough to keep us alive, but no more."

"How much oweth you Dame Elizabeth?" said I.

"Dame, it is seven crowns for the hood I wrought, and three more for a
girdle was owing aforetime, and now four for kerchiefs broidering: it is
fourteen crowns in all.  I should not need to ask charity if I could but
be paid my earnings.  The apothecary said our mother was sick rather
from sorrow and want of nourishment than from any malady; and if the
good Dame would pay me, I might not only buy fresh matter for my work,
but perchance get food that would make my mother well--at least well
enough to sew, and then we should have two pairs of hands instead of
one.  I do not beg, Dame!"

She louted low as she spoke, and took her little sister again by the
hand.  "Come, Iolande; we keep Madame waiting."

"But hast thou got no money?" pleaded the barne.  "Thou saidst to
Madeleine that we should bring some supper back.  Thou didst, Hilda!"

"I did, darling," allowed her sister, looking a little ashamed.  "I
could not peace the babe else, and--I hoped we should."

I could bear no more.  The truth of those maids' story was in the little
one's bitter disappointment, and in poor Hilda's hungry eyes.  Eyes
speak sooth, though lips be false.

"Come," said I.  "I pray you, tarry but one moment more.  You shall not
lose by it."

"We are at Madame's service," said Hilda.

I ran up degrees as fast as ever I could.  As the saints would have it,
that very minute I oped the door, was Dame Elizabeth haling forth silver
in her lap, and afore her stood the jeweller's man awaiting to be paid.
Blame me who will, I fell straight on those gold pieces and silver
crowns.

"Fourteen crowns, Dame Elizabeth!" quoth I, all scant of breath.
"Quick! give me them--for Hilda la Vileyne--and if no, may God forgive
you, for I never will!"

Soothly, had the Archangel Raphael brake into the chamber and demanded
fourteen crowns, Dame Elizabeth could have gazed on him no more astonied
than she did on me, Cicely, that she had seen nearhand every day of her
life for over a dozen years.  I gave her leave to look how it listed
her.  From the coins in her lap I counted forth nine nobles and a French
crown, and was half-way down degrees again ere she well knew what I
would be at.  If I had had to pay her back every groat out of mine own
purse--nay, verily, if I had stood to be beheaden for it--I would have
had that money for Hilda la Vileyne that night.

They stood where I had left them, by the door of the long gallery, near
the _porte-cochere_, but now with them was a third--mine own Jack, that
had but now come in from the street, and the child knew him again, as
she well showed.

"O Hilda!"

I heard her say, as I came running down swiftly--for I was dread afraid
Dame Elizabeth should overtake me and snatch back the money--and I might
have spared my fears, for had I harried the Queen's crown along with her
crowns, no such a thing should ever have come in her head--"O Hilda!"
saith the child, "see here the good Messire who gave us the denier to
buy soup."

I might have guessed it was Jack.  He o'erheard the child, and stayed
him to pat her on the head.

"Well, little one, was the soup good?"

"So good, Messire!  But Hilda got none--not a drop."

"Hush!" saith Hilda; but the child would go on.

"None at all! why, how was that?" saith Jack, looking at Hilda.

I answered for her.  "The sick mother and helpless babes had the soup,"
said I; "and this brave maid was content with a mouldy crust.  Jack, a
word in thine ear."

"Good!" saith he, when I had whispered to him.  "Go thy ways,
sweetheart, and so do."

"Nay, there is no need to go any ways," said I, "for here cometh Meliora
down degrees, and of a truth I somewhat shrink from facing Dame
Elizabeth after my robbery of her, any sooner than must be--Meliora,
child, wilt run above an instant, and fetch my blue mantle and the
thicker of mine hoods?"

Meliora ran up straightway; for though she was something too forward,
and could be pert when she would, yet was she good-natured enough when
kindly used.  I turned to Hilda.

"Hold thy palm, my maid," said I.  "Here is the money the lady ought
[owed] thee."  And I haled into her hand the gold pieces and the silver
crown.

Verily, I could have greeted mine eyes sore to see what then befell.
The barne capered about and clapped her hands, crying, "Supper! supper!
now we shall have meat!" but Hilda covered her eyes with her void hand,
and sobbed as though her heart should break.

"God Almighty bless you, kind Dame!" said she, when as she could speak
again.  "I was nearhand in utter mishope [nearly in despair].  Now my
mother can have food and physic, and maybe, if it please God, she shall
recover.  May I be forgiven, but I was beginning to think the good God
cared not for poor folks like us, or maybe that there was no God to care
at all."

Down came Meliora with my hood and mantle, which I cast all hastily
about me, and then said I to Hilda--

"My maid, I would fain see thy mother; maybe I could do her some good;
and mine husband here will go with us for a guard.  Lead on."

"God bless you!" she said yet again.  "He _must_ have heard me."  The
last words were spoken lowly, as to herself.

We went forth of the great gates, and traversed the good streets, and
came into divers little alleys that skirt the road near Saint Denis'
Gate.  In one of these Hilda turned into an house--a full poor hut it
was--and led me up degrees into a poor chamber, whither the child ran
gleefully afore.  Jack left me at the door, he and I having covenanted,
when we whispered together, what he should do whilst I visited Hilda's
mother.

Little Iolande ran forward into the chamber, crying, "Supper! supper!
Mother and Madeleine, Hilda has money for supper!"

What I then beheld was a poor pallet, but ill covered with a thin
coverlet, whereon lay a pale, weak woman, that seemed full ill at ease,
yet I thought scarce so much sick of body as sick at heart and faint
with fasting and sorrow.  At the end of the pallet sat a child something
elder than Iolande, but a child still.  There was no form in the
chamber, but Hilda brought forward an old box, whereon she cast a clean
apron, praying me to sit, and to pardon them that this should be the
best they had to offer.  I sat me down, making no matter thereof, for in
very deed I was full of pity for these poor creatures.

The mother, as was but like, took me for Dame Elizabeth, and began to
thank me for having paid my debts--at long last, she might have said.
But afore I could gainsay it, Hilda saith warmly--

"Oh no, Mother!  This is not the lady that ought the money.  Madame here
is good--so good! and that lady--she has no heart in her, I think."

"Not very good, Hilda," said I, laughing, "when I fell on the dame that
ought thee the money, and fairly wrenched it from her, whether she would
or no.  Howbeit," I continued to the poor woman, "_I_ will be good to
you, if I can."

By bits and scraps I pulled her story forth of her mouth.  It was no
uncommon tale: a sickly wife and a selfish husband,--a deserted,
struggling wife and mother--and then a penniless widow, with no friends
and poor health, that could scant make shift to keep body and soul
together, whether for herself or the children.  The husband had come
home at last but to be a burden and sorrow--to be nursed through a
twelve months' sickness and then to die; and what with the weariness and
lack of all comfort, the poor widow fell sick herself soon after, and
Hilda, the young maid, had kept matters a-going, as best she might, ever
sithence.

I comforted the poor thing to my little power; told her that I would
give Hilda some work to do (and pay her for it), and that I would come
and see her by times whilst the Queen should abide in Paris; but that
when she went away must I go likewise, and it might be all suddenly,
that I could not give her to wit.  Hilda had sent the children forth to
buy food, and there were but her and her mother.  Mine husband was
longer in return than I looked for.

"My maid," said I to Hilda, "prithee tell me a thing.  What didst thou
signify by saying to thyself, right as we set forth from the Palace,
that God must have heard thee?"

A great wave of colour passed over her face and neck.

"Dame," she said, "I will speak soothliness.  It was partly because I
had prayed for money to buy food and physic: but partly also, because I
was afraid of something, and I had asked the good God to keep it away
from me.  When you said that you and Messire would condescend to come
with me, it delivered me from my fear.  The good God must have heard me,
for nobody else knew."

"Afraid!" said I.  "Whereof, my maid?  Was it the porter's great dog?
He is a gentle beast as may be, and would never touch thee.  What could
harm thee in the Queen's Palace?"

The wave of colour came again.  "Madame does not know," she said, in a
low voice.  "There are men worse than brutes: but such great ladies do
not see it.  One stayed me and spoke to me the night afore.  I was
afraid he might come again, and there was no one to help me but the good
Lord.  So I called to Him to be my guard, for there was none else; and I
think He sent two of His angels with me."

Mine own eyes were full, no less than Hilda's.

"May the good Lord guard thee ever, poor maid!" said I.  "But in very
sooth, I am far off enough from an angel.  Here cometh one something
nearer thereto"--for I heard Jack's voice without.  "But tell me, dost
thou know who it was of whom thou wert afraid?"

"I only know," she said, "that his squire bare a blue and white livery,
guarded in gold.  I heard not his name."

"Verily!" said I to myself, "such gentlemen be fair company for Dame
Isabel the Queen!"

For I could have no doubt that poor Hilda's enemy was that bad man, Sir
Roger de Mortimer.  Howbeit, I said no more, for then oped the door, and
in came Jack, with a lad behind, bearing a great basket.  Jack's own
arms were full of fardels [parcels], which he set down in a corner of
the chamber, and bade the lad empty the basket beside, which was charged
with firewood, "There!" saith he, "they be not like to want for a day or
twain, poor souls!  Come away, Sissot; we have earned a night's rest."

"Messire!" cried the faint voice of the poor woman.  "Messire is good as
an angel from Heaven!  But surely Messire has not demeaned himself to
carry burdens--and for us!"

She seemed nearhand frightened at the thought.

"Nay, good woman," saith Jack, merrily--"no more than the angel that
carried the cruse of water for the Prophet Elias.  Well-a-day! securely
I can carry a fardel without tarnishing my spurs?  I would I might never
do a worse deed."

"Amen!" said I, "for both of us."

We bade the woman and Hilda good even, and went forth, followed by
blessings till we were in the very street: and not till then would I
say--

"Jack, thou art the best man ever lived, but I would thou hadst a little
more care for appearances.  Suppose Sir Edmund or Master de Oxendon had
seen thee!"

"Well?" saith Jack, as calm as a pool in a hollow.  "Suppose they had."

"Why, then should they have laughed thee to scorn."

"Suppose they did?"

"Jack!  Dost thou nothing regard folks' thoughts of thee?"

"Certes.  I regard thine full diligently."

"But other folks, that be nought to thee, I would say."

"If the folks be nought to me, wherefore should the thoughts be of
import?  Securely, good wife, but very little.  I shall sleep the
sweeter for those fardels: and I count I should sleep none the worser if
man laughed at me.  The blessing of the poor and the blessing of the
Lord be full apt to go together: and dost thou reckon I would miss
that--yea, so much as one of them--out of regard for that which is,
saith Solomon, `_sonitum spinarum sub olla_'?  [Ecclesiastes chapter
seven, verse 6].  _Ha, jolife_! let the thorns crackle away, prithee;
they shall not burn long."

"Jack," said I, "thou _art_ the best man ever lived!"

"Rhyme on, my fair _trouvere_," quoth he.  [Troubadour.  Their lays were
usually legends and fictitious tales.] "But, Sissot, to speak sooth, I
will tell thee, if thou list to hearken, what it is keepeth my steps
from running into many a by-way, and mine heart from going astray after
many a flower sown of Satan in my path."

"Do tell me, Jack," said I.

"There be few days in my life," saith he, "that there cometh not up
afore mine eyes that Bar whereat I shall one day stand, and that Book
out of the which all my deeds shall be read afore men and angels.  And I
have some concern for the thoughts of them that look on, that day,
rather than this.  Many a time--ay, many a time twice told--in early
morn or in evening twilight, have I looked up into heaven, and the
thought hath swept o'er me like a fiery breeze--`What if our Lord be
coming this minute?'  Dost thou reckon, Sissot, that man to whom such
thoughts be familiar friends, shall be oft found sitting in the
alebooth, or toying with frothy vanities?  I trow not."

"But, Jack!" cried I, letting all else drop, "is that all real to thee?"

"Real, Sissot?  There is not another thing as real in life."

I burst forth.  I could not help it.

"O Jack, Jack!  Don't go and be a monk!"

"Go and be a monk!" saith Jack, with an hearty laugh.  "Why, Wife, what
bees be in thine hood?  I thought I was thine husband."

"So thou art, the saints be thanked," said I.  "But thou art so good, I
am sore afraid thou wilt either die or be a monk."

"I'll not be a monk, I promise thee," quoth he.  "I am not half good
enough, nor would I lose my Sissot.  As to dying, be secure I shall not
die an hour afore God's will is: and the Lord hath much need of good
folks to keep this bad world sweet.  I reckon we may be as good as we
can with reasonable safety.  I'll try, if thou wilt."

So I did, and yet do: but I shall never be match to Jack.

Well, by this time we had won back to the Queen's lodging; and at foot
of degrees I bade good-night to Jack, being that night appointed to the
pallet--a business I never loved.  I was thinking on Jack's last words,
as I went up, and verily had for the nonce forgat that which went afore,
when all at once a voice saith in mine ear--

"Well, Dame Cicely!  Went you forth in such haste lest you should be
clapped into prison for stealing?  Good lack, but mine heart's in my
mouth yet!  Were you wood [mad], or what ailed you?"

"Dame Elizabeth," said I, as all came back on me, "I have been to visit
Hilda's mother."

"Dear heart!  And what found you?  Was she a-supping on goose and leeks?
That make o' folks do alway feign to be as poor as Job, when their
coffers be so full the lid cannot be shut.  You be young, Dame Cicely,
and know not the world."

"Maybe," said I.  "But if you will hearken me, I will tell you what I
found."

"Go to, then," saith she, as she followed me into our chamber.
"Whate'er you found, you left me too poor to pay the jeweller.  I would
fain have had a sapphire pin more than I got, but your raid on my purse
disabled me thereof.  The rogue would give me no credit."

"Hear but my tale," said I, "and if when it be told you regret your
sapphire pin, I beseech you say so."

So I told her in plain words, neither 'minishing nor adding, how I had
found them, and the story I had heard from the poor woman.  She
listened, cool enough at first, but ere I made an end the water stood in
her eyes.

"_Ha, chetife_!" said she, when I stayed me.  "I'll pay the maid another
time.  Trust me, Dame Cicely, I believed not a word.  If you had been
cheated as oft--!  Verily, I am sorry I sent not man to see how matters
stood with them.  Well, I am fain you gave her the money, after all.
But, trust me, you took my breath away!"

"And my own belike," said I.

I think Hilda and hers stood not in much want the rest of that winter.
But whenever she came with work for me, either Margaret my maid, or
Jack's old groom, a sober man and an ancient, walked back with her.

Meantime Sir Roger de Mortimer played first viol in the Court
minstrelsy.  Up and yet higher up he crept, till he could creep no
further, as I writ a few leaves back.  On the eve of Saint Pancras was
crowned the new Queen of France in the Abbey of Saint Denis, which is to
France as Westminster Abbey to us: and there ramped my Lord of Mortimer
in the very suite of the Queen herself, and in my Lord of Chester's own
livery.  Twice-banished traitor, he appeared in the self presence of the
King that had banished him, and of the wife of his own natural Prince,
to whom he had done treason of the deepest dye.  And not one voice said
him nay.

Thus went matters on till the beginning of September, 1326.  The Queen
abode at Paris; the King of France made no sign: our King's trusty
messager, Donald de Athole, came and went with letters (and if it were
not one of his letters the Queen dropped into the brasier right as I
came one day into her chamber, I marvel greatly); but nought came forth
that we her ladies heard.  On the even of the fifth of September, early,
came Sir John de Ostrevant to the Palace, and had privy speech of the
Queen--none being thereat but her confessor and Dame Isabel de Lapyoun:
and he was scarce gone forth when, as we sat in our chamber a-work, the
Queen herself looked in and called Dame Elizabeth forth.

I thought nought of it.  I turned down hem, and cut off some threads,
and laid down scissors, and took up my needle to thread afresh--in the
Hotel de Saint Pol at Paris.  And that needle was not threaded but in
the Abbey of Saint Edmund's Bury in Suffolk, twenty days after.  Yet if
man had told me it should so be, I had felt ready to laugh him to scorn.
Ah me, what feathers we be, that a breath from God Almighty can waft
hither or thither at His will!

Never but that once did I see Dame Elizabeth to burst into a chamber.
And when she so did, I was in such amaze thereat that I fair gasped to
see it.

"Good lack!" cried I, and stared on her.

"Well may you say it!" quoth she.  "Lay by work, all of you, and make
you ready privily in all haste for journeying by night.  Lose not a
moment."

"Mary love us!" cries Isabel de la Helde.  "Whither?"

"Whither the Queen's will is.  Hold your tongues, and make you ready."

We lay that night--and it was not till late--in the town of Sessouns, in
the same lodging the Queen had before, at Master John de Gyse's house.
The next night we lay at Peronne, and the third we came to Ostrevant.

Dame Isabel told us the reason of this sudden flight.  The Queen had
heard that her brother the King of France--who for some time past had
been very cool and distant towards her--had a design to seize upon her
and deliver her a prisoner to King Edward: and Sir John of Hainault,
Count of Ostrevant, who came to bring her this news, offered her a
refuge in his Castle of Ostrevant.  I believed this tale when Dame
Isabel told it: I have no faith in it now.  What followed did away
entirely therewith, and gave me firm belief that it was nothing save an
excuse to get away in safety and without the King of France's knowledge.
Be it how it may, Sir Roger de Mortimer came with her.

We were not many days at Ostrevant: only long enough for the Count to
raise his troops, and then, when all was ready, the Queen embarked for
England.  On the 22nd of September we came ashore at Orwell, and had
full ill lodging; none having any shelter save the Queen herself, for
whom her knights ran up a shed of driftwood, hung o'er with carpets.
Never had I so discomfortous a night--the sea tossing within a few
yards, and the wind roaring in mine ears, and the spray all-to beating
over me as I lay on the beach, lapped in a mantle.  I was well pleased
the next morrow, when the Queen, whose rest had been little, gave
command to march forward to Bury.  But afore we set forth, come nearhand
an army of peasants into the presence, 'plaining of the Queen's
officers, that had taken their cows, chickens, and fruits, and paid not
a penny.  The Queen had them all brought afore her, and with her own
hands haled forth the money due to each one, bidding them bring all
oppressions to her own ears, and straitly commanding her officers that
they should take not so much as an egg without payment.  By this means
she won all the common people to her side, and they were ready to set
their lives in pledge for her truth and honour.

At that time I was but little aware how matters verily stood.  I said to
Dame Joan de Vaux that the Queen showed her goodness hereby--for though
I knew the Mortimer by then to be ill man, I wist not that she knew it,
and reckoned her yet as innocent and beguiled woman.

"Doth she so?" answered Dame Joan.  "How many grapes may man gather of a
bramble?"

"Nay!" said I, scarce perceiving her intent, "but very grapes come not
of brambles."

"Soothly," saith she: "neither do very brambles bear grapes."

Three days the Queen tarried at Bury: then, with banners flying, she
marched on toward Essex.  I thought it strange that even she should
march with displayed banners, seeing the King was not of her company:
but I reckoned she had his order, and was acting as his deputy.
Elsewise had it been dread treason [Note 1], even in her.  I was
confirmed in my thought when my Lord of Lancaster, the King's cousin,
and my Lord of Norfolk, the King's brother, came to meet her and joined
their troops to her company; and yet more when the Archbishop of Dublin,
and the Bishops of Hereford, Lincoln, and Ely, likewise joined them to
her.  Verily, such holy men could not countenance treason.

Truth enough: but that which was untrue was not the treason, but the
holiness of these Caiaphases.

And now began that woeful Dolorous Way, which our Lord King Edward trod
after his Master Christ.  But who knoweth whither a strange road shall
lead him, until he be come to the end thereof?  I wis well that many
folk have said unto us--Jack and me--since all things were made plain,
How is it ye saw not aforetime, and wherefore followed ye the Queen thus
long?  They saw not aforetime, no more than we; but now that all is
open, up come they with wagging heads and snorkilling noses,
and--"Verily, we were sore to blame for not seeing through the mist"--
the mist through the which, when it lay thick, no man saw.  _Ha,
chetife_!  I could easily fall to prophesying, myself, when all is over.
Could we have seen what lay at the end of that Dolorous Way, should any
true and loyal man have gone one inch along it?

And who was like to think, till he did see, what an adder the King
nursed in his bosom?  Most men counted her a fair white dove, all
innocent and childlike: that did I not.  I did see far enough, for all
the mist, to see she was no child in that fashion; yet children love
mischief well enough betimes; and I counted her, if not white, but
grey--not the loathly black fiend that she was at the last seen to be.
I saw many a thing I loved not, many a thing I would not have done in
her place, many a thing that I but half conceived, and feared to be ill
deed--but there ended my seeing.  I thought she was caught within the
meshes of a net, and I was sorry she kept not thereout.  But I never
guessed that the net was spread by her own hands.

My mother, Dame Alice de Lethegreve, I think, saw clearer than I did:
but it was by reason she loved more,--loved him who became the
sacrifice, not the miserable sinner for whose hate and wickedness he was
sacrificed.

So soon as King Edward knew of the Queen's landing, which was by
Michaelmas Eve at latest, he put forth a proclamation to all his lieges,
wherein he bade them resist the foreign horde about to be poured upon
England.  Only three persons were to be received with welcome and
honour: which was, the Queen herself, Edward her son (his father, in his
just ire, named him not his son, neither as Earl of Chester), and the
King's brother, the Lord Edmund of Kent.  I always was sorry for my Lord
of Kent; he was so full hoodwinked by the Queen, and never so much as
guessed for one moment, that he acted a disloyal part.  He was a noble
gentleman, a kindly and a generous; not, maybe, the wisest man in the
realm, and something too prone to rush after all that had the look of a
noble deed, ere he gave himself time enough to consider the same.  But
if the world held no worser men at heart than he, it were marvellous
better world than now.

One other thing did King Edward, which showed how much he had learned:
he offered a great price of one thousand pounds [about 18,000 pounds,
according to modern value], for the head of the Mortimer: and no sooner
did the Queen hear thereof, than she offered double--namely, two
thousand pounds--for the head of Sir Hugh Le Despenser--a man whose
little finger was better worth two thousand than the Mortimer's head was
worth one.  Two days later, the King fortified the Tower, and appointed
the Lord John of Eltham governor thereof; but he being only a child of
ten years, the true governor was the Lady Alianora La Despenser, who was
left in charge of the King's said son.  And two days afore Saint Francis
[October 2nd] he left the Tower, and set forth toward Wallingford,
leaving the Bishop of Exeter to keep the City: truly a thankless
business, for never could any man yet keep the citizens of London.  Nor
could he: for a fortnight was not over ere they rose in insurrection
against the King's deputies, invested the Tower, wrenched the keys from
the Constable, John de Weston, to whom the Lady Alianora had confided
them, brought her out with the young Lord, and carried them to the
Wardrobe--not without honour--and then returning, they seized on the
Bishop, with two of his squires, and strake off their heads at the
Standard in Chepe.  And this will I say for the said Bishop, though he
were not alway pleasant to deal withal, for he was very furnish--yet was
he honest man, and loved his master, ay, and held to him in days when it
was little profit so to do.  And seeing how few honest men there be,
that will hold on to the right when their profit lieth to the left, that
is much to say.

With the King went Sir Hugh Le Despenser--I mean the younger, that was
create Earl of Gloucester by reason of his marriage; for the Lady
Alianora his wife was eldest of the three sisters that were coheirs of
that earldom.  And thereanent--well-a-day! how different folks do from
that I should do in their place!  I can never tell wherefore, when man
doth ill, the penalty thereof should be made to run over on his innocent
sons.  Because Sir Hugh forfeited the earldom, wherefore passed it not
to his son, that was loyal man and true, and one of the King's best
councillors all his life?  On the contrary part, it was bestowed on Sir
Hugh de Audley, that wedded the Lady Margaret (widow of Sir Piers de
Gavaston), that stood next of the three coheirs.  And it seemeth me
scarce just that Sir Hugh de Audley, that had risen up against King
Edward of old time, and been prisoned therefor, and was at best but a
pardoned rebel, should be singled out for one of the finest earldoms in
England, and not Sir Hugh Le Despenser, whose it was of right, and to
whose charge--save the holding of the Castle of Caerphilly against Queen
Isabel, which was in very loyalty to his true lord King Edward--no fault
at all could be laid.  I would I had but the world to set right!  Then
should there be justice done, and every wrong righted, and all crooked
ways put straight, and every man and woman made happy.  Dear heart, what
fair and good world were this, when I had made an end of--

Did man laugh behind me?

"Jack!  Soothly, I thought it must be thou.  What moveth thy laughter?"

"Dame Cicely de Chaucombe," saith he, essaying to look sober--which he
managed but ill.  "The Annals of Cicely, likewise; and the imaginings of
Cicely in especial."

"Well, what now mispayeth [displeases] thee?" quoth I.

"There was once man," saith Jack, "thought as thou dost.  And seeing
that the hollyhocks in his garden were taller than the daisies, he bade
his gardener with a scythe cut short the hollyhocks, that all the
flowers should be but of one height."

"Well, what happed?" said I.

"Why, next day were there no hollyhocks.  And then the hollyhock stems
and the daisies both laid 'plaint of the gardener."

"Both?" said I.

"Both.  They alway do."

"But what 'plaint had the daisies to offer?"

"Why, that they had not been pulled up to the height of the hollyhocks,
be sure."

"But how could they so?"

"Miscontent hath no `can' in his hornbook.  Not what thou canst, but
what he would, is his measure of justice."

"But justice is justice," said I--"not what any man would, but what is
fair and even."

"Veriliest.  But what is fair and even?  If thou stand on Will's haw
[hillock], the oak on thy right hand is the largest tree; if thou stand
on Dick's, it shall be the beech on thy left.  And thine ell-wand
reacheth not.  How then to measure?"

"But I would be on neither side," said I, "but right in the midst: so
should I see even."

"Right in the midst, good wife, is where God standeth; and few men win
there.  There be few matters whereof man can see both to the top and to
the bottom.  Mostly, if man see the one end, then he seeth not the
other.  And that which man seeth not, how shall he measure?  Without
thou lay out to follow the judge which said that he would clearly man
should leave to harry him with both sides of a matter.  So long as he
heard but the plaintiff, he could tell full well where the right lay;
but after came the defendant, and put him all out, that he wist not on
which side to give judgment.  Maybe Judge Sissot should sit on the bench
alongside of him."

"Now, Jack," said I, "thou laughest at me."

"Good discipline for thee, sweetheart," saith he, "and of lesser
severity than faulting thee.  But supposing the world lay in thine hands
to set right, and even that thou hadst the power thereto, how long time
dost think thy work should abide?"

"_Ha, chetife_!" cried I.  "I ne'er bethought me of that."

"The world was set right once," quoth Jack, "by means of cold water, and
well washed clean therein.  But it tarried not long, as thou wist.  Sin
was not washed away; and Satan was not drowned in the Flood: and very
soon thereafter were they both a-work again.  Only one stream can wash
the world to last, and that floweth right from the rood on Calvary."

"Yet there is enough," said I, "to wash the whole world."

"Verily.  But how, if the world will not come and wash?  `He that
will'--_qui vult_--`let him take water of life freely.'  But he that is
not athirst for the holy water, shall not have it forced down his throat
against his will."

"How shall man come by the thirst, Jack, if he hath it not?  For if the
gift shall be given only to him that thirsteth for it, it seemeth me the
thirst must needs be born ere we shall come for the water."

"Nay, sweetheart, we all desire happiness and wealth and honour; the
mistake is that we be so ready to slake our thirst at the pools of muddy
water which abound on every hand, rather than go to the fount of living
water.  We grasp at riches and honours and pleasures of this life: lo,
here the blame, in that we are all athirst for the muddy pool, and have
no desire for the holy water--for the gold of the royal mint stamped
with the King's image, for the crown of everlasting life, for the bliss
which shall endure unto all ages.  We cry soothly for these things; but
it is aswhasay, Give me happiness, but let it end early; give me seeming
gold, but let it be only tinsel; give me a crown, but be it one that
will fade away.  Like a babe that will grip at a piece of tin whereon
the sun shineth, and take no note of a golden ingot that lieth by in
shadow."

"But who doth such things, Jack?"

"Thou and I, Sissot, unless Christ anoint our eyes that we see in
sooth."

"Jack!" cried I, all suddenly, "as I have full many times told thee,
thou art better man than many a monk."

"Now scornest thou at me," saith he.  "How can I be perfect, that am
wedded man?  [Note 2.]  Thou wist well enough that perfect men be only
found among the contemplative, not among them that dwell in the world.
Yet soothly, I reckon man may dwell in the world and love Christ, or he
may dwell in cloister and be none of His."

Well, I know not how that may be; but this do I know, that never was
there any Jack even to my Jack; and I am sore afraid that if I ever win
into Heaven, I shall never be able to see Jack, for he shall be ten
thousand mile nearer the Throne than I Cicely am ever like to be.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1.  At this time it was high treason for any subject to march with
banners displayed, unless he acted as the King's representative by his
distinct commission.

Note 2.  The best men then living looked on the life of idle
contemplation as the highest type of Christian life, to which no married
man could attain.



PART ONE, CHAPTER 4.

THE GLAMOUR OF THE QUEEN.

  "Hast thou beheld thyself, and couldst thou stain
  So rare perfection?  Even for love of thee
  I do profoundly hate thee."

  Lady Elizabeth Carew.

So I was got into the Annals of Cicely, was I?  Well then, have back.
Dear heart! but what a way have I to go back ere I can find where I was
in my story!

Well the King left the Tower for Wallingford, and with him Sir Hugh Le
Despenser, and Hugh his young son, Archdeacon Baldok, Edward de Bohun
the King's nephew, and divers of his following.  I know not whether he
had with him also his daughters, the young Ladies Alianora and Joan, or
if they were brought to him later.  By Saint Denis' Eve [October 7th] he
had reached Wallingford.

The Queen was in march to London: but hearing that the King had left,
she altered her course, and went to Oxford.  There tarried we one day,
and went to our duties in the Church of Saint Martin [Note 1], where an
homily was preachen by my Lord of Hereford [Note 2].  And a strange
homily it was, wherein Eva our mother stood for the Queen, and I suppose
Adam for the King, and Sir Hugh Le Despenser (save the mark!) was the
serpent.  I stood it out, but I will not say I goxide [gaped] not.  The
next day went the Queen on toward Gloucester, pursuing the King, which
had been there about ten days afore her.  She put forth from
Wallingford, on her way between Oxford and Gloucester, a letter wherein
she earnestly prayed the King to return, and promised that he should
receive the government with all honour if he would conform him to his
people.  I had been used to hear of the people obeying the King, as in
duty bound to him whom God had set over them; and this talk of the King
obeying the people was marvellous strange to mine ears.  Howbeit, it was
talk only; for what was really meant was that he should conform himself
to his wife.  And considering how much wives be bidden of God to obey
their lords, that surely was as ill as the other.  Which the King saw
belike, for instead of coming nearer he went further away, right over
the Severn, and strengthened himself, first in the strong Castle of
Chepstow, and after in the Castle of Caerphilly.  For us, we went on,
though not so quick as he, to Gloucester, and thence to Bristol, where
Sir Hugh de Despenser the father was governor, and where the citizens,
on the Queen's coming, opened the gates to her, and Sir Hugh on
perceiving it retired into the Castle.  But she summoned the Castle also
to surrender, which was done speedily of the officers, and Sir Hugh
delivered into her hands.  Moreover, the two little ladies, the King's
daughters, whom he had sent from Gloucester on his retreat across the
Severn, were brought to her [Note 3], and she welcomed them motherly, or
at least seemed to do so.  Wala wa!  I have no list to set down what
followed, and will run by the same as short as shall serve truth.

The morrow of Saint Crispin, namely, the 26th day of October, the Queen
and her son, now Duke of Aquitaine--whom man whilome called Earl of
Chester--came into the great hall of Bristol Castle, and sat in state: I
Cicely being behind the Queen's chair, and Jack in waiting on my Lord
the Duke.  Which done, they called council of the prelates and nobles of
the realm, being the Archbishop of Dublin and five bishops; the King's
two brothers, my Lords of Norfolk and Kent; my Lord of Lancaster their
cousin; and all the nobles then present in Bristol town: thus they
gathered, the Duke on the right hand of the throne and the Queen on the
left, the throne all empty.  Then a marvellous strange thing happened:
for the Queen rose up and spake, in open Council, to the prelates and
nobles of England.  When she first arose (as afterwards I heard say)
were there some murmurs that a woman should so speak; and divers up and
down the hall rowned [whispered] one the other in the ear that it had
been more seemly had she kept to her distaff.  But when she ended, so
great was the witchery of her fair face, and the gramary [magic] of her
silver voice, that scarce man was in the hall but was ready to live and
die with her.  _Ha, chetife_! how she witched the world! yet never did
she witch me.

How can it be, I marvel at times, that men--and women too--will suffer
themselves to be thus led astray, and yet follow on, oft knowing whither
they go, after some one man or woman, that casteth over them a manner of
gramary?  There be some that can witch whom they will, that God keepeth
not.  And 'tis not alway a fair face that witcheth; I have known full
unbright [plain, ugly] folks that have this charm with them.  And I note
moreover, that many times he that wields it doth use it for evil, and
not for good.  I dare not say no good man ever hath the same; for
securely I know not all folks in this world: yet of them I do know, I
cannot call to mind a verily good man or woman that hath seemed me to
possess this power over his fellows.  I have known some metely good folk
that had a touch thereof; but of such as I mean, that do indeed wield it
in power, and draw all manner of men to them, and after them, nearhand
whether they choose or no--of such I cannot call to mind one that was
true follower of our Lord.  Therefore it seems me an evil power, and one
that may come of Satan, sith it mostly is used in his service.  And I
pray God neither of my daughters may ever show the same, for at best it
must be full of peril of pride to him that possesseth it.  Indeed, had
it so been, I think they should have shown it afore now.

But now to have back to the hall of Bristol Castle, lest Jack, coming in
to look stealthily over my shoulder as he doth betimes, should say I
have won again into the Annals of Cicely.

Well, all the prelates and nobles were full witched by Dame Isabel the
Queen, and agreed unto all her plans, the which came ready cut and
dried, as though all had been thought on and settled long afore.
Verily, I dare say it so had.  First, they elected the Duke of Aquitaine
to the regency--which of course was the self thing as electing his
mother, since he, being a mere lad, was but her mouthpiece, and was
buxom [submissive] unto her in all things: and all present sware to
fulfil his pleasure, as though he had been soothly king, under his privy
seal, for there was no seal meet for the regency.  And incontinent
[immediately] thereafter, the said Duke, speaking doubtless the pleasure
of the Queen, commanded Sir Hugh Le Despenser the father to be brought
to his trial in the hall of the Castle.

Then was he led in, an old white-haired man, [See note in Appendix, on
the Despensers], stately and venerable, who stood up before the Council
as I would think none save innocent man should do, and looked the Queen
straight in the face.  He was not witched with her gramary; and soothly
I count in all that hall he was the sole noble that escaped the spell.
A brave man was he, of great probity, prudent in council, valiant in
war: maybe something too readily swayed by other folks (the Queen
except), where he loved them (which he did not her), and from this last
point came all his misfortunes [Note 4].

Now stood he up to answer the charges laid against him (whereof there
were nine), but answer such as man looked for made he none.  He passed
all by as of no account, and went right to the heart and verity of the
whole matter.  I could not but think of a Prisoner before him who had
answered nothing; and I crede he knew that in like case, "per invidiam
tradidissent eum."  [Note 5].  Moreover, he spake not to them that did
the will of other, but to her that was at the core of the whole matter.

"Ah, Dame!" quoth he, bowing low his white, stately head, "God grant us
fair trial and just judge; and if we may not find it in this world, we
look for it in another."

I trust he found it in that other world--nay, I know he must have done.
But in this world did he not find it.  Fair trial had he none; it was an
end foregone from the beginning.  And as to just judge--well, she is
gone now to her judgment, and I will leave her there.

I had forgot to say in due order that my Lord of Arundel was he that was
tried with him, but he suffered not till later.  [This appears to be the
case from comparison of the best authorities.]  He, therefore, was had
back to prison; but Sir Hugh was hung on the common gallows in his coat
armour, in strong cords, and when he was cut down, after four days, his
head was struck off and his quarters cast to the dogs.  On whose soul
God have mercy!  Amen.  In very deed, I think he deserved a better fate.
Secure am I, that many men be hung on gallows which might safely be
left to die abed, and many more die abed that richly demerit the
gallows.  This world is verily a-crooked: I reckon it shall be smoothed
out and set straight one day.  There be that say that day shall last a
thousand years; and soothly, taking into account all the work to be done
ere the eve droppeth, it were small marvel an' it did so.

This done, we tarried not long at Bristol.  Less than a month thereafter
was the King taken at Neath Abbey in Wales, and all that yet obeyed him
were either taken with him or dispersed.  The news found the Queen at
Hereford, whither she had journeyed from Bristol: and if I had yet a
doubt left touching her very nature [real character], I think it had
departed from me when I beheld how she received that news.  Sir Thomas
Le Blount, his Steward of the Household, was he that betrayed him: and
may God pardon him easier than I could.  But my Lord of Lancaster (whom
I can pray God pardon with true heart, seeing he afterward repented
bitterly), the Lord Zouche of Ashby, and Rhys ap Howel--these were they
that took him.  With him they took three other--Sir Hugh Le Despenser
the son, and Archdeacon Baldok, and Sir Simon de Reading.  The good
Archdeacon, that was elect [_Bishop_ is understood] of Norwich, was
delivered over to the tender mercies (which, as saith the Psalmist, were
cruel) of that priest of Baal, the Bishop of Hereford, whom indeed I
cannot call a priest of God, for right sure am I that God should never
have owned him.  If that a man serveth be whom he worshippeth, then was
Sir Adam de Orleton, Bishop of Hereford, priest of Sathanas and none
other.  The King was had to Kenilworth Castle, in ward of my Lord of
Lancaster--a good though mistaken man, that used him not ungently, yet
kept him straitly.  Sir Hugh and Sir Simon were brought to the Queen at
Hereford, and I was in waiting when they came into her presence.  I had
but one glimmer of her face (being behind her) when she turned her head
for a moment to bid me send Oliver de Nantoil to fetch my Lord of
Lincoln to the presence: but if ever I beheld pictured in human eyes the
devilish passions of hate, malice, and furious purpose, I beheld them
that minute in those lovely eyes of hers.  Ay, they were lovely eyes:
they could gleam soft as a dove's when she would, and they could shoot
forth flames like a lioness robbed of her prey.  Never saw I those eyes
look fiercer nor eviller than that night when Sir Hugh Le Despenser
stood a captive at her feet.

For him, he was full calm: stately as his father--he was comelier of the
twain, yea, the goodliest man ever mine eyes lit on: but I thought not
on that in that hour.  His chief fault, man deemed, was pride: not the
vanity that looketh for applause of man, but rather the lofty-mindedness
that is sufficient to himself, and despiseth other.  I beheld no trace
thereof as he there stood.  All that had been--all that was of earth and
earthy--seemed to have dropped away from him: he was calm and tranquil
as the sea on a summer eve when not a breath stirreth.  Wala wa! we have
all our sins: and what be we, to throw the sins of another in his face?
Sir Hugh did some ill deeds, belike; and so, God wot, hath done Cicely
de Chaucombe; and whose sins of the twain were worser in His sight, He
knoweth, not I.  Verily, it was whispered that he had taint of heresy,
the evillest thing that may be: but I trust that dread charge were
untrue, and that he was but guilty of somewhat more pride and ambitious
desires than other.  Soothly, pride is one of the seven deadly sins--
pray God save us all therefrom!--yet is heresy, as the Church teacheth,
an eighth deadlier than all the seven.  And if holy Church hath the
words of God, and is alonely guided of His Spirit, then must it be an
awful and deadly sin to gainsay her bidding.  There be that take in hand
to question the same: whom holy Church condemneth.  I Cicely cannot
presume to speak thereof, not being a priest, unto whom alone it
appertaineth to conceive such matter.  'Tis true, there be that say lay
folk can as well conceive, and have as much right as any priest; but
holy Church agreeth not therewith.  God be merciful to us all,
whereinsoever we do err!

But now was the Queen in a sore strait: for that precious treasure that
had once been in her keeping--to wit, the Great Seal--was no longer with
her.  The King had the same; and she was fain to coax it forth of his
keeping, the which she did by means of my said Lord of Hereford.  I know
not if it were needful, but until she had this done, did not Sir Hugh Le
Despenser suffer.

It was at Hereford, the eve of Saint Katherine, that he died.  I thank
the saints I was not there; but I heard dread stories of them that were.
Dame Isabel de Lapyoun was in waiting that day; I think she was fittest
for it.

I ween it was on that morrow, of the eve of Saint Katherine, that mine
eyes first began to ope to what the Queen was in very deed.  Wherefore
was she present at that deed of blood?  Dame Tiffany reckoned she deemed
it her duty: and truly, to behold what man can deem his duty, is of the
queerest things in this queer world.  I never knew a cow that reckoned
it duty to set her calf in peril, and herself tarry thereout; nor a dog
that forsook his master's company by reason of his losing of worldly
gear; nor an horse that told falsehoods to his own profit.  I have wist
men that would do all these things, and more; because, forsooth, it was
their duty!  Now, after what manner it could be duty to Dame Isabel the
Queen to preside in her own person at the execution of Sir Hugh, that
cannot I Cicely tell.  Nay, the saints love us! what need was there of
an execution at all?  Sir Hugh was dying fast.  Since he was taken would
he never open his lips, neither to speak nor yet to eat; and that eve of
Saint Katherine had seen his end, had they left him die in peace.
Veriliest, I wis not what he had done so much worser than other men,
that so awesome an ensample should be made of him.  I do trust the
rumour was not true that ran of his heresy; for if so, then must not man
pity him.  And yet--

_Virgo sanctissima_! what is heresy?  The good Lord wot.

My Lord of Lincoln was he, as I heard, which brought tidings to the
Queen that Sir Thomas Wager had done him to wit Sir Hugh would die that
day.  Would die--whether man would or no.  Holy Mary, the pity of it!
Had I been Sir Thomas, never word would I have spoken till the breath
was clean gone out of him, and then, if man coveted vengeance, let him
take it on the silent dust.  But no sooner was it known to the Queen--to
her, a woman and a mother!--than she gave command to have the scaffold
run up with all speed, and that dying man drawn of an hurdle through the
city that all men might behold, with trumpets going afore, and at last
hanged of the gallows till he were dead.  Oh, the pity of it! the pity
of it!

The command was obeyed--so far as man could obey.  But ere the agony
were full over, God Almighty stepped in, and bare him away from what she
would have had him suffer.  When they put him on the hurdle, he lay as
though he wist not; when they twined a crown of nettles and pressed it
on his brow, he was as though he felt not; when, the torture over, they
made ready to drag him to the gallows, they saw that he was dead.  God
cried to them, "Let be!"

God assoil that dead man!  Ay, maybe he shall take less assoiling than
hath done that dead woman.

Man said that when my Lord of Lincoln came to tell her of this matter,
she was counting the silver in my Lord of Arundel his bags, that were
confiscate, and had then been brought to her: and but a few days later,
at Marcle, Sir William de Blount brought from the King the Great Seal in
its leathern bag sealed with the privy seal, and delivered it unto the
Queen and her Keeper [Chancellor] the Bishop of Norwich.  Soothly, it
seemed to me as though those canvas bags that held my Lord of Arundel's
silver, and the white leathern bag that held the Great Seal, might be
said to be tied together by a lace dipped in blood.  And somewhat later,
when we had reached Woodstock, was Sir Hugh Le Despenser's plate brought
to the Wardrobe, that had been in the Tower with the Lady Alianora his
wife--five cups and two ewers of silver, and twenty-seven cups and six
ewers of gold; and his horses and hers delivered into the keeping of
Adam le Ferrour, keeper of the Queen's horses: and his servants either
cast adrift, or drafted, some of them, into the household of the Lord
John of Eltham.  Go to! saith man: was all this more than is usual in
like case?  Verily, nay: but should such things be usual in Christendom?
Was it for this our Lord came to found His Church--that Christian blood
should thus treat his Christian brother?  And if no, what can be said of
such as called themselves His priests, and passed by on the other
side?--nay, rather, took into their own hands the arrows of Sathanas,
and wounded their brother with their own fingers?  "_Numquid adhaeret
Tibi sedes iniquitatis_?"  [Psalm 94, verse 20].  Might it not have been
said to Dame Isabel the Queen like as Moses said to Korah, "Is it
nothing to you that you have been joined to the King, and set by his
side on the throne, and given favour in his eyes, so that he suffereth
you to entreat him oftener and more effectually than any other, but you
must needs covet the royal throne theself?"  [Itself.]

Ah, what good to write such words, or to speak them?  When man hath no
fear of God before his eyes, what shall he regard the reasonings of men?
But the day of doom cometh, and that sure.

The morrow of that awesome day, to wit, Saint Katherine, departed we
from Hereford, and came to Gloucester and Cirencester, going back on the
road we had come.  By Woodstock (where Dame Margery de Verdon joined us
from Dover) we came to Wallingford: where was the Lord John of Eltham,
that had come from London, and awaited the Queen his mother.  So, by
Reading and Chertsey, came we to Westminster Palace, on the fourth day
of January [1327].  And here was Dame Alice de Lethegreve, mine honoured
mother, whom I was full fain to see after all the long and somewhat
weariful time that I had been away from England.

My mother would have me tell her all I had seen and heard, in the which
she oft stayed me by tears and lamentations.  And saith she--

"I bid thee well to note, Cicely, how much ill can come of the deeds of
one woman.  Deeds, said I?  Nay, but of the thoughts and feelings; for
all deeds are but the flowers whereto man's thoughts be the seed.  And
forget not, daughter, that there must ever be one first thought that is
the beginning of it all.  O Cis, take thou heed of the first evil
thought in thine heart, and pray God it lead not to a second.  They that
fear not God be prone to ask, What matter for thoughts?  Deeds be the
things that signify.  My thoughts are mine own; who shall govern me
therein?  Ah, verily, who shall, without God doth, and thou dost?  He
that makes conscience of his thoughts, men reckon a great saint.  I
would say rather, he that maketh not conscience of his thoughts cannot
serve God at all.  Pray God rule thee in thine innermost heart; then
shall thy deeds please Him, and thy life shall be a blessing to thy
fellows."

"Dame," said I, "would you signify that the Queen is not ruled of God?"

"He governeth better than so, Cis," saith she.

"Yet is she Christian woman," quoth I.

"A Christian woman," made answer my mother, "is a woman that followeth
Christ.  And thou followest not Jack, Cis, when thou goest along one
road, and Jack goeth another.  Man may follow near or far; but his face
must be set the same way.  Christ's face was ever set to do the will of
God.  If thou do thy will, and I do mine, our faces be set contrary."

"Then must we turn us around," said I.

"Ay, and flat round, too," she saith.  "When thou standest without
Aldgate, ready to pass within, 'tis but a full little turn shall take
thee up to Shoreditch on the right hand, or down Blanche Chappleton on
the left.  Thy feet shall be set scarce an inch different at beginning.
Yet pursue the roads, and the one shall land thee at York, and the other
at Sandwich.  Many a man hath reckoned he set forth to follow Christ,
whose feet were scarce an inch out of the way.  `Go to,' quoth he; `what
can an inch matter? what difference shall it make?'  Ah me, it maketh
all the difference between Heaven and Hell, for the steps lead to
diverse roads.  Be well assured of the right road; and when thou so art,
take heed to walk straight therein.  Many a man hath turned a score out
of the way, by reason that he walked a-crooked himself."

"Do we know alway when we walk straight?" said I.

"Thou hast thy Psalter and thine Evangelisterium," made she answer: "and
thou hast God above.  Make good use of the Guide and the map, and thou
art not like to go far astray.  And God pardon the souls that go astray!
Ay, God forgive us all!"

She sat and span a while, and said nought.

"Cicely," then quoth she, "I shall not abide here."

"Whither go you, Dame?"

"Like Abraham of old," she saith, "to the land which God shall show me.
If I could serve my dear master,--the lad that once lay in mine arms--by
tarrying hither, I could bear much for his sake.  But now can I do
nought: and soothly I feel as though I could not bear to stand and look
on.  I can pray for him any whither.  Cicely, this will go on.  Man that
setteth foot on slide shall be carried down it.  Thou mayest choose to
take or let be the first step; but oft-times thou canst not choose
touching the second and all that be to follow.  Or if thou yet canst
choose, it shall be at an heavy cost that thou draw back thy foot.  One
small twinge may be all the penalty to-day, when an hour's deadly
anguish shall not pay the wyte to-morrow.  Thou lookest on me aswhasay,
What mean you by this talk?  I mean, dear heart, that she which hath
entered on this road is like to pursue it to the bitter end.  A bitter
end it shall be--not alone to her.  It means agony to him and all that
love him: what maimer of agony God wot, and in His hand is the ell-wand
to measure, and the balances to weigh.  Lord!  Thou wilt not blunder to
give an inch too much, nor wilt Thou for all our greeting weigh one
grain too little.  Thou wilt not let us miss the right way, for the
rough stones and the steep mountain-side.  Thou hast trodden before us
every foot of that weary road, and we need but to plant our steps in Thy
footmarks, which we know well from all others by their blood-marked
track.  O blessed Jesu Christ! it is fair journeying to follow Thee, and
Thou leadest Thy sheep safe to the fold of the Holy Land."

I mind her words well.  For, woe is me! they were nearhand the last that
ever I heard of her.

"Dame," said I, "do you bid me retreat belike?"

"Nay, daughter," quoth she, and smiled, "thou art no longer at my
bidding.  Ask thine husband, child."

So I told Jack what my mother had said.  He sat and meditated thereon
afore the fire, while I made ready my Christmas gown of blue kaynet
guarded with stranling.  [Note 6.]

"Sissot," saith he, his meditation ended, "I think Dame Alice speaks
wisely."

"Then wouldst thou depart the Court, Jack?" said I.

"I?  Nay, sweet heart.  The young King hath about him no more true men
than he needeth.  And as I wait at his _coucher_, betimes I can drop a
word in his ear that may, an' it please God, be to his profit.  He is
yet tender ground, and the seed may take root and thrive: and I am tough
gnarled old root, that can thole a blow or twain, and a rough wind by
now and then."

"Jack!" cried I, laughing.  "`A tough gnarled old root,' belike!  Thou
art not yet of seven-and-thirty years, though I grant thee wisdom enough
for seventy."

"I thank you heartily, Dame Cicely, for that your courtesy," quoth he,
and made me a low reverence.  "Ay, dear heart, a gnarled root of
cross-grained elm, fit for a Yule log.  I 'bide with the King, Sissot.
But thou wist, that sentence [argument] toucheth not thee, if thou
desire to depart with Dame Alice.  And maybe it should be the best for
thee."

"I depart from the Court, Jack, on a pillion behind thee," said I, "and
no otherwise.  I say not I might not choose to dwell elsewhere the
rather, if place were all that were in question; but to win out of ill
company at the cost of thy company, were to be at heavier charge than my
purse can compass.  And seeing I am in my duty therein, I trust God
shall keep me from evil and out of temptation."

"Amen!" saith Jack, and kissed me.  "We will both pray, my dear heart,
to be kept out of temptation; but let us watch likewise that we slip not
therein.  They be safe kept that God keepeth; and seeing that not our
self-will nor folly, but His providence, brought us to this place, I
reckon we have a right to ask His protection."

Thus it came that I tarried yet in the Queen's household.  And verily,
they that did so, those four next years, had cause to seek God's
protection.

On the first of February was--but, wala wa! my pen runneth too fast.  I
must back nearhand a month.

It was the seventh of January, being the morrow of the Epiphany, and
three days after we reached Westminster, that the Queen met the King's
Great Council, the which she had called together on the eve of Saint
Barbara [December 3rd], the Duke sitting therein in state as keeper of
the kingdom.  Having opened the said Parliament, the Duke, by his
spokesmen, my Lords of Hereford and Lincoln, laid before them all that
had taken place since they last met, and bade them deliberate on what
was now to be done for the safety of the realm and Church of England.
[Note 7].  Who at once adjudged the throne void, and the King to be put
down and accounted such no longer: appointing certain nobles to go with
the Duke to show these things unto the Queen.

Well do I mind that morrow of the Epiphany.  The Queen sat in the
Painted Chamber, spinning amongst us, when the nobles waited upon her.
She had that morrow been full furnish, sharply chiding Joan de Vilers
but a moment ere the Duke entered the presence: but no sooner came he in
than she was all honey.

"Dame," saith he, "divers nobles of the Council pray speech of you."

The Queen looked up; she sighed, and her hand trembled.  Then pulled she
forth her sudary [handkerchief], and wiped her cheek: I am somewhat
unsure of the tears thereon.  Yet maybe they were there, for verily she
could weep at will.

Dame Elizabeth, that sat in the casement, saith to Dame Joan, that was
on the contrary side thereof, I being by her,--"Will the Queen swoon,
think you?"

"She will come to an' she do," answered she.

I was ready at one time to reckon Dame Joan de Vaux somewhat hard toward
the Queen: I saw later that she had but better sight than her
neighbours.

Then came in the prelates and nobles which were deputed of the
Parliament to convey the news, and the Queen bowed her head when they
did reverence.

My Lord of Winchester it was that gave her the tidings that the
Parliament then sitting had put down King Edward, and set up the Duke,
which there stood, as King.  All innocent stood he, that had been told
it was his father's dearest wish to be free of that burden of state, and
himself too true and faithful to imagine falsehood or unfaithfulness in
her that spake it.

Soothly, she played her part full well.  She greet plenteously, she
wrung her hands, she tare off the hood from her head, she gripped her
hair as though to tear that, yea, she cast her down alow on the rushes,
and swooned or made believe thereto.  The poor young Duke was full
alarmed, and kneeling beside her, he would have cast his arms about her,
but she thrust him away.  Until at the last he arose, and with mien full
princely, told the assembled nobles that he would never consent to that
which so mispaid [displeased, distressed] his dear mother, without his
father should himself command the same.  She came to, it seemed me, full
soon thereafter.

Then was sent my Lord of Lancaster and other to the King to hear his
will thereon.  Of these was my Lord of Hereford one, and man said he
spake full sharply and poignantly to the King, which swooned away
thereunder (somewhat more soothly, as I guess); and the scene, said man
that told me, was piteous matter.  Howbeit, the King gave full assent,
and resigned the crown to his son, who was now to be king, he that had
so been being thenceforth named only Sir Edward of Caernarvon.  This was
the eve of Saint Agnes [January 20th, 1327], the twentieth year of the
said King.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1.  Better known as Carfax.  The exact church is not on record, but
it was likely to be this.

Note 2.  Adam de Orleton.  He and Henry Burghersh, Bishop of Lincoln,
are the two Bishops whom Thomas de la Moor, King Edward's squire, brands
as "priests of Baal" and "Caiaphases."

Note 3.  I have here given the version of events which seems best to
reconcile the accounts of the chroniclers with the testimony of
contemporary documents.  See Appendix.

Note 4.  This is the character sketched of him by De La Moor, to whom he
was personally known.

Note 5.  "For envy they had delivered Him."  Matthew, twenty-seven,
verse 18.

Note 6.  Kennet, a coarse Welsh cloth, trimmed with stranling, the fur
of the squirrel taken between Michaelmas and Christmas.

Note 7.  The idea of some persons that the Church of England began to
exist at the Reformation would have astonished the medieval reckoners
"according to the computation of the Church of England," who were
accustomed to hear Parliaments summoned to debate "concerning the
welfare of the kingdom and Church of England."  The former notion is
purely modern.



PART ONE, CHAPTER 5.

THE REIGN OF KING ROGER.

  "She is no sheep who goes walking with the wolf."

  Russian Proverb.

And now, were I inditing a very chronicle, should I dip my quill next in
the red ink, and write in full great letters--"Here beginneth the reign
of King Edward of Windsor, the Third after the Conquest."

But, to scribe soothliness, I cannot do so.  For not for four years
thereafter did he in verity begin to reign.  And what I should write, if
I writ truth, should be--"Here beginneth the reign of King Roger de
Mortimer, the First in England."

Now, here cometh an other matter I have noted.  When man setteth him up
to do that whereto he was not born, and hath not used himself, he is
secure to do the same with never so much more din and outrage
[extravagance] than he to whom it cometh of nature.  If man be but a
bedel [herald, crier] he shall rowt [Shout] like a lion the first day;
and a prince's charetter [charioteer] shall be a full braver [finer,
more showy] man than the prince his master.  Sir Roger made a deal more
bruit than ever the King himself; that during all these four years was
meek and debonair [humble and gentle], as though he abode his time.  He
wrought what he would (which was mostly ill), and bare him like those of
whom the Psalmist speaketh, that said, "Our lips are of us, who is our
lord?"  [Psalm 9 4, Rolle's translation.]  He held up but a finger, and
first the King, and all else after, followed along his path.  Truly, I
fault not the King; poor lad, he was in evil case, and might well enough
have found hard to know the way he should go.  But I do fault them that
might have oped his eyes, and instead thereof, as being smoother way,
chose to run after King Mortimer with his livery on their backs.

"How many of them knew the man, thinkest?" saith Jack, that had come in
while I writ the last piece.

"Jack!" cried I.  "What, to see him do that he did, more in especial
when his pride was bolned [swollen, pulled up] by being create Earl of
March--when he had larger following than the King himself, having nine
score knights at his feet; when he arose from the King's table ere the
King stirred, as though he were lord and master of all; when he suffered
the King to rise on his coming into the presence, all meekly and
courteously, yet himself, when the King entered, kept his seat as he
micht afore a servitor; when he walked even with the King, and sometimes
afore him; when he was wont to put him down, and mock at him, and make
him a laughing-stock.  I have heard him myself say to the King--`Hold
thy peace, lad!' and the King took it as sweetly as if he had been
swearing of allegiance."

"I have eyes in mine head, my fair warrior, and ears belike.  I saw so
much as thou--maybe a little more, since I was something oftener in my
Lord's company than thou."

"But thou sawest what he was?" said I.

"So did I; and sorry am I to have demerited the wrath of Dame Cicely de
Chaucombe, for that I oped not the King my master's even."

"Nay, Jack!  I never meant thee.  I have somewhat more reverence for
mine husband than so."

"Then art thou a very pearl amongst women.  Most dames' husbands find
not much reverence stray their way--at least from that quarter.  I
misdoubt if Vivien's husband ever picks up more than should lightly slip
into his pocket."

"Sir James Le Bretun is not so wise as thou," said I.  "But what I
meant, Jack, was such as my Lord of Lancaster and my Lord of Kent, and
my Lord of Hereford--why did never such as these tell the King sooth
touching the Mortimer?"

"As for my Lord of Hereford," saith Jack, "I reckon he was too busied
feeling of his pulse and counting his emplastures, and telling his
apothecary which side of his head ached worser since the last draught of
camomile and mallows.  Sir Edmund de Mauley was wont to say he had a
grove of aspens at Pleshy for to make his own populion [Note 1], and
that he brake his fast o' dragons' blood and dyachylon emplasture.
Touching that will I not say; but I reckon he thought oftener on his
tamarind drink than on the public welfare.  He might, perchance, have
bestirred him to speak to the King had he heard that he had a freckle of
his nose, for to avise him to put white ointment thereon; but scarce, I
reckon, for so small a matter as the good government of the realm."

"Now, Jack!" said I, a-laughing.

"My Lord of Kent," went he forth, "was he that, if he thought he had
hurt the feelings of a caterpillar, should have risen from his warm bed
the sharpest night in winter to go and pray his pardon of his bare
knees.  God assoil him, loving and gentle soul!  He was all unfit for
this rough world.  And the dust that Sir Roger cast up at his
horse-heels was in my Lord of Kent's eyes as thick as any man's.  He
could not have warned the King, for himself lacked the warning."

"Then my Lord of Lancaster--why not he?"

"He did."

"Ay, at long last, when two years had run: wherefore not long ere that?
The dust, trow, was not in his eyes."

"Good wife, no man's eyes are blinder than his which casts the dust into
his own.  My Lord of Lancaster had run too long with the hounds to be
able all suddenly to turn him around and flee with the hare."

"Soothly, I know he met the Queen on her landing, and likewise had the
old King in his ward: but--"

"I reckon, Sissot, there were wheels within wheels.  We need not judge
my Lord of Lancaster.  He did his duty at last.  And mind thou, between
him and his duty to King Edward the father, stood his brother's
scaffold."

"Which never man deserved richer."

"Not a doubt thereof: but man may scarce expect his brother to behold
it."

"Then," said I, "my Lord Zouche of Mortimer--but soothly he was cousin
to the traitor.  Jack, I never could conceive how it came about that he
ever wedded the Lady Alianora.  One of the enemies of her own husband,
and she herself set prisoner in his kinsman's keeping, and to wed her
gaoler's cousin, all against the King's pleasure and without his
licence--canst solve the puzzle?"

"I can tell thee why he wed her, as easy as say `twice two be four.'
She was co-heir of the earldom of Gloucester, and his sword was nearhand
his fortune."

"Then wherefore wed she him?"

"Kittle [ticklish, delicate] ground, Sissot, for man to take on him to
account for the doings of woman.  I might win a clap to mine ears, as
like as not."

"Now, Jack, thou wist well I never demean me so unbuxomly.  Tell me thy
thought."

"Then I think," saith he, "that the Lady Alianora La Despenser was woman
of that manner that fetch their souls from the vine.  They must have
somewhat to lean on.  If an oak or a cedar be nigh, good: but if no, why
then, a bramble will serve their turn.  The one thing that they cannot
do is to stand alone.  There be not only women of this fashion; there be
like men, but too many.  God help them, poor weak souls!  The woman that
could twine round the Lord Zouche the tendrils torn from Sir Hugh Le
Despenser must have been among the very weakest of women."

"It is sore hard," said I, "to keep one from despising such weakness."

"It is full hard, soothly.  I know but one way--to keep very near to Him
that never spurned the weakest that prayed His help, and that tholed
weakness amidst other meeknesses [humiliations], by reason that it
behoved Him to resemble His brethren in all things.  And some of His
brethren are very weak.  Sissot, when our daughters were babes, I was
wont to think thou lovedst better Alice than Vivien, and I am nearhand
secure that it was by reason she was the weaker of the twain, and pave
thee the more thought."

"Surely," said I; "that alway holdeth good with a mother, that the barne
which most needeth care is the dearest."

Jack's answer, I knew, came from Holy Writ.

"`As by him whom his mother blandisheth, thus will I comfort you.'"

The Sunday after the Conversion of Saint Paul [February 1st, 1327] was
the young King crowned in Westminster Abbey before the high altar, by
Walter [Reynolds] Archbishop of Canterbury, that had been of old a great
friend of King Edward the father, and was carried away like the rest by
the glamour of the Queen.  But his eyes were opened afore most other,
and he died of a broken heart for the evil and unkindness which himself
had holpen, the day of Saint Edmund of Pontigny [November 16th] next
thereafter.  Also present were nine bishops, the King's uncles, and many
nobles: yea, and Queen Isabel likewise, that caused us to array her in
great doole [mourning], and held her sudary at her eyes nearhand all the
office [Service] through.  And it was no craft, for she could weep when
it listed her--some women have that power--and her sudary was full wet
when she returned from the Abbey.  And the young King, that was but then
full fourteen years of age, took oath as his father and all the kings
had done afore him, that he would confirm to the people of England the
laws and the customs to them granted by the ancient Kings of England his
predecessors, the rights and offerings of God, and particularly the
laws, customs, and liberties granted to the clergy and people by the
glorious King, Saint Edward, his predecessor.  He sware belike to keep
unto God and holy Church, unto the clergy and the people, entire peace
and concord to his power; to do equal and true justice in all his
judgments, and discretion in mercy and truth; to keep the laws and
righteous customs which the commons of his realm should have elected
[_Auera estu_ are the rather singular words used], and to defend and
enforce them, to the honour of God and to his power.  [Note 2.]

Six sennights we tarried at Westminster: but, lack-a-day! what a time
had we at after!  All suddenly the Queen gave order to depart thence.
She controlled all things, and the King her son was but a puppet in her
hands.  How did we trapes up and down all the realm!

To Canterbury the first round, a-pilgrimage to Saint Thomas; then right
up as far as York, where we tarried a matter of five weeks.  Then to
Durham, which we had scarce reached ere we were aflight again, this time
to Auckland, and a bit into that end of Yorkshire; back again to Durham,
then away to York, and ten days later whisked off to Nottingham; there a
fortnight, off again to Lincoln.  I guess well now, what I wist not
then, the meaning of all this.  It was to let the young King from taking
thought touching his father, and all that had happed of late.  While he
was cheerful and delectable [full of enjoyment], she let him be; but no
sooner saw she his face the least downfell [cast down] than she plucked
him away, and put turn to his thoughts by sending him some other
whither.  It paid [Note 3] for a time.

It was while we were at Lincoln, where we tarried from the morrow of
Holy Cross to Michaelmas Eve [September 15th to 28th], that Donald the
Scots messager came from the southern parts with tidings.  For some
time--divers weeks, certes--afore that, had the Queen been marvellous
unrestful and hard to serve.  That which liked her yesterday was all out
this morrow, and each matter man named for her plesance was worser than
that had gone afore.  I was nearhand driven out of senses that very
morrow, so sharp [irritable] was she touching her array.  Not a gown in
her wardrobe would serve the turn; and when at last she chose which she
would don, then were her hoods all awry; and then would she have no
hood, but only a wimple of fair cloth of linen.  Then, gramercy! such
pains had we to find her a fillet: this was too deep, and that too
narrow, and this set with amethysts should ill fit with her gown of
rose-colour, and that wrought of lily-flowers should catch in her hair.

I wished me at the further end of the realm from Lincoln, ay, a dozen
times twice told.

At long last we gat her filleted; and then came the mantle.  First, Dame
Elizabeth brought one of black cloth of Stamford, lined with fox fur:
no, that served not.  Then brought Dame Joan de Vaux the fair mantle of
cloth of velvet, grey, that I ever reckoned the fairest in the Queen's
wardrobe, guarded with black budge, and wrought in embroidery of
rose-colour and silver: she waved it away as though the very sight
'noyed [disgusted] her.  Then fetched Isabel de la Helde the ray mantle,
with corded ground, of blue, red, and green; and the Queen chid her as
though she had committed one of the seven deadly sins.  At the last, in
uttermost wanhope [despair], ran I and brought the ugsomest of all, the
corded olive green with border of grey; and forsooth, that would she
have.  Well-a-day, but I was fain when we had her at last arrayed!

When the Queen had left the chamber, Dame Elizabeth cast her on the
nearest bench, and panted like a coursed hare.

"Deary, deary me!" crieth she: "I would I were abed."

"Abed!" crieth Isabel de la Helde.  "Abed at five o'clock of a morrow!"

"Ay, or rather, I would I had never gat out.  Gramercy, but how
fractious is the Queen!  I counted we ne'er should have her donned."

"She never spoke to me so sharp in her life," saith Isabel.

"I tell you, I am fair dog-weary!" quoth Dame Elizabeth.

"Whatever hath took the Queen?" saith Joan de Vilers.

"Foolish childre, all of you!" saith old Dame Tiffany, looking on us
with a smile.  "When man is fractious like to this, with every man and
every matter, either he suffereth pain, or else he hath some hidden
anguish or fear that hath nought to do with the matter in hand.  'Tis
not with you that my Lady is wrathful.  There is something harrying her
at heart.  And she hath not told me."

In hall, during dinner.  I cast eyes from time to time on the Queen, and
I could not but think Dame Tiffany spake sooth.  She looked fair
haggard, as though some bitter care were eating out her heart.  I never
loved her, as I said at the first: but that morn I felt sorry for her.

Sorry for _her_!  Ah, I soon knew what sore cause there was to be sorry
to the very soul for some one else!

It was while we were sat at supper that Donald came.  I saw him enter
from the high table where I sat, and I knew in an instant that he
brought some fearsome tidings.  I lost him in the crowd at the further
end, and then Mereworth, one of the varlets of the King's chamber, came
all in haste up the hall, with a face that had evil news thereon writ:
and Sir John de Ros, that was then Seneschal, saw him, and guessing, as
I think, the manner of word he brought, stepped down from the dais to
meet him.  Then, in an other minute, I saw Donald brought up to the King
and to the Queen.

I watched them both.  As Donald's news was told, the young King's face
grew ashen pale, and he cried full dolefully "_Dieu eit mercie_!"  The
news troubled him sore and sure enough.  But the Queen's eyes, that a
moment before had been full of terror and untholemodness [impatience],
shot out one flash of triumphant gladness: and the next minute she had
hidden her face in her sudary, and was greeting as though her heart had
broke.  I marvelled what tidings they could be, that were tene [grief]
to the King, and blisfulhed [happiness] to the Queen.  Sir John de
Gaytenby, the King's confessor, was sat next to me at the table, and to
him I said--

"Father, can you guess what manner of news Donald de Athole shall have
brought?"

"Ay, daughter," he made answer.  "Would I were in doubt!"

"You think--?"  I asked him, and left him to fill up.

"I think," he saith in a low voice somewhat sorrowful of tone, "that God
hath delivered from all labour and sorrow one of His servants that trust
in Him."

"Why, that were nought to lament o'er!"  I was about to say; but I
stayed me when half through.  "Father, you mean there is man dead?"

"We call it death," saith Sir John de Gaytenby--"we of this nether
world, that be ever in sickness and weariness, in tene and in
temptation.  Know we what they call it which have forded the Rubicon,
and stand safe on the pavement of the Golden City?  `_Multo magis
melius_,' saith the Apostle [Philippians One verse 23]: `much more
better' to dissolve and to be with Christ.  And the colder be the waters
man hath to ford, the gladder and welcomer shall be the light of the
Golden City.  They were chill, I cast no doubt: and all the chiller for
the hand that chilled them.  With how sharp thorns and briers God hath
to drive some of His sheep!  But once in the Fold, there shall be time
to forget them all.  `When thou passest through the waters, I will be
with thee' [Isaiah 43 verse 2]--that is enough now.  We can stay us upon
that promise till we come through.  And then there shall be no more need
for Him to be with us in tribulation, since we shall reign with Him for
ever and ever."

Old Sir Simon de Driby came up behind us as the Confessor ended.

"Have you guessed, Sir John, our dread news?--and you, Dame Cicely?"

"I have guessed, and I think rightly," answered Sir John.  "For Dame
Cicely I cannot say."

I shook mine head, and Sir Simon told me.

"Sir Edward of Caernarvon is dead."

"Dead--the King!"

"`The King' no longer," saith Sir Simon sorrowfully.

"O Sir Simon!" cried I.  "How died he?"

"God knoweth," he made answer.  "I misdoubt if man shall know."

"Or woman?" quoth Sir John, significantly.

"The schoolmaster learned me that man includeth woman," saith Sir Simon,
smiling full grimly.

"He learned you not, I reckon, that woman includeth man," saith Sir
John, somewhat after the same manner.

"Ah, _woe_ worth the day!"  Sir Simon fetched an heavy sigh.  "Well, God
forgive us all!"

"Amen!"  Sir John made answer.

I think few men were in the realm that did not believe the King's death
was murder.  But nought was done to discover the murderers, neither to
bring them to justice.  It was not until after the Mortimer was out of
the way that any such thing was done.  When so it was, mandate was
issued for the arrest of Sir Thomas de Gournay, Constable of Bristol
Castle, and William de Ocle, that had been keepers of the King at
Berkeley Castle.  What came of Ocle know I not; but Sir Thomas fled
beyond seas to the King's dominions of Spain [Note 3], and was
afterwards taken.  But he came not to trial, for he died on the way: and
there were that said he knew too much to be permitted to make defence.
[Note 4.]

The next thing that happed, coming under mine eyes, was the young King's
betrothal and marriage.  The Lady Philippa of Hainault, that was our
young Queen, came over to England late in that same year, to wit, the
first of King Edward, and was married the eve of the Conversion of Saint
Paul, the year of our Lord 1327, after the computation of the Church of
England [Note 5].  Very praisable [lovely] and fulbright [beautiful] was
the said lady, being sanguine of complexion, of a full fair face, and
fair hair, having grey [grey] cyen and rosen colour of her cheeks.  She
was the same age as the King, to wit, fifteen years.  They were wed in
York Minster.

"Where hast reached to, Sissot?" saith Jack, that was sat by the fire,
as I was a-bending the tail of my Y in York.

"Right to the King's wedding," said I.

"How many more skins o' parchment shall I bring thee for to set forth
the gowns?"

"Dear heart!" cried I, "must I do that for all that were there?"

"Prithee use thy discretion.  I wist not a woman could write a chronicle
without telling of every gown that came in her way."

"Go thy ways, Jack!" said I.  "Securely, if I set down the King's, and
the Queen's, and thine and mine, that shall serve well enough."

"It should serve me, verily," quoth he.  "Marry, I hope thou mindest
what manner of raiment I had on, for I ensure thee I do not a whit."

"Dost thou ever, the morrow thereof?" said I.  "Nay, I wis I must pluck
that out of mine own memory."

The King, then, was donned of a robe of purple velvet, with a pair of
sotlars of cloth of gold of Nakes silk; the said velvet robe wrought
with the arms of England, of golden broidery.  The Queen bare a robe of
green cloth of velvet, with a cape thereto, guarded with miniver, and an
hood of miniver; her hair falling full sweetly over from under her
golden fillet, sith she put not on her hood save to leave the Minster.
And at the feast thereafter, she ware a robe of cloth of samitelle, red
and grey, with a tunic and mantle of the same.  [Note 6.]

As for Jack, that was then clerk of the Wardrobe [Note 7], he ware a
tabard of the King's livery [the arms of France and England] of mine own
broidering, and hosen of black cloth, his hood being of the same.  I had
on a gown of grey cloth of Northampton, guarded with gris, and mine hood
was of rose-colour say [Note 8] lined with black velvet.

But over the inwards of the wedding must I not linger, for much is yet
to write.  The latter end of February was the Lady La Despenser loosed
from the Tower, and in April was all given back to her.  All, to wit,
that could be given.  Her little children, that the Queen Isabel had
made nuns without any leave given save her own, could come back to her
never more.  I misdoubt if she lamented it greatly.  She was one from
whom trouble and sorrow ran lightly, like the water from a duck's back:
and I reckon she thought more on her second marriage, which had place
secretly about a year after her release, than she ever did for her lost
children.  And here may I say that those sisters, coheirs of Gloucester,
did ever seem to me the queerest mothers I wist.  The Lady Margaret
Audley gave up her little Kate (a sweet child she was) to the Ankerage
at Ledbury with scarce a sigh; and the Lady Alianora, of whom I write,
took but little thought for her maids at Sempringham, or I err.  I would
not have given up my Alice after that fashion: and I did sore pity those
little barnes, of which the eldest was not seven years old.  Folk said
it was making of gift to God, and was an holy and blessed thing.
Soothly, I marvel if God setteth store by such like gifts, when men do
but cast at his feet that whereof they would be rid!  The innermost
sanctuary of the Temple, it seemeth me, is scarce the fittest place to
shoot rubbish.  And when the rubbish is alive, if it be but vermin, I
cannot slack to feel compassion for it.

Methinks the Lady Alianora felt it sorer trouble of the twain, when she
suffered touching certain jewels reported to be missing from the Tower
during her governance thereof--verily a foolish charge, as though the
Lady of Gloucester should steal jewels!  Howbeit, she was fined twenty
thousand pound, for the which she rendered up her Welsh lands, with the
manors of Hanley and Tewkesbury, being the fairest and greatest part of
her heritage.  The King allowed her to buy back the said lands if she
should, in one and the same day, pay ten thousand marks: howbeit, one
half the said fine was after remitted at the intercession of the Lords
and Commons.

That autumn was the insurrection of my Lord of Lancaster--but a bit too
soon, for the time was not ripe, but I reckon they knew not how longer
to bear the ill thewis [manners, conduct] of the Mortimer, which ruled
every thing at his will, and allowed none, not even my Lord of
Lancaster, to come nigh the King without his leave, and then he had them
watched of spies.  The Parliament was held at Salisbury that Michaelmas,
whereto all men were forbidden to come in arms.  Thither, nathless, came
the said Mortimer, with a great rabble of armed men at his heels.  My
Lord of Lancaster durst not come, so instead thereof he put himself in
arms, and sent to expound matters to the King.  He was speedily joined
by all that hated the Mortimer (and few did not), among whom were the
King's uncles, the Bishops of Winchester and London, the Lord Wake, the
Lord de Beaumont, Sir Hugh de Audley, and many another that had stood
stoutly for Queen Isabel aforetime.  Some, I believe, did this out of
repentance, seeing they had been deceived; other some from nought save
hate and envy toward the Mortimer.  The demands they put forth were no
wise unskilwise [unreasonable].  They were chiefly that the King should
hold his revenues himself (for the Queen had so richly dowered herself
that scarce a noble was left to the King); that the Queen should be
dowered of the third part, as queens had been aforetime; and that the
Mortimer should live on his own lands, and make no encroachments.  They
charged him with divers evil deeds, that he had avised the King to
dissolve his Council appointed of twelve peers, he had wasted the royal
treasure, he had counselled the King to give up Scotland, and had caused
the Lady Joan to wed beneath her dignity.

"Make no encroachments!" grimly quoth old Sir Simon, when he heard of
this; "verily, an' this present state of matters go on but a little
longer, the Mortimer can make no encroachments, for he shall have all
England to his own."

The Mortimer, that had yet the King's ear (though I think he chafed a
bit against the rein by now and then), avised him that the Lords sought
his crown, causing him to ride out against them as far as Bedford, and
that during the night.  Peace was patched up some way, through the
mediating of Sir Simon de Mepham, the new Archbishop of Canterbury, my
Lord of Lancaster being fined eleven thousand pounds--though, by the
same token, he never paid it.  [Note 9.]  That same Michaelmas was the
King's uncle, the Lord Edmund de Woodstock, create Earl of Kent (marry,
I named him my Lord of Kent all through, seeing he should so best be
known, but he was not so create until now), and King Roger, that was
such, but was not so-called, had avancement to the dignity of Earl of
March.  There was many a lout and courtesy and many a leg made, when as
my Lord's gracious person was in presence; and when as he went forth,
lo! brows were drawn together, and lips thrust forth, and words
whispered beneath the breath that were not all of praise.

Now, whether it be to fall into the Annals of Cicely or no, this must I
needs say--and Jack may flout me an' he will (but that he doth never)--
that I do hate, and contemn, and full utterly despise, this manner of
dealing.  If I love a man, maybe I shall be bashful to tell him so: but
if I love him not, never will I make lout nor leg afore him for to win
of him some manner of advantage.  I would speak a man civilly, whether I
loved him or no; that 'longeth to my gentlehood, not his: but to
blandish and losenge him [coax and flatter], and say `I love thee well'
and `Thou art fairest and wisest of all' twenty times in a day, when in
mine heart I wished him full far thence, and accounted of him as fond
and ussome [foolish and ugly]--that could I never demean me to do, an' I
lived to the years of Methuselah.

And another thing do I note--I trust Jack shall have patience with me--
that right in proportion as a man is good, so much doth an ill man hate
him.  My Lord of Lancaster was wise man and brave, as he oft showed,
though he had his failings belike; and he did more than any other
against the Mortimer, until the time was full ripe: my Lord of Kent was
gent, good, and sweet of nature, and he did little against him--only to
consort with my said Lord of Lancaster: yet the Mortimer hated my Lord
of Kent far worser than my Lord of Lancaster, and never stayed till he
had undone him.  Alas for that stately stag of ten, for the cur pulled
him down and worried him!

My Lord of Kent, as I writ afore, had dust cast in his eyes by the
Queen.  He met her on her landing, and marched with her, truly believing
that the King (as she told him) was in thrall to the old and young Sir
Hugh Le Despenser, and that she was come to deliver him.  Nought less
than his brother's murder tare open his sealed eyes.  Then he woke up,
and aswhasay looked about him, as a man roughly wakened that scarce hath
his full sense.  Bitter was his lamentation, and very sooth his
penitence, when he saw the verity of the matter.  Now right as this was
the case with him, the Queen and the Mortimer, having taken counsel
thereon, (for they feared he should take some step that should do them a
mischief), resolved to entangle him.  They spread a rumour, taking good
care it should not escape his ears, that King Edward his brother yet
lived, and was a prisoner in Corfe Castle.  He, hearing this, quickly
despatched one of his chaplains, named Friar Thomas Dunhead, a
Predicant--for all the Predicants were on the King's side--to see if the
report were as it was said: and Sir John Deveroil, then Keeper of the
Castle, having before his instructions, took the Friar within, seeming
nothing loth, and showed unto him the appearance of a king seated at
supper in hall, with his sewers [waiters] and other officers about him.
This all had been bowned [prepared] afore, of purpose to deceive my Lord
of Kent, and one chosen to present [represented] the King that was like
enough to him in face and stature to pass well.  On this hearing went my
Lord of Kent with all speed to Avignon, to take counsel with Pope John
[John Twenty-Two] who commended him for his good purpose to deliver his
brother, and bade him effect the same by all means in his power:
moreover, the said Pope promised himself to bear all charges--which was
a wise deed of the holy Father, for my Lord of Kent was he that could
never keep money in his pocket, but it flowed out of all sides.  Then my
Lord returned back, and took counsel with divers how to effect the same.
Many an one promised him help--among other, the Archbishop of York, and
the Lord Zouche of Mortimer (that wedded the Lady Alianora, widow of Sir
Hugh Le Despenser), the Lord Wake (which had wrought much against the
King of old, and was brother unto my Lady of Kent), and Sir Ebulo
L'Estrange, (that wedded my Lady of Lancaster, widow of Earl Thomas),
and the young Earl of Arundel, and others of less sort.  My said Lady of
Kent was likewise a-work in the matter, for she was not woman to let
either tongue or hand lie idle.

Now, wherefore is it, that if man be rare sweet, gent, and tender,
beyond other men, he shall sure as daydawn go and wed with woman that
could hold castle or govern army if need were?  'Tis passing strange,
but I have oft noted the same.  And if he be rough and fierce, then
shall he take fantasy to some soft, nesh [Note 10], bashful creature
that scarce dare say nay to save her life.  Right as men of high stature
do commonly wed with small women, and the great women with little men.
Such be the ways of Providence, I take it.

Jack saith--which I must not forget to set down--that he credeth not a
whit that confession set forth as made of my Lord of Kent, nor any
testimony of Friar Dunhead, but believeth the whole matter a pack of
lies, saving only that my Lord believed the report of his brother
prisoner in Corfe Castle.  Howbeit, my Lord of Kent writ a letter as to
the King his brother, offering his deliverance, which he entrusted to
Sir John Deveroil: who incontinently carried the same to the Mortimer,
and he to the Queen.  She then showed it to the young King, saying that
herein might he see his uncle was conspiring to dethrone him and take
his life and hers.  The King, that dearly loved his mother, allowed
inquiry into the same, pending the which my said Lord was committed to
prison.

The next morrow came the Mortimer to the Queen as she sat at dinner, and
prayed instant speech of her, and that full privy: and the Queen,
arising from the table, took him into her privy closet.  Dame Isabel de
Lapyoun alone in waiting.  I had learned by then to fear mischief
whensoever the Queen bade none follow her save Dame Isabel, for I do
verily believe she was in all the ill secrets of her mistress.  They
were in conference maybe ten minutes, and then hastened the Mortimer
away, nor would he tarry so long as to drink one cup of wine.  It was
not many minutes after that the young King came in; and I perceived by
their discourse that the Queen his mother had sent for him.  Verily, all
that day (which was Saint Joseph [March 19th]) she watched him as cat,
mouse.  He could not leave the chamber a moment but my Lord of March
crept after.  I reckoned some mischief was brewing, but, _purefoy_!  I
guessed not how much.  That day died my Lord of Kent, on the scaffold at
Winchester.  And so beloved was he that from noon till four of the clock
they had to wait, for no man would strike him, till at last they
persuaded one in the Marshalsea, that had been cast for [sentenced to]
death, to behead him as the price of his own life.

A little after that hour came in Sir Hugh de Turpington, that was
Marshal of the Hall to the King.

"Sir," saith he to the King, "I am required of the Sheriff to tell you
that my Lord of Kent hath paid wyte on the scaffold.  So perish all your
enemies!"

Up sprang the King with a face wherein amaze and sore anguish strave for
the mastery.

"My uncle Edmund is dead on scaffold!" cried he in voice that rang
through hall.  "Mine enemies!  _He_ was none!  What mean you?  I gave no
mandate for such, nor never should have done.  _Dieu eit mercie_! mine
enemies be they that have murdered my fair uncle, that I loved dear.
Where and who be they?  Will none here tell me?"

Wala wa! was soul in that hall brave enough to tell him?  One of those
two chief enemies stale softly to his side, hushing the other (that
seemed ready to break forth) by a look.

"Fair Son," saith the Queen, in her oiliest voice, "hold you so light
your own life and your mother's?  Was your uncle (that wist full well
how to beguile you) dearer to you than I, on whose bosom you have lain
as babe, and whose heart hath been rent at your smallest malady?"

(Marry, I marvel when, for I never beheld less careful mother than Dame
Isabel the Queen.  But she went forth.)

"The proofs of what I say," quoth she, "shall be laid afore you in full
Parliament, and you shall then behold how sorely you have been deceived
in reckoning on a friend in your uncle.  Meanwhile, fair Son, trust me.
Who should seek your good, or care for your safety, more than your own
mother?"

Ah verily, who should!  But did she so?  I could see the King was
somewhat staggered by her sweet words, yet was he not peaced in a
moment.  His anger died down, but he brake forth in bitter tears, and so
left the hall, greeting as he went.

Once more all passed away: and they that had hoped for the King to awake
and discover truth found themselves beguiled.

Order was sent to seize my Lady of Kent and her childre, that were then
in Arundel Castle.  But the officers, there coming, told her the dread
tidings, whereat she fell down all in swoon, and ere the eve was born
the Lord John her son, and baptised, poor babe, in such haste in the
Barefooted Friars' Church, that his young brother and sister, no more
than babes themselves, were forced to stand sponsors for him with the
Prior of the Predicants [Note 11].  Howbeit he lived to grow to man's
estate, yea, longer than the Lord Edmund his brother, and died Earl of
Kent a matter of eight years gone.

The Castle of Arundel, and the lands, that had been given to my Lord of
Kent when my Lord of Arundel was execute, were granted to Queen Isabel
shortly after his 'heading.  I think they were given as sop to keep him
true to the Queen: not that he was man to be bought, but very like she
thought all men were.  Dear heart, what strange gear are we human
creatures!  I marvel at times whether the angels write us down greater
knaves or fools.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1.  The crystallised juice of the aspen.  Earl John of Hereford
seems to have been a valetudinarian.

Note 2.  Close Roll, 1 Edward the Third, Part One.  The exact wording of
the coronation oath is of some importance, since it has sometimes been
stated that our sovereigns have sworn to maintain religion precisely as
it existed in the days of Edward the Confessor.  The examination of the
oath shows that they promised no such thing.  They engaged only to keep
and defend to the people, clerical and lay, the laws, customs, rights,
and liberties granted by their predecessors, and by Edward more
especially.  "To his power" means "to the best of his power."

Note 3.  Then not an unusual way of saying "the King of Spain's
dominions."

Note 4.  In my former volume, _In All Time of our Tribulation_, I
committed the mistake of repeating the popular error that the Queen took
immediate vengeance, by banishment, on the murderers of her husband.  It
was only Gournay and Ocle who were directly charged with the murder: the
others who had a share in it were merely indicted for treason.  Gournay
was Constable of Bristol in December, 1328; and the warrant for his
apprehension was not issued until December 3, 1330--after the fall of
Mortimer, when Edward the Third, not his mother, was actually the ruler.

Note 5.  By this phrase was meant the reckoning of the year from Easter
to Easter, subsequently fixed for convenience' sake at the 25th of
March.

Note 6.  I have searched all the Wardrobe Accounts in vain for the
wedding attire of this royal pair.  The robes described are that worn by
the King for his coronation; that in which the Queen rode from the Tower
to Westminster the day before her coronation; and that in which she
dined after the same ceremony.  These details are given in the Wardrobe
Accounts, 33/2, and 34/13.  It was the fashion at this time for a
bride's hair to be left flowing straight from head to foot.

Note 7.  Chaucombe was in the Household, but of his special office I
find no evidence.

Note 8.  A coarse variety of silk, used both for garments and
upholstery.

Note 9.  Dr Barnes tells his readers that Lancaster was at this time so
old as to be nearly decrepit; and two years later, that he was "almost
blind for age."  He was exactly forty-one, having been born in 1287
(Inq. Tho. Com. Lane, 1 Edward the Third 1. 88), and 53 years had not
elapsed since the marriage of his parents.  We may well say, after
Chancellor Oxenstiern, "See with how little accuracy history is
written!"

Note 10.  Tender, sensitive, either in body or mind.  This word is still
a provincialism in the North and West.

Note 11.  _Prob. aet. Johannis Com. Kant._, 23 Edward the Third 76,
compared with _Rot. Pat._, 4 Edward the Third, Part 1, and _Rot.
Claus._, 4 Edward the Third.



PART ONE, CHAPTER 6.

NEMESIS.

  "The mills of God grind slowly, but they grind exceeding small."

  Longfellow.

After this, the Queen kept the King well in hand.  To speak sooth, I
should say the old Queen, or Queen Isabel, for now had we a young Queen.
But verily, all this time Queen Philippa was treated as of small
account; and she, that was alway sweet and gent, dwelt full peaceably,
content with her babe, our young Prince of Wales, that was born at
Woodstock, at Easter of the King's fourth year [Note 1], and the old
Queen Isabel ruled all.  She seemed fearful of letting the King out of
her sight.  When he journeyed to the North in August, she went withal,
and came back with him to Nottingham in October.  It was she that writ
to my Lord of Hereford that he should not fail to be at the Colloquy
[note 2] to be held in that town the fifteenth of October.  With her was
ever my Lord of March, that was as her shadow: my Lady of March, that
might have required to have her share of him with some reason, being
left lone with her childre in Ludlow Castle.  It was the 13th of October
that we came to Nottingham.  My Lord of Hereford, that was Lord High
Constable, was at that time too sick to execute his office (or thought
he was); maybe he desired to keep him well out of a thing he foresaw:
howbeit, he writ his excuse to the King, praying that his brother Sir
Edward de Bohun might be allowed his deputy.  To this the King assented:
but my Lord of March, that I guess mistrusted more Sir Edward than his
brother (the one having two eyes in his head, and the other as good as
none), counselled the Queen to take into her own hand the keys of the
Castle.  Which she did, having them every night brought to her by Sir
William Eland, then Constable thereof, and she laid them under her own
pillow while the morning.

The part of my tale to follow I tell as it was told to me, in so far as
matters fell not under mine eye.

The King, the old Queen, the Earl of March, and the Bishop of Lincoln,
were lodged in the Castle with their following: and Sir Edward de Bohun,
doing office for his brother, appointed my Lord of Lancaster to have his
lodging there likewise.  Whereat my glorious Lord of March was greatly
angered, that he should presume to appoint a lodging for any of the
nobles so near the person of Queen Isabel.  (He offered not to go forth
himself.)  Sir Edward smiled something grimly, and appointed my Lord of
Lancaster his lodging a mile forth of the town, where my Lord of
Hereford also was.

That night was dancing in the hall; and a little surprised was I that
Sir William de Montacute [Note 3] should make choice of me as his
partner.  He was one of the bravest knights in all the King's
following--a young man, with all his wits about him, and lately wed to
the Lady Katherine de Grandison, a full fair lady of much skill [Note 4]
and exceeding good repute.  It was the pavon [Note 5] we danced, and not
many steps were taken when Sir William saith--

"Dame Cicely, I have somewhat to say to you, under your good leave."

"Say on, Sir William," quoth I.

"Say I well, Dame, in supposing you true of heart to the old King, as
Dame Alice de Lethegreve's daughter should be?"

"You do so, in good sooth," I made answer.

"So I reckoned," quoth he.  "Verily, an' I had doubted it, I had held my
peace.  But now to business:--Dame, will you help me?"

I could not choose but laugh to hear him talk of business.

"That is well," saith he.  "Laugh, I pray you; then shall man think we
do but discourse of light matter.  But what say you to my question?"

"Why, I will help you with a very good will," said I, "if you go about a
good matter, and if I am able, and if mine husband forbid me not."

"Any more ifs?" quoth he--that I reckon wished to make me to laugh, the
which I did.

"Not at this present," made I answer.

"Then hearken me," saith he.  "Can you do a deed in the dark, unwitting
of the cause--knowing only that it is for the King's honour and true
good, and that they which ask it be true men?"

I meditated a moment.  Then said I,--"Ay; I can so."

"Will you pass your word," saith he, "to the endeavouring yourself to
keep eye on the Queen and my Lord of March this even betwixt four and
five o' the clock?  Will you look from time to time on Sir John de
Molynes, and if you hear either of them speak any thing as though they
should go speak with the King, will you rub your left eye when Sir John
shall look on you?  But be you ware you do it not elsewise."

"What, not though it itch?" said I, yet laughing.

"Not though it itch to drive you distraught."

"Well!" said I, "'tis but for a hour.  But what means it, I pray you?"

"It means," saith he, "that if the King's good is to be sought, and his
honour to be saved, you be she that must help to do it."

Then all suddenly it came on me, like to a levenand [lightning] flash,
what it was that Sir William and his fellows went about to do.  I looked
full into his eyes.  And if ever I saw truth, honour, and valour writ in
man's eyes, I read them there.

"I see what you purpose," said I.

"You be marvellous woman an' you do," answered he.

"Judge you.  You have chosen that hour to speak with the King, and to
endeavour the opening of his eyes.  For Queen Isabel or my Lord of March
to enter should spoil your game.  Sir John de Molynes is he that shall
give you notice if such be like to befall, and I am to signify the same
to him."

Right at that minute I had to take a volt [jump], and turn to the right
round Sir John Neville.  When I returned back to my partner, saith he,
so that Sir John could hear--

"Dame Cicely, you vault marvellous well!"

"That was not so ill as might have been, I reckon," quoth I.

"Truly, nay," he made answer: "it was right well done."

I knew he meant to signify that I had guessed soothly.

"Will you try it yet again?" saith he.

"That will I," I said: and I saw we were at one thereon.

"Good," saith he.  "I reckoned, if any failed me at this pinch, it
should not be Dame Alice's daughter."

That eve stood I upon tenterhooks.  As the saints would have it, the
Queen was a-broidering a certain work whereon Dame Elizabeth wrought
with her: and for once in my life I thanked the said hallows [saints]
for Dame Elizabeth's laziness.

"Dame Cicely," quoth she, "an' you be not sore pressed for time, pray
you, thread me a two-three needles.  I wis not how it befalleth, but
thread a neeld can I never."

I could have told her well that _how_, for whenso she threadeth a neeld
she maketh no bones of the eye, but thrusteth forward the thread any
whither it shall go, on the chance that it shall hit, which by times it
doth: I should not marvel an' she essayed to thread the point.  Howbeit,
her ill husbandry was right then mine encheson [Note 6].

"Look you," said I, "I can bring my work to that end of the chamber;
then shall I be at hand to thread your neeld as it shall be voided."

"Verily, you be gent therein," saith she.

The which I fear I was little.  Howbeit, there sat I, a-threading Dame
Elizabeth her neeld, now with red silk and now with black, as she
lacked, and under all having care that I rubbed not my left eye, the
which I felt strong desire to frote [rub].  I marvel how it was, for the
hour over, I had no list to touch it all the even.

My task turned out light enough, for my Lord of March was playing of
tables [backgammon] with Sir Edward de Bohun, and never left his seat
for all the hour: and the Queen wrought peacefully on her golden
vulture, and moved no more than he.  When I saw it was five o' the clock
[Note 7], I cast an eye on Sir John de Molynes, which threw a look to
the clock, and then winked an eye on me; and I saw he took it we had
finished our duty.

The next morrow, which was Saint Luke's even [October 17th], came a
surprise for all men.  It was found that the Constable of the Castle,
with Sir William de Montacute, Sir Edward de Bohun, Sir John de Molynes,
the Lord Ufford, the Lord Stafford, the Lord Clinton, and Sir John
Neville, had ridden away from the town the night afore, taking no man
into their counsel.  None could tell wherefore their departure, nor what
they purposed.  I knew only that the King was aware thereof, though
soothly he counterfeited surprise as well as any man.

"What can they signify?" saith Sir Edmund de Mortimer, the eldest son of
my Lord of March--a much better man than his father, though not nigh so
crafty.

"Hold thy peace for a fool as thou art!" saith his father roughly.
"They are afraid of me, I cast no doubt at all.  And they do well.  I
could sweep them away as lightly as so many flies, and none should miss
them!"

He ended with a mocking laugh.  Verily, pride such as this was full
ready for a fall.

We knew afterward what had passed in that hour the day afore.  The King
had been hard to insense [cause to understand: still a Northern
provincialism] at the first.  So great was his faith in his mother that
he ne could ne would believe any evil of her.  As to the Mortimer, he
was ready enough, for even now was he a-chafing under the yoke.

"Be he what he may--the very foul fiend himself an' you will," had he
said to his Lords: "but she, mine own mother, my beloved--Oh, not she,
not she!"

Then--for themselves were lost an' they proved not their case--they were
fain to bring forth their proofs.  Sir William de Montacute told my Jack
it was all pitiful to see how our poor young King's heart fought full
gallantly against the light as it brake on his understanding.  Poor lad!
for he was but a lad; and it troubled him sore.  But they knew they must
carry the matter through.

"Oh, have away your testimonies!" he cried more than once.  "Spare her--
and spare me!  Mother, my mother, mine own dear Lady! how is this
possible?"

At the last he knew all: knew who had set England in flame, who had done
Sir Hugh Le Despenser and his son to death, who had been his own
father's murderer.  The scales were off his eyes; and had he list to do
it, he could never set them on again.  They said he covered his face,
and wept like the child he nearhand was.  Then he lifted his head, the
tears over, and in his eyes was the light of a settled purpose, and in
his lips a stern avisement.  No latsummes [backwardness, reluctance] was
in him when once fully set.

"Take the Mortimer," quoth he, firm enough.

"Sir," quoth Sir William de Montacute, "we, not being lodged in the
Castle, shall never be able to seize him without help of the Constable."

"Now, surely," saith the King, "I love you well: wherefore go to the
Constable in my name, and bid him aid you in taking of the Mortimer, on
peril of life and limb."

"Sir, then God grant us speed!" saith Sir William.

So to the Constable they went, and brake the matter, only at first
bidding him in the King's name (having his ring for a token) to aid them
in a certain enterprise which concerned the King's honour and safety.
The Constable sware so to do, and then saith Sir William--

"Now, surely, dear friend, it behoved us to win your assent, in order to
seize on the Mortimer, sith you are Keeper of the Castle, and have the
keys at your disposal."

Then the Constable, having first lift his brows and made grimace of his
mouth, fell in therewith, and quoth he--

"Sirs, if it be thus, you shall wit that the gates of the Castle be
locked with the locks that Queen Isabel sent hither, and at night she
hath all the keys thereof, and layeth them under the pillow of her bed
while morning: and so I may not help you into the Castle at the gates by
any means.  But I know an hole that stretcheth out of the ward under
earth into the Castle, beginning on the west side [still called
Mortimer's Hole], which neither the Queen nor her following nor Mortimer
himself, nor none of his company, know anything of; and through this
passage I will lead you till you come into the Castle without espial of
enemies."

Thereupon went they forth that even, as though to flee away from the
town, none being privy thereto save the King.  And Saint Luke's Day
passed over quiet enough.  The Queen went to mass in the Church of the
White Friars, and offered at the high altar five shillings, her
customary offering on the great feasts and chief saints' days.  All
peaceful sped the day; the Queen gat her abed, and the keys being
brought of the Constable's deputy, I (that was that night in waiting)
presented them unto her, which she received in her own hands and laid
under the pillow of her bed.  Then went we, her dames and damsels, forth
unto our own chambers in the upper storey of the Castle: and I, set at
the casement, had unlatched the same and thrown it open (being nigh as
warm as summer), and was hearkening to the soft flow of the waters of
the Leene, which on that side do nearhand wash the Castle wall.  I was
but then thinking how peaceful were all things, and what sore pity it
were that man should bring in wrong, and bitterness, and anguish, on
that which God had made so beautiful--when all suddenly my fair peace
changed to fierce tumult and the clang of armed men--the tramp of
mail-clad feet and the hoarse crying of roaring voices.  I was as though
I held my breath: for I could well guess what this portended.  Then
above all the routing and bruit [shouting and noise], came the voice of
Queen Isabel, clear and shrill.

"Now, fair Sirs, I pray you that you do no harm unto his body, for he is
a worthy knight, our well-beloved friend, and our dear cousin."

"They have him, then!" quoth I, scarce witting that I spake aloud, nor
who heard me.

"`Have him!'" saith Dame Joan de Vaux beside me: "whom have they?"

Then, suddenly, a word or twain in the King's voice came up to where we
stood; on which hearing, an anguished cry rang out from Queen Isabel.

"Fair Son, fair Son! have pity on the sweet Mortimer!"  [Note 8.]

Wala wa! that time was past.  And she had shown no pity.

I never loved her, as in mine opening words I writ: yet in that dread
moment I could not find in mine heart to leave her all alone in her
agony.  I have ever found that he which brings his sorrows on his own
head doth not suffer less thereby, but more.  And let her be what she
would, she was a woman, and in sorrow, not to say mine own liege Lady:
and signing to Dame Joan to follow me, down degrees ran I with all
haste, and not staying to scratch on the door [Note 9], into the chamber
to the Queen.

We found her sitting up in her bed, her hands held forth, and a look of
agony and horror on her face.

"Cicely, is it thou?" she shrieked.  "Joan!  Whence come ye?  Saw ye
aught?  What do they to him? who be the miscreants?  Is my son there?
Have they won him over--the coward neddirs [serpents] that they be!
Speak I who be they?--and what will they do?  Ah, Mary Mother, what will
they do with him?"

Her voice choked, and I spake.

"Dame, the King is there, and divers with him."

"What do they?" she wailed like a woman in her last agony.

"There hath been sharp assault, Dame," said I, "and I fear some slain;
for as I ran in hither, I saw that which seemed me the body of a dead
man at the head of degrees."

"Who?"  She nearhand screamed.

"Dame," I said, "I think it was Sir Hugh de Turpington."

"But what do they with _him_?" she moaned again, an accent of anguish on
that last word.

I save no answer.  What could I have given?

Dame Joan de Vaux saith, "Dame, the King is there, and God will be with
the King.  We may well be ensured that no wrong shall be done to them
that have done no wrong.  This is not the contekes [quarrel] of a rabble
rout; it is the justice of the Crown upon his enemies."

"His enemies?--whose?  Mine enemies are dead and gone.  All of them--
all!  I left not one.  Who be these? who be they, I say?  Cicely, answer
me!"

Afore I could speak word, I was called by another voice.  I was fain
enough of the reprieve.  Leaving Dame Joan with the Queen, I ran forth
into the Queen's closet, where stood the King.

What change had come over him in those few hours!  No longer a bashful
lad that was nearhand afraid to speak for himself ere he were bidden.
This was a young man [he was now close on eighteen years of age] that
stood afore me, a youthful warrior, a budding Achilles, that would stand
to no man's bidding, but would do his will.  King of England was this
man.  I louted low before my master.

He spake in a voice wherein was both cold constrainedness, and
bitterness, and stern determination--yet under them all something else--
I think it was the sorely bruised yet living soul of that deep
unutterable tenderness which had been ever his for the mother of his
love, but could be the same never more.  Man is oft cold and bitter and
stern, when an hour before he hath dug a grave in his own heart, and
hath therein laid all his hopes and his affections.  And they that look
on from afar behold the sheet of ice, but they see not the grave beneath
it.  They only see him cold and silent: and they reckon he cares for
nought, and feels nothing.

"Dame Cicely, you have been with the Queen?"

"Sir, I have so."

"Take heed she hath all things at her pleasure, of such as lie in your
power.  Let my physician be sent for if need arise, as well as her own;
and if she would see any holy father, let him be fetched incontinent
[immediately].  See to it, I charge you, that she be served with all
honour and reverence, as you would have our favour."

He turned as if to depart.  Then all suddenly the ice went out of his
voice, and the tears came in.

"How hath she taken it?" saith he.

"Sir," said I, "full hardly as yet, and is sore troubled touching my
Lord of March, fearing some ill shall be done him.  Moreover, my Lady
biddeth me tell her who these be.  Is it your pleasure that I answer the
same?"

"Ay, answer her," saith he sorrowfully, "for it shall do no mischief
now.  As for my Lord of March, no worser fate awaits him than he hath
given better men."

He strade forth after that kingly fashion which was so new in him, and
yet sat so seemly upon him, and I went back to the Queen's chamber.

"Cicely, is that my son?" she cried.

"In good sooth, Dame," said I.

"What said he to thee?"

I told her the King had bidden me answer all her desire; that if she
required physician she should be tended of his chirurgeon beside her
own, and she should speak with any priest she would.  I had thought it
should apay [gratify] her to know the same; but my words had the
contrariwise effect, for she looked more frightened than afore.

"Nought more said he?"

"Dame," said I, "the Lord King bade me to serve you with all honour and
reverence.  And he said, for my Lord of March--"

"Fare forth!"  [go on] she cried, though I scarce knew that I paused.

"He answered, that no worser should befall him than he had caused to
better men than he."

"Mary, Mother!"

I thought I had scarce ever heard wofuller wail than she made then.  She
sank down in the bed, clutching the coverlet with her hands, and casting
it over her, as she buried her face in the pillows.  I went nigh, and
drew the coverlet full setely [properly, neatly] over her.

"Let be!" she saith in a smothered voice.  "It is all over.  Life must
fare forth, and life is of no more worth.  My bird is flown from the
cage, and none can win him back.  Is there so much as one of the saints
will speak for me?  As I have wrought, so hast Thou paid me, God!"

Not an other word spake she all the livelong day.  Never day seemed
longer than that weary eve of Saint Ursula [October 20th].  That morrow
were taken in the town the two sons of my Lord of March, Sir Edmund and
Sir Geoffrey, beside divers of his friends--Sir Oliver Byngham, Sir
Simon de Bereford, and Sir John Deveroil the chief.  All were sent that
same day under guard to London, with the Mortimer himself.

No voice compassionated him.  Nay, "my Lord of March" was no more, but
in every man's mouth "the Mortimer" as of old time.  Some that had
seemed his greatest losengers [flatterers] now spake of him with the
most disdain, while they that, while they allowed him not [did not
approve of him], had yet never abused ne reviled him, were the least
wrathful against him.  I heard that when he was told of all, my Lord of
Lancaster flung up his cap for joy.

Some things afterward said were not true.  It was false slander to say,
as did some, that the Mortimer was taken in the Queen's own chamber.  He
was arrest in the Bishop of Lincoln's chamber (which had his lodging
next the Queen), and in conference with the said Bishop.  They took not
that priest of Baal; I had shed no tears had they so done.  Sir Hugh de
Turpington and Sir John Monmouth, creatures of the Mortimer, were slain;
Sir John Neville, on the other side, was wounded.

Fourteen charges were set forth against the Mortimer.  The murder of
King Edward was one; the death of my Lord of Kent an other.  One thing
was not set down, but every man knew how to read betwixt the lines, when
the indictment writ that other articles there were against him, which in
respect of the King's honour were not to be drawn up in writing.  Wala
wa! there was honour concerned therein beside his own: but he was very
tender of her.  His way was hard to walk and beset with snares, and he
walked it with cleaner feet than most men should.  Never heard I from
his lips word unreverent toward her; and if other lips spake the same to
his knowing, they forthank [regretted] it.

That same day the King departed from Nottingham for Leicester, on his
way to London.  He left behind him the Lord Wake de Lydel, in whose
charge he placed Queen Isabel, commanding that she should be taken to
Berkhamsted Castle as soon as might be.  I know not certainly if he
spake with her afore he set forth, but I think rather nay than yea.

October was not out when we reached Berkhamsted.  The Queen's first
anguish was over, and she scarce spake; but I could see she hearkened
well if aught was said in her hearing.

The King sent command to seize all lands and goods of the Mortimer into
his hands; but the Lady of March he bade to be treated with all respect
and kindliness, and that never a jewel nor a thread of her having should
be taken.  Indeed, I heard never man nor woman speak of her but tenderly
and pitifully.  She was good woman, and had borne more than many.  For
the Lady Margaret her mother-in-law, so much will I not say; for she was
a firebrand that (as saith Solomon) scattered arrows and death: but the
Lady Joan was full gent and reverend, and demerited better husband than
the Fates gave her.  Nay, that may I not say, sith no such thing is as
Fate, but only God, that knoweth to bring good out of evil, and hath
comforted the Lady Joan in Paradise these four years gone.

But scarce three weeks we tarried at Berkhamsted, and then the Lord Wake
bore to the Queen tidings that it was the King's pleasure she should
remove to Windsor.  My time of duty was then run out all but a two-three
days; and the Queen my mistress was pleased to say I might serve me of
those for mine own ease, so that I should go home in the stead of
journeying with her to Windsor.  At that time my little maid Vivien was
not in o'er good health, and it paid me well to be with her.  So from
this point mine own remembrances have an end, and I serve me, for the
rest, of the memory of Dame Joan de Vaux, mine old and dear-worthy
friend, and of them that abode with Queen Isabel till she died.  For
when her household was 'minished and again stablished on a new footing,
it liked the King of his grace to give leave to such as should desire
the same to depart to their own homes, and such as would were at liberty
to remain--one except, to wit, Dame Isabel de Lapyoun, to whom he gave
conge with no choice.  I was of them that chose to depart.  Forsooth, I
had seen enough and to spare of Court life (the which I never did much
love), and I desired no better than to spend the rest of my life at
home, with my Jack and my little maids, and my dear mother, so long as
God should grant me.

My brother Robert (of whom, if I spake not much, it was from no lack of
loving-kindness), on the contrary part, chose to remain.  He hath ever
loved a busy life.

I found my Vivien full sick, and a weariful and ugsome time had I with
her ere she recovered of her malady.  Soothly, I discovered that
diachylum emplasture was tenpence the pound, and tamarinds fivepence;
and grew well weary of ringing the changes upon rosin and frankincense,
litharge and turpentine, oil of violets and flowers of beans, _Gratia
Dei_, camomile, and mallows.  At long last, I thank God, she amended;
but it were a while ere mine ears were open to public matter, and not
full filled of the moaning of my poor little maid.  So now, to have back
to my story, as the end thereof was told me by Dame Joan de Vaux.

Queen Isabel came to Windsor about Saint Edmund the King [November
20th]; and nine days thereafter, on the eve of Saint Andrew [November
29th], was the Mortimer hanged at Tyburn.  He was cast [sentenced] as
commoner, not as noble, and was dragged at horse's tail for a league
outside the city of London to the Elms.  But the penalties that commonly
came after were not exacted, seeing his body was not quartered, nor his
head set up on bridge ne gate.  His body was sent to the Friars Minors'
Church at Coventry, whence one year thereafter, it was at the King's
command delivered to the Lady Joan his widow and Sir Edmund his son,
that they might bury him in the Abbey of Wigmore with his fathers.  His
mother, the Lady Margaret, overlived him but four years; but the Lady
Joan his wife died four years gone, the very day and month that he was
taken prisoner, to wit, the nineteenth day of October, 1356, nigh two
years afore Queen Isabel.

The eve of Saint Andrew, as I writ, was the Mortimer hanged, without
defence by him made (he had allowed none to Sir Hugh Le Despenser and my
Lord of Kent): and four days hung his body in irons on the gibbet, as
Sir Hugh's the father had done.  Verily, as he had done, so did God apay
him, which is just Judge over all the earth.

And the very next day, Saint Andrew, came His dread judgment upon one
other--upon her that had wrought evil and not good, and that had
betrayed her own lord to his cruel death.  All suddenly, without one
instant's warning, came the bolt out of Heaven upon Isabel of France.
While the body of the Mortimer hung upon the gibbet at the Elms of
Tyburn, God stripped that sinful woman of the light of reason which she
had used so ill, and she fell into a full awesome frenzy, so dread that
she was fain to be strapped down, and her cries and shrieks were
nearhand enough to drive all wood that heard her.  While the body hung
there lasted this fearsome frenzy.  But the hour it was taken down, came
change over her.  She sank that same hour into the piteous thing she was
for long afterward, right as a little child, well apaid with toys and
shows, a few glass beads serving her as well as costly jewels, and a
yard of tinsel or fringe bright coloured a precious treasure.  The King
was sore troubled; but what could he do?  At the first the physicians
counselled that she should change the air often; and first to Odiham
Castle was she taken, and thence to Hertford, and after to Rising.  But
nothing was to make difference to her any more for many a year,--only
that by now and then, for a two-three hours, she hath come to her wit,
and then is she full gent and sad, desiring ever the grace of our Lord
for her ill deeds, and divers times saying that as she hath done, so
hath God requited her.  I have heard say that as time passed on, these
times of coming to her wit were something oftener and tarried longer,
until at last, a year afore she died, she came to her full wit, and so
abode to the end.

The King, that dealt full well with her, and had as much care of her
honour as of his own (and it was whispered that our holy Father the Pope
writ unto him that he should so do), did at the first appoint her to
keep her estate in two of her own castles, to wit, Hertford and Rising:
and set forth a new household for her, appointing Sir John de Molynes
her Seneschal, and Dame Joan de Vaux her chief dame in waiting.  Seldom
hath she come to Town, but when there, she tarried in the Palace of my
Lord of Winchester at Southwark, on the river side, and was once in
presence when the King delivered the great Seal to Sir Robert Parving.
Then she was in her wit for a short time.  But commonly, at the King's
command, she hath tarried in those two her castles,--to wit, Hertford
and Rising--passing from one to the other according to the counsel of
her physicians.  The King hath many times visited her (though never the
Queen, which he ever left at Norwich when he journeyed to Rising), and
so, at times, have divers of his children.  Ten years afore her death,
the King's adversary of France, Philippe de Valois, that now calleth him
King thereof, moved the King that Queen Isabel should come to Eu to
treat with his wife concerning peace: and so careful is the King, and
hath ever been, of his mother's honour, that he would not answer him
with the true reason contrary thereto, but treated with him on that
footing, and only at the last moment made excuse to appoint other
envoys.  Poor soul! she had no wit thereto.  I never saw her after I
left her service saving once, which was when she was at Shene, on
Cantate Sunday [April 29th], an eleven years ere her death, at supper in
the even, where were also the King, the Queen of Scots [her younger
daughter], and the Earl of March [grandson of the first Earl]; and
soothly, for all the ill she wrought, mine heart was woe for the caged
tigress with the beautiful eyes, that was wont to roam the forest wilds
at her pleasure, and now could only pace to and fro, up and down her
cage, and toy with the straws upon the floor thereof.  It was pitiful to
see her essaying, like a babe, as she sat at the board, to cause a wafer
to stand on end, and when she had so done, to clap her hands and laugh
with childish glee, and call her son and daughter to look.  Very gent
was the King unto her, that looked at her bidding, and lauded her skill
and patience, as he should have done to his own little maid that was but
three years old.  Ah me, it was piteous sight! the grand, queenly
creature that had fallen so low!  Verily, as she had done, so God
requited her.

She died at Hertford Castle, two days afore Saint Bartholomew next
thereafter [August 22nd, 1358.  See Note in Appendix].  I heard that in
her last hours, her wit being returned to her as good as ever it had
been, she had her shriven clean, and spake full meek [humble] and
excellent words of penitence for all her sins, and desired to be buried
in the Church of the Friars Minors in London town, and the heart of her
dead lord to be laid upon her breast.  They have met now in the presence
above, and he would forgive her there.  _Lalme de qui Dieux eit mercie_!
Amen.

Here have ending the Annals of Cicely.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1.  The chroniclers (and after them the follow-my-leader school of
modern historians) are unanimous in their assertion that the Black
Prince was born on June 15th.  If this be so, it is, to say the least, a
little singular that the expenses of the Queen's churching were defrayed
on the 24th and 28th of April previous (Issue Roll, Easter, 4 Edward the
Third).  On the 3rd, 5th, and 13th of April, the King dates his mandates
from Woodstock; on the 24th of March he was at Reading.  This looks very
much as if the Prince's birth had taken place about the beginning of
April.  The 8th of that month was Easter Day.

Note 2.  Modern writers make no difference between a Colloquy and a
Parliament.  The Rolls always distinguish them, treating; the Colloquy
as a lesser and more informal gathering.

Note 3.  Second son of the elder Sir William de Montacute and Elizabeth
de Montfort.  He appears as a boy in the first chapter of the companion
volume, _In All Time of our Tribulation_.

Note 4.  Discretion, wisdom.

Note 5.  The pavon was a slow, stately dance, but it also included high
leaps.

Note 6.  Occasion, opportunity.  Needles, at this time, were great
treasures; a woman who possessed three or four thought herself wealthy
indeed.

Note 7.  Striking clocks were not invented until about 1368.

Note 8.  Had the Queen spoken in English, she would certainly have said
_sweet_, not _gentle_, which last is an incorrect translation of
_gentil_.  This latter speech, though better known, is scarcely so well
authenticated as the previous one.

Note 9.  Royal etiquette prescribed a scratch on the door, like that of
a pet animal; the knock was too rough and plebeian an appeal for
admission.



PART TWO, CHAPTER 1.

WHEREIN AGNES THE LADY OF PEMBROKE TELLETH TALE (1348).

THE CHILDREN OF LUDLOW CASTLE.

  "O little feet, that, such long years,
  Must wander on through hopes and fears,
  Must ache and bleed beneath your load:
  I, nearer to the wayside inn
  Where toil shall cease and rest begin,
  Am weary, thinking of your road."

  Longfellow.

Hereby I promise, and I truly mean to execute it, to give my new green
silk cloth of gold piece, bordered with heads of griffins in golden
broidery, to the Abbey of Saint Austin at Canterbury, if any that
liveth, man or woman, will tell me certainly how evil came into this
world.  I want to know why Eva plucked that apple.  She must have
plucked it herself, for the serpent could not give it her, having no
hands.  And if man--or woman--will go a step further, and tell me why
Adam ate another, he shall have my India-coloured silk, broidered with
golden lions and vultures, whereof I had meant to make me a new gown for
this next Michaelmas feast.  It doth seem as if none but a very idiot
could have let in evil and sin and sorrow and pain all over this world,
for the sake of a sweet apple.  It must have been sweet, I should think,
because it grew in Eden.  But was there never another in all the garden
save only on that tree?  Or did man not know what would happen? or was
it that man would not think?  That is the way sometimes with some folks,
else that heedless Nichola had not broken my favourite comb.

The question has been in my head many a score of times; but it came just
now because my Lady, my lord's mother, was earnest with me to write in a
book what I could remember of mine early days, when my Lady mine own
mother was carried to Skipton and Pomfret.  If those were not evil days,
I know not how to spell the word.  And I am very sure it was evil men
that made them; and evil women.  I believe bad woman is far worse than
bad man.  So saith the Lady Julian, my lord's mother; and being herself
woman, and having been thrice wed, she should know somewhat of women and
men too.  Ay, and I were ill daughter if I writ not down also that a
good woman is one of God's blessedest gifts to this evil world; for such
is mine own mother, the Lady Joan de Geneville, that was sometime wife
unto the Lord Roger Mortimer, Earl of March, whose name men of this day
know but too well.

Well-a-day! if a thing is to be, it is best over.  It is never any good
to sit on the brink shivering before man plunge in.  So, if I must needs
write, be it done.  Here is a dozen of parchment, and a full inkhorn,
and grey goose-quills: and I need nothing else save brains; whereof, I
thank the saints, I have enough and to spare.  And indeed, it is as well
I should, for in this world--I say not, in this house--there be folks
who have none too many.  But I reckon, before I begin my tale, I had
best say who and what I am, else shall those who read my book be like
men that walk in a mist, which is not pleasant, as I found this last
summer, when for a time I lost my company--and thereby, myself--on the
top of a Welsh mountain.

I, then, who write, am Agnes de Hastings, Countess of Pembroke and Lady
of Leybourne: and I am wife unto the Lord Lawrence de Hastings, Earl and
Baron of the same.  My father and mother I have already named, but I may
say further that my said mother is a Princess born, being of that great
House of Joinville in France--which men call Geneville in England--that
are nobles of the foremost rank in that country.  These my parents had
twelve children, of whom I stand right in the midst, being the seventh.
My brother Edmund was the eldest of us; then came Margaret, Joan, Roger,
Geoffrey, Isabel, and Katherine; then stand I Agnes, and after me are
Maud, John, Blanche, and Beatrice [Note 1].  And of them, Edmund and
Margaret have been commanded to God.  He died young, my poor brother
Edmund, for he set his heart on being restored to the name and lands
which our father had forfeited, and our Lord the King thought not good
to grant it; so his heart broke, and he died.  Poor soul!  I would not
say an unkind word over his grave; where the treasure is, there will the
heart be; but I would rather set my heart on worthier treasure, and I
think I should scarce be so weak as to die for the loss.  God assoil
him, poor soul!

I was born in the Castle of Ludlow, on the morrow of the Translation of
Saint Thomas, in the year of King Edward of Caernarvon the eleventh
[Note 2], so that I am now thirty years of age.  I am somewhat elder
than my lord, who was born at Allesley, by Coventry town, on Saint
Cuthbert's Day, in the fourteenth year of the same [March 20th, 1321].
I might say I was wiser, and not look forward to much penance for lying;
for I should be more likely to have it set me if I said that all the
wits in this world were in his head.  Howbeit, there is many a worse man
than he: a valiant knight, and courteous, and of rarely gentle and
gracious ways; and maybe, if he were wiser, he would give me more
trouble to rule him, which is easy enough to do.  Neverthelatter, there
be times when it should do me ease to take him by the shoulders and give
him an hearty shake, if I could thereby shake a bit more sense into him:
and there be times when it comes over me that he might have been better
matched, as our sometime Lord King Edward meant him to have been, with
the Lady Alianora La Despenser, that Queen Isabel packed off to a
nunnery in hot haste when she came in.  Poor soul!  He certainly is not
matched with me, unless two horses be matched whereof one is black and
of sixteen handfuls, and steppeth like a prince, and the other is white,
and of twelve handfuls, and ambles of a jog-trot.  I would he had a bit
more stir in him.  Not that he lacks knightly courage--never a whit;
carry him into battle, and he shall quit him like a man; but when all is
said, he is fitter for the cloister, for he loveth better to sit at home
with Joan of his knee, and a great clerkly book afore him wherein he
will read by the hour, which is full well for a priest, but not for a
noble of the King's Court.  He never gave me an ill word (veriliest
[truly], I marvel if ever he said `I won't!' in all his life), yet, for
all his hendihood [courtesy, sweetness], will he have his own way by
times, I can never make out how.  But he is a good man on the whole, and
doth pretty well as he is bid, and I might change for a worse without
taking a long journey.  So, take it all in all, there are many women
have more to trouble them than I, the blessed saints be thanked, and our
sweetest Lady Saint Mary and my patron Saint Agnes in especial.  Only I
do hope Jack shall have more wit than his father, and I shall think the
fairies have changed him if he have not.  _My_ son should not be short
of brains.

But now, to have back, and begin my story: for I reckon I shall never
make an end if I am thus lone: in coming to the beginning.

We were all brought up in the Castle of Ludlow, going now and then to
sweeten [to have the house thoroughly cleaned] to the Castle of Wigmore.
Of course, while we were little children, we knew scarce any thing of
our parents, as beseemed persons of our rank.  The people whom I verily
knew were Dame Hilda our mistress [governess], and Maud and Ellen our
damsels, and Master Terrico our Chamberlain, and Robert atte Wardrobe,
our wardrobe-keeper, and Sir Philip the clerk (I cry him mercy, he
should have had place of Robert), and Stephen the usher of the chamber,
and our four nurses, whose names were Emelina, Thomasia, Joan, and
Margery, and little Blaise the page.  They were my world.  But into this
world, every now and then, came a sweet, fair presence--a vision of a
gracious lady in velvet robes, whose hand I knelt to kiss, and who used
to lay it on my head and bless me: and at times she would take up one of
us in her arms, and sit down with the babe on her velvet lap, and a look
would come into her eyes which I never saw in Dame Hilda's; and she
would bend her fair head and kiss the babe as if she loved her very
much.  But that was mostly while we were babies.  I cannot recollect her
doing that to me--it was chiefly to Blanche and Beatrice.  Until one
day, and then--

Nay, I have not come to that yet.  And then, at times, we should hear a
voice below--a stern, deep voice, or a peal of loud laughter--and in an
instant the light and the joy would die out of the tender eyes of that
gracious vision, and instead would come a frightened look like that of a
hunted hare, and commonly she would rise suddenly, and put down the
babe, and hasten away, as if she had been indulging in some forbidden
pleasure, and was afraid of being caught.  I can remember wishing that
the loud laugh and the stern angry voice would go away, and never come
back, but that the gracious vision would stay always with us, and not
only pay us a rare visit.  Ay, and I can remember wishing that she would
take _me_ on that velvet lap, and let me nestle into her soft arms, and
dare to lay my little head on her warm bosom.  I think she would have
done it, if she had known!  I used to feel in those days like a little
chicken hardly feathered, and longed to be under the soft brooding wings
of the hen.  The memory of it hath caused me to pet my Jack and Joan a
deal more than I should without it.

Then, sometimes, we had a visit from a very different sort of guest.
That was an old lady--about a hundred and fifty, I used to fancy her--
dressed in velvet full as costly, but how differently she wore it!  She
never took us on her lap--not she, indeed!  We used to have to kneel and
kiss her hand--and Roger whispered to me once that if he dared, he would
bite it.  This horrid old thing (who called herself our grandmother)
used to be like a storm blowing through the house.  She never was two
minutes in the room before she began to scold somebody; and if she could
not find reasonable fault with any body, that seemed to vex her more
than anything else.  Then she scolded us all in a lump together.  "Dame
Hilda, what an untidy chamber!"--she usually began in that way--"why
don't you make these children put their playthings tidy?  (Of course
Dame Hilda did, at the end of the day; but how could we have playthings
tidy while we were playing with them?)  Meg, your hair is no better than
a mop!  Jack, how got you that rent in your sleeve?  (I never knew Jack
without a rent in some part of his clothes; I should not have thought it
was Jack if he had come in whole garments.)  Joan, how ungainly you sit!
pluck yourself up this minute.  Nym, take your elbows off the table.
Maud, your chaucers [slippers] are down at heel.  How dirty your hands
are, Roger! go and wash them.  Agnes, that wimple of yours is all awry;
who pinned it up?"

So she went on--rattle and scold, scold and rattle--as long as she
stayed in the room.  Jack, always the saucy one, asked her one day, when
he was very little--

"Are you really Grandmother?"

"Certes, child," said she, turning to look at him: "why?"

"Because I wish you were somebody else!"

_Ha, chetife_! did Jack forget that afternoon?  I trow not.

I had a sound whipping once myself from Dame Hilda, because I said,
right out, that I hated the Lady Margaret: and Joan,--poor delicate
Joan, who was perpetually scolded for stooping--looked at me as if she
wished she dared say it too.  Roger had his ears boxed because he
drawled out, "Amen!"  I think we all said Amen in our hearts.

Sometimes the Lady Margaret did not come upstairs, but sent for some of
us down to her.  That was worse than ever.  There were generally a
number of gentlemen there, who seemed to think that children were only
made to be teased: and some of them I disliked, and others I despised.
Only of one I was terribly afraid: and that was--mercy, Jesu!--mine own
father.

I should have found it difficult to say what it was in him that
frightened me.  I used to call it fear then; but when I look back on the
feeling from my present state, I think it was rather a kind of
ungovernable antipathy.  He did not scold us all round as Lady Margaret
did.  The worst thing, I think, that I remember his saying to me was a
sharp--"Get out of the way, girl!"  And I wished I only could get out of
his way, for ever and ever.  Something made me feel as if I could not
bear to be in the same room with him.  I used to shiver all over, if I
only heard his voice.  Yet he never ill-used any of us; he scarcely even
looked at us.  It was not any thing he did which made me feel so; it was
just himself.

Surely never did man dress more superbly than he.  I recollect thinking
that the King was not half so fine; yet King Edward liked velvet and
gold as well as most men.  My Lord my father never wore worsted summer
tunics or woollen winter cloaks, like others.  Silk, velvet, samite, and
cloth of gold, were his meanest wear; and his furs were budge, ermine,
miniver, and gris.  I can remember hearing how once, when the furrier
sent him in a robe of velvet guarded with hare's fur, he flung it on one
side in a fury, and ordered the poor man to be beaten cruelly.  He
always wore much golden broidery, and buttons of gems or solid gold; and
he never would wear a suit of any man's livery--not even the King's,--
save once, when he wore the Earl of Chester's at the coronation of the
Queen of France, just to vex King Edward--as it sorely did, for he was
then a proscribed fugitive, who had no right to use it.

It is a hard matter when a child is frightened of its own father.  It is
yet harder when he makes it hate him.  Ah, it is easy to say, That was
wicked of thee.  So it was: and I know it.  But doth not sin lead to
sin?--spring out of it, like branches from a stem, like leaves from a
branch?  And when one man's act of sin creates sin in another man, and
that again in a third, whose is the sin--the black root, whereof came
the rotten branches and the withered leaves?  Are we not all our
brothers' and our sisters' keepers?  Well, it will not answer to pursue
that road: for I know well I should trace up the sin too high, to one of
whom it were not meet for me to speak in the same breath with ugly
words.  Ay me! what poor weak things we mortal creatures are!  Little
marvel, little marvel for the woe that was wrought!--so fair, so fair
she was!  She had the soul of a fiend with the face of an angel.  Was it
any wonder that men--ay, and some women--were beguiled with that angel
face, and fancied but too rashly that the soul must be as sweet as it?
God have mercy on all Christian souls!  Verily, I myself, only this last
spring-time, was ready to yield to the witch's spell--never was woman
such enchantress as she!--and athwart all the past, despite all I knew,
gazing on that face, even yet fairer than the faces of younger women, to
think it possible that all the tales were false, and all the past a
vision of the night, and that the lovely face and the sweet, soft voice
covered a soul white as the saints in Heaven!  And men are easier
deluded by such dreams than women--or at least I think it.  My poor
father!  If only he had never seen her that haled him to his undoing! he
might, perchance, have been a better man.  Any way, he paid the bill in
his heart's blood.  So here I leave him.  God forgive us all!

And now to my story.  While I was but a little child, we saw little of
our mother: little more, indeed, than we did of our father.  I think, of
the two, we oftener saw our grandmother.  And little children, as God
hath wisely ordered it, live in the present moment, and take no note of
things around them which men and women see with half an eye.  Now,
looking back, I can recall events which then passed by me as of no
import.  It was so, and there was an end of it.  But I can see now why
it was so: and I know enough to guess the often sorrowful nature of that
wherefore.

So it was nothing to us children, unless it were a relief, that after I
was about four years old, we missed our father almost entirely.  We
never knew why he tarried away for months at a time.  We had not a
notion that he was first in the prison of the Tower, and afterwards a
refugee over seas.  And we saw without seeing that our mother grew thin
and white, and her sweet eyes were heavy with tears which we never saw
her shed.  All we perceived was that she came oftener to the nursery,
and stayed longer with us, and petted the babies more than had been her
wont.  And that such matters had a meaning,--a deep, sad, terrible
meaning--never entered our heads.  Later on we knew that during those
lonely years her heart was being crucified, and crucifixion is a dying
that lasts long.  But she never let us know it.  I think she would not
damp our fresh childish glee by even the spray of that roaring cataract
wherein her life was overwhelmed.  Mothers--such mothers as she--are
like a reflection of God.

I remember well, though I was but just seven years old, the night when
news came to Ludlow Castle that my father had escaped from the Tower.
It was a very hot night in August--too hot to sleep--and I lay awake,
chattering to Kate and Isabel, who were my bedfellows, about some grand
play we meant to have the next afternoon, in the great gallery--when all
at once we heard a horse come dashing up to the portcullis, past our
chamber wall, and a horn crying out into the night.

Isabel sat up in bed, and listened.

"Is it my Lord coming home?"  I said.

"What, all alone, with no company?" answered Isabel, who is four years
elder than I.  "Silly child!  It is some news for my Lady my mother.
The saints grant it be good!"

Of course we could hear nothing of what passed at the portcullis, as our
window opened on the base court.  But in a few minutes we heard the
horse come trotting into our court, and the rider 'lighted down: and
Isabel, who lay with her head next the casement, sat up again and put
her head out of the curtain.  It was a beautiful moonlight night, almost
as bright as day.

"What is it, Ibbot?" said Kate.

"It is a man in livery," answered Isabel; "but whose livery I know not.
It is not ours."

Then we heard the man call to the porter, and the door open, and the
sound of muffled voices to and fro for a minute; and then Master Inge's
step, which we knew--he was then castellan--coming in great haste past
our door as if he were going to my Lady's chamber.  Then the door of the
large nursery opened, and we heard Dame Hilda within, saying to Tamzine,
"Thou wert better run and see."  And Tamzine went quickly along the
gallery, as if she, too, were going to my Lady.

For a long, long time, as it seemed to us--I dare say it was not many
minutes--we lay and listened in vain.  At length Tamzine came back.

"Good tidings, or bad?" we heard Dame Hilda ask.

"The saints wot!" whispered Tamzine.  "My Lord is 'scaped from the
Tower."

"_Ha, chetife_! will he come here?" said Dame Hilda: and we saw that it
was bad news in her eyes.

"Forsooth, nay!" replied Tamzine.  "There be hues and cries all over for
him, but man saith he is fled beyond seas."

"Amen!" ejaculated Dame Hilda.  "He may win to Cathay [China] by my good
will; and if he turn not again till mine hair be white, then will I give
my patron saint a measure in wax.  But what saith my Lady?"

"Her I saw not," answered Tamzine; "but Mistress Robergia, who told me,
said she went white and red both at once, and her breast heaved as
though her very heart should come forth."

"Gramercy!" said Dame Hilda.  "How some folks do set their best pearls
in copper!"

"Eh, our Lady love us!" responded Tamzine.  "That's been ever sith world
began to run, Dame, I can tell you."

"I lack no telling, lass," was Dame Hilda's answer.  "Never was there
finer pearl set in poorer ore than that thou and I wot of."

I remember that bit of talk because I puzzled myself sorely as to what
Dame Hilda could mean.  Kate was puzzled, too, for she said to Isabel--

"What means the Dame?  I never saw my Lady wear a pearl set in copper."

"Oh, let be!" said Isabel.  "'Tis but one of the Dame's strange sayings.
She is full of fantasies."

But whether Isabel were herself perplexed, or whether she understood,
and thought it better to shut our mouths, that cannot I tell to this
day.

Well, after that things were quiet again for a while: a very long while,
it seemed to me.  I believe it was really about six months.  During that
time, we saw much more of our mother than we used to do; she would come
often into the nursery, and take one of the little ones on her lap--it
was oftenest Blanche--and sit there with her.  Sometimes she would talk
with Dame Hilda; but more frequently she was silent and sad, at times
looking long from the casement as if she saw somewhat that none other
eyes could see.  Jack said one day--

"Whither go Mother's eyes when she looks out of the window?"

"For shame, Damsel [Note 3] John!" cried Dame Hilda.  "`Mother,' indeed!
Only common children use such a word.  Say `my Lady' if you please."

"She is my mother, isn't she?" said Jack stubbornly.  "Why shouldn't I
call her so, I should like to know?  But you haven't answered me, Dame."

"I know not what you mean, Damsel."

"Why, when she sits down in that chair, and takes Blanchette on her
knee,--her eyes go running out of the window first thing.  Whither wend
they?"

"Children like you cannot understand," replied Dame Hilda, with one of
those superior smiles which used to make me feel so very naughty.  It
seemed to say, "My poor, little, despicable insect, how could you dream
of supposing that your intellect was even with Mine?"  (There, I have
writ that a capital M in red ink.  To have answered to Dame Hilda's tone
when she put that smile on, it should have been in vermilion and gold
leaf.)  Howbeit, Jack never cared for all the airs she put on.

"Then why don't you make us understand it?" said he.

I do not remember what Dame Hilda said to that, but I dare say she boxed
Jack's ears.

Deary me, how ill doth my tale get forward!  Little things keep a-coming
to my mind, and I turn aside after them, like a second deer crossing the
path of the first.  That shall never serve; I must keep to my quarry.

All this time our mother grew thinner and whiter.  Poor soul, she loved
him well!--but so sure as the towel of the blessed Nicodemus is in the
sacristy of our Lady at Warwick, cannot I tell for why.  Very certain am
I that he never gave her any reason.

We reckoned those six months dreary work.  There were no banquets in
hall, nor shows came to the Castle, nor even so much as a pedlar, that
we children saw; only the same every-day round, and tired enough we were
of it.  All the music we ever heard was in our lessons from Piers le
Sautreour; and if ever child loved her music lessons, her name was not
Agnes de Mortimer.  All the laughter that was amongst us we made
ourselves; and all the shows were when Jack chose to tumble somersaults,
or Maud twisted some cold lace round her head, and said, "Now I am Queen
Isabel."  Dreary work, in good sooth! yet was it a very Michaelmas show
and an Easter Day choir to that which lay ahead.

And then, one night,--ah, what a night that was!  It was near our
bed-time, and Jack, Kate, and I, were playing on the landing and up and
down the staircase of our tower.  I remember, Jack was the stag, and
Kate and I were the hunters; and rarely did Jack throw up his head, to
show off his branching horns--which were divers twigs tied on his head
by a lace of Dame Hilda's, for the use whereof Jack paid a pretty penny
when she knew it.  Kate had just made a grab at him, and should have
caught him, had his tunic held, but it gave way, and all she won was an
handful of worsted and a slip of the step that grazed her shins; and she
was rubbing of her leg and crying "Lack-a-day!" and Jack above, well out
of reach, was making mowes [grimaces] at us--when all at once an horn
rang loud through the Castle, and man on little ambling nag came into
the court-yard.  Kate forgat her leg, and Jack his mowes, and all we,
stag and hunters alike, ran to the gallery window for to gaze.

I know not how long we should have tarried at the window, had not
Emelina come and swept us afore her into the nursery, with an
impatient--"Deary me! here be these children for ever in the way!"

And Jack cries, "You always say we are in the way; but mustn't we be any
where?"

Whereto she makes answer--"Go and get you tucked into bed; that's the
only safe place for the like of you!"

Jack loudly resented being sent to bed before the proper time, whereupon
he and Emelina had a fight (as they had most nights), and Kate and I ran
into the nursery to get out of the way.  Here was Margery, turning down
the beds, but Dame Hilda we saw not till, an half-hour after, as we were
doffing us for bed, she came, with her important face which she was wont
to wear when some eventful thing had befallen her or us.

"Are the damsels abed, Emelina?" saith she.

"The babes be, Dame; and the elders be a-doffing them."

Dame Hilda came forward into the night nursery.

"Hold you there, young ladies!" saith she: "at the least, I would say my
three elder young ladies--Dame Margaret, Dame Joan, and Dame Isabel.
Pray you, don you once more, but of your warmest gear, for a journey by
night."

"Are we not to go to bed?" asked Joan in surprise: but our three sisters
donned themselves anew, as Dame Hilda had said, of their warmest gear.
Dame Hilda spake not word till they were all ready.  Then Meg saith--

"Whither be we bound, Dame?--and with whom?"

"With my Lady, Dame Margaret, to Southampton."

I think we all cried out "Southampton!" in diverse tones.

"There is news come to her Ladyship, as she herself may tell you," said
Dame Hilda, mysteriously.

"Aren't we to go, Dame?" saith Blanche's little voice.

Dame Hilda turned round sharply, as if she went about to snap Blanche's
head off; and Blanche shrank in dismay.

"Certainly not, Dame Blanche!  What should my Lady do to be worried with
babes like you?  She has enough else on her mind at this present,
without a pack of tiresome children--holy saints be her help!  Eh dear,
dear, this world!"

"Dame, is this world so bad?" saith Jack, letting his nose appear above
the bed-clothes.

"Go to sleep, the weary lot of you!" was Dame Hilda's irritable answer.

"Because," saith Jack, ne'er a whit daunted--nothing ever cowed
Jack--"if it is so bad, hadn't you better be off out of it?  You'd be
better off, I suppose, and we shouldn't miss you,--that I'll promise.
Do go, Dame!"

Jack spake these last words with a full compassionate air, as though he
were seriously concerned for Dame Hilda's happiness; but she, marching
up to the bed where Jack lay, dealt him a stinging slap for his
impudence.

"Ah!" saith Jack in a mumbled voice, having disappeared under the
bed-clothes, "this is a bad world, I warrant you, where folks return
evil for good o' this fashion!"

We heard no more of Jack beyond divers awesome snores, which I think
were not altogether sooth-fast: but before many minutes had passed, the
door of the antechamber opened, and my Lady, donned in travelling gear,
entered the nursery.

Dame Hilda's words had given me the fancy that some sorrowful, if not
shocking news, had come to her; and I was therefore much astonished to
see a faint flush in her cheeks, and a brilliant light in her eyes,
which looked as though she had heard good news.

"My children," said our mother, "I come to bid you all farewell--may be
a long farewell.  I have heard that--never mind what; that which will
take me away.  Meg, and Joan, and Ibbot, must go with me."

"Take me too!" pleaded little Blanche.

"Thee too!" repeated our mother, with a loving smile.  "Nay, sweetheart!
That cannot be.  Now, my children, I hope you will all be good and
obedient to Dame Hilda while I am away."

It was on Kate that her glance fell, being the next eldest after Isabel;
and Kate answered readily--

"We will all be good as gold, Dame."

"Nym, and Hodge, and Geoffrey," she went on, "go also with me; so thou,
Kate, wilt be eldest left here, and I look to thee to set a good
ensample to thy brethren,--especially my little wilful Jack."

Jack's snoring had stopped when she came in, and now, as she went over
and sat her down by the bed wherein Jack lay of the outside, up came
Jack's head from under the blue velvet coverlet.  Our mother laid her
hand tenderly upon it.

"My dear little Jack!" she said; "my poor little Jack!"

"Dame, I'm not poor, an't like you!" made answer Jack, in a tone of
considerable astonishment.  "I've got a whole ball of new string, and
two battledores and a shuttlecock, and a ball, and a bow and arrows."

"Yes, my little Jack," she said, tenderly.

"There are lots of lads poorer than me!" quoth Jack.  "Nym himself
hasn't got a whole ball of string, and Geoff hasn't a bit.  I asked him.
Master Inge gave it me yesterday.  I'm going to make reins with it for
Annis and Maud, and lots of cats' cradles."

"You're not going to make reins for _me_," said Maud from our bed.
"Dame, it is horrid playing horses with Jack.  He wants you to take the
string in your mouth, and you don't know where he's had it.  I don't
mind having it tied to my arms, but I won't have it in my mouth."

"Did you ever see a horse with his reins tied to his arms?" scornfully
demanded Jack.  "You do as you are bid, my Lady Maud, or I'll come and
make you."

"Children!" said our mother's soft voice, before Maud could answer, "are
you going to quarrel this last night when I have come to say farewell?
For shame, Maud! this was thy blame."

"Oh, of course, it is always me," muttered Maud, too angry for grammar.
"Jack's always the favourite; I never do any thing right."

"Yes, you do--now and then, by accident," responded Joan, who was
sitting at the foot of our bed; a speech which did not better Maud's
temper, and it was never angelic.

Jack seemed to have forgotten his passage-at-arms with Maud.  He was
always good-tempered enough, though he did tease outrageously.

"Why am I poor, Dame?" quoth Jack.

"Little Jack, thou must shortly go into the wars, and thou hast no
armour."

"But you'll get me a suit.  Dame?"

"I cannot, Jack.  Not for these wars.  Neither can I give thee the
wealth to make thee rich, as I fain would."

"Then, Dame, you will petition the King for a grant, will you not?"
saith Meg.

"True, my daughter," saith our mother softly.  "I must needs petition
the King, both for the riches from His treasury, and for the arms from
His armoury."  And then she bent down to kiss Jack.  "O my boy, lay not
up treasure for thyself, and thus fail to be rich in God."

I began then to see what she meant; but I rather wondered why she said
it.  Such talk as that, it seemed to me, was only fit for Sunday.  And
then I remembered that she was going away for a long, long time, and
that therefore Sunday talk might be appropriate.

I do not recollect any thing she said to the others, only to Jack and
me.  Jack and I were always fellows.  We children had paired ourselves
off, not altogether according to age, but rather according to tastes.
Edmund and Meg should have gone together, and then Hodge and Joan, and
so forth: whereas it was always Nym and Joan, and Meg and Hodge.  Then
Geoffrey and Isabel made the right pair, and Kate, Jack, and I, went in
a trio.  Maud was by herself; she paired with nobody, and nobody wanted
her, she was so cross.  Blanche was every body's pet while she was the
baby, and Beatrice came last of all.

Our mother went round, and kissed and blessed us all.  I lay inside with
Kate and Maud, and when she said, "Now, my little Agnes,"--I crept out
and travelled over the tawny silk coverlet, to those gentle velvet arms,
and she took me on her lap, and lapped me up in a fur mantle that Meg
bare on her arm.

"And what shall I say to my little Agnes?"

"Mother, say you love me!"

It came out before I knew it, and when I had said it, I was so
frightened that I hid my face in the fur.  It did not encourage me to
hear Dame Hilda's exclamation--

"Lack-a-day! what next, trow?"

But the other voice was very tender and gentle.

"Didst thou lack that told thee, mine own little Annis?  Ay me!  Maybe
men are happier lower down.  Who should love thee, my floweret, if not
thine own mother?  Kiss me, and say thou wilt be good maid till I see
thee again."

I managed to whisper, "I will try, Dame."

"How long will it be?" cries Jack.

"I cannot tell thee, Jack," she saith.  "Some months, I fear.  Not
years--I do trust, not years.  But God knoweth--and to Him I commit
you."  And as she bent her head low over the mantle wherein I was
lapped, I heard her say--"_Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, miserere
nobis, Jesu_!"

I knew that, because I always had to repeat it in my evening prayers,
though I never could tell what it meant, only, as it seemed to say
"Agnes" and "Monday," I supposed it had something to do with me, and was
to make me good after some fashion, but I saw not why it must be only on
a Monday, especially as I had to say it every day.  Now, of course, I
know what it means, and I wonder children and ignorant people are not
taught what prayers mean, instead of being made to say them just like
popinjays.  I wanted to teach my Joan what it meant, but the Lady
Julian, my lord's mother, commanded me not to do so, for it was unlucky.
I begged her to tell me why, and she said the Latin was a holy tongue,
known to God and the saints, and so long as they understood our prayers,
we did not need to understand them.

"But, Dame," said I, "saving your presence, if I say prayers I
understand not, how can I tell the way to use them?  I may be asking for
a basket of pears when I want a pair of shoes."

"Wherefore trouble the blessed saints for either?" saith she.  "Prayers
be only for high and holy concerns--not for base worldly matter, such as
be pears and shoes."

"But I am worldly matter, under your leave, Dame," said I.  "And saith
not the Paternoster somewhat touching daily bread?"

"Ay, the food of the soul--`_panem supersubstantialem da nobis_'" quoth
she.  "It means not a loaf of bread, child."

"That's Saint Matthew," said I.  "But Saint Luke hath it `_panem
quotidianum_,' and saith nought of `_supersubstantialem_.'  And surely
common food cometh from God."

"Daughter!" saith she, somewhat severely, "thou shouldst do a deal
better to leave thy fantasies and the workings of thine own brain, and
listen with meek submission to the holy doctors that can teach thee with
authority."

"Dame, I cry you mercy," said I.  "But surely our Lord teacheth with
more authority than they all; and if I have His words, what need I of
theirs?"

_Ha, chetife_! she would not listen to me,--only bade me yet again to
beware of pride and presumption, lest I should fall into heresy, from
the which Saint Agnes preserve me!  But it doth seem strange that folks
should fall into heresy by studying our Lord's words; I had thought they
should rather thereby keep them out of it.

Well--dear heart, here again am I got away from my story! this it is to
have too quick a wit--our mother blessed us, and kissed us all, and set
forth, the six eldest with her, for Southampton.  I know now, though I
heard not then, that she was on her way to join our father.  News had
come that he was safe over seas, in France, with the Sieurs de Fienles,
the Lady Margaret's kin, and no sooner had she learned it than she set
forth to join him.  I doubt greatly if he sent for her.  Nay, I should
rather say he would scarce have blessed her for coming.  But she got not
thus far on her way, as shall be seen.

His tarrying with the Sieurs de Fienles was in truth but a blind to hide
his true proceedings.  He stayed in Normandy but a few weeks, until the
hue and cry was over, and folks in England should all have got well in
their heads that he was there: then, or ever harm should befall him by
tarrying there too long, he made quiet departure, and ere any knew of it
he was safe in the King of France's dominions.  At this time the King of
France was King Charles le Bel, youngest brother of our Queen.  I
suppose he was too much taken up with the study of his own perfections
to see the perfections or imperfections of any body else: otherwise had
he scarce been so stone-blind to all that went on but just afore his
nose.  There be folks that can see a mouse a mile off, and there be
others that cannot see an elephant a yard in front of them.  But there
be a third sort, and to my honest belief King Charles was of them, that
can see the mouse as clear as sunlight when it is their own interest to
detect him, but have not a notion of the elephant being there when they
do not choose to look at him.  When he wanted to be rid of his first
wife Queen Blanche, he could see her well enough, and all her failings
too, as black as midnight; but when his sister behaved herself as ill as
ever his wife did or could have done, he only shut his eyes and took a
comfortable nap.  Now King Charles had himself expelled my father from
his dominions, for some old grudge that I never rightly understood; yet
never a word said he when he came back without licence.  Marry, but our
old King Edward should not have treated thus the unlicenced return of a
banished man!  He would have been hung within the week, with him on the
throne.  But King Charles was not cut from that stuff.  He let my father
alone till the Queen came over--our Queen Isabel, his sister, I mean--
and then who but he in all the French Court!  Howbeit, they kept things
pretty quiet for that time; nought came to King Edward's ears, and she
did her work and went home.  Forsooth, it was sweet work, for she
treated with her brother as the sister of France, and not as the wife of
England.  King Charles had taken Guienne, and she, sent to demand
restitution, concluded a treaty of peace on his bare word that it should
be restored, with no pledge nor security whatever: but bitter complaints
she laid of the King her husband, and the way in which he treated her.
Well, it is true, he did not treat her as I should have done in his
place, for he gave in to all her whims a deal too much, where a good
buffet on her ear should have been ever so much more for her good--and
his too, I will warrant.  Deary me, but if some folks were drowned, the
world would get along without them!  I mention no names (only that weary
Nichola, that is for ever mashing my favourite things).  So the Queen
came home, and all went on for a while.

But halt, my goose-quill! thou marchest too fast.  Have back a season.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1.  This is the probable order of birth.  The date assigned to the
birth of Agnes is fictitious, but that of her husband is taken from his
_Probatio Aetatis_.

Note 2.  July 8th, 1317; this is about the probable time.  The Countess
is supposed to be writing in the spring of 1348.

Note 3.  This word was then used of both sexes, and was the proper
designation of the son of a prince or peer not yet arrived at the age of
knighthood.



PART TWO, CHAPTER 2.

THE LADY OF LUDLOW.

  "Toil-worn and very weary--
  For the waiting-time is long;
  Leaning upon the promise--
  For the Promiser is strong."

So were we children left alone in the Castle of Ludlow, and two weary
months we had of it.  Wearier were they by far than the six that ran
afore them, when our mother was there, and our elder brethren, that she
had now carried away.  Lessons dragged, and play had no interest.  It
had been Meg that devised all our games, and Nym that made boats and
wooden horses for us, and Joan that wove wreaths and tied cowslip
balls--and they were all away.  There was not a bit of life nor fun
anywhere except in Jack, and if Jack were shut in a coal-hole by
himself, he would make the coals play with him o' some fashion.  But
even Jack could fetch no fun out of _amo, amas, amat_; and I grew sore
weary of pulling my neeld [needle] in and out, and being banged o'er the
head with the fiddlestick when I played the wrong string.  If we could
swallow learning as we do meat, what a lessening of human misery should
it be!

No news came all this while--at least, none that we heard.  Winter grew
into spring, and May came with her flowers.  Ay, and with something
else.

The day rose like the long, dreary days that had come before it, and
nobody guessed that any thing was likely to happen.  We ate eggs and
butter, and said our verbs and the commandments of God and the Church,
to Sir Philip, and played some weary, dreary exercises on the spinnet to
Dame Hilda, and dined (I mind it was on lamb, finches, and flaunes
[custards]), and then Kate, I, and Maud, were set down to our needles.
Blanche was something too young for needlework, saving to pull coloured
silks in and out of a bit of rag for practice.  We had scarce taken
twenty stitches, when far in the distance we heard a horn sounded.

"Is that my Lady a-coming home?" said I to Kate.

"Eh, would it were!" quoth she.  "I reckon it is some hunters in the
neighbourhood."

I looked to and fro, and no Dame Hilda could I see--only Margery, and
she was easy enough with us for little things; so I crept out on tiptoe
into the long gallery, and looked through the great oriel, which I could
well reach by climbing on the window-seat.  I remember what a sweet,
peaceful scene lay before me,--the fields and cottages lighted up with
the May sunshine, which glinted on the Teme as it wound here and there
amid the trees.  I looked right and left, but saw no hunters--nothing at
all, I thought at first.  And then, as I was going to leave the oriel, I
saw the sun glance on something that moved, and looked like a dark
square, and I heard the horn ring out again a little nearer.  I watched
the square thing grow--from dark to red, from an indistinct mass to a
compact body of marching men, with mounted officers at their head; and
then, forgetting Dame Hilda and every thing else except the startling
news I brought, I rushed back into the nursery, crying out--

"The King's troops!  Jack, Kate, the King's troops are coming!  Come and
see!"

Dame Hilda was there, but she did not scold me.  She turned as white as
the sindon in her hand, and stood up.

"Dame Agnes, what mean you?  Surely 'tis never thus!  Holy Mary, shield
us!"

And she hurried forth to the oriel window, where Jack was already
perched.

The square had grown larger and plainer now.  It was evident they were
marching straight for the Castle.

Dame Hilda hastened away--I guessed, to confer with Master Inge--and
having so done, she came back to the nursery, bade us put aside our
sewing and wash our hands, and come down with her to hall.  We all
trooped after, Beatrice led by her hand, and she ranged us afore her in
the great hall, on the dais, standing after our ages,--Kate at the head,
then I, Maud, and Jack.  And so we awaited our fate.

I scarce think I was frighted.  I knew too little what was likely to
happen, to feel so.  That something was going to happen, I had uncertain
fantasy; but our life had been colourless for so long, that the idea of
any thing to happen which would make a change was rather agreeable than
otherwise.

We heard the last loud summons of the trumpet, which in our ignorance we
had mistaken for a hunting-horn, and the trumpeter's cry of "Open to the
King's troops!"  We heard the portcullis lifted, and the steady tramp of
the soldiers as they marched into the court-yard.  There was a little
parleying outside, and then two officers in the King's livery [Note 1]
came forward into the hall, bowing low to us and Dame Hilda.

The Dame spoke first.  "Sir Thomas Gobioun, if I err not?"

"He, and your servant, Dame," answered one of the officers.

"Then I must needs do you to wit, Sir, that in this castle is neither
Lord nor Lady, and I trust our Lord the King wars not with little
children such as you see here."

"Stale news, good Dame!" answered Sir Thomas, with (as methought) a
rather grim smile.  "We know something more, I reckon, than you,
touching your Lord and Lady.  Sir Roger de Mortimer is o'er seas in
Normandy, and the Lady Joan at Skipton Castle."

"At Southampton, you surely mean?" said Master Inge, who stood at the
other end of the line whereof I made the midmost link.

The knight laughed out.  "Nay, worthy Master Inge, I mean not
Southampton, but Skipton.  'Tis true, both begin with an _S_, and end
with a _p_ and a _ton_; but there is a mile or twain betwixt the
places."

"What should my Lady do at Skipton?" saith Dame Hilda.

"Verily, I conceive not this!" saith Master Inge, knitting his brows.
"It was to Southampton my Lady went--at least so she told us."

"Your Lady told you truth, Master Castellan.  She set forth for
Southampton, and reached it.  But ere a fair wind blew for her voyage,
came a somewhat rougher gale in the shape of a command from the King's
Grace to the Sheriff to take her into keeping, and send her into ward at
Skipton Castle, whither she set forth a fortnight past.  Now, methinks,
Master Inge, you are something wiser than you were a minute gone."

"And our young damsels?" cries Dame Hilda.  "Be they also gone to
Skipton?"

I felt Kate's hand close tighter upon mine.

"Soft you, now, good Dame!" saith Sir Thomas--who, or I thought so, took
it all as a very good joke.  "Your damsels be parted in so many as they
be, and sent to separate convents,--one to Shuldham, one to Sempringham,
and one to Chicksand--and their brothers be had likewise into ward."

To my unspeakable amazement, Dame Hilda burst into tears, and catched up
Beatrice in her arms.  I had never seen her weep in my life: and a most
new and strange idea was taking possession of me--did Dame Hilda
actually care something for us?

"Sir," she sobbed, "you will never have the heart to part these babes
from all familiar faces, and send them amongst strangers that may use
them hardly, to break their baby hearts?  Surely the King, that is
father of his people, hath never commanded such a thing as that?  At the
least leave me this little one--or put me in ward with her."

I was beginning to feel frightened now.  I looked at Kate, and read in
her face that she was as terrified as I was.

"Tut, tut, Dame," saith the other officer (Sir Thomas, it seemed to me,
enjoyed the scene, and rather wished to prolong it, but this other was
of softer metal), "take not on where is no cause, I pray you.  The
little ones bide here under your good care.  Only, as you may guess, we
be commanded to take to the King's use this Castle of Ludlow and all
therein, and we charge you--" and he bowed to Dame Hilda, and then to
Master Inge--"and you, in the King's name, that you thwart not nor
hinder us, in the execution of his pleasure.  Have here our commission."

Master Inge took the parchment, and scrutinised it most carefully, while
Dame Hilda wiped her eyes and put Beatrice down with a fervent "Bless
thee, my jewel!"

Now out bursts Jack, with a big sob that he could contain no longer.
"Does the King want my new ball of string, and my battledores?"

"Certes," answered Sir Thomas: but I saw a twinkle in his eye, though
his mouth was as grave as might be.

Jack fell a-blubbering.

"No, no--nonsense!" saith the other officer.  "Don't spoil the fun,
man!" quoth Sir Thomas.  "Fun! it is no fun to these babes," answered
the other.  "I've a little lad at home, and this mindeth me of him.  I
cannot bear to see a child cry--and for no cause!--Nay, my little one,"
saith he to Jack, "all in this Castle now belongs to the King, as
aforetime to thy father: but thy father took not thy balls and
battledores from thee, nor will he.  Cheer up, for thou hast nought to
fear."

"Please, Sir," saith Kate, "shall all our brothers and sisters be made
monks and nuns, whether they like or no?"

Sir Thomas roared with laughter.  His comrade saith gently, "Nay, my
little damsel, the King's will is not so.  It is but that they shall be
kept safe there during his pleasure."

"And will they get any dinner and supper?" saith Maud.

"Plenty!" he answered: "and right good learning, and play in the convent
garden at recreation-time, with such other young damsels as shall be
bred up there.  They will be merry as crickets, I warrant."

Kate fetched a great sigh of relief.  She told me afterwards that she
had felt quite sure we should every one of us be had to separate
convents, and never see each other any more.

So matters dropped down again into their wonted course.  For over two
years, our mother tarried at Skipton, and then she was moved into
straiter ward at Pomfret, about six weeks only [Note 2] before Queen
Isabel landed with her alien troops under Sir John of Ostrevant, and
drave King Edward first from his throne, and finally from this life.
Our father came with her.  And this will I say, that our mother might
have been set free something earlier [Note 3], if every body had done
his duty.  But folks are not much given to doing their duties, so far as
I can see.  They are as ready as you please to contend for their
rights--which generally seems to mean, "Let me have somebody else's
rights;" ay, they will get up a battle for that at short notice: but who
ever heard of a man petitioning, much less fighting, for the right to do
his duty?  And yet is not that, really and verily, the only right a man
has?

It was a gala day for us when our mother returned home, and our brothers
and sisters were gathered and sent back to us.  Nym (always a little
given to romance) drew heart-rending pictures of his utter misery, while
in ward; but Roger said it was not so bad, setting aside that it was
prison, and we were parted from one another.  And Geoffrey, the sensible
boy of the family, said that while he would not like a monk's life on
the whole, being idle and useless, yet he did like the quiet and
peacefulness of it.

"But I am not secure," said our mother, "that such quiet is what God
would for us, saving some few.  Soldiers be not bred by lying of a bed
of rose-leaves beside scented waters.  And I think the soldiers of
Christ will scarce be taught o' that fashion."

Diverse likewise were the maids' fantasies.  Meg said she would not have
bidden at Shuldham one day longer than she was forced.  Joan said she
liked not ill at Sempringham, only for being alone.  But Isabel, as she
sat afore the fire with me on her lap, the even of her coming home--
Isabel had ever petted me--and Dame Hilda asked her touching her life at
Chicksand--Isabel said, gazing with a far-away look into the red ashes--

"I shall go back to Chicksand, some day, if I may win leave of mine
elders."

"Why, Dame Isabel!" quoth Dame Hilda in some surprise.  "Liked you so
well as that?"

"Ay, I liked well," she said, in that dreamy fashion.  "Not that I did
not miss you all, Dame; and in especial my babe here,--who is no longer
a babe"--and she smiled down at me.  "And verily, I could see that sins
be not shut out by convent walls, but rather shut in.  Yet--"

"Ay?" said Dame Hilda when she stayed.  I think she wanted to make her
talk.

"I scarce know how to say it," quoth she.  "But it seemed to me that for
those who would have it so, Satan was shut in with them, and pleasure
was shut out.  And also, for those who would have it so, God was shut in
with them, and snares and temptations--some of them--were shut out.
Only some: but it was something to be rid of them.  If it were possible
to have only those who wanted to shut out the world, and to shut
themselves in with God!  That is the theory: and that would be Heaven on
earth.  But it does not work in practice."

"Yet you would fain return thither?" said Dame Hilda.

Isabel looked into the fire and answered not, until she said, all
suddenly, "Dame Hilda, be there two of you, or but one?"

"Truly, Dame Isabel, I take not your meaning."

"Ah!" saith she; "then is there but one of you.  If so, you cannot
conceive me.  Thou dost, Ellen?"

"Ay, Dame Isabel, that do I, but too well."

"They have easier lives, methinks, that are but one.  You look on me,
Dame Hilda, as who should say, What nonsense doth this maid talk!  But
if you knew what it was to have two natures within you, pulling you
diverse ways, sometimes the one uppermost, and at times the other; and
which of the twain be _you_, that cannot you tell--I will tell you, I
have noted this many times"--Isabel's voice sank as if she feared to be
overheard--"in them whose father and mother have been of divers
dispositions.  Some of the children may take after the one, and some
after the other; but there will be one, at least, who partaketh both,
and then they pull him divers ways, that he knoweth no peace."  Isabel's
audience had been larger than she supposed.  As she ended, with a weary
sigh, a soft hand fell upon her head, and I who, sat upon her knees,
could better see than she, looked up into my Lady's face.

"Sit still, daughter," said she, as Isabel strove to rise.  "Nay, sweet
heart, I am not angered at thy fantasy, though truly I, being but one
like Dame Hilda, conceive not thy meaning.  It may be so.  I have not
all the wit upon earth, that I should scorn or set down the words of
them that speak out of other knowledge than mine.  But, my Isabel, there
is another way than this wherein thou mayest have two natures."

"How so, Dame, an' it like you?"

"The nature of sinful man, and the nature of God Almighty."

"They must be marvellous saints that so have," said Dame Hilda, crossing
herself.

"Some of them," said my Lady gently, "were once marvellous sinners."

"Why, you should have to strive a very lifetime for that," quoth Dame
Hilda.  "I should think no man could rise thereto that dwelt not in
anchorite's cell, and scourged him on the bare back every morrow, and
ate but of black rye-bread, and drank of ditch-water.  Deary me, but I
would not like that!  I'd put up with a bit less saintliness, _I_
would!"

"You are all out there, Dame," my Lady made answer.  "This fashion of
saintliness may be along with such matters, but it cometh not by their
help."

"How comes it then, Dame, an't like you?"

"By asking for it," saith our mother, quietly.

"Good lack! but which of the saints must I ask for it?" quoth she.
"I'll give him all the wax candles in Ludlow, a week afore I die.  I'd
rather not have it sooner."

"When go you about to die, Dame?"

"Our Lady love us!  That cannot I say."

"Then you shall scarce know the week before, I think."

"Oh, no! but the saint shall know.  Look you, Dame, to be too much of a
saint should stand sore in man's way.  I could not sing, nor dance, nor
lake me a bit, if I were a saint; and that fashion of saintliness you
speak of must needs be sorest of all.  If I do but just get it to go to
Heaven with, that shall serve me the best."

"I thought they sang in Heaven," saith Isabel.

"Bless you, Damsel!--nought but Church music."

"Dame Hilda, I marvel if you would be happy in Heaven."

"Oh, I should be like, when I got there."

My Lady shook her head.

"For that," quoth she, "you must be partaker of the Divine nature.
Which means not, doing good works contrary to your liking, but having
the nature which delights in doing them."

"Oh, ay, that will come when we be there."

"On the contrary part, they that have it not here on earth shall not win
there.  They only that be partakers of Christ may look to enter Heaven.
And no man that partaketh Christ's merits can miss to partake Christ's
nature."

"Marry, then but few shall win there."

"So do I fear," saith my Lady.

"Dame, under your good pleasure," saith Dame Hilda, looking her
earnestly in the face, "where gat you such notions?  They be something
new.  At the least, never heard I your Ladyship so to speak aforetime."

My Lady's cheek faintly flushed.

"May God forgive me," saith she, "all these years to have locked up his
Word, which was burning in mine own heart!  Yet in good sooth, Dame, you
are partly right.  Ere I went to Skipton, I was like one that seeth a
veiled face, or that gazeth through smoked glass.  But now mine eyes
have beheld the face of Him that was veiled, and I have spoken with Him,
as man speaketh with his friend.  And if you would know who helped me
thereto, it was an holy hermit, by name Richard Rolle, that did divers
times visit me in my prison at Skipton.  And he knows Him full well."

"Dame!" saith Dame Hilda, looking somewhat anxiously on my mother, "I do
trust you go not about to die, nor to hie in cloister and leave all
these poor babes!  Do bethink you, I pray, ere you do either."

My Lady smiled.  "Nay, good my Dame!" saith she.  "How can I go in
cloister, that am wedded wife?"

"Eh, but you might get your lord's consent thereto--some wedded women
doth."

I was looking on my Lady, and I saw a terrible change in her face when
Dame Hilda spoke those words.  I felt, too, Isabel's sudden nervous
shiver.  And I guessed what they both thought--that assent would be easy
enough to win.  For in all those months since Queen Isabel came over, he
had never come near us.  He was ever at the Court, waiting upon her.
And though his duties--if he had them, but what they were we knew not--
might keep him at the Court in general, yet surely, had he been very
desirous to see us, he might have won leave to run over when the Queen
was at Hereford, were it only for an hour or twain.

Our mother did not answer for a moment.  When she did, it was to
say--"Nay, vows may not be thus lightly done away.  `Till death' scarce
means, till one have opportunity to undo."

"Then, pray you, go not and die, Dame!"

"I am immortal till God bids me die," she made answer.  "But why should
man die because he loveth Jesu Christ better than he was wont?"

"Oh, folks always do when they get marvellous good."

"It were ill for the world an' they so did," saith my Lady.  "That is
bad enough to lack good folks."

"It is bad enough to lack _you_," saith Dame Hilda.

My Lady gave a little laugh, and so the converse ended.

The next thing that I can remember, after that, was the visit of our
father.  He only came that once, and tarried scarce ten days; but he
took Nym and Geoffrey back with him.  I heard Dame Hilda whisper
somewhat to Tamzine, as though he had desired to have also one or two of
the elder damsels, and that my Lady had so earnestly begged and prayed
to the contrary that for once he gave way to her.  It was not often, I
think, that he did that.  It was four years good ere we saw either of
our brothers again--not till all was over--and then Geoff told us a
sorry tale indeed of all that had happed.

It was at the time when our father paid us this visit that my marriage
and that of Beatrice were covenanted.  King Edward of Caernarvon had
contracted my lord that now is to the Lady Alianora La Despenser,
daughter of my sometime Lord of Gloucester [Hugh Le Despenser the
Younger], who was put to death at Hereford by Queen Isabel.  But she--I
mean the Queen--who hated him and all his, sent the Lady Alianora to
Sempringham, with command to veil her instantly, and gave the marriage
of my Lord to my Lord Prince, the King that now is [Edward the Third].
So my father, being then at top of the tree, begged the marriage for one
of his daughters, and it was settled that should be me.  I liked it well
enough, to feel myself the most important person in the pageant, and to
be beautifully donned, and all that; and as I was not to leave home for
some years to come, it was but a show, and cost me nothing.  I dare say
it cost somebody a pretty penny.  Beatrice was higher mated, with my
Lord of Norfolk's son, who was the King's cousin, but he died a lad,
poor soul! so her grandeur came to nought, and she wedded at last a much
lesser noble.

Thus dwelt we maids with our mother in the Castle of Ludlow, seeing
nought of the fine doings that were at Court, save just for the time of
our marriages, which were at Wynchecombe on the day of Saint Lazarus,
that is the morrow of O Sapientia [Note 4].  The King was present
himself, and the young Lady Philippa, who the next month became our
Queen, and his sisters the Ladies Alianora and Joan, and more Earls and
Countesses than I can count, all donned their finest.  Well-a-day, but
there must have been many a yard of velvet in that chapel, and an whole
army of beasts ermines must have laid their lives down to purfile [trim
with fur] the same!  I was donned myself of blue velvet guarded of
miniver, and wore all my Lady's jewels on mine head and corsage; and
marry, but I queened it!  Who but I for that morrow, in very sooth!

Ay, and somebody else [Queen Isabelle, the young King's mother] was
there, whom I have not named.  Somebody robed in snow-white velvet, with
close hood and wimple, so that all that showed of her face was from the
eyebrows to the lips,--all pure, unstained mourning white.  Little I
knew of the horrible stains on that black heart beneath!  And I thought
her so sweet, so fair!  Come, I have spoken too plainly to add a name.

So all passed away like a dream, and we won back to Ludlow, and matters
fell back to the old ways, as if nought had ever happened--the only real
difference being that instead of "Damsel Agnes" I was "my Lady of
Pembroke," and our baby Beatrice, instead of "Damsel Beattie," was "my
Lady Beatrice of Norfolk."  And about a year after that came letters
from Nym, addressed to "my Lady Countess of March," in which he writ
that the King had made divers earls, and our father amongst them.  Dame
Hilda told us the news in the nursery, and Jack turned a somersault, and
stood on his hands, with his heels up in the air.

"Call me Jack any more, if you dare!" cries he.  "I am my Lord John of
March, and I shall expect to be addressed so, properly.  Do you hear,
children?"

"I hear one of the children, in good sooth," said Meg, comically.  And
Maud saith--

"Prithee, Jack, take no airs, for they beseem thee but very ill."

Whereon Jack fell a-moaning and a-crying out, that Dame Hilda thought he
was rare sick, and ordered Emelina to get ready a dose of violet oil.
But before Emelina could so much as fetch a spoon, there was Jack
dancing a hornpipe and singing, or rather screaming, at the top of his
voice, till Dame Hilda put her hands over her ears and cried for mercy.
I never did see such another lad as Jack.

We heard but little, and being children, we cared less, for the events
that followed--the beheading of my Lord of Kent, and the rising under my
Lord of Lancaster.  And the next thing after that was the last thing of
all.

It was in October, 1330.  We had no more idea of such a blow falling on
us than we had of the visitation of an angel.  I remember we were all
gathered--except the little ones--in my Lady's closet, for after my
marriage I was no longer kept in the nursery, though Beattie, on account
of her much youth, was made an exception to that rule.  My Lady was
spinning, and her damsel Aveline carding, and Joan and I, our arms round
each others' waists, sat in the corner, Joan having on her lap a piece
of finished broidery, and I having nothing: what the others were doing I
forget.  Then came the familiar sound of the horn, and my Lady turned
white.  I never felt sure why she always turned white when a horn
sounded: whether she expected bad news, or whether she expected our
father.  She was exceeding afraid of him, and yet she loved him, I know:
I cannot tell how she managed it.

After the horn, we heard the tramp of troops entering the court-yard,
and I think we all felt that once more something was going to happen.
Aveline glanced at my Lady, who returned the look, but did not speak;
and then Lettice, one of the other maidens, rose and went forth, at a
look from Aveline.  But she could scarcely have got beyond the door when
Master Inge came in.

"Dame," said he, "my news is best told quickly.  The Castle and all
therein is confiscate to the Crown.  But the King hath sent strict
command that the wardrobe, jewels, and all goods, of your Ladyship, and
of all ladies and children dwelling with you, shall be free from
seizure, and no hand shall be laid on you nor any thing belonging to
you."

My Lady rose up, resting her hand on the chair from which she rose; I
think it was to support her.

"I return humble thanks to the Lord King," said she, in a trembling
voice.  "What hath happened, Master Inge?"

"Dame," quoth he, "how shall I tell you?  My Lord is a prisoner of the
Tower, and Sir Edmund and Sir Geoffrey with him--"

If my Lady could turn whiter, I think she did.  I felt Joan's hand-clasp
tighten upon mine, till I could almost have cried out.

"And Dame Isabel the Queen is herself under ward in the Castle of
Berkhamsted, and all matters turned upside down.  Man saith that the
great men with the King be now Sir William de Montacute and Sir Edward
de Bohun, and divers more of like sort.  And my Lord of Lancaster, man
saith, flung up his cap, and thanked God that he had lived to see that
day."

My Lady had stood as still and silent as an image, all the while Master
Inge was speaking, only that when he said the Queen was in ward, she
gave a sort of gasp.  When he had done, she clasped her hands, and
looked up to Heaven.

"Dost Thou come," she said, in a strange voice that did not sound like
hers, "dost Thou come to judge the earth?  We have waited long for Thee.
Yet--Oh, if it be possible--if it be possible!  Spare my boys to me!
And spare--"

A strange kind of sob seemed to come up in her throat, and she held out
her hands as if she could not see.  I believe, if Master Inge and
Lettice had not been quick to spring forward and catch her by the arms,
she would have fallen to the floor.  They bore her into her bedchamber
close by; and we children saw her not for some time.  Dame Hilda was in
and out; but when we asked her how my Lady fared, she did nought save
shake her head, from which we learned little except that things went ill
in some way.  When we asked Lettice, she said--

"There, now! don't hinder me.  Poor children, you will know soon
enough."

Aveline was the best, for she sat down and gathered us into her arms and
comforted us; but even she gave us no real answer, only she kept saying,
"Poor maids! poor little maids!"

So above a month passed away.  Master John de Melbourne was sent down
from the King as supervisor of the lands and goods of my Lady and her
children; but he came with the men-at-arms, so he brought no fresh news:
and it was after Christmas before we knew the rest.  Then, one winter
morrow, came a warrant of the Chancery, granting to my Lady all the
lands of her own inheritance, by reason of the execution of her husband.
And then she knew that all had come that would come.

We children, Meg except, had not yet been allowed to see our mother, who
had never stirred from her bedchamber.  One evening, early in January,
we were sitting in her closet, clad in our new doole raiment (how I
hated it!), talking to one another in low voices, for I think we all had
a sort of instinct that things were going wrong somehow, even the babies
who understood least about it: when all at once, for none of us saw her
enter, a lady stood before us.  A lady whom we did not know, clad in
white widow-doole, tall and stately, with a white, white face, so that
her weeds were scarcely whiter, and a kind of fixed, unalterable
expression of intense pain, yet unchangeable peace.  It seemed to me
such a strange look.  Whether the pain or the peace were the greater I
knew not, nor could I tell which was the newer.  We girls sat and looked
at her with puzzled faces.  Then a faint smile broke through the pain,
on the white face, like the sun breaking through clouds, and a voice we
knew, asked of us--

"Don't you know me, my children?"

And that was how our mother came back to us.

She did not leave us again.  Ever since he died, she has lived for us.
That white face, full of peace and yet of pain, abides with her; her
colour has never returned.  But I think the pain grows less with years,
and the peace grows more.  She smiles freely, but it is faintly, as if
smiles hardly belonged to her, and were only a borrowed thing that might
not be kept; and her eyes never light up as of old--only that once, when
some months after our father's end, Nym and Geoff came back to us.
Then, just for one moment, her old face came again.  For I think she had
given them up,--not to King Edward, but to Christ our Lord, who is her
King.

Ay, I never knew woman like her in that.  There are many that will say
prayers, and there are some that will pray, which is another thing from
saying prayers: but never saw I one like her, that seemed to do all her
work and to live all her living in the very light of the Throne of God.
Just as an impassioned musician turns every thing into music, and a true
painter longs to paint every lovely thing he sees, so with her all
things turn to Jesu Christ.  I should think she will be canonised some
day.  I am sure she deserves it better than many an one whom I have
heard man name as meriting to be a saint.  Perhaps it is possible to be
a saint and not be canonised.  Must man not have been a saint before he
can be declared one?  I know the Lady Julian would chide me for saying
that, and bid me remember that the Church only can declare man to be
saint.  But I wonder myself if the Lord never makes saints, without
waiting for the Church to do it for Him.  The Church may never call my
Lady "Saint Joan," but that will she be whether she be so-called or no.
And at times I think, too, that they who shall be privileged to dwell in
Heaven will find there a great company of saints of whom they never
heard, and perchance some of them that sit highest there will not be
those most accounted of in the Calendar and on festival days.  But I do
not suppose--as an ancestress of my mother did, in a chronicle she wrote
which I once read; it is in the possession of her French relatives, and
was written by the Lady Elaine de Lusignan, daughter of Geoffroy Count
de la Marche, who was a son of that House [Note 5]--I do not suppose
that the saints who were nobles in this world will sit nearest the
Throne, and those who were peasants furthest off.  Nay, I think it will
be another order of nobility that will obtain there.  Those who have
served our Lord the best, and done the most for their fellow-men, these
I think will be the nobles of that world.  For does not our Lord say
Himself that the first shall be last there, and the last first?  And I
can guess that Joan de Mortimer, my Lady and mother, will not stand low
on that list.  It is true, she was a Countess in this life; but it was
little to her comfort; and she was beside that early orphaned, and a
cruelly ill-used wife and a bereaved mother.  Life brought her little
good: Heaven will bring her more.

But I wonder where one Agnes de Hastings will stand in that company.
Nay, rather, will she be there at all?

It would be well that I should think about it.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1.  A word which then included uniform and all lands of official
garb.

Note 2.  On August 3rd she left Skipton, arriving at Pomfret on the 5th.

Note 3.  I find no indication of the date: only that she was at Ludlow
on October 26, 1330.

Note 4.  The precise date and place are not recorded, but it was about
this time, and the King, who was present, was in the West only from
December 16th to the 21st.  It is asserted by Walsingham that Beatrice
was married "about" 1327.

Note 5.  The Lady Elaine's chronicle is "Lady Sybil's Choice."



PART THREE, CHAPTER 1.

WHEREIN SISTER ALIANORA LA DESPENSER MAKETH MOAN (1371).

CAGED.

  "But of all sad words by tongue or pen,
  The saddest are these--
  `It might have been!'"

  Whittier.

"I marvel if the sun is never weary!"

Thus spoke my sister Margaret [Note 1], as she stood gazing from the
window of the recreation-room, and Sister Roberga looked up and laughed.

"Nay, what next?" saith she.  "Heard I ever such strange fancies as
thine?  Thou wilt be marvelling next if the stars be never athirst."

"And if rain be the moon weeping," quoth Sister Philippa, who seemed as
much amused as Roberga.

"No, the moon weepeth not," said Margaret.  "She is too cold to weep.
She is like Mother Ada."

"Eh dear, what fancies hast thou!" saith Sister Roberga.  "Who but thou
would ever have thought of putting the moon and Mother Ada into one
stall!"

"What didst thou mean, Sister Margaret?" saith the quiet voice of Mother
Alianora, as she sat by the chimney corner.

Mother Alianora is our father's sister--Margaret's and mine; but I ought
not to think of it, since a recluse should have no kindred out of her
Order and the blessed saints.  And there are three Sisters in the Priory
named Alianora: wherefore, to make diversity, the eldest professed is
called Alianora, and the second (that is myself) Annora, and the
youngest, only last year professed, Nora.  We had likewise in this
convent an Aunt Joan, but she deceased over twenty years gone.  Margaret
was professed in the Order when I was, but not at this house; and she
hath been transferred hither but a few weeks [Note 2], so that her mind
and heart are untravelled ground to me.  She was a Sister at Watton: and
since I can but just remember her before our profession, it seems
marvellous strange that we should now come to know one another, after
nearly fifty years' cloistered life.  There is yet another Sister named
Margaret, but being younger in profession we call her Sister Magota.

When Mother Alianora spoke, Margaret turned back from the window, as she
ought when addressed by a superior.

"I mean, Mother, that he never hath any change of work," she said.
"Every morrow he has to rise, and every night must he set: and always
the one in east and the other in west.  I think he must be sore, sore
weary, for he hath been at it over five thousand years."

Sister Roberga and Sister Philippa laughed.  Mother Alianora did not
laugh.  A soft, rather sorrowful, sort of smile came on her aged face.

"Art thou so weary, my daughter, that the thought grew therefore?" saith
she.

Something came into Margaret's eyes for a moment, but it was out again,
almost before I could see it.  I knew not what it was; Margaret's eyes
are yet a puzzle to me.  They are very dark eyes, but they are different
in their look from all the other dark eyes in the house.  Sister Olive
has eyes quite as dark; but they say nothing.  Margaret's eyes talk so
much that she might do very well without her tongue.  Not that I always
understand what they say; the language in which they speak is generally
a foreign one to me.  I fancy Mother Alianora can read it better.  I
listened for Margaret's reply.

"Dear Mother, is not weariness the lot of all humanity, and more
especially of women?"

"Mary love us!" cries Philippa.  "What gibberish you talk, Sister
Margaret!"

"Sister Philippa will come here and ask Sister Margaret's forgiveness at
once," saith Mother Gaillarde, the sub-Prioress.

Sister Philippa banged down her battledore on the table, and marching
up, knelt before Margaret and asked forgiveness, making a face behind
her back as soon as she had turned.

"Sister Philippa will take no cheese at supper," added the sub-Prioress.

Sister Philippa pulled another face--a very ugly one; it reminded me
somewhat too much of the carved figure of the Devil with his mouth
gaping on the Prior's stall in our Abbey Church.  That and Sister
Philippa's faces are the ugliest things I ever saw, except the Cellarer,
and he looks so good-tempered that one forgets his ugliness.

"Sister Philippa is not weary, as it should seem," saith Mother
Alianora, again with her quiet smile.  "Otherwise, to speak thereof
should scarcely seem gibberish to her."

I spoke not, but I thought it was in no wise gibberish to me.  For I
never had that vocation which alone should make nuns.  Not God, but man,
forced this veil upon me; for, ah me!  I was meant for another life.
And that other life, that should have been mine, I never cease to long
for and to mourn over.

Only six years old was I--for though my seventh birthday was near, it
was not past--when I was thrust into this house of religion.  My
vocation and my will were never asked.  We--Margaret and I--were in
Queen Isabel's way; and she plucked us and flung us over the hedge like
weeds that cumbered her garden.  It was all by reason she hated our
father: but what he had done to make her thus hate him, that I never
knew.  And I was an affianced bride when I was torn away from all that
should have made life glad, and prisoned here for ever more.  How my
heart keeps whispering to me, "It might have been!"  There is a woman
who comes for doles to the convent gate, and at times she hath with her
the loveliest little child I ever saw; and they smile on each other,
mother and child, and look so happy when they smile.  Why was I cut off
thus from all that makes other women happy?  Nobody belongs to me;
nobody loves me.  The very thought of being loved, the very wish to be
so, is sin in _me_, who am a veiled nun.  But why was it made sin?  It
was not sin aforetime.  _He_ might have loved me, he whom I never saw
after I was flung over the convent wall--he who was mine and not hers to
whom I suppose they will have wedded him.  But I know nothing: I shall
never know.  And they say it is sin to think of him.  Every thing seems
to be sin; and loving people more especially.  Mother Ada told me one
day that she saw in me an inclination to be too much drawn to Mother
Alianora, and warned me to mortify it, because she was my father's
sister, and therefore there was cause to fear it might be an indulgence
of the flesh.  And now, these weeks past, my poor, dry, withered heart
seems to have a little faint pulsation in it, and goes out to Margaret--
my sister Margaret with the strange dark eyes, my own sister who is an
utter stranger to me.  Must I crush the poor dry thing back, and hurt
all that is left to hurt of it?  Oh, will no saint in Heaven tell me why
it is, that God, who loveth men, will not have monks and nuns to love
each other?  The Lord Prior saith He is a jealous God, and demands that
we give all our love to Him.  Yet I may love the blessed saints without
any derogation to Him--but I must not love mine own sister.  It is very
perplexing.  Do earthly fathers forbid their children to love one
another, lest they should not be loved themselves sufficiently?  I
should have thought that love, like other things, increased by exercise,
and that loving my sister would rather help me to love God.  But they
say not.  I suppose they know.

Ah me, if I should find out at last that they mistook God's meaning!--
that I might have had His love and Margaret's too!--nay, even that I
might have had His love and that other, of which it is so wicked in me
to think, and yet something is in me that will keep ever thinking!  O
holy and immaculate Virgin, O Saint Margaret, Saint Agnes, and all ye
blessed maidens that dwell in Heaven, have mercy on me, miserable
sinner!  My soul is earth-bound, and I cannot rise.  I am the bride of
Christ, and I cannot cease lamenting my lost earthly bridal.

But hath Christ a thousand brides?  They say holy Church is His Bride,
and she is one.  Then how can all the vestals in all the convents be
each of them His bride?  I suppose I cannot understand as I ought to do.
Perhaps I should have understood better if that _might have been_ had
been--if I had not stood withering all these years, taught to crush down
this poor dried heart of mine.  They will not let me have any thing to
love.  When Mother Ada thought I was growing too fond of little
Erneburg, she took her away from me and gave her to Sister Roberga to
teach.  Yet the child seemed to soften my heart and do it good.

"Are the holy Mother and the blessed saints not enough for thee?" she
said.

But the blessed saints do not look at me and smile, as Erneburg did.
She doth it even now, across the schoolroom--though I have never been
permitted to speak word to her since Mother Ada took her from me.  And I
must smile back again,--ay, however many times I have to lick a cross on
the oratory floor for doing it.  Why ought I not?  Did not our Lord
Himself take the little children into His arms?  I am sure He must have
smiled on them--they would have been frightened if He had not done so.

They say I have but a poor wit, and am fit to teach only babes.

"And not fit to teach them," saith Mother Ada--in a tone which I am sure
people would call cross and snappish if she were an extern--"for her
fancy all runs to playing with them, rather than teaching them any thing
worth knowing."

Ah, Mother Ada, but is not love worth knowing? or must they have that
only from their happy mothers, who not being holy women are permitted to
love, and not from a poor, crushed, hopeless heart like mine?

There is nothing in our life to look forward to.  "Till death" is the
vow of the Sisterhood.  And death seems a poor hope.

I know, of course, what Mother Ada would say: that I have no vocation,
and my heart is in the world and of the world.  But God sent me to the
world: and man--or rather woman--thrust me against my will into this
Sisterhood.

"Not a bit better than Lot's wife!" says Mother Ada.  "She was struck to
a pillar of salt for looking back, and so shalt thou be, Sister Annora,
with thy worldly fancies and carnal longings."

Well, if I were, I am not sure I should feel much different.  Sometimes
I seem to myself to be hardening into stone, body and soul.  Soul! ah,
that is the worst of it.

Now and then, in the dead of night, when I lie awake--and for an hour or
more after lauds, I can seldom sleep--one awful thought harrieth and
weareth me, at times almost to madness.  I never knew till a year ago,
when I heard the Lord Prior speaking to Mother Gaillarde thereanent,
that holy Church held the contract of marriage for the true canonical
tie.  And if it be thus, and we were never divorced--and I never heard
word thereof--what then?  Am I his true wife--I, not she?  Is he happy
with her?  Who is she, and what is she?  Doth she care for him, and make
him her first thought, and give all her heart to him, as I would have
done, if--

How the convent bell startled me!  Miserable me!  I am vowed to God, and
I am His for ever.  But the vow that came first, if it were never
undone--_Mater purissima, Sancta Virgo virginum, ora pro me_!

Is there some tale, some sad, strange story, lying behind those dark
eyes, in that shut-up heart of my sister Margaret?  Not like mine; she
was never betrothed.  But her eyes seem to me to tell a story.

Margaret never speaks to me, unless I do it first: and I dare not,
except about some work, when Mother Gaillarde or Mother Ada is present.
Yet once or twice I have caught those dark eyes scanning my face, with a
wistful look.  Maybe she too is trying to crush down her heart, as I
have done.  But I cannot help thinking that the heart behind those eyes
will take a great deal of crushing.

Mother Alianora is so different from the two I named just now, I am sure
there is not a better nor holier woman in all the Order.  But she is
always gentle and tender; never cold like Mother Ada, nor hard and
sarcastic like Mother Gaillarde.  I am glad my Lady Prioress rules with
an easy hand--("sadly too slack!" saith Mother Gaillarde)--so that dear
Mother Alianora doth not get chidden for what is the best part of her.
I should not be afraid of speaking to Margaret if only she were present
of our superiors.

At recreation-time, this afternoon, Sister Amphyllis asked Mother
Alianora how long she had been professed.

"Forty-nine years," saith she, with her gentle smile.

I was surprised to hear it.  She hath then been in the Order only five
years longer than I have.

"And how old were you, Mother?" saith Sister Amphyllis.

"Nineteen years," saith she.

"There must many an one have died since you came here, Mother?"

"Ay," quoth Mother Alianora, with a far-away look at the trees without.
"The oldest nun in all the Abbey, Sister Margery de Burgh, died the
month after I came hither.  She remembered a Sister that was nearly an
hundred years old, and that had received the holy veil from the hand of
Saint Gilbert himself."

Sister Amphyllis crossed herself.

"Annora," saith Mother Alianora, "canst thou remember Mother Guendolen?"

What did I know about Mother Guendolen?  Some faint, vague, misty
memories seemed to awake within me--an odd, incongruous mixture like a
dream--dark eyes like Margaret's, which told a tale, but this seemed a
tale of terror; and an enamelled cross, which had somewhat to do with a
battle and a queen.

"I scarcely know, Mother," said I.  "Somewhat do I recall, yet what it
is I hardly know.  Were her eyes dark, with an affrighted look in them?"

"They were dark," said Mother Alianora, "but the very peace of God was
in them.  Ah, thou art mixing up two persons--herself and her cousin,
Mother Gladys.  They were near of an age, and Mother Guendolen only
outlived Mother Gladys by one year: but they were full diverse manner of
women.  Thou shouldst remember her, Annora.  Thou wert a maiden of
fifteen when she died."

All at once she seemed to flash up before me.

"I do remember her, Mother, if it please you.  She was tall, and had
very black hair, and dark flashing eyes, and she moved like a queen."

"I think of her," saith Mother Alianora, "rather as she was in her last
days, when those flashing eyes flashed no longer, and the queen was lost
in the saint."

"If it please you, Mother," I said, "had she not an enamelled cross that
she wore?  I recollect something about it."

Mother Alianora smiled, somewhat amusedly.

"She had; and perchance thy memory runneth back to a battle over that
cross betwixt her and Sister Sayena, who laid plaint afore my Lady
Prioress that Mother Guendolen kept to herself an article of private
property, which should have gone into the treasury.  It had been her
mother's, a marriage-gift from the Queen that then was.  Well I remember
Mother Guendolen's words--`I sware to part from this cross alone with
life, and the Master granted me to keep it when I entered the Order.'
Then the fire died out of her eyes, and her voice fell low, and she
added--`ah, my sister! dost thou envy me Christ's cross?'  Ay, she had
carried more of that cross than most.  She came here about the age thou
didst, Annora--a little child of six years."

"Who was she in the world, Mother?" quoth Sister Nora.

I was surprised to see Mother Alianora glance round the room, as if to
see who was there, afore she answered.  Nor did she answer for a moment.

"She was Sister Guendolen of Sempringham: let that satisfy thee.  Maybe,
in the world above, she is that which she should have been in this
world, and was not."

And I could not but wonder if Mother Guendolen's life had held a _might
have been_ like mine.

I want to know what `carnal' and `worldly' mean.  They are words which I
hear very often, and always with condemnation: but they seem to mean
quite different things, in the lips of different speakers.  When Mother
Ada uses them, they mean having affection in one's heart for any thing,
or any person, that is not part of holy Church.  When Mother Gaillarde
speaks them, they mean caring for any thing that she does not care for--
and that includes everything except power, and grandeur, and the Order
of Saint Gilbert.  And when Mother Alianora says them, they fall softly
on the ear, as if they meant not love, nor happiness, nor any thing good
and innocent, but simply all that could grieve our Lord and hurt a soul
that loved Him.  They are, with her, just the opposite of Jesus Christ.

Oh, if only our blessed Lord had been on earth now, and I might have
gone on pilgrimage to the place where He was!  If I could have asked Him
all the questions that perplex me, and laid at His feet all the sorrows
that trouble me!  For I do not think He would have commanded the saints
to chase me away because I maybe have poorer wits than other women,--He
who let the mothers bring the babes to Him: I fancy He would have been
patient and gentle, even with me.  I scarce think He would have treated
sorrow--even wrong or mistaken sorrow, if only it were real--as some do,
with cold looks, and hard words, and gibes that take so much bearing.  I
suppose He would have told me wherein I sinned, but I think He would
have done it gently, so as not to hurt more than could be helped--not
like some, who seem to think that nothing they say or do can possibly
hurt any one.

But it is no use saying such things to people.  Once, I did say about a
tenth part of what I felt, when Mother Ada was present, and she turned
on me almost angrily.

"Sister Annora, you are scarce better than an idiot!  Know you not that
confession to the priest is the same thing as to our Lord Himself?"

Well, it may be so, though it never feels like it: but I am sure the
priest is not the same thing.  If I were a young mother with little
babes, I could never bring them to any priest I have known save one, and
that was a stranger who confessed us but for a week, some five years
gone, when the Lord Prior was ill.  He was quite different from the
others: there was a soul behind his eyes--something human, not merely a
sort of metallic box which sounded when you rang it with another bit of
metal.

I never know why Margaret's eyes make me think of that man, but I
suppose it may be that there was the same sort of look in his.  I am not
sure that I can put it into words.  It makes me think, not of a dry
bough like my heart feels to be, but rather of a walled recluse--
something alive, very much alive, inside thick, hard, impenetrable walls
which you cannot enter, and it can never leave, but itself soft and
tender and sweet.  And I fancy that people who look like that must have
had histories.

Another person troubles me beside that man and Margaret, and that is
Saint Peter's wife's mother.  Because, if the holy Apostle had a wife's
mother, he must have had a wife; and what could a holy Apostle be doing
with a wife?  I ventured once to ask Mother Ada how it was to be
explained, and she said that of course Saint Peter must have been
married before his conversion and calling by our Lord.

"And I dare be bound," added Mother Gaillarde, "that she was a shocking
vixen, or something bad, so as to serve for a thorn in the flesh to the
holy Apostle.  He'd a deal better have been an unwedded man."

Well, some folks' relations are thorns in the flesh, I can quite
suppose.  I should think Mother Gaillarde was, and that her being a nun
was a mercy to some man, so that she was told off to prick us and not
him.  But is every body so? and are we all called to be thorns in the
flesh to somebody?  I should not fancy being looked on by my relations
(if I were in the world) as nothing but a means of grace.  It might be
good for them, but I doubt if it would for me.

I wonder if Margaret ever knew that priest whose eyes looked like hers.
I should like to ask her.  But Mother Ada always forbids us to ask each
other questions about our past lives.  She says curiosity is a sin; it
was curiosity which led Eve to listen to the serpent.  But I do not
think Mother Ada's soul has any wings, and I always feel as if mine
had--something that, if only I were at liberty, would spread itself and
carry me away, far, far from here, right up into the very stars, for
aught I know.  Poor caged bird as I am! how can my wings unfold
themselves?  I fancy Margaret has wings--very likely, stronger than
mine.  She seems to have altogether a stronger nature.

Mother Alianora will let us ask questions: she sometimes asks them
herself.  Well, so does Mother Gaillarde, more than any body; but in
such a different way!  Mother Alianora asks as if she were comforting
and helping you: Mother Gaillarde as though you were a piece of
embroidery that had been done wrong, and she were looking to see where
the stitches had begun to go crooked.  If I were a piece of lawn, I
should not at all like Mother Gaillarde to pull the crooked stitches out
of me.  She pounces on them so eagerly, and pulls so savagely at them.

I marvel what Margaret's history has been!

Last evening, as we were putting the orphans to bed--two of the Sisters
do it by turns, every week--little Damia saith to me--

"Sister Annora, what is the matter with our new Sister?"

"Who dost thou mean, my child?"  I asked.  "Sister Marian?"

For Sister Marian was our last professed.

"No," said the child; "I mean Sister Margaret, who has such curious
eyes--eyes that say every thing and don't tell any thing--it is so
funny!  (So other folks than I had seen those eyes.)  But what was the
matter with her yesterday morning, at the holy Sacrament?"

"I know not, Damia, for I saw nothing.  A religious, as thou knowest,
should not lift her eyes, save for adoration."

"O Sister Annora, how many nice things she must lose!  But I will tell
you about Sister Margaret.  It was just when the holy mass began.
Father Hamon had said `_Judica me_' and then, you know, the people had
to reply, `_Quia Tu es_.'  And when they began the response, Sister
Margaret's head went up, and her eyes ran up the aisle to the altar."

"Damia, my child!"  I said.

"Indeed, Sister, I am not talking nonsense!  It looked exactly like
that.  Then, in another minute, they came back, looking so sorry, and
so, _so_ tired!  If you will look at her, you will see how tired she
looks, and has done ever since.  I thought her soul had been to look for
something which it could not find, and that made her so sorry."

"Had ever child such odd fancies as thou!" said I, as I tucked her up.
"Now say thy Hail Mary, and go to sleep."

I thought it but right to check Damia, who has a very lively
imagination, and would make up stories by the yard about all she sees,
if any one encouraged her.  But when I sat down again to the loom,
instead of the holy meditations which ought to come to me, and I suppose
would do so if I were perfect, I kept wondering if Damia had seen
rightly, and if Margaret's soul had been to look for something, and was
disappointed in not finding it.  I looked at her--she was just across
the room,--and as Damia said, there was a very sorrowful, weary look on
her face--a look as if some thought, or memory, or hope, had been
awakened in her, only to be sent back, sorely disappointed and
disheartened.  Somebody else noticed it too.

My Lady Prioress was rather late last night in dismissing us.  Sister
Roberga said she was sure there had been some altercation between her
and Mother Gaillarde: and certainly Mother Gaillarde, as she stood at
the top of the room by my Lady, did not look exactly an incarnation of
sweetness.  But my Lady gave the word at last: and as she said--"_Pax
vobiscum, Sorores_!" every Sister went up to her, knelt to kiss her
hand, took her own lamp from the lamp-stand, and glided softly from the
recreation-room.  Half-way down stood Mother Alianora, and at the door
Mother Ada.  Margaret was just behind me: and as I passed Mother
Alianora, I heard her ask--

"Sister Margaret, art thou suffering in some wise?"

I listened for Margaret's answer.  There was a moment's hesitation
before it came.

"No, Mother, I thank you; save from a malady which only One can heal."

"May He heal thee, my child!" was the gentle answer.

I was surprised at Margaret's answering with anything but thanks.

"Mother, you little know for what you pray!"

"That is often the case," said Mother Alianora.  "But He knoweth who
hath to answer: and He doeth all things well.  He will give thee, maybe,
not the physic thou lookest for; yet the right remedy."

I heard Margaret answer, as we passed on, in a low voice, as if she
scarce desired to be heard--"For some diseases there is no remedy but
death."

There are two dormitories in our house, and Margaret is in the west one,
while I sleep in the eastern.  At the head of the stairs we part to our
places.  That I should speak a word to her in the night is impossible.
And in the day I can never see her without a score of eyes upon us,
especially Mother Gaillarde's, and she seems to have eyes, not in the
back of her head only, but all over her veil.

I suppose, if we had lived like real sisters and not make-believe ones,
Margaret and I would have had a little chamber to ourselves in our
father's castle, and we could have talked to each other, and told our
secrets if we wished, and have comforted one another when our hearts
were sad.  And I do not understand why it should please our Lord so much
more to have us shut up here, making believe to be one family with
thirty other women who are not our sisters, except in the sense that all
Christian women are children of God.  I wonder where it is in the
Gospels, that our Lord commanded it to be done.  I cannot find it in my
Evangelisterium.  I dare say the holy Apostles ordered it afterwards: or
perhaps it is in some Gospel I have never seen.  There are only four in
my book.

If that strange priest would come again to confess us, I should like
very much to ask him several questions of that sort.  I never saw any
other priest that I could speak to freely, as I could to him.  Father
Hamon would not understand me, I am sure: and Father Benedict would
rebuke me sharply whether he understood or not; telling me for the
fiftieth time that I ought to humble myself to the dust because my
vocation is so imperfect.  Well, I know I have no vocation.  But why
then was I shut up here when God had not called me?  I had no choice
allowed me.  Or why, seeing things are thus, cannot the Master or some
one else loose me from my vow, and let me go back to the world which
they keep blaming me because they say I love?

Yet what should I do in the world?  My mother has been dead many years,
for her name is in the obituary of the house.  As to my brothers and
sisters, I no more know how many of them are living, nor where they are,
than if they dwelt in the stars.  I remember my brother Hugh, because he
used to take my part when the others teased me: but as to my younger
brothers, I only know there were some; I forget even their names.  I
think one was Hubert, or Robert, or something that ended in _bert_.  And
my sisters--I remember Isabel; she was three years elder than I.  And--
was one Elizabeth?  I think so.  But wherever they are, I suppose they
would feel me a stranger among them--an intruder who was not wanted, and
who had no business to be there.  I am unfit both for Heaven and earth.
Nobody wants me--least of all God.

I do not imagine that is Margaret's history.  How far she may or may not
have a vocation--that I leave; I know nothing about it.  But I cannot
help fancying that somebody did want her, and that it might be to put
her out of somebody's way--Foolish woman! what am I saying?  Why,
Margaret was not five years old when she was professed.  How can she
have had any history of the kind?  I simply do not understand it.

Poor little Damia!  I think Mother Gaillarde has given her rather hard
measure.

I found the child crying bitterly when she came into the children's
south dormitory where I serve this week.

"Why, whatever is the matter, little one?" said I.

"O Sister Annora!" was all she could sob out.

"Well, weep not thus broken-heartedly!" said I.  "Tell me what it is,
and let us see if it cannot be amended."

"It's Erneburg!" sobbed little Damia.

"Erneburg!  But Erneburg and thou art friends!"

"Oh yes, we're friends enough! only Mother Gaillarde won't let me give
her the tig."

And little Damia indulged in a fresh burst of tears.

"Give her what?"  I said.

"My tig!  The tig she gave me.  And now I must carry it all night long!
She might have let me just give it her!"

I thought I saw how matters stood.

"You have been playing?"

"Yes, playing at

  "`Carry my tig
  To Poynton Brig--'

"and Erneburg gave me a tig, and I can't give it back.  Mo--other
Gaillarde won't le-et me!" with a fresh burst of sobs.

"Now, whatever is all this fuss?" asked Mother Gaillarde, from the other
end of the room.  "Sister, do keep these children quiet."

But Mother Ada came to us.

"What is the matter?" she said in her icicle voice.

Little Damia was crying too much to speak, and I had to tell her that
the children had been playing at a game in which they touched one
another if they could, and it was deemed a terrible disgrace to be
touched without being able to return it.

"What nonsense!" said Mother Ada.  "They had better not be allowed to
play at such silly games.  Go to sleep immediately, Damia: do you hear?
Give over crying this minute."

I wondered whether Mother Ada thought that joy and sorrow could as
easily be stopped as a tap could be turned to stop water.  Little Damia
could not stop crying so instantly as this: and Mother Ada told her if
she did not, she should have no fruit to-morrow: which made her cry all
the more.  Mother Gaillarde then marched up, and gave the poor child an
angry shake: and that produced screams instead of sobbing.

"Blessed saints, these children!" said Mother Gaillarde.  "I wish there
never were any!  With all reverence I say it, I do think if the Almighty
could have created men and women grown-up, it would have saved a world
of trouble.  But I suppose He knows best.--Damia, stop that noise!  If
not, I'll give thee another shake."

Little Damia burrowed down beneath the bed-clothes, from which
long-drawn sobs shook the bed at intervals: but she did contrive to stop
screaming.  Mother Gaillard left the dormitory, with another sarcastic
remark on the dear delight of looking after children: and the minute
after, Mother Alianora entered it from the other end.  She came up to
where I stood, by Damia's bed.

"Not all peace here?" she said, with her tranquil smile.  "Little Damia,
what aileth thee?"

As soon as her voice was heard, little Damia's head came up, and in a
voice broken by sobs, she told her tale.

"Come, I think that can be put right," saith the Mother, kindly.  "Lie
still, my child, till I come to thee again."

She went away, and in a few minutes returned, with Erneburg.  Of course
Mother Alianora can go where the Sisters cannot.

"Little Damia," she said, smiling, as she laid her hand on the child's
head, "I bring Erneburg to return thee thy `tig.'  Now canst thou go to
sleep in peace?"

"Yes, thank you, Mother.  You are good!" said little Damia gratefully,
looking quite relieved, as Erneburg kissed her.

"Such a little thing!" said Mother Alianora, with a smile.  "Yet thou
art but a little thing thyself."

They went away, and I tarried a moment to light the blessed Mother's
lamp, and to say the Hail Mary with the children.  When I came
down-stairs, the first voice I heard in the recreation-room was Mother
Gaillarde's.

"Well, if ever I did hear such a story!  Sister, you ruin those
children!"

"Nay," saith Mother Alianora's gentle voice, "surely not, my Sister, by
a little kindness such as that."

"Kindness, indeed!  Before I'd have given in to such nonsense!"

"Sister Gaillarde, maybe some matters that you and I would weep over may
seem full as foolish to the angels and to God.  And to Him it may be of
more import to comfort a little child in its trouble than to pass a
statute of Parliament.  Ah, me! if God waited to comfort us till we were
wise, little comforting should any of us have.  But it is written, `Like
whom his mother blandisheth, thus I will comfort you,'--and mothers do
not wait for children to be discreet before they comfort them.  At
least, my mother did not."

Such a soft, sweet, tender light came into her eyes as made my heart
ache.  My mother might have comforted me so.

Just then I caught Margaret's look.  I do not know what it was like: but
quite different from Mother Alianora's.  Something strained and
stretched, as it were, like a piece of canvas when you strain it on a
frame for tapestry-work.  Then, all at once, the strain gave way and
broke up, and calm, holy peace came instead.  If I might talk with
Margaret!

Mother Alianora is ill in the Infirmary.  And I may not go to her.

I pleaded hard with Mother Ada to appoint me nurse for this week.

"Why?" she said in her coldest voice.

I could not answer.

"Either thou deceivest thyself, Sister," she added, "which is ill
enough, or thou wouldst fain deceive me.  Knowest thou not that to
attempt to deceive thy superiors is to lie to the Holy Ghost as Ananias
and Sapphira did?  How then dost thou dare to do it?  I see plainly
enough what motive prompts thee: not holy obedience--that is thoroughly
inconsistent with such fervent entreaties--nor a desire to mortify thy
will, but simply a wish for the carnal indulgence of the flesh.  Thou
knowest full well that particular friendships are not permitted to the
religious, it is only the lust of the flesh which prompts a fancy for
one above another: if not, every Sister would have an equal share in thy
regard.  It is a carnal, worldly heart in which such thoughts dwell as
even a wish for the company of any Sister in especial.  And hast thou
forgotten that the very purpose for which we were sent here was to
mortify our wills?"

I thought I was not likely to forget it, so long as nothing was allowed
me save opportunities for mortifying mine.  But one more word did I dare
to utter.

"Is obedience so much better than love, Mother?"

"What hast thou to do with love, save the love of God and the blessed
Mother and the holy saints?  The very word savoureth of the world.  All
the love thou givest to the creature is love taken from God."

"Is love, then, a thing that can be measured and cut in lengths, Mother?
The more you tend a plant, the better it flourishes.  If I am to love
none save God, will not my heart dry and wither, so that I shall not be
able to love Him?  Sometimes I think it is doing so."

"You think!" she said.  "What right have you to think?  Leave your
superiors to think for you; and you, cultivate holy obedience, as you
ought.  All the heresies and schisms that ever vexed the Church have
arisen from men setting themselves up to _think_ when they should simply
have obeyed."

"But, Mother, forgive me!  I cannot help thinking."

"That shows how far you are from perfection, Sister.  A religious who
aims at perfection should never allow herself to think, except only how
she can best obey.  Beware of pride and presumption, the instant you
allow yourself to depart from the perfection of obedience."

"But, Mother, that is the perfection of a thing.  And I am a woman."

"Sister Annora, you are reasoning, when your duty is to obey."

If holy obedience means to obey without thinking, I am afraid I shall
never be perfect in it!  I do not know how people manage to compress
themselves into stones like that.

I tried Mother Gaillarde next, since I had only found an icicle clad in
Mother Ada's habit.  I was afraid of her, I confess, for I knew she
would bite: and she did so.  I begged yet harder, for I had heard that
Mother Alianora was worse.  Was I not even to see her before she died?

"What on earth does it matter?" said Mother Gaillarde.  "Aren't you both
going to Heaven?  You can talk there--without fear of disobedience."

"My Lord Prior said.  Mother, in his last charge, that a convent ought
to be a little heaven.  If that be so, why should we not talk now?"

Mother Gaillarde's laugh positively frightened me.  It was the hardest,
driest, most metallic sound I ever heard.

"Sister Annora, you must be a baby!  You have lived in a convent nearly
fifty years, and you ask if it be a little heaven!"

"I cry you mercy, Mother.  I asked if it should not be so."

"That's another matter," said she, with a second laugh, but it did not
startle me like the first.  "We should all be perfect, of course.  Pity
we aren't!"

As she worked away at the plums she was stoning without saying either
yes or no, I ventured to repeat my question.

"You may do as you are told!" was Mother Gaillarde's answer.  "Can't you
let things alone?"

Snappishly as she spoke, yet--I hardly know why,--I did not feel the
appeal to her as hopeless as to Mother Ada.  To entreat the latter was
like beseeching a stone wall.  Mother Gaillarde's very peevishness (if I
dare call it so) showed that she was a woman, and not an image.

"Mother Gaillarde," I said, suddenly--for something seemed to bid me
speak out--"be not angry with me, I pray you.  I am afraid of letting
things alone.  My heart seems to be like a dry bough, and my soul
withering up, and I want to keep them alive and warm.  Surely death is
not perfection!"

I was going on, but something which I saw made me stop suddenly.  Two
warriors were fighting together in Mother Gaillarde's face.  All at once
she dropped the knife, and hiding her face in her veil, she sobbed for a
minute as if her heart were breaking.  Then, all at once, she brushed
away her tears and stood up again.

"Child!" she said, in a voice very unlike her usual one, "you are too
young for your years.  Do not think that dried-up hearts are the same
thing as no hearts.  Women who seem as though they could not love any
thing may have loved once too well, and when they awoke from the dream
may never have been able to dream again.  Ay, thou art right: death is
not perfection.  Some of us, maybe, are very far off perfection--further
than others think us; furthest of all from what we think ourselves.
There have been times when I seemed to see for a moment what perfection
is--and it was far, far from all we call it here.  God forgive us all!
Go to the Infirmary: and if any chide thee for being there, say thou
earnest in obedience to me."

She turned back to her plum-stoning with a resolute face which might
have been a mask of iron: and I, after offering lowly thanks, took the
way to the Infirmary.

I fear I have been unjust to Mother Gaillarde, and I am sorry for it.  I
seem to see now, that her hard, snappish speeches (for she does snap
sometimes) are not from absence of heart, but are simply a veil to hide
the heart.  Ah me! how little we human creatures know of each others'
hidden feelings!  But I shall never think Mother Gaillarde without heart
again.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1.  The rule of silence varied considerably in different Orders,
but in all, except the very strict, nuns were at liberty to converse
during some period of the day.

Note 2.  This transferring of Margaret from Watton is purely imaginary.



PART THREE, CHAPTER 2.

SISTER MARGARET.

  "Do I not know
  The life of woman is full of woe?
  Toiling on and on and on,
  With breaking heart, and tearful eyes,
  And silent lips--and in the soul
  The secret longings that arise,
  Which this world never satisfies?"

  Longfellow.

Mother Alianora was lying in her bed when I entered the Infirmary, just
under the window, where the soft light of the low autumn sun came in and
lit up her pillow and her dear old face.  She smiled when she saw me.

There was another Sister in the room, who was stirring a pan over the
fire, and at first I scarcely noticed her.  I went up to the dear
Mother, and asked her how she was.

"Well, my child," she said, tenderly.  "Nearly at Home."

Something came up in my throat that would not let me speak.

"Hast thou been sent to relieve Sister Marian?" she asked.

"I know not," said I, after a moment's struggle with myself: then,
remembering what I had been bidden, I added, "Mother Gaillarde bade me
come."

We sat silent for a few moments.  Sister Marian poured out the broth and
brought it to the Mother, and I supported her while she drank a little
of it.  She could not take much.

Just before the bell rang for compline, Mother Ada came in.

"I bring an order from my Lady," said she.  "Sister Marian will be
relieved after compline by another Sister, who will be sent up.  Sister
Annora is to stay with the sick Mother during compline, and both she and
the Sister who then comes will keep watch during the night."

I was surprised.  I never knew any case of sickness, unless it were
something very severe and urgent, allowed to interfere with a Sister's
attendance at compline.  But I was glad enough to stay.

Mother Ada went away again after her orders were given, and Sister
Marian followed her when the bell rang.  As soon as the little sounds of
the Sisters' footsteps had died away, and we knew they were all shut in
the oratory, Mother Alianora, in a faint voice, bade me bring a stool
beside her bed and sit down.

"Annora," said she, in that feeble voice, "my child, thou art fifty
years old, yet I think of thee as a child still.  And in many respects
thou art so.  It has been thy lot, whether for good or evil--which, who
knoweth save God?--to be safe sheltered from very much of the ill that
is in the world.  But I doubt not, at times, questionings will arise in
thy heart, whether the good may not have been shut out too.  Is it so,
my child?"

I suppose Mother Ada would say I was exceedingly carnal.  But something
in the touch of that soft, wrinkled hand, in whose veins I knew ran mine
own blood, seemed to break down all my defences.  I laid my head down on
the coverlet, my cheek upon her hand, and in answer I poured forth all
that had been so long shut close in mine own heart--that longing cry
within me for some real, warm, human love, that ceaseless regret for the
lost happiness which was meant to have been mine.

"O Mother, Mother! is it wicked in me?"  I cried.  "You, who are so near
God, you should see with clearer eyes than we, lost in the tangled
wilderness of this world.  Is it wicked of me to dream of that lost
love, and of all that it might have been to me?  Am I his true wife, or
is she--whoever that she may be?  Am I robbing; God when I love any
other creature?  Must I only love any one in Heaven? and am I to prepare
for that by loving nobody here on earth?"

The door opened softly, and the Sister who was to share my watch came
in.  She must have heard my closing words.

"My child!" said the faint voice of the dear Mother, who had always felt
to me more like what I supposed mothers to be than any other I had
known--"my child, `it is impossible that scandals should not come: but
woe unto them through whom they come!'  It seems to me probable that one
sin may be written in many books: that the actor, and the inciter, and
the abettor--ay, and those who might have prevented, and did not--may
all have their share.  Thy coming hither, and thy religious life, having
received no vocation of God, was not thy fault, poor, helpless,
oppressed child! and such temptations as distress thee, therefrom
arising, will not be laid to thy charge as sins.  But if thou let a
temptation slide into a sin by consenting thereto, by cherishing and
pursuing it with delight, then art thou not guiltless.  That thou
shouldst feel thyself unhappy here, in an unsuitable place, and that
thou mightest have been a happier woman in the wedded life of the
world,--that is no marvel: truly, I think it of thee myself.  To know it
is no sin: to repine and murmur thereat, these are forbidden.  Thy lot
is appointed of God Himself--God, thy Father, who loveth thee, who hath
given Himself for thee, who pleased not Himself when He came down to die
for thee.  Are there not here drops of honey to sweeten the bitter cup?
And if thou want another yet, then remember how short this life is, and
that after it, they that have done His will shall be together with Him
for ever.  Dear hearts, it is only a little while."

The Sister who was to watch with me had come forward to the foot of the
bed, and was standing silent there.  When Mother Alianora thus spoke, I
fancied that I heard a little sob.  Wondering who she was, I looked up--
looked up, to my great astonishment, into those dark, strange eyes of my
own sister Margaret.

Margaret and I, alone, to keep the watch all night long!  What could my
Lady Prioress mean?  Here was an opportunity to indulge my will, not to
mortify it; to make my love grow, instead of repressing it.  I had
actually put into my hand the chance that I had so earnestly desired, to
speak to Margaret alone.

But now that the first difficulty was removed, another rose up before
me.  Would Margaret speak to me?  Was she, perhaps, searching for
opportunities of mortification, and would refuse the indulgence
permitted?  I knew as much of the King's Court, as much of a knightly
tournament, as I knew of that sealed-up heart of hers.  Should I be
allowed to know any more?

"Annora," said our aunt again, "there is one thine in my life that I
regret sorely, and it is that I was not more of a mother to thee when
thou earnest as a little child.  Of course I was under discipline: but I
feel now that I did not search for opportunities as I might have done,
that I let little chances pass which I might have seized.  My child,
forgive me!"

"Dearest Mother!"  I said, "you were ever far kinder to me than any one
else in all the world."

"Thank God I have heard that!" saith she.  "Ah, children--for we are
children to an aged woman like me--life looks different indeed, seen
from a deathbed, to what it does viewed from the little mounds of our
human wisdom as we pass along it.  Here, there is nothing great but God;
there is nothing fair save Christ and Heaven; there is nothing else
true, nor desirable, nor of import.  Every thing is of consequence, if,
and just so far as, it bears on these: and all other things are as the
dust of the floor, which ye sweep off and forth of the doors into the
outward.  Life is the way upward to God, or the way down to Satan.  What
does it matter whether the road were smooth or rough, when ye come to
the end thereof?  The more weary and footsore, the more chilled and
hungered ye are, the sweeter shall be the marriage-supper and the rest
of the Father's House."

"Ay--when we are there."  It was Margaret who spoke.

"And before, let us look forward, my child."

"Easy enough," said Margaret, "when the sun gleameth out fair, and ye
see the domes of the city stand up bravely afore.  But in the dark
night, when neither sun nor star appeareth, and ye are out on a wild
moor, and thick mist closeth you in, so that ye go it may be around
thinking it be forward, till ye know not whether your face is toward the
city or no--"

"Let thy face be toward the Lord of the city," said Mother Alianora.
"He shall lead thee forth by the right way, that thou mayest come to His
city and to His holy hill.  The right way, daughter, is sometimes the
way over the moor, and through the mist.  `Who of you walketh in
darkness, and there is no light to him?  Let him trust in the name of
the Lord, and lean upon his God.'  Why, my child, it is only when man
cannot see that it is possible for him to trust.  Faith is not called in
exercise so long as thou walkest by sight."

"But when thou art utterly alone," said my sister in a low voice, "with
not one footstep on the road beside thee--"

"That art thou never, child, so thou be Christ's.  _His_ footsteps are
alway there."

"In suffering, ay: but in perplexity?"

"Daughter, when thou losest His steps, thou yet hast Himself.  `If any
lack wisdom, let him ask of God.'  And God is never from home."

"Neither is Satan."

"`Greater is He that is in you than he in the world.'"

Mother Alianora seemed weary when she had said this, and lay still a
while: and Margaret did not answer.  I think the Mother dropped asleep;
I sat beside her and watched.  But Margaret stood still at the foot of
the bed, not sitting down, and in the dim light of our one little lamp I
could scarcely see her face as she stood, only that it was turned toward
the casement, where a faint half-moon rode in the heavens, and the calm
ancient stars looked down on us.  Oh, how small a world is ours in the
great heavens! yet for one soul of one little babe in this small world,
the Son of God hath died.

My heart went out to Margaret as she stood there: yet my lips were
sealed.  I felt, strangely, as if I could not speak.  Something held me
back, and I knew not if it were God, or Satan, or only mine own want of
sense and bravery.  The long hours wore on.  The church bell tolled for
lauds, and we heard the soft tramp of the Sisters' feet as they passed
and returned: then the doors closed, and Mother Ada's voice said,

"_Laus Deo_!" and Sister Ismania's replied, "_Deo gratias_!"  Then
Mother Ada's footsteps passed the door as she went to her cell, and once
more all was silence.  On rolled the hours slowly, and still Mother
Alianora seemed to sleep: still Margaret stood as if she had been cut in
stone, without so much as moving, and still I sat, feeling much as if I
were stone too, and had no power to move or speak.

It might be about half-way between lauds and prime when the spell was at
last broken.  And it was broken, to my astonishment, by Margaret's
asking me a question that fairly took my breath away.

"Annora, art thou a saint?"

These were the first words Margaret had ever spoken to me, except from
necessity.  That weary, dried-up thing that I call mine heart, seemed to
give a little bit of throb.

"Our Lady love us, no!" said I.  "I never was, nor never could be."

"I am glad to hear it," she said.

"Why, Margaret?"

Oh, how my heart wanted to call her something sweeter!  _It_ said, My
darling, my beloved, mine own little sister!  But my tongue was all so
unwonted to utter such words that I could not persuade it to say them.

Yet more to my surprise, Margaret came out of the window,--came and
knelt at my feet, and laid her clasped hands on my knee.

"Hadst thou said `Ay,' I should have spoken no more.  As thou art not--
Annora, is it true that we twain had one mother?"

Something in Margaret's tone helped me.  I took the clasped hands in
mine own.

"It is true, mine own Sister," I said.

"`Sister!' and `Mother!'" she said.  "They are words that mean nothing
at all to me.  I wonder if God meant them to mean nothing to us?  Could
we not have been as good women, and have served Him as well, if we had
dwelt with our own blood, as other maidens do, or even if--"

Her voice died away.

"Margaret," I said, "Mother Ada would say it was wicked, but mine heart
is for ever asking the same questions."

"Is it?" she said eagerly.  "O Annora! then thou knowest!  I thought,
maybe, thou shouldst count it wicked, and chide me for indulging such
thoughts."

"How could I chide any one, sinner as I am!" said I.  "Nay, Margaret, I
doubt not my thoughts have been far unholier than thine.  Thou
rememberest not, I am sure; but ere we were professed, I was
troth-plight unto a young noble, and always that life that I have lost
flitteth afore me, as a bird that held a jewel in his beak might lure me
on from flower to flower, ever following, never grasping the sweet
illusion.  Margaret, sister, despise me not for my confession!  But thou
wilt see I am no saint, nor like to be."

"Despise thee!" she said.  "Dear heart, wert thou to know how much
further I have gone!"

I looked on her with some alarm.

"Margaret! we are professed religious women."  [Note 1.]

"Religious women!" she answered.  "If thou gild a piece of wood, doth it
become gold?  Religious women are not women that wear black and white,
cut in a certain fashion: they are women that set God above all things.
And have I not done that?  Have I not laid mine heart upon His altar, a
living sacrifice, because I believed He called me to break that poor
quivering thing in twain?  And will He judge me that did His will, to
the best of my power and knowledge, because now and then a human sob
breaks from my woman-heart, by reason that I am not yet an angel, and
that He did not make me a stone?  I do not believe it.  I will not
believe it.  He that gave His own Son to die for man can be no Moloch
delighting in human suffering--caring not how many hearts be crushed so
long as there be flowers upon His altar, how many lives be made desolate
so long as there be choirs to sing antiphons!  Annora, it is not God who
does such things, but men."

I was doubtful how to answer, seeing I could not understand what she
meant.  I only said--

"Yet God permits men to do them."

"Ay.  But He never bids them to make others suffer,--far less to take
pleasure in doing so."

"Margaret," said I, "may I know thy story?  I have told thee mine.
Truly, it is not much to tell."

"No," she said, as if dreamily,--"not much: only such an one as will be
told out by the mile rather than the yard, from thousands of convents on
the day when the great doom shall be.  Only the story of a crushed
heart--how much does that matter to the fathers of the Order?  There be
somewhat too many in these cells for them to take any note of one."

I remembered what Mother Gaillarde had said.

"It is terrible, if that be true," I answered.  "I thought I was the
only one, and that made me unhappy because I must be so wicked.  At
times, in meditation, I have looked round the chamber and thought--Here
be all these blessed women, wrapped in holy meditations, and only I
tempted by wicked thoughts of the world outside, like Lot's wife at
Sodom."

Margaret fairly laughed.  "Verily," said she, "if it were given to us to
lift the veil from the hearts of all these blessed women, and scan their
holy meditations, I reckon thine amaze would not be small.  Annora, I
think thou art a saint."

"Impossible!" said I.  "Why, I fell asleep in the midst of the Rosary a
s'ennight back,--having been awake half the night before--and Father
Benedict said I must do penance for it.  Saints are not such as I."

"Annora, if the angels that write in men's books have no worse to set
down in thine than what thou hast told me, I count they shall reckon
their work full light.  O humble and meek of heart, thinking all other
better than thyself--trust me, they be, at best, like such as thou."

Margaret left her station at my feet, and coming round, knelt down
beside me, and laid her head on my shoulder.

"Kiss me, Sister," she said.

So did I, at once, without thought: and then, perceiving what I had
done, I was affrighted.

"O Margaret! have we not sinned?  Is it not an indulgence of the flesh?"

"Wert thou made without flesh?" asked Margaret, with a short, dry laugh.

"No, but it must be mortified!"

"Sin must be mortified," she answered more gravely.  "Why should we
mortify love?"

"Not spiritual love: but natural love, surely, we renounce."

"Why should we renounce it?  Does God make men sons and brothers,
husbands and fathers, only that they may have somewhat to renounce?  Can
He train us only in the wilderness of Sinai, and not in the land flowing
with milk and honey?"

"But we renounce them for Him."

"We renounce for Him that which He demandeth of us."  Margaret's voice
was low and sorrowful now.  "Ay, there be times when He holdeth out His
hand for the one dearest earthly thing, and calls us to resign either it
or Him.  Blessed are they that then, howsoever they shrink and faint,
yet love Him more than it, and brace their will to give it up to Him.
To them that so do, Annora, He giveth Himself; and He is better than any
earthly thing.  `_Quid enim mihi est in caelo? et a Te quid volui super
terram_?'  [Psalm 73, verse 25] But it seems to me that we ought to
beware of renouncing what He does not ask of us.  If we are in doubt,
then let us draw the line on the safe side,--on His side, not on the
side of our inclinations.  Yet of one thing am I sure--that many a woman
mortifies her graces instead of her sins, and resigns to God that which
He asks not, keeping that which He would have."

"Mortify graces!"  I cried.  "O Margaret! how could we?"

"I think thou wouldst, Sister, if thou hadst refused to kiss me," she
replied with an amused smile.

"But kisses are such very carnal things," said I.  "Mother Ada always
says so.  She saith we read of none of the holy Apostles kissing any
body, save only Judas Iscariot."

"Who told her so?  Doth she find it written that they did not kiss any
body?  Annora, I marvel if our Lord kissed not the little children.  And
I am sure the holy patriarchs kissed each other.  I do not believe in
trying to be better than God.  I have noted that when man endeavours to
purify himself above our Lord's example, he commonly ends in being
considerably less good than other men."

"I wish we might love each other!"  I said with a sigh.  And I am very
much afraid I kissed her again.  I do not know what Mother Ada would
have said.

"I do not wish we might!" said Margaret, sturdily.  "I do, and I will."

"But if we should make idols of each other!" said I.

"I shall not make an idol of thee," answered my sister, again in that
low sad tone.  "I set up one idol, and He came to me, and held out His
pierced hands, and I tore it down from over the altar, and gave it to
Him.  He is keeping it for me, and He will give it back one day, in the
world where we need fear no idol-making, nor any sin at all.  Annora,
thou shalt hear my story."

At that moment I looked up, and saw Mother Alianora's eyes wide open.

"Do you lack aught, dear Mother?"  I asked.

"No, my children," she answered gently.  "Go on with thy tale, Margaret.
The ears of one that will soon hear the harps of the angels will not
harm thee."

I was somewhat surprised she could say that.  What of the dread fires of
Purgatory that must come first?  Did she count herself so great a saint
as to escape them?  Then I thought, perhaps, she might have had the same
revealed to her in vision.  The thought did not appear to trouble
Margaret, who took it as matter of course.  Not, truly, that I should be
surprised if Mother Alianora were good enough to escape Purgatory, for I
am sure she is the best woman ever I knew: but it was strange she should
reckon it of herself.  Mother Ada always says they are no saints that
think themselves such: whereto Mother Gaillarde once added, in her dry,
sharp way, that they were not much better who tried to make other folk
think so.  I do not know of whom she was thinking, but I fancied Mother
Ada did, from her face.

Then Margaret began her story.

"You know," she saith, "it is this year forty-seven years since Annora
and I were professed.  And wherefore we were so used, mere babes as we
were, knew I never."

"Then that I can tell thee," I made answer, "for it was Queen Isabel
that thrust us in hither.  Our father did somewhat to her misliking,
what indeed I know not: and she pounced on us, poor little maids, and
made us to suffer for his deed."

"Was that how it was done?" said Margaret.  "Then may God pardon her
more readily than I have done!  For long years I hated with all the
force of my soul him or her that had been the cause thereof.  It is past
now.  The priests say that man sinneth when, having no call of God, he
shall take cowl upon him.  What then of those which thrust it on him,
whether he will or no?  I never chose this habit.  For years I hated it
as fervently as it lay in me to hate.  Had the choice been given me, any
moment of those years, I would have gone back to the world that instant.
The world!"  Her voice changed suddenly.  "What is the world?  It is
the enemy of God: true.  But will bolts and bars, walls and gates, keep
it out?  Is it a thing to be found in one city, which man can escape by
journeying to another?  Is it not rather in his own bosom, and ever with
him?  They say much of carnal affections that are evil, and creep not
into religious houses.  As if man should essay to keep Satan and his
angels out of his house by painting God's name over the door!  But all
love, of whatsoever sort, say they, is a filthiness of the flesh.  Ah
me! how about the filthiness of the spirit?  Is there no pride and
jealousy in a religious house? no strife and envying? no murmuring and
rebellion of heart?  And are these fairer things in God's sight than the
natural love of our own blood?  Doth He call us to give up that, and not
these?  May it not be rather that if there were more true love, there
were less envy and jealousy? if there were more harmless liberty, there
were less murmuring?  When man takes God's scourge into his hands, it
seems to me he is apt to wield it ill."

"But, Margaret!" said I, "so shouldst thou make Satan cast out Satan.
Forbidden love were as ill as strife and murmuring."

"Forbidden of whom?" saith she.  "God never forbade me to love my
brethren and sisters.  He told me to do it.  He never forbade me to
honour my father and mother--to dwell with them, to tend and cherish
them in their old age.  He told me to do it.  Ay, and He spake of
certain that did vainly worship Him seeing they taught learning and
commandments of men."  [Matthew 15, verse 9, Vulgate.]

"O Margaret! what art thou saying?  Holy Church enjoins vows of
religion."

"Tell me then, Annora, what is Holy Church?  It is a word that fills
man's mouth full comely, that I know.  But what it _is_, is simply the
souls of all righteous men--all the redeemed of Christ our Lord, which
is His Body, and is filled with His Spirit.  When did He enjoin such
vows? or when did all righteous men thus band together to make men and
women unrighteous, by binding commands upon them that were of men, not
of God?"

"Margaret, my Sister!"  I cried in terror.  "Whence drewest thou such
shocking thoughts?  What will Father Benedict say when thou confessest
them?"

"It is not to Father Benedict I confess _them_," she said, with a little
curl of her lips.  "I confess to him what he expects to hear--that I
loved not to sweep the gallery this morrow, or that I ate a lettuce last
night and forgot to sign the cross over it.  Toys are meet for babes,
and babes for toys.  They cannot understand the realities of life.  Such
matters I confess to--another Priest, and He can understand them."

"Well," said I, "I always thought Father Hamon something less wise than
Father Benedict: at least, Father Benedict chides me, and Father Hamon
gives me neither blame nor commendation.  But, Margaret, I do not
understand thy strange sayings in any wise.  Surely thou knowest what is
the Church?"

"I know what it is not," saith she; "and that is Father Hamon, or Father
Benedict, or Father Anything-Else.  Christ and they that are Christ's--
the Head and the Body, the Bridegroom and the Bride: behold the Church,
and behold her Priest and Confessor!"

"Margaret," saith Mother Alianora, "who taught thee that?  Where didst
thou hear such learning?"

She did not speak chidingly, but only as if she desired information.  I
was surprised she was not more severe, for truly I never heard such
talk, and I was sorely afraid for my poor Margaret, lest some evil thing
had got hold of her--maybe the Devil himself in the likeness of some
Sister in her old convent.

A wave of pain swept over Margaret's eyes when Mother Alianora said
that, and a dreamy look of calm came and chased it thence.

"Where?" she said.  "In the burning fiery furnace, heated seven times
hotter than its wont.  Of whom?  Verily, I think, of that Fourth that
walked there, who was the Son of God.  He walks oftener, methinks, in
the fiery furnace with His martyrs, than in the gilded galleries with
the King Nebuchadnezzar and his princes.  At least I have oftener found
Him there."

She seemed as if she lost herself in thought, until Mother Alianora
saith, in her soft, faint voice--"Go on, my child."

Margaret roused up as if she were awoke from sleep.

"Well!" she said, "nothing happened to me, as you may well guess, for
the years of childhood that followed, when I was learning to read,
write, and illuminate, to sew, embroider, cook, and serve in various
ways.  My Lady Prioress found that I had a wit at devising patterns and
such like, so I was kept mainly to the embroidery and painting: being
first reminded that it was not for mine own enjoyment, but that I should
so best serve the Order.  I took the words and let them drop, and I took
the work and delighted in it.  So matters went until I was a maid of
seventeen years.  And then something else came into my life."

I asked, "What was it?" for she had paused.  But her next words were not
an answer.

"I marvel," she saith, "of what metal Saint Gilbert was made, that
founded our Order.  Was it out of pity, or out of bitter hardness, or
out of simple want of understanding, that he framed our Rule, and gave
us more liberty than other Sisters?  Is it more or less happy for a lark
that thou let him out of his cage once in the year in a small cell
whence he cannot escape into the free air of heaven?  Had I been his
mother or his sister, when the Saint writ his Rule, I had said to him,
Keep thy brethren and sisters apart at the blessed Sacrament, or else
bandage their eyes."

"O Margaret!"  I cried out, for it was awful to hear such words.  As if
the blessed Saint Gilbert could have made a mistake!  "Dost thou think
thyself wiser than the holy saints?"

"Yes," she answered simply.  "I am sure I know more about women than
Saint Gilbert did.  That he did not know much about them was shown by
such a Rule, he might as well have set the door of the lark's cage open,
and have said to the bird, `Now, stay in!'  Well, I did not stay in.
One morrow at mass, I was all suddenly aware of a pair of dark eyes
scanning my face across the nave--"

"From the brethren's side of the church!  O Margaret!"

"Well, Annora?  I am human: so, perchance, was he.  He had been thrust
into this life, as I had.  Had we both been free, we might have loved
each other without a voice saying, `It is sin.'  Why was it sin because
we wore black and white habits?"

"But the vows, Margaret! the vows!"

"What vows?  I made none, worthy to be called vows.  I was bidden, a
little babe of four years, to say `ay' and `nay' at certain times, and
`I am willing,' and so forth.  What knew I of the import attaching to
such words?  I do ensure thee I knew nothing at all, save that when I
had been good and done as I was told, I should have a pretty little
habit like the Sisters, and be called `Sister' as these grown women
were.  Is that what God calls a vow?--a vow of life-long celibacy,
dragged from a babe that knew not what vow nor celibacy were!  `Doth God
lack your lie?' saith Job [Job 13, verse 7].  Yea, the Psalmist crieth,
`_Numquid adhaeret Tibi sedes iniquitatis_?'  [Psalm 94, verse 20]--Wala
wa! the only thing I marvel is that He thundereth not down with His
great wrath, and delivereth not him that is in misery out of the hand of
him that despoileth."

If it had been any other Sister, I think I should have been horribly
shocked: but do what I would, I could not speak angrily to my own
sister.  I wonder if it were very wicked in me!  But it surprised me
much that Mother Alianora lay and hearkened, and said nought.  Neither
was she asleep, for I glanced at her from time to time, and always saw
her awake and listening.  Truly, she had little need of nurses, for it
was no set malady that ailed her--only a gentle, general decay from old
age.  Why two of us were set to watch her I could not tell.  Had I
thought it possible that Mother Gaillarde could do a thing so foreign to
her nature, I might have fancied that she sent us two there that night
just in order that we might talk and comfort each other.  If Mother
Alianora had been the one to do it, I might have thought such a thing:
or if my Lady had sent us herself, I should have supposed she had never
considered the matter: but Mother Gaillarde!  Well, whatever reason she
had, I am thankful for that talk with Margaret.  So I kept silence, and
my sister pursued her tale.

"He was not a Brother," she said, "but a young man training for the
priesthood under the Master.  But not yet had he taken the holy vows,
therefore I suppose thou wilt think him less wicked than me."

She looked up into my face with a half-smile.

"O Margaret!  I wis not what to think.  It all sounds so strange and
shocking--only that I have not the heart to find fault with thee as I
suppose I should do."

Margaret answered by a little laugh.

"In short," said she, "thou canst be wicked sometimes like other folk.
Be it done!  I ensure thee, Annora, it comforts me to know the same.
Because it is not real wickedness, only painted.  And I fear not painted
sin, any more than I hold in honour painted holiness.  For real sin is
not paint; it is devilishness.  And real holiness is not paint; it is
dwelling in God.  And God is love."

"But not that sort of love!"  I cried.

"Is there any sort but one?" she made answer.  "Love is an angel,
Annora: it is self-love that is of the Devil.  When man helps man to
sin, that is not love.  How can it be, when God is love, and God and sin
are opposites?  Tarry until my tale be ended, and then shalt thou be
judge thyself how far Roland's love and mine were sin."

"Go on," said I.

"Well," she said, "for many a week it went no further than looks.  Then
it came to words."

"In the church!"

"No, not in the church, my scrupulous sister!  We should have felt that
as wrong as thou.  Through the wall between the gardens, where was a
little chink that I dare be bound we were not the first to find.  Would
that no sinfuller words than ours may ever pass athwart it!  We found
out that both of us had been thrust into the religious life without our
own consent: I, thou savest, by the Queen's wrath (which I knew not
then); he, by a cousin that coveted his inheritance.  And we talked
much, and at last came to agreement that as neither he nor I had any
vocation, it would be more wrong in us to continue in this life than to
escape and be we'd."

"But what priest should ever have wedded a Sister to man training for
holy orders?"

"None.  We were young, Annora: we thought not of such things.  As for
what should come after we were escaped, we left that to chance.  Nay,
chide me not for my poor broken dream, for it was a dream alone.  The
Prioress found us out.  That night I was in solitary cell, barred in my
prison, with no companions save a discipline that I was bidden to use,
and a great stone crucifix that looked down upon me.  Ay, I had one
Other, but at first I saw Him not.  Nay, nor for eight years afterwards.
Cold, silent, stony, that crucifix looked down: and I thought He was
like that, the living Christ that had died for me, and I turned away
from Him.  My heart seemed that night as if it froze to ice.  It was
hard and ice-bound for eight years.  During that time there were many
changes at Watton.  Our Prioress died; and a time of sore sickness
removed many of our Sisters.  At the end of the eight years, only three
Sisters were left who could remember my punishment--it was more than I
have told"--ah, poor soul! lightly as she passed it thus, I dare be
bound it was--"and these, I imagine, knew not why it was.  And at last
our confessor died.

"I thought I had utterly outlived my youthful dream.  Roland had
disappeared as entirely as if he had never been.  What had become of him
I knew not--not even if he were alive.  I went about my duties in a
dull, wooden way, as an image might do, if it could be made to move so
as to sew or paint without a soul.  Life was worth nothing to me--only
to get it over.  My love was dead, or it was my heart: which I knew not.
Either came to the same thing.  There were duties I disliked, and one
of these was confession: but I went through with them, in the cold, dull
way of which I spake.  It had to be: what did it matter?

"One morrow, about a week after our confessor's death, my Lady Prioress
that then was told us at recreation-time that our new confessor had
come.  We were commanded to go to him, ten in the day, and to make a
full confession from our infancy.  My turn came on the second day.  So
many of our elder Sisters had died or been transferred, that I was, at
twenty-five years, one of the eldest (beside the Mothers) left in the
house.

"I knelt down in the confessional, and repeated the Confiteor.  Then, in
that stony way, I went on with my life-confession: the falsehood that I
had told when a child of eight, the obstinacy that I had shown at ten,
the general sins whereof I had since been guilty: the weariness of
divine things which ever oppressed me, the want of vocation that I had
always felt.  I finished, and paused.  He would ask me some questions,
of course.  Let him get them over.  There was silence for a moment.  And
then I heard myself asked--`Is that all thou hast to confess?'--in the
voice I had loved best of all the world.  My tongue seemed to cleave to
the roof of my mouth.  I only whispered, `Roland!' in tones which I
could not have told for mine own.

"`I scarce thought to find thee yet here, Margaret,' he said.  `I
well-nigh feared to do it.  But after thy confession, I see wherefore
God hath sent me--that I may pour out into the dry and thirsty cup of
thine heart a little of that spiced wine of the kingdom which He hath
given to me.'

"Mine heart sank down very low.  `Thou hast received thy vocation,
then?'  I said; and I felt the poor broken thing ache so that I knew it
must be yet alive.  Roland would care no more for me, if he had received
a vocation.  I must go on yet alone till death freed me.  Alone, for
evermore!

"`I have received the blessedest of all vocations,' he answered; `the
call to God Himself.  Margaret, art thou thinking that if this be so, I
shall love thee no more?  Nay, for I shall love thee more than ever.
Beloved, God is not stone and ice; He is not indifference nor hatred.
Nay, He is love, and whoso dwelleth in love dwelleth in God, and God
dwelleth in us, and His love is perfected in us.  Open thy heart to that
love, and then this little, little life will soon be over, and we shall
dwell together beside the river of His pleasures, unto the ages of the
ages.'

"`It sounds fair, Roland,' I said; `but it is far away.  My soul is hard
and dry.  I cannot tell how to open the door.'

"`Then,' said he, `ask Jesus to lift the latch and to come in.  Thou
wilt never desire Him to go forth again.  I have much to say: but it
hath been long enough now.  Every time thou prayest, say also, "Lord
Jesu, come into mine heart and make it soft."  He will come if thou
desire Him.  And if thou carest not to do this for His sake, do it for
thine own.'

"`I care not for mine own, nor for any thing,' I answered drearily.

"`Then,' saith he, and the old tenderness came into his tone for a
moment, `then, Margaret, do it for mine.'

"I believe he forgot to absolve me: but I did not miss it.

"It is four and twenty years since that day: and during all these years
I have been learning to know Christ our Lord, and the fellowship of His
sufferings.  For as time passed on, Roland told me much of saintly men
from whom he had learned, and of many a lesson direct from our Lord
Himself.  Now He has taken Roland's place.  Not that I love Roland less:
but I love him differently.  He is not first now: and all the bitterness
has gone out of my love.  Not all the pain.  For we came to the
certainty after a time, when he had taught me much, that we had better
bide asunder for this life, and in that which is to come we shall dwell
together for evermore.  He was about to resign his post as confessor,
when the Lord disposed of us otherwise, for the Master thought fit to
draft me into the house at Shuldham, and after eighteen years there was
I sent hither.  So Roland, I suppose, bides at Watton.  I know not: the
Lord knows.  We gave up for His sake the sweet converse wherein our
hearts delighted, that we might serve Him more fully and with less
distraction.  I do not believe it was sinful.  That it is sin in me to
love Roland shall I never own.  But lest we should love each other
better than we love Him, we journey apart for this lower life.  And I do
not think our Lord is angry with me when at times the longing pain and
the aching loneliness seem to overcome me, for a little while.  I think
He is sorry for me.  For since I learned--from Roland--that He is not
dead, but the Living One--that He is not darkness, but the Light--that
He is not cold and hard, but the incarnate Love--since then, I can never
feel afraid of Him.  And I believe that He has not only made
satisfaction for my sins, but also that He can carry my burdens, and can
forgive my blunders.  And if we cannot speak to one another, we can both
speak to Him, and entrust Him with our messages for each other.  He will
give them if it be good: and before giving, He will change the words if
needful, so that we shall be sure to get the right message.  Sometimes,
when I have felt very lonely, and He comes near me, and sends His peace
into my heart, I wonder whether Roland was asking Him to do it: and I
pray Him to comfort and rest Roland whenever he too feels weary.  So you
see we send each other many more letters round by Heaven than we could
possibly do by earth.  It was the last word Roland said to me--`The road
upward is alway open,' and, `_Et de Hierosolymis et de Britannia,
aequaliter patet aula caelestis_.'"  [Note 2.]

Margaret was silent.

Then said Mother Alianora, "Child, thou hast said strange things: if
they be good or ill, God wot.  I dare not have uttered some of them thus
boldly; yet neither dare I condemn thee.  We all know so little!  But
one thing have I learned, methinks--that God will not despise a gift
because men cast it at His feet as having no value for them.  I say not,
He will not despise such givers: verily, they shall have their reward.
But if the gift be a living thing that can feel and smart under the
manner of its usage, then methinks He shall stoop to lift it with very
tender hands, so as to let it feel that it hath value in His eyes--its
own value, that nought save itself can have.  My children, we are not
mere figures to Him--so many dwellers in so many houses.  Before Him we
are living men and real women--each with his separate heart, and every
separate pang that rends it.  The Church of God is one: but it is His
Body, and made of many members.  We know, when we feel pain, in what
member it is.  Is He less wise, less tender, less sensitive than we?
There are many, Margaret, who would feel nought but horror at thy story;
I advise thee not to tell it to any other, lest thou suffer in so doing.
But I condemn thee not: for I think Christ would not, if He stood now
among us.  Dear child, keep at His feet: it is the only safe place, and
it is the happy place.  Heaven will be wide enough to hold us all, and
before long we shall be there."

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1.  To the mind of a Roman Catholic, a "religious person" is only a
priest, monk, or nun.

Note 2.  "From Jerusalem, or from England, the way to Heaven is equally
near."--Jerome.



PART THREE, CHAPTER 3.

ANNORA FINDS IT OUT.

  "Peace, peace, poor heart!
  Go back and thrill not thus!
  Are not the vows of the Lord God upon me?"

It would really be a convenience if one could buy common sense.  People
seem to have so little.  And I am sure I have not more than other
people.

That story of Margaret's puzzles me sorely.  I sit and think, and think,
and I never seem to come any nearer the end of my thinking.  And some
never seem to have any trouble with their thoughts.  I suppose they
either have more of them, and more sense altogether, so that they can
see things where I cannot; or else--Well, I do not know what else.

But Margaret's thoughts are something so entirely new.  It is as if I
were looking out of the window at one end of the corridor, which looks
towards Grantham, and she were looking from the window at the other end,
which faces towards Spalding.  Of course we should not see the same
things: how could we?  And if the glass in one window were blue, and the
other red, it would make the difference still greater.  I think that
must be rather the distinction; for it does not seem to lie in the
things themselves, but in the eyes with which Margaret looks on them.

Dear Mother Alianora yet lives, but she is sinking peacefully.  Neither
Margaret nor I have been called to watch by her again.  I begged of
Mother Gaillarde that I might see her once more, and say farewell; and
all I got for it was "Mind your broidery, Sister!"

I should not wonder if she let me go.  I do not know why it is, but for
all her rough manner and sharp words, I can ask a favour of Mother
Gaillarde easier than of Mother Ada.  There seems to be nothing in
Mother Ada to get hold of; it is like trying to grip a lump of ice.
Mother Gaillarde is like a nut with a rough outside burr; there is
plenty to lay hold of, though as likely as not you get pricked when you
try.  And if she is rough when you ask her anything, yet she often gives
it, after all.

I have not exchanged a word with Margaret since that night when we
watched together.  She sits on the other side of the work-room, and even
in the recreation-room she rather avoids coming near me, or I fancy so.

Whatever I begin with, I always get back to Margaret.  Such strange
ideas she has!  I keep thinking of things that I wish I had said to her
or asked her, and now I have lost the opportunity.  I thought of it this
morning, when the two Mothers were conversing with Sister Ismania about
the Christmas decorations in our own little oratory.  Sister Ismania is
the eldest of all our Sisters.

"I thought," said she, "if it were approved, I could mould a little
waxen image of our Lord for the altar, and wreathe it round with
evergreens."

"As an infant?" asked Mother Gaillarde.

"Well--yes," said Sister Ismania; but I could see that had not been her
idea.

"Oh, of course!" answered Mother Ada.  "It would be most highly
indecorous for _us_ to see Him as a man."

Was it my fancy, or did I see a little curl of Margaret's lips?

"He will be a man at the second advent, I suppose," observed Mother
Gaillarde.

Mother Ada did not answer: but she looked rather scandalised.

"And must we not have some angels?" said Sister Ismania.

"There are the angels we had for Easter, Sister," suggested Sister
Roberga.

"Sister Roberga, oblige me by speaking when you are spoken to," said
Mother Ada, in her icicle manner.

"There is only one will do again," answered Mother Gaillarde.  "Saint
Raphael is tolerable; he might serve.  But I know the Archangel Michael
had one of his wings broken; and the Apostle Saint Peter lost a leg."

"We had a lovely Satan among those Easter figures," said Sister Ismania;
"and Saint John was so charming, I never saw his equal."

"Satan may do again if he gets a new tail," said Mother Gaillarde.  "But
Pontius Pilate won't; that careless Sister Jacoba let him drop, and he
was mashed all to pieces."

"Your pardon, Mother, but that was Judas Iscariot."

"It wasn't: it was Pontius Pilate."

"I am sure it was Judas."

"I tell you it wasn't."

"But, Mother, I--"

"Hold your tongue!" said Mother Gaillarde, curtly.

And being bidden by her superior, of course Sister Ismania had to obey.
I looked across at Margaret, and met her eyes.  And, as Margaret's eyes
always do, they spoke.

"These are holy women, and this is spiritual love!" said Margaret's
eyes, ironically.  "We might have spoken thus to our own brethren,
without going into a convent to do it."

I wonder if Margaret be not right, and we bring the world in with us:
that it is something inside ourselves.  But then, I suppose, outside
there are more temptations.  Yet do we not, each of us, make a world for
herself?  Is it not _ourselves_ that we ought to renounce--the
earthliness and covetousness of our own desires, rather than the mere
outside things?  Oh, I do get so tired when I keep thinking!

Yesterday, when Erneburg and Damia were playing at see-saw in the
garden, with a long plank balanced on the saddling-stone, I could not
help wondering how it is that one's thoughts play in that way.  Each end
seems sometimes up, and then the other end comes up, and that goes down.
I wish I were wiser, and understood more.  Perchance it was better for
me that I was sent here.  For I never should have been wise or
brilliant.  And suppose _he_ were, and that he had looked down upon me
and disliked me for it!  That would have been harder to bear than this.

_Ha, chetife_! have all religious women such stories as we two?  Did
Mother Ada ever feel a heart in her?  Mother Gaillarde does at times, I
believe.  As to my Lady, I doubt any such thing of her.  She seems to
live but to eat and sleep, and if Mother Gaillarde had not more care to
govern the house than she, I do--Mother of Mercy, but this is evil
speaking, and of my superiors too!  _Miserere me, Domine_!

As we filed out of the oratory last night as usual, Mother Gaillarde
stayed me at the door.

"Sister Annora, thou art appointed to the Infirmary to-night."  And in a
lower tone she added--"It will be the last time."

I knew well what last time she meant: never again in life should I see
our dear Mother Alianora.  I looked up thankfully.

"Well?" said Mother Gaillarde, in her curt way.  "Are you a stone image,
or do you think I'm one?"

I kissed her hand, made the holy sign, and passed on.  No, dear Mother:
thou art not a stone.

In the Infirmary I found Sister Philippa on duty.

"O Sister Annora, I am so glad thou art come!  I hate this sort of work,
and Mother Gaillarde will keep me at it.  I believe it is because she
knows I detest it."

"Thou art not just to Mother Gaillarde, Sister," I said, and went on to
the bed by the window.

"Annora, dear child!" said the feeble voice.  Ay, she was weaker far
than when I last beheld her, "Thank God I have seen thee yet once more."

I could do little for her--only now and then give her to drink, or raise
her a little.  And she could not speak much.  A few words occasionally
appeared to be all she had strength for.  Towards morning I thought she
seemed to wander and grow light-headed.  She called once "Isabel!" and
once "Aveline!"  We have at present no Sister in the house named
Aveline, and when I asked if I should seek permission to call Sister
Isabel if she wished for her, she said, "No: she will be gone to
Marlborough," and what she meant I know not.  [Note 1.]  Then, after she
had lain still a while, she said, "Guendolen--is it thou?"

"No, dearest Mother; it is Sister Annora," said I.

"Guendolen was here," saith she: "where is she?"

"Perhaps she will come again," I answered, for I saw that she scarcely
had her wits clear.

"She will come again," she saith, softly.  "Ay, He will come again--with
clouds--and His saints with Him.  And Guendolen will be there--my Sister
Guendolen, the Princess [Note 2], whom men cast forth,--Christ shall
crown her in His kingdom.  The last of the royal line!  There are no
Princes of Wales any more."

Then I think she dropped asleep for a time, and when she woke she knew
me at first; though she soon grew confused again.

"Christ's blessing and mine be on thee, mine own Annora!" saith she,
tenderly.  "Margaret, too--poor Magot!  Tell her--tell her--" but her
voice died away in indistinct murmurs.  "They will soon be here."

"Who, dearest Mother?"

"Joan and Guendolen.  Gladys, perchance.  I don't know about Gladys.
White--all in white: no black in that habit.  And they sing--No, she
never sang on earth.  I should like to hear Guendolen sing in Heaven."

The soft toll of the bell for prime came to her dulled ear.

"Are they ringing in Heaven?" she said.  "Is it Guendolen that rings?
The bells never rang for her below.  They have fairer music up there."

The door opened, and Mother Ada looked in.

"Sister Annora, you are released.  Come to prime."

Oh, to have tarried only a minute!  For a light which never was from sun
or moon had broken over the dying face, and she vainly tried to stretch
her hands forth with a rapturous cry of--"Guendolen!  Did the Master
send thee for me?"

"Sister!  You forget yourself," said Mother Ada, when I lingered.
"Remember the rule of holy obedience!"

I suppose it was very wicked of me--I am always doing wicked things--but
I did wish that holy obedience had been at the bottom of the Red Sea, I
kissed the trembling hand of the dear old Mother, and signed the holy
cross upon her brow to protect her when she was left alone, and then I
followed Mother Ada.  After prime I was ordered to the work-room.  I
looked round, and saw that Sister Roberga and Margaret were missing.  I
did hope Margaret, and not Sister Roberga, had been sent up to the
Infirmary.  Of course I could not ask.

For two hours I sewed with my heart in the Infirmary.  If the rule of
holy obedience had been at the bottom of the Red Sea, I am sure I should
not have tarried in that work-room another minute.  And then I heard the
passing bell.  It struck so cold to my heart that I had hard work to
keep my broidering in a straight line.

A few minutes later, Margaret appeared at the door.  She knelt down in
the doorway, and made the sign of the cross, saying, "Peace eternal
grant to us, O Lord!"

And we all responded, led by Mother Ada,--"Lord, grant to Thy servant
our Sister everlasting peace!"

So then I knew that Mother Alianora had been sent for by the Master of
us all.

"Sister Margaret!" said Mother Ada.

Margaret rose, went up to Mother Ada, and knelt again.

"How comes it thou art the messenger?  I sent Sister Roberga to the
Infirmary this morning."

"Mother Gaillarde bade me go to the Infirmary," said Margaret in a low
voice, "and sent Sister Roberga down to the laundry."

"Art thou speaking truth?" asked Mother Ada.

Margaret's head went up proudly.  "King Alfred the Truth-Teller was my
forefather," she said.

"Well! perhaps thou dost," answered Mother Ada, as if unwilling to admit
it.  "But it is very strange.  I shall speak to Sister Gaillarde."

"What about?" said Mother Gaillarde, appearing suddenly from the passage
to my Lady's rooms.

"Sister Gaillarde, this is very strange conduct of you!" said Mother
Ada.  "I ordered Sister Roberga to the Infirmary."

"You did, Sister, and I altered your order.  I am your superior, I
believe?"

Mother Ada, who is usually very pale, went red, and murmured something
which I could not hear.

"Nonsense!" said Mother Gaillarde.

To my unspeakable astonishment, Mother Ada burst into tears.  She has so
many times told the children, and not seldom the Sisters, that tears
were a sign of weakness, and unworthy of reasonable, not to say
religious, women--that they ought to be shed in penitence alone, or in
grief at a slight offered to holy Church, that I could only suppose
Mother Gaillarde had been guilty of some profanity.

"It is very hard!" sobbed Mother Ada.  "That you should set yourself up
in that way, when I was professed on the very same day as you--"

"What has that to do with it?" asked Mother Gaillarde.

"And my Lady shows you much more favour than she does me: only to-day
you have been in her rooms twice!"

"I wish she would send for you," said Mother Gaillarde, "for it is
commonly to waste time over some sort of fiddle-faddle that I despise.
You are heartily welcome to it, I can tell you!  Now, come, Sister Ada,
don't be silly and set a bad example.  It is all nonsense, and you know
it."

Off marched Mother Gaillarde with a firm step.  Mother Ada continued to
sob.

"Nobody could bear such treatment!" said she.  "The blessed Virgin
herself would not have stood it.  I am sure Sister Gaillarde is not a
bit better than I am--of course I do not speak on my own account, but
for the honour of the Order: that is what I am anxious about.  It does
not matter in the least how people tread _me_ down--I am the
humblest-minded Sister in the house; but I am a Mother of the Order, and
I feel Sister Gaillarde's words exceedingly.  Pride is one of the seven
deadly sins, and I do marvel where Sister Gaillarde thinks she is going.
I shall offer my next communion for her, that she may be more
humble-minded.  I am sure she needs it."

Mother Ada bit off her thread, as she said this, with a determined snap,
as if it had cruelly provoked her.  I was lost in amazement, for Mother
Ada has always seemed so calm and icy that I thought nothing could move
her, and here she was making a fuss about nothing, like one of the
children.  She had not finished when Mother Gaillarde came back.

"What, not over it yet?" said she, in her usual style.  "Dear me, what a
storm in a porringer!"

Mother Ada gave a bursting sob and a long wail to end it; but Mother
Gaillarde took no more notice of her, only telling us all that Mother
Alianora would be buried to-morrow, and that after the funeral we were
to assemble in conclave to elect a new Mother.  It will be Sister
Ismania, I doubt not; for she is eldest of the Sisters, and the one most
generally held in respect.

In the evening, at recreation-time, Sister Philippa came up to me.

"So we are to meet to elect a new Mother!" said she, with much
satisfaction in her tone.  "I always like meeting in conclave.  There is
something grand about it.  For whom will you vote, Sister Annora?"

"I have not thought much about it," said I, "except that I suppose every
body will vote for Sister Ismania."

"I shall not," said Mother Joan.

I see so little of Mother Joan that I think I have rarely mentioned her.
She is Mistress of the Novices, and seldom comes where I am.

"You will not, Mother?  For whom, then?" said Sister Philippa.

"If you should be appointed to collect the votes, Sister, you will
know," was Mother Joan's reply.

"Now, is that not too bad?" said Sister Philippa, when Mother Joan had
passed on.  "Of course the Mothers will collect the votes."

"I fancy Mother Joan meant we Sisters ought not to ask," I said.

"O Sister! did you not enjoy that quarrel between the Mothers this
morning?" cried she.

"Certainly not," I answered.  "I could not enjoy seeing any one either
distressed or angry."

"Oh; but it was so delightful to see Mother Ada let herself down!" cried
Philippa.  "So proud and stuck-up and like an icicle as she always is!
_Ha jolife_! and she calls herself the humblest Sister in the house!"

Margaret had come up, and stood listening to us.

"Who think you is the humblest, Sister Philippa?"

"I don't know," said Sister Philippa.  "If you asked me who was the
proudest, maybe I could tell--only that I should have to name so many."

"Well, I should need to name but one," said I.  "I would fain be the
humblest; but that surely am I not: and I find so many wicked motions of
pride in mine heart that I cannot believe any of us can be worse than
myself."

"I think I know who is the lowliest of us, and the holiest," said
Margaret as she turned away; "and I shall vote for her."

"Who can she mean?" asked Sister Philippa.

"I do not know at all," said I; and indeed I do not.

Dear Mother Alianora was buried this afternoon.  The mass for the dead
was very, very solemn.  We laid her down in the Sisters' graveyard, till
the resurrection morn shall come, when we shall all meet without spot of
sin in the presence-chamber of Heaven.  Till then, O holy and merciful
Saviour, suffer us not, now and at our last hour, for any pains of
death, to fall from Thee!

We passed directly from the funeral into conclave.  My Lady sent word to
the Master that we were about to elect a Mother, and he sent us his
benediction on our labour.  We all filed into our oratory, and sat down
in our various stalls.  Then, after singing the Litany of the Holy
Ghost, Mother Gaillarde passed down the choir on the Gospel side, and
Mother Ada on the Epistle side, collecting the votes.  When all were
collected, the two Mothers went up to my Lady, and she then came out of
her stall, and headed them to the altar steps, where they all three
knelt for a short space.  Then my Lady, turning round to us, and coming
forward, announced the numbers.

"Thirty-four votes: for Sister Roberga, one; for Sister Isabel, two; for
Sister Ismania, eleven; for Sister Annora, twenty.  Our Sister Annora is
chosen."

It was a minute before I was able to understand that such an
unintelligible and astounding thing had happened, as that our community
had actually chosen me--me, of all people!--to execute the highest
office in the house, next to my Lady Prioress herself.  Mother Gaillarde
and Mother Ada came up to me, to lead me up to the altar.

"But it cannot be," said I.  I felt completely confused.

"Thou art our Sister Annora, I believe," saith Mother Gaillarde, looking
rather amused; "and I marvel the less at the choice since I helped to
make it."

"I!"  I said again, feeling more amazed than ever at what she said; "but
I'm not a bit fit for such a place as that!  Oh, do choose again, and
fix on somebody more worthy than I am!"

"The choice of the community, guided by the Holy Spirit, has fallen on
you, Sister," said Mother Ada, in a cold, hollow voice.

"Come along, and don't be silly!" whispered Mother Gaillarde, taking my
right arm.

I really think Mother Gaillarde's words helped to rouse me from my
stupor of astonishment, better than any thing else.  Of course, if God
called me to a certain work, He could put grace and wisdom into me as
easily as into any one else; and I had only to bow to His will.  But I
did so wish it had been another who was chosen.  Sister Ismania would
have made a far better officer than I.  And to think of such a poor,
stupid, confused thing as I am, being put over her head!  But, if it
were God's will--that settled the matter.

It all felt so dreamy that I can scarcely tell what happened afterwards.
I remember that I knelt before my Lady, and before the altar--but I
felt too confused for prayer, and could only say, "_Domine, miserere
me_!" for no other words would come: and then the Master came and
blessed me, and made a short address to me (of which I believe I hardly
took in a word), and appointed the next day for the service of
ordination.

I am an ordained Mother of the Order of Saint Gilbert.  And I do not
feel any difference.  I thought I should have done.  The Master himself
sang the holy mass, and we sang _Veni Creator Spiritus_, and he said in
his address afterwards, that when his hands were laid on my head, the
Holy Ghost came down and filled me with His presence--and I did not feel
that He did.  Of course it was all very solemn, and I did most earnestly
desire the influences of the blessed Spirit, for I shall never be able
to do any thing without them: but really I felt our Lord nearer me in
the evening, when I knelt by my bed for a minute, and asked Him, in my
own poor words, to keep me in the right way, and teach me to do His
will.  I think I shall try that again.  Now that I have a cell to
myself, I can do it.  And I sleep in dear Mother Alianora's cell, where
I am sure the blessed Lord has been wont to come.  Oh, I hope He will
not tarry away because I am come into it--I, who am so worthless, and so
weak, and need His gracious aid so much more than she did!

I do wish, if so great a favour could possibly be vouchsafed to me, that
I might speak to our Lord just once.  He has ere this held converse with
the holy saints.  Of course I am not holy, nor a saint, nor in the least
merit any such grace from Him: but I need it more than those who merit
it.  Oh, if I could know,--once, certainly, and for ever--whether it is
earthly, and carnal, and wicked, as people say it is, for me to grieve
over that lost love of mine!  Sister Ismania says it is all folly and
imagination on my part, because, having been parted when we were only
six years old, I cannot possibly (she says) feel any real, womanly love
for him.  But I do not see why it must be grown-up to be real.  And I
never knew any thing better or more real.  It may not be like what
others have, but it was all I had.  I wish sometimes that I knew if he
still lives, and whether that other wife lives to whom I suppose
somebody must have married him after I was thrust in here.  I cannot
feel as if he did not still, somehow, belong to me.  If I only knew
whether it was wrong!

I have been appointed mistress of the work-room, and I ought to keep it
in order.  How I can ever do it, I cannot think.  I shall never be able
to chide the Sisters like the other Mothers: and to have them coming up
to me, when they are chidden, and kissing the floor at my feet--I do not
know how I can stand it.  I am sure it will give me a dreadful feeling.
However, I hope nothing will ever happen of that kind, for a long, long
while.

What is the good of hoping any thing?  Mother Gaillarde says that hopes,
promises, and pie-crust are made to be broken.  Certainly hopes seem to
be.  After all my wishes, if something did not happen the very first
day!

When I got down to the work-room, what should I find but Sisters Roberga
and Philippa having a violent quarrel.  They were not only breaking the
rule of silence, which in itself was bad enough, but they were calling
each other all manner of names.

I was astonished those two should quarrel, for they have always been
such friends that they had to be constantly reminded of the prohibition
of particular friendships among the religious: but when they did, it
reminded me of the adage that vernage makes the best vinegar.

Sister Isabel cast an imploring look at me, as I entered, which seemed
to say, "Do stop them!" and I had not a notion how to set about it,
except by saying--

"My dear Sisters, our rule enjoins silence."

On my saying this (which I did with much reluctance and some trembling)
both of them turned round and appealed to me.

"She promised to vote for me, and she did not!" cried Sister Roberga.

"I did!" said Sister Philippa.  "I kept my word."

"There was only one vote for me," answered Sister Roberga.

"Well, and I gave it," replied Sister Philippa.

"You couldn't have done!  There must have been more than one."

"Why should there?"

"I know there was."

"How do you know?"

"I do know."

"You must have voted for yourself, then: you can't know otherwise," said
Sister Philippa, scornfully.

Sister Roberga fairly screamed, "I didn't, you vile wretch!" and went
exceedingly red in the face.

"Sister Roberga," said I--

"Don't you interfere!" shrieked Sister Roberga, turning fiercely on me.
"You want a chance to show your power, of course.  You poor,
white-faced, sanctimonious creature, only just promoted, and that
because every body voted for you, thinking you would be easily managed--
just like a bit of putty in any body's fingers!  And making such a fuss,
as if you were so humble and holy, professing not to wish for it!
Faugh! how I hate a hypocrite!"

I stood silent, feeling as if my breath were taken away.

"Yes, isn't she?" cried Sister Philippa.  "Wanting Sister Ismania to be
preferred, instead of her, after all her plotting with Mother Gaillarde
and Sister Margaret!  I can't bear folks who look one way and walk
another, as she does.  _I_ shouldn't wonder if the election were
vitiated,--not a bit!--and then where will you be, _Mother_ Annora?"

"Where you will be, Sister Philippa, until compline," said a voice
behind me, "is prostrate on the chapel floor: and after compline, you
will kiss the floor at Mother Annora's feet, and ask her to forgive you.
Sister Roberta, go to the laundry--there is nobody there--and do not
come forth till I fetch you.  You also, after compline, will ask the
Mother's forgiveness."

Oh, how thankful I felt to Mother Gaillarde for coming in just then!
She said no more at that time; but at night she came to my cell.

"Sister Annora," said she, "you must not let those saucy girls ride
rough-shod over you.  You should let them see you mean it."

"But," said I, "I am afraid I don't mean it."

Mother Gaillarde laughed.  "Then make haste and do," said she.  "You'll
have a bear-garden in the work-room if you don't pull your curb a little
tighter.  You may always rely on Sister Ismania, Sister Isabel, and
Sister Margaret to uphold your authority.  It is those silly young
things that have to be kept in order.  I wish you joy of your new post:
it is not all flowers and music, I can tell you."

"Oh dear, I feel so unfit for it!"  I sighed.

Mother Gaillarde smiled.  "Sister, I am a bad hand at paying
compliments," she said.  "But one thing I will say--you are the fittest
of us all for the office, if you will only stand firm.  Give your orders
promptly, and stick to them.  _Pax tibi_!"

I have put Mother Gaillarde's advice into action--or rather, I have
tried to put it--and have brought a storm on my head.  Oh dear, why
cannot folks do right without all this trouble?

Sisters Amie and Catherine began to cast black looks at one another
yesterday evening in the work-room, and when recreation-time came the
looks blossomed into words.  I told them both to be silent at once.
This morning I was sent for by my Lady, who said that she had not
expected me to prove a tyrant.  I do not think tyrants feel their hearts
go pitter-patter, as mine did, both last night and this morning.  Of
course I knelt and kissed her hand, and said how sorry I was to have
displeased her.

"But, indeed, my Lady," said I, "I spoke as I did because I was afraid I
had not been sufficiently firm before."

"Oh, I dare say it was all right," said my Lady, closing her eyes, as if
she felt worried with the whole affair.  "Only Sister Ada thought--I
think somebody spoke to her--do as you think best, Sister.  I dare say
it will all come right."

I wish things would all come right, but it seems rather as if they all
went wrong.  And I do not _quite_ see what business it is of Mother
Ada's.  But I ought not to be censorious.

Just as I was leaving the room, my Lady called me back.  It does feel so
new and strange to me, to have to go to my Lady herself about things,
instead of to one of the Mothers!  And it is not nearly so satisfactory;
for where Mother Gaillarde used to say, "Do _so_, of course"--my Lady
says, "Do as you like."  I cannot even get accustomed to calling them
Sister Gaillarde and Sister Ada, as, being a Mother myself, I ought to
do now.  Oh, how I miss our dear Mother Alianora!  It frightens me to
think of being in her place.  Well, my Lady called me back to tell me
that the Lady Joan de Greystoke desired to make retreat with us, and
that we must prepare to receive her next Saturday.  She is to have the
little chamber next to the linen-wardrobe.  My Lady says she is of good
lineage, but she did not say of what family she came.  She commanded me
to tell the Mothers.

"_Miserere_!" said Mother--no, Sister Ada.  "What an annoyance it is, to
be sure, when externs come for retreat!  She will unsettle half the
young Sisters, and turn the heads of half the others.  I know what a
worry they are!"

"Humph!" said Sister Gaillarde.  "Of good lineage, is she?  That means,
I suppose, that she'll think herself a princess, and look on all of us
as her maid-servants.  She may clean her own shoes so far as I'm
concerned.  Do her good.  I'll be bound she never touched a brush
before."

"Some idle young baggage, I've no doubt," said Sister Ada.

"Marry, she may be a grandmother," said Mo--Sister Gaillarde.  "If she's
eighty, she'll think she has a right to lecture us; and if she's only
eighteen, she'll think so ten times more.  You may depend upon it, she
will reckon we know nought of the world, and that all the wisdom in it
has got into her brains.  These externs do amuse me."

"It is all very well for you to make fun of it, Sister Gaillarde," said
Sister Ada, peevishly, "but I can tell you, it will be any thing but fun
for you and me, if she set half the young Sisters, not to speak of the
novices and pupils, coveting all manner of worldly pomps and dainties.
And she will, as sure as my name is Ada."

"Thanks for your warning," said Mother Gaillarde.  "I'll put a rod or
two in pickle."

The Lady Joan's chamber is ready at last: and I am dad.  Such a business
I have had of it!  I had no idea Sister Philippa was so difficult to
manage: and as to Sister Roberga, I pity any one who tries to do it.

"You see, Sister Annora," said Sister Gaillarde, smiling rather grimly,
"official life is not all flowers and sunshine.  I don't pity my Lady,
just because she shirks her duties: she merely reigns, and leaves us to
govern; but I can tell you, no Prioress of this convent would have an
easy life, if she _did_ her duty.  I remember once, when I was in the
world, I saw a mountebank driving ten horses at once.  I dare say he
hadn't an easy time of it.  But, lack-a-day! we have to drive thirty:
and skittish fillies some of them are.  I don't know what Sister Roberga
has done with her vocation: but I never saw the corner of it since she
came."

"Well!"  I said with a sigh, "I suppose I never had one."

"Stuff and nonsense!" said Sister Gaillarde.  "If you mean you never had
a liking for the life, that may be true--you know more about that than
I; but if you mean you do not fill your place well, and do your duty as
well as you know how, and a deal better than most folks--why, again I
say, stuff and nonsense!  You are not perfect, I suppose.  If you ever
see any body who is, I should like to know her name.  It won't be
Gaillarde--that I know!"

I wonder whose daughter the Lady Joan is!  Something in her eyes puzzles
me so, as if she reminded me of somebody whom I had known, long, long
ago--some Sister when I was novice, or perchance even some one whom I
knew in my early childhood, before I was professed at all.  They are
dark eyes, but not at all like Margaret's.  Margaret's are brown, but
these are dark grey, with long black lashes; and they do not talk--they
only look as if they could, if one knew how to make them.  The Lady Joan
is very quiet and attentive to her religious duties; I think Sister
Ada's fears may sleep.  She is not at all likely to unsettle any body.
She talks very little, except when necessary.  Two months, I hear, she
will remain; and I do not think she will be any trouble to one of us.
Even Sister Gaillarde says, "She is a decent woman: she'll do."  And
that means a good deal--from Sister Gaillarde.

I have the chance to speak to Margaret now.  Of course a Mother can call
any Sister to her cell if needful; and no one may ask why except another
Mother.  I must be careful not to seem to prefer Margaret above the
rest, and all the more because she is my own sister.  But last night I
really had some directions to give her, and I summoned her to my cell.
When I had told her what I wanted, I was about to dismiss her with "_Pax
tibi_!" as usual, but Margaret's talking eyes told me she had something
to say.

I said,--"Well! what is it, Margaret?"

"May I speak to my sister Annora for a moment, and not to the Mother?"
she asked, with a look half amused and half sad.

"Thou mayest always do that, dear heart," said I.

(I hope it was not wicked.)

"Then--Annora, for whom is the Lady Joan looking?"

"Looking!  I understand thee not, Margaret."

"I think it is either thou or I," she replied.  "Sister Anne told me
that she asked her if there were not some Sisters of the Despenser
family here, and wished to have them pointed out to her: and she said to
Sister Anne, `She whom I seek was professed as a very little child.'
That must be either thou or I, Annora.  What can she want with us?"

"Verily, Margaret, I cannot tell."

"I wondered if she might be a niece of ours."

"She may," said I.  "I never thought of that.  There is something about
her eyes that reminds me of some one, but who it is I know not."

"Thou couldst ask her," suggested Margaret.

"I scarcely like to do that," said I.  "But I will think about it,
Margaret."

I was wicked enough to kiss her, when I let her go.

This morning Sister Ada told me that the Lady Joan had asked leave to
learn illuminating, so she would spend her mornings henceforth in the
illumination chamber.  That will bring her with Margaret, who is much
there.  Perchance she may tell her something.

It would be strange to see a niece or cousin of one's very own!  I
marvel if she be akin to us.  Somehow, since I had that night watch with
Margaret, my heart does not feel exactly the dry, dead thing it used to
do in times past.  I fancy I could love a kinswoman, if I had one.

Sister Gaillarde said such a strange thing to me to-day.  I was
remarking that the talk in the recreation-room was so often vapid and
foolish--all about such little matters: we never seemed to take an
interest in any great or serious subject.

"Sister Annora," said she, with one of her grim smiles, "I always looked
to see you turn out a reformer."

"Me!" cried I.

"You," said she.

"But a reformer is a great, grand man, with a hard head, and a keen wit,
and a ready tongue!" said I.

"Why should it not be a woman with a soft heart?" quoth Sister
Gaillarde.

"_Ha, jolife_!" cried I.  "Sister Gaillarde, you may be cut out for a
reformer, but I am sure I am not."

I looked up as I spoke, and saw the Lady Joan's dark grey eyes upon me.

"What is to be reformed.  Mother?" said she.

"Why, if each of us would reform herself, I suppose the whole house
would be reformed," I answered.

"Capital!" said Sister Gaillarde.  "Let's set to work."

"Who will begin?" said Sister Ismania.

"Every body will be the second," replied Sister Gaillarde, "except those
who have begun already: that's very plain!"

"I expect every body will be the last," said Margaret.

Sister Gaillarde nodded, as if she meant Amen.

"Well, thank goodness, I want no reforms," said Sister Ada.

"Nor any reforming?" said Sister Gaillarde.

"Certainly not," she answered.  "I always do my duty--always.  Nobody
can lay any thing else to my charge."  And she looked round with an air
that seemed to say, "Deny it if you can!"

"It is manifest," observed Sister Gaillarde gravely, "that our Sister
Ada is the only perfect being among us.  I am not perfect, by any means:
and really, I feel oppressed by the company of a seraph.  I'm not nearly
good enough.  Perchance, Sister Ada, you would not mind my sitting a
little further off."

And actually, she rose and went over to the other side of the room.
Sister Ada tossed her head,--not as I should expect a seraph to do: then
she too rose, and walked out of the room.  Sister Ismania had laughingly
followed Sister Gaillarde: so that the Lady Joan, Margaret, and I, were
alone in that corner.

"My mother had a Book of Evangels," said the Lady Joan, "in which I have
sometimes read: and I remember, it said, `be ye perfect,' The priests
say only religious persons can be perfect: yet our Lord, when He said
it, was not speaking to them, but just to the common people who were His
disciples, on the hill-side.  Is it the case, that we could all be
perfect, if only we tried, and entreated the grace of our Lord to enable
us to be so?"

"Did your Ladyship ever know any who was?" asked Margaret.

The Lady Joan shook her head.  "Never--not perfect.  My mother was a
good woman enough; but there were flaws in her.  She was cleverer than
my father, and she let him feel it.  He was nearer perfection than she,
for he was humbler and gentler--God rest his sweet soul!  Yet she was a
good woman, for all that: but--no, not perfect!"

Suddenly she ceased, and a light came in her eyes.

"You two," she said, looking on us, "are the Despenser ladies, I
believe?"

We assented.

"Do you mind telling me--pardon me if I should not ask--which of you was
affianced, long years ago, to the Lord Lawrence de Hastings, sometime
Earl of Pembroke?"

"Sometime!" ah me, then my lost love is no more!

I felt as though my tongue refused to speak.  Something was coming--
what, I did not know.

Margaret answered for me, and the Lady Joan's hand fell softly on mine.

"Did you love each other," she said, "when you were little children?  If
so, we ought to love each other, for he was very dear to me.  Mother
Annora, he was my father."

"You!"  I just managed to say.

"Ah, you did, I think," she said, quietly.  "He died a young man, in the
first great visitation of the Black Death, over twenty years ago: and my
mother survived him twenty years.  She married again, and died three
years since."

Margaret asked what I wanted to hear.  I was very glad, for I felt as if
I could ask nothing.  It was strange how Margaret seemed to know just
what I wished.

"Who was your mother, my Lady?"

The Lady Joan coloured, and did not answer for a moment.  Then she
said,--"I fear you will not like to know it: yet it was not her fault,
nor his.  Queen Isabel arranged it all: and she hath answered for her
own sins at the Judgment Bar.  My mother was Agnes de Mortimer, daughter
of the Earl of March."

"Why not?" said Margaret.

"Ah, then you know not.  I scarce expected a Despenser to hear his name
with patience.  But I suppose you were so young--Sisters, he was the
great enemy of your father."

So they wedded my lost love to the daughter of my enemy!  Almost before
the indignation rose up within me, there came to counteract it a vision
of the cross of Calvary, and of Him who said, "Father, forgive them!"
The momentary feeling of anger died away.  Another feeling took its
place: the thought that the after-bond was dissolved now, and death had
made him mine again.

"Mother Annora," said the Lady Joan's soft voice, "will you reject me,
and look coldly on me, if I ask whether you can love me a little?  He
used to love to talk to me of you, whom he remembered tenderly, as he
might have remembered a little sister that God had taken.  He often
wondered where you were, and whether you were happy.  And when I was a
little child, I always wanted to hear of that other child--you lived,
eternal, a little child, for me.  Many a time I have fancied that I
would make retreat here, and try to find you out, if you were still
alive.  Do you think it sinful to love any thing?--some nuns do.  But if
not, I should like you to love the favourite child of your lost love."

"Methinks," said Margaret, quietly, "it is true in earthly as in
heavenly things, and to carnal no less than spiritual persons, `_Major
horum est caritas_.'"  [First Corinthians 13, verse 13.]

I hardly know what I said.  But I think Joan was satisfied.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1.  Her thoughts wandered to her married sister, Isabel Lady
Hastings and Monthermer, who lived at Marlborough Castle.

Note 2.  The last native Princess of Wales, being the only (certainly
proved) child of the last Prince Llywelyn, and Alianora de Montfort.
She was thrust into the convent at Sempringham with her cousin Gladys.



PART THREE, CHAPTER 4.

MORTIFYING THE WILL.

  "L'orgueil n'est jamais mieux deguise, et plus capable de tromper, que
  lorsqu'il se cache sous la figure de l'humilite."

  Rochefoucauld.

"Oh, you have no idea how happy we are here!" said Sister Ada to Joan.
"I often pity the people who live in the world.  Their time is filled
with such poor, mean things, and their thoughts must be so frivolous.
Now our time is all taken up with holy duties, and we have no room for
frivolous thoughts.  The world is shut out: it cannot creep in here.  We
are the happiest of women."

I happened to look at Sister Gaillarde, and I saw the beginning of one
of her grim smiles: but she did not speak.

"Some of you do seem happy and peaceful," said Joan (she says I am to
call her Joan).  "But is it so with all?"

Sister Gaillarde gave her little Amen nod.

"Oh dear, yes!" answered Sister Ada.  "Of course, where the will is not
perfectly mortified, there is not such unbroken bliss as where it is.
But when the rule of holy obedience is fully followed out, so that we
have no will whatever except that of our superiors, you cannot imagine
what sweet peace flows into the soul.  Now, if Father Benedict were to
command me any thing, I should be positively delighted to do it, because
it was a command from my superior.  It would not in the least matter
what it was.  Nay, the more repugnant it was to my natural inclinations,
the more it would delight me."

Joan's eyes wandered to two or three other faces, with a look which
said, "Do you agree to this?"

"Don't look at me!" said Sister Gaillarde.  "I'm no seraph.  It wouldn't
please me a bit better to have dirty work to do because Father Benedict
ordered it.  I can't reach those heights of perfection--never understood
them.  If Sister Ada do, I'm glad to hear it.  She must have learned it
lately."

"I do not understand it, as Sister Ada puts it," said I, as Joan's eyes
came to me.  "I understand what it is to give up one's will in any thing
when it seems to be contrary to the will of God, and to have more real
pleasure in trying to please Him than in pleasing one's self.  I
understand, too, that there may be more true peace in bearing a sorrow
wherein God helps and comforts you, than in having no sorrow and no
comfort.  But Sister Ada seems to mean something different--as if one
were to be absolutely without any will about any thing, and yet to
delight in the crossing of one's will.  Now, if I have not any wall, I
do not see how it is to be crossed.  And to have none whatever would
surely make me something different from a woman and a sinner.  I should
be like a harp that could be played on--not like a living creature at
all."

Two or three little nods came from Sister Gaillarde.

"People who have no wills are very trying to deal with," said Margaret.

"People who have wills are," said Sister Philippa.

"Nay," said Margaret, "if I am to be governed, let it be by one that has
a will.  `Do this,' and `Go there,' may be vexatious at times: but far
worse is it to ask for direction, and hear only, `As you like,' `I don't
know,' `Don't ask me.'"

"Now that is just what I should like," said Sister Philippa.  "I never
get it, worse luck!"

"Did you mean me, Sister Margaret?" said Sister Ada, stiffly.

"I cry you mercy, Mother; I was not thinking of you at all," answered
Margaret.

"It sounded very much as if you were," said Sister Ada, in her iciest
fashion.  "I think, if you had been anxious for perfection, you would
not have answered me in that proud manner, but would have come here and
entreated my pardon in a proper way.  But I am too humble-minded to
insist on it, seeing I am myself the person affronted.  Had it been any
one else, I should have required it at once."

"I said--" Margaret got so far, then her brow flushed, and I could see
there was an inward struggle.  Then she rose from the form, and laying
down her work, knelt and kissed the ground at Mother Ada's feet.  I
could hear Sister Roberga whisper to Sister Philippa, "That
mean-spirited fool!"

Sister Gaillarde said in a softer tone than is her wont,--"_Beati
pauperes spiritu: quoniam ipsorum est regnum caelorum_."  [Matthew 5,
verse 3.]

"Thank you, Sister Gaillarde," said Sister Ada, quickly.  "I scarcely
expected recognition from _you_."

"You got as much as you expected, then," said Sister Gaillarde, drily,
with a look across at me which almost made me laugh.

"I told you, I got more than I expected," was Sister Ada's answer.

"Did you mean it for her?" asked Joan, in so low a voice that only those
on each side of her could hear.

"I meant it for whoever deserved it," was Sister Gaillarde's reply.

Just then Mother Joan came in and sat down.

"Sister Ada," she said, "Sister Marian tells me, that my Lady has given
orders for that rough black rug that nobody likes to be put on your bed
this week."

"No, has she?" cried Sister Ada, in tones which, if she were delighted,
very much belied her feelings.  "How exceedingly annoying!  What could
my Lady be thinking of?  She knows how I detest that rug.  I shall not
be able to sleep a wink.  Well!  I suppose I must submit; it is my duty.
But I do feel it hard that _all_ the disagreeable things should come to
me.  Surely one of the novices might have had that; it would have been
good for somebody whose will was not properly mortified.  Really, I _do_
think--Oh, well, I had better not say any more."

Nor did she: but that night, as I was going round the children's
dormitory, little Damia looked up at me.

"Mother, dear, what's the matter with Mother Ada?"

"What did she say, my child?"

"Oh, she didn't say any thing; but she has looked all day long as if she
would like to hit somebody."

"Somebody vexed her a little, perhaps," said I.  "Very likely she will
be all right to-morrow."

"I don't know--she takes a long while to come right when any body has
put her wrong--ever so much longer than you or Sister Margaret.  The
lightning comes into Sister Margaret's eyes, and then away it runs, and
she looks so sorry that she let it come; and you only look sorry without
any lightning.  But Mother Ada looks I don't know how--as if she'd like
to pull all the hair off your head, and all your teeth out of your
mouth, and wouldn't feel any better till she'd done it."

I laughed, and told the child to go to sleep, and not trouble her little
head about Mother Ada.  But when I came into my cell, I began to wonder
if Sister Ada's will is perfectly mortified.  It does not look exactly
like it.

Before I had done more than think of undressing, Sister Gaillarde rapped
at my door.

"Sister Annora, may I have a little chat with you?"

"Do come in, Sister, and sit down," said I.

"This world's a very queer place!" said Sister Gaillarde, sitting down
on my bed.  "It would not be a bad place, but for the folks in it: and
they are as queer as can be.  I thought I'd just give you a hint,
Sister, that you might feel less taken by surprise--I expect you'll have
a lecture given you to-morrow."

"What have I done?"  I asked, rather blankly.

Sister Gaillarde laughed till the tears came into her eyes.

"Oh dear, the comicality of folks in this world!" saith she.  "Sister
Annora, do you know that you are a very carnal person?"

"Indeed, I have always feared so," said I, sorrowfully.

"Rubbish!" said Sister Gaillarde in her most emphatic style.  "Don't,
for mercy's sake, be taken in by such nonsense.  It is a wonder what
folks can get into their heads when they have nothing else in them!
Sister Ada is very much concerned about the low tone of spirituality
which she sees in you--stupid baggage!  She is miserably afraid you are
a long way off perfection.  I'm more concerned a deal about her."

"But, Sister Gaillarde, it is true!" said I.  "I am very, very far from
being perfect, and I fear I never shall be."

"Well!" saith she, "if I had to go into the next world holding on to
somebody's skirts, I'd a sight rather they were yours than Sister Ada's.
I do think some folks were born just to be means of grace and nothing
else.  Maybe it is as well some of them should get into nunneries."

"Some are rather trying, I must admit," said I.  "Sister Roberga--"

"Oh, Sister Roberga! she's just a butterfly and no better.  Brush her
off--she's good for no more.  But she isn't one that tries me like some
other folks.  You did not hear what happened yesterday between Sisters
Ada and Margaret?"

"No.  What was it?"

"Some of the Sisters were talking about hymns in recreation.  Sister
Margaret said she admired the _Dies Irae_.  Sister Ada wanted to know
what she admired; she could not see any thing to admire; it was just a
jingle of words, and nothing else.  The rhymes might be good to remember
by--that was all.  I saw the look on Sister Margaret's face: of course
she did not answer the Mother.  But I did.  I told her that I believed
if any one showed her a beautiful rose, she would call it a red
vegetable.  `Well,' quoth she, `and what is it else?  I never smell a
rose or any other flower.  We were put here to mortify our senses.'
`Sister Ada,' said I, `the Lord took a deal of pains for nothing, so far
as you were concerned.'  Well, she said that was profane: but I don't
believe it.  The truth is, she's just one of those dull souls that
cannot see beauty, nor smell fragrance, nor hear music; and so she
assumes her dulness as virtue, and tries to make it out that those who
have their senses are carnal and worldly.  But just touch her pride, and
doesn't it fly up in arms!  Depend upon it, Sister Annora, men are quite
as often taken for fools because they can see what other folks can't, as
because they can't see what other folks can."

"I dare say that is true," said I.  "But--forgive me, Sister Gaillarde--
ought we to be talking over our Sisters?"

"Sister Annora, you are too good for this world!" she answered, rather
impatiently.  "If one may not let out a bit, just now and then, what is
one to do?"

"But," said I, "we were put here to mortify ourselves."

"We were put here to mortify our sins," said she: "and wala wa! some of
us don't do it.  I dare say old Gaillarde's as bad as any body.  But I
cannot stand Sister Ada's talk, when she wants to make every creature of
us into stones and stocks.  She just inveighs against loving one another
because she loves nobody but Ada Mansell, and never did.  Oh!  I knew
her well enough when we were young maids in the world.  She was an only
child, and desperately spoiled: and her father joined in the Lancaster
insurrection long ago, and it ruined his fortunes, so she came into a
convent.  That's her story.  Ada Mansell is the pivot of her thoughts
and actions--always will be."

"Nay," said I; "let us hope God will give her grace to change, if it be
as you say."

"It'll take a precious deal of grace to change some folks!" said Sister
Gaillarde, satirically.  "Hope many of them won't want it at once, or
there'll be such a run upon the treasury there'll be none left for you
and me.  Well! that's foolish talk.  My tongue runs away with me now and
then.  Don't get quite out of patience with your silly old Sister
Gaillarde.  Ah! perhaps I should have been a wiser woman, and a better
too, if something had not happened to me that curdled the milk of my
human kindness, and sent me in here, just because I could not bear
outside any longer--could not bear to see what had been mine given to
another--well, well!  We are all poor old sinners, we Sisters.  And as
to perfection--my belief is that any woman may be perfect in any life,
so far as that means having a true heart towards God, and an honest wish
to do His will rather than our own--and I don't believe in perfection of
any other sort.  As to all that rubbish men talk about having no will at
all, and being delighted to mortify your will, and so forth--my service
to the lot of it.  Why, what you like to have crossed isn't your will;
what you delight in can't be mortification.  It is just like playing at
being good.  Eh, dear me, there are some simpletons in this world!
Well, good-night, Sister: _pax tibi_!"

Sister Gaillarde's hand was on the latch when she looked back.

"There, now I'm forgetting half of what I had to tell you.  Father
Hamon's going away."

"Is he?--whither?"

"Can't say.  I hope our next confessor will be a bit more alive."

"Father Benedict is alive, I am sure."

"Father Benedict's a draught of vinegar, and Father Hamon's been a bowl
of curds.  I should like somebody betwixt."

And Sister Gaillarde left me.

She guessed not ill, for I had my lecture in due course.  Sister Ada
came into my cell--had she bidden me to hers, I should have had a chance
to leave, but of course I could not turn her forth--and told me she had
been for long time deeply concerned at my want of spiritual discernment.
"Truly, Sister, no more than I am," said I.  "Now, Sister, you reckon
me unkindly, I cast no doubt," saith she: "but verily I must be faithful
with you.  You take too much upon you,--you who are but just promoted to
your office--and are not ready enough to learn of those who have had
more experience.  In short, Sister Annora, you are very much wanting in
true humility."

"Indeed, Sister Ada, it is too true," said I.  "I beseech you, Sister,
to pray that you may have your eyes opened to the discerning of your
faults," saith she.  "You are much too partial and prejudiced in your
governance of the Sisters, and likewise with the children.  Some you
keep not under as you should; and to others you grant too little
freedom."

"Indeed, Sister, I am afraid it may be so, though I have tried hard to
avoid it."

"Well, Sister, I hope you will think of these things, and that our Lord
may give you more of the grace of humility.  You lack it very much, I
can assure you.  I would you would try to copy such of us as are really
humble and meek."

"That I earnestly desire, Sister," said I: "but is it not better to copy
our Lord Himself than any earthly example?  I thank you for your
reproof, and I will try harder to be humble."

"You know, Sister," said she, as she was going forth, "I have no wish
but to be faithful.  I cannot bear telling others of their faults.
Only, I _must_ be faithful."

"I thank you, Sister Ada," said I.

So away she went.  Sister Gaillarde said when she saw me, with one of
her grim smiles--

"Well! is the lecture over?  Did she bite very hard?"

"She saith I am greatly lacking in meekness and humility, and take too
much on myself," said I: "and I dare say it is true."

"Humph!" said Sister Gaillarde.  "It would be a mercy if some folks
weren't.  And if one or two of us had a trifle more self-assertion,
perhaps some others would have less."

"Have I too much self-assertion, Sister?"  I said, feeling sorry it
should be thus plain to all my Sisters.  "I will really--"

Sister Gaillarde patted me on the shoulder with her grimmest smile.

"You will really spoil every body you come near!" said she.  "Go your
ways, Sister Annora, and leave the wasps in the garden a-be."

"Why, I do," said I, "without they sting me."

"Exactly!" said Sister Gaillarde, laughing, and away.  I know not what
she meant.

Mother Joan is something troubled with her eyes, and the leech thinks it
best she should no longer be over the illumination-room, but be set to
some manner of work that will try the sight less.  So I am appointed
thereto in her stead.  I cannot say I am sorry, for I shall see more of
Joan, since in this chamber she passes three mornings of a week.  I mean
my child Joan, for verily she is the child of mine heart.  And my very
soul yearns over her, for Sister though I be, I cannot help the thought
that had it not been for Queen Isabel's unjust dealing, I should have
been her mother.  May the good Lord forgive me, if it be sin!  I know
now, that those deep grey eyes of hers, with the long black lashes,
which stirred mine heart so strangely when she first came hither, are
the eyes of my lost love.  I knew in myself that I had known such eyes
aforetime, but it seemed to be long, long ago, as though in another
world.  Much hath Joan told me of him; and all I hear sets him before me
as man worthy of the best love of a good woman's heart, and whom mine
heart did no wrong to in its enduring love.  And I am coming to think--
seeing, as it were, dimly, through a mist--that such love is not sin,
neither disgrace, even in the heart of a maid devoted unto God.  For He
knoweth that I put Him first: and take His ordering of my life, as being
His, not only as just and holy, but as the best lot for me, and that
which shall be most to His glory and mine own true welfare.  I say not
this openly, nor unto such as should be likely to misconceive me.  There
are some to whose pure and devoted souls all things indifferent are
pure; and they are they that shall see God.  And man saith that in the
world there are some also, unto whose vile and corrupt hearts all things
indifferent are impure; and maybe not in the world only, but by times
even in the cloister.  So I feel that some might misread my meaning, and
take ill advantage thereof; and I keep my thoughts to myself, and to
God.  I never ask Joan one question touching him of whom I treasure
every bye-note that she uttereth.  Yet I know not how it is, but she
seems to love to tell me of him.  Is it by reason she hath loved, that
her heart hath eyes to see into mine?

Not much doth Joan say of her mother to me: I think she names her more
to others.  Methinks I see what she was--a good woman as women go (and
some of them go ill), with a little surface cleverness, that she
reckoned to run deeper than it did, and inclined to despise her lord by
reason his wit lay further down, and came not up in glittering bubbles
to the top.  I dare reckon she looked well to his bodily comforts and
such, and was a better wife than he might have had: very likely, a
better than poor Alianora La Despenser would have made, had God ordered
it thus.  Methinks, from all I hear, that he hath passed behind the
jasper walls: and I pray God I may meet him there.  They wed not, nor be
given in marriage, being equal unto the angels: but surely the angels
love.

Strange talk it was that Joan held with me yesterday.  I marvel what it
may portend.  She says, of late years many priests have put forth
writings, wherein they say that the Church is greatly fallen away from
the verity of Scripture, and that all through the ages good men have
said the same (as was the case with the blessed Robert de Grosteste,
Bishop of Lincoln, over two hundred years gone, and with the holy Thomas
de Bradwardine, Archbishop of Canterbury, and with Richard Rolle, the
hermit of Hampole, whose holy meditations on the Psalter are in our
library, and I have oft read therein): but now is there further stir, as
though some reforming of the Church should arise, such as Bishop
Grosteste did earnestly desire.  Joan says her lord is earnest for these
new opinions, and eager to promote them: and that he saith that both in
the Church and in matters politic, men sleep and nap for a season,
during which slow decay goes on apace, and then all at once do they wake
up, and set to work to mend matters.  During the reign of this present
King, saith he, the world and the Church have had a long nap; and now
are they just awake, and looking round to see how matters are all over
dust and ivy, which lack cleansing away.  Divers, both clerks and
laymen, are thus bestirring themselves: the foremost of whom is my Lord
of Lancaster, the King's son [John of Gaunt], among the lay folk, and
among the clergy, one Father Wycliffe [Note 1], that was head of a
College at Oxenford, and is now Rector of Lutterworth in Leicestershire.
He saith (that is, Father Wycliffe) that all things are thus gone to
corruption by reason of lack of the salt preservative to be found in
Holy Scripture.  Many years back, did King Alfred our forefather set
forth much of the said Scriptures in the English tongue; as much,
indeed, as he had time, for his death hindered it, else had all the holy
hooks been rendered into our English tongue.  But now, by reason of
years, the English that was in his day is gone clean out of mind, and
man cannot understand the same: so there is great need for another
rendering that man may understand now.  And this Father Wycliffe hopes
to effect, if God grant him grace.  But truly, some marvellous strange
notions hath he.  Joan says he would fain do away with all endowing of
the Church, saying that our Lord and the Apostles had no such provision:
but was that by reason it was right, or because of the hardness of men's
hearts?  Surely the holy women that ministered to Him of their substance
did well, not ill.  Moreover, he would have all monkery done away, yea,
clean out of the realm, and he hath mighty hard names for monks,
especially the Mendicant Friars: yet of nuns was he never heard to speak
an unkindly word.  Strange matter, in good sooth! it nearly takes away
my breath but to hear tell of it.  But when he saith that the Pope
should have no right nor power in this realm of England, that is but
what the Church of England hath alway held: Bishop Grosteste did as
fervently abhor the Pope's power--"Egyptian bondage" was his word for
it.  Much has this Father also to say against simony: and he would have
no private confession to a priest (verily, this would I gladly see
abolished), nor indulgences, nor letters of fraternity, nor pilgrimages,
nor guilds: and he sets his face against the new fashion of singing mass
[intoning, then a new invention], and the use of incense in the
churches.  But strangest of all is it to hear of his inveighing against
the doctrine of the Church that the sacred host is God's Body.  It is
so, saith he, in figure, and Christ's Body is not eaten of men save
ghostly and morally.  And to eat Christ ghostly is to have mind of Him,
how kindly He suffered for man, which is ghostly meat to the soul.
[Arnold's English Works of Wycliffe, Volume 2, pages 93, 112.]

Here is new doctrine!  Yet Father Wycliffe, I hear, saith this is the
old doctrine of the Apostles themselves, and that the contrary is the
new, having never (saith he) been heard of before the time of one
Radbert, who did first set it forth five hundred years ago [in 787]: and
after that it slumbered--being then condemned of the holy doctors--till
the year of our Lord God 1215, when the Pope that then was forced it on
the Church.  Strange matter this!  I know not what to think.

Joan says some of these new doctrine priests go further than Father
Wycliffe himself, and even cast doubt on Purgatory and the worship [this
word then merely meant "honour"] of our Lady.  Ah me! if they can prove
from God's Word that Purgatory is not, I would chant many thanksgivings
thereon!  All these years, when I knew not if my lost love were dead or
alive, have I thought with dread of that awful land of darkness and
sorrow: yet not knowing, I could have no masses sung for him; and had I
been so able, I could never have told for whom they were, but only have
asked for them for my father and mother and all Christian souls, and
have offered mine own communion with intention thereto.  Ay, and many a
time--dare I confess it?--I have offered the same with that intent, if
he should be to God commanded [dead]--knowing that God knew, and humbly
trusting in His mercy if I did ill.  But for the worship of our Lady,
that is passing strange, specially to me that am religious woman.  For
we were always taught what a blessing it was that we had a woman to whom
we might carry our griefs and sorrows, seeing God is a man, and not so
like to enter into a woman's feelings.  But these priests say--I am
almost afraid to write it--this is dishonouring Christ who died for us,
and who therefore must needs be full of tenderness for them for whom He
died, and cannot need man nor woman--not even His own mother--to stand
betwixt them and Him.  O my Lord, have I been all these years
dishonouring Thee, and setting up another, even though it be Thy blessed
mother, between Thee and me?  Yet surely He regardeth her honour full
diligently!  Said He not to Saint John, "Behold thy mother?"--and doth
not that Apostle represent the whole Church, who are thereby commanded
to regard her, each righteous man, as his own very mother?  [This is the
teaching of the Church of Rome.]  I remember the blessed Hermit of
Hampole scarcely makes mention of her: it is all Christ in his book.
And if it be so--of which Joan ensures me--in the Word of God, whereof
she hath read books that I have missed--verily, I know not what to
think.

Lord, Thou wist what is error!  Save me therefrom.  Thou wist what is
truth: guide me therein!

It would seem that I have erred in offering my communions at all.  For
if to eat Christ's Body be only to have mind of Him--and this is
according to His own word, "_Hoc facite in meam commemorationem_"--how
then can there be at all any offering of sacrifice in the holy mass?
Joan says that Saint Paul's Epistle to the Hebrews saith that we be
hallowed by the oblation of the body of Jesus Christ once, and that
where remission is, there is no more oblation for sin.  Truly we have
need to pray, Lord, guide us into Thy truth! and yet more, Lord, keep us
therein!  I must think hereon.  In sooth, this I do, and then up rises
some great barrier to the new doctrine, which I lay before Joan: and as
quickly as the sun can break forth and melt a spoonful of snow, does she
clear all away with some word of Saint Paul.  She has his Epistles right
at her tongue's end.  For instance, quoth I,--"Christ said He should
bestow the Holy Spirit, to lead the Church into all truth.  How then can
the Church err?"

"What Church?" said she, boldly.  "The Church is all righteous men that
hold Christ's words: not the Pope and Cardinals and such like.  These
last have no right to hold the first in bondage."

"But," said I, "Father Benedict told me Saint Paul bade the religious to
obey their superiors: how much more all men to obey the Church?"

"I marvel," saith she, "where Father Benedict found that.  Never a word
says Paul touching religious persons: there were none in his day."

"No religious in Paul's day!" cried I.

"Never so much as one," saith she: "not a monk, not a nun!  Friar
Pareshull himself told me so much; he is a great man among us.  Saint
Peter bids the clergy not to dominate over inferiors; Saint Paul says to
the Ephesians that out of themselves (he was speaking to the clergy)
should arise heretics speaking perversely; and Saint John says, `Believe
not every spirit, but prove the spirits if they be of God.'  Dear Mother
Annora, we are nowhere bidden in Scripture to obey the Church save only
once, and that concerns the settling of a dispute betwixt two members of
it.  Obey the Church! why, we are ourselves the Church.  Has not Father
Rolle taught you so much?  `Holy Kirk,' quoth he--`that is, ilk
righteous man's soul.'  Verily, all Churches be empowered of Christ to
make laws for their own people: but why then must the Church of England
obey laws made by the Bishop of Rome?"

"Therein," said I, "can I fully hold with thee."

"And for all things," she said earnestly, "let us hold to God's law, and
take our interpretation of it not from men, but straight from God
Himself.  Lo! here is the promise of the Holy Ghost assured unto the
Church--to you, to me, to each one that followeth Christ.  They that
keep His words and are indwelt of His Spirit--these, dear Mother, are
the Church of God, and to them is the truth promised."

I said nought, for I knew not what to answer.

"There is yet another thing," saith Joan, dropping her voice low.  "Can
that be God's Church which contradicts God's Word?  David saith `Over
all things Thou hast magnified Thy Name' [Note 2]: but I have heard of a
most wise man, that could read ancient volumes and dead tongues, that
Saint Hierome set not down the true words, namely, `Over all Thy Name
Thou hast magnified Thy Word.'  Now, if this be so--if God hath set up
His Word over all His Name--the very highest part of Himself--how dare
any assemblage of men to gainsay it?  What then of these indulgences and
licences to sin, which the Popes set forth? what of their suffering them
to wed whom God has forbidden, and forbidding it to priests to whom God
has suffered it?  Surely this is the very thing which God points at,
`teaching for doctrines the commandments of men.'"

"But, Joan," said I, "my dear heart, did not our Lord say, `Whatsoever
ye shall bind on earth shall be bound in Heaven?'  Surely that
authorises the Church to do as she will."

"Contrary unto God's Word?  It may give her leave to do her will within
the limits of the Word: I trow not contrary thereto.  When the King
giveth plenipotentiary powers to his Keeper of the Great Seal, his own
deposing and superseding, I reckon, are not among them.  `All things are
subject unto Christ,' saith Paul; `doubtless excepting Him which did
subject all things unto Him.'  So, if God give power of loosing and
binding to His Church, it cannot be meant that she shall bind Himself
who thus endowed her, contrary to His own will and law."

I answered nought, again, for a little while.  At last I said, "Joan,
there is a word that troubles me, and religious folks are always quoting
it.  `If a man hate not his father and his mother'--and so forth--he
cannot be our Lord's disciple.  I think I have heard it from one or
another every week since I came here.  What say these new doctrine folks
that it means?"

"Ours are old doctrines, Mother dear," saith she; "as old as the
Apostles of Christ.  What means it?  Why, go forth to the end, and you
will see what it means: he is to hate his own soul also.  Is he then to
kill himself, or to go wilfully into perdition?  Nay, what can it mean,
but only that even these dearest and worthiest loves are to be set below
the worthier than them all, the love of the glory of God?  That our Lord
never meant a religious person should neglect his father and mother, is
plainly to be seen by another word of His, wherein he rebukes the
priests of His day, because they taught that a man might bestow in
oblation to God what his father's or his mother's need demanded of him.
Here again, he reproves them, because they rejected the command of God
in order to keep their own tradition.  You see, therefore, that when the
Church doth this, it is not ratified in Heaven."

"Then," said I, after a minute's thought, "I am not bidden to hate
myself, any more than my relations?"

"Why should we hate one whom God loveth?" she answered.  "To hate our
selfishness is not to hate ourselves."

I sat a while silent, setting red eyes and golden claws to my green
wyvern, and Joan ran the white dots along her griffin's tail.  When she
came to the fork of the tail, she laid down her brush.

"Mother," she saith--the dear grey eyes looking up into my face--"shall
we read together the holy Scripture, and beseech God to lead us into all
truth?"

"Dear child, we will do so," said I.  "Joan, didst thou ever read in
holy Scripture that it was wicked to kiss folks?"

She smiled.  "I have read there of one," saith she, "who stole up behind
the holiest of all men that ever breathed, and kissed His feet: and the
rebuke she won from Him was no more than this: `Her many sins are
forgiven her, and she loved much.'  So, if a full sinful woman might
kiss Christ without rebuke, methinks, if it please you, Mother dear, you
might kiss me."

Well, I knew all my life of that woman, but I never thought of it that
way before, and it is marvellous comforting unto me.

My Lady sent this morning for all the Mothers together.  Mine heart went
pitter-patter, as it always doth when I am summoned to her chamber.  It
is only because of her office: for if she were no more than a common
Sister, I am sorely afraid I should reckon her a selfish, lazy woman:
but being Lady Prioress, I cannot presume to sit in judgment on my
superiors thus far.  We found that she had sent for us to introduce us
to the new confessor, whose name is Father Mortimer, he is tall, and
good-looking (so far as I, a Sister, can understand what is thought to
be so in the world), and has dark, flashing eyes, which remind me of
Margaret's, and I should say also of that priest that once confessed us,
did I not feel certain that this is the same priest himself.  He will
begin his duties this evening at compline.

Sister Gaillarde said to me as we came forth from my Lady,--"Had I been
a heathen Greek, and lived at the right time, methinks I should have wed
Democritus."

"Democritus! who was he?" said I.

"He was named the Laughing Philosopher," said she, "because he was ever
laughing at men and things.  And methinks he did well."

"What is there to laugh at, Sister Gaillarde?"

"Nothing you saw, Saint Annora."

"Now you are laughing at me," said I, with a smile.

"My laugh will never hurt you," answered she.  "But truly, betwixt
Sister Ada and the peacock--They both spread their plumes to be looked
at.  I wonder which Father Mortimer will admire most."

"You surely never mean," said I, much shocked, "that Sister Ada expects
Father Mortimer to admire her!"

"Oh, she means nothing ill," said Sister Gaillarde.  "She only admires
Ada Mansell so thoroughly herself, that she cannot conceive it possible
that any one can do otherwise.  Let her spread her feathers--it won't
hurt.  Any way, it will not hurt him.  He isn't that sort of animal."

Indeed, I hope he is not.

When my Lady dismissed us, I went to my work in the illumination-room,
where Joan, with Sister Annot and Sister Josia, awaited my coming.  I
bade Sister Josia finish the Holy Family she was painting yesterday for
a missal which we are preparing for my Lord's Grace of York; I told
Sister Annot to lay the gold leaf on the Book of Hours writing for my
Lady of Suffolk; and as Margaret, who commonly works with her, was not
yet come, I began myself to show Joan how to coil up the tail of a
griffin--she said, to put a yard of tail into an inch of parchment.  It
appeared to amuse her very much to see how I twisted and interlaced the
tracery, so as to fill up every little corner of the parallelogram.
When the outline was drawn, and she began to fill it with cobalt, as I
sat by, she said suddenly yet softly--

"Mother Annora, I have been considering whether I should tell you
something."

"Tell me what, dear child?" quoth I.

"I am afraid," said she, "I shocked you yesterday, making you think I
was scarcely sound in the faith.  Yet where can lie the verity of the
faith, if not in Holy Writ?  And I marvelled if it should aggrieve you
less, if you knew one thing--yet that might give you pain."

"Let me hear it, Joan."

"Did you know," said she, dropping her voice low, "that it was in part
for heresy that your own father suffered death?"

"My father!" cried I.  "Joan, I know nothing of my father, save only
that he angered Queen Isabel, and for what cause wis I not."

"For two causes: first, because the King her husband loved him, and she
was of that fashion that looked on all love borne by him as so much
robbed from herself.  But the other was that very thing--that she was
orthodox, and he was--what the priests called an heretic.  There might
be other causes: some men say he was proud, and covetous, and unpitiful.
I know not if it be true or no.  But that they writ him down an
heretic, as also they did his father, and Archdeacon Baldok--so much I
know."

I felt afraid to ask more, and yet I had great longing to hear it.

"And my mother?" said I.  I think I was like one that passes round and
round a matter, each time a little nearer than before--wishing, and yet
fearing, to come to the kernel of it.

"I have heard somewhat of her," said Joan, "from the Lady Julian my
grandmother.  She was a Leybourne born, and she wedded my grandfather,
Sir John de Hastings, whose stepmother was the Lady Isabel La Despenser,
your father's sister.  I think, from what she told me, your mother was a
little like--Sister Roberga."

I am sorely afraid I ought not to have answered as I did, for it
was--"The blessed saints forfend!"

"Not altogether," said Joan, with a little laugh.  "I never heard that
she was ill-tempered.  On the contrary, I imagine, she was somewhat too
easy; but I meant, a little like what Mother Gaillarde calls a
butterfly--with no concern for realities--frivolous, and lacking in due
thought."

"Was your grandmother, the Lady Julian, an admirer of these new
doctrines?" said I.

"They were scarcely known in her day as they have been since," said
Joan; "only the first leaves, so to speak, were above the soil: but so
far as I can judge from what I know, I should say, not so.  She was a
great stickler for old ways and the authority of the Church."

"And your mother?"  I was coming near delicate ground, I felt, now.

"Oh! she, I should say, would have liked our doctrines better.  Mother
Annora, is there blue enough here, or shall I put on another coat?"

Joan looked up at me as she spoke.  I said I thought it was deep enough,
and she might now begin the shading.  Her head went down again to her
work.

"My mother," said she, "was no bigot, nor did she much love priests; I
dare venture to say, had Father Wycliffe written then as he has now, she
would somewhat have supported him so far as lay in her power.  But my
father, I think, would have loved these doctrines best of all.  I have
heard say he spoke against the ill lives of the clergy, and the idle
doings of the Mendicant Friars: and little as I was when he departed to
God, I can myself remember that he used to tell me stories of our Lord
and the ancient saints and patriarchs, which I know, now that I can read
it, to have come out of God's Word.  Ay, methinks, had he lived, he
would have helped forward this new reformation of doctrine and manners."

"Reformation!" cries Mother Ada, entering the chamber.  "I would we
could have a reformation in this house.  What my Lady would be at,
passeth me to conceive.  She must think I have two pairs of eyes and six
pairs of hands, if no more.  Do but guess, Sister Annora, what she wants
to have done."

"Nay, that I cannot," said I.  I foresaw some hard work, for my Lady is
one who leaves things to go as they list for ever so long, and then,
suddenly waking up, would fain turn the house out o' windows ere one can
shut one's eyes.

"Why, if she did not send for me an hour after we came out, and said the
condition of the chapel was shameful; how could we have let it get into
such a state?  Father Mortimer was completely scandalised at the sight
of it.  All the holy images were all o'er cobwebs, and all--"

"And all of a baker's dozen of blessed times," said Sister Gaillarde,
entering behind, "have I been at her for new pails and brushes, never
speak of soap.  I told her a spider as big as a silver penny had spun a
line from Saint Peter's key to Saint Katherine's nose; and as to the
dust--why, you could make soup of it.  I've dusted Saint Katherine many
a time with my hands, for I had them, if I'd nought else: and trust me,
the poor Saint looked so forlorn, I fairly wondered she did not speak.
Had I been the image of a saint, somebody would have heard of it, I
warrant you, when that spider began scuttering up and down my nose."

"And now she bids us drop every thing, and go and clean out the chapel,
this very morning--to have done by vesper time!  Did you ever hear such
a thing?" said Sister Ada, from the bench whereon she had sunk.

"Mother Ada," said Sister Josia, "would you show me--"

"Mercy on us, child, harry not me!" cried Sister Ada.

"But I do not know whether a lily should be in this corner by the
blessed Mary," said Sister Josia, "or if the ass should stand here."

"The lily, by all means," said Sister Gaillarde.  "Prithee paint not an
ass: there's too many in this world already."

"I do wish Father Mortimer would attend to his own business!" cried
Sister Ada, "or that we had old Father Hamon back again.  I do hate
these new officers: they always find fault with every thing."

"Ay, new brooms be apt to sweep a bit too clean," replied Sister
Gaillarde.  "Mary love us, but I would we had a new broom!  I don't
believe there are twenty bristles left of the old one."

Joan looked up from her griffin's tail to laugh.

"Well, what is to be done?"

"Oh, I suppose we must do as we are bid," saith Sister Ada in a mournful
voice.  "But, dear heart, to think of it!"

"How many pails have you, Sister Ada?"

"There's the large bouget, and the little one.  The middle-sized one is
broken, but it will hold some water."

"Two and a half, then," answered Sister Gaillarde.  "Well, fetch them,
Sister, and I will go and see to the mops.  I think we have a mop left.
Perhaps, now, if we din our needs well into my Lady's ears, we may get
one or two more.  But, sweet Saint Felicitas! is there any soap?"

"Half a firkin came in last week," responded Sister Ada.  "You forget,
Sister Gaillarde, the rule forbids us to ask more than once for
anything."

"The rule should forbid Prioresses to have short memories, then.  Come,
Sister Annot, leave that minikin fiddle-faddle, and come and help with
the real work.  If it is to be done by vespers, we want all the hands we
can get.  I will fetch Sister Margaret to it; she always puts her heart
into what she has to do.  Well, you look sorely disappointed, child: I
am sorry for it, but I cannot help it.  I have no fancy for such
vanities, but I dare say you like better sticking bits of gold leaf upon
vellum than scrubbing and sweeping."

"Sister Annot, I am ashamed of you!" said Sister Ada.  "Your perfection
must be very incomplete, if you can look disappointed on receiving an
order from your superior.  You ought to rejoice at such an opportunity
of mortifying your will."

"That's more than I've done," said Sister Gaillarde.  "Well, Sister Ada,
as you don't offer to move, I suppose we had better leave you here till
you have finished rejoicing over the opportunity.  I hope you'll get
done in time to take advantage of it.  Come, Sister Annot."

I thought I had better follow.  So, having given Joan a few directions
to enable her to go on for a time without superintendence, I went to see
after the water-bougets, which should have been Sister Ada's work.  She
called after me--"Sister Annora, I'll follow you in a moment.  I have
not quite finished my rosary."

I left her there, telling her last few beads, and went to fetch the
bougets, which I carried to the chapel, just as Sister Gaillarde came in
with her arms full, followed by Margaret and Annot.

"I've found two mops!" she cried.  "Mine was all right, but where Sister
Ada keeps hers I cannot tell.  Howbeit, Sister Joan has one.  Now,
Sister Annora, if you will bring yours--And see here, these brushes have
a few bristles left--this is a poor set-out, though.  It'll do to knock
off spiders.  Now, Sister Margaret, fetch that long ladder by the garden
door.  Sister Annot, you had better go up,--you are the lightest of us,
and I am not altogether clear about that ladder, but it is the only one
we have.  Well-a-day! if I were Pr--Catch hold of Saint James by the
head, Sister Annot, to steady yourself.  Puff! faugh! what a dust!"

We were all over dust in a few minutes.  I should think it was months
since it had been disturbed, for my Lady never would order the chapel to
be cleaned.  We worked away with a will, and got things in order for
vespers.  Sister Annot just escaped a bad fall, for a rung of the ladder
gave way, and if she had not clutched Saint Peter by the arm, down she
would have come.  Howbeit, Saint Peter held, happily, and she escaped
with a bruise.

Just as things were getting into order, and we had finished all the
dirty work, Sister Ada sauntered in.

"Well, really," said Sister Gaillarde, "I did not believe you could
truly rejoice in the mortification of your will till I saw how long it
took you!  Thank you, the mortification is done; you will have to wait
till next time: I only hope you will let this rejoicing count.  There's
nothing left for you, but to empty the slops and wipe out the pails."

Joan told me afterwards, in a tone of great amusement, that "Mother Ada
finished her beads very slowly, and then said she would go after you.
But she stopped to look at Sister Annot's work, and at once discovered
that if left in that state it would suffer damage before she came back.
So she sat down and wrought at that for above an hour.  Then she was
just going again, but she found that an end of the fringe was coming off
my robe, and she fetched needle and thread of silk, and sewed it on.
The third time she was just going, when she saw the fire wanted wood.
So she kept just going all day till about half an hour before vespers,
and then at last she contrived to go."

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1.  I may here ask pardon for an anachronism in having brought
Wycliffe forward as a Reformer some years before he really began to be
so.  The state of men's minds in general was as I have described it; the
uneasy stir of coming reformation was in the air; the pamphlet which is
so often (but wrongly) attributed to Wycliffe, The Last Age of the
Church, had been written some fifteen years before this time: but
Wycliffe himself, though then a political reformer, did not come forward
as a religious reformer until about six years later.

Note 2.  Psalm 138 verse 2, Vulgate.  The Authorised Version correctly
follows the Hebrew--"Thou hast magnified Thy Word above all Thy Name."



PART THREE, CHAPTER 5.

WAITING.

  "If we could push ajar the gates of life,
  And stand within, and all God's workings see,
  We could interpret all this doubt and strife,
  And for each mystery could find a key.

  "But not to-day.  Then be content, poor heart!
  God's plans, like lilies pure and white, unfold:
  We must not tear the close-shut leaves apart;
  Time will reveal the calyxes of gold.

  "And if through patient toil we reach the land
  Where tired feet with sandals loose may rest,
  When we shall clearly see and understand,
  I think that we shall say--`God knew the best.'"

When we came out from the chapel after vespers, my Lady commanded Sister
Gaillarde to follow her.  The rest of us went, of course, to the
work-room, where Sister Gaillarde joined us in about half an hour.  I
saw that she looked as though she had heard something that greatly
amused her, but we could know nothing till we reached the
recreation-room.

The minute our tongues were loosed, Sister Ada attacked Sister Gaillarde
as to what my Lady wanted with her.  With one of her grim smiles, Sister
Gaillarde replied--

"My Lady is about to resign her office."

A storm of exclamations greeted the news.

"Why, Sister?  Do tell us why."

"She finds," said Sister Gaillarde, gravely, "the burden of her official
duties too heavy."

"I marvel what she reckons them to be!" quoth Sister Joan, who, though
not sarcastic in the style of Sister Gaillarde, can now and then say a
biting thing.  "So far as I ever made out, her duties are to sit on
cushions and bid other folks work."

"Exactly: and that is too much labour for her."

"Which of us will be chosen in her stead, I marvel!" said Sister Ada,
briskly.  "I trust it may be one who will look better to her house than
the present Lady has done."

"Amen," said Sister Gaillarde, with a mischievous air.  "I hope it will
be Sister Joan."

"Truly, I hope not," answered the Sister: "for if any such honour came
my way (which I expect not), I should feel it my duty to decline it on
account of my failing sight."

"Then you see, my Sisters," quoth Sister Ada, quickly, "to vote for
Mother Joan would be to no good."

"It would be little good to vote for Mother Ada," I heard a voice
whisper behind me; and another replied, "She thinks we all shall, I
warrant."

I feel little doubt that Sister Gaillarde will be the one chosen.  One
of us four it is most likely to be: and the sub-Prioress is oftener
chosen than the rest.  Sister Gaillarde, methinks, would make a good
Prioress.

We had scarcely recovered from our surprise, and had not half finished
our talk, when the bell rang for compline: and silence fell on all the
busy tongues.  All the young Sisters, and the postulants, were eager to
catch a glimpse of Father Mortimer; and I saw a good deal of talk pass
from eyes to eyes, in the few minutes before the service began.  He
sings full well, and is most seemly in his ordering of matters.  If he
be as discreet in the confessional as in his outer ministrations,
methinks I shall like him well.  Howbeit, he made a deal less impression
than he would have done before my Lady's intention was announced.  When
we filed out of the chapel, and assembled again in the recreation-room,
the tongues were set loose, and I could see that the main stream of talk
ran on my Lady; only one here and there diverging to Father Mortimer.  I
sought out Joan, and asked if our new confessor were any kin to her.
She could not tell me, beyond saying that she has three uncles and
several cousins in the priesthood; but since, saving her uncle Walter,
she has never seen any of them, she could not speak certainly without
asking himself.

I marvel I have not seen Margaret all this even, now I come to think.  I
was so taken up with the news concerning my Lady that I never thought to
look for her: and in chapel she sits on the Epistle side, as I do, so
that I see her not.

This morrow my Lady called us into conclave, and made known her
resignation, which she has already tendered to the Master: and bade us
all farewell.  She will not tarry with us, but goes into the daughter
house at Cambridge; this somewhat surprises me, though I see it does not
Sister Gaillarde.

"There'll be more stir there," said she.

"Think you my Lady likes stir?" said I.  "I have always reckoned her one
that loved not to be stirred."

"Soothly," said Sister Gaillarde: "yet she loveth well to sit on her
cushions, and gaze on the stir as a peep-show."

A few hours later we were all again assembled in conclave, and the
Master himself with us, for election of a new Prioress.  And after the
mass of the Holy Ghost we Mothers went round to gather up the votes.  It
fell as I looked, and Sister Gaillarde is elected.  In all the house
there were only nine that voted otherwise, and of these four were for
Sister Joan, two for Sister Ismania, and one each for Sisters Ada,
Isabel, and myself.  I feel sure that mine was Margaret's: and Joan says
she is certain Sister Ada's was her own.  I voted, as before, for Sister
Gaillarde, for truly I think her fittest of all for the place.  Her
ordination fallows next week.

"Verily," said Sister Ada, the next time we were at recreation, "I do
marvel at Sister Gaillarde's manner of taking her election.  Not one
word of humility or obedience, but just took it as if it were her right,
and she were the most suitable person!"

"Why, that was obedience, was it not?" responded Sister Ismania.

"Obedience it might be, but it was not lowliness!" said Sister Ada,
tartly.  "If I had been elect--of course I do not mean that I expected
such a thing, not for a moment--I should have knelt down and kissed the
chapel floor, and protested my sense of utter unworthiness and
incapacity for such an office."

Sister Isabel, who sat by me, said in a low voice,--"Maybe some of your
Sisters would have agreed with you."  And though I felt constrained to
give her a look of remonstrance, I must say I thought with her.  Sister
Ada as Prioress would have been a sore infliction.

But now Sister Gaillarde herself came forward.  I do not think Sister
Ada had known she was there, to judge from her change of colour.

"Sister Ada," said she, "you are one of those surface observers who
always fancy people do not feel what they do not say.  Let me answer you
once for all, and any who think with you.  As a sinner before God, I do
feel mine unworthiness, even to the lowest depth: and I am bound to
humble myself for all my sins, and not least for the pride which would
fain think them few and small.  But as for incapacity, I do not feel
that; and I shall not say what I do not feel.  I think myself quite
capable of governing this house--I do not say as well as some might do
it, but as well as most would do; and it would be falsehood and
affectation to pretend otherwise.  I suppose, in condemning hypocrisy,
our Lord did not mean that while we must not profess to be better than
we are, we may make any number of professions, and tell any number of
falsehoods, in order to appear worse than we are.  That may be your
notion of holiness; but suffer me to say, it is not my notion of
honesty.  I mean to try and do my duty; and if any of my Sisters thinks
I am not doing it, she will confer a favour on me if she will not talk
it over with the other Sisters, but come straight to my rooms and tell
me so.  I promise to consider any such rebukes, honestly, as before God;
and if on meditation and prayer I find that I have been wrong, I will
confess it to you.  But if I think that it was simply done out of spite
or impertinence, that Sister will have a penance set her.  I hope, now,
we understand each other: and I beg the prayers of you all that I may
rule in the fear of God, showing neither partiality nor want of
sympathy, but walking in the right way, and keeping this house pure from
sin."

Sister Ada made no answer whatever.  Sister Ismania said, with much
feeling--

"Suffer me, Mother, to answer for the younger Sisters, and I trust the
Mothers will pardon me if I am over ready.  Sure am I that the majority
of my Sisters will consent to my reply.  We will indeed pray that you
may have the grace of perseverance in good works, and will strive to
obey your holy directions in the right path.  I ask every Sister who
will promise the same to say `_Placet_.'"

There was a storm of _Placets_ in response.  But unless I was mistaken,
Sister Ada and Sister Roberga were silent.

It was while she was answering "_Placet_" that I caught sight of
Margaret's face.  What had happened to make her look thus white and wan,
with the expressive eyes so full of tears behind them, which she could
not or would not shed?  I sat in pain the whole day until evening, and
the more because she seemed rather to avoid me.  But at night, when we
had parted, and all was quiet in the dormitories, a very faint rap came
at the door of my cell.  I bade the applicant enter in peace: and
Margaret presented herself.

"Annora!" she said, hesitating timidly.

I knew what that meant.

"Come to me, little Sister," I said.

She came forward at once, closing the door behind her, and knelt down at
my feet.  Then she buried her face in her hands, and laid face and hands
upon my knee.

"Let me weep!" she sobbed.  "Oh, let me weep for a few moments in
silence, and do not speak to me!"

I kept silence, and she wept till her heart was relieved.  When at last
her sobs grew quiet, she brushed her tears away, and looked up.

"Bless thee, Annora!  That has done me good.  It is something to have
somebody who will say, `Little Sister,' and give one leave to weep in
peace.  Dost thou know what troubles me?"

"Not in the least, dear Margaret.  That something was troubling thee I
had seen, but I cannot guess what it was."

"I shall get over it now," she said.  "It is only the reopening of the
old wound.  Thou hast not guessed, then, who Father Mortimer is?"

"Margaret!"

"Ay, God has given my Roland back to me--yet has not given him.  It is
twenty years since we parted, and we are no longer young--nor, I hope,
foolish.  We can venture now to journey on, on opposite sides of the
way, without being afraid of loving each other more than God.  There can
hardly be much of the road left now: and when it is over, the children
will meet in the safe fellowship of the Father's Home for ever.  Dost
thou know, Annora dear, I am almost surprised to find myself quite so
childish?  I thought I should have borne such a meeting as calmly as any
one else,--as calmly as he did."  There was a little break in her voice.
"He always had more self-control than I.  Only I dare not confess to
him, for his own sake.  He would be tempted either to partiality, or to
too much severity in order to avoid it.  I must content myself with
Father Benedict: and when I want Roland's teaching--those blessed words
which none ever gave to me but himself--wilt thou give me leave to tell
thee, so that thou mayest submit the matter to him in thine own
confession?"

I willingly agreed to this: but I am sorry for my poor child.  Father
Benedict is terribly particular and severe.  I think Father Mortimer
could scarcely be more so, however hard he was trying not to be partial.
And I cannot help a little doubt whether his love has lasted like hers.
Sweet Saint Mary! what am I saying?  Do I not know that every sister,
every priest, in this house would be awfully shocked to know that such a
thing could be?  It is better it should not.  And yet--my poor child!

This house no longer holds a Sister or Mother Gaillarde.  She is now
Lady Prioress, having been ordained and enthroned this afternoon.  I
must say the ceremony of vowing obedience felt to me less, not more,
than that simple _Placet_ the other day, which seemed to come red-hot
from the hearts that spake it.

The Sister chosen to succeed her as Mother is Sister Ismania.  I am glad
of it, for she is certainly fittest for the place.  Mother Joan becomes
the senior Mother.

Our new Prioress does not let the grass grow under her feet, and is very
different from her predecessor.  During the first week after her
appointment, such quantities of household articles began to pour in--
whereof, in sooth, we stood in grievous need--that we Mothers were at
our wits' end where to put them.  I thought the steward's man would
never have done coming to the grating with such announcements as--"Five
hundredweight of wax, if you please, ladies; a hundred pounds of
candles, ladies; twenty oaks for firewood, ladies; two sacks of seacoal,
ladies; ten pieces of nuns' cloth, ladies; a hundred ells of cloth of
linen, ladies; six firkins of speckled Bristol soap, ladies,"--cloth of
Sarges [serge], cloth of Blanket [Note 1], cloth of Rennes; mops,
bougets, knives, beds; cups, jugs, and amphoras; baskets by the dozen;
quarters of wheat, barley, oats, beans, peas, and lentils; stockfish and
ling, ginger and almonds, pipes of wine and quarts of oil--nay, I cannot
tell what there was not.  Sister Ada lost her temper early, and sorely
bewailed her hard lot in having first to carry and find room for all
these things, and secondly to use them.  The old ways had suited her
well enough: she could not think what my Lady wanted with all this
mopping and scouring.  Even Sister Joan said a little sarcastically that
she thought my Lady must be preparing for the possibility of our having
to stand a siege.  My Lady, who heard both behind their backs, smiled
her grim smile and went on.  She does not keep in her own rooms like the
last Prioress, but is here, there, and every where.  Those of the
Sisters who are indolently inclined dislike her rule exceedingly.  For
myself, I think in truth we have been going along too easily, and am
glad to see the reins tightened and the horse admonished to be somewhat
brisker: yet I cannot say that I can always keep pace with my Lady, and
at times I am aware of a feeling of being driven on faster than I can go
without being out of breath, and perhaps risking a fall.  A little
occasional rest would certainly be a relief.  Howbeit, life is our
working-day: and there will be time to rest in Heaven.

Joan tells me that she has had some talk with Father Mortimer, and finds
that her mother and he were cousins, he being the only son of her
grandfather's brother, Sir John de Mortimer, who died young in the
tilt-yard [Note 2].  It is strange, passing strange, that he and
Margaret should have been drawn to one another--he the nephew, and she
the daughter, of men who were deadly enemies.  From what Joan saith, I
can gather that this grandfather of hers must have been a very evil man
in many ways.  I love not to hear of evil things and men, and I do
somewhat check her when she speaks on that head.  Was it not for eating
of the tree of knowledge of good and evil that our first fathers were
turned out of Paradise?  Yet the Psalmist speaks of God as "He that
teacheth man knowledge."  I will ask Father Mortimer to explain it when
I confess.

The time is not far off now when my child Joan must leave us, and I
shrink from it as it draws near.  I would either that she were one of
us, or that I could go back to the world.  Yet neither can be, seeing
she is wedded wife and mother: and for me, is not this the very carnal
affection which religious persons are bidden to root out of their
hearts?  Yet the Apostle Saint John saith we are to love our brethren.
How can I do both?  Is it lawful to love, only so long as we love not
one above another?  But our Lord Himself had His beloved disciple: and
surely one's own mother must ever be more to her daughter than some
other woman's mother?  This also I will ask Father Mortimer.

Lack-a-day! this world is full of puzzles, or rather it is this life.  I
would one might see the way a little clearer--might have, as it were, a
thread put into one's hand to guide one out of the labyrinth, like that
old Grecian story which we teach the children.  Some folks seem to lose
their way easier than others; and some scarcely seem to behold any
labyrinth at all--they walk right through those matters which are walls
and hedges to others, and look as though they never perceived that any
such things were there.  Is it because of recklessness of right, or of
single-heartedness and sincerity?

There are three matters to lay before Father Mortimer.  I shall think
long till the time come; and I hope he will be patient with me.

So soon as I stepped forth of my cell this morrow, I was aware of a kind
of soft sobbing at no great distance.  I went towards it, and as I
turned the corner of the corridor, I came on a young novice, by name
Denise, who sat on the ground with a pail before her, and a flannel and
piece of soap on one side of it.

"What is the matter, child?" said I.

"Mother Ismania bade me scrub the boards," said she.

"Well! wherefore no?"

Denise fell a-sobbing yet more.  For a minute or two might I not come at
the reason: but at the last I did--she was a kinswoman of Sir Michael de
La Pole, and thought it so degrading to be set to scrub boards!

"Why, dear heart," said I, "we all do work of this fashion."

"Oh yes, common Sisters may," quoth she.

"Well," said I, "we cannot be all uncommon.  I ensure thee, Denise,
there are here many daughters of better houses than thine.  Mother
Ismania herself is daughter of an offshoot of the Percys, and Sister
Isabel is a Neville by her mother.  My Lady is a Fitzhugh of
Ravenswath."

"Well, Sisters!" came from behind us in my Lady's most sarcastic voice,
"you choose a nice time for comparing your pedigrees.  Maybe it were as
well to leave that interesting amusement for recreation-time, and scrub
the corridor just now."

Sister Denise melted again into tears, and I turned to explain.

"Your pail looks pretty full, Sister," said my Lady grimly: "much more
water will make it overflow."

"May it please you, Madam," said I, "Sister Denise is thus distressed
because she, being a De La Pole, is set to scrubbing and such like
menial work."

"Oh, is she, indeed?" laughed my Lady.  "Sister, do you know what Mother
Annora is?"

Sister Denise could only shake her head.

"Her mother was grand-daughter to King Edward of Westminster," said my
Lady.  "If we three were in the world, I should be scantly fit to bear
her train and you would be little better than her washerwoman.  But I
never heard her grumble to scour the corridor and she has done it more
times than ever you thought about it.  Foolish child, to suppose there
was any degradation in honest work!  Was not our blessed Lord Himself a
carpenter?  I warrant the holy Virgin kept her boards clean, and did not
say she was too good to scrub.  No woman alive is too good to do her
duty."

Sister Denise brake forth into fresh sobs.

"A wa--wa--washerwoman!  To be called a washerwoman!  [Note 3.]  Me,
kinswoman of Sir Michael de La Pole, and Sir Richard to boot--a
washerwo--woman!"

"Don't be a goose!" said my Lady.  "De La Pole, indeed! who be these De
La Poles?  Why, no more than merchants of Lombard Street, selling
towelling at fivepence the ell, and coverchiefs of Cambray [Note 4] at
seven shillings the piece.  Truly a goodly pedigree to boast of thus
loudly!"

"But, Madam!" cries Sister Denise--her tears, methinks, burned up by her
vexation--"bethink you, Sir Michael my cousin is a knight, and his wife
the Lady Katherine heiress of Wingfield, and the Lady Katherine his
mother 'longeth to the knights De Norwich.  And look you, his sister is
my Lady Scrope, and his cousin wedded the heir of the Lord Cobham of
Kent."

"Nay, tarry not there," said my Lady; "do go a bit further while thou
art about it.  Was not my Lady Joan Cobham's mother daughter to my Lady
of Devon, whose mother was daughter unto King Edward of Westminster--so
thou art akin to the King himself?  I cry thee mercy, my Lady Princess,
that I set thee to scrub boards.--Sister Annora, prithee, let this
princely damsel go to school for a bit--she's short of heraldry.  The
heiress of Wingfield, _the_ Lady Katherine, forsooth! and the daughter
of Sir John de Norwich a `Lady' at all!  Why, child, we only call the
King's kinswomen _the_ Lord and Lady.  As to thy cousin Sir Michael, he
is a woolmonger and lindraper [linen draper.  The _en_ is a corruption]
that the King thought fit to advance, because it pleased him, and maybe
he had parts [talents] of some sort.  Sure thou hast no need to stick up
thy back o' that count!  To-morrow, Sister Denise, thou wilt please to
clean the fire-dogs, and carry forth the ashes to the lye-heap.--Come,
Sister Annora; I lack you elsewhere."

Poor little Denise broke into bitterer tears than ever; but I could not
stay to comfort her, for I had to follow my Lady.

"I do vow, this world is full of fools!" said she, as we went along the
corridor.  "We shall have Sister Parnel, next, protesting that she knows
not how much oats be a bushel, and denying to rub in the salt to a
bacon, lest it should make her fingers sore.  And 'tis always those who
have small reason that make fusses like this.  A King's daughter, when
she takes the veil, looks for no different treatment from the rest; but
a squire's daughter expects to have a round dozen of her Sisters told
off to wait upon her.--Sister Egeline, feathers for stuffing are
three-farthings a pound; prithee strew not all the floors therewith.
(Sister Egeline had dropped no more than one; but my Lady is lynx-eyed.)
Truly, it was time some one took this house in hand.  Had my sometime
Lady ruled it another twelvemonth, there would have been never a bit of
discipline left.  There's none so much now.  Sister Roberga had better
look out.  If she gives me many more pert answers, she'll find herself
barred into the penitential cell on bread and water."

By this time we had reached the kitchen.  Sister Philippa was just
coming out of it, carrying one hand covered with her veil.  My Lady came
to a sudden halt.

"What have you there, Sister?"

Sister Philippa looked red and confused.

"I have cut my finger," she said.

My Lady's hand went into her pocket.

"Hold it forth," said she, "and I will bind it up.  I always carry linen
and emplasture."

Sister Philippa made half a dozen lame excuses, but at last held out her
left hand, having (if I saw rightly) passed something into the other,
under cover of her veil.

"Which finger?" said my Lady, who to my surprise took no notice of her
action.

"This," said Sister Philippa, holding out the first.

My Lady studied it closely.

"It must have healed quick," said she, "for I see never a scratch upon
it."

"Oh, then it is that," quoth Sister Philippa, holding forth the second
finder.

"I rather think, Sister, it is the other hand," said my Lady.  "Let me
look at that."

As my Lady was holding Sister Philippa's left hand, she had no chance to
pass her hidden treasure into it.  She held forth her right hand--full
unwillingly, as I saw--and something rustled down her gown and dropped
with a flop at her feet.

"Pick that up, Sister Annora," said my Lady.

I obeyed, and unfolding a German coverchief, found therein a flampoynt
and three placentae [a pork pie and three cheesecakes].

"What were you going to do with these?" said my Lady.

"It's always my luck!" cried Sister Philippa.  "Nothing ever prospers if
I do it.  Saint Elizabeth's loaves turned into roses, but no saint that
liveth ever wrought a miracle for me."

"It is quite as well, Sister, that evil deeds should not prosper," was
my Lady's answer.  "Saint Elizabeth was carrying loaves to feed the
poor.  Was that your object?  If so, you shall be forgiven; but next
time, ask leave first."

Sister Philippa grew redder.

"Was that your intention?" my Lady persisted.

"I am sure I am as poor as any body!" sobbed the Sister.  "We never get
any thing good.  All the nice things we make go to the poor, or to
guests.  I can't see why one might not have a bite one's self."

"Were you going to eat them yourself?"

"One of them, I was: the others were for Sister Roberga."

"Sister Roberga shall answer for herself.  I will have no tale-telling
in my house.  This evening at supper, Sister, you will stand at the end
of the refectory, with that placenta in your hand, and say in the
hearing of all the Sisters--`I stole this placenta from the kitchen, and
I ask pardon of God and the Saints for that theft.'  Then you may eat
it, if you choose to do so."

My Lady confiscated the remainder, leaving the placenta in Sister
Philippa's hand.  She looked for a minute as if she would heartily like
to throw it down, and stamp on it: but either she feared to bring on
herself a heavier punishment, or she did not wish to lose the dainty.
She wrapped it in her coverchief, and went upstairs, sobbing as she
went.

My Lady despatched Sister Marian at once to fetch Sister Roberga.  She
came, looking defiant enough, and confessed brazenly that she knew of
Sister Philippa's theft, and had incited her to it.

"I thought as much," said my Lady sternly, "and therefore I dealt the
more lightly with your poor dupe, over whom I have suspected your
influence for evil a long while.  Sister Annora, do you and Sister
Isabel take this sinner to the penitential cell, and I will take counsel
how to use her."

We tried to obey: but Sister Roberga proved so unmanageable that we had
to call in three more Sisters ere we could lodge her in the cell.  At
long last we did it; but my arms ached for some time after.

Sister Philippa performed her penance, looking very shamefaced: but she
left the placenta on the table of the refectory, and I liked her all the
better for doing so.  I think my Lady did the same.

Sister Roberga abode in the penitential cell till evening, when my Lady
sent for the four Mothers: and we found there the Master himself, Father
Benedict, and Father Mortimer.  The case was talked over, and it was
agreed that Sister Roberga should be transferred to Shuldham where, as
is reported, the Prioress is very strict, and knows how to hold her
curb.  This is practically a sentence of expulsion.  We four all agreed
that she was the black sheep in the Abbey, and that several of the
younger Sisters--in especial Sister Philippa--would conduct themselves
far better if she were removed.  Sister Ismania was sent to tell her the
sentence.  She tossed her head and pretended not to care; but I cannot
believe she will not feel the terrible disgrace.  Oh, why do women enter
into the cloister who have no vocation? and, ah me! why is it forced
upon them?

At last I have been to confession to Father Mortimer, and I think I
understand better what Margaret means, when she speaks of confessing to
Father Benedict such things as he expects to hear.  I never could see
why it must be a sin to eat a lettuce without making the holy sign over
it.  Surely, if one thanks God for all He gives us, He will not be
angered because one does not repeat the thanksgiving for every little
separate thing.  Such thoughts of God seem to me to be bringing Him
down, and making Him seem full of little foolish details like men--and
like the poorest-minded sort of men too.  I see that people of high
intellect, while they take much care of details that go to make
perfection--as every atom of a flower is beautifully finished--take no
care at all for mere trivialities--what my Lady calls fads--such as is,
I think, making the sign of the cross over every mouthful one eats.
Well, I made my confession and was absolved: and I told the priest that
I much wished to ask his explanation of various matters that perplexed
me.  He bade me say on freely.

"Father," said I, "I pray you, tell me first, is knowledge good or
evil?"

"Solomon saith, my daughter, that `a wise man is strong;' and the
prophet Osee laments that God's people are `destroyed for lack of
knowledge.'  Our Lord chideth the lawyers of the Jews because they took
away the key of knowledge: and Paul counted all things but loss for the
knowledge of Jesu Christ.  Here is wisdom.  Why was Adam forbidden to
eat of the tree of knowledge, seeing it was knowledge of good no less
than evil?  Partly, doubtless, to test his obedience: yet partly also, I
think, because, though the knowledge might be good in itself, it was not
good for him.  God never satisfies mere curiosity.  He will tell thee
how to come to Heaven; but what thou wilt find there, that He will not
tell thee, save that He is there, and sin, suffering, and Sathanas, are
not there.  He will aid thee to overcome thy sins: but how sin first
entered into the fair creation which He made so good, thou mayest ask,
but He gives no answer.  Many things there are, which perhaps we may
know with safety and profit in Heaven, that would not be good for us to
know here on earth.  Knowledge of God thou mayest have,--yea, to the
full, so far as thine earthen vessel can hold it, even here.  Yet
beware, being but an earthen vessel, that thy knowledge puff thee not
up.  Then shall it work thee ill instead of good.  Moreover, have nought
to do with knowledge of evil; for that is ill, altogether."

"Then, how is it, Father," said I, "that some folks see their way so
much plainer than others, and never become tangled in labyrinths?  They
seem to see in a moment one thing to be done, and that only: not as
though they walked along a road which parted in twain, and knew not
which turn to take."

"There may be many reasons.  Some have more wit than others, and thus
perceive the best way.  Some are less readily turned aside by minor
considerations.  Some let their will conflict with God's will: and some
desire to perceive His only, and to follow it."

"Those last are perfect men," said I.

"Ay," he made answer: "or rather, they are sinners whom Christ first
loved, and taught to love Him back.  My daughter, love is the great clue
to lead thee out of labyrinths.  Whom lovest thou--Jesu Christ, or
Sister Alianora?"

"Now, Father, you land me in my last puzzle.  I have always been taught,
ever since I came hither, a little child, that love of God and the holy
saints is the only love allowed to a religious woman.  All other love is
worldly, carnal, and wicked.  Tell me, is this true?"

"No."  The word came quick and curt.

"Truly," said I, "it would give me great relief to be assured of that.
The love of our kindred, then, is permitted?"

"`Whoso loveth not his brother whom he hath seen, how can he love God
whom he hath not seen?  And this mandate we have from God: that he who
loveth God, love his brother also.'"

"Father," said I, fairly enchanted to hear such words, "are those words
of some holy doctor, such as Saint Austin?"

"They are the words," saith he softly, "of the disciple that Jesu loved.
He seems to have caught a glimmer of his Master."

"But," said I, "doth it mean my mother's son, or only my brother in
religion?"

"It can scarcely exclude thy mother's son," saith he somewhat drily.
"Daughter, see thou put God first: and love all other as much as ever
thou canst."

"_Ha, jolife_!" cried I, "if the Church will but allow it."

"What God commandeth," said he, "can not His Church disallow."

Methought I heard a faint stress on the pronoun.

"Father," said I, "are there more Churches than one?"

"There is one Bride of Christ.  There is also a synagogue of Satan."

"Ah! that, I count, is the Eastern Church, that man saith hath departed
from the faith."

"They that depart from the faith make that Church.  I fear they may so
do in the West as well as the East."

"Well, in the most holy universal Church are counted both the holy Roman
Church, and our own mother, the Church of England," said I.  "I know not
if it include the Eastern schism or no."

"All these," saith he, "are names of men, and shall perish.  All that is
of man must come to nought.  The Church Catholic, true and holy, is not
of man, but of God.  In her is gathered every saved soul, whether he
come from the east or from the west, from the north or from the south.
She is not Pauline, nor Petrine, nor Johannine, but Christian.  The
heavenly Bridegroom cannot have two Brides.  `One is My dove, My perfect
one,' There are many counties in England; there is but one realm.  So
there are many so-called Churches: there is but one holy Church."

"But to find her commands," I answered, "we must, I suppose, hearken
each to his own branch of the Church?"

"Her Lord's commands are hers.  `Hear thou _Him_.'  The day is coming,
daughter, when the Scriptures of God's Word shall be all rendered into
English tongue, and, I firmly trust, shall be accessible to every man
that chooses to know them.  Pray thou heartily for that day; and
meanwhile, keep thou close following Christ's steps, to the best of thy
knowledge, and entreat Him for pardon of all unknown sins.  And when the
light of day is fully come, and the blessed lamp of Holy Writ placed in
the hands of the people, then come to the light that thou mayest clearly
see.  For then woe, woe upon him that tarrieth in the shadow!  `If the
light that is in thee be darkness, what darkness can equal it?'"

"Father," said I, "I thank you, for you have much comforted me.  All
this while have I been trying not to love folks; and I find it full hard
to do."

"Battle with thy sins, Daughter, and let thy love alone.  I counsel thee
to beware of one thing, of which many need no warning to beware: I think
thou dost.  A thing is not sin because it is comfortable and pleasant;
it is not good because it is hard or distasteful.  Why mortify thy will
when it would do good?  It is the will to sin which must be mortified.
When Christ bade His disciples to `love their enemies,' He did not mean
them to hate their friends.  True love must needs be true concern for
the true welfare of the beloved.  How can that be sin?  It is not love
which will help man to sin! that love cometh of Sathanas, and is
`earthly, sensual, devilish.'  But the love which would fain keep man
from sin,--this is God's love to man, and man cannot err in bestowing it
on his brother."

"But is it sin, Father, to prefer one in love above another?"

"It is sin to love man more than God.  Short of that, love any one, and
any how, that ever thou wilt.  The day _may_ come--"

He brake off suddenly.  I looked up.

"There were wedded priests in England, not an hundred years ago," [Note
5] he said in a low voice.  "And there were no monks nor nuns in the
days of the Apostles.  The time may come--_Fiat voluntas Tua!  Filia,
pax tibi_."

Thus gently dismissed, I rose up and came back into the
illuminating-room, where I found Joan gathering together her brushes and
other gear.

"The last time!" she said, sadly--for she returns to her home to-morrow.
"Why is it that last times are always something sorrowful?  I am going
home to my Ralph and the children, and am right glad to do it: and yet I
feel very mournful at the thought of leaving you, dear Mother Annora.
Must it ever be so in this life, till we come to that last time of all
when, setting forth on the voyage to meet Christ our Lord, we yet say
`farewell' with a pang to them we leave behind?"

"I reckon so, dear heart," said I, sighing a little.  "But Father
Mortimer hath comforted me by words that he saith are from Holy Writ--to
wit, that he which loveth God should love his brother likewise.  I
always wanted to love folks."

"And always did it, dear Mother," said Joan with a laugh, casting her
arms around my neck, "for all those chains of old rules and dusty
superstitions which are ever clanking about you.  And I am going to love
you, whatever rules be to the contrary, and of whomsoever made.  Oh, why
did ill folks push you into this convent, when you might have come and
dwelt with Ralph and me, and been such a darling grandmother to my
little ones?  There, now, I did not mean to make you look sorrowful.  I
will come and see you every year, if it be only for an hour's talk at
the grating; and my Lady, who is soft-hearted as she is rough-tongued,
will never forbid it, I know."

"Never forbid what, thou losenger?"  [Flatterer.]

Joan turned round, laughing.

"Dear my Lady, you are ever where man looketh not for you.  But I am
sure you heard no ill of yourself.  You will never forbid me to visit my
dear Mother Annora; you love her, and you love me."

"Truly a pretty tale!" saith my Lady, pretending (as I could see) to
look angry.

"Now don't try to be angered with me," said Joan, "for I know you
cannot.  Now I must go and pack my saddle-bags and mails."  [Trunks.]

She went thence with her light foot, and my Lady looked somewhat sadly
after her.

"I love thee, do I, child?" saith she in another tone.  "Ah, if I do,
thou owest it less to anything in thee than to the name they wed thee
in.  Help us, Mother of Mercy!  Time was when I thought I, too, should
one day have been a Greystoke.  Well, well!  God be merciful to us poor
dreamers, and poor sinners too!"

Then, with slower step than she is wont, she went after Joan.

My child is gone, and I feel like a bereaved mother.  I shall see her
again, if it please God, but what a blank she has left!  She says when
next Lent comes, if God will, she will visit us, and maybe bring with
her her little Laurentia, that she named after my lost love, because she
had eyes like his.  God bless her, my child Joan!

Sister Roberga set forth for Shuldham the same day, in company with
Father Benedict, who desired to travel that road, and in charge of two
of the brethren and of Sister Willa.  I trust she may some day see her
errors, and amend her ways: but I cannot felicitate the community at
Shuldham on receiving her.

So now we shall slip back into our old ways, so far as can be under a
Prioress who assuredly will let none of us suffer the moss to grow upon
her, body or soul, so far as she can hinder it.  I hear her voice now
beneath, in the lower corridor, crying to Sister Sigred, who is in the
kitchen to-day--

"Did ever man or woman see the like?  Burning seacoal on the
kitchen-fire!  Dost thou mean to poison us all with that ill smoke?
[Note 6.]  And wood in the wood-house more than we shall use in half a
year!  Forty logs came in from the King only yesterday, and ten from my
Lord of Lisle the week gone.  Sister Sigred, when shall I put any sense
in you?"

"I don't know, Madam, I'm sure!" was poor Sister Sigred's rather
hopeless answer.

I have found out at last what the world is.  I am so glad!  I asked
Father Mortimer, and I told him how puzzled I was about it.

"My daughter," said he, "thou didst renounce three things at thy
baptism--the world, the flesh, and the Devil.  The works of the flesh
thou wilt find enumerated in Saint Paul's Epistle to the Galatians
[Galatians 5, verses 19-21]: and they are _not_ `love, joy, peace,
long-suffering, gentleness, goodness, faith, meekness, temperance.'
These are the fruits of the Spirit.  What the Devil is, thou knowest.
Let us then see what is the world.  It lies, saith Saint John, in three
things: the lust of the flesh, the lust of the eyes, and the pride of
life.  What are these?  The lust of the flesh is not love, for that is a
fruit of the Spirit.  It is self-love: worshipping thyself, comforting
thyself, advantaging thyself, and regarding all others as either toys or
slaves for that great idol, thyself.  The lust of the eye is not
innocent enjoyment of the gifts of God: doth a father give gifts to his
child in order that she may _not_ use and delight in them?  It lies in
valuing His gifts above His will; taking the gift and forgetting the
Giver; robbing the altar of God in order to deck thine idol, and that
idol thyself.  Covetousness, love of gain, pursuit of profit to
thyself--these are idolatry, and the lust of the eye.  The pride of
life--what is this?  Once more, decking thyself with the property of
God.  Show and grandeur, pomp and vanity, revelling and folly--all to
show thee, to aggrandise thee, to delight thee.  The danger of abiding
in the world is lest the world get into thee, and abide in thee.  Beware
of the thought that there is no such danger in the cloister.  The world
may be in thee, howsoever thou art out of the world.  A queen may wear
her velvet robes with a single eye to the glory of God, and a nun may
wear her habit with a single eye to the glory of self.  Fill thine heart
with Christ, and there will be no room left for the world.  Fill thine
heart with the world, and no room will be left for Christ.  They cannot
abide together; they are contrary the one to the other.  Thou canst not
saunter along the path of life, arm-in-arm with the world, in pleasant
intercourse.  Her face is not toward the City of God: if thine be, ye
must go contrary ways.  `How can two walk together, except they be
agreed' what direction to pursue?  And remember, thou art one, and the
world is many.  She is strong enough to pull thee round; thou art not at
all likely to change her course.  And the peril of such intercourse is
that the pulling round is so gradually effected that thou wilt never see
it."

"But how am I to help it, Father?"

"By keeping thine eye fixed on God.  Set the Lord alway before thee.  So
long as He is at thy right hand, thou shalt not be moved."

Father Mortimer was silent for a moment; and when he spoke again, it was
rather to himself, or to God, than to me.

"Alas for the Church of God!" he said.  "The time was when her baptismal
robes were white and spotless; when she came out, and was separate, and
touched not the unclean thing.  Hath God repealed His command thus to
do?  In no wise.  Hath the world become holy, harmless, undefiled--no
longer selfish, frivolous, carnal, earth-bound?  Nay, for it waxeth
worse and worse as the end draws nearer.  Woe is me! has the Church
stepped down from her high position as the elect and select company of
the sons of God, because these daughters of men are so fair and
bewitching?  Is she slipping back, sliding down, dipping low her once
high standard of holiness to the Lord, bringing down her aim to the
level of her practice, because it suits not with her easy selfishness to
gird up her loins and elevate her practice to what her standard was and
ought to be?  And she gilds her unfaithfulness, forsooth, with the name
of divine charity! saying, Peace, peace! when there is no peace.  `What
peace, so long as the whoredoms of thy mother Jezebel and her
witchcrafts are so many?'  They cry, `Speak unto us smooth things'--and
the Lord hath put none such in our lips.  The word that He giveth us,
that must we speak.  And it is, `Come out of her, My people, that ye be
not partakers of her sins, and that ye receive not of her plagues.'  Ye
cannot remain and not partake the sins; and if ye partake the sins, then
shall ye receive the plagues.  `What God hath joined together, let not
man put asunder.'"  [Note 7.]

Thank God for this light upon my path! for coming from His Word, it must
be light from Heaven.  O my Lord, Thou art Love incarnate, and Thou hast
bidden us to love each other.  Thou hast set us in families, and chosen
our relatives, our neighbours, our surroundings.  From Thine hand we
take them all, and use them, and love them, in Thee, for Thee, to Thee.
"We are taught of God to love each other."  We only love too much when
we love ourselves, or when we love others above Thee.  And "the command
we have of Thee is that he who loveth Thee, love his brother also"--the
last word we hear from Thee is a promise that Thou wilt come again, and
take us--together, all--not to separate stars, but to be with Thee for
ever.  Amen, Lord Jesu Christ, so let it be!

It is several weeks since I have seen Margaret, otherwise than in
community.  But to-night I heard the timid little rap on my door, and
the equally timid "Annora?" which came after.  When Margaret says that
word, in that tone, she wants a chat with me, and she means to inquire
deprecatingly if she may have it.

"Come in, darling," I said.

Since Father Mortimer gave me leave to love any one, any how, so long as
I put God first, I thought I might say "darling" to Margaret.  She
smiled,--I fancied she looked a little surprised--and coming forward,
she knelt down at my feet, in her favourite attitude, and laid her
clasped hands in my lap.

"Is there some trouble, Margaret?"

"No, dear Annora.  Only little worries which make one feel tired out:
nothing to be properly called trouble.  I am working under Mother Ada
this week, and--well, you know what she is.  I do not wish to speak evil
of any one: only--sometimes, one feels tired.  So I thought it would
help me to have a little talk with my sister Annora.  Art thou weary
too?"

"I think I am rested, dear," said I.  "Father Mortimer has given me a
word of counsel from Holy Writ, and it hath done me good."

"He hath given me many an one," she saith, with a smile that seemed half
pleasure and half pain.  "And I am trying to live by the light of the
last I had--I know not if the words were Holy Writ or no, but I think
the substance was--`If Christ possess thee, then shalt thou inherit all
things.'"

She was silent for a moment, with a look of far-away thought: and I was
thinking that a hundred little worries might be as wearying and wearing
as one greater trouble.  Suddenly Margaret looked up with a laugh for
which her eyes apologised.

"I could not help thinking," she said, "that I hope `all things' have a
limit.  To inherit Mother Ada's temper would scarcely be a boon!"

"All good things," said I.

"Yes, all good things," she answered.  "That must mean, all things that
our Lord sees good for us--which may not be those that we see good for
ourselves.  But one thing we know--that if we be His, that must be,
first of all, Himself--He with us here, we with Him hereafter.  And next
to that comes the promise that they which are Christ's, with whom we
have to part here, will be brought home with us when He cometh.  There
is no restriction on the companying of the Father's children, when they
are gathered together in the Father's House."

I knew what she saw.  And I saw the dear grey eyes of my child Joan; but
behind them, other eyes that mine have not beheld for fifty years, and
that I shall see next--and then for ever--in the light of the Golden
City.  Softly I said--[Note 8.]

  "`_Hic breve vivitur, hic breve plangitur, hic breve fletur;
  Non breve vivitur, non breve plangitur, retribuetur_.'"

Margaret's reply sounded like the other half of an antiphon.  [Note 9.]

"`_Plaude, cinis meus! est tua pars Deus; ejus es, et sis_.'"

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1.  The early notices of blanket in the Wardrobe Accounts disprove
the tradition that blankets were invented by Edward Blanket, buried in
Saint Stephen's Church, Bristol, the church not having been built until
1470.

Note 2.  Father Mortimer is a fictitious person, this Sir John having in
reality died unmarried.

Note 3.  Laundresses were very much looked down on in the Middle Ages,
and were but too often women of bad character.

Note 4.  Cambric handkerchiefs.  It was then thought very mean to be in
trade.

Note 5.  Married priests existed in England as late as any where, if not
later than in other countries.  Walter, Rector of Adlingfleet, married
Alice niece of Savarie Abbot of York, about the reign of Richard the
First.  (Register of John of Gaunt, volume 2, folio 148); "Emma, widow
of Henry, the priest of Forlond," was living in 1284 (Close Roll, 12
Edward the First); and "Denise, daughter of John de Colchester, the
chaplain," is mentioned in 1322 (Ibidem, 16 Edward the Second).

Note 6.  Coal smoke was then considered extremely unhealthy, while wood
smoke was thought to be a prophylactic against consumption.

Note 7.  I would fain add here a word of warning against one of Satan's
wiliest devices, one of the saddest delusions of our time, for a
multitude of souls are led astray by it, and in some cases it deceives
the very elect.  I mean the popular blind terror of "controversy," so
rife in the present day.  Let us beware that we suffer not indolence and
cowardice to shelter themselves under the insulted name of charity.  We
are bidden to "strive together for the truth of the Gospel"--"earnestly
to contend for the faith" (in both places the Greek word means to
_wrestle_); words which presuppose an antagonist and a controversy.
Satan hates controversy; it is the spear of Ithuriel to him.  We are
often told that controversy is contrary to the Gospel precepts of love
to enemies--that it hinders more important work--that it injures
spirituality.  What says the Apostle to whom to live was Christ--on whom
came daily the care of all the Churches--who tells us that "the greatest
of these is charity"?  "Though we, or an angel from Heaven, preach any
other Gospel--let him be accursed!"  "To whom we gave place by
subjection, no, not for an hour: that the truth of the Gospel might
continue with you."  Ten minutes of friendly contact with the world will
do more to injure spirituality than ten years of controversy conducted
in a Christian spirit--not fighting for victory but for truth, not for
ourselves but for Christ.  This miserable blunder will be seen in its
true colours by those who have to eat its bitter fruit.

Note 8.

  "Brief life is here our portion;
      Brief sorrow, short-lived care:
  The life that hath no ending,
      The tearless life, is there."

Note 9.

  "Exult, O dust and ashes!
      The Lord shall be thy part:
  His only, His for ever,
      Thou shalt be, and thou art."



APPENDIX.

HISTORICAL APPENDIX.

I.  THE ROYAL FAMILY.

King Edward the Second was _born_ at Caernarvon Castle (but not, as
tradition states, in the Eagle Tower, not then built), April 25, 1284;
_crowned_ at Westminster Abbey, August 6, 1307, by the Bishop of
Winchester, acting as substitute for the Archbishop of Canterbury.  The
gilt spurs were borne by William le Mareschal; "the royal sceptre on
whose summit is the cross" by the Earl of Hereford (killed in rebellion
against the King) and "the royal rod on whose summit is the dove" by
Henry of Lancaster, afterwards Earl: the Earls of Lancaster, Lincoln,
and Warwick--of whom the first was beheaded for treason, and the third
deserved to be so--bore the three swords, Curtana having the precedence:
then a large standard (or coffer) with the royal robes, was carried by
the Earl of Arundel, Thomas de Vere (son and heir of the Earl of
Oxford), Hugh Le Despenser, and Roger de Mortimer, the best friend and
the worst enemy of the hapless Sovereign: the King's Treasurer carried
"the paten of the chalice of Saint Edward," and the Lord Chancellor the
chalice itself: "then Peter de Gavaston, Earl of Cornwall, bore the
crown royal," followed by King Edward himself, who offered a golden
pound as his oblation.  The coronation oath was administered in French,
in the following terms.  "Sire, will you grant and keep and confirm by
oath to the people of England, the laws and customs to them granted by
the ancient Kings of England, your predecessors, the rights and
devotions [due] to God, and especially the laws, customs, and franchises
granted to the clergy and people by the glorious King, Saint Edward,
your predecessor?"  "I grant and promise them," was the royal answer.
"Sire, will you preserve, towards God and holy Church, and to the clergy
and people, peace and concord in God, fully, according to your power?"
"I will keep them," said the King.  "Sire, will you in all your
judgments do equal and righteous justice and discretion, in mercy and
truth, according to your power?"  "I will so do."  "Sire, will you
grant, to be held and kept, the righteous laws and customs which the
commonalty of your realm shall choose, and defend them, and enforce them
to the honour of God and according to your power?"  King Edward's answer
was, "I grant and promise them."  Twenty years later, chiefly by the
machinations of his wicked wife, aided by the blinded populace whom she
had diligently misled, Edward was _deposed_ at Kenilworth, January 20,
1327; and after being hurried from place to place, he was at last
_murdered_ in Berkeley Castle, September 21, 1327, and _buried_ in
Gloucester Cathedral on December 20th.

In the companion volume, _In All Time of our Tribulation_, will be found
the story, as told by the chroniclers, of his burial by the Abbot and
monks of Gloucester.  The Wardrobe Accounts, however, are found to throw
considerable doubt upon this tale.  We find from them, that the Bishop
of Llandaff, three knights, a priest, and four lesser officials, were
sent by the young King "to dwell at Gloucester with the corpse of the
said King his father," which was taken from Berkeley Castle to
Gloucester Abbey on October 21st.  (_Compotus Hugonis de Glaunvill_,
Wardrobe Accounts, 1 Edward the Third, 58/4).  For the funeral were
provided:--Three robes for knights, 2 shillings 8 pence each; 8 tunics
for ditto, 14 pence each; four great lions of gilt picture-work, with
shields of the King's arms over them, for wax mortars [square basins
filled with wax, a wick being in the midst], placed in four parts of the
hearse; four images of the Evangelists standing on the hearse, 66
shillings, 8 pence; eight incensing angels with gilt thuribles, and two
great leopards rampant, otherwise called volant, nobly gilt, standing
outside the hearse, 66 shillings, 8 pence...  An empty tun, to carry the
said images to Gloucester, 21 shillings...  Taking the great hearse from
London to Gloucester, in December, 5 days' journey; for wax, canvas,
napery, etcetera.  Wages of John Darcy, appointed to superintend the
funeral, from November 22 to December 21, 19 pounds, 6 shillings, 8
pence.  New hearse, 40 shillings; making thereof, from November 24 to
December 11, 32 shillings.  A wooden image after the similitude of the
Lord King Edward, deceased, 40 shillings.  A crown of copper, gilt, 7
shillings, 4 pence.  Vestments for the body, in which he was buried, a
German coverchief, and three-quarters [here a word is illegible,
probably _linen_]; item, one pillow to put under his head, 4 shillings
[? the amount is nearly obliterated].  Gilt paint for the hearse, 1
shilling.  Wages of the painter [a few words illegible] grey colour, 2
shillings, (Wardrobe Accounts, 1 Edward the Third, 33/2).  The King
_married_...

Isabelle, _surnamed_ the Fair, only daughter of Philippe the Fourth,
King of France, and Jeanne Queen regnant of Navarre: _born_ 1282, 1292,
or 1295 (latest date most probable); _married_ at Boulogne, January 25,
1308.  All the chroniclers assert that on Edward the Third's discovery
of his mother's real character, he imprisoned her for life in the Castle
of Rising.  The evidence of the Rolls and Wardrobe Accounts disproves
this to a great extent.  It was at Nottingham Castle that Mortimer was
taken, October 19, 1330.  On the 18th of January following, 36 pounds 6
shillings 4 pence was paid to Thomas Lord Wake de Lydel, for the expense
of conducting Isabel Queen of England, by the King's order, from
Berkhamsted Castle to Windsor Castle, and thence to Odiham Castle.
(Issue Roll, _Michs._, 5 Edward the Third.)  On the 6th of October,
1337, she dates a charter from Hertford Castle; and another from Rising
on the 1st of December following.  She paid a visit to London--the only
one hitherto traced subsequent to 1330--in 1341, when, on October 27,
she was present in the hostel of the Bishop of Winchester at Southwark,
when the King appointed Robert Parving to the office of Lord Chancellor.
She dates a charter from Hertford Castle, December 1st, 1348.  (Close
Rolls, 11, 15, and 22 Edward the Third.)  The Household Book for the
last year of her life is in the British Museum, and it runs from
September 30th, 1357, to December 4th, 1358 (Cott. Ms., Galba, E. 14).
We find from this interesting document that she spent her final year
mainly at Hertford, but that she also made two pilgrimages to
Canterbury, visiting London on each occasion; that she was at Ledes
Castle, Chertsey, Shene, Eltham, and Windsor.  The King visits her more
than once, and several of his children do the same, including the
Princess Isabel.  There is no mention of any visit from the Queen, but
she corresponds with her mother-in-law, and they exchange gifts.  The
most frequent guests are Joan Countess of Surrey, and the Countess of
Pembroke: there were then three ladies living who bore this title, but
as letters are sent to her at Denny--her pet convent, where she often
resided and finally died--it is evident that this was the Countess
Marie, the "fair Chatillon who (_not_ `on her bridal morn,' but at least
two years after) mourned her bleeding love."  Both these ladies were of
French birth, and were very old friends of Isabelle: the Countess of
Surrey was with her when she died.  Her youngest daughter, Joan Queen of
Scots--an admirable but unhappy woman, who had to forgive that mother
for being the cause of all her misery and loveless life--spent much of
this last year with Isabel.  Her most frequent male guests are the Earl
of Tankerville and Marshal Daudenham, both of whom were probably her own
countrymen; and Sir John de Wynewyk, Treasurer of York: the captive King
of France visits her once, and she sends him two romances, of which one
at least was from the _Morte Arthur_.  Oblations are as numerous--and
sometimes more costly--as in her earlier accounts.  She gives 6
shillings 8 pence to the _head_ of the eleven thousand virgins, and 2
shillings to minstrels to play "before the image of the blessed Mary in
the crypt" of Canterbury Cathedral.  Friars who preach before her are
usually rewarded with 6 shillings 8 pence.  Her Easter robes are of blue
cloth, her summer ones of red mixed cloth.  Two of Isabelle's ruling
passions went with her to the grave--her extravagance and her love of
making gifts.  Her purchases of jewellery are vast and costly during
this year, up to the very month in which she died: two of the latest
being a gold chaplet set with precious stones, price 150 pounds (the
most expensive I ever yet saw in a royal account), and a gold crown set
with sapphires, Alexandrian rubies, and pearls, 80 pounds, expressly
stated to be for her own wearing.  Two ruby rings she purchased exactly
a fortnight before her death.  She was probably ill for some weeks,
since a messenger was sent in haste to Canterbury to bid Master Lawrence
the physician repair to Hertford "to see the state of the Queen," and he
remained there for a month.  Medicines were brought from London.
Judging from the slight indications as to remedies employed, among which
were herbal baths, she died of some cutaneous malady.  Her Inquisition
states that her _death_ took place at Hertford, August 23rd, 1358; but
the Household Book twice records that it was on the 22nd.  Fourteen poor
men watched the corpse in the chapel at Hertford for three months, and
in December the coffin (the entire cost of which was 5 pounds, 9
shillings, 11 pence) was brought to London, guarded by 40 torches, and
_buried_ in the Church of the Grey Friars.  It may be stated with
tolerable certainty that the Queen was not confined for life at Rising
Castle, though she passed most of her time either at Rising or Hertford;
that she never became a nun, as asserted by some modern writers, the
non-seclusion, the coloured robes, and the crown, being totally
inconsistent with this supposition; that if it be true, as is said, that
she was seized with madness while Mortimer hung on the gallows, and
passed most of her subsequent life in this state, probably with lucid
intervals--a story which various facts tend to confirm--this was quite
sufficient to account for her retirement from public life, and ordinary
restriction to a few country residences; yet that the incidents
chronicled in the Household Book seem to indicate that she was
generally, if not fully, sane at the time of her death.

_Their children_:--1.  King Edward the Third, _born_ in Windsor Castle,
November 13, _baptised_ 16th, 1312; _crowned_ Westminster, February 1,
1327.  The Rolls of the Great Wardrobe for 1327 contain some interesting
details respecting this ceremony.  The King was attired in a tunic,
mantle, and cape of purple velvet, price 5 shillings (but this is
probably the mere cost of making), and a pair of slippers of cloth of
gold, price 6 shillings 8 pence.  He was anointed in a tunic of
samitelle (a variety of samite), which cost 2 shillings, and a robe of
Rennes linen, price 18 pence.  A quarter of an ell of sindon (silk) was
bought "for the King's head, to place between the head and the crown, on
account of the largeness of the crown," at a cost of 12 pence.  (_Rot.
Gard._, 1 Edward the Third, 33/2).  The "great hall" at Westminster was
hung with six cloths and twelve ells of cloth from Candlewick Street and
fifteen pieces of cloth were required "to put under his feet, going to
the Abbey, and thence to the King's chamber after the coronation."  The
platform erected in the Abbey to sustain the throne, and the throne
itself, were hung with silk cloth of gold; five camaca cushions were
placed "under the King and his feet;" and "the King's small chair before
the altar" was also covered with cloth of gold.  The royal oblation was
one cloth of gold of diapered silk.  Two similar cloths were laid over
the tomb of Edward the first.  The Archbishop of Canterbury's seat was
covered with ray (striped) silk cloth of gold, and that of the Abbot of
Westminster with cloth of Tars.  The royal seat at the coronation feast
was draped in "golden silk of Turk," and in order to save this costly
covering from "the humidity of the walls," 24 ells of canvas were
provided.  Red and grey sindon hung before the royal table; the King sat
on samitelle cushions, and two pieces of velvet "to put under the King"
also appear in the account.  (_Rot. Magnae Gard., pro Coronatione et in
Palatio_, 1 Edward the Third, 33/5.)  King Edward _died_ at Shene, June
21, 1377, and was _buried_ in Westminster Abbey.  He _married_--
Philippine (called in England Philippa), daughter of William the Third,
Count of Hainault and Holland, and Jeanne of France; _born_ 1312 or a
little later; _married_ at York, January 24, 1328; crowned in
Westminster Abbey, February 20, 1328.  The Wardrobe Accounts tell us
that the Queen rode from the Tower to Westminster, the day before her
coronation (as was usual) in a dress of green velvet, a cape of the
_best_ cloth of gold diapered in red, trimmed with miniver, and a
miniver hood.  She dined in a tunic and mantle of red and grey
samitelle, and was crowned in a robe of cloth of gold, diapered in
green.  She changed to a fourth robe for supper, but its materials are
not on record.  (Wardrobe Accounts, 4-5 Edward the Third, 34/13.)  Red
and green appear to have been her favourite colours, judging from the
number of her dresses of these hues compared with others.  On the
occasion of her churching in 1332 (after the birth of her daughter
Isabel) she wore a robe of red and purple velvet wrought with pearls,
the royal infant being attired in Lucca silk and miniver, and the Black
Prince (aged about 2 and a half years) in a golden costume striped with
mulberry colour.  Some of these items appear rather warm wear for July.
(Wardrobe Accounts, Cott. Ms. Galba, E. 3, folio 14 _et seq_).  The
Queen _died_ of dropsy, at Windsor Castle, August 15, 1369; _buried_ in
Westminster Abbey.

2.  John, _born_ at Eltham, August 15, 1316; created Earl of Cornwall;
_died_ at Perth, _unmarried_, September 14, 1336; _buried_ in
Westminster Abbey.

3.  Alianora, _born_ at Woodstock, 1318; _married_ at Novum Magnum,
1332, Raynald the Second, Duke of Gueldres; _died_ at Deventer, April
22, 1355; _buried_ at Deventer.

4.  Joan, _surnamed_ Makepeace, _born_ in the Tower of London, (before
August 16,) 1321; _married_ at Berwick, July 17, 1328, David the Second,
King of Scotland; _died_ at Hertford Castle, September 7, 1362 (not
1358, as sometimes stated); _buried_ in Grey Friars' Church, London.

II.  THE DESPENSERS.

Hugh Le Despenser _the Elder_, son of Hugh Le Despenser, Justiciary of
England, and Alina Basset: _born_ March 1-8, 1261 (_Inq. Post Mortem
Alinae La Dispensere_, 9 Edward the First, 9.); sponsor of Edward the
Third, 1312; created Earl of Winchester, 1322; _beheaded_ at Bristol,
October 27 (Harl. Ms. 6124), 1326.  [This is not improbably the true
date: that of Froissart, October 8, is certainly a mistake, as the Queen
had only reached Wallingford, on her way to Bristol, by the 15th.]  As
his body was cast to the dogs, he had _no burial_.  _Married_ Isabel,
daughter of William de Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick, and Maud Fitz John;
_widow_ of Patrick de Chaworth (by whom she was mother of Maud, wife of
Henry Duke of Lancaster): _married_ 1281-2 (fine 2000 marks); _died_
before July 22, 1306.  _Issue_:--1.  Hugh, _the Younger_, _born_
probably about 1283; created Earl of Gloucester in right of wife;
_hanged_ and afterwards beheaded (but after death) at Hereford, November
24, 1326; quarters of body sent to Dover, Bristol, York, and Newcastle,
and head set on London Bridge; finally _buried_ in Tewkesbury Abbey.
The Abbot and Chapter had granted to Hugh and Alianora, March 24, 1325,
in consideration of benefits received, that four masses per annum should
be said for them during life, at the four chief feasts, and 300 per
annum for either or both after death, for ever; on the anniversary of
Hugh, the Abbot bound himself to feed the poor with bread, beer,
pottage, and one mess from the kitchen, for ever.  (_Rot. Pat._, 20
Edward the Second) In the Appendix to the companion volume, _In All Time
of our Tribulation_, will be found an account of the petitions of the
two Despensers, with the curious list of their goods destroyed by the
partisans of Lancaster.  Hugh the Younger _married_ Alianora, eldest
daughter of Gilbert de Clare, The Red, Earl of Gloucester, and the
Princess Joan of Acre, (daughter of Edward the First), _born_ at
Caerphilly Castle, November, 1292; _married_ May 20, 1306, with a dowry
of 2000 pounds from the Crown, in part payment of which the custody of
Philip Paynel was granted to Hugh the Elder, June 3, 1304 (_Rot.
Claus._, 1 Edward the Second).  Her youngest child was born at
Northampton, in December, 1326, and she sent William de Culpho with the
news to the King, who gave him a silver-gilt cup in reward (Wardrobe
Accounts, 25/1 and 31/19).  On the 19th of April, 1326, and for 49 days
afterwards, she was in charge of Prince John of Eltham, who was ill at
Kenilworth in April.  She left that place on May 22, arriving at Shene
in four days, and in June she was at Rochester and Ledes Castle.  Three
interesting Wardrobe Accounts are extant, showing her expenses at this
time (31/17 to 31/19); but the last is almost illegible.  "Divers
decoctions and recipes" made up at Northampton for the young Prince,
came to 6 shillings, 9 pence.  "Litter for my Lady's bed" (to put under
the feather bed in the box-like bedstead) cost 6 pence.  Either her
Ladyship or her royal charge must have entertained a strong predilection
for "shrimpis," judging from the frequency with which that entry occurs.
Four quarters of wheat, we are told, made 1200 loaves.  There is
evidence of a good deal of company, the principal guests beside Priors
and Canons being the Lady of Montzone, the Lady of Hastings (Julian,
mother of Lawrence Earl of Pembroke), Eneas de Bohun (son of Princess
Elizabeth), Sir John Neville (one of the captors of Mortimer), and John
de Bentley (probably the ex-gaoler of Elizabeth Queen of Scotland, who
appears in the companion volume).  Sundry young people seem to have been
also in Lady La Despenser's care, as companions to the Prince:--Earl
Lawrence of Pembroke; Margery de Verdon, step-daughter of Alianora's
sister Elizabeth; and Joan Jeremy, or Jermyn, sister of Alice wife of
Prince Thomas de Brotherton.  The provision for April 30, the vigil of
Saint Philip, and therefore a fast-day, is as follows (a few words are
illegible): _Pantry_:--60 loaves of the King's bread at 5 and 4 to the
penny, 13 and a half pence.  _Buttery_:--One pitcher of wine from the
King's stores at Kenilworth; 22 gallons of beer, at 1 and a half pence
per gallon, 2 shillings 6 pence.  _Wardrobe_: ... lights, a farthing; a
halfpennyworth of candles of cotton ...  _Kitchen_:--50 herrings, 2 and
a half pence; 3 codfish, 9 and three-quarter pence; 4 stockfish...
salmon, 12 pence, 3 tench, 9 pence, 1 pikerel, 12 roach and perch, half
a gallon of loaches, 13 and a half pence; one large eel...  One and a
half quarters pimpernel, 7 and a half pence; one piece of sturgeon, 6
pence.  _Poultry_--100 eggs, 5 pence; cheese and butter, 3 and
three-quarter pence... milk, one and a quarter pence; drink, 1 penny;
_Saltry_:--half a quarter; mustard, a halfpenny; half a quarter of
vinegar, three-quarters pence; ... parsley, a farthing.  For May 1st,
Saint Philip's and a feast-day: _Pantry_: 100 loaves, 22 and a half
pence.  _Buttery_: one sextarius, 3 and a half pitchers of wine from the
King's stores at Kenilworth; 27 gallons of beer, 2 shillings, 8 and a
half pence, being 17 at 1 penny, and 12 at 1 and a half pence.  One
quarter of hanaps, 12 pence.  _Wardrobe_:--3 pounds wax, 15 pence;
lights, 1 halfpenny; half a pound of candles of Paris, 1 penny.
_Kitchen_:--12 messes of powdered beef, 18 pence; 3 messes of fresh
beef, 9 pence; one piece of bacon, 12 pence; half a mutton, powdered, 9
pence; one quarter of fresh mutton, 3 pence; one pestle of pork, 3 and a
half pence; half a veal, 14 pence.  _Poultry_--One purcel, 4 and a half
pence; 2 hens, 15 pence; one bird (_oisoux_), 12 pence; 15 ponce, 7 and
a half pence; 8 pigeons, 9 and a half pence; 100 eggs, 5 pence; 3
gallons milk, 3 pence...  _Saltry_:--half a quarter of mustard, one
halfpenny... 1 quarter verjuice, 1 and a half pence; garlic, a farthing;
parsley, 1 penny.  Wages of Richard Attegrove (keeper of the horses) and
the laundress, 4 pence; of 18 grooms and two pages, 2 shillings, 5
pence.  (Wardrobe Accounts, 19 Edward the Second, 31/17).  When King
Edward left London for the West, on October 2nd, he committed to Lady La
Despenser the custody of his son, and of the Tower.  On the 16th, the
citizens captured the Tower, brought out the Prince and the Chatelaine,
and conveyed them to the Wardrobe.  On November 17th she was brought a
prisoner to the Tower, with her children and her damsel Joan (Issue
Roll, _Michs._, 20 Edward the Second; Close Roll, 20 Edward the Second),
their expenses being calculated at the rate of 10 shillings per day.
Alianora and her children were delivered from the Tower, with all her
goods and chattels, on February 25, 1328, and on the 26th of November
following, her "rights and rents, according to her right and heritage,"
were ordered to be restored to her.  (_Rot. Claus._, 2 Edward the
Third.)  She was not, however, granted full liberty, or else she
forfeited it again very quickly; for on February 5, 1329, William Lord
Zouche of Haringworth was summoned to Court, and commanded to "bring
with him quickly our cousin Alianora, who is in his company," with a
hint that unpleasant consequences would follow neglect of the order.
(_Rot. Pat._, 3 Edward the Third, Part 1.)  A further entry on December
30 tells us that Alianora, wife of William La Zouche of Mortimer (so
that her marriage with her gaoler's cousin had occurred in the interim),
had been impeached by the Crown concerning certain jewels, florins, and
other goods of the King, to a large amount, which had been "_esloignez_"
from the Tower of London: doubtless by the citizens when they seized the
fortress, and the impeachment was of course, like many other things, an
outcome of Queen Isabelle's private spite.  "The said William and
Alianora, for pardon of all hindrances, actions, quarrels, and demands,
until the present date, have granted, of their will and without
coercion, for themselves and the heirs of the said Alianora, all
castles, manors, towns, honours, and other lands and tenements, being of
her heritage, in the county of Glamorgan and Morgannon, in Wales, the
manor of Hanley, the town of Worcester, and the manor of Tewkesbury, for
ever, to the King."  The King, on his part, undertook to restore the
lands, in the hour that the original owners should pay him 10,000 pounds
in one day.  The real nature of this non-coercive and voluntary
agreement was shown in November, 1330, when (one month after the arrest
of Mortimer) at the petition of Parliament itself, one half of this
10,000 pounds was remitted.  Alianora _died_ June 30, 1337, and was
_buried_ in Tewkesbury Abbey.

2.  Philip, _died_ before April 22, 1214.  _Married_ Margaret, daughter
of Ralph de Goushill; _born_ July 25, 1296; _married_ before 1313;
_died_ July 29, 1349.  (She _married_, secondly, John de Ros.)

3.  Isabel, _married_ (1) John Lord Hastings (2) about 1319, Ralph de
Monthermer; _died_ December 4 or 5, 1335.  Left issue by first marriage.
The daughters of Edward the Second were brought up in her care.

4.  Aveline, _married_ before 1329, Edward Lord Burnel; _died_ in May or
June, 1363.  No issue.

5.  Elizabeth, _married_ before 1321 Ralph Lord Camoys; living 1370.
Left issue.

6.  Joan, _married_ Almaric Lord Saint Amand.  [Doubtful if of this
family.]

7.  Joan, _nun_ at Sempringham before 1337; _dead_, February 15.

8.  Alianora, _nun_ at Sempringham before 1337; living 1351.  _Issue of
Hugh the younger and Alianora_;--1.  Hugh, _born_ 1308.  He held
Caerphilly Castle (which belonged to his mother) against Queen Isabelle:
on January 4 of that year life was granted to all in the Castle except
himself, probably as a bribe for surrender, which was extended to
himself on March 20; but Hugh held out till Easter (April 12) when the
Castle was taken.  He remained a prisoner in the custody of his father's
great enemy, Roger Earl of March, till December 5, 1328, when March was
ordered to deliver him to Thomas de Gournay, one of the murderers of
King Edward, and Constable of Bristol Castle, where he was to be kept
till further order.  (_Rot. Claus._, 1 and 2 Edward the Third; _Rot.
Pat._, 1 Edward the Third.)  On July 5, 1331, he was ordered to be set
at liberty within 15 days after Michaelmas, Ebulo L'Estrange, Ralph
Basset, John le Ros, Richard Talbot, and others, being sureties for him.
(_Rot. Claus._, 5 Edward the Third) In 1338 he was dwelling in Scotland
in the King's service (_Ibidem_, 12 Edward the Third); and in 1342 in
Gascony, with a suite of one banneret, 14 knights, 44 scutifers, 60
archers, and 60 men-at-arms.  (_Ibidem_, 16 _ibidem_).  He _died_ S.P.
February 8, 1349; _buried_ at Tewkesbury.  _Married_ Elizabeth, daughter
of William de Montacute, first Earl of Salisbury, and Katherine de
Grandison; (_widow_ of Giles Lord Badlesmere, _remarried_ Guy de Bryan;)
_married_ 1338-44; _died_ at Astley, June 20, 1359; _buried_ at
Tewkesbury.

2.  Edward, _died_ 1341.  _Married_ (and left issue), Anne, daughter of
Henry Lord Ferrers of Groby, and Margaret Segrave (_remarried_ Thomas
Ferrers): living October 14, 1366.

3.  Gilbert, _died_ April 22, 1382.  _Married_, and left issue; but his
wife's name and family are unknown.

4.  Joan, _nun_ at Shaftesbury, in or before 1343; _died_ April 26,
1384.

5.  Elizabeth, _married_ 1338 Maurice Lord Berkeley; _dead_ August 14,
1389; left issue.  [Doubtful if of this family.]

6.  Isabel, _married_ at Havering, February 9, 1321, Richard Earl of
Arundel; _divorced_ 1345; _buried_ in Westminster Abbey.  No issue.

7.  Alianora, contracted July 27, 1325, to Lawrence de Hastings, Earl of
Pembroke: contract broken by Queen Isabelle, who on January 1st, 1327,
sent a mandate to the Prioress of Sempringham, commanding her to receive
the child and "veil her immediately, that she may dwell there
perpetually as a regular nun."  (_Rot. Claus._, 1 Edward the Third.)
Since it was not usual for a nun to receive the black veil before her
sixteenth year, this was a complete irregularity.  Nothing further is
known of her.

8.  Margaret, consigned by Edward the Second to the care of Thomas de
Houk, with her nurse and a large household; she remained in his charge
"for three years and more," according to his petition presented to the
King, May 1st, 1327 (_Rot. Claus._, 1 Edward the Third.)  On the
previous 1st of January, the Queen had sent to the Prioress of Watton a
similar mandate to that mentioned above, requiring that Margaret should
at once be professed a regular nun.  No further record remains of her.

III.  HASTINGS OF PEMBROKE.

John de Hastings, second (but eldest surviving) son of Sir John de
Hastings and Isabelle de Valence: _born_ 1283, _died_ (before February
28) 1325.  _Married_ Julian, daughter and heir of Thomas de Leybourne
and Alice de Tony; _born_ 1298, or 1303; succeeded her grandfather
William as Baroness de Leybourne, 1309; _married_ before 1321.  By
charter dated at Canterbury, March 5th, 1362, she gave a grant to the
Abbey of Saint Augustine in that city, for the following benefits to be
received: a mass for herself on Saint Anne's Day, with twopence alms to
each of 100 poor; a solemn choral mass on her anniversary, and 1 penny
to each of 200 poor; perpetual mass by a secular chaplain at the altar
of Saint Anne, for Edward the Third, Lawrence Earl of Pembroke, and John
his son; all monks celebrating at the said altar to have mind of the
said souls.  On the day of her anniversary the Abbot was to receive 20
shillings, the Prior 5 shillings, and each monk 2 shillings, 6 pence.
(_Rot. Claus._, 36 Edward the Third.)  She died November 1st, 1367, and
was _buried_ in Saint Augustine's Abbey.  (She had _married_, secondly,
in 1325, Sir Thomas Blount, Seneschal of the Household to Edward the
Second, who betrayed his royal master; and, thirdly, in 1328, William de
Clinton, afterwards created Earl of Huntingdon.)

_Their son_:--Lawrence, born at Allesley, near Coventry, March 20, 1321
(_Prob. Aet._, 15 Edward the Third, 1st Numbers, 48); in 1326 he was in
the suite of Prince John of Eltham, and in the custody of his intended
mother-in-law, Alianora La Despenser: he and the young Alianora must
therefore have been playfellows up to five years of age, at least.
Three pairs of slippers are bought for him, price 20 pence, (Wardrobe
Accounts, 20 Edward the Second, 31/18.)  On July 27, 1325, Lawrence was
contracted to Alianora, daughter of Hugh Le Despenser the younger (_Rot.
Pat._, 19 Edward the Second): which contract was illegally set aside by
Queen Isabelle, who granted his custody and marriage in the King's name
to her son Prince Edward, December 1st, 1326 (_Rot. Pat._, 20 Edward the
Second).  The marriage was re-granted, February 17, 1327, to Roger Earl
of March.  We next find the young Earl in the suite of Queen Philippa;
and he received a robe from the Wardrobe in which to appear at her
churching in 1332, made of nine ells of striped saffron-coloured cloth
of Ghent, trimmed with fur, and a fur hood.  In the following year, when
the Queen joined her husband at Newcastle, she left Lawrence at York,
desiring "_par tendresce de lui_" that the child should not take so long
and wearying a journey.  He was therefore sent to his mother the
Countess Julian, "trusting her (says the King's mandate) to keep him
better than any other, since he is near to her heart, being her son."
She was to find all necessaries for him until further order, and the
King pledged himself to repay her in reason.  (_Rot. Claus._, 7 Edward
the Third, Part 1.)  Lawrence was created Earl of Pembroke, October 13,
1339; he _died_ in the first great visitation of the "Black Death,"
August 30, 1348, and was _buried_ at Abergavenny.  _Married_ Agnes de
Mortimer, [see next Article] _married_ 1327 (Walsingham); _died_ July
25, 1368; _buried_ in Abbey of Minories.  (She _remarried_ John de
Hakelut, and was first Lady in Waiting to Queen Philippa.)

_Their children_:--1.  Joan, _married_ Ralph de Greystoke, after October
9, 1367.

2.  John, 2nd Earl of Pembroke, _born_ 1347, _died_ at Arras, France,
April 16, 1375; _buried_ Grey Friars' Church, London.  _Married_ (1.)
Princess Margaret, daughter of Edward the Third; _born_ at Windsor, July
20-21, 1346; _married_ in the Queen's Chapel [Reading?], 1359; _died_
S.P. (after October 1st), 1361; _buried_ in Abingdon Abbey.  (2.)  Anne,
daughter and heir of Sir Walter de Mauny and Margaret of Norfolk: _born_
July 24, 1355; _married_ 1363; _died_ April 3, 1384.

IV.  THE MORTIMERS OF WIGMORE.

Edmund De Mortimer, Lord of Wigmore, son of Roger de Mortimer and Maud
de Braose: _born_ March 25, 1266; _died_ at Wigmore Castle, July 17,
1304; _buried_ in Wigmore Abbey.  _Married_ Margaret, daughter of Sir
William de Fienles: _married_ September 8, 1285; sided warmly with her
son, and gathered various illegal assemblies at Worcester, where she
lived, and at Radnor.  On December 28, 1325, the King wrote, commanding
her to retire to the Abbey of Elstow without delay, and there dwell at
her own cost till further order: "and from the hour of your entering you
shall not come forth, nor make any assembly of people without our
special leave."  She was commanded to write and say whether she intended
to obey!  The Abbess of Elstow was at the same time ordered to give
convenient lodging to her in the Abbey, but not to suffer her to go
forth nor make gatherings of persons.  (Close Roll, 19 Edward the
Second.)  Nothing further is known of her except that she was alive in
1332, and was _dead_ on May 7, 1334, when the mandate was issued for her
_Inq. Post Mortem_.  The latter contains no date of death.  Margaret was
_buried_ at Wigmore.  _Their children_:--1.  Roger, _born_ April 25 or
May 3, 1287; created Earl of March, 1328; _hanged_ at Tyburn, November
29, 1330: _buried_ in Friars' Minors Church, Coventry, whence leave was
granted to his widow and son, in November, 1331, to transport the body
to Wigmore Abbey.  _Married_ Jeanne de Geneville, daughter and co-heir
of Peter de Geneville (son of Geoffroi de Vaucouleur, brother of the
Sieur de Joinville, historian of Saint Louis) and Jeanne de Lusignan:
_born_ February 2, 1286; _married_ before 1304.  On hearing of her
husband's escape from the Tower in August 1323, she journeyed to
Southampton with her elder children, intending to rejoin him in France:
but before she set sail, on April 6, 1324, the King directed the Sheriff
of Southampton to capture her without delay, and deliver her to the care
of John de Rithre, Constable of Skipton Castle.  A damsel, squire,
laundress, groom, and page, were allowed to her, and her expenses were
reckoned at 13 shillings 4 pence per day while travelling, and after
reaching Skipton at 13 shillings 4 pence per week, with ten marks (6
pounds, 13 shillings 4 pence) per annum for clothing.  (Close Roll, 17
Edward the Second.)  These details appear afterwards to have been
slightly altered, since the account of the expenses mentions 37
shillings 6 pence for the keep of two damsels, one laundress, one
chamberlain, one cook, and one groom.  Robes were supplied to her at
Easter and Michaelmas.  She remained a prisoner at Skipton from May 17,
1324, on which day she seems to have come there, till August 3, 1326.
(_Rot. de Liberate_, 19 Edward the Second, and 3 Edward the Third.)  By
mandate of July 22, 1326, she was transferred to Pomfret (Close Roll, 20
Edward the Second), which she reached in two days, the cost of the
journey being ten shillings 10 pence, (_Rot. Lib._, 3 Edward the Third.)
When her husband was seized in October, 1330, the King sent down John
de Melbourne to superintend the affairs of the Countess, with the ladies
and children in her company, dwelling at Ludlow Castle, with express
instructions that their wardrobes, gods, and jewels, were not to be
touched.  (_Rot. Pat._ and _Claus._, 4 Edward the Third.)  The lands of
her own inheritance were restored to her in the December and January
following, with especial mention of Ludlow Castle, (_Rot. Claus.,
ibidem_).  Edward the Third always speaks of her with great respect.  In
August, 1347, there were suits against her in the Irish Courts (the
Mortimers held large estates in Ireland), and it is noted that she was
not able to plead in person on account of her great age, which made
travelling perilous to her.  (_Rot. Claus._, 21 Edward the Third.)  She
was then 63.  On the 19th of October, 1356, she died (_Inq. Post
Mortem_, 30 Edward the Third 30)--the very day of her husband's capture,
26 years before--and was _buried_ in the Church of the Friars Minors,
Shrewsbury.  (Cott. Ms. Cleop., C, 3.)

2.  Edmund, Rector of Hodnet.

3.  Hugh, Rector of Old Radnor.

4.  Walter, Rector of Kingston (Dugdale) Kingsland (Cott. Ms. Cleop. C,
3).

5.  Maud, _married_ at Wigmore, July 28, 1302, Theobald de Verdon;
_died_ at Alveton Castle, and _buried_ at Croxden, October 8, 1312.
Left issue.

6.  Joan, _nun_ at Lyngbroke; living September 17, 1332.

7.  Elizabeth, _nun_ at Lyngbroke.

8.  John, _born_ 1300, _killed_ in tilting, at Worcester, January 3,
1318, S.P.; _buried_ at Worcester.

_Issue of Roger, first Earl of March, and Jeanne de Geneville_:--1.
Edmund, _born_ 1304, _died_ at Stanton Lacy, December 28, 1331; _buried_
at Wigmore.  He is always reckoned as second Earl, but was never
formally restored to the title, for which he vainly petitioned, and the
refusal is said to have broken his heart.  He _married_ Elizabeth, third
daughter, and eventually co-heir, of Bartholomew Lord Badlesmere, and
Margaret de Clare: _born_ 1313, _married_ in or before 1327;
(_remarried_ William de Bohun, Earl of Northampton;) _died_ June 17,
1355.

2.  Roger, _died_ 1357.  _Married_ Joan, daughter of Edmund de Boteler,
Earl of Carrick, and Joan Fitzgerald; contract of _marriage_ February
11, 1321.

3.  Geoffrey, Lord of Cowith.  He was one of the King's Bannerets in
1328 (_Rot. Magne Gard._, 33/10), was taken with his father and his
brother Edmund in 1330, and was kept prisoner in the Tower till January
25, 1331 (Issue Roll, _Michs._, 5 Edward the Third).  On the following
March 16, he obtained leave to travel abroad.  (_Rot. Pat._, 5 Edward
the Third, Part 1.)  He was living in 1337, but no more is known of him.

4.  John, _killed_ in tilting at Shrewsbury, and _buried_ there in the
Hospital of Saint John.  He _married_ (and left one son).

Alianora (family unknown), _buried_ with husband.

5.  Margaret, _married_ Thomas Lord Berkeley; _died_ May 5, 1337;
_buried_ at Bristol.

6.  Joan, _married_ James Lord Audley of Heleigh.

7.  Isabel, _nun_ at Chicksand.  These three girls accompanied their
mother to Southampton, and were captured with her.  By the King's order
they were sent to separate convents "to dwell with the nuns there;"
there is no intimation that they were to be made nuns, and as two of
them afterwards married, it is evident that this was not intended.
Margaret was sent to Shuldham, her expenses being reckoned at 3
shillings per day while travelling, and 15 pence per week after arrival;
Joan to Sempringham, and Isabel to Chicksand, their expenses being
charged 2 shillings each per day while travelling, and 12 pence each per
week in the convent.  One mark per annum was allowed to each for
clothing.  (_Rot. Claus._, 17 Edward the Second.)  Isabel chose to
remain at or return to Chicksand, since she is mentioned as being a nun
there in February 1326.  (Issue Roll, _Michs._, 19 Edward the Second.)

8.  Katherine, _married_ about 1338, Thomas de Beauchamp, Earl of
Warwick; _died_ August 4, 1369.

9.  Maud, _married_ about 1320 John Lord Charleton of Powys; living July
5, 1348.

10.  Agnes, _married_ (1) 1327, Lawrence de Hastings, Earl of Pembroke;
(2) before June 21, 1353, John de Hakelut; _died_ July 25, 1368;
_buried_ in Abbey of Minories.

II.  Beatrice, _married_ (1) about 1327, Edward son of Prince Thomas de
Brotherton, Earl of Norfolk; (2) 1334 (?)  Thomas de Braose (_Rot.
Claus._ 8 E. three.) (who appears to have purchased her for 12,000
marks--8000 pounds): _died_ October 16, 1383 (_Inq. Post Mortem_, 7
Richard the Second, 15).

12.  Blanche, _married_, before March 27, 1334, Peter, third Lord de
Grandison; _dead_ July 24, 1357.  Either she or her husband was _buried_
at Marcle, Herefordshire.

V.  CHRONOLOGICAL ERRATA.

The accounts given by the early chroniclers, and followed by modern
historians, with respect to the movements of Edward the Second and his
Queen, from September, 1326, to the December following, are sadly at
variance with fact.  The dates of death of the Despensers, as well as
various minor matters, depend on the accurate fixing of these points.

The popular account, generally accepted, states that the Queen landed at
Orwell in September--the exact day being disputed--that the King, on
hearing of it, hastened to the West, and shut himself up in Bristol
Castle, with his daughters and the younger Despenser; that the Queen
hanged the elder Despenser and the Earl of Arundel before their eyes, on
the 8th of October, whereupon the King and the younger Despenser escaped
by night in a boat: some add that they were overtaken and brought back,
others that they landed in Wales, and were taken in a wood near
Llantrissan.  Much of this is pure romance.  The King's Household Roll,
which names his locality for every day, and is extant up to October
19th, the Wardrobe Accounts supplying the subsequent facts, distinctly
shows that he never came nearer Bristol on that occasion than the road
from Gloucester to Chepstow; that on the 8th of October he was yet at
Cirencester; that he left Gloucester on the 10th, reaching Chepstow on
the 16th, whence he departed on the 20th "_versus aquam de Weye_" and
therefore in the contrary direction from Bristol.  On the 27th and 28th
he dates mandates from Cardiff; on the 29th and 30th from Caerphilly.
On November 2nd he left Caerphilly (this we are distinctly told in the
Wardrobe Accounts), on the 3rd and 4th he was at Margan Abbey, and on
the 5th he reached Neath, where he remained up to the 10th.  He now
appears to have paid a short visit to Swansea, whence he returned to
Neath, where, on the 16th, his cousin Lancaster and his party found him,
and took him into their custody, with Hugh Le Despenser and Archdeacon
Baldok.  They took him first to Monmouth, where he was found by the
Bishop of Hereford (sent to demand the Great Seal), probably about the
23rd.  Thence he was conveyed to Ledbury, which he reached on or about
the 30th; and on the 6th of December he was at Kenilworth, where he
remained for the rest of his reign.

The Queen landed at Orwell in September: Speed says, on the 19th; Robert
of Avesbury, the 26th; most authorities incline to the 22nd, which seems
as probable a date as any.  The King, at any rate, had heard of her
arrival on the 28th, and issued a proclamation offering to all
volunteers 1 shilling per day for a man-at-arms, and 2 pence for an
archer, to resist the invading force.  All past offenders were offered
pardon if they joined his standard, the murderers of Sir Roger de Belers
alone excepted: and Roger Mortimer, with the King's other enemies, was
to be arrested and destroyed.  Only three exceptions were made: the
Queen, her son (his father omits the usual formula of "our dearest and
firstborn son," and even the title of Earl of Chester), and the Earl of
Kent, "queux nous volons que soent sauuez si auant come home poet."
According to Froissart, the Queen's company could not make the port they
intended, and landed on the sands, whence after four days they marched
(ignorant of their whereabouts) till they sighted Bury Saint Edmunds,
where they remained three days.  Miss Strickland tells a rather striking
tale of the tempestuous night passed by the Queen under a shed of
driftwood run up hastily by her knights, whence she marched the next
morning at daybreak.  (This lady rarely gives an authority, and still
more seldom an exact reference.)  On the 25th, she adds, the Queen
reached Harwich.  Robert de Avesbury, Polydore Vergil, and Speed, say
that she landed at Orwell, which the Chronicle of Flanders calls
Norwell.  If Froissart is to be credited, this certainly was not the
place; for he says that the tempest prevented the Queen from landing at
the port where she intended, and that this was a mercy of Providence,
because there her enemies awaited her.  The port where her enemies
awaited her (meaning thereby the husband whom she was persecuting) was
certainly Orwell, for on the second of September the King had ordered
all ships of thirty tuns weight to assemble there.  Moreover, the Queen
could not possibly march from Orwell at once to Bury and Harwich, since
to face the one she must have turned her back on the other.  The
probability seems to be that she came ashore somewhere in Orwell Haven,
but whether she first visited Harwich or Bury it is difficult to judge.
The natural supposition would be that she remained quiet for a time at
Bury until she was satisfied that her allies would be sufficient to
effect her object, and then showed herself openly at Harwich were it not
that Bury is so distant, and Harwich is so near, that the supposition
seems to be negatived by the facts.  From Harwich or Bury, whichever it
were, she marched towards London, which according to some writers, she
reached; but the other account seems to be better authenticated, which
states that on hearing that the King had left the capital for the West
she altered her course for Oxford.  She certainly was not in London when
the Tower was captured by the citizens, October 16th (_Compotus
Willielmi de Culpho_, Wardrobe Accounts, 20 Edward the Second, 31/8),
since she dates a mandate from Wallingford on the 15th, unless Bishop
Orleton falsified the date in quoting it in his Apology.  Thence she
marched to Cirencester and Gloucester, and at last to Bristol, which she
entered on or before the 25th.  Since Gloucester was considerably out of
her way--for we are assured that her aim was to make a straight and
rapid course to Bristol--why did she go there at all if the King were at
Bristol?  But we know he was not; he had then set sail for Wales.  Her
object in going to Bristol was probably twofold: to capture Le Despenser
and Arundel, and to stop the King's supplies, for Bristol was his
commissariat-centre.  A cartload of provisions reached that city from
London for him on the 14th [Note 2.] (_Rot. Magne Gard._, 20 Edward the
Second, 26/3), and his butler, John Pyrie, went thither for wine, even
so late as November 1st (_Ibidem_, 26/4).  Is it possible that Pyrie,
perhaps unconsciously, betrayed to some adherent of the Queen the fact
that his master was in Wales?  The informer, we are told by the
chroniclers, was Sir Thomas le Blount, the King's Seneschal of the
Household.  But that suspicious embassage of the Abbot of Neath and
several of the King's co-refugees, noted on November 10th in terms
which, though ostensibly spoken by the King and dated from Neath, are
unmistakably the Queen's diction and not his, cannot be left out of the
account in estimating his betrayers.  From October 26, when the
illegally-assembled Parliament, in the hall of Bristol Castle, went
through the farce of electing the young Prince to the regency "because
the King was absent from his kingdom," and October 27th, which is given
(probably with truth) by Harl. Ms. 6124 as the day of the judicial
murder of Hugh Le Despenser the Elder, our information concerning the
Queen's movements is absolutely _nil_ until we find her at Hereford on
the 20th of November.  She then sent Bishop Orleton of Hereford to the
King to request the Great Seal, and he, returning, found her at Marcle
on the 26th.  It was probably on the 24th that the younger Despenser
suffered.  On the 27th the Queen was at Newent, on the 28th at
Gloucester, on the 29th at Coberley, and on the 30th at Cirencester.
She reached Lechlade on December 1st, Witney on the 2nd, Woodstock on
the 3rd.  Here she remained till the 22nd, when she went to Osney Abbey,
and forward to Wallingford the next day.  (Wardrobe Accounts, 20 Edward
the Second and 1 Edward the Third, 26/11.)  She was joined at
Wallingford by her younger son Prince John of Eltham, who had been
awaiting her arrival since the 17th, and losing 3 shillings at play by
way of amusement in the interim (_Ibidem_, 31/18).  By Reading, Windsor,
Chertsey, and Allerton she reached Westminster on the 4th of January
(_Ibidem_, 26/11).

I have examined all the Wardrobe Accounts and Rolls likely to cast light
on this period, but I can find no mention of the whereabouts of the two
Princesses during this time.  Froissart says that they and Prince John
were delivered into the Queen's care by the citizens of Bristol; which
is certainly a mistake so far as concerns the Prince, whose compotus
just quoted distinctly states that he left the Tower on October 16th
(which fixes the day of its capture), quitted London on December 21st,
and reached Wallingford on the 24th.  He, therefore, was no more at
Bristol than his father, and only rejoined his mother as she returned
thence.  The position of the royal sisters remains doubtful, as even
Mrs Everett Green--usually a most faithful and accurate writer--has
accepted Froissart's narrative, and apparently did not discover its
complete discrepancy with the Wardrobe Accounts.  If the Princesses were
the companions of their royal father in his flight, and were delivered
to their mother when she entered Bristol--which may be the fact--the
probability is that he sent them there when he left Gloucester, on or
about the 10th of October.

VI.  THE ORDER OF SEMPRINGHAM.

The Gilbertine Order, also called the Order of Sempringham, was that of
the reformed Cistercians.  Its founder was Gilbert, son of Sir Josceline
de Sempringham; he was Rector of Saint Andrew's Church in that village,
and died in 1189.  The chief peculiarity of this Order was that monks
and nuns dwelt under the same roof, but their apartments were entered by
separate doors from without, and had no communication from within.  They
attended the Priory Church together, but never mixed among each other
except on the administration of the Sacrament.  The monks followed the
rule of Saint Austin; the nuns the Cistercian rule, with Saint
Benedict's emendations, to which some special statutes were added by the
founder.  The habit was, for monks, a black cassock, white cloak, and
hood lined with lambskin; for nuns, a white habit, black mantle, and
black hood lined with white fur.  There was a Master over the entire
Order, who lived at Sempringham, the mother Abbey also a Prior and a
Prioress over each community.  The Prior of Sempringham was a Baron of
Parliament.  The site of the Abbey, three miles south-east from
Folkingham, Lincolnshire, may still be traced by its moated area.  The
Abbey Church of Saint Andrew alone now remains entire; it is Norman,
with an Early English tower, and a fine Norman north door.

But few houses of the Gilbertine Order existed in England, and those
were mainly in Yorkshire and Lincolnshire.  The principal ones--after
Sempringham, which was the chief--were Chicksand, Bedfordshire;
Cambridge; Fordham, near Newmarket; Hitchin, Hertfordshire; Lincoln,
Alvingham, Bolington, Cateley, Haverholme, Ormesby, Newstead (not the
Abbey, which was Augustinian), Cotton, Sexley, Stikeswold, Sixhill,
Lincolnshire; Marmound and Shuldham, Norfolk; Clattercott, Oxfordshire;
Marlborough, Wiltshire; Malton, Sempringham Minor, Watton, and
Wilberfosse, Yorkshire.

The Gilbertine Order "for some centuries maintained its sanctity and
credit; afterwards it departed greatly from both."

VII.  FICTITIOUS PERSONS.

In Part One, these are Cicely's daughters, Alice and Vivien, and her
damsels, Margaret and Fina; Meliora, the Queen's sub-damsel; Hilda la
Vileyne, and her relatives.  Of all others, the name and position at
least are historical facts.

The fictitious persons in Part Two are more numerous, being all the
household of the Countess of March (except John Inge the Castellan): and
Nichola, damsel of the Countess Agnes.

The three Despenser nuns, Mother Alianora, and the Sisters Annora and
Margaret, and Lady Joan de Greystoke, are the only characters in Part
Three which are not fictitious.

A difference in the diction will be noticed between Part Three and the
earlier parts, the last portion being more modern than the rest.  Sister
Alianora must not be supposed to write her narrative, which she could
not do except by order from her superiors; but rather to be uttering her
reflections to herself.  Since to her the natural language would be
French, there was no need to follow the contemporary diction further
than, by a quaint expression now and then, to remind the reader of the
period in which the scene is laid.

It may be remarked that the diction of Parts One and Two is not strictly
correct.  This is true: because to make it perfectly accurate, would be
to make it also unintelligible to nine out of ten readers, and this not
so much on account of obsolete words, which might be explained in a
note, as of the entirely different turn of the phraseology.  An
imaginary diary of the reign of Elizabeth can be written in pure
Elizabethan language, and with an occasional explanatory note, it will
be understood by modern readers: but a narrative prior to 1400 at the
earliest cannot be so treated.  The remaining possibilities are either
to use as much of the correct diction of the period as is intelligible,
employing modern terms where it is not, or else to write in ordinary
modern English.  Tastes no doubt differ on this point.  I prefer the
former; since I extremely dislike to read a mediaeval story where modern
expressions alone are used in the dialogue.  The reader, if himself
acquainted with the true language, finds it impossible to realise or
enter into the story, being constantly reminded that he is reading a
modern fiction.  What I object to read, therefore, I object to write for
the reading of others.  Where circumstances, as in this case, make
perfect accuracy impossible, it seems to me the next best thing is to
come as near it as they will permit.

The biographical details given in this Appendix, with few exceptions,
have not, I believe, been previously published.  For such information as
may readily be found in Dugdale's Baronage, extinct peerages, etcetera,
I refer my readers to those works.

The End.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1.  This document is mistakenly headed and catalogued as a Compotus
of Leonor, Queen of Edward the First.  It certainly belongs to Queen
Philippa.  The internal evidence is abundant and conclusive--_eg_, "the
Countess of Hainault, the Queen's mother."

Note 2.  The details of this cartload are not uninteresting:--203
quarters, 12 pounds wax; 774 pounds broken sugar, 11 pence per pound;
200 almonds; 100 pounds of rice; 78 ells of Paris napery, 10 pence per
ell; 6 and a half ells of Rouen napery, same price; 18 short towels; 15
and a half ells of "cloth of Still;" 100 ells of linen, 100 ells of
canvas; 200 pears, at 4 shillins per 100, bought of Isabel Fruiterer;
2000 large nuts, at 1 shilling per 1000; four baskets for the fruit, 10
pence.  The journey from London occupied five days, and the travelling
expenses were 14 pence per day.






End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of In Convent Walls, by Emily Sarah Holt

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