“he that hath a thousand friends hath not a friend to spare,
and he that hath one enemy shall find him everywhere.”
on the evening of constance’s arrival at langley, two men sat in close conference in the jerusalem chamber of the palace of westminster. one of them was a priest, the other a layman. the first priest, and the first layman, in the realm; for the elder was thomas de arundel, archbishop of canterbury, and the younger was henry of bolingbroke, king of england.
the archbishop was a tall, stout, portly man, with a round, fair, fat face, on which sat an expression of extreme self-complacency. a fine forehead, both broad and high, though slightly too retreating, surmounted a pair of clear, bright grey eyes, a well-formed nose, and lips in which there was no weakness, but they were just a shade too smiling for sincerity. though his age was only fifty-one, his hair was snow-white. of course his face was closely shaven; for it is an odd fact that the higher a man’s sacerdotal pretensions rise, the more unlike a man he usually makes himself—resembling the weaker sex as much as possible, both in person and costume. this man’s sacerdotal pretensions ran very high, and accordingly his black cassock fell about his feet like a woman’s dress, and his face was guiltless of beard or whisker.
the age of the king was thirty-eight, and he was one of the tallest men in his kingdom. the colour of his hair, whiskers, and small forked beard, was only one remove from black. dark pencilled eyebrows, of that surprised shape which many persons admire, arched over keen liquid dark eyes. the general type of the features was grecian; their regularity was perfect, but the nose was a trifle too prominent for pure grecian. about the set of the lips, delicately as they were cut, there was a peculiarity which a physiognomist might have interpreted to mean that when their owner had once placed a particular end before him, no considerations of right on the one hand, or of friendship on the other, would be allowed to interfere with its attainment. this was a very clever man, a very sagacious, far-seeing man, a very handsome man, a very popular man; yet a man whom no human heart ever loved, and who never loved any human being—a man who could stand alone, and who did stand alone, to the hour when, “with all his imperfections on his head,” he stood before the bar of god.
“the match is no serviceable one,” said the archbishop.
“truth to tell,” replied the king a little doubtfully, “i scarce do account my cousin herself an heretic:—yet i wis not—she may be. but she hath been rocked in the heresy in her cradle, and ever sithence hath been within earshot thereof. you wot well, holy father, what her lord was; and his mother, with whom she hath dwelt these ten years or more, is worser than himself. now it shall never serve to have kent lost to the church her cause. you set affiance on him, i know, and i the like: and if he be not misturned, methinks he may yet prove a good servant. but here is this alliance cast in our way! i know they be wed without my licence: yet what should it serve to fine or prison him? to prison her might be other matter; but we cannot touch her. so this done should not serve our turn. father, is there any means that you can devise to break this marriage?”
“the priest that wed them is a gospeller,” returned the archbishop with a peculiar smile.
“a priest in full orders,” objected the king, “of good life and unblemished conversation. even you, holy father, so fertile in wise plans, shall scarce, methinks, be able to lay finger on him.”
“scantly; without he were excommunicate of heresy at the time this wedding were celebrate.”
“which he was not,” answered the king rather impatiently. “would to saint edmund he had so been! it were then no marriage.”
the archbishop made no reply in words, but drawing towards him a sheet of paper which lay upon the table, he slowly traced upon it a date some two months previous—the date of the sunday before constance’s marriage. the king watched him in equal silence, with knitted brows and set lips. then the two conspirators’ eyes met.
“could that be done?” asked the royal layman, under his breath.
“is it not done, sire?” calmly responded the priestly villain, pointing to the paper.
the king was silent for a minute; but, unprincipled as he was, his conscience was not quite so seared as that of arundel.
“the end halloweth the means, trow?” he said inquiringly.
“all means be holy, sire, where the end is the glory of god,” replied arundel, with a hypocritical assumption of piety. “and the glory of god is the service and avancement of holy church.”
still henry’s mind misgave him. his conscience appears at times to have tortured him in his later years, and he shrank from burdening it yet further.
“father, if sin be herein, you must bear this burden!”
“i have borne heavier,” replied arundel with a cynical smile.
and truly, to a man upon whose soul eleven murders lay lightly, an invalidated marriage was likely to be no oppressive weight.
“yet even now,” resumed the king, again knitting his brows uneasily, “methinks all hardships be scarce vanished. our good cousin of kent is he that should not be turned aside from his quarry (object of pursuit; a hunting phrase) by a brook in his way.”
“not if an eagle arose beyond the heron he pursued?” suggested arundel, significantly.
“ha!” said the king.
“he is marvellous taken with beauty,” resumed his priestly counsellor. “and the lady custance is not the sole woman in the world.”
“you have some further thought, father,” urged henry.
“methinks your grace hath a good friend in the lord galeas, duke of milan?”
“ay, of olden time,” answered the king, with a sigh. was it caused by the regretful thought that if he could bring back that olden time, when young henry of bolingbroke was learning italian at milan and venice, he might be a happier man than now?
“he hath sisters, methinks, that bear high fame for fair and lovesome?”
“none higher in christendom.”
“and the youngest-born, the lady lucy, i take it, is yet unwed?”
“she is so.”
“and cometh not behind her sisters for beauty?”
“she was but a little child when i was at milan,” said the king; “but i hear tell of her as fairest of all the fair visconti.”
“were it impossible, sire, that the lady, in company of her young brothers, should visit your highness’ court?”
henry readily owned that it was by no means impossible, if he were to ask it: but he reminded the archbishop that the duke of milan was poor, though proud; and that while he would consider the princess lucia eternally disgraced by marrying beneath her, he probably would not scruple to sell her hand to the highest bidder of those illustrious persons who stood on the list of eligibles. and kent, semi-royal though he were, was not a rich man, his family having suffered severely from repeated attainders.
“and what riches he hath goeth in velvet and ouches,” (jewellery) said the archbishop, with his cold, sarcastic smile. “well—if the duke’s grace would fain pick up ducats even in the mire, mayhap he shall find them as plenty in england as otherwhere. your highness can heald (pour forth) gold with any prince in italy. and when the lady is hither, ’twere easy to bid an hunting party, an’ your grace so list. my cousin of kent loveth good hawking.”
again that keen, cruel smile parted the priestly lips.
“moreover, sire, she must be a prince’s daughter, or my cousin, who likewise loveth grandeur and high degree, may count the cost ere he swallow the bait. the lady custance is not lightly matched for blood.”
“you desire this thing, holy father?”
the eyes of the two evil counsellors met again.
“it were an holy and demeritous work, sire,” said the priest.
“be it as you will,” returned henry hastily. “but mind you, holy father! you bear what there may be of sin.”
“i can carry it, sire!”
the royal and reverend conspirators parted; and the archbishop, mounting his richly-caparisoned mule (an animal used by priests out of affected humility, in imitation of the ass’s colt on which christ rode into jerusalem), rode straight to coldharbour, the town residence of his niece, joan duchess dowager of york. he found her at work in the midst of her bower-women; but no sooner did she hear the announcement of her most reverend uncle, than she hurriedly commanded them all to leave the room.
“well?” she said breathlessly, as soon as they were alone.
“thy woman’s wit hath triumphed, joan. ’twas a brave thought of thine, touching the lady lucy of milan. the king fell in therewith, like a fowl into a net.”
“nay, the lady lucy was your thought, holy father; i did but counsel to tempt him with some other. then it shall be done?”
“it shall be done.”
“thanks be to all-hallows!” cried the duchess, with mirth which it would scarcely be too strong a term to call fiend-like. “now shall the proud minx be brought to lower her lofty head! i hate her!”
“’tis allowed to hate an heretic,” said the archbishop calmly. “and if the lady le despenser be no heretic, she hath sorely abused her opportunities.”
“she shall never be nym’s true wife!” cried the duchess fierily. “i will not have it! i would sooner follow both her and him to the churchyard! i hate, i hate her!”
“thou mayest yet do that following, joan. but i must not tarry. peace be with thee!”
peace!—of what sort? we are told, indeed, of one who is like a strong man armed, and who keepeth his goods in peace. and the dead sleep peacefully enough—not only dead bodies, but dead souls.
the earl and countess of kent had been about a week at langley, when a letter arrived from the king, commanding the attendance of the earl at court, as feudal service for one of his estates held on that tenure. the countess was not invited to accompany him. the duke of york seized his opportunity, for his plot was fully ripe, and suggested that she should obtain the royal permission to pay a visit to windsor, where the hapless heirs of march were imprisoned. permission to do so was asked and granted, for the king never suspected his cousin of any sinister intention.
the earl set out first for westminster. constance stood at her lattice, and waved a loving farewell to him as he rode away, turning several times to catch another glimpse of her, and to bend his graceful head in yet another farewell. he had not quite recovered from the glamour of his enchantment.
“farewell!” said the princess at last, though her husband was far beyond hearing. “hark, maude, to the priory bells—dost hear them? what say they to thee? i hear them say—‘he will come—he will come—safely back again!’” and she sang the words in the tone of the chime.
maude was silent. a dark, sudden presentiment seemed to seize upon her of unknown coming evil, and to her ear also the bells had a voice. but they rang—“he will come—he will come—never any more!”
the bells told the truth—to one of them.
the duke of york escorted his sister to windsor. she was accompanied by bertram and maude, eva, and several minor domestics. he left her full directions how to proceed, promising to meet her with a guard of men a few miles beyond eton, and go with her overland as far as hereford. the final destination of constance and her recaptured charges was to be her own home at cardiff, but a rather roundabout way was to be taken to baffle the probable pursuers. york promised to let kent know of the escapade through one of his squires on the morning of their departure from windsor, with orders to join them as quickly as possible by sea from bideford. at cardiff the final stand was to be made, in favour of richard, if living—of march, if he were proved to be dead. the evening of a saint’s day, about ten days later, was selected for the attempted rescue; in the hope that the sentinels, having honoured the saint by extra feasting and potations, might be the less disposed to extra vigilance.
the first point to be ascertained was the exact rooms in the castle occupied by the youthful captives. this was easily found out by bertram. he and maude were the sole confidants of their mistress’s secret. the second scene of the drama—which might turn either to comedy or tragedy—was to obtain a mould of the lock in wax. this also was done by bertram, who further achieved the third point—that of procuring false keys from a smith. constance, whose ideas of truth were elastic and accommodating, had instructed her messenger to say that the keys had been lost, and the new ones were wanted to replace them; but bertram kept a conscience which declined to be burdened with this falsehood, and accordingly he merely reported that the person who had sent him required duplicates of the keys.
no idea of wrongfulness in aiding the plot ever occurred either to bertram or maude. in their eyes king henry was no king at all, but a rebel, a usurper, and a murderer; and the true king, to whom alone their fealty was due, was (if richard were dead) the boy unjustly confined in windsor castle. to work his freedom, therefore, was not a bad deed, but a good one; nor could it fairly be called treachery to circumvent a traitor.
the keys were safely secreted in constance’s jewel-box until the night appointed for the rescue came.
it proved to be fair, but cloudy, with a low damp mist filling the vale of the thames. bertram took no one into his confidence but his own squire, william maydeston, whom he posted in the forest, at a sufficient distance from the castle, in charge of the four horses necessary to mount the party.
the princess went to bed as usual—about eight o’clock, for she kept late hours for her time—with maude and eva in attendance. both were dismissed; and eva at least went peacefully to sleep, in happy ignorance of the kind of awakening which was in store for her. at half-past ten, an hour then esteemed in the middle of the night, maude, according to instructions previously received, softly opened the door of her lady’s bedchamber. she found her not only risen, but already fully equipped for her journey, and in a state of feverish excitement. she came out at once, and they joined bertram, who was waiting in the corridor outside. the little trio of plotters crept slowly down the stairs, and across the court-yard to the foot of the beauchamp tower, within which the children were confined. it was necessary to use the utmost caution, to avoid being heard by the sentinels. bertram fitted the false key into the great iron lock of the outer door. the door opened, but with such a creak that maude shuddered in terror lest the sentinels should hear it. she was reassured by a peal of laughter which came from beyond the wall. the sentinels were awake, but were making too much noise themselves to be easily roused to action. then the party went silently up into the beauchamp tower, unlocked the door which they sought, and leaving bertram outside it to give an alarm if necessary, constance and maude entered the first of the two rooms.
a white, frightened face was the first thing they saw. in the outer chamber, as the less valuable pair of prisoners, slept the sisters, anne and alianora mortimer, whose ages were fifteen and eleven. alianora, the younger, slept quietly; but anne sat up, wide awake, and said in a tremulous voice which she tried in vain to render firm—
“what is it? are you a spirit?”
constance was by her side in a moment, and assured the girl at least of her humanity by taking anne’s face between her hands. she looked on it with deep interest; for this was the face that dickon loved. a soft, gentle face it was, which would have been pretty if it had been less thin and wan with prison life, and less tired with suspense and care. to her—
“the future was all dark,
and the past a troubled sea,
and memory sat in her heart,
wailing where hope should be.”
for anne mortimer was one of those hapless girls who are not motherless, but what is far worse, unmothered. her father, who lay in his bloody grave in ireland, she had loved dearly; but her mother was a mere stranger somewhere in the world, who had never cared for her at all. to the younger ones anne herself had been the virtual mother; they had been tended by her fostering care, but who save god had ever tended her? thus, from the time of her father’s death, when she was eight years old, anne’s life had been a flowerless, up-hill road, with nothing to look forward to at the end. was it any wonder that the face looked worn with care, though only fifteen years had passed over it?
the sole breaks to the monotony of this weary life occurred when the court was at windsor. then the poor little prisoners were permitted to come out of durance, and—still under strict surveillance—to join the royal party. these times were delightful to the younger three, but they would have been periods of unmixed pain to anne, if it had not been for the presence and uniform kindness of one person. she shuddered within herself when the king or his mentor the archbishop addressed her, shrinking from both with the instinctive aversion of a song-bird to a serpent; but richard of conisborough spoke as no one else spoke to her—so courteously, so gently, so kindly, that no room was left for fear. no one had ever spoken so to this girl since her father died. and thus, without the faintest suspicion of his feelings towards her, the lonely maiden’s imagination wove its sweet fancies around this hero of her dreams, and she began unconsciously to look forward to the time when she should meet him again. well for her that it was so! for she was a “pale meek blossom” unsuited for rough blasts, and the only ray of sunshine which was ever to fall across her life lay in the love of richard of conisborough.
“who is it?” anne repeated, in a rather less frightened tone.
“hast thou forgot me, nannette?” said constance affectionately. “i am the lady le despenser—thine aunt now, the wife of thine uncle of kent.”
“oh!” responded anne, with a long-drawn sigh of relief. the tone said, “how delightful!”
“i thought you were a ghost.”
“well, so i am, but within the body,” whispered constance with a little laugh.
“that makes all the difference,” said anne, whose response did not go beyond a faint smile. “has your ladyship then won allowance to visit us?”
her voice expressed some surprise, for certainly the middle of the night was a singular time for a visitor to choose for a call.
“nay, sweet heart. i come without allowance—hush!—to bear you all away hence. wake thy sister, and arise both, and busk (dress) you quickly. where be thy brothers?”
“in the inner cowche,” (bedroom).
constance desired maude to hasten the girls in dressing, which must be done by the fitful moonlight, as best it could, and went herself into the inner chamber. both the boys were asleep. they were edmund, the young earl, whose age was nearly thirteen, and his little brother roger, who was not yet eight. constance laid her hand lightly on the shoulder of the future king.
“nym!” she said. “hush! make no bruit.”
the boy was sleeping too heavily to be roused at once; but his little brother roger awoke, and looked up with two very bright, intelligent eyes.
“are we to be killed?” he wanted to know; but his query was not put in the frightened tone of his sister.
“not so, little one. wake thy brother, and rise quickly.”
“’tis no light gear to wake nym,” said little roger. “you must shake him.”
constance put the advice in practice, but edmund only gave a grunt and turned over.
“nym!” said his little brother in a loud whisper. “nym! wake up.”
edmund growled an inarticulate request to be “let be.”
“then you must pinch him,” said little roger. “nip him well—be not afeard.”
constance, extremely amused, acted on this recommendation also. edmund gave another growl.
“nay, then you must needs slap him!” was the third piece of advice given.
constance laughingly suggested that the child should do it for her. little roger jumped up, boxed his brother’s ears in a decided manner, and finally, burying his small hands in edmund’s light curly hair, gave him a dose of sensation which would have roused a dormouse.
“is he in this wise every morrow?” asked constance.
“master gaoler bringeth alway a wet mop,” said little roger confidentially. “wake up, nym! if thou fallest to sleep again, i must tweak thee by the nose!”
this terrible threat seemed to be nearly as effectual as the mop. edmund stretched himself lazily, and in very sleepy accents desired to know what his brother could possibly mean by such wanton cruelty.
“where is thy breeding, churl, to use such thewis (manners) with a lady?” demanded little roger in a scandalised voice.
“lady!—where is one?” murmured edmund, whose eyes were still shut.
“methinks thou art roused now, nym,” said constance. “but when thou shalt be a knight, i pity thy squire. haste, lad, rise and busk thee in silence, but make as good speed as ever thou canst roger, see he turneth not back to sleep. i go to thy sisters.”
“nay, but he will, an’ you pluck him not out of bed!” said little roger, who evidently felt himself unfit to cope with the emergency.
“thou canst wring him by the nose, then,” said constance, laughing. “come, nym! turn out—quick!” edmund turned over on his face, buried it in the pillow, and tacitly intimated that to get up at the present moment was an impossibility.
“he’ll have another nap!” said little roger, in the mournful tone of a prophet who foresaw the speedy accomplishment of his tragical predictions.
“but he must not!” exclaimed constance, returning. “then you must pluck him out, and set him on the floor,” repeated little roger earnestly. “’twill be all i can do to let him to (hinder him from) get in again then—without you clap his chaucers (slippers) about his ears,” he added meditatively, as if this expedient might possibly answer.
constance took the future master of england by his shoulders, and pulled him out of bed without any further quarter. the monarch elect grumbled exceedingly, but in so inarticulate a style that very little could be understood.
“now, nym!” said constance warningly to her refractory and dilatory nephew, “if thou get into bed again, we will leave thee behind, and crown roger, that is worth ten of thee. by my lady saint mary! a pretty king thou wilt make!”
“eh?” inquired edmund, brightening up. “let be. go on and busk thee. roger! if he is not speedy, come to the door and say it.”
constance went back to the girls. she found anne nearly ready, but alianora, who apparently shared the indolent disposition of her elder brother, was dressing in the most deliberate manner, though maude and anne were both hastening her as much as they could.
“now, nell!” said constance, employing the weapon which had proved useful with edmund, “if thou make not good speed, we will leave thee behind.”
“well, what if so?” demanded alianora coolly, tying a string in the most leisurely style.
“if i have not as great a mind to leave you both behind!”—cried constance in an annoyed tone. “i will bear away nan and roger, and wash mine hands of you!”
“please, i’m ready!” announced little roger in a whisper through the crack of the door, in an incredibly short space of time.
“why wert thou not the firstborn?” exclaimed the princess. “i would thou hadst been! what is nym about?”
“combing his hair,” said roger, glancing back at him, “and hath been this never so long.”
constance dashed back into the room with one of her quick, impulsive movements, snatched the comb from his dilatory young majesty, smoothed his hair in a second, ordered him to wash his hands, and to put on his gown and tunic, and stood over him while he did it.
“the saints have mercy on thee, nym, and send thee a wise council!” said she, half in earnest and half in jest. “the whole realm will go to sleep else.”
“well, they might do worser,” responded edmund calmly.
the two sluggards were ready at last, but not before constance had lost her temper, and had noticed the unruffled endurance of anne.
“why, nan, thou hast patience enough!” she said.
“i have had need these seven years,” answered the maiden quietly.
“now, maude, take thou lord roger by the hand; and nan, take thy sister. nym, thou comest with me. lead on, sir bertram; and mind all of you—no bruit, not enough to wake a mouse!”
“it would not wake nym, then!” said little roger.
they crept down the stairs of the beauchamp tower as slowly and cautiously as they had come. down to the little postern gate, left unguarded by the careless sentinel, who was carousing with his fellows on another side of the castle; out and away to the still glade in windsor forest, where maydeston stood waiting with the horses, all fitted with pillion and saddle.
“here come we, maydeston!” exclaimed bertram. “now, madam, an’ it like your grace to mount with help of master maydeston, will it list you that i ride afore?”
for it was little short of absolute necessity that the gentleman should be seated on his saddle before the lady mounted the pillion.
“nay—the king that shall be, the first!” said constance.
bertram bowed and apologised. he was always in the habit of giving precedence to his mistress, and he really had forgotten for a moment that the somnolent nym was to be regarded as his sovereign. so his future majesty, with bertram’s assistance, mounted the bay charger, and his sister alianora was placed on the pillion behind him.
the next horse was mounted by constance, with bertram before her; the third by little roger, very proud of his position, with maude set on the pillion in charge of her small cavalier, and the bridle firmly tied to bertram’s saddle. last came maydeston and anne. they were just ready to start when constance broke into a peal of merry laughter.
“i do but laugh to think of eva’s face, when she shall find neither thee nor me,” she said to maude, “and likewise his highness’ gaolers, waking up to an empty cage where the little birds should be.”
maude’s heart was too heavy and anxious about the issue of the adventure to enable her to reply lightly.
through the most unfrequented bridle-paths they crept slowly on, till first windsor, and then eton, was left behind. they were about two miles beyond eton, when a hand was suddenly laid on constance’s bridle, and the summons to “stand and deliver!” jestingly uttered in a familiar and most welcome voice.
“ha, dickon! right glad am i to hear thee!” cried his sister.
“is all well, custance?”
“sweet as spanish must (new wine). but where is ned?”
“within earshot, fair sister,” said edward’s equally well-known and deeper tones. “methinks a somewhat other settlement should serve better for quick riding, though thine were well enough to creep withal. sir bertram, i pray you alight—you shall ride with your dame, and i with the lady countess. can you set the lord roger afore? good! then so do. lord sele! i pray you to squire the lady alianora’s grace. his highness will ride single, as shall be more to his pleasure. now, dickon, i am right sorry to trouble thee, but mefeareth i must needs set thee to squire the lady anne.”
semi-sarcastic speeches of this kind were usually edward’s nearest approach to fun. the fresh arrangement was made as he suggested; and though little roger would not have acknowledged it publicly on any consideration, yet privately he felt the change in his position a relief. lord richard of conisborough was the last of the illustrious persons to mount, and his squire helped anne mortimer to spring to her place behind him. the only notice which richard outwardly took of her was to say, as he glanced behind him—
“we ride now at quick gallop; clasp me close, lady anne.”
they were off as soon as he had spoken—at such a gallop as anne had never ridden in all her life. but she felt no fear, for the one person in the world whom she trusted implicitly was he who sat before her.
during part of the way, they followed the same route which le despenser and bertram had taken five years before; and bertram found a painful interest in pointing out to maude the different spots where the incidents of the journey had happened. meanwhile a dialogue was passing between edward and constance which the former had expected, and had made his arrangements for the journey with the special view that her queries on that topic should be answered by no one but himself.
“ned, hast seen my lord?”
“but once sithence i saw thee.”
“how is it with him?”
“passing well, for aught i know.”
“thou didst him to wit of all this matter?”
“said i not that i so would?”
“but didst thou?” she repeated, noting the evasion.
“i did so.”
in saying which, edward told a deliberate falsehood.
“and when will he be at cardiff?”
“when the wind bloweth him thither,” said the duke drily.
“now, ned!”
“nay, custance—what know i more than thou? the winds be no squires of mine.”
“but he will come with speed?”
“no doubt.”
“sent he no word unto me?”
“oh, ay—an hogshead full!”
“ned, thou caitiff! (miserable wretch)—what were they?”
“stuff and folly.”
“thou unassoiled villain, tell me them this minute, or—”
“thou wilt drop from the pillion? by all means, an’ it so like thee. i shall but be left where i am.”
“ned! i will nip thee like a pasty, an’ thou torment me thus.”
“forsooth, custance, i charged no memory of mine with such drastis,” (dross, rubbish).
“drastis!”
“i cry thee mercy—cates (delicates, good things) and honey, if thou wilt have it so. ’twas all froth and thistle-down.”
“i have done, ned. i will not speak to thee again this month.”
“and wilt keep that resolve—ten minutes? by ’r lady, i am no squire of dames, custance. prithee, burden not me with an heap of fond glose,” (foolish flattery).
“by saint mary her hosen, but i would my lord had chosen a better messenger!”
constance was really vexed. edward himself was in a little difficulty, for he had only been amusing himself with his sister’s anxieties. in reality, he was charged with no message, and he did not want the trouble of devising one suitable to kent’s character.
“by saint mary her galoches,” (loose over-shoes), he said jocularly, “what wouldst have of me, custance? i cannot carry love-letters in mine head.”
“but canst not tell me one word?”
edward would have given a manor if she would have been quiet, or would have passed to some other topic. but he said—
“lo’ you, custance! i cannot gallop and talk.”
“hast found that out but now?” was the ironical response.
“well, if thou must needs have a word,” replied he testily, “he said he loved thee better than all the world. will that do?”
“ay, that shall serve,” said constance in a low voice.
so it might have done—had it been true.
there was silence for half an hour; when edward said in his gravest tone—
“custance! i would fain have thee hearken me.”
“for a flyting?” demanded his sister in a tone which was not at all grave. “thy voice hath sound solemn enough for a justiciary.”
“niñerias (nonsense), custance! i speak in sober earnest.”
“say on, my lord judge!”
“when i have seen thee in safety, i look to turn back to the court.”
“sweet welcome thou shalt find there!”
“maybe—if i scale yet again the walls of eltham palace, where the king now abideth—as i sought in vain to do this last christmas.”
“scale the walls!—what to do, ned?”
“what thinkest, custance?”
“ned! surely thou meanest not to take the king’s life? caitiff though he be!”
“nay,” said edward slowly; “scantly that, custance—without i were forced thereto. it might be enough to seize him and lock him up, as he did to our lord, king richard.”
“i will have no hand in murder, caitiff!”
constance spoke too sternly to be disregarded. and it was in her nature to have turned back to windsor that moment, had she been left without reassurance that all would go right.
“softly, fair sister!—who spake of so horrid a thing? most assuredly i mean no such, nor have any intent thereto.”
“scale walls at thy pleasure,” she said in a calmer tone, “and lock harry of bolingbroke under forty keys if thou list: i will not let thee. but no blood, ned, or i leave thee and thy gear this minute.”
“fair sister custance, never had i no such intent, by all hallows!”
“have a care!” she said warningly.
after that they galloped in silence.
the journey went on till the welsh marches were reached, of which the earl of march was lord. edmund began to hold his head higher, for he knew that the welsh loyalists were ready to welcome him as king. little roger innocently asked if he would be prince of wales when his brother was king of england; because in that case, he would pull down some of the big hills which it took so long to climb. at last only one day’s march lay between them and the principality.
and on that morning edward left them. constance could not understand why he did not go with them to cardiff. he was determined not to do so; and to the disappointment of every one, he induced his brother to accompany him. richard would rather have stayed; but he had been too long accustomed to obey the stronger will of his brother to begin the assertion of his own. the yielding character which he had inherited from his father prevailed; and however unwillingly, he followed edward.
on the morning of that last day’s march, they had to traverse a narrow rocky pass. the path, though rough and stony, was tolerably level; and feeling themselves almost safe, they slackened their pace. they had just been laughing at some remark of little roger’s, and they were all in more or less good spirits, feeling so near the end of their perilous journey; when all at once, in a turn of the pass, the leading horse came to a sudden halt.
“stand, in the king’s name!”
before them was a small, compact body of cavalry; and at their head, resplendent in official ermine, sir william hankeford, judge of the king’s bench.
resistance and flight were equally impossible. constance addressed herself to the old man whom she had cheated five years before, and who, having subsequently discovered her craftiness, had by no means forgotten it.
“sir william, you will do your commission; but i pray you remember that here be five of the king your master’s cousins, and we claim to be used as such.”
the old judge’s eyes twinkled as he surveyed the royal lady.
“so, madam! your ladyship hath the right: my commission i shall do, and set the king my master’s cousins in safe keeping—with a chimney-board clapped to the louvre,” (chimney).
constance fairly laughed.
“come, sir, i should scantly play the same trick on you twice.”
“no, madam, i will have a care you no do.”
“and for what look we, sir william? may we know?”
“madam,” said hankeford drily, “you may look for what you shall find, and you may know so much as you be told.”
“we may bid farewell, trow?”
“so it lie not over too much time.”
“well! needs must, nym,” said constance, turning to the boy who had so nearly worn the crown of england. “and after all, belike, it shall be worser for me than thee.”
“nym won’t care,” spoke up little roger boldly, “if my master yonder will let him lie till seven of the clock of a morrow.”
“till nine, if it like him,” said sir william.
“then he’ll be as happy as a king!” added little roger.
“nay, you be all too young to care overmuch—save nan,” responded constance, looking at anne’s white troubled face. “poor maid! ’tis hard for thee.”
“i can bear what god sendeth, madam,” said anne in a low voice.
“well said, brave heart!” answered constance, only half understanding her. “the blessed saints aid thee so to do!—now, sir william, dispose of us.”
hankeford obeyed the intimation by separating them into two bands. constance, bertram, and maude, he placed in the care of elmingo leget, an old servant of the crown, with orders to conduct them direct to london, where constance guessed that she at least was to undergo trial. the four young mortimers he took into his own charge, but declined to say what he was going to do with them. the three officers of the duke of york were desired to return to their master, the old judge cynically adding that they could please themselves whether they told him of the recapture or not; while maydeston was as cynically informed that sir william saw no sufficient reason wherefore the king’s grace should be at the charges of his journey home, but that he might ride in the company if he listed to pay for the lodgings of his beast and his carcase. to which most elegant intimation maydeston replied that he was ready to pay his own expenses without troubling his majesty, and that he did prefer to keep his master company.
so the little group of friends were parted, and constance began her return journey to london as a prisoner of state.
but what was happening at cardiff? and where was the earl of kent?
we shall see both in the next chapter.
