“to drive the deer with hound and horne
earl percy took his way;
the child may rue that is unborne
the hunting of that day.”
ballad of chevy chase.
“willemina!” said the old lady le despenser to her bower-maiden, “what horn was that i heard but now without?”
“shall i certify your ladyship?” asked willemina, rising and gathering together the embroidered quilt on which she was working.
“ay, child,” said the dowager; “so do.” but when willemina came back, she looked very important.
“madam, ’tis a sumner from my lord’s grace of canterbury, that beareth letter for sir ademar. counteth your ladyship that he shall be made bishop or the like?”
“with harry of bolingbroke in the throne, and thomas de arundel bearing the mitre?” responded the old lady with a laugh. “marry, my maid, that were a new thing.”
“were it so, madam?” asked willemina innocently. “truly, sir ademar is well defamed (has a good reputation) of all around here.”
“this is not the world, child!” said the dowager.
“’tis more like— well, sir ademar? hath my lord’s grace—jésu, pour ta pité!”
ademar had walked quietly into the room, and placed a paper in the hands of the dowager. it was a solemn writ of excommunication against ademar de milford, clerk in orders, and it was dated on the sunday which had intervened between the marriage of maude and that of constance. all official acts of ademar since that day were invalidated. maude’s marriage, therefore, was not affected, but constance was no longer countess of kent.
“sir ademar, this is dread!” exclaimed the old lady in trembling accents. “what can my lord’s grace have against you? this—this toucheth right nearly the lady, our daughter—christ aid her of his mercy!”
“maybe, madam, it were so intended,” said ademar shrewdly. “for me, truly i wis little what my lord hath against me—saving that i see not in all matters by his most reverend eyes. i know better what the lord hath against me—yet what need i note it, seeing it is cancelled in the blood of his son?—but for our lady—ah me!”
“sir ademar!”—and the dark sunken eyes of the dowager looked very keenly into his—“arede me your thought—is my lord of kent he that should repair this wrong, or no?”
ademar’s voice was silent; but his eyes said,—“no!”
“god comfort her!” murmured the old lady, turning away. “for, ill as she should brook the loss of him, yet methinks, if i know her well, she might bear even that lighter than the witting that her name was made a name of scorn for ever.”
“lady,” said ademar, quietly, “even god can only comfort them that lack comforting.”
she looked at him in silence. ademar pointed out of the window to two little children who were dancing merrily on the shore, and laughing till they could scarcely dance.
“how would you comfort them, madam?”
“they need it not,” she murmured, absently.
“in verity,” said ademar; “neither wasteth our lord his comfort on them that dance, nor his pitifulness on them that be at ease. and i have seen ere now, madam, that while he holdeth wide the door of his fold for all his sheep to enter in, yet there be some that will not come in till they be driven. yea, and some lack a sharp rap of the shepherd’s rod ere they will quit the wayside herbage.”
“and you think she feedeth thereby?”
“i think that an’ she be of the sheep, she must be fetched within; and maybe not one nor two strokes shall be spent in so doing.”
“amen, even if so! but this rap hath fallen on the tenderest side.”
“the shepherd knoweth the tender side, madam; and lo’ you, that so doing, he witteth not only where to smite with the rod, but where to lay the plaister.”
“and you, sir ademar—lack you no plaister?”
“madam, i have but received a gift. ‘for it is ghouun (given) to you for christ, that not oonli ghe (ye) bileuen in him, but also that ghe suffren for him.’”
“can you so take it, it is well.” and the old lady turned aside with a sigh.
“ay,” said the lollard priest, “it was well with the shunammite gentlewoman. and after all, it is but a little while ere our lord is coming. ’tis light gear to watch for the full day, when you see the sun gilding the crests of the mountains.”
“yet when you see not the sun—?”
“then, lady, you long the more for his coming.”
there was no slight stir that morning on berkhamsted green. the whole court was gathered there, fringed on its outskirts by a respectful and admiring crowd of sight-seers. under a spreading tree sat the king, on a fine black charger, a hooded hawk borne upon his wrist. close beside him was a little white palfrey, bearing a lady, and on her wrist also was a hooded hawk. they were apparently waiting for somebody. in front, the prince of wales, being of an active turn of mind, was amusing himself by making his horse prance and curvet all about the green, and levelling invisible lances at imperceptible foes—to the intense interest of the outside crowd.
“late, late, my lord of kent!” he cried lightly, as a bay charger shot past him, its rider doffing his plumed cap.
kent merely bowed again in answer, and rode rapidly up to the king.
“better late than never, fair cousin!” was henry’s greeting. “we will forth at once. will you ride by our fair guest?—the lady lucy of milan!”
the lady who sat on the white palfrey turned her face towards the earl of kent, and, slightly blushing and smiling, spoke a few words of courteous french, indicating her acceptance of his society for the day.
she was the most beautiful woman whom kent had ever seen. her figure was very slight, and her carriage easy and graceful; her age was about twenty. glossy, luxuriant hair, of the deepest black, shaded a delicate face, in shape midway between round and oval, the features of which, though very regular, could not strictly be termed either roman or grecian, for the nose was too straight for the former, while the forehead was too prominent and too fully developed for the latter. her eyes were usually cast down, so that they were rarely seen; but when she raised them, they showed themselves large, lustrous, and clear, of a rich, deep, gleaming brown. her complexion was formed neither of lilies nor roses; it was that pure, perfect cream-colour, which one william shakspere knew was beautiful, though some of his commentators have rashly differed from him. add to this description a low, musical voice, strangely clear for her nationality, and a smile of singular fascination,—and it will not seem strange that kent fell into the snare laid for him, and had no eyes thenceforward but for lucia visconti.
the king kept all day near his decoy and his victim. he never interfered with their conversation, but when it languished he was always at hand to supply some fresh topic. they spoke french, which was understood and employed fluently by all three; but kent knew no italian, and lucia no english. the king spoke lucia’s language well—a fact which greatly assisted an occasional “aside.” but lucia was only half aware of the state of affairs, and it would not have suited henry’s purpose to inform her too fully. she knew that she was expected to make herself agreeable to the earl of kent, and that he was a cousin and favourite of the king—so far as a man of henry’s stamp can be said to have had any favourites. but of the plot for which she was made the innocent decoy, she had not the faintest idea.
the shades of evening began to fall at last, and the royal bugle-horn was sounded to call the stragglers home.
kent and lucia were riding together. they had reached a fork in the road, where the right-hand path branched off to berkhamsted, and the left to langley. and all at once there arose before kent’s soul a haunting memory—a memory which was to haunt him for many a day thereafter; and between his eyes and the fair face of the italian princess came another face, shaded with soft light hair, and lighted by sapphire eyes, which, he thought, were probably watching even now from the oriel window at langley. he checked his horse, and wavered irresolutely for an instant.
he did not know that constance was no longer at langley. he did not know that at the very moment when he paused at the cross-roads, she was passing the threshold of the tower as a prisoner of state. for that one moment kent’s better angel strove with his weak nature. but the phase of “beaucoup” was over, and “point du tout” was beginning.
lucia saw the momentary irresolution. she touched her palfrey lightly with the whip, and turned her splendid eyes on her votary.
“this way, monseigneur—come!” the struggle was over. kent spurred on his charger, and followed his enchantress.
there was another scene enacting at the same time, and not far away. the duke of york and lord richard of conisborough were riding home to langley. the brothers were very silent; richard because he was sad and anxious, edward because he was vexed and sullen. they had just heard of their sister’s arrest.
the portcullis at langley was visible, when edward smote his hand on the pommel of his saddle—a much more elaborate structure than gentlemen’s saddles now—with a few words of proverbial spanish.
“patience, and shuffle the cards! i may yet go to rome, and come back saint peter.”
richard lifted his mournful eyes to his brother’s face.
“ned!” he said in a low voice, “it were better to abide a forest hind, methinks, than to come back jude the iscariot.”
“what meanest, dickon?”
“take no heed what i meant, so it come not true.”
“so what come not true?” edward’s voice, at any rate, expressed surprise and perplexity.
“if thou wist not, ned, i am thereof, fain.”
“save thee all hallows, dickon! i can no more arede thy speech than the man in the moon.”
“so better, brother mine.”
they rode on for a little while without further words. just before they came within earshot of the porters, richard added quietly—
“i marvel at times, ned, if it shall not seem strange one day that we ever set heart overmuch on anything, save only to have ‘washen our stolis in the blood of the lamb, that the power of us be in the tree of life, and enter by the gates into the city.’”
“when art thou shorn priest?” asked edward cynically.
“i will do thee to wit in time to see it,” said richard more lightly, as they rode across the drawbridge at langley.
how far did edward play the traitor in this matter of the attempted rescue of the mortimers? it cannot be said distinctly that he did at all; but he had played the traitor on so many previous occasions—he had assisted in hatching so many conspiracies for the mere object of denouncing his associates—that the suspicion of his having done so in this instance is difficult to avoid. and the strangest point of all is, that to the last hour of his life this man played with lollardism. he used it like a cloak, throwing it on or off as circumstances demanded. he spent his life in deceiving and betraying every friend in turn, and at last told the truth in dying, when he styled himself “of all sinners the most wicked.”
three days after that evening, the house of lords sat in “parliament robes,” in westminster hall. but the king was not present: and there were several peers absent, in attendance on his majesty; among them the duke of york, the earl of cambridge, and the earl of kent. the house had met to try a prisoner: and the prisoner was solemnly summoned by a herald’s voice to the bar.
“custance of langley, baroness of cardiff!”
forward she came, with firm step and erect head, clad in velvet and ermine, as beseemed a princess of england: and with a most princess-like bend of her stately head, she awaited the reading of the charge against her.
the charge was high treason. the prisoner’s answer was a simple point-blank denial of its truth.
“what mean you?” demanded the lords. “no did you, by means of false keys, gain entrance into the privy chambers of our lord the king in the castle of windsor?”
“i did so.”
“how gat you those false keys?”
“from a blacksmith, as you can well guess.”
“from what smith?”
“i cannot tell you; for i know not.”
“through whom gat you them?”
“i gat them, and i used them: that is enough.”
“through whom gat you them?”
“fair lords, you get no more of me.”
“through whom gat you them?” was repeated the third time.
the answer was dead silence. the question was repeated a fourth time.
“my lords, an’ ye ask me four hundred times, i will say what i say now: ye get no more of me.”
“we have means to make men speak!” said one of the peers, threateningly.
“that may be; but not women.”
“they can talk fast enough, as i know to my cost!” observed the lord of a very loquacious lady.
“ay, and hold their peace likewise, as i will show you!” said constance.
“is it not true,” enquired the chancellor further, “that you stale away out of the castle of windsor the four childre of roger mortimer, sometime earl of march?”
“it is very true.”
“and wherefore did you so?”
“because i chose it!” she said, lifting her head royally.
“madam, you well wot you be a subject.”
“i better wot you be,” returned the unabashed princess.
“and who aided and counselled you thereto?” asked the chancellor—who was the prisoner’s own cousin, henry beaufort, bishop of lincoln, and brother of the king.
“i can aid myself, and counsel myself,” answered the prisoner.
“my question is not answered, dame.”
“ay so, sir. and ’tis like to abide thus a while longer.”
“i must know who were your counsellors. name but one man.”
“very well. i will name one an’ you press me so to do.”
“so do.”
“sir henry de beaufort, chancellor of england.”
a peal of laughter rang through the house.
“what mean you, madam?” sternly demanded the affronted chancellor.
“marry, my lord, you pressed me to name a man—and i have named a man.”
the merriment of the august assembly was not decreased by the fact that the chancellor was rather unpopular.
“are you of ability, madam, to declare unto us right-wisely that neither of my lords your brothers did aid you in this matter?”
“i have passed no word, sir, touching either of my brothers.”
“the which i do now desire of you, dame.”
“do you so, my lord? i fear your lordship may weary of waiting.”
“i will wait no longer!” cried beaufort, angrily and impatiently. “i—”
“say you so, sir?” responded the princess in her coolest manner. “then i bid your lordship a merry morrow.—i am ready, master gaoler.”
“i said not we were ready, madam!” exclaimed beaufort.
“no did, sir? then i cry your lordship mercy that i misconceived you.”
“dame, i demand of you whether your brothers gave unto you no aid in this matter?”
constance was in a sore strait. she did not much care to what conclusion the house came as concerned edward: he was the prime mover in the affair, and richly deserved any thing he might get, irrespective of this proceeding altogether. but that any harm should come to richard was a thought not to be borne. she was at her wits’ end what to answer, and was on the point of denying that either had assisted her, when the chancellor’s next remark gave her a clue.
“if ne my lord of york ne my lord of cambridge did aid you, how cometh it to pass that three servants of the duke’s grace were with you in your journey?”
“ask at their master, not me,” said constance coolly.
“’tis plain, madam, that his grace of york did give you aid, methinks.”
“you be full welcome, sir keeper, to draw your own conclusions.”
“lo’ you, my lords, the prisoner denieth it not!—and my lord of cambridge—what part took he. lady?”
“never a whit, sir,” answered constance audaciously.
“may i crede you, mewondereth?”
“you did but this moment, my lord. if my word be worth aught in the one matter, let it weigh in the other.”
the chancellor meditated a minute, but he could not deny the justice of the plea.
“moreover, lady, we heard,”—how had they heard it?—“that some trial were to be made of scaling the walls of the king’s grace’s palace of eltham.”
constance grew paler. if they had heard this of edward, what might they have heard of richard’s presence in the journey to hereford?
“have you so, sir?” she answered, losing none of her apparent coolness.
“we have so, madam!” replied beaufort sternly; “and moreover of conspiration to steal away his highness’ person, and prison him—if not worser matter than this.”
“not of my doing,” said constance.
“how far you were privy thereto or no, that i leave. but can you deny that it were of my lord of york his doing?”
“i was not there,” she quickly rejoined. “how then wis i?”
“can you deny that my lord of cambridge was therein concerned?”
“i can!” cried constance in an agony—too hastily.
“oh, you can so?” retorted beaufort, seeing and instantly pressing his advantage. “then you do wis thereof something?”
she was silent.
“my lord of york—he was there, trow?”
no answer.
“he was there?”
“sir keeper, i was not there. what more can i say?”
“who was there, dame?—for i am assured you know.”
“who was where?” retorted the princess satirically. “if no man scaled the palace walls, how ask you such questions?”
“nay, ask that at your ladyship’s own conscience; for it was not i, but you, that said first you were not there.”
she was becoming entangled in the meshes.
“lock you up whom your lordship will!” she exclaimed. “the truth of all i have said can be proven, and thereto i do offer master will maydeston mine esquire, which shall prove my truth with his body against such, as do accuse me (by duel; a resource then permitted by law). and further will i say nought.”
“but you must needs have had further aid, lady.”
“ay so, sir?”
“most surely. who were it, i demand of you?”
“i have said my saying.”
“and you do deny, madam, to further justice?”
“right surely, without justice were of my side.” what was to be done with such a prisoner? beaufort at last gave up in despair the attempt to make her criminate her accomplices any further, though he could hardly avoid guessing that bertram and maude had helped her more or less. the sentence pronounced was a remarkably light one, so far as constance was concerned. in fact, the poor smith, who was the most innocent of the group, suffered the most. how he was found can but be guessed; but his life paid the forfeit of his forgery. the princess was condemned to close imprisonment in kenilworth castle during the king’s pleasure. maude was sentenced to share her mistress’s durance; and bertram’s penalty was even easier, for he was allowed free passage within the walls, as a prisoner on parole.
it was in the beginning of march that the captive trio, in charge of elmingo leget, arrived at kenilworth. two rooms were allotted for the use of constance and maude. the innermost was the bedchamber, from which projected a little oratory with an oriel window; the outer, the “withdrawing chamber,” which opened only into a guardroom always occupied by soldiers. bertram was permitted access to the princess’s drawing-room at her pleasure, and her pleasure was to admit him very frequently. she found her prison-life insufferably wearisome, and even the scraps of extremely local news, brought in by bertram from the courtyard, were a relief to the monotony of having nothing at all to do. she grew absolutely interested in such infinitesimal facts as the arrival of a barrel of salt sprats, the sprained ankle of mark milksop (a genuine surname of the time) of the garrison, the governor’s new crimson damask gown, and the solitary cowslip which his shy little girl offered to bertram “for the lady.”
but having nothing to do, by no means implied having nothing to think about. on the contrary, of that there was a great deal. the last items which constance knew concerning her friends were, that kent had been told of her flight from windsor (if york’s word could be trusted); that her children were left at langley; and that her admissions on her trial had placed york in serious peril, for liberty if not life. as to the children, they were probably safe, either at langley or cardiff; yet there remained the possibility that they might have shared the fate of the mortimers, and be closely confined in some stronghold. it was not in isabel’s nature to fret much over any thing; but richard was a gentle, playful, affectionate child, to whom the absence of all familiar faces would be a serious trouble. then what would become of edward, whom she had tacitly criminated? what would become of richard, the darling brother, whom not to criminate she had sacrificed truth, and would have sacrificed life? and, last and worst of all, what had become of kent? if he had set out to join her, the gravest suspicion would instantly fall on him. if he had not, and were ignorant what had befallen her, constance—who did not yet know his real character—pictured him as tortured with apprehension on her account.
“o maude!” she said one evening, “if i could know what is befallen my lord, methinks i might the lighter bear this grievance!”
would it have been any relief if she could have known—if the curtain had been lifted, and had revealed the cushion-dance which was in full progress in the lady blanche’s chamber at westminster, where the earl of kent, resplendent in violet and gold, was dropping the embroidered cushion at the feet of the princess lucia?
“dear my lady,” said maude in answer, “our lord wot what is befallen him.”
“what reck i, the while i wis it not?”
and maude remembered that the thought which was a comfort to her would be none to constance. the reflection that god knows is re-assuring only to those who know god. what could she say which would be consoling to one who knew him not?
“maude,” resumed her mistress, “’tis my very thought that king harry, my cousin, doth this spite and ire against me, to some count (extent), because he maketh account of me as a lollard.”
maude looked up quickly; but dropped her eyes again in silence.
“thou wist i have dwelt with them all my life,” proceeded constance. “my lord that was, and my lady his mother, and my lady my mother—all they were lollards. my fair castle of llantrissan to a shoe-latchet, but he reckoneth the like of me!”
“would it were true!” said maude under her breath.
“‘would it were true!’” repeated constance, laughing. “nay, by the head of saint john baptist, but this maude would have me an heretic! prithee, turn thy wit to better use, woman. i may be taken for a gospeller, yet not be one.”
“but, sweet lady,” said maude, earnestly, “wherefore will ye take the disgrace, and deny yourself of the blessing?”
“when i can see the blessing, maude, i will do thee to wit,” replied constance, laughingly.
“methinks it is scarce seen,” returned maude, thoughtfully. “madam, you never yet saw happiness, but ye have felt it, and ye wit such a thing to be. and i have felt the blessing of our lord’s love and pity, though ye no have.”
“fantasies, child!” said constance.
“if so be, dame, how come so many to know it?”
“by reason the world is full of fantastical fools,” answered constance, lightly. “we be all nigh fools, sweeting—big fools and little fools—that is all.”
maude gave up the attempt to make her understand. she only said, “would your grace that i read unto you a season?” privately intending, if her offer were accepted, to read from the gospel of saint luke, which she had with her. but constance laughingly declined the offer; and maude felt that nothing more could be done, except to pray for her.
time rolled away wearily enough till the summer was drawing to its close. and then a new interest awoke for both maude and her lady. for the leaves were just beginning to droop on the trees around kenilworth castle, when the disinherited heiress of kent, a prisoner from her birth, opened her eyes upon the world which had prepared for her such cold and cruel welcome.
there was plenty to do and to talk about after this. constance was perplexed what name to give her baby. she had never consulted any will but her own before, for she had not cared about pleasing le despenser. but she wanted to please kent, and she did not know what name would gratify him. at length she decided on alianora, a name borne by two of his sisters, of whom the eldest, the countess of march, she believed to be his favourite sister.
a few weeks after the birth of alianora, on a close, warm autumn afternoon, constance was lying on her bed to rest, feeling languid and tired with the heat; and maude sat by the window near her, singing softly to the baby in her arms. hearing a gentle call from bertram outside, maude laid the child down and opened the door. bertram was there, in the drawing-room, and with him were two sisters of saint clare, robed in the habit of their order.
“these holy sisters would have speech of the lady,” explained bertram. “may the same be?”
certainly it might, so far as constance was concerned. she was so weary of her isolation that she would have welcomed even the duchess joan. she bade the immediate admission of the nuns, who were evidently provided with permission from the authorities. they were both tall women, but with that item the likeness began and ended. one was a fair-complexioned woman of forty years,—stern-looking, spare, haggard-faced,—in whose cold blue eyes there might be intelligence, but there was no warmth of human kindness. the other was a comfortable-looking girl of eighteen, rosy-cheeked, with dark eyes and hair.
“christ save you, holy sisters!” said constance as they approached her. “ye be of these parts, trow?”
“nay,” answered the younger nun, “we be of the house of minoresses beyond aldgate; and though thine eyes have not told thee so much, custance, i am isabel of pleshy.”
“lady isabel of pleshy! be right welcome, fair cousin mine!”
isabel was the youngest daughter of that duke of gloucester who had been for so many years the evil angel of king and realm. constance had not seen her since childhood, so that it was no wonder that she failed to recognise her. meanwhile maude had turned courteously to the elder nun.
“pray you, take the pain to sit in the window.”
“i never sit,” replied the nun in a harsh, rasping voice.
“truly, that is more than i could say,” observed maude with a smile. “shall it like you to drink a draught of small ale?”
“i never drink ale.”
this assertion would not sound strange to us, but it was astounding to maude.
“would you ipocras and spice rather?”
“i never eat spice.”
“will you eat a marchpane?”
“i never eat marchpane.”
maude wondered what this impracticable being did condescend to do.
“then a shive of bread and tryacle?”
“bread, an’ you will: i am no babe, that i should lack sugar and tryacle.”
maude procured refreshments, and the elder nun, first making the sign of the cross over her dry bread, began to eat; while lady isabel, who evidently had not reached an equal height of monastic sanctity, did not refuse any of the good things offered. but when maude attempted further conversation, the ascetic and acetic lady, intimating that it was prayer-time, and she could talk no more, pulled forth a huge rosary of wooden beads, from which the paint was nearly worn away, and began muttering ave marys in apparently interminable succession. “now, isabel,” said constance, “prithee do me to wit of divers matters i would fain know. mind thou, i have been shut up from all manner of tidings, good or ill, sithence this last march, and i have a sumpter-mule’s load of questions to ask at thee. but, first of all, how earnest thou hither?”
“maybe thou shalt find so much in the answers to thy questions,” replied isabel—a smile parting her lips which had in it more keenness than mirth.
“well, then, to fall to:—where is my lord?”
“in tewkesbury abbey, as methought.”
“a truce to thy fooling, child! thou wist well enough that i would say my lord of kent.”
“how lookest i should wit, custance? we sisters of saint clare be no news-mongers.—well, so far as i knowledge, my lord of kent is with the court. i saw him at westminster a month gone.”
“is it well with him?”
“very well, i would say, from what i saw.” constance’s mind was too much engrossed with her own thoughts to put the right interpretation on that cold, mocking smile which kept flitting across her cousin’s lips.
“and wist where be my little dickon, and nib?” (isabel).
“at langley, in care of philippa, our fair cousin,” (then synonymous with relative).
“good. and dickon my brother?”
“i scantly wis—marry, methinks with the court, at this present.”
“and my brother ned?”
“in pevensey castle.”
“what, governor thereof?”
but constance guessed her cousin’s answer.
“nay,—prisoner.”
“for this matter?”
“ay, for the like gear thyself art hither.”
“truly, i am sorry. and what came of our cousins of march?”
“what had come aforetime.”
“they be had back to their durance at windsor?”
“ay.”
“and what did my lord when thou sawest him? arede me all things touching him. what ware he?—and what said he?—and how looked he? knew he thou shouldst see me?—and sent he me no word by thee?”
“six questions in a breath, custance!”
“go to—one after other. what ware he?”
“by my mistress saint clare! how should i wit? an hundred yards of golden baudekyn, and fifty of pink velvet; and pennes (plumes) of ostriches enough to set up a peltier (furrier) in trade.”
“and how looked he?”
“as his wont is—right goodly, and preux (brave) and courteous.”
“ay so!” said constance tenderly. “and knew he thou shouldst see me?”
“i am not well assured, but methinks rather ay than nay.”
“and what word sent he by thee?”
“none.”
“what, not one word?”
“nay.”
constance’s voice sank to a less animated tone.
“and what did he?”
“they were about going in the hall to supper.”
“handed he thee?”
“nay, my cousin the king’s grace handed me.”
“then who was with my lord?”
“the lady lucy of milan.”
“lucy of milan!—is she not rarely beauteous?”
“i wis nought about beauty. if it lie in great staring black eyes, and a soft, debonere (amiable, pleasant) manner, like a black cat, belike so.”
for the first time, constance fairly noticed isabel’s peculiar smile. she sat up in her bed, with contracted brow.
“isabel, there is worser behind.”
“there is more behind, custance,” said isabel coolly.
“speak, and quickly!”
“well, mayhap better so. wit thou then, fair cousin, that thy wedding with my lord of kent is found not good, sith—”
“not good!” constance said, or rather shrieked. “god in heaven have mercy!—not good!”
“not good, fair cousin mine,” resumed isabel’s even tones, “seeing that the priest which wedded you was ere that day excommunicate of heresy, nor could lawfully marry any.”
maude’s face grew as white as her lady’s, though she gave no audible sign of her terrible apprehension that her marriage was invalid also. isabel, who seemed to notice nothing, yet saw everything, turned quietly to her. and though the sisters of saint clare might be no news-mongers, the royal nun had evidently received full information on that subject.
“there is no cause for your travail (trouble, vexation), dame lyngern,” she said calmly. “the writ bare date but on sunday, and you were wed the even afore; so you be no wise touched.—marry, custance, thou seest that so being, my lord of kent—and thou likewise—be left free to wed; wherefore it pleased the king’s grace, of his rare goodness, to commend him unto the lady lucy of milan by way of marriage. they shall be wed this next january.”
isabel spoke as quietly as people generally do who are not personally concerned in the calamity they proclaim. but perhaps she hardly anticipated what followed. her eyes were scarcely ready for the sight of that white livid face, quivering in every nerve with human agony, nor her ears for the fierce cry which broke from the parched bloodless lips.
“thou liest!”
isabel shrank back with a look of uneasy apprehension in her round rosy face.
“nay, burden not me withal, custance! ’tis no work of mine. i am but a messenger.”
“poor fool! i shall not harm thee! but whose messenger art?”
“the king’s grace himself bade me to see thee.”
“and tell me that?”
“he bade me do thee to wit so much.”
“‘so much’—how much? what i have heard hath killed me. hast yet ill news left to bury me withal?”
“only this, custance,” replied her cousin in a deprecating tone, “that sithence, though it were not good by law of holy church, yet there was some matter of marriage betwixt thee and my lord of kent; and men’s tongues, thou wist, will roll and rumble unseemlily,—it seemed good unto his highness that it should be fully exhibit to the world how little true import were therein; and accordingly he would have thee to put thine hand to a paper, wherein thou shalt knowledge that the marriage had betwixt you two was against the law of holy church, and is therefore null and void. if thou wilt do the same, i am bid to tell thee, thou shalt have free liberty to come forth hence, and all lands of thy dower restored.”
“art at an end?”
“ay; therewith closeth my commission.”
“then have back at thy leisure, and tell harry of bolingbroke from me that i defy him and satan his master alike. i will set mine hand to no such lie, as there is a heaven above me, and beneath him an hell!”
“custance!” remonstrated her cousin in a scandalised tone.
but constance lifted her head, and flung up her hands towards heaven.
“o god of paradise!” she cried, “holy and true, just in thy judgments, look upon us two—this king and me—and betwixt us judge this day! look upon us, lady of pity, lily of christendom, and say whether of us two is the sinner! o all ye angels, all ye saints in heaven! that sin not, but plead for us sinners,—plead ye this day with god that he will render to each of us two his due, as he hath demerited! before you, before holy church, before god in heaven, i denounce this man harry of bolingbroke! render unto him, o lord! render unto him his desert!”
“custance, thou mayest better take this matter more meekly,” observed isabel with quiet propriety, very different from her cousin’s tone and mien of frenzied passion. “i have told thee truth, and no lie. what should it serve? the priest is excommunicate, and my lord of kent shall wed the lady lucy, and the king will have thine hand thereto, ere thou come forth.”
“not if i die here a thousand times!”
“i do thee to wit, custance, that there is grave doubt cast of thy truth and fealty—”
“to harry of bolingbroke?” she asked contemptuously. “when lent i him any?”
“custance!—of thy truth and fealty unto holy church our mother. nor, maybe, shall she be over ready to lift up out of the mire one whom all the holy doctors do esteem an heretic.”
“what, i?”
“thou.”
“i never was an heretic yet, isabel, but i do thee to wit thou goest the way to make me so. as to holy church, she never was my mother. i can breathe without her frankincense, belike, and maybe all the freer.”
“alas, custance! me feareth sore thou art gone a long way on that ill road, else hadst thou never spoken such unseemly words.”
“be it so!” said constance, with the recklessness of overwhelming misery. “an heretic’s daughter, and an heretic’s widow—what less might ye look for? if thou hast mangled mine heart enough to serve thee, isabel, i would thou wert out of my sight!”
“fair cousin, i do ensure thee mine own lieth bleeding for thy pain.”
“ay, forsooth! i see the drops a-dripping!” said constance in bitter mockery. “marry, get thee hence—’tis the sole mercy thou canst do me.”
“so will i; but, custance, i ensure thee, i am bidden to abide hither the setting of thine hand to that paper.”
“then haste and bid measure be taken for a coffin, for one shall lack either for thee or me ere thou depart!”
“alack, alack!”
but isabel rose and withdrew, signing to her companion to follow. the elder nun, who had not yet finished her rosary, stopped in the middle of a paternoster, and obeyed.
“leave me likewise, thou, maude,” said constance, in a voice in which anguish and languor strove for the predominance.
“dear my lady, could i not—?” maude began pityingly.
“nay, my good maude, nought canst thou do. unless it were true that god would hearken prayer, and then, perchance—”
“trust me for that, lady mine!—take i the babe withal?”
“poor little maid!—ay,—take her to thee.”
maude followed the nuns into the drawing-room. she found the beads-woman still busy, on her knees in the window, and isabel seated in the one chair sacred to royalty.
“’tis a soft morrow, dame lyngern,” complacently remarked the lady whose heart lay bleeding. “be that your little maid?”
maude’s tone was just a little stiff.
“the lady alianora de holand, madam.”
“ah! our fair cousin her babe?—poor heart!”
maude was silent.
“verily, had i wist the pain it should take us to come hither,” pursued isabel, apparently quite careless about interrupting the spiritual labours of her sister nun, “methinks i had prayed my lord the king to choose another messenger. by the rainfall of late, divers streams have so bisched (overflowed) their banks, that me verily counted my mule had been swept away, not once ne twice. it waked my laughter to see how our steward, that rade with us, strave and struggled with his beast.”
maude’s heart was too heavy to answer; but isabel went on chattering lightly, to a murmured under-current of “ora pro nobis” as bead after bead, in the hands of the kneeling nun, pursued its fellow down the string of the rosary. maude sat on the settle, with the sleeping child in her arms, listening as if she heard not, and feeling as though she had lost all power of reply. at last the rosary came to its final bead, and, crossing herself, the elder nun arose.
“sister, i pray you of your paternoster, sith you be terminate,” said isabel, holding out her hand. “mine brake, fording the river astont (near), and half the beads were gone ere i could gather the same. ’tis pity, for they were good cornelian.”
the rosary changed hands, and isabel began to say her prayers, neither leaving her chair nor stopping her conversation.
“’twas when we reached the diversory (inn) last afore stafford, dame lyngern—janua coeli, ora pro nobis!—we were aware of a jolly debonere pardoner (note 1),—stella matutina, ora pro nobis!—that rade afore, on a fat mule, as well-liking as he—refugium peccatorum, ora pro nobis!—and coming anigh us, quoth he to me, that first rade—regina angelorum, ora pro nobis!—‘sister,’ quoth my master the pardoner—.”
“sister isabel, you have dropped a bead!” snapped the elder nun.
“thanks, sister avice.—by my lady saint mary! where was i? oh ay!—regina patriarcharum, ora pro nobis!—well, dame lyngern, i will do you to wit what befell.”
but maude’s eyes and attention were riveted.
“be there two avices in the priory at aldgate?—crying your ladyship mercy.”
“nay,—but one,” said isabel. “wherefore, dame?”
“but—this is not my avice!” faltered maude.
“i am saint clare’s avice, and none other,” said the nun stonily.
“but—avice de narbonne?”
“avice de narbonne i was; and thou wert maude gerard.”
“christ’s mercy on thee!”
“what signifiest?” responded avice, sternly. “i am an holy sister, and as sister isabel shall certify unto thee, am defamed for holiest of all our house.”
“ay so,” admitted isabel.
“i am sorry for thee, cousin!” whispered maude, her eyes full of tears.
“sorry!” said isabel.
“sorry!” repeated avice. “when i have ensured mine own salvation, and won mine husband’s soul from purgatory, and heaped up great store of merit belike!—woman, i live but of bread and water, with here and there a lettuce leaf; a draught of milk of sundays, but meat never saving holydays. i sleep never beyond three hours of a night, and of a friday night not at all. i creep round our chapel on my bare knees every friday morrow and saturday even, and do lick a cross in the dust at every shrine. i tell our lady’s litany morrow and even. sorry! when every sister of our house doth reckon me a very saint!”
a vision rose before maude’s eyes, of a man clad in blue fringes and phylacteries, who stood, head upright, in the holy place, and thanked god that he was not as other men. but she only said—
“o avice!—what doth god reckon thee?”
isabel stared at her.
“the like, of force!” said avice, with a sneer.
“avice, i deemed thee once not far from the kingdom of god. but i find thee further off than of old time.”
“thou art bereft of thy wits, sure!” said avice, contemptuously.
“by the holy coat of treves, but this passeth!” (surpasses expectation or reason) exclaimed isabel, looking decidedly astonished.
“this world is no garden of pleasance, woman!” resumed avice, harshly. “we must needs buy heaven, and with heavy coin.”
“buy thou it, an’ thou canst,” said maude, rocking the child to and fro, while one or two tears fell upon its little frock. “for me, i thank our lord that he hath paid down the price.”
she rose, for the child was beginning to cry, and walked to the window to try and engage its attention.
“a gospeller, by my troth!” whispered isabel, with a shrug of her shoulders.
“maude was alway given unto romaunts and the like fooling!” responded avice as scornfully as before.
note 1. an officer of the bishop’s court, whose business was to carry to their destination written absolutions and indulgences.
