“i’ve nothing to do with better and worse—i haven’t to judge for the
rest:
if other men are not better than i am, they are bad enough at the
best.”
when ivo thought proper to see kate approaching, he turned with an exclamation of hyperbolical admiration. he knew perfectly the type of woman with whom he had to deal. “ah, it is den you, fair maid? you be fair widout dem, but much fairer wid de ear-rings, i you assure. ah, if you had but a comely ouche at your t’roat, just dere,”—and ivo laid a fat brown finger at the base of his own—“your beauty would be perfect—perfect!”
“lack-a-day, i would i had!” responded silly kate; “but ouches and such be not for the likes of me.”
“how? say no such a ting! i know of one jewel, a ruby of de best, and de setting of pure gold, fit for a queen, dat might be had by de maid who would give herself one leetle pain to tell me only one leetle ting, dat should harm none; but you care not, i dare say, to trouble you-self so much.”
and ivo thrust his hands in his pockets, and began to whistle softly.
“nay, now; do you?” said the bewitched fly, getting a little deeper into the web. “good master packman, do of your grace tell me how a maid should earn that jewel?”
ivo drew the brooch half out of his breast, so as just to allow kate the least glance at it possible.
“is that the jewel?” she asked, eagerly. “eh, but it shineth well-nigh to match the sun himself! come, now; what should i tell you? i’ll do aught to win it.”
ivo came close to her, and spoke into her ear.
“show me which is the prisoner’s window.”
“well, it’s yon oriel, on the inner side of— eh, but i marvel if i do ill to tell you!”
“tell me noting at all dat you count ill,” was the pious answer of ivo, who had got to know all he needed except one item. “you can tarry a little longer? or you are very busy? sir godfrey is away, is it not?”
“nay, he’s at home, but he’ll be hence next week. he’s to tilt at the tournament at leicester.”
“ah! dat will be grand sight, all de knights and de ladies. but i am sure—sure—dere shall not be one so fair as you, sweet maid. look you, i pin de jewel at your neck. it is wort von hundred pound, i do ensure you.”
“eh, to think of it!” cried enchanted kate.
“and i would not part wid it but to my friend, and a maid so fair and delightsome. see you, how it shine! it shine better as de sun when it do catch him. you sleep in de prisoner’s chamber?—yes?”
“nay, i’m but a sub-chambermaid, look you—not even an upper. mistress perrote, she sleeps in the pallet whenas any doth; but methinks her ladyship lieth alone at this present. howbeit, none never seeth her save mistress perrote and mistress amphillis, and my lady and sir godfrey, of course, when they have need. i’ve ne’er beheld her myself, only standing behind the casement, as she oft loveth to do. my lady hath a key to her chamber door, and mistress perrote the like; and none save these never entereth.”
ivo drank in all the information which kate imparted, while he only seemed to be carelessly trimming a switch which he had pulled from a willow close at hand.
“they be careful of her, it should seem,” he said.
“you may say that. they’re mortal feared of any man so much as seeing her. well, i reckon i should go now. i’m sure i’m right full indebted to you, master packman, for this jewel: only i don’t feel as if i have paid you for it.”
“you have me paid twice its value, to suffer me look on your beautiful face!” was the gallant answer, with a low bow. “but one more word, and i go, fair maid, and de sun go from me wid you. de porter, he is what of a man?—and has he any dog?”
“oh ay, that he hath; but i can peace the big dog well enough, an’ i did but know when it should be. well, as for the manner of man, he’s pleasant enough where he takes, look you; but if he reckons you’re after aught ill, you’ll not come round him in no wise.”
“ah, he is wise man. i see. well, my fairest of maidens, you shall, if it please you, keep de big dog looking de oder way at nine o’clock of de even, de night sir godfrey goes; and de lady princess have not so fair a crespine for her hair as you shall win, so to do. dat is monday night, trow?”
“nay, ’tis tuesday. well, i’ll see; i’ll do what i can.”
“fair maid, if i t’ought it possible, i would say, de saints make you beautifuller! but no; it is not possible. so i say, de saints make you happier, and send you all dat you most desire! good-night.”
“good even, master packman, and good befall you. you’ll not forget that crespine?”
“forget? impossible! absolute impossible! i bear your remembrance on mine heart all de days of my life. i adore you! farewell.”
when meg, the next minute, joined kate under the tree, there was no more sign of ivo than if he had been the airy creature of a dream.
the little pedlar had escaped dexterously, and only just in time. he hid for a moment beneath the shade of a friendly shrub, and, as soon as he saw meg’s back turned, ran downwards into the derby road as lithely as a cat, and took the way to that city, where he recounted to his companions, when other people were supposed to be asleep, the arrangement he had made to free the countess.
“thou art sore lacking in discretion, my son,” said father eloy, whose normal condition was that of a private confessor in bretagne, and whose temporary disguise was that of a horse-dealer. “such a maid as thou describest is as certain to want and have a confidant as she is to wear that trumpery. thou wilt find—or, rather, we shall find—the whole house up and alert, and fully aware of our intention.”
ivo’s shoulders were shrugged very decidedly.
“ha, chétife!” cried he; “she will want the crespine.”
“not so much as she will want to impart her secret,” answered the priest. “who whispered to the earth, ‘midas has long ears’?”
“it will not matter much to ivo, so he be not taken,” said the knight. “nor, in a sense, to you, father, as your frock protects you. i shall come off the worst.”
“you’ll come off well enough,” responded ivo. “you made an excellent mercer this morrow. you only need go on chaffering till you have sold all your satins, and by that time you will have your pockets well lined; and if you choose your route wisely, you will be near the sea.”
“well and good! if we are not all by that time eating dry bread at the expense of our worthy friend sir godfrey.”
“mind you are not, sir roland,” said ivo. “every man for himself. i always fall on my feet like a cat, and have nine lives.”
“nine lives come to an end some day,” replied sir roland, grimly.
“on what art thou a-thinking thus busily, phyllis?”
“your pardon, mistress perrote; i was thinking of you.”
“not hard to guess, when i saw thine eyes look divers times my ways. what anentis me, my maid?”
“i cry you mercy, mistress perrote; for you should very like say that whereon i thought was none of my business. yet man’s thoughts will not alway be ruled. i did somewhat marvel, under your pleasure, at your answer to yon pedlar that asked how you came to be hither.”
“wherefore? that i told him no more?”
“ay; and likewise—”
“make an end, my maid.”
“mistress, again i cry you mercy; but it seemed me as though, while you sore pitied our lady, you had no list to help her forth of her trouble, an’ it might be compassed. and i conceived (note 1) it not.”
“it could not be compassed, phyllis; and granting it so should, to what good purpose? set in case that she came forth this morrow, a free woman—whither is she to wend, and what to do? to her son? he will have none of her. to her daughter? man saith she hath scantly more freedom than her mother in truth, being ruled of an ill husband that giveth her no leave to work. to king edward? it should but set him in the briars with divers other princes, the king of france and the duke of bretagne more in especial. to my lady princess? verily, she is good woman, yet is she mother of my lady duchess; and though i cast no doubt she should essay to judge the matter righteously, yet ’tis but like that she should lean to her own child, which doubtless seeth through her lord’s eyes; and it should set her in the briars no less than king edward. whither, then, is she to go for whom there is no room on middle earth (note 2), and whose company all men avoid? nay, my maid, for the lady marguerite there is no home save heaven; and there is none to be glad of her company save him that was yet more lonely than she, and whose foes, like hers, were they of his own house.”
“’tis sore pitiful!” said amphillis, looking up with the tears in her eyes.
“‘pitiful’! ay, never was sadder case sithence that saddest of all in the garden of gethsemane. would god she would seek him, and accept of his pity!”
“surely, our lady is christian woman!” responded amphillis, in a rather astonished tone.
“what signifiest thereby?”
“why she that doth right heartily believe christ our lord to have been born and died, and risen again, and so forth.”
“what good should that do her?”
amphillis stared, without answering.
“if that belief were very heartfelt, it should be life and comfort; but meseemeth thy manner of belief is not heartfelt, but headful. to believe that a man lived and died, phyllis, is not to accept his help, and to affy thee in his trustworthiness. did it ever any good and pleasure to thee to believe that one julius caesar lived over a thousand years ago?”
“no, verily; but—” amphillis did not like to say what she was thinking, that no appropriation of good, nor sensation of pleasure, had ever yet mingled with that belief in the facts concerning jesus christ on which she vaguely relied for salvation. she thought a moment, and then spoke out. “mistress, did you mean there was some other fashion of believing than to think certainly that our lord did live and die?”
“set in case, phyllis, that thou shouldst hear man to say, ‘i believe in master godfrey, but not in master matthew,’ what shouldst reckon him to signify? think on it.”
“i suppose,” said amphillis, after a moment’s pause for consideration, “i should account him to mean that he held master godfrey for a true man, in whom man might safely affy him; but that he felt not thus sure of master matthew.”
“thou wouldst not reckon, then, that he counted master matthew as a fabled man that was not alive?”
“nay, surely!” said amphillis, laughing.
“then seest not for thyself that there is a manner of belief far beside and beyond the mere reckoning that man liveth? phyllis, dost thou trust christ our lord?”
“for what, mistress? that he shall make me safe at last, if i do my duty, and pay my dues to the church, and shrive me (confess sins to a priest) metely oft, and so forth? ay, i reckon i do,” said amphillis, in a tone which sounded rather as if she meant “i don’t.”
“hast alway done thy duty, amphillis?”
“alack, no, mistress. yet meseemeth there be worser folks than i. i am alway regular at shrift.”
“the which shrift thou shouldst little need, if thou hadst never failed in duty. but how shall our lord make thee safe?”
“why, forgive me my sins,” replied amphillis, looking puzzled.
“that saith what he shall do, not how he shall do it. thy sins are a debt to god’s law and righteousness. canst thou pay a debt without cost?”
“but forgiveness costs nought.”
“doth it so? i think scarce anything costs more. hast ever meditated, amphillis, what it cost god to forgive sin?”
“i thought it cost him nothing at all.”
“child, it could only be done in one of two ways, at the cost of his very self. either he should forgive sin without propitiation—which were to cost his righteousness and truth and honour. could that be? in no wise. then it must be at the cost of his own bearing the penalty due unto the sinner. thy sins, amphillis, thine every failure in duty, thine every foolish thought or wrongful word, cost the father his own son out of his bosom, cost the son a human life of agony and a death of uttermost terribleness. didst thou believe that?”
a long look of mingled amazement and horror preceded the reply. “mistress perrote, i never thought of no such thing! i thought—i thought,” said amphillis, struggling for the right words to make her meaning clear, “i thought our lord was to judge us for our sins, and our blessed lady did plead with him to have mercy on us, and we must do the best we could, and pray her to pray for us. but the fashion you so put it seemeth—it seemeth certain, as though the matter were settled and done with, and should not be fordone (revoked). is it thus?”
if perrote de carhaix had not been gifted with the unction from the holy one, she would have made a terrible mistake at that juncture. all that she had been taught by man inclined her to say “no” to the question. but “there are a few of us whom god whispers in the ear,” and those who hear those whispers often go utterly contrary to man’s teaching, being bound only by god’s word. so bound they must be. if they speak not according to that word, it is because there is no light in them—only an ignis fatuus which leads the traveller into quagmires. but they are often free from all other bonds. perrote could not have told what made her answer that question in the way she did. it was as if a soft hand were laid upon her lips, preventing her from entering into any doctrinal disputations, and insisting on her keeping the question down to the personal level. she said—or that inward monitor said through her—
“is it settled for thee, amphillis?”
“mistress, i don’t know! can i have it settled?”
“‘he that believeth on the son hath everlasting life.’ ‘i give unto them eternal life.’” (john three verse 36; ten, verse 28.) perrote said no more.
“then, if i go and ask at him—?”
“‘my lord god, i cried unto thee, and thou madest me whole.’ ‘all ye that hope in the lord, do manly, and your heart shall be comforted.’” (psalm thirty, verse 3; thirty-one, verse 25; hereford and purvey’s version.)
once more it was as by a heavenly instinct that perrote answered in god’s words rather than in her own. amphillis drew a long breath. the light was rising on her. she could not have put her convictions into words; and it was quite as well, for had she done so, men might have persuaded her out of them. but the one conviction “borne in upon her” was—god, and not man; god’s word, not men’s words; god the saviour of men, not man the saviour of himself; god the giver of his son for the salvation of men, not men the offerers of something to god for their own salvation. and when man or woman reaches that point, that he sees in all the universe only himself and god, the two points are not likely to remain long apart. when the one is need longing for love, and the other is love seeking for need, what can they do but come close together?
sir godfrey set forth for his tournament in magnificent style, and lady foljambe and mistress margaret with him. young godfrey was already gone. the old knight rode a fine charger, and was preceded by his standard-bearer, carrying a pennon of bright blue, whereon were embroidered his master’s arms—sable, a bend or, between six scallops of the second. the ladies journeyed together in a quirle, and were provided with rich robes and all their jewellery. the house and the prisoner were left in the hands of matthew, father jordan, and perrote. norman hylton accompanied his master.
lady foljambe’s mind had grown tolerably easy on the subject of ivo, and she only gave perrote a long lecture, warning her, among other things, never to leave the door unlocked nor the prisoner alone. either perrote or amphillis must sleep in the pallet bed in her chamber during the whole time of lady foljambe’s absence, so that she should never be left unguarded for a single moment. matthew received another harangue, to which he paid little attention in reality, though in outward seeming he received it with due deference. father jordan languidly washed his hands with invisible soap, and assured his patrons that no harm could possibly come to the prisoner through their absence.
the tuesday evening was near its close. the sun had just sunk behind the western hills; the day had been bright and beautiful in the extreme. amphillis was going slowly upstairs to her turret, carrying her little work-basket, which was covered with brown velvet and adorned with silver cord, when she saw kate standing in the window of the landing, as if she were waiting for something or some person. it struck amphillis that kate looked unhappy.
“kate, what aileth thee?” she asked, pausing ere ere she mounted the last steps. “dost await here for man to pass?”
“nay, mistress—leastwise— o mistress amphillis, i wis not what to do!”
“anentis what, my maid?”
“nay, i’d fain tell you, but— lack-a-day, i’m all in a tumblement!”
“what manner of tumblement?” asked amphillis, sitting down in the window-seat. “hast brake some pottery, kate, or torn somewhat, that thou fearest thy dame’s anger?”
“nay, i’ve brake nought saving my word; and i’ve not done that yet.”
“it were evil to break thy word, kate.”
“were it so?” kate looked up eagerly.
“surely, without thou hadst passed word to do somewhat thou shouldst not.”
kate’s face fell. she had thought she saw a way out of her difficulty; and it was closing round her again.
“it’s none so easy to tell what man shouldn’t,” she said, in a troubled tone.
“what hast thou done, kate?”
“nay, i’ve done nought yet. i’ve only passed word to do.”
“to do what?”
before kate could answer, agatha whisked into the corner.
“thank goodness they’re all gone, the whole lot of them! won’t we have some fun now! kate, run down stairs, and bring me up a cork; and i want a long white sheet and a mop. now haste thee, do! for i would fain cause father jordan to skrike out at me, and i have scarce time to get my work done ere the old drone shall come buzzing up this gait. be sharp, maid! and i’ll do thee a good turn next time.”
and agatha fairly pushed kate down the stairs, allowing her neither excuse nor delay—a piece of undignified conduct which would bitterly have scandalised lady foljambe, could she have seen it. by the time that kate returned with the articles prescribed, agatha had possessed herself of a lighted candle, wherein she burnt the end of the cork, and with it proceeded to delineate, in the middle of the sheet, a very clever sketch of a ferocious turk, with moustaches of stupendous length. then elevating the long mop till it reached about a yard above her head, she instructed kate to arrange the sheet thereon in such a manner that the turk’s face showed close to the top of the mop, and gave the idea of a giant about eight feet in height.
“now then—quick! i hear the old bumble-bee down alow yonder. keep as still as mice, and stir not, nor laugh for your lives!”
kate appeared to have quite forgotten her trouble, and entered into agatha’s mischievous fun with all the thoughtless glee of a child.
“agatha,” said amphillis, “my lady foljambe should be heavy angered if she wist thy dealing. prithee, work not thus. if father jordan verily believed thou wert a ghost, it were well-nigh enough to kill him, poor sely old man. and he hath ill deserved such treatment at thine hands.”
in the present day we should never expect an adult clergyman to fall into so patent a trap; but in the middle ages even learned men were credulous to an extent which we can scarcely imagine. priests were in the habit of receiving friendly visits from pretended saints, and meeting apparitions of so-called demons, apparently without the faintest suspicion that the spirits in question might have bodies attached to them, or that their imaginations might be at all responsible for the vision.
“thank all the calendar she’s away!” was agatha’s response. “thee hold thy peace, and be not a spoil-sport. i mean to tell him i’m a soul in purgatory, and none save a priest named jordan can deliver me, and he only by licking of three crosses in the dust afore our lady’s altar every morrow for a month. that shall hurt none of him! and it shall cause me die o’ laughter to see him do it. back! quick! here cometh he. i would fain hear the old snail skrike out at me, ‘avaunt, sathanas!’ as he surely will.”
amphillis stepped back. her quicker ear had recognised that the step beginning to ascend the stairs was not that of the old priest, and she felt pretty sure whose it was—that healthy, sturdy, plain-spoken meg, the cook-maid, was the destined victim, and was likely to be little injured, while there was a good chance of agatha’s receiving her deserts.
just as meg reached the landing, a low groan issued from the uncanny thing. agatha of course could not see; she only heard the steps, which she still mistook for those of father jordan. meg stood calmly gazing on the apparition.
“will none deliver an unhappy soul in purgatory?” demanded a hollow moaning voice, followed by awful groans, such as amphillis had not supposed it possible for agatha to produce.
“i rather reckon, my saracen, thou’rt a soul out o’ purgatory with a body tacked to thee,” said meg, in the coolest manner. “help thee? oh ay, that i will, and bring thee back to middle earth out o’ thy pains. come then!”
and meg laid hands on the white sheet, and calmly began to pull it down.
“oh, stay, meg! thou shalt stifle me,” said the turk, in agatha’s voice.
“ay, i thought you’d somewhat to do wi’ ’t, my damsel; it were like you. have you driven anybody else out o’ her seven senses beside me wi’ yon foolery?”
“you’ve kept in seventy senses,” pouted agatha, releasing herself from the last corner of her ghostly drapery. “meg, you’re a spoil-sport.”
“my dame shall con you but poor thanks, mistress agatha, if you travail folks o’ this fashion while she tarrieth hence. mistress amphillis, too! marry, i thought—”
“i tarried here to lessen the mischief,” said amphillis.
“it wasn’t thee i meant to fright,” said agatha, with a pout. “i thought father jordan was a-coming; it was he i wanted. never blame amphillis; she’s nigh as bad as thou.”
“mistress amphillis, i ask your pardon. mistress agatha, you’re a bad un. ’tis a burning shame to harry a good old man like father jordan. thee hie to thy bed, and do no more mischief, thou false hussy! i’ll tell my dame of thy fine doings when she cometh home; i will, so!”
“now, meg, dear, sweet meg, don’t, and i’ll—”
“you’ll get you abed and ’bide quiet. i’m neither dear nor sweet; i’m a cook-maid, and you’re a young damsel with a fortin, and you’d neither ‘sweet’ nor ‘dear’ me without you were wanting somewhat of me. forsooth, they’ll win a fortin that weds wi’ the like of you! get abed, thou magpie!”
and meg was heard muttering to herself as she mounted the upper stairs to the attic chamber, which she shared with joan and kate.
