“oh let me feel thee near me,—
the world is very near:
i see the sights that dazzle,
the tempting sounds i hear;
my foes are ever near me,
around me and within;
but, jesus, draw thou nearer,
and save my soul from sin.”
john e. bode.
“phyllis, thou wilt lie in my lady’s pallet, tonight,” said perrote, as she let her into their own chamber. amphillis looked rather alarmed. she had never yet been appointed to that responsible office. but it was not her nature to protest against superior orders; and she quietly gathered up such toilet articles as she required, and prepared to obey.
“you know your duty?” said perrote, interrogatively. “you first help your lady abed, and then hie abed yourself, in the dark, as silently and hastefully as may be. there is no more to do, without she call in the night, till her lever, for which you must be ready, and have a care not to arouse her till she wake and summon you, without the hour grow exceeding late, when you may lawfully make some little bruit to wake her after a gentle fashion. come now.”
amphillis followed perrote into the countess’s room.
they found her standing by the window, as she often was at night, for the sunset and the evening lights had a great attraction for her. she turned her head as they entered.
“at last, perrote!” she said. “in good sooth, but i began to think thou hadst forgot me, like everybody else in earth and heaven.”
“my lady knows i shall never do that,” was the quiet reply. “dame, my lady foljambe entreats of your ladyship leave that amphillis here shall lie in your pallet until she return.”
“doth she so?” answered the countess, with a curt laugh. “my lady foljambe is vastly pleasant, trow. asking her caged bird’s leave to set another bird in the cage! well, little brown nightingale, what sayest? art feared lest the old eagle bite, or canst trust the hooked beak for a week or twain?”
“dame, an’ it please you, i am in no wise feared of your grace.”
“well said. not that thou shouldst make much difference. had i a mind to fight for the door or the window, i could soon be quit of such a white-faced chit as thou. ah me! to what end? that time is by, for me. well! so they went off in grand array? i saw them. if godfrey foljambe buy his wife a new quirle, and his daughter-in-law a new gown, every time they cry for it, he shall be at the end of his purse ere my cushion yonder be finished broidering. lack-a-day! i would one of you would make an end thereof. i am aweary of the whole thing. green and tawny and red—red and tawny and green; tent-stitch down here, and satin-stitch up yonder. and what good when done? there’s a cushion-cover more in the world; that is all. would god—ah, would god, from the bottom of mine heart, that there were but one weary woman less!”
“my dear lady!” said perrote, sympathisingly.
“ay, old woman, i know. thou wouldst fain ask, whither should i go? i know little, verily, and care less. only let me lie down and sleep for ever, and forget everything—i ask but so much. i think god might let me have that. one has to wake ever, here, to another dreary day. if man might but sleep and not wake! or—ah, if man could blot out thirty years, and i sit once more in my mail on my feraunt at the gate of hennebon! dreams, dreams, all empty dreams! come, child, and lay by this wimple. ’tis man’s duty to hie him abed now. let’s do our duty. ’tis all man has left to me—leave to do as i am bidden. what was that bruit i heard without, an half-hour gone?”
amphillis, in answer, for perrote was unable to speak, told the story of agatha’s mischievous trick. the countess laughed.
“’tis right the thing i should have done myself, as a young maid,” said she. “ay, i loved dearly to make lordly, sober folks look foolish. poor father jordan, howbeit, was scarce fit game for her crossbow. if she had brought avena foljambe down, i’d have given her a clap on the back. now, maid, let us see how thou canst braid up this old white hair for the pillow. it was jet black once, and fell right to my feet. i little thought, then—i little thought!”
the coucher accomplished, the countess lay down in her bed; perrote took leave of her, and put out the light, admonishing amphillis to be quick. then she left the room, locking the door after her.
“there!” said the voice of the countess through the darkness. “now then we are prisoners, thou and i. how doth it like thee?”
“it liketh me well, dame, if so i may serve your grace.”
“well said! thou shalt be meet for the court ere long. but, child, thou hast not borne years of it, as i have: sixteen years with a hope of release, and eight with none. tell me thy history: i have no list to sleep, and it shall pass the time.”
“if it may please your grace, i reckon i have had none.”
“thou wert best thank the saints for that. yet i count ’tis scarce thus. didst grow like a mushroom?”
“truly, no, dame,” said amphillis, with a little laugh. “but i fear it should ill repay your grace to hear that i fed chickens and milked cows, and baked patties of divers sorts.”
“it should well repay me. it were a change from blue silk and yellow twist, and one endless view from the window. fare forth!”
thus bidden, amphillis told her story as she lay in the pallet, uninterrupted save now and then by a laugh or a word of comment. it was not much of a story, as she had said; but she was glad if it amused the royal prisoner, even for an hour.
“good maid!” said her mistress, when she saw that the tale was finished. “now sleep thou, for i would not cut off a young maid from her rest. i can sleep belike, or lie awake, as it please the saints.”
all was silence after that for half-an-hour. amphillis had just dropped asleep, when she was roused again by a low sound, of what nature she knew not at first. then she was suddenly conscious that the porter’s watch-dog, colle, was keeping up a low, uneasy growl beneath the window, and that somebody was trying to hush him. amphillis lay and listened, wondering whether it were some further nonsense of agatha’s manufacture. then came the sound of angry words and hurrying feet, and a woman’s shrill scream.
“what ado is there?” asked the countess. “draw back the curtain, phyllis, and see.”
amphillis sprang up, ran lightly with bare feet across the chamber, and drew back the curtain. the full harvest moon was shining into the inner court, and she discerned eight black shadows, all mixed together in what was evidently a struggle of some kind, the only one distinguishable being that of colle, who was as busy and excited as any of the group. at length she saw one of the shadows get free from the others, and speed rapidly to the wall, pursued by the dog, which, however, could not prevent his escape over the wall. the other shadows had a further short scuffle, at the end of which two seemed to be driven into the outer yard by the five, and amphillis lost sight of them. she told her mistress what she saw.
“some drunken brawl amongst the retainers, most like,” said the countess. “come back to thy bed, maid; ’tis no concern of thine.”
amphillis obeyed, and silence fell upon the house. the next thing of which she was conscious was perrote’s entrance in the morning.
“what caused yon bruit in the night?” asked the countess, as amphillis was dressing her hair.
“dame,” said perrote, “it was an attack upon the house.”
“an attack?” the countess turned suddenly round, drawing her hair out of her tirewoman’s hands. “after what fashion? thieves? robbers? foes? come, tell me all about it.”
“i scantly know, dame, how far i may lightly tell,” said perrote, uneasily. “it were better to await sir godfrey’s return, ere much be said thereanentis.”
the countess fixed her keen black eyes on her old attendant.
“the which means,” said she, “that the matter has too much ado with me that i should be suffered to know the inwards thereof. perrote, was it that man essayed once more to free me? thou mayest well tell me, for i know it. the angels whispered it to me as i lay in my bed.”
“my dear lady, it was thus. pray you, be not troubled: if so were, should you be any better off than now?”
“mary, mother!” with that wail of pain the countess turned back to her toilet. “who was it? and how? tell me what thou wist.”
perrote considered a moment, and then answered the questions.
“your grace hath mind of the two pedlars that came hither a few days gone?”
“one of whom sold yon violet twist, the illest stuff that ever threaded needle? he had need be ’shamed of himself. ay: well?”
“dame, he was no pedlar at all, but sir roland de pencouet, a knight of bretagne.”
“ha! one of oliver clisson’s following, or i err. ay?”
a look of intense interest had driven out the usual weary listlessness in the black eyes.
“which had thus disguised him in order to essay the freeing of your grace.”
“i am at peace with him, then, for his caitiff twist. knights make ill tradesmen, i doubt not. poor fool, to think he could do any such thing! what befell him?”
“with him, dame, were two other—ivo filz jehan, yon little breton jeweller that was used to trade at hennebon; i know not if your grace have mind of him—”
“ay, i remember him.”
“and also a priest, named father eloy. the priest won clean away over the wall; only mark saith that colle hath a piece of his hose for a remembrance. sir roland and ivo were taken, and be lodged in the dungeon.”
“poor fools!” said the countess again. “o perrote, perrote, to be free!”
“dear my lady, should it be better with you than now?”
“what wist thou? to have the right to go right or left, as man would; to pluck the flowerets by the roadside at will; to throw man upon the grass, and breathe the free air; to speak with whom man would; to feel the heaving of the salt sea under man’s boat, and to hear the clash of arms and see the chargers and the swords and the nodding plumes file out of the postern—o perrote, perrote!”
“mine own dear mistress, would i might compass it for you!”
“i know thou dost. and thou canst not. but wherefore doth not god compass it? can he not do what he will? be wrong and cruelty and injustice what he would? doth he hate me, that he leaveth me thus to live and die like a rat in a hole? and wherefore? what have i done? i am no worser sinner than thousands of other men and women. i never stole, nor murdered, nor sware falsely; i was true woman to god and to my lord, and true mother to the lad that they keep from me; ay, and true friend to lord edward the king, that cares not a brass nail whether i live or die—only that if i died he would be quit of a burden. holy saints, but i would full willingly quit him of it! god! when i ask thee for nought costlier than death, canst thou not grant it to me?”
she looked like an inspired prophetess, that tall white-haired woman, lifting her face up to the morning sun, as if addressing through it the eternal light, and challenging the love and wisdom of his decrees. amphillis shrank back from her. perrote came a little nearer.
“god is wiser than his creatures,” she said.
“words, words, perrote! only words. and i have heard them all aforetime, and many a time o’er. if i could but come at him, i’d see if he could not tell me somewhat better.”
“ay,” said perrote, with a sigh; “if we could all but come at him! dear my lady—”
“cross thyself, old woman, and have done. when i lack an homily preacher, i’ll send for a priest. my wimple, phyllis. when comes sir godfrey back?”
“saturday shall be a week, dame.”
sir godfrey came back in a bad temper. he had been overcome at the tournament, which in itself was not pacifying; and he was extremely angry to hear of the unsuccessful attempt to set his prisoner free. he scolded everybody impartially all round, but especially matthew and father jordan, the latter of whom was very little to blame, since he was not only rather deaf, but he slept on the other side of the house, and had never heard the noise at all. matthew growled that if he had calmly marched the conspirators up to the prisoner’s chamber, and delivered her to them, his father could scarcely have treated him worse; whereas he had safely secured two out of the three, and the prisoner had never been in any danger.
kate had been captured as well as the conspirators, and instead of receiving the promised crespine, she was bitterly rueing her folly, locked in a small turret room whose only furniture was a bundle of straw and a rug, with the pleasing prospect of worse usage when her mistress should return. the morning after their arrival at home, lady foljambe marched up to the turret, armed with a formidable cane, wherewith she inflicted on poor kate a sound discipline. pleading, sobs, and even screams fell on her ears with as little impression as would have been caused by the buzzing of a fly. having finished her proceeding, she administered to the suffering culprit a short, sharp lecture, and then locked her up again to think it over, with bread and water as the only relief to meditation.
the king was expected to come north after parliament rose—somewhere about the following february; and sir godfrey wrathfully averred that he should deal with the conspirators himself. the length of time that a prisoner was kept awaiting trial was a matter of supremely little consequence in the middle ages. his majesty reached derby, on his way to york, in the early days of march, and slept for one night at hazelwood manor, disposing of the prisoners the next morning, before he resumed his journey.
nobody at hazelwood wished to live that week over again. the king brought a suite of fourteen gentlemen, beside his guard; and they all had to be lodged somehow. perrote, amphillis, lady foljambe, and mrs margaret slept in the countess’s chamber.
“the more the merrier,” said the prisoner, sarcastically. “prithee, avena, see that the king quit not this house without he hath a word with me. i have a truth or twain to tell him.”
but the king declined the interview. perhaps it was on account of an uneasy suspicion concerning that truth or twain which might be told him. for fifty years edward the third swayed the sceptre of england, and his rule, upon the whole, was just and gentle. two sore sins lie at his door—the murder of his brother, in a sudden outburst of most righteous indignation; and the long, dreary captivity of the prisoner of tickhill and hazelwood, who had done nothing to deserve it. considering what a mother he had, perhaps the cause for wonder is that in the main he did so well, rather than that on some occasions he acted very wrongly. the frequent wars of this king were all foreign ones, and under his government england was at rest. that long, quiet reign was now drawing near its close. the king had not yet sunk into the sad state of senile dementia, wherein he ended his life; but he was an infirm, tired old man, bereft of his other self, his bright and loving wife, who had left him and the world about four years earlier. he exerted himself a little at supper to make himself agreeable to the ladies, as was then held to be the bounden duty of a good knight;
but after supper he enjoyed a peaceful slumber, with a handkerchief over his face to keep away the flies. the two prisoners were speedily disposed of, by being sent in chains to the duke of bretagne, to be dealt with as he should think fit. the king seemed rather amused than angered by kate’s share in the matter: he had the terrified girl up before him, talked to her in a fatherly fashion, and ended by giving her a crown-piece with his own hand, and bidding her in the future be a good and loyal maid, and not suffer herself to be beguiled by the wiles of evil men. poor kate sobbed, promised, and louted confusedly; and in due course of time, when king edward had been long in his grave, and kate was a staid grandmother, the crown-piece held the place of honour on her son’s chest of drawers as a prized family heirloom.
the next event of any note, a few weeks afterwards, was marabel’s marriage. in those days, young girls of good family, instead of being sent to school, were placed with some married lady as bower-women or chamberers, to be first educated and then married. the mistress was expected to make the one her care as much as the other; and it was not considered any concern of the girl’s except to obey. the husband was provided by the mistress, along with the wedding-dress and the wedding-dinner; and the bride meekly accepted all three with becoming thankfulness—or at least was expected to do so.
the new chamberer, who came in marabel’s place, was named ricarda; the girls were told this one evening at supper-time, and informed that she would arrive on the morrow. her place at table was next below amphillis, who was greatly astonished to be asked, as she sat down to supper—
“well, phyllis, what hast thou to say to me?”
amphillis turned and gazed at the speaker.
“well?” repeated the latter. “thou hast seen me before.”
“ricarda! how ever chanceth it?”
the astonishment of amphillis was intense. the rules of etiquette at that time were chains indeed; and the daughter of a tradesman was not in a position to be bower-woman to a lady of title. how had her cousin come there?
“what sayest, then,” asked ricarda, with a triumphant smile, “to know that my lady foljambe sent to covenant with me by reason that she was so full fain of thee that she desired another of thy kin?”
“is it soothly thus?” replied amphillis, her surprise scarcely lessened by hearing of such unusual conduct on the part of the precise lady foljambe. “verily, but— and how do my good master mine uncle, and my good cousin alexandra?”
“saundrina’s wed, and so is my father. and saundrina leads clement a life, and mistress altham leads my father another. i was none so sorry to come away, i can tell thee. i hate to be ruled like a ledger and notched like a tally!”
“thou shalt find things be well ruled in this house, rica,” said amphillis, thinking to herself that ricarda and agatha would make a pair, and might give their mistress some trouble. “but whom hath mine uncle wed, that is thus unbuxom (disobedient) to him?”
“why, mistress regina, the goldsmith’s daughter, that counts herself worth us all, and would fain be a queen in the patty-shop, and cut us all out according to her will.”
“but, ricarda, i reckoned mistress regina a full good and wise woman.”
“‘good and wise!’ she may soon be so. i hate goodness and wisdom. there’s never a bit of jollity for her. ’tis all ‘thou shalt not.’ she might as well be the ten commandments and done with it.”
“wouldst thou fain not keep the ten commandments, rica?”
“i’d fain have my own way, and be jolly. oh, she keeps the house well enough. father saith he’s tenfold more comfortable sithence her coming.”
“i thought thou saidst she led him an ill, diseaseful (note 1) life?”
“well, so did i. father didn’t.”
“oh!” said amphillis, in an enlightened tone.
“and she’s a rare hand at the cooking, that will i say. she might have made patties all her life. she catches up everything afore you can say ‘jack robinson.’ she says it’s by reason she’s a dutchwoman (note 2). rubbish! as if a lot of nasty foreigners could do aught better, or half as well, as english folks!”
“be all foreigners nasty?” asked amphillis, thinking of her mistress.
“of course they be! phyllis, what’s come o’er thee?”
“i knew not anything had.”
“lack-a-day! thou art tenfold as covenable and deliver (note 3) as thou wert wont to be. derbyshire hath brightened up thy wits.”
amphillis smiled. privately, she thought that if her wits were brightened, it was mainly by being let alone and allowed to develop free of perpetual repression.
“i have done nought to bring the same about, ricarda. but must i conceive that master winkfield’s diseaseful life, then, is in thine eyes, or in his own?”
“he reckons himself the blissfullest man under the sun,” said ricarda, as they rose from the table: “and he dare not say his soul is his own; not for no price man should pay him.”
amphillis privately thought the bliss of a curious kind.
“phyllis!” said her cousin, suddenly, “hast learned to hold thy tongue?”
“i count i am metely well learned therein, rica.”
“well, mind thou, not for nothing of no sort to let on to my lady that father is a patty-maker. i were put forth of the door with no more ado, should it come to her ear that i am not of gentle blood like thee.”
“ricarda! is my lady, then, deceived thereon?”
“’sh—’sh! she thinks i am a neville, and thy cousin of the father’s side. thee hold thy peace, and all shall be well.”
“but, rica! that were to tell a lie.”
“never a bit of it! man can’t tell a lie by holding his peace.”
“nay, i am not so sure thereof as i would like. this i know, he may speak one by his life no lesser than his words.”
“amphillis, if thou blurt out this to my lady, i’ll hate thee for ever and ever, amen!” said ricarda.
“i must meditate thereon,” was her cousin’s answer. “soothly, i would not by my good will do thee an ill turn, rica; and if it may stand with my conscience to be silent, thou hast nought to fear. yet if my lady ask me aught touching thee, that may not be thus answered, i must speak truth, and no lie.”
“a murrain take thy conscience! canst not say a two-three times the rosary of our lady to ease it?”
“maybe,” said amphillis, drily, “our lady hath no more lore for lying than i have.”
“mistress ricarda!” said agatha, joining them as they rose from the table, “i do right heartily pray you of better acquaintance. i trust you and i be of the same fashion of thinking, and both love laughter better than tears.”
“in good sooth, i hate long faces and sad looks,” said ricarda, accepting agatha’s offered kiss of friendship.
“you be not an ill-matched pair,” added amphillis, laughing. “only, i pray you, upset not the quirle by over much prancing.”
