“i know not why my path should be at times
so straitly hedged, so strangely barred before:
i only know god could keep wide the door;
but i can trust.”
“mistress perrote, i pray you counsel me. i am sore put to it to baffle my cousin’s inquirations touching our lady. how she cometh to know there is any such cannot i say; but i may lightly guess that agatha hath let it ’scape: and in old days mine uncle was wont to say, none never could keep hidlis (secrets) from ricarda. truly, might i have known aforehand my lady foljambe’s pleasure, i could have found to mine hand to pray her not to advance ricarda hither: not for that i would stand in her way, but for my lady’s sake herself.”
“i know. nay, as well not, phyllis. it should tend rather to thine own disease, for folk might lightly say thou wert jealous and unkindly to thy kin. the lord knoweth wherefore such things do hap. at times i think it be to prevent us from being here in earth more blissful than it were good for us to be. as for her inquirations, parry them as best thou mayest; and if thou canst not, then say apertly (openly) that thou art forbidden to hold discourse thereanentis.”
amphillis shook her head. she pretty well knew that such an assertion would whet ricarda’s curiosity, and increase her inquisitive queries.
“mistress perrote, are you ill at ease?”
“not in health, thank god. but i am heavy of heart, child. our lady is in evil case, and she is very old.”
we should not now call a woman very old who was barely sixty years of age; we scarcely think that more than elderly. but in 1373, when the numerous wars and insurrections of the earlier half of the century had almost decimated the population, so that, especially in the upper classes, an old man was rarely to be seen, and when also human life was usually shorter than in later times, sixty was the equivalent of eighty or ninety with us, while seventy was as wonderful as we think a hundred. king edward was in his second childhood when he died at sixty-five; while “old john of gaunt, time-honoured lancaster,” scarcely passed his fifty-ninth birthday.
“is she sick?” said amphillis, pityingly. she had not seen her mistress for several days, for her periods of attendance on her were fitful and uncertain.
“she is very sick, and father jordan hath tried his best.”
the household doctor at that time, for a country house, was either the mistress of the family or the confessor. there were few medical men who were not also priests, and they only lived in chief cities. ladies were taught physic and surgery, and often doctored a whole neighbourhood. in a town the druggist was usually consulted by the poor, if they consulted any one at all who had learned medicine; but the physicians most in favour were “white witches,” namely, old women who dealt in herbs and charms, the former of which were real remedies, and the latter heathenish nonsense. a great deal of superstition mixed with the practice of the best medical men of the day. herbs must be gathered when the moon was at the full, or when mercury was in the ascendant; patients who had the small-pox must be wrapped in scarlet; the blood-stone preserved its wearer from particular maladies; a hair from a saint’s beard, taken in water, was deemed an invaluable specific. they bled to restore strength, administered plasters of verdigris, and made their patients wait for a lucky day to begin a course of treatment.
“he hath given her,” pursued perrote, sorrowfully, “myrrh and milelot and tutio (oxide of zinc), and hath tried plasters of diachylon, litharge, and ceruse, but to no good purpose. he speaketh now of antimony and orchis, but i fear—i fear he can give nothing to do any good. when our lord saith ‘die,’ not all the help nor love in the world shall make man live. and i think her time is come.”
“o mistress perrote! must she die without deliverance?”
“without earthly deliverance, it is like, my maid. be it so. but, ah me, what if she die without the heavenly deliverance! she will not list me: she never would. if man would come by that she would list, and might be suffered so to do, i would thank god to the end of my days.”
“anentis what should she list, good mistress?”
“phyllis, she hath never yet made acquaintance with christ our lord. he is to her but a dead name set to the end of her prayers—an image nailed to a cross—a man whom she has heard tell of, but never saw. the living, loving lord, who died and rose for her—who is ready at this hour to be her best friend and dearest comforter—who is holding forth his hands to her, as to all of us, and entreating her to come to him and be saved—she looketh on him as she doth on constantine the great, as man that was good and powerful once, but long ago, and ’tis all over and done with. i would fain have her hear man speak of him that knoweth him.”
“father jordan, mistress?”
“no. father jordan knows about him. he knoweth him not—at the least not so well as i want. ay, i count he doth know him after a fashion; but ’tis a poor fashion. i want a better man than he, and i want leave for him to come at her. and me feareth very sore that i shall win neither.”
“shall we ask our lord for it?” said amphillis, shyly.
“so do, dear maid. thy faith shameth mine unbelief.”
“what shall i say, mistress?”
“say, ‘lord, send hither man that knoweth thee, and incline the hearts of them in authority to suffer him to come at our lady.’ i will speak yet again with sir godfrey, but i might well-nigh as good speak to the door-post: he is as hard, and he knows as little. and her time is very near.”
there were tears in perrote’s eyes as she went away, and amphillis entirely sympathised with her. she was coming to realise the paramount importance to every human soul of that personal acquaintance with jesus christ, which is the one matter of consequence to all who have felt the power of an endless life. the natural result of this was that lesser matters fell into their right place without any difficulty. there was no troubling “may i do this?” or “how far is it allowable to enjoy that?” if this were contrary to the mind of god, or if that grated on the spiritual taste, it simply could not be done, any more than something could be done which would grieve a beloved human friend, or could be eaten with relish if it were ill-flavoured and disgusting. but suppose the relish does remain? then, either the conscience is ill-informed and scrupulous, requiring enlightenment by the word of god, and the heart setting at liberty; or else—and more frequently—the acquaintance is not close enough, and the new affection not sufficiently deep to have “expulsive power” over the old. in either case, the remedy is to come nearer to the great physician, to drink deeper draughts of the water of life, to warm the numbed soul in the pure rays of the sun of righteousness. “if any man thirst, let him come unto me and drink,”—not stay away, hewing out for himself broken cisterns which can hold no water. how many will not come to christ for rest, until they have first tried in vain to rest their heads upon every hard stone and every thorny plant that the world has to offer! for the world can give no rest—only varieties of weariness are in its power to offer those who do not bring fresh hearts and eager eyes, as yet unwearied and unfilled. for those who do, it has gay music, and sparkling sweet wine, and gleaming gems of many a lovely hue: and they listen, and drink, and admire, and think there is no bliss beyond it. but when the eager eyes grow dim, and the ears are dulled, and the taste has departed, the tired heart demands rest, and the world has none for it. a worn-out worldling, whom the world has ceased to charm, is one of the most pitiable creatures alive.
sir godfrey foljambe had not arrived at that point; he was in a condition less unhappy, but quite as perilous. to him the world had offered a fresh apple of sodom, and he had grasped it as eagerly as the first. the prodigal son was in a better condition when he grew weary of the strange country, than while he was spending his substance on riotous living. sir godfrey had laid aside the riotous living, but he was not weary of the strange country. on the contrary, when he ran short of food, he tried the swine’s husks, and found them very palatable—decidedly preferable to going home. he put bitter for sweet, and sweet for bitter. the liberty wherewith christ would have made him free was considered as a yoke of bondage, while the strong chains in which satan held him were perfect freedom in his estimation.
it was not with any hope that he would either understand or grant her request that perrote made a last application to her lady’s gaoler. it was only because she felt the matter of such supreme importance, the time so short, and the necessity so imperative, that no fault of hers should be a hindrance. perhaps, too, down in those dim recesses of the human heart which lie so open to god, but scarcely read by man himself, there was a mustard-seed of faith—a faint “who can tell?” which did not rise to hope—and certainly a love ready to endure all if it might gain its blessed end.
“sir,” said perrote, “i entreat a moment’s speech of you.”
sir godfrey, who was sauntering under the trees in the garden, stopped and looked at her. had he spoken out his thoughts, he would have said, “what on earth does this bothering old woman want?” as it was, he stood silent, and waited for her to proceed.
“sir, my lady is full sick.”
“well! let father jordan see her.”
“he hath seen her, sir, and full little can he do.”
“what would you? no outer physician can be called in.”
“ah, sir, forgive me, but i am thinking rather of the soul than the body: it is the worser of the twain.”
“verily, i guess not how, for she should be hard put to it to commit mortal sin, when mewed for eight years in one chamber. howbeit, if so be, what then? is not father jordan a priest? one priest is full as good as another.”
“once more, forgive me, sir! for the need that i behold, one priest is not as good as another. it is not a mass that my lady needeth to be sung; it is counsel that she lacketh.”
“then let father jordan counsel her.”
“sir, he cannot.”
“cannot! what for, trow? hath he lost his wits or his tongue?”
“no, he hath lost nothing, for that which he lacketh i count he never had, or so little thereof that it serveth not in this case. man cannot sound a fathom with an inch-line. sir, whether you conceive me or not, whether you allow me or no, i do most earnestly entreat you to suffer that my lady may speak with one of the poor priests that go about in frieze coats bound with leather girdles. they have whereof to minister to her need.”
sir godfrey thought contemptuously that there was no end to the fads and fancies of old women. his first idea of a reply was to say decidedly that it was not possible to trust any outsider with the cherished secret of the countess’s hiding-place; his next, that the poor priests were in tolerably high favour with the great, that the king had commanded the prisoner to be well treated, that the priest might be sworn to secrecy, and that if the countess were really near her end, little mischief would be done. possibly, in his inner soul, too, a power was at work which he was not capable of recognising.
“humph!” was all he said; but perrote saw that she had made an impression, and she was too wise to weaken it by adding words. sir godfrey, with his hands in the pockets of his haut-de-chausses, took a turn under the trees, and came back to the suppliant. “where be they to be found?”
“sir, there is well-nigh certain to be one or more at derby. if it pleased you to send to the prior of saint mary there, or to your own abbey of darley, there were very like to be one tarrying on his way, or might soon come thither; and if, under your good leave, the holy father would cause him to swear secrecy touching all he might see or hear, no mischief should be like to hap by his coming.”
“humph!” said sir godfrey again. “i’ll meditate thereon.”
“sir, i give you right hearty thanks,” was the grateful answer of perrote, who had taken more by her motion than she expected.
as she passed from the inner court to the outer on her way to the hall, where supper would shortly be served, she heard a little noise and bustle of some sort at the gate. perrote stopped to look.
before the gate, on a richly-caparisoned mule, sat the abbot of darley, with four of his monks, also mounted on those ecclesiastical animals. the porter, his keys in his hand, was bowing low in reverential awe, for an abbot was only a step below a bishop, and both were deemed holy and spiritual men. unquestionably there were men among them who were both spiritual and holy, but they were considerably fewer than the general populace believed. the majority belonged to one of four types—the dry-as-dust scholar, the austere ascetic, the proud tyrant, or the jovial ton vivant. the first-class, which was the best, was not a large one; the other three were much more numerous. the present abbot of darley was a mixture of the two last-named, and could put on either at will, the man being jovial by nature, and the abbot haughty by training. he had now come to spend a night at hazelwood on his way from darley to leicester; for the foljambes were lords of darley manor, and many of them had been benefactors to the abbey in their time. it was desirable, for many reasons, that sir godfrey and the abbot should keep on friendly terms. perrote stepped back to tell the knight who stood at his gate, and he at once hastened forward with a cordial welcome.
the abbot blessed sir godfrey by the extension of two priestly fingers in a style which must require considerable practice, and, in tones which savoured somewhat more of pride than humility, informed him that he came to beg a lodging for himself and his monks for one night. sir godfrey knew, he said, that poor monks, who abjured the vanities of the world, were not accustomed to grandeur; a little straw and some coarse rugs were all they asked. had the abbot been taken at his word, he would have been much astonished; but he well knew that the best bedchambers in the manor house would be thought honoured by his use of them. his reverence alighted from his mule, and, followed by the four monks, was led into the hall, his bareheaded and obsequious host preceding them. the ladies, who were assembling for supper, dropped on their knees at the sight, and also received a priestly blessing. the abbot was conducted to the seat of honour, on sir godfrey’s right hand.
the servers now brought in supper. it was a vigil, and therefore meat, eggs, and butter were forbidden; but luxury, apart from these, being unforbidden to such as preferred the letter to the spirit, the meal was sufficiently appetising, notwithstanding this. beside some fishes whose names are inscrutable, our ancestors at this time ate nearly all we habitually use, and in addition, whelks, porpoises, and lampreys. there were soups made of apples, figs, beans, peas, gourds, rice, and wheat. fish pies and fruit pies, jellies, honey cakes and tarts, biscuits of all descriptions, including maccaroons and gingerbread, vegetables far more numerous than we use, salads, cucumbers, melons, and all fruits in season, puddings of semolina, millet, and rice, almonds, spices, pickles—went to make up a menu by no means despicable.
supper was half over when sir godfrey bethought himself of perrote’s appeal and suggestion.
“pray you, holy father,” said he, “have you in your abbey at this season any of them called the poor priests, or know you where they may be found?”
the abbot’s lips took such a setting as rather alarmed his host, who began to wish his question unasked.
“i pray you of pardon if i ask unwisely,” he hastily added. “i had thought these men were somewhat in good favour in high place at this time, and though i desire not at all to—”
“wheresoever is my lady princess, there shall the poor priests find favour,” said the abbot, with a slight shrug of his shoulders. “the king, too, is not ill-affected toward them. but i forewarn you, my son, that they be not over well liked of the church and the dignitaries thereof. they go about setting men by the ears, bringing down to the minds of the commoner sort high matters that are not meet for such to handle, and inciting them to chatter and gabble over holy things in unseemly wise. whereso they preach, ’tis said, the very women will leave their distaffs, and begin to talk of sacred matter—most unbecoming and scandalous it is! i avise you, my son, to have none ado with such, and to keep to the wholesome direction of your own priest, which shall be far more to your profit.”
“i cry you mercy, reverend father! truly it was not of mine own motion that i asked the same. ’twas a woman did excite me thereto, seeing—”
“that may i well believe,” said the abbot, contemptuously. “women be ever at the bottom of every ill thing under the sun.”
poor man! he knew nothing about them. how could he, when he was taught that they were unclean creatures with whom it was defilement to converse? and he could not remember his mother—the one womanly memory which might have saved him from the delusion.
sir godfrey, in his earnest anxiety to get out of the scrape into which perrote had brought him, hastily introduced a fresh topic as the easiest means of doing so.
“trust me, holy father, i will suffer nought harmful to enter my doors, nor any man disapproved by your lordship. is there news abroad, may man wit?”
“ay, we had last night an holy palmer in our abbey,” responded the abbot, with a calmer brow. “he left us this morrow on his way to jesmond. you wist, doubtless, that my lord of york is departed?”
“no, verily—my lord of york! is yet any successor appointed?”
“ay, so ’tis said—father neville, as men say.”
amphillis looked up with some interest, on hearing her own name.
“who is he, this father neville?”
“soothly, who is he?” repeated the abbot, with evident irritation. “brother to my lord neville of raby; but what hath he done, trow, to be advanced thus without merit unto the second mitre in the realm? some meaner bishop, or worthy abbot, should have been far fitter for the preferment.”
“the worthy abbot of darley in especial!” whispered agatha in the ear of amphillis.
“what manner of man is he, holy father, by your leave?”
“one of these new sectaries,” replied the abbot, irascibly. “a man that favours the poor priests of whom you spake, and swears by the rector of ludgarshall, this wycliffe, that maketh all this bruit. prithee, who is the rector of ludgarshall, that we must all be at his beck and ordering? was there no truth in the whole church catholic, these thirteen hundred years, that this dan john must claim for to have discovered it anew? pshaw! ’tis folly.”
“and what other tidings be there, pray you, holy father?”
“scarce aught beside of note, i think,” answered the abbot, meditatively—“without it be the news from brittany of late—’tis said all brittany is in revolt, and the king of france aiding the same, and the duke is fled over hither to king edward, leaving my lady duchess shut up in the castle of auray, which ’tis thought the french king shall besiege. man reckons he comes for little—i would say, that our king shall give him little ado over that matter, without it were to ransom my lady, should she be taken, she being step-daughter unto my lord prince.”
“the lord king, then, showeth him no great favour?”
“favour enough to his particular (to himself personally); but you will quickly judge there is little likelihood of a new army fitted out for brittany, when you hear that his grace writ to my lord archbishop of canterbury that he should in no wise submit to the tax laid on the clergy by my lord cardinal of cluny, that came o’er touching those affairs, and charged the expenses of his journey on the clergy of england. the king gave promise to stand by them in case they should resist, and bade them take no heed of the censure of the said nuncio, seeing the people of england were not concerned touching matters of brittany; and where the cause, quoth he, is so unjust, the curse must needs fall harmless.”
“brave words, in good sooth!” said young godfrey.
“ay, our lord the king is not he that shall suffer man to ride roughshod over him,” added his father.
“the which is full well in case of laymen,” said the abbot, a little severely; “yet it becometh even princes to be buxom and reverent to the church, and unto all spiritual men.”
“if it might please you, holy father, would you do so much grace as tell me where is my lord duke at this present?”
it was perrote who asked the question, and with evident uneasiness.
the abbot glanced at her, and then answered carelessly. she was only one of the household, as he saw. what did her anxiety matter to my lord abbot of darley?
“by my lady saint mary, that wis i little,” said he. “at windsor, maybe, or woodstock—with the king.”
“the palmer told us the king was at woodstock,” remarked one of the hitherto silent monks.
the abbot annihilated him by a glance.
“verily, an’ he were,” remarked sir godfrey, “it should tell but little by now, when he may as like as not be at winchester or norwich.”
our plantagenet sovereigns were perpetual travellers up and down the kingdom, rarely staying even a fortnight in one place, though occasionally they were stationary for some weeks; but the old and infirm king who now occupied the throne had moved about less than usual of late years.
perrote was silent, but her face took a resolute expression, which sir godfrey had learned to his annoyance. when the “bothering old woman” looked like that, she generally bothered him before he was much older. and sir godfrey, like many others of his species, detested being bothered.
he soon found that fate remembered him. as he was going up to bed that night, he found perrote waiting for him on the landing.
“sir, pray you a word,” said she.
sir godfrey stood sulkily still.
“if my lord duke be now in england, should he not know that his mother is near her end?”
“how am i to send to him, trow?” growled the custodian. “i wis not where he is.”
“a messenger could find out the court, sir,” answered perrote. “and it would comfort her last days if he came.”
“and if he refused?”
perrote’s dark eyes flashed fire.
“then may god have mercy on him!—if he have any mercy for such a heartless wretch as he should so be.”
“keep a civil tongue in your head, perrote de carhaix,” said sir godfrey, beginning to ascend the upper stair. “you see, your poor priests are no good. you’d better be quiet.”
perrote stood still, candle in hand, till he disappeared.
“i will be silent towards man,” she said, in a low voice; “but i will pour out mine heart as water before the face of the lord. the road toward heaven is alway open: and they whom men beat back and tread down are the most like to win ear of him. make no tarrying, o my god!”
