“whose fancy was his only oracle;
who could buy lands and pleasure at his will,
yet slighted that which silver could not win.”
rev. horatius bonar, d.d.
the archbishop rapped softly on the door of the chamber, and amphillis sprang to let him out. she had to let herself in, so he passed her with only a smile and a blessing, and going straight to his own chamber, spent the next hour in fervent prayer. at the end of that time he went down to the hall, and asked for writing materials.
this was a rather large request to make in a mediaeval manor house. father jordan was appealed to, as the only person likely to know the whereabouts of such scarce articles.
“well, of a surety!” exclaimed the old priest, much fluttered by the inquiry. “methinks i may find the inkhorn,—and there was some ink in it,—but as for writing-paper!—and i fear there shall be never a bit of parchment in the house. wax, moreover—richard, butler, took the last for his corks. dear, dear! only to think his grace should lack matter for writing! yet, truly, ’tis not unnatural for a prelate. now, whatever shall man do?”
“give his grace a tile and a paint-brush,” said careless matthew.
“cut a leaf out of a book,” suggested illiterate godfrey.
father jordan looked at the last speaker as if he had proposed to cook a child for dinner. cut a leaf out of a book! murder, theft, and arson combined, would scarcely have been more horrible in his eyes.
“holy saints, deliver us!” was his shocked answer.
norman hylton came to the rescue.
“i have here a small strip of parchment,” said he, “if his grace were pleased to make use thereof. i had laid it by for a letter to my mother, but his grace’s need is more than mine.”
the archbishop took the offered gift with a smile.
“i thank thee, my son,” said he. “in good sooth, at this moment my need is great, seeing death waiteth for no man.”
he sat down, and had scarcely remembered the want of ink, when father jordan came up, carrying a very dilapidated old inkhorn.
“if your grace were pleased to essay this, and could serve you withal,” suggested he, dubiously; “soothly, there is somewhat black at the bottom.”
“and there is alegar in the house, plenty,” added matthew.
the archbishop looked about for the pen.
“unlucky mortal that i am!” cried father jordan, smiting himself on the forehead. “never a quill have i, by my troth!”
“have you a goose? that might mend matters,” said matthew. “had we but a goose, there should be quills enow.”
“men culpa, mea culpa!” cried poor father jordan, as though he were at confession, to the excessive amusement of the young men.
norman, who had run upstairs on finding the pen lacking, now returned with one in his hand.
“here is a quill, if your grace be pleased withal. it is but an old one, yet i have no better,” he said, modestly.
“it shall full well serve me, my son,” was the answer; “and i thank thee for thy courtesy.”
for his day the archbishop was a skilful penman, which does not by any means convey the idea of covering sheet after sheet of paper with rapid writing. the strip of parchment was about fourteen inches by four. he laid it lengthwise before him, and the letters grew slowly on it, in the old black letter hand, which took some time to form. thus ran his letter:—
“alexander, by divine sufferance elect of york, to the lady basset of drayton wisheth peace, health, and the blessing of god almighty.
“very dear lady,—
“let it please you to know that the bearer hereof hath tidings to deliver of serious and instant import. we pray you full heartily to hear him without any delay, and to give full credence to such matter as he shall impart unto you: which having done, we bid you, as you value our apostolical blessing, to come hither with all speed, and we charge our very dear son, your lord, that he let not nor hinder you in obeying this our mandate. the matter presseth, and will brook no delay: and we affy ourself in you, lady, as a woman obedient to the church, that you will observe our bidding. and for so doing this shall be your warrant. given at hazelwood manor, in the county of derby, this wednesday after candlemas.”
the archbishop laid down his pen, folded his letter, and asked for silk to tie it. matthew foljambe ran off, returning in a moment with a roll of blue silk braid, wherewith the letter was tied up. then wax was needed.
“ha, chétife!” said father jordan. “the saints forgive me my sins! never a bit of wax had i lacked for many a month, and i gave the last to richard, butler.”
“hath he used it all?” asked matthew.
“be sure he so did. he should have some left only if none needed it,” responded his brother.
a search was instituted. the butler regretfully admitted that all the wax supplied, to him was fastening down corks upon bottles of alicant and osey. sir godfrey had none; he had sent for some, but had not yet received it. everybody was rather ashamed; for wax was a very necessary article in a mediaeval household, and to run short of it was a small disgrace. in this emergency matthew, usually the person of resources, came to the rescue.
“hie thee to the cellar, dick, and bring me up a two-three bottles of thy meanest wine,” said he. “we’ll melt it off the corks.”
by this ingenious means, sufficient wax was procured to take the impress of the archbishop’s official seal, without which the letter would bear no authentication, and the recipient could not be blamed if she refused obedience. it was then addressed—“to the hands of our very dear lady, the lady joan basset, at drayton manor, in the county of stafford, be these delivered with speed. haste, haste, for thy life, haste!”
all nobles and dignitaries of the church in 1374 used the “we” now exclusively regal.
having finished his preparations, the archbishop despatched young godfrey to ask his father for a private interview. sir godfrey at once returned to the hall, and ceremoniously handed the archbishop into his own room.
all large houses, in those days, contained a hall, which was the general meeting-place of the inhabitants, and where the family, servants, and guests, all took their meals together. this usually ran two storeys high; and into it opened from the lower storey the offices and guard-chambers, and from the upper, into a gallery running round it, the private apartments of the family, a spiral stair frequently winding down in the corner. the rooms next the hall were private sitting-rooms, leading to the bedchambers beyond; and where still greater secrecy was desired, passages led out towards separate towers. every bedroom had its adjoining sitting-room. of course in small houses such elaborate arrangements as these were not found, and there were no sitting-rooms except the hall itself; while labourers were content with a two-roomed house, the lower half serving as parlour and kitchen, the upper as the family bedchamber.
young godfrey carried a chair to his father’s room. an archbishop could not sit on a form, and there were only three chairs in the house, two of which were appropriated to the countess. the prelate took his seat, and laid down his letter on a high stool before sir godfrey.
“fair sir, may i entreat you of your courtesy, to send this letter with all good speed to my lady basset of drayton, unto staffordshire?”
“is it needful, holy father?”
“it is in sooth needful,” replied the archbishop, in rather peremptory tones, for he plainly saw that sir godfrey would not do this part of his duty until he could no longer help it.
“it shall put her ladyship to great charges,” objected the knight.
“the which, if she defray unwillingly, then is she no christian woman.”
“and be a journey mighty displeasant, at this winter season.”
“my answer thereto is as to the last.”
“and it shall blurt out the king’s privy matters.”
“in no wise. i have not writ thereof a word in this letter, but have only prayed her ladyship to give heed unto that which the bearer thereof shall make known to her privily.”
“then who is to bear the same?”
“i refer me thereon, fair sir, to your good judgment. might one of your own sons be trusted herewith?”
sir godfrey looked dubious. “godfrey should turn aside to see an horse, or to tilt at any jousting that lay in his path; and matthew, i cast no doubt, should lose your grace’s letter in a snowdrift.”
“then have you brought them up but ill,” said the archbishop. “but what hindereth that you go withal yourself?”
“i, holy father! i am an old man, and infirm, an’ it like your grace.”
“ay, you were full infirm when the tilting was at leicester,” replied the archbishop, ironically. “my son, i enjoin thee, as thine archbishop, that thou send this letter. go, or send a trusty messenger, as it liketh thee best; and if thou have no such, then shall my secretary, father denny, carry the same, for he is full meet therefor; but go it must.”
poor sir godfrey was thus brought to the end of all his subterfuges. he could only say ruefully that his eldest son should bear the letter. the archbishop thereupon took care to inform that young gentleman that if his missive should be either lost or delayed, its bearer would have to reckon with the church, and might not find the account quite convenient to pay.
godfrey was ready enough to go. life at hazelwood was not so exciting that a journey, on whatever errand, would not come as a very welcome interlude. he set forth that evening, and as the journey was barely forty miles, he could not in reason take longer over it than three days at the utmost. sir godfrey, however, as well as the archbishop, had confided his private views to his son. he charged him to see lord basset first, and to indoctrinate him with the idea that it was most desirable lady basset should not receive the prelate’s message. could he find means to prevent it?
lord basset was a man of a type not uncommon in any time, and particularly rife at the present day. he lived to amuse himself. of such things as work and duty he simply had no idea. in his eyes work was for the labouring class, and duty concerned the clergy; neither of them applied at all to him. he was, therefore, of about as much value to the world as one of the roses in his garden; and if he would be more missed, it was because his temper did not at all times emulate the sweetness of that flower, and its absence would be felt as a relief. this very useful and worthy gentleman was languidly fitting on the jesses of a hawk, when young godfrey was introduced into the hall. lady basset was not present, and godfrey seized the opportunity to initiate her husband into the part he was to play. he found to his annoyance that lord basset hesitated to perform the task assigned to him. had the letter come from an insignificant layman, he would have posted it into the fire without more ado; but lord basset, who was aware of sundry habits of his own that he was not able to flatter himself were the fashion in heaven, could not afford to quarrel with the church, which, in his belief, held the keys of that eligible locality.
“nay, verily!” said he. “i cannot thwart the delivering of his grace’s letter.”
“then will my lady go to hazelwood, and the whole matter shall be blazed abroad. it is sure to creep forth at some corner.”
“as like as not. well, i would not so much care—should it serve you if i gave her strict forbiddance for to go?”
“would she obey?”
lord basset laughed. “that’s as may be. she’s commonly an easy mare to drive, but there be times when she takes the bit betwixt her teeth, and bolts down the contrary road. you can only try her.”
“then under your leave, may i deliver the letter to her?”
“here, de sucherche!” said lord basset, raising his voice. “bid emeriarde lead this gentleman to thy lady; he hath a privy word to deliver unto her.”
emeriarde made her appearance in the guise of a highly respectable, middle-aged upper servant, and led godfrey up the staircase from the hall to lady basset’s ante-chamber, where, leaving him for a moment, while she announced a visitor to her mistress, she returned and conducted him into the presence of the princess of bretagne.
he saw a woman of thirty-six years of age, tall and somewhat stately, only moderately good-looking, and with an expression of intense weariness and listlessness in her dark eyes. the face was a true index to the feelings, for few lonelier women have ever shut their sorrows in their hearts than the princess jeanne of bretagne. she had no child; and her husband followed the usual rule of people who spend life in amusing themselves, and who are apt to be far from amusing to their own families. his interest, his attractions, and his powers of entertainment were kept for the world outside. when his wife saw him, he was generally either vexed, and consequently irritable, or tired and somewhat sulky. all the sufferings of reaction which fell to him were visited on her. she was naturally a woman of strong but silent character; a woman who locked her feelings, her sufferings, and her thoughts in her own breast, and having found no sympathy where she ought to have found it, refrained from seeking it elsewhere.
lord basset would have been astonished had he been accused of ill-using his wife. he never lifted his hand against her, nor even found fault with her before company. he simply let her feel as if her life were not worth living, and there was not a soul on earth who cared to make it so. if, only now and then, he would have given her half an hour of that brilliance with which he entertained his guests! if he would occasionally have shown her that he cared whether she was tired, that it made any difference to his happiness whether she was happy! she was a woman with intense capacity for loving, but there was no fuel for the fire, and it was dying out for sheer want of material. women of lighter character might have directed their affections elsewhere; women of more versatile temperament might have found other interests for themselves; she did neither. though strong, her intellect was neither quick nor of great range; it was deep rather than wide in its extent. it must be remembered, also, that a multitude of interests which are open to a woman in the present day, were quite unknown to her. the whole world of literature and science was an unknown thing; and art was only accessible in the two forms of fancy work and illumination, for neither of which had she capacity or taste. she could sew, cook, and act as a doctor when required, which was not often; and there the list of her accomplishments ended. there was more in her, but nobody cared to draw it out, and herself least of all.
lady basset bowed gravely in reply to godfrey’s courtesy, broke the seal of the letter, and gazed upon the cabalistic characters therein written. had they been chinese, she would have learned as much from them as she did. she handed back the letter with a request that he would read it to her, if he possessed the art of reading; if not, she would send for father collard.
for a moment, but no more, the temptation visited godfrey to read the letter as something which it was not. he dismissed it, not from any conscientious motive, but simply from the doubt whether he could keep up the delusion.
“good!” said lady basset, when the letter had been read to her; “and now what is that you are to tell me?”
“dame, suffer me first to say that it is of the gravest moment that there be no eavesdroppers about, and that your ladyship be pleased to keep strait silence thereupon. otherwise, i dare not utter that wherewith his grace’s letter hath ado.”
“there be no ears at hand save my bower-woman’s, and i will answer for her as for myself. i can keep silence when need is. speak on.”
“then, lady, i give you to know that the duchess’ grace, your mother, is now in ward under keeping of my father, at hazelwood manor, and—”
lady basset had risen to her feet, with a strange glow in her eyes.
“my mother!” she said.
“your lady and mother, dame; and she—”
“my mother!” she said, again. “my mother! i thought my mother was dead and buried, years and years ago!”
“verily, no, lady; and my lord archbishop’s grace doth most earnestly desire your ladyship to pay her visit, she being now near death, and your lord and brother the duke denying to come unto her.”
the glow deepened in the dark eyes.
“my lord my brother refused to go to my mother?”
“he did so, dame.”
“and she is near death?”
“very near, i am told, lady.”
“and he wist it?”
“he wist it.”
lady basset seemed for a moment to have forgotten everything but the one.
“lead on,” she said. “i will go to her—poor mother! i can scarce remember her; i was so young when taken from her. but i think she loved me once. i will go, though no other soul on earth keep me company.”
“lady,” said godfrey, saying the exact reverse of truth, “i do right heartily trust your lord shall not let you therein.”
“what matter?” she said. “if the devil and all his angels stood in the way, i would go to my dying mother.”
she left the room for a minute, and to godfrey’s dismay came back attired for her journey, as if she meant to set out there and then.
“but, lady!” he expostulated.
“you need not tarry for me,” she said, calmly. “i can find the way, and i have sent word to bid mine horses.”
this was unendurable. godfrey, in his dismay, left the room with only a courtesy, and sought lord basset in the hall.
“ah! she’s taken the bit betwixt her teeth,” said he. “i warrant you’d best leave her be; she’ll go now, if it be on a witch’s broom. i’ll forbid it, an’ you will, but i do you to wit i might as well entreat yon tree not to wave in the wind. when she doth take the bit thus, she’s—”
an emphatic shake of lord basset’s head finished the sentence. he rose as if it were more trouble than it was reasonable to impose, walked into his wife’s room, and asked her where she was going that winter day.
“you are scarce wont to inquire into my comings and goings,” she said, coldly. “but if it do your lordship ease to wit the same, i am going to hazelwood manor, whence yonder young gentleman is now come.”
“how if i forbid it?”
“my lord, i am sent for to my dying mother. your lordship is a gentleman, i believe, and therefore not like to forbid me. but if you so did, yea, twenty times twice told, i should answer you as now i do. seven years have i done your bidding, and when i return i will do it yet again. but not now. neither you, nor satan himself, should stay me this one time.”
“your ladyship losengeth,” (flatters) was the careless answer. “fare you well. i’ll not hinder you. as for satan, though it pleaseth you to count me in with him, i’ll be no surety for his doings. master foljambe, go you after this crack-brained dame of mine, or tarry you here with me and drink a cup of malvoisie wine?”
godfrey would very much have preferred to remain with lord basset; but a wholesome fear of his father and the archbishop together restrained him from doing so. he was exceedingly vexed to be made to continue his journey thus without intermission; but lady basset was already on a pillion behind her squire, and emeriarde on another behind the groom, a few garments having been hastily squeezed into a saddle-bag carried by the latter. this summary way of doing things was almost unheard of in the fourteenth century; and godfrey entertained a private opinion that “crack-brained” was a truthful epithet.
“needs must,” said he; “wherefore i pray your lordship mercy. her ladyship shall scantly make good road to hazelwood without i go withal. but—ha, chétife!”
lord basset slightly laughed, kissed his hand to his wife, lifted his hat to godfrey with a shrug of his shoulders, and walked back into drayton manor house.
