In Convent Walls, by Emily Sarah Holt. 

PREFACE. 

The historical portion of this tale has been partially narrated in oneof my previous volumes, "In All Time of our Tribulation, " in which theDespenser story is begun, and its end told from another point of view. That volume left Isabelle of France at the height of her ambition, inthe place to reach which she had been plotting so long and sounscrupulously. Here we see the Nemesis come upon her and the chiefpartner of her guilt; the proof that there is a God that judgeth in theearth. It is surely one of the saddest stories of history--sad as allstories are which tell of men and women whom God has endowed richly withgifts, and who, casting from them the Divine hand which would fain liftthem up into the light of the Golden City, deliberately choose thepathway of death, and the blackness of darkness for ever. Few womenhave had grander opportunities given them than Isabelle for serving Godand making their names blessed and immortal. She chose rather to serveself: and thereby inscribed her name on one of the blackest pages ofEngland's history, and handed down her memory to eternal execration. For "life is to do the will of God"--the true blessedness and glory oflife here, no less than the life hereafter. 

 "Oh, the bitter shame and sorrow, That a time should ever be When I let the Saviour's pity Plead in vain, and proudly answered-- `All of self, and none of Thee!'

 "Yet He found me; I beheld Him Bleeding on the accursed tree, -- Heard Him pray, `Forgive them, Father!' And my wistful heart said faintly, `Some of self, and some of Thee!'

 "Day by day, His tender mercy, Healing, helping, full and free, Sweet and strong, and, ah! so patient, Brought me lower, while I whispered, `Less of self, and more of Thee!'

 "Higher than the highest heaven, Deeper than the deepest sea, Lord, Thy love at last hast conquered: Grant me now my heart's desire-- `None of self, and all of Thee!'"

PART ONE, CHAPTER 1. 

WHEREIN DAME CICELY DE CHAUCOMBE SCRIBETH SOOTHLINESS (1360). 

WHEREIN COMMENCE THE ANNALS OF CICELY. 

 "Heaven does with us, as we with torches do-- Not light them for themselves. "

 Shakespeare. 

"It is of no use, Jack, " quoth I. "I never did love her, I never can, and never shall. "

"And I never bade you, Sissot, " answered he. "Put that in belike, prithee. "

"But you bade me write the story out, " said I. "Ay, I did so. But Ileft you free to speak your mind of any body that should come therein, from a bishop to a baa-lamb, " said he. 

"Where shall I go for mine ink?" I made answer: "seeing that some partof my tale, to correspond to the matter, should need to be writ invernage, [Note 1] and some other in verjuice. "

"Keep two quills by you, " saith he, "with inkhorns of the twain, and useeither according to the matter. "

"Ay me!" said I. "It should be the strangest and woefullest tale everwrit by woman. "

"The more need that it should be writ, " quoth Jack, "by them that havelived it, and can tell the sooth-fastness [truth] thereof. Look you, Sissot, there are men enough will tell the tale of hearsay, such as theymay win of one and another, and that is like to be full of guile andcontrariousness. And many will tell it to win favour of those in highplace, and so shall but the half be told. Thou hast lived through it, and wist all the inwards thereof, at least from thine own standing-spot. Let there be one tale told just as it was, of one that verily knew, andhad no purpose to win gold or favour, but only to speak sooth-fastness. "

"You set me an hard task, Jack!" I said, and I think I sighed. 

"Easier to do, maybe, than to reckon on, " saith he, in his dry, tholemode [Note 2] way. "Thou needest write but one word at once, andthou canst take thine own time to think what word to write. "

"But I have no parchment, " said I. I am a little afraid I coveted notany, for I fancied not the business at all. It was Jack who wanted thestory writ out fair, not I. 

"Well, I have, " saith Jack calmly. 

"Nor any quills, " said I. 

"I have, " saith Jack, after the same fashion. 

"And the ink is dried-up. "

"Then will we buy more. "

"But--" I stayed, for I thought I had better hold my tongue. 

"But--I have no mind to it, " saith Jack. "That might have come first, Sissot. It shows, when it doth, that thou hast come to an end of thineexcuses. Nay, sweet heart, do but begin, and the mind will have after. "

"Lack-a-daisy!" said I, trying to laugh, though I felt somewhat irked[worried, irritated]: "I reckon, then, I had best do mine husband'sbidding without more ado. "

"There spake my Sissot, " saith he. "Good dame!"

So here am I, sat at this desk, with a roll of parchment that Jack hathcut in even leches [strips] for to make a book, and an inkhorn of freshink, and divers quills--O me! must all this be writ up?

Well, have forth! I shall so content Jack, and if I content not myself, that shall pay me. 

It was through being one of Queen Isabel's gentlewomen that I came toknow these things, and, as Jack saith, to live through my story. And Imight go a step further back, for I came to that dignity by reason ofbeing daughter unto Dame Alice de Lethegreve, that was of old time nurseto King Edward. So long as I was a young maid, I was one of the Queen'ssub-damsels; but when I wedded my Jack (and a better Jack never didmaiden wed) I was preferred to be damsel of the chamber: and in suchfashion journeyed I with the Queen to France, and tarried with her allthe time she dwelt beyond seas, and came home with her again, and waswith her the four years following, until all brake up, and she wasappointed to keep house at Rising Castle. So the whole play was playedbefore mine own eyes. 

I spake only sooth-fastness when I told Jack I could never love her. How can man love whom he cannot trust? It would have been as easy toput faith in a snake because it had lovesome marks and colouring, as inthat fair, fair face--ay, I will not deny that it was marvellous fair--with the gleaming eyes, which now seemed to flash with golden light, andnow to look like the dark depths of a stagnant pool. Wonderful eyesthey were! I am glad I never trusted them. 

Nor did I never trust her voice. It was as marvellous as the eyes. Itcould be sweet as honey and sharp as a two-edged sword; soft as dove'sdown, and hard as an agate stone. Too soft and sweet to be sooth-fast!She meant her words only when they were sword and agate. 

And the King--what shall I say of him? In good sooth, I will saynothing, but leave him to unfold himself in the story. I was not theKing's foster-sister in sooth, for I was ten years the younger; and itwas Robin, my brother, that claimed kin with him on that hand. But hewas ever hendy [amiable, kindly, courteous] to me. God rest his haplesssoul!

But where shall my tale begin? Verily, I have no mind to set forth fromthe creation, as chroniclers are wont. I was not there then, and livednot through that, nor of a long while after. Must I then begin from mycreation? aswhasay [as who should say--that is to say], as near it as myremembrance taketh me. Nay, I think not so: for then should I tell muchof the reign of King Edward of Westminster [Edward the First], that wereright beside the real story. I think I shall take date from the time ofthe Queen's first departure to France, which was the year of our LordGod, 1324. 

I was a young maid of seventeen years when I entered the Queen'shousehold, --her own age. But in another sense, I was tenfold the childthat she was. Indeed, I marvel if she ever were a child. I ratherthink she was born grown-up, as the old heathen fabled Minerva to havebeen. While on waiting, I often used to see and hear things that I didnot understand, yet which I could feel were disapproved by somethinginside me: I suppose it must have been my conscience. And if at thosetimes I looked on my mother's face, I could often read disapproval inher eyes also. I never loved the long secret discourses there used tobe betwixt the Queen and her uncle, my Lord of Lancaster: they alwayshad to me the air of plotting mischief. Nor did I ever love my Lord ofLancaster; there was no simplicity nor courtesy in him. His naturalmanner (when he let it be seen) was stern and abrupt; but he did veryrarely allow it to be seen; it was nearly always some affectation puton. And I hate that, and so doth Jack. 

At that time I loved and hated instinctively, as I think children do;and at seventeen years, I was a child in all things save by the almanac. I could rarely tell why I did not love people--only, I did not lovethem. I knew oftener why I did. I never thought much of Sir Piers deGavaston, that the King so dearly affected, but I never hated him in adeadly fashion, as some did that I knew. I loved better Sir Hugh LeDespenser, that was afterwards Earl of Gloucester, for he--

"Sissot, " saith a voice behind me, "what is the name of that chronicle?"

"I cannot tell, Jack, " said I. "What wouldst have it called?"

"`The Annals of Cicely, '" quoth he; "for she is beginning, middle, andend of it. "

I felt as though he had cast a pitcher of cold water over me. I satlooking at my parchment. 

"Read it over, prithee, " saith he, "and count how many great I's betherein. "

So did I, and by my troth there were seventy-seven. Seventy-seven ofme! and all in six leaves of parchment, forsooth. How many soever shallthere be by the time I make an end?

"That's an ill beginning, Jack!" said I, and I felt ready to cry. "MustI begin over again?"

"Sissot, " quoth he, "nothing is ever undone in this world. "

"What mean you?" said I. 

"There was man died the year before thou wert born, " he made answer, "that was great friend of my father. He was old when my father wasyoung, yet for all that were they right good friends. He was a verylearned man; so wise in respect of things known but to few, that mostmen accounted him a very magician, and no good Christian. Howbeit, myfather said that was but folly and slander. He told my father some ofthe strange matters that he found in nature; and amongst them, onething, which hath ever stuck by me. Saith Friar Roger, Nothing is everdestroyed. Nothing that hath once had being, can ever cease to be. "

"Why, Jack!" cried I. "Verily that must be folly! I cast this scrap ofparchment on the chafer, and it burneth up. It is gone, see thou. Surely it hath ceased to be?"

"No, " saith he. "It is gone into ashes and smoke. "

"What be ashes and smoke?" asked I, laughing. 

"Why, they be ashes and smoke, " he made answer. "And the smoke curlethup chimney, and goeth out into the air: and the air cometh up Sissot'snose-thirls, and feedeth her bodily life; and Sissot makethseventy-seven I's to six pages of parchment. "

"Now, Jack, softly!" said I. 

"So it is, my dame, " pursueth he. "Every thing that dieth, feedethsomewhat that liveth. But I can go further an' thou wilt. Friar Rogerthought (though he had not proved it) that every word spoken might as itwere dwell in the air, and at bidding of God hereafter, all those wordsshould return to life and be heard again by all the world. "

I could not help but laugh. 

"Why, what a din!" said I. "Do but think, all the words, in alllanguages, buzzing about man's ears, that were ever spoken since Adamdwelt in the Garden of Eden!"

"Wouldst thou like all thy words repeated thus, Sissot?"

"I would not mind, Jack. "

"Wouldst not? Then I am worser than thou, which is like enough. Iwould not like to hear all my foolish words, all my angry words, all mysinful words, echoed back to me from the starry walls of heaven. Andsuppose, Sissot--only suppose that God should do as much with ourthoughts! I dare say He knows how. "

I covered my face with mine hands. 

"That would be dreadful!" I whispered. 

"It will be, in very deed, " softly said Jack, "when the Books areopened, and the names read out, in the light of that great white Thronewhich shall be brighter than noon-day. I reckon in that day we shallnot be hearkening for Sir Piers de Gavaston's name, nor for Sir Hugh LeDespenser's, but only for those of John and Cicely de Chaucombe. Now, set again to thy chronicling, my Sissot, and do it in the light of thatThrone, and in the expectation of that Book: so shall it be done well. "

And so Jack left me. But to speak sooth, seeing the matter thus makesme to feel as though I scarce dared do it at all. Howsobe, I have it todo: and stedfast way maketh stedfast heart. 

There were plenty of people who hated Sir Hugh Le Despenser, but I andmy mother Dame Alice were not amongst them. He had been brought up withthe King from his youth, but the King never loved him till after thedeath of Sir Piers de Gavaston. The Queen loved him, just so long asthe King did not. That was always her way; the moment that she saw hecared for anything which was not herself, she at once began to hate it. And verily he never gave her cause, for he held her ever dearest of anymortal thing. 

Sir Hugh was as goodly a gentleman as man's eyes might see. Those wholoved him not called him proud--yea, the very spirit of pride. But themanner they thought pride seemed to me rather a kind of sternness orshortness of speech, as if he wished to have done with the matter inhand. Some people call every thing pride; if man talk much, they say heloves to hear his own voice; if he be silent, he despises his company. Now it seems to me that I often speak and am silent from many othercauses than pride, and therefore it may be the like with other folk. Dothose which are ever accusing other of pride, do all their actions forthat reason? If not so, how or why should they suspect it in other men?I do not think Sir Hugh was so much prouder than other. He knew hisown value, I dare say; and very like he did not enjoy being set atnought--who doth so? Other said he was ambitious: and there might besome sooth-fastness in the accusation; yet I fancy the accusers loved aslice of worldly grandeur no less than most men. And some said he waswicked man: that did I never believe. 

As for his wife, Dame Alianora, I scarcely know what to say of her. Shewas a curious mixture of qualities. She clung to the King her unclewhen others forsook him, she was free-handed, and she could feel for manin trouble: those were her good points. Yet she seemed to feel but whatshe saw; it was "out of sight, out of mind, " with her; and she loved newfaces rather too well to please me. I think, for one thing, she wastimid; and that oft-times causes man to appear what he is not. But shewas better woman than either of her sisters--the Lady Margaret Audleyand the Lady Elizabeth de Clare. I never saw her do, nor heard her say, the heartless acts and speeches whereof I knew both of them guilty. Idare say, as women go, she was not ill woman. For, alas! I have livedlong enough to know that there be not many good ones. 

Well, I said--no did I?--that I would begin with the year 1324 of ourLord God. But, lack-a-day! there were matters afore 1324, like as therewere men before Agamemnon. Truly, methinks there be a two-three I didwell not to omit: aswhasay, the dying of Queen Margaret, widow of KingEdward of Westminster, which deceased seven years earlier than so. Ishall never cease to marvel how it came to pass that two women of thesame nation, of the same family, being aunt and niece by blood, shouldhave been so strangely diverse as those two Queens. All that was good, wise, and gentle, was in Queen Margaret: what was in Queen Isabel willmy chronicle best tell. This most reverend lady led a very retired lifeafter her husband's death, being but a rare visitor to the Court, dwelling as quietly and holily as any nun might dwell, and winning loveand respect from all that knew her. Very charitable was she and mostdevout: and (if it be lawful to say thus) had I been Pope, I had soonercanonised her than a goodly number that hath been. But I do ill tospeak thus, seeing the holy Father is infallible, and acts in suchmatters but by the leading of God's Spirit, as saith the Church. Goodlack, but there be queer things in this world! I saw once Father Philipscrew up his mouth when one said the same in his hearing, and saith he--

"The Lord Pope is infallible when he speaketh _ex cathedra_, but soonly. "

"But how, " saith he that spake, "shall we know when he is sat in hischair and when he is out of it?"

An odd look came into Father Philip's eyes. 

"Master, " saith he, "when I was a little lad, my mother told me diverstimes that it was not seemly to ask curious questions. "

But I guess what the good Friar thought, though it be not alwaysdiscreet to speak out man's thoughts. Ah me! will the time ever comewhen man may say what he will, with no worse thereafter than a sneer ora sharp rebuke from his neighbour? If so were, I would I had been bornin those merry days--but I should want Jack to be born then belike. 

"Sissot, " saith a voice over my shoulder, "wist thou the full meaning ofthy wish?"

Jack is given to coming in quietly--I never knew him make a noise--andpeeping over my shoulder to see how my chronicle maketh progress: for hecan well read, though he write not. 

"What so, Jack?" said I. 

"I reckon we should be the younger by some centuries, " quoth he, "andperchance should not be at all. But allowing it, dost thou perceivethat such a difference should mean a change in all things?--that no fearshould in likelihood mean no reverence nor obedience, and might come tomean more than that?"

"That were dread!" said I. "What manner of times should they be?"

"I think, " saith he, "those very `_tempora periculosa_' whereof SaintPaul speaketh, when men shall love their own selves, and be proud, unthankful, without affection, peace, or benignity, loving theirpleasures rather than God. And if it serve thee, I would not like tolive in those times. "

"Dear heart, nor would I!" quoth I. "Yet surely, Jack, that seemeth againsaying. Were all men free to speak what they would, and not becalled to account therefor, it were soothly to love their neighbours andshow benignity. "

"Ay, if it were done for that end, " he made answer. "But the heart ofman is a cage of deceits. Much must befall the world, I take it, erethat cometh to pass: and while they that bring it about may be good menthat mean well, they that come to use it may be evil, and mean ill. TheDevil is not come to an end of his shifts, be thou sure. Let man run asfast and far as he will, Satan shall wit how to keep alongside. "

I said nought. Jack is very wise, a deal more than I, yet I cannotalways see through his eye-glasses. Mayhap it is not always because Iam wiser of the twain. 

"Freedom to do good and be good is a good thing, " then saith he: "butfreedom to be ill, and do ill, must needs be an ill thing. And manbeing what he is, how makest thou sure that he shall always use hisfreedom for good, and not for ill?"

"Why, that must man chance, " said I. 

"A sorry chance, " answereth he. "I were liever not to chance it. Ithought I heard thee deny Fina this last week to go to the dance atUnderby Fair?"

"So thou didst, " said I. "She is too young, and too giddy belike, totrust with a bevy of idle damosels as giddy as she. "

"Well, we are none of us so far grown-up in all wisdom that it were safeto trust us with our own reins in all things. Hast never heard the saw, `He that ruleth his own way hath a fool to his governor'?"

"Well!" said I; "but then let the wise men be picked out to rule us, andthe fools to obey. "

"Excellent doctrine, my Sissot!" quoth Jack, smiling in his eyes: "atleast, for the fools. I might somewhat pity the wise men. But how tobring it about? Be the fools to pick out the wise men? and are theywise enough to do it? I sorely fear we shall have a sorry lot ofgovernors when thy law comes to be tried. I think, Wife, thou and I hadbetter leave God to rule the world, for I suspect we should do itsomething worser than He. "

Let me fall back to my chronicling. Another matter happed in the year1319, the which I trow I shall not lightly forget. The Queen abode atBrotherton, the King being absent. The year afore, had the Scots madegreat raids on the northern parts of England, had burned the outlyingparts of York while the King was there, and taken the Earl of Richmondprisoner: and now, hearing of the Queen at Brotherton, but slenderlyguarded, down they marched into Yorkshire, and we, suspecting nought, were well-nigh caught in the trap. 

Well I mind that night, when I was awoke by pebbles cast up at mycasement, for I lay in a turret chamber, that looked outward. So soonas I knew what the sound meant, I rose from my bed and cast a mantleabout me, and opened the casement. 

"Is any there?" said I. 

"Is that thou, Sissot?" quoth a voice which I knew at once for mybrother Robert's, "Lose not one moment, but arouse the Queen, and prayher to take horse as speedily as may be, or she shall be captured of theScots, which come in great force by the Aire Valley, and are nearhand[nearly] at mine heels. And send one to bid the garrison be alert, andto let me in, that I may tell my news more fully. "

I wis not whether I shut the casement or no, for ere man might count tenwas I in the Queen's antechamber, and shaking of Dame Elizabeth by theshoulders. But, good lack, she took it as easy as might be. She wasalway one to take matters easy, Dame Elizabeth de Mohun. 

"Oh, let be till daylight, " quoth she, as she turned on her pillow. "'Tis but one of Robin Lethegreve's fumes and frets, I'll be bound. Heis for ever a-reckoning that the Scots be at hand or the house o' fire, and he looks for man to vault out of his warm bed that instant minutewhen his fearsome news be spoken. Go to sleep, Cicely, and let folksbe. "

And round turned she, and, I warrant, was asleep ere I could bring forthanother word. So then I fell to shaking Joan de Vilers, that lay attother end of the chamber. But she was right as bad, though of anotherfashion. 

"Wherefore rouse me?" saith she. "I can do nought. 'Tis not my place. If Dame Elizabeth arise not, I cannot. Thou wert best go back abed, dear heart. Thou shalt but set thyself in trouble. "

Well, there was no time to reason with such a goose; but I longed toshake her yet again. Howbeit, I tarried no longer in the antechamber, but burst into the Queen's own chamber where she lay abed, with DameTiffany in the pallet--taking no heed that Joan called after me--

"Cicely! Cicely! how darest thou? Come back, or thou shall be mispaidor tint!" [Held in displeasure or ruined. ]

But I cared not at that moment, whether for mispayment or tinsel. I hadmy duty to do, and I did it. If the news were true, the Queen waslittle like to snyb [blame] me when she found it so: and if no, well, Ihad but done as I should. And I knew that Dame Tiffany, which tendedher like a hen with one chicken, should hear my tidings of anotherfashion from the rest. Had Dame Elizabeth lain that night in thepallet, and Dame Tiffany in the antechamber, my work had been thelighter. But afore I might win to the pallet--which to do I had need tocross the chamber, --Queen Isabel's own voice saith from the statebed--"Who is there?"

"Dame, " said I, --forgetting to kneel, in such a fluster was I--"mybrother hath now brought tidings that the Scots come in force by theAire Valley, with all speed, and are nearhand at the very gate;wherefore--"

The Queen heard me no further. She was out of her bed, and herselfdonning her raiment, ere I might win thus far. 

"Send Dame Elizabeth to me, " was all she said, "and thyself bid DeNantoil alarm the garrison. Well done!"

I count I am not perfect nor a saint, else had I less relished thatsecond shake of Dame Elizabeth--that was fast asleep--and deliverance ofthe Queen's bidding. I stayed me not to hear her mingled contakes andwayments [reproaches and lamentations], but flew off to the outermostdoor, and unbarring the same, spake through the crack that wherewith Iwas charged to Oliver de Nantoil, the usher of the Queen's chamber, which lay that night at her outer door. Then was nought but bustle andstir, both within and without. The Queen would have up Robin, andhearkened to his tale while Alice Conan combed her hair, the which shebade bound up at the readiest, to lose not a moment. In less than anhour, methinks, she won to horse, and all we behind, and set forth forYork, which was the contrary way to that the Scots were coming. And, ahme! I rade with Dame Elizabeth, that did nought but grieve over herlost night's rest, and harry poor me for breaking the same. I asked ather if she had better loved to be taken of the Scots; since if so, theQueen's leave accorded, we might have left her behind. 

"Scots!" quoth she. "Where be these ghostly [fabulous, figurative]Scots? I will go bail they be wrapped of their foldings [plaids] fastasleep on some moor an hundred miles hence. 'Tis but Robin, the clown!that is so clumst [stupid] with his rashness, that he seeth a Scot fullarmed under every bush, and heareth a trumpeter in every corncrake: andas if that were not enough, he has a sister as ill as himself, that musttake all for gospel as if Friar Robert preached it. Mary love us! but Iquoke when thou gattest hold on me by the shoulders! I count it was agood hour ere I might sleep again. "

"Dear heart, Dame!" cried I, "but it was not two minutes! It is scantlyan hour by now. "

"Then that is thy blame, Cicely, routing like a bedel [shouting like atown-crier], and oncoming [assaulting] folks as thou dost. I marvelthou canst not be peaceable! I alway am. Canst mind the night thatever I shaked thee awake and made thee run out of thy warm bed as if abear were after thee?"

I trust I kept out of my voice the laughter that was in my throat as Isaid, "No, Dame: that cannot I. " The self notion of Dame Elizabeth everdoing thus to any was so exceeding laughable. 

"Well! then why canst--Body o' me! what ever is yonder flaming light?"

Master Oliver was just alongside, and quoth he drily--

"Burden not your Ladyship; 'tis but the Scots that have reachedBrotherton, and be firing the suburbs. "

"Holy Mary, pray for us!" skraighs Dame Elizabeth, at last verilyfeared: "Cicely, how canst thou ride so slow? For love of all thesaints; let us get on!"

Then fell she to her beads, and began to invoke all the Calendar, whileshe urged on her horse till his rapid trotting brake up the _aves_ and_oras_ into fragments that man might scarce hear and keep him sober. Iwarrant I was well pleased, for all my weariness, when we rade in atMicklebar of York; and so, I warrant, was Dame Elizabeth, for all herimpassibility. We tarried not long at York, for, hearing that the Scotscame on, the Queen removed to Nottingham for safer keeping. And soended that year. 

But no contakes had I, save of Dame Elizabeth, that for the rest of thatmonth put on a sorrowful look at the sight of me. On the contrary part, Robin had brave reward from the King, and my Lady the Queen was pleasedto advance me, as shall now be told, shortly thereafter: and everafterwards did she seem to affy her more in me, as in one that had beentried and proved faithful unto trust. 

Thus far had I won when I heard a little bruit behind me, and lookingup, as I guessed, I saw Jack, over my shoulder. 

"Dear heart, Jack!" said I, "but thou hast set me a merry task! Twodays have I been a-work, and not yet won to the Queen's former journeyto France; yet I do thee to wit, I am full disheartened at the stretchof road I see afore me. Must I needs tell every thing that happed forevery year? Mary love us! but I feel very nigh at my wits' end but tothink of it. Why, my Chronicle shall be bigger than the Golden Legendand the Morte Arthur put together, and all Underby Common shall notfurnish geese enow to keep me in quills!"

I ended betwixt laughter and tears. To say sooth, I was very nigh thelatter. 

"Take breath, Sissot, " saith Jack, quietly. 

"But dost thou mean that, Jack?"

"I mean not to make a nief [serf] of my wife, " saith he. I wassomething comforted to hear that. 

"As for time, dear heart, " he pursueth, "take thou an hour or twain bythe day, so thou weary not thyself; and for events, I counsel thee tomake a diverse form of chronicle from any ever yet written. "

"How so, Jack?"

"Set down nothing because it should go in a chronicle, but only thosematters wherein thyself was interested. "

"But that, Jack, " said I, laughing as I looked up on him, "shall be the`Annals of Cicely' over again; wherewith I thought thou wert notcompatient. " [Pleased, satisfied; the adjective of compassion. ]

"Nay, the Annals of Cicely were Cicely's fancies and feelings, " he madeanswer: "this should be what Cicely heard and saw. "

I sat and meditated thereon. 

"And afore thou wear thy fingers to the bone with thy much scribing, "saith he, with that manner of smile of his eyes which Jack hath, "callthou Father Philip to write at thy mouth, good wife. "

"Nay, verily!" quoth I. "I would be loth to call off Father Philip fromhis godly meditations, though I cast no doubt he were both fairer scribeand better chronicler than I. "

To speak sooth, it was Father Philip learned me to write, and the mastershould be better than the scholar. I marvel more that have leisurelearn not to write. Jack cannot, nor my mother, and this it was thatmade my said mother desirous to have me taught, for she said, had shewist the same, she could have kept a rare chronicle when she dwelt atthe Court, and sith my life was like to be there also, she would fainhave me able to do so. I prayed Father Philip to learn my discreetAlice, for I could trust her not to make an ill use thereof; but Ifeared to trust my giddy little Vivien with such edged tools as Jacksaith pen and ink be. And in very sooth it were a dread thing if anyamongst us should be entrapped into intelligence with the King'senemies, or such treasonable matter; and of this are wise men everafeared, when their wives or daughters learn to write. For me, I werelittle feared of such matter as that: and should rather have feared (forsuch as Vivien) the secret scribing of love-letters to unworthy persons. Howbeit, Jack is wiser than I, and he saith it were dangerous to putsuch power into the hands of most men and women. 

Lo! here again am I falling into the Annals of Cicely. Have back, DameCicely, an' it like you. Methinks I had best win back: yet how shall Iget out of the said Annals, and forward on my journey, when the verynext thing that standeth to be writ is mine own marriage?

It was on the morrow of the Epiphany, 1320, that I was wedded to my Jackin the Chapel of York Castle. I have not set down the inwards of mylove-tale, nor shall I, for good cause; for then should I not only fallinto the Annals of Cicely, but should belike never make end thereof. Howbeit, this will I say, --that when King Edward bestowed me on my Jack, I rather count he had his eyes about him, and likewise that there hadbeen a few little passages that might have justified him in so doing:for Jack was of the household, and we had sat the one by the other attable more than once or twice, and had not always held our tongues whenso were. So we were no strangers, forsooth, but pretty well to thecontrary: and verily, I fell on my feet that morrow. I am not so sureof Jack. And soothly, it were well I should leave other folks to blowmy trumpet, if any care to waste his breath at that business. 

I was appointed damsel of the chamber on my marriage, and at after thatsaw I far more of the Queen than aforetime. Now and again it was myturn to lie in that pallet in her chamber. Eh, but I loved not thatwork! I used to feel all out [altogether] terrified when those greatdark eyes flashed their shining flashes, and there were not so manynights in the seven that they did not. She was as easy to put out as toshut one's eyes, but to bring in again--eh, that was weary work!

I am not like to forget that July even when, in the Palace ofWestminster, my Lord of Exeter came to the Queen, bearing the GreatSeal. It was a full warm eve, and the Queen was late abed. Joan deVilers was that night tire-woman, and I was in waiting. I mind thatwhen one scratched on the door, we thought it Master Oliver, and insteadof going to see myself, I but bade one of the sub-damsels in a whisper. But no sooner said she, --"Dame, if it shall serve you, here is my Lordof Exeter and Sir Robert de Ayleston, "--than there was a full greatcommotion. The Queen rose up with her hair yet unbound, and bade thembe suffered to enter: and when my Lord of Exeter came in, she--and afterher all we of her following--set her on her knees afore him to pray hisblessing. This my Lord gave, but something hastily, as though histhoughts were elsewhere. Then said he--

"Dame, the King sends you the Great Seal, to be kept of you until suchtime as he shall ask it again. "

And he motioned forward Sir Robert de Ayleston, that held in his armsthe great bag of white leather, wherein was the Great Seal of gold. 

Saw I ever in all my life face change as hers changed then! To judgefrom her look, she might have been entering the gates of Heaven. (Asorry Heaven, thought I, that gold and white leather could make betwixtthem. ) Her eyes glowed, and flashed, and danced, all at once: and shesat her down in a chair of state, and received the Seal in her ownhands, and saith she--

"Bear with you my duty to the King my lord, and tell him that I willkeep his great charge in safety. "

So her words ran. But her eyes said--and eyes be apt to speak truerthan voices--"This day am I proudest of all the women in England, and Ilet not go this Seal so long as I can keep it!"

Then she called Dame Elizabeth, which received the Seal upon the knee, and the Queen bade her commit it to the great cypress coffer wherein herroyal robes were kept. 

Not long after that, the Queen took her chamber at the Tower afore theLady Joan was born; and the Great Seal was then returned to the King'sWardrobe. Master Thomas de Cherleton was then Comptroller of theWardrobe: but he was not over careful of his office, and left much inthe hands of his clerks; and as at that time Jack was clerk in charge, he was truly Keeper of the Great Seal so long as the Queen abode in theTower. He told me he would be rare thankful when the charge was over, for he might not sleep o' nights for thinking on the same. I do thinkfolks in high place, that be set in great charge, should do their ownwork, and not leave it to them beneath, so that Master Comptroller hathall the credit when things go well, and poor John Clerk payeth all thewyte if things go wrong. But, dear heart! if man set forth to amend allthe crooked ways of this world, when shall he ever have done? Maybe ifI set a-work to amend me, Cicely, it shall be my best deed, and morethan I am like to have done in any hurry. 

Now come I to the Queen's journey to France in 1324, and my tale shallthereupon grow more particular. The King sent her over to remonstratewith the King of France her brother for his theft of Guienne--for it wasno less; and to conclude a treaty with him to restore the same. It wasin May she left England and just before that something had happenedwherein I have always thought she had an hand. In the August of theyear before, Sir Roger de Mortimer brake prison from the Tower, and madegood his escape to Normandy; where, after tarrying a small season withhis mother's kinsmen, the Seigneurs de Fienles, he shifted his refuge toParis, where he was out of the King's jurisdiction. Now in regard ofthat matter it did seem to me that King Edward was full childish andunwise. Had his father been on the throne, no such thing had everhapped: he wist how to deal with traitors. But now, with so slack anhand did the King rule, that not only Sir Roger gat free of the Tower bybribing one of his keepers and drugging the rest, but twenty good daysat the least were lost while he stale down to the coast and so won away. There was indeed a hue and cry, but it wrought nothing, and even thatwas not for a week. There was more diligence used to seize his landsthan to seize him. And at the end of all, just afore the Queen'sjourney, if my Lady Mortimer his wife, that had gone down to Southamptonthinking to join him, was not taken and had to Skipton Castle, and theyoung damsels, her children, that were with her, sent to separateconvents! I have ever believed that was the Queen's doing. It was shethat loved not the Lady Mortimer should go to France: it should haveinterfered with her game. But what weakness and folly was it that theKing should hearken her! Well--

"Soft you, now!"

"O Jack, how thou didst start me! I very nigh let my pen fall. "

"Then shouldst thou have inked thy tunic, Sissot; and it were pity, sogood Cologne sindon as it is. But whither goest thou with thygoose-quill a-flying, good wife? Who was Sir Roger de Mortimer? andwhat like was he?"

"Who was he, Jack?" quoth I, feeling somewhat took aback. "Why, hewas--he was Sir Roger de Mortimer. "

"How like a woman!" saith Jack, setting his hands in the pockets of hissinglet. 

"Now, Jack!" said I. "And what was he like, saidst thou? Why, he wasas like a traitor, and a wastrel, and every thing that was bad, as everI saw man in all my life. "

"Horns, belike--and cloven feet--and a long tail?" quoth Jack. "I'llgive it up, Sissot. Thou wert best write thy chronicle thine own way. But it goeth about to be rarely like a woman. "

"Why, how should it not, when a woman is she that writeth it?" said I, laughing. But Jack had turned away, with that comical twist of hismouth which shows him secretly diverted. 

Verily, I know not who to say Sir Roger was, only that he was Lord ofWigmore and Ludlow, and son of the Lady Margaret that was born aFienles, and husband of the Lady Joan that was born a Geneville; and theproudest caitiff and worst man that ever was, as shall be shown ere Ilay down my pen. He was man that caused the loss of himself and ofother far his betters, and that should have been the loss of Englandherself but for God's mercy. The friend of Sathanas and of all evil, the foe of God and of all good--this, and no less, it seemeth me, wasSir Roger de Mortimer of Wigmore. God pardon him as He may [if such athing be possible]!

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1. A very sweet, luscious wine. Verjuice was the most acid typeof vinegar. 

Note 2. Quiet, calm, patient. In Lowland Scotch, to _thole_ is stillto endure; and _thole-mood_ must mean calm endurance. 

PART ONE, CHAPTER 2. 

WHEREIN CICELY BEGINS TO SEE. 

 "Tempt not the Tempter; he is near enough. "

 Dr Horatius Bonar. 

Now can any man tell what it is in folks that causeth other folks tofancy them? for I have oft-times been sorely pestered to find out. Truly, if man be very fair, or have full winning ways, and sweet words, and so forth, then may it be seen without difficulty. I never waspuzzled to know why Sir Roger or any other should have fallen o' lovewith Queen Isabel. But what on earth could draw her to him, thatpuzzled me sore. He was not young--about ten years elder than she, andshe was now a woman of thirty years. Nor was he over comely, as mengo, --I have seen better-favoured men, and I have seen worser. Nor werehis manners sweet and winning, but the very contrary thereof, for theywere rough and rude even to women, he alway seemed to me the veryincarnation of pride. Men charged Sir Hugh Le Despenser with pride, butSir Roger de Mortimer was worse than he tenfold. One of his own sonscalled him the King of Folly: and though the charge came ill from hislips that brought it, yet was it true as truth could be. His prideshowed every where--in his dress, in the way he bore himself, in hiswords, --yea, in the very tones of his voice. And his temper was furiousas ever I saw. Verily, he was one of the least lovesome men that I knewin all my life: yet for him, the fairest lady of that age bewrayed herown soul, and sold the noblest gentleman to the death. Truly, men andwomen be strange gear!

I had written thus far when I laid down my pen, and fell a-meditating, on the strangeness of such things as folks be and do in this world. Andas I there sat, I was aware of Father Philip in the chamber, that hadcome in softly and unheard of me, so lost in thought was I. He smiledwhen I looked up on him. 

"How goeth the chronicle, my daughter?" saith he. 

"Diversely, Father, " I made answer. "Some days my pen will run apace, but on others it laggeth like oxen at plough when the ground is heavywith rain. "

"The ground was full heavy when I entered, " saith he, "for the ploughwas standing still. "

I laughed. "So it was, trow. But I do not think I was idle, Father; Iwas but meditating. "

"Wise meditations, that be fruitful in good works, be far away fromidlesse, " quoth he. "And on what wert thou thinking thus busily, mydaughter?"

"On the strange ways of men and women, Father. "

"Did the list include Dame Cicely de Chaucombe?" saith Father Philip, with one of his quiet smiles. 

"No, " I made answer. "I had not reached her. "

"Or Philip de Edyngdon? Perchance thou hadst not reached him. "

"Why, Father, I might never think of sitting in judgment on you. No, Iwas thinking of some I had wist long ago: and in especial of Dame Isabelthe Queen, and other that were about her. What is it moveth folks tolove one another, or to hate belike?"

"There be but three things can move thee to aught, my daughter: God, Satan, and thine own human heart. "

"And my conscience?" said I. 

"Men do oftentimes set down to conscience, " saith he, "that which iseither God or Satan. The enlightened conscience of the righteous manworketh as God's Holy Spirit move him. The defiled conscience of theevil man listeneth to the promptings of Satan. And the searedconscience is as dead, and moveth not at all. "

"Father, can a man then kill his conscience?"

"He may lay it asleep for this life, daughter: may so crush it withweights thereon laid that it is as though it had the sickness of palsy, and cannot move limb. But I count, when this life is over, it shallshake off the weight, and wake up, to a life and a torment that shallnever end. "

"I marvel if she did, " said I, rather to myself than him. 

"Daughter, " he made answer, "whoso _she_ be, let her be. God saith notto thee, _He_, and _she_, but _I_, and _thou_. When Christ knocketh atthy door, if thou open not, shall He take it as tideful answer that thouwert full busy watching other folks' doors to see if they would open?"

"Yet may we not learn, Father, from other folks' blunders?"

"Hast thou so learned, daughter?"

"Well, not much, " said I. "A little, now and then, maybe. "

"I never learned much, " saith he, "from the blunders of any man savePhilip de Edyngdon. What I learned from other folks' evil deeds wasmostly to despise and be angered with them--not to beware for myself. And that lore cometh not of God. Thou mayest learn from such things setdown in Holy Writ: but verily it takes God to pen them, so that we mayindeed profit and not scorn, --that we may win and not lose. Be surethat whenever God puts in thine hand a golden coin of His realm, withthe King's image stamped fair thereon, Satan is near at hand, with agold-washed copper counterfeit stamped with his image, and made so likethat thou hast need to look close, to make sure which is the true. `Hold not all gold that shineth'--a wise saw, my daughter, whether it bea thing heavenly or earthly. "

"I will endeavour myself to profit by your good counsel, Father, " saidI. "But mine husband bade me write this chronicle, though, sooth tosay, I had no list thereto. And if I shall leave to deal with he andshe, how then may my chronicle be writ?"

"Write thy chronicle, my daughter, " he answered. "But write it as Godhath writ His Chronicles. Set down that which men did, that which thousawest and heardest. Beware only of digging into men's purposes wherethou knewest them not, and sawest but the half thereof. And it israrely possible for men to see the whole of that which passeth in theirown day. Beware of setting down a man as all evil for one evil thingthou mayest see him to do. We see them we live amongst something tooclose to judge them truly. And beware, most of all, of imagining thatthou canst get behind God's purposes, and lay bare all His reasons. Verily, the wisest saint on earth cannot reach to the thousandth partthereof. God can be fully understood, only of God. "

I have set down these wise words of good Father Philip, for though theybe too high and wide for mine understanding, maybe some that shall readmy chronicle may have better brains than she that writ. 

So now once again to my chronicling, and let me endeavour to do the sameas Father Philip bade me. 

It was on the eve of Saint Michael, 1325, that the Queen and her meynie(I being of them) reached Paris. We were ferried over the Seine to thegate of Nully [Note 1], and thence we clattered over the stones to theHotel de Saint Pol [Note 2], where the Queen was lodged in theeasternmost tower, next to our Lady Church, and we her meynie above. Dame Isabel de Lapyoun and I were appointed to lie in the pallet byturns. The Queen's bedchamber was hung with red sindon, broidered inthe border with golden swans, and her cabinet with blue say, powderedwith lily-flowers in gold, which is the arms of France, as every manknoweth, seeing they are borne by our King that now is, in right of thissame Queen Isabel his mother. He, that was then my Lord of Chester, wasalso of the cortege, having sailed from Dover two days before Holy Cross[Note 3], and joined the Queen in Guienne; but the Queen went over inMarch, and was all that time in Guienne. 

Dear heart! but Jack--which loveth to be square and precise in hismatters--should say this were strange fashion wherein to writechronicles, to date first September and then the March afore it! I hadbetter go back a bit. 

It was, then, the 9th of March the Queen crossed from Dover to Whitsand, which the French call Guissant. She dwelt first, as I said, in Guienne, for all that summer; very quiet and peaceful were we, letters going toand fro betwixt our Queen and her lord, and likewise betwixt her and theKing of France; but no visitors (without there were one that eveningDame Isabel lay in the pallet in my stead, and was so late up, andpassed by the antechamber door with her shoes in her hands, as littleMeliora the sub-damsel would have it she saw by the keyhole): and wemight nearhand as well have been in nunnery for all the folks we sawthat were not of the house. Verily, I grew sick irked [wearied, distressed] of the calm, that was like a dead calm at sea, when shipslie to, and can win neither forward nor backward. Ah, foolish Cicely!thou hadst better have given thanks for the last peace thou wert to seefor many a year. 

Well, my Lord of Chester come, which was the week after Holy Cross, weset forth with few days' delay, and came to Paris, as I said, the eve ofMichaelmas. Marvellous weary was I with riding, for I rade of an horsethe whole way, and not, as Dame Isabel did, with the Queen in her char. I was so ill tired that I could but eat a two-three wafers [Note 4], anddrink a cup of wine, and then hied I to my bed, which, I thank thesaints, was not the pallet that night. 

The King and Queen of France were then at Compiegne, King Charles havingbeen wed that same summer to his third wife, Dame Jeanne of Evreux: anda good woman I do believe was she, for all (as I said aforetime) therebe but few. But I do think, and ever shall, that three wives be morethan any man's share. The next morrow, they came in from Compiegne, tospend Michaelmas in Paris: and then was enough noise and merriment. First, mass in our Lady Church, whereto both Dame Isabel and I waited onthe Queen; and by the same token, she was donned of one of the fairestrobes that ever she bare, which was of velvet blue of Malyns [Malines], broidered with apple-blossom and with diapering of gold. It did notbecome her, by reason of her dark complexion, so well as it should havedone S--

"Hold! Man spelleth not Cicely with an S. "

"Jack, if thou start me like this any more, then will I turn the key inthe lock when I sit down to write, " cried I, for verily mine heart wasgoing pitter-patter to come up in my throat, and out at my mouth, foraught I know. "Thou irksome man, I went about to write `some folks, 'not `Cicely. '"

"But wherefore?" saith Jack, looking innocent as a year-old babe. "Whenit meaneth Cicely, then would I put Cicely. "

"But I meant _not_ Cicely, man o' life, bless thee!"

"I thank thee for thy blessing, Sissot; and I will fain hope thou didstmean that any way. I will go bail thy pen meant not Cicely, good wife;but if it were not in thine heart that Sissot's fair hair, and rose-redcomplexion, and grey eyes, should have gone better with that blue velvetgown than Queen Isabel's dusky hair and brown eyes, then do I knowlittle of man or woman. And I dare be bound it would, belike. "

And Jack lifteth his hat to me right courteously, and is gone afore Iwell know whether to laugh or to be angered. So I ween I had betterlaugh. 

Where was I, trow? Oh, at mass in our Lady Church of Paris, where thatday was a miracle done on two that were possessed of the Devil, whosenames were Geoffrey Boder and Jeanne La Petite; and the girdle of SaintMary being shown on the high altar, they were allowed to touch the same, whereon they were healed straightway. And the Queen, with her ownhands, gave them alms, a crown; and her oblation to the image of SaintMary in the said church, being a festival, was a crown (her dailyoblation being seven-pence the day); and to the said holy girdle acrown, and to the holy relics, yet another. Then came we home by thewater of Seyne, for which the boatman had twelve pence. [Note 5. ]

We dwelt after this full peacefully at Paris for divers weeks, savingthat we made short journeys to towns in the neighbourhood; as, one dayto the house of the Sisters Predicants of Poissy, and another to God'sHouse of Loure [Note 6], and another to Villers, where tarried the Queenof France, and so forth. And some days spent we likewise at Reyns andSessouns. [Note 7. ]

At Paris she had her robes made, of purple and colour of Malbryn, forthe feast of All Saints, and they were furred with miniver and beastsermines. And to me Cicely was delivered, to make my robe for the same, three ells rayed [striped] cloth and a lamb fur, and an hood of budge. 

The Queen spent nigh an whole day at Sessouns, and another at Reyns, invisiting the churches; and the last can I well remember, by reason ofthat which came after. First, we went to the church of Saint Nicholas, where she offered a cloth of Turk, price forty shillings; and to SaintRemy she gave another, price forty-five shillings; and to the high altarof the Cathedral one something better. And to the ampulla [Note 7] andshrine of Saint Remy a crown, and likewise a crown to the holy relicsthere kept. Then to the Friars Minors, where at the high altar sheoffered a cloth of Lucca bought in the town, price three and an halfmarks [Note 8]. And (which I had nearhand forgot) to the head of SaintNicasius in the Cathedral, a crown. 

The last night ere we left Sessouns, I remember, as I came into theQueen's lodging from vespers in the Cathedral, --Jack, that went with me, having tarried at the potter's to see wherefore he sent not home threedozen glasses for the Queen's table (and by the same token, the knaveasked fifteen pence for the same when they did come, which is a price tomake the hair stand on end)--well, as I said, I was a-coming in, when Imet one coming forth that at first sight I wist not. And yet, when Imeditated, I did know him, but I could not tell his name. He had takenno note of me, save to hap his mantle somewhat closer about his face, asthough he cared not to be known--or it might be only that he felt thecold, for it was sharp for the time of year. Up went I into the Queen'slodging, which was then in the house of one John de Gyse, that was anhonester man than Master Bolard, with whom she lodged at Burgette, forthat last charged her three shillings and seven-pence for a worserlodging than Master Gyse gave her for two shillings. 

I had writ thus far when I heard behind me a little bruit that I knew. 

"Well, Jack?" said I, not looking up. 

"Would thou wert better flyer of falcons, Sissot!" saith he. 

"Dear heart! what means that, trow?" quoth I. 

"Then shouldst thou know, " he made answer, "that to suffer a secondquarry to turn thee from thy first is oft-times to lose both. "

"Verily, Jack, I conceive not thy meaning. "

"Why, look on yon last piece. It begins with thee coming home fromvespers. Then it flieth to me, to the potter and his glasses, to theknavery of his charges, and cometh back to the man whom thou didst meetcoming forth of the door--whom it hath no sooner touched, than it is offagain to the cold even; then comest thou into the Queen's lodging, anddown `grees' [degrees, that is, stairs] once more to the landlord'sbill. Do, prithee, keep to one heron till thou hast bagged him. "

"_Ha, chetife_!" cried I. "Must I have firstly, secondly, thirdly, yea, up to thirty-seventhly, like old Father Edison's homilies?"

"Better so, " saith he, "than to course three hares together and catchnone. "

"I'll catch mine hare yet, as thou shall see, " saith I. 

"Be it done. Gee up!" saith he. [Note 9]. 

Well, up came I into the Queen's antechamber, where were sat DameElizabeth, and Dame Isabel de Lapyoun, and Dame Joan de Vaux, and littleMeliora. And right as I came in at the door, Dame Joan dropped hersewing off her knee, and saith--

"Lack-a-day! I am aweary of living in this world!"

"Well, if so, " saith Dame Elizabeth, peacefully waxing her thread, "youhad best look about for a better. "

"Nay!" quoth she, "how to get there?"

"Ask my Lord of Winchester, " saith Dame Isabel. 

"I shall lack the knowledge ill ere I trouble him, " she made answer. "Is it he with the Queen this even?"

"There's none with the Queen!" quoth Dame Isabel, as sharp as if sheshould have snapped her head off. 

Dame Joan looked up in some astonishment. 

"Dear heart!" said she, "I thought I heard voices in her chamber. "

"There was one with her, " answereth Meliora, "when I passed the doorsome minutes gone. "

"Maybe the visitor is gone, " said I. "As I came in but now, I met onecoming forth. "

"Who were it, marry?" quoth Dame Joan. 

"It was none of the household, " said I. "A tall, personable man, wrapped in a great cloak, wherewith he hid his face; but whether it werefrom me or from the November even, that will I not say. "

"There hath been none such here, " saith Dame Elizabeth. 

"Not in this chamber, " saith Meliora. 

"Meliora Servelady!" Dame Isabel made answer, "who gave thee leave tojoin converse with thy betters?" [Note 10]. 

The sub-damsel looked set down for a minute, but nought ever daunted herfor long. She was as pert a little maid as ever I knew, and but littledeserved her name of Meliora. (Ah me, is this another hare? Haveback. )

"There hath been none of any sort come to the Queen to-day, " said DameIsabel, in so angered a tone that I began at once to marvel who had comeof whom she feared talk. 

"Nay, but there so hath!" makes response Dame Joan: "have you forgotMaster Almoner that was with her this morrow nigh an hour touching hisaccounts?--and Ralph Richepois with his lute after dinner?"

"Marry, and the Lady Gibine, Prioress of Oremont, " addeth DameElizabeth. 

"And the two Beguines--" began Meliora; but she ended not, for DameIsabel boxed her ears. 

"Ay, and Jack Bonard, that she sent with letters to the Queen ofFrance, " saith Dame Joan. 

"Yea, and Ivo le Breton came a-begging, yon poor old man that had servedher when a child, " made answer Dame Elizabeth. 

"And Ma--" Poor Meliora got no further, for Dame Isabel gave her abuffet on the side of her head that nigh knocked her off the form. Icould not but think that some part of that buffet was owing to us three, though Meliora had it all. But what so angered Dame Isabel, that mightI not know. 

At that time came the summons to supper, so the matter ended. But assupper was passing, Dame Joan de Vaux, by whom I sat, with MasterAlmoner on mine other hand, saith to me--

"Pray you, Dame Cicely, have you any guess who it were that you metcoming forth?"

"I have, and I have not, " said I. "There was that in his face which Iknew full well, yet cannot I bethink me of his name. "

"It was not Master Madefray, trow?"

"In no wise: a higher man than he, and of fairer hair. "

"Not a priest neither?"

"Nay, certes. "

"Leave not to sup your soup, Dame Cicely, nor show no astonishment, Ipray, while I ask yet a question. Was it--Sir Roger the Mortimer ofLudlow?"

For all Dame Joan's warnful words, I nigh dropped my spoon, and I neverknew how the rest of the soup tasted. 

"Wala wa!" said I, under my breath, "but I do believe it was he. "

"I saw him, " saith she, quietly. "And take my word for it, friend--thatman cometh for no good. "

"Marry!" cried I in some heat, "how dare he come nigh the Queen at all?he, a banished man! Without, soothly, he came humbly to entreat herintercession with the King for his pardon. But e'en then, he might farmore meetly have sent his petition by some other. Verily, I marvel shewould see him!"

"Do you so?" saith Dame Joan in that low quiet voice. "So do not I. She will see him yet again, or I mistake much. "

"_Ha, chetife_!" I made answer. "It is full well we be on our roadback to Paris, for there at least will he not dare to come. "

"Not dare?"

"Surely not, for the King of France, which himself hath banished him, should never suffer it. "

Dame Joan helped herself to a roasted plover with a smile. When thesewer was gone, quoth she--

"I think, Dame Cicely, you know full little whether of Sir Roger deMortimer or of the King of France. For the last, he is as easilyblinded a man as you may lightly see; and if our Queen his sister toldhim black was white, he should but suppose that she saw better than he. And for the other--is there aught in all this world, whether as tobravery or as to wickedness, that Sir Roger de Mortimer would _not_dare?"

"Dear heart!" cried I. "I made account we had done with men of thatorder. "

"You did?" Dame Joan's tone, and the somewhat dry smile which went withit, said full plainly, "In no wise. "

"Well, soothly we had enough and to spare!" quoth I. "There was my Lordof Lancaster--God rest his soul!--and Sir Piers de Gavaston (if he wereas ill man as some said). "

"He was not a saint, I think, " she said: "yet could I name far worsermen than he. "

"And my sometime Lord of Warwick, " said I, "was no saint likewise, or Imistake. "

"Therein, " saith she, "have you the right. "

"Well, " pursued I, "all they be gone: and soothly, I had hoped therewere no more such left. "

"Then should there be no original sin left, " she made answer; "yea, andSathanas should be clean gone forth of this world. "

The rest of the converse I mind not, but that last sentence tarried inmy mind for many a day, and hath oft-times come back to me touchingother matters. 

We reached Loure on Saint Martin's Day [November 11th], and Paris thenext morrow. There found we the Bishops of Winchester and Exeter, [Stratford and Stapleton], whom King Edward had sent over to join theQueen's Council. Now I never loved overmuch neither of these ReverendFathers, though it were for very diverse causes. Of course, beingpriests, they were holy men; but I misdoubt if either were perfect manapart from his priesthood--my Lord of Winchester more in especial. Against my Lord of Exeter have I but little to say; he was fumish[irritable, captious] man, but no worse. But my Lord of Winchester didI never trust, nor did I cease to marvel that man could. As to KingEdward, betray him to his enemies to-day, and he should put his life inyour hands again to-morrow: never saw I man like to him, that noexperience would learn mistrust. Queen Isabel trusted few: but of themmy said Lord of Winchester was one. I have noted at times that theywhich be untrue themselves be little given to trust other. She trustednone save them she had tried: and she had tried this Bishop, not oncenor twice. He never brake faith with her; but with King Edward he brakeit a score of times twice told, and with his son that is now Kingbelike. I wis not whether at this time the Queen was ready to putaffiance in him; I scarce think she was: for she shut both Bishops outof her Council from the day she came to Paris. But not at this time, nor for long after did I guess what it signified. 

November was nigh run out, when one morrow Dame Joan de Vaux broughtword that the Queen, being a-cold, commanded her velvet mantle taken toher cabinet: and I, as the dame in waiting then on duty, took the sameto her. I found her sat of a chair of carven wood, beside the brasier, and two gentlemen of the other side of the hearth. Behind her chairDame Elizabeth waited, and I gave the mantle to her to cast over theQueen's shoulders. The gentlemen stood with their backs to the light, and I paid little note to them at first, save to see that one was apriest: but as I went about to go forth, the one that was not a priestturned his face, and I perceived to mine amaze that it was Sir Roger deMortimer. Soothly, it needed all my courtly self-command that I shouldnot cry out when I beheld him. Had I followed the prompting of mine ownheart, I should have cried, "Get thee gone, thou banished traitor!" He, who had returned unlicenced from Scotland ere the war was over, in thetime of old King Edward of Westminster; that had borne arms against hisson, then King, under my Lord of Lancaster; that, having his lifespared, and being but sent to the Tower, had there plotted to seizethree of the chief fortresses of the Crown--namely, the said Tower, andthe Castles of Windsor and Wallingford, --and had thereupon been cast fordeath, and only spared through the intercession of the Queen and theBishop of Hereford: yet, after all this, had he broken prison, bribingone of his keepers and drugging the rest, and was now a banished felon, in refuge over seas: _he_ to dare so much as to breathe the same airwith the wife of his Sovereign, with her that had been his advocate, andthat knew all his treacheries! Could any worser insult to the Queenhave been devised? But all at once, as I passed along the gallery, another thought came in upon me. What of her? who, knowing all this andmore, yet gave leave for this man--not to kneel at her feet and cry hermercy--that had been grace beyond any reasonable hope: but suffered himto stand in her presence, to appear in her privy cabinet--nay, to act asthough he were a noble appointed of her Council! Had she forgot all thepast?

I travelled no further for that time. The time was to come when Ishould perceive that forgetfulness was all too little to account for herdeeds. 

That night, Dame Tiffany being appointed to the pallet, it so fell outthat Dame Elizabeth, Dame Joan, and I, lay in the antechamber. We hadbut began to doff ourselves, and Dame Elizabeth was stood afore themirror, a-combing of her long hair--and rare long hair it was, and of afine colour (but I must not pursue the same, or Jack shall find in thehair an hare)--when I said to her--

"Dame Elizabeth, pray you tell me, were you in waiting when Sir Roger deMortimer came to the Queen?"

"Ay, " saith she, and combed away. 

"And, " said I, "with what excuse came he?"

"Excuse?" quoth she. "Marry, I heard none at all. "

"None!" I cried, tarrying in the doffing of my subtunic. "Were you notill angered to behold such a traitor?"

"Dame Cicely, " saith she, slowly pulling the loose hairs forth of thecomb, "if you would take pattern by me, and leave troubling yourselftouching your neighbours' doings, you should have fewer griefs to mournover. "

Could the left sleeve of my subtunic, which I was then a-doffing, havespoke unto me, I am secure he should have 'plained that he met with fullrough treatment at my hands. 

"Good for you, Dame, an' you so can!" said I somewhat of a heat. "Solong as my neighbours do well, I desire not to mell [meddle] nor make intheir matters. But if they do ill--"

"Why, then do I desire it even less, " saith she, "for I were more liketo get me into a muddle. Mine own troubles be enough for me, and fulltoo many. "

"Dear heart! had you ever any?" quoth I. 

"In very deed, I do ensure you, " saith she, "for this comb hath one ofhis teeth split, and he doth not only tangle mine hair, but giveth mevile wrenches betimes, when I look not for them. And 'tis but a monthgone, at Betesi [Bethizy], that I paid half-a-crown for him. The roguecheated me, as my name is Bess. I could find in mine heart to give hima talking. "

"Only a talking?" saith Dame Joan, and laughed. "You be happy woman, ingood sooth, if your worsest trouble be a comb that hath his teethsplit. "

"Do but try him!" quoth Dame Elizabeth, and snorked [twisted, contorted]up her mouth, as the comb that instant moment came to a spot where herhair was louked [fastened] together. "Bless the comb!" saith she, and Iguess she meant it but little. "Wala wa! Dame Joan, think you 'tismatter for laughter?"

"More like than greeting, " [weeping], she made answer. 

"Verily, " said I, "but I see much worser matter for tears than yourcomb, Dame Elizabeth. Either the Queen is sore ill-usen of her brother, that such ill companions should be allowed near her, or else--"

Well for me, my lace snapped at that moment, and I ended not thesentence. When I was laid down beside Dame Joan, it came to me like aflash of lightning--"Or else--what?" And at that minute Dame Joanturned her on the pillows, and set her lips to mine ear. 

"Dame Cicely, " quoth she, "mine heart misdoubts me it is the `or else. 'Pray you, govern your tongue, and use your eyes in time to come. Trustnot her in the red bed too much, and her in the green-hung chamber notat all. "

The first was Dame Elizabeth, and the last Dame Isabel de Lapyoun, thatlay in a chamber hung with green, with Dame Tiffany. I was secure shemeant not the other, but to make certain I whispered the name, and shesaith, "She. "

I reckoned it not ill counsel, for mine own thoughts assented thereto, in especial as touched Dame Isabel. 

After that day wherein Sir Roger de Mortimer was in the Queen's cabinet, I trow I kept mine eyes open. 

For a few days he came and went: but scarce more than a sennight hadpassed ere I learned that he had come to dwell in Paris all out; and butlittle more time was spent when one even, Dame Isabel de Lapyoun cameinto our chamber as we were about to hie us abed, and saith she, speaking to none in especial, but to all--

"Sir Roger de Mortimer is made of the Prince's following, and shall asto-morrow take up his abode in the Queen's hostel. "

"Dear heart!" saith Dame Elizabeth, making pause with one hand all wet, and in the other the napkin whereon she went about to dry it. "Well, nobusiness of mine, trow. "

I could not help to cry, "_Ha, chetife_!"

Dame Isabel made answer to neither the one nor the other, but marchedforth of the door with her nose an inch higher than she came in. Shewas appointed to the pallet for that night, so we three lay all in ourchamber. 

"This passeth!" saith Dame Elizabeth, drying of her fingers, calmenough, on the napkin. 

"Even as I looked for, " saith Dame Joan, but her voice was not so calm. There was in it a note of grief [a tone of indignation]. 

"_I_ ne'er trouble me to look for nought, " quoth Dame Elizabeth. "Whatgood, trow? Better to leave folks come and go, as they list, so long asthey let [hinder] you not to come and go likewise. "

"I knew not you were one of Cain's following, Dame Bess. "

"Cain's following!" saith she, drawing off her fillet. "Who was Cain, trow? Wala wa! but if my fillet be not all tarnished o' this side. Iwould things would go right!"

"So would I, and so did not Cain, " Dame Joan makes answer. "Who was he, quotha? Why, he that slew his brother Abel. "

"Oh, some of those old Scripture matters? I wis nought o' those folks. But what so? I have not slain my brother, nor my sister neither. "

"It looks as though your brother and your sister too might go astray andbe lost ere you should soil your fingers and strain your arms a-pullingthem forth. "

"Gramercy! Every man for himself!" saith Dame Elizabeth, a-pulling offher hood. "Now, here's a string come off! Alway my luck! If a bodymight but bide in peace--"

"And never have no troubles, nor strings come off, nor buttons broke, nor stitches come loose--" adds Dame Joan, a-laughing. 

"Right so--man might have a bit of piece of man's life, then. Why, lookyou, the string is all chafen, that it is not worth setting on anew; andso much as a yard of red ribbon have I not. I must needs don my hood ofgreen of Louvaine. "

She said it in a voice which might have gone with the direst calamitythat could befall. 

"Dame Elizabeth de Mohun, you be a full happy woman!"

"What will the woman say next?"

"That somewhat hangeth on what you may next say. "

"Well, what I next say is that I am full ill-used to have in one hour atarnished fillet and a broken string, and--Saint Lucy love us! here betwo of my buttons gone!"

I could thole no longer, and forth brake I in laughter. Dame Joanjoined with me, and some ado had we to peace Dame Elizabeth, that wassore grieved by our laughing. 

"Will you leave man be?" quoth she. "They be right [real] silverbuttons, and not one more have I of this pattern: I ensure you they costme four shillings the dozen at John Fairhair's in London [a Londongoldsmith]. I'll be bound I can never match them without I have themwrought of set purpose. Deary, deary me!"

"Well!" saith Dame Joan, "I may break my heart afore I die, but I countit will not be over buttons. "

"Not o'er your buttons, belike, " saith Dame Elizabeth. "And here, thisvery day, was Hilda la Vileyne at me, begging and praying me that Iwould pay her charges for that hood of scarlet wrought with gold andpearls the which I had made last year when I was here with the Queen. Truly, I forgat the same at that time; and now I have not the money tomine hand. But deary me, the pitiful tale she told!--of her mother ill, and her two poor little sisters without meet raiment for winter, andnever a bit of food nor fuel in the house--I marvel what maids would beat, to make up such tales!"

"It was not true, trow?"

"True?" saith Dame Elizabeth, pulling off her rings. "It might be trueas Damascus steel, for aught I know. But what was that to me? I lackedthe money for somewhat that liked me better than to buy fuel for aparcel of common folks like such. They be used to lack comforts, andnot I. And I hate to hear such stories, belike. Forsooth, man might aswell let down a black curtain over the window on a sunshine day as beplagued with like tales when he would fain be jolly. I sent her off inhot haste, I can tell you. "

"With the money?"

"The saints be about us! Not I. "

"And the little maids may greet them asleep for lack of food?" saithDame Joan. 

"How wis I there be any such? I dare be bound it was all a made-up taleto win payment. "

"You went not to see?"

"I go to see! I! Dame Joan, you be verily--"

"I am verily one for whom Christ our Lord deigned to die on the bitterrood, and so is Hilda la Vileyne. Tell me but where she dwelleth, and_I_ will go to see if the tale be true. "

"Good lack! I carry not folks' addresses in mine head o' that fashion. Let be; she shall be here again in a day or twain. She hath granted melittle peace these last ten days. "

"And you verily wis not where she dwelleth?"

"I wis nought thereabout, and an' I did I would never tell you to-night. Dear heart, do hie you abed and sleep in peace, and let other folks dothe like! I never harry me with other men's troubles. Good even!"

And Dame Elizabeth laid her down and happed the coverlet about her, andwas fast asleep in a few minutes. 

The next even, when we came into hall for supper, was Sir Roger deMortimer on the dais, looking as though the world belonged to him. Maybe he thought it was soon to do the same; and therein was he notdeceived. The first day, he sat in his right place, at the high table, after the knights and barons of France whom the King of France hadappointed to the charge of our Queen: but not many days were over ere hecrept up above them--and then above the bishops themselves, until atlast he sat on the left hand of Queen Isabel, my Lord of Chester beingat her right. But this first night he kept his place. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1. Neuilly. Queen Isabelle's scribe is responsible for theorthography in this and subsequent places. 

Note 2. The old Palace of the French Kings, the remaining part of whichis now known as the Conciergerie. 

Note 3. September 12th. 

Note 4. Cakes made with honey. Three pennyworth were served daily atthe royal table. 

Note 5. Wardrobe Account, 19 Edward the Second, 25/15. 

Note 6. Rheims and Soissons. An idea of the difficulties of travellingat that time maybe gathered from the entry of "Guides for the Queenbetween Paris and Rheims, 18 shillings. "

Note 7. The vessel containing the oil wherewith the Kings of Francewere anointed, oil and ampulla being fabled to have come from Heaven. 

Note 8. 2 pounds 13 shillings 4 pence. --Wardrobe Account, 19 Edward theSecond, 25/15. 

Note 9. Gee. This is one of the few words in our tongue directlyderivable from the ancient Britons. 

Note 10. "Avice Serueladi" occurs on the Close Roll for 1308. 

PART ONE, CHAPTER 3. 

HOW DAME ELIZABETH'S BILL WAS PAID. 

 "And yet it never was in my soul To play so ill a part: But evil is wrought by want of thought As well as by want of heart. "

 Thomas Hood. 

As I came forth of hall, after supper, that even, and we were enteredinto the long gallery whereinto the Queen's degrees opened, I was awareof a full slender and white-faced young maid, that held by the hand asmall [little child] of mayhap five or six years. She looked as thoughshe waited for some man. The Queen had tarried in hall to receive amessenger, and Dame Joan de Vaux was in waiting, so Dame Elizabeth, DameIsabel, Dame Tiffany, and I were those that passed along the gallery. Dame Isabel and Dame Tiffany the maid let pass, with no more than apitiful look at the former, that deigned her no word: but when DameElizabeth came next, on the further side, I being betwixt, the maidstepped forward into the midst, as if to stay her. Her thin hands wereclasped over her bosom, and the pitifullest look ever I saw was in hereyes. 

"_Dame, ayez pitie_!" was all she said; and it was rather breathed thanspoken. 

"Bless us, Saint Mary!--art thou here again?" quoth Dame Elizabeth of atestier fashion than she was wont. "Get thee gone, child; I have notime to waste. Dear heart, what a fuss is here over a crown or twain!Dost think thy money is lost? I will pay thee when it liketh me; I havenot my purse to mine hand at this minute. "

And on she walked, brushing past the maid. I tarried. 

"Are you Hilda la Vileyne?" I said unto her. 

"Dame, that is my name, and here is my little sister Iolande. She hathnot tasted meat [food] this day, nor should not yesterday, had not akindly gentleman, given me a denier to buy soup. But truly I do not askfor charity--only to be paid what I have honestly earned. "

"And hadst thou some soup yesterday?"

"Yes--no--Oh, I am older; I can wait better than the little ones. Themother is sick: she and the babes must not wait. It does not signifyfor me. "

Oh, how hungered were those great eyes, that looked too large for thewhite face! The very name of soup seemed to have brought the cravinglook therein. 

I turned to the small. "Tell me, Iolande, had Hilda any of the soupyesterday?"

"No, " said the child; "I and Madeleine drank it, every drop, that ourmother left. "

"And had Hilda nothing?"

"There was a mouldy crust in the cupboard, " said the child. "It haddropped behind the cup, and Hilda found it when she took the cup down. We could not see it behind. We can only just reach to take the cupdown, and put it up again. That was what Hilda had, and she wiped thecup with one end of it. "

"The cup that had held the soup?"

"Yes, surely, " said the child, with a surprised look. "We only haveone, --does not Madame know?"

"It is an esquelle [porringer; a shallow bowl], not a cup, " said Hilda, reddening a little: "the child hardly knows the difference. "

I felt nearhand as though I could have twisted Dame Elizabeth's neck formeat for those children. 

"And are you, in good sooth, so ill off as that?" said I. "No meat, andonly one esquelle in all the house?"

"Dame, " said Hilda meekly, as in excuse, "our father was long ill, andnow is our mother likewise; and many things had to be sold to pay theapothecary, and also while I waited on them could I not be at work; andmy little sisters are not old enough to do much. But truly it is onlythese last few weeks that we have been quite so ill off as to have nofood, and I have been able to earn but a few deniers now and then--enough to keep us alive, but no more. "

"How much oweth you Dame Elizabeth?" said I. 

"Dame, it is seven crowns for the hood I wrought, and three more for agirdle was owing aforetime, and now four for kerchiefs broidering: it isfourteen crowns in all. I should not need to ask charity if I could butbe paid my earnings. The apothecary said our mother was sick ratherfrom sorrow and want of nourishment than from any malady; and if thegood Dame would pay me, I might not only buy fresh matter for my work, but perchance get food that would make my mother well--at least wellenough to sew, and then we should have two pairs of hands instead ofone. I do not beg, Dame!"

She louted low as she spoke, and took her little sister again by thehand. "Come, Iolande; we keep Madame waiting. "

"But hast thou got no money?" pleaded the barne. "Thou saidst toMadeleine that we should bring some supper back. Thou didst, Hilda!"

"I did, darling, " allowed her sister, looking a little ashamed. "Icould not peace the babe else, and--I hoped we should. "

I could bear no more. The truth of those maids' story was in the littleone's bitter disappointment, and in poor Hilda's hungry eyes. Eyesspeak sooth, though lips be false. 

"Come, " said I. "I pray you, tarry but one moment more. You shall notlose by it. "

"We are at Madame's service, " said Hilda. 

I ran up degrees as fast as ever I could. As the saints would have it, that very minute I oped the door, was Dame Elizabeth haling forth silverin her lap, and afore her stood the jeweller's man awaiting to be paid. Blame me who will, I fell straight on those gold pieces and silvercrowns. 

"Fourteen crowns, Dame Elizabeth!" quoth I, all scant of breath. "Quick! give me them--for Hilda la Vileyne--and if no, may God forgiveyou, for I never will!"

Soothly, had the Archangel Raphael brake into the chamber and demandedfourteen crowns, Dame Elizabeth could have gazed on him no more astoniedthan she did on me, Cicely, that she had seen nearhand every day of herlife for over a dozen years. I gave her leave to look how it listedher. From the coins in her lap I counted forth nine nobles and a Frenchcrown, and was half-way down degrees again ere she well knew what Iwould be at. If I had had to pay her back every groat out of mine ownpurse--nay, verily, if I had stood to be beheaden for it--I would havehad that money for Hilda la Vileyne that night. 

They stood where I had left them, by the door of the long gallery, nearthe _porte-cochere_, but now with them was a third--mine own Jack, thathad but now come in from the street, and the child knew him again, asshe well showed. 

"O Hilda!"

I heard her say, as I came running down swiftly--for I was dread afraidDame Elizabeth should overtake me and snatch back the money--and I mighthave spared my fears, for had I harried the Queen's crown along with hercrowns, no such a thing should ever have come in her head--"O Hilda!"saith the child, "see here the good Messire who gave us the denier tobuy soup. "

I might have guessed it was Jack. He o'erheard the child, and stayedhim to pat her on the head. 

"Well, little one, was the soup good?"

"So good, Messire! But Hilda got none--not a drop. "

"Hush!" saith Hilda; but the child would go on. 

"None at all! why, how was that?" saith Jack, looking at Hilda. 

I answered for her. "The sick mother and helpless babes had the soup, "said I; "and this brave maid was content with a mouldy crust. Jack, aword in thine ear. "

"Good!" saith he, when I had whispered to him. "Go thy ways, sweetheart, and so do. "

"Nay, there is no need to go any ways, " said I, "for here cometh Melioradown degrees, and of a truth I somewhat shrink from facing DameElizabeth after my robbery of her, any sooner than must be--Meliora, child, wilt run above an instant, and fetch my blue mantle and thethicker of mine hoods?"

Meliora ran up straightway; for though she was something too forward, and could be pert when she would, yet was she good-natured enough whenkindly used. I turned to Hilda. 

"Hold thy palm, my maid, " said I. "Here is the money the lady ought[owed] thee. " And I haled into her hand the gold pieces and the silvercrown. 

Verily, I could have greeted mine eyes sore to see what then befell. The barne capered about and clapped her hands, crying, "Supper! supper!now we shall have meat!" but Hilda covered her eyes with her void hand, and sobbed as though her heart should break. 

"God Almighty bless you, kind Dame!" said she, when as she could speakagain. "I was nearhand in utter mishope [nearly in despair]. Now mymother can have food and physic, and maybe, if it please God, she shallrecover. May I be forgiven, but I was beginning to think the good Godcared not for poor folks like us, or maybe that there was no God to careat all. "

Down came Meliora with my hood and mantle, which I cast all hastilyabout me, and then said I to Hilda--

"My maid, I would fain see thy mother; maybe I could do her some good;and mine husband here will go with us for a guard. Lead on. "

"God bless you!" she said yet again. "He _must_ have heard me. " Thelast words were spoken lowly, as to herself. 

We went forth of the great gates, and traversed the good streets, andcame into divers little alleys that skirt the road near Saint Denis'Gate. In one of these Hilda turned into an house--a full poor hut itwas--and led me up degrees into a poor chamber, whither the child rangleefully afore. Jack left me at the door, he and I having covenanted, when we whispered together, what he should do whilst I visited Hilda'smother. 

Little Iolande ran forward into the chamber, crying, "Supper! supper!Mother and Madeleine, Hilda has money for supper!"

What I then beheld was a poor pallet, but ill covered with a thincoverlet, whereon lay a pale, weak woman, that seemed full ill at ease, yet I thought scarce so much sick of body as sick at heart and faintwith fasting and sorrow. At the end of the pallet sat a child somethingelder than Iolande, but a child still. There was no form in thechamber, but Hilda brought forward an old box, whereon she cast a cleanapron, praying me to sit, and to pardon them that this should be thebest they had to offer. I sat me down, making no matter thereof, for invery deed I was full of pity for these poor creatures. 

The mother, as was but like, took me for Dame Elizabeth, and began tothank me for having paid my debts--at long last, she might have said. But afore I could gainsay it, Hilda saith warmly--

"Oh no, Mother! This is not the lady that ought the money. Madame hereis good--so good! and that lady--she has no heart in her, I think. "

"Not very good, Hilda, " said I, laughing, "when I fell on the dame thatought thee the money, and fairly wrenched it from her, whether she wouldor no. Howbeit, " I continued to the poor woman, "_I_ will be good toyou, if I can. "

By bits and scraps I pulled her story forth of her mouth. It was nouncommon tale: a sickly wife and a selfish husband, --a deserted, struggling wife and mother--and then a penniless widow, with no friendsand poor health, that could scant make shift to keep body and soultogether, whether for herself or the children. The husband had comehome at last but to be a burden and sorrow--to be nursed through atwelve months' sickness and then to die; and what with the weariness andlack of all comfort, the poor widow fell sick herself soon after, andHilda, the young maid, had kept matters a-going, as best she might, eversithence. 

I comforted the poor thing to my little power; told her that I wouldgive Hilda some work to do (and pay her for it), and that I would comeand see her by times whilst the Queen should abide in Paris; but thatwhen she went away must I go likewise, and it might be all suddenly, that I could not give her to wit. Hilda had sent the children forth tobuy food, and there were but her and her mother. Mine husband waslonger in return than I looked for. 

"My maid, " said I to Hilda, "prithee tell me a thing. What didst thousignify by saying to thyself, right as we set forth from the Palace, that God must have heard thee?"

A great wave of colour passed over her face and neck. 

"Dame, " she said, "I will speak soothliness. It was partly because Ihad prayed for money to buy food and physic: but partly also, because Iwas afraid of something, and I had asked the good God to keep it awayfrom me. When you said that you and Messire would condescend to comewith me, it delivered me from my fear. The good God must have heard me, for nobody else knew. "

"Afraid!" said I. "Whereof, my maid? Was it the porter's great dog?He is a gentle beast as may be, and would never touch thee. What couldharm thee in the Queen's Palace?"

The wave of colour came again. "Madame does not know, " she said, in alow voice. "There are men worse than brutes: but such great ladies donot see it. One stayed me and spoke to me the night afore. I wasafraid he might come again, and there was no one to help me but the goodLord. So I called to Him to be my guard, for there was none else; and Ithink He sent two of His angels with me. "

Mine own eyes were full, no less than Hilda's. 

"May the good Lord guard thee ever, poor maid!" said I. "But in verysooth, I am far off enough from an angel. Here cometh one somethingnearer thereto"--for I heard Jack's voice without. "But tell me, dostthou know who it was of whom thou wert afraid?"

"I only know, " she said, "that his squire bare a blue and white livery, guarded in gold. I heard not his name. "

"Verily!" said I to myself, "such gentlemen be fair company for DameIsabel the Queen!"

For I could have no doubt that poor Hilda's enemy was that bad man, SirRoger de Mortimer. Howbeit, I said no more, for then oped the door, andin came Jack, with a lad behind, bearing a great basket. Jack's ownarms were full of fardels [parcels], which he set down in a corner ofthe chamber, and bade the lad empty the basket beside, which was chargedwith firewood, "There!" saith he, "they be not like to want for a day ortwain, poor souls! Come away, Sissot; we have earned a night's rest. "

"Messire!" cried the faint voice of the poor woman. "Messire is good asan angel from Heaven! But surely Messire has not demeaned himself tocarry burdens--and for us!"

She seemed nearhand frightened at the thought. 

"Nay, good woman, " saith Jack, merrily--"no more than the angel thatcarried the cruse of water for the Prophet Elias. Well-a-day! securelyI can carry a fardel without tarnishing my spurs? I would I might neverdo a worse deed. "

"Amen!" said I, "for both of us. "

We bade the woman and Hilda good even, and went forth, followed byblessings till we were in the very street: and not till then would Isay--

"Jack, thou art the best man ever lived, but I would thou hadst a littlemore care for appearances. Suppose Sir Edmund or Master de Oxendon hadseen thee!"

"Well?" saith Jack, as calm as a pool in a hollow. "Suppose they had. "

"Why, then should they have laughed thee to scorn. "

"Suppose they did?"

"Jack! Dost thou nothing regard folks' thoughts of thee?"

"Certes. I regard thine full diligently. "

"But other folks, that be nought to thee, I would say. "

"If the folks be nought to me, wherefore should the thoughts be ofimport? Securely, good wife, but very little. I shall sleep thesweeter for those fardels: and I count I should sleep none the worser ifman laughed at me. The blessing of the poor and the blessing of theLord be full apt to go together: and dost thou reckon I would missthat--yea, so much as one of them--out of regard for that which is, saith Solomon, `_sonitum spinarum sub olla_'? [Ecclesiastes chapterseven, verse 6]. _Ha, jolife_! let the thorns crackle away, prithee;they shall not burn long. "

"Jack, " said I, "thou _art_ the best man ever lived!"

"Rhyme on, my fair _trouvere_, " quoth he. [Troubadour. Their lays wereusually legends and fictitious tales. ] "But, Sissot, to speak sooth, Iwill tell thee, if thou list to hearken, what it is keepeth my stepsfrom running into many a by-way, and mine heart from going astray aftermany a flower sown of Satan in my path. "

"Do tell me, Jack, " said I. 

"There be few days in my life, " saith he, "that there cometh not upafore mine eyes that Bar whereat I shall one day stand, and that Bookout of the which all my deeds shall be read afore men and angels. And Ihave some concern for the thoughts of them that look on, that day, rather than this. Many a time--ay, many a time twice told--in earlymorn or in evening twilight, have I looked up into heaven, and thethought hath swept o'er me like a fiery breeze--`What if our Lord becoming this minute?' Dost thou reckon, Sissot, that man to whom suchthoughts be familiar friends, shall be oft found sitting in thealebooth, or toying with frothy vanities? I trow not. "

"But, Jack!" cried I, letting all else drop, "is that all real to thee?"

"Real, Sissot? There is not another thing as real in life. "

I burst forth. I could not help it. 

"O Jack, Jack! Don't go and be a monk!"

"Go and be a monk!" saith Jack, with an hearty laugh. "Why, Wife, whatbees be in thine hood? I thought I was thine husband. "

"So thou art, the saints be thanked, " said I. "But thou art so good, Iam sore afraid thou wilt either die or be a monk. "

"I'll not be a monk, I promise thee, " quoth he. "I am not half goodenough, nor would I lose my Sissot. As to dying, be secure I shall notdie an hour afore God's will is: and the Lord hath much need of goodfolks to keep this bad world sweet. I reckon we may be as good as wecan with reasonable safety. I'll try, if thou wilt. "

So I did, and yet do: but I shall never be match to Jack. 

Well, by this time we had won back to the Queen's lodging; and at footof degrees I bade good-night to Jack, being that night appointed to thepallet--a business I never loved. I was thinking on Jack's last words, as I went up, and verily had for the nonce forgat that which went afore, when all at once a voice saith in mine ear--

"Well, Dame Cicely! Went you forth in such haste lest you should beclapped into prison for stealing? Good lack, but mine heart's in mymouth yet! Were you wood [mad], or what ailed you?"

"Dame Elizabeth, " said I, as all came back on me, "I have been to visitHilda's mother. "

"Dear heart! And what found you? Was she a-supping on goose and leeks?That make o' folks do alway feign to be as poor as Job, when theircoffers be so full the lid cannot be shut. You be young, Dame Cicely, and know not the world. "

"Maybe, " said I. "But if you will hearken me, I will tell you what Ifound. "

"Go to, then, " saith she, as she followed me into our chamber. "Whate'er you found, you left me too poor to pay the jeweller. I wouldfain have had a sapphire pin more than I got, but your raid on my pursedisabled me thereof. The rogue would give me no credit. "

"Hear but my tale, " said I, "and if when it be told you regret yoursapphire pin, I beseech you say so. "

So I told her in plain words, neither 'minishing nor adding, how I hadfound them, and the story I had heard from the poor woman. Shelistened, cool enough at first, but ere I made an end the water stood inher eyes. 

"_Ha, chetife_!" said she, when I stayed me. "I'll pay the maid anothertime. Trust me, Dame Cicely, I believed not a word. If you had beencheated as oft--! Verily, I am sorry I sent not man to see how mattersstood with them. Well, I am fain you gave her the money, after all. But, trust me, you took my breath away!"

"And my own belike, " said I. 

I think Hilda and hers stood not in much want the rest of that winter. But whenever she came with work for me, either Margaret my maid, orJack's old groom, a sober man and an ancient, walked back with her. 

Meantime Sir Roger de Mortimer played first viol in the Courtminstrelsy. Up and yet higher up he crept, till he could creep nofurther, as I writ a few leaves back. On the eve of Saint Pancras wascrowned the new Queen of France in the Abbey of Saint Denis, which is toFrance as Westminster Abbey to us: and there ramped my Lord of Mortimerin the very suite of the Queen herself, and in my Lord of Chester's ownlivery. Twice-banished traitor, he appeared in the self presence of theKing that had banished him, and of the wife of his own natural Prince, to whom he had done treason of the deepest dye. And not one voice saidhim nay. 

Thus went matters on till the beginning of September, 1326. The Queenabode at Paris; the King of France made no sign: our King's trustymessager, Donald de Athole, came and went with letters (and if it werenot one of his letters the Queen dropped into the brasier right as Icame one day into her chamber, I marvel greatly); but nought came forththat we her ladies heard. On the even of the fifth of September, early, came Sir John de Ostrevant to the Palace, and had privy speech of theQueen--none being thereat but her confessor and Dame Isabel de Lapyoun:and he was scarce gone forth when, as we sat in our chamber a-work, theQueen herself looked in and called Dame Elizabeth forth. 

I thought nought of it. I turned down hem, and cut off some threads, and laid down scissors, and took up my needle to thread afresh--in theHotel de Saint Pol at Paris. And that needle was not threaded but inthe Abbey of Saint Edmund's Bury in Suffolk, twenty days after. Yet ifman had told me it should so be, I had felt ready to laugh him to scorn. Ah me, what feathers we be, that a breath from God Almighty can wafthither or thither at His will!

Never but that once did I see Dame Elizabeth to burst into a chamber. And when she so did, I was in such amaze thereat that I fair gasped tosee it. 

"Good lack!" cried I, and stared on her. 

"Well may you say it!" quoth she. "Lay by work, all of you, and makeyou ready privily in all haste for journeying by night. Lose not amoment. "

"Mary love us!" cries Isabel de la Helde. "Whither?"

"Whither the Queen's will is. Hold your tongues, and make you ready. "

We lay that night--and it was not till late--in the town of Sessouns, inthe same lodging the Queen had before, at Master John de Gyse's house. The next night we lay at Peronne, and the third we came to Ostrevant. 

Dame Isabel told us the reason of this sudden flight. The Queen hadheard that her brother the King of France--who for some time past hadbeen very cool and distant towards her--had a design to seize upon herand deliver her a prisoner to King Edward: and Sir John of Hainault, Count of Ostrevant, who came to bring her this news, offered her arefuge in his Castle of Ostrevant. I believed this tale when DameIsabel told it: I have no faith in it now. What followed did awayentirely therewith, and gave me firm belief that it was nothing save anexcuse to get away in safety and without the King of France's knowledge. Be it how it may, Sir Roger de Mortimer came with her. 

We were not many days at Ostrevant: only long enough for the Count toraise his troops, and then, when all was ready, the Queen embarked forEngland. On the 22nd of September we came ashore at Orwell, and hadfull ill lodging; none having any shelter save the Queen herself, forwhom her knights ran up a shed of driftwood, hung o'er with carpets. Never had I so discomfortous a night--the sea tossing within a fewyards, and the wind roaring in mine ears, and the spray all-to beatingover me as I lay on the beach, lapped in a mantle. I was well pleasedthe next morrow, when the Queen, whose rest had been little, gavecommand to march forward to Bury. But afore we set forth, come nearhandan army of peasants into the presence, 'plaining of the Queen'sofficers, that had taken their cows, chickens, and fruits, and paid nota penny. The Queen had them all brought afore her, and with her ownhands haled forth the money due to each one, bidding them bring alloppressions to her own ears, and straitly commanding her officers thatthey should take not so much as an egg without payment. By this meansshe won all the common people to her side, and they were ready to settheir lives in pledge for her truth and honour. 

At that time I was but little aware how matters verily stood. I said toDame Joan de Vaux that the Queen showed her goodness hereby--for thoughI knew the Mortimer by then to be ill man, I wist not that she knew it, and reckoned her yet as innocent and beguiled woman. 

"Doth she so?" answered Dame Joan. "How many grapes may man gather of abramble?"

"Nay!" said I, scarce perceiving her intent, "but very grapes come notof brambles. "

"Soothly, " saith she: "neither do very brambles bear grapes. "

Three days the Queen tarried at Bury: then, with banners flying, shemarched on toward Essex. I thought it strange that even she shouldmarch with displayed banners, seeing the King was not of her company:but I reckoned she had his order, and was acting as his deputy. Elsewise had it been dread treason [Note 1], even in her. I wasconfirmed in my thought when my Lord of Lancaster, the King's cousin, and my Lord of Norfolk, the King's brother, came to meet her and joinedtheir troops to her company; and yet more when the Archbishop of Dublin, and the Bishops of Hereford, Lincoln, and Ely, likewise joined them toher. Verily, such holy men could not countenance treason. 

Truth enough: but that which was untrue was not the treason, but theholiness of these Caiaphases. 

And now began that woeful Dolorous Way, which our Lord King Edward trodafter his Master Christ. But who knoweth whither a strange road shalllead him, until he be come to the end thereof? I wis well that manyfolk have said unto us--Jack and me--since all things were made plain, How is it ye saw not aforetime, and wherefore followed ye the Queen thuslong? They saw not aforetime, no more than we; but now that all isopen, up come they with wagging heads and snorkilling noses, and--"Verily, we were sore to blame for not seeing through the mist"--the mist through the which, when it lay thick, no man saw. _Ha, chetife_! I could easily fall to prophesying, myself, when all is over. Could we have seen what lay at the end of that Dolorous Way, should anytrue and loyal man have gone one inch along it?

And who was like to think, till he did see, what an adder the Kingnursed in his bosom? Most men counted her a fair white dove, allinnocent and childlike: that did I not. I did see far enough, for allthe mist, to see she was no child in that fashion; yet children lovemischief well enough betimes; and I counted her, if not white, butgrey--not the loathly black fiend that she was at the last seen to be. I saw many a thing I loved not, many a thing I would not have done inher place, many a thing that I but half conceived, and feared to be illdeed--but there ended my seeing. I thought she was caught within themeshes of a net, and I was sorry she kept not thereout. But I neverguessed that the net was spread by her own hands. 

My mother, Dame Alice de Lethegreve, I think, saw clearer than I did:but it was by reason she loved more, --loved him who became thesacrifice, not the miserable sinner for whose hate and wickedness he wassacrificed. 

So soon as King Edward knew of the Queen's landing, which was byMichaelmas Eve at latest, he put forth a proclamation to all his lieges, wherein he bade them resist the foreign horde about to be poured uponEngland. Only three persons were to be received with welcome andhonour: which was, the Queen herself, Edward her son (his father, in hisjust ire, named him not his son, neither as Earl of Chester), and theKing's brother, the Lord Edmund of Kent. I always was sorry for my Lordof Kent; he was so full hoodwinked by the Queen, and never so much asguessed for one moment, that he acted a disloyal part. He was a noblegentleman, a kindly and a generous; not, maybe, the wisest man in therealm, and something too prone to rush after all that had the look of anoble deed, ere he gave himself time enough to consider the same. Butif the world held no worser men at heart than he, it were marvellousbetter world than now. 

One other thing did King Edward, which showed how much he had learned:he offered a great price of one thousand pounds [about 18, 000 pounds, according to modern value], for the head of the Mortimer: and no soonerdid the Queen hear thereof, than she offered double--namely, twothousand pounds--for the head of Sir Hugh Le Despenser--a man whoselittle finger was better worth two thousand than the Mortimer's head wasworth one. Two days later, the King fortified the Tower, and appointedthe Lord John of Eltham governor thereof; but he being only a child often years, the true governor was the Lady Alianora La Despenser, who wasleft in charge of the King's said son. And two days afore Saint Francis[October 2nd] he left the Tower, and set forth toward Wallingford, leaving the Bishop of Exeter to keep the City: truly a thanklessbusiness, for never could any man yet keep the citizens of London. Norcould he: for a fortnight was not over ere they rose in insurrectionagainst the King's deputies, invested the Tower, wrenched the keys fromthe Constable, John de Weston, to whom the Lady Alianora had confidedthem, brought her out with the young Lord, and carried them to theWardrobe--not without honour--and then returning, they seized on theBishop, with two of his squires, and strake off their heads at theStandard in Chepe. And this will I say for the said Bishop, though hewere not alway pleasant to deal withal, for he was very furnish--yet washe honest man, and loved his master, ay, and held to him in days when itwas little profit so to do. And seeing how few honest men there be, that will hold on to the right when their profit lieth to the left, thatis much to say. 

With the King went Sir Hugh Le Despenser--I mean the younger, that wascreate Earl of Gloucester by reason of his marriage; for the LadyAlianora his wife was eldest of the three sisters that were coheirs ofthat earldom. And thereanent--well-a-day! how different folks do fromthat I should do in their place! I can never tell wherefore, when mandoth ill, the penalty thereof should be made to run over on his innocentsons. Because Sir Hugh forfeited the earldom, wherefore passed it notto his son, that was loyal man and true, and one of the King's bestcouncillors all his life? On the contrary part, it was bestowed on SirHugh de Audley, that wedded the Lady Margaret (widow of Sir Piers deGavaston), that stood next of the three coheirs. And it seemeth mescarce just that Sir Hugh de Audley, that had risen up against KingEdward of old time, and been prisoned therefor, and was at best but apardoned rebel, should be singled out for one of the finest earldoms inEngland, and not Sir Hugh Le Despenser, whose it was of right, and towhose charge--save the holding of the Castle of Caerphilly against QueenIsabel, which was in very loyalty to his true lord King Edward--no faultat all could be laid. I would I had but the world to set right! Thenshould there be justice done, and every wrong righted, and all crookedways put straight, and every man and woman made happy. Dear heart, whatfair and good world were this, when I had made an end of--

Did man laugh behind me?

"Jack! Soothly, I thought it must be thou. What moveth thy laughter?"

"Dame Cicely de Chaucombe, " saith he, essaying to look sober--which hemanaged but ill. "The Annals of Cicely, likewise; and the imaginings ofCicely in especial. "

"Well, what now mispayeth [displeases] thee?" quoth I. 

"There was once man, " saith Jack, "thought as thou dost. And seeingthat the hollyhocks in his garden were taller than the daisies, he badehis gardener with a scythe cut short the hollyhocks, that all theflowers should be but of one height. "

"Well, what happed?" said I. 

"Why, next day were there no hollyhocks. And then the hollyhock stemsand the daisies both laid 'plaint of the gardener. "

"Both?" said I. 

"Both. They alway do. "

"But what 'plaint had the daisies to offer?"

"Why, that they had not been pulled up to the height of the hollyhocks, be sure. "

"But how could they so?"

"Miscontent hath no `can' in his hornbook. Not what thou canst, butwhat he would, is his measure of justice. "

"But justice is justice, " said I--"not what any man would, but what isfair and even. "

"Veriliest. But what is fair and even? If thou stand on Will's haw[hillock], the oak on thy right hand is the largest tree; if thou standon Dick's, it shall be the beech on thy left. And thine ell-wandreacheth not. How then to measure?"

"But I would be on neither side, " said I, "but right in the midst: soshould I see even. "

"Right in the midst, good wife, is where God standeth; and few men winthere. There be few matters whereof man can see both to the top and tothe bottom. Mostly, if man see the one end, then he seeth not theother. And that which man seeth not, how shall he measure? Withoutthou lay out to follow the judge which said that he would clearly manshould leave to harry him with both sides of a matter. So long as heheard but the plaintiff, he could tell full well where the right lay;but after came the defendant, and put him all out, that he wist not onwhich side to give judgment. Maybe Judge Sissot should sit on the benchalongside of him. "

"Now, Jack, " said I, "thou laughest at me. "

"Good discipline for thee, sweetheart, " saith he, "and of lesserseverity than faulting thee. But supposing the world lay in thine handsto set right, and even that thou hadst the power thereto, how long timedost think thy work should abide?"

"_Ha, chetife_!" cried I. "I ne'er bethought me of that. "

"The world was set right once, " quoth Jack, "by means of cold water, andwell washed clean therein. But it tarried not long, as thou wist. Sinwas not washed away; and Satan was not drowned in the Flood: and verysoon thereafter were they both a-work again. Only one stream can washthe world to last, and that floweth right from the rood on Calvary. "

"Yet there is enough, " said I, "to wash the whole world. "

"Verily. But how, if the world will not come and wash? `He thatwill'--_qui vult_--`let him take water of life freely. ' But he that isnot athirst for the holy water, shall not have it forced down his throatagainst his will. "

"How shall man come by the thirst, Jack, if he hath it not? For if thegift shall be given only to him that thirsteth for it, it seemeth me thethirst must needs be born ere we shall come for the water. "

"Nay, sweetheart, we all desire happiness and wealth and honour; themistake is that we be so ready to slake our thirst at the pools of muddywater which abound on every hand, rather than go to the fount of livingwater. We grasp at riches and honours and pleasures of this life: lo, here the blame, in that we are all athirst for the muddy pool, and haveno desire for the holy water--for the gold of the royal mint stampedwith the King's image, for the crown of everlasting life, for the blisswhich shall endure unto all ages. We cry soothly for these things; butit is aswhasay, Give me happiness, but let it end early; give me seeminggold, but let it be only tinsel; give me a crown, but be it one thatwill fade away. Like a babe that will grip at a piece of tin whereonthe sun shineth, and take no note of a golden ingot that lieth by inshadow. "

"But who doth such things, Jack?"

"Thou and I, Sissot, unless Christ anoint our eyes that we see insooth. "

"Jack!" cried I, all suddenly, "as I have full many times told thee, thou art better man than many a monk. "

"Now scornest thou at me, " saith he. "How can I be perfect, that amwedded man? [Note 2. ] Thou wist well enough that perfect men be onlyfound among the contemplative, not among them that dwell in the world. Yet soothly, I reckon man may dwell in the world and love Christ, or hemay dwell in cloister and be none of His. "

Well, I know not how that may be; but this do I know, that never wasthere any Jack even to my Jack; and I am sore afraid that if I ever wininto Heaven, I shall never be able to see Jack, for he shall be tenthousand mile nearer the Throne than I Cicely am ever like to be. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1. At this time it was high treason for any subject to march withbanners displayed, unless he acted as the King's representative by hisdistinct commission. 

Note 2. The best men then living looked on the life of idlecontemplation as the highest type of Christian life, to which no marriedman could attain. 

PART ONE, CHAPTER 4. 

THE GLAMOUR OF THE QUEEN. 

 "Hast thou beheld thyself, and couldst thou stain So rare perfection? Even for love of thee I do profoundly hate thee. "

 Lady Elizabeth Carew. 

So I was got into the Annals of Cicely, was I? Well then, have back. Dear heart! but what a way have I to go back ere I can find where I wasin my story!

Well the King left the Tower for Wallingford, and with him Sir Hugh LeDespenser, and Hugh his young son, Archdeacon Baldok, Edward de Bohunthe King's nephew, and divers of his following. I know not whether hehad with him also his daughters, the young Ladies Alianora and Joan, orif they were brought to him later. By Saint Denis' Eve [October 7th] hehad reached Wallingford. 

The Queen was in march to London: but hearing that the King had left, she altered her course, and went to Oxford. There tarried we one day, and went to our duties in the Church of Saint Martin [Note 1], where anhomily was preachen by my Lord of Hereford [Note 2]. And a strangehomily it was, wherein Eva our mother stood for the Queen, and I supposeAdam for the King, and Sir Hugh Le Despenser (save the mark!) was theserpent. I stood it out, but I will not say I goxide [gaped] not. Thenext day went the Queen on toward Gloucester, pursuing the King, whichhad been there about ten days afore her. She put forth fromWallingford, on her way between Oxford and Gloucester, a letter whereinshe earnestly prayed the King to return, and promised that he shouldreceive the government with all honour if he would conform him to hispeople. I had been used to hear of the people obeying the King, as induty bound to him whom God had set over them; and this talk of the Kingobeying the people was marvellous strange to mine ears. Howbeit, it wastalk only; for what was really meant was that he should conform himselfto his wife. And considering how much wives be bidden of God to obeytheir lords, that surely was as ill as the other. Which the King sawbelike, for instead of coming nearer he went further away, right overthe Severn, and strengthened himself, first in the strong Castle ofChepstow, and after in the Castle of Caerphilly. For us, we went on, though not so quick as he, to Gloucester, and thence to Bristol, whereSir Hugh de Despenser the father was governor, and where the citizens, on the Queen's coming, opened the gates to her, and Sir Hugh onperceiving it retired into the Castle. But she summoned the Castle alsoto surrender, which was done speedily of the officers, and Sir Hughdelivered into her hands. Moreover, the two little ladies, the King'sdaughters, whom he had sent from Gloucester on his retreat across theSevern, were brought to her [Note 3], and she welcomed them motherly, orat least seemed to do so. Wala wa! I have no list to set down whatfollowed, and will run by the same as short as shall serve truth. 

The morrow of Saint Crispin, namely, the 26th day of October, the Queenand her son, now Duke of Aquitaine--whom man whilome called Earl ofChester--came into the great hall of Bristol Castle, and sat in state: ICicely being behind the Queen's chair, and Jack in waiting on my Lordthe Duke. Which done, they called council of the prelates and nobles ofthe realm, being the Archbishop of Dublin and five bishops; the King'stwo brothers, my Lords of Norfolk and Kent; my Lord of Lancaster theircousin; and all the nobles then present in Bristol town: thus theygathered, the Duke on the right hand of the throne and the Queen on theleft, the throne all empty. Then a marvellous strange thing happened:for the Queen rose up and spake, in open Council, to the prelates andnobles of England. When she first arose (as afterwards I heard say)were there some murmurs that a woman should so speak; and divers up anddown the hall rowned [whispered] one the other in the ear that it hadbeen more seemly had she kept to her distaff. But when she ended, sogreat was the witchery of her fair face, and the gramary [magic] of hersilver voice, that scarce man was in the hall but was ready to live anddie with her. _Ha, chetife_! how she witched the world! yet never didshe witch me. 

How can it be, I marvel at times, that men--and women too--will sufferthemselves to be thus led astray, and yet follow on, oft knowing whitherthey go, after some one man or woman, that casteth over them a manner ofgramary? There be some that can witch whom they will, that God keepethnot. And 'tis not alway a fair face that witcheth; I have known fullunbright [plain, ugly] folks that have this charm with them. And I notemoreover, that many times he that wields it doth use it for evil, andnot for good. I dare not say no good man ever hath the same; forsecurely I know not all folks in this world: yet of them I do know, Icannot call to mind a verily good man or woman that hath seemed me topossess this power over his fellows. I have known some metely good folkthat had a touch thereof; but of such as I mean, that do indeed wield itin power, and draw all manner of men to them, and after them, nearhandwhether they choose or no--of such I cannot call to mind one that wastrue follower of our Lord. Therefore it seems me an evil power, and onethat may come of Satan, sith it mostly is used in his service. And Ipray God neither of my daughters may ever show the same, for at best itmust be full of peril of pride to him that possesseth it. Indeed, hadit so been, I think they should have shown it afore now. 

But now to have back to the hall of Bristol Castle, lest Jack, coming into look stealthily over my shoulder as he doth betimes, should say Ihave won again into the Annals of Cicely. 

Well, all the prelates and nobles were full witched by Dame Isabel theQueen, and agreed unto all her plans, the which came ready cut anddried, as though all had been thought on and settled long afore. Verily, I dare say it so had. First, they elected the Duke of Aquitaineto the regency--which of course was the self thing as electing hismother, since he, being a mere lad, was but her mouthpiece, and wasbuxom [submissive] unto her in all things: and all present sware tofulfil his pleasure, as though he had been soothly king, under his privyseal, for there was no seal meet for the regency. And incontinent[immediately] thereafter, the said Duke, speaking doubtless the pleasureof the Queen, commanded Sir Hugh Le Despenser the father to be broughtto his trial in the hall of the Castle. 

Then was he led in, an old white-haired man, [See note in Appendix, onthe Despensers], stately and venerable, who stood up before the Councilas I would think none save innocent man should do, and looked the Queenstraight in the face. He was not witched with her gramary; and soothlyI count in all that hall he was the sole noble that escaped the spell. A brave man was he, of great probity, prudent in council, valiant inwar: maybe something too readily swayed by other folks (the Queenexcept), where he loved them (which he did not her), and from this lastpoint came all his misfortunes [Note 4]. 

Now stood he up to answer the charges laid against him (whereof therewere nine), but answer such as man looked for made he none. He passedall by as of no account, and went right to the heart and verity of thewhole matter. I could not but think of a Prisoner before him who hadanswered nothing; and I crede he knew that in like case, "per invidiamtradidissent eum. " [Note 5]. Moreover, he spake not to them that didthe will of other, but to her that was at the core of the whole matter. 

"Ah, Dame!" quoth he, bowing low his white, stately head, "God grant usfair trial and just judge; and if we may not find it in this world, welook for it in another. "

I trust he found it in that other world--nay, I know he must have done. But in this world did he not find it. Fair trial had he none; it was anend foregone from the beginning. And as to just judge--well, she isgone now to her judgment, and I will leave her there. 

I had forgot to say in due order that my Lord of Arundel was he that wastried with him, but he suffered not till later. [This appears to be thecase from comparison of the best authorities. ] He, therefore, was hadback to prison; but Sir Hugh was hung on the common gallows in his coatarmour, in strong cords, and when he was cut down, after four days, hishead was struck off and his quarters cast to the dogs. On whose soulGod have mercy! Amen. In very deed, I think he deserved a better fate. Secure am I, that many men be hung on gallows which might safely beleft to die abed, and many more die abed that richly demerit thegallows. This world is verily a-crooked: I reckon it shall be smoothedout and set straight one day. There be that say that day shall last athousand years; and soothly, taking into account all the work to be doneere the eve droppeth, it were small marvel an' it did so. 

This done, we tarried not long at Bristol. Less than a month thereafterwas the King taken at Neath Abbey in Wales, and all that yet obeyed himwere either taken with him or dispersed. The news found the Queen atHereford, whither she had journeyed from Bristol: and if I had yet adoubt left touching her very nature [real character], I think it haddeparted from me when I beheld how she received that news. Sir ThomasLe Blount, his Steward of the Household, was he that betrayed him: andmay God pardon him easier than I could. But my Lord of Lancaster (whomI can pray God pardon with true heart, seeing he afterward repentedbitterly), the Lord Zouche of Ashby, and Rhys ap Howel--these were theythat took him. With him they took three other--Sir Hugh Le Despenserthe son, and Archdeacon Baldok, and Sir Simon de Reading. The goodArchdeacon, that was elect [_Bishop_ is understood] of Norwich, wasdelivered over to the tender mercies (which, as saith the Psalmist, werecruel) of that priest of Baal, the Bishop of Hereford, whom indeed Icannot call a priest of God, for right sure am I that God should neverhave owned him. If that a man serveth be whom he worshippeth, then wasSir Adam de Orleton, Bishop of Hereford, priest of Sathanas and noneother. The King was had to Kenilworth Castle, in ward of my Lord ofLancaster--a good though mistaken man, that used him not ungently, yetkept him straitly. Sir Hugh and Sir Simon were brought to the Queen atHereford, and I was in waiting when they came into her presence. I hadbut one glimmer of her face (being behind her) when she turned her headfor a moment to bid me send Oliver de Nantoil to fetch my Lord ofLincoln to the presence: but if ever I beheld pictured in human eyes thedevilish passions of hate, malice, and furious purpose, I beheld themthat minute in those lovely eyes of hers. Ay, they were lovely eyes:they could gleam soft as a dove's when she would, and they could shootforth flames like a lioness robbed of her prey. Never saw I those eyeslook fiercer nor eviller than that night when Sir Hugh Le Despenserstood a captive at her feet. 

For him, he was full calm: stately as his father--he was comelier of thetwain, yea, the goodliest man ever mine eyes lit on: but I thought noton that in that hour. His chief fault, man deemed, was pride: not thevanity that looketh for applause of man, but rather the lofty-mindednessthat is sufficient to himself, and despiseth other. I beheld no tracethereof as he there stood. All that had been--all that was of earth andearthy--seemed to have dropped away from him: he was calm and tranquilas the sea on a summer eve when not a breath stirreth. Wala wa! we haveall our sins: and what be we, to throw the sins of another in his face?Sir Hugh did some ill deeds, belike; and so, God wot, hath done Cicelyde Chaucombe; and whose sins of the twain were worser in His sight, Heknoweth, not I. Verily, it was whispered that he had taint of heresy, the evillest thing that may be: but I trust that dread charge wereuntrue, and that he was but guilty of somewhat more pride and ambitiousdesires than other. Soothly, pride is one of the seven deadly sins--pray God save us all therefrom!--yet is heresy, as the Church teacheth, an eighth deadlier than all the seven. And if holy Church hath thewords of God, and is alonely guided of His Spirit, then must it be anawful and deadly sin to gainsay her bidding. There be that take in handto question the same: whom holy Church condemneth. I Cicely cannotpresume to speak thereof, not being a priest, unto whom alone itappertaineth to conceive such matter. 'Tis true, there be that say layfolk can as well conceive, and have as much right as any priest; butholy Church agreeth not therewith. God be merciful to us all, whereinsoever we do err!

But now was the Queen in a sore strait: for that precious treasure thathad once been in her keeping--to wit, the Great Seal--was no longer withher. The King had the same; and she was fain to coax it forth of hiskeeping, the which she did by means of my said Lord of Hereford. I knownot if it were needful, but until she had this done, did not Sir Hugh LeDespenser suffer. 

It was at Hereford, the eve of Saint Katherine, that he died. I thankthe saints I was not there; but I heard dread stories of them that were. Dame Isabel de Lapyoun was in waiting that day; I think she was fittestfor it. 

I ween it was on that morrow, of the eve of Saint Katherine, that mineeyes first began to ope to what the Queen was in very deed. Whereforewas she present at that deed of blood? Dame Tiffany reckoned she deemedit her duty: and truly, to behold what man can deem his duty, is of thequeerest things in this queer world. I never knew a cow that reckonedit duty to set her calf in peril, and herself tarry thereout; nor a dogthat forsook his master's company by reason of his losing of worldlygear; nor an horse that told falsehoods to his own profit. I have wistmen that would do all these things, and more; because, forsooth, it wastheir duty! Now, after what manner it could be duty to Dame Isabel theQueen to preside in her own person at the execution of Sir Hugh, thatcannot I Cicely tell. Nay, the saints love us! what need was there ofan execution at all? Sir Hugh was dying fast. Since he was taken wouldhe never open his lips, neither to speak nor yet to eat; and that eve ofSaint Katherine had seen his end, had they left him die in peace. Veriliest, I wis not what he had done so much worser than other men, that so awesome an ensample should be made of him. I do trust therumour was not true that ran of his heresy; for if so, then must not manpity him. And yet--

_Virgo sanctissima_! what is heresy? The good Lord wot. 

My Lord of Lincoln was he, as I heard, which brought tidings to theQueen that Sir Thomas Wager had done him to wit Sir Hugh would die thatday. Would die--whether man would or no. Holy Mary, the pity of it!Had I been Sir Thomas, never word would I have spoken till the breathwas clean gone out of him, and then, if man coveted vengeance, let himtake it on the silent dust. But no sooner was it known to the Queen--toher, a woman and a mother!--than she gave command to have the scaffoldrun up with all speed, and that dying man drawn of an hurdle through thecity that all men might behold, with trumpets going afore, and at lasthanged of the gallows till he were dead. Oh, the pity of it! the pityof it!

The command was obeyed--so far as man could obey. But ere the agonywere full over, God Almighty stepped in, and bare him away from what shewould have had him suffer. When they put him on the hurdle, he lay asthough he wist not; when they twined a crown of nettles and pressed iton his brow, he was as though he felt not; when, the torture over, theymade ready to drag him to the gallows, they saw that he was dead. Godcried to them, "Let be!"

God assoil that dead man! Ay, maybe he shall take less assoiling thanhath done that dead woman. 

Man said that when my Lord of Lincoln came to tell her of this matter, she was counting the silver in my Lord of Arundel his bags, that wereconfiscate, and had then been brought to her: and but a few days later, at Marcle, Sir William de Blount brought from the King the Great Seal inits leathern bag sealed with the privy seal, and delivered it unto theQueen and her Keeper [Chancellor] the Bishop of Norwich. Soothly, itseemed to me as though those canvas bags that held my Lord of Arundel'ssilver, and the white leathern bag that held the Great Seal, might besaid to be tied together by a lace dipped in blood. And somewhat later, when we had reached Woodstock, was Sir Hugh Le Despenser's plate broughtto the Wardrobe, that had been in the Tower with the Lady Alianora hiswife--five cups and two ewers of silver, and twenty-seven cups and sixewers of gold; and his horses and hers delivered into the keeping ofAdam le Ferrour, keeper of the Queen's horses: and his servants eithercast adrift, or drafted, some of them, into the household of the LordJohn of Eltham. Go to! saith man: was all this more than is usual inlike case? Verily, nay: but should such things be usual in Christendom?Was it for this our Lord came to found His Church--that Christian bloodshould thus treat his Christian brother? And if no, what can be said ofsuch as called themselves His priests, and passed by on the otherside?--nay, rather, took into their own hands the arrows of Sathanas, and wounded their brother with their own fingers? "_Numquid adhaeretTibi sedes iniquitatis_?" [Psalm 94, verse 20]. Might it not have beensaid to Dame Isabel the Queen like as Moses said to Korah, "Is itnothing to you that you have been joined to the King, and set by hisside on the throne, and given favour in his eyes, so that he sufferethyou to entreat him oftener and more effectually than any other, but youmust needs covet the royal throne theself?" [Itself. ]

Ah, what good to write such words, or to speak them? When man hath nofear of God before his eyes, what shall he regard the reasonings of men?But the day of doom cometh, and that sure. 

The morrow of that awesome day, to wit, Saint Katherine, departed wefrom Hereford, and came to Gloucester and Cirencester, going back on theroad we had come. By Woodstock (where Dame Margery de Verdon joined usfrom Dover) we came to Wallingford: where was the Lord John of Eltham, that had come from London, and awaited the Queen his mother. So, byReading and Chertsey, came we to Westminster Palace, on the fourth dayof January [1327]. And here was Dame Alice de Lethegreve, mine honouredmother, whom I was full fain to see after all the long and somewhatweariful time that I had been away from England. 

My mother would have me tell her all I had seen and heard, in the whichshe oft stayed me by tears and lamentations. And saith she--

"I bid thee well to note, Cicely, how much ill can come of the deeds ofone woman. Deeds, said I? Nay, but of the thoughts and feelings; forall deeds are but the flowers whereto man's thoughts be the seed. Andforget not, daughter, that there must ever be one first thought that isthe beginning of it all. O Cis, take thou heed of the first evilthought in thine heart, and pray God it lead not to a second. They thatfear not God be prone to ask, What matter for thoughts? Deeds be thethings that signify. My thoughts are mine own; who shall govern metherein? Ah, verily, who shall, without God doth, and thou dost? Hethat makes conscience of his thoughts, men reckon a great saint. Iwould say rather, he that maketh not conscience of his thoughts cannotserve God at all. Pray God rule thee in thine innermost heart; thenshall thy deeds please Him, and thy life shall be a blessing to thyfellows. "

"Dame, " said I, "would you signify that the Queen is not ruled of God?"

"He governeth better than so, Cis, " saith she. 

"Yet is she Christian woman, " quoth I. 

"A Christian woman, " made answer my mother, "is a woman that followethChrist. And thou followest not Jack, Cis, when thou goest along oneroad, and Jack goeth another. Man may follow near or far; but his facemust be set the same way. Christ's face was ever set to do the will ofGod. If thou do thy will, and I do mine, our faces be set contrary. "

"Then must we turn us around, " said I. 

"Ay, and flat round, too, " she saith. "When thou standest withoutAldgate, ready to pass within, 'tis but a full little turn shall takethee up to Shoreditch on the right hand, or down Blanche Chappleton onthe left. Thy feet shall be set scarce an inch different at beginning. Yet pursue the roads, and the one shall land thee at York, and the otherat Sandwich. Many a man hath reckoned he set forth to follow Christ, whose feet were scarce an inch out of the way. `Go to, ' quoth he; `whatcan an inch matter? what difference shall it make?' Ah me, it makethall the difference between Heaven and Hell, for the steps lead todiverse roads. Be well assured of the right road; and when thou so art, take heed to walk straight therein. Many a man hath turned a score outof the way, by reason that he walked a-crooked himself. "

"Do we know alway when we walk straight?" said I. 

"Thou hast thy Psalter and thine Evangelisterium, " made she answer: "andthou hast God above. Make good use of the Guide and the map, and thouart not like to go far astray. And God pardon the souls that go astray!Ay, God forgive us all!"

She sat and span a while, and said nought. 

"Cicely, " then quoth she, "I shall not abide here. "

"Whither go you, Dame?"

"Like Abraham of old, " she saith, "to the land which God shall show me. If I could serve my dear master, --the lad that once lay in mine arms--bytarrying hither, I could bear much for his sake. But now can I donought: and soothly I feel as though I could not bear to stand and lookon. I can pray for him any whither. Cicely, this will go on. Man thatsetteth foot on slide shall be carried down it. Thou mayest choose totake or let be the first step; but oft-times thou canst not choosetouching the second and all that be to follow. Or if thou yet canstchoose, it shall be at an heavy cost that thou draw back thy foot. Onesmall twinge may be all the penalty to-day, when an hour's deadlyanguish shall not pay the wyte to-morrow. Thou lookest on me aswhasay, What mean you by this talk? I mean, dear heart, that she which hathentered on this road is like to pursue it to the bitter end. A bitterend it shall be--not alone to her. It means agony to him and all thatlove him: what maimer of agony God wot, and in His hand is the ell-wandto measure, and the balances to weigh. Lord! Thou wilt not blunder togive an inch too much, nor wilt Thou for all our greeting weigh onegrain too little. Thou wilt not let us miss the right way, for therough stones and the steep mountain-side. Thou hast trodden before usevery foot of that weary road, and we need but to plant our steps in Thyfootmarks, which we know well from all others by their blood-markedtrack. O blessed Jesu Christ! it is fair journeying to follow Thee, andThou leadest Thy sheep safe to the fold of the Holy Land. "

I mind her words well. For, woe is me! they were nearhand the last thatever I heard of her. 

"Dame, " said I, "do you bid me retreat belike?"

"Nay, daughter, " quoth she, and smiled, "thou art no longer at mybidding. Ask thine husband, child. "

So I told Jack what my mother had said. He sat and meditated thereonafore the fire, while I made ready my Christmas gown of blue kaynetguarded with stranling. [Note 6. ]

"Sissot, " saith he, his meditation ended, "I think Dame Alice speakswisely. "

"Then wouldst thou depart the Court, Jack?" said I. 

"I? Nay, sweet heart. The young King hath about him no more true menthan he needeth. And as I wait at his _coucher_, betimes I can drop aword in his ear that may, an' it please God, be to his profit. He isyet tender ground, and the seed may take root and thrive: and I am toughgnarled old root, that can thole a blow or twain, and a rough wind bynow and then. "

"Jack!" cried I, laughing. "`A tough gnarled old root, ' belike! Thouart not yet of seven-and-thirty years, though I grant thee wisdom enoughfor seventy. "

"I thank you heartily, Dame Cicely, for that your courtesy, " quoth he, and made me a low reverence. "Ay, dear heart, a gnarled root ofcross-grained elm, fit for a Yule log. I 'bide with the King, Sissot. But thou wist, that sentence [argument] toucheth not thee, if thoudesire to depart with Dame Alice. And maybe it should be the best forthee. "

"I depart from the Court, Jack, on a pillion behind thee, " said I, "andno otherwise. I say not I might not choose to dwell elsewhere therather, if place were all that were in question; but to win out of illcompany at the cost of thy company, were to be at heavier charge than mypurse can compass. And seeing I am in my duty therein, I trust Godshall keep me from evil and out of temptation. "

"Amen!" saith Jack, and kissed me. "We will both pray, my dear heart, to be kept out of temptation; but let us watch likewise that we slip nottherein. They be safe kept that God keepeth; and seeing that not ourself-will nor folly, but His providence, brought us to this place, Ireckon we have a right to ask His protection. "

Thus it came that I tarried yet in the Queen's household. And verily, they that did so, those four next years, had cause to seek God'sprotection. 

On the first of February was--but, wala wa! my pen runneth too fast. Imust back nearhand a month. 

It was the seventh of January, being the morrow of the Epiphany, andthree days after we reached Westminster, that the Queen met the King'sGreat Council, the which she had called together on the eve of SaintBarbara [December 3rd], the Duke sitting therein in state as keeper ofthe kingdom. Having opened the said Parliament, the Duke, by hisspokesmen, my Lords of Hereford and Lincoln, laid before them all thathad taken place since they last met, and bade them deliberate on whatwas now to be done for the safety of the realm and Church of England. [Note 7]. Who at once adjudged the throne void, and the King to be putdown and accounted such no longer: appointing certain nobles to go withthe Duke to show these things unto the Queen. 

Well do I mind that morrow of the Epiphany. The Queen sat in thePainted Chamber, spinning amongst us, when the nobles waited upon her. She had that morrow been full furnish, sharply chiding Joan de Vilersbut a moment ere the Duke entered the presence: but no sooner came he inthan she was all honey. 

"Dame, " saith he, "divers nobles of the Council pray speech of you. "

The Queen looked up; she sighed, and her hand trembled. Then pulled sheforth her sudary [handkerchief], and wiped her cheek: I am somewhatunsure of the tears thereon. Yet maybe they were there, for verily shecould weep at will. 

Dame Elizabeth, that sat in the casement, saith to Dame Joan, that wason the contrary side thereof, I being by her, --"Will the Queen swoon, think you?"

"She will come to an' she do, " answered she. 

I was ready at one time to reckon Dame Joan de Vaux somewhat hard towardthe Queen: I saw later that she had but better sight than herneighbours. 

Then came in the prelates and nobles which were deputed of theParliament to convey the news, and the Queen bowed her head when theydid reverence. 

My Lord of Winchester it was that gave her the tidings that theParliament then sitting had put down King Edward, and set up the Duke, which there stood, as King. All innocent stood he, that had been toldit was his father's dearest wish to be free of that burden of state, andhimself too true and faithful to imagine falsehood or unfaithfulness inher that spake it. 

Soothly, she played her part full well. She greet plenteously, shewrung her hands, she tare off the hood from her head, she gripped herhair as though to tear that, yea, she cast her down alow on the rushes, and swooned or made believe thereto. The poor young Duke was fullalarmed, and kneeling beside her, he would have cast his arms about her, but she thrust him away. Until at the last he arose, and with mien fullprincely, told the assembled nobles that he would never consent to thatwhich so mispaid [displeased, distressed] his dear mother, without hisfather should himself command the same. She came to, it seemed me, fullsoon thereafter. 

Then was sent my Lord of Lancaster and other to the King to hear hiswill thereon. Of these was my Lord of Hereford one, and man said hespake full sharply and poignantly to the King, which swooned awaythereunder (somewhat more soothly, as I guess); and the scene, said manthat told me, was piteous matter. Howbeit, the King gave full assent, and resigned the crown to his son, who was now to be king, he that hadso been being thenceforth named only Sir Edward of Caernarvon. This wasthe eve of Saint Agnes [January 20th, 1327], the twentieth year of thesaid King. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1. Better known as Carfax. The exact church is not on record, butit was likely to be this. 

Note 2. Adam de Orleton. He and Henry Burghersh, Bishop of Lincoln, are the two Bishops whom Thomas de la Moor, King Edward's squire, brandsas "priests of Baal" and "Caiaphases. "

Note 3. I have here given the version of events which seems best toreconcile the accounts of the chroniclers with the testimony ofcontemporary documents. See Appendix. 

Note 4. This is the character sketched of him by De La Moor, to whom hewas personally known. 

Note 5. "For envy they had delivered Him. " Matthew, twenty-seven, verse 18. 

Note 6. Kennet, a coarse Welsh cloth, trimmed with stranling, the furof the squirrel taken between Michaelmas and Christmas. 

Note 7. The idea of some persons that the Church of England began toexist at the Reformation would have astonished the medieval reckoners"according to the computation of the Church of England, " who wereaccustomed to hear Parliaments summoned to debate "concerning thewelfare of the kingdom and Church of England. " The former notion ispurely modern. 

PART ONE, CHAPTER 5. 

THE REIGN OF KING ROGER. 

 "She is no sheep who goes walking with the wolf. "

 Russian Proverb. 

And now, were I inditing a very chronicle, should I dip my quill next inthe red ink, and write in full great letters--"Here beginneth the reignof King Edward of Windsor, the Third after the Conquest. "

But, to scribe soothliness, I cannot do so. For not for four yearsthereafter did he in verity begin to reign. And what I should write, ifI writ truth, should be--"Here beginneth the reign of King Roger deMortimer, the First in England. "

Now, here cometh an other matter I have noted. When man setteth him upto do that whereto he was not born, and hath not used himself, he issecure to do the same with never so much more din and outrage[extravagance] than he to whom it cometh of nature. If man be but abedel [herald, crier] he shall rowt [Shout] like a lion the first day;and a prince's charetter [charioteer] shall be a full braver [finer, more showy] man than the prince his master. Sir Roger made a deal morebruit than ever the King himself; that during all these four years wasmeek and debonair [humble and gentle], as though he abode his time. Hewrought what he would (which was mostly ill), and bare him like those ofwhom the Psalmist speaketh, that said, "Our lips are of us, who is ourlord?" [Psalm 9 4, Rolle's translation. ] He held up but a finger, andfirst the King, and all else after, followed along his path. Truly, Ifault not the King; poor lad, he was in evil case, and might well enoughhave found hard to know the way he should go. But I do fault them thatmight have oped his eyes, and instead thereof, as being smoother way, chose to run after King Mortimer with his livery on their backs. 

"How many of them knew the man, thinkest?" saith Jack, that had come inwhile I writ the last piece. 

"Jack!" cried I. "What, to see him do that he did, more in especialwhen his pride was bolned [swollen, pulled up] by being create Earl ofMarch--when he had larger following than the King himself, having ninescore knights at his feet; when he arose from the King's table ere theKing stirred, as though he were lord and master of all; when he sufferedthe King to rise on his coming into the presence, all meekly andcourteously, yet himself, when the King entered, kept his seat as hemicht afore a servitor; when he walked even with the King, and sometimesafore him; when he was wont to put him down, and mock at him, and makehim a laughing-stock. I have heard him myself say to the King--`Holdthy peace, lad!' and the King took it as sweetly as if he had beenswearing of allegiance. "

"I have eyes in mine head, my fair warrior, and ears belike. I saw somuch as thou--maybe a little more, since I was something oftener in myLord's company than thou. "

"But thou sawest what he was?" said I. 

"So did I; and sorry am I to have demerited the wrath of Dame Cicely deChaucombe, for that I oped not the King my master's even. "

"Nay, Jack! I never meant thee. I have somewhat more reverence formine husband than so. "

"Then art thou a very pearl amongst women. Most dames' husbands findnot much reverence stray their way--at least from that quarter. Imisdoubt if Vivien's husband ever picks up more than should lightly slipinto his pocket. "

"Sir James Le Bretun is not so wise as thou, " said I. "But what Imeant, Jack, was such as my Lord of Lancaster and my Lord of Kent, andmy Lord of Hereford--why did never such as these tell the King soothtouching the Mortimer?"

"As for my Lord of Hereford, " saith Jack, "I reckon he was too busiedfeeling of his pulse and counting his emplastures, and telling hisapothecary which side of his head ached worser since the last draught ofcamomile and mallows. Sir Edmund de Mauley was wont to say he had agrove of aspens at Pleshy for to make his own populion [Note 1], andthat he brake his fast o' dragons' blood and dyachylon emplasture. Touching that will I not say; but I reckon he thought oftener on histamarind drink than on the public welfare. He might, perchance, havebestirred him to speak to the King had he heard that he had a freckle ofhis nose, for to avise him to put white ointment thereon; but scarce, Ireckon, for so small a matter as the good government of the realm. "

"Now, Jack!" said I, a-laughing. 

"My Lord of Kent, " went he forth, "was he that, if he thought he hadhurt the feelings of a caterpillar, should have risen from his warm bedthe sharpest night in winter to go and pray his pardon of his bareknees. God assoil him, loving and gentle soul! He was all unfit forthis rough world. And the dust that Sir Roger cast up at hishorse-heels was in my Lord of Kent's eyes as thick as any man's. Hecould not have warned the King, for himself lacked the warning. "

"Then my Lord of Lancaster--why not he?"

"He did. "

"Ay, at long last, when two years had run: wherefore not long ere that?The dust, trow, was not in his eyes. "

"Good wife, no man's eyes are blinder than his which casts the dust intohis own. My Lord of Lancaster had run too long with the hounds to beable all suddenly to turn him around and flee with the hare. "

"Soothly, I know he met the Queen on her landing, and likewise had theold King in his ward: but--"

"I reckon, Sissot, there were wheels within wheels. We need not judgemy Lord of Lancaster. He did his duty at last. And mind thou, betweenhim and his duty to King Edward the father, stood his brother'sscaffold. "

"Which never man deserved richer. "

"Not a doubt thereof: but man may scarce expect his brother to beholdit. "

"Then, " said I, "my Lord Zouche of Mortimer--but soothly he was cousinto the traitor. Jack, I never could conceive how it came about that heever wedded the Lady Alianora. One of the enemies of her own husband, and she herself set prisoner in his kinsman's keeping, and to wed hergaoler's cousin, all against the King's pleasure and without hislicence--canst solve the puzzle?"

"I can tell thee why he wed her, as easy as say `twice two be four. 'She was co-heir of the earldom of Gloucester, and his sword was nearhandhis fortune. "

"Then wherefore wed she him?"

"Kittle [ticklish, delicate] ground, Sissot, for man to take on him toaccount for the doings of woman. I might win a clap to mine ears, aslike as not. "

"Now, Jack, thou wist well I never demean me so unbuxomly. Tell me thythought. "

"Then I think, " saith he, "that the Lady Alianora La Despenser was womanof that manner that fetch their souls from the vine. They must havesomewhat to lean on. If an oak or a cedar be nigh, good: but if no, whythen, a bramble will serve their turn. The one thing that they cannotdo is to stand alone. There be not only women of this fashion; there belike men, but too many. God help them, poor weak souls! The woman thatcould twine round the Lord Zouche the tendrils torn from Sir Hugh LeDespenser must have been among the very weakest of women. "

"It is sore hard, " said I, "to keep one from despising such weakness. "

"It is full hard, soothly. I know but one way--to keep very near to Himthat never spurned the weakest that prayed His help, and that tholedweakness amidst other meeknesses [humiliations], by reason that itbehoved Him to resemble His brethren in all things. And some of Hisbrethren are very weak. Sissot, when our daughters were babes, I waswont to think thou lovedst better Alice than Vivien, and I am nearhandsecure that it was by reason she was the weaker of the twain, and pavethee the more thought. "

"Surely, " said I; "that alway holdeth good with a mother, that the barnewhich most needeth care is the dearest. "

Jack's answer, I knew, came from Holy Writ. 

"`As by him whom his mother blandisheth, thus will I comfort you. '"

The Sunday after the Conversion of Saint Paul [February 1st, 1327] wasthe young King crowned in Westminster Abbey before the high altar, byWalter [Reynolds] Archbishop of Canterbury, that had been of old a greatfriend of King Edward the father, and was carried away like the rest bythe glamour of the Queen. But his eyes were opened afore most other, and he died of a broken heart for the evil and unkindness which himselfhad holpen, the day of Saint Edmund of Pontigny [November 16th] nextthereafter. Also present were nine bishops, the King's uncles, and manynobles: yea, and Queen Isabel likewise, that caused us to array her ingreat doole [mourning], and held her sudary at her eyes nearhand all theoffice [Service] through. And it was no craft, for she could weep whenit listed her--some women have that power--and her sudary was full wetwhen she returned from the Abbey. And the young King, that was but thenfull fourteen years of age, took oath as his father and all the kingshad done afore him, that he would confirm to the people of England thelaws and the customs to them granted by the ancient Kings of England hispredecessors, the rights and offerings of God, and particularly thelaws, customs, and liberties granted to the clergy and people by theglorious King, Saint Edward, his predecessor. He sware belike to keepunto God and holy Church, unto the clergy and the people, entire peaceand concord to his power; to do equal and true justice in all hisjudgments, and discretion in mercy and truth; to keep the laws andrighteous customs which the commons of his realm should have elected[_Auera estu_ are the rather singular words used], and to defend andenforce them, to the honour of God and to his power. [Note 2. ]

Six sennights we tarried at Westminster: but, lack-a-day! what a timehad we at after! All suddenly the Queen gave order to depart thence. She controlled all things, and the King her son was but a puppet in herhands. How did we trapes up and down all the realm!

To Canterbury the first round, a-pilgrimage to Saint Thomas; then rightup as far as York, where we tarried a matter of five weeks. Then toDurham, which we had scarce reached ere we were aflight again, this timeto Auckland, and a bit into that end of Yorkshire; back again to Durham, then away to York, and ten days later whisked off to Nottingham; there afortnight, off again to Lincoln. I guess well now, what I wist notthen, the meaning of all this. It was to let the young King from takingthought touching his father, and all that had happed of late. While hewas cheerful and delectable [full of enjoyment], she let him be; but nosooner saw she his face the least downfell [cast down] than she pluckedhim away, and put turn to his thoughts by sending him some otherwhither. It paid [Note 3] for a time. 

It was while we were at Lincoln, where we tarried from the morrow ofHoly Cross to Michaelmas Eve [September 15th to 28th], that Donald theScots messager came from the southern parts with tidings. For sometime--divers weeks, certes--afore that, had the Queen been marvellousunrestful and hard to serve. That which liked her yesterday was all outthis morrow, and each matter man named for her plesance was worser thanthat had gone afore. I was nearhand driven out of senses that verymorrow, so sharp [irritable] was she touching her array. Not a gown inher wardrobe would serve the turn; and when at last she chose which shewould don, then were her hoods all awry; and then would she have nohood, but only a wimple of fair cloth of linen. Then, gramercy! suchpains had we to find her a fillet: this was too deep, and that toonarrow, and this set with amethysts should ill fit with her gown ofrose-colour, and that wrought of lily-flowers should catch in her hair. 

I wished me at the further end of the realm from Lincoln, ay, a dozentimes twice told. 

At long last we gat her filleted; and then came the mantle. First, DameElizabeth brought one of black cloth of Stamford, lined with fox fur:no, that served not. Then brought Dame Joan de Vaux the fair mantle ofcloth of velvet, grey, that I ever reckoned the fairest in the Queen'swardrobe, guarded with black budge, and wrought in embroidery ofrose-colour and silver: she waved it away as though the very sight'noyed [disgusted] her. Then fetched Isabel de la Helde the ray mantle, with corded ground, of blue, red, and green; and the Queen chid her asthough she had committed one of the seven deadly sins. At the last, inuttermost wanhope [despair], ran I and brought the ugsomest of all, thecorded olive green with border of grey; and forsooth, that would shehave. Well-a-day, but I was fain when we had her at last arrayed!

When the Queen had left the chamber, Dame Elizabeth cast her on thenearest bench, and panted like a coursed hare. 

"Deary, deary me!" crieth she: "I would I were abed. "

"Abed!" crieth Isabel de la Helde. "Abed at five o'clock of a morrow!"

"Ay, or rather, I would I had never gat out. Gramercy, but howfractious is the Queen! I counted we ne'er should have her donned. "

"She never spoke to me so sharp in her life, " saith Isabel. 

"I tell you, I am fair dog-weary!" quoth Dame Elizabeth. 

"Whatever hath took the Queen?" saith Joan de Vilers. 

"Foolish childre, all of you!" saith old Dame Tiffany, looking on uswith a smile. "When man is fractious like to this, with every man andevery matter, either he suffereth pain, or else he hath some hiddenanguish or fear that hath nought to do with the matter in hand. 'Tisnot with you that my Lady is wrathful. There is something harrying herat heart. And she hath not told me. "

In hall, during dinner. I cast eyes from time to time on the Queen, andI could not but think Dame Tiffany spake sooth. She looked fairhaggard, as though some bitter care were eating out her heart. I neverloved her, as I said at the first: but that morn I felt sorry for her. 

Sorry for _her_! Ah, I soon knew what sore cause there was to be sorryto the very soul for some one else!

It was while we were sat at supper that Donald came. I saw him enterfrom the high table where I sat, and I knew in an instant that hebrought some fearsome tidings. I lost him in the crowd at the furtherend, and then Mereworth, one of the varlets of the King's chamber, cameall in haste up the hall, with a face that had evil news thereon writ:and Sir John de Ros, that was then Seneschal, saw him, and guessing, asI think, the manner of word he brought, stepped down from the dais tomeet him. Then, in an other minute, I saw Donald brought up to the Kingand to the Queen. 

I watched them both. As Donald's news was told, the young King's facegrew ashen pale, and he cried full dolefully "_Dieu eit mercie_!" Thenews troubled him sore and sure enough. But the Queen's eyes, that amoment before had been full of terror and untholemodness [impatience], shot out one flash of triumphant gladness: and the next minute she hadhidden her face in her sudary, and was greeting as though her heart hadbroke. I marvelled what tidings they could be, that were tene [grief]to the King, and blisfulhed [happiness] to the Queen. Sir John deGaytenby, the King's confessor, was sat next to me at the table, and tohim I said--

"Father, can you guess what manner of news Donald de Athole shall havebrought?"

"Ay, daughter, " he made answer. "Would I were in doubt!"

"You think--?" I asked him, and left him to fill up. 

"I think, " he saith in a low voice somewhat sorrowful of tone, "that Godhath delivered from all labour and sorrow one of His servants that trustin Him. "

"Why, that were nought to lament o'er!" I was about to say; but Istayed me when half through. "Father, you mean there is man dead?"

"We call it death, " saith Sir John de Gaytenby--"we of this netherworld, that be ever in sickness and weariness, in tene and intemptation. Know we what they call it which have forded the Rubicon, and stand safe on the pavement of the Golden City? `_Multo magismelius_, ' saith the Apostle [Philippians One verse 23]: `much morebetter' to dissolve and to be with Christ. And the colder be the watersman hath to ford, the gladder and welcomer shall be the light of theGolden City. They were chill, I cast no doubt: and all the chiller forthe hand that chilled them. With how sharp thorns and briers God hathto drive some of His sheep! But once in the Fold, there shall be timeto forget them all. `When thou passest through the waters, I will bewith thee' [Isaiah 43 verse 2]--that is enough now. We can stay us uponthat promise till we come through. And then there shall be no more needfor Him to be with us in tribulation, since we shall reign with Him forever and ever. "

Old Sir Simon de Driby came up behind us as the Confessor ended. 

"Have you guessed, Sir John, our dread news?--and you, Dame Cicely?"

"I have guessed, and I think rightly, " answered Sir John. "For DameCicely I cannot say. "

I shook mine head, and Sir Simon told me. 

"Sir Edward of Caernarvon is dead. "

"Dead--the King!"

"`The King' no longer, " saith Sir Simon sorrowfully. 

"O Sir Simon!" cried I. "How died he?"

"God knoweth, " he made answer. "I misdoubt if man shall know. "

"Or woman?" quoth Sir John, significantly. 

"The schoolmaster learned me that man includeth woman, " saith Sir Simon, smiling full grimly. 

"He learned you not, I reckon, that woman includeth man, " saith SirJohn, somewhat after the same manner. 

"Ah, _woe_ worth the day!" Sir Simon fetched an heavy sigh. "Well, Godforgive us all!"

"Amen!" Sir John made answer. 

I think few men were in the realm that did not believe the King's deathwas murder. But nought was done to discover the murderers, neither tobring them to justice. It was not until after the Mortimer was out ofthe way that any such thing was done. When so it was, mandate wasissued for the arrest of Sir Thomas de Gournay, Constable of BristolCastle, and William de Ocle, that had been keepers of the King atBerkeley Castle. What came of Ocle know I not; but Sir Thomas fledbeyond seas to the King's dominions of Spain [Note 3], and wasafterwards taken. But he came not to trial, for he died on the way: andthere were that said he knew too much to be permitted to make defence. [Note 4. ]

The next thing that happed, coming under mine eyes, was the young King'sbetrothal and marriage. The Lady Philippa of Hainault, that was ouryoung Queen, came over to England late in that same year, to wit, thefirst of King Edward, and was married the eve of the Conversion of SaintPaul, the year of our Lord 1327, after the computation of the Church ofEngland [Note 5]. Very praisable [lovely] and fulbright [beautiful] wasthe said lady, being sanguine of complexion, of a full fair face, andfair hair, having grey [grey] cyen and rosen colour of her cheeks. Shewas the same age as the King, to wit, fifteen years. They were wed inYork Minster. 

"Where hast reached to, Sissot?" saith Jack, that was sat by the fire, as I was a-bending the tail of my Y in York. 

"Right to the King's wedding, " said I. 

"How many more skins o' parchment shall I bring thee for to set forththe gowns?"

"Dear heart!" cried I, "must I do that for all that were there?"

"Prithee use thy discretion. I wist not a woman could write a chroniclewithout telling of every gown that came in her way. "

"Go thy ways, Jack!" said I. "Securely, if I set down the King's, andthe Queen's, and thine and mine, that shall serve well enough. "

"It should serve me, verily, " quoth he. "Marry, I hope thou mindestwhat manner of raiment I had on, for I ensure thee I do not a whit. "

"Dost thou ever, the morrow thereof?" said I. "Nay, I wis I must pluckthat out of mine own memory. "

The King, then, was donned of a robe of purple velvet, with a pair ofsotlars of cloth of gold of Nakes silk; the said velvet robe wroughtwith the arms of England, of golden broidery. The Queen bare a robe ofgreen cloth of velvet, with a cape thereto, guarded with miniver, and anhood of miniver; her hair falling full sweetly over from under hergolden fillet, sith she put not on her hood save to leave the Minster. And at the feast thereafter, she ware a robe of cloth of samitelle, redand grey, with a tunic and mantle of the same. [Note 6. ]

As for Jack, that was then clerk of the Wardrobe [Note 7], he ware atabard of the King's livery [the arms of France and England] of mine ownbroidering, and hosen of black cloth, his hood being of the same. I hadon a gown of grey cloth of Northampton, guarded with gris, and mine hoodwas of rose-colour say [Note 8] lined with black velvet. 

But over the inwards of the wedding must I not linger, for much is yetto write. The latter end of February was the Lady La Despenser loosedfrom the Tower, and in April was all given back to her. All, to wit, that could be given. Her little children, that the Queen Isabel hadmade nuns without any leave given save her own, could come back to hernever more. I misdoubt if she lamented it greatly. She was one fromwhom trouble and sorrow ran lightly, like the water from a duck's back:and I reckon she thought more on her second marriage, which had placesecretly about a year after her release, than she ever did for her lostchildren. And here may I say that those sisters, coheirs of Gloucester, did ever seem to me the queerest mothers I wist. The Lady MargaretAudley gave up her little Kate (a sweet child she was) to the Ankerageat Ledbury with scarce a sigh; and the Lady Alianora, of whom I write, took but little thought for her maids at Sempringham, or I err. I wouldnot have given up my Alice after that fashion: and I did sore pity thoselittle barnes, of which the eldest was not seven years old. Folk saidit was making of gift to God, and was an holy and blessed thing. Soothly, I marvel if God setteth store by such like gifts, when men dobut cast at his feet that whereof they would be rid! The innermostsanctuary of the Temple, it seemeth me, is scarce the fittest place toshoot rubbish. And when the rubbish is alive, if it be but vermin, Icannot slack to feel compassion for it. 

Methinks the Lady Alianora felt it sorer trouble of the twain, when shesuffered touching certain jewels reported to be missing from the Towerduring her governance thereof--verily a foolish charge, as though theLady of Gloucester should steal jewels! Howbeit, she was fined twentythousand pound, for the which she rendered up her Welsh lands, with themanors of Hanley and Tewkesbury, being the fairest and greatest part ofher heritage. The King allowed her to buy back the said lands if sheshould, in one and the same day, pay ten thousand marks: howbeit, onehalf the said fine was after remitted at the intercession of the Lordsand Commons. 

That autumn was the insurrection of my Lord of Lancaster--but a bit toosoon, for the time was not ripe, but I reckon they knew not how longerto bear the ill thewis [manners, conduct] of the Mortimer, which ruledevery thing at his will, and allowed none, not even my Lord ofLancaster, to come nigh the King without his leave, and then he had themwatched of spies. The Parliament was held at Salisbury that Michaelmas, whereto all men were forbidden to come in arms. Thither, nathless, camethe said Mortimer, with a great rabble of armed men at his heels. MyLord of Lancaster durst not come, so instead thereof he put himself inarms, and sent to expound matters to the King. He was speedily joinedby all that hated the Mortimer (and few did not), among whom were theKing's uncles, the Bishops of Winchester and London, the Lord Wake, theLord de Beaumont, Sir Hugh de Audley, and many another that had stoodstoutly for Queen Isabel aforetime. Some, I believe, did this out ofrepentance, seeing they had been deceived; other some from nought savehate and envy toward the Mortimer. The demands they put forth were nowise unskilwise [unreasonable]. They were chiefly that the King shouldhold his revenues himself (for the Queen had so richly dowered herselfthat scarce a noble was left to the King); that the Queen should bedowered of the third part, as queens had been aforetime; and that theMortimer should live on his own lands, and make no encroachments. Theycharged him with divers evil deeds, that he had avised the King todissolve his Council appointed of twelve peers, he had wasted the royaltreasure, he had counselled the King to give up Scotland, and had causedthe Lady Joan to wed beneath her dignity. 

"Make no encroachments!" grimly quoth old Sir Simon, when he heard ofthis; "verily, an' this present state of matters go on but a littlelonger, the Mortimer can make no encroachments, for he shall have allEngland to his own. "

The Mortimer, that had yet the King's ear (though I think he chafed abit against the rein by now and then), avised him that the Lords soughthis crown, causing him to ride out against them as far as Bedford, andthat during the night. Peace was patched up some way, through themediating of Sir Simon de Mepham, the new Archbishop of Canterbury, myLord of Lancaster being fined eleven thousand pounds--though, by thesame token, he never paid it. [Note 9. ] That same Michaelmas was theKing's uncle, the Lord Edmund de Woodstock, create Earl of Kent (marry, I named him my Lord of Kent all through, seeing he should so best beknown, but he was not so create until now), and King Roger, that wassuch, but was not so-called, had avancement to the dignity of Earl ofMarch. There was many a lout and courtesy and many a leg made, when asmy Lord's gracious person was in presence; and when as he went forth, lo! brows were drawn together, and lips thrust forth, and wordswhispered beneath the breath that were not all of praise. 

Now, whether it be to fall into the Annals of Cicely or no, this must Ineeds say--and Jack may flout me an' he will (but that he doth never)--that I do hate, and contemn, and full utterly despise, this manner ofdealing. If I love a man, maybe I shall be bashful to tell him so: butif I love him not, never will I make lout nor leg afore him for to winof him some manner of advantage. I would speak a man civilly, whether Iloved him or no; that 'longeth to my gentlehood, not his: but toblandish and losenge him [coax and flatter], and say `I love thee well'and `Thou art fairest and wisest of all' twenty times in a day, when inmine heart I wished him full far thence, and accounted of him as fondand ussome [foolish and ugly]--that could I never demean me to do, an' Ilived to the years of Methuselah. 

And another thing do I note--I trust Jack shall have patience with me--that right in proportion as a man is good, so much doth an ill man hatehim. My Lord of Lancaster was wise man and brave, as he oft showed, though he had his failings belike; and he did more than any otheragainst the Mortimer, until the time was full ripe: my Lord of Kent wasgent, good, and sweet of nature, and he did little against him--only toconsort with my said Lord of Lancaster: yet the Mortimer hated my Lordof Kent far worser than my Lord of Lancaster, and never stayed till hehad undone him. Alas for that stately stag of ten, for the cur pulledhim down and worried him!

My Lord of Kent, as I writ afore, had dust cast in his eyes by theQueen. He met her on her landing, and marched with her, truly believingthat the King (as she told him) was in thrall to the old and young SirHugh Le Despenser, and that she was come to deliver him. Nought lessthan his brother's murder tare open his sealed eyes. Then he woke up, and aswhasay looked about him, as a man roughly wakened that scarce hathhis full sense. Bitter was his lamentation, and very sooth hispenitence, when he saw the verity of the matter. Now right as this wasthe case with him, the Queen and the Mortimer, having taken counselthereon, (for they feared he should take some step that should do them amischief), resolved to entangle him. They spread a rumour, taking goodcare it should not escape his ears, that King Edward his brother yetlived, and was a prisoner in Corfe Castle. He, hearing this, quicklydespatched one of his chaplains, named Friar Thomas Dunhead, aPredicant--for all the Predicants were on the King's side--to see if thereport were as it was said: and Sir John Deveroil, then Keeper of theCastle, having before his instructions, took the Friar within, seemingnothing loth, and showed unto him the appearance of a king seated atsupper in hall, with his sewers [waiters] and other officers about him. This all had been bowned [prepared] afore, of purpose to deceive my Lordof Kent, and one chosen to present [represented] the King that was likeenough to him in face and stature to pass well. On this hearing went myLord of Kent with all speed to Avignon, to take counsel with Pope John[John Twenty-Two] who commended him for his good purpose to deliver hisbrother, and bade him effect the same by all means in his power:moreover, the said Pope promised himself to bear all charges--which wasa wise deed of the holy Father, for my Lord of Kent was he that couldnever keep money in his pocket, but it flowed out of all sides. Then myLord returned back, and took counsel with divers how to effect the same. Many an one promised him help--among other, the Archbishop of York, andthe Lord Zouche of Mortimer (that wedded the Lady Alianora, widow of SirHugh Le Despenser), the Lord Wake (which had wrought much against theKing of old, and was brother unto my Lady of Kent), and Sir EbuloL'Estrange, (that wedded my Lady of Lancaster, widow of Earl Thomas), and the young Earl of Arundel, and others of less sort. My said Lady ofKent was likewise a-work in the matter, for she was not woman to leteither tongue or hand lie idle. 

Now, wherefore is it, that if man be rare sweet, gent, and tender, beyond other men, he shall sure as daydawn go and wed with woman thatcould hold castle or govern army if need were? 'Tis passing strange, but I have oft noted the same. And if he be rough and fierce, thenshall he take fantasy to some soft, nesh [Note 10], bashful creaturethat scarce dare say nay to save her life. Right as men of high staturedo commonly wed with small women, and the great women with little men. Such be the ways of Providence, I take it. 

Jack saith--which I must not forget to set down--that he credeth not awhit that confession set forth as made of my Lord of Kent, nor anytestimony of Friar Dunhead, but believeth the whole matter a pack oflies, saving only that my Lord believed the report of his brotherprisoner in Corfe Castle. Howbeit, my Lord of Kent writ a letter as tothe King his brother, offering his deliverance, which he entrusted toSir John Deveroil: who incontinently carried the same to the Mortimer, and he to the Queen. She then showed it to the young King, saying thatherein might he see his uncle was conspiring to dethrone him and takehis life and hers. The King, that dearly loved his mother, allowedinquiry into the same, pending the which my said Lord was committed toprison. 

The next morrow came the Mortimer to the Queen as she sat at dinner, andprayed instant speech of her, and that full privy: and the Queen, arising from the table, took him into her privy closet. Dame Isabel deLapyoun alone in waiting. I had learned by then to fear mischiefwhensoever the Queen bade none follow her save Dame Isabel, for I doverily believe she was in all the ill secrets of her mistress. Theywere in conference maybe ten minutes, and then hastened the Mortimeraway, nor would he tarry so long as to drink one cup of wine. It wasnot many minutes after that the young King came in; and I perceived bytheir discourse that the Queen his mother had sent for him. Verily, allthat day (which was Saint Joseph [March 19th]) she watched him as cat, mouse. He could not leave the chamber a moment but my Lord of Marchcrept after. I reckoned some mischief was brewing, but, _purefoy_! Iguessed not how much. That day died my Lord of Kent, on the scaffold atWinchester. And so beloved was he that from noon till four of the clockthey had to wait, for no man would strike him, till at last theypersuaded one in the Marshalsea, that had been cast for [sentenced to]death, to behead him as the price of his own life. 

A little after that hour came in Sir Hugh de Turpington, that wasMarshal of the Hall to the King. 

"Sir, " saith he to the King, "I am required of the Sheriff to tell youthat my Lord of Kent hath paid wyte on the scaffold. So perish all yourenemies!"

Up sprang the King with a face wherein amaze and sore anguish strave forthe mastery. 

"My uncle Edmund is dead on scaffold!" cried he in voice that rangthrough hall. "Mine enemies! _He_ was none! What mean you? I gave nomandate for such, nor never should have done. _Dieu eit mercie_! mineenemies be they that have murdered my fair uncle, that I loved dear. Where and who be they? Will none here tell me?"

Wala wa! was soul in that hall brave enough to tell him? One of thosetwo chief enemies stale softly to his side, hushing the other (thatseemed ready to break forth) by a look. 

"Fair Son, " saith the Queen, in her oiliest voice, "hold you so lightyour own life and your mother's? Was your uncle (that wist full wellhow to beguile you) dearer to you than I, on whose bosom you have lainas babe, and whose heart hath been rent at your smallest malady?"

(Marry, I marvel when, for I never beheld less careful mother than DameIsabel the Queen. But she went forth. )

"The proofs of what I say, " quoth she, "shall be laid afore you in fullParliament, and you shall then behold how sorely you have been deceivedin reckoning on a friend in your uncle. Meanwhile, fair Son, trust me. Who should seek your good, or care for your safety, more than your ownmother?"

Ah verily, who should! But did she so? I could see the King wassomewhat staggered by her sweet words, yet was he not peaced in amoment. His anger died down, but he brake forth in bitter tears, and soleft the hall, greeting as he went. 

Once more all passed away: and they that had hoped for the King to awakeand discover truth found themselves beguiled. 

Order was sent to seize my Lady of Kent and her childre, that were thenin Arundel Castle. But the officers, there coming, told her the dreadtidings, whereat she fell down all in swoon, and ere the eve was bornthe Lord John her son, and baptised, poor babe, in such haste in theBarefooted Friars' Church, that his young brother and sister, no morethan babes themselves, were forced to stand sponsors for him with thePrior of the Predicants [Note 11]. Howbeit he lived to grow to man'sestate, yea, longer than the Lord Edmund his brother, and died Earl ofKent a matter of eight years gone. 

The Castle of Arundel, and the lands, that had been given to my Lord ofKent when my Lord of Arundel was execute, were granted to Queen Isabelshortly after his 'heading. I think they were given as sop to keep himtrue to the Queen: not that he was man to be bought, but very like shethought all men were. Dear heart, what strange gear are we humancreatures! I marvel at times whether the angels write us down greaterknaves or fools. 

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Note 1. The crystallised juice of the aspen. Earl John of Herefordseems to have been a valetudinarian. 

Note 2. Close Roll, 1 Edward the Third, Part One. The exact wording ofthe coronation oath is of some importance, since it has sometimes beenstated that our sovereigns have sworn to maintain religion precisely asit existed in the days of Edward the Confessor. The examination of theoath shows that they promised no such thing. They engaged only to keepand defend to the people, clerical and lay, the laws, customs, rights, and liberties granted by their predecessors, and by Edward moreespecially. "To his power" means "to the best of his power. "

Note 3. Then not an unusual way of saying "the King of Spain'sdominions. "

Note 4. In my former volume, _In All Time of our Tribulation_, Icommitted the mistake of repeating the popular error that the Queen tookimmediate vengeance, by banishment, on the murderers of her husband. Itwas only Gournay and Ocle who were directly charged with the murder: theothers who had a share in it were merely indicted for treason. Gournaywas Constable of Bristol in December, 1328; and the warrant for hisapprehension was not issued until December 3, 1330--after the fall ofMortimer, when Edward the Third, not his mother, was actually the ruler. 

Note 5. By this phrase was meant the reckoning of the year from Easterto Easter, subsequently fixed for convenience' sake at the 25th ofMarch. 

Note 6. I have searched all the Wardrobe Accounts in vain for thewedding attire of this royal pair. The robes described are that worn bythe King for his coronation; that in which the Queen rode from the Towerto Westminster the day before her coronation; and that in which shedined after the same ceremony. These details are given in the WardrobeAccounts, 33/2, and 34/13. It was the fashion at this time for abride's hair to be left flowing straight from head to foot. 

Note 7. Chaucombe was in the Household, but of his special office Ifind no evidence. 

Note 8. A coarse variety of silk, used both for garments andupholstery. 

Note 9. Dr Barnes tells his readers that Lancaster was at this time soold as to be nearly decrepit; and two years later, that he was "almostblind for age. " He was exactly forty-one, having been born in 1287(Inq. Tho. Com. Lane, 1 Edward the Third 1. 88), and 53 years had notelapsed since the marriage of his parents. We may well say, afterChancellor Oxenstiern, "See with how little accuracy history iswritten!"

Note 10. Tender, sensitive, either in body or mind. This word is stilla provincialism in the North and West. 

Note 11. _Prob. Aet. Johannis Com. Kant. _, 23 Edward the Third 76, compared with _Rot. Pat. _, 4 Edward the Third, Part 1, and _Rot. Claus. _, 4 Edward the Third. 

PART ONE, CHAPTER 6. 

NEMESIS. 

 "The mills of God grind slowly, but they grind exceeding small. "

 Longfellow. 

After this, the Queen kept the King well in hand. To speak sooth, Ishould say the old Queen, or Queen Isabel, for now had we a young Queen. But verily, all this time Queen Philippa was treated as of smallaccount; and she, that was alway sweet and gent, dwelt full peaceably, content with her babe, our young Prince of Wales, that was born atWoodstock, at Easter of the King's fourth year [Note 1], and the oldQueen Isabel ruled all. She seemed fearful of letting the King out ofher sight. When he journeyed to the North in August, she went withal, and came back with him to Nottingham in October. It was she that writto my Lord of Hereford that he should not fail to be at the Colloquy[note 2] to be held in that town the fifteenth of October. With her wasever my Lord of March, that was as her shadow: my Lady of March, thatmight have required to have her share of him with some reason, beingleft lone with her childre in Ludlow Castle. It was the 13th of Octoberthat we came to Nottingham. My Lord of Hereford, that was Lord HighConstable, was at that time too sick to execute his office (or thoughthe was); maybe he desired to keep him well out of a thing he foresaw:howbeit, he writ his excuse to the King, praying that his brother SirEdward de Bohun might be allowed his deputy. To this the King assented:but my Lord of March, that I guess mistrusted more Sir Edward than hisbrother (the one having two eyes in his head, and the other as good asnone), counselled the Queen to take into her own hand the keys of theCastle. Which she did, having them every night brought to her by SirWilliam Eland, then Constable thereof, and she laid them under her ownpillow while the morning. 

The part of my tale to follow I tell as it was told to me, in so far asmatters fell not under mine eye. 

The King, the old Queen, the Earl of March, and the Bishop of Lincoln, were lodged in the Castle with their following: and Sir Edward de Bohun, doing office for his brother, appointed my Lord of Lancaster to have hislodging there likewise. Whereat my glorious Lord of March was greatlyangered, that he should presume to appoint a lodging for any of thenobles so near the person of Queen Isabel. (He offered not to go forthhimself. ) Sir Edward smiled something grimly, and appointed my Lord ofLancaster his lodging a mile forth of the town, where my Lord ofHereford also was. 

That night was dancing in the hall; and a little surprised was I thatSir William de Montacute [Note 3] should make choice of me as hispartner. He was one of the bravest knights in all the King'sfollowing--a young man, with all his wits about him, and lately wed tothe Lady Katherine de Grandison, a full fair lady of much skill [Note 4]and exceeding good repute. It was the pavon [Note 5] we danced, and notmany steps were taken when Sir William saith--

"Dame Cicely, I have somewhat to say to you, under your good leave. "

"Say on, Sir William, " quoth I. 

"Say I well, Dame, in supposing you true of heart to the old King, asDame Alice de Lethegreve's daughter should be?"

"You do so, in good sooth, " I made answer. 

"So I reckoned, " quoth he. "Verily, an' I had doubted it, I had held mypeace. But now to business:--Dame, will you help me?"

I could not choose but laugh to hear him talk of business. 

"That is well, " saith he. "Laugh, I pray you; then shall man think wedo but discourse of light matter. But what say you to my question?"

"Why, I will help you with a very good will, " said I, "if you go about agood matter, and if I am able, and if mine husband forbid me not. "

"Any more ifs?" quoth he--that I reckon wished to make me to laugh, thewhich I did. 

"Not at this present, " made I answer. 

"Then hearken me, " saith he. "Can you do a deed in the dark, unwittingof the cause--knowing only that it is for the King's honour and truegood, and that they which ask it be true men?"

I meditated a moment. Then said I, --"Ay; I can so. "

"Will you pass your word, " saith he, "to the endeavouring yourself tokeep eye on the Queen and my Lord of March this even betwixt four andfive o' the clock? Will you look from time to time on Sir John deMolynes, and if you hear either of them speak any thing as though theyshould go speak with the King, will you rub your left eye when Sir Johnshall look on you? But be you ware you do it not elsewise. "

"What, not though it itch?" said I, yet laughing. 

"Not though it itch to drive you distraught. "

"Well!" said I, "'tis but for a hour. But what means it, I pray you?"

"It means, " saith he, "that if the King's good is to be sought, and hishonour to be saved, you be she that must help to do it. "

Then all suddenly it came on me, like to a levenand [lightning] flash, what it was that Sir William and his fellows went about to do. I lookedfull into his eyes. And if ever I saw truth, honour, and valour writ inman's eyes, I read them there. 

"I see what you purpose, " said I. 

"You be marvellous woman an' you do, " answered he. 

"Judge you. You have chosen that hour to speak with the King, and toendeavour the opening of his eyes. For Queen Isabel or my Lord of Marchto enter should spoil your game. Sir John de Molynes is he that shallgive you notice if such be like to befall, and I am to signify the sameto him. "

Right at that minute I had to take a volt [jump], and turn to the rightround Sir John Neville. When I returned back to my partner, saith he, so that Sir John could hear--

"Dame Cicely, you vault marvellous well!"

"That was not so ill as might have been, I reckon, " quoth I. 

"Truly, nay, " he made answer: "it was right well done. "

I knew he meant to signify that I had guessed soothly. 

"Will you try it yet again?" saith he. 

"That will I, " I said: and I saw we were at one thereon. 

"Good, " saith he. "I reckoned, if any failed me at this pinch, itshould not be Dame Alice's daughter. "

That eve stood I upon tenterhooks. As the saints would have it, theQueen was a-broidering a certain work whereon Dame Elizabeth wroughtwith her: and for once in my life I thanked the said hallows [saints]for Dame Elizabeth's laziness. 

"Dame Cicely, " quoth she, "an' you be not sore pressed for time, prayyou, thread me a two-three needles. I wis not how it befalleth, butthread a neeld can I never. "

I could have told her well that _how_, for whenso she threadeth a neeldshe maketh no bones of the eye, but thrusteth forward the thread anywhither it shall go, on the chance that it shall hit, which by times itdoth: I should not marvel an' she essayed to thread the point. Howbeit, her ill husbandry was right then mine encheson [Note 6]. 

"Look you, " said I, "I can bring my work to that end of the chamber;then shall I be at hand to thread your neeld as it shall be voided. "

"Verily, you be gent therein, " saith she. 

The which I fear I was little. Howbeit, there sat I, a-threading DameElizabeth her neeld, now with red silk and now with black, as shelacked, and under all having care that I rubbed not my left eye, thewhich I felt strong desire to frote [rub]. I marvel how it was, for thehour over, I had no list to touch it all the even. 

My task turned out light enough, for my Lord of March was playing oftables [backgammon] with Sir Edward de Bohun, and never left his seatfor all the hour: and the Queen wrought peacefully on her goldenvulture, and moved no more than he. When I saw it was five o' the clock[Note 7], I cast an eye on Sir John de Molynes, which threw a look tothe clock, and then winked an eye on me; and I saw he took it we hadfinished our duty. 

The next morrow, which was Saint Luke's even [October 17th], came asurprise for all men. It was found that the Constable of the Castle, with Sir William de Montacute, Sir Edward de Bohun, Sir John de Molynes, the Lord Ufford, the Lord Stafford, the Lord Clinton, and Sir JohnNeville, had ridden away from the town the night afore, taking no maninto their counsel. None could tell wherefore their departure, nor whatthey purposed. I knew only that the King was aware thereof, thoughsoothly he counterfeited surprise as well as any man. 

"What can they signify?" saith Sir Edmund de Mortimer, the eldest son ofmy Lord of March--a much better man than his father, though not nigh socrafty. 

"Hold thy peace for a fool as thou art!" saith his father roughly. "They are afraid of me, I cast no doubt at all. And they do well. Icould sweep them away as lightly as so many flies, and none should missthem!"

He ended with a mocking laugh. Verily, pride such as this was fullready for a fall. 

We knew afterward what had passed in that hour the day afore. The Kinghad been hard to insense [cause to understand: still a Northernprovincialism] at the first. So great was his faith in his mother thathe ne could ne would believe any evil of her. As to the Mortimer, hewas ready enough, for even now was he a-chafing under the yoke. 

"Be he what he may--the very foul fiend himself an' you will, " had hesaid to his Lords: "but she, mine own mother, my beloved--Oh, not she, not she!"

Then--for themselves were lost an' they proved not their case--they werefain to bring forth their proofs. Sir William de Montacute told my Jackit was all pitiful to see how our poor young King's heart fought fullgallantly against the light as it brake on his understanding. Poor lad!for he was but a lad; and it troubled him sore. But they knew they mustcarry the matter through. 

"Oh, have away your testimonies!" he cried more than once. "Spare her--and spare me! Mother, my mother, mine own dear Lady! how is thispossible?"

At the last he knew all: knew who had set England in flame, who had doneSir Hugh Le Despenser and his son to death, who had been his ownfather's murderer. The scales were off his eyes; and had he list to doit, he could never set them on again. They said he covered his face, and wept like the child he nearhand was. Then he lifted his head, thetears over, and in his eyes was the light of a settled purpose, and inhis lips a stern avisement. No latsummes [backwardness, reluctance] wasin him when once fully set. 

"Take the Mortimer, " quoth he, firm enough. 

"Sir, " quoth Sir William de Montacute, "we, not being lodged in theCastle, shall never be able to seize him without help of the Constable. "

"Now, surely, " saith the King, "I love you well: wherefore go to theConstable in my name, and bid him aid you in taking of the Mortimer, onperil of life and limb. "

"Sir, then God grant us speed!" saith Sir William. 

So to the Constable they went, and brake the matter, only at firstbidding him in the King's name (having his ring for a token) to aid themin a certain enterprise which concerned the King's honour and safety. The Constable sware so to do, and then saith Sir William--

"Now, surely, dear friend, it behoved us to win your assent, in order toseize on the Mortimer, sith you are Keeper of the Castle, and have thekeys at your disposal. "

Then the Constable, having first lift his brows and made grimace of hismouth, fell in therewith, and quoth he--

"Sirs, if it be thus, you shall wit that the gates of the Castle belocked with the locks that Queen Isabel sent hither, and at night shehath all the keys thereof, and layeth them under the pillow of her bedwhile morning: and so I may not help you into the Castle at the gates byany means. But I know an hole that stretcheth out of the ward underearth into the Castle, beginning on the west side [still calledMortimer's Hole], which neither the Queen nor her following nor Mortimerhimself, nor none of his company, know anything of; and through thispassage I will lead you till you come into the Castle without espial ofenemies. "

Thereupon went they forth that even, as though to flee away from thetown, none being privy thereto save the King. And Saint Luke's Daypassed over quiet enough. The Queen went to mass in the Church of theWhite Friars, and offered at the high altar five shillings, hercustomary offering on the great feasts and chief saints' days. Allpeaceful sped the day; the Queen gat her abed, and the keys beingbrought of the Constable's deputy, I (that was that night in waiting)presented them unto her, which she received in her own hands and laidunder the pillow of her bed. Then went we, her dames and damsels, forthunto our own chambers in the upper storey of the Castle: and I, set atthe casement, had unlatched the same and thrown it open (being nigh aswarm as summer), and was hearkening to the soft flow of the waters ofthe Leene, which on that side do nearhand wash the Castle wall. I wasbut then thinking how peaceful were all things, and what sore pity itwere that man should bring in wrong, and bitterness, and anguish, onthat which God had made so beautiful--when all suddenly my fair peacechanged to fierce tumult and the clang of armed men--the tramp ofmail-clad feet and the hoarse crying of roaring voices. I was as thoughI held my breath: for I could well guess what this portended. Thenabove all the routing and bruit [shouting and noise], came the voice ofQueen Isabel, clear and shrill. 

"Now, fair Sirs, I pray you that you do no harm unto his body, for he isa worthy knight, our well-beloved friend, and our dear cousin. "

"They have him, then!" quoth I, scarce witting that I spake aloud, norwho heard me. 

"`Have him!'" saith Dame Joan de Vaux beside me: "whom have they?"

Then, suddenly, a word or twain in the King's voice came up to where westood; on which hearing, an anguished cry rang out from Queen Isabel. 

"Fair Son, fair Son! have pity on the sweet Mortimer!" [Note 8. ]

Wala wa! that time was past. And she had shown no pity. 

I never loved her, as in mine opening words I writ: yet in that dreadmoment I could not find in mine heart to leave her all alone in heragony. I have ever found that he which brings his sorrows on his ownhead doth not suffer less thereby, but more. And let her be what shewould, she was a woman, and in sorrow, not to say mine own liege Lady:and signing to Dame Joan to follow me, down degrees ran I with allhaste, and not staying to scratch on the door [Note 9], into the chamberto the Queen. 

We found her sitting up in her bed, her hands held forth, and a look ofagony and horror on her face. 

"Cicely, is it thou?" she shrieked. "Joan! Whence come ye? Saw yeaught? What do they to him? who be the miscreants? Is my son there?Have they won him over--the coward neddirs [serpents] that they be!Speak I who be they?--and what will they do? Ah, Mary Mother, what willthey do with him?"

Her voice choked, and I spake. 

"Dame, the King is there, and divers with him. "

"What do they?" she wailed like a woman in her last agony. 

"There hath been sharp assault, Dame, " said I, "and I fear some slain;for as I ran in hither, I saw that which seemed me the body of a deadman at the head of degrees. "

"Who?" She nearhand screamed. 

"Dame, " I said, "I think it was Sir Hugh de Turpington. "

"But what do they with _him_?" she moaned again, an accent of anguish onthat last word. 

I save no answer. What could I have given?

Dame Joan de Vaux saith, "Dame, the King is there, and God will be withthe King. We may well be ensured that no wrong shall be done to themthat have done no wrong. This is not the contekes [quarrel] of a rabblerout; it is the justice of the Crown upon his enemies. "

"His enemies?--whose? Mine enemies are dead and gone. All of them--all! I left not one. Who be these? who be they, I say? Cicely, answerme!"

Afore I could speak word, I was called by another voice. I was fainenough of the reprieve. Leaving Dame Joan with the Queen, I ran forthinto the Queen's closet, where stood the King. 

What change had come over him in those few hours! No longer a bashfullad that was nearhand afraid to speak for himself ere he were bidden. This was a young man [he was now close on eighteen years of age] thatstood afore me, a youthful warrior, a budding Achilles, that would standto no man's bidding, but would do his will. King of England was thisman. I louted low before my master. 

He spake in a voice wherein was both cold constrainedness, andbitterness, and stern determination--yet under them all something else--I think it was the sorely bruised yet living soul of that deepunutterable tenderness which had been ever his for the mother of hislove, but could be the same never more. Man is oft cold and bitter andstern, when an hour before he hath dug a grave in his own heart, andhath therein laid all his hopes and his affections. And they that lookon from afar behold the sheet of ice, but they see not the grave beneathit. They only see him cold and silent: and they reckon he cares fornought, and feels nothing. 

"Dame Cicely, you have been with the Queen?"

"Sir, I have so. "

"Take heed she hath all things at her pleasure, of such as lie in yourpower. Let my physician be sent for if need arise, as well as her own;and if she would see any holy father, let him be fetched incontinent[immediately]. See to it, I charge you, that she be served with allhonour and reverence, as you would have our favour. "

He turned as if to depart. Then all suddenly the ice went out of hisvoice, and the tears came in. 

"How hath she taken it?" saith he. 

"Sir, " said I, "full hardly as yet, and is sore troubled touching myLord of March, fearing some ill shall be done him. Moreover, my Ladybiddeth me tell her who these be. Is it your pleasure that I answer thesame?"

"Ay, answer her, " saith he sorrowfully, "for it shall do no mischiefnow. As for my Lord of March, no worser fate awaits him than he hathgiven better men. "

He strade forth after that kingly fashion which was so new in him, andyet sat so seemly upon him, and I went back to the Queen's chamber. 

"Cicely, is that my son?" she cried. 

"In good sooth, Dame, " said I. 

"What said he to thee?"

I told her the King had bidden me answer all her desire; that if sherequired physician she should be tended of his chirurgeon beside herown, and she should speak with any priest she would. I had thought itshould apay [gratify] her to know the same; but my words had thecontrariwise effect, for she looked more frightened than afore. 

"Nought more said he?"

"Dame, " said I, "the Lord King bade me to serve you with all honour andreverence. And he said, for my Lord of March--"

"Fare forth!" [go on] she cried, though I scarce knew that I paused. 

"He answered, that no worser should befall him than he had caused tobetter men than he. "

"Mary, Mother!"

I thought I had scarce ever heard wofuller wail than she made then. Shesank down in the bed, clutching the coverlet with her hands, and castingit over her, as she buried her face in the pillows. I went nigh, anddrew the coverlet full setely [properly, neatly] over her. 

"Let be!" she saith in a smothered voice. "It is all over. Life mustfare forth, and life is of no more worth. My bird is flown from thecage, and none can win him back. Is there so much as one of the saintswill speak for me? As I have wrought, so hast Thou paid me, God!"

Not an other word spake she all the livelong day. Never day seemedlonger than that weary eve of Saint Ursula [October 20th]. That morrowwere taken in the town the two sons of my Lord of March, Sir Edmund andSir Geoffrey, beside divers of his friends--Sir Oliver Byngham, SirSimon de Bereford, and Sir John Deveroil the chief. All were sent thatsame day under guard to London, with the Mortimer himself. 

No voice compassionated him. Nay, "my Lord of March" was no more, butin every man's mouth "the Mortimer" as of old time. Some that hadseemed his greatest losengers [flatterers] now spake of him with themost disdain, while they that, while they allowed him not [did notapprove of him], had yet never abused ne reviled him, were the leastwrathful against him. I heard that when he was told of all, my Lord ofLancaster flung up his cap for joy. 

Some things afterward said were not true. It was false slander to say, as did some, that the Mortimer was taken in the Queen's own chamber. Hewas arrest in the Bishop of Lincoln's chamber (which had his lodgingnext the Queen), and in conference with the said Bishop. They took notthat priest of Baal; I had shed no tears had they so done. Sir Hugh deTurpington and Sir John Monmouth, creatures of the Mortimer, were slain;Sir John Neville, on the other side, was wounded. 

Fourteen charges were set forth against the Mortimer. The murder ofKing Edward was one; the death of my Lord of Kent an other. One thingwas not set down, but every man knew how to read betwixt the lines, whenthe indictment writ that other articles there were against him, which inrespect of the King's honour were not to be drawn up in writing. Walawa! there was honour concerned therein beside his own: but he was verytender of her. His way was hard to walk and beset with snares, and hewalked it with cleaner feet than most men should. Never heard I fromhis lips word unreverent toward her; and if other lips spake the same tohis knowing, they forthank [regretted] it. 

That same day the King departed from Nottingham for Leicester, on hisway to London. He left behind him the Lord Wake de Lydel, in whosecharge he placed Queen Isabel, commanding that she should be taken toBerkhamsted Castle as soon as might be. I know not certainly if hespake with her afore he set forth, but I think rather nay than yea. 

October was not out when we reached Berkhamsted. The Queen's firstanguish was over, and she scarce spake; but I could see she hearkenedwell if aught was said in her hearing. 

The King sent command to seize all lands and goods of the Mortimer intohis hands; but the Lady of March he bade to be treated with all respectand kindliness, and that never a jewel nor a thread of her having shouldbe taken. Indeed, I heard never man nor woman speak of her but tenderlyand pitifully. She was good woman, and had borne more than many. Forthe Lady Margaret her mother-in-law, so much will I not say; for she wasa firebrand that (as saith Solomon) scattered arrows and death: but theLady Joan was full gent and reverend, and demerited better husband thanthe Fates gave her. Nay, that may I not say, sith no such thing is asFate, but only God, that knoweth to bring good out of evil, and hathcomforted the Lady Joan in Paradise these four years gone. 

But scarce three weeks we tarried at Berkhamsted, and then the Lord Wakebore to the Queen tidings that it was the King's pleasure she shouldremove to Windsor. My time of duty was then run out all but a two-threedays; and the Queen my mistress was pleased to say I might serve me ofthose for mine own ease, so that I should go home in the stead ofjourneying with her to Windsor. At that time my little maid Vivien wasnot in o'er good health, and it paid me well to be with her. So fromthis point mine own remembrances have an end, and I serve me, for therest, of the memory of Dame Joan de Vaux, mine old and dear-worthyfriend, and of them that abode with Queen Isabel till she died. Forwhen her household was 'minished and again stablished on a new footing, it liked the King of his grace to give leave to such as should desirethe same to depart to their own homes, and such as would were at libertyto remain--one except, to wit, Dame Isabel de Lapyoun, to whom he gaveconge with no choice. I was of them that chose to depart. Forsooth, Ihad seen enough and to spare of Court life (the which I never did muchlove), and I desired no better than to spend the rest of my life athome, with my Jack and my little maids, and my dear mother, so long asGod should grant me. 

My brother Robert (of whom, if I spake not much, it was from no lack ofloving-kindness), on the contrary part, chose to remain. He hath everloved a busy life. 

I found my Vivien full sick, and a weariful and ugsome time had I withher ere she recovered of her malady. Soothly, I discovered thatdiachylum emplasture was tenpence the pound, and tamarinds fivepence;and grew well weary of ringing the changes upon rosin and frankincense, litharge and turpentine, oil of violets and flowers of beans, _GratiaDei_, camomile, and mallows. At long last, I thank God, she amended;but it were a while ere mine ears were open to public matter, and notfull filled of the moaning of my poor little maid. So now, to have backto my story, as the end thereof was told me by Dame Joan de Vaux. 

Queen Isabel came to Windsor about Saint Edmund the King [November20th]; and nine days thereafter, on the eve of Saint Andrew [November29th], was the Mortimer hanged at Tyburn. He was cast [sentenced] ascommoner, not as noble, and was dragged at horse's tail for a leagueoutside the city of London to the Elms. But the penalties that commonlycame after were not exacted, seeing his body was not quartered, nor hishead set up on bridge ne gate. His body was sent to the Friars Minors'Church at Coventry, whence one year thereafter, it was at the King'scommand delivered to the Lady Joan his widow and Sir Edmund his son, that they might bury him in the Abbey of Wigmore with his fathers. Hismother, the Lady Margaret, overlived him but four years; but the LadyJoan his wife died four years gone, the very day and month that he wastaken prisoner, to wit, the nineteenth day of October, 1356, nigh twoyears afore Queen Isabel. 

The eve of Saint Andrew, as I writ, was the Mortimer hanged, withoutdefence by him made (he had allowed none to Sir Hugh Le Despenser and myLord of Kent): and four days hung his body in irons on the gibbet, asSir Hugh's the father had done. Verily, as he had done, so did God apayhim, which is just Judge over all the earth. 

And the very next day, Saint Andrew, came His dread judgment upon oneother--upon her that had wrought evil and not good, and that hadbetrayed her own lord to his cruel death. All suddenly, without oneinstant's warning, came the bolt out of Heaven upon Isabel of France. While the body of the Mortimer hung upon the gibbet at the Elms ofTyburn, God stripped that sinful woman of the light of reason which shehad used so ill, and she fell into a full awesome frenzy, so dread thatshe was fain to be strapped down, and her cries and shrieks werenearhand enough to drive all wood that heard her. While the body hungthere lasted this fearsome frenzy. But the hour it was taken down, camechange over her. She sank that same hour into the piteous thing she wasfor long afterward, right as a little child, well apaid with toys andshows, a few glass beads serving her as well as costly jewels, and ayard of tinsel or fringe bright coloured a precious treasure. The Kingwas sore troubled; but what could he do? At the first the physicianscounselled that she should change the air often; and first to OdihamCastle was she taken, and thence to Hertford, and after to Rising. Butnothing was to make difference to her any more for many a year, --onlythat by now and then, for a two-three hours, she hath come to her wit, and then is she full gent and sad, desiring ever the grace of our Lordfor her ill deeds, and divers times saying that as she hath done, sohath God requited her. I have heard say that as time passed on, thesetimes of coming to her wit were something oftener and tarried longer, until at last, a year afore she died, she came to her full wit, and soabode to the end. 

The King, that dealt full well with her, and had as much care of herhonour as of his own (and it was whispered that our holy Father the Popewrit unto him that he should so do), did at the first appoint her tokeep her estate in two of her own castles, to wit, Hertford and Rising:and set forth a new household for her, appointing Sir John de Molynesher Seneschal, and Dame Joan de Vaux her chief dame in waiting. Seldomhath she come to Town, but when there, she tarried in the Palace of myLord of Winchester at Southwark, on the river side, and was once inpresence when the King delivered the great Seal to Sir Robert Parving. Then she was in her wit for a short time. But commonly, at the King'scommand, she hath tarried in those two her castles, --to wit, Hertfordand Rising--passing from one to the other according to the counsel ofher physicians. The King hath many times visited her (though never theQueen, which he ever left at Norwich when he journeyed to Rising), andso, at times, have divers of his children. Ten years afore her death, the King's adversary of France, Philippe de Valois, that now calleth himKing thereof, moved the King that Queen Isabel should come to Eu totreat with his wife concerning peace: and so careful is the King, andhath ever been, of his mother's honour, that he would not answer himwith the true reason contrary thereto, but treated with him on thatfooting, and only at the last moment made excuse to appoint otherenvoys. Poor soul! she had no wit thereto. I never saw her after Ileft her service saving once, which was when she was at Shene, onCantate Sunday [April 29th], an eleven years ere her death, at supper inthe even, where were also the King, the Queen of Scots [her youngerdaughter], and the Earl of March [grandson of the first Earl]; andsoothly, for all the ill she wrought, mine heart was woe for the cagedtigress with the beautiful eyes, that was wont to roam the forest wildsat her pleasure, and now could only pace to and fro, up and down hercage, and toy with the straws upon the floor thereof. It was pitiful tosee her essaying, like a babe, as she sat at the board, to cause a waferto stand on end, and when she had so done, to clap her hands and laughwith childish glee, and call her son and daughter to look. Very gentwas the King unto her, that looked at her bidding, and lauded her skilland patience, as he should have done to his own little maid that was butthree years old. Ah me, it was piteous sight! the grand, queenlycreature that had fallen so low! Verily, as she had done, so Godrequited her. 

She died at Hertford Castle, two days afore Saint Bartholomew nextthereafter [August 22nd, 1358. See Note in Appendix]. I heard that inher last hours, her wit being returned to her as good as ever it hadbeen, she had her shriven clean, and spake full meek [humble] andexcellent words of penitence for all her sins, and desired to be buriedin the Church of the Friars Minors in London town, and the heart of herdead lord to be laid upon her breast. They have met now in the presenceabove, and he would forgive her there. _Lalme de qui Dieux eit mercie_!Amen. 

Here have ending the Annals of Cicely. 

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Note 1. The chroniclers (and after them the follow-my-leader school ofmodern historians) are unanimous in their assertion that the BlackPrince was born on June 15th. If this be so, it is, to say the least, alittle singular that the expenses of the Queen's churching were defrayedon the 24th and 28th of April previous (Issue Roll, Easter, 4 Edward theThird). On the 3rd, 5th, and 13th of April, the King dates his mandatesfrom Woodstock; on the 24th of March he was at Reading. This looks verymuch as if the Prince's birth had taken place about the beginning ofApril. The 8th of that month was Easter Day. 

Note 2. Modern writers make no difference between a Colloquy and aParliament. The Rolls always distinguish them, treating; the Colloquyas a lesser and more informal gathering. 

Note 3. Second son of the elder Sir William de Montacute and Elizabethde Montfort. He appears as a boy in the first chapter of the companionvolume, _In All Time of our Tribulation_. 

Note 4. Discretion, wisdom. 

Note 5. The pavon was a slow, stately dance, but it also included highleaps. 

Note 6. Occasion, opportunity. Needles, at this time, were greattreasures; a woman who possessed three or four thought herself wealthyindeed. 

Note 7. Striking clocks were not invented until about 1368. 

Note 8. Had the Queen spoken in English, she would certainly have said_sweet_, not _gentle_, which last is an incorrect translation of_gentil_. This latter speech, though better known, is scarcely so wellauthenticated as the previous one. 

Note 9. Royal etiquette prescribed a scratch on the door, like that ofa pet animal; the knock was too rough and plebeian an appeal foradmission. 

PART TWO, CHAPTER 1. 

WHEREIN AGNES THE LADY OF PEMBROKE TELLETH TALE (1348). 

THE CHILDREN OF LUDLOW CASTLE. 

 "O little feet, that, such long years, Must wander on through hopes and fears, Must ache and bleed beneath your load: I, nearer to the wayside inn Where toil shall cease and rest begin, Am weary, thinking of your road. "

 Longfellow. 

Hereby I promise, and I truly mean to execute it, to give my new greensilk cloth of gold piece, bordered with heads of griffins in goldenbroidery, to the Abbey of Saint Austin at Canterbury, if any thatliveth, man or woman, will tell me certainly how evil came into thisworld. I want to know why Eva plucked that apple. She must haveplucked it herself, for the serpent could not give it her, having nohands. And if man--or woman--will go a step further, and tell me whyAdam ate another, he shall have my India-coloured silk, broidered withgolden lions and vultures, whereof I had meant to make me a new gown forthis next Michaelmas feast. It doth seem as if none but a very idiotcould have let in evil and sin and sorrow and pain all over this world, for the sake of a sweet apple. It must have been sweet, I should think, because it grew in Eden. But was there never another in all the gardensave only on that tree? Or did man not know what would happen? or wasit that man would not think? That is the way sometimes with some folks, else that heedless Nichola had not broken my favourite comb. 

The question has been in my head many a score of times; but it came justnow because my Lady, my lord's mother, was earnest with me to write in abook what I could remember of mine early days, when my Lady mine ownmother was carried to Skipton and Pomfret. If those were not evil days, I know not how to spell the word. And I am very sure it was evil menthat made them; and evil women. I believe bad woman is far worse thanbad man. So saith the Lady Julian, my lord's mother; and being herselfwoman, and having been thrice wed, she should know somewhat of women andmen too. Ay, and I were ill daughter if I writ not down also that agood woman is one of God's blessedest gifts to this evil world; for suchis mine own mother, the Lady Joan de Geneville, that was sometime wifeunto the Lord Roger Mortimer, Earl of March, whose name men of this dayknow but too well. 

Well-a-day! if a thing is to be, it is best over. It is never any goodto sit on the brink shivering before man plunge in. So, if I must needswrite, be it done. Here is a dozen of parchment, and a full inkhorn, and grey goose-quills: and I need nothing else save brains; whereof, Ithank the saints, I have enough and to spare. And indeed, it is as wellI should, for in this world--I say not, in this house--there be folkswho have none too many. But I reckon, before I begin my tale, I hadbest say who and what I am, else shall those who read my book be likemen that walk in a mist, which is not pleasant, as I found this lastsummer, when for a time I lost my company--and thereby, myself--on thetop of a Welsh mountain. 

I, then, who write, am Agnes de Hastings, Countess of Pembroke and Ladyof Leybourne: and I am wife unto the Lord Lawrence de Hastings, Earl andBaron of the same. My father and mother I have already named, but I maysay further that my said mother is a Princess born, being of that greatHouse of Joinville in France--which men call Geneville in England--thatare nobles of the foremost rank in that country. These my parents hadtwelve children, of whom I stand right in the midst, being the seventh. My brother Edmund was the eldest of us; then came Margaret, Joan, Roger, Geoffrey, Isabel, and Katherine; then stand I Agnes, and after me areMaud, John, Blanche, and Beatrice [Note 1]. And of them, Edmund andMargaret have been commanded to God. He died young, my poor brotherEdmund, for he set his heart on being restored to the name and landswhich our father had forfeited, and our Lord the King thought not goodto grant it; so his heart broke, and he died. Poor soul! I would notsay an unkind word over his grave; where the treasure is, there will theheart be; but I would rather set my heart on worthier treasure, and Ithink I should scarce be so weak as to die for the loss. God assoilhim, poor soul!

I was born in the Castle of Ludlow, on the morrow of the Translation ofSaint Thomas, in the year of King Edward of Caernarvon the eleventh[Note 2], so that I am now thirty years of age. I am somewhat elderthan my lord, who was born at Allesley, by Coventry town, on SaintCuthbert's Day, in the fourteenth year of the same [March 20th, 1321]. I might say I was wiser, and not look forward to much penance for lying;for I should be more likely to have it set me if I said that all thewits in this world were in his head. Howbeit, there is many a worse manthan he: a valiant knight, and courteous, and of rarely gentle andgracious ways; and maybe, if he were wiser, he would give me moretrouble to rule him, which is easy enough to do. Neverthelatter, therebe times when it should do me ease to take him by the shoulders and givehim an hearty shake, if I could thereby shake a bit more sense into him:and there be times when it comes over me that he might have been bettermatched, as our sometime Lord King Edward meant him to have been, withthe Lady Alianora La Despenser, that Queen Isabel packed off to anunnery in hot haste when she came in. Poor soul! He certainly is notmatched with me, unless two horses be matched whereof one is black andof sixteen handfuls, and steppeth like a prince, and the other is white, and of twelve handfuls, and ambles of a jog-trot. I would he had a bitmore stir in him. Not that he lacks knightly courage--never a whit;carry him into battle, and he shall quit him like a man; but when all issaid, he is fitter for the cloister, for he loveth better to sit at homewith Joan of his knee, and a great clerkly book afore him wherein hewill read by the hour, which is full well for a priest, but not for anoble of the King's Court. He never gave me an ill word (veriliest[truly], I marvel if ever he said `I won't!' in all his life), yet, forall his hendihood [courtesy, sweetness], will he have his own way bytimes, I can never make out how. But he is a good man on the whole, anddoth pretty well as he is bid, and I might change for a worse withouttaking a long journey. So, take it all in all, there are many womenhave more to trouble them than I, the blessed saints be thanked, and oursweetest Lady Saint Mary and my patron Saint Agnes in especial. Only Ido hope Jack shall have more wit than his father, and I shall think thefairies have changed him if he have not. _My_ son should not be shortof brains. 

But now, to have back, and begin my story: for I reckon I shall nevermake an end if I am thus lone: in coming to the beginning. 

We were all brought up in the Castle of Ludlow, going now and then tosweeten [to have the house thoroughly cleaned] to the Castle of Wigmore. Of course, while we were little children, we knew scarce any thing ofour parents, as beseemed persons of our rank. The people whom I verilyknew were Dame Hilda our mistress [governess], and Maud and Ellen ourdamsels, and Master Terrico our Chamberlain, and Robert atte Wardrobe, our wardrobe-keeper, and Sir Philip the clerk (I cry him mercy, heshould have had place of Robert), and Stephen the usher of the chamber, and our four nurses, whose names were Emelina, Thomasia, Joan, andMargery, and little Blaise the page. They were my world. But into thisworld, every now and then, came a sweet, fair presence--a vision of agracious lady in velvet robes, whose hand I knelt to kiss, and who usedto lay it on my head and bless me: and at times she would take up one ofus in her arms, and sit down with the babe on her velvet lap, and a lookwould come into her eyes which I never saw in Dame Hilda's; and shewould bend her fair head and kiss the babe as if she loved her verymuch. But that was mostly while we were babies. I cannot recollect herdoing that to me--it was chiefly to Blanche and Beatrice. Until oneday, and then--

Nay, I have not come to that yet. And then, at times, we should hear avoice below--a stern, deep voice, or a peal of loud laughter--and in aninstant the light and the joy would die out of the tender eyes of thatgracious vision, and instead would come a frightened look like that of ahunted hare, and commonly she would rise suddenly, and put down thebabe, and hasten away, as if she had been indulging in some forbiddenpleasure, and was afraid of being caught. I can remember wishing thatthe loud laugh and the stern angry voice would go away, and never comeback, but that the gracious vision would stay always with us, and notonly pay us a rare visit. Ay, and I can remember wishing that she wouldtake _me_ on that velvet lap, and let me nestle into her soft arms, anddare to lay my little head on her warm bosom. I think she would havedone it, if she had known! I used to feel in those days like a littlechicken hardly feathered, and longed to be under the soft brooding wingsof the hen. The memory of it hath caused me to pet my Jack and Joan adeal more than I should without it. 

Then, sometimes, we had a visit from a very different sort of guest. That was an old lady--about a hundred and fifty, I used to fancy her--dressed in velvet full as costly, but how differently she wore it! Shenever took us on her lap--not she, indeed! We used to have to kneel andkiss her hand--and Roger whispered to me once that if he dared, he wouldbite it. This horrid old thing (who called herself our grandmother)used to be like a storm blowing through the house. She never was twominutes in the room before she began to scold somebody; and if she couldnot find reasonable fault with any body, that seemed to vex her morethan anything else. Then she scolded us all in a lump together. "DameHilda, what an untidy chamber!"--she usually began in that way--"whydon't you make these children put their playthings tidy? (Of courseDame Hilda did, at the end of the day; but how could we have playthingstidy while we were playing with them?) Meg, your hair is no better thana mop! Jack, how got you that rent in your sleeve? (I never knew Jackwithout a rent in some part of his clothes; I should not have thought itwas Jack if he had come in whole garments. ) Joan, how ungainly you sit!pluck yourself up this minute. Nym, take your elbows off the table. Maud, your chaucers [slippers] are down at heel. How dirty your handsare, Roger! go and wash them. Agnes, that wimple of yours is all awry;who pinned it up?"

So she went on--rattle and scold, scold and rattle--as long as shestayed in the room. Jack, always the saucy one, asked her one day, whenhe was very little--

"Are you really Grandmother?"

"Certes, child, " said she, turning to look at him: "why?"

"Because I wish you were somebody else!"

_Ha, chetife_! did Jack forget that afternoon? I trow not. 

I had a sound whipping once myself from Dame Hilda, because I said, right out, that I hated the Lady Margaret: and Joan, --poor delicateJoan, who was perpetually scolded for stooping--looked at me as if shewished she dared say it too. Roger had his ears boxed because hedrawled out, "Amen!" I think we all said Amen in our hearts. 

Sometimes the Lady Margaret did not come upstairs, but sent for some ofus down to her. That was worse than ever. There were generally anumber of gentlemen there, who seemed to think that children were onlymade to be teased: and some of them I disliked, and others I despised. Only of one I was terribly afraid: and that was--mercy, Jesu!--mine ownfather. 

I should have found it difficult to say what it was in him thatfrightened me. I used to call it fear then; but when I look back on thefeeling from my present state, I think it was rather a kind ofungovernable antipathy. He did not scold us all round as Lady Margaretdid. The worst thing, I think, that I remember his saying to me was asharp--"Get out of the way, girl!" And I wished I only could get out ofhis way, for ever and ever. Something made me feel as if I could notbear to be in the same room with him. I used to shiver all over, if Ionly heard his voice. Yet he never ill-used any of us; he scarcely evenlooked at us. It was not any thing he did which made me feel so; it wasjust himself. 

Surely never did man dress more superbly than he. I recollect thinkingthat the King was not half so fine; yet King Edward liked velvet andgold as well as most men. My Lord my father never wore worsted summertunics or woollen winter cloaks, like others. Silk, velvet, samite, andcloth of gold, were his meanest wear; and his furs were budge, ermine, miniver, and gris. I can remember hearing how once, when the furriersent him in a robe of velvet guarded with hare's fur, he flung it on oneside in a fury, and ordered the poor man to be beaten cruelly. Healways wore much golden broidery, and buttons of gems or solid gold; andhe never would wear a suit of any man's livery--not even the King's, --save once, when he wore the Earl of Chester's at the coronation of theQueen of France, just to vex King Edward--as it sorely did, for he wasthen a proscribed fugitive, who had no right to use it. 

It is a hard matter when a child is frightened of its own father. It isyet harder when he makes it hate him. Ah, it is easy to say, That waswicked of thee. So it was: and I know it. But doth not sin lead tosin?--spring out of it, like branches from a stem, like leaves from abranch? And when one man's act of sin creates sin in another man, andthat again in a third, whose is the sin--the black root, whereof camethe rotten branches and the withered leaves? Are we not all ourbrothers' and our sisters' keepers? Well, it will not answer to pursuethat road: for I know well I should trace up the sin too high, to one ofwhom it were not meet for me to speak in the same breath with uglywords. Ay me! what poor weak things we mortal creatures are! Littlemarvel, little marvel for the woe that was wrought!--so fair, so fairshe was! She had the soul of a fiend with the face of an angel. Was itany wonder that men--ay, and some women--were beguiled with that angelface, and fancied but too rashly that the soul must be as sweet as it?God have mercy on all Christian souls! Verily, I myself, only this lastspring-time, was ready to yield to the witch's spell--never was womansuch enchantress as she!--and athwart all the past, despite all I knew, gazing on that face, even yet fairer than the faces of younger women, tothink it possible that all the tales were false, and all the past avision of the night, and that the lovely face and the sweet, soft voicecovered a soul white as the saints in Heaven! And men are easierdeluded by such dreams than women--or at least I think it. My poorfather! If only he had never seen her that haled him to his undoing! hemight, perchance, have been a better man. Any way, he paid the bill inhis heart's blood. So here I leave him. God forgive us all!

And now to my story. While I was but a little child, we saw little ofour mother: little more, indeed, than we did of our father. I think, ofthe two, we oftener saw our grandmother. And little children, as Godhath wisely ordered it, live in the present moment, and take no note ofthings around them which men and women see with half an eye. Now, looking back, I can recall events which then passed by me as of noimport. It was so, and there was an end of it. But I can see now whyit was so: and I know enough to guess the often sorrowful nature of thatwherefore. 

So it was nothing to us children, unless it were a relief, that after Iwas about four years old, we missed our father almost entirely. Wenever knew why he tarried away for months at a time. We had not anotion that he was first in the prison of the Tower, and afterwards arefugee over seas. And we saw without seeing that our mother grew thinand white, and her sweet eyes were heavy with tears which we never sawher shed. All we perceived was that she came oftener to the nursery, and stayed longer with us, and petted the babies more than had been herwont. And that such matters had a meaning, --a deep, sad, terriblemeaning--never entered our heads. Later on we knew that during thoselonely years her heart was being crucified, and crucifixion is a dyingthat lasts long. But she never let us know it. I think she would notdamp our fresh childish glee by even the spray of that roaring cataractwherein her life was overwhelmed. Mothers--such mothers as she--arelike a reflection of God. 

I remember well, though I was but just seven years old, the night whennews came to Ludlow Castle that my father had escaped from the Tower. It was a very hot night in August--too hot to sleep--and I lay awake, chattering to Kate and Isabel, who were my bedfellows, about some grandplay we meant to have the next afternoon, in the great gallery--when allat once we heard a horse come dashing up to the portcullis, past ourchamber wall, and a horn crying out into the night. 

Isabel sat up in bed, and listened. 

"Is it my Lord coming home?" I said. 

"What, all alone, with no company?" answered Isabel, who is four yearselder than I. "Silly child! It is some news for my Lady my mother. The saints grant it be good!"

Of course we could hear nothing of what passed at the portcullis, as ourwindow opened on the base court. But in a few minutes we heard thehorse come trotting into our court, and the rider 'lighted down: andIsabel, who lay with her head next the casement, sat up again and puther head out of the curtain. It was a beautiful moonlight night, almostas bright as day. 

"What is it, Ibbot?" said Kate. 

"It is a man in livery, " answered Isabel; "but whose livery I know not. It is not ours. "

Then we heard the man call to the porter, and the door open, and thesound of muffled voices to and fro for a minute; and then Master Inge'sstep, which we knew--he was then castellan--coming in great haste pastour door as if he were going to my Lady's chamber. Then the door of thelarge nursery opened, and we heard Dame Hilda within, saying to Tamzine, "Thou wert better run and see. " And Tamzine went quickly along thegallery, as if she, too, were going to my Lady. 

For a long, long time, as it seemed to us--I dare say it was not manyminutes--we lay and listened in vain. At length Tamzine came back. 

"Good tidings, or bad?" we heard Dame Hilda ask. 

"The saints wot!" whispered Tamzine. "My Lord is 'scaped from theTower. "

"_Ha, chetife_! will he come here?" said Dame Hilda: and we saw that itwas bad news in her eyes. 

"Forsooth, nay!" replied Tamzine. "There be hues and cries all over forhim, but man saith he is fled beyond seas. "

"Amen!" ejaculated Dame Hilda. "He may win to Cathay [China] by my goodwill; and if he turn not again till mine hair be white, then will I givemy patron saint a measure in wax. But what saith my Lady?"

"Her I saw not, " answered Tamzine; "but Mistress Robergia, who told me, said she went white and red both at once, and her breast heaved asthough her very heart should come forth. "

"Gramercy!" said Dame Hilda. "How some folks do set their best pearlsin copper!"

"Eh, our Lady love us!" responded Tamzine. "That's been ever sith worldbegan to run, Dame, I can tell you. "

"I lack no telling, lass, " was Dame Hilda's answer. "Never was therefiner pearl set in poorer ore than that thou and I wot of. "

I remember that bit of talk because I puzzled myself sorely as to whatDame Hilda could mean. Kate was puzzled, too, for she said to Isabel--

"What means the Dame? I never saw my Lady wear a pearl set in copper. "

"Oh, let be!" said Isabel. "'Tis but one of the Dame's strange sayings. She is full of fantasies. "

But whether Isabel were herself perplexed, or whether she understood, and thought it better to shut our mouths, that cannot I tell to thisday. 

Well, after that things were quiet again for a while: a very long while, it seemed to me. I believe it was really about six months. During thattime, we saw much more of our mother than we used to do; she would comeoften into the nursery, and take one of the little ones on her lap--itwas oftenest Blanche--and sit there with her. Sometimes she would talkwith Dame Hilda; but more frequently she was silent and sad, at timeslooking long from the casement as if she saw somewhat that none othereyes could see. Jack said one day--

"Whither go Mother's eyes when she looks out of the window?"

"For shame, Damsel [Note 3] John!" cried Dame Hilda. "`Mother, ' indeed!Only common children use such a word. Say `my Lady' if you please. "

"She is my mother, isn't she?" said Jack stubbornly. "Why shouldn't Icall her so, I should like to know? But you haven't answered me, Dame. "

"I know not what you mean, Damsel. "

"Why, when she sits down in that chair, and takes Blanchette on herknee, --her eyes go running out of the window first thing. Whither wendthey?"

"Children like you cannot understand, " replied Dame Hilda, with one ofthose superior smiles which used to make me feel so very naughty. Itseemed to say, "My poor, little, despicable insect, how could you dreamof supposing that your intellect was even with Mine?" (There, I havewrit that a capital M in red ink. To have answered to Dame Hilda's tonewhen she put that smile on, it should have been in vermilion and goldleaf. ) Howbeit, Jack never cared for all the airs she put on. 

"Then why don't you make us understand it?" said he. 

I do not remember what Dame Hilda said to that, but I dare say she boxedJack's ears. 

Deary me, how ill doth my tale get forward! Little things keep a-comingto my mind, and I turn aside after them, like a second deer crossing thepath of the first. That shall never serve; I must keep to my quarry. 

All this time our mother grew thinner and whiter. Poor soul, she lovedhim well!--but so sure as the towel of the blessed Nicodemus is in thesacristy of our Lady at Warwick, cannot I tell for why. Very certain amI that he never gave her any reason. 

We reckoned those six months dreary work. There were no banquets inhall, nor shows came to the Castle, nor even so much as a pedlar, thatwe children saw; only the same every-day round, and tired enough we wereof it. All the music we ever heard was in our lessons from Piers leSautreour; and if ever child loved her music lessons, her name was notAgnes de Mortimer. All the laughter that was amongst us we madeourselves; and all the shows were when Jack chose to tumble somersaults, or Maud twisted some cold lace round her head, and said, "Now I am QueenIsabel. " Dreary work, in good sooth! yet was it a very Michaelmas showand an Easter Day choir to that which lay ahead. 

And then, one night, --ah, what a night that was! It was near ourbed-time, and Jack, Kate, and I, were playing on the landing and up anddown the staircase of our tower. I remember, Jack was the stag, andKate and I were the hunters; and rarely did Jack throw up his head, toshow off his branching horns--which were divers twigs tied on his headby a lace of Dame Hilda's, for the use whereof Jack paid a pretty pennywhen she knew it. Kate had just made a grab at him, and should havecaught him, had his tunic held, but it gave way, and all she won was anhandful of worsted and a slip of the step that grazed her shins; and shewas rubbing of her leg and crying "Lack-a-day!" and Jack above, well outof reach, was making mowes [grimaces] at us--when all at once an hornrang loud through the Castle, and man on little ambling nag came intothe court-yard. Kate forgat her leg, and Jack his mowes, and all we, stag and hunters alike, ran to the gallery window for to gaze. 

I know not how long we should have tarried at the window, had notEmelina come and swept us afore her into the nursery, with animpatient--"Deary me! here be these children for ever in the way!"

And Jack cries, "You always say we are in the way; but mustn't we be anywhere?"

Whereto she makes answer--"Go and get you tucked into bed; that's theonly safe place for the like of you!"

Jack loudly resented being sent to bed before the proper time, whereuponhe and Emelina had a fight (as they had most nights), and Kate and I raninto the nursery to get out of the way. Here was Margery, turning downthe beds, but Dame Hilda we saw not till, an half-hour after, as we weredoffing us for bed, she came, with her important face which she was wontto wear when some eventful thing had befallen her or us. 

"Are the damsels abed, Emelina?" saith she. 

"The babes be, Dame; and the elders be a-doffing them. "

Dame Hilda came forward into the night nursery. 

"Hold you there, young ladies!" saith she: "at the least, I would say mythree elder young ladies--Dame Margaret, Dame Joan, and Dame Isabel. Pray you, don you once more, but of your warmest gear, for a journey bynight. "

"Are we not to go to bed?" asked Joan in surprise: but our three sistersdonned themselves anew, as Dame Hilda had said, of their warmest gear. Dame Hilda spake not word till they were all ready. Then Meg saith--

"Whither be we bound, Dame?--and with whom?"

"With my Lady, Dame Margaret, to Southampton. "

I think we all cried out "Southampton!" in diverse tones. 

"There is news come to her Ladyship, as she herself may tell you, " saidDame Hilda, mysteriously. 

"Aren't we to go, Dame?" saith Blanche's little voice. 

Dame Hilda turned round sharply, as if she went about to snap Blanche'shead off; and Blanche shrank in dismay. 

"Certainly not, Dame Blanche! What should my Lady do to be worried withbabes like you? She has enough else on her mind at this present, without a pack of tiresome children--holy saints be her help! Eh dear, dear, this world!"

"Dame, is this world so bad?" saith Jack, letting his nose appear abovethe bed-clothes. 

"Go to sleep, the weary lot of you!" was Dame Hilda's irritable answer. 

"Because, " saith Jack, ne'er a whit daunted--nothing ever cowedJack--"if it is so bad, hadn't you better be off out of it? You'd bebetter off, I suppose, and we shouldn't miss you, --that I'll promise. Do go, Dame!"

Jack spake these last words with a full compassionate air, as though hewere seriously concerned for Dame Hilda's happiness; but she, marchingup to the bed where Jack lay, dealt him a stinging slap for hisimpudence. 

"Ah!" saith Jack in a mumbled voice, having disappeared under thebed-clothes, "this is a bad world, I warrant you, where folks returnevil for good o' this fashion!"

We heard no more of Jack beyond divers awesome snores, which I thinkwere not altogether sooth-fast: but before many minutes had passed, thedoor of the antechamber opened, and my Lady, donned in travelling gear, entered the nursery. 

Dame Hilda's words had given me the fancy that some sorrowful, if notshocking news, had come to her; and I was therefore much astonished tosee a faint flush in her cheeks, and a brilliant light in her eyes, which looked as though she had heard good news. 

"My children, " said our mother, "I come to bid you all farewell--may bea long farewell. I have heard that--never mind what; that which willtake me away. Meg, and Joan, and Ibbot, must go with me. "

"Take me too!" pleaded little Blanche. 

"Thee too!" repeated our mother, with a loving smile. "Nay, sweetheart!That cannot be. Now, my children, I hope you will all be good andobedient to Dame Hilda while I am away. "

It was on Kate that her glance fell, being the next eldest after Isabel;and Kate answered readily--

"We will all be good as gold, Dame. "

"Nym, and Hodge, and Geoffrey, " she went on, "go also with me; so thou, Kate, wilt be eldest left here, and I look to thee to set a goodensample to thy brethren, --especially my little wilful Jack. "

Jack's snoring had stopped when she came in, and now, as she went overand sat her down by the bed wherein Jack lay of the outside, up cameJack's head from under the blue velvet coverlet. Our mother laid herhand tenderly upon it. 

"My dear little Jack!" she said; "my poor little Jack!"

"Dame, I'm not poor, an't like you!" made answer Jack, in a tone ofconsiderable astonishment. "I've got a whole ball of new string, andtwo battledores and a shuttlecock, and a ball, and a bow and arrows. "

"Yes, my little Jack, " she said, tenderly. 

"There are lots of lads poorer than me!" quoth Jack. "Nym himselfhasn't got a whole ball of string, and Geoff hasn't a bit. I asked him. Master Inge gave it me yesterday. I'm going to make reins with it forAnnis and Maud, and lots of cats' cradles. "

"You're not going to make reins for _me_, " said Maud from our bed. "Dame, it is horrid playing horses with Jack. He wants you to take thestring in your mouth, and you don't know where he's had it. I don'tmind having it tied to my arms, but I won't have it in my mouth. "

"Did you ever see a horse with his reins tied to his arms?" scornfullydemanded Jack. "You do as you are bid, my Lady Maud, or I'll come andmake you. "

"Children!" said our mother's soft voice, before Maud could answer, "areyou going to quarrel this last night when I have come to say farewell?For shame, Maud! this was thy blame. "

"Oh, of course, it is always me, " muttered Maud, too angry for grammar. "Jack's always the favourite; I never do any thing right. "

"Yes, you do--now and then, by accident, " responded Joan, who wassitting at the foot of our bed; a speech which did not better Maud'stemper, and it was never angelic. 

Jack seemed to have forgotten his passage-at-arms with Maud. He wasalways good-tempered enough, though he did tease outrageously. 

"Why am I poor, Dame?" quoth Jack. 

"Little Jack, thou must shortly go into the wars, and thou hast noarmour. "

"But you'll get me a suit. Dame?"

"I cannot, Jack. Not for these wars. Neither can I give thee thewealth to make thee rich, as I fain would. "

"Then, Dame, you will petition the King for a grant, will you not?"saith Meg. 

"True, my daughter, " saith our mother softly. "I must needs petitionthe King, both for the riches from His treasury, and for the arms fromHis armoury. " And then she bent down to kiss Jack. "O my boy, lay notup treasure for thyself, and thus fail to be rich in God. "

I began then to see what she meant; but I rather wondered why she saidit. Such talk as that, it seemed to me, was only fit for Sunday. Andthen I remembered that she was going away for a long, long time, andthat therefore Sunday talk might be appropriate. 

I do not recollect any thing she said to the others, only to Jack andme. Jack and I were always fellows. We children had paired ourselvesoff, not altogether according to age, but rather according to tastes. Edmund and Meg should have gone together, and then Hodge and Joan, andso forth: whereas it was always Nym and Joan, and Meg and Hodge. ThenGeoffrey and Isabel made the right pair, and Kate, Jack, and I, went ina trio. Maud was by herself; she paired with nobody, and nobody wantedher, she was so cross. Blanche was every body's pet while she was thebaby, and Beatrice came last of all. 

Our mother went round, and kissed and blessed us all. I lay inside withKate and Maud, and when she said, "Now, my little Agnes, "--I crept outand travelled over the tawny silk coverlet, to those gentle velvet arms, and she took me on her lap, and lapped me up in a fur mantle that Megbare on her arm. 

"And what shall I say to my little Agnes?"

"Mother, say you love me!"

It came out before I knew it, and when I had said it, I was sofrightened that I hid my face in the fur. It did not encourage me tohear Dame Hilda's exclamation--

"Lack-a-day! what next, trow?"

But the other voice was very tender and gentle. 

"Didst thou lack that told thee, mine own little Annis? Ay me! Maybemen are happier lower down. Who should love thee, my floweret, if notthine own mother? Kiss me, and say thou wilt be good maid till I seethee again. "

I managed to whisper, "I will try, Dame. "

"How long will it be?" cries Jack. 

"I cannot tell thee, Jack, " she saith. "Some months, I fear. Notyears--I do trust, not years. But God knoweth--and to Him I commityou. " And as she bent her head low over the mantle wherein I waslapped, I heard her say--"_Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, misererenobis, Jesu_!"

I knew that, because I always had to repeat it in my evening prayers, though I never could tell what it meant, only, as it seemed to say"Agnes" and "Monday, " I supposed it had something to do with me, and wasto make me good after some fashion, but I saw not why it must be only ona Monday, especially as I had to say it every day. Now, of course, Iknow what it means, and I wonder children and ignorant people are nottaught what prayers mean, instead of being made to say them just likepopinjays. I wanted to teach my Joan what it meant, but the LadyJulian, my lord's mother, commanded me not to do so, for it was unlucky. I begged her to tell me why, and she said the Latin was a holy tongue, known to God and the saints, and so long as they understood our prayers, we did not need to understand them. 

"But, Dame, " said I, "saving your presence, if I say prayers Iunderstand not, how can I tell the way to use them? I may be asking fora basket of pears when I want a pair of shoes. "

"Wherefore trouble the blessed saints for either?" saith she. "Prayersbe only for high and holy concerns--not for base worldly matter, such asbe pears and shoes. "

"But I am worldly matter, under your leave, Dame, " said I. "And saithnot the Paternoster somewhat touching daily bread?"

"Ay, the food of the soul--`_panem supersubstantialem da nobis_'" quothshe. "It means not a loaf of bread, child. "

"That's Saint Matthew, " said I. "But Saint Luke hath it `_panemquotidianum_, ' and saith nought of `_supersubstantialem_. ' And surelycommon food cometh from God. "

"Daughter!" saith she, somewhat severely, "thou shouldst do a dealbetter to leave thy fantasies and the workings of thine own brain, andlisten with meek submission to the holy doctors that can teach thee withauthority. "

"Dame, I cry you mercy, " said I. "But surely our Lord teacheth withmore authority than they all; and if I have His words, what need I oftheirs?"

_Ha, chetife_! she would not listen to me, --only bade me yet again tobeware of pride and presumption, lest I should fall into heresy, fromthe which Saint Agnes preserve me! But it doth seem strange that folksshould fall into heresy by studying our Lord's words; I had thought theyshould rather thereby keep them out of it. 

Well--dear heart, here again am I got away from my story! this it is tohave too quick a wit--our mother blessed us, and kissed us all, and setforth, the six eldest with her, for Southampton. I know now, though Iheard not then, that she was on her way to join our father. News hadcome that he was safe over seas, in France, with the Sieurs de Fienles, the Lady Margaret's kin, and no sooner had she learned it than she setforth to join him. I doubt greatly if he sent for her. Nay, I shouldrather say he would scarce have blessed her for coming. But she got notthus far on her way, as shall be seen. 

His tarrying with the Sieurs de Fienles was in truth but a blind to hidehis true proceedings. He stayed in Normandy but a few weeks, until thehue and cry was over, and folks in England should all have got well intheir heads that he was there: then, or ever harm should befall him bytarrying there too long, he made quiet departure, and ere any knew of ithe was safe in the King of France's dominions. At this time the King ofFrance was King Charles le Bel, youngest brother of our Queen. Isuppose he was too much taken up with the study of his own perfectionsto see the perfections or imperfections of any body else: otherwise hadhe scarce been so stone-blind to all that went on but just afore hisnose. There be folks that can see a mouse a mile off, and there beothers that cannot see an elephant a yard in front of them. But therebe a third sort, and to my honest belief King Charles was of them, thatcan see the mouse as clear as sunlight when it is their own interest todetect him, but have not a notion of the elephant being there when theydo not choose to look at him. When he wanted to be rid of his firstwife Queen Blanche, he could see her well enough, and all her failingstoo, as black as midnight; but when his sister behaved herself as ill asever his wife did or could have done, he only shut his eyes and took acomfortable nap. Now King Charles had himself expelled my father fromhis dominions, for some old grudge that I never rightly understood; yetnever a word said he when he came back without licence. Marry, but ourold King Edward should not have treated thus the unlicenced return of abanished man! He would have been hung within the week, with him on thethrone. But King Charles was not cut from that stuff. He let my fatheralone till the Queen came over--our Queen Isabel, his sister, I mean--and then who but he in all the French Court! Howbeit, they kept thingspretty quiet for that time; nought came to King Edward's ears, and shedid her work and went home. Forsooth, it was sweet work, for shetreated with her brother as the sister of France, and not as the wife ofEngland. King Charles had taken Guienne, and she, sent to demandrestitution, concluded a treaty of peace on his bare word that it shouldbe restored, with no pledge nor security whatever: but bitter complaintsshe laid of the King her husband, and the way in which he treated her. Well, it is true, he did not treat her as I should have done in hisplace, for he gave in to all her whims a deal too much, where a goodbuffet on her ear should have been ever so much more for her good--andhis too, I will warrant. Deary me, but if some folks were drowned, theworld would get along without them! I mention no names (only that wearyNichola, that is for ever mashing my favourite things). So the Queencame home, and all went on for a while. 

But halt, my goose-quill! thou marchest too fast. Have back a season. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1. This is the probable order of birth. The date assigned to thebirth of Agnes is fictitious, but that of her husband is taken from his_Probatio Aetatis_. 

Note 2. July 8th, 1317; this is about the probable time. The Countessis supposed to be writing in the spring of 1348. 

Note 3. This word was then used of both sexes, and was the properdesignation of the son of a prince or peer not yet arrived at the age ofknighthood. 

PART TWO, CHAPTER 2. 

THE LADY OF LUDLOW. 

 "Toil-worn and very weary-- For the waiting-time is long; Leaning upon the promise-- For the Promiser is strong. "

So were we children left alone in the Castle of Ludlow, and two wearymonths we had of it. Wearier were they by far than the six that ranafore them, when our mother was there, and our elder brethren, that shehad now carried away. Lessons dragged, and play had no interest. Ithad been Meg that devised all our games, and Nym that made boats andwooden horses for us, and Joan that wove wreaths and tied cowslipballs--and they were all away. There was not a bit of life nor funanywhere except in Jack, and if Jack were shut in a coal-hole byhimself, he would make the coals play with him o' some fashion. Buteven Jack could fetch no fun out of _amo, amas, amat_; and I grew soreweary of pulling my neeld [needle] in and out, and being banged o'er thehead with the fiddlestick when I played the wrong string. If we couldswallow learning as we do meat, what a lessening of human misery shouldit be!

No news came all this while--at least, none that we heard. Winter grewinto spring, and May came with her flowers. Ay, and with somethingelse. 

The day rose like the long, dreary days that had come before it, andnobody guessed that any thing was likely to happen. We ate eggs andbutter, and said our verbs and the commandments of God and the Church, to Sir Philip, and played some weary, dreary exercises on the spinnet toDame Hilda, and dined (I mind it was on lamb, finches, and flaunes[custards]), and then Kate, I, and Maud, were set down to our needles. Blanche was something too young for needlework, saving to pull colouredsilks in and out of a bit of rag for practice. We had scarce takentwenty stitches, when far in the distance we heard a horn sounded. 

"Is that my Lady a-coming home?" said I to Kate. 

"Eh, would it were!" quoth she. "I reckon it is some hunters in theneighbourhood. "

I looked to and fro, and no Dame Hilda could I see--only Margery, andshe was easy enough with us for little things; so I crept out on tiptoeinto the long gallery, and looked through the great oriel, which I couldwell reach by climbing on the window-seat. I remember what a sweet, peaceful scene lay before me, --the fields and cottages lighted up withthe May sunshine, which glinted on the Teme as it wound here and thereamid the trees. I looked right and left, but saw no hunters--nothing atall, I thought at first. And then, as I was going to leave the oriel, Isaw the sun glance on something that moved, and looked like a darksquare, and I heard the horn ring out again a little nearer. I watchedthe square thing grow--from dark to red, from an indistinct mass to acompact body of marching men, with mounted officers at their head; andthen, forgetting Dame Hilda and every thing else except the startlingnews I brought, I rushed back into the nursery, crying out--

"The King's troops! Jack, Kate, the King's troops are coming! Come andsee!"

Dame Hilda was there, but she did not scold me. She turned as white asthe sindon in her hand, and stood up. 

"Dame Agnes, what mean you? Surely 'tis never thus! Holy Mary, shieldus!"

And she hurried forth to the oriel window, where Jack was alreadyperched. 

The square had grown larger and plainer now. It was evident they weremarching straight for the Castle. 

Dame Hilda hastened away--I guessed, to confer with Master Inge--andhaving so done, she came back to the nursery, bade us put aside oursewing and wash our hands, and come down with her to hall. We alltrooped after, Beatrice led by her hand, and she ranged us afore her inthe great hall, on the dais, standing after our ages, --Kate at the head, then I, Maud, and Jack. And so we awaited our fate. 

I scarce think I was frighted. I knew too little what was likely tohappen, to feel so. That something was going to happen, I had uncertainfantasy; but our life had been colourless for so long, that the idea ofany thing to happen which would make a change was rather agreeable thanotherwise. 

We heard the last loud summons of the trumpet, which in our ignorance wehad mistaken for a hunting-horn, and the trumpeter's cry of "Open to theKing's troops!" We heard the portcullis lifted, and the steady tramp ofthe soldiers as they marched into the court-yard. There was a littleparleying outside, and then two officers in the King's livery [Note 1]came forward into the hall, bowing low to us and Dame Hilda. 

The Dame spoke first. "Sir Thomas Gobioun, if I err not?"

"He, and your servant, Dame, " answered one of the officers. 

"Then I must needs do you to wit, Sir, that in this castle is neitherLord nor Lady, and I trust our Lord the King wars not with littlechildren such as you see here. "

"Stale news, good Dame!" answered Sir Thomas, with (as methought) arather grim smile. "We know something more, I reckon, than you, touching your Lord and Lady. Sir Roger de Mortimer is o'er seas inNormandy, and the Lady Joan at Skipton Castle. "

"At Southampton, you surely mean?" said Master Inge, who stood at theother end of the line whereof I made the midmost link. 

The knight laughed out. "Nay, worthy Master Inge, I mean notSouthampton, but Skipton. 'Tis true, both begin with an _S_, and endwith a _p_ and a _ton_; but there is a mile or twain betwixt theplaces. "

"What should my Lady do at Skipton?" saith Dame Hilda. 

"Verily, I conceive not this!" saith Master Inge, knitting his brows. "It was to Southampton my Lady went--at least so she told us. "

"Your Lady told you truth, Master Castellan. She set forth forSouthampton, and reached it. But ere a fair wind blew for her voyage, came a somewhat rougher gale in the shape of a command from the King'sGrace to the Sheriff to take her into keeping, and send her into ward atSkipton Castle, whither she set forth a fortnight past. Now, methinks, Master Inge, you are something wiser than you were a minute gone. "

"And our young damsels?" cries Dame Hilda. "Be they also gone toSkipton?"

I felt Kate's hand close tighter upon mine. 

"Soft you, now, good Dame!" saith Sir Thomas--who, or I thought so, tookit all as a very good joke. "Your damsels be parted in so many as theybe, and sent to separate convents, --one to Shuldham, one to Sempringham, and one to Chicksand--and their brothers be had likewise into ward. "

To my unspeakable amazement, Dame Hilda burst into tears, and catched upBeatrice in her arms. I had never seen her weep in my life: and a mostnew and strange idea was taking possession of me--did Dame Hildaactually care something for us?

"Sir, " she sobbed, "you will never have the heart to part these babesfrom all familiar faces, and send them amongst strangers that may usethem hardly, to break their baby hearts? Surely the King, that isfather of his people, hath never commanded such a thing as that? At theleast leave me this little one--or put me in ward with her. "

I was beginning to feel frightened now. I looked at Kate, and read inher face that she was as terrified as I was. 

"Tut, tut, Dame, " saith the other officer (Sir Thomas, it seemed to me, enjoyed the scene, and rather wished to prolong it, but this other wasof softer metal), "take not on where is no cause, I pray you. Thelittle ones bide here under your good care. Only, as you may guess, webe commanded to take to the King's use this Castle of Ludlow and alltherein, and we charge you--" and he bowed to Dame Hilda, and then toMaster Inge--"and you, in the King's name, that you thwart not norhinder us, in the execution of his pleasure. Have here our commission. "

Master Inge took the parchment, and scrutinised it most carefully, whileDame Hilda wiped her eyes and put Beatrice down with a fervent "Blessthee, my jewel!"

Now out bursts Jack, with a big sob that he could contain no longer. "Does the King want my new ball of string, and my battledores?"

"Certes, " answered Sir Thomas: but I saw a twinkle in his eye, thoughhis mouth was as grave as might be. 

Jack fell a-blubbering. 

"No, no--nonsense!" saith the other officer. "Don't spoil the fun, man!" quoth Sir Thomas. "Fun! it is no fun to these babes, " answeredthe other. "I've a little lad at home, and this mindeth me of him. Icannot bear to see a child cry--and for no cause!--Nay, my little one, "saith he to Jack, "all in this Castle now belongs to the King, asaforetime to thy father: but thy father took not thy balls andbattledores from thee, nor will he. Cheer up, for thou hast nought tofear. "

"Please, Sir, " saith Kate, "shall all our brothers and sisters be mademonks and nuns, whether they like or no?"

Sir Thomas roared with laughter. His comrade saith gently, "Nay, mylittle damsel, the King's will is not so. It is but that they shall bekept safe there during his pleasure. "

"And will they get any dinner and supper?" saith Maud. 

"Plenty!" he answered: "and right good learning, and play in the conventgarden at recreation-time, with such other young damsels as shall bebred up there. They will be merry as crickets, I warrant. "

Kate fetched a great sigh of relief. She told me afterwards that shehad felt quite sure we should every one of us be had to separateconvents, and never see each other any more. 

So matters dropped down again into their wonted course. For over twoyears, our mother tarried at Skipton, and then she was moved intostraiter ward at Pomfret, about six weeks only [Note 2] before QueenIsabel landed with her alien troops under Sir John of Ostrevant, anddrave King Edward first from his throne, and finally from this life. Our father came with her. And this will I say, that our mother mighthave been set free something earlier [Note 3], if every body had donehis duty. But folks are not much given to doing their duties, so far asI can see. They are as ready as you please to contend for theirrights--which generally seems to mean, "Let me have somebody else'srights;" ay, they will get up a battle for that at short notice: but whoever heard of a man petitioning, much less fighting, for the right to dohis duty? And yet is not that, really and verily, the only right a manhas?

It was a gala day for us when our mother returned home, and our brothersand sisters were gathered and sent back to us. Nym (always a littlegiven to romance) drew heart-rending pictures of his utter misery, whilein ward; but Roger said it was not so bad, setting aside that it wasprison, and we were parted from one another. And Geoffrey, the sensibleboy of the family, said that while he would not like a monk's life onthe whole, being idle and useless, yet he did like the quiet andpeacefulness of it. 

"But I am not secure, " said our mother, "that such quiet is what Godwould for us, saving some few. Soldiers be not bred by lying of a bedof rose-leaves beside scented waters. And I think the soldiers ofChrist will scarce be taught o' that fashion. "

Diverse likewise were the maids' fantasies. Meg said she would not havebidden at Shuldham one day longer than she was forced. Joan said sheliked not ill at Sempringham, only for being alone. But Isabel, as shesat afore the fire with me on her lap, the even of her coming home--Isabel had ever petted me--and Dame Hilda asked her touching her life atChicksand--Isabel said, gazing with a far-away look into the red ashes--

"I shall go back to Chicksand, some day, if I may win leave of mineelders. "

"Why, Dame Isabel!" quoth Dame Hilda in some surprise. "Liked you sowell as that?"

"Ay, I liked well, " she said, in that dreamy fashion. "Not that I didnot miss you all, Dame; and in especial my babe here, --who is no longera babe"--and she smiled down at me. "And verily, I could see that sinsbe not shut out by convent walls, but rather shut in. Yet--"

"Ay?" said Dame Hilda when she stayed. I think she wanted to make hertalk. 

"I scarce know how to say it, " quoth she. "But it seemed to me that forthose who would have it so, Satan was shut in with them, and pleasurewas shut out. And also, for those who would have it so, God was shut inwith them, and snares and temptations--some of them--were shut out. Only some: but it was something to be rid of them. If it were possibleto have only those who wanted to shut out the world, and to shutthemselves in with God! That is the theory: and that would be Heaven onearth. But it does not work in practice. "

"Yet you would fain return thither?" said Dame Hilda. 

Isabel looked into the fire and answered not, until she said, allsuddenly, "Dame Hilda, be there two of you, or but one?"

"Truly, Dame Isabel, I take not your meaning. "

"Ah!" saith she; "then is there but one of you. If so, you cannotconceive me. Thou dost, Ellen?"

"Ay, Dame Isabel, that do I, but too well. "

"They have easier lives, methinks, that are but one. You look on me, Dame Hilda, as who should say, What nonsense doth this maid talk! Butif you knew what it was to have two natures within you, pulling youdiverse ways, sometimes the one uppermost, and at times the other; andwhich of the twain be _you_, that cannot you tell--I will tell you, Ihave noted this many times"--Isabel's voice sank as if she feared to beoverheard--"in them whose father and mother have been of diversdispositions. Some of the children may take after the one, and someafter the other; but there will be one, at least, who partaketh both, and then they pull him divers ways, that he knoweth no peace. " Isabel'saudience had been larger than she supposed. As she ended, with a wearysigh, a soft hand fell upon her head, and I who, sat upon her knees, could better see than she, looked up into my Lady's face. 

"Sit still, daughter, " said she, as Isabel strove to rise. "Nay, sweetheart, I am not angered at thy fantasy, though truly I, being but onelike Dame Hilda, conceive not thy meaning. It may be so. I have notall the wit upon earth, that I should scorn or set down the words ofthem that speak out of other knowledge than mine. But, my Isabel, thereis another way than this wherein thou mayest have two natures. "

"How so, Dame, an' it like you?"

"The nature of sinful man, and the nature of God Almighty. "

"They must be marvellous saints that so have, " said Dame Hilda, crossingherself. 

"Some of them, " said my Lady gently, "were once marvellous sinners. "

"Why, you should have to strive a very lifetime for that, " quoth DameHilda. "I should think no man could rise thereto that dwelt not inanchorite's cell, and scourged him on the bare back every morrow, andate but of black rye-bread, and drank of ditch-water. Deary me, but Iwould not like that! I'd put up with a bit less saintliness, _I_would!"

"You are all out there, Dame, " my Lady made answer. "This fashion ofsaintliness may be along with such matters, but it cometh not by theirhelp. "

"How comes it then, Dame, an't like you?"

"By asking for it, " saith our mother, quietly. 

"Good lack! but which of the saints must I ask for it?" quoth she. "I'll give him all the wax candles in Ludlow, a week afore I die. I'drather not have it sooner. "

"When go you about to die, Dame?"

"Our Lady love us! That cannot I say. "

"Then you shall scarce know the week before, I think. "

"Oh, no! but the saint shall know. Look you, Dame, to be too much of asaint should stand sore in man's way. I could not sing, nor dance, norlake me a bit, if I were a saint; and that fashion of saintliness youspeak of must needs be sorest of all. If I do but just get it to go toHeaven with, that shall serve me the best. "

"I thought they sang in Heaven, " saith Isabel. 

"Bless you, Damsel!--nought but Church music. "

"Dame Hilda, I marvel if you would be happy in Heaven. "

"Oh, I should be like, when I got there. "

My Lady shook her head. 

"For that, " quoth she, "you must be partaker of the Divine nature. Which means not, doing good works contrary to your liking, but havingthe nature which delights in doing them. "

"Oh, ay, that will come when we be there. "

"On the contrary part, they that have it not here on earth shall not winthere. They only that be partakers of Christ may look to enter Heaven. And no man that partaketh Christ's merits can miss to partake Christ'snature. "

"Marry, then but few shall win there. "

"So do I fear, " saith my Lady. 

"Dame, under your good pleasure, " saith Dame Hilda, looking herearnestly in the face, "where gat you such notions? They be somethingnew. At the least, never heard I your Ladyship so to speak aforetime. "

My Lady's cheek faintly flushed. 

"May God forgive me, " saith she, "all these years to have locked up hisWord, which was burning in mine own heart! Yet in good sooth, Dame, youare partly right. Ere I went to Skipton, I was like one that seeth aveiled face, or that gazeth through smoked glass. But now mine eyeshave beheld the face of Him that was veiled, and I have spoken with Him, as man speaketh with his friend. And if you would know who helped methereto, it was an holy hermit, by name Richard Rolle, that did diverstimes visit me in my prison at Skipton. And he knows Him full well. "

"Dame!" saith Dame Hilda, looking somewhat anxiously on my mother, "I dotrust you go not about to die, nor to hie in cloister and leave allthese poor babes! Do bethink you, I pray, ere you do either. "

My Lady smiled. "Nay, good my Dame!" saith she. "How can I go incloister, that am wedded wife?"

"Eh, but you might get your lord's consent thereto--some wedded womendoth. "

I was looking on my Lady, and I saw a terrible change in her face whenDame Hilda spoke those words. I felt, too, Isabel's sudden nervousshiver. And I guessed what they both thought--that assent would be easyenough to win. For in all those months since Queen Isabel came over, hehad never come near us. He was ever at the Court, waiting upon her. And though his duties--if he had them, but what they were we knew not--might keep him at the Court in general, yet surely, had he been verydesirous to see us, he might have won leave to run over when the Queenwas at Hereford, were it only for an hour or twain. 

Our mother did not answer for a moment. When she did, it was tosay--"Nay, vows may not be thus lightly done away. `Till death' scarcemeans, till one have opportunity to undo. "

"Then, pray you, go not and die, Dame!"

"I am immortal till God bids me die, " she made answer. "But why shouldman die because he loveth Jesu Christ better than he was wont?"

"Oh, folks always do when they get marvellous good. "

"It were ill for the world an' they so did, " saith my Lady. "That isbad enough to lack good folks. "

"It is bad enough to lack _you_, " saith Dame Hilda. 

My Lady gave a little laugh, and so the converse ended. 

The next thing that I can remember, after that, was the visit of ourfather. He only came that once, and tarried scarce ten days; but hetook Nym and Geoffrey back with him. I heard Dame Hilda whispersomewhat to Tamzine, as though he had desired to have also one or two ofthe elder damsels, and that my Lady had so earnestly begged and prayedto the contrary that for once he gave way to her. It was not often, Ithink, that he did that. It was four years good ere we saw either ofour brothers again--not till all was over--and then Geoff told us asorry tale indeed of all that had happed. 

It was at the time when our father paid us this visit that my marriageand that of Beatrice were covenanted. King Edward of Caernarvon hadcontracted my lord that now is to the Lady Alianora La Despenser, daughter of my sometime Lord of Gloucester [Hugh Le Despenser theYounger], who was put to death at Hereford by Queen Isabel. But she--Imean the Queen--who hated him and all his, sent the Lady Alianora toSempringham, with command to veil her instantly, and gave the marriageof my Lord to my Lord Prince, the King that now is [Edward the Third]. So my father, being then at top of the tree, begged the marriage for oneof his daughters, and it was settled that should be me. I liked it wellenough, to feel myself the most important person in the pageant, and tobe beautifully donned, and all that; and as I was not to leave home forsome years to come, it was but a show, and cost me nothing. I dare sayit cost somebody a pretty penny. Beatrice was higher mated, with myLord of Norfolk's son, who was the King's cousin, but he died a lad, poor soul! so her grandeur came to nought, and she wedded at last a muchlesser noble. 

Thus dwelt we maids with our mother in the Castle of Ludlow, seeingnought of the fine doings that were at Court, save just for the time ofour marriages, which were at Wynchecombe on the day of Saint Lazarus, that is the morrow of O Sapientia [Note 4]. The King was presenthimself, and the young Lady Philippa, who the next month became ourQueen, and his sisters the Ladies Alianora and Joan, and more Earls andCountesses than I can count, all donned their finest. Well-a-day, butthere must have been many a yard of velvet in that chapel, and an wholearmy of beasts ermines must have laid their lives down to purfile [trimwith fur] the same! I was donned myself of blue velvet guarded ofminiver, and wore all my Lady's jewels on mine head and corsage; andmarry, but I queened it! Who but I for that morrow, in very sooth!

Ay, and somebody else [Queen Isabelle, the young King's mother] wasthere, whom I have not named. Somebody robed in snow-white velvet, withclose hood and wimple, so that all that showed of her face was from theeyebrows to the lips, --all pure, unstained mourning white. Little Iknew of the horrible stains on that black heart beneath! And I thoughther so sweet, so fair! Come, I have spoken too plainly to add a name. 

So all passed away like a dream, and we won back to Ludlow, and mattersfell back to the old ways, as if nought had ever happened--the only realdifference being that instead of "Damsel Agnes" I was "my Lady ofPembroke, " and our baby Beatrice, instead of "Damsel Beattie, " was "myLady Beatrice of Norfolk. " And about a year after that came lettersfrom Nym, addressed to "my Lady Countess of March, " in which he writthat the King had made divers earls, and our father amongst them. DameHilda told us the news in the nursery, and Jack turned a somersault, andstood on his hands, with his heels up in the air. 

"Call me Jack any more, if you dare!" cries he. "I am my Lord John ofMarch, and I shall expect to be addressed so, properly. Do you hear, children?"

"I hear one of the children, in good sooth, " said Meg, comically. AndMaud saith--

"Prithee, Jack, take no airs, for they beseem thee but very ill. "

Whereon Jack fell a-moaning and a-crying out, that Dame Hilda thought hewas rare sick, and ordered Emelina to get ready a dose of violet oil. But before Emelina could so much as fetch a spoon, there was Jackdancing a hornpipe and singing, or rather screaming, at the top of hisvoice, till Dame Hilda put her hands over her ears and cried for mercy. I never did see such another lad as Jack. 

We heard but little, and being children, we cared less, for the eventsthat followed--the beheading of my Lord of Kent, and the rising under myLord of Lancaster. And the next thing after that was the last thing ofall. 

It was in October, 1330. We had no more idea of such a blow falling onus than we had of the visitation of an angel. I remember we were allgathered--except the little ones--in my Lady's closet, for after mymarriage I was no longer kept in the nursery, though Beattie, on accountof her much youth, was made an exception to that rule. My Lady wasspinning, and her damsel Aveline carding, and Joan and I, our arms roundeach others' waists, sat in the corner, Joan having on her lap a pieceof finished broidery, and I having nothing: what the others were doing Iforget. Then came the familiar sound of the horn, and my Lady turnedwhite. I never felt sure why she always turned white when a hornsounded: whether she expected bad news, or whether she expected ourfather. She was exceeding afraid of him, and yet she loved him, I know:I cannot tell how she managed it. 

After the horn, we heard the tramp of troops entering the court-yard, and I think we all felt that once more something was going to happen. Aveline glanced at my Lady, who returned the look, but did not speak;and then Lettice, one of the other maidens, rose and went forth, at alook from Aveline. But she could scarcely have got beyond the door whenMaster Inge came in. 

"Dame, " said he, "my news is best told quickly. The Castle and alltherein is confiscate to the Crown. But the King hath sent strictcommand that the wardrobe, jewels, and all goods, of your Ladyship, andof all ladies and children dwelling with you, shall be free fromseizure, and no hand shall be laid on you nor any thing belonging toyou. "

My Lady rose up, resting her hand on the chair from which she rose; Ithink it was to support her. 

"I return humble thanks to the Lord King, " said she, in a tremblingvoice. "What hath happened, Master Inge?"

"Dame, " quoth he, "how shall I tell you? My Lord is a prisoner of theTower, and Sir Edmund and Sir Geoffrey with him--"

If my Lady could turn whiter, I think she did. I felt Joan's hand-clasptighten upon mine, till I could almost have cried out. 

"And Dame Isabel the Queen is herself under ward in the Castle ofBerkhamsted, and all matters turned upside down. Man saith that thegreat men with the King be now Sir William de Montacute and Sir Edwardde Bohun, and divers more of like sort. And my Lord of Lancaster, mansaith, flung up his cap, and thanked God that he had lived to see thatday. "

My Lady had stood as still and silent as an image, all the while MasterInge was speaking, only that when he said the Queen was in ward, shegave a sort of gasp. When he had done, she clasped her hands, andlooked up to Heaven. 

"Dost Thou come, " she said, in a strange voice that did not sound likehers, "dost Thou come to judge the earth? We have waited long for Thee. Yet--Oh, if it be possible--if it be possible! Spare my boys to me!And spare--"

A strange kind of sob seemed to come up in her throat, and she held outher hands as if she could not see. I believe, if Master Inge andLettice had not been quick to spring forward and catch her by the arms, she would have fallen to the floor. They bore her into her bedchamberclose by; and we children saw her not for some time. Dame Hilda was inand out; but when we asked her how my Lady fared, she did nought saveshake her head, from which we learned little except that things went illin some way. When we asked Lettice, she said--

"There, now! don't hinder me. Poor children, you will know soonenough. "

Aveline was the best, for she sat down and gathered us into her arms andcomforted us; but even she gave us no real answer, only she kept saying, "Poor maids! poor little maids!"

So above a month passed away. Master John de Melbourne was sent downfrom the King as supervisor of the lands and goods of my Lady and herchildren; but he came with the men-at-arms, so he brought no fresh news:and it was after Christmas before we knew the rest. Then, one wintermorrow, came a warrant of the Chancery, granting to my Lady all thelands of her own inheritance, by reason of the execution of her husband. And then she knew that all had come that would come. 

We children, Meg except, had not yet been allowed to see our mother, whohad never stirred from her bedchamber. One evening, early in January, we were sitting in her closet, clad in our new doole raiment (how Ihated it!), talking to one another in low voices, for I think we all hada sort of instinct that things were going wrong somehow, even the babieswho understood least about it: when all at once, for none of us saw herenter, a lady stood before us. A lady whom we did not know, clad inwhite widow-doole, tall and stately, with a white, white face, so thather weeds were scarcely whiter, and a kind of fixed, unalterableexpression of intense pain, yet unchangeable peace. It seemed to mesuch a strange look. Whether the pain or the peace were the greater Iknew not, nor could I tell which was the newer. We girls sat and lookedat her with puzzled faces. Then a faint smile broke through the pain, on the white face, like the sun breaking through clouds, and a voice weknew, asked of us--

"Don't you know me, my children?"

And that was how our mother came back to us. 

She did not leave us again. Ever since he died, she has lived for us. That white face, full of peace and yet of pain, abides with her; hercolour has never returned. But I think the pain grows less with years, and the peace grows more. She smiles freely, but it is faintly, as ifsmiles hardly belonged to her, and were only a borrowed thing that mightnot be kept; and her eyes never light up as of old--only that once, whensome months after our father's end, Nym and Geoff came back to us. Then, just for one moment, her old face came again. For I think she hadgiven them up, --not to King Edward, but to Christ our Lord, who is herKing. 

Ay, I never knew woman like her in that. There are many that will sayprayers, and there are some that will pray, which is another thing fromsaying prayers: but never saw I one like her, that seemed to do all herwork and to live all her living in the very light of the Throne of God. Just as an impassioned musician turns every thing into music, and a truepainter longs to paint every lovely thing he sees, so with her allthings turn to Jesu Christ. I should think she will be canonised someday. I am sure she deserves it better than many an one whom I haveheard man name as meriting to be a saint. Perhaps it is possible to bea saint and not be canonised. Must man not have been a saint before hecan be declared one? I know the Lady Julian would chide me for sayingthat, and bid me remember that the Church only can declare man to besaint. But I wonder myself if the Lord never makes saints, withoutwaiting for the Church to do it for Him. The Church may never call myLady "Saint Joan, " but that will she be whether she be so-called or no. And at times I think, too, that they who shall be privileged to dwell inHeaven will find there a great company of saints of whom they neverheard, and perchance some of them that sit highest there will not bethose most accounted of in the Calendar and on festival days. But I donot suppose--as an ancestress of my mother did, in a chronicle she wrotewhich I once read; it is in the possession of her French relatives, andwas written by the Lady Elaine de Lusignan, daughter of Geoffroy Countde la Marche, who was a son of that House [Note 5]--I do not supposethat the saints who were nobles in this world will sit nearest theThrone, and those who were peasants furthest off. Nay, I think it willbe another order of nobility that will obtain there. Those who haveserved our Lord the best, and done the most for their fellow-men, theseI think will be the nobles of that world. For does not our Lord sayHimself that the first shall be last there, and the last first? And Ican guess that Joan de Mortimer, my Lady and mother, will not stand lowon that list. It is true, she was a Countess in this life; but it waslittle to her comfort; and she was beside that early orphaned, and acruelly ill-used wife and a bereaved mother. Life brought her littlegood: Heaven will bring her more. 

But I wonder where one Agnes de Hastings will stand in that company. Nay, rather, will she be there at all?

It would be well that I should think about it. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1. A word which then included uniform and all lands of officialgarb. 

Note 2. On August 3rd she left Skipton, arriving at Pomfret on the 5th. 

Note 3. I find no indication of the date: only that she was at Ludlowon October 26, 1330. 

Note 4. The precise date and place are not recorded, but it was aboutthis time, and the King, who was present, was in the West only fromDecember 16th to the 21st. It is asserted by Walsingham that Beatricewas married "about" 1327. 

Note 5. The Lady Elaine's chronicle is "Lady Sybil's Choice. "

PART THREE, CHAPTER 1. 

WHEREIN SISTER ALIANORA LA DESPENSER MAKETH MOAN (1371). 

CAGED. 

 "But of all sad words by tongue or pen, The saddest are these-- `It might have been!'"

 Whittier. 

"I marvel if the sun is never weary!"

Thus spoke my sister Margaret [Note 1], as she stood gazing from thewindow of the recreation-room, and Sister Roberga looked up and laughed. 

"Nay, what next?" saith she. "Heard I ever such strange fancies asthine? Thou wilt be marvelling next if the stars be never athirst. "

"And if rain be the moon weeping, " quoth Sister Philippa, who seemed asmuch amused as Roberga. 

"No, the moon weepeth not, " said Margaret. "She is too cold to weep. She is like Mother Ada. "

"Eh dear, what fancies hast thou!" saith Sister Roberga. "Who but thouwould ever have thought of putting the moon and Mother Ada into onestall!"

"What didst thou mean, Sister Margaret?" saith the quiet voice of MotherAlianora, as she sat by the chimney corner. 

Mother Alianora is our father's sister--Margaret's and mine; but I oughtnot to think of it, since a recluse should have no kindred out of herOrder and the blessed saints. And there are three Sisters in the Priorynamed Alianora: wherefore, to make diversity, the eldest professed iscalled Alianora, and the second (that is myself) Annora, and theyoungest, only last year professed, Nora. We had likewise in thisconvent an Aunt Joan, but she deceased over twenty years gone. Margaretwas professed in the Order when I was, but not at this house; and shehath been transferred hither but a few weeks [Note 2], so that her mindand heart are untravelled ground to me. She was a Sister at Watton: andsince I can but just remember her before our profession, it seemsmarvellous strange that we should now come to know one another, afternearly fifty years' cloistered life. There is yet another Sister namedMargaret, but being younger in profession we call her Sister Magota. 

When Mother Alianora spoke, Margaret turned back from the window, as sheought when addressed by a superior. 

"I mean, Mother, that he never hath any change of work, " she said. "Every morrow he has to rise, and every night must he set: and alwaysthe one in east and the other in west. I think he must be sore, soreweary, for he hath been at it over five thousand years. "

Sister Roberga and Sister Philippa laughed. Mother Alianora did notlaugh. A soft, rather sorrowful, sort of smile came on her aged face. 

"Art thou so weary, my daughter, that the thought grew therefore?" saithshe. 

Something came into Margaret's eyes for a moment, but it was out again, almost before I could see it. I knew not what it was; Margaret's eyesare yet a puzzle to me. They are very dark eyes, but they are differentin their look from all the other dark eyes in the house. Sister Olivehas eyes quite as dark; but they say nothing. Margaret's eyes talk somuch that she might do very well without her tongue. Not that I alwaysunderstand what they say; the language in which they speak is generallya foreign one to me. I fancy Mother Alianora can read it better. Ilistened for Margaret's reply. 

"Dear Mother, is not weariness the lot of all humanity, and moreespecially of women?"

"Mary love us!" cries Philippa. "What gibberish you talk, SisterMargaret!"

"Sister Philippa will come here and ask Sister Margaret's forgiveness atonce, " saith Mother Gaillarde, the sub-Prioress. 

Sister Philippa banged down her battledore on the table, and marchingup, knelt before Margaret and asked forgiveness, making a face behindher back as soon as she had turned. 

"Sister Philippa will take no cheese at supper, " added the sub-Prioress. 

Sister Philippa pulled another face--a very ugly one; it reminded mesomewhat too much of the carved figure of the Devil with his mouthgaping on the Prior's stall in our Abbey Church. That and SisterPhilippa's faces are the ugliest things I ever saw, except the Cellarer, and he looks so good-tempered that one forgets his ugliness. 

"Sister Philippa is not weary, as it should seem, " saith MotherAlianora, again with her quiet smile. "Otherwise, to speak thereofshould scarcely seem gibberish to her. "

I spoke not, but I thought it was in no wise gibberish to me. For Inever had that vocation which alone should make nuns. Not God, but man, forced this veil upon me; for, ah me! I was meant for another life. And that other life, that should have been mine, I never cease to longfor and to mourn over. 

Only six years old was I--for though my seventh birthday was near, itwas not past--when I was thrust into this house of religion. Myvocation and my will were never asked. We--Margaret and I--were inQueen Isabel's way; and she plucked us and flung us over the hedge likeweeds that cumbered her garden. It was all by reason she hated ourfather: but what he had done to make her thus hate him, that I neverknew. And I was an affianced bride when I was torn away from all thatshould have made life glad, and prisoned here for ever more. How myheart keeps whispering to me, "It might have been!" There is a womanwho comes for doles to the convent gate, and at times she hath with herthe loveliest little child I ever saw; and they smile on each other, mother and child, and look so happy when they smile. Why was I cut offthus from all that makes other women happy? Nobody belongs to me;nobody loves me. The very thought of being loved, the very wish to beso, is sin in _me_, who am a veiled nun. But why was it made sin? Itwas not sin aforetime. _He_ might have loved me, he whom I never sawafter I was flung over the convent wall--he who was mine and not hers towhom I suppose they will have wedded him. But I know nothing: I shallnever know. And they say it is sin to think of him. Every thing seemsto be sin; and loving people more especially. Mother Ada told me oneday that she saw in me an inclination to be too much drawn to MotherAlianora, and warned me to mortify it, because she was my father'ssister, and therefore there was cause to fear it might be an indulgenceof the flesh. And now, these weeks past, my poor, dry, withered heartseems to have a little faint pulsation in it, and goes out to Margaret--my sister Margaret with the strange dark eyes, my own sister who is anutter stranger to me. Must I crush the poor dry thing back, and hurtall that is left to hurt of it? Oh, will no saint in Heaven tell me whyit is, that God, who loveth men, will not have monks and nuns to loveeach other? The Lord Prior saith He is a jealous God, and demands thatwe give all our love to Him. Yet I may love the blessed saints withoutany derogation to Him--but I must not love mine own sister. It is veryperplexing. Do earthly fathers forbid their children to love oneanother, lest they should not be loved themselves sufficiently? Ishould have thought that love, like other things, increased by exercise, and that loving my sister would rather help me to love God. But theysay not. I suppose they know. 

Ah me, if I should find out at last that they mistook God's meaning!--that I might have had His love and Margaret's too!--nay, even that Imight have had His love and that other, of which it is so wicked in meto think, and yet something is in me that will keep ever thinking! Oholy and immaculate Virgin, O Saint Margaret, Saint Agnes, and all yeblessed maidens that dwell in Heaven, have mercy on me, miserablesinner! My soul is earth-bound, and I cannot rise. I am the bride ofChrist, and I cannot cease lamenting my lost earthly bridal. 

But hath Christ a thousand brides? They say holy Church is His Bride, and she is one. Then how can all the vestals in all the convents beeach of them His bride? I suppose I cannot understand as I ought to do. Perhaps I should have understood better if that _might have been_ hadbeen--if I had not stood withering all these years, taught to crush downthis poor dried heart of mine. They will not let me have any thing tolove. When Mother Ada thought I was growing too fond of littleErneburg, she took her away from me and gave her to Sister Roberga toteach. Yet the child seemed to soften my heart and do it good. 

"Are the holy Mother and the blessed saints not enough for thee?" shesaid. 

But the blessed saints do not look at me and smile, as Erneburg did. She doth it even now, across the schoolroom--though I have never beenpermitted to speak word to her since Mother Ada took her from me. And Imust smile back again, --ay, however many times I have to lick a cross onthe oratory floor for doing it. Why ought I not? Did not our LordHimself take the little children into His arms? I am sure He must havesmiled on them--they would have been frightened if He had not done so. 

They say I have but a poor wit, and am fit to teach only babes. 

"And not fit to teach them, " saith Mother Ada--in a tone which I am surepeople would call cross and snappish if she were an extern--"for herfancy all runs to playing with them, rather than teaching them any thingworth knowing. "

Ah, Mother Ada, but is not love worth knowing? or must they have thatonly from their happy mothers, who not being holy women are permitted tolove, and not from a poor, crushed, hopeless heart like mine?

There is nothing in our life to look forward to. "Till death" is thevow of the Sisterhood. And death seems a poor hope. 

I know, of course, what Mother Ada would say: that I have no vocation, and my heart is in the world and of the world. But God sent me to theworld: and man--or rather woman--thrust me against my will into thisSisterhood. 

"Not a bit better than Lot's wife!" says Mother Ada. "She was struck toa pillar of salt for looking back, and so shalt thou be, Sister Annora, with thy worldly fancies and carnal longings. "

Well, if I were, I am not sure I should feel much different. SometimesI seem to myself to be hardening into stone, body and soul. Soul! ah, that is the worst of it. 

Now and then, in the dead of night, when I lie awake--and for an hour ormore after lauds, I can seldom sleep--one awful thought harrieth andweareth me, at times almost to madness. I never knew till a year ago, when I heard the Lord Prior speaking to Mother Gaillarde thereanent, that holy Church held the contract of marriage for the true canonicaltie. And if it be thus, and we were never divorced--and I never heardword thereof--what then? Am I his true wife--I, not she? Is he happywith her? Who is she, and what is she? Doth she care for him, and makehim her first thought, and give all her heart to him, as I would havedone, if--

How the convent bell startled me! Miserable me! I am vowed to God, andI am His for ever. But the vow that came first, if it were neverundone--_Mater purissima, Sancta Virgo virginum, ora pro me_!

Is there some tale, some sad, strange story, lying behind those darkeyes, in that shut-up heart of my sister Margaret? Not like mine; shewas never betrothed. But her eyes seem to me to tell a story. 

Margaret never speaks to me, unless I do it first: and I dare not, except about some work, when Mother Gaillarde or Mother Ada is present. Yet once or twice I have caught those dark eyes scanning my face, with awistful look. Maybe she too is trying to crush down her heart, as Ihave done. But I cannot help thinking that the heart behind those eyeswill take a great deal of crushing. 

Mother Alianora is so different from the two I named just now, I am surethere is not a better nor holier woman in all the Order. But she isalways gentle and tender; never cold like Mother Ada, nor hard andsarcastic like Mother Gaillarde. I am glad my Lady Prioress rules withan easy hand--("sadly too slack!" saith Mother Gaillarde)--so that dearMother Alianora doth not get chidden for what is the best part of her. I should not be afraid of speaking to Margaret if only she were presentof our superiors. 

At recreation-time, this afternoon, Sister Amphyllis asked MotherAlianora how long she had been professed. 

"Forty-nine years, " saith she, with her gentle smile. 

I was surprised to hear it. She hath then been in the Order only fiveyears longer than I have. 

"And how old were you, Mother?" saith Sister Amphyllis. 

"Nineteen years, " saith she. 

"There must many an one have died since you came here, Mother?"

"Ay, " quoth Mother Alianora, with a far-away look at the trees without. "The oldest nun in all the Abbey, Sister Margery de Burgh, died themonth after I came hither. She remembered a Sister that was nearly anhundred years old, and that had received the holy veil from the hand ofSaint Gilbert himself. "

Sister Amphyllis crossed herself. 

"Annora, " saith Mother Alianora, "canst thou remember Mother Guendolen?"

What did I know about Mother Guendolen? Some faint, vague, mistymemories seemed to awake within me--an odd, incongruous mixture like adream--dark eyes like Margaret's, which told a tale, but this seemed atale of terror; and an enamelled cross, which had somewhat to do with abattle and a queen. 

"I scarcely know, Mother, " said I. "Somewhat do I recall, yet what itis I hardly know. Were her eyes dark, with an affrighted look in them?"

"They were dark, " said Mother Alianora, "but the very peace of God wasin them. Ah, thou art mixing up two persons--herself and her cousin, Mother Gladys. They were near of an age, and Mother Guendolen onlyoutlived Mother Gladys by one year: but they were full diverse manner ofwomen. Thou shouldst remember her, Annora. Thou wert a maiden offifteen when she died. "

All at once she seemed to flash up before me. 

"I do remember her, Mother, if it please you. She was tall, and hadvery black hair, and dark flashing eyes, and she moved like a queen. "

"I think of her, " saith Mother Alianora, "rather as she was in her lastdays, when those flashing eyes flashed no longer, and the queen was lostin the saint. "

"If it please you, Mother, " I said, "had she not an enamelled cross thatshe wore? I recollect something about it. "

Mother Alianora smiled, somewhat amusedly. 

"She had; and perchance thy memory runneth back to a battle over thatcross betwixt her and Sister Sayena, who laid plaint afore my LadyPrioress that Mother Guendolen kept to herself an article of privateproperty, which should have gone into the treasury. It had been hermother's, a marriage-gift from the Queen that then was. Well I rememberMother Guendolen's words--`I sware to part from this cross alone withlife, and the Master granted me to keep it when I entered the Order. 'Then the fire died out of her eyes, and her voice fell low, and sheadded--`ah, my sister! dost thou envy me Christ's cross?' Ay, she hadcarried more of that cross than most. She came here about the age thoudidst, Annora--a little child of six years. "

"Who was she in the world, Mother?" quoth Sister Nora. 

I was surprised to see Mother Alianora glance round the room, as if tosee who was there, afore she answered. Nor did she answer for a moment. 

"She was Sister Guendolen of Sempringham: let that satisfy thee. Maybe, in the world above, she is that which she should have been in thisworld, and was not. "

And I could not but wonder if Mother Guendolen's life had held a _mighthave been_ like mine. 

I want to know what `carnal' and `worldly' mean. They are words which Ihear very often, and always with condemnation: but they seem to meanquite different things, in the lips of different speakers. When MotherAda uses them, they mean having affection in one's heart for any thing, or any person, that is not part of holy Church. When Mother Gaillardespeaks them, they mean caring for any thing that she does not care for--and that includes everything except power, and grandeur, and the Orderof Saint Gilbert. And when Mother Alianora says them, they fall softlyon the ear, as if they meant not love, nor happiness, nor any thing goodand innocent, but simply all that could grieve our Lord and hurt a soulthat loved Him. They are, with her, just the opposite of Jesus Christ. 

Oh, if only our blessed Lord had been on earth now, and I might havegone on pilgrimage to the place where He was! If I could have asked Himall the questions that perplex me, and laid at His feet all the sorrowsthat trouble me! For I do not think He would have commanded the saintsto chase me away because I maybe have poorer wits than other women, --Hewho let the mothers bring the babes to Him: I fancy He would have beenpatient and gentle, even with me. I scarce think He would have treatedsorrow--even wrong or mistaken sorrow, if only it were real--as some do, with cold looks, and hard words, and gibes that take so much bearing. Isuppose He would have told me wherein I sinned, but I think He wouldhave done it gently, so as not to hurt more than could be helped--notlike some, who seem to think that nothing they say or do can possiblyhurt any one. 

But it is no use saying such things to people. Once, I did say about atenth part of what I felt, when Mother Ada was present, and she turnedon me almost angrily. 

"Sister Annora, you are scarce better than an idiot! Know you not thatconfession to the priest is the same thing as to our Lord Himself?"

Well, it may be so, though it never feels like it: but I am sure thepriest is not the same thing. If I were a young mother with littlebabes, I could never bring them to any priest I have known save one, andthat was a stranger who confessed us but for a week, some five yearsgone, when the Lord Prior was ill. He was quite different from theothers: there was a soul behind his eyes--something human, not merely asort of metallic box which sounded when you rang it with another bit ofmetal. 

I never know why Margaret's eyes make me think of that man, but Isuppose it may be that there was the same sort of look in his. I am notsure that I can put it into words. It makes me think, not of a drybough like my heart feels to be, but rather of a walled recluse--something alive, very much alive, inside thick, hard, impenetrable wallswhich you cannot enter, and it can never leave, but itself soft andtender and sweet. And I fancy that people who look like that must havehad histories. 

Another person troubles me beside that man and Margaret, and that isSaint Peter's wife's mother. Because, if the holy Apostle had a wife'smother, he must have had a wife; and what could a holy Apostle be doingwith a wife? I ventured once to ask Mother Ada how it was to beexplained, and she said that of course Saint Peter must have beenmarried before his conversion and calling by our Lord. 

"And I dare be bound, " added Mother Gaillarde, "that she was a shockingvixen, or something bad, so as to serve for a thorn in the flesh to theholy Apostle. He'd a deal better have been an unwedded man. "

Well, some folks' relations are thorns in the flesh, I can quitesuppose. I should think Mother Gaillarde was, and that her being a nunwas a mercy to some man, so that she was told off to prick us and nothim. But is every body so? and are we all called to be thorns in theflesh to somebody? I should not fancy being looked on by my relations(if I were in the world) as nothing but a means of grace. It might begood for them, but I doubt if it would for me. 

I wonder if Margaret ever knew that priest whose eyes looked like hers. I should like to ask her. But Mother Ada always forbids us to ask eachother questions about our past lives. She says curiosity is a sin; itwas curiosity which led Eve to listen to the serpent. But I do notthink Mother Ada's soul has any wings, and I always feel as if minehad--something that, if only I were at liberty, would spread itself andcarry me away, far, far from here, right up into the very stars, foraught I know. Poor caged bird as I am! how can my wings unfoldthemselves? I fancy Margaret has wings--very likely, stronger thanmine. She seems to have altogether a stronger nature. 

Mother Alianora will let us ask questions: she sometimes asks themherself. Well, so does Mother Gaillarde, more than any body; but insuch a different way! Mother Alianora asks as if she were comfortingand helping you: Mother Gaillarde as though you were a piece ofembroidery that had been done wrong, and she were looking to see wherethe stitches had begun to go crooked. If I were a piece of lawn, Ishould not at all like Mother Gaillarde to pull the crooked stitches outof me. She pounces on them so eagerly, and pulls so savagely at them. 

I marvel what Margaret's history has been!

Last evening, as we were putting the orphans to bed--two of the Sistersdo it by turns, every week--little Damia saith to me--

"Sister Annora, what is the matter with our new Sister?"

"Who dost thou mean, my child?" I asked. "Sister Marian?"

For Sister Marian was our last professed. 

"No, " said the child; "I mean Sister Margaret, who has such curiouseyes--eyes that say every thing and don't tell any thing--it is sofunny! (So other folks than I had seen those eyes. ) But what was thematter with her yesterday morning, at the holy Sacrament?"

"I know not, Damia, for I saw nothing. A religious, as thou knowest, should not lift her eyes, save for adoration. "

"O Sister Annora, how many nice things she must lose! But I will tellyou about Sister Margaret. It was just when the holy mass began. Father Hamon had said `_Judica me_' and then, you know, the people hadto reply, `_Quia Tu es_. ' And when they began the response, SisterMargaret's head went up, and her eyes ran up the aisle to the altar. "

"Damia, my child!" I said. 

"Indeed, Sister, I am not talking nonsense! It looked exactly likethat. Then, in another minute, they came back, looking so sorry, andso, _so_ tired! If you will look at her, you will see how tired shelooks, and has done ever since. I thought her soul had been to look forsomething which it could not find, and that made her so sorry. "

"Had ever child such odd fancies as thou!" said I, as I tucked her up. "Now say thy Hail Mary, and go to sleep. "

I thought it but right to check Damia, who has a very livelyimagination, and would make up stories by the yard about all she sees, if any one encouraged her. But when I sat down again to the loom, instead of the holy meditations which ought to come to me, and I supposewould do so if I were perfect, I kept wondering if Damia had seenrightly, and if Margaret's soul had been to look for something, and wasdisappointed in not finding it. I looked at her--she was just acrossthe room, --and as Damia said, there was a very sorrowful, weary look onher face--a look as if some thought, or memory, or hope, had beenawakened in her, only to be sent back, sorely disappointed anddisheartened. Somebody else noticed it too. 

My Lady Prioress was rather late last night in dismissing us. SisterRoberga said she was sure there had been some altercation between herand Mother Gaillarde: and certainly Mother Gaillarde, as she stood atthe top of the room by my Lady, did not look exactly an incarnation ofsweetness. But my Lady gave the word at last: and as she said--"_Paxvobiscum, Sorores_!" every Sister went up to her, knelt to kiss herhand, took her own lamp from the lamp-stand, and glided softly from therecreation-room. Half-way down stood Mother Alianora, and at the doorMother Ada. Margaret was just behind me: and as I passed MotherAlianora, I heard her ask--

"Sister Margaret, art thou suffering in some wise?"

I listened for Margaret's answer. There was a moment's hesitationbefore it came. 

"No, Mother, I thank you; save from a malady which only One can heal. "

"May He heal thee, my child!" was the gentle answer. 

I was surprised at Margaret's answering with anything but thanks. 

"Mother, you little know for what you pray!"

"That is often the case, " said Mother Alianora. "But He knoweth whohath to answer: and He doeth all things well. He will give thee, maybe, not the physic thou lookest for; yet the right remedy. "

I heard Margaret answer, as we passed on, in a low voice, as if shescarce desired to be heard--"For some diseases there is no remedy butdeath. "

There are two dormitories in our house, and Margaret is in the west one, while I sleep in the eastern. At the head of the stairs we part to ourplaces. That I should speak a word to her in the night is impossible. And in the day I can never see her without a score of eyes upon us, especially Mother Gaillarde's, and she seems to have eyes, not in theback of her head only, but all over her veil. 

I suppose, if we had lived like real sisters and not make-believe ones, Margaret and I would have had a little chamber to ourselves in ourfather's castle, and we could have talked to each other, and told oursecrets if we wished, and have comforted one another when our heartswere sad. And I do not understand why it should please our Lord so muchmore to have us shut up here, making believe to be one family withthirty other women who are not our sisters, except in the sense that allChristian women are children of God. I wonder where it is in theGospels, that our Lord commanded it to be done. I cannot find it in myEvangelisterium. I dare say the holy Apostles ordered it afterwards: orperhaps it is in some Gospel I have never seen. There are only four inmy book. 

If that strange priest would come again to confess us, I should likevery much to ask him several questions of that sort. I never saw anyother priest that I could speak to freely, as I could to him. FatherHamon would not understand me, I am sure: and Father Benedict wouldrebuke me sharply whether he understood or not; telling me for thefiftieth time that I ought to humble myself to the dust because myvocation is so imperfect. Well, I know I have no vocation. But whythen was I shut up here when God had not called me? I had no choiceallowed me. Or why, seeing things are thus, cannot the Master or someone else loose me from my vow, and let me go back to the world whichthey keep blaming me because they say I love?

Yet what should I do in the world? My mother has been dead many years, for her name is in the obituary of the house. As to my brothers andsisters, I no more know how many of them are living, nor where they are, than if they dwelt in the stars. I remember my brother Hugh, because heused to take my part when the others teased me: but as to my youngerbrothers, I only know there were some; I forget even their names. Ithink one was Hubert, or Robert, or something that ended in _bert_. Andmy sisters--I remember Isabel; she was three years elder than I. And--was one Elizabeth? I think so. But wherever they are, I suppose theywould feel me a stranger among them--an intruder who was not wanted, andwho had no business to be there. I am unfit both for Heaven and earth. Nobody wants me--least of all God. 

I do not imagine that is Margaret's history. How far she may or may nothave a vocation--that I leave; I know nothing about it. But I cannothelp fancying that somebody did want her, and that it might be to puther out of somebody's way--Foolish woman! what am I saying? Why, Margaret was not five years old when she was professed. How can shehave had any history of the kind? I simply do not understand it. 

Poor little Damia! I think Mother Gaillarde has given her rather hardmeasure. 

I found the child crying bitterly when she came into the children'ssouth dormitory where I serve this week. 

"Why, whatever is the matter, little one?" said I. 

"O Sister Annora!" was all she could sob out. 

"Well, weep not thus broken-heartedly!" said I. "Tell me what it is, and let us see if it cannot be amended. "

"It's Erneburg!" sobbed little Damia. 

"Erneburg! But Erneburg and thou art friends!"

"Oh yes, we're friends enough! only Mother Gaillarde won't let me giveher the tig. "

And little Damia indulged in a fresh burst of tears. 

"Give her what?" I said. 

"My tig! The tig she gave me. And now I must carry it all night long!She might have let me just give it her!"

I thought I saw how matters stood. 

"You have been playing?"

"Yes, playing at

 "`Carry my tig To Poynton Brig--'

"and Erneburg gave me a tig, and I can't give it back. Mo--otherGaillarde won't le-et me!" with a fresh burst of sobs. 

"Now, whatever is all this fuss?" asked Mother Gaillarde, from the otherend of the room. "Sister, do keep these children quiet. "

But Mother Ada came to us. 

"What is the matter?" she said in her icicle voice. 

Little Damia was crying too much to speak, and I had to tell her thatthe children had been playing at a game in which they touched oneanother if they could, and it was deemed a terrible disgrace to betouched without being able to return it. 

"What nonsense!" said Mother Ada. "They had better not be allowed toplay at such silly games. Go to sleep immediately, Damia: do you hear?Give over crying this minute. "

I wondered whether Mother Ada thought that joy and sorrow could aseasily be stopped as a tap could be turned to stop water. Little Damiacould not stop crying so instantly as this: and Mother Ada told her ifshe did not, she should have no fruit to-morrow: which made her cry allthe more. Mother Gaillarde then marched up, and gave the poor child anangry shake: and that produced screams instead of sobbing. 

"Blessed saints, these children!" said Mother Gaillarde. "I wish therenever were any! With all reverence I say it, I do think if the Almightycould have created men and women grown-up, it would have saved a worldof trouble. But I suppose He knows best. --Damia, stop that noise! Ifnot, I'll give thee another shake. "

Little Damia burrowed down beneath the bed-clothes, from whichlong-drawn sobs shook the bed at intervals: but she did contrive to stopscreaming. Mother Gaillard left the dormitory, with another sarcasticremark on the dear delight of looking after children: and the minuteafter, Mother Alianora entered it from the other end. She came up towhere I stood, by Damia's bed. 

"Not all peace here?" she said, with her tranquil smile. "Little Damia, what aileth thee?"

As soon as her voice was heard, little Damia's head came up, and in avoice broken by sobs, she told her tale. 

"Come, I think that can be put right, " saith the Mother, kindly. "Liestill, my child, till I come to thee again. "

She went away, and in a few minutes returned, with Erneburg. Of courseMother Alianora can go where the Sisters cannot. 

"Little Damia, " she said, smiling, as she laid her hand on the child'shead, "I bring Erneburg to return thee thy `tig. ' Now canst thou go tosleep in peace?"

"Yes, thank you, Mother. You are good!" said little Damia gratefully, looking quite relieved, as Erneburg kissed her. 

"Such a little thing!" said Mother Alianora, with a smile. "Yet thouart but a little thing thyself. "

They went away, and I tarried a moment to light the blessed Mother'slamp, and to say the Hail Mary with the children. When I camedown-stairs, the first voice I heard in the recreation-room was MotherGaillarde's. 

"Well, if ever I did hear such a story! Sister, you ruin thosechildren!"

"Nay, " saith Mother Alianora's gentle voice, "surely not, my Sister, bya little kindness such as that. "

"Kindness, indeed! Before I'd have given in to such nonsense!"

"Sister Gaillarde, maybe some matters that you and I would weep over mayseem full as foolish to the angels and to God. And to Him it may be ofmore import to comfort a little child in its trouble than to pass astatute of Parliament. Ah, me! if God waited to comfort us till we werewise, little comforting should any of us have. But it is written, `Likewhom his mother blandisheth, thus I will comfort you, '--and mothers donot wait for children to be discreet before they comfort them. Atleast, my mother did not. "

Such a soft, sweet, tender light came into her eyes as made my heartache. My mother might have comforted me so. 

Just then I caught Margaret's look. I do not know what it was like: butquite different from Mother Alianora's. Something strained andstretched, as it were, like a piece of canvas when you strain it on aframe for tapestry-work. Then, all at once, the strain gave way andbroke up, and calm, holy peace came instead. If I might talk withMargaret!

Mother Alianora is ill in the Infirmary. And I may not go to her. 

I pleaded hard with Mother Ada to appoint me nurse for this week. 

"Why?" she said in her coldest voice. 

I could not answer. 

"Either thou deceivest thyself, Sister, " she added, "which is illenough, or thou wouldst fain deceive me. Knowest thou not that toattempt to deceive thy superiors is to lie to the Holy Ghost as Ananiasand Sapphira did? How then dost thou dare to do it? I see plainlyenough what motive prompts thee: not holy obedience--that is thoroughlyinconsistent with such fervent entreaties--nor a desire to mortify thywill, but simply a wish for the carnal indulgence of the flesh. Thouknowest full well that particular friendships are not permitted to thereligious, it is only the lust of the flesh which prompts a fancy forone above another: if not, every Sister would have an equal share in thyregard. It is a carnal, worldly heart in which such thoughts dwell aseven a wish for the company of any Sister in especial. And hast thouforgotten that the very purpose for which we were sent here was tomortify our wills?"

I thought I was not likely to forget it, so long as nothing was allowedme save opportunities for mortifying mine. But one more word did I dareto utter. 

"Is obedience so much better than love, Mother?"

"What hast thou to do with love, save the love of God and the blessedMother and the holy saints? The very word savoureth of the world. Allthe love thou givest to the creature is love taken from God. "

"Is love, then, a thing that can be measured and cut in lengths, Mother?The more you tend a plant, the better it flourishes. If I am to lovenone save God, will not my heart dry and wither, so that I shall not beable to love Him? Sometimes I think it is doing so. "

"You think!" she said. "What right have you to think? Leave yoursuperiors to think for you; and you, cultivate holy obedience, as youought. All the heresies and schisms that ever vexed the Church havearisen from men setting themselves up to _think_ when they should simplyhave obeyed. "

"But, Mother, forgive me! I cannot help thinking. "

"That shows how far you are from perfection, Sister. A religious whoaims at perfection should never allow herself to think, except only howshe can best obey. Beware of pride and presumption, the instant youallow yourself to depart from the perfection of obedience. "

"But, Mother, that is the perfection of a thing. And I am a woman. "

"Sister Annora, you are reasoning, when your duty is to obey. "

If holy obedience means to obey without thinking, I am afraid I shallnever be perfect in it! I do not know how people manage to compressthemselves into stones like that. 

I tried Mother Gaillarde next, since I had only found an icicle clad inMother Ada's habit. I was afraid of her, I confess, for I knew shewould bite: and she did so. I begged yet harder, for I had heard thatMother Alianora was worse. Was I not even to see her before she died?

"What on earth does it matter?" said Mother Gaillarde. "Aren't you bothgoing to Heaven? You can talk there--without fear of disobedience. "

"My Lord Prior said. Mother, in his last charge, that a convent oughtto be a little heaven. If that be so, why should we not talk now?"

Mother Gaillarde's laugh positively frightened me. It was the hardest, driest, most metallic sound I ever heard. 

"Sister Annora, you must be a baby! You have lived in a convent nearlyfifty years, and you ask if it be a little heaven!"

"I cry you mercy, Mother. I asked if it should not be so. "

"That's another matter, " said she, with a second laugh, but it did notstartle me like the first. "We should all be perfect, of course. Pitywe aren't!"

As she worked away at the plums she was stoning without saying eitheryes or no, I ventured to repeat my question. 

"You may do as you are told!" was Mother Gaillarde's answer. "Can't youlet things alone?"

Snappishly as she spoke, yet--I hardly know why, --I did not feel theappeal to her as hopeless as to Mother Ada. To entreat the latter waslike beseeching a stone wall. Mother Gaillarde's very peevishness (if Idare call it so) showed that she was a woman, and not an image. 

"Mother Gaillarde, " I said, suddenly--for something seemed to bid mespeak out--"be not angry with me, I pray you. I am afraid of lettingthings alone. My heart seems to be like a dry bough, and my soulwithering up, and I want to keep them alive and warm. Surely death isnot perfection!"

I was going on, but something which I saw made me stop suddenly. Twowarriors were fighting together in Mother Gaillarde's face. All at onceshe dropped the knife, and hiding her face in her veil, she sobbed for aminute as if her heart were breaking. Then, all at once, she brushedaway her tears and stood up again. 

"Child!" she said, in a voice very unlike her usual one, "you are tooyoung for your years. Do not think that dried-up hearts are the samething as no hearts. Women who seem as though they could not love anything may have loved once too well, and when they awoke from the dreammay never have been able to dream again. Ay, thou art right: death isnot perfection. Some of us, maybe, are very far off perfection--furtherthan others think us; furthest of all from what we think ourselves. There have been times when I seemed to see for a moment what perfectionis--and it was far, far from all we call it here. God forgive us all!Go to the Infirmary: and if any chide thee for being there, say thouearnest in obedience to me. "

She turned back to her plum-stoning with a resolute face which mighthave been a mask of iron: and I, after offering lowly thanks, took theway to the Infirmary. 

I fear I have been unjust to Mother Gaillarde, and I am sorry for it. Iseem to see now, that her hard, snappish speeches (for she does snapsometimes) are not from absence of heart, but are simply a veil to hidethe heart. Ah me! how little we human creatures know of each others'hidden feelings! But I shall never think Mother Gaillarde without heartagain. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1. The rule of silence varied considerably in different Orders, but in all, except the very strict, nuns were at liberty to converseduring some period of the day. 

Note 2. This transferring of Margaret from Watton is purely imaginary. 

PART THREE, CHAPTER 2. 

SISTER MARGARET. 

 "Do I not know The life of woman is full of woe? Toiling on and on and on, With breaking heart, and tearful eyes, And silent lips--and in the soul The secret longings that arise, Which this world never satisfies?"

 Longfellow. 

Mother Alianora was lying in her bed when I entered the Infirmary, justunder the window, where the soft light of the low autumn sun came in andlit up her pillow and her dear old face. She smiled when she saw me. 

There was another Sister in the room, who was stirring a pan over thefire, and at first I scarcely noticed her. I went up to the dearMother, and asked her how she was. 

"Well, my child, " she said, tenderly. "Nearly at Home. "

Something came up in my throat that would not let me speak. 

"Hast thou been sent to relieve Sister Marian?" she asked. 

"I know not, " said I, after a moment's struggle with myself: then, remembering what I had been bidden, I added, "Mother Gaillarde bade mecome. "

We sat silent for a few moments. Sister Marian poured out the broth andbrought it to the Mother, and I supported her while she drank a littleof it. She could not take much. 

Just before the bell rang for compline, Mother Ada came in. 

"I bring an order from my Lady, " said she. "Sister Marian will berelieved after compline by another Sister, who will be sent up. SisterAnnora is to stay with the sick Mother during compline, and both she andthe Sister who then comes will keep watch during the night. "

I was surprised. I never knew any case of sickness, unless it weresomething very severe and urgent, allowed to interfere with a Sister'sattendance at compline. But I was glad enough to stay. 

Mother Ada went away again after her orders were given, and SisterMarian followed her when the bell rang. As soon as the little sounds ofthe Sisters' footsteps had died away, and we knew they were all shut inthe oratory, Mother Alianora, in a faint voice, bade me bring a stoolbeside her bed and sit down. 

"Annora, " said she, in that feeble voice, "my child, thou art fiftyyears old, yet I think of thee as a child still. And in many respectsthou art so. It has been thy lot, whether for good or evil--which, whoknoweth save God?--to be safe sheltered from very much of the ill thatis in the world. But I doubt not, at times, questionings will arise inthy heart, whether the good may not have been shut out too. Is it so, my child?"

I suppose Mother Ada would say I was exceedingly carnal. But somethingin the touch of that soft, wrinkled hand, in whose veins I knew ran mineown blood, seemed to break down all my defences. I laid my head down onthe coverlet, my cheek upon her hand, and in answer I poured forth allthat had been so long shut close in mine own heart--that longing crywithin me for some real, warm, human love, that ceaseless regret for thelost happiness which was meant to have been mine. 

"O Mother, Mother! is it wicked in me?" I cried. "You, who are so nearGod, you should see with clearer eyes than we, lost in the tangledwilderness of this world. Is it wicked of me to dream of that lostlove, and of all that it might have been to me? Am I his true wife, oris she--whoever that she may be? Am I robbing; God when I love anyother creature? Must I only love any one in Heaven? and am I to preparefor that by loving nobody here on earth?"

The door opened softly, and the Sister who was to share my watch camein. She must have heard my closing words. 

"My child!" said the faint voice of the dear Mother, who had always feltto me more like what I supposed mothers to be than any other I hadknown--"my child, `it is impossible that scandals should not come: butwoe unto them through whom they come!' It seems to me probable that onesin may be written in many books: that the actor, and the inciter, andthe abettor--ay, and those who might have prevented, and did not--mayall have their share. Thy coming hither, and thy religious life, havingreceived no vocation of God, was not thy fault, poor, helpless, oppressed child! and such temptations as distress thee, therefromarising, will not be laid to thy charge as sins. But if thou let atemptation slide into a sin by consenting thereto, by cherishing andpursuing it with delight, then art thou not guiltless. That thoushouldst feel thyself unhappy here, in an unsuitable place, and thatthou mightest have been a happier woman in the wedded life of theworld, --that is no marvel: truly, I think it of thee myself. To know itis no sin: to repine and murmur thereat, these are forbidden. Thy lotis appointed of God Himself--God, thy Father, who loveth thee, who hathgiven Himself for thee, who pleased not Himself when He came down to diefor thee. Are there not here drops of honey to sweeten the bitter cup?And if thou want another yet, then remember how short this life is, andthat after it, they that have done His will shall be together with Himfor ever. Dear hearts, it is only a little while. "

The Sister who was to watch with me had come forward to the foot of thebed, and was standing silent there. When Mother Alianora thus spoke, Ifancied that I heard a little sob. Wondering who she was, I looked up--looked up, to my great astonishment, into those dark, strange eyes of myown sister Margaret. 

Margaret and I, alone, to keep the watch all night long! What could myLady Prioress mean? Here was an opportunity to indulge my will, not tomortify it; to make my love grow, instead of repressing it. I hadactually put into my hand the chance that I had so earnestly desired, tospeak to Margaret alone. 

But now that the first difficulty was removed, another rose up beforeme. Would Margaret speak to me? Was she, perhaps, searching foropportunities of mortification, and would refuse the indulgencepermitted? I knew as much of the King's Court, as much of a knightlytournament, as I knew of that sealed-up heart of hers. Should I beallowed to know any more?

"Annora, " said our aunt again, "there is one thine in my life that Iregret sorely, and it is that I was not more of a mother to thee whenthou earnest as a little child. Of course I was under discipline: but Ifeel now that I did not search for opportunities as I might have done, that I let little chances pass which I might have seized. My child, forgive me!"

"Dearest Mother!" I said, "you were ever far kinder to me than any oneelse in all the world. "

"Thank God I have heard that!" saith she. "Ah, children--for we arechildren to an aged woman like me--life looks different indeed, seenfrom a deathbed, to what it does viewed from the little mounds of ourhuman wisdom as we pass along it. Here, there is nothing great but God;there is nothing fair save Christ and Heaven; there is nothing elsetrue, nor desirable, nor of import. Every thing is of consequence, if, and just so far as, it bears on these: and all other things are as thedust of the floor, which ye sweep off and forth of the doors into theoutward. Life is the way upward to God, or the way down to Satan. Whatdoes it matter whether the road were smooth or rough, when ye come tothe end thereof? The more weary and footsore, the more chilled andhungered ye are, the sweeter shall be the marriage-supper and the restof the Father's House. "

"Ay--when we are there. " It was Margaret who spoke. 

"And before, let us look forward, my child. "

"Easy enough, " said Margaret, "when the sun gleameth out fair, and yesee the domes of the city stand up bravely afore. But in the darknight, when neither sun nor star appeareth, and ye are out on a wildmoor, and thick mist closeth you in, so that ye go it may be aroundthinking it be forward, till ye know not whether your face is toward thecity or no--"

"Let thy face be toward the Lord of the city, " said Mother Alianora. "He shall lead thee forth by the right way, that thou mayest come to Hiscity and to His holy hill. The right way, daughter, is sometimes theway over the moor, and through the mist. `Who of you walketh indarkness, and there is no light to him? Let him trust in the name ofthe Lord, and lean upon his God. ' Why, my child, it is only when mancannot see that it is possible for him to trust. Faith is not called inexercise so long as thou walkest by sight. "

"But when thou art utterly alone, " said my sister in a low voice, "withnot one footstep on the road beside thee--"

"That art thou never, child, so thou be Christ's. _His_ footsteps arealway there. "

"In suffering, ay: but in perplexity?"

"Daughter, when thou losest His steps, thou yet hast Himself. `If anylack wisdom, let him ask of God. ' And God is never from home. "

"Neither is Satan. "

"`Greater is He that is in you than he in the world. '"

Mother Alianora seemed weary when she had said this, and lay still awhile: and Margaret did not answer. I think the Mother dropped asleep;I sat beside her and watched. But Margaret stood still at the foot ofthe bed, not sitting down, and in the dim light of our one little lamp Icould scarcely see her face as she stood, only that it was turned towardthe casement, where a faint half-moon rode in the heavens, and the calmancient stars looked down on us. Oh, how small a world is ours in thegreat heavens! yet for one soul of one little babe in this small world, the Son of God hath died. 

My heart went out to Margaret as she stood there: yet my lips weresealed. I felt, strangely, as if I could not speak. Something held meback, and I knew not if it were God, or Satan, or only mine own want ofsense and bravery. The long hours wore on. The church bell tolled forlauds, and we heard the soft tramp of the Sisters' feet as they passedand returned: then the doors closed, and Mother Ada's voice said, "_Laus Deo_!" and Sister Ismania's replied, "_Deo gratias_!" ThenMother Ada's footsteps passed the door as she went to her cell, and oncemore all was silence. On rolled the hours slowly, and still MotherAlianora seemed to sleep: still Margaret stood as if she had been cut instone, without so much as moving, and still I sat, feeling much as if Iwere stone too, and had no power to move or speak. 

It might be about half-way between lauds and prime when the spell was atlast broken. And it was broken, to my astonishment, by Margaret'sasking me a question that fairly took my breath away. 

"Annora, art thou a saint?"

These were the first words Margaret had ever spoken to me, except fromnecessity. That weary, dried-up thing that I call mine heart, seemed togive a little bit of throb. 

"Our Lady love us, no!" said I. "I never was, nor never could be. "

"I am glad to hear it, " she said. 

"Why, Margaret?"

Oh, how my heart wanted to call her something sweeter! _It_ said, Mydarling, my beloved, mine own little sister! But my tongue was all sounwonted to utter such words that I could not persuade it to say them. 

Yet more to my surprise, Margaret came out of the window, --came andknelt at my feet, and laid her clasped hands on my knee. 

"Hadst thou said `Ay, ' I should have spoken no more. As thou art not--Annora, is it true that we twain had one mother?"

Something in Margaret's tone helped me. I took the clasped hands inmine own. 

"It is true, mine own Sister, " I said. 

"`Sister!' and `Mother!'" she said. "They are words that mean nothingat all to me. I wonder if God meant them to mean nothing to us? Couldwe not have been as good women, and have served Him as well, if we haddwelt with our own blood, as other maidens do, or even if--"

Her voice died away. 

"Margaret, " I said, "Mother Ada would say it was wicked, but mine heartis for ever asking the same questions. "

"Is it?" she said eagerly. "O Annora! then thou knowest! I thought, maybe, thou shouldst count it wicked, and chide me for indulging suchthoughts. "

"How could I chide any one, sinner as I am!" said I. "Nay, Margaret, Idoubt not my thoughts have been far unholier than thine. Thourememberest not, I am sure; but ere we were professed, I wastroth-plight unto a young noble, and always that life that I have lostflitteth afore me, as a bird that held a jewel in his beak might lure meon from flower to flower, ever following, never grasping the sweetillusion. Margaret, sister, despise me not for my confession! But thouwilt see I am no saint, nor like to be. "

"Despise thee!" she said. "Dear heart, wert thou to know how muchfurther I have gone!"

I looked on her with some alarm. 

"Margaret! we are professed religious women. " [Note 1. ]

"Religious women!" she answered. "If thou gild a piece of wood, doth itbecome gold? Religious women are not women that wear black and white, cut in a certain fashion: they are women that set God above all things. And have I not done that? Have I not laid mine heart upon His altar, aliving sacrifice, because I believed He called me to break that poorquivering thing in twain? And will He judge me that did His will, tothe best of my power and knowledge, because now and then a human sobbreaks from my woman-heart, by reason that I am not yet an angel, andthat He did not make me a stone? I do not believe it. I will notbelieve it. He that gave His own Son to die for man can be no Molochdelighting in human suffering--caring not how many hearts be crushed solong as there be flowers upon His altar, how many lives be made desolateso long as there be choirs to sing antiphons! Annora, it is not God whodoes such things, but men. "

I was doubtful how to answer, seeing I could not understand what shemeant. I only said--

"Yet God permits men to do them. "

"Ay. But He never bids them to make others suffer, --far less to takepleasure in doing so. "

"Margaret, " said I, "may I know thy story? I have told thee mine. Truly, it is not much to tell. "

"No, " she said, as if dreamily, --"not much: only such an one as will betold out by the mile rather than the yard, from thousands of convents onthe day when the great doom shall be. Only the story of a crushedheart--how much does that matter to the fathers of the Order? There besomewhat too many in these cells for them to take any note of one. "

I remembered what Mother Gaillarde had said. 

"It is terrible, if that be true, " I answered. "I thought I was theonly one, and that made me unhappy because I must be so wicked. Attimes, in meditation, I have looked round the chamber and thought--Herebe all these blessed women, wrapped in holy meditations, and only Itempted by wicked thoughts of the world outside, like Lot's wife atSodom. "

Margaret fairly laughed. "Verily, " said she, "if it were given to us tolift the veil from the hearts of all these blessed women, and scan theirholy meditations, I reckon thine amaze would not be small. Annora, Ithink thou art a saint. "

"Impossible!" said I. "Why, I fell asleep in the midst of the Rosary as'ennight back, --having been awake half the night before--and FatherBenedict said I must do penance for it. Saints are not such as I. "

"Annora, if the angels that write in men's books have no worse to setdown in thine than what thou hast told me, I count they shall reckontheir work full light. O humble and meek of heart, thinking all otherbetter than thyself--trust me, they be, at best, like such as thou. "

Margaret left her station at my feet, and coming round, knelt downbeside me, and laid her head on my shoulder. 

"Kiss me, Sister, " she said. 

So did I, at once, without thought: and then, perceiving what I haddone, I was affrighted. 

"O Margaret! have we not sinned? Is it not an indulgence of the flesh?"

"Wert thou made without flesh?" asked Margaret, with a short, dry laugh. 

"No, but it must be mortified!"

"Sin must be mortified, " she answered more gravely. "Why should wemortify love?"

"Not spiritual love: but natural love, surely, we renounce. "

"Why should we renounce it? Does God make men sons and brothers, husbands and fathers, only that they may have somewhat to renounce? CanHe train us only in the wilderness of Sinai, and not in the land flowingwith milk and honey?"

"But we renounce them for Him. "

"We renounce for Him that which He demandeth of us. " Margaret's voicewas low and sorrowful now. "Ay, there be times when He holdeth out Hishand for the one dearest earthly thing, and calls us to resign either itor Him. Blessed are they that then, howsoever they shrink and faint, yet love Him more than it, and brace their will to give it up to Him. To them that so do, Annora, He giveth Himself; and He is better than anyearthly thing. `_Quid enim mihi est in caelo? et a Te quid volui superterram_?' [Psalm 73, verse 25] But it seems to me that we ought tobeware of renouncing what He does not ask of us. If we are in doubt, then let us draw the line on the safe side, --on His side, not on theside of our inclinations. Yet of one thing am I sure--that many a womanmortifies her graces instead of her sins, and resigns to God that whichHe asks not, keeping that which He would have. "

"Mortify graces!" I cried. "O Margaret! how could we?"

"I think thou wouldst, Sister, if thou hadst refused to kiss me, " shereplied with an amused smile. 

"But kisses are such very carnal things, " said I. "Mother Ada alwayssays so. She saith we read of none of the holy Apostles kissing anybody, save only Judas Iscariot. "

"Who told her so? Doth she find it written that they did not kiss anybody? Annora, I marvel if our Lord kissed not the little children. AndI am sure the holy patriarchs kissed each other. I do not believe intrying to be better than God. I have noted that when man endeavours topurify himself above our Lord's example, he commonly ends in beingconsiderably less good than other men. "

"I wish we might love each other!" I said with a sigh. And I am verymuch afraid I kissed her again. I do not know what Mother Ada wouldhave said. 

"I do not wish we might!" said Margaret, sturdily. "I do, and I will. "

"But if we should make idols of each other!" said I. 

"I shall not make an idol of thee, " answered my sister, again in thatlow sad tone. "I set up one idol, and He came to me, and held out Hispierced hands, and I tore it down from over the altar, and gave it toHim. He is keeping it for me, and He will give it back one day, in theworld where we need fear no idol-making, nor any sin at all. Annora, thou shalt hear my story. "

At that moment I looked up, and saw Mother Alianora's eyes wide open. 

"Do you lack aught, dear Mother?" I asked. 

"No, my children, " she answered gently. "Go on with thy tale, Margaret. The ears of one that will soon hear the harps of the angels will notharm thee. "

I was somewhat surprised she could say that. What of the dread fires ofPurgatory that must come first? Did she count herself so great a saintas to escape them? Then I thought, perhaps, she might have had the samerevealed to her in vision. The thought did not appear to troubleMargaret, who took it as matter of course. Not, truly, that I should besurprised if Mother Alianora were good enough to escape Purgatory, for Iam sure she is the best woman ever I knew: but it was strange she shouldreckon it of herself. Mother Ada always says they are no saints thatthink themselves such: whereto Mother Gaillarde once added, in her dry, sharp way, that they were not much better who tried to make other folkthink so. I do not know of whom she was thinking, but I fancied MotherAda did, from her face. 

Then Margaret began her story. 

"You know, " she saith, "it is this year forty-seven years since Annoraand I were professed. And wherefore we were so used, mere babes as wewere, knew I never. "

"Then that I can tell thee, " I made answer, "for it was Queen Isabelthat thrust us in hither. Our father did somewhat to her misliking, what indeed I know not: and she pounced on us, poor little maids, andmade us to suffer for his deed. "

"Was that how it was done?" said Margaret. "Then may God pardon hermore readily than I have done! For long years I hated with all theforce of my soul him or her that had been the cause thereof. It is pastnow. The priests say that man sinneth when, having no call of God, heshall take cowl upon him. What then of those which thrust it on him, whether he will or no? I never chose this habit. For years I hated itas fervently as it lay in me to hate. Had the choice been given me, anymoment of those years, I would have gone back to the world that instant. The world!" Her voice changed suddenly. "What is the world? It isthe enemy of God: true. But will bolts and bars, walls and gates, keepit out? Is it a thing to be found in one city, which man can escape byjourneying to another? Is it not rather in his own bosom, and ever withhim? They say much of carnal affections that are evil, and creep notinto religious houses. As if man should essay to keep Satan and hisangels out of his house by painting God's name over the door! But alllove, of whatsoever sort, say they, is a filthiness of the flesh. Ahme! how about the filthiness of the spirit? Is there no pride andjealousy in a religious house? no strife and envying? no murmuring andrebellion of heart? And are these fairer things in God's sight than thenatural love of our own blood? Doth He call us to give up that, and notthese? May it not be rather that if there were more true love, therewere less envy and jealousy? if there were more harmless liberty, therewere less murmuring? When man takes God's scourge into his hands, itseems to me he is apt to wield it ill. "

"But, Margaret!" said I, "so shouldst thou make Satan cast out Satan. Forbidden love were as ill as strife and murmuring. "

"Forbidden of whom?" saith she. "God never forbade me to love mybrethren and sisters. He told me to do it. He never forbade me tohonour my father and mother--to dwell with them, to tend and cherishthem in their old age. He told me to do it. Ay, and He spake ofcertain that did vainly worship Him seeing they taught learning andcommandments of men. " [Matthew 15, verse 9, Vulgate. ]

"O Margaret! what art thou saying? Holy Church enjoins vows ofreligion. "

"Tell me then, Annora, what is Holy Church? It is a word that fillsman's mouth full comely, that I know. But what it _is_, is simply thesouls of all righteous men--all the redeemed of Christ our Lord, whichis His Body, and is filled with His Spirit. When did He enjoin suchvows? or when did all righteous men thus band together to make men andwomen unrighteous, by binding commands upon them that were of men, notof God?"

"Margaret, my Sister!" I cried in terror. "Whence drewest thou suchshocking thoughts? What will Father Benedict say when thou confessestthem?"

"It is not to Father Benedict I confess _them_, " she said, with a littlecurl of her lips. "I confess to him what he expects to hear--that Iloved not to sweep the gallery this morrow, or that I ate a lettuce lastnight and forgot to sign the cross over it. Toys are meet for babes, and babes for toys. They cannot understand the realities of life. Suchmatters I confess to--another Priest, and He can understand them. "

"Well, " said I, "I always thought Father Hamon something less wise thanFather Benedict: at least, Father Benedict chides me, and Father Hamongives me neither blame nor commendation. But, Margaret, I do notunderstand thy strange sayings in any wise. Surely thou knowest what isthe Church?"

"I know what it is not, " saith she; "and that is Father Hamon, or FatherBenedict, or Father Anything-Else. Christ and they that are Christ's--the Head and the Body, the Bridegroom and the Bride: behold the Church, and behold her Priest and Confessor!"

"Margaret, " saith Mother Alianora, "who taught thee that? Where didstthou hear such learning?"

She did not speak chidingly, but only as if she desired information. Iwas surprised she was not more severe, for truly I never heard suchtalk, and I was sorely afraid for my poor Margaret, lest some evil thinghad got hold of her--maybe the Devil himself in the likeness of someSister in her old convent. 

A wave of pain swept over Margaret's eyes when Mother Alianora saidthat, and a dreamy look of calm came and chased it thence. 

"Where?" she said. "In the burning fiery furnace, heated seven timeshotter than its wont. Of whom? Verily, I think, of that Fourth thatwalked there, who was the Son of God. He walks oftener, methinks, inthe fiery furnace with His martyrs, than in the gilded galleries withthe King Nebuchadnezzar and his princes. At least I have oftener foundHim there. "

She seemed as if she lost herself in thought, until Mother Alianorasaith, in her soft, faint voice--"Go on, my child. "

Margaret roused up as if she were awoke from sleep. 

"Well!" she said, "nothing happened to me, as you may well guess, forthe years of childhood that followed, when I was learning to read, write, and illuminate, to sew, embroider, cook, and serve in variousways. My Lady Prioress found that I had a wit at devising patterns andsuch like, so I was kept mainly to the embroidery and painting: beingfirst reminded that it was not for mine own enjoyment, but that I shouldso best serve the Order. I took the words and let them drop, and I tookthe work and delighted in it. So matters went until I was a maid ofseventeen years. And then something else came into my life. "

I asked, "What was it?" for she had paused. But her next words were notan answer. 

"I marvel, " she saith, "of what metal Saint Gilbert was made, thatfounded our Order. Was it out of pity, or out of bitter hardness, orout of simple want of understanding, that he framed our Rule, and gaveus more liberty than other Sisters? Is it more or less happy for a larkthat thou let him out of his cage once in the year in a small cellwhence he cannot escape into the free air of heaven? Had I been hismother or his sister, when the Saint writ his Rule, I had said to him, Keep thy brethren and sisters apart at the blessed Sacrament, or elsebandage their eyes. "

"O Margaret!" I cried out, for it was awful to hear such words. As ifthe blessed Saint Gilbert could have made a mistake! "Dost thou thinkthyself wiser than the holy saints?"

"Yes, " she answered simply. "I am sure I know more about women thanSaint Gilbert did. That he did not know much about them was shown bysuch a Rule, he might as well have set the door of the lark's cage open, and have said to the bird, `Now, stay in!' Well, I did not stay in. One morrow at mass, I was all suddenly aware of a pair of dark eyesscanning my face across the nave--"

"From the brethren's side of the church! O Margaret!"

"Well, Annora? I am human: so, perchance, was he. He had been thrustinto this life, as I had. Had we both been free, we might have lovedeach other without a voice saying, `It is sin. ' Why was it sin becausewe wore black and white habits?"

"But the vows, Margaret! the vows!"

"What vows? I made none, worthy to be called vows. I was bidden, alittle babe of four years, to say `ay' and `nay' at certain times, and`I am willing, ' and so forth. What knew I of the import attaching tosuch words? I do ensure thee I knew nothing at all, save that when Ihad been good and done as I was told, I should have a pretty littlehabit like the Sisters, and be called `Sister' as these grown womenwere. Is that what God calls a vow?--a vow of life-long celibacy, dragged from a babe that knew not what vow nor celibacy were! `Doth Godlack your lie?' saith Job [Job 13, verse 7]. Yea, the Psalmist crieth, `_Numquid adhaeret Tibi sedes iniquitatis_?' [Psalm 94, verse 20]--Walawa! the only thing I marvel is that He thundereth not down with Hisgreat wrath, and delivereth not him that is in misery out of the hand ofhim that despoileth. "

If it had been any other Sister, I think I should have been horriblyshocked: but do what I would, I could not speak angrily to my ownsister. I wonder if it were very wicked in me! But it surprised memuch that Mother Alianora lay and hearkened, and said nought. Neitherwas she asleep, for I glanced at her from time to time, and always sawher awake and listening. Truly, she had little need of nurses, for itwas no set malady that ailed her--only a gentle, general decay from oldage. Why two of us were set to watch her I could not tell. Had Ithought it possible that Mother Gaillarde could do a thing so foreign toher nature, I might have fancied that she sent us two there that nightjust in order that we might talk and comfort each other. If MotherAlianora had been the one to do it, I might have thought such a thing:or if my Lady had sent us herself, I should have supposed she had neverconsidered the matter: but Mother Gaillarde! Well, whatever reason shehad, I am thankful for that talk with Margaret. So I kept silence, andmy sister pursued her tale. 

"He was not a Brother, " she said, "but a young man training for thepriesthood under the Master. But not yet had he taken the holy vows, therefore I suppose thou wilt think him less wicked than me. "

She looked up into my face with a half-smile. 

"O Margaret! I wis not what to think. It all sounds so strange andshocking--only that I have not the heart to find fault with thee as Isuppose I should do. "

Margaret answered by a little laugh. 

"In short, " said she, "thou canst be wicked sometimes like other folk. Be it done! I ensure thee, Annora, it comforts me to know the same. Because it is not real wickedness, only painted. And I fear not paintedsin, any more than I hold in honour painted holiness. For real sin isnot paint; it is devilishness. And real holiness is not paint; it isdwelling in God. And God is love. "

"But not that sort of love!" I cried. 

"Is there any sort but one?" she made answer. "Love is an angel, Annora: it is self-love that is of the Devil. When man helps man tosin, that is not love. How can it be, when God is love, and God and sinare opposites? Tarry until my tale be ended, and then shalt thou bejudge thyself how far Roland's love and mine were sin. "

"Go on, " said I. 

"Well, " she said, "for many a week it went no further than looks. Thenit came to words. "

"In the church!"

"No, not in the church, my scrupulous sister! We should have felt thatas wrong as thou. Through the wall between the gardens, where was alittle chink that I dare be bound we were not the first to find. Wouldthat no sinfuller words than ours may ever pass athwart it! We foundout that both of us had been thrust into the religious life without ourown consent: I, thou savest, by the Queen's wrath (which I knew notthen); he, by a cousin that coveted his inheritance. And we talkedmuch, and at last came to agreement that as neither he nor I had anyvocation, it would be more wrong in us to continue in this life than toescape and be we'd. "

"But what priest should ever have wedded a Sister to man training forholy orders?"

"None. We were young, Annora: we thought not of such things. As forwhat should come after we were escaped, we left that to chance. Nay, chide me not for my poor broken dream, for it was a dream alone. ThePrioress found us out. That night I was in solitary cell, barred in myprison, with no companions save a discipline that I was bidden to use, and a great stone crucifix that looked down upon me. Ay, I had oneOther, but at first I saw Him not. Nay, nor for eight years afterwards. Cold, silent, stony, that crucifix looked down: and I thought He waslike that, the living Christ that had died for me, and I turned awayfrom Him. My heart seemed that night as if it froze to ice. It washard and ice-bound for eight years. During that time there were manychanges at Watton. Our Prioress died; and a time of sore sicknessremoved many of our Sisters. At the end of the eight years, only threeSisters were left who could remember my punishment--it was more than Ihave told"--ah, poor soul! lightly as she passed it thus, I dare bebound it was--"and these, I imagine, knew not why it was. And at lastour confessor died. 

"I thought I had utterly outlived my youthful dream. Roland haddisappeared as entirely as if he had never been. What had become of himI knew not--not even if he were alive. I went about my duties in adull, wooden way, as an image might do, if it could be made to move soas to sew or paint without a soul. Life was worth nothing to me--onlyto get it over. My love was dead, or it was my heart: which I knew not. Either came to the same thing. There were duties I disliked, and oneof these was confession: but I went through with them, in the cold, dullway of which I spake. It had to be: what did it matter?

"One morrow, about a week after our confessor's death, my Lady Prioressthat then was told us at recreation-time that our new confessor hadcome. We were commanded to go to him, ten in the day, and to make afull confession from our infancy. My turn came on the second day. Somany of our elder Sisters had died or been transferred, that I was, attwenty-five years, one of the eldest (beside the Mothers) left in thehouse. 

"I knelt down in the confessional, and repeated the Confiteor. Then, inthat stony way, I went on with my life-confession: the falsehood that Ihad told when a child of eight, the obstinacy that I had shown at ten, the general sins whereof I had since been guilty: the weariness ofdivine things which ever oppressed me, the want of vocation that I hadalways felt. I finished, and paused. He would ask me some questions, of course. Let him get them over. There was silence for a moment. Andthen I heard myself asked--`Is that all thou hast to confess?'--in thevoice I had loved best of all the world. My tongue seemed to cleave tothe roof of my mouth. I only whispered, `Roland!' in tones which Icould not have told for mine own. 

"`I scarce thought to find thee yet here, Margaret, ' he said. `Iwell-nigh feared to do it. But after thy confession, I see whereforeGod hath sent me--that I may pour out into the dry and thirsty cup ofthine heart a little of that spiced wine of the kingdom which He hathgiven to me. '

"Mine heart sank down very low. `Thou hast received thy vocation, then?' I said; and I felt the poor broken thing ache so that I knew itmust be yet alive. Roland would care no more for me, if he had receiveda vocation. I must go on yet alone till death freed me. Alone, forevermore!

"`I have received the blessedest of all vocations, ' he answered; `thecall to God Himself. Margaret, art thou thinking that if this be so, Ishall love thee no more? Nay, for I shall love thee more than ever. Beloved, God is not stone and ice; He is not indifference nor hatred. Nay, He is love, and whoso dwelleth in love dwelleth in God, and Goddwelleth in us, and His love is perfected in us. Open thy heart to thatlove, and then this little, little life will soon be over, and we shalldwell together beside the river of His pleasures, unto the ages of theages. '

"`It sounds fair, Roland, ' I said; `but it is far away. My soul is hardand dry. I cannot tell how to open the door. '

"`Then, ' said he, `ask Jesus to lift the latch and to come in. Thouwilt never desire Him to go forth again. I have much to say: but ithath been long enough now. Every time thou prayest, say also, "LordJesu, come into mine heart and make it soft. " He will come if thoudesire Him. And if thou carest not to do this for His sake, do it forthine own. '

"`I care not for mine own, nor for any thing, ' I answered drearily. 

"`Then, ' saith he, and the old tenderness came into his tone for amoment, `then, Margaret, do it for mine. '

"I believe he forgot to absolve me: but I did not miss it. 

"It is four and twenty years since that day: and during all these yearsI have been learning to know Christ our Lord, and the fellowship of Hissufferings. For as time passed on, Roland told me much of saintly menfrom whom he had learned, and of many a lesson direct from our LordHimself. Now He has taken Roland's place. Not that I love Roland less:but I love him differently. He is not first now: and all the bitternesshas gone out of my love. Not all the pain. For we came to thecertainty after a time, when he had taught me much, that we had betterbide asunder for this life, and in that which is to come we shall dwelltogether for evermore. He was about to resign his post as confessor, when the Lord disposed of us otherwise, for the Master thought fit todraft me into the house at Shuldham, and after eighteen years there wasI sent hither. So Roland, I suppose, bides at Watton. I know not: theLord knows. We gave up for His sake the sweet converse wherein ourhearts delighted, that we might serve Him more fully and with lessdistraction. I do not believe it was sinful. That it is sin in me tolove Roland shall I never own. But lest we should love each otherbetter than we love Him, we journey apart for this lower life. And I donot think our Lord is angry with me when at times the longing pain andthe aching loneliness seem to overcome me, for a little while. I thinkHe is sorry for me. For since I learned--from Roland--that He is notdead, but the Living One--that He is not darkness, but the Light--thatHe is not cold and hard, but the incarnate Love--since then, I can neverfeel afraid of Him. And I believe that He has not only madesatisfaction for my sins, but also that He can carry my burdens, and canforgive my blunders. And if we cannot speak to one another, we can bothspeak to Him, and entrust Him with our messages for each other. He willgive them if it be good: and before giving, He will change the words ifneedful, so that we shall be sure to get the right message. Sometimes, when I have felt very lonely, and He comes near me, and sends His peaceinto my heart, I wonder whether Roland was asking Him to do it: and Ipray Him to comfort and rest Roland whenever he too feels weary. So yousee we send each other many more letters round by Heaven than we couldpossibly do by earth. It was the last word Roland said to me--`The roadupward is alway open, ' and, `_Et de Hierosolymis et de Britannia, aequaliter patet aula caelestis_. '" [Note 2. ]

Margaret was silent. 

Then said Mother Alianora, "Child, thou hast said strange things: ifthey be good or ill, God wot. I dare not have uttered some of them thusboldly; yet neither dare I condemn thee. We all know so little! Butone thing have I learned, methinks--that God will not despise a giftbecause men cast it at His feet as having no value for them. I say not, He will not despise such givers: verily, they shall have their reward. But if the gift be a living thing that can feel and smart under themanner of its usage, then methinks He shall stoop to lift it with verytender hands, so as to let it feel that it hath value in His eyes--itsown value, that nought save itself can have. My children, we are notmere figures to Him--so many dwellers in so many houses. Before Him weare living men and real women--each with his separate heart, and everyseparate pang that rends it. The Church of God is one: but it is HisBody, and made of many members. We know, when we feel pain, in whatmember it is. Is He less wise, less tender, less sensitive than we?There are many, Margaret, who would feel nought but horror at thy story;I advise thee not to tell it to any other, lest thou suffer in so doing. But I condemn thee not: for I think Christ would not, if He stood nowamong us. Dear child, keep at His feet: it is the only safe place, andit is the happy place. Heaven will be wide enough to hold us all, andbefore long we shall be there. "

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Note 1. To the mind of a Roman Catholic, a "religious person" is only apriest, monk, or nun. 

Note 2. "From Jerusalem, or from England, the way to Heaven is equallynear. "--Jerome. 

PART THREE, CHAPTER 3. 

ANNORA FINDS IT OUT. 

 "Peace, peace, poor heart! Go back and thrill not thus! Are not the vows of the Lord God upon me?"

It would really be a convenience if one could buy common sense. Peopleseem to have so little. And I am sure I have not more than otherpeople. 

That story of Margaret's puzzles me sorely. I sit and think, and think, and I never seem to come any nearer the end of my thinking. And somenever seem to have any trouble with their thoughts. I suppose theyeither have more of them, and more sense altogether, so that they cansee things where I cannot; or else--Well, I do not know what else. 

But Margaret's thoughts are something so entirely new. It is as if Iwere looking out of the window at one end of the corridor, which lookstowards Grantham, and she were looking from the window at the other end, which faces towards Spalding. Of course we should not see the samethings: how could we? And if the glass in one window were blue, and theother red, it would make the difference still greater. I think thatmust be rather the distinction; for it does not seem to lie in thethings themselves, but in the eyes with which Margaret looks on them. 

Dear Mother Alianora yet lives, but she is sinking peacefully. NeitherMargaret nor I have been called to watch by her again. I begged ofMother Gaillarde that I might see her once more, and say farewell; andall I got for it was "Mind your broidery, Sister!"

I should not wonder if she let me go. I do not know why it is, but forall her rough manner and sharp words, I can ask a favour of MotherGaillarde easier than of Mother Ada. There seems to be nothing inMother Ada to get hold of; it is like trying to grip a lump of ice. Mother Gaillarde is like a nut with a rough outside burr; there isplenty to lay hold of, though as likely as not you get pricked when youtry. And if she is rough when you ask her anything, yet she often givesit, after all. 

I have not exchanged a word with Margaret since that night when wewatched together. She sits on the other side of the work-room, and evenin the recreation-room she rather avoids coming near me, or I fancy so. 

Whatever I begin with, I always get back to Margaret. Such strangeideas she has! I keep thinking of things that I wish I had said to heror asked her, and now I have lost the opportunity. I thought of it thismorning, when the two Mothers were conversing with Sister Ismania aboutthe Christmas decorations in our own little oratory. Sister Ismania isthe eldest of all our Sisters. 

"I thought, " said she, "if it were approved, I could mould a littlewaxen image of our Lord for the altar, and wreathe it round withevergreens. "

"As an infant?" asked Mother Gaillarde. 

"Well--yes, " said Sister Ismania; but I could see that had not been heridea. 

"Oh, of course!" answered Mother Ada. "It would be most highlyindecorous for _us_ to see Him as a man. "

Was it my fancy, or did I see a little curl of Margaret's lips?

"He will be a man at the second advent, I suppose, " observed MotherGaillarde. 

Mother Ada did not answer: but she looked rather scandalised. 

"And must we not have some angels?" said Sister Ismania. 

"There are the angels we had for Easter, Sister, " suggested SisterRoberga. 

"Sister Roberga, oblige me by speaking when you are spoken to, " saidMother Ada, in her icicle manner. 

"There is only one will do again, " answered Mother Gaillarde. "SaintRaphael is tolerable; he might serve. But I know the Archangel Michaelhad one of his wings broken; and the Apostle Saint Peter lost a leg. "

"We had a lovely Satan among those Easter figures, " said Sister Ismania;"and Saint John was so charming, I never saw his equal. "

"Satan may do again if he gets a new tail, " said Mother Gaillarde. "ButPontius Pilate won't; that careless Sister Jacoba let him drop, and hewas mashed all to pieces. "

"Your pardon, Mother, but that was Judas Iscariot. "

"It wasn't: it was Pontius Pilate. "

"I am sure it was Judas. "

"I tell you it wasn't. "

"But, Mother, I--"

"Hold your tongue!" said Mother Gaillarde, curtly. 

And being bidden by her superior, of course Sister Ismania had to obey. I looked across at Margaret, and met her eyes. And, as Margaret's eyesalways do, they spoke. 

"These are holy women, and this is spiritual love!" said Margaret'seyes, ironically. "We might have spoken thus to our own brethren, without going into a convent to do it. "

I wonder if Margaret be not right, and we bring the world in with us:that it is something inside ourselves. But then, I suppose, outsidethere are more temptations. Yet do we not, each of us, make a world forherself? Is it not _ourselves_ that we ought to renounce--theearthliness and covetousness of our own desires, rather than the mereoutside things? Oh, I do get so tired when I keep thinking!

Yesterday, when Erneburg and Damia were playing at see-saw in thegarden, with a long plank balanced on the saddling-stone, I could nothelp wondering how it is that one's thoughts play in that way. Each endseems sometimes up, and then the other end comes up, and that goes down. I wish I were wiser, and understood more. Perchance it was better forme that I was sent here. For I never should have been wise orbrilliant. And suppose _he_ were, and that he had looked down upon meand disliked me for it! That would have been harder to bear than this. 

_Ha, chetife_! have all religious women such stories as we two? DidMother Ada ever feel a heart in her? Mother Gaillarde does at times, Ibelieve. As to my Lady, I doubt any such thing of her. She seems tolive but to eat and sleep, and if Mother Gaillarde had not more care togovern the house than she, I do--Mother of Mercy, but this is evilspeaking, and of my superiors too! _Miserere me, Domine_!

As we filed out of the oratory last night as usual, Mother Gaillardestayed me at the door. 

"Sister Annora, thou art appointed to the Infirmary to-night. " And in alower tone she added--"It will be the last time. "

I knew well what last time she meant: never again in life should I seeour dear Mother Alianora. I looked up thankfully. 

"Well?" said Mother Gaillarde, in her curt way. "Are you a stone image, or do you think I'm one?"

I kissed her hand, made the holy sign, and passed on. No, dear Mother:thou art not a stone. 

In the Infirmary I found Sister Philippa on duty. 

"O Sister Annora, I am so glad thou art come! I hate this sort of work, and Mother Gaillarde will keep me at it. I believe it is because sheknows I detest it. "

"Thou art not just to Mother Gaillarde, Sister, " I said, and went on tothe bed by the window. 

"Annora, dear child!" said the feeble voice. Ay, she was weaker farthan when I last beheld her, "Thank God I have seen thee yet once more. "

I could do little for her--only now and then give her to drink, or raiseher a little. And she could not speak much. A few words occasionallyappeared to be all she had strength for. Towards morning I thought sheseemed to wander and grow light-headed. She called once "Isabel!" andonce "Aveline!" We have at present no Sister in the house namedAveline, and when I asked if I should seek permission to call SisterIsabel if she wished for her, she said, "No: she will be gone toMarlborough, " and what she meant I know not. [Note 1. ] Then, after shehad lain still a while, she said, "Guendolen--is it thou?"

"No, dearest Mother; it is Sister Annora, " said I. 

"Guendolen was here, " saith she: "where is she?"

"Perhaps she will come again, " I answered, for I saw that she scarcelyhad her wits clear. 

"She will come again, " she saith, softly. "Ay, He will come again--withclouds--and His saints with Him. And Guendolen will be there--my SisterGuendolen, the Princess [Note 2], whom men cast forth, --Christ shallcrown her in His kingdom. The last of the royal line! There are noPrinces of Wales any more. "

Then I think she dropped asleep for a time, and when she woke she knewme at first; though she soon grew confused again. 

"Christ's blessing and mine be on thee, mine own Annora!" saith she, tenderly. "Margaret, too--poor Magot! Tell her--tell her--" but hervoice died away in indistinct murmurs. "They will soon be here. "

"Who, dearest Mother?"

"Joan and Guendolen. Gladys, perchance. I don't know about Gladys. White--all in white: no black in that habit. And they sing--No, shenever sang on earth. I should like to hear Guendolen sing in Heaven. "

The soft toll of the bell for prime came to her dulled ear. 

"Are they ringing in Heaven?" she said. "Is it Guendolen that rings?The bells never rang for her below. They have fairer music up there. "

The door opened, and Mother Ada looked in. 

"Sister Annora, you are released. Come to prime. "

Oh, to have tarried only a minute! For a light which never was from sunor moon had broken over the dying face, and she vainly tried to stretchher hands forth with a rapturous cry of--"Guendolen! Did the Mastersend thee for me?"

"Sister! You forget yourself, " said Mother Ada, when I lingered. "Remember the rule of holy obedience!"

I suppose it was very wicked of me--I am always doing wicked things--butI did wish that holy obedience had been at the bottom of the Red Sea, Ikissed the trembling hand of the dear old Mother, and signed the holycross upon her brow to protect her when she was left alone, and then Ifollowed Mother Ada. After prime I was ordered to the work-room. Ilooked round, and saw that Sister Roberga and Margaret were missing. Idid hope Margaret, and not Sister Roberga, had been sent up to theInfirmary. Of course I could not ask. 

For two hours I sewed with my heart in the Infirmary. If the rule ofholy obedience had been at the bottom of the Red Sea, I am sure I shouldnot have tarried in that work-room another minute. And then I heard thepassing bell. It struck so cold to my heart that I had hard work tokeep my broidering in a straight line. 

A few minutes later, Margaret appeared at the door. She knelt down inthe doorway, and made the sign of the cross, saying, "Peace eternalgrant to us, O Lord!"

And we all responded, led by Mother Ada, --"Lord, grant to Thy servantour Sister everlasting peace!"

So then I knew that Mother Alianora had been sent for by the Master ofus all. 

"Sister Margaret!" said Mother Ada. 

Margaret rose, went up to Mother Ada, and knelt again. 

"How comes it thou art the messenger? I sent Sister Roberga to theInfirmary this morning. "

"Mother Gaillarde bade me go to the Infirmary, " said Margaret in a lowvoice, "and sent Sister Roberga down to the laundry. "

"Art thou speaking truth?" asked Mother Ada. 

Margaret's head went up proudly. "King Alfred the Truth-Teller was myforefather, " she said. 

"Well! perhaps thou dost, " answered Mother Ada, as if unwilling to admitit. "But it is very strange. I shall speak to Sister Gaillarde. "

"What about?" said Mother Gaillarde, appearing suddenly from the passageto my Lady's rooms. 

"Sister Gaillarde, this is very strange conduct of you!" said MotherAda. "I ordered Sister Roberga to the Infirmary. "

"You did, Sister, and I altered your order. I am your superior, Ibelieve?"

Mother Ada, who is usually very pale, went red, and murmured somethingwhich I could not hear. 

"Nonsense!" said Mother Gaillarde. 

To my unspeakable astonishment, Mother Ada burst into tears. She has somany times told the children, and not seldom the Sisters, that tearswere a sign of weakness, and unworthy of reasonable, not to sayreligious, women--that they ought to be shed in penitence alone, or ingrief at a slight offered to holy Church, that I could only supposeMother Gaillarde had been guilty of some profanity. 

"It is very hard!" sobbed Mother Ada. "That you should set yourself upin that way, when I was professed on the very same day as you--"

"What has that to do with it?" asked Mother Gaillarde. 

"And my Lady shows you much more favour than she does me: only to-dayyou have been in her rooms twice!"

"I wish she would send for you, " said Mother Gaillarde, "for it iscommonly to waste time over some sort of fiddle-faddle that I despise. You are heartily welcome to it, I can tell you! Now, come, Sister Ada, don't be silly and set a bad example. It is all nonsense, and you knowit. "

Off marched Mother Gaillarde with a firm step. Mother Ada continued tosob. 

"Nobody could bear such treatment!" said she. "The blessed Virginherself would not have stood it. I am sure Sister Gaillarde is not abit better than I am--of course I do not speak on my own account, butfor the honour of the Order: that is what I am anxious about. It doesnot matter in the least how people tread _me_ down--I am thehumblest-minded Sister in the house; but I am a Mother of the Order, andI feel Sister Gaillarde's words exceedingly. Pride is one of the sevendeadly sins, and I do marvel where Sister Gaillarde thinks she is going. I shall offer my next communion for her, that she may be morehumble-minded. I am sure she needs it. "

Mother Ada bit off her thread, as she said this, with a determined snap, as if it had cruelly provoked her. I was lost in amazement, for MotherAda has always seemed so calm and icy that I thought nothing could moveher, and here she was making a fuss about nothing, like one of thechildren. She had not finished when Mother Gaillarde came back. 

"What, not over it yet?" said she, in her usual style. "Dear me, what astorm in a porringer!"

Mother Ada gave a bursting sob and a long wail to end it; but MotherGaillarde took no more notice of her, only telling us all that MotherAlianora would be buried to-morrow, and that after the funeral we wereto assemble in conclave to elect a new Mother. It will be SisterIsmania, I doubt not; for she is eldest of the Sisters, and the one mostgenerally held in respect. 

In the evening, at recreation-time, Sister Philippa came up to me. 

"So we are to meet to elect a new Mother!" said she, with muchsatisfaction in her tone. "I always like meeting in conclave. There issomething grand about it. For whom will you vote, Sister Annora?"

"I have not thought much about it, " said I, "except that I suppose everybody will vote for Sister Ismania. "

"I shall not, " said Mother Joan. 

I see so little of Mother Joan that I think I have rarely mentioned her. She is Mistress of the Novices, and seldom comes where I am. 

"You will not, Mother? For whom, then?" said Sister Philippa. 

"If you should be appointed to collect the votes, Sister, you willknow, " was Mother Joan's reply. 

"Now, is that not too bad?" said Sister Philippa, when Mother Joan hadpassed on. "Of course the Mothers will collect the votes. "

"I fancy Mother Joan meant we Sisters ought not to ask, " I said. 

"O Sister! did you not enjoy that quarrel between the Mothers thismorning?" cried she. 

"Certainly not, " I answered. "I could not enjoy seeing any one eitherdistressed or angry. "

"Oh; but it was so delightful to see Mother Ada let herself down!" criedPhilippa. "So proud and stuck-up and like an icicle as she always is!_Ha jolife_! and she calls herself the humblest Sister in the house!"

Margaret had come up, and stood listening to us. 

"Who think you is the humblest, Sister Philippa?"

"I don't know, " said Sister Philippa. "If you asked me who was theproudest, maybe I could tell--only that I should have to name so many. "

"Well, I should need to name but one, " said I. "I would fain be thehumblest; but that surely am I not: and I find so many wicked motions ofpride in mine heart that I cannot believe any of us can be worse thanmyself. "

"I think I know who is the lowliest of us, and the holiest, " saidMargaret as she turned away; "and I shall vote for her. "

"Who can she mean?" asked Sister Philippa. 

"I do not know at all, " said I; and indeed I do not. 

Dear Mother Alianora was buried this afternoon. The mass for the deadwas very, very solemn. We laid her down in the Sisters' graveyard, tillthe resurrection morn shall come, when we shall all meet without spot ofsin in the presence-chamber of Heaven. Till then, O holy and mercifulSaviour, suffer us not, now and at our last hour, for any pains ofdeath, to fall from Thee!

We passed directly from the funeral into conclave. My Lady sent word tothe Master that we were about to elect a Mother, and he sent us hisbenediction on our labour. We all filed into our oratory, and sat downin our various stalls. Then, after singing the Litany of the HolyGhost, Mother Gaillarde passed down the choir on the Gospel side, andMother Ada on the Epistle side, collecting the votes. When all werecollected, the two Mothers went up to my Lady, and she then came out ofher stall, and headed them to the altar steps, where they all threeknelt for a short space. Then my Lady, turning round to us, and comingforward, announced the numbers. 

"Thirty-four votes: for Sister Roberga, one; for Sister Isabel, two; forSister Ismania, eleven; for Sister Annora, twenty. Our Sister Annora ischosen. "

It was a minute before I was able to understand that such anunintelligible and astounding thing had happened, as that our communityhad actually chosen me--me, of all people!--to execute the highestoffice in the house, next to my Lady Prioress herself. Mother Gaillardeand Mother Ada came up to me, to lead me up to the altar. 

"But it cannot be, " said I. I felt completely confused. 

"Thou art our Sister Annora, I believe, " saith Mother Gaillarde, lookingrather amused; "and I marvel the less at the choice since I helped tomake it. "

"I!" I said again, feeling more amazed than ever at what she said; "butI'm not a bit fit for such a place as that! Oh, do choose again, andfix on somebody more worthy than I am!"

"The choice of the community, guided by the Holy Spirit, has fallen onyou, Sister, " said Mother Ada, in a cold, hollow voice. 

"Come along, and don't be silly!" whispered Mother Gaillarde, taking myright arm. 

I really think Mother Gaillarde's words helped to rouse me from mystupor of astonishment, better than any thing else. Of course, if Godcalled me to a certain work, He could put grace and wisdom into me aseasily as into any one else; and I had only to bow to His will. But Idid so wish it had been another who was chosen. Sister Ismania wouldhave made a far better officer than I. And to think of such a poor, stupid, confused thing as I am, being put over her head! But, if itwere God's will--that settled the matter. 

It all felt so dreamy that I can scarcely tell what happened afterwards. I remember that I knelt before my Lady, and before the altar--but Ifelt too confused for prayer, and could only say, "_Domine, miserereme_!" for no other words would come: and then the Master came andblessed me, and made a short address to me (of which I believe I hardlytook in a word), and appointed the next day for the service ofordination. 

I am an ordained Mother of the Order of Saint Gilbert. And I do notfeel any difference. I thought I should have done. The Master himselfsang the holy mass, and we sang _Veni Creator Spiritus_, and he said inhis address afterwards, that when his hands were laid on my head, theHoly Ghost came down and filled me with His presence--and I did not feelthat He did. Of course it was all very solemn, and I did most earnestlydesire the influences of the blessed Spirit, for I shall never be ableto do any thing without them: but really I felt our Lord nearer me inthe evening, when I knelt by my bed for a minute, and asked Him, in myown poor words, to keep me in the right way, and teach me to do Hiswill. I think I shall try that again. Now that I have a cell tomyself, I can do it. And I sleep in dear Mother Alianora's cell, whereI am sure the blessed Lord has been wont to come. Oh, I hope He willnot tarry away because I am come into it--I, who am so worthless, and soweak, and need His gracious aid so much more than she did!

I do wish, if so great a favour could possibly be vouchsafed to me, thatI might speak to our Lord just once. He has ere this held converse withthe holy saints. Of course I am not holy, nor a saint, nor in the leastmerit any such grace from Him: but I need it more than those who meritit. Oh, if I could know, --once, certainly, and for ever--whether it isearthly, and carnal, and wicked, as people say it is, for me to grieveover that lost love of mine! Sister Ismania says it is all folly andimagination on my part, because, having been parted when we were onlysix years old, I cannot possibly (she says) feel any real, womanly lovefor him. But I do not see why it must be grown-up to be real. And Inever knew any thing better or more real. It may not be like whatothers have, but it was all I had. I wish sometimes that I knew if hestill lives, and whether that other wife lives to whom I supposesomebody must have married him after I was thrust in here. I cannotfeel as if he did not still, somehow, belong to me. If I only knewwhether it was wrong!

I have been appointed mistress of the work-room, and I ought to keep itin order. How I can ever do it, I cannot think. I shall never be ableto chide the Sisters like the other Mothers: and to have them coming upto me, when they are chidden, and kissing the floor at my feet--I do notknow how I can stand it. I am sure it will give me a dreadful feeling. However, I hope nothing will ever happen of that kind, for a long, longwhile. 

What is the good of hoping any thing? Mother Gaillarde says that hopes, promises, and pie-crust are made to be broken. Certainly hopes seem tobe. After all my wishes, if something did not happen the very firstday!

When I got down to the work-room, what should I find but Sisters Robergaand Philippa having a violent quarrel. They were not only breaking therule of silence, which in itself was bad enough, but they were callingeach other all manner of names. 

I was astonished those two should quarrel, for they have always beensuch friends that they had to be constantly reminded of the prohibitionof particular friendships among the religious: but when they did, itreminded me of the adage that vernage makes the best vinegar. 

Sister Isabel cast an imploring look at me, as I entered, which seemedto say, "Do stop them!" and I had not a notion how to set about it, except by saying--

"My dear Sisters, our rule enjoins silence. "

On my saying this (which I did with much reluctance and some trembling)both of them turned round and appealed to me. 

"She promised to vote for me, and she did not!" cried Sister Roberga. 

"I did!" said Sister Philippa. "I kept my word. "

"There was only one vote for me, " answered Sister Roberga. 

"Well, and I gave it, " replied Sister Philippa. 

"You couldn't have done! There must have been more than one. "

"Why should there?"

"I know there was. "

"How do you know?"

"I do know. "

"You must have voted for yourself, then: you can't know otherwise, " saidSister Philippa, scornfully. 

Sister Roberga fairly screamed, "I didn't, you vile wretch!" and wentexceedingly red in the face. 

"Sister Roberga, " said I--

"Don't you interfere!" shrieked Sister Roberga, turning fiercely on me. "You want a chance to show your power, of course. You poor, white-faced, sanctimonious creature, only just promoted, and thatbecause every body voted for you, thinking you would be easily managed--just like a bit of putty in any body's fingers! And making such a fuss, as if you were so humble and holy, professing not to wish for it!Faugh! how I hate a hypocrite!"

I stood silent, feeling as if my breath were taken away. 

"Yes, isn't she?" cried Sister Philippa. "Wanting Sister Ismania to bepreferred, instead of her, after all her plotting with Mother Gaillardeand Sister Margaret! I can't bear folks who look one way and walkanother, as she does. _I_ shouldn't wonder if the election werevitiated, --not a bit!--and then where will you be, _Mother_ Annora?"

"Where you will be, Sister Philippa, until compline, " said a voicebehind me, "is prostrate on the chapel floor: and after compline, youwill kiss the floor at Mother Annora's feet, and ask her to forgive you. Sister Roberta, go to the laundry--there is nobody there--and do notcome forth till I fetch you. You also, after compline, will ask theMother's forgiveness. "

Oh, how thankful I felt to Mother Gaillarde for coming in just then!She said no more at that time; but at night she came to my cell. 

"Sister Annora, " said she, "you must not let those saucy girls riderough-shod over you. You should let them see you mean it. "

"But, " said I, "I am afraid I don't mean it. "

Mother Gaillarde laughed. "Then make haste and do, " said she. "You'llhave a bear-garden in the work-room if you don't pull your curb a littletighter. You may always rely on Sister Ismania, Sister Isabel, andSister Margaret to uphold your authority. It is those silly youngthings that have to be kept in order. I wish you joy of your new post:it is not all flowers and music, I can tell you. "

"Oh dear, I feel so unfit for it!" I sighed. 

Mother Gaillarde smiled. "Sister, I am a bad hand at payingcompliments, " she said. "But one thing I will say--you are the fittestof us all for the office, if you will only stand firm. Give your orderspromptly, and stick to them. _Pax tibi_!"

I have put Mother Gaillarde's advice into action--or rather, I havetried to put it--and have brought a storm on my head. Oh dear, whycannot folks do right without all this trouble?

Sisters Amie and Catherine began to cast black looks at one anotheryesterday evening in the work-room, and when recreation-time came thelooks blossomed into words. I told them both to be silent at once. This morning I was sent for by my Lady, who said that she had notexpected me to prove a tyrant. I do not think tyrants feel their heartsgo pitter-patter, as mine did, both last night and this morning. Ofcourse I knelt and kissed her hand, and said how sorry I was to havedispleased her. 

"But, indeed, my Lady, " said I, "I spoke as I did because I was afraid Ihad not been sufficiently firm before. "

"Oh, I dare say it was all right, " said my Lady, closing her eyes, as ifshe felt worried with the whole affair. "Only Sister Ada thought--Ithink somebody spoke to her--do as you think best, Sister. I dare sayit will all come right. "

I wish things would all come right, but it seems rather as if they allwent wrong. And I do not _quite_ see what business it is of MotherAda's. But I ought not to be censorious. 

Just as I was leaving the room, my Lady called me back. It does feel sonew and strange to me, to have to go to my Lady herself about things, instead of to one of the Mothers! And it is not nearly so satisfactory;for where Mother Gaillarde used to say, "Do _so_, of course"--my Ladysays, "Do as you like. " I cannot even get accustomed to calling themSister Gaillarde and Sister Ada, as, being a Mother myself, I ought todo now. Oh, how I miss our dear Mother Alianora! It frightens me tothink of being in her place. Well, my Lady called me back to tell methat the Lady Joan de Greystoke desired to make retreat with us, andthat we must prepare to receive her next Saturday. She is to have thelittle chamber next to the linen-wardrobe. My Lady says she is of goodlineage, but she did not say of what family she came. She commanded meto tell the Mothers. 

"_Miserere_!" said Mother--no, Sister Ada. "What an annoyance it is, tobe sure, when externs come for retreat! She will unsettle half theyoung Sisters, and turn the heads of half the others. I know what aworry they are!"

"Humph!" said Sister Gaillarde. "Of good lineage, is she? That means, I suppose, that she'll think herself a princess, and look on all of usas her maid-servants. She may clean her own shoes so far as I'mconcerned. Do her good. I'll be bound she never touched a brushbefore. "

"Some idle young baggage, I've no doubt, " said Sister Ada. 

"Marry, she may be a grandmother, " said Mo--Sister Gaillarde. "If she'seighty, she'll think she has a right to lecture us; and if she's onlyeighteen, she'll think so ten times more. You may depend upon it, shewill reckon we know nought of the world, and that all the wisdom in ithas got into her brains. These externs do amuse me. "

"It is all very well for you to make fun of it, Sister Gaillarde, " saidSister Ada, peevishly, "but I can tell you, it will be any thing but funfor you and me, if she set half the young Sisters, not to speak of thenovices and pupils, coveting all manner of worldly pomps and dainties. And she will, as sure as my name is Ada. "

"Thanks for your warning, " said Mother Gaillarde. "I'll put a rod ortwo in pickle. "

The Lady Joan's chamber is ready at last: and I am dad. Such a businessI have had of it! I had no idea Sister Philippa was so difficult tomanage: and as to Sister Roberga, I pity any one who tries to do it. 

"You see, Sister Annora, " said Sister Gaillarde, smiling rather grimly, "official life is not all flowers and sunshine. I don't pity my Lady, just because she shirks her duties: she merely reigns, and leaves us togovern; but I can tell you, no Prioress of this convent would have aneasy life, if she _did_ her duty. I remember once, when I was in theworld, I saw a mountebank driving ten horses at once. I dare say hehadn't an easy time of it. But, lack-a-day! we have to drive thirty:and skittish fillies some of them are. I don't know what Sister Robergahas done with her vocation: but I never saw the corner of it since shecame. "

"Well!" I said with a sigh, "I suppose I never had one. "

"Stuff and nonsense!" said Sister Gaillarde. "If you mean you never hada liking for the life, that may be true--you know more about that thanI; but if you mean you do not fill your place well, and do your duty aswell as you know how, and a deal better than most folks--why, again Isay, stuff and nonsense! You are not perfect, I suppose. If you eversee any body who is, I should like to know her name. It won't beGaillarde--that I know!"

I wonder whose daughter the Lady Joan is! Something in her eyes puzzlesme so, as if she reminded me of somebody whom I had known, long, longago--some Sister when I was novice, or perchance even some one whom Iknew in my early childhood, before I was professed at all. They aredark eyes, but not at all like Margaret's. Margaret's are brown, butthese are dark grey, with long black lashes; and they do not talk--theyonly look as if they could, if one knew how to make them. The Lady Joanis very quiet and attentive to her religious duties; I think SisterAda's fears may sleep. She is not at all likely to unsettle any body. She talks very little, except when necessary. Two months, I hear, shewill remain; and I do not think she will be any trouble to one of us. Even Sister Gaillarde says, "She is a decent woman: she'll do. " Andthat means a good deal--from Sister Gaillarde. 

I have the chance to speak to Margaret now. Of course a Mother can callany Sister to her cell if needful; and no one may ask why except anotherMother. I must be careful not to seem to prefer Margaret above therest, and all the more because she is my own sister. But last night Ireally had some directions to give her, and I summoned her to my cell. When I had told her what I wanted, I was about to dismiss her with "_Paxtibi_!" as usual, but Margaret's talking eyes told me she had somethingto say. 

I said, --"Well! what is it, Margaret?"

"May I speak to my sister Annora for a moment, and not to the Mother?"she asked, with a look half amused and half sad. 

"Thou mayest always do that, dear heart, " said I. 

(I hope it was not wicked. )

"Then--Annora, for whom is the Lady Joan looking?"

"Looking! I understand thee not, Margaret. "

"I think it is either thou or I, " she replied. "Sister Anne told methat she asked her if there were not some Sisters of the Despenserfamily here, and wished to have them pointed out to her: and she said toSister Anne, `She whom I seek was professed as a very little child. 'That must be either thou or I, Annora. What can she want with us?"

"Verily, Margaret, I cannot tell. "

"I wondered if she might be a niece of ours. "

"She may, " said I. "I never thought of that. There is something abouther eyes that reminds me of some one, but who it is I know not. "

"Thou couldst ask her, " suggested Margaret. 

"I scarcely like to do that, " said I. "But I will think about it, Margaret. "

I was wicked enough to kiss her, when I let her go. 

This morning Sister Ada told me that the Lady Joan had asked leave tolearn illuminating, so she would spend her mornings henceforth in theillumination chamber. That will bring her with Margaret, who is muchthere. Perchance she may tell her something. 

It would be strange to see a niece or cousin of one's very own! Imarvel if she be akin to us. Somehow, since I had that night watch withMargaret, my heart does not feel exactly the dry, dead thing it used todo in times past. I fancy I could love a kinswoman, if I had one. 

Sister Gaillarde said such a strange thing to me to-day. I wasremarking that the talk in the recreation-room was so often vapid andfoolish--all about such little matters: we never seemed to take aninterest in any great or serious subject. 

"Sister Annora, " said she, with one of her grim smiles, "I always lookedto see you turn out a reformer. "

"Me!" cried I. 

"You, " said she. 

"But a reformer is a great, grand man, with a hard head, and a keen wit, and a ready tongue!" said I. 

"Why should it not be a woman with a soft heart?" quoth SisterGaillarde. 

"_Ha, jolife_!" cried I. "Sister Gaillarde, you may be cut out for areformer, but I am sure I am not. "

I looked up as I spoke, and saw the Lady Joan's dark grey eyes upon me. 

"What is to be reformed. Mother?" said she. 

"Why, if each of us would reform herself, I suppose the whole housewould be reformed, " I answered. 

"Capital!" said Sister Gaillarde. "Let's set to work. "

"Who will begin?" said Sister Ismania. 

"Every body will be the second, " replied Sister Gaillarde, "except thosewho have begun already: that's very plain!"

"I expect every body will be the last, " said Margaret. 

Sister Gaillarde nodded, as if she meant Amen. 

"Well, thank goodness, I want no reforms, " said Sister Ada. 

"Nor any reforming?" said Sister Gaillarde. 

"Certainly not, " she answered. "I always do my duty--always. Nobodycan lay any thing else to my charge. " And she looked round with an airthat seemed to say, "Deny it if you can!"

"It is manifest, " observed Sister Gaillarde gravely, "that our SisterAda is the only perfect being among us. I am not perfect, by any means:and really, I feel oppressed by the company of a seraph. I'm not nearlygood enough. Perchance, Sister Ada, you would not mind my sitting alittle further off. "

And actually, she rose and went over to the other side of the room. Sister Ada tossed her head, --not as I should expect a seraph to do: thenshe too rose, and walked out of the room. Sister Ismania had laughinglyfollowed Sister Gaillarde: so that the Lady Joan, Margaret, and I, werealone in that corner. 

"My mother had a Book of Evangels, " said the Lady Joan, "in which I havesometimes read: and I remember, it said, `be ye perfect, ' The priestssay only religious persons can be perfect: yet our Lord, when He saidit, was not speaking to them, but just to the common people who were Hisdisciples, on the hill-side. Is it the case, that we could all beperfect, if only we tried, and entreated the grace of our Lord to enableus to be so?"

"Did your Ladyship ever know any who was?" asked Margaret. 

The Lady Joan shook her head. "Never--not perfect. My mother was agood woman enough; but there were flaws in her. She was cleverer thanmy father, and she let him feel it. He was nearer perfection than she, for he was humbler and gentler--God rest his sweet soul! Yet she was agood woman, for all that: but--no, not perfect!"

Suddenly she ceased, and a light came in her eyes. 

"You two, " she said, looking on us, "are the Despenser ladies, Ibelieve?"

We assented. 

"Do you mind telling me--pardon me if I should not ask--which of you wasaffianced, long years ago, to the Lord Lawrence de Hastings, sometimeEarl of Pembroke?"

"Sometime!" ah me, then my lost love is no more!

I felt as though my tongue refused to speak. Something was coming--what, I did not know. 

Margaret answered for me, and the Lady Joan's hand fell softly on mine. 

"Did you love each other, " she said, "when you were little children? Ifso, we ought to love each other, for he was very dear to me. MotherAnnora, he was my father. "

"You!" I just managed to say. 

"Ah, you did, I think, " she said, quietly. "He died a young man, in thefirst great visitation of the Black Death, over twenty years ago: and mymother survived him twenty years. She married again, and died threeyears since. "

Margaret asked what I wanted to hear. I was very glad, for I felt as ifI could ask nothing. It was strange how Margaret seemed to know justwhat I wished. 

"Who was your mother, my Lady?"

The Lady Joan coloured, and did not answer for a moment. Then shesaid, --"I fear you will not like to know it: yet it was not her fault, nor his. Queen Isabel arranged it all: and she hath answered for herown sins at the Judgment Bar. My mother was Agnes de Mortimer, daughterof the Earl of March. "

"Why not?" said Margaret. 

"Ah, then you know not. I scarce expected a Despenser to hear his namewith patience. But I suppose you were so young--Sisters, he was thegreat enemy of your father. "

So they wedded my lost love to the daughter of my enemy! Almost beforethe indignation rose up within me, there came to counteract it a visionof the cross of Calvary, and of Him who said, "Father, forgive them!"The momentary feeling of anger died away. Another feeling took itsplace: the thought that the after-bond was dissolved now, and death hadmade him mine again. 

"Mother Annora, " said the Lady Joan's soft voice, "will you reject me, and look coldly on me, if I ask whether you can love me a little? Heused to love to talk to me of you, whom he remembered tenderly, as hemight have remembered a little sister that God had taken. He oftenwondered where you were, and whether you were happy. And when I was alittle child, I always wanted to hear of that other child--you lived, eternal, a little child, for me. Many a time I have fancied that Iwould make retreat here, and try to find you out, if you were stillalive. Do you think it sinful to love any thing?--some nuns do. But ifnot, I should like you to love the favourite child of your lost love. "

"Methinks, " said Margaret, quietly, "it is true in earthly as inheavenly things, and to carnal no less than spiritual persons, `_Majorhorum est caritas_. '" [First Corinthians 13, verse 13. ]

I hardly know what I said. But I think Joan was satisfied. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1. Her thoughts wandered to her married sister, Isabel LadyHastings and Monthermer, who lived at Marlborough Castle. 

Note 2. The last native Princess of Wales, being the only (certainlyproved) child of the last Prince Llywelyn, and Alianora de Montfort. She was thrust into the convent at Sempringham with her cousin Gladys. 

PART THREE, CHAPTER 4. 

MORTIFYING THE WILL. 

 "L'orgueil n'est jamais mieux deguise, et plus capable de tromper, que lorsqu'il se cache sous la figure de l'humilite. "

 Rochefoucauld. 

"Oh, you have no idea how happy we are here!" said Sister Ada to Joan. "I often pity the people who live in the world. Their time is filledwith such poor, mean things, and their thoughts must be so frivolous. Now our time is all taken up with holy duties, and we have no room forfrivolous thoughts. The world is shut out: it cannot creep in here. Weare the happiest of women. "

I happened to look at Sister Gaillarde, and I saw the beginning of oneof her grim smiles: but she did not speak. 

"Some of you do seem happy and peaceful, " said Joan (she says I am tocall her Joan). "But is it so with all?"

Sister Gaillarde gave her little Amen nod. 

"Oh dear, yes!" answered Sister Ada. "Of course, where the will is notperfectly mortified, there is not such unbroken bliss as where it is. But when the rule of holy obedience is fully followed out, so that wehave no will whatever except that of our superiors, you cannot imaginewhat sweet peace flows into the soul. Now, if Father Benedict were tocommand me any thing, I should be positively delighted to do it, becauseit was a command from my superior. It would not in the least matterwhat it was. Nay, the more repugnant it was to my natural inclinations, the more it would delight me. "

Joan's eyes wandered to two or three other faces, with a look whichsaid, "Do you agree to this?"

"Don't look at me!" said Sister Gaillarde. "I'm no seraph. It wouldn'tplease me a bit better to have dirty work to do because Father Benedictordered it. I can't reach those heights of perfection--never understoodthem. If Sister Ada do, I'm glad to hear it. She must have learned itlately. "

"I do not understand it, as Sister Ada puts it, " said I, as Joan's eyescame to me. "I understand what it is to give up one's will in any thingwhen it seems to be contrary to the will of God, and to have more realpleasure in trying to please Him than in pleasing one's self. Iunderstand, too, that there may be more true peace in bearing a sorrowwherein God helps and comforts you, than in having no sorrow and nocomfort. But Sister Ada seems to mean something different--as if onewere to be absolutely without any will about any thing, and yet todelight in the crossing of one's will. Now, if I have not any wall, Ido not see how it is to be crossed. And to have none whatever wouldsurely make me something different from a woman and a sinner. I shouldbe like a harp that could be played on--not like a living creature atall. "

Two or three little nods came from Sister Gaillarde. 

"People who have no wills are very trying to deal with, " said Margaret. 

"People who have wills are, " said Sister Philippa. 

"Nay, " said Margaret, "if I am to be governed, let it be by one that hasa will. `Do this, ' and `Go there, ' may be vexatious at times: but farworse is it to ask for direction, and hear only, `As you like, ' `I don'tknow, ' `Don't ask me. '"

"Now that is just what I should like, " said Sister Philippa. "I neverget it, worse luck!"

"Did you mean me, Sister Margaret?" said Sister Ada, stiffly. 

"I cry you mercy, Mother; I was not thinking of you at all, " answeredMargaret. 

"It sounded very much as if you were, " said Sister Ada, in her iciestfashion. "I think, if you had been anxious for perfection, you wouldnot have answered me in that proud manner, but would have come here andentreated my pardon in a proper way. But I am too humble-minded toinsist on it, seeing I am myself the person affronted. Had it been anyone else, I should have required it at once. "

"I said--" Margaret got so far, then her brow flushed, and I could seethere was an inward struggle. Then she rose from the form, and layingdown her work, knelt and kissed the ground at Mother Ada's feet. Icould hear Sister Roberga whisper to Sister Philippa, "Thatmean-spirited fool!"

Sister Gaillarde said in a softer tone than is her wont, --"_Beatipauperes spiritu: quoniam ipsorum est regnum caelorum_. " [Matthew 5, verse 3. ]

"Thank you, Sister Gaillarde, " said Sister Ada, quickly. "I scarcelyexpected recognition from _you_. "

"You got as much as you expected, then, " said Sister Gaillarde, drily, with a look across at me which almost made me laugh. 

"I told you, I got more than I expected, " was Sister Ada's answer. 

"Did you mean it for her?" asked Joan, in so low a voice that only thoseon each side of her could hear. 

"I meant it for whoever deserved it, " was Sister Gaillarde's reply. 

Just then Mother Joan came in and sat down. 

"Sister Ada, " she said, "Sister Marian tells me, that my Lady has givenorders for that rough black rug that nobody likes to be put on your bedthis week. "

"No, has she?" cried Sister Ada, in tones which, if she were delighted, very much belied her feelings. "How exceedingly annoying! What couldmy Lady be thinking of? She knows how I detest that rug. I shall notbe able to sleep a wink. Well! I suppose I must submit; it is my duty. But I do feel it hard that _all_ the disagreeable things should come tome. Surely one of the novices might have had that; it would have beengood for somebody whose will was not properly mortified. Really, I _do_think--Oh, well, I had better not say any more. "

Nor did she: but that night, as I was going round the children'sdormitory, little Damia looked up at me. 

"Mother, dear, what's the matter with Mother Ada?"

"What did she say, my child?"

"Oh, she didn't say any thing; but she has looked all day long as if shewould like to hit somebody. "

"Somebody vexed her a little, perhaps, " said I. "Very likely she willbe all right to-morrow. "

"I don't know--she takes a long while to come right when any body hasput her wrong--ever so much longer than you or Sister Margaret. Thelightning comes into Sister Margaret's eyes, and then away it runs, andshe looks so sorry that she let it come; and you only look sorry withoutany lightning. But Mother Ada looks I don't know how--as if she'd liketo pull all the hair off your head, and all your teeth out of yourmouth, and wouldn't feel any better till she'd done it. "

I laughed, and told the child to go to sleep, and not trouble her littlehead about Mother Ada. But when I came into my cell, I began to wonderif Sister Ada's will is perfectly mortified. It does not look exactlylike it. 

Before I had done more than think of undressing, Sister Gaillarde rappedat my door. 

"Sister Annora, may I have a little chat with you?"

"Do come in, Sister, and sit down, " said I. 

"This world's a very queer place!" said Sister Gaillarde, sitting downon my bed. "It would not be a bad place, but for the folks in it: andthey are as queer as can be. I thought I'd just give you a hint, Sister, that you might feel less taken by surprise--I expect you'll havea lecture given you to-morrow. "

"What have I done?" I asked, rather blankly. 

Sister Gaillarde laughed till the tears came into her eyes. 

"Oh dear, the comicality of folks in this world!" saith she. "SisterAnnora, do you know that you are a very carnal person?"

"Indeed, I have always feared so, " said I, sorrowfully. 

"Rubbish!" said Sister Gaillarde in her most emphatic style. "Don't, for mercy's sake, be taken in by such nonsense. It is a wonder whatfolks can get into their heads when they have nothing else in them!Sister Ada is very much concerned about the low tone of spiritualitywhich she sees in you--stupid baggage! She is miserably afraid you area long way off perfection. I'm more concerned a deal about her. "

"But, Sister Gaillarde, it is true!" said I. "I am very, very far frombeing perfect, and I fear I never shall be. "

"Well!" saith she, "if I had to go into the next world holding on tosomebody's skirts, I'd a sight rather they were yours than Sister Ada's. I do think some folks were born just to be means of grace and nothingelse. Maybe it is as well some of them should get into nunneries. "

"Some are rather trying, I must admit, " said I. "Sister Roberga--"

"Oh, Sister Roberga! she's just a butterfly and no better. Brush heroff--she's good for no more. But she isn't one that tries me like someother folks. You did not hear what happened yesterday between SistersAda and Margaret?"

"No. What was it?"

"Some of the Sisters were talking about hymns in recreation. SisterMargaret said she admired the _Dies Irae_. Sister Ada wanted to knowwhat she admired; she could not see any thing to admire; it was just ajingle of words, and nothing else. The rhymes might be good to rememberby--that was all. I saw the look on Sister Margaret's face: of courseshe did not answer the Mother. But I did. I told her that I believedif any one showed her a beautiful rose, she would call it a redvegetable. `Well, ' quoth she, `and what is it else? I never smell arose or any other flower. We were put here to mortify our senses. '`Sister Ada, ' said I, `the Lord took a deal of pains for nothing, so faras you were concerned. ' Well, she said that was profane: but I don'tbelieve it. The truth is, she's just one of those dull souls thatcannot see beauty, nor smell fragrance, nor hear music; and so sheassumes her dulness as virtue, and tries to make it out that those whohave their senses are carnal and worldly. But just touch her pride, anddoesn't it fly up in arms! Depend upon it, Sister Annora, men are quiteas often taken for fools because they can see what other folks can't, asbecause they can't see what other folks can. "

"I dare say that is true, " said I. "But--forgive me, Sister Gaillarde--ought we to be talking over our Sisters?"

"Sister Annora, you are too good for this world!" she answered, ratherimpatiently. "If one may not let out a bit, just now and then, what isone to do?"

"But, " said I, "we were put here to mortify ourselves. "

"We were put here to mortify our sins, " said she: "and wala wa! some ofus don't do it. I dare say old Gaillarde's as bad as any body. But Icannot stand Sister Ada's talk, when she wants to make every creature ofus into stones and stocks. She just inveighs against loving one anotherbecause she loves nobody but Ada Mansell, and never did. Oh! I knewher well enough when we were young maids in the world. She was an onlychild, and desperately spoiled: and her father joined in the Lancasterinsurrection long ago, and it ruined his fortunes, so she came into aconvent. That's her story. Ada Mansell is the pivot of her thoughtsand actions--always will be. "

"Nay, " said I; "let us hope God will give her grace to change, if it beas you say. "

"It'll take a precious deal of grace to change some folks!" said SisterGaillarde, satirically. "Hope many of them won't want it at once, orthere'll be such a run upon the treasury there'll be none left for youand me. Well! that's foolish talk. My tongue runs away with me now andthen. Don't get quite out of patience with your silly old SisterGaillarde. Ah! perhaps I should have been a wiser woman, and a bettertoo, if something had not happened to me that curdled the milk of myhuman kindness, and sent me in here, just because I could not bearoutside any longer--could not bear to see what had been mine given toanother--well, well! We are all poor old sinners, we Sisters. And asto perfection--my belief is that any woman may be perfect in any life, so far as that means having a true heart towards God, and an honest wishto do His will rather than our own--and I don't believe in perfection ofany other sort. As to all that rubbish men talk about having no will atall, and being delighted to mortify your will, and so forth--my serviceto the lot of it. Why, what you like to have crossed isn't your will;what you delight in can't be mortification. It is just like playing atbeing good. Eh, dear me, there are some simpletons in this world!Well, good-night, Sister: _pax tibi_!"

Sister Gaillarde's hand was on the latch when she looked back. 

"There, now I'm forgetting half of what I had to tell you. FatherHamon's going away. "

"Is he?--whither?"

"Can't say. I hope our next confessor will be a bit more alive. "

"Father Benedict is alive, I am sure. "

"Father Benedict's a draught of vinegar, and Father Hamon's been a bowlof curds. I should like somebody betwixt. "

And Sister Gaillarde left me. 

She guessed not ill, for I had my lecture in due course. Sister Adacame into my cell--had she bidden me to hers, I should have had a chanceto leave, but of course I could not turn her forth--and told me she hadbeen for long time deeply concerned at my want of spiritual discernment. "Truly, Sister, no more than I am, " said I. "Now, Sister, you reckonme unkindly, I cast no doubt, " saith she: "but verily I must be faithfulwith you. You take too much upon you, --you who are but just promoted toyour office--and are not ready enough to learn of those who have hadmore experience. In short, Sister Annora, you are very much wanting intrue humility. "

"Indeed, Sister Ada, it is too true, " said I. "I beseech you, Sister, to pray that you may have your eyes opened to the discerning of yourfaults, " saith she. "You are much too partial and prejudiced in yourgovernance of the Sisters, and likewise with the children. Some youkeep not under as you should; and to others you grant too littlefreedom. "

"Indeed, Sister, I am afraid it may be so, though I have tried hard toavoid it. "

"Well, Sister, I hope you will think of these things, and that our Lordmay give you more of the grace of humility. You lack it very much, Ican assure you. I would you would try to copy such of us as are reallyhumble and meek. "

"That I earnestly desire, Sister, " said I: "but is it not better to copyour Lord Himself than any earthly example? I thank you for yourreproof, and I will try harder to be humble. "

"You know, Sister, " said she, as she was going forth, "I have no wishbut to be faithful. I cannot bear telling others of their faults. Only, I _must_ be faithful. "

"I thank you, Sister Ada, " said I. 

So away she went. Sister Gaillarde said when she saw me, with one ofher grim smiles--

"Well! is the lecture over? Did she bite very hard?"

"She saith I am greatly lacking in meekness and humility, and take toomuch on myself, " said I: "and I dare say it is true. "

"Humph!" said Sister Gaillarde. "It would be a mercy if some folksweren't. And if one or two of us had a trifle more self-assertion, perhaps some others would have less. "

"Have I too much self-assertion, Sister?" I said, feeling sorry itshould be thus plain to all my Sisters. "I will really--"

Sister Gaillarde patted me on the shoulder with her grimmest smile. 

"You will really spoil every body you come near!" said she. "Go yourways, Sister Annora, and leave the wasps in the garden a-be. "

"Why, I do, " said I, "without they sting me. "

"Exactly!" said Sister Gaillarde, laughing, and away. I know not whatshe meant. 

Mother Joan is something troubled with her eyes, and the leech thinks itbest she should no longer be over the illumination-room, but be set tosome manner of work that will try the sight less. So I am appointedthereto in her stead. I cannot say I am sorry, for I shall see more ofJoan, since in this chamber she passes three mornings of a week. I meanmy child Joan, for verily she is the child of mine heart. And my verysoul yearns over her, for Sister though I be, I cannot help the thoughtthat had it not been for Queen Isabel's unjust dealing, I should havebeen her mother. May the good Lord forgive me, if it be sin! I knownow, that those deep grey eyes of hers, with the long black lashes, which stirred mine heart so strangely when she first came hither, arethe eyes of my lost love. I knew in myself that I had known such eyesaforetime, but it seemed to be long, long ago, as though in anotherworld. Much hath Joan told me of him; and all I hear sets him before meas man worthy of the best love of a good woman's heart, and whom mineheart did no wrong to in its enduring love. And I am coming to think--seeing, as it were, dimly, through a mist--that such love is not sin, neither disgrace, even in the heart of a maid devoted unto God. For Heknoweth that I put Him first: and take His ordering of my life, as beingHis, not only as just and holy, but as the best lot for me, and thatwhich shall be most to His glory and mine own true welfare. I say notthis openly, nor unto such as should be likely to misconceive me. Thereare some to whose pure and devoted souls all things indifferent arepure; and they are they that shall see God. And man saith that in theworld there are some also, unto whose vile and corrupt hearts all thingsindifferent are impure; and maybe not in the world only, but by timeseven in the cloister. So I feel that some might misread my meaning, andtake ill advantage thereof; and I keep my thoughts to myself, and toGod. I never ask Joan one question touching him of whom I treasureevery bye-note that she uttereth. Yet I know not how it is, but sheseems to love to tell me of him. Is it by reason she hath loved, thather heart hath eyes to see into mine?

Not much doth Joan say of her mother to me: I think she names her moreto others. Methinks I see what she was--a good woman as women go (andsome of them go ill), with a little surface cleverness, that shereckoned to run deeper than it did, and inclined to despise her lord byreason his wit lay further down, and came not up in glittering bubblesto the top. I dare reckon she looked well to his bodily comforts andsuch, and was a better wife than he might have had: very likely, abetter than poor Alianora La Despenser would have made, had God orderedit thus. Methinks, from all I hear, that he hath passed behind thejasper walls: and I pray God I may meet him there. They wed not, nor begiven in marriage, being equal unto the angels: but surely the angelslove. 

Strange talk it was that Joan held with me yesterday. I marvel what itmay portend. She says, of late years many priests have put forthwritings, wherein they say that the Church is greatly fallen away fromthe verity of Scripture, and that all through the ages good men havesaid the same (as was the case with the blessed Robert de Grosteste, Bishop of Lincoln, over two hundred years gone, and with the holy Thomasde Bradwardine, Archbishop of Canterbury, and with Richard Rolle, thehermit of Hampole, whose holy meditations on the Psalter are in ourlibrary, and I have oft read therein): but now is there further stir, asthough some reforming of the Church should arise, such as BishopGrosteste did earnestly desire. Joan says her lord is earnest for thesenew opinions, and eager to promote them: and that he saith that both inthe Church and in matters politic, men sleep and nap for a season, during which slow decay goes on apace, and then all at once do they wakeup, and set to work to mend matters. During the reign of this presentKing, saith he, the world and the Church have had a long nap; and noware they just awake, and looking round to see how matters are all overdust and ivy, which lack cleansing away. Divers, both clerks andlaymen, are thus bestirring themselves: the foremost of whom is my Lordof Lancaster, the King's son [John of Gaunt], among the lay folk, andamong the clergy, one Father Wycliffe [Note 1], that was head of aCollege at Oxenford, and is now Rector of Lutterworth in Leicestershire. He saith (that is, Father Wycliffe) that all things are thus gone tocorruption by reason of lack of the salt preservative to be found inHoly Scripture. Many years back, did King Alfred our forefather setforth much of the said Scriptures in the English tongue; as much, indeed, as he had time, for his death hindered it, else had all the holyhooks been rendered into our English tongue. But now, by reason ofyears, the English that was in his day is gone clean out of mind, andman cannot understand the same: so there is great need for anotherrendering that man may understand now. And this Father Wycliffe hopesto effect, if God grant him grace. But truly, some marvellous strangenotions hath he. Joan says he would fain do away with all endowing ofthe Church, saying that our Lord and the Apostles had no such provision:but was that by reason it was right, or because of the hardness of men'shearts? Surely the holy women that ministered to Him of their substancedid well, not ill. Moreover, he would have all monkery done away, yea, clean out of the realm, and he hath mighty hard names for monks, especially the Mendicant Friars: yet of nuns was he never heard to speakan unkindly word. Strange matter, in good sooth! it nearly takes awaymy breath but to hear tell of it. But when he saith that the Popeshould have no right nor power in this realm of England, that is butwhat the Church of England hath alway held: Bishop Grosteste did asfervently abhor the Pope's power--"Egyptian bondage" was his word forit. Much has this Father also to say against simony: and he would haveno private confession to a priest (verily, this would I gladly seeabolished), nor indulgences, nor letters of fraternity, nor pilgrimages, nor guilds: and he sets his face against the new fashion of singing mass[intoning, then a new invention], and the use of incense in thechurches. But strangest of all is it to hear of his inveighing againstthe doctrine of the Church that the sacred host is God's Body. It isso, saith he, in figure, and Christ's Body is not eaten of men saveghostly and morally. And to eat Christ ghostly is to have mind of Him, how kindly He suffered for man, which is ghostly meat to the soul. [Arnold's English Works of Wycliffe, Volume 2, pages 93, 112. ]

Here is new doctrine! Yet Father Wycliffe, I hear, saith this is theold doctrine of the Apostles themselves, and that the contrary is thenew, having never (saith he) been heard of before the time of oneRadbert, who did first set it forth five hundred years ago [in 787]: andafter that it slumbered--being then condemned of the holy doctors--tillthe year of our Lord God 1215, when the Pope that then was forced it onthe Church. Strange matter this! I know not what to think. 

Joan says some of these new doctrine priests go further than FatherWycliffe himself, and even cast doubt on Purgatory and the worship [thisword then merely meant "honour"] of our Lady. Ah me! if they can provefrom God's Word that Purgatory is not, I would chant many thanksgivingsthereon! All these years, when I knew not if my lost love were dead oralive, have I thought with dread of that awful land of darkness andsorrow: yet not knowing, I could have no masses sung for him; and had Ibeen so able, I could never have told for whom they were, but only haveasked for them for my father and mother and all Christian souls, andhave offered mine own communion with intention thereto. Ay, and many atime--dare I confess it?--I have offered the same with that intent, ifhe should be to God commanded [dead]--knowing that God knew, and humblytrusting in His mercy if I did ill. But for the worship of our Lady, that is passing strange, specially to me that am religious woman. Forwe were always taught what a blessing it was that we had a woman to whomwe might carry our griefs and sorrows, seeing God is a man, and not solike to enter into a woman's feelings. But these priests say--I amalmost afraid to write it--this is dishonouring Christ who died for us, and who therefore must needs be full of tenderness for them for whom Hedied, and cannot need man nor woman--not even His own mother--to standbetwixt them and Him. O my Lord, have I been all these yearsdishonouring Thee, and setting up another, even though it be Thy blessedmother, between Thee and me? Yet surely He regardeth her honour fulldiligently! Said He not to Saint John, "Behold thy mother?"--and dothnot that Apostle represent the whole Church, who are thereby commandedto regard her, each righteous man, as his own very mother? [This is theteaching of the Church of Rome. ] I remember the blessed Hermit ofHampole scarcely makes mention of her: it is all Christ in his book. And if it be so--of which Joan ensures me--in the Word of God, whereofshe hath read books that I have missed--verily, I know not what tothink. 

Lord, Thou wist what is error! Save me therefrom. Thou wist what istruth: guide me therein!

It would seem that I have erred in offering my communions at all. Forif to eat Christ's Body be only to have mind of Him--and this isaccording to His own word, "_Hoc facite in meam commemorationem_"--howthen can there be at all any offering of sacrifice in the holy mass?Joan says that Saint Paul's Epistle to the Hebrews saith that we behallowed by the oblation of the body of Jesus Christ once, and thatwhere remission is, there is no more oblation for sin. Truly we haveneed to pray, Lord, guide us into Thy truth! and yet more, Lord, keep ustherein! I must think hereon. In sooth, this I do, and then up risessome great barrier to the new doctrine, which I lay before Joan: and asquickly as the sun can break forth and melt a spoonful of snow, does sheclear all away with some word of Saint Paul. She has his Epistles rightat her tongue's end. For instance, quoth I, --"Christ said He shouldbestow the Holy Spirit, to lead the Church into all truth. How then canthe Church err?"

"What Church?" said she, boldly. "The Church is all righteous men thathold Christ's words: not the Pope and Cardinals and such like. Theselast have no right to hold the first in bondage. "

"But, " said I, "Father Benedict told me Saint Paul bade the religious toobey their superiors: how much more all men to obey the Church?"

"I marvel, " saith she, "where Father Benedict found that. Never a wordsays Paul touching religious persons: there were none in his day. "

"No religious in Paul's day!" cried I. 

"Never so much as one, " saith she: "not a monk, not a nun! FriarPareshull himself told me so much; he is a great man among us. SaintPeter bids the clergy not to dominate over inferiors; Saint Paul says tothe Ephesians that out of themselves (he was speaking to the clergy)should arise heretics speaking perversely; and Saint John says, `Believenot every spirit, but prove the spirits if they be of God. ' Dear MotherAnnora, we are nowhere bidden in Scripture to obey the Church save onlyonce, and that concerns the settling of a dispute betwixt two members ofit. Obey the Church! why, we are ourselves the Church. Has not FatherRolle taught you so much? `Holy Kirk, ' quoth he--`that is, ilkrighteous man's soul. ' Verily, all Churches be empowered of Christ tomake laws for their own people: but why then must the Church of Englandobey laws made by the Bishop of Rome?"

"Therein, " said I, "can I fully hold with thee. "

"And for all things, " she said earnestly, "let us hold to God's law, andtake our interpretation of it not from men, but straight from GodHimself. Lo! here is the promise of the Holy Ghost assured unto theChurch--to you, to me, to each one that followeth Christ. They thatkeep His words and are indwelt of His Spirit--these, dear Mother, arethe Church of God, and to them is the truth promised. "

I said nought, for I knew not what to answer. 

"There is yet another thing, " saith Joan, dropping her voice low. "Canthat be God's Church which contradicts God's Word? David saith `Overall things Thou hast magnified Thy Name' [Note 2]: but I have heard of amost wise man, that could read ancient volumes and dead tongues, thatSaint Hierome set not down the true words, namely, `Over all Thy NameThou hast magnified Thy Word. ' Now, if this be so--if God hath set upHis Word over all His Name--the very highest part of Himself--how dareany assemblage of men to gainsay it? What then of these indulgences andlicences to sin, which the Popes set forth? what of their suffering themto wed whom God has forbidden, and forbidding it to priests to whom Godhas suffered it? Surely this is the very thing which God points at, `teaching for doctrines the commandments of men. '"

"But, Joan, " said I, "my dear heart, did not our Lord say, `Whatsoeverye shall bind on earth shall be bound in Heaven?' Surely thatauthorises the Church to do as she will. "

"Contrary unto God's Word? It may give her leave to do her will withinthe limits of the Word: I trow not contrary thereto. When the Kinggiveth plenipotentiary powers to his Keeper of the Great Seal, his owndeposing and superseding, I reckon, are not among them. `All things aresubject unto Christ, ' saith Paul; `doubtless excepting Him which didsubject all things unto Him. ' So, if God give power of loosing andbinding to His Church, it cannot be meant that she shall bind Himselfwho thus endowed her, contrary to His own will and law. "

I answered nought, again, for a little while. At last I said, "Joan, there is a word that troubles me, and religious folks are always quotingit. `If a man hate not his father and his mother'--and so forth--hecannot be our Lord's disciple. I think I have heard it from one oranother every week since I came here. What say these new doctrine folksthat it means?"

"Ours are old doctrines, Mother dear, " saith she; "as old as theApostles of Christ. What means it? Why, go forth to the end, and youwill see what it means: he is to hate his own soul also. Is he then tokill himself, or to go wilfully into perdition? Nay, what can it mean, but only that even these dearest and worthiest loves are to be set belowthe worthier than them all, the love of the glory of God? That our Lordnever meant a religious person should neglect his father and mother, isplainly to be seen by another word of His, wherein he rebukes thepriests of His day, because they taught that a man might bestow inoblation to God what his father's or his mother's need demanded of him. Here again, he reproves them, because they rejected the command of Godin order to keep their own tradition. You see, therefore, that when theChurch doth this, it is not ratified in Heaven. "

"Then, " said I, after a minute's thought, "I am not bidden to hatemyself, any more than my relations?"

"Why should we hate one whom God loveth?" she answered. "To hate ourselfishness is not to hate ourselves. "

I sat a while silent, setting red eyes and golden claws to my greenwyvern, and Joan ran the white dots along her griffin's tail. When shecame to the fork of the tail, she laid down her brush. 

"Mother, " she saith--the dear grey eyes looking up into my face--"shallwe read together the holy Scripture, and beseech God to lead us into alltruth?"

"Dear child, we will do so, " said I. "Joan, didst thou ever read inholy Scripture that it was wicked to kiss folks?"

She smiled. "I have read there of one, " saith she, "who stole up behindthe holiest of all men that ever breathed, and kissed His feet: and therebuke she won from Him was no more than this: `Her many sins areforgiven her, and she loved much. ' So, if a full sinful woman mightkiss Christ without rebuke, methinks, if it please you, Mother dear, youmight kiss me. "

Well, I knew all my life of that woman, but I never thought of it thatway before, and it is marvellous comforting unto me. 

My Lady sent this morning for all the Mothers together. Mine heart wentpitter-patter, as it always doth when I am summoned to her chamber. Itis only because of her office: for if she were no more than a commonSister, I am sorely afraid I should reckon her a selfish, lazy woman:but being Lady Prioress, I cannot presume to sit in judgment on mysuperiors thus far. We found that she had sent for us to introduce usto the new confessor, whose name is Father Mortimer, he is tall, andgood-looking (so far as I, a Sister, can understand what is thought tobe so in the world), and has dark, flashing eyes, which remind me ofMargaret's, and I should say also of that priest that once confessed us, did I not feel certain that this is the same priest himself. He willbegin his duties this evening at compline. 

Sister Gaillarde said to me as we came forth from my Lady, --"Had I beena heathen Greek, and lived at the right time, methinks I should have wedDemocritus. "

"Democritus! who was he?" said I. 

"He was named the Laughing Philosopher, " said she, "because he was everlaughing at men and things. And methinks he did well. "

"What is there to laugh at, Sister Gaillarde?"

"Nothing you saw, Saint Annora. "

"Now you are laughing at me, " said I, with a smile. 

"My laugh will never hurt you, " answered she. "But truly, betwixtSister Ada and the peacock--They both spread their plumes to be lookedat. I wonder which Father Mortimer will admire most. "

"You surely never mean, " said I, much shocked, "that Sister Ada expectsFather Mortimer to admire her!"

"Oh, she means nothing ill, " said Sister Gaillarde. "She only admiresAda Mansell so thoroughly herself, that she cannot conceive it possiblethat any one can do otherwise. Let her spread her feathers--it won'thurt. Any way, it will not hurt him. He isn't that sort of animal. "

Indeed, I hope he is not. 

When my Lady dismissed us, I went to my work in the illumination-room, where Joan, with Sister Annot and Sister Josia, awaited my coming. Ibade Sister Josia finish the Holy Family she was painting yesterday fora missal which we are preparing for my Lord's Grace of York; I toldSister Annot to lay the gold leaf on the Book of Hours writing for myLady of Suffolk; and as Margaret, who commonly works with her, was notyet come, I began myself to show Joan how to coil up the tail of agriffin--she said, to put a yard of tail into an inch of parchment. Itappeared to amuse her very much to see how I twisted and interlaced thetracery, so as to fill up every little corner of the parallelogram. When the outline was drawn, and she began to fill it with cobalt, as Isat by, she said suddenly yet softly--

"Mother Annora, I have been considering whether I should tell yousomething. "

"Tell me what, dear child?" quoth I. 

"I am afraid, " said she, "I shocked you yesterday, making you think Iwas scarcely sound in the faith. Yet where can lie the verity of thefaith, if not in Holy Writ? And I marvelled if it should aggrieve youless, if you knew one thing--yet that might give you pain. "

"Let me hear it, Joan. "

"Did you know, " said she, dropping her voice low, "that it was in partfor heresy that your own father suffered death?"

"My father!" cried I. "Joan, I know nothing of my father, save onlythat he angered Queen Isabel, and for what cause wis I not. "

"For two causes: first, because the King her husband loved him, and shewas of that fashion that looked on all love borne by him as so muchrobbed from herself. But the other was that very thing--that she wasorthodox, and he was--what the priests called an heretic. There mightbe other causes: some men say he was proud, and covetous, and unpitiful. I know not if it be true or no. But that they writ him down anheretic, as also they did his father, and Archdeacon Baldok--so much Iknow. "

I felt afraid to ask more, and yet I had great longing to hear it. 

"And my mother?" said I. I think I was like one that passes round andround a matter, each time a little nearer than before--wishing, and yetfearing, to come to the kernel of it. 

"I have heard somewhat of her, " said Joan, "from the Lady Julian mygrandmother. She was a Leybourne born, and she wedded my grandfather, Sir John de Hastings, whose stepmother was the Lady Isabel La Despenser, your father's sister. I think, from what she told me, your mother was alittle like--Sister Roberga. "

I am sorely afraid I ought not to have answered as I did, for itwas--"The blessed saints forfend!"

"Not altogether, " said Joan, with a little laugh. "I never heard thatshe was ill-tempered. On the contrary, I imagine, she was somewhat tooeasy; but I meant, a little like what Mother Gaillarde calls abutterfly--with no concern for realities--frivolous, and lacking in duethought. "

"Was your grandmother, the Lady Julian, an admirer of these newdoctrines?" said I. 

"They were scarcely known in her day as they have been since, " saidJoan; "only the first leaves, so to speak, were above the soil: but sofar as I can judge from what I know, I should say, not so. She was agreat stickler for old ways and the authority of the Church. "

"And your mother?" I was coming near delicate ground, I felt, now. 

"Oh! she, I should say, would have liked our doctrines better. MotherAnnora, is there blue enough here, or shall I put on another coat?"

Joan looked up at me as she spoke. I said I thought it was deep enough, and she might now begin the shading. Her head went down again to herwork. 

"My mother, " said she, "was no bigot, nor did she much love priests; Idare venture to say, had Father Wycliffe written then as he has now, shewould somewhat have supported him so far as lay in her power. But myfather, I think, would have loved these doctrines best of all. I haveheard say he spoke against the ill lives of the clergy, and the idledoings of the Mendicant Friars: and little as I was when he departed toGod, I can myself remember that he used to tell me stories of our Lordand the ancient saints and patriarchs, which I know, now that I can readit, to have come out of God's Word. Ay, methinks, had he lived, hewould have helped forward this new reformation of doctrine and manners. "

"Reformation!" cries Mother Ada, entering the chamber. "I would wecould have a reformation in this house. What my Lady would be at, passeth me to conceive. She must think I have two pairs of eyes and sixpairs of hands, if no more. Do but guess, Sister Annora, what she wantsto have done. "

"Nay, that I cannot, " said I. I foresaw some hard work, for my Lady isone who leaves things to go as they list for ever so long, and then, suddenly waking up, would fain turn the house out o' windows ere one canshut one's eyes. 

"Why, if she did not send for me an hour after we came out, and said thecondition of the chapel was shameful; how could we have let it get intosuch a state? Father Mortimer was completely scandalised at the sightof it. All the holy images were all o'er cobwebs, and all--"

"And all of a baker's dozen of blessed times, " said Sister Gaillarde, entering behind, "have I been at her for new pails and brushes, neverspeak of soap. I told her a spider as big as a silver penny had spun aline from Saint Peter's key to Saint Katherine's nose; and as to thedust--why, you could make soup of it. I've dusted Saint Katherine manya time with my hands, for I had them, if I'd nought else: and trust me, the poor Saint looked so forlorn, I fairly wondered she did not speak. Had I been the image of a saint, somebody would have heard of it, Iwarrant you, when that spider began scuttering up and down my nose. "

"And now she bids us drop every thing, and go and clean out the chapel, this very morning--to have done by vesper time! Did you ever hear sucha thing?" said Sister Ada, from the bench whereon she had sunk. 

"Mother Ada, " said Sister Josia, "would you show me--"

"Mercy on us, child, harry not me!" cried Sister Ada. 

"But I do not know whether a lily should be in this corner by theblessed Mary, " said Sister Josia, "or if the ass should stand here. "

"The lily, by all means, " said Sister Gaillarde. "Prithee paint not anass: there's too many in this world already. "

"I do wish Father Mortimer would attend to his own business!" criedSister Ada, "or that we had old Father Hamon back again. I do hatethese new officers: they always find fault with every thing. "

"Ay, new brooms be apt to sweep a bit too clean, " replied SisterGaillarde. "Mary love us, but I would we had a new broom! I don'tbelieve there are twenty bristles left of the old one. "

Joan looked up from her griffin's tail to laugh. 

"Well, what is to be done?"

"Oh, I suppose we must do as we are bid, " saith Sister Ada in a mournfulvoice. "But, dear heart, to think of it!"

"How many pails have you, Sister Ada?"

"There's the large bouget, and the little one. The middle-sized one isbroken, but it will hold some water. "

"Two and a half, then, " answered Sister Gaillarde. "Well, fetch them, Sister, and I will go and see to the mops. I think we have a mop left. Perhaps, now, if we din our needs well into my Lady's ears, we may getone or two more. But, sweet Saint Felicitas! is there any soap?"

"Half a firkin came in last week, " responded Sister Ada. "You forget, Sister Gaillarde, the rule forbids us to ask more than once foranything. "

"The rule should forbid Prioresses to have short memories, then. Come, Sister Annot, leave that minikin fiddle-faddle, and come and help withthe real work. If it is to be done by vespers, we want all the hands wecan get. I will fetch Sister Margaret to it; she always puts her heartinto what she has to do. Well, you look sorely disappointed, child: Iam sorry for it, but I cannot help it. I have no fancy for suchvanities, but I dare say you like better sticking bits of gold leaf uponvellum than scrubbing and sweeping. "

"Sister Annot, I am ashamed of you!" said Sister Ada. "Your perfectionmust be very incomplete, if you can look disappointed on receiving anorder from your superior. You ought to rejoice at such an opportunityof mortifying your will. "

"That's more than I've done, " said Sister Gaillarde. "Well, Sister Ada, as you don't offer to move, I suppose we had better leave you here tillyou have finished rejoicing over the opportunity. I hope you'll getdone in time to take advantage of it. Come, Sister Annot. "

I thought I had better follow. So, having given Joan a few directionsto enable her to go on for a time without superintendence, I went to seeafter the water-bougets, which should have been Sister Ada's work. Shecalled after me--"Sister Annora, I'll follow you in a moment. I havenot quite finished my rosary. "

I left her there, telling her last few beads, and went to fetch thebougets, which I carried to the chapel, just as Sister Gaillarde came inwith her arms full, followed by Margaret and Annot. 

"I've found two mops!" she cried. "Mine was all right, but where SisterAda keeps hers I cannot tell. Howbeit, Sister Joan has one. Now, Sister Annora, if you will bring yours--And see here, these brushes havea few bristles left--this is a poor set-out, though. It'll do to knockoff spiders. Now, Sister Margaret, fetch that long ladder by the gardendoor. Sister Annot, you had better go up, --you are the lightest of us, and I am not altogether clear about that ladder, but it is the only onewe have. Well-a-day! if I were Pr--Catch hold of Saint James by thehead, Sister Annot, to steady yourself. Puff! faugh! what a dust!"

We were all over dust in a few minutes. I should think it was monthssince it had been disturbed, for my Lady never would order the chapel tobe cleaned. We worked away with a will, and got things in order forvespers. Sister Annot just escaped a bad fall, for a rung of the laddergave way, and if she had not clutched Saint Peter by the arm, down shewould have come. Howbeit, Saint Peter held, happily, and she escapedwith a bruise. 

Just as things were getting into order, and we had finished all thedirty work, Sister Ada sauntered in. 

"Well, really, " said Sister Gaillarde, "I did not believe you couldtruly rejoice in the mortification of your will till I saw how long ittook you! Thank you, the mortification is done; you will have to waittill next time: I only hope you will let this rejoicing count. There'snothing left for you, but to empty the slops and wipe out the pails. "

Joan told me afterwards, in a tone of great amusement, that "Mother Adafinished her beads very slowly, and then said she would go after you. But she stopped to look at Sister Annot's work, and at once discoveredthat if left in that state it would suffer damage before she came back. So she sat down and wrought at that for above an hour. Then she wasjust going again, but she found that an end of the fringe was coming offmy robe, and she fetched needle and thread of silk, and sewed it on. The third time she was just going, when she saw the fire wanted wood. So she kept just going all day till about half an hour before vespers, and then at last she contrived to go. "

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Note 1. I may here ask pardon for an anachronism in having broughtWycliffe forward as a Reformer some years before he really began to beso. The state of men's minds in general was as I have described it; theuneasy stir of coming reformation was in the air; the pamphlet which isso often (but wrongly) attributed to Wycliffe, The Last Age of theChurch, had been written some fifteen years before this time: butWycliffe himself, though then a political reformer, did not come forwardas a religious reformer until about six years later. 

Note 2. Psalm 138 verse 2, Vulgate. The Authorised Version correctlyfollows the Hebrew--"Thou hast magnified Thy Word above all Thy Name. "

PART THREE, CHAPTER 5. 

WAITING. 

 "If we could push ajar the gates of life, And stand within, and all God's workings see, We could interpret all this doubt and strife, And for each mystery could find a key. 

 "But not to-day. Then be content, poor heart! God's plans, like lilies pure and white, unfold: We must not tear the close-shut leaves apart; Time will reveal the calyxes of gold. 

 "And if through patient toil we reach the land Where tired feet with sandals loose may rest, When we shall clearly see and understand, I think that we shall say--`God knew the best. '"

When we came out from the chapel after vespers, my Lady commanded SisterGaillarde to follow her. The rest of us went, of course, to thework-room, where Sister Gaillarde joined us in about half an hour. Isaw that she looked as though she had heard something that greatlyamused her, but we could know nothing till we reached therecreation-room. 

The minute our tongues were loosed, Sister Ada attacked Sister Gaillardeas to what my Lady wanted with her. With one of her grim smiles, SisterGaillarde replied--

"My Lady is about to resign her office. "

A storm of exclamations greeted the news. 

"Why, Sister? Do tell us why. "

"She finds, " said Sister Gaillarde, gravely, "the burden of her officialduties too heavy. "

"I marvel what she reckons them to be!" quoth Sister Joan, who, thoughnot sarcastic in the style of Sister Gaillarde, can now and then say abiting thing. "So far as I ever made out, her duties are to sit oncushions and bid other folks work. "

"Exactly: and that is too much labour for her. "

"Which of us will be chosen in her stead, I marvel!" said Sister Ada, briskly. "I trust it may be one who will look better to her house thanthe present Lady has done. "

"Amen, " said Sister Gaillarde, with a mischievous air. "I hope it willbe Sister Joan. "

"Truly, I hope not, " answered the Sister: "for if any such honour camemy way (which I expect not), I should feel it my duty to decline it onaccount of my failing sight. "

"Then you see, my Sisters, " quoth Sister Ada, quickly, "to vote forMother Joan would be to no good. "

"It would be little good to vote for Mother Ada, " I heard a voicewhisper behind me; and another replied, "She thinks we all shall, Iwarrant. "

I feel little doubt that Sister Gaillarde will be the one chosen. Oneof us four it is most likely to be: and the sub-Prioress is oftenerchosen than the rest. Sister Gaillarde, methinks, would make a goodPrioress. 

We had scarcely recovered from our surprise, and had not half finishedour talk, when the bell rang for compline: and silence fell on all thebusy tongues. All the young Sisters, and the postulants, were eager tocatch a glimpse of Father Mortimer; and I saw a good deal of talk passfrom eyes to eyes, in the few minutes before the service began. Hesings full well, and is most seemly in his ordering of matters. If hebe as discreet in the confessional as in his outer ministrations, methinks I shall like him well. Howbeit, he made a deal less impressionthan he would have done before my Lady's intention was announced. Whenwe filed out of the chapel, and assembled again in the recreation-room, the tongues were set loose, and I could see that the main stream of talkran on my Lady; only one here and there diverging to Father Mortimer. Isought out Joan, and asked if our new confessor were any kin to her. She could not tell me, beyond saying that she has three uncles andseveral cousins in the priesthood; but since, saving her uncle Walter, she has never seen any of them, she could not speak certainly withoutasking himself. 

I marvel I have not seen Margaret all this even, now I come to think. Iwas so taken up with the news concerning my Lady that I never thought tolook for her: and in chapel she sits on the Epistle side, as I do, sothat I see her not. 

This morrow my Lady called us into conclave, and made known herresignation, which she has already tendered to the Master: and bade usall farewell. She will not tarry with us, but goes into the daughterhouse at Cambridge; this somewhat surprises me, though I see it does notSister Gaillarde. 

"There'll be more stir there, " said she. 

"Think you my Lady likes stir?" said I. "I have always reckoned her onethat loved not to be stirred. "

"Soothly, " said Sister Gaillarde: "yet she loveth well to sit on hercushions, and gaze on the stir as a peep-show. "

A few hours later we were all again assembled in conclave, and theMaster himself with us, for election of a new Prioress. And after themass of the Holy Ghost we Mothers went round to gather up the votes. Itfell as I looked, and Sister Gaillarde is elected. In all the housethere were only nine that voted otherwise, and of these four were forSister Joan, two for Sister Ismania, and one each for Sisters Ada, Isabel, and myself. I feel sure that mine was Margaret's: and Joan saysshe is certain Sister Ada's was her own. I voted, as before, for SisterGaillarde, for truly I think her fittest of all for the place. Herordination fallows next week. 

"Verily, " said Sister Ada, the next time we were at recreation, "I domarvel at Sister Gaillarde's manner of taking her election. Not oneword of humility or obedience, but just took it as if it were her right, and she were the most suitable person!"

"Why, that was obedience, was it not?" responded Sister Ismania. 

"Obedience it might be, but it was not lowliness!" said Sister Ada, tartly. "If I had been elect--of course I do not mean that I expectedsuch a thing, not for a moment--I should have knelt down and kissed thechapel floor, and protested my sense of utter unworthiness andincapacity for such an office. "

Sister Isabel, who sat by me, said in a low voice, --"Maybe some of yourSisters would have agreed with you. " And though I felt constrained togive her a look of remonstrance, I must say I thought with her. SisterAda as Prioress would have been a sore infliction. 

But now Sister Gaillarde herself came forward. I do not think SisterAda had known she was there, to judge from her change of colour. 

"Sister Ada, " said she, "you are one of those surface observers whoalways fancy people do not feel what they do not say. Let me answer youonce for all, and any who think with you. As a sinner before God, I dofeel mine unworthiness, even to the lowest depth: and I am bound tohumble myself for all my sins, and not least for the pride which wouldfain think them few and small. But as for incapacity, I do not feelthat; and I shall not say what I do not feel. I think myself quitecapable of governing this house--I do not say as well as some might doit, but as well as most would do; and it would be falsehood andaffectation to pretend otherwise. I suppose, in condemning hypocrisy, our Lord did not mean that while we must not profess to be better thanwe are, we may make any number of professions, and tell any number offalsehoods, in order to appear worse than we are. That may be yournotion of holiness; but suffer me to say, it is not my notion ofhonesty. I mean to try and do my duty; and if any of my Sisters thinksI am not doing it, she will confer a favour on me if she will not talkit over with the other Sisters, but come straight to my rooms and tellme so. I promise to consider any such rebukes, honestly, as before God;and if on meditation and prayer I find that I have been wrong, I willconfess it to you. But if I think that it was simply done out of spiteor impertinence, that Sister will have a penance set her. I hope, now, we understand each other: and I beg the prayers of you all that I mayrule in the fear of God, showing neither partiality nor want ofsympathy, but walking in the right way, and keeping this house pure fromsin. "

Sister Ada made no answer whatever. Sister Ismania said, with muchfeeling--

"Suffer me, Mother, to answer for the younger Sisters, and I trust theMothers will pardon me if I am over ready. Sure am I that the majorityof my Sisters will consent to my reply. We will indeed pray that youmay have the grace of perseverance in good works, and will strive toobey your holy directions in the right path. I ask every Sister whowill promise the same to say `_Placet_. '"

There was a storm of _Placets_ in response. But unless I was mistaken, Sister Ada and Sister Roberga were silent. 

It was while she was answering "_Placet_" that I caught sight ofMargaret's face. What had happened to make her look thus white and wan, with the expressive eyes so full of tears behind them, which she couldnot or would not shed? I sat in pain the whole day until evening, andthe more because she seemed rather to avoid me. But at night, when wehad parted, and all was quiet in the dormitories, a very faint rap cameat the door of my cell. I bade the applicant enter in peace: andMargaret presented herself. 

"Annora!" she said, hesitating timidly. 

I knew what that meant. 

"Come to me, little Sister, " I said. 

She came forward at once, closing the door behind her, and knelt down atmy feet. Then she buried her face in her hands, and laid face and handsupon my knee. 

"Let me weep!" she sobbed. "Oh, let me weep for a few moments insilence, and do not speak to me!"

I kept silence, and she wept till her heart was relieved. When at lasther sobs grew quiet, she brushed her tears away, and looked up. 

"Bless thee, Annora! That has done me good. It is something to havesomebody who will say, `Little Sister, ' and give one leave to weep inpeace. Dost thou know what troubles me?"

"Not in the least, dear Margaret. That something was troubling thee Ihad seen, but I cannot guess what it was. "

"I shall get over it now, " she said. "It is only the reopening of theold wound. Thou hast not guessed, then, who Father Mortimer is?"

"Margaret!"

"Ay, God has given my Roland back to me--yet has not given him. It istwenty years since we parted, and we are no longer young--nor, I hope, foolish. We can venture now to journey on, on opposite sides of theway, without being afraid of loving each other more than God. There canhardly be much of the road left now: and when it is over, the childrenwill meet in the safe fellowship of the Father's Home for ever. Dostthou know, Annora dear, I am almost surprised to find myself quite sochildish? I thought I should have borne such a meeting as calmly as anyone else, --as calmly as he did. " There was a little break in her voice. "He always had more self-control than I. Only I dare not confess tohim, for his own sake. He would be tempted either to partiality, or totoo much severity in order to avoid it. I must content myself withFather Benedict: and when I want Roland's teaching--those blessed wordswhich none ever gave to me but himself--wilt thou give me leave to tellthee, so that thou mayest submit the matter to him in thine ownconfession?"

I willingly agreed to this: but I am sorry for my poor child. FatherBenedict is terribly particular and severe. I think Father Mortimercould scarcely be more so, however hard he was trying not to be partial. And I cannot help a little doubt whether his love has lasted like hers. Sweet Saint Mary! what am I saying? Do I not know that every sister, every priest, in this house would be awfully shocked to know that such athing could be? It is better it should not. And yet--my poor child!

This house no longer holds a Sister or Mother Gaillarde. She is nowLady Prioress, having been ordained and enthroned this afternoon. Imust say the ceremony of vowing obedience felt to me less, not more, than that simple _Placet_ the other day, which seemed to come red-hotfrom the hearts that spake it. 

The Sister chosen to succeed her as Mother is Sister Ismania. I am gladof it, for she is certainly fittest for the place. Mother Joan becomesthe senior Mother. 

Our new Prioress does not let the grass grow under her feet, and is verydifferent from her predecessor. During the first week after herappointment, such quantities of household articles began to pour in--whereof, in sooth, we stood in grievous need--that we Mothers were atour wits' end where to put them. I thought the steward's man wouldnever have done coming to the grating with such announcements as--"Fivehundredweight of wax, if you please, ladies; a hundred pounds ofcandles, ladies; twenty oaks for firewood, ladies; two sacks of seacoal, ladies; ten pieces of nuns' cloth, ladies; a hundred ells of cloth oflinen, ladies; six firkins of speckled Bristol soap, ladies, "--cloth ofSarges [serge], cloth of Blanket [Note 1], cloth of Rennes; mops, bougets, knives, beds; cups, jugs, and amphoras; baskets by the dozen;quarters of wheat, barley, oats, beans, peas, and lentils; stockfish andling, ginger and almonds, pipes of wine and quarts of oil--nay, I cannottell what there was not. Sister Ada lost her temper early, and sorelybewailed her hard lot in having first to carry and find room for allthese things, and secondly to use them. The old ways had suited herwell enough: she could not think what my Lady wanted with all thismopping and scouring. Even Sister Joan said a little sarcastically thatshe thought my Lady must be preparing for the possibility of our havingto stand a siege. My Lady, who heard both behind their backs, smiledher grim smile and went on. She does not keep in her own rooms like thelast Prioress, but is here, there, and every where. Those of theSisters who are indolently inclined dislike her rule exceedingly. Formyself, I think in truth we have been going along too easily, and amglad to see the reins tightened and the horse admonished to be somewhatbrisker: yet I cannot say that I can always keep pace with my Lady, andat times I am aware of a feeling of being driven on faster than I can gowithout being out of breath, and perhaps risking a fall. A littleoccasional rest would certainly be a relief. Howbeit, life is ourworking-day: and there will be time to rest in Heaven. 

Joan tells me that she has had some talk with Father Mortimer, and findsthat her mother and he were cousins, he being the only son of hergrandfather's brother, Sir John de Mortimer, who died young in thetilt-yard [Note 2]. It is strange, passing strange, that he andMargaret should have been drawn to one another--he the nephew, and shethe daughter, of men who were deadly enemies. From what Joan saith, Ican gather that this grandfather of hers must have been a very evil manin many ways. I love not to hear of evil things and men, and I dosomewhat check her when she speaks on that head. Was it not for eatingof the tree of knowledge of good and evil that our first fathers wereturned out of Paradise? Yet the Psalmist speaks of God as "He thatteacheth man knowledge. " I will ask Father Mortimer to explain it whenI confess. 

The time is not far off now when my child Joan must leave us, and Ishrink from it as it draws near. I would either that she were one ofus, or that I could go back to the world. Yet neither can be, seeingshe is wedded wife and mother: and for me, is not this the very carnalaffection which religious persons are bidden to root out of theirhearts? Yet the Apostle Saint John saith we are to love our brethren. How can I do both? Is it lawful to love, only so long as we love notone above another? But our Lord Himself had His beloved disciple: andsurely one's own mother must ever be more to her daughter than someother woman's mother? This also I will ask Father Mortimer. 

Lack-a-day! this world is full of puzzles, or rather it is this life. Iwould one might see the way a little clearer--might have, as it were, athread put into one's hand to guide one out of the labyrinth, like thatold Grecian story which we teach the children. Some folks seem to losetheir way easier than others; and some scarcely seem to behold anylabyrinth at all--they walk right through those matters which are wallsand hedges to others, and look as though they never perceived that anysuch things were there. Is it because of recklessness of right, or ofsingle-heartedness and sincerity?

There are three matters to lay before Father Mortimer. I shall thinklong till the time come; and I hope he will be patient with me. 

So soon as I stepped forth of my cell this morrow, I was aware of a kindof soft sobbing at no great distance. I went towards it, and as Iturned the corner of the corridor, I came on a young novice, by nameDenise, who sat on the ground with a pail before her, and a flannel andpiece of soap on one side of it. 

"What is the matter, child?" said I. 

"Mother Ismania bade me scrub the boards, " said she. 

"Well! wherefore no?"

Denise fell a-sobbing yet more. For a minute or two might I not come atthe reason: but at the last I did--she was a kinswoman of Sir Michael deLa Pole, and thought it so degrading to be set to scrub boards!

"Why, dear heart, " said I, "we all do work of this fashion. "

"Oh yes, common Sisters may, " quoth she. 

"Well, " said I, "we cannot be all uncommon. I ensure thee, Denise, there are here many daughters of better houses than thine. MotherIsmania herself is daughter of an offshoot of the Percys, and SisterIsabel is a Neville by her mother. My Lady is a Fitzhugh ofRavenswath. "

"Well, Sisters!" came from behind us in my Lady's most sarcastic voice, "you choose a nice time for comparing your pedigrees. Maybe it were aswell to leave that interesting amusement for recreation-time, and scrubthe corridor just now. "

Sister Denise melted again into tears, and I turned to explain. 

"Your pail looks pretty full, Sister, " said my Lady grimly: "much morewater will make it overflow. "

"May it please you, Madam, " said I, "Sister Denise is thus distressedbecause she, being a De La Pole, is set to scrubbing and such likemenial work. "

"Oh, is she, indeed?" laughed my Lady. "Sister, do you know what MotherAnnora is?"

Sister Denise could only shake her head. 

"Her mother was grand-daughter to King Edward of Westminster, " said myLady. "If we three were in the world, I should be scantly fit to bearher train and you would be little better than her washerwoman. But Inever heard her grumble to scour the corridor and she has done it moretimes than ever you thought about it. Foolish child, to suppose therewas any degradation in honest work! Was not our blessed Lord Himself acarpenter? I warrant the holy Virgin kept her boards clean, and did notsay she was too good to scrub. No woman alive is too good to do herduty. "

Sister Denise brake forth into fresh sobs. 

"A wa--wa--washerwoman! To be called a washerwoman! [Note 3. ] Me, kinswoman of Sir Michael de La Pole, and Sir Richard to boot--awasherwo--woman!"

"Don't be a goose!" said my Lady. "De La Pole, indeed! who be these DeLa Poles? Why, no more than merchants of Lombard Street, sellingtowelling at fivepence the ell, and coverchiefs of Cambray [Note 4] atseven shillings the piece. Truly a goodly pedigree to boast of thusloudly!"

"But, Madam!" cries Sister Denise--her tears, methinks, burned up by hervexation--"bethink you, Sir Michael my cousin is a knight, and his wifethe Lady Katherine heiress of Wingfield, and the Lady Katherine hismother 'longeth to the knights De Norwich. And look you, his sister ismy Lady Scrope, and his cousin wedded the heir of the Lord Cobham ofKent. "

"Nay, tarry not there, " said my Lady; "do go a bit further while thouart about it. Was not my Lady Joan Cobham's mother daughter to my Ladyof Devon, whose mother was daughter unto King Edward of Westminster--sothou art akin to the King himself? I cry thee mercy, my Lady Princess, that I set thee to scrub boards. --Sister Annora, prithee, let thisprincely damsel go to school for a bit--she's short of heraldry. Theheiress of Wingfield, _the_ Lady Katherine, forsooth! and the daughterof Sir John de Norwich a `Lady' at all! Why, child, we only call theKing's kinswomen _the_ Lord and Lady. As to thy cousin Sir Michael, heis a woolmonger and lindraper [linen draper. The _en_ is a corruption]that the King thought fit to advance, because it pleased him, and maybehe had parts [talents] of some sort. Sure thou hast no need to stick upthy back o' that count! To-morrow, Sister Denise, thou wilt please toclean the fire-dogs, and carry forth the ashes to the lye-heap. --Come, Sister Annora; I lack you elsewhere. "

Poor little Denise broke into bitterer tears than ever; but I could notstay to comfort her, for I had to follow my Lady. 

"I do vow, this world is full of fools!" said she, as we went along thecorridor. "We shall have Sister Parnel, next, protesting that she knowsnot how much oats be a bushel, and denying to rub in the salt to abacon, lest it should make her fingers sore. And 'tis always those whohave small reason that make fusses like this. A King's daughter, whenshe takes the veil, looks for no different treatment from the rest; buta squire's daughter expects to have a round dozen of her Sisters toldoff to wait upon her. --Sister Egeline, feathers for stuffing arethree-farthings a pound; prithee strew not all the floors therewith. (Sister Egeline had dropped no more than one; but my Lady is lynx-eyed. )Truly, it was time some one took this house in hand. Had my sometimeLady ruled it another twelvemonth, there would have been never a bit ofdiscipline left. There's none so much now. Sister Roberga had betterlook out. If she gives me many more pert answers, she'll find herselfbarred into the penitential cell on bread and water. "

By this time we had reached the kitchen. Sister Philippa was justcoming out of it, carrying one hand covered with her veil. My Lady cameto a sudden halt. 

"What have you there, Sister?"

Sister Philippa looked red and confused. 

"I have cut my finger, " she said. 

My Lady's hand went into her pocket. 

"Hold it forth, " said she, "and I will bind it up. I always carry linenand emplasture. "

Sister Philippa made half a dozen lame excuses, but at last held out herleft hand, having (if I saw rightly) passed something into the other, under cover of her veil. 

"Which finger?" said my Lady, who to my surprise took no notice of heraction. 

"This, " said Sister Philippa, holding out the first. 

My Lady studied it closely. 

"It must have healed quick, " said she, "for I see never a scratch uponit. "

"Oh, then it is that, " quoth Sister Philippa, holding forth the secondfinder. 

"I rather think, Sister, it is the other hand, " said my Lady. "Let melook at that. "

As my Lady was holding Sister Philippa's left hand, she had no chance topass her hidden treasure into it. She held forth her right hand--fullunwillingly, as I saw--and something rustled down her gown and droppedwith a flop at her feet. 

"Pick that up, Sister Annora, " said my Lady. 

I obeyed, and unfolding a German coverchief, found therein a flampoyntand three placentae [a pork pie and three cheesecakes]. 

"What were you going to do with these?" said my Lady. 

"It's always my luck!" cried Sister Philippa. "Nothing ever prospers ifI do it. Saint Elizabeth's loaves turned into roses, but no saint thatliveth ever wrought a miracle for me. "

"It is quite as well, Sister, that evil deeds should not prosper, " wasmy Lady's answer. "Saint Elizabeth was carrying loaves to feed thepoor. Was that your object? If so, you shall be forgiven; but nexttime, ask leave first. "

Sister Philippa grew redder. 

"Was that your intention?" my Lady persisted. 

"I am sure I am as poor as any body!" sobbed the Sister. "We never getany thing good. All the nice things we make go to the poor, or toguests. I can't see why one might not have a bite one's self. "

"Were you going to eat them yourself?"

"One of them, I was: the others were for Sister Roberga. "

"Sister Roberga shall answer for herself. I will have no tale-tellingin my house. This evening at supper, Sister, you will stand at the endof the refectory, with that placenta in your hand, and say in thehearing of all the Sisters--`I stole this placenta from the kitchen, andI ask pardon of God and the Saints for that theft. ' Then you may eatit, if you choose to do so. "

My Lady confiscated the remainder, leaving the placenta in SisterPhilippa's hand. She looked for a minute as if she would heartily liketo throw it down, and stamp on it: but either she feared to bring onherself a heavier punishment, or she did not wish to lose the dainty. She wrapped it in her coverchief, and went upstairs, sobbing as shewent. 

My Lady despatched Sister Marian at once to fetch Sister Roberga. Shecame, looking defiant enough, and confessed brazenly that she knew ofSister Philippa's theft, and had incited her to it. 

"I thought as much, " said my Lady sternly, "and therefore I dealt themore lightly with your poor dupe, over whom I have suspected yourinfluence for evil a long while. Sister Annora, do you and SisterIsabel take this sinner to the penitential cell, and I will take counselhow to use her. "

We tried to obey: but Sister Roberga proved so unmanageable that we hadto call in three more Sisters ere we could lodge her in the cell. Atlong last we did it; but my arms ached for some time after. 

Sister Philippa performed her penance, looking very shamefaced: but sheleft the placenta on the table of the refectory, and I liked her all thebetter for doing so. I think my Lady did the same. 

Sister Roberga abode in the penitential cell till evening, when my Ladysent for the four Mothers: and we found there the Master himself, FatherBenedict, and Father Mortimer. The case was talked over, and it wasagreed that Sister Roberga should be transferred to Shuldham where, asis reported, the Prioress is very strict, and knows how to hold hercurb. This is practically a sentence of expulsion. We four all agreedthat she was the black sheep in the Abbey, and that several of theyounger Sisters--in especial Sister Philippa--would conduct themselvesfar better if she were removed. Sister Ismania was sent to tell her thesentence. She tossed her head and pretended not to care; but I cannotbelieve she will not feel the terrible disgrace. Oh, why do women enterinto the cloister who have no vocation? and, ah me! why is it forcedupon them?

At last I have been to confession to Father Mortimer, and I think Iunderstand better what Margaret means, when she speaks of confessing toFather Benedict such things as he expects to hear. I never could seewhy it must be a sin to eat a lettuce without making the holy sign overit. Surely, if one thanks God for all He gives us, He will not beangered because one does not repeat the thanksgiving for every littleseparate thing. Such thoughts of God seem to me to be bringing Himdown, and making Him seem full of little foolish details like men--andlike the poorest-minded sort of men too. I see that people of highintellect, while they take much care of details that go to makeperfection--as every atom of a flower is beautifully finished--take nocare at all for mere trivialities--what my Lady calls fads--such as is, I think, making the sign of the cross over every mouthful one eats. Well, I made my confession and was absolved: and I told the priest thatI much wished to ask his explanation of various matters that perplexedme. He bade me say on freely. 

"Father, " said I, "I pray you, tell me first, is knowledge good orevil?"

"Solomon saith, my daughter, that `a wise man is strong;' and theprophet Osee laments that God's people are `destroyed for lack ofknowledge. ' Our Lord chideth the lawyers of the Jews because they tookaway the key of knowledge: and Paul counted all things but loss for theknowledge of Jesu Christ. Here is wisdom. Why was Adam forbidden toeat of the tree of knowledge, seeing it was knowledge of good no lessthan evil? Partly, doubtless, to test his obedience: yet partly also, Ithink, because, though the knowledge might be good in itself, it was notgood for him. God never satisfies mere curiosity. He will tell theehow to come to Heaven; but what thou wilt find there, that He will nottell thee, save that He is there, and sin, suffering, and Sathanas, arenot there. He will aid thee to overcome thy sins: but how sin firstentered into the fair creation which He made so good, thou mayest ask, but He gives no answer. Many things there are, which perhaps we mayknow with safety and profit in Heaven, that would not be good for us toknow here on earth. Knowledge of God thou mayest have, --yea, to thefull, so far as thine earthen vessel can hold it, even here. Yetbeware, being but an earthen vessel, that thy knowledge puff thee notup. Then shall it work thee ill instead of good. Moreover, have noughtto do with knowledge of evil; for that is ill, altogether. "

"Then, how is it, Father, " said I, "that some folks see their way somuch plainer than others, and never become tangled in labyrinths? Theyseem to see in a moment one thing to be done, and that only: not asthough they walked along a road which parted in twain, and knew notwhich turn to take. "

"There may be many reasons. Some have more wit than others, and thusperceive the best way. Some are less readily turned aside by minorconsiderations. Some let their will conflict with God's will: and somedesire to perceive His only, and to follow it. "

"Those last are perfect men, " said I. 

"Ay, " he made answer: "or rather, they are sinners whom Christ firstloved, and taught to love Him back. My daughter, love is the great clueto lead thee out of labyrinths. Whom lovest thou--Jesu Christ, orSister Alianora?"

"Now, Father, you land me in my last puzzle. I have always been taught, ever since I came hither, a little child, that love of God and the holysaints is the only love allowed to a religious woman. All other love isworldly, carnal, and wicked. Tell me, is this true?"

"No. " The word came quick and curt. 

"Truly, " said I, "it would give me great relief to be assured of that. The love of our kindred, then, is permitted?"

"`Whoso loveth not his brother whom he hath seen, how can he love Godwhom he hath not seen? And this mandate we have from God: that he wholoveth God, love his brother also. '"

"Father, " said I, fairly enchanted to hear such words, "are those wordsof some holy doctor, such as Saint Austin?"

"They are the words, " saith he softly, "of the disciple that Jesu loved. He seems to have caught a glimmer of his Master. "

"But, " said I, "doth it mean my mother's son, or only my brother inreligion?"

"It can scarcely exclude thy mother's son, " saith he somewhat drily. "Daughter, see thou put God first: and love all other as much as everthou canst. "

"_Ha, jolife_!" cried I, "if the Church will but allow it. "

"What God commandeth, " said he, "can not His Church disallow. "

Methought I heard a faint stress on the pronoun. 

"Father, " said I, "are there more Churches than one?"

"There is one Bride of Christ. There is also a synagogue of Satan. "

"Ah! that, I count, is the Eastern Church, that man saith hath departedfrom the faith. "

"They that depart from the faith make that Church. I fear they may sodo in the West as well as the East. "

"Well, in the most holy universal Church are counted both the holy RomanChurch, and our own mother, the Church of England, " said I. "I know notif it include the Eastern schism or no. "

"All these, " saith he, "are names of men, and shall perish. All that isof man must come to nought. The Church Catholic, true and holy, is notof man, but of God. In her is gathered every saved soul, whether hecome from the east or from the west, from the north or from the south. She is not Pauline, nor Petrine, nor Johannine, but Christian. Theheavenly Bridegroom cannot have two Brides. `One is My dove, My perfectone, ' There are many counties in England; there is but one realm. Sothere are many so-called Churches: there is but one holy Church. "

"But to find her commands, " I answered, "we must, I suppose, hearkeneach to his own branch of the Church?"

"Her Lord's commands are hers. `Hear thou _Him_. ' The day is coming, daughter, when the Scriptures of God's Word shall be all rendered intoEnglish tongue, and, I firmly trust, shall be accessible to every manthat chooses to know them. Pray thou heartily for that day; andmeanwhile, keep thou close following Christ's steps, to the best of thyknowledge, and entreat Him for pardon of all unknown sins. And when thelight of day is fully come, and the blessed lamp of Holy Writ placed inthe hands of the people, then come to the light that thou mayest clearlysee. For then woe, woe upon him that tarrieth in the shadow! `If thelight that is in thee be darkness, what darkness can equal it?'"

"Father, " said I, "I thank you, for you have much comforted me. Allthis while have I been trying not to love folks; and I find it full hardto do. "

"Battle with thy sins, Daughter, and let thy love alone. I counsel theeto beware of one thing, of which many need no warning to beware: I thinkthou dost. A thing is not sin because it is comfortable and pleasant;it is not good because it is hard or distasteful. Why mortify thy willwhen it would do good? It is the will to sin which must be mortified. When Christ bade His disciples to `love their enemies, ' He did not meanthem to hate their friends. True love must needs be true concern forthe true welfare of the beloved. How can that be sin? It is not lovewhich will help man to sin! that love cometh of Sathanas, and is`earthly, sensual, devilish. ' But the love which would fain keep manfrom sin, --this is God's love to man, and man cannot err in bestowing iton his brother. "

"But is it sin, Father, to prefer one in love above another?"

"It is sin to love man more than God. Short of that, love any one, andany how, that ever thou wilt. The day _may_ come--"

He brake off suddenly. I looked up. 

"There were wedded priests in England, not an hundred years ago, " [Note5] he said in a low voice. "And there were no monks nor nuns in thedays of the Apostles. The time may come--_Fiat voluntas Tua! Filia, pax tibi_. "

Thus gently dismissed, I rose up and came back into theilluminating-room, where I found Joan gathering together her brushes andother gear. 

"The last time!" she said, sadly--for she returns to her home to-morrow. "Why is it that last times are always something sorrowful? I am goinghome to my Ralph and the children, and am right glad to do it: and yet Ifeel very mournful at the thought of leaving you, dear Mother Annora. Must it ever be so in this life, till we come to that last time of allwhen, setting forth on the voyage to meet Christ our Lord, we yet say`farewell' with a pang to them we leave behind?"

"I reckon so, dear heart, " said I, sighing a little. "But FatherMortimer hath comforted me by words that he saith are from Holy Writ--towit, that he which loveth God should love his brother likewise. Ialways wanted to love folks. "

"And always did it, dear Mother, " said Joan with a laugh, casting herarms around my neck, "for all those chains of old rules and dustysuperstitions which are ever clanking about you. And I am going to loveyou, whatever rules be to the contrary, and of whomsoever made. Oh, whydid ill folks push you into this convent, when you might have come anddwelt with Ralph and me, and been such a darling grandmother to mylittle ones? There, now, I did not mean to make you look sorrowful. Iwill come and see you every year, if it be only for an hour's talk atthe grating; and my Lady, who is soft-hearted as she is rough-tongued, will never forbid it, I know. "

"Never forbid what, thou losenger?" [Flatterer. ]

Joan turned round, laughing. 

"Dear my Lady, you are ever where man looketh not for you. But I amsure you heard no ill of yourself. You will never forbid me to visit mydear Mother Annora; you love her, and you love me. "

"Truly a pretty tale!" saith my Lady, pretending (as I could see) tolook angry. 

"Now don't try to be angered with me, " said Joan, "for I know youcannot. Now I must go and pack my saddle-bags and mails. " [Trunks. ]

She went thence with her light foot, and my Lady looked somewhat sadlyafter her. 

"I love thee, do I, child?" saith she in another tone. "Ah, if I do, thou owest it less to anything in thee than to the name they wed theein. Help us, Mother of Mercy! Time was when I thought I, too, shouldone day have been a Greystoke. Well, well! God be merciful to us poordreamers, and poor sinners too!"

Then, with slower step than she is wont, she went after Joan. 

My child is gone, and I feel like a bereaved mother. I shall see heragain, if it please God, but what a blank she has left! She says whennext Lent comes, if God will, she will visit us, and maybe bring withher her little Laurentia, that she named after my lost love, because shehad eyes like his. God bless her, my child Joan!

Sister Roberga set forth for Shuldham the same day, in company withFather Benedict, who desired to travel that road, and in charge of twoof the brethren and of Sister Willa. I trust she may some day see hererrors, and amend her ways: but I cannot felicitate the community atShuldham on receiving her. 

So now we shall slip back into our old ways, so far as can be under aPrioress who assuredly will let none of us suffer the moss to grow uponher, body or soul, so far as she can hinder it. I hear her voice nowbeneath, in the lower corridor, crying to Sister Sigred, who is in thekitchen to-day--

"Did ever man or woman see the like? Burning seacoal on thekitchen-fire! Dost thou mean to poison us all with that ill smoke?[Note 6. ] And wood in the wood-house more than we shall use in half ayear! Forty logs came in from the King only yesterday, and ten from myLord of Lisle the week gone. Sister Sigred, when shall I put any sensein you?"

"I don't know, Madam, I'm sure!" was poor Sister Sigred's ratherhopeless answer. 

I have found out at last what the world is. I am so glad! I askedFather Mortimer, and I told him how puzzled I was about it. 

"My daughter, " said he, "thou didst renounce three things at thybaptism--the world, the flesh, and the Devil. The works of the fleshthou wilt find enumerated in Saint Paul's Epistle to the Galatians[Galatians 5, verses 19-21]: and they are _not_ `love, joy, peace, long-suffering, gentleness, goodness, faith, meekness, temperance. 'These are the fruits of the Spirit. What the Devil is, thou knowest. Let us then see what is the world. It lies, saith Saint John, in threethings: the lust of the flesh, the lust of the eyes, and the pride oflife. What are these? The lust of the flesh is not love, for that is afruit of the Spirit. It is self-love: worshipping thyself, comfortingthyself, advantaging thyself, and regarding all others as either toys orslaves for that great idol, thyself. The lust of the eye is notinnocent enjoyment of the gifts of God: doth a father give gifts to hischild in order that she may _not_ use and delight in them? It lies invaluing His gifts above His will; taking the gift and forgetting theGiver; robbing the altar of God in order to deck thine idol, and thatidol thyself. Covetousness, love of gain, pursuit of profit tothyself--these are idolatry, and the lust of the eye. The pride oflife--what is this? Once more, decking thyself with the property ofGod. Show and grandeur, pomp and vanity, revelling and folly--all toshow thee, to aggrandise thee, to delight thee. The danger of abidingin the world is lest the world get into thee, and abide in thee. Bewareof the thought that there is no such danger in the cloister. The worldmay be in thee, howsoever thou art out of the world. A queen may wearher velvet robes with a single eye to the glory of God, and a nun maywear her habit with a single eye to the glory of self. Fill thine heartwith Christ, and there will be no room left for the world. Fill thineheart with the world, and no room will be left for Christ. They cannotabide together; they are contrary the one to the other. Thou canst notsaunter along the path of life, arm-in-arm with the world, in pleasantintercourse. Her face is not toward the City of God: if thine be, yemust go contrary ways. `How can two walk together, except they beagreed' what direction to pursue? And remember, thou art one, and theworld is many. She is strong enough to pull thee round; thou art not atall likely to change her course. And the peril of such intercourse isthat the pulling round is so gradually effected that thou wilt never seeit. "

"But how am I to help it, Father?"

"By keeping thine eye fixed on God. Set the Lord alway before thee. Solong as He is at thy right hand, thou shalt not be moved. "

Father Mortimer was silent for a moment; and when he spoke again, it wasrather to himself, or to God, than to me. 

"Alas for the Church of God!" he said. "The time was when her baptismalrobes were white and spotless; when she came out, and was separate, andtouched not the unclean thing. Hath God repealed His command thus todo? In no wise. Hath the world become holy, harmless, undefiled--nolonger selfish, frivolous, carnal, earth-bound? Nay, for it waxethworse and worse as the end draws nearer. Woe is me! has the Churchstepped down from her high position as the elect and select company ofthe sons of God, because these daughters of men are so fair andbewitching? Is she slipping back, sliding down, dipping low her oncehigh standard of holiness to the Lord, bringing down her aim to thelevel of her practice, because it suits not with her easy selfishness togird up her loins and elevate her practice to what her standard was andought to be? And she gilds her unfaithfulness, forsooth, with the nameof divine charity! saying, Peace, peace! when there is no peace. `Whatpeace, so long as the whoredoms of thy mother Jezebel and herwitchcrafts are so many?' They cry, `Speak unto us smooth things'--andthe Lord hath put none such in our lips. The word that He giveth us, that must we speak. And it is, `Come out of her, My people, that ye benot partakers of her sins, and that ye receive not of her plagues. ' Yecannot remain and not partake the sins; and if ye partake the sins, thenshall ye receive the plagues. `What God hath joined together, let notman put asunder. '" [Note 7. ]

Thank God for this light upon my path! for coming from His Word, it mustbe light from Heaven. O my Lord, Thou art Love incarnate, and Thou hastbidden us to love each other. Thou hast set us in families, and chosenour relatives, our neighbours, our surroundings. From Thine hand wetake them all, and use them, and love them, in Thee, for Thee, to Thee. "We are taught of God to love each other. " We only love too much whenwe love ourselves, or when we love others above Thee. And "the commandwe have of Thee is that he who loveth Thee, love his brother also"--thelast word we hear from Thee is a promise that Thou wilt come again, andtake us--together, all--not to separate stars, but to be with Thee forever. Amen, Lord Jesu Christ, so let it be!

It is several weeks since I have seen Margaret, otherwise than incommunity. But to-night I heard the timid little rap on my door, andthe equally timid "Annora?" which came after. When Margaret says thatword, in that tone, she wants a chat with me, and she means to inquiredeprecatingly if she may have it. 

"Come in, darling, " I said. 

Since Father Mortimer gave me leave to love any one, any how, so long asI put God first, I thought I might say "darling" to Margaret. Shesmiled, --I fancied she looked a little surprised--and coming forward, she knelt down at my feet, in her favourite attitude, and laid herclasped hands in my lap. 

"Is there some trouble, Margaret?"

"No, dear Annora. Only little worries which make one feel tired out:nothing to be properly called trouble. I am working under Mother Adathis week, and--well, you know what she is. I do not wish to speak evilof any one: only--sometimes, one feels tired. So I thought it wouldhelp me to have a little talk with my sister Annora. Art thou wearytoo?"

"I think I am rested, dear, " said I. "Father Mortimer has given me aword of counsel from Holy Writ, and it hath done me good. "

"He hath given me many an one, " she saith, with a smile that seemed halfpleasure and half pain. "And I am trying to live by the light of thelast I had--I know not if the words were Holy Writ or no, but I thinkthe substance was--`If Christ possess thee, then shalt thou inherit allthings. '"

She was silent for a moment, with a look of far-away thought: and I wasthinking that a hundred little worries might be as wearying and wearingas one greater trouble. Suddenly Margaret looked up with a laugh forwhich her eyes apologised. 

"I could not help thinking, " she said, "that I hope `all things' have alimit. To inherit Mother Ada's temper would scarcely be a boon!"

"All good things, " said I. 

"Yes, all good things, " she answered. "That must mean, all things thatour Lord sees good for us--which may not be those that we see good forourselves. But one thing we know--that if we be His, that must be, first of all, Himself--He with us here, we with Him hereafter. And nextto that comes the promise that they which are Christ's, with whom wehave to part here, will be brought home with us when He cometh. Thereis no restriction on the companying of the Father's children, when theyare gathered together in the Father's House. "

I knew what she saw. And I saw the dear grey eyes of my child Joan; butbehind them, other eyes that mine have not beheld for fifty years, andthat I shall see next--and then for ever--in the light of the GoldenCity. Softly I said--[Note 8. ]

 "`_Hic breve vivitur, hic breve plangitur, hic breve fletur; Non breve vivitur, non breve plangitur, retribuetur_. '"

Margaret's reply sounded like the other half of an antiphon. [Note 9. ]

"`_Plaude, cinis meus! est tua pars Deus; ejus es, et sis_. '"

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1. The early notices of blanket in the Wardrobe Accounts disprovethe tradition that blankets were invented by Edward Blanket, buried inSaint Stephen's Church, Bristol, the church not having been built until1470. 

Note 2. Father Mortimer is a fictitious person, this Sir John having inreality died unmarried. 

Note 3. Laundresses were very much looked down on in the Middle Ages, and were but too often women of bad character. 

Note 4. Cambric handkerchiefs. It was then thought very mean to be intrade. 

Note 5. Married priests existed in England as late as any where, if notlater than in other countries. Walter, Rector of Adlingfleet, marriedAlice niece of Savarie Abbot of York, about the reign of Richard theFirst. (Register of John of Gaunt, volume 2, folio 148); "Emma, widowof Henry, the priest of Forlond, " was living in 1284 (Close Roll, 12Edward the First); and "Denise, daughter of John de Colchester, thechaplain, " is mentioned in 1322 (Ibidem, 16 Edward the Second). 

Note 6. Coal smoke was then considered extremely unhealthy, while woodsmoke was thought to be a prophylactic against consumption. 

Note 7. I would fain add here a word of warning against one of Satan'swiliest devices, one of the saddest delusions of our time, for amultitude of souls are led astray by it, and in some cases it deceivesthe very elect. I mean the popular blind terror of "controversy, " sorife in the present day. Let us beware that we suffer not indolence andcowardice to shelter themselves under the insulted name of charity. Weare bidden to "strive together for the truth of the Gospel"--"earnestlyto contend for the faith" (in both places the Greek word means to_wrestle_); words which presuppose an antagonist and a controversy. Satan hates controversy; it is the spear of Ithuriel to him. We areoften told that controversy is contrary to the Gospel precepts of loveto enemies--that it hinders more important work--that it injuresspirituality. What says the Apostle to whom to live was Christ--on whomcame daily the care of all the Churches--who tells us that "the greatestof these is charity"? "Though we, or an angel from Heaven, preach anyother Gospel--let him be accursed!" "To whom we gave place bysubjection, no, not for an hour: that the truth of the Gospel mightcontinue with you. " Ten minutes of friendly contact with the world willdo more to injure spirituality than ten years of controversy conductedin a Christian spirit--not fighting for victory but for truth, not forourselves but for Christ. This miserable blunder will be seen in itstrue colours by those who have to eat its bitter fruit. 

Note 8. 

 "Brief life is here our portion; Brief sorrow, short-lived care: The life that hath no ending, The tearless life, is there. "

Note 9. 

 "Exult, O dust and ashes! The Lord shall be thy part: His only, His for ever, Thou shalt be, and thou art. "

APPENDIX. 

HISTORICAL APPENDIX. 

I. THE ROYAL FAMILY. 

King Edward the Second was _born_ at Caernarvon Castle (but not, astradition states, in the Eagle Tower, not then built), April 25, 1284;_crowned_ at Westminster Abbey, August 6, 1307, by the Bishop ofWinchester, acting as substitute for the Archbishop of Canterbury. Thegilt spurs were borne by William le Mareschal; "the royal sceptre onwhose summit is the cross" by the Earl of Hereford (killed in rebellionagainst the King) and "the royal rod on whose summit is the dove" byHenry of Lancaster, afterwards Earl: the Earls of Lancaster, Lincoln, and Warwick--of whom the first was beheaded for treason, and the thirddeserved to be so--bore the three swords, Curtana having the precedence:then a large standard (or coffer) with the royal robes, was carried bythe Earl of Arundel, Thomas de Vere (son and heir of the Earl ofOxford), Hugh Le Despenser, and Roger de Mortimer, the best friend andthe worst enemy of the hapless Sovereign: the King's Treasurer carried"the paten of the chalice of Saint Edward, " and the Lord Chancellor thechalice itself: "then Peter de Gavaston, Earl of Cornwall, bore thecrown royal, " followed by King Edward himself, who offered a goldenpound as his oblation. The coronation oath was administered in French, in the following terms. "Sire, will you grant and keep and confirm byoath to the people of England, the laws and customs to them granted bythe ancient Kings of England, your predecessors, the rights anddevotions [due] to God, and especially the laws, customs, and franchisesgranted to the clergy and people by the glorious King, Saint Edward, your predecessor?" "I grant and promise them, " was the royal answer. "Sire, will you preserve, towards God and holy Church, and to the clergyand people, peace and concord in God, fully, according to your power?""I will keep them, " said the King. "Sire, will you in all yourjudgments do equal and righteous justice and discretion, in mercy andtruth, according to your power?" "I will so do. " "Sire, will yougrant, to be held and kept, the righteous laws and customs which thecommonalty of your realm shall choose, and defend them, and enforce themto the honour of God and according to your power?" King Edward's answerwas, "I grant and promise them. " Twenty years later, chiefly by themachinations of his wicked wife, aided by the blinded populace whom shehad diligently misled, Edward was _deposed_ at Kenilworth, January 20, 1327; and after being hurried from place to place, he was at last_murdered_ in Berkeley Castle, September 21, 1327, and _buried_ inGloucester Cathedral on December 20th. 

In the companion volume, _In All Time of our Tribulation_, will be foundthe story, as told by the chroniclers, of his burial by the Abbot andmonks of Gloucester. The Wardrobe Accounts, however, are found to throwconsiderable doubt upon this tale. We find from them, that the Bishopof Llandaff, three knights, a priest, and four lesser officials, weresent by the young King "to dwell at Gloucester with the corpse of thesaid King his father, " which was taken from Berkeley Castle toGloucester Abbey on October 21st. (_Compotus Hugonis de Glaunvill_, Wardrobe Accounts, 1 Edward the Third, 58/4). For the funeral wereprovided:--Three robes for knights, 2 shillings 8 pence each; 8 tunicsfor ditto, 14 pence each; four great lions of gilt picture-work, withshields of the King's arms over them, for wax mortars [square basinsfilled with wax, a wick being in the midst], placed in four parts of thehearse; four images of the Evangelists standing on the hearse, 66shillings, 8 pence; eight incensing angels with gilt thuribles, and twogreat leopards rampant, otherwise called volant, nobly gilt, standingoutside the hearse, 66 shillings, 8 pence. . . An empty tun, to carry thesaid images to Gloucester, 21 shillings. . . Taking the great hearse fromLondon to Gloucester, in December, 5 days' journey; for wax, canvas, napery, etcetera. Wages of John Darcy, appointed to superintend thefuneral, from November 22 to December 21, 19 pounds, 6 shillings, 8pence. New hearse, 40 shillings; making thereof, from November 24 toDecember 11, 32 shillings. A wooden image after the similitude of theLord King Edward, deceased, 40 shillings. A crown of copper, gilt, 7shillings, 4 pence. Vestments for the body, in which he was buried, aGerman coverchief, and three-quarters [here a word is illegible, probably _linen_]; item, one pillow to put under his head, 4 shillings[? the amount is nearly obliterated]. Gilt paint for the hearse, 1shilling. Wages of the painter [a few words illegible] grey colour, 2shillings, (Wardrobe Accounts, 1 Edward the Third, 33/2). The King_married_. . . 

Isabelle, _surnamed_ the Fair, only daughter of Philippe the Fourth, King of France, and Jeanne Queen regnant of Navarre: _born_ 1282, 1292, or 1295 (latest date most probable); _married_ at Boulogne, January 25, 1308. All the chroniclers assert that on Edward the Third's discoveryof his mother's real character, he imprisoned her for life in the Castleof Rising. The evidence of the Rolls and Wardrobe Accounts disprovesthis to a great extent. It was at Nottingham Castle that Mortimer wastaken, October 19, 1330. On the 18th of January following, 36 pounds 6shillings 4 pence was paid to Thomas Lord Wake de Lydel, for the expenseof conducting Isabel Queen of England, by the King's order, fromBerkhamsted Castle to Windsor Castle, and thence to Odiham Castle. (Issue Roll, _Michs. _, 5 Edward the Third. ) On the 6th of October, 1337, she dates a charter from Hertford Castle; and another from Risingon the 1st of December following. She paid a visit to London--the onlyone hitherto traced subsequent to 1330--in 1341, when, on October 27, she was present in the hostel of the Bishop of Winchester at Southwark, when the King appointed Robert Parving to the office of Lord Chancellor. She dates a charter from Hertford Castle, December 1st, 1348. (CloseRolls, 11, 15, and 22 Edward the Third. ) The Household Book for thelast year of her life is in the British Museum, and it runs fromSeptember 30th, 1357, to December 4th, 1358 (Cott. Ms. , Galba, E. 14). We find from this interesting document that she spent her final yearmainly at Hertford, but that she also made two pilgrimages toCanterbury, visiting London on each occasion; that she was at LedesCastle, Chertsey, Shene, Eltham, and Windsor. The King visits her morethan once, and several of his children do the same, including thePrincess Isabel. There is no mention of any visit from the Queen, butshe corresponds with her mother-in-law, and they exchange gifts. Themost frequent guests are Joan Countess of Surrey, and the Countess ofPembroke: there were then three ladies living who bore this title, butas letters are sent to her at Denny--her pet convent, where she oftenresided and finally died--it is evident that this was the CountessMarie, the "fair Chatillon who (_not_ `on her bridal morn, ' but at leasttwo years after) mourned her bleeding love. " Both these ladies were ofFrench birth, and were very old friends of Isabelle: the Countess ofSurrey was with her when she died. Her youngest daughter, Joan Queen ofScots--an admirable but unhappy woman, who had to forgive that motherfor being the cause of all her misery and loveless life--spent much ofthis last year with Isabel. Her most frequent male guests are the Earlof Tankerville and Marshal Daudenham, both of whom were probably her owncountrymen; and Sir John de Wynewyk, Treasurer of York: the captive Kingof France visits her once, and she sends him two romances, of which oneat least was from the _Morte Arthur_. Oblations are as numerous--andsometimes more costly--as in her earlier accounts. She gives 6shillings 8 pence to the _head_ of the eleven thousand virgins, and 2shillings to minstrels to play "before the image of the blessed Mary inthe crypt" of Canterbury Cathedral. Friars who preach before her areusually rewarded with 6 shillings 8 pence. Her Easter robes are of bluecloth, her summer ones of red mixed cloth. Two of Isabelle's rulingpassions went with her to the grave--her extravagance and her love ofmaking gifts. Her purchases of jewellery are vast and costly duringthis year, up to the very month in which she died: two of the latestbeing a gold chaplet set with precious stones, price 150 pounds (themost expensive I ever yet saw in a royal account), and a gold crown setwith sapphires, Alexandrian rubies, and pearls, 80 pounds, expresslystated to be for her own wearing. Two ruby rings she purchased exactlya fortnight before her death. She was probably ill for some weeks, since a messenger was sent in haste to Canterbury to bid Master Lawrencethe physician repair to Hertford "to see the state of the Queen, " and heremained there for a month. Medicines were brought from London. Judging from the slight indications as to remedies employed, among whichwere herbal baths, she died of some cutaneous malady. Her Inquisitionstates that her _death_ took place at Hertford, August 23rd, 1358; butthe Household Book twice records that it was on the 22nd. Fourteen poormen watched the corpse in the chapel at Hertford for three months, andin December the coffin (the entire cost of which was 5 pounds, 9shillings, 11 pence) was brought to London, guarded by 40 torches, and_buried_ in the Church of the Grey Friars. It may be stated withtolerable certainty that the Queen was not confined for life at RisingCastle, though she passed most of her time either at Rising or Hertford;that she never became a nun, as asserted by some modern writers, thenon-seclusion, the coloured robes, and the crown, being totallyinconsistent with this supposition; that if it be true, as is said, thatshe was seized with madness while Mortimer hung on the gallows, andpassed most of her subsequent life in this state, probably with lucidintervals--a story which various facts tend to confirm--this was quitesufficient to account for her retirement from public life, and ordinaryrestriction to a few country residences; yet that the incidentschronicled in the Household Book seem to indicate that she wasgenerally, if not fully, sane at the time of her death. 

_Their children_:--1. King Edward the Third, _born_ in Windsor Castle, November 13, _baptised_ 16th, 1312; _crowned_ Westminster, February 1, 1327. The Rolls of the Great Wardrobe for 1327 contain some interestingdetails respecting this ceremony. The King was attired in a tunic, mantle, and cape of purple velvet, price 5 shillings (but this isprobably the mere cost of making), and a pair of slippers of cloth ofgold, price 6 shillings 8 pence. He was anointed in a tunic ofsamitelle (a variety of samite), which cost 2 shillings, and a robe ofRennes linen, price 18 pence. A quarter of an ell of sindon (silk) wasbought "for the King's head, to place between the head and the crown, onaccount of the largeness of the crown, " at a cost of 12 pence. (_Rot. Gard. _, 1 Edward the Third, 33/2). The "great hall" at Westminster washung with six cloths and twelve ells of cloth from Candlewick Street andfifteen pieces of cloth were required "to put under his feet, going tothe Abbey, and thence to the King's chamber after the coronation. " Theplatform erected in the Abbey to sustain the throne, and the throneitself, were hung with silk cloth of gold; five camaca cushions wereplaced "under the King and his feet;" and "the King's small chair beforethe altar" was also covered with cloth of gold. The royal oblation wasone cloth of gold of diapered silk. Two similar cloths were laid overthe tomb of Edward the first. The Archbishop of Canterbury's seat wascovered with ray (striped) silk cloth of gold, and that of the Abbot ofWestminster with cloth of Tars. The royal seat at the coronation feastwas draped in "golden silk of Turk, " and in order to save this costlycovering from "the humidity of the walls, " 24 ells of canvas wereprovided. Red and grey sindon hung before the royal table; the King saton samitelle cushions, and two pieces of velvet "to put under the King"also appear in the account. (_Rot. Magnae Gard. , pro Coronatione et inPalatio_, 1 Edward the Third, 33/5. ) King Edward _died_ at Shene, June21, 1377, and was _buried_ in Westminster Abbey. He _married_--Philippine (called in England Philippa), daughter of William the Third, Count of Hainault and Holland, and Jeanne of France; _born_ 1312 or alittle later; _married_ at York, January 24, 1328; crowned inWestminster Abbey, February 20, 1328. The Wardrobe Accounts tell usthat the Queen rode from the Tower to Westminster, the day before hercoronation (as was usual) in a dress of green velvet, a cape of the_best_ cloth of gold diapered in red, trimmed with miniver, and aminiver hood. She dined in a tunic and mantle of red and greysamitelle, and was crowned in a robe of cloth of gold, diapered ingreen. She changed to a fourth robe for supper, but its materials arenot on record. (Wardrobe Accounts, 4-5 Edward the Third, 34/13. ) Redand green appear to have been her favourite colours, judging from thenumber of her dresses of these hues compared with others. On theoccasion of her churching in 1332 (after the birth of her daughterIsabel) she wore a robe of red and purple velvet wrought with pearls, the royal infant being attired in Lucca silk and miniver, and the BlackPrince (aged about 2 and a half years) in a golden costume striped withmulberry colour. Some of these items appear rather warm wear for July. (Wardrobe Accounts, Cott. Ms. Galba, E. 3, folio 14 _et seq_). TheQueen _died_ of dropsy, at Windsor Castle, August 15, 1369; _buried_ inWestminster Abbey. 

2. John, _born_ at Eltham, August 15, 1316; created Earl of Cornwall;_died_ at Perth, _unmarried_, September 14, 1336; _buried_ inWestminster Abbey. 

3. Alianora, _born_ at Woodstock, 1318; _married_ at Novum Magnum, 1332, Raynald the Second, Duke of Gueldres; _died_ at Deventer, April22, 1355; _buried_ at Deventer. 

4. Joan, _surnamed_ Makepeace, _born_ in the Tower of London, (beforeAugust 16, ) 1321; _married_ at Berwick, July 17, 1328, David the Second, King of Scotland; _died_ at Hertford Castle, September 7, 1362 (not1358, as sometimes stated); _buried_ in Grey Friars' Church, London. 

II. THE DESPENSERS. 

Hugh Le Despenser _the Elder_, son of Hugh Le Despenser, Justiciary ofEngland, and Alina Basset: _born_ March 1-8, 1261 (_Inq. Post MortemAlinae La Dispensere_, 9 Edward the First, 9. ); sponsor of Edward theThird, 1312; created Earl of Winchester, 1322; _beheaded_ at Bristol, October 27 (Harl. Ms. 6124), 1326. [This is not improbably the truedate: that of Froissart, October 8, is certainly a mistake, as the Queenhad only reached Wallingford, on her way to Bristol, by the 15th. ] Ashis body was cast to the dogs, he had _no burial_. _Married_ Isabel, daughter of William de Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick, and Maud Fitz John;_widow_ of Patrick de Chaworth (by whom she was mother of Maud, wife ofHenry Duke of Lancaster): _married_ 1281-2 (fine 2000 marks); _died_before July 22, 1306. _Issue_:--1. Hugh, _the Younger_, _born_probably about 1283; created Earl of Gloucester in right of wife;_hanged_ and afterwards beheaded (but after death) at Hereford, November24, 1326; quarters of body sent to Dover, Bristol, York, and Newcastle, and head set on London Bridge; finally _buried_ in Tewkesbury Abbey. The Abbot and Chapter had granted to Hugh and Alianora, March 24, 1325, in consideration of benefits received, that four masses per annum shouldbe said for them during life, at the four chief feasts, and 300 perannum for either or both after death, for ever; on the anniversary ofHugh, the Abbot bound himself to feed the poor with bread, beer, pottage, and one mess from the kitchen, for ever. (_Rot. Pat. _, 20Edward the Second) In the Appendix to the companion volume, _In All Timeof our Tribulation_, will be found an account of the petitions of thetwo Despensers, with the curious list of their goods destroyed by thepartisans of Lancaster. Hugh the Younger _married_ Alianora, eldestdaughter of Gilbert de Clare, The Red, Earl of Gloucester, and thePrincess Joan of Acre, (daughter of Edward the First), _born_ atCaerphilly Castle, November, 1292; _married_ May 20, 1306, with a dowryof 2000 pounds from the Crown, in part payment of which the custody ofPhilip Paynel was granted to Hugh the Elder, June 3, 1304 (_Rot. Claus. _, 1 Edward the Second). Her youngest child was born atNorthampton, in December, 1326, and she sent William de Culpho with thenews to the King, who gave him a silver-gilt cup in reward (WardrobeAccounts, 25/1 and 31/19). On the 19th of April, 1326, and for 49 daysafterwards, she was in charge of Prince John of Eltham, who was ill atKenilworth in April. She left that place on May 22, arriving at Shenein four days, and in June she was at Rochester and Ledes Castle. Threeinteresting Wardrobe Accounts are extant, showing her expenses at thistime (31/17 to 31/19); but the last is almost illegible. "Diversdecoctions and recipes" made up at Northampton for the young Prince, came to 6 shillings, 9 pence. "Litter for my Lady's bed" (to put underthe feather bed in the box-like bedstead) cost 6 pence. Either herLadyship or her royal charge must have entertained a strong predilectionfor "shrimpis, " judging from the frequency with which that entry occurs. Four quarters of wheat, we are told, made 1200 loaves. There isevidence of a good deal of company, the principal guests beside Priorsand Canons being the Lady of Montzone, the Lady of Hastings (Julian, mother of Lawrence Earl of Pembroke), Eneas de Bohun (son of PrincessElizabeth), Sir John Neville (one of the captors of Mortimer), and Johnde Bentley (probably the ex-gaoler of Elizabeth Queen of Scotland, whoappears in the companion volume). Sundry young people seem to have beenalso in Lady La Despenser's care, as companions to the Prince:--EarlLawrence of Pembroke; Margery de Verdon, step-daughter of Alianora'ssister Elizabeth; and Joan Jeremy, or Jermyn, sister of Alice wife ofPrince Thomas de Brotherton. The provision for April 30, the vigil ofSaint Philip, and therefore a fast-day, is as follows (a few words areillegible): _Pantry_:--60 loaves of the King's bread at 5 and 4 to thepenny, 13 and a half pence. _Buttery_:--One pitcher of wine from theKing's stores at Kenilworth; 22 gallons of beer, at 1 and a half penceper gallon, 2 shillings 6 pence. _Wardrobe_: . . . Lights, a farthing; ahalfpennyworth of candles of cotton . . . _Kitchen_:--50 herrings, 2 anda half pence; 3 codfish, 9 and three-quarter pence; 4 stockfish. . . Salmon, 12 pence, 3 tench, 9 pence, 1 pikerel, 12 roach and perch, halfa gallon of loaches, 13 and a half pence; one large eel. . . One and ahalf quarters pimpernel, 7 and a half pence; one piece of sturgeon, 6pence. _Poultry_--100 eggs, 5 pence; cheese and butter, 3 andthree-quarter pence. . . Milk, one and a quarter pence; drink, 1 penny;_Saltry_:--half a quarter; mustard, a halfpenny; half a quarter ofvinegar, three-quarters pence; . . . Parsley, a farthing. For May 1st, Saint Philip's and a feast-day: _Pantry_: 100 loaves, 22 and a halfpence. _Buttery_: one sextarius, 3 and a half pitchers of wine from theKing's stores at Kenilworth; 27 gallons of beer, 2 shillings, 8 and ahalf pence, being 17 at 1 penny, and 12 at 1 and a half pence. Onequarter of hanaps, 12 pence. _Wardrobe_:--3 pounds wax, 15 pence;lights, 1 halfpenny; half a pound of candles of Paris, 1 penny. _Kitchen_:--12 messes of powdered beef, 18 pence; 3 messes of freshbeef, 9 pence; one piece of bacon, 12 pence; half a mutton, powdered, 9pence; one quarter of fresh mutton, 3 pence; one pestle of pork, 3 and ahalf pence; half a veal, 14 pence. _Poultry_--One purcel, 4 and a halfpence; 2 hens, 15 pence; one bird (_oisoux_), 12 pence; 15 ponce, 7 anda half pence; 8 pigeons, 9 and a half pence; 100 eggs, 5 pence; 3gallons milk, 3 pence. . . _Saltry_:--half a quarter of mustard, onehalfpenny. . . 1 quarter verjuice, 1 and a half pence; garlic, a farthing;parsley, 1 penny. Wages of Richard Attegrove (keeper of the horses) andthe laundress, 4 pence; of 18 grooms and two pages, 2 shillings, 5pence. (Wardrobe Accounts, 19 Edward the Second, 31/17). When KingEdward left London for the West, on October 2nd, he committed to Lady LaDespenser the custody of his son, and of the Tower. On the 16th, thecitizens captured the Tower, brought out the Prince and the Chatelaine, and conveyed them to the Wardrobe. On November 17th she was brought aprisoner to the Tower, with her children and her damsel Joan (IssueRoll, _Michs. _, 20 Edward the Second; Close Roll, 20 Edward the Second), their expenses being calculated at the rate of 10 shillings per day. Alianora and her children were delivered from the Tower, with all hergoods and chattels, on February 25, 1328, and on the 26th of Novemberfollowing, her "rights and rents, according to her right and heritage, "were ordered to be restored to her. (_Rot. Claus. _, 2 Edward theThird. ) She was not, however, granted full liberty, or else sheforfeited it again very quickly; for on February 5, 1329, William LordZouche of Haringworth was summoned to Court, and commanded to "bringwith him quickly our cousin Alianora, who is in his company, " with ahint that unpleasant consequences would follow neglect of the order. (_Rot. Pat. _, 3 Edward the Third, Part 1. ) A further entry on December30 tells us that Alianora, wife of William La Zouche of Mortimer (sothat her marriage with her gaoler's cousin had occurred in the interim), had been impeached by the Crown concerning certain jewels, florins, andother goods of the King, to a large amount, which had been "_esloignez_"from the Tower of London: doubtless by the citizens when they seized thefortress, and the impeachment was of course, like many other things, anoutcome of Queen Isabelle's private spite. "The said William andAlianora, for pardon of all hindrances, actions, quarrels, and demands, until the present date, have granted, of their will and withoutcoercion, for themselves and the heirs of the said Alianora, allcastles, manors, towns, honours, and other lands and tenements, being ofher heritage, in the county of Glamorgan and Morgannon, in Wales, themanor of Hanley, the town of Worcester, and the manor of Tewkesbury, forever, to the King. " The King, on his part, undertook to restore thelands, in the hour that the original owners should pay him 10, 000 poundsin one day. The real nature of this non-coercive and voluntaryagreement was shown in November, 1330, when (one month after the arrestof Mortimer) at the petition of Parliament itself, one half of this10, 000 pounds was remitted. Alianora _died_ June 30, 1337, and was_buried_ in Tewkesbury Abbey. 

2. Philip, _died_ before April 22, 1214. _Married_ Margaret, daughterof Ralph de Goushill; _born_ July 25, 1296; _married_ before 1313;_died_ July 29, 1349. (She _married_, secondly, John de Ros. )

3. Isabel, _married_ (1) John Lord Hastings (2) about 1319, Ralph deMonthermer; _died_ December 4 or 5, 1335. Left issue by first marriage. The daughters of Edward the Second were brought up in her care. 

4. Aveline, _married_ before 1329, Edward Lord Burnel; _died_ in May orJune, 1363. No issue. 

5. Elizabeth, _married_ before 1321 Ralph Lord Camoys; living 1370. Left issue. 

6. Joan, _married_ Almaric Lord Saint Amand. [Doubtful if of thisfamily. ]

7. Joan, _nun_ at Sempringham before 1337; _dead_, February 15. 

8. Alianora, _nun_ at Sempringham before 1337; living 1351. _Issue ofHugh the younger and Alianora_;--1. Hugh, _born_ 1308. He heldCaerphilly Castle (which belonged to his mother) against Queen Isabelle:on January 4 of that year life was granted to all in the Castle excepthimself, probably as a bribe for surrender, which was extended tohimself on March 20; but Hugh held out till Easter (April 12) when theCastle was taken. He remained a prisoner in the custody of his father'sgreat enemy, Roger Earl of March, till December 5, 1328, when March wasordered to deliver him to Thomas de Gournay, one of the murderers ofKing Edward, and Constable of Bristol Castle, where he was to be kepttill further order. (_Rot. Claus. _, 1 and 2 Edward the Third; _Rot. Pat. _, 1 Edward the Third. ) On July 5, 1331, he was ordered to be setat liberty within 15 days after Michaelmas, Ebulo L'Estrange, RalphBasset, John le Ros, Richard Talbot, and others, being sureties for him. (_Rot. Claus. _, 5 Edward the Third) In 1338 he was dwelling in Scotlandin the King's service (_Ibidem_, 12 Edward the Third); and in 1342 inGascony, with a suite of one banneret, 14 knights, 44 scutifers, 60archers, and 60 men-at-arms. (_Ibidem_, 16 _ibidem_). He _died_ S. P. February 8, 1349; _buried_ at Tewkesbury. _Married_ Elizabeth, daughterof William de Montacute, first Earl of Salisbury, and Katherine deGrandison; (_widow_ of Giles Lord Badlesmere, _remarried_ Guy de Bryan;)_married_ 1338-44; _died_ at Astley, June 20, 1359; _buried_ atTewkesbury. 

2. Edward, _died_ 1341. _Married_ (and left issue), Anne, daughter ofHenry Lord Ferrers of Groby, and Margaret Segrave (_remarried_ ThomasFerrers): living October 14, 1366. 

3. Gilbert, _died_ April 22, 1382. _Married_, and left issue; but hiswife's name and family are unknown. 

4. Joan, _nun_ at Shaftesbury, in or before 1343; _died_ April 26, 1384. 

5. Elizabeth, _married_ 1338 Maurice Lord Berkeley; _dead_ August 14, 1389; left issue. [Doubtful if of this family. ]

6. Isabel, _married_ at Havering, February 9, 1321, Richard Earl ofArundel; _divorced_ 1345; _buried_ in Westminster Abbey. No issue. 

7. Alianora, contracted July 27, 1325, to Lawrence de Hastings, Earl ofPembroke: contract broken by Queen Isabelle, who on January 1st, 1327, sent a mandate to the Prioress of Sempringham, commanding her to receivethe child and "veil her immediately, that she may dwell thereperpetually as a regular nun. " (_Rot. Claus. _, 1 Edward the Third. )Since it was not usual for a nun to receive the black veil before hersixteenth year, this was a complete irregularity. Nothing further isknown of her. 

8. Margaret, consigned by Edward the Second to the care of Thomas deHouk, with her nurse and a large household; she remained in his charge"for three years and more, " according to his petition presented to theKing, May 1st, 1327 (_Rot. Claus. _, 1 Edward the Third. ) On theprevious 1st of January, the Queen had sent to the Prioress of Watton asimilar mandate to that mentioned above, requiring that Margaret shouldat once be professed a regular nun. No further record remains of her. 

III. HASTINGS OF PEMBROKE. 

John de Hastings, second (but eldest surviving) son of Sir John deHastings and Isabelle de Valence: _born_ 1283, _died_ (before February28) 1325. _Married_ Julian, daughter and heir of Thomas de Leybourneand Alice de Tony; _born_ 1298, or 1303; succeeded her grandfatherWilliam as Baroness de Leybourne, 1309; _married_ before 1321. Bycharter dated at Canterbury, March 5th, 1362, she gave a grant to theAbbey of Saint Augustine in that city, for the following benefits to bereceived: a mass for herself on Saint Anne's Day, with twopence alms toeach of 100 poor; a solemn choral mass on her anniversary, and 1 pennyto each of 200 poor; perpetual mass by a secular chaplain at the altarof Saint Anne, for Edward the Third, Lawrence Earl of Pembroke, and Johnhis son; all monks celebrating at the said altar to have mind of thesaid souls. On the day of her anniversary the Abbot was to receive 20shillings, the Prior 5 shillings, and each monk 2 shillings, 6 pence. (_Rot. Claus. _, 36 Edward the Third. ) She died November 1st, 1367, andwas _buried_ in Saint Augustine's Abbey. (She had _married_, secondly, in 1325, Sir Thomas Blount, Seneschal of the Household to Edward theSecond, who betrayed his royal master; and, thirdly, in 1328, William deClinton, afterwards created Earl of Huntingdon. )

_Their son_:--Lawrence, born at Allesley, near Coventry, March 20, 1321(_Prob. Aet. _, 15 Edward the Third, 1st Numbers, 48); in 1326 he was inthe suite of Prince John of Eltham, and in the custody of his intendedmother-in-law, Alianora La Despenser: he and the young Alianora musttherefore have been playfellows up to five years of age, at least. Three pairs of slippers are bought for him, price 20 pence, (WardrobeAccounts, 20 Edward the Second, 31/18. ) On July 27, 1325, Lawrence wascontracted to Alianora, daughter of Hugh Le Despenser the younger (_Rot. Pat. _, 19 Edward the Second): which contract was illegally set aside byQueen Isabelle, who granted his custody and marriage in the King's nameto her son Prince Edward, December 1st, 1326 (_Rot. Pat. _, 20 Edward theSecond). The marriage was re-granted, February 17, 1327, to Roger Earlof March. We next find the young Earl in the suite of Queen Philippa;and he received a robe from the Wardrobe in which to appear at herchurching in 1332, made of nine ells of striped saffron-coloured clothof Ghent, trimmed with fur, and a fur hood. In the following year, whenthe Queen joined her husband at Newcastle, she left Lawrence at York, desiring "_par tendresce de lui_" that the child should not take so longand wearying a journey. He was therefore sent to his mother theCountess Julian, "trusting her (says the King's mandate) to keep himbetter than any other, since he is near to her heart, being her son. "She was to find all necessaries for him until further order, and theKing pledged himself to repay her in reason. (_Rot. Claus. _, 7 Edwardthe Third, Part 1. ) Lawrence was created Earl of Pembroke, October 13, 1339; he _died_ in the first great visitation of the "Black Death, "August 30, 1348, and was _buried_ at Abergavenny. _Married_ Agnes deMortimer, [see next Article] _married_ 1327 (Walsingham); _died_ July25, 1368; _buried_ in Abbey of Minories. (She _remarried_ John deHakelut, and was first Lady in Waiting to Queen Philippa. )

_Their children_:--1. Joan, _married_ Ralph de Greystoke, after October9, 1367. 

2. John, 2nd Earl of Pembroke, _born_ 1347, _died_ at Arras, France, April 16, 1375; _buried_ Grey Friars' Church, London. _Married_ (1. )Princess Margaret, daughter of Edward the Third; _born_ at Windsor, July20-21, 1346; _married_ in the Queen's Chapel [Reading?], 1359; _died_S. P. (after October 1st), 1361; _buried_ in Abingdon Abbey. (2. ) Anne, daughter and heir of Sir Walter de Mauny and Margaret of Norfolk: _born_July 24, 1355; _married_ 1363; _died_ April 3, 1384. 

IV. THE MORTIMERS OF WIGMORE. 

Edmund De Mortimer, Lord of Wigmore, son of Roger de Mortimer and Maudde Braose: _born_ March 25, 1266; _died_ at Wigmore Castle, July 17, 1304; _buried_ in Wigmore Abbey. _Married_ Margaret, daughter of SirWilliam de Fienles: _married_ September 8, 1285; sided warmly with herson, and gathered various illegal assemblies at Worcester, where shelived, and at Radnor. On December 28, 1325, the King wrote, commandingher to retire to the Abbey of Elstow without delay, and there dwell ather own cost till further order: "and from the hour of your entering youshall not come forth, nor make any assembly of people without ourspecial leave. " She was commanded to write and say whether she intendedto obey! The Abbess of Elstow was at the same time ordered to giveconvenient lodging to her in the Abbey, but not to suffer her to goforth nor make gatherings of persons. (Close Roll, 19 Edward theSecond. ) Nothing further is known of her except that she was alive in1332, and was _dead_ on May 7, 1334, when the mandate was issued for her_Inq. Post Mortem_. The latter contains no date of death. Margaret was_buried_ at Wigmore. _Their children_:--1. Roger, _born_ April 25 orMay 3, 1287; created Earl of March, 1328; _hanged_ at Tyburn, November29, 1330: _buried_ in Friars' Minors Church, Coventry, whence leave wasgranted to his widow and son, in November, 1331, to transport the bodyto Wigmore Abbey. _Married_ Jeanne de Geneville, daughter and co-heirof Peter de Geneville (son of Geoffroi de Vaucouleur, brother of theSieur de Joinville, historian of Saint Louis) and Jeanne de Lusignan:_born_ February 2, 1286; _married_ before 1304. On hearing of herhusband's escape from the Tower in August 1323, she journeyed toSouthampton with her elder children, intending to rejoin him in France:but before she set sail, on April 6, 1324, the King directed the Sheriffof Southampton to capture her without delay, and deliver her to the careof John de Rithre, Constable of Skipton Castle. A damsel, squire, laundress, groom, and page, were allowed to her, and her expenses werereckoned at 13 shillings 4 pence per day while travelling, and afterreaching Skipton at 13 shillings 4 pence per week, with ten marks (6pounds, 13 shillings 4 pence) per annum for clothing. (Close Roll, 17Edward the Second. ) These details appear afterwards to have beenslightly altered, since the account of the expenses mentions 37shillings 6 pence for the keep of two damsels, one laundress, onechamberlain, one cook, and one groom. Robes were supplied to her atEaster and Michaelmas. She remained a prisoner at Skipton from May 17, 1324, on which day she seems to have come there, till August 3, 1326. (_Rot. De Liberate_, 19 Edward the Second, and 3 Edward the Third. ) Bymandate of July 22, 1326, she was transferred to Pomfret (Close Roll, 20Edward the Second), which she reached in two days, the cost of thejourney being ten shillings 10 pence, (_Rot. Lib. _, 3 Edward the Third. )When her husband was seized in October, 1330, the King sent down Johnde Melbourne to superintend the affairs of the Countess, with the ladiesand children in her company, dwelling at Ludlow Castle, with expressinstructions that their wardrobes, gods, and jewels, were not to betouched. (_Rot. Pat. _ and _Claus. _, 4 Edward the Third. ) The lands ofher own inheritance were restored to her in the December and Januaryfollowing, with especial mention of Ludlow Castle, (_Rot. Claus. , ibidem_). Edward the Third always speaks of her with great respect. InAugust, 1347, there were suits against her in the Irish Courts (theMortimers held large estates in Ireland), and it is noted that she wasnot able to plead in person on account of her great age, which madetravelling perilous to her. (_Rot. Claus. _, 21 Edward the Third. ) Shewas then 63. On the 19th of October, 1356, she died (_Inq. PostMortem_, 30 Edward the Third 30)--the very day of her husband's capture, 26 years before--and was _buried_ in the Church of the Friars Minors, Shrewsbury. (Cott. Ms. Cleop. , C, 3. )

2. Edmund, Rector of Hodnet. 

3. Hugh, Rector of Old Radnor. 

4. Walter, Rector of Kingston (Dugdale) Kingsland (Cott. Ms. Cleop. C, 3). 

5. Maud, _married_ at Wigmore, July 28, 1302, Theobald de Verdon;_died_ at Alveton Castle, and _buried_ at Croxden, October 8, 1312. Left issue. 

6. Joan, _nun_ at Lyngbroke; living September 17, 1332. 

7. Elizabeth, _nun_ at Lyngbroke. 

8. John, _born_ 1300, _killed_ in tilting, at Worcester, January 3, 1318, S. P. ; _buried_ at Worcester. 

_Issue of Roger, first Earl of March, and Jeanne de Geneville_:--1. Edmund, _born_ 1304, _died_ at Stanton Lacy, December 28, 1331; _buried_at Wigmore. He is always reckoned as second Earl, but was neverformally restored to the title, for which he vainly petitioned, and therefusal is said to have broken his heart. He _married_ Elizabeth, thirddaughter, and eventually co-heir, of Bartholomew Lord Badlesmere, andMargaret de Clare: _born_ 1313, _married_ in or before 1327;(_remarried_ William de Bohun, Earl of Northampton;) _died_ June 17, 1355. 

2. Roger, _died_ 1357. _Married_ Joan, daughter of Edmund de Boteler, Earl of Carrick, and Joan Fitzgerald; contract of _marriage_ February11, 1321. 

3. Geoffrey, Lord of Cowith. He was one of the King's Bannerets in1328 (_Rot. Magne Gard. _, 33/10), was taken with his father and hisbrother Edmund in 1330, and was kept prisoner in the Tower till January25, 1331 (Issue Roll, _Michs. _, 5 Edward the Third). On the followingMarch 16, he obtained leave to travel abroad. (_Rot. Pat. _, 5 Edwardthe Third, Part 1. ) He was living in 1337, but no more is known of him. 

4. John, _killed_ in tilting at Shrewsbury, and _buried_ there in theHospital of Saint John. He _married_ (and left one son). 

Alianora (family unknown), _buried_ with husband. 

5. Margaret, _married_ Thomas Lord Berkeley; _died_ May 5, 1337;_buried_ at Bristol. 

6. Joan, _married_ James Lord Audley of Heleigh. 

7. Isabel, _nun_ at Chicksand. These three girls accompanied theirmother to Southampton, and were captured with her. By the King's orderthey were sent to separate convents "to dwell with the nuns there;"there is no intimation that they were to be made nuns, and as two ofthem afterwards married, it is evident that this was not intended. Margaret was sent to Shuldham, her expenses being reckoned at 3shillings per day while travelling, and 15 pence per week after arrival;Joan to Sempringham, and Isabel to Chicksand, their expenses beingcharged 2 shillings each per day while travelling, and 12 pence each perweek in the convent. One mark per annum was allowed to each forclothing. (_Rot. Claus. _, 17 Edward the Second. ) Isabel chose toremain at or return to Chicksand, since she is mentioned as being a nunthere in February 1326. (Issue Roll, _Michs. _, 19 Edward the Second. )

8. Katherine, _married_ about 1338, Thomas de Beauchamp, Earl ofWarwick; _died_ August 4, 1369. 

9. Maud, _married_ about 1320 John Lord Charleton of Powys; living July5, 1348. 

10. Agnes, _married_ (1) 1327, Lawrence de Hastings, Earl of Pembroke;(2) before June 21, 1353, John de Hakelut; _died_ July 25, 1368;_buried_ in Abbey of Minories. 

II. Beatrice, _married_ (1) about 1327, Edward son of Prince Thomas deBrotherton, Earl of Norfolk; (2) 1334 (?) Thomas de Braose (_Rot. Claus. _ 8 E. Three. ) (who appears to have purchased her for 12, 000marks--8000 pounds): _died_ October 16, 1383 (_Inq. Post Mortem_, 7Richard the Second, 15). 

12. Blanche, _married_, before March 27, 1334, Peter, third Lord deGrandison; _dead_ July 24, 1357. Either she or her husband was _buried_at Marcle, Herefordshire. 

V. CHRONOLOGICAL ERRATA. 

The accounts given by the early chroniclers, and followed by modernhistorians, with respect to the movements of Edward the Second and hisQueen, from September, 1326, to the December following, are sadly atvariance with fact. The dates of death of the Despensers, as well asvarious minor matters, depend on the accurate fixing of these points. 

The popular account, generally accepted, states that the Queen landed atOrwell in September--the exact day being disputed--that the King, onhearing of it, hastened to the West, and shut himself up in BristolCastle, with his daughters and the younger Despenser; that the Queenhanged the elder Despenser and the Earl of Arundel before their eyes, onthe 8th of October, whereupon the King and the younger Despenser escapedby night in a boat: some add that they were overtaken and brought back, others that they landed in Wales, and were taken in a wood nearLlantrissan. Much of this is pure romance. The King's Household Roll, which names his locality for every day, and is extant up to October19th, the Wardrobe Accounts supplying the subsequent facts, distinctlyshows that he never came nearer Bristol on that occasion than the roadfrom Gloucester to Chepstow; that on the 8th of October he was yet atCirencester; that he left Gloucester on the 10th, reaching Chepstow onthe 16th, whence he departed on the 20th "_versus aquam de Weye_" andtherefore in the contrary direction from Bristol. On the 27th and 28thhe dates mandates from Cardiff; on the 29th and 30th from Caerphilly. On November 2nd he left Caerphilly (this we are distinctly told in theWardrobe Accounts), on the 3rd and 4th he was at Margan Abbey, and onthe 5th he reached Neath, where he remained up to the 10th. He nowappears to have paid a short visit to Swansea, whence he returned toNeath, where, on the 16th, his cousin Lancaster and his party found him, and took him into their custody, with Hugh Le Despenser and ArchdeaconBaldok. They took him first to Monmouth, where he was found by theBishop of Hereford (sent to demand the Great Seal), probably about the23rd. Thence he was conveyed to Ledbury, which he reached on or aboutthe 30th; and on the 6th of December he was at Kenilworth, where heremained for the rest of his reign. 

The Queen landed at Orwell in September: Speed says, on the 19th; Robertof Avesbury, the 26th; most authorities incline to the 22nd, which seemsas probable a date as any. The King, at any rate, had heard of herarrival on the 28th, and issued a proclamation offering to allvolunteers 1 shilling per day for a man-at-arms, and 2 pence for anarcher, to resist the invading force. All past offenders were offeredpardon if they joined his standard, the murderers of Sir Roger de Belersalone excepted: and Roger Mortimer, with the King's other enemies, wasto be arrested and destroyed. Only three exceptions were made: theQueen, her son (his father omits the usual formula of "our dearest andfirstborn son, " and even the title of Earl of Chester), and the Earl ofKent, "queux nous volons que soent sauuez si auant come home poet. "According to Froissart, the Queen's company could not make the port theyintended, and landed on the sands, whence after four days they marched(ignorant of their whereabouts) till they sighted Bury Saint Edmunds, where they remained three days. Miss Strickland tells a rather strikingtale of the tempestuous night passed by the Queen under a shed ofdriftwood run up hastily by her knights, whence she marched the nextmorning at daybreak. (This lady rarely gives an authority, and stillmore seldom an exact reference. ) On the 25th, she adds, the Queenreached Harwich. Robert de Avesbury, Polydore Vergil, and Speed, saythat she landed at Orwell, which the Chronicle of Flanders callsNorwell. If Froissart is to be credited, this certainly was not theplace; for he says that the tempest prevented the Queen from landing atthe port where she intended, and that this was a mercy of Providence, because there her enemies awaited her. The port where her enemiesawaited her (meaning thereby the husband whom she was persecuting) wascertainly Orwell, for on the second of September the King had orderedall ships of thirty tuns weight to assemble there. Moreover, the Queencould not possibly march from Orwell at once to Bury and Harwich, sinceto face the one she must have turned her back on the other. Theprobability seems to be that she came ashore somewhere in Orwell Haven, but whether she first visited Harwich or Bury it is difficult to judge. The natural supposition would be that she remained quiet for a time atBury until she was satisfied that her allies would be sufficient toeffect her object, and then showed herself openly at Harwich were it notthat Bury is so distant, and Harwich is so near, that the suppositionseems to be negatived by the facts. From Harwich or Bury, whichever itwere, she marched towards London, which according to some writers, shereached; but the other account seems to be better authenticated, whichstates that on hearing that the King had left the capital for the Westshe altered her course for Oxford. She certainly was not in London whenthe Tower was captured by the citizens, October 16th (_CompotusWillielmi de Culpho_, Wardrobe Accounts, 20 Edward the Second, 31/8), since she dates a mandate from Wallingford on the 15th, unless BishopOrleton falsified the date in quoting it in his Apology. Thence shemarched to Cirencester and Gloucester, and at last to Bristol, which sheentered on or before the 25th. Since Gloucester was considerably out ofher way--for we are assured that her aim was to make a straight andrapid course to Bristol--why did she go there at all if the King were atBristol? But we know he was not; he had then set sail for Wales. Herobject in going to Bristol was probably twofold: to capture Le Despenserand Arundel, and to stop the King's supplies, for Bristol was hiscommissariat-centre. A cartload of provisions reached that city fromLondon for him on the 14th [Note 2. ] (_Rot. Magne Gard. _, 20 Edward theSecond, 26/3), and his butler, John Pyrie, went thither for wine, evenso late as November 1st (_Ibidem_, 26/4). Is it possible that Pyrie, perhaps unconsciously, betrayed to some adherent of the Queen the factthat his master was in Wales? The informer, we are told by thechroniclers, was Sir Thomas le Blount, the King's Seneschal of theHousehold. But that suspicious embassage of the Abbot of Neath andseveral of the King's co-refugees, noted on November 10th in termswhich, though ostensibly spoken by the King and dated from Neath, areunmistakably the Queen's diction and not his, cannot be left out of theaccount in estimating his betrayers. From October 26, when theillegally-assembled Parliament, in the hall of Bristol Castle, wentthrough the farce of electing the young Prince to the regency "becausethe King was absent from his kingdom, " and October 27th, which is given(probably with truth) by Harl. Ms. 6124 as the day of the judicialmurder of Hugh Le Despenser the Elder, our information concerning theQueen's movements is absolutely _nil_ until we find her at Hereford onthe 20th of November. She then sent Bishop Orleton of Hereford to theKing to request the Great Seal, and he, returning, found her at Marcleon the 26th. It was probably on the 24th that the younger Despensersuffered. On the 27th the Queen was at Newent, on the 28th atGloucester, on the 29th at Coberley, and on the 30th at Cirencester. She reached Lechlade on December 1st, Witney on the 2nd, Woodstock onthe 3rd. Here she remained till the 22nd, when she went to Osney Abbey, and forward to Wallingford the next day. (Wardrobe Accounts, 20 Edwardthe Second and 1 Edward the Third, 26/11. ) She was joined atWallingford by her younger son Prince John of Eltham, who had beenawaiting her arrival since the 17th, and losing 3 shillings at play byway of amusement in the interim (_Ibidem_, 31/18). By Reading, Windsor, Chertsey, and Allerton she reached Westminster on the 4th of January(_Ibidem_, 26/11). 

I have examined all the Wardrobe Accounts and Rolls likely to cast lighton this period, but I can find no mention of the whereabouts of the twoPrincesses during this time. Froissart says that they and Prince Johnwere delivered into the Queen's care by the citizens of Bristol; whichis certainly a mistake so far as concerns the Prince, whose compotusjust quoted distinctly states that he left the Tower on October 16th(which fixes the day of its capture), quitted London on December 21st, and reached Wallingford on the 24th. He, therefore, was no more atBristol than his father, and only rejoined his mother as she returnedthence. The position of the royal sisters remains doubtful, as evenMrs Everett Green--usually a most faithful and accurate writer--hasaccepted Froissart's narrative, and apparently did not discover itscomplete discrepancy with the Wardrobe Accounts. If the Princesses werethe companions of their royal father in his flight, and were deliveredto their mother when she entered Bristol--which may be the fact--theprobability is that he sent them there when he left Gloucester, on orabout the 10th of October. 

VI. THE ORDER OF SEMPRINGHAM. 

The Gilbertine Order, also called the Order of Sempringham, was that ofthe reformed Cistercians. Its founder was Gilbert, son of Sir Joscelinede Sempringham; he was Rector of Saint Andrew's Church in that village, and died in 1189. The chief peculiarity of this Order was that monksand nuns dwelt under the same roof, but their apartments were entered byseparate doors from without, and had no communication from within. Theyattended the Priory Church together, but never mixed among each otherexcept on the administration of the Sacrament. The monks followed therule of Saint Austin; the nuns the Cistercian rule, with SaintBenedict's emendations, to which some special statutes were added by thefounder. The habit was, for monks, a black cassock, white cloak, andhood lined with lambskin; for nuns, a white habit, black mantle, andblack hood lined with white fur. There was a Master over the entireOrder, who lived at Sempringham, the mother Abbey also a Prior and aPrioress over each community. The Prior of Sempringham was a Baron ofParliament. The site of the Abbey, three miles south-east fromFolkingham, Lincolnshire, may still be traced by its moated area. TheAbbey Church of Saint Andrew alone now remains entire; it is Norman, with an Early English tower, and a fine Norman north door. 

But few houses of the Gilbertine Order existed in England, and thosewere mainly in Yorkshire and Lincolnshire. The principal ones--afterSempringham, which was the chief--were Chicksand, Bedfordshire;Cambridge; Fordham, near Newmarket; Hitchin, Hertfordshire; Lincoln, Alvingham, Bolington, Cateley, Haverholme, Ormesby, Newstead (not theAbbey, which was Augustinian), Cotton, Sexley, Stikeswold, Sixhill, Lincolnshire; Marmound and Shuldham, Norfolk; Clattercott, Oxfordshire;Marlborough, Wiltshire; Malton, Sempringham Minor, Watton, andWilberfosse, Yorkshire. 

The Gilbertine Order "for some centuries maintained its sanctity andcredit; afterwards it departed greatly from both. "

VII. FICTITIOUS PERSONS. 

In Part One, these are Cicely's daughters, Alice and Vivien, and herdamsels, Margaret and Fina; Meliora, the Queen's sub-damsel; Hilda laVileyne, and her relatives. Of all others, the name and position atleast are historical facts. 

The fictitious persons in Part Two are more numerous, being all thehousehold of the Countess of March (except John Inge the Castellan): andNichola, damsel of the Countess Agnes. 

The three Despenser nuns, Mother Alianora, and the Sisters Annora andMargaret, and Lady Joan de Greystoke, are the only characters in PartThree which are not fictitious. 

A difference in the diction will be noticed between Part Three and theearlier parts, the last portion being more modern than the rest. SisterAlianora must not be supposed to write her narrative, which she couldnot do except by order from her superiors; but rather to be uttering herreflections to herself. Since to her the natural language would beFrench, there was no need to follow the contemporary diction furtherthan, by a quaint expression now and then, to remind the reader of theperiod in which the scene is laid. 

It may be remarked that the diction of Parts One and Two is not strictlycorrect. This is true: because to make it perfectly accurate, would beto make it also unintelligible to nine out of ten readers, and this notso much on account of obsolete words, which might be explained in anote, as of the entirely different turn of the phraseology. Animaginary diary of the reign of Elizabeth can be written in pureElizabethan language, and with an occasional explanatory note, it willbe understood by modern readers: but a narrative prior to 1400 at theearliest cannot be so treated. The remaining possibilities are eitherto use as much of the correct diction of the period as is intelligible, employing modern terms where it is not, or else to write in ordinarymodern English. Tastes no doubt differ on this point. I prefer theformer; since I extremely dislike to read a mediaeval story where modernexpressions alone are used in the dialogue. The reader, if himselfacquainted with the true language, finds it impossible to realise orenter into the story, being constantly reminded that he is reading amodern fiction. What I object to read, therefore, I object to write forthe reading of others. Where circumstances, as in this case, makeperfect accuracy impossible, it seems to me the next best thing is tocome as near it as they will permit. 

The biographical details given in this Appendix, with few exceptions, have not, I believe, been previously published. For such information asmay readily be found in Dugdale's Baronage, extinct peerages, etcetera, I refer my readers to those works. 

The End. 

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Note 1. This document is mistakenly headed and catalogued as a Compotusof Leonor, Queen of Edward the First. It certainly belongs to QueenPhilippa. The internal evidence is abundant and conclusive--_eg_, "theCountess of Hainault, the Queen's mother. "

Note 2. The details of this cartload are not uninteresting:--203quarters, 12 pounds wax; 774 pounds broken sugar, 11 pence per pound;200 almonds; 100 pounds of rice; 78 ells of Paris napery, 10 pence perell; 6 and a half ells of Rouen napery, same price; 18 short towels; 15and a half ells of "cloth of Still;" 100 ells of linen, 100 ells ofcanvas; 200 pears, at 4 shillins per 100, bought of Isabel Fruiterer;2000 large nuts, at 1 shilling per 1000; four baskets for the fruit, 10pence. The journey from London occupied five days, and the travellingexpenses were 14 pence per day.