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´╗┐Title: Mistress Margery
Author: Holt, Emily Sarah, 1836-1893
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.
Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

*** Start of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "Mistress Margery" ***

This book is indexed by ISYS Web Indexing system to allow the reader find any word or number within the document.

Mistress Margery, A Tale of the Lollards, by Emily Sarah Holt.

This is a short book, but it was quite hard to transcribe on account of
so much of it being in mediaeval English, with its inconsistent and
uncouth spelling.

Margery is a young woman of high birth, who goes one day to hear a
sermon preached by one of the new Lollards, who advise people to read
the Bible as recently translated by Wycliffe, and to believe only what
they find therein.  This was directly contrary to the view of the
official church, which had made up all sorts of doctrines that could be
seen to be not at all supported by the words of the Gospel.  Margery can
only get hold of a copy of the Gospel according to Saint John.

Margery is very much struck with the words of the Gospel, despite the
hostility of all around her.  Everyone was far too afraid of the extreme
punishment meted out by "Holy Church" to those who questioned its
teachings.  And Margery ends up by being burnt at the stake for her
belief in the Gospel, as opposed to what was taught by the Church.

But you will learn a lot about upper-class life in the early years of
the fifteenth century, and if you can put up with the forms of speech,
you will gain thereby.  Not recommended for audiobook, since a great
deal of editing, such as removal of footnotes, conversion of mediaeval
speech to modern, and so forth.




  "Give me the book, and let me read;
  My soul is strangely stirred--
  They are such words of love and truth
  As ne'er before I heard!"

  Mary Howitt.

The sun was shining brightly on the battlements and casements of Lovell
Tower.  The season was spring, and the year 1395.  Within the house,
though it was barely seven o'clock in the morning, all was bustle and
confusion, for Dame Lovell was superintending her handmaidens in the
preparation of dinner.  A buxom woman was Dame Lovell, neither tall nor
short, but decidedly stout, with a round, good-natured face, which just
then glowed and burned under the influence of the fire roaring on the
large grateless hearth.  She wore a black dress, heavily trimmed at the
bottom with fur, and she carried on her head one of those remarkable
elevations generally known as the Syrian or conical head-dress, made of
black stiffened gauze, and spangled with golden stars.  Her assistants,
mostly girls of from sixteen to twenty-five years of age, were occupied
in various parts of the kitchen; while Mistress Katherine, a
staid-looking woman of middle age, who filled a post somewhat similar to
the modern one of housekeeper, was employed at a side table in mixing
some particularly elaborate compound.  Among this busy throng moved Dame
Lovell, now giving a stir to a pot, and now peeping into a pan, boxing
the ears of any maiden who appeared remiss in her duty, and generally
keeping up a strict and active supervision.

"Nan, thy leeks be not hewn small enough.  Cicely, look to the pottage,
that it boil not over.  Al'ce, thou idle jade!"--with a sound box on the
ear,--"thou hast left out the onions in thy blanch-porre!  Margery!
Madge!  Why, Madge, I say!  Where is Mistress Margery, maidens?  Joan,
lass, hie thee up, and see whether Mistress Margery be not in the

Joan, a diminutive girl of sixteen, quitted the parsley she was
chopping, and ran lithely out of the room, to which she soon returned,
and, dropping a courtesy, announced that "Mistress Margery was in her
chamber, and was coming presently,"--which latter word, in the year
1395, meant not "by and by," as it now does, but "at present."  Mistress
Margery verified the assertion of Joan by following her into the kitchen
almost immediately.  And since Mistress Margery is to play the important
part of heroine, it may be well to devote a few words to her person and
costume.  She is the only child of Sir Geoffrey Lovell, Knight, and Dame
Agnes Lovell, and is now seventeen years of age; rather under the middle
height, slenderly formed, with an appearance of great fragility and
delicacy; her complexion is very fair, of that extreme fairness which
often betokens disease, and her face almost colourless.  Her features
are regular, and classical in their contour; her eyes are a clear grey--
honest, truthful eyes, that look straight at you; and her hair, which is
almost long enough, when let down, to touch her feet, is of that pale
golden colour so much celebrated in the Middle Ages, and so very rarely
to be seen now.  Mistress Margery's attire comprises a black dress, so
stiff, partly from its own richness of material, and partly with
whalebone, that it is quite capable of standing upright without any
assistance from Mistress Margery's person.  Its trimming consists of a
border of gris, or marten's fur; and over this black petticoat the young
lady wears a cote-hardie, or close-fitting jacket, also edged with gris.
Her head is not encumbered by the steeplecap which disfigures her
mother; instead of it she wears the beautiful "dove-cote," a net of
golden tissue, ornamented with pearls, within which her hair is

It may also be as well to notice here, that Mistress Margery is highly
accomplished.  Of course she can play the lute, and sing, and work
elaborate and delicate embroidery, and compound savoury dishes; and
equally of course does she know any nobleman or gentleman by a glance at
his shield, and can tell you in a moment to whom belong the three lions
rampant sable, and who owns the bend engrailed argent on a field gules.
These are but the ordinary acquirements of a gentlewoman; but our
heroine knows more than this.  Mistress Margery can read; and the
handmaidens furthermore whisper to each other, with profound admiration
of their young mistress's extraordinary knowledge, that Mistress Margery
can _write_.  Dame Lovell cannot do either; but Sir Geoffrey, who is a
literary man, and possesses a library, has determined that his daughter
shall receive a first-rate education.  Sir Geoffrey's library is a very
large one, for it consists of no less than forty-two volumes, five of
which are costly illuminated manuscripts, and consist of the Quest of
the Sangraal [see Note 1], the Travels of Sir John Maundeville, the
Chronicle of Matthew Paris, Saint Augustine's City of God, and a
Breviary.  Dame Lovell has no Breviary, and as she could not read it if
she had, does not require one; but Margery, having obtained her father's
permission to do so, has employed her powers of writing and illuminating
in making an elaborate copy of his Breviary for her own use; and from an
illumination in this book, not quite finished, representing Judas
Iscariot in parti-coloured stockings, and Saint Peter shooting at
Malchus with a cross-bow, is Margery now summoned away to the kitchen.

Margery entered the kitchen with a noiseless step, and making a low
courtesy to her mother, said, in a remarkably clear, silvery voice, "It
pleased you to send for me, good mother."

"Yea, lass; give a hand to the blanch-porre, for Al'ce knows no more
than my shoe; and then see to the grewall, whilst I scrape these almonds
for the almond butter."

Margery quietly performed her task, and spoke to the mortified Al'ce in
a much gentler tone than Dame Lovell had done.  She was occupied in the
preparation of "eels in grewall," a kind of eel-stew, when a slender
youth, a little older than herself, and attired in the usual costume of
a page, entered the kitchen.

"Why, Richard Pynson," cried Dame Lovell, "thou art a speedy messenger,
in good sooth.  I looked not for thee until evensong."

"I finished mine errand, good mistress," replied the youth, "earlier by
much than I looked for to do."

"Hast heard any news, Richard?"

"None, mistress mine, unless it be news that a homily will be preached
in Bostock Church on Sunday next ensuing, by a regular of Oxenforde, one
Master Sastre."

The grewall was standing still, and Margery was listening intently to
the words of Richard Pynson, as he carelessly leaned against the wall.

"Will you go, Mistress Margery?"

Margery looked timidly at her mother.  "I would like well to go," said
she, "an' it might stand with your good pleasure."

"Ay, lass, go," replied Dame Lovell, good-naturedly.  "It is seldom we
have a homily in Bostock Church.  Parson Leggatt is not much given to
preaching, meseemeth."

"I will go with you, Master Pynson," said Margery, resuming the
concoction of the dainty dish before her, "with a very good will, for I
should like greatly to hear the Reverend Father.  I never yet heard
preach a scholar of Oxenforde."

Dame Lovell moved away to take the pottage off the fire, and Pynson,
approaching Margery, whispered to her, "They say that this Master Sastre
preacheth strange things, like as did Master John Wycliffe a while
agone; howbeit, since Holy Church interfereth not, I trow we may well go
to hear him."

Margery's colour rose, and she said in a low voice, "It will do us no
harm, trow?"

"I trust not so," answered Richard; and, taking up his hunting-bag, he
quitted the room.

"Why, Cicely!" exclaimed Dame Lovell, turning round from the pottage,
"had I wist thou hadst put no saffron herein, thou shouldst have had
mine hand about thine ears, lass!  Bring the saffron presently!  No
saffron, quotha!"

Before we accompany Margery and Richard to hear the homily of Master
Sastre, it might perhaps be as well to prevent any misunderstanding on
the part of the reader with respect to Richard Pynson.  He is the page
of Sir Geoffrey Lovell, and the son of Sir John Pynson of Pynsonlee; for
in the year 1395, wherein our story opens, it is the custom for young
gentlemen, even the sons of peers, to be educated as page or squire to
some neighbouring knight of wealth and respectability.  Richard Pynson,
therefore, though he may seem to occupy a subordinate position, is in
every respect the equal of Margery.

The morning on which Master Sastre was to deliver his homily was one of
those delicious spring days which seem the immediate harbingers of
summer.  Margery, in her black dress, and with a warm hood over her
cote-hardie, was assisted by her father to mount her pillion, Richard
Pynson being already seated before her on the grey palfrey; for in the
days of pillions, if the gentleman assisted the lady on her pillion
_before_ he mounted himself, he ran imminent risk of knocking her off
when he should attempt to mount.  They rode leisurely to church, the
distance being about two miles, and a little foot-page ran beside them
charged with the care of the palfrey, while they attended the service.
Mass was performed by the parish priest, but the scholar from Oxford,
who sat in the sedilia, where Margery could scarcely see him, took no
part in the service beyond reading the Gospel.

The sermons of that day, as a rule, may be spoken of in two classes.
Either the preacher would read a passage of Scripture in Latin, and
throw in here and there a few remarks by way of commentary, or else the
sermon was a long and dry disquisition upon some of the (frequently very
absurd) dogmas of the schoolmen; such as, whether angels were synonymous
with spirits, which of the seven principal angels was the chief, how
long it took Gabriel to fly from heaven to earth at the Annunciation, at
what time of day he appeared, how he was dressed, etcetera, Sastre's
discourse could not be comprised in either of these classes.  He read
his text first, as usual, in Latin, but then he said:

"And now, brethren and sistren, to declare in the vulgar tongue unto you
that have not the tongues, this passage of God's Word as sueth."  [Sueth
means follows].

"_The Lombe that was slayn is worthi to take vertue and Godhed and
wisdom and strengthe and onour and glorie and blessyng_!"

Note: it will readily be seen that all the quotations from Scripture in
this story are necessarily taken from Wycliffe's translation.

What followed was no scholastic disquisition, no common-place remarks on
the passage chosen.  "The Lamb that was slain" was the beginning and the
end of Sastre's discourse.  He divided his sermon into the following
subjects.  "Who is the Lamb?--how and why was He slain?--why is He
worthy?--and, who are the speakers in the text who thus proclaim His
worthiness?"  He showed them, by a reference to the Mosaic sacrifices,
why Christ was called a Lamb; he told them most fully that He died, the
Just for the unjust, that He might bring us to God; he placed completely
before his audience the full and free and finished nature of His perfect
work: he told them that God's love to sinners was such that He gave out
of His bosom His own dear Son, the Son of His love, that their sins
might be counted His, and that His righteousness might be accounted
theirs.  And under his last head, he spoke of that holy, happy city
whereinto no sin, nor harm, nor death could ever enter; whose
foundations were gems, and whose gates pearls; the dwelling-place of the
blessed ones, who having washed their robes, and made them white in the
blood of the Lamb, would never rest day nor night in singing the praises
of His worthiness.

Sastre also drew the attention of his hearers to the fact that the
ascription of praise in the text was made by the angels.  "In all this
Book," remarked he, "I find nowhere such like laud as this given unto
any but God only.  The blessed angels do worship unto the Lamb, but I
see not any offer for to do worship unto the angels, save only Saint
John himself, who doth twice fall down to worship afore the feet of the
angel which did show these things unto him.  But I find not the angel in
any wise gladded with the same.  Nay, the blessed John doth receive a
sharp rebuking of his folly: `See thou that thou do not,' saith the
angel; `worschipe thou God.'  Wherefore, good friends, ye may see hence
how foolish are they who do worship unto the blessed angels: and how
grievous would be the same unto those good spirits of God if they did
knowledge it.  Whether or no they be witting of such matters, I wis not,
for this Book saith nought thereupon; but ye see, friends, that if they
wit it, it doth anger them; and if they wit it not, what are ye the
better for praying unto them?  Moreover, meseemeth for the same reason,
that the blessed Virgin Saint Mary, who is now in heaven with her Son
and Lord, Christ, would not be in any wise over well pleased if she wist
how men do worship unto her on the earth.  And the like, I trow, may be
said of all God's saints."

At the conclusion of his sermon, Sastre leaned forward over the pulpit
and spoke in a low, earnest, loving tone.  "Who is here, good friends,"
asked he, "that loveth this blessed Lord Jesu, the Lamb that was slain?
Who is here who will give up this vile and wretched world for His sake?
Who that will sue [follow] this blessed Lamb whithersoever He goeth,
even though He lead along the sharp way called tribulation, or the weary
way called prison, or the bitter way called poverty, or even verily
through the low and dark door called death?  Who is here?  Is there none
I beseech you, good friends, hath Christ no souls in this place?  When
the blessed angels count up the number of the purchased ones, will ye
have them leave Bostock out of their reckoning?  Shall it be worse than
Sodom and Gomorrah, wherein there was _one_ soul that was saved?  Is
there not _one_ here?  Nay, brethren, I trust it is not so.  I trust ye
will come, yea in numbers, yea in throngs, yea in multitudes, and crowd
on Christ to touch the hem of His blessed garment, that is the power of
His great mercy.  Christ loveth to have folk crowd on Him to cry Him
mercy.  I read not that ever He complained of the crowding of the
multitude.  I read not that ever He turned away so much as one poor
caitiff [sinner] who came unto Him.  I read not that His lips plained
ever of aught but that they came not--that they lacked faith.  I am an
old man, friends, and in all likelihood shall I never come here again;
but I say unto you that I shall scan well the multitude in the white
apparel for the faces which be upturned unto me this day.  I pray you
that I miss them not.  I pray God that ye--yea, that every man and woman
of you, may be clothed in yon glistering and shene [bright] raiment, and
may lift up your voices to cry, `The Lamb is worthy' in the city of

That sermon was a strange thing to Margery Lovell.  Never, from the day
of her birth to that day, had she heard as she now heard of the Lamb
that was slain.  For above a mile of their way home Richard and Margery
kept perfect silence, which the latter was the first to break just
before they came in sight of Lovell Tower.

"Master Pynson, we have heard strange things to-day."

"We have, of a truth, Mistress Margery.  I wonder whether Master Sastre
be right."

"I wish greatly," replied Margery, "that I could get the book wherein I
have heard that Master Wycliffe rendered God's Word into the vulgar
tongue.  I could see then whether Master Sastre were right.  I would I
knew of any man who had that book!"

"Master Carew of Marston told me some time agone," said Richard, rather
hesitatingly, "that he had the Gospel according to John the Apostle,
copied out by a feat [clever] scribe from Master Wycliffe's rendering

"O Master Pynson!" said Margery, entreatingly, "I pray you that you ask
good Master Carew to lend me that book!  Tell him that Mistress Margery
Lovell will lay her best jewels to pledge that she returneth the book
safe.  I must see that book Master Pynson!"

"Softly, I pray you, good Mistress Margery," answered Richard, smiling;
"it were well to go warily to work; for wot you not that Master
Wycliffe--ay, and Master Sastre too--be accounted heretics by some?  You
would not, trow, fall under the ban of Holy Church?"

"I would with a good will do aught, or bear aught," replied Margery,
earnestly, "so I might wit of a surety that I should be one of those who
wear the white apparel, and cry, `The Lamb is worthy' in the city of

"Well, Mistress Margery," said Richard, soothingly, "I will do my best
for to get you the book, but it may be some time ere I see Master

Dame Lovell herself was standing on the steps of Lovell Tower,
apparently looking out for the riders, for as soon as they came within
hearing distance she raised her voice to say, "Richard Pynson!  Sir
Geoffrey would speak with you.  Come in quickly, I pray you, and leave
the handmaidens to help Mistress Margery from her pillion."

"I need no help, good mother," said Margery, as she sprang lightly from
her seat, while Richard hurried into the house to find Sir Geoffrey.

"Sir Geoffrey would send Richard Pynson to Marston," said Dame Lovell,
as she preceded Margery into the hall.  "And how liked you Master
Sastre, Madge?"

"Very greatly, good mother; never heard I before a homily so brave."

"That is well," said Dame Lovell, and disappeared into the kitchen, as
Margery ran up-stairs to her own room, and brought down in her hand a
valuable necklace.  Richard came into the banqueting-hall from one door,
as Margery made her appearance from the opposite one.

"I have a letter from Sir Geoffrey to bear to Sir Ralph Marston," said
he.  "Have you any commands for Marston, Mistress Margery?" he
mischievously added.

"Master Pynson," said Margery, earnestly, in a low tone, "I pray you to
take this jewel to Master Carew, and to leave it in pledge with him, in
case he will lend me the book.  If he value it at more than this, I can
send other jewels; but, Master Pynson, bring me the book!"

Richard placed the necklace for safety in the bosom of his doublet, and
answered, "Fear not, good mistress; if I bring you not the book, it
shall not be for lack of entreaty.  Only hope not too much, for I may
chance to fail."

"Pray God he lend you the book!" was her only answer.


Note.  The Sangraal was the vessel in which the wine was contained which
Christ gave to His disciples, saying, "Drink ye all of this;" this
vessel was supposed to have been brought into England by Joseph of
Arimathea; and the "quest" or search for this important relic formed one
of the chief adventures of the Knights of the Round Table.



  "And there is something in this book
  That makes all care be gone,
  And yet I weep--I know not why--
  As I go reading on!"

  Mary Howitt.

Margery went into the kitchen, and helped to prepare supper, under the
directions of Dame Lovell, and then she returned to her own room, and
tried to finish her illumination of Peter and Malchus; but she could not
command her thoughts sufficiently to paint well, so much was her heart
set on "the book."  Therefore she sat with her hands folded in her lap,
and tried to recall Sastre's sermon.  Then came supper-time, and Margery
went down to the banqueting-hall; and after supper, having begged her
parents' blessing before retiring to rest, she came back to her chamber.
But she did not attempt to undress.  When the sun set, a red glory
above the tree-tops, she was watching at her casement for Richard
Pynson; and when the silver moon and the little golden stars had taken
the sun's place in the heavens, she was watching still.  At last she
heard the sound of a horse's feet, and stole softly down the private
staircase which led from her room to the hall.  As Richard entered the
hall, Margery softly murmured his name.

"What, Mistress Margery!" he cried, in astonishment.  "You here!  You
have watched well for the book, and--there it is."

And Richard drew from the bag slung over his shoulder a small quarto

"Oh, thanks, good Master Pynson, a thousand thanks!" cried Margery, in
delight.  "And how long season may I keep the book?"

"Master Carew said," returned Pynson, "that he asked not jewels for the
safe-keeping of the book, for the word of a Lovell was enough," and
Richard drew the necklace from his bosom and handed it to Margery.  "He
will lend the book for one month's time.  He said, furthermore, that he
lent it, not because he loved it not, but because he prayed that you,
Mistress Margery, might know and love it too."

"Amen!" was Margery's answer, as she folded the book to her bosom, and
crept softly back to her chamber--but not to bed.  The first thing she
did was to take off her petticoat and cote-hardie, and to put on a loose
dressing-gown of grey serge.  Then she divested herself of her
head-dress, and allowed her fair hair to flow down over her shoulders
without restraint.  Having thus rendered herself comfortable, she seated
herself in a carved chair, furnished with an ample cushion, and
proceeded to examine the book.

The book was bound in leather, dark brown in colour, and simple in
workmanship.  It was clasped with two small clasps of common metal,
washed over with silver; the leaves were of vellum, and on the first
page was a badly-drawn and violently-coloured illumination of Christ and
the Samaritan woman.  Stops (as a rule) it had not, except a full stop
here and there; and capitals there were none, with the occasional
exception of a letter in red ink.  Notwithstanding this, the manuscript,
being written in a clear small hand, was very legible to eyes accustomed
to read only black letter.  At first Margery felt as if she were doing
wrong in reading the book, but her curiosity drew her on, as well as her
earnest desire to know more of those "strange things" of which Sastre
had spoken in his sermon.  Margery had taken the precaution of fastening
the door before she commenced the study of the book.  After the first
glance which had made her acquainted with the particulars above noticed,
she opened the book at random near the middle, and her eye fell on the
following words:--

"_Be not your herte afrayed, ne drede it; ye bileuen in God, and bileeue
ye in me.  In the hous of my Fadir ben manye dwellingis; if ony thinge
lasse, I hadde seid to you; for I go to make readi to you a place.  And
if I go to make redy to you a place, eftsoone I come, and I schal take
you to my silf, that where I am, ye be_."  John xiv. 1-3.

Never before had Margery read words like these.  "Be not your herte
afrayed!"  Why, the one feeling which she was taught was more acceptable
to God than any other, was fear.  "In the hous of my Fadir ben manye
dwellingis."  Margery clasped her hands above her head, and laid head
and hands upon the open volume; and in the agony of her earnestness she
cried aloud, "O Lamb that was slain, hast thou not made ready a dwelling
for Margery Lovell!"

Margery read on, and the more she read the more she wondered.  The
Church did not teach as this book did, and _both_ could not be right.
Which, then, was wrong?  How could the Church be wrong, which was the
depository of God's truth?  And yet, how could the holy apostle be wrong
in reporting the words of Christ?

Many times over during that night did Margery's thoughts arrange
themselves in this manner.  At one time she thought that nothing could
possibly supersede the infallibility of the Church; at another she saw
the complete impossibility of anything being able to stand for a moment
against the infallibility of God.  The only conclusion at which she
could arrive was a determination to read the volume, and judge for
herself.  She read on.  "_I am weye, treuthe, and lyf; no man cometh to
the Fadir but by me_."  [John xiv. 6.] Were these words the words of
Christ?  And what way had Margery been taught?  Obedience to the Church,
humility, penances, alms-giving--works always, Christ never.  Could
these be the right way?  She went on, till the tears ran down her cheeks
like rain--till her heart throbbed and her soul glowed with feelings she
had never felt before--till the world, and life, and death, and things
present, all seemed to be nothing, and Christ alone seemed to be
everything.  She read on, utterly oblivious of the flight of time, and
regardless that darkness had given place to light, until the fall of
something in the room below, and the voice of Dame Lovell calling for
Cicely, suddenly warned her that the house was astir.  Margery sprang
up, her heart beating now for a different reason.  She hurriedly closed
the book, and secreted it in a private cupboard, of which she alone had
the key, and where she generally kept her jewels, and any little
trinkets on which she set a special value.  Margery's next act, I fear,
was indefensible; for it was to throw the cover and pillows of her bed
into confusion, that the maids might suppose it had been occupied as
usual.  She then noiselessly unfastened the door, and proceeded with her
dressing, so that when, a few minutes after, Dame Lovell came panting up
the stairs, and lifted the latch, the only thing she noticed was Margery
standing before the mirror, and fastening up her hair with what she
called a pin, and what we should, I suspect, designate a metallic

"What, Madge, not donned yet?" was Dame Lovell's greeting.  "How thou
hast overslept thyself, girl!  Dost know it is already five of the
clock, and thy father and I have been stirring above an hour?"

"Is it so late, of a truth?" asked Margery, in dismay.  "I cry you
mercy, good mother!"

And Margery was thinking what excuse she could use by way of apology,
when Dame Lovell's next words set her at rest, as they showed that the
mind of that good lady was full of other thoughts than her daughter's
late rising.

"Grand doings, lass!" said she, as she sat down in the carved arm-chair.
"Grand doings, of a truth, Madge!"

"Where, good mistress mine?"

"Where?" said Dame Lovell, lifting her eyebrows.  "Why, here, in Lovell
Tower.  Where should they be else?  Richard Pynson was so late of
returning from Marston that he saw not thy father until this morrow."

"I heard him come."

"Wert awake?"

"Yea.  I was awake a long season!"

"Poor lass!" said her mother.  "No marvel thou art late.  But harken to
what I was about to tell thee.  Sir Ralph Marston and his kinsman the
Lord Marnell, dine with us to-day."


"Yea, to-day.  Dear, dear, dear, dear!  What folk must they be that live
in London town!  Marry, Sir Ralph sent word by Richard Pynson, praying
us not to dine until one of the clock, for that the Lord Marnell is not
used to it at an earlier hour.  I marvel when they sup!  I trow it is
not until all Christian folk be a-bed!"

"Dwells the Lord Marnell in London?" inquired Margery, with surprise;
for Margery was more astonished and interested to hear of a nobleman
from London dining with her parents than a modern young lady would be if
told that a Chinese mandarin was expected.

"Yea, truly, in London dwells he, and is of the bedchamber to our Lord
the King, and a great man, Madge!  Hie thee down when thou art dressed,
child, and make up thy choicest dishes.  But, good Saint Christopher!
how shall I do from seven to one of the clock without eating?  I will
bid Cicely serve a void at ten."

And so saying, Dame Lovell bustled downstairs as quickly as her
corpulence would allow her, and Margery followed, a few minutes later.
While the former was busy in the hall, ordering fresh rushes to be
spread, and the tables set, Margery repaired to the ample kitchen,
where, summoning the maids to assist her, and tying a large coarse apron
round her, she proceeded to concoct various dishes, reckoned at that
time particularly choice.  There are few books more curious than a
cookery-book five hundred years old.

Our forefathers appear to have used joints of meat much less frequently
than the smaller creatures, whether flesh or fowl, hares, rabbits,
chickens, capons, etcetera.  Of fish, eels excepted, they ate little or
none out of Lent.  Potatoes, of course, they had none; and rice was so
rare that it figured as a "spice;" but to make up for this, they ate,
apparently, almost every green thing that grew in their gardens,
rose-leaves not excepted.  Of salt they had an unutterable abhorrence.
Sugar existed, but it was very expensive, and honey was often used
instead.  Pepper and cloves were employed in immense quantities.  The
article which appears to have held with them the corresponding place to
that of salt with us, and which was never omitted in any dish, no matter
what its other component parts, was saffron.  In corroboration of these
remarks, I append one very curious receipt,--a dish which formed one of
the principal covers on Sir Geoffrey Lovell's table:--

"Farsure of Hare.

"Take hares and flee [flay] hom, and washe hom in broth of fleshe with
the blode; then boyle the brothe and scome [skim] hit wel and do hit in
a pot, and more brothe thereto.  And take onyons and mynce horn and put
hom in the pot, and set hit on the fyre and let hit sethe [boil], and
take bred and stepe hit in wyn and vynegur, and drawe hit up and do hit
in the potte, and pouder of pepur and clowes, and maces hole [whole],
and pynes, and raysynges of corance [currants], then take and parboyle
wel the hare, and choppe hym on gobettes [small pieces] and put him into
a faire [clean] urthen pot; and do thereto clene grese, and set hit on
the fyre, and stere hit wele tyl hit be wel fryed; then caste hit in the
pot to the broth, an do therto pouder of canell [cinnamon] and sugur;
and let hit boyle togedur, and colour hit wyth saffron, and serve hit

It will be noticed from this that our ancestors had none of our vulgar
prejudices with respect to onions, neither had they any regard to the
Scriptural prohibition of blood.  The utter absence of all prescription
of quantities in these receipts is delightfully indefinite.

There were many other dishes to this important dinner beside the
"farsure of hare;" and on this occasion most of the rabbits and chickens
were entire, and not "chopped on gobbettes;" for the feast was "for a
lord," and lords were permitted to eat whole birds and beasts, while the
less privileged commonalty had to content themselves with "gobbettes."

When Margery had concluded her preparations for dinner, she went into
the garden to gather rosemary and flowers, which she disposed in various
parts of the hall, laying large bunches of rosemary in all available
places.  All was now ready, and Margery washed her hands, took off her
apron, and ran up into her own room, to pin on her shoulder a
"quintise," in other words, a long streamer of cherry-coloured ribbon.

The guests arrived on horseback about half-past twelve, and Richard
Pynson ushered them into the hall, and ran into the kitchen to inform
Dame Lovell and Margery, adding that "he pitied Lord Marnell's horse," a
remark the signification of which became apparent when the ladies
presented themselves in the banqueting-hall.  Sir Geoffrey was already
there, conversing with his guests.  Margery expected to find Lord
Marnell similar to his cousin, Sir Ralph Marston, whom she already knew,
and who was a pleasant, gentlemanly man of about forty years of age,
always joking with everybody, and full of fun.  But she did not expect
what she now saw.

The great man from London, who sat in a large oak-chair in the hall, was
a great man in all corporeal senses.  He was very tall, and stout in
proportion; an older man than his cousin Sir Ralph, perhaps ten or
fifteen years older; and there was something in his face which made
Margery drop her eyes in an instant.  It was a very curious face.  The
upper part--the eyes and forehead--was finely-formed, and showed at
least an average amount of intellect; but from the nose downward the
form and expression of the features were suggestive only of the
animal,--a brutal, sensual, repelling look.  Margery, who had looked for
the great man from London with girlish curiosity, suddenly felt an
unconquerable and causeless dislike to him swell up in her heart, a
something which she could neither define nor account for, that made her
wish to avoid sitting near him, and turn her eyes away whenever his were
directed towards her.

Sir Geoffrey presented his wife and daughter to Lord Marnell, and Sir
Ralph came forward with a cordial greeting; after which they took their
seats at table, for Richard Pynson was already bringing in the "farsure
of hare," and Mistress Katherine following with the pottage.  The
occupants of the high table, on the dais, consisted of Sir Geoffrey and
Dame Lovell, Lord Marnell, Sir Ralph Marston, Margery, Richard Pynson,
Mistress Katherine, and Friar Andrew Rous, Sir Geoffrey's chaplain.  The
maids sat at the second table, and the farm-servants at a third, lower
down the hall.  Sir Ralph, as usual, was full of fun, and spared nobody,
keeping the whole table in a roar of laughter, excepting Lord Marnell,
who neither laughed at his cousin's jokes, nor offered any observations
of his own, being wholly occupied with the discussion of the various
dishes as they were presented to him, and consuming, according to the
joint testimony of Dame Lovell and Friar Andrew after the feast, "enough
to last seven men for a week."  When dinner was over, and "the tables
lifted," the company gathered round the fire, and proceeded to make
themselves comfortable.  Sir Ralph sang songs, and told funny anecdotes,
and cracked jokes with the young people; while Lord Marnell, in
conversation with Sir Geoffrey, showed that the promise of neither half
of his face was entirely unfulfilled, by proving himself a shrewd
observer, and not a bad talker.  In the midst of this conversation, Sir
Ralph, turning round to Sir Geoffrey, inquired if he had heard anything
of a certain sermon that had been preached the day before at Bostock

"I heard of it," answered he, "but I heard it not.  Some of mine,
methinks, heard the same.  Madge, wentest not thou thereto?"

"Ay, good father, I went with Master Pynson."

"Ah!" said Sir Ralph.  "I went not, for the which I now grieve, the more
as my good cousin telleth me that Master Sastre is accounted a great one
by some--but these seem not of the best."

"Misconceive me not, fair cousin," said Lord Marnell.  "It is only the
Lollards that think well of the man, and thou wottest that Holy Church
looketh not kindly on their evil doings.  That ill priest, John
Wycliffe, who is accounted their leader, hath done more hurt to the
faith than any heretic these many years."

"Thou art but ill affected unto them, I trow," said Sir Ralph, jokingly.

"Ill affected!" exclaimed Lord Marnell, bringing down his hand violently
upon the arm of his chair, with a blow which made Margery start.  "I cry
you mercy, fair mistress--but if I knew of any among my kin or meynie
[Household retinue] that leaned that way--ay, were it mine own sister,
the Prioress of Kennington--I tell thee, Ralph, I would have her up
before the King's Grace's council, and well whipped!"

Margery shuddered slightly.  Sir Ralph leaned back in his chair, and
laughed heartily.

"Well said, fair cousin mine!  But I pray thee, tell me what doctrines
hold these men, that thou wouldst have them all up afore the King's
Grace's council, and well whipped?"

"All manner of evil!" answered Lord Marnell, wrathfully.  "They hold, as
I hear, that the blessed Sacrament of the Altar is in no wise the true
body of Christ, but only a piece of bread blessed by the priest, and to
be eaten in memory of His death; for the which reason also they would
allow the lay folk to drink Christ's blood.  Moreover, they say that the
blessed angels and God's saints be not to be worshipped, but only to be
held in reverence and kindly memory.  Also, they give to the common
people the Scriptures of God's Word for to read, which we wot well is
only fit for priests.  And in all things which they do, I find not that
these evil wretches do hold any true thing as taught by Holy Church, but
one, which is masses for souls departed.  I wis not much concerning
them, for they move mine anger."

"I pray your good Lordship," asked Sir Geoffrey, "can you tell me
whether these men be in great force in London or thereabouts at this
time?  Find they any favour in the Court?"

"They be ever increasing," said Lord Marnell "so much so that the King's
council have seen good to prepare some orders against them--forbidding
of their assemblages, and such like--for to present unto the Parliament.
These orders provide, as my good friend holy Abbot Bilson did tell me,
that all convicted to be Lollards shall suffer close prison, for longer
or shorter time, as pleaseth the King's Grace.  I trow they find not
favour at Court with many, but the few that look well on them be unhaply
of the highest.  I have heard say that some in the Duke of Lancaster's
palace show them favour, and it is no news that the Queen--whose soul
God pardon!--did lean that way.  In all open hours she was reading of
Scripture in the vulgar tongue.  Master Sastre, the priest, who my fair
cousin telleth me was a-preaching in Bostock Church yestermorn, is, I
take it, one of their chief men, and did learn of Master Wycliffe
himself.  I trow he will find it go hard with him if ever he cometh near
London again.  He goeth a-preaching of his doctrines up and down the
realm, and perverting from the faith evilly-disposed men and sely
[simple, unlearned] damsels who lack something to set their tongues

Sir Ralph here made a remark which turned the conversation; for this
Margery was sorry, as it had interested her extremely.  Lord Marnell's
remarks taught her more about the Lollards than she had ever known
before.  So the Queen read the Bible in English! thought she.  Why
should not I do the same?  She sat wrapped in her own thoughts for a
long time, and when she roused herself from them, she noticed that Dame
Lovell had quitted the room, and that Sir Ralph and Sir Geoffrey were
talking politics, wherein they were occupied in proving, to the
unqualified satisfaction of each, that there was "something rotten in
the State," and that England could not last very long, her only business
being to demolish France.  And Margery, finding the conversation now
extremely dull--though had she for an instant suspected the turn it
would take in her absence, she certainly would never have gone--slipped
out, and joined the more noisy party in the kitchen, where she found
Dame Lovell seated in the chimney-corner and inveighing fervently
against late hours.

"An it be not three of the clock already," said that angry lady, "I am a
heathen Jew, and no Christian!  Time to prepare supper for Christian
folk--but when that great hulk of a man, that can do nothing in this
world but eat, thinks to sup, I wis not!  Marry, I trow that nought more
will go down his throat until evensong!  I marvel if our grandsons will
be as great fools as we be!"

"More, Dame," answered Mistress Katherine, sententiously.  She was a
woman who very seldom spoke, and when she did, compressed all her ideas
into as few words as would serve the purpose.

"Nay, Saint Christopher!  I hope not," said Dame Lovell.  "And what am I
for to do now?  Madge, lass, open the door and bid hither Richard

Margery softly opened the door into the hall; and as softly called the
person who answered to that name.  He rose, and came to her, and Sir
Geoffrey and Lord Marnell, who were in low-toned, earnest conversation,
suddenly stopped as she appeared.

"Richard," said Dame Lovell, in what she doubtlessly intended for a
whisper, "I pray thee, good youth, to go in softly, and privily demand
of Sir Ralph what time he list to sup."

Richard executed the order, and, returning, closed the door behind him.

"Sir Ralph saith, good mistress mine, that the Lord Marnell when at home
suppeth not afore six of the clock; but he prayeth you for to sup when
you will, to the which he will without doubt accommodate himself."

"Six of the clock!" cried Dame Lovell, in amazement.  "Richard, art sure
thou heardest aright?"

"Certes, good mistress."

Dame Lovell sat in silent horror.

"Well!" said she at length, "if ever in all my days did I hear of a like
thing!  Cicely, serve a void in my privy chamber at four of the clock.
This poor country of ours may well go to wrack, if its rulers sup not
afore six of the clock!  Dear, dear, dear!  I marvel if the blessed
Virgin Saint Mary supped not until six of the clock!  May all the saints
forgive us that we be such fools!"



  "Ay, sooth we feel too strong in weal to need Thee on that road.
  But woe being come, the soul is dumb that crieth not on God."

  Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

The guests departed about seven o'clock, and Dame Lovell got to bed a
little before nine--an hour which was in her eyes most untimely.
Margery, though she had not slept on the previous night, was unable to
close her eyes for some time.  The unwonted excitement kept her awake,
and another idea, too, mingled with her thoughts.  The book!  How should
she copy it?  It must be at stolen hours--probably in the night.  And
what material should she use?  Not vellum, for Sir Geoffrey might ask
what she was doing if she requested more of that precious article than
was necessary for her Breviary.  He had allowed her some paper for the
rough draft of her illuminations, and she had a little of this left.
She determined to make use of this paper so far as it would go, and to
trust to circumstances for the remainder.

Thinking and contriving, Margery sank to sleep, and dreamed that Sir
Geoffrey was reading the book to Lord Marnell, who, by that curious
mixture which often takes place in dreams, was also Richard Pynson.
From this dream, about ten minutes after she fell asleep, as it appeared
to her, Margery suddenly sprang up to the conviction that broad daylight
was streaming in at the window.  She rose and dressed herself hurriedly,
and, running down into the kitchen, was surprised to find nobody there
but Joan, the drudge of the household, who moreover was rubbing her
eyes, and apparently only half awake.

"Why, Mistress Margery!" said the girl, in astonishment, "your good
mistress-ship is early, considering our late hours.  The Dame is not yet

"In good sooth?" inquired Margery, looking at the clock, when she found
to her surprise that it was barely five o'clock; and receiving from Joan
the information that Dame Lovell had told Cicely overnight that she did
not intend to appear until six, she returned to her own room, and,
drawing the book from its hiding-place, commenced her task of copying.
Margery worked quickly, and had copied nearly a page in the hour.  So
absorbed was she in her task, that she never heard the door open, and
started like a guilty thing when the well-known voice of her mother
sounded close by her.

"Eh, Madge!  Up and at work?  Thou wilt work thy fingers to the bone,
child!  Is that thy mass-book?  Nay, it is paper, I see, and that, I
wis, is on vellum.  What art doing, damsel?"

Pale and red, red and pale, went Margery by turns at this string of

"Why, lass, what hast?" asked Dame Lovell, in surprise.

"I cry you mercy, good mother!" said Margery, descending to
equivocation, and blushing more than ever; "I heard you not open my
door, and your voice started me."

"Poor Madge! did I fright thee?" said Dame Lovell, kindly.  "But what is
this, child?  Another Breviary?  Dost want two?"

"Poor Madge" she was indeed at this moment.  Terrified beyond measure
lest Dame Lovell should inform Sir Geoffrey, whose learned eyes would
perceive in a moment what the book was--and seeing more danger in his
discovering its real character than in letting him suppose it to be
another Breviary, Margery, generally so truth-telling, was frightened
into a lie.

"Ay, good mother," she stammered out, "'tis a Breviary."

All that day Margery sat upon thorns; but Dame Lovell made no mention of
the incident, and she accordingly hoped it was forgotten.

Day after day passed on, and Margery worked harder than ever at copying
the book.  She finished her task just one day before the month was up,
and gave back the original to Richard Pynson, entreating him to make an
errand to Marston as soon as possible, and restore the book, with her
hearty thanks, into the hands of Master Carew.

On the evening of that day, Dame Lovell sat at work in the wide
chimney-corner of the hall.  Near her was Mistress Katherine, scraping
almonds into a bowl; while Margery, occupied with her distaff, sat at a
little distance.  On a wide oaken settle on the opposite side of the
fire lay Friar Andrew, taking a nap, as was his afternoon custom; while
on another settle drawn up before the fire, Sir Geoffrey and Richard
Pynson sat conversing with the ladies.

"Madge, lass, hast finished thy Breviary?" asked Sir Geoffrey.  "An thou
hast, I would see it."

Margery's heart leaped into her mouth, for now was the time for the
discovery of her falsehood to be made.  Simply replying, however, "I
will seek it, father," she rose and laid her distaff down.

"Ay, Madge is a feat scribe, truly!" remarked Dame Lovell, to Margery's
unspeakable distress.  "She hath written two Breviaries, I wis."

"Two!" said Sir Geoffrey, laughing.  "One for Sundays and feasts, and
the other for week-days?  Madge, bring us both of them."

Margery left the room, and returned in a few minutes, with both the
books in her hand.  Sir Geoffrey took them, and opened the illuminated
one--the genuine Breviary--first.  Margery reseated herself, and took up
her distaff, but the thread was very uneven, and she broke it twice,
while her father turned over the leaves of the book, and praised her
writing and illuminations.  His praise was sweet enough, but some time
he must come to the end, and _then_--!

How fervently Margery wished that Dame Lovell would ask an irrelevant
question, which might lead to conversation--that Friar Andrew would
awake--that Cicely would rush in with news of the cows having broken
into the garden--or that _anything_ would occur which would put a stop
to the examination of those volumes before Sir Geoffrey arrived at the
last leaf!  But everything, as it always is under such circumstances,
was unusually quiet; and Sir Geoffrey fastened the silver clasps of the
Breviary, and opened the book without anything to hinder his doing so.
Margery stole furtive looks at her father over her distaff, and soon
observed an ominous look of displeasure creeping over his face.  He
passed over several leaves--turned to the beginning, and then to the
end,--then, closing the volume, he looked up and said, in a stern


Friar Andrew snored placidly on.

"Andrew!" said Sir Geoffrey, in a louder tone.

Friar Andrew gave an indistinct sound between a snore and a grunt.  Sir
Geoffrey rose from his seat, and striding over to where his confessor
slept, laid hold of his shoulders, and gave him such a shake as nearly
brought him to the stone floor.

"Awake, thou sluggard!" said he, angrily.  "Is it a time for the
shepherd to sleep when the wolf is already in the fold, and the lambs be
in danger?"

"Eh?  Oh! ay!" said Friar Andrew, half awake.  "Time to sup, eh?"

"Look here, Andrew!" roared his offended patron, "and see thee what this
sinful maid hath been doing.  What penance deemest thou fit for such
fault as this?"  He handed the book to the friar.  The friar sat up,
rubbed his eyes, opened the book, and turned over two or three leaves.

"I cry your good worship mercy," said he.  "I knew not you were assaying
to arouse me.  I was dreaming of a kettle of furmety of Madge's making."

"I trow here is a pretty kettle of furmety of Madge's making!" was the
irate response.

"I conceive you not, good master," said the friar.  "The book is a good
book enough, trow."

"Thou art an ass!" was the civil answer.  "Seest thou not that it is the
translation of Scripture whereof the Lord Marnell spake, by Master John
Wycliffe, the Lollard priest?  Mindest thou not that which he said about

"An what if it be?" said the confessor, yawning.  "I pin not my faith on
my Lord Marnell's sleeve, though it _were_ made of slashed velvet.  And
I trow Madge hath been too well bred up to draw evil from the book.  So
let the damsel alone, good master, and give her book back.  I trow it
will never harm her."  Margery was exceedingly surprised at the turn
which affairs were taking.  The truth was, that Friar Andrew was very
fond of her; he had been Sir Geoffrey's chaplain before she was born,
she had grown up under his eye, and she made, moreover, such a kettle of
furmety as he declared no one else could make.  Beside this, Andrew was
a marvellous poor scholar; he could never read a book at sight, and
required to spell it over two or three times before he could make out
the meaning.  He could read his mass-book, because he had done so for
the last forty years, and could have gone through the service as easily
without book as with it; though, had a different copy been given him, in
which the pages did not commence with the same line, it would probably
have perplexed him extremely.  Thus, under these circumstances, his love
for Margery, his love for furmety, and his utter ignorance, combined to
dispose him to let her off easily.

Sir Geoffrey took the book from his chaplain with a sort of growl, and
threw it into Margery's lap.

"There! take it, damsel!" said he.  "I account it Andrew's business to
take care of thy soul, and he saith it will not hurt thee.  I mind it
the less, as thou wilt shortly go to dwell with one who will see to thee
in these matters, and will not let thee read Lollard books."

The thread fell from Margery's hand, and so did the distaff, which
rolled over the floor with a clatter.  She never heeded it.  A terrible,
indefinite dread had taken hold of her.

"Father! what mean you?" she stammered forth at last.

"What mean I?" said Sir Geoffrey, in the same half-affectionate,
half-sarcastic tone.  "Why, that I have promised thee to the Lord
Marnell, Lord of the Bedchamber to the King's Grace, and Knight of the
Garter--and thou wilt be a lady and dwell in London town, and hold up
thine head with the highest!  What sayest to _that_, child?" he added,

She sat a moment with her white lips parted,--cold, silent, stunned.
Then the bitter cry of "Father, father!" awoke the echoes of the old

Sir Geoffrey was evidently troubled.  He had sought only his daughter's
grandeur, and had never so much as dreamed that he might be making her

"Why, child! dost not like it?" said he, in surprise.

She rose from her seat, and went to him, and kneeling down by him, laid
her head, bowed on her clasped hands, upon his knee.  "O father,
father!" was all she said again.

"Truly, lass, I grieve much to see thee thus," said her father, in a
perplexed tone.  "But thou wilt soon get over this, and be right glad,
too, to be so grand a lady.  What shall I say to comfort thee?"

Long, terrible, hysterical sobs were coming from the bowed frame--but no
tears.  At length, still without lifting up her head, she whispered--

"Is there no way to shun it, father?  I love him not.  O father, I love
him not--I cannot love him!"

"Truly, my poor lass, I trow we cannot shun it," said he.  "I never
thought to see thee grieve so sore.  The Lord Marnell is a noble
gentleman, and will find thee in silken tissues and golden cauls."

Sir Geoffrey did not rightly understand his daughter's sorrow.  His
"silken tissues and golden cauls" did not raise the bowed head one inch.

"Father!" she whispered, "have you promised him?"

"I have, my child," he answered, softly.

She rose suddenly, and quickly turned to go up the stairs leading to her
own room.  At this moment Richard Pynson rose also, and quietly taking
up the book, which had fallen from Margery's lap on the floor, he handed
it to her.  She took it with one hand, and gave him the other, but did
not let him see her face.  Then she passed into her chamber, and they
heard her fasten the door.

When she had done so, she flung herself down on the rushes [note 1], and
bent her head forward on her knees.  The longer she thought over her
prospects, the more dreary and doleful they appeared.  Her state of mind
was one that has been touchingly described by a writer who lived three
hundred years later--"Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother"--who, of all
who have attempted and failed in the impossible task of rendering the
Psalms into verse, perhaps approached as near success as any one.

  "Troublous seas doe mee surrownde;
  Saue, O Lord, my sinking soule,
  Sinking wheare it feeles no grownde,
  In this gulf, this whirling hole;
  Wayghting ayde with earnest eying,
  Calling God with bootles crying;
  Dymme and drye in mee are fownde
  Eyes to see, and throat to sounde."

Suddenly, as she sat thus bowed down, too sorrowful for tears, like the
dew to a parched flower came the words of the book--nay, the words of
the Lord--into her soul.

"_Be not your herte afrayed, ne drede it_."

"_And therfore ghe han now sorowe, but eftsoone I schal se ghou, and
ghoure herte schal haue ioie, and no man schal take fro ghou ghoure
ioie.  Treuly, treuly, I seie to ghou, if ghe axen the Fadir ony thing
in my name he schal ghyue to ghou_."  John xvi. 22, 23.

Now, Margery had neither teacher nor commentary to interpret to her the
words of Scripture; and the result was, that she never dreamed of
modifying any of them, but took the words simply and literally.  It
never entered her head to interpret them with any qualification--to
argue that "anything" must mean only some things.  Ah! how much better
would it be for us, if we would accept those blessed words as plainly,
as unconditionally, as conclusively, as this poor untaught girl!

But when Margery considered the question more minutely, poor child! she
knew not what to ask.  The constant reference of everything by the Lord
Jesus to "the will of the Father" had struck her forcibly; and now she
dared not ask for entire freedom from the crashing blow which had fallen
on her, lest it should not be the will of the Father.  So she contented
herself with a supplication which, under the circumstances, was the best
she could have offered.  She did not even try to form her petitions into
words--the depths in which her soul lay were too deep for that; it was a
wordless cry which went up to God.  But its substance was an entreaty
that the Father would do His will, and would bend her will to it; that
whatever He saw fit to give her, He would always give His presence and
His love; that whatever He was pleased to take away, He would not take
from her the word unto His handmaid wherein He had caused her to hope.
And when she rose from her knees, the prominent idea in her mind might
have been expressed in the words of the old proverb, "He loseth nothing
that keepeth God for his friend."

An hour afterwards, Dame Lovell, who could not rest for the remembrance
of her child's grief, came softly into Margery's chamber to see if she
could comfort her.  She was surprised to find her sleeping as quietly as
a little child, with the book, even in sleep, held fast to her bosom, as
if she would permit nothing to separate her from that Word of God which
had given rest to her soul.


Note 1.  Carpets were very rare at this time, and only used on state
occasions and for invalids.  Their place was supplied by fresh green
rushes, strewn on the floor.  It appears rather doubtful, however,
whether carpets were not sometimes used in the winter.



  "Whan we cam' in by Glasgow toun,
  We were a comely sicht to see,--
  My luve was clad in velvet black
  And I mysel' in cramoisie."

  Old Ballad.

A fortnight after the events recorded in the last chapter, Lovell Tower
was in the confusion of great preparations for the approaching wedding.
Friar Andrew was despatched to York fair to purchase twenty yards of
scarlet cloth, fourteen yards of tawny satin, eight of purple satin, and
the same number of blue cloth of silver, with jewels and rich furs.  All
was cutting-out and fitting-on, with discussions about trimmings,
quintises, and head-dresses.  Richard Pynson was sent hither and thither
on errands.  Sir Geoffrey himself superintended the purchase of a new
pillion, and ordered it to be covered with green velvet.  Lord Marnell,
who did not often come to Lovell Tower himself, sent over a trusty
messenger every day to inquire if Mistress Margery had rested well and
was merry.  From the latter condition she was very far.  At length the
preparations were completed; and on a splendid summer day, when the
birds were singing their most joyous melodies, Margery Lovell was
married, in Bostock Church, to Sir Ralph Marnell, Baron Marnell of
Lymington, Knight of the Garter.  The bride was attired in blue cloth of
silver, trimmed with miniver; and her hair, as was then the custom at
weddings, was not confined by any head-dress, but flowed down her back,
long and straight.  The bridegroom was dressed in cramoisie--crimson
velvet--richly trimmed with bullion, and wore three long waving plumes
in his cap, as well as a streamer of gold lace.  If any one who may read
these pages should inquire why Margery chose blue for her wedding-dress,
I may answer that Margery would have been greatly astonished if any one
had recommended white.  White at this period was not only a mourning
colour, but mourning of the very deepest character.

No pains were spared to make this a merry wedding, and yet it certainly
could not be called a joyous one.  All the inhabitants of Lovell Tower
knew well that the bride was very far from happy; Sir Geoffrey and Dame
Lovell were naturally sorry to lose their only child; Friar Andrew
mourned over his favourite and his kettle of furmety; while Richard
Pynson had his own private sorrow, to which I need not allude further in
this place.

The bridal feast was held at Lovell Tower, and all the neighbours were
invited to it.  The festivities were prolonged to a late hour; and at
five o'clock next morning everybody was busy helping the bride to pack
up.  Everybody thought of everything so well, that there was very little
left for her to think of; but she did think of one thing.  When Margery
set out for her new home in London, the book went too.

The journey to London from the North was in those days a long and
wearisome one.  There were no vehicles but litters and waggons.  Margery
travelled part of the way in a litter, and part on a pillion behind her
bridegroom, who rode on horseback the whole way.  He had with him a
regular army of retainers, besides sundry maidens for the Lady Marnell,
at the head of whom was Alice Jordan, the unlucky girl who, at our first
visit to Lovell Tower, was reprimanded for leaving out the onions in the
blanch-porre.  Margery had persuaded her mother to resign to her for a
personal attendant this often clumsy and forgetful but really
well-meaning girl.  It was a Friday evening when they arrived in London;
and Margery was much too tired to think of doing anything but rest her
wearied head in sleep.

As early as four o'clock the next morning, she was roused by London
cries from a happy dream of Lovell Tower.  "Quinces! sweet quinces! ripe

"Any kitchen-stuff, have you, maids?"

"Cakes and ale! cakes and ale!"

"Cherry ripe! cherry ripe!"

"Come buy, pretty maids, come buy! come buy!" with an undercurrent of
the long rhymed cry of the hawker of haberdashery, of which Shakespeare
has given us a specimen as regards the English version--

  "Lawn, as white as driven snow;
  Cyprus, black as e'er was crow,"

Margery lay still, and listened in silence to all these new sounds.  At
length she rose and dressed herself, with the assistance of Alice, who
was seriously dissatisfied with the narrow streets and queer smells of
the town, and spared no comment on these points while assisting her
young mistress at her toilette.  Having dressed, Margery passed into an
antechamber, close to her bedroom, where breakfast was served.  This
repast consisted of a pitcher of new milk, another pitcher of wine, a
dish of poached eggs, a tremendous bunch of water-cress, a large loaf of
bread, and marchpanes--a sweet cake, not unlike the modern macaroon.
Breakfast over, Margery put on her hood, and taking Alice with her, she
sallied forth on an expedition to examine the neighbourhood of her new
home.  One of Lord Marnell's men-servants followed at a short distance,
wearing a rapier, to defend his mistress in case of any assault being
made upon her.

Lord Marnell's house was very near the country, and in a quiet and
secluded position, being pleasantly situated in Fleet Street.  Green
fields lay between the two cities of London and Westminster.  There was
only one bridge across the river, that silver Thames, which ran, so
clear and limpid, through the undulating meadows; and the bridge was
entirely built over, a covered way passing under the houses for wheeled
vehicles.  Far to the right rose the magnificent Palace of Westminster,
a relic of the Saxon kings; and behind it the grand old Abbey, and the
strong, frowning Sanctuary; while to the left glittered the walls and
turrets of the White Tower, the town residence of royalty.  Margery,
however, could not see the whole of this as she stepped out of her
house.  What first met her eyes were the more detailed and less pleasant
features of the scene.  There were no causeways; the streets, as a rule,
would just allow of the progress of one vehicle, though a few of the
principal ones would permit the passage of two; and the pavements
consisted of huge stones, not remarkable either for evenness or
smoothness.  A channel ran down the middle of the street, into which
every housewife emptied her slops from the window, and along which dirty
water, sewerage, straw, drowned rats, and mud, floated in profuse and
odoriferous mezee.  Margery found it desirable to make considerable use
of her pomander, a ball of various mixed drugs inclosed in a gold
network, and emitting a pleasant fragrance when carried in the warm
hand.  As she proceeded along the streets which were lined with shops,
the incessant cry of the shopkeepers standing at their doors, "What do
you lack? what do you lack?" greeted her on every side.  The vehicles
were of two classes, as I have before observed--waggons and litters, the
litters being the carriages of the fourteenth century; but the waggons
were by far the most numerous.  Occasionally a lady of rank would ride
past in her litter, drawn by horses whose trappings swept the ground; or
a knight, followed by a crowd of retainers, would prance by on his
high-mettled charger.  Margery spent the happiest day which she had
passed since her marriage, in wandering about London, and satisfying her
girlish curiosity concerning every place of which she had ever heard.
Lord Marnell frowned when Margery confessed, on her return, that she had
been out to see London.  It was not fit, he said, that she should go out
on foot: ladies of rank were not expected to walk: she ought to have
ordered out her litter, with a due attendance of retainers.

"But, my lord," said Margery, very naturally, "an't please you, I could
not see so well in a litter."

Lord Marnell's displeased lips relaxed into a laugh, for he was amused
at her simplicity; but he repeated that he begged she would remember,
now that she _had_ seen, that she was no longer plain Mistress Margery
Lovell, but Baroness Marnell of Lymington, and would behave herself
accordingly.  Margery sighed at this curtailment of her liberty, and
withdrew to see where Alice was putting her dresses.

As it was approaching evening, Lord Marnell's voice called her

"If thou wilt see a sight, Madge," he said, good-naturedly, as she
entered, "come quickly, and one will gladden thine eyes which never
sawest thou before.  The King rideth presently from the Savoy to the

Margery ran to the window, and saw a number of horses, decked, as well
as their riders, in all the colours of the rainbow, coming up the street
from the stately Savoy Palace, which stood, surrounded by green fields,
in what is now the Strand.

"Which is the King's Grace, I pray you?" asked she, eagerly.

"He weareth a plain black hood and a red gown," answered her husband.
"He rideth a white horse, and hath a scarlet footcloth, all powdered
over with ostrich feathers in gold."

"What!" said Margery, in surprise, "that little, fair, goodly man, with
the golden frontlet to his horse?"

"The very same," said Lord Marnell.  "The tall, comely man who rideth
behind him, on yon brown horse, and who hath eyes like to an eagle, is
the Duke of Lancaster.  `John of Gaunt,' the folk call him, by reason
that he was born at Ghent, in Flanders."

"And who be the rest, if I weary you not with asking?" said Margery,
rather timidly.

"In no wise," answered he.  "Mostly lords and noble gentlemen, of whom
thou mayest perchance have heard.  The Earl of Surrey is he in the green
coat, with a red plume.  The Earl of Northumberland hath a blue coat,
broidered with gold, and a footcloth of the same.  Yon dark,
proud-looking man in scarlet, on the roan horse, is the Duke of Exeter
[Sir John Holland], brother to the King's Grace by my Lady Princess his
mother, who was wed afore she wedded the Prince, whose soul God rest!
Ah! and here cometh my Lord of Hereford, Harry of Bolingbroke
[afterwards Henry IV], the Duke of Lancaster's only son and heir--and a
son and heir who were worse than none, if report tell truth," added Lord
Marnell, in a lower tone.  "Seest thou, Madge, yon passing tall man,
with black hair, arrayed in pink cloth of silver?"  [See note 1].

"I see him well, I thank your good Lordship," was Margery's answer; but
she suddenly shivered as she spoke.

"Art thou cold, Madge, by the casement?  Shall I close the lattice?"

"I am not cold, good my Lord, I thank you," said Margery, in a different
tone; "but I like not to look upon that man."

"Why so?" asked Lord Marnell, looking down from his altitude upon the
slight frail figure at his side.  "Is he not a noble man and a goodly?"

"I know not," answered Margery, still in a troubled voice.  "There is a
thing in his face for which I find not words, but it troubleth me."

"Look not on him, then," said he, drawing her away.  She thanked him for
his kindness in showing and explaining the glittering scene to her, and
returned to her supervision of Alice.

A few days after this, the Prioress of Kennington, Lord Marnell's
sister, came in her litter to see her young sister-in-law.  Margery was
surprised to find in her a lady so little resembling her country-formed
idea of a nun.  She wore, indeed, the costume of her order; but her
dress, instead of being common serge or camlet, was black velvet; her
frontlet and barb [see Note 2] were elaborately embroidered; her long
gloves [see Note 3] were of white Spanish leather, delicately perfumed,
and adorned with needlework in coloured silks; she wore nearly as many
rings as would have stocked a small jeweller's shop, and from her
girdle, set with the finest gems, were suspended a pomander richly
worked in gold and enamel, a large silver seal, and a rosary, made of
amethyst beads, holding a crucifix, the materials of which were
alabaster and gold.

In those palmy days of Romanism in England, nuns were by no means so
strictly secluded as now.  They were present at all manner of
festivities; the higher class travelled about the country very much as
they chose, and all of them, while retaining the peculiar shape and
colour of the prescribed monastic costume, contrived to spend a fortune
on the accessories and details of their dress.  The Prioress of
Kennington, as I have just described her, is a specimen of nearly all
the prioresses and other conventual authorities of her day.

This handsomely-dressed lady was stiff and stately in her manner, and
uttered, with the proudest mien, words expressive only of the most
abject humility.  "If her fair sister would come and see her at her poor
house at Kennington, she would be right glad of so great honour."
Margery replied courteously, but she had no desire to see much of the

Lord Marnell took his wife to Court, and presented her to the King--the
Queen was dead--and the Duchess of Gloucester [Eleanor Bohu], his aunt.
The King spoke to Margery very kindly, and won her good opinion by so
doing.  The Duchess honoured her with a haughty stare, and then
"supposed she came from the North?" in a tone which indicated that she
considered her a variety of savage.  The ladies in waiting examined and
questioned her with more curiosity than civility; and Margery's visit to
Court left upon her mind, with the single exception of King Richard's
kindness, a most unpleasant impression.

In the winter of 1396, King Richard brought home a new queen, the
Princess Isabelle of France, who had attained the mature age of eight
years.  Margery watched the little Queen make her entrance into London.
She was decked out with jewels, of which she brought a great quantity
over with her, and fresh ones were presented to her at every place where
she halted.  Alice, with round eyes, declared that "the Queen's Grace's
jewels must be worth a King's ransom--and would not your good Ladyship
wish to have the like?"

Margery shook her head.

"The only jewels that be worth having, good Alice," said she, "be gems
of the heart, such like as meekness, obedience, and charity.  And in
truth, if I were the chooser, there be many things that I would have
afore jewels.  But much good do they the Queen's Grace, poor child! and
I pray God she rest not content with gauds of this earth."

Before that winter was over, one thing, worth more than the Queen's
jewels in her eyes, was bestowed upon Margery.  Something to take care
of--something to love and live for.  A little golden-haired baby, which
became, so far as anything in this world could become so, the light and
joy of her heart and soul.

Margery soon learned to value at its true worth the show and tinsel of
London life.  She never appeared again at Court but once, to pay her
respects to the new Queen, who received her very cordially, seated on a
throne by her husband.  The small Queen of eight "hoped she was quite
well, and thought that England was a very fine country."  The king spoke
to her as kindly as before, offered her ipocras [see Note 4] and spices,
and on the close of the interview, took up his little Queen in his arms,
and carried her out of the room.  Margery had, indeed, no opportunity to
visit the Court again; for the young Queen was educated at Windsor, and
very rarely visited London.  And Lady Marnell, tired of the hollow
glitter of high life, and finding few or none in her own sphere with
whom she could complacently associate, went back with fresh zest to her
baby and the book.


Note 1.  These descriptions are taken from the invaluable illuminations
in Creton's _Histoire du Roy Richart Deux_, Harl.  Ms. 1319.  Creton was
a contemporary and personal friend of King Richard.

Note 2.  The frontlet and barb were pieces of white linen, the former
worn over the forehead, the latter over the chin.

Note 3.  Gloves were just becoming fashionable in the fourteenth century
for common wear.  Before that, they were rarely used except when the
wearer carried a falcon on the wrist.

Note 4.  A sweet wine or liqueur, generally served at the "void."



  "All quick and troubled was his speech,
  And his face was pale with dread,
  And he said, `The king had made a law,
  That the book must not be read,--
  For it was such fearful heresy,
  The holy abbot said.'"

  Mary Howitt.

Three years had passed since the events narrated in the last chapter,
and Margery was now twenty-one years of age.  She appeared older than
she was, and her face wore an unnaturally pensive expression, which had
been gradually settling itself there since the day of her marriage.  She
never laughed, and very rarely smiled, except when her eyes rested upon
her little golden-haired Geoffrey, whom she had sought and obtained
permission to name after her father.  He was a bright, merry little
fellow, perpetually in motion, and extremely fond of his mother, though
he always shrank from and seemed to fear his father.

On a summer day in the year 1399, Margery sat in her bower, or boudoir,
perusing the book.  Lord Marnell was, as usual, at Court; and little
Geoffrey was running about his mother's apartments on what he doubtless
considered important business.  Suddenly, in the midst of her reading, a
cry of pain from the child startled Margery.  She sprang up, and ran to
him; and she found that in running about, he had contrived to fall down
a step which intervened between the landing and the antechamber, whereby
he had very slightly bruised his infantine arm, and very greatly
perturbed his infantine spirit.  Geoffrey was weeping and whining
piteously, and his mother lifted him up, and carried him into her
bedroom, where she examined the injured arm, and discovered that the
injury consisted only of an almost imperceptible bruise.  The child,
however, still bewailed his misfortune; and Lady Marnell, having applied
some ointment to the sore place, sat down, and taking Geoffrey in her
lap, she soothed and rocked him until he fell asleep, and forgot all
about his bruised arm.  The boy had been asleep about a quarter of an
hour, when the recollection suddenly flashed upon Margery's mind that
she had left the book open to all comers and goers, instead of putting
it carefully away, as was her wont.  She set down the child softly on
the trussing-bed, (the curious name given by our forefathers to a piece
of furniture which formed a sofa or travelling-bed at pleasure), and
quietly opening the door into her bower, she saw--her husband standing
on the hearth, with the book in his hand, and a very decided frown
gathering on his countenance.  The rustle of Margery's dress made Lord
Marnell look up.

"What meaneth this, I pray you, mistress?" asked he, angrily.

There was no need, had Margery felt any disposition, to attempt further
concealment.  The worst that could come, had come.

"It is a book of mine," she quietly answered, "which I left here a short
season agone, when the boy's cry started me."

"Hast read it?" asked Lord Marnell, no less harshly.

"I have read it many times, good my Lord."

"And I pray you for to tell me whence you had it, good my Lady?" said
he, rather ironically.

Margery was silent.  She was determined to bear the blame alone, and not
to compromise either Pynson or Carew.

"Had you this book since you came hither?" said Lord Marnell, varying
the form of his question, when he saw she did not answer.

"No, my Lord.  I brought it with me from home."

And the word "home" almost brought the tears into her eyes.

"Your father--Sir Geoffrey--knew he thereof?"

"He did," said Margery, "and rebuked me sharply therefor."

"He did well.  Why took he not the book from you?"

"Because he showed it to Friar Andrew Rous, his and my confessor, who
thought there was no harm in the book, and that I might safely retain
the same."

"Then Friar Andrew Rous is the longest-eared ass I have lightly seen.
Whence got you this book?"

"It is mine own writing.  I copied it."

"Whence had you it?"

No answer.

"I say, whence had you this book?" roared Lord Marnell.

"My Lord," said Margery, gently, but decidedly, "I think not that it
needeth to say whence I had the same.  The book was lent unto me, whence
I copied that one; but I say not of whom it was lent unto me."

"You shall say it, and soon too!" was the reply.  "This matter must not
be let drop--it passeth into the hands of holy Abbot Bilson.  I will
seek him presently."

And so saying, Lord Marnell strode out of the room, leaving Margery in a
condition of intense terror.

That afternoon, as Margery sat in her bower, she was informed that the
Prioress of Kennington was in the oaken chamber.  Margery went down to
her, holding Geoffrey by the hand, and found her seated on a settle,
apparently preferring this more ancient form of seat to a chair; and
wearing her veil low over her face.  The Prioress rose when Lady Marnell
entered, and threw back her heavy black veil, as she advanced to greet
her.  Margery returned her salutation courteously, and then tried to
induce Geoffrey to go to his aunt--but Geoffrey hung back and would not
go.  Margery did not attempt to force the child, but sat down, and he
attached himself to that particular plait of her dress which was
furthest from the Prioress.  The Prioress tried to propitiate him, by
drawing from her pocket a piece of linen, which, being unfolded,
revealed a placenta--a delicacy which the nuns of several convents were
specially famed for making, and the nature of which will be better known
to an ordinary reader by the explanatory term cheese-cake.  Geoffrey
graciously accepted the placenta, but utterly declined all further
intimacy.  The expression of the Prioress's countenance suggested to
Margery the idea that she had seen her brother, and had heard of the
discovery of the book; so that Margery was quite prepared for her
remarking gravely, after her unsuccessful attempt to attract her little

"I heard this morn, fair sister, of a thing which did much trouble me."

"You mean," said Margery, simply, "of the discovering of a book in my
chamber by my Lord my husband, the which did anger him?"

"I rejoice that you take my meaning," answered the Prioress, in an even
voice.  "I meant that verily.  I grieve much, fair sister, to hear from
my fair brother that you have allied yourself unto those evil men which
be known by the name of Lollards."

"I cry you mercy, holy mother," answered Margery, quietly, "I have
allied myself unto no man.  I know not a Lollard in the realm.  Only I
read that book--and that book, as you must needs wit, holy mother,
containeth the words of the Lord Jesu.  Is there hurt therein?"

The Prioress did not directly answer this question.  She said, "If your
elders [parents], fair sister, had shown the wisdom for to have put you
in the cloister, you would have been free from such like temptations."

"Is it a temptation?" replied Margery.  "Meseemeth, holy mother, that
there be temptations as many in the cloister as in the world, only they
be to divers sins: and I misdoubt that I should have temptation in the
cloister, to the full as much as here."

"I cry you mercy, fair sister!" said the Prioress, with an air of
superiority.  "We have no temptations in our blessed retreat.  Our rule
saveth us, and our seclusion from the vanity of the world--and I pray
you, what other evil can assail a veiled nun?"

Margery glanced at the heavy gold chain round the Prioress's neck, the
multifarious rings on her fingers, and the costly jewels in her girdle,
and rather doubted her testimony as to the utter absence of vanity in a
veiled nun; but she contented herself with saying, "I trow, holy mother,
that ye carry with you evil hearts into your cloister, as have all men
without; and an evil heart within, and the devil without, need not
outward matters whereon to form temptation.  At least, I speak by mine

The Prioress looked rather shocked.  "The evil heart," answered she, "is
governed and kept down in us by our mortifications, our almsgivings, our
penances, our prayers, and divers other holy exercises."

"Ah, holy mother," said Margery, looking up, "can ye keep down by such
means your evil hearts!  I trow mine needeth more than that!"

"What mean you, fair sister?" inquired the Prioress.

"Nought less," replied Margery, "than the blood of the Lamb slain, and
the grace of Christ risen, have I yet found, that would avail to keep
down an evil heart!"

"Of force, fair sister, of force!" said the Prioress, coldly, "that is
as well as said."

"Then I pray you, why said you it not?"

The Prioress rose.  "I trust, fair sister," said she, without giving any
reply to Margery's home question, "that you may see your error ere it be
full late so to do."

"I trust," said Margery, as she followed her sister-in-law to the door,
"that God will keep me in the true faith, whatsoever that be."

"Amen!" said the Prioress, her long black robe sweeping the steps as she
mounted her litter.

"Is she gone?" lisped little Geoffrey, when his mother returned.
"Deff'y so glad!  Deff'y don't like her!"

That evening Margery received a message from her husband, bidding her
meet him and Abbot Bilson in the oaken chamber, and bring the book with
her.  She took the book from the table on which Lord Marnell had thrown
it--no need to hide it any longer now--kissed little Geoffrey's sleeping
forehead, as he lay in his cradle, and went down to the oaken chamber.

Lord Marnell, who, when angry, looked taller than ever, stood on the
hearth with his arms folded.  Abbot Bilson was seated in an arm-chair,
with his cowl thrown back.  He was a man of about sixty, with a
finely-formed head, more bald than the tonsure would account for, and a
remarkably soft, persuasive voice and manner.  Had the Order of Jesuits
existed at that time, Abbot Bilson might fitly have been the head of it.
"His words were softer than oil, yet were they drawn swords."

"The Lady Marnell," said her husband to the Abbot as she entered, and
the latter, without rising, saluted her with the benediction, "Peace be
with thee, daughter."

"Where is the book?" asked Lord Marnell, sternly, but not quite so
angrily as he had spoken in the morning.

Margery passed it to him.

"See there, reverend father," said he, as he handed it to the Abbot.
"What callest thou that?"

The Abbot turned over the leaves, but the suavity of his manner suffered
no change.

"A fine, clear scribe hath written this," remarked he, politely.  "The
Gospel according unto the blessed John, I ween, from the traduction of
Master John Wycliffe, the parson of Lutterworth, who deceased a few
years back.  And our good brother Andrew Rous thought no harm of your
keeping the book, my daughter?"

"So he said," answered Margery, shortly.

"Ah!  But your father--?"

"Did not like thereof at the first; but after that Father Rous had so
said, he made no further matter."

"Ah! of force.  I conceive it fully.  Your mother, good daughter?"

"My mother spake not of the matter.  She witteth not to read, and
therefore knew not the book."

"Certes," said the abbot, with the most exquisite gentleness.  Lord
Marnell, who kept fidgeting up and down the room, seemed almost annoyed
at the Abbot's extreme suavity.

"You had this book from a friend, methinks?" resumed the Abbot.

"I cannot tell you, father, whence I had it," was Margery's firm reply.

The Abbot looked surprised.

"Did our brother Rous lend it you?" he asked, his manner losing a small
portion of its extraordinary softness.


"Some friend, then, belike?  Sir Ralph Marston, your good cousin? or
Master Pynson, the squire of my worthy knight your father?"

Margery felt instantaneously that she was in the power of a very
dangerous man.  How he was endeavouring to ferret out admissions and
denials which would afterwards stand him in good stead!  How came he,
too, to know so much about her friends?  Had he been questioning Lord
Marnell?  Margery's breath came short and fast, and she trembled
exceedingly.  She was annoyed with herself beyond measure, because, when
the Abbot named Richard Pynson, she could not help a conscious blush in
hearing him mention, not indeed the person who had actually lent her the
book, but one who was concerned in the transaction.  The Abbot saw the
blush, though just then it did not suit his purpose to take notice of

"Well, well," said he, courteously, "we will not go further into that
question at present.  But you must wit, dear daughter, that this book
containeth fearful heresy!  Hath not our brother Rous taught you the
same?  Error of all kinds is therein, and weak women like unto you be
not able, my child, for to separate in all cases this error from the
truth wherewith, in these pernicious volumes, it is mingled.  You are
very young, daughter, and wit not yet all that the fathers of the Church
can tell you, an' you be meek and humble in receiving of their

He ceased, evidently thinking that he had made an impression.  He was
quite prepared for a little pouting, and for earnest entreaties, and
even passionate words; but the one thing for which he was not prepared
he got in Margery's answer.

"I wis well, reverend father," she said, very quietly, "to the full as
well as it list you to tell me, how young, and weak, and all unwitting I
be.  But I trow that Christ deceiveth not His children because they be
weak; and that if I can any words at all conceive, I can His.  Saith He
not, `_If ony man wole do His wille_, _he schall knowe of the
techinge_'?  [John vii. 17.] Saith He not again, `_Seke ye Scripturis_'?
[John v. 39.] I pray you now, father, to whom said He that?  Unto
fathers of the Church?  Nay, soothly, but unto Jews unbelieving--very
heathens, and no Christians.  Moreover, saith He not again, `_He that
dispisith me, and takith not my wordis, hath him that schal juge him;
thilk word that I have spoken schal deme him in the laste day_'?  [John
xii. 48.] I pray you, good father, how shall I know the word that shall
judge me if I read it not?  Truly meseemeth that the despising of His
Word lieth more in the neglect thereof.  Also say you that this book
containeth heresy and evil teaching.  Good father, shall Christ the Son
of God teach evil?  Doth God evil?  Will God deceive them that ask Him
truth?  Knoweth He not as much as fathers of the Church?  Nay truly,
good father, I trust that you wot not fully what you have said.  He is
`_weye, treuthe, and lyf; no man cometh to the Fadir but by Him_.'"
[John xiv. 6.]

Abbot Bilson, for once in his life, was completely dumb-foundered.  He
looked silently at Lord Marnell.

"I pray you see now, reverend father," said Lord Marnell, angrily, "how
the teaching of this book hath leavened yon girl's talk!  Is it a small
evil, Madge, to turn upon thy teacher when he teacheth thee of wisdom,
with sayings picked up from a book?  Art not ashamed?"

"No, my Lord, I am no wise shamed," answered she; "for the reverend
father teacheth me the words of men, and the words of my book be the
words of Christ; and when Christ and men come to warring, I trow there
is small doubt as to who shall be the winner."

The Abbot sat mutely gazing at Margery.  Her face, usually so calm and
pale, was lighted up, as she spoke, with a light not of this world; and
he could not comprehend it.  Had she asked pardon, he could have soothed
her; had she lamented and bewailed, he might have promised her many
things to comfort her; had she spoken bitterly or passionately, he might
have commanded her silence.  But this conduct of hers, so quiet, yet so
decided--so gentle, but so uncompromising--puzzled him extremely.  He
only saw the exterior, and he could not discover that wherein her great
strength lay.

"My Lord Marnell," he said, in a perplexed tone, "I would speak with
you.  Good lady, will you give us leave?"

Margery rose, and, courtesying, quitted the room at once; but she took
the book with her, and nobody prevented her from doing so.

"My Lord," said the Abbot, when she was gone, "I am bewildered utterly.
I know not what to do with this girl.  Never the like of her saw I
before, and my experience is baffled.  But meseemeth that the best thing
is to treat her gently at the first; and if she relent not, _then_--"

The sentence was left unfinished, but Lord Marnell understood it.



  "There are briars besetting every path,
  That call for patient care;
  There is a cross in every lot,
  And an earnest need for prayer;
  But a lowly heart that leans on Thee
  Is happy anywhere."

  Miss Waring.

It was a lovely, clear, moonlight night, and the streets of London were
hushed and still.  By the light of the moon might be discerned a man in
traveller's dress, walking slowly along Fleet Street, and looking up at
the houses, as if uncertain which of them would prove the one he sought.
The traveller, though he looks much older, and his face wears a weary,
worn expression, we recognise as our old friend Richard Pynson.
Suddenly, in the midst of his search, Richard stopped and looked up.
From an oriel window, directly above his head, a faint sound of singing
reached him--an air which he instantly recognised as "The Palmer's
hymn," sung by the pilgrims to Jerusalem on their journey to the Holy
Land.  The voice of the singer, though low, was so clear, that the words
of the hymn were floated distinctly to his ear.

  "Holy City, happy City,
  Built on Christ, and sure as He,
  From my weary journeying,
  From the wastes, I cry to thee;
  Longing, sighing, hasting, crying,
  Till within thy walls I be.
  Ah! what happy, happy greeting
  For the guests thy gates who see!
  Ah! what blessed, blessed meeting
  Have thy citizens in thee!
  Ah! those glittering walls how fair,
  Jasper shene and ruby blee.
  Never harm, nor sin, nor danger,
  Thee can tarnish, crystal sea;
  Never woe, nor pain, nor sorrow,
  Thee can enter, City free!"

The voice ceased, and Richard Pynson, without any further doubt or
trouble, applied at once for admittance at the gate of the house whence
the music had issued.  He could never mistake the voice of Margery
Lovell.  The old porter, half asleep, came to the gate, and,
sentinel-like, inquired, "Who goes there?"

"A friend, a messenger from Dame Lovell, who would fain have speech, if
he may, of the Lady Marnell."

As soon as the porter heard the name of Dame Lovell, he threw open the
gate.  "Enter, friend."  The ponderous gate swung to again, and the old
man slowly preceded Richard through the archway to the door of the
house, and up the wide staircase.  He ushered him into a room panelled
with oak, where he stirred up the decaying embers of the fire, requested
him to be seated, and left the room.  At the door of the adjoining
chamber, Richard heard him softly whisper, "Mistress Alice!  Mistress

A gentle movement in the room followed, and then Richard heard the
familiar voice of Alice Jordan.

"Hush! good Christopher," said she, in a low tone; "the boy sleepeth at
last--wake him not.  What wouldst?"

"There is here a messenger from Lovell Tower, who would have speech of
my Lady."

On hearing this, Alice came forward at once into the oaken chamber where
Richard sat.

"Ah!  Master Pynson!" she said, "is it you!  My Lady will be right fain
to see you--but you come at an evil hour."

"How so?" asked Richard, quickly.

"My Lady is watching this livelong night by the cradle of the young
master, who is sore sick--we fear nigh unto death.  The child is in
grievous disease [restlessness, uneasiness], and cannot sleep; and her
good Ladyship hath been singing unto him, I ween, for to soothe him to
rest.  Her voice hushed as you came, wherefore I count that the boy

"What aileth the poor child?" inquired Richard.

"My Lady counteth that he got him an ill rheum when we departed hence
for my Lord his house of plesance [country house], for to sweeten [See
Note 2].  Howsoever that be, he is now grievous sick."

"The Lady Marnell herself is well?"

"Alas!" replied Alice, "I ween she is little better than the child.  She
hath been in sore trouble of late, wherefore it is no marvel.  There be
rumours of accusations for heresy out against her, and my Lord is ill
angered towards her.  Well, God witteth, and God keep her!  You will see
how evil [ill] she looketh an' she come to speak with you, and I trow
that she will when I give her to wit who is here."

So saying, Alice returned to the room she had quitted, and for some
minutes Richard heard nothing more.  Then the door re-opened, and a lady
entered the chamber.

Was _that_ Margery Lovell?  Never, surely, were hers that feeble step,
that worn, wan, white face, that dark ring round the eyes, telling of
weary vigils, and of bitter weeping!  But the smile of welcome was
Margery Lovell's own, and the gesture, as she came forward quickly,
holding out both hands, was hers also; though the smile died away in an
instant, and the worn, wearied look came back instead.

"Dear, good friend!" she said, "how it gladdeth me to see you!  You come
straightway from Lovell Tower?  My father and mother be well?  And
Mistress Katherine, and Cicely, and all the maidens?  And Lyard, and old
Beaudesert?  (naming her palfrey and the watchdog).  And all mine old
friends--Sir Ralph Marston, and Master Carew?"

Richard smiled a grave, almost mournful smile.

"You ask too many questions, good my Lady, to be answered in a breath.
But Dame Lovell is in health, and greets you well by me, bidding you be
assured ever of her love and blessing."

"And my father?  O Master Pynson, my father! my father!"

She sat down, and buried her face in her hands, and wept; for though
Richard had made no answer in words, his face told his tidings too
unmistakably.  Sir Geoffrey Lovell was dead.  After a time Margery
looked up whiter and more wan than ever, and begged to know the
particulars of her father's death.  Richard informed her that Sir
Geoffrey had been taken ill three days only before he died; they had
immediately summoned Master Carew, who was a physician, and who had
pronounced that since he could not live many days, it would be useless
to send for his daughter, who could not possibly reach Lovell Tower in
time to see him alive.  Dame Lovell was well in health, but had quite
lost her old cheerfulness, and appeared to feel her husband's death very
acutely.  It had been arranged that Friar Andrew should remain with Dame
Lovell as her confessor.  As to himself, Richard said that he should of
course return to his father for a time, until he could by some act of
bravery or special favour receive the honour of knighthood; but he did
not like to say anything to Dame Lovell about leaving her, so long as he
saw that he was of any use to her, as he knew that she regarded him in
the light of an adopted son, and had especially seemed to cling to him
since Margery's departure.

Margery replied that she would have requested for him the favour of
knighthood in a moment at the hands of Lord Marnell, but she did not
like to ask him for anything so long as he was displeased with her.

Richard inquired after Lord Marnell.  Margery said he was well, and was
with the King at Havering-atte-Bower: but talking about him seemed to
increase her look of weariness and woe.  She turned the subject by
inquiring again about her old friends.  Cicely and the maids, Richard
told her, were well; but old Beaudesert always howled whenever he was
asked for Madge; and Lyard would stand switching his tail in the meadow,
and looking wistfully at the house for the young mistress whom he must
never see again.

"You miss me, then, all?" said Margery, mournfully.

"You will never know how sore," was Richard's answer.

Another pause ensued--there seemed some strange constraint between
them--and then Richard asked--

"And what tidings take I home, good my Lady?  Dame Lovell bade me have a
care to ask how you fared, and the child.  I grieve to hear from Alice
Jordan that _he_ fareth but evil, and for _you_--"

He smiled the same grave smile.

"Well--_well_, Master Pynson," said Margery, quickly.  "I fare well.  I
cannot go where is not Christ, and where He is, howsoever I fare, I must
needs fare well.  And for the child--come and see him."

She led the way noiselessly to the adjoining room.  Little Geoffrey lay
in Alice's arms in a heavy sleep.  His breathing was very quick and
short, and his face flushed and fevered.  Richard stood looking silently
at him for a few minutes, and then returned with Margery to the oaken
chamber.  She offered him refreshments, but he declined them.  He had
supped, he said, already; and ere breakfast-time, he looked to be on his
way back to the North.  Margery wrote a short letter to Dame Lovell, and
intrusted it to him; and then she sat by the table, wearily resting her
head upon her hand.

"I pray you, good my Lady," said Richard, suddenly, breaking the spell
that seemed to bind them, "what meaneth this bruit [noise, rumour] of
heresy that I hear of you?"

Margery looked up with a strange light in her eyes.

"You remember, I trow, asking Master Carew for to lend me yon book?--and
wending with me to hear Master Sastre's homily?"

"I mind it well."

"_That_ meaneth it.  That because I read Christ's words, and love them,
and do them, so far as in my poor power lieth, the charge of heresy is
laid at my door.  And I ween they will carry it on to the end."

"_The end_?" said Richard, tremblingly,--for he guessed what that meant,
and the idea of Margery being subjected to a long and comfortless
imprisonment, was almost more than he could bear.  His own utter
powerlessness to save her was a bitter draught to drink.

"Ay, the end!" she said, with the light spreading all over her face.
"Mind you not how Master Sastre asked us if we could sue the Lamb along
the weary and bitter road?  Is it an evil thing to sue the Lamb, though
He lead over a few rugged stones which be lying in the path?  Nay,
friend, I am ready for the suing, how rough soever the way be."

Richard sat looking at her in silence.  He had always thought her half
an angel, and now he thought her so more than ever.

"I trow you know these things, good friend?" said Margery, with her sad,
faint smile.  "You know, is it not, how good is Christ?"

"I am assaying for to know," answered Richard, huskily.  "I have been
a-reading of Master Carew's book, since I found you counted it so great
a thing.  Oft-times have Master Carew and I sat reading of that book
whenever I could make an errand unto his neighbourhood; and he hath
taught me many things.  But I cannot say yet that I be where you be,
Mistress Margery," he added, calling her by the old familiar title, "or
that I know Christ as friendly as you seem to know Him."

"Then," said Margery, earnestly, "let not go your grasp till you have
fast hold of Him.  Ah! what matter how soon or how sore cometh the end,
if `_whanne He hath loued Hise that ben in the world, into the ende He
loueth them_.'  [John xiii. 1.] O dear friend, count not anything lost
if thou keepest Christ His love!  If He shall come unto thee and say of
aught by which thou settest store, as He did say unto Peter, `_Louest_
_thou me more than these_?' let thine answer be his, `_Che, Lord, Thou
woost that I loue Thee_!'  [John xxi. 15.] Oh count not aught too rare
or too brave for to give Christ!  `_He that loueth his lyf schal leese
it; and he that hatith his lyf in this world, kepith it unto
everlastinge lyf_.'  [John xii. 25.] No man loseth by that chepe
[exchange, bargain] of life worldly for life everlasting.  Never shall
the devils have leave to say, `Behold here a man who hath lost by

"Must we needs give Christ _all_?" said Richard, in an unsteady tone.

"Is there a thing that thou wouldst keep from Him?--a thing that thou
lovest more than thou lovest Him?  Then it will be no marvel that thou
shouldst lose the same.  Trust me, if His heart be set on thee, He will
either have thy heart away from it by thy good will, or will have it
away from thy heart by bitter rending and sorrow.  And alas for that man
who hath no portion in Christ His heart!"

Richard answered almost in a whisper, and bent forward to take Margery's
hand as he did so.  The spell was fully broken now.

"There was only one thing, and He hath taken it.  Margery, I loved
_you_.  I had given readily all else but you.  And I trow you will count
it but a sorry [poor, unworthy] giving, wherein the heart goeth not with
the hands."

She turned her head hastily away, and made no answer; but he felt her
hand grow deathly cold in his own.  He dropped it, and rose--and so did
she.  She went with him to the door; and there, as she offered her hand
for a farewell greeting, she spoke--

"Richard, God hath parted thee and me, and whatsoever God doth He doth
wed.  If it were as thou sayest, there was need thereof.  When children
come home to their father's house from afar, I trow they fall not
a-bewailing that they had not leave to come in company.  And if only we
may clasp hands at the gate of the _Urbs Beata_, I trow well that we
shall count it no great matter, good friend, that we saw but little the
one of the other on the journey!"

Richard kissed her hand, and then she drew it from him, and softly
passed into her darkened nursery.  For a moment he stood looking after
her.  "Please God, we will, Margery!" he said to himself, at length.
Then he ran lightly down the stairs, and old Christopher rose at the
sound of his step to open the door for him.

And so Richard Pynson and Margery Marnell parted, never more to speak to
each other on this side of the Happy City.


Note 1.  Any reader acquainted with mediaeval hymns will recognise in

"Urbs coelestis! urbs beata!  Super petram collocata."

I have translated a few lines of the hymn for the benefit of the English
reader; but my heroine must be supposed to sing it in the original

Note 2.  "Sweetening" was a process to which our forefathers were
compelled by their want of drains, and consisted in leaving a house
entirely empty for a time, to have the windows opened, the rushes
renewed, and to adroit of a general purification.  Families who had the
means generally "went to sweeten" at least every summer.



  "Take from me anything Thou wilt,
  But go not _Thou_ away!"

Little Geoffrey slowly recovered from the illness which had brought him
to death's door, and though able to run about the house, he was still
far from perfect health, when Margery received orders to prepare for
another interview with Abbot Bilson.  She rightly divined that this
would be more stormy than the last.  Abbot Bilson came now fully
prepared, and not alone.  He was accompanied by Archbishop Arundel, a
man of violent passions, and a bitter persecutor of all whom he
conceived to lean to the opinions of Wycliffe.  When Margery entered the
room, and saw the Archbishop, she trembled, as well she might.  She
meekly knelt and asked their blessing--the manner in which priests were
commonly greeted.  The Abbot gave his, saying, "May God bless thee, and
lead thee unto the truth!"

"Amen!" responded Margery.  Arundel, however, refused his benediction
until he had inquired into the matter.

"Be seated, my daughter!" said the Abbot.  Margery obeyed.

"Holy Church, daughter, hath been sore aggrieved by thine evil doing.
She demandeth of thee an instant yielding of yon heretical and
pernicious book, the which hath led thee astray; and a renunciation of
thy heresy; the which done, thou shalt receive apostolic absolution and

"I know not, reverend father, what ye clepe [call] heresy.  Wherein have
I sinned?"

"In the reading of yon book, and in thy seldom confession.  Moreover, I
trow thou holdest with the way of John Wycliffe, yon evil reprobate!"
replied the Archbishop.

"I cry you mercy, reverend fathers.  I take my belief from no man.  I
crede [believe] the words of Christ as I find the same written, and
concern not myself with Master Wycliffe or any other.  I know not any
Lollards, neither have I allied myself unto them."

The Archbishop and the Abbot both looked at Lord Marnell--a mute inquiry
as to whether Margery spoke the truth.

"I ween it is so, reverend fathers," said he.  "I wis nought of my wife
her manner of living ere I wedded her, but soothly sithence [since] she
came hither, I know of a surety that she hath never companied with any
such evil persons as be these Lollards."

"Hold you _not_ with the way of Wycliffe, daughter?" inquired the Abbot.

"I wis not, reverend father," answered she, "for of a truth I know not
wherein it lieth.  I hold that which I find in the book; and I trow an'
I keep close by the words of Christ, I cannot stray far from truth."

"The words in yon book be no words of Christ!" said Arundel.  "That evil
one Wycliffe, being taught of the devil, hath rendered the holy words of
the Latin into pernicious heresy in English."

"I pray you then, father, will you give me the book in Latin, for I wis
a little the Latin tongue, and moreover I can learn of one that hath the
tongues to wit better the same."

This was not by any means what Arundel intended, and it raised his

"I will not give thee the Latin!" exclaimed he.  "I forbid thee to read
or learn the same, for I well know thou wouldst wrest it to thine evil

"How can you put a right meaning to the words, my daughter?" mildly
suggested the Abbot.

"I know well that I could in no wise do the same," replied Margery,
humbly, "had I not read the promise of Christ Jesu that He would send
unto His own `_thilk Spyryt of treuthe_,' who should `_teche them al
treuthe_,' [John xvi. 13] wherefore by His good help I trust I shall
read aright."

"That promise was given, daughter, unto the holy apostles."

"It was given, reverend father, unto weak men and evil, else Peter had
never denied his Master, ne [neither] had all of them left Him and taken
to flight, when the servants of the bishops [see Note 1] laid hold on
Him.  I wis that I have an evil heart like as they had, but meseemeth
that mine is not worser than were theirs, wherefore I count that promise
made unto myself also."

"Thou art lacking in meekness, Madge," said Lord Marnell.

"I trust not so, good my Lord; but an' if I be, I pray God to give it to

"Give up the book, Madge!" said her husband, apparently desirous to
allay the storm which he had raised, "and thou shalt then receive
absolution, and all will go well."

"I will give up the book, my Lord, in obedience to you," replied
Margery, "for I wis well that wives be bounden to obey their husbands;
and soothly it is no great matter, for I know every word therein.  But
under your good leave, my Lord, the truth which this book hath taught
me, neither you nor any other man shall have power to take from me, for
it is of God, and not of men!"

She drew the book from her pocket--ladies wore much larger pockets in
those days than they now do--kissed it, and handed it to her husband.

"Thou hast well done, Madge!" said Lord Marnell, more kindly than
before, as he passed the book to the Archbishop.  Arundel, with a
muttered curse upon all evil teaching, took the book from Lord Marnell
with his hand folded in the corner of his gown, as if he thought its
very touch would communicate pollution, and flung it into the fire.  The
fire was a large one, and in a minute the volume was consumed.  Margery
watched the destruction of her treasure with swimming eyes.

"Burn, poor book!" she said, falteringly, "and as thy smoke goeth up to
God, leave it tell Him that the reading and the loving of His Word is
accounted a sin by those who ought to be His pastors."

"Woman, wilt not hear the truth?" cried Arundel.

"Truly, father, I have heard it, and it shall rest with me unto my dying
day.  But I trow that if your teaching were truth, ye had never burned
with fire the Word of Christ, who hath power, if ye repent not, to
consume you also with the like!"

"Told I not thee that the evil book which I gave to the fire was not
Christ His Word, but the work of the devil?"

"Yea, truly; and the like said the heathen Jews, `_Wher we seyen not wel
that thou art a Samaritan, and hast a deuel_?'  But I find not that
their saying the same made it ever the truer.  What saith Christ in
answer?  `_I haue not a deuel; but I honoure my Fadir, and ye han
unhonourid me_.'" [John viii. 48, 49.]

"My daughter," said the Abbot, with even more than his usual gentleness,
"I misdoubt greatly that you be obstinate in your error.  And if this be
so, we shall have necessity of deeds the which we should sore lament.
You wit, doubtless, that in case you continue thus obstinate, you will
be had up afore the King's Grace's Council?"

"I am ready," answered Margery.

"You wit also," pursued the Abbot, no less gently, "that you may be
sentenced unto close prison for such time as pleaseth the King's Grace?"

"I am ready," said Margery again.

Her examiners looked surprised.

"Moreover," continued the Abbot, in a softer tone than ever, "wit you
that we can allow you no longer to have the charge and teaching of your
son, who must needs be instructed in the true faith?"

The end of the reverend fathers was at length reached.  The quiet words
of the Abbot produced an effect which the furious abuse of the
Archbishop had been unable to accomplish.  A cry of mingled terror,
anguish, and despair, broke from poor Margery's lips.

"Ye could not--ye could not be so cruel!" she sobbed.  "Take from me all
I have in this world--comfort, freedom, yea, life--only leave me my

"Thou seest what thou hast brought on thyself!" said Arundel.  "How can
we, being the ministers of God His truth, suffer the mind of yon
innocent child to be poisoned with like evil doctrine?"

"Doth God part the child from the mother?" faltered Margery.  "This is
none of His doing.  My darling! my darling!"

Lord Marnell pitied his wife.  Her agony touched all that was soft and
gentle in his not too soft heart.

"Well, well, Madge!" he said, kindly; "I will see that thy child is not
taken from thee, if thou wilt obey these reverend fathers in confessing
of thine error, and wilt humbly beg absolution at their hands."

Margery looked up at her husband with an expression of unutterable
gratitude beaming in her eyes--but the moment she heard his if, her face
fell instantly.

"I conceive you, good my Lord," she said, mournfully, "howsoever I thank
you.  You will give me back my darling, if I will deny that I hold
Christ His truth.  I cannot.  I dare not!"

"`Christ His truth,' persist you in calling your heresy!" cried Arundel,
in a fury.  "Choose, then, quickly, for the last time, betwixt `Christ
His truth' and your child!"

She shivered from head to foot as if an ague-fit were on her, and her
sobs almost mounted to a scream.  No heart that had any pretension to
humanity could have helped pitying her.  Her husband did pity her; but
Arundel was carried away by passion, and Bilson had no heart.  Through
all this tempest, however agonised, firm and unwavering came the


Arundel, rising, ordered her to kneel.  Margery knelt down on the
hearth, her hands clasped on her breast, and her eyes looking up to
heaven.  Solemnly, and with all that terrific majesty which the Church
of Rome so well knows how to put into her threats and denunciations, the
Archbishop cited her to appear before the council on the 17th day of the
following September.  In the meantime she was to be confined in one of
the State dungeons.  Arundel graciously added that he would give her the
remainder of that day to make her preparations.  Lord Marnell here
interposed, and begged the Archbishop to reconsider his decision.  He
had anticipated Margery's examination by the council, and possibly her
being sentenced to a term of imprisonment, but he had not bargained for
this previous incarceration.  Arundel bluntly refused to alter his

Margery raised her tearful eyes to Lord Marnell.  "My Lord," she said,
"and you, reverend fathers, I have one small thing to ask of you.  I
pray you deny me not."

"What is it, Madge?" asked Lord Marnell.

"My good Lord," she said, pleadingly, "suffer me to take one last kiss
of my child, ere ye take me where I shall see him no more!"

The Abbot seemed disposed to grant Margery's petition, though the
Archbishop demurred; but Lord Marnell settled the matter by
authoritatively commanding that the mother should be permitted to take
leave of her child.  Arundel, with rather a bad grace, gave way on this
secondary point.  Margery was then dismissed.

She went up-stairs as if she were walking in a dream, and found Alice
hiding behind the door for the amusement of little Geoffrey, who was in
high glee.  Margery stood a moment on the threshold, looking at them,
and mournfully thinking that it was the last time she would ever look on
that sunny little face, or hear that silvery laugh.  As she stood there,
Alice caught sight of her mistress, and her share of the mirth ceased

"My Lady! my Lady! what have you, I pray you tell me?  You look as if
sentence of death had been passed on you!"

Margery passed her hand dreamily across her brow.

"Sentence, good Alice, of the evil which is in death!" she said, softly,
"and henceforth death must needs be a glad thing.  But that is to come

She sat down, and took the child on her knee, and he nestled his little
golden head into her bosom.  For a few minutes she rocked herself and
him to and fro in silence, but at length her voice came, and though it
trembled a little, it was almost as quiet and silvery as usual.

"Geoffrey, dost love me?"

"Yes, mother, very much."

"Poor child! how wilt do without me!"

"Go you hence, mother?"

"Yes, my child, I go hence.  Geoffrey, wilt mind ever what I now say
unto thee?  Wilt never, never forget it, but ever keep it fresh and
shene, and think thereof whenever thou dost think of me?"

"Yes, mother, I shan't forget."

"Alice, thou wilt help him to remember, good lass, if thou be not taken
from him."

"That will I, good my Lady," said Alice, sobbing, and only comprehending
that something painful had happened.

"Geoffrey, darling, thou wilt be a good child to thy father?"

"I'll try, mother, but--he frighteth me."

Margery sighed heavily.

"List me now, my heart.  Dost remember what I told thee about Jesus

Geoffrey answered that he did.

"Right, my heart.  And lovest Jesus Christ, who died for thee?"

"Yes, mother, I love Him and you."

The child's innocent answer nearly upset Margery's half-assumed
calmness.  She rocked him a minute longer in silence.  "Remember, mine
own sweet heart, ever that nothing but Jesus can save thee.  Thou canst
not save thyself.  Beg of Him with all thine heart that He will save
thee, and love Him all thy life long, even unto _the end_."

She ceased an instant.

"Now, sweet heart, kiss me.  Give me a brave kiss, mine own--it is the
last.  Never shall we kiss again till we kiss in the Happy City!
Fare-thee-well, dearly beloved!  God have thee in His holy keeping!  God
teach thee what I cannot--what I by reason of mine ignorance know not,
or what thou by reason of thy tender years canst not yet conceive.  God
forgive thee thy sins, and help thee in all trouble and woe, and bring
thee to that blessed home where I shall see thee again, and where they
sin not, nor grieve, neither part any more!"

Margery gently detached herself from the child's embrace, and set him
down.  She desired Alice to take him away, and then to return and assist
her in matters respecting which she would tell her particulars when she
should have removed the child.  She stood looking after the boy as Alice
led him away, and he turned his head to say, "God be wi' ye!"  [See Note

"Never again! never again!" said Margery to herself in a half-whisper.
"The worst part of death is over!  I have nothing left now but Christ."


Note 1.  Wycliffe always renders "Bisschopis" the word translated "chief
priests" in the authorised version.

Note 2.  The farewell phrase which has in modern times been shortened
into "good-bye."



  "Christ is at hand to scorn or bless--
  Christ suffers in our strife."

  Christian Year.

In the evening, as previously ordered, Margery quitted Marnell Place in
her litter for her prison in the Tower.  The jailer stared at her, as
Abbot Bilson, who accompanied her, gave her into his charge, and
whisperingly asked the reason for which she was to be incarcerated.

"Heresy, good friend."

"Heresy!" said the jailer, staring more than ever.  "What pity for one
so marvellous young!  Poor lady! it sorroweth me!"

When Margery was at length locked in, she had time to look round her
prison.  It was a small, square, whitewashed cell, completely
unfurnished; all the furniture had to be brought from Marnell Place.
Not much was allowed.  A mattress and blanket by way of bed, a stool,
and a crucifix, were the only articles permitted.  The barred window was
very small, and very high up.  Here Margery was to remain until
September.  The days rolled wearily on.  Lord Marnell occasionally
visited her; but not often, and he was her sole visitor.  The jailer,
for a jailer, was rather kind to his prisoner, whom he evidently pitied;
and one day he told her, as he brought her the prison allowance for
supper, that "strange things" were taking place in the political world.
There was a rumour in London that "my Lord of Hereford" had returned to
England before his period of banishment was over, and had possessed
himself of the person of King Richard at Flint Castle.

"What will he do?" asked Margery.  "Soothly I wis not," answered the
jailer.  "I trow he will make himself king.  Any way, I trust it may hap
for your Ladyship's good, for it is the wont to release prisoners at the
beginning of a new reign."

Shortly after that, Henry of Bolingbroke fulfilled the jailer's
prediction, so far as regarded his kingship.  He led Richard in triumph
through London, with every dishonour and indignity which his own evil
nature could devise; then consigned him to Pontefract to die and sat
down on his throne.  _How_ Richard died, Henry best knew.  Thus closed
the life and reign of that most ill-treated and loving-hearted man, at
the early age of thirty-three.  The little Queen, a widow at eleven, was
sent back to France--her matchless collection of jewels being retained
by Henry.  Few men have had more reason to describe themselves as Henry
IV does in his will--"I, Henry, _sinful wretch_."  [See Note 1.]

The change of monarchs, however, brought no change for Lady Marnell.  If
anything, it was the worse for her; for Abbot Bilson was a personal
friend of the new King, who was far more violently opposed to the
Lollards than his predecessor had been.

On the 16th of September, 1400, Lord Marnell was just quitting Margery's
cell, when the jailer admitted Abbot Bilson, who courteously greeted
Lord Marnell, and replied rather more coldly to the salutation of his

"Good morrow, my Lord.  Have you induced this wretched girl to see the
error of her ways?"

"I assayed it not," said Lord Marnell, somewhat sulkily.  "Farewell,
Madge,--I will see thee again ere long."

"Farewell, good my Lord," said Margery, and for the first time in her
life she was sorry to see her husband go.  The truth was, that Lord
Marnell felt so much vexed with his spiritual advisers, that he was
seriously afraid, if he remained, of saying something which might cause
his own imprisonment.  The jailer locked the door after him, and the
Abbot and Margery were left together.

"You have had time, daughter, to think over your sin, in penitence and
prayer.  Are you yet conscious that you have committed a grievous sin?"

"No, father."

"No are?  [i.e., Are you not?] I grieve to hear it.  Fear you not the
ban of Holy Church?"

"I fear it not, so Christ confirm it not; He did warn me afore of the
same.  `_Thei schulen make ghou withouten the synagogis; but the our
cometh, that ech man that sleeth ghou deme that he doith seruyse to
God_.'" [John xvi. 2.]

"Cease thy endless quotations from Scripture!" cried the Abbot, waxing
wroth, and forgetting his civilities.

But Margery only replied by another--"`_He that is of God herith the
wordis of God; therefore ye heren not for ye be not of God_.'" [John
viii. 47.]

"Take the curse of the Church, miserable reprobate!" cried Bilson,
losing all command of himself, and smiting her in the face.

"Take you heed," was the answer, "that you bring not on yourself the
curse of Christ, who is the Head and Lord of the Church, for He
suffereth not lightly that His sheep be ill handled."

"Aroint thee, sorceress!" said the abbot.  "I am no sorceress," replied
Margery, quietly, "neither do I use evil arts; I speak unto you in the
words of Christ--bear you the sin if you will not hear.  But lo! it is
even that which is written, `_He hath blyndid her yghen_ [their eyes],
_and he hath maad hard the herte of hem; that thei see not with yghen,
and undirstonde with herte, and that thei be conuertid, and I heele
hem_.'" [John xii. 40.]

The abbot could bear no more.  He struck her furiously--a blow which
stretched her senseless on the stone floor of the cell.  Having by this
primitive means silenced Margery's "endless quotations," he let himself
out with a private key.

When Lord Marnell returned to the prison that evening, he found Margery
in what he supposed to be a swoon.  He summoned the jailer, and through
him sent for a physician, who applied restoratives, but told Lord
Marnell at once that Margery had fallen, and had received a heavy blow
on the head.  By the united care of the physician and her husband, she
slowly returned to consciousness: not, however, fully so at first, for
she murmured, "Mother!"  When Lord Marnell bent over her and spoke to
her, she suddenly recognised him as if awaking from a dream.  Yes, she
replied to their inquiries, she had certainly fallen, and she thought
she had hurt her head; but she would not tell them that the cause of the
fall was a passionate blow from the Abbot's hand.  The physician asked
when her examination was to take place; and on Lord Marnell replying,
"To-morrow," he shook his head, and said she would not be able to

"Oh ay, ay, let me go!" said Margery, "I would not have delay therein.
I shall be better by morn, and--"

But as she spoke she fainted away, and the doctor, turning to Lord
Marnell, said--

"She is no wise fit for it, poor lady!  The inquiry must needs be
delayed, and the blame thereof be mine own."

"Then I pray you," replied Lord Marnell, "to say the same unto the
council; for they heed not me."

He answered that he would go to them as soon as he thought that his
patient required no further professional assistance.  Margery seemed
better shortly, and Master Simon, for such was the doctor's name,
repaired at once to the council charged with the examination of
prisoners accused of heresy, and told them that their State prisoner,
the Lady Marnell, was very ill in her dungeon, and would not be able to
appear before them for at least some weeks to come.  Arundel, who
presided, only laughed.  The doctor insisted.

"Why," said be, "the poor lady is sickening for a fever; let her alone:
how can a woman light-headed answer questions upon doctrine and heresy?"

The council, governed by Arundel, still seemed unwilling to grant the
prayer; when, to the surprise of every one present, Abbot Bilson, the
principal witness for the Crown, rose and supported the petition.  The
puzzled council accordingly granted it.  Arundel was very much under
Bilson's influence, and Bilson had a private reason for his conduct,
which will presently appear.

So the examination was adjourned until February, and Margery, released
for the moment from the struggle with her enemies, was left to combat
the fever which had seized her.  Lord Marnell and Master Simon begged
for an order of the council to remove poor Margery home, the latter
asserting that she would never recover in the Tower.  The council
refused this application.  They then requested that one of her
waiting-women should be allowed to attend her, and that bedding and
linen, with such other necessaries as Master Simon might deem fit, might
be supplied to the prisoner from her own house.  The council, after a
private consultation among its members, thought fit to grant this
reasonable prayer.

Alice Jordan was made very happy by an order from Lord Marnell to attend
her sick mistress.  Everything that Marnell Place could furnish, which
Master Simon did not absolutely forbid,--and Master Simon was easy of
persuasion--was lavished on the whitewashed cell in the Tower.  Alice,
however, was carefully searched every time she passed in and out of the
Tower, to see that she supplied no books nor writing-materials to the
prisoner, nor took any letters from her.  Poor Margery! the care was
needless, for she was just then as incapable of writing as if she had
never been taught.

Margery's illness lasted even longer than Master Simon had anticipated.
On a dark, cold winter night, when snow was falling thickly outside the
prison, and a low rushlight burned on the table, dimly lighting up the
narrow cell, Margery unexpectedly whispered, "Who is there?"

"I, dear mistress--Alice Jordan."

"Alice Jordan!  Where then am I?  Or was it all a terrible dream?  Is
this Lovell Tower?"  Alice's voice trembled as she said, "No."

"What then?  Oh!  I know now.  It is the Tower of London, and the end
cometh nigh."

"Nay, dearest mistress, you fare marvellous better now."

"I mean not the fever-death, good friend, but _the end_--the end of my
weary pilgrimage, the gate of the Happy City.  Welcome be the end of the
way, for the way hath been a rough one and a sore!  However sharp be the
end, I can bear it now.  My soul hath been loosed from earth.  I see
nothing now, I want nothing but Christ, and to be with Him in the glory.
Alice, how fareth the child?  I dared not to ask afore, since I came
into this place, but I can now."

"I trow he fareth well, good mistress, but of a long season I have not
seen him.  My Lord hath sent him unto the care of Dame Lovell."

Margery's eyes, rather than her voice, expressed her pleasure at this

"Hath my Lord my husband been here sithence I took sick?"

"Every day, my Lady; and I trow he sent away the boy for that reason,
lest his coming hither should give him the sickness."

"Knoweth my mother of my sickness?"

"I wis not, my Lady, but I trow that my Lord would tell her, when he
sent the child down with Master Pynson."

"Master Pynson!  Hath he been hither?"

"Yea, good my Lady, he came up, I ween, on Saint Luke's Day [October
18], and took back the young master with him."

"What said he when ye told him of my prison, Alice?"

"He covered his face, and wept sore."

Margery turned her face to the wall.  "A fiery trial!" she murmured, as
if to herself--"a fiery trial for him as well as me!  Is this the way
wherein the Father will draw him?  If so, Richard, I can bear it."

The 16th of February came.  On the morning of that day, as Lord Marnell
stepped out of his own house into the open air, with the intention of
paying his usual visit to Margery, Abbot Bilson came up, radiant and
smiling, and carrying under his arm a large parchment roll.

"Ah, my very good Lord, well met!  Whither away?"

"I purpose to see Madge."

"Ah!" exclaimed the Abbot, who was occupied with an amusement which
comes naturally to men of his disposition, and has been wittily denned
as "washing one's hands with invisible soap, in imperceptible water."

"What hast under thine arm, reverend father?" asked Lord Marnell.

"Ah! this is the indictment of the Lady Marnell.  Your Lordship witteth
that she will be examined to-morrow afore the council, and by them

"You will endeavour yourself, reverend father, that the sentence be made
as light as may be."

"My Lord, we have but one sentence for heretics," said Abbot Bilson,
with a smile which showed all his teeth, like a wild beast.  "The Act
regarding them was yestermorn sceptred by the King's Grace."

"One!" remarked Lord Marnell, in some surprise.  "The sentence now,
then, is--?"


Lord Marnell hastily laid his hand on a buttress, to steady himself,
when he heard this awful news.

"You have deceived me, father!  You have deceived me!" he cried.  "You
told me, some months gone, when first I called you into this matter,
that the sentence on heretics was prison."

"My good Lord, I pray you remember that I told you but a moment back,
that the new Act is just passed.  Ere that the sentence truly was close
prison; but now--"

On finding himself thus inveigled by the cunning of Abbot Bilson, Lord
Marnell was beside himself with passion.  He burst into a torrent of the
most fearful language.  Abbot Bilson stood calmly by, as if quite
accustomed to such scenes.

"My good Lord, I pray you blaspheme not, or I must needs appoint you a
sore penance," was all that he mildly observed.

Lord Marnell recovered himself by a strong effort, and asked, as
politely as he could, what description of death was commanded by the new

"Burning or beheading, at the pleasure of the King's Grace," replied the
Abbot, as unconcernedly as though the choice in question lay between a
couple of straws.

"My wife, being a peeress, will of force be beheaded?"

"Likely, I trow," replied the Abbot, drawing his cowl closer over his
head, as a cold blast of wind came up the street.

"Father, you must use all effort that the sentence be so pronounced, if
the King's Grace remit it not."

"The King's Grace remitteth never sentence on heretics," said Bilson,
with another of his disagreeable smiles.  "He is much too true and
faithful son of Holy Church therefor.  And as to my poor efforts, my

"You _can_, and you _shall_," wrathfully answered Lord Marnell, and, not
to prolong the contest, walked rapidly away.

Abbot Bilson stood looking after him, with an expression on his face not
unlike that which a triumphant demon might be supposed to exhibit.


Note 1.  Henry had previously conspired against the King three times,
and had even plotted the death of his own father.  His father sentenced
him to death, and if Richard had not interposed, Henry would not have
lived to depose his benefactor.  "How true is the saying," cried poor
Richard in his agony, "that we have no greater enemy than the man whom
we save from the gallows!"--See Creton's MS.  Bibl.  Imp. 8448-2



  "Great your strength, if great your need."

  Henry Kirke White.

In the evening of the same day, the council sent a physician to report
on the prisoner's health.  Not gentle Master Simon, but a stern,
iron-handed, iron-hearted man, from whom Margery and Alice shrank
instinctively.  The physician reported that the Lady Marnell had
undoubtedly been very ill, but was now better, and ailed nothing but
weakness; he accordingly recommended that the examination should take
place, but that the prisoner, in consideration of her extreme debility,
should be indulged with a seat.  Master Simon tried hard to obtain a
little further postponement; but this time the powerful Abbot was
against him, and he gained nothing by his motion.  So, on the morning of
the 17th, Margery rose from her sick-bed to appear before the council.
Lord Marnell, who had lately shown her extraordinary kindness, as though
with the view of undoing, so far as lay in his power, the evil which his
rash, though well-meant conduct had originally created, assisted his
wife into her litter, and rode beside it during the short journey.  On
arriving at the door, where they found a steep flight of steps to mount,
Lord Marnell would not allow Margery to try her strength, but carried
her up in his arms.  He knew, and so did she, that she would need all
the strength she could muster for the trial which was to come.  The
council-chamber was hung with red cloth, and the benches appropriated to
spectators were filled to overflowing.  For one moment Margery shrank
back at the sight of so many strange faces; and a faint tinge of colour
mounted to her pale cheek as Lord Marnell led her forward to her chair.
In the president's seat was the Archbishop of Canterbury, and on his
left hand Abbot Bilson.  Several abbots, priors, and other legal and
ecclesiastical dignitaries, made up the remainder of the council.

For eight weary hours, with very short intervals for refreshment, they
kept that fragile prisoner before them, and all the time she never
quailed, nor evaded any of their questions.  Twice Master Simon
interfered, and begged that wine might be given her, or he would not
answer for her further recovery; and once she herself asked for a glass
of water, and for a few minutes seemed about to faint.

Abbot Bilson came out in his true colours at this examination.  He was
no longer the mild, persuasive teacher; he now showed himself the
unforgiving revenger.  The Archbishop pressed the prisoner hard with
questions, many of them irrevelant to the indictment; and most of the
other members of the Council put queries to her.

They inquired, amongst other things, if she believed that in the
Sacrament of the Lord's Supper the bread and wine became the very body
and blood of Christ.

"Nay, certes," was Margery's answer.  "For if Christ, being in life,
could hold His own body, and give the same unto His disciples, then were
it no true human body, for a natural and true body cannot be in two
several places at the self-same moment of time.  Moreover, if the bread
of the host be verily the body of Christ, then did He eat His own body,
and that is contrary to very reason."

"The mysteries of the faith be above reason," said Arundel.

"Of a truth, and farther above it, maybe, than we wit; but in no wise
contrary thereunto."

"Believe you in Purgatory?"

"The Church teacheth the same, and I say not that it may not be true;
but I find it not in the book."

"Pray you unto the blessed Virgin Saint Mary, the holy angels, and the

"Soothly, no: it is not in the book.  `_Whateuer thing ye axen the Fadir
in my name, I schal do that thing_,' saith Christ: but I hear not a word
of `whatever thing ye shall ask Saint Michael, or Saint Anne.'"

"Account you confession unto priests to be right or evil?"

"It may be right--I wis not; but I saw it not in the book.  I pray you,
reverend fathers, if any other part of God His book do name these
things, and give leave for the same, that you show it unto me, and
thereupon I will believe them, but no else."

The above is, of course, a mere sample of the innumerable questions
which were put to the prisoner.  Towards the close of the day, the
Archbishop and abbots consulted together for a few minutes; and then
Arundel turned to the accused.

"Margery Marnell, Baroness Marnell of Lymington, the Court demands of
you whether you will put your name to this paper, and hold to all things
therein contained?"

"Let me read the paper, my Lord Archbishop, and then I will give you an

The Archbishop did not wish her to read the paper; but Margery steadily
declined to sign anything in the dark.  At length the council permitted
it to be read to her.  It contained a promise to abjure all Lollard
doctrines, and to perform a severe penance, such as the council should
lay on her, for the scandal which she had caused to the Church.  Margery
at once refused to sign anything of the kind.  The Archbishop warned her
that in that case she must be prepared to submit to the capital

"Ye may sentence me," she said, in her clear voice, always distinct,
however feeble, "to what ye will.  I fear you not.  I wis ye have power
to kill my body, but my soul never shall ye have power to touch.  That
is Christ's, who witteth full well how to keep it; and to His blessed
hands, not yours, I commit myself, body and soul."

The Archbishop then passed sentence.  The Court found Margery, Baroness
Marnell of Lymington, guilty of all crimes whereof she stood indicted,
and sentenced her to death by burning, in the open place called Tower
Hill, on the 6th day of March next ensuing.

The prisoner bowed her head when the sentence had been pronounced, and
then said as she rose, and stretched out her hand to Lord Marnell, who
came forward and supported her, "I greatly fear, reverend fathers, that
your day is yet to come, when you shall receive sentence from a Court
whence there is no appeal, and shall be doomed to a dreader fire!"

When Lord Marnell had assisted his wife back into her dungeon, and laid
her gently on the bed, he turned and shook his fist at the wall.

"If I, Ralph Marnell of Lymington, had thee here, Abbot Thomas Bilson--"

"Thou wouldst forgive him, my good Lord," faintly said Margery.

"Who?  I?  Forgive _him_?  What a woman art thou, Madge!  Nay--by the
bones of Saint Matthew, I would break every bone in his body!  Forsooth,
Madge, those knaves the Archbishop and the Abbot have played me a scurvy
trick, and gone many times further than I looked for, when I called them
into this business.  But it is so always, as I have heard,--thy
chirurgeon and thy confessor, if they once bear the hand in thy matters,
will never let thee go till they have choked thee.  I fear I shall have
hard labour to get thee out of this scrape.  I will do all I can, be
thou sure, but thou wist that I am not in favour with the new King as I
was with King Richard, whose soul God rest!  Madge, wilt forgive me,

"With a very good will, my Lord," said Margery.  "I wis well that thou
wottedst not all that thou didst."

"Not I, by Saint James of Compostella!" exclaimed Lord Marnell.  "Were
the good King Richard alive and reigning, I would soon let both the
Archbishop and the Abbot feel the place too hot for to hold them.  But I
can do nothing with Harry of Bolingbroke, looking, too, that he hateth
the Lollards as he hateth the devil--and a deal more, I trow, for I
count that that prince and he be old friends," added Lord Marnell, with
an air of great disgust.

Margery smiled gravely.  She felt sorry for her husband, who she saw was
very miserable himself at the unexpected result of his conduct; but she
did not allow herself for an instant to hope that he could save her.

"Mine own good Lord," she said, "I pray you torment not yourself in
assaying my relief, neither in thinking that you be the cause of my
trouble; for I forgive you as freely as Christ hath forgiven me, and I
count that is free enough."

Lord Marnell stood leaning against the wall, and looking at Margery, who
lay outside the bed.

"Of a truth, wife, I conceive thee not.  Thou art here in the Tower
dungeon, and thou lookest for no good outcoming, and lo! thou art calm
and peaceful as if thou wert on King Henry's throne!  What means it,

"I trow I am much happier here than I should be on King Henry's throne!"
answered Margery, with a smile.  "Christ is with me, good husband, and
where Christ is, is peace.  `_Pees I leeue to ghou, my pees I ghyue to
ghou; not as the world ghyueth I ghyue to ghou_' [John xiv. 27].
`_These thingis I haue spoken to ghou, that ghe haue pees in me.  In the
world ghe schulen haue disese; but triste ghe, I haue ouercome the
world_?'" [John xvi. 33.]

When Lord Marnell quitted Margery that evening, he hastened to Court,
and attempted to gain the ear of the King.  Since the deposition of his
friend and master, King Richard, he had never appeared there.  He was
consequently a stranger to the pages and porters, who tried to get rid
of him as politely as they could.  At length Lord Marnell caught sight
of the Earl of Surrey, who with some hesitation consented to introduce
him into the privy chamber.  Henry listened to Lord Marnell only until
he comprehended the nature of his plea; then met him with a frown and an

"Pardon a Lollard?  Never!"

"Please it, your Grace, your noble predecessor, King Richard, though no
Lollard, would have granted me at once, in consideration of my long and
faithful service unto him."

"I am not Richard of Bordeaux, but Henry of Bolingbroke!" was the
haughty answer, as the King turned round abruptly, and quitted Lord

"By our Lady of Walsingham, I wis full well _that_" replied the latter,
_sotto voce_.

As Lord Marnell quitted the palace, he met in the corridor with the
Prince of Wales, [Afterwards Henry V] who stopped and saluted him, and
Lord Marnell at once begged for his intercession with his father.  The
Prince readily promised it, but on learning particulars, the son's brow
darkened as the father's had done.  He was very sorry, but he really
could not ask the King's pardon for a Lollard.  Lord Marnell would have
given his whole fortune to undo his own work of the last eighteen
months.  He had never dreamed that Abbot Bilson would have summoned the
archbishop to his aid, nor that Margery would have stood half as firmly
as she had done.  He only knew her as a fragile, gentle, submissive
girl, and never expected to find in her material for the heroine or the
martyr.  Lord Marnell tried to procure the mediation of everybody about
the Court; but all, while expressing great sympathy with him, declined
to risk their own necks.  Even the King's sons said they dared not
comply with his request.  Prince Thomas [afterwards Henry V] was
extremely kind--very much grieved that he could not help him; but Prince
Humphrey [Duke of Gloucester] turned scornfully from him, and Prince
John [the great Duke of Bedford] coldly bade him take heed to his own
safety.  The Earl of Somerset, the King's half-brother, shook his head,
and said he was already suspected by the King to be a Lollard himself,
and such an application from him would probably seal his own doom.  Lord
Marnell applied to the Queen [Jeanne of Navarre, the second wife of
Henry IV]; but she seemed most afraid of all to whom he had spoken, lest
she should incur the King's anger, and possibly endanger herself.

The interval between the day of the examination and that appointed for
the execution passed drearily to all parties.  Lord Marnell,
notwithstanding all these repulses, exerted himself unremittingly to
procure a commutation of the sentence, at least to beheading; but in
vain.  The King was inexorable.  If the Lady Marnell had chosen to ally
herself with Lollards, she well knew what she was doing, and must abide
the consequences.  Vainly did Lord Marnell represent how young and
inexperienced she was; in vain did he urge that the Act which made the
Lollards amenable to capital punishment had been passed since her
indictment, and only a few weeks before.  Henry was not naturally
disposed to hear his pleasure called in question; and Abbot Bilson had
had possession of the royal ear already.

When Alice returned from Marnell Place on the evening of the 26th of
February, Margery saw, by the expression of her face, that she had heard
something which shocked her.  She asked what it was.

"You mind, good my Lady, the day that you went with Master Pynson to
hear a sermon in Bostock Church?"

"I trow I shall not lightly forget it," was Margery's answer.

"Master Sastre was a-preaching, was he not?"

"Ay.  Wherefore?"

"My Lady, he suffered death this forenoon by burning."

"Master Sastre!  Who told thee?"

"Christopher it was that told me,--and yon evil man--for sure, though he
be a holy priest, yet is he an evil man, or would he never else have so
dealt with your Ladyship--yon evil man, Abbot Bilson was there, and did
sore press Master Sastre for to have confessed his error; but Master
Sastre did maintain the same to the end."

Margery turned away her head.  The venerable image of Sastre rose up
before her, as he learned forward over the pulpit to say those last
earnest words.

"Ah, dear old teacher!" she whispered to herself.  "Thou wilt not have
long to look among the multitude in the white apparel, for _one_ face
which was upturned to thee that day!"



  "Ah, little is all loss,
  And brief the space 'twixt shore and shore,
  If Thou, Lord Jesus, on us lay,
  Through the dark waters of our way,
  The burden which Christopheros bore--
  To carry Thee across."

  Miss Muloch.

As Lord Marnell sat with Margery in her cell in the evening of the 1st
of March, she begged him to grant her a favour.  Her contrite husband
bade her ask what she would.  Margery replied that she greatly wished to
write a last letter to her mother.  Writing-materials were carefully
kept from her.  Could Lord Marnell supply her with the means of doing
so?  He said he would attempt it.

When Alice returned on the following day from Marnell Place, whither she
had been to procure a change of linen for her mistress, she brought with
her also a loaf of bread.  The jailer demurred at this, but Alice urged
that Lady Marnell did not like the bread made by the prison baker, and
surely the jailer would not grudge her a loaf from home, for the few
days she had to live.  The jailer shook his head, but let it pass.  When
Alice was safe in the cell, she broke the loaf, and produced from it,
cunningly imbedded in the soft crumb, several sheets of paper folded
surprisingly small, a pen, and a little inkhorn.  Margery's eyes
glistened when she saw these, and she wrote her letter secretly during
the night.  But how to get it out of the prison with safety?  Alice was
able to provide for this also.  The letter was sewn in one of the
pillows, which would be carried back to Marnell Place after the

The last day of Lady Marnell's life sped away as other less eventful
days do, and the evening of the 5th of March arrived.  Alice, having
just returned from her usual journey to the house, was disposing of the
articles which she had brought with her, when the jailer's key grated in
the lock, and the door was opened.  Lady Marnell looked up, expecting to
see her husband, though it was rather before his usual time for visiting
her; but on looking up, she saw Abbot Bilson.

This feline ecclesiastic came forward with bent head and joined hands,
vouchsafing no reply to Margery's salutation of "Good even, father," nor
to Alice's humble request for his blessing.  He sat down on a chair, and
for some minutes stared at Margery in silence--conduct so strange that
at length she said, "Wherefore come you, father?"

"To look at thee, child of the devil!" was the civil answer.

Alice, who had just requested the blessing of the _priest_, was more
angry than she could bear with the _man_.  She was just on the point of
saying something sharp, when Lord Marnell's voice behind the Abbot
interposed with--

"If thou wouldst see a child of the devil, I trow thou hast little need
to look further than thy mirror!"

The Abbot rose calmly, and let Lord Marnell enter.

"It becometh not poor and humble monks, servitors of God, to lend
themselves unto the vanity of mirrors," said he, pulling out a large
rosary, and beginning to tell his beads devoutly.

"`Servitors of God!'" cried Lord Marnell, too angry to be prudent.
"Dost call thyself a servitor of God?  If God hath no better servitors
than thou, I ween He is evil served!"

The Abbot cast a glance from the corner of his eye at Lord Marnell, but
made no answer, save to tell his beads more devoutly than ever.

"Hast no other place to tell thy beads in?" asked that nobleman.

The Abbot rose without a word, and, pausing at the door, stretched his
hand over the assembled trio, and muttered some words to himself.

"Away with thee, Lucifer, and thy maledictions!" exclaimed Lord Marnell.
"There be here who are nearer to the angels than ever thou shalt be!"

Suddenly the Abbot was gone.  Nobody had seen or heard him depart--he
seemed to melt into the night, in some strange, mysterious way.

"He is gone, and Satan his master go with him!" said Lord Marnell.  "Ho,
jailer! lock the door, I pray, and leave us three alone together."

The jailer obeyed; and Lord Marnell sat down by the side of Margery's
bed, and bade Alice lie down on her own pallet, and sleep if she could.
He gave the same counsel to Margery; but the latter smiled, and said she
would never sleep again in this world.

"Now, Madge!" said her husband, "hast aught on thy mind, good wife, that
thou wouldst say ere morn?  Aught that I can do for thee?  Trust me, I
will do the same right gladly."

Margery thanked him fervently; there was a heartiness in his tone which
was not often audible.

"There be a few matters, mine own good Lord, which under thy good
pleasure I would willingly have done.  I would that all my servants
might have a year's pay; and for Alice, poor lass! who hath tended me so
well and truly, I pray that a small matter of money may be given her by
the year: moreover, I would like, if she will--for I would not lay her
under bond--that she should keep with Geoffrey while she liveth, or at
least until he be a man.  And, good husband, I would that thou wouldst
teach my poor child to remember me, his mother, but above all, to
remember the Lord for whom I die, and who, having loved me in the world,
loveth me unto the end.  [John xiii. 1] Tell him to count nought too
good for Christ.  I trust Christ hath set His heart upon him--I have
prayed for him too much else--and He promised me that whatever thing I
should ask the Father in His name He would do that thing."  [John xvi.

"Hast thou prayed ever for me, good wife?" asked Lord Marnell.

"Many times, my good Lord, and I will do so till I die."

"The Church teacheth that dying stoppeth not praying," said he.

"I wis well that the Church so teacheth; but I saw it not in the book;
however, if I find it to be so, I will pray God for thee there also."

"Thou sayest well, Madge; but I trow thou art more angel presently than
shall I be ever.  I tell thee, Madge--for mayhap it will comfort thee to
know it--thy dealings and sayings of late have caused me to think more
on these things than ever did I afore.  It seemeth but a small matter to
thee, to go through the fire to the glory.  I marvel an' it could be so
unto me."

"Say not `to the glory,' good husband, but to Christ.  I would not have
the glory and lack Christ.  And for thee, I do rejoice and bless God
heartily, if He will make my poor doings of any good service unto the
welfare of thy soul.  And believe me, that if thou art called unto my
fiery ordeal, Christ will give thee grace and strength equal unto thy
need.  It is not much for them who love Christ, if they see Him stand
beyond a little fire, to pluck up heart and go through the fire to Him.
O good husband, take these as my dying words, and teach them to the
child for the same, `Christ without everything is an hundredfold better
than everything without Christ!'"  Those last words were ringing in Lord
Marnell's ears when, about eight o'clock in the morning, he stood on the
steps of Marnell Place, looking towards the Tower, and fancying the
mournful preparations which were going on there.  Margery had thought it
best that she should be alone for her fiery trial.  As Lord Marnell
stood there, lost in thought, he suddenly heard his own name spoken.  He
turned round, and saw two men before him, in travellers' attire.  One of
them was an old man, with venerable white head and beard; the other was
much younger, and Lord Marnell recognised him at once.

"Master Pynson!  I pray you what brings you here?  Is the boy well?"

"He is well," answered Richard, in a low tone, "and Dame Lovell
likewise.  We came hither on matters pertaining to my friend who here
standeth, and a terrible bruit hath reached us that the Lady Marnell
will suffer this morrow."

"It is true," said Lord Marnell, sorrowfully.

"Can no help be found?" cried Richard, in an agony.  "I would put my
life for hers--yea, an hundred times twice told!"

"And I likewise," said her husband.  "No--there is no help.  The King
will hear of no remittance."

"When is it?"

"At nine o' the clock.  You will come into the house and eat?"

Richard declined.  He had already secured a chamber at the "Blue Boar,"
and would not trouble his Lordship.

"Come, Master Carew," said he to his companion, "let us be on our way."

"Go ye for to see her?" inquired Lord Marnell.

"I will not lose sight of her," answered Richard, "until she be in the
Paradise of God!"

Long before nine o'clock on the morning of that 6th of March, a large
crowd was already gathered on Tower Hill.  Some came there from a
feeling of revenge--glad to see a Lollard burned.  Among these was
Archbishop Arundel.  Some, from a feeling of deep pity for the poor
young girl who was to be almost the proto-martyr of the new faith.
Among these were Pynson and Carew.  The chief part of the concourse,
however, shared neither of these feelings to any great degree, but came
simply to see a sight, just as they would have gone to see a royal
procession, or any other pageant.

As nine o'clock struck on the great bell of the Tower, the martyr
appeared, led forth between the sheriff and Abbot Bilson.  She was
clothed in one long white garment, falling from her throat to her feet;
and, notwithstanding the inclemency of the weather, her head, arms, and
feet were bare.  No fastening confined her golden hair, which streamed
freely over her shoulders and fell around her.  She walked slowly, but
quite calmly.  Arrived at the place of execution, the sheriff urged her
to confess.

"I will confess," said Margery, "to Him who can alone absolve me."  And
lifting up her eyes, she said, "O Lord God, who art above all things,
and hast given Thy Son to die for us sely and sinful men, I confess to
Thee that I am a vile sinner, utterly unworthy of Thy grace and mercy.
That day by day, for twenty-three years, have I done what I ought not,
and said what I ought not, and thought what I ought not.  That all my
life also have I left undone things the which I ought for to have done.
Wherefore, O Father, let it please Thee of Thy goodness to forgive me,
and to look not on me, but on Thy Son Christ, in whose rightwise-ness I
am rightwise, and who hath loved me as Thou hast loved also Him.  O Lord
God, turn not away the face of Thy servant, whose heart Thou hast moved
to pray thus unto Thee!"

The Abbot and the sheriff were extremely annoyed, but they did not dare
to silence her, for the multitude hung breathlessly on her words.

"There's none so much harm in _that_, any way!" said a woman who stood
near Richard Pynson.

"Wilt thou confess, sinful heretic?" asked the Abbot.

"To God I will and have done," answered Margery; "to man I will not."

There was a short pause, while the sheriff's men, under his direction,
heaped the wood in the position most favourable for burning quickly.
Then the sheriff read the indictment in a loud voice.  It was a long
document, and took upwards of twenty minutes to read.  After this, they
passed a chain round Margery's body, and fastened her to the stake.  The
sheriff then, with a lighted torch, advanced to set the wood on fire.

"Will ye allow me that I may speak unto the people?" asked Margery of
the Abbot.

"No, miserable reprobate!" said he, "thou hast spoken too much already!"

"I pray Christ forgive you all that you have done unto me!" was the
martyr's answer.

The sheriff now applied the torch.  Meanwhile Margery stood on the pile
of wood, with her hands clasped on her bosom, and her eyes lifted up to
heaven.  What means it?  Does she feel no pain?  How is it that, as the
flames spring up and roar around her, there is no tremor of the clasped
hands, no change in the rapturous expression of the white upturned face?
And from the very midst of those flames comes a voice, the silver voice
of Margery Lovell, as clear and melodious as if she stood quietly in the
hall at Lovell Tower--

"_Worthy is the Lamb that was slain to take virtue, and Godhead, and
wisdom, and strength, and honour, and glory_--"

But the voice fails there, and the "blessing" is spoken to the angels of

And from the outskirts of the crowd comes another voice which is very
like the voice of Richard Pynson--

"_I am agen risyng and lyf; he that beleeueth in me, yhe though he be
deed, he schal lyue; and ech that lyueth and bileueth into me, schal not
dye withouten eende_."  [John xi. 25].

"The noble army of martyrs praise Thee," softly adds old Carew.

Thus did Margery Marnell glorify the Lord in the fires.



  "So that day there was dole in Astolat."


The winter had just given place to spring, and a bright, fresh morning
rose on Lovell Tower.  Dame Lovell was busy in the kitchen, as she was
when we first saw her, and so were Mistress Katherine and the
handmaidens; but Dame Lovell now wore the white weeds of widowhood, and
her face was thinner and much graver.  Richard Pynson on his return from
London, had brought her the terrible news of Margery's death; and Dame
Lovell, in the midst of her sorrow, which was very deep, had solemnly
affirmed that no power on earth should ever induce her to pardon her
son-in-law for the part which he had taken in the matter.

Richard Pynson, long before this, had mooted the question of his return
to his father, but Dame Lovell would not hear of it.  He reminded her
smilingly that _she_ needed no squire; but she came and put both her
hands on his shoulders, and made him look her in the face.

"Thou sayest sooth, Richard, that I need no squire, but I trow I need a
son.  I am an old lone woman, and shall not keep thee long; and I have
loved thee as if I had been thine own mother.  Promise me, mine own dear
lad, that thou wilt not go hence while I live."

Richard looked up with the tears in his eyes, and told her, as he kissed
her hand, that it was no wish of his to depart, and that he would not do
so without her full consent.

"That shalt thou have never!" was the answer.  So Richard remained at
Lovell Tower.  On the morning of which I speak, little Geoffrey, who was
very fond of Richard, and was petted by him perhaps rather more than was
good for him, had suddenly espied him at the farther end of the garden,
and instantly rushed after him as fast as his little legs would carry
him.  A few minutes afterwards, Cicely came into the kitchen from the
hall, and announced to her mistress that a strange gentleman wished to
see her.  Dame Lovell took off her apron, and rinsed her hands in water.

"See thou to the marchpane, Kat," remarked she to Mistress Katherine, as
she went to receive her guest.

It was no wonder that Cicely had not known him, for some seconds elapsed
before Dame Lovell herself could recognise Lord Marnell.  Six years had
passed since they met at his marriage to Margery, but he looked at least
twenty years older.  His figure was still upright, though much thinner,
but the very form of his features seemed changed, and his rich auburn
hair was now white as drifted snow.  His manner, which had been blunt
and almost boisterous, was remarkably quiet.  When he saw that Dame
Lovell did not recognise him, he said, with a smile--

"You know me not, fair mother?"

Dame Lovell's astonishment overcame her enmity for the moment.

"Troth, I knew thee not, good son! is it truly thou?  Nay, how changed
art thou!"

"I wis that well," he answered.  "Where is Geoffrey?"

"I trow he be in the garden with Richard," replied Dame Lovell.  "I will
bid him hither."

Little Geoffrey, holding Richard's hand, as if he would not part with
him for a moment, returned to the house at his grandmother's bidding;
but like her, he could not recognise his father, whom he had not seen
for some months, until Lord Marnell's well-known voice assured him of
his identity.  He rather shrank from him, as usual; but when Lord
Marnell contrary to his custom, lifted him up and kissed him, he seemed
a little reassured, and sat on his father's knee, staring at him
intently.  Lord Marnell gave a cordial greeting to Richard, and then,
observing how earnestly his little son's eyes were fixed upon him, asked
him at what he was looking.

"What have you done with your hair?" was Master Geoffrey's puzzled

Lord Marnell laughed, and told the child that everybody's hair turned
white as they grew old.

"But your Lordship's hath done so quickly," remarked Richard.

"That were no great marvel," he answered, gravely.

Dame Lovell found it rather difficult to keep up her revengeful
determination.  She was naturally a very easy-tempered woman, and the
evident change, moral as well as physical, in Lord Marnell, touched her,
and melted her enmity considerably.

"I pray you, fair mother," he said, looking up, "to leave me tell you
wherefore I came hither.  Firstly, it was to give you a letter from
Madge, which she wrote in the Tower unto you."  And Lord Marnell,
passing his hand into his breast, pulled out a small square packet, tied
with blue silk, and sealed with yellow wax.  It was directed--

"_To the hands of my singular good lady and most dear mother, Dame Agnes
Lovell, at Lovell Tower, be these delivered with speed_."

Dame Lovell kissed the letter, and placed it in her own bosom.  She
could not read a word of it, but it was enough that it came from

"Secondarily," pursued Lord Marnell, "I would fain ask you, fair mother,
for to keep Geoffrey here a while longer, for I wis not yet what I shall

"That will I, right heartily," said Dame Lovell, in a tone as cordial as
her words.

"Moreover, an' it stand with your pleasure, I would pray you for to take
back Alice Jordan, as you will find in yon letter that Madge did desire
her for to be about Geoffrey, if she would, and she seemeth right fain."

"I will have her with a very good will," answered Dame Lovell, "and she
shall be next in mine house unto Mistress Katherine, and shall eat at
the high table."

Lord Marnell thanked her sincerely for her readiness to comply with his
wishes.  He said that Alice should come down to Lovell Tower as soon as
she could conveniently set out, and old Christopher, as the most trusty
of his household, should escort her.  There was silence for a short
time, and then, with a kind of shadow of a smile, Lord Marnell said

"Do you hate me, fair mother?"

"I did afore I saw thee this morrow," replied Dame Lovell, candidly.

"And wherefore not after?"

"Meseemeth thou hast repented thyself of thy deed."

"Repented!" said Lord Marnell, mournfully.  "Mother, will you crede me
if I tell you that no sorrow worser than this can ever befall me, and
that had I known what would come of my seeking of Abbot Bilson, I had
sooner cut off my right hand?"

"I do," said she.

"Madge knew it, poor damsel! and she said she forgave me in such manner
as Christ did forgive herself.  Will you do the like, mother?"

"With all mine heart and soul, good son!" cried Dame Lovell, every shred
of her animosity vanished, and the tears fairly running down her cheeks.

"Don't cry, g'ammer!" exclaimed little Geoffrey, jumping off his
father's knee and running to Dame Lovell.  "What are you crying for?
Somebody hurt you?  If they have, I'll kill 'em!"

Dame Lovell laughed through her tears at Master Geoffrey's threat.  She
was a good deal surprised when Lord Marnell spoke of going away; but he
said he had promised his cousin Sir Ralph that he would stay with him
next time he came into the neighbourhood; and he must return to London
in a day or two.  So he only remained to dinner, and departed
immediately afterwards, evoking from Geoffrey the significant remark
that "he liked him a great deal better this time."

That evening, Dame Lovell and Friar Andrew sat down by the fire to
listen to that last letter.  Her widow's dress, somewhat resembling that
of a nun, but pure white, left only her eyes, nose, and mouth visible.
Richard Pynson, in a rather more ambitious costume than the page's suit
wherein we made his acquaintance, seated himself in the opposite corner.
How like Margery's voice the letter sounded, in that old hall at Lovell
Tower!--so much so, that it seemed scarcely a stretch of fancy to expect
her to glide down the stair which led from her chamber, where her child
now lay sleeping.  How well Richard could recall the scene when, six
years before, she came softly down to receive from his hand the
cherished and fatal volume!

Richard broke the seal, while Friar Andrew threw back his cowl, and Dame
Lovell smoothed her apron, and bent forward to listen.

"Mine Own Dear Mother,--In as humble and lowly manner as I may, I
commend myself unto you, praying you of your daily blessing.

"Whereas I hear that Richard Pynson hath been here in London on Saint
Luke's Day last, and hath borne back Geoffrey with him, at the which
news I am truly glad, I trow that you have heard of my close prison in
the Tower, whence I now write.  I pray you therefore, good mother, not
to lay this overmuch to heart, neither to grieve for me; for I certify
unto you that never was I so happy and blessed as now I am, when over
the dark water, which is death, I can see a glimpse of the Happy City.
Neither, good mother, be downcast, I beseech you, when you shall hear
that on Sunday, the eve of Saint Anselm, I am to die.  I pray you, dear
mother, if you knew that on Sunday I should be advanced to some high
place in the Court, would you sorrow?  Yea, would you not rejoice
greatly therefor?  Wherefore I entreat you, sorrow not now, but rejoice
rather, for I am to be taken up into an high place, yea, passing high--
even the Court of Christ Himself, whence also none of those changes and
evils can cast me down again, which are ever coming upon them who live
in this world.

"Moreover, good mother, I do you to wit that this is Christ's truth for
the which I suffer, and that Christ Himself is with me.  Yea, I think on
Christ as He that is standing on the other side of the fire; and shall I
not then make haste through the same that I may come at Him?

"Likewise I do beseech you, mine own dear mother, grieve not when you
think that I have had but little joy or gladness in this my short life.
If divers children be playing in a garden, and the serving-man do come
and fetch away some afore others, that they may see their elders, and
may have brave gifts the which be ready for them at home, fall they
a-weeping, think you, because they must lose an hour of play?  Nay,
truly not, if their hearts be set on the brave gifts afore them.  So,
good mother, though you have passed in this weary and evil life nigh
sixty years, and I only twenty-three, count it, I beseech you, but an
hour more or less of child's playing, which will surely be made up to us
when we go home, and receive the brave gifts which our Father hath for
us in His storehouse.  And if I have not known joy as much as some, I
have the less for to leave behind me in the case wherein I now am.  For
you know, good mother, that at the first I was wedded against mine own
will and liking; and though I may and must say unto you for my Lord my
husband, that in this evil case he hath been more gentler unto me than
ever afore, and hath drawn mine heart much closer unto him, yet nathless
I may say also that an' I had been with mine own will wedded, I trow
that I had had far more for to leave for Christ, and had found far more
hardship in the doing of it.  For God doeth all His work well; and He
wist surely what He did when my dear father--whose soul God rest!--was
let wed me thus.

"Behold now, most dear mother, how I have taken from you all cause of
your lamentation, and have left you nothing but to rejoice for me!
Wherefore rejoice for me, for at this time a sennight hence, I shall be
singing with the angels of God.  I trow that one look at Christ Jesu
will pay me all mine account in the small matter I have suffered for
Him.  I trow that if He but smile, and say, `Thou art welcome, dear
child, for I have loved thee,' I shall count the fires of this world but
light gear then.  Will you sorrow that I am in good case?  Will you
grieve because I am blessed?  Will you count you have lost your child,
when she is singing in the great glory?  Nay, good mother, I wis I have
well said in praying you to rejoice rather.

"And, dear mother, I beseech you that you bring up mine own dear child
in the same.  I would have him, if I may, as dear unto Christ as I am,
and as ready to leave all for Christ His sake, as I, his mother, have
done.  I say not this, God witteth, to magnify my poor deeds, the which
I know well be vile enough and want as much and great washing in Christ
His blood, as the worst sin that ever I did,--but, good mother, teach my
boy of Christ!  Count it not anything that he leaveth for Him.  Yea,
forsooth, rather would I a thousandfold that he should live on a dry
crust for Christ, than that he should have many brave dishes and rich
fare without Him.  To this end I beseech you, most dear mother, that you
will have the child learned for to read, and will get that he may read
God's Word, which hath shown me how dear and gracious is Christ Jesus.
I pray you spare no pains ne goods for to do this.

"Dear mother, I have prayed my Lord my husband that, if she will, Alice
Jordan shall have the care of Geoffrey.  She hath been a good and true
serving-woman unto me, and she witteth how I would have him ordered.  I
pray you, therefore, if she come unto you, that you would put her about
him.  Likewise commend me, I beseech you, unto mine ancient friends and
fellows, and all the meynie, and bid them learn for to love Christ Jesu,
and we shall then meet shortly again.  Specially I would desire mine
humble service unto dear Father Andrew, and I do beg him for my sake to
read for himself the blessed book which hath been my comfort.

"And to end,--for I will weary you no longer, dear friend Richard
Pynson, with reading of mine evil hand, and I give you God's blessing
and mine for the kindness you have done unto me, and pray you not to
forget the last words which I said unto you with my voice, but to keep
fast hold of Christ, till you know and love Him better than any friend
in this evil world,--so to end, dear mother, I beseech you that you
would forgive me all wherein I have been an ill daughter unto you, and
all things wherein at any time I have troubled you.  Good mother, I am
happy.  I am looking out of the night to see the day-dawn breaking.
Come Sunday, I shall be in heaven.  Come Sunday, by God's mercy--not by
mine own good, which God witteth is but evil--I shall stand with the
angels before Christ His throne.  Haste, haste, dear good day that shall
deliver me!  And God give you to know Christ, and send us a happy
meeting in that His blessed habitation, unto the great gladding of your
most loving and dutiful daughter, Margery Marnell.

"Written this second of March, from the gate of the _Urbs Beata_."



  "Whether he go to East or West,
  With Christ he always is at home."


For a few minutes after Richard finished reading the letter, there was
silence, unbroken save by the sound of weeping, in the old hall.  Friar
Andrew cried like a child.  Dame Lovell, too, wept profusely, especially
at the passage in which Margery begged her forgiveness, and sobbed forth
that she had nothing to forgive her.  Richard had hard work to read.  He
heard her voice in every line, and when he came to the one sentence
addressed to himself, he very nearly broke down altogether.  After that
long pause, Richard, who had been sitting with his head buried in his
hands, looked up and spoke.

"Mistress, you mind that I did promise you not to go hence save with
your good will?"

"Well, Richard?"

"May I have the same, good mistress, for a season?"

"Where wouldst go, lad?  Dost want to see thy father?  I meant not to
let thee from going home at times, so thou leave me not wholly."  [Let
means hinder.  The modern signification of this word is exactly the
opposite of its original meaning.]

"You do misconceive me, mistress.  I trust soothly, to go but for a
season, though mayhap a long one; but not home.  An' you will give me
leave, and I have my father's goodwill to it, I shall go abroad."

"Go _where_, Richard?" asked Dame Lovell, in some alarm and no little

"Anywhere," he answered, listlessly, "that is far enough away.  I shall
wend unto the East Country."

"Eh, Richard! thou wilt be slain of robbers!" cried Friar Andrew.  "All
yon country is full filled of Saracens and heathens, who think no more
of shedding Christian blood than of cooking a capon."

"I shall be slain, good father, I trow, if I stay here.  There is no
peace heraway in England for them who read God's Word, and I have read
it.  I should quickly be indicted, I ween; for a Lollard, an' I stayed.
Master Carew told me yestre'en, that there were spies hereabouts, and he
did trow he was suspected.  And if they take him, they will come next to

"Richard!  Richard!" cried Dame Lovell.  "Thou frightest me, lad!  But
wilt thou go, soothly?  I wis not how to leave thee do so."

"Dear mistress," said Richard, in a low tone, "I pray God and you to
pardon me, but I fear I am only a poor caitiff coward.  I could not bear
the fiery ordeal which Margery has borne.  I will confess to you, good
lady, that night and day I do pray God to spare me the same.  I had
better go, ere I am tired, and perchance fail and deny my Master.  I
will give you to wit of my welfare, in case I should meet any Palmers on
their way home, and may be I can come back, an' there should rise a king
who shall give us leave to live."

"Well, my lad!  I trow I must not let thee!" said Dame Lovell, in a
grieved tone.  "I wis not how to do without thee, Richard; but I ween I
should sorrow more to keep thee and bring thee to grief, than in leaving
thee go away from me."

The following day brought a servant in Lord Marnell's livery, with a
letter to Richard.

"_To the hands of Master Richard Pynson, at Lovell Tower, give these_.

"Good Master Pynson,--I pray you for to look warily unto your ways; for
I hear by messengers from London that you be suspected for a Lollard,
and Abbot Bilson hath your name on his list of evil affected unto the
Church.  If you can wend for a time unto some other country, I trow you
would find your safety in so doing.  I beseech you burn this letter, or
it may do me a mischief.

"It hath come into my mind that Madge did name unto me your desire of
knighthood.  If such be still your wish, I pray you make use of me in
this matter.  Let me wit by the bearer of these your pleasure herein,
and if you desire to watch this even, I will meet you in Bostock Church
early on the morrow.

"I set out on my way to London to-morrow.

"Commend me in all lowly fashion to my good mother; and with God's
blessing and mine to the child, I rest, your loving friend, R. Marnell."

Richard read Lord Marnell's letter to Dame Lovell, and then at once put
it in the fire.  He determined to accept the kind offer thus made to
him; and accordingly he sent word by the messenger that he would be
ready to meet Lord Marnell in Bostock Church, at any early hour on the
following morning.

Knighthood was then conferred in two ways.  A knight-banneret was one
created on the field of battle.  An ordinary knight was required to be
of good family and of a suitable age, and the accolade was given him
after a night's fasting and watching in some church.  Other, but less
important ceremonies were also observed.  This latter course was
necessarily the one chosen by Richard.  At five o'clock on the following
morning, Lord Marnell met him in Bostock Church, and gave him the stroke
on the shoulder with the flat of his sword, which was required to make
its recipient a knight.  [See Note 1.] Richard thanked Lord Marnell
fervently for his warning, and also for his kindness in offering him
knighthood; and told him that he had already resolved to go abroad,
before receiving his letter.

"I think you will do well," said he; "but I pray you, Sir Richard, to
lose no time, for spies be about in Marston even now."

Late that night, after an affectionate farewell to Dame Lovell and Friar
Andrew, and a warm kiss to little Geoffrey, who was fast asleep, Sir
Richard Pynson set out on his long and perilous journey.  Dame Lovell
sent with him one of her own servants, a man who she knew would imperil
his own life sooner than that of Richard; and he returned to her in a
few days with the welcome tidings that he had seen Richard safely
embarked on a vessel for La Rochelle, with Master Carew's son, a youth
of about eighteen, as his squire.  The servant had, however, more, and
less agreeable news than this to tell; for as he passed through Marston,
he had been told that Master Carew was arrested, and on his journey to
London under a strong guard.

So set in the bitter persecution, which was to last for many weary

A full twelvemonth had passed since Richard's departure.  Of Lord
Marnell, Dame Lovell had neither seen nor heard anything more.  Alice
Jordan had arrived, to little Geoffrey's great delight; but she had only
been able to report the return of her master to London, as she had left
that place the day after his arrival.  Dame Lovell fulfilled her promise
of promotion for Margery's humble but faithful friend, who was
henceforth generally addressed in the house as "Mistress" Alice.  Little
Geoffrey, though somewhat consoled by Alice's appearance, missed Richard
sorely; and demanded of his grandmother at least once a day, "when he
would come back!"

The family and household were seated at supper, on a summer afternoon in
the year 1402, when the sound of a horn outside the moat sent one of the
farm-servants hurriedly to the gate.  He returned saying, "A holy
Palmer, good mistress, seeketh entrance."

"A Palmer! bring him in speedily, good Hodge!" exclaimed Dame Lovell.
"Blessed is the house whereinto entereth a Palmer,--and mayhap he may
give us to wit of Richard."

The Palmer was attired in a long coat of coarse brown frieze, with a
large flapped hat, not unlike that of a coal-heaver.  He was conducted
to the high table, where Friar Andrew served him with meat, and put all
manner of questions to him.  He had come, he said, from Damascus, where
he had met with a friend of theirs, one Sir Richard Pynson, and he
brought a packet from him; which he thereupon took from his wallet, and
delivered into Dame Lovell's hands.  It was a large packet, and
evidently contained something more than merely a letter.  Dame Lovell
was highly delighted, particularly when, on opening the parcel, she drew
out a magnificent piece of baudekyn, one of the richest dress-stuffs
then made, and only to be procured from Constantinople.  Beside this the
packet only contained a letter, which Dame Lovell was sorely puzzled how
to read.  There was nobody at Lovell Tower who could read except Friar
Andrew, and he, as has been previously stated, was not by any means a
first-class scholar.  However, Dame Lovell passed him the letter, and
after spending some time in the examination of it, he announced that he
thought he could read it, "for the lad had written the letters great,
like a good lad, as he always was."  Richard had, indeed, purposely done
so, because he anticipated that Friar Andrew would have to read it.  The
Palmer interposed, saying that he could read well, and offered to read
the letter; but this Dame Lovell civilly declined, because she thought
there might be secrets in the letter, and she did not know whether the
Palmer were to be trusted.  Friar Andrew was mechanically retiring into
one of the deep windows, but Dame Lovell stopped him, and requested him
to follow her to her own room.  She gathered up her baudekyn, and left
the servants to entertain the Palmer, who she gave orders should be
feasted with the best in the house.

"Now, father," said Dame Lovell, when she had Friar Andrew and the
letter safe in her own apartment, "Now read, I pray thee; but we will
have no eavesdroppers, and though Palmers be holy men, yet may they
carry tales."

Friar Andrew sat down, cleared his throat, and began to read rather
grandiloquently.  He read syllable by syllable, like a child, and every
now and then stumbled over a hard word.  As to the names of places, he
declared himself unable to read those at all.  I therefore purpose to
give the letter, not as Andrew read it, but as Richard wrote it.

"_To the hands of the very worthy Dame, my good lady and mistress, Dame
Agnes Lovell, of Lovell Tower, be these delivered with all convenient

"Dear Mistress and my worthy Dame,--In as humble and lowly wise as may
be, I commend myself to your kindly favour, hoping that these may find
you in health, as they leave me presently.  I do you to wit, good
mistress, that I have arrived safely, by the grace of our Lord, at
Damascus, which is a very fair and rich city, and full of all manner of
merchandise; and I have been by Byzantium, and have seen all the holy
relics there kept; to wit, the cross of our Lord, and His coat, and the
sponge and reed wherewith the heathen Jews [`Cursed be they!' interposed
Friar Andrew] did give Him to drink, and more blessed relics else than I
have the time to write of, the which nathless be named, as I think, in
the Travels of Sir John Maundeville.  This city of Damascus is very
great, and there be about the same so fair gardens as I never did see at
any other place; moreover, Saint Paul here dwelt, and was a leech.  [See
Note 2.] Also I give you to wit, good lady, that I look by our Lord's
help, to go on to the holy city of Jerusalem, the which is from here
five days' journey.  And I send you herein a fine piece of baudekyn, the
bravest I could see, the which I bought in the market at Byzantium, to
make you a rare gown for feast-days.  Moreover, I beseech you to say
unto good Father Andrew, (I count he will read this letter, and
therefore do say unto himself), I would fain have sent you somewhat
likewise, good father, but as yet I found not to my hand aught that
would like you; but I look, when I shall be in Jerusalem, if it be the
Lord's pleasure that I come therein, for to get you some relics, by the
which I wis you will set great store."  ["Thou art a good lad," said the

"Edmund Carew is in health, and is a faithful squire, and a passing
honest fellow [see note 3]; but he doth long for to hear news of his
father, and my heart also is oft-times sore to wit what is become of
mine old friend.  If you shall hear of any one who wendeth unto the Land
of Promise, I beseech you send us news herein.  Likewise would I fain
know somewhat of the Lord Marnell, who I guess [see note 4] hath now
returned to London.  Is Geoffrey yet with you?  I pray you ask him if he
remembereth me, for an' he doth, I will bring him a brave thing when I
shall come: and God's blessing and mine be with the sweet heart, and
keep him ever from all evil.

"I beseech you commend me humbly unto the Lord Marnell, if you see him
or send to him, and also unto Sir Ralph Marston, when you shall have
speech of him; and greet well all the maidens and servants from me.
Pray salute also Mistress Katherine on my part, and specially Mistress
Alice Jordan.  Moreover, I beseech you to make my most humble duty and
service unto my good knight my father, and my good lady my mother, and
salute from me lovingly my sistren, who I trust be all in health.  I met
this holy Palmer at a church called Our Lady of Sardenak, the which is
five miles from this city; and he hath promised me for to deliver my
letters with safety, and in all convenient haste.  I have written also
unto my father by him; wherefore, if he come unto you first, as I count
he will do, I pray you for my sake to put him in the way to Pynsonlee.

"I give you to wit also, good mistress, that in this country be some men
who call themselves Jacobites,--to wit, disciples of Saint James,--and
they be right Lollards, holding that a man should make confession to God
and no wise unto the priest; and also read they God's Word in their own
tongue, and not in Latin, the which giveth me much marvel how they came
in this place, for they do wit nothing of us and of our country.
Nathless, I trow that God learneth [teaches] His own alike in all lands
and at divers times.

"I pray you specially, good mistress, that you give me to wit how I may
come home.  Doth King Henry still reign? and is he yet evil affected
toward the Lollards? for so long as things be in this case, I dare in no
wise take my way unto you.

"And now, dear mistress, I pray God to have you in His holy keeping, to
the which I commit you all.

"From your very humble serving-man and loving friend, Richard Pynson.

"Edmund Carew prayeth me for to make his lowly commendations unto you.

"Written at Damascus, this xxvii day of November."

This was the first and last letter which Dame Lovell received from
Richard Pynson.  Probably he wrote many others, but they never came to

Friar Andrew, with the greatest difficulty, managed to write back a few
lines.  His letter took him a whole week to compose and transfer to
paper.  It was written in short sentences, like a child's epistle; and
nearly every sentence commenced with Richard's name.  Friar Andrew
informed his correspondent that all parties named in his letter were
well; that Geoffrey was still with them, sent his loving commendations,
and said he remembered him, and would never forget him as long as he
lived; that of Lord Marnell they had only heard a rumour which they
could not believe, of his having joined an insurrection in the West;
that Master Carew was had up to London and strictly examined by the
council, but that his answers were so ingeniously evasive that they
could lay hold of nothing, and nothing had been found in his house which
could criminate him; he had accordingly been dismissed with a caution.
Sir Ralph Marston had privately declared that "the old fox must have
hidden his Lollard books in some uncommonly safe place, for I wis he had
some."  Friar Andrew concluded his letter with a malediction upon "evil
companions," by which he meant the anti-Lollard party; for though Andrew
cared not a straw about the matter of opinion, he could never forgive
them for his favourite's death.  He also besought Richard to "look well
to his ways, and have nought to do with heathen Jews and Saracens, who
all worshipped mawmetis," [see note 5] and to come home as soon as he
could--which, however, must not be just now.

Friar Andrew then folded his elaborate and arduous piece of composition,
and directed it in remarkable characters and singular spelling, as

"_To ye hondes of ye veraye gode Knyghte, Syr Rechurt Pynsone of
Pinnsonrue, beyng yn ye Halie Londe at Dommosscsc_ (this word gave him
immense trouble), _or elsewhar, dilyuher thes_."

"There!" said the friar, with a deep sigh of relief in conclusion, as he
exhibited the fruit of his prowess in triumph to Dame Lovell.
"Methinketh that Richard himself could not better those letters!"

Dame Lovell looked with unfeigned admiration at the cabalistic
characters, for such they were in her eyes, and declared them "right
brave," opining moreover that "learning was soothly a passing rare


Note 1.  Knighthood is now conferred only by the Sovereign, who is "the
fountain of honour," or by a viceroy, as representing the Sovereign.  In
ancient times, however, "a knight could make a knight."  When the Duke
of Suffolk was taken prisoner in battle by a simple squire, he asked,
before surrendering his sword, "Are you a knight?"  "No," was the
answer.  "Kneel, then," replied Suffolk, "that I may make you one; for I
will never give up my sword to a squire."  The squire knelt, and Suffolk
knighted his captor, and then delivered his sword to one who, by the
laws of chivalry, had now become his equal.

Note 2.  The reader does not need to search through the Acts of the
Apostles for any mention of Saint Paul's having been a doctor for it is
one of the endless legends of the Middle Ages, of which Maundeville's
Travels are full.

Note 3.  A very pleasant companion.  "Fellow" and "companion" have now
exchanged meanings, though we still speak of a bed_fellow_ and the
_fellow_ to a glove.

Note 4.  This "Americanism" is really an old English phrase, as many
more so-called Americanisms also are.

Note 5.  Idols.  Our forefathers had a rooted idea that Jews and
Mohammedans were idolaters.  Their very word for idols, "Mawmetis," was
a corruption of the name of Mahomet.



  "Urbs Coelestis!  Urbs Beata!
  Super petram collocata,
  Urbs in portu satis tuto,
  De lonquinquo te saluto;
  Te saluto, te suspiro,
  Te affecto, te requiro."

Fourteen years had passed away since the burning of the Lady Marnell.  A
new king had risen up, who was not a whit less harshly inclined towards
the Lollards than his predecessor had been.  This monarch, Henry the
Fifth, of chivalrous memory, was riding over the field of Agincourt, the
day after the battle, surrounded by about twenty of his nobles.  Behind
the nobles rode their squires, and all around them on the field lay the
dead and dying.

"Saw you yonder knight, Master Wentworth," inquired one of the squires
of his next neighbour, "that we marked a-riding down by the woody knoll
to the left, shortly afore the fight?  I marvel if he meant to fight."

"He had it, if he meant it not," answered the other; "the knight, you
would say, who bore three silver arrows?"

"Ay, the same.  What befell him?"

"A party of French skirmishers came down upon him and his squire, and
they were both forced to draw sword.  The knight defended himself like a
gallant knight, but--our Lady aid us!--they were twelve to two, or
thereabouts: it was small marvel that he fell."

"He did fall?  And the squire?"

"The squire fought so bravely, that he earned well his gilded spurs.
[Gilded spurs were the mark of a knight.] He stood over his master where
he fell, and I trow the French got not his body so long as the squire
was alive; but I saw not the end of it, for my master bade me thence."

"I pray you," interposed a third squire, "wit you who is yon youth that
rideth by the King's left hand?"

"The tall, pale, fair-haired youth on the white horse."


"That is the Lord Marnell--a new favourite."

"The Lord Marnell!  Is he a kinsman of the Lady Marnell, who--"

"Hush!  Yes, her son."

"His father is dead, also, then?"

"His father was beheaded about twelve years gone, on account of having
taken part in a rebellion, got up by the friends of King Richard; but it
was said at the time privily, that an' he had not been suspected of
Lollardism, his part in the rebellion might have been forgiven."

"Where, then, dwelt this youth, his son?"

"In the North, I ween, somewhere, with his grandmother, who hath died
not long since.  Then the young Lord came down to seek his fortune in
London and the King's Grace saw him, and fancied him."

The squires' conversation, and themselves as well, came to a sudden
stop, for the King and his suite had halted in front of them.

Almost in their way, on the ground lay a wounded man.  His visor was
raised, and his face visible; but his surcoat was slashed and covered
with mire and blood, so that the eye could no longer discern the device
embroidered on it.  A scallop-shell fastened to his helmet, intimated
that he had at some past time been a pilgrim to the shrine of Saint
James of Compostella; while the red cross upon his shoulder was an
indisputable indication that he "came from the East Countrie."  His age
would have been difficult to guess.  It did not seem to be years which
had blanched the hair and beard, and had given to the face a wearied,
travel-worn look--a look which so changed the countenance from what it
might otherwise have been, that even

  "--The mother that him bare,
  If she had been in presence there,
  She had not known her child."  Marmion.

Close to the dying man lay, apparently, his squire--dead; and beside him
was a shield, turned with its face to the ground.

"The very same knight whom we saw a-riding down the knoll!" said one of
the squires, with an oath.  A man was thought very pious in the
fourteenth and fifteenth centuries if he did not swear pretty freely.
"At least I ween it be the same--I should wit well the shield an' I
could see it."

King Henry and his nobles were attentively contemplating the wounded

"Light down, my Lord Marnell," said the King, "and see what is the
device upon yon shield.  We would know which of our faithful servants we
have unhappily lost."

As the King spoke, the eyes of the dying man suddenly turned to Geoffrey
Marnell, who sprang lightly from his horse to fulfil the royal order.
He knelt down by the shield, and lifted it up to examine the arms; and
as he turned it, the well-known cognisance of Pynson of Pynsonlee--the
three silver arrows--met his eye.  An exclamation of mingled sorrow and
surprise burst from Geoffrey's lips.

"Who is he?" said Henry, eagerly.

"Sir Richard Pynson of Pynsonlee, an't please your Grace."

"Ha! the Lollard knight!" cried the King.  "Better he than another!  I
had bruit of him, and, truly, I looked to have him to the stake when he
should return from his Eastern travel.  It is well."

The King and his suite rode on; but Geoffrey was not one of them.  He
had thrown down the shield, and had turned to the dear friend of his
youth, who lay dying before him.

"Richard! dear, dear Richard!" he said, in trembling accents.  "How came
you here?  Have you only come home to die?  O Richard, die not just now!
But perchance it were better so," he added, in a low tone, recalling
the cruel words of the King.  "Is it thus that thy God hath granted thee
that which thou requestedst, and hath not let thee pass through the
fiery trial?"

As Geoffrey thus bemoaned the fate of his old friend, he fancied that he
saw Richard's lips move, and he bent his head low to catch his last
words.  Faintly, but audibly, those two last words, so full of meaning,
reached his ear.  And the first of the two was "Margery!" and the last

The tears fell from Geoffrey's eyes, as he softly kissed the pale brow
of the dead; and then, remounting his horse, he galloped after the King.
There was no need of his remaining longer; for he could do nothing more
for Richard Pynson, when he had clasped hands with Margery Lovell at the
gates of the _Urbs Beata_.


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