Title: The White Lady of Hazelwood - A Tale of the Fourteenth Century
Author: Holt, Emily Sarah, 1836-1893
Language: English
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The White Lady of Hazelwood, by Emily Sarah Holt.

________________________________________________________________________
Her is another of Emily Holt's books set in the middle ages, this time
at the end of the fourteenth century.  We are kept constantly aware of
this by the quaint words and expressions the players in the drama are
always using.  Many of these phrases have dropped out of the language,
but sometimes the usage is very illuminating, as we can see how we got
some modern expression or spelling.

On the whole in this story life goes on quite evenly, with not too many
of those murders that aspiring members of the noblest families of
England used to perpetrate in those days.

The heroine of the story is the "White Lady", the Countess of Montfort,
who had fought bravely to bring her son back to power, but who was then
ignored by him for many years until her death.  For that reason the
story is very moving.  One part of the story I liked very much was when
a Mercer, a dealer in rich cloths, is trying to tempt his customers to
buy his wares.  The variety of his goods, and the prices of them, make
one realise what a wealthy trade he was engaged in.

________________________________________________________________________
THE WHITE LADY OF HAZELWOOD, BY EMILY SARAH HOLT.



PREFACE.

On the crowded canvas of the fourteenth century stands out as one of its
most prominent figures that of the warrior Countess of Montfort.  No
reader of Froissart's Chronicle can forget the siege of Hennebon, and
the valiant part she played in the defence of her son's dominions.
Actuated by more personal motives than the peasant maid, she was
nevertheless the Joan of Arc of her day, and of Bretagne.

What became of her?

After the restoration of her son, we see no more of that brave and
tender mother.  She drops into oblivion.  Her work was done.  Those who
have thought again of her at all have accepted without question the only
extant answer--the poor response of a contemporary romance, according to
which she dwelt in peace, and closed an honoured and cherished life in a
castle in the duchy of her loving and grateful son.

It has been reserved for the present day to find the true reply--to draw
back the veil from the "bitter close of all," and to show that the
hardest part of her work began when she laid down her sword, and the
ending years of her life were the saddest and weariest portion.  Never
since the days of Lear has such a tale been told of a parent's sacrifice
and of a child's ingratitude.  In the royal home of the Duke of
Bretagne, there was no room for her but for whose love and care he would
have been a homeless fugitive.  The discarded mother was imprisoned in a
foreign land, and left to die.

Let us hope that as it is supposed in the story, the lonely, broken
heart turned to a truer love than that of her cherished and cruel son--
even to His who says "My mother" of all aged women who seek to do the
will of God, and who will never forsake them that trust in Him.



CHAPTER ONE.

AT THE PATTY-MAKER'S SHOP.

  "Man wishes to be loved--expects to be so:
  And yet how few live so as to be loved!"

  Rev  Horatius Bonar, D.D.

It was a warm afternoon in the beginning of July--warm everywhere; and
particularly so in the house of Master Robert Altham, the patty-maker,
who lived at the corner of Saint Martin's Lane, where it runs down into
the Strand.  Shall we look along the Strand? for the time is 1372, five
hundred years ago, and the Strand was then a very different place from
the street as we know it now.

In the first place, Trafalgar Square had no being.  Below where it was
to be in the far future, stood Charing Cross--the real Eleanor Cross of
Charing, a fine Gothic structure--and four streets converged upon it.
That to the north-west parted almost directly into the Hay Market and
Hedge Lane, genuine country roads, in which both the hay and the hedge
had a real existence.  Southwards ran King Street down to Westminster;
and northwards stood the large building of the King's Mews, where his
Majesty's hawks were kept.  Two hundred years later, bluff King Hal
would turn out the hawks to make room for his horses; but as yet the
word mews had its proper signification of a place where hawks were mewed
or confined.  At the corner of the Mews, between it and the
patty-maker's, ran up Saint Martin's Lane; its western boundary being
the long blank wall of the Mews, and its eastern a few houses, and then
Saint Martin's Church.  Along the Strand, eastwards, were stately
private houses on the right hand, and shops upon the left.  Just below
the cross, further to the south, was Scotland Yard, the site of the
ancient Palace of King David of Scotland, and still bearing traces of
its former grandeur; then came the Priory of Saint Mary Rouncival, the
town houses of six Bishops, the superb mansion of the Earl of Arundel,
and the house of the Bishops of Exeter, interspersed with smaller
dwellings here and there.  A long row of these stretched between Durham
Place and Worcester Place, behind which, with its face to the river,
stood the magnificent Palace of the Savoy, the city habitation of John
of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, eldest surviving son of the reigning King.
The Strand was far narrower than now, and the two churches, instead of
being in the middle, broke the monotony of the rows of houses on the
north side.  Let us look more especially at the long row which ran
unbroken from the corner of Saint Martin's Lane to the first church,
that of "our Lady and the holy Innocents atte Stronde."

What would first strike the eye was the signboards, gaily painted, and
swinging in the summer breeze.  Every house had one, for there were no
numbers, and these served the purpose; consequently no two similar ones
must be near each other.  People directed letters to Master Robert
Altham, "at the Katherine Wheel, by Saint Martin's Church, nigh the
King's Mews," when they had any to write; but letters, except to people
in high life or in official positions, were very rare articles, and
Master Altham had not received a full dozen in all the seven-and-twenty
years that he had lived in the Strand and made patties.  Next door to
him was John Arnold, the bookbinder, who displayed a Saracen's head upon
his signboard; then came in regular order Julian Walton, the mercer,
with a wheelbarrow; Stephen Fronsard, the girdler, with a cardinal's
hat; John Silverton, the pelter or furrier, with a star; Peter Swan, the
Court broiderer, with cross-keys; John Morstowe, the luminer, or
illuminator of books, with a rose; Lionel de Ferre, the French baker,
with a vine; Herman Goldsmith, the Court goldsmith, who bore a dolphin;
William Alberton, the forcermonger, who kept what we should call a fancy
shop for little boxes, baskets, etcetera, and exhibited a
_fleur-de-lis_; Michael Ladychapman, who sported a unicorn, and sold
goloshes; Joel Garlickmonger, at the White Horse, who dealt in the
fragrant vegetable whence he derived his name; and Theobald atte Home,
the hatter, who being of a poetical disposition, displayed a landscape
entitled, as was well understood, the Hart's Bourne.  Beyond these
stretched far away to the east other shops--those of a mealman, a
lapidary, a cordwainer--namely, a shoemaker; a lindraper, for they had
not yet added the syllable which makes it linen; a lorimer, who dealt in
bits and bridles; a pouchmonger, who sold bags and pockets; a
parchment-maker; a treaclemonger, a spicer, a chandler, and a pepperer,
all four the representatives of our modern grocer; an apothecary; a
scrivener, who wrote for the numerous persons who could not write; a
fuller, who cleaned clothes; a tapiser, who sold tapestry, universally
used for hangings of rooms; a barber, an armourer, a spurrier, a
scourer, a dyer, a glover, a turner, a goldbeater, an upholdester or
upholsterer, a toothdrawer, a buckler-maker, a fletcher (who feathered
arrows), a poulter or poulterer, a vinter or wine-merchant, a pewterer,
a haberdasher, a pinner or pin-maker, a skinner, a hamper-maker, and a
hosier.  The list might be prolonged through fifty other trades, but we
have reached Temple Bar.  So few houses between Saint Martin's Lane and
Temple Bar!  Yes, so few.  Ground was cheap, and houses were low, and it
cost less to cover much ground than to build high.  Only very exalted
mansions had three floors, and more than three were unknown even to
imagination.  Moreover, the citizens of London had decided ideas of the
garden order.  They did not crush their houses tight together, as if to
squeeze out another inch, if possible.  Though their streets were
exceedingly narrow, yet nearly every house had its little garden; and
behind that row to which we are paying particular attention, ran "le
Covent Garden," the Abbot of Westminster's private pleasure ground, and
on its south-east was Auntrous' Garden, bordered by "the King's highway,
leading from the town of Seint Gylys to Stronde Crosse."  The town of
Seint Gylys was quite a country place, and as to such remote villages as
Blumond's Bury or Iseldon, which we call Bloomsbury and Islington,
nobody thought of them in connection with London, any more than with
Nottingham or Durham.

The houses were much more picturesque than those of modern build.  There
was no attempt at uniformity.  Each man set his house down as it suited
him, and some thatches turned to the east and west, while others fronted
north and south.  There were few chimneys, except in the larger houses,
and no shop windows; a large wooden shutter fixed below the window
covered it at night, and in the day it was let down to hang, tablewise,
as a counter whereon the goods sold by the owner were displayed.

The Strand was one of the few chief streets where various trades
congregated together.  Usually every street had its special calling, and
every trade its own particular street.  Some of the latter retain their
significant names even yet--Hosier Lane, Cordwainer Street, Bread
Street, Soper's Lane, the Poultry, Silver Street, Ironmonger's Lane, and
Paternoster Row, in which last lived the text-writers and rosary-makers.
The mercers lived mainly in Cheapside, the drapers in Lombard Street
(they were mostly Italians, as the name shows), the furriers in Saint
Mary Axe, the fishmongers in Knightriders' Street, the brewers by the
Thames, the butchers in Eastcheap, and the goldsmiths in Guthrum's (now
Gutter) Lane.

But it is time to inquire what kind of patties were inviting the
passer-by on Mr Altham's counter.  They were a very large variety:
oyster, crab, lobster, anchovy, and all kinds of fish; sausage-rolls,
jelly, liver, galantine, and every sort of meat; ginger, honey, cream,
fruit; cheese-cakes, almond and lemon; little open tarts called bry
tarts, made of literal cheese, with a multitude of other articles--eggs,
honey or sugar, and spices; and many another compound of multifarious
and indigestible edibles; for what number of incongruities, palatable or
sanitary, did our forefathers _not_ put together in a pie!  For one
description of dainty, however, Mr Altham would have been asked on this
July afternoon in vain.  He would have deemed it next door to sacrilege
to heat his oven for a mince pie, outside the charmed period between
Christmas Eve and Twelfth Day.

On the afternoon in question, Mr Altham stepped out of his door to
speak with his neighbour the girdler, and no sooner was he well out of
the way than another person walked into it.  This was a youth of some
eighteen years, dressed in a very curious costume.  Men did not affect
black clothes then, except in mourning; and the taste of few led them to
the sombre browns and decorous greys worn by most now.  This young
gentleman had on a tunic of dark red, in shape not unlike a butcher's
blue frock, which was fastened round the hips by a girdle of black
leather, studded with brass spangles.  His head was covered by a loose
hood of bright blue, and his hose or stockings--for stockings and
trousers were in one--were a light, bright shade of apple-green.  Low
black shoes completed this showy costume, but it was not more showy than
that of every other man passing along the street.  Our young man seemed
rather anxious not to be seen, for he cast sundry suspicious glances in
the direction of the girdler's, and having at length apparently
satisfied himself that the patty-maker was not likely to return at once,
he darted across the street, and presented himself at the window of the
corner shop.  Two girls were sitting behind it, whose ages were twenty
and seventeen.  These young ladies were scarcely so smart as the
gentleman.  The elder wore a grey dress striped with black, over which
was a crimson kirtle or pelisse, with wide sleeves and tight grey ones
under them; a little green cap sat on her light hair, which was braided
in two thick masses, one on each side of the face.  The younger wore a
dress of the same light green as the youth's hose, with a silvery
girdle, and a blue cap.

"Mistress Alexandra!" said the youth in a loud whisper.

The elder girl took no notice of him.  The younger answered as if she
had just discovered his existence, though in truth she had seen him
coming all the time.

"O Clement Winkfield, is that you?  We've no raffyolys [Sausage-rolls]
left, if that be your lack."

"I thank you, Mistress Ricarda; but I lack nought o' the sort.  Mistress
Alexandra knoweth full well that I come but to beg a kind word from
her."

"I've none to spare this even," said the elder, with a toss of her head.

"But you will, sweet heart, when you hear my tidings."

"What now?  Has your mother bought a new kerchief, or the cat catched a
mouse?"

"Nay, sweet heart, mock me not!  Here be grand doings, whereof my Lord
talked this morrow at dinner, I being awaiting.  What say you to a
goodly tournament at the Palace of the Savoy?"

"I dare reckon you fell asleep and dreamed thereof."

"Mistress Alexandra, you'd make a saint for to swear!  Howbeit, if you
reck not thereof,--I had meant for to practise with my cousin at Arundel
House, for to get you standing room with the maids yonder; but seeing
you have no mind thereto--I dare warrant Mistress Joan Silverton shall
not say me nay, and may be Mistress Argenta--"

"Come within, Clement, and eat a flaune," said Ricarda in a very
different tone, taking up a dish of cheese-cakes from the counter.
"When shall the jousting be?"

"Oh, it makes no bones, Mistress Ricarda.  Your sister hath no mind
thereto, 'tis plain."

However, Clement suffered himself to be persuaded to do what he liked,
and Ricarda going close to her sister to fetch a plate, whispered to her
a few words of warning as to what she might lose by too much coldness,
whereupon the fair Alexandra thawed somewhat, and condescended to seem
slightly interested in the coming event.  Ricarda, however, continued to
do most of the talking.

Clement Winkfield was scullion in the Bishop of Durham's kitchen, and
would have been considered in that day rather a good match for a
tradesman's daughter; for anything in the form of manufacture or barter
was then in a very mean social position.  Domestic service stood much
higher than it does now; and though Mr Altham's daughters were
heiresses in a small way, they could not afford to despise Clement
Winkfield, except as a political stratagem.

"And what like shall the jousting be, Clement?" asked Ricarda, when that
young gentleman had been satisfactorily settled on a form inside the
shop, with a substantial cheese-cake before him--not a mere mouthful,
but a large oval tart from which two or three people might be helped.

"It shall be the richest and rarest show was seen this many a day, my
mistress," replied Clement, having disposed of his first bite.  "In good
sooth, Mistress, but you wot how to make flaunes!  My Lord hath none
such on his table."

"That was Saundrina's making," observed Ricarda with apparent
carelessness.

"Dear heart!  That's wherefore it's so sweet, trow," responded Clement
gallantly.

Alexandra laughed languidly.  "Come now, Clem, tell us all about the
jousting, like a good lad as thou art, and win us good places to see the
same, and I will make thee a chowet-pie [liver-pie] of the best," said
she, laying aside her affected indifference.

"By my troth, I'll talk till my tongue droppeth on the floor," answered
the delighted Clement; "and I have heard all of Will Pierpoint, that is
in my Lord of Arundel his stable, and is thick as incle-weaving with one
of my Lord of Lancaster his palfreymen.  The knights be each one in a
doublet of white linen, spangled of silver, having around the sleeves
and down the face thereof a border of green cloth, whereon is broidered
the device chosen, wrought about with clouds and vines of golden work.
The ladies and damsels be likewise in green and white.  For the knights,
moreover, there be masking visors, fourteen of peacocks' heads, and
fourteen of maidens' heads, the one sort to tilt against the other.  My
Lord Duke of Lancaster, that is lord of the revels, beareth a costume of
white velvet paled with cramoisie [striped with crimson velvet], whereon
be wrought garters of blue, and the Lady of Cambridge, that is lady of
the jousts, and shall give the prizes, shall be in Inde-colour [blue],
all wrought with roses of silver.  There be at this present forty women
broiderers a-working in the Palace, in such haste they be paid mighty
high wage--fourpence halfpenny each one by the day."

In order to understand the value of these payments, we must multiply
them by about sixteen.  The wages of a broideress, according to the
present worth of money, were, when high, six shillings a day.

"And the device, what is it?"

"Well, I counsel not any man to gainsay it.  `It is as it is'--there you
have it."

"Truly, a merry saying.  And when shall it be, Clem?"

Mistress Alexandra was quite gracious now.

"Thursday shall be a fortnight, being Saint Maudlin's Day, at ten o' the
clock in the forenoon.  Will hath passed word to me to get me in, and
two other with me.  You'll come, my mistresses?  There'll not be room
for Mistress Amphillis; I'm sorry."

Alexandra tossed her head very contemptuously.

"What does Amphillis want of jousts?" said she.  "She's fit for nought
save to sift flour and cleanse vessels when we have a-done with them.
And she hasn't a decent kirtle, never name a hood.  I wouldn't be seen
in her company for forty shillings."

"Saundrina's been at Father to put her forth," added Ricarda, "if he
could but hear of some service in the country, where little plenishing
were asked.  There's no good laying no money out on the like of her."

A soft little sound at the door made them look round.  A girl was
standing there, of about Clement's age--a pale, quiet-looking girl, who
seemed nervously afraid of making her presence known, apparently lest
she should be blamed for being there or anywhere.  Alexandra spoke
sharply.

"Come within and shut the door, Amphillis, and stare not thus like a
goose!  What wouldst?"

Amphillis neither came in nor shut the door.  She held it in her hand,
while she said in a shy way, "The patties are ready to come forth, if
one of you will come," and then she disappeared, as if frightened of
staying a minute longer than she could help.

"`Ready to come forth!'" echoed Ricarda.  "Cannot the stupid thing take
them forth by herself?"

"I bade her not do so," explained her sister, "but call one of us--she
is so unhandy.  Go thou, Ricarda, or she'll be setting every one wrong
side up."

Ricarda, with a martyr-like expression--which usually means an
expression very unlike a martyr's--rose and followed Amphillis.
Alexandra, thus left alone with Clement, became so extra amiable as to
set that not over-wise youth on a pinnacle of ecstasy, until she heard
her father's step, when she dismissed him hastily.

She did not need to have been in a hurry, for the patty-maker was
stopped before he reached the threshold, by a rather pompous individual
in white and blue livery.  Liveries were then worn far more commonly
than now--not by servants only, but by officials of all kinds, and by
gentlemen retainers of the nobles--sometimes even by nobles themselves.
To wear a friend's livery was one of the highest compliments that could
be paid.  Mr Altham knew by a glance at his costume that the man who
had stopped him bore some office in the household of the Duke of
Lancaster, since he not only wore that Prince's livery, but bore his
badge, the ostrich feather ermine, affixed to his left sleeve.

"Master Altham the patty-maker, I take it?"

"He, good my master, and your servant."

"A certain lady would fain wit of you, Master, if you have at this
present dwelling with you a daughter named Amphillis?"

"I have no daughter of that name.  I have two daughters, whose names be
Alexandra and Ricarda, that dwell with me; likewise one wedded, named
Isabel.  I have a niece named Amphillis."

"That dwelleth with you?"

"Ay, she doth at this present, sithence my sister, her mother, is
departed [dead]; but--"

"You have had some thought of putting her forth, maybe?"

Mr Altham looked doubtful.

"Well! we have talked thereof, I and my maids; but no certain end was
come to thereabout."

"That is it which the lady has heard.  Mistress Walton the silkwoman, at
the Wheelbarrow, spake with this lady, saying such a maid there was, for
whom you sought service; and the lady wotteth [knows] of a gentlewoman
with whom she might be placed an' she should serve, and the service
suited your desires for her."

"Pray you, come within, and let us talk thereon at our leisure.  I am
beholden to Mistress Walton; she knew I had some thoughts thereanent
[about it], and she hath done me a good turn to name it."

The varlet, as he was then called, followed Mr Altham into the shop.
Aralet is a contraction of this word.  But varlet, at that date, was a
term of wide signification, including any type of personal attendant.
The varlet of a duke would be a gentleman by birth and education, for
gentlemen were not above serving nobles even in very menial positions.
People had then, in some respects, "less nonsense about them" than now,
and could not see that it was any degradation for one man to hand a
plate to another.

Alexandra rose when the varlet made his appearance.  She did not keep a
heart, and she did keep a large stock of vanity.  She was consequently
quite ready to throw over Clement Winkfield as soon as ever a more
eligible suitor should present himself; and her idea of mankind ranged
them in two classes--such as were, and such as were not, eligible
suitors for Alexandra Altham.

Mr Altham, however, led his guest straight through the shop and
upstairs, thus cutting short Miss Altham's wiles and graces.  He took
him into what we should call his study, a very little room close to his
bedchamber, and motioned him to the only chair it contained; for chairs
were rare and choice things, the form or bench being the usual piece of
furniture.  Before shutting the door, however, he called--"Phyllis!"

Somebody unseen to the varlet answered the call, and received directions
in a low voice.  Mr Altham then came in and shut the door.

"I have bidden the maid bring us hypocras and spice," said he; "so you
shall have a look at her."

Hypocras was a very light wine, served as tea now is in the afternoon,
and spice was a word which covered all manner of good things--not only
pepper, sugar, cinnamon, and nutmegs, but rice, almonds, ginger, and
even gingerbread.

Mr Tynneslowe--for so the varlet was named--sat down in the chair, and
awaited the tray and Amphillis.



CHAPTER TWO.

_The Goldsmith's Daughter_.

  "I can live
  A life that tells on other lives, and makes
  This world less full of evil and of pain--
  A life which, like a pebble dropped at sea,
  Sends its wide circles to a hundred shores."

  Rev  Horatius Bonar, D.D.

The coming hypocras interested Mr Tynneslowe more than its bearer.  He
was privately wondering, as he sat awaiting it, whether Mr Altham would
have any in his cellar that was worth drinking, especially after that of
his royal master.  His next remark, however, had reference to Amphillis.

"It makes little matter, good Master, that I see the maid," said he.
"The lady or her waiting-damsels shall judge best of her.  You and I can
talk over the money matters and such.  I am ill-set to judge of maids:
they be kittle gear."

"Forsooth, they be so!" assented Mr Altham, with a sigh: for his fair
and wayward Alexandra had cost him no little care before that summer
afternoon.  "And to speak truth, Master Tynneslowe, I would not be sorry
to put the maid forth, for she is somewhat a speckled bird in mine
house, whereat the rest do peck.  Come within!"

The door of the little chamber opened, and Amphillis appeared carrying a
tray, whereon was set a leather bottle flanked by two silver cups, a
silver plate containing cakes, and a little silver-gilt jar with
preserved ginger.  Glass and china were much too rare and costly
articles for a tradesman to use, but he who had not at least two or
three cups and plates of silver in his closet was a very poor man.  Of
course these, by people in Mr Altham's position, were kept for best,
the articles commonly used being pewter or wooden plates, and horn cups.

Amphillis louted to the visitor--that is, she dropped what we call a
charity school-girl's "bob"--and the visitor rose and courtesied in
reply, for the courtesy was then a gentleman's reverence.  She set down
the tray, poured out wine for her uncle and his guest into the silver
cups, handed the cakes and ginger, and then quietly took her departure.

"A sober maid and a seemly, in good sooth," said Mr Tynneslowe, when
the door was shut.  "Hath she her health reasonable good?  She looks but
white."

"Ay, good enough," said the patty-maker, who knew that Amphillis was
sufficiently teased and worried by those lively young ladies, her
cousins, to make any girl look pale.

"Good.  Well, what wages should content you?"

Mr Altham considered that question with pursed lips and hands in his
pockets.

"Should you count a mark [13 shillings 4 pence] by the year too much?"

This would come to little over ten pounds a year at present value, and
seems a very poor salary for a young lady; but it must be remembered
that she was provided with clothing, as well as food and lodging, and
that she was altogether free from many expenses which we should reckon
necessaries--umbrellas and parasols, watches, desks, stamps, and
stationery.

"Scarce enough, rather," was the unexpected answer.  "Mind you, Master
Altham, I said a _lady_."

Master Altham looked curious and interested.  We call every woman a lady
who has either money or education; but in 1372 ranks were more sharply
defined.  Only the wives and daughters of a prince, peer, or knight were
termed ladies; the wives of squires and gentlemen were gentlewomen;
while below that they were simply called wives or maids, according as
they were married or single.

"This lady, then, shall be--Mercy on us! sure, Master Tynneslowe, you go
not about to have the maid into the household of my Lady's Grace of
Cambridge, or the Queen's Grace herself of Castile?"

The Duke of Lancaster having married the heiress of Castile, he and his
wife were commonly styled King and Queen of Castile.

Mr Tynneslowe laughed.  "Nay, there you fly your hawk at somewhat too
high game," said he; "nathless [nevertheless], Master Altham, it is a
lady whom she shall serve, and a lady likewise who shall judge if she be
meet for the place.  But first shall she be seen of a certain
gentlewoman of my lady's household, that shall say whether she promise
fair enough to have her name sent up for judgment.  I reckon three
nobles [one pound; present value, 6 pounds] by the year shall pay her
reckoning."

"Truly, I would be glad she had so good place.  And for plenishing, what
must she have?"

"Store sufficient of raiment is all she need have, and such jewelling as
it shall please you to bestow on her.  All else shall be found.  The
gentlewoman shall give her note of all that lacketh, if she be preferred
to the place."

"And when shall she wait on the said gentlewoman?"

"Next Thursday in the even, at Master Goldsmith's."

"I will send her."

Mr Tynneslowe declined a second helping of hypocras, and took his
leave.  The patty-maker saw him to the door, and then went back into his
shop.

"I have news for you, maids," said he.

Ricarda, who was arranging the fresh patties, looked up and stopped her
proceedings; Alexandra brought her head in from the window.  Amphillis
only, who sat sewing in the corner, went on with her work as if the news
were not likely to concern her.

"Phyllis, how shouldst thou like to go forth to serve a lady?"

A bright colour flushed into the pale cheeks.

"I, Uncle?" she said.

"A lady!" cried Alexandra in a much shriller voice, the word which had
struck her father's ear so lightly being at once noted by her.  "Said
you a _lady_, Father?  What lady, I pray you?"

"That cannot I say, daughter.  Phyllis, thou art to wait on a certain
gentlewoman, at Master Goldsmith's, as next Thursday in the even, that
shall judge if thou shouldst be meet for the place.  Don thee in thy
best raiment, and mind thy manners."

"May I go withal, Father?" cried Alexandra.

"There was nought said about thee.  Wouldst thou fain be put forth?  I
never thought of no such a thing.  Maybe it had been better that I had
spoken for you, my maids."

"I would not go forth to serve a city wife, or such mean gear," said
Alexandra, contemptuously.  "But in a lady's household I am well assured
I should become the place better than Phyllis.  Why, she has not a word
to say for herself,--a poor weak creature that should never--"

"Hush, daughter!  Taunt not thy cousin.  If she be a good maid and
discreet, she shall be better than fair and foolish."

"Gramercy! cannot a maid be fair and discreet belike?"

"Soothly so.  'Tis pity she is not oftener."

"But may we not go withal, Father?" said Ricarda.

"Belike ye may, my maid.  Bear in mind the gentlewoman looks to see
Amphillis, not you, and make sure that she wist which is she.  Then I
see not wherefore ye may not go."

Any one who had lived in Mr Altham's house from that day till the
Thursday following would certainly have thought that Alexandra, not
Amphillis, was the girl chosen to go.  The former made far more fuss
about it, and she was at the same time preparing a new mantle wherein to
attend the tournament, of which Amphillis was summoned to do all the
plain and uninteresting parts.  The result of this preoccupation would
have been very stale pastry on the counter, if her father had not seen
to that item for himself.  Ricarda was less excited and egotistical, yet
she talked more than Amphillis.

The Thursday evening came, and the three girls, dressed in their best
clothes, took their way to the Dolphin.  The Court goldsmith was a more
select individual than Mr Altham, and did not serve in his own shop,
unless summoned to a customer of rank.  The young men who were there had
evidently been prepared for the girls' coming, and showed them upstairs
with a fire of jokes which Alexandra answered smartly, while Amphillis
was silent under them.

They were ushered into the private chamber of the goldsmith's daughter,
who sat at work, and rose to receive them.  She kissed them all, for
kissing was then the ordinary form of greeting, and people only shook
hands when they wished to be warmly demonstrative.

"Is the gentlewoman here, Mistress Regina?"

"Sit you down," said Mistress Regina, calmly.  "No, she is not yet come.
She will not long be.  Which of you three is de maiden dat go shall?"

"That my cousin is," said Alexandra, making fun of the German girl's
somewhat broken English, though in truth she spoke it fairly for a
foreigner.  But Amphillis said gently--

"That am I, Mistress Regina; and I take it full kindly of you, that you
should suffer me to meet this gentlewoman in your chamber."

"So!" was the answer.  "You shall better serve of de three."

Alexandra had no time to deliver the rather pert reply which she was
preparing, for the door opened, and the young man announced "Mistress
Chaucer."

Had the girls known that the lady who entered was the wife of a man
before whose fame that of many a crowned monarch would pale, and whose
poetry should live upon men's lips when five hundred years had fled,
they would probably have looked on her with very different eyes.  But
they knew her only as a Lady of the Bedchamber, first to the deceased
Queen Philippa, and now to the Queen of Castile, and therefore deserving
of all possible subservience.  Of her husband they never thought at all.
The "chiel amang 'em takin' notes" made no impression on them: but five
centuries have passed since then, and the chiel's notes are sterling yet
in England.

Mistress Chaucer sat down on the bench, and with quiet but rapid glances
appraised the three girls.  Then she said to Amphillis--

"Is it thou whom I came to see?"

Amphillis louted, and modestly assented, after which the lady took no
further notice of the two who were the more anxious to attract her
attention.

"And what canst thou do?" she said.

"What I am told, Mistress," said Amphillis.

"_Ach_!" murmured Regina; "you den can much do."

"Ay, thou canst do much," quietly repeated Mistress Chaucer.  "Canst
dress hair?"

Amphillis thought she could.  She might well, for her cousins made her
their maid, and were not easily pleased mistresses.

"Thou canst cook, I cast no doubt, being bred at a patty-shop?"

"Mistress, I have only dwelt there these six months past.  My father was
a poor gentleman that died when I was but a babe, and was held to demean
himself by wedlock with my mother, that was sister unto mine uncle,
Master Altham.  Mine uncle was so kindly as to take on him the charge of
breeding me up after my father died, and he set my mother and me in a
little farm that 'longeth to him in the country: and at after she
departed likewise, he took me into his house.  I know somewhat of
cookery, an' it like you, but not to even my good cousins here."

"Oh, Phyllis is a metely fair cook, when she will give her mind
thereto," said Alexandra with a patronising air, and a little toss of
her head--a gesture to which that young lady was much addicted.

A very slight look of amusement passed across Mistress Chaucer's face,
but she did not reply to the remark.

"And thy name?" she asked, still addressing Amphillis.

"Amphillis Neville, and your servant, Mistress."

"Canst hold thy peace when required so to do?"  Amphillis smiled.  "I
would endeavour myself so to do."

"Canst be patient when provoked of other?"

"With God's grace, Mistress, I so trust."  Alexandra's face wore an
expression of dismay.  It had never occurred to her that silence and
patience were qualities required in a bower-maiden, as the maid or
companion to a lady was then called; for the maid was the companion
then, and was usually much better educated than now--as education was
understood at that time.  In Alexandra's eyes the position was simply
one which gave unbounded facilities for flirting, laughing, and
giddiness in general.  She began to think that Amphillis was less to be
envied than she had supposed.

"And thou wouldst endeavour thyself to be meek and buxom [humble and
submissive] in all things to them that should be set over thee?"

"I would so, my mistress."

"What fashions of needlework canst do?"

"Mistress, I can sew, and work tapestry, and embroider somewhat if the
pattern be not too busy [elaborate, difficult].  I would be glad to
learn the same more perfectly."

Mistress Chaucer rose.  "I think thou wilt serve," said she.  "But I can
but report the same--the deciding lieth not with me.  Mistress Regina, I
pray you to allow of another to speak with this maid in your chamber
to-morrow in the even, and this time it shall be the lady that must make
choice.  Not she that shall be thy mistress, my maid; she dwelleth not
hereaway, but far hence."

Amphillis cared very little where her future duties were to lie.  She
was grateful to her uncle, but she could hardly be said to love him; and
her cousins had behaved to her in such a style, that the sensation
called forth towards them was a long way from love.  She felt alone in
the world; and it did not much signify in what part of that lonely place
she was set down to work.  The only point about which she cared at all
was, that she was rather glad to hear she was not to stay in London;
for, like old Earl Douglas, she "would rather hear the lark sing than
the mouse cheep."

The girls louted to Mistress Chaucer, kissed Regina, and went down into
the shop, which they found filled with customers, and Master Herman
himself waiting on them, they being of sufficient consequence for the
notice of that distinguished gentleman.  On the table set in the midst
of the shop--which, like most tables at that day, was merely a couple of
boards laid across trestles--was spread a blue cloth, whereon rested
various glittering articles--a silver basin, a silver-gilt bottle, a cup
of gold, and another of a fine shell set in gold, a set of silver
apostle spoons, so-called because the handle of each represented one of
the apostles, and another spoon of beryl ornamented with gold; but none
of them seemed to suit the customers, who were looking for a suitable
christening gift.

"_Ach_! dey vill not do!" ejaculated Master Herman, spreading out his
fat fingers and beringed thumbs.  "Then belike we must de jewels try.
It is a young lady, de shild?  _Gut_! den look you here.  Here is de
botoner of perry [button-hook of goldsmith's work], and de bottons--
twelf--wrought wid garters, wid lilies, wid bears, wid leetle bells, or
wid a reason [motto]--you can haf what reason you like.  Look you here
again, Madam--de ouches [brooches]--an eagle of gold and enamel, Saint
George and de dragon, de white hart, de triangle of diamonds; look you
again, de paternosters [rosaries], dey are _lieblich_! gold and coral,
gold and pearls, gold and rubies; de rings, sapphire and ruby and
diamond and smaragdus [emerald]--_ach_!  I have it.  Look you here!"

And from an iron chest, locked with several keys, Master Herman produced
something wrapped carefully in white satin, and took off the cover as if
he were handling a baby.

"Dere!" he cried, holding up a golden chaplet, or wreath for the head,
of ruby flowers and leaves wrought in gold, a large pearl at the base of
every leaf--"dere!  You shall not see a better sight in all de
city--_ach_! not in Nuremburg nor Coln.  Dat is what you want--it is
_schon, schon_! and dirt sheap it is--only von hundert marks.  You take
it?"

The lady seemed inclined to take it, but the gentleman demurred at the
hundred marks--66 pounds, 13 shillings and 4 pence, which, reduced to
modern value, would be nearly eleven hundred pounds; and the girls, who
had lingered as long as they reasonably could in their passage through
the attractive shop, were obliged to pass out while the bargain was
still unconcluded.

"I'd have had that chaplet for myself, if I'd been that lady!" said
Alexandra as they went forward.  "I'd never have cast that away for a
christening gift."

"Nay, but her lord would not find the money," answered Ricarda.

"I'd have had it, some way," said her sister.  "It was fair enough for a
queen.  Amphillis, I do marvel who is the lady thou shalt serve.
There's ever so much ado ere the matter be settled.  'Tis one grander
than Mistress Chaucer, trow, thou shalt see to-morrow even."

"Ay, so it seems," was the quiet answer.

"Nathless, I would not change with thee.  I've no such fancy for silence
and patience.  Good lack! but if a maid can work, and dress hair, and
the like, what would they of such weary gear as that?"

"Maids be not of much worth without they be discreet," said Amphillis.

"Well, be as discreet as thou wilt; I'll none of it," was the flippant
reply of her cousin.

The young ladies, however, did not neglect to accompany Amphillis on her
subsequent visit.  Regina met them at the door.

"She is great lady, dis one, I am sure," said she.  "Pray you, mind your
respects."

The great lady carried on her conversation in French, which in 1372 was
the usual language of the English nobles.  Its use was a survival from
the Norman Conquest, but the Norman-French was very far from pure, being
derided by the real French, and not seldom by Englishmen themselves.
Chaucer says of his prioress:--

  "And French she spake full fair and fetously [cleverly],
  After the scole of Stratford-atte-Bow,
  For French of Paris was to hire [her] unknow."

This lady, the girls noticed, spoke the French of Paris, and was rather
less intelligible in consequence.  She put her queries in a short, quick
style, which a little disconcerted Amphillis; and she had a weary,
irritated manner.  At last she said shortly--

"Very well!  Consider yourself engaged.  You must set out from London on
Lammas Day [August 1st], and Mistress Regina here, who is accustomed to
such matters, will tell you what you need take.  A varlet will come to
fetch you; take care you are ready.  Be discreet, and do not get into
any foolish entanglements of any sort."

Amphillis asked only one question--Would the lady be pleased to tell her
the name and address of her future mistress?

"Your mistress lives in Derbyshire.  You will hear her name on the way."

And with a patronising nod to the girls, and another to Regina, the lady
left the room.

"Lammas Day!" cried Alexandra, almost before the door was closed.
"Gramercy, but we can never be a-ready!"

"_Ach! ja_, but you will if you hard work," said Regina.

"And the jousting!" said Ricarda.

"What for the jousting?" asked Regina.  "You are not knights, dat you
joust?"

"We should have seen it, though: a friend had passed his word to take
us, that wist how to get us in."

"We'll go yet, never fear!" said her sister.  "Phyllis must work
double."

"Den she will lose de sight," objected Regina.

"Oh, _she_ won't go!" said Alexandra, contemptuously.  "Much she knows
about tilting!"

"What! you go, and not your cousin?  I marvel if you about it know more
dan she.  And to see a pretty sight asks not much knowing."

"I'm not going to slave myself, I can tell you!" replied Alexandra.
"Phyllis must work.  What else is she good for?"

Regina left the question unanswered.  "Well, you leave Phyllis wid me; I
have something to say to her--to tell her what she shall take, and how
she must order herself.  Den she come home and work her share--no more."

The sisters saw that she meant it, and they obeyed, having no desire to
make an enemy of the wealthy goldsmith's daughter.



CHAPTER THREE.

WHO CAN SHE BE?

  "O thou child of many prayers!
  Life hath quicksands--life hath snares."

  Longfellow.

"Now, sit you down on de bench," said Regina, kindly.  "Poor maid! you
tremble, you are white.  _Ach_! when folks shall do as dey should, dey
shall not do as dey do no more.  Now we shall have von pleasant talking
togeder, you and I.  You know de duties of de bower-woman? or I tell dem
you?"

"Would you tell me, an' it please you?" answered Amphillis, modestly.
"I do not know much, I dare say."

"_Gut_!  Now, listen.  In de morning, you are ready before your lady
calls; you keep not her awaiting.  Maybe you sleep in de truckle-bed in
her chamber; if so, you dress more quieter as mouse, you wake not her
up.  She wakes, she calls--you hand her garments, you dress her hair.
If she be wedded lady, you not to her chamber go ere her lord be away.
Mind you be neat in your dress, and lace you well, and keep your hair
tidy, wash your face, and your hands and feet, and cut short your nails.
Every morning you shall your teeth clean.  Take care, take much care
what you do.  You walk gravely, modestly; you talk low, quiet; you carry
you sad [Note 1] and becomingly.  Mix water plenty with your wine at
dinner: you take not much wine, dat should shocking be!  You carve de
dishes, but you press not nobody to eat--dat is not good manners.  You
wash hands after your lady, and you look see there be two seats betwixt
her and you--no nearer you go [Note 2].  You be quiet, quiet! sad, sober
always--no chatter fast, no scamper, no loud laugh.  You see?"

"I see, and I thank you," said Amphillis.  "I hope I am not a giglot."

"You are not--no, no!  Dere be dat are.  Not you.  Only mind you not so
become.  Young maids can be too careful never, never!  You lose your
good name in one hour, but in one year you win it not back."

And Regina's plump round face went very sad, as if she remembered some
such instance of one who was dear to her.

"_Ach so_!--Well! den if your lady have daughters young, she may dem set
in your care.  You shall den have good care dey learn courtesy [Note 3],
and gaze not too much from de window, and keep very quiet in de bower
[Note 4].  And mind you keep dem--and yourself too--from de mans.  Mans
is bad!"

Amphillis was able to say, with a clear conscience, that she had no
hankering after the society of those perilous creatures.

"See you," resumed Regina, with some warmth, "dere is one good man in
one hundert mans.  No more!  De man you see, shall he be de hundert man,
or one von de nine and ninety?  What you tink?"

"I think he were more like to be of the ninety and nine," said Amphillis
with a little laugh.  "But how for the women, Mistress Regina?  Be they
all good?"

Regina shook her head in a very solemn manner.

"Dere is bad mans," answered she, "and dey is bad: and dere is bad
womans, and dey is badder; and dere is bad angels, and dey is baddest of
all.  Look you, you make de sharpest vinegar von de sweetest wine.
Amphillis, you are good maid, I tink; keep you good!  And dat will say,
keep you to yourself, and run not after no mans, nor no womans neider.
You keep your lady's counsel true and well, but you keep no secrets from
her.  When any say to you, `Amphillis, you tell not your lady,' you say
to yourself, `I want noting to do wid you; I keep to myself, and I have
no secrets from my lady.'  Dat is _gut_!"

"Mistress Regina, wot you who is the lady I am to serve?"

"I know noting, no more dan you--no, not de name of de lady you dis
evening saw.  She came from de Savoy--so much know I, no more."

Amphillis knew that goldsmiths were very often the bankers of their
customers, and that their houses were a frequent rendezvous for business
interviews.  It was, therefore, not strange at all that Regina should
not be further in the confidence of the lady in question.

"Now you shall not tarry no later," said Regina, kissing her.  "You
serve well your lady, you pray to God, and you keep from de mans.
Good-night!"

"Your pardon granted, Mistress Regina, but you have not yet told me what
I need carry withal."

"_Ach so_!  My head gather de wool, as you here say.  Why, you take with
you raiment enough to begin--dat is all.  Your lady find you gowns
after, and a saddle to ride, and all dat you need.  Only de raiment to
begin, and de brains in de head--she shall not find you dat.  Take wid
you as much of dem as you can get.  Now run--de dark is _gekommen_."

It relieved Amphillis to find that she needed to carry nothing with, her
except clothes, brains, and prudence.  The first she knew that her uncle
would supply; for the second, she could only take all she had; and as to
the last, she must do her best to cultivate it.

Mr Altham, on hearing the report, charged his daughters to see that
their cousin had every need supplied; and to do those young ladies
justice, they took fairly about half their share of the work, until the
day of the tournament, when they declared that nothing on earth should
make them touch a needle.  Instead of which, they dressed themselves in
their best, and, escorted by Mr Clement Winkfield, were favoured by
permission to slip in at the garden door, and to squeeze into a corner
among the Duke's maids and grooms.

A very grand sight it was.  In the royal stand sat the King, old Edward
the Third, scarcely yet touched by that pitiful imbecility which
troubled his closing days; and on his right hand sat the queen of the
jousts, the young Countess of Cambridge, bride of Prince Edmund, with
the Duke of Lancaster on her other hand, the Duchess being on the left
of the King.  All the invited ladies were robed uniformly in green and
white, the prize-giver herself excepted.  The knights were attired as
Clement had described them.  I am not about to describe the tournament,
which, after all, was only a glorified prize-fight, and, therefore,
suited to days when few gentlemen could read, and no forks were used for
meals.  We call ourselves civilised now, yet some who consider
themselves such, seem to entertain a desire to return to barbarism.
Human nature, in truth, is the same in all ages, and what is called
culture is only a thin veneer.  Nothing but to be made partaker of the
Divine nature will implant the heavenly taste.

The knights who were acclaimed victors, or at least the best jousters on
the field, were led up to the royal stand, and knelt before the queen of
the jousts, who placed a gold chaplet on the head of the first, and tied
a silken scarf round the shoulders of the second and third.  Happily, no
one was killed or even seriously injured--not a very unusual state of
things.  At a tournament eighteen years later, the Duke of Lancaster's
son-in-law, the last of the Earls of Pembroke, was left dead upon the
field.

Alexandra and Ricarda came back very tired, and not in exceptionally
good tempers, as Amphillis soon found out, since she was invariably a
sufferer on these occasions.  They declared themselves, the next
morning, far too weary to put in a single stitch; and occupied
themselves chiefly in looking out of the window and exchanging airy
nothings with customers.  But when Clement came in the afternoon with an
invitation to a dance at his mother's house, their exhausted energies
rallied surprisingly, and they were quite able to go, though the same
farce was played over again on the ensuing morning.

By dint of working early and late, Amphillis was just ready on the day
appointed--small thanks to her cousins, who not only shirked her work,
but were continually summoning her from it to do theirs.  Mr Altham
gave his niece some good advice, along with a handsome silver brooch, a
net of gold tissue for her hair, commonly called a crespine or dovecote,
and a girdle of black leather, set with bosses of silver-gilt.  These
were the most valuable articles that had ever yet been in her
possession, and Amphillis felt herself very rich, though she could have
dispensed with Ricarda's envious admiration of her treasures, and
Alexandra's acetous remarks about some people who were always grabbing
as much as they could get.  In their father's presence these
observations were omitted, and Mr Altham had but a faint idea of what
his orphan niece endured at the hands--or rather the tongues--of his
daughters, who never forgave her for being more gently born than
themselves.

Lammas Day dawned warm and bright, and after early mass in the Church of
Saint Mary at Strand--which nobody in those days would have dreamed of
missing on a saint's day--Amphillis placed herself at an upstairs window
to watch for her escort.  She had not many minutes to wait, before two
horses came up the narrow lane from the Savoy Palace, and trotting down
the Strand, stopped at the patty-maker's door.  After them came a
baggage-mule, whose back was fitted with a framework intended to sustain
luggage.

One horse carried a man attired in white linen, and the other bore a
saddle and pillion, the latter being then the usual means of conveyance
for a woman.  On the saddle before it sat a middle-aged man in the royal
livery, which was then white and red.  The man in linen alighted, and
after a few minutes spent in conversation with Mr Altham, he carried
out Amphillis's luggage, in two leather trunks, which were strapped one
on each side of the mule.  As soon as she saw her trunks disappearing,
Amphillis ran down and took leave of her uncle and cousins.

"Well, my maid, God go with thee!" said Mr Altham.  "Forget not thine
old uncle and these maids; and if thou be ill-usen, or any trouble hap
thee, pray the priest of thy parish to write me a line thereanent, and I
will see what can be done."

"Fare thee well, Phyllis!" said Alexandra, and Ricarda echoed the words.

Mr Altham helped his niece to mount the pillion, seated on which, she
had to put her arms round the waist of the man in front, and clasp her
hands together; for without this precaution, she would have been
unseated in ten minutes.  There was nothing to keep her on, as she sat
with her left side to the horse's head, and roads in those days were
rough to an extent of which we, accustomed to macadamised ways, can
scarcely form an idea now.

And so, pursued for "luck" by an old shoe from Ricarda's hand, Amphillis
Neville took her leave of London, and rode forth into the wide world to
seek her fortune.

Passing along the Strand as far as the row of houses ran, at the Strand
Cross they turned to the left, and threading their way in and out among
the detached houses and little gardens, they came at last into Holborn,
and over Holborn Bridge into Smithfield.  Under Holborn Bridge ran the
Fleet river, pure and limpid, on its way to the silvery Thames; and as
they emerged from Cock Lane, the stately Priory of Saint Bartholomew
fronted them a little to the right.  Crossing Smithfield, they turned up
Long Lane, and thence into Aldersgate Street, and in a few minutes more
the last houses of London were left behind them.  As they came out into
the open country, Amphillis was greeted, to her surprise, by a voice she
knew.

"God be wi' ye, Mistress Amphillis!" said Clement Winkfield, coming up
and walking for a moment alongside, as the horse mounted the slight
rising ground.  "Maybe you would take a little farewell token of mine
hand, just for to mind you when you look on it, that you have friends in
London that shall think of you by nows and thens."

And Clement held up to Amphillis a little silver box, with a ring
attached, through which a chain or ribbon could be passed to wear it
round the neck.  A small red stone was set on one side.

"'Tis a good charm," said he.  "There is therein writ a Scripture, that
shall bear you safe through all perils of journeying, and an hair of a
she-bear, that is good against witchcraft; and the carnelian stone
appeaseth anger.  Trust me, it shall do you no harm to bear it anigh
you."

Amphillis, though a sensible girl for her time, was not before her time,
and therefore had full faith in the wonderful virtues of amulets.  She
accepted the silver box with the entire conviction that she had gained a
treasure of no small value.  Simple, good-natured Clement lifted his
cap, and turned back down Aldersgate Street, while Amphillis and her
escort went on towards Saint Albans.

A few miles they rode in silence, broken now and then by a passing
remark from the man in linen, chiefly on the deep subject of the hot
weather, and by the sumpterman's frequent requests that his mule would
"gee-up," which the perverse quadruped in question showed little
inclination to do.  At length, as the horse checked its speed to walk up
a hill, the man in front of Amphillis said--

"Know you where you be journeying, my mistress?"

"Into Derbyshire," she answered.  "Have there all I know."

"But you wot, surely, whom you go to serve?"

"Truly, I wot nothing," she replied, "only that I go to be bower-woman
to some lady.  The lady that saw me, and bound me thereto, said that I
might look to learn on the road."

"Dear heart! and is that all they told you?"

"All, my master."

"Words must be costly in those parts," said the man in linen.

"Well," answered the other, drawing out the word in a tone which might
mean a good deal.  "Words do cost much at times, Master Saint Oly.  They
have cost men their lives ere now."

"Ay, better men than you or me," replied the other.  "Howbeit, my
mistress, there is no harm you should know--is there, Master Dugan?--
that you be bounden for the manor of Hazelwood, some six miles to the
north of Derby, where dwell Sir Godfrey Foljambe and his dame."

"No harm; so you tarry there at this present," said Master Dugan.

"Ay, I've reached my hostel," was the response.

"Then my Lady Foljambe is she that I must serve?"

The man in linen exchanged a smile with the man in livery.

"You shall see her the first, I cast no doubt, and she shall tell you
your duties," answered Dugan.

Amphillis sat on the pillion, and meditated on her information as they
journeyed on.  There was evidently something more to tell, which she was
not to be told at present.  After wondering for a little while what it
might be, and deciding that her imagination was not equal to the task
laid upon it, she gave it up, and allowed herself to enjoy the sweet
country scents and sounds without apprehension for the future.

For six days they travelled on in this fashion, about twenty miles each
day, staying every night but one at a wayside inn, where Amphillis was
always delivered into the care of the landlady, and slept with her
daughter or niece; once at a private house, the owners of which were
apparently friends of Mr Dugan.  They baited for the last time at
Derby, and about two o'clock in the afternoon rode into the village of
Hazelwood.

It was only natural that Amphillis should feel a little nervous and
uneasy, in view of her introduction to her new abode and unknown
companions.  She was not less so on account of the mystery which
appeared to surround the nameless mistress.  Why did everybody who
seemed to know anything make such a secret of the affair?

The Manor house of Hazelwood was a pretty and comfortable place enough.
It stood in a large garden, gay with autumn flowers, and a high
embattled wall protected it from possible enemies.  The trio rode in
under an old archway, through a second gate, and then drew up beneath
the entrance arch, the door being--as is yet sometimes seen in old
inns--at the side of the arch running beneath the house.  A man in
livery came forward to take the horses.

"Well, Master Saint Oly," said he; "here you be!"

"I could have told thee that, Sim," was the amused reply.  "Is all well?
Sir Godfrey at home?"

"Ay to the first question, and No to the second."

"My Lady is in her bower?"

"My Lady's in the privy garden, whither you were best take the damsel to
her."

Sim led the horses away to the stable, and Saint Oly turned to
Amphillis.

"Then, if it please you, follow me, my mistress; we were best to go to
my Lady at once."

Amphillis followed, silent, curious, and a little fluttered.

They passed under the entrance arch inwards, and found themselves in a
smaller garden than the outer, enclosed on three sides by the house and
its adjacent outbuildings.  In the midst was a spreading tree, with a
form underneath it; and in its shade sat a lady and a girl about the age
of Amphillis.  Another girl was gathering flowers, and an elderly woman
was coming towards the tree from behind.  Saint Oly conducted Amphillis
to the lady who sat under the tree.

"Dame," said he, "here, under your good leave, is Mistress Amphillis
Neville, that is come to you from London town, to serve her you wot of."

This, then, was Lady Foljambe.  Amphillis looked up, and saw a tall,
handsome, fair-complexioned woman, with a rather grave, not to say
stern, expression of face.  "Good," said Lady Foljambe.  "You are
welcome, Mistress Neville.  I trust you can do your duty, and not giggle
and chatter?"

The girl who sat by certainly giggled on hearing this question, and Lady
Foljambe extinguished her by a look.

"I will do my best, Dame," replied Amphillis, nervously.

"None can do more," said her Ladyship more graciously.  "Are you aweary
with your journey?"

"But a little, Dame, I thank you.  Our stage to-day was but short."

"You left your friends well?" was the next condescending query.

"Yes, Dame, I thank you."

Lady Foljambe turned her head.  "Perrote!" she said.

"Dame!" answered the elderly woman.

"Take the damsel up to your Lady's chambers, and tell her what her
duties will be.--Mistress Neville, one matter above all other must I
press upon you.  Whatever you see or hear in your Lady's chamber is
never to come beyond.  You will company with my damsels, Agatha--" with
a slight move of her head towards the girl at her side--"and Marabel,"--
indicating by another gesture the one who was gathering flowers.
"Remember, in your leisure times, when you are talking together, no
mention of _your_ Lady must ever be made.  If you hear it, rebuke it.
If you make it, you may not like that which shall follow.  Be wise and
discreet, and you shall find it for your good.  Chatter and be giddy,
and you shall find it far otherwise.  Now, follow Mistress Perrote."

Amphillis louted silently, and as silently followed.

The elderly woman, who was tall, slim, and precise-looking, led her into
the house, and up the stairs.

When two-thirds of them were mounted, she turned to the left along a
passage, lifted a heavy curtain which concealed its end, and let it drop
again behind them.  They stood in a small square tower, on a little
landing which gave access to three doors.  The door on the right hand
stood ajar; the middle one was closed; but the left was not only closed,
but locked and barred heavily.  Mistress Perrote led the way into the
room on the right, a pleasant chamber, which looked out into the larger
garden.

At the further end of the room stood a large bed of blue camlet, with a
canopy, worked with fighting griffins in yellow.  A large chest of
carved oak stood at the foot.  Along the wall ran a settle, or long
bench, furnished with blue cushions; and over the back was thrown a
dorsor of black worsted, worked with the figures of David and Goliath,
in strict fourteenth-century costume.  The fireplace was supplied with
andirons, a shovel, and a fire-fork, which served the place of a poker.
A small leaf table hung down by the wall at one end of the settle, and
over it was fixed a round mirror, so high up as to give little
encouragement to vanity.  On hooks round the walls were hangings of blue
tapestry, presenting a black diamond pattern, within a border of red
roses.

"Will you sit?" said Mistress Perrote, speaking in a voice not exactly
sharp, but short and staccato, as if she were--what more voluble persons
often profess to be--unaccustomed to public speaking, and not very
talkative at any time.  "Your name, I think, is Amphillis Neville?"

Amphillis acknowledged her name.

"You have father and mother?"

"I have nothing in the world," said Amphillis, with a shake of her head,
"save an uncle and cousins, which dwell in London town."

"Ha!" said Mistress Perrote, in a significant tone.  "That is wherefore
you were chosen."

"Because I had no kin?" said Amphillis, looking up.

"That, and also that you were counted discreet.  And discreet you had
need be for this charge."

"What charge?" she asked, blankly.

"You know not?"

"I know nothing.  Nobody would tell me anything."

Mistress Perrote's set features softened a little.

"Poor child!" she said.  "You are young--too young--to be given a charge
like this.  You will need all your discretion, and more."

Amphillis felt more puzzled than ever.

"You may make a friend of Marabel, if you choose; but beware how you
trust Agatha.  But remember, as her Ladyship told you, no word that you
hear, no thing that you see, must be suffered to go forth of these
chambers.  You may repeat _nothing_!  Can you do this?"

"I will bear it in mind," was the reply.  "But, pray you, if I may ask--
seeing I know nothing--is this lady that I shall serve an evil woman,
that you caution me thus?"

"No!" answered Mistress Perrote, emphatically.  "She is a most terribly
injured--What say I?  Forget my words.  They were not discreet.  Mary,
Mother! there be times when a woman's heart gets the better of her
brains.  There be more brains than hearts in this world.  Lay by your
hood and mantle, child, on one of those hooks, and smooth your hair, and
repose you until supper-time.  To-morrow you shall see your Lady."

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1.  Sad, at this time, did not mean sorrowful, but serious.

Note 2.  These are the duties of a bower-woman, laid down in the Books
of Courtesy at that time.

Note 3.  Then a very expressive word, including both morals and manners.

Note 4.  A private sitting-room for ladies.



CHAPTER FOUR.

THE WHITE LADY.

  "The future is all dark,
  And the past a troubled sea,
  And Memory sits in the heart,
  Wailing where Hope should be."

Supper was ready in the hall at four o'clock, and Amphillis found
herself seated next below Agatha, the younger of Lady Foljambe's
damsels.  It was a feast-day, so that meat was served--a boar's head,
stewed beef, minced mutton, squirrel, and hedgehog.  The last dainty is
now restricted to gypsies, and no one eats our little russet friend of
the bushy tail; but our forefathers indulged in both.  There were also
roast capons, a heron, and chickens dressed in various ways.  Near
Amphillis stood a dish of beef jelly, a chowet or liver-pie, a flampoynt
or pork-pie, and a dish of sops in fennel.  The sweets were Barlee and
Mon Amy, of which the first was rice cream, and the second a preparation
of curds and cream.

Amphillis looked with considerable interest along the table, and at her
opposite neighbours.  Lady Foljambe she recognised at once; and beside
her sat a younger lady whom she had not seen before.  She applied to her
neighbour for information.

"She?" said Agatha.  "Oh, she's Mistress Margaret, my Lady's
daughter-in-law; wife to Master Godfrey, that sits o' t' other side of
his mother; and that's Master Matthew, o' this side.  The priest's
Father Jordan--a fat old noodle as ever droned a psalm through his nose.
Love you mirth and jollity?"

"I scarce know," said Amphillis, hesitatingly.  "I have had so little."

Agatha's face was a sight to see.

"Good lack, but I never reckoned you should be a spoil-sport!" said she,
licking her spoon as in duty bound before she plunged it in the jelly--a
piece of etiquette in which young ladies at that date were carefully
instructed.  The idea of setting a separate spoon to help a dish had not
dawned upon the mediaeval mind.

"I shall hate you, I can tell you, if you so are.  Things here be like
going to a funeral all day long--never a bit of music nor dancing, nor
aught that is jolly.  Mistress Margaret might be eighty, so sad and
sober is she; and as for my Lady and Mistress Perrote, they are just a
pair of old jog-trots fit to run together in a quirle [the open car then
used by ladies, something like a waggonette].  Master Godfrey's all for
arms and fighting, so he's no better.  Master Matthew's best of the lot,
but bad's the best when you've a-done.  And he hasn't much chance
neither, for if he's seen laughing a bit with one of us, my Lady's
a-down on him as if he'd broke all the Ten Commandments, and whisks him
off ere you can say Jack Robinson; and if she whip you not, you may
thank the saints or your stars, which you have a mind.  Oh, 'tis a jolly
house you've come to, that I can tell you!  I hoped you'd a bit more fun
in you than Clarice--she wasn't a scrap of good.  But I'm afraid you're
no better."

"I don't know, really," said Amphillis, feeling rather bewildered by
Agatha's reckless rattle, and remembering the injunction not to make a
friend of her.  "I suppose I have come here to do my duty; but I know
not yet what it shall be."

"I detest doing my duty!" said Agatha, energetically.

"That's a pity, isn't it?" was the reply.

Agatha laughed.

"Come, you can give a quip-word," said she.  "Clarice was just a lump of
wood, that you could batter nought into,--might as well sit next a post.
Marabel has some brains, but they're so far in, there's no fetching 'em
forth.  I declare I shall do somewhat one o' these days that shall shock
all the neighbourhood, only to make a diversion."

"I don't think I would," responded Amphillis.  "You might find it ran
the wrong way."

"You'll do," said Agatha, laughing.  "You are not jolly, but you're next
best to it."

"Whose is that empty place on the form?" asked Amphillis, looking
across.

"Oh, that's Master Norman's--Sir Godfrey's squire--he's away with him."

And Agatha, without any apparent reason, became suddenly silent.

When supper was over, the girls were called to spin, which they did in
the large hall, sitting round the fire with the two ladies and Perrote.
Amphillis, as a newcomer, was excused for that evening; and she sat
studying her neighbours and surroundings till Mistress Perrote
pronounced it bed-time.  Then each girl rose and put by her spindle;
courtesied to the ladies, and wished them each "Good-even," receiving a
similar greeting; and the three filed out of the inner door after
Perrote, each possessing herself of a lighted candle as she passed a
window where they stood.  At the solar landing they parted, Perrote and
Amphillis turning aside to their own tower, Marabel and Agatha going on
to the upper floor.  [The solar was an intermediate storey, resembling
the French _entresol_.]  Amphillis found, as she expected, that she was
to share the large blue bed and the yellow griffins with Perrote.  The
latter proved a very silent bedfellow.  Beyond showing Amphillis where
she was to place her various possessions, she said nothing at all; and
as soon as she had done this, she left the room, and did not reappear
for an hour or more.  As Amphillis lay on her pillow, she heard an
indistinct sound of voices in an adjoining room, and once or twice, as
she fancied, a key turned in the lock.  At length the voices grew
fainter, the hoot of the white owl as he flew past the turret window
scarcely roused her, and Amphillis was asleep--so sound asleep, that
when Perrote lay down by her side, she never made the discovery.

The next morning dawned on a beautiful summer day.  Perrote roused her
young companion about four o'clock, with a reminder that if she were
late it would produce a bad impression upon Lady Foljambe.  When they
were dressed, Perrote repeated the Rosary, Amphillis making the
responses, and they went down to the hall.

Breakfast was at this time a luxury not indulged in by every one, and it
was not served before seven o'clock.  Lady Foljambe patronised it.  At
that hour it was accordingly spread in the hall, and consisted of
powdered beef, boiled beef, brawn, a jug of ale, another of wine, and a
third of milk.  The milk was a condescension to a personal weakness of
Perrote; everybody else drank wine or ale.

Amphillis was wondering very much, in the private recesses of her mind,
how it was that no lady appeared whom she could suppose to be her own
particular mistress; and had she not received such strict charges on the
subject, she would certainly have asked the question.  As it was, she
kept silence; but she was gratified when, after breakfast, having been
bidden to follow Perrote, that worthy woman paused to say, as they
followed the passage which led to their own turret--

"Now, Amphillis Neville, you shall see your Lady."

She stopped before the locked and barred door opposite to their own,
unfastened it, and led Amphillis into the carefully-guarded chamber.

The barred room proved to be an exceedingly pleasant one, except that it
was darker than the other, for it looked into the inner garden, and
therefore much less sun ever entered it.  A heavy curtain of black
worsted, whereon were depicted golden vines and recumbent lions,
stretched across the room, shutting off that end which formed the
bedchamber.  Within its shelter stood a bed of green silk wrought with
golden serpents and roses; a small walnut-wood cabinet against the wall;
two large chests; a chair of carved walnut-wood, upholstered in yellow
satin; a mirror set in silver; and two very unusual pieces of furniture,
which in those days they termed folding-chairs, but which we should call
a shut-up washstand and dressing-table.  The former held an ewer and
basin of silver-gilt, much grander articles than Amphillis had ever
seen, except in the goldsmith's shop.  In front of the curtain was a
bench with green silk cushions, and two small tables, on one of which
lay some needlework; and by it, in another yellow satin chair, sat the
solitary inhabitant of the chamber, a lady who appeared to be about
sixty years of age.  She was dressed in widow's mourning, and in 1372
that meant pure snowy white, with chin and forehead so covered by barb
and wimple that only the eyes, nose, and mouth were left visible.  This
lady's face was almost as white as her robes.  Even her lips seemed
colourless; and the fixed, weary, hopeless expression was only broken by
two dark, brilliant, sunken eyes, in which lay a whole volume of unread
history--eyes that looked as if they could flash with fury, or moisten
with pity, or grow soft and tender with love; eyes that had done all
these, long, long ago! so long ago, that they had forgotten how to do
it.  Sad, tired, sorrowful eyes--eyes out of which all expectation had
departed; which had nothing left to fear, only because they had nothing
left to hope.  They were turned now upon Amphillis.

"Your Grace's new chamber-dame," said Mistress Perrote, "in the room of
Clarice.  Her name is Amphillis Neville."

The faintest shadow of interest passed over the sorrowful eyes.

"Go near," said Perrote to Amphillis, "and kiss her Grace's hand."

Amphillis did as she was told.  The lady, after offering her hand for
the kiss, turned it and gently lifted the girl's face.

"Dost thou serve God?" she said, in a voice which matched her eyes.

"I hope so, Dame," replied Amphillis.

"I hope nothing," said the mysterious lady.  "It is eight years since I
knew what hope was.  I have hoped in my time as much as ever woman did.
But God took away from me one boon after another, till now He hath left
me desolate.  Be thankful, maid, that thou canst yet hope."

She dropped her hand, and went back to her work with a weary sigh.

"Dame," said Perrote, "your Grace wot that her Ladyship desires not that
you talk in such strain to the damsels."

The white face changed as Amphillis had thought it could not change, and
the sunken eyes shot forth fire.

"Her Ladyship!" said the widow.  "Who is Avena Foljambe, that she
looketh to queen it over Marguerite of Flanders?  They took my lord, and
I lived through it.  They took my daughter, and I bare it.  They took my
son, my firstborn, and I was silent, though it brake my heart.  But by
my troth and faith, they shall not still my soul, nor lay bonds upon my
tongue when I choose to speak.  Avena Foljambe! the kinswoman of a
wretched traitor, that met the fate he deserved--why, hath she ten drops
of good blood in her veins?  And she looks to lord it over a daughter of
Charlemagne, that hath borne sceptre ere she carried spindle!"

Mistress Perrote's calm even voice checked the flow of angry words.

"Dame, your Grace speaks very sooth [truth].  Yet I beseech you remember
that my Lady doth present [represent] an higher than herself--the King's
Grace and no lesser."

The lady in white rose to her feet.

"What mean you, woman?  King Edward of Windsor may be your master and
hers, but he is not mine!  I owe him no allegiance, nor I never sware
any."

"Your son hath sworn it, Dame."

The eyes blazed out again.

"My son is a hound!--a craven cur, that licks the hand that lashed
him!--a poor court fool that thinks it joy enough to carry his bauble,
and marvel at his motley coat and his silvered buttons!  That he should
be my son,--and _his_!"

The voice changed so suddenly, that Amphillis could scarcely believe it
to be the same.  All the passionate fury died out of it, and instead
came a low soft tone of unutterable pain, loneliness, and regret.  The
speaker dropped down into her chair, and laying her arm upon the little
table, hid her face upon it.

"My poor Lady!" said Perrote in tender accents--more tender than
Amphillis had imagined she could use.

The lady in white lifted her head.

"I was not so weak once," she said.  "There was a time when man said I
had the courage of a man and the heart of a lion.  Maiden, never man sat
an horse better than I, and no warrior ever fought that could more ably
handle sword.  I have mustered armies to the battle ere now; I have
personally conducted sieges, I have headed sallies on the camp of the
King of France.  Am I meek pigeon to be kept in a dovecote?  Look around
thee!  This is my cage.  Ha! the perches are fine wood, sayest thou? the
seed is good, and the water is clean!  I deny it not.  I say only, it is
a cage, and I am a royal eagle, that was never made to sit on a perch
and coo!  The blood of an hundred kings is thrilling all along my veins,
and must I be silent?  The blood of the sovereigns of France, the
kingdom of kingdoms,--of the sea-kings of Denmark, of the ancient kings
of Burgundy, and of the Lombards of the Iron Crown--it is with this mine
heart is throbbing, and man saith, `Be still!'  How can I be still,
unless I were still in death?  And man reckoneth I shall be a-paid for
my lost sword with a needle, and for my broken sceptre he offereth me a
bodkin!"

With a sudden gesture she brushed all the implements for needlework from
the little table to the floor.

"There! gather them up, which of you list.  I lack no such babe's gear.
If I were but now on my Feraunt, with my visor down, clad in armour, as
I was when I rode forth of Hennebon while the French were busied with
the assault on the further side of the town,--forth I came with my three
hundred horse, and we fired the enemy's camp--ah, but we made a goodly
blaze that day!  I reckon the villages saw it for ten miles around or
more."

"But your Grace remembereth, we won not back into the town at after,"
quietly suggested Perrote.

"Well, what so?  Went we not to Brest, and there gathered six hundred
men, and when we appeared again before Hennebon, the trumpets sounded,
and the gates were flung open, and we entered in triumph?  Thy memory
waxeth weak, old woman!  I must refresh it from mine own."

"Please it, your good Grace, I am nigh ten years younger than yourself."

"Then shouldest thou be the more 'shamed to have so much worser a
memory.  Why, hast forgot all those weeks at Hennebon, that we awaited
the coming of the English fleet?  Dost not remember how I went down to
the Council with thyself at mine heels, and the child in mine arms, to
pray the captains not to yield up the town to the French, and the lither
loons would not hear me a word?  And then at the last minute, when the
gates were opened, and the French marching up to take possession,
mindest thou not how I ran to yon window that giveth toward the sea, and
there at last, at last! the English fleet was seen, making straight sail
for us.  Then flung I open the contrary casement toward the street, and
myself shouted to the people to shut the gates, and man the ramparts,
and cry, `No surrender!'  Ah, it was a day, that!  Had there been but
time, I'd never have shouted--I'd have been down myself, and slammed
that gate on the King of France's nose!  The pity of it that I had no
wings!  And did I not meet the English Lords and kiss them every one
[Note 1], and hang their chambers with the richest arras in my coffers?
And the very next day, Sir Walter Mauny made a sally, and destroyed the
French battering-ram, and away fled the French King with ours in
pursuit.  Ha, that was a jolly sight to see!  Old Perrote, hast thou
forgot it all?"

We are accustomed in the present day to speak of the deliverer of
Hennebon as Sir Walter Manny.  That his name ought really to be spelt
and sounded Mauny, is evidenced by a contemporary entry which speaks of
his daughter as the Lady of Maweny.

Old Perrote had listened quietly, while her mistress poured forth these
reminiscences in rapid words.  When the long waiting for the English
fleet was mentioned, a kind of shudder passed over her, as if her
recollection of that time were painful and distinct enough; but
otherwise she stood motionless until the concluding question.  Then she
answered--

"Ay, Dame--no, I would say: I mind it well."

"Thou shouldest!  Then quote not Avena Foljambe to me.  I care not a
brass nail for Avena Foljambe.  Hand me yonder weary gear.  It is better
than counting one's fingers, maybe."

Amphillis stooped and gathered up the scattered broidery, glancing at
Perrote to see if she were doing right.  As she approached her mistress
to offer them, Perrote whispered, hurriedly, "On the knee, child! on the
knee!" and Amphillis, blushing for her mistake, dropped on one knee.
She was hoping that the lady would not be angry--that she could be
severely so, there could be no doubt--and she was much relieved to see
her laugh.

"Thou foolish old woman!" she said to Perrote, as she took her work
back.  Then addressing Amphillis, she added,--"Seest thou, my maid, man
hath poured away the sparkling wine out of reach of my thirsty lips; and
this silly old Perrote reckons it of mighty moment that the empty cup be
left to shine on the buffet.  What matters it if the caged eagle have
his perch gilded or no?  He would a thousand times liefer sit of a bare
rock in the sun than of a perch made of gold, and set with emeralds.  So
man granteth me the gilded perch, to serve me on the knee like a queen,
and he setteth it with emeralds, to call me Duchess in lieu of Countess,
and he reckoneth that shall a-pay the caged eagle for her lost liberty,
and her quenched sunlight, and the grand bare rock on the mountain tops.
It were good enough for the dove to sit on the pigeon-house, and preen
her feathers, and coo, and take decorous little flights between the
dovecote and the ground whereon her corn lieth.  She cares for no more.
The bare rock would frighten her, and the sun would dazzle her eyes.  So
man bindeth the eagle by a bond long enough for the dove, and quoth he,
`Be patient!'  I am not patient.  I am not a silly dove, that I should
be so.  Chide me not, old woman, to tug at my bond.  I am an eagle."

"Ah, well, Dame!" said Perrote, with a sigh.  "The will of God must
needs be done."

"I marvel if man's will be alway God's, in sooth.  Folks say, whatever
happeth, `God's will be done.'  Is everything His will?--the evil things
no less than the good?  Is it God's will when man speaketh a lie, or
slayeth his fellow, or robbeth a benighted traveller of all his having?
Crack me that nut, Perrote."

"Truly, Dame, I am no priest, to solve such matters."

"Then leave thou to chatter glibly anentis God's will.  What wist any
man thereabout?"

Perrote was silent.

"Open the window!" said the Countess, suddenly.  "I am dying for lack of
fresh air."

Lifting her hand to her head, she hastily tore off the barb and wimple,
with little respect to the pins which fastened them, and with the result
of a long rent in the former.

"That's for one of you to amend," she said, with a short laugh.  "Ye
should be thankful to have somewhat to do provided for you.  Ay me!"

The words were uttered in a low long moan.

Perrote made no reply to the petulant words and action.  An expression
of tender pity crossed her face, as she stooped and lifted the torn
barb, and examined the rent, with as much apparent calmness as if it had
been damaged in the washing.  There was evidently more in her than she
suffered to come forth.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1.  This action, in the estimation of the time, was merely
equivalent to a cordial shaking of hands between the Countess and her
deliverers.



CHAPTER FIVE.

NEW AND STRANGE.

  "I stretched mine empty hands for bread,
  And see, they have given me stones instead!"

  "B.M."

Before anything more could be said, the door opened, and Lady Foljambe
came in.  She addressed herself at once to Perrote.

"Did I not bid you alway to lock the door when you should enter?  Lo,
here it is unlocked.  Wherefore have you a key apart from mine, but that
you should so do?"

"I cry you mercy, Dame," said Perrote, meekly.  "Did you ever this
before?"

"I mind not well, Dame."

"Well, of a surety!  Call you this guarding a prisoner?  Mind you not
that which happed at Tickhill, when she 'scaped forth by aid of that
knight--his name I forget--and had nigh reached the border of the
liberties ere it was discovered?  Is this your allegiance and duty?
Dame, I bid you good morrow."

"Better late than never, Avena," said the Countess, a little
satirically.  "Thou fond thing, there, lie over twenty years betwixt yon
night at Tickhill and this morrow.  And if the night were back, where is
the knight?  Nay, Avena Foljambe, I have nought to escape for, now."

"Dame, I must needs say you be rare unbuxom and unthankful."

"Ay, so said the fox to the stork, when he 'plained to be served with
thin broth."

"Pray you, look but around.  You be lodged fit for any queen, be she the
greatest in Christendom; you need but speak a wish, and you shall have
it fulfilled--"

"Namely, thou shalt not put me off with red silk to my broidery when I
would have blue."

"You eat of the best, and lie of the softest, and speak with whom you
would--"

"Hold there!"  The fire had come back to the sunken eyes.  "I would
speak with some that come never anigh me, mine own children, that have
cast me off, or be kept away from me; they never so much as ask the old
mother how she doth.  And I slaved and wrought and risked my life for
them, times out of mind!  And here you keep me, shut up in four walls,--
never a change from year end to year end; never a voice to say `Mother!'
or `I love thee;' never a hope to look forward to till death take me!
No going forth of my cage; even the very air of heaven has to come in to
me.  And I may choose, may I, whether my bed shall be hung with green or
blue?  I may speak my pleasure if I would have to my four-hours
macaroons or gingerbread? and be duly thankful that this liberty and
these delicates are granted me!  Avena Foljambe, all your folly lieth
not in your legs."

Lady Foljambe evidently did not appreciate this pun upon her surname.

"Dame!" she said, severely.

"Well?  I can fare forth, if you have not had enough.  What right hath
your King thus to use me?  I never was his vassal.  I entreated his aid,
truly, as prince to prince; and had he kept his bond and word, he had
been the truer man.  I never brake mine, and I had far more need than
he.  Wherefore played he at see-saw, now aiding me, and now Charles,
until none of his knights well knew which way he was bent?  I brought
Charles de Blois to him a prisoner, and he let him go for a heap of
yellow stuff, and fiddled with him, off and on, till Charles brake his
pledged word, and lost his life, as he deserved, at Auray.  I desire to
know what right King Edward had, when I came to visit him after I had
captured mine enemy, to make _me_ a prisoner, and keep me so, now and
then suffering me, like a cat with a mouse, to escape just far enough to
keep within his reach when he list to catch me again.  But not now, for
eight long years--eight long years!"

"Dame, I cannot remain here to list such language of my sovereign."

"Then don't.  I never asked you.  My tongue is free, at any rate.  You
can go."

And the Countess turned back to the black satin on which she was
embroidering a wreath of red and white roses.

"Follow me, Amphillis," said Lady Foljambe, with as much dignity as the
Countess's onslaught had left her.

She led the way into the opposite chamber, the one shared by Perrote and
Amphillis.

"It were best, as this hath happed, that you should know quickly who
this lady is that wotteth not how to govern her tongue.  She is the
Duchess of Brittany.  Heard you ever her story?"

"Something, Dame, an' it please you; yet not fully told.  I heard, as I
think, of some quarrel betwixt her and a cousin touching the succession
to the duchy, and that our King had holpen her, and gave his daughter in
wedlock to the young Duke her son."

"So did he, in very deed; and yet is she thus unbuxom.  Listen, and you
shall hear the inwards thereof.  In the year of our Lord 1341 died Duke
John of Brittany, that was called the Good, and left no child.  Two
brothers had he--Sir Guy, that was his brother both of father and
mother, and Sir John, of the father only, that was called Count de
Montfort.  Sir Guy was then dead, but had left behind him a daughter,
the Lady Joan, that man called Joan the Halting, by reason she was lame
of one leg.  Between her and her uncle of Montfort was the war of
succession--she as daughter of the brother by father and mother, he as
nearer akin to Duke John, being brother himself.  [Note 1.]  Our King
took part with the Count de Montfort, and the King of France espoused
the cause of the Lady Joan."

Lady Foljambe did not think it necessary to add that King Edward's
policy had been of the most halting character in this matter--at one
time fighting for Jeanne, and at another for Montfort, until his nobles
might well have been pardoned, if they found it difficult to remember at
any given moment on which side their master was.

"Well, the King of France took the Count, and led him away captive to
Paris his city.  Whereupon this lady, that is now here in ward, what did
she but took in her arms her young son, that was then a babe of some few
months old, and into the Council at Rennes she went--which city is the
chief town of Brittany--and quoth she unto the nobles there assembled,
`Fair Sirs, be not cast down by the loss of my lord; he was but one man.
See here his young son, who shall 'present him for you; and trust me,
we will keep the stranger out of our city as well without him as with
him.'  Truly, there was not a man to come up to her.  She handled sword
as well as any marshal of the King's host; no assault could surprise
her, no disappointment could crush her, nor could any man, however wily,
take her off her guard.  When she had gone forward to Hennebon--for
Rennes surrendered ere help could come from our King--man said she rade
all up and down the town, clad in armour, encouraging the townsmen, and
moving the women to go up to the ramparts and thence to hurl down on the
besiegers the stones that they tare up from the paved streets.  Never
man fought like her!"

"If it please you, Dame, was her lord never set free?" asked Amphillis,
considerably interested.

"Ay and no," said Lady Foljambe.  "Set free was he never, but he escaped
out of Louvre [Note 2] in disguise of a pedlar, and so came to England
to entreat the King's aid; but his Grace was then so busied with foreign
warfare that little could he do, and the poor Count laid it so to heart
that he died.  He did but return home to die in his wife's arms."

"Oh, poor lady!" said Amphillis.

"Three years later," said Lady Foljambe, "this lady took prisoner Sir
Charles de Blois, the husband of the Lady Joan, and brought him to the
King; also bringing her young son, that was then a lad of six years, and
was betrothed to the King's daughter, the Lady Mary.  The King ordered
her residence in the Castle of Tickhill, where she dwelt many years,
until a matter of two years back, when she was brought hither."

Amphillis felt this account exceedingly unsatisfactory.

"Dame," said she, "if I may have leave to ask at you, wherefore is this
lady a prisoner?  What hath she done?"

Lady Foljambe's lips took a stern set.  She was apparently not pleased
with the freedom of the question.

"She was a very troublesome person," said she.  "Nothing could stay her;
she was ever restless and interfering.  But these be matters too high
for a young maid such as thou.  Thou wert best keep to thy broidery and
such-like duties."

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Harvest Home--the sixteenth of August--arrived when Amphillis had been a
week at Hazelwood.  She had not by any means concluded that process
which is known as "settling down."  On the contrary, she had never felt
so unsettled, and the feeling grew rather than diminished.  Even
Alexandra and Ricarda had tried her less than her present companions, in
one sense; for they puzzled her less, though they teased her more.  She
was beginning to understand her mistress, whose mood was usually one of
weary lack of interest and energy, occasionally broken either by seasons
of acute sorrow, or by sudden flashes of fiery anger: and the last were
less trying than the first--indeed, it seemed sometimes to Amphillis
that they served as a vent and a relief; that for a time after them the
weariness was a shade less dreary, and the languor scarcely quite so
overpowering.

Late in the evening, on the night before Harvest Home, Sir Godfrey
returned home, attended by his squire, Master Norman Hylton.  The
impression received by Amphillis concerning the master of the house was
that he was a fitting pendant to his wife--tall, square, and stern.  She
did not know that Sir Godfrey had been rather wild in his youth, and, as
some such men do, had become correspondingly severe and precise in his
old age.  Not that his heart had changed; it was simply that the sins of
youth had been driven out by the sins of maturer life.  And Satan is
always willing to let his slaves replace one sin by another, for it
makes them none the less surely his.  Sir Godfrey suffered under no
sense of inconsistency in sternly rebuking, when exhibited by Agatha or
Matthew, slight tendencies to evil of the same types as he had once been
addicted to himself.  Had he not sown his wild oats, and become a
reformed character?  The outside of the cup and platter were now so
beautifully clean, that it never so much as occurred to him to question
the condition of the inside.  Yet within were some very foul things--
alienation from God, and hardness of heart, and love of gold, that grew
upon him year by year.  And he thought himself a most excellent man,
though he was only a whitewashed sepulchre.  He lifted his head high, as
he stood in the court of the temple, and effusively thanked God that he
was not as other men.  An excellent man! said everybody who knew him--
perhaps a little too particular, and rather severe on the peccadilloes
of young people.  But when the time came that another Voice pronounced
final sentence on that whitewashed life, the verdict was scarcely "Well
done!"

Norman Hylton sat opposite to Amphillis at the supper-table, in the only
manner in which people could sit opposite to each other at a mediaeval
table--namely, when it was in the form of a squared horseshoe.  The
table, which was always one or more boards laid across trestles, was
very narrow, the inside of the horseshoe being reserved for the servants
to hand the dishes.  There were therefore some yards of distance between
opposite neighbours.  Amphillis studied her neighbour, so far as an
occasional glance in his direction allowed her to do so, and she came to
the conclusion that there was nothing remarkable about him except the
expression of his face.  He was neither tall nor short, neither handsome
nor ugly, neither lively nor morose.  He talked a little with his next
neighbour, Matthew Foljambe, but there was nothing in the manner of
either to provoke curiosity as to the subject of their conversation.
But his expression puzzled Amphillis.  He had dark eyes--like the
Countess's, she thought; but the weary and sometimes fiery aspect of
hers was replaced in these by a look of perfect contentment and peace.
Yet it was utterly different from the self-satisfied expression which
beamed out of Sir Godfrey's eyes.

"What manner of man is Master Hylton?" she asked of Agatha, who always
sat next her.  Precedence at table was regulated by strict rules.

"The youngest of six brethren; prithee, trouble not thine head over
him," was that young lady's answer.

"But that doth me not to wit what manner of man he is," responded
Amphillis, turning to the sewer or waiter, who was offering her some
rissoles of lamb.

Agatha indulged in a little explosion of laughter under cover of her
handkerchief.

"Oh, Amphillis, where hast thou dwelt all thy life?  Thou art the full
seliest [simplest, most unconventional] maid ever I did see."

Amphillis replied literally.  "Why, in Hertfordshire was I born, but I
dwelt in London town a while ere I came hither."

"A jolly townswoman must thou have made!  Canst not conceive what I
mean?  Why, the youngest of six brethren hath all his fortune to make,
and cannot be no catch at all for a maid, without he be full high of
rank, and she have gold enough to serve her turn without."

"But I don't want to catch him," said Amphillis, innocently.

Agatha burst out laughing, and Lady Foljambe, from the middle of the
horseshoe table, looked daggers at her.  Unrestrained laughter at table,
especially in a girl, was a serious breach of etiquette.

"I say, you shouldn't be so funny!" remonstrated Agatha.  "How shall man
help to laugh if you say so comical words?"

"I wist not I was thus comical," said Amphillis.  "But truly I conceive
you not.  Wherefore should I catch Master Hylton, and wherewith, and to
what end?"

"Amphillis, you shall be the death of me!  My Lady shall snap off my
head at after supper, and the maid is not born that could help to laugh
at you.  To what end?  Why, for an husband, child!  As to wherewith,
that I leave to thee."  And Agatha concluded with another stifled
giggle.

"Agatha!" was all that the indignant Amphillis could say in answer.  She
could hardly have told whether she felt more vexed or astonished.  The
bare idea of such a thing, evidently quite familiar to Agatha, was
utterly new to her.  "You never, surely, signify that any decent maid
could set herself to seek a man for an husband, like an angler with
fish?"

"They must be uncommon queer folks in Hertfordshire if thou art a sample
thereof," was the reply.  "Why, for sure, I so signified.  Thou must
have been bred up in a convent, Phyllis, or else tied to thy
grandmother's apron-string all thy life.  Shall a maid ne'er have a bit
of fun, quotha?"

Amphillis made no answer, but finished her rissoles in silence, and
helped herself to a small pound-cake.

"Verily, some folks be born as old as their grandmothers," said Agatha,
accepting a fieldfare from the sewer, and squeezing a lemon over it.  "I
would fain enjoy my youth, though I'm little like to do it whilst here I
am.  Howbeit, it were sheer waste of stuff for any maid to set her heart
on Master Norman; he wist not how to discourse with maids.  He should
have been a monk, in very sooth, for he is fit for nought no better.
There isn't a sparkle about him."

"He looks satisfied," said Amphillis, rather wistfully.  She was wishing
that she felt so.

Agatha's answer was a puzzled stare, first at Amphillis, and then at Mr
Hylton.

"`Satisfied!'" she repeated, as if she wondered what the word could
mean.  "Aren't we all satisfied?"

"Maybe you are," replied Amphillis, "though I reckon I have heard you
say what looked otherwise.  You would fain have more life and jollity,
if I err not."

"Truly, therein you err not in no wise," answered Agatha, laughing
again, though in a more subdued manner than before.  "I never loved to
dwell in a nunnery, and this house is little better.  `Satisfied!'" she
said again, as though the word perplexed her.  "I never thought of no
such a thing.  Doth Master Norman look satisfied?  What hath satisfied
him, trow?"

"That is it I would fain know," said Amphillis.

"In good sooth, I see not how it may be," resumed Agatha.  "He has never
a penny to his patrimony.  I heard him to say once to Master Godfrey
that all he had of his father was horse, and arms, and raiment.  Nor
hath he any childless old uncle, or such, that might take to him, and
make his fortune.  He lives of his wits, belike.  Now, I am an only
daughter, and have never a brother to come betwixt me and the
inheritance; I shall have a pretty penny when my father dies.  So I have
some right to be jolly.  Ay, and jolly I'll be when I am mine own
mistress, I warrant you!  I've no mother, so there is none to oversee
me, and rule me, and pluck me by the sleeve when I would go hither and
thither, so soon as I can be quit of my Lady yonder.  Oh, there's a
jolly life afore _me_."

It was Amphillis's turn to be astonished.

"Dear heart!" she said.  "Why, I have no kindred nearer than uncle and
cousins, but I have ever reckoned it a sore trouble to lose my mother,
and no blessing."

"Very like it was to you!" said Agatha.  "You'd make no bones if you
were ruled like an antiphonarium [music-book for anthems and chants],
I'll be bound, I'm none so fond of being driven in harness.  I love my
own way, and I'll have it, too, one of these days."

"But then you have none to love you!  That is one of the worst sorrows
in the world, I take it."

"Love! bless you, I shall have lovers enough!  I've three hundred a year
to my fortune."

Three hundred pounds in 1372 was equal to nearly five thousand now.

"But what good should it do you that people wanted your money?" asked
Amphillis.  "That isn't loving _you_."

"Amphillis, I do believe you were born a hundred years old! or else in
some other world, where their notions are quite diverse from this," said
Agatha, taking a candied orange from the sewer.  "I never heard such
things as you say."

"But lovers who only want your money seem to me very unsatisfying
folks," replied Amphillis.  "Will they smooth your pillows when you are
sick? or comfort you when your heart is woeful?"

"I don't mean my heart to be woeful, and as to pillows, there be
thousands will smooth them for wages."

"They are smoother when 'tis done for love," was the answer.

Agatha devoted herself to her orange, and in a few minutes Lady Foljambe
gave the signal to rise from table.  The young ladies followed her to
her private sitting-room, where Agatha received a stern reprimand for
the crime of laughing too loud, and was told she was no better than a
silly giglot, who would probably bring herself some day to dire
disgrace.  Lady Foljambe then motioned her to the spindle, and desired
her not to leave it till the bell rang for evening prayers in the
chapel, just before bed-time.  Agatha pulled a face behind Lady
Foljambe's back, but she did not dare to disobey.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1.  It seems very strange to us that the Count de Montfort should
have imagined himself to have a better claim to the crown than his
niece; but the principle under which he claimed was the law of
non-representation, which forbade the child of a deceased son or brother
to inherit; and this, little as it is now allowed or even understood,
was not only the custom of some Continental states, but was the law of
succession in England, itself until 1377.  The struggle between Stephen
and the Empress Maud, and that between King John and his nephew Arthur,
were fought upon this principle.

Note 2.  The Louvre, then considered _near_ Paris, was usually mentioned
without the article.



CHAPTER SIX.

A THANKLESS CHILD.

  "We will not come to Thee
  Till Thou hast nailed us to some bitter cross
  And made us look on Thee."

  "B.M."

Amphillis took her own spindle, and sat down beside Marabel, who was
just beginning to spin.

"What was it so diverted Agatha at supper?" inquired Marabel.

"She laughs full easily," answered Amphillis; and told her what had been
the subject of discourse.

"She is a light-minded maid," said Marabel.  "So you thought Master
Norman had a satisfied look, trow?  Well, I count you had the right."

"Agatha said she knew not of nought in this world that should satisfy
him."

Marabel smiled.  "I misdoubt if that which satisfieth him ever came out
of this world.  Amphillis, whenas you dwelt in London town, heard you at
all preach one of the poor priests?"

"What manner of folks be they?"

"You shall know them by their raiment, for they mostly go clad of a
frieze coat, bound by a girdle of unwrought leather."

"Oh, ay?  I heard once a friar so clad; and I marvelled much to what
Order he belonged.  But it was some while gone."

"What said he?"

"Truly, that cannot I tell you, for I took not but little note.  I was
but a maidling, scarce past my childhood.  My mother was well pleased
therewith.  I mind her to have said, divers times, when she lay of her
last sickness, that she would fain have shriven her of the friar in the
frieze habit.  Wherefore, cannot I say."

"Then perchance I can say it for you:--for I reckon it was because he
brought her gladder tidings than she had heard of other."

Amphillis looked surprised.  "Why, whatso?  Sermons be all alike, so far
as ever I could tell."

"Be they so?  No, verily, Amphillis.  Is there no difference betwixt
preaching of the law--`Do this, and thou shalt live,' and preaching of
the glad gospel of the grace of God--`I give unto them everlasting
life?'"

"But we must merit Heaven!" exclaimed Amphillis.

"Our Lord, then, paid not the full price, but left at the least a few
marks over for us to pay?  Nay, He bought Heaven for us, Amphillis: and
only He could do it.  We have nothing to pay; and if we had, how should
our poor hands reach to such a purchase as that?  It took God to save
the world.  Ay, and it took God, too, to love the world enough to save
it."

"Why, but if so be, we are saved--not shall be."

"We are, if we ever shall be."

"But is that true Catholic doctrine?"

"It is the true doctrine of God's love.  Either, therefore, it is
Catholic doctrine, or Catholic doctrine hath erred from it."

"But the Church cannot err!"

"Truth, so long as she keep her true to God's law.  The Church is men,
not God! and God must be above the Church.  But what is the Church?  Is
it this priest or that bishop?  Nay, verily; it is the congregation of
all the faithful elect that follow Christ, and do after His
commandments.  So long, therefore, as they do after His commands, and
follow Him, they be little like to err.  `He that believeth in the Son
_hath_ everlasting life.'"

"But we all believe in our Lord!" said Amphillis, feeling as if so many
new ideas had never entered her head all at once before.

"Believe what?" said Marabel, and she smiled.

"Why, we believe that He came down from Heaven, and died, and rose
again, and ascended, and such-like."

"Wherefore?"

"Wherefore came He?  Truly, that know I not.  By reason that it liked
Him, I count."

"Ay, that was the cause," said Marabel, softly.  "He came because--shall
we say?--He so loved Amphillis Neville, that He could not do without her
in Heaven: and as she could win there none other way than by the laying
down of His life, He came and laid it down."

"Marabel!  Never heard I none to speak after this manner!  Soothly, our
Lord died for us: but--"

"But--yet was it not rightly for us, thee and me, but for some folks a
long way off, we cannot well say whom?"

Amphillis span and thought--span fast, because she was thinking hard:
and Marabel did not interrupt her thoughts.

"But--we must merit it!" she urged again at last.

"Dost thou commonly merit the gifts given thee?  When man meriteth that
he receiveth--when he doth somewhat, to obtain it--it is a wage, not a
gift.  The very life and soul of a gift is that it is not merited, but
given of free favour, of friendship or love."

"I never heard no such doctrine!"

Marabel only smiled.

"Followeth my Lady this manner?"

"A little in the head, maybe; for the heart will I not speak."

"And my La--I would say, Mistress Perrote?"  Amphillis suddenly
recollected that her mistress was never to be mentioned.

"Ask at her," said Marabel, with a smile.

"Then Master Norman is of this fashion of thinking?"

"Ay.  So be the Hyltons all."

"Whence gat you the same?"

"It was learned me of my Lady Molyneux of Sefton, that I served as
chamberer ere I came hither.  I marvel somewhat, Amphillis, that thou
hast never heard the same, and a Neville.  All the Nevilles of Raby be
of our learning--well-nigh."

"Dear heart, but I'm no Neville of Raby!" cried Amphillis, with a laugh
at the extravagance of the idea.  "At the least, I know not well whence
my father came; his name was Walter Neville, and his father was Ralph,
and more knew I never.  He bare arms, 'tis true--gules, a saltire
argent; and his device, `_Ne vile velis_.'"

"The self arms of the Nevilles of Raby," said Marabel, with an amused
smile.  "I marvel, Amphillis, thou art not better learned in thine own
family matters."

"Soothly.  I never had none to learn me, saving my mother; and though
she would tell me oft of my father himself, how good and true man he
were, yet she never seemed to list to speak much of his house.  Maybe it
was by reason he came below his rank in wedding her, and his kin refused
to acknowledge her amongst them.  Thus, see you, I dropped down, as man
should say, into my mother's rank, and never had no chance to learn
nought of my father's matters."

"Did thine uncle learn thee nought, then?"

"He learned me how to make patties of divers fashions," answered
Amphillis, laughing.  "He was very good to me, and belike to my mother,
his sister; but I went not to dwell with him until after she was
departed to God.  And then I was so slender [insignificant] a country
maid, with no fortune, ne parts [talents], that my cousins did somewhat
slight me, and keep me out of sight.  So never met I any that should be
like to wise me in this matter.  And, the sooth to say, but I would not
desire to dwell amongst kin that had set my mother aside, and reckoned
her not fit to company with them, not for no wickedness nor unseemly
dealing, but only that she came of a trading stock.  It seemeth me, had
such wist our blessed Lord Himself, they should have bidden Him stand
aside, for He was but a carpenter's son.  That's the evil of being in
high place, trow."

"Ah, no, dear heart!  It hath none ado with place, high or low.  'Tis
human nature.  Thou shalt find a duchess more ready to company with a
squire's wife, oft-times, than the squire's wife with the bailiff's
wife, and there is a deal further distance betwixt.  It hangeth on the
heart, not on the station."

"But folks' hearts should be the better according to their station."

Marabel laughed.  "That were new world, verily.  The grace of God is the
same in every station, and the like be the wiles of Satan--not that he
bringeth to all the same temptation, for he hath more wit than so; but
he tempteth all, high and low.  The high have the fairer look-out, yet
the more perilous place; the low have the less to content them, yet are
they safer.  Things be more evenly parted in this world than many think.
Many times he that hath rich food, hath little appetite for it; and he
that hath his appetite sharp, can scarce get food to satisfy it."

"But then things fit not," said Amphillis.

"Soothly, nay.  This world is thrown all out of gear by sin.  Things
fitted in Eden, be thou sure.  Another reason is there also--that he
which hath the food may bestow it on him that can relish it, and hath it
not."

The chapel bell tolled softly for the last service of the day, and the
whole household assembled.  Every day this was done at Hazelwood, for
prime, sext, and compline, at six a.m., noon, and seven p.m.
respectively, and any member of the household found missing would have
been required to render an exceedingly good reason for it.  The services
were very short, and a sermon was a scarcely imagined performance.
After compline came bed-time.  Each girl took her lamp, louted to Lady
Foljambe and kissed her hand, and they then filed upstairs to bed after
Perrote, she and Amphillis going to their own turret.

Hitherto Perrote had been an extremely silent person.  Not one word
unnecessary to the work in hand had she ever uttered, since those few on
Amphillis's first arrival.  It was therefore with some little surprise
that the girl heard her voice, as she stood that evening brushing her
hair before the mirror.

"Amphillis, who chose you to come hither?"

"Truly, Mistress, that wis I not.  Only, first of all, Mistress Chaucer,
of the Savoy Palace, looked me o'er to see if I should be meet for
taking into account, and then came a lady thence, and asked at me divers
questions, and judged that I should serve; but who she was I knew not.
She bade me be well ware that I gat me in no entanglements of no sort,"
said Amphillis, laughing a little; "but in good sooth, I see here
nothing to entangle me in."

"She gave thee good counsel therein.  There be tangles of divers sorts,
my maid, and those which cut the tightest be not alway the worst.  Thou
mayest tangle thy feet of soft wool, or rich silk, no less than of rough
cord.  Ah me! there be tangles here, Amphillis, and hard to undo.  There
were skilwise fingers to their tying--hard fingers, that thought only to
pull them tight, and harried them little touching the trouble of such as
should be thus tethered.  And there be knots that no man can undo--only
God.  Why tarry the wheels of His chariot?"

Amphillis turned round from the mirror.

"Mistress Perrote, may I ask a thing at you?"

"Ask, my maid."

"My Lady answered me not; will you?  What hath our Lady done to be thus
shut close in prison?"

"_She_ done?" was the answer, with a piteous intonation.  Perrote looked
earnestly into the girl's face.  "Amphillis, canst thou keep a secret?"

"If I know myself, I can well."

"Wilt thou so do, for the love of God and thy Lady?  It should harm her,
if men knew thou wist it.  And, God wot, she hath harm enough."

"I will never speak word, Mistress Perrote, to any other than you,
without you bid me, or grant me leave."

"So shall thou do well.  Guess, Amphillis, who is it that keepeth this
poor lady in such durance."

"Nay, that I cannot, without it be our Lord the King."

"He, surely; yet is he but the gaoler.  There is another beyond him, at
whose earnest entreaty, and for whose pleasure he so doth.  Who is it,
thinkest?"

"It seemeth me, Mistress, looking to what you say, this poor lady must
needs have some enemy," said Amphillis.

"Amphillis, that worst enemy, the enemy that bindeth these fetters upon
her, that bars these gates against her going forth, that hath quenched
all the sunlight of her life, and hushed all the music out of it--this
enemy is her own son, that she nursed at her bosom--the boy for whose
life she risked hers an hundred times, whose patrimony she only saved to
him, whose welfare through thirty years hath been dearer to her than her
own.  Dost thou marvel if her words be bitter, and if her eyes be
sorrowful?  Could they be aught else?"

Amphillis looked as horrified as she felt.

"Mistress Perrote, it is dreadful!  Can my said Lord Duke be Christian
man?"

"Christian!" echoed Perrote, bitterly.  "Dear heart, ay! one of the best
Catholics alive!  Hath he not built churches with the moneys of his
mother's dower, and endowed convents with the wealth whereof he
defrauded her?  What could man do better?  A church is a great matter,
and a mother a full little one.  Mothers die, but churches and convents
endure.  Ah, when such mothers die and go to God, be there no words writ
on the account their sons shall thereafter render?  Is He all silent
that denounced the Jewish priests for their Corban, by reason they
allowed man to deny to his father and mother that which he had devote to
God's temple?  Is His temple built well of broken hearts, and His altar
meetly covered with the rich tracery of women's tears?  `The hope of the
hypocrite shall perish, when God taketh away his soul.'"

Never before had Amphillis seen any one change as Perrote had changed
now.  The quiet, stolid-looking woman had become an inspired prophetess.
It was manifest that she dearly loved her mistress, and was
proportionately indignant with the son who treated her so cruelly.

"Child," she said to Amphillis, "she lived for nought save that boy!
Her daughter was scarce anything to her; it was alway the lad, the lad!
And thus the lad a-payeth her for all her love and sacrifice--for the
heart that stood betwixt him and evil, for the gold and jewels that she
thought too mean to be set in comparison with him, for the weary arms
that bare him, and the tired feet that carried him about, a little
wailing babe--for the toil and the labour, the hope and the fear, the
waiting and the sorrow!  Ay, but I marvel in what manner of coin God our
Father shall pay him!"

"But wherefore doth he so?" cried Amphillis.

"She was in his way," replied Perrote, in a tone of constrained
bitterness.  "He could not have all his will for her.  He desired to
make bargains, and issue mandates, and reign at his pleasure, and she
told him the bargains were unprofitable, and the mandates unjust, and it
was not agreeable.  'Twas full awkward and ill-convenient, look you, to
have an old mother interfering with man's pleasure.  He would, have set
her in a fair palace, and given her due dower, I reckon, would she but
there have tarried, like a slug on a cabbage-leaf, and let him alone;
and she would not.  How could she?  She was not a slug, but an eagle.
And 'tis not the nature of an eagle to hang hour after hour upon a
cabbage-leaf.  So, as King Edward had at the first kept her in durance
for his own ends, my gracious Lord Duke did entreat him to continue the
same on his account.  As for my Lady Duchess, I say not; I know her not.
This only I know, that my Lady Foljambe is her kinswoman.  And, most
times, there is a woman at the bottom of all evil mischief.  Ay, there
is so!"

"Mistress Perrote, it seemeth me this is worser world than I wist ere I
came hither."

"Art avised o' that?  Ay, Phyllis, thou shalt find it so; and the
further thou journeyest therein, the worser shalt thou find it."

"Mistress, wherefore is it that this poor lady of ours is kept so
secret?  It seemeth as though man would have none know where she were."

"_Ha, chetife_!  [Oh, miserable!]  I can but avise thee to ask so much
at them that do keep her."

"Shall she never be suffered to come forth?"

"Ay," said Perrote, slowly and solemnly.  "She shall come forth one day.
But I misdoubt if it shall be ere the King come Himself for her."

"The King!  Shall his Grace come hither?" inquired Amphillis, with much
interest.  She thought of no king but Edward the Third.

Perrote's eyes were uplifted towards the stars.  She spoke as if she
were answering them rather than Amphillis.

"He shall deem [judge] the poor men of the people, and He shall make
safe the sons of poor men; and He shall make low the false challenger.
And He shall dwell with the sun, and before the moon, in generation and
in to generation...  And He shall be Lord from the sea till to the sea,
and from the flood till to the ending of the world...  For He shall
deliver a poor man from the mighty, and a poor man to whom was none
helper.  He shall spare a poor man and needy, and He shall make safe the
souls of poor men...  Blessed be the name of His majesty withouten end!
and all earth shall be filled with His majesty.  Be it done, be it
done!"  [Note 1.]

Amphillis almost held her breath as she listened, for the first time in
her life, to the grand roll of those sonorous verses.

"That were a King!" she said.

"That shall be a King," answered Perrote, softly.  "Not yet is His
kingdom of this world.  But He is King of Israel, and King of kings, and
King of the everlasting ages; and the day cometh when He shall be King
of nations, when there shall be one Lord over all the earth, and His
Name one.  Is He thy King, Amphillis Neville?"

"Signify you our blessed Lord, Mistress Perrote?"

"Surely, my maid.  Could any other answer thereto?"

"I reckon so," said Amphillis, calmly, as she put away her brush, and
began undressing.

"I would make sure, if I were thou.  For the subjects be like to dwell
in the Court when they be preferred to higher place.  `Ye ben servantis
to that thing to which ye han obeisched.'  [Note 2.]  Whose servant art
thou?  Who reigns in thine inner soul, Phyllis?"

"Soothly, Mistress, I myself.  None other, I ween."

"Nay, one other must there needs be.  Thou obeyest the rule of one of
two masters--either Christ our Lord, or Satan His enemy."

"In very deed, Mistress, I serve God."

"Then thou art concerned to please God in everything.  Or is it rather,
that thou art willing to please God in such matters as shall not
displease Amphillis Neville?"

Amphillis folded up sundry new and not altogether agreeable thoughts in
the garments which she was taking off and laying in neat order on the
top of her chest for the morning.  Perrote waited for the answer.  It
did not come until Amphillis's head was on the pillow.

"Cannot I please God and myself both?"

"That canst thou, full well and sweetly, if so be thou put God first.
Otherwise, nay."

"Soothly, Mistress, I know not well what you would be at."

"What our Saviour would be at Himself, which is, thy true bliss and
blessedness, Phyllis.  My maid, to be assured of fair ending and good
welcome at the end of the journey makes not the journeying wearier.  To
know not whither thou art wending, save that it is into the dark; to be
met of a stranger, that may be likewise an enemy; to be had up afore the
judge's bar, with no advocate to plead for thee, and no surety of
acquittal,--that is evil journeying, Phyllis, Dost not think so much?"

Perrote listened in vain for any answer.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1.  Psalm seventy-two, verses 4, 5, 8, 12, 13, 18, 19; Hereford and
Purvey's version, 1381-8.

Note 2.  Romans six, verse 16; Wycliffe's version, 1382.



CHAPTER SEVEN.

ON THE TERRACE.

  "Where we disavow
  Being keeper to our brother, we're his Cain."

  Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

"Hylton, thou art weary gear!"

"What ails me?"

"What ails thee, forsooth?  Marry, but that's as good a jest as I heard
this year!  I lack thee to tell me that.  For what ails me at thee, that
were other matter, and I can give thee to wit, an' thou wilt.  Thou art
as heavy as lead, and as dull as ditch-water, and as flat as dowled
[flat] ale.  I would I were but mine own master, and I'd mount my horse,
and ride away from the whole sort of you!"

"From your father and mother, Matthew?"

"Certes.  Where's the good of fathers and mothers, save to crimp and
cramp young folks that would fain stretch their wings and be off into
the sunlight?  Mine never do nought else."

"Think you not the fathers and mothers might reasonably ask, Where's the
good of sons and daughters?  How much have you cost yours, Matthew,
since you were born?"

Matthew Foljambe turned round with a light laugh, and gazed half
contemptuously at the speaker.

"Gentlemen never reckon," said he.  "'Tis a mean business, only fit for
tradesfolk."

"You might reckon that sum, Matthew, without damage to your gentle
blood.  The King himself reckoneth up the troops he shall lack, and the
convention-subsidy due from each man to furnish them.  You shall scantly
go above him, I count."

"I would I were but a king!  Wouldn't I lead a brave life!"

"That would not I be for all the riches in Christendom."

"The which speech showeth thine unwisdom.  Why, a king can have his
purveyor to pick of the finest in the market ere any other be serven; he
can lay tax on his people whenas it shall please him [this was true at
that time]; he can have a whole pig or goose to his table every morrow;
and as for the gifts that be brought him, they be without number.
Marry, but if I were a king, wouldn't I have a long gown of blue velvet,
all o'er broidered of seed-pearl, and a cap of cramoisie [crimson
velvet], with golden broidery!  And a summer jack [the garment of which
jacket is the diminutive] of samitelle would I have--let me see--green,
I reckon, bound with gold ribbon; and fair winter hoods of miniver and
ermine, and buttons of gold by the score.  Who so bravely apparelled as
I, trow?"

"Be your garments not warm enough, Matthew?"

"Warm enough? certes!  But they be only camoca and lamb's far, with
never a silver button, let be gold."

"What advantage should gold buttons be to you?  Those pearl do attach
your gown full evenly as well."

"Hylton, thou hast no ambitiousness in thee!  Seest not that folks
should pay me a deal more respect, thus donned [dressed] in my bravery?"

"That is, they should pay much respect to the blue velvet and the gold
buttons?  You should be no different that I can see."

"I should be a vast sight comelier, man alive!"

"You!" returned Hylton.

"Where's the good of talking to thee?  As well essay to learn a sparrow
to sing, `_J'ay tout perdu mon temps_.'"

"I think you should have lost your time in very deed, and your labour
belike, if you spent them on broidering gowns and stitching on buttons,
when you had enow aforetime."

"Thou sely loon!  [Simple creature!]  Dost reckon I mean to work mine
own broidery, trow?  I'd have a fair score of maidens alway a-broidering
for me, so that I might ever have a fresh device when I lacked a new
gown."

"The which should come in a year to--how much?"

"Dost look for me to know?"

"I do, when I have told you.  Above an hundred and twenty pound, Master
Matthew.  That should your bravery cost you, in broidering-maids alone."

"Well! what matter, so I had it?"

"It might serve you.  I should desire to buy more happiness with such a
sum than could be stitched into golden broidery and seed-pearl."

"Now come, Norman, let us hear thy notion of happiness.  If thou hadst
in thine hand an hundred pound, what should'st do withal?"

"I would see if I could not dry up as many widows' tears as I had golden
pieces, and bring as many smiles to the lips of orphans as they should
divide into silver."

"Prithee, what good should that do thee?"

"It should keep mine heart warm in the chillest winter thereafter.  But
I thought rather of the good it should do them than me."

"But what be such like folks to thee?"

"Our Lord died for them, and He is something to me."

"Fate meant thee for a monk, Hylton.  Thou rannest thine head against
the wall to become a squire."

"Be monks the sole men that love God?"

"They be the sole men that hold such talk."

"I have known monks that held full different talk, I do ensure you.  And
I have known laymen that loved God as well as any monk that ever paced
cloister."

"Gramercy! do leave preaching of sermons.  I have enow of them from my
Lady my mother.  Let's be jolly, if we can."

"You should have the better right to be jolly, to know whither you were
going, and that you should surely come out safe at the far end."

"Happy man be my dole!  I'm no wise feared.  I'll give an hundred pound
to the Church the week afore I die, and that shall buy me a
soft-cushioned seat in Heaven, I'll warrant."

"Who told you so much?  Any that had been there?"

"Man alive! wilt hold thy peace, and let man be?  Thou art turned now
into a predicant friar.  I'll leave thee here to preach to the
gilly-flowers."

And Matthew walked off, with a sprig of mint in his mouth.  He was not a
bad man, as men go.  He was simply a man who wanted to please himself,
and to be comfortable and easy.  In his eyes the whole fabric of the
universe revolved round Matthew Foljambe.  He did not show it as the
royal savage did, who beat a primitive gong in token that, as he had sat
down to dinner, the rest of the world might lawfully satisfy their
hunger; but the sentiment in Matthew's mind was a civilised and refined
form of the same idea.  If he were comfortable, what did it signify if
everybody else were uncomfortable?

Like all men in his day--and a good many in our own--Matthew had a low
opinion of woman.  It had been instilled into him, as it was at that
time into every man who wrote himself "esquire," that the utmost
chivalrous reverence was due to the ladies as an abstract idea; but this
abstract idea was quite compatible with the rudest behaviour and the
supremest contempt for any given woman in the concrete.  Woman was an
article of which there were two qualities: the first-class thing was a
toy, the second was a machine.  Both were for the use of man--which was
true enough, had they only realised that it meant for man's real help
and improvement, bodily, mental, and spiritual; but they understood it
to mean for the bodily comfort and mental amusement of the nobler half
of the human race.  The natural result of this was that every woman must
be appropriated to some master.  The bare notion of allowing a woman to
choose whether she would go through life unattached to a master, or, if
otherwise, to reject one she feared or disliked, would have seemed to
Matthew the most preposterous audacity on the part of the inferior
creature, as it would also have appeared if the inferior creature had
shown discontent with the lot marked out for it.  The inferior creature,
on the whole, walked very meekly in the path thus swept for it.  This
was partly, no doubt, because it was so taught as a religious duty; but
partly, also, because the style of education then given to women left no
room for the mental wings to expand.  The bird was supplied with good
seed and fresh water, and the idea of its wanting anything else was
regarded as absurd.  Let it sit on the perch and sing in a properly
subdued tone.  That it was graciously allowed to sing was enough for any
reasonable bird, and ought to call forth on its part overflowing
gratitude.

Even then, a few of the caged birds were not content to sit meekly on
the perch, but they were eyed askance by the properly behaved ones, and
held up to the unfledged nestlings as sorrowful examples of the
pernicious habit of thinking for one's self.  Never was bird less
satisfied to be shut up in a cage than the hapless prisoner in that
manor house, whom the peasants of the neighbourhood knew as the White
Lady.  Now and then they caught a glimpse of her at the window of her
chamber, which she insisted on having open, and at which she would stand
sometimes by the hour together, looking sorrowfully out on the blue sky
and the green fields, wherein she might wander no more.  A wild bird was
Marguerite of Flanders, in whose veins ran the blood of those untamed
sea-eagles, the Vikings of Denmark; and though bars and wires might keep
her in the cage, to make her content with it was beyond their power.

So thought Norman Hylton, looking up at the white figure visible behind
the bars which crossed the casement of the captive's chamber.  He knew
little of her beyond her name.

"Saying thy prayers to the moon, Hylton? or to the White Lady?" asked a
voice behind him.

"Neither, Godfrey.  I was marvelling wherefore she is mewed up there.
Dost know?"

"I know she was a full wearisome woman to my Lord Duke her son, and that
he is a jollier man by the acre since she here dwelt."

"Was she his own mother?" asked Norman.

"His own?--ay, for sure; and did him a good turn at the beginning, by
preserving his kingdom for him when he was but a lad."

"And could he find no better reward for her than this?"

"Tut! she sharped [teased, irritated] him, man.  He could not have his
will for her."

"Could he ne'er have put up with a little less of it?  Or was his will
so much dearer to him than his mother?"

"Dost reckon he longed sore to be ridden of an old woman, and made to
trot to market at her pleasure, when his own was to take every gate and
hurdle in his way?  Thou art old woman thyself, an' thou so dost.  My
Lord Duke is no jog-trot market-ass, I can tell thee, but as fiery a
war-charger as man may see in a summer's day.  And dost think a
war-charger should be well a-paid to have an old woman of his back?"

"My Lady his mother, then, hath no fire in her?" said Norman, glancing
up at her where she stood behind the bars in her white weeds, looking
down on the two young men in the garden.

"Marry, enough to burn a city down.  She did burn the King of France's
camp afore Hennebon.  And whenas she was prisoner in Tickhill Castle, a
certain knight, whose name I know not, [the name of this knight is
apparently not on record], covenanted secretly with her by means of some
bribe, or such like, given to her keepers, that he would deliver her
from durance; and one night scaled he the walls, and she herself gat
down from her window, and clambered like a cat by means of the
water-spout and slight footholds in the stonework, till she came to the
bottom, and then over the walls and away.  They were taken, as thou
mayest lightly guess, yet they gat them nigh clear of the liberties ere
they could again be captivated.  Fire! ay, that hath she, and ever will.
Forsooth, that is the cause wherefore she harried her son.  If she
would have sat still at her spinning, he'd have left her be.  But, look
thou, she could not leave him be."

"Wherein did she seek to let him, wot you?"

"Good lack! not I.  If thou art so troubled thereanent, thou wert best
ask my father.  Maybe he wist not.  I cannot say."

"It must have been sore disheartenment," said Norman, pityingly, "to win
nearly away, and then be brought back."

"Ay, marry; and then was she had up to London afore the King's Grace,
and had into straiter prison than aforetime.  Ere that matter was she
treated rather as guest of the King and Queen, though in good sooth she
was prisoner; but after was she left no doubt touching that question.
Some thought she might have been released eight years agone, when the
convention was with the Lady Joan of Brittany, which after her lord was
killed at Auray, gave up all, receiving the county of Penthievre, the
city of Limoges, and a great sum of money; and so far as England
reckoned, so she might, and maybe would, had it been to my Lord Duke's
convenience.  But he had found her aforetime very troublesome to him.
Why, when he was but a youth, he fell o' love with some fair damsel of
his mother's following, and should have wedded her, had not my Lady
Duchess, so soon as ever she knew it, packed her off to a nunnery."

"Wherefore?"

"That wis I not, without it were that she was not for him."
[Unsuitable.]

"Was the tale true, think you?"

"That wis I not likewise.  Man said so much--behold all I know.  Any
way, she harried him, and he loved it not, and here she is.  That's
enough for me."

"Poor lady!"

"Poor? what for poor?  She has all she can want.  She is fed and clad as
well as ever she was--better, I dare guess, than when she was besieged
in Hennebon.  If she would have broidery silks, or flowers, or any sort
of women's toys, she hath but to say, and my Lady my mother shall ride
to Derby for them.  The King gave order she should be well used, and
well used she is.  He desireth not that she be punished, but only kept
sure."

"I would guess that mere keeping in durance, with nought more to vex
her, were sorest suffering to one of her fashioning."

"But what more can she lack?  Beside, she is only a woman."

"Women mostly live in and for their children, and your story sounds as
though hers cared little enough for her."

"Well! they know she is well treated; why should they harry them over
her?  They be young, and would lead a jolly life, not to be tied for
ever to her apron-string."

"I would not use my mother thus."

"What wouldst?  Lead her horse with thy bonnet doffed, and make a leg
afore her whenever she spake unto thee?"

"If it made her happy so to do, I would.  Meseemeth I should be as well
employed in leading her horse as another, and could show my chivalry as
well towards mine old mother as any other lady.  I were somewhat more
beholden to her of the twain, and God bade me not honour any other, but
He did her."

"_Ha, chetife_!  'Tis easier work honouring a fair damsel, with golden
hair and rose-leaf cheek, than a toothless old harridan that is for ever
plaguing thee."

"Belike the Lord knew that, and writ therefore His fifth command."

Godfrey did not answer, for his attention was diverted.  Two well-laden
mules stood at the gate, and two men were coming up to the Manor House,
carrying a large pack--a somewhat exciting vision to country people in
the Middle Ages.  There were then no such things as village shops, and
only in the largest and most important towns was any great stock kept by
tradesmen.  The chief trading in country places was done by these
itinerant pedlars, whose visits were therefore a source of great
interest to the family, and especially to the ladies.  They served
frequently as messengers and carriers in a small way, and were
particularly valuable between the four seasons, when alone anything
worth notice could be expected in the shops--Easter, Whitsuntide, All
Saints, and Christmas.  There were also the spring and autumn fairs, but
these were small matters except in the great towns.  As it was now the
beginning of September, Godfrey knew that a travelling pedlar would be a
most acceptable visitor to his mother and wife.

The porter, instructed by his young master, let in the pedlars.

"What have ye?" demanded Godfrey.

"I have mercery, sweet Sir, and he hath jewelling," answered the taller
of the pedlars, a middle-aged man with a bronzed face, which told of
much outdoor exposure.

"Why, well said!  Come ye both into hall, and when ye have eaten and
drunk, then shall ye open your packs."

Godfrey led the pedlars into the hall, and shouted for the sewer, whom
he bade to set a table, and serve the wearied men with food.

An hour later, Amphillis, who was sewing in her mistress's chamber, rose
at the entrance of Lady Foljambe.

"Here, Dame, be pedlars bearing mercery and jewelling," said she.
"Would your Grace anything that I can pick forth to your content?"

"Ay, I lack a few matters, Avena," said the Countess, in her usual
bitter-sweet style.  "A two-three yards of freedom, an' it like thee;
and a boxful of air, so he have it fresh; and if thou see a silver chain
of daughter's duty, or a bit of son's love set in gold, I could serve me
of those if I had them.  They'll not come over sea, methinketh."

"Would it like your Grace," asked Lady Foljambe, rather stiffly, "to
speak in plain language, and say what you would have?"

"`Plain language!'" repeated the Countess.  "In very deed, but I
reckoned I had given thee some of that afore now!  I would have my
liberty, Avena Foljambe; and I would have my rights; and I would have of
mine own childre such honour as 'longeth to a mother by reason and God's
law.  Is that plain enough? or wouldst have it rougher hewn?"

"Dame, your Grace wist well that such matter as this cometh not of
pedlars' packs."

"Ay!" said the Countess, with a long, weary sigh.  "I do, so!  Nor out
of men's hearts, belike.  Well, Avena, to come down to such petty matter
as I count I shall be suffered to have, prithee, bring me some violet
silk of this shade for broidery, and another yard or twain of red
samitelle for the backing.  It were not in thy writ of matters
allowable, I reckon, that the pedlars should come up and open their
packs in my sight?"

Lady Foljambe looked scandalised.

"Dear heart!  Dame, what means your Grace?"

"I know," said the Countess.  "They have eyes, no less than I; and they
shall see an old woman in white doole, and fall to marvelling, and maybe
talking, wherefore their Lord King Edward keepeth her mewed up with bars
across her casement.  His Grace's honour must be respected, trow.  Be it
done.  'Tis only one penny the more to the account that the Lord of the
helpless shall demand of him one day.  I trust he hath in his coffers
wherewith to pay that debt.  Verily, there shall be some strange
meetings in that further world.  I marvel something what manner of tale
mine old friend De Mauny carried thither this last January, when he went
on the long journey that hath no return.  Howbeit, seeing he wedded his
master's cousin, maybe it were not to his conveniency to remind the Lord
of the old woman behind the bars at Hazelwood.  It should scantly
redound to his lord's credit.  And at times it seemeth me that the Lord
lacketh reminding, for He appears to have forgot me."

"I cannot listen, Dame, to such speech of my Sovereign."

"Do thy duty, Avena.  After all, thy Sovereign's not bad man, as men go.
Marvellous ill they go, some of them!  He hath held his sceptre well
even betwixt justice and mercy on the whole, saving in two matters,
whereof this old woman is one, and old women be of small account with
most men.  He should have fared well had he wist his own mind a bit
better--but that's in the blood.  Old King Harry, his father's
grandfather, I have heard say, was a weary set-out for that.  Go thy
ways, Avena, and stand not staring at me.  I'm neither a lovesome young
damsel nor a hobgoblin, that thou shouldst set eyes on me thus.  Three
ells of red samitelle, and two ounces of violet silk this hue--and a bit
of gold twist shall harm no man.  Amphillis, my maid, thou art not glued
to the chamber floor like thy mistress; go thou and take thy pleasure to
see the pedlars' packs.  Thou hast not much here, poor child!"

Amphillis thankfully accepted her mistress's considerate permission, and
ran down to the hall.  She found the mercer's pack open, and the rich
stuffs hung all about on the forms, which had been pulled forward for
that purpose.  The jeweller meanwhile sat in a corner, resting until he
was wanted.  Time was not of much value in the Middle Ages.



CHAPTER EIGHT.

ALNERS AND SAMITELLE.

  "And there's many a deed I could wish undone, though the law might not
  be broke;
  And there's many a word, now I come to think, that I wish I had not
  spoke."

The mercer's stock, spread out upon the benches of the hall, was a sight
at once gay and magnificent.  Cloth of gold, diaper, baldekin, velvet,
tissue, samite, satin, tartaryn, samitelle, sarcenet, taffata, sindon,
cendall, say--all of them varieties of silken stuffs--ribbons of silk,
satin, velvet, silver, and gold, were heaped together in brilliant and
bewildering confusion of beautiful colours.  Lady Foljambe, Mrs
Margaret, Marabel, and Agatha, were all looking on.

"What price is that by the yard?" inquired Lady Foljambe, touching a
piece of superb Cyprus baldekin, striped white, and crimson.  Baldekin
was an exceedingly rich silk, originally made at Constantinople: it was
now manufactured in England also, but the "oversea" article was the more
valuable, the baldekin of Cyprus holding first rank.  Baldachino is
derived from this word.

"Dame," answered the mercer, "that is a Cyprus baldekin; it is eight
pound the piece of three ells."

Lady Foljambe resigned the costly beauty with a sigh.

"And this?" she asked, indicating a piece of soft blue.

"That is an oversea cloth, Dame, yet not principal [of first-class
quality]--it is priced five pound the piece."

Lady Foljambe's gesture intimated that this was too much for her purse.
"Hast any gold cloths of tissue, not over three pound the piece?"

"That have I, Dame," answered the mercer, displaying a pretty pale
green, a dark red, and one of the favourite yellowish-brown shade known
as tawny.

Lady Foljambe looked discontented; the beautiful baldekins first seen
had eclipsed the modest attractions of their less showy associates.

"Nay, I pass not [do not care] for those," said she.  "Show me velvet."

The mercer answered by dexterously draping an unoccupied form, first
with a piece of rich purple, then one of tawny, then one of deep
crimson, and lastly a bright blue.

"And what price be they?"

He touched each as he recounted the prices, beginning with the purple.

"Fifteen shillings the ell, Dame; a mark [13 shillings 4 pence];
fourteen shillings; half a mark.  I have also a fair green at half
a mark, a peach blossom at fourteen shillings, a grey at
seven-and-sixpence, and a murrey [mulberry colour] at a mark."

Lady Foljambe slightly shrugged her shoulders.

"Say a noble [6 shillings 8 pence] for the grey, and set it aside," she
said.

"Dame, I could not," replied the mercer, firmly though respectfully.
"My goods be honest matter; they be such as they are set forth, and they
have paid the King's dues."

Like many other people, Lady Foljambe would have preferred smuggled
goods, if they were cheaper than the honest article.  Her conscience was
very elastic about taxes.  It was no great wonder that this spirit
prevailed in days when the Crown could ruthlessly squeeze its subjects
whenever it wanted extra money, as Henry the Third had done a hundred
years before; and though his successors had not imitated his example,
the memory of it remained as a horror and a suspicion.  Dishonest
people, whether they are kings or coal-heavers, always make a place more
difficult to fill for those who come after them.

"Well! then set aside the blue," said Lady Foljambe, with a slight pout.
"Margaret, what lackest thou?"

Mrs Margaret looked wistfully at the fourteen-shilling crimson, and
then manfully chose the six-and-eightpenny green.

"Now let us see thy samitelles," said her Ladyship.

Samitelle, as its name implies, was doubtless a commoner quality of the
rich and precious samite, which ranked in costliness and beauty with
baldekin and cloth of gold, and above satin and velvet.  Samite was a
silk material, of which no more is known than that it was very
expensive, and had a glossy sheen, like satin.  Some antiquaries have
supposed it to be an old name for satin; but as several Wardrobe Rolls
contain entries relating to both in immediate sequence, this supposition
is untenable.

The mercer exhibited three pieces of samitelle.

"Perse, Dame, four marks the piece," said he, holding up a very pale
blue; "ash-colour, thirty shillings; apple-bloom, forty shillings."

"No," said Lady Foljambe; "I would have white."

"Forty-five shillings the piece, Dame."

"Hast no cheaper?"

"Not in white, Dame."

"Well! lay it aside; likewise three ells of the red.  I would have
moreover a cendall of bean-flower colour, and a piece or twain of say--
murrey or sop-in-wine."

Cendall was a very fine, thin silk fit for summer wear, resembling what
is now called foulard; say was the coarsest and cheapest sort of silk,
and was used for upholstery as well as clothing.

"I have a full fair bean-flower cendall, Dame, one shilling the ell; and
a good sop-in-wine say at twopence."

The mercer, as he spoke, held up the piece of say, of a nondescript
colour, not unlike what is now termed crushed strawberry.

"That shall serve for the chamberers," said Lady Foljambe; "but the
cendall is for myself; I would have it good."

"Dame, it is principal; you shall not see better."

"Good.  Measure me off six ells of the cendall, and nine of the say.
Then lay by each piece skeins of thread of silk, an ounce to the piece,
each to his colour; two ounces of violet, and two of gold twist.  Enough
for this morrow."

The mercer bowed, with deft quickness executed the order, and proceeded
to pack up the remainder of his goods.  When the forms were denuded of
their rich coverings, he retired into the corner, and the jeweller came
forward.

The little jeweller was less dignified, but more lively and loquacious,
than his companion the mercer.  He unstrapped his pack, laid it open at
the feet of Lady Foljambe, and executed a prolonged flourish of two
plump brown hands.

"What may I lay before your Ladyship?  Buttons and buttoners of de best,
paternosters of de finest, gold and silver collars, chains, crucifixes
garnished of stones and pearls; crespines, girdles of every fashion,
ouches, rings, tablets [tablets were of two sorts, reliquaries and
memorandum-books], charms, gipsers, and forcers [satchels to hang from
the waist, and small boxes], combs, spoons, caskets, collars for de
leetle dogs, bells, points [tagged laces, then much used], alners
[alms-bags, larger than purses], purses, knives, scissors, cups--what
asks your Ladyship?  Behold dem all."

"Dost call thyself a jeweller?" asked Lady Foljambe, with a laugh.
"Why, thou art jeweller, silversmith, girdler, forcer-maker, and
cutler."

"Dame, I am all men to please my customers," answered the little
jeweller, obsequiously.  "Will your Ladyship look?  Ah, de beautiful
tings!"

"Art thou Englishman?"

"Ah! no, Madame, I am a Breton.  I come from Hennebon."

A sudden flash of suspicious uneasiness lighted up the eyes of the
Countess of Montfort's gaoler.  Yet had the man meant mischief, he would
scarcely have been so communicative.  However that might be, Lady
Foljambe determined to get him out of the house as quickly as possible.

"I lack but little of thy sort," she said.  "Howbeit, thou mayest show
us thine alners and thy buttons."

"I would fain have a gipser," said Mrs Margaret.

While Mrs Margaret was selecting from the stock of gipsers a pretty red
velvet one with a silver clasp, price half-a-crown, Perrote came quietly
into the hall, and stood beside Amphillis, a little behind Lady
Foljambe, who had not heard her entrance.

"Here are de alners, Madame," said the lively little Breton.  "Blue,
green, black, white, red, tawny, violet.  Will your Ladyship choose?
T'ree shillings to free marks--beautiful, beautiful!  Den here are--_Bon
saints, que vois-je_?  Surely, surely it is Mademoiselle de Carhaix!"

"It is," said Perrote; "and thou art Ivo filz Jehan?"

"I am Ivo filz Jehan, dat man calls Ivo le Breton.  I go from Cornwall,
where dwell my countrymen, right up to de Scottish border.  And how
comes it, den, if a poor man may ask, dat I find here, in de heart of
England, a Breton damsel of family?"

Lady Foljambe was in an agony.  She would have given her best gold chain
for the little Breton jeweller to have kept away from Hazelwood.  If he
had any sort of penetration, another minute might reveal the secret
hitherto so jealously guarded, that his Sovereign's missing mother was a
prisoner there.  Her misery was the greater because she could not feel
at all sure of Perrote, whom she strongly suspected of more loyalty to
her mistress than to King Edward in her heart, though she had not shown
it by any outward action.  Perrote knew the direction of Lady Foljambe's
thoughts as well as if she had spoken them.  She answered very calmly,
and with a smile.

"May Breton damsels not tarry in strange lands, as well as Breton
pedlars?  I have divers friends in England."

"Surely, surely!" said the pedlar, hastily, perceiving that he had
transgressed against Lady Foljambe's pleasure.  "Only, if so poor man
may say it, it is full pleasant to see face dat man know in strange
land.  Madame, would it please your Ladyship to regard de alners?"

Lady Foljambe was only too glad to turn Ivo's attention back to the
alners.  She bought six for presents--they were a favourite form of
gift; and picked out twenty buttons of silver-gilt, stamped with an
eagle.  Mrs Margaret also selected a rosary, of coral set in silver, to
help her in saying her prayers, for which article, in her eyes of the
first necessity, she gave 33 shillings 4 pence, and for a minute
enamelled image of the Virgin and Child, in a little tabernacle or case
of silver filagree, of Italian work, she paid five pounds.  This was to
be set before her on the table and prayed to.  Mrs Margaret would not
have put it quite in that plain form of words, for no idolater will ever
admit that he addresses the piece of wood or stone; but it was what she
really did without admitting it.  Alas for the worshipper whose god has
to be carried about, and requires dusting like any other ornament!
"They that make them are like unto them; so is every one that trusteth
in them."

Perrote bought an ivory comb of Ivo, which cost her three shillings, for
old acquaintance sake; Marabel purchased six silver buttons in the form
of a lamb, for which she paid 8 shillings 9 pence; Agatha invested four
shillings in a chaplet of pearls; while Amphillis, whose purse was very
low, and had never been otherwise, contented herself with a sixpenny
casket.  Ivo, however, was well satisfied, and packed up his goods with
a radiant face.

When the two itinerant tradesmen had shouldered their packs, and had
gone forth, Lady Foljambe hastily summoned her husband's squire.  She
was not sufficiently high in dignity to have a squire of her own.

"Prithee, keep watch of yon little jeweller packman," said she,
uneasily.  "Mark whither he goeth, and see that he hold no discourse
with any of the household, without it be to trade withal.  I desire to
know him clear of the vicinage ere the dark falleth."

Norman Hylton bowed in answer, and went out.

He found the two packmen in the courtyard, the centre of an admiring
throng of servants and retainers, all of whom were anxious to inspect
their goods, some from a desire to make such purchases as they could
afford, and all from that longing to relieve the monotony of life which
besets man in general, and must have been especially tempting in the
Middle Ages.  A travelling pedlar was the substitute for an illustrated
newspaper, his pack supplying the engravings, and his tongue the text.
These men and pilgrims were the chief newsmongers of the day.

Ivo dangled a pair of blue glass ear-rings before the enchanted eyes of
Kate the chambermaid.

"You shall have dem dirt sheap!  Treepence de pair--dat is all.  Vat
lack you, my young maids?  Here is mirrors and combs, scissors and
knives, necklaces, beads and girdles, purses of Rouen, forcers and
gipsers--all manner you can wish.  Relics I have, if you desire dem--a
little finger-bone of Saint George, and a tooth of de dragon dat he
slew; a t'read of de veil of Saint Agat'a, and de paring of Saint
Matthew's nails.  Here is brooches, crespines, charms, spectacles,
alners, balls, puppets, coffers, bells, baskets for de maids'
needlework, pins, needles, ear-rings, shoe-buckles, buttons--everyting!
And here--here is my beautifullest ting--my chiefest relic, in de leetle
silver box--see!"

"Nay, what is it, trow?" inquired Kate, who looked with deep interest
through the interstices of the filagree, and saw nothing but a few
inches of coarse linen thread.

"Oh, it is de blessed relic!  Look you, our Lady made shirt for Saint
Joseph, and she cut off de t'read, and it fall on de floor, and dere it
lie till Saint Petronilla come by, and she pick it up and put it in her
bosom.  It is all writ down inside.  De holy Fader give it my moder's
grandmoder's aunt, when she go to Rome.  It is wort' tousands of
pounds--de t'read dat our blessed Lady draw t'rough her fingers.  You
should have no maladies never, if you wear dat."

"Ay, but such things as that be alonely for folk as can pay for 'em, I
reckon," said Kate, looking wistfully, first at the blue ear-rings, and
then at the blessed relic.

Ivo made a screen of his hand, and spoke into Kate's ear.

"See you, now!  You buy dem, and I trow him you into de bargain!  Said I
well, fair maid?"

"What, all for threepence?" gasped the bewitched Kate.

"All for t'ree-pence.  De blessed relic and de beautiful ear-rings!  It
is dirt sheap.  I would not say it to nobody else, only my friends.  See
you?"

Kate looked in his face to see if he meant it, and then slowly drew out
her purse.  The warmth of Ivo's friendship, ten minutes old at the most,
rather staggered her.  But the ear-rings had taken her fancy, and she
was also, though less, desirous to possess the holy relic.  She poured
out into the palm of her hand various pence, halfpence, and farthings,
and began endeavouring to reckon up the threepence; a difficult task for
a girl utterly ignorant of figures.

"You leave me count it," suggested the little packman.  "I will not
cheat you--no, no!  How could I, wid de blessed relic in mine hand?
One, two, free.  Dere!  I put in de rings in your ears? ah, dey make you
look beautiful, beautiful!  De widow lady, I see her not when I have my
pack in hall.  She is well?"

"What widow lady, trow?" said Kate, feeling the first ear-ring glide
softly into her ear.

"Ah, I have afore been here.  I see a widow lady at de window.  Why come
she not to hall?--Oh, how fair you shall be! you shall every eye
charm!--She is here no more--yes?"

"Well, ay--there is a widow lady dwelleth here," said Kate, offering the
other ear to her beguiler, just as Norman Hylton came up to them; "but
she is a prisoner, and--hush! haste you, now, or I must run without
them."

"Dat shall you not," said Ivo, quickly slipping the second ear-ring into
its place.  "Ah, how lovesome should you be, under dat bush by the gate,
that hath de yellow flowers, when de sun was setting, and all golden
behind you!  Keep well de holy relic; it shall bring you good."

And with a significant look, and a glance upwards at the house, Ivo
shouldered his pack, and turned away.

The mercer had not seemed anxious to do business with the household.
Perhaps he felt that his wares were scarcely within their means.  He sat
quietly in the gateway until the jeweller had finished his chaffering,
when he rose and walked out beside him.  The two packs were carefully
strapped on the waiting mules, which were held by the lad, and the party
marched down the slope from the gateway.

"What bought you with your holy relic and your ear-rings, Ivo?" asked
the mercer, with a rather satirical glance at his companion, when they
were well out of hearing.  "Aught that was worth them?"

"I bought the news that our Lady abideth hither," was the grave reply;
"and it was cheap, at the cost of a scrap of tin and another of glass,
and an inch or twain of thread out of your pack.  If yon maid have but
wit to be under the shrub by the gate at sunset, I shall win more of
her.  But she's but a poor brain, or I err.  Howbeit, I've had my
ear-rings' worth.  They cost but a halfpenny.  Can you see aught from
here?  Your eyes be sharper than mine."

"I see somewhat white at yonder window.  But, Ivo, were you wise to tell
the lady you came from Hennebon?"

"I was, Sir Roland.  She will suspect me now, instead of you; and if, as
I guess, she send a spy after us, when we part company he will follow
me, and you shall be quit of him."

The mercer glanced back, as though to see if any one were following.

"Well, perchance you say well," he answered.  "There is none behind,
methinks.  So now to rejoin Father Eloy."

Norman Hylton had not followed the packmen beyond the gate.  He did not
like the business, and was glad to be rid of it.  He only kept watch of
them till they disappeared up the hill, and then returned to tell Lady
Foljambe the direction which they had taken.

Kate's mind was considerably exercised.  As Ivo had remarked, her wits
were by no means of the first quality, but her conceit and love of
admiration far outstripped them.  The little jeweller had seen this, and
had guessed that she would best answer his purpose of the younger
members of the household.  Quiet, sensible Joan, the upper chambermaid,
would not have suited him at all; neither would sturdy, straightforward
Meg, the cook-maid; but Kate's vanity and indiscretion were both so
patent that he fixed on her at once as his chosen accomplice.  His only
doubt was whether she had sense enough to understand his hint about
being under the bush at sunset.  Ivo provided himself with a showy
brooch of red glass set in gilt copper, which Kate was intended to
accept as gold and rubies; and leaving his pack under the care of his
fellow conspirator--for Ivo was really the pedlar which Roland was not--
he slipped back to Hazelwood, and shortly before the sun set was
prowling about in the neighbourhood of the bush which stood just outside
the gate of Hazelwood Manor.  Before he had been there many minutes, a
light, tripping footstep was heard; and poor, foolish Kate, with the
blue drops in her ears, came like a giddy fly into the web of Ivo the
spider.



CHAPTER NINE.

MISCHIEF.

  "I've nothing to do with better and worse--I haven't to judge for the
  rest:
  If other men are not better than I am, they are bad enough at the
  best."

When Ivo thought proper to see Kate approaching, he turned with an
exclamation of hyperbolical admiration.  He knew perfectly the type of
woman with whom he had to deal.  "Ah, it is den you, fair maid?  You be
fair widout dem, but much fairer wid de ear-rings, I you assure.  Ah, if
you had but a comely ouche at your t'roat, just dere,"--and Ivo laid a
fat brown finger at the base of his own--"your beauty would be perfect--
perfect!"

"Lack-a-day, I would I had!" responded silly Kate; "but ouches and such
be not for the likes of me."

"How?  Say no such a ting!  I know of one jewel, a ruby of de best, and
de setting of pure gold, fit for a queen, dat might be had by de maid
who would give herself one leetle pain to tell me only one leetle ting,
dat should harm none; but you care not, I dare say, to trouble you-self
so much."

And Ivo thrust his hands in his pockets, and began to whistle softly.

"Nay, now; do you?" said the bewitched fly, getting a little deeper into
the web.  "Good Master Packman, do of your grace tell me how a maid
should earn that jewel?"

Ivo drew the brooch half out of his breast, so as just to allow Kate the
least glance at it possible.

"Is that the jewel?" she asked, eagerly.  "Eh, but it shineth well-nigh
to match the sun himself!  Come, now; what should I tell you?  I'll do
aught to win it."

Ivo came close to her, and spoke into her ear.

"Show me which is the prisoner's window."

"Well, it's yon oriel, on the inner side of--Eh, but I marvel if I do
ill to tell you!"

"Tell me noting at all dat you count ill," was the pious answer of Ivo,
who had got to know all he needed except one item.  "You can tarry a
little longer? or you are very busy?  Sir Godfrey is away, is it not?"

"Nay, he's at home, but he'll be hence next week.  He's to tilt at the
tournament at Leicester."

"Ah! dat will be grand sight, all de knights and de ladies.  But I am
sure--sure--dere shall not be one so fair as you, sweet maid.  Look you,
I pin de jewel at your neck.  It is wort von hundred pound, I do ensure
you."

"Eh, to think of it!" cried enchanted Kate.

"And I would not part wid it but to my friend, and a maid so fair and
delightsome.  See you, how it shine!  It shine better as de sun when it
do catch him.  You sleep in de prisoner's chamber?--yes?"

"Nay, I'm but a sub-chambermaid, look you--not even an upper.  Mistress
Perrote, she sleeps in the pallet whenas any doth; but methinks her
Ladyship lieth alone at this present.  Howbeit, none never seeth her
save Mistress Perrote and Mistress Amphillis, and my Lady and Sir
Godfrey, of course, when they have need.  I've ne'er beheld her myself,
only standing behind the casement, as she oft loveth to do.  My Lady
hath a key to her chamber door, and Mistress Perrote the like; and none
save these never entereth."

Ivo drank in all the information which Kate imparted, while he only
seemed to be carelessly trimming a switch which he had pulled from a
willow close at hand.

"They be careful of her, it should seem," he said.

"You may say that.  They're mortal feared of any man so much as seeing
her.  Well, I reckon I should go now.  I'm sure I'm right full indebted
to you, Master Packman, for this jewel: only I don't feel as if I have
paid you for it."

"You have me paid twice its value, to suffer me look on your beautiful
face!" was the gallant answer, with a low bow.  "But one more word, and
I go, fair maid, and de sun go from me wid you.  De porter, he is what
of a man?--and has he any dog?"

"Oh ay, that he hath; but I can peace the big dog well enough, an' I did
but know when it should be.  Well, as for the manner of man, he's
pleasant enough where he takes, look you; but if he reckons you're after
aught ill, you'll not come round him in no wise."

"Ah, he is wise man.  I see.  Well, my fairest of maidens, you shall, if
it please you, keep de big dog looking de oder way at nine o'clock of de
even, de night Sir Godfrey goes; and de Lady Princess have not so fair a
crespine for her hair as you shall win, so to do.  Dat is Monday night,
trow?"

"Nay, 'tis Tuesday.  Well, I'll see; I'll do what I can."

"Fair maid, if I t'ought it possible, I would say, de saints make you
beautifuller!  But no; it is not possible.  So I say, de saints make you
happier, and send you all dat you most desire!  Good-night."

"Good even, Master Packman, and good befall you.  You'll not forget that
crespine?"

"Forget?  Impossible!  Absolute impossible!  I bear your remembrance on
mine heart all de days of my life.  I adore you!  Farewell."

When Meg, the next minute, joined Kate under the tree, there was no more
sign of Ivo than if he had been the airy creature of a dream.

The little pedlar had escaped dexterously, and only just in time.  He
hid for a moment beneath the shade of a friendly shrub, and, as soon as
he saw Meg's back turned, ran downwards into the Derby road as lithely
as a cat, and took the way to that city, where he recounted to his
companions, when other people were supposed to be asleep, the
arrangement he had made to free the Countess.

"Thou art sore lacking in discretion, my son," said Father Eloy, whose
normal condition was that of a private confessor in Bretagne, and whose
temporary disguise was that of a horse-dealer.  "Such a maid as thou
describest is as certain to want and have a confidant as she is to wear
that trumpery.  Thou wilt find--or, rather, we shall find--the whole
house up and alert, and fully aware of our intention."

Ivo's shoulders were shrugged very decidedly.

"_Ha, chetife_!" cried he; "she will want the crespine."

"Not so much as she will want to impart her secret," answered the
priest.  "Who whispered to the earth, `Midas has long ears'?"

"It will not matter much to Ivo, so he be not taken," said the knight.
"Nor, in a sense, to you, Father, as your frock protects you.  I shall
come off the worst."

"You'll come off well enough," responded Ivo.  "You made an excellent
mercer this morrow.  You only need go on chaffering till you have sold
all your satins, and by that time you will have your pockets well lined;
and if you choose your route wisely, you will be near the sea."

"Well and good! if we are not all by that time eating dry bread at the
expense of our worthy friend Sir Godfrey."

"Mind _you_ are not, Sir Roland," said Ivo.  "Every man for himself.  I
always fall on my feet like a cat, and have nine lives."

"Nine lives come to an end some day," replied Sir Roland, grimly.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

"On what art thou a-thinking thus busily, Phyllis?"

"Your pardon, Mistress Perrote; I was thinking of you."

"Not hard to guess, when I saw thine eyes look divers times my ways.
What anentis me, my maid?"

"I cry you mercy, Mistress Perrote; for you should very like say that
whereon I thought was none of my business.  Yet man's thoughts will not
alway be ruled.  I did somewhat marvel, under your pleasure, at your
answer to yon pedlar that asked how you came to be hither."

"Wherefore? that I told him no more?"

"Ay; and likewise--"

"Make an end, my maid."

"Mistress, again I cry you mercy; but it seemed me as though, while you
sore pitied our Lady, you had no list to help her forth of her trouble,
an' it might be compassed.  And I conceived [Note 1] it not."

"It could not be compassed, Phyllis; and granting it so should, to what
good purpose?  Set in case that she came forth this morrow, a free
woman--whither is she to wend, and what to do?  To her son?  He will
have none of her.  To her daughter?  Man saith she hath scantly more
freedom than her mother in truth, being ruled of an ill husband that
giveth her no leave to work.  To King Edward?  It should but set him in
the briars with divers other princes, the King of France and the Duke of
Bretagne more in especial.  To my Lady Princess?  Verily, she is good
woman, yet is she mother of my Lady Duchess; and though I cast no doubt
she should essay to judge the matter righteously, yet 'tis but like that
she should lean to her own child, which doubtless seeth through her
lord's eyes; and it should set her in the briars no less than King
Edward.  Whither, then, is she to go for whom there is no room on middle
earth [Note 2], and whose company all men avoid?  Nay, my maid, for the
Lady Marguerite there is no home save Heaven; and there is none to be
glad of her company save Him that was yet more lonely than she, and
whose foes, like hers, were they of His own house."

"'Tis sore pitiful!" said Amphillis, looking up with the tears in her
eyes.

"`Pitiful'! ay, never was sadder case sithence that saddest of all in
the Garden of Gethsemane.  Would God she would seek Him, and accept of
His pity!"

"Surely, our Lady is Christian woman!" responded Amphillis, in a rather
astonished tone.

"What signifiest thereby?"

"Why she that doth right heartily believe Christ our Lord to have been
born and died, and risen again, and so forth."

"What good should that do her?"

Amphillis stared, without answering.

"If that belief were very heartfelt, it should be life and comfort; but
meseemeth thy manner of belief is not heartfelt, but headful.  To
believe that a man lived and died, Phyllis, is not to accept his help,
and to affy thee in his trustworthiness.  Did it ever any good and
pleasure to thee to believe that one Julius Caesar lived over a thousand
years ago?"

"No, verily; but--" Amphillis did not like to say what she was thinking,
that no appropriation of good, nor sensation of pleasure, had ever yet
mingled with that belief in the facts concerning Jesus Christ on which
she vaguely relied for salvation.  She thought a moment, and then spoke
out.  "Mistress, did you mean there was some other fashion of believing
than to think certainly that our Lord did live and die?"

"Set in case, Phyllis, that thou shouldst hear man to say, `I believe in
Master Godfrey, but not in Master Matthew,' what shouldst reckon him to
signify?  Think on it."

"I suppose," said Amphillis, after a moment's pause for consideration,
"I should account him to mean that he held Master Godfrey for a true
man, in whom man might safely affy him; but that he felt not thus sure
of Master Matthew."

"Thou wouldst not reckon, then, that he counted Master Matthew as a
fabled man that was not alive?"

"Nay, surely!" said Amphillis, laughing.

"Then seest not for thyself that there is a manner of belief far beside
and beyond the mere reckoning that man liveth?  Phyllis, dost thou trust
Christ our Lord?"

"For what, Mistress?  That He shall make me safe at last, if I do my
duty, and pay my dues to the Church, and shrive me [confess sins to a
priest] metely oft, and so forth?  Ay, I reckon I do," said Amphillis,
in a tone which sounded rather as if she meant "I don't."

"Hast alway done thy duty, Amphillis?"

"Alack, no, Mistress.  Yet meseemeth there be worser folks than I.  I am
alway regular at shrift."

"The which shrift thou shouldst little need, if thou hadst never failed
in duty.  But how shall our Lord make thee safe?"

"Why, forgive me my sins," replied Amphillis, looking puzzled.

"That saith what He shall do, not how He shall do it.  Thy sins are a
debt to God's law and righteousness.  Canst thou pay a debt without
cost?"

"But forgiveness costs nought."

"Doth it so?  I think scarce anything costs more.  Hast ever meditated,
Amphillis, what it cost God to forgive sin?"

"I thought it cost Him nothing at all."

"Child, it could only be done in one of two ways, at the cost of His
very self.  Either He should forgive sin without propitiation--which
were to cost His righteousness and truth and honour.  Could that be?  In
no wise.  Then it must be at the cost of His own bearing the penalty due
unto the sinner.  Thy sins, Amphillis, thine every failure in duty,
thine every foolish thought or wrongful word, cost the Father His own
Son out of His bosom, cost the Son a human life of agony and a death of
uttermost terribleness.  Didst thou believe that?"

A long look of mingled amazement and horror preceded the reply.
"Mistress Perrote, I never thought of no such thing!  I thought--I
thought," said Amphillis, struggling for the right words to make her
meaning clear, "I thought our Lord was to judge us for our sins, and our
blessed Lady did plead with Him to have mercy on us, and we must do the
best we could, and pray her to pray for us.  But the fashion you so put
it seemeth--it seemeth certain, as though the matter were settled and
done with, and should not be fordone [revoked].  Is it thus?"

If Perrote de Carhaix had not been gifted with the unction from the Holy
One, she would have made a terrible mistake at that juncture.  All that
she had been taught by man inclined her to say "no" to the question.
But "there are a few of us whom God whispers in the ear," and those who
hear those whispers often go utterly contrary to man's teaching, being
bound only by God's word.  So bound they must be.  If they speak not
according to that word, it is because there is no light in them--only an
_ignis fatuus_ which leads the traveller into quagmires.  But they are
often free from all other bonds.  Perrote could not have told what made
her answer that question in the way she did.  It was as if a soft hand
were laid upon her lips, preventing her from entering into any doctrinal
disputations, and insisting on her keeping the question down to the
personal level.  She said--or that inward monitor said through her--

"Is it settled for thee, Amphillis?"

"Mistress, I don't know!  Can I have it settled?"

"`He that believeth on the Son hath everlasting life.'  `I give unto
them eternal life.'"  [John three verse 36; ten, verse 28.]  Perrote
said no more.

"Then, if I go and ask at Him--?"

"`My Lord God, I cried unto Thee, and Thou madest me whole.'  `All ye
that hope in the Lord, do manly, and your heart shall be comforted.'"
[Psalm thirty, verse 3; thirty-one, verse 25; Hereford and Purvey's
version.]

Once more it was as by a heavenly instinct that Perrote answered in
God's words rather than in her own.  Amphillis drew a long breath.  The
light was rising on her.  She could not have put her convictions into
words; and it was quite as well, for had she done so, men might have
persuaded her out of them.  But the one conviction "borne in upon her"
was--God, and not man; God's word, not men's words; God the Saviour of
men, not man the saviour of himself; God the Giver of His Son for the
salvation of men, not men the offerers of something to God for their own
salvation.  And when man or woman reaches that point, that he sees in
all the universe only himself and God, the two points are not likely to
remain long apart.  When the one is need longing for love, and the Other
is love seeking for need, what can they do but come close together?

Sir Godfrey set forth for his tournament in magnificent style, and Lady
Foljambe and Mistress Margaret with him.  Young Godfrey was already
gone.  The old knight rode a fine charger, and was preceded by his
standard-bearer, carrying a pennon of bright blue, whereon were
embroidered his master's arms--sable, a bend or, between six scallops of
the second.  The ladies journeyed together in a quirle, and were
provided with rich robes and all their jewellery.  The house and the
prisoner were left in the hands of Matthew, Father Jordan, and Perrote.
Norman Hylton accompanied his master.

Lady Foljambe's mind had grown tolerably easy on the subject of Ivo, and
she only gave Perrote a long lecture, warning her, among other things,
never to leave the door unlocked nor the prisoner alone.  Either Perrote
or Amphillis must sleep in the pallet bed in her chamber during the
whole time of Lady Foljambe's absence, so that she should never be left
unguarded for a single moment.  Matthew received another harangue, to
which he paid little attention in reality, though in outward seeming he
received it with due deference.  Father Jordan languidly washed his
hands with invisible soap, and assured his patrons that no harm could
possibly come to the prisoner through their absence.

The Tuesday evening was near its close.  The sun had just sunk behind
the western hills; the day had been bright and beautiful in the extreme.
Amphillis was going slowly upstairs to her turret, carrying her little
work-basket, which was covered with brown velvet and adorned with silver
cord, when she saw Kate standing in the window of the landing, as if she
were waiting for something or some person.  It struck Amphillis that
Kate looked unhappy.

"Kate, what aileth thee?" she asked, pausing ere ere she mounted the
last steps.  "Dost await here for man to pass?"

"Nay, Mistress--leastwise--O Mistress Amphillis, I wis not what to do!"

"Anentis what, my maid?"

"Nay, I'd fain tell you, but--Lack-a-day, I'm all in a tumblement!"

"What manner of tumblement?" asked Amphillis, sitting down in the
window-seat.  "Hast brake some pottery, Kate, or torn somewhat, that
thou fearest thy dame's anger?"

"Nay, I've brake nought saving my word; and I've not done that _yet_."

"It were evil to break thy word, Kate."

"Were it so?"  Kate looked up eagerly.

"Surely, without thou hadst passed word to do somewhat thou shouldst
not."

Kate's face fell.  She had thought she saw a way out of her difficulty;
and it was closing round her again.

"It's none so easy to tell what man shouldn't," she said, in a troubled
tone.

"What hast thou done, Kate?"

"Nay, I've done nought yet.  I've only passed word to do."

"To do what?"

Before Kate could answer, Agatha whisked into the corner.

"Thank goodness they're all gone, the whole lot of them!  Won't we have
some fun now!  Kate, run down stairs, and bring me up a cork; and I want
a long white sheet and a mop.  Now haste thee, do! for I would fain
cause Father Jordan to skrike out at me, and I have scarce time to get
my work done ere the old drone shall come buzzing up this gait.  Be
sharp, maid! and I'll do thee a good turn next time."

And Agatha fairly pushed Kate down the stairs, allowing her neither
excuse nor delay--a piece of undignified conduct which would bitterly
have scandalised Lady Foljambe, could she have seen it.  By the time
that Kate returned with the articles prescribed, Agatha had possessed
herself of a lighted candle, wherein she burnt the end of the cork, and
with it proceeded to delineate, in the middle of the sheet, a very
clever sketch of a ferocious Turk, with moustaches of stupendous length.
Then elevating the long mop till it reached about a yard above her
head, she instructed Kate to arrange the sheet thereon in such a manner
that the Turk's face showed close to the top of the mop, and gave the
idea of a giant about eight feet in height.

"Now then--quick!  I hear the old bumble-bee down alow yonder.  Keep as
still as mice, and stir not, nor laugh for your lives!"

Kate appeared to have quite forgotten her trouble, and entered into
Agatha's mischievous fun with all the thoughtless glee of a child.

"Agatha," said Amphillis, "my Lady Foljambe should be heavy angered if
she wist thy dealing.  Prithee, work not thus.  If Father Jordan verily
believed thou wert a ghost, it were well-nigh enough to kill him, poor
sely old man.  And he hath ill deserved such treatment at thine hands."

In the present day we should never expect an adult clergyman to fall
into so patent a trap; but in the Middle Ages even learned men were
credulous to an extent which we can scarcely imagine.  Priests were in
the habit of receiving friendly visits from pretended saints, and
meeting apparitions of so-called demons, apparently without the faintest
suspicion that the spirits in question might have bodies attached to
them, or that their imaginations might be at all responsible for the
vision.

"Thank all the Calendar she's away!" was Agatha's response.  "Thee hold
thy peace, and be not a spoil-sport.  I mean to tell him I'm a soul in
Purgatory, and none save a priest named Jordan can deliver me, and he
only by licking of three crosses in the dust afore our Lady's altar
every morrow for a month.  That shall hurt none of him! and it shall
cause me die o' laughter to see him do it.  Back! quick! here cometh he.
I would fain hear the old snail skrike out at me, `Avaunt, Sathanas!'
as he surely will."

Amphillis stepped back.  Her quicker ear had recognised that the step
beginning to ascend the stairs was not that of the old priest, and she
felt pretty sure whose it was--that healthy, sturdy, plain-spoken Meg,
the cook-maid, was the destined victim, and was likely to be little
injured, while there was a good chance of Agatha's receiving her
deserts.

Just as Meg reached the landing, a low groan issued from the uncanny
thing.  Agatha of course could not see; she only heard the steps, which
she still mistook for those of Father Jordan.  Meg stood calmly gazing
on the apparition.

"Will none deliver an unhappy soul in Purgatory?" demanded a hollow
moaning voice, followed by awful groans, such as Amphillis had not
supposed it possible for Agatha to produce.

"I rather reckon, my Saracen, thou'rt a soul out o' Purgatory with a
body tacked to thee," said Meg, in the coolest manner.  "Help thee?  Oh
ay, that I will, and bring thee back to middle earth out o' thy pains.
Come then!"

And Meg laid hands on the white sheet, and calmly began to pull it down.

"Oh, stay, Meg!  Thou shalt stifle me," said the Turk, in Agatha's
voice.

"Ay, I thought you'd somewhat to do wi' 't, my damsel; it were like you.
Have you driven anybody else out o' her seven senses beside me wi' yon
foolery?"

"You've kept in seventy senses," pouted Agatha, releasing herself from
the last corner of her ghostly drapery.  "Meg, you're a spoil-sport."

"My dame shall con you but poor thanks, Mistress Agatha, if you travail
folks o' this fashion while she tarrieth hence.  Mistress Amphillis,
too!  Marry, I thought--"

"I tarried here to lessen the mischief," said Amphillis.

"It wasn't thee I meant to fright," said Agatha, with a pout.  "I
thought Father Jordan was a-coming; it was he I wanted.  Never blame
Amphillis; she's nigh as bad as thou."

"Mistress Amphillis, I ask your pardon.  Mistress Agatha, you're a bad
un.  'Tis a burning shame to harry a good old man like Father Jordan.
Thee hie to thy bed, and do no more mischief, thou false hussy!  I'll
tell my dame of thy fine doings when she cometh home; I will, so!"

"Now, Meg, dear, sweet Meg, don't, and I'll--"

"You'll get you abed and 'bide quiet.  I'm neither dear nor sweet; I'm a
cook-maid, and you're a young damsel with a fortin, and you'd neither
`sweet' nor `dear' me without you were wanting somewhat of me.
Forsooth, they'll win a fortin that weds wi' the like of you!  Get abed,
thou magpie!"

And Meg was heard muttering to herself as she mounted the upper stairs
to the attic chamber, which she shared with Joan and Kate.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1.  Understood.  The word _understand_ was then restricted to an
original idea; _conceive_ was used in the sense of understanding another
person.

Note 2.  The term "middle earth" arose from the belief then held, that
the earth was in the midst of the universe, equidistant from Heaven
above it and from Hell beneath.



CHAPTER TEN.

NIGHT ALARMS.

  "Oh let me feel Thee near me,--
  The world is very near:
  I see the sights that dazzle,
  The tempting sounds I hear;
  My foes are ever near me,
  Around me and within;
  But, Jesus, draw Thou nearer,
  And save my soul from sin."

  John E. Bode.

"Phyllis, thou wilt lie in my Lady's pallet, tonight," said Perrote, as
she let her into their own chamber.  Amphillis looked rather alarmed.
She had never yet been appointed to that responsible office.  But it was
not her nature to protest against superior orders; and she quietly
gathered up such toilet articles as she required, and prepared to obey.

"You know your duty?" said Perrote, interrogatively.  "You first help
your Lady abed, and then hie abed yourself, in the dark, as silently and
hastefully as may be.  There is no more to do, without she call in the
night, till her _lever_, for which you must be ready, and have a care
not to arouse her till she wake and summon you, without the hour grow
exceeding late, when you may lawfully make some little bruit to wake her
after a gentle fashion.  Come now."

Amphillis followed Perrote into the Countess's room.

They found her standing by the window, as she often was at night, for
the sunset and the evening lights had a great attraction for her.  She
turned her head as they entered.

"At last, Perrote!" she said.  "In good sooth, but I began to think thou
hadst forgot me, like everybody else in earth and heaven."

"My Lady knows I shall never do that," was the quiet reply.  "Dame, my
Lady Foljambe entreats of your Ladyship leave that Amphillis here shall
lie in your pallet until she return."

"Doth she so?" answered the Countess, with a curt laugh.  "My Lady
Foljambe is vastly pleasant, trow.  Asking her caged bird's leave to set
another bird in the cage!  Well, little brown nightingale, what sayest?
Art feared lest the old eagle bite, or canst trust the hooked beak for a
week or twain?"

"Dame, an' it please you, I am in no wise feared of your Grace."

"Well said.  Not that thou shouldst make much difference.  Had I a mind
to fight for the door or the window, I could soon be quit of such a
white-faced chit as thou.  Ah me! to what end?  That time is by, for me.
Well! so they went off in grand array?  I saw them.  If Godfrey
Foljambe buy his wife a new quirle, and his daughter-in-law a new gown,
every time they cry for it, he shall be at the end of his purse ere my
cushion yonder be finished broidering.  Lack-a-day!  I would one of you
would make an end thereof.  I am aweary of the whole thing.  Green and
tawny and red--red and tawny and green; tent-stitch down here, and
satin-stitch up yonder.  And what good when done?  There's a
cushion-cover more in the world; that is all.  Would God--ah, would God,
from the bottom of mine heart, that there were but one weary woman
less!"

"My dear Lady!" said Perrote, sympathisingly.

"Ay, old woman, I know.  Thou wouldst fain ask, Whither should I go?  I
know little, verily, and care less.  Only let me lie down and sleep for
ever, and forget everything--I ask but so much.  I think God might let
me have that.  One has to wake ever, here, to another dreary day.  If
man might but sleep and not wake! or--ah, if man could blot out thirty
years, and I sit once more in my mail on my Feraunt at the gate of
Hennebon!  Dreams, dreams, all empty dreams!  Come, child, and lay by
this wimple.  'Tis man's duty to hie him abed now.  Let's do our duty.
'Tis all man has left to me--leave to do as I am bidden.  What was that
bruit I heard without, an half-hour gone?"

Amphillis, in answer, for Perrote was unable to speak, told the story of
Agatha's mischievous trick.  The Countess laughed.

"'Tis right the thing I should have done myself, as a young maid," said
she.  "Ay, I loved dearly to make lordly, sober folks look foolish.
Poor Father Jordan, howbeit, was scarce fit game for her crossbow.  If
she had brought Avena Foljambe down, I'd have given her a clap on the
back.  Now, maid, let us see how thou canst braid up this old white hair
for the pillow.  It was jet black once, and fell right to my feet.  I
little thought, then--I little thought!"

The _coucher_ accomplished, the Countess lay down in her bed; Perrote
took leave of her, and put out the light, admonishing Amphillis to be
quick.  Then she left the room, locking the door after her.

"There!" said the voice of the Countess through the darkness.  "Now then
we are prisoners, thou and I.  How doth it like thee?"

"It liketh me well, Dame, if so I may serve your Grace."

"Well said!  Thou shalt be meet for the Court ere long.  But, child,
thou hast not borne years of it, as I have: sixteen years with a hope of
release, and eight with none.  Tell me thy history: I have no list to
sleep, and it shall pass the time."

"If it may please your Grace, I reckon I have had none."

"Thou wert best thank the saints for that.  Yet I count 'tis scarce
thus.  Didst grow like a mushroom?"

"Truly, no, Dame," said Amphillis, with a little laugh.  "But I fear it
should ill repay your Grace to hear that I fed chickens and milked cows,
and baked patties of divers sorts."

"It should well repay me.  It were a change from blue silk and yellow
twist, and one endless view from the window.  Fare forth!"

Thus bidden, Amphillis told her story as she lay in the pallet,
uninterrupted save now and then by a laugh or a word of comment.  It was
not much of a story, as she had said; but she was glad if it amused the
royal prisoner, even for an hour.

"Good maid!" said her mistress, when she saw that the tale was finished.
"Now sleep thou, for I would not cut off a young maid from her rest.  I
can sleep belike, or lie awake, as it please the saints."

All was silence after that for half-an-hour.  Amphillis had just dropped
asleep, when she was roused again by a low sound, of what nature she
knew not at first.  Then she was suddenly conscious that the porter's
watch-dog, Colle, was keeping up a low, uneasy growl beneath the window,
and that somebody was trying to hush him.  Amphillis lay and listened,
wondering whether it were some further nonsense of Agatha's manufacture.
Then came the sound of angry words and hurrying feet, and a woman's
shrill scream.

"What ado is there?" asked the Countess.  "Draw back the curtain,
Phyllis, and see."

Amphillis sprang up, ran lightly with bare feet across the chamber, and
drew back the curtain.  The full harvest moon was shining into the inner
court, and she discerned eight black shadows, all mixed together in what
was evidently a struggle of some kind, the only one distinguishable
being that of Colle, who was as busy and excited as any of the group.
At length she saw one of the shadows get free from the others, and speed
rapidly to the wall, pursued by the dog, which, however, could not
prevent his escape over the wall.  The other shadows had a further short
scuffle, at the end of which two seemed to be driven into the outer yard
by the five, and Amphillis lost sight of them.  She told her mistress
what she saw.

"Some drunken brawl amongst the retainers, most like," said the
Countess.  "Come back to thy bed, maid; 'tis no concern of thine."

Amphillis obeyed, and silence fell upon the house.  The next thing of
which she was conscious was Perrote's entrance in the morning.

"What caused yon bruit in the night?" asked the Countess, as Amphillis
was dressing her hair.

"Dame," said Perrote, "it was an attack upon the house."

"An attack?"  The Countess turned suddenly round, drawing her hair out
of her tirewoman's hands.  "After what fashion? thieves? robbers? foes?
Come, tell me all about it."

"I scantly know, Dame, how far I may lightly tell," said Perrote,
uneasily.  "It were better to await Sir Godfrey's return, ere much be
said thereanentis."

The Countess fixed her keen black eyes on her old attendant.

"The which means," said she, "that the matter has too much ado with me
that I should be suffered to know the inwards thereof.  Perrote, was it
that man essayed once more to free me?  Thou mayest well tell me, for I
know it.  The angels whispered it to me as I lay in my bed."

"My dear Lady, it was thus.  Pray you, be not troubled: if so were,
should you be any better off than now?"

"Mary, Mother!"  With that wail of pain the Countess turned back to her
toilet.  "Who was it? and how?  Tell me what thou wist."

Perrote considered a moment, and then answered the questions.

"Your Grace hath mind of the two pedlars that came hither a few days
gone?"

"One of whom sold yon violet twist, the illest stuff that ever threaded
needle?  He had need be 'shamed of himself.  Ay: well?"

"Dame, he was no pedlar at all, but Sir Roland de Pencouet, a knight of
Bretagne."

"Ha! one of Oliver Clisson's following, or I err.  Ay?"

A look of intense interest had driven out the usual weary listlessness
in the black eyes.

"Which had thus disguised him in order to essay the freeing of your
Grace."

"I am at peace with him, then, for his caitiff twist.  Knights make ill
tradesmen, I doubt not.  Poor fool, to think he could do any such thing!
What befell him?"

"With him, Dame, were two other--Ivo filz Jehan, yon little Breton
jeweller that was used to trade at Hennebon; I know not if your Grace
have mind of him--"

"Ay, I remember him."

"And also a priest, named Father Eloy.  The priest won clean away over
the wall; only Mark saith that Colle hath a piece of his hose for a
remembrance.  Sir Roland and Ivo were taken, and be lodged in the
dungeon."

"Poor fools!" said the Countess again.  "O Perrote, Perrote, to be
free!"

"Dear my Lady, should it be better with you than now?"

"What wist thou?  To have the right to go right or left, as man would;
to pluck the flowerets by the roadside at will; to throw man upon the
grass, and breathe the free air; to speak with whom man would; to feel
the heaving of the salt sea under man's boat, and to hear the clash of
arms and see the chargers and the swords and the nodding plumes file out
of the postern--O Perrote, Perrote!"

"Mine own dear mistress, would I might compass it for you!"

"I know thou dost.  And thou canst not.  But wherefore doth not God
compass it?  Can He not do what He will?  Be wrong and cruelty and
injustice what He would?  Doth He hate me, that He leaveth me thus to
live and die like a rat in a hole?  And wherefore?  What have I done?  I
am no worser sinner than thousands of other men and women.  I never
stole, nor murdered, nor sware falsely; I was true woman to God and to
my lord, and true mother to the lad that they keep from me; ay, and true
friend to Lord Edward the King, that cares not a brass nail whether I
live or die--only that if I died he would be quit of a burden.  Holy
saints, but I would full willingly quit him of it!  God! when I ask Thee
for nought costlier than death, canst Thou not grant it to me?"

She looked like an inspired prophetess, that tall white-haired woman,
lifting her face up to the morning sun, as if addressing through it the
Eternal Light, and challenging the love and wisdom of His decrees.
Amphillis shrank back from her.  Perrote came a little nearer.

"God is wiser than His creatures," she said.

"Words, words, Perrote!  Only words.  And I have heard them all
aforetime, and many a time o'er.  If I could but come at Him, I'd see if
He could not tell me somewhat better."

"Ay," said Perrote, with a sigh; "if we could all but come at Him!  Dear
my Lady--"

"Cross thyself, old woman, and have done.  When I lack an homily
preacher, I'll send for a priest.  My wimple, Phyllis.  When comes Sir
Godfrey back?"

"Saturday shall be a week, Dame."

Sir Godfrey came back in a bad temper.  He had been overcome at the
tournament, which in itself was not pacifying; and he was extremely
angry to hear of the unsuccessful attempt to set his prisoner free.  He
scolded everybody impartially all round, but especially Matthew and
Father Jordan, the latter of whom was very little to blame, since he was
not only rather deaf, but he slept on the other side of the house, and
had never heard the noise at all.  Matthew growled that if he had calmly
marched the conspirators up to the prisoner's chamber, and delivered her
to them, his father could scarcely have treated him worse; whereas he
had safely secured two out of the three, and the prisoner had never been
in any danger.

Kate had been captured as well as the conspirators, and instead of
receiving the promised crespine, she was bitterly rueing her folly,
locked in a small turret room whose only furniture was a bundle of straw
and a rug, with the pleasing prospect of worse usage when her mistress
should return.  The morning after their arrival at home, Lady Foljambe
marched up to the turret, armed with a formidable cane, wherewith she
inflicted on poor Kate a sound discipline.  Pleading, sobs, and even
screams fell on her ears with as little impression as would have been
caused by the buzzing of a fly.  Having finished her proceeding, she
administered to the suffering culprit a short, sharp lecture, and then
locked her up again to think it over, with bread and water as the only
relief to meditation.

The King was expected to come North after Parliament rose--somewhere
about the following February; and Sir Godfrey wrathfully averred that he
should deal with the conspirators himself.  The length of time that a
prisoner was kept awaiting trial was a matter of supremely little
consequence in the Middle Ages.  His Majesty reached Derby, on his way
to York, in the early days of March, and slept for one night at
Hazelwood Manor, disposing of the prisoners the next morning, before he
resumed his journey.

Nobody at Hazelwood wished to live that week over again.  The King
brought a suite of fourteen gentlemen, beside his guard; and they all
had to be lodged somehow.  Perrote, Amphillis, Lady Foljambe, and Mrs
Margaret slept in the Countess's chamber.

"The more the merrier," said the prisoner, sarcastically.  "Prithee,
Avena, see that the King quit not this house without he hath a word with
me.  I have a truth or twain to tell him."

But the King declined the interview.  Perhaps it was on account of an
uneasy suspicion concerning that truth or twain which might be told him.
For fifty years Edward the Third swayed the sceptre of England, and his
rule, upon the whole, was just and gentle.  Two sore sins lie at his
door--the murder of his brother, in a sudden outburst of most righteous
indignation; and the long, dreary captivity of the prisoner of Tickhill
and Hazelwood, who had done nothing to deserve it.  Considering what a
mother he had, perhaps the cause for wonder is that in the main he did
so well, rather than that on some occasions he acted very wrongly.  The
frequent wars of this King were all foreign ones, and under his
government England was at rest.  That long, quiet reign was now drawing
near its close.  The King had not yet sunk into the sad state of senile
dementia, wherein he ended his life; but he was an infirm, tired old
man, bereft of his other self, his bright and loving wife, who had left
him and the world about four years earlier.  He exerted himself a little
at supper to make himself agreeable to the ladies, as was then held to
be the bounden duty of a good knight; but after supper he enjoyed a
peaceful slumber, with a handkerchief over his face to keep away the
flies.  The two prisoners were speedily disposed of, by being sent in
chains to the Duke of Bretagne, to be dealt with as he should think fit.
The King seemed rather amused than angered by Kate's share in the
matter: he had the terrified girl up before him, talked to her in a
fatherly fashion, and ended by giving her a crown-piece with his own
hand, and bidding her in the future be a good and loyal maid, and not
suffer herself to be beguiled by the wiles of evil men.  Poor Kate
sobbed, promised, and louted confusedly; and in due course of time, when
King Edward had been long in his grave, and Kate was a staid
grandmother, the crown-piece held the place of honour on her son's chest
of drawers as a prized family heirloom.

The next event of any note, a few weeks afterwards, was Marabel's
marriage.  In those days, young girls of good family, instead of being
sent to school, were placed with some married lady as bower-women or
chamberers, to be first educated and then married.  The mistress was
expected to make the one her care as much as the other; and it was not
considered any concern of the girl's except to obey.  The husband was
provided by the mistress, along with the wedding-dress and the
wedding-dinner; and the bride meekly accepted all three with becoming
thankfulness--or at least was expected to do so.

The new chamberer, who came in Marabel's place, was named Ricarda; the
girls were told this one evening at supper-time, and informed that she
would arrive on the morrow.  Her place at table was next below
Amphillis, who was greatly astonished to be asked, as she sat down to
supper--

"Well, Phyllis, what hast thou to say to me?"

Amphillis turned and gazed at the speaker.

"Well?" repeated the latter.  "Thou hast seen me before."

"Ricarda!  How ever chanceth it?"

The astonishment of Amphillis was intense.  The rules of etiquette at
that time were chains indeed; and the daughter of a tradesman was not in
a position to be bower-woman to a lady of title.  How had her cousin
come there?

"What sayest, then," asked Ricarda, with a triumphant smile, "to know
that my Lady Foljambe sent to covenant with me by reason that she was so
full fain of thee that she desired another of thy kin?"

"Is it soothly thus?" replied Amphillis, her surprise scarcely lessened
by hearing of such unusual conduct on the part of the precise Lady
Foljambe.  "Verily, but--And how do my good master mine uncle, and my
good cousin Alexandra?"

"Saundrina's wed, and so is my father.  And Saundrina leads Clement a
life, and Mistress Altham leads my father another.  I was none so sorry
to come away, I can tell thee.  I hate to be ruled like a ledger and
notched like a tally!"

"Thou shalt find things be well ruled in this house, Rica," said
Amphillis, thinking to herself that Ricarda and Agatha would make a
pair, and might give their mistress some trouble.  "But whom hath mine
uncle wed, that is thus unbuxom [disobedient] to him?"

"Why, Mistress Regina, the goldsmith's daughter, that counts herself
worth us all, and would fain be a queen in the patty-shop, and cut us
all out according to her will."

"But, Ricarda, I reckoned Mistress Regina a full good and wise woman."

"`Good and wise!'  She may soon be so.  I hate goodness and wisdom.
There's never a bit of jollity for her.  'Tis all `thou shalt not.'  She
might as well be the Ten Commandments and done with it."

"Wouldst thou fain not keep the Ten Commandments, Rica?"

"I'd fain have my own way, and be jolly.  Oh, she keeps the house well
enough.  Father saith he's tenfold more comfortable sithence her
coming."

"I thought thou saidst she led him an ill, diseaseful [Note 1] life?"

"Well, so did I.  Father didn't."

"Oh!" said Amphillis, in an enlightened tone.

"And she's a rare hand at the cooking, that will I say.  She might have
made patties all her life.  She catches up everything afore you can say
`Jack Robinson.'  She says it's by reason she's a Dutchwoman [Note 2].
Rubbish! as if a lot of nasty foreigners could do aught better, or half
as well, as English folks!"

"Be all foreigners nasty?" asked Amphillis, thinking of her mistress.

"Of course they be!  Phyllis, what's come o'er thee?"

"I knew not anything had."

"Lack-a-day! thou art tenfold as covenable and deliver [Note 3] as thou
wert wont to be.  Derbyshire hath brightened up thy wits."

Amphillis smiled.  Privately, she thought that if her wits were
brightened, it was mainly by being let alone and allowed to develop free
of perpetual repression.

"I have done nought to bring the same about, Ricarda.  But must I
conceive that Master Winkfield's diseaseful life, then, is in thine
eyes, or in his own?"

"He reckons himself the blissfullest man under the sun," said Ricarda,
as they rose from the table: "and he dare not say his soul is his own;
not for no price man should pay him."

Amphillis privately thought the bliss of a curious kind.

"Phyllis!" said her cousin, suddenly, "hast learned to hold thy tongue?"

"I count I am metely well learned therein, Rica."

"Well, mind thou, not for nothing of no sort to let on to my Lady that
Father is a patty-maker.  I were put forth of the door with no more ado,
should it come to her ear that I am not of gentle blood like thee."

"Ricarda!  Is my Lady, then, deceived thereon?"

"'Sh--'sh!  She thinks I am a Neville, and thy cousin of the father's
side.  Thee hold thy peace, and all shall be well."

"But, Rica! that were to tell a lie."

"Never a bit of it!  Man can't tell a lie by holding his peace."

"Nay, I am not so sure thereof as I would like.  This I know, he may
speak one by his life no lesser than his words."

"Amphillis, if thou blurt out this to my Lady, I'll hate thee for ever
and ever, Amen!" said Ricarda.

"I must meditate thereon," was her cousin's answer.  "Soothly, I would
not by my good will do thee an ill turn, Rica; and if it may stand with
my conscience to be silent, thou hast nought to fear.  Yet if my Lady
ask me aught touching thee, that may not be thus answered, I must speak
truth, and no lie."

"A murrain take thy conscience!  Canst not say a two-three times the
Rosary of our Lady to ease it?"

"Maybe," said Amphillis, drily, "our Lady hath no more lore for lying
than I have."

"Mistress Ricarda!" said Agatha, joining them as they rose from the
table, "I do right heartily pray you of better acquaintance.  I trust
you and I be of the same fashion of thinking, and both love laughter
better than tears."

"In good sooth, I hate long faces and sad looks," said Ricarda,
accepting Agatha's offered kiss of friendship.

"You be not an ill-matched pair," added Amphillis, laughing.  "Only, I
pray you, upset not the quirle by over much prancing."

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1.  Still used in its original sense of uncomfortable.

Note 2.  The Dutch were then known as High Dutch, the Germans as Low
Dutch.

Note 3.  Agreeable and ready in conversation.



CHAPTER ELEVEN.

BEATEN BACK.

  "I know not why my path should be at times
  So straitly hedged, so strangely barred before:
  I only know God could keep wide the door;
  But I can trust."

"Mistress Perrote, I pray you counsel me.  I am sore put to it to baffle
my cousin's inquirations touching our Lady.  How she cometh to know
there is any such cannot I say; but I may lightly guess that Agatha hath
let it 'scape: and in old days mine uncle was wont to say, none never
could keep hidlis [secrets] from Ricarda.  Truly, might I have known
aforehand my Lady Foljambe's pleasure, I could have found to mine hand
to pray her not to advance Ricarda hither: not for that I would stand in
her way, but for my Lady's sake herself."

"I know.  Nay, as well not, Phyllis.  It should tend rather to thine own
disease, for folk might lightly say thou wert jealous and unkindly to
thy kin.  The Lord knoweth wherefore such things do hap.  At times I
think it be to prevent us from being here in earth more blissful than it
were good for us to be.  As for her inquirations, parry them as best
thou mayest; and if thou canst not, then say apertly [openly] that thou
art forbidden to hold discourse thereanentis."

Amphillis shook her head.  She pretty well knew that such an assertion
would whet Ricarda's curiosity, and increase her inquisitive queries.

"Mistress Perrote, are you ill at ease?"

"Not in health, thank God.  But I am heavy of heart, child.  Our Lady is
in evil case, and she is very old."

We should not now call a woman very old who was barely sixty years of
age; we scarcely think that more than elderly.  But in 1373, when the
numerous wars and insurrections of the earlier half of the century had
almost decimated the population, so that, especially in the upper
classes, an old man was rarely to be seen, and when also human life was
usually shorter than in later times, sixty was the equivalent of eighty
or ninety with us, while seventy was as wonderful as we think a hundred.
King Edward was in his second childhood when he died at sixty-five;
while "old John of Gaunt, time-honoured Lancaster," scarcely passed his
fifty-ninth birthday.

"Is she sick?" said Amphillis, pityingly.  She had not seen her mistress
for several days, for her periods of attendance on her were fitful and
uncertain.

"She is very sick, and Father Jordan hath tried his best."

The household doctor at that time, for a country house, was either the
mistress of the family or the confessor.  There were few medical men who
were not also priests, and they only lived in chief cities.  Ladies were
taught physic and surgery, and often doctored a whole neighbourhood.  In
a town the druggist was usually consulted by the poor, if they consulted
any one at all who had learned medicine; but the physicians most in
favour were "white witches," namely, old women who dealt in herbs and
charms, the former of which were real remedies, and the latter
heathenish nonsense.  A great deal of superstition mixed with the
practice of the best medical men of the day.  Herbs must be gathered
when the moon was at the full, or when Mercury was in the ascendant;
patients who had the small-pox must be wrapped in scarlet; the
blood-stone preserved its wearer from particular maladies; a hair from a
saint's beard, taken in water, was deemed an invaluable specific.  They
bled to restore strength, administered plasters of verdigris, and made
their patients wait for a lucky day to begin a course of treatment.

"He hath given her," pursued Perrote, sorrowfully, "myrrh and milelot
and tutio [oxide of zinc], and hath tried plasters of diachylon,
litharge, and ceruse, but to no good purpose.  He speaketh now of
antimony and orchis, but I fear--I fear he can give nothing to do any
good.  When our Lord saith `Die,' not all the help nor love in the world
shall make man live.  And I think her time is come."

"O Mistress Perrote! must she die without deliverance?"

"Without earthly deliverance, it is like, my maid.  Be it so.  But, ah
me, what if she die without the heavenly deliverance!  She will not list
me: she never would.  If man would come by that she would list, and
might be suffered so to do, I would thank God to the end of my days."

"Anentis what should she list, good Mistress?"

"Phyllis, she hath never yet made acquaintance with Christ our Lord.  He
is to her but a dead name set to the end of her prayers--an image nailed
to a cross--a man whom she has heard tell of, but never saw.  The
living, loving Lord, who died and rose for her--who is ready at this
hour to be her best Friend and dearest Comforter--who is holding forth
His hands to her, as to all of us, and entreating her to come to Him and
be saved--she looketh on Him as she doth on Constantine the Great, as
man that was good and powerful once, but long ago, and 'tis all over and
done with.  I would fain have her hear man speak of Him that knoweth
Him."

"Father Jordan, Mistress?"

"No.  Father Jordan knows about Him.  He knoweth Him not--at the least
not so well as I want.  Ay, I count he doth know Him after a fashion;
but 'tis a poor fashion.  I want a better man than he, and I want leave
for him to come at her.  And me feareth very sore that I shall win
neither."

"Shall we ask our Lord for it?" said Amphillis, shyly.

"So do, dear maid.  Thy faith shameth mine unbelief."

"What shall I say, Mistress?"

"Say, `Lord, send hither man that knoweth Thee, and incline the hearts
of them in authority to suffer him to come at our Lady.'  I will speak
yet again with Sir Godfrey, but I might well-nigh as good speak to the
door-post: he is as hard, and he knows as little.  And her time is very
near."

There were tears in Perrote's eyes as she went away, and Amphillis
entirely sympathised with her.  She was coming to realise the paramount
importance to every human soul of that personal acquaintance with Jesus
Christ, which is the one matter of consequence to all who have felt the
power of an endless life.  The natural result of this was that lesser
matters fell into their right place without any difficulty.  There was
no troubling "May I do this?" or "How far is it allowable to enjoy
that?"  If this were contrary to the mind of God, or if that grated on
the spiritual taste, it simply could not be done, any more than
something could be done which would grieve a beloved human friend, or
could be eaten with relish if it were ill-flavoured and disgusting.  But
suppose the relish does remain?  Then, either the conscience is
ill-informed and scrupulous, requiring enlightenment by the Word of God,
and the heart setting at liberty; or else--and more frequently--the
acquaintance is not close enough, and the new affection not sufficiently
deep to have "expulsive power" over the old.  In either case, the remedy
is to come nearer to the Great Physician, to drink deeper draughts of
the water of life, to warm the numbed soul in the pure rays of the Sun
of Righteousness.  "If any man thirst, let him _come unto Me_ and
drink,"--not stay away, hewing out for himself broken cisterns which can
hold no water.  How many will not come to Christ for rest, until they
have first tried in vain to rest their heads upon every hard stone and
every thorny plant that the world has to offer!  For the world can give
no rest--only varieties of weariness are in its power to offer those who
do not bring fresh hearts and eager eyes, as yet unwearied and unfilled.
For those who do, it has gay music, and sparkling sweet wine, and
gleaming gems of many a lovely hue: and they listen, and drink, and
admire, and think there is no bliss beyond it.  But when the eager eyes
grow dim, and the ears are dulled, and the taste has departed, the tired
heart demands rest, and the world has none for it.  A worn-out
worldling, whom the world has ceased to charm, is one of the most
pitiable creatures alive.

Sir Godfrey Foljambe had not arrived at that point; he was in a
condition less unhappy, but quite as perilous.  To him the world had
offered a fresh apple of Sodom, and he had grasped it as eagerly as the
first.  The prodigal son was in a better condition when he grew weary of
the strange country, than while he was spending his substance on riotous
living.  Sir Godfrey had laid aside the riotous living, but he was not
weary of the strange country.  On the contrary, when he ran short of
food, he tried the swine's husks, and found them very palatable--
decidedly preferable to going home.  He put bitter for sweet, and sweet
for bitter.  The liberty wherewith Christ would have made him free was
considered as a yoke of bondage, while the strong chains in which Satan
held him were perfect freedom in his estimation.

It was not with any hope that he would either understand or grant her
request that Perrote made a last application to her lady's gaoler.  It
was only because she felt the matter of such supreme importance, the
time so short, and the necessity so imperative, that no fault of hers
should be a hindrance.  Perhaps, too, down in those dim recesses of the
human heart which lie so open to God, but scarcely read by man himself,
there was a mustard-seed of faith--a faint "Who can tell?" which did not
rise to hope--and certainly a love ready to endure all if it might gain
its blessed end.

"Sir," said Perrote, "I entreat a moment's speech of you."

Sir Godfrey, who was sauntering under the trees in the garden, stopped
and looked at her.  Had he spoken out his thoughts, he would have said,
"What on earth does this bothering old woman want?"  As it was, he stood
silent, and waited for her to proceed.

"Sir, my Lady is full sick."

"Well! let Father Jordan see her."

"He hath seen her, Sir, and full little can he do."

"What would you?  No outer physician can be called in."

"Ah, Sir, forgive me, but I am thinking rather of the soul than the
body: it is the worser of the twain."

"Verily, I guess not how, for she should be hard put to it to commit
mortal sin, when mewed for eight years in one chamber.  Howbeit, if so
be, what then?  Is not Father Jordan a priest?  One priest is full as
good as another."

"Once more, forgive me, Sir!  For the need that I behold, one priest is
not as good as another.  It is not a mass that my Lady needeth to be
sung; it is counsel that she lacketh."

"Then let Father Jordan counsel her."

"Sir, he cannot."

"Cannot!  What for, trow?  Hath he lost his wits or his tongue?"

"No, he hath lost nothing, for that which he lacketh I count he never
had, or so little thereof that it serveth not in this case.  Man cannot
sound a fathom with an inch-line.  Sir, whether you conceive me or not,
whether you allow me or no, I do most earnestly entreat you to suffer
that my Lady may speak with one of the poor priests that go about in
frieze coats bound with leather girdles.  They have whereof to minister
to her need."

Sir Godfrey thought contemptuously that there was no end to the fads and
fancies of old women.  His first idea of a reply was to say decidedly
that it was not possible to trust any outsider with the cherished secret
of the Countess's hiding-place; his next, that the poor priests were in
tolerably high favour with the great, that the King had commanded the
prisoner to be well treated, that the priest might be sworn to secrecy,
and that if the Countess were really near her end, little mischief would
be done.  Possibly, in his inner soul, too, a power was at work which he
was not capable of recognising.

"Humph!" was all he said; but Perrote saw that she had made an
impression, and she was too wise to weaken it by adding words.  Sir
Godfrey, with his hands in the pockets of his _haut-de-chausses_, took a
turn under the trees, and came back to the suppliant.  "Where be they to
be found?"

"Sir, there is well-nigh certain to be one or more at Derby.  If it
pleased you to send to the Prior of Saint Mary there, or to your own
Abbey of Darley, there were very like to be one tarrying on his way, or
might soon come thither; and if, under your good leave, the holy Father
would cause him to swear secrecy touching all he might see or hear, no
mischief should be like to hap by his coming."

"Humph!" said Sir Godfrey again.  "I'll meditate thereon."

"Sir, I give you right hearty thanks," was the grateful answer of
Perrote, who had taken more by her motion than she expected.

As she passed from the inner court to the outer on her way to the hall,
where supper would shortly be served, she heard a little noise and
bustle of some sort at the gate.  Perrote stopped to look.

Before the gate, on a richly-caparisoned mule, sat the Abbot of Darley,
with four of his monks, also mounted on those ecclesiastical animals.
The porter, his keys in his hand, was bowing low in reverential awe, for
an abbot was only a step below a bishop, and both were deemed holy and
spiritual men.  Unquestionably there were men among them who were both
spiritual and holy, but they were considerably fewer than the general
populace believed.  The majority belonged to one of four types--the
dry-as-dust scholar, the austere ascetic, the proud tyrant, or the
jovial _ton vivant_.  The first-class, which was the best, was not a
large one; the other three were much more numerous.  The present Abbot
of Darley was a mixture of the two last-named, and could put on either
at will, the man being jovial by nature, and the abbot haughty by
training.  He had now come to spend a night at Hazelwood on his way from
Darley to Leicester; for the Foljambes were lords of Darley Manor, and
many of them had been benefactors to the abbey in their time.  It was
desirable, for many reasons, that Sir Godfrey and the Abbot should keep
on friendly terms.  Perrote stepped back to tell the knight who stood at
his gate, and he at once hastened forward with a cordial welcome.

The Abbot blessed Sir Godfrey by the extension of two priestly fingers
in a style which must require considerable practice, and, in tones which
savoured somewhat more of pride than humility, informed him that he came
to beg a lodging for himself and his monks for one night.  Sir Godfrey
knew, he said, that poor monks, who abjured the vanities of the world,
were not accustomed to grandeur; a little straw and some coarse rugs
were all they asked.  Had the Abbot been taken at his word, he would
have been much astonished; but he well knew that the best bedchambers in
the Manor House would be thought honoured by his use of them.  His
Reverence alighted from his mule, and, followed by the four monks, was
led into the hall, his bareheaded and obsequious host preceding them.
The ladies, who were assembling for supper, dropped on their knees at
the sight, and also received a priestly blessing.  The Abbot was
conducted to the seat of honour, on Sir Godfrey's right hand.

The servers now brought in supper.  It was a vigil, and therefore meat,
eggs, and butter were forbidden; but luxury, apart from these, being
unforbidden to such as preferred the letter to the spirit, the meal was
sufficiently appetising, notwithstanding this.  Beside some fishes whose
names are inscrutable, our ancestors at this time ate nearly all we
habitually use, and in addition, whelks, porpoises, and lampreys.  There
were soups made of apples, figs, beans, peas, gourds, rice, and wheat.
Fish pies and fruit pies, jellies, honey cakes and tarts, biscuits of
all descriptions, including maccaroons and gingerbread, vegetables far
more numerous than we use, salads, cucumbers, melons, and all fruits in
season, puddings of semolina, millet, and rice, almonds, spices,
pickles--went to make up a _menu_ by no means despicable.

Supper was half over when Sir Godfrey bethought himself of Perrote's
appeal and suggestion.

"Pray you, holy Father," said he, "have you in your abbey at this season
any of them called the poor priests, or know you where they may be
found?"

The Abbot's lips took such a setting as rather alarmed his host, who
began to wish his question unasked.

"I pray you of pardon if I ask unwisely," he hastily added.  "I had
thought these men were somewhat in good favour in high place at this
time, and though I desire not at all to--"

"Wheresoever is my Lady Princess, there shall the poor priests find
favour," said the Abbot, with a slight shrug of his shoulders.  "The
King, too, is not ill-affected toward them.  But I forewarn you, my son,
that they be not over well liked of the Church and the dignitaries
thereof.  They go about setting men by the ears, bringing down to the
minds of the commoner sort high matters that are not meet for such to
handle, and inciting them to chatter and gabble over holy things in
unseemly wise.  Whereso they preach, 'tis said, the very women will
leave their distaffs, and begin to talk of sacred matter--most
unbecoming and scandalous it is!  I avise you, my son, to have none ado
with such, and to keep to the wholesome direction of your own priest,
which shall be far more to your profit."

"I cry you mercy, reverend Father!  Truly it was not of mine own motion
that I asked the same.  'Twas a woman did excite me thereto, seeing--"

"That may I well believe," said the Abbot, contemptuously.  "Women be
ever at the bottom of every ill thing under the sun."

Poor man! he knew nothing about them.  How could he, when he was taught
that they were unclean creatures with whom it was defilement to
converse?  And he could not remember his mother--the one womanly memory
which might have saved him from the delusion.

Sir Godfrey, in his earnest anxiety to get out of the scrape into which
Perrote had brought him, hastily introduced a fresh topic as the easiest
means of doing so.

"Trust me, holy Father, I will suffer nought harmful to enter my doors,
nor any man disapproved by your Lordship.  Is there news abroad, may man
wit?"

"Ay, we had last night an holy palmer in our abbey," responded the
Abbot, with a calmer brow.  "He left us this morrow on his way to
Jesmond.  You wist, doubtless, that my Lord of York is departed?"

"No, verily--my Lord of York!  Is yet any successor appointed?"

"Ay, so 'tis said--Father Neville, as men say."

Amphillis looked up with some interest, on hearing her own name.

"Who is he, this Father Neville?"

"Soothly, who is he?" repeated the Abbot, with evident irritation.
"Brother to my Lord Neville of Raby; but what hath he done, trow, to be
advanced thus without merit unto the second mitre in the realm?  Some
meaner bishop, or worthy abbot, should have been far fitter for the
preferment."

"The worthy Abbot of Darley in especial!" whispered Agatha in the ear of
Amphillis.

"What manner of man is he, holy Father, by your leave?"

"One of these new sectaries," replied the Abbot, irascibly.  "A man that
favours the poor priests of whom you spake, and swears by the Rector of
Ludgarshall, this Wycliffe, that maketh all this bruit.  Prithee, who is
the Rector of Ludgarshall, that we must all be at his beck and ordering?
Was there no truth in the whole Church Catholic, these thirteen hundred
years, that this Dan John must claim for to have discovered it anew?
Pshaw! 'tis folly."

"And what other tidings be there, pray you, holy Father?"

"Scarce aught beside of note, I think," answered the Abbot,
meditatively--"without it be the news from Brittany of late--'tis said
all Brittany is in revolt, and the King of France aiding the same, and
the Duke is fled over hither to King Edward, leaving my Lady Duchess
shut up in the Castle of Auray, which 'tis thought the French King shall
besiege.  Man reckons he comes for little--I would say, that our King
shall give him little ado over that matter, without it were to ransom my
Lady, should she be taken, she being step-daughter unto my Lord Prince."

"The Lord King, then, showeth him no great favour?"

"Favour enough to his particular [to himself personally]; but you will
quickly judge there is little likelihood of a new army fitted out for
Brittany, when you hear that his Grace writ to my Lord Archbishop of
Canterbury that he should in no wise submit to the tax laid on the
clergy by my Lord Cardinal of Cluny, that came o'er touching those
affairs, and charged the expenses of his journey on the clergy of
England.  The King gave promise to stand by them in case they should
resist, and bade them take no heed of the censure of the said Nuncio,
seeing the people of England were not concerned touching matters of
Brittany; and where the cause, quoth he, is so unjust, the curse must
needs fall harmless."

"Brave words, in good sooth!" said young Godfrey.

"Ay, our Lord the King is not he that shall suffer man to ride roughshod
over him," added his father.

"The which is full well in case of laymen," said the Abbot, a little
severely; "yet it becometh even princes to be buxom and reverent to the
Church, and unto all spiritual men."

"If it might please you, holy Father, would you do so much grace as tell
me where is my Lord Duke at this present?"

It was Perrote who asked the question, and with evident uneasiness.

The Abbot glanced at her, and then answered carelessly.  She was only
one of the household, as he saw.  What did her anxiety matter to my Lord
Abbot of Darley?

"By my Lady Saint Mary, that wis I little," said he.  "At Windsor,
maybe, or Woodstock--with the King."

"The palmer told us the King was at Woodstock," remarked one of the
hitherto silent monks.

The Abbot annihilated him by a glance.

"Verily, an' he were," remarked Sir Godfrey, "it should tell but little
by now, when he may as like as not be at Winchester or Norwich."

Our Plantagenet sovereigns were perpetual travellers up and down the
kingdom, rarely staying even a fortnight in one place, though
occasionally they were stationary for some weeks; but the old and infirm
King who now occupied the throne had moved about less than usual of late
years.

Perrote was silent, but her face took a resolute expression, which Sir
Godfrey had learned to his annoyance.  When the "bothering old woman"
looked like that, she generally bothered him before he was much older.
And Sir Godfrey, like many others of his species, detested being
bothered.

He soon found that fate remembered him.  As he was going up to bed that
night, he found Perrote waiting for him on the landing.

"Sir, pray you a word," said she.

Sir Godfrey stood sulkily still.

"If my Lord Duke be now in England, should he not know that his mother
is near her end?"

"How am I to send to him, trow?" growled the custodian.  "I wis not
where he is."

"A messenger could find out the Court, Sir," answered Perrote.  "And it
would comfort her last days if he came."

"And if he refused?"

Perrote's dark eyes flashed fire.

"Then may God have mercy on him!--if He have any mercy for such a
heartless wretch as he should so be."

"Keep a civil tongue in your head, Perrote de Carhaix," said Sir
Godfrey, beginning to ascend the upper stair.  "You see, your poor
priests are no good.  You'd better be quiet."

Perrote stood still, candle in hand, till he disappeared.

"I will be silent towards man," she said, in a low voice; "but I will
pour out mine heart as water before the face of the Lord.  The road
toward Heaven is alway open: and they whom men beat back and tread down
are the most like to win ear of Him.  Make no tarrying, O my God!"



CHAPTER TWELVE.

WHEREIN SUNDRY PEOPLE ACT FOOLISHLY.

  "Why for the dead, who are at rest?
  Pray for the living, in whose breast
  The struggle between right and wrong
  Is raging terrible and strong."

  Longfellow.

Amphillis Neville was a most unsuspicious person.  It never occurred to
her to expect any one to do what, in his place, she would not have done;
and all that she would have done was so simple and straightforward, that
scheming of every sort was an impossible idea, until suggested by some
one else.  She was consequently much surprised when Perrote said one
evening--

"Phyllis, I could find in mine heart to wish thy cousin had tarried
hence."

The discovery of Ricarda's deception was the only solution of this
remark which presented itself to Amphillis, but her natural caution
stood her in good stead, and she merely inquired her companion's
meaning.

"Hast not seen that she laboureth to catch Master Hylton into her net?"

Thoughts, which were not all pleasant, chased one another through the
mind of Amphillis.  If Ricarda were trying to win Norman Hylton, would
she be so base as to leave him under the delusion that she was a
Neville, possibly of the noble stock of the Lords of Raby?  Mr Hylton's
friends, if not himself, would regard with unutterable scorn the idea of
marriage with a confectioner's daughter.  He would be held to have
demeaned himself to the verge of social extinction.  And somehow,
somewhere, and for some reason--Amphillis pushed the question no further
than this--the thought of assisting, by her silence, in the ruin of
Norman Hylton, seemed much harder to bear than the prospect of being
hated by Ricarda Altham, even though it were for ever and ever.  When
these meditations had burned within her for a few seconds, Amphillis
spoke.

"Mistress Perrote, wit you how my cousin came hither?"

"Why, by reason my Lady Foljambe sent to thine uncle, to ask at him if
thou hadst any kin of the father's side, young maids of good birth and
breeding, and of discreet conditions, that he should be willing to put
forth hither with thee."

Amphillis felt as if her mind were in a whirl.  Surely it was not
possible that Mr Altham had known, far less shared, the dishonesty of
his daughter?  She could not have believed her uncle capable of such
meanness.

"Sent to mine uncle?" seemed all that she could utter.

"Ay, but thine uncle, as I heard say, was away when the messenger came,
and he saw certain women of his house only."

"Oh, then my uncle was not in the plot!" said Amphillis to herself with
great satisfaction.

"Maybe I speak wrongly," added Perrote, reflectively; "I guess he saw
but one woman, a wedded cousin of thine, one Mistress Winkfield, who
said she wist of a kinswoman of thine on the father's side that she was
secure her father would gladly prefer, and she would have her up from
Hertfordshire to see him, if he would call again that day week."

How the conspiracy had been managed flashed on Amphillis at once.  Mr
Altham was always from home on a Wednesday, when he attended a meeting
of his professional guild in the city.  That wicked Alexandra had done
the whole business, and presented her own sister to the messenger as the
cousin of Amphillis, on that side of her parentage which came of gentle
blood.

"Mistress, I pray you tell me, if man know of wrong done or lying, and
utter it not, hath he then part in the wrong?"

"Very like, dear heart.  Is there here some wrong-doing?  I nigh guessed
so much from thy ways.  Speak out, Phyllis."

"Soothly, Mistress, I would not by my good will do my kinswoman an ill
turn; yet either must I do so, or else hold my peace at wrong done to my
Lady Foljambe, and peradventure to Master Hylton.  My cousin Ricarda is
not of my father's kin.  She is daughter unto mine uncle, the
patty-maker in the Strand.  I know of no kin on my father's side."

"Holy Mary!" cried the scandalised Perrote.  "Has thine uncle, then, had
part in this wicked work?"

"I cry you mercy, Mistress, but I humbly guess not so.  Mine uncle, as I
have known him, hath been alway an honest and honourable man, that
should think shame to do a mean deed.  That he had holpen my cousins
thus to act could I not believe without it were proven."

"Then thy cousin, Mistress Winkfield?"

"Alexandra?  I said not so much of her."

"Phyllis, my Lady Foljambe must know this."

"I am afeard, Mistress, she must.  Mistress, I must in mine honesty
confess to you that these few days I have wist my cousin had called her
by the name of Neville; but in good sooth, I wist not if I ought to
speak or no, till your word this even seemed to show me that I must.  My
cousins have been somewhat unfriends to me, and I held me back lest I
should be reckoned to revenge myself."  Perrote took in the situation at
a glance.  "Poor child!" she said.  "It is well thou hast spoken.  I
dare guess, thou sawest not that mischief might come thereof."

"In good sooth, Mistress, that did I not until this even.  I never
thought of no such a thing."

"Verily, I can scarce marvel, for such a thing was hardly heard of
afore.  To deceive a noble lady! to 'present herself as of gentle blood,
when she came but of a trading stock!  'Tis horrible!  I can scarce
think of worser deed, without she had striven to deceive the priest
himself in confession."

The act of Ricarda Altham was far more shocking in the eyes of a lady in
the fourteenth century than in the nineteenth.  The falsehood she had
told was the same in both cases; or rather, it would weigh more heavily
now than then.  But the nature of the deception--that what they would
have termed "a beggarly tradesman's brat" should, by deceiving a lady of
family, have forced herself on terms of comparative equality into the
society of ladies--was horrible in the extreme to their eclectic souls.
Tradesmen, in those days, were barely supposed, by the upper classes, to
have either morals or manners, except an awe of superior people, which
was expected to act as a wholesome barrier against cheating their
aristocratic customers.  In point of fact, the aristocratic customers
were cheated much oftener than they supposed, on the one side, and some
of the "beggarly tradesfolk" were men of much higher intellect and
principle than they imagined, on the other.  Brains were held to be a
prerogative of gentle blood, extra intelligence in the lower classes
being almost an impertinence.  The only exception to this rule lay with
the Church.  She was allowed to develop a brain in whom she would.  The
sacredness of her tonsure protected the man who wore it, permitting him
to exhibit as much (or as little) of manners, intellect, and morals, as
he might think proper.

Perrote's undressing on that evening was attended with numerous shakes
of the head, and sudden ejaculations of mingled astonishment and horror.

"And that Agatha!" was one of the ejaculations.

Amphillis looked for enlightenment.

"Why, she is full hand in glove with Ricarda.  The one can do nought
that the other knows not of.  I dare be bound she is helping her to draw
poor Master Norman into her net--for Agatha will have none of him; she's
after Master Matthew."

"Lack-a-day!  I never thought nobody was after anybody!" said innocent
Amphillis.

"Keep thy seliness [simplicity], child!" said Perrote, smiling on her.
"Nor, in truth, should I say `poor Master Norman,' for I think he is
little like to be tangled either in Ricarda's web or Agatha's meshes.
If I know him, his eyes be in another quarter--wherein, I would say, he
should have better content.  Ah me, the folly of men! and women belike--
I leave not them out; they be oft the more foolish of the twain.  The
good God assoil [forgive] us all!  Alack, my poor Lady!  It doth seem as
if the Lord shut all doors in my face.  I thought I was about to win Sir
Godfrey over--and hard work it had been--and then cometh this Abbot of
Darley, and slams the door afore I may go through.  Well, the Lord can
open others, an' He will.  `He openeth, and none shutteth; He shutteth,
and none openeth;' and blessed be His holy Name, He is easilier come at
a deal than men.  If I must tarry, it is to tarry His leisure; and He
knows both the hearts of men, and the coming future; and He is secure
not to be too late.  He loves our poor Lady better than I love her, and
I love her well-nigh as mine own soul.  Lord, help me to wait Thy time,
and help mine unbelief!"

The ordeal of telling Lady Foljambe had to be gone through the next
morning.  She was even more angry than Perrote had anticipated, and much
more than Amphillis expected.  Ricarda was a good-for-nought, a hussy, a
wicked wretch, and a near relative of Satan, while Amphillis was only a
shade lighter in the blackness of her guilt.  In vain poor Amphillis
pleaded that she had never guessed Lady Foljambe's intention of sending
for her cousin, and had never heard of it until she saw her.  Then, said
Lady Foljambe, unreasonable in her anger, she ought to have guessed it.
But it was all nonsense!  Of course she knew, and had plotted it all
with her cousins.

"Nay, Dame," said Perrote; "I myself heard you to say, the even afore
Ricarda came, that it should give Phyllis a surprise to see her."

If anything could have made Lady Foljambe more angry than she was, it
was having it shown to her that she was in the wrong.  She now turned
her artillery upon Perrote, whom she scolded in the intervals of heaping
unsavoury epithets upon Amphillis and Ricarda, until Amphillis thought
that everything poor Perrote had ever done in her life to Lady
Foljambe's annoyance, rightly or wrongly, must have been dragged out of
an inexhaustible memory to lay before her.  At last it came to an end.
Ricarda was dismissed in dire disgrace; all that Lady Foljambe would
grant her was her expenses home, and the escort of one mounted servant
to take her there.  Even this was given only at the earnest pleading of
Perrote and Amphillis, who knew, as indeed did Lady Foljambe herself,
that to turn a girl out of doors in this summary manner was to expose
her to frightful dangers in the fourteenth century.  Poor Ricarda was
quite broken down, and so far forgot her threats as to come to Amphillis
for help and comfort.  Amphillis gave her every farthing in her purse,
and desired the servant who was to act as escort to convey a
conciliatory message to her uncle, begging forgiveness for Ricarda for
her sake.  She sent also an affectionate and respectful message to her
new aunt, entreating her to intercede with her husband for his daughter.

"Indeed, Rica, I would not have told if I could have helped it and
bidden true to my trust!" was the farewell of Amphillis.

"O Phyllis, I wish I'd been as true as you, and then I should never have
fallen in this trouble!" sobbed the humbled Ricarda.  "I shouldn't have
thought of it but for Saundrina.  But there, I've been bad enough!  I'll
not lay blame to other folks.  God be wi' thee! if I may take God's name
into my lips; but, peradventure, He'll be as angry as my Lady."

"I suppose He is alway angered at sin," said Amphillis.  "But, Rica, the
worst sinner that ever lived may take God's name into his lips to say,
`God, forgive me!'  And we must all alike say that.  And Mistress
Perrote saith, if we hide our stained souls behind the white robes of
our Lord Christ, God the Father is never angered with Him.  All that
anger was spent, every drop of it, upon the cross on Calvary; so there
is none left now, never a whit, for any sinner that taketh refuge in
Him.  Yea, it was spent on Him for this cause, that all souls taking
shelter under His wing unto all time might find there only love, and
rest, and peace."

"O Phyllis, thou'rt a good maid.  I would I were half as good as thou!"

"If I am good at all, dear Rica, Jesu Christ hath done it; and He will
do it for thee, for the asking."

So the cousins parted in more peace than either of them would once have
thought possible.

For some hours Amphillis was in serious doubt whether she would not
share the fate of her cousin.  Perrote pleaded for her, it seemed, in
vain; even Mrs Margaret added her gentle entreaties, and was sharply
bidden to hold her tongue.  But when, on the afternoon of that eventful
day, Amphillis went, as was now usual, to mount guard in the Countess's
chamber, she was desired, in that lady's customary manner--

"Bid Avena Foljambe come and speak with me."

Amphillis hesitated an instant, and her mistress saw it.

"Well?  Hast an access [a fit of the gout], that thou canst not walk?"

"Dame, I cry your Grace mercy.  I am at this present ill in favour of my
Lady Foljambe, and I scarce know if she will come for my asking."

The Countess laughed the curt, bitter laugh which Amphillis had so often
heard from her lips.

"Tell her she may please herself," she said; "but that if she be not
here ere the hour, I'll come to her.  I am not yet so sick that I cannot
crawl to the further end of the house.  She'll not tarry to hear that
twice, or I err."

Amphillis locked the door behind her, as she was strictly ordered to do
whenever she left that room, unless Perrote were there, and finding Lady
Foljambe in her private boudoir, tremblingly delivered the more civil
half of her message.  Lady Foljambe paid no heed to her.

"Dame," said poor Amphillis, "I pray you of mercy if I do ill; but her
Grace bade me say also that, if you came not to her afore the clock
should point the hour, then would she seek you."

Lady Foljambe allowed a word to escape her which could only be termed a
mild form of swearing--a sin to which women no less than men, and of all
classes, were fearfully addicted in the Middle Ages--and, without
another look at Amphillis, stalked upstairs, and let herself with her
own key into the Countess's chamber.

The Countess sat in her large chair of carved walnut, made easy by being
lined with large, soft cushions.  There were no easy chairs of any other
kind.  She was in her favourite place, near the window.

"Well, Avena, good morrow!  Didst have half my message, or the whole?"

"I am here, Dame, to take your Grace's orders."

"I see, it wanted the whole.  `To take my Grace's orders!'  Soothly,
thou art pleasant.  Well, take them, then.  My Grace would like a couch
prepared on yonder lawn, and were I but well enough, a ride on
horseback; but I misdoubt rides be over for me.  Go to: what is this I
hear touching the child Amphillis?--as though thou wentest about to be
rid of her."

"Dame, I have thought thereupon."

"What for?  Now, Avena, I will know.  Thou dost but lose thy pains to
fence with me."

In answer, Lady Foljambe told the story, with a good deal of angry
comment.  The Countess was much amused, a fact which did not help to
calm the narrator.

"_Ha, jolife_!" said she, "but I would fain have been in thy bower when
the matter came forth!  Howbeit, I lack further expounding thereanentis.
Whereof is Phyllis guilty?"

Lady Foljambe, whose wrath was not up at the white heat which it had
touched in the morning, found this question a little difficult to
answer.  She could not reasonably find fault with Amphillis for being
Ricarda's cousin, and this was the real cause of her annoyance.  The
only blame that could be laid to her was her silence for a few days as
to the little she knew.  Of this crime Lady Foljambe made the most.

"Now, Avena," said the Countess, as peremptorily as her languor
permitted, "hearken me, and be no more of a fool than thou canst help.
If thou turn away a quiet, steady, decent maid, of good birth and
conditions, for no more than a little lack of courage, or maybe of
judgment--and thou art not a she-Solomon thyself, as I give thee to wit,
but thou art a fearsome thing to a young maid when thou art angered; and
unjust anger is alway harder, and sharper, and fierier than the just, as
if it borrowed a bit of Satan, from whom it cometh--I say, if thou turn
her away for this, thou shalt richly deserve what thou wilt very like
get in exchange--to wit, a giddy-pate that shall blurt forth all thy
privy matter (and I am a privy matter, as thou well wist), or one of
some other ill conditions, that shall cost thee an heartbreak to rule.
Now beware, and be wise.  And if it need more, then mind thou"--and the
tone grew regal--"that Amphillis Neville is my servant, not thine, and
that I choose not she be removed from me.  I love the maid; she hath
sense, and she is true to trust; and though that keeps me in prison, yet
can I esteem it when known.  'Tis a rare gift.  Now go, and think on
what I have said to thee."

Lady Foljambe found herself reluctantly constrained to do the Countess's
bidding, so far, at least, as the meditation was concerned.  And the
calmer she grew, the more clearly she saw that the Countess was right.
She did not, however, show that she felt she had been in the wrong.
Amphillis was not informed that she was forgiven, nor that she was to
retain her place, but matters were allowed to slide silently back into
their old groove.  So the winter came slowly on.

"The time drew near the birth of Christ," that season of peace and
good-will to men which casts its soft sunshine even over the world,
bringing absent relatives together, and suggesting general family
amnesties.  Perrote determined to make one more effort with Sir Godfrey.
About the middle of December, as that gentleman was mounting his
staircase, he saw on the landing that "bothering old woman," standing,
lamp in hand, evidently meaning to waylay some one who was going up to
bed.  Sir Godfrey had little doubt that he was the destined victim, and
he growled inwardly.  However, it was of no use to turn back on some
pretended errand; she was sure to wait till his return, as he knew.  Sir
Godfrey growled again inaudibly, and went on to meet his fate in the
form of Perrote.

"Sir, I would speak with you."

Sir Godfrey gave an irritable grunt.

"Sir, the day of our Lord's birth is very nigh, when men be wont to make
up old quarrels in peace.  Will you not yet once entreat of my Lord
Duke, being in England, to pay one visit to his dying mother?"

"I wis not that she is dying.  Folks commonly take less time over their
dying than thus."

Perrote, as it were, waved away the manner of the answer, and replied
only to the matter.

"Sir, she is dying, albeit very slowly.  My Lady may linger divers weeks
yet.  Will you not send to my Lord?"

"I did send to him," snapped Sir Godfrey.

"And he cometh?" said Perrote, eagerly for her.

"No."  Sir Godfrey tried to pass her with that monosyllable, but Perrote
was not to be thus baffled.  She laid a detaining hand upon his arm.

"Sir, I pray you, for our Lord's love, to tell me what word came back
from my Lord Duke?"

Our Lord's love was not a potent factor in Sir Godfrey's soul.  More
powerful were those pleading human eyes--and yet more, the sentiment
which swayed the unjust judge--"Because this widow troubleth me, I will
avenge her."  He turned back.

"Must you needs wit?  Then take it: it shall do you little pleasure.  My
Lord writ that he was busily concerned touching the troubles in
Brittany, and ill at ease anentis my Lady Duchess, that is besieged in
the Castle of Auray, and he could not spare time to go a visiting;
beside which, it might be taken ill of King Edward, whose favour at this
present is of high import unto him, sith without his help he is like to
lose his duchy.  So there ends the matter.  No man can look for a prince
to risk the loss of his dominions but to pleasure an old dame."

"One only, Sir, it may be, is like to look for it; and were I my Lord
Duke, I should be a little concerned touching another matter--the
account that he shall give in to that One at the last day.  In the
golden balances of Heaven I count a dying mother's yearning may weigh
heavy, and the risk of loss of worldly dominion may be very light.  I
thank you, Sir.  Good-night.  May God not say one day to my Lord Duke,
`Thou fool!'"

Perrote disappeared, but Sir Godfrey Foljambe stood where she had left
him.  Over his pleasure-chilled, gold-hardened conscience a breath from
Heaven was sweeping, such a breath as he had often felt in earlier
years, but which very rarely came to him now.  Like the soft toll of a
passing bell, the terrible words rang in his ears with their accent of
hopeless pity--"Thou fool!  Thou fool!"  Would God, some day, in that
upper world, say that to _him_?

The sound was so vivid and close that he actually glanced round to see
if any one was there to hear but himself.  But he was alone.  Only God
had heard them, and God forgets nothing--a thought as dreadful to His
enemies as it is warmly comforting to His children.  Alas, for those to
whom the knowledge that God has His eye upon them is only one of terror!

Yet there is one thing that God does forget.  He tells us that He
forgets the forgiven sin.  "As far as the sun-rising is from the
sun-setting [Note 1], so far hath He removed our transgressions from
us"--"Thou wilt cast all their sins into the depths of the sea."  But as
it has been well said, "When God pardons sin, He drops it out of His
memory into that of the pardoned sinner."  We cannot forget it, because
He has done so.

For Sir Godfrey Foljambe the thought of an omniscient eye and ear was
full of horror.  He turned round, went downstairs, and going to a
private closet in his own study, where medicines were kept, drank off
one of the largest doses of brandy which he had ever taken at once.  It
was not a usual thing to do, for brandy was not then looked on as a
beverage, but a medicine.  But Sir Godfrey wanted something potent, to
still those soft chimes which kept saying, "Thou fool!"  Anything to get
away from God!

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1.  This is really the Hebrew of Psalm 103, verse 12.  The infidel
objection, therefore, that since "east" and "west" meet, the verse has
no meaning, is untenable as concerns the inspired original.  It is only
valid as a criticism on the English translation.



CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

MY LORD ELECT OF YORK.

  "She only said,--`The day is dreary,
  He will not come,' she said:
  She wept,--`I am aweary, weary,--
  O God, that I were dead!'"

  Tennyson.

"What, ho!  Gate, ho!  Open unto my Lord elect of York!"

The cry startled the porter at Hazelwood Manor from an afternoon nap.
He sprang up and hurried out, in utter confusion at his negligence.  To
keep a priest waiting would have been bad manners enough, and an abbot
still worse; but an archbishop was, in the porter's estimate, a
semi-celestial being.  True, this Archbishop was not yet consecrated,
nor had he received his pallium from Rome, both which considerations
detracted from his holiness, and therefore from his importance; but he
was the Archbishop of the province, and the shadow of his future dignity
was imposing to an insignificant porter.  Poor Wilkin went down on his
knees in a puddle, as soon as he had got the gate open, to beg the
potentate's pardon and blessing, and only rose from them summarily to
collar Colle, who had so little notion of the paramount claims of an
archbishop that he received the cavalcade with barks as noisy as he
would have bestowed on any worldly pedlar.  Nay, so very unmannerly was
Colle, that when he was let go, he marched straight to the Archbishop,
and after a prolonged sniff at the archiepiscopal boots, presumed so far
as to wag his very secular tail, and even to give an uninvited lick to
the archiepiscopal glove.  The Archbishop, instead of excommunicating
Colle, laid his hand gently on the dog's head and patted him; which so
emboldened that audacious quadruped that he actually climbed up the
prelate, with more decided wagging than before.

"Nay, my son!" said the Archbishop, gently, to an officious young priest
in his suite, who would have dragged the dog away--"grudge me not my
welcome.  Dogs be honest creatures, and dissemble not.  Hast thou never
heard the saw, that `they be ill folks that dogs and children will not
go withal'?"

And with another pat of Colle's head, the Archbishop dismissed him, and
walked into the hall to meet a further welcome from the whole family and
household, all upon their knees.  Blessing them in the usual priestly
manner, he commanded them to rise, and Sir Godfrey then presented his
sons and squire, while Lady Foljambe did the same for the young ladies.

"Mistress Margaret Foljambe, my son's wife, an' it please your Grace;
and Mistress Perrote de Carhaix, my head chamberer.  These be my
bower-women, Agatha de La Beche and Amphillis Neville."

"Neville!" echoed the Archbishop, instantly.  "Of what Nevilles comest
thou, my maid?"

"Please it you, holy Father," said the confused Amphillis, more
frightened still to hear a sharp "your Grace!" whispered from Lady
Foljambe; "I know little of my kin, an' it like your Grace.  My father
was Walter Neville, and his father a Ralph, but more know I not, under
your Grace's pleasure."

"How comes it thou wist no more?"

"May it please your Grace, my father dwelt in Hertfordshire, and he
wedded under his estate, so that his family cast him off, as I have
heard," said Amphillis, growing every moment more hot and confused, for
it was no light ordeal for one in her position to be singled out for
conversation by an archbishop, and she sorely feared an after ebullition
of Lady Foljambe's wrath.

"My child!" said the Archbishop with great interest, and very gently,
"did thy father wed one Margery Altham, of London, whose father dwelt in
the Strand, and was a baker?"

"He did so, under your Grace's pardon," said poor Amphillis, blushing
for the paternal shortcomings; "but, may it please your Grace, he was a
master-pastiller, not a baker."

A little smile of amusement at the delicate distinction played about the
Archbishop's lips.

"Why, then, Cousin Amphillis, I think thy cousin may ask thee for a
kiss," said he, softly touching the girl's cheek with his lips.  "My
Lady Foljambe, I am full glad to meet here so near a kinswoman, and I do
heartily entreat you that my word may weigh with you to deal well with
this my cousin."

Lady Foljambe, with a low reverence, assured his Grace that she had been
entirely unaware, like Amphillis herself, that her bower-woman could
claim even remote kindred with so exalted a house and so dignified a
person; and that in future she should assume the position proper to her
birth.  And to her astonishment, Amphillis was passed by her Ladyship up
the table, above Agatha, above even Perrote--nay, above Mistress
Margaret--and seated, not by any means to her comfort, next to Lady
Foljambe herself.  From that day she was no more addressed with the
familiar _thou_, but always with the _you_, which denoted equality or
respect.  When Lady Foljambe styled her Mistress Amphillis, she endured
it with a blush.  But when Perrote substituted it for the affectionate
"Phyllis" usual on her lips, she was tearfully entreated not to make a
change.

The Archbishop was on his way south for the ceremony of consecration,
which required a dispensation if performed anywhere outside the
Cathedral of Canterbury, unless bestowed by the Pope himself.  His visit
set Sir Godfrey thinking.  Here was a man who might safely be allowed to
visit the dying Countess--being, of course, told the need for secrecy--
and if he requested it of him, Perrote must cease to worry him after
that.  No poor priest, nor all the poor priests put together, could be
the equivalent of a live Archbishop.

He consulted Lady Foljambe, and found her of the same mind as himself.
It would be awkward, she admitted, if the Countess died, to find
themselves censured for not having supplied her with spiritual
ministrations proper for her rank.  Here was a perfect opportunity.  It
would be a sin to lose it.

It was, indeed, in a different sense to that in which she used the
words, a perfect opportunity.  The name of Alexander Neville has come
down to us as that of the gentlest man of his day, one of the most
lovable that ever lived.  Beside this quality, which rendered him a
peculiarly fit ministrant to the sick and dying, he was among the most
prominent Lollards; he had drunk deep into the Scriptures, and,
therefore, while not free from superstition--no man then was--he was
very much more free than the majority.  Charms and incantations, texts
tied round the neck, and threads or hairs swallowed in holy water, had
little value to the masculine intellect of Alexander Neville.  And along
with this masculine intellect was a heart of feminine tenderness, which
would enable him to enter, so far as it was possible for a celibate
priest to enter, into the sad yearnings of the dying mother, whose
children did not care to come to her, and held aloof even in the last
hour of her weary life.  In those times, when worldliness had eaten like
a canker into the heart of the Church, almost as much as in our own--
when preferment was set higher than truth, and Court favour was held of
more worth than faithfulness, one of the most unworldly men living was
this elect Archbishop.  The rank of his penitent would weigh nothing
with him.  She would be to him only a passing soul, a wronged woman, a
lonely widow, a neglected mother.

After supper, Sir Godfrey drew the Archbishop aside into his private
room, and told him, with fervent injunctions to secrecy, the sorrowful
tale of his secluded prisoner.  As much sternness as was in Archbishop
Neville's heart contracted his brows and drew his lips into a frown.

"Does my Lord Duke of Brittany know his mother's condition?"

"Ay, if it please your Grace."  Sir Godfrey repeated the substance of
the answer already imparted to Perrote.

"Holy saints!" exclaimed the Archbishop.  "And my Lady Basset, what
saith she?"

"An' it like your Grace, I sent not unto her."

"But wherefore, my son?  An' the son will not come, then should the
daughter.  I pray you, send off a messenger to my Lady Basset at once;
and suffer me to see your prisoner.  Is she verily nigh death, or may
she linger yet a season?"

"Father Jordan reckoneth she may yet abide divers weeks, your Grace; in
especial if the spring be mild, as it biddeth fair.  She fadeth but full
slow."

Sir Godfrey's tone was that of an injured man, who was not properly
treated, either by the Countess or Providence, through this very gradual
demise of the former.  The Archbishop's reply--"Poor lady!" was in
accents of unmitigated compassion.

Lady Foljambe was summoned by her husband, and she conducted the prelate
to the turret-chamber, where the Countess sat in her chair by the
window, and Amphillis was in attendance.  He entered with uplifted hand,
and the benediction of "Christ, save all here!"

Amphillis rose, hastily gathering her work upon one arm.  The Countess,
who had heard nothing, for she had been sleeping since her bower-maiden
returned from supper, looked up with more interest than she usually
showed.  The entrance of a complete stranger was something very
unexpected and unaccountable.

"Christ save you, holy Father!  I pray you, pardon me that I arise not,
being ill at ease, to entreat your blessing.  Well, Avena, what has
moved thee to bring a fresh face into this my dungeon, prithee?  It
should be somewhat of import."

"Madame, this is my Lord's Grace elect of York, who, coming hither on
his way southwards, mine husband counted it good for your Grace's soul
to shrive you of his Grace's hand.  My Lord, if your Grace have need of
a crucifix, or of holy water, both be behind this curtain.  Come,
Mistress Amphillis.  His Grace will be pleased to rap on the door, when
it list him to come forth; and I pray you, abide in your chamber, and
hearken for the same."

"I thank thee, Avena," said the Countess, with her curt laugh.  "Sooth
to say, I wist not my soul was of such worth in thine eyes, and still
less in thine husband's.  I would my body weighed a little more with the
pair of you.  So I am to confess my sins, forsooth?  That shall be a
light matter, methinks; I have but little chance to sin, shut up in this
cage.  Truly, I should find myself hard put to it to do damage to any of
the Ten Commandments, hereaway.  A dungeon's all out praisable for
keeping folks good--nigh as well as a sick bed.  And when man has both
together, he should be marvellous innocent.  There, go thy ways; I'll
send for thee when I lack thee."

Lady Foljambe almost slammed the door behind her, and, locking it,
charged Amphillis to listen carefully for the Archbishop's knock, and to
unlock the door the moment she should hear it.

The Archbishop, meanwhile, had seated himself in the only chair in the
room corresponding to that of the Countess.  A chair was an object of
consequence in the eyes of a mediaeval gentleman, for none but persons
of high rank might sit on a chair; all others were relegated to a form,
styled a bench when it had a back to it.  Stools, however, were allowed
to all.  That certain formalities or styles of magnificence should have
been restricted to persons of rank may be reasonable; but it does seem
absurd that no others should have been allowed to be comfortable.  "The
good old times" were decidedly inconvenient for such as had no handles
to their names.

"I speak, as I have been told, to the Lady Marguerite, Duchess of
Brittany, and mother to my Lord Duke?" inquired the Archbishop.

"And Countess of Montfort," was the answer.  "Pray your Grace, give me
all my names, for nought else is left me to pleasure me withal--saving a
two-three ounces of slea-silk and an ell of gold fringe."

"And what else would you?"

"What else?"  The question was asked in passionate tones, and the dark
flashing eyes went longingly across the valley to the Alport heights.
"I would have my life back again," she said.  "I have not had a fair
chance.  I have done with my life not that I willed, but only that which
others gave leave for me to do.  Six and twenty years have I been
tethered, and fretted, and limited, granted only the semblance of power,
the picture of life, and thrust and pulled back whensoever I strained in
the least at the leash wherein I was held.  No dog has been more penned
up and chained than I!  And now, for eight years have I been cabined in
one chamber, shut up from the very air of heaven whereunto God made all
men free--shut up from every face that I knew and loved, saving one of
mine ancient waiting-maids--verily, if they would use me worser than so,
they shall be hard put to it, save to thrust me into my coffin and
fasten down the lid on me.  I want my life back again!  I want the
bright harvest of my youth, which these slugs and maggots have devoured,
which I never had.  I want the bloom of my dead happiness which men tare
away from me.  I want my dead lord, and mine estranged children, and my
lost life!  Tell me, has God no treasury whence He pays compensation for
such wrongs as mine?  Must I never see my little child again, the baby
lad that clung to me and would not see me weep?  My pillow is wet now,
and no man careth for it--nay, nor God Himself.  I was alway true woman;
I never wronged human soul, that I know.  I paid my dues, and shrived me
clean, and lived honestly.  Wherefore is all this come upon me?"

"Lady Marguerite, if you lost a penny and gained a gold noble, would you
think you were repaid the loss or no?"

"In very deed I should," the sick woman replied, languidly; the fire had
spent itself in that outburst, and the embers had little warmth left in
them.

"Yet," said the Archbishop, significantly, "you would not have won the
lost thing back."

"What matter, so I had its better?"

"We will return to that.  But first I have another thing to ask.  You
say you never wronged man to your knowledge.  Have you always paid all
your dues to Him that is above men?"

"I never robbed the Church of a penny!"

"There be other debts than pence, my daughter.  Have you kept, to the
best of your power, all the commandments of God?"

"In very deed I have."

"You never worshipped any other God?"

"I never worshipped neither Jupiter nor Juno, nor Venus, nor Diana, nor
Mars, nor Mercury."

"That can I full readily believe.  But as there be other debts than
money, so there be other gods than Jupiter.  Honoured you no man nor
thing above God?  Cared you alway more for His glory than for the fame
of Marguerite of Flanders, or the comfort of Jean de Bretagne?"

"Marry, you come close!" said the Countess, with a laugh.  "Fame and
ease be not gods, good Father."

"They be not God," was the significant answer.  "`Ye are servants to him
whom ye obey,' saith the apostle, and man may obey other than his lawful
master.  Whatsoever you set, or suffer to set himself, in God's place,
that is your god.  What has been your god, my daughter?"

"I am never a bit worse than my neighbours," said the Countess, leaving
that inconvenient question without answer, and repairing, as thousands
do, to that very much broken cistern of equality in transgression.

"You must be better than your neighbours ere God shall suffer you in His
holy Heaven.  You must be as good as He is, or you shall not win
thither.  And since man cannot be so, the only refuge for him is to take
shelter under the cross of Christ, which wrought righteousness to cover
him."

"Then man may live as he list, and cover him with Christ's
righteousness?" slily responded the Countess, with that instant recourse
to the Antinomianism inherent in fallen man.

"`If man say he knoweth Him, and keepeth not His commandments, he is a
liar,'" quoted the Archbishop in reply.  "`He that saith he abideth in
Him, ought to walk as He walked.'  Man cannot abide in Christ, and
commit sin, for He hath no sin.  You left unanswered my question, Lady:
what has been your god?"

"I have paid due worship to God and the Church," was the rather stubborn
answer.  "Pass on, I pray you.  I worshipped no false god; I took not
God's name in vain no more than other folks; I always heard mass of a
Sunday and festival day; I never murdered nor stole; and as to telling
false witness, beshrew me if it were false witness to tell Avena
Foljambe she is a born fool, the which I have done many a time in the
day.  Come now, let me off gently, Father.  There are scores of worser
women in this world than me."

"God will not judge you, Lady, for the sins of other women; neither will
He let you go free for the goodness of other.  There is but One other
for whose sake you shall be suffered to go free, and that only if you be
one with Him in such wise that your deeds and His be reckoned as one,
like as the debts of a wife be reckoned to her husband, and his honours
be shared by her.  Are you thus one with Jesu Christ our Lord?"

"In good sooth, I know not what you mean.  I am in the Church: what more
lack I?  The Church must see to it that I come safe, so long as I shrive
me and keep me clear of mortal sin: and little chance of mortal sin have
I, cooped up in this cage."

"Daughter, the Church is every righteous man that is joined with Christ.
If you wist not what I mean, can you be thus joined?  Could a woman be
wedded to a man, and not know it?  Could two knights enter into
covenant, to live and die each with other, and be all unsure whether
they had so done or no?  It were far more impossible than this, that you
should be a member of Christ's body, and not know what it meaneth so to
be."

"But I am in Holy Church!" urged the Countess, uneasily.

"I fear not so, my daughter."

"Father, you be marvellous different from all other priests that ever
spake to me.  With all other, I have shrived me and been absolved, and
there ended the matter.  I had sins to confess, be sure; and they looked
I should so have, and no more.  But you--would you have me perfect
saint, without sin?  None but great saints be thus, as I have been
taught."

"Not the greatest of saints, truly.  There is no man alive that sinneth
not.  What is sin?"

"Breaking the commandments, I reckon."

"Ay, and in especial that first and greatest--`Thou shalt love the Lord
thy God with all thine heart, and with all thy mind, and with all thy
soul, and with all thy strength.'  Daughter, hast thou so loved Him--so
that neither ease nor pleasure, neither fame nor life, neither earth nor
self, came between your love and Him, was set above Him, and served
afore Him?  Speak truly, like the true woman you are.  I wait your
answer."

It was several moments before the answer came.

"Father, is that sin?"

"My daughter, it is the sin of sins: the sin whence all other sins
flow--this estrangement of the heart from God.  For if we truly loved
God, and perfectly, should we commit sin?--could we so do?  Could we
desire to worship any other than Him, or to set anything before Him?--
could we bear to profane His name, to neglect His commands, to go
contrary to His will?  Should we then bear ill-will to other men who
love Him, and whom He loveth?  Should we speak falsely in His ears who
is the Truth?  Should we suffer pride to defile our souls, knowing that
He dwelleth with the lowly in heart?  Answer me, Lady Marguerite."

"Father, you are sore hard.  Think you God, that is up in Heaven, taketh
note of a white lie or twain, or a few cross words by nows and thens?
not to name a mere wish that passeth athwart man's heart and is gone?"

"God taketh note of sin, daughter.  And sin is _sin_--it is rebellion
against the King of Heaven.  What think you your son would say to a
captain of his, which pleaded that he did but surrender one little
postern gate to the enemy, and that there were four other strong portals
that led into the town, all whereof he had well defended?"

"Why, the enemy might enter as well through the postern as any other.
To be in, is to be in, no matter how he find entrance."

"Truth.  And the lightest desire can be sin, as well as the wickedest
deed.  Verily, if the desire never arose, the deed should be ill-set to
follow."

"Then God is punishing me?" she said, wistfully.

"God is looking for you," was the quiet answer.  "The sheep hath gone
astray over moor and morass, and the night is dark and cold, and it
bleateth piteously: and the Shepherd is come out of the warm fold, and
is tracking it on the lonely hills, and calling to it.  Lady, will the
sheep answer His voice? will it bleat again and again, until He find it?
or will it refuse to hear, and run further into the morass, and be
engulfed and fully lost in the dark waters, or snatched and carried into
the wolf's den?  God is not punishing you now; He is loving you; He is
waiting to see if you will take His way of escape from punishment.  But
the punishment of your sins must be laid upon some one, and it is for
you to choose whether you will bear it yourself, or will lay it upon Him
who came down from Heaven that He might bear it for you.  It must be
either upon you or Him."

The face lighted up suddenly, and the thin weak hands were stretched
out.

"If God love me," she said, "let Him give me back my children!  He
would, if He did.  Let them come back to me, and I shall believe it.
Without this I cannot.  Father, I mean none ill; I would fain think as
you say.  But my heart is weak, and my life ebbs low, and I cannot bleat
back again.  O God, for my children!--for only one of them!  I would be
content with one.  If Thou lovest me--if I have sinned, and Thou wouldst
spare me, give me back my child!  `Thou madest far from me friend and
neighbour'--give me back _one_, O God!"

"Daughter, we may not dictate to our King," said the Archbishop, gently.
"Yet I doubt not there be times when He stoops mercifully to weakness
and misery, and helps our unbelief.  May He grant your petition!  And
now, I think you lack rest, and have had converse enough.  I will see
you again ere I depart.  _Benedicite_!"



CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

POSTING A LETTER.

  "Whose fancy was his only oracle;
  Who could buy lands and pleasure at his will,
  Yet slighted that which silver could not win."

  Rev  Horatius Bonar, D.D.

The Archbishop rapped softly on the door of the chamber, and Amphillis
sprang to let him out.  She had to let herself in, so he passed her with
only a smile and a blessing, and going straight to his own chamber,
spent the next hour in fervent prayer.  At the end of that time he went
down to the hall, and asked for writing materials.

This was a rather large request to make in a mediaeval manor house.
Father Jordan was appealed to, as the only person likely to know the
whereabouts of such scarce articles.

"Well, of a surety!" exclaimed the old priest, much fluttered by the
inquiry.  "Methinks I may find the inkhorn,--and there _was_ some ink in
it,--but as for writing-paper!--and I fear there shall be never a bit of
parchment in the house.  Wax, moreover--Richard, butler, took the last
for his corks.  Dear, dear! only to think his Grace should lack matter
for writing!  Yet, truly, 'tis not unnatural for a prelate.  Now,
whatever shall man do?"

"Give his Grace a tile and a paint-brush," said careless Matthew.

"Cut a leaf out of a book," suggested illiterate Godfrey.

Father Jordan looked at the last speaker as if he had proposed to cook a
child for dinner.  Cut a leaf out of a book!  Murder, theft, and arson
combined, would scarcely have been more horrible in his eyes.

"Holy saints, deliver us!" was his shocked answer.

Norman Hylton came to the rescue.

"I have here a small strip of parchment," said he, "if his Grace were
pleased to make use thereof.  I had laid it by for a letter to my
mother, but his Grace's need is more than mine."

The Archbishop took the offered gift with a smile.

"I thank thee, my son," said he.  "In good sooth, at this moment my need
is great, seeing death waiteth for no man."

He sat down, and had scarcely remembered the want of ink, when Father
Jordan came up, carrying a very dilapidated old inkhorn.

"If your Grace were pleased to essay this, and could serve you withal,"
suggested he, dubiously; "soothly, there is somewhat black at the
bottom."

"And there is alegar in the house, plenty," added Matthew.

The Archbishop looked about for the pen.

"Unlucky mortal that I am!" cried Father Jordan, smiting himself on the
forehead.  "Never a quill have I, by my troth!"

"Have you a goose?  That might mend matters," said Matthew.  "Had we but
a goose, there should be quills enow."

"_Men culpa, mea culpa_!" cried poor Father Jordan, as though he were at
confession, to the excessive amusement of the young men.

Norman, who had run upstairs on finding the pen lacking, now returned
with one in his hand.

"Here is a quill, if your Grace be pleased withal.  It is but an old
one, yet I have no better," he said, modestly.

"It shall full well serve me, my son," was the answer; "and I thank thee
for thy courtesy."

For his day the Archbishop was a skilful penman, which does not by any
means convey the idea of covering sheet after sheet of paper with rapid
writing.  The strip of parchment was about fourteen inches by four.  He
laid it lengthwise before him, and the letters grew slowly on it, in the
old black letter hand, which took some time to form.  Thus ran his
letter:--

"Alexander, by Divine sufferance elect of York, to the Lady Basset of
Drayton wisheth peace, health, and the blessing of God Almighty.

"Very dear Lady,--

"Let it please you to know that the bearer hereof hath tidings to
deliver of serious and instant import.  We pray you full heartily to
hear him without any delay, and to give full credence to such matter as
he shall impart unto you: which having done, we bid you, as you value
our apostolical blessing, to come hither with all speed, and we charge
our very dear son, your lord, that he let not nor hinder you in obeying
this our mandate.  The matter presseth, and will brook no delay: and we
affy ourself in you, Lady, as a woman obedient to the Church, that you
will observe our bidding.  And for so doing this shall be your warrant.
Given at Hazelwood Manor, in the county of Derby, this Wednesday after
Candlemas."

The Archbishop laid down his pen, folded his letter, and asked for silk
to tie it.  Matthew Foljambe ran off, returning in a moment with a roll
of blue silk braid, wherewith the letter was tied up.  Then wax was
needed.

"_Ha, chetife_!" said Father Jordan.  "The saints forgive me my sins!
Never a bit of wax had I lacked for many a month, and I gave the last to
Richard, butler."

"Hath he used it all?" asked Matthew.

"Be sure he so did.  He should have some left only if none needed it,"
responded his brother.

A search was instituted.  The butler regretfully admitted that all the
wax supplied, to him was fastening down corks upon bottles of Alicant
and Osey.  Sir Godfrey had none; he had sent for some, but had not yet
received it.  Everybody was rather ashamed; for wax was a very necessary
article in a mediaeval household, and to run short of it was a small
disgrace.  In this emergency Matthew, usually the person of resources,
came to the rescue.

"Hie thee to the cellar, Dick, and bring me up a two-three bottles of
thy meanest wine," said he.  "We'll melt it off the corks."

By this ingenious means, sufficient wax was procured to take the impress
of the Archbishop's official seal, without which the letter would bear
no authentication, and the recipient could not be blamed if she refused
obedience.  It was then addressed--"To the hands of our very dear Lady,
the Lady Joan Basset, at Drayton Manor, in the county of Stafford, be
these delivered with speed.  Haste, haste, for thy life, haste!"

All nobles and dignitaries of the Church in 1374 used the "we" now
exclusively regal.

Having finished his preparations, the Archbishop despatched young
Godfrey to ask his father for a private interview.  Sir Godfrey at once
returned to the hall, and ceremoniously handed the Archbishop into his
own room.

All large houses, in those days, contained a hall, which was the general
meeting-place of the inhabitants, and where the family, servants, and
guests, all took their meals together.  This usually ran two storeys
high; and into it opened from the lower storey the offices and
guard-chambers, and from the upper, into a gallery running round it, the
private apartments of the family, a spiral stair frequently winding down
in the corner.  The rooms next the hall were private sitting-rooms,
leading to the bedchambers beyond; and where still greater secrecy was
desired, passages led out towards separate towers.  Every bedroom had
its adjoining sitting-room.  Of course in small houses such elaborate
arrangements as these were not found, and there were no sitting-rooms
except the hall itself; while labourers were content with a two-roomed
house, the lower half serving as parlour and kitchen, the upper as the
family bedchamber.

Young Godfrey carried a chair to his father's room.  An Archbishop could
not sit on a form, and there were only three chairs in the house, two of
which were appropriated to the Countess.  The prelate took his seat, and
laid down his letter on a high stool before Sir Godfrey.

"Fair Sir, may I entreat you of your courtesy, to send this letter with
all good speed to my Lady Basset of Drayton, unto Staffordshire?"

"Is it needful, holy Father?"

"It is in sooth needful," replied the Archbishop, in rather peremptory
tones, for he plainly saw that Sir Godfrey would not do this part of his
duty until he could no longer help it.

"It shall put her Ladyship to great charges," objected the knight.

"The which, if she defray unwillingly, then is she no Christian woman."

"And be a journey mighty displeasant, at this winter season."

"My answer thereto is as to the last."

"And it shall blurt out the King's privy matters."

"In no wise.  I have not writ thereof a word in this letter, but have
only prayed her Ladyship to give heed unto that which the bearer thereof
shall make known to her privily."

"Then who is to bear the same?"

"I refer me thereon, fair Sir, to your good judgment.  Might one of your
own sons be trusted herewith?"

Sir Godfrey looked dubious.  "Godfrey should turn aside to see an horse,
or to tilt at any jousting that lay in his path; and Matthew, I cast no
doubt, should lose your Grace's letter in a snowdrift."

"Then have you brought them up but ill," said the Archbishop.  "But what
hindereth that you go withal yourself?"

"I, holy Father!  I am an old man, and infirm, an' it like your Grace."

"Ay, you were full infirm when the tilting was at Leicester," replied
the Archbishop, ironically.  "My son, I enjoin thee, as thine
Archbishop, that thou send this letter.  Go, or send a trusty messenger,
as it liketh thee best; and if thou have no such, then shall my
secretary, Father Denny, carry the same, for he is full meet therefor;
but go it must."

Poor Sir Godfrey was thus brought to the end of all his subterfuges.  He
could only say ruefully that his eldest son should bear the letter.  The
Archbishop thereupon took care to inform that young gentleman that if
his missive should be either lost or delayed, its bearer would have to
reckon with the Church, and might not find the account quite convenient
to pay.

Godfrey was ready enough to go.  Life at Hazelwood was not so exciting
that a journey, on whatever errand, would not come as a very welcome
interlude.  He set forth that evening, and as the journey was barely
forty miles, he could not in reason take longer over it than three days
at the utmost.  Sir Godfrey, however, as well as the Archbishop, had
confided his private views to his son.  He charged him to see Lord
Basset first, and to indoctrinate him with the idea that it was most
desirable Lady Basset should not receive the prelate's message.  Could
he find means to prevent it?

Lord Basset was a man of a type not uncommon in any time, and
particularly rife at the present day.  He lived to amuse himself.  Of
such things as work and duty he simply had no idea.  In his eyes work
was for the labouring class, and duty concerned the clergy; neither of
them applied at all to him.  He was, therefore, of about as much value
to the world as one of the roses in his garden; and if he would be more
missed, it was because his temper did not at all times emulate the
sweetness of that flower, and its absence would be felt as a relief.
This very useful and worthy gentleman was languidly fitting on the
jesses of a hawk, when young Godfrey was introduced into the hall.  Lady
Basset was not present, and Godfrey seized the opportunity to initiate
her husband into the part he was to play.  He found to his annoyance
that Lord Basset hesitated to perform the task assigned to him.  Had the
letter come from an insignificant layman, he would have posted it into
the fire without more ado; but Lord Basset, who was aware of sundry
habits of his own that he was not able to flatter himself were the
fashion in Heaven, could not afford to quarrel with the Church, which,
in his belief, held the keys of that eligible locality.

"Nay, verily!" said he.  "I cannot thwart the delivering of his Grace's
letter."

"Then will my Lady go to Hazelwood, and the whole matter shall be blazed
abroad.  It is sure to creep forth at some corner."

"As like as not.  Well, I would not so much care--should it serve you if
I gave her strict forbiddance for to go?"

"Would she obey?"

Lord Basset laughed.  "That's as may be.  She's commonly an easy mare to
drive, but there be times when she takes the bit betwixt her teeth, and
bolts down the contrary road.  You can only try her."

"Then under your leave, may I deliver the letter to her?"

"Here, De Sucherche!" said Lord Basset, raising his voice.  "Bid
Emeriarde lead this gentleman to thy Lady; he hath a privy word to
deliver unto her."

Emeriarde made her appearance in the guise of a highly respectable,
middle-aged upper servant, and led Godfrey up the staircase from the
hall to Lady Basset's ante-chamber, where, leaving him for a moment,
while she announced a visitor to her mistress, she returned and
conducted him into the presence of the Princess of Bretagne.

He saw a woman of thirty-six years of age, tall and somewhat stately,
only moderately good-looking, and with an expression of intense
weariness and listlessness in her dark eyes.  The face was a true index
to the feelings, for few lonelier women have ever shut their sorrows in
their hearts than the Princess Jeanne of Bretagne.  She had no child;
and her husband followed the usual rule of people who spend life in
amusing themselves, and who are apt to be far from amusing to their own
families.  His interest, his attractions, and his powers of
entertainment were kept for the world outside.  When his wife saw him,
he was generally either vexed, and consequently irritable, or tired and
somewhat sulky.  All the sufferings of reaction which fell to him were
visited on her.  She was naturally a woman of strong but silent
character; a woman who locked her feelings, her sufferings, and her
thoughts in her own breast, and having found no sympathy where she ought
to have found it, refrained from seeking it elsewhere.

Lord Basset would have been astonished had he been accused of ill-using
his wife.  He never lifted his hand against her, nor even found fault
with her before company.  He simply let her feel as if her life were not
worth living, and there was not a soul on earth who cared to make it so.
If, only now and then, he would have given her half an hour of that
brilliance with which he entertained his guests! if he would
occasionally have shown her that he cared whether she was tired, that it
made any difference to his happiness whether she was happy!  She was a
woman with intense capacity for loving, but there was no fuel for the
fire, and it was dying out for sheer want of material.  Women of lighter
character might have directed their affections elsewhere; women of more
versatile temperament might have found other interests for themselves;
she did neither.  Though strong, her intellect was neither quick nor of
great range; it was deep rather than wide in its extent.  It must be
remembered, also, that a multitude of interests which are open to a
woman in the present day, were quite unknown to her.  The whole world of
literature and science was an unknown thing; and art was only accessible
in the two forms of fancy work and illumination, for neither of which
had she capacity or taste.  She could sew, cook, and act as a doctor
when required, which was not often; and there the list of her
accomplishments ended.  There was more in her, but nobody cared to draw
it out, and herself least of all.

Lady Basset bowed gravely in reply to Godfrey's courtesy, broke the seal
of the letter, and gazed upon the cabalistic characters therein written.
Had they been Chinese, she would have learned as much from them as she
did.  She handed back the letter with a request that he would read it to
her, if he possessed the art of reading; if not, she would send for
Father Collard.

For a moment, but no more, the temptation visited Godfrey to read the
letter as something which it was not.  He dismissed it, not from any
conscientious motive, but simply from the doubt whether he could keep up
the delusion.

"Good!" said Lady Basset, when the letter had been read to her; "and now
what is that you are to tell me?"

"Dame, suffer me first to say that it is of the gravest moment that
there be no eavesdroppers about, and that your Ladyship be pleased to
keep strait silence thereupon.  Otherwise, I dare not utter that
wherewith his Grace's letter hath ado."

"There be no ears at hand save my bower-woman's, and I will answer for
her as for myself.  I can keep silence when need is.  Speak on."

"Then, Lady, I give you to know that the Duchess' Grace, your mother, is
now in ward under keeping of my father, at Hazelwood Manor, and--"

Lady Basset had risen to her feet, with a strange glow in her eyes.

"My mother!" she said.

"Your Lady and mother, Dame; and she--"

"My mother!" she said, again.  "My mother!  I thought my mother was dead
and buried, years and years ago!"

"Verily, no, Lady; and my Lord Archbishop's Grace doth most earnestly
desire your Ladyship to pay her visit, she being now near death, and
your Lord and brother the Duke denying to come unto her."

The glow deepened in the dark eyes.

"My Lord my brother refused to go to my mother?"

"He did so, Dame."

"And she is near death?"

"Very near, I am told, Lady."

"And he wist it?"

"He wist it."

Lady Basset seemed for a moment to have forgotten everything but the
one.

"Lead on," she said.  "I will go to her--poor Mother!  I can scarce
remember her; I was so young when taken from her.  But I think she loved
me once.  I will go, though no other soul on earth keep me company."

"Lady," said Godfrey, saying the exact reverse of truth, "I do right
heartily trust your Lord shall not let you therein."

"What matter?" she said.  "If the Devil and all his angels stood in the
way, I would go to my dying mother."

She left the room for a minute, and to Godfrey's dismay came back
attired for her journey, as if she meant to set out there and then.

"But, Lady!" he expostulated.

"You need not tarry for me," she said, calmly.  "I can find the way, and
I have sent word to bid mine horses."

This was unendurable.  Godfrey, in his dismay, left the room with only a
courtesy, and sought Lord Basset in the hall.

"Ah! she's taken the bit betwixt her teeth," said he.  "I warrant you'd
best leave her be; she'll go now, if it be on a witch's broom.  I'll
forbid it, an' you will, but I do you to wit I might as well entreat yon
tree not to wave in the wind.  When she doth take the bit thus, she's--"

An emphatic shake of Lord Basset's head finished the sentence.  He rose
as if it were more trouble than it was reasonable to impose, walked into
his wife's room, and asked her where she was going that winter day.

"You are scarce wont to inquire into my comings and goings," she said,
coldly.  "But if it do your Lordship ease to wit the same, I am going to
Hazelwood Manor, whence yonder young gentleman is now come."

"How if I forbid it?"

"My Lord, I am sent for to my dying mother.  Your Lordship is a
gentleman, I believe, and therefore not like to forbid me.  But if you
so did, yea, twenty times twice told, I should answer you as now I do.
Seven years have I done your bidding, and when I return I will do it yet
again.  But not now.  Neither you, nor Satan himself, should stay me
this one time."

"Your Ladyship losengeth," [flatters] was the careless answer.  "Fare
you well.  I'll not hinder you.  As for Satan, though it pleaseth you to
count me in with him, I'll be no surety for his doings.  Master
Foljambe, go you after this crack-brained dame of mine, or tarry you
here with me and drink a cup of Malvoisie wine?"

Godfrey would very much have preferred to remain with Lord Basset; but a
wholesome fear of his father and the Archbishop together restrained him
from doing so.  He was exceedingly vexed to be made to continue his
journey thus without intermission; but Lady Basset was already on a
pillion behind her squire, and Emeriarde on another behind the groom, a
few garments having been hastily squeezed into a saddle-bag carried by
the latter.  This summary way of doing things was almost unheard of in
the fourteenth century; and Godfrey entertained a private opinion that
"crack-brained" was a truthful epithet.

"Needs must," said he; "wherefore I pray your Lordship mercy.  Her
Ladyship shall scantly make good road to Hazelwood without I go withal.
But--_ha, chetife_!"

Lord Basset slightly laughed, kissed his hand to his wife, lifted his
hat to Godfrey with a shrug of his shoulders, and walked back into
Drayton Manor House.



CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

TOO LITTLE.

  "God's very kindest answers to our prayers
  Come often in denials or delays."

  S.W. Partridge.

Lord Basset turned back into his house with a sensation akin to relief.
Not that he allowed the thought of his wife's unhappiness to deter him
from any course on which he had set his heart, but that he felt the
pressure of her atmosphere, and could not enjoy his transgressions with
the full _abandon_ which he would have liked.  Her stately, cold,
unbending reserve was like a constant chill and blight.  How much more
happy they might have been if they had chosen!  The world held many a
worse man than Lord Basset; he was rather idle and careless than wicked,
though idleness and carelessness are very often the seed of wickedness,
when left to go to flower.  If she would only have dropped that haughty
coldness, he thought, he could have felt interest in her, and have taken
some pleasure in her society; while her conviction was that if he would
only have shown some interest, she could have loved him and returned it.
Would both have done it together, the result might have been attained.

Mr Godfrey Foljambe was meditating, not on this, but on his own
personal wrongs, as he led the little cavalcade in an easterly
direction.  First, he had been deprived of that glass of Malvoisie--
which would probably have been plural rather than singular--and of a
conversation with Lord Basset, which might have resulted in something of
interest: and life was exceedingly devoid of interest, thought Mr
Godfrey, in a pessimistic spirit.  He had not discovered that, to a
great extent, life is to every man what he chooses to make it; that he
who keeps his eyes fixed on street mud need not expect to discover
pearls, while he who attentively scans the heavens is not at all
unlikely to see stars.  Let a man set himself diligently to hunt for
either his misfortunes or his mercies, and he will find plenty of the
article in request.  Misfortunes were the present object of Mr
Godfrey's search, and he had no difficulty in discovering them.  He was
disgusted with the folly of Lady Basset in thus setting off at once, and
making him set off, without so much as an hour's rest.  It was just like
a woman!  Women never had a scrap of patience.  This pleasing illusion
that all patience was masculine was kept up in popular literature just
so long as men were the exclusive authors; when women began to write,
otherwise than on kingly sufferance of the nobler half of creation, it
was seen that the feminine view of that and similar subjects was not
quite so restricted.  Last and worst to young Godfrey was the
expectation of his father's displeasure.  Sir Godfrey's anger was no
passing cloud, as his son well knew.  To be thought to have failed in
his mission--as assuredly he would be--by his own fault, would result in
considerable immediate discomfort, and might even damage his worldly
prospects in future.  He would gladly have prolonged the journey; for
his instinct always led him to put off the evil day rather than to face
it and put it behind him--which last is usually the wiser course; but
Lady Basset would brook no delay, and on the afternoon of the second day
after leaving Drayton they rode up to Hazelwood Manor.

Godfrey hastily despatched the porter's lad to inform his mother of Lady
Basset's arrival; and Lady Foljambe met her on the steps of the hall.
The latter was scandalised to find that the former saw no need for
secrecy, or at any rate had no intention of preserving it.

"Dame," said Lady Foljambe, "I am honoured by your Ladyship's visit.
Pray you, suffer me to serve you with hypocras and spice in your privy
chamber."

This was intended as a gentle hint to the visitor that secrets were not
to be talked in the hall; but the hint was not accepted.

"How fares my Lady and mother?" was the response.

"Dame, much worse than when my son departed," said Lady Foljambe, in a
fluttered manner.

"Then I pray you to break my coming, and lead me to her forthwith," said
Lady Basset, in her style of stately calm.

A curtain was drawn aside, and Perrote came forward.

"Damoiselle Jeanne!" she said, greeting Lady Basset by the old youthful
title unheard for years.  "My darling, mine own dear child!"

A smile, not at all usual there, quivered for a moment on the calm fixed
lips.

"Is this mine ancient nurse, Perrote de Carhaix?" she said.  "I think I
know her face."

The smile was gone in a moment, as she repeated her wish to be taken
immediately to the Countess.

Lady Foljambe felt she had no choice.  She led the way to the chamber of
the royal prisoner, requesting Lady Basset to wait for a moment at the
door.

The Countess sat no longer in her cushioned chair by the window.  She
was now confined to her bed, where she lay restlessly, moaning at
intervals, but always on one theme.  "My children! my lost children!
Will not God give me back _one_?"

Lady Foljambe signed to Perrote--she scarcely knew why--to break the
news to the suffering mother.

"Lady, the Lord hath heard your moaning, and hath seen your tears," said
Perrote, kneeling by the bed.  "He hath given you back--"

"My son?"

The cry was a pitiful one.  Then, as ever, the boy was the dearest to
his mother's heart.

"Very dear Lady, no.  Your daughter."

It was painful to see how the sudden gleam died out of the weary eyes.

"Ah, well!" she said, after an instant's pause.  "Well!  I asked but for
one, and when man doth that, he commonly gets the lesser of the twain.
Well!  I shall be glad to see my Jeanne.  Let her come in."

Lady Basset came forward and bent over the dying woman.

"Dame!" she said.

"Come, now!" was the answer.  "There be folks enough call me Dame.  Only
two in all this world can call me Mother."

"Mother!" was the response, in a tremulous voice.  And then the icy
stateliness broke up, and passionate sobs broke in, mingled with the
sounds of "O Mother!  Mother!"

"That's good, little lass," said the Countess.  "It's good to hear that,
but once, _ma fillette_.  But wherefore tarrieth thy brother away?  It
must be King Edward that will not suffer him to come."

It was piteous to hear her cling thus to the old illusion.  All the time
of her imprisonment, though now and then in a fit of anger she could
hurl bitter names at her son, yet, when calm, she had usually maintained
that he was kept away from her, and refused to be convinced that his
absence was of his own free will.  The longer the illusion lasted, the
more stubbornly she upheld it.

"'Tis not always the best-loved that loveth back the best," said
Perrote, gently, "without man's best love be, as it should be, fixed on
God.  And 'tis common for fathers and mothers to love better than they
be loved; the which is more than all other true of the Father in
Heaven."

"Thou mayest keep thy sermons, old woman, till mass is sung," said the
Countess, in her cynical style.  "Ah me!  My Jean would come to the old,
white-haired mother that risked her life for his--he would come if he
could.  He must know how my soul hungereth for the sight of his face.  I
want nothing else.  Heaven would be Purgatory to me without him."

"Ah, my dear Lady!" tenderly replied Perrote.  "If only I might hear you
say that of the Lord that laid down His life for you!"

"I am not a nun," was the answer; "and I shall not say that which I feel
not."

"God forbid you should, Lady!  But I pray Him to grant you so to feel."

"I tell thee, I am not a nun," said the Countess, rather pettishly.

Her idea was that real holiness was impossible out of the cloister, and
that to love God was an entirely different type of feeling from the
affection she had for her human friends.  This was the usual sentiment
in the Middle Ages.  But Perrote had been taught of God, and while her
educational prejudices acted like coloured or smoked glass, and dimmed
the purity of the heavenly light, they were unable to hide it
altogether.

"Very dear Lady," she said, "God loveth sinners; and He must then love
other than nuns.  Shall they not love Him back, though they be not in
cloister?"

"Thou hadst better win in cloister thyself, when thou art rid of me,"
was the answer, in a tone which was a mixture of languor and sarcasm.
"Thou art scarce fit to tarry without, old woman."

"I will do that which God shall show me," said Perrote, calmly.  "Dame,
were it not well your Grace should essay to sleep?"

"Nay, not so.  I have my Jeanne to look at, that I have not seen for
five-and-twenty years.  I shall sleep fast enough anon.  Daughter, art
thou a happy woman, or no?"

Lady Basset answered by a shake of the head.  "Why, what aileth thee?
Is it thy baron, or thy childre?"

"I have no child, Mother."

The Countess heard the regretful yearning of the tone.

"Thank the saints," she said.  "Thou wert better.  Soothly, to increase
objects for love is to increase sorrow.  If thou have no childre,
they'll never be torn from thee, nor they will never break thine heart
by ill behaving.  And most folks behave ill in this world.  _Ha,
chetife_! 'tis a weary, dreary place, this world, as ever a poor woman
was in.  Hast thou a good man to thy baron, child?"

"He might be worser," said Lady Basset, icily.

"That's true of an handful of folks," said the Countess.  "And I reckon
he might be better, eh?  That's true of most.  Good lack, I marvel
wherefore we all were made.  Was it by reason God loved or hated us?
Say, my Predicant Friaress."

"Very dear Lady, the wise man saith, `God made a man rightful, and he
meddled himself with questions without, number.'  [Ecclesiastes eight,
verse 29.]  And Saint Paul saith that `God commendeth His charity in us,
for when we were sinners, Christ was dead for us.'  [Romans five, verse
8.]  Moreover, Saint John--"

"Hold!  There be two Scriptures.  Where is the sermon?"

"The Scriptures, Lady, preach a better sermon than I can."

"That's but a short one.  Man's ill, and God is good; behold all thine
homily.  That man is ill, I lack no preaching friar to tell me.  As to
God being good, the Church saith so, and there I rest.  Mary, Mother! if
He were good, He would bring my Jean back to me."

"Very dear Lady, God is wiser than men, and He seeth the end from the
beginning."

"Have done, Perrotine!  I tell thee, if God be good, He will bring my
Jean to me.  There I abide.  I'll say it, if He do.  I would love any
man that wrought that: and if He will work it, I will love Him--and not
otherwise.  Hold!  I desire no more talk."

The Countess turned her face to the wall, and Perrote retired, with
tears in her eyes.

"Lord, Thou art wise!" she said in her heart; "wiser than I, than she,
than all men.  But never yet have I known her to depart from such a word
as that.  Oh, if it be possible,--if it be possible!--Thou who camest
down from Heaven to earth, come down once more to the weak and stubborn
soul of this dying woman, and grant her that which she requests, if so
she may be won to love thee!  Father, the time is very short, and her
soul is very dark.  O fair Father, Jesu Christ, lose not this soul for
which Thou hast died!"

Perrote's next move was to await Lady Basset's departure from her
mother's chamber, and to ask her to bestow a few minutes' private talk
on her old nurse.  The Princess complied readily, and came into the
opposite chamber where Amphillis sat sewing.

"Damoiselle Jeanne," said Perrote, using the royal title of Lady
Basset's unmarried days; "may I pray you tell me if you have of late
seen the Lord Duke your brother?"

"Ay, within a year," said Lady Basset, listlessly.

"Would it please you to say if King Edward letteth his coming?"

"I think not so."

"Would he come, if he were asked yet again, and knew that a few weeks--
maybe days--would end his mother's life?"

"I doubt it, Perrotine."

"Wherefore?  He can love well where he list."

"Ay, where he list.  But I misdoubt if ever he loved her--at the least,
sithence she let him from wedding the Damoiselle de Ponteallen."

"Then he loved the Damoiselle very dearly?"

"For a month--ay."

"But wherefore, when the matter was by--"

Lady Basset answered with a bitter little laugh, which reminded Perrote
of her mother's.

"Because he loved Jean de Montfort, and she thwarted _him_, not the
Damoiselle.  He loved Alix de Ponteallen passionately, and passion dies;
'tis its nature.  It is not passionately, but undyingly, that he loves
himself.  Men do; 'tis their nature."

Perrote shrewdly guessed that the remark had especial reference to one
man, and that not the Duke of Bretagne.

"Ah, that is the nature of all sinners," she said, "and therefore of all
men and women also.  Dame, will you hearken to your old nurse, and grant
her one boon?"

"That will I, Perrotine, if it be in my power.  I grant not so many
boons, neither can I, that I should grudge one to mine old nurse.  What
wouldst?"

"Dame, I pray you write a letter to my Lord Duke, the pitifullest you
may pen, and send one of your men therewith, to pray him, as he loveth
you, or her, or God, that he will come and look on her ere she die.
Tell him his old nurse full lovingly entreateth him, and if he will so
do, I will take veil when my Lady is gone hence, and spend four nights
in the week in prayer for his welfare.  Say I will be his bedes-woman
for ever, in any convent he shall name.  Say anything that will bring
him!"

"I passed thee my word, and I will keep it," said Lady Basset, as she
rose.  "But if I know him, what I should say certainly to bring him
would be that Sir Oliver de Clisson lay here in dungeon, and that if he
would come he should see his head strake off in yonder court.  He is a
fair lover, my brother; but he is a far better hater."

Perrote sighed.

"Amphillis!" came faintly up the stairs and along the gallery.
"Am-phil-lis!"

"Go, child," said Perrote, replying to a look from Amphillis.  "'Tis
Agatha calling thee.  What would the foolish maid?"

Amphillis left her work upon the bench and ran down.

"Well, it is merry matter to catch hold of thee!" said Agatha, who was
waiting at the foot of the stairs, and who never could recollect, unless
Lady Foljambe were present, that Amphillis was to be addressed with more
reverence than before.  "Here be friends of thine come to visit thee."

"Friends!--of mine!" exclaimed Amphillis, in surprise.  "Why, I haven't
any friends."

"Well, enemies, then," said Agatha, with a giggle.  "Come, go into hall
and see who they be, and then tell me."

Amphillis obeyed, and to her still greater surprise, found herself in
the presence of Mr Altham and Regina.

"Ah, here she cometh!" was her uncle's greeting.  "Well, my maid, I am
fain to see thee so well-looking, I warrant thee.  Can'st love a new
aunt, thinkest?"

"That am I secure," replied Amphillis, smiling, and kissing the
goldsmith's daughter.

"And an old uncle belike?" pursued Mr Altham, kissing her in his turn.

"Assuredly, dear Uncle; but I pray, how came you hither?"

"Dat shall I tell you," said Mrs Altham, "for oderwise you shall not
know what good uncle you have.  He promise to take me to mine own home
in Dutchland, to see my greatmoder and mine aunts; and when we nigh
ready were, he say, `See you, now! shall we not go round by Derbyshire,
to see Amphillis, and sail from Hull?'  So we come round all dis way; he
miss you so, and want to make him sure you be well and kindly used.  See
you?"

"How kind and good are you both!" said Amphillis, gratefully.  "Pray
you, good Aunt Regina, came Ricarda home safe?"

"She came safe, and she had but de scold well, tanks to your message; if
not, she had de beat, beat, I ensure you, and she deserve dat full well.
She was bad girl, bad.  Said I not to you, De mans is bad, and de
womans is badder?  It is true."

"She's a weary hussy!" said Mr Altham; "but she's been a sight better
maid sithence she came back.  She saith 'tis thy doing, Phyllis."

"Mine?" exclaimed Amphillis.

"She saith so.  I wis not how.  And art happy here, my maid?  Doth thy
dame entreat thee well? and be thy fellows pleasant company?  Because if
no, there's room for thee in the patty-shop, I can tell thee.
Saundrina's wed, and Ricarda looks to be, and my wife and I should be
full fain to have thee back for our daughter.  Howbeit, if thou art here
welsome and comfortable, we will not carry thee off against thy will.
What sayest?"

"Truly, dear Uncle, I am here full welsome, saving some small matters of
little moment; and under your good pleasure, I would fain not go hence
so long as one liveth that is now sore sick in this house, and nigh to
death.  Afterward, if it like you to dispose of me otherwise, I am alway
at your bidding."

"Well said.  But what should best like thee?"

Amphillis felt the question no easy one.  She would not wish to leave
Perrote; but if Perrote took the veil, that obstacle would be removed;
and even if she did not, Amphillis had no certain chance of accompanying
her wherever she might go, which would not improbably be to Drayton
Manor.  To leave the rest of her present companions would be no hardship
at all, except--

Amphillis's heart said "except," and her conscience turned away and
declined to pursue that road.  Norman Hylton had shown no preference for
her beyond others, so far as she knew, and her maidenly instinct warned
her that even her thoughts had better be kept away from him.  Before she
answered, a shadow fell between her and the light; and Amphillis looked
up into the kindly face of Archbishop Neville.

The Archbishop had delayed his further journey for the sake of the dying
Countess, whom he wished to see again, especially if his influence could
induce her son to come to her.  He now addressed himself to Mr Altham.

"Master Altham, as I guess?" he asked, pleasantly.

Mr Altham rose, as in duty bound, in honour to a priest, and a priest
who, as he dimly discerned by his canonicals, was not altogether a
common one.

"He, and your humble servant, holy Father."

"You be uncle, I count, of my cousin Amphillis here?"

"Sir!  Amphillis your cousin!"

"Amphillis is my cousin," was the quiet answer; "and I am the Archbishop
of York."

To say that Mr Altham was struck dumb with amazement would be no figure
of speech.  He stared from the Archbishop to Amphillis, and back again,
as if his astonishment had fairly paralysed his powers, that of sight
only excepted; and had not Regina roused him from his condition of
helplessness by an exclamation of "_Ach, heilige, Maria_!" there is no
saying how long he might have stood so doing.

"Ay, Uncle," said Amphillis, with a smile; "this is my Lord elect of
York, and he is pleased to say that my father was his kinsman."

"And if it serve you, Master Altham," added the Archbishop, "I would
fain have a privy word with you touching this my cousin."

Mr Altham's reply was two-fold.  "Saints worshipped might they be!" was
meant in answer to Amphillis.  Then, to the Archbishop, he hastily
continued, "Sir, holy Father, your Grace's most humble servant!  I hold
myself at your Grace's bidding, whensoever it shall please your Grace."

"That is well," said the Archbishop, smiling.  "We will have some talk
this evening, if it serve you."



CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

THE REQUEST GRANTED.

  "It is not love that steals the heart from love: 'Tis the hard world,
  and its perplexing cares; Its petrifying selfishness, its pride, its
  low ambition, and its paltry aims."

  Caroline Bowles.

Lady Basset fulfilled her promise of writing to her brother, and sent
her own squire with the letter.  It was uncertain where the Duke might
be, and consequently how long the journey might take.  The messenger was
instructed to seek him first at Windsor, and to be guided in his further
movements by what he might hear there.  No time was lost, for the squire
set out on his journey that very evening.

About the time of his departure, the Archbishop and Mr Altham held
their little conference.  Regina was at work in the window-seat, by her
husband's contrivance.  Theoretically, he took the popular view of the
condign inferiority of the female intellect; while practically he held
his Regina in the highest reverence, and never thought of committing
himself on any important subject without first ascertaining her opinion.
And the goldsmith's daughter deserved his esteem; for she possessed a
warm heart and a large reserve of quiet good sense.  They were both
highly delighted to see that the Archbishop seemed inclined to show
kindness to the young cousin whose relationship he, at least, was not
too proud to acknowledge.

"Nor should he not be," said Regina, whose tiny bobbins were flying
about on her lace-cushion, too fast for the eye to follow.  "Did we not
come, all, from von man and von woman?  I tink Adam was not too proud to
speak to Abel: and if Cain would not talk, he was bad man, and we should
not take de pattern after de bad mans.  Ach! if dere was none but good
mans and good womans, what better of a world it should be!"

Regina had too much tact and sense of propriety to thrust herself into
the conversation between the Archbishop and her husband; she sat
silently listening and working, and the sprigs of lace flowers grew
rapidly under her skilful fingers.

"I would fain speak with you, Mr Altham," said the Archbishop,
"touching the disposing of my cousin Amphillis.  I cannot but feel that
the maid hath been somewhat wronged by her father's kin; and though,
thanks be to God, I never did her nor him any hurt, yet, being of his
kindred, I would desire you to suffer me a little to repair this wrong.
She seemeth me a good maid and a worthy, and well bred in courtesy;
wherefore, if my word might help her to secure a better settlement, I
would not it were lacking.  I pray you, therefore, to count me as your
friend and hers, and tell me how you think to order her life.  She hath,
I take it, none other guardian than you?"

"My Lord, your Grace doth us great honour.  'Tis true, the maid hath
none other guardian than I; and her mother was mine only sister, and I
held her dear: and seeing she had none other to give an helping hand, I
was in the mind to portion her with mine own daughters.  I gave to the
two, and shall give to the other, five pound apiece to their marriages,
and likewise their wedding gear; and seeing she is a good, decent maid,
and a credit to her kin, I would do the same by Amphillis."

"Therein do you act full nobly, Master Altham," said the Archbishop; for
the sum named was a very handsome one for a girl in Mr Altham's station
of life at that time.  Only a tradesman very well-to-do could have
afforded to portion his daughter so highly, with an amount equivalent in
the present day to about 80 pounds.  "Go to, then: will you suffer me
that I endow my young kinswoman with the like sum, and likewise find her
in an horse for her riding?"

In days when public conveyances of all kinds were totally unknown, a
horse was almost a necessity, and only the very poor were without one at
least.  The price of such a horse as would be considered fit for
Amphillis was about thirty shillings or two pounds.  The offer of the
Archbishop therefore struck Mr Altham as a most generous one, and his
thanks were profuse accordingly.

"Have you taken any thought for her disposal?" inquired the prelate.

"No, in very deed," replied the worthy patty-maker, with some
hesitation.  "There be nigh me divers youths of good conditions, that I
dare be bound should be fain to wed with a maid of good lineage and
decent 'haviour, with a pretty penny in her pocket; but I never brake my
mind to any, and--" here Mr Altham glanced at Regina, and received an
optic telegram across the bobbins--"if your Grace were pleased to think
of any that you had a favour for, I would not in no wise stand in the
way thereto."

"Methinks," said the Archbishop, "under your leave, worthy Master
Altham, my cousin might look somewhat higher.  Truly, I mean not to cast
scorn on any good and honest man; we be all sons of Adam: but--in a
word, to speak out straightway, I have one in my mind that I reckon
should not make an ill husband for Amphillis, and this is Sir Godfrey
Foljambe his squire, Master Norman Hylton, that is of birth even with
her, and I believe a full worthy young man, and well bred.  If it may
suit with your reckoning, what say you to breaking your mind to him
thereupon, and seeing if he be inclined to entertain the same?"

"My Lord," replied Master Altham, after exchanging another telegram with
his Mentor, "in good sooth, both Phyllis and I are much beholden unto
you, and I will full gladly so do."

"Yet, Master Altham, I would desire you to be satisfied touching this
young man's conditions, ere you do fix your mind upon him.  I hear well
of him from all that do know him--indeed, I am myself acquaint with some
of his near kin--with twain of his uncles and a brother--yet I would
fain have you satisfied therewith no less than myself."

Optic telegrams would not answer this time, for Regina's eyes were not
lifted from the lace-cushion.  Mr Altham hesitated a moment, murmured a
few words of thanks, and at last came out openly with--"What sayest,
sweetheart?"

"He will do," was Regina's answer.  "He is good man.  He have clear
eyes, he look you in de face; he pray in de chapel, and not run his eyes
all round; he laugh and chatter-patter not wid other damsels; he is sad,
courteous, and gent.  He will do, husband."

Little idea had Amphillis that her future was being thus settled for her
downstairs, as she sat in the Countess's chamber, tending her sick lady.
The Countess was slowly sinking.  Father Jordan thought she might live
perhaps for another month; it was only a question of time.  Perrote said
that the soul was keeping the body alive.  The old fiery flashes of
passion were never seen now; she showed a little occasional irritability
and petulance, but usually her mood was one of listless, languid
weariness, from which nothing aroused her, and in which nothing
interested her.  The one burning, crying desire of her heart was to see
her son.  She did not know of the fruitless application which had been
already made to him; still less of the renewed appeal, to which no
answer could be returned for some days at least.  Her belief was that
Sir Godfrey would not permit any message to be sent, and that if he did,
King Edward would not allow the Duke, who was his vassal, to obey it.
To the least hint that the Duke might or could himself decline, she
refused to listen so decidedly that no one had the heart to repeat it.
More plaintive, day by day, grew the dying mother's yearning moans for
her best-loved child.  In vain Perrote tried to assure her that human
love was inadequate to satisfy the cravings of her immortal soul; that
God had made her for Himself, and that only when it reached and touched
Him could the spirit which He had given find rest.

"I cannot hearken to thee, old woman," said the dying prisoner.  "My
whole soul is set on my lad, and is bent to see him before I die.  Let
God grant me that, and I will listen to Him after--I will love the good
God then.  I cannot rest, I cannot rest without my lad!"

The days wore on, and the snows of February passed into the winds of
March.  Lady Basset remained at Hazelwood, but her squire had not
returned.  The Countess was very weak now.

The Archbishop of York had delayed his departure too.  He would answer
for it, he said, both to his superior of Canterbury and to the King.  In
his own heart he was not satisfied with the ministrations of kindly,
ignorant Father Jordan, who was very desirous to soothe the perturbed
soul of the Countess, and had not the least idea how to do it.  He
thought he might yet be of service to the dying Princess.

Very cautiously Mr Altham ventured with some trepidation to sound
Norman Hylton as to his feelings towards Amphillis.  Notwithstanding the
Archbishop's countenance and solid help, he was sorely afraid of being
snubbed and sat upon for his presumption.  He was therefore
proportionately relieved when Norman assured him he wished no better
fate to overtake him, but that he was unable to see how he could
possibly afford to marry.

"Verily, Master Altham, I do you to wit, I have but five possessions--
myself, my raiment, mine harness [armour was termed harness up to the
seventeenth century], mine horse, and my book.  Not a yard of land have
I, nor look to have: nor one penny in my plack, further than what I
earn.  How then can I look to keep a wife?  Well I wot that Mistress
Amphillis were fortune in herself to him that is so lucky as to win her;
but in good sooth, no such thing is there as luck, and I should say,
that hath so much favour of.  God, seeing the wise man saith that `a
prudent wife is given properly of the Lord.'  Yet I reckon that the
wisest in the world can scarce keep him warm of a winter day by lapping
him in his wisdom; and the fairest and sweetest lady shall lack somewhat
to eat beside her own sweetness.  Could I see my way thereto, trust me,
I would not say you nay; but--"

"But how, Master Hylton, if she carried her pocket full of nobles?"

"Ah, then it were other matter.  I would stand to it gladly if so were."

"Well, for how much look you?  Amphillis should bring you a portion of
ten pound beside her wedding gear, and an horse."

"Say you so?  Methinks we were made, then, could we win into some great
house to serve the lord and lady thereof."

"I cast no doubt, if he had the opportunity, my Lord's Grace of York
should help you at that pinch.  He seems full ready to do his young
kinswoman all the good he may."

"May I but see my way afore me, Master Altham, nought should make me
gladder than to fulfil this your behest."

Mr Altham laid the case before the Archbishop.

"Tell Master Hylton he need give himself not so much thought thereon as
a bee should pack in his honey-bag," was the smiling reply.  "I will
warrant, so soon as it is known in the Court that I lack place for a
newly-wedded cousin and her husband, there shall be so many warm nests
laid afore me, that I shall have but to pick and choose.  If that be all
the bar to my cousin's wedding, I may bless it to-morrow."

It was evident that there was no other difficulty, from the glad light
in Norman Hylton's eyes when he was told the Archbishop's answer.  The
matter was settled at once.  Only one small item was left out,
considered of no moment--the bride-elect knew nothing about the
transaction.  That was a pleasure to come.  That it would, should,
might, or could, be anything but a pleasure, never occurred either to
the Archbishop or to Mr Altham.  They would not have belonged to their
century if it had done so.

It was the afternoon of the ninth of March.  No answer had been received
from the Duke, and Perrote had almost lost hope.  The Countess
petulantly declined to allow any religious conversation in her chamber.
She was restless and evidently miserable, Perrote thought more so than
merely from the longing desire to see her son; but some strange and
unusual reserve seemed to have come over her.  Physically, she sank day
by day: it would soon be hour by hour.

Amphillis was off duty for the moment, and had seated herself with her
work at the window of her own room, which looked into the outer court,
and over the walls towards Derby.  She kept upstairs a good deal at this
time.  There were several reasons for this.  She wished to be close at
hand if her services were needed; she had no fancy for Agatha's rattle;
and--she had not asked herself why--she instinctively kept away from the
company of Norman Hylton.  Amphillis was not one of those girls who wear
their hearts upon their sleeves; who exhibit their injuries, bodily or
mental, and chatter freely over them to every comer.  Her instinct was
rather that of the wounded hart, to plunge into the deepest covert, away
from every eye but the Omniscient.

Mr and Mrs Altham had pursued their journey without any further
communication to Amphillis.  It was Lady Foljambe's prerogative to make
this; indeed, a very humble apology had to be made to her for taking the
matter in any respect out of her hands.  This was done by the
Archbishop, who took the whole blame upon himself, and managed the
delicate affair with so much grace, that Lady Foljambe not only forgave
the Althams, but positively felt herself flattered by his interference.
She would inform Amphillis, after the death of the Countess, how her
future had been arranged.

The maiden herself, in ignorance of all arrangements made or imagined,
was indulging in some rather despondent meditations.  The state of the
Countess, whom she deeply pitied; the probably near parting from
Perrote, whom she had learned to love; and another probable parting of
which she would not let herself think, were enough to make her heart
sink.  She would, of course, go back to her uncle, unless it pleased
Lady Foljambe to recommend (which meant to command) her to the service
of some other lady.  And Amphillis was one of those shy, intense souls
for whom the thought of new faces and fresh scenes has in it more fear
than hope.  She knew that there was just a possibility that Lady
Foljambe might put her into Ricarda's place, which she had not yet
filled up, three or four different negotiations to that end having
failed to effect it; and either this or a return to her uncle was the
secret hope of her heart.  She highly respected and liked her new Aunt
Regina, and her Uncle Robert was the only one of her relatives on the
mother's side whom she loved at all.  Yet the prospect of a return to
London was shadowed by the remembrance of Alexandra, who had ever been
to Amphillis a worry and a terror.

As Amphillis sat by the window, she now and then lifted her head to look
out for a moment; and she did so now, hearing the faint ring of a horn
in the distance.  Her eyes lighted on a party of horsemen, who were
coming up the valley.  They were too far away to discern details, but
she saw some distant flashes, as if something brilliant caught the
sunlight, and also, as she imagined, the folds of a banner floating.
Was it a party of visitors coming to the Manor, or, more likely, a group
of travellers on their way to Chesterfield from Derby?  Or was it--oh,
was it possible!--the Duke of Bretagne?

Amphillis's embroidery dropped on the rushes at her feet, as she sprang
up and watched the progress of the travellers.  She was pretty sure
presently that the banner was white, then that some of the travellers
were armed, then that they were making for Hazelwood, and at last that
the foremost knight of the group wore a helmet royally encircled.  She
hardly dared to breathe when the banner at last showed its blazon as
pure ermine; and it scarcely needed the cry of "Notre Dame de Gwengamp!"
to make Amphillis rush to the opposite room, beckon Perrote out of it,
and say to her in breathless ecstasy--

"The Duke!  O Mistress Perrote, the Lord Duke!"

"Is it so?" said Perrote, only a little less agitated than Amphillis.
"Is it surely he? may it not be a messenger only?"

"I think not so.  There is an ermine pennon, and the foremost knight
hath a circlet on his helm."

"Pray God it so be!  Phyllis, I will go down anon and see how matters
be.  Go thou into our Lady's chamber--she slept but now--and if she
wake, mind thou say not a word to her hereupon.  If it be in very deed
my Lord Duke, I will return with no delay."

"But if she ask?"

"Parry her inquirations as best thou mayest."

Amphillis knew in her heart that she was an exceedingly bad hand at that
business; but she was accustomed to do as she was told, and accordingly
she said no more.  She was relieved to find the Countess asleep, the cry
for admission not having been loud enough to wake her.  She sat down and
waited.

Perrote, meanwhile, had gone down into the hall, where Lady Foljambe sat
at work with Agatha.  Sir Godfrey was seated before the fire, at which
he pointed a pair of very straight and very lengthy legs; his hands were
in his pockets, and his look conveyed neither contentment nor
benevolence.  In a recess of the window sat young Matthew, whistling
softly to himself as he stroked a hawk upon his gloved wrist, while his
brother Godfrey stood at another window, looking out, with his arms upon
the sill.  The only person who noticed Perrote's entrance was Agatha,
and she pulled a little face by way of relief to her feelings.  Lady
Foljambe worked on in silence.

"Sir," said Perrote, addressing herself to the master of the house,
"Phyllis tells me a party be making hither, that she hath seen from the
window; and under your good pleasure, I reckon, from what the maid saw,
that it be my Lord's Grace of Bretagne and his meynie."

Sir Godfrey struggled to his feet with an exclamation of surprise.  His
elder son turned round from the window; the younger said, "_Ha, jolife_!
Now, Gille, go on thy perch, sweet heart!" and set the falcon on its
perch.  Agatha's work went down in a moment.  Lady Foljambe alone seemed
insensible to the news.  At the same moment, the great doors at the end
of the hall were flung open, and the seneschal, with a low bow to his
master and mistress, cried--

"Room for the Duke's Grace of Brittany!"

As the new arrivals entered the hall, Lady Basset came in from the
opposite end.  The Duke, a fine, rather stern-looking man, strode
forward until he reached the dais where the family sat; and then,
doffing his crowned helmet, addressed himself to Sir Godfrey Foljambe.

"Sir, I give you good even.  King Edward your Lord greets you by me, and
bids you give good heed to that which you shall find herein."

At a motion from the Duke, quick and peremptory, one of his knights
stepped forth and delivered the royal letter.

Sir Godfrey took it into his hands with a low reverence, and bade his
seneschal fetch Father Jordan, without whose assistance it was
impossible for him to ascertain his Sovereign's bidding.

Father Jordan hastened in, cut the silken string, and read the letter.

"Messire,--Our will and pleasure is, that you shall entertain in your
Manor of Hazelwood, for such time as shall be his pleasure, our very
dear and well-beloved son, John, Duke of Brittany and Count de Montfort,
neither letting nor deferring the said Duke from intercourse with our
prisoner his mother, Margaret, Duchess of Brittany, but shall suffer him
to speak with her at his will.  And for so doing this shall be your
warrant.  By the King.  At our Castle of Winchester, the morrow of Saint
Romanus."

Lady Foljambe turned to the Duke and inquired when it would be his
pleasure to speak with the prisoner.

"When her physician counts it meet," said he, with a slight movement of
his shapely shoulders, which did not augur much gratification at the
prospect before him.  "By my faith, had not King Edward my father
insisted thereon, then had I never come on so idle a journey.  When I
looked every morrow for news from Bretagne, bidding me most likely
thither, to trot over half England for an old dame's diversion were
enough to try the patience of any knight on earth!  I shall not tarry
long here, I do ensure you, his Highness' bidding fulfilled; and I trust
your physician shall not long tarry me."

Sir Godfrey and Lady Foljambe were full of expressions of sympathy.
Lady Basset came forward, and spoke in a slightly cynical tone.

"Good morrow, my Lord," said she to her brother.  "You came not to see
me, I think, more in especial as I shall one of these days be an old
woman, when your Grace's regard for me shall perish.  Father Jordan, I
pray you, let it not be long ere you give leave for this loving son to
have speech of his mother.  'Twere pity he should break his heart by
tarrying."

Father Jordan nervously intimated that if the Countess were not asleep,
he saw no reason why his Grace's visit should be delayed at all.

"Nay, but under your leave, my good host, I will eat first," said the
Duke; "were it but to strengthen me for the ordeal which waiteth me."

Lady Foljambe disappeared at once, on hospitable thoughts intent, and
Sir Godfrey was profuse in apologies that the suggestion should have
needed to come from the Duke.  But the only person in the hall who,
except his sister, was not afraid of the Duke, stepped forth and spoke
her mind.



CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

SATISFIED AT LAST.

  "I am not eager, bold,
  Nor strong--all that is past:
  I'm ready _not_ to do,
  At last--at last.

  "My half-day's work is done,
  And this is all my part;
  I give a patient God
  My patient heart.

  "And grasp His banner still,
  Though all its blue be dim:
  These stripes, no less than stars,
  Lead after Him."

"Fair Lord," said Perrote de Carhaix, in the native tongue of both
herself and the Duke, "I am your old nurse, who held you in her arms as
a babe, and who taught your infant lips to speak.  I taught you the Ten
Commandments of God; have you forgotten them? or do you call such words
as you have spoken honouring your mother?  Is this the reward you pay
her for her mother-love, for her thousand anxieties, for her risked
life?  If it be so, God pardon you as He may!  But when you too reach
that point which is the common lot of all humanity--when you too lie
awaiting the dread summons of the inevitable angel who shall lead you
either into the eternal darkness or the everlasting light, beware lest
your dearest turn away from you, and act by you as you have done by
her!"

The Duke's black eyes shot forth fire.  He was an exceedingly passionate
man.

"Mademoiselle de Carhaix, do you know that you are my subject?"

"I am aware of it, my Lord."

"And that I could order your head struck off in yonder court?"

"You could, if yonder court were in Bretagne.  In the realm of another
sovereign, I scarcely think so, under your gracious pleasure.  But do
you suppose I should be silent for that?  When God puts His words into
the lips of His messengers, they must speak them out, whatever the
result may be."

"Mademoiselle considers herself, then, an inspired prophetess?" was the
contemptuous response.

"The Lord put His words once into the mouth of an ass," replied Perrote,
meekly.  "I think I may claim to be an ass's equal.  I have spoken, fair
Lord, and I shall add no more.  The responsibility lies now with you.
My message is delivered, and I pray God to give you ears to hear."

"Sir Godfrey Foljambe, is this the manner in which you think it meet
that one of your household should address a Prince?"

"Most gracious Lord, I am deeply distressed that this gentlewoman should
so far have forgotten herself.  But I humbly pray your Grace to remember
that she is but a woman; and women have small wit and much
spitefulness."

"In good sooth, I have need to remember it!" answered the Duke,
wrathfully.  "I never thought, when I put myself to the pains to journey
over half England to satisfy the fancies of a sick woman, that I was to
be received with insult and contumely after this fashion.  I pray you to
send this creature out of my sight, as the least reparation that can be
offered for such an injury."

"You need not, Sir," was the immediate reply of Perrote.  "I go, for
mine errand is done.  And for the rest, may God judge between us, and He
will."

The Duke sat down to the collation hastily spread before him, with the
air of an exceedingly injured man.  He would not have been quite so
angry, if his own conscience had not been so provoking as to second
every word of Perrote's reprimand.  And as it is never of the least use
for a man to quarrel with his conscience, he could do nothing but make
Perrote the scape-goat, unless, indeed, he had possessed sufficient
grace and humility to accept and profit by the rebuke:--which in his
eyes, was completely out of the question.  Had the Archbishop of York
been the speaker, he might possibly have condescended so far.  But the
whims of an old nurse--a subject--a woman--he told himself, must needs
be utterly beneath the notice of any one so exalted.  The excellence of
the medicine offered him could not even be considered, if it were
presented in a vessel of common pottery, chipped at the edges.

Notwithstanding his wrath, the Duke did sufficient justice to the
collation; and he then demanded, if it must be, to be taken to his
mother at once.  The sooner the ordeal was over, the better, and he did
not mean to remain at Hazelwood an hour longer than could be helped.

Lady Foljambe went up to prepare the Countess for the interview.  In her
chamber she found not only Amphillis, who was on duty, but the
Archbishop also.  He sat by the bed with the book of the Gospels in his
hands--a Latin version, of course--from which he had been translating a
passage to the invalid.

"Well, what now, Avena?" faintly asked the Countess, who read news in
Lady Foljambe's face.

There was no time to break it very gradually, for Lady Foljambe knew
that the Duke's impatience would not brook delay.

"Dame," she said, shortly, "my Lord your son--"

"Bring him in!" cried the Countess, in a voice of ecstasy, without
allowing Lady Foljambe to finish her sentence.  How it was to end she
seemed to have no doubt, and the sudden joy lent a fictitious strength
to her enfeebled frame.  "Bring him in! my Jean, my darling, my little
lad!  Said I not the lad should never forsake his old mother?  Bring him
in!"

Lady Foljambe drew back to allow the Duke to enter, for his step was
already audible.  He came in, and stood by the bed--tall, upright,
silent.

"My Jean!" cried the dying mother.

"Madame!" was the answer, decorous and icy.

"Kiss me, my Jean!  Why dost thou not kiss me?  Lad, I have not seen
thee all these weary years!"

The Duke, in a very proper manner, kissed the weak old hand which was
stretched out towards him.  His lips were warm, but his kiss was as cold
as a kiss well could be.

"Madame," said the Duke, mindful of the proprieties, "it gives me
indescribable grief to find you thus.  I am also deeply distressed that
it should be impossible for me to remain with you.  I expect news from
Bretagne every day--almost every hour--which I hope will summon me back
thither to triumph over my rebellious subjects, and to resume my throne
in victory.  You will, therefore, grant me excuse if it be impossible
for me to do more than kiss your hand and entreat your blessing."

"Not stay, my Jean!" she said, in piteous accents.  "Not stay, when thou
hast come so far to see me!  Dost thou know that I am dying?"

"Madame, I am infinitely grieved to perceive it.  But reasons of state
are imperative and paramount."

"My Lord will pardon me for observing," said the Archbishop's voice,
"with a royal kinsman of his own, that God may grant him many kingdoms,
but he can never have but one mother."

The Duke's answer was in his haughtiest manner.  "I assure you of my
regret, holy Father.  Necessity has no law."

"And no compassion?"

"Jean, my Jean!  Only one minute more--one minute cannot be of
importance.  My little lad, my best-loved! lay thy lips to mine, and say
thou lovest thine old mother, and let me bless thee, and then go, if it
must be, and I will die."

Amphillis wondered that the piteous passion of love in the tones of the
poor mother did not break down entirely the haughty coldness of the
royal son.  The Duke did indeed bend his stately knee, and touch his
mother's lips with his, but there was no shadow of response to her
clinging clasp, no warmth, however faint, in the kiss into which she
poured her whole heart.

"Jean, little Jean! say thou lovest me?"

"Madame, it is a son's duty.  I pray your blessing."

"I bless thee with my whole heart!" she said.  "I pray God bless thee in
every hour of thy life, grant thee health, happiness, and victory, and
crown thee at last with everlasting bliss.  Now go, my dear heart!  The
old mother will not keep thee to thy hurt.  God be with thee, and bless
thee!"

Even then he did not linger; he did not even give her, unsolicited, one
last kiss.  She raised herself on one side, to look after him and listen
to him to the latest moment, the light still beaming in her sunken eyes.
His parting words were not addressed to her, but she heard them.

"Now then, Du Chatel," said the Duke to his squire in the corridor, "let
us waste no more time.  This irksome duty done, I would be away
immediately, lest I be called back."

The light died out of the eager eyes, and the old white head sank back
upon the pillow, the face turned away from the watchers.  Amphillis
approached her, and tenderly smoothed the satin coverlet.

"Let be!" she said, in a low voice.  "My heart is broken."

Amphillis, who could scarcely restrain her own sobs, glanced at the
Archbishop for direction.  He answered her by pressing a finger on his
lips.  Perrote came in, her lips set, and her brows drawn.  She had
evidently overheard those significant words.  Then they heard the tramp
of the horses in the courtyard, the sound of the trumpet, the cry of
"Notre Dame de Gwengamp!" and they knew that the Duke was departing.
They did not know, however, that the parting guest was sped by a few
exceedingly scathing words from his sister, who had heard his remark to
the squire.  She informed him, in conclusion, that he could strike off
her head, if he had no compunction in staining his spotless ermine
banner with his own kindly blood.  It would make very little difference
to her, and, judging by the way in which he used his dying mother, she
was sure it could make none to him.

The Duke flung himself into his saddle, and dashed off down the slope
from the gate without deigning either a response or a farewell.

As the Archbishop left the Countess's chamber, he beckoned Amphillis
into the corridor.

"I tarry not," said he, "for I can work no good now.  This is not the
time.  A stricken heart hath none ears.  Leave her be, and leave her to
God.  I go to pray Him to speak to her that comfort which she may
receive alone from Him.  None other can do her any help.  To-morrow,
maybe--when the vexed brain hath slept, and gentle time hath somewhat
dulled the first sharp edge of her cruel sorrow--then I may speak and be
heard.  But now she is in that valley of the shadow, where no voice can
reach her save that which once said, `Lazarus, come forth!' and which
the dead shall hear in their graves at the last day."

"God comfort her, poor Lady!" said Amphillis.  "Ay, God comfort her!"
And the Archbishop passed on.

He made no further attempt to enter the invalid chamber until the
evening of the next day, when he came in very softly, after a word with
Perrote--no part of any house was ever closed against a priest--and sat
down by the sufferer.  She lay much as he had left her.  He offered no
greeting, but took out his Evangelistarium from the pocket of his
cassock, and began to read in a low, calm voice.

"`The Spirit of the Lord is upon Me, for He hath anointed Me; He hath
sent Me to evangelise the poor, to heal the contrite in heart, to preach
liberty to the captives and sight to the blind, to set the bruised at
liberty, to preach the acceptable year of the Lord, and the day of
retribution.'"  [Luke four, verses 18, 19, Vulgate version.]

There was no sound in answer.  The Archbishop turned over a few leaves.

"`Come unto Me, all ye that labour and are heavy-laden, and I will
refresh you.'  [Matthew nine, verse 28.]  `And God shall dry all tears
from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, nor sorrow, nor
clamour, nor shall there be any more pain.'  [Revelations twenty-one,
verse 4.]  `Trouble not your heart: believe in God, and believe in Me.'
`Peace I bequeath to you, My peace I give to you: not as the world
giveth, give I to you.  Trouble not your heart, neither be it afraid.'
[John fourteen, verses 1, 27.]  `Whom the Lord loveth, He chastiseth;
and whippeth also every son whom He receiveth.'"  [Hebrews twelve, verse
6.]

He read or quoted from memory, as passages occurred to him.  When he had
reached this point he made a pause.  A deep sigh answered him, but no
words.

"`And he looked round about on them which sat about Him, and said,
Behold My mother and My brethren!  For whosoever shall do the will of
God, the same is My brother, and My sister, and mother.'"

"I dare say He kissed His mother!" said the low plaintive voice.  She
evidently knew of whom the reader spoke.  "The world giveth not much
peace.  `Heavy-laden!' ay, heavy-laden!  `Thou hast removed from me
friend and neighbour.'  I have lost my liberty, and I am losing my life;
and now--God have mercy on me!--I have lost my son."

"Dame, will you take for your son the Lord that died for you?  He offers
Himself to you.  `The same is My mother.'  He will give you not love
only, but a son's love, and that warm and undying.  `With perpetual
charity I delighted in thee,' He saith; `wherefore, pitying, I drew thee
to Me.'  Oh, my daughter, let Him draw thee!"

"What you will, Father," was the low answer.  "I have no bodily
strength; pray you, make not the penance heavier than I can do.
Elsewise, what you will.  My will is broken; nothing matters any more
now.  I scarce thought it should have so been--at the end.  Howbeit,
God's will be done.  It must be done."

"My daughter, `this is the will of God, your sanctification.'  The end
and object of all penances, of all prayers, is that you may be joined to
Christ.  `For He is our peace,' and we are `in Him complete.'  In Him--
not in your penances, nor in yourself.  If so were that my Lord Basset
had done you grievous wrong, it might be you forgave him fully, not for
anything in him, but only because he is one with your own daughter, and
you could not strike him without smiting her; his dishonour is her
dishonour, his peace is her peace, to punish him were to punish her.  So
is it with the soul that is joined to Christ.  If He be exalted, it must
be exalted; if it be rejected, He is rejected also.  And God cannot
reject His own Son."

The Archbishop was not at all sure that the Countess was listening to
him.  She kept her face turned away.  He rose and wished her good
evening.  The medicine must not be administered in an overdose, or it
might work more harm than good.

He came again on the following evening, and gave her a little more.  For
three days after he pursued the same course, and, further than courtesy
demanded, he was not answered a word.  On the fourth night he found the
face turned.  A pitiful face, whose aspect went to his heart--wan,
white, haggard, unutterably pathetic.  That night he read the fourteenth
chapter of Saint John's Gospel, and added few words of his own.  On
leaving her, he said--

"My daughter, God is more pitiful than men, and His love is better than
theirs."

"It had need be so!" were the only words that replied.  In the corridor
he met Father Jordan.  The Archbishop stopped.

"How fareth she in the body?"

"As ill as she may be, and live.  Her life is counted by hours."

The Archbishop stood at the large oriel of stained glass at the end of
the corridor, looking out on the spring evening--the buds just beginning
to break, the softened gold of the western sky.  His heart was very
full.

"O Father of the everlasting age!" he said aloud, "all things are
possible unto Thee, and Thou hast eternity to work in.  Suffer not this
burdened heart to depart ere Thou hast healed it with Thine eternal
peace!  Grant Thy rest to the heavy-laden, Thy mercy to her on whom man
hath had so little mercy!  Was it not for this Thou earnest, O Saviour
of the world?  Good Shepherd, wilt Thou not go after this lost sheep
until Thou find it?"

The next night the silence was broken.

"Father," she said, "tell me if I err.  It looks to me, from the words
you read, as if our Lord lacketh not penances and prayers, and good
works; He only wants _me_, and that by reason that He loveth me.  And
why all this weary life hath been mine, He knoweth, and I am content to
leave it so, if only He will take me up in His arms as the shepherd doth
the sheep, and will suffer me to rest my weariness there.  Do I err,
Father?"

"My daughter, you accept the gospel of God's peace.  This it is to come
to Him, and He shall give you rest."

The work was done.  The proud spirit had stooped to the yoke.  The
bitter truth against which she had so long fought and struggled was
accepted at the pierced hands which wounded her only for her healing.
That night she called Lady Basset to her.

"My little girl, my Jeanne!" she said, "I was too hard on thee.  I loved
thy brother the best, and I defrauded thee of the love which was thy
due.  And now thou hast come forty miles to close mine eyes, and he
turneth away, and will have none of me.  Jeanette, darling, take my
dying blessing, and may God deal with thee as thou hast dealt by the old
mother, and pay thee back an hundredfold the love thou hast given me!
Kiss me, sweet heart, and forgive me the past."

Two days later, the long journey by the way of the wilderness was over.
On the 18th of March, 1374, Perrote folded the aged, wasted hands upon
the now quiet breast.

  "All was ended now, the hope, and the fear, and the sorrow,
  All the aching of heart, the restless, unsatisfied longing,
  All the dull, deep pain, and the constant anguish of patience!
  And as she pressed once more the lifeless head to her bosom,
  Meekly she bowed her own, and murmured, `Father, I thank Thee!'"

The fate which had harassed poor Marguerite in life pursued her to the
very grave.  There was no sumptuous funeral, no solemn hearse, no regal
banners of arms for her.  Had there been any such thing, it would have
left its trace on the Wardrobe Rolls of the year.  There was not even a
court mourning.  It was usual then for the funerals of royal persons to
be deferred for months after the death, in order to make the ceremony
more magnificent.  But now, in the twilight of the second evening, which
was Monday, a quiet procession came silently across from the Manor House
to the church, headed by Father Jordan; twelve poor men bore torches
beside the bier; the Mass for the Dead was softly sung, and those
beautiful, pathetic words which for ages rose beside the waiting
coffin:--

  "King of awful majesty,
  By Thy mercy full and free,
  Fount of mercy, pardon me!

  "Think, O Saviour, in what way
  On Thine head my trespass lay;
  Let me not be lost that day!

  "Thou wert weary seeking me;
  On Thy cross Thou mad'st me free;
  Lose not all Thine agony!"

Then they prayed for her everlasting rest--not joy.  The thought of
active bliss could hardly be associated with that weary soul.  "Jesus,
grant her Thine eternal rest!"  And the villagers crept round with bared
heads, and whispered to one another that they were burying the White
Lady--that mysterious prisoner whom no one ever saw, who never came to
church, nor set foot outside the walls of her prison; and they dimly
guessed some thousandth part of the past pathos of that shadowed life,
and they joined in the Amen.  And over her grave were set up no
sculptured figure and table tomb, only one slab of pure white marble,
carved with a cross, and beneath it, the sole epitaph of Marguerite of
Flanders, the heroine of Hennebon,--"Mercy, Jesu!"  So they left her to
her rest.

Ten years later, in a quiet Manor House near Furness Abbey, a knight's
wife was telling a story to her three little girls.

"And you called me after her, Mother!" said little fair-haired Margaret.

"But what became of the naughty man who didn't want to come and see his
poor mother when she was so sick and unhappy, Mother?" asked
compassionate little Regina.

"Naughty man!" echoed Baby Perrotine.

Lady Hylton stroked her little Margaret's hair.

"He led not a happy life, my darlings; but we will not talk about him.
Ay, little Meg, I called thee after the poor White Lady.  I pray God
thou mayest give thine heart to Him earlier than she did, and not have
to walk with weary feet along her wilderness way.  Let us thank God for
our happy life, and love each other as much as we can."

A hand which she had not known was there was laid upon her head.

"Thinkest thou we can do that, my Phyllis, any better than now?" asked
Sir Norman Hylton.

"We can all try," said Amphillis, softly.  "And God, our God, shall
bless us."



APPENDIX.

Marguerite of Flanders, Countess of Montfort, was the only daughter of
Loys de Nevers, eldest surviving son of Robert the First, Count of
Flanders (who predeceased his father), and of Marie or Jeanne, daughter
of the Count de Rethel.  She had one brother, Count Loys the First of
Flanders, who fell at Crecy.  Many modern writers call her Jeanne; but
her name in the contemporary public records of England is invariably
Margareta.  Her birth probably took place about 1310, and it may have
been about 1335 that she married Jean of Bretagne, Count de Montfort, a
younger son of Duke Arthur the Second.

Duke Arthur, the son of Beatrice of England, had been twice married--to
Marie of Limoges and Violette of Dreux, Countess of Montfort in her own
right.  With other issue who are not concerned in the story, he had by
Marie two sons, Duke Jean the Third and Guyon; and by Violette one, Jean
Count of Montfort, the husband of Marguerite.  On the childless death of
Jean the Third in 1341, a war of succession arose between the daughter
of his deceased brother Guyon, and his half-brother the Count of
Montfort.  The daughter, Jeanne la Boiteuse, claimed the right to
represent her father Guyon, while Montfort stood by the law of
non-representation, according to which no deceased prince could be
represented by his child, and the younger brother even by the half-blood
was considered a nearer relative than the child of the elder.  The King
of France took the part of Jeanne and her husband, Charles de Blois; he
captured the Count of Montfort, and imprisoned him in the Louvre.  The
Countess Marguerite, "who had the heart of a lion," thenceforth carried
on the war on behalf of her husband and son.  In the spring of 1342 she
obtained the help of King Edward the Third of England, which however was
fitfully rendered, as he took either side in turn to suit his own
convenience.  Some account of her famous exploits is given in the story,
and is familiar to every reader of Froissart's Chronicle.  Shortly after
this the Countess brought her son to England, and betrothed him to the
King's infant daughter Mary; but she soon returned to Bretagne.  In 1345
the Count of Montfort escaped from his prison in the disguise of a
pedlar, and arrived in England: but the King was not at that time
disposed to assist him, and Montfort took the refusal so much to heart
that--probably combined with already failing health--it killed him in
the following September.  When the war was reopened, the Countess took
captive her rival Charles de Blois, and brought him to England.  The
King appointed her residence in Tickhill Castle, granting the very small
sum of 15 pounds per annum for her expenses "there or wherever we may
order her to be taken, while she remains in our custody."  (Patent Roll,
25 Edward the Third, Part 3.)  It is evident that while treated overtly
as a guest, the Countess was in reality a prisoner: a fact yet more
forcibly shown by an entry in December, 1348, recording the payment of
60 shillings expenses to John Burdon for his journey to Tickhill, "to
bring up to London the Duchess of Bretagne and the knight who ran away
with her."  This seems to have been an attempt to free the prisoner, to
whom, as the upholder of her husband's claim on the throne of Bretagne,
the King of course accorded the title of Duchess.  The testimony of the
records henceforward is at variance with that of the chroniclers, the
latter representing Marguerite as making sundry journeys to Bretagne in
company with her son and others, and as being to all intents at liberty.
The Rolls, on the contrary, when she is named, invariably speak of her
as a prisoner in Tickhill Castle, in keeping of Sir John Delves, and
after his death, of his widow Isabel.  That the Rolls are the superior
authority there can be no question.

The imprisonment of Charles de Blois was very severe.  He offered a
heavy ransom and his two elder sons as hostages; King Edward demanded
400,000 deniers, and afterwards 100,000 gold florins.  In 1356 Charles
was released, his sons Jean and Guyon taking his place.  They were
confined first in Nottingham Castle, and in 1377 were removed to
Devizes, where Guyon died about Christmas 1384.  In 1362 Edward and
Charles agreed on a treaty, which Jeanne refused to ratify, alleging
that she would lose her life, or two if she had them, rather than
relinquish her claims to young Montfort.  Two years later Charles was
killed at the battle of Auray, and Jeanne thereon accepted a settlement
which made Montfort Duke of Bretagne, reserving to herself the county of
Penthievre, the city of Limoges, and a sum of ten thousand _livres
Tournois_.

The only authority hitherto discovered giving any hint of the history of
Marguerite after this date, is a contemporary romance, _Le Roman de la
Comtesse de Montfort_, which states that she retired to the Castle of
Lucinio, near Vannes, and passed the rest of her life in tranquillity.
Even Mrs Everett Green, in her _Lives of the Princesses of England_,
accepted this as a satisfactory conclusion.  It was, indeed, the only
one known.  But two entries on the public records of England entirely
dissipate this comfortable illusion.  On 26th September 1369, the Patent
Roll states that "we allowed 105 pounds per annum to John Delves for the
keeping of the noble lady, the Duchess of Bretagne; and we now grant to
Isabel his widow, for so long a time as the said Duchess shall be in her
keeping, the custody of the manor of Walton-on-Trent, value 22 pounds,"
and 52 pounds from other lands.  (Patent Roll, 43 Edward the Third, Part
2.)  The allowance originally made had evidently been increased.  The
hapless prisoner, however, was not left long in the custody of Isabel
Delves.  She was transferred to that of Sir Godfrey Foljambe, whose
wife, Avena Ireland, was daughter of Avena de Holand, aunt of Joan
Duchess of Bretagne, the second wife of young Montfort.  Lastly, a Post
Mortem Inquisition, taken in 1374, announces that "Margaret Duchess of
Bretagne died at Haselwood, in the county of Derby, on the 18th of
March, 48 Edward the Third, being sometime in the custody of Godfrey
Foljambe."  (Inquisitions of Exchequer, 47-8 Edward the Third, county
Derbyshire).

It is therefore placed beyond question that the Countess of Montfort
died a prisoner in England, at a date when her son had been for ten
years an independent sovereign, and though on friendly terms with Edward
the Third, was no longer a suppliant for his favour.  Can it have
occurred without his knowledge and sanction?  He was in England when she
died, but there is no indication that he ever went to see her, and her
funeral, as is shown by the silence of the Wardrobe Rolls, was without
any ceremony.  Considering the character of the Duke--"violent in all
his feelings, loving to madness, hating to fury, and rarely overcoming a
prejudice once entertained"--the suspicion is aroused that all the early
sacrifices made by his mother, all the gallant defence of his dominions,
the utter self-abnegation and the tender love, were suffered to pass by
him as the idle wind, in order that he might revenge himself upon her
for the one occasion on which she prevented him from breaking his
pledged word to King Edward's daughter, and committing a _mesalliance_
with Alix de Ponteallen.  For this, or at any rate for some thwarting of
his will, he seems never to have forgiven her.

Marguerite left two children--Duke Jean the Fourth, born 1340, died
November 1, 1399: he married thrice,--Mary of England, Joan de Holand,
and Juana of Navarre--but left no issue by any but the last, and by her
a family of nine children, the eldest being only twelve years old when
he died.  Strange to say, he named one of his daughters after his
discarded mother.  His sister Jeanne, who was probably his senior, was
originally affianced to Jean of Blois, the long-imprisoned son of
Charles and Jeanne: she married, however, Ralph, last Lord Basset of
Drayton, and died childless, November 8, 1403.





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