The White Rose of Langley

by Emily Sarah Holt

  CHAPTER EIGHT.

  MOVES ON THE CHESSBOARD.

  "O purblind race of miserable men, How many among us at this very hour Do forge a life-long trouble for themselves, By taking true for false, or false for true!"

  _Tennyson_.

  Three months had rolled away since that thirteenth of January which hadmade Constance a widow. Her versatile, volatile nature soon recoveredthe shock of her husband's violent death. The white garments ofwidowhood which draped her found little response either in the gravityof her demeanour or in the expression of her face. But on the DowagerLady the effect was very different. She became an old, infirm woman allat once; but her manner was softer and gentler. She learned to makemore allowance for temperaments which entirely differed from hers.There were no further efforts to repress her little grandson's noisyglee, no more cold responses to his occasionally troublesomedemonstrations of affection. The alteration was quiet, but lasting.

  It was an hour after dinner, and Maude sat alone at work in thebanquet-hall. She was almost unconsciously humming to herself the airof a troubadour chanson--an air as well-known to ourselves as to her,though we have turned it into a hymn tune, and have christened itInnocents, or Durham. A fresh stave was just begun, when the hall dooropened, and a voice at the further end announced--

  "A messenger from my Lord of Aumerle!"

  Maude rose as the messenger approached her.

  "Your servant, sir! If you bear any letter, I will carry the same untomy Lady."

  "Here is the letter, Mistress Maude," replied the messenger with asmile. "Methinks I am more changed than you be."

  Maude looked more narrowly at him.

  "I know you now, Master Calverley," she said, a smile breaking over herlips. "But you ware not that beard the last time I did see you."

  She took the letter to Constance, and when she returned, she found Hughand his old friend Bertram in close conversation.

  "Verily, sweet Hugh,"--Bertram was saying--"there is one thing in thisworld I can in no wise fathom! How thy Lord--"

  "There be full many things in this world that I cannot," interposedHugh.

  "How thy Lord ordereth his dealings is beyond me," ended Bertram.

  "In good sooth, I have enough ado to look to mine own dealings, though Ishould let other men's be," answered Hugh.

  "Lo' you now, Mistress Maude! Here is my Lord of Aumerle--you wissomewhat of his deeds--high in favour with the King, and prevailing uponhis Grace to grant all manner of delicates [good things] unto our Lady.He hath soothly-stirred [persuaded] him unto the bestowal of every manorthat was our late Lord's father's (whom God assoil!) and of all hisjewels, and of the custody of the young Lord. And 'tis not four monthsgone since he sold our Lord to his death! What signifieth he by thiswhileness?" [Whirling, turning round.]

  Maude shook her head, as if to say that she could not tell. She hadresumed her work, the hemming of what she (not very elegantly) calleda sudary, and we, euphemistically but tautologically, apocket-handkerchief.

  "Ah! 'tis a blessed thing to have a brother!" observed Bertram withirony. "Well!--and what news, sweet Hugh, of olden friends?"

  "None overmuch," responded Hugh, "unless it be of the death of FatherWilfred, of the Priory at Langley."

  "Ah me!" exclaimed Bertram regretfully.

  "Master Calverley," said Maude, looking up, "do me to wit, of yourgoodness, if you wot any thing touching the Lady Avice de Narbonne?"

  "But so much," answered he, "that she hath taken veil upon herself inthe Minoresses' convent at Aldgate, and is, I do hear, accounted of thesisters a right holy and devout woman."

  "Marry, I am well fain to hear so good news," said Maude.

  "Good news, Mistress Maude! forsooth, were I lover or kinsman of thefair lady, I would account them right evil news," commented Bertram, ina tone of some surprise.

  "Methinks I conceive what Mistress Maude signifieth," quietly observedHugh. "She accounteth that the Lady Avice shall find help and comfortin the Minoresses' house."

  "Ay, in very deed," said Maude, "the which methinks she could never havefound without."

  "God have it so!" answered Hugh, gently. "Yet I trust, Mistress Maude,that our Lord may be found without convent cell, as lightly [easily] aswithin it."

  "Be these all thy news, sweet Hugh?" inquired Bertram. "Is nought atwork in the outer world?"

  "Matters be reasonable peaceful at this present. But methinks KingHenry sitteth not over delightsomely on his throne, seeing he hathcaptivated [captured] the four childre of my sometime Lord of March, andshut them close in the Castle of Windsor."

  "Hath he so?" asked Bertram, with interest. "Poor hearts!"

  "Be they small childre?" said Maude, compassionately.

  "The Lady Anne, that is eldest, hath but nine years, I do hear."

  "Ay me, Master Calverley! Have they any mother?"

  "Trust me, ay!" broke in Bertram. "Why, have you forgot that my Lady ofMarch is sister unto the Duchess' Grace of York?"

  "And is she prisoned with the childre?"

  "Holy Mary! the King's Grace lacketh not her," said Bertram.

  "She was dancing at the Court a few weeks gone," returned Hugh ratherdrily, "with her servant [lover], the Baron of Powys, a-waiting uponher; and so was likewise the Lady Elizabeth, my Lord of Exeter hiswidow, with the Lord Fanhope. Men say there shall be divers weddings atCourt this next summer, and these, as I reckon, among them."

  "Ah! the Lady Elizabeth's Grace danceth right well!" said Bertramsarcastically. "Marry, Robin Falconer, of my Lord's Grace of York'sfollowing, which bare hither certain letters this last month, told methey had dances at Court in Epiphany octave, when we rade for our livesfrom Oxford; and that very night my Lord's Grace of Exeter was beheadenat Pleshy, his wife, the Lady Elizabeth, was at the cushion dance andsinging to her lute in the Lady Blanche [the Princess Royal] herchamber, where all the Court was gathered."

  "Aid us, our Lady of Pity!" whispered Maude in a shocked voice.

  "There be some women hard as stones!" pursued Bertram disgustedly.

  For men knew the Lady Elizabeth well in those days, as fairest andgayest of the Princesses. She was King Henry's favourite sister, thoughthat royal gentleman showed his favour rather oddly, by granting her aquantity of damaged goods of her late husband, among which were sundrytowels, "used and torn." During the terrible struggle which had justoccurred, she had sided with her brother, against King Richard, of whomher husband Exeter was a fervent partisan. Perhaps such vacillation aswas occasionally to be seen in Exeter's conduct may be traced to herinfluence. The night that King Richard was taken, she "made goodcheer," though the event was almost equivalent to the signing of herhusband's death-warrant. I doubt if we must not class this accomplishedand beautiful Elizabeth among the most heartless women whose names havecome down to us on the roll of history. And where a woman is heartless,she is heartless indeed.

  "Forsooth, Master Lyngern, methinks I wis what you mean by women hard asstones," observed Maude with a slight shudder. "They do give me alwaythe horrors."

  "Think you there is naught of the stone in the Lady Custance?" said Hughin a low voice.

  Maude energetically repudiated the imputation.

  "She a stone? nay!--she is a butterfly," said Bertram.

  "And, pray you, which were better--to have a stone or a butterfly toyour wife?" asked Hugh, laughingly.

  "The stone, in good surety," said Bertram. "I were allgates [always]afeard of hurting the butterfly."

  "Very well," responded Hugh, rather drily; "but the stone might hurtthee."

  The summer passed very quietly at Cardiff, except for one incident.Maude spent it in learning to read, for which she had always had astrong wish, and now coaxed Father Ademar to teach her. The confessorwas a Lollard, and was therefore not deterred by any fear of herbecoming acquainted with forbidden books. He willingly complied withMaude's wish.

  The incident which disturbed the calm was a hostile visi
t of OwainGlyndwr, who appeared with a large force on the tenth of July, and heldthe Church of Saint Mary against all comers, until driven out with greatslaughter. On the very morning of his appearance, the last baby came toCardiff Castle--a baby which would never see its father. The Bishop ofLlandaff, who was a guest in the Castle, was obliged to reconsecrate thechurch before the child could be christened. It was not till late inthe evening that the little lady was baptised by the name of Isabel,after the dead Infanta. She might have been born to illustrateBertram's observations, for her heart was as hard as a stone, and ascold.

  When Maude became able to read well, she was installed in the post ofdaily reader to the Dowager. Constance had never cared for books; butthe old lady, who had been a great reader for her time, missed her usualluxury now that age was dimming her eyes, and was very glad to employMaude's younger sight. The book was nearly always one of Wycliffe's,and the reading invariably closed with a chapter of his Testament. Nowand then, but only now and then, she would ask for a little poetry--taking by preference that courtly writer whom she knew as a greatinnovator, but whom we call the father of English poetry. But she wasvery particular which of his poems was selected. The Knight's, theSquire's, the Man of Law's, the Prioress's, and the Clerk's Tales, wereall that she would have of that book by which we know Geoffrey Chaucerbest. She liked better the graceful fairy tale of the Flower and theLeaf, written for the deceased Lollard Queen; and best of all that mostpathetic lamentation for the Duchess Blanche of Lancaster, whomElizabeth Le Despenser had known personally in her youth. Maude wouldnever have suspected the Dowager of the least respect for poetry; andshe was surprised to watch her sit by the open casement, dreamilylooking out on the landscape, while she read to her of the "whiteycrowned Queen" of the Daisy, or of the providential interpositions bywhich "Crist unwemmed kept Custance," or oftener yet--

  "But what visage had she thereto? Alas, my heart is wonder woe That I ne can discriven it Me lacketh both English and wit... For certes Nature had such lest To make that fair, that truly she Was her chief patron of beaute, And chief ensample of all her work And monstre--for be 't ne'er so derk, Methinketh I see her evermo'!"

  [Note: Monstre was then employed in the sense in which we now use_phoenix_.]

  But this, as has been said, was only now and then. The words which werefar more common were Wycliffe's; and those which were invariable wereChrist's.

  When Maude began this work, she had not the remotest idea of changingher faith, nor even of inquiring into the grounds on which it rested.She entertained no personal prejudice against the Lollards, with whomshe associated her dead mistress the Infanta, and her young murderedmaster; but she vaguely supposed their doctrines to be somehowunorthodox, and considered herself as good a "Catholic" as any one. Shenoticed that Father Ademar gave her fewer penances than Father Dominicused to do; that he treated her mistakes as mistakes only, and not assins; that generally his ideas of sin had to do rather with the root ofevil in the heart than with the diligent pruning of particular branches;that he said a great deal about Christ, and not much about the saints.So Maude's change of opinion came, over her so gradually and noiselesslythat she never realised herself to have undergone any change at alluntil it was unalterable and complete.

  The realisation came suddenly at last, with a passing word from DameAudrey, the mistress of the household at Cardiff.

  "Nay," she had said, a little contemptuously, in answer to some remark:"Mistress Maude is too good to consort with us poor Catholics. She is agreat clerk, quotha! and hath Sir John de Wycliffe his homilies andevangels at her tongue's end. Marry, I count in another twelvemonthevery soul in this Castle saving me shall be a Lollard."

  Maude was startled. Was the charge true--that she was no longer a"Catholic," but a Lollard? And if so, in what did the change consist ofwhich she was herself unconscious?

  That afternoon, when she sat down to read to the Dowager as usual, Maudeasked timidly--

  "Madam, under your Ladyship's good leave, there is a thing I would fainask at you."

  "Ask freely, my maid," was the kindly answer.

  "Might it like you to arede me, Madam, of your grace--in what regard,and to what greatness, the Lollards do differ from the Catholics?"

  The Dowager smiled, but she looked a little surprised.

  "A short question, forsooth, my maid, the which to answer shortly shouldlack sharper wit than mine. But I will give thee to wit so far as Ican. We do believe that all things which be needful for a Christian manto know, be founden in God's Word, yclept Holy Scripture: so that allother our differences take root in this one. For the which encheson[reason] we do deny the Pope to have right and rule over this our Churchof England, which lieth not in his diocese, neither find we in HolyScripture that the Bishop of Rome should wield rule over other Bishops;but that in every realm the King thereof should be highest in estateover the priests as over any other of his subjects. Wherefore likewisewe call not upon the saints, seeing that Holy Scripture saith `oo Godand a Mediatour is of God and of men, a man, Crist Jesu:' neither may weallow the holy bread of the blessed Sacrament of the Altar to be thevery carnal flesh of our Saviour Christ, there bodily present, seeingboth that Paul sayeth of it `this breed' after that it be consecrate,and moreover that our own very bodily senses do deny it to be any othermatter. So neither will any of us use swearing, which is utterly forbidin God's Word; neither hold we good the right of sanctuary, ne the powerof the Pope's indulgence, ne virginity of the priesthood--seeing that noone of all these be bidden by Holy Scripture."

  The old lady paused, and cut off her loose threads before she continued,in a rather more constrained voice.

  "Beyond all these," she then added, "there be other matters whereincertain of us do differ from other. To wit, some of us do love to singunto symphony [music] the praise and laud of God; the which othersome(of whom am I myself) do account to be but a vain indulgence of theflesh, and a thing unmeet for its vanity to be done of God's servantsdwelling in this evil world. Some do hold that childre ought not to bebaptised, but only them that be of age to perceive the signification ofthat holy rite: herein I see not with them. Likewise there be othersomethat would have the old prayers for to abide, being but a form of words;while other (of whom be I) do understand such forms to be but thingsdead and dry, and we rather would pray unto our Lord with such words asHe in the instant moment shall show unto us--the which (nowise contaking[reproaching] other) we do nathless judge to be more agreeable with HolyScripture. But wherefore wouldst know all this, my maid?"

  Maude's answer was not a reply according to grammar, but it showed herthoughts plainly enough. She had been carefully comparing her owninward convictions with the catalogue as it proceeded. She certainlycould see no harm either in infant baptism or sacred music: as to thequestion of forms of prayer, she had never considered it. But on allthe other points, though to her own dismay, she found herself exactly inagreement with the description given by the Dowager.

  "Then I _am_ a Lollard, I account!" she said at last, with a sigh.

  "And what if so, my maid?" quietly asked the old lady.

  "Good Madam, can I so be, and yet be in unity with the Catholic Church?"said Maude in a tone of distress. "Methinks 'tis little comfort to benot yet excommunicate, if I do wit that an' holy Church knew of mineerrors, she should cut me away as a dry branch. And yet--" and a verypuzzled, troubled look came into Maude's face--"what I crede, I crede;ne can I thereof uncharge [disburden] me."

  "My maid," said the Dowager earnestly, looking up, "the true unity ofthe Church Catholic is the unity of Christ. He said not `Come into theChurch,' but `Come to Me.' He that is one with Christ cannot bewithoutenside Christ's Church."

  No more was said at that time; but what she had heard already leftMaude's mind in a turmoil. She next, but very cautiously, endeavouredto ascertain the opinions of her mistress. Constance made her explainher motive in asking, and then laughed heartily.

  "By Saint Veronica he
r sudary, what matter? Names be but names. Solong as a man deal uprightly and keep him from deadly sin--call himCatholic, call him Lollard--is he the worser man? There be good and illof every sort. I have known some weary tykes [really, a sheep-dog; usedas a term of reproach] that were rare Catholics; and I once had a motherthat is with God and His angels now, and men called her a Lollard."

  Evidently Constance's practical religion was summed up in the childishphrase--"Be good." An excellent medicine--if the patient were notunable to swallow.

  Maude tried Bertram next, and felt, to use her own phrase, more "of abire" [confused] than ever. For she found him nearly in the same stateof mind as herself, but advanced one step further. Convinced that thetrue meaning of Lollardism was plain adhesion to Holy Scripture, he wasprepared to accept the full consequences. He had not only been thinkingfor himself, but talking with Hugh Calverley: and Hugh, like his father,was a Lollard of the most extreme type.

  "It seemeth me, Mistress Maude," he said boldly, "less dread to say thatthe Church Catholic must needs have erred, than to say that God in HisWord can err."

  "But the whole Church Catholic!" objected Maude in a most troubledvoice. "All the holy doctors and bishops that have ever been--yea, andthe very Fathers of the Church!"

  "`Nyle ye clepe to you a fadir on erthe,'" replied Bertram gravely.

  "But, Master Lyngern, think you, the Holy Ghost dwelleth in the priests,and so He doth not in slender folk like to you and me."

  "Ay so?" answered he, with a slight curl of his lip. "He dwelleth insuch men as my Lord of Canterbury, trow? Our Lord saith the tree isknown by his fruits. It were a new thing, mereckoneth, for a man to beindwelt of the Holy Ghost, and to bring forth fruits of the Devil."

  "But our Lord behote [promised] to dwell in His Church alway," urgedMaude, though she was arguing against herself.

  "He behote to dwell in all humble and faithful souls--they be HisChurch, Mistress Maude. I never read in no Scripture that He behote towrite all the Pope's decretals, nor to see that no Archbishop ofCanterbury should blunder in his pastorals."

  "But the Church, Master Lyngern--_the Church_ cannot err! HolyScripture saith it."

  "Ay so?" said Bertram again. "Where?"

  Maude was obliged to confess that she did not know where; she had "alwayheard say the same;" but finding Bertram rather too much for her inargument, she carried her difficulty to Father Ademar when she next wentto confession. She would never have propounded such a query to FatherDominic at Langley, since it would most certainly have ensured her asevere scolding and some oppressive penance; perhaps to lie flat on thethreshold of the chapel and let every one pass over her, perhaps to lickthe dust all round the base of the Virgin's pedestal. And Maude's ownprivate conviction was that penances of this kind never did her theleast good. Father Dominic told her that they humbled her. It was truethey made her feel humiliated; but was that the same as feeling humble?They also made her feel irritated and angry--with whom, or with what,she hardly knew; but certainly with some person or thing outside ofherself. But they never made her think that she had done wrong--onlythat she had been misunderstood and badly used.

  Matters were very different with Father Ademar. He was so quiet andgentle that Maude never felt afraid of him. Confession to FatherDominic bore the awful aspect cast over a visit to a dentist's surgery;but confession to Father Ademar was (at least to Maude) merely talkingover her difficulties with a friend. He often said, "Pray our Lord togrant thee wisdom in this matter," but he never said, "Repeat fifty Avesand ten Paternosters." And when Maude now laid her troubles before himas lucidly as she could, he gave her an answer which, she thought atfirst, did not touch the case at all, and yet which in the end settledevery difficulty connected with it.

  "Daughter," said the Lollard priest, "there is another question whichmust be first answered. Thou hast taken up the golden rod by the wrongend. Turn it around and have the other ensured; then we will talk ofthis."

  "What other question, Father?"

  "The same that our Lord asked of the sick man at the cistern[pool]--`Wilt thou be made whole?' Art thou of the unity of Christ?--art thou one with Him? Hast thou closed with Him? Wist thou that `Heloved _thee_, and gave Himself for thee?' For without thou be firstensured of this, it shall serve thee but little to search all the tomesof the Fathers touching the unity of the Church."

  "But if I be in the true Church, Father, I must needs be of the unity ofChrist."

  "Truth," said Father Ademar, in his quietest manner. "Then turn thematter about, as I bade thee, and see whether thou art in Christ. Soshalt thou plainly see thyself to be in the true Church."

  Maude was silenced, but at first she was not convinced. Ademar did notpress her answer. He left her to decide the question for herself. Butmany months passed away, fraught with many struggles and heartsearchings and deep studies of Wycliffe's Bible, before Maude was ableto decide it. Bertram, whose mental nature was less self-conscious andanalytical than hers, was at peace long before she was. But the daycame at last when Maude was able to answer Ademar's question--when shecould say, "Father, I am of the true Church, because I am one withChrist."

  The life at Cardiff Castle was very quiet--much too quiet to pleaseConstance, who was again becoming extremely restless. They heard ofwars and rumours of war--conspiracy after conspiracy, all more or lessfutile: some to free King Richard, whom a great number believed to bestill living; some to release and crown the little Earl of March, yet aclose prisoner in Windsor Castle; some to depose or assassinate Henry.But they were all to the dwellers in Cardiff Castle like the sounds ofdistant tempest, until the summer of 1402, when two terrible eventshappened almost simultaneously, and one at their very doors. OwainGlyndwr, the faithful Welsh henchman of King Richard, took and burntCardiff in one of his insurrectionary marches; sparing the Castle andone of the monasteries on account of the loyalty (to Richard) of theirinmates; and about the same time Hugh Calverley came one day fromBristol, to summon the Princess to come immediately to Langley. Herfather was dying.

  Constance reached Langley in time to receive his last blessing. He diedin the same quiet, apathetic manner in which he had lived--his intellectinsufficient to realise all the mischief of which he had been guilty,but having realised one mistake he had made--his second marriage. Hedesired to be buried in the Priory Church at Langley, by the side of his"dear wife Isabel," whose worth he had never discovered until she waslost to him for ever.

  It was on the first of August that Edmund of Langley died. After hisfuneral, the Duchess Joan--now a young woman of nineteen--intimated herintention of paying a visit to Court, as soon as her first mourning wasover, and blandishingly hoped that her dear daughter would do her thepleasure of accompanying her. Maude would have liked her mistress todecline the invitation, for she would far rather have gone home. ButConstance accepted it eagerly. It was exactly what she wished. Theyreached Westminster Palace just after the King had returned from hisautumn progress, and he expressed a hope that his aunt and cousin wouldstay with him long enough to be present at the approaching ceremony ofhis second marriage with the Duchess Dowager of Bretagne.

  It was the evening after their arrival at Westminster, and Maude sat ona stool in the great hall, every now and then recognising and addressingsome acquaintance of old time. On the dais was a brilliant crowd ofroyal and semi-royal persons, among whom Constance sat engaged inanimated conversation, and evidently enjoying herself. Maude knew mostof them by sight, but as her eyes roved here and there, they lighted ona young man coming up towards the dais whom she did not know. Hestopped almost close to her, to speak to Aumerle, now Duke of York, sothat Maude had time and opportunity to study him.

  He was dressed in the height of the fashion. In the present day hiscostume would be thought supremely ridiculous for a man; but when hewore it, it was considered perfectly enchanting. It consisted of agown--similar to a long dressing-gown, nearly touching the feet--of bluevelvet, spangled with gold fleur-d
e-lis, and lined with white satin; anunder-tunic (equivalent to a waistcoat) of bright apple-green satin,with wide sweeping sleeves of the same, cut at the edge into imitationsof oak-leaves. Under these were tight sleeves of pink velvet, edged atthe wrist by white frills, and a similar white frill finished the gownat the neck. His boots were black velvet, with white buttons; they wereabout a yard long, tapering to a point, and were tied up to the garterby silver chains, a pattern resembling a church window being cut throughthe upper portion of the boot. These very fashionable and mostuncomfortable articles were known as cracowes, having come over fromGermany with the late Queen Anne. In the young man's hand was a blackvelvet cap, covered by a spreading plume of apple-green feathers. Roundthe waist, outside the gown, was a tight black velvet band, to which wasfastened the scabbard of a golden-hilted sword.

  This extremely smart young gentleman was Sir Edmund de Holand, Earl ofKent,--brother and heir of the Duke of Surrey, and brother also ofConstance's step-mother. He was a true Holand in appearance, nearly sixfeet in height, most graceful in carriage, very fair in complexion, hishair a glossy golden colour, with a moustache of similar shade. His agewas just twenty-one. He was pre-eminently handsome--surpassing evenSurrey. His eyes were of the softest blue, clear and bright; his voicesoft, musical, and insinuating.

  I am careful to describe the Earl of Kent fully, because he is about tobecome a prominent person in the story, and also because he hadabsolutely nothing to recommend him beyond his physical courage, histaste in dress, his fascinating manners, and his very handsome person.These points have to be dwelt upon, since his virtues lay entirely inthem.

  Kent and York conversed in a low tone for some minutes. When thesubject seemed exhausted, York turned quickly round to his sister, as ifa sudden idea had occurred to him.

  "Lady Custance! You remember my Lord of Kent, trow?--though methinksyou have scarce met together sithence we were all childre."

  Constance lifted up her eyes, and offered her hand to Kent's kiss ofhomage. Ay, to her utter misery and undoing, like Elaine--

  --"she lifted up her eyes, And loved him, with that love which was her doom."

  Not worth such love as that, Constance! Not worth one beat of that trueheart which was stilled at Bristol, and which now lies, dust to dust, inTewkesbury Abbey. This man will not love you as he did, to the end. Hewill only give you what love he can spare from himself, for he is hisown most cherished treasure. And it will be--as, a few hours later, youwhisper to yourself, pulling the petals from a white daisy--"_unpeu_--_beaucoup_--_point du tout_:"--a little yesterday, intense to-day,and none at all to-morrow.

  Constance and Kent saw a good deal of each other during her visit toWestminster. Her brother of York evidently furthered his suit to theutmost of his power. Maude, who had learned utterly to distrust theDuke of York, set herself to consider what his reason could be. ThatYork rarely did any thing except with some ulterior and selfish object,she was satisfied. But the more she thought about the matter, thefurther she found herself from arriving at any conclusion. The secretwas to be revealed to her before long. The plotting brain of the Princewas busy as usual in the concoction of another conspiracy, and toforward his purposes on this occasion he intended to make a catspaw ofhis sister. The plot was not yet quite ripe; but when it should be, forConstance to be Kent's wife would make her all the more eligible as atool.

  The ceremonies attendant on the royal marriage were over; the King wasabout to take the field against another insurrection of Glyndwr, and theEarl of Kent had undertaken to guard him to Shrewsbury. Maude, in closeattendance on her mistress, heard the parting words between Kent andConstance.

  "You will render me visit at Cardiff, my Lord?"

  "Sweet Lady, were it possible I could neglect such bidding?"

  Constance journeyed in the royal train for a distance, and turned offtowards Cardiff, when their ways parted.

  Her manner when she arrived at home was particularly affectionate, bothto the Dowager and her children, of whom little Richard was now eightyears old, while Isabel had just reached four. The keen eyes of the oldlady--much sharper mentally than physically--soon discerned the presenceof some new element in her daughter-in-law's mind. She closelyquestioned Maude as to what had happened, or was about to happen; andafter a minute's hesitation, Maude told her all she knew and feared.For some time after receiving this information, Elizabeth Le Despensersat gazing uneasily from the lattice, with unwontedly idle hands.

  "Sister's son unto our adversary!" she murmured to herself at last."Whither shall this tend? Verily, there is One stronger than Thomas deArundel. Is He leading us blind by a way that we know not?--for in verysooth _I_ cannot discern the way. If so it be, then--Lord, lead Thouon!"

  Kent paid his visit to Cardiff in the winter, accompanied by Constance'spet brother, Lord Richard of Conisborough, who had been promoted to hisfather's old dignity of Earl of Cambridge. It was the first time thatthe Dowager had seen either; and she afterwards communicated herimpressions of the pair to Maude, as they sat together at work.

  "As touching the Lord Richard, he is gent and courteous enough; he wereno ill companion, an' he knew his own mind a little better. Mayhapthree of him, or four, might make a man amongst them."

  For Cambridge, though in a much fainter degree, reflected his father'scharacter by finding it very difficult to say no.

  "And what thinks your Ladyship of my Lord of Kent?" asked Maude withsome anxiety.

  The Dowager shook the loose threads from her work with a peculiar littlelaugh.

  "Marry, my maid, what think I of my Lord of Kent his barber, and histailor?" said she; "for they made my Lord of Kent betwixt them. He isnot a man of God's making."

  "But think you, Madam, he is to be trusted or no?"

  "Trusted!--for what? To oil his golden locks, and perfume well hissudary, and have his sleeves of the newest cutting? Ay, forsooth, andthat right worthily!"

  "I meant," explained Maude, "to have a care of our Lady."

  "Maybe he shall keep her in ointment for her hair," returned theDowager.

  The Earl of Kent returned to Court, and for some time stayed there. Hewas rather too busy to prosecute his wooing. The Lord Thomas ofLancaster, one of the King's sons, was projecting and executing anexpedition from Calais to Sluys, and he took Kent with him; so that,with one or another obstacle arising, Constance's second marriage wasnot quite so quick in coming as Maude had expected. But at last it didcome.

  The Duke of York and his Duchess--not long married--and the Earl ofCambridge, journeyed to Cardiff for their sister's wedding. The Duchessof York, though both an heiress and a beauty, left no mark on her time.She was by profession at least a Lollard; and since Lollardism was notnow walking in silver slippers, this says something for her. But in allother respects she appears to have been one of those beautiful, mindlesswomen whom clever men frequently marry. Perhaps no woman with a decidedcharacter of her own would have ventured on such a husband as EdwardDuke of York.

  It was a mild winter day, and a picnic was projected in the woods nearCardiff. The wedding was to take place in about a week. Maude rode ona pillion to the scene where the rustic dinner was to be behind BertramLyngern, who seemed in a particularly bright and amiable mood. When awoman rode on a pillion, it must be remembered that she was in a veryinsecure position; and it was an absolute necessity for the fair riderto clasp her arms round the waist of the man who sat before her, and,when the road was rough, to cling pretty tightly. It was thereforedesirable that the pair should be at least reasonably civil to oneanother, and should not get on quarrelsome terms. There was littlelikelihood of Maude's quarrelling with Bertram, her friend of twentyyears' standing; but she did not share his evident light-heartedness ashe rode carolling along, now breaking out into a snatch of one song, andnow of another, and constantly interrupting himself with playfulremarks.

  "`Sitteth all still, and hearkeneth to me: The King of Almayne, by my leaute, Thritti thousand pound
asked he--'

  "A squirrel, Mistress Maude! shall I catch it?

  "_Dame avec l'oeil de beaute_--

  "So, my good lad, softly! so, Lyard! How clereful a day! Nigh as softas summer.

  "`Summer is ycomen in-- Merry sing, cuckoo! Groweth glede, and bloweth mead, And springeth wood anew.'

  "Be merry, Mistress Maude, I pray you! you mope not, surely?"

  "I scarce know, Master Lyngern. Mayhap so."

  "Shame to mope on such a day!" said Bertram, springing from the saddle,and holding his hand to help Maude to jump down also. "There hath notbeen so fair a morrow this month gone."

  He was soon busy unpacking the sumpter-mules' bags, with two or threemore; and dinner was served under the shade of the trees, without anyconsideration of ceremony. Our fathers spent so much of their time outof doors, and dressed for the season so much more warmly than we do,that they chose days for picnics at which we should shudder. Afterdinner Maude wandered about a little by herself, and at length sat downat the foot of a lofty oak. She had not been there many minutes beforeshe saw Constance and York coming slowly towards her, evidently inearnest conversation.

  "Lo' you here, Ned!" said Constance eagerly, when she caught sight ofMaude. "Here is one true as steel. If that you say must have noeavesdroppers, sit we on the further side of this tree; and Maude, holdwhere thou art, and if any come this way, give a privy pluck at my gown,and we will speak other."

  They sat down on the other side of the oak.

  "Custance," began her brother, "I misconceive not, trow, to account theeyet true to the cause of King Richard, be he where he may?"

  York knew, as certainly as he knew of his own existence, that Richardhad been dead five years. But it suited his purpose to speakdoubtfully.

  "Certes, Ned, of very inwitte!" [Most heartily.]

  "Well. And if King Richard were dead, who standeth next heir?"

  "My Lord of March, no manner of doubt."

  "Good again. Then we thus stand: King Henry that reigneth hath noright; and the true King is shut up in Pomfret, or, granting he be dead,is then shut up in Windsor."

  "Well, Ned?"

  "Shall we--thou and I--free young March and his brother and sisters?"

  "Thou and I!"

  She was evidently doubtful. Edward took a stronger bolt from hisquiver.

  "Custance, Dickon loves Anne Mortimer."

  That was a different matter. If Dickon wanted Anne Mortimer or anythingelse, in his sister's eyes, he must have it. To refuse to help Ned wasone thing, but to refuse to help Dickon was quite another.

  "But how should we win in?"

  Edward drew a silver key from his pocket.

  "I gat this made of a smith, Custance, a year gone. 'Tis a key for mystrong-room at Langley, the which was lost with other my baggage fordingthe Thames, and I took the mould of the lock in wax, and gave it untothe smith."

  He looked in her face, pausing a little between the sentences, to makesure that she understood him; and he saw by her eyes that she did. Thevery peril and uncertainty involved in such an adventure gave it a charmfor her.

  "When, Ned?"

  "When I send word."

  "Very well. I will be ready."

  Before Edward could reply, Bertram Lyngern's horn sounded through theforest, saying distinctly to all who heard it, "Time to go home!" Thethree rose and walked towards the trysting-place, both Constance andMaude possessed of some ideas which had never presented themselves tothem before.

  Bertram and Maude rode back as they had come. Maude was very silent,which was no wonder; and so, for ten minutes, was Bertram. Then hebegan:--

  "How liked you this forest life, Mistress Maude?"

  "Well, Master Lyngern, and I thank you," said she absently.

  "And to-morrow is a week our Lady's Grace shall wed?"

  "Why, Master Lyngern, you know that as well as I."

  Maude wished he would have left her to her own thoughts, from which hisquestions were no diversion in any sense.

  "Mistress Maude, when will you be wed?"

  The diversion was effected.

  "I, Master Lyngern! I am not about to wed."

  "Are you well avised of that, Mistress Maude?"

  "Marry, Master Lyngern!" said Maude, feeling rather affronted.

  "If you will take mine avisement, you will be wed likewise," saidBertram gravely.

  "What mean you, Master Lyngern?"

  Maude was really hurt. She liked Bertram, and here he was making fun ofher, without the least consideration for her feelings.

  "Marry, I mean that same," responded Bertram coolly. "Would it likeyou, Mistress Maude?"

  "Methinks you had better do me to wit whom your avisement should have meto wed," said Maude, standing on her dignity, and manufacturing an angrytone to keep herself from crying. She would certainly have released herhold of Bertram, and have sat on her pillion in indignant solitude, ifshe had not felt almost sure that the result would be a fall in the mud.Bertram's answer was quick and decided.

  "Me!"

  Maude would have answered with properly injured dignity if she could;but a disagreeable lump of something came into her throat which spoiltthe effect.

  "Thou hadst better wed me, Maude," said Bertram coaxingly, dropping hisvoice and his conventionalities together. "There is not a soul loveththee as I do; and thou likest me well."

  "I pray you, Master Lyngern, when said I so much?" responded Maude,stung into speech again.

  "Just twenty years gone, little Maude," was the gentle answer.

  Bertram's voice had changed from its bantering tone into a tender, quietone, and Maude felt more inclined to cry than ever.

  "Is that saying truth no longer, Maude?"

  Maude's conscience whispered to her that she must not say any thing ofthe sort. Still she thought it only proper to hold out a little longer.She was silent; and Bertram, who thought she was coming round, let heralone for a short time. The grey towers of Cardiff slowly rose to view,and in a few seconds more they would no longer be alone.

  "Well, Maude?" asked Bertram softly. "Is it ay or nay?"

  "As you will, Master Lyngern."

  This was Bertram's wooing; and Maude wondered, when she was alone, ifany woman had been so wooed before.

  Constance expressed the greatest satisfaction when she heard of herbower-woman's approaching marriage; but one item of Bertram's projectshe commanded altered--namely, that Maude's nuptials should not takeplace on the same day as her own.

  "Why, Maude!" she said, "if our two weddings be one day, I shall havebut an half-day's rejoical, and thou likewise! Nay, good maid! we willhave each her full day, and a bonfire in the base court, and feasting,and dancing to boot. Both on one day, quotha! marry, but that wereniggardly."

  So Maude was married on the Saturday previous to her mistress. She wasdressed in lilac damask, trimmed with swansdown, and her hair, for thelast time in her life, streamed over her shoulders and fell at its ownsweet will. Matrons always tucked away their hair in the dove-cote,while widows were careful not to show a single lock. Bertram exhibitedextraordinary splendour, for he was generally rather careless about hisdress. He wore a red damask gown, trimmed with rabbit's fur; a brightblue under-tunic; a pair of red boots with white buttons; and he bore inhis hand a copped hat of blue serge. The copped hat had no brim, andwas about a foot and a half in height. Bertram's appearance, therefore,to say the least, was striking.

  When the ceremony was just completed, without any previous intimation,the Duke of York, who was present, drew his sword, and lightly struckthe shoulder of the bridegroom, before he could rise from his knees.

  "Rise, Sir Bertram Lyngern!"

  So Maude became entitled at once to the honourable prefix of "Dame."

  The grander wedding was on the following Thursday. The Earl of Kent'scostume baffles description. Suffice it to say that it cost twothousand pounds. The royal bride doffed her widow's weeds, and appearedin a crimson silk deeply e
dged with ermine, low in the neck, but withlong sleeves to the wrist. She wore the dovecote, and over it an opencirclet of gold and gems, to mark her royal rank.

  At the threshold of Constance's bower, after the ceremony, the old LadyLe Despenser met the Earl and Countess of Kent.

  "The Lord bless you, fair daughter!" she said, laying her hands on thebowed head of the bride.

  But a little later the same evening, she said unexpectedly, "Ay me! Iam but a blind thing, Dame Maude; yet this match of the Lady Custancedoth sorely misgive me."

  At the other end of the room, the Duke of York was saying, "You willvisit me at Langley, fair sister, this coming spring?"

  "With a very good will, Ned."

  It only remains to be noted that Father Ademar officiated at bothmarriages; and that as in those days people went home for the honeymoon,not away from it, the Earl and Countess set out from Cardiff in a fewdays for Brockenhurst, the birthplace and favourite residence of theyoung Earl. The children were left with their grandmother; they were tofollow, in charge of Maude and Bertram, to Langley, where their motherintended to rejoin them. Maude continued to be bowerwoman to hermistress; but some of the more menial functions usually discharged byone who filled that office, were now given to a younger girl, who borethe name of Eva de Scanteby.

  It was in the evening of a lovely spring day that Constance, accompaniedby Kent, rejoined Maude and her children at Langley.