Earl Hubert's Daughter

by Emily Sarah Holt

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

  EVIL TIDINGS.

  "Too tired for rapture, scarce I reach and cling To One that standeth by with outstretched hand; Too tired to hold Him, if He hold not me: Too tired to long but for one heavenly thing,-- Rest for the weary, in the Promised Land."

  Permission for Bruno to lay aside the habit of Saint Augustine reachedBury Castle very soon after his sermon. And with it came two otheritems of news,--the one, that Bishop Grosteste offered him a rich livingin his diocese; the other, that the Bishop's life had been attempted bypoison. It was not to be wondered at in the least, since Grosteste hadcoolly declared the reigning Pope Innocent to be an exact counterpart ofAnti-Christ (for which the head of the Church rewarded him by terminghim a wicked old dotard), and his attachment to monachism in general wasnever allowed to stand in the way of the sternest rebuke to disorderlymonks in particular. He also presumed to object to his clergy havingconstant recourse to Jewish money-lenders, and especially interferedwith their favourite amusement of amateur theatricals, which he was sounreasonable as to think unbecoming the clerical office.

  Bruno hastened to the Countess with the news, accompanying it by warmthanks for the shelter afforded to himself and his daughter, andinforming her that he would no longer burden her with either. But shelooked very grave.

  "Father Bruno," she said, "I have a boon to ask."

  "Ask it freely, Lady. I am bound to you in all ways."

  "Then I beg that you and Beatrice will continue here, so long--_ha,chetife_!--so long as my child lives."

  Father Bruno gravely assented. He knew too well that would not be long.Yet it proved longer than either of them anticipated.

  Stormy times were at hand. The Papal Legate had effected between EarlHubert and the Bishop of Winchester a reconciliation which resembled aquiescent volcano; but Hubert was put into a position of sore peril byhis royal brother-in-law of Scotland, who coolly sent an embassy to KingHenry, demanding as his right that the three northernmost counties ofEngland should be peaceably resigned to him. After putting him off fora time by an evasive message, King Henry consented to meet Alexander atYork, and discuss the questions on which they differed. His BritannicMajesty was still vexing his nobles by the favour he showed toforeigners. At this time he demanded a subsidy of one-thirtieth of allthe property in the kingdom, which they were by no means inclined togive him. As a sop to Cerberus, the King promised thenceforth to abideby the advice of his native nobility, and the subsidy was voted. Buthis next step was to invite his father-in-law, the Count of Provence,and to shower upon him the gold so unwillingly granted. The nobles weremore angry than ever, and the King's own brother, Richard Earl ofCornwall, was the first to remonstrate. Then Archbishop Edmund ofCanterbury took a journey to Rome, and declined to return, even whenrecalled by the Legate. But the grand event of that year was the finaldisruption of Christendom. The Greek Church had many a time quarrelledwith the Latin, chiefly on two heads,--the worship of images and theassumption of universal primacy. On the first count they differed withvery little distinction, since the Greek Church allowed the full worshipof pictures, but anathematised every body who paid reverence tostatues,--a rather odd state of things to Protestant eyes. Oncealready, the Eastern Church had seceded, but the quarrel was patched upagain. But after the secession of 1237, there was never to be peacebetween East and West again.

  The new year came in with a royal marriage. There were curiouscircumstances attending it, for the parties married in spite of theKing, who was obliged to give away the bride, his sister Alianora,"right sore against his will:" and though the bride had taken the vow ofperpetual widowhood, [Note 1] they did not trouble themselves about aPapal dispensation till they had been married for some weeks. Thebridegroom was the young Frenchman, Sir Simon de Montfort, whom the Kingat last came to fear more than thunder and lightning. The Englishnobility were extremely displeased, for they considered that thePrincess had been married beneath her dignity; but since from first tolast she had had her own wilful way, it was rather unreasonable in thenobles to vent their wrath upon the King. They rose against himfuriously, headed by his own brother, and by the husband of the PrincessMarjory of Scotland, till at last the royal standard was deserted by allbut one man,--that true and loyal patriot, Hubert, Earl of Kent,--theman whom no oppression could alienate from the Throne, and whom nocruelty could silence when he thought England in danger. But now hisprestige was on the wane. The nobles were not afraid of him, on accountof his old age, his wisdom, and a vow which he had taken never to beararms again. In vain King Henry appealed privately to every peer, askingif his fidelity might be relied on. From every side defiant messagescame back. The citizens of London, as their wont was, wereexceptionally disloyal. Then he sent the Legate to his brother, urgingpeace. Cornwall refused to listen. At last, driven into a corner, theKing begged for time, and it was granted him, until the first Monday inLent. When that day came, the nobles assembled in grand force atLondon, to come to a very lame and impotent conclusion. Earl Richard ofCornwall, the King's brother, suddenly announced that he and his newbrother-in-law, Montfort, had effected a complete reconciliation. Theother nobles were very angry at the desertion of their leader, andaccused him, perhaps not untruly, of having been bribed into thisconduct: for Cornwall was quite as extravagant, and nearly asacquisitive, as his royal brother. Just at this time died Joan, Queenof Scotland, the eldest sister of King Henry, of rapid decline, while onher way home from England; and her death was quickly followed by that ofHubert's great enemy, the Bishop of Winchester. The filling up of thevacant see caused one of the frequent struggles between England andRome. The Chapter of Winchester wished to have the Bishop ofChichester: the King was determined to appoint the Queen's uncle,Guglielmo of Savoy; and, as he often did to gain his ends, Henry sidedwith Rome against his own people.

  The disruption between the Greek and Latin Churches being now anaccomplished fact, the Archbishop of Antioch went the length ofexcommunicating the Pope and the whole Roman Church, asserting that ifthere were to be a supreme Pontiff, he had the better claim to thetitle. This event caused a disruption on a small scale in Margaret'sbower, where Beatrice scandalised the fair community by wanting to knowwhy the Pope should not be excommunicated if he deserved it.

  "Excommunicate the head of the Church!" said Hawise, in a horrifiedtone.

  "Well, but here are two Churches," persisted Beatrice. "If the Pope canexcommunicate the Archbishop, what is to prevent the Archbishop fromexcommunicating the Pope?"

  "Poor creature!" said Hawise pityingly.

  "The Eastern schism is no Church!" added Eva.

  "Oh, I do wish some of you would tell me what you mean by a Church!"exclaimed Beatrice, earnestly, laying down her work. "What makes onething a Church, and another a schism?"

  But that was just what nobody could tell her. Hawise leaped the chasmdeftly by declaring it an improper question. Eva said, "_Si bete_!" anddeclined to say more.

  "Well, I may be a fool," said Beatrice bluntly: "but I do not think youare much better if you cannot tell me."

  "Of course I could tell thee, if I chose!" answered Eva, with loftyscorn.

  "Then why dost thou not?" was the unanswerable reply.

  Eva did not deign to respond. But when Bruno next appeared, Beatriceput her question.

  "The Church is what Christ builds on Himself: a schism is bred in man'sbrain, contrary to holy Scripture."

  In saying which, Bruno only quoted Bishop Grosteste.

  "But, seeing men are fallible, how then can any human system claim to beat all times The Church?" asked Beatrice.

  "The true Church is not a human system at all," said he.

  "Father, Beatrice actually fancies that the Archbishop of Antioch couldexcommunicate the holy Father!" observed Hawise in tones of horror.

  "I suppose any authority can excommunicate those below him, in theChurch visible," said Bruno, calmly: "in the invisible Jerusalem above,which is the mother of us a
ll, none excommunicates but God. `Everybranch in Me, not fruit-bearing, He taketh it away.' My daughters, itwould do us more good to bear that in mind, than to blame either thePope or the Archbishop."

  And he walked away, as was his wont when he had delivered his sentence.

  That afternoon, the Countess sent for Beatrice and Doucebelle to her ownbower. They found her seated by the window, with unusually idle hands,and an expression of sore disturbance on her fair, serene face.

  "There is bad news come, my damsels," she said, when the girls had madetheir courtesies. "And I do not know how to tell my Magot. Perhaps oneof you might manage it better than I could. And she had better be told,for she is sure to hear it in some way, and I would fain spare the childall I can."

  "About Sir Richard the Earl, Lady?" asked Beatrice.

  "Yes, of course. He is married, Beatrice."

  "To whom, Lady?" asked Beatrice, calmly but Doucebelle uttered anejaculation under her breath.

  "To Maud, daughter of Sir John de Lacy, the Earl of Lincoln. It is nofault of his, poor boy! The Lord King would have it so. And the Kinghas made a good thing of it, for I hear that the Earl of Lincoln hasgiven him above three thousand gold pennies to have the marriage, andhas remitted a debt of thirteen hundred more. A good thing for him!--and it may be quite as well for Richard. But my poor child! I cannotunderstand how it is that she does not rouse up and forget herdisappointment. It is very strange."

  It was very strange, to the mother who loved Margaret so dearly, and yetunderstood her so little. But Doucebelle silently thought that anything else would have been yet stranger.

  "And you would have us tell her, Lady?"

  "It would be as well. Really, I cannot!"

  The substratum was showing itself for a moment in the character of theCountess.

  "Dulcie would do it better than I," said Beatrice, "I am a bad hand atbeating about the bush. I might do it too bluntly."

  "Then, Dulcie, do tell her!" pleaded the Countess.

  "Very well, Lady." But all Doucebelle's unselfishness did not preventher from feeling that she would almost rather have had any thing else todo.

  She went back slowly to Margaret's bower, tenanted at that moment by noone but its owner. Margaret looked up as Doucebelle entered, and readher face as easily as possible.

  "Evil tidings!" she said, quietly enough. "For thee, or for me,Dulcie?"

  Doucebelle came and knelt beside her.

  "For me, then!" Margaret's voice trembled a little. "Go on, Dulcie!Richard--"

  She could imagine no evil tidings except as associated with him.

  Doucebelle conquered her unwillingness to speak, by a strong effort.

  "Yes, dear Margaret, it is about him. The--"

  "Is he dead?" asked Margaret, hurriedly.

  "No."

  "I thought, if it had been that,"--she hesitated.

  "Margaret, didst thou not expect something more to happen?"

  "Something--what? I see!" and her tone changed. "It is marriage."

  "Yes, Sir Richard is married to--"

  "No! Don't tell me to whom. I am afraid I should hate her. And I donot want to do that."

  Doucebelle was silent.

  "Was it his doing," asked Margaret in a low voice, "or did the Lord Kingorder it?"

  "Oh, it was the Lord King's doing, entirely, the Lady says."

  "O Dulcie! I ought to wish it were his, because there would be morelikelihood of his being happy: but I cannot--I cannot!"

  "My poor Margaret, I do not wonder!" answered Doucebelle tenderly.

  "Is it very wicked," added Margaret, in a voice of deep pain, "not to beable to wish him to be happy, without me? It is so hard, Dulcie! To beshut out from the warmth and the sunlight, and to see some one else letin! I suppose that is a selfish feeling. But it is so hard!"

  "My poor darling!" was all that Doucebelle could say.

  "Father Bruno said, that so long as we kept saying, `My will be done,'we must not expect God to comfort us. Yet how are we to give over? ODulcie, I thought I was beginning to submit, and this has stirred all upagain. My heart cries out and says, `This shall not be! I will nothave it so!' And if God will have it so!--How am I to learn to bend mywill to His?"

  Neither of the girls had heard any one enter, and they were a littlestartled when a third voice replied--

  "None but Himself can teach thee that, my daughter. If thou canst notyet give Him thy will, ask Him to take it in spite of thee."

  "I have done that, already, Father Bruno."

  "Then thou mayest rest assured that He will do all that is lacking."

  That night, Bruno said to Beatrice,--"That poor, dear child! I am sureGod is teaching her. But to-day's news has driven another nail into hercoffin."

  Would it have been easier, or harder, if the veil could have been liftedwhich hid from Margaret the interior of Gloucester Castle? To the eyesof the world outside, the young Earl behaved like any other bridegroom.He brought the Lady Maud to his home, placed her in sumptuousapartments, surrounded her with obsequious attendants, provided her withall the comforts and luxuries of life: but there his attentions ended.For four years his step never crossed the threshold of the tower whereshe resided, and they met only on ceremonial occasions. Wife she neverwas to him, until for twelve months the cold stones of Westminster Abbeyhad lain over the fair head of his Margaret, the one love of his triedand faithful heart.

  Having now completed the wreck of these two young lives, His Majestyconsiderately intimated to Richard de Clare, that in return for theunusual favours which had been showered upon him, he only asked of himto feel supremely happy, and to be devoted to his royal service for theterm of his natural life.

  Only!

  How often it is the case that we imagine our friends to be blessing uswith every fibre of their hearts, when it is all that they can do topray for grace to enable them to forgive us!

  Not that Richard did any thing of the kind. So far from it, that heregistered a vow in Heaven, that if ever the power to do it should fallinto his hands, he would repay that debt an hundredfold.

  The two chaplains of the Earl had shown no interest whatever in Margaretand her troubles. Father Warner despised all human affections ofwhatever kind, with the intensity of a nature at once cold and narrow.Father Nicholas was of a far kindlier disposition, but he was completelyengrossed with another subject. Alchemy was reviving. The endlesssearch for the philosopher's stone, the elixir of life, and otherequally desirable and unattainable objects, had once more begun toengage the energies of scientific men. The real end which they wereapproaching was the invention of gunpowder, which can hardly be termed ablessing to the world at large. But Father Nicholas fell into thesnare, and was soon absolutely convinced that only one ingredient waswanting to enable him to discover the elixir of life. That oneingredient, of priceless value, remains undiscovered in the nineteenthcentury.

  Yet one thing must be said for these medieval philosophers,--that exceptin the way of spending money, they injured none but themselves. Theirsearch for the secret of life did not involve the wanton torture ofhelpless creatures, nor did their boasted knowledge lead them to theidiotic conclusion that they were the descendants of a jelly-fish.

  Oh, this much-extolled, wise, learned, supercilious Nineteenth Century!Is it so very much the superior of all its predecessors, as itcomplacently assumes to be?

  King Alexander of Scotland married his second wife in the May of 1239,to the great satisfaction of his sisters. The Countess of Kent thoughtthat such news as this really ought to make Margaret cheer up: and shewas rather perplexed (which Doucebelle was not by any means) at thediscovery that all the gossip on that subject seemed only to increaseher sadness. An eclipse of the sun, which occurred on the third ofJune, alarmed the Countess considerably. Some dreadful news mightreasonably be expected after that. But no worse occurrence (from herpoint of view) happened than the birth of a Prince--afterwards to beEdward the First, who ha
s been termed "the greatest of all thePlantagenets."

  The occasion of the royal christening was eagerly seized upon, as adelightful expedient for the replenishing of his exhausted treasury, bythe King who might not inappropriately be termed the least of thePlantagenets. Messengers were sent with tidings of the auspicious eventto all the peers, and if the gifts with which they returned laden werenot of the costliest description, King Henry dismissed them in disgrace."God gave us this child," exclaimed a blunt Norman noble, "but the Kingsells him to us!"

  Four days after the Prince's birth came another event, which to one atleast in Bury Castle, was enough to account for any portentous eclipse.The Countess found Beatrice drowned in tears.

  "Beatrice!--my dear maiden, what aileth thee? I have scarcely ever seenthee shed tears before."

  The girl answered by a passionate gesture.

  "`Oh that mine head were waters, and mine eyes a fountain of tears, thatI might weep day and night for the slain of the daughter of my people!'"

  "_Ha, chetife_!--what is the matter?"

  "Lady, there has been an awful slaughter of my people." And she stoodup and flung up her hands towards heaven, in a manner which seemed tothe Countess worthy of some classic prophetess. "`Remember, O Adonai,what is come upon us; consider, and behold our reproach!' `O God, whyhast Thou cast us off for ever? why doth Thine anger smoke against thesheep of Thy pasture? We see not our signs: there is no more anyprophet.' `Arise, O Adonai, judge the earth! for Thou shalt inherit allnations.'"

  The Countess stood mute before this unparalleled outburst. She couldnot comprehend it.

  "My child, I do not understand," she said, kindly enough. "Has somerelative of thine been murdered? How shocking!"

  "Are not all my people kindred of mine?" exclaimed Beatrice,passionately.

  "Dost thou mean the massacre of the Jews in London?" said the Countess,as the truth suddenly flashed upon her. "Oh yes, I did hear of somesuch dreadful affair. But, my dear, remember, thou art now a De Malpas.Thou shouldst try to forget thine unfortunate connection with that lowrace. They are not thy people any longer."

  Beatrice looked up, with flashing eyes from which some stronger feelingthan sorrow had suddenly driven back the tears.

  "`If I forget thee, O Jerusalem, let my right hand forget her cunning!'Lady, thou canst not fathom the heart of a Jew. No Christian can. Weare brethren for ever. And you call my nationality unfortunate, andlow! Know that I look upon that half of my blood as the King does uponhis crown,--yea, as the Lord dees upon His people! `We are Thine; Thounever barest rule over them; they were not called by Thy name.' But youdo not understand, Lady."

  "No,--it is very strange," replied the Countess, in a dubious tone."Jews do not seem to understand their position. It is odd. But drythine eyes, my dear child; thou wilt make thyself ill. And really--"

  The Countess was too kind to finish the sentence. But Beatrice couldguess that she thought there was really nothing to weep over in themassacre of a few scores of Jews. She found little sympathy among theyounger members of the family party. Margaret said she was sorry, butit was evidently for the fact that her friend was in trouble, not forthe event over which she was sorrowing. Eva openly expressed profoundscorn of both the Jews and the sorrow.

  Marie wanted to know if some friend of Beatrice were among the slain:because, if not, why should she care any thing about it? Doucebellealone seemed capable of a little sympathy.

  But before the evening was over, Beatrice found there was one Christianwho could enter into all her feelings. She was slowly crossing theante-chamber in the twilight, when she found herself intercepted anddrawn into Bruno's arms.

  "My darling!" he said, tenderly. "I am sent to thee with heavytidings."

  Poor Beatrice laid her tired head on her father's breast, with thefeeling that she had one friend left in the world.

  "I know it, dear Father. But it is such a comfort that you feel it withme."

  "There are not many who will, I can guess," answered Bruno. "But, mychild, I am afraid thou dost not know all."

  "Father!--what is it?" asked Beatrice, fearfully.

  "One has fallen in that massacre, very dear to thee and me, mydaughter."

  "Delecresse?" She thought him the most likely to be in London of any ofthe family.

  "No. Delecresse is safe, so far as I know."

  "Is it Uncle Moss?--or Levi my cousin?"

  "Beatrice, it is Abraham the son of Ursel, the father of us all."

  The low cry of utter desolation which broke from the girl's lips waspitiful to hear.

  "`My father, my father! the chariot of Israel, and the horsementhereof!'"

  Bruno let her weep passionately, until the first burst of grief wasover. Then he said, gently, "Be comforted, my Beatrice. I believe thathe sleeps in Jesus, and that God shall bring him with Him."

  "He was not baptised?" asked Beatrice, in some surprise that Brunoshould think so.

  "He was ready for it. He had spoken to a friend of mine--one FriarSaher de Kilvingholme--on the subject. And the Lord would not refuse toreceive him because his brow had not been touched by water, when He hadbaptised him with the Holy Ghost and with fire."

  Perhaps scarcely any priest then living, Bruno excepted, would haveventured so far as to say that.

  "Oh, this is a weary world!" sighed Beatrice, drearily.

  "It is not the only one," replied her father.

  "It seems as if we were born only to die!"

  "Nay, my child. We were born to live for ever. Those have death whochoose it."

  "A great many seem to choose it."

  "A great many," said Bruno, sadly.

  "Father," said Beatrice, after a short silence, "as a man grows olderand wiser, do you think that he comes to understand any better thereason of the dark doings of Providence? Can you see any light uponthem, which you did not of old?"

  "No, my child, I think not," was Bruno's answer. "If any thing, Ishould say they grow darker. But we learn to trust, Beatrice. It isnot less dark when the child puts his hand confidingly in that of hisfather; but his mind is the lighter for it. We come to know our Fatherbetter; we learn to trust and wait. `What I do, thou knowest not now:but thou shalt know hereafter.' And He has told us that in that landwhere we are to know even as we are known, we shall be satisfied.Satisfied with His dealings, then: let us be satisfied with Him, hereand now."

  "It is dark!" said Beatrice, with a sob.

  "`The morning cometh,'" replied Bruno. "And `in the morning isgladness.'"

  Beatrice stood still and silent for some minutes, only a slight sob nowand then showing the storm through which she had passed. At last, in alow, troubled voice, she said--

  "There is no one to call me Belasez now!"

  Bruno clasped her closer.

  "My darling!" he said, "so long as the Lord spares us to each other,thou wilt always be _belle assez_ for me!"

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  Note 1. She was the young widow of William, Earl of Pembroke, theeldest brother of the husband of Marjory of Scotland.