PART ONE, CHAPTER 3.
HOW DAME ELIZABETH'S BILL WAS PAID.
"And yet it never was in my soul To play so ill a part: But evil is wrought by want of thought As well as by want of heart."
Thomas Hood.
As I came forth of hall, after supper, that even, and we were enteredinto the long gallery whereinto the Queen's degrees opened, I was awareof a full slender and white-faced young maid, that held by the hand asmall [little child] of mayhap five or six years. She looked as thoughshe waited for some man. The Queen had tarried in hall to receive amessenger, and Dame Joan de Vaux was in waiting, so Dame Elizabeth, DameIsabel, Dame Tiffany, and I were those that passed along the gallery.Dame Isabel and Dame Tiffany the maid let pass, with no more than apitiful look at the former, that deigned her no word: but when DameElizabeth came next, on the further side, I being betwixt, the maidstepped forward into the midst, as if to stay her. Her thin hands wereclasped over her bosom, and the pitifullest look ever I saw was in hereyes.
"_Dame, ayez pitie_!" was all she said; and it was rather breathed thanspoken.
"Bless us, Saint Mary!--art thou here again?" quoth Dame Elizabeth of atestier fashion than she was wont. "Get thee gone, child; I have notime to waste. Dear heart, what a fuss is here over a crown or twain!Dost think thy money is lost? I will pay thee when it liketh me; I havenot my purse to mine hand at this minute."
And on she walked, brushing past the maid. I tarried.
"Are you Hilda la Vileyne?" I said unto her.
"Dame, that is my name, and here is my little sister Iolande. She hathnot tasted meat [food] this day, nor should not yesterday, had not akindly gentleman, given me a denier to buy soup. But truly I do not askfor charity--only to be paid what I have honestly earned."
"And hadst thou some soup yesterday?"
"Yes--no--Oh, I am older; I can wait better than the little ones. Themother is sick: she and the babes must not wait. It does not signifyfor me."
Oh, how hungered were those great eyes, that looked too large for thewhite face! The very name of soup seemed to have brought the cravinglook therein.
I turned to the small. "Tell me, Iolande, had Hilda any of the soupyesterday?"
"No," said the child; "I and Madeleine drank it, every drop, that ourmother left."
"And had Hilda nothing?"
"There was a mouldy crust in the cupboard," said the child. "It haddropped behind the cup, and Hilda found it when she took the cup down.We could not see it behind. We can only just reach to take the cupdown, and put it up again. That was what Hilda had, and she wiped thecup with one end of it."
"The cup that had held the soup?"
"Yes, surely," said the child, with a surprised look. "We only haveone,--does not Madame know?"
"It is an esquelle [porringer; a shallow bowl], not a cup," said Hilda,reddening a little: "the child hardly knows the difference."
I felt nearhand as though I could have twisted Dame Elizabeth's neck formeat for those children.
"And are you, in good sooth, so ill off as that?" said I. "No meat, andonly one esquelle in all the house?"
"Dame," said Hilda meekly, as in excuse, "our father was long ill, andnow is our mother likewise; and many things had to be sold to pay theapothecary, and also while I waited on them could I not be at work; andmy little sisters are not old enough to do much. But truly it is onlythese last few weeks that we have been quite so ill off as to have nofood, and I have been able to earn but a few deniers now and then--enough to keep us alive, but no more."
"How much oweth you Dame Elizabeth?" said I.
"Dame, it is seven crowns for the hood I wrought, and three more for agirdle was owing aforetime, and now four for kerchiefs broidering: it isfourteen crowns in all. I should not need to ask charity if I could butbe paid my earnings. The apothecary said our mother was sick ratherfrom sorrow and want of nourishment than from any malady; and if thegood Dame would pay me, I might not only buy fresh matter for my work,but perchance get food that would make my mother well--at least wellenough to sew, and then we should have two pairs of hands instead ofone. I do not beg, Dame!"
She louted low as she spoke, and took her little sister again by thehand. "Come, Iolande; we keep Madame waiting."
"But hast thou got no money?" pleaded the barne. "Thou saidst toMadeleine that we should bring some supper back. Thou didst, Hilda!"
"I did, darling," allowed her sister, looking a little ashamed. "Icould not peace the babe else, and--I hoped we should."
I could bear no more. The truth of those maids' story was in the littleone's bitter disappointment, and in poor Hilda's hungry eyes. Eyesspeak sooth, though lips be false.
"Come," said I. "I pray you, tarry but one moment more. You shall notlose by it."
"We are at Madame's service," said Hilda.
I ran up degrees as fast as ever I could. As the saints would have it,that very minute I oped the door, was Dame Elizabeth haling forth silverin her lap, and afore her stood the jeweller's man awaiting to be paid.Blame me who will, I fell straight on those gold pieces and silvercrowns.
"Fourteen crowns, Dame Elizabeth!" quoth I, all scant of breath."Quick! give me them--for Hilda la Vileyne--and if no, may God forgiveyou, for I never will!"
Soothly, had the Archangel Raphael brake into the chamber and demandedfourteen crowns, Dame Elizabeth could have gazed on him no more astoniedthan she did on me, Cicely, that she had seen nearhand every day of herlife for over a dozen years. I gave her leave to look how it listedher. From the coins in her lap I counted forth nine nobles and a Frenchcrown, and was half-way down degrees again ere she well knew what Iwould be at. If I had had to pay her back every groat out of mine ownpurse--nay, verily, if I had stood to be beheaden for it--I would havehad that money for Hilda la Vileyne that night.
They stood where I had left them, by the door of the long gallery, nearthe _porte-cochere_, but now with them was a third--mine own Jack, thathad but now come in from the street, and the child knew him again, asshe well showed.
"O Hilda!"
I heard her say, as I came running down swiftly--for I was dread afraidDame Elizabeth should overtake me and snatch back the money--and I mighthave spared my fears, for had I harried the Queen's crown along with hercrowns, no such a thing should ever have come in her head--"O Hilda!"saith the child, "see here the good Messire who gave us the denier tobuy soup."
I might have guessed it was Jack. He o'erheard the child, and stayedhim to pat her on the head.
"Well, little one, was the soup good?"
"So good, Messire! But Hilda got none--not a drop."
"Hush!" saith Hilda; but the child would go on.
"None at all! why, how was that?" saith Jack, looking at Hilda.
I answered for her. "The sick mother and helpless babes had the soup,"said I; "and this brave maid was content with a mouldy crust. Jack, aword in thine ear."
"Good!" saith he, when I had whispered to him. "Go thy ways,sweetheart, and so do."
"Nay, there is no need to go any ways," said I, "for here cometh Melioradown degrees, and of a truth I somewhat shrink from facing DameElizabeth after my robbery of her, any sooner than must be--Meliora,child, wilt run above an instant, and fetch my blue mantle and thethicker of mine hoods?"
Meliora ran up straightway; for though she was something too forward,and could be pert when she would, yet was she good-natured enough whenkindly used. I turned to Hilda.
"Hold thy palm, my maid," said I. "Here is the money the lady ought[owed] thee." And I haled into her hand the gold pieces and the silvercrown.
Verily, I could have greeted mine eyes sore to see what then befell.The barne capered about and clapped her hands, crying, "Supper! supper!now we shall have meat!" but Hilda covered her eyes with her void hand,and sobbed as though her heart should break.
"God Almighty bless you, kind Dame!" said she, when as she could speakagain. "I was nearhand in utter mishope [nearly in despair].
Now mymother can have food and physic, and maybe, if it please God, she shallrecover. May I be forgiven, but I was beginning to think the good Godcared not for poor folks like us, or maybe that there was no God to careat all."
Down came Meliora with my hood and mantle, which I cast all hastilyabout me, and then said I to Hilda--
"My maid, I would fain see thy mother; maybe I could do her some good;and mine husband here will go with us for a guard. Lead on."
"God bless you!" she said yet again. "He _must_ have heard me." Thelast words were spoken lowly, as to herself.
We went forth of the great gates, and traversed the good streets, andcame into divers little alleys that skirt the road near Saint Denis'Gate. In one of these Hilda turned into an house--a full poor hut itwas--and led me up degrees into a poor chamber, whither the child rangleefully afore. Jack left me at the door, he and I having covenanted,when we whispered together, what he should do whilst I visited Hilda'smother.
Little Iolande ran forward into the chamber, crying, "Supper! supper!Mother and Madeleine, Hilda has money for supper!"
What I then beheld was a poor pallet, but ill covered with a thincoverlet, whereon lay a pale, weak woman, that seemed full ill at ease,yet I thought scarce so much sick of body as sick at heart and faintwith fasting and sorrow. At the end of the pallet sat a child somethingelder than Iolande, but a child still. There was no form in thechamber, but Hilda brought forward an old box, whereon she cast a cleanapron, praying me to sit, and to pardon them that this should be thebest they had to offer. I sat me down, making no matter thereof, for invery deed I was full of pity for these poor creatures.
The mother, as was but like, took me for Dame Elizabeth, and began tothank me for having paid my debts--at long last, she might have said.But afore I could gainsay it, Hilda saith warmly--
"Oh no, Mother! This is not the lady that ought the money. Madame hereis good--so good! and that lady--she has no heart in her, I think."
"Not very good, Hilda," said I, laughing, "when I fell on the dame thatought thee the money, and fairly wrenched it from her, whether she wouldor no. Howbeit," I continued to the poor woman, "_I_ will be good toyou, if I can."
By bits and scraps I pulled her story forth of her mouth. It was nouncommon tale: a sickly wife and a selfish husband,--a deserted,struggling wife and mother--and then a penniless widow, with no friendsand poor health, that could scant make shift to keep body and soultogether, whether for herself or the children. The husband had comehome at last but to be a burden and sorrow--to be nursed through atwelve months' sickness and then to die; and what with the weariness andlack of all comfort, the poor widow fell sick herself soon after, andHilda, the young maid, had kept matters a-going, as best she might, eversithence.
I comforted the poor thing to my little power; told her that I wouldgive Hilda some work to do (and pay her for it), and that I would comeand see her by times whilst the Queen should abide in Paris; but thatwhen she went away must I go likewise, and it might be all suddenly,that I could not give her to wit. Hilda had sent the children forth tobuy food, and there were but her and her mother. Mine husband waslonger in return than I looked for.
"My maid," said I to Hilda, "prithee tell me a thing. What didst thousignify by saying to thyself, right as we set forth from the Palace,that God must have heard thee?"
A great wave of colour passed over her face and neck.
"Dame," she said, "I will speak soothliness. It was partly because Ihad prayed for money to buy food and physic: but partly also, because Iwas afraid of something, and I had asked the good God to keep it awayfrom me. When you said that you and Messire would condescend to comewith me, it delivered me from my fear. The good God must have heard me,for nobody else knew."
"Afraid!" said I. "Whereof, my maid? Was it the porter's great dog?He is a gentle beast as may be, and would never touch thee. What couldharm thee in the Queen's Palace?"
The wave of colour came again. "Madame does not know," she said, in alow voice. "There are men worse than brutes: but such great ladies donot see it. One stayed me and spoke to me the night afore. I wasafraid he might come again, and there was no one to help me but the goodLord. So I called to Him to be my guard, for there was none else; and Ithink He sent two of His angels with me."
Mine own eyes were full, no less than Hilda's.
"May the good Lord guard thee ever, poor maid!" said I. "But in verysooth, I am far off enough from an angel. Here cometh one somethingnearer thereto"--for I heard Jack's voice without. "But tell me, dostthou know who it was of whom thou wert afraid?"
"I only know," she said, "that his squire bare a blue and white livery,guarded in gold. I heard not his name."
"Verily!" said I to myself, "such gentlemen be fair company for DameIsabel the Queen!"
For I could have no doubt that poor Hilda's enemy was that bad man, SirRoger de Mortimer. Howbeit, I said no more, for then oped the door, andin came Jack, with a lad behind, bearing a great basket. Jack's ownarms were full of fardels [parcels], which he set down in a corner ofthe chamber, and bade the lad empty the basket beside, which was chargedwith firewood, "There!" saith he, "they be not like to want for a day ortwain, poor souls! Come away, Sissot; we have earned a night's rest."
"Messire!" cried the faint voice of the poor woman. "Messire is good asan angel from Heaven! But surely Messire has not demeaned himself tocarry burdens--and for us!"
She seemed nearhand frightened at the thought.
"Nay, good woman," saith Jack, merrily--"no more than the angel thatcarried the cruse of water for the Prophet Elias. Well-a-day! securelyI can carry a fardel without tarnishing my spurs? I would I might neverdo a worse deed."
"Amen!" said I, "for both of us."
We bade the woman and Hilda good even, and went forth, followed byblessings till we were in the very street: and not till then would Isay--
"Jack, thou art the best man ever lived, but I would thou hadst a littlemore care for appearances. Suppose Sir Edmund or Master de Oxendon hadseen thee!"
"Well?" saith Jack, as calm as a pool in a hollow. "Suppose they had."
"Why, then should they have laughed thee to scorn."
"Suppose they did?"
"Jack! Dost thou nothing regard folks' thoughts of thee?"
"Certes. I regard thine full diligently."
"But other folks, that be nought to thee, I would say."
"If the folks be nought to me, wherefore should the thoughts be ofimport? Securely, good wife, but very little. I shall sleep thesweeter for those fardels: and I count I should sleep none the worser ifman laughed at me. The blessing of the poor and the blessing of theLord be full apt to go together: and dost thou reckon I would missthat--yea, so much as one of them--out of regard for that which is,saith Solomon, `_sonitum spinarum sub olla_'? [Ecclesiastes chapterseven, verse 6]. _Ha, jolife_! let the thorns crackle away, prithee;they shall not burn long."
"Jack," said I, "thou _art_ the best man ever lived!"
"Rhyme on, my fair _trouvere_," quoth he. [Troubadour. Their lays wereusually legends and fictitious tales.] "But, Sissot, to speak sooth, Iwill tell thee, if thou list to hearken, what it is keepeth my stepsfrom running into many a by-way, and mine heart from going astray aftermany a flower sown of Satan in my path."
"Do tell me, Jack," said I.
"There be few days in my life," saith he, "that there cometh not upafore mine eyes that Bar whereat I shall one day stand, and that Bookout of the which all my deeds shall be read afore men and angels. And Ihave some concern for the thoughts of them that look on, that day,rather than this. Many a time--ay, many a time twice told--in earlymorn or in evening twilight, have I looked up into heaven, and thethought hath swept o'er me like a fiery breeze--`What if our Lord becoming this minute?' Dost thou reckon, Sissot, that man to whom suchthoughts be familiar friends, shall be oft found sitting in thealebooth, or toying with frothy vanities? I trow not."
"But, Jack!" cried I, letting
all else drop, "is that all real to thee?"
"Real, Sissot? There is not another thing as real in life."
I burst forth. I could not help it.
"O Jack, Jack! Don't go and be a monk!"
"Go and be a monk!" saith Jack, with an hearty laugh. "Why, Wife, whatbees be in thine hood? I thought I was thine husband."
"So thou art, the saints be thanked," said I. "But thou art so good, Iam sore afraid thou wilt either die or be a monk."
"I'll not be a monk, I promise thee," quoth he. "I am not half goodenough, nor would I lose my Sissot. As to dying, be secure I shall notdie an hour afore God's will is: and the Lord hath much need of goodfolks to keep this bad world sweet. I reckon we may be as good as wecan with reasonable safety. I'll try, if thou wilt."
So I did, and yet do: but I shall never be match to Jack.
Well, by this time we had won back to the Queen's lodging; and at footof degrees I bade good-night to Jack, being that night appointed to thepallet--a business I never loved. I was thinking on Jack's last words,as I went up, and verily had for the nonce forgat that which went afore,when all at once a voice saith in mine ear--
"Well, Dame Cicely! Went you forth in such haste lest you should beclapped into prison for stealing? Good lack, but mine heart's in mymouth yet! Were you wood [mad], or what ailed you?"
"Dame Elizabeth," said I, as all came back on me, "I have been to visitHilda's mother."
"Dear heart! And what found you? Was she a-supping on goose and leeks?That make o' folks do alway feign to be as poor as Job, when theircoffers be so full the lid cannot be shut. You be young, Dame Cicely,and know not the world."
"Maybe," said I. "But if you will hearken me, I will tell you what Ifound."
"Go to, then," saith she, as she followed me into our chamber."Whate'er you found, you left me too poor to pay the jeweller. I wouldfain have had a sapphire pin more than I got, but your raid on my pursedisabled me thereof. The rogue would give me no credit."
"Hear but my tale," said I, "and if when it be told you regret yoursapphire pin, I beseech you say so."
So I told her in plain words, neither 'minishing nor adding, how I hadfound them, and the story I had heard from the poor woman. Shelistened, cool enough at first, but ere I made an end the water stood inher eyes.
"_Ha, chetife_!" said she, when I stayed me. "I'll pay the maid anothertime. Trust me, Dame Cicely, I believed not a word. If you had beencheated as oft--! Verily, I am sorry I sent not man to see how mattersstood with them. Well, I am fain you gave her the money, after all.But, trust me, you took my breath away!"
"And my own belike," said I.
I think Hilda and hers stood not in much want the rest of that winter.But whenever she came with work for me, either Margaret my maid, orJack's old groom, a sober man and an ancient, walked back with her.
Meantime Sir Roger de Mortimer played first viol in the Courtminstrelsy. Up and yet higher up he crept, till he could creep nofurther, as I writ a few leaves back. On the eve of Saint Pancras wascrowned the new Queen of France in the Abbey of Saint Denis, which is toFrance as Westminster Abbey to us: and there ramped my Lord of Mortimerin the very suite of the Queen herself, and in my Lord of Chester's ownlivery. Twice-banished traitor, he appeared in the self presence of theKing that had banished him, and of the wife of his own natural Prince,to whom he had done treason of the deepest dye. And not one voice saidhim nay.
Thus went matters on till the beginning of September, 1326. The Queenabode at Paris; the King of France made no sign: our King's trustymessager, Donald de Athole, came and went with letters (and if it werenot one of his letters the Queen dropped into the brasier right as Icame one day into her chamber, I marvel greatly); but nought came forththat we her ladies heard. On the even of the fifth of September, early,came Sir John de Ostrevant to the Palace, and had privy speech of theQueen--none being thereat but her confessor and Dame Isabel de Lapyoun:and he was scarce gone forth when, as we sat in our chamber a-work, theQueen herself looked in and called Dame Elizabeth forth.
I thought nought of it. I turned down hem, and cut off some threads,and laid down scissors, and took up my needle to thread afresh--in theHotel de Saint Pol at Paris. And that needle was not threaded but inthe Abbey of Saint Edmund's Bury in Suffolk, twenty days after. Yet ifman had told me it should so be, I had felt ready to laugh him to scorn.Ah me, what feathers we be, that a breath from God Almighty can wafthither or thither at His will!
Never but that once did I see Dame Elizabeth to burst into a chamber.And when she so did, I was in such amaze thereat that I fair gasped tosee it.
"Good lack!" cried I, and stared on her.
"Well may you say it!" quoth she. "Lay by work, all of you, and makeyou ready privily in all haste for journeying by night. Lose not amoment."
"Mary love us!" cries Isabel de la Helde. "Whither?"
"Whither the Queen's will is. Hold your tongues, and make you ready."
We lay that night--and it was not till late--in the town of Sessouns, inthe same lodging the Queen had before, at Master John de Gyse's house.The next night we lay at Peronne, and the third we came to Ostrevant.
Dame Isabel told us the reason of this sudden flight. The Queen hadheard that her brother the King of France--who for some time past hadbeen very cool and distant towards her--had a design to seize upon herand deliver her a prisoner to King Edward: and Sir John of Hainault,Count of Ostrevant, who came to bring her this news, offered her arefuge in his Castle of Ostrevant. I believed this tale when DameIsabel told it: I have no faith in it now. What followed did awayentirely therewith, and gave me firm belief that it was nothing save anexcuse to get away in safety and without the King of France's knowledge.Be it how it may, Sir Roger de Mortimer came with her.
We were not many days at Ostrevant: only long enough for the Count toraise his troops, and then, when all was ready, the Queen embarked forEngland. On the 22nd of September we came ashore at Orwell, and hadfull ill lodging; none having any shelter save the Queen herself, forwhom her knights ran up a shed of driftwood, hung o'er with carpets.Never had I so discomfortous a night--the sea tossing within a fewyards, and the wind roaring in mine ears, and the spray all-to beatingover me as I lay on the beach, lapped in a mantle. I was well pleasedthe next morrow, when the Queen, whose rest had been little, gavecommand to march forward to Bury. But afore we set forth, come nearhandan army of peasants into the presence, 'plaining of the Queen'sofficers, that had taken their cows, chickens, and fruits, and paid nota penny. The Queen had them all brought afore her, and with her ownhands haled forth the money due to each one, bidding them bring alloppressions to her own ears, and straitly commanding her officers thatthey should take not so much as an egg without payment. By this meansshe won all the common people to her side, and they were ready to settheir lives in pledge for her truth and honour.
At that time I was but little aware how matters verily stood. I said toDame Joan de Vaux that the Queen showed her goodness hereby--for thoughI knew the Mortimer by then to be ill man, I wist not that she knew it,and reckoned her yet as innocent and beguiled woman.
"Doth she so?" answered Dame Joan. "How many grapes may man gather of abramble?"
"Nay!" said I, scarce perceiving her intent, "but very grapes come notof brambles."
"Soothly," saith she: "neither do very brambles bear grapes."
Three days the Queen tarried at Bury: then, with banners flying, shemarched on toward Essex. I thought it strange that even she shouldmarch with displayed banners, seeing the King was not of her company:but I reckoned she had his order, and was acting as his deputy.Elsewise had it been dread treason [Note 1], even in her. I wasconfirmed in my thought when my Lord of Lancaster, the King's cousin,and my Lord of Norfolk, the King's brother, came to meet her and joinedtheir troops to her company; and yet more when the Archbishop of Dublin,and the Bishops of Hereford, Lincoln, and Ely, likewise joined them toher. Verily, such holy men could not countenance tr
eason.
Truth enough: but that which was untrue was not the treason, but theholiness of these Caiaphases.
And now began that woeful Dolorous Way, which our Lord King Edward trodafter his Master Christ. But who knoweth whither a strange road shalllead him, until he be come to the end thereof? I wis well that manyfolk have said unto us--Jack and me--since all things were made plain,How is it ye saw not aforetime, and wherefore followed ye the Queen thuslong? They saw not aforetime, no more than we; but now that all isopen, up come they with wagging heads and snorkilling noses,and--"Verily, we were sore to blame for not seeing through the mist"--the mist through the which, when it lay thick, no man saw. _Ha,chetife_! I could easily fall to prophesying, myself, when all is over.Could we have seen what lay at the end of that Dolorous Way, should anytrue and loyal man have gone one inch along it?
And who was like to think, till he did see, what an adder the Kingnursed in his bosom? Most men counted her a fair white dove, allinnocent and childlike: that did I not. I did see far enough, for allthe mist, to see she was no child in that fashion; yet children lovemischief well enough betimes; and I counted her, if not white, butgrey--not the loathly black fiend that she was at the last seen to be.I saw many a thing I loved not, many a thing I would not have done inher place, many a thing that I but half conceived, and feared to be illdeed--but there ended my seeing. I thought she was caught within themeshes of a net, and I was sorry she kept not thereout. But I neverguessed that the net was spread by her own hands.
My mother, Dame Alice de Lethegreve, I think, saw clearer than I did:but it was by reason she loved more,--loved him who became thesacrifice, not the miserable sinner for whose hate and wickedness he wassacrificed.
So soon as King Edward knew of the Queen's landing, which was byMichaelmas Eve at latest, he put forth a proclamation to all his lieges,wherein he bade them resist the foreign horde about to be poured uponEngland. Only three persons were to be received with welcome andhonour: which was, the Queen herself, Edward her son (his father, in hisjust ire, named him not his son, neither as Earl of Chester), and theKing's brother, the Lord Edmund of Kent. I always was sorry for my Lordof Kent; he was so full hoodwinked by the Queen, and never so much asguessed for one moment, that he acted a disloyal part. He was a noblegentleman, a kindly and a generous; not, maybe, the wisest man in therealm, and something too prone to rush after all that had the look of anoble deed, ere he gave himself time enough to consider the same. Butif the world held no worser men at heart than he, it were marvellousbetter world than now.
One other thing did King Edward, which showed how much he had learned:he offered a great price of one thousand pounds [about 18,000 pounds,according to modern value], for the head of the Mortimer: and no soonerdid the Queen hear thereof, than she offered double--namely, twothousand pounds--for the head of Sir Hugh Le Despenser--a man whoselittle finger was better worth two thousand than the Mortimer's head wasworth one. Two days later, the King fortified the Tower, and appointedthe Lord John of Eltham governor thereof; but he being only a child often years, the true governor was the Lady Alianora La Despenser, who wasleft in charge of the King's said son. And two days afore Saint Francis[October 2nd] he left the Tower, and set forth toward Wallingford,leaving the Bishop of Exeter to keep the City: truly a thanklessbusiness, for never could any man yet keep the citizens of London. Norcould he: for a fortnight was not over ere they rose in insurrectionagainst the King's deputies, invested the Tower, wrenched the keys fromthe Constable, John de Weston, to whom the Lady Alianora had confidedthem, brought her out with the young Lord, and carried them to theWardrobe--not without honour--and then returning, they seized on theBishop, with two of his squires, and strake off their heads at theStandard in Chepe. And this will I say for the said Bishop, though hewere not alway pleasant to deal withal, for he was very furnish--yet washe honest man, and loved his master, ay, and held to him in days when itwas little profit so to do. And seeing how few honest men there be,that will hold on to the right when their profit lieth to the left, thatis much to say.
With the King went Sir Hugh Le Despenser--I mean the younger, that wascreate Earl of Gloucester by reason of his marriage; for the LadyAlianora his wife was eldest of the three sisters that were coheirs ofthat earldom. And thereanent--well-a-day! how different folks do fromthat I should do in their place! I can never tell wherefore, when mandoth ill, the penalty thereof should be made to run over on his innocentsons. Because Sir Hugh forfeited the earldom, wherefore passed it notto his son, that was loyal man and true, and one of the King's bestcouncillors all his life? On the contrary part, it was bestowed on SirHugh de Audley, that wedded the Lady Margaret (widow of Sir Piers deGavaston), that stood next of the three coheirs. And it seemeth mescarce just that Sir Hugh de Audley, that had risen up against KingEdward of old time, and been prisoned therefor, and was at best but apardoned rebel, should be singled out for one of the finest earldoms inEngland, and not Sir Hugh Le Despenser, whose it was of right, and towhose charge--save the holding of the Castle of Caerphilly against QueenIsabel, which was in very loyalty to his true lord King Edward--no faultat all could be laid. I would I had but the world to set right! Thenshould there be justice done, and every wrong righted, and all crookedways put straight, and every man and woman made happy. Dear heart, whatfair and good world were this, when I had made an end of--
Did man laugh behind me?
"Jack! Soothly, I thought it must be thou. What moveth thy laughter?"
"Dame Cicely de Chaucombe," saith he, essaying to look sober--which hemanaged but ill. "The Annals of Cicely, likewise; and the imaginings ofCicely in especial."
"Well, what now mispayeth [displeases] thee?" quoth I.
"There was once man," saith Jack, "thought as thou dost. And seeingthat the hollyhocks in his garden were taller than the daisies, he badehis gardener with a scythe cut short the hollyhocks, that all theflowers should be but of one height."
"Well, what happed?" said I.
"Why, next day were there no hollyhocks. And then the hollyhock stemsand the daisies both laid 'plaint of the gardener."
"Both?" said I.
"Both. They alway do."
"But what 'plaint had the daisies to offer?"
"Why, that they had not been pulled up to the height of the hollyhocks,be sure."
"But how could they so?"
"Miscontent hath no `can' in his hornbook. Not what thou canst, butwhat he would, is his measure of justice."
"But justice is justice," said I--"not what any man would, but what isfair and even."
"Veriliest. But what is fair and even? If thou stand on Will's haw[hillock], the oak on thy right hand is the largest tree; if thou standon Dick's, it shall be the beech on thy left. And thine ell-wandreacheth not. How then to measure?"
"But I would be on neither side," said I, "but right in the midst: soshould I see even."
"Right in the midst, good wife, is where God standeth; and few men winthere. There be few matters whereof man can see both to the top and tothe bottom. Mostly, if man see the one end, then he seeth not theother. And that which man seeth not, how shall he measure? Withoutthou lay out to follow the judge which said that he would clearly manshould leave to harry him with both sides of a matter. So long as heheard but the plaintiff, he could tell full well where the right lay;but after came the defendant, and put him all out, that he wist not onwhich side to give judgment. Maybe Judge Sissot should sit on the benchalongside of him."
"Now, Jack," said I, "thou laughest at me."
"Good discipline for thee, sweetheart," saith he, "and of lesserseverity than faulting thee. But supposing the world lay in thine handsto set right, and even that thou hadst the power thereto, how long timedost think thy work should abide?"
"_Ha, chetife_!" cried I. "I ne'er bethought me of that."
"The world was set right once," quoth Jack, "by means of cold water, andwell washed clean therein. But it tarried not long, as thou wist. Sinwas n
ot washed away; and Satan was not drowned in the Flood: and verysoon thereafter were they both a-work again. Only one stream can washthe world to last, and that floweth right from the rood on Calvary."
"Yet there is enough," said I, "to wash the whole world."
"Verily. But how, if the world will not come and wash? `He thatwill'--_qui vult_--`let him take water of life freely.' But he that isnot athirst for the holy water, shall not have it forced down his throatagainst his will."
"How shall man come by the thirst, Jack, if he hath it not? For if thegift shall be given only to him that thirsteth for it, it seemeth me thethirst must needs be born ere we shall come for the water."
"Nay, sweetheart, we all desire happiness and wealth and honour; themistake is that we be so ready to slake our thirst at the pools of muddywater which abound on every hand, rather than go to the fount of livingwater. We grasp at riches and honours and pleasures of this life: lo,here the blame, in that we are all athirst for the muddy pool, and haveno desire for the holy water--for the gold of the royal mint stampedwith the King's image, for the crown of everlasting life, for the blisswhich shall endure unto all ages. We cry soothly for these things; butit is aswhasay, Give me happiness, but let it end early; give me seeminggold, but let it be only tinsel; give me a crown, but be it one thatwill fade away. Like a babe that will grip at a piece of tin whereonthe sun shineth, and take no note of a golden ingot that lieth by inshadow."
"But who doth such things, Jack?"
"Thou and I, Sissot, unless Christ anoint our eyes that we see insooth."
"Jack!" cried I, all suddenly, "as I have full many times told thee,thou art better man than many a monk."
"Now scornest thou at me," saith he. "How can I be perfect, that amwedded man? [Note 2.] Thou wist well enough that perfect men be onlyfound among the contemplative, not among them that dwell in the world.Yet soothly, I reckon man may dwell in the world and love Christ, or hemay dwell in cloister and be none of His."
Well, I know not how that may be; but this do I know, that never wasthere any Jack even to my Jack; and I am sore afraid that if I ever wininto Heaven, I shall never be able to see Jack, for he shall be tenthousand mile nearer the Throne than I Cicely am ever like to be.
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Note 1. At this time it was high treason for any subject to march withbanners displayed, unless he acted as the King's representative by hisdistinct commission.
Note 2. The best men then living looked on the life of idlecontemplation as the highest type of Christian life, to which no marriedman could attain.
In Convent Walls Page 3