PART TWO, CHAPTER 1.
WHEREIN AGNES THE LADY OF PEMBROKE TELLETH TALE (1348).
THE CHILDREN OF LUDLOW CASTLE.
"O little feet, that, such long years, Must wander on through hopes and fears, Must ache and bleed beneath your load: I, nearer to the wayside inn Where toil shall cease and rest begin, Am weary, thinking of your road."
Longfellow.
Hereby I promise, and I truly mean to execute it, to give my new greensilk cloth of gold piece, bordered with heads of griffins in goldenbroidery, to the Abbey of Saint Austin at Canterbury, if any thatliveth, man or woman, will tell me certainly how evil came into thisworld. I want to know why Eva plucked that apple. She must haveplucked it herself, for the serpent could not give it her, having nohands. And if man--or woman--will go a step further, and tell me whyAdam ate another, he shall have my India-coloured silk, broidered withgolden lions and vultures, whereof I had meant to make me a new gown forthis next Michaelmas feast. It doth seem as if none but a very idiotcould have let in evil and sin and sorrow and pain all over this world,for the sake of a sweet apple. It must have been sweet, I should think,because it grew in Eden. But was there never another in all the gardensave only on that tree? Or did man not know what would happen? or wasit that man would not think? That is the way sometimes with some folks,else that heedless Nichola had not broken my favourite comb.
The question has been in my head many a score of times; but it came justnow because my Lady, my lord's mother, was earnest with me to write in abook what I could remember of mine early days, when my Lady mine ownmother was carried to Skipton and Pomfret. If those were not evil days,I know not how to spell the word. And I am very sure it was evil menthat made them; and evil women. I believe bad woman is far worse thanbad man. So saith the Lady Julian, my lord's mother; and being herselfwoman, and having been thrice wed, she should know somewhat of women andmen too. Ay, and I were ill daughter if I writ not down also that agood woman is one of God's blessedest gifts to this evil world; for suchis mine own mother, the Lady Joan de Geneville, that was sometime wifeunto the Lord Roger Mortimer, Earl of March, whose name men of this dayknow but too well.
Well-a-day! if a thing is to be, it is best over. It is never any goodto sit on the brink shivering before man plunge in. So, if I must needswrite, be it done. Here is a dozen of parchment, and a full inkhorn,and grey goose-quills: and I need nothing else save brains; whereof, Ithank the saints, I have enough and to spare. And indeed, it is as wellI should, for in this world--I say not, in this house--there be folkswho have none too many. But I reckon, before I begin my tale, I hadbest say who and what I am, else shall those who read my book be likemen that walk in a mist, which is not pleasant, as I found this lastsummer, when for a time I lost my company--and thereby, myself--on thetop of a Welsh mountain.
I, then, who write, am Agnes de Hastings, Countess of Pembroke and Ladyof Leybourne: and I am wife unto the Lord Lawrence de Hastings, Earl andBaron of the same. My father and mother I have already named, but I maysay further that my said mother is a Princess born, being of that greatHouse of Joinville in France--which men call Geneville in England--thatare nobles of the foremost rank in that country. These my parents hadtwelve children, of whom I stand right in the midst, being the seventh.My brother Edmund was the eldest of us; then came Margaret, Joan, Roger,Geoffrey, Isabel, and Katherine; then stand I Agnes, and after me areMaud, John, Blanche, and Beatrice [Note 1]. And of them, Edmund andMargaret have been commanded to God. He died young, my poor brotherEdmund, for he set his heart on being restored to the name and landswhich our father had forfeited, and our Lord the King thought not goodto grant it; so his heart broke, and he died. Poor soul! I would notsay an unkind word over his grave; where the treasure is, there will theheart be; but I would rather set my heart on worthier treasure, and Ithink I should scarce be so weak as to die for the loss. God assoilhim, poor soul!
I was born in the Castle of Ludlow, on the morrow of the Translation ofSaint Thomas, in the year of King Edward of Caernarvon the eleventh[Note 2], so that I am now thirty years of age. I am somewhat elderthan my lord, who was born at Allesley, by Coventry town, on SaintCuthbert's Day, in the fourteenth year of the same [March 20th, 1321].I might say I was wiser, and not look forward to much penance for lying;for I should be more likely to have it set me if I said that all thewits in this world were in his head. Howbeit, there is many a worse manthan he: a valiant knight, and courteous, and of rarely gentle andgracious ways; and maybe, if he were wiser, he would give me moretrouble to rule him, which is easy enough to do. Neverthelatter, therebe times when it should do me ease to take him by the shoulders and givehim an hearty shake, if I could thereby shake a bit more sense into him:and there be times when it comes over me that he might have been bettermatched, as our sometime Lord King Edward meant him to have been, withthe Lady Alianora La Despenser, that Queen Isabel packed off to anunnery in hot haste when she came in. Poor soul! He certainly is notmatched with me, unless two horses be matched whereof one is black andof sixteen handfuls, and steppeth like a prince, and the other is white,and of twelve handfuls, and ambles of a jog-trot. I would he had a bitmore stir in him. Not that he lacks knightly courage--never a whit;carry him into battle, and he shall quit him like a man; but when all issaid, he is fitter for the cloister, for he loveth better to sit at homewith Joan of his knee, and a great clerkly book afore him wherein hewill read by the hour, which is full well for a priest, but not for anoble of the King's Court. He never gave me an ill word (veriliest[truly], I marvel if ever he said `I won't!' in all his life), yet, forall his hendihood [courtesy, sweetness], will he have his own way bytimes, I can never make out how. But he is a good man on the whole, anddoth pretty well as he is bid, and I might change for a worse withouttaking a long journey. So, take it all in all, there are many womenhave more to trouble them than I, the blessed saints be thanked, and oursweetest Lady Saint Mary and my patron Saint Agnes in especial. Only Ido hope Jack shall have more wit than his father, and I shall think thefairies have changed him if he have not. _My_ son should not be shortof brains.
But now, to have back, and begin my story: for I reckon I shall nevermake an end if I am thus lone: in coming to the beginning.
We were all brought up in the Castle of Ludlow, going now and then tosweeten [to have the house thoroughly cleaned] to the Castle of Wigmore.Of course, while we were little children, we knew scarce any thing ofour parents, as beseemed persons of our rank. The people whom I verilyknew were Dame Hilda our mistress [governess], and Maud and Ellen ourdamsels, and Master Terrico our Chamberlain, and Robert atte Wardrobe,our wardrobe-keeper, and Sir Philip the clerk (I cry him mercy, heshould have had place of Robert), and Stephen the usher of the chamber,and our four nurses, whose names were Emelina, Thomasia, Joan, andMargery, and little Blaise the page. They were my world. But into thisworld, every now and then, came a sweet, fair presence--a vision of agracious lady in velvet robes, whose hand I knelt to kiss, and who usedto lay it on my head and bless me: and at times she would take up one ofus in her arms, and sit down with the babe on her velvet lap, and a lookwould come into her eyes which I never saw in Dame Hilda's; and shewould bend her fair head and kiss the babe as if she loved her verymuch. But that was mostly while we were babies. I cannot recollect herdoing that to me--it was chiefly to Blanche and Beatrice. Until oneday, and then--
Nay, I have not come to that yet. And then, at times, we should hear avoice below--a stern, deep voice, or a peal of loud laughter--and in aninstant the light and the joy would die out of the tender eyes of thatgracious vision, and instead would come a frightened look like that of ahunted hare, and commonly she would rise suddenly, and put down thebabe, and hasten away, as if she had been indulging in some forbiddenpleasure, and was afraid of being caught. I can remember wishing thatthe loud laugh and the stern angry voice would go away, and never comeback, but that the gracious vision would stay always with us, and notonly pay us a rare visit. Ay,
and I can remember wishing that she wouldtake _me_ on that velvet lap, and let me nestle into her soft arms, anddare to lay my little head on her warm bosom. I think she would havedone it, if she had known! I used to feel in those days like a littlechicken hardly feathered, and longed to be under the soft brooding wingsof the hen. The memory of it hath caused me to pet my Jack and Joan adeal more than I should without it.
Then, sometimes, we had a visit from a very different sort of guest.That was an old lady--about a hundred and fifty, I used to fancy her--dressed in velvet full as costly, but how differently she wore it! Shenever took us on her lap--not she, indeed! We used to have to kneel andkiss her hand--and Roger whispered to me once that if he dared, he wouldbite it. This horrid old thing (who called herself our grandmother)used to be like a storm blowing through the house. She never was twominutes in the room before she began to scold somebody; and if she couldnot find reasonable fault with any body, that seemed to vex her morethan anything else. Then she scolded us all in a lump together. "DameHilda, what an untidy chamber!"--she usually began in that way--"whydon't you make these children put their playthings tidy? (Of courseDame Hilda did, at the end of the day; but how could we have playthingstidy while we were playing with them?) Meg, your hair is no better thana mop! Jack, how got you that rent in your sleeve? (I never knew Jackwithout a rent in some part of his clothes; I should not have thought itwas Jack if he had come in whole garments.) Joan, how ungainly you sit!pluck yourself up this minute. Nym, take your elbows off the table.Maud, your chaucers [slippers] are down at heel. How dirty your handsare, Roger! go and wash them. Agnes, that wimple of yours is all awry;who pinned it up?"
So she went on--rattle and scold, scold and rattle--as long as shestayed in the room. Jack, always the saucy one, asked her one day, whenhe was very little--
"Are you really Grandmother?"
"Certes, child," said she, turning to look at him: "why?"
"Because I wish you were somebody else!"
_Ha, chetife_! did Jack forget that afternoon? I trow not.
I had a sound whipping once myself from Dame Hilda, because I said,right out, that I hated the Lady Margaret: and Joan,--poor delicateJoan, who was perpetually scolded for stooping--looked at me as if shewished she dared say it too. Roger had his ears boxed because hedrawled out, "Amen!" I think we all said Amen in our hearts.
Sometimes the Lady Margaret did not come upstairs, but sent for some ofus down to her. That was worse than ever. There were generally anumber of gentlemen there, who seemed to think that children were onlymade to be teased: and some of them I disliked, and others I despised.Only of one I was terribly afraid: and that was--mercy, Jesu!--mine ownfather.
I should have found it difficult to say what it was in him thatfrightened me. I used to call it fear then; but when I look back on thefeeling from my present state, I think it was rather a kind ofungovernable antipathy. He did not scold us all round as Lady Margaretdid. The worst thing, I think, that I remember his saying to me was asharp--"Get out of the way, girl!" And I wished I only could get out ofhis way, for ever and ever. Something made me feel as if I could notbear to be in the same room with him. I used to shiver all over, if Ionly heard his voice. Yet he never ill-used any of us; he scarcely evenlooked at us. It was not any thing he did which made me feel so; it wasjust himself.
Surely never did man dress more superbly than he. I recollect thinkingthat the King was not half so fine; yet King Edward liked velvet andgold as well as most men. My Lord my father never wore worsted summertunics or woollen winter cloaks, like others. Silk, velvet, samite, andcloth of gold, were his meanest wear; and his furs were budge, ermine,miniver, and gris. I can remember hearing how once, when the furriersent him in a robe of velvet guarded with hare's fur, he flung it on oneside in a fury, and ordered the poor man to be beaten cruelly. Healways wore much golden broidery, and buttons of gems or solid gold; andhe never would wear a suit of any man's livery--not even the King's,--save once, when he wore the Earl of Chester's at the coronation of theQueen of France, just to vex King Edward--as it sorely did, for he wasthen a proscribed fugitive, who had no right to use it.
It is a hard matter when a child is frightened of its own father. It isyet harder when he makes it hate him. Ah, it is easy to say, That waswicked of thee. So it was: and I know it. But doth not sin lead tosin?--spring out of it, like branches from a stem, like leaves from abranch? And when one man's act of sin creates sin in another man, andthat again in a third, whose is the sin--the black root, whereof camethe rotten branches and the withered leaves? Are we not all ourbrothers' and our sisters' keepers? Well, it will not answer to pursuethat road: for I know well I should trace up the sin too high, to one ofwhom it were not meet for me to speak in the same breath with uglywords. Ay me! what poor weak things we mortal creatures are! Littlemarvel, little marvel for the woe that was wrought!--so fair, so fairshe was! She had the soul of a fiend with the face of an angel. Was itany wonder that men--ay, and some women--were beguiled with that angelface, and fancied but too rashly that the soul must be as sweet as it?God have mercy on all Christian souls! Verily, I myself, only this lastspring-time, was ready to yield to the witch's spell--never was womansuch enchantress as she!--and athwart all the past, despite all I knew,gazing on that face, even yet fairer than the faces of younger women, tothink it possible that all the tales were false, and all the past avision of the night, and that the lovely face and the sweet, soft voicecovered a soul white as the saints in Heaven! And men are easierdeluded by such dreams than women--or at least I think it. My poorfather! If only he had never seen her that haled him to his undoing! hemight, perchance, have been a better man. Any way, he paid the bill inhis heart's blood. So here I leave him. God forgive us all!
And now to my story. While I was but a little child, we saw little ofour mother: little more, indeed, than we did of our father. I think, ofthe two, we oftener saw our grandmother. And little children, as Godhath wisely ordered it, live in the present moment, and take no note ofthings around them which men and women see with half an eye. Now,looking back, I can recall events which then passed by me as of noimport. It was so, and there was an end of it. But I can see now whyit was so: and I know enough to guess the often sorrowful nature of thatwherefore.
So it was nothing to us children, unless it were a relief, that after Iwas about four years old, we missed our father almost entirely. Wenever knew why he tarried away for months at a time. We had not anotion that he was first in the prison of the Tower, and afterwards arefugee over seas. And we saw without seeing that our mother grew thinand white, and her sweet eyes were heavy with tears which we never sawher shed. All we perceived was that she came oftener to the nursery,and stayed longer with us, and petted the babies more than had been herwont. And that such matters had a meaning,--a deep, sad, terriblemeaning--never entered our heads. Later on we knew that during thoselonely years her heart was being crucified, and crucifixion is a dyingthat lasts long. But she never let us know it. I think she would notdamp our fresh childish glee by even the spray of that roaring cataractwherein her life was overwhelmed. Mothers--such mothers as she--arelike a reflection of God.
I remember well, though I was but just seven years old, the night whennews came to Ludlow Castle that my father had escaped from the Tower.It was a very hot night in August--too hot to sleep--and I lay awake,chattering to Kate and Isabel, who were my bedfellows, about some grandplay we meant to have the next afternoon, in the great gallery--when allat once we heard a horse come dashing up to the portcullis, past ourchamber wall, and a horn crying out into the night.
Isabel sat up in bed, and listened.
"Is it my Lord coming home?" I said.
"What, all alone, with no company?" answered Isabel, who is four yearselder than I. "Silly child! It is some news for my Lady my mother.The saints grant it be good!"
Of course we could hear nothing of what passed at the portcullis, as ourwindow opened on the b
ase court. But in a few minutes we heard thehorse come trotting into our court, and the rider 'lighted down: andIsabel, who lay with her head next the casement, sat up again and puther head out of the curtain. It was a beautiful moonlight night, almostas bright as day.
"What is it, Ibbot?" said Kate.
"It is a man in livery," answered Isabel; "but whose livery I know not.It is not ours."
Then we heard the man call to the porter, and the door open, and thesound of muffled voices to and fro for a minute; and then Master Inge'sstep, which we knew--he was then castellan--coming in great haste pastour door as if he were going to my Lady's chamber. Then the door of thelarge nursery opened, and we heard Dame Hilda within, saying to Tamzine,"Thou wert better run and see." And Tamzine went quickly along thegallery, as if she, too, were going to my Lady.
For a long, long time, as it seemed to us--I dare say it was not manyminutes--we lay and listened in vain. At length Tamzine came back.
"Good tidings, or bad?" we heard Dame Hilda ask.
"The saints wot!" whispered Tamzine. "My Lord is 'scaped from theTower."
"_Ha, chetife_! will he come here?" said Dame Hilda: and we saw that itwas bad news in her eyes.
"Forsooth, nay!" replied Tamzine. "There be hues and cries all over forhim, but man saith he is fled beyond seas."
"Amen!" ejaculated Dame Hilda. "He may win to Cathay [China] by my goodwill; and if he turn not again till mine hair be white, then will I givemy patron saint a measure in wax. But what saith my Lady?"
"Her I saw not," answered Tamzine; "but Mistress Robergia, who told me,said she went white and red both at once, and her breast heaved asthough her very heart should come forth."
"Gramercy!" said Dame Hilda. "How some folks do set their best pearlsin copper!"
"Eh, our Lady love us!" responded Tamzine. "That's been ever sith worldbegan to run, Dame, I can tell you."
"I lack no telling, lass," was Dame Hilda's answer. "Never was therefiner pearl set in poorer ore than that thou and I wot of."
I remember that bit of talk because I puzzled myself sorely as to whatDame Hilda could mean. Kate was puzzled, too, for she said to Isabel--
"What means the Dame? I never saw my Lady wear a pearl set in copper."
"Oh, let be!" said Isabel. "'Tis but one of the Dame's strange sayings.She is full of fantasies."
But whether Isabel were herself perplexed, or whether she understood,and thought it better to shut our mouths, that cannot I tell to thisday.
Well, after that things were quiet again for a while: a very long while,it seemed to me. I believe it was really about six months. During thattime, we saw much more of our mother than we used to do; she would comeoften into the nursery, and take one of the little ones on her lap--itwas oftenest Blanche--and sit there with her. Sometimes she would talkwith Dame Hilda; but more frequently she was silent and sad, at timeslooking long from the casement as if she saw somewhat that none othereyes could see. Jack said one day--
"Whither go Mother's eyes when she looks out of the window?"
"For shame, Damsel [Note 3] John!" cried Dame Hilda. "`Mother,' indeed!Only common children use such a word. Say `my Lady' if you please."
"She is my mother, isn't she?" said Jack stubbornly. "Why shouldn't Icall her so, I should like to know? But you haven't answered me, Dame."
"I know not what you mean, Damsel."
"Why, when she sits down in that chair, and takes Blanchette on herknee,--her eyes go running out of the window first thing. Whither wendthey?"
"Children like you cannot understand," replied Dame Hilda, with one ofthose superior smiles which used to make me feel so very naughty. Itseemed to say, "My poor, little, despicable insect, how could you dreamof supposing that your intellect was even with Mine?" (There, I havewrit that a capital M in red ink. To have answered to Dame Hilda's tonewhen she put that smile on, it should have been in vermilion and goldleaf.) Howbeit, Jack never cared for all the airs she put on.
"Then why don't you make us understand it?" said he.
I do not remember what Dame Hilda said to that, but I dare say she boxedJack's ears.
Deary me, how ill doth my tale get forward! Little things keep a-comingto my mind, and I turn aside after them, like a second deer crossing thepath of the first. That shall never serve; I must keep to my quarry.
All this time our mother grew thinner and whiter. Poor soul, she lovedhim well!--but so sure as the towel of the blessed Nicodemus is in thesacristy of our Lady at Warwick, cannot I tell for why. Very certain amI that he never gave her any reason.
We reckoned those six months dreary work. There were no banquets inhall, nor shows came to the Castle, nor even so much as a pedlar, thatwe children saw; only the same every-day round, and tired enough we wereof it. All the music we ever heard was in our lessons from Piers leSautreour; and if ever child loved her music lessons, her name was notAgnes de Mortimer. All the laughter that was amongst us we madeourselves; and all the shows were when Jack chose to tumble somersaults,or Maud twisted some cold lace round her head, and said, "Now I am QueenIsabel." Dreary work, in good sooth! yet was it a very Michaelmas showand an Easter Day choir to that which lay ahead.
And then, one night,--ah, what a night that was! It was near ourbed-time, and Jack, Kate, and I, were playing on the landing and up anddown the staircase of our tower. I remember, Jack was the stag, andKate and I were the hunters; and rarely did Jack throw up his head, toshow off his branching horns--which were divers twigs tied on his headby a lace of Dame Hilda's, for the use whereof Jack paid a pretty pennywhen she knew it. Kate had just made a grab at him, and should havecaught him, had his tunic held, but it gave way, and all she won was anhandful of worsted and a slip of the step that grazed her shins; and shewas rubbing of her leg and crying "Lack-a-day!" and Jack above, well outof reach, was making mowes [grimaces] at us--when all at once an hornrang loud through the Castle, and man on little ambling nag came intothe court-yard. Kate forgat her leg, and Jack his mowes, and all we,stag and hunters alike, ran to the gallery window for to gaze.
I know not how long we should have tarried at the window, had notEmelina come and swept us afore her into the nursery, with animpatient--"Deary me! here be these children for ever in the way!"
And Jack cries, "You always say we are in the way; but mustn't we be anywhere?"
Whereto she makes answer--"Go and get you tucked into bed; that's theonly safe place for the like of you!"
Jack loudly resented being sent to bed before the proper time, whereuponhe and Emelina had a fight (as they had most nights), and Kate and I raninto the nursery to get out of the way. Here was Margery, turning downthe beds, but Dame Hilda we saw not till, an half-hour after, as we weredoffing us for bed, she came, with her important face which she was wontto wear when some eventful thing had befallen her or us.
"Are the damsels abed, Emelina?" saith she.
"The babes be, Dame; and the elders be a-doffing them."
Dame Hilda came forward into the night nursery.
"Hold you there, young ladies!" saith she: "at the least, I would say mythree elder young ladies--Dame Margaret, Dame Joan, and Dame Isabel.Pray you, don you once more, but of your warmest gear, for a journey bynight."
"Are we not to go to bed?" asked Joan in surprise: but our three sistersdonned themselves anew, as Dame Hilda had said, of their warmest gear.Dame Hilda spake not word till they were all ready. Then Meg saith--
"Whither be we bound, Dame?--and with whom?"
"With my Lady, Dame Margaret, to Southampton."
I think we all cried out "Southampton!" in diverse tones.
"There is news come to her Ladyship, as she herself may tell you," saidDame Hilda, mysteriously.
"Aren't we to go, Dame?" saith Blanche's little voice.
Dame Hilda turned round sharply, as if she went about to snap Blanche'shead off; and Blanche shrank in dismay.
"Certainly not, Dame Blanche! What should my Lady do to be w
orried withbabes like you? She has enough else on her mind at this present,without a pack of tiresome children--holy saints be her help! Eh dear,dear, this world!"
"Dame, is this world so bad?" saith Jack, letting his nose appear abovethe bed-clothes.
"Go to sleep, the weary lot of you!" was Dame Hilda's irritable answer.
"Because," saith Jack, ne'er a whit daunted--nothing ever cowedJack--"if it is so bad, hadn't you better be off out of it? You'd bebetter off, I suppose, and we shouldn't miss you,--that I'll promise.Do go, Dame!"
Jack spake these last words with a full compassionate air, as though hewere seriously concerned for Dame Hilda's happiness; but she, marchingup to the bed where Jack lay, dealt him a stinging slap for hisimpudence.
"Ah!" saith Jack in a mumbled voice, having disappeared under thebed-clothes, "this is a bad world, I warrant you, where folks returnevil for good o' this fashion!"
We heard no more of Jack beyond divers awesome snores, which I thinkwere not altogether sooth-fast: but before many minutes had passed, thedoor of the antechamber opened, and my Lady, donned in travelling gear,entered the nursery.
Dame Hilda's words had given me the fancy that some sorrowful, if notshocking news, had come to her; and I was therefore much astonished tosee a faint flush in her cheeks, and a brilliant light in her eyes,which looked as though she had heard good news.
"My children," said our mother, "I come to bid you all farewell--may bea long farewell. I have heard that--never mind what; that which willtake me away. Meg, and Joan, and Ibbot, must go with me."
"Take me too!" pleaded little Blanche.
"Thee too!" repeated our mother, with a loving smile. "Nay, sweetheart!That cannot be. Now, my children, I hope you will all be good andobedient to Dame Hilda while I am away."
It was on Kate that her glance fell, being the next eldest after Isabel;and Kate answered readily--
"We will all be good as gold, Dame."
"Nym, and Hodge, and Geoffrey," she went on, "go also with me; so thou,Kate, wilt be eldest left here, and I look to thee to set a goodensample to thy brethren,--especially my little wilful Jack."
Jack's snoring had stopped when she came in, and now, as she went overand sat her down by the bed wherein Jack lay of the outside, up cameJack's head from under the blue velvet coverlet. Our mother laid herhand tenderly upon it.
"My dear little Jack!" she said; "my poor little Jack!"
"Dame, I'm not poor, an't like you!" made answer Jack, in a tone ofconsiderable astonishment. "I've got a whole ball of new string, andtwo battledores and a shuttlecock, and a ball, and a bow and arrows."
"Yes, my little Jack," she said, tenderly.
"There are lots of lads poorer than me!" quoth Jack. "Nym himselfhasn't got a whole ball of string, and Geoff hasn't a bit. I asked him.Master Inge gave it me yesterday. I'm going to make reins with it forAnnis and Maud, and lots of cats' cradles."
"You're not going to make reins for _me_," said Maud from our bed."Dame, it is horrid playing horses with Jack. He wants you to take thestring in your mouth, and you don't know where he's had it. I don'tmind having it tied to my arms, but I won't have it in my mouth."
"Did you ever see a horse with his reins tied to his arms?" scornfullydemanded Jack. "You do as you are bid, my Lady Maud, or I'll come andmake you."
"Children!" said our mother's soft voice, before Maud could answer, "areyou going to quarrel this last night when I have come to say farewell?For shame, Maud! this was thy blame."
"Oh, of course, it is always me," muttered Maud, too angry for grammar."Jack's always the favourite; I never do any thing right."
"Yes, you do--now and then, by accident," responded Joan, who wassitting at the foot of our bed; a speech which did not better Maud'stemper, and it was never angelic.
Jack seemed to have forgotten his passage-at-arms with Maud. He wasalways good-tempered enough, though he did tease outrageously.
"Why am I poor, Dame?" quoth Jack.
"Little Jack, thou must shortly go into the wars, and thou hast noarmour."
"But you'll get me a suit. Dame?"
"I cannot, Jack. Not for these wars. Neither can I give thee thewealth to make thee rich, as I fain would."
"Then, Dame, you will petition the King for a grant, will you not?"saith Meg.
"True, my daughter," saith our mother softly. "I must needs petitionthe King, both for the riches from His treasury, and for the arms fromHis armoury." And then she bent down to kiss Jack. "O my boy, lay notup treasure for thyself, and thus fail to be rich in God."
I began then to see what she meant; but I rather wondered why she saidit. Such talk as that, it seemed to me, was only fit for Sunday. Andthen I remembered that she was going away for a long, long time, andthat therefore Sunday talk might be appropriate.
I do not recollect any thing she said to the others, only to Jack andme. Jack and I were always fellows. We children had paired ourselvesoff, not altogether according to age, but rather according to tastes.Edmund and Meg should have gone together, and then Hodge and Joan, andso forth: whereas it was always Nym and Joan, and Meg and Hodge. ThenGeoffrey and Isabel made the right pair, and Kate, Jack, and I, went ina trio. Maud was by herself; she paired with nobody, and nobody wantedher, she was so cross. Blanche was every body's pet while she was thebaby, and Beatrice came last of all.
Our mother went round, and kissed and blessed us all. I lay inside withKate and Maud, and when she said, "Now, my little Agnes,"--I crept outand travelled over the tawny silk coverlet, to those gentle velvet arms,and she took me on her lap, and lapped me up in a fur mantle that Megbare on her arm.
"And what shall I say to my little Agnes?"
"Mother, say you love me!"
It came out before I knew it, and when I had said it, I was sofrightened that I hid my face in the fur. It did not encourage me tohear Dame Hilda's exclamation--
"Lack-a-day! what next, trow?"
But the other voice was very tender and gentle.
"Didst thou lack that told thee, mine own little Annis? Ay me! Maybemen are happier lower down. Who should love thee, my floweret, if notthine own mother? Kiss me, and say thou wilt be good maid till I seethee again."
I managed to whisper, "I will try, Dame."
"How long will it be?" cries Jack.
"I cannot tell thee, Jack," she saith. "Some months, I fear. Notyears--I do trust, not years. But God knoweth--and to Him I commityou." And as she bent her head low over the mantle wherein I waslapped, I heard her say--"_Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, misererenobis, Jesu_!"
I knew that, because I always had to repeat it in my evening prayers,though I never could tell what it meant, only, as it seemed to say"Agnes" and "Monday," I supposed it had something to do with me, and wasto make me good after some fashion, but I saw not why it must be only ona Monday, especially as I had to say it every day. Now, of course, Iknow what it means, and I wonder children and ignorant people are nottaught what prayers mean, instead of being made to say them just likepopinjays. I wanted to teach my Joan what it meant, but the LadyJulian, my lord's mother, commanded me not to do so, for it was unlucky.I begged her to tell me why, and she said the Latin was a holy tongue,known to God and the saints, and so long as they understood our prayers,we did not need to understand them.
"But, Dame," said I, "saving your presence, if I say prayers Iunderstand not, how can I tell the way to use them? I may be asking fora basket of pears when I want a pair of shoes."
"Wherefore trouble the blessed saints for either?" saith she. "Prayersbe only for high and holy concerns--not for base worldly matter, such asbe pears and shoes."
"But I am worldly matter, under your leave, Dame," said I. "And saithnot the Paternoster somewhat touching daily bread?"
"Ay, the food of the soul--`_panem supersubstantialem da nobis_'" quothshe. "It means not a loaf of bread, child."
"That's Saint Matthew," said I. "But Saint Luke hath it `_panemquotidianum_,
' and saith nought of `_supersubstantialem_.' And surelycommon food cometh from God."
"Daughter!" saith she, somewhat severely, "thou shouldst do a dealbetter to leave thy fantasies and the workings of thine own brain, andlisten with meek submission to the holy doctors that can teach thee withauthority."
"Dame, I cry you mercy," said I. "But surely our Lord teacheth withmore authority than they all; and if I have His words, what need I oftheirs?"
_Ha, chetife_! she would not listen to me,--only bade me yet again tobeware of pride and presumption, lest I should fall into heresy, fromthe which Saint Agnes preserve me! But it doth seem strange that folksshould fall into heresy by studying our Lord's words; I had thought theyshould rather thereby keep them out of it.
Well--dear heart, here again am I got away from my story! this it is tohave too quick a wit--our mother blessed us, and kissed us all, and setforth, the six eldest with her, for Southampton. I know now, though Iheard not then, that she was on her way to join our father. News hadcome that he was safe over seas, in France, with the Sieurs de Fienles,the Lady Margaret's kin, and no sooner had she learned it than she setforth to join him. I doubt greatly if he sent for her. Nay, I shouldrather say he would scarce have blessed her for coming. But she got notthus far on her way, as shall be seen.
His tarrying with the Sieurs de Fienles was in truth but a blind to hidehis true proceedings. He stayed in Normandy but a few weeks, until thehue and cry was over, and folks in England should all have got well intheir heads that he was there: then, or ever harm should befall him bytarrying there too long, he made quiet departure, and ere any knew of ithe was safe in the King of France's dominions. At this time the King ofFrance was King Charles le Bel, youngest brother of our Queen. Isuppose he was too much taken up with the study of his own perfectionsto see the perfections or imperfections of any body else: otherwise hadhe scarce been so stone-blind to all that went on but just afore hisnose. There be folks that can see a mouse a mile off, and there beothers that cannot see an elephant a yard in front of them. But therebe a third sort, and to my honest belief King Charles was of them, thatcan see the mouse as clear as sunlight when it is their own interest todetect him, but have not a notion of the elephant being there when theydo not choose to look at him. When he wanted to be rid of his firstwife Queen Blanche, he could see her well enough, and all her failingstoo, as black as midnight; but when his sister behaved herself as ill asever his wife did or could have done, he only shut his eyes and took acomfortable nap. Now King Charles had himself expelled my father fromhis dominions, for some old grudge that I never rightly understood; yetnever a word said he when he came back without licence. Marry, but ourold King Edward should not have treated thus the unlicenced return of abanished man! He would have been hung within the week, with him on thethrone. But King Charles was not cut from that stuff. He let my fatheralone till the Queen came over--our Queen Isabel, his sister, I mean--and then who but he in all the French Court! Howbeit, they kept thingspretty quiet for that time; nought came to King Edward's ears, and shedid her work and went home. Forsooth, it was sweet work, for shetreated with her brother as the sister of France, and not as the wife ofEngland. King Charles had taken Guienne, and she, sent to demandrestitution, concluded a treaty of peace on his bare word that it shouldbe restored, with no pledge nor security whatever: but bitter complaintsshe laid of the King her husband, and the way in which he treated her.Well, it is true, he did not treat her as I should have done in hisplace, for he gave in to all her whims a deal too much, where a goodbuffet on her ear should have been ever so much more for her good--andhis too, I will warrant. Deary me, but if some folks were drowned, theworld would get along without them! I mention no names (only that wearyNichola, that is for ever mashing my favourite things). So the Queencame home, and all went on for a while.
But halt, my goose-quill! thou marchest too fast. Have back a season.
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Note 1. This is the probable order of birth. The date assigned to thebirth of Agnes is fictitious, but that of her husband is taken from his_Probatio Aetatis_.
Note 2. July 8th, 1317; this is about the probable time. The Countessis supposed to be writing in the spring of 1348.
Note 3. This word was then used of both sexes, and was the properdesignation of the son of a prince or peer not yet arrived at the age ofknighthood.
In Convent Walls Page 7