Читать книгу In Convent Walls - Emily Sarah Holt - Страница 4

“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 entered into the long gallery whereinto the Queen’s degrees opened, I was aware of a full slender and white-faced young maid, that held by the hand a small (little child) of mayhap five or six years. She looked as though she waited for some man. The Queen had tarried in hall to receive a messenger, and Dame Joan de Vaux was in waiting, so Dame Elizabeth, Dame Isabel, Dame Tiffany, and I were those that passed along the gallery. Dame Isabel and Dame Tiffany the maid let pass, with no more than a pitiful look at the former, that deigned her no word: but when Dame Elizabeth came next, on the further side, I being betwixt, the maid stepped forward into the midst, as if to stay her. Her thin hands were clasped over her bosom, and the pitifullest look ever I saw was in her eyes.

“Dame, ayez pitié!” was all she said; and it was rather breathed than spoken.

“Bless us, Saint Mary!—art thou here again?” quoth Dame Elizabeth of a testier fashion than she was wont. “Get thee gone, child; I have no time 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 have not 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 hath not tasted meat (food) this day, nor should not yesterday, had not a kindly gentleman, given me a denier to buy soup. But truly I do not ask for 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. The mother is sick: she and the babes must not wait. It does not signify for me.”

Oh, how hungered were those great eyes, that looked too large for the white face! The very name of soup seemed to have brought the craving look therein.

I turned to the small. “Tell me, Iolande, had Hilda any of the soup yesterday?”

“No,” said the child; “I and Madeleine drank it, every drop, that our mother left.”

“And had Hilda nothing?”

“There was a mouldy crust in the cupboard,” said the child. “It had dropped 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 cup down, and put it up again. That was what Hilda had, and she wiped the cup with one end of it.”

“The cup that had held the soup?”

“Yes, surely,” said the child, with a surprised look. “We only have one—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 for meat for those children.

“And are you, in good sooth, so ill off as that?” said I. “No meat, and only one esquelle in all the house?”

“Dame,” said Hilda meekly, as in excuse, “our father was long ill, and now is our mother likewise; and many things had to be sold to pay the apothecary, and also while I waited on them could I not be at work; and my little sisters are not old enough to do much. But truly it is only these last few weeks that we have been quite so ill off as to have no food, 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 a girdle was owing aforetime, and now four for kerchiefs broidering: it is fourteen crowns in all. I should not need to ask charity if I could but be paid my earnings. The apothecary said our mother was sick rather from sorrow and want of nourishment than from any malady; and if the good 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 well enough to sew, and then we should have two pairs of hands instead of one. I do not beg, Dame!”

She louted low as she spoke, and took her little sister again by the hand. “Come, Iolande; we keep Madame waiting.”

“But hast thou got no money?” pleaded the barne. “Thou saidst to Madeleine that we should bring some supper back. Thou didst, Hilda!”

“I did, darling,” allowed her sister, looking a little ashamed. “I could not peace the babe else, and—I hoped we should.”

I could bear no more. The truth of those maids’ story was in the little one’s bitter disappointment, and in poor Hilda’s hungry eyes. Eyes speak sooth, though lips be false.

“Come,” said I. “I pray you, tarry but one moment more. You shall not lose 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 silver in 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 silver crowns.

“Fourteen crowns, Dame Elizabeth!” quoth I, all scant of breath. “Quick! give me them—for Hilda la Vileyne—and if no, may God forgive you, for I never will!”

Soothly, had the Archangel Raphael brake into the chamber and demanded fourteen crowns, Dame Elizabeth could have gazed on him no more astonied than she did on me, Cicely, that she had seen nearhand every day of her life for over a dozen years. I gave her leave to look how it listed her. From the coins in her lap I counted forth nine nobles and a French crown, and was half-way down degrees again ere she well knew what I would be at. If I had had to pay her back every groat out of mine own purse—nay, verily, if I had stood to be beheaden for it—I would have had that money for Hilda la Vileyne that night.

They stood where I had left them, by the door of the long gallery, near the porte-cochère, but now with them was a third—mine own Jack, that had but now come in from the street, and the child knew him again, as she well showed.

“O Hilda!”

I heard her say, as I came running down swiftly—for I was dread afraid Dame Elizabeth should overtake me and snatch back the money—and I might have spared my fears, for had I harried the Queen’s crown along with her crowns, 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 to buy soup.”

I might have guessed it was Jack. He o’erheard the child, and stayed him 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, a word 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 Meliora down degrees, and of a truth I somewhat shrink from facing Dame Elizabeth after my robbery of her, any sooner than must be—Meliora, child, wilt run above an instant, and fetch my blue mantle and the thicker 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 when kindly 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 silver crown.

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 speak again. “I was nearhand in utter mishope (nearly in despair). Now my mother can have food and physic, and maybe, if it please God, she shall recover. May I be forgiven, but I was beginning to think the good God cared not for poor folks like us, or maybe that there was no God to care at all.”

Down came Meliora with my hood and mantle, which I cast all hastily about 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.” The last words were spoken lowly, as to herself.

We went forth of the great gates, and traversed the good streets, and came 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 it was—and led me up degrees into a poor chamber, whither the child ran gleefully afore. Jack left me at the door, he and I having covenanted, when we whispered together, what he should do whilst I visited Hilda’s mother.

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 thin coverlet, 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 faint with fasting and sorrow. At the end of the pallet sat a child something elder than Iolande, but a child still. There was no form in the chamber, but Hilda brought forward an old box, whereon she cast a clean apron, praying me to sit, and to pardon them that this should be the best they had to offer. I sat me down, making no matter thereof, for in very deed I was full of pity for these poor creatures.

The mother, as was but like, took me for Dame Elizabeth, and began to thank 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 here is 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 that ought thee the money, and fairly wrenched it from her, whether she would or no. Howbeit,” I continued to the poor woman, “I will be good to you, if I can.”

By bits and scraps I pulled her story forth of her mouth. It was no uncommon tale: a sickly wife and a selfish husband—a deserted, struggling wife and mother—and then a penniless widow, with no friends and poor health, that could scant make shift to keep body and soul together, whether for herself or the children. The husband had come home at last but to be a burden and sorrow—to be nursed through a twelve months’ sickness and then to die; and what with the weariness and lack of all comfort, the poor widow fell sick herself soon after, and Hilda, the young maid, had kept matters a-going, as best she might, ever sithence.

I comforted the poor thing to my little power; told her that I would give Hilda some work to do (and pay her for it), and that I would come and see her by times whilst the Queen should abide in Paris; but that when 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 to buy food, and there were but her and her mother. Mine husband was longer in return than I looked for.

“My maid,” said I to Hilda, “prithee tell me a thing. What didst thou signify 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 I had prayed for money to buy food and physic: but partly also, because I was afraid of something, and I had asked the good God to keep it away from me. When you said that you and Messire would condescend to come with 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 could harm thee in the Queen’s Palace?”

The wave of colour came again. “Madame does not know,” she said, in a low voice. “There are men worse than brutes: but such great ladies do not see it. One stayed me and spoke to me the night afore. I was afraid he might come again, and there was no one to help me but the good Lord. So I called to Him to be my guard, for there was none else; and I think 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 very sooth, I am far off enough from an angel. Here cometh one something nearer thereto”—for I heard Jack’s voice without. “But tell me, dost thou 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 Dame Isabel the Queen!”

For I could have no doubt that poor Hilda’s enemy was that bad man, Sir Roger de Mortimer. Howbeit, I said no more, for then oped the door, and in came Jack, with a lad behind, bearing a great basket. Jack’s own arms were full of fardels (parcels), which he set down in a corner of the chamber, and bade the lad empty the basket beside, which was charged with firewood, “There!” saith he, “they be not like to want for a day or twain, poor souls! Come away, Sissot; we have earned a night’s rest.”

“Messire!” cried the faint voice of the poor woman. “Messire is good as an angel from Heaven! But surely Messire has not demeaned himself to carry burdens—and for us!”

She seemed nearhand frightened at the thought.

“Nay, good woman,” saith Jack, merrily—“no more than the angel that carried the cruse of water for the Prophet Elias. Well-a-day! securely I can carry a fardel without tarnishing my spurs? I would I might never do a worse deed.”

“Amen!” said I, “for both of us.”

We bade the woman and Hilda good even, and went forth, followed by blessings till we were in the very street: and not till then would I say—

“Jack, thou art the best man ever lived, but I would thou hadst a little more care for appearances. Suppose Sir Edmund or Master de Oxendon had seen 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 of import? Securely, good wife, but very little. I shall sleep the sweeter for those fardels: and I count I should sleep none the worser if man laughed at me. The blessing of the poor and the blessing of the Lord be full apt to go together: and dost thou reckon I would miss that—yea, so much as one of them—out of regard for that which is, saith Solomon, ‘sonitum spinarum sub olla’? (Ecclesiastes chapter seven, 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 were usually legends and fictitious tales.) “But, Sissot, to speak sooth, I will tell thee, if thou list to hearken, what it is keepeth my steps from running into many a by-way, and mine heart from going astray after many 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 up afore mine eyes that Bar whereat I shall one day stand, and that Book out of the which all my deeds shall be read afore men and angels. And I have 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 early morn or in evening twilight, have I looked up into heaven, and the thought hath swept o’er me like a fiery breeze—‘What if our Lord be coming this minute?’ Dost thou reckon, Sissot, that man to whom such thoughts be familiar friends, shall be oft found sitting in the alebooth, 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, what bees be in thine hood? I thought I was thine husband.”

“So thou art, the saints be thanked,” said I. “But thou art so good, I am 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 good enough, nor would I lose my Sissot. As to dying, be secure I shall not die an hour afore God’s will is: and the Lord hath much need of good folks to keep this bad world sweet. I reckon we may be as good as we can 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 foot of degrees I bade good-night to Jack, being that night appointed to the pallet—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 be clapped into prison for stealing? Good lack, but mine heart’s in my mouth yet! Were you wood (mad), or what ailed you?”

“Dame Elizabeth,” said I, as all came back on me, “I have been to visit Hilda’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 their coffers 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 I found.”

“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 would fain have had a sapphire pin more than I got, but your raid on my purse disabled me thereof. The rogue would give me no credit.”

“Hear but my tale,” said I, “and if when it be told you regret your sapphire pin, I beseech you say so.”

So I told her in plain words, neither ’minishing nor adding, how I had found them, and the story I had heard from the poor woman. She listened, cool enough at first, but ere I made an end the water stood in her eyes.

“Ha, chétife!” said she, when I stayed me. “I’ll pay the maid another time. Trust me, Dame Cicely, I believed not a word. If you had been cheated as oft—! Verily, I am sorry I sent not man to see how matters stood 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, or Jack’s old groom, a sober man and an ancient, walked back with her.

Meantime Sir Roger de Mortimer played first viol in the Court minstrelsy. Up and yet higher up he crept, till he could creep no further, as I writ a few leaves back. On the eve of Saint Pancras was crowned the new Queen of France in the Abbey of Saint Denis, which is to France as Westminster Abbey to us: and there ramped my Lord of Mortimer in the very suite of the Queen herself, and in my Lord of Chester’s own livery. Twice-banished traitor, he appeared in the self presence of the King 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 said him nay.

Thus went matters on till the beginning of September, 1326. The Queen abode at Paris; the King of France made no sign: our King’s trusty messager, Donald de Athole, came and went with letters (and if it were not one of his letters the Queen dropped into the brasier right as I came one day into her chamber, I marvel greatly); but nought came forth that 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 the Queen—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, the Queen 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 the Hotel de Saint Pol at Paris. And that needle was not threaded but in the Abbey of Saint Edmund’s Bury in Suffolk, twenty days after. Yet if man 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 waft hither 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 to see it.

“Good lack!” cried I, and stared on her.

“Well may you say it!” quoth she. “Lay by work, all of you, and make you ready privily in all haste for journeying by night. Lose not a moment.”

“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, in the 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 had heard that her brother the King of France—who for some time past had been very cool and distant towards her—had a design to seize upon her and deliver her a prisoner to King Edward: and Sir John of Hainault, Count of Ostrevant, who came to bring her this news, offered her a refuge in his Castle of Ostrevant. I believed this tale when Dame Isabel told it: I have no faith in it now. What followed did away entirely therewith, and gave me firm belief that it was nothing save an excuse 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 to raise his troops, and then, when all was ready, the Queen embarked for England. On the 22nd of September we came ashore at Orwell, and had full ill lodging; none having any shelter save the Queen herself, for whom 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 few yards, and the wind roaring in mine ears, and the spray all-to beating over me as I lay on the beach, lapped in a mantle. I was well pleased the next morrow, when the Queen, whose rest had been little, gave command to march forward to Bury. But afore we set forth, come nearhand an army of peasants into the presence, ’plaining of the Queen’s officers, that had taken their cows, chickens, and fruits, and paid not a penny. The Queen had them all brought afore her, and with her own hands haled forth the money due to each one, bidding them bring all oppressions to her own ears, and straitly commanding her officers that they should take not so much as an egg without payment. By this means she won all the common people to her side, and they were ready to set their lives in pledge for her truth and honour.

At that time I was but little aware how matters verily stood. I said to Dame Joan de Vaux that the Queen showed her goodness hereby—for though I 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 a bramble?”

“Nay!” said I, scarce perceiving her intent, “but very grapes come not of brambles.”

“Soothly,” saith she: “neither do very brambles bear grapes.”

Three days the Queen tarried at Bury: then, with banners flying, she marched on toward Essex. I thought it strange that even she should march 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 was confirmed 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 joined their troops to her company; and yet more when the Archbishop of Dublin, and the Bishops of Hereford, Lincoln, and Ely, likewise joined them to her. Verily, such holy men could not countenance treason.

Truth enough: but that which was untrue was not the treason, but the holiness of these Caiaphases.

And now began that woeful Dolorous Way, which our Lord King Edward trod after his Master Christ. But who knoweth whither a strange road shall lead him, until he be come to the end thereof? I wis well that many folk 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 thus long? They saw not aforetime, no more than we; but now that all is open, 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, chétife! 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 any true and loyal man have gone one inch along it?

And who was like to think, till he did see, what an adder the King nursed in his bosom? Most men counted her a fair white dove, all innocent and childlike: that did I not. I did see far enough, for all the mist, to see she was no child in that fashion; yet children love mischief well enough betimes; and I counted her, if not white, but grey—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 in her place, many a thing that I but half conceived, and feared to be ill deed—but there ended my seeing. I thought she was caught within the meshes of a net, and I was sorry she kept not thereout. But I never guessed 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 the sacrifice, not the miserable sinner for whose hate and wickedness he was sacrificed.

So soon as King Edward knew of the Queen’s landing, which was by Michaelmas Eve at latest, he put forth a proclamation to all his lieges, wherein he bade them resist the foreign horde about to be poured upon England. Only three persons were to be received with welcome and honour: which was, the Queen herself, Edward her son (his father, in his just ire, named him not his son, neither as Earl of Chester), and the King’s brother, the Lord Edmund of Kent. I always was sorry for my Lord of Kent; he was so full hoodwinked by the Queen, and never so much as guessed for one moment, that he acted a disloyal part. He was a noble gentleman, a kindly and a generous; not, maybe, the wisest man in the realm, and something too prone to rush after all that had the look of a noble deed, ere he gave himself time enough to consider the same. But if the world held no worser men at heart than he, it were marvellous better 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 sooner did the Queen hear thereof, than she offered double—namely, two thousand pounds—for the head of Sir Hugh Le Despenser—a man whose little finger was better worth two thousand than the Mortimer’s head was worth one. Two days later, the King fortified the Tower, and appointed the Lord John of Eltham governor thereof; but he being only a child of ten years, the true governor was the Lady Alianora La Despenser, who was left 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 thankless business, for never could any man yet keep the citizens of London. Nor could he: for a fortnight was not over ere they rose in insurrection against the King’s deputies, invested the Tower, wrenched the keys from the Constable, John de Weston, to whom the Lady Alianora had confided them, brought her out with the young Lord, and carried them to the Wardrobe—not without honour—and then returning, they seized on the Bishop, with two of his squires, and strake off their heads at the Standard in Chepe. And this will I say for the said Bishop, though he were not alway pleasant to deal withal, for he was very furnish—yet was he honest man, and loved his master, ay, and held to him in days when it was 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, that is much to say.

With the King went Sir Hugh Le Despenser—I mean the younger, that was create Earl of Gloucester by reason of his marriage; for the Lady Alianora his wife was eldest of the three sisters that were coheirs of that earldom. And thereanent—well-a-day! how different folks do from that I should do in their place! I can never tell wherefore, when man doth ill, the penalty thereof should be made to run over on his innocent sons. Because Sir Hugh forfeited the earldom, wherefore passed it not to his son, that was loyal man and true, and one of the King’s best councillors all his life? On the contrary part, it was bestowed on Sir Hugh de Audley, that wedded the Lady Margaret (widow of Sir Piers de Gavaston), that stood next of the three coheirs. And it seemeth me scarce just that Sir Hugh de Audley, that had risen up against King Edward of old time, and been prisoned therefor, and was at best but a pardoned rebel, should be singled out for one of the finest earldoms in England, and not Sir Hugh Le Despenser, whose it was of right, and to whose charge—save the holding of the Castle of Caerphilly against Queen Isabel, which was in very loyalty to his true lord King Edward—no fault at all could be laid. I would I had but the world to set right! Then should there be justice done, and every wrong righted, and all crooked ways put straight, and every man and woman made happy. Dear heart, what fair 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 he managed but ill. “The Annals of Cicely, likewise; and the imaginings of Cicely in especial.”

“Well, what now mispayeth (displeases) thee?” quoth I.

“There was once man,” saith Jack, “thought as thou dost. And seeing that the hollyhocks in his garden were taller than the daisies, he bade his gardener with a scythe cut short the hollyhocks, that all the flowers should be but of one height.”

“Well, what happed?” said I.

“Why, next day were there no hollyhocks. And then the hollyhock stems and 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, but what he would, is his measure of justice.”

“But justice is justice,” said I—“not what any man would, but what is fair 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 stand on Dick’s, it shall be the beech on thy left. And thine ell-wand reacheth not. How then to measure?”

“But I would be on neither side,” said I, “but right in the midst: so should I see even.”

“Right in the midst, good wife, is where God standeth; and few men win there. There be few matters whereof man can see both to the top and to the bottom. Mostly, if man see the one end, then he seeth not the other. And that which man seeth not, how shall he measure? Without thou lay out to follow the judge which said that he would clearly man should leave to harry him with both sides of a matter. So long as he heard 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 on which side to give judgment. Maybe Judge Sissot should sit on the bench alongside of him.”

“Now, Jack,” said I, “thou laughest at me.”

“Good discipline for thee, sweetheart,” saith he, “and of lesser severity than faulting thee. But supposing the world lay in thine hands to set right, and even that thou hadst the power thereto, how long time dost think thy work should abide?”

“Ha, chétife!” cried I. “I ne’er bethought me of that.”

“The world was set right once,” quoth Jack, “by means of cold water, and well washed clean therein. But it tarried not long, as thou wist. Sin was not washed away; and Satan was not drowned in the Flood: and very soon thereafter were they both a-work again. Only one stream can wash the 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 that will’—qui vult—‘let him take water of life freely.’ But he that is not athirst for the holy water, shall not have it forced down his throat against his will.”

“How shall man come by the thirst, Jack, if he hath it not? For if the gift shall be given only to him that thirsteth for it, it seemeth me the thirst must needs be born ere we shall come for the water.”

“Nay, sweetheart, we all desire happiness and wealth and honour; the mistake is that we be so ready to slake our thirst at the pools of muddy water which abound on every hand, rather than go to the fount of living water. 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 have no desire for the holy water—for the gold of the royal mint stamped with the King’s image, for the crown of everlasting life, for the bliss which shall endure unto all ages. We cry soothly for these things; but it is aswhasay, Give me happiness, but let it end early; give me seeming gold, but let it be only tinsel; give me a crown, but be it one that will fade away. Like a babe that will grip at a piece of tin whereon the sun shineth, and take no note of a golden ingot that lieth by in shadow.”

“But who doth such things, Jack?”

“Thou and I, Sissot, unless Christ anoint our eyes that we see in sooth.”

“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 am wedded man? (Note 2.) Thou wist well enough that perfect men be only found 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 he may dwell in cloister and be none of His.”

Well, I know not how that may be; but this do I know, that never was there any Jack even to my Jack; and I am sore afraid that if I ever win into Heaven, I shall never be able to see Jack, for he shall be ten thousand mile nearer the Throne than I Cicely am ever like to be.

Note 1. At this time it was high treason for any subject to march with banners displayed, unless he acted as the King’s representative by his distinct commission.

Note 2. The best men then living looked on the life of idle contemplation as the highest type of Christian life, to which no married man could attain.