Earl Hubert's Daughter Part 3

"Oh, that is right! I am sorry I forgot."

"And the Lady bade me tell thee, _mignonne_, that she is coming to thy bower shortly, with a pedlar who is waiting in the court, to choose stuffs for thy Whitsuntide robes."

"A pedlar! Delightful! Aunt Marjory, I am sure you want something?"

Marjory laughed. "I want thy tale finished, Magot, before the pedlar comes."

"Too long, my dear Aunt Marjory, unless the pedlar takes all summer to mount the stairs. But you know my Lord and father fled into sanctuary at Merton Abbey, and refused to leave it unless the Lord King would pledge his royal word for his safety. I don't think I should have thought it made much difference. (I wonder if that pedlar has any silversmiths' work.) The Lord King did not pledge his word, but he ordered the Lord Mayor and the citizens to fetch my fair father--only think of that, Aunt Marjory!--dead or alive. Some of the n.o.bler citizens appealed to the Bishop, who was everything with the King just then: but instead of interceding for my fair father, as they asked, he merely confirmed the order. So twenty thousand citizens marched on the Abbey; and when my fair father knew that, he fled to the high altar, and embraced the holy cross with one hand, holding the blessed pix in the other."

"Was our Lord in the pix?" inquired Marjory--meaning, of course, to refer to the consecrated wafer.

"I am not sure, fair Aunt. But however, things turned out better than seemed likely: for not only the Bishop of Chichester, but even my Lord of Chester--my fair father's great enemy--interceded with the Lord King in his behalf. We heard that my Lord of Chester spoke very plainly to him, and told him not only that he would find it easier to draw a crowd together than to get rid of it again, but also that his fickleness would scandalise the world."

"And the Lord King allowed him to say that?"

"Yes, and it had a great effect upon him. I think people who are fickle don't like others to see it--don't you? Do you think that pedlar will have any sendal [a silk stuff of extremely fine quality] of India?"

"Thine eyes and half thy tongue are in the pedlar's pack, Magot. I cannot tell thee. But just let me know how it ended, and thy fair father was set free."

"Oh, it did not end for ever so long! My Lord's Grace of Dublin got leave for him to come home and see my fair mother and me; and after that, when he had gone into Ess.e.x, the King sent after him again, and Sir G.o.dfrey de Crauc.u.mbe took him away to the Tower. They sent for a smith to put him in fetters, but the man would not do it when he heard who was to wear the fetters. He said he would rather die than be the man to put chains on 'that most faithful and n.o.ble Hubert, who so often saved England from the ravages of foreigners, and restored England to herself.' Aunt Marjory, I think he was a grand fellow! I would have kissed him if I had been there."

As the kiss was at that time the common form of greeting between men and women, for a lady to offer a kiss to a man as a token that she approved his words or actions, was not then considered more demonstrative than it would be to shake hands now. It was, in fact, not an unusual occurrence.

"And my fair father told us," pursued Margaret, "when he heard what the smith said, he could not help thinking of those words of our Lord, when He thanked G.o.d that His mission had been hidden from the wise, but revealed to the ignorant. 'For,' our Lord said, 'to Thee, my G.o.d, do I commit my cause; for mine enemies have risen against me.'" [Note 2.]

"And they took him to the Tower of London?"

"Yes, but the Bishop of London was very angry at the violation of sanctuary, and insisted that my fair father should be sent back. He threatened the King with excommunication, and of course that frightened him. He sent him back to the church whence he was taken, but commanded the Sheriff of Ess.e.x to surround the church, so that he should neither escape nor obtain food. But my fair father's true friend, my good old Lord of Dublin--(you were right, Aunt Marjory; all priests are not alike)--interposed, and begged the Lord King to do to him what he had thought to do to my Lord and father. The Lord King then offered the choice of three things:--my Lord and father must either abjure the kingdom for ever, or he must be perpetually imprisoned, or he must openly confess himself a traitor."

"A fair choice, surely!"

"Horrid, wasn't it?"

"He chose banishment, did he not?"

"He said, if the King willed it, he was content to go out of England for a time,--not for ever: but a traitor he would never confess himself, for he had never been one."

"The words of a true man!" said Marjory.

"Splendid!--and then (Eva!--is that pedlar never coming up?) the Lord King found out that my fair father had laid up treasure in the Temple, and he actually accused him of taking it fraudulently from the royal treasury, and summoned him to resign it. My fair father replied (I shouldn't have done!) that he and all he had were at the King's pleasure, and sent an order to the Master of the Temple accordingly.

Then--O Aunt Marjory, it is too long a tale to tell!--and I want that pedlar. But I do think it was a shame, after all that, for the Lord King to profess to compa.s.sionate my Lord and father, and to say that he had been faithful to our Lord King John of happy memory, [Note 3] and also to our Lord King Richard (whom G.o.d pardon!); therefore, notwithstanding the ill-usage of himself, and the harm he had done the kingdom, he would rather pardon my fair father than execute him. 'For,'

he said, 'I would rather be accounted a remiss king than a man of blood.'"

"Well, that does not sound bad, Magot."

"Oh no! Words are very nice things, Aunt Marjory. And our Lord King Henry can string them very prettily together. I have no patience--I say, Eva! Do go and peep into the court and see what is becoming of that snail of a pedlar!"

"He is in the hall, eating and drinking, Margaret."

"Well, I am sure he has had as much as is good for him!--So then, Aunt Marjory, my fair father was sent to Devizes: and many n.o.bles became sureties for him,--my Lord of Cornwall, the King's brother, among others. And while he was there, he heard of the death of his great enemy, my Lord of Chester. Then he said, 'The Lord be merciful to him: he was my man by his own doing, and yet he never did me good where he could work me harm.' And he set himself before the holy cross, and sang over the whole Psalter for my Lord of Chester. Well, after that,--I cannot go into all the ups and downs of the matter,--but after a while, by the help of some of the garrison, my fair father contrived to escape from Devizes, and joined the Prince of Wales. That was last November; and he stayed in Wales until the King's journey to Gloucester. Last March the Lord King came here to the Abbey, and he granted several manors to my fair mother: and she took the opportunity to plead for my Lord and father. So when the Lord King went to Gloucester, he was met by my Lord's Grace of Canterbury, who had been to treat with the Prince of Wales, and by his advice all those who had been outlawed, and had sought refuge in Wales, were to be pardoned and received to favour. One of them, of course, was my fair father. So they met the Lord King at Gloucester, and he took them to his mercy. My Lord and father said the Lord King looked calmly on them, and gave them the kiss of peace. But my fair father himself was so much struck by the manner in which our Lord had repaid him his good deeds, that, as his varlet Adam told us, he clasped his hands, and looked up to Heaven, and he said,--'O Jesus, crucified Saviour, I once when sleeping saw Thee on the cross, pierced with b.l.o.o.d.y wounds, and on the following day, according to Thy warning, I spared Thy image and worshipped it: and now Thou hast, in Thy favour, repaid me for so doing, in a lucky moment.'"

It did not strike either Marjory or Margaret, as perhaps it may the reader, that this speech presented a very curious medley of devotion, thankfulness, barefaced idolatry, and belief in dreams and lucky moments. To their minds the mixture was perfectly natural. So much so, that Marjory's response was--

"Doubtless it was so, Magot. It is always very unlucky to neglect a dream."

At this juncture Eva de Braose presented herself. She was one of three maidens who were alike--as was then customary--wards of the Earl, and waiting-maids of the Countess. They were all young ladies of high birth and good fortune, orphan heirs or co-heirs, whose usual lot it was, throughout the Middle Ages, to be given in wardship to some n.o.bleman, and educated with his daughters. Eva de Braose, Marie de Lusignan, and Doucebelle de Vaux, [Eva and Marie (but not Doucebelle) are historical persons,] were therefore the social equals and constant companions of Margaret. Eva was a rather pretty, fair-haired girl, about two years older than our heroine.

"The pedlar is coming now, Margaret."

"_Ha, jolife_!" cried Margaret. [Note 4.] "Is my Lady and mother coming?"

"Yes, and both Hawise and Marie."

Hawise de Lanvalay was the young wife of Margaret's eldest brother.

Earl Hubert's family consisted, beside his daughter, of two sons of his first marriage, John and Hubert, who were respectively about eighteen and fifteen years older than their sister.

The Countess entered in a moment, bringing with her the young Lady Hawise,--a quiet-looking, dark-eyed girl of some eighteen years; and Marie, the little Countess of Eu, who was only a child of eleven. After them came Levina, one of the Countess's dressers, and two st.u.r.dy varlets, carrying the pedlar's heavy pack between them. The pedlar himself followed in the rear. He was a very respectable-looking old man, with strongly-marked aquiline features and long white beard; and he brought with him a lithe, olive-complexioned youth of about eighteen years of age.

The varlets set down the pack on the floor, and departed. The old man unstrapped it, and opening it out with the youth's help, proceeded to display his goods. Very rich, costly, and beautiful they were. The finest lawn of Cambray (whence comes "cambric"), and the purest sheeting of Rennes, formed a background on which were exhibited rich diapered stuffs from Damascus, c.r.a.pe of all colours from Cyprus, golden baudekyns from Constantinople, fine sendal from India, with satins, velvets, silks, taffetas, linen and woollen stuffs, in bewildering profusion.

Over these again were laid rich furs,--sable, ermine, miniver, black fox, squirrel, marten, and lamb; and tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs of gold and silver, gimp and beads, delicate embroidery, and heavy tinsel.

"Here, Lady, is a lovely thing in changeable sendal," said the old man, hunting for it among his silks: "it would be charming for the fair-haired damsel--(lift off that fox fur, Cress),--blue and gold. Or here,--a striped tartaryn, which would suit the dark young lady,--orange and green. Then--(Cress, give me the silver frieze),--this, Lady, would be well for the little maid, for somewhat cooler weather. And will my Lady see the Cyprus? (Hand the pink one, Cress.) This would make up enchantingly for the damsel that was in my Lady's chamber."

"Where is Doucebelle?" asked the Countess, looking round. "I thought she had come. Marie, run and fetch her.--Hast thou any broidery-work of the East Country, good man?"

"One or two small things, Lady.--Cress, give me thy sister's scarves."

The young man unfolded a woollen wrapper, and then a lawn one inside it, and handed to his father three silken scarves, of superlatively fine texture, and covered with most exquisite embroidery. Even the Countess, accustomed as her eyes were to beautiful things, was not able to suppress an admiring e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n.

"This _is_ lovely!" she said.

"Those are samples," remarked the pedlar, with a gleam of pleasure in his eyes. "I have more, of various patterns, if my Lady would wish to see them. She has only to speak her commands."

"Yes. But--these are all imported, I suppose?"

"All imported, such as I have shown to my Lady."

"I presume no broideress is to be found in England, who can do such work as this?" said the Countess in a regretful tone.

"Did my Lady wish to find one?"

"I wished to have a scarf in my possession copied, with a few variations which I would order. But I fear it cannot be done--it would be almost necessary that I should see the broideress myself, to avoid mistakes; and I would fain, if it were possible, have had the work done under my own eye."

"That might be done, perhaps. It would be costly."

"Oh, I should not care for the cost. I want the scarf for a gift; and it is nothing to me whether I pay ten silver pennies or a hundred."

"Would my Lady suffer her servant to see the scarf she wishes to have imitated?"