In Convent Walls Part 13

"Not a doubt thereof: but man may scarce expect his brother to behold it."

"Then," said I, "my Lord Zouche of Mortimer--but soothly he was cousin to the traitor. Jack, I never could conceive how it came about that he ever wedded the Lady Alianora. One of the enemies of her own husband, and she herself set prisoner in his kinsman's keeping, and to wed her gaoler's cousin, all against the King's pleasure and without his licence--canst solve the puzzle?"

"I can tell thee why he wed her, as easy as say 'twice two be four.'

She was co-heir of the earldom of Gloucester, and his sword was nearhand his fortune."

"Then wherefore wed she him?"

"Kittle [ticklish, delicate] ground, Sissot, for man to take on him to account for the doings of woman. I might win a clap to mine ears, as like as not."

"Now, Jack, thou wist well I never demean me so unbuxomly. Tell me thy thought."

"Then I think," saith he, "that the Lady Alianora La Despenser was woman of that manner that fetch their souls from the vine. They must have somewhat to lean on. If an oak or a cedar be nigh, good: but if no, why then, a bramble will serve their turn. The one thing that they cannot do is to stand alone. There be not only women of this fashion; there be like men, but too many. G.o.d help them, poor weak souls! The woman that could twine round the Lord Zouche the tendrils torn from Sir Hugh Le Despenser must have been among the very weakest of women."

"It is sore hard," said I, "to keep one from despising such weakness."

"It is full hard, soothly. I know but one way--to keep very near to Him that never spurned the weakest that prayed His help, and that tholed weakness amidst other meeknesses [humiliations], by reason that it behoved Him to resemble His brethren in all things. And some of His brethren are very weak. Sissot, when our daughters were babes, I was wont to think thou lovedst better Alice than Vivien, and I am nearhand secure that it was by reason she was the weaker of the twain, and pave thee the more thought."

"Surely," said I; "that alway holdeth good with a mother, that the barne which most needeth care is the dearest."

Jack's answer, I knew, came from Holy Writ.

"'As by him whom his mother blandisheth, thus will I comfort you.'"

The Sunday after the Conversion of Saint Paul [February 1st, 1327] was the young King crowned in Westminster Abbey before the high altar, by Walter [Reynolds] Archbishop of Canterbury, that had been of old a great friend of King Edward the father, and was carried away like the rest by the glamour of the Queen. But his eyes were opened afore most other, and he died of a broken heart for the evil and unkindness which himself had holpen, the day of Saint Edmund of Pontigny [November 16th] next thereafter. Also present were nine bishops, the King's uncles, and many n.o.bles: yea, and Queen Isabel likewise, that caused us to array her in great doole [mourning], and held her sudary at her eyes nearhand all the office [Service] through. And it was no craft, for she could weep when it listed her--some women have that power--and her sudary was full wet when she returned from the Abbey. And the young King, that was but then full fourteen years of age, took oath as his father and all the kings had done afore him, that he would confirm to the people of England the laws and the customs to them granted by the ancient Kings of England his predecessors, the rights and offerings of G.o.d, and particularly the laws, customs, and liberties granted to the clergy and people by the glorious King, Saint Edward, his predecessor. He sware belike to keep unto G.o.d and holy Church, unto the clergy and the people, entire peace and concord to his power; to do equal and true justice in all his judgments, and discretion in mercy and truth; to keep the laws and righteous customs which the commons of his realm should have elected [_Auera estu_ are the rather singular words used], and to defend and enforce them, to the honour of G.o.d and to his power. [Note 2.]

Six sennights we tarried at Westminster: but, lack-a-day! what a time had we at after! All suddenly the Queen gave order to depart thence.

She controlled all things, and the King her son was but a puppet in her hands. How did we trapes up and down all the realm!

To Canterbury the first round, a-pilgrimage to Saint Thomas; then right up as far as York, where we tarried a matter of five weeks. Then to Durham, which we had scarce reached ere we were aflight again, this time to Auckland, and a bit into that end of Yorkshire; back again to Durham, then away to York, and ten days later whisked off to Nottingham; there a fortnight, off again to Lincoln. I guess well now, what I wist not then, the meaning of all this. It was to let the young King from taking thought touching his father, and all that had happed of late. While he was cheerful and delectable [full of enjoyment], she let him be; but no sooner saw she his face the least downfell [cast down] than she plucked him away, and put turn to his thoughts by sending him some other whither. It paid [Note 3] for a time.

It was while we were at Lincoln, where we tarried from the morrow of Holy Cross to Michaelmas Eve [September 15th to 28th], that Donald the Scots messager came from the southern parts with tidings. For some time--divers weeks, certes--afore that, had the Queen been marvellous unrestful and hard to serve. That which liked her yesterday was all out this morrow, and each matter man named for her plesance was worser than that had gone afore. I was nearhand driven out of senses that very morrow, so sharp [irritable] was she touching her array. Not a gown in her wardrobe would serve the turn; and when at last she chose which she would don, then were her hoods all awry; and then would she have no hood, but only a wimple of fair cloth of linen. Then, gramercy! such pains had we to find her a fillet: this was too deep, and that too narrow, and this set with amethysts should ill fit with her gown of rose-colour, and that wrought of lily-flowers should catch in her hair.

I wished me at the further end of the realm from Lincoln, ay, a dozen times twice told.

At long last we gat her filleted; and then came the mantle. First, Dame Elizabeth brought one of black cloth of Stamford, lined with fox fur: no, that served not. Then brought Dame Joan de Vaux the fair mantle of cloth of velvet, grey, that I ever reckoned the fairest in the Queen's wardrobe, guarded with black budge, and wrought in embroidery of rose-colour and silver: she waved it away as though the very sight 'noyed [disgusted] her. Then fetched Isabel de la Helde the ray mantle, with corded ground, of blue, red, and green; and the Queen chid her as though she had committed one of the seven deadly sins. At the last, in uttermost wanhope [despair], ran I and brought the ugsomest of all, the corded olive green with border of grey; and forsooth, that would she have. Well-a-day, but I was fain when we had her at last arrayed!

When the Queen had left the chamber, Dame Elizabeth cast her on the nearest bench, and panted like a coursed hare.

"Deary, deary me!" crieth she: "I would I were abed."

"Abed!" crieth Isabel de la Helde. "Abed at five o'clock of a morrow!"

"Ay, or rather, I would I had never gat out. Gramercy, but how fractious is the Queen! I counted we ne'er should have her donned."

"She never spoke to me so sharp in her life," saith Isabel.

"I tell you, I am fair dog-weary!" quoth Dame Elizabeth.

"Whatever hath took the Queen?" saith Joan de Vilers.

"Foolish childre, all of you!" saith old Dame Tiffany, looking on us with a smile. "When man is fractious like to this, with every man and every matter, either he suffereth pain, or else he hath some hidden anguish or fear that hath nought to do with the matter in hand. 'Tis not with you that my Lady is wrathful. There is something harrying her at heart. And she hath not told me."

In hall, during dinner. I cast eyes from time to time on the Queen, and I could not but think Dame Tiffany spake sooth. She looked fair haggard, as though some bitter care were eating out her heart. I never loved her, as I said at the first: but that morn I felt sorry for her.

Sorry for _her_! Ah, I soon knew what sore cause there was to be sorry to the very soul for some one else!

It was while we were sat at supper that Donald came. I saw him enter from the high table where I sat, and I knew in an instant that he brought some fearsome tidings. I lost him in the crowd at the further end, and then Mereworth, one of the varlets of the King's chamber, came all in haste up the hall, with a face that had evil news thereon writ: and Sir John de Ros, that was then Seneschal, saw him, and guessing, as I think, the manner of word he brought, stepped down from the dais to meet him. Then, in an other minute, I saw Donald brought up to the King and to the Queen.

I watched them both. As Donald's news was told, the young King's face grew ashen pale, and he cried full dolefully "_Dieu eit mercie_!" The news troubled him sore and sure enough. But the Queen's eyes, that a moment before had been full of terror and untholemodness [impatience], shot out one flash of triumphant gladness: and the next minute she had hidden her face in her sudary, and was greeting as though her heart had broke. I marvelled what tidings they could be, that were tene [grief]

to the King, and blisfulhed [happiness] to the Queen. Sir John de Gaytenby, the King's confessor, was sat next to me at the table, and to him I said--

"Father, can you guess what manner of news Donald de Athole shall have brought?"

"Ay, daughter," he made answer. "Would I were in doubt!"

"You think--?" I asked him, and left him to fill up.

"I think," he saith in a low voice somewhat sorrowful of tone, "that G.o.d hath delivered from all labour and sorrow one of His servants that trust in Him."

"Why, that were nought to lament o'er!" I was about to say; but I stayed me when half through. "Father, you mean there is man dead?"

"We call it death," saith Sir John de Gaytenby--"we of this nether world, that be ever in sickness and weariness, in tene and in temptation. Know we what they call it which have forded the Rubicon, and stand safe on the pavement of the Golden City? '_Multo magis melius_,' saith the Apostle [Philippians One verse 23]: 'much more better' to dissolve and to be with Christ. And the colder be the waters man hath to ford, the gladder and welcomer shall be the light of the Golden City. They were chill, I cast no doubt: and all the chiller for the hand that chilled them. With how sharp thorns and briers G.o.d hath to drive some of His sheep! But once in the Fold, there shall be time to forget them all. 'When thou pa.s.sest through the waters, I will be with thee' [Isaiah 43 verse 2]--that is enough now. We can stay us upon that promise till we come through. And then there shall be no more need for Him to be with us in tribulation, since we shall reign with Him for ever and ever."

Old Sir Simon de Driby came up behind us as the Confessor ended.

"Have you guessed, Sir John, our dread news?--and you, Dame Cicely?"

"I have guessed, and I think rightly," answered Sir John. "For Dame Cicely I cannot say."

I shook mine head, and Sir Simon told me.

"Sir Edward of Caernarvon is dead."

"Dead--the King!"

"'The King' no longer," saith Sir Simon sorrowfully.

"O Sir Simon!" cried I. "How died he?"

"G.o.d knoweth," he made answer. "I mis...o...b.. if man shall know."

"Or woman?" quoth Sir John, significantly.

"The schoolmaster learned me that man includeth woman," saith Sir Simon, smiling full grimly.

"He learned you not, I reckon, that woman includeth man," saith Sir John, somewhat after the same manner.

"Ah, _woe_ worth the day!" Sir Simon fetched an heavy sigh. "Well, G.o.d forgive us all!"