In Convent Walls Part 16

The next morrow, which was Saint Luke's even [October 17th], came a surprise for all men. It was found that the Constable of the Castle, with Sir William de Montacute, Sir Edward de Bohun, Sir John de Molynes, the Lord Ufford, the Lord Stafford, the Lord Clinton, and Sir John Neville, had ridden away from the town the night afore, taking no man into their counsel. None could tell wherefore their departure, nor what they purposed. I knew only that the King was aware thereof, though soothly he counterfeited surprise as well as any man.

"What can they signify?" saith Sir Edmund de Mortimer, the eldest son of my Lord of March--a much better man than his father, though not nigh so crafty.

"Hold thy peace for a fool as thou art!" saith his father roughly.

"They are afraid of me, I cast no doubt at all. And they do well. I could sweep them away as lightly as so many flies, and none should miss them!"

He ended with a mocking laugh. Verily, pride such as this was full ready for a fall.

We knew afterward what had pa.s.sed in that hour the day afore. The King had been hard to insense [cause to understand: still a Northern provincialism] at the first. So great was his faith in his mother that he ne could ne would believe any evil of her. As to the Mortimer, he was ready enough, for even now was he a-chafing under the yoke.

"Be he what he may--the very foul fiend himself an' you will," had he said to his Lords: "but she, mine own mother, my beloved--Oh, not she, not she!"

Then--for themselves were lost an' they proved not their case--they were fain to bring forth their proofs. Sir William de Montacute told my Jack it was all pitiful to see how our poor young King's heart fought full gallantly against the light as it brake on his understanding. Poor lad!

for he was but a lad; and it troubled him sore. But they knew they must carry the matter through.

"Oh, have away your testimonies!" he cried more than once. "Spare her-- and spare me! Mother, my mother, mine own dear Lady! how is this possible?"

At the last he knew all: knew who had set England in flame, who had done Sir Hugh Le Despenser and his son to death, who had been his own father's murderer. The scales were off his eyes; and had he list to do it, he could never set them on again. They said he covered his face, and wept like the child he nearhand was. Then he lifted his head, the tears over, and in his eyes was the light of a settled purpose, and in his lips a stern avis.e.m.e.nt. No latsummes [backwardness, reluctance] was in him when once fully set.

"Take the Mortimer," quoth he, firm enough.

"Sir," quoth Sir William de Montacute, "we, not being lodged in the Castle, shall never be able to seize him without help of the Constable."

"Now, surely," saith the King, "I love you well: wherefore go to the Constable in my name, and bid him aid you in taking of the Mortimer, on peril of life and limb."

"Sir, then G.o.d grant us speed!" saith Sir William.

So to the Constable they went, and brake the matter, only at first bidding him in the King's name (having his ring for a token) to aid them in a certain enterprise which concerned the King's honour and safety.

The Constable sware so to do, and then saith Sir William--

"Now, surely, dear friend, it behoved us to win your a.s.sent, in order to seize on the Mortimer, sith you are Keeper of the Castle, and have the keys at your disposal."

Then the Constable, having first lift his brows and made grimace of his mouth, fell in therewith, and quoth he--

"Sirs, if it be thus, you shall wit that the gates of the Castle be locked with the locks that Queen Isabel sent hither, and at night she hath all the keys thereof, and layeth them under the pillow of her bed while morning: and so I may not help you into the Castle at the gates by any means. But I know an hole that stretcheth out of the ward under earth into the Castle, beginning on the west side [still called Mortimer's Hole], which neither the Queen nor her following nor Mortimer himself, nor none of his company, know anything of; and through this pa.s.sage I will lead you till you come into the Castle without espial of enemies."

Thereupon went they forth that even, as though to flee away from the town, none being privy thereto save the King. And Saint Luke's Day pa.s.sed over quiet enough. The Queen went to ma.s.s in the Church of the White Friars, and offered at the high altar five shillings, her customary offering on the great feasts and chief saints' days. All peaceful sped the day; the Queen gat her abed, and the keys being brought of the Constable's deputy, I (that was that night in waiting) presented them unto her, which she received in her own hands and laid under the pillow of her bed. Then went we, her dames and damsels, forth unto our own chambers in the upper storey of the Castle: and I, set at the cas.e.m.e.nt, had unlatched the same and thrown it open (being nigh as warm as summer), and was hearkening to the soft flow of the waters of the Leene, which on that side do nearhand wash the Castle wall. I was but then thinking how peaceful were all things, and what sore pity it were that man should bring in wrong, and bitterness, and anguish, on that which G.o.d had made so beautiful--when all suddenly my fair peace changed to fierce tumult and the clang of armed men--the tramp of mail-clad feet and the hoa.r.s.e crying of roaring voices. I was as though I held my breath: for I could well guess what this portended. Then above all the routing and bruit [shouting and noise], came the voice of Queen Isabel, clear and shrill.

"Now, fair Sirs, I pray you that you do no harm unto his body, for he is a worthy knight, our well-beloved friend, and our dear cousin."

"They have him, then!" quoth I, scarce witting that I spake aloud, nor who heard me.

"'Have him!'" saith Dame Joan de Vaux beside me: "whom have they?"

Then, suddenly, a word or twain in the King's voice came up to where we stood; on which hearing, an anguished cry rang out from Queen Isabel.

"Fair Son, fair Son! have pity on the sweet Mortimer!" [Note 8.]

Wala wa! that time was past. And she had shown no pity.

I never loved her, as in mine opening words I writ: yet in that dread moment I could not find in mine heart to leave her all alone in her agony. I have ever found that he which brings his sorrows on his own head doth not suffer less thereby, but more. And let her be what she would, she was a woman, and in sorrow, not to say mine own liege Lady: and signing to Dame Joan to follow me, down degrees ran I with all haste, and not staying to scratch on the door [Note 9], into the chamber to the Queen.

We found her sitting up in her bed, her hands held forth, and a look of agony and horror on her face.

"Cicely, is it thou?" she shrieked. "Joan! Whence come ye? Saw ye aught? What do they to him? who be the miscreants? Is my son there?

Have they won him over--the coward neddirs [serpents] that they be!

Speak I who be they?--and what will they do? Ah, Mary Mother, what will they do with him?"

Her voice choked, and I spake.

"Dame, the King is there, and divers with him."

"What do they?" she wailed like a woman in her last agony.

"There hath been sharp a.s.sault, Dame," said I, "and I fear some slain; for as I ran in hither, I saw that which seemed me the body of a dead man at the head of degrees."

"Who?" She nearhand screamed.

"Dame," I said, "I think it was Sir Hugh de Turpington."

"But what do they with _him_?" she moaned again, an accent of anguish on that last word.

I save no answer. What could I have given?

Dame Joan de Vaux saith, "Dame, the King is there, and G.o.d will be with the King. We may well be ensured that no wrong shall be done to them that have done no wrong. This is not the contekes [quarrel] of a rabble rout; it is the justice of the Crown upon his enemies."

"His enemies?--whose? Mine enemies are dead and gone. All of them-- all! I left not one. Who be these? who be they, I say? Cicely, answer me!"

Afore I could speak word, I was called by another voice. I was fain enough of the reprieve. Leaving Dame Joan with the Queen, I ran forth into the Queen's closet, where stood the King.

What change had come over him in those few hours! No longer a bashful lad that was nearhand afraid to speak for himself ere he were bidden.

This was a young man [he was now close on eighteen years of age] that stood afore me, a youthful warrior, a budding Achilles, that would stand to no man's bidding, but would do his will. King of England was this man. I louted low before my master.

He spake in a voice wherein was both cold constrainedness, and bitterness, and stern determination--yet under them all something else-- I think it was the sorely bruised yet living soul of that deep unutterable tenderness which had been ever his for the mother of his love, but could be the same never more. Man is oft cold and bitter and stern, when an hour before he hath dug a grave in his own heart, and hath therein laid all his hopes and his affections. And they that look on from afar behold the sheet of ice, but they see not the grave beneath it. They only see him cold and silent: and they reckon he cares for nought, and feels nothing.

"Dame Cicely, you have been with the Queen?"

"Sir, I have so."

"Take heed she hath all things at her pleasure, of such as lie in your power. Let my physician be sent for if need arise, as well as her own; and if she would see any holy father, let him be fetched incontinent [immediately]. See to it, I charge you, that she be served with all honour and reverence, as you would have our favour."

He turned as if to depart. Then all suddenly the ice went out of his voice, and the tears came in.

"How hath she taken it?" saith he.

"Sir," said I, "full hardly as yet, and is sore troubled touching my Lord of March, fearing some ill shall be done him. Moreover, my Lady biddeth me tell her who these be. Is it your pleasure that I answer the same?"

"Ay, answer her," saith he sorrowfully, "for it shall do no mischief now. As for my Lord of March, no worser fate awaits him than he hath given better men."