The White Rose of Langley Part 36

"You did but this moment, my Lord. If my word be worth aught in the one matter, let it weigh in the other."

The Chancellor meditated a minute, but he could not deny the justice of the plea.

"Moreover, Lady, we heard,"--how had they heard it?--"that some trial were to be made of scaling the walls of the King's Grace's Palace of Eltham."

Constance grew paler. If they had heard this of Edward, what might they have heard of Richard's presence in the journey to Hereford?

"Have you so, Sir?" she answered, losing none of her apparent coolness.

"We have so, Madam!" replied Beaufort sternly; "and moreover of conspiration to steal away his Highness' person, and prison him--if not worser matter than this."

"Not of my doing," said Constance.

"How far you were privy thereto or no, that I leave. But can you deny that it were of my Lord of York his doing?"

"I was not there," she quickly rejoined. "How then wis I?"

"Can you deny that my Lord of Cambridge was therein concerned?"

"I can!" cried Constance in an agony--too hastily.

"Oh, you can so?" retorted Beaufort, seeing and instantly pressing his advantage. "Then you do wis thereof something?"

She was silent.

"My Lord of York--he was there, trow?"

No answer.

"He was there?"

"Sir Keeper, I was not there. What more can I say?"

"Who was there, Dame?--for I am a.s.sured you know."

"Who was where?" retorted the Princess satirically. "If no man scaled the Palace walls, how ask you such questions?"

"Nay, ask that at your Ladyship's own conscience; for it was not I, but you, that said first you were not there."

She was becoming entangled in the meshes.

"Lock you up whom your Lordship will!" she exclaimed. "The truth of all I have said can be proven, and thereto I do offer Master Will Maydeston mine esquire, which shall prove my truth with his body against such, as do accuse me [by duel; a resource then permitted by law]. And further will I say nought."

"But you must needs have had further aid, Lady."

"Ay so, Sir?"

"Most surely. Who were it, I demand of you?"

"I have said my saying."

"And you do deny, Madam, to further justice?"

"Right surely, without justice were of my side." What was to be done with such a prisoner? Beaufort at last gave up in despair the attempt to make her criminate her accomplices any further, though he could hardly avoid guessing that Bertram and Maude had helped her more or less. The sentence p.r.o.nounced was a remarkably light one, so far as Constance was concerned. In fact, the poor smith, who was the most innocent of the group, suffered the most. How he was found can but be guessed; but his life paid the forfeit of his forgery. The Princess was condemned to close imprisonment in Kenilworth Castle during the King's pleasure. Maude was sentenced to share her mistress's durance; and Bertram's penalty was even easier, for he was allowed free pa.s.sage within the walls, as a prisoner on parole.

It was in the beginning of March that the captive trio, in charge of Elmingo Leget, arrived at Kenilworth. Two rooms were allotted for the use of Constance and Maude. The innermost was the bedchamber, from which projected a little oratory with an oriel window; the outer, the "withdrawing chamber," which opened only into a guardroom always occupied by soldiers. Bertram was permitted access to the Princess's drawing-room at her pleasure, and her pleasure was to admit him very frequently. She found her prison-life insufferably wearisome, and even the sc.r.a.ps of extremely local news, brought in by Bertram from the courtyard, were a relief to the monotony of having nothing at all to do.

She grew absolutely interested in such infinitesimal facts as the arrival of a barrel of salt sprats, the sprained ankle of Mark Milksop [a genuine surname of the time] of the garrison, the Governor's new crimson damask gown, and the solitary cowslip which his shy little girl offered to Bertram "for the Lady."

But having nothing to do, by no means implied having nothing to think about. On the contrary, of that there was a great deal. The last items which Constance knew concerning her friends were, that Kent had been told of her flight from Windsor (if York's word could be trusted); that her children were left at Langley; and that her admissions on her trial had placed York in serious peril, for liberty if not life. As to the children, they were probably safe, either at Langley or Cardiff; yet there remained the possibility that they might have shared the fate of the Mortimers, and be closely confined in some stronghold. It was not in Isabel's nature to fret much over any thing; but Richard was a gentle, playful, affectionate child, to whom the absence of all familiar faces would be a serious trouble. Then what would become of Edward, whom she had tacitly criminated? What would become of Richard, the darling brother, whom not to criminate she had sacrificed truth, and would have sacrificed life? And, last and worst of all, what had become of Kent? If he had set out to join her, the gravest suspicion would instantly fall on him. If he had not, and were ignorant what had befallen her, Constance--who did not yet know his real character-- pictured him as tortured with apprehension on her account.

"O Maude!" she said one evening, "if I could know what is befallen my Lord, methinks I might the lighter bear this grievance!"

Would it have been any relief if she could have known--if the curtain had been lifted, and had revealed the cushion-dance which was in full progress in the Lady Blanche's chamber at Westminster, where the Earl of Kent, resplendent in violet and gold, was dropping the embroidered cushion at the feet of the Princess Lucia?

"Dear my Lady," said Maude in answer, "our Lord wot what is befallen him."

"What reck I, the while I wis it not?"

And Maude remembered that the thought which was a comfort to her would be none to Constance. The reflection that G.o.d knows is re-a.s.suring only to those who know G.o.d. What could she say which would be consoling to one who knew Him not?

"Maude," resumed her mistress, "'tis my very thought that King Harry, my cousin, doth this spite and ire against me, to some count [extent], because he maketh account of me as a Lollard."

Maude looked up quickly; but dropped her eyes again in silence.

"Thou wist I have dwelt with them all my life," proceeded Constance.

"My Lord that was, and my Lady his mother, and my Lady my mother--all they were Lollards. My fair Castle of Llantrissan to a shoe-latchet, but he reckoneth the like of me!"

"Would it were true!" said Maude under her breath.

"'Would it were true!'" repeated Constance, laughing. "Nay, by the head of Saint John Baptist, but this Maude would have me an heretic!

Prithee, turn thy wit to better use, woman. I may be taken for a Gospeller, yet not be one."

"But, sweet Lady," said Maude, earnestly, "wherefore will ye take the disgrace, and deny yourself of the blessing?"

"When I can see the blessing, Maude, I will do thee to wit," replied Constance, laughingly.

"Methinks it is scarce seen," returned Maude, thoughtfully. "Madam, you never yet saw happiness, but ye have felt it, and ye wit such a thing to be. And I have felt the blessing of our Lord's love and pity, though ye no have."

"Fantasies, child!" said Constance.

"If so be, Dame, how come so many to know it?"

"By reason the world is full of fantastical fools," answered Constance, lightly. "We be all nigh fools, sweeting--big fools and little fools-- that is all."

Maude gave up the attempt to make her understand. She only said, "Would your Grace that I read unto you a season?" privately intending, if her offer were accepted, to read from the gospel of Saint Luke, which she had with her. But Constance laughingly declined the offer; and Maude felt that nothing more could be done, except to pray for her.

Time rolled away wearily enough till the summer was drawing to its close. And then a new interest awoke for both Maude and her lady. For the leaves were just beginning to droop on the trees around Kenilworth Castle, when the disinherited heiress of Kent, a prisoner from her birth, opened her eyes upon the world which had prepared for her such cold and cruel welcome.

There was plenty to do and to talk about after this. Constance was perplexed what name to give her baby. She had never consulted any will but her own before, for she had not cared about pleasing Le Despenser.