Mistress Margery

Emily Sarah Holt (continued 3)

Reading edition

“Now, father,” said Dame Lovell, when she had Friar Andrew and the letter safe in her own apartment, “Now read, I pray thee; but we will have no eavesdroppers, and though Palmers be holy men, yet may they carry tales.”

Friar Andrew sat down, cleared his throat, and began to read rather grandiloquently. He read syllable by syllable, like a child, and every now and then stumbled over a hard word. As to the names of places, he declared himself unable to read those at all. I therefore purpose to give the letter, not as Andrew read it, but as Richard wrote it.

“To the hands of the very worthy Dame, my good lady and mistress, Dame Agnes Lovell, of Lovell Tower, be these delivered with all convenient speed.

“Dear Mistress and my worthy Dame,—In as humble and lowly wise as may be, I commend myself to your kindly favour, hoping that these may find you in health, as they leave me presently. I do you to wit, good mistress, that I have arrived safely, by the grace of our Lord, at Damascus, which is a very fair and rich city, and full of all manner of merchandise; and I have been by Byzantium, and have seen all the holy relics there kept; to wit, the cross of our Lord, and His coat, and the sponge and reed wherewith the heathen Jews (‘Cursed be they!’ interposed Friar Andrew) did give Him to drink, and more blessed relics else than I have the time to write of, the which nathless be named, as I think, in the Travels of Sir John Maundeville. This city of Damascus is very great, and there be about the same so fair gardens as I never did see at any other place; moreover, Saint Paul here dwelt, and was a leech. (See Note 2.) Also I give you to wit, good lady, that I look by our Lord’s help, to go on to the holy city of Jerusalem, the which is from here five days’ journey. And I send you herein a fine piece of baudekyn, the bravest I could see, the which I bought in the market at Byzantium, to make you a rare gown for feast-days. Moreover, I beseech you to say unto good Father Andrew, (I count he will read this letter, and therefore do say unto himself), I would fain have sent you somewhat likewise, good father, but as yet I found not to my hand aught that would like you; but I look, when I shall be in Jerusalem, if it be the Lord’s pleasure that I come therein, for to get you some relics, by the which I wis you will set great store.” (“Thou art a good lad,” said the friar).

“Edmund Carew is in health, and is a faithful squire, and a passing honest fellow (see note 3); but he doth long for to hear news of his father, and my heart also is oft-times sore to wit what is become of mine old friend. If you shall hear of any one who wendeth unto the Land of Promise, I beseech you send us news herein. Likewise would I fain know somewhat of the Lord Marnell, who I guess (see note 4) hath now returned to London. Is Geoffrey yet with you? I pray you ask him if he remembereth me, for an’ he doth, I will bring him a brave thing when I shall come: and God’s blessing and mine be with the sweet heart, and keep him ever from all evil.

“I beseech you commend me humbly unto the Lord Marnell, if you see him or send to him, and also unto Sir Ralph Marston, when you shall have speech of him; and greet well all the maidens and servants from me. Pray salute also Mistress Katherine on my part, and specially Mistress Alice Jordan. Moreover, I beseech you to make my most humble duty and service unto my good knight my father, and my good lady my mother, and salute from me lovingly my sistren, who I trust be all in health. I met this holy Palmer at a church called Our Lady of Sardenak, the which is five miles from this city; and he hath promised me for to deliver my letters with safety, and in all convenient haste. I have written also unto my father by him; wherefore, if he come unto you first, as I count he will do, I pray you for my sake to put him in the way to Pynsonlee.

“I give you to wit also, good mistress, that in this country be some men who call themselves Jacobites,—to wit, disciples of Saint James,—and they be right Lollards, holding that a man should make confession to God and no wise unto the priest; and also read they God’s Word in their own tongue, and not in Latin, the which giveth me much marvel how they came in this place, for they do wit nothing of us and of our country. Nathless, I trow that God learneth (teaches) His own alike in all lands and at divers times.

“I pray you specially, good mistress, that you give me to wit how I may come home. Doth King Henry still reign? and is he yet evil affected toward the Lollards? for so long as things be in this case, I dare in no wise take my way unto you.

“And now, dear mistress, I pray God to have you in His holy keeping, to the which I commit you all.

“From your very humble serving-man and loving friend, Richard Pynson.

“Edmund Carew prayeth me for to make his lowly commendations unto you.

“Written at Damascus, this xxvii day of November.”

This was the first and last letter which Dame Lovell received from Richard Pynson. Probably he wrote many others, but they never came to hand.

Friar Andrew, with the greatest difficulty, managed to write back a few lines. His letter took him a whole week to compose and transfer to paper. It was written in short sentences, like a child’s epistle; and nearly every sentence commenced with Richard’s name. Friar Andrew informed his correspondent that all parties named in his letter were well; that Geoffrey was still with them, sent his loving commendations, and said he remembered him, and would never forget him as long as he lived; that of Lord Marnell they had only heard a rumour which they could not believe, of his having joined an insurrection in the West; that Master Carew was had up to London and strictly examined by the council, but that his answers were so ingeniously evasive that they could lay hold of nothing, and nothing had been found in his house which could criminate him; he had accordingly been dismissed with a caution. Sir Ralph Marston had privately declared that “the old fox must have hidden his Lollard books in some uncommonly safe place, for I wis he had some.” Friar Andrew concluded his letter with a malediction upon “evil companions,” by which he meant the anti-Lollard party; for though Andrew cared not a straw about the matter of opinion, he could never forgive them for his favourite’s death. He also besought Richard to “look well to his ways, and have nought to do with heathen Jews and Saracens, who all worshipped mawmetis,” (see note 5) and to come home as soon as he could—which, however, must not be just now.

Friar Andrew then folded his elaborate and arduous piece of composition, and directed it in remarkable characters and singular spelling, as follows:—

“To ye hondes of ye veraye gode Knyghte, Syr Rechurt Pynsone of Pinnsonrue, beyng yn ye Halie Londe at Dommosscsc (this word gave him immense trouble), or elsewhar, dilyuher thes.”

“There!” said the friar, with a deep sigh of relief in conclusion, as he exhibited the fruit of his prowess in triumph to Dame Lovell. “Methinketh that Richard himself could not better those letters!”

Dame Lovell looked with unfeigned admiration at the cabalistic characters, for such they were in her eyes, and declared them “right brave,” opining moreover that “learning was soothly a passing rare thing!”

Note 1. Knighthood is now conferred only by the Sovereign, who is “the fountain of honour,” or by a viceroy, as representing the Sovereign. In ancient times, however, “a knight could make a knight.” When the Duke of Suffolk was taken prisoner in battle by a simple squire, he asked, before surrendering his sword, “Are you a knight?” “No,” was the answer. “Kneel, then,” replied Suffolk, “that I may make you one; for I will never give up my sword to a squire.” The squire knelt, and Suffolk knighted his captor, and then delivered his sword to one who, by the laws of chivalry, had now become his equal.

Note 2. The reader does not need to search through the Acts of the Apostles for any mention of Saint Paul’s having been a doctor for it is one of the endless legends of the Middle Ages, of which Maundeville’s Travels are full.

Note 3. A very pleasant companion. “Fellow” and “companion” have now exchanged meanings, though we still speak of a bedfellow and the fellow to a glove.

Note 4. This “Americanism” is really an old English phrase, as many more so-called Americanisms also are.

Note 5. Idols. Our forefathers had a rooted idea that Jews and Mohammedans were idolaters. Their very word for idols, “Mawmetis,” was a corruption of the name of Mahomet.

Chapter Thirteen.

The day after Agincourt.

“Urbs Coelestis! Urbs Beata! Super petram collocata, Urbs in portu satis tuto, De lonquinquo te saluto; Te saluto, te suspiro, Te affecto, te requiro.”

Fourteen years had passed away since the burning of the Lady Marnell. A new king had risen up, who was not a whit less harshly inclined towards the Lollards than his predecessor had been. This monarch, Henry the Fifth, of chivalrous memory, was riding over the field of Agincourt, the day after the battle, surrounded by about twenty of his nobles. Behind the nobles rode their squires, and all around them on the field lay the dead and dying.

“Saw you yonder knight, Master Wentworth,” inquired one of the squires of his next neighbour, “that we marked a-riding down by the woody knoll to the left, shortly afore the fight? I marvel if he meant to fight.”

“He had it, if he meant it not,” answered the other; “the knight, you would say, who bore three silver arrows?”

“Ay, the same. What befell him?”

“A party of French skirmishers came down upon him and his squire, and they were both forced to draw sword. The knight defended himself like a gallant knight, but—our Lady aid us!—they were twelve to two, or thereabouts: it was small marvel that he fell.”

“He did fall? And the squire?”

“The squire fought so bravely, that he earned well his gilded spurs. (Gilded spurs were the mark of a knight.) He stood over his master where he fell, and I trow the French got not his body so long as the squire was alive; but I saw not the end of it, for my master bade me thence.”

“I pray you,” interposed a third squire, “wit you who is yon youth that rideth by the King’s left hand?”

“The tall, pale, fair-haired youth on the white horse.”

“He.”

“That is the Lord Marnell—a new favourite.”

“The Lord Marnell! Is he a kinsman of the Lady Marnell, who—”

“Hush! Yes, her son.”

“His father is dead, also, then?”

“His father was beheaded about twelve years gone, on account of having taken part in a rebellion, got up by the friends of King Richard; but it was said at the time privily, that an’ he had not been suspected of Lollardism, his part in the rebellion might have been forgiven.”

“Where, then, dwelt this youth, his son?”

“In the North, I ween, somewhere, with his grandmother, who hath died not long since. Then the young Lord came down to seek his fortune in London and the King’s Grace saw him, and fancied him.”

The squires’ conversation, and themselves as well, came to a sudden stop, for the King and his suite had halted in front of them.

Almost in their way, on the ground lay a wounded man. His visor was raised, and his face visible; but his surcoat was slashed and covered with mire and blood, so that the eye could no longer discern the device embroidered on it. A scallop-shell fastened to his helmet, intimated that he had at some past time been a pilgrim to the shrine of Saint James of Compostella; while the red cross upon his shoulder was an indisputable indication that he “came from the East Countrie.” His age would have been difficult to guess. It did not seem to be years which had blanched the hair and beard, and had given to the face a wearied, travel-worn look—a look which so changed the countenance from what it might otherwise have been, that even

”—The mother that him bare, If she had been in presence there, She had not known her child.” Marmion.

Close to the dying man lay, apparently, his squire—dead; and beside him was a shield, turned with its face to the ground.

“The very same knight whom we saw a-riding down the knoll!” said one of the squires, with an oath. A man was thought very pious in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries if he did not swear pretty freely. “At least I ween it be the same—I should wit well the shield an’ I could see it.”

King Henry and his nobles were attentively contemplating the wounded knight.

“Light down, my Lord Marnell,” said the King, “and see what is the device upon yon shield. We would know which of our faithful servants we have unhappily lost.”

As the King spoke, the eyes of the dying man suddenly turned to Geoffrey Marnell, who sprang lightly from his horse to fulfil the royal order. He knelt down by the shield, and lifted it up to examine the arms; and as he turned it, the well-known cognisance of Pynson of Pynsonlee—the three silver arrows—met his eye. An exclamation of mingled sorrow and surprise burst from Geoffrey’s lips.

“Who is he?” said Henry, eagerly.

“Sir Richard Pynson of Pynsonlee, an’t please your Grace.”

“Ha! the Lollard knight!” cried the King. “Better he than another! I had bruit of him, and, truly, I looked to have him to the stake when he should return from his Eastern travel. It is well.”

The King and his suite rode on; but Geoffrey was not one of them. He had thrown down the shield, and had turned to the dear friend of his youth, who lay dying before him.

“Richard! dear, dear Richard!” he said, in trembling accents. “How came you here? Have you only come home to die? O Richard, die not just now! But perchance it were better so,” he added, in a low tone, recalling the cruel words of the King. “Is it thus that thy God hath granted thee that which thou requestedst, and hath not let thee pass through the fiery trial?”

As Geoffrey thus bemoaned the fate of his old friend, he fancied that he saw Richard’s lips move, and he bent his head low to catch his last words. Faintly, but audibly, those two last words, so full of meaning, reached his ear. And the first of the two was “Margery!” and the last “Jesus!”

The tears fell from Geoffrey’s eyes, as he softly kissed the pale brow of the dead; and then, remounting his horse, he galloped after the King. There was no need of his remaining longer; for he could do nothing more for Richard Pynson, when he had clasped hands with Margery Lovell at the gates of the Urbs Beata.

The End.