RED AND WHITE (continued 3)

[#] Close Roll, 11 Edw. IV.

Considering that Edward himself had married the daughter of a French lady, had negotiated previously for his marriage with an Italian Princess, and had reconquered England with the assistance of Flemings, this taunt upon Queen Marguerite's foreign extraction and alien troops is rather amusing, and marked with as much consistency as usually characterised his actions. What poor King René of Naples had done, to be singled out beyond all other persons as the special adversary to the English land and people, may reasonably be questioned, particularly by those who know his quiet, rather lazy, artistic disposition. But people in a passion, and people trying to impress others with a conviction, are not in all cases consistent and truthful.

On the 27th of April a solemn proclamation was issued by name of "the King's rebels and traitors." The announcement of the names was not made with particular courtesy. They were "Margaret (with no other distinctive appellation); Edward, her son; Henry, late Duke of Exeter (whose wife continued to be styled Duchess); Edmund Beaufort, calling himself Duke of Somerset; John, Earl of Oxford; John Courtenay, calling himself Earl of Devon; William late Viscount Beaumont; John Beaufort and Hugh Courtenay, knights." It was solemnly commanded that none should "give them help, favour, or succour, on pain of death and forfeiture of all held of us: we calling Almighty God to record that it shall be against our will and intent."[#]

[#] Close Roll, 11 Edw. IV.

Did it ever strike the man who dictated these words, that God Almighty had kept a record concerning him, and did he ever think what his feelings would be, when that record was read out before men and angels? The Nemesis for the sins of Henry IV. was descending with dire vengeance on the House of Lancaster. But did he imagine that the House of York should escape the judgment of God—that the Jehu who had been raised up to destroy the innocent sons of Ahab, should be permitted to walk with impunity in the sins of Jeroboam?

CHAPTER VII.

THE LAST BATTLE OF THE RIVAL ROSES.

"May this be borne? How much of agony

Hath the heart room for?"

—FELICIA HEMANS.

One enemy remained for Edward IV. to vanquish, and it was a woman: a woman whose hand he had kissed upon the knee, and whom his Queen had served in her chamber. So long as husband and son were left to fight for, so long Marguerite of Anjou was irrepressible and invincible. When they were not, the complete indifference of despair with which she let the sceptre drop from her hand, proved that it was not it which she had loved, but them.

Yet the dreadful news which met her at Cerne Abbey for one moment overwhelmed the eager and resolute spirit. King Henry was once more a captive, and Warwick—who united the strange characters of her worst enemy in private, and her sole reliable friend in public—could be neither enemy nor friend any more for ever. The bright head was bowed down, and tears, such as Marguerite was rarely seen to shed, came rushing from her eyes.

"Oh, let us give it up!" she cried. "Edward, let us go back to France, and give up the struggle!"

"I cry you mercy, Madame my mother!" was the ringing answer of the Prince. "Never, while another battle may retrieve all! Look, I pray you—have we not yet the Duke of Somerset"——

"Not to be trusted," said Marguerite, under her breath.

"And my Lord of Oxford"——

"Who fled from us at Barnet."

"And my Lord of Devon"——

"Well, yes—I think he may be."

The Prince dropped on one knee, and clasped his mother's hand in his.

"And, sweet Mother, have you not me?"

The Queen clasped her darling in her arms, and bent her fair head low upon his darker locks.

"Mon chéri, mon mignon!" she cried tenderly, in her own language, not often used now, for English had become almost the mother-tongue to the woman who had been Queen of England since she was a maiden of sixteen years. "Aye, my streak of sunlight, I have thee!—and never will I let thine inheritance calmly fall into the hands of thine enemies! Come, let us be up and doing. When, on the day of mine espousals, I set the Rose of England in my bosom, did I not know that I must wear it with all its thorns?"[#]

[#] The last sentence is in the actual words of the Queen, though not spoken on this occasion.

The momentary sensation of irresolute hopelessness was passed, and Marguerite was herself again. She held a council of war, at which it was decided that they should march on the western provinces, which were more loyal than the midland wherein Warwick had held sway, or the northern of which Edward was Duke. The ladies were to be left behind in sanctuary, except the one or two in personal attendance on the Queen, who knew well enough that whoever might constitute the body of the Lancastrian party, she was and had always been its soul: and that however her forces might acquit themselves with her, they were not likely to do well without her. The Countess of Warwick, with her daughter of Clarence and their suites, had crossed the Channel separately from the Queen, and had taken refuge at Beaulieu Abbey. But nothing would tempt the young Princess of Wales to join them. Whether in life or in death, where her heart's lord was, there also would she be.

The Countess of Devon, in attendance on the Queen, and Lady Katherine Vaux, in waiting on the Princess, were the sole women who accompanied the army. From Bath they marched on to Bristol, intending to join the Earl of Pembroke, Jaspar Tudor, who was coming from Gloucester with his men. But when the Queen's army attempted to pass the Severn, they found themselves intercepted by the men of Gloucester, who urged their necessary "obeissance to their Duke." Marguerite turned aside, and went on to Tewkesbury.

Perhaps few places in England are less changed than Tewkesbury from the appearance they presented in the fifteenth century. Not only the grand old Abbey (alas! restored), but the Bell Inn within a stone's throw, the old winding High Street and its hostelry the Bear, are very little altered in outward seeming from what they were on that night of the third of May, when Marguerite of Anjou drew up her troops in "the Bloody Field" outside the town. Edward was at Tewkesbury in person, awaiting what either side felt instinctively would be the last and decisive battle in the Wars of the Roses.

Early the next morning, the Prince of Wales, who was to command the army, took leave of the royal ladies.

Clasp him close, poor mother! cling to him, young wife! You will do it never, never any more. It was no act of the Prince, whether of commission or omission, that lost the day. Victory hung yet in the balance, when Somerset, traitor to his last breath, fled from his young gallant master, followed by Hugh Courtenay: and from that moment the field was King Edward's.

The Prince was taken. The craven Somerset fled to the sanctuary of a church, and he was followed by Humphrey Audley (who had York blood in his veins), Henry de Ros, James Gower, the Prince's standard-bearer, and many more. But Prince Edward, most valuable prisoner of all, was taken before the conqueror in his royal pavilion. What followed is well known,—King Edward's contemptuous query—

"How camest thou, young man, to bear sword against me?"

It was met by Prince Edward's defiant reply—

"I came to recover my father's kingdom, and mine own inheritance, out of the hands of them that had no right to hold it."[#]

[#] Only the opening words of this speech are commonly quoted.

Some chroniclers say that Edward dashed his gauntleted hand in the face of his young cousin. Others assert that he merely flung a sign to those around him. Either action was well understood. Hastings, the King's faithful servant, and Thomas Grey, his step-son, the affianced of Anne of Exeter, hurried Prince Edward out of his presence to the next tent, where the Dukes of Clarence and Gloucester were standing. There they flung him down. One cry of pitiful appeal rang through the evening air—"Clarence! Brother!" but Clarence stood deaf and motionless. Gloucester was equally still, but from a very different motive. Then came a second and a lower moan—"Jesu, Doming!" That was heard. Another instant, and they had no more that they could do. Edward Plantagenet was with God.

Not that night did Marguerite of Anjou learn all the awful news in store for her. She heard—from the gentle lips of John Combe—that her army was routed, and the day lost: heard it, with the young Princess by her side, seated in that charette in which it had been so difficult to keep her, for she suspected already that fate was going against her, and she was scarcely restrained from mounting her horse, and taking the command of her troops. The one worst item—the loss of her boy—did not reach her then. But what she did hear made her sink down in the charette, "half-dead."

Those about the Queen—very few they were—felt the necessity of doing for her what she was not in a position to do for herself. They hurried the royal ladies away from their dangerous place to a little religious house outside Tewkesbury, where they entered them in sanctuary. Alas for their innocence, if they expected Edward of York to keep promises or reverence sanctuary! At that moment he was presenting himself with drawn sword at the door of the church where so many of the Lancastrian nobles had taken refuge. All honour be to the brave priest who, pix in hand, resolutely barred the victor's entrance, until he had given a solemn promise of pardon to the fugitives. Alas for the fugitives, that they trusted it! All might have escaped, but trusting to that honour of which Edward knew so little, they remained in their asylum until the Monday, when they were marched out and beheaded before the door. Somerset richly deserved his fate: but this cannot be said of many others. Even Humphrey Audley was not spared, though King Edward and he were second cousins.[#]

[#] He was the younger son of Alianora de Holand, Lady Audley, daughter of Constance of York, King Edward's grand-aunt.

Notwithstanding all his specious words, ties of blood, no less than those of gratitude, weighed as nothing with Edward of York when a man stood in his way.

There was a long funeral procession that day in Tewkesbury Abbey. The Duke of Somerset, as we are told by his herald, who was present, was buried "before the image of Saint Jame at an autar in ye said monastery churche on the northe parte."[#] But it was in the very midst of the church, just under the tower, that they laid the flower of the Red Rose, "the gallant-springing young Plantagenet," who in the endeavour to recover his father's kingdom had sacrificed himself. The rest were buried in one great grave, dug close to that of the Prince in the nave of the Abbey.

[#] Harl. MS. 545.—This tomb was removed at a later date, and is now on the south side of the chancel.

The next step on the part of Edward was to capture the two hapless ladies who had taken refuge in the little nunnery. Sir William Stanley—an old enemy of the Queen—was sent to do this; and he is said to have behaved as brutally as he well could, and in particular to have broken to the bereaved mother the news of her boy's death in the most inhuman manner. Driven almost to frenzy by the suddenness and anguish of the blow, Marguerite broke forth into passionate execrations upon Edward and all his posterity, which Stanley had the cruelty to repeat to the conqueror, when, on the 11th of May, he brought his prisoners to Coventry. The royal mourners were conveyed southwards together, captives in the victorious train of the Rose of Rouen.

One more attempt, however, was to be made in the Lancastrian cause, like the last expiring gleam of a candle ere it dies out. The Governors of Calais, Sir Walter Wretill and Sir Geoffrey Gates, despatched the brave, if somewhat rash, Thomas Fauconbridge "to raise Kent, and deliver King Henry from the Tower." It was only a dying flash, but it roused the Yorkists to instant action. Lord Rivers was sent down to Kent and Lord Bourchier to Essex by the Council; Lord Dudley, with a hundred soldiers, was put in charge of the Tower, where defensive works were cast up in haste in less than a week; Lord Hastings was despatched to supersede the Governor of Calais, and Lord Pembroke sent to South Wales "to capture rebels, and reduce the King's castles to his obedience." The citizens of London, that unknown and difficult quantity, were complimented by the gift of two tuns of red wine, "expended on them after the conflict at Mile-end against the rebels."[#] For the safe custody of Rochester Castle, a squire of the body was sent down, by name Thomas St. Leger, of whom we shall hear again.

[#] Issue Roll, Easter term, 11 Edw. IV. This Roll is one of the most interesting state papers ever penned.

The insurrection was quashed. But how many more might arise? It was no doubt extremely inconvenient to be perpetually in risk of another; and Henry VI. had still friends enough to make Edward's throne a very uneasy seat. So long as the Lancaster King lived, the York King would have a thorny time of it. There was only one way to end the difficulty: and there was one man who was ready to take it.

On the twenty-first of May, King Edward, accompanied by his brother of Gloucester, and carrying his captives in his victorious train, made his triumphal entry into the City of London. The Queen and Princess were lodged in the Tower. They were now under the same roof as King Henry. If any ray of hope ever entered Marguerite's heart after Tewkesbury, it must have been that night, at the thought of a possible meeting with the husband from whom she had been parted for six weary years. She may well have imagined that fate had done its worst, and no further sorrows could yet be in reserve for her. But the worst had only begun to come. Whether it were that night or a few days later,—within one week from her imprisonment in the Tower, Marguerite of Anjou was a widow.

When and how did Henry VI. die? The how has often been disputed: but the when has generally been considered less doubtful. The popular belief for centuries was that, weary of the continual risk and fear, Gloucester went to the Tower on that same night of his arrival in London, and with one stroke of his dagger ended the Wars of the Roses, and the sorrows of Henry of Lancaster. The courtier Comines writes cautiously: Henry was killed by Gloucester, "if what was told me be true." Had he in his heart believed it untrue, would he have thus mentioned it? One dry old chronicler remarks that Henry died on the twenty-first of May, "the Duke of Gloucester and his men being in the Tower that night." Stow says that his body was carried to St. Paul's in an open coffin on the 22nd. Stow, Sandford, Baker, and Mezeray have no doubt of the murder. It was not until the last century that it was ever questioned, and then by writers who were desirous to whitewash the decidedly black character of Richard III. But so far as I know, no one has ever noticed on either side the singular fact recorded on the Issue Roll, that Henry did not die on the twenty-first at all. There may have been some reason—now perhaps inscrutable—why Edward wished to convince the public that Henry did die on that day: but his own Roll, meant for no eyes but those of safe persons, unquestionably indicates that Henry was living until the 27th of May, six days later. His "diet" is charged until the latter day. There may have been some show of reason, as putting a stop to all future trouble, why the public should believe Henry to be dead when he was not: but what possible cause could there be for entering on the Roll a false statement with the object of showing Henry to be alive when he was really dead? The question of course arises, whose was the body exposed to view in St. Paul's on the twenty-second?—even if we put aside the sensational item that the corpse bled wherever it rested, on account of the presence of the murderer as chief mourner. The Roll above mentioned, which gives the expenses of Henry's funeral, makes no mention of the day of burial. Perhaps the difficulty is best left unsolved, with just one statement—that Gloucester was perfectly capable of the crime laid to his charge: and that the main point of circumstantial evidence in determining the question, is to decide whether Gloucester was or was not at the Tower on the 27th of May.

The strongest evidence known to me in Gloucester's favour is the assertion of Fleetwood, adopted by the usually careful and accurate Carte, that Henry was found dead, probably of apoplexy, on the night of the twenty-first of May. This was of course the York version of facts. But if, as has been shown, the date is conclusively disproved by the testimony of the Issue Roll, may not the circumstances be equally far from true? It was so exceedingly in the interest of Edward that Henry should die just at that moment, that the suspicion of his death having been humanly assisted will never be removed as long as the world lasts.

Very little expense attended the funeral of the dead. Twenty ells of linen cloth, wax, and spices, were provided; two men only carried torches (the number usually corresponding with the years of the deceased); a few soldiers of Calais watched the corpse; and to five orders of friars a pittance was given for masses, wretched indeed when compared with the usual outlay. The whole cost was under £43—just the price that King Edward paid about the same date for a crimson velvet jacket.

There is nothing but pure fancy as the source of the scene imagined by our greatest dramatist, wherein Gloucester makes love to the young Princess of Wales when she officiates as chief mourner at King Henry's funeral. The poor Princess was an outlaw and a prisoner in the Tower at that moment, and assuredly never held any such position, any more than she lent willing ear, whether first or last, to any such words.

The body of King Henry was buried at Chertsey Abbey, where it rested until Gloucester himself was King, when, on the 12th of August, 1484, it was finally removed to his birthplace, Windsor.

Many days had not elapsed after the funeral of the dead King, when London was startled with the news that the Princess of Wales was missing. How she had made good her escape no man knew: that she was no longer a prisoner in the Tower was the one thing certain. Princess, indeed, no one now called her. As her father's daughter, she was still the Lady Anne: and this title now replaced the royal one. The first idea was that she had taken refuge at Beaulieu with her mother; but this was soon found to be a mistake. The Countess of Warwick was still in sanctuary, though her elder daughter, the Duchess of Clarence, had departed at once to take her proper place at Court as King Edward's sister-in-law: and from her honorary imprisonment poor Lady Warwick was inditing pitiful letters to every person whom she thought likely to have any influence with King Edward, in the hope of procuring her pardon. She addressed herself to every member of the royal family in turn; and she notes as a special grievance in the petition she presently offered to the King, that "in the absence of clerkes, she hath wretyn l'res with her owne hand."[#]

[#] Cott. MS. Jul. B. xii., fol. 317.

Bitterly she complains that the King had sent letters to the Abbot of Beaulieu, on account of some "synester informacion to his said Highness made," with orders to keep her in strict prison, which was a deep grief to her. She pleads her sore poverty, being cut off from all enjoyment of her jointure and dower of the earldom of Salisbury, and also from her own Despenser lands and earldom of Warwick: and lastly, she represents that she has no opportunity of putting her case into the hands of any solicitor, nor, if she had, is there one that would dare to undertake it.

Edward paid little attention to this sad appeal. Clarence had his brother's ear: and Clarence had set his mind upon one thing,—to hand down to his children the vast Warwick inheritance, undivided. In order to do this, he grudged his mother-in-law every unnecessary penny: and he determined that so far as in him lay, his sister-in-law, the Princess of Wales, should never marry again. There was much danger of this calamity: not because of any wish to that effect on the part of the girl-widow, whose heart was buried for ever in the nave of Tewkesbury Abbey, and whose sole ambition was to creep out of sight and hearing of the hard, cold world, into some quiet corner, where she could wait undisturbed until God called her to rejoin her dead. The danger arose not from her, but from the Duke of Gloucester. From his early boyhood, Richard of York had loved Anne Neville; or rather, to put it more accurately, he loved himself, and he found in Anne Neville a plaything the possession of which was necessary to his happiness. That he did not love her, he plainly showed by his actions. Had he done so, he would have let her alone, which was all the grace she asked at his hands. But Gloucester, like most human beings, looked upon love and persecution as exchangeable terms. He wanted Anne Neville: whether she wanted him was a point quite unnecessary to take into the account. And Anne did not want him. On the contrary, she intensely disliked him. It was not possible for her to compare to his advantage such a man as this, whose soul was ten times more crooked than his body, with her tender, brave, gallant young Plantagenet, whose death

"had made all earth and heaven

One vaulted grave to her."

It was not his disadvantages of person which made Anne shrink from Gloucester like a bird from a snake. Had the characters been exchanged, matters might have been very different.

These being the circumstances of the case, Anne had lent a willing ear to the overtures of Clarence, who sent her secret messages during her imprisonment, offering to deliver her from the Tower and keep her in hiding from Gloucester. His object was to prevent her from requiring her share of the Warwick lands: hers was to get rid of persecution from a man whom she hated. Both being agreed upon the means, however they might differ in the object, Clarence contrived to steal Anne out of the Tower, and secreted her in a very romantic manner. The Princess of Wales was actually placed in service, as a cook, in "a mean house" in the City of London. So thoroughly was she concealed, that nearly two years elapsed before the indefatigable Gloucester succeeded in discovering the place of her retreat.

King Edward appears to have been at this time in a most gracious frame of mind, which he evinced by scattering pardons and honours broadcast on all sides. Fauconbridge, the latest insurrectionist in favour of the House of Lancaster, was not only pardoned, but made Vice-Admiral. Bishop Waynflete, Lord St. John, and even the Earl of Oxford, were taken into favour. The poor Countess, his mother, who was Warwick's sister, was left in such poverty for some time that she was reduced to earn her bread by her needle, until Edward was pleased to awake to the fact of her existence, and to grant her a pension of £100 per annum. The Duke of Gloucester was created Lord High Chamberlain, the Earl of Wiltshire Chief Butler, and the Earl of Essex Treasurer of the Exchequer. The castles of Middleham and Sheriff Hutton—possessions of Warwick—were granted to Gloucester, who had always been Edward's favourite brother, notwithstanding the anger of Clarence at this poaching on his preserves. The King also granted all the lands of John Lord Lovell, deceased, to his sister the Princess Elizabeth and her husband, John Duke of Suffolk, son of the famous Duke who had been the counsellor of Queen Marguerite. This was a stroke of policy, for Suffolk was a Lancastrian. But now that Henry VI. and his son were dead, numbers of Lancastrians came in and offered themselves as henceforward loyal subjects of Edward IV., who had now in their eyes become the rightful King. Thomas Earl of Ormonde led the van: and he was followed by Jaspar Earl of Pembroke, the late King's half-brother, by the Duke of Exeter from his prison, various members of the Courtenay and Clifford families, and among others, not least, by Margaret Duchess of Somerset, the mother of the only person living who could on any pretence of right dispute the crown with Edward. This was Margaret Beaufort, Countess of Richmond, heiress of the Beauforts, and widow of Edmund Tudor, the elder but deceased half-brother of King Henry. The Beauforts, who were the illegitimate children of John of Gaunt by Katherine Swynford, the lady who afterwards became his third wife, had been formally legitimated in 1397, by a patent which distinctly pronounced them capable of succeeding, to all "honours, dignities, positions, and offices, public and private, whether permanent or temporary, and to all feudalities and nobilities, by whatsoever name known, whether dukedom, princedom, earldom, barony, or other fief, mediately or immediately held of us ... as if they had been born in lawful wedlock."[#]

[#] Patent Roll, 20 Ric. II., Part 2.

This language undoubtedly qualified the Beauforts for the royal succession, and was meant to do so:[#] but at the time the patent was drawn up, there was little reasonable probability of any such event, for not only the reigning Sovereign, but the whole House of Lancaster, lay between them and the throne. But now that the royal family was reduced to the children of Richard Duke of York, and the heiress of the Beauforts, Edward IV. was very naturally jealous of the latter. Under the old law, she stood before him; and it was therefore necessary for his peace that some bar should be provided to her further advance. This was the more desirable, since she had a son, a clever youth of fifteen years, concerning whom an anecdote, very awkward for Edward, was in circulation among the populace. Five years[#] before this, Jaspar Tudor, going into Wales, where young Richmond was residing with Lord Pembroke, had brought him back with him, and presented him to King Henry. The King was reported to have said, laying his hand on the boy's head as he spoke,—

[#] The qualifying words "the royal dignity excepted," are over-lined, in blacker ink and in a later hand than the original entry.

[#] This is the date usually given; but an earlier one is more likely to be true, since in 1466 King Henry was a prisoner.

"Much striving there is between us; but this is he to whom both we and our adversaries must submit."

There can be little doubt that Henry regarded his young nephew as his heir presumptive, a fact which in itself was likely to rouse Edward's jealousy against the boy: and even now a popular reaction was beginning in favour of the deceased King, which took the form of reverence for the sanctity of his life, and disposition to believe in his powers of prediction. The last item was rather helped than hindered by his predisposition to insanity, for in the Middle Ages a man with impaired intellect, in whatever form, was always regarded as one with whom God held direct communication. The particular form of madness which had afflicted King Henry, and which was characterised not by any kind of passion or violence, but by silence and dreaminess—an apparent absence of the soul from the body—was especially looked upon as indicative of inspiration. King Henry's own account of these attacks of aberration was that they were simply a blank to him, and that he had not the slightest idea of any thing that had taken place. It may be that to a man of his tender, sensitive, affectionate nature, placed as he was in these dreadful circumstances, these seasons, resting both mind and body, were God's greatest mercy. At this early date after Henry's death, a strong wish for his canonisation had already arisen. Had those who aspired to canonise him after death been a little more friendly to him in life, it would have been a state of things much more to his advantage. But this is human nature. We worry our friend into his grave, and then we call him poor dear So-and-so, and wear his portrait in a locket.

All these facts tended to make Edward's throne an uneasy seat, and caused him to be very anxious to get hold of young Richmond. His grandmother, the Duchess of Somerset, had returned to her allegiance: but his mother, the Countess of Richmond and Wiltshire, made no sign. His uncle Jaspar was watching over the boy; and no sooner did he hear that Edward was endeavouring to discover him, than he fled with him across the Channel, and delivered him into the safe keeping of the Duke of Bretagne.

Seeing that his dangerous rival had escaped his hands, Edward thought it desirable to assure himself of the fidelity of his nobles to his son. The little child of eight months old was created Prince of Wales, Duke of Lancaster, and Earl of Cornwall; and on the 3rd of July, in "the Parliament Chamber" at Westminster, the Lords Spiritual and Temporal swore allegiance to him.[#] Among those who took this oath is specially named, third on the list, his uncle of Gloucester. An entire household was appointed for the baby Prince—Chancellor, Seneschal, and Chamberlain.

[#] Close Roll, 11 Edw. IV.

On the 27th of August, a patent of pardon was issued for five Lancastrians. Three were men of no note. The others were described as "Henry, calling himself Duke of Exeter," and "Jaspar Owen, calling himself Earl of Pembroke."[#] It was not, however, for three weeks after this, that Exeter was suffered to leave his prison. He came out to find such a pestilence raging all over the country as had not been known in England for many years—scarcely since the "black death" in the reign of Edward III. No borough town in England was free. King and Queen went on pilgrimage to Canterbury as an expiation for the sins which had caused it. But, as a set-off to this humiliation, the personal expenses of King Edward for this half-year—the bloodiest period of his reign—amounted to a sum which no previous King of England had ever approached. The details of this expenditure, from April to September, 1471, will be found in the Appendix. They throw more light on the King's character than pages of description.

[#] Patent Roll, 11 Edw. IV., Part I.—The scribe probably omitted a word, and meant to describe the son of Owen Tudor as Jaspar ap Owen.

Perhaps, had Edward—and it may be more than he—carefully studied his account-book, it might have given him some intimation of the quarter wherein those sins lay for which he rode to Canterbury to do penance.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE END OF A WEDDING-DAY

"Aye, there's a blank at my right hand

That ne'er can be made up to me."

—HOGG.

"And how goes it with the fair Grisacres, Sellinger?"

The question was asked by King Edward IV., who was lounging in an attitude of lazy ease on a "day-bed," the ancestor of the modern sofa. His Majesty's life was spent in alternations between taking his ease in the very easiest of ways, and fits of fiery bravery when occasion called them forth. The gentleman addressed was Master Thomas St. Leger, a squire of the body, to whom Edward had granted the marriage of Jane Grisacres, one of the chamberers of his sister of Exeter. This meant that the young lady was an heiress, and that the gentleman was at liberty either to marry her himself, or to make merchandise of her to some other person. The inclinations of the lady were not considered. Her sole opportunity, therefore, if she did not admire her master, lay in making herself so extremely disagreeable to him that he might prefer to sell her.

"I humbly thank your Highness, all goes rarely well," replied St. Leger, with a courtesy.

St. Leger was a good-looking man of some five and twenty years, with light hair, which, in accordance with fashion, he wore very long, and cut quite straight all round.

"That is well. I would fain do thee some grace for thy service," said Edward, rising, and calling another of his squires to attend him, he lounged out of the room.

King Edward IV. was the handsomest man of his age. "A more beautiful person," says Comines, "never did mine eyes behold." He was very tall,—six feet three inches—of extremely fair complexion, light brown hair, and blue eyes—true Plantagenet colours: but he grew corpulent in his later years—a blemish which at this time had not begun to appear. Like most persons at that period, he wore his hair very long, but neither beard, whiskers, nor moustache.

"What though the face be fair,

What though the eye be bright,

What though the rare and flowing hair

Vie with the rich sunlight,—

If the soul which of all should the fairest be,

If the soul which must last through eternity

Be a dark and unholy thing?"

And certainly, in Edward's case, the beauty of the outward man was very far from corresponding with the inner man of the heart.

A rather peculiar smile curled the lip of the squire after the King's departure.

"His Highness would fain do me some grace—would he so?" he inquired half aloud, and to all appearance addressing himself to a fly which was marching up the diamond-shaped panes of the window. "What should he say, trow, an' he wist of the grace which another thinks to do me?"

The same evening saw Mr. St. Leger a visitor at Coldharbour, for the purpose of carrying on that wooing which was now beginning to be thought decorous even in these cases where the lady was not free to refuse—though, of course, capable of omission if preferred. Half an hour he spent with Mistress Jane Grisacres in the hall—a half-hour which was a weary weight to him, and a moment of enchantment to her, for—alas for poor Jane Grisacres!—she loved the handsome suitor who cared so little about her. This business well over, Mr. St. Leger slipped out of the hall, and passed lightly up a spiral staircase, to do his real wooing in another chamber, to a lady who had double the beauty, and ten times the position, but not one per cent. of the heart, of poor Jane Grisacres.

Men and women do not leap, but grow, into monsters of iniquity. Dionysius the Tyrant, Pope Alexander the Sixth, Judge Jeffries, and Robespierre, were all innocent babies once. The heart not yet hardened in sin shrinks back from the first touch of what it recognises as evil, with the cry, "Is thy servant a dog, that he should do this thing?"[#]

[#] These words have passed into an English proverb, and are here used in their current sense: but it should be remembered that in that sense they are not a Scriptural quotation, the key-note word being omitted from the sentence. Hazael really said, "Thy servant the dog, shall he do this great thing?" In other words, Is so mean a creature as I to attain to so high a position as you intimate? His feeling, therefore, was not righteous indignation, but rather rapturous astonishment.

But when the evil is not recognised, how then? There is no shrinking from Satan when he comes to us clad in the robes of an angel of light. One of the most skilful touches of the wonderful tinker is that passage where Christian and Hopeful admit that they were forewarned to beware of the Flatterer. "But we did not imagine (said they) that this fine-spoken man had been he."

When the Lady Anne of York, in her innocent girlhood, scarcely more than a child, stood at the altar with Henry Duke of Exeter, she would probably have repulsed with indignant horror the prophet who should have told her that ere twenty years were over, she would fling overboard, careless what fate he met, the husband who would have loved her if she had given him leave, for the sake of a young man who was merely attracted by her beauty, rank, and wealth. She was ready to do it now. Beginning by simply amusing herself with the young squire, then regarding him as a friend, she had reached a point at which she was willing to abnegate rank, and sacrifice even her hoarded wealth, sooner than part with him. The matter was easily managed. A Princess would find it no hard matter to obtain a divorce. Of course the King must be amused with some other reason than the true one, as he might not fancy a marriage between his sister and his servant. But it was easy enough to take him in, by a little virtuous indignation about the wicked Lancastrian proclivities of the Duke, which made it utterly impracticable for the Duchess ever to bear him again. Edward's own constancy was not so remarkable that he could afford to be severe upon Anne.

And what of the delicate maiden whose one tie to life was that father who was thus to be cast away and left to his fate? Her mother did not find it convenient to consider her. She was to be married to Thomas Grey. If she did not like him, worse luck! What more could be said? She must put up with her fate, as others had done before her.

It did, however, strike the Duchess that it might be as well to get her daughter's marriage over before her own. The divorce could take place any time—the sooner the better. She had already induced her royal brother to make sundry small grants of minor offices and inexpensive manors to St. Leger: and His Majesty was just now very busy—partly occupied in settling political difficulties, and partly in recruiting his recent heavy exertions. Among the former were a quantity of pardons to Lancastrians who had submitted themselves—among whom was a mercer of London, by name William Caxton, whose thoughts were busy on the setting up of that quiet little printing-press at Westminster which was to revolutionise the world; the removal of Clarence from Court (where he was eternally quarrelling with Gloucester) by creating him Viceroy of Ireland; the re-arrest of Archbishop Neville, under cover of a friendly visit from the King, who gleefully appropriated his £20,000 worth of personalty, and broke up his mitre to make a crown for himself. Edward was still worried on the subject of Richmond, whom he was trying hard to induce to come to England, alleging as his sole object the desire to restore his dear young kinsman to his forfeited inheritance: but the Duke of Burgundy—with whom Richmond had now taken refuge—at the last moment stopped the negotiations, on hearing from the proverbial little bird that what Edward really wanted with his dear young kinsman was to show him the same civility which Herod did to John the Baptist. King Edward's recourse, under these accumulated annoyances, for rest and refreshment, was as usual to a sylvan recreation which was a mixture of picnic and hunting tour, gorgeous pavilions being pitched for that galaxy of Court ladies without whom life would in his eyes have been a howling wilderness.

The Duchess of Exeter and her daughter were among the royal guests. The flirtation between the former and Mr. St. Leger was thereby considerably promoted: while the aversion of the Lady Anne for Mr. Thomas Grey was very far from lessened. The Duchess, however, pushed on the settlements and preparations: and soon after the King's return to Westminster, both events were ready to happen. The divorce came first. On the twelfth of November, 1472, the marriage of the Duke and Duchess of Exeter was dissolved by Papal bull: and in the following January, the Lady Anne de Holand was made to give her hand—not with her heart in it—to the eldest son of Queen Elizabeth.

On the evening before this sacrifice was offered at the shrine of politics and propriety, the Lady Anne, and several of her mother's chamberers, were gathered at Coldharbour. The bride had been trying on her wedding-dress, which Jane Grisacres and Marion Rothwell were carefully folding up. It was of rich crimson velvet, heavily furred with ermine, and was almost too great a weight for the slight shoulders which drooped beneath it. Suddenly there was an exclamation from Jane.

"Help us, holy Mary! If I have not lost my locket!"

"Dear heart!" responded Marion. "Look and see if it have not catched in my Lady's gown."

The search was made, but without success.

"Woe is me! I had liefer have lost all mine having rather than yon locket," lamented Jane.

"I know wherefore," suggested the teazing Tamzine, in that tantalising style which is always meant to provoke a request for further explanation: and Marion, who was not devoid of curiosity, responded as Tamzine intended she should.

"Wherefore? The saints be about us! Had she not yon locket for a token of Master Sellinger? I know!" announced Miss Thomasine, in a tone which called the colour into Jane's face.

The last-named young lady was still hunting for her lost treasure, in likely and unlikely places, with a running accompaniment of remarks addressed to nobody, such as are usual in similar cases.

"I am assured I put it on this morrow!—Dear, dear, but to think of it!—Where can it be?—I have looked every whither!—Had ever poor maid such an ill loss?"

"It had his hair in it, I warrant you," said Marion, not ill-naturedly—she was not an ill-natured girl—but with that spice of enjoyable excitement at the least adventure or misadventure, which gave Rochefoucauld the occasion to observe that there is something exhilarating in the misfortunes of our friends.

"Not it, forsooth!" said Tamzine. "Master Sellinger is not he that should lay violent hands of his greatest treasure to please a woman."

"Is his hair his greatest treasure?" laughed Marion.

"Trust me!" was Tamzine's sententious response. "Have you ne'er beheld him shake it with yon delicate turn of his head that he hath? Why, he beareth it a good inch longer than any other in the Court."

"Good lack! the man is a very popinjay,"[#] said Marion. "He might be a maid, with his pouncet-box and his pomanders."[#]

[#] Parrot.

[#] The pomander, now becoming old-fashioned, was a ball of sweet-scented drugs enclosed in a network of metal, which was held in the warm hand to call out its fragrance: the pouncet box had taken its place, and was filled with sweet powder.

"And his little mirror stuck of a little poke[#] of his doublet—have you ne'er watched him pull it forth when he counted him unseen?"

[#] Pocket is the diminutive of poke.

"Nay, verily! but doth he so? That passeth!"[#]

[#] Surpasses belief.

"Use your eyes," said Tamzine. "Jane, sweet chuck, give up searching for a needle of a bottle of hay. The cat hath it, I'll be bound, or some animal belike."

In which Miss Tamzine was not so far wrong, seeing that the missing article lay in her own pocket.

"Cats eat no lockets, trow," said Marion.

"Nay, but I cannot," answered Jane in a distressed voice. "I had never yet heavier loss in all my life."

"Good sooth, your life must have been a merry one," said Tamzine.

"I have lost father and mother," added Marion. "Somewhat passing a locket, belike."

"I have lost worser than that," said the cynical Tamzine, "for I had eleven hundred pound put out to usury, and he that had it paid me ne'er a plack."

"Dear heart! how came that?" said Marion.

"Father Nokes said it came of the temptation of Satan, and the evilness of men's hearts," was the demure reply of Tamzine.

"What was your worst loss, Agnes?" asked Marion.

Agnes had to think. "I scarce can tell," said she. "I were o'er young when my mother died to feel any loss."

"What happy maids be ye!" came softly from Lady Anne, who had listened hitherto without joining. "Dear damsels, I pray you to thank God that the worsest loss ye know is the loss of death."

"Can there be a worser, Madam?"

"Aye, Marion, there be losses in life far wofuller."

"Your Ladyship scarce speaks from your own knowledge, methinks."

"Aye, but I do!" answered the bride sadly. "We may lose our living, in a sorer fashion than our dead. The dead can go no further from us than they be: and the day cometh when we shall go to them. But the living may go further away from us till they never come back again: aye, and worser—for they may go further and further from God till they never come back to Him. And who shall measure the loss of a lost life?—who shall measure the loss of a lost soul?"

"Cheery talk for a bride of her wedding-eve!" muttered Marion, not for Lady Anne to hear.

Nor did she hear it. She sat by the table, resting her head upon her hand, and her thoughts evidently far away. Probably they were either on the life that lay before her, or on the father whom she might never see again.

"Oh dear!" exclaimed poor Jane, standing up from the cramped position in which she had been hunting for the missing locket. "I must give it up till daylight come. Our sweet Lady grant it be not truly lost!"

"Not a bit of it," said Tamzine peremptorily: and reasonably enough, since she knew where it was.

"I will help you look for it to-morrow," said Agnes kindly.

"Truly, I am beholden to you," replied Jane. "I would give a gold half-angel to know where it were."

"Give it me," said Tamzine, holding out her hand. "I am going to-morrow even to see the White Witch of Bermondsey."

"Wait and see if the locket be found afore the even," wisely suggested Marion.

"Won't be," said Tamzine.

Jane, whose chief failing was being too easily led, paid over the five shillings to Tamzine without taking Marion's advice.

"We must be early abed, maids," said Lady Anne, rising, with a weary air. "We must needs be stirring early, and 'tis now so late the night shall not be long."

She turned away from them, to go to her own chamber, with a hollow cough which smote painfully on Agnes Marston's heart.

"Not long!" she said to herself, in another sense. "No, dear, gentle, suffering maiden—the night will not be long!"

The next morning rose brilliantly clear, and cruelly cold. There was a keen frost, and a keener east wind: but it was de rigueur that the bride must wear no covering on her head except a coronal of gems. She bore herself royally, with no sign of the outward sufferings which were consuming her life, any more than of the inward anguish which was gnawing at her heart. The marriage took place at Greenwich Palace, after a freezing voyage: and the bride was given away by her royal uncle. All the chamberers of course were present, and so were the people of England, represented by as many as could squeeze into the Palace chapel. Men and women of all ranks were there: but only two pairs of eyes noticed one man, muffled in a thick cloak as if he felt the cold, who stood back in the furthest corner. Agnes thought she could guess who he was; and she contrived to leave the chapel by the door close to which he stood. As she passed him in the crush, the Duke slipped a scrap of paper into her hand, with a significant look. Agnes hid it hastily, for it was not for a long time that she dared to examine it. There was a grand banquet to be gone through, and a series of dances and games in the Palace hall; and hours were over before Agnes could without notice slip away from the dancers, and in the recess of a window where no eyes saw her, unfold the Duke's missive.

"I would fain speak with you," it ran. "Dare you come alone to the waterside, without the little postern, as soon as the dark falleth? Risk nothing: but if you can come, you shall find me there."

It was growing dusk already. Agnes listened for a moment to the sounds of mirth which came surging from the hall. No one would miss her there. She tied a hood over her head, and ran down to the little postern. True to his appointment, the Duke was walking slowly up and down, muffled in his cloak.

"May Christ bless you, my good damsel!" he said warmly, as Agnes made her appearance. "I do heartily trust that no ill shall hap to you for this grace. Now tell me quickly, for I would not keep you to your harm—what manner of man is this Master Grey? Since he were babe have I never seen him. What is in him?—what hath he done?"

Ah, Agnes knew of one thing he had done, which so far as in her lay must be kept from the ears of Anne's father for ever. Could she look up into those mournful, longing eyes, and tell him that the man into whose hands his one darling had fallen was one of the murderers of Prince Edward? She cast her eyes downwards, and played nervously with her chatelaine.

"Methinks, my gracious Lord, not much hath been yet known of the young gentleman."

"Perchance, not much," answered the Duke quietly: "yet something, my gentle maid, which you would fain not tell me."

Agnes took refuge in the smaller of the two evil actions of which she knew Grey to be guilty. The smaller—yet showing, as straws show how the wind blows, that he was capable of the greater.

"I have seen him not o'er good to his dog," said she. "But I know not much of his conditions."

The Duke sighed. "Doth my little maid love him?" he asked. "Was she willing to wed with him?"

It was an unusual idea for that time, and would scarcely have been asked but by an exceptionally tender-hearted parent. Agnes shook her head.

"O my darling, my darling! My little white dove!"

"My Lord," said Agnes tremulously, "it will not be for long."

"I know it. And then—I shall have nothing left to live for."

Agnes Marston was one of those shy, undemonstrative, yet deeply-feeling natures, to whom talking of any thing they feel deeply is all but impossible. The fervent souls who wear their hearts upon their sleeves never comprehend a nature like this. They always think them cold, impassive, unfeeling. Yet such have shown themselves capable of martyr death: and they beyond all others can live the martyr life.[#] The most suffering life, and the most saintly, is the life that has no outlet except towards God.

[#] I would fain take this opportunity of protesting against a very common misapprehension (as it appears to me) of a passage of Scripture, by which hearts have been made sad which I believe God would not have made sad. How often the fervent nature condemns the shy and silent with "Out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaketh." If the latter cannot speak, it is assumed, it is because it cannot feel, or is only half-hearted; if love be in your heart, it must come out of your lips: Christ says so! But does Christ say so? Let the context be carefully examined, and it will be found that Christ says, not that whatever is felt in the heart will come out of the mouth—but that whatever does come out of the mouth must first have originated in the heart. I venture to submit that this passage does not deal with the counter-proposition at all: and that between the two there is as much difference as between saying all one thinks, and meaning all one says.

As she stood there by the river, listening to the soft lapping of the water against the bank, Agnes felt as though she could have given any thing to comfort that desolate man. Yet what could she say that might comfort him? To quote God's Word, for a woman, and especially in English, would put herself in jeopardy: but she did not mind that, if it would do him any good. Agnes did not realise that the Duke had been educated by a Lollard stepmother, herself the daughter of a martyr of Jesus Christ.

"'Youre liif is hidde with Crist in God.'" She made the quotation very tremblingly. Amazed indeed she was at the style of its reception. The Duke's hand fell softly on her head as if in blessing, and—most astonishing of all—the quotation went on.

"'For whanne Crist schal apere youre liif, thanne also ye schuln apere with him in glorie... Where is not male and female, ... larlarus and scita, bonde man and fre man; but alle thingis and in alle thingis Crist.' I thank you, heartily, my good maid. Aye, and methinks it runneth next,—'As the Lord forgaf to you, so also ye.' It is well. I count that shall last us both for this little while. 'Alle thingis and in alle thingis, Crist.'"

Agnes was silent. She had taken a text: if her hearer would preach the sermon to himself, it was far better than any comment on her part.

"I scarce looked to find one of that sort in Coldharbour now," said the Duke, with a smile which made him but look the sadder. "But you must have a care, Mistress Agnes. We be no longer under King Henry, that would not see a Christian man nor woman ill-usen. Yet I would fain, whenso you find safe chance, that you should speak such words to my little maid as you have spoken to me to-night. She cannot remember her grandmother, that should have learned them to her, as she did to me."

"My gracious Lord, the Lady Anne wist thereof far more and better than I."

The light came to the Duke's eyes, for the first time that sorrowful night.

"Then we shall meet again," he said. "Not long—no, not long! God keep you, Mistress Agnes, and give you, for this little while,—give all of us—to have, 'alle thingis and in alle thingis, Crist.'"

Once more, light and warm, his hand rested on her head: and the next moment he was gone. She stood still and silent, with the feeling of that hand upon her head—of that last word in her ear. It was as if Christ Himself had blessed her. A sense of deep peace sank into Agnes Marston's heart. The little while to be spent on this side the cold river seemed so very little, and the golden gates of Paradise so very near. She would never forget those words—never forget that tone—"alle thingis, and in alle thingis, Crist."

"Agnes! Agnes Marston! Where art, hussy? Dost look for thy betters to waste their breath a-bawling of thee? Art any better than thou shouldst be, a-chattering to strange men at postern doors? Come in this minute, for shame of thy face, and tell me who is thy gallant. Some penny-go-quick pot-loving companion, I'll be bound. Come hither, I say!"

Oh, what a revulsion it was! But Agnes did not hesitate a moment. Her conscience was clean as snow. She ran up the spiral staircase, and found herself in the awful, because angry, presence of the Mistress of the Household, Lady Elizabeth Darcy.

"Come up to the light, and let me look at thee!"

Agnes stood the scrutiny without flinching.

"Now then—with whom wert thou talking yonder?"

"Please it you, Madam, with a gentleman whose daughter is a maid of my cognisance, and he, knowing the same, did desire to have some speech of me touching her."

"Yonder's a jolly hearing! Get thy tale up better another time. Wherefore should such meet thee after dark, behind posterns? He should have come up to the hall, and desired speech of thee like an honest man. Now then, tell me another story, and let it be the true one, this time."

"Madam, I have spoken truth. An' I tell your Ladyship any other tale, it must needs be false."

The two pairs of eyes met, and the Lady Elizabeth's fell first.

"Holy Mary! but thou art a brazen piece of goods as ever I saw! Come with me to thy Lady. She must be told of this."

Agnes followed silently. Wild horses should not drag that secret from her keeping.

The Duchess of Exeter—who had just divorced her own husband in order to marry another man—was inexpressibly horrified at the moral turpitude of Agnes Marston. Was she to allow of such scandals in her house? No, indeed! The only atonement that Agnes could make was to declare then and there the name and business of her companion. The Duchess was doubtful whether, after any disclosures or expressions of penitence, she would be justified in overlooking the matter.

Agnes kept silence. She had repeated her explanation, and she held to it as the simple truth: but not another word would she utter.

"Wilt not even say thou art sorry?" demanded Lady Darcy, who, now that the Duchess had taken up the matter so warmly, was herself cooling down.

Sorry! would she ever be sorry, all her life long, for what had passed in those few minutes?

"No, Madam. I am not sorry."

"Nor ashamed?"

"Nor ashamed, in any wise." And Agnes lifted her clear, honest eyes to her examiners.

"Verily, this passes!" cried the Duchess. "Dost look to tarry any longer in mine house, thou good-for-nought?"

"At your pleasure, Madam."

"Then thou mayest write to my Lord Marnell, and tell him I send him back a thing that is no better than she should be."

Agnes, whose sense of the ludicrous was very delicate, thought she would be quite safe in making that report.

"I'll have thy sister in the stead of thee. She is a well-looking maid enough, and of good conditions. I saw her this last week, when she that was Queen Margaret was sent from Windsor to Wallingford."

Agnes felt quietly amused. It was Frideswide who had been the Duke's first friend, not she. He would be no worse by the exchange—whatever she might be.

"Dost hear, hussy?"

"Aye, Madam, an't like you."

"Then begone!"

And so—for Agnes Marston—closed the Lady Anne's wedding-day.

She went quietly enough upstairs to the room shared by the chamberers of the Duchess. For a moment she stopped at the summit, with her hand on the banister. A sharp pain was shooting through her heart, but whence and what it was she did not know herself.

"What does it matter?" she said to herself, looking out of the window at the starry night. "Only such a little while! 'Alle thingis, and in alle thingis, Crist!'"

CHAPTER IX.

DRAWING NEARER.

"A bowing, burdened head,

That only asks to rest

Unquestioning, upon

A loving breast."

The Duchess carried her point, and packed off Agnes in disgrace within a week of the offence. She had the grace to see that there was some escort for the friendless girl on her journey home. A small party of travellers were on their way to the north—consisting of three gentlemen, one of whom was accompanied by his wife and daughters. Agnes received a frigid intimation that she was to make one of this party, and must be ready to start in four days. Mr. Banaster, the married gentleman, lived in Lancashire, whither he was returning, and would take charge of Agnes as far as Sheffield, where, if her friends did not meet her, she must be content to go forward to York with the two younger men whose destination it was. Agnes inwardly hoped that somebody would meet her: but it was a difficult matter to let them know. She wrote to her father, and contrived to send the letter by a post who was going to York with letters from the Duke of Gloucester: but whether it would reach Lovell Tower before herself was an open question. She humbly requested to know the names of the other gentlemen, in a faint hope that they might possibly be acquaintances. Lady Darcy informed her, in her coldest manner, that one of them was a Yorkshire squire, Master Rotherham by name: as for the other, his name was Combe, and whence he might come, she neither knew nor cared. Wherein my Lady Darcy was guilty of saying the thing that is not, since she was perfectly well aware that Master John Combe was of old time Queen Marguerite's henchman, and she had, under different circumstances, appeared to be very good friends with him. Both names were strange to Agnes. She had one more request to make—for an interview with Frideswide ere she set out. Lady Darcy hesitated, but finally granted the request, though she made a great favour of doing so.

During the last few months, Frideswide's movements had been regulated by political necessities. Thirty-seven days was the limit beyond which no person could claim the privilege of sanctuary at the cost of the house: and to reside in sanctuary at a man's own expense was a ruinous proceeding. It was therefore impossible to Frideswide to remain with the Countess of Warwick: and she had no money to provide for herself; yet, being unindicted, she was not a prisoner, and could not expect to be kept at the royal cost. In these uncomfortable circumstances, she had availed herself of an opportunity which few girls would have accepted. A small, though extremely diminished suite had to be provided for the imprisoned Queen, and Frideswide had thankfully received permission to share her captivity. A fervent Lancastrian, she reverenced Marguerite from the core of her heart. Beyond the one change to her own home, any change from that service would be unwelcome.

The unwelcome change was at hand. The Duchess of Exeter had petitioned her brother for Frideswide Marston, and no choice was allowed the latter. One evening in January, Queen Marguerite's gaoler entered her bower, as he politely termed it—she called it her dungeon—in Wallingford Castle. As gaolers went in those days, Sir Thomas Thwaytes was fairly civil to his illustrious captive.

"Dame," said he, "please you, take your leave of Mistress Marston, whom it is His Highness' gracious pleasure to command otherwhere."

Frideswide turned rather pale, as was but natural. Her first idea was that the alteration had reference to her mistress rather than herself. But Sir Thomas soon undeceived her. Her sister was going home; and Frideswide was to take her place with my Lady of Exeter. Every fibre of Frideswide's heart and nerves revolted at the very name. Take service under the woman who had ruined the life of that man with the soft sad eyes, for whose miserable story her compassion had been intensely awakened! But Frideswide had no choice. And then the thought flashed upon her that perhaps she might serve him there. At least she could do what Agnes had done, and help him, if he should seek it, to obtain private interviews with his daughter.

Queen Marguerite took an affectionate leave of her young attendant. She gave her a token, or gift, in the form of a table-book—one of those little ivory books, turning on a pivot, for memoranda, which have lasted in the same form for many a century. This one was among the few relics of her lost estate, and was mounted in gold, and set with turquoises. It was also fitted with a silver pen.[#]

[#] Silver pens are considerably more ancient than either steel or gold.

The next morning Frideswide left Wallingford, in charge of one Simon Quyxley, an officer of the garrison, who was going on pilgrimage to Canterbury, and meant to stay a few weeks with his friends in London on his way thither. He delivered Frideswide at Coldharbour; and before she well set her foot inside the house, she found herself in the arms of her sister Agnes.

Fortunately for the sisters, the Duchess was spending the evening at Court, and they were free to be alone together if they chose. Agnes hurried Frideswide upstairs to the maidens' chamber, which was at that moment empty, and each rapidly poured her story into the ear of the other—a process which left Agnes comforted, and Frideswide indignant.

"Tarry here I must," said the latter: "but trust me, Annis, so far as lieth in my good will, 'tis for his sake, not hers."

"And thou wilt serve our gracious Lord to thine uttermost, dear heart?" urged Agnes earnestly.

"Trust me, but I will!" was the reply. "And who be thy travelling fellows, sweeting?"

Agnes told her. The names of Messrs. Banaster and Rotherham were received without any comment; but no sooner had she said, "Master Combe," than Frideswide's eyes were lifted with light in them, and a slight flush crept over her brow.

"Master John Combe—not he? He that was the Queen's henchman?"

There was no Queen but Marguerite to the apprehension of Frideswide Marston.

"Aye, the very same," said Agnes. "Dost know him?"

Frideswide's hood wanted a good deal of settling just at that moment.

"Ay," said she, rather shortly. "Thou wilt not journey ill if Master Combe look to thy comfort. And maybe it shall be none the worser for thee if thou tell him thy name is Marston."

Agnes quietly drew her own conclusions, but she asked no questions. She found, moreover, during the journey, that Master John Combe was undoubtedly an agreeable travelling companion, doing his utmost to make others comfortable: and that when she had once informed him that she was the sister of Frideswide Marston, he appeared to know as much as she did herself about her home, her relatives, and all that concerned her. About Frideswide herself he said very little: but Agnes soon perceived that to talk of her was the surest means of engrossing Master Combe's attention.

Sheffield was reached at last, and Agnes found to her regret that no one from Lovell Tower awaited her. She went on to York with the two young gentlemen, with much less reluctance than she had anticipated: for though she was indifferent to Master Rotherham, she had come to have a very sisterly feeling towards John Combe. It was odd that John Combe's way from York should lie exactly past Lovell Tower: but of course, very convenient for Agnes. Master Rotherham also offered to attend her thither; but Agnes civilly declined his offer as giving him unnecessary trouble. It was late on a Saturday evening in January that Agnes and John Combe reached Lovell Tower at last.

The family were seated in the hall, where a large fire of thick oaken logs was blazing, and the men-servants were bringing in the boards and trestles for rear-supper, the last meal of the day. Fixed tables in the centre of a room were unknown to our medieval ancestors, though they were common enough with the Romans, and even with the Anglo-Saxons. They had leaf-tables, attached to the wall; and wealthy persons indulged in small round or square tables on three feet: but to a much later period than this, the setting of tables for meals included the erection of the table, a mere wide board set upon trestles. We use phrases derived from this practice when we speak of setting a table, or of an hospitable board. Over this was laid a fine damask tablecloth, and the silver nef, or ship, was placed in the middle. This was a large salt-cellar, used as the barometer of rank. The family and their guests sat above the salt; the servants below it. Silver plates and cups were set for the former, wooden trenchers and earthen mugs for the latter. To each person was given a knife and spoon: forks were not invented except for spices, and were never used to eat with. A clean damask napkin, and a basin of water, were carried round before and after every meal: but as neither was changed in the process, the condition in which both reached the lower end of the board is better left undescribed. Fastidiousness was out of place in such circumstances, particularly when husband and wife still ate from the same plate, and for a host to share his plate with his guest was the highest honour he could do him. Yet our ancestors' rules of etiquette show that they were fastidious in their way. Ladies and gentlemen are therein recommended not to wipe their fingers on the tablecloth, to refrain from all attentions to nose and hair during meals, to lick their spoons clean before putting them into the dish—special spoons for helping were never thought of—and above all things, not to feed their dogs from the table.

Saturday evening being a vigil, the supper consisted of salt ling and haddock, baked eels, galantine, eggs prepared in different ways, and various tarts and creams. Wassel bread was set above the salt, maslin below.

The Lady Idonia sat in a large carved chair near the fire. Lord Marnell, who had only just entered, and had had a day's hard riding, had thrown himself on a settle near, with the air of a tired man who was glad to come back to home comforts.

The settle itself would have been hard comfort, but a well-to-do house in those days never ran short of cushions, and his Lordship lay on half a dozen. The Lady Margery was flitting about the table, looking to the ways of her household, and Dorathie was extremely busy on a strip of tapestry. The baked eels were just coming in at the door, when the clear notes of a horn rang outside the gate. It was accompanied—as that sound always was—by a nervous start from Idonia.

Dorathie never could understand why her grandmother always seemed alarmed when a horn sounded. She was too young to be told that before she was born, two horns had so sounded, one of which had brought to Idonia the news of her widowhood, and the other had heralded the arrival of persecutors for the faith. For the momentary defection on her part which followed the latter, Idonia's pardon might be registered in Heaven, but she had never forgiven herself. Was it any wonder if the sound of a horn brought back to her shrinking heart both those awful memories?

"Guests, I ween!" said Lord Marnell, not altering his position on the settle, where he lay with both arms thrown back and beneath his head.

"Dear heart, who shall they be, trow?" responded his wife.

The slip of tapestry dropped from the fingers of Dorathie, who had rushed to the door, and was peering through the crack to make such discoveries as she could.

"Doll! Dorathie! Doll, I say!" cried the scandalised Lady Marnell to her curiosity-stricken heiress. "Come back this minute! Where be thy manners?"

Dorathie's obedience, rather than her manners, produced a reluctant retreat from the door. The gate was heard to open and shut, the clatter of horses came into the paved court-yard, there was the sound of a little bustle and several voices without, and then through the door one voice that all recognised with exclamations of pleasure, the rather because it was one of the last which they expected to hear.

"Agnes, sweet heart!"

"Annis, my dear maid!"

"O Annis, hast come back?—hast come back!"

Lord Marnell was up in an instant, his wife warmly embracing her step-daughter, and Dorathie clinging to her as though she had not seen her for a life-time. Agnes returned the greetings as warmly as they were given, and when all the kisses and blessings were over, presented John Combe.

There was a cordial welcome for Queen Marguerite's henchman at Lovell Tower, and he was of course desired to remain there as long as it suited his convenience. Any thing less would have been very rude in the eyes of the fifteenth century. Agnes had a shrewd suspicion that Lovell Tower was the real destination of the guest, and that before he left that place he would find that a little private conversation with Lord Marnell was the thing that suited his convenience. She was not mistaken. Before John Combe had stayed a fortnight at Lovell Tower, Agnes and Dorathie were informed by their mother that they were henceforward to regard that gentleman in the light of a brother-in-law elect. Agnes received with a quiet smile the communication which she had been expecting; Dorathie with ecstatic excitement an idea entirely new to her.

"But"—she suddenly exclaimed, ceasing her transports—"will Frid have to go away, or stay away? Won't she come home?"

"She will come home first, surely," answered her mother, "for she will be wed from hence: afterward, Master Combe hath some desire to dwell in this vicinage, though if it shall be compassed I yet know not."

"Oh, how jolly should that be!" cried Dorathie, "to have Frid but a step off, and run in and out!"

Lady Margery laughed. "A good step, I take it, my little maid. Howbeit, I trust thou mayest have thy wish."

It was on that very evening that Maurice Carew, who had been to York on business, came in with an important piece of news. The Princess of Wales was found. Found, by the man whom she most dreaded, in the guise of a cookmaid, at a "mean house" in the City of London,—dragged out from her seclusion, and placed under the care of her uncle, Archbishop Neville, with permission to hold intercourse with Queen Marguerite,—the only kindness that could be done to that lonely, widowed, orphan girl. Of all the quarrels that had ever taken place between Clarence and Gloucester, the worst ensued upon this point. The royal family went to Shene on the sixteenth of February "to pardon," but little pardon was in the hearts of the brothers, who were quarrelling all the way. The King, with whom Gloucester was always the favourite, tried to persuade Clarence to more amiability: but all the concession that could be wrung from the latter was—

"He may well have my Lady my sister-in-law, but she and my wife shall part no livelihood!"

In other words, Clarence did not care how soon the Princess married, so long as she remained a portionless bride, and the Warwick property was left undivided to his children. To do Gloucester credit—the rather since little credit can be done him—he does not seem to have been anxious about the property at that time. It was Anne herself whom he wanted: and he was astute enough to see that if he once got hold of her, the property could be agitated for at leisure.

Not many days after this news had been a nine days' wonder, Lady Darcy informed Frideswide that my Lady Anne Grey had petitioned her mother for her, and she was to be transferred to her service. Frideswide was exceedingly pleased, the rather because she could thus serve the Duke far better than at Coldharbour. She had heard something of Lady Anne from Agnes: but she was hardly prepared for the thin white face and burning eyes which struck to her heart when she saw her new mistress. She might keep in her service as long as Lady Anne should live, and not defer her wedding. The interview in the presence of the Duchess was very short, and question and answer were brief on both sides. But the engagement was effected, and Lord Marnell was fully satisfied with the transfer. He was glad, he said, to win both his poor doves from the clutches of that kite of a woman. Had Frideswide remained at Coldharbour, he would have hastened her marriage in order to get her away. Now there was no need to do it.

The first night that Frideswide spent in her new home, she was required to attend her young lady at her coucher. Mr. Grey was not at home; he rarely was so. Noble ladies never had the privilege of a room to themselves in the Middle Ages. When their husbands were away, and often when they were not, a female attendant must occupy the pallet bed, which ran on castors underneath the state bed, and was pulled out when required. Frideswide found herself appointed to the pallet bed this first night—an unusual promotion, since it argued some amount of attachment and confidence on the part of the mistress. The coucher was very silent, the only remarks made having reference to the business in hand. But when Frideswide, having finished her duties, had hastily undressed and lain down, the silence was broken.

"Frideswide, art thou in Agnes' secrets?"

"That is somewhat more than I can answer, my Lady. I wis a thing or twain of hers."

"Did she ever speak unto thee of—of my Lord my father?"

"I think it was I that spake to her," answered Frideswide, softly.

"Hast thou seen him?" The tone was painfully eager.

"My Lady, may I speak out?"

"That is it I would have thee do."

"Doth your Ladyship mind a certain even in winter that his Lordship came to Coldharbour, and, as I think, had speech of yourself?"

"Mind it? Yes, and shall while my life lasts!"

"My Lady, his Lordship had ere that been tarrying with the Queen at Harfleur, and he was pleased to require of me a letter to my sister the which should serve him as a passport to your Ladyship's presence."

"He came hither by thy means, Frideswide?"

"Mine and hers, my Lady."

"Which of you knows him better?"

"Methinks, I, by much, Madam."

"Frideswide, art thou willing to be his true friend and mine?"

"Trust me, my Lady."

"Which Rose dost thou wear?"

A delicate question to answer, when the questioner was a daughter of the House of York! But Frideswide Marston never hesitated.

"The Red, Madam, from my cradle; and shall so do to my coffin."

"So do I," said Lady Anne, quietly, "down in mine heart, Frideswide. He wears it; and what he is, I am. Ah, would I could pass further!—'Where thou goest, I will go, and where thou lodgest, I will lodge.' I had asked God no more. Yet at the least, his people can be my people, as his God is my God. And may-be, when he dies, if not where, then may I die and be buried."

"My Lady, you are young to count on dying."

"It seems long since I counted on living," she said in a low voice. "Life is not worth much, Frideswide."

Frideswide knew too much to ask why. But she knew that for her, under similar circumstances, life would have gone on; and she wondered whether her physical nature were stronger than that of Lady Anne, or her moral nature more blunt and hard.

"I mind," said Lady Anne, in the same tone, "once hearing my Lady of Clarence my aunt to say that none save weak folks brake their hearts. I reckon I must be weak. For mine is broken. I misdoubt if it were ever otherwise than weak and easily shattered. It has not taken much to break it. Thou mayest despise me if thou wilt."

"None less, Madam! It would be impossible."

"Would it?" she answered, rather wistfully. "Yet methinks thy nature is far stronger than mine. The blows which have crushed me into a poor handful of dust should have rebounded from thee with scarce a bruise. I can see it in thy face; and thy sister is like thee."

"It may be so, my Lady. But I take it, He told us to pity the weak, who is a God so strong and patient, and who was crucified through weakness for our sakes. Is it not in His strength we can do all things?"

"Dost thou know Him, Frideswide?"

"Aye so, my Lady."

"Then thou wilt be a comfort to me—in what is coming. It will not be long, Frideswide. Dost thou know that?"

Frideswide's voice was very low and tender as she said, "Ay, my Lady. I think it will not be long." She had more hardihood than Agnes, and spoke out her thoughts instead of feeling them in silence.

"And I shall be glad," said Lady Anne gently. "Only I hope my father may not be long after me. Though we have met of late but so seldom, yet I know the world will seem darker and colder to him when I am gone out of it. I am all he has save God; and he is all that I have."

Frideswide's eyes were wet; but she made no reply.

"I used to have a fair dream once—too fair to be true. I reckoned that we might have dwelt together, he and I, in some quiet cot in a green glade, where no strangers should come near us, and none seek to take us from each other. But—it was not to be."

"Not here, Madam. Yet will it not be—hereafter?"

"I feel as though I knew little of what will be hereafter. It will be as God wills; and His will is good. I lack rest sorely—so does my father: and we miss each other very, very much. I suppose our Lord can give us what we need; and as to how, and when, and where—He will know. We have only to wait. Only—I am so weary!"

And she turned on her pillow with a heavy sigh. Weary of life and all that was in it—and she only just eighteen! Frideswide would have given much to comfort her: but she did not know what to say.

"Our Lord was weary Himself," she said at last.

"Aye, and the memory should rest me. But it doth not so. I seem to have sunk beneath all that—down into the great depths where no words can reach me. Only His own voice, when He shall come and lay His hand upon me, and say, 'Arise, and come away.' I reckon I shall be strong enough to rise up then. Now, I only want to lie and wait for it. Frideswide, dost thou know what gladness feels like? It is so long sithence I have felt it, that I can barely remember."

"Yes, Madam, I know it well."

"And I do not, save in flashes," said Lady Anne again in that wistful tone. "I marvel how it will come to me. I suppose it will come."

She spoke as if she thought it hardly possible.

"Madam, saith not the Psalmist, 'Thou hast put gladness in mine heart?' Methinks that is God's gift as much as grace or mercy."

"Then I will ask Him to put it there," she said, with that childlike simplicity which was a part of her character. "Frideswide, methinks it shall be another way of saying to Him, 'Lord, let me die!'"

And Frideswide knew it was so.

"My maid," said the mistress after a moment's pause, "who was it led thee into the ways of God?"

Frideswide could hardly tell. It had always been so, as it seemed to her. She could barely remember her mother; but first her aunt, and then her stepmother, and always her father, had brought her up in the Lollard faith since her world began. But friends, after all, however faithful and loving, can only lead us into the Court of Israel: the Lord of the Temple must draw aside the veil, and admit His priests Himself into the holy place.

"I can tell thee who it was that led me," resumed Lady Anne, "and let it cheer thee, my maid, to do God's work on them that thou hast opportunity to reach. It was one that I cannot in any wise remember—my Lady my grandmother. She was sometime the Lady Anne de Montacute, a daughter of my Lord of Salisbury that died for King Richard at Cirencester: and she bred up first my father, and after, me, in that which she had learned from her father. I cannot recall her face, essay it as I may: but her doctrine abides with me. 'Tis true, I might have minded it less had not my father kept me thereto belike: for the which reason, may-be, it hath alway seemed me that to love him and to love God went together. They were diverse sides of the same medal. I might say that either came of itself, as I learned the other. Once on a time I seemed to come at God through him: and now—I can come at him only through God. And the day when I shall have both, Frideswide, will be the day when I shall know what like it is to feel glad. But, O my God, was there no other way to bring it?—was there no other way!"

"'There are delights in Thy right hand unto the end,'"[#] softly quoted Frideswide. "And, dear my Lady, surely they will be the sweetest unto them that had the fewest delights here below."

[#] Psalm xvi. 10.

The answer came in another quotation from the same Book. "'I am poor and needy; the Lord is mine help. My helper and my deliverer art Thou: tarry not, O my God!'"[#]

[#] Psalm xi. 17.

CHAPTER X.

AT THE PARCHMENT-MAKER'S.

"My life hath been a search for Thee,

'Mid thorns left red with Thy dear blood;

In many a dark Gethsemane

I seemed to stand where Thou hadst stood:

And, scorned in this world's judgment-place,

At times, through tears, to catch Thy face."

—ROBERT, EARL LYTTON.

The shadow was falling very low on the sun-dial in a small back yard looking into the fields to the north of Chicken Lane, which crossed the Fleet River, one end abutting upon Lither Lane (running northwards from Holborn) and the other entering Smithfield at its north-western corner. Over the sundial for a moment bent a youth of some twenty years or more, clad in a buff jerkin and working apron. His face was remarkable for the extremely good-humoured expression of the lips, and for the perfect frankness of the clear, honest eyes. Having satisfied himself as to the time of day, he re-entered the house by the back-door, which led him into a low, narrow room, fitted with a long table and sundry benches. Here half-a-dozen men and boys were at work, some engaged in preparing skins for use by scraping off the hair, some arrived at the further stages of straining or bleaching, some at the concluding point of cutting the parallelograms of parchment, the manufacture of which was manifestly their trade.

"Put up work, lads'" said the young man, as he came in, in a tone which showed him, notwithstanding his youth, to be the master. "The 'prentice-lads may be gone. I have more ado yet with Dick and Robin."

He was obeyed with that alacrity which usually finds its way into the cessation of work more readily than into its commencement, and one of the men, with the three apprentices, shouldered their tools and departed, exchanging "God be wi' you!" with the rest. When they were gone, and the two men remaining had gathered their tools into baskets, one of them said,—

"Monition to-night, Master?"

"Even so, Dick. Come you both into the kitchen."

The two men nodded, and followed their master into a small but cheerful kitchen, where a large fire blazed in the wide chimney. In a wooden chair in the chimney corner, propped up by cushions, sat a silver-haired old woman, and a girl in the chimney corner at work, while an elder girl and a middle-aged woman were arranging forms as though some gathering of persons was expected.

"Time, Jack?" said the old woman.

"Aye so, Mother," returned he cheerily, setting to work with the forms.

He called her mother, for none other had he ever known: but the old woman was really the grandmother of the young man and the girls. The middle-aged woman was their one servant.

"There!" said Jack at length, glancing over the forms when the arrangement was finished. "Me reckoneth those shall be so many as we are like to have need."

"Who be a-coming, Jack?"

"No more than custom is, Mother—without Will Sterys bring yon friend of his that he spake of t'other night. Very like he may."

"Who shall he be?"

"I wot not, Mother: only Will said he was one safe to be trusted."

Before the words were well out of Jack's lips, a low knock came on the house-door—a peculiar knock; three little taps, a pause, two more.

"Here they come," said Jack, and darted to the door.

A somewhat motley assemblage dropped in by twos and threes. Here came a lame man on crutches; a blind man led by a girl; two wan, tired-looking women; a very old man, bent nearly double; another woman; a young man in his prime. All, however, had as yet one peculiarity—they were dressed in a style which indicated that many of the good things of this life had not come in their way. There was a pause while they spoke kind greetings to the family and each other: and then, at another low knock, Jack let in first one man, and a minute afterwards, two more. All the guests expected had evidently now arrived, for Jack bolted the door and returned to the kitchen.

The man who came by himself, first of the concluding three, proved to be a monk of the Order of St. Austin: a man of about thirty, spare and active, with keen dark eyes which looked as if they saw every thing at once. Coming in with uplifted hand in the traditional attitude of blessing, and "Christ's peace be on all here!" he took his stand at a small table, and unfastened from his girdle one of those leather books bound with a projecting end and a knot, for the purpose of being carried in that manner. This he set down on the table, and waited a moment for the other two to appear.

These last arrivals were both wrapped in cloaks, as though they were anxious not to be recognised. The first, throwing his cloak off, showed that he was dressed in livery, in a style peculiar to the latter half of the Middle Ages. He wore a tabard, or loose short coat, something like a smock-frock in shape, but only reaching to the hips; with wide sleeves which ended at the elbow. The right half of this coat was blue; the left half blue and red in stripes, with yellow fleurs-de-lis worked on the blue stripes. On his left arm, just below the shoulder, was embroidered a silver cresset filled with red and yellow flames. In days when every servant bore his master's badge, and every body knew whose badge it was, no one could doubt for a moment whence this man came. The fiery cresset, borne aloft on the silvered pole, was the familiar badge of the De Holands, Dukes of Exeter.

The second man laid his cloak aside more slowly. But when he did so, he revealed a costume indicating a very high rung on the social ladder. That gold chain and those slashed sleeves marked an esquire at the lowest; the gilt spurs could be worn by none under a knight; and the peculiar cut of the cloak revealed to the initiated that he who bore it must be a peer of the realm. It was no wonder if Jack and his grandmother felt slightly nervous when they discovered that the friend whom Master William Sterys—himself the grandest person they knew—had asked leave to bring, was no other than his noble master, Henry Duke of Exeter.

There was one person in the room, however, who was not in the least affected by the discovery. This was the Austin Friar who was about to conduct the little conventicle. He felt, as one long after him expressed it, that he had always one Hearer of such supreme distinction, that the rank of all the remainder faded into nothingness. Now he said simply, before the others had time to recover themselves,—"Let us pray."

They knelt down on the brick floor—peer, and parchment-maker, and poor—and the voice of the Austin Friar rose in prayer.

"Lord, Thou art made a refuge to us, from generation to generation!"

Oldest of all Psalms, that has been and will be the Psalm of the wilderness Church for ever. First sung in the desert, there is in it a breathing of desert air, a perpetual reminiscence of those who had no city to dwell in, but who sought one to come. These who prayed it that night were all desert-dwellers: and no one of them felt the journey so weary, or the wilderness air so keen, as that one handsomely robed worshipper with the gold chain about his neck, whom one or two of the poorer ones were almost unconsciously envying, and imagining that he had never breathed the air, nor felt a second's weariness from the journey.

"His thoughts they scanned not: but I ween

That could their import have been seen,

The meanest groom in all the hall

That e'er tied courser to a stall,

Would scarce have wished to be their prey,

For Lutterward and Fountenay."[#]

[#] Scott's Marmion.

After the prayer came the monition. There was no singing. The voice of the spiritual singer was silent during the corrupt ages of the Church. Britons and Anglo-Saxons had sung hymns freely: but one after another the voices were hushed, and no new ones rose. Except in her authorised services, and to words chosen by herself, the Church frowned upon sacred music. This was especially remarkable, in an age when the popular love for secular music was at a height to which, in England at least, it has never risen since. It was reserved for Martin Luther to unlock the sealed spring, and let the frozen waters dash downwards in a joyous cataract.