A Forgotten Hero Page 4

  CHAPTER FOUR.

  WAITING AND WEARY.

  "Oh! for the strength of God's right hand! the way is hard and dreary, Through Him to walk and not to faint, to run and not be weary!"

  E.L. Marzials.

  We left the Royal party in conversation in the chamber at Westminster.

  "Have you quite resolved, Sire, to expel all the Jews from England?"asked De Valence.

  "Resolved? Yes; I hope it is half done," replied the King. "You areaware, fair Uncle, that our Commons voted us a fifteenth on thiscondition?"

  "No, I did not hear that," said De Valence.

  "How many are there of those creatures?" inquired Lancaster.

  "How should I know?" returned Edward, with an oath. "I only know thatthe Chancellor said the houses and goods were selling well to ourprofit."

  "Fifteen thousand and sixty, my Lord of Surrey told me," said Lancaster."I doubted if it were not too high a computation; that is why I asked."

  "Oh, very likely not," responded Edward, carelessly. "There are as manyof them as gnats, and as much annoyance."

  "Well, it is a pious deed, of course," said Lancaster, stroking hismoustache, not in the dilettante style of De Echingham, but like a manlost in thought. "It seems a pity, though, for the women and children."

  "My cousin of Lancaster, I do believe, sings _Dirige_ over the chickensin his barnyard," sneered De Valence.

  Lancaster looked up with a good-tempered smile.

  "Does my fair Uncle never wish for the day when the lion shall eat strawlike the ox?" [Note 1.]

  "Not I!" cried De Valence, with a hearty laugh. "Why, what mean you?are we to dine on a haunch of lion when it comes?"

  "Nay, for that were to make us worse than either, methinks. I supposewe shall give over eating what has had life, at that time."

  "_Merci, mille fois_!" laughed his uncle. "My dinner will be spoiled.Not thine, I dare say. I'll be bound, Sire, our fair cousin will munchhis apples and pears with all the gusto in the world, and send hissquire to the stable to inquire if the lion has a straw doubled underhim."

  "Bah!" said the King. "What are you talking about?"

  "How much will this business of the Jews cost your Grace?" asked DeValence, dropping his sarcasms.

  "Cost _me_?" demanded Edward, with a short laugh. "Did our fair uncleimagine we meant to execute such a project at our own expense? Let therogues pay their own travelling fees."

  "Ha! good!" said the Poitevin noble. "And our fair cousin of Lancastershall chant the _De Profundis_ while they embark, and I will offer asilver fibula to Saint Edward that they may all be drowned. How sayest,fair Cousin?"

  "Nay," was Lancaster's answer, in a doubtful tone. "I reckon we oughtnot to pity them, being they that crucified our Lord. But--"

  But for all that, his heart cried out against his creed. Yet it did notoccur to him that the particular men who were being driven from theirhomes for no fault of theirs, and forced with keen irony of oppressionto pay their own expenses, were not those who crucified Christ, but wereremoved from them by many generations. The times of the Gentiles werenot yet fulfilled, and the cry, "His blood be on us, _and on ourchildren_" had not yet exhausted its awful power.

  There was one person not present who would heartily have agreed withLancaster. This was his cousin and namesake, Edmund, Earl of Cornwall,who not only felt for the lower animals--a rare yet occasional state ofmind in the thirteenth century--but went further, and compassionated thevilleins--a sentiment which very few indeed would have dreamed ofsharing with him. The labourers on the land were serfs, and had nofeelings,--that is, none that could be recognised by the upper classes.They were liable to be sold with the land which they tilled; nor couldthey leave their "hundred" without a passport. Their sons might not beeducated to anything but agriculture; their daughters could not bemarried without paying a fine to the master. Worse things than theseare told of some, for of course the condition of the serf largelydepended on the disposition of his owner.

  The journey from Oakham to Westminster was a pleasant change to all thebower-maidens but one, and that was the one selected to travel with hermistress in the litter. Each was secretly, if not openly, hoping not tobe that one; and it was with no little trepidation that Clarice receivedthe news that this honour was to be conferred on her. She discovered,however, on the journey, that scolding was not the perpetual occupationof the Countess. She spent part of every day in telling her beads, partin reading books woefully dry to the apprehension of Clarice, and partin sleeping, which not unfrequently succeeded the beads. Conversationshe never attempted, and Clarice, who dared not speak till she wasspoken to, began to entertain a fear of losing the use of her tongue.Otherwise she was grave and quiet enough, poor girl! for she was notnaturally talkative. She was very sorry to part with Heliet, and shefelt, almost without knowing why, some apprehension concerning thefuture. Sentiments of this sort were quite unknown to such girls asElaine, Diana, and Roisia, while with Olympias they arose solely fromdelicate health. But Clarice was made of finer porcelain, and she couldnot help mournfully feeling that she had not a friend in the world. Herfather and mother were not friends; they were strangers who might beexpected to do what they thought best for her, just as the authoritiesof a workhouse might take conscientious care in the apprenticing of theworkhouse girls. But no more could be expected, and Clarice felt it.If there had only been, anywhere in the world, somebody who loved her!There was no such probability to which it was safe to look forward.Possibly, some twenty or thirty years hence, some of her children mightlove her. As for her husband, he was simply an embarrassing futurecertainty, who--with almost equal certainty--would not care a strawabout her. That was only to be expected. The squire who liked Roisiawould be pretty sure to get Diana; while the girl who admired Reginaldde Echingham was safe to fall to Fulk de Chaucombe. Things always werearranged so in this world. Perhaps, thought Clarice, those girls werethe happiest who did not care, who took life as it came, and made allthe fun they could out of it. But she knew well that this was how lifeand she would never take each other.

  Whitehall was reached at last, on that eve of Saint Botolph. Claricewas excessively tired, and only able to judge of the noise without, andthe superb decorations and lofty rooms within. Lofty, be it remembered,to her eyes; they would not look so to ours. She supped upon saltmerling [whiting], pease-cods [green peas], and stewed fruit, and wasnot sorry to get to bed.

  In the morning, she found the household considerably increased. Hereyes were almost dazzled by the comers and goers; and she really noticedonly one person. Two young knights were among the new attendants of theEarl, but one of them Clarice could not have distinguished from thecrowd. The other had attracted her notice by coming forward to help theCountess from her litter, and, instead of attending his mistressfurther, had, rather to Clarice's surprise, turned to help _her_. Andwhen she looked up to thank him, it struck her that his face was likesomebody she knew. She did not discover who it was till Roisiaobserved, while the girls were undressing, that--"My cousin is growing abeard, I declare. He had none the last time I saw him."

  "Which is thy cousin?" asked Clarice.

  "Why, Piers Ingham," said Roisia. "He that helped my Lady from thelitter."

  "Oh, is he thy cousin?" responded Clarice.

  "By the mother's side," answered Roisia. "He hath but been knightedthis last winter."

  "Then he is just ready for a wife," said Elaine. "I wonder which of usit will be! It is tolerably sure to be one. I say, maids, I mean tohave a jolly time of it while we are here! It shall go hard with me ifI do not get promoted to be one of the Queen's bower-women!"

  "Oh, would I?" interpolated Diana.

  "Why?" asked more than one voice.

  "I am sure," said Olympias, "I had ever so much rather be under the LadyQueen than our Lady."

  "Oh, that may be," said Diana. "I was not looking at it in that light.There is some amusement in deceiving our Lady, and one d
oesn't feel itwrong, because she is such a vixen; but there would be no fun in takingin the Queen, she's too good."

  "I wonder what Father Bevis would say to that doctrine," demurelyremarked Elaine. "What it seems to mean is, that a lie is not such abad thing if you tell it to a bad person as it would be if you told itto a good one. Now I doubt if Father Bevis would be quite of thatopinion."

  "Don't talk nonsense," was Diana's reply.

  "Well, but is it nonsense? Didst thou mean that?"

  It was rather unusual for Elaine thus to satirise Diana, and looked asif the two had changed characters, especially when Diana walked away,muttering something which no one distinctly heard.

  Elaine proved herself a tolerably true prophetess. _Fete_ followed_fete_. Clarice found herself initiated into Court circles, anddiscovered that she was enjoying herself very much. But whether theattraction lay in the pageants, in the dancing, in her own bright array,or in the companionship, she did not pause to ask herself. Perhaps ifshe had paused, and made the inquiry, she might have discovered thatlife had changed to her since she came to Westminster. The thingseternal, of which Heliet alone had spoken to her, had faded away intofar distance; they had been left behind at Oakham. The things temporalwere becoming everything.

  In a stone balcony overhanging the Thames, at Whitehall, sat Earl Edmundof Cornwall, in a thoughtful attitude, resting his head upon his hand.He had been alone for half an hour, but now a tall man in a Dominicanhabit, who was not Father Bevis, came round the corner of the balcony,which ran all along that side of the house. He was the Prior or Rectorof Ashridge, a collegiate community, founded by the Earl himself, ofwhich we shall hear more anon.

  The Friar sat down on the stone bench near the Earl, who took no furthernotice of him than by a look, his eyes returning to dreamy contemplationof the river.

  "Of what is my Lord thinking?" asked the Friar, gently.

  "Of life," said the Prince.

  "Not very hopefully, I imagine."

  "The hope comes at the beginning, Father. Look at yonder pleasure-boat,with the lads and lasses in it, setting forth for a row. There is hopeenough in their faces. But when the journey comes near its end, and theperilous bridge must be shot, and the night is setting in, what you seein the faces then will not be hope. It will be weariness; perhapsdisgust and sorrow. And--in some voyages, the hope dies early."

  "True--if it has reference only to the day."

  "Ah," responded the Prince, with a smile which had more sadness thanmirth in it, "you mean to point me to the hope beyond. But the day islong Father. The night has not come yet, and the bridge is still to beshot. Ay, and the wind and rain are cold, as one drops slowly down theriver."

  "There is home at the end, nevertheless," answered the Dominican. "Whenwe sit round the fire in the banquet hall, and all we love are round us,and the doors shut safe, we shall easily forget the cold wind on thewater."

  "When! Yes. But I am on the water yet, and it may be some hours beforemy barge is moored at the garden steps. And--it is always the same,Father. It does seem strange, when there is only one earthly thing forwhich a man cares, that God should deny him that one thing. Why rousethe hope which is never to be fulfilled? If the width of the world hadlain all our lives between me and my Lady, we should both have beenhappier. Why should God bring us together to spoil each other's lives?For I dare say she is as little pleased with her lot as I with mine--poor Magot!"

  "Will my Lord allow me to alter the figure he has chosen?" said thePredicant Friar. "Look at your own barge moored down below. If therope were to break, what would become of the barge?"

  "It would drift down the river."

  "And if there were in it a little child, alone, too young to have eitherskill or strength to steer it, what would become of him when the bargeshot the bridge?"

  "Poor soul!--destruction, without question."

  "And what if my Lord be that little child, safe as yet in the bargewhich the Master has tied fast to the shore? The rope is his trouble.What if it be his safety also? He would like far better to go driftingdown, amusing himself with the strange sights while daylight lasted; butwhen night came, and the bridge to be passed, how then? Is it notbetter to be safe moored, though there be no beauty or variety in thescene?"

  "Nay, Father, but is there no third way? Might the bridge not be passedin safety, and the child take his pleasure, and yet reach home well andsound?"

  "Some children," said the Predicant Friar, with a tender intonation."But not that child."

  The Earl was silent. The Prior softly repeated a text of Scripture.

  "Endure chastisement. As sons God dealeth with you; what son then ishe, whom the Father chasteneth not?" [Hebrews 12, verse 7, Vulgateversion.]

  A low, half-repressed sigh from his companion reminded the Prior that hewas touching a sore place. One of the Prince's bitterest griefs was hischildlessness. [He has told us so himself.] The Prior tacked about, andcame into deeper water.

  "`Nor have we a High Priest who cannot sympathise with our infirmities,for He was tempted in all things like us, except in sinning.'" [Hebrews4, verse 15, Vulgate version.]

  "If one could see!" said the Earl, almost in a whisper.

  "It would be easier, without doubt. Yet `blessed are they who see not,and believe.' God can see. I would rather He saw and not I, than--ifsuch a thing were possible--that I saw and not He. Whether is better,my Lord, that the father see the danger and guard the child without hisknowing anything, or that the child see it too, and have all the painand apprehension consequent upon the seeing? The blind has theadvantage, sometimes."

  "Yet who would wish to be blind on that account?" answered the Earl,quickly.

  "No man could wish it, nor need he. Only, the blind man may take thecomfort of it."

  "But you have not answered one point, Father. Why does God rouselongings in our hearts which He never means to fulfil?"

  "Does God rouse them?"

  "Are they sin, then?"

  "No," answered the Prior, slowly, as if he were thinking out thequestion, and had barely reached the answer. "I dare not say that.They are nature. Some, I know, would have all that is nature to be sin;but I doubt if God treats it thus in His Word. Still, I question if Heraises those longings. He allows them. Man raises them."

  "Does He never guide them?"

  "Yes, that I think He does."

  "Then the question comes to the same thing. Why does God not guide usto long for the thing that He means to give us?"

  "He very often does."

  "Then," pursued the Earl, a little impatiently, "why does He not turn usaway from that which He does not intend us to have?"

  "My Lord," said the Predicant, gravely, "from the day of his fall, manhas always been asking God _why_. He will probably go on doing it tothe day of the dissolution of all things. But I do not observe that Godhas ever yet answered the question."

  "It is wrong to ask it, then, I suppose," said the Earl, with a wearysigh.

  "It is not faith that wants to know why. `He that believeth hastenethnot.' [Isaiah 28, verse 16, Vulgate version.] `What I do, thou knowestnot now; but thou shalt know hereafter.' [John 13 verse 7.] We canafford to wait, my Lord."

  "Easily enough," replied the Earl, with feeling, "if we knew it wouldcome right in the end."

  "It will come as He would have it who laid down His life that you shouldlive for ever. Is that not enough for my Lord?"

  Perhaps the Prince felt it enough. At all events, he gave no answer.

  "Well, that is not my notion of going comfortably through life!"observed Miss Elaine Criketot, in a decided tone. "My idea is to pullall the plums out of the cake, and leave the hard crusts for those thatlike them."

  "Does anybody like them?" laughingly asked Clarice.

  "Well, for those who need them, then. Plenty of folks in this world areglad of hard crusts or anything else."

  "Thy metaphor is becoming rather confused," observed Diana.


  "Dost thou not think, Elaine Criketot, that it might be only fair toleave a few plums for those whose usual fare is crusts? A crust now andthen would scarcely hurt the dainty damsels who commonly regalethemselves on plums."

  It was a fourth voice which said this--a voice which nobody expected,and the sound of which brought all the girls to their feet in aninstant.

  "Most certainly, Lord Earl," replied Elaine, courtesying low; "but Ihope they would be somebody else's plums than mine."

  "I see," said the Earl, with that sparkle of fun in his eyes, which theyall knew. "Self-denial is a holy and virtuous quality, to be cultivatedby all men--except me. Well, we might all subscribe that creed withlittle sacrifice. But then where would be the self-denial?"

  "Please it the Lord Earl, it might be practised by those who liked it."

  "I should be happy to hear of any one who liked self-denial," respondedthe Earl, laughing. "Is that not a contradiction in terms?"

  Elaine was about to make a half-saucy answer, mixed sufficiently withreverence to take away any appearance of offence, when a sight met hereyes which struck her into silent horror. In the doorway, looking ashade more acetous than usual, stood Lady Margaret. It was well knownto all the bower-maidens of the Countess of Cornwall that there were twocrimes on her code which were treated as capital offences. Laughing wasthe less, and being caught in conversation with a man was the greater.But beneath both these depths was a deeper depth yet, and this wastalking to the Earl. Never was a more perfect exemplification of thedog in the manger than the Lady Margaret of Cornwall. She did not wantthe Earl for herself, but she was absolutely determined that no one elseshould so much as speak to him. Here was Elaine, caught red-handed inthe commission of all three of these stupendous crimes. And if theoffence could be made worse, it was so by the Earl saying, as he walkedaway, "I pray you, my Lady, visit not my sins on this young maid."

  Had one compassionate sensation remained in the mind of the Countesstowards Elaine, that unlucky speech would have extinguished it at once.She did not, as usual, condescend to answer her lord; but she turned toElaine, and in a voice of concentrated anger, demanded the repetition ofevery word which had passed. Diana gave it, for Elaine seemed almostparalysed with terror. Clarice, on the demand of her mistress,confirmed Diana's report as exact. The Countess turned back to Elaine.Her words were scarcely to be reported, for she lost alike her temperand her gentlewomanly manners. "And out of my house thou goest thisday," was the conclusion, "thou shameful, giglot hussey! And I will notgive thee an husband; thou shalt go back to thy father and thy mother,with the best whipping that ever I gave maid. And she that shall be inthy stead shall be the ugliest maid I can find, and still of tongue, andsober of behaviour. Now, get thee gone!"

  And calling for Agatha as she went, the irate lady stalked away.

  Of no use was poor Elaine's flood of tears, nor the united entreaties ofher four companions. Clarice and Diana soon found that they were not tocome off scatheless. Neither had spoken to the Earl, as Elaine readilyconfessed; but for the offence of listening to such treachery, both weresent to bed by daylight, with bread and water for supper. The offencesof grown-up girls in those days were punished like those of littlechildren now. All took tearful farewells of poor Elaine, who dolefullyexpressed her fear of another whipping when she reached home; and so shepassed out of their life.

  It was several weeks before the new bower-maiden appeared. Dianasuggested that the Countess found some difficulty in meeting with a girlugly enough to please her. But, at last, one evening in November,Mistress Underdone introduced the new-comer, in the person of a girl ofeighteen, or thereabouts, as Felicia de Fay, daughter of Sir Stephen deFay and Dame Sabina Watefeud, of the county of Sussex. All the restlooked with much curiosity at her.

  Felicia, while not absolutely ugly, was undeniably plain. Dianaremarked afterwards to Clarice that there were no ugly girls to be had,as plainly appeared. But the one thing about her which really was uglywas her expression. She looked no one in the face, while she diligentlystudied every one who was not looking at her. Let any one attempt tomeet her eyes, and they dropped in a moment. Some do this from merebashfulness, but Felicia showed no bashfulness in any other way.Clarice's feeling towards her was fear.

  "I'm not afraid!" said Diana. "I am sure I could be her match in fairfight!"

  "It is the fair fight I doubt," said Clarice. "I am afraid there istreachery in her eyes."

  "She makes me creep all over," added Olympias.

  "Well, she had better not try to measure swords with me," said Diana."I tell you, I have a presentiment that girl and I shall fight; but Iwill come off victor; you see if I don't!"

  Clarice made no answer, but in her heart she thought that Diana was toohonest to be any match for Felicia.

  It was the Countess's custom to spend her afternoon, when the day wasfine, in visiting some shrine or abbey. When the day was not fine, shepassed the time in embroidering among her maidens, and woe betide theunlucky damsel who selected a wrong shade, or set in a false stitch.The natural result of this was that the pine-cone, kept by Olympias as aprivate barometer, was anxiously consulted on the least appearance ofclouds. Diana asserted that she offered a wax candle to Saint Wulstanevery month for fair weather. One of the young ladies always had toaccompany her mistress, and the fervent hope of each was to escape thispromotion. Felicia alone never expressed this hope, never joined in anytirades against the Countess, never got into disgrace with her, andseemed to stand alone, like a drop of vinegar which would not minglewith the oil around it. She appeared to see everything, and saynothing. It was impossible to get at her likes and dislikes. She tookeverything exactly alike. Either she had no prejudices, or she was allprejudice, and nobody could tell which it was.

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  Note 1. Some readers will think such ideas too modern to have occurredto any one in 1290. There is evidence to the contrary.