A Forgotten Hero Read online

  CHAPTER FIVE.

  BUILDING A FRESH CASTLE.

  "Oh, had I wist, afore I kissed, That loue had been sae ill to win, I'd locked my heart wi' a key o' gowd, And pinned it wi' a siller pin."--_Old Ballad_.

  On an afternoon early in December, the Countess sat among herbower-women at work. Roisia was almost in tears, for she had just beensharply chidden for choosing too pale a shade of blue. A little stir atthe door made all look up, and they saw Father Bevis. All rose to theirfeet in an instant, the Countess dropping on her knees, and entreatingthe priest's blessing. He gave it, but as if his thoughts were faraway.

  "Lady, my Lord hath sent me to you with tidings. May God grant they benot the worst tidings for England that we have heard for many a day! Amessenger is come from the North, bringing news that the Lady Alianorathe Queen lieth dead in the marsh lands of Lincolnshire."

  It was a worse loss to England than any there knew. Yet they knewenough to draw a cry of horror and sorrow from the lips of all thosethat heard the news. And a fortnight later, on the 17th of December,they all stood at Charing Cross, to see the funeral procession wind downfrom the north road, and set down the black bier for its last momentaryrest on the way to Westminster.

  It is rather singular that the two items which alone the general readerusually remembers of this good Queen's history should be two pointsdistinctly proved by research to be untrue. Leonor did not suck thepoison from her husband's arm--a statement never made until a hundredand fifty years after her death, and virtually disproved by thetestimony of an eye-witness who makes no allusion to it, but who tellsus instead that she behaved like a very weak woman instead of a verybrave one, giving way to hysterical screams, and so distressing thesufferer that he bade four of his knights to carry her out of the room.Again, Edward's affectionate regret did not cause the erection of thefamous Eleanor Crosses wherever the bier rested on its journey. Leonorherself desired their erection, and left money for it in her will.

  The domestic peace of the royal house died with her who had stood at itshead for nineteen years. To her son, above all others, her loss wassimply irreparable. The father and son were men of very differenttastes and proclivities; and the former never understood the latter. Infact, Edward the Second was a man who did not belong to his century; andsuch men always have a hard lot. His love of quiet, and hatred of war,were, in the eyes of his father, spiritless meanness; while his musicaltastes and his love of animals went beyond womanish weakness, and werelooked upon as absolute vices. But perhaps to the nobles the worstfeatures of his character were two which, in the nineteenth century,would entitle him to respect. He was extremely faithful in friendship,and he had a strong impatience of etiquette. He loved to associate withhis people, to mix in their joys and sorrows, to be as one of them. Hisfavourite amusement was to row down the Thames on a summer evening, withmusic on board, and to chat freely with the lieges who came down intheir barges, occasionally, and much to his own amusement, buyingcabbages and other wares from them. We should consider such actionsindicative of a kindly disposition and of simplicity of taste. But inthe eyes of his contemporaries they were inexpressibly low. And be itremembered that it was not a question of associating with persons ofmore or less education, whose mental standard might be unequal to hisown. There was no mental standard whereby to measure any one in thethirteenth century. All (with a very few exceptions, and those chieflyamong the clergy) were uneducated alike. The moral standard looked uponwar and politics as the only occupations meet for a prince, and uponhunting and falconry as the only amusements sufficiently noble. A manwho, like Edward, hated war, and had no fancy for either sport orpolitics, was hardly a man in the eyes of a mediaeval noble.

  The hardest treatment to which Edward was subjected, whether from hisfather in youth or from his people at a later time, arose out of thattouching constancy which was his greatest virtue. Perhaps he did notalways choose his friends well; he was inclined to put rather too muchtrust in his fellow creatures; and Hugh Le Despenser the elder may havebeen grasping and mean, and Piers Gavestone too extravagant. Yet wemust remember that we read their characters only as depicted by the pensof men who hated them--of men who were simply unable to conceive thattwo persons might be drawn together by mutual taste for some elevatedand innocent pursuit. The most wicked motives imaginable wererecklessly suggested for the attachment which Edward showed for thesechosen friends--who were not of noble origin, and had no handles totheir names till he conferred them.

  It is only through a thick mist of ignorance and prejudice that we ofthis day can see the character of Edward the Second. We read it only inthe pages of monks who hated their Lollard King--in the angry complaintsof nobles who were jealous that he listened to and bestowed gifts onother men than themselves. But we do see some faint glimpses of theEdward that really was, in the letter-book but recently dug out of amass of State papers; in the pages of De La Moor, [Note 1], the onlychronicler of his deeds who did not hate him, and who, as his personalattendant, must have known more of him in a month than the monks couldhave learned in a century; and last, not least, in that touching Latinpoem in which, during the sad captivity which preceded his sadder death,he poured out his soul to God, the only Friend whom he had left in allthe universe.

  "Oh, who that heard how once they praised my name, Could think that from those tongues these slanders came? ... I see Thy rod, and, Lord, I am content. Weave Thou my life until the web is spun; Chide me, O Father, till Thy will be done: Thy child no longer murmurs to obey; He only sorrows o'er the past delay. Lost is my realm; yet I shall not repine, If, after all, I win but that of Thine."

  [See Note 2.]

  To a character such as this, the loss of his chief friend and onlyreliable intercessor, when just emerging from infancy into boyhood, wasa loss for which nothing could atone. It proved itself so in thosedreary after-years of perpetual misunderstandings and severities on thepart of his father, who set him no good example, and yet looked on theson whose tastes were purer than his own as an instance of irredeemabledepravity. The easiest thing in the world to do is one against whichGod has denounced a woe--to put bitter for sweet, and sweet for bitter.

  Another item of sorrowful news reached London with the coffin of QueenLeonor. It was the death of the baby Queen of Scotland, by whosebetrothal to Prince Edward the King had vainly hoped to fuse thenorthern and southern kingdoms into one. It left Scotland in acondition of utter distraction, with no less than eleven differentclaimants for the Crown, setting up claims good, bad, and indifferent;but every one of them persuaded that all the others had not an inch ofground to stand on, and that he was the sole true and rightfulinheritor.

  The only claimants who really had a shadow of right may be reduced tothree. If the old primitive custom of Scotland was to be regarded--acustom dear to all Celtic nations--by which illegitimate children wereconsidered to have an equal right to the succession with the legitimateones, then there could be no question that the heir was Patrick deGalithlys, son of Henry, the natural son of Alexander the Second. Butif not--and in this respect undoubtedly the custom had become obsolete--the struggle rested between John Baliol and Robert Bruce, of whom thefirst was the son of Dervorgoyl, daughter of Margaret, eldest daughterof David Earl of Huntingdon, brother of King William the Lion; while thelatter was the son of Isabel, the second daughter of David. Everyreader knows that the question was submitted by consent of the Scottishnobles to Edward the First as arbitrator, and that he gave his decisionin favour of Baliol. In other words, he gave it against the existinglaw both of England and Scotland, which did not recogniserepresentation, and according to which the son of the second sisterought to have been preferred to the grandson of the elder.

  The anxiety of our kings to bring in this law of representation is acurious psychological fact. Richard the First tried to do it by will,in leaving the crown to his nephew Arthur; but the law was too strongfor him, and the rightful heir succeeded--his brother John. Edward theFirst
contrived to abrogate the law, so far as Scotland was concerned, ahundred years later. And eighty years after him Edward the Third triedagain to alter the English law of succession, and this time theexperiment succeeded. But its success was due mainly to two reasons--the personal popularity of the dead Prince whose son was thus liftedinto the line of succession, while the rightful heir was extremelyunpopular; and the fact that the disinherited heir gave full consent andassistance to the change in the law.

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  The knights and squires of the Earl of Cornwall's household weregathered together on the balcony which faced the river. One only wasabsent, Piers Ingham, who was occupied in a more interesting manner, aswill presently be seen. His colleague, Sir Lambert Aylmer, was holdingforth in a lively manner for the benefit of the four squires, who werelistening to him with various degrees of attention. Reginald deEchingham could never spare much of that quality from his admirableself, and De Chaucombe was an original thinker, who did not purchaseready-made ideas from other people. Barkeworth invariably agreed withthe last speaker in public, but kept his private views an inscrutablemystery; while all that could be said of Gernet's notions was that hehad "_un grand talent pour le silence_."

  To this quartette Sir Lambert was explaining his forecast of thepolitical weather. The young knight had a great fancy for airing hispolitics, and an unwavering conviction of the infallibility of hisjudgment. If Sir Lambert was to be believed, what King Edward wouldundoubtedly do was to foment civil war in Scotland, until all the rivalmale claimants had destroyed each other. He would then marry thedaughter of one of them, and annex Scotland as her appanage. All beingsmooth in that quarter, the King would next undertake a pilgrimage toPalestine, drive the Saracens out, and confer that country on one of hissons-in-law. He would then carry fire and sword through Borussia,Lithuania, and other heathen kingdoms in the north, subdue them all, puta few more sons-in-law in possession as tributary governors, and beingby that time an old man, would then return to Westminster to end hisdays in peace, a new Alexander, and to leave a magnificent empire to hisson.

  "Easier said than done," growled De Chaucombe, in his beard.

  "Charming!" observed De Echingham, caressing his pet moustache.

  "A lovely prospect, indeed," said De Barkeworth, with a bow, in a toneso impartially suspended between conviction and cynicism that nobodycould tell which had dictated it. "I should like to win my spurs inLithuania."

  "Win thy spurs!" muttered De Chaucombe again. "There are no spurs forcarpet-knights [Note 3] in the wardrobe of the Future."

  "I think knights should have golden spurs, not gilt ones--don't you?"inquired De Echingham.

  "Puppy!" sneered De Chaucombe. "If ever either are on thy heels it willbe a blunder of somebody's making."

  "Is it necessary to quarrel?" asked Gernet, speaking for the first time.

  "Oh, I trust I have more generosity than to quarrel with _him_," rathercontemptuously returned De Echingham, who, as every one present knew,had as little physical courage as any girl.

  "Make thyself easy," was the answer of De Chaucombe, as he walked away."I should not think of running the risk."

  "What risk?" demanded Barkeworth, laughing. De Chaucombe looked backover his shoulder, and discharged a Parthian dart.

  "The risk of turning my good Damascus blade on a toad," said he, to thegreat amusement of Barkeworth.

  De Chaucombe went to the end of the balcony, descended the steps whichled to the ground floor, and came on a second terrace, also fronting theriver. As he turned a corner of the house he suddenly confronted twopeople, who were walking slowly along the terrace, and conversing inhushed tones. Sir Piers Ingham was evidently and deeply interested, hishead slightly bowed towards Clarice who was as earnestly engaged in thedissection of one of the _few_ leaves which Christmas had leftfluttering on the garden bushes. As De Chaucombe approached she lookedup with a startled air, and blushed to her eyes.

  De Chaucombe muttered something indistinct which might pass for "Goodevening," and resumed his path rather more rapidly than before.

  "So the wind blows from that direction!" he said to himself. "Well, itdoes not matter a straw to me. But what our amiable mistress will sayto the fair Clarice, when she comes to know of it, is another question.I do believe that, if she had made up her mind to a match between them,she would undo it again, if she thought they wished it. It would bejust like her."

  It had never occurred to Clarice to suppose that she did anything wrongin thus disobeying point blank the known orders of her mistress that thebower-maidens were to hold no intercourse whatever with the gentlemen ofthe household. She knew perfectly well that if the Countess saw hertalking to Sir Piers, she would be exceedingly angry; and she knew thather parents fully intended and expected her to obey her mistress as shewould themselves. Poor Clarice's code of morals looked upon discovery,not disobedience, as the thing to be dreaded; and while she would haverecoiled with horror from the thought of unfaithfulness to her beloved,she looked with absolute complacency on the idea of disloyalty to themistress whom she by no means loved. How could she do otherwise whenshe had never been taught better?

  Clarice's standard was _loyaute d'amour_. It is the natural standard ofall men, the only difference being in the king whom they set up. A vastnumber are loyal to themselves only, for it is themselves whom alonethey love. Fewer are loyal to some human being; and poor humanity beinga very fallible thing, they often make sad shipwreck. Very few indeed--in comparison of the mass--are loyal to the King who claims and has aright to their hearts' best affections. And Clarice was not one ofthese.

  Inside the house the Countess and Mistress Underdone were very busyindeed. Before them, spread over forms and screens, lay piles ofmaterial for clothing--linen, serge, silk, and crape, of many colours.On a leaf-table at the side of the room a number of gold and silverornaments were displayed. Furs were heaped upon the bed, boots andloose slippers stood in a row in one corner; while Mistress Underdonewas turning over for her mistress's inspection a quantity of embroideredneckerchiefs.

  "Now, let me see," said the Countess, peremptorily. "Measure off linenfor four gowns, Agatha--two of brown and two of red. Serge for two--thedark green. One silk will be enough, and one of crape."

  "How many ells the gown does my Lady choose to allow?" asked MistressUnderdone, taking an ell-wand from the table.

  "Four," said the Countess, curtly. This was rather miserly measure,four ells and a third being the usual reckoning; but Mistress Underdonemeasured and cut in silence.

  "Thou mayest allow a third more for the silk and crape," said theCountess, in a fit of unusual generosity.

  Mistress Underdone finished her measuring, laying each piece of materialneatly folded on the last, until the table held a tall heap of them.

  "Now for hoods," pursued the Countess. "Black cloth for two, lined withcats' fur; russet for two more. Capes for outdoor wear--two of thegreen serge; one of black cloth lined with cats' fur; one of silk. Fourlinen wimples; two pairs of cloth boots, two of slippers; two corsets;three of those broidered kerchiefs, one better than the others; fourpairs of hosen. Measure off also twenty-four ells of linen cloth."

  "Of what price, if it please my Lady?"

  "Fivepence the ell. And the boots of sixpence a pair. What did thatgreen serge cost?"

  "Threepence the ell, my Lady."

  "That is monstrous. Have I no cheaper? Twopence would be good enoughfor her."

  "If it please my Lady, there is only that coarse grey serge at threehalfpence the ell, which was bought for the cook-maids."

  "Humph! I suppose that would scarcely do," said the Countess, in a tonewhich sounded as if she wished it would. "Well, then--those ornaments.She must have a silver fibula, I suppose; and a copper-gilt one forcommon. What made thee put out all those other things? That is enoughfor her. If she wants a silver chain, her husband must give it her; Ishall not. As to r
ings and necklaces, they are all nonsense--not fitfor such as she."

  "Would my Lady think proper to allow a dovecote with silver pins?"

  The dovecote was a head-dress, a kind of round caul of gold or silvernetwork, secured by gold or silver pins fastened in the hair.

  "Not I. Let her husband give her such fooleries."

  "And may I request to know what my Lady allows for making the garments?"

  "Three halfpence each."

  "Might I be pardoned if I remind my Lady that the usual price istwopence each?"

  "For me, perhaps; not for her."

  Mistress Underdone went on measuring the linen in silence.

  "There, that finishes for Clarice," said the Countess. "Now for Diana.She may have a silver chain in addition, two of the best kerchiefs,and--no, that is enough. Otherwise let her have just the same."

  "If my Lady would graciously indulge her servant with permission to askit, do the maidens know yet what is to befall them?"

  "No. I shall tell them on Sunday. Time enough."

  And the Countess left Mistress Underdone to finish the work by herself.

  "On Sunday! Only two days beforehand!" said Agatha Underdone toherself. "Diana will stand it. She is one that would not care much foranything of that kind, and she will rule the house. But Clarice! Ifshe should have given her heart elsewhere!--and I have fancied, lately,that she has given it somewhere. That poor child!"

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  "But how can we?" queried Clarice. "If I were to speak to the Lady--even if I dared--I doubt--"

  "I do not doubt, sweetheart," replied Sir Piers. "No, the path must berather mere winding than that, though I confess I hate tortuous paths.Father Miles is the only person who has any influence with the Lady, andFather Bevis is the only one who has any with him."

  "But Father Bevis would have no sympathy with a love-story."

  "I am not sure that he would. But my Lord will, I know; and FatherBevis will listen to him. Leave this business to me, my fair Clarice.If I can obtain my Lord's ear this evening after vespers, and I think Ican, we shall soon have matters in train; and I have a fine hawk forFather Miles, which will put him in a good humour. Now, farewell, for Ihear the Lady's voice within."

  The lovers parted hastily, and Clarice went in to attire herself formass. For any one of her maidens to be absent from that ceremony wouldhave been a terrible offence in the eyes of the Countess; nor would anyless excuse than serious illness have availed to avert her displeasure.Dinner followed mass, and a visit to the shrine of Saint Edward,concluded by vespers, occupied the remainder of the afternoon. Therewas half an hour to spare before supper, and the girls were chattingtogether in their usual "bower," or boudoir, when, to their surprise,the Countess entered.

  "I have ado but with two of you," she said, as she seated herself.

  Naturally, the girls supposed that some penalty was about to befallthose two. How had they offended her? and which of them were theoffenders? To displease the Countess, as they all knew, was soextremely easy, that not one of them was prepared for the next sentence.

  "Two of you are to be wed on Tuesday."

  This was a bombshell. And it was the more serious because they wereaware that from this sentence there was no appeal. Troubled eyes, setin white faces, hurriedly sought each other.

  Was it from sheer thoughtlessness, or from absolute malice, or even froma momentary feeling of compassion towards the two who were to besacrificed, that the Countess made a long pause after each sentence?

  "Diana Quappelad," she said.

  Olympias, Roisia, and Clarice drew a sigh of relief. There were justhalf the chances against each that there had been. Diana stood forward,with a slight flush, but apparently not much concerned.

  "Thou art to wed with Master Fulk de Chaucombe, and thy bridegroom willbe knighted on the wedding-day. I shall give thee thy gear and thywedding-feast. Mistress Underdone will show thee the gear."

  The first momentary expression of Diana's face had been disappointment.It passed in an instant, and one succeeded which was divided betweenpleasurable excitement and amusement. She courtesied very low, andthanked the Countess, as of course was expected of her.

  Roisia stood behind, with blank face and clasped hands. There might befurther pain in store, but pleasure for her there could now be none.The Countess quite understood the dumb show, but she made no sign.

  "Clarice La Theyn."

  The girl stood out, listening for the next words as though her life hungon them.

  "I shall also give thee thy gear, and thy squire will be knighted on thewedding-day."

  The Countess was turning away as though she had said all. Clarice hadheard enough to make her feel as if life were not worth having. Asquire who still required knighthood was not Piers Ingham. Did itmatter who else it was? But she found, the next moment, that it might.

  "Would my Lady suffer me to let Clarice know whom she is to wed?" gentlysuggested Mistress Underdone.

  "Oh, did I not mention it?" carelessly responded the Countess, turningback to Clarice. "Vivian Barkeworth."

  She paused an instant for the courtesy and thanks which she expected.But she got a good deal more than she expected. With a passionate sobthat came from her very heart, Clarice fell at the feet of the LadyMargaret.

  "What is all this fuss about?" exclaimed her displeased mistress. "Inever heard such ado about nothing."

  Her displeasure, usually feared above all things, was nothing to Claricein that terrible instant. She sobbed forth that she loved elsewhere--she was already troth-plight.

  "Nonsense!" said the Countess, sharply. "What business hadst thou withsuch foolery, unknown to me? All maidens are wed by orders from theirsuperiors. Why shouldst thou be an exception?"

  "Oh, have you no compassion?" cried poor Clarice, in her agony. "Lady,did you never love?"

  All present were intently watching the face of the Countess, in the hopeof seeing some sign of relenting. But when this question was asked, thestern lips grew more set and stern than ever, and something like fireflashed out of the usually cold blue-grey eyes.

  "Who--I?" she exclaimed. "Thanks be to all the saints right verily,nay. I never had ado with any such disgraceful folly. From mineearliest years I have ever desired to be an holy sister, and never tosee a man's face. Get up, girl; it is of no use to kneel to me. Therewas no kindness shown to me; my wishes were never considered; why shouldthine be? I was made to array myself for my bridal, to the veryuprooting and destruction of all that I most loved and desired. Ah! ifmy Lord and father had lived, it would not have been so; he alwaysencouraged my vocation. He said love was unhappy, and I thought it wasscandalous. No, Clarice; I have no compassion upon lovers. There neverought to be any such thing. Let it be as I have said."

  And away stalked the Countess, looking more grey, square, and angularthan ever.

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  Note 1. De La Moor is the only chronicler in whose pages it is possibleto recognise the Edward of the letter-book, in which all his letters arecopied for the thirty-third year of his father's reign--1304-5.

  Note 2. Barnes's Edward the Third. I must in honesty confess that Ihave taken the liberty of smoothing Dr Barnes's somewhat ruggedtranslation.

  Note 3. A carpet-knight was one whose heroism lay more in rhetoricalvisions addressed to his partner in the intervals of dancing than inhard blows given and taken in the field.