Whatever may have been the feeling which possessed1 the mind of Constance on her departure from Langley, the incident was felt by Maude as a wrench2 and an uprooting3, surpassing any previous incident of her life since leaving Pleshy. The old house itself had come to feel like a mute friend; the people left behind were acquaintances of many years; the ground was all familiar. She was going now once more into a new world, to new acquaintances, new scenes, new incidents. The journey over land was in itself very pleasant. But the journey over sea from Bristol was so exceedingly unpleasant, that poor Maude found herself acquainted with a degree of physical misery4 which until then she had never imagined to exist. And when at last the great, grim, square towers of the Castle of Cardiff, which was to be her new home, rose before her eyes, she thought them absolutely lovely—because they were terra firma. It can only be ascribed to her unusual haste on the one hand, or to her usual caprice on the other, that it had not pleased the Lady of Cardiff to give any notice of her approach. Of course nobody expected her; and when her trumpeter sounded his blast outside the moat, the warder looked forth5 in some surprise. It was late in the evening for a guest to arrive.
“Who goeth yonder?”
“The Lady and her train.”
“Saint Taffy and Saint Guenhyfar!” said the warder.
“Put forth the bridge!” roared the trumpeter.
“It had peen better to send word,” calmly returned the warder.
“Send word to thy Lord, thou lither oaf!” cried the irate6 trumpeter, “and see whether it liketh him to keep the Lady awaiting hither on an even in January, while thou pratest in chopped English!”
Thereupon arose a passage of arms between the two affronted7 persons of diverse nationalities, which was terminated by Constance, with one of her sudden impulses, riding forward to the front, and taking the business on herself.
“Sir Warder,” she said—with that exquisite8 grace and lofty courtesy which was natural to every Plantagenet, be the other features of his character what they might,—“I am your Lady, and I pray you to notify unto your Lord that I am come hither.”
The warder was instantly mollified, and blew his horn to announce the arrival of a guest. There was a minute’s bustle9 among the minor10 officials about the gate, a little running to and fro, and then the drawbridge was thrown across, and the next moment the Lord Le Despenser knelt low to his royal spouse11. He could have had no idea of her coming five minutes before, but he did his best to show her that any omissions12 in her welcome were no fault on his part.
Thomas Le Despenser was just twenty years of age. He was only of moderate height for a man; and Constance, who was a tall woman, nearly equalled him. His Norman blood showed itself in his dark glossy13 hair, his semi-bronzed complexion14, and his dark liquid eyes, the expression of which was grave almost to sadness. An extremely short upper lip perhaps indicated blue blood, but it gave a haughty15 appearance to his features, which was not indicative of his character. He had a sweet low-toned voice, and an extremely winning smile.
The Princess suffered her husband to lift her from the pillion on which she rode behind Bertram Lyngern, who had been transferred to her service by her father’s wish. At the door of the banquet-hall the Dowager Lady met them. Maude’s impression of her was not exactly pleasant. She thought her a stiff, solemn-looking, elderly woman, in widow’s garb17. The Lady Elizabeth received her royal guest with the lowest of courtesies, and taking her hand, conducted her with great formality to a state chair on the dais, the Lord Le Despenser standing18, bare-headed, on the step below.
The ensuing ten minutes were painfully irksome to all parties. Everybody was shy of everybody else. A few common-place questions were asked and answered; but when the Dowager suggested that “the Lady” must be tired with her journey, and would probably like to rest for an hour ere the rear-supper was served, it was a manifest relief to all.
A sudden incursion of so many persons into an unprepared house was less annoying in the fourteenth century than it would be in the nineteenth. There was then always superfluous20 provision for guests who might suddenly arrive; a castle was invariably victualled in advance of the consumption expected; and as to sleeping accommodation, a sack filled with chaff21 and a couple of blankets was all that any person anticipated who was not of “high degree.” Maude slept the first night in a long gallery, with ten other women; for the future she would occupy the pallet in her lady’s chamber22. Bertram was provided for along with the other squires23, in the banquet-hall, the chaff beds and blankets being carried out of the way in the morning; and as to draughts25, our forefathers26 were never out of one inside their houses, and therefore did not trouble themselves on that score. The washing arrangements, likewise, were of the most primitive27 description. Princes and the higher class of peers washed in silver basins in their own rooms; but a squire24 or a knight’s daughter would have been thought unwarrantably fastidious who was not fully19 satisfied with a tub and a towel. A comb was the only instrument used for dressing28 the hair, except where crisping-pins were required; and mirrors were always fixtures29 against the wall.
A long time elapsed before Maude felt at home at Cardiff; and she could not avoid seeing that a still longer period passed before Constance did so. The latter was restless and unsettled. She had escaped from the rule of her step-mother to that of her mother-in-law, and she disliked the one only a little less than the other; though “Daughter” fell very differently on the ear from the lips of a child of ten, and from those of a woman who was approaching sixty. But the worst point of Constance’s new life was her utter indifference30 to her husband. She looked upon his gentle deference31 to her wishes as want of spirit, and upon his quiet, reserved, undemonstrative manner as want of brains. From loving him she was as far as she had been in those old days when she had so cruelly told his sister Margaret that “when she loved Tom, she would let him know.”
That he loved her, and that very dearly, was patent to the most superficial observer. Maude, who was not very observant of others, used to notice how his eyes followed her wherever she went, brightened at the sound of her step, and kindled32 eagerly when she spoke33. The Dowager saw it too, with considerable disapproval34; and thought it desirable to turn her observations to profit by a grave admonition to her son upon the sin and folly35 of idolatry. She meant rightly enough, yet it sounded harsh and cruel, when she bluntly reminded him that Constance manifestly cared nothing for him.
Le Despenser’s lip quivered with pain.
“Let be, fair Mother,” he said gently. “It may be yet, one day, that my Lady’s heart shall come home to God and me, and that she shall then say unto me, ‘I love thee.’”
Did that day ever come? Ay, it did come; but not during his day. The time came when no music could have been comparable to the sound of his voice—when she would have given all the world for one glimpse of his smile—when she felt, like Avice, as though she could have climbed and rent the heavens to have won him back to her. But the heavens had closed between them before that day came. While they journeyed side by side in this mortal world, he never heard her say, “I love thee.”
The news received during the next few months was not likely to make Constance feel more at home at Cardiff than before. It was one constant funeral wail36. On the 24th of March, 1394, her aunt Constanca, Duchess of Lancaster, died of the plague at Leicester; in the close of May, of the same disease, the beloved Lollard Queen; and on the first of July her cousin, Mary Countess of Derby. Constance grew so restless, that when orders came for her husband to attend the King at Haverford, where he was about to embark37 on his journey to Ireland, she determined38 to go there also.
“I can breathe better any whither than at Cardiff!” she said confidentially39 to Maude.
But in truth it was not Cardiff from which he fled, but her own restless spirit. The vine had been transplanted, and its tendrils refused to twine40 round the strange boughs41 offered for its support.
The Princess found her father at Haverford, but the pair were very shy of one another. The Duke was beginning to discover that he had made a blunder, that his fair young wife’s temper was not all sunshine, and that his intended plaything was likely to prove his eventual42 tyrant43. Constance, on her part, felt a twinge of conscience for her pettish44 desertion of him in his old age; for to her apprehension45 he was now an old man: and she was privately46 conscious that she could not honestly plead any preconsideration for her husband. She had merely pleased herself, both in going and staying, and she knew it. But she spent her whole life in gathering47 apples of Sodom, and flinging away one after another in bitter disappointment. Yet the next which offered was always grasped as eagerly as any that had gone before it.
Perhaps it was due to some feeling of regret on the Duke’s part that he invited his daughter and son-in-law to return with him. Constance accepted the offer readily. The Duke was Regent all that winter, during the King’s absence in Ireland; and, as was usual, he took up his residence in the royal Palace of Westminster. Constance liked her visit to Westminster; she was nearly as tired of Langley as of Cardiff, and this was something new. And a slight bond of union sprang up between herself and her husband; for she made him, as well as Maude, the confidant of all her complaints and vexations regarding her step-mother. Le Despenser was satisfied if she would make a friend of him about anything, and he was anxious to shield her from every annoyance48 in his power.
It appeared to Maude, who had grown into a quiet, meditative49 woman, that the feeling of the Duchess towards her step-daughter was not far from positive hatred50. She seemed to seek occasions to mortify51 her, and to manufacture quarrels which it would have been no trouble to avoid. It was some time before Maude could discern the cause. But one day, in a quiet talk with Bertram Lyngern, still her chief friend, she asked him whether he had noticed it.
“Have I eyes, trow?” responded Bertram with a smile.
“But wherefore is it, count you?”
“Marry, the old tale, methinks. Two men seldom discern alike; and he that looketh on the blue side of a changeable sarcenet (shot silk), can never join hands with him that seeth nought52 save the red.”
“Why, look you, our Lady Custance was rocked in a Lollard cradle; but my Lady Duchess’ Grace had a saint’s bone for her rattle54. And her mother is an Arundel.”
“But so is my Lord’s Grace of York (the archbishop) himself an Arundel.”
“Ay—as mecounteth you shall see, one day.”
“Time will show,” said Bertram, drily.
It was quite true that Archbishop Arundel had for some two years been throwing dust in Lollard eyes by plausible57 professions of conversion58 to some of the views of that party. At a time when I was less acquainted with his character and antecedents, I gave him credit for sincerity59. (Note 1.) I know him better now. He was merely playing a very deep game, and this was one of his subtlest moves. His assumption of Lollardism, or of certain items of it, was only the assumption of a mask, to be worn as long as it proved serviceable, and then to be dropped and forgotten. The time for the mask to drop had come now. The death of Archbishop Courtenay, July 31, 1396, left open to Thomas de Arundel the sole seat of honour in which he was not already installed. Almost born in the purple (Note 2), he had climbed up from ecclesiastical dignity to dignity, till at last there was only one further height left for him to scale. It could surprise no one to see the vacant mitre set on the astute60 head of Gloucester’s confessor and prompter.
The Earl of Rutland presented himself at Westminster Palace before his sister left it, attended as usual by his squire, Hugh Calverley. Bertram and Maude at once wished to know all the news of Langley, from which place they had come. Hugh seemed acquainted with no news except one item, which was that Father Dominic, having obtained a canonry, had resigned his post of household confessor to the Palace; and a new confessor had been appointed in his stead.
“And who is the new priest?” asked Bertram. “One Sir Marmaduke de Tyneworth.” (A fictitious61 person.)
“And what manner of man is he?”
“A right honest man and a proper (a fitting, satisfactory man), say they who have confessed unto him; more kindly62 and courteous63 than Father Dominic.”
“He hath then not yet confessed thee?”
“I never confess,” said Hugh quietly. The impression made upon Bertram’s feelings by this statement was very much that which would be left on ours, if we heard a man with a high reputation for piety64 calmly remark that he never prayed.
“Never confess!” he repeated in astonished tones. “Not to men. I confess unto God only.”
“But how canst, other than by the priest?”
“What hardship, trow? Can I not speak save by the priest?”
“No can I? Ay verily, friend, I can!”
“But—” Bertram stopped, with a puzzled look.
“Come, out with all thy buts,” said Hugh, smilingly.
“Why, methinks—and holy Church saith it—that this is God’s means whereby men shall approach unto Him: nor hath He given unto us other.”
“Holy Church saith it? Ay so. But where saith God such a thing?”
Bertram was by no means ignorant of Wycliffe’s Bible, and he searched his memory for authority or precedent66.
“Well, thou wist that the man which had leprosy was bidden to show him unto the priest, the which was to declare if his malady67 were true leprosy or no.”
“The priest being therein an emblem68 or mystery of Christ, which is true Healer of the malady of sin.”
“Ah!” said Bertram triumphantly69, “but lo’ thou, when our Lord Himself did heal one that had leprosy, what quoth He? ‘Show thyself to the priest,’ saith He: not, ‘I am the true Priest, and therefore thou mayest slack to show thee to yon other priest, which is but the emblem of Me.’”
“Because,” replied Hugh, “He did fulfil the law, and made it honourable70. Therefore saith He, ‘Show thyself to the priest.’ The law held good until He should have fulfilled the same.”
“But mind thou,” urged Bertram eagerly, “it was but the lither (wicked, abandoned) Pharisees which did speak like unto thee. What said they save the very thing thou wouldst fain utter—to wit, ‘Who may forgyve synnes but God aloone?’ And alway our Lord did snyb and rebuke71 these ill fawtors.”
“Friend, countest thou that the Jew which had leprosy, and betook him unto the high priest, did meet with contakes because he went not likewise unto one of the lesser72? Either this confession73 unto the priest is to be used with, or without, the confession unto God. If to be used without, what is this but saying the priest to be God? And if to be used with, what but saying that God is not sufficient, and the High Priest may not act without the lesser priest do aid Him?”
“But what sayest touching74 the Pharisees?” repeated Bertram, who was not able to answer Hugh’s argument, and considered his own unanswerable.
“What say I?” was the calm answer. “Why, I say they spake very sooth, saving that they pushed not the matter to its full issue. Had they followed their reasoning on to the further end, then would they have said, and spoken truly, ‘If this man can in very deed forgive sin, then is He God.’ Mark, I pray thee, what did our Lord in this matter. He brought forth His letters of warrant. He healed the palsied man afore them—‘that ye wite,’ saith He, ‘that mannes sone hath power in erthe to forgyve synnes.’ As though He had said unto them, ‘Ye say well; none may forgive sins but God alone: wherefore see, in My forgiving of sin, the plain proof that I am God’s Son.’ To show them that He had power to forgive sin, He did heal this man of his malady. And verily I ask no more of any priest that would confess me, but only that he bring forth his letters of warrant, as did his Master and mine. When I shall I see him to heal the sick with a word, then will I crede that he can forgive sin in like manner. Lo’ thou, if he can forgive, he can heal: if he can heal by his word, then can he forgive.”
“Saint James also saith that men should confess their sins.”
“‘Ech to othire’—well: when it liketh Sir Marmaduke to knowledge his sins unto me, then will I mine unto him, if we have done any wrong each to other. But look thou into that matter of Saint James, and thou shalt find it to touch not well men, but only sick; which, knowledging their sins when their conscience is troubled, and praying each for other, shall be healed of their sickness.”
“Moreover, Achan did confession unto Josue,” said Bertram, starting another hare.
“Ah! Josue was a priest, trow?”
“Nay, but if it be well to knowledge our sins each to other, it shall not be worse because the man is a priest.”
“Nor better,” said Hugh, in his quietest manner.
“Nay!” urged Bertram, who thought he had the advantage here, “but an’ it be well to confess at all, it is good to confess unto any: and if to any, to a woman; or if to a woman, to a man; or to a man, then to a priest.”
Hugh gave a soft little laugh.
“Good friend, I could prove any gear in the world by that manner of reasoning. If it be good to confess unto any, then unto anything that liveth; and if so, then to a beast; and if to a beast, then to yonder cat. Come hither, Puss, and hear this my friend his confession!”
“Have done with thy mocking!” cried Bertram. “And mind thou, the Lord did charge the holy apostles with power to forgive sins.”
“Granting that so be—what then?”
“What then? Why, that priests have now the like power.”
“But what toucheth it the priests?”
“In that they be successors unto the apostles.”
“In what manner?”
Hugh was evidently not disposed to take any links of the chain for granted.
“Man!” exclaimed Bertram, almost in a pet, “wist not that Paul did ordain76 Timothy Bishop55 of Ephesus, and bade him do the like to other,—and so from each to other was the blessed grace handed down, till it gat at the priests that now be?”
“Was it so?” said Hugh coolly. “But when and where bade Paul that Timothy should forgive sins?”
Bertram found it much harder to prove his assertion than to state it. He could only answer that he did not know.
“Nor I neither,” returned Hugh. “Nor Timothy neither, without I much mistake.”
“I must needs give thee up. Thou art the worst caitiff to reason withal, ever mortal man did see!”
Hugh laughed.
“Lo’ you, friend, I ask but for one instance of authority. Show unto me any passage of authority in God’s Word, whereby any priest shall forgive sins; or show unto me any priest that now liveth, which shall bring forth his letters of warrant by healing a man all suddenly of his sickness whatsoever77, and I am at a point. Bring him forth, prithee; or else confess thou hast no such to bring.”
“Hold thy peace, for love of Mary Mother!” said Bertram, passing his irrepressible opponent a plateful of smoking pasty, for the party were at supper; “and fill thy jaws78 herewith, the which is so hot thou shalt occupy it some time.”
“My words being, somewhat too hot for thee, trow?” rejoined Hugh comically. “Good. I can hold my peace right well when I am wanted so to do.”
When Constance returned home to Cardiff, she remained there for some little time without any further visit to Court. She alone of all the Princesses was absent from the Church of Saint Nicholas at Calais, when the King was married there to the Princess Isabelle of France—a child of only eight years old. Something far more interesting to herself detained her at Cardiff; where, on the 30th of November, 1396, an heir was born to the House of Le Despenser.
That the will of “the Lady” stood paramount79 we see in the name given to the infant. He was christened after her favourite brother, Richard—a name unknown in his father’s line, whose family names were always Hugh and Edward.
In their unfeigned admiration80 of this paragon81 of babies, its mother and grandmother sank all their previous differences. But when the difficult question of education arose, the differences reappeared as strongly as ever. The only notion which Constance had of bringing up a child was to give it everything it cried for; while the Dowager was prepared to go a long way in the opposite direction, and give it nothing in respect to which it showed the slightest temper. The practical result was that the boy was committed to the care of Maude, whom both agreed in trusting, with the most contradictory82 orders concerning his training. Maude followed the dictates83 of her own common sense, and implicitly84 obeyed the commands of neither of the rival authorities; but as little Richard throve well under her care, she was never called to account by either.
The year 1397 brought a political earthquake, which ended in the destruction of three of the five grand traitors86, the Lords Appellants. The commons had at last opened their eyes to the real state of affairs. The conspirators87 were meditating88 fresh projects of treachery, when by the advice of the Dukes of Lancaster and York, Gloucester was arrested and imprisoned89 at Calais, where he died on the 15th of September, either from apoplexy or by a private execution. Richard Earl of Arundel, the tool of his priestly brother, was beheaded six days later. The Earl of Warwick, who had been merely the blind dupe of the others, was banished90 to the Isle91 of Man. The remaining two—the ambitious Derby, and the conceited92 Nottingham—contrived in the cleverest manner, not only to escape punishment, but to obtain substantial rewards for their loyalty93! Derby presented a very humble94 petition on behalf of both, in which he owned, with so exquisite a show of penitence95, to having listened to the suggestions of the deceased traitors, and been concerned in “several riotous96 disturbances”—professed himself and his friend to be so abjectly97 repentant98, and so irrevocably faithful for ever henceforward—that King Richard, as easily deceived as usual, hastened to pardon the repenting99 sinners. But there was one man in the world who was not deceived by Derby’s plausible professions. Old Lancaster shook his white head when he heard that his son was not only pardoned, but restored to favour.
“’Tis hard matter for father thus to speak of son,” he said to his royal nephew; “nathless, my gracious Lord, I do you to wit that you have done a fool deed this day. You shall never have peace while Hal is in this kingdom.”
“Fair Uncle, I am sure he will repay me!” was the response of the warm-hearted Richard.
“Ha!” said John of Gaunt, and sipped100 his ipocras with a grim smile. “Sans doute, Monseigneur, sans doute!”
Westminster Hall beheld101 a grand and imposing102 ceremony on the Michaelmas Day of 1397. The King sat in state upon his throne at the further end, the little Queen beside him, and the various members of the royal line on either side—Princes on the right, Princesses on the left. The Duchess of Lancaster had the first place; then the Duchess of York, particularly complacent103 and resplendent; the Duchess of Gloucester, who should have sat third, was closely secluded104 (of her free will) in the Convent of Bermondsey. Next sat the Countess of March, the elder sister of the Duchess Joan, and wife of the Lollard heir of England. The daughters of the Princes followed her. Elizabeth, Countess of Huntingdon, daughter of the Duke of Lancaster, whom that day was to make a duchess, and who bore away the palm from the rest as “the best singer and the best dancer” of all the royal ladies, held her place, beaming with smiles, and radiant with rubies105 and crimson106 velvet107. Next, arrayed in blue velvet, sat the only daughter of York, Constance Lady Le Despenser. Round the hall sat the nobles of England in their “Parliament robes,” each of the married peers with his lady at his side; while below came the House of Commons, and lower yet, outside the railing, the people of England, in the shape of an eager, sight-seeing mob. There was to be a great creation of peers, and one by one the names were called. As each of the candidates heard his name, he rose from his seat, and was led up to the throne by two nobles of the order to which he was about to be raised.
“Sir Henry of Bolingbroke, Earl of Derby!” The gentleman whose unswerving loyalty was about to be recompensed by the gift of a coronet (!) rose with his customary grace from his seat, third on the right hand of the King, and was led up by his father of Lancaster and his uncle of York. He knelt, bareheaded, before the throne. A sword was girt to his side, a ducal coronet set on his head by the royal hand, and he rose Duke of Hereford. As old Lancaster resumed his seat, he smiled grimly under his white beard, and muttered to himself—“Sans doute!”
“Sir Edward of Langley, Earl of Rutland!”
Constance’s brother was similarly led up by his father and his cousin, the newly-created Duke, and he resumed his princely seat, Duke of Aumerle, or Albemarle.
Hereford and Aumerle were the two to lead up the candidate. He was the son of the King’s half-brother, and was reputed the handsomest of the nobles: a tall, finely-developed man, with the shining golden hair of his Plantagenet ancestors. He was created Duke of Surrey.
Hereford sat down, and Surrey and Aumerle conducted John Earl of Huntingdon to the throne. He was half-brother of the King, uncle of Surrey, and husband of the royal songstress who sat and smiled in crimson velvet. He had stepped out of the family ranks; for instead of being tall, fair, and good-looking, like the rest of his house, he was a little dark-haired man, whom no artist would have selected as a model of beauty. A strong anti-Lollard was this nobleman, a good hater, a prejudiced, violent, unprincipled man; possessed of two virtues109 only—honesty and loyalty. He had been cajoled for a time by Gloucester, but his brother knew him too well to doubt his sincerity or affection. He was made Duke of Exeter.
The next call was for—“Sir Thomas de Mowbray, Earl of Nottingham!” And up came the last of the “Lords Appellants,” painfully conscious in his heart of hearts that while he might have been in his right place on the scaffold in Cheapside, he was very much out of it in Westminster Hall, kneeling to receive the coronet of Norfolk.
A coronet was now laid aside, for the recipient110 was not present. She was an old lady of royal blood, above seventy years of age, the second cousin of the King, and great-grandmother of Nottingham. Her style and titles were duly proclaimed as Duchess of Norfolk for life.
But when “Sir John de Beaufort, Earl of Somerset!” was called for, the peer summoned rose and walked forward alone. He was to be created a marquis—a title of King Richard’s own devising, and at that moment borne by no one else. The Earl came reluctantly, for he was very unwilling111 to be made unlike other people; and he dropped his new title, and returned to the old one, as soon as he conveniently could. He had a tall, fine figure, but not a pleasant face; and his religion, no less than his politics, he wore like a glove—well-fitting when on, but capable of being changed at pleasure. Just now, when Lollardism was “walking in silver slippers,” my Lord Marquis of Dorset was a Lollard. Rome rarely persecutes112 men of this sort, for she makes them useful in preference.
The Earls of Northumberland and Suffolk were the supporters of Le Despenser, who walked forward with a slow, graceful114 step, to receive from the King’s hand an earl’s coronet, accompanied by the ominous115 name of Gloucester—a title stained by its last bearer beyond remedy. In truth, the royal dukedom had been an interpolation of the line, and the King was merely giving Le Despenser back his own—the coronet which had belonged to the grand old family of Clare, whose co-heiress was the great-grandmother of Thomas Le Despenser. The title had been kept as it were in suspense116 ever since the attainder of her husband, the ill-fated Earl Hugh, though two persons had borne it in the interim117 without any genuine right.
Three other peers were created, but they do not concern the story. And then the King rose from his throne, the ceremony was over; and Constance Le Despenser left the hall among the Princesses by right of her birth, but wearing her new coronet as Countess of Gloucester.
Four months later, the Duke of Hereford knelt before the throne, and solemnly accused his late friend and colleague, the Duke of Norfolk, of treason. He averred118 that Norfolk had tempted119 him to join another secret conspiracy120. Norfolk, when questioned, turned the tables by denying the accusation121, and adding that it was Hereford who had tempted him. Since neither of these noble gentlemen was particularly worthy122 of credit, and they both swore very hard on this occasion, it is impossible to decide which (if either) was telling the truth. The decision finally arrived at was that both the accusers should settle their quarrel by wager16 of battle, for which purpose they were commanded to meet at Coventry in the following autumn.
Before the duel123 took place, an important event occurred in the death of Roger Mortimer, the Lollard Earl of March, whom the King had proclaimed heir presumptive of England. He was Viceroy of Ireland, and was killed in a skirmish by the “wild Irish.” March, who was only 24 years of age, left four children, of whom we shall hear more anon, to be educated by their mother, Archbishop Arundel’s niece, in her own Popish views. He is described by the monkish124 chroniclers as “very handsome and very courteous, most dissolute of life, and extremely remiss125 in all matters of religion.” We can guess pretty well what that means. “Remiss in matters of religion,” of course, refers to his Lollardism, while the accusation of “dissolute life” is notoriously Rome’s pet charge against those who escape from her toils126. Such was the sad and early end of the first and only Lollard of the House of Mortimer.
The duel between Hereford and Norfolk was appointed to take place on Gosford Green, near Coventry, on the 16th of September. The combatants met accordingly; but before a blow was struck, the King took the matter upon himself and forbade the engagement. On the 3rd of October, licence was granted to Hereford to travel abroad, this being honourable banishment127; no penalty was inflicted128 upon Norfolk. But some event—perhaps never to be discovered—occurred, or came to light during the following ten days, which altered the whole aspect of affairs. Either the King found out some deed of treason, of which he had been previously129 ignorant, or else some further offence was committed by both Hereford and Norfolk. On the 13th both were banished—Hereford for ten years, Norfolk for life; the sentence in the former case being afterwards commuted130 to six years. Those who know the Brutus-like character of John of Gaunt, and his real opinion of his son’s proceedings131, may accept, if they can, the representations of the monastic chroniclers that the commutation of Hereford’s sentence was made at his intercession.
In the interim, between the duel and the sentence, Archbishop Arundel was formally adjudged a traitor85, and the penalty of banishment was inflicted on him also.
Constance was too busy with her nursery to leave Cardiff, where this autumn little Richard was joined by a baby sister, who received the name of Elizabeth after the Dowager Lady. But the infant was not many weeks old, when, to use the beautiful phrase of the chroniclers, she “journeyed to the Lord.” She was taken away from the evil to come.
It was appropriate enough that the last dread132 year of the fourteenth century should be ushered133 in by funeral knells134. And he who died on the third of February in that year, though not a very sure stay, was the best and last support of the Gospel and the throne. It was with troubled faces and sad tones that the Lollards who met in the streets of London told one to another that “old John of Gaunt, time-honoured Lancaster,” was lying dead in the Bishop of Ely’s Palace.
But the storm was deferred135 for a few weeks longer. There were royal visits to Langley and Cardiff, on the way to Ireland, the Earl of Gloucester accompanying the King to that country. And then, when Richard had left the reins136 of government in the feeble hands of York, the tempest burst over England which had been lowering for so long.
The Lady Le Despenser and the Countess of Gloucester were seated at breakfast in Cardiff Castle, on a soft, bright morning in the middle of July. Breakfast consisted of fresh and salt fish, for it was a fast-day; plain and fancy bread, different kinds of biscuits (but all made without eggs or butter); small beer, and claret. Little Richard was energetically teasing Maude, by whom he sat, for another piece of red-herring, and the Dowager, deliberate in all her movements, was slowly helping137 herself to Gascon wine. The blast of a horn without the moat announced the arrival of a guest or a letter, and Bertram Lyngern went out to see what it was. Ten minutes later he returned to the hall, with letters in his hand, and his face white with some terrible news.
“Ill tidings, noble ladies!”
“Is it Dickon?” cried the Countess.
“Is it Tom?” said the Dowager.
“There be no news of my Lord, nor from Langley,” said Bertram. “But my Lord’s Grace of Hereford, and Sir Thomas de Arundel, sometime Archbishop, be landed at Ravenspur.”
“Landed at Ravenspur!—Banished men!”
The loyal soul of Elizabeth Le Despenser could imagine nothing more atrocious.
“Well, let them land!” she added in a minute. “The Duke’s Grace of York shall wit how to deal with them. Be any gathered to them?”
“Hundreds and thousands,” was the ominous answer.
“Ay me!” sighed the Dowager. “Well! ‘the Lord reigneth.’”
Constance’s only comment on the remarks was a quiet, incredulous shrug138 of her shoulders. She knew her father.
And she was right. Like many another, literally139 and figuratively, York went over to the enemy’s ground to parley140, and ended in staying there. One of the two was talked over—but that one was not the rebel, but the Regent.
Poor York! Looking back on those days, out of the smoke of the battle, one sees him a man so wretchedly weak and incapable141 that it is hardly possible to be angry with him. It does not appear to have been conviction, nor cowardice142, nor choice in any sense, which caused his desertion, but simply his miserable143 incapacity to stand alone, or to resist the influence of any stronger character on either side. He go to parley with the enemy! He might as well have sent his baby grandson to parley with a box of sugar-plums.
Fresh news—always bad news—now came into Cardiff nearly every day.
The King hurried back from Ireland to Conway, and there gathered his loyal peers around him. There were only sixteen of them. Dorset, always on the winning side, deserted144 the sinking ship at once. Aumerle more prudently145 waited to see which side would eventually prove the winner.
Exeter and Surrey were sent to parley with the traitors. They were both detained, Surrey as a prisoner, Exeter with a show of friendship. The latter was too fertile in resources, and too eloquent146 in speech, not to be a dangerous foe147. He was therefore secured while the opportunity offered.
Then came the treacherous148 Northumberland as ambassador from Hereford, whom we must henceforth designate by his new title of Lancaster.
Northumberland’s lips dropped honey, but war was in his heart. He offered the sweetest promises. What did they cost? They were made to be broken. So gentle, so affectionate were his solicitations to the royal hart to enter the leopard’s den—so ready was he to pledge word and oath that Lancaster was irrevocably true and faithful—that the King listened, and believed him. He set forth with his little guard, quitting the stronghold of Flint Castle, and in the gorge149 of Gwrych he was met by Northumberland and his army, seized, and carried a prisoner to Chester.
This was the testing moment for the hitherto loyal sixteen. Aumerle, who had satisfied himself now which way the game was going, went over to his cousin at once. Worcester broke his white wand of office, and retired150 from the contest. Some fled in terror. When all the faithless had either gone or joined Lancaster, there remained six, who loved their master better than themselves, and followed, voluntary prisoners, outwardly in the train of Henry of Lancaster, but really in that of Richard of Bordeaux.
These six loyal, faithful, honourable men our story follows. They were—Thomas Le Despenser, Earl of Gloucester; John de Montacute, Earl of Salisbury; Thomas de Holand, Duke of Surrey; William Le Scrope, Earl of Wilts151; Richard Maudeleyn, chaplain to the King; John Maudeleyn (probably his brother), varlet of the robes.
Slowly the conqueror152 marched Londonwards, with the royal captive in his train. Westminster was reached on the first of September. From that date the coercion153 exercised over the King was openly and shamelessly acknowledged. His decrees were declared to be issued “with the assent154 of our dearest cousin, Henry Duke of Lancaster.” At last, on Michaelmas Day, the orders of that loving and beloved relative culminated155 in the abdication156 of the Sovereign.
The little group of loyalists had now grown to seven, by the addition of Exeter, who joined himself to them as soon as he was set at liberty. They remained in London during that terrible October, and most of them were present when, on the 13th of that month, Henry of Lancaster was crowned King of England.
There stood the vacant throne, draped in gold-spangled red; and by it, on either hand, the Lords Spiritual and Temporal. The hierarchy157 were, on the right, Arundel at their head, having coolly repossessed himself of the see from which he had been ejected as a traitor; an expression of contemptuous amusement hovering158 about his lips, which might be easily translated into the famous (but rather apocryphal) speech of Queen Elizabeth to the men of Coventry—“Good lack! What fools ye be!” On the left hand of the throne stood Lancaster, his lofty stature159 conspicuous160 among his peers, waiting with mock humility161 for the farce162 of their acknowledgment of his right. Next him was his uncle of York, wearing a forced smile at that which his conscience disapproved163, but his will was impotent to reject. Aumerle came next, his face so plainly a mask to hide his thoughts that it is difficult to judge what they were. Then Surrey, with a half-astonished, half-puzzled air, as though he had never expected matters really to come to this pass. His uncle Exeter, who sat next him, looked sullen164 and discontented. The other peers came in turn, but their faces are not visible in the remarkable165 painting by an eye-witness from which those above are described, with the exception of the tellers166, the traitor Northumberland, and the cheery round-faced Westmoreland. These went round to take the votes of the peers. There were not likely to be many dissenting167 voices, where to vote No was death.
Henry stated his assumption of power to rest upon three points. First, he had conquered the kingdom; secondly168, his cousin, King Richard, had voluntarily abdicated169 in his favour; and lastly, he was the true heir male of the crown.
“Ha!” said the little Earl of March, the dispossessed heir general, “haeres malus, is he?”
It was not a bad pun for seven years old.
If Henry of Bolingbroke may be credited, the majority of the loyal six, and Thomas Le Despenser among them, not only sat in his first Parliament, but pleaded compulsion as the cause of their petition against Gloucester, and consented to the deposition170 of King Richard, while some earnestly requested the usurper171 to put the Sovereign to death. While some of these allegations are true, the last certainly is false. One of those named as having joined in the last petition is Surrey; and his alleged172 participation173 is proved to be a lie. Knowing how lightly Henry of Bolingbroke could lie, it is hardly possible to believe otherwise of any member of the group, except indeed the time-serving Aumerle.
Note 1. See “Mistress Margery,” preface, page six.
Note 2. His mother, Alianora of Lancaster, was the daughter of Earl Henry, son of Prince Edmund, son of Henry the Third.
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1
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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wrench
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| v.猛拧；挣脱；使扭伤；n.扳手；痛苦，难受 | |
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uprooting
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| n.倒根，挖除伐根v.把（某物）连根拔起( uproot的现在分词 )；根除；赶走；把…赶出家园 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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irate
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| adj.发怒的，生气 | |
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affronted
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| adj.被侮辱的，被冒犯的v.勇敢地面对( affront的过去式和过去分词 )；相遇 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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spouse
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| n.配偶(指夫或妻) | |
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omissions
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| n.省略( omission的名词复数 )；删节；遗漏；略去或漏掉的事（或人） | |
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glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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wager
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| n.赌注；vt.押注，打赌 | |
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garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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chaff
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| v.取笑，嘲笑；n.谷壳 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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squires
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| n.地主，乡绅( squire的名词复数 ) | |
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squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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draughts
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| n. <英>国际跳棋 | |
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forefathers
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| n.祖先，先人；祖先，祖宗( forefather的名词复数 )；列祖列宗；前人 | |
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primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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fixtures
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| （房屋等的）固定装置( fixture的名词复数 )； 如（浴盆、抽水马桶）； 固定在某位置的人或物； （定期定点举行的）体育活动 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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disapproval
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| n.反对，不赞成 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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embark
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| vi.乘船，着手，从事，上飞机 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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confidentially
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| ad.秘密地，悄悄地 | |
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40
twine
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| v.搓，织，编饰；（使）缠绕 | |
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boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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eventual
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| adj.最后的，结局的，最终的 | |
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tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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pettish
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| adj.易怒的，使性子的 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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46
privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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48
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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51
mortify
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| v.克制，禁欲，使受辱 | |
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52
nought
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| n.／adj.无，零 | |
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53
riddle
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| n.谜，谜语，粗筛；vt.解谜，给…出谜，筛，检查，鉴定，非难，充满于；vi.出谜 | |
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54
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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55
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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57
plausible
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| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
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conversion
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| n.转化，转换，转变 | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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60
astute
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| adj.机敏的，精明的 | |
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61
fictitious
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| adj.虚构的，假设的；空头的 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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65
absolving
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| 宣告…无罪，赦免…的罪行，宽恕…的罪行( absolve的现在分词 )； 不受责难，免除责任 [义务] ,开脱（罪责） | |
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precedent
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| n.先例，前例；惯例；adj.在前的，在先的 | |
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malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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emblem
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| n.象征，标志；徽章 | |
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69
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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71
rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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75
wade
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| v.跋涉，涉水；n.跋涉 | |
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ordain
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| vi.颁发命令；vt.命令，授以圣职，注定，任命 | |
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whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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paramount
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| a.最重要的，最高权力的 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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paragon
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| n.模范，典型 | |
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contradictory
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| adj.反驳的，反对的，抗辩的；n.正反对，矛盾对立 | |
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dictates
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| n.命令，规定，要求( dictate的名词复数 )v.大声讲或读( dictate的第三人称单数 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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implicitly
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| adv. 含蓄地, 暗中地, 毫不保留地 | |
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traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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traitors
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| 卖国贼( traitor的名词复数 )； 叛徒； 背叛者； 背信弃义的人 | |
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conspirators
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| n.共谋者，阴谋家( conspirator的名词复数 ) | |
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meditating
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| a.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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isle
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| n.小岛，岛 | |
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conceited
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| adj.自负的，骄傲自满的 | |
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loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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penitence
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| n.忏悔，赎罪；悔过 | |
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riotous
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| adj.骚乱的；狂欢的 | |
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abjectly
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| 凄惨地； 绝望地； 糟透地； 悲惨地 | |
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repentant
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| adj.对…感到悔恨的 | |
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repenting
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的现在分词 ) | |
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100
sipped
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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101
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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102
imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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103
complacent
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| adj.自满的；自鸣得意的 | |
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104
secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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105
rubies
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| 红宝石( ruby的名词复数 )； 红宝石色，深红色 | |
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106
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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107
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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108
baron
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| n.男爵；(商业界等)巨头，大王 | |
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109
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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110
recipient
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| a.接受的,感受性强的 n.接受者,感受者,容器 | |
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111
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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112
persecutes
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| （尤指宗教或政治信仰的）迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的第三人称单数 )； 烦扰，困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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113
herald
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| vt.预示...的来临，预告，宣布，欢迎 | |
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114
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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115
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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116
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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117
interim
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| adj.暂时的，临时的；n.间歇，过渡期间 | |
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118
averred
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| v.断言( aver的过去式和过去分词 )；证实；证明…属实；作为事实提出 | |
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119
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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120
conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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121
accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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122
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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123
duel
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| n./v.决斗；(双方的)斗争 | |
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124
monkish
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| adj.僧侣的，修道士的，禁欲的 | |
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125
remiss
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| adj.不小心的，马虎 | |
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126
toils
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| 网 | |
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127
banishment
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| n.放逐，驱逐 | |
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128
inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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129
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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130
commuted
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| 通勤( commute的过去式和过去分词 )； 减（刑）； 代偿 | |
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131
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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132
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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133
ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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134
knells
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| n.丧钟声( knell的名词复数 )；某事物结束的象征 | |
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135
deferred
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| adj.延期的，缓召的v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的过去式和过去分词 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
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136
reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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137
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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138
shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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139
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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140
parley
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| n.谈判 | |
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141
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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142
cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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143
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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144
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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145
prudently
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| adv. 谨慎地，慎重地 | |
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146
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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147
foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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148
treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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149
gorge
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| n.咽喉，胃，暴食，山峡；v.塞饱，狼吞虎咽地吃 | |
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150
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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151
wilts
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| （使）凋谢，枯萎( wilt的第三人称单数 ) | |
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152
conqueror
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| n.征服者，胜利者 | |
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153
coercion
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| n.强制，高压统治 | |
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154
assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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155
culminated
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| v.达到极点( culminate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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156
abdication
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| n.辞职；退位 | |
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157
hierarchy
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| n.等级制度；统治集团，领导层 | |
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158
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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159
stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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160
conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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161
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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162
farce
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| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
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163
disapproved
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| v.不赞成( disapprove的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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164
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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165
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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166
tellers
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| n.（银行）出纳员( teller的名词复数 )；（投票时的）计票员；讲故事等的人；讲述者 | |
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167
dissenting
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| adj.不同意的 | |
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168
secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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169
abdicated
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| 放弃（职责、权力等）( abdicate的过去式和过去分词 )； 退位，逊位 | |
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170
deposition
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| n.免职，罢官；作证；沉淀；沉淀物 | |
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171
usurper
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| n. 篡夺者, 僭取者 | |
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172
alleged
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| a.被指控的，嫌疑的 | |
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173
participation
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| n.参与，参加，分享 | |
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