How many among us at this very hour
Do forge a life-long trouble for themselves,
By taking true for false, or false for true!”
Tennyson.
Three months had rolled away since that thirteenth of January which had made Constance a widow. Her versatile3, volatile4 nature soon recovered the shock of her husband’s violent death. The white garments of widowhood which draped her found little response either in the gravity of her demeanour or in the expression of her face. But on the Dowager Lady the effect was very different. She became an old, infirm woman all at once; but her manner was softer and gentler. She learned to make more allowance for temperaments5 which entirely6 differed from hers. There were no further efforts to repress her little grandson’s noisy glee, no more cold responses to his occasionally troublesome demonstrations7 of affection. The alteration8 was quiet, but lasting9.
It was an hour after dinner, and Maude sat alone at work in the banquet-hall. She was almost unconsciously humming to herself the air of a troubadour chanson—an air as well-known to ourselves as to her, though we have turned it into a hymn10 tune11, and have christened it Innocents, or Durham. A fresh stave was just begun, when the hall door opened, and a voice at the further end announced—
“A messenger from my Lord of Aumerle!”
Maude rose as the messenger approached her.
“Your servant, sir! If you bear any letter, I will carry the same unto my Lady.”
“Here is the letter, Mistress Maude,” replied the messenger with a smile. “Methinks I am more changed than you be.”
Maude looked more narrowly at him.
“I know you now, Master Calverley,” she said, a smile breaking over her lips. “But you ware12 not that beard the last time I did see you.”
She took the letter to Constance, and when she returned, she found Hugh and his old friend Bertram in close conversation.
“Verily, sweet Hugh,”—Bertram was saying—“there is one thing in this world I can in no wise fathom13! How thy Lord—”
“There be full many things in this world that I cannot,” interposed Hugh.
“How thy Lord ordereth his dealings is beyond me,” ended Bertram.
“In good sooth, I have enough ado to look to mine own dealings, though I should let other men’s be,” answered Hugh.
“Lo’ you now, Mistress Maude! Here is my Lord of Aumerle—you wis somewhat of his deeds—high in favour with the King, and prevailing14 upon his Grace to grant all manner of delicates (good things) unto our Lady. He hath soothly-stirred (persuaded) him unto the bestowal15 of every manor16 that was our late Lord’s father’s (whom God assoil!) and of all his jewels, and of the custody17 of the young Lord. And ’tis not four months gone since he sold our Lord to his death! What signifieth he by this whileness?” (Whirling, turning round.)
Maude shook her head, as if to say that she could not tell. She had resumed her work, the hemming18 of what she (not very elegantly) called a sudary, and we, euphemistically but tautologically19, a pocket-handkerchief.
“Ah! ’tis a blessed thing to have a brother!” observed Bertram with irony20. “Well!—and what news, sweet Hugh, of olden friends?”
“None overmuch,” responded Hugh, “unless it be of the death of Father Wilfred, of the Priory at Langley.”
“Ah me!” exclaimed Bertram regretfully.
“Master Calverley,” said Maude, looking up, “do me to wit, of your goodness, if you wot any thing touching22 the Lady Avice de Narbonne?”
“But so much,” answered he, “that she hath taken veil upon herself in the Minoresses’ convent at Aldgate, and is, I do hear, accounted of the sisters a right holy and devout23 woman.”
“Marry, I am well fain to hear so good news,” said Maude.
“Good news, Mistress Maude! forsooth, were I lover or kinsman24 of the fair lady, I would account them right evil news,” commented Bertram, in a tone of some surprise.
“Methinks I conceive what Mistress Maude signifieth,” quietly observed Hugh. “She accounteth that the Lady Avice shall find help and comfort in the Minoresses’ house.”
“Ay, in very deed,” said Maude, “the which methinks she could never have found without.”
“God have it so!” answered Hugh, gently. “Yet I trust, Mistress Maude, that our Lord may be found without convent cell, as lightly (easily) as within it.”
“Matters be reasonable peaceful at this present. But methinks King Henry sitteth not over delightsomely on his throne, seeing he hath captivated (captured) the four childre of my sometime Lord of March, and shut them close in the Castle of Windsor.”
“Hath he so?” asked Bertram, with interest. “Poor hearts!”
“Be they small childre?” said Maude, compassionately26.
“Ay me, Master Calverley! Have they any mother?”
“Trust me, ay!” broke in Bertram. “Why, have you forgot that my Lady of March is sister unto the Duchess’ Grace of York?”
“And is she prisoned with the childre?”
“Holy Mary! the King’s Grace lacketh not her,” said Bertram.
“She was dancing at the Court a few weeks gone,” returned Hugh rather drily, “with her servant (lover), the Baron28 of Powys, a-waiting upon her; and so was likewise the Lady Elizabeth, my Lord of Exeter his widow, with the Lord Fanhope. Men say there shall be divers29 weddings at Court this next summer, and these, as I reckon, among them.”
“Ah! the Lady Elizabeth’s Grace danceth right well!” said Bertram sarcastically31. “Marry, Robin32 Falconer, of my Lord’s Grace of York’s following, which bare hither certain letters this last month, told me they had dances at Court in Epiphany octave, when we rade for our lives from Oxford33; and that very night my Lord’s Grace of Exeter was beheaden at Pleshy, his wife, the Lady Elizabeth, was at the cushion dance and singing to her lute34 in the Lady Blanche (the Princess Royal) her chamber35, where all the Court was gathered.”
“Aid us, our Lady of Pity!” whispered Maude in a shocked voice.
“There be some women hard as stones!” pursued Bertram disgustedly.
For men knew the Lady Elizabeth well in those days, as fairest and gayest of the Princesses. She was King Henry’s favourite sister, though that royal gentleman showed his favour rather oddly, by granting her a quantity of damaged goods of her late husband, among which were sundry37 towels, “used and torn.” During the terrible struggle which had just occurred, she had sided with her brother, against King Richard, of whom her husband Exeter was a fervent39 partisan40. Perhaps such vacillation41 as was occasionally to be seen in Exeter’s conduct may be traced to her influence. The night that King Richard was taken, she “made good cheer,” though the event was almost equivalent to the signing of her husband’s death-warrant. I doubt if we must not class this accomplished42 and beautiful Elizabeth among the most heartless women whose names have come down to us on the roll of history. And where a woman is heartless, she is heartless indeed.
“Forsooth, Master Lyngern, methinks I wis what you mean by women hard as stones,” observed Maude with a slight shudder43. “They do give me alway the horrors.”
“And, pray you, which were better—to have a stone or a butterfly to your wife?” asked Hugh, laughingly.
“The stone, in good surety,” said Bertram. “I were allgates (always) afeard of hurting the butterfly.”
“Very well,” responded Hugh, rather drily; “but the stone might hurt thee.”
The summer passed very quietly at Cardiff, except for one incident. Maude spent it in learning to read, for which she had always had a strong wish, and now coaxed48 Father Ademar to teach her. The confessor was a Lollard, and was therefore not deterred49 by any fear of her becoming acquainted with forbidden books. He willingly complied with Maude’s wish.
The incident which disturbed the calm was a hostile visit of Owain Glyndwr, who appeared with a large force on the tenth of July, and held the Church of Saint Mary against all comers, until driven out with great slaughter51. On the very morning of his appearance, the last baby came to Cardiff Castle—a baby which would never see its father. The Bishop52 of Llandaff, who was a guest in the Castle, was obliged to reconsecrate the church before the child could be christened. It was not till late in the evening that the little lady was baptised by the name of Isabel, after the dead Infanta. She might have been born to illustrate54 Bertram’s observations, for her heart was as hard as a stone, and as cold.
When Maude became able to read well, she was installed in the post of daily reader to the Dowager. Constance had never cared for books; but the old lady, who had been a great reader for her time, missed her usual luxury now that age was dimming her eyes, and was very glad to employ Maude’s younger sight. The book was nearly always one of Wycliffe’s, and the reading invariably closed with a chapter of his Testament55. Now and then, but only now and then, she would ask for a little poetry—taking by preference that courtly writer whom she knew as a great innovator56, but whom we call the father of English poetry. But she was very particular which of his poems was selected. The Knight’s, the Squire’s, the Man of Law’s, the Prioress’s, and the Clerk’s Tales, were all that she would have of that book by which we know Geoffrey Chaucer best. She liked better the graceful57 fairy tale of the Flower and the Leaf, written for the deceased Lollard Queen; and best of all that most pathetic lamentation58 for the Duchess Blanche of Lancaster, whom Elizabeth Le Despenser had known personally in her youth. Maude would never have suspected the Dowager of the least respect for poetry; and she was surprised to watch her sit by the open casement59, dreamily looking out on the landscape, while she read to her of the “white ycrowned Queen” of the Daisy, or of the providential interpositions by which “Crist unwemmèd kept Custance,” or oftener yet—
“But what visage had she thereto?
That I ne can discriven it
Me lacketh both English and wit...
For certes Nature had such lest
To make that fair, that truly she
Was her chief patron of beautè,
And chief ensample of all her work
And monstre—for be ’t ne’er so derk,
Methinketh I see her evermo’!”
But this, as has been said, was only now and then. The words which were far more common were Wycliffe’s; and those which were invariable were Christ’s.
When Maude began this work, she had not the remotest idea of changing her faith, nor even of inquiring into the grounds on which it rested. She entertained no personal prejudice against the Lollards, with whom she associated her dead mistress the Infanta, and her young murdered master; but she vaguely63 supposed their doctrines64 to be somehow unorthodox, and considered herself as good a “Catholic” as any one. She noticed that Father Ademar gave her fewer penances66 than Father Dominic used to do; that he treated her mistakes as mistakes only, and not as sins; that generally his ideas of sin had to do rather with the root of evil in the heart than with the diligent67 pruning68 of particular branches; that he said a great deal about Christ, and not much about the saints. So Maude’s change of opinion came, over her so gradually and noiselessly that she never realised herself to have undergone any change at all until it was unalterable and complete.
The realisation came suddenly at last, with a passing word from Dame69 Audrey, the mistress of the household at Cardiff.
“Nay,” she had said, a little contemptuously, in answer to some remark: “Mistress Maude is too good to consort70 with us poor Catholics. She is a great clerk, quotha! and hath Sir John de Wycliffe his homilies and evangels at her tongue’s end. Marry, I count in another twelvemonth every soul in this Castle saving me shall be a Lollard.”
Maude was startled. Was the charge true—that she was no longer a “Catholic,” but a Lollard? And if so, in what did the change consist of which she was herself unconscious?
That afternoon, when she sat down to read to the Dowager as usual, Maude asked timidly—
“Madam, under your Ladyship’s good leave, there is a thing I would fain ask at you.”
“Might it like you to arede me, Madam, of your grace—in what regard, and to what greatness, the Lollards do differ from the Catholics?”
The Dowager smiled, but she looked a little surprised.
“A short question, forsooth, my maid, the which to answer shortly should lack sharper wit than mine. But I will give thee to wit so far as I can. We do believe that all things which be needful for a Christian72 man to know, be founden in God’s Word, yclept Holy Scripture73: so that all other our differences take root in this one. For the which encheson (reason) we do deny the Pope to have right and rule over this our Church of England, which lieth not in his diocese, neither find we in Holy Scripture that the Bishop of Rome should wield74 rule over other Bishops75; but that in every realm the King thereof should be highest in estate over the priests as over any other of his subjects. Wherefore likewise we call not upon the saints, seeing that Holy Scripture saith ‘oo God and a Mediatour is of God and of men, a man, Crist Jesu:’ neither may we allow the holy bread of the blessed Sacrament of the Altar to be the very carnal flesh of our Saviour76 Christ, there bodily present, seeing both that Paul sayeth of it ‘this breed’ after that it be consecrate53, and moreover that our own very bodily senses do deny it to be any other matter. So neither will any of us use swearing, which is utterly77 forbid in God’s Word; neither hold we good the right of sanctuary78, ne the power of the Pope’s indulgence, ne virginity of the priesthood—seeing that no one of all these be bidden by Holy Scripture.”
The old lady paused, and cut off her loose threads before she continued, in a rather more constrained79 voice.
“Beyond all these,” she then added, “there be other matters wherein certain of us do differ from other. To wit, some of us do love to sing unto symphony (music) the praise and laud80 of God; the which othersome (of whom am I myself) do account to be but a vain indulgence of the flesh, and a thing unmeet for its vanity to be done of God’s servants dwelling81 in this evil world. Some do hold that childre ought not to be baptised, but only them that be of age to perceive the signification of that holy rite36: herein I see not with them. Likewise there be othersome that would have the old prayers for to abide82, being but a form of words; while other (of whom be I) do understand such forms to be but things dead and dry, and we rather would pray unto our Lord with such words as He in the instant moment shall show unto us—the which (nowise contaking (reproaching) other) we do nathless judge to be more agreeable with Holy Scripture. But wherefore wouldst know all this, my maid?”
Maude’s answer was not a reply according to grammar, but it showed her thoughts plainly enough. She had been carefully comparing her own inward convictions with the catalogue as it proceeded. She certainly could see no harm either in infant baptism or sacred music: as to the question of forms of prayer, she had never considered it. But on all the other points, though to her own dismay, she found herself exactly in agreement with the description given by the Dowager.
“Then I am a Lollard, I account!” she said at last, with a sigh.
“And what if so, my maid?” quietly asked the old lady.
“Good Madam, can I so be, and yet be in unity83 with the Catholic Church?” said Maude in a tone of distress84. “Methinks ’tis little comfort to be not yet excommunicate, if I do wit that an’ holy Church knew of mine errors, she should cut me away as a dry branch. And yet—” and a very puzzled, troubled look came into Maude’s face—“what I crede, I crede; ne can I thereof uncharge (disburden) me.”
“My maid,” said the Dowager earnestly, looking up, “the true unity of the Church Catholic is the unity of Christ. He said not ‘Come into the Church,’ but ‘Come to Me.’ He that is one with Christ cannot be withoutenside Christ’s Church.”
No more was said at that time; but what she had heard already left Maude’s mind in a turmoil85. She next, but very cautiously, endeavoured to ascertain86 the opinions of her mistress. Constance made her explain her motive87 in asking, and then laughed heartily88.
“By Saint Veronica her sudary, what matter? Names be but names. So long as a man deal uprightly and keep him from deadly sin—call him Catholic, call him Lollard—is he the worser man? There be good and ill of every sort. I have known some weary tykes (really, a sheep-dog; used as a term of reproach) that were rare Catholics; and I once had a mother that is with God and His angels now, and men called her a Lollard.”
Evidently Constance’s practical religion was summed up in the childish phrase—“Be good.” An excellent medicine—if the patient were not unable to swallow.
Maude tried Bertram next, and felt, to use her own phrase, more “of a bire” (confused) than ever. For she found him nearly in the same state of mind as herself, but advanced one step further. Convinced that the true meaning of Lollardism was plain adhesion to Holy Scripture, he was prepared to accept the full consequences. He had not only been thinking for himself, but talking with Hugh Calverley: and Hugh, like his father, was a Lollard of the most extreme type.
“It seemeth me, Mistress Maude,” he said boldly, “less dread89 to say that the Church Catholic must needs have erred50, than to say that God in His Word can err38.”
“But the whole Church Catholic!” objected Maude in a most troubled voice. “All the holy doctors and bishops that have ever been—yea, and the very Fathers of the Church!”
“‘Nyle ye clepe to you a fadir on erthe,’” replied Bertram gravely.
“But, Master Lyngern, think you, the Holy Ghost dwelleth in the priests, and so He doth not in slender folk like to you and me.”
“Ay so?” answered he, with a slight curl of his lip. “He dwelleth in such men as my Lord of Canterbury, trow? Our Lord saith the tree is known by his fruits. It were a new thing, mereckoneth, for a man to be indwelt of the Holy Ghost, and to bring forth90 fruits of the Devil.”
“But our Lord behote (promised) to dwell in His Church alway,” urged Maude, though she was arguing against herself.
“He behote to dwell in all humble91 and faithful souls—they be His Church, Mistress Maude. I never read in no Scripture that He behote to write all the Pope’s decretals, nor to see that no Archbishop of Canterbury should blunder in his pastorals.”
“But the Church, Master Lyngern—the Church cannot err! Holy Scripture saith it.”
“Ay so?” said Bertram again. “Where?”
Maude was obliged to confess that she did not know where; she had “alway heard say the same;” but finding Bertram rather too much for her in argument, she carried her difficulty to Father Ademar when she next went to confession92. She would never have propounded93 such a query94 to Father Dominic at Langley, since it would most certainly have ensured her a severe scolding and some oppressive penance65; perhaps to lie flat on the threshold of the chapel95 and let every one pass over her, perhaps to lick the dust all round the base of the Virgin’s pedestal. And Maude’s own private conviction was that penances of this kind never did her the least good. Father Dominic told her that they humbled96 her. It was true they made her feel humiliated97; but was that the same as feeling humble? They also made her feel irritated and angry—with whom, or with what, she hardly knew; but certainly with some person or thing outside of herself. But they never made her think that she had done wrong—only that she had been misunderstood and badly used.
Matters were very different with Father Ademar. He was so quiet and gentle that Maude never felt afraid of him. Confession to Father Dominic bore the awful aspect cast over a visit to a dentist’s surgery; but confession to Father Ademar was (at least to Maude) merely talking over her difficulties with a friend. He often said, “Pray our Lord to grant thee wisdom in this matter,” but he never said, “Repeat fifty Aves and ten Paternosters.” And when Maude now laid her troubles before him as lucidly98 as she could, he gave her an answer which, she thought at first, did not touch the case at all, and yet which in the end settled every difficulty connected with it.
“Daughter,” said the Lollard priest, “there is another question which must be first answered. Thou hast taken up the golden rod by the wrong end. Turn it around and have the other ensured; then we will talk of this.”
“What other question, Father?”
“The same that our Lord asked of the sick man at the cistern99 (pool)—‘Wilt thou be made whole?’ Art thou of the unity of Christ?—art thou one with Him? Hast thou closed with Him? Wist thou that ‘He loved thee, and gave Himself for thee?’ For without thou be first ensured of this, it shall serve thee but little to search all the tomes of the Fathers touching the unity of the Church.”
“But if I be in the true Church, Father, I must needs be of the unity of Christ.”
“Truth,” said Father Ademar, in his quietest manner. “Then turn the matter about, as I bade thee, and see whether thou art in Christ. So shalt thou plainly see thyself to be in the true Church.”
Maude was silenced, but at first she was not convinced. Ademar did not press her answer. He left her to decide the question for herself. But many months passed away, fraught100 with many struggles and heart searchings and deep studies of Wycliffe’s Bible, before Maude was able to decide it. Bertram, whose mental nature was less self-conscious and analytical101 than hers, was at peace long before she was. But the day came at last when Maude was able to answer Ademar’s question—when she could say, “Father, I am of the true Church, because I am one with Christ.”
The life at Cardiff Castle was very quiet—much too quiet to please Constance, who was again becoming extremely restless. They heard of wars and rumours102 of war—conspiracy103 after conspiracy, all more or less futile104: some to free King Richard, whom a great number believed to be still living; some to release and crown the little Earl of March, yet a close prisoner in Windsor Castle; some to depose105 or assassinate106 Henry. But they were all to the dwellers107 in Cardiff Castle like the sounds of distant tempest, until the summer of 1402, when two terrible events happened almost simultaneously108, and one at their very doors. Owain Glyndwr, the faithful Welsh henchman of King Richard, took and burnt Cardiff in one of his insurrectionary marches; sparing the Castle and one of the monasteries109 on account of the loyalty110 (to Richard) of their inmates111; and about the same time Hugh Calverley came one day from Bristol, to summon the Princess to come immediately to Langley. Her father was dying.
Constance reached Langley in time to receive his last blessing112. He died in the same quiet, apathetic113 manner in which he had lived—his intellect insufficient114 to realise all the mischief115 of which he had been guilty, but having realised one mistake he had made—his second marriage. He desired to be buried in the Priory Church at Langley, by the side of his “dear wife Isabel,” whose worth he had never discovered until she was lost to him for ever.
It was on the first of August that Edmund of Langley died. After his funeral, the Duchess Joan—now a young woman of nineteen—intimated her intention of paying a visit to Court, as soon as her first mourning was over, and blandishingly hoped that her dear daughter would do her the pleasure of accompanying her. Maude would have liked her mistress to decline the invitation, for she would far rather have gone home. But Constance accepted it eagerly. It was exactly what she wished. They reached Westminster Palace just after the King had returned from his autumn progress, and he expressed a hope that his aunt and cousin would stay with him long enough to be present at the approaching ceremony of his second marriage with the Duchess Dowager of Bretagne.
It was the evening after their arrival at Westminster, and Maude sat on a stool in the great hall, every now and then recognising and addressing some acquaintance of old time. On the daïs was a brilliant crowd of royal and semi-royal persons, among whom Constance sat engaged in animated116 conversation, and evidently enjoying herself. Maude knew most of them by sight, but as her eyes roved here and there, they lighted on a young man coming up towards the dais whom she did not know. He stopped almost close to her, to speak to Aumerle, now Duke of York, so that Maude had time and opportunity to study him.
He was dressed in the height of the fashion. In the present day his costume would be thought supremely117 ridiculous for a man; but when he wore it, it was considered perfectly118 enchanting119. It consisted of a gown—similar to a long dressing-gown, nearly touching the feet—of blue velvet120, spangled with gold fleur-de-lis, and lined with white satin; an under-tunic (equivalent to a waistcoat) of bright apple-green satin, with wide sweeping121 sleeves of the same, cut at the edge into imitations of oak-leaves. Under these were tight sleeves of pink velvet, edged at the wrist by white frills, and a similar white frill finished the gown at the neck. His boots were black velvet, with white buttons; they were about a yard long, tapering122 to a point, and were tied up to the garter by silver chains, a pattern resembling a church window being cut through the upper portion of the boot. These very fashionable and most uncomfortable articles were known as cracowes, having come over from Germany with the late Queen Anne. In the young man’s hand was a black velvet cap, covered by a spreading plume123 of apple-green feathers. Round the waist, outside the gown, was a tight black velvet band, to which was fastened the scabbard of a golden-hilted sword.
This extremely smart young gentleman was Sir Edmund de Holand, Earl of Kent,—brother and heir of the Duke of Surrey, and brother also of Constance’s step-mother. He was a true Holand in appearance, nearly six feet in height, most graceful in carriage, very fair in complexion124, his hair a glossy125 golden colour, with a moustache of similar shade. His age was just twenty-one. He was pre-eminently handsome—surpassing even Surrey. His eyes were of the softest blue, clear and bright; his voice soft, musical, and insinuating126.
I am careful to describe the Earl of Kent fully21, because he is about to become a prominent person in the story, and also because he had absolutely nothing to recommend him beyond his physical courage, his taste in dress, his fascinating manners, and his very handsome person. These points have to be dwelt upon, since his virtues127 lay entirely in them.
Kent and York conversed128 in a low tone for some minutes. When the subject seemed exhausted129, York turned quickly round to his sister, as if a sudden idea had occurred to him.
“Lady Custance! You remember my Lord of Kent, trow?—though methinks you have scarce met together sithence we were all childre.”
Constance lifted up her eyes, and offered her hand to Kent’s kiss of homage130. Ay, to her utter misery131 and undoing132, like Elaine—
—“she lifted up her eyes,
Not worth such love as that, Constance! Not worth one beat of that true heart which was stilled at Bristol, and which now lies, dust to dust, in Tewkesbury Abbey. This man will not love you as he did, to the end. He will only give you what love he can spare from himself, for he is his own most cherished treasure. And it will be—as, a few hours later, you whisper to yourself, pulling the petals134 from a white daisy—“un peu—beaucoup—point du tout:”—a little yesterday, intense to-day, and none at all to-morrow.
Constance and Kent saw a good deal of each other during her visit to Westminster. Her brother of York evidently furthered his suit to the utmost of his power. Maude, who had learned utterly to distrust the Duke of York, set herself to consider what his reason could be. That York rarely did any thing except with some ulterior and selfish object, she was satisfied. But the more she thought about the matter, the further she found herself from arriving at any conclusion. The secret was to be revealed to her before long. The plotting brain of the Prince was busy as usual in the concoction135 of another conspiracy, and to forward his purposes on this occasion he intended to make a catspaw of his sister. The plot was not yet quite ripe; but when it should be, for Constance to be Kent’s wife would make her all the more eligible136 as a tool.
The ceremonies attendant on the royal marriage were over; the King was about to take the field against another insurrection of Glyndwr, and the Earl of Kent had undertaken to guard him to Shrewsbury. Maude, in close attendance on her mistress, heard the parting words between Kent and Constance.
“You will render me visit at Cardiff, my Lord?”
“Sweet Lady, were it possible I could neglect such bidding?”
Constance journeyed in the royal train for a distance, and turned off towards Cardiff, when their ways parted.
Her manner when she arrived at home was particularly affectionate, both to the Dowager and her children, of whom little Richard was now eight years old, while Isabel had just reached four. The keen eyes of the old lady—much sharper mentally than physically—soon discerned the presence of some new element in her daughter-in-law’s mind. She closely questioned Maude as to what had happened, or was about to happen; and after a minute’s hesitation137, Maude told her all she knew and feared. For some time after receiving this information, Elizabeth Le Despenser sat gazing uneasily from the lattice, with unwontedly idle hands.
“Sister’s son unto our adversary138!” she murmured to herself at last. “Whither shall this tend? Verily, there is One stronger than Thomas de Arundel. Is He leading us blind by a way that we know not?—for in very sooth I cannot discern the way. If so it be, then—Lord, lead Thou on!”
Kent paid his visit to Cardiff in the winter, accompanied by Constance’s pet brother, Lord Richard of Conisborough, who had been promoted to his father’s old dignity of Earl of Cambridge. It was the first time that the Dowager had seen either; and she afterwards communicated her impressions of the pair to Maude, as they sat together at work.
“As touching the Lord Richard, he is gent and courteous139 enough; he were no ill companion, an’ he knew his own mind a little better. Mayhap three of him, or four, might make a man amongst them.”
For Cambridge, though in a much fainter degree, reflected his father’s character by finding it very difficult to say no.
“And what thinks your Ladyship of my Lord of Kent?” asked Maude with some anxiety.
“Marry, my maid, what think I of my Lord of Kent his barber, and his tailor?” said she; “for they made my Lord of Kent betwixt them. He is not a man of God’s making.”
“But think you, Madam, he is to be trusted or no?”
“Trusted!—for what? To oil his golden locks, and perfume well his sudary, and have his sleeves of the newest cutting? Ay, forsooth, and that right worthily141!”
“I meant,” explained Maude, “to have a care of our Lady.”
The Earl of Kent returned to Court, and for some time stayed there. He was rather too busy to prosecute143 his wooing. The Lord Thomas of Lancaster, one of the King’s sons, was projecting and executing an expedition from Calais to Sluys, and he took Kent with him; so that, with one or another obstacle arising, Constance’s second marriage was not quite so quick in coming as Maude had expected. But at last it did come.
The Duke of York and his Duchess—not long married—and the Earl of Cambridge, journeyed to Cardiff for their sister’s wedding. The Duchess of York, though both an heiress and a beauty, left no mark on her time. She was by profession at least a Lollard; and since Lollardism was not now walking in silver slippers144, this says something for her. But in all other respects she appears to have been one of those beautiful, mindless women whom clever men frequently marry. Perhaps no woman with a decided145 character of her own would have ventured on such a husband as Edward Duke of York.
It was a mild winter day, and a picnic was projected in the woods near Cardiff. The wedding was to take place in about a week. Maude rode on a pillion to the scene where the rustic146 dinner was to be behind Bertram Lyngern, who seemed in a particularly bright and amiable147 mood. When a woman rode on a pillion, it must be remembered that she was in a very insecure position; and it was an absolute necessity for the fair rider to clasp her arms round the waist of the man who sat before her, and, when the road was rough, to cling pretty tightly. It was therefore desirable that the pair should be at least reasonably civil to one another, and should not get on quarrelsome terms. There was little likelihood of Maude’s quarrelling with Bertram, her friend of twenty years’ standing148; but she did not share his evident light-heartedness as he rode carolling along, now breaking out into a snatch of one song, and now of another, and constantly interrupting himself with playful remarks.
“‘Sitteth all still, and hearkeneth to me:
The King of Almayne, by my léauté,
Thritti thousand pound asked he—’
“A squirrel, Mistress Maude! shall I catch it?
“Dame avec l’oeil de beauté—
“So, my good lad, softly! so, Lyard! How clereful a day! Nigh as soft as summer.
“‘Summer is ycomen in—
Merry sing, cuckoo!
And springeth wood anew.’
“Be merry, Mistress Maude, I pray you! you mope not, surely?”
“I scarce know, Master Lyngern. Mayhap so.”
“Shame to mope on such a day!” said Bertram, springing from the saddle, and holding his hand to help Maude to jump down also. “There hath not been so fair a morrow this month gone.”
He was soon busy unpacking150 the sumpter-mules’ bags, with two or three more; and dinner was served under the shade of the trees, without any consideration of ceremony. Our fathers spent so much of their time out of doors, and dressed for the season so much more warmly than we do, that they chose days for picnics at which we should shudder. After dinner Maude wandered about a little by herself, and at length sat down at the foot of a lofty oak. She had not been there many minutes before she saw Constance and York coming slowly towards her, evidently in earnest conversation.
“Lo’ you here, Ned!” said Constance eagerly, when she caught sight of Maude. “Here is one true as steel. If that you say must have no eavesdroppers, sit we on the further side of this tree; and Maude, hold where thou art, and if any come this way, give a privy151 pluck at my gown, and we will speak other.”
They sat down on the other side of the oak.
“Custance,” began her brother, “I misconceive not, trow, to account thee yet true to the cause of King Richard, be he where he may?”
York knew, as certainly as he knew of his own existence, that Richard had been dead five years. But it suited his purpose to speak doubtfully.
“Certes, Ned, of very inwitte!” (Most heartily.)
“Well. And if King Richard were dead, who standeth next heir?”
“My Lord of March, no manner of doubt.”
“Good again. Then we thus stand: King Henry that reigneth hath no right; and the true King is shut up in Pomfret, or, granting he be dead, is then shut up in Windsor.”
“Well, Ned?”
“Shall we—thou and I—free young March and his brother and sisters?”
“Thou and I!”
She was evidently doubtful. Edward took a stronger bolt from his quiver.
“Custance, Dickon loves Anne Mortimer.”
That was a different matter. If Dickon wanted Anne Mortimer or anything else, in his sister’s eyes, he must have it. To refuse to help Ned was one thing, but to refuse to help Dickon was quite another.
“But how should we win in?”
Edward drew a silver key from his pocket.
“I gat this made of a smith, Custance, a year gone. ’Tis a key for my strong-room at Langley, the which was lost with other my baggage fording the Thames, and I took the mould of the lock in wax, and gave it unto the smith.”
He looked in her face, pausing a little between the sentences, to make sure that she understood him; and he saw by her eyes that she did. The very peril152 and uncertainty153 involved in such an adventure gave it a charm for her.
“When, Ned?”
“When I send word.”
“Very well. I will be ready.”
Before Edward could reply, Bertram Lyngern’s horn sounded through the forest, saying distinctly to all who heard it, “Time to go home!” The three rose and walked towards the trysting-place, both Constance and Maude possessed154 of some ideas which had never presented themselves to them before.
Bertram and Maude rode back as they had come. Maude was very silent, which was no wonder; and so, for ten minutes, was Bertram. Then he began:—
“How liked you this forest life, Mistress Maude?”
“Well, Master Lyngern, and I thank you,” said she absently.
“Why, Master Lyngern, you know that as well as I.”
Maude wished he would have left her to her own thoughts, from which his questions were no diversion in any sense.
“Mistress Maude, when will you be wed?”
The diversion was effected.
“I, Master Lyngern! I am not about to wed.”
“Are you well avised of that, Mistress Maude?”
“If you will take mine avisement, you will be wed likewise,” said Bertram gravely.
“What mean you, Master Lyngern?”
Maude was really hurt. She liked Bertram, and here he was making fun of her, without the least consideration for her feelings.
“Marry, I mean that same,” responded Bertram coolly. “Would it like you, Mistress Maude?”
“Methinks you had better do me to wit whom your avisement should have me to wed,” said Maude, standing on her dignity, and manufacturing an angry tone to keep herself from crying. She would certainly have released her hold of Bertram, and have sat on her pillion in indignant solitude156, if she had not felt almost sure that the result would be a fall in the mud. Bertram’s answer was quick and decided.
“Me!”
Maude would have answered with properly injured dignity if she could; but a disagreeable lump of something came into her throat which spoilt the effect.
“Thou hadst better wed me, Maude,” said Bertram coaxingly157, dropping his voice and his conventionalities together. “There is not a soul loveth thee as I do; and thou likest me well.”
“I pray you, Master Lyngern, when said I so much?” responded Maude, stung into speech again.
“Just twenty years gone, little Maude,” was the gentle answer.
Bertram’s voice had changed from its bantering158 tone into a tender, quiet one, and Maude felt more inclined to cry than ever.
“Is that saying truth no longer, Maude?”
Maude’s conscience whispered to her that she must not say any thing of the sort. Still she thought it only proper to hold out a little longer. She was silent; and Bertram, who thought she was coming round, let her alone for a short time. The grey towers of Cardiff slowly rose to view, and in a few seconds more they would no longer be alone.
“Well, Maude?” asked Bertram softly. “Is it ay or nay?”
“As you will, Master Lyngern.”
This was Bertram’s wooing; and Maude wondered, when she was alone, if any woman had been so wooed before.
Constance expressed the greatest satisfaction when she heard of her bower159-woman’s approaching marriage; but one item of Bertram’s project she commanded altered—namely, that Maude’s nuptials160 should not take place on the same day as her own.
“Why, Maude!” she said, “if our two weddings be one day, I shall have but an half-day’s rejoical, and thou likewise! Nay, good maid! we will have each her full day, and a bonfire in the base court, and feasting, and dancing to boot. Both on one day, quotha! marry, but that were niggardly161.”
So Maude was married on the Saturday previous to her mistress. She was dressed in lilac damask, trimmed with swansdown, and her hair, for the last time in her life, streamed over her shoulders and fell at its own sweet will. Matrons always tucked away their hair in the dove-cote, while widows were careful not to show a single lock. Bertram exhibited extraordinary splendour, for he was generally rather careless about his dress. He wore a red damask gown, trimmed with rabbit’s fur; a bright blue under-tunic; a pair of red boots with white buttons; and he bore in his hand a copped hat of blue serge. The copped hat had no brim, and was about a foot and a half in height. Bertram’s appearance, therefore, to say the least, was striking.
When the ceremony was just completed, without any previous intimation, the Duke of York, who was present, drew his sword, and lightly struck the shoulder of the bridegroom, before he could rise from his knees.
“Rise, Sir Bertram Lyngern!”
The grander wedding was on the following Thursday. The Earl of Kent’s costume baffles description. Suffice it to say that it cost two thousand pounds. The royal bride doffed164 her widow’s weeds, and appeared in a crimson165 silk deeply edged with ermine, low in the neck, but with long sleeves to the wrist. She wore the dovecote, and over it an open circlet of gold and gems166, to mark her royal rank.
At the threshold of Constance’s bower, after the ceremony, the old Lady Le Despenser met the Earl and Countess of Kent.
“The Lord bless you, fair daughter!” she said, laying her hands on the bowed head of the bride.
But a little later the same evening, she said unexpectedly, “Ay me! I am but a blind thing, Dame Maude; yet this match of the Lady Custance doth sorely misgive167 me.”
At the other end of the room, the Duke of York was saying, “You will visit me at Langley, fair sister, this coming spring?”
“With a very good will, Ned.”
It only remains168 to be noted169 that Father Ademar officiated at both marriages; and that as in those days people went home for the honeymoon170, not away from it, the Earl and Countess set out from Cardiff in a few days for Brockenhurst, the birthplace and favourite residence of the young Earl. The children were left with their grandmother; they were to follow, in charge of Maude and Bertram, to Langley, where their mother intended to rejoin them. Maude continued to be bowerwoman to her mistress; but some of the more menial functions usually discharged by one who filled that office, were now given to a younger girl, who bore the name of Eva de Scanteby.
It was in the evening of a lovely spring day that Constance, accompanied by Kent, rejoined Maude and her children at Langley.
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1
purblind
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| adj.半盲的；愚笨的 | |
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2
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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versatile
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| adj.通用的，万用的；多才多艺的，多方面的 | |
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4
volatile
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| adj.反复无常的，挥发性的，稍纵即逝的，脾气火爆的；n.挥发性物质 | |
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temperaments
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| 性格( temperament的名词复数 )； （人或动物的）气质； 易冲动； （性情）暴躁 | |
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6
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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demonstrations
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| 证明( demonstration的名词复数 )； 表明； 表达； 游行示威 | |
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8
alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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9
lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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10
hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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11
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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12
ware
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| n.(常用复数)商品，货物 | |
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13
fathom
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| v.领悟，彻底了解 | |
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14
prevailing
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| adj.盛行的；占优势的；主要的 | |
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15
bestowal
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| 赠与，给与； 贮存 | |
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16
manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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custody
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| n.监护，照看，羁押，拘留 | |
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18
hemming
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| 卷边 | |
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19
tautologically
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| [计] 反复地 | |
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20
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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21
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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22
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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23
devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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24
kinsman
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| n.男亲属 | |
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25
nought
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| n.／adj.无，零 | |
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26
compassionately
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| adv.表示怜悯地，有同情心地 | |
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27
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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28
baron
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| n.男爵；(商业界等)巨头，大王 | |
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29
divers
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| adj.不同的；种种的 | |
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30
wed
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| v.娶，嫁，与…结婚 | |
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31
sarcastically
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| adv.挖苦地，讽刺地 | |
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32
robin
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| n.知更鸟，红襟鸟 | |
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33
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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34
lute
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| n.琵琶，鲁特琴 | |
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35
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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36
rite
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| n.典礼，惯例，习俗 | |
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37
sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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38
err
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| vi.犯错误，出差错 | |
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39
fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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40
partisan
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| adj.党派性的；游击队的；n.游击队员；党徒 | |
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41
vacillation
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| n.动摇；忧柔寡断 | |
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42
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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43
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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44
naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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45
repudiated
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| v.（正式地）否认( repudiate的过去式和过去分词 )；拒绝接受；拒绝与…往来；拒不履行（法律义务） | |
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46
imputation
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| n.归罪，责难 | |
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47
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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48
coaxed
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| v.哄，用好话劝说( coax的过去式和过去分词 )；巧言骗取；哄劝，劝诱 | |
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49
deterred
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| v.阻止，制止( deter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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50
erred
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| 犯错误，做错事( err的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51
slaughter
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| n.屠杀，屠宰；vt.屠杀，宰杀 | |
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52
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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53
consecrate
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| v.使圣化，奉…为神圣；尊崇；奉献 | |
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54
illustrate
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| v.举例说明，阐明；图解，加插图 | |
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55
testament
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| n.遗嘱；证明 | |
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56
innovator
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| n.改革者；创新者 | |
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57
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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58
lamentation
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| n.悲叹，哀悼 | |
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59
casement
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| n.竖铰链窗；窗扉 | |
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60
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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61
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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62
phoenix
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| n.凤凰，长生(不死)鸟；引申为重生 | |
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63
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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64
doctrines
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| n.教条( doctrine的名词复数 )；教义；学说；（政府政策的）正式声明 | |
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65
penance
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| n.（赎罪的）惩罪 | |
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66
penances
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| n.（赎罪的）苦行，苦修( penance的名词复数 ) | |
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67
diligent
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| adj.勤勉的，勤奋的 | |
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68
pruning
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| n.修枝，剪枝，修剪v.修剪（树木等）( prune的现在分词 )；精简某事物，除去某事物多余的部分 | |
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69
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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70
consort
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| v.相伴；结交 | |
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71
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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72
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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73
scripture
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| n.经文，圣书，手稿；Scripture:(常用复数)《圣经》，《圣经》中的一段 | |
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74
wield
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| vt.行使，运用，支配；挥，使用(武器等) | |
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75
bishops
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| （基督教某些教派管辖大教区的）主教( bishop的名词复数 )； （国际象棋的）象 | |
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76
saviour
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| n.拯救者，救星 | |
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77
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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78
sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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80
laud
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| n.颂歌；v.赞美 | |
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81
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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82
abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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83
unity
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| n.团结，联合，统一；和睦，协调 | |
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84
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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85
turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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86
ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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87
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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88
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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89
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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90
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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91
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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92
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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93
propounded
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| v.提出（问题、计划等）供考虑[讨论]，提议( propound的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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94
query
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| n.疑问，问号，质问；vt.询问，表示怀疑 | |
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95
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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96
humbled
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| adj. 卑下的，谦逊的，粗陋的 vt. 使 ... 卑下，贬低 | |
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97
humiliated
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| 感到羞愧的 | |
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98
lucidly
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| adv.清透地，透明地 | |
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99
cistern
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| n.贮水池 | |
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100
fraught
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| adj.充满…的，伴有(危险等)的；忧虑的 | |
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101
analytical
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| adj.分析的；用分析法的 | |
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102
rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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103
conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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104
futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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105
depose
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| vt.免职；宣誓作证 | |
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106
assassinate
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| vt.暗杀，行刺，中伤 | |
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107
dwellers
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| n.居民，居住者( dweller的名词复数 ) | |
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108
simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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109
monasteries
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| 修道院( monastery的名词复数 ) | |
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110
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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111
inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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112
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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113
apathetic
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| adj.冷漠的，无动于衷的 | |
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114
insufficient
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| adj.(for，of)不足的，不够的 | |
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115
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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116
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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117
supremely
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| adv.无上地，崇高地 | |
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118
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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119
enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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120
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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121
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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122
tapering
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| adj.尖端细的 | |
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123
plume
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| n.羽毛；v.整理羽毛，骚首弄姿，用羽毛装饰 | |
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124
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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125
glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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126
insinuating
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| adj.曲意巴结的，暗示的v.暗示( insinuate的现在分词 )；巧妙或迂回地潜入；（使）缓慢进入；慢慢伸入 | |
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127
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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128
conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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129
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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130
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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131
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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132
undoing
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| n.毁灭的原因，祸根；破坏，毁灭 | |
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133
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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134
petals
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| n.花瓣( petal的名词复数 ) | |
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135
concoction
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| n.调配(物)；谎言 | |
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136
eligible
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| adj.有条件被选中的；(尤指婚姻等)合适(意)的 | |
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137
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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138
adversary
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| adj.敌手，对手 | |
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139
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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140
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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141
worthily
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| 重要地，可敬地，正当地 | |
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142
ointment
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| n.药膏，油膏，软膏 | |
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143
prosecute
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| vt.告发；进行；vi.告发，起诉，作检察官 | |
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144
slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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145
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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146
rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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147
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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148
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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149
mead
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| n.蜂蜜酒 | |
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150
unpacking
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| n.取出货物，拆包[箱]v.从（包裹等）中取出（所装的东西），打开行李取出( unpack的现在分词 )；拆包；解除…的负担；吐露（心事等） | |
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151
privy
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| adj.私用的；隐密的 | |
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152
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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153
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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154
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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155
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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156
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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157
coaxingly
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| adv. 以巧言诱哄，以甘言哄骗 | |
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158
bantering
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| adj.嘲弄的v.开玩笑，说笑，逗乐( banter的现在分词 )；（善意地）取笑，逗弄 | |
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159
bower
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| n.凉亭，树荫下凉快之处；闺房；v.荫蔽 | |
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160
nuptials
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| n.婚礼；婚礼( nuptial的名词复数 ) | |
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161
niggardly
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| adj.吝啬的，很少的 | |
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162
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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163
prefix
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| n.前缀；vt.加…作为前缀；置于前面 | |
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164
doffed
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| v.脱去，（尤指）脱帽( doff的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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165
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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166
gems
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| growth； economy； management； and customer satisfaction 增长 | |
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167
misgive
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| v.使担心 | |
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168
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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169
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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170
honeymoon
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| n.蜜月（假期）；vi.度蜜月 | |
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