And every lady went hame,
Than ilka lady had her yong sonne,
But Lady Helen had nane.”
“I have come home, Mother!”
It was Constance who spoke3, standing4 in the hall at Cardiff, wrapped in the arms of the Dowager Lady Le Despenser. And in every sense, from the lightest to the deepest, the words were true. The wanderer had come home. Home to the Castle of Cardiff, which she was never to leave any more; home to the warm motherly arms of Elizabeth Le Despenser, who cast all her worn-out theories to the winds, and took her dead son’s hapless darling to her heart of hearts; home to the great heart of God. And the ear of the elder woman was open to a sound unheard by the younger. The voice of that dead son echoed in her heart, repeating his dying charge to her—“Have a care of my Lady!”
“My poor stricken dove!” sobbed5 the Lady Elizabeth. “Child, men’s cruel handling hath robbed thee of much, yet it hath left thee God and thy mother!”
Constance looked up, with tears gleaming in her sapphire6 eyes, now so much calmer and sadder than of old.
“Ay,” she said, the remembrance thrilling through her of the heavy price at which she had bought back her children; “and I have paid nought7 for God and thee.”
“Nay8, daughter dear, Christ paid that wyte (forfeit) for thee. We may trust Him to have a care of the quittance,” (receipt).
The children now claimed their share of notice. Richard kissed the old lady in an energetic devouring10 style, and proclaimed himself “so glad, Grammer, so glad!” Isabel offered her cheek in her cold unchildlike way. The baby Alianora at once accepted the new element as a perfectly11 satisfactory grandmamma, and submitted to be dandled and talked nonsense to with pleased equanimity12.
“It is well, wife, that God loveth her better than thou,” was the answer. “He will not leave his jewel but half polished, because the sound of the cutting grieveth thine ears.”
“But how could she bear aught more?”
“Dear heart! how know we what any man can bear—aye, even our own selves? Only God knoweth; and we trust Him. The heavenly Goldsmith breaketh none of His gems14 in the cutting.”
The doors of the prison in Windsor Castle were opened that spring to release two of the state prisoners. The dangerous prisoner, Edmund Earl of March, remained in durance; and his bright little brother Roger had been set free already, by a higher decree than any of Henry of Bolingbroke. The child died in his dungeon15, aged16 probably about ten years. Now Anne and Alianora were summoned to Court, and placed under the care of the Queen. They were described by the King as “deprived of all their relatives and friends.” They were not quite that; but in so far as they were, he was mainly responsible for having made them so.
The manner in which King Henry provided the purchase-money required by the Duke of Milan for Lucia is amusing for its ingenuity18. The sum agreed upon was seventy thousand florins; and the King paid it out of the pockets of five of his nobles. One was his own son, Thomas Duke of Clarence; the second and third were husbands of two of Kent’s sisters—Sir John Neville and Thomas Earl of Salisbury—the latter being the son of the murdered Lollard; the fourth was Lord Scrope, whose character appears to have been simple to an extreme; and the last was assuredly never asked to consent to the exaction19, for he was the hapless March, still close prisoner in Windsor Castle.
In the summer, Constance received a grant of all her late husband’s lands. The Court was very gay that summer with royal weddings. The first bride was Constance’s young stepmother, the Duchess Joan of York, who bestowed21 her hand on Lord Willoughby de Eresby: the second was the King’s younger daughter, the Princess Philippa, who was consigned22 to the ungentle keeping of the far-off King of Denmark. Richard of Conisborough was selected to attend the Princess to Elsinore; but he was so poor that the King was obliged to make all the provision he required for the journey. It was not his own fault that his purse was light: his godfather, King Richard, had left him a sufficient competence23; but the grants of Richard of Bordeaux were not held always to bind24 Henry of Bolingbroke. But when the Earl of Cambridge returned to Elsinore, he was rewarded for his labours, not with money nor lands, but by a grant of the only thing for which he cared—the gift of Anne Mortimer. He was penniless, and so was she. But though poverty was an habitual25 resident within the doors, love did not fly out at the window.
The year 1408 brought another sanguinary struggle in favour of March’s title, headed by the old white-haired sinner Northumberland, who fell in his attempt, at the battle of Bramham Moor26, on the 29th of February. He had armed in the cause of Rome, which he hoped to induce March to espouse27 yet more warmly than Henry the Fourth. He probably did not know the boy personally, and imagined him the counterpart of his gallant28, fervent29 father. He was as far from it as possible. Nothing on earth would have induced March to espouse any cause warmly. He valued far too highly his own dearly beloved ease.
Matters dragged themselves along that autumn as lazily as even March could have wished. All over England the rain came down, sometimes in a dashing shower, but generally in an idle dreary30 dripping from eaves and ramparts. Nothing particular was happening to any body. At Cardiff all was extremely quiet. Constance had recovered as much brightness as she would ever recover, but never any more would she be the Constance of old time.
“Surely our Lady’s troubles be over now!” said Maude sanguinely31.
On the evening on which that remark was made,—the fifteenth of September—two sisters of Saint Clare sat watching, in a small French convent, by the dying bed of a knight32. At the siege of Briac Castle, five days earlier, he had been mortally wounded in the head by a bolt from a crossbow; and his squires34 bore him into the little convent to die in peace. The sufferer had never fully35 recovered his consciousness. He seemed but dimly aware of any thing—not fully sensible even to pain. His words were few, incoherent, scarcely intelligible36. What the nuns37 could occasionally disentangle from his low mutterings was something about “blue eyes,” and “watching from the lattice.” The last rites38 of the Church were administered, but there could be no confession39; a crucifix was held before his eyes, but they doubted if he recognised what it was. And about sunset of that autumn evening he died.
So closed the few and evil days of the vain, weak, self-loving Kent. His age was only twenty-six; he left no child but the disinherited Alianora, and his sisters took good care that she should remain disinherited. They pounced40 upon the lands of the dead brother with an eagerness which would have been rather more decent had it been a little less apparent; and to the widowed Lucia, who was the least guilty party to the conspiracy41 for which she had been made the decoy, they left little beyond her wardrobe. She was actually reduced to appeal to the King’s mercy for means to live. Henry responded to her piteous petition by the offer of his brother of Dorset as a second husband. Lucia was one of those women who are born actresses, and whose nature it is to do things which seem forced and unnatural42 to others. She flattered the King with anticipations43 that she was on the point of complying with his wishes, till the last moment; and then she eloped with Sir Henry de Mortimer, possibly a distant connection of the Earl of March. It may be added, since Lucia now disappears from the story, that she survived her second marriage for fourteen years, and showed herself at her death a most devout44 member of the orthodox Church, by a will which was from beginning to end a string of bequests45 for masses, to be sung for the repose46 of her soul, and of the soul of Kent.
Bertram and Maude, to whom the news came first, scarcely knew how to tell Constance of Kent’s death. At last Maude thought of dressing47 the little Alianora in daughter’s mourning, and sending her into her mother’s room alone. The gradations of mourning were at that time so distinct and minute that Constance’s practised eye would read the parable48 in an instant. So they broke in that manner the news they dared not tell her.
For the whole day there was no sign from Constance that she had even noticed the hint. Her voice and manner showed no change. But at night, when the little child of three years old knelt at her mother’s knee for her evening prayer, said Lollard-wise in simple English, they found it had not escaped her. As the child came to the usual “God bless my father and mother,”—which, fatherless as she had always been, she had been taught to say,—Constance quietly checked her, and made her say, “God bless my mother” only. And at the close, little Alianora was instructed to add,—“God pardon my father’s soul.”
Knowing how passionately49 Constance had once loved Kent, this calm show of indifference50 puzzled Maude Lyngern sorely. But to the Dowager Lady it was no such riddle51.
“Her love is dead, child,” she said, when Maude timidly expressed her surprise. “And when that is verily thus, it were lighter52 to bid a dead corpse53 live than a dead love.”
All this time the Lollard persecution54 slowly waxed hotter and hotter. Men began to thank God when any “heretics” among their friends were permitted to die in their beds, and to whisper in hushed accents that when the Prince of Wales should be King, whose nature was more merciful than his father’s, matters might perchance mend. They little knew what the future was to bring. The worst was not yet over,—was not even to come during the reign55 of Henry of Bolingbroke.
Seeing that Constance was now restored to her lands, and basking56 in the sunshine of Court favour, it struck Lady Abergavenny, a niece of Archbishop Arundel, who was a politic57 woman—as most of his nieces were—that an alliance between her son and Isabel Le Despenser would be a good speculation58. And her Ladyship, being moreover a strong-minded woman, whose husband was of very little public and less private consequence, carried her point, and the marriage of Isabel with young Richard Beauchamp took place at Cardiff on the eleventh birthday of the bride.
The ceremony was slightly hastened at the wish of the Dowager Lady Le Despenser. She was anxious not to distress59 Constance by breaking the news too suddenly to her, but she felt within herself that the golden bowl was nearing its breaking at the fountain, and that the silver cords of her earthly house of this tabernacle were not far from being taken down. She was an old woman,—very old, for a period wherein few lived to old age; she had long outlived her husband, and had seen the funerals of nearly all her children. The greater part even of her earthly treasures were already safe where moth2 and rust9 corrupt60 not, and her own feeling of earnest longing61 to rejoin them grew daily stronger. It was for the daughter’s sake alone that she cared to live now; the daughter to whom men had left only God and that mother. A new lesson was now to be taught to Constance—to rest wholly upon God.
It was very tranquilly62 at last that Elizabeth Le Despenser passed away from earth. She took most loving leave of Constance, blessed and said farewell to all her children, and charged Bertram and Maude to remain with her and be faithful to her.
Twenty years’ companionship, fellowship in sorrow, and fellowship in faith, had effected a complete revolution in the feelings of Constance towards her mother-in-law.
“O Mother, Mother!” she sobbed; “what shall I do without you!”
“My child,” answered Elizabeth, “had the heavenly Master not seen that thou shouldst well do without me, He had left me yet here.”
“You yourself said, Mother, that He had left me but Him and you!”
“Ay, dear daughter; and yet He hath left thee Himself. Every hour He shall be with thee; and every hour of thy life moreover shall be an hour the less betwixt thee and me.”
The last thing that they heard her murmur63, which had reference to that land whither she was going, was—“Neither schulen they die more.”
They laid her in the family vault64 at Tewkesbury Abbey; and once more there was mourning at Cardiff.
It was only just begun when news came of another death, far more unexpected than hers. Richard of Conisborough and Anne Mortimer were already the parents of a daughter; and two months after the death of the Lady Le Despenser a son was born, who was hereafter to become the father of all the future kings of England. And while the young mother lay wrapped in her first tender gladness over her new treasure, God called her to come away to Him. So she left the little children who would never call her “mother,” left the husband who was all the world to her; and—fragile White Rose as she was—Anne Mortimer “perished with the flowers.” She died “with all the sunshine on her,” aged only twenty-one years. Perhaps those who stood round her coffin65 thought it a very sad and strange dispensation of Providence66. But we, who know what lay hidden in the coming years, can see that God’s time for her to die was the best and kindest time. And indications are not quite wanting, slight though they may be, that Richard of Conisborough was not a political, but a religious Lollard, and that this autumn journey of Anne Mortimer to the unknown land may have been a triumphal entry into the City of God.
The news that Constance had of set purpose cast in her lot with the Lollards was not long in travelling to Westminster. And she soon found that the lot of a Lollard was no bed of roses. In his anger, Henry of Bolingbroke departed from his usual rule of rigid67 justice, and revoked68 the grant which Constance may be said to have purchased with her heart’s blood. Her favourite Richard, now a fine youth of sixteen, was taken from her, and his custody69, possessions, and marriage were granted to trustees, of whom the chief persons were Archbishop Arundel and Edward Duke of York. This meant that the trustees were to sell his hand to the father of some eligible70 damsel, and pocket the proceeds; and also to convert to their own use the rents of young Richard’s estates until he was of age. The Duke of York was just now a most devout and orthodox person. It was time, for any one who cared to save his life, as Edward did; for a solemn decree against Wycliffe’s writings had just been fulminated at Rome; and while Henry of Bolingbroke sat on the throne, England lay at the feet of the Pope. The trustees took advantage at once of the favour done them, and sold young Richard (without consulting Constance) to the Earl of Westmoreland, for the benefit of one of his numerous daughters, the Lady Alianora Neville. She was a little girl of about ten years old, and remained in the charge of her mother, the King’s sister. In the April following it pleased the Duke of York to pay a visit to his sister, and to bring her son in his train. Edward was particularly silent at first. He appeared to have heard no news, to be actuated by no motive71 in coming, and generally to have nothing to say. Richard, on the contrary, was evidently labouring under suppressed excitement of some kind. But when they sat down to supper, York called for Malvoisie, and threw a bomb into the midst of the company by the wish which he uttered as he carried the goblet72 to his lips.
“God pardon King Henry’s soul!”
He was answered by varying exclamations73 in different tones.
“Ay, Madam, ’tis too true!” broke forth74 young Richard, addressing his mother; “but mine uncle’s Grace willed me not to speak thereof until he so should.”
“Harry of Bolingbroke is dead?—Surely no!”
“Dead as a door-nail,” said York unfeelingly.
“Was he sick of long-time?”
“Long enough!” responded York in the same manner. “Long enough to weary every soul that ministered to his fantasies, and to cause them ring the church bells for joy that their toil75 was over. Leprosy, by my troth!—a sweet disorder76 to die withal!”
“Ned, I pray thee keep some measure in speech.”
“By the Holy Coat of Treves! but if thou wouldst love to deal withal, Custance, thy tarrying at Kenilworth hath wrought77 mighty78 change in thee. Marry, it pleased the Lady Queen to proffer79 unto me an even’s watch in the chamber80. ‘Good lack! I thank your Grace,’ quoth I, ‘but ’tis mine uttermost sorrow that I should covenant81 with one at Hackney to meet with me this even, and I must right woefully deny me the ease that it should do me to abide82 with his Highness.’ An honest preferment, to be his sick nurse, by Saint Lawrence his gridiron! Nay, by Saint Zachary his shoe-strings, but there were two words to that bargain!”
“Then what did your Grace, Uncle?” said Isabel in her cool, grown-up style.
“Did? Marry, little cousin, I rade down to Norwich House, and played a good hour at the cards with my Lord’s Grace of Norwich; and then I lay me down on the settle and gat me a nap; and after spices served, I turned back to Westminster, and did her Grace to wit that it were rare cold riding from Hackney.”
“Is your Grace yet shriven sithence, Uncle?” inquired young Richard rather comically.
“The very next morrow, lad, my said Lord of Norwich the confessor. I bare it but a night, nor it did me not no disease in sleeping.”
“What wist, such a chick as thou?” returned York, holding out his goblet to the dispenser of Malvoisie.
A little lower down the table, Sir Bertram Lyngern and Master Hugh Calverley were discussing less serious subjects in a more sober and becoming manner.
“Truly, our new King hath well begun,” said Hugh. “My Lord of March is released of his prison, and shall be wed20 this next summer to the Lady Anne of Stafford, and his sister the Lady Alianora unto my Lord of Devon his son; and all faithful friends and servants of King Richard be set in favour; and ’tis rumoured84 about the Court that your Lady shall receive confirmation85 of every of his father’s grants made unto her.”
“I trust it shall so be verily,” said Bertram.
“And further yet,” pursued Hugh, slightly dropping his voice, “’tis said that the King considereth to take unto the Crown great part of the moneys and lands of the Church.”
“Surely no!”
“But that were sacrilege!”
“Were it?” asked Hugh coolly.
For the extreme Lollards, of whom he was one, looked upon the two political acts which we have learned to call disestablishment and disendowment, as not only permissible87, but desirable. In so saying, I speak of the political Lollards. All political Lollards, however, were not religious ones, nor were all religious Lollards sharers in these political views. John of Gaunt, a strong political Lollard, was never a religious one in his life; while King Richard, who decidedly leaned to them in religion, disliked their politics exceedingly. In fact, it was rather the fervent, energetic, practical reformers who took up with such aims; while those among them who walked quietly with God let the matter alone. Hugh Calverley had been drawn88 into these questions rather by circumstances than choice. While he was emphatically one that “sighed and that cried for all the abominations that were done in the midst of” his Israel, he was sagacious enough to know that even from his own point of view, the abolition89 of the hierarchy90, or the suppression of the monastic orders, were no more than lopping off branches, while the root remained.
It was perfectly true that Henry the Fifth seriously contemplated91 the policy of disendowment, which Parliament had in vain suggested to his father. And it continued to be true for some six months longer. The clue has not yet been discovered to the mysterious and sudden change which at that date came over, not only the policy, but the whole character of Henry of Monmouth. Up to that date he had himself been something very like a political Lollard; ever after it he was fervently92 orthodox. The suddenness of the change was not less remarkable93 than its completeness. It took place about the first of October, 1413; and it exactly coincides in date with a visit from Archbishop Arundel, to urge upon the reluctant King the apprehension94 of his friend Lord Cobham. Whatever may have been the means of the alteration95, there can be but little question as to who was the agent.
The King’s confirmation of grants to his cousin Constance occurred before this ominous96 date; and, revoking97 the last penalty inflicted98, it restored her son to her custody. Richard therefore came home in July, where he remained until September. His attendance was then commanded at Court, and he left Cardiff accordingly.
“Farewell, Madam!” he said brightly, as his mother gave him her farewell kiss and blessing99. “God allowing, I trust to be at home again ere Christmas; and from London I will seek to bring your Grace and my sisters some gear of pleasance.”
“Farewell, my Dickon!” said Constance, lovingly. “Have a care of thyself, fair son. Remember, thou art now my dearest treasure.”
“No fear, sweet Lady!”
So he sailed off, waving his hand or his cap from the boat, so long as he could be seen.
A letter came from him three weeks later—a doubtful, uneasy letter, showing that the mind of the writer was by no means at rest concerning the future. The King had received him most graciously, and every one at Court was kind to him; but the sky was lowering ominously100 over the struggling Church of God—that little section of the Holy Catholic Church, on which the “mother and mistress of all churches” looked down with such supreme101 contempt. The waves of persecution were rising higher now than to the level of poor tailors like John Badby, or even of priestly graduates like William Sautre.
“Lady, I do you to wit,” wrote young Richard, “that as this day, Sir John Oldcastle, Lord Cobham, was put to his trial, and being convinced (convicted), was cast (sentenced); the beginning and end of whose offence is that he is a Lollard confessed, and hath harboured other men of the like opinions. And the said Lord is now close prisoner in the Tower of London, nor any of his kin17 ne lovers (friends) suffered to come anigh him. And at the Court it is rumoured that Sir William Hankeford (whom your Ladyship shall well remember) should be sent into our parts of South Wales, there to put down both heresy102 and sedition103: which sedition, methinks, your Ladyship’s favour allowing, shall point at Sir Owain Glendordy (the name is usually spelt thus in contemporary records); and the heresy so called, both your Ladyship and I, your humble104 son and servant, do well know what it doth signify. So no more at this present writing; but praying our Lord that He would have your Ladyship in His good keeping, and that all we may do His good pleasure, I rest.”
Twelve days later came another letter, written in a strange hand. It was dated from Merton Abbey, in Surrey, was attested105 by the Abbot’s official cross and seal, and contained only a few lines. But never throughout her troubled life had any letter so wrung106 the heart of Constance Le Despenser. For those few formal lines brought the news that never again would her eyes be gladdened by her heart’s dearest treasure—that the Angel of Death had claimed for his own her bright, loving, fair-haired Richard.
No details have been handed down concerning that early and lamented107 death of the last Lord Le Despenser. We do not even know how the boy died—whether by the visitation of God in sudden illness, or by the fiat108 of Thomas de Arundel, making the twelfth murder which lay upon that black, seared soul. He was buried where he died, in the Abbey of Merton—far from his home, far from his mother’s tears and his father’s grave. It was always the lot of the hapless buds of the White Rose to be scattered109 in death.
There was only one person at Cardiff who did not mourn bitterly for its young Lord. To his sister Isabel, the inheritance to which she now became sole heiress—the change of her title from “Lady Isabel de Beauchamp” to “The Lady Le Despenser”—were amply sufficient compensation to outweigh110 the loss of a brother. But little Alianora wept bitterly.
“Ay me! what a break is this in our Lady’s line!” lamented Maude to Bertram. “God grant it the last, if His will is!”
It was only one funeral of a long procession.
The Issue Roll for Michaelmas, 1413 to 1414, bears two terribly significant entries—the expenses for the custody of Katherine Mortimer and her daughters, who were “in the King’s keeping”—and the costs of the funerals of the same persons, buried in Saint Swithin’s Church, London. This was the hapless daughter of Owain Glyndwr, the wife of Edmund Mortimer, uncle of the Earl of March. A mother and two or more daughters do not usually require burial together, unless they die of contagious111 disease. Of course that may have been the case; but the entry looks miserably112 like a judicial113 murder.
Stirring events followed in rapid succession. Lord Cobham escaped mysteriously from the Tower, and as mysteriously from an armed band sent to apprehend114 him by Abbot Heyworth of Saint Albans. Old Judge Hankeford made his anticipated visit to South Wales, and ceremoniously paid his respects to the Lady of Cardiff, whose associations with his name were not of the most agreeable order. With the new year came the unfortunate insurrection of the political Lollards, goaded115 to revolt partly by the fierce persecution, partly by a chivalrous116 desire to restore the beloved King Richard, whom many of them believed to be still living in Scotland. Wales and its Marches were their head-quarters. Thomas Earl of Arundel—son of a persecutor—was sent to the Principality at the head of an army, to “subdue the rebels;” Sir Roger Acton and Sir John Beverley, two of the foremost Lollards of the new generation, were put to death; and strict watch was set in every quarter for Lord Cobham, once more escaped as if by miracle.
And then suddenly came another death—this time by the distinct and awful sentence of God Almighty117. He stooped to disconcert for a moment the puny118 plans of men who had set themselves in array against the Lord and His Christ. On the chief of all the persecutors, Sir Thomas de Arundel himself, the angel of God’s vengeance119 laid his irresistible120 hand. Cut off in the blossom of his sin—struck down in a moment by paralysis121 of the throat, which deprived him of all power of speech or swallowing—the dreaded123 Archbishop passed to that awful tribunal where his earthly eloquence124 was changed to silence and shame. He died, probably, not unabsolved; they could still lay the consecrated125 wafer upon the silent tongue, and touch with the chrism the furrowed126 brow and brilliant eyes: but he must have died unconfessed—a terrible thing to him, if he really believed himself the doctrines127 which he spent his life in forcing upon others.
Arundel was dead; but the infernal generalissimo of the persecutors, who could not die, was ready with a worthy128 successor. Henry Chichele stepped into the vacant seat, and the fierce battle against the saints went on.
The nephew of the deceased Archbishop, Thomas Earl of Arundel, presented himself at Cardiff early in the year. He lost no time in delicate insinuations, but came at once to his point. Was the Lady of Cardiff ready to give all possible aid to himself and his troops, against those traitors129 and heretics called Lollards? The answer was equally distinct. With some semblance130 of the old fire flashing in her eyes, the Lady of Cardiff refused to give him any aid whatever.
The Earl hinted in answer, with a sarcastic131 smile, that judging by the rumours132 which had reached the Court, he had scarcely expected any other conduct from her.
“Look ye for what ye will,” returned the dauntless Princess. “Never yet furled I my colours in peace; and I were double craven if I should do it in war!”
Her words were reported to the relentless133 hearts at Westminster. The result was an order to seize all the manors134 of the Despenser heritage, and to deliver them to Edward Duke of York, the King’s dearly beloved cousin, by way of compensation (said the grant) for the loss which he had sustained by the death of Richard Le Despenser. But the compensation was estimated at a high figure.
There were some curious contradictory135 statutes136 passed this year. A hundred and ten monasteries137 were suppressed by order of Council, and at the same time another order was issued for the extirpation138 of heresy. But, as usual, “the blood of the martyrs139 was the seed of the Church.” Wycliffism increased rapidly among the common people. Meanwhile Henry was preparing for his French campaign; and at Constance the seventeenth General Council of Christendom was just gathering140, and John Huss, with the Emperor’s worthless safe-conduct in his pocket, was hastening towards his prison—not much larger than a coffin—in the Monastery141 of Saint Maurice. The Council ended their labours by burning Huss. They would have liked to burn Wycliffe; but as he had been at rest with God for over thirty years, they took refuge in the childish revenge of disinterring and burning his senseless bones. And “after that, they had no more that they could do.”
The day that heard Huss’s sentence pronounced in the white-walled Cathedral of Constance, Edward Duke of York—accompanied by a little group of knights142 and squires, one of whom was Hugh Calverley—walked his oppressed horse across the draw-bridge at Cardiff. Life had agreed so well with York that he had become very fat upon it. He had no children, his wife never contradicted him, and he did not keep that troublesome article called a conscience; so his sorrows and perplexities were few. On the whole, he had found treachery an excellent investment—for one life; and York left the consideration of the other to his death-bed. It may be that at times, even to this Dives, the voice from Heaven mercifully whispered, “Thou fool!” But he never stayed his chariot-wheels to listen—until one autumn evening, by Southampton Water, when the end loomed143 full in view, the Angel of Death came very near, and there rose before him, suddenly and awfully144, the dread122 possibility of a life which might not close with a death-bed. But it was yet bright summer when he reached Cardiff; and not yet had come that dark, solemn August hour, when Edward Duke of York should dictate145 his true character as “of all sinners the most wicked.”
On this particular summer day at Cardiff, York was, for him, especially gay and bright. Yet that night in the Cathedral of Constance stood John Huss before his judges; and in the Convent of Coimbra an English Princess (Philippa Queen of Portugal, eldest146 daughter of John of Gaunt), long ago forgotten in England, yet gentlest and best daughters of Lancaster, lay waiting for death. Somewhere in this troublesome world the bridal is always matched by the burial, the festal song by the funeral dirge147. Men and women are always mourning, somewhere.
York’s mind was full of one subject, the forthcoming campaign in France. He was to sail from Southampton with his royal master in August. Bedford was to be left Regent, the King’s brother—Bedford, who, whatever else he were, was no Lollard, and was not likely to let a Lollard escape his fangs148. And on this interesting topic York’s tongue ran on glibly—how King Henry meant to march at once upon Paris, proclaim himself King of France, be crowned at Saint Denis, marry one of the French Princesses—which, it did not much signify—and return home a conquering hero, mighty enough to brave even the Emperor himself on any European battle-plain.
A little lower down the table, Hugh Calverley’s mind was also full of one subject.
“Nay,” he whispered earnestly to Bertram: “he is yet hid some whither,—here, in Wales. Men wit not where; and God forbid too many should!”
“Then men be yet a-searching for him?”
“High and low, leaving no stone unturned. God keep His true servant safe, unto His honour!”
It needs no far-fetched conjecture149 to divine that they were speaking of Lord Cobham.
“And goest unto these French wars, sweet Hugh?”
“Needs must; my Lord’s Grace hath so bidden me.”
“Truth; and yet do,” said Hugh quietly. This was the view of the extreme Lollards.
“Then how shall thine opinion serve in the thick of fight?”
“As it hath aforetime. I cannot fight.”
“But how then?” asked Bertram, opening his eyes.
“I can die, Bertram Lyngern,” answered the calm, resolute152 voice. “And it may be that I should die as truly for my Master Christ there, as at the martyr’s stake. For sith God’s will hath made yonder noble Lord my master, and hath set me under him to do his bidding, in all matters not sinful, his will is God’s will for me; and I can follow him to yonder battle-plain with as easy an heart and light as though I went to lie down on my bed to sleep. Not to fight, good friend; not to resist nor contend with any man; only to do God’s will. And is that not worth dying for?”
Bertram made no reply. But his memory ran far back to the olden days at Langley—to a scriptorius who had laid down his pen to speak of two lads, both of whom he looked to see great men, but he deemed him the greater who was not ashamed of his deed. And Bertram’s heart whispered to him that, knight as he was, while Hugh remained only a simple squire33, yet now as ever, Hugh was the greater hero. For he knew that it would have cost him a very bitter struggle to accept an unhonoured grave such as Hugh anticipated, only because he thought it was God’s will.
They parted the next morning. Edward’s last words to his sister were “Adieu, Custance, I will send thee a fleur-de-lis banner as trophy153 from the fight. The oriflamme (Note 1), if the saints will have it so!”
But Hugh’s were—“Farewell, dear friend Bertram. Remember, both thou and I may do God’s will!”
Note 1. The oriflamme was the banner of France, kept in the Cathedral of Saint Denis, and held almost sacred.
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1
ballad
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| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
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2
moth
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| n.蛾，蛀虫 | |
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3
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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4
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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5
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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6
sapphire
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| n.青玉，蓝宝石；adj.天蓝色的 | |
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7
nought
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| n.／adj.无，零 | |
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8
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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9
rust
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| n.锈；v.生锈；(脑子)衰退 | |
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10
devouring
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| 吞没( devour的现在分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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11
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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12
equanimity
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| n.沉着，镇定 | |
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13
travails
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| n.艰苦劳动( travail的名词复数 )；辛勤努力；痛苦；分娩的阵痛 | |
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14
gems
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| growth； economy； management； and customer satisfaction 增长 | |
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15
dungeon
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| n.地牢，土牢 | |
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16
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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17
kin
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| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
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18
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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19
exaction
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| n.强求，强征；杂税 | |
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20
wed
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| v.娶，嫁，与…结婚 | |
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21
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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22
consigned
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| v.把…置于（令人不快的境地）( consign的过去式和过去分词 )；把…托付给；把…托人代售；丟弃 | |
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23
competence
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| n.能力，胜任，称职 | |
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24
bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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25
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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26
moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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27
espouse
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| v.支持，赞成，嫁娶 | |
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28
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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29
fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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30
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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31
sanguinely
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| 乐观的，充满希望的； 面色红润的； 血红色的 | |
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32
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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33
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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34
squires
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| n.地主，乡绅( squire的名词复数 ) | |
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35
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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36
intelligible
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| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
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37
nuns
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| n.（通常指基督教的）修女， （佛教的）尼姑( nun的名词复数 ) | |
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38
rites
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| 仪式，典礼( rite的名词复数 ) | |
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39
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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40
pounced
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| v.突然袭击( pounce的过去式和过去分词 )；猛扑；一眼看出；抓住机会（进行抨击） | |
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41
conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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42
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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43
anticipations
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| 预期( anticipation的名词复数 )； 预测； （信托财产收益的）预支； 预期的事物 | |
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44
devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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45
bequests
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| n.遗赠( bequest的名词复数 )；遗产，遗赠物 | |
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46
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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47
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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48
parable
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| n.寓言，比喻 | |
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49
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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50
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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51
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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52
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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53
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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54
persecution
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| n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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55
reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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56
basking
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| v.晒太阳，取暖( bask的现在分词 )；对…感到乐趣；因他人的功绩而出名；仰仗…的余泽 | |
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57
politic
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| adj.有智虑的；精明的；v.从政 | |
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58
speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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59
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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60
corrupt
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| v.贿赂，收买；adj.腐败的，贪污的 | |
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61
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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62
tranquilly
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| adv. 宁静地 | |
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63
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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64
vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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65
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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66
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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67
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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68
revoked
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| adj.[法]取消的v.撤销，取消，废除( revoke的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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69
custody
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| n.监护，照看，羁押，拘留 | |
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70
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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71
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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72
goblet
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| n.高脚酒杯 | |
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73
exclamations
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| n.呼喊( exclamation的名词复数 )；感叹；感叹语；感叹词 | |
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74
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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75
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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76
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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77
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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78
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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79
proffer
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| v.献出，赠送；n.提议，建议 | |
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80
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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81
covenant
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| n.盟约，契约；v.订盟约 | |
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82
abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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83
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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84
rumoured
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| adj.谣传的；传说的；风 | |
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85
confirmation
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| n.证实，确认，批准 | |
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86
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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87
permissible
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| adj.可允许的，许可的 | |
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88
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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89
abolition
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| n.废除，取消 | |
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90
hierarchy
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| n.等级制度；统治集团，领导层 | |
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91
contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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92
fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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93
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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94
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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95
alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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96
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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97
revoking
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| v.撤销，取消，废除( revoke的现在分词 ) | |
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98
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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99
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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100
ominously
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| adv.恶兆地，不吉利地；预示地 | |
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101
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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102
heresy
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| n.异端邪说；异教 | |
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103
sedition
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| n.煽动叛乱 | |
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104
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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105
attested
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| adj.经检验证明无病的，经检验证明无菌的v.证明( attest的过去式和过去分词 )；证实；声称…属实；使宣誓 | |
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106
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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107
lamented
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| adj.被哀悼的，令人遗憾的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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108
fiat
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| n.命令，法令，批准；vt.批准，颁布 | |
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109
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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110
outweigh
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| vt.比...更重，...更重要 | |
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111
contagious
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| adj.传染性的，有感染力的 | |
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112
miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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113
judicial
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| adj.司法的，法庭的，审判的，明断的，公正的 | |
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114
apprehend
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| vt.理解，领悟，逮捕，拘捕，忧虑 | |
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115
goaded
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| v.刺激( goad的过去式和过去分词 )；激励；（用尖棒）驱赶；驱使（或怂恿、刺激）某人 | |
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116
chivalrous
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| adj.武士精神的；对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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117
almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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118
puny
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| adj.微不足道的，弱小的 | |
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119
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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120
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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121
paralysis
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| n.麻痹(症)；瘫痪(症) | |
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122
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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123
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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consecrated
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| adj.神圣的，被视为神圣的v.把…奉为神圣，给…祝圣( consecrate的过去式和过去分词 )；奉献 | |
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126
furrowed
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| v.犁田，开沟( furrow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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127
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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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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129
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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semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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sarcastic
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| adj.讥讽的，讽刺的，嘲弄的 | |
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rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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relentless
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| adj.残酷的，不留情的，无怜悯心的 | |
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manors
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| n.庄园（manor的复数形式） | |
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135
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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136
statutes
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| 成文法( statute的名词复数 )； 法令； 法规； 章程 | |
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137
monasteries
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| 修道院( monastery的名词复数 ) | |
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extirpation
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| n.消灭，根除，毁灭；摘除 | |
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139
martyrs
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| n.martyr的复数形式；烈士( martyr的名词复数 )；殉道者；殉教者；乞怜者（向人诉苦以博取同情） | |
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140
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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141
monastery
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| n.修道院，僧院，寺院 | |
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142
knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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143
loomed
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| v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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dictate
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| v.口授；(使)听写；指令，指示，命令 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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dirge
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| n.哀乐，挽歌，庄重悲哀的乐曲 | |
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fangs
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| n.（尤指狗和狼的）长而尖的牙( fang的名词复数 )；（蛇的）毒牙；罐座 | |
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conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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trophy
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| n.优胜旗，奖品，奖杯，战胜品，纪念品 | |
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