I’m waiting for the dawning, for the opening of the door;
I’m waiting till the Master shall bid me rise and come
To the glory of His presence, the gladness of His home.
Bearing many a burden, contending for my life;
I’m kneeling at the threshold, my hand is at the door.
O Lord, I wait Thy pleasure! Thy time and way are best:
But I’m wasted, worn, and weary:—my Father, bid me rest!
Dr Alexander.
The full glory of summer had come at last. Over Southampton Water broke a cloudless August day. The musical cries of the sailors who were at work on the Saint Mary, the James, and the Catherine, in the offing—preparing for the King’s voyage to France—came pleasantly from the distance. From the country farms, girls with baskets poised4 on their heads, filled with market produce, came into the crowded sea-port town, where the whole Court awaited a fair wind. There was no wind from any quarter that day. Earth and sea and sky presented a dead calm: and the only place which was not calm was the heart of fallen man. For a few steps from the busy gates and the crowded market is Southampton Green, and there, draped in mourning, stands the scaffold, and beside it the state headsman.
All the Court are gathered here. It is a break in the monotony of existence—the tiresome5 dead level of waiting for the wind to change.
The first victim is brought out. Trembling and timidly he comes—Henry Le Scrope of Upsal, the luckless husband of the Duchess Dowager of York, Treasurer6 of the Household, only a few days since in the highest favour. He was arrested, tried, and sentenced in twenty-four hours, just a week before. No voice pleads for poor Scrope,—a simple, single-minded man, who never made an enemy till now. He dies to-day—“on suspicion of being suspected” of high treason.
The block and the axe7 are wiped clean of Scrope’s blood, and the headsman stands waiting for the Sheriff to bring the second victim.
He comes forward calmly, with quiet dignity; a stately, fair-haired man,—ready to die, because ready to meet God. And we know the face of Richard of Conisborough, the finest and purest character of the royal line, the fairest bud of the White Rose. He has little wish to live longer. Life was stripped of its flowers for him four years ago, when he heard the earth cast on the coffin9 of his pale desert flower. She is in Heaven; and Christ is in Heaven; and Heaven is better than earth. So what matter, though the passage be low and dark which leads up to the gate of the Garden of God? Yet this is no easy nor honourable10 death to die. No easy death to a man of high sense of chivalrous11 honour; no light burden, thus to be led forth12 before the multitude, to a death of shame,—on his part undeserved. Perhaps men will know some day how little he deserved it. At any rate, God knows. And whatever shameful13 end be decreed for the servant, it can never surpass that of the Master. The utmost that any child of God can suffer for Christ, can never equal what Christ has suffered for him.
And so, calm in mien14, willing in heart, Richard of Conisborough went through the dark passage, to the Garden of God. But if ever a judicial15 murder were committed in this world, it was done that day on Southampton Green, when the blood of the Lollard Prince dyed the dust of the scaffold.
The accusation16 brought against the victims was high treason. The indictment17 bore falsehood on its face by going too far. It asserted, not only that they had conspired18 to raise March to the throne—which might perhaps have been believed; but also that they had plotted the assassination19 of King Henry—which no one who knew them could believe; that March, taken into their counsels, had asked for an hour to consider the matter, and had then gone straight to the King and revealed the plot—which no one who knew March could believe. The whole accusation was a tissue of improbabilities and inconsistencies. No evidence was offered; the conclusion was foregone from the beginning. So they died on Southampton Green.
Perhaps Henry’s heart failed him at the last moment. For some reason, Richard of Conisborough was spared the last and worst ignominy of a traitor’s death—the exposure of the severed20 head on some city gate. Henry allowed his remains22 to receive quiet and honourable burial.
The next day a decree was passed, pardoning March for all crimes and offences. The only offence which he had ever committed against the House of Lancaster was his own existence; and for that he could scarcely be held responsible, either in law or equity23. But can we say as much for the offence against God and man which he committed on that sixth of August, when he suffered himself to be dragged to the judge’s bench, on which he sat with others to condemn24 the husband of that sister Anne who had been his all but mother?
We shall see no more of Edmund Mortimer. He ended life as he began it—as much like a vegetable as a human being could well make himself. Few Mortimers attained25 old age, nor did he. He died in his thirty-fourth year, issueless and unwept; and Richard Duke of York, the son of Anne Mortimer and Richard of Conisborough, succeeded to the White Rose’s “heritage of woe26.”
A week after the execution, the King sailed for Harfleur.
The campaign was short, for those days of long campaigns; but pestilence27 raged among the troops, and cut off some of the finest men. The Earl of Suffolk died before they left Harfleur, and ere they reached Picardy, the Earl of Arundel. But the King pressed onward28, till on the night of the 24th of October, he encamped, ready to give battle, near the little village of Azincour, to be thenceforward for ever famous, under its English name of Agincourt.
The army was in a very sober mood. The night was spent quietly, by the more careless in sleep, by the more thoughtful in prayer. The Duke of York was among the former; the King among the latter. Henry is said to have wrestled29 earnestly with God that no sins of his might be remembered against him, to lead to the discomfiture30 of his army. There was need for the entreaty31. Perchance, had he slept that night, some such ghostly visions, born of his own conscience, might have disturbed his sleep, as those which troubled one of his successors on the eve of Bosworth Field.
When morning came, and the King was at breakfast with his brother Prince Humphrey, the Duke of York presented himself with a request that he might be permitted to lead the vanguard.
Humphrey, who was of a sarcastic32 turn of mind, amused himself by a few jokes on the obesity33 of the royal applicant34; but the request was granted, and York rode off well pleased.
“Stand thou at my stirrup, Calverley,” said York to his squire35. “I cast no doubt thou wilt36 win this day thy spurs; and for me, I look to come off covered with glory.”
“How many yards of glory shall it take to cover his Grace?” whispered one of the irreverent varlets behind them.
“Howsoe’er, little matter,” pursued the Duke. “I can scantly37 go higher than I am: wherefore howso I leave the field, little reck I.”
Hugh Calverley looked up earnestly at his master.
“Sir Duke,” he said, “hath it come into your Grace’s mind that no less yourself than your servants may leave this field dead corpses38?”
“Tut, man! croak40 not,” said York. “I have no intent to leave it other than alive—thou canst do as it list thee.”
Two months had elapsed since that August evening when, terrified by his brother’s sudden and violent death, Edward Duke of York had dictated41 his will in terms of such abject42 penitence43. The effect of that terror was wearing away. The unseen world, which had come very near, receded44 into the far distance; and the visible world returned to its usual prominence45. And York’s aim had always been, not “so to pass through things temporal that he lost not the things eternal,” but so to pass towards things eternal that he lost not the things temporal. His own choice proved his heaviest punishment: “for he in his life-time received his good things.”
It was a terrible battle which that day witnessed at Agincourt. In one quarter of the field Prince Humphrey lay half dead upon the sward; when the King, riding up and recognising his brother, sprang from his saddle, took his stand over the prostrate46 body, and waving his good battle-axe in his strong firm hand, kept the enemy at bay, and saved his brother’s life. In another direction, a sudden charge of the French pressed a little band of English officers and men close together, till not one in the inner ranks could move hand or foot—crushed them closer, closer, as if the object had been to compress them into a consolidated47 mass. At last help came, the French were beaten off, and the living wall was free to separate into its component48 atoms of human bodies. But as it did so, from the interior of the mass one man fell to the ground, dead. No one needed to ask who it was. The royal fleurs-de-lis and lions on the surcoat, with an escocheon of pretence49 bearing the arms of Leon and Castilla—the princely coronet surrounding the helmet—were enough to tell the tale. Other men might come alive out of the fight of Agincourt, but Edward Duke of York would only leave it a corpse39.
He stands on the page of history, a beacon50 for all time. No man living in his day better knew the way of righteousness; no man living took less care to walk in it. During the later years of his life, it seemed as if that dread51 Divine decree might have gone forth, most awful even of Divine decrees—“Let him alone.” He had refused to be troubled with God, and the penalty was that God would not be troubled with him: He would not force His salvation52 on this unwilling53 soul. And now, when “behind, he heard Time’s iron gates close faintly,” it was too late for renewing to repentance54. He that was unholy must be unholy still. Verily, he had his reward.
The end of the struggle was now approaching. On every side the French were hemmed55 in and beaten down. Prince Humphrey had been earned to the royal tent, but the King was still in the field—here, there, and everywhere, as nearly ubiquitous as a man could be—riding from point to point, and now and then engaging in single-handed skirmish. A French archer56, waiting for an opportunity to distinguish himself, levelled his crossbow at the royal warrior57, while he remained for a moment stationary58. In another second the victory of Agincourt would have been turned into a defeat, and probably a panic. But at the critical instant a squire flung himself before the King, and received the shaft59 intended for his Sovereign. He fell, but uttered no word.
“Truly, a gallant61 deed, Master Squire!” cried Henry. “Whatso be your name, rise a knight62 banneret.”
“The squire will arise no more, Sire,” said the voice of the Earl of Huntingdon behind him. “Your Highness’ grace hath come too late; he is dead.”
“In good sooth, I am sorry therefor,” returned the King. “Never saw I braver deed, ne better done. Well! if he leave son or widow, they may receive our grace in his guerdon. Who is he? Ho, archer! thou bearest our cousin of York his livery, and so doth this squire. Win hither—unlace his helm, and give us to wit if thou know him.”
And when the helm was unlaced, and the archer had recognised the dead face, they knew that the Lollard squire, Hugh Calverley, had saved the life of the persecutor63 at the cost of his own.
He had spoken the simple truth. He could not fight, but he could die. He could not write his name upon the world’s roll of glory, but he could do God’s will.
The public opinion of earth accounts this a mean and unworthy object. The public opinion of Heaven is probably of a different character.
Nothing was to be done for widow or child, for Hugh Calverley left neither. He was no ascetic66; he was merely a man who thought first of how he might please the Lord, and who felt himself least fettered67 by single life. So there was no love in his heart but the love of Christ, and nothing on earth that he desired in comparison of Him.
And on earth he had no guerdon. Even the royal words of praise he did not live to hear. But on the other side of the dark river passed so quickly, there were the garland of honour, and the palm of victory, and the King’s “Well done, good and faithful servant!” Verily, also, he had his reward.
The autumn was passing into winter before the news reached Constance either of the battle of Agincourt or of the murder on Southampton Green. At first she was utterly68 crushed and prostrated69. The old legal leaven70, so hard to work out of the human conscience, wrought71 upon her with tenfold force, and she declared that God was against her, and was wreaking72 His wrath73 upon her for the lie which she had told in denying the validity of her marriage. Was it not evidently so? she asked. Had He not first bereft74 her of her darling, the precious boy whom her sin had preserved to her? And now not only Edward, but the favourite brother, Dickon, were gone likewise. Herself, her stepmother, her widowed sisters-in-law (Note 1), and the two little children of Richard, were alone left of the House of York. The news of Edward’s death she bore with comparative equanimity75: it was the sudden and dreadful end of Richard which so completely overpowered her.
“Hold thy peace, Maude!” she said mournfully, in answer to Maude’s tender efforts to console her. “God is against me and all mine House. We have sinned; or rather, I have sinned,—and have thus brought down sorrow and mourning upon the hearts that were dearest to me. I owe a debt; and it must needs be paid, even to the uttermost farthing.”
“But, dear my Lady,” urged Maude, not holding her peace as requested,—“what do you, to pay so much as one farthing of that debt? Christ our Lord hath taken the same upon Him. A debt cannot be twice paid.”
“I do verily trust,” she said humbly76, “that He hath paid for me the debt eternal; yet is there a debt earthly, and this is for my paying.”
“Never a whit8!” cried Maude earnestly. “Dear my Lady, not one cross (farthing) thereof! That which we suffer at the hand of our Father is not debt, but discipline; the chastising77 of the son, not the work wrung78 by lash79 from the slave. ‘The children are free.’”
“Ay, free from the curse and the second death,” she said, still despondingly; “but from pains and penalties of sin in this life, Maude, not freed. An’ I cut mine hand with yonder knife, God shall not heal the wound by miracle because I am His child.”
Maude felt that the illustration was true, but she was not sure that it was apposite, neither was she convinced that her own view was mistaken. She glanced at Sir Ademar de Milford, who sat on the settle, studying the works of Saint Augustine, as if to ask him to answer for her. Ademar was no longer the family confessor, for the family had given over confessing; but Archbishop Chichele, professing80 himself satisfied of his orthodoxy, had revoked81 the now useless writ65 of excommunication, and the priest had resumed his duties as chaplain. Ademar laid down his book in answer to the appealing glance from Maude’s eyes.
“Lady,” he said, “how much, I pray you, is owing to your Grace from the young ladies your daughters, for food and lodging82?”
“Owing from my little maids!” exclaimed Constance.
“That is it which I would know,” replied Ademar gravely.
“From my little maids!” she repeated in astonishment83.
“It is written, Madam, in His book, that as one whom his mother comforteth, He comforteth us. Wherefore, seeing that the comfort your Grace looketh for at His hands is to have you afore the reeve for payment of your debts, it setteth me to think that you shall needs use your children likewise.”
“Never!” cried Constance emphatically. “And so say I, Lady,” returned Ademar significantly. “But, Sir Ademar, God doth chastise84 His children!”
He spoke64 pointedly86, for only the day before Isabel had chosen to be very naughty, and had imperatively87 required correction, which he knew had cost far more to Constance to administer than to her refractory88 child to receive.
“Then, Sir Ademar, you do think He suffereth when He chastiseth us?” she asked, her voice faltering89 a little. “I cannot think, Dame90, that He loveth the rod. Only He loveth too well the child to leave him uncorrected.”
“O, Sir Ademar!” she cried suddenly—“I do trust He shall not find need to try me yet again through these childre! I am so feared I should fail and fall. Ah me! weak and wretched woman that I am,—I could not bear to see these two forced from me! God help and pardon me; but me feareth if it should come to this yet again, I would do anything to keep them!”
“The Lord can heal the waters, Lady, ere He fetch you to drink them.”
There was a respite93 for just one year. But ever after the news of her brother Richard’s death, Constance drooped94 and pined; and when the fresh storm broke, it found her an invalid95 almost confined to her bed. It began with a strong manifesto96 from Archbishop Chichele against the Lollards. Then came a harshly-worded order for all landed proprietors97 in the Marches of South Wales to reside on their estates and “keep off the rebels.” One of these was specially98 directed to Constance Le Despenser.
But who were the rebels? Owain Glyndwr had died twelve months before. It could not mean him; and there was only one person whom it could mean. It meant Lord Cobham, still in hiding, whom Lord Powys was in the field to capture, and on whose head a rich reward was set. The authorities were trembling in fear of a second outbreak under his guidance. Bertram gave the missive to Maude, who carried it to Constance. Disobedience was to be visited by penalty; and how it was likely to be punished in her case, Constance knew only too well. She received it with a moan of anguish99.
“My little maids! my little, little maids!”
She said no more: she only grew worse and weaker.
Then Lord Powys, in search for the “rebels,” marched up and demanded aid. He was answered by silence: and he marched on and away, helped by no hand or voice in Cardiff Castle.
“I must give them up!” Constance whispered to Maude, in accents so hopelessly mournful that it wrung her tender heart to hear them. “I cannot give Him up!”
For just then, in the eyes of every Lollard, to follow Lord Cobham was equivalent to following Christ.
Weaker and weaker she grew now; always confined to bed; worse from day to day.
And at last, on the 28th of November, 1416, the ominous100 horn sounded without the moat, and the Sheriff of the county, armed with all the power of the law, entered the Castle of Cardiff, to call the Lady Le Despenser to account for her repeated and contumacious101 neglect of the royal command.
“Lady mine,” said Maude, tenderly, kneeling by her, “the Sheriff is here.”
“It is come, then!” replied Constance very quietly. “Bring my little maids to me. Let me kiss them once more ere they tear them away from me. God help me to bear the rest!”
She kissed them both, and blessed them fervently102, bidding them “be good maids and serve God.” Then she lay back again in the bed, and softly turned her face to the wall so that the intruders would not see it.
“The Sheriff may enter in,” she said in a low voice. “Lord, I have left all, and have followed Thee!”
Does it seem a small matter for which to sacrifice all? The balances of the Sanctuary103 are not used with weights of earth.
The Sheriff came in. Maude stood up boldly, indignantly, and demanded to know wherefore he had come. The answer was what she expected.
“To seize the persons of the Lady Le Despenser and her daughters, accused of disobedience to the law, and perverse104 contumacy, in that she did deny to aid with money and men the search for one John Oldcastle, a prison-breaker convict of heresy105 and sedition106.”
“Is he taken?” said Bertram almost involuntarily.
“Nay, not so yet; but the good Lord Powys is now a-hunting after him. He that shall take him shall net a thousand marks thereby107, and twenty marks by the year further.”
Maude drew a long sigh.
“Much good do they him!” exclaimed Bertram ironically.
Maude went back to the bed and spoke to her mistress.
“Lady, heard you what he said?”
There was no answer, and Maude spoke again. Still the silence was unbroken. She touched the shoulder, and yet no response.
“An’ it like you, Madam, you must arise and come with me,” said the Sheriff bluntly, as Maude bent108 over the sufferer. Then, with a low moan, she sank on her knees by the bedside, and a cry which was not all bitterness broke from her.
“‘And thus hath Christ unwemmed kept Custance’!”
“What matter, wife?” said Bertram in a tone of sudden apprehension109.
“No matter any more!” replied Maude, lifting her white face. “Master Sheriff, she was dying ere you came to prison her,—on a sendel thread (a linen110 cloth of the finest quality) hung her life: but ere you touched her, God snapped yon thread, and set her free.”
Ay, what matter?—though they seized on the poor relic111 of mortality which had once been Constance Le Despenser?—though the mean vengeance112 was taken of leaving her coffin unburied for four dreary113 years? “After that, they had no more that they could do.” It was only the withered114 leaves that were left in their hands; the White Rose was free.
“What shall become of the young ladies, Master Sheriff?”
“Nay,” growled115 the surly official, “the hen being departed, I lack nought116 of the chicks. They may go whither it list them; only this Castle and all therein is confiscate117.”
“I shall send to my Lord, of force,” she answered coldly, “and desire that he come and fetch me hence.”
“And your sister, the Lady Alianora?”
The child was kneeling by the side of her dead mother, wrapped in unutterable grief. Isabel cast a contemptuous glance upon her.
“No sister of mine!” she said in the same tone. “I cannot be burdened with nameless childre.”
For an instant Maude’s indignation rose above both her discretion119 and her sorrow. She cried—“Girl, God pardon you those cruel words!”—but then with a strong effort she bridled120 her tongue, and sitting down by the bed, drew the sobbing121 child’s head upon her bosom122.
“My poor homeless darling! doth none want thee, my dove?—not even thine own mother’s daughter?—Bertram, good husband, thou wilt not let (hinder) me?—Sweet, come then with us, and be our daughter—to whom beside thee God hath given none. Meseemeth as though He now saith, ‘Take this child and nurse it for Me.’ Lord, so be it!”
At the end of those four years, men’s revenge was satiated, and permission was given for the funeral of the unburied coffin. But they laid her, as they had laid her son, far from the scene of her home, and from the graves of her beloved. The long unused royal vault123 in the Benedictine Abbey of Reading, in which the latest burial had taken place nearly two hundred years before, was opened to receive its last tenant124. There she sleeps calmly, waiting for the resurrection morning.
First, a quiet little village home, where a knight and his wife are calmly passing the later half of life. The knight was rendered useless for battle some years ago by a severe wound, resulting in permanent lameness126. In the chimney-corner, distaff in hand, sits the dame,—a small, slight woman, with gentle dark eyes, and a meek127, loving expression, which will make her face lovely to the close of life. Opposite to her, occupied with another distaff, is a tall, fair, queenly girl, who can surely be no daughter of the dame. By the knight’s chair, in hunting costume, stands a young man with a very open, pleasant countenance128, who is evidently pleading for some favour which the knight and dame are a little reluctant to grant.
“Sir Bertram, not one word would she hear me, but bade me betake me directly unto yourself. So here behold129 me to beseech130 your gentleness in favour of my suit.”
“Lord de Audley,” said the knight, quietly, “this is not the first time by many that I have heard of your name, neither of your goodness. You seek to wed21 my daughter. But I would have you well aware that she hath no portion: and what, I pray you, shall all your friends and lovers say unto your wedding of a poor knight’s portionless daughter?”
“Say! Let them say as they list!” cried the young man. “For portion, I do account Mistress Nell portion and lineage in herself. And they be sorry friends of mine that desire not my best welfare. Her do I love, and only her will I wed.”
Bertram looked across at his wife with a smile.
“Must we tell him, Dame?”
“I think we may, husband.”
“Then know, Lord James de Audley, that you have asked more than you wist. This maid is no daughter of mine. Wedding her, you should wed not Nell Lyngern, a poor knight’s daughter; but the Lady Alianora de Holand, Countess of Kent, of the royal line, whose mother was daughter unto a son of King Edward. Now what say you?”
The young man’s face changed painfully.
“Sir, I thank you,” he said in a low voice. “I am no man fit to mate with the blood royal. Lady Countess, I cry you mercy for mine ignorance and mine unwisdom.”
“Tarry yet a moment, Lord de Audley,” said Bertram, smiling again; for the girl’s colour came and went, the distaff trembled in her hand, and her eyes sought his with a look of troubled entreaty. “Well, Nell?—speak out, maiden mine!”
“Come, Lord James,” said Bertram, laughing, “methinks you be not going empty away. God bless you, man and maid!—only, good knight and true, see thou leave not to love Nell Lyngern.”
The picture fades away, and another comes on the scene.
The bar of the House of Lords. Peers in their Parliament robes fill all the benches, and at their head sits the Regent,—Prince Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester, the representative Rationalist of the fifteenth century. He was no Papist, for he disliked and despised Romish superstitions132; yet no Lollard, for he was utterly incapable133 of receiving the things of the Spirit of God. Henry the Fifth now lies entombed at Westminster, and on the throne is his little son of nine years old, for whom his uncle Humphrey reigns134 and rules. There comes forward to the bar a fair-haired, stately woman, robed in the ermine and velvet135 of a countess. She is asked to state her name and her business. The reply comes in a clear voice.
“My name is Alianora Touchet, Lady de Audley; and I am the only daughter and heir of Sir Edmund de Holand, sometime Earl of Kent, and of Custance his wife, daughter unto Sir Edmund of Langley, Duke of York. I claim the lands and coronets of this my father—the earldom of Kent, and the barony of Wake de Lydel.”
Her evidences are received and examined. The case shall be considered, and the petitioner136 shall receive her answer that day month. She bows and retires.
And then down from her eyrie, like a vengeful eagle, swoops137 the old Duchess Joan of York—the sister of Kent, the step-mother of Constance—who has two passions to gratify, her hatred138 to the memory of the one, and her desire to retain her share of the estates of the other. She draws up her answer to the claim,—astutely disappearing into the background, and pushing forward her simpler sister Margaret, entirely139 governed by her influence, as the prominent objector. She forgets nothing. She urges the assent140 and consent of Henry the Fourth to the marriage of Lucia, the presence of Constance at the ceremony, and every point which can give weight to her objection. She prays, therefore—or Margaret does for her—that the claim of the aforesaid Alianora may be adjudged invalid, and the earldom of Kent extinct.
Lady Audley reappears on the day appointed. It is the same scene again, with Duke Humphrey as president; who informs her, with calm judicial impartiality141, that her petition is rejected, her claim disallowed142, and her name branded with the bar sinister143 for ever. But as she leaves the bar, denied and humiliated144, her hand is drawn145 gently into another hand, and a voice softly asks her—“Am not I better to thee than ten coronets?”
And so they pass away.
The second dissolving view has disappeared; and the last slowly grows before our sight.
A dungeon146 in the Tower of London. There is only a solitary147 prisoner,—a man of fifty years of age, moderate in stature148, but very slightly built, with hands and feet which would be small even in a woman. His face has never been handsome; there are deep furrows149 in the forehead, and something more than time has turned the brown hair grey, and given to the strongly-marked features that pensive150, weary look, which his countenance always wears when in repose151. Ask his name of his gaolers, and they will say it is “Sir Henry of Lancaster, the usurper;” but ask it of himself, and a momentary152 flash lights up the sunken eyes as he answers, “I am the King.”
Neither Pharisee nor Sadducee is Henry the Sixth. He is not a Lollard, simply because he never knew what Lollardism was. During his reign60 it lay dormant—the old Wycliffite plant violently uprooted153, the new Lutheran shoots not yet visible above the ground. He was one of the very few men divinely taught without ostensible154 human agency,—within whom God is pleased to dwell by His Spirit at an age so early that the dawn of the heavenly instinct cannot be perceived. From the follies155, the cruelties, and the iniquities156 of Romanism he shrank with that Heaven-born instinct; and by the dim flickering157 light which he had, he walked with God. His way led over very rough ground, full of rugged158 stones, on which his weary feet were bruised159 and torn. But it was the way Home.
And now, to-night, on the 22nd of May, 1471, the prisoner is very worn and weary. He sits with a book before him—a small square volume, in illuminated160 Latin, with delicately-wrought borders, and occasional full-page illuminations; a Psalter, which came into his hands from those of another prisoner in like case with himself, for the book once belonged to Richard of Bordeaux (Note 2). He turns slowly over the leaves, now and then reading a sentence aloud:—sentences all of which indicate a longing161 for home and rest.
“‘Lord, how long wilt Thou look on? Rescue my soul from their destructions, mine only one from the lions.’
“‘And now, Lord, what wait I for?’
“‘Who shall give me wings like a dove?—and I will flee away, and be at rest!’” (Vulgate version).
At last the prisoner closed the book, and spoke in his own words to his heavenly Friend—the only friend whom he had in all the world, except the wife who was a helpless prisoner like himself.
“Lord God, Thy will be done! Grant unto me patience to await Thy time; but, O fair Father, I lack rest!”
And just as his voice ceased, the heavy door rolled back, and the messenger of rest came in.
He did not look like a messenger of rest. But all God’s messengers are not angels. And there was little indeed of the angel in this man’s composition. His figure would have been tall but for a deformity which his enemies called a hump back, and his friends merely an overgrown shoulder; and his face would have been handsome but for its morose163, scowling164 expression, which by no means betokened165 an amiable166 character.
The two cousins stood and looked at each other. The prisoner was the grandson of Henry of Bolingbroke, and the visitor was the grandson of Richard of Conisborough.
There were a few words on each side—contemptuous taunts167, and sharp accusations168, on the one side,—low, patient replies on the other. Then came a gleam of something flashing in the dim light, and the dagger169 of the visitor was sheathed170 in the pale prisoner’s heart.
At rest, at last: safe, and saved, and with God.
It was a cruel, brutal171, cold-blooded murder. But was it nothing else? Was there in it no operation of those Divine wheels which “grind slowly, yet exceeding small?”—no visitation, by Him to whom vengeance belongeth, of the sins of the guilty fathers upon the guiltless son—vengeance for the broken heart of Richard of Bordeaux, for the judicial murder of Richard of Conisborough, for the dreary imprisoned172 girlhood of Anne Mortimer, and—last, not least—for the long, slow years of moral torture, ending with the bitter cup forced into the dying hand of the White Rose of Langley?
Note 1. Richard of Conisborough married secondly173, and probably chiefly with the view of securing a mother for his children, Maude Clifford, a daughter of the great Lollard House of Clifford of Cumberland. She survived him many years.
Note 2. The Psalter is still extant, in the British Museum: Cott. Ms. Domit. A. xvii.
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mid
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| adj.中央的，中间的 | |
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strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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treasurer
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| n.司库，财务主管 | |
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axe
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| n.斧子；v.用斧头砍，削减 | |
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whit
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| n.一点，丝毫 | |
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coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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chivalrous
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| adj.武士精神的；对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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mien
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| n.风采；态度 | |
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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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accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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indictment
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| n.起诉；诉状 | |
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conspired
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| 密谋( conspire的过去式和过去分词 )； 搞阴谋； （事件等）巧合； 共同导致 | |
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assassination
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| n.暗杀；暗杀事件 | |
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20
severed
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| v.切断，断绝( sever的过去式和过去分词 )；断，裂 | |
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21
wed
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| v.娶，嫁，与…结婚 | |
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22
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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equity
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| n.公正，公平，（无固定利息的）股票 | |
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condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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25
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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26
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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pestilence
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| n.瘟疫 | |
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onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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wrestled
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| v.（与某人）搏斗( wrestle的过去式和过去分词 )；扭成一团；扭打；（与…）摔跤 | |
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30
discomfiture
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| n.崩溃；大败；挫败；困惑 | |
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entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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32
sarcastic
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| adj.讥讽的，讽刺的，嘲弄的 | |
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obesity
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| n.肥胖，肥大 | |
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34
applicant
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| n.申请人，求职者，请求者 | |
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squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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wilt
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| v.(使)植物凋谢或枯萎；(指人)疲倦，衰弱 | |
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37
scantly
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| 缺乏地，仅仅 | |
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corpses
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| n.死尸，尸体( corpse的名词复数 ) | |
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corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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40
croak
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| vi.嘎嘎叫，发牢骚 | |
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41
dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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42
abject
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| adj.极可怜的，卑屈的 | |
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43
penitence
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| n.忏悔，赎罪；悔过 | |
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44
receded
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的过去式和过去分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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45
prominence
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| n.突出；显著；杰出；重要 | |
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46
prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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47
consolidated
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| a.联合的 | |
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48
component
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| n.组成部分，成分，元件；adj.组成的，合成的 | |
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49
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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50
beacon
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| n.烽火，（警告用的）闪火灯，灯塔 | |
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51
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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52
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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53
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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54
repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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55
hemmed
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| 缝…的褶边( hem的过去式和过去分词 )； 包围 | |
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56
archer
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| n.射手，弓箭手 | |
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57
warrior
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| n.勇士，武士，斗士 | |
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58
stationary
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| adj.固定的，静止不动的 | |
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59
shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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60
reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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61
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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persecutor
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| n. 迫害者 | |
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64
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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writ
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| n.命令状，书面命令 | |
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ascetic
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| adj.禁欲的；严肃的 | |
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fettered
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| v.给…上脚镣，束缚( fetter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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68
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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prostrated
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| v.使俯伏，使拜倒( prostrate的过去式和过去分词 )；（指疾病、天气等）使某人无能为力 | |
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70
leaven
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| v.使发酵；n.酵母；影响 | |
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71
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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wreaking
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| 诉诸（武力），施行（暴力），发（脾气）( wreak的现在分词 ) | |
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73
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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bereft
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| adj.被剥夺的 | |
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equanimity
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| n.沉着，镇定 | |
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76
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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chastising
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| v.严惩（某人）（尤指责打）( chastise的现在分词 ) | |
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78
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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79
lash
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| v.系牢；鞭打；猛烈抨击；n.鞭打；眼睫毛 | |
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80
professing
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| 声称( profess的现在分词 )； 宣称； 公开表明； 信奉 | |
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81
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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82
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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83
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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84
chastise
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| vt.责骂，严惩 | |
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85
marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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86
pointedly
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| adv.尖地，明显地 | |
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imperatively
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| adv.命令式地 | |
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refractory
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| adj.倔强的，难驾驭的 | |
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faltering
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| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
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dame
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| n.女士 | |
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91
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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93
respite
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| n.休息，中止，暂缓 | |
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94
drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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manifesto
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| n.宣言，声明 | |
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proprietors
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| n.所有人，业主( proprietor的名词复数 ) | |
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98
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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100
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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101
contumacious
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| adj.拒不服从的，违抗的 | |
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102
fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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103
sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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104
perverse
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| adj.刚愎的；坚持错误的，行为反常的 | |
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105
heresy
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| n.异端邪说；异教 | |
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106
sedition
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| n.煽动叛乱 | |
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107
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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110
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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relic
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| n.神圣的遗物，遗迹，纪念物 | |
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112
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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113
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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114
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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115
growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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116
nought
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| n.／adj.无，零 | |
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117
confiscate
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| v.没收(私人财产)，把…充公 | |
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118
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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119
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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120
bridled
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| 给…套龙头( bridle的过去式和过去分词 )； 控制； 昂首表示轻蔑（或怨忿等）； 动怒，生气 | |
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121
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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122
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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123
vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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124
tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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125
tableaux
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| n.舞台造型，（由活人扮演的）静态画面、场面；人构成的画面或场景( tableau的名词复数 )；舞台造型；戏剧性的场面；绚丽的场景 | |
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126
lameness
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| n. 跛, 瘸, 残废 | |
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127
meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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128
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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129
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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beseech
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| v.祈求，恳求 | |
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131
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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superstitions
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| 迷信，迷信行为( superstition的名词复数 ) | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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134
reigns
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| n.君主的统治( reign的名词复数 )；君主统治时期；任期；当政期 | |
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135
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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petitioner
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| n.请愿人 | |
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swoops
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| 猛扑，突然下降( swoop的名词复数 ) | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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139
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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140
assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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141
impartiality
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| n. 公平, 无私, 不偏 | |
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142
disallowed
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| v.不承认（某事物）有效( disallow的过去式和过去分词 )；不接受；不准；驳回 | |
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sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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144
humiliated
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| 感到羞愧的 | |
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145
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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dungeon
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| n.地牢，土牢 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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149
furrows
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| n.犁沟( furrow的名词复数 )；（脸上的）皱纹v.犁田，开沟( furrow的第三人称单数 ) | |
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pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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151
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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153
uprooted
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| v.把（某物）连根拔起( uproot的过去式和过去分词 )；根除；赶走；把…赶出家园 | |
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154
ostensible
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| adj.(指理由)表面的，假装的 | |
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155
follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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156
iniquities
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| n.邪恶( iniquity的名词复数 )；极不公正 | |
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flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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161
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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morose
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| adj.脾气坏的，不高兴的 | |
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scowling
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的现在分词 ) | |
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betokened
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| v.预示，表示( betoken的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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taunts
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| 嘲弄的言语，嘲笑，奚落( taunt的名词复数 ) | |
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accusations
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| n.指责( accusation的名词复数 )；指控；控告；（被告发、控告的）罪名 | |
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dagger
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| n.匕首，短剑，剑号 | |
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170
sheathed
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| adj.雕塑像下半身包在鞘中的；覆盖的；铠装的；装鞘了的v.将（刀、剑等）插入鞘( sheathe的过去式和过去分词 )；包，覆盖 | |
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171
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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172
imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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