The mother, as was but like, took me for Dame Elizabeth, and began to thank me for having paid my debts—at long last, she might have said. But afore I could gainsay it, Hilda saith warmly—

"Oh no, Mother! This is not the lady that ought the money. Madame here is good—so good! and that lady—she has no heart in her, I think."

"Not very good, Hilda," said I, laughing, "when I fell on the dame that ought thee the money, and fairly wrenched it from her, whether she would or no. Howbeit," I continued to the poor woman, "I will be good to you, if I can."

By bits and scraps I pulled her story forth of her mouth. It was no uncommon tale: a sickly wife and a selfish husband,—a deserted, struggling wife and mother—and then a penniless widow, with no friends and poor health, that could scant make shift to keep body and soul together, whether for herself or the children. The husband had come home at last but to be a burden and sorrow—to be nursed through a twelve months' sickness and then to die; and what with the weariness and lack of all comfort, the poor widow fell sick herself soon after, and Hilda, the young maid, had kept matters a-going, as best she might, ever sithence.

I comforted the poor thing to my little power; told her that I would give Hilda some work to do (and pay her for it), and that I would come and see her by times whilst the Queen should abide in Paris; but that when she went away must I go likewise, and it might be all suddenly, that I could not give her to wit. Hilda had sent the children forth to buy food, and there were but her and her mother. Mine husband was longer in return than I looked for.

"My maid," said I to Hilda, "prithee tell me a thing. What didst thou signify by saying to thyself, right as we set forth from the Palace, that God must have heard thee?"

A great wave of colour passed over her face and neck.

"Dame," she said, "I will speak soothliness. It was partly because I had prayed for money to buy food and physic: but partly also, because I was afraid of something, and I had asked the good God to keep it away from me. When you said that you and Messire would condescend to come with me, it delivered me from my fear. The good God must have heard me, for nobody else knew."

"Afraid!" said I. "Whereof, my maid? Was it the porter's great dog? He is a gentle beast as may be, and would never touch thee. What could harm thee in the Queen's Palace?"

The wave of colour came again. "Madame does not know," she said, in a low voice. "There are men worse than brutes: but such great ladies do not see it. One stayed me and spoke to me the night afore. I was afraid he might come again, and there was no one to help me but the good Lord. So I called to Him to be my guard, for there was none else; and I think He sent two of His angels with me."

Mine own eyes were full, no less than Hilda's.

"May the good Lord guard thee ever, poor maid!" said I. "But in very sooth, I am far off enough from an angel. Here cometh one something nearer thereto"—for I heard Jack's voice without. "But tell me, dost thou know who it was of whom thou wert afraid?"

"I only know," she said, "that his squire bare a blue and white livery, guarded in gold. I heard not his name."

"Verily!" said I to myself, "such gentlemen be fair company for Dame Isabel the Queen!"

For I could have no doubt that poor Hilda's enemy was that bad man, Sir Roger de Mortimer. Howbeit, I said no more, for then oped the door, and in came Jack, with a lad behind, bearing a great basket. Jack's own arms were full of fardels [parcels], which he set down in a corner of the chamber, and bade the lad empty the basket beside, which was charged with firewood, "There!" saith he, "they be not like to want for a day or twain, poor souls! Come away, Sissot; we have earned a night's rest."

"Messire!" cried the faint voice of the poor woman. "Messire is good as an angel from Heaven! But surely Messire has not demeaned himself to carry burdens—and for us!"

She seemed nearhand frightened at the thought.

"Nay, good woman," saith Jack, merrily—"no more than the angel that carried the cruse of water for the Prophet Elias. Well-a-day! securely I can carry a fardel without tarnishing my spurs? I would I might never do a worse deed."

"Amen!" said I, "for both of us."

We bade the woman and Hilda good even, and went forth, followed by blessings till we were in the very street: and not till then would I say—

"Jack, thou art the best man ever lived, but I would thou hadst a little more care for appearances. Suppose Sir Edmund or Master de Oxendon had seen thee!"

"Well?" saith Jack, as calm as a pool in a hollow. "Suppose they had."

"Why, then should they have laughed thee to scorn."

"Suppose they did?"

"Jack! Dost thou nothing regard folks' thoughts of thee?"

"Certes. I regard thine full diligently."

"But other folks, that be nought to thee, I would say."

"If the folks be nought to me, wherefore should the thoughts be of import? Securely, good wife, but very little. I shall sleep the sweeter for those fardels: and I count I should sleep none the worser if man laughed at me. The blessing of the poor and the blessing of the Lord be full apt to go together: and dost thou reckon I would miss that—yea, so much as one of them—out of regard for that which is, saith Solomon, 'sonitum spinarum sub olla'? [Ecclesiastes chapter seven, verse 6]. Ha, jolife! let the thorns crackle away, prithee; they shall not burn long."

"Jack," said I, "thou art the best man ever lived!"

"Rhyme on, my fair trouvere," quoth he. [Troubadour. Their lays were usually legends and fictitious tales.] "But, Sissot, to speak sooth, I will tell thee, if thou list to hearken, what it is keepeth my steps from running into many a by-way, and mine heart from going astray after many a flower sown of Satan in my path."

"Do tell me, Jack," said I.

"There be few days in my life," saith he, "that there cometh not up afore mine eyes that Bar whereat I shall one day stand, and that Book out of the which all my deeds shall be read afore men and angels. And I have some concern for the thoughts of them that look on, that day, rather than this. Many a time—ay, many a time twice told—in early morn or in evening twilight, have I looked up into heaven, and the thought hath swept o'er me like a fiery breeze—'What if our Lord be coming this minute?' Dost thou reckon, Sissot, that man to whom such thoughts be familiar friends, shall be oft found sitting in the alebooth, or toying with frothy vanities? I trow not."

"But, Jack!" cried I, letting all else drop, "is that all real to thee?"

"Real, Sissot? There is not another thing as real in life."

I burst forth. I could not help it.

"O Jack, Jack! Don't go and be a monk!"

"Go and be a monk!" saith Jack, with an hearty laugh. "Why, Wife, what bees be in thine hood? I thought I was thine husband."

"So thou art, the saints be thanked," said I. "But thou art so good, I am sore afraid thou wilt either die or be a monk."

"I'll not be a monk, I promise thee," quoth he. "I am not half good enough, nor would I lose my Sissot. As to dying, be secure I shall not die an hour afore God's will is: and the Lord hath much need of good folks to keep this bad world sweet. I reckon we may be as good as we can with reasonable safety. I'll try, if thou wilt."

So I did, and yet do: but I shall never be match to Jack.

Well, by this time we had won back to the Queen's lodging; and at foot of degrees I bade good-night to Jack, being that night appointed to the pallet—a business I never loved. I was thinking on Jack's last words, as I went up, and verily had for the nonce forgat that which went afore, when all at once a voice saith in mine ear—

"Well, Dame Cicely! Went you forth in such haste lest you should be clapped into prison for stealing? Good lack, but mine heart's in my mouth yet! Were you wood [mad], or what ailed you?"

"Dame Elizabeth," said I, as all came back on me, "I have been to visit Hilda's mother."

"Dear heart! And what found you? Was she a-supping on goose and leeks? That make o' folks do alway feign to be as poor as Job, when their coffers be so full the lid cannot be shut. You be young, Dame Cicely, and know not the world."

"Maybe," said I. "But if you will hearken me, I will tell you what I found."

"Go to, then," saith she, as she followed me into our chamber. "Whate'er you found, you left me too poor to pay the jeweller. I would fain have had a sapphire pin more than I got, but your raid on my purse disabled me thereof. The rogue would give me no credit."

"Hear but my tale," said I, "and if when it be told you regret your sapphire pin, I beseech you say so."

So I told her in plain words, neither 'minishing nor adding, how I had found them, and the story I had heard from the poor woman. She listened, cool enough at first, but ere I made an end the water stood in her eyes.

"Ha, chetife!" said she, when I stayed me. "I'll pay the maid another time. Trust me, Dame Cicely, I believed not a word. If you had been cheated as oft—! Verily, I am sorry I sent not man to see how matters stood with them. Well, I am fain you gave her the money, after all. But, trust me, you took my breath away!"

"And my own belike," said I.

I think Hilda and hers stood not in much want the rest of that winter. But whenever she came with work for me, either Margaret my maid, or Jack's old groom, a sober man and an ancient, walked back with her.

Meantime Sir Roger de Mortimer played first viol in the Court minstrelsy. Up and yet higher up he crept, till he could creep no further, as I writ a few leaves back. On the eve of Saint Pancras was crowned the new Queen of France in the Abbey of Saint Denis, which is to France as Westminster Abbey to us: and there ramped my Lord of Mortimer in the very suite of the Queen herself, and in my Lord of Chester's own livery. Twice-banished traitor, he appeared in the self presence of the King that had banished him, and of the wife of his own natural Prince, to whom he had done treason of the deepest dye. And not one voice said him nay.

Thus went matters on till the beginning of September, 1326. The Queen abode at Paris; the King of France made no sign: our King's trusty messager, Donald de Athole, came and went with letters (and if it were not one of his letters the Queen dropped into the brasier right as I came one day into her chamber, I marvel greatly); but nought came forth that we her ladies heard. On the even of the fifth of September, early, came Sir John de Ostrevant to the Palace, and had privy speech of the Queen—none being thereat but her confessor and Dame Isabel de Lapyoun: and he was scarce gone forth when, as we sat in our chamber a-work, the Queen herself looked in and called Dame Elizabeth forth.

I thought nought of it. I turned down hem, and cut off some threads, and laid down scissors, and took up my needle to thread afresh—in the Hotel de Saint Pol at Paris. And that needle was not threaded but in the Abbey of Saint Edmund's Bury in Suffolk, twenty days after. Yet if man had told me it should so be, I had felt ready to laugh him to scorn. Ah me, what feathers we be, that a breath from God Almighty can waft hither or thither at His will!

Never but that once did I see Dame Elizabeth to burst into a chamber. And when she so did, I was in such amaze thereat that I fair gasped to see it.

"Good lack!" cried I, and stared on her.

"Well may you say it!" quoth she. "Lay by work, all of you, and make you ready privily in all haste for journeying by night. Lose not a moment."

"Mary love us!" cries Isabel de la Helde. "Whither?"

"Whither the Queen's will is. Hold your tongues, and make you ready."

We lay that night—and it was not till late—in the town of Sessouns, in the same lodging the Queen had before, at Master John de Gyse's house. The next night we lay at Peronne, and the third we came to Ostrevant.

Dame Isabel told us the reason of this sudden flight. The Queen had heard that her brother the King of France—who for some time past had been very cool and distant towards her—had a design to seize upon her and deliver her a prisoner to King Edward: and Sir John of Hainault, Count of Ostrevant, who came to bring her this news, offered her a refuge in his Castle of Ostrevant. I believed this tale when Dame Isabel told it: I have no faith in it now. What followed did away entirely therewith, and gave me firm belief that it was nothing save an excuse to get away in safety and without the King of France's knowledge. Be it how it may, Sir Roger de Mortimer came with her.

We were not many days at Ostrevant: only long enough for the Count to raise his troops, and then, when all was ready, the Queen embarked for England. On the 22nd of September we came ashore at Orwell, and had full ill lodging; none having any shelter save the Queen herself, for whom her knights ran up a shed of driftwood, hung o'er with carpets. Never had I so discomfortous a night—the sea tossing within a few yards, and the wind roaring in mine ears, and the spray all-to beating over me as I lay on the beach, lapped in a mantle. I was well pleased the next morrow, when the Queen, whose rest had been little, gave command to march forward to Bury. But afore we set forth, come nearhand an army of peasants into the presence, 'plaining of the Queen's officers, that had taken their cows, chickens, and fruits, and paid not a penny. The Queen had them all brought afore her, and with her own hands haled forth the money due to each one, bidding them bring all oppressions to her own ears, and straitly commanding her officers that they should take not so much as an egg without payment. By this means she won all the common people to her side, and they were ready to set their lives in pledge for her truth and honour.

At that time I was but little aware how matters verily stood. I said to Dame Joan de Vaux that the Queen showed her goodness hereby—for though I knew the Mortimer by then to be ill man, I wist not that she knew it, and reckoned her yet as innocent and beguiled woman.

"Doth she so?" answered Dame Joan. "How many grapes may man gather of a bramble?"

"Nay!" said I, scarce perceiving her intent, "but very grapes come not of brambles."

"Soothly," saith she: "neither do very brambles bear grapes."

Three days the Queen tarried at Bury: then, with banners flying, she marched on toward Essex. I thought it strange that even she should march with displayed banners, seeing the King was not of her company: but I reckoned she had his order, and was acting as his deputy. Elsewise had it been dread treason [Note 1], even in her. I was confirmed in my thought when my Lord of Lancaster, the King's cousin, and my Lord of Norfolk, the King's brother, came to meet her and joined their troops to her company; and yet more when the Archbishop of Dublin, and the Bishops of Hereford, Lincoln, and Ely, likewise joined them to her. Verily, such holy men could not countenance treason.

Truth enough: but that which was untrue was not the treason, but the holiness of these Caiaphases.

And now began that woeful Dolorous Way, which our Lord King Edward trod after his Master Christ. But who knoweth whither a strange road shall lead him, until he be come to the end thereof? I wis well that many folk have said unto us—Jack and me—since all things were made plain, How is it ye saw not aforetime, and wherefore followed ye the Queen thus long? They saw not aforetime, no more than we; but now that all is open, up come they with wagging heads and snorkilling noses, and—"Verily, we were sore to blame for not seeing through the mist"— the mist through the which, when it lay thick, no man saw. Ha, chetife! I could easily fall to prophesying, myself, when all is over. Could we have seen what lay at the end of that Dolorous Way, should any true and loyal man have gone one inch along it?

And who was like to think, till he did see, what an adder the King nursed in his bosom? Most men counted her a fair white dove, all innocent and childlike: that did I not. I did see far enough, for all the mist, to see she was no child in that fashion; yet children love mischief well enough betimes; and I counted her, if not white, but grey—not the loathly black fiend that she was at the last seen to be. I saw many a thing I loved not, many a thing I would not have done in her place, many a thing that I but half conceived, and feared to be ill deed—but there ended my seeing. I thought she was caught within the meshes of a net, and I was sorry she kept not thereout. But I never guessed that the net was spread by her own hands.

My mother, Dame Alice de Lethegreve, I think, saw clearer than I did: but it was by reason she loved more,—loved him who became the sacrifice, not the miserable sinner for whose hate and wickedness he was sacrificed.

So soon as King Edward knew of the Queen's landing, which was by Michaelmas Eve at latest, he put forth a proclamation to all his lieges, wherein he bade them resist the foreign horde about to be poured upon England. Only three persons were to be received with welcome and honour: which was, the Queen herself, Edward her son (his father, in his just ire, named him not his son, neither as Earl of Chester), and the King's brother, the Lord Edmund of Kent. I always was sorry for my Lord of Kent; he was so full hoodwinked by the Queen, and never so much as guessed for one moment, that he acted a disloyal part. He was a noble gentleman, a kindly and a generous; not, maybe, the wisest man in the realm, and something too prone to rush after all that had the look of a noble deed, ere he gave himself time enough to consider the same. But if the world held no worser men at heart than he, it were marvellous better world than now.

One other thing did King Edward, which showed how much he had learned: he offered a great price of one thousand pounds [about 18,000 pounds, according to modern value], for the head of the Mortimer: and no sooner did the Queen hear thereof, than she offered double—namely, two thousand pounds—for the head of Sir Hugh Le Despenser—a man whose little finger was better worth two thousand than the Mortimer's head was worth one. Two days later, the King fortified the Tower, and appointed the Lord John of Eltham governor thereof; but he being only a child of ten years, the true governor was the Lady Alianora La Despenser, who was left in charge of the King's said son. And two days afore Saint Francis [October 2nd] he left the Tower, and set forth toward Wallingford, leaving the Bishop of Exeter to keep the City: truly a thankless business, for never could any man yet keep the citizens of London. Nor could he: for a fortnight was not over ere they rose in insurrection against the King's deputies, invested the Tower, wrenched the keys from the Constable, John de Weston, to whom the Lady Alianora had confided them, brought her out with the young Lord, and carried them to the Wardrobe—not without honour—and then returning, they seized on the Bishop, with two of his squires, and strake off their heads at the Standard in Chepe. And this will I say for the said Bishop, though he were not alway pleasant to deal withal, for he was very furnish—yet was he honest man, and loved his master, ay, and held to him in days when it was little profit so to do. And seeing how few honest men there be, that will hold on to the right when their profit lieth to the left, that is much to say.

With the King went Sir Hugh Le Despenser—I mean the younger, that was create Earl of Gloucester by reason of his marriage; for the Lady Alianora his wife was eldest of the three sisters that were coheirs of that earldom. And thereanent—well-a-day! how different folks do from that I should do in their place! I can never tell wherefore, when man doth ill, the penalty thereof should be made to run over on his innocent sons. Because Sir Hugh forfeited the earldom, wherefore passed it not to his son, that was loyal man and true, and one of the King's best councillors all his life? On the contrary part, it was bestowed on Sir Hugh de Audley, that wedded the Lady Margaret (widow of Sir Piers de Gavaston), that stood next of the three coheirs. And it seemeth me scarce just that Sir Hugh de Audley, that had risen up against King Edward of old time, and been prisoned therefor, and was at best but a pardoned rebel, should be singled out for one of the finest earldoms in England, and not Sir Hugh Le Despenser, whose it was of right, and to whose charge—save the holding of the Castle of Caerphilly against Queen Isabel, which was in very loyalty to his true lord King Edward—no fault at all could be laid. I would I had but the world to set right! Then should there be justice done, and every wrong righted, and all crooked ways put straight, and every man and woman made happy. Dear heart, what fair and good world were this, when I had made an end of—

Did man laugh behind me?

"Jack! Soothly, I thought it must be thou. What moveth thy laughter?"

"Dame Cicely de Chaucombe," saith he, essaying to look sober—which he managed but ill. "The Annals of Cicely, likewise; and the imaginings of Cicely in especial."

"Well, what now mispayeth [displeases] thee?" quoth I.

"There was once man," saith Jack, "thought as thou dost. And seeing that the hollyhocks in his garden were taller than the daisies, he bade his gardener with a scythe cut short the hollyhocks, that all the flowers should be but of one height."

"Well, what happed?" said I.

"Why, next day were there no hollyhocks. And then the hollyhock stems and the daisies both laid 'plaint of the gardener."

"Both?" said I.

"Both. They alway do."

"But what 'plaint had the daisies to offer?"

"Why, that they had not been pulled up to the height of the hollyhocks, be sure."

"But how could they so?"

"Miscontent hath no 'can' in his hornbook. Not what thou canst, but what he would, is his measure of justice."

"But justice is justice," said I—"not what any man would, but what is fair and even."

"Veriliest. But what is fair and even? If thou stand on Will's haw [hillock], the oak on thy right hand is the largest tree; if thou stand on Dick's, it shall be the beech on thy left. And thine ell-wand reacheth not. How then to measure?"

"But I would be on neither side," said I, "but right in the midst: so should I see even."

"Right in the midst, good wife, is where God standeth; and few men win there. There be few matters whereof man can see both to the top and to the bottom. Mostly, if man see the one end, then he seeth not the other. And that which man seeth not, how shall he measure? Without thou lay out to follow the judge which said that he would clearly man should leave to harry him with both sides of a matter. So long as he heard but the plaintiff, he could tell full well where the right lay; but after came the defendant, and put him all out, that he wist not on which side to give judgment. Maybe Judge Sissot should sit on the bench alongside of him."

"Now, Jack," said I, "thou laughest at me."

"Good discipline for thee, sweetheart," saith he, "and of lesser severity than faulting thee. But supposing the world lay in thine hands to set right, and even that thou hadst the power thereto, how long time dost think thy work should abide?"

"Ha, chetife!" cried I. "I ne'er bethought me of that."

"The world was set right once," quoth Jack, "by means of cold water, and well washed clean therein. But it tarried not long, as thou wist. Sin was not washed away; and Satan was not drowned in the Flood: and very soon thereafter were they both a-work again. Only one stream can wash the world to last, and that floweth right from the rood on Calvary."

"Yet there is enough," said I, "to wash the whole world."

"Verily. But how, if the world will not come and wash? 'He that will'—qui vult—'let him take water of life freely.' But he that is not athirst for the holy water, shall not have it forced down his throat against his will."

"How shall man come by the thirst, Jack, if he hath it not? For if the gift shall be given only to him that thirsteth for it, it seemeth me the thirst must needs be born ere we shall come for the water."

"Nay, sweetheart, we all desire happiness and wealth and honour; the mistake is that we be so ready to slake our thirst at the pools of muddy water which abound on every hand, rather than go to the fount of living water. We grasp at riches and honours and pleasures of this life: lo, here the blame, in that we are all athirst for the muddy pool, and have no desire for the holy water—for the gold of the royal mint stamped with the King's image, for the crown of everlasting life, for the bliss which shall endure unto all ages. We cry soothly for these things; but it is aswhasay, Give me happiness, but let it end early; give me seeming gold, but let it be only tinsel; give me a crown, but be it one that will fade away. Like a babe that will grip at a piece of tin whereon the sun shineth, and take no note of a golden ingot that lieth by in shadow."

"But who doth such things, Jack?"

"Thou and I, Sissot, unless Christ anoint our eyes that we see in sooth."

"Jack!" cried I, all suddenly, "as I have full many times told thee, thou art better man than many a monk."

"Now scornest thou at me," saith he. "How can I be perfect, that am wedded man? [Note 2.] Thou wist well enough that perfect men be only found among the contemplative, not among them that dwell in the world. Yet soothly, I reckon man may dwell in the world and love Christ, or he may dwell in cloister and be none of His."

Well, I know not how that may be; but this do I know, that never was there any Jack even to my Jack; and I am sore afraid that if I ever win into Heaven, I shall never be able to see Jack, for he shall be ten thousand mile nearer the Throne than I Cicely am ever like to be.

————————————————————————————————————

Note 1. At this time it was high treason for any subject to march with banners displayed, unless he acted as the King's representative by his distinct commission.

Note 2. The best men then living looked on the life of idle contemplation as the highest type of Christian life, to which no married man could attain.



PART ONE, CHAPTER 4.

THE GLAMOUR OF THE QUEEN.

"Hast thou beheld thyself, and couldst thou stain So rare perfection? Even for love of thee I do profoundly hate thee."

Lady Elizabeth Carew.

So I was got into the Annals of Cicely, was I? Well then, have back. Dear heart! but what a way have I to go back ere I can find where I was in my story!

Well the King left the Tower for Wallingford, and with him Sir Hugh Le Despenser, and Hugh his young son, Archdeacon Baldok, Edward de Bohun the King's nephew, and divers of his following. I know not whether he had with him also his daughters, the young Ladies Alianora and Joan, or if they were brought to him later. By Saint Denis' Eve [October 7th] he had reached Wallingford.

The Queen was in march to London: but hearing that the King had left, she altered her course, and went to Oxford. There tarried we one day, and went to our duties in the Church of Saint Martin [Note 1], where an homily was preachen by my Lord of Hereford [Note 2]. And a strange homily it was, wherein Eva our mother stood for the Queen, and I suppose Adam for the King, and Sir Hugh Le Despenser (save the mark!) was the serpent. I stood it out, but I will not say I goxide [gaped] not. The next day went the Queen on toward Gloucester, pursuing the King, which had been there about ten days afore her. She put forth from Wallingford, on her way between Oxford and Gloucester, a letter wherein she earnestly prayed the King to return, and promised that he should receive the government with all honour if he would conform him to his people. I had been used to hear of the people obeying the King, as in duty bound to him whom God had set over them; and this talk of the King obeying the people was marvellous strange to mine ears. Howbeit, it was talk only; for what was really meant was that he should conform himself to his wife. And considering how much wives be bidden of God to obey their lords, that surely was as ill as the other. Which the King saw belike, for instead of coming nearer he went further away, right over the Severn, and strengthened himself, first in the strong Castle of Chepstow, and after in the Castle of Caerphilly. For us, we went on, though not so quick as he, to Gloucester, and thence to Bristol, where Sir Hugh de Despenser the father was governor, and where the citizens, on the Queen's coming, opened the gates to her, and Sir Hugh on perceiving it retired into the Castle. But she summoned the Castle also to surrender, which was done speedily of the officers, and Sir Hugh delivered into her hands. Moreover, the two little ladies, the King's daughters, whom he had sent from Gloucester on his retreat across the Severn, were brought to her [Note 3], and she welcomed them motherly, or at least seemed to do so. Wala wa! I have no list to set down what followed, and will run by the same as short as shall serve truth.

The morrow of Saint Crispin, namely, the 26th day of October, the Queen and her son, now Duke of Aquitaine—whom man whilome called Earl of Chester—came into the great hall of Bristol Castle, and sat in state: I Cicely being behind the Queen's chair, and Jack in waiting on my Lord the Duke. Which done, they called council of the prelates and nobles of the realm, being the Archbishop of Dublin and five bishops; the King's two brothers, my Lords of Norfolk and Kent; my Lord of Lancaster their cousin; and all the nobles then present in Bristol town: thus they gathered, the Duke on the right hand of the throne and the Queen on the left, the throne all empty. Then a marvellous strange thing happened: for the Queen rose up and spake, in open Council, to the prelates and nobles of England. When she first arose (as afterwards I heard say) were there some murmurs that a woman should so speak; and divers up and down the hall rowned [whispered] one the other in the ear that it had been more seemly had she kept to her distaff. But when she ended, so great was the witchery of her fair face, and the gramary [magic] of her silver voice, that scarce man was in the hall but was ready to live and die with her. Ha, chetife! how she witched the world! yet never did she witch me.

How can it be, I marvel at times, that men—and women too—will suffer themselves to be thus led astray, and yet follow on, oft knowing whither they go, after some one man or woman, that casteth over them a manner of gramary? There be some that can witch whom they will, that God keepeth not. And 'tis not alway a fair face that witcheth; I have known full unbright [plain, ugly] folks that have this charm with them. And I note moreover, that many times he that wields it doth use it for evil, and not for good. I dare not say no good man ever hath the same; for securely I know not all folks in this world: yet of them I do know, I cannot call to mind a verily good man or woman that hath seemed me to possess this power over his fellows. I have known some metely good folk that had a touch thereof; but of such as I mean, that do indeed wield it in power, and draw all manner of men to them, and after them, nearhand whether they choose or no—of such I cannot call to mind one that was true follower of our Lord. Therefore it seems me an evil power, and one that may come of Satan, sith it mostly is used in his service. And I pray God neither of my daughters may ever show the same, for at best it must be full of peril of pride to him that possesseth it. Indeed, had it so been, I think they should have shown it afore now.

But now to have back to the hall of Bristol Castle, lest Jack, coming in to look stealthily over my shoulder as he doth betimes, should say I have won again into the Annals of Cicely.

Well, all the prelates and nobles were full witched by Dame Isabel the Queen, and agreed unto all her plans, the which came ready cut and dried, as though all had been thought on and settled long afore. Verily, I dare say it so had. First, they elected the Duke of Aquitaine to the regency—which of course was the self thing as electing his mother, since he, being a mere lad, was but her mouthpiece, and was buxom [submissive] unto her in all things: and all present sware to fulfil his pleasure, as though he had been soothly king, under his privy seal, for there was no seal meet for the regency. And incontinent [immediately] thereafter, the said Duke, speaking doubtless the pleasure of the Queen, commanded Sir Hugh Le Despenser the father to be brought to his trial in the hall of the Castle.

Then was he led in, an old white-haired man, [See note in Appendix, on the Despensers], stately and venerable, who stood up before the Council as I would think none save innocent man should do, and looked the Queen straight in the face. He was not witched with her gramary; and soothly I count in all that hall he was the sole noble that escaped the spell. A brave man was he, of great probity, prudent in council, valiant in war: maybe something too readily swayed by other folks (the Queen except), where he loved them (which he did not her), and from this last point came all his misfortunes [Note 4].

Now stood he up to answer the charges laid against him (whereof there were nine), but answer such as man looked for made he none. He passed all by as of no account, and went right to the heart and verity of the whole matter. I could not but think of a Prisoner before him who had answered nothing; and I crede he knew that in like case, "per invidiam tradidissent eum." [Note 5]. Moreover, he spake not to them that did the will of other, but to her that was at the core of the whole matter.

"Ah, Dame!" quoth he, bowing low his white, stately head, "God grant us fair trial and just judge; and if we may not find it in this world, we look for it in another."

I trust he found it in that other world—nay, I know he must have done. But in this world did he not find it. Fair trial had he none; it was an end foregone from the beginning. And as to just judge—well, she is gone now to her judgment, and I will leave her there.

I had forgot to say in due order that my Lord of Arundel was he that was tried with him, but he suffered not till later. [This appears to be the case from comparison of the best authorities.] He, therefore, was had back to prison; but Sir Hugh was hung on the common gallows in his coat armour, in strong cords, and when he was cut down, after four days, his head was struck off and his quarters cast to the dogs. On whose soul God have mercy! Amen. In very deed, I think he deserved a better fate. Secure am I, that many men be hung on gallows which might safely be left to die abed, and many more die abed that richly demerit the gallows. This world is verily a-crooked: I reckon it shall be smoothed out and set straight one day. There be that say that day shall last a thousand years; and soothly, taking into account all the work to be done ere the eve droppeth, it were small marvel an' it did so.

This done, we tarried not long at Bristol. Less than a month thereafter was the King taken at Neath Abbey in Wales, and all that yet obeyed him were either taken with him or dispersed. The news found the Queen at Hereford, whither she had journeyed from Bristol: and if I had yet a doubt left touching her very nature [real character], I think it had departed from me when I beheld how she received that news. Sir Thomas Le Blount, his Steward of the Household, was he that betrayed him: and may God pardon him easier than I could. But my Lord of Lancaster (whom I can pray God pardon with true heart, seeing he afterward repented bitterly), the Lord Zouche of Ashby, and Rhys ap Howel—these were they that took him. With him they took three other—Sir Hugh Le Despenser the son, and Archdeacon Baldok, and Sir Simon de Reading. The good Archdeacon, that was elect [Bishop is understood] of Norwich, was delivered over to the tender mercies (which, as saith the Psalmist, were cruel) of that priest of Baal, the Bishop of Hereford, whom indeed I cannot call a priest of God, for right sure am I that God should never have owned him. If that a man serveth be whom he worshippeth, then was Sir Adam de Orleton, Bishop of Hereford, priest of Sathanas and none other. The King was had to Kenilworth Castle, in ward of my Lord of Lancaster—a good though mistaken man, that used him not ungently, yet kept him straitly. Sir Hugh and Sir Simon were brought to the Queen at Hereford, and I was in waiting when they came into her presence. I had but one glimmer of her face (being behind her) when she turned her head for a moment to bid me send Oliver de Nantoil to fetch my Lord of Lincoln to the presence: but if ever I beheld pictured in human eyes the devilish passions of hate, malice, and furious purpose, I beheld them that minute in those lovely eyes of hers. Ay, they were lovely eyes: they could gleam soft as a dove's when she would, and they could shoot forth flames like a lioness robbed of her prey. Never saw I those eyes look fiercer nor eviller than that night when Sir Hugh Le Despenser stood a captive at her feet.

For him, he was full calm: stately as his father—he was comelier of the twain, yea, the goodliest man ever mine eyes lit on: but I thought not on that in that hour. His chief fault, man deemed, was pride: not the vanity that looketh for applause of man, but rather the lofty-mindedness that is sufficient to himself, and despiseth other. I beheld no trace thereof as he there stood. All that had been—all that was of earth and earthy—seemed to have dropped away from him: he was calm and tranquil as the sea on a summer eve when not a breath stirreth. Wala wa! we have all our sins: and what be we, to throw the sins of another in his face? Sir Hugh did some ill deeds, belike; and so, God wot, hath done Cicely de Chaucombe; and whose sins of the twain were worser in His sight, He knoweth, not I. Verily, it was whispered that he had taint of heresy, the evillest thing that may be: but I trust that dread charge were untrue, and that he was but guilty of somewhat more pride and ambitious desires than other. Soothly, pride is one of the seven deadly sins— pray God save us all therefrom!—yet is heresy, as the Church teacheth, an eighth deadlier than all the seven. And if holy Church hath the words of God, and is alonely guided of His Spirit, then must it be an awful and deadly sin to gainsay her bidding. There be that take in hand to question the same: whom holy Church condemneth. I Cicely cannot presume to speak thereof, not being a priest, unto whom alone it appertaineth to conceive such matter. 'Tis true, there be that say lay folk can as well conceive, and have as much right as any priest; but holy Church agreeth not therewith. God be merciful to us all, whereinsoever we do err!

But now was the Queen in a sore strait: for that precious treasure that had once been in her keeping—to wit, the Great Seal—was no longer with her. The King had the same; and she was fain to coax it forth of his keeping, the which she did by means of my said Lord of Hereford. I know not if it were needful, but until she had this done, did not Sir Hugh Le Despenser suffer.

It was at Hereford, the eve of Saint Katherine, that he died. I thank the saints I was not there; but I heard dread stories of them that were. Dame Isabel de Lapyoun was in waiting that day; I think she was fittest for it.

I ween it was on that morrow, of the eve of Saint Katherine, that mine eyes first began to ope to what the Queen was in very deed. Wherefore was she present at that deed of blood? Dame Tiffany reckoned she deemed it her duty: and truly, to behold what man can deem his duty, is of the queerest things in this queer world. I never knew a cow that reckoned it duty to set her calf in peril, and herself tarry thereout; nor a dog that forsook his master's company by reason of his losing of worldly gear; nor an horse that told falsehoods to his own profit. I have wist men that would do all these things, and more; because, forsooth, it was their duty! Now, after what manner it could be duty to Dame Isabel the Queen to preside in her own person at the execution of Sir Hugh, that cannot I Cicely tell. Nay, the saints love us! what need was there of an execution at all? Sir Hugh was dying fast. Since he was taken would he never open his lips, neither to speak nor yet to eat; and that eve of Saint Katherine had seen his end, had they left him die in peace. Veriliest, I wis not what he had done so much worser than other men, that so awesome an ensample should be made of him. I do trust the rumour was not true that ran of his heresy; for if so, then must not man pity him. And yet—

Virgo sanctissima! what is heresy? The good Lord wot.

My Lord of Lincoln was he, as I heard, which brought tidings to the Queen that Sir Thomas Wager had done him to wit Sir Hugh would die that day. Would die—whether man would or no. Holy Mary, the pity of it! Had I been Sir Thomas, never word would I have spoken till the breath was clean gone out of him, and then, if man coveted vengeance, let him take it on the silent dust. But no sooner was it known to the Queen—to her, a woman and a mother!—than she gave command to have the scaffold run up with all speed, and that dying man drawn of an hurdle through the city that all men might behold, with trumpets going afore, and at last hanged of the gallows till he were dead. Oh, the pity of it! the pity of it!

The command was obeyed—so far as man could obey. But ere the agony were full over, God Almighty stepped in, and bare him away from what she would have had him suffer. When they put him on the hurdle, he lay as though he wist not; when they twined a crown of nettles and pressed it on his brow, he was as though he felt not; when, the torture over, they made ready to drag him to the gallows, they saw that he was dead. God cried to them, "Let be!"

God assoil that dead man! Ay, maybe he shall take less assoiling than hath done that dead woman.

Man said that when my Lord of Lincoln came to tell her of this matter, she was counting the silver in my Lord of Arundel his bags, that were confiscate, and had then been brought to her: and but a few days later, at Marcle, Sir William de Blount brought from the King the Great Seal in its leathern bag sealed with the privy seal, and delivered it unto the Queen and her Keeper [Chancellor] the Bishop of Norwich. Soothly, it seemed to me as though those canvas bags that held my Lord of Arundel's silver, and the white leathern bag that held the Great Seal, might be said to be tied together by a lace dipped in blood. And somewhat later, when we had reached Woodstock, was Sir Hugh Le Despenser's plate brought to the Wardrobe, that had been in the Tower with the Lady Alianora his wife—five cups and two ewers of silver, and twenty-seven cups and six ewers of gold; and his horses and hers delivered into the keeping of Adam le Ferrour, keeper of the Queen's horses: and his servants either cast adrift, or drafted, some of them, into the household of the Lord John of Eltham. Go to! saith man: was all this more than is usual in like case? Verily, nay: but should such things be usual in Christendom? Was it for this our Lord came to found His Church—that Christian blood should thus treat his Christian brother? And if no, what can be said of such as called themselves His priests, and passed by on the other side?—nay, rather, took into their own hands the arrows of Sathanas, and wounded their brother with their own fingers? "Numquid adhaeret Tibi sedes iniquitatis?" [Psalm 94, verse 20]. Might it not have been said to Dame Isabel the Queen like as Moses said to Korah, "Is it nothing to you that you have been joined to the King, and set by his side on the throne, and given favour in his eyes, so that he suffereth you to entreat him oftener and more effectually than any other, but you must needs covet the royal throne theself?" [Itself.]

Ah, what good to write such words, or to speak them? When man hath no fear of God before his eyes, what shall he regard the reasonings of men? But the day of doom cometh, and that sure.

The morrow of that awesome day, to wit, Saint Katherine, departed we from Hereford, and came to Gloucester and Cirencester, going back on the road we had come. By Woodstock (where Dame Margery de Verdon joined us from Dover) we came to Wallingford: where was the Lord John of Eltham, that had come from London, and awaited the Queen his mother. So, by Reading and Chertsey, came we to Westminster Palace, on the fourth day of January [1327]. And here was Dame Alice de Lethegreve, mine honoured mother, whom I was full fain to see after all the long and somewhat weariful time that I had been away from England.

My mother would have me tell her all I had seen and heard, in the which she oft stayed me by tears and lamentations. And saith she—

"I bid thee well to note, Cicely, how much ill can come of the deeds of one woman. Deeds, said I? Nay, but of the thoughts and feelings; for all deeds are but the flowers whereto man's thoughts be the seed. And forget not, daughter, that there must ever be one first thought that is the beginning of it all. O Cis, take thou heed of the first evil thought in thine heart, and pray God it lead not to a second. They that fear not God be prone to ask, What matter for thoughts? Deeds be the things that signify. My thoughts are mine own; who shall govern me therein? Ah, verily, who shall, without God doth, and thou dost? He that makes conscience of his thoughts, men reckon a great saint. I would say rather, he that maketh not conscience of his thoughts cannot serve God at all. Pray God rule thee in thine innermost heart; then shall thy deeds please Him, and thy life shall be a blessing to thy fellows."

"Dame," said I, "would you signify that the Queen is not ruled of God?"

"He governeth better than so, Cis," saith she.

"Yet is she Christian woman," quoth I.

"A Christian woman," made answer my mother, "is a woman that followeth Christ. And thou followest not Jack, Cis, when thou goest along one road, and Jack goeth another. Man may follow near or far; but his face must be set the same way. Christ's face was ever set to do the will of God. If thou do thy will, and I do mine, our faces be set contrary."

"Then must we turn us around," said I.

"Ay, and flat round, too," she saith. "When thou standest without Aldgate, ready to pass within, 'tis but a full little turn shall take thee up to Shoreditch on the right hand, or down Blanche Chappleton on the left. Thy feet shall be set scarce an inch different at beginning. Yet pursue the roads, and the one shall land thee at York, and the other at Sandwich. Many a man hath reckoned he set forth to follow Christ, whose feet were scarce an inch out of the way. 'Go to,' quoth he; 'what can an inch matter? what difference shall it make?' Ah me, it maketh all the difference between Heaven and Hell, for the steps lead to diverse roads. Be well assured of the right road; and when thou so art, take heed to walk straight therein. Many a man hath turned a score out of the way, by reason that he walked a-crooked himself."

"Do we know alway when we walk straight?" said I.

"Thou hast thy Psalter and thine Evangelisterium," made she answer: "and thou hast God above. Make good use of the Guide and the map, and thou art not like to go far astray. And God pardon the souls that go astray! Ay, God forgive us all!"

She sat and span a while, and said nought.

"Cicely," then quoth she, "I shall not abide here."

"Whither go you, Dame?"

"Like Abraham of old," she saith, "to the land which God shall show me. If I could serve my dear master,—the lad that once lay in mine arms—by tarrying hither, I could bear much for his sake. But now can I do nought: and soothly I feel as though I could not bear to stand and look on. I can pray for him any whither. Cicely, this will go on. Man that setteth foot on slide shall be carried down it. Thou mayest choose to take or let be the first step; but oft-times thou canst not choose touching the second and all that be to follow. Or if thou yet canst choose, it shall be at an heavy cost that thou draw back thy foot. One small twinge may be all the penalty to-day, when an hour's deadly anguish shall not pay the wyte to-morrow. Thou lookest on me aswhasay, What mean you by this talk? I mean, dear heart, that she which hath entered on this road is like to pursue it to the bitter end. A bitter end it shall be—not alone to her. It means agony to him and all that love him: what maimer of agony God wot, and in His hand is the ell-wand to measure, and the balances to weigh. Lord! Thou wilt not blunder to give an inch too much, nor wilt Thou for all our greeting weigh one grain too little. Thou wilt not let us miss the right way, for the rough stones and the steep mountain-side. Thou hast trodden before us every foot of that weary road, and we need but to plant our steps in Thy footmarks, which we know well from all others by their blood-marked track. O blessed Jesu Christ! it is fair journeying to follow Thee, and Thou leadest Thy sheep safe to the fold of the Holy Land."

I mind her words well. For, woe is me! they were nearhand the last that ever I heard of her.

"Dame," said I, "do you bid me retreat belike?"

"Nay, daughter," quoth she, and smiled, "thou art no longer at my bidding. Ask thine husband, child."

So I told Jack what my mother had said. He sat and meditated thereon afore the fire, while I made ready my Christmas gown of blue kaynet guarded with stranling. [Note 6.]

"Sissot," saith he, his meditation ended, "I think Dame Alice speaks wisely."

"Then wouldst thou depart the Court, Jack?" said I.

"I? Nay, sweet heart. The young King hath about him no more true men than he needeth. And as I wait at his coucher, betimes I can drop a word in his ear that may, an' it please God, be to his profit. He is yet tender ground, and the seed may take root and thrive: and I am tough gnarled old root, that can thole a blow or twain, and a rough wind by now and then."

"Jack!" cried I, laughing. "'A tough gnarled old root,' belike! Thou art not yet of seven-and-thirty years, though I grant thee wisdom enough for seventy."

"I thank you heartily, Dame Cicely, for that your courtesy," quoth he, and made me a low reverence. "Ay, dear heart, a gnarled root of cross-grained elm, fit for a Yule log. I 'bide with the King, Sissot. But thou wist, that sentence [argument] toucheth not thee, if thou desire to depart with Dame Alice. And maybe it should be the best for thee."

"I depart from the Court, Jack, on a pillion behind thee," said I, "and no otherwise. I say not I might not choose to dwell elsewhere the rather, if place were all that were in question; but to win out of ill company at the cost of thy company, were to be at heavier charge than my purse can compass. And seeing I am in my duty therein, I trust God shall keep me from evil and out of temptation."

"Amen!" saith Jack, and kissed me. "We will both pray, my dear heart, to be kept out of temptation; but let us watch likewise that we slip not therein. They be safe kept that God keepeth; and seeing that not our self-will nor folly, but His providence, brought us to this place, I reckon we have a right to ask His protection."

Thus it came that I tarried yet in the Queen's household. And verily, they that did so, those four next years, had cause to seek God's protection.

On the first of February was—but, wala wa! my pen runneth too fast. I must back nearhand a month.

It was the seventh of January, being the morrow of the Epiphany, and three days after we reached Westminster, that the Queen met the King's Great Council, the which she had called together on the eve of Saint Barbara [December 3rd], the Duke sitting therein in state as keeper of the kingdom. Having opened the said Parliament, the Duke, by his spokesmen, my Lords of Hereford and Lincoln, laid before them all that had taken place since they last met, and bade them deliberate on what was now to be done for the safety of the realm and Church of England. [Note 7]. Who at once adjudged the throne void, and the King to be put down and accounted such no longer: appointing certain nobles to go with the Duke to show these things unto the Queen.

Well do I mind that morrow of the Epiphany. The Queen sat in the Painted Chamber, spinning amongst us, when the nobles waited upon her. She had that morrow been full furnish, sharply chiding Joan de Vilers but a moment ere the Duke entered the presence: but no sooner came he in than she was all honey.

"Dame," saith he, "divers nobles of the Council pray speech of you."

The Queen looked up; she sighed, and her hand trembled. Then pulled she forth her sudary [handkerchief], and wiped her cheek: I am somewhat unsure of the tears thereon. Yet maybe they were there, for verily she could weep at will.

Dame Elizabeth, that sat in the casement, saith to Dame Joan, that was on the contrary side thereof, I being by her,—"Will the Queen swoon, think you?"

"She will come to an' she do," answered she.

I was ready at one time to reckon Dame Joan de Vaux somewhat hard toward the Queen: I saw later that she had but better sight than her neighbours.

Then came in the prelates and nobles which were deputed of the Parliament to convey the news, and the Queen bowed her head when they did reverence.

My Lord of Winchester it was that gave her the tidings that the Parliament then sitting had put down King Edward, and set up the Duke, which there stood, as King. All innocent stood he, that had been told it was his father's dearest wish to be free of that burden of state, and himself too true and faithful to imagine falsehood or unfaithfulness in her that spake it.

Soothly, she played her part full well. She greet plenteously, she wrung her hands, she tare off the hood from her head, she gripped her hair as though to tear that, yea, she cast her down alow on the rushes, and swooned or made believe thereto. The poor young Duke was full alarmed, and kneeling beside her, he would have cast his arms about her, but she thrust him away. Until at the last he arose, and with mien full princely, told the assembled nobles that he would never consent to that which so mispaid [displeased, distressed] his dear mother, without his father should himself command the same. She came to, it seemed me, full soon thereafter.

Then was sent my Lord of Lancaster and other to the King to hear his will thereon. Of these was my Lord of Hereford one, and man said he spake full sharply and poignantly to the King, which swooned away thereunder (somewhat more soothly, as I guess); and the scene, said man that told me, was piteous matter. Howbeit, the King gave full assent, and resigned the crown to his son, who was now to be king, he that had so been being thenceforth named only Sir Edward of Caernarvon. This was the eve of Saint Agnes [January 20th, 1327], the twentieth year of the said King.

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Note 1. Better known as Carfax. The exact church is not on record, but it was likely to be this.

Note 2. Adam de Orleton. He and Henry Burghersh, Bishop of Lincoln, are the two Bishops whom Thomas de la Moor, King Edward's squire, brands as "priests of Baal" and "Caiaphases."

Note 3. I have here given the version of events which seems best to reconcile the accounts of the chroniclers with the testimony of contemporary documents. See Appendix.

Note 4. This is the character sketched of him by De La Moor, to whom he was personally known.

Note 5. "For envy they had delivered Him." Matthew, twenty-seven, verse 18.

Note 6. Kennet, a coarse Welsh cloth, trimmed with stranling, the fur of the squirrel taken between Michaelmas and Christmas.

Note 7. The idea of some persons that the Church of England began to exist at the Reformation would have astonished the medieval reckoners "according to the computation of the Church of England," who were accustomed to hear Parliaments summoned to debate "concerning the welfare of the kingdom and Church of England." The former notion is purely modern.



PART ONE, CHAPTER 5.

THE REIGN OF KING ROGER.

"She is no sheep who goes walking with the wolf."

Russian Proverb.

And now, were I inditing a very chronicle, should I dip my quill next in the red ink, and write in full great letters—"Here beginneth the reign of King Edward of Windsor, the Third after the Conquest."

But, to scribe soothliness, I cannot do so. For not for four years thereafter did he in verity begin to reign. And what I should write, if I writ truth, should be—"Here beginneth the reign of King Roger de Mortimer, the First in England."

Now, here cometh an other matter I have noted. When man setteth him up to do that whereto he was not born, and hath not used himself, he is secure to do the same with never so much more din and outrage [extravagance] than he to whom it cometh of nature. If man be but a bedel [herald, crier] he shall rowt [Shout] like a lion the first day; and a prince's charetter [charioteer] shall be a full braver [finer, more showy] man than the prince his master. Sir Roger made a deal more bruit than ever the King himself; that during all these four years was meek and debonair [humble and gentle], as though he abode his time. He wrought what he would (which was mostly ill), and bare him like those of whom the Psalmist speaketh, that said, "Our lips are of us, who is our lord?" [Psalm 9 4, Rolle's translation.] He held up but a finger, and first the King, and all else after, followed along his path. Truly, I fault not the King; poor lad, he was in evil case, and might well enough have found hard to know the way he should go. But I do fault them that might have oped his eyes, and instead thereof, as being smoother way, chose to run after King Mortimer with his livery on their backs.

"How many of them knew the man, thinkest?" saith Jack, that had come in while I writ the last piece.

"Jack!" cried I. "What, to see him do that he did, more in especial when his pride was bolned [swollen, pulled up] by being create Earl of March—when he had larger following than the King himself, having nine score knights at his feet; when he arose from the King's table ere the King stirred, as though he were lord and master of all; when he suffered the King to rise on his coming into the presence, all meekly and courteously, yet himself, when the King entered, kept his seat as he micht afore a servitor; when he walked even with the King, and sometimes afore him; when he was wont to put him down, and mock at him, and make him a laughing-stock. I have heard him myself say to the King—'Hold thy peace, lad!' and the King took it as sweetly as if he had been swearing of allegiance."

"I have eyes in mine head, my fair warrior, and ears belike. I saw so much as thou—maybe a little more, since I was something oftener in my Lord's company than thou."

"But thou sawest what he was?" said I.

"So did I; and sorry am I to have demerited the wrath of Dame Cicely de Chaucombe, for that I oped not the King my master's even."

"Nay, Jack! I never meant thee. I have somewhat more reverence for mine husband than so."

"Then art thou a very pearl amongst women. Most dames' husbands find not much reverence stray their way—at least from that quarter. I misdoubt if Vivien's husband ever picks up more than should lightly slip into his pocket."

"Sir James Le Bretun is not so wise as thou," said I. "But what I meant, Jack, was such as my Lord of Lancaster and my Lord of Kent, and my Lord of Hereford—why did never such as these tell the King sooth touching the Mortimer?"

"As for my Lord of Hereford," saith Jack, "I reckon he was too busied feeling of his pulse and counting his emplastures, and telling his apothecary which side of his head ached worser since the last draught of camomile and mallows. Sir Edmund de Mauley was wont to say he had a grove of aspens at Pleshy for to make his own populion [Note 1], and that he brake his fast o' dragons' blood and dyachylon emplasture. Touching that will I not say; but I reckon he thought oftener on his tamarind drink than on the public welfare. He might, perchance, have bestirred him to speak to the King had he heard that he had a freckle of his nose, for to avise him to put white ointment thereon; but scarce, I reckon, for so small a matter as the good government of the realm."

"Now, Jack!" said I, a-laughing.

"My Lord of Kent," went he forth, "was he that, if he thought he had hurt the feelings of a caterpillar, should have risen from his warm bed the sharpest night in winter to go and pray his pardon of his bare knees. God assoil him, loving and gentle soul! He was all unfit for this rough world. And the dust that Sir Roger cast up at his horse-heels was in my Lord of Kent's eyes as thick as any man's. He could not have warned the King, for himself lacked the warning."

"Then my Lord of Lancaster—why not he?"

"He did."

"Ay, at long last, when two years had run: wherefore not long ere that? The dust, trow, was not in his eyes."

"Good wife, no man's eyes are blinder than his which casts the dust into his own. My Lord of Lancaster had run too long with the hounds to be able all suddenly to turn him around and flee with the hare."

"Soothly, I know he met the Queen on her landing, and likewise had the old King in his ward: but—"

"I reckon, Sissot, there were wheels within wheels. We need not judge my Lord of Lancaster. He did his duty at last. And mind thou, between him and his duty to King Edward the father, stood his brother's scaffold."

"Which never man deserved richer."

"Not a doubt thereof: but man may scarce expect his brother to behold it."

"Then," said I, "my Lord Zouche of Mortimer—but soothly he was cousin to the traitor. Jack, I never could conceive how it came about that he ever wedded the Lady Alianora. One of the enemies of her own husband, and she herself set prisoner in his kinsman's keeping, and to wed her gaoler's cousin, all against the King's pleasure and without his licence—canst solve the puzzle?"

"I can tell thee why he wed her, as easy as say 'twice two be four.' She was co-heir of the earldom of Gloucester, and his sword was nearhand his fortune."

"Then wherefore wed she him?"

"Kittle [ticklish, delicate] ground, Sissot, for man to take on him to account for the doings of woman. I might win a clap to mine ears, as like as not."

"Now, Jack, thou wist well I never demean me so unbuxomly. Tell me thy thought."

"Then I think," saith he, "that the Lady Alianora La Despenser was woman of that manner that fetch their souls from the vine. They must have somewhat to lean on. If an oak or a cedar be nigh, good: but if no, why then, a bramble will serve their turn. The one thing that they cannot do is to stand alone. There be not only women of this fashion; there be like men, but too many. God help them, poor weak souls! The woman that could twine round the Lord Zouche the tendrils torn from Sir Hugh Le Despenser must have been among the very weakest of women."

"It is sore hard," said I, "to keep one from despising such weakness."

"It is full hard, soothly. I know but one way—to keep very near to Him that never spurned the weakest that prayed His help, and that tholed weakness amidst other meeknesses [humiliations], by reason that it behoved Him to resemble His brethren in all things. And some of His brethren are very weak. Sissot, when our daughters were babes, I was wont to think thou lovedst better Alice than Vivien, and I am nearhand secure that it was by reason she was the weaker of the twain, and pave thee the more thought."

"Surely," said I; "that alway holdeth good with a mother, that the barne which most needeth care is the dearest."

Jack's answer, I knew, came from Holy Writ.

"'As by him whom his mother blandisheth, thus will I comfort you.'"

The Sunday after the Conversion of Saint Paul [February 1st, 1327] was the young King crowned in Westminster Abbey before the high altar, by Walter [Reynolds] Archbishop of Canterbury, that had been of old a great friend of King Edward the father, and was carried away like the rest by the glamour of the Queen. But his eyes were opened afore most other, and he died of a broken heart for the evil and unkindness which himself had holpen, the day of Saint Edmund of Pontigny [November 16th] next thereafter. Also present were nine bishops, the King's uncles, and many nobles: yea, and Queen Isabel likewise, that caused us to array her in great doole [mourning], and held her sudary at her eyes nearhand all the office [Service] through. And it was no craft, for she could weep when it listed her—some women have that power—and her sudary was full wet when she returned from the Abbey. And the young King, that was but then full fourteen years of age, took oath as his father and all the kings had done afore him, that he would confirm to the people of England the laws and the customs to them granted by the ancient Kings of England his predecessors, the rights and offerings of God, and particularly the laws, customs, and liberties granted to the clergy and people by the glorious King, Saint Edward, his predecessor. He sware belike to keep unto God and holy Church, unto the clergy and the people, entire peace and concord to his power; to do equal and true justice in all his judgments, and discretion in mercy and truth; to keep the laws and righteous customs which the commons of his realm should have elected [Auera estu are the rather singular words used], and to defend and enforce them, to the honour of God and to his power. [Note 2.]

Six sennights we tarried at Westminster: but, lack-a-day! what a time had we at after! All suddenly the Queen gave order to depart thence. She controlled all things, and the King her son was but a puppet in her hands. How did we trapes up and down all the realm!

To Canterbury the first round, a-pilgrimage to Saint Thomas; then right up as far as York, where we tarried a matter of five weeks. Then to Durham, which we had scarce reached ere we were aflight again, this time to Auckland, and a bit into that end of Yorkshire; back again to Durham, then away to York, and ten days later whisked off to Nottingham; there a fortnight, off again to Lincoln. I guess well now, what I wist not then, the meaning of all this. It was to let the young King from taking thought touching his father, and all that had happed of late. While he was cheerful and delectable [full of enjoyment], she let him be; but no sooner saw she his face the least downfell [cast down] than she plucked him away, and put turn to his thoughts by sending him some other whither. It paid [Note 3] for a time.

It was while we were at Lincoln, where we tarried from the morrow of Holy Cross to Michaelmas Eve [September 15th to 28th], that Donald the Scots messager came from the southern parts with tidings. For some time—divers weeks, certes—afore that, had the Queen been marvellous unrestful and hard to serve. That which liked her yesterday was all out this morrow, and each matter man named for her plesance was worser than that had gone afore. I was nearhand driven out of senses that very morrow, so sharp [irritable] was she touching her array. Not a gown in her wardrobe would serve the turn; and when at last she chose which she would don, then were her hoods all awry; and then would she have no hood, but only a wimple of fair cloth of linen. Then, gramercy! such pains had we to find her a fillet: this was too deep, and that too narrow, and this set with amethysts should ill fit with her gown of rose-colour, and that wrought of lily-flowers should catch in her hair.

I wished me at the further end of the realm from Lincoln, ay, a dozen times twice told.

At long last we gat her filleted; and then came the mantle. First, Dame Elizabeth brought one of black cloth of Stamford, lined with fox fur: no, that served not. Then brought Dame Joan de Vaux the fair mantle of cloth of velvet, grey, that I ever reckoned the fairest in the Queen's wardrobe, guarded with black budge, and wrought in embroidery of rose-colour and silver: she waved it away as though the very sight 'noyed [disgusted] her. Then fetched Isabel de la Helde the ray mantle, with corded ground, of blue, red, and green; and the Queen chid her as though she had committed one of the seven deadly sins. At the last, in uttermost wanhope [despair], ran I and brought the ugsomest of all, the corded olive green with border of grey; and forsooth, that would she have. Well-a-day, but I was fain when we had her at last arrayed!

When the Queen had left the chamber, Dame Elizabeth cast her on the nearest bench, and panted like a coursed hare.

"Deary, deary me!" crieth she: "I would I were abed."

"Abed!" crieth Isabel de la Helde. "Abed at five o'clock of a morrow!"

"Ay, or rather, I would I had never gat out. Gramercy, but how fractious is the Queen! I counted we ne'er should have her donned."

"She never spoke to me so sharp in her life," saith Isabel.

"I tell you, I am fair dog-weary!" quoth Dame Elizabeth.

"Whatever hath took the Queen?" saith Joan de Vilers.

"Foolish childre, all of you!" saith old Dame Tiffany, looking on us with a smile. "When man is fractious like to this, with every man and every matter, either he suffereth pain, or else he hath some hidden anguish or fear that hath nought to do with the matter in hand. 'Tis not with you that my Lady is wrathful. There is something harrying her at heart. And she hath not told me."

In hall, during dinner. I cast eyes from time to time on the Queen, and I could not but think Dame Tiffany spake sooth. She looked fair haggard, as though some bitter care were eating out her heart. I never loved her, as I said at the first: but that morn I felt sorry for her.

Sorry for her! Ah, I soon knew what sore cause there was to be sorry to the very soul for some one else!

It was while we were sat at supper that Donald came. I saw him enter from the high table where I sat, and I knew in an instant that he brought some fearsome tidings. I lost him in the crowd at the further end, and then Mereworth, one of the varlets of the King's chamber, came all in haste up the hall, with a face that had evil news thereon writ: and Sir John de Ros, that was then Seneschal, saw him, and guessing, as I think, the manner of word he brought, stepped down from the dais to meet him. Then, in an other minute, I saw Donald brought up to the King and to the Queen.

I watched them both. As Donald's news was told, the young King's face grew ashen pale, and he cried full dolefully "Dieu eit mercie!" The news troubled him sore and sure enough. But the Queen's eyes, that a moment before had been full of terror and untholemodness [impatience], shot out one flash of triumphant gladness: and the next minute she had hidden her face in her sudary, and was greeting as though her heart had broke. I marvelled what tidings they could be, that were tene [grief] to the King, and blisfulhed [happiness] to the Queen. Sir John de Gaytenby, the King's confessor, was sat next to me at the table, and to him I said—

"Father, can you guess what manner of news Donald de Athole shall have brought?"

"Ay, daughter," he made answer. "Would I were in doubt!"

"You think—?" I asked him, and left him to fill up.

"I think," he saith in a low voice somewhat sorrowful of tone, "that God hath delivered from all labour and sorrow one of His servants that trust in Him."

"Why, that were nought to lament o'er!" I was about to say; but I stayed me when half through. "Father, you mean there is man dead?"

"We call it death," saith Sir John de Gaytenby—"we of this nether world, that be ever in sickness and weariness, in tene and in temptation. Know we what they call it which have forded the Rubicon, and stand safe on the pavement of the Golden City? 'Multo magis melius,' saith the Apostle [Philippians One verse 23]: 'much more better' to dissolve and to be with Christ. And the colder be the waters man hath to ford, the gladder and welcomer shall be the light of the Golden City. They were chill, I cast no doubt: and all the chiller for the hand that chilled them. With how sharp thorns and briers God hath to drive some of His sheep! But once in the Fold, there shall be time to forget them all. 'When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee' [Isaiah 43 verse 2]—that is enough now. We can stay us upon that promise till we come through. And then there shall be no more need for Him to be with us in tribulation, since we shall reign with Him for ever and ever."

Old Sir Simon de Driby came up behind us as the Confessor ended.

"Have you guessed, Sir John, our dread news?—and you, Dame Cicely?"

"I have guessed, and I think rightly," answered Sir John. "For Dame Cicely I cannot say."

I shook mine head, and Sir Simon told me.

"Sir Edward of Caernarvon is dead."

"Dead—the King!"

"'The King' no longer," saith Sir Simon sorrowfully.

"O Sir Simon!" cried I. "How died he?"

"God knoweth," he made answer. "I misdoubt if man shall know."

"Or woman?" quoth Sir John, significantly.

"The schoolmaster learned me that man includeth woman," saith Sir Simon, smiling full grimly.

"He learned you not, I reckon, that woman includeth man," saith Sir John, somewhat after the same manner.

"Ah, woe worth the day!" Sir Simon fetched an heavy sigh. "Well, God forgive us all!"

"Amen!" Sir John made answer.

I think few men were in the realm that did not believe the King's death was murder. But nought was done to discover the murderers, neither to bring them to justice. It was not until after the Mortimer was out of the way that any such thing was done. When so it was, mandate was issued for the arrest of Sir Thomas de Gournay, Constable of Bristol Castle, and William de Ocle, that had been keepers of the King at Berkeley Castle. What came of Ocle know I not; but Sir Thomas fled beyond seas to the King's dominions of Spain [Note 3], and was afterwards taken. But he came not to trial, for he died on the way: and there were that said he knew too much to be permitted to make defence. [Note 4.]

The next thing that happed, coming under mine eyes, was the young King's betrothal and marriage. The Lady Philippa of Hainault, that was our young Queen, came over to England late in that same year, to wit, the first of King Edward, and was married the eve of the Conversion of Saint Paul, the year of our Lord 1327, after the computation of the Church of England [Note 5]. Very praisable [lovely] and fulbright [beautiful] was the said lady, being sanguine of complexion, of a full fair face, and fair hair, having grey [grey] cyen and rosen colour of her cheeks. She was the same age as the King, to wit, fifteen years. They were wed in York Minster.

"Where hast reached to, Sissot?" saith Jack, that was sat by the fire, as I was a-bending the tail of my Y in York.

"Right to the King's wedding," said I.

"How many more skins o' parchment shall I bring thee for to set forth the gowns?"

"Dear heart!" cried I, "must I do that for all that were there?"

"Prithee use thy discretion. I wist not a woman could write a chronicle without telling of every gown that came in her way."

"Go thy ways, Jack!" said I. "Securely, if I set down the King's, and the Queen's, and thine and mine, that shall serve well enough."

"It should serve me, verily," quoth he. "Marry, I hope thou mindest what manner of raiment I had on, for I ensure thee I do not a whit."

"Dost thou ever, the morrow thereof?" said I. "Nay, I wis I must pluck that out of mine own memory."

The King, then, was donned of a robe of purple velvet, with a pair of sotlars of cloth of gold of Nakes silk; the said velvet robe wrought with the arms of England, of golden broidery. The Queen bare a robe of green cloth of velvet, with a cape thereto, guarded with miniver, and an hood of miniver; her hair falling full sweetly over from under her golden fillet, sith she put not on her hood save to leave the Minster. And at the feast thereafter, she ware a robe of cloth of samitelle, red and grey, with a tunic and mantle of the same. [Note 6.]

As for Jack, that was then clerk of the Wardrobe [Note 7], he ware a tabard of the King's livery [the arms of France and England] of mine own broidering, and hosen of black cloth, his hood being of the same. I had on a gown of grey cloth of Northampton, guarded with gris, and mine hood was of rose-colour say [Note 8] lined with black velvet.

But over the inwards of the wedding must I not linger, for much is yet to write. The latter end of February was the Lady La Despenser loosed from the Tower, and in April was all given back to her. All, to wit, that could be given. Her little children, that the Queen Isabel had made nuns without any leave given save her own, could come back to her never more. I misdoubt if she lamented it greatly. She was one from whom trouble and sorrow ran lightly, like the water from a duck's back: and I reckon she thought more on her second marriage, which had place secretly about a year after her release, than she ever did for her lost children. And here may I say that those sisters, coheirs of Gloucester, did ever seem to me the queerest mothers I wist. The Lady Margaret Audley gave up her little Kate (a sweet child she was) to the Ankerage at Ledbury with scarce a sigh; and the Lady Alianora, of whom I write, took but little thought for her maids at Sempringham, or I err. I would not have given up my Alice after that fashion: and I did sore pity those little barnes, of which the eldest was not seven years old. Folk said it was making of gift to God, and was an holy and blessed thing. Soothly, I marvel if God setteth store by such like gifts, when men do but cast at his feet that whereof they would be rid! The innermost sanctuary of the Temple, it seemeth me, is scarce the fittest place to shoot rubbish. And when the rubbish is alive, if it be but vermin, I cannot slack to feel compassion for it.

Methinks the Lady Alianora felt it sorer trouble of the twain, when she suffered touching certain jewels reported to be missing from the Tower during her governance thereof—verily a foolish charge, as though the Lady of Gloucester should steal jewels! Howbeit, she was fined twenty thousand pound, for the which she rendered up her Welsh lands, with the manors of Hanley and Tewkesbury, being the fairest and greatest part of her heritage. The King allowed her to buy back the said lands if she should, in one and the same day, pay ten thousand marks: howbeit, one half the said fine was after remitted at the intercession of the Lords and Commons.

That autumn was the insurrection of my Lord of Lancaster—but a bit too soon, for the time was not ripe, but I reckon they knew not how longer to bear the ill thewis [manners, conduct] of the Mortimer, which ruled every thing at his will, and allowed none, not even my Lord of Lancaster, to come nigh the King without his leave, and then he had them watched of spies. The Parliament was held at Salisbury that Michaelmas, whereto all men were forbidden to come in arms. Thither, nathless, came the said Mortimer, with a great rabble of armed men at his heels. My Lord of Lancaster durst not come, so instead thereof he put himself in arms, and sent to expound matters to the King. He was speedily joined by all that hated the Mortimer (and few did not), among whom were the King's uncles, the Bishops of Winchester and London, the Lord Wake, the Lord de Beaumont, Sir Hugh de Audley, and many another that had stood stoutly for Queen Isabel aforetime. Some, I believe, did this out of repentance, seeing they had been deceived; other some from nought save hate and envy toward the Mortimer. The demands they put forth were no wise unskilwise [unreasonable]. They were chiefly that the King should hold his revenues himself (for the Queen had so richly dowered herself that scarce a noble was left to the King); that the Queen should be dowered of the third part, as queens had been aforetime; and that the Mortimer should live on his own lands, and make no encroachments. They charged him with divers evil deeds, that he had avised the King to dissolve his Council appointed of twelve peers, he had wasted the royal treasure, he had counselled the King to give up Scotland, and had caused the Lady Joan to wed beneath her dignity.

"Make no encroachments!" grimly quoth old Sir Simon, when he heard of this; "verily, an' this present state of matters go on but a little longer, the Mortimer can make no encroachments, for he shall have all England to his own."

The Mortimer, that had yet the King's ear (though I think he chafed a bit against the rein by now and then), avised him that the Lords sought his crown, causing him to ride out against them as far as Bedford, and that during the night. Peace was patched up some way, through the mediating of Sir Simon de Mepham, the new Archbishop of Canterbury, my Lord of Lancaster being fined eleven thousand pounds—though, by the same token, he never paid it. [Note 9.] That same Michaelmas was the King's uncle, the Lord Edmund de Woodstock, create Earl of Kent (marry, I named him my Lord of Kent all through, seeing he should so best be known, but he was not so create until now), and King Roger, that was such, but was not so-called, had avancement to the dignity of Earl of March. There was many a lout and courtesy and many a leg made, when as my Lord's gracious person was in presence; and when as he went forth, lo! brows were drawn together, and lips thrust forth, and words whispered beneath the breath that were not all of praise.

Now, whether it be to fall into the Annals of Cicely or no, this must I needs say—and Jack may flout me an' he will (but that he doth never)— that I do hate, and contemn, and full utterly despise, this manner of dealing. If I love a man, maybe I shall be bashful to tell him so: but if I love him not, never will I make lout nor leg afore him for to win of him some manner of advantage. I would speak a man civilly, whether I loved him or no; that 'longeth to my gentlehood, not his: but to blandish and losenge him [coax and flatter], and say 'I love thee well' and 'Thou art fairest and wisest of all' twenty times in a day, when in mine heart I wished him full far thence, and accounted of him as fond and ussome [foolish and ugly]—that could I never demean me to do, an' I lived to the years of Methuselah.

And another thing do I note—I trust Jack shall have patience with me— that right in proportion as a man is good, so much doth an ill man hate him. My Lord of Lancaster was wise man and brave, as he oft showed, though he had his failings belike; and he did more than any other against the Mortimer, until the time was full ripe: my Lord of Kent was gent, good, and sweet of nature, and he did little against him—only to consort with my said Lord of Lancaster: yet the Mortimer hated my Lord of Kent far worser than my Lord of Lancaster, and never stayed till he had undone him. Alas for that stately stag of ten, for the cur pulled him down and worried him!

My Lord of Kent, as I writ afore, had dust cast in his eyes by the Queen. He met her on her landing, and marched with her, truly believing that the King (as she told him) was in thrall to the old and young Sir Hugh Le Despenser, and that she was come to deliver him. Nought less than his brother's murder tare open his sealed eyes. Then he woke up, and aswhasay looked about him, as a man roughly wakened that scarce hath his full sense. Bitter was his lamentation, and very sooth his penitence, when he saw the verity of the matter. Now right as this was the case with him, the Queen and the Mortimer, having taken counsel thereon, (for they feared he should take some step that should do them a mischief), resolved to entangle him. They spread a rumour, taking good care it should not escape his ears, that King Edward his brother yet lived, and was a prisoner in Corfe Castle. He, hearing this, quickly despatched one of his chaplains, named Friar Thomas Dunhead, a Predicant—for all the Predicants were on the King's side—to see if the report were as it was said: and Sir John Deveroil, then Keeper of the Castle, having before his instructions, took the Friar within, seeming nothing loth, and showed unto him the appearance of a king seated at supper in hall, with his sewers [waiters] and other officers about him. This all had been bowned [prepared] afore, of purpose to deceive my Lord of Kent, and one chosen to present [represented] the King that was like enough to him in face and stature to pass well. On this hearing went my Lord of Kent with all speed to Avignon, to take counsel with Pope John [John Twenty-Two] who commended him for his good purpose to deliver his brother, and bade him effect the same by all means in his power: moreover, the said Pope promised himself to bear all charges—which was a wise deed of the holy Father, for my Lord of Kent was he that could never keep money in his pocket, but it flowed out of all sides. Then my Lord returned back, and took counsel with divers how to effect the same. Many an one promised him help—among other, the Archbishop of York, and the Lord Zouche of Mortimer (that wedded the Lady Alianora, widow of Sir Hugh Le Despenser), the Lord Wake (which had wrought much against the King of old, and was brother unto my Lady of Kent), and Sir Ebulo L'Estrange, (that wedded my Lady of Lancaster, widow of Earl Thomas), and the young Earl of Arundel, and others of less sort. My said Lady of Kent was likewise a-work in the matter, for she was not woman to let either tongue or hand lie idle.

Now, wherefore is it, that if man be rare sweet, gent, and tender, beyond other men, he shall sure as daydawn go and wed with woman that could hold castle or govern army if need were? 'Tis passing strange, but I have oft noted the same. And if he be rough and fierce, then shall he take fantasy to some soft, nesh [Note 10], bashful creature that scarce dare say nay to save her life. Right as men of high stature do commonly wed with small women, and the great women with little men. Such be the ways of Providence, I take it.

Jack saith—which I must not forget to set down—that he credeth not a whit that confession set forth as made of my Lord of Kent, nor any testimony of Friar Dunhead, but believeth the whole matter a pack of lies, saving only that my Lord believed the report of his brother prisoner in Corfe Castle. Howbeit, my Lord of Kent writ a letter as to the King his brother, offering his deliverance, which he entrusted to Sir John Deveroil: who incontinently carried the same to the Mortimer, and he to the Queen. She then showed it to the young King, saying that herein might he see his uncle was conspiring to dethrone him and take his life and hers. The King, that dearly loved his mother, allowed inquiry into the same, pending the which my said Lord was committed to prison.

The next morrow came the Mortimer to the Queen as she sat at dinner, and prayed instant speech of her, and that full privy: and the Queen, arising from the table, took him into her privy closet. Dame Isabel de Lapyoun alone in waiting. I had learned by then to fear mischief whensoever the Queen bade none follow her save Dame Isabel, for I do verily believe she was in all the ill secrets of her mistress. They were in conference maybe ten minutes, and then hastened the Mortimer away, nor would he tarry so long as to drink one cup of wine. It was not many minutes after that the young King came in; and I perceived by their discourse that the Queen his mother had sent for him. Verily, all that day (which was Saint Joseph [March 19th]) she watched him as cat, mouse. He could not leave the chamber a moment but my Lord of March crept after. I reckoned some mischief was brewing, but, purefoy! I guessed not how much. That day died my Lord of Kent, on the scaffold at Winchester. And so beloved was he that from noon till four of the clock they had to wait, for no man would strike him, till at last they persuaded one in the Marshalsea, that had been cast for [sentenced to] death, to behead him as the price of his own life.

A little after that hour came in Sir Hugh de Turpington, that was Marshal of the Hall to the King.

"Sir," saith he to the King, "I am required of the Sheriff to tell you that my Lord of Kent hath paid wyte on the scaffold. So perish all your enemies!"

Up sprang the King with a face wherein amaze and sore anguish strave for the mastery.

"My uncle Edmund is dead on scaffold!" cried he in voice that rang through hall. "Mine enemies! He was none! What mean you? I gave no mandate for such, nor never should have done. Dieu eit mercie! mine enemies be they that have murdered my fair uncle, that I loved dear. Where and who be they? Will none here tell me?"

Wala wa! was soul in that hall brave enough to tell him? One of those two chief enemies stale softly to his side, hushing the other (that seemed ready to break forth) by a look.

"Fair Son," saith the Queen, in her oiliest voice, "hold you so light your own life and your mother's? Was your uncle (that wist full well how to beguile you) dearer to you than I, on whose bosom you have lain as babe, and whose heart hath been rent at your smallest malady?"

(Marry, I marvel when, for I never beheld less careful mother than Dame Isabel the Queen. But she went forth.)

"The proofs of what I say," quoth she, "shall be laid afore you in full Parliament, and you shall then behold how sorely you have been deceived in reckoning on a friend in your uncle. Meanwhile, fair Son, trust me. Who should seek your good, or care for your safety, more than your own mother?"

Ah verily, who should! But did she so? I could see the King was somewhat staggered by her sweet words, yet was he not peaced in a moment. His anger died down, but he brake forth in bitter tears, and so left the hall, greeting as he went.

Once more all passed away: and they that had hoped for the King to awake and discover truth found themselves beguiled.

Order was sent to seize my Lady of Kent and her childre, that were then in Arundel Castle. But the officers, there coming, told her the dread tidings, whereat she fell down all in swoon, and ere the eve was born the Lord John her son, and baptised, poor babe, in such haste in the Barefooted Friars' Church, that his young brother and sister, no more than babes themselves, were forced to stand sponsors for him with the Prior of the Predicants [Note 11]. Howbeit he lived to grow to man's estate, yea, longer than the Lord Edmund his brother, and died Earl of Kent a matter of eight years gone.

The Castle of Arundel, and the lands, that had been given to my Lord of Kent when my Lord of Arundel was execute, were granted to Queen Isabel shortly after his 'heading. I think they were given as sop to keep him true to the Queen: not that he was man to be bought, but very like she thought all men were. Dear heart, what strange gear are we human creatures! I marvel at times whether the angels write us down greater knaves or fools.

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Note 1. The crystallised juice of the aspen. Earl John of Hereford seems to have been a valetudinarian.

Note 2. Close Roll, 1 Edward the Third, Part One. The exact wording of the coronation oath is of some importance, since it has sometimes been stated that our sovereigns have sworn to maintain religion precisely as it existed in the days of Edward the Confessor. The examination of the oath shows that they promised no such thing. They engaged only to keep and defend to the people, clerical and lay, the laws, customs, rights, and liberties granted by their predecessors, and by Edward more especially. "To his power" means "to the best of his power."

Note 3. Then not an unusual way of saying "the King of Spain's dominions."

Note 4. In my former volume, In All Time of our Tribulation, I committed the mistake of repeating the popular error that the Queen took immediate vengeance, by banishment, on the murderers of her husband. It was only Gournay and Ocle who were directly charged with the murder: the others who had a share in it were merely indicted for treason. Gournay was Constable of Bristol in December, 1328; and the warrant for his apprehension was not issued until December 3, 1330—after the fall of Mortimer, when Edward the Third, not his mother, was actually the ruler.

Note 5. By this phrase was meant the reckoning of the year from Easter to Easter, subsequently fixed for convenience' sake at the 25th of March.

Note 6. I have searched all the Wardrobe Accounts in vain for the wedding attire of this royal pair. The robes described are that worn by the King for his coronation; that in which the Queen rode from the Tower to Westminster the day before her coronation; and that in which she dined after the same ceremony. These details are given in the Wardrobe Accounts, 33/2, and 34/13. It was the fashion at this time for a bride's hair to be left flowing straight from head to foot.

Note 7. Chaucombe was in the Household, but of his special office I find no evidence.

Note 8. A coarse variety of silk, used both for garments and upholstery.

Note 9. Dr Barnes tells his readers that Lancaster was at this time so old as to be nearly decrepit; and two years later, that he was "almost blind for age." He was exactly forty-one, having been born in 1287 (Inq. Tho. Com. Lane, 1 Edward the Third 1. 88), and 53 years had not elapsed since the marriage of his parents. We may well say, after Chancellor Oxenstiern, "See with how little accuracy history is written!"

Note 10. Tender, sensitive, either in body or mind. This word is still a provincialism in the North and West.

Note 11. Prob. aet. Johannis Com. Kant., 23 Edward the Third 76, compared with Rot. Pat., 4 Edward the Third, Part 1, and Rot. Claus., 4 Edward the Third.



PART ONE, CHAPTER 6.

NEMESIS.

"The mills of God grind slowly, but they grind exceeding small."

Longfellow.

After this, the Queen kept the King well in hand. To speak sooth, I should say the old Queen, or Queen Isabel, for now had we a young Queen. But verily, all this time Queen Philippa was treated as of small account; and she, that was alway sweet and gent, dwelt full peaceably, content with her babe, our young Prince of Wales, that was born at Woodstock, at Easter of the King's fourth year [Note 1], and the old Queen Isabel ruled all. She seemed fearful of letting the King out of her sight. When he journeyed to the North in August, she went withal, and came back with him to Nottingham in October. It was she that writ to my Lord of Hereford that he should not fail to be at the Colloquy [note 2] to be held in that town the fifteenth of October. With her was ever my Lord of March, that was as her shadow: my Lady of March, that might have required to have her share of him with some reason, being left lone with her childre in Ludlow Castle. It was the 13th of October that we came to Nottingham. My Lord of Hereford, that was Lord High Constable, was at that time too sick to execute his office (or thought he was); maybe he desired to keep him well out of a thing he foresaw: howbeit, he writ his excuse to the King, praying that his brother Sir Edward de Bohun might be allowed his deputy. To this the King assented: but my Lord of March, that I guess mistrusted more Sir Edward than his brother (the one having two eyes in his head, and the other as good as none), counselled the Queen to take into her own hand the keys of the Castle. Which she did, having them every night brought to her by Sir William Eland, then Constable thereof, and she laid them under her own pillow while the morning.

The part of my tale to follow I tell as it was told to me, in so far as matters fell not under mine eye.

The King, the old Queen, the Earl of March, and the Bishop of Lincoln, were lodged in the Castle with their following: and Sir Edward de Bohun, doing office for his brother, appointed my Lord of Lancaster to have his lodging there likewise. Whereat my glorious Lord of March was greatly angered, that he should presume to appoint a lodging for any of the nobles so near the person of Queen Isabel. (He offered not to go forth himself.) Sir Edward smiled something grimly, and appointed my Lord of Lancaster his lodging a mile forth of the town, where my Lord of Hereford also was.