"The Lady Marnell," said her husband to the Abbot as she entered, and the latter, without rising, saluted her with the benediction, "Peace be with thee, daughter."

"Where is the book?" asked Lord Marnell, sternly, but not quite so angrily as he had spoken in the morning.

Margery passed it to him.

"See there, reverend father," said he, as he handed it to the Abbot. "What callest thou that?"

The Abbot turned over the leaves, but the suavity of his manner suffered no change.

"A fine, clear scribe hath written this," remarked he, politely. "The Gospel according unto the blessed John, I ween, from the traduction of Master John Wycliffe, the parson of Lutterworth, who deceased a few years back. And our good brother Andrew Rous thought no harm of your keeping the book, my daughter?"

"So he said," answered Margery, shortly.

"Ah! But your father—?"

"Did not like thereof at the first; but after that Father Rous had so said, he made no further matter."

"Ah! of force. I conceive it fully. Your mother, good daughter?"

"My mother spake not of the matter. She witteth not to read, and therefore knew not the book."

"Certes," said the abbot, with the most exquisite gentleness. Lord Marnell, who kept fidgeting up and down the room, seemed almost annoyed at the Abbot's extreme suavity.

"You had this book from a friend, methinks?" resumed the Abbot.

"I cannot tell you, father, whence I had it," was Margery's firm reply.

The Abbot looked surprised.

"Did our brother Rous lend it you?" he asked, his manner losing a small portion of its extraordinary softness.

"Nay."

"Some friend, then, belike? Sir Ralph Marston, your good cousin? or Master Pynson, the squire of my worthy knight your father?"

Margery felt instantaneously that she was in the power of a very dangerous man. How he was endeavouring to ferret out admissions and denials which would afterwards stand him in good stead! How came he, too, to know so much about her friends? Had he been questioning Lord Marnell? Margery's breath came short and fast, and she trembled exceedingly. She was annoyed with herself beyond measure, because, when the Abbot named Richard Pynson, she could not help a conscious blush in hearing him mention, not indeed the person who had actually lent her the book, but one who was concerned in the transaction. The Abbot saw the blush, though just then it did not suit his purpose to take notice of it.

"Well, well," said he, courteously, "we will not go further into that question at present. But you must wit, dear daughter, that this book containeth fearful heresy! Hath not our brother Rous taught you the same? Error of all kinds is therein, and weak women like unto you be not able, my child, for to separate in all cases this error from the truth wherewith, in these pernicious volumes, it is mingled. You are very young, daughter, and wit not yet all that the fathers of the Church can tell you, an' you be meek and humble in receiving of their teaching."

He ceased, evidently thinking that he had made an impression. He was quite prepared for a little pouting, and for earnest entreaties, and even passionate words; but the one thing for which he was not prepared he got in Margery's answer.

"I wis well, reverend father," she said, very quietly, "to the full as well as it list you to tell me, how young, and weak, and all unwitting I be. But I trow that Christ deceiveth not His children because they be weak; and that if I can any words at all conceive, I can His. Saith He not, 'If ony man wole do His wille, he schall knowe of the techinge'? [John vii. 17.] Saith He not again, 'Seke ye Scripturis'? [John v. 39.] I pray you now, father, to whom said He that? Unto fathers of the Church? Nay, soothly, but unto Jews unbelieving—very heathens, and no Christians. Moreover, saith He not again, 'He that dispisith me, and takith not my wordis, hath him that schal juge him; thilk word that I have spoken schal deme him in the laste day'? [John xii. 48.] I pray you, good father, how shall I know the word that shall judge me if I read it not? Truly meseemeth that the despising of His Word lieth more in the neglect thereof. Also say you that this book containeth heresy and evil teaching. Good father, shall Christ the Son of God teach evil? Doth God evil? Will God deceive them that ask Him truth? Knoweth He not as much as fathers of the Church? Nay truly, good father, I trust that you wot not fully what you have said. He is 'weye, treuthe, and lyf; no man cometh to the Fadir but by Him.'" [John xiv. 6.]

Abbot Bilson, for once in his life, was completely dumb-foundered. He looked silently at Lord Marnell.

"I pray you see now, reverend father," said Lord Marnell, angrily, "how the teaching of this book hath leavened yon girl's talk! Is it a small evil, Madge, to turn upon thy teacher when he teacheth thee of wisdom, with sayings picked up from a book? Art not ashamed?"

"No, my Lord, I am no wise shamed," answered she; "for the reverend father teacheth me the words of men, and the words of my book be the words of Christ; and when Christ and men come to warring, I trow there is small doubt as to who shall be the winner."

The Abbot sat mutely gazing at Margery. Her face, usually so calm and pale, was lighted up, as she spoke, with a light not of this world; and he could not comprehend it. Had she asked pardon, he could have soothed her; had she lamented and bewailed, he might have promised her many things to comfort her; had she spoken bitterly or passionately, he might have commanded her silence. But this conduct of hers, so quiet, yet so decided—so gentle, but so uncompromising—puzzled him extremely. He only saw the exterior, and he could not discover that wherein her great strength lay.

"My Lord Marnell," he said, in a perplexed tone, "I would speak with you. Good lady, will you give us leave?"

Margery rose, and, courtesying, quitted the room at once; but she took the book with her, and nobody prevented her from doing so.

"My Lord," said the Abbot, when she was gone, "I am bewildered utterly. I know not what to do with this girl. Never the like of her saw I before, and my experience is baffled. But meseemeth that the best thing is to treat her gently at the first; and if she relent not, then—"

The sentence was left unfinished, but Lord Marnell understood it.



CHAPTER SIX.

NEWS FROM HOME.

"There are briars besetting every path, That call for patient care; There is a cross in every lot, And an earnest need for prayer; But a lowly heart that leans on Thee Is happy anywhere."

Miss Waring.

It was a lovely, clear, moonlight night, and the streets of London were hushed and still. By the light of the moon might be discerned a man in traveller's dress, walking slowly along Fleet Street, and looking up at the houses, as if uncertain which of them would prove the one he sought. The traveller, though he looks much older, and his face wears a weary, worn expression, we recognise as our old friend Richard Pynson. Suddenly, in the midst of his search, Richard stopped and looked up. From an oriel window, directly above his head, a faint sound of singing reached him—an air which he instantly recognised as "The Palmer's hymn," sung by the pilgrims to Jerusalem on their journey to the Holy Land. The voice of the singer, though low, was so clear, that the words of the hymn were floated distinctly to his ear.

"Holy City, happy City, Built on Christ, and sure as He, From my weary journeying, From the wastes, I cry to thee; Longing, sighing, hasting, crying, Till within thy walls I be. Ah! what happy, happy greeting For the guests thy gates who see! Ah! what blessed, blessed meeting Have thy citizens in thee! Ah! those glittering walls how fair, Jasper shene and ruby blee. Never harm, nor sin, nor danger, Thee can tarnish, crystal sea; Never woe, nor pain, nor sorrow, Thee can enter, City free!"

The voice ceased, and Richard Pynson, without any further doubt or trouble, applied at once for admittance at the gate of the house whence the music had issued. He could never mistake the voice of Margery Lovell. The old porter, half asleep, came to the gate, and, sentinel-like, inquired, "Who goes there?"

"A friend, a messenger from Dame Lovell, who would fain have speech, if he may, of the Lady Marnell."

As soon as the porter heard the name of Dame Lovell, he threw open the gate. "Enter, friend." The ponderous gate swung to again, and the old man slowly preceded Richard through the archway to the door of the house, and up the wide staircase. He ushered him into a room panelled with oak, where he stirred up the decaying embers of the fire, requested him to be seated, and left the room. At the door of the adjoining chamber, Richard heard him softly whisper, "Mistress Alice! Mistress Alice!"

A gentle movement in the room followed, and then Richard heard the familiar voice of Alice Jordan.

"Hush! good Christopher," said she, in a low tone; "the boy sleepeth at last—wake him not. What wouldst?"

"There is here a messenger from Lovell Tower, who would have speech of my Lady."

On hearing this, Alice came forward at once into the oaken chamber where Richard sat.

"Ah! Master Pynson!" she said, "is it you! My Lady will be right fain to see you—but you come at an evil hour."

"How so?" asked Richard, quickly.

"My Lady is watching this livelong night by the cradle of the young master, who is sore sick—we fear nigh unto death. The child is in grievous disease [restlessness, uneasiness], and cannot sleep; and her good Ladyship hath been singing unto him, I ween, for to soothe him to rest. Her voice hushed as you came, wherefore I count that the boy sleepeth."

"What aileth the poor child?" inquired Richard.

"My Lady counteth that he got him an ill rheum when we departed hence for my Lord his house of plesance [country house], for to sweeten [See Note 2]. Howsoever that be, he is now grievous sick."

"The Lady Marnell herself is well?"

"Alas!" replied Alice, "I ween she is little better than the child. She hath been in sore trouble of late, wherefore it is no marvel. There be rumours of accusations for heresy out against her, and my Lord is ill angered towards her. Well, God witteth, and God keep her! You will see how evil [ill] she looketh an' she come to speak with you, and I trow that she will when I give her to wit who is here."

So saying, Alice returned to the room she had quitted, and for some minutes Richard heard nothing more. Then the door re-opened, and a lady entered the chamber.

Was that Margery Lovell? Never, surely, were hers that feeble step, that worn, wan, white face, that dark ring round the eyes, telling of weary vigils, and of bitter weeping! But the smile of welcome was Margery Lovell's own, and the gesture, as she came forward quickly, holding out both hands, was hers also; though the smile died away in an instant, and the worn, wearied look came back instead.

"Dear, good friend!" she said, "how it gladdeth me to see you! You come straightway from Lovell Tower? My father and mother be well? And Mistress Katherine, and Cicely, and all the maidens? And Lyard, and old Beaudesert? (naming her palfrey and the watchdog). And all mine old friends—Sir Ralph Marston, and Master Carew?"

Richard smiled a grave, almost mournful smile.

"You ask too many questions, good my Lady, to be answered in a breath. But Dame Lovell is in health, and greets you well by me, bidding you be assured ever of her love and blessing."

"And my father? O Master Pynson, my father! my father!"

She sat down, and buried her face in her hands, and wept; for though Richard had made no answer in words, his face told his tidings too unmistakably. Sir Geoffrey Lovell was dead. After a time Margery looked up whiter and more wan than ever, and begged to know the particulars of her father's death. Richard informed her that Sir Geoffrey had been taken ill three days only before he died; they had immediately summoned Master Carew, who was a physician, and who had pronounced that since he could not live many days, it would be useless to send for his daughter, who could not possibly reach Lovell Tower in time to see him alive. Dame Lovell was well in health, but had quite lost her old cheerfulness, and appeared to feel her husband's death very acutely. It had been arranged that Friar Andrew should remain with Dame Lovell as her confessor. As to himself, Richard said that he should of course return to his father for a time, until he could by some act of bravery or special favour receive the honour of knighthood; but he did not like to say anything to Dame Lovell about leaving her, so long as he saw that he was of any use to her, as he knew that she regarded him in the light of an adopted son, and had especially seemed to cling to him since Margery's departure.

Margery replied that she would have requested for him the favour of knighthood in a moment at the hands of Lord Marnell, but she did not like to ask him for anything so long as he was displeased with her.

Richard inquired after Lord Marnell. Margery said he was well, and was with the King at Havering-atte-Bower: but talking about him seemed to increase her look of weariness and woe. She turned the subject by inquiring again about her old friends. Cicely and the maids, Richard told her, were well; but old Beaudesert always howled whenever he was asked for Madge; and Lyard would stand switching his tail in the meadow, and looking wistfully at the house for the young mistress whom he must never see again.

"You miss me, then, all?" said Margery, mournfully.

"You will never know how sore," was Richard's answer.

Another pause ensued—there seemed some strange constraint between them—and then Richard asked—

"And what tidings take I home, good my Lady? Dame Lovell bade me have a care to ask how you fared, and the child. I grieve to hear from Alice Jordan that he fareth but evil, and for you—"

He smiled the same grave smile.

"Well—well, Master Pynson," said Margery, quickly. "I fare well. I cannot go where is not Christ, and where He is, howsoever I fare, I must needs fare well. And for the child—come and see him."

She led the way noiselessly to the adjoining room. Little Geoffrey lay in Alice's arms in a heavy sleep. His breathing was very quick and short, and his face flushed and fevered. Richard stood looking silently at him for a few minutes, and then returned with Margery to the oaken chamber. She offered him refreshments, but he declined them. He had supped, he said, already; and ere breakfast-time, he looked to be on his way back to the North. Margery wrote a short letter to Dame Lovell, and intrusted it to him; and then she sat by the table, wearily resting her head upon her hand.

"I pray you, good my Lady," said Richard, suddenly, breaking the spell that seemed to bind them, "what meaneth this bruit [noise, rumour] of heresy that I hear of you?"

Margery looked up with a strange light in her eyes.

"You remember, I trow, asking Master Carew for to lend me yon book?—and wending with me to hear Master Sastre's homily?"

"I mind it well."

"That meaneth it. That because I read Christ's words, and love them, and do them, so far as in my poor power lieth, the charge of heresy is laid at my door. And I ween they will carry it on to the end."

"The end?" said Richard, tremblingly,—for he guessed what that meant, and the idea of Margery being subjected to a long and comfortless imprisonment, was almost more than he could bear. His own utter powerlessness to save her was a bitter draught to drink.

"Ay, the end!" she said, with the light spreading all over her face. "Mind you not how Master Sastre asked us if we could sue the Lamb along the weary and bitter road? Is it an evil thing to sue the Lamb, though He lead over a few rugged stones which be lying in the path? Nay, friend, I am ready for the suing, how rough soever the way be."

Richard sat looking at her in silence. He had always thought her half an angel, and now he thought her so more than ever.

"I trow you know these things, good friend?" said Margery, with her sad, faint smile. "You know, is it not, how good is Christ?"

"I am assaying for to know," answered Richard, huskily. "I have been a-reading of Master Carew's book, since I found you counted it so great a thing. Oft-times have Master Carew and I sat reading of that book whenever I could make an errand unto his neighbourhood; and he hath taught me many things. But I cannot say yet that I be where you be, Mistress Margery," he added, calling her by the old familiar title, "or that I know Christ as friendly as you seem to know Him."

"Then," said Margery, earnestly, "let not go your grasp till you have fast hold of Him. Ah! what matter how soon or how sore cometh the end, if 'whanne He hath loued Hise that ben in the world, into the ende He loueth them.' [John xiii. 1.] O dear friend, count not anything lost if thou keepest Christ His love! If He shall come unto thee and say of aught by which thou settest store, as He did say unto Peter, 'Louest thou me more than these?' let thine answer be his, 'Che, Lord, Thou woost that I loue Thee!' [John xxi. 15.] Oh count not aught too rare or too brave for to give Christ! 'He that loueth his lyf schal leese it; and he that hatith his lyf in this world, kepith it unto everlastinge lyf.' [John xii. 25.] No man loseth by that chepe [exchange, bargain] of life worldly for life everlasting. Never shall the devils have leave to say, 'Behold here a man who hath lost by Christ!'"

"Must we needs give Christ all?" said Richard, in an unsteady tone.

"Is there a thing that thou wouldst keep from Him?—a thing that thou lovest more than thou lovest Him? Then it will be no marvel that thou shouldst lose the same. Trust me, if His heart be set on thee, He will either have thy heart away from it by thy good will, or will have it away from thy heart by bitter rending and sorrow. And alas for that man who hath no portion in Christ His heart!"

Richard answered almost in a whisper, and bent forward to take Margery's hand as he did so. The spell was fully broken now.

"There was only one thing, and He hath taken it. Margery, I loved you. I had given readily all else but you. And I trow you will count it but a sorry [poor, unworthy] giving, wherein the heart goeth not with the hands."

She turned her head hastily away, and made no answer; but he felt her hand grow deathly cold in his own. He dropped it, and rose—and so did she. She went with him to the door; and there, as she offered her hand for a farewell greeting, she spoke—

"Richard, God hath parted thee and me, and whatsoever God doth He doth wed. If it were as thou sayest, there was need thereof. When children come home to their father's house from afar, I trow they fall not a-bewailing that they had not leave to come in company. And if only we may clasp hands at the gate of the Urbs Beata, I trow well that we shall count it no great matter, good friend, that we saw but little the one of the other on the journey!"

Richard kissed her hand, and then she drew it from him, and softly passed into her darkened nursery. For a moment he stood looking after her. "Please God, we will, Margery!" he said to himself, at length. Then he ran lightly down the stairs, and old Christopher rose at the sound of his step to open the door for him.

And so Richard Pynson and Margery Marnell parted, never more to speak to each other on this side of the Happy City.

————————————————————————————————————

Note 1. Any reader acquainted with mediaeval hymns will recognise in this—

"Urbs coelestis! urbs beata! Super petram collocata."

I have translated a few lines of the hymn for the benefit of the English reader; but my heroine must be supposed to sing it in the original Latin.

Note 2. "Sweetening" was a process to which our forefathers were compelled by their want of drains, and consisted in leaving a house entirely empty for a time, to have the windows opened, the rushes renewed, and to adroit of a general purification. Families who had the means generally "went to sweeten" at least every summer.



CHAPTER SEVEN.

BEREAVEMENT, BUT NOT DEATH.

"Take from me anything Thou wilt, But go not Thou away!"

Little Geoffrey slowly recovered from the illness which had brought him to death's door, and though able to run about the house, he was still far from perfect health, when Margery received orders to prepare for another interview with Abbot Bilson. She rightly divined that this would be more stormy than the last. Abbot Bilson came now fully prepared, and not alone. He was accompanied by Archbishop Arundel, a man of violent passions, and a bitter persecutor of all whom he conceived to lean to the opinions of Wycliffe. When Margery entered the room, and saw the Archbishop, she trembled, as well she might. She meekly knelt and asked their blessing—the manner in which priests were commonly greeted. The Abbot gave his, saying, "May God bless thee, and lead thee unto the truth!"

"Amen!" responded Margery. Arundel, however, refused his benediction until he had inquired into the matter.

"Be seated, my daughter!" said the Abbot. Margery obeyed.

"Holy Church, daughter, hath been sore aggrieved by thine evil doing. She demandeth of thee an instant yielding of yon heretical and pernicious book, the which hath led thee astray; and a renunciation of thy heresy; the which done, thou shalt receive apostolic absolution and benediction."

"I know not, reverend father, what ye clepe [call] heresy. Wherein have I sinned?"

"In the reading of yon book, and in thy seldom confession. Moreover, I trow thou holdest with the way of John Wycliffe, yon evil reprobate!" replied the Archbishop.

"I cry you mercy, reverend fathers. I take my belief from no man. I crede [believe] the words of Christ as I find the same written, and concern not myself with Master Wycliffe or any other. I know not any Lollards, neither have I allied myself unto them."

The Archbishop and the Abbot both looked at Lord Marnell—a mute inquiry as to whether Margery spoke the truth.

"I ween it is so, reverend fathers," said he. "I wis nought of my wife her manner of living ere I wedded her, but soothly sithence [since] she came hither, I know of a surety that she hath never companied with any such evil persons as be these Lollards."

"Hold you not with the way of Wycliffe, daughter?" inquired the Abbot.

"I wis not, reverend father," answered she, "for of a truth I know not wherein it lieth. I hold that which I find in the book; and I trow an' I keep close by the words of Christ, I cannot stray far from truth."

"The words in yon book be no words of Christ!" said Arundel. "That evil one Wycliffe, being taught of the devil, hath rendered the holy words of the Latin into pernicious heresy in English."

"I pray you then, father, will you give me the book in Latin, for I wis a little the Latin tongue, and moreover I can learn of one that hath the tongues to wit better the same."

This was not by any means what Arundel intended, and it raised his anger.

"I will not give thee the Latin!" exclaimed he. "I forbid thee to read or learn the same, for I well know thou wouldst wrest it to thine evil purposes."

"How can you put a right meaning to the words, my daughter?" mildly suggested the Abbot.

"I know well that I could in no wise do the same," replied Margery, humbly, "had I not read the promise of Christ Jesu that He would send unto His own 'thilk Spyryt of treuthe,' who should 'teche them al treuthe,' [John xvi. 13] wherefore by His good help I trust I shall read aright."

"That promise was given, daughter, unto the holy apostles."

"It was given, reverend father, unto weak men and evil, else Peter had never denied his Master, ne [neither] had all of them left Him and taken to flight, when the servants of the bishops [see Note 1] laid hold on Him. I wis that I have an evil heart like as they had, but meseemeth that mine is not worser than were theirs, wherefore I count that promise made unto myself also."

"Thou art lacking in meekness, Madge," said Lord Marnell.

"I trust not so, good my Lord; but an' if I be, I pray God to give it to me."

"Give up the book, Madge!" said her husband, apparently desirous to allay the storm which he had raised, "and thou shalt then receive absolution, and all will go well."

"I will give up the book, my Lord, in obedience to you," replied Margery, "for I wis well that wives be bounden to obey their husbands; and soothly it is no great matter, for I know every word therein. But under your good leave, my Lord, the truth which this book hath taught me, neither you nor any other man shall have power to take from me, for it is of God, and not of men!"

She drew the book from her pocket—ladies wore much larger pockets in those days than they now do—kissed it, and handed it to her husband.

"Thou hast well done, Madge!" said Lord Marnell, more kindly than before, as he passed the book to the Archbishop. Arundel, with a muttered curse upon all evil teaching, took the book from Lord Marnell with his hand folded in the corner of his gown, as if he thought its very touch would communicate pollution, and flung it into the fire. The fire was a large one, and in a minute the volume was consumed. Margery watched the destruction of her treasure with swimming eyes.

"Burn, poor book!" she said, falteringly, "and as thy smoke goeth up to God, leave it tell Him that the reading and the loving of His Word is accounted a sin by those who ought to be His pastors."

"Woman, wilt not hear the truth?" cried Arundel.

"Truly, father, I have heard it, and it shall rest with me unto my dying day. But I trow that if your teaching were truth, ye had never burned with fire the Word of Christ, who hath power, if ye repent not, to consume you also with the like!"

"Told I not thee that the evil book which I gave to the fire was not Christ His Word, but the work of the devil?"

"Yea, truly; and the like said the heathen Jews, 'Wher we seyen not wel that thou art a Samaritan, and hast a deuel?' But I find not that their saying the same made it ever the truer. What saith Christ in answer? 'I haue not a deuel; but I honoure my Fadir, and ye han unhonourid me.'" [John viii. 48, 49.]

"My daughter," said the Abbot, with even more than his usual gentleness, "I misdoubt greatly that you be obstinate in your error. And if this be so, we shall have necessity of deeds the which we should sore lament. You wit, doubtless, that in case you continue thus obstinate, you will be had up afore the King's Grace's Council?"

"I am ready," answered Margery.

"You wit also," pursued the Abbot, no less gently, "that you may be sentenced unto close prison for such time as pleaseth the King's Grace?"

"I am ready," said Margery again.

Her examiners looked surprised.

"Moreover," continued the Abbot, in a softer tone than ever, "wit you that we can allow you no longer to have the charge and teaching of your son, who must needs be instructed in the true faith?"

The end of the reverend fathers was at length reached. The quiet words of the Abbot produced an effect which the furious abuse of the Archbishop had been unable to accomplish. A cry of mingled terror, anguish, and despair, broke from poor Margery's lips.

"Ye could not—ye could not be so cruel!" she sobbed. "Take from me all I have in this world—comfort, freedom, yea, life—only leave me my child!"

"Thou seest what thou hast brought on thyself!" said Arundel. "How can we, being the ministers of God His truth, suffer the mind of yon innocent child to be poisoned with like evil doctrine?"

"Doth God part the child from the mother?" faltered Margery. "This is none of His doing. My darling! my darling!"

Lord Marnell pitied his wife. Her agony touched all that was soft and gentle in his not too soft heart.

"Well, well, Madge!" he said, kindly; "I will see that thy child is not taken from thee, if thou wilt obey these reverend fathers in confessing of thine error, and wilt humbly beg absolution at their hands."

Margery looked up at her husband with an expression of unutterable gratitude beaming in her eyes—but the moment she heard his if, her face fell instantly.

"I conceive you, good my Lord," she said, mournfully, "howsoever I thank you. You will give me back my darling, if I will deny that I hold Christ His truth. I cannot. I dare not!"

"'Christ His truth,' persist you in calling your heresy!" cried Arundel, in a fury. "Choose, then, quickly, for the last time, betwixt 'Christ His truth' and your child!"

She shivered from head to foot as if an ague-fit were on her, and her sobs almost mounted to a scream. No heart that had any pretension to humanity could have helped pitying her. Her husband did pity her; but Arundel was carried away by passion, and Bilson had no heart. Through all this tempest, however agonised, firm and unwavering came the answer—

"Christ!"

Arundel, rising, ordered her to kneel. Margery knelt down on the hearth, her hands clasped on her breast, and her eyes looking up to heaven. Solemnly, and with all that terrific majesty which the Church of Rome so well knows how to put into her threats and denunciations, the Archbishop cited her to appear before the council on the 17th day of the following September. In the meantime she was to be confined in one of the State dungeons. Arundel graciously added that he would give her the remainder of that day to make her preparations. Lord Marnell here interposed, and begged the Archbishop to reconsider his decision. He had anticipated Margery's examination by the council, and possibly her being sentenced to a term of imprisonment, but he had not bargained for this previous incarceration. Arundel bluntly refused to alter his sentence.

Margery raised her tearful eyes to Lord Marnell. "My Lord," she said, "and you, reverend fathers, I have one small thing to ask of you. I pray you deny me not."

"What is it, Madge?" asked Lord Marnell.

"My good Lord," she said, pleadingly, "suffer me to take one last kiss of my child, ere ye take me where I shall see him no more!"

The Abbot seemed disposed to grant Margery's petition, though the Archbishop demurred; but Lord Marnell settled the matter by authoritatively commanding that the mother should be permitted to take leave of her child. Arundel, with rather a bad grace, gave way on this secondary point. Margery was then dismissed.

She went up-stairs as if she were walking in a dream, and found Alice hiding behind the door for the amusement of little Geoffrey, who was in high glee. Margery stood a moment on the threshold, looking at them, and mournfully thinking that it was the last time she would ever look on that sunny little face, or hear that silvery laugh. As she stood there, Alice caught sight of her mistress, and her share of the mirth ceased instantly.

"My Lady! my Lady! what have you, I pray you tell me? You look as if sentence of death had been passed on you!"

Margery passed her hand dreamily across her brow.

"Sentence, good Alice, of the evil which is in death!" she said, softly, "and henceforth death must needs be a glad thing. But that is to come yet."

She sat down, and took the child on her knee, and he nestled his little golden head into her bosom. For a few minutes she rocked herself and him to and fro in silence, but at length her voice came, and though it trembled a little, it was almost as quiet and silvery as usual.

"Geoffrey, dost love me?"

"Yes, mother, very much."

"Poor child! how wilt do without me!"

"Go you hence, mother?"

"Yes, my child, I go hence. Geoffrey, wilt mind ever what I now say unto thee? Wilt never, never forget it, but ever keep it fresh and shene, and think thereof whenever thou dost think of me?"

"Yes, mother, I shan't forget."

"Alice, thou wilt help him to remember, good lass, if thou be not taken from him."

"That will I, good my Lady," said Alice, sobbing, and only comprehending that something painful had happened.

"Geoffrey, darling, thou wilt be a good child to thy father?"

"I'll try, mother, but—he frighteth me."

Margery sighed heavily.

"List me now, my heart. Dost remember what I told thee about Jesus Christ?"

Geoffrey answered that he did.

"Right, my heart. And lovest Jesus Christ, who died for thee?"

"Yes, mother, I love Him and you."

The child's innocent answer nearly upset Margery's half-assumed calmness. She rocked him a minute longer in silence. "Remember, mine own sweet heart, ever that nothing but Jesus can save thee. Thou canst not save thyself. Beg of Him with all thine heart that He will save thee, and love Him all thy life long, even unto the end."

She ceased an instant.

"Now, sweet heart, kiss me. Give me a brave kiss, mine own—it is the last. Never shall we kiss again till we kiss in the Happy City! Fare-thee-well, dearly beloved! God have thee in His holy keeping! God teach thee what I cannot—what I by reason of mine ignorance know not, or what thou by reason of thy tender years canst not yet conceive. God forgive thee thy sins, and help thee in all trouble and woe, and bring thee to that blessed home where I shall see thee again, and where they sin not, nor grieve, neither part any more!"

Margery gently detached herself from the child's embrace, and set him down. She desired Alice to take him away, and then to return and assist her in matters respecting which she would tell her particulars when she should have removed the child. She stood looking after the boy as Alice led him away, and he turned his head to say, "God be wi' ye!" [See Note 2].

"Never again! never again!" said Margery to herself in a half-whisper. "The worst part of death is over! I have nothing left now but Christ."

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Note 1. Wycliffe always renders "Bisschopis" the word translated "chief priests" in the authorised version.

Note 2. The farewell phrase which has in modern times been shortened into "good-bye."



CHAPTER EIGHT.

A LODGING ON THE COLD GROUND.

"Christ is at hand to scorn or bless— Christ suffers in our strife."

Christian Year.

In the evening, as previously ordered, Margery quitted Marnell Place in her litter for her prison in the Tower. The jailer stared at her, as Abbot Bilson, who accompanied her, gave her into his charge, and whisperingly asked the reason for which she was to be incarcerated.

"Heresy, good friend."

"Heresy!" said the jailer, staring more than ever. "What pity for one so marvellous young! Poor lady! it sorroweth me!"

When Margery was at length locked in, she had time to look round her prison. It was a small, square, whitewashed cell, completely unfurnished; all the furniture had to be brought from Marnell Place. Not much was allowed. A mattress and blanket by way of bed, a stool, and a crucifix, were the only articles permitted. The barred window was very small, and very high up. Here Margery was to remain until September. The days rolled wearily on. Lord Marnell occasionally visited her; but not often, and he was her sole visitor. The jailer, for a jailer, was rather kind to his prisoner, whom he evidently pitied; and one day he told her, as he brought her the prison allowance for supper, that "strange things" were taking place in the political world. There was a rumour in London that "my Lord of Hereford" had returned to England before his period of banishment was over, and had possessed himself of the person of King Richard at Flint Castle.

"What will he do?" asked Margery. "Soothly I wis not," answered the jailer. "I trow he will make himself king. Any way, I trust it may hap for your Ladyship's good, for it is the wont to release prisoners at the beginning of a new reign."

Shortly after that, Henry of Bolingbroke fulfilled the jailer's prediction, so far as regarded his kingship. He led Richard in triumph through London, with every dishonour and indignity which his own evil nature could devise; then consigned him to Pontefract to die and sat down on his throne. How Richard died, Henry best knew. Thus closed the life and reign of that most ill-treated and loving-hearted man, at the early age of thirty-three. The little Queen, a widow at eleven, was sent back to France—her matchless collection of jewels being retained by Henry. Few men have had more reason to describe themselves as Henry IV does in his will—"I, Henry, sinful wretch." [See Note 1.]

The change of monarchs, however, brought no change for Lady Marnell. If anything, it was the worse for her; for Abbot Bilson was a personal friend of the new King, who was far more violently opposed to the Lollards than his predecessor had been.

On the 16th of September, 1400, Lord Marnell was just quitting Margery's cell, when the jailer admitted Abbot Bilson, who courteously greeted Lord Marnell, and replied rather more coldly to the salutation of his prisoner.

"Good morrow, my Lord. Have you induced this wretched girl to see the error of her ways?"

"I assayed it not," said Lord Marnell, somewhat sulkily. "Farewell, Madge,—I will see thee again ere long."

"Farewell, good my Lord," said Margery, and for the first time in her life she was sorry to see her husband go. The truth was, that Lord Marnell felt so much vexed with his spiritual advisers, that he was seriously afraid, if he remained, of saying something which might cause his own imprisonment. The jailer locked the door after him, and the Abbot and Margery were left together.

"You have had time, daughter, to think over your sin, in penitence and prayer. Are you yet conscious that you have committed a grievous sin?"

"No, father."

"No are? [i.e., Are you not?] I grieve to hear it. Fear you not the ban of Holy Church?"

"I fear it not, so Christ confirm it not; He did warn me afore of the same. 'Thei schulen make ghou withouten the synagogis; but the our cometh, that ech man that sleeth ghou deme that he doith seruyse to God.'" [John xvi. 2.]

"Cease thy endless quotations from Scripture!" cried the Abbot, waxing wroth, and forgetting his civilities.

But Margery only replied by another—"'He that is of God herith the wordis of God; therefore ye heren not for ye be not of God.'" [John viii. 47.]

"Take the curse of the Church, miserable reprobate!" cried Bilson, losing all command of himself, and smiting her in the face.

"Take you heed," was the answer, "that you bring not on yourself the curse of Christ, who is the Head and Lord of the Church, for He suffereth not lightly that His sheep be ill handled."

"Aroint thee, sorceress!" said the abbot. "I am no sorceress," replied Margery, quietly, "neither do I use evil arts; I speak unto you in the words of Christ—bear you the sin if you will not hear. But lo! it is even that which is written, 'He hath blyndid her yghen [their eyes], and he hath maad hard the herte of hem; that thei see not with yghen, and undirstonde with herte, and that thei be conuertid, and I heele hem.'" [John xii. 40.]

The abbot could bear no more. He struck her furiously—a blow which stretched her senseless on the stone floor of the cell. Having by this primitive means silenced Margery's "endless quotations," he let himself out with a private key.

When Lord Marnell returned to the prison that evening, he found Margery in what he supposed to be a swoon. He summoned the jailer, and through him sent for a physician, who applied restoratives, but told Lord Marnell at once that Margery had fallen, and had received a heavy blow on the head. By the united care of the physician and her husband, she slowly returned to consciousness: not, however, fully so at first, for she murmured, "Mother!" When Lord Marnell bent over her and spoke to her, she suddenly recognised him as if awaking from a dream. Yes, she replied to their inquiries, she had certainly fallen, and she thought she had hurt her head; but she would not tell them that the cause of the fall was a passionate blow from the Abbot's hand. The physician asked when her examination was to take place; and on Lord Marnell replying, "To-morrow," he shook his head, and said she would not be able to appear.

"Oh ay, ay, let me go!" said Margery, "I would not have delay therein. I shall be better by morn, and—"

But as she spoke she fainted away, and the doctor, turning to Lord Marnell, said—

"She is no wise fit for it, poor lady! The inquiry must needs be delayed, and the blame thereof be mine own."

"Then I pray you," replied Lord Marnell, "to say the same unto the council; for they heed not me."

He answered that he would go to them as soon as he thought that his patient required no further professional assistance. Margery seemed better shortly, and Master Simon, for such was the doctor's name, repaired at once to the council charged with the examination of prisoners accused of heresy, and told them that their State prisoner, the Lady Marnell, was very ill in her dungeon, and would not be able to appear before them for at least some weeks to come. Arundel, who presided, only laughed. The doctor insisted.

"Why," said be, "the poor lady is sickening for a fever; let her alone: how can a woman light-headed answer questions upon doctrine and heresy?"

The council, governed by Arundel, still seemed unwilling to grant the prayer; when, to the surprise of every one present, Abbot Bilson, the principal witness for the Crown, rose and supported the petition. The puzzled council accordingly granted it. Arundel was very much under Bilson's influence, and Bilson had a private reason for his conduct, which will presently appear.

So the examination was adjourned until February, and Margery, released for the moment from the struggle with her enemies, was left to combat the fever which had seized her. Lord Marnell and Master Simon begged for an order of the council to remove poor Margery home, the latter asserting that she would never recover in the Tower. The council refused this application. They then requested that one of her waiting-women should be allowed to attend her, and that bedding and linen, with such other necessaries as Master Simon might deem fit, might be supplied to the prisoner from her own house. The council, after a private consultation among its members, thought fit to grant this reasonable prayer.

Alice Jordan was made very happy by an order from Lord Marnell to attend her sick mistress. Everything that Marnell Place could furnish, which Master Simon did not absolutely forbid,—and Master Simon was easy of persuasion—was lavished on the whitewashed cell in the Tower. Alice, however, was carefully searched every time she passed in and out of the Tower, to see that she supplied no books nor writing-materials to the prisoner, nor took any letters from her. Poor Margery! the care was needless, for she was just then as incapable of writing as if she had never been taught.

Margery's illness lasted even longer than Master Simon had anticipated. On a dark, cold winter night, when snow was falling thickly outside the prison, and a low rushlight burned on the table, dimly lighting up the narrow cell, Margery unexpectedly whispered, "Who is there?"

"I, dear mistress—Alice Jordan."

"Alice Jordan! Where then am I? Or was it all a terrible dream? Is this Lovell Tower?" Alice's voice trembled as she said, "No."

"What then? Oh! I know now. It is the Tower of London, and the end cometh nigh."

"Nay, dearest mistress, you fare marvellous better now."

"I mean not the fever-death, good friend, but the end—the end of my weary pilgrimage, the gate of the Happy City. Welcome be the end of the way, for the way hath been a rough one and a sore! However sharp be the end, I can bear it now. My soul hath been loosed from earth. I see nothing now, I want nothing but Christ, and to be with Him in the glory. Alice, how fareth the child? I dared not to ask afore, since I came into this place, but I can now."

"I trow he fareth well, good mistress, but of a long season I have not seen him. My Lord hath sent him unto the care of Dame Lovell."

Margery's eyes, rather than her voice, expressed her pleasure at this news.

"Hath my Lord my husband been here sithence I took sick?"

"Every day, my Lady; and I trow he sent away the boy for that reason, lest his coming hither should give him the sickness."

"Knoweth my mother of my sickness?"

"I wis not, my Lady, but I trow that my Lord would tell her, when he sent the child down with Master Pynson."

"Master Pynson! Hath he been hither?"

"Yea, good my Lady, he came up, I ween, on Saint Luke's Day [October 18], and took back the young master with him."

"What said he when ye told him of my prison, Alice?"

"He covered his face, and wept sore."

Margery turned her face to the wall. "A fiery trial!" she murmured, as if to herself—"a fiery trial for him as well as me! Is this the way wherein the Father will draw him? If so, Richard, I can bear it."

The 16th of February came. On the morning of that day, as Lord Marnell stepped out of his own house into the open air, with the intention of paying his usual visit to Margery, Abbot Bilson came up, radiant and smiling, and carrying under his arm a large parchment roll.

"Ah, my very good Lord, well met! Whither away?"

"I purpose to see Madge."

"Ah!" exclaimed the Abbot, who was occupied with an amusement which comes naturally to men of his disposition, and has been wittily denned as "washing one's hands with invisible soap, in imperceptible water."

"What hast under thine arm, reverend father?" asked Lord Marnell.

"Ah! this is the indictment of the Lady Marnell. Your Lordship witteth that she will be examined to-morrow afore the council, and by them sentenced."

"You will endeavour yourself, reverend father, that the sentence be made as light as may be."

"My Lord, we have but one sentence for heretics," said Abbot Bilson, with a smile which showed all his teeth, like a wild beast. "The Act regarding them was yestermorn sceptred by the King's Grace."

"One!" remarked Lord Marnell, in some surprise. "The sentence now, then, is—?"

"Death."

Lord Marnell hastily laid his hand on a buttress, to steady himself, when he heard this awful news.

"You have deceived me, father! You have deceived me!" he cried. "You told me, some months gone, when first I called you into this matter, that the sentence on heretics was prison."

"My good Lord, I pray you remember that I told you but a moment back, that the new Act is just passed. Ere that the sentence truly was close prison; but now—"

On finding himself thus inveigled by the cunning of Abbot Bilson, Lord Marnell was beside himself with passion. He burst into a torrent of the most fearful language. Abbot Bilson stood calmly by, as if quite accustomed to such scenes.

"My good Lord, I pray you blaspheme not, or I must needs appoint you a sore penance," was all that he mildly observed.

Lord Marnell recovered himself by a strong effort, and asked, as politely as he could, what description of death was commanded by the new Act.

"Burning or beheading, at the pleasure of the King's Grace," replied the Abbot, as unconcernedly as though the choice in question lay between a couple of straws.

"My wife, being a peeress, will of force be beheaded?"

"Likely, I trow," replied the Abbot, drawing his cowl closer over his head, as a cold blast of wind came up the street.

"Father, you must use all effort that the sentence be so pronounced, if the King's Grace remit it not."

"The King's Grace remitteth never sentence on heretics," said Bilson, with another of his disagreeable smiles. "He is much too true and faithful son of Holy Church therefor. And as to my poor efforts, my Lord—"

"You can, and you shall," wrathfully answered Lord Marnell, and, not to prolong the contest, walked rapidly away.

Abbot Bilson stood looking after him, with an expression on his face not unlike that which a triumphant demon might be supposed to exhibit.

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Note 1. Henry had previously conspired against the King three times, and had even plotted the death of his own father. His father sentenced him to death, and if Richard had not interposed, Henry would not have lived to depose his benefactor. "How true is the saying," cried poor Richard in his agony, "that we have no greater enemy than the man whom we save from the gallows!"—See Creton's MS. Bibl. Imp. 8448-2 Ambassades.



CHAPTER NINE.

AN OBDURATE HERETIC.

"Great your strength, if great your need."

Henry Kirke White.

In the evening of the same day, the council sent a physician to report on the prisoner's health. Not gentle Master Simon, but a stern, iron-handed, iron-hearted man, from whom Margery and Alice shrank instinctively. The physician reported that the Lady Marnell had undoubtedly been very ill, but was now better, and ailed nothing but weakness; he accordingly recommended that the examination should take place, but that the prisoner, in consideration of her extreme debility, should be indulged with a seat. Master Simon tried hard to obtain a little further postponement; but this time the powerful Abbot was against him, and he gained nothing by his motion. So, on the morning of the 17th, Margery rose from her sick-bed to appear before the council. Lord Marnell, who had lately shown her extraordinary kindness, as though with the view of undoing, so far as lay in his power, the evil which his rash, though well-meant conduct had originally created, assisted his wife into her litter, and rode beside it during the short journey. On arriving at the door, where they found a steep flight of steps to mount, Lord Marnell would not allow Margery to try her strength, but carried her up in his arms. He knew, and so did she, that she would need all the strength she could muster for the trial which was to come. The council-chamber was hung with red cloth, and the benches appropriated to spectators were filled to overflowing. For one moment Margery shrank back at the sight of so many strange faces; and a faint tinge of colour mounted to her pale cheek as Lord Marnell led her forward to her chair. In the president's seat was the Archbishop of Canterbury, and on his left hand Abbot Bilson. Several abbots, priors, and other legal and ecclesiastical dignitaries, made up the remainder of the council.

For eight weary hours, with very short intervals for refreshment, they kept that fragile prisoner before them, and all the time she never quailed, nor evaded any of their questions. Twice Master Simon interfered, and begged that wine might be given her, or he would not answer for her further recovery; and once she herself asked for a glass of water, and for a few minutes seemed about to faint.

Abbot Bilson came out in his true colours at this examination. He was no longer the mild, persuasive teacher; he now showed himself the unforgiving revenger. The Archbishop pressed the prisoner hard with questions, many of them irrevelant to the indictment; and most of the other members of the Council put queries to her.

They inquired, amongst other things, if she believed that in the Sacrament of the Lord's Supper the bread and wine became the very body and blood of Christ.

"Nay, certes," was Margery's answer. "For if Christ, being in life, could hold His own body, and give the same unto His disciples, then were it no true human body, for a natural and true body cannot be in two several places at the self-same moment of time. Moreover, if the bread of the host be verily the body of Christ, then did He eat His own body, and that is contrary to very reason."

"The mysteries of the faith be above reason," said Arundel.

"Of a truth, and farther above it, maybe, than we wit; but in no wise contrary thereunto."

"Believe you in Purgatory?"

"The Church teacheth the same, and I say not that it may not be true; but I find it not in the book."

"Pray you unto the blessed Virgin Saint Mary, the holy angels, and the saints?"

"Soothly, no: it is not in the book. 'Whateuer thing ye axen the Fadir in my name, I schal do that thing,' saith Christ: but I hear not a word of 'whatever thing ye shall ask Saint Michael, or Saint Anne.'"

"Account you confession unto priests to be right or evil?"

"It may be right—I wis not; but I saw it not in the book. I pray you, reverend fathers, if any other part of God His book do name these things, and give leave for the same, that you show it unto me, and thereupon I will believe them, but no else."

The above is, of course, a mere sample of the innumerable questions which were put to the prisoner. Towards the close of the day, the Archbishop and abbots consulted together for a few minutes; and then Arundel turned to the accused.

"Margery Marnell, Baroness Marnell of Lymington, the Court demands of you whether you will put your name to this paper, and hold to all things therein contained?"

"Let me read the paper, my Lord Archbishop, and then I will give you an answer."

The Archbishop did not wish her to read the paper; but Margery steadily declined to sign anything in the dark. At length the council permitted it to be read to her. It contained a promise to abjure all Lollard doctrines, and to perform a severe penance, such as the council should lay on her, for the scandal which she had caused to the Church. Margery at once refused to sign anything of the kind. The Archbishop warned her that in that case she must be prepared to submit to the capital sentence.

"Ye may sentence me," she said, in her clear voice, always distinct, however feeble, "to what ye will. I fear you not. I wis ye have power to kill my body, but my soul never shall ye have power to touch. That is Christ's, who witteth full well how to keep it; and to His blessed hands, not yours, I commit myself, body and soul."

The Archbishop then passed sentence. The Court found Margery, Baroness Marnell of Lymington, guilty of all crimes whereof she stood indicted, and sentenced her to death by burning, in the open place called Tower Hill, on the 6th day of March next ensuing.

The prisoner bowed her head when the sentence had been pronounced, and then said as she rose, and stretched out her hand to Lord Marnell, who came forward and supported her, "I greatly fear, reverend fathers, that your day is yet to come, when you shall receive sentence from a Court whence there is no appeal, and shall be doomed to a dreader fire!"

When Lord Marnell had assisted his wife back into her dungeon, and laid her gently on the bed, he turned and shook his fist at the wall.

"If I, Ralph Marnell of Lymington, had thee here, Abbot Thomas Bilson—"

"Thou wouldst forgive him, my good Lord," faintly said Margery.

"Who? I? Forgive him? What a woman art thou, Madge! Nay—by the bones of Saint Matthew, I would break every bone in his body! Forsooth, Madge, those knaves the Archbishop and the Abbot have played me a scurvy trick, and gone many times further than I looked for, when I called them into this business. But it is so always, as I have heard,—thy chirurgeon and thy confessor, if they once bear the hand in thy matters, will never let thee go till they have choked thee. I fear I shall have hard labour to get thee out of this scrape. I will do all I can, be thou sure, but thou wist that I am not in favour with the new King as I was with King Richard, whose soul God rest! Madge, wilt forgive me, wife?"

"With a very good will, my Lord," said Margery. "I wis well that thou wottedst not all that thou didst."

"Not I, by Saint James of Compostella!" exclaimed Lord Marnell. "Were the good King Richard alive and reigning, I would soon let both the Archbishop and the Abbot feel the place too hot for to hold them. But I can do nothing with Harry of Bolingbroke, looking, too, that he hateth the Lollards as he hateth the devil—and a deal more, I trow, for I count that that prince and he be old friends," added Lord Marnell, with an air of great disgust.

Margery smiled gravely. She felt sorry for her husband, who she saw was very miserable himself at the unexpected result of his conduct; but she did not allow herself for an instant to hope that he could save her.

"Mine own good Lord," she said, "I pray you torment not yourself in assaying my relief, neither in thinking that you be the cause of my trouble; for I forgive you as freely as Christ hath forgiven me, and I count that is free enough."

Lord Marnell stood leaning against the wall, and looking at Margery, who lay outside the bed.

"Of a truth, wife, I conceive thee not. Thou art here in the Tower dungeon, and thou lookest for no good outcoming, and lo! thou art calm and peaceful as if thou wert on King Henry's throne! What means it, Madge?"

"I trow I am much happier here than I should be on King Henry's throne!" answered Margery, with a smile. "Christ is with me, good husband, and where Christ is, is peace. 'Pees I leeue to ghou, my pees I ghyue to ghou; not as the world ghyueth I ghyue to ghou' [John xiv. 27]. 'These thingis I haue spoken to ghou, that ghe haue pees in me. In the world ghe schulen haue disese; but triste ghe, I haue ouercome the world?'" [John xvi. 33.]

When Lord Marnell quitted Margery that evening, he hastened to Court, and attempted to gain the ear of the King. Since the deposition of his friend and master, King Richard, he had never appeared there. He was consequently a stranger to the pages and porters, who tried to get rid of him as politely as they could. At length Lord Marnell caught sight of the Earl of Surrey, who with some hesitation consented to introduce him into the privy chamber. Henry listened to Lord Marnell only until he comprehended the nature of his plea; then met him with a frown and an angry—

"Pardon a Lollard? Never!"

"Please it, your Grace, your noble predecessor, King Richard, though no Lollard, would have granted me at once, in consideration of my long and faithful service unto him."

"I am not Richard of Bordeaux, but Henry of Bolingbroke!" was the haughty answer, as the King turned round abruptly, and quitted Lord Marnell.

"By our Lady of Walsingham, I wis full well that" replied the latter, sotto voce.

As Lord Marnell quitted the palace, he met in the corridor with the Prince of Wales, [Afterwards Henry V] who stopped and saluted him, and Lord Marnell at once begged for his intercession with his father. The Prince readily promised it, but on learning particulars, the son's brow darkened as the father's had done. He was very sorry, but he really could not ask the King's pardon for a Lollard. Lord Marnell would have given his whole fortune to undo his own work of the last eighteen months. He had never dreamed that Abbot Bilson would have summoned the archbishop to his aid, nor that Margery would have stood half as firmly as she had done. He only knew her as a fragile, gentle, submissive girl, and never expected to find in her material for the heroine or the martyr. Lord Marnell tried to procure the mediation of everybody about the Court; but all, while expressing great sympathy with him, declined to risk their own necks. Even the King's sons said they dared not comply with his request. Prince Thomas [afterwards Henry V] was extremely kind—very much grieved that he could not help him; but Prince Humphrey [Duke of Gloucester] turned scornfully from him, and Prince John [the great Duke of Bedford] coldly bade him take heed to his own safety. The Earl of Somerset, the King's half-brother, shook his head, and said he was already suspected by the King to be a Lollard himself, and such an application from him would probably seal his own doom. Lord Marnell applied to the Queen [Jeanne of Navarre, the second wife of Henry IV]; but she seemed most afraid of all to whom he had spoken, lest she should incur the King's anger, and possibly endanger herself.

The interval between the day of the examination and that appointed for the execution passed drearily to all parties. Lord Marnell, notwithstanding all these repulses, exerted himself unremittingly to procure a commutation of the sentence, at least to beheading; but in vain. The King was inexorable. If the Lady Marnell had chosen to ally herself with Lollards, she well knew what she was doing, and must abide the consequences. Vainly did Lord Marnell represent how young and inexperienced she was; in vain did he urge that the Act which made the Lollards amenable to capital punishment had been passed since her indictment, and only a few weeks before. Henry was not naturally disposed to hear his pleasure called in question; and Abbot Bilson had had possession of the royal ear already.

When Alice returned from Marnell Place on the evening of the 26th of February, Margery saw, by the expression of her face, that she had heard something which shocked her. She asked what it was.

"You mind, good my Lady, the day that you went with Master Pynson to hear a sermon in Bostock Church?"

"I trow I shall not lightly forget it," was Margery's answer.

"Master Sastre was a-preaching, was he not?"

"Ay. Wherefore?"

"My Lady, he suffered death this forenoon by burning."

"Master Sastre! Who told thee?"

"Christopher it was that told me,—and yon evil man—for sure, though he be a holy priest, yet is he an evil man, or would he never else have so dealt with your Ladyship—yon evil man, Abbot Bilson was there, and did sore press Master Sastre for to have confessed his error; but Master Sastre did maintain the same to the end."

Margery turned away her head. The venerable image of Sastre rose up before her, as he learned forward over the pulpit to say those last earnest words.

"Ah, dear old teacher!" she whispered to herself. "Thou wilt not have long to look among the multitude in the white apparel, for one face which was upturned to thee that day!"



CHAPTER TEN.

GLORIFYING THE LORD IN THE FIRES.

"Ah, little is all loss, And brief the space 'twixt shore and shore, If Thou, Lord Jesus, on us lay, Through the dark waters of our way, The burden which Christopheros bore— To carry Thee across."

Miss Muloch.

As Lord Marnell sat with Margery in her cell in the evening of the 1st of March, she begged him to grant her a favour. Her contrite husband bade her ask what she would. Margery replied that she greatly wished to write a last letter to her mother. Writing-materials were carefully kept from her. Could Lord Marnell supply her with the means of doing so? He said he would attempt it.

When Alice returned on the following day from Marnell Place, whither she had been to procure a change of linen for her mistress, she brought with her also a loaf of bread. The jailer demurred at this, but Alice urged that Lady Marnell did not like the bread made by the prison baker, and surely the jailer would not grudge her a loaf from home, for the few days she had to live. The jailer shook his head, but let it pass. When Alice was safe in the cell, she broke the loaf, and produced from it, cunningly imbedded in the soft crumb, several sheets of paper folded surprisingly small, a pen, and a little inkhorn. Margery's eyes glistened when she saw these, and she wrote her letter secretly during the night. But how to get it out of the prison with safety? Alice was able to provide for this also. The letter was sewn in one of the pillows, which would be carried back to Marnell Place after the execution.

The last day of Lady Marnell's life sped away as other less eventful days do, and the evening of the 5th of March arrived. Alice, having just returned from her usual journey to the house, was disposing of the articles which she had brought with her, when the jailer's key grated in the lock, and the door was opened. Lady Marnell looked up, expecting to see her husband, though it was rather before his usual time for visiting her; but on looking up, she saw Abbot Bilson.

This feline ecclesiastic came forward with bent head and joined hands, vouchsafing no reply to Margery's salutation of "Good even, father," nor to Alice's humble request for his blessing. He sat down on a chair, and for some minutes stared at Margery in silence—conduct so strange that at length she said, "Wherefore come you, father?"

"To look at thee, child of the devil!" was the civil answer.

Alice, who had just requested the blessing of the priest, was more angry than she could bear with the man. She was just on the point of saying something sharp, when Lord Marnell's voice behind the Abbot interposed with—

"If thou wouldst see a child of the devil, I trow thou hast little need to look further than thy mirror!"

The Abbot rose calmly, and let Lord Marnell enter.

"It becometh not poor and humble monks, servitors of God, to lend themselves unto the vanity of mirrors," said he, pulling out a large rosary, and beginning to tell his beads devoutly.

"'Servitors of God!'" cried Lord Marnell, too angry to be prudent. "Dost call thyself a servitor of God? If God hath no better servitors than thou, I ween He is evil served!"

The Abbot cast a glance from the corner of his eye at Lord Marnell, but made no answer, save to tell his beads more devoutly than ever.

"Hast no other place to tell thy beads in?" asked that nobleman.

The Abbot rose without a word, and, pausing at the door, stretched his hand over the assembled trio, and muttered some words to himself.

"Away with thee, Lucifer, and thy maledictions!" exclaimed Lord Marnell. "There be here who are nearer to the angels than ever thou shalt be!"

Suddenly the Abbot was gone. Nobody had seen or heard him depart—he seemed to melt into the night, in some strange, mysterious way.

"He is gone, and Satan his master go with him!" said Lord Marnell. "Ho, jailer! lock the door, I pray, and leave us three alone together."

The jailer obeyed; and Lord Marnell sat down by the side of Margery's bed, and bade Alice lie down on her own pallet, and sleep if she could. He gave the same counsel to Margery; but the latter smiled, and said she would never sleep again in this world.

"Now, Madge!" said her husband, "hast aught on thy mind, good wife, that thou wouldst say ere morn? Aught that I can do for thee? Trust me, I will do the same right gladly."

Margery thanked him fervently; there was a heartiness in his tone which was not often audible.

"There be a few matters, mine own good Lord, which under thy good pleasure I would willingly have done. I would that all my servants might have a year's pay; and for Alice, poor lass! who hath tended me so well and truly, I pray that a small matter of money may be given her by the year: moreover, I would like, if she will—for I would not lay her under bond—that she should keep with Geoffrey while she liveth, or at least until he be a man. And, good husband, I would that thou wouldst teach my poor child to remember me, his mother, but above all, to remember the Lord for whom I die, and who, having loved me in the world, loveth me unto the end. [John xiii. 1] Tell him to count nought too good for Christ. I trust Christ hath set His heart upon him—I have prayed for him too much else—and He promised me that whatever thing I should ask the Father in His name He would do that thing." [John xvi. 16].

"Hast thou prayed ever for me, good wife?" asked Lord Marnell.

"Many times, my good Lord, and I will do so till I die."

"The Church teacheth that dying stoppeth not praying," said he.

"I wis well that the Church so teacheth; but I saw it not in the book; however, if I find it to be so, I will pray God for thee there also."

"Thou sayest well, Madge; but I trow thou art more angel presently than shall I be ever. I tell thee, Madge—for mayhap it will comfort thee to know it—thy dealings and sayings of late have caused me to think more on these things than ever did I afore. It seemeth but a small matter to thee, to go through the fire to the glory. I marvel an' it could be so unto me."

"Say not 'to the glory,' good husband, but to Christ. I would not have the glory and lack Christ. And for thee, I do rejoice and bless God heartily, if He will make my poor doings of any good service unto the welfare of thy soul. And believe me, that if thou art called unto my fiery ordeal, Christ will give thee grace and strength equal unto thy need. It is not much for them who love Christ, if they see Him stand beyond a little fire, to pluck up heart and go through the fire to Him. O good husband, take these as my dying words, and teach them to the child for the same, 'Christ without everything is an hundredfold better than everything without Christ!'" Those last words were ringing in Lord Marnell's ears when, about eight o'clock in the morning, he stood on the steps of Marnell Place, looking towards the Tower, and fancying the mournful preparations which were going on there. Margery had thought it best that she should be alone for her fiery trial. As Lord Marnell stood there, lost in thought, he suddenly heard his own name spoken. He turned round, and saw two men before him, in travellers' attire. One of them was an old man, with venerable white head and beard; the other was much younger, and Lord Marnell recognised him at once.

"Master Pynson! I pray you what brings you here? Is the boy well?"

"He is well," answered Richard, in a low tone, "and Dame Lovell likewise. We came hither on matters pertaining to my friend who here standeth, and a terrible bruit hath reached us that the Lady Marnell will suffer this morrow."

"It is true," said Lord Marnell, sorrowfully.

"Can no help be found?" cried Richard, in an agony. "I would put my life for hers—yea, an hundred times twice told!"

"And I likewise," said her husband. "No—there is no help. The King will hear of no remittance."

"When is it?"

"At nine o' the clock. You will come into the house and eat?"

Richard declined. He had already secured a chamber at the "Blue Boar," and would not trouble his Lordship.

"Come, Master Carew," said he to his companion, "let us be on our way."

"Go ye for to see her?" inquired Lord Marnell.

"I will not lose sight of her," answered Richard, "until she be in the Paradise of God!"

Long before nine o'clock on the morning of that 6th of March, a large crowd was already gathered on Tower Hill. Some came there from a feeling of revenge—glad to see a Lollard burned. Among these was Archbishop Arundel. Some, from a feeling of deep pity for the poor young girl who was to be almost the proto-martyr of the new faith. Among these were Pynson and Carew. The chief part of the concourse, however, shared neither of these feelings to any great degree, but came simply to see a sight, just as they would have gone to see a royal procession, or any other pageant.

As nine o'clock struck on the great bell of the Tower, the martyr appeared, led forth between the sheriff and Abbot Bilson. She was clothed in one long white garment, falling from her throat to her feet; and, notwithstanding the inclemency of the weather, her head, arms, and feet were bare. No fastening confined her golden hair, which streamed freely over her shoulders and fell around her. She walked slowly, but quite calmly. Arrived at the place of execution, the sheriff urged her to confess.

"I will confess," said Margery, "to Him who can alone absolve me." And lifting up her eyes, she said, "O Lord God, who art above all things, and hast given Thy Son to die for us sely and sinful men, I confess to Thee that I am a vile sinner, utterly unworthy of Thy grace and mercy. That day by day, for twenty-three years, have I done what I ought not, and said what I ought not, and thought what I ought not. That all my life also have I left undone things the which I ought for to have done. Wherefore, O Father, let it please Thee of Thy goodness to forgive me, and to look not on me, but on Thy Son Christ, in whose rightwise-ness I am rightwise, and who hath loved me as Thou hast loved also Him. O Lord God, turn not away the face of Thy servant, whose heart Thou hast moved to pray thus unto Thee!"

The Abbot and the sheriff were extremely annoyed, but they did not dare to silence her, for the multitude hung breathlessly on her words.

"There's none so much harm in that, any way!" said a woman who stood near Richard Pynson.

"Wilt thou confess, sinful heretic?" asked the Abbot.

"To God I will and have done," answered Margery; "to man I will not."

There was a short pause, while the sheriff's men, under his direction, heaped the wood in the position most favourable for burning quickly. Then the sheriff read the indictment in a loud voice. It was a long document, and took upwards of twenty minutes to read. After this, they passed a chain round Margery's body, and fastened her to the stake. The sheriff then, with a lighted torch, advanced to set the wood on fire.

"Will ye allow me that I may speak unto the people?" asked Margery of the Abbot.

"No, miserable reprobate!" said he, "thou hast spoken too much already!"

"I pray Christ forgive you all that you have done unto me!" was the martyr's answer.

The sheriff now applied the torch. Meanwhile Margery stood on the pile of wood, with her hands clasped on her bosom, and her eyes lifted up to heaven. What means it? Does she feel no pain? How is it that, as the flames spring up and roar around her, there is no tremor of the clasped hands, no change in the rapturous expression of the white upturned face? And from the very midst of those flames comes a voice, the silver voice of Margery Lovell, as clear and melodious as if she stood quietly in the hall at Lovell Tower—

"Worthy is the Lamb that was slain to take virtue, and Godhead, and wisdom, and strength, and honour, and glory—"

But the voice fails there, and the "blessing" is spoken to the angels of God.

And from the outskirts of the crowd comes another voice which is very like the voice of Richard Pynson—

"I am agen risyng and lyf; he that beleeueth in me, yhe though he be deed, he schal lyue; and ech that lyueth and bileueth into me, schal not dye withouten eende." [John xi. 25].

"The noble army of martyrs praise Thee," softly adds old Carew.

Thus did Margery Marnell glorify the Lord in the fires.



CHAPTER ELEVEN.

MARGERY'S LETTER.

"So that day there was dole in Astolat."

Tennyson.

The winter had just given place to spring, and a bright, fresh morning rose on Lovell Tower. Dame Lovell was busy in the kitchen, as she was when we first saw her, and so were Mistress Katherine and the handmaidens; but Dame Lovell now wore the white weeds of widowhood, and her face was thinner and much graver. Richard Pynson on his return from London, had brought her the terrible news of Margery's death; and Dame Lovell, in the midst of her sorrow, which was very deep, had solemnly affirmed that no power on earth should ever induce her to pardon her son-in-law for the part which he had taken in the matter.

Richard Pynson, long before this, had mooted the question of his return to his father, but Dame Lovell would not hear of it. He reminded her smilingly that she needed no squire; but she came and put both her hands on his shoulders, and made him look her in the face.

"Thou sayest sooth, Richard, that I need no squire, but I trow I need a son. I am an old lone woman, and shall not keep thee long; and I have loved thee as if I had been thine own mother. Promise me, mine own dear lad, that thou wilt not go hence while I live."

Richard looked up with the tears in his eyes, and told her, as he kissed her hand, that it was no wish of his to depart, and that he would not do so without her full consent.

"That shalt thou have never!" was the answer. So Richard remained at Lovell Tower. On the morning of which I speak, little Geoffrey, who was very fond of Richard, and was petted by him perhaps rather more than was good for him, had suddenly espied him at the farther end of the garden, and instantly rushed after him as fast as his little legs would carry him. A few minutes afterwards, Cicely came into the kitchen from the hall, and announced to her mistress that a strange gentleman wished to see her. Dame Lovell took off her apron, and rinsed her hands in water.

"See thou to the marchpane, Kat," remarked she to Mistress Katherine, as she went to receive her guest.

It was no wonder that Cicely had not known him, for some seconds elapsed before Dame Lovell herself could recognise Lord Marnell. Six years had passed since they met at his marriage to Margery, but he looked at least twenty years older. His figure was still upright, though much thinner, but the very form of his features seemed changed, and his rich auburn hair was now white as drifted snow. His manner, which had been blunt and almost boisterous, was remarkably quiet. When he saw that Dame Lovell did not recognise him, he said, with a smile—

"You know me not, fair mother?"

Dame Lovell's astonishment overcame her enmity for the moment.

"Troth, I knew thee not, good son! is it truly thou? Nay, how changed art thou!"

"I wis that well," he answered. "Where is Geoffrey?"

"I trow he be in the garden with Richard," replied Dame Lovell. "I will bid him hither."

Little Geoffrey, holding Richard's hand, as if he would not part with him for a moment, returned to the house at his grandmother's bidding; but like her, he could not recognise his father, whom he had not seen for some months, until Lord Marnell's well-known voice assured him of his identity. He rather shrank from him, as usual; but when Lord Marnell contrary to his custom, lifted him up and kissed him, he seemed a little reassured, and sat on his father's knee, staring at him intently. Lord Marnell gave a cordial greeting to Richard, and then, observing how earnestly his little son's eyes were fixed upon him, asked him at what he was looking.

"What have you done with your hair?" was Master Geoffrey's puzzled answer.

Lord Marnell laughed, and told the child that everybody's hair turned white as they grew old.

"But your Lordship's hath done so quickly," remarked Richard.

"That were no great marvel," he answered, gravely.

Dame Lovell found it rather difficult to keep up her revengeful determination. She was naturally a very easy-tempered woman, and the evident change, moral as well as physical, in Lord Marnell, touched her, and melted her enmity considerably.

"I pray you, fair mother," he said, looking up, "to leave me tell you wherefore I came hither. Firstly, it was to give you a letter from Madge, which she wrote in the Tower unto you." And Lord Marnell, passing his hand into his breast, pulled out a small square packet, tied with blue silk, and sealed with yellow wax. It was directed—

"To the hands of my singular good lady and most dear mother, Dame Agnes Lovell, at Lovell Tower, be these delivered with speed."

Dame Lovell kissed the letter, and placed it in her own bosom. She could not read a word of it, but it was enough that it came from Margery.

"Secondarily," pursued Lord Marnell, "I would fain ask you, fair mother, for to keep Geoffrey here a while longer, for I wis not yet what I shall do."

"That will I, right heartily," said Dame Lovell, in a tone as cordial as her words.

"Moreover, an' it stand with your pleasure, I would pray you for to take back Alice Jordan, as you will find in yon letter that Madge did desire her for to be about Geoffrey, if she would, and she seemeth right fain."

"I will have her with a very good will," answered Dame Lovell, "and she shall be next in mine house unto Mistress Katherine, and shall eat at the high table."

Lord Marnell thanked her sincerely for her readiness to comply with his wishes. He said that Alice should come down to Lovell Tower as soon as she could conveniently set out, and old Christopher, as the most trusty of his household, should escort her. There was silence for a short time, and then, with a kind of shadow of a smile, Lord Marnell said suddenly—

"Do you hate me, fair mother?"

"I did afore I saw thee this morrow," replied Dame Lovell, candidly.

"And wherefore not after?"

"Meseemeth thou hast repented thyself of thy deed."

"Repented!" said Lord Marnell, mournfully. "Mother, will you crede me if I tell you that no sorrow worser than this can ever befall me, and that had I known what would come of my seeking of Abbot Bilson, I had sooner cut off my right hand?"

"I do," said she.

"Madge knew it, poor damsel! and she said she forgave me in such manner as Christ did forgive herself. Will you do the like, mother?"

"With all mine heart and soul, good son!" cried Dame Lovell, every shred of her animosity vanished, and the tears fairly running down her cheeks.

"Don't cry, g'ammer!" exclaimed little Geoffrey, jumping off his father's knee and running to Dame Lovell. "What are you crying for? Somebody hurt you? If they have, I'll kill 'em!"

Dame Lovell laughed through her tears at Master Geoffrey's threat. She was a good deal surprised when Lord Marnell spoke of going away; but he said he had promised his cousin Sir Ralph that he would stay with him next time he came into the neighbourhood; and he must return to London in a day or two. So he only remained to dinner, and departed immediately afterwards, evoking from Geoffrey the significant remark that "he liked him a great deal better this time."

That evening, Dame Lovell and Friar Andrew sat down by the fire to listen to that last letter. Her widow's dress, somewhat resembling that of a nun, but pure white, left only her eyes, nose, and mouth visible. Richard Pynson, in a rather more ambitious costume than the page's suit wherein we made his acquaintance, seated himself in the opposite corner. How like Margery's voice the letter sounded, in that old hall at Lovell Tower!—so much so, that it seemed scarcely a stretch of fancy to expect her to glide down the stair which led from her chamber, where her child now lay sleeping. How well Richard could recall the scene when, six years before, she came softly down to receive from his hand the cherished and fatal volume!

Richard broke the seal, while Friar Andrew threw back his cowl, and Dame Lovell smoothed her apron, and bent forward to listen.

"Mine Own Dear Mother,—In as humble and lowly manner as I may, I commend myself unto you, praying you of your daily blessing.

"Whereas I hear that Richard Pynson hath been here in London on Saint Luke's Day last, and hath borne back Geoffrey with him, at the which news I am truly glad, I trow that you have heard of my close prison in the Tower, whence I now write. I pray you therefore, good mother, not to lay this overmuch to heart, neither to grieve for me; for I certify unto you that never was I so happy and blessed as now I am, when over the dark water, which is death, I can see a glimpse of the Happy City. Neither, good mother, be downcast, I beseech you, when you shall hear that on Sunday, the eve of Saint Anselm, I am to die. I pray you, dear mother, if you knew that on Sunday I should be advanced to some high place in the Court, would you sorrow? Yea, would you not rejoice greatly therefor? Wherefore I entreat you, sorrow not now, but rejoice rather, for I am to be taken up into an high place, yea, passing high— even the Court of Christ Himself, whence also none of those changes and evils can cast me down again, which are ever coming upon them who live in this world.

"Moreover, good mother, I do you to wit that this is Christ's truth for the which I suffer, and that Christ Himself is with me. Yea, I think on Christ as He that is standing on the other side of the fire; and shall I not then make haste through the same that I may come at Him?

"Likewise I do beseech you, mine own dear mother, grieve not when you think that I have had but little joy or gladness in this my short life. If divers children be playing in a garden, and the serving-man do come and fetch away some afore others, that they may see their elders, and may have brave gifts the which be ready for them at home, fall they a-weeping, think you, because they must lose an hour of play? Nay, truly not, if their hearts be set on the brave gifts afore them. So, good mother, though you have passed in this weary and evil life nigh sixty years, and I only twenty-three, count it, I beseech you, but an hour more or less of child's playing, which will surely be made up to us when we go home, and receive the brave gifts which our Father hath for us in His storehouse. And if I have not known joy as much as some, I have the less for to leave behind me in the case wherein I now am. For you know, good mother, that at the first I was wedded against mine own will and liking; and though I may and must say unto you for my Lord my husband, that in this evil case he hath been more gentler unto me than ever afore, and hath drawn mine heart much closer unto him, yet nathless I may say also that an' I had been with mine own will wedded, I trow that I had had far more for to leave for Christ, and had found far more hardship in the doing of it. For God doeth all His work well; and He wist surely what He did when my dear father—whose soul God rest!—was let wed me thus.

"Behold now, most dear mother, how I have taken from you all cause of your lamentation, and have left you nothing but to rejoice for me! Wherefore rejoice for me, for at this time a sennight hence, I shall be singing with the angels of God. I trow that one look at Christ Jesu will pay me all mine account in the small matter I have suffered for Him. I trow that if He but smile, and say, 'Thou art welcome, dear child, for I have loved thee,' I shall count the fires of this world but light gear then. Will you sorrow that I am in good case? Will you grieve because I am blessed? Will you count you have lost your child, when she is singing in the great glory? Nay, good mother, I wis I have well said in praying you to rejoice rather.

"And, dear mother, I beseech you that you bring up mine own dear child in the same. I would have him, if I may, as dear unto Christ as I am, and as ready to leave all for Christ His sake, as I, his mother, have done. I say not this, God witteth, to magnify my poor deeds, the which I know well be vile enough and want as much and great washing in Christ His blood, as the worst sin that ever I did,—but, good mother, teach my boy of Christ! Count it not anything that he leaveth for Him. Yea, forsooth, rather would I a thousandfold that he should live on a dry crust for Christ, than that he should have many brave dishes and rich fare without Him. To this end I beseech you, most dear mother, that you will have the child learned for to read, and will get that he may read God's Word, which hath shown me how dear and gracious is Christ Jesus. I pray you spare no pains ne goods for to do this.

"Dear mother, I have prayed my Lord my husband that, if she will, Alice Jordan shall have the care of Geoffrey. She hath been a good and true serving-woman unto me, and she witteth how I would have him ordered. I pray you, therefore, if she come unto you, that you would put her about him. Likewise commend me, I beseech you, unto mine ancient friends and fellows, and all the meynie, and bid them learn for to love Christ Jesu, and we shall then meet shortly again. Specially I would desire mine humble service unto dear Father Andrew, and I do beg him for my sake to read for himself the blessed book which hath been my comfort.

"And to end,—for I will weary you no longer, dear friend Richard Pynson, with reading of mine evil hand, and I give you God's blessing and mine for the kindness you have done unto me, and pray you not to forget the last words which I said unto you with my voice, but to keep fast hold of Christ, till you know and love Him better than any friend in this evil world,—so to end, dear mother, I beseech you that you would forgive me all wherein I have been an ill daughter unto you, and all things wherein at any time I have troubled you. Good mother, I am happy. I am looking out of the night to see the day-dawn breaking. Come Sunday, I shall be in heaven. Come Sunday, by God's mercy—not by mine own good, which God witteth is but evil—I shall stand with the angels before Christ His throne. Haste, haste, dear good day that shall deliver me! And God give you to know Christ, and send us a happy meeting in that His blessed habitation, unto the great gladding of your most loving and dutiful daughter, Margery Marnell.