p-books.com
The White Lady of Hazelwood - A Tale of the Fourteenth Century
by Emily Sarah Holt
Previous Part     1  2  3  4     Next Part
Home - Random Browse

"I cry you mercy, Dame," said Perrote, meekly. "Did you ever this before?"

"I mind not well, Dame."

"Well, of a surety! Call you this guarding a prisoner? Mind you not that which happed at Tickhill, when she 'scaped forth by aid of that knight—his name I forget—and had nigh reached the border of the liberties ere it was discovered? Is this your allegiance and duty? Dame, I bid you good morrow."

"Better late than never, Avena," said the Countess, a little satirically. "Thou fond thing, there, lie over twenty years betwixt yon night at Tickhill and this morrow. And if the night were back, where is the knight? Nay, Avena Foljambe, I have nought to escape for, now."

"Dame, I must needs say you be rare unbuxom and unthankful."

"Ay, so said the fox to the stork, when he 'plained to be served with thin broth."

"Pray you, look but around. You be lodged fit for any queen, be she the greatest in Christendom; you need but speak a wish, and you shall have it fulfilled—"

"Namely, thou shalt not put me off with red silk to my broidery when I would have blue."

"You eat of the best, and lie of the softest, and speak with whom you would—"

"Hold there!" The fire had come back to the sunken eyes. "I would speak with some that come never anigh me, mine own children, that have cast me off, or be kept away from me; they never so much as ask the old mother how she doth. And I slaved and wrought and risked my life for them, times out of mind! And here you keep me, shut up in four walls,— never a change from year end to year end; never a voice to say 'Mother!' or 'I love thee;' never a hope to look forward to till death take me! No going forth of my cage; even the very air of heaven has to come in to me. And I may choose, may I, whether my bed shall be hung with green or blue? I may speak my pleasure if I would have to my four-hours macaroons or gingerbread? and be duly thankful that this liberty and these delicates are granted me! Avena Foljambe, all your folly lieth not in your legs."

Lady Foljambe evidently did not appreciate this pun upon her surname.

"Dame!" she said, severely.

"Well? I can fare forth, if you have not had enough. What right hath your King thus to use me? I never was his vassal. I entreated his aid, truly, as prince to prince; and had he kept his bond and word, he had been the truer man. I never brake mine, and I had far more need than he. Wherefore played he at see-saw, now aiding me, and now Charles, until none of his knights well knew which way he was bent? I brought Charles de Blois to him a prisoner, and he let him go for a heap of yellow stuff, and fiddled with him, off and on, till Charles brake his pledged word, and lost his life, as he deserved, at Auray. I desire to know what right King Edward had, when I came to visit him after I had captured mine enemy, to make me a prisoner, and keep me so, now and then suffering me, like a cat with a mouse, to escape just far enough to keep within his reach when he list to catch me again. But not now, for eight long years—eight long years!"

"Dame, I cannot remain here to list such language of my sovereign."

"Then don't. I never asked you. My tongue is free, at any rate. You can go."

And the Countess turned back to the black satin on which she was embroidering a wreath of red and white roses.

"Follow me, Amphillis," said Lady Foljambe, with as much dignity as the Countess's onslaught had left her.

She led the way into the opposite chamber, the one shared by Perrote and Amphillis.

"It were best, as this hath happed, that you should know quickly who this lady is that wotteth not how to govern her tongue. She is the Duchess of Brittany. Heard you ever her story?"

"Something, Dame, an' it please you; yet not fully told. I heard, as I think, of some quarrel betwixt her and a cousin touching the succession to the duchy, and that our King had holpen her, and gave his daughter in wedlock to the young Duke her son."

"So did he, in very deed; and yet is she thus unbuxom. Listen, and you shall hear the inwards thereof. In the year of our Lord 1341 died Duke John of Brittany, that was called the Good, and left no child. Two brothers had he—Sir Guy, that was his brother both of father and mother, and Sir John, of the father only, that was called Count de Montfort. Sir Guy was then dead, but had left behind him a daughter, the Lady Joan, that man called Joan the Halting, by reason she was lame of one leg. Between her and her uncle of Montfort was the war of succession—she as daughter of the brother by father and mother, he as nearer akin to Duke John, being brother himself. [Note 1.] Our King took part with the Count de Montfort, and the King of France espoused the cause of the Lady Joan."

Lady Foljambe did not think it necessary to add that King Edward's policy had been of the most halting character in this matter—at one time fighting for Jeanne, and at another for Montfort, until his nobles might well have been pardoned, if they found it difficult to remember at any given moment on which side their master was.

"Well, the King of France took the Count, and led him away captive to Paris his city. Whereupon this lady, that is now here in ward, what did she but took in her arms her young son, that was then a babe of some few months old, and into the Council at Rennes she went—which city is the chief town of Brittany—and quoth she unto the nobles there assembled, 'Fair Sirs, be not cast down by the loss of my lord; he was but one man. See here his young son, who shall 'present him for you; and trust me, we will keep the stranger out of our city as well without him as with him.' Truly, there was not a man to come up to her. She handled sword as well as any marshal of the King's host; no assault could surprise her, no disappointment could crush her, nor could any man, however wily, take her off her guard. When she had gone forward to Hennebon—for Rennes surrendered ere help could come from our King—man said she rade all up and down the town, clad in armour, encouraging the townsmen, and moving the women to go up to the ramparts and thence to hurl down on the besiegers the stones that they tare up from the paved streets. Never man fought like her!"

"If it please you, Dame, was her lord never set free?" asked Amphillis, considerably interested.

"Ay and no," said Lady Foljambe. "Set free was he never, but he escaped out of Louvre [Note 2] in disguise of a pedlar, and so came to England to entreat the King's aid; but his Grace was then so busied with foreign warfare that little could he do, and the poor Count laid it so to heart that he died. He did but return home to die in his wife's arms."

"Oh, poor lady!" said Amphillis.

"Three years later," said Lady Foljambe, "this lady took prisoner Sir Charles de Blois, the husband of the Lady Joan, and brought him to the King; also bringing her young son, that was then a lad of six years, and was betrothed to the King's daughter, the Lady Mary. The King ordered her residence in the Castle of Tickhill, where she dwelt many years, until a matter of two years back, when she was brought hither."

Amphillis felt this account exceedingly unsatisfactory.

"Dame," said she, "if I may have leave to ask at you, wherefore is this lady a prisoner? What hath she done?"

Lady Foljambe's lips took a stern set. She was apparently not pleased with the freedom of the question.

"She was a very troublesome person," said she. "Nothing could stay her; she was ever restless and interfering. But these be matters too high for a young maid such as thou. Thou wert best keep to thy broidery and such-like duties."

————————————————————————————————————

Harvest Home—the sixteenth of August—arrived when Amphillis had been a week at Hazelwood. She had not by any means concluded that process which is known as "settling down." On the contrary, she had never felt so unsettled, and the feeling grew rather than diminished. Even Alexandra and Ricarda had tried her less than her present companions, in one sense; for they puzzled her less, though they teased her more. She was beginning to understand her mistress, whose mood was usually one of weary lack of interest and energy, occasionally broken either by seasons of acute sorrow, or by sudden flashes of fiery anger: and the last were less trying than the first—indeed, it seemed sometimes to Amphillis that they served as a vent and a relief; that for a time after them the weariness was a shade less dreary, and the languor scarcely quite so overpowering.

Late in the evening, on the night before Harvest Home, Sir Godfrey returned home, attended by his squire, Master Norman Hylton. The impression received by Amphillis concerning the master of the house was that he was a fitting pendant to his wife—tall, square, and stern. She did not know that Sir Godfrey had been rather wild in his youth, and, as some such men do, had become correspondingly severe and precise in his old age. Not that his heart had changed; it was simply that the sins of youth had been driven out by the sins of maturer life. And Satan is always willing to let his slaves replace one sin by another, for it makes them none the less surely his. Sir Godfrey suffered under no sense of inconsistency in sternly rebuking, when exhibited by Agatha or Matthew, slight tendencies to evil of the same types as he had once been addicted to himself. Had he not sown his wild oats, and become a reformed character? The outside of the cup and platter were now so beautifully clean, that it never so much as occurred to him to question the condition of the inside. Yet within were some very foul things— alienation from God, and hardness of heart, and love of gold, that grew upon him year by year. And he thought himself a most excellent man, though he was only a whitewashed sepulchre. He lifted his head high, as he stood in the court of the temple, and effusively thanked God that he was not as other men. An excellent man! said everybody who knew him— perhaps a little too particular, and rather severe on the peccadilloes of young people. But when the time came that another Voice pronounced final sentence on that whitewashed life, the verdict was scarcely "Well done!"

Norman Hylton sat opposite to Amphillis at the supper-table, in the only manner in which people could sit opposite to each other at a mediaeval table—namely, when it was in the form of a squared horseshoe. The table, which was always one or more boards laid across trestles, was very narrow, the inside of the horseshoe being reserved for the servants to hand the dishes. There were therefore some yards of distance between opposite neighbours. Amphillis studied her neighbour, so far as an occasional glance in his direction allowed her to do so, and she came to the conclusion that there was nothing remarkable about him except the expression of his face. He was neither tall nor short, neither handsome nor ugly, neither lively nor morose. He talked a little with his next neighbour, Matthew Foljambe, but there was nothing in the manner of either to provoke curiosity as to the subject of their conversation. But his expression puzzled Amphillis. He had dark eyes—like the Countess's, she thought; but the weary and sometimes fiery aspect of hers was replaced in these by a look of perfect contentment and peace. Yet it was utterly different from the self-satisfied expression which beamed out of Sir Godfrey's eyes.

"What manner of man is Master Hylton?" she asked of Agatha, who always sat next her. Precedence at table was regulated by strict rules.

"The youngest of six brethren; prithee, trouble not thine head over him," was that young lady's answer.

"But that doth me not to wit what manner of man he is," responded Amphillis, turning to the sewer or waiter, who was offering her some rissoles of lamb.

Agatha indulged in a little explosion of laughter under cover of her handkerchief.

"Oh, Amphillis, where hast thou dwelt all thy life? Thou art the full seliest [simplest, most unconventional] maid ever I did see."

Amphillis replied literally. "Why, in Hertfordshire was I born, but I dwelt in London town a while ere I came hither."

"A jolly townswoman must thou have made! Canst not conceive what I mean? Why, the youngest of six brethren hath all his fortune to make, and cannot be no catch at all for a maid, without he be full high of rank, and she have gold enough to serve her turn without."

"But I don't want to catch him," said Amphillis, innocently.

Agatha burst out laughing, and Lady Foljambe, from the middle of the horseshoe table, looked daggers at her. Unrestrained laughter at table, especially in a girl, was a serious breach of etiquette.

"I say, you shouldn't be so funny!" remonstrated Agatha. "How shall man help to laugh if you say so comical words?"

"I wist not I was thus comical," said Amphillis. "But truly I conceive you not. Wherefore should I catch Master Hylton, and wherewith, and to what end?"

"Amphillis, you shall be the death of me! My Lady shall snap off my head at after supper, and the maid is not born that could help to laugh at you. To what end? Why, for an husband, child! As to wherewith, that I leave to thee." And Agatha concluded with another stifled giggle.

"Agatha!" was all that the indignant Amphillis could say in answer. She could hardly have told whether she felt more vexed or astonished. The bare idea of such a thing, evidently quite familiar to Agatha, was utterly new to her. "You never, surely, signify that any decent maid could set herself to seek a man for an husband, like an angler with fish?"

"They must be uncommon queer folks in Hertfordshire if thou art a sample thereof," was the reply. "Why, for sure, I so signified. Thou must have been bred up in a convent, Phyllis, or else tied to thy grandmother's apron-string all thy life. Shall a maid ne'er have a bit of fun, quotha?"

Amphillis made no answer, but finished her rissoles in silence, and helped herself to a small pound-cake.

"Verily, some folks be born as old as their grandmothers," said Agatha, accepting a fieldfare from the sewer, and squeezing a lemon over it. "I would fain enjoy my youth, though I'm little like to do it whilst here I am. Howbeit, it were sheer waste of stuff for any maid to set her heart on Master Norman; he wist not how to discourse with maids. He should have been a monk, in very sooth, for he is fit for nought no better. There isn't a sparkle about him."

"He looks satisfied," said Amphillis, rather wistfully. She was wishing that she felt so.

Agatha's answer was a puzzled stare, first at Amphillis, and then at Mr Hylton.

"'Satisfied!'" she repeated, as if she wondered what the word could mean. "Aren't we all satisfied?"

"Maybe you are," replied Amphillis, "though I reckon I have heard you say what looked otherwise. You would fain have more life and jollity, if I err not."

"Truly, therein you err not in no wise," answered Agatha, laughing again, though in a more subdued manner than before. "I never loved to dwell in a nunnery, and this house is little better. 'Satisfied!'" she said again, as though the word perplexed her. "I never thought of no such a thing. Doth Master Norman look satisfied? What hath satisfied him, trow?"

"That is it I would fain know," said Amphillis.

"In good sooth, I see not how it may be," resumed Agatha. "He has never a penny to his patrimony. I heard him to say once to Master Godfrey that all he had of his father was horse, and arms, and raiment. Nor hath he any childless old uncle, or such, that might take to him, and make his fortune. He lives of his wits, belike. Now, I am an only daughter, and have never a brother to come betwixt me and the inheritance; I shall have a pretty penny when my father dies. So I have some right to be jolly. Ay, and jolly I'll be when I am mine own mistress, I warrant you! I've no mother, so there is none to oversee me, and rule me, and pluck me by the sleeve when I would go hither and thither, so soon as I can be quit of my Lady yonder. Oh, there's a jolly life afore me."

It was Amphillis's turn to be astonished.

"Dear heart!" she said. "Why, I have no kindred nearer than uncle and cousins, but I have ever reckoned it a sore trouble to lose my mother, and no blessing."

"Very like it was to you!" said Agatha. "You'd make no bones if you were ruled like an antiphonarium [music-book for anthems and chants], I'll be bound, I'm none so fond of being driven in harness. I love my own way, and I'll have it, too, one of these days."

"But then you have none to love you! That is one of the worst sorrows in the world, I take it."

"Love! bless you, I shall have lovers enough! I've three hundred a year to my fortune."

Three hundred pounds in 1372 was equal to nearly five thousand now.

"But what good should it do you that people wanted your money?" asked Amphillis. "That isn't loving you."

"Amphillis, I do believe you were born a hundred years old! or else in some other world, where their notions are quite diverse from this," said Agatha, taking a candied orange from the sewer. "I never heard such things as you say."

"But lovers who only want your money seem to me very unsatisfying folks," replied Amphillis. "Will they smooth your pillows when you are sick? or comfort you when your heart is woeful?"

"I don't mean my heart to be woeful, and as to pillows, there be thousands will smooth them for wages."

"They are smoother when 'tis done for love," was the answer.

Agatha devoted herself to her orange, and in a few minutes Lady Foljambe gave the signal to rise from table. The young ladies followed her to her private sitting-room, where Agatha received a stern reprimand for the crime of laughing too loud, and was told she was no better than a silly giglot, who would probably bring herself some day to dire disgrace. Lady Foljambe then motioned her to the spindle, and desired her not to leave it till the bell rang for evening prayers in the chapel, just before bed-time. Agatha pulled a face behind Lady Foljambe's back, but she did not dare to disobey.

————————————————————————————————————

Note 1. It seems very strange to us that the Count de Montfort should have imagined himself to have a better claim to the crown than his niece; but the principle under which he claimed was the law of non-representation, which forbade the child of a deceased son or brother to inherit; and this, little as it is now allowed or even understood, was not only the custom of some Continental states, but was the law of succession in England, itself until 1377. The struggle between Stephen and the Empress Maud, and that between King John and his nephew Arthur, were fought upon this principle.

Note 2. The Louvre, then considered near Paris, was usually mentioned without the article.



CHAPTER SIX.

A THANKLESS CHILD.

"We will not come to Thee Till Thou hast nailed us to some bitter cross And made us look on Thee."

"B.M."

Amphillis took her own spindle, and sat down beside Marabel, who was just beginning to spin.

"What was it so diverted Agatha at supper?" inquired Marabel.

"She laughs full easily," answered Amphillis; and told her what had been the subject of discourse.

"She is a light-minded maid," said Marabel. "So you thought Master Norman had a satisfied look, trow? Well, I count you had the right."

"Agatha said she knew not of nought in this world that should satisfy him."

Marabel smiled. "I misdoubt if that which satisfieth him ever came out of this world. Amphillis, whenas you dwelt in London town, heard you at all preach one of the poor priests?"

"What manner of folks be they?"

"You shall know them by their raiment, for they mostly go clad of a frieze coat, bound by a girdle of unwrought leather."

"Oh, ay? I heard once a friar so clad; and I marvelled much to what Order he belonged. But it was some while gone."

"What said he?"

"Truly, that cannot I tell you, for I took not but little note. I was but a maidling, scarce past my childhood. My mother was well pleased therewith. I mind her to have said, divers times, when she lay of her last sickness, that she would fain have shriven her of the friar in the frieze habit. Wherefore, cannot I say."

"Then perchance I can say it for you:—for I reckon it was because he brought her gladder tidings than she had heard of other."

Amphillis looked surprised. "Why, whatso? Sermons be all alike, so far as ever I could tell."

"Be they so? No, verily, Amphillis. Is there no difference betwixt preaching of the law—'Do this, and thou shalt live,' and preaching of the glad gospel of the grace of God—'I give unto them everlasting life?'"

"But we must merit Heaven!" exclaimed Amphillis.

"Our Lord, then, paid not the full price, but left at the least a few marks over for us to pay? Nay, He bought Heaven for us, Amphillis: and only He could do it. We have nothing to pay; and if we had, how should our poor hands reach to such a purchase as that? It took God to save the world. Ay, and it took God, too, to love the world enough to save it."

"Why, but if so be, we are saved—not shall be."

"We are, if we ever shall be."

"But is that true Catholic doctrine?"

"It is the true doctrine of God's love. Either, therefore, it is Catholic doctrine, or Catholic doctrine hath erred from it."

"But the Church cannot err!"

"Truth, so long as she keep her true to God's law. The Church is men, not God! and God must be above the Church. But what is the Church? Is it this priest or that bishop? Nay, verily; it is the congregation of all the faithful elect that follow Christ, and do after His commandments. So long, therefore, as they do after His commands, and follow Him, they be little like to err. 'He that believeth in the Son hath everlasting life.'"

"But we all believe in our Lord!" said Amphillis, feeling as if so many new ideas had never entered her head all at once before.

"Believe what?" said Marabel, and she smiled.

"Why, we believe that He came down from Heaven, and died, and rose again, and ascended, and such-like."

"Wherefore?"

"Wherefore came He? Truly, that know I not. By reason that it liked Him, I count."

"Ay, that was the cause," said Marabel, softly. "He came because—shall we say?—He so loved Amphillis Neville, that He could not do without her in Heaven: and as she could win there none other way than by the laying down of His life, He came and laid it down."

"Marabel! Never heard I none to speak after this manner! Soothly, our Lord died for us: but—"

"But—yet was it not rightly for us, thee and me, but for some folks a long way off, we cannot well say whom?"

Amphillis span and thought—span fast, because she was thinking hard: and Marabel did not interrupt her thoughts.

"But—we must merit it!" she urged again at last.

"Dost thou commonly merit the gifts given thee? When man meriteth that he receiveth—when he doth somewhat, to obtain it—it is a wage, not a gift. The very life and soul of a gift is that it is not merited, but given of free favour, of friendship or love."

"I never heard no such doctrine!"

Marabel only smiled.

"Followeth my Lady this manner?"

"A little in the head, maybe; for the heart will I not speak."

"And my La—I would say, Mistress Perrote?" Amphillis suddenly recollected that her mistress was never to be mentioned.

"Ask at her," said Marabel, with a smile.

"Then Master Norman is of this fashion of thinking?"

"Ay. So be the Hyltons all."

"Whence gat you the same?"

"It was learned me of my Lady Molyneux of Sefton, that I served as chamberer ere I came hither. I marvel somewhat, Amphillis, that thou hast never heard the same, and a Neville. All the Nevilles of Raby be of our learning—well-nigh."

"Dear heart, but I'm no Neville of Raby!" cried Amphillis, with a laugh at the extravagance of the idea. "At the least, I know not well whence my father came; his name was Walter Neville, and his father was Ralph, and more knew I never. He bare arms, 'tis true—gules, a saltire argent; and his device, 'Ne vile velis.'"

"The self arms of the Nevilles of Raby," said Marabel, with an amused smile. "I marvel, Amphillis, thou art not better learned in thine own family matters."

"Soothly. I never had none to learn me, saving my mother; and though she would tell me oft of my father himself, how good and true man he were, yet she never seemed to list to speak much of his house. Maybe it was by reason he came below his rank in wedding her, and his kin refused to acknowledge her amongst them. Thus, see you, I dropped down, as man should say, into my mother's rank, and never had no chance to learn nought of my father's matters."

"Did thine uncle learn thee nought, then?"

"He learned me how to make patties of divers fashions," answered Amphillis, laughing. "He was very good to me, and belike to my mother, his sister; but I went not to dwell with him until after she was departed to God. And then I was so slender [insignificant] a country maid, with no fortune, ne parts [talents], that my cousins did somewhat slight me, and keep me out of sight. So never met I any that should be like to wise me in this matter. And, the sooth to say, but I would not desire to dwell amongst kin that had set my mother aside, and reckoned her not fit to company with them, not for no wickedness nor unseemly dealing, but only that she came of a trading stock. It seemeth me, had such wist our blessed Lord Himself, they should have bidden Him stand aside, for He was but a carpenter's son. That's the evil of being in high place, trow."

"Ah, no, dear heart! It hath none ado with place, high or low. 'Tis human nature. Thou shalt find a duchess more ready to company with a squire's wife, oft-times, than the squire's wife with the bailiff's wife, and there is a deal further distance betwixt. It hangeth on the heart, not on the station."

"But folks' hearts should be the better according to their station."

Marabel laughed. "That were new world, verily. The grace of God is the same in every station, and the like be the wiles of Satan—not that he bringeth to all the same temptation, for he hath more wit than so; but he tempteth all, high and low. The high have the fairer look-out, yet the more perilous place; the low have the less to content them, yet are they safer. Things be more evenly parted in this world than many think. Many times he that hath rich food, hath little appetite for it; and he that hath his appetite sharp, can scarce get food to satisfy it."

"But then things fit not," said Amphillis.

"Soothly, nay. This world is thrown all out of gear by sin. Things fitted in Eden, be thou sure. Another reason is there also—that he which hath the food may bestow it on him that can relish it, and hath it not."

The chapel bell tolled softly for the last service of the day, and the whole household assembled. Every day this was done at Hazelwood, for prime, sext, and compline, at six a.m., noon, and seven p.m. respectively, and any member of the household found missing would have been required to render an exceedingly good reason for it. The services were very short, and a sermon was a scarcely imagined performance. After compline came bed-time. Each girl took her lamp, louted to Lady Foljambe and kissed her hand, and they then filed upstairs to bed after Perrote, she and Amphillis going to their own turret.

Hitherto Perrote had been an extremely silent person. Not one word unnecessary to the work in hand had she ever uttered, since those few on Amphillis's first arrival. It was therefore with some little surprise that the girl heard her voice, as she stood that evening brushing her hair before the mirror.

"Amphillis, who chose you to come hither?"

"Truly, Mistress, that wis I not. Only, first of all, Mistress Chaucer, of the Savoy Palace, looked me o'er to see if I should be meet for taking into account, and then came a lady thence, and asked at me divers questions, and judged that I should serve; but who she was I knew not. She bade me be well ware that I gat me in no entanglements of no sort," said Amphillis, laughing a little; "but in good sooth, I see here nothing to entangle me in."

"She gave thee good counsel therein. There be tangles of divers sorts, my maid, and those which cut the tightest be not alway the worst. Thou mayest tangle thy feet of soft wool, or rich silk, no less than of rough cord. Ah me! there be tangles here, Amphillis, and hard to undo. There were skilwise fingers to their tying—hard fingers, that thought only to pull them tight, and harried them little touching the trouble of such as should be thus tethered. And there be knots that no man can undo—only God. Why tarry the wheels of His chariot?"

Amphillis turned round from the mirror.

"Mistress Perrote, may I ask a thing at you?"

"Ask, my maid."

"My Lady answered me not; will you? What hath our Lady done to be thus shut close in prison?"

"She done?" was the answer, with a piteous intonation. Perrote looked earnestly into the girl's face. "Amphillis, canst thou keep a secret?"

"If I know myself, I can well."

"Wilt thou so do, for the love of God and thy Lady? It should harm her, if men knew thou wist it. And, God wot, she hath harm enough."

"I will never speak word, Mistress Perrote, to any other than you, without you bid me, or grant me leave."

"So shall thou do well. Guess, Amphillis, who is it that keepeth this poor lady in such durance."

"Nay, that I cannot, without it be our Lord the King."

"He, surely; yet is he but the gaoler. There is another beyond him, at whose earnest entreaty, and for whose pleasure he so doth. Who is it, thinkest?"

"It seemeth me, Mistress, looking to what you say, this poor lady must needs have some enemy," said Amphillis.

"Amphillis, that worst enemy, the enemy that bindeth these fetters upon her, that bars these gates against her going forth, that hath quenched all the sunlight of her life, and hushed all the music out of it—this enemy is her own son, that she nursed at her bosom—the boy for whose life she risked hers an hundred times, whose patrimony she only saved to him, whose welfare through thirty years hath been dearer to her than her own. Dost thou marvel if her words be bitter, and if her eyes be sorrowful? Could they be aught else?"

Amphillis looked as horrified as she felt.

"Mistress Perrote, it is dreadful! Can my said Lord Duke be Christian man?"

"Christian!" echoed Perrote, bitterly. "Dear heart, ay! one of the best Catholics alive! Hath he not built churches with the moneys of his mother's dower, and endowed convents with the wealth whereof he defrauded her? What could man do better? A church is a great matter, and a mother a full little one. Mothers die, but churches and convents endure. Ah, when such mothers die and go to God, be there no words writ on the account their sons shall thereafter render? Is He all silent that denounced the Jewish priests for their Corban, by reason they allowed man to deny to his father and mother that which he had devote to God's temple? Is His temple built well of broken hearts, and His altar meetly covered with the rich tracery of women's tears? 'The hope of the hypocrite shall perish, when God taketh away his soul.'"

Never before had Amphillis seen any one change as Perrote had changed now. The quiet, stolid-looking woman had become an inspired prophetess. It was manifest that she dearly loved her mistress, and was proportionately indignant with the son who treated her so cruelly.

"Child," she said to Amphillis, "she lived for nought save that boy! Her daughter was scarce anything to her; it was alway the lad, the lad! And thus the lad a-payeth her for all her love and sacrifice—for the heart that stood betwixt him and evil, for the gold and jewels that she thought too mean to be set in comparison with him, for the weary arms that bare him, and the tired feet that carried him about, a little wailing babe—for the toil and the labour, the hope and the fear, the waiting and the sorrow! Ay, but I marvel in what manner of coin God our Father shall pay him!"

"But wherefore doth he so?" cried Amphillis.

"She was in his way," replied Perrote, in a tone of constrained bitterness. "He could not have all his will for her. He desired to make bargains, and issue mandates, and reign at his pleasure, and she told him the bargains were unprofitable, and the mandates unjust, and it was not agreeable. 'Twas full awkward and ill-convenient, look you, to have an old mother interfering with man's pleasure. He would, have set her in a fair palace, and given her due dower, I reckon, would she but there have tarried, like a slug on a cabbage-leaf, and let him alone; and she would not. How could she? She was not a slug, but an eagle. And 'tis not the nature of an eagle to hang hour after hour upon a cabbage-leaf. So, as King Edward had at the first kept her in durance for his own ends, my gracious Lord Duke did entreat him to continue the same on his account. As for my Lady Duchess, I say not; I know her not. This only I know, that my Lady Foljambe is her kinswoman. And, most times, there is a woman at the bottom of all evil mischief. Ay, there is so!"

"Mistress Perrote, it seemeth me this is worser world than I wist ere I came hither."

"Art avised o' that? Ay, Phyllis, thou shalt find it so; and the further thou journeyest therein, the worser shalt thou find it."

"Mistress, wherefore is it that this poor lady of ours is kept so secret? It seemeth as though man would have none know where she were."

"Ha, chetife! [Oh, miserable!] I can but avise thee to ask so much at them that do keep her."

"Shall she never be suffered to come forth?"

"Ay," said Perrote, slowly and solemnly. "She shall come forth one day. But I misdoubt if it shall be ere the King come Himself for her."

"The King! Shall his Grace come hither?" inquired Amphillis, with much interest. She thought of no king but Edward the Third.

Perrote's eyes were uplifted towards the stars. She spoke as if she were answering them rather than Amphillis.

"He shall deem [judge] the poor men of the people, and He shall make safe the sons of poor men; and He shall make low the false challenger. And He shall dwell with the sun, and before the moon, in generation and in to generation... And He shall be Lord from the sea till to the sea, and from the flood till to the ending of the world... For He shall deliver a poor man from the mighty, and a poor man to whom was none helper. He shall spare a poor man and needy, and He shall make safe the souls of poor men... Blessed be the name of His majesty withouten end! and all earth shall be filled with His majesty. Be it done, be it done!" [Note 1.]

Amphillis almost held her breath as she listened, for the first time in her life, to the grand roll of those sonorous verses.

"That were a King!" she said.

"That shall be a King," answered Perrote, softly. "Not yet is His kingdom of this world. But He is King of Israel, and King of kings, and King of the everlasting ages; and the day cometh when He shall be King of nations, when there shall be one Lord over all the earth, and His Name one. Is He thy King, Amphillis Neville?"

"Signify you our blessed Lord, Mistress Perrote?"

"Surely, my maid. Could any other answer thereto?"

"I reckon so," said Amphillis, calmly, as she put away her brush, and began undressing.

"I would make sure, if I were thou. For the subjects be like to dwell in the Court when they be preferred to higher place. 'Ye ben servantis to that thing to which ye han obeisched.' [Note 2.] Whose servant art thou? Who reigns in thine inner soul, Phyllis?"

"Soothly, Mistress, I myself. None other, I ween."

"Nay, one other must there needs be. Thou obeyest the rule of one of two masters—either Christ our Lord, or Satan His enemy."

"In very deed, Mistress, I serve God."

"Then thou art concerned to please God in everything. Or is it rather, that thou art willing to please God in such matters as shall not displease Amphillis Neville?"

Amphillis folded up sundry new and not altogether agreeable thoughts in the garments which she was taking off and laying in neat order on the top of her chest for the morning. Perrote waited for the answer. It did not come until Amphillis's head was on the pillow.

"Cannot I please God and myself both?"

"That canst thou, full well and sweetly, if so be thou put God first. Otherwise, nay."

"Soothly, Mistress, I know not well what you would be at."

"What our Saviour would be at Himself, which is, thy true bliss and blessedness, Phyllis. My maid, to be assured of fair ending and good welcome at the end of the journey makes not the journeying wearier. To know not whither thou art wending, save that it is into the dark; to be met of a stranger, that may be likewise an enemy; to be had up afore the judge's bar, with no advocate to plead for thee, and no surety of acquittal,—that is evil journeying, Phyllis, Dost not think so much?"

Perrote listened in vain for any answer.

————————————————————————————————————

Note 1. Psalm seventy-two, verses 4, 5, 8, 12, 13, 18, 19; Hereford and Purvey's version, 1381-8.

Note 2. Romans six, verse 16; Wycliffe's version, 1382.



CHAPTER SEVEN.

ON THE TERRACE.

"Where we disavow Being keeper to our brother, we're his Cain."

Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

"Hylton, thou art weary gear!"

"What ails me?"

"What ails thee, forsooth? Marry, but that's as good a jest as I heard this year! I lack thee to tell me that. For what ails me at thee, that were other matter, and I can give thee to wit, an' thou wilt. Thou art as heavy as lead, and as dull as ditch-water, and as flat as dowled [flat] ale. I would I were but mine own master, and I'd mount my horse, and ride away from the whole sort of you!"

"From your father and mother, Matthew?"

"Certes. Where's the good of fathers and mothers, save to crimp and cramp young folks that would fain stretch their wings and be off into the sunlight? Mine never do nought else."

"Think you not the fathers and mothers might reasonably ask, Where's the good of sons and daughters? How much have you cost yours, Matthew, since you were born?"

Matthew Foljambe turned round with a light laugh, and gazed half contemptuously at the speaker.

"Gentlemen never reckon," said he. "'Tis a mean business, only fit for tradesfolk."

"You might reckon that sum, Matthew, without damage to your gentle blood. The King himself reckoneth up the troops he shall lack, and the convention-subsidy due from each man to furnish them. You shall scantly go above him, I count."

"I would I were but a king! Wouldn't I lead a brave life!"

"That would not I be for all the riches in Christendom."

"The which speech showeth thine unwisdom. Why, a king can have his purveyor to pick of the finest in the market ere any other be serven; he can lay tax on his people whenas it shall please him [this was true at that time]; he can have a whole pig or goose to his table every morrow; and as for the gifts that be brought him, they be without number. Marry, but if I were a king, wouldn't I have a long gown of blue velvet, all o'er broidered of seed-pearl, and a cap of cramoisie [crimson velvet], with golden broidery! And a summer jack [the garment of which jacket is the diminutive] of samitelle would I have—let me see—green, I reckon, bound with gold ribbon; and fair winter hoods of miniver and ermine, and buttons of gold by the score. Who so bravely apparelled as I, trow?"

"Be your garments not warm enough, Matthew?"

"Warm enough? certes! But they be only camoca and lamb's far, with never a silver button, let be gold."

"What advantage should gold buttons be to you? Those pearl do attach your gown full evenly as well."

"Hylton, thou hast no ambitiousness in thee! Seest not that folks should pay me a deal more respect, thus donned [dressed] in my bravery?"

"That is, they should pay much respect to the blue velvet and the gold buttons? You should be no different that I can see."

"I should be a vast sight comelier, man alive!"

"You!" returned Hylton.

"Where's the good of talking to thee? As well essay to learn a sparrow to sing, 'J'ay tout perdu mon temps.'"

"I think you should have lost your time in very deed, and your labour belike, if you spent them on broidering gowns and stitching on buttons, when you had enow aforetime."

"Thou sely loon! [Simple creature!] Dost reckon I mean to work mine own broidery, trow? I'd have a fair score of maidens alway a-broidering for me, so that I might ever have a fresh device when I lacked a new gown."

"The which should come in a year to—how much?"

"Dost look for me to know?"

"I do, when I have told you. Above an hundred and twenty pound, Master Matthew. That should your bravery cost you, in broidering-maids alone."

"Well! what matter, so I had it?"

"It might serve you. I should desire to buy more happiness with such a sum than could be stitched into golden broidery and seed-pearl."

"Now come, Norman, let us hear thy notion of happiness. If thou hadst in thine hand an hundred pound, what should'st do withal?"

"I would see if I could not dry up as many widows' tears as I had golden pieces, and bring as many smiles to the lips of orphans as they should divide into silver."

"Prithee, what good should that do thee?"

"It should keep mine heart warm in the chillest winter thereafter. But I thought rather of the good it should do them than me."

"But what be such like folks to thee?"

"Our Lord died for them, and He is something to me."

"Fate meant thee for a monk, Hylton. Thou rannest thine head against the wall to become a squire."

"Be monks the sole men that love God?"

"They be the sole men that hold such talk."

"I have known monks that held full different talk, I do ensure you. And I have known laymen that loved God as well as any monk that ever paced cloister."

"Gramercy! do leave preaching of sermons. I have enow of them from my Lady my mother. Let's be jolly, if we can."

"You should have the better right to be jolly, to know whither you were going, and that you should surely come out safe at the far end."

"Happy man be my dole! I'm no wise feared. I'll give an hundred pound to the Church the week afore I die, and that shall buy me a soft-cushioned seat in Heaven, I'll warrant."

"Who told you so much? Any that had been there?"

"Man alive! wilt hold thy peace, and let man be? Thou art turned now into a predicant friar. I'll leave thee here to preach to the gilly-flowers."

And Matthew walked off, with a sprig of mint in his mouth. He was not a bad man, as men go. He was simply a man who wanted to please himself, and to be comfortable and easy. In his eyes the whole fabric of the universe revolved round Matthew Foljambe. He did not show it as the royal savage did, who beat a primitive gong in token that, as he had sat down to dinner, the rest of the world might lawfully satisfy their hunger; but the sentiment in Matthew's mind was a civilised and refined form of the same idea. If he were comfortable, what did it signify if everybody else were uncomfortable?

Like all men in his day—and a good many in our own—Matthew had a low opinion of woman. It had been instilled into him, as it was at that time into every man who wrote himself "esquire," that the utmost chivalrous reverence was due to the ladies as an abstract idea; but this abstract idea was quite compatible with the rudest behaviour and the supremest contempt for any given woman in the concrete. Woman was an article of which there were two qualities: the first-class thing was a toy, the second was a machine. Both were for the use of man—which was true enough, had they only realised that it meant for man's real help and improvement, bodily, mental, and spiritual; but they understood it to mean for the bodily comfort and mental amusement of the nobler half of the human race. The natural result of this was that every woman must be appropriated to some master. The bare notion of allowing a woman to choose whether she would go through life unattached to a master, or, if otherwise, to reject one she feared or disliked, would have seemed to Matthew the most preposterous audacity on the part of the inferior creature, as it would also have appeared if the inferior creature had shown discontent with the lot marked out for it. The inferior creature, on the whole, walked very meekly in the path thus swept for it. This was partly, no doubt, because it was so taught as a religious duty; but partly, also, because the style of education then given to women left no room for the mental wings to expand. The bird was supplied with good seed and fresh water, and the idea of its wanting anything else was regarded as absurd. Let it sit on the perch and sing in a properly subdued tone. That it was graciously allowed to sing was enough for any reasonable bird, and ought to call forth on its part overflowing gratitude.

Even then, a few of the caged birds were not content to sit meekly on the perch, but they were eyed askance by the properly behaved ones, and held up to the unfledged nestlings as sorrowful examples of the pernicious habit of thinking for one's self. Never was bird less satisfied to be shut up in a cage than the hapless prisoner in that manor house, whom the peasants of the neighbourhood knew as the White Lady. Now and then they caught a glimpse of her at the window of her chamber, which she insisted on having open, and at which she would stand sometimes by the hour together, looking sorrowfully out on the blue sky and the green fields, wherein she might wander no more. A wild bird was Marguerite of Flanders, in whose veins ran the blood of those untamed sea-eagles, the Vikings of Denmark; and though bars and wires might keep her in the cage, to make her content with it was beyond their power.

So thought Norman Hylton, looking up at the white figure visible behind the bars which crossed the casement of the captive's chamber. He knew little of her beyond her name.

"Saying thy prayers to the moon, Hylton? or to the White Lady?" asked a voice behind him.

"Neither, Godfrey. I was marvelling wherefore she is mewed up there. Dost know?"

"I know she was a full wearisome woman to my Lord Duke her son, and that he is a jollier man by the acre since she here dwelt."

"Was she his own mother?" asked Norman.

"His own?—ay, for sure; and did him a good turn at the beginning, by preserving his kingdom for him when he was but a lad."

"And could he find no better reward for her than this?"

"Tut! she sharped [teased, irritated] him, man. He could not have his will for her."

"Could he ne'er have put up with a little less of it? Or was his will so much dearer to him than his mother?"

"Dost reckon he longed sore to be ridden of an old woman, and made to trot to market at her pleasure, when his own was to take every gate and hurdle in his way? Thou art old woman thyself, an' thou so dost. My Lord Duke is no jog-trot market-ass, I can tell thee, but as fiery a war-charger as man may see in a summer's day. And dost think a war-charger should be well a-paid to have an old woman of his back?"

"My Lady his mother, then, hath no fire in her?" said Norman, glancing up at her where she stood behind the bars in her white weeds, looking down on the two young men in the garden.

"Marry, enough to burn a city down. She did burn the King of France's camp afore Hennebon. And whenas she was prisoner in Tickhill Castle, a certain knight, whose name I know not, [the name of this knight is apparently not on record], covenanted secretly with her by means of some bribe, or such like, given to her keepers, that he would deliver her from durance; and one night scaled he the walls, and she herself gat down from her window, and clambered like a cat by means of the water-spout and slight footholds in the stonework, till she came to the bottom, and then over the walls and away. They were taken, as thou mayest lightly guess, yet they gat them nigh clear of the liberties ere they could again be captivated. Fire! ay, that hath she, and ever will. Forsooth, that is the cause wherefore she harried her son. If she would have sat still at her spinning, he'd have left her be. But, look thou, she could not leave him be."

"Wherein did she seek to let him, wot you?"

"Good lack! not I. If thou art so troubled thereanent, thou wert best ask my father. Maybe he wist not. I cannot say."

"It must have been sore disheartenment," said Norman, pityingly, "to win nearly away, and then be brought back."

"Ay, marry; and then was she had up to London afore the King's Grace, and had into straiter prison than aforetime. Ere that matter was she treated rather as guest of the King and Queen, though in good sooth she was prisoner; but after was she left no doubt touching that question. Some thought she might have been released eight years agone, when the convention was with the Lady Joan of Brittany, which after her lord was killed at Auray, gave up all, receiving the county of Penthievre, the city of Limoges, and a great sum of money; and so far as England reckoned, so she might, and maybe would, had it been to my Lord Duke's convenience. But he had found her aforetime very troublesome to him. Why, when he was but a youth, he fell o' love with some fair damsel of his mother's following, and should have wedded her, had not my Lady Duchess, so soon as ever she knew it, packed her off to a nunnery."

"Wherefore?"

"That wis I not, without it were that she was not for him." [Unsuitable.]

"Was the tale true, think you?"

"That wis I not likewise. Man said so much—behold all I know. Any way, she harried him, and he loved it not, and here she is. That's enough for me."

"Poor lady!"

"Poor? what for poor? She has all she can want. She is fed and clad as well as ever she was—better, I dare guess, than when she was besieged in Hennebon. If she would have broidery silks, or flowers, or any sort of women's toys, she hath but to say, and my Lady my mother shall ride to Derby for them. The King gave order she should be well used, and well used she is. He desireth not that she be punished, but only kept sure."

"I would guess that mere keeping in durance, with nought more to vex her, were sorest suffering to one of her fashioning."

"But what more can she lack? Beside, she is only a woman."

"Women mostly live in and for their children, and your story sounds as though hers cared little enough for her."

"Well! they know she is well treated; why should they harry them over her? They be young, and would lead a jolly life, not to be tied for ever to her apron-string."

"I would not use my mother thus."

"What wouldst? Lead her horse with thy bonnet doffed, and make a leg afore her whenever she spake unto thee?"

"If it made her happy so to do, I would. Meseemeth I should be as well employed in leading her horse as another, and could show my chivalry as well towards mine old mother as any other lady. I were somewhat more beholden to her of the twain, and God bade me not honour any other, but He did her."

"Ha, chetife! 'Tis easier work honouring a fair damsel, with golden hair and rose-leaf cheek, than a toothless old harridan that is for ever plaguing thee."

"Belike the Lord knew that, and writ therefore His fifth command."

Godfrey did not answer, for his attention was diverted. Two well-laden mules stood at the gate, and two men were coming up to the Manor House, carrying a large pack—a somewhat exciting vision to country people in the Middle Ages. There were then no such things as village shops, and only in the largest and most important towns was any great stock kept by tradesmen. The chief trading in country places was done by these itinerant pedlars, whose visits were therefore a source of great interest to the family, and especially to the ladies. They served frequently as messengers and carriers in a small way, and were particularly valuable between the four seasons, when alone anything worth notice could be expected in the shops—Easter, Whitsuntide, All Saints, and Christmas. There were also the spring and autumn fairs, but these were small matters except in the great towns. As it was now the beginning of September, Godfrey knew that a travelling pedlar would be a most acceptable visitor to his mother and wife.

The porter, instructed by his young master, let in the pedlars.

"What have ye?" demanded Godfrey.

"I have mercery, sweet Sir, and he hath jewelling," answered the taller of the pedlars, a middle-aged man with a bronzed face, which told of much outdoor exposure.

"Why, well said! Come ye both into hall, and when ye have eaten and drunk, then shall ye open your packs."

Godfrey led the pedlars into the hall, and shouted for the sewer, whom he bade to set a table, and serve the wearied men with food.

An hour later, Amphillis, who was sewing in her mistress's chamber, rose at the entrance of Lady Foljambe.

"Here, Dame, be pedlars bearing mercery and jewelling," said she. "Would your Grace anything that I can pick forth to your content?"

"Ay, I lack a few matters, Avena," said the Countess, in her usual bitter-sweet style. "A two-three yards of freedom, an' it like thee; and a boxful of air, so he have it fresh; and if thou see a silver chain of daughter's duty, or a bit of son's love set in gold, I could serve me of those if I had them. They'll not come over sea, methinketh."

"Would it like your Grace," asked Lady Foljambe, rather stiffly, "to speak in plain language, and say what you would have?"

"'Plain language!'" repeated the Countess. "In very deed, but I reckoned I had given thee some of that afore now! I would have my liberty, Avena Foljambe; and I would have my rights; and I would have of mine own childre such honour as 'longeth to a mother by reason and God's law. Is that plain enough? or wouldst have it rougher hewn?"

"Dame, your Grace wist well that such matter as this cometh not of pedlars' packs."

"Ay!" said the Countess, with a long, weary sigh. "I do, so! Nor out of men's hearts, belike. Well, Avena, to come down to such petty matter as I count I shall be suffered to have, prithee, bring me some violet silk of this shade for broidery, and another yard or twain of red samitelle for the backing. It were not in thy writ of matters allowable, I reckon, that the pedlars should come up and open their packs in my sight?"

Lady Foljambe looked scandalised.

"Dear heart! Dame, what means your Grace?"

"I know," said the Countess. "They have eyes, no less than I; and they shall see an old woman in white doole, and fall to marvelling, and maybe talking, wherefore their Lord King Edward keepeth her mewed up with bars across her casement. His Grace's honour must be respected, trow. Be it done. 'Tis only one penny the more to the account that the Lord of the helpless shall demand of him one day. I trust he hath in his coffers wherewith to pay that debt. Verily, there shall be some strange meetings in that further world. I marvel something what manner of tale mine old friend De Mauny carried thither this last January, when he went on the long journey that hath no return. Howbeit, seeing he wedded his master's cousin, maybe it were not to his conveniency to remind the Lord of the old woman behind the bars at Hazelwood. It should scantly redound to his lord's credit. And at times it seemeth me that the Lord lacketh reminding, for He appears to have forgot me."

"I cannot listen, Dame, to such speech of my Sovereign."

"Do thy duty, Avena. After all, thy Sovereign's not bad man, as men go. Marvellous ill they go, some of them! He hath held his sceptre well even betwixt justice and mercy on the whole, saving in two matters, whereof this old woman is one, and old women be of small account with most men. He should have fared well had he wist his own mind a bit better—but that's in the blood. Old King Harry, his father's grandfather, I have heard say, was a weary set-out for that. Go thy ways, Avena, and stand not staring at me. I'm neither a lovesome young damsel nor a hobgoblin, that thou shouldst set eyes on me thus. Three ells of red samitelle, and two ounces of violet silk this hue—and a bit of gold twist shall harm no man. Amphillis, my maid, thou art not glued to the chamber floor like thy mistress; go thou and take thy pleasure to see the pedlars' packs. Thou hast not much here, poor child!"

Amphillis thankfully accepted her mistress's considerate permission, and ran down to the hall. She found the mercer's pack open, and the rich stuffs hung all about on the forms, which had been pulled forward for that purpose. The jeweller meanwhile sat in a corner, resting until he was wanted. Time was not of much value in the Middle Ages.



CHAPTER EIGHT.

ALNERS AND SAMITELLE.

"And there's many a deed I could wish undone, though the law might not be broke; And there's many a word, now I come to think, that I wish I had not spoke."

The mercer's stock, spread out upon the benches of the hall, was a sight at once gay and magnificent. Cloth of gold, diaper, baldekin, velvet, tissue, samite, satin, tartaryn, samitelle, sarcenet, taffata, sindon, cendall, say—all of them varieties of silken stuffs—ribbons of silk, satin, velvet, silver, and gold, were heaped together in brilliant and bewildering confusion of beautiful colours. Lady Foljambe, Mrs Margaret, Marabel, and Agatha, were all looking on.

"What price is that by the yard?" inquired Lady Foljambe, touching a piece of superb Cyprus baldekin, striped white, and crimson. Baldekin was an exceedingly rich silk, originally made at Constantinople: it was now manufactured in England also, but the "oversea" article was the more valuable, the baldekin of Cyprus holding first rank. Baldachino is derived from this word.

"Dame," answered the mercer, "that is a Cyprus baldekin; it is eight pound the piece of three ells."

Lady Foljambe resigned the costly beauty with a sigh.

"And this?" she asked, indicating a piece of soft blue.

"That is an oversea cloth, Dame, yet not principal [of first-class quality]—it is priced five pound the piece."

Lady Foljambe's gesture intimated that this was too much for her purse. "Hast any gold cloths of tissue, not over three pound the piece?"

"That have I, Dame," answered the mercer, displaying a pretty pale green, a dark red, and one of the favourite yellowish-brown shade known as tawny.

Lady Foljambe looked discontented; the beautiful baldekins first seen had eclipsed the modest attractions of their less showy associates.

"Nay, I pass not [do not care] for those," said she. "Show me velvet."

The mercer answered by dexterously draping an unoccupied form, first with a piece of rich purple, then one of tawny, then one of deep crimson, and lastly a bright blue.

"And what price be they?"

He touched each as he recounted the prices, beginning with the purple.

"Fifteen shillings the ell, Dame; a mark [13 shillings 4 pence]; fourteen shillings; half a mark. I have also a fair green at half a mark, a peach blossom at fourteen shillings, a grey at seven-and-sixpence, and a murrey [mulberry colour] at a mark."

Lady Foljambe slightly shrugged her shoulders.

"Say a noble [6 shillings 8 pence] for the grey, and set it aside," she said.

"Dame, I could not," replied the mercer, firmly though respectfully. "My goods be honest matter; they be such as they are set forth, and they have paid the King's dues."

Like many other people, Lady Foljambe would have preferred smuggled goods, if they were cheaper than the honest article. Her conscience was very elastic about taxes. It was no great wonder that this spirit prevailed in days when the Crown could ruthlessly squeeze its subjects whenever it wanted extra money, as Henry the Third had done a hundred years before; and though his successors had not imitated his example, the memory of it remained as a horror and a suspicion. Dishonest people, whether they are kings or coal-heavers, always make a place more difficult to fill for those who come after them.

"Well! then set aside the blue," said Lady Foljambe, with a slight pout. "Margaret, what lackest thou?"

Mrs Margaret looked wistfully at the fourteen-shilling crimson, and then manfully chose the six-and-eightpenny green.

"Now let us see thy samitelles," said her Ladyship.

Samitelle, as its name implies, was doubtless a commoner quality of the rich and precious samite, which ranked in costliness and beauty with baldekin and cloth of gold, and above satin and velvet. Samite was a silk material, of which no more is known than that it was very expensive, and had a glossy sheen, like satin. Some antiquaries have supposed it to be an old name for satin; but as several Wardrobe Rolls contain entries relating to both in immediate sequence, this supposition is untenable.

The mercer exhibited three pieces of samitelle.

"Perse, Dame, four marks the piece," said he, holding up a very pale blue; "ash-colour, thirty shillings; apple-bloom, forty shillings."

"No," said Lady Foljambe; "I would have white."

"Forty-five shillings the piece, Dame."

"Hast no cheaper?"

"Not in white, Dame."

"Well! lay it aside; likewise three ells of the red. I would have moreover a cendall of bean-flower colour, and a piece or twain of say— murrey or sop-in-wine."

Cendall was a very fine, thin silk fit for summer wear, resembling what is now called foulard; say was the coarsest and cheapest sort of silk, and was used for upholstery as well as clothing.

"I have a full fair bean-flower cendall, Dame, one shilling the ell; and a good sop-in-wine say at twopence."

The mercer, as he spoke, held up the piece of say, of a nondescript colour, not unlike what is now termed crushed strawberry.

"That shall serve for the chamberers," said Lady Foljambe; "but the cendall is for myself; I would have it good."

"Dame, it is principal; you shall not see better."

"Good. Measure me off six ells of the cendall, and nine of the say. Then lay by each piece skeins of thread of silk, an ounce to the piece, each to his colour; two ounces of violet, and two of gold twist. Enough for this morrow."

The mercer bowed, with deft quickness executed the order, and proceeded to pack up the remainder of his goods. When the forms were denuded of their rich coverings, he retired into the corner, and the jeweller came forward.

The little jeweller was less dignified, but more lively and loquacious, than his companion the mercer. He unstrapped his pack, laid it open at the feet of Lady Foljambe, and executed a prolonged flourish of two plump brown hands.

"What may I lay before your Ladyship? Buttons and buttoners of de best, paternosters of de finest, gold and silver collars, chains, crucifixes garnished of stones and pearls; crespines, girdles of every fashion, ouches, rings, tablets [tablets were of two sorts, reliquaries and memorandum-books], charms, gipsers, and forcers [satchels to hang from the waist, and small boxes], combs, spoons, caskets, collars for de leetle dogs, bells, points [tagged laces, then much used], alners [alms-bags, larger than purses], purses, knives, scissors, cups—what asks your Ladyship? Behold dem all."

"Dost call thyself a jeweller?" asked Lady Foljambe, with a laugh. "Why, thou art jeweller, silversmith, girdler, forcer-maker, and cutler."

"Dame, I am all men to please my customers," answered the little jeweller, obsequiously. "Will your Ladyship look? Ah, de beautiful tings!"

"Art thou Englishman?"

"Ah! no, Madame, I am a Breton. I come from Hennebon."

A sudden flash of suspicious uneasiness lighted up the eyes of the Countess of Montfort's gaoler. Yet had the man meant mischief, he would scarcely have been so communicative. However that might be, Lady Foljambe determined to get him out of the house as quickly as possible.

"I lack but little of thy sort," she said. "Howbeit, thou mayest show us thine alners and thy buttons."

"I would fain have a gipser," said Mrs Margaret.

While Mrs Margaret was selecting from the stock of gipsers a pretty red velvet one with a silver clasp, price half-a-crown, Perrote came quietly into the hall, and stood beside Amphillis, a little behind Lady Foljambe, who had not heard her entrance.

"Here are de alners, Madame," said the lively little Breton. "Blue, green, black, white, red, tawny, violet. Will your Ladyship choose? T'ree shillings to free marks—beautiful, beautiful! Den here are—Bon saints, que vois-je? Surely, surely it is Mademoiselle de Carhaix!"

"It is," said Perrote; "and thou art Ivo filz Jehan?"

"I am Ivo filz Jehan, dat man calls Ivo le Breton. I go from Cornwall, where dwell my countrymen, right up to de Scottish border. And how comes it, den, if a poor man may ask, dat I find here, in de heart of England, a Breton damsel of family?"

Lady Foljambe was in an agony. She would have given her best gold chain for the little Breton jeweller to have kept away from Hazelwood. If he had any sort of penetration, another minute might reveal the secret hitherto so jealously guarded, that his Sovereign's missing mother was a prisoner there. Her misery was the greater because she could not feel at all sure of Perrote, whom she strongly suspected of more loyalty to her mistress than to King Edward in her heart, though she had not shown it by any outward action. Perrote knew the direction of Lady Foljambe's thoughts as well as if she had spoken them. She answered very calmly, and with a smile.

"May Breton damsels not tarry in strange lands, as well as Breton pedlars? I have divers friends in England."

"Surely, surely!" said the pedlar, hastily, perceiving that he had transgressed against Lady Foljambe's pleasure. "Only, if so poor man may say it, it is full pleasant to see face dat man know in strange land. Madame, would it please your Ladyship to regard de alners?"

Lady Foljambe was only too glad to turn Ivo's attention back to the alners. She bought six for presents—they were a favourite form of gift; and picked out twenty buttons of silver-gilt, stamped with an eagle. Mrs Margaret also selected a rosary, of coral set in silver, to help her in saying her prayers, for which article, in her eyes of the first necessity, she gave 33 shillings 4 pence, and for a minute enamelled image of the Virgin and Child, in a little tabernacle or case of silver filagree, of Italian work, she paid five pounds. This was to be set before her on the table and prayed to. Mrs Margaret would not have put it quite in that plain form of words, for no idolater will ever admit that he addresses the piece of wood or stone; but it was what she really did without admitting it. Alas for the worshipper whose god has to be carried about, and requires dusting like any other ornament! "They that make them are like unto them; so is every one that trusteth in them."

Perrote bought an ivory comb of Ivo, which cost her three shillings, for old acquaintance sake; Marabel purchased six silver buttons in the form of a lamb, for which she paid 8 shillings 9 pence; Agatha invested four shillings in a chaplet of pearls; while Amphillis, whose purse was very low, and had never been otherwise, contented herself with a sixpenny casket. Ivo, however, was well satisfied, and packed up his goods with a radiant face.

When the two itinerant tradesmen had shouldered their packs, and had gone forth, Lady Foljambe hastily summoned her husband's squire. She was not sufficiently high in dignity to have a squire of her own.

"Prithee, keep watch of yon little jeweller packman," said she, uneasily. "Mark whither he goeth, and see that he hold no discourse with any of the household, without it be to trade withal. I desire to know him clear of the vicinage ere the dark falleth."

Norman Hylton bowed in answer, and went out.

He found the two packmen in the courtyard, the centre of an admiring throng of servants and retainers, all of whom were anxious to inspect their goods, some from a desire to make such purchases as they could afford, and all from that longing to relieve the monotony of life which besets man in general, and must have been especially tempting in the Middle Ages. A travelling pedlar was the substitute for an illustrated newspaper, his pack supplying the engravings, and his tongue the text. These men and pilgrims were the chief newsmongers of the day.

Ivo dangled a pair of blue glass ear-rings before the enchanted eyes of Kate the chambermaid.

"You shall have dem dirt sheap! Treepence de pair—dat is all. Vat lack you, my young maids? Here is mirrors and combs, scissors and knives, necklaces, beads and girdles, purses of Rouen, forcers and gipsers—all manner you can wish. Relics I have, if you desire dem—a little finger-bone of Saint George, and a tooth of de dragon dat he slew; a t'read of de veil of Saint Agat'a, and de paring of Saint Matthew's nails. Here is brooches, crespines, charms, spectacles, alners, balls, puppets, coffers, bells, baskets for de maids' needlework, pins, needles, ear-rings, shoe-buckles, buttons—everyting! And here—here is my beautifullest ting—my chiefest relic, in de leetle silver box—see!"

"Nay, what is it, trow?" inquired Kate, who looked with deep interest through the interstices of the filagree, and saw nothing but a few inches of coarse linen thread.

"Oh, it is de blessed relic! Look you, our Lady made shirt for Saint Joseph, and she cut off de t'read, and it fall on de floor, and dere it lie till Saint Petronilla come by, and she pick it up and put it in her bosom. It is all writ down inside. De holy Fader give it my moder's grandmoder's aunt, when she go to Rome. It is wort' tousands of pounds—de t'read dat our blessed Lady draw t'rough her fingers. You should have no maladies never, if you wear dat."

"Ay, but such things as that be alonely for folk as can pay for 'em, I reckon," said Kate, looking wistfully, first at the blue ear-rings, and then at the blessed relic.

Ivo made a screen of his hand, and spoke into Kate's ear.

"See you, now! You buy dem, and I trow him you into de bargain! Said I well, fair maid?"

"What, all for threepence?" gasped the bewitched Kate.

"All for t'ree-pence. De blessed relic and de beautiful ear-rings! It is dirt sheap. I would not say it to nobody else, only my friends. See you?"

Kate looked in his face to see if he meant it, and then slowly drew out her purse. The warmth of Ivo's friendship, ten minutes old at the most, rather staggered her. But the ear-rings had taken her fancy, and she was also, though less, desirous to possess the holy relic. She poured out into the palm of her hand various pence, halfpence, and farthings, and began endeavouring to reckon up the threepence; a difficult task for a girl utterly ignorant of figures.

"You leave me count it," suggested the little packman. "I will not cheat you—no, no! How could I, wid de blessed relic in mine hand? One, two, free. Dere! I put in de rings in your ears? ah, dey make you look beautiful, beautiful! De widow lady, I see her not when I have my pack in hall. She is well?"

"What widow lady, trow?" said Kate, feeling the first ear-ring glide softly into her ear.

"Ah, I have afore been here. I see a widow lady at de window. Why come she not to hall?—Oh, how fair you shall be! you shall every eye charm!—She is here no more—yes?"

"Well, ay—there is a widow lady dwelleth here," said Kate, offering the other ear to her beguiler, just as Norman Hylton came up to them; "but she is a prisoner, and—hush! haste you, now, or I must run without them."

"Dat shall you not," said Ivo, quickly slipping the second ear-ring into its place. "Ah, how lovesome should you be, under dat bush by the gate, that hath de yellow flowers, when de sun was setting, and all golden behind you! Keep well de holy relic; it shall bring you good."

And with a significant look, and a glance upwards at the house, Ivo shouldered his pack, and turned away.

The mercer had not seemed anxious to do business with the household. Perhaps he felt that his wares were scarcely within their means. He sat quietly in the gateway until the jeweller had finished his chaffering, when he rose and walked out beside him. The two packs were carefully strapped on the waiting mules, which were held by the lad, and the party marched down the slope from the gateway.

"What bought you with your holy relic and your ear-rings, Ivo?" asked the mercer, with a rather satirical glance at his companion, when they were well out of hearing. "Aught that was worth them?"

"I bought the news that our Lady abideth hither," was the grave reply; "and it was cheap, at the cost of a scrap of tin and another of glass, and an inch or twain of thread out of your pack. If yon maid have but wit to be under the shrub by the gate at sunset, I shall win more of her. But she's but a poor brain, or I err. Howbeit, I've had my ear-rings' worth. They cost but a halfpenny. Can you see aught from here? Your eyes be sharper than mine."

"I see somewhat white at yonder window. But, Ivo, were you wise to tell the lady you came from Hennebon?"

"I was, Sir Roland. She will suspect me now, instead of you; and if, as I guess, she send a spy after us, when we part company he will follow me, and you shall be quit of him."

The mercer glanced back, as though to see if any one were following.

"Well, perchance you say well," he answered. "There is none behind, methinks. So now to rejoin Father Eloy."

Norman Hylton had not followed the packmen beyond the gate. He did not like the business, and was glad to be rid of it. He only kept watch of them till they disappeared up the hill, and then returned to tell Lady Foljambe the direction which they had taken.

Kate's mind was considerably exercised. As Ivo had remarked, her wits were by no means of the first quality, but her conceit and love of admiration far outstripped them. The little jeweller had seen this, and had guessed that she would best answer his purpose of the younger members of the household. Quiet, sensible Joan, the upper chambermaid, would not have suited him at all; neither would sturdy, straightforward Meg, the cook-maid; but Kate's vanity and indiscretion were both so patent that he fixed on her at once as his chosen accomplice. His only doubt was whether she had sense enough to understand his hint about being under the bush at sunset. Ivo provided himself with a showy brooch of red glass set in gilt copper, which Kate was intended to accept as gold and rubies; and leaving his pack under the care of his fellow conspirator—for Ivo was really the pedlar which Roland was not— he slipped back to Hazelwood, and shortly before the sun set was prowling about in the neighbourhood of the bush which stood just outside the gate of Hazelwood Manor. Before he had been there many minutes, a light, tripping footstep was heard; and poor, foolish Kate, with the blue drops in her ears, came like a giddy fly into the web of Ivo the spider.



CHAPTER NINE.

MISCHIEF.

"I've nothing to do with better and worse—I haven't to judge for the rest: If other men are not better than I am, they are bad enough at the best."

When Ivo thought proper to see Kate approaching, he turned with an exclamation of hyperbolical admiration. He knew perfectly the type of woman with whom he had to deal. "Ah, it is den you, fair maid? You be fair widout dem, but much fairer wid de ear-rings, I you assure. Ah, if you had but a comely ouche at your t'roat, just dere,"—and Ivo laid a fat brown finger at the base of his own—"your beauty would be perfect— perfect!"

"Lack-a-day, I would I had!" responded silly Kate; "but ouches and such be not for the likes of me."

"How? Say no such a ting! I know of one jewel, a ruby of de best, and de setting of pure gold, fit for a queen, dat might be had by de maid who would give herself one leetle pain to tell me only one leetle ting, dat should harm none; but you care not, I dare say, to trouble you-self so much."

And Ivo thrust his hands in his pockets, and began to whistle softly.

"Nay, now; do you?" said the bewitched fly, getting a little deeper into the web. "Good Master Packman, do of your grace tell me how a maid should earn that jewel?"

Ivo drew the brooch half out of his breast, so as just to allow Kate the least glance at it possible.

"Is that the jewel?" she asked, eagerly. "Eh, but it shineth well-nigh to match the sun himself! Come, now; what should I tell you? I'll do aught to win it."

Ivo came close to her, and spoke into her ear.

"Show me which is the prisoner's window."

"Well, it's yon oriel, on the inner side of—Eh, but I marvel if I do ill to tell you!"

"Tell me noting at all dat you count ill," was the pious answer of Ivo, who had got to know all he needed except one item. "You can tarry a little longer? or you are very busy? Sir Godfrey is away, is it not?"

"Nay, he's at home, but he'll be hence next week. He's to tilt at the tournament at Leicester."

"Ah! dat will be grand sight, all de knights and de ladies. But I am sure—sure—dere shall not be one so fair as you, sweet maid. Look you, I pin de jewel at your neck. It is wort von hundred pound, I do ensure you."

"Eh, to think of it!" cried enchanted Kate.

"And I would not part wid it but to my friend, and a maid so fair and delightsome. See you, how it shine! It shine better as de sun when it do catch him. You sleep in de prisoner's chamber?—yes?"

"Nay, I'm but a sub-chambermaid, look you—not even an upper. Mistress Perrote, she sleeps in the pallet whenas any doth; but methinks her Ladyship lieth alone at this present. Howbeit, none never seeth her save Mistress Perrote and Mistress Amphillis, and my Lady and Sir Godfrey, of course, when they have need. I've ne'er beheld her myself, only standing behind the casement, as she oft loveth to do. My Lady hath a key to her chamber door, and Mistress Perrote the like; and none save these never entereth."

Ivo drank in all the information which Kate imparted, while he only seemed to be carelessly trimming a switch which he had pulled from a willow close at hand.

"They be careful of her, it should seem," he said.

"You may say that. They're mortal feared of any man so much as seeing her. Well, I reckon I should go now. I'm sure I'm right full indebted to you, Master Packman, for this jewel: only I don't feel as if I have paid you for it."

"You have me paid twice its value, to suffer me look on your beautiful face!" was the gallant answer, with a low bow. "But one more word, and I go, fair maid, and de sun go from me wid you. De porter, he is what of a man?—and has he any dog?"

"Oh ay, that he hath; but I can peace the big dog well enough, an' I did but know when it should be. Well, as for the manner of man, he's pleasant enough where he takes, look you; but if he reckons you're after aught ill, you'll not come round him in no wise."

"Ah, he is wise man. I see. Well, my fairest of maidens, you shall, if it please you, keep de big dog looking de oder way at nine o'clock of de even, de night Sir Godfrey goes; and de Lady Princess have not so fair a crespine for her hair as you shall win, so to do. Dat is Monday night, trow?"

"Nay, 'tis Tuesday. Well, I'll see; I'll do what I can."

"Fair maid, if I t'ought it possible, I would say, de saints make you beautifuller! But no; it is not possible. So I say, de saints make you happier, and send you all dat you most desire! Good-night."

"Good even, Master Packman, and good befall you. You'll not forget that crespine?"

"Forget? Impossible! Absolute impossible! I bear your remembrance on mine heart all de days of my life. I adore you! Farewell."

When Meg, the next minute, joined Kate under the tree, there was no more sign of Ivo than if he had been the airy creature of a dream.

The little pedlar had escaped dexterously, and only just in time. He hid for a moment beneath the shade of a friendly shrub, and, as soon as he saw Meg's back turned, ran downwards into the Derby road as lithely as a cat, and took the way to that city, where he recounted to his companions, when other people were supposed to be asleep, the arrangement he had made to free the Countess.

"Thou art sore lacking in discretion, my son," said Father Eloy, whose normal condition was that of a private confessor in Bretagne, and whose temporary disguise was that of a horse-dealer. "Such a maid as thou describest is as certain to want and have a confidant as she is to wear that trumpery. Thou wilt find—or, rather, we shall find—the whole house up and alert, and fully aware of our intention."

Ivo's shoulders were shrugged very decidedly.

"Ha, chetife!" cried he; "she will want the crespine."

"Not so much as she will want to impart her secret," answered the priest. "Who whispered to the earth, 'Midas has long ears'?"

"It will not matter much to Ivo, so he be not taken," said the knight. "Nor, in a sense, to you, Father, as your frock protects you. I shall come off the worst."

"You'll come off well enough," responded Ivo. "You made an excellent mercer this morrow. You only need go on chaffering till you have sold all your satins, and by that time you will have your pockets well lined; and if you choose your route wisely, you will be near the sea."

"Well and good! if we are not all by that time eating dry bread at the expense of our worthy friend Sir Godfrey."

"Mind you are not, Sir Roland," said Ivo. "Every man for himself. I always fall on my feet like a cat, and have nine lives."

"Nine lives come to an end some day," replied Sir Roland, grimly.

————————————————————————————————————

"On what art thou a-thinking thus busily, Phyllis?"

"Your pardon, Mistress Perrote; I was thinking of you."

"Not hard to guess, when I saw thine eyes look divers times my ways. What anentis me, my maid?"

"I cry you mercy, Mistress Perrote; for you should very like say that whereon I thought was none of my business. Yet man's thoughts will not alway be ruled. I did somewhat marvel, under your pleasure, at your answer to yon pedlar that asked how you came to be hither."

"Wherefore? that I told him no more?"

"Ay; and likewise—"

"Make an end, my maid."

"Mistress, again I cry you mercy; but it seemed me as though, while you sore pitied our Lady, you had no list to help her forth of her trouble, an' it might be compassed. And I conceived [Note 1] it not."

"It could not be compassed, Phyllis; and granting it so should, to what good purpose? Set in case that she came forth this morrow, a free woman—whither is she to wend, and what to do? To her son? He will have none of her. To her daughter? Man saith she hath scantly more freedom than her mother in truth, being ruled of an ill husband that giveth her no leave to work. To King Edward? It should but set him in the briars with divers other princes, the King of France and the Duke of Bretagne more in especial. To my Lady Princess? Verily, she is good woman, yet is she mother of my Lady Duchess; and though I cast no doubt she should essay to judge the matter righteously, yet 'tis but like that she should lean to her own child, which doubtless seeth through her lord's eyes; and it should set her in the briars no less than King Edward. Whither, then, is she to go for whom there is no room on middle earth [Note 2], and whose company all men avoid? Nay, my maid, for the Lady Marguerite there is no home save Heaven; and there is none to be glad of her company save Him that was yet more lonely than she, and whose foes, like hers, were they of His own house."

"'Tis sore pitiful!" said Amphillis, looking up with the tears in her eyes.

"'Pitiful'! ay, never was sadder case sithence that saddest of all in the Garden of Gethsemane. Would God she would seek Him, and accept of His pity!"

"Surely, our Lady is Christian woman!" responded Amphillis, in a rather astonished tone.

"What signifiest thereby?"

"Why she that doth right heartily believe Christ our Lord to have been born and died, and risen again, and so forth."

"What good should that do her?"

Amphillis stared, without answering.

"If that belief were very heartfelt, it should be life and comfort; but meseemeth thy manner of belief is not heartfelt, but headful. To believe that a man lived and died, Phyllis, is not to accept his help, and to affy thee in his trustworthiness. Did it ever any good and pleasure to thee to believe that one Julius Caesar lived over a thousand years ago?"

"No, verily; but—" Amphillis did not like to say what she was thinking, that no appropriation of good, nor sensation of pleasure, had ever yet mingled with that belief in the facts concerning Jesus Christ on which she vaguely relied for salvation. She thought a moment, and then spoke out. "Mistress, did you mean there was some other fashion of believing than to think certainly that our Lord did live and die?"

"Set in case, Phyllis, that thou shouldst hear man to say, 'I believe in Master Godfrey, but not in Master Matthew,' what shouldst reckon him to signify? Think on it."

"I suppose," said Amphillis, after a moment's pause for consideration, "I should account him to mean that he held Master Godfrey for a true man, in whom man might safely affy him; but that he felt not thus sure of Master Matthew."

"Thou wouldst not reckon, then, that he counted Master Matthew as a fabled man that was not alive?"

"Nay, surely!" said Amphillis, laughing.

"Then seest not for thyself that there is a manner of belief far beside and beyond the mere reckoning that man liveth? Phyllis, dost thou trust Christ our Lord?"

"For what, Mistress? That He shall make me safe at last, if I do my duty, and pay my dues to the Church, and shrive me [confess sins to a priest] metely oft, and so forth? Ay, I reckon I do," said Amphillis, in a tone which sounded rather as if she meant "I don't."

"Hast alway done thy duty, Amphillis?"

"Alack, no, Mistress. Yet meseemeth there be worser folks than I. I am alway regular at shrift."

"The which shrift thou shouldst little need, if thou hadst never failed in duty. But how shall our Lord make thee safe?"

"Why, forgive me my sins," replied Amphillis, looking puzzled.

"That saith what He shall do, not how He shall do it. Thy sins are a debt to God's law and righteousness. Canst thou pay a debt without cost?"

"But forgiveness costs nought."

"Doth it so? I think scarce anything costs more. Hast ever meditated, Amphillis, what it cost God to forgive sin?"

"I thought it cost Him nothing at all."

"Child, it could only be done in one of two ways, at the cost of His very self. Either He should forgive sin without propitiation—which were to cost His righteousness and truth and honour. Could that be? In no wise. Then it must be at the cost of His own bearing the penalty due unto the sinner. Thy sins, Amphillis, thine every failure in duty, thine every foolish thought or wrongful word, cost the Father His own Son out of His bosom, cost the Son a human life of agony and a death of uttermost terribleness. Didst thou believe that?"

A long look of mingled amazement and horror preceded the reply. "Mistress Perrote, I never thought of no such thing! I thought—I thought," said Amphillis, struggling for the right words to make her meaning clear, "I thought our Lord was to judge us for our sins, and our blessed Lady did plead with Him to have mercy on us, and we must do the best we could, and pray her to pray for us. But the fashion you so put it seemeth—it seemeth certain, as though the matter were settled and done with, and should not be fordone [revoked]. Is it thus?"

Previous Part     1  2  3  4     Next Part
Home - Random Browse