"Daughter, we may not dictate to our King," said the Archbishop, gently. "Yet I doubt not there be times when He stoops mercifully to weakness and misery, and helps our unbelief. May He grant your petition! And now, I think you lack rest, and have had converse enough. I will see you again ere I depart. Benedicite!"



CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

POSTING A LETTER.

"Whose fancy was his only oracle; Who could buy lands and pleasure at his will, Yet slighted that which silver could not win."

Rev Horatius Bonar, D.D.

The Archbishop rapped softly on the door of the chamber, and Amphillis sprang to let him out. She had to let herself in, so he passed her with only a smile and a blessing, and going straight to his own chamber, spent the next hour in fervent prayer. At the end of that time he went down to the hall, and asked for writing materials.

This was a rather large request to make in a mediaeval manor house. Father Jordan was appealed to, as the only person likely to know the whereabouts of such scarce articles.

"Well, of a surety!" exclaimed the old priest, much fluttered by the inquiry. "Methinks I may find the inkhorn,—and there was some ink in it,—but as for writing-paper!—and I fear there shall be never a bit of parchment in the house. Wax, moreover—Richard, butler, took the last for his corks. Dear, dear! only to think his Grace should lack matter for writing! Yet, truly, 'tis not unnatural for a prelate. Now, whatever shall man do?"

"Give his Grace a tile and a paint-brush," said careless Matthew.

"Cut a leaf out of a book," suggested illiterate Godfrey.

Father Jordan looked at the last speaker as if he had proposed to cook a child for dinner. Cut a leaf out of a book! Murder, theft, and arson combined, would scarcely have been more horrible in his eyes.

"Holy saints, deliver us!" was his shocked answer.

Norman Hylton came to the rescue.

"I have here a small strip of parchment," said he, "if his Grace were pleased to make use thereof. I had laid it by for a letter to my mother, but his Grace's need is more than mine."

The Archbishop took the offered gift with a smile.

"I thank thee, my son," said he. "In good sooth, at this moment my need is great, seeing death waiteth for no man."

He sat down, and had scarcely remembered the want of ink, when Father Jordan came up, carrying a very dilapidated old inkhorn.

"If your Grace were pleased to essay this, and could serve you withal," suggested he, dubiously; "soothly, there is somewhat black at the bottom."

"And there is alegar in the house, plenty," added Matthew.

The Archbishop looked about for the pen.

"Unlucky mortal that I am!" cried Father Jordan, smiting himself on the forehead. "Never a quill have I, by my troth!"

"Have you a goose? That might mend matters," said Matthew. "Had we but a goose, there should be quills enow."

"Men culpa, mea culpa!" cried poor Father Jordan, as though he were at confession, to the excessive amusement of the young men.

Norman, who had run upstairs on finding the pen lacking, now returned with one in his hand.

"Here is a quill, if your Grace be pleased withal. It is but an old one, yet I have no better," he said, modestly.

"It shall full well serve me, my son," was the answer; "and I thank thee for thy courtesy."

For his day the Archbishop was a skilful penman, which does not by any means convey the idea of covering sheet after sheet of paper with rapid writing. The strip of parchment was about fourteen inches by four. He laid it lengthwise before him, and the letters grew slowly on it, in the old black letter hand, which took some time to form. Thus ran his letter:—

"Alexander, by Divine sufferance elect of York, to the Lady Basset of Drayton wisheth peace, health, and the blessing of God Almighty.

"Very dear Lady,—

"Let it please you to know that the bearer hereof hath tidings to deliver of serious and instant import. We pray you full heartily to hear him without any delay, and to give full credence to such matter as he shall impart unto you: which having done, we bid you, as you value our apostolical blessing, to come hither with all speed, and we charge our very dear son, your lord, that he let not nor hinder you in obeying this our mandate. The matter presseth, and will brook no delay: and we affy ourself in you, Lady, as a woman obedient to the Church, that you will observe our bidding. And for so doing this shall be your warrant. Given at Hazelwood Manor, in the county of Derby, this Wednesday after Candlemas."

The Archbishop laid down his pen, folded his letter, and asked for silk to tie it. Matthew Foljambe ran off, returning in a moment with a roll of blue silk braid, wherewith the letter was tied up. Then wax was needed.

"Ha, chetife!" said Father Jordan. "The saints forgive me my sins! Never a bit of wax had I lacked for many a month, and I gave the last to Richard, butler."

"Hath he used it all?" asked Matthew.

"Be sure he so did. He should have some left only if none needed it," responded his brother.

A search was instituted. The butler regretfully admitted that all the wax supplied, to him was fastening down corks upon bottles of Alicant and Osey. Sir Godfrey had none; he had sent for some, but had not yet received it. Everybody was rather ashamed; for wax was a very necessary article in a mediaeval household, and to run short of it was a small disgrace. In this emergency Matthew, usually the person of resources, came to the rescue.

"Hie thee to the cellar, Dick, and bring me up a two-three bottles of thy meanest wine," said he. "We'll melt it off the corks."

By this ingenious means, sufficient wax was procured to take the impress of the Archbishop's official seal, without which the letter would bear no authentication, and the recipient could not be blamed if she refused obedience. It was then addressed—"To the hands of our very dear Lady, the Lady Joan Basset, at Drayton Manor, in the county of Stafford, be these delivered with speed. Haste, haste, for thy life, haste!"

All nobles and dignitaries of the Church in 1374 used the "we" now exclusively regal.

Having finished his preparations, the Archbishop despatched young Godfrey to ask his father for a private interview. Sir Godfrey at once returned to the hall, and ceremoniously handed the Archbishop into his own room.

All large houses, in those days, contained a hall, which was the general meeting-place of the inhabitants, and where the family, servants, and guests, all took their meals together. This usually ran two storeys high; and into it opened from the lower storey the offices and guard-chambers, and from the upper, into a gallery running round it, the private apartments of the family, a spiral stair frequently winding down in the corner. The rooms next the hall were private sitting-rooms, leading to the bedchambers beyond; and where still greater secrecy was desired, passages led out towards separate towers. Every bedroom had its adjoining sitting-room. Of course in small houses such elaborate arrangements as these were not found, and there were no sitting-rooms except the hall itself; while labourers were content with a two-roomed house, the lower half serving as parlour and kitchen, the upper as the family bedchamber.

Young Godfrey carried a chair to his father's room. An Archbishop could not sit on a form, and there were only three chairs in the house, two of which were appropriated to the Countess. The prelate took his seat, and laid down his letter on a high stool before Sir Godfrey.

"Fair Sir, may I entreat you of your courtesy, to send this letter with all good speed to my Lady Basset of Drayton, unto Staffordshire?"

"Is it needful, holy Father?"

"It is in sooth needful," replied the Archbishop, in rather peremptory tones, for he plainly saw that Sir Godfrey would not do this part of his duty until he could no longer help it.

"It shall put her Ladyship to great charges," objected the knight.

"The which, if she defray unwillingly, then is she no Christian woman."

"And be a journey mighty displeasant, at this winter season."

"My answer thereto is as to the last."

"And it shall blurt out the King's privy matters."

"In no wise. I have not writ thereof a word in this letter, but have only prayed her Ladyship to give heed unto that which the bearer thereof shall make known to her privily."

"Then who is to bear the same?"

"I refer me thereon, fair Sir, to your good judgment. Might one of your own sons be trusted herewith?"

Sir Godfrey looked dubious. "Godfrey should turn aside to see an horse, or to tilt at any jousting that lay in his path; and Matthew, I cast no doubt, should lose your Grace's letter in a snowdrift."

"Then have you brought them up but ill," said the Archbishop. "But what hindereth that you go withal yourself?"

"I, holy Father! I am an old man, and infirm, an' it like your Grace."

"Ay, you were full infirm when the tilting was at Leicester," replied the Archbishop, ironically. "My son, I enjoin thee, as thine Archbishop, that thou send this letter. Go, or send a trusty messenger, as it liketh thee best; and if thou have no such, then shall my secretary, Father Denny, carry the same, for he is full meet therefor; but go it must."

Poor Sir Godfrey was thus brought to the end of all his subterfuges. He could only say ruefully that his eldest son should bear the letter. The Archbishop thereupon took care to inform that young gentleman that if his missive should be either lost or delayed, its bearer would have to reckon with the Church, and might not find the account quite convenient to pay.

Godfrey was ready enough to go. Life at Hazelwood was not so exciting that a journey, on whatever errand, would not come as a very welcome interlude. He set forth that evening, and as the journey was barely forty miles, he could not in reason take longer over it than three days at the utmost. Sir Godfrey, however, as well as the Archbishop, had confided his private views to his son. He charged him to see Lord Basset first, and to indoctrinate him with the idea that it was most desirable Lady Basset should not receive the prelate's message. Could he find means to prevent it?

Lord Basset was a man of a type not uncommon in any time, and particularly rife at the present day. He lived to amuse himself. Of such things as work and duty he simply had no idea. In his eyes work was for the labouring class, and duty concerned the clergy; neither of them applied at all to him. He was, therefore, of about as much value to the world as one of the roses in his garden; and if he would be more missed, it was because his temper did not at all times emulate the sweetness of that flower, and its absence would be felt as a relief. This very useful and worthy gentleman was languidly fitting on the jesses of a hawk, when young Godfrey was introduced into the hall. Lady Basset was not present, and Godfrey seized the opportunity to initiate her husband into the part he was to play. He found to his annoyance that Lord Basset hesitated to perform the task assigned to him. Had the letter come from an insignificant layman, he would have posted it into the fire without more ado; but Lord Basset, who was aware of sundry habits of his own that he was not able to flatter himself were the fashion in Heaven, could not afford to quarrel with the Church, which, in his belief, held the keys of that eligible locality.

"Nay, verily!" said he. "I cannot thwart the delivering of his Grace's letter."

"Then will my Lady go to Hazelwood, and the whole matter shall be blazed abroad. It is sure to creep forth at some corner."

"As like as not. Well, I would not so much care—should it serve you if I gave her strict forbiddance for to go?"

"Would she obey?"

Lord Basset laughed. "That's as may be. She's commonly an easy mare to drive, but there be times when she takes the bit betwixt her teeth, and bolts down the contrary road. You can only try her."

"Then under your leave, may I deliver the letter to her?"

"Here, De Sucherche!" said Lord Basset, raising his voice. "Bid Emeriarde lead this gentleman to thy Lady; he hath a privy word to deliver unto her."

Emeriarde made her appearance in the guise of a highly respectable, middle-aged upper servant, and led Godfrey up the staircase from the hall to Lady Basset's ante-chamber, where, leaving him for a moment, while she announced a visitor to her mistress, she returned and conducted him into the presence of the Princess of Bretagne.

He saw a woman of thirty-six years of age, tall and somewhat stately, only moderately good-looking, and with an expression of intense weariness and listlessness in her dark eyes. The face was a true index to the feelings, for few lonelier women have ever shut their sorrows in their hearts than the Princess Jeanne of Bretagne. She had no child; and her husband followed the usual rule of people who spend life in amusing themselves, and who are apt to be far from amusing to their own families. His interest, his attractions, and his powers of entertainment were kept for the world outside. When his wife saw him, he was generally either vexed, and consequently irritable, or tired and somewhat sulky. All the sufferings of reaction which fell to him were visited on her. She was naturally a woman of strong but silent character; a woman who locked her feelings, her sufferings, and her thoughts in her own breast, and having found no sympathy where she ought to have found it, refrained from seeking it elsewhere.

Lord Basset would have been astonished had he been accused of ill-using his wife. He never lifted his hand against her, nor even found fault with her before company. He simply let her feel as if her life were not worth living, and there was not a soul on earth who cared to make it so. If, only now and then, he would have given her half an hour of that brilliance with which he entertained his guests! if he would occasionally have shown her that he cared whether she was tired, that it made any difference to his happiness whether she was happy! She was a woman with intense capacity for loving, but there was no fuel for the fire, and it was dying out for sheer want of material. Women of lighter character might have directed their affections elsewhere; women of more versatile temperament might have found other interests for themselves; she did neither. Though strong, her intellect was neither quick nor of great range; it was deep rather than wide in its extent. It must be remembered, also, that a multitude of interests which are open to a woman in the present day, were quite unknown to her. The whole world of literature and science was an unknown thing; and art was only accessible in the two forms of fancy work and illumination, for neither of which had she capacity or taste. She could sew, cook, and act as a doctor when required, which was not often; and there the list of her accomplishments ended. There was more in her, but nobody cared to draw it out, and herself least of all.

Lady Basset bowed gravely in reply to Godfrey's courtesy, broke the seal of the letter, and gazed upon the cabalistic characters therein written. Had they been Chinese, she would have learned as much from them as she did. She handed back the letter with a request that he would read it to her, if he possessed the art of reading; if not, she would send for Father Collard.

For a moment, but no more, the temptation visited Godfrey to read the letter as something which it was not. He dismissed it, not from any conscientious motive, but simply from the doubt whether he could keep up the delusion.

"Good!" said Lady Basset, when the letter had been read to her; "and now what is that you are to tell me?"

"Dame, suffer me first to say that it is of the gravest moment that there be no eavesdroppers about, and that your Ladyship be pleased to keep strait silence thereupon. Otherwise, I dare not utter that wherewith his Grace's letter hath ado."

"There be no ears at hand save my bower-woman's, and I will answer for her as for myself. I can keep silence when need is. Speak on."

"Then, Lady, I give you to know that the Duchess' Grace, your mother, is now in ward under keeping of my father, at Hazelwood Manor, and—"

Lady Basset had risen to her feet, with a strange glow in her eyes.

"My mother!" she said.

"Your Lady and mother, Dame; and she—"

"My mother!" she said, again. "My mother! I thought my mother was dead and buried, years and years ago!"

"Verily, no, Lady; and my Lord Archbishop's Grace doth most earnestly desire your Ladyship to pay her visit, she being now near death, and your Lord and brother the Duke denying to come unto her."

The glow deepened in the dark eyes.

"My Lord my brother refused to go to my mother?"

"He did so, Dame."

"And she is near death?"

"Very near, I am told, Lady."

"And he wist it?"

"He wist it."

Lady Basset seemed for a moment to have forgotten everything but the one.

"Lead on," she said. "I will go to her—poor Mother! I can scarce remember her; I was so young when taken from her. But I think she loved me once. I will go, though no other soul on earth keep me company."

"Lady," said Godfrey, saying the exact reverse of truth, "I do right heartily trust your Lord shall not let you therein."

"What matter?" she said. "If the Devil and all his angels stood in the way, I would go to my dying mother."

She left the room for a minute, and to Godfrey's dismay came back attired for her journey, as if she meant to set out there and then.

"But, Lady!" he expostulated.

"You need not tarry for me," she said, calmly. "I can find the way, and I have sent word to bid mine horses."

This was unendurable. Godfrey, in his dismay, left the room with only a courtesy, and sought Lord Basset in the hall.

"Ah! she's taken the bit betwixt her teeth," said he. "I warrant you'd best leave her be; she'll go now, if it be on a witch's broom. I'll forbid it, an' you will, but I do you to wit I might as well entreat yon tree not to wave in the wind. When she doth take the bit thus, she's—"

An emphatic shake of Lord Basset's head finished the sentence. He rose as if it were more trouble than it was reasonable to impose, walked into his wife's room, and asked her where she was going that winter day.

"You are scarce wont to inquire into my comings and goings," she said, coldly. "But if it do your Lordship ease to wit the same, I am going to Hazelwood Manor, whence yonder young gentleman is now come."

"How if I forbid it?"

"My Lord, I am sent for to my dying mother. Your Lordship is a gentleman, I believe, and therefore not like to forbid me. But if you so did, yea, twenty times twice told, I should answer you as now I do. Seven years have I done your bidding, and when I return I will do it yet again. But not now. Neither you, nor Satan himself, should stay me this one time."

"Your Ladyship losengeth," [flatters] was the careless answer. "Fare you well. I'll not hinder you. As for Satan, though it pleaseth you to count me in with him, I'll be no surety for his doings. Master Foljambe, go you after this crack-brained dame of mine, or tarry you here with me and drink a cup of Malvoisie wine?"

Godfrey would very much have preferred to remain with Lord Basset; but a wholesome fear of his father and the Archbishop together restrained him from doing so. He was exceedingly vexed to be made to continue his journey thus without intermission; but Lady Basset was already on a pillion behind her squire, and Emeriarde on another behind the groom, a few garments having been hastily squeezed into a saddle-bag carried by the latter. This summary way of doing things was almost unheard of in the fourteenth century; and Godfrey entertained a private opinion that "crack-brained" was a truthful epithet.

"Needs must," said he; "wherefore I pray your Lordship mercy. Her Ladyship shall scantly make good road to Hazelwood without I go withal. But—ha, chetife!"

Lord Basset slightly laughed, kissed his hand to his wife, lifted his hat to Godfrey with a shrug of his shoulders, and walked back into Drayton Manor House.



CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

TOO LITTLE.

"God's very kindest answers to our prayers Come often in denials or delays."

S.W. Partridge.

Lord Basset turned back into his house with a sensation akin to relief. Not that he allowed the thought of his wife's unhappiness to deter him from any course on which he had set his heart, but that he felt the pressure of her atmosphere, and could not enjoy his transgressions with the full abandon which he would have liked. Her stately, cold, unbending reserve was like a constant chill and blight. How much more happy they might have been if they had chosen! The world held many a worse man than Lord Basset; he was rather idle and careless than wicked, though idleness and carelessness are very often the seed of wickedness, when left to go to flower. If she would only have dropped that haughty coldness, he thought, he could have felt interest in her, and have taken some pleasure in her society; while her conviction was that if he would only have shown some interest, she could have loved him and returned it. Would both have done it together, the result might have been attained.

Mr Godfrey Foljambe was meditating, not on this, but on his own personal wrongs, as he led the little cavalcade in an easterly direction. First, he had been deprived of that glass of Malvoisie— which would probably have been plural rather than singular—and of a conversation with Lord Basset, which might have resulted in something of interest: and life was exceedingly devoid of interest, thought Mr Godfrey, in a pessimistic spirit. He had not discovered that, to a great extent, life is to every man what he chooses to make it; that he who keeps his eyes fixed on street mud need not expect to discover pearls, while he who attentively scans the heavens is not at all unlikely to see stars. Let a man set himself diligently to hunt for either his misfortunes or his mercies, and he will find plenty of the article in request. Misfortunes were the present object of Mr Godfrey's search, and he had no difficulty in discovering them. He was disgusted with the folly of Lady Basset in thus setting off at once, and making him set off, without so much as an hour's rest. It was just like a woman! Women never had a scrap of patience. This pleasing illusion that all patience was masculine was kept up in popular literature just so long as men were the exclusive authors; when women began to write, otherwise than on kingly sufferance of the nobler half of creation, it was seen that the feminine view of that and similar subjects was not quite so restricted. Last and worst to young Godfrey was the expectation of his father's displeasure. Sir Godfrey's anger was no passing cloud, as his son well knew. To be thought to have failed in his mission—as assuredly he would be—by his own fault, would result in considerable immediate discomfort, and might even damage his worldly prospects in future. He would gladly have prolonged the journey; for his instinct always led him to put off the evil day rather than to face it and put it behind him—which last is usually the wiser course; but Lady Basset would brook no delay, and on the afternoon of the second day after leaving Drayton they rode up to Hazelwood Manor.

Godfrey hastily despatched the porter's lad to inform his mother of Lady Basset's arrival; and Lady Foljambe met her on the steps of the hall. The latter was scandalised to find that the former saw no need for secrecy, or at any rate had no intention of preserving it.

"Dame," said Lady Foljambe, "I am honoured by your Ladyship's visit. Pray you, suffer me to serve you with hypocras and spice in your privy chamber."

This was intended as a gentle hint to the visitor that secrets were not to be talked in the hall; but the hint was not accepted.

"How fares my Lady and mother?" was the response.

"Dame, much worse than when my son departed," said Lady Foljambe, in a fluttered manner.

"Then I pray you to break my coming, and lead me to her forthwith," said Lady Basset, in her style of stately calm.

A curtain was drawn aside, and Perrote came forward.

"Damoiselle Jeanne!" she said, greeting Lady Basset by the old youthful title unheard for years. "My darling, mine own dear child!"

A smile, not at all usual there, quivered for a moment on the calm fixed lips.

"Is this mine ancient nurse, Perrote de Carhaix?" she said. "I think I know her face."

The smile was gone in a moment, as she repeated her wish to be taken immediately to the Countess.

Lady Foljambe felt she had no choice. She led the way to the chamber of the royal prisoner, requesting Lady Basset to wait for a moment at the door.

The Countess sat no longer in her cushioned chair by the window. She was now confined to her bed, where she lay restlessly, moaning at intervals, but always on one theme. "My children! my lost children! Will not God give me back one?"

Lady Foljambe signed to Perrote—she scarcely knew why—to break the news to the suffering mother.

"Lady, the Lord hath heard your moaning, and hath seen your tears," said Perrote, kneeling by the bed. "He hath given you back—"

"My son?"

The cry was a pitiful one. Then, as ever, the boy was the dearest to his mother's heart.

"Very dear Lady, no. Your daughter."

It was painful to see how the sudden gleam died out of the weary eyes.

"Ah, well!" she said, after an instant's pause. "Well! I asked but for one, and when man doth that, he commonly gets the lesser of the twain. Well! I shall be glad to see my Jeanne. Let her come in."

Lady Basset came forward and bent over the dying woman.

"Dame!" she said.

"Come, now!" was the answer. "There be folks enough call me Dame. Only two in all this world can call me Mother."

"Mother!" was the response, in a tremulous voice. And then the icy stateliness broke up, and passionate sobs broke in, mingled with the sounds of "O Mother! Mother!"

"That's good, little lass," said the Countess. "It's good to hear that, but once, ma fillette. But wherefore tarrieth thy brother away? It must be King Edward that will not suffer him to come."

It was piteous to hear her cling thus to the old illusion. All the time of her imprisonment, though now and then in a fit of anger she could hurl bitter names at her son, yet, when calm, she had usually maintained that he was kept away from her, and refused to be convinced that his absence was of his own free will. The longer the illusion lasted, the more stubbornly she upheld it.

"'Tis not always the best-loved that loveth back the best," said Perrote, gently, "without man's best love be, as it should be, fixed on God. And 'tis common for fathers and mothers to love better than they be loved; the which is more than all other true of the Father in Heaven."

"Thou mayest keep thy sermons, old woman, till mass is sung," said the Countess, in her cynical style. "Ah me! My Jean would come to the old, white-haired mother that risked her life for his—he would come if he could. He must know how my soul hungereth for the sight of his face. I want nothing else. Heaven would be Purgatory to me without him."

"Ah, my dear Lady!" tenderly replied Perrote. "If only I might hear you say that of the Lord that laid down His life for you!"

"I am not a nun," was the answer; "and I shall not say that which I feel not."

"God forbid you should, Lady! But I pray Him to grant you so to feel."

"I tell thee, I am not a nun," said the Countess, rather pettishly.

Her idea was that real holiness was impossible out of the cloister, and that to love God was an entirely different type of feeling from the affection she had for her human friends. This was the usual sentiment in the Middle Ages. But Perrote had been taught of God, and while her educational prejudices acted like coloured or smoked glass, and dimmed the purity of the heavenly light, they were unable to hide it altogether.

"Very dear Lady," she said, "God loveth sinners; and He must then love other than nuns. Shall they not love Him back, though they be not in cloister?"

"Thou hadst better win in cloister thyself, when thou art rid of me," was the answer, in a tone which was a mixture of languor and sarcasm. "Thou art scarce fit to tarry without, old woman."

"I will do that which God shall show me," said Perrote, calmly. "Dame, were it not well your Grace should essay to sleep?"

"Nay, not so. I have my Jeanne to look at, that I have not seen for five-and-twenty years. I shall sleep fast enough anon. Daughter, art thou a happy woman, or no?"

Lady Basset answered by a shake of the head. "Why, what aileth thee? Is it thy baron, or thy childre?"

"I have no child, Mother."

The Countess heard the regretful yearning of the tone.

"Thank the saints," she said. "Thou wert better. Soothly, to increase objects for love is to increase sorrow. If thou have no childre, they'll never be torn from thee, nor they will never break thine heart by ill behaving. And most folks behave ill in this world. Ha, chetife! 'tis a weary, dreary place, this world, as ever a poor woman was in. Hast thou a good man to thy baron, child?"

"He might be worser," said Lady Basset, icily.

"That's true of an handful of folks," said the Countess. "And I reckon he might be better, eh? That's true of most. Good lack, I marvel wherefore we all were made. Was it by reason God loved or hated us? Say, my Predicant Friaress."

"Very dear Lady, the wise man saith, 'God made a man rightful, and he meddled himself with questions without, number.' [Ecclesiastes eight, verse 29.] And Saint Paul saith that 'God commendeth His charity in us, for when we were sinners, Christ was dead for us.' [Romans five, verse 8.] Moreover, Saint John—"

"Hold! There be two Scriptures. Where is the sermon?"

"The Scriptures, Lady, preach a better sermon than I can."

"That's but a short one. Man's ill, and God is good; behold all thine homily. That man is ill, I lack no preaching friar to tell me. As to God being good, the Church saith so, and there I rest. Mary, Mother! if He were good, He would bring my Jean back to me."

"Very dear Lady, God is wiser than men, and He seeth the end from the beginning."

"Have done, Perrotine! I tell thee, if God be good, He will bring my Jean to me. There I abide. I'll say it, if He do. I would love any man that wrought that: and if He will work it, I will love Him—and not otherwise. Hold! I desire no more talk."

The Countess turned her face to the wall, and Perrote retired, with tears in her eyes.

"Lord, Thou art wise!" she said in her heart; "wiser than I, than she, than all men. But never yet have I known her to depart from such a word as that. Oh, if it be possible,—if it be possible!—Thou who camest down from Heaven to earth, come down once more to the weak and stubborn soul of this dying woman, and grant her that which she requests, if so she may be won to love thee! Father, the time is very short, and her soul is very dark. O fair Father, Jesu Christ, lose not this soul for which Thou hast died!"

Perrote's next move was to await Lady Basset's departure from her mother's chamber, and to ask her to bestow a few minutes' private talk on her old nurse. The Princess complied readily, and came into the opposite chamber where Amphillis sat sewing.

"Damoiselle Jeanne," said Perrote, using the royal title of Lady Basset's unmarried days; "may I pray you tell me if you have of late seen the Lord Duke your brother?"

"Ay, within a year," said Lady Basset, listlessly.

"Would it please you to say if King Edward letteth his coming?"

"I think not so."

"Would he come, if he were asked yet again, and knew that a few weeks— maybe days—would end his mother's life?"

"I doubt it, Perrotine."

"Wherefore? He can love well where he list."

"Ay, where he list. But I misdoubt if ever he loved her—at the least, sithence she let him from wedding the Damoiselle de Ponteallen."

"Then he loved the Damoiselle very dearly?"

"For a month—ay."

"But wherefore, when the matter was by—"

Lady Basset answered with a bitter little laugh, which reminded Perrote of her mother's.

"Because he loved Jean de Montfort, and she thwarted him, not the Damoiselle. He loved Alix de Ponteallen passionately, and passion dies; 'tis its nature. It is not passionately, but undyingly, that he loves himself. Men do; 'tis their nature."

Perrote shrewdly guessed that the remark had especial reference to one man, and that not the Duke of Bretagne.

"Ah, that is the nature of all sinners," she said, "and therefore of all men and women also. Dame, will you hearken to your old nurse, and grant her one boon?"

"That will I, Perrotine, if it be in my power. I grant not so many boons, neither can I, that I should grudge one to mine old nurse. What wouldst?"

"Dame, I pray you write a letter to my Lord Duke, the pitifullest you may pen, and send one of your men therewith, to pray him, as he loveth you, or her, or God, that he will come and look on her ere she die. Tell him his old nurse full lovingly entreateth him, and if he will so do, I will take veil when my Lady is gone hence, and spend four nights in the week in prayer for his welfare. Say I will be his bedes-woman for ever, in any convent he shall name. Say anything that will bring him!"

"I passed thee my word, and I will keep it," said Lady Basset, as she rose. "But if I know him, what I should say certainly to bring him would be that Sir Oliver de Clisson lay here in dungeon, and that if he would come he should see his head strake off in yonder court. He is a fair lover, my brother; but he is a far better hater."

Perrote sighed.

"Amphillis!" came faintly up the stairs and along the gallery. "Am-phil-lis!"

"Go, child," said Perrote, replying to a look from Amphillis. "'Tis Agatha calling thee. What would the foolish maid?"

Amphillis left her work upon the bench and ran down.

"Well, it is merry matter to catch hold of thee!" said Agatha, who was waiting at the foot of the stairs, and who never could recollect, unless Lady Foljambe were present, that Amphillis was to be addressed with more reverence than before. "Here be friends of thine come to visit thee."

"Friends!—of mine!" exclaimed Amphillis, in surprise. "Why, I haven't any friends."

"Well, enemies, then," said Agatha, with a giggle. "Come, go into hall and see who they be, and then tell me."

Amphillis obeyed, and to her still greater surprise, found herself in the presence of Mr Altham and Regina.

"Ah, here she cometh!" was her uncle's greeting. "Well, my maid, I am fain to see thee so well-looking, I warrant thee. Can'st love a new aunt, thinkest?"

"That am I secure," replied Amphillis, smiling, and kissing the goldsmith's daughter.

"And an old uncle belike?" pursued Mr Altham, kissing her in his turn.

"Assuredly, dear Uncle; but I pray, how came you hither?"

"Dat shall I tell you," said Mrs Altham, "for oderwise you shall not know what good uncle you have. He promise to take me to mine own home in Dutchland, to see my greatmoder and mine aunts; and when we nigh ready were, he say, 'See you, now! shall we not go round by Derbyshire, to see Amphillis, and sail from Hull?' So we come round all dis way; he miss you so, and want to make him sure you be well and kindly used. See you?"

"How kind and good are you both!" said Amphillis, gratefully. "Pray you, good Aunt Regina, came Ricarda home safe?"

"She came safe, and she had but de scold well, tanks to your message; if not, she had de beat, beat, I ensure you, and she deserve dat full well. She was bad girl, bad. Said I not to you, De mans is bad, and de womans is badder? It is true."

"She's a weary hussy!" said Mr Altham; "but she's been a sight better maid sithence she came back. She saith 'tis thy doing, Phyllis."

"Mine?" exclaimed Amphillis.

"She saith so. I wis not how. And art happy here, my maid? Doth thy dame entreat thee well? and be thy fellows pleasant company? Because if no, there's room for thee in the patty-shop, I can tell thee. Saundrina's wed, and Ricarda looks to be, and my wife and I should be full fain to have thee back for our daughter. Howbeit, if thou art here welsome and comfortable, we will not carry thee off against thy will. What sayest?"

"Truly, dear Uncle, I am here full welsome, saving some small matters of little moment; and under your good pleasure, I would fain not go hence so long as one liveth that is now sore sick in this house, and nigh to death. Afterward, if it like you to dispose of me otherwise, I am alway at your bidding."

"Well said. But what should best like thee?"

Amphillis felt the question no easy one. She would not wish to leave Perrote; but if Perrote took the veil, that obstacle would be removed; and even if she did not, Amphillis had no certain chance of accompanying her wherever she might go, which would not improbably be to Drayton Manor. To leave the rest of her present companions would be no hardship at all, except—

Amphillis's heart said "except," and her conscience turned away and declined to pursue that road. Norman Hylton had shown no preference for her beyond others, so far as she knew, and her maidenly instinct warned her that even her thoughts had better be kept away from him. Before she answered, a shadow fell between her and the light; and Amphillis looked up into the kindly face of Archbishop Neville.

The Archbishop had delayed his further journey for the sake of the dying Countess, whom he wished to see again, especially if his influence could induce her son to come to her. He now addressed himself to Mr Altham.

"Master Altham, as I guess?" he asked, pleasantly.

Mr Altham rose, as in duty bound, in honour to a priest, and a priest who, as he dimly discerned by his canonicals, was not altogether a common one.

"He, and your humble servant, holy Father."

"You be uncle, I count, of my cousin Amphillis here?"

"Sir! Amphillis your cousin!"

"Amphillis is my cousin," was the quiet answer; "and I am the Archbishop of York."

To say that Mr Altham was struck dumb with amazement would be no figure of speech. He stared from the Archbishop to Amphillis, and back again, as if his astonishment had fairly paralysed his powers, that of sight only excepted; and had not Regina roused him from his condition of helplessness by an exclamation of "Ach, heilige, Maria!" there is no saying how long he might have stood so doing.

"Ay, Uncle," said Amphillis, with a smile; "this is my Lord elect of York, and he is pleased to say that my father was his kinsman."

"And if it serve you, Master Altham," added the Archbishop, "I would fain have a privy word with you touching this my cousin."

Mr Altham's reply was two-fold. "Saints worshipped might they be!" was meant in answer to Amphillis. Then, to the Archbishop, he hastily continued, "Sir, holy Father, your Grace's most humble servant! I hold myself at your Grace's bidding, whensoever it shall please your Grace."

"That is well," said the Archbishop, smiling. "We will have some talk this evening, if it serve you."



CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

THE REQUEST GRANTED.

"It is not love that steals the heart from love: 'Tis the hard world, and its perplexing cares; Its petrifying selfishness, its pride, its low ambition, and its paltry aims."

Caroline Bowles.

Lady Basset fulfilled her promise of writing to her brother, and sent her own squire with the letter. It was uncertain where the Duke might be, and consequently how long the journey might take. The messenger was instructed to seek him first at Windsor, and to be guided in his further movements by what he might hear there. No time was lost, for the squire set out on his journey that very evening.

About the time of his departure, the Archbishop and Mr Altham held their little conference. Regina was at work in the window-seat, by her husband's contrivance. Theoretically, he took the popular view of the condign inferiority of the female intellect; while practically he held his Regina in the highest reverence, and never thought of committing himself on any important subject without first ascertaining her opinion. And the goldsmith's daughter deserved his esteem; for she possessed a warm heart and a large reserve of quiet good sense. They were both highly delighted to see that the Archbishop seemed inclined to show kindness to the young cousin whose relationship he, at least, was not too proud to acknowledge.

"Nor should he not be," said Regina, whose tiny bobbins were flying about on her lace-cushion, too fast for the eye to follow. "Did we not come, all, from von man and von woman? I tink Adam was not too proud to speak to Abel: and if Cain would not talk, he was bad man, and we should not take de pattern after de bad mans. Ach! if dere was none but good mans and good womans, what better of a world it should be!"

Regina had too much tact and sense of propriety to thrust herself into the conversation between the Archbishop and her husband; she sat silently listening and working, and the sprigs of lace flowers grew rapidly under her skilful fingers.

"I would fain speak with you, Mr Altham," said the Archbishop, "touching the disposing of my cousin Amphillis. I cannot but feel that the maid hath been somewhat wronged by her father's kin; and though, thanks be to God, I never did her nor him any hurt, yet, being of his kindred, I would desire you to suffer me a little to repair this wrong. She seemeth me a good maid and a worthy, and well bred in courtesy; wherefore, if my word might help her to secure a better settlement, I would not it were lacking. I pray you, therefore, to count me as your friend and hers, and tell me how you think to order her life. She hath, I take it, none other guardian than you?"

"My Lord, your Grace doth us great honour. 'Tis true, the maid hath none other guardian than I; and her mother was mine only sister, and I held her dear: and seeing she had none other to give an helping hand, I was in the mind to portion her with mine own daughters. I gave to the two, and shall give to the other, five pound apiece to their marriages, and likewise their wedding gear; and seeing she is a good, decent maid, and a credit to her kin, I would do the same by Amphillis."

"Therein do you act full nobly, Master Altham," said the Archbishop; for the sum named was a very handsome one for a girl in Mr Altham's station of life at that time. Only a tradesman very well-to-do could have afforded to portion his daughter so highly, with an amount equivalent in the present day to about 80 pounds. "Go to, then: will you suffer me that I endow my young kinswoman with the like sum, and likewise find her in an horse for her riding?"

In days when public conveyances of all kinds were totally unknown, a horse was almost a necessity, and only the very poor were without one at least. The price of such a horse as would be considered fit for Amphillis was about thirty shillings or two pounds. The offer of the Archbishop therefore struck Mr Altham as a most generous one, and his thanks were profuse accordingly.

"Have you taken any thought for her disposal?" inquired the prelate.

"No, in very deed," replied the worthy patty-maker, with some hesitation. "There be nigh me divers youths of good conditions, that I dare be bound should be fain to wed with a maid of good lineage and decent 'haviour, with a pretty penny in her pocket; but I never brake my mind to any, and—" here Mr Altham glanced at Regina, and received an optic telegram across the bobbins—"if your Grace were pleased to think of any that you had a favour for, I would not in no wise stand in the way thereto."

"Methinks," said the Archbishop, "under your leave, worthy Master Altham, my cousin might look somewhat higher. Truly, I mean not to cast scorn on any good and honest man; we be all sons of Adam: but—in a word, to speak out straightway, I have one in my mind that I reckon should not make an ill husband for Amphillis, and this is Sir Godfrey Foljambe his squire, Master Norman Hylton, that is of birth even with her, and I believe a full worthy young man, and well bred. If it may suit with your reckoning, what say you to breaking your mind to him thereupon, and seeing if he be inclined to entertain the same?"

"My Lord," replied Master Altham, after exchanging another telegram with his Mentor, "in good sooth, both Phyllis and I are much beholden unto you, and I will full gladly so do."

"Yet, Master Altham, I would desire you to be satisfied touching this young man's conditions, ere you do fix your mind upon him. I hear well of him from all that do know him—indeed, I am myself acquaint with some of his near kin—with twain of his uncles and a brother—yet I would fain have you satisfied therewith no less than myself."

Optic telegrams would not answer this time, for Regina's eyes were not lifted from the lace-cushion. Mr Altham hesitated a moment, murmured a few words of thanks, and at last came out openly with—"What sayest, sweetheart?"

"He will do," was Regina's answer. "He is good man. He have clear eyes, he look you in de face; he pray in de chapel, and not run his eyes all round; he laugh and chatter-patter not wid other damsels; he is sad, courteous, and gent. He will do, husband."

Little idea had Amphillis that her future was being thus settled for her downstairs, as she sat in the Countess's chamber, tending her sick lady. The Countess was slowly sinking. Father Jordan thought she might live perhaps for another month; it was only a question of time. Perrote said that the soul was keeping the body alive. The old fiery flashes of passion were never seen now; she showed a little occasional irritability and petulance, but usually her mood was one of listless, languid weariness, from which nothing aroused her, and in which nothing interested her. The one burning, crying desire of her heart was to see her son. She did not know of the fruitless application which had been already made to him; still less of the renewed appeal, to which no answer could be returned for some days at least. Her belief was that Sir Godfrey would not permit any message to be sent, and that if he did, King Edward would not allow the Duke, who was his vassal, to obey it. To the least hint that the Duke might or could himself decline, she refused to listen so decidedly that no one had the heart to repeat it. More plaintive, day by day, grew the dying mother's yearning moans for her best-loved child. In vain Perrote tried to assure her that human love was inadequate to satisfy the cravings of her immortal soul; that God had made her for Himself, and that only when it reached and touched Him could the spirit which He had given find rest.

"I cannot hearken to thee, old woman," said the dying prisoner. "My whole soul is set on my lad, and is bent to see him before I die. Let God grant me that, and I will listen to Him after—I will love the good God then. I cannot rest, I cannot rest without my lad!"

The days wore on, and the snows of February passed into the winds of March. Lady Basset remained at Hazelwood, but her squire had not returned. The Countess was very weak now.

The Archbishop of York had delayed his departure too. He would answer for it, he said, both to his superior of Canterbury and to the King. In his own heart he was not satisfied with the ministrations of kindly, ignorant Father Jordan, who was very desirous to soothe the perturbed soul of the Countess, and had not the least idea how to do it. He thought he might yet be of service to the dying Princess.

Very cautiously Mr Altham ventured with some trepidation to sound Norman Hylton as to his feelings towards Amphillis. Notwithstanding the Archbishop's countenance and solid help, he was sorely afraid of being snubbed and sat upon for his presumption. He was therefore proportionately relieved when Norman assured him he wished no better fate to overtake him, but that he was unable to see how he could possibly afford to marry.

"Verily, Master Altham, I do you to wit, I have but five possessions— myself, my raiment, mine harness [armour was termed harness up to the seventeenth century], mine horse, and my book. Not a yard of land have I, nor look to have: nor one penny in my plack, further than what I earn. How then can I look to keep a wife? Well I wot that Mistress Amphillis were fortune in herself to him that is so lucky as to win her; but in good sooth, no such thing is there as luck, and I should say, that hath so much favour of. God, seeing the wise man saith that 'a prudent wife is given properly of the Lord.' Yet I reckon that the wisest in the world can scarce keep him warm of a winter day by lapping him in his wisdom; and the fairest and sweetest lady shall lack somewhat to eat beside her own sweetness. Could I see my way thereto, trust me, I would not say you nay; but—"

"But how, Master Hylton, if she carried her pocket full of nobles?"

"Ah, then it were other matter. I would stand to it gladly if so were."

"Well, for how much look you? Amphillis should bring you a portion of ten pound beside her wedding gear, and an horse."

"Say you so? Methinks we were made, then, could we win into some great house to serve the lord and lady thereof."

"I cast no doubt, if he had the opportunity, my Lord's Grace of York should help you at that pinch. He seems full ready to do his young kinswoman all the good he may."

"May I but see my way afore me, Master Altham, nought should make me gladder than to fulfil this your behest."

Mr Altham laid the case before the Archbishop.

"Tell Master Hylton he need give himself not so much thought thereon as a bee should pack in his honey-bag," was the smiling reply. "I will warrant, so soon as it is known in the Court that I lack place for a newly-wedded cousin and her husband, there shall be so many warm nests laid afore me, that I shall have but to pick and choose. If that be all the bar to my cousin's wedding, I may bless it to-morrow."

It was evident that there was no other difficulty, from the glad light in Norman Hylton's eyes when he was told the Archbishop's answer. The matter was settled at once. Only one small item was left out, considered of no moment—the bride-elect knew nothing about the transaction. That was a pleasure to come. That it would, should, might, or could, be anything but a pleasure, never occurred either to the Archbishop or to Mr Altham. They would not have belonged to their century if it had done so.

It was the afternoon of the ninth of March. No answer had been received from the Duke, and Perrote had almost lost hope. The Countess petulantly declined to allow any religious conversation in her chamber. She was restless and evidently miserable, Perrote thought more so than merely from the longing desire to see her son; but some strange and unusual reserve seemed to have come over her. Physically, she sank day by day: it would soon be hour by hour.

Amphillis was off duty for the moment, and had seated herself with her work at the window of her own room, which looked into the outer court, and over the walls towards Derby. She kept upstairs a good deal at this time. There were several reasons for this. She wished to be close at hand if her services were needed; she had no fancy for Agatha's rattle; and—she had not asked herself why—she instinctively kept away from the company of Norman Hylton. Amphillis was not one of those girls who wear their hearts upon their sleeves; who exhibit their injuries, bodily or mental, and chatter freely over them to every comer. Her instinct was rather that of the wounded hart, to plunge into the deepest covert, away from every eye but the Omniscient.

Mr and Mrs Altham had pursued their journey without any further communication to Amphillis. It was Lady Foljambe's prerogative to make this; indeed, a very humble apology had to be made to her for taking the matter in any respect out of her hands. This was done by the Archbishop, who took the whole blame upon himself, and managed the delicate affair with so much grace, that Lady Foljambe not only forgave the Althams, but positively felt herself flattered by his interference. She would inform Amphillis, after the death of the Countess, how her future had been arranged.

The maiden herself, in ignorance of all arrangements made or imagined, was indulging in some rather despondent meditations. The state of the Countess, whom she deeply pitied; the probably near parting from Perrote, whom she had learned to love; and another probable parting of which she would not let herself think, were enough to make her heart sink. She would, of course, go back to her uncle, unless it pleased Lady Foljambe to recommend (which meant to command) her to the service of some other lady. And Amphillis was one of those shy, intense souls for whom the thought of new faces and fresh scenes has in it more fear than hope. She knew that there was just a possibility that Lady Foljambe might put her into Ricarda's place, which she had not yet filled up, three or four different negotiations to that end having failed to effect it; and either this or a return to her uncle was the secret hope of her heart. She highly respected and liked her new Aunt Regina, and her Uncle Robert was the only one of her relatives on the mother's side whom she loved at all. Yet the prospect of a return to London was shadowed by the remembrance of Alexandra, who had ever been to Amphillis a worry and a terror.

As Amphillis sat by the window, she now and then lifted her head to look out for a moment; and she did so now, hearing the faint ring of a horn in the distance. Her eyes lighted on a party of horsemen, who were coming up the valley. They were too far away to discern details, but she saw some distant flashes, as if something brilliant caught the sunlight, and also, as she imagined, the folds of a banner floating. Was it a party of visitors coming to the Manor, or, more likely, a group of travellers on their way to Chesterfield from Derby? Or was it—oh, was it possible!—the Duke of Bretagne?

Amphillis's embroidery dropped on the rushes at her feet, as she sprang up and watched the progress of the travellers. She was pretty sure presently that the banner was white, then that some of the travellers were armed, then that they were making for Hazelwood, and at last that the foremost knight of the group wore a helmet royally encircled. She hardly dared to breathe when the banner at last showed its blazon as pure ermine; and it scarcely needed the cry of "Notre Dame de Gwengamp!" to make Amphillis rush to the opposite room, beckon Perrote out of it, and say to her in breathless ecstasy—

"The Duke! O Mistress Perrote, the Lord Duke!"

"Is it so?" said Perrote, only a little less agitated than Amphillis. "Is it surely he? may it not be a messenger only?"

"I think not so. There is an ermine pennon, and the foremost knight hath a circlet on his helm."

"Pray God it so be! Phyllis, I will go down anon and see how matters be. Go thou into our Lady's chamber—she slept but now—and if she wake, mind thou say not a word to her hereupon. If it be in very deed my Lord Duke, I will return with no delay."

"But if she ask?"

"Parry her inquirations as best thou mayest."

Amphillis knew in her heart that she was an exceedingly bad hand at that business; but she was accustomed to do as she was told, and accordingly she said no more. She was relieved to find the Countess asleep, the cry for admission not having been loud enough to wake her. She sat down and waited.

Perrote, meanwhile, had gone down into the hall, where Lady Foljambe sat at work with Agatha. Sir Godfrey was seated before the fire, at which he pointed a pair of very straight and very lengthy legs; his hands were in his pockets, and his look conveyed neither contentment nor benevolence. In a recess of the window sat young Matthew, whistling softly to himself as he stroked a hawk upon his gloved wrist, while his brother Godfrey stood at another window, looking out, with his arms upon the sill. The only person who noticed Perrote's entrance was Agatha, and she pulled a little face by way of relief to her feelings. Lady Foljambe worked on in silence.

"Sir," said Perrote, addressing herself to the master of the house, "Phyllis tells me a party be making hither, that she hath seen from the window; and under your good pleasure, I reckon, from what the maid saw, that it be my Lord's Grace of Bretagne and his meynie."

Sir Godfrey struggled to his feet with an exclamation of surprise. His elder son turned round from the window; the younger said, "Ha, jolife! Now, Gille, go on thy perch, sweet heart!" and set the falcon on its perch. Agatha's work went down in a moment. Lady Foljambe alone seemed insensible to the news. At the same moment, the great doors at the end of the hall were flung open, and the seneschal, with a low bow to his master and mistress, cried—

"Room for the Duke's Grace of Brittany!"

As the new arrivals entered the hall, Lady Basset came in from the opposite end. The Duke, a fine, rather stern-looking man, strode forward until he reached the dais where the family sat; and then, doffing his crowned helmet, addressed himself to Sir Godfrey Foljambe.

"Sir, I give you good even. King Edward your Lord greets you by me, and bids you give good heed to that which you shall find herein."

At a motion from the Duke, quick and peremptory, one of his knights stepped forth and delivered the royal letter.

Sir Godfrey took it into his hands with a low reverence, and bade his seneschal fetch Father Jordan, without whose assistance it was impossible for him to ascertain his Sovereign's bidding.

Father Jordan hastened in, cut the silken string, and read the letter.

"Messire,—Our will and pleasure is, that you shall entertain in your Manor of Hazelwood, for such time as shall be his pleasure, our very dear and well-beloved son, John, Duke of Brittany and Count de Montfort, neither letting nor deferring the said Duke from intercourse with our prisoner his mother, Margaret, Duchess of Brittany, but shall suffer him to speak with her at his will. And for so doing this shall be your warrant. By the King. At our Castle of Winchester, the morrow of Saint Romanus."

Lady Foljambe turned to the Duke and inquired when it would be his pleasure to speak with the prisoner.

"When her physician counts it meet," said he, with a slight movement of his shapely shoulders, which did not augur much gratification at the prospect before him. "By my faith, had not King Edward my father insisted thereon, then had I never come on so idle a journey. When I looked every morrow for news from Bretagne, bidding me most likely thither, to trot over half England for an old dame's diversion were enough to try the patience of any knight on earth! I shall not tarry long here, I do ensure you, his Highness' bidding fulfilled; and I trust your physician shall not long tarry me."

Sir Godfrey and Lady Foljambe were full of expressions of sympathy. Lady Basset came forward, and spoke in a slightly cynical tone.

"Good morrow, my Lord," said she to her brother. "You came not to see me, I think, more in especial as I shall one of these days be an old woman, when your Grace's regard for me shall perish. Father Jordan, I pray you, let it not be long ere you give leave for this loving son to have speech of his mother. 'Twere pity he should break his heart by tarrying."

Father Jordan nervously intimated that if the Countess were not asleep, he saw no reason why his Grace's visit should be delayed at all.

"Nay, but under your leave, my good host, I will eat first," said the Duke; "were it but to strengthen me for the ordeal which waiteth me."

Lady Foljambe disappeared at once, on hospitable thoughts intent, and Sir Godfrey was profuse in apologies that the suggestion should have needed to come from the Duke. But the only person in the hall who, except his sister, was not afraid of the Duke, stepped forth and spoke her mind.



CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

SATISFIED AT LAST.

"I am not eager, bold, Nor strong—all that is past: I'm ready not to do, At last—at last.

"My half-day's work is done, And this is all my part; I give a patient God My patient heart.

"And grasp His banner still, Though all its blue be dim: These stripes, no less than stars, Lead after Him."

"Fair Lord," said Perrote de Carhaix, in the native tongue of both herself and the Duke, "I am your old nurse, who held you in her arms as a babe, and who taught your infant lips to speak. I taught you the Ten Commandments of God; have you forgotten them? or do you call such words as you have spoken honouring your mother? Is this the reward you pay her for her mother-love, for her thousand anxieties, for her risked life? If it be so, God pardon you as He may! But when you too reach that point which is the common lot of all humanity—when you too lie awaiting the dread summons of the inevitable angel who shall lead you either into the eternal darkness or the everlasting light, beware lest your dearest turn away from you, and act by you as you have done by her!"

The Duke's black eyes shot forth fire. He was an exceedingly passionate man.

"Mademoiselle de Carhaix, do you know that you are my subject?"

"I am aware of it, my Lord."

"And that I could order your head struck off in yonder court?"

"You could, if yonder court were in Bretagne. In the realm of another sovereign, I scarcely think so, under your gracious pleasure. But do you suppose I should be silent for that? When God puts His words into the lips of His messengers, they must speak them out, whatever the result may be."

"Mademoiselle considers herself, then, an inspired prophetess?" was the contemptuous response.

"The Lord put His words once into the mouth of an ass," replied Perrote, meekly. "I think I may claim to be an ass's equal. I have spoken, fair Lord, and I shall add no more. The responsibility lies now with you. My message is delivered, and I pray God to give you ears to hear."

"Sir Godfrey Foljambe, is this the manner in which you think it meet that one of your household should address a Prince?"

"Most gracious Lord, I am deeply distressed that this gentlewoman should so far have forgotten herself. But I humbly pray your Grace to remember that she is but a woman; and women have small wit and much spitefulness."

"In good sooth, I have need to remember it!" answered the Duke, wrathfully. "I never thought, when I put myself to the pains to journey over half England to satisfy the fancies of a sick woman, that I was to be received with insult and contumely after this fashion. I pray you to send this creature out of my sight, as the least reparation that can be offered for such an injury."

"You need not, Sir," was the immediate reply of Perrote. "I go, for mine errand is done. And for the rest, may God judge between us, and He will."

The Duke sat down to the collation hastily spread before him, with the air of an exceedingly injured man. He would not have been quite so angry, if his own conscience had not been so provoking as to second every word of Perrote's reprimand. And as it is never of the least use for a man to quarrel with his conscience, he could do nothing but make Perrote the scape-goat, unless, indeed, he had possessed sufficient grace and humility to accept and profit by the rebuke:—which in his eyes, was completely out of the question. Had the Archbishop of York been the speaker, he might possibly have condescended so far. But the whims of an old nurse—a subject—a woman—he told himself, must needs be utterly beneath the notice of any one so exalted. The excellence of the medicine offered him could not even be considered, if it were presented in a vessel of common pottery, chipped at the edges.

Notwithstanding his wrath, the Duke did sufficient justice to the collation; and he then demanded, if it must be, to be taken to his mother at once. The sooner the ordeal was over, the better, and he did not mean to remain at Hazelwood an hour longer than could be helped.

Lady Foljambe went up to prepare the Countess for the interview. In her chamber she found not only Amphillis, who was on duty, but the Archbishop also. He sat by the bed with the book of the Gospels in his hands—a Latin version, of course—from which he had been translating a passage to the invalid.

"Well, what now, Avena?" faintly asked the Countess, who read news in Lady Foljambe's face.

There was no time to break it very gradually, for Lady Foljambe knew that the Duke's impatience would not brook delay.

"Dame," she said, shortly, "my Lord your son—"

"Bring him in!" cried the Countess, in a voice of ecstasy, without allowing Lady Foljambe to finish her sentence. How it was to end she seemed to have no doubt, and the sudden joy lent a fictitious strength to her enfeebled frame. "Bring him in! my Jean, my darling, my little lad! Said I not the lad should never forsake his old mother? Bring him in!"

Lady Foljambe drew back to allow the Duke to enter, for his step was already audible. He came in, and stood by the bed—tall, upright, silent.

"My Jean!" cried the dying mother.

"Madame!" was the answer, decorous and icy.

"Kiss me, my Jean! Why dost thou not kiss me? Lad, I have not seen thee all these weary years!"

The Duke, in a very proper manner, kissed the weak old hand which was stretched out towards him. His lips were warm, but his kiss was as cold as a kiss well could be.

"Madame," said the Duke, mindful of the proprieties, "it gives me indescribable grief to find you thus. I am also deeply distressed that it should be impossible for me to remain with you. I expect news from Bretagne every day—almost every hour—which I hope will summon me back thither to triumph over my rebellious subjects, and to resume my throne in victory. You will, therefore, grant me excuse if it be impossible for me to do more than kiss your hand and entreat your blessing."

"Not stay, my Jean!" she said, in piteous accents. "Not stay, when thou hast come so far to see me! Dost thou know that I am dying?"

"Madame, I am infinitely grieved to perceive it. But reasons of state are imperative and paramount."

"My Lord will pardon me for observing," said the Archbishop's voice, "with a royal kinsman of his own, that God may grant him many kingdoms, but he can never have but one mother."

The Duke's answer was in his haughtiest manner. "I assure you of my regret, holy Father. Necessity has no law."

"And no compassion?"

"Jean, my Jean! Only one minute more—one minute cannot be of importance. My little lad, my best-loved! lay thy lips to mine, and say thou lovest thine old mother, and let me bless thee, and then go, if it must be, and I will die."

Amphillis wondered that the piteous passion of love in the tones of the poor mother did not break down entirely the haughty coldness of the royal son. The Duke did indeed bend his stately knee, and touch his mother's lips with his, but there was no shadow of response to her clinging clasp, no warmth, however faint, in the kiss into which she poured her whole heart.

"Jean, little Jean! say thou lovest me?"

"Madame, it is a son's duty. I pray your blessing."

"I bless thee with my whole heart!" she said. "I pray God bless thee in every hour of thy life, grant thee health, happiness, and victory, and crown thee at last with everlasting bliss. Now go, my dear heart! The old mother will not keep thee to thy hurt. God be with thee, and bless thee!"

Even then he did not linger; he did not even give her, unsolicited, one last kiss. She raised herself on one side, to look after him and listen to him to the latest moment, the light still beaming in her sunken eyes. His parting words were not addressed to her, but she heard them.

"Now then, Du Chatel," said the Duke to his squire in the corridor, "let us waste no more time. This irksome duty done, I would be away immediately, lest I be called back."

The light died out of the eager eyes, and the old white head sank back upon the pillow, the face turned away from the watchers. Amphillis approached her, and tenderly smoothed the satin coverlet.

"Let be!" she said, in a low voice. "My heart is broken."

Amphillis, who could scarcely restrain her own sobs, glanced at the Archbishop for direction. He answered her by pressing a finger on his lips. Perrote came in, her lips set, and her brows drawn. She had evidently overheard those significant words. Then they heard the tramp of the horses in the courtyard, the sound of the trumpet, the cry of "Notre Dame de Gwengamp!" and they knew that the Duke was departing. They did not know, however, that the parting guest was sped by a few exceedingly scathing words from his sister, who had heard his remark to the squire. She informed him, in conclusion, that he could strike off her head, if he had no compunction in staining his spotless ermine banner with his own kindly blood. It would make very little difference to her, and, judging by the way in which he used his dying mother, she was sure it could make none to him.

The Duke flung himself into his saddle, and dashed off down the slope from the gate without deigning either a response or a farewell.

As the Archbishop left the Countess's chamber, he beckoned Amphillis into the corridor.

"I tarry not," said he, "for I can work no good now. This is not the time. A stricken heart hath none ears. Leave her be, and leave her to God. I go to pray Him to speak to her that comfort which she may receive alone from Him. None other can do her any help. To-morrow, maybe—when the vexed brain hath slept, and gentle time hath somewhat dulled the first sharp edge of her cruel sorrow—then I may speak and be heard. But now she is in that valley of the shadow, where no voice can reach her save that which once said, 'Lazarus, come forth!' and which the dead shall hear in their graves at the last day."

"God comfort her, poor Lady!" said Amphillis. "Ay, God comfort her!" And the Archbishop passed on.

He made no further attempt to enter the invalid chamber until the evening of the next day, when he came in very softly, after a word with Perrote—no part of any house was ever closed against a priest—and sat down by the sufferer. She lay much as he had left her. He offered no greeting, but took out his Evangelistarium from the pocket of his cassock, and began to read in a low, calm voice.

"'The Spirit of the Lord is upon Me, for He hath anointed Me; He hath sent Me to evangelise the poor, to heal the contrite in heart, to preach liberty to the captives and sight to the blind, to set the bruised at liberty, to preach the acceptable year of the Lord, and the day of retribution.'" [Luke four, verses 18, 19, Vulgate version.]

There was no sound in answer. The Archbishop turned over a few leaves.

"'Come unto Me, all ye that labour and are heavy-laden, and I will refresh you.' [Matthew nine, verse 28.] 'And God shall dry all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, nor sorrow, nor clamour, nor shall there be any more pain.' [Revelations twenty-one, verse 4.] 'Trouble not your heart: believe in God, and believe in Me.' 'Peace I bequeath to you, My peace I give to you: not as the world giveth, give I to you. Trouble not your heart, neither be it afraid.' [John fourteen, verses 1, 27.] 'Whom the Lord loveth, He chastiseth; and whippeth also every son whom He receiveth.'" [Hebrews twelve, verse 6.]

He read or quoted from memory, as passages occurred to him. When he had reached this point he made a pause. A deep sigh answered him, but no words.

"'And he looked round about on them which sat about Him, and said, Behold My mother and My brethren! For whosoever shall do the will of God, the same is My brother, and My sister, and mother.'"

"I dare say He kissed His mother!" said the low plaintive voice. She evidently knew of whom the reader spoke. "The world giveth not much peace. 'Heavy-laden!' ay, heavy-laden! 'Thou hast removed from me friend and neighbour.' I have lost my liberty, and I am losing my life; and now—God have mercy on me!—I have lost my son."

"Dame, will you take for your son the Lord that died for you? He offers Himself to you. 'The same is My mother.' He will give you not love only, but a son's love, and that warm and undying. 'With perpetual charity I delighted in thee,' He saith; 'wherefore, pitying, I drew thee to Me.' Oh, my daughter, let Him draw thee!"

"What you will, Father," was the low answer. "I have no bodily strength; pray you, make not the penance heavier than I can do. Elsewise, what you will. My will is broken; nothing matters any more now. I scarce thought it should have so been—at the end. Howbeit, God's will be done. It must be done."

"My daughter, 'this is the will of God, your sanctification.' The end and object of all penances, of all prayers, is that you may be joined to Christ. 'For He is our peace,' and we are 'in Him complete.' In Him— not in your penances, nor in yourself. If so were that my Lord Basset had done you grievous wrong, it might be you forgave him fully, not for anything in him, but only because he is one with your own daughter, and you could not strike him without smiting her; his dishonour is her dishonour, his peace is her peace, to punish him were to punish her. So is it with the soul that is joined to Christ. If He be exalted, it must be exalted; if it be rejected, He is rejected also. And God cannot reject His own Son."

The Archbishop was not at all sure that the Countess was listening to him. She kept her face turned away. He rose and wished her good evening. The medicine must not be administered in an overdose, or it might work more harm than good.

He came again on the following evening, and gave her a little more. For three days after he pursued the same course, and, further than courtesy demanded, he was not answered a word. On the fourth night he found the face turned. A pitiful face, whose aspect went to his heart—wan, white, haggard, unutterably pathetic. That night he read the fourteenth chapter of Saint John's Gospel, and added few words of his own. On leaving her, he said—

"My daughter, God is more pitiful than men, and His love is better than theirs."

"It had need be so!" were the only words that replied. In the corridor he met Father Jordan. The Archbishop stopped.

"How fareth she in the body?"

"As ill as she may be, and live. Her life is counted by hours."

The Archbishop stood at the large oriel of stained glass at the end of the corridor, looking out on the spring evening—the buds just beginning to break, the softened gold of the western sky. His heart was very full.

"O Father of the everlasting age!" he said aloud, "all things are possible unto Thee, and Thou hast eternity to work in. Suffer not this burdened heart to depart ere Thou hast healed it with Thine eternal peace! Grant Thy rest to the heavy-laden, Thy mercy to her on whom man hath had so little mercy! Was it not for this Thou earnest, O Saviour of the world? Good Shepherd, wilt Thou not go after this lost sheep until Thou find it?"

The next night the silence was broken.

"Father," she said, "tell me if I err. It looks to me, from the words you read, as if our Lord lacketh not penances and prayers, and good works; He only wants me, and that by reason that He loveth me. And why all this weary life hath been mine, He knoweth, and I am content to leave it so, if only He will take me up in His arms as the shepherd doth the sheep, and will suffer me to rest my weariness there. Do I err, Father?"

"My daughter, you accept the gospel of God's peace. This it is to come to Him, and He shall give you rest."

The work was done. The proud spirit had stooped to the yoke. The bitter truth against which she had so long fought and struggled was accepted at the pierced hands which wounded her only for her healing. That night she called Lady Basset to her.

"My little girl, my Jeanne!" she said, "I was too hard on thee. I loved thy brother the best, and I defrauded thee of the love which was thy due. And now thou hast come forty miles to close mine eyes, and he turneth away, and will have none of me. Jeanette, darling, take my dying blessing, and may God deal with thee as thou hast dealt by the old mother, and pay thee back an hundredfold the love thou hast given me! Kiss me, sweet heart, and forgive me the past."

Two days later, the long journey by the way of the wilderness was over. On the 18th of March, 1374, Perrote folded the aged, wasted hands upon the now quiet breast.

"All was ended now, the hope, and the fear, and the sorrow, All the aching of heart, the restless, unsatisfied longing, All the dull, deep pain, and the constant anguish of patience! And as she pressed once more the lifeless head to her bosom, Meekly she bowed her own, and murmured, 'Father, I thank Thee!'"

The fate which had harassed poor Marguerite in life pursued her to the very grave. There was no sumptuous funeral, no solemn hearse, no regal banners of arms for her. Had there been any such thing, it would have left its trace on the Wardrobe Rolls of the year. There was not even a court mourning. It was usual then for the funerals of royal persons to be deferred for months after the death, in order to make the ceremony more magnificent. But now, in the twilight of the second evening, which was Monday, a quiet procession came silently across from the Manor House to the church, headed by Father Jordan; twelve poor men bore torches beside the bier; the Mass for the Dead was softly sung, and those beautiful, pathetic words which for ages rose beside the waiting coffin:—

"King of awful majesty, By Thy mercy full and free, Fount of mercy, pardon me!

"Think, O Saviour, in what way On Thine head my trespass lay; Let me not be lost that day!

"Thou wert weary seeking me; On Thy cross Thou mad'st me free; Lose not all Thine agony!"

Then they prayed for her everlasting rest—not joy. The thought of active bliss could hardly be associated with that weary soul. "Jesus, grant her Thine eternal rest!" And the villagers crept round with bared heads, and whispered to one another that they were burying the White Lady—that mysterious prisoner whom no one ever saw, who never came to church, nor set foot outside the walls of her prison; and they dimly guessed some thousandth part of the past pathos of that shadowed life, and they joined in the Amen. And over her grave were set up no sculptured figure and table tomb, only one slab of pure white marble, carved with a cross, and beneath it, the sole epitaph of Marguerite of Flanders, the heroine of Hennebon,—"Mercy, Jesu!" So they left her to her rest.

Ten years later, in a quiet Manor House near Furness Abbey, a knight's wife was telling a story to her three little girls.

"And you called me after her, Mother!" said little fair-haired Margaret.

"But what became of the naughty man who didn't want to come and see his poor mother when she was so sick and unhappy, Mother?" asked compassionate little Regina.

"Naughty man!" echoed Baby Perrotine.

Lady Hylton stroked her little Margaret's hair.

"He led not a happy life, my darlings; but we will not talk about him. Ay, little Meg, I called thee after the poor White Lady. I pray God thou mayest give thine heart to Him earlier than she did, and not have to walk with weary feet along her wilderness way. Let us thank God for our happy life, and love each other as much as we can."

A hand which she had not known was there was laid upon her head.

"Thinkest thou we can do that, my Phyllis, any better than now?" asked Sir Norman Hylton.

"We can all try," said Amphillis, softly. "And God, our God, shall bless us."



APPENDIX.

Marguerite of Flanders, Countess of Montfort, was the only daughter of Loys de Nevers, eldest surviving son of Robert the First, Count of Flanders (who predeceased his father), and of Marie or Jeanne, daughter of the Count de Rethel. She had one brother, Count Loys the First of Flanders, who fell at Crecy. Many modern writers call her Jeanne; but her name in the contemporary public records of England is invariably Margareta. Her birth probably took place about 1310, and it may have been about 1335 that she married Jean of Bretagne, Count de Montfort, a younger son of Duke Arthur the Second.

Duke Arthur, the son of Beatrice of England, had been twice married—to Marie of Limoges and Violette of Dreux, Countess of Montfort in her own right. With other issue who are not concerned in the story, he had by Marie two sons, Duke Jean the Third and Guyon; and by Violette one, Jean Count of Montfort, the husband of Marguerite. On the childless death of Jean the Third in 1341, a war of succession arose between the daughter of his deceased brother Guyon, and his half-brother the Count of Montfort. The daughter, Jeanne la Boiteuse, claimed the right to represent her father Guyon, while Montfort stood by the law of non-representation, according to which no deceased prince could be represented by his child, and the younger brother even by the half-blood was considered a nearer relative than the child of the elder. The King of France took the part of Jeanne and her husband, Charles de Blois; he captured the Count of Montfort, and imprisoned him in the Louvre. The Countess Marguerite, "who had the heart of a lion," thenceforth carried on the war on behalf of her husband and son. In the spring of 1342 she obtained the help of King Edward the Third of England, which however was fitfully rendered, as he took either side in turn to suit his own convenience. Some account of her famous exploits is given in the story, and is familiar to every reader of Froissart's Chronicle. Shortly after this the Countess brought her son to England, and betrothed him to the King's infant daughter Mary; but she soon returned to Bretagne. In 1345 the Count of Montfort escaped from his prison in the disguise of a pedlar, and arrived in England: but the King was not at that time disposed to assist him, and Montfort took the refusal so much to heart that—probably combined with already failing health—it killed him in the following September. When the war was reopened, the Countess took captive her rival Charles de Blois, and brought him to England. The King appointed her residence in Tickhill Castle, granting the very small sum of 15 pounds per annum for her expenses "there or wherever we may order her to be taken, while she remains in our custody." (Patent Roll, 25 Edward the Third, Part 3.) It is evident that while treated overtly as a guest, the Countess was in reality a prisoner: a fact yet more forcibly shown by an entry in December, 1348, recording the payment of 60 shillings expenses to John Burdon for his journey to Tickhill, "to bring up to London the Duchess of Bretagne and the knight who ran away with her." This seems to have been an attempt to free the prisoner, to whom, as the upholder of her husband's claim on the throne of Bretagne, the King of course accorded the title of Duchess. The testimony of the records henceforward is at variance with that of the chroniclers, the latter representing Marguerite as making sundry journeys to Bretagne in company with her son and others, and as being to all intents at liberty. The Rolls, on the contrary, when she is named, invariably speak of her as a prisoner in Tickhill Castle, in keeping of Sir John Delves, and after his death, of his widow Isabel. That the Rolls are the superior authority there can be no question.

The imprisonment of Charles de Blois was very severe. He offered a heavy ransom and his two elder sons as hostages; King Edward demanded 400,000 deniers, and afterwards 100,000 gold florins. In 1356 Charles was released, his sons Jean and Guyon taking his place. They were confined first in Nottingham Castle, and in 1377 were removed to Devizes, where Guyon died about Christmas 1384. In 1362 Edward and Charles agreed on a treaty, which Jeanne refused to ratify, alleging that she would lose her life, or two if she had them, rather than relinquish her claims to young Montfort. Two years later Charles was killed at the battle of Auray, and Jeanne thereon accepted a settlement which made Montfort Duke of Bretagne, reserving to herself the county of Penthievre, the city of Limoges, and a sum of ten thousand livres Tournois.

The only authority hitherto discovered giving any hint of the history of Marguerite after this date, is a contemporary romance, Le Roman de la Comtesse de Montfort, which states that she retired to the Castle of Lucinio, near Vannes, and passed the rest of her life in tranquillity. Even Mrs Everett Green, in her Lives of the Princesses of England, accepted this as a satisfactory conclusion. It was, indeed, the only one known. But two entries on the public records of England entirely dissipate this comfortable illusion. On 26th September 1369, the Patent Roll states that "we allowed 105 pounds per annum to John Delves for the keeping of the noble lady, the Duchess of Bretagne; and we now grant to Isabel his widow, for so long a time as the said Duchess shall be in her keeping, the custody of the manor of Walton-on-Trent, value 22 pounds," and 52 pounds from other lands. (Patent Roll, 43 Edward the Third, Part 2.) The allowance originally made had evidently been increased. The hapless prisoner, however, was not left long in the custody of Isabel Delves. She was transferred to that of Sir Godfrey Foljambe, whose wife, Avena Ireland, was daughter of Avena de Holand, aunt of Joan Duchess of Bretagne, the second wife of young Montfort. Lastly, a Post Mortem Inquisition, taken in 1374, announces that "Margaret Duchess of Bretagne died at Haselwood, in the county of Derby, on the 18th of March, 48 Edward the Third, being sometime in the custody of Godfrey Foljambe." (Inquisitions of Exchequer, 47-8 Edward the Third, county Derbyshire).

It is therefore placed beyond question that the Countess of Montfort died a prisoner in England, at a date when her son had been for ten years an independent sovereign, and though on friendly terms with Edward the Third, was no longer a suppliant for his favour. Can it have occurred without his knowledge and sanction? He was in England when she died, but there is no indication that he ever went to see her, and her funeral, as is shown by the silence of the Wardrobe Rolls, was without any ceremony. Considering the character of the Duke—"violent in all his feelings, loving to madness, hating to fury, and rarely overcoming a prejudice once entertained"—the suspicion is aroused that all the early sacrifices made by his mother, all the gallant defence of his dominions, the utter self-abnegation and the tender love, were suffered to pass by him as the idle wind, in order that he might revenge himself upon her for the one occasion on which she prevented him from breaking his pledged word to King Edward's daughter, and committing a mesalliance with Alix de Ponteallen. For this, or at any rate for some thwarting of his will, he seems never to have forgiven her.

Marguerite left two children—Duke Jean the Fourth, born 1340, died November 1, 1399: he married thrice,—Mary of England, Joan de Holand, and Juana of Navarre—but left no issue by any but the last, and by her a family of nine children, the eldest being only twelve years old when he died. Strange to say, he named one of his daughters after his discarded mother. His sister Jeanne, who was probably his senior, was originally affianced to Jean of Blois, the long-imprisoned son of Charles and Jeanne: she married, however, Ralph, last Lord Basset of Drayton, and died childless, November 8, 1403.

THE END