CHAPTER FOUR.
THE TIME OF JACOB'S TROUBLE.
"I know that the thorny path I tread Is ruled with a golden line; And I know that the darker life's tangled thread, The brighter the rich design.
"For I see, though veiled from my mortal sight, God's plan is all complete; Though the darkness at present be not light, And the bitter be not sweet."
The course of public events at that time was of decidedly a stirringcharacter. The public considered that four mock suns which had beenseen during the previous winter, two snakes fighting in the sea off thesouth coast, and fifteen days' continuous thunder in the followingMarch, were portents sufficiently formidable to account for anysucceeding political events whatever. The Church was busy introducingthe Order of Saint Francis into England. The populace were discoveringhow to manufacture cider, hitherto imported: and were, quite unknown tothemselves, laying the foundation of their country's commercialgreatness by breaking into the first vein of coal at Newcastle. Infact, the importance of this last discovery was so little perceived,that a hundred and fifty years were suffered to elapse before anyadvantage was taken of it.
Belasez's work was done, and entirely to the satisfaction of theCountess. So much, also, did the Princess Marjory admire it, that sherequested another scarf might be worked for her, to be finished in timefor her approaching marriage. She was now affianced to Gilbert deClare, the new Earl of Pembroke. It was not without a bitter pang thatMarjory had resigned her proud hope of wearing the crown of England, andhad consented to become merely the wife of an English noble. But thecrown was gone from her beyond recall. The fickle-hearted King, who hadbeen merely attracted for a season by her great beauty, was now aseagerly pursuing a foreign Countess, Jeanne of Ponthieu, whom reportaffirmed to be equally beautiful: and perhaps Marjory was a littleconsoled, though she might not even admit it to herself, by the factthat Earl Gilbert was at once a much richer man than the King, and verymuch better-looking. She made him a good wife when the time came, andshe grieved bitterly over his loss, when six years afterwards he waskilled in a tournament at Hereford.
Marjory was not so particular as her sister about the work being doneunder her own eyes. She left pattern and colours to Belasez's taste,only expressing her wish that red and gold should predominate, as theywere the tints alike of the arms of Scotland and of Clare. The Princesswas to be married on the first of August, and Belasez promised that herfather should deliver the scarf during his customary hawker's round inJuly.
The young Jewess had suffered less than might have been supposed fromLevina. The Countess, without condescending to assign any reason, hadquietly issued orders that Belasez's meals should be served in theante-chamber, half an hour before the general repast was ready in thehall. In the presence of the young ladies, and not unfrequently of theCountess herself, Levina deemed it prudent to bring up apple-pie withoutsauce piquante, and to serve gateaux unmixed with pepper or anchovies.
Abraham became eloquent in his thanks for the kindness shown to hisdaughter, and the tears were in Belasez's eyes when she took leave.
"Farewell, my maid," said the Countess, addressing the latter. "Thouart a fair girl, and thou hast been a good girl. I shall miss thypretty face in Magot's ante-chamber. We shall meet again, I doubt not.Such work as thine is not to be lightly esteemed.--Wilt thou grudge thytreasure to me, if I ask for her again?" she added, turning to Abrahamwith a smile.
"Surely not, my Lady! My Lady has been as an angel of God to mydarling."
"And remember, both of you, that if ye come into any trouble--as maybe--and thou seekest safe shelter for thy bird, I will give it her atany time, in return for her lovely work."
This was a greater boon than it may appear. Troubles were only toolikely to assail a Jewish household, and to know a place where Belasezcould seek shelter and be certain of finding it, was a comfort indeed,and might at any hour be a most terrible necessity.
Abraham kissed the robe of the Countess, and poured out eloquentblessings on her. Belasez kissed her hand and that of Margaret: but thetears choked the girl's voice as she turned to follow her father.
The arguments against idolatry which Margaret had heard from Belasezwere ghosts easily laid by Father Nicholas. A few vague platitudesconcerning the supreme authority committed to the Apostle Peter, andthrough him to the Papacy (Father Nicholas discreetly left both pointsunencumbered by evidence),--the wickedness of listening to scepticalreasonings, and the happiness of implicit obedience to holy Church,--were quite enough to reduce Belasez's arguments, as they remained inMargaret's mind, to the condition of uncomfortable reminiscences, which,being also wicked, it was best to forget as soon as possible.
But there had been one listener to that conversation, of whom neitherparty took account, and who could not forget it. This was Doucebelle deVaux. In her brain the words of the young Jewess took root andgerminated, but so silently, that no one suspected it but herself.Father Nicholas had not the faintest idea of the importance of thequestion, when one morning, during the Latin lesson which headministered twice a week to the young ladies of the Castle, Doucebelleasked him the precise meaning of _adoro_.
"It means, in its original, to speak to or accost any one," said thepriest; "but being now taken into the holy service of religion, itsignifies to pray, to supplicate; and, thence derived--to worship, tobow one's self down."
"And,--if I do not trouble you too much, Father,--would you please totell me the difference between _adoro_ and _colo_?"
Father Nicholas was a born philologist, though in his day there was noappellation for the science. To be asked any question involving aderivation or comparison of words, was to him as a trumpet to awar-horse.
"My daughter, it is pleasure, not trouble, to me, to answer suchquestions as these. _Colo_ is a word which comes from the Greek, but isnow obsolete in that tongue, wherein it seems to have had the meaning offeed or tend. Transferred to the Latin, it signifies to cultivate,exercise, practise, or cherish,--say rather, in any sense, to take painsabout a thing: hence, used in the blessed service of religion, it is toregard, venerate, respect, or worship. Therefore _cultus_, which is thenoun of this verb, signifies, when referred to things inanimate, tendingor cultivation to things animate, education, culture; to God and theholy saints, reverence and worship. Dost thou now understand, mydaughter?"
"I thank you very much, Father," said Doucebelle, quietly; "I understandnow."
When she was alone, she put her information together, and thought itcarefully over.
"_Non adorabis ea, neque coles_."
Images, then, were not to be reverenced, either in heart or by bodilygesture. So said the version of Scripture made by Saint Jerome, andused and authorised by the Church. But how was it that the Churchallowed these things to be done? Did she not know that Scriptureforbade them? Or was she above all Scripture? Practically, it lookedlike it.
Yet how was it, if the Church were the mouthpiece of God, that thecommands issued by the One were diametrically at variance with therecommendations given by the other? If God did not change,--if theChurch did not change,--when had they been in accord, and how came theyto differ?
Doucebelle had now reached a point where she could neither turn roundnor go further. The more she cogitated on her problem, the moreinsoluble it appeared to her. Yet her instinctive feeling told her thatto refer it to Father Nicholas would be of no service. He was one ofthe better class of priests,--a man of respectable character, withliterary proclivities, which had in his case the effect of keeping himfrom vice on the one hand, and of deadening his spiritual sensibilitieson the other. To him, the religion he taught, and had himself beentaught, was sufficient for all necessities, and he could not understandany one wanting more. When a man's mind has never been disturbed by thequestion, it is no cause for wonder that he has never sought for theanswer.
That Father Nicholas would have listened to her, Doucebelle knew; for hewas by no means an unkind or disobliging man. But she had
sense toperceive that he was incapable of understanding her, and that his onlyidea of dealing with such queries would be not to solve, but to suppressthem.
Doucebelle passed in mental review every person in the Castle: and everyone, in turn, she dismissed as unsuitable for her purpose. The otherchaplain of the Earl, Father Warner, was a stern, harsh man, of whomshe, in common with all the young people, was very much afraid; shecould not think of putting such queries to him. The chaplain of theCountess, Father Elias, had just resigned his post, and his successorhad not yet been appointed. Master Aristoteles, the householdphysician, was an excellent authority on the virtues of comfrey orfrogs' brains, but a very poor resource on a theological question. TheEarl was not at home. The Countess would be likely to enter intoDoucebelle's perplexities little better than Father Nicholas, and wouldplayfully chide her for entertaining them. All the young people weretoo young except Sir John de Burgh and Hawise. Sir John had not an ideabeyond war, politics, and falconry; and Hawise was accustomed to declinemental investigations altogether. So Doucebelle was shut up to herthoughts and her Psalter. Perhaps she might have been worse situated.
On the 7th of February 1235, died Hugh, Bishop of Lincoln, "the enemy ofall monks." He had not, however, by any means been the enemy of allsuperstition. He was remarkably easy to take in by young women who hadsustained personal encounters with Satan, nuns who had been favouredwith apparitions of the Virgin, and monks to whom Saint Peter or SaintLawrence had made revelations. It is little wonder that he wascanonised, and perhaps not much that a touch of his bones, or a shred ofhis chasuble, were asserted to be possessed of miraculous power. A verydifferent man filled the see of Lincoln in his stead. On the 3rd ofJune following, Robert Grosteste was appointed to the vacant episcopalthrone.
Grosteste was a man who had learned his life-lessons, not from priest ormonk, from Fathers or Decretals, but direct from God. I do not presumeto say that he held no false doctrine, or that he made no mistakes: butconsidering the time at which he lived, and the corruption all aroundhim, his teaching was singularly free from "wood, hay, stubble"--singularly clear, evangelical, and true to the one Foundation.Especially he set himself in opposition to the most popular doctrine ofthe day--that which was termed grace of congruity. And for a man insuch a position to set himself in entire and active opposition topopular taste and belief, and to persevere in it, requires supplieseither of vast pride from Satan, or of great grace from God. Grace ofcongruity is simply a variety of the old heresy of human merit. It cladits proud self in the silver robe of humility, by professing to possessonly an _imperfect_ degree of qualification for the reception of God'sgrace. Grace of condignity, on the other hand, put itself on anequality with the Divine gift, by its pretension to possess thatqualification to the uttermost.
The summer was chiefly occupied by pageants and feasts, for there weretwo royal marriages, that of the Princess Marjory of Scotland withGilbert de Clare, and that of the Princess Isabel of England with theEmperor Frederic the Second of Germany. The latter ceremony did nottake place in England, but the gorgeous preparations did: for Henry theThird, who delighted in spending money even more than in acquiring it,provided his sister with the most splendid trousseau ever known even fora royal bride. Her very cooking-vessels were all of silver, and herreins and bridles were worked in gold. She was married at Worms, inJune: the wedding of the Princess Marjory took place on the first ofAugust. Abraham and Belasez were faithful to their promises, and thebeautiful scarf, wrought in scarlet and gold, was delivered intoMarjory's hands in time to be worn at the wedding. The young people ofthe Castle were naturally interested in the stereotyped rough and sillygambols which were then the invariable concomitants of a marriage: andthe stocking, skilfully flung by Marie, hit Margaret on the head, to theintense delight of the merry group around her. The equally amusing workof cutting up the bride-cake revealed Richard de Clare in possession ofthe ring, supposed to indicate approaching matrimony, Marie of thesilver penny which denoted riches, and Doucebelle of the thimble whichdoomed her to celibacy.
"There, now! 'Tis as plain to be seen as the church spire!" said Eva,clapping her hands. "Margaret is destined by fate to wed with my cousinSir Richard."
"Well, if `fate' mean my wish and intention, so she is," whispered theCountess to her sister the bride.
"Doth thy Lord so purpose it?" asked Marjory.
"Oh, hush!" responded the Countess, laughing. "He knows nothing aboutit, and I don't intend that he shall, just yet. Trust me to bringthings about."
"But suppose he should be angry?"
"_Pure foy_! He is never angry with me. Oh, thou dost not understand,my dear Madge,--at present. Men always want managing. When thou hastbeen wed a year, thou wilt know more about it."
"But can all women manage men?" asked Marjory in an amused tone.
"_Ha, chetife_! No, indeed. And there are some men who can't bemanaged,--worse luck! But my Lord is not one of the latter, the holysaints be thanked."
"And thou art one of the women who can manage men," answered Marjory,laughing. "I wonder at thee, Magot, and have done so many times,--thouhast such a strange power of winning folks to thy will."
"Well, that some have, and some have not. I have it, I know," said theCountess, complacently. "But I will give thee a bit of counsel, Madge,which thou mayest find useful. First, have a will: let it be clear anddistinct in thine own mind, what thou wouldst have done. And, secondly,let people see that thou takest quietly for granted that of course theywill do it. There is a great deal in that, with some people. A weakwill always bends to a strong."
"But when two strong ones come in collision, how then?"
"Why, like wild animals,--fight it out, and discover which is thestronger."
"A tournament of wills!" said Marjory. "I should hardly care to enterthose lists, I think."
The Countess laughed, and shook her head. She knew that among thestrong-willed women Marjory was not to be reckoned.
A tournament of that class was being held all that summer between theregular priests and the newly-instituted Predicant Friars. The priestscomplained that the friars presumed to hear confessions in the churches,which it was the prerogative of the regularly appointed priests to do:and wrathfully alleged that the public were more ready to confess tothese travelling mendicants than to the proper authorities. It ispossible that the cause may be traced to that human proclivity whichinclines a man to confide rather in a stranger whom he may never meetagain, than in one who can remind him of uncomfortable facts atinconvenient times: but also it is possible that the people recognisedin the teaching of the Minorite Friars, largely recruited as they werefrom the ranks of the Waldenses, somewhat more of that good news whichChrist came to bring to men, than of the endless, unmeaning ceremonieswhich encumbered the doctrine of the regular priests.
The summer had given place to autumn. The courtyard of Bury Castle wasstrewn with golden and russet leaves; the Countess was preparing a newdress for the feast of Saint Luke. A foggy day had ended in a darknight, and Eva threw down her work and rethreaded her needle with along-drawn sigh. "Tired of sewing, Eva?"
"Very tired, Lady. I almost wish buttons grew on robes, and required nosewing."
"Lazy maiden!" said the Countess playfully. "Then I am lazy too,"interposed Margaret; "for I do hate sewing."
"If it please the Lady," said Levina's voice at the door, "an old manand woman entreat the honour of laying a petition before her."
"An old man and woman?--such a night as this! Do they come from thetown?"
"If it please the Lady, I do not know."
"Very well. If the warder thinks them not suspicious persons, they cancome into the hall. I shall be down shortly."
When the Countess descended, followed by Margaret and Doucebelle, shefound her petitioners awaiting her. Most unsuspicious, harmless, feeblecreatures they looked. The old man had tottered in as if barely able tostand; the old woman walked with a stout oaken staff, and was b
entnearly double.
"Well, good people!--what would ye have?" asked the Countess.
In answer, the old man lifted his head, pulled away a mass of false greyhair and a wax mask from, his face, and the old Jew pedlar, Abraham ofNorwich, stood before the astonished ladies.
"I am come," he said in a voice broken by emotion, "to claim my Lady'spromise."
"What promise, old man?"
"My Lady was pleased to say, that if the robbers broke into the nest, orthe hawk hovered over it, the young bird should be safe in her care."
"Thy daughter? I remember, I did say so. Where is she?"
At a signal from Abraham, the aged woman at his side suddenlystraightened herself, and the removal of another wax mask and some falsewhite hair revealed the beautiful face of Belasez.
"Welcome, my maiden," said the Countess kindly. "And what troubles haveassailed thee, old Abraham, which made this disguise and flightnecessary?"
"My Lady is good to her poor servants,--may the Blessed One bind her inthe bundle of life! But not all Christians are like her. Lady, thereis this day sore trouble, and great rebuke and blasphemy, against thesons of Israel that dwell in Norwich. They accuse us of havingkidnapped and crucified a Christian child. They lay too much to us,Lady,--too much! We have never done such a thing, nor thought of it.But the house of my Lady's servant is despoiled, and his sonill-treated, and his brother in the gaol at Norwich for this cause: andto save his beautiful Belasez he has brought her to his gracious Lady.Will she give his bird shelter in her nest, according to her word?"
"Indeed I will," answered the Countess. "Margaret, take the maid up tothine ante-chamber, and bid Levina bring her food. She must stay here awhile. And thou, sit thou down, old Abraham, and rest and refreshthee."
"Truly, my Lady is as one of the angels of the Holy One to her triedservants!" said Abraham thankfully.
Belasez kissed the hand of the Countess, and then turned and followedMargaret to the ante-chamber.
"Art thou very tired, Belasez?"
"Very, very weary, my Damsel. We have come fourteen miles on foot sinceyesterday."
Very weary Belasez looked. Now that the momentary excitement of herarrival and reception was over, the light had died out of the languideyes, and her head drooped as if she could scarcely hold it up.
"Go to bed," said Margaret; "that is the best place for over-tiredpeople.--Levina! My Lady and mother wills thee to bring the maid somefood."
Levina appeared at the door, with an expression of undisguisedannoyance.
"_Ha, chetife_!--if here is not my Lady Countess Jew come again! Whatwould it please her sweetest Grace to take?"
But Levina had forgotten, as older people sometimes do, that Margaretwas no longer a child to be kept in silent subjection. Girls offifteen--and she was nearly that now--were virtually women in thethirteenth century. Margaret turned to the scoffing Levina, with an airof dignified displeasure which rather startled the latter.
"Levina! thou hast forgotten thyself. Do as thou art bid."
And Levina disappeared without venturing a reply.
"What have they done to thy brother, Belasez?" asked Margaret.
"They beat him sorely. Damsel, and turned him forth into the street."
"Where did he go?"
"That is known to the Blessed One. Out in the fields somewhere. It isnot the first time that a Jew hath lain hidden for a night or more,until the fury of the Christians should pass away."
Doucebelle de Vaux was a grave and thoughtful girl, beyond her years.She sat silent now, trying to recall, from the stores of a memory nottoo well furnished, whether Christ, whom these Christians professed tofollow, had ever treated people in such a manner as this. At length sheremembered that she had seen a picture at Thetford of His driving sundrypeople out of the Temple with a scourge. But was that because they wereJews? Doucebelle thought not. She was too ignorant to be sure, but shefancied they had been doing something wrong.
"I should think," said Margaret warmly, "that you Jews must hate usChristians."
"Christians are not all alike," said Belasez with a faint smile.
"But do you not hate us?" persisted Margaret.
"Delecresse does, I am afraid," replied Belasez, colouring.
"But thyself?"
"No. O my Damsel, no!" She warmed into vivid life for an instant, tomake this reply; then she sank back against the wall, apparentlyoverpowered by utter weariness.
"I am glad of that," said Margaret, with her usual outspokenearnestness.--"What can Levina be doing? Doucebelle, do go and see.--And hast thou been hard at work at Norwich all the summer, Belasez?"
"No, if it please my Damsel. I have dwelt all this summer at Lincoln,with my mother's father."
"`The Devil overlooks Lincoln,' they say," remarked Margaret,laughingly. "I hope he did thee no mischief, Belasez. But, perhapsJews do not believe in the Devil?"
"Ah! We have good cause to believe in the Devil," answered Belasezgravely. "Nay, Damsel, he did me no mischief. Yet--what know I? TheHoly One knoweth all things."
Belasez's tone struck Margaret as hinting at some one thing inparticular. But she did not explain further. Perhaps she was tootired.
Doucebelle returned at this point, followed by Levina, who carried aplate of manchet-bread and a bowl of milk. And though Belasez did notknow it, she owed thanks to Doucebelle that it was not skim milk. Theyoung Jewess ate as if she were very faint as well as weary.
"Then hast thou come here all the way from Lincoln?" inquired Margaretwhen the bowl was emptied.
"If it please my Damsel, no. I had returned home only two days beforethe riot."
"Is thy mother living?" asked Margaret abruptly.
"Yes. She abode at Lincoln with my grandfather. He is very old, andwill not in likelihood live long. When he dies, my mother will comeback to us."
"Do go to bed, Belasez. Thou canst scarcely hold thine head up, northine eyes open," said Margaret compassionately: and Belasez acceptedthe invitation with thanks. Doucebelle went with her, and silentlynoticed two facts: that Belasez stood for a few minutes in silentprayer, with her face turned to the wall, before she offered to undress;and that she was fast asleep almost as soon as her head had touched thepillow.
Doucebelle stood still and looked at the sleeping girl. Why was it sowicked to be a Jew? Had Belasez been a Christian of noble birth, oreven of mean extraction, she would have been regarded as an ornament ofany Court in Christendom. Some nobleman or knight would very soon havefound that lovely face, and her refined and dignified manners were fitfor any lady in the land. Why must she be regarded as despicable, andtreated with abuse and loathing, merely because she had been born aJewess? Of course Doucebelle knew the traditionary reason--because theJews had crucified Christ. But Belasez had not been one of them. Whymust she bear the shame of others' sins? Did none of my ancestors,thought Doucebelle, ever do some wicked deed? Yet people do not despiseme on that account. Why do they scorn her?
Belasez stirred in her sleep, and one or two broken words dropped fromher unconscious lips. Greatly interested, and a little startled,Doucebelle bent over her. But she could make out nothing connected fromthe indistinct utterances. It sounded as if Belasez were dreaming aboutsomebody whose face she could not see. "Hid faces," Doucebelle heardher murmur. It was probably, she thought, some reminiscence connectedwith the tumults which had brought her to seek shelter at the Castle.Doucebelle drew the coverlet higher over the weary sleeper, and went toseek rest in her own bed.