Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England
In Convent Walls, by Emily Sarah Holt.
PREFACE.
The historical portion of this tale has been partially narrated in oneof my previous volumes, "In All Time of our Tribulation," in which theDespenser story is begun, and its end told from another point of view.That volume left Isabelle of France at the height of her ambition, inthe place to reach which she had been plotting so long and sounscrupulously. Here we see the Nemesis come upon her and the chiefpartner of her guilt; the proof that there is a God that judgeth in theearth. It is surely one of the saddest stories of history--sad as allstories are which tell of men and women whom God has endowed richly withgifts, and who, casting from them the Divine hand which would fain liftthem up into the light of the Golden City, deliberately choose thepathway of death, and the blackness of darkness for ever. Few womenhave had grander opportunities given them than Isabelle for serving Godand making their names blessed and immortal. She chose rather to serveself: and thereby inscribed her name on one of the blackest pages ofEngland's history, and handed down her memory to eternal execration.For "life is to do the will of God"--the true blessedness and glory oflife here, no less than the life hereafter.
"Oh, the bitter shame and sorrow, That a time should ever be When I let the Saviour's pity Plead in vain, and proudly answered-- `All of self, and none of Thee!'
"Yet He found me; I beheld Him Bleeding on the accursed tree,-- Heard Him pray, `Forgive them, Father!' And my wistful heart said faintly, `Some of self, and some of Thee!'
"Day by day, His tender mercy, Healing, helping, full and free, Sweet and strong, and, ah! so patient, Brought me lower, while I whispered, `Less of self, and more of Thee!'
"Higher than the highest heaven, Deeper than the deepest sea, Lord, Thy love at last hast conquered: Grant me now my heart's desire-- `None of self, and all of Thee!'"
PART ONE, CHAPTER 1.
WHEREIN DAME CICELY DE CHAUCOMBE SCRIBETH SOOTHLINESS (1360).
WHEREIN COMMENCE THE ANNALS OF CICELY.
"Heaven does with us, as we with torches do-- Not light them for themselves."
Shakespeare.
"It is of no use, Jack," quoth I. "I never did love her, I never can,and never shall."
"And I never bade you, Sissot," answered he. "Put that in belike,prithee."
"But you bade me write the story out," said I. "Ay, I did so. But Ileft you free to speak your mind of any body that should come therein,from a bishop to a baa-lamb," said he.
"Where shall I go for mine ink?" I made answer: "seeing that some partof my tale, to correspond to the matter, should need to be writ invernage, [Note 1] and some other in verjuice."
"Keep two quills by you," saith he, "with inkhorns of the twain, and useeither according to the matter."
"Ay me!" said I. "It should be the strangest and woefullest tale everwrit by woman."
"The more need that it should be writ," quoth Jack, "by them that havelived it, and can tell the sooth-fastness [truth] thereof. Look you,Sissot, there are men enough will tell the tale of hearsay, such as theymay win of one and another, and that is like to be full of guile andcontrariousness. And many will tell it to win favour of those in highplace, and so shall but the half be told. Thou hast lived through it,and wist all the inwards thereof, at least from thine own standing-spot.Let there be one tale told just as it was, of one that verily knew, andhad no purpose to win gold or favour, but only to speak sooth-fastness."
"You set me an hard task, Jack!" I said, and I think I sighed.
"Easier to do, maybe, than to reckon on," saith he, in his dry,tholemode [Note 2] way. "Thou needest write but one word at once, andthou canst take thine own time to think what word to write."
"But I have no parchment," said I. I am a little afraid I coveted notany, for I fancied not the business at all. It was Jack who wanted thestory writ out fair, not I.
"Well, I have," saith Jack calmly.
"Nor any quills," said I.
"I have," saith Jack, after the same fashion.
"And the ink is dried-up."
"Then will we buy more."
"But--" I stayed, for I thought I had better hold my tongue.
"But--I have no mind to it," saith Jack. "That might have come first,Sissot. It shows, when it doth, that thou hast come to an end of thineexcuses. Nay, sweet heart, do but begin, and the mind will have after."
"Lack-a-daisy!" said I, trying to laugh, though I felt somewhat irked[worried, irritated]: "I reckon, then, I had best do mine husband'sbidding without more ado."
"There spake my Sissot," saith he. "Good dame!"
So here am I, sat at this desk, with a roll of parchment that Jack hathcut in even leches [strips] for to make a book, and an inkhorn of freshink, and divers quills--O me! must all this be writ up?
Well, have forth! I shall so content Jack, and if I content not myself,that shall pay me.
It was through being one of Queen Isabel's gentlewomen that I came toknow these things, and, as Jack saith, to live through my story. And Imight go a step further back, for I came to that dignity by reason ofbeing daughter unto Dame Alice de Lethegreve, that was of old time nurseto King Edward. So long as I was a young maid, I was one of the Queen'ssub-damsels; but when I wedded my Jack (and a better Jack never didmaiden wed) I was preferred to be damsel of the chamber: and in suchfashion journeyed I with the Queen to France, and tarried with her allthe time she dwelt beyond seas, and came home with her again, and waswith her the four years following, until all brake up, and she wasappointed to keep house at Rising Castle. So the whole play was playedbefore mine own eyes.
I spake only sooth-fastness when I told Jack I could never love her.How can man love whom he cannot trust? It would have been as easy toput faith in a snake because it had lovesome marks and colouring, as inthat fair, fair face--ay, I will not deny that it was marvellous fair--with the gleaming eyes, which now seemed to flash with golden light, andnow to look like the dark depths of a stagnant pool. Wonderful eyesthey were! I am glad I never trusted them.
Nor did I never trust her voice. It was as marvellous as the eyes. Itcould be sweet as honey and sharp as a two-edged sword; soft as dove'sdown, and hard as an agate stone. Too soft and sweet to be sooth-fast!She meant her words only when they were sword and agate.
And the King--what shall I say of him? In good sooth, I will saynothing, but leave him to unfold himself in the story. I was not theKing's foster-sister in sooth, for I was ten years the younger; and itwas Robin, my brother, that claimed kin with him on that hand. But hewas ever hendy [amiable, kindly, courteous] to me. God rest his haplesssoul!
But where shall my tale begin? Verily, I have no mind to set forth fromthe creation, as chroniclers are wont. I was not there then, and livednot through that, nor of a long while after. Must I then begin from mycreation? aswhasay [as who should say--that is to say], as near it as myremembrance taketh me. Nay, I think not so: for then should I tell muchof the reign of King Edward of Westminster [Edward the First], that wereright beside the real story. I think I shall take date from the time ofthe Queen's first departure to France, which was the year of our LordGod, 1324.
I was a young maid of seventeen years when I entered the Queen'shousehold,--her own age. But in another sense, I was tenfold the childthat she was. Indeed, I marvel if she ever were a child. I ratherthink she was born grown-up, as the old heathen fabled Minerva to havebeen. While on waiting, I often used to see and hear things that I didnot understand, yet which I could feel were disapproved by somethinginside me: I suppose it must have been my conscience. And if at thosetimes I looked on my mother's face, I could often read disapproval inher eyes also. I never loved the
long secret discourses there used tobe betwixt the Queen and her uncle, my Lord of Lancaster: they alwayshad to me the air of plotting mischief. Nor did I ever love my Lord ofLancaster; there was no simplicity nor courtesy in him. His naturalmanner (when he let it be seen) was stern and abrupt; but he did veryrarely allow it to be seen; it was nearly always some affectation puton. And I hate that, and so doth Jack.
At that time I loved and hated instinctively, as I think children do;and at seventeen years, I was a child in all things save by the almanac.I could rarely tell why I did not love people--only, I did not lovethem. I knew oftener why I did. I never thought much of Sir Piers deGavaston, that the King so dearly affected, but I never hated him in adeadly fashion, as some did that I knew. I loved better Sir Hugh LeDespenser, that was afterwards Earl of Gloucester, for he--
"Sissot," saith a voice behind me, "what is the name of that chronicle?"
"I cannot tell, Jack," said I. "What wouldst have it called?"
"`The Annals of Cicely,'" quoth he; "for she is beginning, middle, andend of it."
I felt as though he had cast a pitcher of cold water over me. I satlooking at my parchment.
"Read it over, prithee," saith he, "and count how many great I's betherein."
So did I, and by my troth there were seventy-seven. Seventy-seven ofme! and all in six leaves of parchment, forsooth. How many soever shallthere be by the time I make an end?
"That's an ill beginning, Jack!" said I, and I felt ready to cry. "MustI begin over again?"
"Sissot," quoth he, "nothing is ever undone in this world."
"What mean you?" said I.
"There was man died the year before thou wert born," he made answer,"that was great friend of my father. He was old when my father wasyoung, yet for all that were they right good friends. He was a verylearned man; so wise in respect of things known but to few, that mostmen accounted him a very magician, and no good Christian. Howbeit, myfather said that was but folly and slander. He told my father some ofthe strange matters that he found in nature; and amongst them, onething, which hath ever stuck by me. Saith Friar Roger, Nothing is everdestroyed. Nothing that hath once had being, can ever cease to be."
"Why, Jack!" cried I. "Verily that must be folly! I cast this scrap ofparchment on the chafer, and it burneth up. It is gone, see thou.Surely it hath ceased to be?"
"No," saith he. "It is gone into ashes and smoke."
"What be ashes and smoke?" asked I, laughing.
"Why, they be ashes and smoke," he made answer. "And the smoke curlethup chimney, and goeth out into the air: and the air cometh up Sissot'snose-thirls, and feedeth her bodily life; and Sissot makethseventy-seven I's to six pages of parchment."
"Now, Jack, softly!" said I.
"So it is, my dame," pursueth he. "Every thing that dieth, feedethsomewhat that liveth. But I can go further an' thou wilt. Friar Rogerthought (though he had not proved it) that every word spoken might as itwere dwell in the air, and at bidding of God hereafter, all those wordsshould return to life and be heard again by all the world."
I could not help but laugh.
"Why, what a din!" said I. "Do but think, all the words, in alllanguages, buzzing about man's ears, that were ever spoken since Adamdwelt in the Garden of Eden!"
"Wouldst thou like all thy words repeated thus, Sissot?"
"I would not mind, Jack."
"Wouldst not? Then I am worser than thou, which is like enough. Iwould not like to hear all my foolish words, all my angry words, all mysinful words, echoed back to me from the starry walls of heaven. Andsuppose, Sissot--only suppose that God should do as much with ourthoughts! I dare say He knows how."
I covered my face with mine hands.
"That would be dreadful!" I whispered.
"It will be, in very deed," softly said Jack, "when the Books areopened, and the names read out, in the light of that great white Thronewhich shall be brighter than noon-day. I reckon in that day we shallnot be hearkening for Sir Piers de Gavaston's name, nor for Sir Hugh LeDespenser's, but only for those of John and Cicely de Chaucombe. Now,set again to thy chronicling, my Sissot, and do it in the light of thatThrone, and in the expectation of that Book: so shall it be done well."
And so Jack left me. But to speak sooth, seeing the matter thus makesme to feel as though I scarce dared do it at all. Howsobe, I have it todo: and stedfast way maketh stedfast heart.
There were plenty of people who hated Sir Hugh Le Despenser, but I andmy mother Dame Alice were not amongst them. He had been brought up withthe King from his youth, but the King never loved him till after thedeath of Sir Piers de Gavaston. The Queen loved him, just so long asthe King did not. That was always her way; the moment that she saw hecared for anything which was not herself, she at once began to hate it.And verily he never gave her cause, for he held her ever dearest of anymortal thing.
Sir Hugh was as goodly a gentleman as man's eyes might see. Those wholoved him not called him proud--yea, the very spirit of pride. But themanner they thought pride seemed to me rather a kind of sternness orshortness of speech, as if he wished to have done with the matter inhand. Some people call every thing pride; if man talk much, they say heloves to hear his own voice; if he be silent, he despises his company.Now it seems to me that I often speak and am silent from many othercauses than pride, and therefore it may be the like with other folk. Dothose which are ever accusing other of pride, do all their actions forthat reason? If not so, how or why should they suspect it in other men?I do not think Sir Hugh was so much prouder than other. He knew hisown value, I dare say; and very like he did not enjoy being set atnought--who doth so? Other said he was ambitious: and there might besome sooth-fastness in the accusation; yet I fancy the accusers loved aslice of worldly grandeur no less than most men. And some said he waswicked man: that did I never believe.
As for his wife, Dame Alianora, I scarcely know what to say of her. Shewas a curious mixture of qualities. She clung to the King her unclewhen others forsook him, she was free-handed, and she could feel for manin trouble: those were her good points. Yet she seemed to feel but whatshe saw; it was "out of sight, out of mind," with her; and she loved newfaces rather too well to please me. I think, for one thing, she wastimid; and that oft-times causes man to appear what he is not. But shewas better woman than either of her sisters--the Lady Margaret Audleyand the Lady Elizabeth de Clare. I never saw her do, nor heard her say,the heartless acts and speeches whereof I knew both of them guilty. Idare say, as women go, she was not ill woman. For, alas! I have livedlong enough to know that there be not many good ones.
Well, I said--no did I?--that I would begin with the year 1324 of ourLord God. But, lack-a-day! there were matters afore 1324, like as therewere men before Agamemnon. Truly, methinks there be a two-three I didwell not to omit: aswhasay, the dying of Queen Margaret, widow of KingEdward of Westminster, which deceased seven years earlier than so. Ishall never cease to marvel how it came to pass that two women of thesame nation, of the same family, being aunt and niece by blood, shouldhave been so strangely diverse as those two Queens. All that was good,wise, and gentle, was in Queen Margaret: what was in Queen Isabel willmy chronicle best tell. This most reverend lady led a very retired lifeafter her husband's death, being but a rare visitor to the Court,dwelling as quietly and holily as any nun might dwell, and winning loveand respect from all that knew her. Very charitable was she and mostdevout: and (if it be lawful to say thus) had I been Pope, I had soonercanonised her than a goodly number that hath been. But I do ill tospeak thus, seeing the holy Father is infallible, and acts in suchmatters but by the leading of God's Spirit, as saith the Church. Goodlack, but there be queer things in this world! I saw once Father Philipscrew up his mouth when one said the same in his hearing, and saith he--
"The Lord Pope is infallible when he speaketh _ex cathedra_, but soonly."
"But how," saith he that spake, "shall we know when he is sat in hischair and when he is out of it?
"
An odd look came into Father Philip's eyes.
"Master," saith he, "when I was a little lad, my mother told me diverstimes that it was not seemly to ask curious questions."
But I guess what the good Friar thought, though it be not alwaysdiscreet to speak out man's thoughts. Ah me! will the time ever comewhen man may say what he will, with no worse thereafter than a sneer ora sharp rebuke from his neighbour? If so were, I would I had been bornin those merry days--but I should want Jack to be born then belike.
"Sissot," saith a voice over my shoulder, "wist thou the full meaning ofthy wish?"
Jack is given to coming in quietly--I never knew him make a noise--andpeeping over my shoulder to see how my chronicle maketh progress: for hecan well read, though he write not.
"What so, Jack?" said I.
"I reckon we should be the younger by some centuries," quoth he, "andperchance should not be at all. But allowing it, dost thou perceivethat such a difference should mean a change in all things?--that no fearshould in likelihood mean no reverence nor obedience, and might come tomean more than that?"
"That were dread!" said I. "What manner of times should they be?"
"I think," saith he, "those very `_tempora periculosa_' whereof SaintPaul speaketh, when men shall love their own selves, and be proud,unthankful, without affection, peace, or benignity, loving theirpleasures rather than God. And if it serve thee, I would not like tolive in those times."
"Dear heart, nor would I!" quoth I. "Yet surely, Jack, that seemeth againsaying. Were all men free to speak what they would, and not becalled to account therefor, it were soothly to love their neighbours andshow benignity."
"Ay, if it were done for that end," he made answer. "But the heart ofman is a cage of deceits. Much must befall the world, I take it, erethat cometh to pass: and while they that bring it about may be good menthat mean well, they that come to use it may be evil, and mean ill. TheDevil is not come to an end of his shifts, be thou sure. Let man run asfast and far as he will, Satan shall wit how to keep alongside."
I said nought. Jack is very wise, a deal more than I, yet I cannotalways see through his eye-glasses. Mayhap it is not always because Iam wiser of the twain.
"Freedom to do good and be good is a good thing," then saith he: "butfreedom to be ill, and do ill, must needs be an ill thing. And manbeing what he is, how makest thou sure that he shall always use hisfreedom for good, and not for ill?"
"Why, that must man chance," said I.
"A sorry chance," answereth he. "I were liever not to chance it. Ithought I heard thee deny Fina this last week to go to the dance atUnderby Fair?"
"So thou didst," said I. "She is too young, and too giddy belike, totrust with a bevy of idle damosels as giddy as she."
"Well, we are none of us so far grown-up in all wisdom that it were safeto trust us with our own reins in all things. Hast never heard the saw,`He that ruleth his own way hath a fool to his governor'?"
"Well!" said I; "but then let the wise men be picked out to rule us, andthe fools to obey."
"Excellent doctrine, my Sissot!" quoth Jack, smiling in his eyes: "atleast, for the fools. I might somewhat pity the wise men. But how tobring it about? Be the fools to pick out the wise men? and are theywise enough to do it? I sorely fear we shall have a sorry lot ofgovernors when thy law comes to be tried. I think, Wife, thou and I hadbetter leave God to rule the world, for I suspect we should do itsomething worser than He."
Let me fall back to my chronicling. Another matter happed in the year1319, the which I trow I shall not lightly forget. The Queen abode atBrotherton, the King being absent. The year afore, had the Scots madegreat raids on the northern parts of England, had burned the outlyingparts of York while the King was there, and taken the Earl of Richmondprisoner: and now, hearing of the Queen at Brotherton, but slenderlyguarded, down they marched into Yorkshire, and we, suspecting nought,were well-nigh caught in the trap.
Well I mind that night, when I was awoke by pebbles cast up at mycasement, for I lay in a turret chamber, that looked outward. So soonas I knew what the sound meant, I rose from my bed and cast a mantleabout me, and opened the casement.
"Is any there?" said I.
"Is that thou, Sissot?" quoth a voice which I knew at once for mybrother Robert's, "Lose not one moment, but arouse the Queen, and prayher to take horse as speedily as may be, or she shall be captured of theScots, which come in great force by the Aire Valley, and are nearhand[nearly] at mine heels. And send one to bid the garrison be alert, andto let me in, that I may tell my news more fully."
I wis not whether I shut the casement or no, for ere man might count tenwas I in the Queen's antechamber, and shaking of Dame Elizabeth by theshoulders. But, good lack, she took it as easy as might be. She wasalway one to take matters easy, Dame Elizabeth de Mohun.
"Oh, let be till daylight," quoth she, as she turned on her pillow."'Tis but one of Robin Lethegreve's fumes and frets, I'll be bound. Heis for ever a-reckoning that the Scots be at hand or the house o' fire,and he looks for man to vault out of his warm bed that instant minutewhen his fearsome news be spoken. Go to sleep, Cicely, and let folksbe."
And round turned she, and, I warrant, was asleep ere I could bring forthanother word. So then I fell to shaking Joan de Vilers, that lay attother end of the chamber. But she was right as bad, though of anotherfashion.
"Wherefore rouse me?" saith she. "I can do nought. 'Tis not my place.If Dame Elizabeth arise not, I cannot. Thou wert best go back abed,dear heart. Thou shalt but set thyself in trouble."
Well, there was no time to reason with such a goose; but I longed toshake her yet again. Howbeit, I tarried no longer in the antechamber,but burst into the Queen's own chamber where she lay abed, with DameTiffany in the pallet--taking no heed that Joan called after me--
"Cicely! Cicely! how darest thou? Come back, or thou shall be mispaidor tint!" [Held in displeasure or ruined.]
But I cared not at that moment, whether for mispayment or tinsel. I hadmy duty to do, and I did it. If the news were true, the Queen waslittle like to snyb [blame] me when she found it so: and if no, well, Ihad but done as I should. And I knew that Dame Tiffany, which tendedher like a hen with one chicken, should hear my tidings of anotherfashion from the rest. Had Dame Elizabeth lain that night in thepallet, and Dame Tiffany in the antechamber, my work had been thelighter. But afore I might win to the pallet--which to do I had need tocross the chamber,--Queen Isabel's own voice saith from the statebed--"Who is there?"
"Dame," said I,--forgetting to kneel, in such a fluster was I--"mybrother hath now brought tidings that the Scots come in force by theAire Valley, with all speed, and are nearhand at the very gate;wherefore--"
The Queen heard me no further. She was out of her bed, and herselfdonning her raiment, ere I might win thus far.
"Send Dame Elizabeth to me," was all she said, "and thyself bid DeNantoil alarm the garrison. Well done!"
I count I am not perfect nor a saint, else had I less relished thatsecond shake of Dame Elizabeth--that was fast asleep--and deliverance ofthe Queen's bidding. I stayed me not to hear her mingled contakes andwayments [reproaches and lamentations], but flew off to the outermostdoor, and unbarring the same, spake through the crack that wherewith Iwas charged to Oliver de Nantoil, the usher of the Queen's chamber,which lay that night at her outer door. Then was nought but bustle andstir, both within and without. The Queen would have up Robin, andhearkened to his tale while Alice Conan combed her hair, the which shebade bound up at the readiest, to lose not a moment. In less than anhour, methinks, she won to horse, and all we behind, and set forth forYork, which was the contrary way to that the Scots were coming. And, ahme! I rade with Dame Elizabeth, that did nought but grieve over herlost night's rest, and harry poor me for breaking the same. I asked ather if she had better loved to be taken of the Scots; since if so, theQueen's leave accorded, we might have left her behind.
"Scots!" quoth she. "Where be
these ghostly [fabulous, figurative]Scots? I will go bail they be wrapped of their foldings [plaids] fastasleep on some moor an hundred miles hence. 'Tis but Robin, the clown!that is so clumst [stupid] with his rashness, that he seeth a Scot fullarmed under every bush, and heareth a trumpeter in every corncrake: andas if that were not enough, he has a sister as ill as himself, that musttake all for gospel as if Friar Robert preached it. Mary love us! but Iquoke when thou gattest hold on me by the shoulders! I count it was agood hour ere I might sleep again."
"Dear heart, Dame!" cried I, "but it was not two minutes! It is scantlyan hour by now."
"Then that is thy blame, Cicely, routing like a bedel [shouting like atown-crier], and oncoming [assaulting] folks as thou dost. I marvelthou canst not be peaceable! I alway am. Canst mind the night thatever I shaked thee awake and made thee run out of thy warm bed as if abear were after thee?"
I trust I kept out of my voice the laughter that was in my throat as Isaid, "No, Dame: that cannot I." The self notion of Dame Elizabeth everdoing thus to any was so exceeding laughable.
"Well! then why canst--Body o' me! what ever is yonder flaming light?"
Master Oliver was just alongside, and quoth he drily--
"Burden not your Ladyship; 'tis but the Scots that have reachedBrotherton, and be firing the suburbs."
"Holy Mary, pray for us!" skraighs Dame Elizabeth, at last verilyfeared: "Cicely, how canst thou ride so slow? For love of all thesaints; let us get on!"
Then fell she to her beads, and began to invoke all the Calendar, whileshe urged on her horse till his rapid trotting brake up the _aves_ and_oras_ into fragments that man might scarce hear and keep him sober. Iwarrant I was well pleased, for all my weariness, when we rade in atMicklebar of York; and so, I warrant, was Dame Elizabeth, for all herimpassibility. We tarried not long at York, for, hearing that the Scotscame on, the Queen removed to Nottingham for safer keeping. And soended that year.
But no contakes had I, save of Dame Elizabeth, that for the rest of thatmonth put on a sorrowful look at the sight of me. On the contrary part,Robin had brave reward from the King, and my Lady the Queen was pleasedto advance me, as shall now be told, shortly thereafter: and everafterwards did she seem to affy her more in me, as in one that had beentried and proved faithful unto trust.
Thus far had I won when I heard a little bruit behind me, and lookingup, as I guessed, I saw Jack, over my shoulder.
"Dear heart, Jack!" said I, "but thou hast set me a merry task! Twodays have I been a-work, and not yet won to the Queen's former journeyto France; yet I do thee to wit, I am full disheartened at the stretchof road I see afore me. Must I needs tell every thing that happed forevery year? Mary love us! but I feel very nigh at my wits' end but tothink of it. Why, my Chronicle shall be bigger than the Golden Legendand the Morte Arthur put together, and all Underby Common shall notfurnish geese enow to keep me in quills!"
I ended betwixt laughter and tears. To say sooth, I was very nigh thelatter.
"Take breath, Sissot," saith Jack, quietly.
"But dost thou mean that, Jack?"
"I mean not to make a nief [serf] of my wife," saith he. I wassomething comforted to hear that.
"As for time, dear heart," he pursueth, "take thou an hour or twain bythe day, so thou weary not thyself; and for events, I counsel thee tomake a diverse form of chronicle from any ever yet written."
"How so, Jack?"
"Set down nothing because it should go in a chronicle, but only thosematters wherein thyself was interested."
"But that, Jack," said I, laughing as I looked up on him, "shall be the`Annals of Cicely' over again; wherewith I thought thou wert notcompatient." [Pleased, satisfied; the adjective of compassion.]
"Nay, the Annals of Cicely were Cicely's fancies and feelings," he madeanswer: "this should be what Cicely heard and saw."
I sat and meditated thereon.
"And afore thou wear thy fingers to the bone with thy much scribing,"saith he, with that manner of smile of his eyes which Jack hath, "callthou Father Philip to write at thy mouth, good wife."
"Nay, verily!" quoth I. "I would be loth to call off Father Philip fromhis godly meditations, though I cast no doubt he were both fairer scribeand better chronicler than I."
To speak sooth, it was Father Philip learned me to write, and the mastershould be better than the scholar. I marvel more that have leisurelearn not to write. Jack cannot, nor my mother, and this it was thatmade my said mother desirous to have me taught, for she said, had shewist the same, she could have kept a rare chronicle when she dwelt atthe Court, and sith my life was like to be there also, she would fainhave me able to do so. I prayed Father Philip to learn my discreetAlice, for I could trust her not to make an ill use thereof; but Ifeared to trust my giddy little Vivien with such edged tools as Jacksaith pen and ink be. And in very sooth it were a dread thing if anyamongst us should be entrapped into intelligence with the King'senemies, or such treasonable matter; and of this are wise men everafeared, when their wives or daughters learn to write. For me, I werelittle feared of such matter as that: and should rather have feared (forsuch as Vivien) the secret scribing of love-letters to unworthy persons.Howbeit, Jack is wiser than I, and he saith it were dangerous to putsuch power into the hands of most men and women.
Lo! here again am I falling into the Annals of Cicely. Have back, DameCicely, an' it like you. Methinks I had best win back: yet how shall Iget out of the said Annals, and forward on my journey, when the verynext thing that standeth to be writ is mine own marriage?
It was on the morrow of the Epiphany, 1320, that I was wedded to my Jackin the Chapel of York Castle. I have not set down the inwards of mylove-tale, nor shall I, for good cause; for then should I not only fallinto the Annals of Cicely, but should belike never make end thereof.Howbeit, this will I say,--that when King Edward bestowed me on my Jack,I rather count he had his eyes about him, and likewise that there hadbeen a few little passages that might have justified him in so doing:for Jack was of the household, and we had sat the one by the other attable more than once or twice, and had not always held our tongues whenso were. So we were no strangers, forsooth, but pretty well to thecontrary: and verily, I fell on my feet that morrow. I am not so sureof Jack. And soothly, it were well I should leave other folks to blowmy trumpet, if any care to waste his breath at that business.
I was appointed damsel of the chamber on my marriage, and at after thatsaw I far more of the Queen than aforetime. Now and again it was myturn to lie in that pallet in her chamber. Eh, but I loved not thatwork! I used to feel all out [altogether] terrified when those greatdark eyes flashed their shining flashes, and there were not so manynights in the seven that they did not. She was as easy to put out as toshut one's eyes, but to bring in again--eh, that was weary work!
I am not like to forget that July even when, in the Palace ofWestminster, my Lord of Exeter came to the Queen, bearing the GreatSeal. It was a full warm eve, and the Queen was late abed. Joan deVilers was that night tire-woman, and I was in waiting. I mind thatwhen one scratched on the door, we thought it Master Oliver, and insteadof going to see myself, I but bade one of the sub-damsels in a whisper.But no sooner said she,--"Dame, if it shall serve you, here is my Lordof Exeter and Sir Robert de Ayleston,"--than there was a full greatcommotion. The Queen rose up with her hair yet unbound, and bade thembe suffered to enter: and when my Lord of Exeter came in, she--and afterher all we of her following--set her on her knees afore him to pray hisblessing. This my Lord gave, but something hastily, as though histhoughts were elsewhere. Then said he--
"Dame, the King sends you the Great Seal, to be kept of you until suchtime as he shall ask it again."
And he motioned forward Sir Robert de Ayleston, that held in his armsthe great bag of white leather, wherein was the Great Seal of gold.
Saw I ever in all my life face change as hers changed then! To judgefrom her look, she might have been entering the gates of Heaven. (Asorry Heaven,
thought I, that gold and white leather could make betwixtthem.) Her eyes glowed, and flashed, and danced, all at once: and shesat her down in a chair of state, and received the Seal in her ownhands, and saith she--
"Bear with you my duty to the King my lord, and tell him that I willkeep his great charge in safety."
So her words ran. But her eyes said--and eyes be apt to speak truerthan voices--"This day am I proudest of all the women in England, and Ilet not go this Seal so long as I can keep it!"
Then she called Dame Elizabeth, which received the Seal upon the knee,and the Queen bade her commit it to the great cypress coffer wherein herroyal robes were kept.
Not long after that, the Queen took her chamber at the Tower afore theLady Joan was born; and the Great Seal was then returned to the King'sWardrobe. Master Thomas de Cherleton was then Comptroller of theWardrobe: but he was not over careful of his office, and left much inthe hands of his clerks; and as at that time Jack was clerk in charge,he was truly Keeper of the Great Seal so long as the Queen abode in theTower. He told me he would be rare thankful when the charge was over,for he might not sleep o' nights for thinking on the same. I do thinkfolks in high place, that be set in great charge, should do their ownwork, and not leave it to them beneath, so that Master Comptroller hathall the credit when things go well, and poor John Clerk payeth all thewyte if things go wrong. But, dear heart! if man set forth to amend allthe crooked ways of this world, when shall he ever have done? Maybe ifI set a-work to amend me, Cicely, it shall be my best deed, and morethan I am like to have done in any hurry.
Now come I to the Queen's journey to France in 1324, and my tale shallthereupon grow more particular. The King sent her over to remonstratewith the King of France her brother for his theft of Guienne--for it wasno less; and to conclude a treaty with him to restore the same. It wasin May she left England and just before that something had happenedwherein I have always thought she had an hand. In the August of theyear before, Sir Roger de Mortimer brake prison from the Tower, and madegood his escape to Normandy; where, after tarrying a small season withhis mother's kinsmen, the Seigneurs de Fienles, he shifted his refuge toParis, where he was out of the King's jurisdiction. Now in regard ofthat matter it did seem to me that King Edward was full childish andunwise. Had his father been on the throne, no such thing had everhapped: he wist how to deal with traitors. But now, with so slack anhand did the King rule, that not only Sir Roger gat free of the Tower bybribing one of his keepers and drugging the rest, but twenty good daysat the least were lost while he stale down to the coast and so won away.There was indeed a hue and cry, but it wrought nothing, and even thatwas not for a week. There was more diligence used to seize his landsthan to seize him. And at the end of all, just afore the Queen'sjourney, if my Lady Mortimer his wife, that had gone down to Southamptonthinking to join him, was not taken and had to Skipton Castle, and theyoung damsels, her children, that were with her, sent to separateconvents! I have ever believed that was the Queen's doing. It was shethat loved not the Lady Mortimer should go to France: it should haveinterfered with her game. But what weakness and folly was it that theKing should hearken her! Well--
"Soft you, now!"
"O Jack, how thou didst start me! I very nigh let my pen fall."
"Then shouldst thou have inked thy tunic, Sissot; and it were pity, sogood Cologne sindon as it is. But whither goest thou with thygoose-quill a-flying, good wife? Who was Sir Roger de Mortimer? andwhat like was he?"
"Who was he, Jack?" quoth I, feeling somewhat took aback. "Why, hewas--he was Sir Roger de Mortimer."
"How like a woman!" saith Jack, setting his hands in the pockets of hissinglet.
"Now, Jack!" said I. "And what was he like, saidst thou? Why, he wasas like a traitor, and a wastrel, and every thing that was bad, as everI saw man in all my life."
"Horns, belike--and cloven feet--and a long tail?" quoth Jack. "I'llgive it up, Sissot. Thou wert best write thy chronicle thine own way.But it goeth about to be rarely like a woman."
"Why, how should it not, when a woman is she that writeth it?" said I,laughing. But Jack had turned away, with that comical twist of hismouth which shows him secretly diverted.
Verily, I know not who to say Sir Roger was, only that he was Lord ofWigmore and Ludlow, and son of the Lady Margaret that was born aFienles, and husband of the Lady Joan that was born a Geneville; and theproudest caitiff and worst man that ever was, as shall be shown ere Ilay down my pen. He was man that caused the loss of himself and ofother far his betters, and that should have been the loss of Englandherself but for God's mercy. The friend of Sathanas and of all evil,the foe of God and of all good--this, and no less, it seemeth me, wasSir Roger de Mortimer of Wigmore. God pardon him as He may [if such athing be possible]!
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Note 1. A very sweet, luscious wine. Verjuice was the most acid typeof vinegar.
Note 2. Quiet, calm, patient. In Lowland Scotch, to _thole_ is stillto endure; and _thole-mood_ must mean calm endurance.