CHAPTER FIVE.
THE STORY OF ISABEL.
"O dumb, dumb lips! O crushed, crushed heart! O grief, past pride, past shame!"
Miss Muloch.
Mother Joan had arrived at the point closing the last chapter, when thesharp ringing of the Abbess' little bell announced the end of therecreation-time; and convent laws being quite as rigid as those of theMedes and Persians, Philippa was obliged to defer the furthergratification of her curiosity. When the next recreation-time came, theblind nun resumed her narrative.
"When Dame Isabelle was lodged at her ease, for she saw first to that,she ordered her prisoners to be brought before the Prince her son. Shehad the decency not to sit as judge herself; but, in outrage of allwomanliness, she sat herself in the court, near the Prince's seat. Shewould have sat in the seat rather than have missed her end. The Princewas wholly governed by his mother; he knew not her true character; andhe was but a lad of fourteen years. So, when the prisoners were broughtforth, the tigress rose up in her place, and spake openly to theassembled barons (a shameful thing for a woman to do!) that she and herson would see that law and justice were rendered to them, according totheir deeds. She! That was the barons' place, not hers. She shouldhave kept to her distaff.
"Then said my grandfather, bowing his white head, `Ah, Dame! God grantus an upright judge, and a just sentence; and that if we cannot have itin this world, we may find it in another.'
"The charges laid against them were then read by the Marshal; and thebarons gave sentence--of course as Dame Isabelle wished. The Lord ofArundel and Surrey, the premier Earl of England, [see Note 1], and theaged white-haired Earl of Winchester, [see Note 2], were doomed to thedeath of traitors.
"Saint Denis' Day--child, it gives me a shudder to name it! We werewithin the castle, and they set up the gibbet before our eyes. Beforethe eyes of the son of the one man, the wife and son of the other! Iremember catching up Isabel, and running with her into an innerchamber--any whither to be out of sight of that awful thing. Iremember, too, that the Lady of Arundel, having seen all she could bear,fainted away on the rushes, and I laid her gently down, and nursed herback into life. But when she came to herself, she cried--`Is it allover? O cruel Joan, to have made me live! I might have died with mylord.' At last it was all over: over--for that time. And God had takenno notice. He had not opened the heavens and thundered down His greatire. I suppose that must have been on account of some high festivalthey had in Heaven in honour of Saint Denis, and God was too busy,listening to the angels, to have any time for us.
"But that night, ere the dawn, my father softly entered the chamberwhere we maidens slept. He had been closeted half the night with theKing, taking counsel how to escape the cruel jaws of the tigress; andnow he roused us, and bade us farewell. He and the King would set forthin a little boat, and endeavour to reach Wales. They thought us,however, safer in the castle. We watched them embark in the grey dawn,ere men were well astir; and they rowed off toward Wales. Would Godthey had stayed where they were!--but God had not ended the festival ofSaint Denis.
"Twelve days that little boat rode the silver Severn; beaten back,beaten back at every tide, the waves rough, and the wind contrary. Andat length Sir Henry Beaumont, the devil whispering to him who were inthe boat, set forth in pursuit. [See Note 3.]
"We saw them taken. The Monday after Saint Luke, Edward of Caernarvon,sometime King of England, and Hugh Le Despenser, sometime Earl ofGloucester, were led captives into Bristol, and delivered to thetigress. But we were not to see them die. Perhaps Saint Luke hadinterceded for us, as it was in his octave. The King was sent toBerkeley Castle. My father they set on the smallest and poorest horsethey could find in the army, clad in an emblazoned surcoat such as hewas used to wear. From the moment that he was taken, he would touch nofood. And when they reached Hereford, he was so weak and ill, that DameIsabelle began to fear he would escape her hands by a more mercifuldeath than she designed for him. So she stayed her course at Herefordfor the Feast of All Saints, and the morrow after she had him broughtforth for trial. They had need to bear him into her presence, he was sonearly insensible. Finding that they could not wake him into life byspeaking to him and calling him, they twined a crown of nettles and setit on his head. But he was even then too near death to rouse himself.So, lest he should die on the spot, they hurried him forth to execution.He died the death of a traitor; but maybe God was more merciful thanthey, and snatched his soul away ere he had suffered all they meant heshould. I suppose He allowed him to suffer previously, in punishmentfor his allying himself with the wicked men of Edingdon: but I trust hissuffering purified his soul, and that God received him.
"Her vengeance thus satiated, Dame Isabelle set out for London. TheCastle of Arundel was forfeited, and the Lady and her son Richard wereleft homeless. [See Note 4.] We set forth with them, a journey of manyweary days, to join my mother. But when we reached London, we found allchanged. Dame Isabelle, on her first coming, had summoned my mother tosurrender the Tower; and she, being affrighted, had resigned her charge,and was committed to the custody of the Lord de la Zouche. So wehomeless ones bent our steps to Sempringham, where were two of myfather's sisters, Joan and Alianora; and we prayed the holy nuns thereto grant us shelter in their abode of peace. The Lord of Hereford gavean asylum for young Richard.
"Those were peaceful, quiet days we passed at Sempringham; and they werethe last Isabel was to know. Meanwhile, the Friars Predicants, and inespecial the men of Edingdon and Ashridge, were spreading themselvesthroughout the land, working well to bring back the King. Working toowell; for Dame Isabelle took alarm, and on Saint Maurice's Day, twelvemonths after her landing, the King died at Berkeley Castle. God knewhow: and I think she knew who had sat by his side on the throne, and whowas the mother of his children. We only heard at Sempringham, that onthat night shrieks of agony rang through the vale of the Severn, and menwoke throughout the valley, and whispered a requiem for the hapless soulwhich was departing in such horrible torment.
"But that opened the eyes of the young King (for the Prince of Wales hadbeen made King; ay, and all the hour of his crowning, Dame Isabellestood by, and made believe to weep for her lord): he began to see what aserpent was his mother; and I daresay Brother John de Gaytenby, theFriar Predicant who was his confessor, let not the matter sleep. And nosooner did Edward of Windsor gain his full power, than he shut up thewicked Jezebel his mother in the Castle of Rising. She lived theretwenty years: she died there, fourteen years ago.
"So the tide turned. The friends of Dame Isabelle died on the scaffold,four years later, even as _he_ had died; and we heard it at Sempringham,and knew that God and the saints and angels had taken up our cause atlast. Child, God's mill grindeth slowly, but it grindeth very small.
"Ere this, Hugh, my brother, had been granted his life by the King, butnot our father's earldom [see Note 5]; and when my father had been deadonly two years, leaving such awful memories--our mother wedded again.Ah, well! she was our mother. But, child, I have seen a caterpillar,shaken rudely from the fragrant petals of a rose, crawl to the next weedthat grew. She was fair and well-dowered; and against the King's will,she wedded the Lord de la Zouche, in whose custody she was.
"And now for the end of my woeful tale, which is the story of Isabelherself. For, one year later, the Castle of Arundel was given back toRichard Fitzalan; and two years thereafter the Lady of Arundel died.Listen a little longer with patience: for the saddest part of the storyis that yet to come.
"When Richard and Isabel went back to the Castle of Arundel, I was ayoung novice, just admitted. And considering the second marriage of ourmother, and the death of the Lady of Arundel, and the extreme youth ofIsabel (who was not yet fourteen), I was permitted to reside very muchwith her. A woeful residence it was; for now began the fourteenterrible years of my darling's passion.
"For no sooner was his mother's gentle hand removed, than, even on thevery day of her burial, Earl Richard threw off
the mask.
"Before that time, I had wonderingly doubted if he loved her. I knewthen that he hated her. And I found one other thing, sadder yet--thatshe loved him. I confess unto thee, by the blessed ankle-bones of SaintDenis, that I never could make out why. I never saw in him anything tolove; and had I so done, methinks he had soon had that folly out of me.At first I scarcely understood all. I used to see livid blue bruises onher neck and arms, and ask her wherefore they were there; and she wouldonly flush faintly, and say,--`It is nothing--I struck myself againstsomething.' I never knew for months against what she struck. But shenever complained--not even to me. She was patient as an angel of God.
"Now and then I used to notice that there came to the castle an agedman, in the garb of the Friars Predicants; unto whom--and to him only--Isabel used to confess. So changed was he from his old self, that Inever knew till long after that this was our father's old confessor,Giles de Edingdon. She only said to me that he taught her good things.If he taught her her saintly endurance, it was good. But I fear hetaught her other things as well: to hold in light esteem that blesseddoctrine of grace of condignity, whereby man can and doth merit thefavour of God. And what he gave her instead thereof I know not. Sheused to tell me, but I forget now. Only once, in an awful hour, shesaid unto me, that but for the knowledge he had given her, she could nothave borne her life.
"What was that hour?--Ah! it was the hour, when for the first time hethrew aside all care, even before me, and struck her senseless on therushes at my feet. And I never forgave him. She forgave him, poorinnocent!--nay, rather, I think she loved him too well to think offorgiveness. I never saw love like hers; it would have borne deathitself, and have kissed the murderer's hand in dying. Some women dolove so. I never did, nor could.
"But when this awful hour came, and she fell at my feet, as if dead, bya blow from his hand in anger,--the spirit of my fathers came upon me,and like a prophetess of woe, child, I stood forth and cursed him! Ithink God spake by me, for words seemed to come from me without my will;and I said that for two generations the heir of his house should die byviolence in the flower of his age [See Note 6]. Thou mayest see if itbe so; but I never shall.
"And what said he?--He said, bowing his head low,--`Sister Joan LaDespenser is a great flatterer. Pray, accept my thanks. Henceforward,she may perhaps find the calm glades of Shaftesbury more pleasant thanthe bowers of Arundel. At least, I venture to beg that she will makethe trial.' And he went forth, calling to his hounds.
"Ay, went forth, without another word, and left her lying there at myfeet--her, to save whom one pang of pain I would have laid down my life.And the portcullis was shut upon me. I was powerless to save her fromthat man: I was to see her again no more. I did see her again no morefor ever. I waited till her sense came back, when she said she was nothurt, and fell to excusing him. I felt as though I could have torn himlimb from limb. But that would have pained her.
"And then, when she was restored, I went forth from the Castle ofArundel. I had been dismissed by the master; and dearly as I loved her,I was too proud to be dismissed twice. So we took our farewell. Hersoft cheek pressed to mine--for the last time; her dear eyes lookinginto mine--for the last time; her sweet, low voice blessing me--for thelast time.
"And what were her last words, saidst thou? I cannot repeat themtearlessly, even now.
"`God grant thee the Living Water.'
"Those were they. She had spoken to me oft--though I had not much caredto listen, except to her sweet voice--of something whereof this Gileshad told her; some kind of fairy tale, regarding this life as a desert,and of some Well of pure, fresh water, deep down therein. I know notwhat. I cared for all that came from her, but I cared nought for whatcame only through her from Giles de Edingdon. But she said God hadgiven her a draught of that Living Water, and she was at rest. I knownothing about it. But I am glad if anything gave her rest from thatanguish--even a fairy tale.
"Well, after that I saw her no more again. But now and then, when minehunger for her could no longer be appeased, I used to come to theConvent of Arundel, and send word to Alina, thy nurse, to come to methither. And so, from time to time, I had word of her.
"The years passed on, and with them he grew harder and harder. He hadhated her, first, I think, from the fancy that my father had been aftersome manner the cause of his father's violent end; and after that hehated her for herself. And as time passed, and she had no child, hehated her worse than ever. But at last, after many years, God gave herone--thyself. I thought, perchance, if anything would soften him, thysmiles and babyish ways might do it. But--soften him! It had beeneasier to soften a rock of stone. When he knew that it was only a girlthat was born, he hated her worse than ever. Three years more; then thelast blow fell. Earl Henry of Lancaster bade him to his castle. Asthey talked, quoth the Earl,--`I would you had not been a wedded man, myLord of Arundel; I had gladly given you one of my daughters.'--`Purefoy!' quoth he, `but that need be no hindrance, nor shall long.' Norwas it. He sent to our holy Father the Pope--with some lie, I trow--andreceived a divorce, and a dispensation to wed Alianora, his cousin, theyoung widow of the Lord de Beaumont, son of that Sir Henry that capturedthe King and my father. All the while he told Isabel nothing. Themeanest of her scullions knew of the coming woe before she knew it. Thenight ere Earl Richard should be re-wedded, he thought proper to dismisshis discarded wife.
"`Dame,' said he to her, as he rose from the supper-table, `I pray you,give good ear for a moment to what my chaplain is about to read.'
"He was always cruelly courteous before men.
"She stayed and listened. Then she grew faint and white--then shegrasped the seat to support her--then she lost hold and sense, and felldown as if dead before him. Poor, miserably-crushed heart! She lovedthis monster so well!
"He waited till she came to herself. Then he gave the last stroke.
"`I depart now,' said he, `to fetch home my bride. May I beg that theLady Isabel La Despenser will quit the castle before she comes. Itwould be very unpleasant to her otherwise.'
"Unpleasant--to Alianora! And to Isabel, what would it be? Little herecked of that. She had received her dismissal. He had said to her, ineffect,--`You are my wife, and Lady of Arundel, no more.'
"She lifted herself up a little, and looked into his face. She knew shewas looking upon him for the last time. And once more the fervent,unvalued, long-outraged love broke forth,--once more, for the last time.
"`My lord! my lord!' she wailed. `Leave me not so, Richard! Give meone kiss for farewell!'
"He did not lift her from the ground; he did not kiss her; but he wasnot quite silent to that last bitter cry. He held forth his hand--thehand which had been uplifted to strike her so often. She clasped it inhers, and kissed it many times. And that was his farewell.
"When he had drawn his hand from her, and was gone forth, she sat aseason like a statue, listening. She hearkened till she heard him rideaway--on his way to Alianora. Then, as if some prop that had held herup were suddenly withdrawn, she fell forward, and lay with her face tothe rushes. All that awful night she lay there. Alina came to her, andstrove to lift her, to give her food, to yield her comfort: but she tookno heed of anything. When the dawn came, she arose, and wrapped herselfin her mantle. She took no money, no jewels--not an ouche nor a grainof gold. Only she wrapped in silk two locks of hair--his and thine. Ishould have left the first behind. Then, when she was seated on thehorse to depart, the page told her who mounted afore, that his Lord hadgiven him command to take her to a certain place, which was not to betold beforehand.
"Alina said she shivered a little at this; but she only answered, `Do mylord's will.' Then she asked for thee. Alina lifted thee up to her,and she clasped thee close underneath her veil, and kissed theetenderly. And that was thy last mother's kiss."
"Then that is what I remember!" broke in Philippa suddenly.
"It is impossible, child!" answered Joan. "Thou wert b
ut a babe ofthree years old."
"But I do--I am sure I do!" she repeated.
"Have thy way," said Joan. "If thou so thinkest, I will not gainsaythee. Well, she gave thee back in a few minutes; and then she rodeaway--never pausing to look back--no man knew whither."
"But what became of her?"
"God wotteth. Sometimes I hope he murdered her. One sin more or lesswould matter little to the black list of sins on his guilty soul; andthe little pain of dying by violence would have saved Isabel the greaterpain of living through the desolate woe of the future. But I neverknew, as I told thee. Nor shall I ever know, till that last day comewhen the Great Doom shall be, and he and she shall stand together beforethe bar of God. There shall be an end to her torment then. It issomething to think that there shall be no end to his."
So, in a tone of bitter, passionate vindictiveness, Joan La Despenserclosed her story.
Philippa sat silent, wondering many things. If Guy of Ashridge knew anything of this, if Giles de Edingdon were yet living, if Agnes thelavender had ever found out what became of her revered mistress. Andwhen she knelt down to tell her beads that night, a very strange andterrible prayer lingered on her lips the last and most earnestly of all.It was, that she might never again see her father's face. She feltthat had she done so, the spirit of the prophetess might have seizedupon her as upon Joan; that, terrified as she had always been of him,she should now have stood up before him and have cursed him to his face.
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Note 1. Edmund Fitzalan was premier Earl as Earl of Surrey, which titlehe acquired by his marriage with Alesia, sister and heir of John deWarrenne, last Earl of Surrey of the original male line.
Note 2. Probably owing to the great mortality among the nobles causedby the French war, a man who survived fifty was regarded as very old inthe reign of Edward the Third.
Note 3. This is Froissart's account of the events, and his dates havebeen mainly followed. Many writers give a varying narrative, statingthat the King and Earl did reach Wales, and were taken there in a wood.Their dates are also about a month later. The inquisitions of theDespensers, as is usual in the case of attainted persons, do not givethe date of death.
Note 4. The castle was granted to Edmund Earl of Kent, brother ofEdward the Second; and there, on his attainder and execution, four yearslater, his widow and children were arrested.
Note 5. The earldom did not return to the Despenser family until 1397,when it was conferred on the great-grandson of the attainted Earl.
Note 6. Earl Richard, his son, was beheaded in London, in the spring of1397; Earl Thomas, his grandson, fell at Agincourt, October 13, 1415.