*CHAPTER X.*
*MARCUS CURTIUS.*
"Yet thy true heart and loving faith, And agony of martyr death, God saw,--and He remembereth." --F. J. PALGRAVE.
"What think you on thus sadly, my son?" said Mr. Robesart to LawrenceMadison, whom he found standing with folded arms, gazing out of anembrasure as though he were not contemplating the landscape.
"I was thinking, Father," was the answer, in a low, dreamy tone,"wherein success lieth."
"What fashion of success?"
Lawrence smiled, "I am beginning to learn that there be more fashionsthereof than one."
"It is good to learn it early," said the priest. "For man is apt tothink that alone success which hath a gloss and a glitter about it. Webe too oft like childre, which would rather a brass counter that didshine bravely, than a gold noble that was dull and covered with dirt.But what be thy thoughts thereon, my son?"
"I thought, Father, that many men did destroy their own success by beingtoo eager to grasp thereat, afore God had it ready."
"Thou hast well spoken, Lawrence--'afore God had it ready.' Hast thouread certain words of Saint Stephen the martyr touching Moyses, thatgreat Prophet of God? 'He guessed that his brethren should understandthat God should give to them health by the hand of him: but theyunderstood not.' How should they? Nor was it they that were lacking.It was Moyses that understood not--understood not that the day ofdeliverance was not come by forty years--that forty years' keeping ofsheep in Midian must needs be first. Yet God did mean to deliver themby his hand; it was not undone, only latered.[#] He did so when theright time came--when He was ready, and when Moyses was ready, and whenIsrael was ready."
[#] Deferred.
"It seemeth me," answered Lawrence, sighing, "that man lacketh muchtraining at our Lord's hand, ere he be fit for a deliverer."
"More than any can rightly judge, out-taken our Lord. The fellowship ofChrist's work may well include the fellowship of Christ's sufferings.Mark thou, a stone-breaker needs no training; a goldsmith must havemuch. The finer the tool shall be, the sharper must be the grinding ofit. What is behind thy thoughts, Lawrence?"
"Methinks, Father, you wit my Lord's earnest desire to be he that shouldpeace Ireland with England?--and you know how foot-hot he flingethhimself, soul and body, into all that cometh to his hand for to bedone?"
"I know," said Mr. Robesart, with a smile in which amusement and pityhad equal shares.
"I was marvelling if he were ready," said Lawrence in the same lowvoice. "I am something feared lest he may run ere he be sent."
"Men of his disposition are prone to make that blunder."
"That would not bring success."
"Not the brass counter of it, in very sooth: yet it might be a step onthe way to the gold. It were more like to bring a lesson to himselfthan success to his plan. Yet even there, Lawrence, that is at timesthe truest success which hath most the look of failure. It did not looklike success when the cross was reared on the hill of Calvary. Yet thatnight he was destroyed that had the power of death, and the gates of thekingdom of Heaven were flung open to all believers."
Lawrence did not answer for a moment. Then he said, in a lower tonethan ever,--"There be that seem as though they could not learn from thepast."
"Let us have a care we be not of them. And for others let us pray."
"It is hard," was the reply with an unsteady voice, "to see a life flungaway and lost, for the which you would give your own and count itnothing worth."
"That is not lost," was Mr. Robesart's answer, "which is given to Godand our neighbour. The only lost lives are those that be cast away uponSatan and ourselves. He will not lose his life: another may."
Lawrence had no need to inquire if Mr. Robesart were thinking of theCountess.
"And if it were as thou shouldst seem to fear," resumed the priest, "ifour young Lord should fling away all, even to earthly life, upon thisearnest burning desire that hath possessed him,--who are we to say himnay? This may be God's work for him. It were a good work, surely, if itcould be done."
"It were a good work to dry up a quicksand," answered Lawrence,significantly: "yet if a man flung therein all the gold of his having,it should be cast away, and the quicksand be no drier. Father, it seemsto me a work that cannot be done, or that, if it were done, should costa thousand lives as fair as his, and take maybe a thousand years to doit."
"Lawrence Madison," said Mr. Robesart, gravely, "thou and I had betterlet the Lord's purposes alone, for the chances be an hundred to one thatwe shall do them mischief. It were unwisdom to stay the wheels of theworld lest they should crush a fly."
Lawrence gave a gesture of impatience, almost involuntary.
"My son," continued the priest, laying his hand on Lawrence's shoulder,"childre be apt to make wrong reckonings. Remember, He that driveth thecharette is the Father of us all. He will not crush, nor 'noy one ofhis childre without good cause. And mind thou, that meaneth good causefor him, no less than for the general matter. If the Master of thegarden will pluck one of His flowers in the bud, which of Hisweeding-lads shall say Him nay? And if our Father see it well to callHis child to Him, somewhat sooner than the other childre would fain partwith him, is it ill for the child thus called, or is it well?"
"By how rough a road!"
"It will not matter when he hath reached Home. Yet is it so? Dost thouknow which road should be the rougher--the short, sharp climb up thesteep rock, or the weary winding around it? I would scarce presume tosay. Forty years in the wilderness be apt to tire a man sorely. Let itrest, Lawrence; it is better. Only pray for him. He will give his lifefor somewhat, either by the sharp climb or the weary desert way. Praythat he may give it for what God means it. We shall meet and rest atHome."
"God grant it be so!"
"And one other thing, Lawrence, I will say unto thee, of the which Ithink thou hast need. Be not too careful to spare pain to them thoulovest. It is not the best kind of love. And too often--I would butcaution thee, my son, to keep out of the wiles of Satan--what it trulysignifieth is that we would fain spare ourselves the pain of seeing it.Methinks thy danger should be on that side, wherefore have a care. Godloves us better than that. Aye, and He only knows our hearts, as Heonly knows those good works which He hath prepared for us to walk in.'It sufficeth to each day his own evil.' Pray as much as ever thouwilt; only beware of giving commands to God. And when thou hast prayed,and canst do nothing, then is the time to stand still and see Hissalvation. Remember, for him that is God's child, nothing is verily illthat God doth to him."
"Nay, but if it break his heart?"
"Hearts take more breaking than men think," said Mr. Robesart, quietly."And He healeth 'all that have need of healing.' By times, when wethink we lack the plaster, we do in very deed want the probe."
Lawrence looked up suddenly, with pained eyes.
"The probe gives the most pain when a man shall struggle against it.'Thy will, not mine,' is the most wholesome medicine for all our ills,my son."
"It is a bitter one," said Lawrence, his lip slightly trembling.
"Aye, whiles we be swallowing of it. But if thou wouldst make thyphysic specially bitter, the way is to look thereon a while aforehand,and feed thy fantasy with the bitterness thereof, and swallow the samegrudgingly at last."
Lawrence smiled.
"Aye me!" said Mr. Robesart, sadly. "For every time that we say to Godwith our lips, '_Fiat voluntas tua_' how many times do we say to Himwith our hearts, '_Fiat voluntas mea!_' Nay, at times we pass a stepfurther yet, and say, 'Do Thou my will!' May God save thee and me fromthat rank treason against our heavenly King! We be all likely to falltherein. And yet His will is for our best welfare--our sanctificationhere, our bliss hereafter; and our will is but for present ease andpassing pleasure. Lord, teach us to do Thy will!"
The same evening, a horn sounded without the gate, and the Earl ofOrmonde was announce
d in the hall of Trim Castle. Roger, who wasplaying chess with one of his knights, rose to meet his kinsman, a manten years older than himself.
"Fair fall your Lordship in your light battle to-night!" said Ormonde,with a rather grim smile and a glance at the chess-board. "If you be ofmy mind, we shall find somewhat heavier work to-morrow."
"Truly, what mean you, fair Cousin?"
"The O'Brien is up, my Lord: and that means work for me--and for you, ifyou will have with me."
"Have with you? Aye, with all my heart!" returned the Viceroy, with aflash in his eyes. "The O'Brien! ungrateful traitor! was it for thisthe King knighted him in Dublin Cathedral? Howbeit, you and I shallsoon bring him to book, and without tumult, I would fain hope."
"Your Pandora hath her coffer a good size," answered Ormonde, with thesame grim smile.
"You think my hopes be over-great, trow?"
"A dram or so bigger than mine."
"I will never fight mine own kin, if I may away therewith," said Roger,cheerfully. "Let me but parley with the Irishry myself, and you shallbehold somewhat come thereof."
"Truly, of that doubt I nothing," said Ormonde in the same tone. "Butwhether that which comes thereof shall be to your gracious Lordship'sease--well, I was not bred up for a prophet."
"Whither march we?"
"Down the Boyne and up the Blackwater. The sept are gathered atKenles."[#]
[#] Now called Kells.
"How much is your following?"
"All the Botelers, and a good parcel more of the English pale. We arewell enough for that."
"I will march to meet them with the dawn," said the Viceroy. "Madison,order all things in good readiness for early morrow. Maybe I shall findmy work there."
It was said in a cheerful, almost exultant voice; and Roger quitted thehall, leaving Lawrence very, very sad.
"Maybe he shall find his death there!" he said in a low mournful voiceto Mr. Robesart.
"Be it so, my son," answered the priest, though his own tones were notwithout sorrow. "Let him only find God's work; and then he shall findalso God's hire unto His servants. He gives not grudgingly, LawrenceMadison."
The armies met at Kenles, on the 20th of July 1398. When they were yetat a short distance, the Earl of March suddenly sprang from his horse,and bade Lawrence dismount also.
"Quick, and aid me!" said he, in his usual impulsive manner. "I willdon the Irish habit, and meet them thus arrayed. They will list me if Icome to them in their own habit, and speaking their own tongue. Is notthe blood of their ancient kings mine own? Lolly"--the old childishepithet came back to his lips in this moment of haste andexcitement--"wherefore standest gazing thus moonstruck? Make haste andhelp me."
"My Lord, I am sore afeared lest they hurt you."
"They hurt me! Am I not one of them by blood? Have I not learned to beone of them in language? Let me but don their habit, and I am of them inall things. Quick! Cast thy fears and fantasies to the winds! This isno time for them."
While Roger spoke, he was hastily throwing aside his English dress, andarraying himself in the Irish national costume--the tunic and braccaewhich dated from Roman days, the loose hood, the plaid, the bare foot inthe stirrup, and the spear in the hand. Thus accoutred, and commandinghis men to stand still until after the parley, he dashed up the slope tomeet the Irish leaders.
For an instant Roger's handsome face and lithe figure were seen at thesummit of the knoll, as he cried in Irish to the advancing host.
"God speed you, my brethren! What are your demands?"
There was a moment's pause for consultation among the Irish leaders.Then two appeared to separate from the rest, and to come forth towardsRoger.
At that moment came the sharp whirr of an arrow whizzing past, a wildpassionate cry, a sudden rush forward, and the next instant a prostratefigure lay on the ground at the top of the slope, and over it stoodLawrence Madison, sword in hand, guarding it alike from friend and foe.Then a sudden word of command from the Irish chieftain, and down theside of the slope charged the sept of the O'Briens, completelyoverwhelming the English forces.
Let us draw a veil over the next scene. The customs of the Irish septsin war were very terrible. The enemy who fell into their hands alivecould rarely expect mercy: while he who met their vengeance dead wassure of a form of wild revenge which makes the reader shudder.
Six hours later, the returned relics of the English army were reviewed,and the roll called, in the courtyard of Trim Castle. Ten disabledarchers were answered for by others: so were twenty-seven wounded orcaptured spearmen. So men spoke up for Lawrence Madison, rescued alivealmost by miracle, but brought home sorely wounded and insensible, anddelivered into the tender care of Guenllian, to be nursed back to lifeif that might be.
But there was one name which won no answer of any kind, except the barebowed heads which greeted its sound, and let it pass by them in solemnsilence. And that was Roger Mortimer, Earl of Ulster and March, and LordLieutenant of Ireland.
The drawbridge was in place at Trim Castle; the portcullis was lifted,and the gates stood open. In the hall was a great catafalque of blackand silver, where lighted tapers burned at the head and foot of thebier. And into that hall, now open to every comer, came men of allkinds and classes, and of both rival nationalities--soldiers in uniform,and squires of the neighbourhood, of the English pale, and bare-footedIrish peasantry wrapped in their tartan cloaks, to gaze upon that stillwhite face which lay so calm and quiet now. The words which could beheard whispered were not all alike. Some of the squires and thesoldiers said angrily, "He was too much for the Irish"--"He was no trueEnglishman." Others hushed them, with, "Nay, he was England's heir,"or, "He meant well, poor young gentleman!" But at last came one old manwrapped in the national tartan, and bearing a harp upon his back, whosat down, and played upon the instrument a wild, weird, sweet keen, inthe softest notes it would produce. And then, rising, he bound his harpagain upon his shoulders, and went up to the black-robed priest whostood holding the sprinkler with the holy water, which each one whopleased it took and sprinkled the corpse. The old man took it from hishand, and softly scattered the fresh drops on the calm figure lyingthere. While he did so he spoke in Irish.
"Sweet be thy sleep, son of the Kings of Erin! Light lie the earth uponthy fair young face! May He that reigneth in the heavens count theeamong the white-winged, and the dark spirits of evil flee away from thypath to glory! Sleep, son of Una the daughter of Cahil! The winds,whistling in thy soft hair, shall not awaken thee. Depart on thy wings,O blast of the north! for thou shalt not disturb his rest. Long is thenight that cometh, but his eyes are heavy. Draw over him the curtain ofpeace, and let peace be his coverlet."
As his murmured words ended he caught the eyes of the priest.
"I was only blessing him, Father!" said the old man quietly. "Didstthou think the words in my lips were reproaches or curses? A bard ofRoscommon curse the son of Cahil! We could not do it, Father. And heloved us, and died for us. They will not leave us his dust, methinks.We would enshrine it at Tara where holy Patrick preached, or on the Rockof Cashel with the dust of his royal fathers. Ah, it is not likely.They do not trust us. And maybe, at times, we have not deserved thetrust. But we would not have hurt _him_."
"Yet you killed him!" said Mr. Robesart in a choked voice.
"_We?_" was the significant answer, in a pathetic tone. "God be Judgebetween us. You will know one day,--not, perchance, till the great doomshall be. Father!"--the old man, who had moved a little away, suddenlystopped, and fixed his eyes on Mr. Robesart. "There will be some wrongthings to be set right, when that shall be."
"There will," was the answer in the same tone.
"Aye," pursued the aged bard, dreamily. "Some false things to be madetrue, and crooked things to be made straight, and justice to be done bythe great Judge that day. It will be a long day, that--the longestearth shall know. It may well take a thousand years." He turned to thecorpse. "Sleep till the morning co
me, golden-haired love of Erin! Weshall all be there, every one, the accuser and the accused, theoppressor and the oppressed, the murderer and the slain. There will besome of us who would be glad to change. Peace be on thee, and Godforgive us all!"
And the old bard, with the harp bound upon his back, went slowly out ofthe hall: and Mr. Robesart, looking after him, murmured, "_Pax tecum!_"
In the upper chambers of Trim Castle, the scenes were nearly as sad asin the hall beneath. In the private rooms of the ladies' tower, thedead father's darling had wept herself to sleep, when exhausted naturecould bear no more grief for the moment: and in an upper chamber of theadjoining tower, Lawrence Madison lay in fever and delirium. Betweenthe two Guenllian came and went, with light steps and heavy heart: andBeatrice sat by the velvet bed, watching for the child to wake, andlonging to comfort her.
There were two reasons why Guenllian kept Beatrice out of the sickchamber, but neither of them was the one which would occur to a modernnurse. Our fathers, at that time, had little fear of contagion, forthey scarcely realised its existence: when an infectious disease brokeout, they immediately thought the wells had been poisoned--which perhapsthey had, though not by deliberate malice, as was then imagined. One ofGuenllian's motives was a desire to keep the young girl from hearingpoor Lawrence's perpetual repetition of the dreadful scene just enactedat Kenles--that was one of the two topics on which his fevered thoughtsran endlessly: and the other--motive and topic alike--was that Lawrencein his delirium had told Guenllian a secret, which she wanted time toconsider whether it would be well to share with Beatrice. Guenllian hadentertained some suspicion of the truth already, but she knew now withcertainty that Lawrence loved Beatrice, and that he felt certain she didnot love him. On the latter point Guenllian was entirely ignorant, forif Beatrice had any secret feelings of this kind, she confided them tono one. The former was inclined to think that any partiality whichBeatrice might feel for Lawrence was only the sisterly kindness whichhad always existed between them, and if that were so, she was very sorryfor Lawrence. Guenllian knew him well enough to be aware that his love,once given, would be given for ever, and that there could be no secondtime for him. But it was only now and then that Beatrice's name cameinto the passionate flood of words which were poured forth from theunguarded lips of the sufferer. Nearly all night through he was atKenles, going over, over, over that awful scene, but--Guenlliannoticed--never coming quite to the end. When he reached the mostterrible point--just before the death of his master--he always gave asob and a low cry as if in pain, and turned back again to the beginning.This peculiarity, however, had not struck her as any thing remarkable,until the second day, when in giving a minute account of the patient,she mentioned it among other items to the physician.
"Aye so?" asked Mr. Robesart significantly. "Methinks, MistressGuenllian, that hath a meaning. I would fain be here the next time thatit happeth."
"That may you with little trouble, good Father, since I count it happethevery hour at the furthest."
Mr. Robesart sat down and waited. He had no need to wait long. Beforethe hour was over, poor Lawrence was once more pouring out his fervidand dreadful tale, as though he were relating it to a listener, brokenconstantly by disjointed words, yet ever coming back to the one subject.
"Then he rade to the top of the mount--primroses grow there--no, notprimroses--what call you them?--he rade up, in his Irishhabit--habit--Mistress Wenteline, can you amend this rent in mine habit?The Irish have torn it--he called to them in the Irish tongue--nay, Icannot tell you; I wis not the Irish--they be wild folk. They talkalway; they talked then. And two of them came riding forward atafter--Master Byterre, look to your saddle-girth; methinks there issomewhat awry--my Lord bent to his saddle-bow when he answered them.Then one of them laid his spear in rest--rest! Oh for rest! Mine headburneth--'I will give you rest'--aye, only He can give it--but methoughtthe man were not hostile, he seemed as though he held forth his hand--Owala, wala wa! Help, my God!"
And with this cry, not sharply and loudly delivered, but in a low voiceof intense anguish, poor Lawrence sank back upon his pillow, and a coldperspiration broke out over his face.
"Lo' you, right this doth he alway!" whispered Guenllian.
Mr. Robesart shook his head. He laid his soft, cool, quieting hand uponthe patient's brow.
"My son Lawrence, dost thou hear me?"
A lucid interval seemed to occur, for Lawrence looked up into his oldfriend's face, with calm weak eyes.
"I see thou dost. What came then to pass? Try to tell me."
"When, Father?" answered the faint voice. He had evidently norecollection of what had just happened.
"When the Irish leader came up to thy Lord with his spear in rest, andheld forth his hand, or seemed as though he should do it."
A look of unutterable pain came into the sick man's eyes, and his tongueappeared to refuse its office.
"Tell me, my son," urged Mr. Robesart with gentle firmness. "Was itthen the Irish shot him?"
Lawrence tried to lift himself, and looked round uneasily. Mr. Robesarthelped him into a more elevated position, and with a look to Guenlliansent her behind the curtain.
"Under _benedicite_, if I must!" whispered the patient.
"Be it so," answered the priest, and signed to Guenllian to quit thechamber. "Now, my son, here be no ears save mine--and His that knowethall things. Speak on."
"Father!" continued the low but fervent tone, "the Irish never shot him.That shot came _from our own side_."
"Never!" broke from the amazed priest. "Lawrence, my son, calm thee!Thou art speaking----"
"I am speaking the heavy truth," answered the sufferer. "Nay Father, Iam in good wit now, whatso I may have been. I tell you again, the Irishdid it not. It was his own men that slew him."
"Christ pardon him that did it!"
"I will say Amen so soon as I can," answered Lawrence Madison with asob. "That is not yet."
The priest did not reprove him. Perhaps he was too shocked to sayanything: or perhaps he felt that in a case like this, nature must haveits way at first, and even grace could hardly overcome it in the openingbitterness of love's agony.
Guenllian had felt much afraid of Mr. Robesart's making Lawrence thusspeak out the point which in his delirium he seemed unable to utter,like a nervous horse refusing to pass a special object. But the eventproved the physician's judgment right. From the hour that the burdenwas shared with another, the patient began to amend.
Who was it that slew Roger Mortimer, and why? God knoweth, and men neverknew. The chroniclers plainly enough assert the fact of his death; butthey content themselves with the vaguest possible hints at the furtherfacts--that his own men slew him, and that they did it out of jealousyon account of what they deemed his Irish proclivities. Just enough tomake us guess it they suggest: they were evidently afraid to say more.
The old bard had spoken truly, for the dust of Roger Mortimer was notleft to repose in Ireland. Amid solemn pomp and glittering funeralgloom, the coffin of the heir of England was borne over St. George'sChannel to his ancestral home at Wigmore. There they laid him with theelder Mortimers, and not, like his father, with his Montacute ancestors,at Bisham. There, by the side of the valiant and wise Edmund Mortimerand his royally descended Margaret, who may be termed the founders ofthe house, by the first Earl of darkened memory, by the young and royalmother whom he could barely remember, sleeps Roger Mortimer, heirpresumptive of England, first and last Lollard of the House of March.
England has forgotten him long ago, her own chosen heir to whom herfaith was sworn, and from whose lips, time after time, the cup ofsuccess seemed snatched, just as he was about to drink the sweet wine.But should Ireland utterly forget that scion of her ancient kings, theyoung, warm-hearted, gallant Prince who, prudently of imprudently, gavehis life for her, and did not achieve the end in the hope of which hegave it?