*CHAPTER III.*
*CAST ON THE WORLD.*
"But He who feeds the ravens young Lets naething pass He disna see, He'll some time judge o' richt and wrang, And aye provide for you and me." --JAMES HOGG.
"Would it please your good Lordship to stand still but one minute?"
"No, Wenteline, it wouldn't." And little Roger twisted himself out ofthe hands which were vainly endeavouring to smoothe down his vest ofviolet velvet embroidered in silver, and to fasten it round the waistwith a richly-chased silver belt.
"Then, when my gracious Lord sends Master Constantine for your Lordship,am I to say you will not be donned, so you cannot go down to hall?"
"Thou canst say what it list thee. I want to play at soldiers withLolly."
"So shall your Lordship when you be donned," answered Guenllian firmly.
Little Roger looked up into her face, and seeing no relenting, brokeinto a merry little laugh, and resigned himself to the inevitable.
"Oh, come then, make haste!"
Vanity was not among Roger's failings, and impatience very decidedlywas. Guenllian obeyed her little charge's bidding, and in a few minutesreleased him from bondage. He rewarded her with a hurried kiss, andscampered off into the ante-chamber, calling out,--
"Lolly, Lolly, come and play at soldiers!"
The two boys, master and servant, were very fond of each other. Thiswas the more remarkable since not only their temperaments, but theirtastes, were diverse. Roger liked noise and show, was lively,impulsive, ardent: he had no particular love for lessons, and nocapacity for sitting still. Lawrence was grave and calm, gifted with aninsatiable thirst for knowledge, and of a quiet, almost indolentphysical temperament. The one point on which their tastes met was aliking for music; and even in this case Roger delighted in stirringmartial strains, while Lawrence preferred soft and plaintive airs.Playing at soldiers, therefore, was rather in Roger's line than inLawrence's: but the latter never dreamed of setting his will inantagonism to that of his master. The game had gone on for about half anhour when a young man of twenty presented himself at the door of theante-chamber. He was clad in a blue tunic reaching nearly to the knee,and girded with a black belt round the hips, studded with gold; a redhood encircled his neck; his stockings were diverse, the right being ofthe same shade as the hood, and the left of green stripped with black.Low black shoes, with very pointed toes, completed his costume.
"Now, Master Constantine, you may go away. I want nought with you,"shouted little Roger, still struggling with Lawrence, whom he had almostforced into a corner.
"Please it your Lordship," returned Master Constantine with an amusedsmile, "I want somewhat with you. My gracious Lord hath sent me tofetch you to hall."
"O you bad man, you have spoiled my fun!" cried little Roger. "I hadnearly won the battle.--Come along then, Lolly, we will make an end atafter. Draw off the troops--right about face! March!"
A smile broke over the somewhat weary face of the Viceroy, when, twominutes later, his little son came marching into the hall, shoulderinghis toy spear, and followed by Lawrence, who carried a long stick in amanner similar as to position, but dissimilar as to the appearance ofinterest. At the edge of the dalts Lawrence dropped his stick, made alow bow to his master, and retreated among the household beneath. Rogerbounded on the dais, kissed his father's hand, and squatted himselfdown--for half a minute--on a hassock at the Earl's feet. The father'shand lingered tenderly among the fair curls on the boy's head.
"Little Roger," he said, "I have somewhat to tell thee."
"Is it a battle?" exclaimed Roger eagerly.
His father laughed. "Of a truth, thou art cut out for a soldier, mylad. Nay, 'tis not a battle; it is a journey."
"Shall I take a journey?"
"Not yet a while. Perchance, some day. But what sayest? Canst dowithout me for a month or twain?"
"Whither go you, my Lord?"
"I set forth for Cork this next Wednesday."
"Where's Cork?"
"There shall be nigh all Ireland between us, little Roger."
"But musn't I go?" said Roger in a very disappointed tone.
"Not yet a while," repeated his father. "Cork is wilder by far thanAntrim. I must ensure me first that it shall be safe to have thee. Ifso be, I may send for thee in time."
"But must I be all alone?" demanded the child in a changed tone.
"All alone--with Wenteline and Master Byterre and Lawrence--for a littlewhile. Then thou shalt either come to me, or go back to my Lady thygrandmother."
"Oh, let me come to your Lordship! I love not women!" cried Roger, withthe usual want of gallantry of small boys.
"In very deed, I am shocked!" said the Earl, with a twinkle of amusementin his eyes which made more impression on Roger than the accompanyingwords. "Howbeit, we shall see. Thou shouldst dearly love thygrandmother, Roger, for she loveth thee right well."
"Oh aye, I love her all right!--but women wit nought of war andknighthood, and such like. They think you be good if you sit still andstare on a book. And that is monks' gear, not soldiers'. I am asoldier."
"Art thou, forsooth?" responded the Earl with a laugh. "Thou shalt beone day, maybe. Now, my doughty warrior, run to thy nurse. I have adowith these gentlemen."
Two years had passed when this dialogue took place, since little Rogercame from Wigmore to Ireland. He was growing a bright boy, still notparticularly fond of study, but less averse to it than he had been, anddeveloping a strong taste for military matters, and for the lighteraccomplishments. He danced and sang well for his age, and was learningto play the cithern or guitar. He rode fearlessly, was a great climberand leaper, and considering his years a good archer, and a first-rateplayer of chess, foot-ball, club-ball (cricket), hand-tennis (fives),mall battledore and shuttlecock, and tables or back-gammon. As todrawing, nobody ever dreamed of teaching that to a medieval noble. Thethree Rs were also progressing fairly for a boy in the fourteenthcentury.
The small household left at Carrickfergus had but a dull time of itafter the Earl had ridden away for Cork. Two months, and half of athird, dragged wearily along, and not a word came from either Cork orWigmore. The third month was drawing to its close when, late one snowywinter night, the faint sound of a horn announced the approach ofvisitors.
"The saints give it maybe my Lord!" exclaimed Constantine Byterre, whowas as weary of comparative solitude as a lively young man could wellbe.
The drawbridge was thrown across, the portcullis pulled up, and SirThomas Mortimer rode into the courtyard, followed by Reginald de Pagehamand various other members of the Earl's household. They had evidentlyridden a long way, for their horses were exceedingly jaded.
"How does my Lord Roger?" were the first words of Sir Thomas, and theporter perceived that he was either very tired, or very sad.
"Well, sweet Sir: in his bed, as a child should be at this hour."
"Thank God! Bid Mistress Wenteline down to hall, for I must speak withher quickly."
"Sweet Sir, I pray you of your grace, is aught ill?"
"Very ill indeed, good Alan." But Sir Thomas did not explain himselfuntil Guenllian appeared.
It was necessary to rouse her gently, since she slept in little Roger'schamber, and Sir Thomas had given orders that if possible he should notbe disturbed. Fearing she knew not what, Guenllian wrapped herself in athick robe, and descended to the hall.
"Mistress, I give you good greeting: and I do you to wit right heavytidings, for Lord Edmund the Earl lieth dead in Cork Castle."
A low cry of pain and horror broke from Guenllian.
"Surely not slain of the wild men?"
"In no wise. He died a less glorious death, for he took ill rheum,fording the Lee, and in five days therefrom he was no more."
It was as natural for a Lollard as for any other to respond, "Whose soulGod pardon!"
"Amen," said Sir Thomas, crossing himself. "I
trust you, mistress mine,to break these tidings to the young Earl. Have here my dead Lord'stoken"--and he held forth a chased gold ring. "I am bidden, if it shallstand with the King's pleasure, to have back his little Lordship to myLady his grandmother at Wigmore."
"Poor child!" said Guenllian tremulously. "Poor child!"
"Aye, 'tis sad news for him," was the answer. "Yet childre's grieflasteth not long. Methought, good my mistress, it were as well heshould not hear it until the morrow."
"Trust me, Sir. It were cruelty to wake a child up to such news. Aye,but I am woe for my little child! Mereckoneth he were not one to growup well without a father--and without mother belike! The morrow's tearsshall be the least part of his sorrow."
"Ah, well! God must do His will," replied Sir Thomas in a fatalisticmanner.
To him, God's will was only another term for what a heathen would havestyled inevitable destiny. In connection with the expression, he nomore thought of God as a real, living, loving Personality, than he wouldhave thought of Destiny in like manner. It was simply as an impalpablebut invincible law that had to take its course. But on Guenllian's earthe expression came with a wholly different meaning. That Almighty Beingwho to the one was merely the embodiment of stern fate, was to the otherat once God and Father--the incarnation of all wisdom and of all love.It was His will that little Roger should be left fatherless. Then itwas the best thing that He could do for him: and He would be Himself thechild's Father. The very thought which was the worst part of the sorrowto the one was the greatest alleviation of it to the other.
Little Roger's grief was according to his character--intense, but notabiding. Novelty had for him the charm which it has for all children;and he soon began to look forward to the coming journey to England, andthe meeting with his grandmother, and with his brother and sisters, whohad been left in her care. But before the journey could be taken, theroyal assent and formal licence were an absolute necessity. By thedeath of the Earl, the viceroyalty devolved on his successor in theearldom until a fresh appointment was made; and the Viceroy must notleave his post except under leave of the Sovereign. Master RichardByterre, squire of the late Earl, was sent to England to tell the news,and obtain the necessary authorisation, and until his return thehousehold at Carrickfergus was occupied in quietly preparing for thechange which was about to come upon it.
But before the return of Byterre, Reginald de Pyrpount arrived fromEngland with the heaviest news of all.
The coffin of the Earl had been taken by sea direct from Cork to MilfordHaven, and thence to Wigmore. Perhaps too suddenly, the tidings of thedeath of her last child were broken to the widowed mother. She camedown into the hall of the Castle, whither the Coffin had been carried:the lid was lifted, and she gazed long and earnestly on the face of herdead: but through it all she never shed a tear. When she had regainedher own rooms, her squire asked if it were her pleasure that the funeralshould be proceeded with on the next day.
"Nay, not all so soon," was the answer. "Wait but a little, and yeshall bear my coffin too."
Despite all the efforts of her anxious suite, the Countess Philipparefused to be comforted. She would go down, into the grave unto herson, mourning. She took to her bed on the second day. Her confessorcame to reason with her.
"This is not well, Lady," said he. "You are a rebellious subject untoyour heavenly King--a child that will not kiss the Father's rod. Submityou to Him, and be at peace."
"Not a rebel, Father," answered the low pathetic voice. "Only a childtoo tired to work any more. Let me go to Him that calleth me."
"But there is much for you to live for, Lady----" resumed the confessor,but she interrupted him.
"I know. And I would have lived if I could. I would have lived for mylittle Roger. But I cannot, Father. Heart and brain and life are tiredout. God must have a care of my little child. I am too weary to tendhim. Let me go!"
They had to let her go. On the evening of the third day, with one deepsigh as of relief in the ending of the struggle, she laid down the wearyweight of life, and went to Him who had called her.
The House of Mortimer of March was represented by those four lonelylittle children, of whom the eldest was only nine years old. It seemedas if every vestige of a shield for the tender plants was to be takenaway and they were to be exposed to the full fury of the winter blasts.
For a whole year little Roger was detained at Carrickfergus, nominalViceroy of Ireland, with his future still undetermined. This was notthe fault of the King, a boy only just fifteen years of age; but of thecommission of Regency which governed in his name. At the end of thattime orders came from Westminster.
Sir Thomas Mortimer was to bring home the little Viceroy, to receive hisexoneration from the arduous honour which had been thrust upon him, andto deliver him to the Earl of Arundel, whose ward he had been made, andwith whom he was to reside till his majority. To Sir Thomas this newswas indifferent: he desired the child's welfare, which, as he understoodit, was likely to be well secured by this arrangement. But as Guenllianunderstood it, there was fair chance of the boy's ruin. If there werein the world one layman more than another who hated Wycliffe andLollardism from the centre of his soul, it was that Earl of Arundel towhom Roger's future education was thus entrusted. And the astutestatesman who was really--not ostensibly--the ruler of England, knewthis quite as well as she did. This was Thomas, Duke of Gloucester, theyoungest and cleverest of the sons of Edward III. And we have nowarrived at a point in our story which makes it necessary to interpose afew words upon the state of politics at that time.
The King, as has just been said, was a mere boy, and the reins of powerwere in the hands of his three uncles. Of these Princes, the one whomnature and fortune alike pointed out as the leader was the eldest, Johnof Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster. And had he really taken the lead, thedisastrous reign of Richard II. might, humanly speaking, have ended verydifferently. His next brother, Edmund, Duke of York, was so extremelyweak in mind as to be little better than half-witted, and was entirelyunder the control of whoever chose to control him. The youngest, ofwhom I have spoken above, was clever in the worst sense of that word:but the only man whom he feared was his brother John, and had Johnchosen he might have reduced the active wickedness of Thomas to a pointof merely nominal value. He did not choose. Never was a finercharacter more completely rendered useless and inert by moral indolence;never were such magnificent opportunities of serving God and man moreutterly wasted--than in the case of John of Gaunt.
The word "moral" is used advisedly. Of physical or mental indolence hehad none. His greatest delight, on his own authority, was "to hear ofgallant deeds of arms" or to perform them: and few, even of royal blood,were more thoroughly well educated and accomplished according to thestandard of his day. But all was spoiled by this moral indolence--this_laissez faire_ which would take no trouble. Too much has been said ofthe libertinism of John of Gaunt. He was not a man of pure life; but hewas not so bad as he is usually supposed to have been. Yet in one pointhe was a perfect rehearsal of Charles the Second--that so-called"sauntering," which I have termed moral indolence, and which it is saidthat Charles loved better than he ever loved any human being. And inthe case of John of Gaunt it is the sadder to relate, because he hadmore perfect knowledge of the way of righteousness than most of thosearound him. The one instance in which he broke through the bonds of hisbesetting sin was in order to stand by John Wycliffe in the hour ofpersecution. Oh, how terrible is the reckoning for him who was notignorant, who was not even in doubt of the right--who knew his Lord'swill, and did it not!
In consequence of this sad lapse, the reins of power fell into the handsof Gloucester. And Gloucester was one of those men who know how towait, to feel the pulse of circumstances, and when the right momentcomes, to strike a decisive blow. How far he ever loved any one may bedoubtful: but that he was a splendid hater is beyond all doubt. Therewere a few men whom he trusted and favoured; and of these--with oneexception, the chief of them--wa
s Richard Earl of Arundel.
The wardship of little Roger Mortimer would much more naturally havebeen given to one of his only adult relatives--his two grand-uncles,William, Earl of Salisbury, and Sir John de Montacute. But in the eyesof Gloucester, no Montacute was a person to be trusted. The family wereby tradition favourers of the Boin-Homines--or, in other words, amongthe Protestants of that period. And Gloucester was a "black Papist."It is true that the Earl of Salisbury was an exception to the familyrule in this particular: but it did not suit Gloucester's views to allowlittle Roger to reside in his house. He had a wife whose mother was oneof the most prominent Lollards of the day: and he was himself much underthe influence of the Lollard Princess of Wales, whom he had loved in herbrilliant youth. His surroundings, therefore, were dubious. And deepdown in Gloucester's crafty brain lay a scheme in which poor littleRoger was to be chief actor, and if he were brought up as a Lollardthere would be very little hope of utilising him for it. He must bemade the ward of somebody who would diligently cultivate any sparks ofambition latent in his mind, who would give him a bias in favour of hisuncle Gloucester personally, and against the King, and who would teachhim to hate Lollardism. So the child was consigned to the care of theEarl of Arundel, and to make surety doubly sure, was solemnly affiancedto his daughter.
A very clever Jesuit is recorded to have said, "Let me have theeducation of a child till he is seven years old, and you may have himfor the rest of his life." The child thus plotted against had passedthe test age. It might have been thought that his ruin was sure. Butgraven deep down in that fervent heart, below all the digging ofGloucester and his myrmidons, lay the mottoes of Philippa Montacute: andno efforts of theirs would ever efface that graving. "_Un Dieu, unRoy_"--and "_Fais ce que doy_." They were a hedge of God's plantingaround the tender shoot. He seemed to have said to the enemy, "Behold,he is in thine hand; but save his moral life."
It was a bitter sorrow to Guenllian that the Earl of Arundel gave her acivil _conge_. He had not the least doubt that she would be invaluableto the younger children: he could not think of depriving them of her.And little Roger would be amply provided with care. The Countessherself would see to him.
Guenllian was not reassured. The Countess was one of those soft,languid, placid, India-rubber women who would lay aside a noveldeliberately if they knew that their children were in danger ofdrowning. She was not fit to bring up Guenllian's darling! She pleadedwith the Earl piteously to allow her to remain with the child. She wassure the old Countess would have wished it. The Earl inquired if shehad made any actual promise to this effect. In so many words, Guenlliancould not say that she had: but that the tacit understanding had existedshe knew full well. And she had distinctly promised that Roger shouldread constantly and diligently in the French Bible. The Earl assuredher with an insinuating smile that there was not the least difficultyabout that. He had a French Bible, and read it. Just then, Lollardismwas walking in silver slippers, and the Bible was ranked amongfashionable literature. Guenllian knew well that the reading with andwithout her would be two very different things. There would be all thedifference in them between a living man and an automaton. But she waspowerless. The matter was out of her hands. She must let her darlinggo.
She lifted up her soul as she turned away.
"Lord, they cannot bar Thee out of Arundel Castle! go with this child ofmany prayers! Teach him Thyself, and then he will be taught: save him,and he will be saved! Whatsoever the Lord pleased, that did He,--inheaven and in the earth and in the sea, and in all deep places. Letthem curse, but bless Thou!"
And so, having touched the hem of Christ's garment, Guenllian went inpeace.