CHAPTER ELEVEN.
THE ROUGH NIGHT WIND.
"Whan cockle-shells ha'e siller bells, And mussels grow on every tree-- Whan frost and snaw shall warm us a'-- Then shall my luve prove true to me!"
_Old Ballad_.
It was the evening of the third day succeeding Isabel's visit, and whileshe and Avice were seated in the banquet-hall with the Governor and hisfamily, the scene lit up by blazing pine torches, a single earthen lampthrew a dull and unsteady light over the silent bedchamber of the royalprisoner. The little Alianora was asleep in her cradle, and on the bedlay her mother, not asleep, but as still and silent as though she were.Near the cradle, on a settle, sat Maude Lyngern, trying with ratherdoubtful success to read by the flickering light.
Custance had not quitted her bed during all that time. She never spokebut to express a want or reply to a question. When Maude brought herfood, she submitted to be fed like an infant. Of what thoughts werepassing in her mind, she gave no indication.
At last Maude came to the conclusion that the spell of silence ought tobe broken. The passionate utterances which Isabel's news had evoked atfirst were better than this dead level of silent suffering. But shedetermined to break it by no arguments or consolations of her own, butby the inspired words of God. She felt doubtful what to select; so shechose a passage which, half knowing it by heart, would be the easier tomake out in the uncertain light.
"`And oon of the Farisees preiede [prayed] Jhesus that he schulde etewith him; and he entride into the hous of the Farisee, and sat at themete. And lo, a synful woman that was in the cytee, as sche knewe thatJhesus sat at the mete in the hous of the Farisee, she broughte analabastre box of oynement, and sche stood bihynde bisidis hise feet, andbigan to moiste hise feet with teeris, and wypide with the heeris of hirheed, and kiste hise feet, and anoyntide with oynement. And the Fariseeseyng [seeing] that had clepide him seide within himsilf, seiyinge, ifthis were a profete, he schulde wete who and what maner womman it werethat touchide him, for sche is a synful womman. And Jhesus answerde andseide to him, Symount, I han sum thing to seye to thee. And he seide,Maistir, seye thou. And he answerde, Tweye dettouris weren to oo lener[one lender]; and oon oughte fyve hundrid pens [pence] and the totherfifty. But whanne thei hadden not wherof thei schulen yelde, [yield,pay] he forgaf to bothe. Who thanne loueth him more? Symount answerdeand seide, I gesse that he to whom he forgaf more. And he answeride tohim, Thou hast demed [doomed, judged] rightly. And he turnide to thewomman, and seyde to Symount, Seest thou this womman? I entride intothin hous, thou gaf no watir to my feet; but this hath moistid my feetwith teeris, and wipide with her heeris. Thou hast not gouen to me acosse [kiss]; but this, sithen sche entride, ceeside not to kisse myfeet. Thou anointidst not myn heed with oyle; but this anointide myfeet with oynement. For the which thing I seye to thee, manye synnesben forgiuen to hir, for sche hath loued myche; and to whom is lesseforgyuen to hir, he loueth lesse. And Jhesus seyde to hir, Thi synnesben forgiuen to thee. And thei that saten togider at the mete bigunnento seye withinne hemsilf, [themselves], Who is this that forgyvethsynnes? But he seide to the womman, Thei feith hath maad thee saaf; gothou in pees.'"
Maude added no words of her own. She closed the book, and relapsed intosilence. But Custance's solemn stillness was broken at last.
"`He seide to the womman!'--Wherefore no, having so spoken to thePharisee, have left?" [concluded].
"Nay, dear my Lady," answered Maude, "it were not enough. So dearloveth our good and gentle Lord, that He will not have so much as one ofHis children to feel any the least unsurety touching His mercy.Wherefore He were not aseeth [contented] to say it only unto thePharisee; but on her face, bowed down as she knelt behind Him, Helooked, and bade her to be of good cheer, for that she was forgiven. OLady mine! 'tis great and blessed matter when a man hath God to hisfriend!"
"Thy words sound well," said the low voice from the bed. "Very well,like the sound of sweet waters far away."
"Far away, dear my Lady?"
"Ay, far away, Maude,--without [outside] my life and me."
"Sweet Lady, if ye will but lift the portcullis, our Lord is ready andwilling to come within. And whereinsoever He entereth, He bringethwithal rest and peace."
"Rest! Peace!--Ay so. I guess there be such like gear some whither--for some folks."
"They dwell whereso Christ dwelleth, Lady mine."
"In Paradise, then! I told thee it were far hence."
"Is Paradise far hence, Lady? I once heard say Father Ademar that itwere not over three hours' journey at the most; for the thief on thecross went there in one day, and it were high noon ere he set out."
Maude stopped sooner than she intended, suddenly checked by a moan ofpain from Custance. The mere mention of Ademar's name seemed to evokeher overwhelming distress, as if it brought back the memory of all themiserable events over which she had been brooding for three days past.She rocked herself from side to side, as though her suffering werealmost unendurable.
"If he could come back! O Maude, Maude!--if only he could come back!"
"Sweet Lady, an' he were hither, methinks Father Ademar--"
"No, no--not Father Ademar. Oh, if I could rend the grave open!--if Icould tear asunder the blue veil of Heaven! I set no store by it allthen; but now! He would forgive me: he would not scorn me! He wouldnot count me too vile for his mercy. O my Lord, mine own dear Lord! youwould never have served me thus!"
And down rained the blessed tears, and relieved the dry, parched soil ofthe agonised heart. She lay quieter after that torrent of pain andpassion. The terrible spell of dark silence was broken; and Maude knewat last, that through this bitterest trial she had ever yet experienced,the wandering heart was coming home--at least to Le Despenser.
Was it needful that she should pass through yet deeper waters, beforeshe would come home to God?
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The leaves were carpeting the ground around Kenilworth, when Custancegranted a second interview to her cousin Isabel. There was more newsfor her by that time. Edward had been once more pardoned, and was againin his usual place at Court. How this inscrutable man procured hispardon, and what sum he paid for it, in cash or service, is among themysteries of the medieval "back-stairs." He had to be forgiven for morethan Custance knew. Among his other political speculations, he had beenmaking love to the Queen; a fact which, though there can be little doubtthat it was a mere piece of policy on his part, was unlikely to beacceptable to the King. But the one item which most closely concernedhis sister was indicated in plain terms by his pardon--that she needlook for no help at her brother's hands until she too "put herself inthe King's mercy."
The King's mercy! What that meant depended on the King. In the reignof Richard of Bordeaux, that prisoner must be heavily-charged to whom itdid not mean at least a smile of pardon--not unfrequently a grant oflands, or sometimes a coronet. But in the reign of Henry ofBolingbroke, it meant rigid justice, as he understood justice. And hismercy, to any Lollard, convicted or suspected, usually meant solitaryconfinement in a prison cell. What inducement was there for Custance tothrow herself on such mercy as that? Nor was she further encouraged byhearing of another outbreak on behalf of King Richard or the Earl ofMarch, headed by Archbishop Scrope and Lord Mowbray, and the heads ofthe ringleaders had fallen on the scaffold.
Isabel had sat and talked for an hour without winning any answer beyondmonosyllables. She was busy with her rosary--a new coral one--while sheunfolded her budget of news, and tried to persuade her cousin intocompliance with the King's wish. The last bead was just escaping fromher fingers with an Amen, when Custance turned to her with a directquestion.
"Now speak plainly, fair Cousin;--what wouldst have me to do?"
"In good sooth, to put thee in the King's mercy."
"In _his_ mercy!" murmured the prisoner significantly. "The whichshould be--wist how much?"
"Truly,
to free thee hence, and thou shouldst go up to London to waitupon his Grace."
"And then--?"
Isabel knew what the King intended to exact, but the time was not yetcome to say too much, lest Custance should be alarmed and draw backaltogether. So she replied evasively--
"Then his Highness should restore to thee thy lands, on due submissiondone."
"And yield me back my childre?"
"Most surely."
A knot was tied upon Isabel's memory, unknown to her cousin. IfCustance cared much for her children, they might prove a most effectiveinstrument of torture.
"Well!--and then?"
"Nay, ask at thine own self. Me supposeth thou shouldst choose toreturn to thine own Castle of Cardiff. But if it pleased thee rather toabide in the Court, I cast no doubt--"
"Let be!--and then?"
"Then, in very deed," resumed Isabel, warming with her subject, "thoushouldst have chance to make good alliance for Nib and Dickon, and seethem well set in fair estate."
"Ah!--and then?"
"Why, then thou mayest match thy grandchildre yet better," answeredIsabel, laughing.
"And after all, Isabel," returned Custance, in a manner much graver thanwas usual with her, "there abideth yet one further _then_--death, andGod's judgment."
"Holy Mary aid us!--avaunt with such thoughts!"
"Canst thou avaunt with such thoughts, child?" said Custance, with aheavy sigh. "Ah me! they come unbidden, when the shadows of night beover the soul, and the thick darkness hath closed in upon the life. AndI, at the least, have no spell to bid them avaunt. If holy Mary aidthee in that avoidment, 'tis more than she doth for me."
Isabel seemed at a loss for a reply. "I have had no lack of time forthought, fair Cousin, while I yonder lay. And the thought would notaway,--when we stand together, I and Harry of Bolingbroke, at that Barof God's judgment, shall I desire in that day that I had said ay or nayto him now?"
"Forsooth, Custance, I am not thy confessor. These be priests'matters--not gear for women like thee and me."
"What, child! is thy soul matter for the priest's concernment only? Isit not rather matter for thee--thee by thyself, beyond all priests thatbe? Thou and the priest may walk handed [walk hand in hand] up to thatBar, but methinks he will be full fain to leave thee to bide thewhipping."
"Nay, in very deed, Custance, thou art a Lollard, else hadst thou neverspoken no such a thing!"
"What, be Lollards the only men that have a care for their own souls?But be it as thou wilt--what will it matter _then_? Isabel, in goodsooth I have sins enough to answer for, neither will I by my good-willadd thereto. And if it be no sin to stand up afore God and men, andswear right solemnly unto His dread face that I did not that which I didbefore His sun in Heaven--good lack! I do marvel what sin may be.There is no such thing as sin, if it be no sin to swear to a lie!"
"But, Custance, the King's Highness asketh not thee to deny that thouwert wed unto my Lord of Kent, but only to allow openly that the samewere not good in law."
"Can a law go backwards-way?"
"Fair Cousin, the priest was excommunicate afore."
"God wot if he were!" said Custance shrewdly.
"Bishops use not to leave their letters tarry two months on the road,child. There have been riddles writ ere now; ay, and black treacherydone--by shaven crowns too. Canst thou crede that story? 'Tis morethan I can."
"Custance, I do ensure thee, the King's Grace sware into me his ownself, by the holy Face of Lucca, and said, if thou didst cast any doubtof the same, my Lord Archbishop should lay to pledge his corporal oaththereon."
"His corporal oath ensure me! nay, nor an' he sware by Saint Beelzebub!"cried Custance in bitter scorn. "I have heard of a corporal oath erenow, child. I know of one that was taken at Conway, by an oldwhite-haired man [Note 1], whose reverend head should have lent weightto his words: but they were words, and nought else. How many days were,ere it was broken to shivers? I tell thee, Nib, Harry of Bolingbrokemay swear an' it like him by every saint in the calendar from Aaron toZachary; and when he is through, my faith in his oaths will go by theeye of a needle. Why, what need of oath if a man be but true? If Iwould know somewhat of Maude yonder, I shall never set her to swear bySaint Nicholas; I can crede her word. And if a man's word be nottrustworthy, how much more worth is his oath?"
"But, Custance! the King's Grace and my Lord Archbishop--"
"How thou clarifiest [glorifiest] the King's Grace! Satan ruleth awider realm than he, child, but I would not trust his oath. What causedthem to take account that I should not believe them, unless their ownill consciences?"
Isabel was silent.
"Isabel!" said her cousin, suddenly turning to her, "have they _his_oath for the same?"
"Whose, Custance?--my Lord of Kent?"
Custance nodded impatiently.
"Oh, ay."
"He hath allowed our wedding void in law?"
"Ay so."
"What manner of talk held his conscience with him, sithence,mewondereth?" suggested Custance, in a low, troubled voice. "But maybe,like thee, he accounteth if but priest's gear."
"Marry, 'tis far lighter travail. I list not to carry mine own sins: Ihad the liefer by the worth of the Queen's Highness' gems they were onthe priest's back."
"Ah, Nib!--but how if God charge them on thy back at the last?"
"Good lack! a white lie or twain, spiced with a little matter offrowardness by times! My back is broad enough."
"I am fain to hear it, for so is not mine."
"Ah! thou art secular--no marvel."
"Much thanks for thy glosing [flattery], mine holy sister!" saidCustance sarcastically. "The angels come down from Heaven, to set theeevery morrow in a bath of rose-water, trow? While I, poor sinner that Iam, having been twice wed, may journey to Heaven as best I can in themire. 'Tis well, methinks, there be some secular in the world, forthese monks and nuns be so holy that elsewise there were no use forGod's mercy."
"Nay, Custance!"
"Well, have it as thou wilt, child! What matter?" returned her cousinwith a weary air. "I am no doctor of the schools, to break lances withthee. Only methinks I have learned, these last months, a lesson ortwain, which maybe even thy holiness were not the worser to spell over.Now let me be."
Isabel thought that the victim was coming round by degrees, and shewisely forbore to press her beyond the point to which she chose to go ofherself. So the interview ended. It was not till October that they metagain.
Maude fancied that Avice eschewed any renewal of intercourse with her.She kept herself strictly secluded in the chamber which had beenallotted to the nuns; and since Maude had no power to pass beyond thedoor of the guard-room, the choice lay in Avice's own hands. At neitherof the subsequent interviews was she present.
"Well, fair Cousin! what cheer?" was Isabel's greeting, when shepresented herself anew.
"Thus much," replied Custance; "that, leave given, I will go with theeto London."
"Well said!" was the answer, in a tone which intimated that it was morethan Isabel expected.
"But mark me, Isabel! I byhote [promise] nought beyond."
"Oh ay!--well and good."
"And for thus much yielding, I demand to have again the keeping of mychildre."
"Good lack! thou treatest with the King's Grace as though thou wertqueen of some land thyself," said Isabel, with a little laugh. "Verily,that goeth beyond my commission: but methinks I can make bold to saythus much: that an' thou come with me, they shall be suffered at theleast to see thee and speak with thee."
Custance shook her head decidedly.
"That shall not serve."
"Nay, then, we be again at a point. I can but give mine avisement untothee to come thither and see."
The point was sturdily fought over on both sides. Isabel dared promisenothing more than that Custance should be allowed to see her children,and that she herself would do her utmost to obtain further concessions.At last it was settle
d that the King should be appealed to, and therequest urged upon him by his emissary, by letter. Isabel, however, wasevidently gifted with no slight ambassadorial powers; for when sheselected Bertram Lyngern as her messenger, the Governor did not hesitateto let him go.
But Bertram's projected journey never took place, for a most unexpectedevent intervened to stop it.
It was the seventh of November, and a warm, close, damp day, inducinglanguor and depression in any person sensitive to the influence ofweather. Custance and Maude had received no visit that day from any onebut Bertram, who was busy preparing for his journey. There werefrequent comers and goers to Kenilworth Castle, so that the sound of abugle-horn without was likely to cause no great curiosity; nor, asCustance's drawing-room window opened on a little quiet corner of theinner court-yard, did she often witness the arrival of guests. So thatthree horns rang out on that afternoon without awakening more than apassing wonder "who it might be;" and when an unusual commotion washeard in the guard-room, the cause remained unsurmised. But when thedoor of the drawing-room was opened, a most unexpected sight dawned onthe eyes of the prisoners. Unannounced and completely unlooked-for, inthe doorway stood Henry of Bolingbroke, the King.
It was no wonder that Maude's work dropped from her hands as she rosehastily; nor that Custance's eyes passed hurriedly on to see whocomposed the suite. But the suite consisted of a solitary individual,and this was her ubiquitous brother, Edward of York.
"God give you good even, fair Cousin!" said Henry, with a bend of hisstately head. His manners in public, though less really considerate,were stiffer and more ceremonious than those of his predecessor. "Youscantly looked, as methinks, for a visit of ours this even?"; "YourHighness' servant!" was all chat Custance said, in a voice theconstrained tone of which had its source rather in coldness than inreverence.
"Christ save thee, Custance!" said Edward, sauntering in behind hisroyal master. "Thou hast here a fine look-out, in very deed."
"Truth, Ned; and time to mark it!" rejoined his sister.
The door opened again, and with a lout [the old English courtesy, nowconsidered rustic] of the deepest veneration, Isabel made herappearance.
"I pray you sit, ladies," commanded the King.
The Princesses obeyed, but Maude did not consider herself included. TheKing took the isolated chair with which the room was provided.
"An' you be served, our fair Cousins," he remarked, "we will tobusiness, seeing our tarrying hither shall be but unto Monday; and ifyour leisure serve, Lady Le Despenser, we would fain bear you with usunto London. Our fair cousin Isabel, as methinks, did you to wit of ourpleasure?"
What was the occult power within this man--whom no one liked, yet whoseemed mysteriously to fascinate all who came inside the charmed circleof his personal influence? Instead of answering defiantly, as she haddone to Isabel, Custance contented herself with the meek response--
"She so did, Sire."
"You told her all?" pursued the King, turning his keen eyes upon Isabel.
"To speak very truth, Sire," hesitated Isabel, "I did leave one littlematter."
She seemed reluctant to confess the omission; and Custance's face paledvisibly at this prospect of further sorrow in store.
"Which was that, fair Cousin?"
Henry was a perfect master of the art of expressing displeasure withoutany use of words to convey it. Isabel knew in an instant that heconsidered her to have failed in her mission.
"Under your gracious leave, my Liege," she said deprecatingly, "had yourGrace seen how my fair cousin took that which I did say, it had causedyou no marvel that I stayed ere more were spoken."
"We blamed you not, fair Cousin," responded Henry coldly. "What matterleft you unspoken?"
"An' it like your Grace to pardon me, touching her presence desired--"
"Enough said. All else spake you?"
"All else, your Highness' pleasure served," answered Isabel meekly.
"My `presence desired'!" broke in Custance. "What meaneth your Grace,an' it like you? Our fair cousin did verily arede [tell] me that yourGrace commandeth mine appearing in London; and thither I had gone, hadit not pleased your Grace to win hither."
"So quoth she; but this was other matter," calmly rejoined the King."Our Council thought good, fair Cousin, that you should be of the guestsbidden unto the wedding of our cousin of Kent with the fair Lady Lucy ofMilan."
For one instant after the words were spoken, there was dead silencethrough the room--the silence which marks the midst of a cyclone. Thenext moment, Custance rose, and faced the man who held her life in hishands. The spell of his mysterious power was suddenly broken; and theold fiery spirit of Plantagenet, which was stronger in her than in him,flamed in her eyes and nerved her voice.
"You meant _that_?" she demanded, dropping etiquette.
"It hath been reckoned expedient," was the calm reply.
"Then you may drag me thither in my coffin, for alive will I never go!"
"This, Custance, to the King's Highness' face!" deprecated her pardonedand (just then) subservient brother.
"To his face? Ay,--better than behind his back!" cried the defiantPrincess. "And to thy face, Harry of Bolingbroke, I do thee to wit thatthou art no king of mine, nor I owe thee no allegiance! Wreak thy willon me for saying it! After all, I can die but once; and I can die asbeseems a King's daughter; and I would as lief die and be rid of thee as'bide in a world vexed with thy governance."
"Custance! Custance!" cried Edward and Isabel in concert.
"Let be, fair Cousins," answered the cool unmoved tones of the King."We can make large allowance for our cousin's words--they be butnature."
This astute man knew how to overlook angry words. And certainly nowords he could have used would have vexed Custance half so much as thisassumption of calm superiority.
"Speak your will, Lady," he quietly added. "To all likelihood it shalldo you some relievance to uncharge your mind after this fashion; and Iwere loth to let you of that ease. For us, we are used to hear ourintent misconceived. But all said, hear our pleasure."
Which was as much as to say with contemptuous pity,--Poor captive bird!beat your wings against the iron bars of your cage as much as you fancyit; they are iron, after all.
"Fair Cousin," resumed the King, "you must be at this wedding, clad inyour widow's garb; and you must set your hand to the paper which ourcousin Isabel holdeth. Know that if you be obedient, the custody andmarriage of your son, with all lands of your sometime Lord, shall beyours, and you shall forthwith be set at full liberty, nor word furtherspoken touching past offences. But you still refusing, then every roodof your land is forfeit, and the marriages and custody of all yourchildre shall be given unto our fair aunt, the Duchess Dowager of York.We await your answer."
It was not in words that the answer came at first. Only in an exceedingbitter cry--
"As of a wild thing taken in a trap, Which sees the trapper coming through the wood."
Custance saw now the full depth of misery to which she was doomed. Theutmost concession hitherto wrung from her was that she would go toLondon and confront the King. And now it was calmly required of herthat she should not only sign away her own fair name, but shouldconfront Kent himself--should sit a quiet spectator of a ceremony whichwould publicly declare the invalidity of her right to bear his name--should by her own act consign her child to degradation and penury--should be a witness and a consenting party to the utter destruction ofall her hopes of happiness. She knew that the lark might as well pleadwith the iron bars as she with Henry of Bolingbroke. And the penalty ofher refusal was not merely poverty and homelessness. She could haveborne that; indeed, the sentence about the estates passed by her, hardlynoted. The bitterest sting lay in the assurance thus placidly givenher, that her loving little Richard would be consigned to the keeping ofa woman whom she knew to hate her fiercely--that he would be taught tohate and despise her himself. He would be brought up as a stranger toher; he would be led to
associate her name with scorn and disgrace. Andhow was Joan likely to treat the children, when she had perpetuallystriven to vex and humiliate the mother?
The words came at last. But they were of very different character fromthose which had preceded them.
"Grant me one further mercy, Sire," she said in a low voice, looking upto him:--"the one greater grace of death."
"Fair Cousin, we would fain grant you abundant grace, so you put it notfrom you with your own perversity. We have proffered unto you fullrestorance to our favour, and to endow you with every of your lateLord's lands, on condition only of your obedience in one small matter.We take of you neither life nor liberty."
"Life? no!--only all that maketh life worthy the having."
"We wist not, fair Cousin, that our cousin of Kent were so precious,"replied the King, with the faintest accent of satire in his calm,polished voice.
But Custance, like a spring let loose, had returned to her previousmood.
"What, take you nought from me but only him?" she cried indignantly."Is it not rather mine own good name whereof you would undo me? Ye havebereaved me of him already. I tare him from mine heart long ago, thoughI tare mine own heart in the doing of it. He is not worth the love Ihave wasted on him, and have repreved [denied, rejected] thereof one tenthousand times his better! God assoil [forgive] my blindness!--for mineeyes be opened now. But you, Sire,--you ask of me that I shall signaway mine own honourable name and my child's birthright, and as bribe tobid me thereunto, you proffer me my lands! What saw you ever inCustance of Langley to give you the thought that she should thus lightlysell her soul for gold, or weigh your paltry acres in the balancesagainst her truth and honour?"
Every nerve of the outraged soul was quivering with excitement. In thecalm even tones which responded, there was no more excitement than in aniceberg.
"Fair Cousin, you do but utterly mistake. The matter is done and over;nor shall your 'knowledgment thereof make but little difference. 'Tisneither for our own sake, neither for our cousin of Kent, but for yours,that we would fain sway you unto a better mind. Nor need you count,fair Cousin, that your denial should let by so much as one day ourcousin of Kent his bridal with the Lady Lucy. We do you to wit that youstand but in your own light. Your marriage is annulled. What good thenshall come of your 'knowledgment, saving your own easement? But forother sake, if ye do persist yet in your unwisdom, we must needs makenote of you as a disobedient subject."
There was silence again, only broken by the quiet regular dripping ofthe water-clock in a corner of the room. Silence, until Custance sankslowly on her knees, and buried her face upon the cushion of the settle.
"God, help me; for I have none other help!" sobbed the agitated voice."Help me to make this unceli [miserable] choice betwixt wrong and wrong,betwixt sorrow and sorrow!"
A less impulsive and demonstrative woman would not have spoken herthoughts aloud. But Custance wore her heart upon her sleeve. Whatwonder if the daws pecked at it?
"Not betwixt wrong and wrong, fair Cousin," responded the cool voice ofthe King. "Rather, betwixt wrong and right. Nor betwixt sorrow andsorrow, but betwixt sorrow and pleasance."
With another sudden change in her mood, Custance lifted her head, andasked in a tone which was almost peremptory--
"Is it the desire of my Lord himself that I be present?"
To reply in the affirmative was to lie; for Kent was entirely innocentand ignorant of the King's demand. But what mattered a few lies, whenArchbishop Arundel, the fountain of absolution, was seated in thebanquet-hall? So Henry had no scruple in answering unconcernedly--
"It is our cousin of Kent his most earnest desire."
"And yet once more," she said, fixing her eyes upon him, as if to watchthe expression of his face while she put her test-question. "Yonderwrit of excommunication:--was it verily and indeed forth against SirAdemar de Milford, the Sunday afore I was wed?"
Did she expect to read any admission of fraud in that handsomepassionless face? If she did, she found herself utterly mistaken.
"Fair Cousin, have ye so unworthy thoughts of your friends? Certes, thewrit was forth."
"My friends! where be my friends?--The writ was forth?"
"Assuredly."
"Then wreak your will--you and Satan together!"
"How conceive we by that, fair Cousin?" inquired the King rathersatirically.
"Have your will, man!" she said wearily, as if she were tired of keepingmeasures with him any longer. "Things be sorely acrazed in this world.If there be an other world where they be set straight, there shall besome travail to iron out the creases."
"Signify you that you will sign this paper?"
Isabel passed the paper quietly to Henry.
"What matter what I signify, or what I sign? If my name must needs bewrit up in black soot, it were as well done on that paper as an other."
The King laid the document on the table, where the standish was already,and with much show of courtesy, offered a pen to his prisoner. Sheknelt down to sign, holding the pen a moment idle in her fingers.
"What a little matter art thou!" she said, soliloquising dreamily. "Agrey goose quill! Yet on one stroke of thee all my coming lifehangeth."
The pen was lifted to sign the fatal document, when the proceedings werestopped by an unexpected little wail from something in Maude's arms.Custance dashed down the quill, and springing up, took her littleAlianora to her bosom.
"Sign away thy birthright, my star, my dove! Wretched mother that I am,to dream thereof! How could I ever meet thine innocent eyes again? Iwill not sign it!"
"As it like you, fair Cousin," was the quiet response of that voicegifted with such inexplicable power. "For us, we have striven but toavance you unto your better estate. 'Tis nought to us whether ye signor no."
She hesitated; she wavered; she held out the child to Maude.
"I would but add," observed the King, "that yonder babe is no wisetouched by your signing of that paper. Her birthright is gone already;or more verily, she had never none to go. Your name unto yon papermaketh no diversity thereabout."
Still the final struggle was terrible. Twice she resumed the pen; twiceshe flung it down in passionate though transient determination not byher own act to alienate her child's inheritance and blot her own fairname. But every time the memory of her favourite, her loving littleRichard, rose up before her, and she could not utter the refusal whichwould deprive her of him for ever. Perhaps she might even yet have heldout, had the alternative been that of resigning him to any person butJoan. But the certain knowledge that he would be taught to despise andhate her was beyond the mother's power to endure. At last she snatchedup the pen, and dashed her name on the paper. It was signed in regalform, without a surname.
"There!" she cried passionately: "behold all ye get of me! If I may notsign `Custance Kent,' content you with `Custance.' Never `Custance LeDespenser!' My Lord was true to his heart's core; and never sign I_his_ name to a dishonour and a lie!--O my Dickon, my pretty, prettyDickon! thou little knowest the price thine hapless mother hath paid forthee this day!"
Henry the Fourth was not a man who loved cruelty for its own sake: hewas simply a calculating, politic one. He never wasted power onunnecessary torture. When his purpose was served, he let his victim go.
"Fully enough, fair Cousin!" he said with apparent kindness. "You signas a Prince's daughter--and such are you. We thank you right heartilyfor this your wise submission, and as you shall shortly see, you shallnot lose thereby."
Not another word was said about her presence at the wedding. Thatwould, come later. His present object was to get her to London. Theevening of the 17th of November saw them at Westminster Palace.
During the journey, Avice carefully avoided any private intercourse withMaude. The latter tried once or twice to renew the interruptedconversation; but it was either dinner-time, or it was prayer-time, orthere was some excellent reason why Avice could not listen. And at lastMaude resi
gned the hope. They never met again. But one winter day,eighteen years later, Maude Lyngern heard that Sister Avice, of theMinoresses' house at Aldgate, had died in the odour of sanctity; andthat the sisters were not without hope that the holy Father mightpronounce her a saint, or at least "beata." It was added that she hadworn herself to a skeleton by fasting, and for three weeks before herdeath had refused all sustenance but the sacrament, which she receiveddaily. And that was the last of Cousin Hawise.
We return from this digression to Westminster Palace.
News met them as they stepped over the threshold--news of death.Alianora, Countess of March, sister of Kent, and mother of theMortimers, had died at Powys Castle.
When Custance reached the chamber allotted to her at Westminster, shefound there all the personal property which she had left at Langleytwelve months earlier.
"Maude!" she said that night, as she laid her head on the pillow.
"Lady?" was the response.
"To-morrow make thou ready for me my widow's garb. I shall never wearany other again."
"Ay, Lady," said Maude quietly.
"And--hast here any book of Sir John de Wycliffe?"
"The Evangel after Lucas, Lady."
"Wilt read me to sleep therewith?"
"Surely, Lady mine."
"Was it thence thou readst once unto me, of a woman that was sinful,which washed our Lord's feet?"
"Ay so, Madam."
"Read that again."
The words were repeated softly in the quiet chamber, by the dim light ofthe silver lamp. Maude paused when she had read them.
"When thou and I speak of such as we love, Maude, we make allowance fortheir short-comings. `She did but little ill,' quoth we, or, `She hadsore provoking thereto,' and the like. But he saith, `Manye synnes benforgiuen to hir'--yet not too many to be forgiven!"
"Ah, dear my Lady," said Maude affectionately, "methinks our Lord canafford to take full measure of the sins of His chosen ones, sith Hehath, to bless them, so full and free forgiveness."
"Yet that must needs cost somewhat."
"Cost!" repeated Maude with deep feeling. "Lady, the cost thereof toHim was the cross."
"But to us?" suggested Custance.
"Is there any cost to us, beyond the holding forth of empty hands toreceive His great gift? I count, Madam, that as it is His best glory togive all, so it must be ours to receive all."
"O Maude!" she wailed with a weary sigh, "when can I make me cleanenough in His sight to receive this His gift?"
"Methinks, Lady mine, this woman which came into the Pharisee's housewas no cleaner ne fairer than other women. And, tarrying to make herclean, she might have come over late. Be not the emptiest meetest toreceive gifts, and the uncleanest they that have most need of washing?"
"The most need,--ay."
"And did ever an almoner 'plain that poor beggars came for his dole,--ora mother that her child were too much bemired to be cleansed?"
"Is there woman on middle earth this night, Maude, poorer beggar than I,or more bemired?"
"Sweet Lady!" said Maude very earnestly, "if you would but make trial ofour Lord's heart toward you! `Alle ye that traveilen and ben chargid,come to Me'--this is His bidding, dear my Lady! And His promise is, `Iwill fulfille you'--`ye schal fynde reste to your soulis.'"
"I would come, if I knew how!" she moaned.
"Maybe," said Maude softly, "they which would come an' they knew how, docome after His reckoning. Howbeit, this wis I,--that an' your Ladyshiphave will to come unto Him, He hath full good will to show you the way."
There was no more said on either side at the time. But if ever a weary,heavy-laden sinner came to Christ, Custance Le Despenser came thatnight.
The next day she resumed her widow's garb. At that period the weeds ofwidowhood were pure white, the veil bound tightly round the face, apiece of embroidered linen crossing the forehead, and another the chin,so that the only portion of the face visible was from the eyebrows tothe lips. Indeed, the head-dress of a widow and that of a nun were sosimilar that inexperienced eyes might easily mistake one for the other.The costume was not by any means attractive.
The hour was yet early when the Duchess of York was announced; and whenthe door was opened, the little Richard, whose presence had beenpurchased at so heavy a cost, sprang into his mother's arms. His littlesister, who followed, was shy and hung back, clinging close to theDuchess. The year which had elapsed since she had seen Custance andMaude seemed to have obliterated both from her recollection. With allher faults, Custance was an affectionate mother, with that sort ofaffection which develops itself in petting; and it pained her to see howIsabel shrank away from her. The only comfort lay in the hope that timewould accustom her to her mother again; and beyond the mere affection ofcustom, Isabel's nature would never reach.
It soon became evident that King Henry meant to keep his word. Twomonths after her arrival at Westminster, Custance received a grant ofall her late husband's goods forfeited to the Crown; and five days laterwas the marriage of Edmund of Kent and Lucia of Milan.
They were married in the Church of Saint Mary Overy, Southwark, the Kinghimself giving the bride. The Queen and the whole Court were present;but Kent never knew who was present or absent; his eyes and thoughtswere absorbed with Lucia. He never saw a white-draped figure whichshrank behind the Queen, with eyes unlifted from the beginning of massto the end. So, on that last occasion when the separated pair met,neither saw the face of the other.
But Custance was not left to pass through her terrible ordeal alone. Asthe Queen's procession filed into the church, Richard of Conisboroughplaced himself by the side of his sister, and clasped her hand in his:He left her again at the door of her own chamber. No words were spokenbetween the brother and sister; the hearts were too near each other toneed them.
Maude was waiting for her mistress. The latter lay down on thetrussing-bed--the medieval sofa--and turned her face away towards thewall. Maude quietly sat down with her work; and the slow hours passedon. Custance was totally silent, beyond a simple "Nay" when asked ifshe wanted anything. With more consideration than might have beenexpected, the King did not require her presence at the wedding-banquet;he permitted her to be served in her own room. But the suffererdeclined to eat.
The twilight came at last, and Maude folded her needlework, unable tosee longer, and doubtful whether her mistress would wish the lamp to belighted. She had sat idle only for a' few minutes when at last Custancespoke--her words having evidently a meaning deeper than the surface.
"The light has died out!" she said.
"In the City of God," answered Maude gently, "`night schal not bethere,' for the lantern of it is the Lamb, and He is `the schynyngmorewe sterre.' And He is `with us in alle daies, into the endyng ofthe world.'"
"Maude, is not somewhat spoken in the Evangel, touching the taking up onus of His cross?"
"Ay, dear my Lady:--`He that berith not his cross and cometh after Me,may not be My disciple.' And moreover:--`He that takith not his crossand sueth [followeth] Me is not worthi to Me.'"
"I can never be worthy to Him!" she said, with a new, strange lowlinesswhich touched Maude deeply. "But hitherto I have but lain charing underthe cross--I have not taken ne borne it, neither sued Him any whither.I will essay now to take it on me, humbly submitting me, andendeavouring myself to come after Him."
"Methinks, Lady mine, that so doing, ye shall find that He beareth theheavier end. At the least, He shall bear _you_, and He must needs bearyour burden with you. Yet in very sooth there is some gear we mustneeds get by rote ere we be witful enough to conceive the use thereof.The littlemaster [a schoolmaster] witteth what he doth in setting thetask to his scholar. How much rather the great Master of all things?"
"Me feareth I shall be slow scholar, Maude. And I have all to learn!"
"Nor loved any yet the learning of letters, Madam. Yet meseemeth, an' Ispeak not too boldly, that beside the lessons which be especial, that Heonly learn
eth [teaches], all this world is God's great picture-book tohelp His children at their tasks. Our Lord likeneth Him unto all mannerof gear--easy, common matter at our very hands--for to aid our slowwits. He is Bread of Life, and Water for cleansing, and Raiment to puton, and Staff for leaning upon, and Shepherd, and Comforter."
"Enough, now," said Custance, with that strange gentleness which seemedso unlike her old bright, wilful self. "Leave me learn that lesson ereI crave a new one."
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Note 1. The Earl of Northumberland, to induce King Richard to placehimself in the power of his cousin Henry.
The White Rose of Langley Page 11
