"Ay, there's a blank at my right hand
That ne'er can be made up to me."--_James Hogg_.
Before leaving Bermondsey, the Earl had accomplished one of the hardest
pieces of work which ever fell to his lot. This was the execution of
the deed of separation which conveyed his legal assent to the departure
of his wife, and assigned to her certain lands for her separate
sustenance. Himself the richest man in England, he was determined that
she should remain the wealthiest woman. He assigned to her all his
lands in Norfolk and Suffolk, the manors of Kirketon in Lincolnshire,
Malmesbury and Wyntreslawe in Wiltshire, and an annuity on Queenhithe,
Middlesex--the whole sum amounting to 800 pounds per annum, which was
equivalent to at least 15,000 pounds a year. He reserved to himself the
appointments to all priories and churches, and the military feofs and
escheats. Moreover, the Countess was not to sell any of the lands, nor
had she the right to build castles. So far, in all probability, any man
would have gone. But one other item was added, which came straight from
the human heart of Earl Edmund, and was in the thirteenth century a very
strange item indeed. The Countess, it was expressly provided, should
not waste, exile, enslave, nor destroy "the serfs on these estates."
[Note 1.]
The soul of Haman the Agagite, which had descended upon Margaret de
Clare, fiercely resented this unusual clause. On the same roll which
contains the Earl's grant, in ordinary legal language--which must have
cost him something where he records her wish, and his assent, "freely
_during her widowhood_ to dedicate herself to the service of God,"--
there is another document, in very extraordinary language, wherein the
Lady Margaret recounts the wrongs which her lord is doing her in respect
of this 800 pounds a year. A more spiteful production was hardly ever
penned. From the opening address "to all who shall read or hear this
document" to the concluding assertion that she has hereto set her seal,
the indenture is crammed full of envy, hatred, and malice, and all
uncharitableness. She lets it plainly be seen that all the lands in
Norfolk and Suffolk avail her nothing, so long as these restraining
clauses are added to the grant. Margaret probably thought that she was
merely detailing her wrongs; she did not realise that she was exhibiting
her character. But for these four documents, the two letters, and the
two indentures, wherein Earl and Countess have respectively "pressed
their souls on paper," we might never have known which was to blame in
the matter. Out of her own mouth is Margaret judged.
With amazing effrontery, and in flat contradiction not only of her
husband's assertion, but of her own admission, the Countess commenced
her tirade by bringing against her lord the charge of which she herself
was guilty. As he was much the more worthy of credit, I prefer to
believe him, confirmed as his statement is by her own letter to the
Pope. She went on to detail the terms of separation, making the most of
everything against her husband, and wound up with a sentence which must
have pierced his heart like a poignard. She solemnly promised never to
aggrieve him at any time by asking him to take her back, and never to
seek absolution [Note 2] from that oath! In one sentence of cold,
cruel, concentrated spite, she sarcastically swore never to demand from
him the love for which during one and twenty years he had sued to her in
vain.
So now all was over between them. The worst that could come had come.
"All was ended now, the hope, and the fear, and the sorrow,
All the aching heart, the restless unsatisfied longing,
All the dull deep pain, and constant anguish of patience!"
There was no more left to fear, for there was nothing left to hope.
The Countess, attended by Father Miles and Felicia, left Rochester in
June for Romsey Abbey, where she solemnly assumed the veil of a black
nun. She was now plain Sister Margaret, and in due course of time and
promotion, she would become Mother Margaret, and then, perhaps, Prioress
and Abbess. And then--her soul would be required of her.
Mother Margaret! What bitter mockery of a title for the woman who had
deliberately flung away from her as a worthless weed the white flower of
love which she might have cherished!
Of course, the household was now scattered. Ada had been received into
the household of the Countess of Gloucester, the King's daughter Joan.
Olympias was pining to return to Reginald, if she could form some idea
in what part of the world he might be found; Clarice was awaiting her
imperious lord's commands. The morning after the Countess had taken her
last farewell of them all, as they were still in this attitude of doubt
and expectation, in walked Sir Lambert Aylmer. He was greeted with
delight. Roisia was well, he reported, and sent her loving
commendations to all; but the object of his coming was not to talk about
Roisia. The Earl, with Sir Reginald, was at Restormel, one of his
Cornish castles; but in a letter received from the latter gentleman, Sir
Lambert had been requested to inform Olympias that their master desired
them all to repair to Berkhamsted, whither he meant to come shortly, and
they should then hear his intentions for the future.
"The saints send he mean not to be a monk!" said Olympias, shrugging her
shoulders.
But nothing was further from Earl Edmund's purpose.
They reached Berkhamsted in a day or two, and to Clarice's great
delight, found there not only Mistress Underdone and the two
bower-maidens, but Sir Ademar and Heliet. It was a new and pleasant
discovery that Heliet could travel. It had been a sort of accepted
idea, never investigated, that her leaving Oakham was an impossibility;
but Ademar had coaxed her to try, and Heliet was quite willing. The
result was that she had reached Berkhamsted in safety, to her own
intense enjoyment; for she had never before been a mile from Oakham, and
the discovery that she was no longer a fixture, but could accompany her
husband wherever duty called him was to Heliet unspeakable delight.
It was not till October that the Earl reached home; for he stayed at
Bristol for the wedding of the eldest princess, Alianora, with Henri
Duke of Barre, which took place on the twentieth of September. The
morning after his arrival he desired to speak with the whole of his
household, who were to assemble in the hall for that purpose.
Olympias was positive that her master was about to take the cowl. "And
it would be so nice, you see," she said; "just a match to the Lady."
"Nice, indeed!" said Reginald, pulling a terrible face. "Thou hast not
spent a fortnight at Ashridge."
"Well, but he would not want to make a monk of thee," answered Olympias,
rather blankly.
"He would not manage it, if he tried," responded her lord and master.
When the Earl's intentions were stated, it appeared that he had no
further occasion for the services of Sir Reginald and Olympias, and he
had secured for them situations, if they chose to accept them, in the
household of the royal bride. Olympias was in ecstasies; to live in
France was a most delicious fate in her eyes, nor did Reginald in the
least object to it. Filomena and Sabina were provided for with the
Countess of Lincoln and the Princess Elizabeth, Mistress Underdone,
Heliet, and Sir Ademar would remain at Berkhamsted. And then the Earl,
turning to Vivian and Clarice, requested as a favour to himself that
they would remain also. It was necessary to have a lady of rank--
namely, a knight's wife--at the head of the establishment. The Earl had
no sister who could take that position; and his brother's widow, the
Lady Constance d'Almayne, had preferred to return to her own home in
Bearn rather than live in England. Heliet might have answered, but the
Earl felt, with his usual considerate gentleness, that her lameness
would make it a great charge and trouble to her. He wished Clarice to
take it, if her husband would allow her, and was willing to continue in
his service.
"And, truth to tell," said the Earl, with a sad smile at Rosie, who was
making frantic efforts to compass the fearful distance of three yards
between the Earl's chair and Clarice's outstretched hand, "you have here
a jewel which I were very loth to lose from my empty casket. So, Sir
Vivian, what say you?"
What became of either Clarice or Rosie was a matter of very little
importance to Vivian, for he considered them both in the light of
encumbrances--which was rather hard on Clarice at least, as she would
thankfully have got out of his way if duty had allowed it. But, as he
had once said, he knew when he was well off, and he had no wish to pass
into the service either of a meaner nobleman or of a harder master.
Vivian assented without a qualifying word.
Thus, with Clarice, life sank back into its old groove, and time sped
on, uneventful except for the two items that every day little Rosie grew
in intelligence and attractiveness, and every month, as it seemed to her
mother, the Earl grew a year older. Clarice doubted if Rosie were not
his sole tie to life. She became his chief companion, and on the little
child who was no kin of his he poured out all the rich treasure of that
warm great heart which his own held at so small a value. Rosie,
however, was by no means irresponsive. Any one seeing her would have
taken the Earl to be her father, and Sir Vivian a stranger of whom she
was rather frightened.
The year 1294 was signalised by a remarkable action on the part of King
Edward. In order to defray the vast expenses of his Welsh and Breton
wars, he took into his own hands all the priories in England, committing
their lands and goods to the care of state officials, and allowing
eighteenpence per week for the sustenance of each monk. The allowance
was handsome, but the proceeding was very like burglary.
The exact religious position of Edward the First is not so easy to
define as that of some other monarchs. With respect to any personal and
spiritual religion, it is, alas! only too easy. But it is difficult to
say how far his opposition to the Pope originated from a deliberate
policy, well thought out beforehand, and how far from the momentary
irritation of a crossed will. He certainly was not the intelligent
supporter of the Boni-Homines from personal conviction, that was to be
found in his son, Edward the Second, or in his cousin, Edmund, Earl of
Cornwall. Yet he did support them to a certain extent, though more in
the earlier part of his life than in the later. Like many another man
in his position, he was ready enough to assist a body of sensible
literary reformers, but, when the doctrine which they held began to
press personally on himself, he shrank from the touch of Ithuriel's
spear. That his subjects should be made better and more obedient by
means of the Decalogue, or any other code, was a most excellent thing;
but when the Decalogue came closer and said, "Thou shalt not," to
himself, then it was an intrusive nuisance.
In the following year, 1295, the King laid the foundation of borough
representation, by directing the sheriffs of the various counties to
send to Parliament, along with the knights of the shire, two deputies
from each borough, who were to be elected by the townsmen, and empowered
to consent, in the name of their constituents, to the decrees of the
King and his Council. "It is a most equitable rule," added the Monarch,
"that what concerns all should be judged of by all." Concerning the
possibility of these members dissenting from his decrees, however, His
Majesty was not quite so eloquent. That contingency was one which a
sovereign in the thirteenth century could scarcely be expected to take
into his august consideration.
But King Edward wanted more money, and apparently preferred to grind it
out of his monks rather than his peasants. He now instituted a search
of all the monasteries in England, and commanded the confiscation of all
cash. The monasteries resisting the excessive taxation laid upon them,
the King seized their lay fees.
In the December of this year, Earl Edmund left Berkhamsted for Cornwall,
taking with him Vivian, and leaving Ademar behind as the only gentleman
in the party. He was going on an errand unpleasant to himself, for the
King had committed to his charge a portion of the Gascon army. War and
contention were altogether out of his line, yet he had no choice but to
obey. He joined his cousin, the Earl of Lancaster, and the Earl of
Lincoln, in Cornwall, and together they sailed on the fifteenth of
January 1296, from a Cornish port termed Plumhupe in the "Chronicle of
Worcester," but not easy to identify now, unless it be taken as a
blunder for Plymouth, and the chronicler be supposed ignorant of its
county. With them were twenty-five barons and a thousand knights.
During the absence of the Earl, it struck his cousin, the King--for no
other reason can be guessed--that the Earl's treasury being much better
filled than his own, he might reasonably pay his debts out of his
cousin's overflowing coffers. Accordingly he sent to Berkhamsted, much
to the dismay of the household, and coolly annexed his cousin's
valuables to the Crown. But Earl Edmund was a man in whose eyes gold
was of comparatively small value, partly because he set other things
much higher, and partly because he had always had so much of it, that
poverty was a trouble which he was scarcely able to realise.
A sad year was 1296 to the royal family of England. The Gascon
expedition proved so disastrous, that Edmund, Earl of Lancaster, died of
grief and disappointment at Bayonne on the fifth of June; and the
Scottish one, though brilliantly successful in a political light, cost
no less, for an arrow shot at a venture, at the siege of Berwick,
quenched the young life of Richard Plantagenet, the only brother and
last near relation of Edmund, Earl of Cornwall. The triumphant capture
of the coronation chair and the Stone of Destiny and their removal from
Dunstaffnage to England, was contrasted with a terrible famine, which so
affected the vines in particular, that there was hardly wine enough left
for mass.
In the midst of these sharp contrasts of triumph and sorrow, Earl Edmund
returned to England, escorting his widowed cousin Queen Blanche, and
following the coffin of the Earl of Lancaster. They found the King
earnestly engaged in effecting a contract of marriage between the young
Prince Edward and a daughter of Guy, Count of Flanders, and binding
himself to march to Guy's assistance against the King of France.
Ah, had it been God's will that the wife destined for Edward the Second
should have been the pure, high-minded, heroic Philippine of Flanders,
instead of the she-wolf of France, what a different history he would
have had!
For among all the princesses of the thirteenth century one of the
fairest souls is this Flemish maiden, who literally laid down her life
in ransom for her father. It was not Prince Edward's fault that
Philippine was not Queen of England. It was the fault of the ambitious
policy alike of King Edward and the King of France, and perhaps still
more of his Navarrese Queen. They did not know that they were
sacrificing not only Philippine, but Edward. Would they have cared much
about it if they had done?
The regalia of Scotland were solemnly offered at the shrine of Saint
Edward on the 17th of June. Earl Edmund was present at the ceremony,
and after it, "weary with the storms of earth," he went home to court
repose at Berkhamsted.
It was the day after he came home, a soft, warm June day. Clarice and
Heliet were playing with Rosie, now a bright, lively little child of
five years old. In rushing away from Heliet, who was pretending to
catch her, Rosie, to the dismay of all parties, ran straight against her
father, who had just reached the top of the spiral staircase which led
to their own rooms. Vivian, never very amiable when his course was
impeded, either by a physical or a moral hindrance, impatiently pushed
the child on one side. It was the wrong side. Rosie struggled to
recover her balance for one moment, during which her father's hand
_might_ have grasped her, had he been quick to do it; her mother had not
time to reach her. Then, with an inarticulate cry for help, she went
down the well of the staircase.
Past Heliet's exclamation of horror came a sharp ringing shriek--"O
Vivian! Rosie!" and darting by her astounded husband, down the stairs
fled Clarice, with a celerity that she would have thought impossible an
hour before.
Vivian's state of mind was a mixture of selfishness and horror. He had
not intended to hurt the child, merely to get her out of his way; but
when selfishness and remorse struggle together, the worse of the two
usually comes to the front. Vivian's first articulate answer was a
growl at his wife.
"Why did you not keep her out of my way? Gramercy, what a fuss about a
girl!"
Then he read his guilt in Heliet's eyes, and began faltering out excuses
and asseverations that he had not meant anything.
Clarice reached the foot of the stairs without heeding a word he said.
But other hands, as tender as her own, were there before her.
"Little Rosie! my poor little child!" came from Earl Edmund's gentle
lips, as he lifted the bruised child in his arms. Tenderly as it was
done, Rosie could not repress a moan of pain which went to the two
hearts that loved her.
She was not killed, but she was dying.
"A few hours," said the Earl's physician, instantly summoned, "a few
hours. There was nothing to be done. She would very likely not suffer
much--would hardly be conscious of pain until the end came."
The Earl bore her into his own chamber, and laid her on his bed. With
speechless agony Clarice watched beside her.
Just once Rosie spoke.
"Mother, Mother, don't cry!"
Clarice was shedding no tears; they would not come yet; but in Rosie's
eyes her strained white face was an equivalent.
"Mother, don't cry," said Rosie. "You said--I asked you--why people
died. You said our Lord called them. Must go--when our Lord calls."
Clarice was not able to answer; but Rosie's words struck cold to her
heart.
"Must go when our Lord calls!"
She could hardly pray. What went up was not prayer, but rather a wild,
passionate cry that this thing could not be--should not be.
There were those few hours of half-consciousness, and then, just at the
turn of the night, the Lord came and called, and Rosie heard His voice,
and went to Him.
Sir Vivian Barkeworth, during that day and night, was not pursuing the
even tenor of his way in that state of complacent self-approval which
was the usual attitude of his mind. It was not that he mourned the
child; his affections were at all times of a microscopic character, and
the only spark of regard which he entertained for Rosie was not as his
little child, but as his future heiress. Nor was he at all troubled by
the sufferings of Clarice. Women were always crying about something;
they were decided hindrances and vexations in a man's way; in fact, the
existence of women at all, except to see to a man's comforts, and amuse
his leisure, was, in Sir Vivian's eyes, an unfortunate mistake in the
arrangements of Providence. He mourned first the good opinion which
people had of him, and which, by the way, was a much smaller package
than Sir Vivian thought it; and secondly, the far more important
disturbance of the excellent opinion which he had of himself. He could
not rid himself of the unpleasant conviction that a little more patience
and amiability on his part would have prevented all this disagreeable
affair, though he would not for the world have acknowledged this
conviction to Clarice. That was what he thought it--a disagreeable
affair. It was the purest accident, he said to himself, and might have
happened to any one. At the same time, something, which did not often
trouble Vivian, deep down in his inner man, distinctly told him that
such an accident would never have happened to the Earl or Sir Ademar.
Vivian only growled at his conscience when it gave him that faint prick.
He was so accustomed to bid it be quiet, that it had almost ceased to
give him any hints, and the pricking was very slight.
"A disagreeable business!" he said, inwardly; "a most disagreeable
business. Why did not Clarice attend to her duties better? It was her
duty to keep that child from bothering me. What are women good for but
to keep their children out of mischief, and to see that their husbands'
paths through life are free from every thorn and pebble?"
Sir Vivian had reached this point when one of the Earl's pages brought
him a message. His master wished his attendance in his private
sitting-room. Vivian inwardly anathematised the Earl, the page, Heliet
(as a witness), Rosie (as the offender), but above all, as the head and
front of all his misery, Clarice. He was not the less disposed to
anathemas when he found Sir Ademar, Heliet, Clarice, and Master Franco,
the physician, assembled to receive him with the Earl. It rasped him
further to perceive that they were all exceedingly grave, though how he
could have expected any of them to look hilarious it would be difficult
to say. Especially he resented the look of desolate despair in
Clarice's eyes, and the physical exhaustion and mental agony written in
every line of her white face. He would not have liked to admit that he
felt them all as so many trumpet-tongued accusers against him.
"I desired you all to assemble," said the Earl, in tones as gentle as
usual, but with an under-current of pain, "because I wish to inquire in
what manner our poor little darling met her death. How came she to fall
down the staircase?"
He looked at Heliet, and she was the one to reply.
"It was an accident, my Lord, I think," she said.
"`You think?' Is there some doubt, then?"
No one answered him but Ademar. "Pardon me, my Lord; I was not
present."
"Then I ask one who was present. Dame Heliet?"
"I hope there is no doubt, my Lord," answered Heliet. "I should be
sorry to think so."
The bushy eyebrows, which were the only blemish to the handsome
Plantagenet face of the Earl, were lowered at this reply.
"What am I to understand by that?" he asked. "Did the child throw
herself down of her own will?"
"Oh, no, my Lord, no!"
"Did any one push her down?"
Dead silence.
"Sir Ademar was not present. Were you, Sir Vivian?"
Vivian, whose face was far more eloquent in this instance than his
tongue, muttered an affirmative.
"Then you can answer me. Did any one push her down?"
Vivian's reply was unintelligible, being hardly articulate.
"Will you have the goodness to repeat that, if you please?" said his
master.
In Clarice's heart a terrible tempest had been raging. Ought she not to
speak, and declare the fact of which she felt sure, that Vivian had not
been intentionally the murderer of his child? that whatever he might
have done, he had meant no more than simply to push her aside?
Conscientiousness strove hard with bitterness and revenge. Why should
she go out of her way to shield the man who had been the misery of her
life from the just penalty which he deserved for having made that life
more desolate than ever? She knew that her voice would be the most
potent there--that her vote would outweigh twenty others. The pleading
of the bereaved mother in favour of the father of the dead child was
just what would make its way straight to the heart of his judge.
Clarice's own heart said passionately, No! Rosie's dead face must stand
between him and her for ever. But then upon her spirit's fever fell
calming words--words which she repeated every day of her life--words
which she had taught Rosie.
"Forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors."
If God were to forgive her as she forgave Vivian, what would become of
her? Would she ever see Rosie again? And then a cry for help and
strength to do it went up beyond the stars.
The Earl was quietly waiting for the repetition of Vivian's answer. It
came at last--the answer--not a repetition.
"Saint Mary love us, my Lord! I never meant any harm."
"You never meant!" replied a stern voice, not at all like Earl Edmund's
gentle tones. "Did you _do_ it?"
Before Vivian could reply, to every one's astonishment, and most of all
to his, Clarice threw herself down on her knees, and deprecatingly
kissed the hand which rested on the arm of her master's chair.
"Mercy, my good Lord, I entreat you! It was a pure accident, and
nothing more. I know Sir Vivian meant no more than to push the child
gently out of his way. He did not calculate on the force he used. It
was only an accident--he never thought of hurting her. For the sake of
my dead darling, whom I know you loved, my gracious Lord, grant me mercy
for her father!"
The silence was broken for a moment only by Heliet's sobs. The Earl had
covered his face with his hands. Then he looked into Clarice's pleading
eyes, with eyes in which unshed tears were glistening.
"Dame Clarice," said Earl Edmund in his softest tone, "_you_ wish me to
grant Sir Vivian mercy?"
"I implore it of your Lordship, for His sake to whom my child is gone,
and hers."
The Earl's eyes went to Vivian, who stood looking the picture of guilt
and misery.
"You hear, Sir Vivian? You are pardoned, but not for your sake. Be it
yours to repay this generous heart."
The party dispersed in a few minutes. But when Ademar and Heliet found
themselves alone, the former said--"Will he love her after this?"
"Love her!" returned Heliet. "My dear husband, thou dost not know that
man. He owes his life to her generosity, and he will never forgive her
for it."
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Note 1. Rot. Pat., 22 Edward the First.
Note 2. The language of this sentence is remarkable:--"Jeo ou nul autre
en moun noun purchace absolucion _ou de Apostoile ou de autre
souerein_." (Rot. Pat., 22 Edward the First.)