"That would be dreadful!" I whispered.
"It will be, in very deed," softly said Jack, "when the Books are
opened, and the names read out, in the light of that great white Throne
which shall be brighter than noon-day. I reckon in that day we shall
not be hearkening for Sir Piers de Gavaston's name, nor for Sir Hugh Le
Despenser's, but only for those of John and Cicely de Chaucombe. Now,
set again to thy chronicling, my Sissot, and do it in the light of that
Throne, and in the expectation of that Book: so shall it be done well."
And so Jack left me. But to speak sooth, seeing the matter thus makes
me to feel as though I scarce dared do it at all. Howsobe, I have it to
do: and stedfast way maketh stedfast heart.
There were plenty of people who hated Sir Hugh Le Despenser, but I and
my mother Dame Alice were not amongst them. He had been brought up with
the King from his youth, but the King never loved him till after the
death of Sir Piers de Gavaston. The Queen loved him, just so long as
the King did not. That was always her way; the moment that she saw he
cared for anything which was not herself, she at once began to hate it.
And verily he never gave her cause, for he held her ever dearest of any
mortal thing.
Sir Hugh was as goodly a gentleman as man's eyes might see. Those who
loved him not called him proud--yea, the very spirit of pride. But the
manner they thought pride seemed to me rather a kind of sternness or
shortness of speech, as if he wished to have done with the matter in
hand. Some people call every thing pride; if man talk much, they say he
loves to hear his own voice; if he be silent, he despises his company.
Now it seems to me that I often speak and am silent from many other
causes than pride, and therefore it may be the like with other folk. Do
those which are ever accusing other of pride, do all their actions for
that reason? If not so, how or why should they suspect it in other men?
I do not think Sir Hugh was so much prouder than other. He knew his
own value, I dare say; and very like he did not enjoy being set at
nought--who doth so? Other said he was ambitious: and there might be
some sooth-fastness in the accusation; yet I fancy the accusers loved a
slice of worldly grandeur no less than most men. And some said he was
wicked man: that did I never believe.
As for his wife, Dame Alianora, I scarcely know what to say of her. She
was a curious mixture of qualities. She clung to the King her uncle
when others forsook him, she was free-handed, and she could feel for man
in trouble: those were her good points. Yet she seemed to feel but what
she saw; it was "out of sight, out of mind," with her; and she loved new
faces rather too well to please me. I think, for one thing, she was
timid; and that oft-times causes man to appear what he is not. But she
was better woman than either of her sisters--the Lady Margaret Audley
and the Lady Elizabeth de Clare. I never saw her do, nor heard her say,
the heartless acts and speeches whereof I knew both of them guilty. I
dare say, as women go, she was not ill woman. For, alas! I have lived
long enough to know that there be not many good ones.
Well, I said--no did I?--that I would begin with the year 1324 of our
Lord God. But, lack-a-day! there were matters afore 1324, like as there
were men before Agamemnon. Truly, methinks there be a two-three I did
well not to omit: aswhasay, the dying of Queen Margaret, widow of King
Edward of Westminster, which deceased seven years earlier than so. I
shall never cease to marvel how it came to pass that two women of the
same nation, of the same family, being aunt and niece by blood, should
have been so strangely diverse as those two Queens. All that was good,
wise, and gentle, was in Queen Margaret: what was in Queen Isabel will
my chronicle best tell. This most reverend lady led a very retired life
after her husband's death, being but a rare visitor to the Court,
dwelling as quietly and holily as any nun might dwell, and winning love
and respect from all that knew her. Very charitable was she and most
devout: and (if it be lawful to say thus) had I been Pope, I had sooner
canonised her than a goodly number that hath been. But I do ill to
speak thus, seeing the holy Father is infallible, and acts in such
matters but by the leading of God's Spirit, as saith the Church. Good
lack, but there be queer things in this world! I saw once Father Philip
screw up his mouth when one said the same in his hearing, and saith he--
"The Lord Pope is infallible when he speaketh _ex cathedra_, but so
only."
"But how," saith he that spake, "shall we know when he is sat in his
chair and when he is out of it?"
An odd look came into Father Philip's eyes.
"Master," saith he, "when I was a little lad, my mother told me divers
times that it was not seemly to ask curious questions."
But I guess what the good Friar thought, though it be not always
discreet to speak out man's thoughts. Ah me! will the time ever come
when man may say what he will, with no worse thereafter than a sneer or
a sharp rebuke from his neighbour? If so were, I would I had been born
in those merry days--but I should want Jack to be born then belike.
"Sissot," saith a voice over my shoulder, "wist thou the full meaning of
thy wish?"
Jack is given to coming in quietly--I never knew him make a noise--and
peeping over my shoulder to see how my chronicle maketh progress: for he
can well read, though he write not.
"What so, Jack?" said I.
"I reckon we should be the younger by some centuries," quoth he, "and
perchance should not be at all. But allowing it, dost thou perceive
that such a difference should mean a change in all things?--that no fear
should in likelihood mean no reverence nor obedience, and might come to
mean more than that?"
"That were dread!" said I. "What manner of times should they be?"
"I think," saith he, "those very `_tempora periculosa_' whereof Saint
Paul speaketh, when men shall love their own selves, and be proud,
unthankful, without affection, peace, or benignity, loving their
pleasures rather than God. And if it serve thee, I would not like to
live in those times."
"Dear heart, nor would I!" quoth I. "Yet surely, Jack, that seemeth a
gainsaying. Were all men free to speak what they would, and not be
called to account therefor, it were soothly to love their neighbours and
show benignity."
"Ay, if it were done for that end," he made answer. "But the heart of
man is a cage of deceits. Much must befall the world, I take it, ere
that cometh to pass: and while they that bring it about may be good men
that mean well, they that come to use it may be evil, and mean ill. The
Devil is not come to an end of his shifts, be thou sure. Let man run as
fast and far as he will, Satan shall wit how to keep alongside."
I said nought. Jack is very wise, a deal more than I, yet I cannot
always see through his eye-glasses. Mayhap it is not always because I
am wiser of the twain.
"Freedom to do good and be good is a good thing," then saith he: "but
freedom to be ill, and do ill, must needs be an ill thing. And man
being what he is, how makest thou sure that he shall always use his
freedom for good, and not for ill?"
"Why, that must man chance," said I.
"A sorry chance," answereth he. "I were liever not to chance it. I
thought I heard thee deny Fina this last week to go to the dance at
Underby Fair?"
"So thou didst," said I. "She is too young, and too giddy belike, to
trust with a bevy of idle damosels as giddy as she."
"Well, we are none of us so far grown-up in all wisdom that it were safe
to trust us with our own reins in all things. Hast never heard the saw,
`He that ruleth his own way hath a fool to his governor'?"
"Well!" said I; "but then let the wise men be picked out to rule us, and
the fools to obey."
"Excellent doctrine, my Sissot!" quoth Jack, smiling in his eyes: "at
least, for the fools. I might somewhat pity the wise men. But how to
bring it about? Be the fools to pick out the wise men? and are they
wise enough to do it? I sorely fear we shall have a sorry lot of
governors when thy law comes to be tried. I think, Wife, thou and I had
better leave God to rule the world, for I suspect we should do it
something worser than He."
Let me fall back to my chronicling. Another matter happed in the year
1319, the which I trow I shall not lightly forget. The Queen abode at
Brotherton, the King being absent. The year afore, had the Scots made
great raids on the northern parts of England, had burned the outlying
parts of York while the King was there, and taken the Earl of Richmond
prisoner: and now, hearing of the Queen at Brotherton, but slenderly
guarded, down they marched into Yorkshire, and we, suspecting nought,
were well-nigh caught in the trap.
Well I mind that night, when I was awoke by pebbles cast up at my
casement, for I lay in a turret chamber, that looked outward. So soon
as I knew what the sound meant, I rose from my bed and cast a mantle
about me, and opened the casement.
"Is any there?" said I.
"Is that thou, Sissot?" quoth a voice which I knew at once for my
brother Robert's, "Lose not one moment, but arouse the Queen, and pray
her to take horse as speedily as may be, or she shall be captured of the
Scots, which come in great force by the Aire Valley, and are nearhand
[nearly] at mine heels. And send one to bid the garrison be alert, and
to let me in, that I may tell my news more fully."
I wis not whether I shut the casement or no, for ere man might count ten
was I in the Queen's antechamber, and shaking of Dame Elizabeth by the
shoulders. But, good lack, she took it as easy as might be. She was
alway one to take matters easy, Dame Elizabeth de Mohun.
"Oh, let be till daylight," quoth she, as she turned on her pillow.
"'Tis but one of Robin Lethegreve's fumes and frets, I'll be bound. He
is for ever a-reckoning that the Scots be at hand or the house o' fire,
and he looks for man to vault out of his warm bed that instant minute
when his fearsome news be spoken. Go to sleep, Cicely, and let folks
be."
And round turned she, and, I warrant, was asleep ere I could bring forth
another word. So then I fell to shaking Joan de Vilers, that lay at
tother end of the chamber. But she was right as bad, though of another
fashion.
"Wherefore rouse me?" saith she. "I can do nought. 'Tis not my place.
If Dame Elizabeth arise not, I cannot. Thou wert best go back abed,
dear heart. Thou shalt but set thyself in trouble."
Well, there was no time to reason with such a goose; but I longed to
shake her yet again. Howbeit, I tarried no longer in the antechamber,
but burst into the Queen's own chamber where she lay abed, with Dame
Tiffany in the pallet--taking no heed that Joan called after me--
"Cicely! Cicely! how darest thou? Come back, or thou shall be mispaid
or tint!" [Held in displeasure or ruined.]
But I cared not at that moment, whether for mispayment or tinsel. I had
my duty to do, and I did it. If the news were true, the Queen was
little like to snyb [blame] me when she found it so: and if no, well, I
had but done as I should. And I knew that Dame Tiffany, which tended
her like a hen with one chicken, should hear my tidings of another
fashion from the rest. Had Dame Elizabeth lain that night in the
pallet, and Dame Tiffany in the antechamber, my work had been the
lighter. But afore I might win to the pallet--which to do I had need to
cross the chamber,--Queen Isabel's own voice saith from the state
bed--"Who is there?"
"Dame," said I,--forgetting to kneel, in such a fluster was I--"my
brother hath now brought tidings that the Scots come in force by the
Aire Valley, with all speed, and are nearhand at the very gate;
wherefore--"
The Queen heard me no further. She was out of her bed, and herself
donning her raiment, ere I might win thus far.
"Send Dame Elizabeth to me," was all she said, "and thyself bid De
Nantoil alarm the garrison. Well done!"
I count I am not perfect nor a saint, else had I less relished that
second shake of Dame Elizabeth--that was fast asleep--and deliverance of
the Queen's bidding. I stayed me not to hear her mingled contakes and
wayments [reproaches and lamentations], but flew off to the outermost
door, and unbarring the same, spake through the crack that wherewith I
was charged to Oliver de Nantoil, the usher of the Queen's chamber,
which lay that night at her outer door. Then was nought but bustle and
stir, both within and without. The Queen would have up Robin, and
hearkened to his tale while Alice Conan combed her hair, the which she
bade bound up at the readiest, to lose not a moment. In less than an
hour, methinks, she won to horse, and all we behind, and set forth for
York, which was the contrary way to that the Scots were coming. And, ah
me! I rade with Dame Elizabeth, that did nought but grieve over her
lost night's rest, and harry poor me for breaking the same. I asked at
her if she had better loved to be taken of the Scots; since if so, the
Queen's leave accorded, we might have left her behind.
"Scots!" quoth she. "Where be these ghostly [fabulous, figurative]
Scots? I will go bail they be wrapped of their foldings [plaids] fast
asleep on some moor an hundred miles hence. 'Tis but Robin, the clown!
that is so clumst [stupid] with his rashness, that he seeth a Scot full
armed under every bush, and heareth a trumpeter in every corncrake: and
as if that were not enough, he has a sister as ill as himself, that must
take all for gospel as if Friar Robert preached it. Mary love us! but I
quoke when thou gattest hold on me by the shoulders! I count it was a
good hour ere I might sleep again."
"Dear heart, Dame!" cried I, "but it was not two minutes! It is scantly
an hour by now."
"Then that is thy blame, Cicely, routing like a bedel [shouting like a
town-crier], and oncoming [assaulting] folks as thou dost. I marvel
thou canst not be peaceable! I alway am. Canst mind the night that
ever I shaked thee awake and made thee run out of thy warm bed as if a
bear were after thee?"
I trust I kept out of my voice the laughter that was in my throat as I
said, "No, Dame: that cannot I." The self notion of Dame Elizabeth ever
doing thus to any was so exceeding laughable.
"Well! then why canst--Body o' me! what ever is yonder flaming light?"