"Will you try it yet again?" saith he.
"That will I," I said: and I saw we were at one thereon.
"Good," saith he. "I reckoned, if any failed me at this pinch, it
should not be Dame Alice's daughter."
That eve stood I upon tenterhooks. As the saints would have it, the
Queen was a-broidering a certain work whereon Dame Elizabeth wrought
with her: and for once in my life I thanked the said hallows [saints]
for Dame Elizabeth's laziness.
"Dame Cicely," quoth she, "an' you be not sore pressed for time, pray
you, thread me a two-three needles. I wis not how it befalleth, but
thread a neeld can I never."
I could have told her well that _how_, for whenso she threadeth a neeld
she maketh no bones of the eye, but thrusteth forward the thread any
whither it shall go, on the chance that it shall hit, which by times it
doth: I should not marvel an' she essayed to thread the point. Howbeit,
her ill husbandry was right then mine encheson [Note 6].
"Look you," said I, "I can bring my work to that end of the chamber;
then shall I be at hand to thread your neeld as it shall be voided."
"Verily, you be gent therein," saith she.
The which I fear I was little. Howbeit, there sat I, a-threading Dame
Elizabeth her neeld, now with red silk and now with black, as she
lacked, and under all having care that I rubbed not my left eye, the
which I felt strong desire to frote [rub]. I marvel how it was, for the
hour over, I had no list to touch it all the even.
My task turned out light enough, for my Lord of March was playing of
tables [backgammon] with Sir Edward de Bohun, and never left his seat
for all the hour: and the Queen wrought peacefully on her golden
vulture, and moved no more than he. When I saw it was five o' the clock
[Note 7], I cast an eye on Sir John de Molynes, which threw a look to
the clock, and then winked an eye on me; and I saw he took it we had
finished our duty.
The next morrow, which was Saint Luke's even [October 17th], came a
surprise for all men. It was found that the Constable of the Castle,
with Sir William de Montacute, Sir Edward de Bohun, Sir John de Molynes,
the Lord Ufford, the Lord Stafford, the Lord Clinton, and Sir John
Neville, had ridden away from the town the night afore, taking no man
into their counsel. None could tell wherefore their departure, nor what
they purposed. I knew only that the King was aware thereof, though
soothly he counterfeited surprise as well as any man.
"What can they signify?" saith Sir Edmund de Mortimer, the eldest son of
my Lord of March--a much better man than his father, though not nigh so
crafty.
"Hold thy peace for a fool as thou art!" saith his father roughly.
"They are afraid of me, I cast no doubt at all. And they do well. I
could sweep them away as lightly as so many flies, and none should miss
them!"
He ended with a mocking laugh. Verily, pride such as this was full
ready for a fall.
We knew afterward what had passed in that hour the day afore. The King
had been hard to insense [cause to understand: still a Northern
provincialism] at the first. So great was his faith in his mother that
he ne could ne would believe any evil of her. As to the Mortimer, he
was ready enough, for even now was he a-chafing under the yoke.
"Be he what he may--the very foul fiend himself an' you will," had he
said to his Lords: "but she, mine own mother, my beloved--Oh, not she,
not she!"
Then--for themselves were lost an' they proved not their case--they were
fain to bring forth their proofs. Sir William de Montacute told my Jack
it was all pitiful to see how our poor young King's heart fought full
gallantly against the light as it brake on his understanding. Poor lad!
for he was but a lad; and it troubled him sore. But they knew they must
carry the matter through.
"Oh, have away your testimonies!" he cried more than once. "Spare her--
and spare me! Mother, my mother, mine own dear Lady! how is this
possible?"
At the last he knew all: knew who had set England in flame, who had done
Sir Hugh Le Despenser and his son to death, who had been his own
father's murderer. The scales were off his eyes; and had he list to do
it, he could never set them on again. They said he covered his face,
and wept like the child he nearhand was. Then he lifted his head, the
tears over, and in his eyes was the light of a settled purpose, and in
his lips a stern avisement. No latsummes [backwardness, reluctance] was
in him when once fully set.
"Take the Mortimer," quoth he, firm enough.
"Sir," quoth Sir William de Montacute, "we, not being lodged in the
Castle, shall never be able to seize him without help of the Constable."
"Now, surely," saith the King, "I love you well: wherefore go to the
Constable in my name, and bid him aid you in taking of the Mortimer, on
peril of life and limb."
"Sir, then God grant us speed!" saith Sir William.
So to the Constable they went, and brake the matter, only at first
bidding him in the King's name (having his ring for a token) to aid them
in a certain enterprise which concerned the King's honour and safety.
The Constable sware so to do, and then saith Sir William--
"Now, surely, dear friend, it behoved us to win your assent, in order to
seize on the Mortimer, sith you are Keeper of the Castle, and have the
keys at your disposal."
Then the Constable, having first lift his brows and made grimace of his
mouth, fell in therewith, and quoth he--
"Sirs, if it be thus, you shall wit that the gates of the Castle be
locked with the locks that Queen Isabel sent hither, and at night she
hath all the keys thereof, and layeth them under the pillow of her bed
while morning: and so I may not help you into the Castle at the gates by
any means. But I know an hole that stretcheth out of the ward under
earth into the Castle, beginning on the west side [still called
Mortimer's Hole], which neither the Queen nor her following nor Mortimer
himself, nor none of his company, know anything of; and through this
passage I will lead you till you come into the Castle without espial of
enemies."
Thereupon went they forth that even, as though to flee away from the
town, none being privy thereto save the King. And Saint Luke's Day
passed over quiet enough. The Queen went to mass in the Church of the
White Friars, and offered at the high altar five shillings, her
customary offering on the great feasts and chief saints' days. All
peaceful sped the day; the Queen gat her abed, and the keys being
brought of the Constable's deputy, I (that was that night in waiting)
presented them unto her, which she received in her own hands and laid
under the pillow of her bed. Then went we, her dames and damsels, forth
unto our own chambers in the upper storey of the Castle: and I, set at
the casement, had unlatched the same and thrown it open (being nigh as
warm as summer), and was hearkening to the soft flow of the waters of
the Leene, which on that side do nearhand wash the Castle wall. I was
but then thinking how peaceful were all things, and what sore pity it
were that man should bring in wrong, and bitterness, and anguish, on
that which God had made so beautiful--when all suddenly my fair peace
changed to fierce tumult and the clang of armed men--the tramp of
mail-clad feet and the hoarse crying of roaring voices. I was as though
I held my breath: for I could well guess what this portended. Then
above all the routing and bruit [shouting and noise], came the voice of
Queen Isabel, clear and shrill.
"Now, fair Sirs, I pray you that you do no harm unto his body, for he is
a worthy knight, our well-beloved friend, and our dear cousin."
"They have him, then!" quoth I, scarce witting that I spake aloud, nor
who heard me.
"`Have him!'" saith Dame Joan de Vaux beside me: "whom have they?"
Then, suddenly, a word or twain in the King's voice came up to where we
stood; on which hearing, an anguished cry rang out from Queen Isabel.
"Fair Son, fair Son! have pity on the sweet Mortimer!" [Note 8.]
Wala wa! that time was past. And she had shown no pity.
I never loved her, as in mine opening words I writ: yet in that dread
moment I could not find in mine heart to leave her all alone in her
agony. I have ever found that he which brings his sorrows on his own
head doth not suffer less thereby, but more. And let her be what she
would, she was a woman, and in sorrow, not to say mine own liege Lady:
and signing to Dame Joan to follow me, down degrees ran I with all
haste, and not staying to scratch on the door [Note 9], into the chamber
to the Queen.
We found her sitting up in her bed, her hands held forth, and a look of
agony and horror on her face.
"Cicely, is it thou?" she shrieked. "Joan! Whence come ye? Saw ye
aught? What do they to him? who be the miscreants? Is my son there?
Have they won him over--the coward neddirs [serpents] that they be!
Speak I who be they?--and what will they do? Ah, Mary Mother, what will
they do with him?"
Her voice choked, and I spake.
"Dame, the King is there, and divers with him."
"What do they?" she wailed like a woman in her last agony.
"There hath been sharp assault, Dame," said I, "and I fear some slain;
for as I ran in hither, I saw that which seemed me the body of a dead
man at the head of degrees."
"Who?" She nearhand screamed.
"Dame," I said, "I think it was Sir Hugh de Turpington."
"But what do they with _him_?" she moaned again, an accent of anguish on
that last word.