"Soft you, now, good Dame!" saith Sir Thomas--who, or I thought so, took
it all as a very good joke. "Your damsels be parted in so many as they
be, and sent to separate convents,--one to Shuldham, one to Sempringham,
and one to Chicksand--and their brothers be had likewise into ward."
To my unspeakable amazement, Dame Hilda burst into tears, and catched up
Beatrice in her arms. I had never seen her weep in my life: and a most
new and strange idea was taking possession of me--did Dame Hilda
actually care something for us?
"Sir," she sobbed, "you will never have the heart to part these babes
from all familiar faces, and send them amongst strangers that may use
them hardly, to break their baby hearts? Surely the King, that is
father of his people, hath never commanded such a thing as that? At the
least leave me this little one--or put me in ward with her."
I was beginning to feel frightened now. I looked at Kate, and read in
her face that she was as terrified as I was.
"Tut, tut, Dame," saith the other officer (Sir Thomas, it seemed to me,
enjoyed the scene, and rather wished to prolong it, but this other was
of softer metal), "take not on where is no cause, I pray you. The
little ones bide here under your good care. Only, as you may guess, we
be commanded to take to the King's use this Castle of Ludlow and all
therein, and we charge you--" and he bowed to Dame Hilda, and then to
Master Inge--"and you, in the King's name, that you thwart not nor
hinder us, in the execution of his pleasure. Have here our commission."
Master Inge took the parchment, and scrutinised it most carefully, while
Dame Hilda wiped her eyes and put Beatrice down with a fervent "Bless
thee, my jewel!"
Now out bursts Jack, with a big sob that he could contain no longer.
"Does the King want my new ball of string, and my battledores?"
"Certes," answered Sir Thomas: but I saw a twinkle in his eye, though
his mouth was as grave as might be.
Jack fell a-blubbering.
"No, no--nonsense!" saith the other officer. "Don't spoil the fun,
man!" quoth Sir Thomas. "Fun! it is no fun to these babes," answered
the other. "I've a little lad at home, and this mindeth me of him. I
cannot bear to see a child cry--and for no cause!--Nay, my little one,"
saith he to Jack, "all in this Castle now belongs to the King, as
aforetime to thy father: but thy father took not thy balls and
battledores from thee, nor will he. Cheer up, for thou hast nought to
fear."
"Please, Sir," saith Kate, "shall all our brothers and sisters be made
monks and nuns, whether they like or no?"
Sir Thomas roared with laughter. His comrade saith gently, "Nay, my
little damsel, the King's will is not so. It is but that they shall be
kept safe there during his pleasure."
"And will they get any dinner and supper?" saith Maud.
"Plenty!" he answered: "and right good learning, and play in the convent
garden at recreation-time, with such other young damsels as shall be
bred up there. They will be merry as crickets, I warrant."
Kate fetched a great sigh of relief. She told me afterwards that she
had felt quite sure we should every one of us be had to separate
convents, and never see each other any more.
So matters dropped down again into their wonted course. For over two
years, our mother tarried at Skipton, and then she was moved into
straiter ward at Pomfret, about six weeks only [Note 2] before Queen
Isabel landed with her alien troops under Sir John of Ostrevant, and
drave King Edward first from his throne, and finally from this life.
Our father came with her. And this will I say, that our mother might
have been set free something earlier [Note 3], if every body had done
his duty. But folks are not much given to doing their duties, so far as
I can see. They are as ready as you please to contend for their
rights--which generally seems to mean, "Let me have somebody else's
rights;" ay, they will get up a battle for that at short notice: but who
ever heard of a man petitioning, much less fighting, for the right to do
his duty? And yet is not that, really and verily, the only right a man
has?
It was a gala day for us when our mother returned home, and our brothers
and sisters were gathered and sent back to us. Nym (always a little
given to romance) drew heart-rending pictures of his utter misery, while
in ward; but Roger said it was not so bad, setting aside that it was
prison, and we were parted from one another. And Geoffrey, the sensible
boy of the family, said that while he would not like a monk's life on
the whole, being idle and useless, yet he did like the quiet and
peacefulness of it.
"But I am not secure," said our mother, "that such quiet is what God
would for us, saving some few. Soldiers be not bred by lying of a bed
of rose-leaves beside scented waters. And I think the soldiers of
Christ will scarce be taught o' that fashion."
Diverse likewise were the maids' fantasies. Meg said she would not have
bidden at Shuldham one day longer than she was forced. Joan said she
liked not ill at Sempringham, only for being alone. But Isabel, as she
sat afore the fire with me on her lap, the even of her coming home--
Isabel had ever petted me--and Dame Hilda asked her touching her life at
Chicksand--Isabel said, gazing with a far-away look into the red ashes--
"I shall go back to Chicksand, some day, if I may win leave of mine
elders."
"Why, Dame Isabel!" quoth Dame Hilda in some surprise. "Liked you so
well as that?"
"Ay, I liked well," she said, in that dreamy fashion. "Not that I did
not miss you all, Dame; and in especial my babe here,--who is no longer
a babe"--and she smiled down at me. "And verily, I could see that sins
be not shut out by convent walls, but rather shut in. Yet--"
"Ay?" said Dame Hilda when she stayed. I think she wanted to make her
talk.
"I scarce know how to say it," quoth she. "But it seemed to me that for
those who would have it so, Satan was shut in with them, and pleasure
was shut out. And also, for those who would have it so, God was shut in
with them, and snares and temptations--some of them--were shut out.
Only some: but it was something to be rid of them. If it were possible
to have only those who wanted to shut out the world, and to shut
themselves in with God! That is the theory: and that would be Heaven on
earth. But it does not work in practice."
"Yet you would fain return thither?" said Dame Hilda.
Isabel looked into the fire and answered not, until she said, all
suddenly, "Dame Hilda, be there two of you, or but one?"
"Truly, Dame Isabel, I take not your meaning."
"Ah!" saith she; "then is there but one of you. If so, you cannot
conceive me. Thou dost, Ellen?"
"Ay, Dame Isabel, that do I, but too well."
"They have easier lives, methinks, that are but one. You look on me,
Dame Hilda, as who should say, What nonsense doth this maid talk! But
if you knew what it was to have two natures within you, pulling you
diverse ways, sometimes the one uppermost, and at times the other; and
which of the twain be _you_, that cannot you tell--I will tell you, I
have noted this many times"--Isabel's voice sank as if she feared to be
overheard--"in them whose father and mother have been of divers
dispositions. Some of the children may take after the one, and some
after the other; but there will be one, at least, who partaketh both,
and then they pull him divers ways, that he knoweth no peace." Isabel's
audience had been larger than she supposed. As she ended, with a weary
sigh, a soft hand fell upon her head, and I who, sat upon her knees,
could better see than she, looked up into my Lady's face.
"Sit still, daughter," said she, as Isabel strove to rise. "Nay, sweet
heart, I am not angered at thy fantasy, though truly I, being but one
like Dame Hilda, conceive not thy meaning. It may be so. I have not
all the wit upon earth, that I should scorn or set down the words of
them that speak out of other knowledge than mine. But, my Isabel, there
is another way than this wherein thou mayest have two natures."
"How so, Dame, an' it like you?"
"The nature of sinful man, and the nature of God Almighty."
"They must be marvellous saints that so have," said Dame Hilda, crossing
herself.
"Some of them," said my Lady gently, "were once marvellous sinners."
"Why, you should have to strive a very lifetime for that," quoth Dame
Hilda. "I should think no man could rise thereto that dwelt not in
anchorite's cell, and scourged him on the bare back every morrow, and
ate but of black rye-bread, and drank of ditch-water. Deary me, but I
would not like that! I'd put up with a bit less saintliness, _I_
would!"
"You are all out there, Dame," my Lady made answer. "This fashion of
saintliness may be along with such matters, but it cometh not by their
help."
"How comes it then, Dame, an't like you?"
"By asking for it," saith our mother, quietly.
"Good lack! but which of the saints must I ask for it?" quoth she.
"I'll give him all the wax candles in Ludlow, a week afore I die. I'd
rather not have it sooner."
"When go you about to die, Dame?"
"Our Lady love us! That cannot I say."
"Then you shall scarce know the week before, I think."
"Oh, no! but the saint shall know. Look you, Dame, to be too much of a
saint should stand sore in man's way. I could not sing, nor dance, nor
lake me a bit, if I were a saint; and that fashion of saintliness you
speak of must needs be sorest of all. If I do but just get it to go to
Heaven with, that shall serve me the best."
"I thought they sang in Heaven," saith Isabel.
"Bless you, Damsel!--nought but Church music."
"Dame Hilda, I marvel if you would be happy in Heaven."
"Oh, I should be like, when I got there."
My Lady shook her head.
"For that," quoth she, "you must be partaker of the Divine nature.
Which means not, doing good works contrary to your liking, but having
the nature which delights in doing them."
"Oh, ay, that will come when we be there."
"On the contrary part, they that have it not here on earth shall not win
there. They only that be partakers of Christ may look to enter Heaven.
And no man that partaketh Christ's merits can miss to partake Christ's
nature."
"Marry, then but few shall win there."
"So do I fear," saith my Lady.
"Dame, under your good pleasure," saith Dame Hilda, looking her
earnestly in the face, "where gat you such notions? They be something
new. At the least, never heard I your Ladyship so to speak aforetime."
My Lady's cheek faintly flushed.
"May God forgive me," saith she, "all these years to have locked up his
Word, which was burning in mine own heart! Yet in good sooth, Dame, you
are partly right. Ere I went to Skipton, I was like one that seeth a
veiled face, or that gazeth through smoked glass. But now mine eyes
have beheld the face of Him that was veiled, and I have spoken with Him,
as man speaketh with his friend. And if you would know who helped me
thereto, it was an holy hermit, by name Richard Rolle, that did divers
times visit me in my prison at Skipton. And he knows Him full well."
"Dame!" saith Dame Hilda, looking somewhat anxiously on my mother, "I do
trust you go not about to die, nor to hie in cloister and leave all
these poor babes! Do bethink you, I pray, ere you do either."
My Lady smiled. "Nay, good my Dame!" saith she. "How can I go in
cloister, that am wedded wife?"
"Eh, but you might get your lord's consent thereto--some wedded women
doth."
I was looking on my Lady, and I saw a terrible change in her face when
Dame Hilda spoke those words. I felt, too, Isabel's sudden nervous
shiver. And I guessed what they both thought--that assent would be easy
enough to win. For in all those months since Queen Isabel came over, he
had never come near us. He was ever at the Court, waiting upon her.
And though his duties--if he had them, but what they were we knew not--
might keep him at the Court in general, yet surely, had he been very
desirous to see us, he might have won leave to run over when the Queen
was at Hereford, were it only for an hour or twain.
Our mother did not answer for a moment. When she did, it was to
say--"Nay, vows may not be thus lightly done away. `Till death' scarce
means, till one have opportunity to undo."
"Then, pray you, go not and die, Dame!"
"I am immortal till God bids me die," she made answer. "But why should
man die because he loveth Jesu Christ better than he was wont?"
"Oh, folks always do when they get marvellous good."
"It were ill for the world an' they so did," saith my Lady. "That is
bad enough to lack good folks."
"It is bad enough to lack _you_," saith Dame Hilda.
My Lady gave a little laugh, and so the converse ended.
The next thing that I can remember, after that, was the visit of our
father. He only came that once, and tarried scarce ten days; but he
took Nym and Geoffrey back with him. I heard Dame Hilda whisper
somewhat to Tamzine, as though he had desired to have also one or two of
the elder damsels, and that my Lady had so earnestly begged and prayed
to the contrary that for once he gave way to her. It was not often, I
think, that he did that. It was four years good ere we saw either of
our brothers again--not till all was over--and then Geoff told us a
sorry tale indeed of all that had happed.
It was at the time when our father paid us this visit that my marriage
and that of Beatrice were covenanted. King Edward of Caernarvon had
contracted my lord that now is to the Lady Alianora La Despenser,
daughter of my sometime Lord of Gloucester [Hugh Le Despenser the
Younger], who was put to death at Hereford by Queen Isabel. But she--I
mean the Queen--who hated him and all his, sent the Lady Alianora to
Sempringham, with command to veil her instantly, and gave the marriage
of my Lord to my Lord Prince, the King that now is [Edward the Third].
So my father, being then at top of the tree, begged the marriage for one
of his daughters, and it was settled that should be me. I liked it well
enough, to feel myself the most important person in the pageant, and to
be beautifully donned, and all that; and as I was not to leave home for
some years to come, it was but a show, and cost me nothing. I dare say
it cost somebody a pretty penny. Beatrice was higher mated, with my
Lord of Norfolk's son, who was the King's cousin, but he died a lad,
poor soul! so her grandeur came to nought, and she wedded at last a much
lesser noble.
Thus dwelt we maids with our mother in the Castle of Ludlow, seeing
nought of the fine doings that were at Court, save just for the time of
our marriages, which were at Wynchecombe on the day of Saint Lazarus,
that is the morrow of O Sapientia [Note 4]. The King was present
himself, and the young Lady Philippa, who the next month became our
Queen, and his sisters the Ladies Alianora and Joan, and more Earls and
Countesses than I can count, all donned their finest. Well-a-day, but
there must have been many a yard of velvet in that chapel, and an whole
army of beasts ermines must have laid their lives down to purfile [trim
with fur] the same! I was donned myself of blue velvet guarded of
miniver, and wore all my Lady's jewels on mine head and corsage; and
marry, but I queened it! Who but I for that morrow, in very sooth!
Ay, and somebody else [Queen Isabelle, the young King's mother] was
there, whom I have not named. Somebody robed in snow-white velvet, with
close hood and wimple, so that all that showed of her face was from the
eyebrows to the lips,--all pure, unstained mourning white. Little I
knew of the horrible stains on that black heart beneath! And I thought
her so sweet, so fair! Come, I have spoken too plainly to add a name.
So all passed away like a dream, and we won back to Ludlow, and matters
fell back to the old ways, as if nought had ever happened--the only real
difference being that instead of "Damsel Agnes" I was "my Lady of
Pembroke," and our baby Beatrice, instead of "Damsel Beattie," was "my
Lady Beatrice of Norfolk." And about a year after that came letters
from Nym, addressed to "my Lady Countess of March," in which he writ
that the King had made divers earls, and our father amongst them. Dame
Hilda told us the news in the nursery, and Jack turned a somersault, and
stood on his hands, with his heels up in the air.
"Call me Jack any more, if you dare!" cries he. "I am my Lord John of
March, and I shall expect to be addressed so, properly. Do you hear,
children?"
"I hear one of the children, in good sooth," said Meg, comically. And
Maud saith--
"Prithee, Jack, take no airs, for they beseem thee but very ill."
Whereon Jack fell a-moaning and a-crying out, that Dame Hilda thought he
was rare sick, and ordered Emelina to get ready a dose of violet oil.
But before Emelina could so much as fetch a spoon, there was Jack
dancing a hornpipe and singing, or rather screaming, at the top of his
voice, till Dame Hilda put her hands over her ears and cried for mercy.
I never did see such another lad as Jack.
We heard but little, and being children, we cared less, for the events
that followed--the beheading of my Lord of Kent, and the rising under my
Lord of Lancaster. And the next thing after that was the last thing of
all.
It was in October, 1330. We had no more idea of such a blow falling on
us than we had of the visitation of an angel. I remember we were all
gathered--except the little ones--in my Lady's closet, for after my
marriage I was no longer kept in the nursery, though Beattie, on account
of her much youth, was made an exception to that rule. My Lady was
spinning, and her damsel Aveline carding, and Joan and I, our arms round
each others' waists, sat in the corner, Joan having on her lap a piece
of finished broidery, and I having nothing: what the others were doing I
forget. Then came the familiar sound of the horn, and my Lady turned
white. I never felt sure why she always turned white when a horn
sounded: whether she expected bad news, or whether she expected our
father. She was exceeding afraid of him, and yet she loved him, I know:
I cannot tell how she managed it.
After the horn, we heard the tramp of troops entering the court-yard,
and I think we all felt that once more something was going to happen.
Aveline glanced at my Lady, who returned the look, but did not speak;
and then Lettice, one of the other maidens, rose and went forth, at a
look from Aveline. But she could scarcely have got beyond the door when
Master Inge came in.
"Dame," said he, "my news is best told quickly. The Castle and all
therein is confiscate to the Crown. But the King hath sent strict
command that the wardrobe, jewels, and all goods, of your Ladyship, and
of all ladies and children dwelling with you, shall be free from
seizure, and no hand shall be laid on you nor any thing belonging to
you."
My Lady rose up, resting her hand on the chair from which she rose; I
think it was to support her.
"I return humble thanks to the Lord King," said she, in a trembling
voice. "What hath happened, Master Inge?"
"Dame," quoth he, "how shall I tell you? My Lord is a prisoner of the
Tower, and Sir Edmund and Sir Geoffrey with him--"
If my Lady could turn whiter, I think she did. I felt Joan's hand-clasp
tighten upon mine, till I could almost have cried out.
"And Dame Isabel the Queen is herself under ward in the Castle of
Berkhamsted, and all matters turned upside down. Man saith that the
great men with the King be now Sir William de Montacute and Sir Edward
de Bohun, and divers more of like sort. And my Lord of Lancaster, man
saith, flung up his cap, and thanked God that he had lived to see that
day."
My Lady had stood as still and silent as an image, all the while Master
Inge was speaking, only that when he said the Queen was in ward, she
gave a sort of gasp. When he had done, she clasped her hands, and
looked up to Heaven.
"Dost Thou come," she said, in a strange voice that did not sound like
hers, "dost Thou come to judge the earth? We have waited long for Thee.
Yet--Oh, if it be possible--if it be possible! Spare my boys to me!
And spare--"
A strange kind of sob seemed to come up in her throat, and she held out
her hands as if she could not see. I believe, if Master Inge and
Lettice had not been quick to spring forward and catch her by the arms,
she would have fallen to the floor. They bore her into her bedchamber
close by; and we children saw her not for some time. Dame Hilda was in
and out; but when we asked her how my Lady fared, she did nought save
shake her head, from which we learned little except that things went ill
in some way. When we asked Lettice, she said--
"There, now! don't hinder me. Poor children, you will know soon
enough."
Aveline was the best, for she sat down and gathered us into her arms and
comforted us; but even she gave us no real answer, only she kept saying,
"Poor maids! poor little maids!"
So above a month passed away. Master John de Melbourne was sent down
from the King as supervisor of the lands and goods of my Lady and her
children; but he came with the men-at-arms, so he brought no fresh news:
and it was after Christmas before we knew the rest. Then, one winter
morrow, came a warrant of the Chancery, granting to my Lady all the
lands of her own inheritance, by reason of the execution of her husband.
And then she knew that all had come that would come.
We children, Meg except, had not yet been allowed to see our mother, who
had never stirred from her bedchamber. One evening, early in January,
we were sitting in her closet, clad in our new doole raiment (how I
hated it!), talking to one another in low voices, for I think we all had
a sort of instinct that things were going wrong somehow, even the babies
who understood least about it: when all at once, for none of us saw her
enter, a lady stood before us. A lady whom we did not know, clad in
white widow-doole, tall and stately, with a white, white face, so that
her weeds were scarcely whiter, and a kind of fixed, unalterable
expression of intense pain, yet unchangeable peace. It seemed to me
such a strange look. Whether the pain or the peace were the greater I
knew not, nor could I tell which was the newer. We girls sat and looked
at her with puzzled faces. Then a faint smile broke through the pain,
on the white face, like the sun breaking through clouds, and a voice we
knew, asked of us--
"Don't you know me, my children?"
And that was how our mother came back to us.
She did not leave us again. Ever since he died, she has lived for us.
That white face, full of peace and yet of pain, abides with her; her
colour has never returned. But I think the pain grows less with years,
and the peace grows more. She smiles freely, but it is faintly, as if
smiles hardly belonged to her, and were only a borrowed thing that might
not be kept; and her eyes never light up as of old--only that once, when
some months after our father's end, Nym and Geoff came back to us.
Then, just for one moment, her old face came again. For I think she had
given them up,--not to King Edward, but to Christ our Lord, who is her
King.
Ay, I never knew woman like her in that. There are many that will say
prayers, and there are some that will pray, which is another thing from
saying prayers: but never saw I one like her, that seemed to do all her
work and to live all her living in the very light of the Throne of God.
Just as an impassioned musician turns every thing into music, and a true
painter longs to paint every lovely thing he sees, so with her all
things turn to Jesu Christ. I should think she will be canonised some
day. I am sure she deserves it better than many an one whom I have
heard man name as meriting to be a saint. Perhaps it is possible to be
a saint and not be canonised. Must man not have been a saint before he
can be declared one? I know the Lady Julian would chide me for saying
that, and bid me remember that the Church only can declare man to be
saint. But I wonder myself if the Lord never makes saints, without
waiting for the Church to do it for Him. The Church may never call my
Lady "Saint Joan," but that will she be whether she be so-called or no.
And at times I think, too, that they who shall be privileged to dwell in
Heaven will find there a great company of saints of whom they never
heard, and perchance some of them that sit highest there will not be
those most accounted of in the Calendar and on festival days. But I do
not suppose--as an ancestress of my mother did, in a chronicle she wrote
which I once read; it is in the possession of her French relatives, and
was written by the Lady Elaine de Lusignan, daughter of Geoffroy Count
de la Marche, who was a son of that House [Note 5]--I do not suppose
that the saints who were nobles in this world will sit nearest the
Throne, and those who were peasants furthest off. Nay, I think it will
be another order of nobility that will obtain there. Those who have
served our Lord the best, and done the most for their fellow-men, these
I think will be the nobles of that world. For does not our Lord say
Himself that the first shall be last there, and the last first? And I
can guess that Joan de Mortimer, my Lady and mother, will not stand low
on that list. It is true, she was a Countess in this life; but it was
little to her comfort; and she was beside that early orphaned, and a
cruelly ill-used wife and a bereaved mother. Life brought her little
good: Heaven will bring her more.
But I wonder where one Agnes de Hastings will stand in that company.
Nay, rather, will she be there at all?
It would be well that I should think about it.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Note 1. A word which then included uniform and all lands of official
garb.
Note 2. On August 3rd she left Skipton, arriving at Pomfret on the 5th.
Note 3. I find no indication of the date: only that she was at Ludlow
on October 26, 1330.
Note 4. The precise date and place are not recorded, but it was about
this time, and the King, who was present, was in the West only from
December 16th to the 21st. It is asserted by Walsingham that Beatrice
was married "about" 1327.