There was thunder in the air, one summer day in King's Barton. Dame
Lavender, putting her drying herbs under cover, wondered anxiously what
Mary was doing. The moods of the royal lady in the castle depended very
much on the weather, and both of late had been uncertain. Strong-willed,
hot-tempered, ambitious and adventurous, this Queen had no traits that
were suited to a quiet existence in the country. Yet she would have been
about as safe a person to have at large as a wild-cat among harriers.
Whoever had the worst of it, the fight would be sensational.
When made prisoner she was on the way to the court of France, in which
her rebellious sons could always find aid. Aquitaine was all but in open
revolt against the Norman interloper--it was only through her that Henry
had held that province at all. Scotland was ready for trouble at any
time; Ireland was in tumult; the Welsh were in a permanent state of
revolt. But Norman though he was, the King had won his way among his
English subjects. They never forgot that he was only half Norman after
all. His Saxon blood, cold and stubborn, steadied his Norman daring,
and he could be alternately bold and crafty.
Eleanor of Aquitaine was more an exile in her husband's own country than
she would have been in France or Italy. His people might rebel against
their King themselves, but they did not sympathize with her for doing
it. They were as unfeeling as their gray, calm skies.
Instead of weeping and bemoaning herself she made life difficult for
her household. Oddly enough the two English girls got on with her better
than the rest. Mary's even, sunny temper was never ruffled, and
Barbara's North-country disposition had an iron common-sense at the
core. The gentle-born damsels of the court were too yielding.
When little hot flashes lightened among the far-off hills, and a distant
rumble sounded occasionally, the Queen was pacing to and fro on the top
of the great keep. It was not the safest place to be in case of a storm,
for the castle was the highest building in the neighborhood. Philippa,
working sedately at a tapestry emblem of a tower in flames, looked up
the stairway and shivered as if she were cold.
"Mary," she queried, as the still-room maid came through the bower,
"where is Master Tomaso?"
"In his study, I think," Mary answered. "Shall I call him?"
"Nay--I thought----" Philippa left the sentence unfinished and folded
her work; then she climbed the narrow stair. When the Queen turned and
saw her she was standing with her slim hands resting on the battlement.
"What are you doing away from your tapestry-frame, wench?" demanded her
mistress. "Are you spying on me again?"
"Your Grace," Philippa answered gently, "I could never spy on you--not
even if my own father wished it. I--I was talking with Master Tomaso
last night, and he said strange things about the stars. I would you
could have heard him."
The Queen laughed scornfully. "As if it were not enough to be prisoned
in four walls, the girl wants to believe herself the puppet of the
heavens! Look you, silly pigeon, if there be a Plantagenet star you may
well fear it, for brother hates brother and all hate their father--and
belike will hate their children. Were you asking him the day of my
death?"
"I was but asking what flowers belonged to the figures of the zodiac in
my tapestry," answered Philippa. "He says that a man may rule the
stars."
"I wish that a woman could," mocked the Queen. "How you silly creatures
can go on, sticking the needle in and out, in and out, day after day, I
cannot see. One would think that you were weavers of Fate. I had rather
cast myself over the battlements than look forward to thirty years of
stitchery!" She swept her trailing robes about her and vanished down the
stairs. Philippa, following, saw with a certain relief that she turned
toward the rooms occupied by old Tomaso. The physician was equal to most
situations. Yet in the Queen's present mood anything might arouse her
anger.
The study was of a quaint, bare simplicity in furnishing. It had
a chair, a stool, a bench under the window, a table piled with
leather-bound books, a large chest and a small one, an old worm-eaten
oaken dresser with some flasks and dishes. A door led into the
laboratory, and another into the cell where the philosopher slept. As
the Queen entered he rose and with grave courtesy offered her his
chair, which she did not take. She stood looking out across the quiet
hills, and pressed one hand and then the other against her cheeks--then
she turned, a dark figure against the stormy sky.
"They say that you know all medicine," she flung out at him. "Have you
any physic for a wasted soul?" With a fierce gesture she pointed at the
half-open door. "Why do you stay in this dull sodden England--you who
are free?"
"There are times, your Grace," the physician replied tranquilly, "when
I forget whether this is England or Venetia."
The Queen moved restlessly about the room, and stopped to look at an
herbal. "Will you teach me the properties of plants?" she asked, as she
turned the pages carelessly. "With Mary's help we might make here an
herb-garden. It is well to know the noxious plants from the wholesome,
lest--unintentionally--one should put the wrong flavor in a draught."
Tomaso had seen persons in this frame of mind before. He had taught many
pupils the properties of plants, but he had his own ways of doing it.
In his native city of Padua and elsewhere, there were chemists who owed
their fame to the number of poisons they understood.
"I have some experiments in hand which may interest your Grace," he
answered. "If you will come into my poor studio you shall see them." He
led the way into the inner chamber where no one was ever allowed to
come. The walls were lined with shelves on which stood jars, flasks,
mortars and other utensils whose use the Queen could not guess. Tomaso
did not warn her not to touch any flask. She handled, sniffed and all
but tasted. She finally went so far as to pour a small quantity of an
unsensational-looking fluid into a glass, and a drop fell on the edge
of her mantle, in which it burned a clean hole.
[Illustration: "TOMASO SEEMED NOT TO HAVE SEEN HER ACTION"]
Tomaso was pouring something into a bowl from a retort, and seemed not
to have seen the action. Then he added a pinch of a colorless powder,
and dipped a skein of silk into the bowl. It came out ruby-red. Another
pinch of powder, another bath, and it was like a handful of iris petals.
Other experiments gave emerald like rain-wet leaves in sunlight, gold
like the pale outer petals of asphodels, ripe glowing orange, blue like
the Mediterranean. Then suddenly the light in the stone-arched window
was darkened and thunder crashed overhead. The little brazier in the far
corner glowed like a red eye, and Tomaso had to light a horn lantern
before the Queen could see her way out of the room.
"We shall have to wait, now, until after the storm," he said, as he led
the way into the outer room. "I am making these experiments for the
benefit of a company of weavers whom a young friend of mine has brought
here. The young man--he is a wool-merchant--has an idea that we can
weave tapestry here as well as they can in Damascus if we have the
wherewithal, and I said that I would attend to the dyeing of the yarn."
The Queen gave a contemptuous little laugh and sank into the great
chair. "These Saxons! I think they are born with paws instead of hands!
They are good for nothing but to herd cattle and plow and reap. Do your
stars tell you foolish tales like that, Master Tomaso?"
"I did not ask them," said the old man tranquilly. "I use my eyes when I
can. The weavers are Flemish, and I see no cause why they should not
weave as good cloth here as they did at home. They had English wool
there, and they will have it here. There is a Spaniard among them, and
I do not know what he will do when the chilly rains come, poor imp. He
does not like anything in England, as it is."
"Poor imp!" the Queen repeated. "How do these weavers come here, so far
from any town?"
"Well, they came like most folk, because they had to come," smiled the
Paduan. "The English weavers are inclined to be jealous folk, and they
took the view that these Flemings were foreigners and had no right
within London Wall--or outside it either, for they were in a lane
somewhere about Mile End. Jealousy fed also on their success in their
work--it was far superior to anything London looms can do. And certain
dealers in fine cloth saw their profits threatened, and so did the
Florentine importers. What with one thing and another Cornelys Bat and
his people had to leave the city, or lose all that they possessed. The
reasons were as mixed as the threads of a tapestry, but that is the way
with life."
"And why are you wasting time on them?" the Queen demanded.
"My motives are also mixed," answered the old man. "Being myself an
alien in a strange land, I had sympathy for them--especially Cimarron,
the imp. Also it is interesting to work in a new field, and I have never
done much with dyestuffs. I sometimes feel like a child gathering bright
pebbles on the shore; each one seems brighter than the last. But really,
I think I work because I dislike to spend my time in things which will
not live after me. It seemed to me that if these Flemish weavers come
here in colonies, teaching their art to such English as can learn, it
will bring this land independence and wealth in years to come. There is
plenty of pasturage for sheep, and wool needs much labor to make it fit
for human use. Edrupt, the merchant--his wife is one of your women, by
the way--says that this one craft of weaving will make cities stronger
than anything else. And that will disturb some people."
The Queen's eyes flashed with wicked amusement. She had heard the King
rail to his barons upon the impudence of London. She knew that those who
invaded London privilege came poorly out of it.
"Barbara's husband," she said thoughtfully. "I did not know that he was
a merchant--I thought he was one of these clod-hopping farmers."
Tomaso did not enlighten her. Curiosity is the mother of knowledge. He
peered out at his fast-filling cisterns. "This rain-water," he observed,
"will be excellent for my dyestuffs."
The Queen gave a little light laugh. "The heavens roar anathema
maranatha," she cried, "and the philosopher says, 'I will fill my tubs.'
You seem to be assured that the powers above are devoted to your
service."
"It is as well," smiled the physician, "to have them to your aid if
possible. Some men have a--positive genius--for being on the wrong side.
The growth of a people is like the growth of a vine. It will not twine
contrary to nature."
"But these are not your people," the Queen persisted. "No one will know
who did the work you are doing."
"Cornelys Bat the tapissier told me," Tomaso answered, "that no one
knows now who it was who set the foot at work by tipping the loom over,
and separated the warp threads by two treadles. Yet that changed the
whole rule of weaving."
"I have a mind to see this tapestry," announced Eleanor abruptly. "Tell
your Cat, or Rat, or Bat, whatever his name is, to bring his looms
here. If he works well we will have something for our walls besides
this everlasting embroidery. I have watched Philippa working the
histories of the saints this six months,--I believe she has all the
eleven thousand virgins of Saint Ursula to march along the wall. I am
ready to burn a candle to Saint Attila."
Tomaso's eyes twinkled. That friendly twinkle went far to unlock the
Queen's confidence. "Here am I," she went on impetuously, "mewed up
here like a clipped goose that hears the cry of the flock. If there is
another Crusade I would joyfully set forth as a man-at-arms, but belike
I shall never even hear of it. I warrant you Richard will lead a host
to Jerusalem some day--and I shall not be there to see."
The Paduan lifted one long finger. "You fret because you are strong
and see far. Your descendants may rule Europe. The Plantagenets are a
building race. You can lay foundations for kings of the years to come.
You have here the chance of knowing this people, whom none of your race
did ever know truly. Your tiring women, the men who till these fields
and live by their toil, the churchmen, the traders--knowing them you
know the kingdom. Bend your wit and will to rule the stars, madam. Thus
you bring wisdom out of ill-hap, and in that way only can a King be
secure."
The Queen sat silent, chin in hand, her eyes searching the shadows of
the room, for the storm had passed and twilight was falling. "Gramercy
for your sermon, Master Tomaso," she said at last, as she rose to leave
the room. "Some day Henry will see that it was not I who taught the
Plantagenets to quarrel. Send for your tapissiers to-morrow, and I will
study weaving for a day."
To the comfort of all, the Queen was in a gay humor that evening. The
carved ivory chessmen were brought out, and as she watched Ranulph
and Philippa in the mimic war-game Eleanor pondered over the recent
betrothal of Princess Joan to the King of Sicily. "Women," she muttered,
"are only pawns on a man's chessboard."
"Aye," laughed Ranulph, as his white knight retreated, "but your Grace
may remember that the pawn when it comes to Queen may win the game."
The bulky loom of Cornelys Bat was set up next morning in the old hall,
and the Queen came down to watch the strange, complex, curious task.
Then she would take the shuttle herself and try it, and to the surprise
of every one, kept at the task until she might well have challenged a
journeyman. While the threads interlaced and shifted in a rainbow maze
her mind was traveling strange pathways. The shuttle, flung to and fro
in deft strong skill, was not like the needle with its maddening stitch
after stitch, and there was no petty chatter in the room. The Flemish
weaver might be silent, but he was not stupid, and the drawboy, the
dusky youth with the coarse black hair, was like a wild panther-cub.
Such a blend as these weaving-folk, brought together by one aim, could
teach the arbitrary barons their place. Normandy, Aquitaine, Anjou,
Brittany,--England, Scotland, Ireland, Wales--what a web of Empire they
would make! And if into the dull russet and gray of this England there
came a vivid young life like her Richard's--yellow hair, sea-blue eyes,
gay daring, impulsive gallantry--and under all the stern fiber of the
Norman--what kind of a tapestry would that be? Thus, as women have done
through the centuries, Eleanor of Aquitaine let her mind play about her
fingers.
After a while she left the work to the weavers and watched Mary Lavender
making dyestuffs under Tomaso's direction. It was fascinating to try
for a color and make it come to a shade. It was yet more so to make new
combinations and see what happened. Red and green dulled each other. A
touch of orange made scarlet more brilliant. Lavender might be deepened
to royal violet or paled to the purple-gray of ashes. The yarns, as the
skillful Flemings handled them, were better than any gold thread, and
the gorgeous blossom-hues of the wools were like an Eastern carpet.
Presently the Queen began devising a set of hangings for a State
bedchamber, the pictures to be scenes from the life of Charlemagne--the
suggested comparison of this monarch with the King had its point. An
Irish monk-bred lad with a knack at catching likenesses came by, and
made the designs, under Queen Eleanor's direction; and during this
undertaking she learned much concerning the state of Ireland. That ended
and the weaving begun, she took to questioning Cimarron the drawboy.
"I suppose," she jibed, "men grow like that they live by, or you would
never have been driven out of London like sheep. I may become lamblike
myself some day."
Cimarron's white teeth gleamed. "I would not say that we went like
sheep," he retorted, and he told the story of their going. "There were
the old folk and the little ones, your Grace," he ended. "The master
cares for his own people, and his work. He does not heed other folk's
opinions."
The Queen laughed gleefully. "I wish I had been at that hunting--the
wolves driven by their quarry. My faith, a weaver's beam is not such
a bad weapon after all."
More than ten years after, when Richard I. was crowned King of England,
one of his first acts was to make his mother regent in his absence. It
was she who raised the money to outbid Philip of France when Coeur de
Lion was to be ransomed. As one historian has said, she displayed
qualities then and later, which prove that she spent her days in
something besides needlework. She did not stay long at King's Barton,
but one of Cornelys Bat's tapestries was always known as the Queen's
Maze. In one way and another during the sixteen years of her captivity
she learned nearly all that there was to know of the temper of the
people and the nature of the land.
[Illustration: THE MARIONETTES]