"WHAT DO YOU LACK?"
"If pestilence stalk through the land, ye say, This is God's doing.
Is it not also His doing, when an aphis creepeth on a rosebud?"
_Martin F. Tupper_.
Earl Hubert was far too busy a man to waste his time in lounging on
velvet settles and exchanging sallies of wit with the ladies of his
household. He had done little more than give a cordial welcome to
Marjory, and pat Margaret on the head, when he again disappeared, to be
seen no more until supper-time.
"Well, Magot," said Marjory, sitting down in the chair, while Margaret
as before accommodated herself with a footstool at her feet, "let us get
on with thy story. I want to know all about that affair two years ago.
Thy fair father looks wonderfully well, methinks, considering all that
he has gone through."
"Does he not? O Aunt Marjory, I scarcely know how I am to tell you
about that. It was dreadful,--dreadful!"
And the tears stood in big drops on Margaret's eyelashes.
"Well, I will try," she said, with a deep sigh, as Marjory stroked her
hair. "In the first place, the year ended all very well. My fair
father had been created Justiciary of Ireland for life, and Constable of
the Tower, and various favours had been granted to him. That he should
be on the brink of trouble--and such trouble!--was the very last thing
thought of by any one of us. And then that Bishop of Winchester came
back, and before a soul knew anything about it, he was high in the Lord
King's favour, and on the twenty-ninth of July--(I am not likely to
forget _that_ date!)--the blow fell."
"He was dismissed, then, was he not, from all his offices, without a
word of warning?"
"Dismissed and degraded, without a shadow of it!--and a string of the
most cruel, wicked accusations brought against him--things that he never
did nor dreamed of doing--Aunt Marjory, it makes my blood boil, only to
remember them! I am not going to tell you all: there was one too horrid
to mention."
"I know, my maiden." Marjory interposed rather hastily. She had heard
already of King Henry's delicate and affectionate assault upon the fair
name of Margaret's mother, and she did not wish for a repetition of it.
"But beyond that, of what do you think he was accused?"
"I have not heard the other articles, Magot."
"Then I will tell you. First, of preventing the Lord King's marriage
with the Duke of Austria's daughter, by telling the Duke that the King
was lame, and blind, and deaf, and a leper, and--"
"Gently, Magot, gently!" said Marjory, laughing.
"I am not making a syllable of it, fair Aunt!--And that he was a wicked,
treacherous man, not worthy of the love or alliance of any noble lady.
_Pure foy_!--but I know what I should say, if I said just what I think."
"It is sometimes quite as well not to do that, Magot."
"Ha! Perhaps it is, when one may get into prison by it. It is a
comfort one can always think. Neither Pope nor King can stop that."
"Magot, my dear child!"
"Oh yes, I know! You think I am horribly imprudent, Aunt Marjory. But
nobody hears me except you and Eva de Braose--she is the only person in
the wardrobe, and there is no one in the ante-chamber. And as I have
heard her say more than I did just now, I don't suppose there is much
harm done.--Then, secondly,--they charged my fair father with stealing--
only think, _stealing_!--a magical gem from the royal treasury which
made the wearer victorious in battle, and sending it to the Prince of
Wales." [Llywelyn the Great, with whom King Henry was at war.]
"Why should they suppose he would do that?"
"_Pure foy_, Aunt Marjory, don't ask me! Then, thirdly, they said it
was--"
Margaret sprang from her footstool suddenly, and disappeared for a
second through the door of the wardrobe. Marjory heard her say--
"Eva! I had completely forgotten, till this minute, to tell Marie that
my Lady and mother desired her to finish that piece of tapestry
to-night, if she can. Do go and look for her, and let her know, or she
will not have time."
A slight rustle as of some one leaving the room was audible, and then
Margaret dashed back to her footstool, as if she too had not a minute to
lose.
"You know, Aunt Marjory, I could not tell you the next thing with Eva
listening. They said that it was by traitorous letters from my fair
father that the Prince of Wales had caused Sir William de Braose to be
hung."
"Eva's father, thou meanest?"
"Yes. Then they accused him of administering poison to my Lord of
Salisbury, of sending my cousin Sir Raymond to try and force the Lady of
Salisbury into marrying him while her lord was beyond seas, of poisoning
my Lord of Pembroke, Sir Fulk de Breaut, and my sometime Lord of
Canterbury's Grace. He might have spent his life in poisoning every
body! Then, lastly, they said he had obtained favour of the Lord King
by help of the black art."
Marjory smiled contemptuously. It was not because she was more free
from superstition than other people, but simply because she knew full
well that the only sorcery necessary to be used towards Henry the Third
was "the sorcery of a strong mind over a weak one." [Note 1.]
"It was rather unfortunate," she said, "that my good Lord of Salisbury
(whom God rest!) was seized with his last illness the very day after he
had supped at my fair brother's table."
"Aunt Marjory!" cried her indignant niece. "Why, it is not a month
since I was taken ill in the night, after I had supped likewise. Do you
suppose he poisoned me?"
"It is quite possible that walnuts might have something to do with it,
Magot. But did I say he poisoned any one?"
"Now, Aunt Marjory, you are laughing at me, because you know I like
them. But don't you think it is absurd--the way in which people insist
on fancying themselves poisoned whenever they are ill? It looks as if
every human being were a monster of wickedness!"
"What would Father Warner say they are, Magot?"
"Oh, he would say it was perfectly true: and he would be right--so far
as my Lord of Winchester and a few more are concerned.--Well, Eva, hast
thou found Marie?"
"Yes, my dear. She is with the Lady, and she is busy with the
tapestry."
"Oh, that is right! I am sorry I forgot."
"And the Lady bade me tell thee, _mignonne_, that she is coming to thy
bower shortly, with a pedlar who is waiting in the court, to choose
stuffs for thy Whitsuntide robes."
"A pedlar! Delightful! Aunt Marjory, I am sure you want something?"
Marjory laughed. "I want thy tale finished, Magot, before the pedlar
comes."
"Too long, my dear Aunt Marjory, unless the pedlar takes all summer to
mount the stairs. But you know my Lord and father fled into sanctuary
at Merton Abbey, and refused to leave it unless the Lord King would
pledge his royal word for his safety. I don't think I should have
thought it made much difference. (I wonder if that pedlar has any
silversmiths' work.) The Lord King did not pledge his word, but he
ordered the Lord Mayor and the citizens to fetch my fair father--only
think of that, Aunt Marjory!--dead or alive. Some of the nobler
citizens appealed to the Bishop, who was everything with the King just
then: but instead of interceding for my fair father, as they asked, he
merely confirmed the order. So twenty thousand citizens marched on the
Abbey; and when my fair father knew that, he fled to the high altar, and
embraced the holy cross with one hand, holding the blessed pix in the
other."
"Was our Lord in the pix?" inquired Marjory--meaning, of course, to
refer to the consecrated wafer.
"I am not sure, fair Aunt. But however, things turned out better than
seemed likely: for not only the Bishop of Chichester, but even my Lord
of Chester--my fair father's great enemy--interceded with the Lord King
in his behalf. We heard that my Lord of Chester spoke very plainly to
him, and told him not only that he would find it easier to draw a crowd
together than to get rid of it again, but also that his fickleness would
scandalise the world."
"And the Lord King allowed him to say that?"
"Yes, and it had a great effect upon him. I think people who are fickle
don't like others to see it--don't you? Do you think that pedlar will
have any sendal [a silk stuff of extremely fine quality] of India?"
"Thine eyes and half thy tongue are in the pedlar's pack, Magot. I
cannot tell thee. But just let me know how it ended, and thy fair
father was set free."
"Oh, it did not end for ever so long! My Lord's Grace of Dublin got
leave for him to come home and see my fair mother and me; and after
that, when he had gone into Essex, the King sent after him again, and
Sir Godfrey de Craucumbe took him away to the Tower. They sent for a
smith to put him in fetters, but the man would not do it when he heard
who was to wear the fetters. He said he would rather die than be the
man to put chains on `that most faithful and noble Hubert, who so often
saved England from the ravages of foreigners, and restored England to
herself.' Aunt Marjory, I think he was a grand fellow! I would have
kissed him if I had been there."
As the kiss was at that time the common form of greeting between men and
women, for a lady to offer a kiss to a man as a token that she approved
his words or actions, was not then considered more demonstrative than it
would be to shake hands now. It was, in fact, not an unusual
occurrence.
"And my fair father told us," pursued Margaret, "when he heard what the
smith said, he could not help thinking of those words of our Lord, when
He thanked God that His mission had been hidden from the wise, but
revealed to the ignorant. `For,' our Lord said, `to Thee, my God, do I
commit my cause; for mine enemies have risen against me.'" [Note 2.]
"And they took him to the Tower of London?"
"Yes, but the Bishop of London was very angry at the violation of
sanctuary, and insisted that my fair father should be sent back. He
threatened the King with excommunication, and of course that frightened
him. He sent him back to the church whence he was taken, but commanded
the Sheriff of Essex to surround the church, so that he should neither
escape nor obtain food. But my fair father's true friend, my good old
Lord of Dublin--(you were right, Aunt Marjory; all priests are not
alike)--interposed, and begged the Lord King to do to him what he had
thought to do to my Lord and father. The Lord King then offered the
choice of three things:--my Lord and father must either abjure the
kingdom for ever, or he must be perpetually imprisoned, or he must
openly confess himself a traitor."
"A fair choice, surely!"
"Horrid, wasn't it?"
"He chose banishment, did he not?"
"He said, if the King willed it, he was content to go out of England for
a time,--not for ever: but a traitor he would never confess himself, for
he had never been one."
"The words of a true man!" said Marjory.
"Splendid!--and then (Eva!--is that pedlar never coming up?) the Lord
King found out that my fair father had laid up treasure in the Temple,
and he actually accused him of taking it fraudulently from the royal
treasury, and summoned him to resign it. My fair father replied (I
shouldn't have done!) that he and all he had were at the King's
pleasure, and sent an order to the Master of the Temple accordingly.
Then--O Aunt Marjory, it is too long a tale to tell!--and I want that
pedlar. But I do think it was a shame, after all that, for the Lord
King to profess to compassionate my Lord and father, and to say that he
had been faithful to our Lord King John of happy memory, [Note 3] and
also to our Lord King Richard (whom God pardon!); therefore,
notwithstanding the ill-usage of himself, and the harm he had done the
kingdom, he would rather pardon my fair father than execute him. `For,'
he said, `I would rather be accounted a remiss king than a man of
blood.'"
"Well, that does not sound bad, Magot."
"Oh no! Words are very nice things, Aunt Marjory. And our Lord King
Henry can string them very prettily together. I have no patience--I
say, Eva! Do go and peep into the court and see what is becoming of
that snail of a pedlar!"
"He is in the hall, eating and drinking, Margaret."
"Well, I am sure he has had as much as is good for him!--So then, Aunt
Marjory, my fair father was sent to Devizes: and many nobles became
sureties for him,--my Lord of Cornwall, the King's brother, among
others. And while he was there, he heard of the death of his great
enemy, my Lord of Chester. Then he said, `The Lord be merciful to him:
he was my man by his own doing, and yet he never did me good where he
could work me harm.' And he set himself before the holy cross, and sang
over the whole Psalter for my Lord of Chester. Well, after that,--I
cannot go into all the ups and downs of the matter,--but after a while,
by the help of some of the garrison, my fair father contrived to escape
from Devizes, and joined the Prince of Wales. That was last November;
and he stayed in Wales until the King's journey to Gloucester. Last
March the Lord King came here to the Abbey, and he granted several
manors to my fair mother: and she took the opportunity to plead for my
Lord and father. So when the Lord King went to Gloucester, he was met
by my Lord's Grace of Canterbury, who had been to treat with the Prince
of Wales, and by his advice all those who had been outlawed, and had
sought refuge in Wales, were to be pardoned and received to favour. One
of them, of course, was my fair father. So they met the Lord King at
Gloucester, and he took them to his mercy. My Lord and father said the
Lord King looked calmly on them, and gave them the kiss of peace. But
my fair father himself was so much struck by the manner in which our
Lord had repaid him his good deeds, that, as his varlet Adam told us, he
clasped his hands, and looked up to Heaven, and he said,--`O Jesus,
crucified Saviour, I once when sleeping saw Thee on the cross, pierced
with bloody wounds, and on the following day, according to Thy warning,
I spared Thy image and worshipped it: and now Thou hast, in Thy favour,
repaid me for so doing, in a lucky moment.'"
It did not strike either Marjory or Margaret, as perhaps it may the
reader, that this speech presented a very curious medley of devotion,
thankfulness, barefaced idolatry, and belief in dreams and lucky
moments. To their minds the mixture was perfectly natural. So much so,
that Marjory's response was--
"Doubtless it was so, Magot. It is always very unlucky to neglect a
dream."
At this juncture Eva de Braose presented herself. She was one of three
maidens who were alike--as was then customary--wards of the Earl, and
waiting-maids of the Countess. They were all young ladies of high birth
and good fortune, orphan heirs or co-heirs, whose usual lot it was,
throughout the Middle Ages, to be given in wardship to some nobleman,
and educated with his daughters. Eva de Braose, Marie de Lusignan, and
Doucebelle de Vaux, [Eva and Marie (but not Doucebelle) are historical
persons,] were therefore the social equals and constant companions of
Margaret. Eva was a rather pretty, fair-haired girl, about two years
older than our heroine.
"The pedlar is coming now, Margaret."
"_Ha, jolife_!" cried Margaret. [Note 4.] "Is my Lady and mother
coming?"
"Yes, and both Hawise and Marie."
Hawise de Lanvalay was the young wife of Margaret's eldest brother.
Earl Hubert's family consisted, beside his daughter, of two sons of his
first marriage, John and Hubert, who were respectively about eighteen
and fifteen years older than their sister.
The Countess entered in a moment, bringing with her the young Lady
Hawise,--a quiet-looking, dark-eyed girl of some eighteen years; and
Marie, the little Countess of Eu, who was only a child of eleven. After
them came Levina, one of the Countess's dressers, and two sturdy
varlets, carrying the pedlar's heavy pack between them. The pedlar
himself followed in the rear. He was a very respectable-looking old
man, with strongly-marked aquiline features and long white beard; and he
brought with him a lithe, olive-complexioned youth of about eighteen
years of age.
The varlets set down the pack on the floor, and departed. The old man
unstrapped it, and opening it out with the youth's help, proceeded to
display his goods. Very rich, costly, and beautiful they were. The
finest lawn of Cambray (whence comes "cambric"), and the purest sheeting
of Rennes, formed a background on which were exhibited rich diapered
stuffs from Damascus, crape of all colours from Cyprus, golden baudekyns
from Constantinople, fine sendal from India, with satins, velvets,
silks, taffetas, linen and woollen stuffs, in bewildering profusion.
Over these again were laid rich furs,--sable, ermine, miniver, black
fox, squirrel, marten, and lamb; and trimmings of gold and silver, gimp
and beads, delicate embroidery, and heavy tinsel.
"Here, Lady, is a lovely thing in changeable sendal," said the old man,
hunting for it among his silks: "it would be charming for the
fair-haired damsel--(lift off that fox fur, Cress),--blue and gold. Or
here,--a striped tartaryn, which would suit the dark young lady,--orange
and green. Then--(Cress, give me the silver frieze),--this, Lady, would
be well for the little maid, for somewhat cooler weather. And will my
Lady see the Cyprus? (Hand the pink one, Cress.) This would make up
enchantingly for the damsel that was in my Lady's chamber."
"Where is Doucebelle?" asked the Countess, looking round. "I thought
she had come. Marie, run and fetch her.--Hast thou any broidery-work of
the East Country, good man?"
"One or two small things, Lady.--Cress, give me thy sister's scarves."
The young man unfolded a woollen wrapper, and then a lawn one inside it,
and handed to his father three silken scarves, of superlatively fine
texture, and covered with most exquisite embroidery. Even the Countess,
accustomed as her eyes were to beautiful things, was not able to
suppress an admiring ejaculation.
"This _is_ lovely!" she said.
"Those are samples," remarked the pedlar, with a gleam of pleasure in
his eyes. "I have more, of various patterns, if my Lady would wish to
see them. She has only to speak her commands."
"Yes. But--these are all imported, I suppose?"
"All imported, such as I have shown to my Lady."
"I presume no broideress is to be found in England, who can do such work
as this?" said the Countess in a regretful tone.
"Did my Lady wish to find one?"
"I wished to have a scarf in my possession copied, with a few variations
which I would order. But I fear it cannot be done--it would be almost
necessary that I should see the broideress myself, to avoid mistakes;
and I would fain, if it were possible, have had the work done under my
own eye."
"That might be done, perhaps. It would be costly."
"Oh, I should not care for the cost. I want the scarf for a gift; and
it is nothing to me whether I pay ten silver pennies or a hundred."
"Would my Lady suffer her servant to see the scarf she wishes to have
imitated?"
"Fetch it, Levina," said the Countess; "thou knowest which I mean."
Levina brought it, and the pedlar gave it very careful inspection.
"And the alterations?" he asked.
"I would have a row of silver harebells and green ferns, touched with
gold, as an outer border," explained the Countess: "and instead of those
ornaments in the inner part, I would have golden scrolls, worked with
the words `Dieu et mon droit' in scarlet."
The pedlar shook his head. "The golden scrolls with the words can be
done, without difficulty. But I must in all humility represent to my
Lady that the flowers and leaves she desires cannot."
"Why?" asked the Countess in a surprised tone.
"Not in this work," answered the pedlar. "In this style of
embroidery"--and he took another scarf from his pack--"it could be
wrought: but not in the other."
"But that is not to be compared with the other!"
"My Lady has well said," returned the pedlar with a smile.
"But I do not understand where the difficulty lies?" said the Countess,
evidently disappointed.
"Let my Lady pardon her servant. We have in our company--nay, there is
in all England--one broideress only, who can work in this style. And I
dare not make such an engagement on her behalf."
"Still I cannot understand for what reason?"
"Lady, these flowers, leaves, heads, and such representations of created
things, are the work of Christian hands. That broidery which my Lady
desires is not so."
"But why cannot Christians work this broidery?"
"Ha! They do not. My Lady's servant cannot speak further."
"Then what is she who alone can do this work? What eyes and fingers she
must have!"
"She is my daughter," answered the pedlar, rather proudly.
"But I am sure the woman who can broider like this, is clever enough to
make a row of harebells and ferns!"
"Clever enough,--oh yes! But--she could not do it."
"`Clever enough,' but `could not do it'--old man, I cannot understand
thee."
"Lady, she would account it sin to imitate created things."
The Countess looked up with undisguised amazement.
"Why?"
"Because the Holy One has forbidden us to make to ourselves any likeness
of that which is in heaven above, or in the earth beneath."
"But I would pay her any sum she asked."
"If my Lady can buy Christian consciences with gold, not so a daughter
of Israel."
The old man spoke proudly now, and his head was uplifted in a very
different style from his previous subservient manner. His son's lip was
curled, and his black eyes were flashing fire.
"Well! I do not understand it," answered the Countess, looking as much
annoyed as the sweet Princess Margaret knew how to look. "I should have
thought thy daughter might have put her fancies aside; for what harm can
there be in broidering flowers? However, if she will not, she will not.
She must work me a border of some other pattern, for I want the scarf
wider."
"That she can do, as my Lady may command." The old Jew was once more
the obsequious tradesman, laying himself out to please a profitable
customer.
"What will be the cost, if the scarf be three ells in length, and--let
me see--about half an ell broad?"
"It could not be done under fifteen gold pennies, my Lady."
"That is costly! Well, never mind. If people want to make rich gifts,
they must pay for them. But could I have it by Whitsuntide?--that is, a
few days earlier, so as to make the gift then."
The pedlar reflected for a moment.
"Let my Lady pardon her servant if he cannot give that answer at this
moment. If my daughter have no work promised, so that she can give her
time entirely to this, it can be done without fail. But it is some days
since my Lady's servant saw her, and she may have made some engagement
since."
"I am the better pleased thou art not too ready to promise," said the
Countess, smiling. "But what about the work being done under my eye? I
will lodge thy daughter, and feed her, and give her a gold penny extra
for it."
The old Jew looked very grave.
"Let my Lady not be angered with the lowest of her servants! But--we
are of another religion."
"Art thou afraid of my converting her?" asked the Countess, in an amused
tone.
"Under my Lady's pardon--no!" said the old man, proudly. "I can trust
my daughter. And if my noble Lady will make three promises on
whatsoever she holds most holy, the girl shall come."
"She should be worth having, when she is so hard to get at!" responded
the Countess, laughing, as she took from her bosom a beautiful little
silver crucifix, suspended by a chain of the same material from her
neck, "Now then, old man, what am I to swear?"
"First, that my daughter shall not be required to work in any manner on
the holy Sabbath,--namely, as my Lady will understand it, from sunset on
Friday until the same hour on Saturday."
"That I expected. I know Jews are very precise about their Sabbaths.
Very well,--so that the scarf be finished by Wednesday before
Whitsuntide, that I swear."
"Secondly, by my Lady's leave, that she shall not be compelled to eat
any thing contrary to our law."
"I have no desire to compel her. But what will she eat? I must know
that I can give her something."
"Any kind of vegetables, bread, milk, and eggs."
"Lenten fare. Very well. I swear it."
"Lastly, that my Lady will appoint her a place in her own apartments, or
in those of the damsel her daughter, and that she may never stir out of
that tower while she remains in the Castle."
"Poor young prisoner! Good. If thou art so anxious to consign thy
child to hard durance, I will swear to keep her in it."
"May my Lady's servant ask where she will be?"
The Countess laughed merrily. "This priceless treasure of thine! She
might be a king's daughter. I will put her in my daughter's
ante-chamber, just behind thee."
The pedlar walked into the ante-chamber, and inspected it carefully, to
the great amusement of the ladies.
"It is enough," he said, returning. "Lady, my child is not a king's
daughter, but she is the dearest treasure of her old father's heart."
The old man had well spoken, for his words, Jew as he was--a creature,
according to the views of that day, born to be despised and
ill-treated--went straight to the tender heart of the Princess Margaret.
"'Tis but nature," she said softly. "Have no fear, old man: I will take
care of thy treasure. What is her name?"
"Will my Lady suffer her grateful servant to kiss her robe? I am
Abraham of Norwich, and my daughter's name is Belasez."
Singular indeed were the Jewish names common at this time, beyond a very
few Biblical ones, of which the chief were Abraham, Aaron, and Moses--
the last usually corrupted to Moss or Mossy. They were, for men,--
Delecresse ("Dieu le croisse"), Ursel, Leo, Hamon, Kokorell, Emendant,
and Bonamy:--for women,--Belasez ("Belle assez"), Floria, Licorice
(these three were the most frequent), Esterote, Cuntessa, Belia, Anegay,
Rosia, Genta, and Pucella. They used no surnames beyond the name of the
town in which they lived.
"And what years has she?" asked the Countess.
"Seventeen, if it please my Lady."
"Good. I hope she will be clever and tractable.--Now, Madge, what do
_you_ want?"
The Princess Marjory wanted a silver necklace, a piece of green silk for
a state robe, and some unshorn wool for an every-day dress, beside
lamb's fur and buttons for trimming. Buttons were fashionable ornaments
in those days, and it was not unusual to spend six or eight dozen upon
one dress.
"Now, Magot, let me see for thee," said her mother. "Thy two woollen
gowns must be shorn for winter, and thou wilt want a velvet one for gala
days: but there is time for that by and bye. What thou needest now is a
blue Cyprus [crape] robe for thy best summer one, two garments of
coloured thread for common, a silk hood, one or two lawn wimples [Note
5], and a pair of corsets. [Note 6.] Thou mayest have a new armilaus
[Note 7] if thou wilt."
"And may I not have a new mantle?" was Margaret's answer, in a coaxing
tone.
"A new mantle? Thou unconscionable Magot! Somebody will be ruined
before thy wants are supplied."
"And a red velvet gipciere, Lady? And I _did_ so want a veil of sendal
of Inde!"
"Worse and worse! Come, old man, prithee, measure off the Cyprus, and
look out the wimples quickly, or this damsel of mine will leave me never
a farthing in my pocket."
"And Eva wants a new gown," suggested Margaret.
"Oh yes!" said the Countess, laughing. "And so does Marie, and so does
Doucebelle, I suppose,--and Hawise, I have no doubt. I shall be
completely ruined among you!"
"But my Lady will give me the sendal of Inde? I will try to do without
the gipciere."
A gipciere was a velvet bag dependent from the waist, which served as a
purse or pocket, as occasion required.
"Magot, hast thou no conscience? Come, then, old man, let this
unreasonable damsel see thy gipcieres. And if she must have some sendal
of Inde, well,--fate is inevitable. What was the other thing, Magot? A
new mantle? Oh, shocking! I can't afford that. What is the price of
thy black cloth, old man?"
It was easy to see that Margaret would have all she chose to ask,
without much pressure. Some linen dresses were also purchased for the
young wards of the Earl,--a blue fillet for Eva, and a new barm-cloth
[apron] for Marie; and the Countess having chosen some sendal and lawn
for her own use, the purchases were at last completed.
The old Jew, helped by Delecresse, repacked his wares with such care as
their delicacy and costliness required, and the Countess desired Levina
to summon the varlets to bear the heavy burden down to the gate.
"Peace wait on my Lady!" said the pedlar, bowing low as he took leave.
"If it please the Holy One, my Belasez shall be here at my Lady's
command before a week is over."
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Note 1. This was the answer given to her judges, four hundred years
later, by Leonora Galigai, when she was asked to confess what kind of
magic she had employed to obtain the favour of Queen Maria de' Medici.
Note 2. The Earl's quotation from Scripture was extremely free,
combining Matthew eleven verse 25 with the substance, but not the exact
words, of several passages in the Psalms. Nor did Friar Matthew Paris
know much better, since he refers to it all as "that passage in the
Gospels."
Note 3. King Henry was given to allusions of this class, to the revered
memory of his excellent father.
Note 4. "Oh, delightful!" The modern schoolboy's "How jolly" is really
a corruption of this. The companion regret was "Ha, chetife!"--("Oh,
miserable!")
Note 5. The wimple covered the neck, and was worn chiefly out of doors.
Ladies from a queen to a countess wore it coming over the chin; women
of less rank, beneath.
Note 6. Tight-lacing dates from about the twelfth century.
Note 7. A short cloak, worn by both sexes, ornamented with buttons.