"Had the knight looked up to the page's face,
No smile the word had won;
Had the knight looked up to the page's face,
I ween he had never gone:
Had the knight looked back to the page's geste,
I ween he had turned anon,--
For dread was the woe in the face so young,
And wild was the silent geste that flung
Casque, sword, to earth as the boy down-sprung,
And stood--alone, alone!"
_Elizabeth Barrett Browning_.
Nobody enjoyed the spring of the year 1236. Rain poured down, day after
day, as if it were the prelude to a second Deluge. The Thames
overflowed its banks to such an extent that the lawyers had to return
home in boats, floated by the tide into Westminster Hall. There was no
progress, except by boat or horse, through the streets of the royal
borough.
Perhaps the physical atmosphere slightly affected the moral and
political, for men's minds were much unsettled, and their tempers very
captious. The King, with his usual fickleness and love of novelty, had
thrown himself completely into the arms of the horde of poor relations
whom the new Queen brought over with her, particularly of her uncle,
Guglielmo of Savoy, the Bishop of Valentia, whom he constituted his
prime minister. By his advice new laws were promulgated which extremely
angered the English nobles, who complained that they were held of no
account in the royal councils. The storms were especially violent in
the North, and there people took to seeing prophetic visions of dreadful
import. Beside all this, France was in a very disturbed state, which
boded ill to the English provinces across the sea. The Counts of
Champagne, Bretagne, and La Marche, used strong language concerning the
disgraceful fact that "France, the kingdom of kingdoms, was governed by
a woman," Queen Blanche of Castilla being Regent during the minority of
her son, Saint Louis. It is a singular fact that while the name of
Blanche has descended to posterity as that of a woman of remarkable
wisdom, discretion, and propriety of life, the popular estimate of her
during her regency was almost exactly the reverse.
Meanwhile, the royal marriage festivities went on uproariously at
Canterbury. There was not a peacock-pie the less on account either of
the black looks of the English nobles, or of the very shallow condition
of the royal treasury. To King Henry, who had no intention of paying
any bills that he could help, what did it signify how much things cost,
or whether the sum total were twenty pence or twenty thousand pounds?
The feasts having at last come to an end, King Henry left Canterbury for
Merton Abbey, and Earl Hubert accompanied him. What became of the Queen
is not stated: nor are we told whether His Majesty thus went "into
retreat" to seek absolution for his past transgressions, or from the
lamentable necessity of paying his debts.
On the 20th of January, the royal penitent emerged from his retreat, to
be crowned with his bride at Westminster. Earl Hubert of course was
present; and the Countess thought proper to feel well enough to join him
for the occasion. The ceremony was a most splendid one,--very different
from that first hurried coronation of the young Henry on his father's
death, when, all the regalia having been lost in fording the Wash, he
was crowned with a gold collar belonging to his mother. The Archbishop
of Canterbury was the officiating priest. The citizens of London,
hereditary Butlers of England, presented three hundred and sixty cups of
gold and silver, at which the eyes of the royal and acquisitive pair
doubtless glistened, and which, in all probability, were melted down in
a month to pay for the coronation banquet. King Henry paid a bill just
often enough to prevent his credit from falling into a hopelessly
disreputable condition. The Earl of Chester--one of Earl Hubert's two
great enemies--bore Curtana, "the sword of Saint Edward," says the monk
of Saint Albans, "to show that he is Earl of the Palace, and has by
right the power of restraining the King if he should commit an error."
Either Earl Ranulph de Blundeville was very neglectful of his office, or
else he must have found it anything but a sinecure. The Constable of
Chester attended the Earl; his office was to restrain not the King, but
the people, by keeping them off with his wand when they pressed too
close. The Earl of Pembroke, husband of Princess Marjory of Scotland,
carried a wand before the King, cleared the way, superintended the
banquet, and arranged the guests. The basin was presented by a handsome
young foreigner, Simon de Montfort, youngest son of the Count de
Montfort, and cousin of the Earl of Chester, to whose good offices in
the first instance he probably owed his English preferment. He had not
yet become the most powerful man in the kingdom, the darling of the
English people, the husband of the King's sister, the man whom, on his
own testimony,--much as he feared a thunderstorm,--Henry feared "more
than all the thunder and lightning in the world!" The Earl of Arundel
should have been the cup-bearer; but being too young to discharge the
office, his kinsman the Earl of Surrey officiated for him. The citizens
of Winchester were privileged to cook the banquet; and the Abbot of
Westminster kept every thing straight by sprinkling holy water.
Once more, the banquet over, the King returned into retreat at Merton to
get rid of his additional shortcomings. Never was man so pious as this
Monarch,--if piety consisted of tithing mint, anise, and cummin, and of
neglecting the weightier matters of the law, judgment, mercy, and faith.
It was a sharp frosty morning in February. Margaret, Doucebelle, and
Belasez were at work in the bower, while Father Nicholas was hearing
Marie read Latin in the ante-chamber. The other chaplains were also
present,--Father Warner, who, with Nicholas, belonged to the Earl; and
Father Bruno, the chaplain of the Countess. Also present was Master
Aristoteles, the reverend physician of the household. Fortunately for
herself, Marie was by no means shy, and she feared the face of no human
creature unless it were Father Warner, who, Margaret used to say, had
eyes in the back of his head, and could hear what the cows were thinking
about in the meadow. He was an extremely strict disciplinarian when on
duty, but he never interfered with the proceedings of a brother tutor.
Father Bruno was a new inmate of the household. He had come from
Lincoln, with a recommendation from the recently-appointed Bishop, but
had been there too short a time to show his character, since he was a
silent man, who appeared to see everything and to say nothing.
"Very well, my daughter. Thou hast been a good, attentive maiden this
morning," said Father Nicholas, when the reading was finished.
"Then, Father, will you let me off my sums?" was Marie's quick response.
Marie hated arithmetic, which was Doucebelle's favourite study.
"Nay, my child," said Father Nicholas, in an amused tone; "that is not
my business. Thou must ask Father Warner."
"Please, Father Warner, will you let me off my sums?" pleaded Marie, but
in a more humble style.
"Certainly not, daughter. Fetch them at once."
Marie left the room with a grieved face.
"No news abroad, I suppose, my brethren?" suggested Master Aristoteles,
in his brisk, simple, innocent manner.
"Nay, none but what we all knew before," said Father Nicholas.
"Methinks the world wags but slowly," said Master Aristoteles.
"Much too fast," was the oracular reply of Father Warner.
"The pace of the world depends mainly on our own wishes, I take it,"
said Father Nicholas. "He who would fain walk thinks the world is at a
gallop; while he who desires to gallop reckons the world but jogging at
a market-trot."
"There has been a great massacre of Jews in Spain," said Father Bruno,
speaking for the first time.
All the conversation was plainly audible to the girls in the next room.
When Father Bruno spoke, Belasez's head went up suddenly, and her work
stood still.
"Amen and Alleluia!" said Father Warner, who probably little suspected
that he was using Hebrew words to express his abhorrence of the Hebrews.
"Nay, my brother!" answered Father Bruno, gravely. "Shall we thank God
for the perdition of human souls?"
"Of course not,--of course not!" interposed Father Nicholas, quickly.
"I am sure our Brother Warner thanked God for the vindication of the
Divine honour."
"And is not the Divine honour more fully vindicated by far," demanded
Father Bruno, "when a soul is saved from destruction, than when it is
plunged therein?"
"Yes, yes, no doubt, no doubt!" eagerly assented Father Nicholas, who
seemed afraid of a _fracas_.
"Curs!" said Father Warner, contemptuously. "They all belong to their
father the Devil, and to him let them go. I would not give a farthing
for a Jew's soul in the market."
Belasez's eyes were like stars.
"Brother," said Father Bruno, so gravely that it was almost sadly, "our
Master was not of your way of thinking. He bade His apostles to begin
at Jerusalem when they preached the good tidings of His kingdom. Have
we done it?"
Master Aristoteles' "Ah!" might mean anything, as the hearer chose to
take it.
"Of course they did so. The Church was first at Jerusalem, before Saint
Peter transferred it to Rome," snapped Father Warner.
"Pardon me, my brother. I did not ask, Did they do so? I said, Have we
done so?" explained Bruno.
"How could we?" responded Father Nicholas in a perplexed tone. "I never
came across any of the evil race--holy Mary be my guard!--and if I had
done, I should have crossed over the road, lest they should cast a spell
on me."
Belasez's smile was one of contemptuous amusement.
"_Pure foy_! If I ever came across one, I should spit in his face!"
cried Warner.
"Two might play at that game," was the cool observation of Bruno.
"I'd have him hung on the new machine if he did!" exclaimed Warner.
The new machine was the gibbet, first set up in England in this year.
"Brethren," said Bruno, "we are verily guilty, one and all. For weeks
this winter, and I hear also last summer, there has been in this house a
maiden of the Hebrew race, who has never learned the faith of Christ the
Lord, has probably never heard His name except in blasphemy. Which of
us four of His servants shall answer to God for that child's soul?"
Margaret expected Belasez's eyes to flash, and her lip to curl in scorn.
To her great surprise, the girl caught up her work and went on with it
hastily. Doucebelle, watching her with deep yet concealed interest,
fancied she saw tears glistening on the samite.
"Really, I never--you put it so seriously, Brother Bruno!--I never
looked at the matter in that way. I did not think--" and Father
Nicholas came to a full stop. "You see, I have been so very busy
illuminating that missal for the Lady. I really never never considered
the thing so seriously."
"Brother Nicholas," answered Bruno, "the Devil was serious enough when
he tempted our mother Eva. And Christ was serious when He bore away
your sins and mine, and nailed them to His cross. And the angels of God
are serious, when they look down and see us fighting with sin in the
dark and weary day. What! God is serious, and Satan is serious, and
the holy angels are serious,--and can we not be serious? Will the great
Judge take that answer, think you? `Lord, I was so busy illuminating
and writing, that I let the maiden slip into perdition, and Thou wilt
find her there.'"
Belasez's head was bowed lower than before.
"Brother Bruno! You are unreasonable," interposed Warner. "We all have
our duties to our Lord and Lady. And as to that contemptible insect in
the Lady's chamber,--well, I do not know what you think, but I would not
scorch my fingers pulling her out of Erebus."
The dark brows of the young Jewess were drawn close together.
"Ah, Brother Warner!" said Bruno. "Christ my Master scorched His
fingers so much with me, that I cannot hesitate to burn mine in His
service."
Marie and her arithmetic seemed forgotten by all parties.
"I am afraid, Brother Bruno," faltered Father Nicholas, "really afraid,
I may have been too remiss. The poor girl!--of course, though she is a
Jew--and they are very bad people, very--yet she has a soul to be saved;
yes, undoubtedly. I will see what I can do. There are only about a
dozen leaves of the missal,--and then that treatise on grace of
congruity that I promised the Abbot of Ham--and,--let me see! I believe
I engaged to write something for the Prior of Saint Albans. What was
it, now? Where are my tables? Oh, here!--yes,--ah! that would not take
long: a week might do it, I think. I will see,--I really will see,
Brother Bruno,--when these little matters are disposed of,--what I can
do for the girl."
"Do! Give her ratsbane!" sneered Warner laconically.
Bruno's reply was a quotation.
"`While thy servant was busy here and there, he was gone.'"
Then he rose and left the room.
"Dear, dear!" said Father Nicholas. "Our brother Bruno means well,--
very well indeed, I am sure: but those enthusiastic people like him--
don't you think they are very unsettling, Brother Warner? Really, he
has made me feel quite uncomfortable. Why, the world would have to be
turned upside down! We could never write, nor paint, nor cultivate
letters--we should have to be incessantly preaching and confessing
people."
"Stuff! The fellow's an ass!" was Father Warner's decision. "_Ha,
chetife_!--what has become of that little monkey, Damsel Marie? I must
go and see after her."
And he followed his colleague. Father Nicholas gathered his papers
together, and from the silence that ensued, the girls gathered that the
ante-chamber was deserted.
"Belasez," said Doucebelle that night, as she was brushing her hair--the
two slept in the wardrobe--"wert thou very angry with Father Bruno, this
morning?"
Belasez looked up quickly.
"With _him_? No! I thought--"