had elapsed since the marriage, and their time for meeting was growing
very short. They met again only twice--once under the wing of the Lady
Douglas, the Duke's half-sister; and once by appointment at a draper's
shop in Lombard Street. And each time the father saw with a pang that
the end drew nearer, and that the likelihood was that the next meeting
would be in the Garden of God. He let her go very reluctantly the last
time.
"Somewhat tells me," he whispered to his sole friend and companion,
William Sterys, "that this shall be the last time."
"Dear my Lord," was the sympathising answer, "can you not look on to the
next time?"
The Duke understood him. "_Domine, ne moreris!_" broke passionately
from his lips.
After that last parting the white rosebud withered quickly. She passed
away when the summer began, fading with the May-flowers. The last word
upon her lips was "Father!" Was she thinking of the earthly or the
heavenly Father? Perhaps of both. She was safe now in the keeping of
the Father of spirits: and the one earthly creature whom she loved would
join her before long.
The Duchess of Exeter showed little feeling on the death of her
daughter; scarcely more than Mr. Grey, who looked on an invalid wife as
a nuisance which he felt glad to have removed. It had been
unfortunately necessary to marry her in order to obtain her vast
inheritance; and it was an additional grievance that she left no child
behind her to give him a continued lien upon the estates. However,
better luck next time. He could now secure a lady with good health and
lively spirits, of a disposition akin to his own: and of course the
larger purse she had, the better. He soon found her, in the person of
Cicely Bonvile, heiress to both parents, and a girl who suited his taste
infinitely better than the heiress of Exeter had ever done. Decency was
respected by a proper mourning of twelve months: and in the July of the
following year, Mr. Grey repaired his loss to his entire satisfaction.
The mother was longer in repairing hers. She had considered herself a
most ill-used woman, through the necessity for delaying her marriage
until after her daughter's death. There were two reasons for this. The
Duchess knew that public opinion would cry shame upon her for marrying
while her own and only child was standing face to face with death: and
little as she cared for public opinion in general, in this instance she
could not afford to disregard it. Her marriage with Mr. St. Leger--a
mere squire in her brother's service--would at any time bring upon her
as much obloquy as she cared to brave: and it was not desirable to
increase it by choosing such a time. Moreover, there remained a further
and very awkward consideration, that King Edward might be irremediably
offended: and while the adverse verdict of public opinion represented a
mere loss of character--an article not of very high value in the eyes of
the Duchess--the adverse verdict of her royal brother might represent a
very substantial loss of gold and silver, which was a far more serious
matter. She had never dared to unfold her intentions to Edward; nor did
she mean to do so until she had secured her prize. And as Mr. St.
Leger, in losing his master's favour, would have lost even more than the
royal lady, he was quite as willing as herself to keep the project
secret. However unwillingly or impatiently, she was accordingly bound to
wait.
It seemed, therefore, as though no creature mourned for Anne Grey beyond
a few of her dependants. The gulf had opened, and the fair, gentle,
loving girl had disappeared from sight: and then it had closed again,
and the world was dancing over it, and she was forgotten as though she
had not been. Frideswide Marston was one of those few who wore mourning
for her in their hearts. She had lived in her household only for three
months, but she had been her immediate and favourite attendant, and had
learned to love her. Now that phase of life was over, and Frideswide
was preparing to return home. There was a good deal of shopping to be
done first, for Frideswide meant to bring her trousseau from London; and
accompanied by one of Lady Anne's ushers, she went to and fro to West
Chepe, where the mercers and haberdashers congregated; Guthrum's Lane
(afterwards corrupted to Gutter Lane) where the goldsmiths dwelt;
Lombard Street, the habitat of drapers; St. Mary Axe, where the furriers
were found; and Cordwainer Street, where the shoemakers lived. Of
course she visited Paternoster Row for a new rosary and copies of the
Psalter and Gospels in Latin; purchased a pair of pattens in Pattens
Lane; and, as the most acceptable present she could carry to her
stepmother, bought a sugar-loaf, weighing twenty pounds, price
twenty-six shillings and eightpence, from the druggist in Soper's Lane.
A handsome piece of scarlet cloth--the most esteemed material for a
dress[#]--was also procured for Lady Margery, at a cost of eight
shillings the yard: and twelve yards--a very handsome quantity--of black
satin of Bruges, to make a gown for the Lady Idonia. For her father she
provided a hat in the newest fashion, small, round, edged with fur, and
adorned with a single ostrich feather, small but full, which was
fastened by a jewelled button. Ladies never wore feathers in the
fifteenth century. The present for Agnes was a gold chain, which cost
two pounds; and--a far more precious article--a silver cramp-ring which
cost nothing. But it had been solemnly consecrated, as was done every
year, by her on whom Frideswide looked as the rightful and only Queen of
England; and no one who wore it could possibly be troubled with cramp.
For a ring which owed its value to the touch of "Dame Bessy Grey,"
Frideswide would not have paid a halfpenny, nor would Agnes have deigned
to soil her fingers by wearing it. What she should bring for Dorathie
was a matter of severe reflection to Frideswide. She would have liked a
parrot: but parrots were not only rare and costly, but scarcely portable
articles. A mirror would not find favour with the authorities, as
likely to foster vanity in the immature mind of youth. Her final choice
was a silver girdle-clasp and a primer. The latter was not a book from
which to learn reading, as we should suppose, but rather a collection of
elegant extracts, chiefly of a religious cast. Primers varied in price
from about a shilling to fifteen shillings, according to size and
binding; and were put forth by authority, containing such things as were
considered proper for the people to know.
[#] Writing about this time, Lady Fasten assures her husband that she
would prefer his return home to a new gown, "yea, though it were of
scarlet."
Frideswide's purchases were at last complete, and her bags packed.
Comparatively few boxes were used, when all luggage had to be carried on
the backs of mules or galloways. She was to leave London on the first
of June, escorted as far as St. Albans by one of her late Lady's ushers.
Here she was pretty sure to fall in with a train of pilgrims to Newark
or Whitby, or possibly with a convoy of merchants going to York. On the
last evening, it occurred to her that she might as well take with her a
few ells of fringe to trim the dresses, as they would pack in no great
compass, and would doubtless be of better quality than such as could
easily be procured at Lovell Tower. Calling the usher to attend her, she
went out to the nearest mercer's in West Chepe. The fringe was soon
bought, and she was turning homewards, when her attention was roused by
a young man who kept walking close behind them. Taking the bull by the
horns, Frideswide said at once,--
"Would you have speech of us, Master?"
"If your name be Marston, that would I," was the answer: "but pray you
go a little farther, for we shall come anon to a dark passage where
there is more conveniency for talk."
Guessing in an instant that the young man was entrusted with some
message for her ear only, Frideswide followed his directions, when he
said,--
"Mistress, there is one would speak with you ere you leave London--one
that you knew of old time."
"Man or woman?"
"Man."
"What manner of man?" Frideswide was cautious.
"A cresset-bearer."
No further explanation was required. The Duke of Exeter wished for an
interview.
"Go to: where shall it be?"
"At my house, an' it like you."
"May it be done this even? for I should set forth on my journey by
morning light."
"It can be done this minute, an' you will come with me."
"Is it far?--and who be you?"
"I am a parchment-maker, of Smithfield, and a Goose by name and nature,"
said the young man with a smile.
"By name, may-be," replied Frideswide, with an answering smile:
"methinks scarce by nature, else had not your master and mine trusted
you with such an errand. But have you no token for me?"
"Ay, one of gold forged in the King's mint.--'_Alle thingis, and in alle
thingis, Crist_.'"
There could be no further question to a Lollard mind of the
trustworthiness of the Duke's messenger. Frideswide came out of the
dark passage, and dismissed her usher, giving him her parcels to take
back with him.
"This worthy master will see me home, and I have ado with him first,"
she said. "Now, pray you, Master Goose, if your name be so, lead on."
Silently Frideswide followed her guide up to Aldersgate, through Little
Britain,--where of old time stood the town mansion of the Counts of
Bretagne, who through several centuries were Earls of Richmond--across
Smithfield, and paused before a small house at the north-west corner of
that open space. Mr. Goose unlocked the door by a key from his pocket,
and led Frideswide up a very narrow staircase, into a small room fitted
as a sitting-room. Leaving her there, he disappeared for a moment; and
the next minute, a stately step crossed the chamber, and the Duke stood
before her.
It was rather more than two years since they had met, but Frideswide was
unprepared to find him so sadly changed. He looked rather as if twenty
years than two had passed over him. Yet only in his forty-fourth year,
he had the appearance of broken-down, premature old age: and every tone
of his voice was like a moan of pain.
"Mistress Frideswide, I have heard, in this my retreat, that which hath
broken mine heart. Tell me, is it true?"
Frideswide did not ask what he meant. She knew that only too well.
"My Lord, it is true indeed. Our sweet young Lady went her way to God,
on Sunday se'nnight in the even."
"On whose soul Jesu have mercy!" broke almost mechanically from the lips
of the desolate father.
"Amen!" responded Frideswide.
"Was he with her?" demanded the Duke almost fiercely. He had neither
affection nor respect for "Tom Grey," as his Lancastrian instincts
contemptuously termed him.
"Master Grey? No."
Frideswide did not tell the Duke, though she knew it, that the young
gentleman in question was playing bowls at Lambeth.
"My Lady her mother was, I count?"
Frideswide was thankful that she could truthfully say that the Duchess
had been in her daughter's apartments on the night of her death. She
had just looked in for ten minutes. She would have been glad to say no
more: but the Duke's queries were persistent. He put one after another
till he knew all she could tell him: and then, folding his arms upon the
table, he laid his head upon them, and a low moan of bitter pain broke
from him.
For some minutes there was dead silence in the little chamber. At
length the Duke spoke.
"If only a man might die when he would! The sun is gone down, and there
be no stars for me."
"Nay, my gracious Lord, I cry you mercy!" said Frideswide gently. "The
sun is but gone behind a cloud, for our Lord Jesu Christ is the sun of
His people. It is the star which has set. The sun is there as
aforetime."
"Then the cloud is sore thick, for I see no light."
"Not now, my Lord. It will break forth again."
"Is that so sure?" said the Duke, mournfully. "Ah, you are young and
hopeful; to you the birds always chant 'To-morrow.' But I--I am a man
old before his time, and hope is gone from me."
"Christ is not, my Lord."
"Mistress Frideswide," was the earnest answer, "wit you what it is to
stretch forth numb hands into the darkness, and not find them taken?--to
feel none other hands meeting yours?"
"So long as the numbness is but in mine hands, my Lord, I know not that
it signifieth much. They may be taken, yet be too numb to feel it.
Truly, I am but a poor maid and a young, and of little wit: some doctor
of the Church could aid your Lordship, but not I. Yet if I might speak
one word, it should be,--dear my Lord, if our Lord have gripped hold of
your Lordship, will it matter whether your hands have hold of Him or no?
They be safe borne, methinks, whom Christ carrieth."
"Yet if one feel not the carrying--only a sense of falling down, down,
into a pit whereto is no bottom"----
"My gracious Lord, can that be if you have trusted our Lord to carry
you? Shall your feeling be put in enmity to His word? Have you come to
Him? for if so, you give Him the lie to say He hath cast you out."
The Duke rose. "My maid," he said, "there be times when it looks to
mine eyes as though mine whole life had been but one mighty blunder, and
one great sin."
"Be it so, my Lord. Is Christ strong enough to bear it?"
"Undoubtedly."
"Is He reluctant to bear it?"
"I dare not say so much."
"Then, my Lord, what wait you for?"
"I have no strength to give it to Him."
"Have you any need? If a burden lay at my feet that I could not lift,
and my brother stood by, think you I should tarry to ask him to bear it
for me till I could lift it up and give it to him? Is He that carried
our sins away upon His cross become so weak that He cannot bear our
sorrows now? If He can hold heaven and earth, verily He can hold you
and me."
"Amen!" said the Duke softly. "Mistress Frideswide, we may never set
eyes again each on other: and you and your sister have been true friends
to me. Pray you, do me so much pleasure as to wear this gold chain for
my sake. I would I had a better gift to mine hand, but a man that hath
spent half his life in exile, and hath his lands proscribed, is not he
that can make rich gifts."
"My Lord, a far smaller matter should be more than enough to pleasure
your handmaid. I thank your good Lordship right heartily."
"And what shall I send unto Mistress Annis?" said the Duke thoughtfully,
as he turned over some dozen of jewels and trinkets, which were all now
left to him of his once splendid fortune. "I would not by my good-will
she were had in oblivion, for she was very good unto me, more than once
or twice. What say you, Mistress Frideswide, should like her best of
these?"
Frideswide glanced rapidly over the articles indicated.
"I am somewhat afeared to pick and choose, under your Lordship's
allowance: for that which may seem the least precious matter unto a
stranger, may be the dearest thing in all the treasure-house to him that
ought[#] it."
[#] Owned.
"Nay, go to," replied the Duke. "There is nought dear to me now, save a
ring my Nan once gave me--and I put not that on my list of tokens."[#]
[#] Gifts.
Thus invited, Frideswide picked out a plain silver ring, set with the
badge of the fiery cresset in minute rubies. "This, methinks, should
like her, if your Lordship set no store thereby."
"Certes, none at all: yet this is poor matter."
"It is enough, my gracious Lord, and I thank you right heartily for my
sister."
"Tell her, I pray you, Mistress Frideswide, that the last words we spake
each to other be the parting message of love[#] that I shall send
her,--and may God give me to find it true for myself, as I pray she may
for her."
[#] Then a word used generally in the sense of friendship or kindliness.
"What were they, an' it like your Lordship?"
"They were the words I told Jack Goose to give you as token of his
trustworthiness, the which I thought should bring quickly one of our
doctrine. '_Alle thingis, and in all thingis, Crist_.'"
"May you so find it, my gracious Lord!"
The Duke gave her his hand at parting--an unusual condescension from his
position to hers. Frideswide bent low, and kissed the hand of him whom
she was no longer to call master, and whose face she would never see any
more.
John Goose took her home with a lantern. As they threaded their way
along St. Martin's Lane, which led from Aldersgate to St. Paul's
Churchyard, he said to her,--
"Pray you, my mistress, is aught heard at this time of any ado against
them of our doctrine?"
"In good sooth I trust not, Master Goose," was the reply. "I have
nought heard of any such matter. Eh, good lack! it should be hard for
some to be staunch, if so were!"
"I count it should be hard to them that had it to do for themselves,"
said John Goose.
"How mean you, my master?"
"Look you, I told you afore I was a Goose by name and nature," said the
youth with a merry laugh. "So being, I know well I have no wits to cope
with my learned masters the doctors of the Church. Herein I must needs
betake me wholly unto my Master. He will give me the endurance, if He
send me the need to endure. And that which cometh down from Heaven is
like to be better than aught a man hath of his own."
"Then look you for troubles, Master Goose?"
"I look for nought, Mistress. My Master doth the work for me, and I
take mine ease. So merry is Christ's service."
"It should be little ease that you should take at the stake, methinks,"
said Frideswide with a shake of her head. "Verily, methinks it were
past all endurance."
"For Him, or for me?" significantly asked John Goose.
"It were over hard for you," said Frideswide to the second question,
meeting the first with a deprecatory smile.
"Nay, my Mistress. The enduring was with Him that bare the wrath of God
for me: surely not with me that do but bear a few earthly pains for Him.
At the least, if it should please Him to call me to that honour."
"Would you covet it, Master Goose?"
"Mistress, I am Christ's servant. Is it for the servant to admonish the
Master of the work whereunto He shall set him?"
"But the suffering should be your own!"
"Nay! When I bid my journeyman get a-work, he doth it at my charges,
not his own."
"Yet you must needs feel it, Master Goose?"
They had reached the gate of Coldharbour. John Goose swung the lantern
into his left hand, and unlatched the outer gate for Frideswide, calling
for the porter as he did so.
"Mistress, if our dear Lord list to have me to His presence without an
hair of mine head singed, think you He could compass it, or no?"
"Most certainly!"
"Farewell; and God be with you!"
And the smile with which he took leave of her, she remembered later.
Early the next morning, Frideswide left Coldharbour and London: and she
left them readily enough. Her sojourn in the south had been productive
of any thing rather than pleasure. Now she was journeying home to all
she loved; and of course hope told a flattering tale, and she expected
to live happily ever after her arrival at Lovell Tower. Her journey was
pleasant and prosperous: and she reached York on the evening of the
eighth of June, in company with a party of whom one portion were bound
for that city, and another for Beverley Minster.
As Frideswide entered the hotel at York, to her surprise she found an
old friend leaning against the sidepost of the door.
"Why, Mistress Marston, is it you?" said he, starting up.
"Why, Master Strangeways! whence came you?"
"Truly, at the heels of my good Lady, that is but now out of Beverley
Sanctuary, and goeth northward under convoy of Sir James Tyrell."
"Whither?"
"That shall we see when we be there," returned Mr. Strangeways,
jovially, as though such a journey were the pleasantest amusement in the
world.
"Is it of the King's Grace's pleasure?"
"Who is the King's Grace?" returned Mr. Strangeways, putting his hands
in his pockets, with as little concern about possible spies or enemies
as though he had lived in the nineteenth century.
"'When we be at Rome, we do as Rome doth,'" quoted Frideswide, with a
smile. Not only had her ears become accustomed to the term as applied
to Edward, but, like many Lancastrians, she considered that the regal
right had now become vested in the House of York. Mr. Philip
Strangeways, on the contrary, held politics of so very red a dye that
the young Earl of Richmond was his King. "You know, Master Philip,"
concluded she.
"I know more than I profit by, mayhap. Howbeit, your question tarrieth
his answer. Nay, 'tis not Merry Ned this time. 'Tis Crookback Dickon.
His soul is not as straight as his body. Now I marvel," said Mr.
Strangeways, reflectively, "if that companion reckoneth he is going to
Heaven. I'll lay you a broad shilling he so doth."
"What did he, my Master?"
"Kicked my Lady up into Yorkshire, when she fled to that her
dearworthy[#] son, and begged him of his protection. And ne'er a
plack[#] in her pocket withal. I do pray the blessed saints to give him
his deserts, and I rather count they will."
[#] Beloved.
[#] Coin.
"Dear heart! but sure he would not thus evil entreat his own
mother-in-law?"
This innocent query seemed to cause Mr. Philip Strangeways
inextinguishable amusement.
"Be men so fond of their mothers-in-law?" said he. "He is, take my word
for it: for both he and his brother have set down the foot that never a
penny shall my old Lady finger that their fingers can keep from her.
She hath scarce more gowns than backs, nor more hoods than heads; and as
to her botews,[#] I took them myself to the cobbler this morrow to be
patched. Be thankful, Mistress Marston, that you have lighted on your
feet like a cat, and are well out of an ill service."
[#] Boots.
"Eh, dear heart! but my poor Lady--I am sorry for her!"
"So am I," said Philip, suddenly dropping his mask of light nonchalance,
and becoming another man. "So am I, Mistress Marston: and trust me, I
am worser than sorry for the Lady Anne, that is wed against her will and
allowing to the man she hated most. Eh, well! God be lauded in all His
works!"
And Philip turned into the inn, without vouchsafing any explanation of
the manner in which he meant his words to be taken.
His news was only too true. The poor Countess of Warwick, the richest
heiress in England, had been stripped of every penny of her vast
inheritance by the rapacious greed of her own sons-in-law. Their cruel
and wicked deed was formally sanctioned by Act of Parliament about a
year later--May 9th, 1474--by which statute it was decreed that George
Duke of Clarence and Isabel his wife, and Richard Duke of Gloucester and
Anne his wife, were to have and hold all possessions of the said
Countess "as if she were naturally dede, and the said Countess is to be
barrable, barred, and excluded as well of all jointours, dower, actions,
executions, right, title, and interesse, of, in, and for all honours,
lordships, castles, manors, etc., as were at any time the said Earl's
her husband:" and "the said dukes and their said wives may make
partition of all the premisses."[#] More sweeping language could
scarcely be. No notice was taken of poor Lady Warwick's piteous
allegation of "noon offence by her doon," nor of her fervent assurance
that she had "duly kept her fidelity and ligeance, and obeyed the King's
commandments." Naboth's title to his vineyard, even though Divine, was
accounted of small matter, so long as King Ahab wanted it for a garden
of herbs.
[#] Patent Roll, 14 Edw. IV.