Yet nothing stern was she in cell,
And the nuns loved their abbess well.--SCOTT.
The days of the Wars of the Roses were evil times for the discipline of
convents, which, together with the entire Western Church, suffered from
the feuds of the Popes with the Italian princes.
Small remote houses, used as daughters or auxiliaries to the large
convents, were especially apt to fall into a lax state, and in truth
the little priory of Greystone, with its half-dozen of Sisters, had been
placed under the care of the Lady Agnes Selby because she was too highly
connected to be dealt with sharply, and too turbulent and unmanageable
for the soberminded house at York. So there she was sent, with the
deeply devout and strict Sister Scholastica, to keep the establishment
in order, and deal with the younger nuns and lay Sisters. Being not
entirely out of reach of a raid from the Scottish border, it was
hardly a place for the timid, although the better sort of moss troopers
generally spared monastic houses. Anne St. John had been sent thither at
the time when Queen Margaret was making her attempt in the north, where
the city of York was Lancastrian, as the Mother Abbess feared that her
presence might bring vengeance upon the Sisterhood.
There was no great harm in the Mother Agnes, only she was a maiden
whom nothing but family difficulties could have forced into a monastic
life--a lively, high-spirited, out-of-door creature, whom the close
conventionalities of castle life and even whipping could not tame, and
who had been the despair of her mother and of the discreet dames to whom
her first childhood had been committed, to say nothing of a Lady Abbess
or two. Indeed, from the Mother of Sopwell, Dame Julian Berners, she
had imbibed nothing but a vehement taste for hawk, horse, and hound.
The recluses of St. Mary, York, after being heartily scandalised by her
habits, were far from sorry to have a good excuse for despatching her to
their outlying cell, where, as they observed, she would know how to show
a good face in case the Armstrongs came over the Border.
She came flying down on the first rumour of Lady Anne’s return, her veil
turned back, her pace not at all accordant with the solemn gait of a
Prioress, her arms outstretched, her face, not young nor handsome, but
sunburnt, weather-beaten and healthy, and full of delight. ‘My child,
my Nan, here thou art! I was just mounting to seek for thee to the west,
while Bertram sought again over the mosses where we sent yester morn.
Where hast thou been in the snow?’
‘A shepherd took me to his hut, Lady Mother,’ answered Anne rather
coldly.
‘Little didst thou think of our woe and grief when thy palfrey was found
standing riderless at the stable door, and Sister Scholastica told us
that there he had been since nones! And she had none to send in quest
but Cuddie, the neatherd.’
‘My palfrey fell with me when you were in full chase of hawk and heron,
‘and none ever turned a head towards me nor heard me call.’
‘Poor maid! But it was such a chase as never you did watch. On and on
went the heron, the falcon ever mounting higher and higher, till she was
but a speck in the clouds, and Tam Falconer shouting and galloping, mad
lest she should go down the wind. Methought she would have been back to
Norroway, the foul jade!’
‘Did you capture her, Mother?’ asked Anne.
‘Ay, she pounced at last, and well-nigh staked herself on the heron’s
beak! But we had a long ride, and were well-nigh at the Tyne before we
had caught her. Full of pranks, but a noble hawk, as I shall write to my
brother by the next messenger that comes our way. I call it a hawk worth
her meat that leads one such a gallop.’
‘What would you have done, reverend Mother, if she had crossed the
Border?’ asked Bertram.
‘Ridden after her. No Scot would touch a Lady Prioress on the chase,’
responded Mother Agnes, looking not at all like a reverend Mother. ‘Now,
poor Anne, thou must be hungered. Thou shalt eat with Master Bertram and
me in the refectory anon. Take her, Sister Joan, and make her ready to
break her fast with us.’
Anne quickly went to her chamber. It was not quite a cell, the bare
stone walls being hung with faded woollen tapestry, the floor covered
with a deerskin, the small window filled with dark green glass, a chest
serving the double purpose of seat and wardrobe, and further, a bed hung
with thick curtains, in which she slept with the lay Sister, Joan, who
further fetched a wooden bowl of water from the fountain in the
court that she might wash her face and hands. She changed her soiled
riding-dress for a tight-fitting serge garment of dark green with long
hanging sleeves, assisted by Joan, who also arranged her dark hair in
two plaits, and put over it a white veil, fastened over a framework to
keep it from hanging too closely.
All the time Joan talked, telling of the fright the Mother had been
in when the loss of the Lady Anne had been discovered, and how it was
feared that she had been seized by Scottish reivers, or lost in the snow
on the hills, or captured by the Lancastrians.
‘For there be many of the Red Rose rogues about on the mosses--comrades,
‘tis said, of that noted thief Robin of Redesdale.’
‘I was with good folk, in a shepherd’s sheiling,’ replied Anne.
‘Ay, ay. Out on the north hill, methinks.’
‘Nay. Beyond Deadman’s Pool,’ said Anne. ‘By Blackreed Moss. That was
where the pony fell.’
‘Blackreed Moss! That moor belongs to the De Vescis, the blackest
Lancaster fellow of all! His daughter is the widow of the red-handed
Clifford, who slew young Earl Edmund on Wakefield Bridge. They say her
young son is in hiding in some moss in his lands, for the King holds him
in deadly feud for his brother’s death.’
‘He was a babe, and had nought to do with it,’ said Anne.
‘He is of his father’s blood,’ returned Sister Joan, who in her convent
was still a true north country woman. ‘Ay, Lady Anne, you from your
shires know nought of how deep goes the blood feud in us of the
Borderland! Ay, lady, was not mine own grandfather slain by the Musgrave
of Leit Hill, and did not my father have his revenge on his son by
Solway Firth? Yea, and now not a Graeme can meet a Musgrave but they
come to blows.’
‘Nay, but that is not what the good Fathers teach,’ Anne interposed.
‘The Fathers have neither chick nor child to take up their quarrel. They
know nought about blood crying for blood! If King Edward caught that
brat of Clifford he would make him know what ‘tis to be born of a bloody
house.’
Anne tried to say something, but the lay Sister pushed her along.
‘There, there, go you down--you know nothing about what honour requires
of you! You are but a south country maid, and have no notion of what is
due to them one came from.’
Joan Graeme was only a lay Sister, her father a small farmer when not a
moss trooper; but all the Border, on both sides, had the strongest
ideas of persistent vendetta, such as happily had never been held in the
midland and southern counties, where there was less infusion of Celtic
blood. Anne was a good deal shocked at the doctrine propounded by the
attendant Sister, a mild, good-natured woman in daily life, but the
conversation confirmed her suspicions, and put her on her guard as she
remembered Hob’s warning. She had liked the shepherd lad far too much,
and was far too grateful to him, to utter a word that might give him up
to the revengers of blood.
At the foot of the stone stairs that led into the quadrangle she met the
black-robed, heavily hooded Sister Scholastica on her way to the chapel.
The old nun held out her arms. ‘Safely returned, my child! God be
thanked! Art thou come to join thy thanksgiving with ours at this hour
of nones?’
‘Nay, I am bound to break my fast with the Mother and Master Bertram.’
‘Ah! thou must needs be hungered! It is well! But do but utter thy
thanks to Him Who kept thee safe from the storm and from foul doers.’
Anne did not break away from the good Sister, but went as far as the
chapel porch, was touched with holy water, and bending her knee, uttered
in a low voice her ‘Gratias ago,’ then hastened across the court to the
refectory, where the Prioress received her with a laugh and, ‘So Sister
Scholastica laid hands on thee; I thought I should have to come and
rescue thee ere the grouse grew cold.’
Bertram, as a courteous squire of dames, came forward bowing low, and
the party were soon seated at the board--literally a board, supported
upon trestles, only large enough to receive the Prioress, the squire and
the recovered girl, but daintily veiled in delicate white napery.
It was screened off from the rest of the refectory, where the few
Sisters had already had their morning’s meal after Holy Communion; and
from it there was a slight barrier, on the other side of which Bertram
Selby ought to have been, but rules sat very lightly on the Prioress
Selby. Bertram was of kin to her, and she had no demur as to admitting
him to her private table. He was, in fact, a squire of the household
of the Marquess of Montagu, brother of the Kingmaker and had been
despatched with letters to the south. He had made a halt at his cousin’s
priory, had been persuaded to join in flying the new hawks, and then had
first been detained by the snow-storm, and then joined in the quest for
the lost Lady Anne St. John.
No doubt had then arisen that the Nevils were firm in their attachment
to Edward IV., and, as a consequence, in enmity to the House of
Clifford, and both these scions of Selby had been excited at a rumour
that the widow of the Baron who had slain young Edmund of York had
married Sir Lancelot Threlkeld of Threlkeld, and that her eldest son,
the heir of the line, might be hidden somewhere on the De Vesci estates.
Bertram had already told the Prioress that his men had spied a lad
accompanying the shepherd who escorted the lady, and who, he thought,
had a certain twang of south country speech; and no sooner had he carved
for the ladies, according to the courtly duty of an esquire, than the
inquiry began as to who had found the maiden and where she had been
lodged. Prioress Agnes, who had already broken her fast, sat meantime
with the favourite hawk on her wrist and a large dog beside her, feeding
them alternately with the bones of the grouse.
‘Come, tell us all, sweet Nan! Where wast thou in that untimely
snow-storm? In a cave, starved with cold, eh?’
‘I was safe in a cabin with a kind old gammer.’
‘Eh! And how cam’st thou there? Wandering thither?’
‘Nay, the shepherd heard me call.’
‘The shepherd! What, the churl that came with thee?’
‘He carried me to the hut.’
Anne was on her guard, though Bertram probed her well. Was there only
one shepherd? Was there not a boy with her on the hill-side where
Bertram met her? The shepherd lad in sooth! What became of him? The
shepherd sent him back, he had been too long away from his flock. What
was his name? What was the shepherd’s name? Who was his master? Anne did
not know--she had heard no names save Hob and Hal, she had seen no arms,
she had heard nothing southland. The lad was a mere herd-boy, ordered
out to milk ewes and tend the sheep. She answered briefly, and with a
certain sullenness, and young Selby at last turned on her. ‘Look thee
here, fair lady, there’s a saying abroad that the heir of the red-handed
House of Clifford is lurking here, on the look-out to favour Queen
Margaret and her son. Couldst thou put us on the scent, King Edward
would favour thee and make thee a great dame, and have thee to his
Court--nay, maybe give thee what is left of the barony of Clifford.’
‘I know nothing of young lords,’ sulkily growled Anne, who had been
hitherto busy with her pets, striking her hand on the table.
‘And I tell thee, Bertram Selby,’ exclaimed the Prioress, ‘that if thou
art ware of a poor fatherless lad lurking in hiding in these parts, it
is not the part of an honest man to seek him out for his destruction,
and still less to try to make the maid he rescued betray him. Well done,
little Anne, thou knowest how to hold thy tongue.’
‘Reverend Mother,’ expostulated Bertram, ‘if you knew what some would
give to be on the scent of the wolf-cub!’
‘I know not, nor do I wish to know, for what price a Selby would sell
his honour and his bowels of mercy,’ said Mother Agnes. ‘Come away, Nan;
thou hast done well.’
Bertram muttered something about having thought her a better Yorkist,
women not understanding, and mischief that might be brewing; but
the Prioress, taking Anne by the hand, went her way, leaving Bertram
standing confused.
‘Oh, mother,’ sighed Anne, ‘do you think he will go after him? He will
think I was treacherous!’
‘I doubt me whether he will dare,’ said the Prioress. ‘Moreover, it is
too late in the day for a search, and another snow-shower seems coming
up again. I cannot turn the youth, my kinsman, from my door, and he is
safer here than on his quest, but he shall see no more of thee or me
to-night. I may hold that Edward of March has the right, but that does
not mean hunting down an orphan child.’
‘Mother, mother, you are good indeed!’ cried Anne, almost weeping for
joy.
Bertram, though hurt and offended, was obliged by advance of evening to
remain all night in the hospitium, with only the chaplain to bear him
company, and it was reported that though he rode past Blackpool, no
trace of shepherd or hovel was found.