"He that hath a thousand friends hath not a friend to spare,
And he that hath one enemy shall find him everywhere."
On the evening of Constance's arrival at Langley, two men sat in close
conference in the Jerusalem Chamber of the Palace of Westminster. One
of them was a priest, the other a layman. The first priest, and the
first layman, in the realm; for the elder was Thomas de Arundel,
Archbishop of Canterbury, and the younger was Henry of Bolingbroke, King
of England.
The Archbishop was a tall, stout, portly man, with a round, fair, fat
face, on which sat an expression of extreme self-complacency. A fine
forehead, both broad and high, though slightly too retreating,
surmounted a pair of clear, bright grey eyes, a well-formed nose, and
lips in which there was no weakness, but they were just a shade too
smiling for sincerity. Though his age was only fifty-one, his hair was
snow-white. Of course his face was closely shaven; for it is an odd
fact that the higher a man's sacerdotal pretensions rise, the more
unlike a man he usually makes himself--resembling the weaker sex as much
as possible, both in person and costume. This man's sacerdotal
pretensions ran very high, and accordingly his black cassock fell about
his feet like a woman's dress, and his face was guiltless of beard or
whisker.
The age of the King was thirty-eight, and he was one of the tallest men
in his kingdom. The colour of his hair, whiskers, and small forked
beard, was only one remove from black. Dark pencilled eyebrows, of that
surprised shape which many persons admire, arched over keen liquid dark
eyes. The general type of the features was Grecian; their regularity
was perfect, but the nose was a trifle too prominent for pure Grecian.
About the set of the lips, delicately as they were cut, there was a
peculiarity which a physiognomist might have interpreted to mean that
when their owner had once placed a particular end before him, no
considerations of right on the one hand, or of friendship on the other,
would be allowed to interfere with its attainment. This was a very
clever man, a very sagacious, far-seeing man, a very handsome man, a
very popular man; yet a man whom no human heart ever loved, and who
never loved any human being--a man who could stand alone, and who did
stand alone, to the hour when, "with all his imperfections on his head,"
he stood before the bar of God.
"The match is no serviceable one," said the Archbishop.
"Truth to tell," replied the King a little doubtfully, "I scarce do
account my cousin herself an heretic:--yet I wis not--she may be. But
she hath been rocked in the heresy in her cradle, and ever sithence hath
been within earshot thereof. You wot well, holy Father, what her lord
was; and his mother, with whom she hath dwelt these ten years or more,
is worser than himself. Now it shall never serve to have Kent lost to
the Church her cause. You set affiance on him, I know, and I the like:
and if he be not misturned, methinks he may yet prove a good servant.
But here is this alliance cast in our way! I know they be wed without
my licence: yet what should it serve to fine or prison him? To prison
her might be other matter; but we cannot touch her. So this done should
not serve our turn. Father, is there any means that you can devise to
break this marriage?"
"The priest that wed them is a Gospeller," returned the Archbishop with
a peculiar smile.
"A priest in full orders," objected the King, "of good life and
unblemished conversation. Even you, holy Father, so fertile in wise
plans, shall scarce, methinks, be able to lay finger on him."
"Scantly; without he were excommunicate of heresy at the time this
wedding were celebrate."
"Which he was not," answered the King rather impatiently. "Would to
Saint Edmund he had so been! It were then no marriage."
The Archbishop made no reply in words, but drawing towards him a sheet
of paper which lay upon the table, he slowly traced upon it a date some
two months previous--the date of the Sunday before Constance's marriage.
The King watched him in equal silence, with knitted brows and set lips.
Then the two conspirators' eyes met.
"Could that be done?" asked the royal layman, under his breath.
"Is it not done, Sire?" calmly responded the priestly villain, pointing
to the paper.
The King was silent for a minute; but, unprincipled as he was, his
conscience was not quite so seared as that of Arundel.
"The end halloweth the means, trow?" he said inquiringly.
"All means be holy, Sire, where the end is the glory of God," replied
Arundel, with a hypocritical assumption of piety. "And the glory of God
is the service and avancement of holy Church."
Still Henry's mind misgave him. His conscience appears at times to have
tortured him in his later years, and he shrank from burdening it yet
further.
"Father, if sin be herein, you must bear this burden!"
"I have borne heavier," replied Arundel with a cynical smile.
And truly, to a man upon whose soul eleven murders lay lightly, an
invalidated marriage was likely to be no oppressive weight.
"Yet even now," resumed the King, again knitting his brows uneasily,
"methinks all hardships be scarce vanished. Our good cousin of Kent is
he that should not be turned aside from his quarry [object of pursuit; a
hunting phrase] by a brook in his way."
"Not if an eagle arose beyond the heron he pursued?" suggested Arundel,
significantly.
"Ha!" said the King.
"He is marvellous taken with beauty," resumed his priestly counsellor.
"And the Lady Custance is not the sole woman in the world."
"You have some further thought, Father," urged Henry.
"Methinks your Grace hath a good friend in the Lord Galeas, Duke of
Milan?"
"Ay, of olden time," answered the King, with a sigh. Was it caused by
the regretful thought that if he could bring back that olden time, when
young Henry of Bolingbroke was learning Italian at Milan and Venice, he
might be a happier man than now?
"He hath sisters, methinks, that bear high fame for fair and lovesome?"
"None higher in Christendom."
"And the youngest-born, the Lady Lucy, I take it, is yet unwed?"
"She is so."
"And cometh not behind her sisters for beauty?"
"She was but a little child when I was at Milan," said the King; "but I
hear tell of her as fairest of all the fair Visconti."
"Were it impossible, Sire, that the lady, in company of her young
brothers, should visit your Highness' Court?"
Henry readily owned that it was by no means impossible, if he were to
ask it: but he reminded the Archbishop that the Duke of Milan was poor,
though proud; and that while he would consider the Princess Lucia
eternally disgraced by marrying beneath her, he probably would not
scruple to sell her hand to the highest bidder of those illustrious
persons who stood on the list of eligibles. And Kent, semi-royal though
he were, was not a rich man, his family having suffered severely from
repeated attainders.
"And what riches he hath goeth in velvet and ouches," [jewellery] said
the Archbishop, with his cold, sarcastic smile. "Well--if the Duke's
Grace would fain pick up ducats even in the mire, mayhap he shall find
them as plenty in England as otherwhere. Your Highness can heald [pour
forth] gold with any Prince in Italy. And when the lady is hither,
'twere easy to bid an hunting party, an' your Grace so list. My cousin
of Kent loveth good hawking."
Again that keen, cruel smile parted the priestly lips.
"Moreover, Sire, she must be a Prince's daughter, or my cousin, who
likewise loveth grandeur and high degree, may count the cost ere he
swallow the bait. The Lady Custance is not lightly matched for blood."
"You desire this thing, holy Father?"
The eyes of the two evil counsellors met again.
"It were an holy and demeritous work, Sire," said the priest.
"Be it as you will," returned Henry hastily. "But mind you, holy
Father! you bear what there may be of sin."
"I can carry it, Sire!"
The royal and reverend conspirators parted; and the Archbishop, mounting
his richly-caparisoned mule (an animal used by priests out of affected
humility, in imitation of the ass's colt on which Christ rode into
Jerusalem), rode straight to Coldharbour, the town residence of his
niece, Joan Duchess Dowager of York. He found her at work in the midst
of her bower-women; but no sooner did she hear the announcement of her
Most Reverend uncle, than she hurriedly commanded them all to leave the
room.
"Well?" she said breathlessly, as soon as they were alone.
"Thy woman's wit hath triumphed, Joan. 'Twas a brave thought of thine,
touching the Lady Lucy of Milan. The King fell in therewith, like a
fowl into a net."
"Nay, the Lady Lucy was your thought, holy Father; I did but counsel to
tempt him with some other. Then it shall be done?"
"It shall be done."
"Thanks be to All-Hallows!" cried the Duchess, with mirth which it would
scarcely be too strong a term to call fiend-like. "Now shall the proud
minx be brought to lower her lofty head! I hate her!"
"'Tis allowed to hate an heretic," said the Archbishop calmly. "And if
the Lady Le Despenser be no heretic, she hath sorely abused her
opportunities."
"She shall never be Nym's true wife!" cried the Duchess fierily. "I
will not have it! I would sooner follow both her and him to the
churchyard! I hate, I hate her!"
"Thou mayest yet do that following, Joan. But I must not tarry. Peace
be with thee!"
Peace!--of what sort? We are told, indeed, of one who is like a strong
man armed, and who keepeth his goods in peace. And the dead sleep
peacefully enough--not only dead bodies, but dead souls.
The Earl and Countess of Kent had been about a week at Langley, when a
letter arrived from the King, commanding the attendance of the Earl at
Court, as feudal service for one of his estates held on that tenure.
The Countess was not invited to accompany him. The Duke of York seized
his opportunity, for his plot was fully ripe, and suggested that she
should obtain the royal permission to pay a visit to Windsor, where the
hapless heirs of March were imprisoned. Permission to do so was asked
and granted, for the King never suspected his cousin of any sinister
intention.
The Earl set out first for Westminster. Constance stood at her lattice,
and waved a loving farewell to him as he rode away, turning several
times to catch another glimpse of her, and to bend his graceful head in
yet another farewell. He had not quite recovered from the glamour of
his enchantment.
"Farewell!" said the Princess at last, though her husband was far beyond
hearing. "Hark, Maude, to the Priory bells--dost hear them? What say
they to thee? I hear them say--`He will come--he will come--safely back
again!'" And she sang the words in the tone of the chime.
Maude was silent. A dark, sudden presentiment seemed to seize upon her
of unknown coming evil, and to her ear also the bells had a voice. But
they rang--"He will come--he will come--never any more!"
The bells told the truth--to one of them.
The Duke of York escorted his sister to Windsor. She was accompanied by
Bertram and Maude, Eva, and several minor domestics. He left her full
directions how to proceed, promising to meet her with a guard of men a
few miles beyond Eton, and go with her overland as far as Hereford. The
final destination of Constance and her recaptured charges was to be her
own home at Cardiff, but a rather roundabout way was to be taken to
baffle the probable pursuers. York promised to let Kent know of the
escapade through one of his squires on the morning of their departure
from Windsor, with orders to join them as quickly as possible by sea
from Bideford. At Cardiff the final stand was to be made, in favour of
Richard, if living--of March, if he were proved to be dead. The evening
of a saint's day, about ten days later, was selected for the attempted
rescue; in the hope that the sentinels, having honoured the saint by
extra feasting and potations, might be the less disposed to extra
vigilance.
The first point to be ascertained was the exact rooms in the Castle
occupied by the youthful captives. This was easily found out by
Bertram. He and Maude were the sole confidants of their mistress's
secret. The second scene of the drama--which might turn either to
comedy or tragedy--was to obtain a mould of the lock in wax. This also
was done by Bertram, who further achieved the third point--that of
procuring false keys from a smith. Constance, whose ideas of truth were
elastic and accommodating, had instructed her messenger to say that the
keys had been lost, and the new ones were wanted to replace them; but
Bertram kept a conscience which declined to be burdened with this
falsehood, and accordingly he merely reported that the person who had
sent him required duplicates of the keys.
No idea of wrongfulness in aiding the plot ever occurred either to
Bertram or Maude. In their eyes King Henry was no king at all, but a
rebel, a usurper, and a murderer; and the true King, to whom alone their
fealty was due, was (if Richard were dead) the boy unjustly confined in
Windsor Castle. To work his freedom, therefore, was not a bad deed, but
a good one; nor could it fairly be called treachery to circumvent a
traitor.
The keys were safely secreted in Constance's jewel-box until the night
appointed for the rescue came.
It proved to be fair, but cloudy, with a low damp mist filling the vale
of the Thames. Bertram took no one into his confidence but his own
squire, William Maydeston, whom he posted in the forest, at a sufficient
distance from the Castle, in charge of the four horses necessary to
mount the party.
The Princess went to bed as usual--about eight o'clock, for she kept
late hours for her time--with Maude and Eva in attendance. Both were
dismissed; and Eva at least went peacefully to sleep, in happy ignorance
of the kind of awakening which was in store for her. At half-past ten,
an hour then esteemed in the middle of the night, Maude, according to
instructions previously received, softly opened the door of her lady's
bedchamber. She found her not only risen, but already fully equipped
for her journey, and in a state of feverish excitement. She came out at
once, and they joined Bertram, who was waiting in the corridor outside.
The little trio of plotters crept slowly down the stairs, and across the
court-yard to the foot of the Beauchamp Tower, within which the children
were confined. It was necessary to use the utmost caution, to avoid
being heard by the sentinels. Bertram fitted the false key into the
great iron lock of the outer door. The door opened, but with such a
creak that Maude shuddered in terror lest the sentinels should hear it.
She was reassured by a peal of laughter which came from beyond the wall.
The sentinels were awake, but were making too much noise themselves to
be easily roused to action. Then the party went silently up into the
Beauchamp Tower, unlocked the door which they sought, and leaving
Bertram outside it to give an alarm if necessary, Constance and Maude
entered the first of the two rooms.
A white, frightened face was the first thing they saw. In the outer
chamber, as the less valuable pair of prisoners, slept the sisters, Anne
and Alianora Mortimer, whose ages were fifteen and eleven. Alianora,
the younger, slept quietly; but Anne sat up, wide awake, and said in a
tremulous voice which she tried in vain to render firm--
"What is it? Are you a spirit?"
Constance was by her side in a moment, and assured the girl at least of
her humanity by taking Anne's face between her hands. She looked on it
with deep interest; for this was the face that Dickon loved. A soft,
gentle face it was, which would have been pretty if it had been less
thin and wan with prison life, and less tired with suspense and care.
To her--
"The future was all dark,
And the past a troubled sea,
And Memory sat in her heart,
Wailing where Hope should be."
For Anne Mortimer was one of those hapless girls who are not motherless,
but what is far worse, unmothered. Her father, who lay in his bloody
grave in Ireland, she had loved dearly; but her mother was a mere
stranger somewhere in the world, who had never cared for her at all. To
the younger ones Anne herself had been the virtual mother; they had been
tended by her fostering care, but who save God had ever tended her?
Thus, from the time of her father's death, when she was eight years old,
Anne's life had been a flowerless, up-hill road, with nothing to look
forward to at the end. Was it any wonder that the face looked worn with
care, though only fifteen years had passed over it?
The sole breaks to the monotony of this weary life occurred when the
Court was at Windsor. Then the poor little prisoners were permitted to
come out of durance, and--still under strict surveillance--to join the
royal party. These times were delightful to the younger three, but they
would have been periods of unmixed pain to Anne, if it had not been for
the presence and uniform kindness of one person. She shuddered within
herself when the King or his Mentor the Archbishop addressed her,
shrinking from both with the instinctive aversion of a song-bird to a
serpent; but Richard of Conisborough spoke as no one else spoke to her--
so courteously, so gently, so kindly, that no room was left for fear.
No one had ever spoken so to this girl since her father died. And thus,
without the faintest suspicion of his feelings towards her, the lonely
maiden's imagination wove its sweet fancies around this hero of her
dreams, and she began unconsciously to look forward to the time when she
should meet him again. Well for her that it was so! for she was a "pale
meek blossom" unsuited for rough blasts, and the only ray of sunshine
which was ever to fall across her life lay in the love of Richard of
Conisborough.
"Who is it?" Anne repeated, in a rather less frightened tone.
"Hast thou forgot me, Nannette?" said Constance affectionately. "I am
the Lady Le Despenser--thine aunt now, the wife of thine uncle of Kent."
"Oh!" responded Anne, with a long-drawn sigh of relief. The tone said,
"How delightful!"
"I thought you were a ghost."
"Well, so I am, but within the body," whispered Constance with a little
laugh.
"That makes all the difference," said Anne, whose response did not go
beyond a faint smile. "Has your Ladyship then won allowance to visit
us?"
Her voice expressed some surprise, for certainly the middle of the night
was a singular time for a visitor to choose for a call.
"Nay, sweet heart. I come without allowance--hush!--to bear you all
away hence. Wake thy sister, and arise both, and busk [dress] you
quickly. Where be thy brothers?"
"In the inner cowche," [bedroom].
Constance desired Maude to hasten the girls in dressing, which must be
done by the fitful moonlight, as best it could, and went herself into
the inner chamber. Both the boys were asleep. They were Edmund, the
young Earl, whose age was nearly thirteen, and his little brother Roger,
who was not yet eight. Constance laid her hand lightly on the shoulder
of the future King.
"Nym!" she said. "Hush! make no bruit."
The boy was sleeping too heavily to be roused at once; but his little
brother Roger awoke, and looked up with two very bright, intelligent
eyes.
"Are we to be killed?" he wanted to know; but his query was not put in
the frightened tone of his sister.
"Not so, little one. Wake thy brother, and rise quickly."
"'Tis no light gear to wake Nym," said little Roger. "You must shake
him."
Constance put the advice in practice, but Edmund only gave a grunt and
turned over.
"Nym!" said his little brother in a loud whisper. "Nym! wake up."