Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England
Mistress Margery, A Tale of the Lollards, by Emily Sarah Holt.
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This is a short book, but it was quite hard to transcribe on account of
so much of it being in mediaeval English, with its inconsistent and
uncouth spelling.
Margery is a young woman of high birth, who goes one day to hear a
sermon preached by one of the new Lollards, who advise people to read
the Bible as recently translated by Wycliffe, and to believe only what
they find therein. This was directly contrary to the view of the
official church, which had made up all sorts of doctrines that could be
seen to be not at all supported by the words of the Gospel. Margery can
only get hold of a copy of the Gospel according to Saint John.
Margery is very much struck with the words of the Gospel, despite the
hostility of all around her. Everyone was far too afraid of the extreme
punishment meted out by "Holy Church" to those who questioned its
teachings. And Margery ends up by being burnt at the stake for her
belief in the Gospel, as opposed to what was taught by the Church.
But you will learn a lot about upper-class life in the early years of
the fifteenth century, and if you can put up with the forms of speech,
you will gain thereby. Not recommended for audiobook, since a great
deal of editing, such as removal of footnotes, conversion of mediaeval
speech to modern, and so forth.
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MISTRESS MARGERY, A TALE OF THE LOLLARDS, BY EMILY SARAH HOLT.
CHAPTER ONE.
A REGULAR OF OXENFORDE.
"Give me the book, and let me read;
My soul is strangely stirred--
They are such words of love and truth
As ne'er before I heard!"
Mary Howitt.
The sun was shining brightly on the battlements and casements of Lovell
Tower. The season was spring, and the year 1395. Within the house,
though it was barely seven o'clock in the morning, all was bustle and
confusion, for Dame Lovell was superintending her handmaidens in the
preparation of dinner. A buxom woman was Dame Lovell, neither tall nor
short, but decidedly stout, with a round, good-natured face, which just
then glowed and burned under the influence of the fire roaring on the
large grateless hearth. She wore a black dress, heavily trimmed at the
bottom with fur, and she carried on her head one of those remarkable
elevations generally known as the Syrian or conical head-dress, made of
black stiffened gauze, and spangled with golden stars. Her assistants,
mostly girls of from sixteen to twenty-five years of age, were occupied
in various parts of the kitchen; while Mistress Katherine, a
staid-looking woman of middle age, who filled a post somewhat similar to
the modern one of housekeeper, was employed at a side table in mixing
some particularly elaborate compound. Among this busy throng moved Dame
Lovell, now giving a stir to a pot, and now peeping into a pan, boxing
the ears of any maiden who appeared remiss in her duty, and generally
keeping up a strict and active supervision.
"Nan, thy leeks be not hewn small enough. Cicely, look to the pottage,
that it boil not over. Al'ce, thou idle jade!"--with a sound box on the
ear,--"thou hast left out the onions in thy blanch-porre! Margery!
Madge! Why, Madge, I say! Where is Mistress Margery, maidens? Joan,
lass, hie thee up, and see whether Mistress Margery be not in the
chamber."
Joan, a diminutive girl of sixteen, quitted the parsley she was
chopping, and ran lithely out of the room, to which she soon returned,
and, dropping a courtesy, announced that "Mistress Margery was in her
chamber, and was coming presently,"--which latter word, in the year
1395, meant not "by and by," as it now does, but "at present." Mistress
Margery verified the assertion of Joan by following her into the kitchen
almost immediately. And since Mistress Margery is to play the important
part of heroine, it may be well to devote a few words to her person and
costume. She is the only child of Sir Geoffrey Lovell, Knight, and Dame
Agnes Lovell, and is now seventeen years of age; rather under the middle
height, slenderly formed, with an appearance of great fragility and
delicacy; her complexion is very fair, of that extreme fairness which
often betokens disease, and her face almost colourless. Her features
are regular, and classical in their contour; her eyes are a clear grey--
honest, truthful eyes, that look straight at you; and her hair, which is
almost long enough, when let down, to touch her feet, is of that pale
golden colour so much celebrated in the Middle Ages, and so very rarely
to be seen now. Mistress Margery's attire comprises a black dress, so
stiff, partly from its own richness of material, and partly with
whalebone, that it is quite capable of standing upright without any
assistance from Mistress Margery's person. Its trimming consists of a
border of gris, or marten's fur; and over this black petticoat the young
lady wears a cote-hardie, or close-fitting jacket, also edged with gris.
Her head is not encumbered by the steeplecap which disfigures her
mother; instead of it she wears the beautiful "dove-cote," a net of
golden tissue, ornamented with pearls, within which her hair is
confined.
It may also be as well to notice here, that Mistress Margery is highly
accomplished. Of course she can play the lute, and sing, and work
elaborate and delicate embroidery, and compound savoury dishes; and
equally of course does she know any nobleman or gentleman by a glance at
his shield, and can tell you in a moment to whom belong the three lions
rampant sable, and who owns the bend engrailed argent on a field gules.
These are but the ordinary acquirements of a gentlewoman; but our
heroine knows more than this. Mistress Margery can read; and the
handmaidens furthermore whisper to each other, with profound admiration
of their young mistress's extraordinary knowledge, that Mistress Margery
can _write_. Dame Lovell cannot do either; but Sir Geoffrey, who is a
literary man, and possesses a library, has determined that his daughter
shall receive a first-rate education. Sir Geoffrey's library is a very
large one, for it consists of no less than forty-two volumes, five of
which are costly illuminated manuscripts, and consist of the Quest of
the Sangraal [see Note 1], the Travels of Sir John Maundeville, the
Chronicle of Matthew Paris, Saint Augustine's City of God, and a
Breviary. Dame Lovell has no Breviary, and as she could not read it if
she had, does not require one; but Margery, having obtained her father's
permission to do so, has employed her powers of writing and illuminating
in making an elaborate copy of his Breviary for her own use; and from an
illumination in this book, not quite finished, representing Judas
Iscariot in parti-coloured stockings, and Saint Peter shooting at
Malchus with a cross-bow, is Margery now summoned away to the kitchen.
Margery entered the kitchen with a noiseless step, and making a low
courtesy to her mother, said, in a remarkably clear, silvery voice, "It
pleased you to send for me, good mother."
"Yea, lass; give a hand to the blanch-porre, for Al'ce knows no more
than my shoe; and then see to the grewall, whilst I scrape these almonds
for the almond butter."
Margery quietly performed her task, and spoke to the mortified Al'ce in
a much gentler tone than Dame Lovell had done. She was occupied in the
preparation of "eels in grewall," a kind of eel-stew, when a slender
youth, a little older than herself, and attired in the usual costume of
a page, entered the kitchen.
"Why, Richard Pynson," cried Dame Lovell, "thou art a speedy messenger,
in good sooth. I looked not for thee until evensong."
"I finished mine errand, good mistress," replied the youth, "earlier by
much than I looked for to do."
"Hast heard any news, Richard?"
"None, mistress mine, unless it be news that a homily will be preached
in Bostock Church on Sunday next ensuing, by a regular of Oxenforde, one
Master Sastre."
The grewall was standing still, and Margery was listening intently to
the words of Richard Pynson, as he carelessly leaned against the wall.
"Will you go, Mistress Margery?"
Margery looked timidly at her mother. "I would like well to go," said
she, "an' it might stand with your good pleasure."
"Ay, lass, go," replied Dame Lovell, good-naturedly. "It is seldom we
have a homily in Bostock Church. Parson Leggatt is not much given to
preaching, meseemeth."
"I will go with you, Master Pynson," said Margery, resuming the
concoction of the dainty dish before her, "with a very good will, for I
should like greatly to hear the Reverend Father. I never yet heard
preach a scholar of Oxenforde."
Dame Lovell moved away to take the pottage off the fire, and Pynson,
approaching Margery, whispered to her, "They say that this Master Sastre
preacheth strange things, like as did Master John Wycliffe a while
agone; howbeit, since Holy Church interfereth not, I trow we may well go
to hear him."
Margery's colour rose, and she said in a low voice, "It will do us no
harm, trow?"
"I trust not so," answered Richard; and, taking up his hunting-bag, he
quitted the room.
"Why, Cicely!" exclaimed Dame Lovell, turning round from the pottage,
"had I wist thou hadst put no saffron herein, thou shouldst have had
mine hand about thine ears, lass! Bring the saffron presently! No
saffron, quotha!"
Before we accompany Margery and Richard to hear the homily of Master
Sastre, it might perhaps be as well to prevent any misunderstanding on
the part of the reader with respect to Richard Pynson. He is the page
of Sir Geoffrey Lovell, and the son of Sir John Pynson of Pynsonlee; for
in the year 1395, wherein our story opens, it is the custom for young
gentlemen, even the sons of peers, to be educated as page or squire to
some neighbouring knight of wealth and respectability. Richard Pynson,
therefore, though he may seem to occupy a subordinate position, is in
every respect the equal of Margery.
The morning on which Master Sastre was to deliver his homily was one of
those delicious spring days which seem the immediate harbingers of
summer. Margery, in her black dress, and with a warm hood over her
cote-hardie, was assisted by her father to mount her pillion, Richard
Pynson being already seated before her on the grey palfrey; for in the
days of pillions, if the gentleman assisted the lady on her pillion
_before_ he mounted himself, he ran imminent risk of knocking her off
when he should attempt to mount. They rode leisurely to church, the
distance being about two miles, and a little foot-page ran beside them
charged with the care of the palfrey, while they attended the service.
Mass was performed by the parish priest, but the scholar from Oxford,
who sat in the sedilia, where Margery could scarcely see him, took no
part in the service beyond reading the Gospel.
The sermons of that day, as a rule, may be spoken of in two classes.
Either the preacher would read a passage of Scripture in Latin, and
throw in here and there a few remarks by way of commentary, or else the
sermon was a long and dry disquisition upon some of the (frequently very
absurd) dogmas of the schoolmen; such as, whether angels were synonymous
with spirits, which of the seven principal angels was the chief, how
long it took Gabriel to fly from heaven to earth at the Annunciation, at
what time of day he appeared, how he was dressed, etcetera, Sastre's
discourse could not be comprised in either of these classes. He read
his text first, as usual, in Latin, but then he said:
"And now, brethren and sistren, to declare in the vulgar tongue unto you
that have not the tongues, this passage of God's Word as sueth." [Sueth
means follows].
"_The Lombe that was slayn is worthi to take vertue and Godhed and
wisdom and strengthe and onour and glorie and blessyng_!"
Note: it will readily be seen that all the quotations from Scripture in
this story are necessarily taken from Wycliffe's translation.
What followed was no scholastic disquisition, no common-place remarks on
the passage chosen. "The Lamb that was slain" was the beginning and the
end of Sastre's discourse. He divided his sermon into the following
subjects. "Who is the Lamb?--how and why was He slain?--why is He
worthy?--and, who are the speakers in the text who thus proclaim His
worthiness?" He showed them, by a reference to the Mosaic sacrifices,
why Christ was called a Lamb; he told them most fully that He died, the
Just for the unjust, that He might bring us to God; he placed completely
before his audience the full and free and finished nature of His perfect
work: he told them that God's love to sinners was such that He gave out
of His bosom His own dear Son, the Son of His love, that their sins
might be counted His, and that His righteousness might be accounted
theirs. And under his last head, he spoke of that holy, happy city
whereinto no sin, nor harm, nor death could ever enter; whose
foundations were gems, and whose gates pearls; the dwelling-place of the
blessed ones, who having washed their robes, and made them white in the
blood of the Lamb, would never rest day nor night in singing the praises
of His worthiness.
Sastre also drew the attention of his hearers to the fact that the
ascription of praise in the text was made by the angels. "In all this
Book," remarked he, "I find nowhere such like laud as this given unto
any but God only. The blessed angels do worship unto the Lamb, but I
see not any offer for to do worship unto the angels, save only Saint
John himself, who doth twice fall down to worship afore the feet of the
angel which did show these things unto him. But I find not the angel in
any wise gladded with the same. Nay, the blessed John doth receive a
sharp rebuking of his folly: `See thou that thou do not,' saith the
angel; `worschipe thou God.' Wherefore, good friends, ye may see hence
how foolish are they who do worship unto the blessed angels: and how
grievous would be the same unto those good spirits of God if they did
knowledge it. Whether or no they be witting of such matters, I wis not,
for this Book saith nought thereupon; but ye see, friends, that if they
wit it, it doth anger them; and if they wit it not, what are ye the
better for praying unto them? Moreover, meseemeth for the same reason,
that the blessed Virgin Saint Mary, who is now in heaven with her Son
and Lord, Christ, would not be in any wise over well pleased if she wist
how men do worship unto her on the earth. And the like, I trow, may be
said of all God's saints."
At the conclusion of his sermon, Sastre leaned forward over the pulpit
and spoke in a low, earnest, loving tone. "Who is here, good friends,"
asked he, "that loveth this blessed Lord Jesu, the Lamb that was slain?
Who is here who will give up this vile and wretched world for His sake?
Who that will sue [follow] this blessed Lamb whithersoever He goeth,
even though He lead along the sharp way called tribulation, or the weary
way called prison, or the bitter way called poverty, or even verily
through the low and dark door called death? Who is here? Is there none
I beseech you, good friends, hath Christ no souls in this place? When
the blessed angels count up the number of the purchased ones, will ye
have them leave Bostock out of their reckoning? Shall it be worse than
Sodom and Gomorrah, wherein there was _one_ soul that was saved? Is
there not _one_ here? Nay, brethren, I trust it is not so. I trust ye
will come, yea in numbers, yea in throngs, yea in multitudes, and crowd
on Christ to touch the hem of His blessed garment, that is the power of
His great mercy. Christ loveth to have folk crowd on Him to cry Him
mercy. I read not that ever He complained of the crowding of the
multitude. I read not that ever He turned away so much as one poor
caitiff [sinner] who came unto Him. I read not that His lips plained
ever of aught but that they came not--that they lacked faith. I am an
old man, friends, and in all likelihood shall I never come here again;
but I say unto you that I shall scan well the multitude in the white
apparel for the faces which be upturned unto me this day. I pray you
that I miss them not. I pray God that ye--yea, that every man and woman
of you, may be clothed in yon glistering and shene [bright] raiment, and
may lift up your voices to cry, `The Lamb is worthy' in the city of
God!"
That sermon was a strange thing to Margery Lovell. Never, from the day
of her birth to that day, had she heard as she now heard of the Lamb
that was slain. For above a mile of their way home Richard and Margery
kept perfect silence, which the latter was the first to break just
before they came in sight of Lovell Tower.
"Master Pynson, we have heard strange things to-day."
"We have, of a truth, Mistress Margery. I wonder whether Master Sastre
be right."
"I wish greatly," replied Margery, "that I could get the book wherein I
have heard that Master Wycliffe rendered God's Word into the vulgar
tongue. I could see then whether Master Sastre were right. I would I
knew of any man who had that book!"
"Master Carew of Marston told me some time agone," said Richard, rather
hesitatingly, "that he had the Gospel according to John the Apostle,
copied out by a feat [clever] scribe from Master Wycliffe's rendering
thereof."
"O Master Pynson!" said Margery, entreatingly, "I pray you that you ask
good Master Carew to lend me that book! Tell him that Mistress Margery
Lovell will lay her best jewels to pledge that she returneth the book
safe. I must see that book Master Pynson!"
"Softly, I pray you, good Mistress Margery," answered Richard, smiling;
"it were well to go warily to work; for wot you not that Master
Wycliffe--ay, and Master Sastre too--be accounted heretics by some? You
would not, trow, fall under the ban of Holy Church?"
"I would with a good will do aught, or bear aught," replied Margery,
earnestly, "so I might wit of a surety that I should be one of those who
wear the white apparel, and cry, `The Lamb is worthy' in the city of
God!"
"Well, Mistress Margery," said Richard, soothingly, "I will do my best
for to get you the book, but it may be some time ere I see Master
Carew."
Dame Lovell herself was standing on the steps of Lovell Tower,
apparently looking out for the riders, for as soon as they came within
hearing distance she raised her voice to say, "Richard Pynson! Sir
Geoffrey would speak with you. Come in quickly, I pray you, and leave
the handmaidens to help Mistress Margery from her pillion."
"I need no help, good mother," said Margery, as she sprang lightly from
her seat, while Richard hurried into the house to find Sir Geoffrey.
"Sir Geoffrey would send Richard Pynson to Marston," said Dame Lovell,
as she preceded Margery into the hall. "And how liked you Master
Sastre, Madge?"
"Very greatly, good mother; never heard I before a homily so brave."
"That is well," said Dame Lovell, and disappeared into the kitchen, as
Margery ran up-stairs to her own room, and brought down in her hand a
valuable necklace. Richard came into the banqueting-hall from one door,
as Margery made her appearance from the opposite one.
"I have a letter from Sir Geoffrey to bear to Sir Ralph Marston," said
he. "Have you any commands for Marston, Mistress Margery?" he
mischievously added.
"Master Pynson," said Margery, earnestly, in a low tone, "I pray you to
take this jewel to Master Carew, and to leave it in pledge with him, in
case he will lend me the book. If he value it at more than this, I can
send other jewels; but, Master Pynson, bring me the book!"
Richard placed the necklace for safety in the bosom of his doublet, and
answered, "Fear not, good mistress; if I bring you not the book, it
shall not be for lack of entreaty. Only hope not too much, for I may
chance to fail."
"Pray God he lend you the book!" was her only answer.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Note. The Sangraal was the vessel in which the wine was contained which
Christ gave to His disciples, saying, "Drink ye all of this;" this
vessel was supposed to have been brought into England by Joseph of
Arimathea; and the "quest" or search for this important relic formed one
of the chief adventures of the Knights of the Round Table.
CHAPTER TWO.
A LATE DINNER.
"And there is something in this book
That makes all care be gone,
And yet I weep--I know not why--
As I go reading on!"
Mary Howitt.
Margery went into the kitchen, and helped to prepare supper, under the
directions of Dame Lovell, and then she returned to her own room, and
tried to finish her illumination of Peter and Malchus; but she could not
command her thoughts sufficiently to paint well, so much was her heart
set on "the book." Therefore she sat with her hands folded in her lap,
and tried to recall Sastre's sermon. Then came supper-time, and Margery
went down to the banqueting-hall; and after supper, having begged her
parents' blessing before retiring to rest, she came back to her chamber.
But she did not attempt to undress. When the sun set, a red glory
above the tree-tops, she was watching at her casement for Richard
Pynson; and when the silver moon and the little golden stars had taken
the sun's place in the heavens, she was watching still. At last she
heard the sound of a horse's feet, and stole softly down the private
staircase which led from her room to the hall. As Richard entered the
hall, Margery softly murmured his name.
"What, Mistress Margery!" he cried, in astonishment. "You here! You
have watched well for the book, and--there it is."
And Richard drew from the bag slung over his shoulder a small quarto
volume.
"Oh, thanks, good Master Pynson, a thousand thanks!" cried Margery, in
delight. "And how long season may I keep the book?"
"Master Carew said," returned Pynson, "that he asked not jewels for the
safe-keeping of the book, for the word of a Lovell was enough," and
Richard drew the necklace from his bosom and handed it to Margery. "He
will lend the book for one month's time. He said, furthermore, that he
lent it, not because he loved it not, but because he prayed that you,
Mistress Margery, might know and love it too."
"Amen!" was Margery's answer, as she folded the book to her bosom, and
crept softly back to her chamber--but not to bed. The first thing she
did was to take off her petticoat and cote-hardie, and to put on a loose
dressing-gown of grey serge. Then she divested herself of her
head-dress, and allowed her fair hair to flow down over her shoulders
without restraint. Having thus rendered herself comfortable, she seated
herself in a carved chair, furnished with an ample cushion, and
proceeded to examine the book.
The book was bound in leather, dark brown in colour, and simple in
workmanship. It was clasped with two small clasps of common metal,
washed over with silver; the leaves were of vellum, and on the first
page was a badly-drawn and violently-coloured illumination of Christ and
the Samaritan woman. Stops (as a rule) it had not, except a full stop
here and there; and capitals there were none, with the occasional
exception of a letter in red ink. Notwithstanding this, the manuscript,
being written in a clear small hand, was very legible to eyes accustomed
to read only black letter. At first Margery felt as if she were doing
wrong in reading the book, but her curiosity drew her on, as well as her
earnest desire to know more of those "strange things" of which Sastre
had spoken in his sermon. Margery had taken the precaution of fastening
the door before she commenced the study of the book. After the first
glance which had made her acquainted with the particulars above noticed,
she opened the book at random near the middle, and her eye fell on the
following words:--
"_Be not your herte afrayed, ne drede it; ye bileuen in God, and bileeue
ye in me. In the hous of my Fadir ben manye dwellingis; if ony thinge
lasse, I hadde seid to you; for I go to make readi to you a place. And
if I go to make redy to you a place, eftsoone I come, and I schal take
you to my silf, that where I am, ye be_." John xiv. 1-3.
Never before had Margery read words like these. "Be not your herte
afrayed!" Why, the one feeling which she was taught was more acceptable
to God than any other, was fear. "In the hous of my Fadir ben manye
dwellingis." Margery clasped her hands above her head, and laid head
and hands upon the open volume; and in the agony of her earnestness she
cried aloud, "O Lamb that was slain, hast thou not made ready a dwelling
for Margery Lovell!"
Margery read on, and the more she read the more she wondered. The
Church did not teach as this book did, and _both_ could not be right.
Which, then, was wrong? How could the Church be wrong, which was the
depository of God's truth? And yet, how could the holy apostle be wrong
in reporting the words of Christ?
Many times over during that night did Margery's thoughts arrange
themselves in this manner. At one time she thought that nothing could
possibly supersede the infallibility of the Church; at another she saw
the complete impossibility of anything being able to stand for a moment
against the infallibility of God. The only conclusion at which she
could arrive was a determination to read the volume, and judge for
herself. She read on. "_I am weye, treuthe, and lyf; no man cometh to
the Fadir but by me_." [John xiv. 6.] Were these words the words of
Christ? And what way had Margery been taught? Obedience to the Church,
humility, penances, alms-giving--works always, Christ never. Could
these be the right way? She went on, till the tears ran down her cheeks
like rain--till her heart throbbed and her soul glowed with feelings she
had never felt before--till the world, and life, and death, and things
present, all seemed to be nothing, and Christ alone seemed to be
everything. She read on, utterly oblivious of the flight of time, and
regardless that darkness had given place to light, until the fall of
something in the room below, and the voice of Dame Lovell calling for
Cicely, suddenly warned her that the house was astir. Margery sprang
up, her heart beating now for a different reason. She hurriedly closed
the book, and secreted it in a private cupboard, of which she alone had
the key, and where she generally kept her jewels, and any little
trinkets on which she set a special value. Margery's next act, I fear,
was indefensible; for it was to throw the cover and pillows of her bed
into confusion, that the maids might suppose it had been occupied as
usual. She then noiselessly unfastened the door, and proceeded with her
dressing, so that when, a few minutes after, Dame Lovell came panting up
the stairs, and lifted the latch, the only thing she noticed was Margery
standing before the mirror, and fastening up her hair with what she
called a pin, and what we should, I suspect, designate a metallic
skewer.
"What, Madge, not donned yet?" was Dame Lovell's greeting. "How thou
hast overslept thyself, girl! Dost know it is already five of the
clock, and thy father and I have been stirring above an hour?"
"Is it so late, of a truth?" asked Margery, in dismay. "I cry you
mercy, good mother!"
And Margery was thinking what excuse she could use by way of apology,
when Dame Lovell's next words set her at rest, as they showed that the
mind of that good lady was full of other thoughts than her daughter's
late rising.
"Grand doings, lass!" said she, as she sat down in the carved arm-chair.
"Grand doings, of a truth, Madge!"
"Where, good mistress mine?"
"Where?" said Dame Lovell, lifting her eyebrows. "Why, here, in Lovell
Tower. Where should they be else? Richard Pynson was so late of
returning from Marston that he saw not thy father until this morrow."
"I heard him come."
"Wert awake?"
"Yea. I was awake a long season!"
"Poor lass!" said her mother. "No marvel thou art late. But harken to
what I was about to tell thee. Sir Ralph Marston and his kinsman the
Lord Marnell, dine with us to-day."
"To-day?"
"Yea, to-day. Dear, dear, dear, dear! What folk must they be that live
in London town! Marry, Sir Ralph sent word by Richard Pynson, praying
us not to dine until one of the clock, for that the Lord Marnell is not
used to it at an earlier hour. I marvel when they sup! I trow it is
not until all Christian folk be a-bed!"
"Dwells the Lord Marnell in London?" inquired Margery, with surprise;
for Margery was more astonished and interested to hear of a nobleman
from London dining with her parents than a modern young lady would be if
told that a Chinese mandarin was expected.
"Yea, truly, in London dwells he, and is of the bedchamber to our Lord
the King, and a great man, Madge! Hie thee down when thou art dressed,
child, and make up thy choicest dishes. But, good Saint Christopher!
how shall I do from seven to one of the clock without eating? I will
bid Cicely serve a void at ten."
And so saying, Dame Lovell bustled downstairs as quickly as her
corpulence would allow her, and Margery followed, a few minutes later.
While the former was busy in the hall, ordering fresh rushes to be
spread, and the tables set, Margery repaired to the ample kitchen,
where, summoning the maids to assist her, and tying a large coarse apron
round her, she proceeded to concoct various dishes, reckoned at that
time particularly choice. There are few books more curious than a
cookery-book five hundred years old.
Our forefathers appear to have used joints of meat much less frequently
than the smaller creatures, whether flesh or fowl, hares, rabbits,
chickens, capons, etcetera. Of fish, eels excepted, they ate little or
none out of Lent. Potatoes, of course, they had none; and rice was so
rare that it figured as a "spice;" but to make up for this, they ate,
apparently, almost every green thing that grew in their gardens,
rose-leaves not excepted. Of salt they had an unutterable abhorrence.
Sugar existed, but it was very expensive, and honey was often used
instead. Pepper and cloves were employed in immense quantities. The
article which appears to have held with them the corresponding place to
that of salt with us, and which was never omitted in any dish, no matter
what its other component parts, was saffron. In corroboration of these
remarks, I append one very curious receipt,--a dish which formed one of
the principal covers on Sir Geoffrey Lovell's table:--
"Farsure of Hare.
"Take hares and flee [flay] hom, and washe hom in broth of fleshe with
the blode; then boyle the brothe and scome [skim] hit wel and do hit in
a pot, and more brothe thereto. And take onyons and mynce horn and put
hom in the pot, and set hit on the fyre and let hit sethe [boil], and
take bred and stepe hit in wyn and vynegur, and drawe hit up and do hit
in the potte, and pouder of pepur and clowes, and maces hole [whole],
and pynes, and raysynges of corance [currants], then take and parboyle
wel the hare, and choppe hym on gobettes [small pieces] and put him into
a faire [clean] urthen pot; and do thereto clene grese, and set hit on
the fyre, and stere hit wele tyl hit be wel fryed; then caste hit in the
pot to the broth, an do therto pouder of canell [cinnamon] and sugur;
and let hit boyle togedur, and colour hit wyth saffron, and serve hit
forthe."
It will be noticed from this that our ancestors had none of our vulgar
prejudices with respect to onions, neither had they any regard to the
Scriptural prohibition of blood. The utter absence of all prescription
of quantities in these receipts is delightfully indefinite.
There were many other dishes to this important dinner beside the
"farsure of hare;" and on this occasion most of the rabbits and chickens
were entire, and not "chopped on gobbettes;" for the feast was "for a
lord," and lords were permitted to eat whole birds and beasts, while the
less privileged commonalty had to content themselves with "gobbettes."
When Margery had concluded her preparations for dinner, she went into
the garden to gather rosemary and flowers, which she disposed in various
parts of the hall, laying large bunches of rosemary in all available
places. All was now ready, and Margery washed her hands, took off her
apron, and ran up into her own room, to pin on her shoulder a
"quintise," in other words, a long streamer of cherry-coloured ribbon.
The guests arrived on horseback about half-past twelve, and Richard
Pynson ushered them into the hall, and ran into the kitchen to inform
Dame Lovell and Margery, adding that "he pitied Lord Marnell's horse," a
remark the signification of which became apparent when the ladies
presented themselves in the banqueting-hall. Sir Geoffrey was already
there, conversing with his guests. Margery expected to find Lord
Marnell similar to his cousin, Sir Ralph Marston, whom she already knew,
and who was a pleasant, gentlemanly man of about forty years of age,
always joking with everybody, and full of fun. But she did not expect
what she now saw.
The great man from London, who sat in a large oak-chair in the hall, was
a great man in all corporeal senses. He was very tall, and stout in
proportion; an older man than his cousin Sir Ralph, perhaps ten or
fifteen years older; and there was something in his face which made
Margery drop her eyes in an instant. It was a very curious face. The
upper part--the eyes and forehead--was finely-formed, and showed at
least an average amount of intellect; but from the nose downward the
form and expression of the features were suggestive only of the
animal,--a brutal, sensual, repelling look. Margery, who had looked for
the great man from London with girlish curiosity, suddenly felt an
unconquerable and causeless dislike to him swell up in her heart, a
something which she could neither define nor account for, that made her
wish to avoid sitting near him, and turn her eyes away whenever his were
directed towards her.
Sir Geoffrey presented his wife and daughter to Lord Marnell, and Sir
Ralph came forward with a cordial greeting; after which they took their
seats at table, for Richard Pynson was already bringing in the "farsure
of hare," and Mistress Katherine following with the pottage. The
occupants of the high table, on the dais, consisted of Sir Geoffrey and
Dame Lovell, Lord Marnell, Sir Ralph Marston, Margery, Richard Pynson,
Mistress Katherine, and Friar Andrew Rous, Sir Geoffrey's chaplain. The
maids sat at the second table, and the farm-servants at a third, lower
down the hall. Sir Ralph, as usual, was full of fun, and spared nobody,
keeping the whole table in a roar of laughter, excepting Lord Marnell,
who neither laughed at his cousin's jokes, nor offered any observations
of his own, being wholly occupied with the discussion of the various
dishes as they were presented to him, and consuming, according to the
joint testimony of Dame Lovell and Friar Andrew after the feast, "enough
to last seven men for a week." When dinner was over, and "the tables
lifted," the company gathered round the fire, and proceeded to make
themselves comfortable. Sir Ralph sang songs, and told funny anecdotes,
and cracked jokes with the young people; while Lord Marnell, in
conversation with Sir Geoffrey, showed that the promise of neither half
of his face was entirely unfulfilled, by proving himself a shrewd
observer, and not a bad talker. In the midst of this conversation, Sir
Ralph, turning round to Sir Geoffrey, inquired if he had heard anything
of a certain sermon that had been preached the day before at Bostock
Church.
"I heard of it," answered he, "but I heard it not. Some of mine,
methinks, heard the same. Madge, wentest not thou thereto?"
"Ay, good father, I went with Master Pynson."
"Ah!" said Sir Ralph. "I went not, for the which I now grieve, the more
as my good cousin telleth me that Master Sastre is accounted a great one
by some--but these seem not of the best."
"Misconceive me not, fair cousin," said Lord Marnell. "It is only the
Lollards that think well of the man, and thou wottest that Holy Church
looketh not kindly on their evil doings. That ill priest, John
Wycliffe, who is accounted their leader, hath done more hurt to the
faith than any heretic these many years."
"Thou art but ill affected unto them, I trow," said Sir Ralph, jokingly.
"Ill affected!" exclaimed Lord Marnell, bringing down his hand violently
upon the arm of his chair, with a blow which made Margery start. "I cry
you mercy, fair mistress--but if I knew of any among my kin or meynie
[Household retinue] that leaned that way--ay, were it mine own sister,
the Prioress of Kennington--I tell thee, Ralph, I would have her up
before the King's Grace's council, and well whipped!"
Margery shuddered slightly. Sir Ralph leaned back in his chair, and
laughed heartily.
"Well said, fair cousin mine! But I pray thee, tell me what doctrines
hold these men, that thou wouldst have them all up afore the King's
Grace's council, and well whipped?"
"All manner of evil!" answered Lord Marnell, wrathfully. "They hold, as
I hear, that the blessed Sacrament of the Altar is in no wise the true
body of Christ, but only a piece of bread blessed by the priest, and to
be eaten in memory of His death; for the which reason also they would
allow the lay folk to drink Christ's blood. Moreover, they say that the
blessed angels and God's saints be not to be worshipped, but only to be
held in reverence and kindly memory. Also, they give to the common
people the Scriptures of God's Word for to read, which we wot well is
only fit for priests. And in all things which they do, I find not that
these evil wretches do hold any true thing as taught by Holy Church, but
one, which is masses for souls departed. I wis not much concerning
them, for they move mine anger."
"I pray your good Lordship," asked Sir Geoffrey, "can you tell me
whether these men be in great force in London or thereabouts at this
time? Find they any favour in the Court?"
"They be ever increasing," said Lord Marnell "so much so that the King's
council have seen good to prepare some orders against them--forbidding
of their assemblages, and such like--for to present unto the Parliament.
These orders provide, as my good friend holy Abbot Bilson did tell me,
that all convicted to be Lollards shall suffer close prison, for longer
or shorter time, as pleaseth the King's Grace. I trow they find not
favour at Court with many, but the few that look well on them be unhaply
of the highest. I have heard say that some in the Duke of Lancaster's
palace show them favour, and it is no news that the Queen--whose soul
God pardon!--did lean that way. In all open hours she was reading of
Scripture in the vulgar tongue. Master Sastre, the priest, who my fair
cousin telleth me was a-preaching in Bostock Church yestermorn, is, I
take it, one of their chief men, and did learn of Master Wycliffe
himself. I trow he will find it go hard with him if ever he cometh near
London again. He goeth a-preaching of his doctrines up and down the
realm, and perverting from the faith evilly-disposed men and sely
[simple, unlearned] damsels who lack something to set their tongues
running."
Sir Ralph here made a remark which turned the conversation; for this
Margery was sorry, as it had interested her extremely. Lord Marnell's
remarks taught her more about the Lollards than she had ever known
before. So the Queen read the Bible in English! thought she. Why
should not I do the same? She sat wrapped in her own thoughts for a
long time, and when she roused herself from them, she noticed that Dame
Lovell had quitted the room, and that Sir Ralph and Sir Geoffrey were
talking politics, wherein they were occupied in proving, to the
unqualified satisfaction of each, that there was "something rotten in
the State," and that England could not last very long, her only business
being to demolish France. And Margery, finding the conversation now
extremely dull--though had she for an instant suspected the turn it
would take in her absence, she certainly would never have gone--slipped
out, and joined the more noisy party in the kitchen, where she found
Dame Lovell seated in the chimney-corner and inveighing fervently
against late hours.
"An it be not three of the clock already," said that angry lady, "I am a
heathen Jew, and no Christian! Time to prepare supper for Christian
folk--but when that great hulk of a man, that can do nothing in this
world but eat, thinks to sup, I wis not! Marry, I trow that nought more
will go down his throat until evensong! I marvel if our grandsons will
be as great fools as we be!"
"More, Dame," answered Mistress Katherine, sententiously. She was a
woman who very seldom spoke, and when she did, compressed all her ideas
into as few words as would serve the purpose.
"Nay, Saint Christopher! I hope not," said Dame Lovell. "And what am I
for to do now? Madge, lass, open the door and bid hither Richard
Pynson."
Margery softly opened the door into the hall; and as softly called the
person who answered to that name. He rose, and came to her, and Sir
Geoffrey and Lord Marnell, who were in low-toned, earnest conversation,
suddenly stopped as she appeared.
"Richard," said Dame Lovell, in what she doubtlessly intended for a
whisper, "I pray thee, good youth, to go in softly, and privily demand
of Sir Ralph what time he list to sup."
Richard executed the order, and, returning, closed the door behind him.
"Sir Ralph saith, good mistress mine, that the Lord Marnell when at home
suppeth not afore six of the clock; but he prayeth you for to sup when
you will, to the which he will without doubt accommodate himself."
"Six of the clock!" cried Dame Lovell, in amazement. "Richard, art sure
thou heardest aright?"
"Certes, good mistress."
Dame Lovell sat in silent horror.
"Well!" said she at length, "if ever in all my days did I hear of a like
thing! Cicely, serve a void in my privy chamber at four of the clock.
This poor country of ours may well go to wrack, if its rulers sup not
afore six of the clock! Dear, dear, dear! I marvel if the blessed
Virgin Saint Mary supped not until six of the clock! May all the saints
forgive us that we be such fools!"
CHAPTER THREE.
COMING EVENTS CAST THEIR SHADOWS BEFORE.
"Ay, sooth we feel too strong in weal to need Thee on that road.
But woe being come, the soul is dumb that crieth not on God."
Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
The guests departed about seven o'clock, and Dame Lovell got to bed a
little before nine--an hour which was in her eyes most untimely.
Margery, though she had not slept on the previous night, was unable to
close her eyes for some time. The unwonted excitement kept her awake,
and another idea, too, mingled with her thoughts. The book! How should
she copy it? It must be at stolen hours--probably in the night. And
what material should she use? Not vellum, for Sir Geoffrey might ask
what she was doing if she requested more of that precious article than
was necessary for her Breviary. He had allowed her some paper for the
rough draft of her illuminations, and she had a little of this left.
She determined to make use of this paper so far as it would go, and to
trust to circumstances for the remainder.
Thinking and contriving, Margery sank to sleep, and dreamed that Sir
Geoffrey was reading the book to Lord Marnell, who, by that curious
mixture which often takes place in dreams, was also Richard Pynson.
From this dream, about ten minutes after she fell asleep, as it appeared
to her, Margery suddenly sprang up to the conviction that broad daylight
was streaming in at the window. She rose and dressed herself hurriedly,
and, running down into the kitchen, was surprised to find nobody there
but Joan, the drudge of the household, who moreover was rubbing her
eyes, and apparently only half awake.
"Why, Mistress Margery!" said the girl, in astonishment, "your good
mistress-ship is early, considering our late hours. The Dame is not yet
risen."
"In good sooth?" inquired Margery, looking at the clock, when she found
to her surprise that it was barely five o'clock; and receiving from Joan
the information that Dame Lovell had told Cicely overnight that she did
not intend to appear until six, she returned to her own room, and,
drawing the book from its hiding-place, commenced her task of copying.
Margery worked quickly, and had copied nearly a page in the hour. So
absorbed was she in her task, that she never heard the door open, and
started like a guilty thing when the well-known voice of her mother
sounded close by her.
"Eh, Madge! Up and at work? Thou wilt work thy fingers to the bone,
child! Is that thy mass-book? Nay, it is paper, I see, and that, I
wis, is on vellum. What art doing, damsel?"
Pale and red, red and pale, went Margery by turns at this string of
questions.
"Why, lass, what hast?" asked Dame Lovell, in surprise.
"I cry you mercy, good mother!" said Margery, descending to
equivocation, and blushing more than ever; "I heard you not open my
door, and your voice started me."
"Poor Madge! did I fright thee?" said Dame Lovell, kindly. "But what is
this, child? Another Breviary? Dost want two?"
"Poor Madge" she was indeed at this moment. Terrified beyond measure
lest Dame Lovell should inform Sir Geoffrey, whose learned eyes would
perceive in a moment what the book was--and seeing more danger in his
discovering its real character than in letting him suppose it to be
another Breviary, Margery, generally so truth-telling, was frightened
into a lie.
"Ay, good mother," she stammered out, "'tis a Breviary."
All that day Margery sat upon thorns; but Dame Lovell made no mention of
the incident, and she accordingly hoped it was forgotten.
Day after day passed on, and Margery worked harder than ever at copying
the book. She finished her task just one day before the month was up,
and gave back the original to Richard Pynson, entreating him to make an
errand to Marston as soon as possible, and restore the book, with her
hearty thanks, into the hands of Master Carew.
On the evening of that day, Dame Lovell sat at work in the wide
chimney-corner of the hall. Near her was Mistress Katherine, scraping
almonds into a bowl; while Margery, occupied with her distaff, sat at a
little distance. On a wide oaken settle on the opposite side of the
fire lay Friar Andrew, taking a nap, as was his afternoon custom; while
on another settle drawn up before the fire, Sir Geoffrey and Richard
Pynson sat conversing with the ladies.
"Madge, lass, hast finished thy Breviary?" asked Sir Geoffrey. "An thou
hast, I would see it."
Margery's heart leaped into her mouth, for now was the time for the
discovery of her falsehood to be made. Simply replying, however, "I
will seek it, father," she rose and laid her distaff down.
"Ay, Madge is a feat scribe, truly!" remarked Dame Lovell, to Margery's
unspeakable distress. "She hath written two Breviaries, I wis."
"Two!" said Sir Geoffrey, laughing. "One for Sundays and feasts, and
the other for week-days? Madge, bring us both of them."
Margery left the room, and returned in a few minutes, with both the
books in her hand. Sir Geoffrey took them, and opened the illuminated
one--the genuine Breviary--first. Margery reseated herself, and took up
her distaff, but the thread was very uneven, and she broke it twice,
while her father turned over the leaves of the book, and praised her
writing and illuminations. His praise was sweet enough, but some time
he must come to the end, and _then_--!
How fervently Margery wished that Dame Lovell would ask an irrelevant
question, which might lead to conversation--that Friar Andrew would
awake--that Cicely would rush in with news of the cows having broken
into the garden--or that _anything_ would occur which would put a stop
to the examination of those volumes before Sir Geoffrey arrived at the
last leaf! But everything, as it always is under such circumstances,
was unusually quiet; and Sir Geoffrey fastened the silver clasps of the
Breviary, and opened the book without anything to hinder his doing so.
Margery stole furtive looks at her father over her distaff, and soon
observed an ominous look of displeasure creeping over his face. He
passed over several leaves--turned to the beginning, and then to the
end,--then, closing the volume, he looked up and said, in a stern
voice--
"Andrew!"
Friar Andrew snored placidly on.
"Andrew!" said Sir Geoffrey, in a louder tone.
Friar Andrew gave an indistinct sound between a snore and a grunt. Sir
Geoffrey rose from his seat, and striding over to where his confessor
slept, laid hold of his shoulders, and gave him such a shake as nearly
brought him to the stone floor.