shepherd to sleep when the wolf is already in the fold, and the lambs be
in danger?"
"Eh? Oh! ay!" said Friar Andrew, half awake. "Time to sup, eh?"
"Look here, Andrew!" roared his offended patron, "and see thee what this
sinful maid hath been doing. What penance deemest thou fit for such
fault as this?" He handed the book to the friar. The friar sat up,
rubbed his eyes, opened the book, and turned over two or three leaves.
"I cry your good worship mercy," said he. "I knew not you were assaying
to arouse me. I was dreaming of a kettle of furmety of Madge's making."
"I trow here is a pretty kettle of furmety of Madge's making!" was the
irate response.
"I conceive you not, good master," said the friar. "The book is a good
book enough, trow."
"Thou art an ass!" was the civil answer. "Seest thou not that it is the
translation of Scripture whereof the Lord Marnell spake, by Master John
Wycliffe, the Lollard priest? Mindest thou not that which he said about
Lollards?"
"An what if it be?" said the confessor, yawning. "I pin not my faith on
my Lord Marnell's sleeve, though it _were_ made of slashed velvet. And
I trow Madge hath been too well bred up to draw evil from the book. So
let the damsel alone, good master, and give her book back. I trow it
will never harm her." Margery was exceedingly surprised at the turn
which affairs were taking. The truth was, that Friar Andrew was very
fond of her; he had been Sir Geoffrey's chaplain before she was born,
she had grown up under his eye, and she made, moreover, such a kettle of
furmety as he declared no one else could make. Beside this, Andrew was
a marvellous poor scholar; he could never read a book at sight, and
required to spell it over two or three times before he could make out
the meaning. He could read his mass-book, because he had done so for
the last forty years, and could have gone through the service as easily
without book as with it; though, had a different copy been given him, in
which the pages did not commence with the same line, it would probably
have perplexed him extremely. Thus, under these circumstances, his love
for Margery, his love for furmety, and his utter ignorance, combined to
dispose him to let her off easily.
Sir Geoffrey took the book from his chaplain with a sort of growl, and
threw it into Margery's lap.
"There! take it, damsel!" said he. "I account it Andrew's business to
take care of thy soul, and he saith it will not hurt thee. I mind it
the less, as thou wilt shortly go to dwell with one who will see to thee
in these matters, and will not let thee read Lollard books."
The thread fell from Margery's hand, and so did the distaff, which
rolled over the floor with a clatter. She never heeded it. A terrible,
indefinite dread had taken hold of her.
"Father! what mean you?" she stammered forth at last.
"What mean I?" said Sir Geoffrey, in the same half-affectionate,
half-sarcastic tone. "Why, that I have promised thee to the Lord
Marnell, Lord of the Bedchamber to the King's Grace, and Knight of the
Garter--and thou wilt be a lady and dwell in London town, and hold up
thine head with the highest! What sayest to _that_, child?" he added,
proudly.
She sat a moment with her white lips parted,--cold, silent, stunned.
Then the bitter cry of "Father, father!" awoke the echoes of the old
hall.
Sir Geoffrey was evidently troubled. He had sought only his daughter's
grandeur, and had never so much as dreamed that he might be making her
miserable.
"Why, child! dost not like it?" said he, in surprise.
She rose from her seat, and went to him, and kneeling down by him, laid
her head, bowed on her clasped hands, upon his knee. "O father,
father!" was all she said again.
"Truly, lass, I grieve much to see thee thus," said her father, in a
perplexed tone. "But thou wilt soon get over this, and be right glad,
too, to be so grand a lady. What shall I say to comfort thee?"
Long, terrible, hysterical sobs were coming from the bowed frame--but no
tears. At length, still without lifting up her head, she whispered--
"Is there no way to shun it, father? I love him not. O father, I love
him not--I cannot love him!"
"Truly, my poor lass, I trow we cannot shun it," said he. "I never
thought to see thee grieve so sore. The Lord Marnell is a noble
gentleman, and will find thee in silken tissues and golden cauls."
Sir Geoffrey did not rightly understand his daughter's sorrow. His
"silken tissues and golden cauls" did not raise the bowed head one inch.
"Father!" she whispered, "have you promised him?"
"I have, my child," he answered, softly.
She rose suddenly, and quickly turned to go up the stairs leading to her
own room. At this moment Richard Pynson rose also, and quietly taking
up the book, which had fallen from Margery's lap on the floor, he handed
it to her. She took it with one hand, and gave him the other, but did
not let him see her face. Then she passed into her chamber, and they
heard her fasten the door.
When she had done so, she flung herself down on the rushes [note 1], and
bent her head forward on her knees. The longer she thought over her
prospects, the more dreary and doleful they appeared. Her state of mind
was one that has been touchingly described by a writer who lived three
hundred years later--"Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother"--who, of all
who have attempted and failed in the impossible task of rendering the
Psalms into verse, perhaps approached as near success as any one.
"Troublous seas doe mee surrownde;
Saue, O Lord, my sinking soule,
Sinking wheare it feeles no grownde,
In this gulf, this whirling hole;
Wayghting ayde with earnest eying,
Calling God with bootles crying;
Dymme and drye in mee are fownde
Eyes to see, and throat to sounde."
Suddenly, as she sat thus bowed down, too sorrowful for tears, like the
dew to a parched flower came the words of the book--nay, the words of
the Lord--into her soul.
"_Be not your herte afrayed, ne drede it_."
"_And therfore ghe han now sorowe, but eftsoone I schal se ghou, and
ghoure herte schal haue ioie, and no man schal take fro ghou ghoure
ioie. Treuly, treuly, I seie to ghou, if ghe axen the Fadir ony thing
in my name he schal ghyue to ghou_." John xvi. 22, 23.
Now, Margery had neither teacher nor commentary to interpret to her the
words of Scripture; and the result was, that she never dreamed of
modifying any of them, but took the words simply and literally. It
never entered her head to interpret them with any qualification--to
argue that "anything" must mean only some things. Ah! how much better
would it be for us, if we would accept those blessed words as plainly,
as unconditionally, as conclusively, as this poor untaught girl!
But when Margery considered the question more minutely, poor child! she
knew not what to ask. The constant reference of everything by the Lord
Jesus to "the will of the Father" had struck her forcibly; and now she
dared not ask for entire freedom from the crashing blow which had fallen
on her, lest it should not be the will of the Father. So she contented
herself with a supplication which, under the circumstances, was the best
she could have offered. She did not even try to form her petitions into
words--the depths in which her soul lay were too deep for that; it was a
wordless cry which went up to God. But its substance was an entreaty
that the Father would do His will, and would bend her will to it; that
whatever He saw fit to give her, He would always give His presence and
His love; that whatever He was pleased to take away, He would not take
from her the word unto His handmaid wherein He had caused her to hope.
And when she rose from her knees, the prominent idea in her mind might
have been expressed in the words of the old proverb, "He loseth nothing
that keepeth God for his friend."
An hour afterwards, Dame Lovell, who could not rest for the remembrance
of her child's grief, came softly into Margery's chamber to see if she
could comfort her. She was surprised to find her sleeping as quietly as
a little child, with the book, even in sleep, held fast to her bosom, as
if she would permit nothing to separate her from that Word of God which
had given rest to her soul.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Note 1. Carpets were very rare at this time, and only used on state
occasions and for invalids. Their place was supplied by fresh green
rushes, strewn on the floor. It appears rather doubtful, however,
whether carpets were not sometimes used in the winter.
CHAPTER FOUR.
LIFE IN LONDON.
"Whan we cam' in by Glasgow toun,
We were a comely sicht to see,--
My luve was clad in velvet black
And I mysel' in cramoisie."
Old Ballad.
A fortnight after the events recorded in the last chapter, Lovell Tower
was in the confusion of great preparations for the approaching wedding.
Friar Andrew was despatched to York fair to purchase twenty yards of
scarlet cloth, fourteen yards of tawny satin, eight of purple satin, and
the same number of blue cloth of silver, with jewels and rich furs. All
was cutting-out and fitting-on, with discussions about trimmings,
quintises, and head-dresses. Richard Pynson was sent hither and thither
on errands. Sir Geoffrey himself superintended the purchase of a new
pillion, and ordered it to be covered with green velvet. Lord Marnell,
who did not often come to Lovell Tower himself, sent over a trusty
messenger every day to inquire if Mistress Margery had rested well and
was merry. From the latter condition she was very far. At length the
preparations were completed; and on a splendid summer day, when the
birds were singing their most joyous melodies, Margery Lovell was
married, in Bostock Church, to Sir Ralph Marnell, Baron Marnell of
Lymington, Knight of the Garter. The bride was attired in blue cloth of
silver, trimmed with miniver; and her hair, as was then the custom at
weddings, was not confined by any head-dress, but flowed down her back,
long and straight. The bridegroom was dressed in cramoisie--crimson
velvet--richly trimmed with bullion, and wore three long waving plumes
in his cap, as well as a streamer of gold lace. If any one who may read
these pages should inquire why Margery chose blue for her wedding-dress,
I may answer that Margery would have been greatly astonished if any one
had recommended white. White at this period was not only a mourning
colour, but mourning of the very deepest character.
No pains were spared to make this a merry wedding, and yet it certainly
could not be called a joyous one. All the inhabitants of Lovell Tower
knew well that the bride was very far from happy; Sir Geoffrey and Dame
Lovell were naturally sorry to lose their only child; Friar Andrew
mourned over his favourite and his kettle of furmety; while Richard
Pynson had his own private sorrow, to which I need not allude further in
this place.
The bridal feast was held at Lovell Tower, and all the neighbours were
invited to it. The festivities were prolonged to a late hour; and at
five o'clock next morning everybody was busy helping the bride to pack
up. Everybody thought of everything so well, that there was very little
left for her to think of; but she did think of one thing. When Margery
set out for her new home in London, the book went too.
The journey to London from the North was in those days a long and
wearisome one. There were no vehicles but litters and waggons. Margery
travelled part of the way in a litter, and part on a pillion behind her
bridegroom, who rode on horseback the whole way. He had with him a
regular army of retainers, besides sundry maidens for the Lady Marnell,
at the head of whom was Alice Jordan, the unlucky girl who, at our first
visit to Lovell Tower, was reprimanded for leaving out the onions in the
blanch-porre. Margery had persuaded her mother to resign to her for a
personal attendant this often clumsy and forgetful but really
well-meaning girl. It was a Friday evening when they arrived in London;
and Margery was much too tired to think of doing anything but rest her
wearied head in sleep.
As early as four o'clock the next morning, she was roused by London
cries from a happy dream of Lovell Tower. "Quinces! sweet quinces! ripe
quinces!"
"Any kitchen-stuff, have you, maids?"
"Cakes and ale! cakes and ale!"
"Cherry ripe! cherry ripe!"
"Come buy, pretty maids, come buy! come buy!" with an undercurrent of
the long rhymed cry of the hawker of haberdashery, of which Shakespeare
has given us a specimen as regards the English version--
"Lawn, as white as driven snow;
Cyprus, black as e'er was crow,"
etcetera.
Margery lay still, and listened in silence to all these new sounds. At
length she rose and dressed herself, with the assistance of Alice, who
was seriously dissatisfied with the narrow streets and queer smells of
the town, and spared no comment on these points while assisting her
young mistress at her toilette. Having dressed, Margery passed into an
antechamber, close to her bedroom, where breakfast was served. This
repast consisted of a pitcher of new milk, another pitcher of wine, a
dish of poached eggs, a tremendous bunch of water-cress, a large loaf of
bread, and marchpanes--a sweet cake, not unlike the modern macaroon.
Breakfast over, Margery put on her hood, and taking Alice with her, she
sallied forth on an expedition to examine the neighbourhood of her new
home. One of Lord Marnell's men-servants followed at a short distance,
wearing a rapier, to defend his mistress in case of any assault being
made upon her.
Lord Marnell's house was very near the country, and in a quiet and
secluded position, being pleasantly situated in Fleet Street. Green
fields lay between the two cities of London and Westminster. There was
only one bridge across the river, that silver Thames, which ran, so
clear and limpid, through the undulating meadows; and the bridge was
entirely built over, a covered way passing under the houses for wheeled
vehicles. Far to the right rose the magnificent Palace of Westminster,
a relic of the Saxon kings; and behind it the grand old Abbey, and the
strong, frowning Sanctuary; while to the left glittered the walls and
turrets of the White Tower, the town residence of royalty. Margery,
however, could not see the whole of this as she stepped out of her
house. What first met her eyes were the more detailed and less pleasant
features of the scene. There were no causeways; the streets, as a rule,
would just allow of the progress of one vehicle, though a few of the
principal ones would permit the passage of two; and the pavements
consisted of huge stones, not remarkable either for evenness or
smoothness. A channel ran down the middle of the street, into which
every housewife emptied her slops from the window, and along which dirty
water, sewerage, straw, drowned rats, and mud, floated in profuse and
odoriferous mezee. Margery found it desirable to make considerable use
of her pomander, a ball of various mixed drugs inclosed in a gold
network, and emitting a pleasant fragrance when carried in the warm
hand. As she proceeded along the streets which were lined with shops,
the incessant cry of the shopkeepers standing at their doors, "What do
you lack? what do you lack?" greeted her on every side. The vehicles
were of two classes, as I have before observed--waggons and litters, the
litters being the carriages of the fourteenth century; but the waggons
were by far the most numerous. Occasionally a lady of rank would ride
past in her litter, drawn by horses whose trappings swept the ground; or
a knight, followed by a crowd of retainers, would prance by on his
high-mettled charger. Margery spent the happiest day which she had
passed since her marriage, in wandering about London, and satisfying her
girlish curiosity concerning every place of which she had ever heard.
Lord Marnell frowned when Margery confessed, on her return, that she had
been out to see London. It was not fit, he said, that she should go out
on foot: ladies of rank were not expected to walk: she ought to have
ordered out her litter, with a due attendance of retainers.
"But, my lord," said Margery, very naturally, "an't please you, I could
not see so well in a litter."
Lord Marnell's displeased lips relaxed into a laugh, for he was amused
at her simplicity; but he repeated that he begged she would remember,
now that she _had_ seen, that she was no longer plain Mistress Margery
Lovell, but Baroness Marnell of Lymington, and would behave herself
accordingly. Margery sighed at this curtailment of her liberty, and
withdrew to see where Alice was putting her dresses.
As it was approaching evening, Lord Marnell's voice called her
downstairs.
"If thou wilt see a sight, Madge," he said, good-naturedly, as she
entered, "come quickly, and one will gladden thine eyes which never
sawest thou before. The King rideth presently from the Savoy to the
Tower."
Margery ran to the window, and saw a number of horses, decked, as well
as their riders, in all the colours of the rainbow, coming up the street
from the stately Savoy Palace, which stood, surrounded by green fields,
in what is now the Strand.
"Which is the King's Grace, I pray you?" asked she, eagerly.
"He weareth a plain black hood and a red gown," answered her husband.
"He rideth a white horse, and hath a scarlet footcloth, all powdered
over with ostrich feathers in gold."
"What!" said Margery, in surprise, "that little, fair, goodly man, with
the golden frontlet to his horse?"
"The very same," said Lord Marnell. "The tall, comely man who rideth
behind him, on yon brown horse, and who hath eyes like to an eagle, is
the Duke of Lancaster. `John of Gaunt,' the folk call him, by reason
that he was born at Ghent, in Flanders."
"And who be the rest, if I weary you not with asking?" said Margery,
rather timidly.
"In no wise," answered he. "Mostly lords and noble gentlemen, of whom
thou mayest perchance have heard. The Earl of Surrey is he in the green
coat, with a red plume. The Earl of Northumberland hath a blue coat,
broidered with gold, and a footcloth of the same. Yon dark,
proud-looking man in scarlet, on the roan horse, is the Duke of Exeter
[Sir John Holland], brother to the King's Grace by my Lady Princess his
mother, who was wed afore she wedded the Prince, whose soul God rest!
Ah! and here cometh my Lord of Hereford, Harry of Bolingbroke
[afterwards Henry IV], the Duke of Lancaster's only son and heir--and a
son and heir who were worse than none, if report tell truth," added Lord
Marnell, in a lower tone. "Seest thou, Madge, yon passing tall man,
with black hair, arrayed in pink cloth of silver?" [See note 1].
"I see him well, I thank your good Lordship," was Margery's answer; but
she suddenly shivered as she spoke.
"Art thou cold, Madge, by the casement? Shall I close the lattice?"
"I am not cold, good my Lord, I thank you," said Margery, in a different
tone; "but I like not to look upon that man."
"Why so?" asked Lord Marnell, looking down from his altitude upon the
slight frail figure at his side. "Is he not a noble man and a goodly?"
"I know not," answered Margery, still in a troubled voice. "There is a
thing in his face for which I find not words, but it troubleth me."
"Look not on him, then," said he, drawing her away. She thanked him for
his kindness in showing and explaining the glittering scene to her, and
returned to her supervision of Alice.
A few days after this, the Prioress of Kennington, Lord Marnell's
sister, came in her litter to see her young sister-in-law. Margery was
surprised to find in her a lady so little resembling her country-formed
idea of a nun. She wore, indeed, the costume of her order; but her
dress, instead of being common serge or camlet, was black velvet; her
frontlet and barb [see Note 2] were elaborately embroidered; her long
gloves [see Note 3] were of white Spanish leather, delicately perfumed,
and adorned with needlework in coloured silks; she wore nearly as many
rings as would have stocked a small jeweller's shop, and from her
girdle, set with the finest gems, were suspended a pomander richly
worked in gold and enamel, a large silver seal, and a rosary, made of
amethyst beads, holding a crucifix, the materials of which were
alabaster and gold.
In those palmy days of Romanism in England, nuns were by no means so
strictly secluded as now. They were present at all manner of
festivities; the higher class travelled about the country very much as
they chose, and all of them, while retaining the peculiar shape and
colour of the prescribed monastic costume, contrived to spend a fortune
on the accessories and details of their dress. The Prioress of
Kennington, as I have just described her, is a specimen of nearly all
the prioresses and other conventual authorities of her day.
This handsomely-dressed lady was stiff and stately in her manner, and
uttered, with the proudest mien, words expressive only of the most
abject humility. "If her fair sister would come and see her at her poor
house at Kennington, she would be right glad of so great honour."
Margery replied courteously, but she had no desire to see much of the
Prioress.
Lord Marnell took his wife to Court, and presented her to the King--the
Queen was dead--and the Duchess of Gloucester [Eleanor Bohu], his aunt.
The King spoke to Margery very kindly, and won her good opinion by so
doing. The Duchess honoured her with a haughty stare, and then
"supposed she came from the North?" in a tone which indicated that she
considered her a variety of savage. The ladies in waiting examined and
questioned her with more curiosity than civility; and Margery's visit to
Court left upon her mind, with the single exception of King Richard's
kindness, a most unpleasant impression.
In the winter of 1396, King Richard brought home a new queen, the
Princess Isabelle of France, who had attained the mature age of eight
years. Margery watched the little Queen make her entrance into London.
She was decked out with jewels, of which she brought a great quantity
over with her, and fresh ones were presented to her at every place where
she halted. Alice, with round eyes, declared that "the Queen's Grace's
jewels must be worth a King's ransom--and would not your good Ladyship
wish to have the like?"
Margery shook her head.
"The only jewels that be worth having, good Alice," said she, "be gems
of the heart, such like as meekness, obedience, and charity. And in
truth, if I were the chooser, there be many things that I would have
afore jewels. But much good do they the Queen's Grace, poor child! and
I pray God she rest not content with gauds of this earth."
Before that winter was over, one thing, worth more than the Queen's
jewels in her eyes, was bestowed upon Margery. Something to take care
of--something to love and live for. A little golden-haired baby, which
became, so far as anything in this world could become so, the light and
joy of her heart and soul.
Margery soon learned to value at its true worth the show and tinsel of
London life. She never appeared again at Court but once, to pay her
respects to the new Queen, who received her very cordially, seated on a
throne by her husband. The small Queen of eight "hoped she was quite
well, and thought that England was a very fine country." The king spoke
to her as kindly as before, offered her ipocras [see Note 4] and spices,
and on the close of the interview, took up his little Queen in his arms,
and carried her out of the room. Margery had, indeed, no opportunity to
visit the Court again; for the young Queen was educated at Windsor, and
very rarely visited London. And Lady Marnell, tired of the hollow
glitter of high life, and finding few or none in her own sphere with
whom she could complacently associate, went back with fresh zest to her
baby and the book.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Note 1. These descriptions are taken from the invaluable illuminations
in Creton's _Histoire du Roy Richart Deux_, Harl. Ms. 1319. Creton was
a contemporary and personal friend of King Richard.
Note 2. The frontlet and barb were pieces of white linen, the former
worn over the forehead, the latter over the chin.
Note 3. Gloves were just becoming fashionable in the fourteenth century
for common wear. Before that, they were rarely used except when the
wearer carried a falcon on the wrist.