CHAPTER FIVE.
THE BEGINNING OF THE END.
"All quick and troubled was his speech,
And his face was pale with dread,
And he said, `The king had made a law,
That the book must not be read,--
For it was such fearful heresy,
The holy abbot said.'"
Mary Howitt.
Three years had passed since the events narrated in the last chapter,
and Margery was now twenty-one years of age. She appeared older than
she was, and her face wore an unnaturally pensive expression, which had
been gradually settling itself there since the day of her marriage. She
never laughed, and very rarely smiled, except when her eyes rested upon
her little golden-haired Geoffrey, whom she had sought and obtained
permission to name after her father. He was a bright, merry little
fellow, perpetually in motion, and extremely fond of his mother, though
he always shrank from and seemed to fear his father.
On a summer day in the year 1399, Margery sat in her bower, or boudoir,
perusing the book. Lord Marnell was, as usual, at Court; and little
Geoffrey was running about his mother's apartments on what he doubtless
considered important business. Suddenly, in the midst of her reading, a
cry of pain from the child startled Margery. She sprang up, and ran to
him; and she found that in running about, he had contrived to fall down
a step which intervened between the landing and the antechamber, whereby
he had very slightly bruised his infantine arm, and very greatly
perturbed his infantine spirit. Geoffrey was weeping and whining
piteously, and his mother lifted him up, and carried him into her
bedroom, where she examined the injured arm, and discovered that the
injury consisted only of an almost imperceptible bruise. The child,
however, still bewailed his misfortune; and Lady Marnell, having applied
some ointment to the sore place, sat down, and taking Geoffrey in her
lap, she soothed and rocked him until he fell asleep, and forgot all
about his bruised arm. The boy had been asleep about a quarter of an
hour, when the recollection suddenly flashed upon Margery's mind that
she had left the book open to all comers and goers, instead of putting
it carefully away, as was her wont. She set down the child softly on
the trussing-bed, (the curious name given by our forefathers to a piece
of furniture which formed a sofa or travelling-bed at pleasure), and
quietly opening the door into her bower, she saw--her husband standing
on the hearth, with the book in his hand, and a very decided frown
gathering on his countenance. The rustle of Margery's dress made Lord
Marnell look up.
"What meaneth this, I pray you, mistress?" asked he, angrily.
There was no need, had Margery felt any disposition, to attempt further
concealment. The worst that could come, had come.
"It is a book of mine," she quietly answered, "which I left here a short
season agone, when the boy's cry started me."
"Hast read it?" asked Lord Marnell, no less harshly.
"I have read it many times, good my Lord."
"And I pray you for to tell me whence you had it, good my Lady?" said
he, rather ironically.
Margery was silent. She was determined to bear the blame alone, and not
to compromise either Pynson or Carew.
"Had you this book since you came hither?" said Lord Marnell, varying
the form of his question, when he saw she did not answer.
"No, my Lord. I brought it with me from home."
And the word "home" almost brought the tears into her eyes.
"Your father--Sir Geoffrey--knew he thereof?"
"He did," said Margery, "and rebuked me sharply therefor."
"He did well. Why took he not the book from you?"
"Because he showed it to Friar Andrew Rous, his and my confessor, who
thought there was no harm in the book, and that I might safely retain
the same."
"Then Friar Andrew Rous is the longest-eared ass I have lightly seen.
Whence got you this book?"
"It is mine own writing. I copied it."
"Whence had you it?"
No answer.
"I say, whence had you this book?" roared Lord Marnell.
"My Lord," said Margery, gently, but decidedly, "I think not that it
needeth to say whence I had the same. The book was lent unto me, whence
I copied that one; but I say not of whom it was lent unto me."
"You shall say it, and soon too!" was the reply. "This matter must not
be let drop--it passeth into the hands of holy Abbot Bilson. I will
seek him presently."
And so saying, Lord Marnell strode out of the room, leaving Margery in a
condition of intense terror.
That afternoon, as Margery sat in her bower, she was informed that the
Prioress of Kennington was in the oaken chamber. Margery went down to
her, holding Geoffrey by the hand, and found her seated on a settle,
apparently preferring this more ancient form of seat to a chair; and
wearing her veil low over her face. The Prioress rose when Lady Marnell
entered, and threw back her heavy black veil, as she advanced to greet
her. Margery returned her salutation courteously, and then tried to
induce Geoffrey to go to his aunt--but Geoffrey hung back and would not
go. Margery did not attempt to force the child, but sat down, and he
attached himself to that particular plait of her dress which was
furthest from the Prioress. The Prioress tried to propitiate him, by
drawing from her pocket a piece of linen, which, being unfolded,
revealed a placenta--a delicacy which the nuns of several convents were
specially famed for making, and the nature of which will be better known
to an ordinary reader by the explanatory term cheese-cake. Geoffrey
graciously accepted the placenta, but utterly declined all further
intimacy. The expression of the Prioress's countenance suggested to
Margery the idea that she had seen her brother, and had heard of the
discovery of the book; so that Margery was quite prepared for her
remarking gravely, after her unsuccessful attempt to attract her little
nephew--
"I heard this morn, fair sister, of a thing which did much trouble me."
"You mean," said Margery, simply, "of the discovering of a book in my
chamber by my Lord my husband, the which did anger him?"
"I rejoice that you take my meaning," answered the Prioress, in an even
voice. "I meant that verily. I grieve much, fair sister, to hear from
my fair brother that you have allied yourself unto those evil men which
be known by the name of Lollards."
"I cry you mercy, holy mother," answered Margery, quietly, "I have
allied myself unto no man. I know not a Lollard in the realm. Only I
read that book--and that book, as you must needs wit, holy mother,
containeth the words of the Lord Jesu. Is there hurt therein?"
The Prioress did not directly answer this question. She said, "If your
elders [parents], fair sister, had shown the wisdom for to have put you
in the cloister, you would have been free from such like temptations."
"Is it a temptation?" replied Margery. "Meseemeth, holy mother, that
there be temptations as many in the cloister as in the world, only they
be to divers sins: and I misdoubt that I should have temptation in the
cloister, to the full as much as here."
"I cry you mercy, fair sister!" said the Prioress, with an air of
superiority. "We have no temptations in our blessed retreat. Our rule
saveth us, and our seclusion from the vanity of the world--and I pray
you, what other evil can assail a veiled nun?"
Margery glanced at the heavy gold chain round the Prioress's neck, the
multifarious rings on her fingers, and the costly jewels in her girdle,
and rather doubted her testimony as to the utter absence of vanity in a
veiled nun; but she contented herself with saying, "I trow, holy mother,
that ye carry with you evil hearts into your cloister, as have all men
without; and an evil heart within, and the devil without, need not
outward matters whereon to form temptation. At least, I speak by mine
own."
The Prioress looked rather shocked. "The evil heart," answered she, "is
governed and kept down in us by our mortifications, our almsgivings, our
penances, our prayers, and divers other holy exercises."
"Ah, holy mother," said Margery, looking up, "can ye keep down by such
means your evil hearts! I trow mine needeth more than that!"
"What mean you, fair sister?" inquired the Prioress.
"Nought less," replied Margery, "than the blood of the Lamb slain, and
the grace of Christ risen, have I yet found, that would avail to keep
down an evil heart!"
"Of force, fair sister, of force!" said the Prioress, coldly, "that is
as well as said."
"Then I pray you, why said you it not?"
The Prioress rose. "I trust, fair sister," said she, without giving any
reply to Margery's home question, "that you may see your error ere it be
full late so to do."
"I trust," said Margery, as she followed her sister-in-law to the door,
"that God will keep me in the true faith, whatsoever that be."
"Amen!" said the Prioress, her long black robe sweeping the steps as she
mounted her litter.
"Is she gone?" lisped little Geoffrey, when his mother returned.
"Deff'y so glad! Deff'y don't like her!"
That evening Margery received a message from her husband, bidding her
meet him and Abbot Bilson in the oaken chamber, and bring the book with
her. She took the book from the table on which Lord Marnell had thrown
it--no need to hide it any longer now--kissed little Geoffrey's sleeping
forehead, as he lay in his cradle, and went down to the oaken chamber.
Lord Marnell, who, when angry, looked taller than ever, stood on the
hearth with his arms folded. Abbot Bilson was seated in an arm-chair,
with his cowl thrown back. He was a man of about sixty, with a
finely-formed head, more bald than the tonsure would account for, and a
remarkably soft, persuasive voice and manner. Had the Order of Jesuits
existed at that time, Abbot Bilson might fitly have been the head of it.
"His words were softer than oil, yet were they drawn swords."
"The Lady Marnell," said her husband to the Abbot as she entered, and
the latter, without rising, saluted her with the benediction, "Peace be
with thee, daughter."
"Where is the book?" asked Lord Marnell, sternly, but not quite so
angrily as he had spoken in the morning.
Margery passed it to him.
"See there, reverend father," said he, as he handed it to the Abbot.
"What callest thou that?"
The Abbot turned over the leaves, but the suavity of his manner suffered
no change.
"A fine, clear scribe hath written this," remarked he, politely. "The
Gospel according unto the blessed John, I ween, from the traduction of
Master John Wycliffe, the parson of Lutterworth, who deceased a few
years back. And our good brother Andrew Rous thought no harm of your
keeping the book, my daughter?"
"So he said," answered Margery, shortly.
"Ah! But your father--?"
"Did not like thereof at the first; but after that Father Rous had so
said, he made no further matter."
"Ah! of force. I conceive it fully. Your mother, good daughter?"
"My mother spake not of the matter. She witteth not to read, and
therefore knew not the book."
"Certes," said the abbot, with the most exquisite gentleness. Lord
Marnell, who kept fidgeting up and down the room, seemed almost annoyed
at the Abbot's extreme suavity.
"You had this book from a friend, methinks?" resumed the Abbot.
"I cannot tell you, father, whence I had it," was Margery's firm reply.
The Abbot looked surprised.
"Did our brother Rous lend it you?" he asked, his manner losing a small
portion of its extraordinary softness.
"Nay."
"Some friend, then, belike? Sir Ralph Marston, your good cousin? or
Master Pynson, the squire of my worthy knight your father?"
Margery felt instantaneously that she was in the power of a very
dangerous man. How he was endeavouring to ferret out admissions and
denials which would afterwards stand him in good stead! How came he,
too, to know so much about her friends? Had he been questioning Lord
Marnell? Margery's breath came short and fast, and she trembled
exceedingly. She was annoyed with herself beyond measure, because, when
the Abbot named Richard Pynson, she could not help a conscious blush in
hearing him mention, not indeed the person who had actually lent her the
book, but one who was concerned in the transaction. The Abbot saw the
blush, though just then it did not suit his purpose to take notice of
it.
"Well, well," said he, courteously, "we will not go further into that
question at present. But you must wit, dear daughter, that this book
containeth fearful heresy! Hath not our brother Rous taught you the
same? Error of all kinds is therein, and weak women like unto you be
not able, my child, for to separate in all cases this error from the
truth wherewith, in these pernicious volumes, it is mingled. You are
very young, daughter, and wit not yet all that the fathers of the Church
can tell you, an' you be meek and humble in receiving of their
teaching."
He ceased, evidently thinking that he had made an impression. He was
quite prepared for a little pouting, and for earnest entreaties, and
even passionate words; but the one thing for which he was not prepared
he got in Margery's answer.
"I wis well, reverend father," she said, very quietly, "to the full as
well as it list you to tell me, how young, and weak, and all unwitting I
be. But I trow that Christ deceiveth not His children because they be
weak; and that if I can any words at all conceive, I can His. Saith He
not, `_If ony man wole do His wille_, _he schall knowe of the
techinge_'? [John vii. 17.] Saith He not again, `_Seke ye Scripturis_'?
[John v. 39.] I pray you now, father, to whom said He that? Unto
fathers of the Church? Nay, soothly, but unto Jews unbelieving--very
heathens, and no Christians. Moreover, saith He not again, `_He that
dispisith me, and takith not my wordis, hath him that schal juge him;
thilk word that I have spoken schal deme him in the laste day_'? [John
xii. 48.] I pray you, good father, how shall I know the word that shall
judge me if I read it not? Truly meseemeth that the despising of His
Word lieth more in the neglect thereof. Also say you that this book
containeth heresy and evil teaching. Good father, shall Christ the Son
of God teach evil? Doth God evil? Will God deceive them that ask Him
truth? Knoweth He not as much as fathers of the Church? Nay truly,
good father, I trust that you wot not fully what you have said. He is
`_weye, treuthe, and lyf; no man cometh to the Fadir but by Him_.'"
[John xiv. 6.]
Abbot Bilson, for once in his life, was completely dumb-foundered. He
looked silently at Lord Marnell.
"I pray you see now, reverend father," said Lord Marnell, angrily, "how
the teaching of this book hath leavened yon girl's talk! Is it a small
evil, Madge, to turn upon thy teacher when he teacheth thee of wisdom,
with sayings picked up from a book? Art not ashamed?"
"No, my Lord, I am no wise shamed," answered she; "for the reverend
father teacheth me the words of men, and the words of my book be the
words of Christ; and when Christ and men come to warring, I trow there
is small doubt as to who shall be the winner."
The Abbot sat mutely gazing at Margery. Her face, usually so calm and
pale, was lighted up, as she spoke, with a light not of this world; and
he could not comprehend it. Had she asked pardon, he could have soothed
her; had she lamented and bewailed, he might have promised her many
things to comfort her; had she spoken bitterly or passionately, he might
have commanded her silence. But this conduct of hers, so quiet, yet so
decided--so gentle, but so uncompromising--puzzled him extremely. He
only saw the exterior, and he could not discover that wherein her great
strength lay.
"My Lord Marnell," he said, in a perplexed tone, "I would speak with
you. Good lady, will you give us leave?"
Margery rose, and, courtesying, quitted the room at once; but she took
the book with her, and nobody prevented her from doing so.
"My Lord," said the Abbot, when she was gone, "I am bewildered utterly.
I know not what to do with this girl. Never the like of her saw I
before, and my experience is baffled. But meseemeth that the best thing
is to treat her gently at the first; and if she relent not, _then_--"
The sentence was left unfinished, but Lord Marnell understood it.
CHAPTER SIX.
NEWS FROM HOME.
"There are briars besetting every path,
That call for patient care;
There is a cross in every lot,
And an earnest need for prayer;
But a lowly heart that leans on Thee
Is happy anywhere."
Miss Waring.
It was a lovely, clear, moonlight night, and the streets of London were
hushed and still. By the light of the moon might be discerned a man in
traveller's dress, walking slowly along Fleet Street, and looking up at
the houses, as if uncertain which of them would prove the one he sought.
The traveller, though he looks much older, and his face wears a weary,
worn expression, we recognise as our old friend Richard Pynson.
Suddenly, in the midst of his search, Richard stopped and looked up.
From an oriel window, directly above his head, a faint sound of singing
reached him--an air which he instantly recognised as "The Palmer's
hymn," sung by the pilgrims to Jerusalem on their journey to the Holy
Land. The voice of the singer, though low, was so clear, that the words
of the hymn were floated distinctly to his ear.
"Holy City, happy City,
Built on Christ, and sure as He,
From my weary journeying,
From the wastes, I cry to thee;
Longing, sighing, hasting, crying,
Till within thy walls I be.
Ah! what happy, happy greeting
For the guests thy gates who see!
Ah! what blessed, blessed meeting
Have thy citizens in thee!
Ah! those glittering walls how fair,
Jasper shene and ruby blee.
Never harm, nor sin, nor danger,
Thee can tarnish, crystal sea;
Never woe, nor pain, nor sorrow,
Thee can enter, City free!"
The voice ceased, and Richard Pynson, without any further doubt or
trouble, applied at once for admittance at the gate of the house whence
the music had issued. He could never mistake the voice of Margery
Lovell. The old porter, half asleep, came to the gate, and,
sentinel-like, inquired, "Who goes there?"
"A friend, a messenger from Dame Lovell, who would fain have speech, if
he may, of the Lady Marnell."
As soon as the porter heard the name of Dame Lovell, he threw open the
gate. "Enter, friend." The ponderous gate swung to again, and the old
man slowly preceded Richard through the archway to the door of the
house, and up the wide staircase. He ushered him into a room panelled
with oak, where he stirred up the decaying embers of the fire, requested
him to be seated, and left the room. At the door of the adjoining
chamber, Richard heard him softly whisper, "Mistress Alice! Mistress
Alice!"
A gentle movement in the room followed, and then Richard heard the
familiar voice of Alice Jordan.
"Hush! good Christopher," said she, in a low tone; "the boy sleepeth at
last--wake him not. What wouldst?"
"There is here a messenger from Lovell Tower, who would have speech of
my Lady."
On hearing this, Alice came forward at once into the oaken chamber where
Richard sat.
"Ah! Master Pynson!" she said, "is it you! My Lady will be right fain
to see you--but you come at an evil hour."
"How so?" asked Richard, quickly.
"My Lady is watching this livelong night by the cradle of the young
master, who is sore sick--we fear nigh unto death. The child is in
grievous disease [restlessness, uneasiness], and cannot sleep; and her
good Ladyship hath been singing unto him, I ween, for to soothe him to
rest. Her voice hushed as you came, wherefore I count that the boy
sleepeth."
"What aileth the poor child?" inquired Richard.
"My Lady counteth that he got him an ill rheum when we departed hence
for my Lord his house of plesance [country house], for to sweeten [See
Note 2]. Howsoever that be, he is now grievous sick."
"The Lady Marnell herself is well?"
"Alas!" replied Alice, "I ween she is little better than the child. She
hath been in sore trouble of late, wherefore it is no marvel. There be
rumours of accusations for heresy out against her, and my Lord is ill
angered towards her. Well, God witteth, and God keep her! You will see
how evil [ill] she looketh an' she come to speak with you, and I trow
that she will when I give her to wit who is here."
So saying, Alice returned to the room she had quitted, and for some
minutes Richard heard nothing more. Then the door re-opened, and a lady
entered the chamber.
Was _that_ Margery Lovell? Never, surely, were hers that feeble step,
that worn, wan, white face, that dark ring round the eyes, telling of
weary vigils, and of bitter weeping! But the smile of welcome was
Margery Lovell's own, and the gesture, as she came forward quickly,
holding out both hands, was hers also; though the smile died away in an
instant, and the worn, wearied look came back instead.
"Dear, good friend!" she said, "how it gladdeth me to see you! You come
straightway from Lovell Tower? My father and mother be well? And
Mistress Katherine, and Cicely, and all the maidens? And Lyard, and old
Beaudesert? (naming her palfrey and the watchdog). And all mine old
friends--Sir Ralph Marston, and Master Carew?"
Richard smiled a grave, almost mournful smile.
"You ask too many questions, good my Lady, to be answered in a breath.
But Dame Lovell is in health, and greets you well by me, bidding you be
assured ever of her love and blessing."
"And my father? O Master Pynson, my father! my father!"
She sat down, and buried her face in her hands, and wept; for though
Richard had made no answer in words, his face told his tidings too
unmistakably. Sir Geoffrey Lovell was dead. After a time Margery
looked up whiter and more wan than ever, and begged to know the
particulars of her father's death. Richard informed her that Sir
Geoffrey had been taken ill three days only before he died; they had
immediately summoned Master Carew, who was a physician, and who had
pronounced that since he could not live many days, it would be useless
to send for his daughter, who could not possibly reach Lovell Tower in
time to see him alive. Dame Lovell was well in health, but had quite
lost her old cheerfulness, and appeared to feel her husband's death very
acutely. It had been arranged that Friar Andrew should remain with Dame
Lovell as her confessor. As to himself, Richard said that he should of
course return to his father for a time, until he could by some act of
bravery or special favour receive the honour of knighthood; but he did
not like to say anything to Dame Lovell about leaving her, so long as he
saw that he was of any use to her, as he knew that she regarded him in
the light of an adopted son, and had especially seemed to cling to him
since Margery's departure.
Margery replied that she would have requested for him the favour of
knighthood in a moment at the hands of Lord Marnell, but she did not
like to ask him for anything so long as he was displeased with her.
Richard inquired after Lord Marnell. Margery said he was well, and was
with the King at Havering-atte-Bower: but talking about him seemed to
increase her look of weariness and woe. She turned the subject by
inquiring again about her old friends. Cicely and the maids, Richard
told her, were well; but old Beaudesert always howled whenever he was
asked for Madge; and Lyard would stand switching his tail in the meadow,
and looking wistfully at the house for the young mistress whom he must
never see again.
"You miss me, then, all?" said Margery, mournfully.
"You will never know how sore," was Richard's answer.
Another pause ensued--there seemed some strange constraint between
them--and then Richard asked--
"And what tidings take I home, good my Lady? Dame Lovell bade me have a
care to ask how you fared, and the child. I grieve to hear from Alice
Jordan that _he_ fareth but evil, and for _you_--"
He smiled the same grave smile.
"Well--_well_, Master Pynson," said Margery, quickly. "I fare well. I
cannot go where is not Christ, and where He is, howsoever I fare, I must
needs fare well. And for the child--come and see him."