in Alice's arms in a heavy sleep. His breathing was very quick and
short, and his face flushed and fevered. Richard stood looking silently
at him for a few minutes, and then returned with Margery to the oaken
chamber. She offered him refreshments, but he declined them. He had
supped, he said, already; and ere breakfast-time, he looked to be on his
way back to the North. Margery wrote a short letter to Dame Lovell, and
intrusted it to him; and then she sat by the table, wearily resting her
head upon her hand.
"I pray you, good my Lady," said Richard, suddenly, breaking the spell
that seemed to bind them, "what meaneth this bruit [noise, rumour] of
heresy that I hear of you?"
Margery looked up with a strange light in her eyes.
"You remember, I trow, asking Master Carew for to lend me yon book?--and
wending with me to hear Master Sastre's homily?"
"I mind it well."
"_That_ meaneth it. That because I read Christ's words, and love them,
and do them, so far as in my poor power lieth, the charge of heresy is
laid at my door. And I ween they will carry it on to the end."
"_The end_?" said Richard, tremblingly,--for he guessed what that meant,
and the idea of Margery being subjected to a long and comfortless
imprisonment, was almost more than he could bear. His own utter
powerlessness to save her was a bitter draught to drink.
"Ay, the end!" she said, with the light spreading all over her face.
"Mind you not how Master Sastre asked us if we could sue the Lamb along
the weary and bitter road? Is it an evil thing to sue the Lamb, though
He lead over a few rugged stones which be lying in the path? Nay,
friend, I am ready for the suing, how rough soever the way be."
Richard sat looking at her in silence. He had always thought her half
an angel, and now he thought her so more than ever.
"I trow you know these things, good friend?" said Margery, with her sad,
faint smile. "You know, is it not, how good is Christ?"
"I am assaying for to know," answered Richard, huskily. "I have been
a-reading of Master Carew's book, since I found you counted it so great
a thing. Oft-times have Master Carew and I sat reading of that book
whenever I could make an errand unto his neighbourhood; and he hath
taught me many things. But I cannot say yet that I be where you be,
Mistress Margery," he added, calling her by the old familiar title, "or
that I know Christ as friendly as you seem to know Him."
"Then," said Margery, earnestly, "let not go your grasp till you have
fast hold of Him. Ah! what matter how soon or how sore cometh the end,
if `_whanne He hath loued Hise that ben in the world, into the ende He
loueth them_.' [John xiii. 1.] O dear friend, count not anything lost
if thou keepest Christ His love! If He shall come unto thee and say of
aught by which thou settest store, as He did say unto Peter, `_Louest_
_thou me more than these_?' let thine answer be his, `_Che, Lord, Thou
woost that I loue Thee_!' [John xxi. 15.] Oh count not aught too rare
or too brave for to give Christ! `_He that loueth his lyf schal leese
it; and he that hatith his lyf in this world, kepith it unto
everlastinge lyf_.' [John xii. 25.] No man loseth by that chepe
[exchange, bargain] of life worldly for life everlasting. Never shall
the devils have leave to say, `Behold here a man who hath lost by
Christ!'"
"Must we needs give Christ _all_?" said Richard, in an unsteady tone.
"Is there a thing that thou wouldst keep from Him?--a thing that thou
lovest more than thou lovest Him? Then it will be no marvel that thou
shouldst lose the same. Trust me, if His heart be set on thee, He will
either have thy heart away from it by thy good will, or will have it
away from thy heart by bitter rending and sorrow. And alas for that man
who hath no portion in Christ His heart!"
Richard answered almost in a whisper, and bent forward to take Margery's
hand as he did so. The spell was fully broken now.
"There was only one thing, and He hath taken it. Margery, I loved
_you_. I had given readily all else but you. And I trow you will count
it but a sorry [poor, unworthy] giving, wherein the heart goeth not with
the hands."
She turned her head hastily away, and made no answer; but he felt her
hand grow deathly cold in his own. He dropped it, and rose--and so did
she. She went with him to the door; and there, as she offered her hand
for a farewell greeting, she spoke--
"Richard, God hath parted thee and me, and whatsoever God doth He doth
wed. If it were as thou sayest, there was need thereof. When children
come home to their father's house from afar, I trow they fall not
a-bewailing that they had not leave to come in company. And if only we
may clasp hands at the gate of the _Urbs Beata_, I trow well that we
shall count it no great matter, good friend, that we saw but little the
one of the other on the journey!"
Richard kissed her hand, and then she drew it from him, and softly
passed into her darkened nursery. For a moment he stood looking after
her. "Please God, we will, Margery!" he said to himself, at length.
Then he ran lightly down the stairs, and old Christopher rose at the
sound of his step to open the door for him.
And so Richard Pynson and Margery Marnell parted, never more to speak to
each other on this side of the Happy City.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Note 1. Any reader acquainted with mediaeval hymns will recognise in
this--
"Urbs coelestis! urbs beata! Super petram collocata."
I have translated a few lines of the hymn for the benefit of the English
reader; but my heroine must be supposed to sing it in the original
Latin.
Note 2. "Sweetening" was a process to which our forefathers were
compelled by their want of drains, and consisted in leaving a house
entirely empty for a time, to have the windows opened, the rushes
renewed, and to adroit of a general purification. Families who had the
means generally "went to sweeten" at least every summer.
CHAPTER SEVEN.
BEREAVEMENT, BUT NOT DEATH.
"Take from me anything Thou wilt,
But go not _Thou_ away!"
Little Geoffrey slowly recovered from the illness which had brought him
to death's door, and though able to run about the house, he was still
far from perfect health, when Margery received orders to prepare for
another interview with Abbot Bilson. She rightly divined that this
would be more stormy than the last. Abbot Bilson came now fully
prepared, and not alone. He was accompanied by Archbishop Arundel, a
man of violent passions, and a bitter persecutor of all whom he
conceived to lean to the opinions of Wycliffe. When Margery entered the
room, and saw the Archbishop, she trembled, as well she might. She
meekly knelt and asked their blessing--the manner in which priests were
commonly greeted. The Abbot gave his, saying, "May God bless thee, and
lead thee unto the truth!"
"Amen!" responded Margery. Arundel, however, refused his benediction
until he had inquired into the matter.
"Be seated, my daughter!" said the Abbot. Margery obeyed.
"Holy Church, daughter, hath been sore aggrieved by thine evil doing.
She demandeth of thee an instant yielding of yon heretical and
pernicious book, the which hath led thee astray; and a renunciation of
thy heresy; the which done, thou shalt receive apostolic absolution and
benediction."
"I know not, reverend father, what ye clepe [call] heresy. Wherein have
I sinned?"
"In the reading of yon book, and in thy seldom confession. Moreover, I
trow thou holdest with the way of John Wycliffe, yon evil reprobate!"
replied the Archbishop.
"I cry you mercy, reverend fathers. I take my belief from no man. I
crede [believe] the words of Christ as I find the same written, and
concern not myself with Master Wycliffe or any other. I know not any
Lollards, neither have I allied myself unto them."
The Archbishop and the Abbot both looked at Lord Marnell--a mute inquiry
as to whether Margery spoke the truth.
"I ween it is so, reverend fathers," said he. "I wis nought of my wife
her manner of living ere I wedded her, but soothly sithence [since] she
came hither, I know of a surety that she hath never companied with any
such evil persons as be these Lollards."
"Hold you _not_ with the way of Wycliffe, daughter?" inquired the Abbot.
"I wis not, reverend father," answered she, "for of a truth I know not
wherein it lieth. I hold that which I find in the book; and I trow an'
I keep close by the words of Christ, I cannot stray far from truth."
"The words in yon book be no words of Christ!" said Arundel. "That evil
one Wycliffe, being taught of the devil, hath rendered the holy words of
the Latin into pernicious heresy in English."
"I pray you then, father, will you give me the book in Latin, for I wis
a little the Latin tongue, and moreover I can learn of one that hath the
tongues to wit better the same."
This was not by any means what Arundel intended, and it raised his
anger.
"I will not give thee the Latin!" exclaimed he. "I forbid thee to read
or learn the same, for I well know thou wouldst wrest it to thine evil
purposes."
"How can you put a right meaning to the words, my daughter?" mildly
suggested the Abbot.
"I know well that I could in no wise do the same," replied Margery,
humbly, "had I not read the promise of Christ Jesu that He would send
unto His own `_thilk Spyryt of treuthe_,' who should `_teche them al
treuthe_,' [John xvi. 13] wherefore by His good help I trust I shall
read aright."
"That promise was given, daughter, unto the holy apostles."
"It was given, reverend father, unto weak men and evil, else Peter had
never denied his Master, ne [neither] had all of them left Him and taken
to flight, when the servants of the bishops [see Note 1] laid hold on
Him. I wis that I have an evil heart like as they had, but meseemeth
that mine is not worser than were theirs, wherefore I count that promise
made unto myself also."
"Thou art lacking in meekness, Madge," said Lord Marnell.
"I trust not so, good my Lord; but an' if I be, I pray God to give it to
me."
"Give up the book, Madge!" said her husband, apparently desirous to
allay the storm which he had raised, "and thou shalt then receive
absolution, and all will go well."
"I will give up the book, my Lord, in obedience to you," replied
Margery, "for I wis well that wives be bounden to obey their husbands;
and soothly it is no great matter, for I know every word therein. But
under your good leave, my Lord, the truth which this book hath taught
me, neither you nor any other man shall have power to take from me, for
it is of God, and not of men!"
She drew the book from her pocket--ladies wore much larger pockets in
those days than they now do--kissed it, and handed it to her husband.
"Thou hast well done, Madge!" said Lord Marnell, more kindly than
before, as he passed the book to the Archbishop. Arundel, with a
muttered curse upon all evil teaching, took the book from Lord Marnell
with his hand folded in the corner of his gown, as if he thought its
very touch would communicate pollution, and flung it into the fire. The
fire was a large one, and in a minute the volume was consumed. Margery
watched the destruction of her treasure with swimming eyes.
"Burn, poor book!" she said, falteringly, "and as thy smoke goeth up to
God, leave it tell Him that the reading and the loving of His Word is
accounted a sin by those who ought to be His pastors."
"Woman, wilt not hear the truth?" cried Arundel.
"Truly, father, I have heard it, and it shall rest with me unto my dying
day. But I trow that if your teaching were truth, ye had never burned
with fire the Word of Christ, who hath power, if ye repent not, to
consume you also with the like!"
"Told I not thee that the evil book which I gave to the fire was not
Christ His Word, but the work of the devil?"
"Yea, truly; and the like said the heathen Jews, `_Wher we seyen not wel
that thou art a Samaritan, and hast a deuel_?' But I find not that
their saying the same made it ever the truer. What saith Christ in
answer? `_I haue not a deuel; but I honoure my Fadir, and ye han
unhonourid me_.'" [John viii. 48, 49.]
"My daughter," said the Abbot, with even more than his usual gentleness,
"I misdoubt greatly that you be obstinate in your error. And if this be
so, we shall have necessity of deeds the which we should sore lament.
You wit, doubtless, that in case you continue thus obstinate, you will
be had up afore the King's Grace's Council?"
"I am ready," answered Margery.
"You wit also," pursued the Abbot, no less gently, "that you may be
sentenced unto close prison for such time as pleaseth the King's Grace?"
"I am ready," said Margery again.
Her examiners looked surprised.
"Moreover," continued the Abbot, in a softer tone than ever, "wit you
that we can allow you no longer to have the charge and teaching of your
son, who must needs be instructed in the true faith?"
The end of the reverend fathers was at length reached. The quiet words
of the Abbot produced an effect which the furious abuse of the
Archbishop had been unable to accomplish. A cry of mingled terror,
anguish, and despair, broke from poor Margery's lips.
"Ye could not--ye could not be so cruel!" she sobbed. "Take from me all
I have in this world--comfort, freedom, yea, life--only leave me my
child!"
"Thou seest what thou hast brought on thyself!" said Arundel. "How can
we, being the ministers of God His truth, suffer the mind of yon
innocent child to be poisoned with like evil doctrine?"
"Doth God part the child from the mother?" faltered Margery. "This is
none of His doing. My darling! my darling!"
Lord Marnell pitied his wife. Her agony touched all that was soft and
gentle in his not too soft heart.
"Well, well, Madge!" he said, kindly; "I will see that thy child is not
taken from thee, if thou wilt obey these reverend fathers in confessing
of thine error, and wilt humbly beg absolution at their hands."
Margery looked up at her husband with an expression of unutterable
gratitude beaming in her eyes--but the moment she heard his if, her face
fell instantly.
"I conceive you, good my Lord," she said, mournfully, "howsoever I thank
you. You will give me back my darling, if I will deny that I hold
Christ His truth. I cannot. I dare not!"
"`Christ His truth,' persist you in calling your heresy!" cried Arundel,
in a fury. "Choose, then, quickly, for the last time, betwixt `Christ
His truth' and your child!"
She shivered from head to foot as if an ague-fit were on her, and her
sobs almost mounted to a scream. No heart that had any pretension to
humanity could have helped pitying her. Her husband did pity her; but
Arundel was carried away by passion, and Bilson had no heart. Through
all this tempest, however agonised, firm and unwavering came the
answer--
"Christ!"
Arundel, rising, ordered her to kneel. Margery knelt down on the
hearth, her hands clasped on her breast, and her eyes looking up to
heaven. Solemnly, and with all that terrific majesty which the Church
of Rome so well knows how to put into her threats and denunciations, the
Archbishop cited her to appear before the council on the 17th day of the
following September. In the meantime she was to be confined in one of
the State dungeons. Arundel graciously added that he would give her the
remainder of that day to make her preparations. Lord Marnell here
interposed, and begged the Archbishop to reconsider his decision. He
had anticipated Margery's examination by the council, and possibly her
being sentenced to a term of imprisonment, but he had not bargained for
this previous incarceration. Arundel bluntly refused to alter his
sentence.
Margery raised her tearful eyes to Lord Marnell. "My Lord," she said,
"and you, reverend fathers, I have one small thing to ask of you. I
pray you deny me not."
"What is it, Madge?" asked Lord Marnell.
"My good Lord," she said, pleadingly, "suffer me to take one last kiss
of my child, ere ye take me where I shall see him no more!"
The Abbot seemed disposed to grant Margery's petition, though the
Archbishop demurred; but Lord Marnell settled the matter by
authoritatively commanding that the mother should be permitted to take
leave of her child. Arundel, with rather a bad grace, gave way on this
secondary point. Margery was then dismissed.
She went up-stairs as if she were walking in a dream, and found Alice
hiding behind the door for the amusement of little Geoffrey, who was in
high glee. Margery stood a moment on the threshold, looking at them,
and mournfully thinking that it was the last time she would ever look on
that sunny little face, or hear that silvery laugh. As she stood there,
Alice caught sight of her mistress, and her share of the mirth ceased
instantly.
"My Lady! my Lady! what have you, I pray you tell me? You look as if
sentence of death had been passed on you!"
Margery passed her hand dreamily across her brow.
"Sentence, good Alice, of the evil which is in death!" she said, softly,
"and henceforth death must needs be a glad thing. But that is to come
yet."
She sat down, and took the child on her knee, and he nestled his little
golden head into her bosom. For a few minutes she rocked herself and
him to and fro in silence, but at length her voice came, and though it
trembled a little, it was almost as quiet and silvery as usual.
"Geoffrey, dost love me?"
"Yes, mother, very much."
"Poor child! how wilt do without me!"
"Go you hence, mother?"
"Yes, my child, I go hence. Geoffrey, wilt mind ever what I now say
unto thee? Wilt never, never forget it, but ever keep it fresh and
shene, and think thereof whenever thou dost think of me?"
"Yes, mother, I shan't forget."
"Alice, thou wilt help him to remember, good lass, if thou be not taken
from him."
"That will I, good my Lady," said Alice, sobbing, and only comprehending
that something painful had happened.
"Geoffrey, darling, thou wilt be a good child to thy father?"
"I'll try, mother, but--he frighteth me."
Margery sighed heavily.
"List me now, my heart. Dost remember what I told thee about Jesus
Christ?"
Geoffrey answered that he did.
"Right, my heart. And lovest Jesus Christ, who died for thee?"
"Yes, mother, I love Him and you."
The child's innocent answer nearly upset Margery's half-assumed
calmness. She rocked him a minute longer in silence. "Remember, mine
own sweet heart, ever that nothing but Jesus can save thee. Thou canst
not save thyself. Beg of Him with all thine heart that He will save
thee, and love Him all thy life long, even unto _the end_."
She ceased an instant.
"Now, sweet heart, kiss me. Give me a brave kiss, mine own--it is the
last. Never shall we kiss again till we kiss in the Happy City!
Fare-thee-well, dearly beloved! God have thee in His holy keeping! God
teach thee what I cannot--what I by reason of mine ignorance know not,
or what thou by reason of thy tender years canst not yet conceive. God
forgive thee thy sins, and help thee in all trouble and woe, and bring
thee to that blessed home where I shall see thee again, and where they
sin not, nor grieve, neither part any more!"
Margery gently detached herself from the child's embrace, and set him
down. She desired Alice to take him away, and then to return and assist
her in matters respecting which she would tell her particulars when she
should have removed the child. She stood looking after the boy as Alice
led him away, and he turned his head to say, "God be wi' ye!" [See Note
2].
"Never again! never again!" said Margery to herself in a half-whisper.
"The worst part of death is over! I have nothing left now but Christ."
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Note 1. Wycliffe always renders "Bisschopis" the word translated "chief
priests" in the authorised version.
Note 2. The farewell phrase which has in modern times been shortened
into "good-bye."
CHAPTER EIGHT.
A LODGING ON THE COLD GROUND.
"Christ is at hand to scorn or bless--
Christ suffers in our strife."
Christian Year.
In the evening, as previously ordered, Margery quitted Marnell Place in
her litter for her prison in the Tower. The jailer stared at her, as
Abbot Bilson, who accompanied her, gave her into his charge, and
whisperingly asked the reason for which she was to be incarcerated.
"Heresy, good friend."
"Heresy!" said the jailer, staring more than ever. "What pity for one
so marvellous young! Poor lady! it sorroweth me!"
When Margery was at length locked in, she had time to look round her
prison. It was a small, square, whitewashed cell, completely
unfurnished; all the furniture had to be brought from Marnell Place.
Not much was allowed. A mattress and blanket by way of bed, a stool,
and a crucifix, were the only articles permitted. The barred window was
very small, and very high up. Here Margery was to remain until
September. The days rolled wearily on. Lord Marnell occasionally
visited her; but not often, and he was her sole visitor. The jailer,
for a jailer, was rather kind to his prisoner, whom he evidently pitied;
and one day he told her, as he brought her the prison allowance for
supper, that "strange things" were taking place in the political world.
There was a rumour in London that "my Lord of Hereford" had returned to
England before his period of banishment was over, and had possessed
himself of the person of King Richard at Flint Castle.
"What will he do?" asked Margery. "Soothly I wis not," answered the
jailer. "I trow he will make himself king. Any way, I trust it may hap
for your Ladyship's good, for it is the wont to release prisoners at the
beginning of a new reign."
Shortly after that, Henry of Bolingbroke fulfilled the jailer's
prediction, so far as regarded his kingship. He led Richard in triumph
through London, with every dishonour and indignity which his own evil
nature could devise; then consigned him to Pontefract to die and sat
down on his throne. _How_ Richard died, Henry best knew. Thus closed
the life and reign of that most ill-treated and loving-hearted man, at
the early age of thirty-three. The little Queen, a widow at eleven, was
sent back to France--her matchless collection of jewels being retained
by Henry. Few men have had more reason to describe themselves as Henry
IV does in his will--"I, Henry, _sinful wretch_." [See Note 1.]
The change of monarchs, however, brought no change for Lady Marnell. If
anything, it was the worse for her; for Abbot Bilson was a personal
friend of the new King, who was far more violently opposed to the
Lollards than his predecessor had been.
On the 16th of September, 1400, Lord Marnell was just quitting Margery's
cell, when the jailer admitted Abbot Bilson, who courteously greeted
Lord Marnell, and replied rather more coldly to the salutation of his
prisoner.
"Good morrow, my Lord. Have you induced this wretched girl to see the
error of her ways?"
"I assayed it not," said Lord Marnell, somewhat sulkily. "Farewell,
Madge,--I will see thee again ere long."
"Farewell, good my Lord," said Margery, and for the first time in her
life she was sorry to see her husband go. The truth was, that Lord
Marnell felt so much vexed with his spiritual advisers, that he was
seriously afraid, if he remained, of saying something which might cause
his own imprisonment. The jailer locked the door after him, and the
Abbot and Margery were left together.
"You have had time, daughter, to think over your sin, in penitence and
prayer. Are you yet conscious that you have committed a grievous sin?"
"No, father."
"No are? [i.e., Are you not?] I grieve to hear it. Fear you not the
ban of Holy Church?"
"I fear it not, so Christ confirm it not; He did warn me afore of the
same. `_Thei schulen make ghou withouten the synagogis; but the our
cometh, that ech man that sleeth ghou deme that he doith seruyse to
God_.'" [John xvi. 2.]
"Cease thy endless quotations from Scripture!" cried the Abbot, waxing
wroth, and forgetting his civilities.
But Margery only replied by another--"`_He that is of God herith the
wordis of God; therefore ye heren not for ye be not of God_.'" [John
viii. 47.]
"Take the curse of the Church, miserable reprobate!" cried Bilson,
losing all command of himself, and smiting her in the face.
"Take you heed," was the answer, "that you bring not on yourself the
curse of Christ, who is the Head and Lord of the Church, for He
suffereth not lightly that His sheep be ill handled."
"Aroint thee, sorceress!" said the abbot. "I am no sorceress," replied
Margery, quietly, "neither do I use evil arts; I speak unto you in the
words of Christ--bear you the sin if you will not hear. But lo! it is
even that which is written, `_He hath blyndid her yghen_ [their eyes],
_and he hath maad hard the herte of hem; that thei see not with yghen,
and undirstonde with herte, and that thei be conuertid, and I heele
hem_.'" [John xii. 40.]