days do, and the evening of the 5th of March arrived. Alice, having
just returned from her usual journey to the house, was disposing of the
articles which she had brought with her, when the jailer's key grated in
the lock, and the door was opened. Lady Marnell looked up, expecting to
see her husband, though it was rather before his usual time for visiting
her; but on looking up, she saw Abbot Bilson.
This feline ecclesiastic came forward with bent head and joined hands,
vouchsafing no reply to Margery's salutation of "Good even, father," nor
to Alice's humble request for his blessing. He sat down on a chair, and
for some minutes stared at Margery in silence--conduct so strange that
at length she said, "Wherefore come you, father?"
"To look at thee, child of the devil!" was the civil answer.
Alice, who had just requested the blessing of the _priest_, was more
angry than she could bear with the _man_. She was just on the point of
saying something sharp, when Lord Marnell's voice behind the Abbot
interposed with--
"If thou wouldst see a child of the devil, I trow thou hast little need
to look further than thy mirror!"
The Abbot rose calmly, and let Lord Marnell enter.
"It becometh not poor and humble monks, servitors of God, to lend
themselves unto the vanity of mirrors," said he, pulling out a large
rosary, and beginning to tell his beads devoutly.
"`Servitors of God!'" cried Lord Marnell, too angry to be prudent.
"Dost call thyself a servitor of God? If God hath no better servitors
than thou, I ween He is evil served!"
The Abbot cast a glance from the corner of his eye at Lord Marnell, but
made no answer, save to tell his beads more devoutly than ever.
"Hast no other place to tell thy beads in?" asked that nobleman.
The Abbot rose without a word, and, pausing at the door, stretched his
hand over the assembled trio, and muttered some words to himself.
"Away with thee, Lucifer, and thy maledictions!" exclaimed Lord Marnell.
"There be here who are nearer to the angels than ever thou shalt be!"
Suddenly the Abbot was gone. Nobody had seen or heard him depart--he
seemed to melt into the night, in some strange, mysterious way.
"He is gone, and Satan his master go with him!" said Lord Marnell. "Ho,
jailer! lock the door, I pray, and leave us three alone together."
The jailer obeyed; and Lord Marnell sat down by the side of Margery's
bed, and bade Alice lie down on her own pallet, and sleep if she could.
He gave the same counsel to Margery; but the latter smiled, and said she
would never sleep again in this world.
"Now, Madge!" said her husband, "hast aught on thy mind, good wife, that
thou wouldst say ere morn? Aught that I can do for thee? Trust me, I
will do the same right gladly."
Margery thanked him fervently; there was a heartiness in his tone which
was not often audible.
"There be a few matters, mine own good Lord, which under thy good
pleasure I would willingly have done. I would that all my servants
might have a year's pay; and for Alice, poor lass! who hath tended me so
well and truly, I pray that a small matter of money may be given her by
the year: moreover, I would like, if she will--for I would not lay her
under bond--that she should keep with Geoffrey while she liveth, or at
least until he be a man. And, good husband, I would that thou wouldst
teach my poor child to remember me, his mother, but above all, to
remember the Lord for whom I die, and who, having loved me in the world,
loveth me unto the end. [John xiii. 1] Tell him to count nought too
good for Christ. I trust Christ hath set His heart upon him--I have
prayed for him too much else--and He promised me that whatever thing I
should ask the Father in His name He would do that thing." [John xvi.
16].
"Hast thou prayed ever for me, good wife?" asked Lord Marnell.
"Many times, my good Lord, and I will do so till I die."
"The Church teacheth that dying stoppeth not praying," said he.
"I wis well that the Church so teacheth; but I saw it not in the book;
however, if I find it to be so, I will pray God for thee there also."
"Thou sayest well, Madge; but I trow thou art more angel presently than
shall I be ever. I tell thee, Madge--for mayhap it will comfort thee to
know it--thy dealings and sayings of late have caused me to think more
on these things than ever did I afore. It seemeth but a small matter to
thee, to go through the fire to the glory. I marvel an' it could be so
unto me."
"Say not `to the glory,' good husband, but to Christ. I would not have
the glory and lack Christ. And for thee, I do rejoice and bless God
heartily, if He will make my poor doings of any good service unto the
welfare of thy soul. And believe me, that if thou art called unto my
fiery ordeal, Christ will give thee grace and strength equal unto thy
need. It is not much for them who love Christ, if they see Him stand
beyond a little fire, to pluck up heart and go through the fire to Him.
O good husband, take these as my dying words, and teach them to the
child for the same, `Christ without everything is an hundredfold better
than everything without Christ!'" Those last words were ringing in Lord
Marnell's ears when, about eight o'clock in the morning, he stood on the
steps of Marnell Place, looking towards the Tower, and fancying the
mournful preparations which were going on there. Margery had thought it
best that she should be alone for her fiery trial. As Lord Marnell
stood there, lost in thought, he suddenly heard his own name spoken. He
turned round, and saw two men before him, in travellers' attire. One of
them was an old man, with venerable white head and beard; the other was
much younger, and Lord Marnell recognised him at once.
"Master Pynson! I pray you what brings you here? Is the boy well?"
"He is well," answered Richard, in a low tone, "and Dame Lovell
likewise. We came hither on matters pertaining to my friend who here
standeth, and a terrible bruit hath reached us that the Lady Marnell
will suffer this morrow."
"It is true," said Lord Marnell, sorrowfully.
"Can no help be found?" cried Richard, in an agony. "I would put my
life for hers--yea, an hundred times twice told!"
"And I likewise," said her husband. "No--there is no help. The King
will hear of no remittance."
"When is it?"
"At nine o' the clock. You will come into the house and eat?"
Richard declined. He had already secured a chamber at the "Blue Boar,"
and would not trouble his Lordship.
"Come, Master Carew," said he to his companion, "let us be on our way."
"Go ye for to see her?" inquired Lord Marnell.
"I will not lose sight of her," answered Richard, "until she be in the
Paradise of God!"
Long before nine o'clock on the morning of that 6th of March, a large
crowd was already gathered on Tower Hill. Some came there from a
feeling of revenge--glad to see a Lollard burned. Among these was
Archbishop Arundel. Some, from a feeling of deep pity for the poor
young girl who was to be almost the proto-martyr of the new faith.
Among these were Pynson and Carew. The chief part of the concourse,
however, shared neither of these feelings to any great degree, but came
simply to see a sight, just as they would have gone to see a royal
procession, or any other pageant.
As nine o'clock struck on the great bell of the Tower, the martyr
appeared, led forth between the sheriff and Abbot Bilson. She was
clothed in one long white garment, falling from her throat to her feet;
and, notwithstanding the inclemency of the weather, her head, arms, and
feet were bare. No fastening confined her golden hair, which streamed
freely over her shoulders and fell around her. She walked slowly, but
quite calmly. Arrived at the place of execution, the sheriff urged her
to confess.
"I will confess," said Margery, "to Him who can alone absolve me." And
lifting up her eyes, she said, "O Lord God, who art above all things,
and hast given Thy Son to die for us sely and sinful men, I confess to
Thee that I am a vile sinner, utterly unworthy of Thy grace and mercy.
That day by day, for twenty-three years, have I done what I ought not,
and said what I ought not, and thought what I ought not. That all my
life also have I left undone things the which I ought for to have done.
Wherefore, O Father, let it please Thee of Thy goodness to forgive me,
and to look not on me, but on Thy Son Christ, in whose rightwise-ness I
am rightwise, and who hath loved me as Thou hast loved also Him. O Lord
God, turn not away the face of Thy servant, whose heart Thou hast moved
to pray thus unto Thee!"
The Abbot and the sheriff were extremely annoyed, but they did not dare
to silence her, for the multitude hung breathlessly on her words.
"There's none so much harm in _that_, any way!" said a woman who stood
near Richard Pynson.
"Wilt thou confess, sinful heretic?" asked the Abbot.
"To God I will and have done," answered Margery; "to man I will not."
There was a short pause, while the sheriff's men, under his direction,
heaped the wood in the position most favourable for burning quickly.
Then the sheriff read the indictment in a loud voice. It was a long
document, and took upwards of twenty minutes to read. After this, they
passed a chain round Margery's body, and fastened her to the stake. The
sheriff then, with a lighted torch, advanced to set the wood on fire.
"Will ye allow me that I may speak unto the people?" asked Margery of
the Abbot.
"No, miserable reprobate!" said he, "thou hast spoken too much already!"
"I pray Christ forgive you all that you have done unto me!" was the
martyr's answer.
The sheriff now applied the torch. Meanwhile Margery stood on the pile
of wood, with her hands clasped on her bosom, and her eyes lifted up to
heaven. What means it? Does she feel no pain? How is it that, as the
flames spring up and roar around her, there is no tremor of the clasped
hands, no change in the rapturous expression of the white upturned face?
And from the very midst of those flames comes a voice, the silver voice
of Margery Lovell, as clear and melodious as if she stood quietly in the
hall at Lovell Tower--
"_Worthy is the Lamb that was slain to take virtue, and Godhead, and
wisdom, and strength, and honour, and glory_--"
But the voice fails there, and the "blessing" is spoken to the angels of
God.
And from the outskirts of the crowd comes another voice which is very
like the voice of Richard Pynson--
"_I am agen risyng and lyf; he that beleeueth in me, yhe though he be
deed, he schal lyue; and ech that lyueth and bileueth into me, schal not
dye withouten eende_." [John xi. 25].
"The noble army of martyrs praise Thee," softly adds old Carew.
Thus did Margery Marnell glorify the Lord in the fires.
CHAPTER ELEVEN.
MARGERY'S LETTER.
"So that day there was dole in Astolat."
Tennyson.
The winter had just given place to spring, and a bright, fresh morning
rose on Lovell Tower. Dame Lovell was busy in the kitchen, as she was
when we first saw her, and so were Mistress Katherine and the
handmaidens; but Dame Lovell now wore the white weeds of widowhood, and
her face was thinner and much graver. Richard Pynson on his return from
London, had brought her the terrible news of Margery's death; and Dame
Lovell, in the midst of her sorrow, which was very deep, had solemnly
affirmed that no power on earth should ever induce her to pardon her
son-in-law for the part which he had taken in the matter.
Richard Pynson, long before this, had mooted the question of his return
to his father, but Dame Lovell would not hear of it. He reminded her
smilingly that _she_ needed no squire; but she came and put both her
hands on his shoulders, and made him look her in the face.
"Thou sayest sooth, Richard, that I need no squire, but I trow I need a
son. I am an old lone woman, and shall not keep thee long; and I have
loved thee as if I had been thine own mother. Promise me, mine own dear
lad, that thou wilt not go hence while I live."
Richard looked up with the tears in his eyes, and told her, as he kissed
her hand, that it was no wish of his to depart, and that he would not do
so without her full consent.
"That shalt thou have never!" was the answer. So Richard remained at
Lovell Tower. On the morning of which I speak, little Geoffrey, who was
very fond of Richard, and was petted by him perhaps rather more than was
good for him, had suddenly espied him at the farther end of the garden,
and instantly rushed after him as fast as his little legs would carry
him. A few minutes afterwards, Cicely came into the kitchen from the
hall, and announced to her mistress that a strange gentleman wished to
see her. Dame Lovell took off her apron, and rinsed her hands in water.
"See thou to the marchpane, Kat," remarked she to Mistress Katherine, as
she went to receive her guest.
It was no wonder that Cicely had not known him, for some seconds elapsed
before Dame Lovell herself could recognise Lord Marnell. Six years had
passed since they met at his marriage to Margery, but he looked at least
twenty years older. His figure was still upright, though much thinner,
but the very form of his features seemed changed, and his rich auburn
hair was now white as drifted snow. His manner, which had been blunt
and almost boisterous, was remarkably quiet. When he saw that Dame
Lovell did not recognise him, he said, with a smile--
"You know me not, fair mother?"
Dame Lovell's astonishment overcame her enmity for the moment.
"Troth, I knew thee not, good son! is it truly thou? Nay, how changed
art thou!"
"I wis that well," he answered. "Where is Geoffrey?"
"I trow he be in the garden with Richard," replied Dame Lovell. "I will
bid him hither."
Little Geoffrey, holding Richard's hand, as if he would not part with
him for a moment, returned to the house at his grandmother's bidding;
but like her, he could not recognise his father, whom he had not seen
for some months, until Lord Marnell's well-known voice assured him of
his identity. He rather shrank from him, as usual; but when Lord
Marnell contrary to his custom, lifted him up and kissed him, he seemed
a little reassured, and sat on his father's knee, staring at him
intently. Lord Marnell gave a cordial greeting to Richard, and then,
observing how earnestly his little son's eyes were fixed upon him, asked
him at what he was looking.
"What have you done with your hair?" was Master Geoffrey's puzzled
answer.
Lord Marnell laughed, and told the child that everybody's hair turned
white as they grew old.
"But your Lordship's hath done so quickly," remarked Richard.
"That were no great marvel," he answered, gravely.
Dame Lovell found it rather difficult to keep up her revengeful
determination. She was naturally a very easy-tempered woman, and the
evident change, moral as well as physical, in Lord Marnell, touched her,
and melted her enmity considerably.
"I pray you, fair mother," he said, looking up, "to leave me tell you
wherefore I came hither. Firstly, it was to give you a letter from
Madge, which she wrote in the Tower unto you." And Lord Marnell,
passing his hand into his breast, pulled out a small square packet, tied
with blue silk, and sealed with yellow wax. It was directed--
"_To the hands of my singular good lady and most dear mother, Dame Agnes
Lovell, at Lovell Tower, be these delivered with speed_."
Dame Lovell kissed the letter, and placed it in her own bosom. She
could not read a word of it, but it was enough that it came from
Margery.
"Secondarily," pursued Lord Marnell, "I would fain ask you, fair mother,
for to keep Geoffrey here a while longer, for I wis not yet what I shall
do."
"That will I, right heartily," said Dame Lovell, in a tone as cordial as
her words.
"Moreover, an' it stand with your pleasure, I would pray you for to take
back Alice Jordan, as you will find in yon letter that Madge did desire
her for to be about Geoffrey, if she would, and she seemeth right fain."
"I will have her with a very good will," answered Dame Lovell, "and she
shall be next in mine house unto Mistress Katherine, and shall eat at
the high table."
Lord Marnell thanked her sincerely for her readiness to comply with his
wishes. He said that Alice should come down to Lovell Tower as soon as
she could conveniently set out, and old Christopher, as the most trusty
of his household, should escort her. There was silence for a short
time, and then, with a kind of shadow of a smile, Lord Marnell said
suddenly--
"Do you hate me, fair mother?"
"I did afore I saw thee this morrow," replied Dame Lovell, candidly.
"And wherefore not after?"
"Meseemeth thou hast repented thyself of thy deed."
"Repented!" said Lord Marnell, mournfully. "Mother, will you crede me
if I tell you that no sorrow worser than this can ever befall me, and
that had I known what would come of my seeking of Abbot Bilson, I had
sooner cut off my right hand?"
"I do," said she.
"Madge knew it, poor damsel! and she said she forgave me in such manner
as Christ did forgive herself. Will you do the like, mother?"
"With all mine heart and soul, good son!" cried Dame Lovell, every shred
of her animosity vanished, and the tears fairly running down her cheeks.
"Don't cry, g'ammer!" exclaimed little Geoffrey, jumping off his
father's knee and running to Dame Lovell. "What are you crying for?
Somebody hurt you? If they have, I'll kill 'em!"
Dame Lovell laughed through her tears at Master Geoffrey's threat. She
was a good deal surprised when Lord Marnell spoke of going away; but he
said he had promised his cousin Sir Ralph that he would stay with him
next time he came into the neighbourhood; and he must return to London
in a day or two. So he only remained to dinner, and departed
immediately afterwards, evoking from Geoffrey the significant remark
that "he liked him a great deal better this time."
That evening, Dame Lovell and Friar Andrew sat down by the fire to
listen to that last letter. Her widow's dress, somewhat resembling that
of a nun, but pure white, left only her eyes, nose, and mouth visible.
Richard Pynson, in a rather more ambitious costume than the page's suit
wherein we made his acquaintance, seated himself in the opposite corner.
How like Margery's voice the letter sounded, in that old hall at Lovell
Tower!--so much so, that it seemed scarcely a stretch of fancy to expect
her to glide down the stair which led from her chamber, where her child
now lay sleeping. How well Richard could recall the scene when, six
years before, she came softly down to receive from his hand the
cherished and fatal volume!
Richard broke the seal, while Friar Andrew threw back his cowl, and Dame
Lovell smoothed her apron, and bent forward to listen.
"Mine Own Dear Mother,--In as humble and lowly manner as I may, I
commend myself unto you, praying you of your daily blessing.
"Whereas I hear that Richard Pynson hath been here in London on Saint
Luke's Day last, and hath borne back Geoffrey with him, at the which
news I am truly glad, I trow that you have heard of my close prison in
the Tower, whence I now write. I pray you therefore, good mother, not
to lay this overmuch to heart, neither to grieve for me; for I certify
unto you that never was I so happy and blessed as now I am, when over
the dark water, which is death, I can see a glimpse of the Happy City.
Neither, good mother, be downcast, I beseech you, when you shall hear
that on Sunday, the eve of Saint Anselm, I am to die. I pray you, dear
mother, if you knew that on Sunday I should be advanced to some high
place in the Court, would you sorrow? Yea, would you not rejoice
greatly therefor? Wherefore I entreat you, sorrow not now, but rejoice
rather, for I am to be taken up into an high place, yea, passing high--
even the Court of Christ Himself, whence also none of those changes and
evils can cast me down again, which are ever coming upon them who live
in this world.
"Moreover, good mother, I do you to wit that this is Christ's truth for
the which I suffer, and that Christ Himself is with me. Yea, I think on
Christ as He that is standing on the other side of the fire; and shall I
not then make haste through the same that I may come at Him?
"Likewise I do beseech you, mine own dear mother, grieve not when you
think that I have had but little joy or gladness in this my short life.
If divers children be playing in a garden, and the serving-man do come
and fetch away some afore others, that they may see their elders, and
may have brave gifts the which be ready for them at home, fall they
a-weeping, think you, because they must lose an hour of play? Nay,
truly not, if their hearts be set on the brave gifts afore them. So,
good mother, though you have passed in this weary and evil life nigh
sixty years, and I only twenty-three, count it, I beseech you, but an
hour more or less of child's playing, which will surely be made up to us
when we go home, and receive the brave gifts which our Father hath for
us in His storehouse. And if I have not known joy as much as some, I
have the less for to leave behind me in the case wherein I now am. For
you know, good mother, that at the first I was wedded against mine own
will and liking; and though I may and must say unto you for my Lord my
husband, that in this evil case he hath been more gentler unto me than
ever afore, and hath drawn mine heart much closer unto him, yet nathless
I may say also that an' I had been with mine own will wedded, I trow
that I had had far more for to leave for Christ, and had found far more
hardship in the doing of it. For God doeth all His work well; and He
wist surely what He did when my dear father--whose soul God rest!--was
let wed me thus.
"Behold now, most dear mother, how I have taken from you all cause of
your lamentation, and have left you nothing but to rejoice for me!
Wherefore rejoice for me, for at this time a sennight hence, I shall be
singing with the angels of God. I trow that one look at Christ Jesu
will pay me all mine account in the small matter I have suffered for
Him. I trow that if He but smile, and say, `Thou art welcome, dear
child, for I have loved thee,' I shall count the fires of this world but
light gear then. Will you sorrow that I am in good case? Will you
grieve because I am blessed? Will you count you have lost your child,
when she is singing in the great glory? Nay, good mother, I wis I have
well said in praying you to rejoice rather.
"And, dear mother, I beseech you that you bring up mine own dear child
in the same. I would have him, if I may, as dear unto Christ as I am,
and as ready to leave all for Christ His sake, as I, his mother, have
done. I say not this, God witteth, to magnify my poor deeds, the which
I know well be vile enough and want as much and great washing in Christ
His blood, as the worst sin that ever I did,--but, good mother, teach my
boy of Christ! Count it not anything that he leaveth for Him. Yea,
forsooth, rather would I a thousandfold that he should live on a dry
crust for Christ, than that he should have many brave dishes and rich
fare without Him. To this end I beseech you, most dear mother, that you
will have the child learned for to read, and will get that he may read
God's Word, which hath shown me how dear and gracious is Christ Jesus.
I pray you spare no pains ne goods for to do this.
"Dear mother, I have prayed my Lord my husband that, if she will, Alice
Jordan shall have the care of Geoffrey. She hath been a good and true
serving-woman unto me, and she witteth how I would have him ordered. I
pray you, therefore, if she come unto you, that you would put her about
him. Likewise commend me, I beseech you, unto mine ancient friends and
fellows, and all the meynie, and bid them learn for to love Christ Jesu,
and we shall then meet shortly again. Specially I would desire mine
humble service unto dear Father Andrew, and I do beg him for my sake to
read for himself the blessed book which hath been my comfort.
"And to end,--for I will weary you no longer, dear friend Richard
Pynson, with reading of mine evil hand, and I give you God's blessing
and mine for the kindness you have done unto me, and pray you not to
forget the last words which I said unto you with my voice, but to keep
fast hold of Christ, till you know and love Him better than any friend
in this evil world,--so to end, dear mother, I beseech you that you
would forgive me all wherein I have been an ill daughter unto you, and
all things wherein at any time I have troubled you. Good mother, I am
happy. I am looking out of the night to see the day-dawn breaking.
Come Sunday, I shall be in heaven. Come Sunday, by God's mercy--not by
mine own good, which God witteth is but evil--I shall stand with the
angels before Christ His throne. Haste, haste, dear good day that shall
deliver me! And God give you to know Christ, and send us a happy
meeting in that His blessed habitation, unto the great gladding of your
most loving and dutiful daughter, Margery Marnell.