what it would feel like. I am very glad I was not. But of course I
cannot tell what it would feel like, because nobles have thoughts and
feelings of quite a different sort to common people.
I suppose Guy would say that was one of my queer notions. He always
says more queer ideas come into my head than any one else's.
O Guy, Guy!--when shall I see thee again? Two whole years, and not a
word from thee! Art thou languishing in some Paynim dungeon? Hast thou
fallen in some battle? Or has the beautiful lady come, and thy little
Lynette is forgotten?
I have been asking Father Eudes to tell me something about the Holy
Land, for I want to be able to picture to myself the place where Guy is.
And of course Father Eudes can tell, for he knows all about every thing;
and he had an uncle who was a holy palmer, and visited the blessed
Sepulchre, and used to tell most beautiful legends, he says, about the
Holy Land. Beside which, his own father fought for the Sepulchre in the
second Crusade, and dwelt in that country for several years.
Father Eudes says it is nearly a hundred years since the kingdom of
Jerusalem was founded, for it was in the year of our Lord 1099, at the
time of the first Crusade. The first King was the gallant Count
Godefroy of Boulogne, who was unanimously chosen by all the Christian
warriors after the Holy City was taken: but he would never call himself
King, but only "Defender of the Holy Sepulchre." But, alas!--the good
King Godefroy only reigned one year; and on his death the Princes all
assembled in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, which they also call the
Temple, to elect a successor. And because there were great contentions
among them, they resolved to decide the choice by lot: and they stood
around the tomb of our Lord, each holding a long taper, and earnestly
besought the good God that He would cause the taper held by him who
ought to be King of Jerusalem to be lighted by miracle. And when the
prayer was ended, one of the tapers was found to be burning. It was
that held by Duke Robert the Courthose, son of Lord William the Norman,
who conquered England. But to the horror of all the Princes, Duke
Robert blew out the taper, and refused to be King. He said that he was
not worthy to wear a crown of gold in that place where for his sins our
Lord had worn a crown of thorns. And I really have always felt puzzled
to know whether he acted very piously or very impiously. So, in the
end, the brother of King Godefroy was chosen; but he also left no child,
though he reigned eighteen years. But the Lady Ida, his sister, who was
a very wise and preux[#] lady, had a son, and he reigned after his uncle
for thirteen years: yet at his death he left four daughters, and no son.
And Father Eudes thinks that this showed the displeasure of our Lord,
who had willed that the kingdom of Jerusalem should belong to our Lords
the Kings of England, and they wickedly refused to receive it.
[#] Brave, noble, chivalrous.
For of course it is the bounden duty of all Christian men to rescue the
Holy Land out of the hands of Paynims, Jews, and such horrible heretics,
who all worship the Devil, and bow down to stocks and stones: since this
land belonged to our Lord Jesus Christ, who was King of it by holy Mary
His mother, and He died seised of the same. For which reason all
Christian men, who are the right heirs of our said Lord, ought to
recover their inheritance in that land, and not leave it in the hands of
wicked heretics, who have no right to it at all, since they are not the
children and right heirs of Jesus Christ our Lord.[#]
[#] This singular reasoning is borrowed from Sir John Mandeville.
Well! when King Beaudouin II. was dead, the Holy Land fell to the eldest
of his four daughters, who was named the Lady Melisende: and she wedded
Count Foulques of Anjou, and from her all the kings since then have
come: so now it seems settled in the line of Anjou. I suppose our Lords
the Kings of England, therefore, have no right to it any more.
I cannot help feeling sorry that Duke Robert blew out the taper. I
would not have done it, if it had been mine. I think to be the Queen of
Jerusalem would be the grandest thing in all the world--even better than
to be the Empress of Monseigneur the Caesar. Is it not the Land of God?
A letter at last!--a letter from Guy! And he is high in the King's
favour, and has won booty to the amount of eighteen thousand golden
crowns, and he wants Amaury and me to go to him at once. I keep dancing
about and singing, I am so delighted. And not one word of the beautiful
lady! That is best of all.
Guy says the King is a mesel,[#] and dwells in chambers to himself; and
he has never been married, so there is no Queen, except the widow of the
late King his father; and she is of the high blood of Messeigneurs the
Caesars,[#] but is not the mother of the King. He is like Guy, for his
own mother, who was the Damoiselle de Courtenay, died when he was very
young: and he has one sister of the whole blood, who is called the Lady
Sybil; and one sister of the half blood, who is called the Lady Isabel.
The Lady Sybil is a widow, though she is younger than Alix: for she was
the wife of Monseigneur Guillaume, the Marquis of Montferrat, who died
about the time Guy reached the Holy Land; and she has one child,
Monseigneur Beaudouin, named after the King his uncle. The Lady Isabel
is not yet married, and she is about fourteen years old. Guy writes
that the King, and the ladies his sisters, and the old Queen, are all
very good to him, and he is prospering marvellously.
[#] Leper.
[#] She was Maria, daughter (some writers say niece) of the Emperor
Manuel Comnemus.
Guy's letter was brought by a holy palmer, late last night. I am sure
the palmer must be a very holy man, for he had scallops fastened to his
shovel-hat, and cross-keys embroidered on his bosom, and bells upon his
sleeve, and the holy cross upon his shoulder.[#] His cross was green,
so he must be a Fleming.[#] And whenever I came near him, there was
such a disagreeable smell, that he must, I am sure, be very holy indeed.
He told Robert, and Marguerite told me, that he had not changed his
clothes for three whole years. What a holy man he must be! I was very
glad when he gave me his benediction, though I did try to keep as much
to windward of him as I could, and I put a sprig of lavender in my
handkerchief before I asked for it. I am rather afraid Father Eudes
would say it was wicked of me to put that sprig of lavender in my
handkerchief. But really I think I should have felt quite disgusted if
I had not done so. And why should it be holy not to wash one's self?
Why don't they always leave babies unwashed, if it be, that they might
grow up to be holy men and women?
[#] The scallop-shell denoted a pilgrim to the shrine of St. James of
Compostella; the cross-keys, to Rome; the bells, to Canterbury (hence
the "Canterbury bell"); and the cross, to the Holy Sepulchre.
[#] The Flemings wore a green cross, the French a red, the English a
white one. The proverbial "Red Cross Knight," therefore, strictly
speaking, could not be an Englishman.
I wonder if the angels like smells which we think disagreeable. If they
do, of course that would account for it. Yet one cannot imagine an
angel with soiled feathers.
I suppose Guy would say that was another of my queer ideas. Oh, I am so
delighted that we have heard from Guy!
Monseigneur says I must have lots of new dresses to take with me. I
have been wishing, ever so long, for a fine mantle of black cloth, lined
with minever: and he says I shall have it. And I want a golden girdle,
and a new aumoniere.[#] I should like a diaper[#] gown, too,--red and
black; and a shot silk, blue one way, and gold the other.
[#] The bag which depended from the girdle.
[#] This term seems to have indicated stuff woven in any small regular
pattern, not flowers.
My gracious Lord asked me what gems I would best like.
"Oh, agate or cornelian, if it please your Nobility," said I, "because
they make people amiable."
He pinched my ear, and said he thought I was amiable enough: he would
give me a set of jacinths.[#]
[#] These gems were believed to possess the properties in question.
"What, to send me to sleep?" said I, laughing.
"Just so," he answered. "Thou art somewhat too wide-awake."
"What do you please to mean, Monseigneur?"
He smiled, but then sighed heavily, and stroked my head.
"Ah, my little Lynette!" he said. "If thy blessed mother had but lived!
I know not--truly I know not--whether I act for thy real welfare or not.
The good God forgive our blunders, poor blindlings that we are!" And he
rose and went away.
But of course it must be for my welfare that I should go to Guy, and get
some appointment in the household of one of the Princesses, and see
life, and--well, I don't know about getting married. I might not have
so much of my own way. And I like that dearly. Besides, if I were
married I could not be always with Guy. I think I won't, on the whole.
I asked Marguerite to-night if she could tell why holy people did not
wash: and she said she thought they did.
"Well," said I, "but yonder holy palmer had not taken his clothes off
for three years; and I am sure, Margot, he did not smell nice."
"I think," said Marguerite, "under leave of my Damoiselle, he would have
been at least as holy if he had changed them once a month."
"O Margot! is not that heterodoxy?" asked I, laughing.
"Let my Damoiselle pardon her servant--no! Did not Monseigneur Saint
Paul himself say that men should wash their bodies with pure water?"
"I am sure I don't know," said I. "I always thought, the holier you
were, and the dirtier. And that is one reason why I always thought,
too, that I could never be holy. I should want my hands and face clean,
at least."
"Did my Damoiselle think she could never be holy?"
"Yes, I did, Margot, and do."
"Wherefore? Let her forgive her poor servant."
"Oh, holiness seems to mean all sorts of unpleasant things," said I.
"You must not wash, nor lie on a comfortable bed, nor wear anything
nice, nor dance, nor sing, nor have any pleasure. I don't want to be
holy. I really could not do with it, Margot."
"Under my Damoiselle's leave, all those things she has mentioned seem to
me to be outside things. And--unless I mistake, for I am but an ignorant
creature--holiness must be something inside. My soul is inside of me;
and to clean my soul, I must have something that will go inside to it.
The inside principle will be sure to put all the outside things
straight, will it not? But I do not see what the outside things can do
to the inside--except that sometimes they make us cross. But then it is
we who are wrong, not they."
"Dost thou suppose it is wicked to be cross, Margot?"
"Damoiselle, Father Eudes once read a list of the good things that a
true Christian ought to have in his heart,--there were nine of them:
'love, joy, peace, long-suffering, gentleness, goodness, faith,
meekness, temperance.' I think one cannot have many of them when one is
cross and peevish."
"Then thou dost not think it sinful to delight in fine clothes and
jewels, and lie in a soft bed, and have dainties for dinner?--for all
those are outside."
"Ha! yes, my Damoiselle. Those are the world's substitute for
happiness."
"Now, what dost thou mean, Margot?" laughed I. "Have I not all these
good things?--and am I not happy?"
"All these,--ah, yes. But, happy? No, no. My Damoiselle is not
happy."
"Why, what wilt thou say next?" cried I.
"Will my Damoiselle permit her poor servant to ask her a question?"
"Oh yes!--anything thou wilt."
"Then is my Damoiselle quite certain--safely, happily certain--what will
become of her when she shall die?"
"O Margot, what an ugly question! I hate to think of it Why, I suppose
I shall go to Heaven--why should I not? Don't all nobles go there,
except those who are very, very wicked?"
"Ha! She hates to think of it? Wherefore?"
"Why, everybody does, of course."
"Let my Damoiselle pardon me. Not I."
"Oh, thou art an old woman, and hast outlived thy youth and its
pleasures. No wonder."
"My Damoiselle will find, as life goes on, that the older she grows, the
more distasteful that thought becomes to her. That is, unless she
should learn to be happy, which may the good God grant!"
I could not help laughing heartily. For a young noble maiden like me,
to take lessons of a forlorn old creature like Margot, in the art of
being happy, did seem so very ridiculous.
"Ah, my Damoiselle may laugh now," said Marguerite in her quiet way;
"but I have told the sober truth."
"Oh dear!" said I. "I think I had better sleep on it.--Margot, art thou
not very much pleased at the thought of going to the Holy Land?"
"Ah, yes, my Damoiselle, very much. I would dearly like to behold the
earth which the feet of the blessed Lord have trodden,--the lake on
which He walked, and the hill from which He went up. Ah! 'He shall so
come'--'this same Jesus'!"
I looked at her in astonishment. The worn old face and sunken eyes
seemed alight with some hidden rapture. I could not understand her.
"And the Holy Sepulchre!" I said; for that is holiest of all the holy
places, as everybody knows.
"Well, I should not so much care to see that," answered Marguerite, to
my surprise. "'He is not there; He is risen.' If a dear friend of mine
had gone on a journey, I should not make a pet of the saddle on which he
rode away. I should rather want not to see it, for it would always
remind me that he was gone."
"Marguerite!" exclaimed I, "dost thou not know that a neuvaine offered
at the Holy Sepulchre is of more efficacy than ten offered at any other
altar?"
"Will my Damoiselle give me leave to wait till I see it? Of course, if
the good God choose to have it so, there is an end of the matter. But I
think I would rather be sure. For me, I should like to pray in the
Church of the Nativity, to thank Him for coming as a little babe into
this weary world: and in the Church of the Ascension, to beg Him to
hasten His coming again."
"Ah, the Church of the Ascension!" said I. "There are pillars in that
church, nearly close to the wall; and the man who can creep between the
wall and the pillar has full remission of all his sins."
"Is that in the holy Evangel?" asked Marguerite; but I could not tell
her.
"I fancy there may be some mistake about that," she added. "Of course,
if it be in the holy Evangel! But it does not look quite of a piece
with what Father Eudes reads. He read one day out of the writing of
Monseigneur Saint John, that the blood of Jesus Christ, the blessed
Lord, cleansed us from all sin: and another time--I think he said it was
from the Evangel of Monseigneur Saint Matthew--he read that if a man did
but ask the good God for salvation, it should be given him. Well! I
asked, and He gave it me. Could He give me anything more?--or would He
be likely to do it because I crept between a wall and a pillar?"
"Why, Marguerite! Hast thou been listening to some of those wicked
Lyonnese, that go preaching up and down? Dost thou not know that King
Henry the father hath strictly forbidden any man to harbour one of that
rabble?"
"If it please my Damoiselle, I know nothing at all about them."
"Why, it is a merchant of Lyons, named Pierre Waldo, and a lot more with
him; they go up and down the country, preaching, and corrupting people
from the pure Catholic faith. Hast thou listened to any such preachers,
Margot?"
"Ha, my Damoiselle, what know I? There was a Grey Friar at the Cross a
few weeks since"----
"Oh, of course, the holy brethren of Saint Augustine are all right,"
said I.
"Well, and last Sunday there was a man there, not exactly in a friar's
robe, but clad in sackcloth, as if he were in mourning; but he said none
but very good words; they were just like the holy Evangel which Father
Eudes reads. Very comforting words they were, too. He said the good
Lord cared even for the sparrows, poor little things!--and very much
more for us that trusted Him. I should like to hear him preach again."
"Take care how thou dost!" said I, as I lay down in bed. "I am afraid,
Margot, he is one of those Lyonnese serpents."
"Well!" said Marguerite, as she tucked me up, "he had no sting, if he
were."
"No, the sting comes afterwards," said I. "And thou art but a poor
villein, and ignorant, and quite unable to judge which is the true
doctrine of holy Church, and which the wicked heresy that we must shut
our ears against."
"True, my Damoiselle," said old Marguerite meekly. "But to say that the
dear, blessed Lord cares for His poor servants--no, no!--that is no
heresy!"
"What is heresy?" said I. "And what is truth? Oh dear! If one might
know, one's own self!"
"Ah! Pilatus asked that of the good God, when He stood before his
judgment-seat. But he did not wait for the answer."
"I wish he had done!" I answered. "Then we might have known it. But I
suppose the good Lord would have told him to submit himself to the
Church. So we should not have been much better off, because we do know
that."
"We are better off, my Damoiselle," said old Marguerite. "For though
the good God did not answer Pilatus--maybe he was not worthy--He did
answer the same question, asked by Monseigneur Saint Thomas. Did not my
Damoiselle hear Father Eudes read that in French? It was only a few
weeks ago."
I shook my head. I cannot imagine when or how Marguerite does hear all
these things. I never do. But she went on.
"It was one day when the good Lord had told Messeigneurs the Apostles
that He was going to ascend to Heaven: and He said, 'The way ye know.'
But Monseigneur Saint Thomas--ah! he was rather like my Damoiselle; he
wanted to know!--he replied that they did not know the way. (If he had
not been a holy apostle, I should not have thought it very civil to
contradict his Seigneur, let alone the good Lord.) But the good God was
not angry: He saw, I suppose, that Monseigneur Saint Thomas did not mean
anything wrong, but he wanted to know, like a damoiselle of the House of
Lusignan. So He said, 'I am the way, and the truth, and the life: no man
cometh unto the Father but by Me.'"
"But I do not see what that means," said I. "Truth cannot be a
person,--a man cannot be a way. Of course it is a figure of speech; but
still I do not see what it means."
I was very sleepy, and I fancy rather cross. Marguerite stooped and
kissed my hand, and then turned and put out the light.
"Rest, my fair Damoiselle," she said, tenderly. "And may the good God
show my darling what it means!"
*CHAPTER IV.*
_*A JOURNEY--AND THE END OF IT*_*.*
"A violet by a mossy stone,
Half hidden from the eye:
Fair as a star when only one
Is shining in the sky."
--WORDSWORTH.
Bound for the East Countrie! Ay, we are fairly off at last, Amaury and
I,--with old Marguerite, and her niece Perette, and Bertrade, Robert's
daughter, and Robert himself, to wait upon me; and an escort of armed
men, and Amaury's attendants.
Yet it was not all brightness when we came to leave the Castle. Alix
and Messire Raymond were there to take leave of us: and I really
fancied--it must have been fancy!--that there were tears in Alix's eyes
when she kissed me. There were none in Umberge's, nor in Guillot's.
But Raoul cried honestly; though Amaury said afterwards that he believed
three-quarters of Raoul's tears were due to his having to stay behind.
Father Eudes gave me his blessing; and he wept too, poor old man! I
dare say he was sorry. He was here before I was born. Then the maidens
and servants came forward, the women kissing my hand, and the men my
robe: and last of all I came to Monseigneur, our father.
He folded me close in his arms, and bent his head down upon mine; and I
felt two or three hot tears on my brow.
"My little Lynette!" he said. "My little, little girl! The one bud of
my one love! Must I let thee go? Ha, well!--it is for thy welfare.
The good God bless thee, _mignonne_, and Messeigneurs and Mesdames the
saints. Please God, little maiden, we shall meet in Jerusalem."
"Meet in Jerusalem?" I said in surprise. This was news to me--that
Monseigneur meant to take the cross.
"Ay," said he softly, "in the '_Syon Aurea, ut clarior oro_.' There is
an upper City, my child, which is fairer than the lower. Jesu, of His
mercy, bring us both there!"
"Amen!" said Father Eudes. "Dame Mary, pray for us poor sinners!"
There was a great bustle after that, and noise, and clashing; and I do
not remember much distinctly, till I got into the litter with Bertrade,
and then first Amaury set forth on his charger, with his squires after
him, and then Marguerite behind Robert on horseback, and Perette behind
Amaury's varlet, who is a cousin of hers; and then my litter moved
forward, with the armed men around and behind. I just saw them all
clearly for one moment--Alix with her lips set, looking at us, as if she
were determined not to say a word; and Messire Raymond smoothing his
moustache; and Guillot with an old shoe poised in the air, which hit my
fore postilion the next minute; and Umberge with that fair false smile
with which she deludes every one at first sight; and Monseigneur, with
his arms folded, and the tears fairly running down his cheeks, and his
lips working as if he were deeply grieved. Just for one minute there
they all stood; and I think they will make a picture in my eyes till the
end of time for me. And then my litter was drawn out of the Castle
gate, and the horses tramped across the drawbridge, and down the slope
below: and I drew the curtain of the litter aside, and looked back to
see my dear old home, the fair strong Castle of Lusignan, growing less
and less behind me every moment, till at last it faded into a more dim
speck in the distance, and I felt that my long and venturesome journey
had begun.
Oh, why do people never let us know how much they love us, until just as
we unclasp hands and part?
Do they always know it themselves?
And I wonder whether dying is anything like this. Do men go a long
journey to God, with an armed escort of angels, and do they see the
world go less and less behind them as they mount? I will ask Margot
what she thinks. She is but a villein, in truth, but then she has such
curious fancies.
I have asked Marguerite, and she shakes her head.
"Ha! no, my Damoiselle. It can be no long journey to God. Father Eudes
said but last Sunday, reading from the Breviary, in his sermon, that 'He
is not far from every one of us.' And the good thief Ditmas, that was
crucified with God, was there in half a day. It can only be a little
way to Heaven. Ah! much less than half a day, it must be; for did not
Monseigneur Saint Gabriel, the holy Archangel, begin to fly when
Monseigneur Saint Daniel began to pray?--and he was there before he had
finished his beads. It is a long while since Father Eudes told us that;
and I thought it so comforting, because it showed that Heaven was not
far, and also that the good Lord listens so quickly when we call. Ah!
I have to say, 'Wait, Heloise!--I am listening to Perette:' but the good
Lord does not need to do that. He can hear my Lady the Queen, and the
Lady Alix, and Monseigneur Guy, and my Damoiselle, and her servant
Marguerite, all at once."
Yes, I suppose it must be so, though I cannot understand it. One has to
believe so many things that one cannot understand. Do we even know how
we live from day to day? Of course it is known that we have certain
organs in our bodies, by which we breathe, and speak, and walk, and
digest food; but can any one tell _how_ all they do goes to make up what
we call life? I do not believe it.
We took our way by Poictiers, across the duchies of Berry and Burgundy,
and through Franche-Comte, crossing some terrible mountains between
Besancon and Neufchatel. Then we travelled across Switzerland--Oh, how
beautiful it is! I felt as though I should have been content to stay
there, and never go any farther. But Amaury said that was just like a
silly girl. What man, said he--with such an accent on the _man_!--ever
wanted to stop away from gorgeous pageants and gallant deeds of arms,
just to stare at a big hill with some snow on it, or a pool of water
with some trees round it? How could any body make a name in that
foolish way?--said Messire Amaury.
But old Marguerite thought with me. "Damoiselle," she said, "I am very
thankful I came on this journey. Methinks I have a better notion what
Heaven will be like than I had before we left Poitou. I did not know
the good God was so rich. There seems to be no end to the beautiful
things He can make. Oh, how beautiful He Himself must be! And we shall
see His face. Father Eudes read it."
Whatever one says to Marguerite, she always finds something to say in
answer about the good God. Surely she should have been a nun.