CHAPTER XII.

LAWRENCE'S REWARD

HISTORICAL APPENDIX

*THE LORD OF THE MARCHES.*

*CHAPTER I.*

*THE TWO BEGIN THEIR JOURNEY.*

"O guide me through this life's uncertain wild!

And for aught else beneath the circling sun,

So Thou in Thine own bosom keep Thy child,

Father! Thy will be done!"

That every baby enters the world with a spoon of some metal in its

mouth, is an old saying which is easy of interpretation. And in the

ancient town of Usk, in Monmouthshire, on the first day of September,

1373, were born two babies, not many yards apart, whose spoons were made

of exceedingly diverse metal.

The baby who was born in the morning of that day, in the Castle of Usk,

brought with him a spoon of gold, beautifully embossed, and exquisite in

shape. He found the world--as represented by the mantle in which his

nurse enveloped him--soft, rich, velvety, and fur-lined. If he cried,

the sound won immediate attention; and the faintest sign of illness on

his part struck despair into hearts which beat with the bluest blood.

The baby who was born in the evening, in a squalid mud hovel, one of a

dozen which nestled close under the Castle wall, was accompanied by a

battered old spoon of the very rustiest iron. His world was a

sheepskin, extremely dirty, and not particularly fragrant. His cries

were answered--when they were answered--by a rough toss in the arms of

his eldest sister, a slipshod, shock-headed girl of eleven years; and

the possibility of his early death neither dismayed nor grieved any one,

for even his mother was of opinion that he was one too many in the

hovel, which could scarcely find room for the nine persons who occupied

it.

Baby Number One was baptized in the chapel of the Castle, borne in his

velvet wrapper by a lady of title, with the accompaniment of sweet music

and joyous bells. His sponsors were a bishop, an abbot, and a prioress.

He received the family name of Roger; for a hundred and fifty years

back, the heirs of that family had been Rogers and Edmunds alternately,

and it was the turn for the former. Roger Mortimer--an ominous name!

For this boy was the heir of the earldom of March, one of the proudest

coronets of England; and his mother, a fair girl of eighteen, was a

Princess of the Blood.

Baby Number Two was christened in the parish church, one of a batch of

ten, and might not have been christened at all if the curate had not

been one who looked sharply after his baptismal fees. He received the

name of Lawrence, which was the first that occurred to his parents.

Very naturally protesting in his baby style against a sprinkling with

cold water, he was tumbled with no particular care into the thin arms of

Mariot, who rewarded him with a private shake for his vocal performance,

the only music which accompanied the ceremony. As to surname, he could

not be said to have any. What did the son of a serf want with a

surname? As he grew older, however, some distinction between him and

other Lawrences being felt desirable, his neighbours took to calling him

Lawrence Madison, or son of Maud,--his mother being a woman with a

tongue, and as such a more prominent character than her quiet and silent

husband.

The family physician, Master Gilbert Besseford, carefully drew out the

horoscope of the young Lord. It appeared from this elaborate document

that he was to be a highly accomplished and intellectual youth, since

Mercury was busy about him; that he would be most fortunate in wedlock,

for Venus was doing something; that he would rise to the highest honours

of the State, and might possibly achieve a crown, as Jupiter was most

benevolently disposed to him. At any rate, something was to happen

about his twenty-fifth birthday, which would place him in a position

that none of his fathers had equalled. He would have a long life and a

happy one.

Two items of the horoscope were true. He was to be indeed an

intellectual and accomplished youth: and in his twenty-fifth year a

crown was to be his, to which few of his fathers had attained. But

those around him thought of a corruptible crown, and that which God had

prepared for him was an incorruptible. And the happy wedlock, and the

long life, and the rise to worldly honour, were not the portion of Roger

Mortimer, but of Lawrence Madison in the hovel below.

That Roger should exercise in the future considerable influence over the

fortunes of Lawrence, was extremely probable; since they would some day

stand to each other in the relations of master and vassal, and the

former possessed absolute power over the latter. But the idea that

Lawrence could in any sense sway the fortunes of Roger would have been

laughed to scorn by the household at the Castle. Yet this was to be.

In a small, but very prettily furnished boudoir in one of the Castle

turrets, sat the Countess Dowager of March. She was considered an

elderly woman, though we should think her only middle-aged; for in the

days of our shorter-lived forefathers, who looked upon fifty as old age,

and sixty as advanced senility, a woman of forty was some way down the

hill. From a father whose character stood high both as warrior and

statesman, and a mother whose remarkable wisdom and good sense were a

proverb among her contemporaries, Philippa Montacute had inherited a

character of unusual power, moral and mental. Her energy was tempered by

her prudence, while warm affections and shrewd common sense held sway

together over her actions. The character was not transmitted, except in

the affections, to that handsome, eloquent, amiable young man of

one-and-twenty, who was the only one left living of her four children:

but it was to be reproduced in every point save one, in the baby

grandson for whose birth the chapel bells were ringing melodiously, and

in whose honour all the thralls were to have a holiday the next day.

Alas, that the omitted item was the one which should have been a girdle

to all the rest! Warm-hearted, energetic to impulsiveness, with plenty

of good sense and fine understanding, the gifts bestowed on little Roger

did not include prudence.

The Countess sat alone in her bower in the September twilight, and took

"blind man's holiday," her imagination and memory scanning both the

future and the past.

It was not quite dark when the door of the bower opened, and a woman of

some thirty years came forward, dropping a courtesy as she approached

her mistress.

"Come in, Wenteline," said the Countess; for thus the medieval English

pronounced the old British name, Guenllian. "Is David yet back from his

errand?"

"An't please your Ladyship, he came but now, and he brings tidings,

agreeably to your Ladyship's pleasure, that among the thralls be two

babes to-day born. Maud, the wife of Nicholas in the huts, hath a

man-child; and your Ladyship's god-daughter, Philippa, wife of Blumond

the fishmonger, a maid-child."

"Good," answered the Countess, feeling for the gold and ivory tablet

which hung by a silver chain from her girdle, that she might therein

enter the information for which she had sent. "Then, as born on the

birthday of the heir, they shall be allowed some privileges. What names

are the babes christened by?"

"Please it your Ladyship, the little maid is Beatrice--so baptized by

Dan Robesart this afternoon. For the knave, being born but an hour

back, he is not yet baptized; but they think to call him Lawrence."

Both names went down on the Countess's tablet, after Guenllian had

lighted a candle for that purpose.

"Did David give the thralls to wit of the games and rejoicings allowed

to-morrow?"

"Ay, my Lady: and he saith one and all were greatly gladded thereby. My

young Lord shall be right welcome to all his vassals some day to be."

The Countess drew a long breath of semi-apprehension. "May he be none

the less desired, God grant, when they shall lay his head beneath the

mould! O my maid, how great and awesome a thing is the life of a man on

earth!"

"Madam, I heard once the parson of Ludgarshal, Dan John, to say"----

"Have on. A good man is Dan John. What said he?"

"That our Lord bound Him to care for the childer of them that feared

Him; and that no prayer so made should ever be lost."

"But how answered?" was the low-toned reply. "Wenteline, our prayers be

sometimes heard in a manner that crusheth the heart of him that prayed

them. If the babe were to die!"

"Very dear Lady, it might be, elsewise, that a twenty years' space

hereafter, you should heartily wish that he had died the sooner. Surely

it can be no evil thing for a little child to go right to God, while he

is yet lapped about with the white robes of his chrisom."

"I have buried three, Wenteline: and of them one went so. The other

were pretty little childer that prattled at my knee. And it was like

burying a piece of mine own heart to part with every one."

"Yet now, my Lady--would you have them back now?"

"Know I what I would? Surely it is better for them. And may God's will

be done. Only to-night, Wenteline--to-night, holding that little babe,

the thought came sorrowfully of my Roger, and how he faded from me like

a white flower of the earth, or a star that goes out in the sky. Hand

me yonder French Bible, Wenteline. Let me read a little touching the

City where my childer dwell, and the King unto whose presence they be

gone. May be it shall still my yearning when I think of them as there,

and not here."

There were no Bibles at that date but in French or Latin; seven years

were yet to elapse before John Wycliffe, to whom Guenllian had just

referred, was to begin the translation of the first English Bible. But

French Bibles and Latin Psalters were no unusual possession of noble

families. Those families who were not noble were expected to get to

heaven without any; for one of the most singular medieval ideas was that

which restricted all intellect to those of noble blood. Blood and

brains went together. If a man had not the former, it was out of all

calculation that he should possess the latter.

Guenllian reached down from a high shelf the French Bible, bound in dark

green velvet, with golden rims and embossed corners, and amethysts

gleaming from every corner. The Countess unfastened the clasps, and

turned to the last chapters of the book. She read, to herself and

Guenllian, of the Golden City and the River of Gladness and the Tree of

Life, until the world seemed to grow small and dim, and the world's

conventionalities to become very poor and worthless. And then, turning

a little further back, she read of the Good Shepherd who calleth His

flock by name, and leadeth them out; and they know His voice, and follow

Him. Then the golden clasps were closed, and the lady sat in silence

for a few moments.

"Wenteline," she said, "we have tried to follow the Shepherd, thou and

I, in the sunlit plains. Thinkest thou thy feet would fail if we come

by-and-by to the arid slopes of the stony hills?"

Guenllian looked down, and nervously played with her chatelaine. "I

cannot tell, an' it like my Lady. You look not for such troubles,

Madam?"

"They that be sure of Satan's enmity had best look for trouble," was the

pithy answer. "It is not here--yet. But it may be."

And it was to be. But it came not until Philippa Montacute was safe in

the shelter of the Golden City, and under the shade of the Tree of Life.

Then it broke fiercely on the unsheltered heads of those on the stony

slope, and the baby that lay that day in the velvet wrapper came in for

some drops of the thunderstorm.

The children in the Castle and in the hovel grew and thrived. They were

both pretty, but had Lawrence Madison been kept as clean and dressed as

nicely as the little Lord, he would have been the prettier of the two.

As he grew old enough to take note of things, to tumble about on the

sheepskin at the door, while his mother and Mariot attended to their

duties within, and to listen and talk, a great ambition arose in his

young heart. He did not envy the young heir at the Castle: an idea so

lofty and preposterous never suggested itself for an instant. Lawrence

would as soon have thought of grumbling because he was not an archangel,

as because he was not my Lord Roger of March. But he did indescribably

admire and envy the fishmonger across the street. He had a whole coat,

and a clean apron; he looked like a man who always had plenty of nice

things to eat, and a fire to warm himself by in cold weather. And the

fishes were so beautiful! Lawrence had crept across the street and

looked up at their lovely prismatic scales, as they lay in the baskets

level with his head. He had seen Blumond's wife as she came to the door

with her child in her arms. Little Beatrice was kept cleaner and nicer

than he was. Why did not Mother give him nice things to wear like hers?

And why, that evening when she and Father were talking about

something--what were they talking about?--did Father look across at

Lawrence, and say, with a lowered brow and a sulky tone quite unusual

with him, something about letting a freeman manage for himself, and not

be beholden to a villein? Now that he thought about it--and Lawrence

was given to thinking about things--Father did seem more cross with him

than the others. What had he done?

After many long cogitations on this and other puzzles, of which nobody

knew, since he kept them all to himself, Lawrence finished by astounding

his world.

Lawrence's world was very small, for it was bounded by a few yards of

the street at its widest extent. The inner circle of this sphere,

namely, the hovel, was built of mud and wooden laths, and was about

fifteen feet in longitude. Separate rooms were an unimaginable luxury.

Nine persons--Lawrence's father, mother, and grandmother, his two

brothers, three sisters, and himself--ate, slept, and mostly worked, in

the one chamber which formed the whole of the hut. There were also

additional inhabitants in the shape of two cats, three hens, and a small

and lively pig. It was not easy to move without falling over somebody or

something which was apt to resent it in a way not suggestive of polished

society. Perhaps it was quite as well, considering these circumstances,

that the space was not cumbered with much furniture. Alike of bedsteads,

chairs, and tables, the hut was entirely guiltless, and the inhabitants

would scarcely have known what to do with them. A bundle of straw

littered down in a corner, with a sheepskin thrown over it, was their

idea of the utmost luxury in the way of sleeping accommodation--a luxury

which they could rarely attain: and the ordinary bed was one of dry

leaves from the neighbouring forest, which, when they were able to reach

such a pitch of comfort, were stuffed into a sack. A long form, set

against the wall, represented the chair element, and was reserved for

the elders, the children squatting on the mud floor with the pig, cats,

and hens. The minds of the inhabitants had not reached the table idea.

Nicholas, the father of Lawrence, was by trade a tanner--not a

master-tanner by any means. He worked for a man who in his turn worked

under another, and all were serfs, at the Earl's tan-pits, a mile from

the city. Maud, his wife, was the daughter of another serf, the

blacksmith who shoed the Earl's horses. To all these the Lord of Usk

was a sort of minor divinity, almost too far above them to be thought of

as a human creature like themselves, and much too inaccessible for any

complaints or requests to reach him, except through the medium of a

dozen persons at least. People of this kind were not expected to have

any manners, beyond the indispensable one of making the most obsequious

reverences to the meanest dweller in the Castle, or to a priest. The

sailor's pithy description of the savages with whom he met--"Manners,

none; customs, nasty"--were in most cases only too descriptive of the

medieval villein.

Does not this manner of life among the lower orders, five hundred years

ago, account for much of the power obtained by the priesthood, and the

blind obedience with which the people followed the clergy? The priest

was something more to the masses than he was to the aristocracy. To the

latter, he was the man who stood between them and God: to the former, he

was also the mediator between man and man. He was the only person among

the upper ranks who treated these poor down-trodden creatures, not as

machines out of which so much profit was to be ground, but as men and

women with human sins and sorrows.

The children saw very little of their father. He went to work as soon

as it was light, and often did not return before they were fast asleep

on the leaves. They saw only too much of their mother, whose tongue was

never still when awake, and was governed by a cross temper and a

discontented mind. The grandmother was an old woman bent by rheumatism,

and enfeebled by years of hard work and hard usage. The girls, Mariot,

Emmot, and Joan, had nothing to look forward to but similar lives, and

after them--they hardly knew what. They had a dim notion that there was

a pleasant place where some people went at death, and where nobody did

any work: this was derived from the priests. They had also a notion,

dug up out of the natural soil of the human heart, that having met with

very little comfort in this life, it was sure to be waiting for them in

the next. Of God their principal idea was that He was a very great and

rich man, above even my Lord, and was in some mysterious manner

connected with hearing mass. The boys might expect the serf's usual

life--hard work and many blows, with such intervals of pleasure as an

animal would be capable of appreciating, chiefly connected with eating

and drinking, an occasional dance or game on the village green on

saints' days, and any rough horse-play among themselves.

They were not badly off in respect of food, for their master fed them,

and it was to his profit that they should be in good bodily condition.

They had therefore, plenty of food of the coarsest kind, and sufficient

clothing of the same quality, which they had about as much notion of

keeping clean as a monkey has of writing letters. Wages, of course,

were never heard of between master and serf. Whatever they needed had to

be reported to their superior in office, and they received it if and

when he found it convenient.

Is it not a singular fact that the less a man has, the more contented he

is often found to be? The majority of these serfs, thus comfortlessly

situated, were more contented men than their descendants, who have

privileges and possessions of which they never dreamed, and many of whom

are never satisfied with them.

These were the circumstances in which Lawrence was placed, and such were

the persons whom he astonished when his time came to do so.

"Get out of the way, childer!" said Mariot one night, not crossly, but

like the tired girl she was, as she came and threw herself down on the

sheepskin among them at the door. "I am weary as a dog. There never is

any pleasure in life--our lives, anywise. Simon, have done!--and Emmot,

give o'er pushing. Let a body have a bit of rest, do!"

And rolling one corner of the sheepskin into a bolster, Mariot made

herself comfortable--as much so, that is, as the circumstances admitted.

"Mariot, what is a villein?"

"What's _what_?" exclaimed Mariot, her head coming up in astonishment.

"Lo' you now, if Slow-o'-Words hasn't found his tongue!"

"What's a villein, Mariot?"

"What we all are--saving thee, little plague o' my life."

"Why amn't I like you?" said Lawrence, opening his eyes wide.

"The deer knows!" replied Simon grumpily.

"Well, but I know beside the deer," said Mariot. "Well, what for but by

reason thou wert born on the same day as the young Lord up yonder,--thou

and Blumond's Beattie--and ye were both made free therefor."

"What's _free_, Mariot?"

"It means, do what you will."

"Does it so? May I have one of those fishes, then?"

"Oh, well--it means not, do ill and thieve. Wait a bit, Lolly, till

thou art grown bigger, and thou wilt know what free means--better than

ever we are like to know it."

"Why isn't everybody free, Mariot?"

"What wot I? They aren't."

"Is Beattie free too?"

"Ay."

"But we were _made_ free. Is nobody free that isn't made?"

"Lots of folks."

"Then why isn't everybody?" repeated little Lawrence meditatively.

"Oh, give o'er, and reive not my head!" cried Mariot. "Loll, if thou

goest about to ask questions that none can answer, I shall want thee

dumb again I promise thee."

"Can't nobody answer them? Couldn't the parson?"

"The parson, in good sooth! The like of thee to ask questions at the

parson! Shut thine eyes, and go to sleep: I'm as sleepy as a squirrel

in winter."

Lawrence crept on his hands and knees to the edge of the sheepskin,

avoiding his brother Simon, who lay on his face in the middle of it,

amusing himself by kicks up at the atmosphere: and looking out into the

still summer evening, saw Blumond's wife Philippa carrying in the

baskets of fish, and little Beatrice trotting beside her. Prettiest of

the three children was Beatrice, with dainty little ways which woke

Lawrence's admiration, and made her a perpetual attraction to him. In

fact, he hardly knew which he liked best, Beatrice or the fishes!

As to the magnificent people in the Castle, Lawrence barely presumed to

lift his eyes to them. Now and then, as he sat on the sheepskin, some

squire on horseback or messenger on foot would flash past in the Earl's

livery--blue and gold, guarded with white--who was to the children in

the huts as good as a show at Whitsuntide Fair. But before Lawrence was

quite two years old, the Castle was deserted, and the Earl and all his

family had removed to Ludlow. Thence came rumours from time to time of

their doings. A daughter was born, in honour of whom a holiday was

given to the villeins; and two years later, a son, for whom they had a

great feast. But immediately after that came sadder news, for the royal

mother, yet only twenty-two, survived her boy's birth scarcely six

weeks. All the bells of Usk tolled in mourning, catafalques of black

and silver were in every church, and the chant of doleful litanies for

the dead floated through the perfumed aisles. And after the death of

the young Countess, the Earl and Countess Dowager returned no more to

Usk; for two years later, the Earl was made Viceroy of Ireland, and

removed thither, while his mother and children remained at Wigmore.

The connection between England and Ireland had hitherto been disastrous

to both parties. Had the Pope intended by his gift of that island to

punish all the royal dynasty for their sins, past and future, he could

not have succeeded better; and had he desired to visit on the Green Isle

the penalty for all her crimes, he could scarcely have devised a sorer

punishment than the infliction of such rulers as England sent her for

several hundred years. The conquerors and the conquered understood each

other as little as Celt and Teuton commonly do: and what was still

worse, they did not try to do so. The English notion of governing was

first to kill off the Irish chieftains, and then to divide the land

among a quantity of Norman adventurers whose capacity for "land-hunger"

was something remarkable. When Earl Edmund of March assumed the

government, it was only seventeen years since the passing of the Statute

of Kilkenny, which forbade marriage between the English and the Irish,

and commanded the use of the English language and customs on pain of

death. Even Lionel, Duke of Clarence, who was considered one of the

gentlest of men, had, as his first step on landing in Ireland, forbidden

any Irishman to approach his camp. His son-in-law was a wiser man.

There was Irish blood in his own veins--in small proportion to the

English, it is true; still, he was the descendant of an Irish King, and

the pedigree-loving Celts were not likely to forget it. He began by

showing a strong hand upon the reins, and in six months had Ireland at

his feet. Then he laid aside whip and spur, and permitted his natural

character to take its course. The result was that he became exceedingly

popular, as a ruler usually is in Celtic nations who ordinarily exhibits

himself in an amiable light, and yet shows that he has power, and can

use it when required. Earl Edmund shut himself up from no one. Any

Irishman who pleased could have access to him at any time, and his

native eloquence recommended him strongly to their easily touched

feelings. But his beneficent reign did not last long, and perhaps his

short tenure of power was quite as well for his popularity. Human

nature, in all countries, is apt to become accustomed to kindness, and

to take advantage of it. And doubtless the Earl's popularity was partly

due to the fact that he succeeded rulers harsher and less attractive

than himself.

One great disadvantage on the part of England was that while she

realised to the full the inferior civilisation of the Irish, she failed

to discover that they possessed a faith purer than her own. The true

old and Catholic religion implanted by St. Patrick and others of his

type had received far less corruption from Rome than the religion of

England. But the English were much more concerned in improving the

manners of the Irish nobles than in improving their own spirituality.

That an Irish king wore no trousers, and that his attendant minstrel

shared his plate and glass, struck them infinitely more than the

condition of his morals. When once they had satisfied themselves that

the Irish believed in the Triune God, and had heard of the existence of

a Bishop at Rome who was the Pontiff of Western Christendom--points

apparently of equal importance to them--they gave themselves no further

trouble on the religious question. Political and social questions came

nearer and pressed more heavily.

With the usual individuality of our race, they resented the use of a

separate language, to which the Irish, as individual in their way, clung

as for very life. If, instead of trying to suppress the venerable and

beloved tongue, England had given Ireland an open Bible in it--if she

had insisted on the study of Holy Writ, and had left the manners to take

care of themselves under its influence, what a different future there

might have been!

Are we still as blind as five hundred years ago, or shall we some day

see that peace for Ireland, as for every other land and soul, must come

through the teaching of the Spirit, and the blood of the Cross?

*CHAPTER II.*

*WATCHWORDS.*

"Then out and spake a gude auld man--

A gude death micht he dee!--

'Whatever ye do, my gude maister,

Take God your Guide to be.'"

--OLD BALLAD.

While Earl Edmund was governing across the sea, his little son Roger

grew in health and stature under the loving care of his grandmother at

Wigmore. The Earls of March had many castles and seats, but Wigmore

Castle was the family seat of the Mortimers. The old Countess was

extremely anxious that the boy should grow up a good man; the rather

because she recognised in him a quality beyond her own energy and

activity--that passionate, impetuous nature which belonged to his

mother's blood. She brought him up on a course of philosophy, and above

all of Scripture, in the hope of calming it down. The eradication was

hopeless enough; but the Scripture sank deep. Young as he was when he

lost her, Roger Mortimer never forgot those lessons at his grandmother's

knee. But the quiet years of holy teaching were not long. In the

spring of 1381, Earl Edmund sent letters to his mother, requesting that

his eldest son might be sent over to him, as he wished him to make

acquaintance with the tenants on his Irish lands. The whole province of

Ulster would lie one day at the pleasure of its future Earl.

Sir Thomas Mortimer, a distant relative of the Earl, brought his noble

kinsman's letters. He was appointed the governor of little Roger, and

was to take care of him on his perilous journey. In order to impress

the Irish with a sense of the child's grandeur and importance, he was to

have a distinct establishment; and the Earl had suggested that the

majority of the new servants had better come from his Welsh estates.

Two Celtic races, which centuries ago were one, would, as he thought, be

more likely to amalgamate with each other than either with the Saxon.

Perhaps he forgot that the meeting of two fires will scarcely extinguish

a conflagration.

Sir Thomas therefore had come through Usk, where he had imparted the

Earl's commands to the keeper of the Castle, ordering him to have ready

by a certain day, to meet him at Holyhead, such and such persons--so

many men and boys to fill so many offices--much as he might have ordered

as many garments or loaves of bread. The villeins were bound to serve

in the menial offices; and for higher places, the neighbouring gentry

and their sons would only be too glad to hear of the vacancies.

One appointment was to be made, at her son's request, by the Countess

herself. This was perhaps the most important of all, for it was the

choice of a woman who should look after the child's necessities, and

fill so far as possible the place of the dead mother and the absent

grandmother. The boy, having passed his seventh birthday, was

ostensibly emancipated from the nursery: yet, with no lady at the head

of the household, the presence of some responsible woman about the child

became needful. The Countess's choice was soon made. It fell on her own

waiting-woman, Guenllian, in whom she had more confidence than in any

one else. It was an additional recommendation that Guenllian had been

about the child from his infancy, so that he would feel her to be a

familiar friend. Yet, though she was sending with him the person of all

others in whom she most relied, the Countess suffered severe anxiety in

parting with her boy, who, after his father, was her one darling in all

the world. What would become of him? Suppose he were drowned in

crossing the sea, and never reached his father! Suppose he were

murdered by the "wild Irish," who, in the eyes of all English people of

that date, were savages of the most dreadful type. Or, worse

still,--suppose he grew up to be a monster of wickedness,--that pretty

little child who now lifted his pure blue eyes so honestly and

confidingly to hers! She thought it would break her heart. And strong

as that heart was to cleave to God and do the right, yet, as the event

proved, it was not one to bear much suffering.

"Very dear Lady," suggested Guenllian tenderly, "can you not trust the

young Lord into the merciful hands of God? Can my young Lord go whither

He is not?"

"Thy faith shames mine, my maid. May God verily go with you!

Wenteline, thou wilt surely promise me that my darling shall be bred up

to prize this," and she laid her hand on the French Bible. "Let the

Word of the Lord never be out of his reach, nor of his hearing. Rising

up and lying down--coming in and going out--let him pillow his soul upon

it, and be made strong."

Guenllian gave the required promise very quietly. Her mistress knew she

might be trusted.

"And if it should come--as we hear rumour afloat--that Dan John busieth

himself to render the Book into the English tongue, then will I send it

o'er so soon as may be. An whole Bible in English! Ay, that day that

seeth it shall be a merry day for England."

The French Bible was the Countess's parting gift to her grandson. It

was no mean gift, for the writing of its fellow, which was to remain

with her, had cost her more than twenty pounds.

To the child himself she said comparatively little. She wished her words

to sink deep and take root; and she knew that an important means to that

end was that they should be few. So, as her last words, she gave him

two mottoes, in the language which was only then ceasing to be the

mother tongue of English nobles.

"_Fais ce que doy, advienne que fourra_." And--"_Un Dieu, un Roy,

servir je day_."

And thus, with a thousand prayers and blessings, the boy left her.

"Ah, when to meet again?" she sighed, as from the castle turret she

watched him go, turning to kiss his hand to her as he rode away towards

Shropshire. "O my darling, mine heart misgiveth me sore!--when to meet

again?"

Never any more, Philippa Mortimer, till both stand in the street of the

Golden City, and under the shade of the Tree of Life.

Little Roger and his suite travelled, as was usual at the time, on

horseback. The charette was reserved for short journeys in civilised

places, where there was some semblance of a road; while the litter was

the vehicle of ladies and invalids. A dark roan-coloured "trotter," or

saddle-horse, was selected for the little lord, and fitted with a black

velvet saddle embroidered in gold. The harness was also black. There

was no saddle-cloth, as this was an article used on ceremonial

occasions; and as the horse was going on a journey which would lie

chiefly upon turf, he was not shod.

Roger himself was dressed in a long robe of dark blue damask, relieved

by narrow stripes of white and red; and over it he wore a hood of black

velvet. On the top of this sat a brown felt hat, in shape something like

a modern "wide-awake," with one dark-green plume standing straight up in

its front, and fastened to the hat by a small golden clasp. A little

white frill surrounded his throat beneath the hood, which latter article

could be cast aside if the weather were sufficiently warm. The sleeves

of the robe were extremely wide and full, and lined with white; and

beneath them were closer sleeves of apple-green, but these were far

wider than gentlemen wear them now. Dark-green boots, with white

buttons, and spurs of gilt copper, completed the young gentleman's

costume. His stirrups were of white metal, and in his hand was an

excessively long white whip, much taller than himself.[#] It was the

first time that Roger had been allowed to ride alone on a journey, and

he was as proud of the distinction as might be expected.

[#] This description is mainly taken from one of Creton's illuminations.

Harl. MS. 1319, illum. ix.

Before the convoy went two running footmen, attired loosely in a costume

somewhat resembling the Highland kilt, one of whom bore a pennon with

the Earl's arms, and the other a trumpet, which was sounded whenever

they drew near to any town or village. Every man carried a drinking-cup

at his girdle, and his dagger served for a knife. The travellers

beguiled the long day by singing songs and ballads, among which was a

new song just become popular, of which the first line only has descended

to us, and that has a decidedly minor tone--"_J'ay tout perdu mon temps

et mon labour_."

Thus accoutred and equipped, conducted by two knights, eight squires,

fifty men-at-arms, and a hundred archers, Roger set forth on his

journey. A pleasant ride of eight miles brought them to Clun Castle,

which belonged to Roger's cousin, the young Lord Le Despenser, and the

keeper of the castle was delighted to show hospitality to one so nearly

related to the owner. Here they stayed for dinner, Roger being seated

in the place of honour at the head of the dais, and all present anxious

to gratify his slightest fancy. Eight miles more, after dinner, brought

them to Montgomery, where the castle received its heir for the night.

In the streets of the towns, but especially on the bridges and in the

church porches--where in Roman Catholic countries they usually lie in

wait--were always congregated a larger or smaller swarm of beggars, who

invariably seized upon a group of travellers with avidity. And as

giving of alms, however indiscriminate, was a good work in the eyes of

the Church, Sir Thomas Mortimer had provided himself with a purse full

of pennies, out of which he doled twopences and fourpences to every

crowd of suppliants.

The next day was Sunday; but the only difference which it made in the

day's programme was that, before the travellers set forth, they attended

mass in the fine old cruciform church of Montgomery. Mass being

conducted in a tongue unknown to the vulgar of all nations, may be

attended in any country with equal advantage--or disadvantage. The

stage that day was rather shorter, but they were now among the

mountains, and travelling became a slow and wearisome process. They

reached before night the village of Languadan, where they stayed the

night, Sir Thomas and his precious charge being accommodated at the

village inn, and the guard encamping outside in the open air. A third

day's journey of thirteen miles brought them to Kemmer Abbey, and a

fourth, long and fatiguing, winding round the base of Snowdon, to

Beddgelert. They made up for their extra work by riding only ten miles

on the Wednesday, which ended at Caernarvon. Here they returned to more

civilised life, and found better accommodation than they had done since

leaving Montgomery. But the Thursday's journey was again long and

tedious, for they had to sail across the Menai, and round Anglesey.

Five boats awaited them here, the St. Mary, the Michael, the Grace Dieu,

the Margaret, and the Katherine: their tonnage ran from sixty to a

hundred and fifty tons. They were simply large, deep brown boats, with

one mast and no deck, and neither cabin nor any other form of shelter.

Sir Thomas and Roger embarked on the Grace Dieu, which was the largest

of the boats, and the guard were packed into the other four, the squires

going with their betters.

On arrival at Holyhead, Sir Thomas was met by the deputy keeper of Usk

Castle, who presented to him two more squires, three "varlets," and a

boy, who were to serve in the household of the young Lord. One of the

squires was named Reginald de Pageham, and his family had been in the

service of the Earls of Ulster from time immemorial. The other was

named Constantine Byterre, and was the son of a squire of the Earl. The

varlets were villeins from Usk. And the boy was Lawrence Madison.

If any reader of modern ideas should desire to know how or why a child

of seven years old was selected for a servant, be it known that in the

Middle Ages that was the usual period for a boy to commence service. He

was to fill the posts of page of the chamber and whipping-boy: in other

words, and practically, he was to fetch and carry for his little master,

to learn and play with him, and when Roger was naughty and required

chastisement,--which could scarcely be expected not to occur,--Lawrence,

not Roger was to be whipped.

The combination of boy with boy was a curious one. Roger had been most

carefully brought up, led by tender hands every step of the way hitherto

traversed. Lawrence had scrambled up on hands and knees, as he might,

with no leading at all except the rare catechising in church, and the

personal influence of Beatrice and the fishes. But these three had been

for good. The Rev. Mr. Robesart, the only one of the clergy of the

parish church at Usk who cared to catechise the children, had been one

of those rare stars among the medieval priesthood who both loved the

perishing souls of men, and were themselves in possession of the Bread

of Life to break to them.

Little Beatrice had repeated her lessons to Lawrence, whom she was

pleased to like, in a funny, patronising little way, and they had done

him at least as much good as they did to her. And the fishes had also

had a share in his education, for their beauty had gratified his taste,

and their helpless condition had stirred feelings of pity which do not

often find such ready entrance into a boy's heart as they did into that

of Lawrence Madison.

It was not on account of any intellectual or moral qualifications that

Lawrence had been chosen for his post of service. It was simply because

he was a pretty child, and would look well in the Earl's livery. His

parents were only too thankful for such a chance of promotion for him.

He was one too many for their financial resources. On Lawrence's part

there was only one person whom he was sorry to leave, and that was the

little playmate over the way. He had gone proudly across to the

fishmonger's, to show himself in his new splendours, and to say

farewell.

"Love us, sweet Saint Mary!" was Philippa's exclamation. "How fine art

thou!"

"Oh, how pretty, how pretty!" cried little Beatrice. "Lolly, where

gattest such pretty raiment?"

"'Tis my Lord his livery, child," said Blumond. "And what place hast

thou, lad? Kitchen knave?"

This was the lowest position that a boy could have in a noble household.

Lawrence's head went up in a style which would have amused most students

of human nature.

"Nay, Master Blumond," said he: "I am to be page of the chamber to my

Lord's son."

"Gramercy, how grand we are!" laughed Blumond. "Prithee, good Master

Lawrence, let me beseech thee to have a favour unto me."

Lawrence had an uneasy perception that the fishmonger was laughing at

him. He struggled for a moment with the new sense of dignity which sat

so stiffly upon him, and then, speaking in his natural way, said,--

"I shall never forget you, Master Blumond, nor Philippa, nor Beattie.

But I wis not when I shall see you all again. The little Lord goeth to

Ireland, and I withal."

"Where's Ireland?" asked Beattie, with wide-open eyes, "Ireland" having

immediately presented to her imagination a large park with a castle in

the middle of it.

"That wis I not," answered ignorant Lawrence. "'Tis somewhere. I shall

see when we be there."

Blumond was a little wiser, but only a little. "Well, now, is't not

across seas?" suggested he.

Lawrence's eyes brightened, and Beatrice's grew sorrowful.

"Wilt thou ever be back, Lolly?" she said in a mournful tone.

"To be sure!" quickly responded Blumond. "He shall come back a grand

young gentleman, a-riding of a big black courser, with a scarlet

saddle-cloth all broidered o' gold and silver."

There was a general laugh at this highly improbable suggestion, which

was checked by Philippa's query if Lawrence had taken leave of Dan

Robesart.

"Nay. Should I so?" asked the boy doubtfully.

"Aye, for sure. Haste thee up the hill, for he went into the church but

now."

And with a hasty farewell at last Lawrence ran off.

He found the priest pacing meditatively up and down the north aisle of

the church, with folded arms and a very grave face.

"Didst seek me, my son?" he inquired, pausing as Lawrence came up and

stood rather timidly at a little distance.

"An't please you, good Father, I go hence as to-morrow, and Philippa

would have me ask you of your blessing ere I went."

"That shalt thou have, right heartily." And the thin white hand was

laid on the child's head. "Our Lord bless thee, and make thee a

blessing. May He be thy Guide and Shield and Comforter; yea, may He

cover thee with His wings all the day long, and be unto thee a buckler

from the face of evil. Lawrence, my son, I would fain have thy promise

to a thing."

"What thing, Father?"

"Pass thy word to me, and never forget it, that in all thy life thou

wilt never go any whither without asking our Lord to go with thee."

The priest had somewhat failed to realise the extreme youth and worse

ignorance of the child to whom he was talking. The reply recalled him

to these facts.

"Where shall I find Him?--in the church? Must I hear mass every

morning?"

One of the strangest things in Romanism to a Protestant mind is the

fancy that prayer must be offered in a consecrated building to be

thoroughly acceptable. Of course, when a man localises the presence of

Christ as confined to a particular piece of stone, it is natural that he

should fancy he must go to the stone to find Him. From this

unscriptural notion the Lollards had to a great extent emancipated

themselves. Mr. Robesart therefore answered Lawrence as most priests

would not have done, for in his eyes the presence of Christ was not

restricted to the altar-stone and the consecrated wafer.

"My son, say in thine heart--thou needest not speak it loud--'Jesus, be

with me,' before thou dost any matter, or goest any whither. Our Lord

will hear thee. Wilt thou so do?"

Lawrence gave the promise, with a child's readiness to promise anything

asked by a person whom he loved and reverenced. The priest lifted his

eyes.

"Lord keep him in mind!" he said in a low voice. "Keep Thyself in the

child's heart, and bear him upon Thine before the Father!--Now, my son,

go, and God be with thee."

Mr. Robesart laid his hand again on the child's head, and with a slower

step than before, as if some awe rested upon him, Lawrence went down to

the hovel below the hill.

The journey from Usk to Ireland was a far more new and strange

experience to Lawrence than it could be to Roger. The latter had taken

various short journeys from one of his father's castles to another, or

on occasional visits to friends and relatives of the family: but the

former had spent all his little life in the hovel at Usk, and his own

feet were the only mode of travelling with which he had hitherto been

acquainted. The sea was something completely new to both. Lawrence was

deeply interested in finding out that fishes lived in that mighty ocean

which seemed alike so potent and so interminable. He wanted to go down

to the bottom and see the fishes alive in their own haunts, and find out

what was there beside them. But after timidly hinting at these

aspirations to an archer and a squire, and perceiving that both were

inclined to laugh at him, Lawrence locked up the remainder of his

fancies in his own breast, and awaited further light and future

opportunities.

Meditations of this kind did not trouble Roger. He found quite enough to

look at in the visible world, without puzzling his brain by speculations

concerning the unseen. His nature disposed him at all times to action

rather than thought.

Two months were consumed on the voyage to Ireland: not by any means an

unreasonable time, when that period or longer was frequently required

between Dover and Calais. They were detained previously at Holyhead,

waiting for a south-east wind, only for a fortnight, which was rather a

matter for congratulation; as was also the fact that they were only

twice in danger of their lives during the voyage. Perils in the

wilderness, and perils in the sea, were much more intelligible to our

forefathers than to ourselves.

Roger was growing dreadfully tired of sea and sky long before the shore

of Antrim was sighted. Lawrence was tired of nothing but his own

ignorance and incapacity to understand what he saw. He wanted to

know--to dive to the bottom of every thing, literally and figuratively:

and he did not know how to get there, and nobody could or would tell

him. Surely things had an end somewhere--if one could only find it out!

The voyage came to one, at any rate; and on a beautiful summer morning,

the keel of the Grace Dieu at last grated upon the shingle of Ulster.

Half-a-dozen of the crew jumped out into the surf, and twice as many

came to help from the land. The great boat was dragged on shore by the

help of ropes, a ladder set against her side, and Roger carefully

carried ashore by a squire. Lawrence was left to climb down as he best

could. Both reached the ground in safety, and found themselves in

presence of a crowd of officers and retainers in the Earl of Ulster's

livery; from among whom in a moment the Earl himself came forward, and

gave a warm fatherly welcome to his little son. After mutual greetings

had been sufficiently exchanged between old residents and new-comers,

the Earl mounted his horse, a superb bay caparisoned with a scarlet

saddle-cloth, and Roger having been lifted on a white pony beside him,

they rode away to the Castle of Carrickfergus.

Ulster was in the fourteenth century, as it still is in the nineteenth,

in a much more settled, and to English eyes a more civilised condition,

than the Milesian parts of Ireland: but even there, that hatred of rent

which seems characteristic of the Irish race, flourished quite as

luxuriantly as now. Fifty years before this date, Maud of Lancaster,

the girl-widow of the murdered Earl of Ulster, and great-grandmother of

little Roger, had been constrained to address piteous appeals to King

Edward III. for his charity, on the ground that while nominally

possessed of large property, she had really nothing to live upon, since

her Irish tenants would not pay their rents.

The English mind, which is apt to pride itself upon its steady-going,

law-abiding tendencies, was much exercised with this Irish peculiarity,

which it could not understand at all. Why a man should not pay rent for

land which the law affirmed was not his own, and what possible objection

he could have to doing so beyond a wish to keep his money in his pocket,

was wholly unintelligible to the Saxon mind, which never comprehended

that passionate love for the soil, that blind clinging to the homestead,

which are characteristic of the Celt. Those who have those qualities,

among our now mixed race, whatever their known pedigree be, may rest

assured that Celtic blood--whether British, Gaelic, or Erse--has entered

their veins from some quarter.

The Irish, on their part, were for ever looking back to that day when

they were lords of the soil, before the foot of the stranger had ever

pressed the turf of the Green Isle. It was the land which they yearned

to emancipate rather than themselves. In Celtic eyes a monarch is king

of the land, and the people who dwell on it are merely adventitious

coincidences: in Saxon eyes he is king of the people, and the land is

simply the piece of matter which holds the people in obedience to the

law of gravitation. The latter must necessarily be an emigrating and

colonising race: the former as certainly, by the very nature of things,

must feel subjection to a foreign nation an intolerable yoke, and exile

one of the bitterest penalties that can be visited on man. How are

these two types of mind ever to understand each other?

It has been well said that "there is not only one Mediator between God

and man, but also one Mediator between man and man, the Man Christ

Jesus." Never, as Man, was a truer patriot, and yet never was a more

thorough cosmopolitan, than He whose eyes as God are always upon the

Land of Israel, and who hath loved Zion. Can we not all learn of Him,

and bear with each other till the day comes when we shall see eye to

eye--when there shall be one nation upon the mountains of Israel, and

one King over all the earth,--one flock, and one Shepherd?

*CHAPTER III.*

*CAST ON THE WORLD.*

"But He who feeds the ravens young

Lets naething pass He disna see,

He'll some time judge o' richt and wrang,

And aye provide for you and me."

--JAMES HOGG.

"Would it please your good Lordship to stand still but one minute?"

"No, Wenteline, it wouldn't." And little Roger twisted himself out of

the hands which were vainly endeavouring to smoothe down his vest of

violet velvet embroidered in silver, and to fasten it round the waist

with a richly-chased silver belt.

"Then, when my gracious Lord sends Master Constantine for your Lordship,

am I to say you will not be donned, so you cannot go down to hall?"

"Thou canst say what it list thee. I want to play at soldiers with

Lolly."

"So shall your Lordship when you be donned," answered Guenllian firmly.

Little Roger looked up into her face, and seeing no relenting, broke

into a merry little laugh, and resigned himself to the inevitable.

"Oh, come then, make haste!"

Vanity was not among Roger's failings, and impatience very decidedly

was. Guenllian obeyed her little charge's bidding, and in a few minutes

released him from bondage. He rewarded her with a hurried kiss, and

scampered off into the ante-chamber, calling out,--

"Lolly, Lolly, come and play at soldiers!"

The two boys, master and servant, were very fond of each other. This

was the more remarkable since not only their temperaments, but their

tastes, were diverse. Roger liked noise and show, was lively,

impulsive, ardent: he had no particular love for lessons, and no

capacity for sitting still. Lawrence was grave and calm, gifted with an

insatiable thirst for knowledge, and of a quiet, almost indolent

physical temperament. The one point on which their tastes met was a

liking for music; and even in this case Roger delighted in stirring

martial strains, while Lawrence preferred soft and plaintive airs.

Playing at soldiers, therefore, was rather in Roger's line than in

Lawrence's: but the latter never dreamed of setting his will in

antagonism to that of his master. The game had gone on for about half an

hour when a young man of twenty presented himself at the door of the

ante-chamber. He was clad in a blue tunic reaching nearly to the knee,

and girded with a black belt round the hips, studded with gold; a red

hood encircled his neck; his stockings were diverse, the right being of

the same shade as the hood, and the left of green stripped with black.

Low black shoes, with very pointed toes, completed his costume.

"Now, Master Constantine, you may go away. I want nought with you,"

shouted little Roger, still struggling with Lawrence, whom he had almost

forced into a corner.

"Please it your Lordship," returned Master Constantine with an amused

smile, "I want somewhat with you. My gracious Lord hath sent me to

fetch you to hall."

"O you bad man, you have spoiled my fun!" cried little Roger. "I had

nearly won the battle.--Come along then, Lolly, we will make an end at

after. Draw off the troops--right about face! March!"

A smile broke over the somewhat weary face of the Viceroy, when, two

minutes later, his little son came marching into the hall, shouldering

his toy spear, and followed by Lawrence, who carried a long stick in a

manner similar as to position, but dissimilar as to the appearance of

interest. At the edge of the dalts Lawrence dropped his stick, made a

low bow to his master, and retreated among the household beneath. Roger

bounded on the dais, kissed his father's hand, and squatted himself

down--for half a minute--on a hassock at the Earl's feet. The father's

hand lingered tenderly among the fair curls on the boy's head.

"Little Roger," he said, "I have somewhat to tell thee."

"Is it a battle?" exclaimed Roger eagerly.

His father laughed. "Of a truth, thou art cut out for a soldier, my

lad. Nay, 'tis not a battle; it is a journey."

"Shall I take a journey?"

"Not yet a while. Perchance, some day. But what sayest? Canst do

without me for a month or twain?"

"Whither go you, my Lord?"

"I set forth for Cork this next Wednesday."

"Where's Cork?"

"There shall be nigh all Ireland between us, little Roger."

"But musn't I go?" said Roger in a very disappointed tone.

"Not yet a while," repeated his father. "Cork is wilder by far than

Antrim. I must ensure me first that it shall be safe to have thee. If

so be, I may send for thee in time."

"But must I be all alone?" demanded the child in a changed tone.

"All alone--with Wenteline and Master Byterre and Lawrence--for a little

while. Then thou shalt either come to me, or go back to my Lady thy

grandmother."

"Oh, let me come to your Lordship! I love not women!" cried Roger, with

the usual want of gallantry of small boys.

"In very deed, I am shocked!" said the Earl, with a twinkle of amusement

in his eyes which made more impression on Roger than the accompanying

words. "Howbeit, we shall see. Thou shouldst dearly love thy

grandmother, Roger, for she loveth thee right well."

"Oh aye, I love her all right!--but women wit nought of war and

knighthood, and such like. They think you be good if you sit still and

stare on a book. And that is monks' gear, not soldiers'. I am a

soldier."

"Art thou, forsooth?" responded the Earl with a laugh. "Thou shalt be

one day, maybe. Now, my doughty warrior, run to thy nurse. I have ado

with these gentlemen."

Two years had passed when this dialogue took place, since little Roger

came from Wigmore to Ireland. He was growing a bright boy, still not

particularly fond of study, but less averse to it than he had been, and

developing a strong taste for military matters, and for the lighter

accomplishments. He danced and sang well for his age, and was learning

to play the cithern or guitar. He rode fearlessly, was a great climber

and leaper, and considering his years a good archer, and a first-rate

player of chess, foot-ball, club-ball (cricket), hand-tennis (fives),

mall battledore and shuttlecock, and tables or back-gammon. As to

drawing, nobody ever dreamed of teaching that to a medieval noble. The

three Rs were also progressing fairly for a boy in the fourteenth

century.

The small household left at Carrickfergus had but a dull time of it

after the Earl had ridden away for Cork. Two months, and half of a

third, dragged wearily along, and not a word came from either Cork or

Wigmore. The third month was drawing to its close when, late one snowy

winter night, the faint sound of a horn announced the approach of

visitors.

"The saints give it maybe my Lord!" exclaimed Constantine Byterre, who

was as weary of comparative solitude as a lively young man could well

be.

The drawbridge was thrown across, the portcullis pulled up, and Sir

Thomas Mortimer rode into the courtyard, followed by Reginald de Pageham

and various other members of the Earl's household. They had evidently

ridden a long way, for their horses were exceedingly jaded.

"How does my Lord Roger?" were the first words of Sir Thomas, and the

porter perceived that he was either very tired, or very sad.

"Well, sweet Sir: in his bed, as a child should be at this hour."

"Thank God! Bid Mistress Wenteline down to hall, for I must speak with

her quickly."

"Sweet Sir, I pray you of your grace, is aught ill?"

"Very ill indeed, good Alan." But Sir Thomas did not explain himself

until Guenllian appeared.

It was necessary to rouse her gently, since she slept in little Roger's

chamber, and Sir Thomas had given orders that if possible he should not

be disturbed. Fearing she knew not what, Guenllian wrapped herself in a

thick robe, and descended to the hall.

"Mistress, I give you good greeting: and I do you to wit right heavy

tidings, for Lord Edmund the Earl lieth dead in Cork Castle."

A low cry of pain and horror broke from Guenllian.

"Surely not slain of the wild men?"

"In no wise. He died a less glorious death, for he took ill rheum,

fording the Lee, and in five days therefrom he was no more."

It was as natural for a Lollard as for any other to respond, "Whose soul

God pardon!"

"Amen," said Sir Thomas, crossing himself. "I trust you, mistress mine,

to break these tidings to the young Earl. Have here my dead Lord's

token"--and he held forth a chased gold ring. "I am bidden, if it shall

stand with the King's pleasure, to have back his little Lordship to my

Lady his grandmother at Wigmore."

"Poor child!" said Guenllian tremulously. "Poor child!"

"Aye, 'tis sad news for him," was the answer. "Yet childre's grief

lasteth not long. Methought, good my mistress, it were as well he

should not hear it until the morrow."

"Trust me, Sir. It were cruelty to wake a child up to such news. Aye,

but I am woe for my little child! Mereckoneth he were not one to grow

up well without a father--and without mother belike! The morrow's tears

shall be the least part of his sorrow."

"Ah, well! God must do His will," replied Sir Thomas in a fatalistic

manner.

To him, God's will was only another term for what a heathen would have

styled inevitable destiny. In connection with the expression, he no

more thought of God as a real, living, loving Personality, than he would

have thought of Destiny in like manner. It was simply as an impalpable

but invincible law that had to take its course. But on Guenllian's ear

the expression came with a wholly different meaning. That Almighty Being

who to the one was merely the embodiment of stern fate, was to the other

at once God and Father--the incarnation of all wisdom and of all love.

It was His will that little Roger should be left fatherless. Then it

was the best thing that He could do for him: and He would be Himself the

child's Father. The very thought which was the worst part of the sorrow

to the one was the greatest alleviation of it to the other.

Little Roger's grief was according to his character--intense, but not

abiding. Novelty had for him the charm which it has for all children;

and he soon began to look forward to the coming journey to England, and

the meeting with his grandmother, and with his brother and sisters, who

had been left in her care. But before the journey could be taken, the

royal assent and formal licence were an absolute necessity. By the

death of the Earl, the viceroyalty devolved on his successor in the

earldom until a fresh appointment was made; and the Viceroy must not

leave his post except under leave of the Sovereign. Master Richard

Byterre, squire of the late Earl, was sent to England to tell the news,

and obtain the necessary authorisation, and until his return the

household at Carrickfergus was occupied in quietly preparing for the

change which was about to come upon it.

But before the return of Byterre, Reginald de Pyrpount arrived from

England with the heaviest news of all.

The coffin of the Earl had been taken by sea direct from Cork to Milford

Haven, and thence to Wigmore. Perhaps too suddenly, the tidings of the

death of her last child were broken to the widowed mother. She came

down into the hall of the Castle, whither the Coffin had been carried:

the lid was lifted, and she gazed long and earnestly on the face of her

dead: but through it all she never shed a tear. When she had regained

her own rooms, her squire asked if it were her pleasure that the funeral

should be proceeded with on the next day.

"Nay, not all so soon," was the answer. "Wait but a little, and ye

shall bear my coffin too."

Despite all the efforts of her anxious suite, the Countess Philippa

refused to be comforted. She would go down, into the grave unto her

son, mourning. She took to her bed on the second day. Her confessor

came to reason with her.

"This is not well, Lady," said he. "You are a rebellious subject unto

your heavenly King--a child that will not kiss the Father's rod. Submit

you to Him, and be at peace."

"Not a rebel, Father," answered the low pathetic voice. "Only a child

too tired to work any more. Let me go to Him that calleth me."

"But there is much for you to live for, Lady----" resumed the confessor,

but she interrupted him.

"I know. And I would have lived if I could. I would have lived for my

little Roger. But I cannot, Father. Heart and brain and life are tired

out. God must have a care of my little child. I am too weary to tend

him. Let me go!"

They had to let her go. On the evening of the third day, with one deep

sigh as of relief in the ending of the struggle, she laid down the weary

weight of life, and went to Him who had called her.

The House of Mortimer of March was represented by those four lonely

little children, of whom the eldest was only nine years old. It seemed

as if every vestige of a shield for the tender plants was to be taken

away and they were to be exposed to the full fury of the winter blasts.

For a whole year little Roger was detained at Carrickfergus, nominal

Viceroy of Ireland, with his future still undetermined. This was not

the fault of the King, a boy only just fifteen years of age; but of the

commission of Regency which governed in his name. At the end of that

time orders came from Westminster.

Sir Thomas Mortimer was to bring home the little Viceroy, to receive his

exoneration from the arduous honour which had been thrust upon him, and

to deliver him to the Earl of Arundel, whose ward he had been made, and

with whom he was to reside till his majority. To Sir Thomas this news

was indifferent: he desired the child's welfare, which, as he understood

it, was likely to be well secured by this arrangement. But as Guenllian

understood it, there was fair chance of the boy's ruin. If there were

in the world one layman more than another who hated Wycliffe and

Lollardism from the centre of his soul, it was that Earl of Arundel to

whom Roger's future education was thus entrusted. And the astute

statesman who was really--not ostensibly--the ruler of England, knew

this quite as well as she did. This was Thomas, Duke of Gloucester, the

youngest and cleverest of the sons of Edward III. And we have now

arrived at a point in our story which makes it necessary to interpose a

few words upon the state of politics at that time.

The King, as has just been said, was a mere boy, and the reins of power

were in the hands of his three uncles. Of these Princes, the one whom

nature and fortune alike pointed out as the leader was the eldest, John

of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster. And had he really taken the lead, the

disastrous reign of Richard II. might, humanly speaking, have ended very

differently. His next brother, Edmund, Duke of York, was so extremely

weak in mind as to be little better than half-witted, and was entirely

under the control of whoever chose to control him. The youngest, of

whom I have spoken above, was clever in the worst sense of that word:

but the only man whom he feared was his brother John, and had John

chosen he might have reduced the active wickedness of Thomas to a point

of merely nominal value. He did not choose. Never was a finer

character more completely rendered useless and inert by moral indolence;

never were such magnificent opportunities of serving God and man more

utterly wasted--than in the case of John of Gaunt.

The word "moral" is used advisedly. Of physical or mental indolence he

had none. His greatest delight, on his own authority, was "to hear of

gallant deeds of arms" or to perform them: and few, even of royal blood,

were more thoroughly well educated and accomplished according to the

standard of his day. But all was spoiled by this moral indolence--this

_laissez faire_ which would take no trouble. Too much has been said of

the libertinism of John of Gaunt. He was not a man of pure life; but he

was not so bad as he is usually supposed to have been. Yet in one point

he was a perfect rehearsal of Charles the Second--that so-called

"sauntering," which I have termed moral indolence, and which it is said

that Charles loved better than he ever loved any human being. And in

the case of John of Gaunt it is the sadder to relate, because he had

more perfect knowledge of the way of righteousness than most of those

around him. The one instance in which he broke through the bonds of his

besetting sin was in order to stand by John Wycliffe in the hour of

persecution. Oh, how terrible is the reckoning for him who was not

ignorant, who was not even in doubt of the right--who knew his Lord's

will, and did it not!

In consequence of this sad lapse, the reins of power fell into the hands

of Gloucester. And Gloucester was one of those men who know how to

wait, to feel the pulse of circumstances, and when the right moment

comes, to strike a decisive blow. How far he ever loved any one may be

doubtful: but that he was a splendid hater is beyond all doubt. There

were a few men whom he trusted and favoured; and of these--with one

exception, the chief of them--was Richard Earl of Arundel.

The wardship of little Roger Mortimer would much more naturally have

been given to one of his only adult relatives--his two grand-uncles,

William, Earl of Salisbury, and Sir John de Montacute. But in the eyes

of Gloucester, no Montacute was a person to be trusted. The family were

by tradition favourers of the Boin-Homines--or, in other words, among

the Protestants of that period. And Gloucester was a "black Papist."

It is true that the Earl of Salisbury was an exception to the family

rule in this particular: but it did not suit Gloucester's views to allow

little Roger to reside in his house. He had a wife whose mother was one

of the most prominent Lollards of the day: and he was himself much under

the influence of the Lollard Princess of Wales, whom he had loved in her

brilliant youth. His surroundings, therefore, were dubious. And deep

down in Gloucester's crafty brain lay a scheme in which poor little

Roger was to be chief actor, and if he were brought up as a Lollard

there would be very little hope of utilising him for it. He must be

made the ward of somebody who would diligently cultivate any sparks of

ambition latent in his mind, who would give him a bias in favour of his

uncle Gloucester personally, and against the King, and who would teach

him to hate Lollardism. So the child was consigned to the care of the

Earl of Arundel, and to make surety doubly sure, was solemnly affianced

to his daughter.

A very clever Jesuit is recorded to have said, "Let me have the

education of a child till he is seven years old, and you may have him

for the rest of his life." The child thus plotted against had passed

the test age. It might have been thought that his ruin was sure. But

graven deep down in that fervent heart, below all the digging of

Gloucester and his myrmidons, lay the mottoes of Philippa Montacute: and

no efforts of theirs would ever efface that graving. "_Un Dieu, un

Roy_"--and "_Fais ce que doy_." They were a hedge of God's planting

around the tender shoot. He seemed to have said to the enemy, "Behold,

he is in thine hand; but save his moral life."

It was a bitter sorrow to Guenllian that the Earl of Arundel gave her a

civil _conge_. He had not the least doubt that she would be invaluable

to the younger children: he could not think of depriving them of her.

And little Roger would be amply provided with care. The Countess

herself would see to him.

Guenllian was not reassured. The Countess was one of those soft,

languid, placid, India-rubber women who would lay aside a novel

deliberately if they knew that their children were in danger of

drowning. She was not fit to bring up Guenllian's darling! She pleaded

with the Earl piteously to allow her to remain with the child. She was

sure the old Countess would have wished it. The Earl inquired if she

had made any actual promise to this effect. In so many words, Guenllian

could not say that she had: but that the tacit understanding had existed

she knew full well. And she had distinctly promised that Roger should

read constantly and diligently in the French Bible. The Earl assured

her with an insinuating smile that there was not the least difficulty

about that. He had a French Bible, and read it. Just then, Lollardism

was walking in silver slippers, and the Bible was ranked among

fashionable literature. Guenllian knew well that the reading with and

without her would be two very different things. There would be all the

difference in them between a living man and an automaton. But she was

powerless. The matter was out of her hands. She must let her darling

go.

She lifted up her soul as she turned away.

"Lord, they cannot bar Thee out of Arundel Castle! go with this child of

many prayers! Teach him Thyself, and then he will be taught: save him,

and he will be saved! Whatsoever the Lord pleased, that did He,--in

heaven and in the earth and in the sea, and in all deep places. Let

them curse, but bless Thou!"

And so, having touched the hem of Christ's garment, Guenllian went in

peace.

*CHAPTER IV.*

*WHAT CAME OF SELF-WILL.*

"Are not the worst things that befal us here,

That seem devoid of meaning, or contain

The least of love and beauty, those from which

The heavenly Alchemist extracts the gold

That makes us rich?"

--REV. HORATIUS BONAR.

It was not in the old Castle in Sussex, the ancient home of the Earls of

Arundel, that little Roger Mortimer found his home at first. The Earl

was about to reside for a time in Town. His city residence, Bermondsey

House, was situated on Fish Wharf, near to that delicious part of the

City of London now known as Billingsgate. It may be safely asserted

that no member of the English peerage would be likely to select this

locality in the present day for the site of his town house. But, five

hundred years ago, matters were very different, and the banks of the

river near London Bridge were pleasant and airy places. This was, in

fact, a fashionable part of the City: and here the premier Earl of

England held his court, almost rivalling that of the sovereign in

costliness and magnificence. Little Roger, for the past year a

comparatively lonely child, found himself suddenly transported into the

midst of a large and lively family. Liveliness was not, indeed, a

characteristic of the Countess, a near relative of Roger, for her father

and his grandfather were sons of one mother. She was a calm,

imperturbable specimen of humanity, who spoke, moved, and thought, in a

slow, self-complacent style, which would have sent an impatient person

into a passion.

The Earl was almost the antipodes of his wife. The Fitzalans of Arundel

were anything but faultless persons as a rule, but too much slowness and

caution were assuredly not among their failings. He was an extremely

clever man, gifted with much originality of conception, as well as

talent in execution: not unamiable to those whom he loved, but capable

of intense harshness, and even cruelty, where he hated. Energetic even

to passion in everything which he did, a "whole man" to the one thing at

the one moment, capable of seeing very far into that which he chose to

see, but of being totally blind to that which he did not. Richard, Earl

of Arundel, was one of the last men to whom such a charge as Roger

Mortimer ought to have been entrusted.

The family of this dissimilar pair amounted to five in number when

little Roger joined them. These were, Richard, a youth of sixteen

years; John, aged fourteen; Elizabeth, aged ten, and already married to

Roger's cousin, William de Montacute; Alice, aged five; and Joan, aged

three. Both the boys were too old for Roger to feel much sympathy with

them, or they with him; while the girls, both as being younger, and as

being girls, were in his eyes beneath his notice. He therefore remained

a speckled bird in the family, instead of amalgamating with it; a fact

which drew him closer, despite all inequalities of position, to the one

boy whom he did like, Lawrence Madison, the only one of his old

acquaintances who was permitted to accompany him to Bermondsey House.

The Earl had meant to cut all the old ties; but little Roger pleaded

hard for the retention of Lawrence, alleging truthfully that he played

at soldiers with him. It was just because this one item was so utterly

insignificant that the Earl permitted it to escape the general doom: and

thereby, little as he knew it, rendered inoperative all the rest of his

cautionary arrangements. It was Lawrence who helped Roger more than any

one else to keep true to his grandmother's early teaching. When Roger

went astray, Lawrence either refused aid altogether, or went only so far

as he thought right, and then stood like a granite rock, immovable by

commands or entreaties. When the former was less obstinate, and more

capable of being influenced, the look of earnest remonstrance in

Lawrence's eyes or even his disapproving silence, were often enough to

turn away the versatile and sensitive mind of Roger from a project of

doubtful character. The little servant did not appear to care for hard

epithets, passionate words, or even blows, to which naughty Roger

sometimes descended when his temper got the better of him: but he did

care deeply to see his little master do right and grow wiser. The

influence of the young Arundels--which was small, since Roger never

liked any of them--was often bad, and always doubtful: but Lawrence

could be relied upon as a force ever on the side of right, or at least

of that which he believed to be so.

It was Alice, the little girl of five years old, who had been solemnly

affianced to young Roger Mortimer. She was the only one of the children

who in character resembled her mother, nor was this resemblance perfect.

It made her physically idle, and mentally dull; but it did not save her

from that moral intensity which was the characteristic of the Arundel

family. In her, instead of expending itself in mental and physical

energy as it did with most of them, it formed a most unhappy combination

with those features inherited from her mother. Passionate with a

passion which was weakness and not strength, with an energy which was

destructive and not constructive, with a capacity for loving which

centred in herself, and a perversity of will which only served to lead

astray, she went to wreck early, a boat with no compass and no rudder.

It was well for Roger Mortimer that however men might think to order his

future life, God had not destined Alice of Arundel for him.

It is scarcely necessary to say that notwithstanding the unction

wherewith the Earl had expatiated to Guenllian on his possession of a

French Bible, he did not see the least necessity for bringing Roger in

contact with that volume. He had indeed come upon certain passages

therein which he theoretically regarded with reverence as "good words,"

but which he was nevertheless far from elevating into rules for his

daily conduct. It never occurred to him that his Bible and his life had

anything to do with one another. He would have thought it as reasonable

to regulate his diet by the particular clothes he wore, as to guide his

actions by that compilation of "excellent matter" upon which he looked

as supremely uninteresting and hardly intended for laymen.

About a week had elapsed since Roger became an inmate of the Earl's

household. He and Lawrence slept in a small turret chamber, with a

young priest, by name Sir Gerard de Stanhope, whom the Earl had

appointed governor of his youthful ward. The boys, who went to bed

earlier than the governor, very frequently employed the interval before

his arrival, not in sleep, but in confidential conversation--the rather

since it was the only time of day when they could talk together without

fear of being overheard.

"Lolly!" said Roger on the night in question. He lay in a blue silk bed

embroidered with red and gold griffins; Lawrence in a little plain

trundle-bed which was pushed under the larger one in the day-time.

"My Lord?" obediently responded Lawrence.

"How doth this place like thee?"

"Please it your Lordship, it liketh me reasonable well," answered

Lawrence, in a tone even less decisive than the words.

"It liketh me unreasonable ill," returned Roger in a voice wherein no

want of decision could be traced.

"What ails you thereat, my Lord?"

"Lolly, I like nobody here but thee."

"That grudgeth me, my Lord." By which Lawrence meant to say that he was

sorry to hear it. "Loves not your Lordship neither my Lord nor my Lady?"

"My Lord's a big lion, and they sometimes bite and claw you. And my

Lady's a hen, and all she cares for is to snuggle her in the sand and

cluck. Beside, she's a woman, and women be no good. I would there had

been some lads."

"So there be, saving your Lordship's pleasure."

"They aren't lads, they are men. My Lord Richard were not so ill, if he

were younger, but he is a grown man: and as to my Lord John, he doth

nought but make mowes[#] at me. I tell thee, Lolly, there is nobody

here, out-taken[#] thyself, that I would buy for a farthing."

[#] Grimaces.

[#] Except.

"Truly, I am sorry your Lordship is of such ill cheer."

"Lolly, what was it--didst hear?--that my Lord spake to Sir Gerard,

mighty low, when thou and I were going forth of the chamber this

morrow?"

"I heard not all of it," said Lawrence. "Only it was somewhat touching

Mistress Wenteline, that had desired your Lordship to be well learned in

the French Bible."

"Doth he look to cause me learn long tasks thereout by heart?" asked

Roger, with a wry face. "I reckoned thou shouldst hear, for thou wert

nearer than I."

"In no wise, my Lord, so far as I might hear, for he bade Sir Gerard

have a care you touched it not."

"Then I'll read it right through!" cried Roger with childish perversity.

"That cannot be an ill deed, for my Lady my grandmother was set to have

me do the same."

Lawrence made no reply.

Though nothing on earth would have drawn the confession from him, yet

for all his expressed contempt for women, little Roger sorely missed

Guenllian. She had been his virtual mother for so long that, suddenly

deprived of her, he felt like a chicken roughly taken from under the

brooding wings of the hen. He was far more inclined to respect her

wishes than he would have been had she remained with him: and there was

also a certain zest added by the instinctive knowledge that what was

good in the eyes of Guenllian was not unlikely to be bad in those of my

Lord Arundel. Little Roger felt as if he had the pleasure of doing

wrong, without the conscientious reaction which usually followed.

The impulsive little mind was made up that he would read that French

Bible. That it was locked up in a tall press, at least four feet above

his reach, was rather an additional incentive than a hindrance. To be

always on the watch for a possible leaving about of the keys formed an

object in life; and the subsequent scaling of the shelves like a cat was

decidedly a pleasure to be anticipated. The keys were in charge of Sir

Gerard, who was the Earl's librarian; and he put them every night

beneath his pillow. He need not have taken the precaution, so far as

Roger was concerned; for to possess himself of the keys by theft would

have been utterly dishonourable and unchivalrous in the eyes of the

future knight. Yet with odd inconsistency--are we not all guilty of

that at times?--he had no such scruple as to possessing himself of the

Bible, if he could only find the keys. But weeks went on, and this

hoped-for discovery had not been made.

It came suddenly at last, when one morning the Earl had occasion to send

for Sir Gerard in haste, at a moment when that gentleman, having just

finished his dressing, was about to put the usual contents into his

pockets. He left the articles lying on the table, and hurriedly obeyed

the summons: which he had no sooner done than the small Earl of March

pounced upon the keys. He had been watching the process with

considerable fluttering of his little heart; the next moment the key of

the press was slipped off the ring, and was safe at the bottom of his

pocket. Lawrence looked on with very doubtful eyes, the expression of

which was easily read by Roger.

"Now, Loll, hold thy peace!" said he, though Lawrence had not uttered a

word. "I must have it, and I will!"

It will easily be surmised that Roger's ambition involved no particular

desire of learning, least of all the study of divinity. The delight of

outwitting the Earl and Sir Gerard was great; and the pleasure of doing

something that Guenllian and his grandmother had wished him to do,

deprived the action of all wrong in his eyes, and added to it a

sentimental zest. Had the two motives been weighed in a balance, the

first would have proved the heavier.

The press containing the Bible stood in a large room which opened off

the hall. The expedition to secure it must remain a future

gratification for the present. If only Sir Gerard would not miss the

key! Was it safe to carry it in Roger's pocket? Roger consulted

Lawrence, who agreed with him that it was a serious risk to run. He

advised its restoration, but to that hypothesis his young master would

not listen for a moment.

The study of the garden wall now became sensationally interesting;

likewise of sundry old trees within the enclosure. The alternatives

seemed to have equal chances of adoption, when a little hole was

discovered in the wall, at the further end of the garden, delightfully

hidden by a small loose stone which just fitted nicely into the crevice.

The key was safely concealed, and Roger, with the most angelic innocence

of face, returned to the house to repeat his Latin lesson to Sir Gerard.

Roger had been taught that to hide any thing from his confessor was a

sin of the most deadly type. Conveniently for him, his confessor was not

his tutor Sir Gerard, but the Earl's family chaplain, Friar Thomas

Ashbourne, a fat sleepy old priest, who never inflicted a penance that

he could help, and was more frequently than not employed in mental

wool-gathering during the process of confession, merely waking up to

pronounce the absolution at the close. It was not at all difficult to

get on the blind side of this comfortable official, especially if a

morning could be selected when his thoughts were likely to be

preoccupied with some subject interesting to himself.

Roger, having a very good idea what interested Dan Thomas, laid a trap

to catch him for the next occasion of shrift. In order to do this, he

had first to catch the cook: and for that purpose, he must angle with

the master of the household, who happily for his object was a

good-natured man, and liked children. Running through a gallery with

the hope of discovering him, he nearly fell over the person for whom he

was searching.

"Nay, now! what make you here, my Lord?"

"O Master Wynkfeld! I was a-looking for you. Pray you, let us have a

capon endored[#] this even for supper, with _sauce Madame_."

[#] Larded.

The master of the household laughed. "At your Lordship's pleasure. I

wist not you loved capon so dear."

Nor did he: but Dan Thomas did. Little Roger stood on tiptoe, and

pulled down the master to whisper in his ear.

"Look you, Dan Thomas loveth a capon thus dressed, and I would have him

do a thing for me that I wot of."

"Oho! is that it?" laughed the master. "Then be your Lordship assured

Dan Thomas shall have the capon."

"With _sauce Madame_, look you!"

"With _sauce Madame_: good."

"But don't you tell!"

"Tell! Not I," responded the amused and good-humoured master: and

little Roger scampered off.

An hour later, my Lord of March was summoned to be shriven. Having

knelt down in the confessional, and gabbled over the formal prelude to

the effect that he confessed his sins, not only to God, but to the most

blessed Lady St. Mary, to my Lord St. John the Baptist, my Lords Saints

Peter and Paul, and all the saints and saintesses in Heaven, little

Roger added at the conclusion, all in a breath, as if it were part of

the _Confiteor_,--

"Father, I begged Master Wynkfeld to have for supper a capon endored,

with _sauce Madame_, by reason I knew you loved it thus."

"That shall scantly be amongst thy sins, my son," answered Friar Thomas,

jovially. "I thank thee: but keep thee now to the matter in hand."

Roger was doing that much more strictly than was ever supposed by Friar

Thomas, who was the most unsuspicious of men. He proceeded at once to

the catalogue of his sins, satisfied that they would now receive small

attention from the confessor. In silence, with as much rapidity and in

as low a voice as he dared without exciting suspicion, Roger accused

himself of having taken a key from the table and hidden it in the wall.

What key it was, he was not careful to state; if the confessor wished to

know that, he could ask him the question. But at this point Roger's

heart gave a bound, for he was asked a question.

"Thou hiddest _what_ in the wall?"

"A key," mumbled Roger.

"A pea!" repeated the Friar, misunderstanding him, and not having much

care to investigate. "No need to confess such like small matter, my

son. Didst thou name _sauce Madame_ to Master Wynkfeld?"

"Oh yes, Father, twice over!" answered Roger eagerly.

"Good lad. Now keep thee to thy confession."

Which Roger diligently did for the rest of the time, and then, absolved

and "clean shriven," ran back to Lawrence in the highest glee.

"Now, Lolly, my sins be all clean gone. Go thou to shrift, and get rid

of thine; and then, as soon as ever we can, we'll have yon big book."

It was about a week later that the desired opportunity at last occurred.

The Earl had carried away Sir Gerard--for what purpose Roger neither

knew nor cared--and he and Lawrence had been bidden to play in the

press-chamber, and be good boys till they were called to supper. No

sooner were they safely shut in than Roger indulged in a gleeful

chuckle.

"Look, Lolly!" said he, holding up the key. "I heard my Lord say to my

Lady that he should not be home ere supper-time, and I thought we might

have luck, so I ran and fetched the key. Now for it! Set me that settle

under the press."

"But your Lordship cannot climb up yonder!" responded Lawrence, as he

obeyed.

"I can do what I will!" said Roger stubbornly. "Nay, but look how the

press boweth outward! How shall you pass the same?"

The press, which was itself of wood, was built into the wall, in such a

manner that the upper half projected further than the lower.

"Dost think a wooden press shall master _me_? I'll show him I'm his

master!"

Roger sprang upon the settle, set one foot upon a carved boss, and

climbed up with sufficient agility till he was stopped by the

projection. No efforts could get him any higher. He returned to the

settle, looking considerably discomfited.

"I'll have it yet!" said he. "See, Lolly--if I could catch yonder great

brass rod that sticketh out, I am sicker[#] I could climb up by that I

shall jump for it."

[#] Certain.

"Eh, good lack! do not so, my Lord! you shall hurt yourself greatly, if

you have not a care."

"Thou go whistle for a fair wind! Here goes!" And little Roger,

gathering all his forces, gave a wild upward leap from the settle,

intent on catching the brass rod which was part of the ornamentation of

the press, and was not very firmly fixed. To Lawrence's surprise, he

caught it; but the next moment the end of the rod came out in his hand,

and the natural result followed. Down came the rod, and down came

Roger, overturning the settle, and bringing his head into violent

contact with the floor. There he lay stunned, with Lawrence looking at

him in a terrible fright.

"Gramercy, what a to-do is here!" said the voice of Master Salveyn at

the door. "Were ye not bidden be good lads til!---- Mercy, Saint Mary!

my Lord bleeds! How happened this?"

Lawrence tremblingly replied that he had been climbing, and had fallen.

His own nerves had received a much worse shock than those of Salveyn.

"Good lack, will lads ever be out of mischief?" demanded that gentleman.

"Shut them up in a chamber where you should think none ill could hap

them short of earth-moving,[#] and ere you shall well have turned your

back, they shall be killing either themselves or one another! Run thou

to call Mistress Grenestede, while I bear my young Lord to his chamber."

[#] Earthquake.

Lawrence rushed off for the middle-aged and useful person in question,

the children's nurse, governess, prescriber, chemist, confectioner, and

general factotum: and in a few minutes Roger was laid in bed, and

Mistress Grenestede was bathing his injured head with warm water. She

improved the occasion by giving a lecture to Lawrence--who did not need

it--on imprudence and rashness. But when time went on, and her little

patient did not return to consciousness, Mistress Grenestede began to

look uneasy. A whispered consultation with Salveyn resulted in the

sending of a varlet on some errand. Another half-hour elapsed without

change, and then Lawrence, standing beside his master's bed, half hidden

by the curtain, heard somebody say, "He is come." A step forward to

enable him to see who it was, and a smothered exclamation of pleasure

broke from him. Master Salveyn was ushering in a priest in long black

robe--all physicians were priests at that date--and though the new-comer

failed to recognise Lawrence, the boy knew him.

"Father Robesart! God be thanked!"

The priest heard him, and turned towards him.

"Who art thou, my son?"

Lawrence's delight overcame his shyness.

"Father Robesart, wit you not me? I am Lawrence, son of Nicholas,

tanner, in the huts at Usk, that went away these two years gone. I bade

you farewell in the church aisle, and you blessed me, and told me I

should pass word to you never to go any whither that I had not first

asked our Lord to be with me."

"Good, my son. I remember thee now, and will have more talk with thee

anon. Now let me look on the sick child. Is it my little Lord of

March?"

"That is he, good Father."

"How gat he this hurt?"

Mistress Grenestede and Master Salveyn knew so little about it that

Lawrence was called forward to say what he knew. His instinct told him

that it would be best to confess the whole truth to Father Robesart,

which he did, thereby calling up a look on the face of his old friend

which was a mixture of amusement and pity.

"Poor child!" he said softly, when Lawrence's story was told,--rather

astonishing Mistress Grenestede, that one of the first nobles in England

should be thought or called a poor child.

"Please it you, Father, did my Lord a wrong thing herein?" asked

Lawrence, timidly.

"I fear he did, my son."

Mr. Robesart said no more, but proceeded to his professional duties.

When he had finished his examination of the patient, and had given his

instructions to Mistress Grenestede--which involved some learned

references to the occultation of certain beneficent planets by

malevolent ones, and hints that the herbs prescribed were to be gathered

with reference to the position of the sun with respect to the Zodiac--he

called Lawrence out into the ante-chamber.

*CHAPTER V.*

*A CHANGE IN ROGER'S DESTINY.*

"We shall be together, my Lord and I,

While the crowds around us come and go;

When false hearts wander, and true hearts die,

My Friend will still be mine own, I know."

--SARAH DOUDNEY.

On the wide cushioned seat in the window, Mr. Robesart sat down, and

Lawrence placed himself in front, waiting to be questioned. He had to

wait in silence for a few moments, while the priest seemed lost in

thought; then he turned back to the child.

"Now, my son, I would have some talk with thee. I am faint to find thou

hast thought on my words at parting. Hast thou done them, Lawrence

Madison?"

"Mean you, Father, if I have asked at our Lord that He would go with me

whithersoever I went?"

"That mean I, my son."

"Aye, nearly alway, Father," said Lawrence, lifting a pair of honest

eyes to his friend's face, and adding more shyly, "I forgat sometimes."

"Good lad! Take thou God's blessing and mine"--and Mr. Robesart laid

his hand on the boy's head. "Hath He been with thee, Lawrence?"

Lawrence looked up in some surprise. Mr. Robesart's question suggested

two entirely new ideas: that prayers might have some result attached to

them, and that the presence of God was something which he could know and

feel. Hitherto he had always looked upon praying as something which had

to be done--a good work, and the saying of good words--but a work which

had no possible connection with any source or consequence. As a child

once said, Lawrence "had plenty of think in him," but he sadly wanted

teaching how to put his thoughts to practical purpose. The thoughts now

came so fast that the words were slow. Mr. Robesart was wise, and

waited for them. How many priceless opportunities have been thrown

away, through not waiting quite long enough at such moments! For one

temptation to be silent when we ought to speak, are there not a score to

speak when we ought to be silent?

"Father! How can I know?" came at last.

"If He never went with thee, thou canst not know," was the pithy answer.

"That which one hath not, how can he lose or miss?"

Lawrence was silent, playing with one of the bright buttons of his tunic

in a style which indicated that his thoughts were not on the button.

"There is one manner, my son," then continued the priest, "wherein God

goeth with all men--in His providence as their Creator and Preserver.

Were He not ever with thee after this fashion, thou wouldst not live a

moment. But it is after another manner that he goeth with His

beloved--as their Father and Friend. Is He that to thee?"

"There be different sorts of fathers," said Lawrence, meditatively.

"Aye. Alas for the human fathers that do misturn[#] the heavenly

Father! It is only the good, true, and loving, my child, that be in

their lesser way like God."

[#] Pervert, misrepresent.

"Like my sometime Lord was to him?" said Lawrence, with brightening

eyes, and a nod towards the door of the inner chamber.

Mr. Robesart smiled a little sadly. "Aye, Lawrence. Take thou for

example the best and truest thou hast known, but remember that he must

needs fall far behind."

Lawrence went back to the button, uttering his thoughts in a low voice,

as if he spoke to it rather than to the priest.

"He alway loved to have my little Lord at his knee," he reflected in

this manner. "And he used to lift him up, and kiss him. And if he were

in any trouble, my Lord would stay and hear him, even were it to his own

travail. And had he been hither this morrow, I reckon it should have

gone nigh to break his heart to see him thus.--Father Robesart! Doth God

Almighty care for any man like _that_?"

"He cares like that for thee, Lawrence Madison."

Mr. Robesart paused an instant, and Lawrence thought the sentence was

finished. But it was not, for one word followed it. "If----"

"If what?" said the boy quickly.

"If thou wilt have it so."

"If I will have it! Father Robesart, never nobody loved me! Never, in

all my life!"

"Then see thou reject not the love which passeth all loves."

"What am I to do?"

"What doth any with love? Take it--enjoy it--return it--do thy little

best for Him that giveth it."

"But serve him, _how_?" It sounded to Lawrence like telling a serf

child lying in the mire to rise and offer the golden cup to a king.

Would the great nobles around the throne ever permit him to approach it?

A dim idea pervaded his brain that Father Robesart, as a priest, could

give him a passport through the ranks of the angels. But the answer

brought him back to earth again.

"My son, thou servest God when thou servest any whom God loveth."

"Doth God love my Lord? I suppose He will, being thus noble."

"'Not many noble are called,'" said Mr. Robesart, speaking rather to

himself than to Lawrence. "Yet 'I will be a God to thee, and to thy

seed after thee.' Aye, little Lawrence, I cannot doubt it. God teach

thee, poor child, better than I can! Remember, my son, that thou

servest not God in following thy little Lord into sin and mischief.

Thou wilt serve God by keeping him out thereof."

"My Lord bade me so keep him--my Lord of March, I would say, not he of

Arundel. I misdoubt if he care."

"Poor children!" repeated the priest sorrowfully. "Tell me, Lawrence,

what would thy little Lord with the Bible?"

"Was it wrong to get that, Father?"

"Assuredly it was wrong to steal the key."

"O Father, we never stole it! We only took it when Sir Gerard left it

behind him."

Mr. Robesart smiled and shook his head. "Ye stole it, my son. What is

it but stealing to take a thing which he that ought[#] it would not

yield unto you? But what wanted my Lord with the book?"

[#] Owned.

"Please, Father, he desired much to read the same, and my old Lady his

grandmother had bidden him so to do. And he heard--leastwise I heard,

and he asked at me--my Lord of Arundel once to say that he would not

have him lay finger thereon; so he was set on it."

Another very pitying smile parted the lips of Mr. Robesart. "I marvel

whether the bidding or the forbidding were the more tempting bait! Poor

little child!"

"Please, Father----"

"Speak thy will, my son."

"Will my Lord get well again?"

"I trust, if it be our Lord's pleasure, he shall do well, my son."

"Oh, I am so glad!" And Lawrence's sparkling eyes by no means belied

his words.

"Dost thou love thy little Lord, Lawrence?"

"Aye, Father--so much! Please, there never was any body else but him

and Beattie." Lawrence was very near adding, "and you." A feeling of

reverence restrained him, but he might have done it safely.

"Who is Beattie?"

"Blumond's Beattie--at the fishmonger's at Usk."

"Oh! I know. A good child."

"May I love Beattie, please, Father?"

"Thou mayest love who so thou wilt, and as much as ever thou wilt, so

long as thou lovest our Lord first and most."

"Whoever I will?"

"Certainly. Who dost thou think too great to be loved?"

"Not great, exactly; but--Father Robesart, might I love you? I never

thought I dare, before."

Mr. Robesart was more touched than he thought it well to let Lawrence

see. But he did what nobody had ever done to the boy in all his

life--he stooped and kissed him. It was an affirmative of the strongest

type, and Lawrence felt it so.

Roger's recovery was more rapid than any one about him had anticipated.

His body seemed as active and as easily impressed as his mind, as much

subject to ups and downs, and generally either on the top of the mount,

or in the bottom of the valley: the transition was quick from one to the

other, and he was never in either position for long.

Three years more passed uneventfully, until Roger and Lawrence were boys

of twelve years old. Both had developed their respective characters.

Roger was beginning to see that the lesson-books which he had in old

days unreasonably detested, were machines for imparting knowledge and

power. If he were only a little older, his own master, and out in the

world, what could he not do! The change in his case was more or less

radical, for he was learning to govern himself. He had drawn no closer

to the Arundel family. He disliked them every one--from the Earl to his

youngest child: but most especially he disliked Alice, his betrothed.

When he grew to manhood he would pay the fine, and rid himself of that

galling bond. He did not care for girls: he wanted to feel free.

The change which had taken place in Lawrence Madison was only in the

direction of growth. The fetters of service and etiquette pressed

lightly upon him, for he loved his young Lord more than he had ever

loved his own brothers; and love makes fetters sit easily. Lawrence did

not care for power, as Roger did: but for knowledge his thirst was

insatiable. And above all he longed for the knowledge of God--for the

realisation of that Presence of which the priest had spoken to him.

Like a flower shooting in the spring-time, he kept his face ever towards

the light, hoping to reach it some day. Sir Gerard said he was not like

a boy. Master Salveyn opined that the lad had a bee in his hood.

Mistress Grenestede shook her head with an assumption of superior

wisdom, and murmured that such lads as Lawrence Madison died early.

Outside, matters went quietly enough so far as the boys were concerned,

till on the third of April, 1383, shortly after the birth of her

daughter Margaret, the Countess of Arundel died. Little care as she had

taken of them, yet the children felt a blank when she was gone.

Not many weeks after the death of the Countess, when the early roses

were just beginning to bud, Mistress Grenestede came into the room where

the children were studying under Sir Gerard, in a state of some

excitement.

"Give you good den,[#] Sir Gerard! Here is somewhat befallen one of

your chicks, for sure!"

[#] Day.

"Take me with you,[#] good Mistress?"

[#] Explain yourself.

"Why, 'tis him," said the ungrammatical lady, nodding towards Roger.

"Who but my Lady Princess hath sent for to have him to come and speak

with her?"

At this date, there was in the kingdom but one Princess. The daughters

of the monarch did not bear that title until the accession of the House

of Stuart. "My Lady Princess," therefore, meant Joan of Kent, widow of

the Black Prince, and mother of King Richard. She had been in her early

youth a very giddy girl, and had sobered down in later life, under the

instrumentality of Wycliffe, into the chief nursing mother of the

Lollard Church. Her influence with her royal son was powerful, and she

was one of the three practical rulers of England at this juncture. For

the Princess to send for Roger might therefore mean something of greater

import than a mere impulse of kindliness from a lady to a child.

"Is that sooth?"[#] demanded Sir Gerard, almost as excited as Mistress

Grenestede.

[#] Truth.

"True as truth, I do ensure you. What shall hap of it, think you?"

"Dear heart, who wist? Shall it be now?"

"Nay, time enough. To-morrow. My Lord bade me don him in his best

array, and at eight o' the clock Sir Lewis Clifford shall come for him."

"Who for?" demanded Roger, quite as ungrammatically, and looking up with

an eager expression in his eyes.

"Lo' you now, if he be not a-hearkening!--Why, for you, fair Lord. At

eight o' the clock to-morrow."

"Who cometh for me?"

"Sir Lewis de Clifford, Knight of the Body to my Lady Princess. Now

hark you, sweet Lord; I trust you shall be of gentle conditions--not too

masterful, nor yet abashed,[#] but with good manners. 'Tis a great

thing for a young gentleman like you to be sent for to my Lady the

Princess."

[#] Frightened, nervous.

"She's only a woman!" said Roger, trying to hit the inkstand with a

paper pellet. "Why did the King not send for me himself?"

"Good lack, sweet Lord, but you must never be thus masterful! The King,

quotha!"

"The King doth what he will," said Sir Gerard, reprovingly.

"I would, if I were king," responded Roger, aiming another pellet at the

inkstand.

"Love us, all the saints!" ejaculated Mistress Grenestede.

"The cockerel crows well, trow?" said Sir Gerard with a laugh. "Look

you, good Mistress, he hath the Blood in him. 'Tis no wonder. But have

a care, my good Lord, that you use not over much homeliness[#] toward my

Lady Princess."

[#] Do not be too familiar.

"What would she with me?"

"Nay, who wist? Carry yourself well and seemly, and you shall see."

"Shall Lolly go with me?"

Mistress Grenestede was about to exclaim, "Nay, for sure!" but she

stopped and looked at Sir Gerard.

"His Lordship were better have an elder serving-man," answered the

tutor.

"If Lolly must not go, I won't be good!"

"Heard any ever the like!"

"Then my Lord must needs send word by Sir Lewis that your Lordship is so

naughty a lad, you be not fit to go speak with my Lady's Grace?"

Sir Gerard calculated rightly that this consideration would have some

weight. Roger was sensitive to the opinions of other people, and

particularly of those much above him in rank.

"I don't see why Lolly could not go!" said he with a pout.

"We shall see," said the tutor. "Perchance, if your Lordship order

yourself after his will, my Lord may give leave that you shall choose

whom you list."

The Earl, on being appealed to, carelessly replied that Roger might take

the man in the moon, if he wished it, provided he were fittingly

attired. Roger, who had got over his pet--indeed, his pets were less

frequent than they used to be--submitted with nothing more than a little

impatience to the tedious ceremony of his own arraying. Mistress

Grenestede was very particular, for she desired Roger to make a good

impression on the Princess, upon whom she looked with very different

eyes from his. When the young Earl's attiring was over, he found

himself in a long robe of apple-green satin, edged with cloth of gold,

ruby-coloured hose, over which the garter was clasped, and a cap adorned

with a very full, long plume of white feathers. His shoes were

slate-coloured, with a red diamond pattern. Gold buttons ran all down

his sleeves: a rich golden girdle, set with gems, clasped his waist; a

golden collar, with diamonds and rubies, was round his neck; and, in

compliment to the Princess, her badge of the white hart gorged and

couchant was suspended at his breast from a rich gold chain. Thus

splendidly arrayed, Roger marched into the hall, where three persons

awaited him, clad in his own livery, blue and gold, guarded with white.

These were two squires and Lawrence. With considerable impatience the

young Earl sat on the form awaiting Sir Lewis Clifford, who was punctual

to his time, though Roger could hardly believe it. The party then

mounted their horses, and rode away to Kennington Palace, where the

Princess was at that time.

Kennington Palace was then in a neighbourhood at least as rural as

Hampton Court is now. Sir Lewis led his youthful charge, followed by

the attendants, into a pleasant chamber hung with yellow say and

panelled with cedar. Here were two ladies and a gentleman--the former

seated at work, the latter standing in the window. Sir Lewis, leading

Roger up to one of the ladies, dropped on one knee to say--

"Here is the young Lord of March, to wait on my Lady's Grace."

[Illustration: "Here is the young Lord of March, to wait on my Lady's

Grace."]

With some curiosity Roger looked up, and saw a short, smiling,

exceedingly fat woman, clad in a crimson damask dress embroidered with

rings of gold. Threads of silver were mingled with her golden hair, and

the remains of what had been extreme beauty could be traced in her

countenance.

"Come hither, little Cousin," said the Princess affably, smiling all

over her plump face. "Of a truth, I am right glad to see thee. I can

go visit none now, for I am so fat I may scarce mount mine horse. Didst

ever behold a woman fatter than I?"

Roger's head squire, who had been spending considerable pains in

coaching him for this interview, was horrified to hear him reply with

charming candour--

"No, Dame; that did I never."

"Why, thou sayest well!" laughed the Princess, evidently not in the

least offended. "Alway speak truth, fair Cousin."

"So do I," answered Roger rather proudly. "My Lady my grandmother told

me ever so to do; and she learned me two sayings by the which I should

rule me, and I so will. Under your pleasure, Dame," he added in an

instant, with a sudden recollection of the squire's instructions and

those of Sir Gerard.

"Come, tell me what they were!" responded the Princess, coaxingly.

"Thou lovest my Lady thy grandmother, that can I see."

"Well, I did, middling, Dame," said Roger, coolly. "Howbeit she were

only a woman."

The squire was ready to sink into the earth, till he was relieved by the

Princess leaning back in her gilded chair with a burst of the heartiest

laughter.

"Gramercy, little Cousin, but thou art right covenable![#] I see, we

shall be good friends. But I desire thy two sayings. Tell me the

same."

[#] Agreeable, amusing.

Roger repeated them rather proudly.

"'_Fais ce que doy, advienne que pourra:_' '_Un_ and _Dieu, un Roy,

servir je doy._'"

"And dost mean to rule thee by them?" asked the Princess, still smiling.

"That do I, Dame. I will serve God and the King to my power, but none

other."

"He will do, trow?" said the Princess, looking up at somebody whom Roger

had not previously noticed. His eyes followed hers, and he saw standing

on her right hand a young man of eighteen, clad in a tunic of black

baldekyn, figured with red balls and purplish-gray flowers. Above it

was a white tippet; the sleeves were red, with gold cuffs; and he wore

yellow shoes with a red pattern.[#] He was of short stature and slight

figure: his complexion was of feminine fairness, his hair flaxen tinged

with gold, his eyes blue and dove-like. So great was his soft and

pathetic beauty, that artists selected his face as the model for "that

Face which now outshines the cherubim."

[#] This is King Richard's costume in the Golden Book of St. Albans.

Something in the face won Roger's heart. What it was he did not know

himself. It was, in truth, a vague remembrance of that fair young

mother who had passed away from him so early, and a likeness to whom he

detected without recognising it, in the face before him. An

affectionate smile from the royal cousin completed his conquest of the

heart of Roger Mortimer.

"He will do, in very truth," said the King, answering his mother first:

then he turned to Roger. "Be right welcome, fair Cousin: I trust to see

more of you in time coming."

"Sir," asked Roger, looking up, "be you Lord Richard the King?"

"Even so, fair Cousin. What can I do to pleasure you?"

Natures like those of Roger Mortimer are always capable of intense

hero-worship. And Roger had found his hero. He dropped on one knee

without any prompting.

"Then, Sire, I will live and die with you!"

The King unfastened from his chain of rubies a golden broom-pod wrought

with green enamel. It was one of his own badges.