Chapter Three.

Chapter Three.The Jewish Maiden’s Vow.“To thine own self be true!And it must follow, as the night the day,Thou canst not then be false to any man.”Shakespeare.“There’s the Mayor sent orders for the streets to be swept clean, and all the mud carted out of the way. You’d best sweep afore your own door, and then maybe you’ll have less rate to pay, Aunt Isel.”It was Stephen the Watchdog who looked in over the half-door to give this piece of information.“What’s that for?” asked Isel, stopping in the work of mopping the brick floor.“The Lady Queen comes through on her way to Woodstock.”“To-day?” said Flemild and Derette together.“Or to-morrow. A running footman came in an hour ago, to say she was at Abingdon, and bid my Lord hold himself in readiness to meet her at the East Gate. The vintners have had orders to send in two tuns of Gascon and Poitou wine; and Henry the Mason tells me a new cellar and chimney were made last week in the Queen’s chamber at Woodstock. Geoffrey the Sumpter was in town yesterday, buying budgets, coffers, and bottles. So if you girls want to see her, you had better make haste and get your work done, and tidy yourselves up, and be at the East Gate by noon or soon after.”“Get their work done! Don’t you know better than that, Stephen? A woman’s work never is done. It’s you lazy loons of men that stop working and take your pleasure when night comes. Work done, indeed!”“But, Isel, I will finish de work for you. Go you and take your pleasure to see de Queen, meine friend. You have not much de pleasure.”“You’re a good soul, Agnes, and it was a fine day for me when I took you in last winter. But as for pleasure, it and me parted company a smart little while ago. Nay, let the maids go; I’ll tarry at home. You can go if you will.—Stephen! are you bound elsewhere, or can you come and look after the girls?”“I can’t, Aunt Isel; I’m on duty in the Bayly in half an hour, and when I shall be free again you must ask my Lord or Master Mayor.”“Never mind: the boys are safe to be there. Catch them missing a show! Now, Flemild, child, drop that washing; and leave the gavache (Note 1), Ermine, and get yourselves ready. It’s only once in three or four years at most that you’re like to see such a sight. Make haste, girls.”There was little need to tell the girls to make haste. Flemild hastily wrung out the apron she was washing, and pinned it on the line; Ermine drew the thread from her needle—the entire household owned but one of those useful and costly articles—and put it carefully away; while Derette tumbled up the ladder at imminent risk to her limbs, to fling back the lid of the great coffer at the bed-foot, and institute a search, which left every thing in wild confusion, for her sister’s best kerchief and her own. Just as the trio were ready to start, Gerhardt came in.“Saint Frideswide be our aid! wherever are them boys?” demanded Isel of nobody in particular.“One on the top of the East Gate,” said Gerhardt, “and the other playing at quarter-staff in Pary’s Mead.”Pary’s Mead lay between Holywell Church and the East Gate, on the north of the present Magdalen College.“Lack-a-daisy! but however are the girls to get down to the gate? I daren’t let ’em go by themselves.”The girls looked blank: and two big tears filled Derette’s eyes, ready to fall.“If all you need is an escort, friend, here am I,” said Gerhardt; “but why should the girls go alone? I would fain take you and Agnes too.”“Take Agnes and welcome,” said Isel with a sigh; “but I’m too old, I reckon, and poor company at best.”A little friendly altercation followed, ended by Gerhardt’s decided assertion that Agnes should not go without her hostess.“But who’s to see to Baby?” said Derette dolefully.“We will lock up the house, and leave Baby with old Turguia,” suggested Isel.“Nay, she tramped off to see the show an hour ago.”“Never mind! I’ll stop with Baby,” said Derette with heroic self-abnegation.“Indeed you shall not,” said Ermine.A second war of amiability seemed likely to follow, when a voice said at the door—“Do you all want to go out? I am not going to the show. Will you trust me with the child?”Isel turned and stared in amazement at the questioner.“I would not hurt it,” pleaded the Jewish maiden in a tremulous voice. “Do trust me! I know you reckon us bad people; but indeed we are not so black as you think us. My baby brother died last summer; and my aims are so cold and empty since. Let me have a little child in them once more!”“But—you will want to see the show,” responded Isel, rather as an excuse to decline the offered help than for any more considerate reason.“No—I do not care for the show. I care far more for the child. I have stood at the corner and watched you with him, so often, and have longed so to touch him, if it might be but with one finger. Won’t you let me?”Agnes was looking from the girl to Gerhardt, as if she knew not what to do.“Will you keep him from harm, and bring him back as soon as we return, if you take him?” asked Gerhardt. “Remember, the God in whom we both believe hears and records your words.”“Let Him do so to me and more also,” answered Countess solemnly, “if I bring not the child to you unhurt.”Gerhardt lifted little Rudolph from his mother’s arms and placed him in those of the dark-eyed maiden.“The Lord watch over thee and him!” he said.“Amen!” And as Countess carried away the baby close pressed to her bosom, they saw her stoop down and kiss it almost passionately.“Holy Virgin! what have you done, Gerard?” cried Isel in horror. “Don’t you know there is poison in a Jew’s breath? They’ll as sure cast a spell upon that baby as my name’s Isel.”“No, I don’t,” said Gerhardt a little drily. “I only know that some men say so. I have placed my child in the hands of the Lord; and He, not I, has laid it in that maiden’s. It may be that this little kindness is a link in the chain of Providence, whereby He designs to bring her soul to Him. Who am I, if so, that I should put my boy or myself athwart His purpose?”“Well, you’re mighty pious, I know,” said Isel. “Seems to me you should have been a monk, by rights. However, what’s done is done. Let’s be going, for there’s no time to waste.”They went a little way down Fish Street, passing the Jewish synagogue, which stood about where the northernmost tower of Christ Church is now, turned to the left along Civil School Lane—at the south end of Tom Quad, coming out about Canterbury Gate—pursued their way along Saint John Baptist Street, now Merton Street, and turning again to the left where it ended, skirted the wall till they reached the East Gate. Here a heterogeneous crowd was assembled, about the gate, and on the top were perched a number of adventurous youths, among whom Haimet was descried.“Anything coming?” Gerhardt called to him.“Yes, a drove of pigs,” Haimet shouted back.The pigs came grunting in, to be sarcastically greeted by the crowd, who immediately styled the old sow and her progeny by the illustrious names of Queen Eleonore and the royal children. Her Majesty was not very popular, the rather since she lived but little in England, and was known greatly to prefer her native province of Aquitaine. Still, a show was always a show, and the British public is rarely indifferent to it.The pigs having grunted themselves up Cat Street—running from the east end of Saint Mary’s to Broad Street—a further half-hour of waiting ensued, beguiled by rough joking on the part of the crowd. Then Haimet called down to his friends—“Here comes Prester John, in his robes of estate!”The next minute, a running footman in the royal livery—red and gold—bearing a long wand decorated at the top with coloured ribbons, sped in at the gate, and up High Street on his way to the Castle. In ten minutes more, a stir was perceptible at the west end of High Street, and down to the gate, on richly caparisoned horses, came the Earl and Countess of Oxford, followed by a brilliant crowd of splendidly-dressed officials. It was evident that the Queen must be close at hand.All eyes were now fixed on the London Road, up which the royal cavalcade was quickly seen approaching. First marched a division of the guard of honour, followed by the officials of the household, on horseback; then came the Queen in her char, followed by another bearing her ladies. The remainder of the guard brought up the rear.The char was not much better than a handsomely-painted cart. It had no springs, and travelling in it must have been a trying process. But the horses bore superb silken housings, and the very bits were gilt. (Note 2.) Ten strong men in the royal livery walked, five on each side of the char; and their office, which was to keep it upright in the miry tracks—roads they were not—was by no means a sinecure.The royal lady, seated on a Gothic chair which made the permanent seat of the char, being fixed to it, was one of the most remarkable women who have ever reigned in England. If a passage of Scripture illustrative of the life and character were to be selected to append to the statue of each of our kings and queens, there would be little difficulty in the choice to be made for Eleonore of Aquitaine. “Whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap.” She sowed the wind, and she reaped the whirlwind. A youth of the wildest giddiness was succeeded by a middle life of suffering and hardship, and both ended in an old age of desolation.But when Eleonore rode in that spring noon-day at the East Gate of Oxford, the reaping-time was not yet. The headstrong giddiness was a little toned down, but the terrible retribution had not begun.The Queen’s contemporaries are eloquent as to her wondrous loveliness and her marvellous accomplishments. “Beauty possessed both her mind and body,” says one writer who lived in the days of her grandson, while another expatiates on her “clairs et verds yeux,” and a third on her “exquisite mouth, and the most splendid eyes in the world.” Her Majesty was attired with equal stateliness and simplicity, for that was not an era of superb or extravagant dress. A close gown with tight sleeves was surmounted by a pelisse, the sleeves of which were very wide and full, and the fur trimming showed the high rank of the wearer. A long white veil came over her head, and fell around her, kept in its place by a jewelled fillet. The gemmed collar of gold at the neck, and the thick leather gloves (with no partitions for the fingers) heavily embroidered on the back, were also indicative of regal rank.The Queen’s char stopped just within the gate, so that our friends had an excellent view of her. She greeted the Earl and Countess of Oxford with a genial grace, which she well knew how to assume; gave her hand to be kissed to a small selection of the highest officials, and then the char passed on, and the sight was over.Isel and her friends turned homewards, not waiting for the after portion of the entertainment. There was to be a bull-baiting in the afternoon on Presthey—Christ Church Meadow—and a magnificent bonfire at night in Gloucester Meadows—Jericho; but these enjoyments they left to the boys. There would be plenty of women, however, at the bull-baiting; as many as at a Spanishcorrida. The idea of its being a cruel pastime, or even of cruelty being at all objectionable or demoralising, with very few exceptions, had not then dawned on the minds of men.They returned by the meadows outside the city, entering at the South Gate. As they came up Fish Street, they could see Countess on a low seat at her father’s door, with little Rudolph on her knee, both parties looking very well content with their position. On their reaching the corner, she rose and came to meet them.“Here is the baby,” she said, smiling rather sadly. “See, I have not done him any harm! And it has done me good. You will let me have him again some day?—some time when you all want to go out, and it will be a convenience to you. Farewell, my pretty bird!”And she held out the boy to Agnes. Little Rudolph had shown signs of pleasure at the sight of his mother; but it soon appeared that he was not pleased by any means at the prospect of parting with his new friend. Countess had kept him well amused, and he had no inclination to see an abrupt end put to his amusement. He struggled and at last screamed his disapprobation, until it became necessary for Gerhardt to interfere, and show the young gentleman decidedly that he must not always expect to have his own way.“I t’ank you”—Agnes began to say, in her best English, which was still imperfect, though Ermine spoke it fluently now. But Countess stopped her, rather to her surprise, by a few hurried words in her own tongue.“Do not thank me,” she said, with a flash of the black eyes. “It is I who should thank you.”And running quickly across Fish Street, the Jewish maiden disappeared inside her father’s door.All European nations at that date disliked and despised the hapless sons of Israel: but the little company to whom Gerhardt and Agnes belonged were perhaps a shade less averse to them than others. They were to some extent companions in misfortune, being themselves equally despised and detested by many; and they were much too familiar with the Word of God not to recognise that His blessing still rested on the seed of Abraham His friend, hidden “for a little moment” by a cloud, but one day to burst into a refulgence of heavenly sunlight. When, therefore, Flemild asked Ermine, as they were laying aside their out-door garb—“Don’t you hate those horrid creatures?” it was not surprising that Ermine paused before replying.“Don’t you?” repeated Flemild.“No,” said Ermine, “I do not think I do.”“Don’tyou?” echoed Flemild for the third time, and with emphasis. “Why, Ermine, they crucified our Lord.”“So did you and I, Flemild; and He bids us love one another.”Flemild stood struck with astonishment, her kerchief half off her head.“I crucified our Lord!” she exclaimed. “Ermine, what can you mean?”“Sin crucified Him,” said Ermine quietly; “your sins and mine, was it not? If He died not for our sins, we shall have to bear them ourselves. And did He not die for Countess too?”“I thought He died for those who are in holy Church; and Countess is a wicked heathen Jew.”“Yes, for holy Church, which means those whom God has chosen out of the world. How can you know that Countess is not some day to be a member of holy Church?”“Ermine, they are regular wicked people!”“We are all wicked people, till God renews us by His Holy Spirit.”“I’m not!” cried Flemild indignantly; “and I don’t believe you are either.”“Ah, Flemild, that is because you are blind. Sin has darkened our eyes; we cannot see ourselves.”“Ermine, do you mean to say that you see me a wicked creature like a Jew?”“By nature, I am as blind as you, Flemild.”“‘By nature’! What do you mean?Doyou see me so?”“Flemild, dear friend, what if God sees it?”Ermine had spoken very softly and tenderly, but Flemild was not in a mood to appreciate the tenderness.“Well!” she said in a hard tone. “If we are so dreadfully wicked, I wonder you like to associate with us.”“But if I am equally wicked?” suggested Ermine with a smile.“I wonder how you can hold such an opinion of yourself. I should not like to think myself so bad. I could not bear it.”Flemild entertained the curious opinion—it is astonishing how many people unwittingly hold it—that a fact becomes annihilated by a man shutting his eyes to it. Ermine regarded her with a look of slight amusement.“What difference would it make if I did not think so?” she asked.Flemild laughed, only then realising the absurdity of her own remark. It augured well for her good sense that she could recognise the absurdity when it was pointed out to her.Coming down the ladder, they found Anania seated below.“Well, girls! did you see the Queen?”“Oh, we had a charming view of her,” said Flemild.“Folks say she’s not so charming, seen a bit nearer. You know Veka, the wife of Chembel? She told me she’d heard Dame Ediva de Gathacra say the Queen’s a perfect fury when she has her back up. Some of the scenes that are to be seen by nows and thens in Westminster Palace are enough to set your hair on end. And her extravagance! Will you believe it, Dame Ediva said, this last year she gave over twenty pounds for one robe. How many gowns would that buy you and me, Aunt Isel?”At the present value of money, Her Majesty’s robe cost rather more than 500.“Bless you, I don’t know,” was Isel’s answer. “Might be worth cracking my head over, if I were to have one of ’em when I’d done. But there’s poor chance of that, I reckon; so I’ll let it be.”“They say she sings superbly,” said Flemild.“Oh, very like. Folks may well sing that can afford to give twenty pound for a gown. If she’d her living to earn, and couldn’t put a bit of bread in her mouth, nor in her children’s, till she’d worked for it, she’d sing o’ t’other side her mouth, most likely.”“Anania, don’t talk so unseemly. I’m sure you’ve a good enough place.”“Oh, are you? I dress in samite, like the Queen, don’t I?—and eat sturgeon and peacocks to my dinner?—and drive of a gilt char when I come to see folks? I should just like to know why she must have all the good things in life, and I must put up with the hard ones? I’m as good a woman as she is, I’m sure of that.”“Cousin Anania,” said Derette in a scandalised tone, “you should not tell us you’re a good woman; you should wait till we tell you.”“Then why didn’t you tell me?” snapped Anania.“Ididn’t tell you so because I don’t think so,” replied Derette with severity, “if you say such things of the Queen.”“Much anybody cares what you think, child. Why, just look!—tuns and tuns of Gascon wine are sent to Woodstock for her: and here must I make shift with small ale and thin mead that’s half sour. She’s only to ask and have.”“Well, I don’t know,” said Isel. “I wouldn’t give my quiet home for a sup of Gascon wine—more by reason I don’t like it. ‘Scenes at Westminster Palace’ are not things I covet. My poor Manning was peaceable enough, and took a many steps to save me, and I doubt if King Henry does even to it. Eh dear! if I did but know what had come of my poor man! I should have thought all them Saracens ’d have been dead and buried by now, when you think what lots of folks has gone off to kill ’em. And as to ‘asking and having’—well, that hangs on what you ask for. There’s a many folks asks for the moon, but I never heard tell as any of ’em had it.”“Why do folks go to kill the Saracens?” demanded Derette, still unsatisfied on that point.“Saints know!” said her mother, using her favourite comfortable expletive. “I wishhehadn’t ha’ gone—I do so!”“It’s a good work, child,” explained Anania.“Wouldn’t it have been a good work for Father to stay at home, and save steps for Mother?”“I think it would, my child,” said Gerhardt; “but God knoweth best, and He let thy father go. Sometimes what seems to us the best work is not the work God has appointed for us.”Had Gerhardt wished to drive away Anania, he could not have taken a surer method than by words which savoured of piety. She resembled a good many people in the present day, who find the Bread of Life very dry eating, and if they must swallow a little of it, can only be persuaded to do so by a thick coating of worldly butter. They may be coaxed to visit the church where the finest anthem is sung, but that where the purest Gospel is preached has no attraction for them. The porter’s wife, therefore, suddenly discovered that she had plenty to do at home, and took her departure, much to the relief of the friends on whom she inflicted herself. She had not been gone many minutes when Stephen looked in.“Lads not come in yet?” said he. “Well, have you seen the grand sight? The Queen’s gone again; she only stayed for supper at the Castle, and then off to Woodstock. She’ll not be there above a month, they say. She never tarries long in England at once. But the King’s coming back this autumn—so they say.”“Who say?” asked Gerhardt.“Oh, every body,” said Stephen with a laugh, as he leaned over the half-door.“Everybody?” inquired Gerhardt drily.“Oh, come, you drive things too fine for me. Every body, that is anybody.”“I thought every body was somebody.”“Not in this country: maybe in yours,” responded Stephen, still laughing. “But I’m forgetting what I came for. Aunt Isel, do you want either a sheep or a pig?”“Have you got ’em in that wallet on your back?”“Not at present, but I can bring you either if you want it.”“What’s the price, and who’s selling them?”“Our neighbour Veka wants to sell three or four bacon pigs and half-a-dozen young porkers; Martin le bon Fermier, brother of Henry the Mason, has a couple of hundred sheep to sell.”“But what’s the cost? Veka’s none so cheap to deal with, though she feeds her pigs well, I know.”“Well, she wants two shillings a-piece for the bacons, and four for the six porkers.”“Ay, I knew she’d clap the money on! No, thank you; I’m not made of gold marks, nor silver pennies neither.”“Well, but the sheep are cheap enough; he only asks twopence halfpenny each.”“That’s not out of the way. We might salt one or two. I’ll think about it. Not in a hurry to a day or two, is he?”“Oh, no; I shouldn’t think so.”“Has he any flour or beans to sell, think you? I could do with both those, if they were reasonable.”“Ay, he has. Beans a shilling a quarter, and flour fourteen pence a load. (Note 3.) Very good flour, he says it is.”“Should be, at that price. Well, I’ll see: maybe I shall walk over one of these days and chaffer with him. Any way, I’m obliged to you, Stephen, for letting me know of it.”“Very good, Aunt Isel; Martin will be glad to see you, and I’ll give Bretta a hint to be at home when you come, if you’ll let me know the day before.”This was a mischievous suggestion on Stephen’s part, as he well knew that Martin’s wife was not much to his aunt’s liking.“Don’t, for mercy’s sake!” cried Isel. “She’s a tongue as long as a yard measure, and there isn’t a scrap of gossip for ten miles on every side of her that she doesn’t hand on to the first comer. She’d know all I had on afore I’d been there one Paternoster, and every body else ’d know it too, afore the day was out.”The space of time required to repeat the Lord’s Prayer—of course as fast as possible—was a measure in common use at that day.“Best put on your holiday clothes, then,” said Stephen with a laugh, and whistling for his dog, which was engaged in the pointing of Countess’s kitten, he turned down Fish Street on his way to the East Gate.Stephen’s progress was arrested, as he came to the end of Kepeharme Lane, by a long and picturesque procession which issued from the western door of Saint Frideswide. Eight priests, fully robed, bore under a canopy the beautifully-carved coffer which held the venerated body of the royal saint, and they were accompanied by the officials of the Cathedral, the choir chanting a litany, and a long string of nuns bringing up the rear. Saint Frideswide was on her way to the bedside of a paralysed rich man, who had paid an immense sum for her visit, in the hope that he might be restored to the use of his faculties by a touch of her miracle-working relics. As the procession passed up the street, a door opened in the Jewry, and out came a young Jew named Dieulecresse (Note 4), who at once set himself to make fun of Saint Frideswide. Limping up the street as though he could scarcely stir, he suddenly drew himself erect and walked down with a free step; clenching his hands as if they were rigid, he then flung his arms open and worked his fingers rapidly.“O ye men of Oxford, bring me your oblations!” he cried. “See ye not that I am a doer of wonders, like your saint, and that my miracles are quite as good and real as hers?”The procession passed on, taking no notice of the mockery. But when, the next day, it was known that Dieulecresse had committed suicide in the night, the priests did not spare the publication of the fact, with the comment that Saint Frideswide had taken vengeance on her enemy, and that her honour was fully vindicated from his aspersions.“Ah!” said Gerhardt softly, “‘those eighteen, on whom the tower in Siloam fell!’ How ready men are to account them sinners above all men that dwell in Jerusalem! Yet it may be that they who thus judge are the worse sinners of the two, in God’s eyes, however high they stand in the world’s sight.”“Well, I don’t set up to be better than other folks,” said Stephen lightly. He had brought the news. “I reckon I shall pass muster, if I’m as good.”“That would not satisfy me,” said Gerhardt. “I should want to be as good as I could be. I could not pass beyond that. But even then—”“That’s too much trouble for me,” laughed Stephen. “When you’ve done your work, hand me over the goodness you don’t want.”“I shall not have any, for it won’t be enough.”“That’s a poor lookout!”“It would be, if I had to rely on my own goodness.”Stephen stared. “Why, whose goodness are you going to rely on?”Gerhardt lifted his cap. “‘There is none good but One,—that is, God.’”“I reckon that’s aiming a bit too high,” said Stephen, with a shake of his head. “Can’t tell how you’re going to get hold of that.”“Nor could I, unless the Lord had first laid hold of me. ‘Hehath covered me with the robe of righteousness’—I do not put it on myself.”Gerhardt never made long speeches on religious topics. He said what he had to say, generally, in one pithy sentence, and then left it to carry its own weight.“I say, Gerard, I’ve wondered more than once—”“Well, Stephen?”“No offence, friend?”“Certainly not: pray say all you wish.”“Whether you were an unfrocked priest.”“No, I assure you.”“Can’t tell how you come by all your notions!” said Stephen, scratching his head.“Notions of all kinds have but two sources,” was the reply: “the Word of God, and the corruption of man’s heart.”“Come, now, that won’t do!” objected Stephen. “You’ve built your door a mile too narrow. I’ve a notion that grass is green, and another that my new boots don’t fit me: whence come they?”“The first,” said Gerhardt drily, “from the Gospel of Saint Mark; the second from the Fourteenth Psalm.”“The Fourteenth Psalm makes mention of my boots!”“Not in detail. It saith, ‘There is none that doeth good,—no, not one.’”“What on earth has that to do with it?”“This: that if sin had never entered the world, both fraud and suffering would have tarried outside with it.”“Well, I always did reckon Father Adam a sorry fellow, that he had no more sense than to give in to his wife.”“I rather think he gave in to his own inclination, at least as much. If he had not wanted to taste the apple, she might have coaxed till now.”“Hold hard there, man! You are taking the woman’s side.”“I thought I was taking the side of truth. If that be not one’s own, it is quite as well to find it out.”Stephen laughed as he turned away from the door of the Walnut Tree.“You’re too good for me,” said he. “I’ll go home before I’m infected with the complaint.”“I’d stop and take it if I were you,” retorted Isel. “You’re off the better end, I’ll admit, but you’d do with a bit more, may be.”“I’ll leave it for you, Aunt Isel,” said Stephen mischievously. “One shouldn’t want all the good things for one’s self, you know.”The Queen did not remain for even a month at Woodstock. In less than three weeks she returned to London, this time without passing through Oxford, and took her journey to Harfleur, the passage across the Channel costing the usual price of 7 pounds, 10 shillings equivalent in modern times to 187 pounds, 10 shillings.Travelling seems to have been an appalling item of expense at that time. The carriage of fish from Yarmouth to London cost 9 shillings (11 pounds, 5 shillings); of hay from London to Woodstock, 60 shillings (75 pounds); and of the Queen’s robes from Winchester to Oxford, 8 shillings (10 pounds). Yet the Royal Family were perpetually journeying; the hams were fetched from Yorkshire, the cheeses from Wiltshire, and the pearmain apples from Kent. Exeter was famous for metal and corn; Worcester and London for wheat; Winchester for wine—there were vineyards in England then; Hertford for cattle, and Salisbury for game; York for wood; while the speciality of Oxford was knives.An old Jew, writing to a younger some thirty years later, in the reign of Henry Second, and giving him warning as to what he would find in the chief towns of southern England, thus describes such as he had visited: “London much displeases me; Canterbury is a collection of lost souls and idle pilgrims; Rochester and Chichester are but small villages; Oxford scarcely (I say not satisfies, but) sustains its clerks; Exeter refreshes men and beasts with corn; Bath, in a thick air and sulphurous vapour, lies at the gates of Gehenna!”But if travelling were far more costly than in these days, there were much fewer objects on which money could be squandered. Chairs were almost as scarce as thrones, being used for little else, and chimneys were not more common. (Note 5.) Diamonds were unknown; lace, velvet, and satin had no existence, samite and silk being the costly fabrics; and the regal ermine is not mentioned. Dress, as has been said, was not extravagant, save in the item of jewellery, or of very costly embroidery; cookery was much simpler than a hundred years later. Plate, it is true, was rich and expensive, but it was only in the hands of the nobles and church dignitaries. On the other hand, fines were among the commonest things in existence. Not only had every breach of law its appropriate fine, but breaches of etiquette were expiated in a similar manner. False news was hardly treated: 13 shillings 4 pence was exacted for that (Pipe Roll, 12 Henry Third) and perjury (Ibidem, 16 ib) alike, while wounding an uncle cost a sovereign, and a priest might be slain for the easy price of 4 shillings 9 pence (Ibidem, 27 ib). The Prior of Newburgh was charged three marks for excess of state; and poor Stephen de Mereflet had to pay 26 shillings 8 pence for “making a stupid reply to the King’s Treasurer”! (Pipe Roll, 16 Henry Third) It was reserved for King John to carry this exaction to a ridiculous excess, by taking bribes to hold his tongue on inconvenient topics, and fining his courtiers for not having reminded him of points which he happened to forget. (Misae Roll, I John.)Note 1. A long undergarment then worn by men and women alike.Note 2. “For gilding the King’s bit (frenum), 56 shillings.” (Pipe Roll, 31 Henry First.)Note 3. Reckoned according to modern value, these prices stand about thus:—Bacon pig, 2 pounds, 10 shillings; porkers, 5 pounds; sheep, 5 shillings 3 pence; quarter of beans, 25 shillings; load of flour, 30 shillings.Note 4. “Dieu L’encroisse,” a translation of Gedaliah, and a very common name among the English Jews at that time. This incident really occurred about twenty-five years later.Note 5. Some writers deny the existence of chimneys at this date; but an entry, on the Pipe Roll for 1160, of money expended on “the Queen’s chamber and chimney and cellar,” leaves no doubt on the matter.

“To thine own self be true!And it must follow, as the night the day,Thou canst not then be false to any man.”Shakespeare.

“To thine own self be true!And it must follow, as the night the day,Thou canst not then be false to any man.”Shakespeare.

“There’s the Mayor sent orders for the streets to be swept clean, and all the mud carted out of the way. You’d best sweep afore your own door, and then maybe you’ll have less rate to pay, Aunt Isel.”

It was Stephen the Watchdog who looked in over the half-door to give this piece of information.

“What’s that for?” asked Isel, stopping in the work of mopping the brick floor.

“The Lady Queen comes through on her way to Woodstock.”

“To-day?” said Flemild and Derette together.

“Or to-morrow. A running footman came in an hour ago, to say she was at Abingdon, and bid my Lord hold himself in readiness to meet her at the East Gate. The vintners have had orders to send in two tuns of Gascon and Poitou wine; and Henry the Mason tells me a new cellar and chimney were made last week in the Queen’s chamber at Woodstock. Geoffrey the Sumpter was in town yesterday, buying budgets, coffers, and bottles. So if you girls want to see her, you had better make haste and get your work done, and tidy yourselves up, and be at the East Gate by noon or soon after.”

“Get their work done! Don’t you know better than that, Stephen? A woman’s work never is done. It’s you lazy loons of men that stop working and take your pleasure when night comes. Work done, indeed!”

“But, Isel, I will finish de work for you. Go you and take your pleasure to see de Queen, meine friend. You have not much de pleasure.”

“You’re a good soul, Agnes, and it was a fine day for me when I took you in last winter. But as for pleasure, it and me parted company a smart little while ago. Nay, let the maids go; I’ll tarry at home. You can go if you will.—Stephen! are you bound elsewhere, or can you come and look after the girls?”

“I can’t, Aunt Isel; I’m on duty in the Bayly in half an hour, and when I shall be free again you must ask my Lord or Master Mayor.”

“Never mind: the boys are safe to be there. Catch them missing a show! Now, Flemild, child, drop that washing; and leave the gavache (Note 1), Ermine, and get yourselves ready. It’s only once in three or four years at most that you’re like to see such a sight. Make haste, girls.”

There was little need to tell the girls to make haste. Flemild hastily wrung out the apron she was washing, and pinned it on the line; Ermine drew the thread from her needle—the entire household owned but one of those useful and costly articles—and put it carefully away; while Derette tumbled up the ladder at imminent risk to her limbs, to fling back the lid of the great coffer at the bed-foot, and institute a search, which left every thing in wild confusion, for her sister’s best kerchief and her own. Just as the trio were ready to start, Gerhardt came in.

“Saint Frideswide be our aid! wherever are them boys?” demanded Isel of nobody in particular.

“One on the top of the East Gate,” said Gerhardt, “and the other playing at quarter-staff in Pary’s Mead.”

Pary’s Mead lay between Holywell Church and the East Gate, on the north of the present Magdalen College.

“Lack-a-daisy! but however are the girls to get down to the gate? I daren’t let ’em go by themselves.”

The girls looked blank: and two big tears filled Derette’s eyes, ready to fall.

“If all you need is an escort, friend, here am I,” said Gerhardt; “but why should the girls go alone? I would fain take you and Agnes too.”

“Take Agnes and welcome,” said Isel with a sigh; “but I’m too old, I reckon, and poor company at best.”

A little friendly altercation followed, ended by Gerhardt’s decided assertion that Agnes should not go without her hostess.

“But who’s to see to Baby?” said Derette dolefully.

“We will lock up the house, and leave Baby with old Turguia,” suggested Isel.

“Nay, she tramped off to see the show an hour ago.”

“Never mind! I’ll stop with Baby,” said Derette with heroic self-abnegation.

“Indeed you shall not,” said Ermine.

A second war of amiability seemed likely to follow, when a voice said at the door—

“Do you all want to go out? I am not going to the show. Will you trust me with the child?”

Isel turned and stared in amazement at the questioner.

“I would not hurt it,” pleaded the Jewish maiden in a tremulous voice. “Do trust me! I know you reckon us bad people; but indeed we are not so black as you think us. My baby brother died last summer; and my aims are so cold and empty since. Let me have a little child in them once more!”

“But—you will want to see the show,” responded Isel, rather as an excuse to decline the offered help than for any more considerate reason.

“No—I do not care for the show. I care far more for the child. I have stood at the corner and watched you with him, so often, and have longed so to touch him, if it might be but with one finger. Won’t you let me?”

Agnes was looking from the girl to Gerhardt, as if she knew not what to do.

“Will you keep him from harm, and bring him back as soon as we return, if you take him?” asked Gerhardt. “Remember, the God in whom we both believe hears and records your words.”

“Let Him do so to me and more also,” answered Countess solemnly, “if I bring not the child to you unhurt.”

Gerhardt lifted little Rudolph from his mother’s arms and placed him in those of the dark-eyed maiden.

“The Lord watch over thee and him!” he said.

“Amen!” And as Countess carried away the baby close pressed to her bosom, they saw her stoop down and kiss it almost passionately.

“Holy Virgin! what have you done, Gerard?” cried Isel in horror. “Don’t you know there is poison in a Jew’s breath? They’ll as sure cast a spell upon that baby as my name’s Isel.”

“No, I don’t,” said Gerhardt a little drily. “I only know that some men say so. I have placed my child in the hands of the Lord; and He, not I, has laid it in that maiden’s. It may be that this little kindness is a link in the chain of Providence, whereby He designs to bring her soul to Him. Who am I, if so, that I should put my boy or myself athwart His purpose?”

“Well, you’re mighty pious, I know,” said Isel. “Seems to me you should have been a monk, by rights. However, what’s done is done. Let’s be going, for there’s no time to waste.”

They went a little way down Fish Street, passing the Jewish synagogue, which stood about where the northernmost tower of Christ Church is now, turned to the left along Civil School Lane—at the south end of Tom Quad, coming out about Canterbury Gate—pursued their way along Saint John Baptist Street, now Merton Street, and turning again to the left where it ended, skirted the wall till they reached the East Gate. Here a heterogeneous crowd was assembled, about the gate, and on the top were perched a number of adventurous youths, among whom Haimet was descried.

“Anything coming?” Gerhardt called to him.

“Yes, a drove of pigs,” Haimet shouted back.

The pigs came grunting in, to be sarcastically greeted by the crowd, who immediately styled the old sow and her progeny by the illustrious names of Queen Eleonore and the royal children. Her Majesty was not very popular, the rather since she lived but little in England, and was known greatly to prefer her native province of Aquitaine. Still, a show was always a show, and the British public is rarely indifferent to it.

The pigs having grunted themselves up Cat Street—running from the east end of Saint Mary’s to Broad Street—a further half-hour of waiting ensued, beguiled by rough joking on the part of the crowd. Then Haimet called down to his friends—

“Here comes Prester John, in his robes of estate!”

The next minute, a running footman in the royal livery—red and gold—bearing a long wand decorated at the top with coloured ribbons, sped in at the gate, and up High Street on his way to the Castle. In ten minutes more, a stir was perceptible at the west end of High Street, and down to the gate, on richly caparisoned horses, came the Earl and Countess of Oxford, followed by a brilliant crowd of splendidly-dressed officials. It was evident that the Queen must be close at hand.

All eyes were now fixed on the London Road, up which the royal cavalcade was quickly seen approaching. First marched a division of the guard of honour, followed by the officials of the household, on horseback; then came the Queen in her char, followed by another bearing her ladies. The remainder of the guard brought up the rear.

The char was not much better than a handsomely-painted cart. It had no springs, and travelling in it must have been a trying process. But the horses bore superb silken housings, and the very bits were gilt. (Note 2.) Ten strong men in the royal livery walked, five on each side of the char; and their office, which was to keep it upright in the miry tracks—roads they were not—was by no means a sinecure.

The royal lady, seated on a Gothic chair which made the permanent seat of the char, being fixed to it, was one of the most remarkable women who have ever reigned in England. If a passage of Scripture illustrative of the life and character were to be selected to append to the statue of each of our kings and queens, there would be little difficulty in the choice to be made for Eleonore of Aquitaine. “Whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap.” She sowed the wind, and she reaped the whirlwind. A youth of the wildest giddiness was succeeded by a middle life of suffering and hardship, and both ended in an old age of desolation.

But when Eleonore rode in that spring noon-day at the East Gate of Oxford, the reaping-time was not yet. The headstrong giddiness was a little toned down, but the terrible retribution had not begun.

The Queen’s contemporaries are eloquent as to her wondrous loveliness and her marvellous accomplishments. “Beauty possessed both her mind and body,” says one writer who lived in the days of her grandson, while another expatiates on her “clairs et verds yeux,” and a third on her “exquisite mouth, and the most splendid eyes in the world.” Her Majesty was attired with equal stateliness and simplicity, for that was not an era of superb or extravagant dress. A close gown with tight sleeves was surmounted by a pelisse, the sleeves of which were very wide and full, and the fur trimming showed the high rank of the wearer. A long white veil came over her head, and fell around her, kept in its place by a jewelled fillet. The gemmed collar of gold at the neck, and the thick leather gloves (with no partitions for the fingers) heavily embroidered on the back, were also indicative of regal rank.

The Queen’s char stopped just within the gate, so that our friends had an excellent view of her. She greeted the Earl and Countess of Oxford with a genial grace, which she well knew how to assume; gave her hand to be kissed to a small selection of the highest officials, and then the char passed on, and the sight was over.

Isel and her friends turned homewards, not waiting for the after portion of the entertainment. There was to be a bull-baiting in the afternoon on Presthey—Christ Church Meadow—and a magnificent bonfire at night in Gloucester Meadows—Jericho; but these enjoyments they left to the boys. There would be plenty of women, however, at the bull-baiting; as many as at a Spanishcorrida. The idea of its being a cruel pastime, or even of cruelty being at all objectionable or demoralising, with very few exceptions, had not then dawned on the minds of men.

They returned by the meadows outside the city, entering at the South Gate. As they came up Fish Street, they could see Countess on a low seat at her father’s door, with little Rudolph on her knee, both parties looking very well content with their position. On their reaching the corner, she rose and came to meet them.

“Here is the baby,” she said, smiling rather sadly. “See, I have not done him any harm! And it has done me good. You will let me have him again some day?—some time when you all want to go out, and it will be a convenience to you. Farewell, my pretty bird!”

And she held out the boy to Agnes. Little Rudolph had shown signs of pleasure at the sight of his mother; but it soon appeared that he was not pleased by any means at the prospect of parting with his new friend. Countess had kept him well amused, and he had no inclination to see an abrupt end put to his amusement. He struggled and at last screamed his disapprobation, until it became necessary for Gerhardt to interfere, and show the young gentleman decidedly that he must not always expect to have his own way.

“I t’ank you”—Agnes began to say, in her best English, which was still imperfect, though Ermine spoke it fluently now. But Countess stopped her, rather to her surprise, by a few hurried words in her own tongue.

“Do not thank me,” she said, with a flash of the black eyes. “It is I who should thank you.”

And running quickly across Fish Street, the Jewish maiden disappeared inside her father’s door.

All European nations at that date disliked and despised the hapless sons of Israel: but the little company to whom Gerhardt and Agnes belonged were perhaps a shade less averse to them than others. They were to some extent companions in misfortune, being themselves equally despised and detested by many; and they were much too familiar with the Word of God not to recognise that His blessing still rested on the seed of Abraham His friend, hidden “for a little moment” by a cloud, but one day to burst into a refulgence of heavenly sunlight. When, therefore, Flemild asked Ermine, as they were laying aside their out-door garb—“Don’t you hate those horrid creatures?” it was not surprising that Ermine paused before replying.

“Don’t you?” repeated Flemild.

“No,” said Ermine, “I do not think I do.”

“Don’tyou?” echoed Flemild for the third time, and with emphasis. “Why, Ermine, they crucified our Lord.”

“So did you and I, Flemild; and He bids us love one another.”

Flemild stood struck with astonishment, her kerchief half off her head.

“I crucified our Lord!” she exclaimed. “Ermine, what can you mean?”

“Sin crucified Him,” said Ermine quietly; “your sins and mine, was it not? If He died not for our sins, we shall have to bear them ourselves. And did He not die for Countess too?”

“I thought He died for those who are in holy Church; and Countess is a wicked heathen Jew.”

“Yes, for holy Church, which means those whom God has chosen out of the world. How can you know that Countess is not some day to be a member of holy Church?”

“Ermine, they are regular wicked people!”

“We are all wicked people, till God renews us by His Holy Spirit.”

“I’m not!” cried Flemild indignantly; “and I don’t believe you are either.”

“Ah, Flemild, that is because you are blind. Sin has darkened our eyes; we cannot see ourselves.”

“Ermine, do you mean to say that you see me a wicked creature like a Jew?”

“By nature, I am as blind as you, Flemild.”

“‘By nature’! What do you mean?Doyou see me so?”

“Flemild, dear friend, what if God sees it?”

Ermine had spoken very softly and tenderly, but Flemild was not in a mood to appreciate the tenderness.

“Well!” she said in a hard tone. “If we are so dreadfully wicked, I wonder you like to associate with us.”

“But if I am equally wicked?” suggested Ermine with a smile.

“I wonder how you can hold such an opinion of yourself. I should not like to think myself so bad. I could not bear it.”

Flemild entertained the curious opinion—it is astonishing how many people unwittingly hold it—that a fact becomes annihilated by a man shutting his eyes to it. Ermine regarded her with a look of slight amusement.

“What difference would it make if I did not think so?” she asked.

Flemild laughed, only then realising the absurdity of her own remark. It augured well for her good sense that she could recognise the absurdity when it was pointed out to her.

Coming down the ladder, they found Anania seated below.

“Well, girls! did you see the Queen?”

“Oh, we had a charming view of her,” said Flemild.

“Folks say she’s not so charming, seen a bit nearer. You know Veka, the wife of Chembel? She told me she’d heard Dame Ediva de Gathacra say the Queen’s a perfect fury when she has her back up. Some of the scenes that are to be seen by nows and thens in Westminster Palace are enough to set your hair on end. And her extravagance! Will you believe it, Dame Ediva said, this last year she gave over twenty pounds for one robe. How many gowns would that buy you and me, Aunt Isel?”

At the present value of money, Her Majesty’s robe cost rather more than 500.

“Bless you, I don’t know,” was Isel’s answer. “Might be worth cracking my head over, if I were to have one of ’em when I’d done. But there’s poor chance of that, I reckon; so I’ll let it be.”

“They say she sings superbly,” said Flemild.

“Oh, very like. Folks may well sing that can afford to give twenty pound for a gown. If she’d her living to earn, and couldn’t put a bit of bread in her mouth, nor in her children’s, till she’d worked for it, she’d sing o’ t’other side her mouth, most likely.”

“Anania, don’t talk so unseemly. I’m sure you’ve a good enough place.”

“Oh, are you? I dress in samite, like the Queen, don’t I?—and eat sturgeon and peacocks to my dinner?—and drive of a gilt char when I come to see folks? I should just like to know why she must have all the good things in life, and I must put up with the hard ones? I’m as good a woman as she is, I’m sure of that.”

“Cousin Anania,” said Derette in a scandalised tone, “you should not tell us you’re a good woman; you should wait till we tell you.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me?” snapped Anania.

“Ididn’t tell you so because I don’t think so,” replied Derette with severity, “if you say such things of the Queen.”

“Much anybody cares what you think, child. Why, just look!—tuns and tuns of Gascon wine are sent to Woodstock for her: and here must I make shift with small ale and thin mead that’s half sour. She’s only to ask and have.”

“Well, I don’t know,” said Isel. “I wouldn’t give my quiet home for a sup of Gascon wine—more by reason I don’t like it. ‘Scenes at Westminster Palace’ are not things I covet. My poor Manning was peaceable enough, and took a many steps to save me, and I doubt if King Henry does even to it. Eh dear! if I did but know what had come of my poor man! I should have thought all them Saracens ’d have been dead and buried by now, when you think what lots of folks has gone off to kill ’em. And as to ‘asking and having’—well, that hangs on what you ask for. There’s a many folks asks for the moon, but I never heard tell as any of ’em had it.”

“Why do folks go to kill the Saracens?” demanded Derette, still unsatisfied on that point.

“Saints know!” said her mother, using her favourite comfortable expletive. “I wishhehadn’t ha’ gone—I do so!”

“It’s a good work, child,” explained Anania.

“Wouldn’t it have been a good work for Father to stay at home, and save steps for Mother?”

“I think it would, my child,” said Gerhardt; “but God knoweth best, and He let thy father go. Sometimes what seems to us the best work is not the work God has appointed for us.”

Had Gerhardt wished to drive away Anania, he could not have taken a surer method than by words which savoured of piety. She resembled a good many people in the present day, who find the Bread of Life very dry eating, and if they must swallow a little of it, can only be persuaded to do so by a thick coating of worldly butter. They may be coaxed to visit the church where the finest anthem is sung, but that where the purest Gospel is preached has no attraction for them. The porter’s wife, therefore, suddenly discovered that she had plenty to do at home, and took her departure, much to the relief of the friends on whom she inflicted herself. She had not been gone many minutes when Stephen looked in.

“Lads not come in yet?” said he. “Well, have you seen the grand sight? The Queen’s gone again; she only stayed for supper at the Castle, and then off to Woodstock. She’ll not be there above a month, they say. She never tarries long in England at once. But the King’s coming back this autumn—so they say.”

“Who say?” asked Gerhardt.

“Oh, every body,” said Stephen with a laugh, as he leaned over the half-door.

“Everybody?” inquired Gerhardt drily.

“Oh, come, you drive things too fine for me. Every body, that is anybody.”

“I thought every body was somebody.”

“Not in this country: maybe in yours,” responded Stephen, still laughing. “But I’m forgetting what I came for. Aunt Isel, do you want either a sheep or a pig?”

“Have you got ’em in that wallet on your back?”

“Not at present, but I can bring you either if you want it.”

“What’s the price, and who’s selling them?”

“Our neighbour Veka wants to sell three or four bacon pigs and half-a-dozen young porkers; Martin le bon Fermier, brother of Henry the Mason, has a couple of hundred sheep to sell.”

“But what’s the cost? Veka’s none so cheap to deal with, though she feeds her pigs well, I know.”

“Well, she wants two shillings a-piece for the bacons, and four for the six porkers.”

“Ay, I knew she’d clap the money on! No, thank you; I’m not made of gold marks, nor silver pennies neither.”

“Well, but the sheep are cheap enough; he only asks twopence halfpenny each.”

“That’s not out of the way. We might salt one or two. I’ll think about it. Not in a hurry to a day or two, is he?”

“Oh, no; I shouldn’t think so.”

“Has he any flour or beans to sell, think you? I could do with both those, if they were reasonable.”

“Ay, he has. Beans a shilling a quarter, and flour fourteen pence a load. (Note 3.) Very good flour, he says it is.”

“Should be, at that price. Well, I’ll see: maybe I shall walk over one of these days and chaffer with him. Any way, I’m obliged to you, Stephen, for letting me know of it.”

“Very good, Aunt Isel; Martin will be glad to see you, and I’ll give Bretta a hint to be at home when you come, if you’ll let me know the day before.”

This was a mischievous suggestion on Stephen’s part, as he well knew that Martin’s wife was not much to his aunt’s liking.

“Don’t, for mercy’s sake!” cried Isel. “She’s a tongue as long as a yard measure, and there isn’t a scrap of gossip for ten miles on every side of her that she doesn’t hand on to the first comer. She’d know all I had on afore I’d been there one Paternoster, and every body else ’d know it too, afore the day was out.”

The space of time required to repeat the Lord’s Prayer—of course as fast as possible—was a measure in common use at that day.

“Best put on your holiday clothes, then,” said Stephen with a laugh, and whistling for his dog, which was engaged in the pointing of Countess’s kitten, he turned down Fish Street on his way to the East Gate.

Stephen’s progress was arrested, as he came to the end of Kepeharme Lane, by a long and picturesque procession which issued from the western door of Saint Frideswide. Eight priests, fully robed, bore under a canopy the beautifully-carved coffer which held the venerated body of the royal saint, and they were accompanied by the officials of the Cathedral, the choir chanting a litany, and a long string of nuns bringing up the rear. Saint Frideswide was on her way to the bedside of a paralysed rich man, who had paid an immense sum for her visit, in the hope that he might be restored to the use of his faculties by a touch of her miracle-working relics. As the procession passed up the street, a door opened in the Jewry, and out came a young Jew named Dieulecresse (Note 4), who at once set himself to make fun of Saint Frideswide. Limping up the street as though he could scarcely stir, he suddenly drew himself erect and walked down with a free step; clenching his hands as if they were rigid, he then flung his arms open and worked his fingers rapidly.

“O ye men of Oxford, bring me your oblations!” he cried. “See ye not that I am a doer of wonders, like your saint, and that my miracles are quite as good and real as hers?”

The procession passed on, taking no notice of the mockery. But when, the next day, it was known that Dieulecresse had committed suicide in the night, the priests did not spare the publication of the fact, with the comment that Saint Frideswide had taken vengeance on her enemy, and that her honour was fully vindicated from his aspersions.

“Ah!” said Gerhardt softly, “‘those eighteen, on whom the tower in Siloam fell!’ How ready men are to account them sinners above all men that dwell in Jerusalem! Yet it may be that they who thus judge are the worse sinners of the two, in God’s eyes, however high they stand in the world’s sight.”

“Well, I don’t set up to be better than other folks,” said Stephen lightly. He had brought the news. “I reckon I shall pass muster, if I’m as good.”

“That would not satisfy me,” said Gerhardt. “I should want to be as good as I could be. I could not pass beyond that. But even then—”

“That’s too much trouble for me,” laughed Stephen. “When you’ve done your work, hand me over the goodness you don’t want.”

“I shall not have any, for it won’t be enough.”

“That’s a poor lookout!”

“It would be, if I had to rely on my own goodness.”

Stephen stared. “Why, whose goodness are you going to rely on?”

Gerhardt lifted his cap. “‘There is none good but One,—that is, God.’”

“I reckon that’s aiming a bit too high,” said Stephen, with a shake of his head. “Can’t tell how you’re going to get hold of that.”

“Nor could I, unless the Lord had first laid hold of me. ‘Hehath covered me with the robe of righteousness’—I do not put it on myself.”

Gerhardt never made long speeches on religious topics. He said what he had to say, generally, in one pithy sentence, and then left it to carry its own weight.

“I say, Gerard, I’ve wondered more than once—”

“Well, Stephen?”

“No offence, friend?”

“Certainly not: pray say all you wish.”

“Whether you were an unfrocked priest.”

“No, I assure you.”

“Can’t tell how you come by all your notions!” said Stephen, scratching his head.

“Notions of all kinds have but two sources,” was the reply: “the Word of God, and the corruption of man’s heart.”

“Come, now, that won’t do!” objected Stephen. “You’ve built your door a mile too narrow. I’ve a notion that grass is green, and another that my new boots don’t fit me: whence come they?”

“The first,” said Gerhardt drily, “from the Gospel of Saint Mark; the second from the Fourteenth Psalm.”

“The Fourteenth Psalm makes mention of my boots!”

“Not in detail. It saith, ‘There is none that doeth good,—no, not one.’”

“What on earth has that to do with it?”

“This: that if sin had never entered the world, both fraud and suffering would have tarried outside with it.”

“Well, I always did reckon Father Adam a sorry fellow, that he had no more sense than to give in to his wife.”

“I rather think he gave in to his own inclination, at least as much. If he had not wanted to taste the apple, she might have coaxed till now.”

“Hold hard there, man! You are taking the woman’s side.”

“I thought I was taking the side of truth. If that be not one’s own, it is quite as well to find it out.”

Stephen laughed as he turned away from the door of the Walnut Tree.

“You’re too good for me,” said he. “I’ll go home before I’m infected with the complaint.”

“I’d stop and take it if I were you,” retorted Isel. “You’re off the better end, I’ll admit, but you’d do with a bit more, may be.”

“I’ll leave it for you, Aunt Isel,” said Stephen mischievously. “One shouldn’t want all the good things for one’s self, you know.”

The Queen did not remain for even a month at Woodstock. In less than three weeks she returned to London, this time without passing through Oxford, and took her journey to Harfleur, the passage across the Channel costing the usual price of 7 pounds, 10 shillings equivalent in modern times to 187 pounds, 10 shillings.

Travelling seems to have been an appalling item of expense at that time. The carriage of fish from Yarmouth to London cost 9 shillings (11 pounds, 5 shillings); of hay from London to Woodstock, 60 shillings (75 pounds); and of the Queen’s robes from Winchester to Oxford, 8 shillings (10 pounds). Yet the Royal Family were perpetually journeying; the hams were fetched from Yorkshire, the cheeses from Wiltshire, and the pearmain apples from Kent. Exeter was famous for metal and corn; Worcester and London for wheat; Winchester for wine—there were vineyards in England then; Hertford for cattle, and Salisbury for game; York for wood; while the speciality of Oxford was knives.

An old Jew, writing to a younger some thirty years later, in the reign of Henry Second, and giving him warning as to what he would find in the chief towns of southern England, thus describes such as he had visited: “London much displeases me; Canterbury is a collection of lost souls and idle pilgrims; Rochester and Chichester are but small villages; Oxford scarcely (I say not satisfies, but) sustains its clerks; Exeter refreshes men and beasts with corn; Bath, in a thick air and sulphurous vapour, lies at the gates of Gehenna!”

But if travelling were far more costly than in these days, there were much fewer objects on which money could be squandered. Chairs were almost as scarce as thrones, being used for little else, and chimneys were not more common. (Note 5.) Diamonds were unknown; lace, velvet, and satin had no existence, samite and silk being the costly fabrics; and the regal ermine is not mentioned. Dress, as has been said, was not extravagant, save in the item of jewellery, or of very costly embroidery; cookery was much simpler than a hundred years later. Plate, it is true, was rich and expensive, but it was only in the hands of the nobles and church dignitaries. On the other hand, fines were among the commonest things in existence. Not only had every breach of law its appropriate fine, but breaches of etiquette were expiated in a similar manner. False news was hardly treated: 13 shillings 4 pence was exacted for that (Pipe Roll, 12 Henry Third) and perjury (Ibidem, 16 ib) alike, while wounding an uncle cost a sovereign, and a priest might be slain for the easy price of 4 shillings 9 pence (Ibidem, 27 ib). The Prior of Newburgh was charged three marks for excess of state; and poor Stephen de Mereflet had to pay 26 shillings 8 pence for “making a stupid reply to the King’s Treasurer”! (Pipe Roll, 16 Henry Third) It was reserved for King John to carry this exaction to a ridiculous excess, by taking bribes to hold his tongue on inconvenient topics, and fining his courtiers for not having reminded him of points which he happened to forget. (Misae Roll, I John.)

Note 1. A long undergarment then worn by men and women alike.

Note 2. “For gilding the King’s bit (frenum), 56 shillings.” (Pipe Roll, 31 Henry First.)

Note 3. Reckoned according to modern value, these prices stand about thus:—Bacon pig, 2 pounds, 10 shillings; porkers, 5 pounds; sheep, 5 shillings 3 pence; quarter of beans, 25 shillings; load of flour, 30 shillings.

Note 4. “Dieu L’encroisse,” a translation of Gedaliah, and a very common name among the English Jews at that time. This incident really occurred about twenty-five years later.

Note 5. Some writers deny the existence of chimneys at this date; but an entry, on the Pipe Roll for 1160, of money expended on “the Queen’s chamber and chimney and cellar,” leaves no doubt on the matter.

Chapter Four.The Fair of Saint Frideswide.“That’s what I always say - if you wish a thing to be well done,You must do it yourself, you must not leave it to others.”Longfellow.The month of May was the liveliest and gayest of the year at Oxford, for not only were the May Day games common to the whole country, but another special attraction lay in Saint Frideswide’s Fair, held on Gloucester Green early in that month. Oxford was a privileged town, in respect of the provision trade, the royal purveyors being forbidden to come within twenty miles of that city. In those good old times, the King was first served, then the nobility, lay and clerical, then the gentry, and the poor had to be content with what was left. It was not unusual, when a report of anything particularly nice reached the monarch—such as an import of wine, a haul of fish, or any other dainty,—for the Sheriff of that place to receive a mandate, bidding him seize for the royal use a portion or the whole thereof. Prices, too, were often regulated by proclamation, so that tradesmen not unfrequently found it hard to live. If a few of our discontented and idle agitators (I do not mean those who would work and cannot) could spend a month or two in the olden time, their next speeches on Tower Hill might be somewhat differently flavoured.Saint Frideswide’s Fair was a sight to see. For several days before it was held, a multitude of carpenters were employed in putting up wooden booths and stalls, and Gloucester Green became a very lively place. Fairs in the present day, when they are held at all, are very different exhibitions from what they were seven hundred years ago. The stalls then were practically shops, fully stocked with goods of solid value. There was a butcher’s row, a baker’s row, a silversmith’s row, and a mercer’s row—ironmongers, saddlers, shoemakers, vintners, coopers, pelters (furriers), potters, hosiers, fishmongers, and cooks (confectioners)—all had their several streets of stalls. The Green—larger than now—became a town within a town. As the fair was held by licence of Saint Frideswide, and was under her especial protection, the Canons of that church exacted certain dues both from the Crown and the stall-holders, which were duly paid. From the Crown they received 25 shillings per annum. It was deemed a point of honour to keep the best of everything for the fair; and those buyers who wished to obtain good value for their money put off their purchases when it grew near fair time. When the third of May came, they all turned out in holiday costume to lay in necessaries, so far as possible, for the year—meat excepted, which could be purchased again at the cattle fair in the following September.There was one serious inconvenience in shopping at that time, of which we know nothing at the present day. With the exception of the penny and still smaller coins (all silver) there was no money. The pound, though it appears on paper, was not a coin, but simply a pound weight of pence; the mark was two-thirds, and the noble (if used so early) one-third of that amount. When a woman went out to buy articles of any value, she required to carry with her an enormous weight of small silver cash. Purses were not therefore the toys we use, but large bags of heavy leather, attached to the girdle on the left side; and the aim of a pickpocket was to cut the leather bag away from its metal fastening—hence the termcut-purse.Every woman in Kepeharme Lane—and it might be added, in Oxford—appeared in the street with a basket on her arm as soon as daylight had well dawned. The men went at their own time and convenience. For many of them a visit to the fair was merely amusement; but the ladies were on business. Even Derette followed her mother, armed with a smaller basket than the rest. Little Rudolph was left with Countess, who preferred him to the fair; and such is the power of habit that our friends had now become quite accustomed to this, and would give a nod and a smile to Countess when they met, just as they did to any other neighbour. This does not mean that they entertained an atom less of prejudice against Jews in general; they had merely got over their prejudice in the case of that one Jewish girl in particular.Isel’s business was heavy enough. She wanted a pig, half an ox, twenty ells of dark blue cloth, a cloak for herself and capes for her daughters, thirty pairs of slippers—a very moderate allowance for three women, for slippers were laid in by the dozen pairs in common—fifty cheeses (an equally moderate reckoning) (Note 1), a load of flour, another of oatmeal, two quarters of cabbage for salting, six bushels of beans, five hundred herrings, a barrel of ale, two woollen rugs for bedclothes, a wooden coffer, and a hundred nails. She had already bought and salted two sheep from Martin, so mutton was not needed.“Now, Agnes, what do you want?” she asked.Agnes, who was following with another basket, replied that she wanted some stuff for a dress, some flannel for Rudolph, and a few pairs of shoes. Shoes must have worn only a very short time, considering the enormous quantity of them usually bought at once.“And you, Ermine?”“Nothing but a hood, Mother Isel.”“You’re easily satisfied. Well, I’ll go first after my pig.”They turned into the Butcher’s Row, where in a minute they could scarcely hear each other speak. The whole air seemed vocal with grunts, lowing, and bleating, and, the poulterers’ booths lying close behind, crowing and cackling also.“How much for a good bacon pig?” screamed Isel to a fat butcher, who was polishing a knife upon a wooden block.“Hertford kids? I have none.”“Bacon pig!” screamed Isel a little louder.“Oh! Well, look you, there’s a nice one—twenty pence; there’s a rare fine one—twenty-two; there’s a—”“Bless thee, man! dost thou think I’m made of money?”“Shouldn’t wonder if you’d a pot laid by somewhere,” said the butcher with a knowing wink. He was an old acquaintance.“Well, I haven’t, then: and what’s more, I’ve plenty to do with the few marks I have. Come now, I’ll give you sixteen pence for that biggest fellow.”The butcher intimated, half in a shout and half by pantomime, that he could not think of such a thing.“Well, eighteen, then.”The butcher shook his head.“Nineteen! Now, that’s as high as I’ll go.”“Not that one,” shouted the butcher; “I’ll take nineteen for the other.”Isel had to execute a gymnastic feat before she could answer, to save herself from the horns of an inquisitive cow which was being driven up the row; while a fat pig on the other side was driving Flemild nearly out of the row altogether.“Well! I’ll agree to that,” said Isel, when she had settled with the cow.A similar process having been gone through for the half ox, for which Isel had to pay seventeen pence (Salted cow was much cheaper, being only 2 shillings each.)—a shameful price, as she assured her companions—the ladies next made their way to Drapers’ Row. The draper, then and for some centuries later, was the manufacturer of cloth, not the retail dealer only: but he sold retail as well as wholesale. Isel found some cloth to her mind, but the price was not to her mind at all, being eighteen pence per ell.“Gramercy, man! wouldst thou ruin me?” she demanded.A second battle followed with the draper, from which Isel this time emerged victorious, having paid only 1 shilling 5 pence per ell. They then went to the clothier’s, where she secured a cloak for a mark (13 shillings 4 pence) and capes for the girls at 6 shillings 8 pence each. At the shoemaker’s she laid in her slippers for 6 pence per pair, with three pairs of boots at a shilling. The cheeses were dear, being a halfpenny each; the load of flour cost 14 pence, and of meal 2 shillings; the beans were 1 shilling 8 pence, the cabbage 1 shilling 2 pence, the herrings 2 shillings. The coffer came to 5 shillings, the nails to 2 shillings 4 pence. (Note 2.) Isel looked ruefully at her purse.“We must brew at home,” she said, easily dismissing that item; “but how shall I do for the rugs?”Rugs were costly articles. There was no woollen manufacture in England, nor was there to be such for another hundred years. A thick, serviceable coverlet, such as Isel desired, was not to be bought much under two pounds.“We must do without them,” she said, with a shake of her head. “Girls, you’ll have to spread your cloaks on the bed. We must eat, but we needn’t lie warm if we can’t afford it.”“Isel, have you de one pound? Look, here is one,” said Agnes timidly, holding out her hand.“But you want that, my dear.”“No, I can do widout. I will de gown up-mend dat I have now. Take you de money; I have left for de shoes and flannel.”She did not add that the flannel would have to be cut down, as well as the new dress resigned.“And I can do very well without a hood,” added Ermine quickly. “We must help Mother Isel all we can.”“My dears, I don’t half like taking it.”“We have taken more from you,” said Ermine.Thus urged, Isel somewhat reluctantly took the money, and bought one rug, for which she beat down the clothier to two marks and a half, and departed triumphant, this being her best bargain for the day. It was then in England, as it yet is in Eastern lands, an understood thing that all tradesmen asked extortionate prices, and must be offered less as a matter of course: a fact which helps to the comprehension of the Waldensian objection to trade as involving falsehood.Isel returned to Agnes the change which remained out of her pound, which enabled her to get all the flannel she needed. Their baskets being now well filled, Isel and her party turned homewards, sauntering slowly through the fair, partly because the crowd prevented straightforward walking, but partly also because they wished to see as much as they could. Haimet was to bring a hand-cart for the meat and other heavy purchases at a later hour.Derette, who for safety’s sake was foremost of the girls, directly following her mother and Agnes, trudged along with her basket full of slippers, and her head full of profound meditation. Had Isel known the nature of those meditations, she certainly would never have lingered at the silversmiths’ stalls in a comfortable frame of mind, pointing out to her companions various pretty things which took her fancy. But she had not the remotest idea of her youngest daughter’s private thoughts, and she turned away from Gloucester Green at last, quite ignorant of the fashion wherein her feelings of all sorts were about to be outraged.Derette was determined to obtain a dress for Agnes. She had silently watched the kindly manner in which the good-natured German gave up the thing she really needed: for poor Agnes had but the one dress she wore, and Derette well knew that no amount of mending would carry it through another winter. But how was a penniless child to procure another for her? If Derette had not been a young person of original ideas and very independent spirit, the audacious notion which she was now entertaining would never have visited her mind.This was no less than a visit to the Castle, to beg one of the cast-off gowns of the women of the household. Dresses wore long in the Middle Ages, and ladies of rank were accustomed to make presents of half-worn ones to each other. Derette was not quite so presumptuous as to think of addressing the Countess—that, even in her eyes, seemed a preposterous impossibility; but surely one of her waiting-women might be reached. How was she to accomplish her purpose?That she must slip away unseen was the first step to be taken. Her mother would never dream of allowing such an errand, as Derette well knew; but she comforted herself, as others have done beside her, with the reflection that the excellence of her motive quite compensated for the unsatisfactory details of her conduct. Wedged as she was in the midst of the family group, and encumbered with her basket, she could not hope to get away before they reached home; but she thought she saw her chance directly afterwards, when the baskets should have been discharged of their contents, and every body was busy inspecting, talking about, and putting away, the various purchases that had been made.Young girls were never permitted to go out alone at that time. It was considered less dangerous in town than country, and a mere run into a neighbouring house might possibly have been allowed; but usually, when not accompanied by some responsible person, they were sent in groups of three or four at once. Derette’s journey must be taken alone, and it involved a few yards of Milk Street, as far as Saint Ebbe’s, then a run to Castle Street and up to the Castle. That was the best way, for it was both the shortest and comparatively the quietest. But Derette determined not to go in at the entrance gate, where she would meet Osbert and probably Anania, but to make for the Osney Gate to the left, where she hoped to fall into the kindlier hands of her cousin Stephen. The danger underlying this item was that Stephen might have gone to the fair, in which case she would have to encounter either the rough joking of Orme, or the rough crustiness of Wandregisil, his fellow-watchmen. That must be risked. The opportunity had to be bought, and Derette made up her mind to pay the necessary price.The Walnut Tree was reached, the baskets laid down, and while Agnes was divesting herself of her cloak, and Isel reiterating her frequent assertion that she was “that tired,” Derette snatched her chance, and every body’s back being turned for the moment, slipped out of the door, and sped up Kepeharme Lane with the speed of a fawn. Her heart beat wildly, and until she reached Milk Street, she expected every instant to be followed and taken back. If she could only get her work done, she told herself, the scolding and probable whipping to follow would be easily borne.Owing to its peculiar municipal laws, throughout the Middle Ages, Oxford had the proud distinction of being the cleanest city in England. That is to say, it was not quite so appallingly smothered in mire and filth as others were. Down the midst of every narrow street ran a gutter, which after rain was apt to become a brook, and into which dirt of every sort was emptied by every householder. There were no causeways; and there were frequent holes of uncertain depth, filled with thick mud. Ownerless dogs, and owned but equally free-spoken pigs, roamed the streets at their own sweet will, and were not wont to make way for the human passengers; while if a cart were met in the narrow street, it was necessary for the pedestrian to squeeze himself into the smallest compass possible against the wall, if he wished to preserve his limbs in good working order. Such were the delights of taking a walk in the good old times. It may reasonably be surmised that unnecessary walks were not frequently taken.Kepeharme Lane left behind, where the topography of the holes was tolerably familiar, Derette had to walk more guardedly. After getting pretty well splashed, and dodging a too attentive pig which was intent on charging her for venturing on his beat, Derette at last found herself at the Osney Gate. She felt now that half her task was over.“Who goes there?” demanded the welcome voice of Stephen, when Derette rapped at the gate.“It’s me, Stephen,—Derette: do let me in.”The gate stood open in a moment, and Stephen’s pleasant face appeared behind it, with a look of something like consternation thereon.“Derette!—alone!—whatever is the matter?”“Nothing, Stephen; oh, nothing’s the matter. I only came alone because I knew Mother wouldn’t let me if I asked her.”“Hoity-toity!—that’s a nice confession, young woman! And pray what are you after, now you have come?”“Stephen—dear, good Stephen, will you do me a favour?”“Hold off, you coaxing sinner!”“Oh, but I want it so much! You see, she gave it up because Mother wanted a rug, and she let her have the money—and I know it won’t mend up to wear any thing like through the winter—and I do want so to get her another—a nice soft one, that will be comfortable, and—You’ll help me, won’t you, Steenie?”And Derette’s small arms came coaxingly round her cousin’s wrist.“I’m a heathen Jew if I have the shadow of a notion what I’m wanted to help! ‘A nice soft one!’ Is it a kitten, or a bed-quilt, or a sack of meal, you’re after?”“O Stephen!—what queer things you guess! It’s a gown—.”“I don’t keep gowns, young woman.”“No, but, Steenie, you might help me to get at somebody that does. One of the Lady’s women, you know. I’m sure you could, if you would.”Steenie whistled. “Well, upon my word!You’llnot lose cakes for want of asking for. Why don’t you go to Anania?”“You know she’d only be cross.”“How do you know I sha’n’t be cross?” asked Stephen, knitting his brows, and pouting out his lips, till he looked formidable.“Oh, because you never are. You’ll only laugh at me, and you won’t do that in an ugly way like some people. Now, Steenie, youwillhelp me to get a gown for Agnes?”“Agnes, is it? I thought you meant Flemild.”“No, it’s Agnes; and Ermine gave up her hood to help: but Agnes wants the gown worse than Ermine does a hood. You like them, you know, Steenie.”“Who told you that, my Lady Impertinence? Dear, dear, what pests these children are!”“Now, Stephen, you know you don’t think any thing of the sort, and you are going to help me this minute.”“How am I to help, I should like to know? I can’t leave my gate.”“You can call somebody. Now do, Steenie, there’s a darling cousin!—and I’ll ask Mother to make you some of those little pies you like so much. I will, really.”“You outrageous wheedler! I suppose I shall have no peace till I get rid of you.—Henry!”A lad of about twelve years old, who was crossing the court-yard at the other side, turned and came up at the call.“Will you take this maid in, and get her speech of Cumina? She’s very good-natured, and if you tell her your story, Derette, I shouldn’t wonder if she helps you.”“Oh, thank you, Steenie, so much!”Derette followed Henry, who made faces at her, but gave her no further annoyance, into the servants’ offices at the Castle, where he turned her unceremoniously over to the first person he met—a cook in a white cap and apron—with the short and not too civil information that—“She wants Cumina.”The cook glanced carelessly at Derette.“Go straight along the passage, and up the stairs to the left,” he said, and then went on about his own business.Never before had Derette seen a house which contained above four rooms at the utmost. She felt in utter confusion amid stairs, doors, and corridors. But she managed to find the winding staircase at the end of the passage, and to mount it, wishing much that so convenient a mode of access could replace the ladder in her mother’s house. She went up till she could go no further, when she found herself on the top landing of a round tower, without a human creature to be seen. There were two doors, however; and after rapping vainly at both, she ventured to open one. It led to the leads of the tower. Derette closed this, and tried the other. She found it to open on a dark fathomless abyss,—the Castle well (Note 3), had she known it—and shut it quickly with a sensation of horror. After a moment’s reflection, she went down stairs to the next landing.Here there were four doors, and from one came the welcome sound of human voices. Derette rapped timidly on this. It was opened by a girl about the age of Flemild.“Please,” said Derette, “I was to ask for Cumina.”“Oh, you must go to the still-room,” answered the girl, and would have shut the door without further parley, had not Derette intercepted her with a request to be shown where the still-room was.With an impatient gesture, the girl came out, led Derette a little way along the corridor running from the tower, and pointed to a door on the left hand.Derette’s hopes rose again. She was one of those persons whom delays and difficulties do not weary out or render timid, but rather inspire to fresh and stronger action.“Well, what do you want?” asked the pleasant-faced young woman who answered Derette’s rap. “Please, is there somebody here called Cumina?”“I rather think there is,” was the smiling answer. “Is it you?”“Ay. Come in, and say what you wish.” Derette obeyed, and poured out her story, rather more lucidly than she had done to Stephen. Cumina listened with a smile.“Well, my dear, I would give you a gown for your friend if I had it,” she said good-humouredly; “but I have just sent the only one I can spare to my mother. I wonder who there is, now—Are you afraid of folks that speak crossly?”“No,” said Derette. “I only want to shake them.” Cumina laughed. “You’ll do!” she said. “Come, then, I’ll take you to Hagena. She’s not very pleasant-spoken, but if any body can help you, she can. The only doubt is whether she will.”Derette followed Cumina through what seemed to her endless corridors opening into further and further corridors, till at last she asked in a tone of astonishment—“How can you ever find your way?”“Oh, you learn to do that very soon,” said Cumina, laughing, as she opened the door of a long, low chamber. “Now, you must tread softly here, and speak very respectfully.”Derette nodded acquiescence, and they went in.The room was lined with presses from floor to ceiling. On benches which stood back to back in its midst, several lengths of rich silken stuffs were spread out; and on other benches near the windows sat two or three girls busily at work. Several elder ladies were moving about the room, and one of them, a rather stout, hard-featured woman, was examining the girls’ work. Cumina went up to her.“If you please, Hagena,” she said, “is there any where an old gown which it would please you to bestow on this girl, who has asked the boon?”Hagena straightened herself up and looked at Derette.“Is she the child of one of my Lord’s tenants?”“No,” answered Derette. “My mother’s house is her own.”“Well, if ever I heard such assurance! Perchance, Madam, you would like a golden necklace to go with it?”If Derette had not been on her good behaviour, Hagena would have received as much as she gave. But knowing that her only chance of success lay in civil and submissive manners, she shut her lips tight and made no answer.“Who sent you?” pursued Hagena, who was the Countess’s mistress of the household, and next in authority to her.“Nobody. I came of myself.”“Ha, chétife! I do wonder what the world’s coming to! The impudence of the creature! How on earth did she get in? Just get out again as fast as you can, and come on such an errand again if you dare! Be off with you!”Derette’s voice trembled, but not with fear, as she turned back to Cumina. To Hagena she vouchsafed no further word.“I did not know I was offending any body,” she said, in a manner not devoid of childish dignity. “I was trying to do a little bit of good. I think, if you please, I had better go home.”Derette’s speech infuriated Hagena. The child had kept her manners and her dignity too, under some provocation, while the mistress of the household was conscious that she had lost hers.“How dare—” she was beginning, when another voice made her stop suddenly.“What has the child been doing? I wish to speak with her.”Cumina hastily stopped Derette from leaving the room, and led her up to the lady who had spoken and who had only just entered.“What is it, my little maid?” she said kindly.“I beg your pardon,” said the child. She was but a child, and her brave heart was failing her. Derette was very near tears. “I did not mean any harm. Somebody had given up having a new gown—and she wanted it very much—to let somebody else have the money; and I thought, if I could beg one for her—but I did not mean to be rude. Please let me go home.”“Thou shalt go home, little one,” answered the lady; “but wait a moment. Does any one know the child?”Nobody knew her.“Stephen the Watchdog knows me,” said Derette, drawing a long breath. “He is my cousin. So is Osbert the porter.”The lady put her arm round Derette.“What sort of a gown wouldst thou have, my child?”Derette’s eyes lighted up. Was she really to succeed after all?“A nice one, please,” she said, simply, making every one smile except Hagena, who was still too angry for amusement. “Not smart nor grand, you know, but warm and soft. Something woollen, I suppose, it should be.”The lady addressed herself to Hagena.“Have I any good woollen robe by the walls?”When a dress was done with, if the materials were worth using for something else, it was taken to pieces; if not, it was hung up “by the walls,” ready to give away when needed.Hagena had some difficulty in answering properly.“No, Lady; the last was given to Veka, a fortnight since.”“Then,” was the quiet answer, which surprised all present, “it must be one of those I am wearing. Let Cumina and Dora bring such as I have.”Derette looked up into the face of her new friend.“Please, are you the Lady Countess?”“Well, I suppose I am,” replied the Countess with a smile. “Now, little maid, choose which thou wilt.”Seven woollen gowns were displayed before the Countess and Derette, all nearly new—blue, green, scarlet, tawny, crimson, chocolate, and cream-colour. Derette looked up again to the Countess’s face.“Nay, why dost thou look at me? Take thine own choice.”The Countess was curious to see what the child’s selection would be.“I looked to see which you liked best,” said Derette, “because I wouldn’t like to choose that.”“True courtesy here!” remarked the Countess. “It is nothing to me, my child. Which dost thou like?”“I like that one,” said Derette, touching the crimson, which was a rich, soft, dark shade of the colour, “and I think Agnes would too; but I don’t want to take the best, and I am not sure which it is.”“Fold it up,” said the Countess to Cumina, with a smile to Derette; “let it be well lapped in a kerchief; and bid Wandregisil go to the Osney Gate, so that Stephen can take the child home.”The parcel was folded up, the Countess’s hand kissed with heartfelt thanks, and the delighted Derette, under the care of Cumina, returned to the Osney Gate with her load.“Well, you are a child!” exclaimed Stephen. “So Cumina has really found you a gown? I thought she would, if she had one to give away.”“No,” said Derette, “it is the Countess’s gown.”“And who on earth gave you a gown of the Lady’s?”“Her own self!—and, Stephen, it is of her own wearing; she hadn’t done with it; but she gave it me, and she was so nice!—so much nicer than all the others except Cumina.”“Well, if ever I did!” gasped Stephen. “Derette, you are a terrible child! I never saw your like.”“I don’t know what I’ve done that’s terrible,” replied the child. “I’m sure Agnes won’t think it terrible to have that pretty gown to wear. What is terrible about it, Stephen?”They had left the Castle a few yards behind, were over the drawbridge, and winding down the narrow descent, when a sharp call of “Ste-phen!” brought them to a standstill.“Oh dear, that’s Cousin Anania!” exclaimed Derette. “Let me run on, Stephen, and you go back and see what she wants.”“Nay, I must not do that, child. The Lady sent orders that I was to see you home. You’ll have to go back with me.”“But she’ll worry so! She’ll want to know all about the gown, and then she’ll want it undone, and I’m sure she’ll mess it up—and Cumina folded it so smooth and nice:” urged Derette in a distressed tone.“We won’t let her,” answered Stephen, quietly, as they came to the entrance gate. “Well, what’s up, Anania?”“What’s Derette doing here? Who came with her? Where are you going?—and what’s in that fardel?”“Oh, is that all you’re after? I’ll answer those questions when I come back. I’ve got to take Derette home just now.”“You’ll answer them before you go an inch further, if you please. That child’s always in some mischief, and you aid and abet her a deal too often.”“But I don’t please. I am under orders, Anania, and I can’t stop now.”“At least you’ll tell me what’s in the fardel!” cried Anania, as Stephen turned to go on his way without loosing his hold of the parcel.“A gown which the Lady has given to Derette,” said Stephen mischievously, “and she sent commands that I was to escort her home with it.”“A gown!—the Lady!—Derette!” screamed Anania. “Not one of her own?—why on earth should she give Derette a gown?”“That’s the Lady’s business, not mine.”“Yes, one of her own,” said Derette proudly.“But what on earth for? She hasn’t given me a gown, and I am sure I want it more than that child—and deserve it, too.”“Perhaps you haven’t asked her,” suggested Derette, trotting after Stephen, who was already half-way across the bridge.“Asked her! I should hope not, indeed—I know my place, if you don’t. You never mean to say you asked her?”“I can’t stop to talk, Cousin Anania.”“But which gown is it?—tell me that!” cried Anania, in an agony of disappointed curiosity.“It’s a crimson woollen one. Good morrow.”“What! never that lovely robe she had on yesterday? Saints bless us all!” was the last scream that reached them from Anania.Stephen laughed merrily as Derette came up with him.“We have got clear of the dragon this time,” said he.A few minutes brought them to the Walnut Tree.“Haimet—Oh, it’s Stephen!” cried Isel in a tone of sore distress, as soon as he appeared at the door. “Do, for mercy’s sake—I’m just at my wits’ end to think whatever—Oh, there she is!”“Yes, Mother, I’m here,” said Derette demurely.“Yes, she’s here, and no harm done, but good, I reckon,” added Stephen. “Still, I think it might be as well to look after her a bit, Aunt Isel. If she were to take it into her head to go to London to see the Lady Queen, perhaps you mightn’t fancy it exactly.”“What has she been doing?” asked Isel in consternation.“Only paying a visit to the Countess,” said Stephen, laughing.By this time Derette had undone the knots on the handkerchief, and the crimson robe was revealed in all its beauty.“Agnes,” she said quietly, but with a little undertone of decided triumph, “this is for you. You won’t have to give up your gown, though you did give Mother the money.”A robe, in the Middle Ages, meant more than a single gown, and the crimson woollen was a robe. Under and upper tunics, a mantle, and a corset or warm under-bodice, lay before the eyes of the amazed Agnes.“Derette, you awful child!” exclaimed her mother almost in terror, “what have you been after, and where did you get all that? Why, it’s a new robe, and fit for a queen!”“Don’t scold the child,” said Stephen. “She meant well, and I believe she behaved well; she got more than she asked for, that’s all.”“Please, it isn’t quite new, Mother, because the Lady wore it yesterday; but she said she hadn’t one done with, so she gave me one she was wearing.”Bit by bit the story was told, while Isel held up her hands in horrified astonishment, which she allowed to appear largely, and in inward admiration of Derette’s spirit, of which she tried to prevent the appearance. She was not, however, quite able to effect her purpose.“Meine Kind!” cried Agnes, even more amazed and horrified than Isel. “Dat is not for me. It is too good. I am only poor woman. How shall I such beautiful thing wear?”“But it is for you,” pleaded Derette earnestly, “and you must wear it; because, you see, if you did not, it would seem as if I had spoken falsely to the Lady.”“Ay, I don’t see that you can do aught but take it and wear it,” said Stephen. “Great ladies like ours don’t take their gifts back.”Gerhardt had come in during the discussion.“Nor does the Lord,” he said, “at least not from those who receive them worthily. Take it from Him, dear, with thankfulness to the human instruments whom He has used. He saw thy need, and would not suffer thee to want for obeying His command.”“But is it not too fine, Gerhardt?”“It might be if we had chosen it,” answered Gerhardt with a smile; “but it seems as if the Lord had chosen it for thee, and that settles the matter. It is only the colour, after all.”There was no trimming on the robe, save an edging of grey fur,—not even embroidery: and no other kind of trimming was known at that time. Agnes timidly felt the soft, fine texture.“It is beautiful!” she said.“Oh, it is beautiful enough, in all conscience,” said Isel, “and will last you a life-time, pretty nigh. But as to that dreadful child—”“Now, Mother, you won’t scold me, will you?” said Derette coaxingly, putting her arms round Isel’s neck. “I haven’t done any harm, have I?”“Well, child, I suppose you meant well,” said Isel doubtfully, “and I don’t know but one should look at folks’ intentions more than their deeds, in especial when there’s no ill done; but—”“Oh, come, let’s forgive each other all round!” suggested Stephen. “Won’t that do?”Isel seemed to think it would, for she kissed Derette.“But you must never, never do such a thing again, child, in all the days of your life!” said she.“Thank you, Mother, I don’t want to do it again just now,” answered Derette in a satisfied tone.The afternoon was not over when Anania marched into the Walnut Tree.“Well, Aunt Isel! I hope you are satisfiednow!”“With what, Anania?”“That dreadfully wicked child. Didn’t I tell you? I warned you to look after her. If you only would take good advice when folks take the trouble to give it you!”“Would you be so good as to say what you mean, Anania? I’m not at all satisfied with dreadfully wicked children. I’m very much dissatisfied with them, generally.”“I mean Derette, of course. I hope you whipped her well!”“What for?” asked Isel, in a rather annoyed tone.“‘What for?’” Anania lifted up her hands. “There now!—if I didn’t think she would just go and deceive you! She can’t have told you the truth, of course, or you could never pass it by in that light way.”“If you mean her visit to the Castle,” said Isel in a careless tone, “she told us all about it, of course, when she got back.”“And you take it as coolly as that?”“How did you wish me to take it? The thing is done, and all’s well that ends well. I don’t see that it was so much out of the way, for my part. Derette got no harm, and Agnes has a nice new gown, and nobody the worse. If anybody has a right to complain, it is the Countess; and I can’t see that she has so much, either; for she needn’t have given the robe if she hadn’t liked.”“Oh, she’s no business to grumble; she has lots more of every thing. She could have twenty robes made like that to-morrow, if she wanted them. I wish I’d half as many—I know that!”Agnes came down the ladder at that moment, carrying one of her new tunics, which she had just tried on, and was now going to alter to fit herself.“That’s it, is it?” exclaimed Anania in an interested voice. “I thought it was that one. Well, you are in luck! That’s one of her newest robes, I do believe. Ah, folks that have more money than they know what to do with, can afford to do aught they fancy. But to think of throwing away such a thing as that onyou!”Neither words nor tone were flattering, but the incivility dropped harmless from the silver armour of Agnes’s lowly simplicity.“Oh, but it shall not away be t’rown,” she said gently; “I will dem all up-make, and wear so long as they will togeder hold. I take care of dat, so shall you see!”Anania looked on with envious eyes.“How good lady must de Countess be!” added Agnes.“Oh, she can be good to folks sometimes,” snarled Anania. “She’s just as full of whims as she can be—all those great folks are—proud and stuck-up and crammed full of caprice: but they say she’s kind where shetakes, you know. It just depends whether she takes to you. She never took to me, worse luck! I might have had that good robe, if she had.”“I shouldn’t think she would,” suddenly observed the smallest voice in the company.“What do you mean by that, you impudent child?”“Because, Cousin Anania, I don’t think there’s much in you to take to.”Derette’s prominent feeling at that moment was righteous indignation. She could not bear to hear the gentle, gracious lady, who had treated her with such unexpected kindness, accused of being proud and full of whims, apparently for no better reason than because she had not “taken to” Anania—a state of things which Derette thought most natural and probable. Her sense of justice—and a child’s sense of justice is often painfully keen—was outraged by Anania’s sentiments.“Well, to be sure! How high and mighty we are! That comes of visiting Countesses, I suppose.—Aunt Isel, I told you that child was getting insufferable. There’ll be no bearing her very soon. She’s as stuck-up now as a peacock. Just look at her!”“I don’t see that she looks different from usual,” said Isel, who was mixing the ingredients for a “bag-pudding.”Anania made that slight click with her tongue which conveys the idea of despairing compassion for the pitiable incapacity of somebody to perceive patent facts.Isel went on with her pudding, and offered no further remark.“Well, I suppose I’d better be going,” said Anania—and sat still.Nobody contradicted her, but she made no effort to go, until Osbert stopped at the half-door and looked in.“Oh, you’re there, are you?” he said to his wife. “I don’t know whether you care particularly for those buttons you bought from Veka, but Selis has swallowed two, and—”“Thosebuttons! Graven silver, as I’m a living woman! I’ll shake him while I can stand over him! And only one blessed dozen I had of them, and the price she charged me—The little scoundrel! Couldn’t he have swallowed the common leaden ones?”“Weren’t so attractive, probably,” said Osbert, as Anania hurried away, without any leave-taking, to bestow on her son and heir, aged six, the shaking she had promised.“But de little child, he shall be sick!” said Agnes, looking up from her work with compassionate eyes.“Oh, I dare say it won’t hurt him much,” replied Osbert coolly, “and perhaps it will teach him not to meddle. I wish it might teach his mother to stay at home and look after him, but I’m afraid that’s hopeless. Good morrow!”Little Selis seemed no worse for his feast of buttons, beyond a fit of violent indigestion, which achieved the wonderful feat of keeping Anania at home for nearly a week.“You’ve had a nice quiet time, Aunt Isel,” said Stephen. “Shall I see if I can persuade Selis to take the rest of the dozen?”Life went on quietly—for the twelfth century—in the little house in Kepeharme Street. That means that nobody was murdered or murderously assaulted, the house was not burned down nor burglariously entered, and neither of the boys lost a limb, and was suffered to bleed to death, for interference with the King’s deer. In those good old times, these little accidents were rather frequent, the last more especially, as the awful and calmly-calculated statistics on the Pipe Rolls bear terrible witness.Romund married, and went to live in the house of his bride, who was an heiress to the extent of possessing half-a-dozen houses in Saint Ebbe’s parish. Little Rudolph grew to be seven years old, a fine fearless boy, rather more than his quiet mother knew how to manage, but always amenable to a word from his grave father. The Germans had settled down peaceably in various parts of the country, some as shoemakers, some as tailors, some as weavers, or had hired themselves as day-labourers to farmers, carpenters, or bakers. Several offers of marriage had been made to Ermine, but hitherto, to the surprise of her friends, all had been declined, her brother assenting to this unusual state of things.“Why, what do you mean to do, Gerard?” asked Isel of her, when the last and wealthiest of five suitors was thus treated. “You’ll never have a better offer for the girl than Raven Soclin. He can spend sixty pound by the year and more; owns eight shops in the Bayly, and a brew-house beside Saint Peter’s at East Gate. He’s no mother to plague his wife, and he’s a good even-tempered lad, as wouldn’t have many words with her. Deary me! but it’s like throwing the fish back into the sea when they’ve come in your net! What on earth are you waiting for, I should just like to know?”“Dear Mother Isel,” answered Ermine softly, “we are waiting to see what God would have of me. I think He means me for something else. Let us wait and see.”“But there is nothing else, child,” returned Isel almost irritably, “without you’ve a mind to be a nun; and that’s what I wouldn’t be, take my word for it. Is that what you’re after?”“No, I think not,” said Ermine in the same tone.“Then there’s nothing else for you—nothing in this world!”“This is not the only world,” was the quiet reply.“It’s the only one I know aught about,” said Isel, throwing her beans into the pan; “or you either, if I’m not mistaken. You’d best be wise in time, or you’ll go through the wood and take the crookedest stick you can find.”“I hope to be wise in time, Mother Isel; but I would rather it were God’s time than mine. And we Germans, you know, believe in presentiments. Methinks He has whispered to me that the way He has appointed for my treading is another road than that.”Ermine was standing, as she spoke, by the half-door, her eyes fixed on the fleecy clouds which were floating across the blue summer sky.“Can you see it, Aunt Ermine?” cried little Rudolph, running to her. “Is it up there, in the blue—the road you are going to tread?”“It is down below first,” answered Ermine dreamily. “Down very low, in the dim valleys, and it is rough. But it will rise by-and-bye to the everlasting hills, and to the sapphire blue; and it leads straight to God’s holy hill, and to His tabernacle.”They remembered those words—seven months later.Note 1. The Pipe Rolls speak oflargecheeses, which cost from threepence to sixpence each, and the ordinary size, of which two or three were sold for a penny. They were probably very small.Note 2. Modern value of above prices:—Pig, 1 pound, 19 shillings 7 pence; half ox, 1 pound, 15 shillings 5 pence; cloth, 1 pound 16 shillings 5 and a half pence per ell; cloak, 13 pounds 6 shillings 8 pence; cape, 6 pounds, 13 shillings 4 pence; pair of slippers, 12 shillings 6 pence; boots, per pair, 25 shillings; cheeses, 2 shillings 1 penny each; flour and cabbage, each 1 pound 9 shillings 2 pence; meal and herrings, each 2 pounds, 10 shillings; beans, 2 pounds 1 shilling 8 pence; coffer, 6 pounds, 5 shillings; nails, 2 pounds, 18 shillings 4 pence; rug, 50 pounds. It will be seen that money was far cheaper than now, and living much more expensive.Note 3. For the sinking of which King Henry paid 19 pounds, 19 shillings 5 pence near this time.

“That’s what I always say - if you wish a thing to be well done,You must do it yourself, you must not leave it to others.”Longfellow.

“That’s what I always say - if you wish a thing to be well done,You must do it yourself, you must not leave it to others.”Longfellow.

The month of May was the liveliest and gayest of the year at Oxford, for not only were the May Day games common to the whole country, but another special attraction lay in Saint Frideswide’s Fair, held on Gloucester Green early in that month. Oxford was a privileged town, in respect of the provision trade, the royal purveyors being forbidden to come within twenty miles of that city. In those good old times, the King was first served, then the nobility, lay and clerical, then the gentry, and the poor had to be content with what was left. It was not unusual, when a report of anything particularly nice reached the monarch—such as an import of wine, a haul of fish, or any other dainty,—for the Sheriff of that place to receive a mandate, bidding him seize for the royal use a portion or the whole thereof. Prices, too, were often regulated by proclamation, so that tradesmen not unfrequently found it hard to live. If a few of our discontented and idle agitators (I do not mean those who would work and cannot) could spend a month or two in the olden time, their next speeches on Tower Hill might be somewhat differently flavoured.

Saint Frideswide’s Fair was a sight to see. For several days before it was held, a multitude of carpenters were employed in putting up wooden booths and stalls, and Gloucester Green became a very lively place. Fairs in the present day, when they are held at all, are very different exhibitions from what they were seven hundred years ago. The stalls then were practically shops, fully stocked with goods of solid value. There was a butcher’s row, a baker’s row, a silversmith’s row, and a mercer’s row—ironmongers, saddlers, shoemakers, vintners, coopers, pelters (furriers), potters, hosiers, fishmongers, and cooks (confectioners)—all had their several streets of stalls. The Green—larger than now—became a town within a town. As the fair was held by licence of Saint Frideswide, and was under her especial protection, the Canons of that church exacted certain dues both from the Crown and the stall-holders, which were duly paid. From the Crown they received 25 shillings per annum. It was deemed a point of honour to keep the best of everything for the fair; and those buyers who wished to obtain good value for their money put off their purchases when it grew near fair time. When the third of May came, they all turned out in holiday costume to lay in necessaries, so far as possible, for the year—meat excepted, which could be purchased again at the cattle fair in the following September.

There was one serious inconvenience in shopping at that time, of which we know nothing at the present day. With the exception of the penny and still smaller coins (all silver) there was no money. The pound, though it appears on paper, was not a coin, but simply a pound weight of pence; the mark was two-thirds, and the noble (if used so early) one-third of that amount. When a woman went out to buy articles of any value, she required to carry with her an enormous weight of small silver cash. Purses were not therefore the toys we use, but large bags of heavy leather, attached to the girdle on the left side; and the aim of a pickpocket was to cut the leather bag away from its metal fastening—hence the termcut-purse.

Every woman in Kepeharme Lane—and it might be added, in Oxford—appeared in the street with a basket on her arm as soon as daylight had well dawned. The men went at their own time and convenience. For many of them a visit to the fair was merely amusement; but the ladies were on business. Even Derette followed her mother, armed with a smaller basket than the rest. Little Rudolph was left with Countess, who preferred him to the fair; and such is the power of habit that our friends had now become quite accustomed to this, and would give a nod and a smile to Countess when they met, just as they did to any other neighbour. This does not mean that they entertained an atom less of prejudice against Jews in general; they had merely got over their prejudice in the case of that one Jewish girl in particular.

Isel’s business was heavy enough. She wanted a pig, half an ox, twenty ells of dark blue cloth, a cloak for herself and capes for her daughters, thirty pairs of slippers—a very moderate allowance for three women, for slippers were laid in by the dozen pairs in common—fifty cheeses (an equally moderate reckoning) (Note 1), a load of flour, another of oatmeal, two quarters of cabbage for salting, six bushels of beans, five hundred herrings, a barrel of ale, two woollen rugs for bedclothes, a wooden coffer, and a hundred nails. She had already bought and salted two sheep from Martin, so mutton was not needed.

“Now, Agnes, what do you want?” she asked.

Agnes, who was following with another basket, replied that she wanted some stuff for a dress, some flannel for Rudolph, and a few pairs of shoes. Shoes must have worn only a very short time, considering the enormous quantity of them usually bought at once.

“And you, Ermine?”

“Nothing but a hood, Mother Isel.”

“You’re easily satisfied. Well, I’ll go first after my pig.”

They turned into the Butcher’s Row, where in a minute they could scarcely hear each other speak. The whole air seemed vocal with grunts, lowing, and bleating, and, the poulterers’ booths lying close behind, crowing and cackling also.

“How much for a good bacon pig?” screamed Isel to a fat butcher, who was polishing a knife upon a wooden block.

“Hertford kids? I have none.”

“Bacon pig!” screamed Isel a little louder.

“Oh! Well, look you, there’s a nice one—twenty pence; there’s a rare fine one—twenty-two; there’s a—”

“Bless thee, man! dost thou think I’m made of money?”

“Shouldn’t wonder if you’d a pot laid by somewhere,” said the butcher with a knowing wink. He was an old acquaintance.

“Well, I haven’t, then: and what’s more, I’ve plenty to do with the few marks I have. Come now, I’ll give you sixteen pence for that biggest fellow.”

The butcher intimated, half in a shout and half by pantomime, that he could not think of such a thing.

“Well, eighteen, then.”

The butcher shook his head.

“Nineteen! Now, that’s as high as I’ll go.”

“Not that one,” shouted the butcher; “I’ll take nineteen for the other.”

Isel had to execute a gymnastic feat before she could answer, to save herself from the horns of an inquisitive cow which was being driven up the row; while a fat pig on the other side was driving Flemild nearly out of the row altogether.

“Well! I’ll agree to that,” said Isel, when she had settled with the cow.

A similar process having been gone through for the half ox, for which Isel had to pay seventeen pence (Salted cow was much cheaper, being only 2 shillings each.)—a shameful price, as she assured her companions—the ladies next made their way to Drapers’ Row. The draper, then and for some centuries later, was the manufacturer of cloth, not the retail dealer only: but he sold retail as well as wholesale. Isel found some cloth to her mind, but the price was not to her mind at all, being eighteen pence per ell.

“Gramercy, man! wouldst thou ruin me?” she demanded.

A second battle followed with the draper, from which Isel this time emerged victorious, having paid only 1 shilling 5 pence per ell. They then went to the clothier’s, where she secured a cloak for a mark (13 shillings 4 pence) and capes for the girls at 6 shillings 8 pence each. At the shoemaker’s she laid in her slippers for 6 pence per pair, with three pairs of boots at a shilling. The cheeses were dear, being a halfpenny each; the load of flour cost 14 pence, and of meal 2 shillings; the beans were 1 shilling 8 pence, the cabbage 1 shilling 2 pence, the herrings 2 shillings. The coffer came to 5 shillings, the nails to 2 shillings 4 pence. (Note 2.) Isel looked ruefully at her purse.

“We must brew at home,” she said, easily dismissing that item; “but how shall I do for the rugs?”

Rugs were costly articles. There was no woollen manufacture in England, nor was there to be such for another hundred years. A thick, serviceable coverlet, such as Isel desired, was not to be bought much under two pounds.

“We must do without them,” she said, with a shake of her head. “Girls, you’ll have to spread your cloaks on the bed. We must eat, but we needn’t lie warm if we can’t afford it.”

“Isel, have you de one pound? Look, here is one,” said Agnes timidly, holding out her hand.

“But you want that, my dear.”

“No, I can do widout. I will de gown up-mend dat I have now. Take you de money; I have left for de shoes and flannel.”

She did not add that the flannel would have to be cut down, as well as the new dress resigned.

“And I can do very well without a hood,” added Ermine quickly. “We must help Mother Isel all we can.”

“My dears, I don’t half like taking it.”

“We have taken more from you,” said Ermine.

Thus urged, Isel somewhat reluctantly took the money, and bought one rug, for which she beat down the clothier to two marks and a half, and departed triumphant, this being her best bargain for the day. It was then in England, as it yet is in Eastern lands, an understood thing that all tradesmen asked extortionate prices, and must be offered less as a matter of course: a fact which helps to the comprehension of the Waldensian objection to trade as involving falsehood.

Isel returned to Agnes the change which remained out of her pound, which enabled her to get all the flannel she needed. Their baskets being now well filled, Isel and her party turned homewards, sauntering slowly through the fair, partly because the crowd prevented straightforward walking, but partly also because they wished to see as much as they could. Haimet was to bring a hand-cart for the meat and other heavy purchases at a later hour.

Derette, who for safety’s sake was foremost of the girls, directly following her mother and Agnes, trudged along with her basket full of slippers, and her head full of profound meditation. Had Isel known the nature of those meditations, she certainly would never have lingered at the silversmiths’ stalls in a comfortable frame of mind, pointing out to her companions various pretty things which took her fancy. But she had not the remotest idea of her youngest daughter’s private thoughts, and she turned away from Gloucester Green at last, quite ignorant of the fashion wherein her feelings of all sorts were about to be outraged.

Derette was determined to obtain a dress for Agnes. She had silently watched the kindly manner in which the good-natured German gave up the thing she really needed: for poor Agnes had but the one dress she wore, and Derette well knew that no amount of mending would carry it through another winter. But how was a penniless child to procure another for her? If Derette had not been a young person of original ideas and very independent spirit, the audacious notion which she was now entertaining would never have visited her mind.

This was no less than a visit to the Castle, to beg one of the cast-off gowns of the women of the household. Dresses wore long in the Middle Ages, and ladies of rank were accustomed to make presents of half-worn ones to each other. Derette was not quite so presumptuous as to think of addressing the Countess—that, even in her eyes, seemed a preposterous impossibility; but surely one of her waiting-women might be reached. How was she to accomplish her purpose?

That she must slip away unseen was the first step to be taken. Her mother would never dream of allowing such an errand, as Derette well knew; but she comforted herself, as others have done beside her, with the reflection that the excellence of her motive quite compensated for the unsatisfactory details of her conduct. Wedged as she was in the midst of the family group, and encumbered with her basket, she could not hope to get away before they reached home; but she thought she saw her chance directly afterwards, when the baskets should have been discharged of their contents, and every body was busy inspecting, talking about, and putting away, the various purchases that had been made.

Young girls were never permitted to go out alone at that time. It was considered less dangerous in town than country, and a mere run into a neighbouring house might possibly have been allowed; but usually, when not accompanied by some responsible person, they were sent in groups of three or four at once. Derette’s journey must be taken alone, and it involved a few yards of Milk Street, as far as Saint Ebbe’s, then a run to Castle Street and up to the Castle. That was the best way, for it was both the shortest and comparatively the quietest. But Derette determined not to go in at the entrance gate, where she would meet Osbert and probably Anania, but to make for the Osney Gate to the left, where she hoped to fall into the kindlier hands of her cousin Stephen. The danger underlying this item was that Stephen might have gone to the fair, in which case she would have to encounter either the rough joking of Orme, or the rough crustiness of Wandregisil, his fellow-watchmen. That must be risked. The opportunity had to be bought, and Derette made up her mind to pay the necessary price.

The Walnut Tree was reached, the baskets laid down, and while Agnes was divesting herself of her cloak, and Isel reiterating her frequent assertion that she was “that tired,” Derette snatched her chance, and every body’s back being turned for the moment, slipped out of the door, and sped up Kepeharme Lane with the speed of a fawn. Her heart beat wildly, and until she reached Milk Street, she expected every instant to be followed and taken back. If she could only get her work done, she told herself, the scolding and probable whipping to follow would be easily borne.

Owing to its peculiar municipal laws, throughout the Middle Ages, Oxford had the proud distinction of being the cleanest city in England. That is to say, it was not quite so appallingly smothered in mire and filth as others were. Down the midst of every narrow street ran a gutter, which after rain was apt to become a brook, and into which dirt of every sort was emptied by every householder. There were no causeways; and there were frequent holes of uncertain depth, filled with thick mud. Ownerless dogs, and owned but equally free-spoken pigs, roamed the streets at their own sweet will, and were not wont to make way for the human passengers; while if a cart were met in the narrow street, it was necessary for the pedestrian to squeeze himself into the smallest compass possible against the wall, if he wished to preserve his limbs in good working order. Such were the delights of taking a walk in the good old times. It may reasonably be surmised that unnecessary walks were not frequently taken.

Kepeharme Lane left behind, where the topography of the holes was tolerably familiar, Derette had to walk more guardedly. After getting pretty well splashed, and dodging a too attentive pig which was intent on charging her for venturing on his beat, Derette at last found herself at the Osney Gate. She felt now that half her task was over.

“Who goes there?” demanded the welcome voice of Stephen, when Derette rapped at the gate.

“It’s me, Stephen,—Derette: do let me in.”

The gate stood open in a moment, and Stephen’s pleasant face appeared behind it, with a look of something like consternation thereon.

“Derette!—alone!—whatever is the matter?”

“Nothing, Stephen; oh, nothing’s the matter. I only came alone because I knew Mother wouldn’t let me if I asked her.”

“Hoity-toity!—that’s a nice confession, young woman! And pray what are you after, now you have come?”

“Stephen—dear, good Stephen, will you do me a favour?”

“Hold off, you coaxing sinner!”

“Oh, but I want it so much! You see, she gave it up because Mother wanted a rug, and she let her have the money—and I know it won’t mend up to wear any thing like through the winter—and I do want so to get her another—a nice soft one, that will be comfortable, and—You’ll help me, won’t you, Steenie?”

And Derette’s small arms came coaxingly round her cousin’s wrist.

“I’m a heathen Jew if I have the shadow of a notion what I’m wanted to help! ‘A nice soft one!’ Is it a kitten, or a bed-quilt, or a sack of meal, you’re after?”

“O Stephen!—what queer things you guess! It’s a gown—.”

“I don’t keep gowns, young woman.”

“No, but, Steenie, you might help me to get at somebody that does. One of the Lady’s women, you know. I’m sure you could, if you would.”

Steenie whistled. “Well, upon my word!You’llnot lose cakes for want of asking for. Why don’t you go to Anania?”

“You know she’d only be cross.”

“How do you know I sha’n’t be cross?” asked Stephen, knitting his brows, and pouting out his lips, till he looked formidable.

“Oh, because you never are. You’ll only laugh at me, and you won’t do that in an ugly way like some people. Now, Steenie, youwillhelp me to get a gown for Agnes?”

“Agnes, is it? I thought you meant Flemild.”

“No, it’s Agnes; and Ermine gave up her hood to help: but Agnes wants the gown worse than Ermine does a hood. You like them, you know, Steenie.”

“Who told you that, my Lady Impertinence? Dear, dear, what pests these children are!”

“Now, Stephen, you know you don’t think any thing of the sort, and you are going to help me this minute.”

“How am I to help, I should like to know? I can’t leave my gate.”

“You can call somebody. Now do, Steenie, there’s a darling cousin!—and I’ll ask Mother to make you some of those little pies you like so much. I will, really.”

“You outrageous wheedler! I suppose I shall have no peace till I get rid of you.—Henry!”

A lad of about twelve years old, who was crossing the court-yard at the other side, turned and came up at the call.

“Will you take this maid in, and get her speech of Cumina? She’s very good-natured, and if you tell her your story, Derette, I shouldn’t wonder if she helps you.”

“Oh, thank you, Steenie, so much!”

Derette followed Henry, who made faces at her, but gave her no further annoyance, into the servants’ offices at the Castle, where he turned her unceremoniously over to the first person he met—a cook in a white cap and apron—with the short and not too civil information that—

“She wants Cumina.”

The cook glanced carelessly at Derette.

“Go straight along the passage, and up the stairs to the left,” he said, and then went on about his own business.

Never before had Derette seen a house which contained above four rooms at the utmost. She felt in utter confusion amid stairs, doors, and corridors. But she managed to find the winding staircase at the end of the passage, and to mount it, wishing much that so convenient a mode of access could replace the ladder in her mother’s house. She went up till she could go no further, when she found herself on the top landing of a round tower, without a human creature to be seen. There were two doors, however; and after rapping vainly at both, she ventured to open one. It led to the leads of the tower. Derette closed this, and tried the other. She found it to open on a dark fathomless abyss,—the Castle well (Note 3), had she known it—and shut it quickly with a sensation of horror. After a moment’s reflection, she went down stairs to the next landing.

Here there were four doors, and from one came the welcome sound of human voices. Derette rapped timidly on this. It was opened by a girl about the age of Flemild.

“Please,” said Derette, “I was to ask for Cumina.”

“Oh, you must go to the still-room,” answered the girl, and would have shut the door without further parley, had not Derette intercepted her with a request to be shown where the still-room was.

With an impatient gesture, the girl came out, led Derette a little way along the corridor running from the tower, and pointed to a door on the left hand.

Derette’s hopes rose again. She was one of those persons whom delays and difficulties do not weary out or render timid, but rather inspire to fresh and stronger action.

“Well, what do you want?” asked the pleasant-faced young woman who answered Derette’s rap. “Please, is there somebody here called Cumina?”

“I rather think there is,” was the smiling answer. “Is it you?”

“Ay. Come in, and say what you wish.” Derette obeyed, and poured out her story, rather more lucidly than she had done to Stephen. Cumina listened with a smile.

“Well, my dear, I would give you a gown for your friend if I had it,” she said good-humouredly; “but I have just sent the only one I can spare to my mother. I wonder who there is, now—Are you afraid of folks that speak crossly?”

“No,” said Derette. “I only want to shake them.” Cumina laughed. “You’ll do!” she said. “Come, then, I’ll take you to Hagena. She’s not very pleasant-spoken, but if any body can help you, she can. The only doubt is whether she will.”

Derette followed Cumina through what seemed to her endless corridors opening into further and further corridors, till at last she asked in a tone of astonishment—

“How can you ever find your way?”

“Oh, you learn to do that very soon,” said Cumina, laughing, as she opened the door of a long, low chamber. “Now, you must tread softly here, and speak very respectfully.”

Derette nodded acquiescence, and they went in.

The room was lined with presses from floor to ceiling. On benches which stood back to back in its midst, several lengths of rich silken stuffs were spread out; and on other benches near the windows sat two or three girls busily at work. Several elder ladies were moving about the room, and one of them, a rather stout, hard-featured woman, was examining the girls’ work. Cumina went up to her.

“If you please, Hagena,” she said, “is there any where an old gown which it would please you to bestow on this girl, who has asked the boon?”

Hagena straightened herself up and looked at Derette.

“Is she the child of one of my Lord’s tenants?”

“No,” answered Derette. “My mother’s house is her own.”

“Well, if ever I heard such assurance! Perchance, Madam, you would like a golden necklace to go with it?”

If Derette had not been on her good behaviour, Hagena would have received as much as she gave. But knowing that her only chance of success lay in civil and submissive manners, she shut her lips tight and made no answer.

“Who sent you?” pursued Hagena, who was the Countess’s mistress of the household, and next in authority to her.

“Nobody. I came of myself.”

“Ha, chétife! I do wonder what the world’s coming to! The impudence of the creature! How on earth did she get in? Just get out again as fast as you can, and come on such an errand again if you dare! Be off with you!”

Derette’s voice trembled, but not with fear, as she turned back to Cumina. To Hagena she vouchsafed no further word.

“I did not know I was offending any body,” she said, in a manner not devoid of childish dignity. “I was trying to do a little bit of good. I think, if you please, I had better go home.”

Derette’s speech infuriated Hagena. The child had kept her manners and her dignity too, under some provocation, while the mistress of the household was conscious that she had lost hers.

“How dare—” she was beginning, when another voice made her stop suddenly.

“What has the child been doing? I wish to speak with her.”

Cumina hastily stopped Derette from leaving the room, and led her up to the lady who had spoken and who had only just entered.

“What is it, my little maid?” she said kindly.

“I beg your pardon,” said the child. She was but a child, and her brave heart was failing her. Derette was very near tears. “I did not mean any harm. Somebody had given up having a new gown—and she wanted it very much—to let somebody else have the money; and I thought, if I could beg one for her—but I did not mean to be rude. Please let me go home.”

“Thou shalt go home, little one,” answered the lady; “but wait a moment. Does any one know the child?”

Nobody knew her.

“Stephen the Watchdog knows me,” said Derette, drawing a long breath. “He is my cousin. So is Osbert the porter.”

The lady put her arm round Derette.

“What sort of a gown wouldst thou have, my child?”

Derette’s eyes lighted up. Was she really to succeed after all?

“A nice one, please,” she said, simply, making every one smile except Hagena, who was still too angry for amusement. “Not smart nor grand, you know, but warm and soft. Something woollen, I suppose, it should be.”

The lady addressed herself to Hagena.

“Have I any good woollen robe by the walls?”

When a dress was done with, if the materials were worth using for something else, it was taken to pieces; if not, it was hung up “by the walls,” ready to give away when needed.

Hagena had some difficulty in answering properly.

“No, Lady; the last was given to Veka, a fortnight since.”

“Then,” was the quiet answer, which surprised all present, “it must be one of those I am wearing. Let Cumina and Dora bring such as I have.”

Derette looked up into the face of her new friend.

“Please, are you the Lady Countess?”

“Well, I suppose I am,” replied the Countess with a smile. “Now, little maid, choose which thou wilt.”

Seven woollen gowns were displayed before the Countess and Derette, all nearly new—blue, green, scarlet, tawny, crimson, chocolate, and cream-colour. Derette looked up again to the Countess’s face.

“Nay, why dost thou look at me? Take thine own choice.”

The Countess was curious to see what the child’s selection would be.

“I looked to see which you liked best,” said Derette, “because I wouldn’t like to choose that.”

“True courtesy here!” remarked the Countess. “It is nothing to me, my child. Which dost thou like?”

“I like that one,” said Derette, touching the crimson, which was a rich, soft, dark shade of the colour, “and I think Agnes would too; but I don’t want to take the best, and I am not sure which it is.”

“Fold it up,” said the Countess to Cumina, with a smile to Derette; “let it be well lapped in a kerchief; and bid Wandregisil go to the Osney Gate, so that Stephen can take the child home.”

The parcel was folded up, the Countess’s hand kissed with heartfelt thanks, and the delighted Derette, under the care of Cumina, returned to the Osney Gate with her load.

“Well, you are a child!” exclaimed Stephen. “So Cumina has really found you a gown? I thought she would, if she had one to give away.”

“No,” said Derette, “it is the Countess’s gown.”

“And who on earth gave you a gown of the Lady’s?”

“Her own self!—and, Stephen, it is of her own wearing; she hadn’t done with it; but she gave it me, and she was so nice!—so much nicer than all the others except Cumina.”

“Well, if ever I did!” gasped Stephen. “Derette, you are a terrible child! I never saw your like.”

“I don’t know what I’ve done that’s terrible,” replied the child. “I’m sure Agnes won’t think it terrible to have that pretty gown to wear. What is terrible about it, Stephen?”

They had left the Castle a few yards behind, were over the drawbridge, and winding down the narrow descent, when a sharp call of “Ste-phen!” brought them to a standstill.

“Oh dear, that’s Cousin Anania!” exclaimed Derette. “Let me run on, Stephen, and you go back and see what she wants.”

“Nay, I must not do that, child. The Lady sent orders that I was to see you home. You’ll have to go back with me.”

“But she’ll worry so! She’ll want to know all about the gown, and then she’ll want it undone, and I’m sure she’ll mess it up—and Cumina folded it so smooth and nice:” urged Derette in a distressed tone.

“We won’t let her,” answered Stephen, quietly, as they came to the entrance gate. “Well, what’s up, Anania?”

“What’s Derette doing here? Who came with her? Where are you going?—and what’s in that fardel?”

“Oh, is that all you’re after? I’ll answer those questions when I come back. I’ve got to take Derette home just now.”

“You’ll answer them before you go an inch further, if you please. That child’s always in some mischief, and you aid and abet her a deal too often.”

“But I don’t please. I am under orders, Anania, and I can’t stop now.”

“At least you’ll tell me what’s in the fardel!” cried Anania, as Stephen turned to go on his way without loosing his hold of the parcel.

“A gown which the Lady has given to Derette,” said Stephen mischievously, “and she sent commands that I was to escort her home with it.”

“A gown!—the Lady!—Derette!” screamed Anania. “Not one of her own?—why on earth should she give Derette a gown?”

“That’s the Lady’s business, not mine.”

“Yes, one of her own,” said Derette proudly.

“But what on earth for? She hasn’t given me a gown, and I am sure I want it more than that child—and deserve it, too.”

“Perhaps you haven’t asked her,” suggested Derette, trotting after Stephen, who was already half-way across the bridge.

“Asked her! I should hope not, indeed—I know my place, if you don’t. You never mean to say you asked her?”

“I can’t stop to talk, Cousin Anania.”

“But which gown is it?—tell me that!” cried Anania, in an agony of disappointed curiosity.

“It’s a crimson woollen one. Good morrow.”

“What! never that lovely robe she had on yesterday? Saints bless us all!” was the last scream that reached them from Anania.

Stephen laughed merrily as Derette came up with him.

“We have got clear of the dragon this time,” said he.

A few minutes brought them to the Walnut Tree.

“Haimet—Oh, it’s Stephen!” cried Isel in a tone of sore distress, as soon as he appeared at the door. “Do, for mercy’s sake—I’m just at my wits’ end to think whatever—Oh, there she is!”

“Yes, Mother, I’m here,” said Derette demurely.

“Yes, she’s here, and no harm done, but good, I reckon,” added Stephen. “Still, I think it might be as well to look after her a bit, Aunt Isel. If she were to take it into her head to go to London to see the Lady Queen, perhaps you mightn’t fancy it exactly.”

“What has she been doing?” asked Isel in consternation.

“Only paying a visit to the Countess,” said Stephen, laughing.

By this time Derette had undone the knots on the handkerchief, and the crimson robe was revealed in all its beauty.

“Agnes,” she said quietly, but with a little undertone of decided triumph, “this is for you. You won’t have to give up your gown, though you did give Mother the money.”

A robe, in the Middle Ages, meant more than a single gown, and the crimson woollen was a robe. Under and upper tunics, a mantle, and a corset or warm under-bodice, lay before the eyes of the amazed Agnes.

“Derette, you awful child!” exclaimed her mother almost in terror, “what have you been after, and where did you get all that? Why, it’s a new robe, and fit for a queen!”

“Don’t scold the child,” said Stephen. “She meant well, and I believe she behaved well; she got more than she asked for, that’s all.”

“Please, it isn’t quite new, Mother, because the Lady wore it yesterday; but she said she hadn’t one done with, so she gave me one she was wearing.”

Bit by bit the story was told, while Isel held up her hands in horrified astonishment, which she allowed to appear largely, and in inward admiration of Derette’s spirit, of which she tried to prevent the appearance. She was not, however, quite able to effect her purpose.

“Meine Kind!” cried Agnes, even more amazed and horrified than Isel. “Dat is not for me. It is too good. I am only poor woman. How shall I such beautiful thing wear?”

“But it is for you,” pleaded Derette earnestly, “and you must wear it; because, you see, if you did not, it would seem as if I had spoken falsely to the Lady.”

“Ay, I don’t see that you can do aught but take it and wear it,” said Stephen. “Great ladies like ours don’t take their gifts back.”

Gerhardt had come in during the discussion.

“Nor does the Lord,” he said, “at least not from those who receive them worthily. Take it from Him, dear, with thankfulness to the human instruments whom He has used. He saw thy need, and would not suffer thee to want for obeying His command.”

“But is it not too fine, Gerhardt?”

“It might be if we had chosen it,” answered Gerhardt with a smile; “but it seems as if the Lord had chosen it for thee, and that settles the matter. It is only the colour, after all.”

There was no trimming on the robe, save an edging of grey fur,—not even embroidery: and no other kind of trimming was known at that time. Agnes timidly felt the soft, fine texture.

“It is beautiful!” she said.

“Oh, it is beautiful enough, in all conscience,” said Isel, “and will last you a life-time, pretty nigh. But as to that dreadful child—”

“Now, Mother, you won’t scold me, will you?” said Derette coaxingly, putting her arms round Isel’s neck. “I haven’t done any harm, have I?”

“Well, child, I suppose you meant well,” said Isel doubtfully, “and I don’t know but one should look at folks’ intentions more than their deeds, in especial when there’s no ill done; but—”

“Oh, come, let’s forgive each other all round!” suggested Stephen. “Won’t that do?”

Isel seemed to think it would, for she kissed Derette.

“But you must never, never do such a thing again, child, in all the days of your life!” said she.

“Thank you, Mother, I don’t want to do it again just now,” answered Derette in a satisfied tone.

The afternoon was not over when Anania marched into the Walnut Tree.

“Well, Aunt Isel! I hope you are satisfiednow!”

“With what, Anania?”

“That dreadfully wicked child. Didn’t I tell you? I warned you to look after her. If you only would take good advice when folks take the trouble to give it you!”

“Would you be so good as to say what you mean, Anania? I’m not at all satisfied with dreadfully wicked children. I’m very much dissatisfied with them, generally.”

“I mean Derette, of course. I hope you whipped her well!”

“What for?” asked Isel, in a rather annoyed tone.

“‘What for?’” Anania lifted up her hands. “There now!—if I didn’t think she would just go and deceive you! She can’t have told you the truth, of course, or you could never pass it by in that light way.”

“If you mean her visit to the Castle,” said Isel in a careless tone, “she told us all about it, of course, when she got back.”

“And you take it as coolly as that?”

“How did you wish me to take it? The thing is done, and all’s well that ends well. I don’t see that it was so much out of the way, for my part. Derette got no harm, and Agnes has a nice new gown, and nobody the worse. If anybody has a right to complain, it is the Countess; and I can’t see that she has so much, either; for she needn’t have given the robe if she hadn’t liked.”

“Oh, she’s no business to grumble; she has lots more of every thing. She could have twenty robes made like that to-morrow, if she wanted them. I wish I’d half as many—I know that!”

Agnes came down the ladder at that moment, carrying one of her new tunics, which she had just tried on, and was now going to alter to fit herself.

“That’s it, is it?” exclaimed Anania in an interested voice. “I thought it was that one. Well, you are in luck! That’s one of her newest robes, I do believe. Ah, folks that have more money than they know what to do with, can afford to do aught they fancy. But to think of throwing away such a thing as that onyou!”

Neither words nor tone were flattering, but the incivility dropped harmless from the silver armour of Agnes’s lowly simplicity.

“Oh, but it shall not away be t’rown,” she said gently; “I will dem all up-make, and wear so long as they will togeder hold. I take care of dat, so shall you see!”

Anania looked on with envious eyes.

“How good lady must de Countess be!” added Agnes.

“Oh, she can be good to folks sometimes,” snarled Anania. “She’s just as full of whims as she can be—all those great folks are—proud and stuck-up and crammed full of caprice: but they say she’s kind where shetakes, you know. It just depends whether she takes to you. She never took to me, worse luck! I might have had that good robe, if she had.”

“I shouldn’t think she would,” suddenly observed the smallest voice in the company.

“What do you mean by that, you impudent child?”

“Because, Cousin Anania, I don’t think there’s much in you to take to.”

Derette’s prominent feeling at that moment was righteous indignation. She could not bear to hear the gentle, gracious lady, who had treated her with such unexpected kindness, accused of being proud and full of whims, apparently for no better reason than because she had not “taken to” Anania—a state of things which Derette thought most natural and probable. Her sense of justice—and a child’s sense of justice is often painfully keen—was outraged by Anania’s sentiments.

“Well, to be sure! How high and mighty we are! That comes of visiting Countesses, I suppose.—Aunt Isel, I told you that child was getting insufferable. There’ll be no bearing her very soon. She’s as stuck-up now as a peacock. Just look at her!”

“I don’t see that she looks different from usual,” said Isel, who was mixing the ingredients for a “bag-pudding.”

Anania made that slight click with her tongue which conveys the idea of despairing compassion for the pitiable incapacity of somebody to perceive patent facts.

Isel went on with her pudding, and offered no further remark.

“Well, I suppose I’d better be going,” said Anania—and sat still.

Nobody contradicted her, but she made no effort to go, until Osbert stopped at the half-door and looked in.

“Oh, you’re there, are you?” he said to his wife. “I don’t know whether you care particularly for those buttons you bought from Veka, but Selis has swallowed two, and—”

“Thosebuttons! Graven silver, as I’m a living woman! I’ll shake him while I can stand over him! And only one blessed dozen I had of them, and the price she charged me—The little scoundrel! Couldn’t he have swallowed the common leaden ones?”

“Weren’t so attractive, probably,” said Osbert, as Anania hurried away, without any leave-taking, to bestow on her son and heir, aged six, the shaking she had promised.

“But de little child, he shall be sick!” said Agnes, looking up from her work with compassionate eyes.

“Oh, I dare say it won’t hurt him much,” replied Osbert coolly, “and perhaps it will teach him not to meddle. I wish it might teach his mother to stay at home and look after him, but I’m afraid that’s hopeless. Good morrow!”

Little Selis seemed no worse for his feast of buttons, beyond a fit of violent indigestion, which achieved the wonderful feat of keeping Anania at home for nearly a week.

“You’ve had a nice quiet time, Aunt Isel,” said Stephen. “Shall I see if I can persuade Selis to take the rest of the dozen?”

Life went on quietly—for the twelfth century—in the little house in Kepeharme Street. That means that nobody was murdered or murderously assaulted, the house was not burned down nor burglariously entered, and neither of the boys lost a limb, and was suffered to bleed to death, for interference with the King’s deer. In those good old times, these little accidents were rather frequent, the last more especially, as the awful and calmly-calculated statistics on the Pipe Rolls bear terrible witness.

Romund married, and went to live in the house of his bride, who was an heiress to the extent of possessing half-a-dozen houses in Saint Ebbe’s parish. Little Rudolph grew to be seven years old, a fine fearless boy, rather more than his quiet mother knew how to manage, but always amenable to a word from his grave father. The Germans had settled down peaceably in various parts of the country, some as shoemakers, some as tailors, some as weavers, or had hired themselves as day-labourers to farmers, carpenters, or bakers. Several offers of marriage had been made to Ermine, but hitherto, to the surprise of her friends, all had been declined, her brother assenting to this unusual state of things.

“Why, what do you mean to do, Gerard?” asked Isel of her, when the last and wealthiest of five suitors was thus treated. “You’ll never have a better offer for the girl than Raven Soclin. He can spend sixty pound by the year and more; owns eight shops in the Bayly, and a brew-house beside Saint Peter’s at East Gate. He’s no mother to plague his wife, and he’s a good even-tempered lad, as wouldn’t have many words with her. Deary me! but it’s like throwing the fish back into the sea when they’ve come in your net! What on earth are you waiting for, I should just like to know?”

“Dear Mother Isel,” answered Ermine softly, “we are waiting to see what God would have of me. I think He means me for something else. Let us wait and see.”

“But there is nothing else, child,” returned Isel almost irritably, “without you’ve a mind to be a nun; and that’s what I wouldn’t be, take my word for it. Is that what you’re after?”

“No, I think not,” said Ermine in the same tone.

“Then there’s nothing else for you—nothing in this world!”

“This is not the only world,” was the quiet reply.

“It’s the only one I know aught about,” said Isel, throwing her beans into the pan; “or you either, if I’m not mistaken. You’d best be wise in time, or you’ll go through the wood and take the crookedest stick you can find.”

“I hope to be wise in time, Mother Isel; but I would rather it were God’s time than mine. And we Germans, you know, believe in presentiments. Methinks He has whispered to me that the way He has appointed for my treading is another road than that.”

Ermine was standing, as she spoke, by the half-door, her eyes fixed on the fleecy clouds which were floating across the blue summer sky.

“Can you see it, Aunt Ermine?” cried little Rudolph, running to her. “Is it up there, in the blue—the road you are going to tread?”

“It is down below first,” answered Ermine dreamily. “Down very low, in the dim valleys, and it is rough. But it will rise by-and-bye to the everlasting hills, and to the sapphire blue; and it leads straight to God’s holy hill, and to His tabernacle.”

They remembered those words—seven months later.

Note 1. The Pipe Rolls speak oflargecheeses, which cost from threepence to sixpence each, and the ordinary size, of which two or three were sold for a penny. They were probably very small.

Note 2. Modern value of above prices:—Pig, 1 pound, 19 shillings 7 pence; half ox, 1 pound, 15 shillings 5 pence; cloth, 1 pound 16 shillings 5 and a half pence per ell; cloak, 13 pounds 6 shillings 8 pence; cape, 6 pounds, 13 shillings 4 pence; pair of slippers, 12 shillings 6 pence; boots, per pair, 25 shillings; cheeses, 2 shillings 1 penny each; flour and cabbage, each 1 pound 9 shillings 2 pence; meal and herrings, each 2 pounds, 10 shillings; beans, 2 pounds 1 shilling 8 pence; coffer, 6 pounds, 5 shillings; nails, 2 pounds, 18 shillings 4 pence; rug, 50 pounds. It will be seen that money was far cheaper than now, and living much more expensive.

Note 3. For the sinking of which King Henry paid 19 pounds, 19 shillings 5 pence near this time.

Back to IndexNext