Chapter Five.

Chapter Five.Changes and Chances of this Mortal Life.“Now is done thy long day’s work;Fold thy palms across thy breast,Fold thine arms, turn to thy rest,Let them rave.”Tennyson.The Earl and Countess were away from home, during the whole spring of the next year; but Constance stayed at Langley, and so did Alvena and Maude. There was a grand gala day in the following August, when the Lord of Langley was raised from the dignity of Earl of Cambridge to the higher title of Duke of York: but three days later, the cloth of gold was changed for mourning serge. A royal courier, on his way from Reading to London, stayed a few hours at Langley; and he brought word that the mother of the King, “the Lady Princess,” was lying dead at Wallingford.The blow was in reality far heavier than it appeared on the surface, and to the infant Church of the Lollards the loss was irreparable. For the Princess was a Lollard; and being a woman of most able and energetic character, she had been until now thede factoQueen of England. She must have been possessed of consummate tact and prudence, for she contrived to live on excellent terms with half-a-dozen people of completely incompatible tempers. When the reins dropped from her dead hand a struggle ensued among these incompatible persons, who should pick them up. The struggle was sharp, but short. The elder brothers retired from the contest, and the reins were left in the Duke of Gloucester’s hand. And woe to the infant Church of the Lollards, when Gloucester held the reins!He began his reign—for henceforward he was virtually King—by buying over his brother of York. Edmund, already the passive servant of Gloucester, was bribed to active adherence by a grant of a thousand pounds. The Duke of Lancaster, who was not his brother’s tool, was quietly disposed of for the moment, by making him so exceedingly uncomfortable, that with the miserablelaisser-aller, which was the bane of his fine character, he went home to enjoy himself as a country gentleman, leaving politics to take care of themselves.But an incident happened which disconcerted for a moment the plans of the Regent. The young King, without consulting his powerful uncle, declared his second cousin, Roger Mortimer, Earl of March, heir presumptive of England, and—in obedience to a previous suggestion of the Princess—broke off March’s engagement with a lady of the Arundel family, and married him to Richard’s own niece, the Lady Alianora de Holand.The annoyance to Gloucester, consisted in two points: first, that it recognised female inheritance and representation, which put him a good deal further from the throne; and secondly, that Roger Mortimer, owing to the education received from his Montacute grandmother, had stepped out of his family ranks, and was the sole Lollard ever known in the House of March.Gloucester carried his trouble to his confessor. The appointed heir to the throne a Lollard!—nor only that, but married to a grand-daughter of the Lollard Princess, a niece of the semi-Lollard King! What was to be done to save England to Catholicism?Sir Thomas de Arundel laughed a low, quiet laugh in answer.“What matters all that, my Lord? Is not Alianora my sister’s daughter? The lad is young, yielding, lazy, and lusty (self-indulgent, pleasure-loving.) Leave all to me.”Arundel saw further than the Princess had done.And Gloucester was Arundel’s slave. Item by item he worked the will of his master, and no one suspected for a moment whither those acts were tending. The obnoxious, politically-Lollard Duke of Lancaster was shunted out of the way, by being induced to undertake a voyage to Castilla for the recovery of the inheritance of his wife Constanca and her sister Isabel; a statute was passed conferring plenipotentiary powers on “our dearest uncle of Gloucester;” all vacant offices under the Crown were filled with orthodox nominees of the Regent; the Lollard Earl of Suffolk was impeached; a secret meeting was held at Huntingdon, when Gloucester and four other nobles solemnly renounced their allegiance to the King, and declared themselves at liberty to do what was right in their own eyes. The other four (of whom we shall hear again) were Henry Earl of Derby, son of the Duke of Lancaster; Richard Earl of Arundel, brother of Gloucester’s confessor; Thomas Earl of Nottingham his brother-in-law; and Thomas Earl of Warwick, a weak waverer, the least guilty of the evil five. The conspirators conferred upon themselves the grand title of “the Lords Appellants;” and to divert from themselves and their doings the public mind, they amused that innocent, unsuspecting creature by a splendid tournament in Smithfield.Of one fact, as we follow their track, we must never lose sight:—that behind these visible five, securely hidden, stood the invisible one, Sir Thomas de Arundel, setting all these puppets in motion according to his pleasure, and for “the good of the Church;” working on the insufferable pride of Gloucester, the baffled ambition of Derby, the arrogant rashness of Arundel, the vain, time-serving nature of Nottingham, and the weak fears of Warwick. Did he think he was doing God service? Did he ever care to think of God at all?The further career of the Lords Appellants must be told as shortly as possible, but without some account of it much of the remainder of my story will be unintelligible. They drew a cordon of forty thousand men round London, capturing the King like a bird taken in a net; granted to themselves, for their own purposes, twenty thousand pounds out of the royal revenues; met and utterly routed a little band raised by the Duke of Ireland with the object of rescuing the sovereign from their power; impeached those members of the Council who were loyalists and Lollards; plotted to murder the King and the whole Council, which included near blood relations of their own; prohibited the possession of any of Wycliffe’s books under severe penalties; murdered three, and banished two, of the five faithful friends of the King left in the Council. The Church stood to them above all human ties; and Sir Thomas de Arundel was ready to say “Absolvo te” to every one of them.This reign of terror is known as the session of the Merciless Parliament, and it closed with the cruel mockery of a renewal of the oath of allegiance to the hapless and helpless King. Then Gloucester proceeded to distribute his rewards. The archbishopric of York was conferred on Sir Thomas de Arundel, and Gloucester appropriated as his own share of the rich spoil, the vast estates of the banished Duke of Ireland.And then the traitor, robber, and murderer, knelt down at the feet of Archbishop Arundel, and heard—from man’s lips—“Thy sins are forgiven thee”—but not “Go, and sin no more.”“Master Calverley, you? God have mercy! what aileth you?”For Hugh Calverley stood at one of the hall windows of Langley Palace, on the brightest of May mornings, in the year 1388, his face hidden in his hands, and his whole mien and aspect bearing the traces of sudden and intense anguish.“God had no mercy, Mistress Maude!” he wailed under his voice. “We had no friend save Him, and He was silent to us. He cared nought for us—He left us alone in the uttermost hour of our woe.”“Nay, sweet Hugh! it was men, not God!” said Bertram’s voice soothingly behind them.“He gave them leave,” replied Hugh in an agonised tone.It was the old reproachful cry, “Lord, carest thou not that we perish?” but Maude could not understand it at all. That cry, when it rises within the fold, is sometimes a triumph, and always a mystery, to those that are without. “You believe yourselves even now as safe as the angels, and shortly to be as happy, and you complain thus!” True; but we are not angels yet. Poor weak, suffering humanity is always rebellious, without an accompanying unction from the Holy One. But it is not good for us to forget that such moods are rebellion, and that they often cause the enemies of the Lord to blaspheme.Bertram quietly drew Maude aside into the next window.“Let the poor fellow be!” he said compassionately. “Alack, ’tis no marvel. These traitor loons have hanged his father. And never, methinks, did son love father more.”“Master Calverley’s father!—the Queen’s squire?”“He. And look you, Maude,—heard man ever the like! the Queen’s own Grace was on her knees three hours unto my Lord of Arundel, praying him to spare Master Calverley’s life. Think of it, Maude!—Caesar’s daughter!”“Mercy, Jesu!”—Maude could imagine nothing more frightful. It seemed to her equivalent to the whole world tumbling into chaos. What was to become of “slender folk,” such as Bertram and herself, when men breathed who could hear unmoved the pleadings of “Caesar’s daughter?”“But what said he?”“Who—my Lord of Arundel? The unpiteous, traitorous, hang-dog lither oaf!” Bertram would apparently have chosen more opprobrious words if they would kindly have occurred to him. “Why, he said—‘Pray for yourself and your lord, Lady, and let this be; it were the better for you.’ The great Devil, to whom he ’longeth, behisaid in the like case!”“Truly, he may be in the like case one day,” said Maude.“And that were at undern (Eleven o’clock a.m.) this morrow, an’ I were King!” cried Bertram wrathfully.“But what had Master Calverley done?” Bertram dared only whisper the name of the horrible crime of which alone poor Calverley stood accused. “He was a Lollard—a Gospeller.”“Be they such ill fawtors?” asked Maude in a shocked tone.“Judge for yourself what manner of men they be,” said Bertram indignantly, “when the King’s Highness and the Queen, and our own Lady’s Grace, and the Lady Princess that was, and the Duke of Lancaster, be of them. Ay, and many another could I name beyond these.”“I will never crede any ill of our Lady’s Grace!” said Maude warmly.“Good morrow, Bertram, my son,” said a voice behind them—a voice strange to Maude, but familiar to Bertram.“Father Wilfred! Christ save you, right heartily! You be here in the nick of time. You are come—”“I am come, by ordainment of the Lord Prior, to receive certain commands of my Lord Duke touching a book that he desireth to have written and ourned (ornamented) with painting in the Priory,” said Wilfred in his quiet manner. “But what aileth yonder young master?—for he seemeth me in trouble.”What ailed poor Hugh was soon told; and Wilfred, after a critical look at him, went up and spoke to him.“So thou hast a quarrel with God, my son?”“Nay! Who may quarrel with God?” answered Hugh drearily.“Only men and devils,” said Wilfred. “Such as be God’s enemies be alway quarrelling with Him; but such as be His own dear children—should they so?”“Dealeth He thus with His children?” was the bitter answer.“Ay, oftentimes; so oft, that He aredeth (tells) us, that they which be alway out of chastising be no sons of His.”Hugh could take no comfort. “You know not what it is!” he said, with the impatience of pain.“Know I not?” said Wilfred, very tenderly, laying his hand upon Hugh’s shoulder. “Youngling, my father fell in fight with the Saracens, and my mother—my blessed mother—was brent for Christ’s sake at Cologne.”Hugh looked up at last. The words, the tone, the fellowship of suffering, touched the wrung heart through its own sorrow.“You know, then!” he said, his voice softer and less bitter.“‘Bithenke ghe on him that suffride such aghenseiynge of synful men aghens himsilff, that ghe be not maad weri, failynge in ghoure soulis.’ Bethink ye: the which signifieth, meditate on Him, arm ye with His patience. Look on Him, and look to Him.”Bertram stared in astonishment. The cautious scriptorius, who never broke bread with Wycliffe, and declined to decide upon his great or small position, was quoting his Bible word for word.Hugh looked up in Wilfred’s face, with the expression of one who had at last found somebody to understand him.“Father,” he said, “did you ever doubt ofeverything?”“Ay,” said Wilfred, quietly.“Even of God’s love? yea, even of God?”“Ay.”Bertram was horrified to hear such words. And from Hugh, of all people! But Wilfred, to his surprise, took them as quietly as if Hugh had been repeating the Creed.“And what was your remedy?”“I know but one remedy for all manner of doubt, and travail, and sorrow, Master; and that is to take them unto Christ.”“Yet how so,” asked Hugh, heaving a deep sigh, “when we cannot see Christ to take them to Him?”“I know not that your seeing matters, Master, so that He seeth. And when your doubts come in and vex you, do you but call upon Him with a true heart, desiring to find Him, and He will soon show you that He is. Ah!” and Wilfred’s eyes lighted up, “the solving of all riddles touching Christ’s being, is only to talk with Christ.”Bertram could not see that Wilfred had offered Hugh the faintest shadow of comfort; but in some manner inexplicable to him, Hugh seemed comforted thenceforward.There was a great stir at Langley in the April of 1389; for the King and Queen stayed there a night on their way to Westminster. Maude was in the highest excitement: she had never seen a live King before, and she expected a formidable creature of the lion-rampant type, who would order every body about in the most tyrannical manner, and command Master Warine to be instantly hanged if dinner were not punctual. She saw a very handsome young man of three and twenty years of age, dressed in a much quieter style than any of his suite; of the gentlest manners, a model of courtesy even to the meanest, delicately considerate of every one but himself, and especially and tenderly careful of that darling wife who was the only true friend he had left. Ever after that day, the faintest disparagement of her King would have met with no reception from Maude short of burning indignation.King Richard recovered his power by acoup d’état, on the 3rd of May, 1389. He suddenly dissolved and reconstituted his Council, leaving out the traitor Lords Appellants. It was done at the first moment when he had the power to do it. But a year and a half later, Gloucester crept in again, a professedly reformed penitent; and from the hour that he did so, Richard was King no longer.During all this struggle the Duke of York had kept extremely quiet. The King marked his sense of his uncle’s allegiance by creating his son Edward Earl of Rutland. Perhaps, after all, Isabel had more power over her husband than he cared to allow; for when her gentle influence was removed, his conduct altered for the worse. But a stronger influence was at work on him; for his brother of Lancaster had come home; and though Gloucester moulded York at his will when Lancaster was absent, yet in his presence he was powerless. So peace reigned for a time.And meanwhile, what was passing in the domestic circle at Langley?In the first place, Maude had once more changed her position. From the lower-place of tire-woman, or dresser, to the Duchess, she was now promoted to be bower-maiden to the Lady Constance. This meant that she was henceforth to be her young mistress’s constant companion and habitual confidant. She was to sleep on a pallet in her room, to go wherever she went, to be entrusted with the care alike of her jewels and her secrets, and to do everything for her which required the highest responsibility and caution.In the second place, both Constance and Maude were no longer children, but women. The Princess was now eighteen years of age, while her bower-maiden had reached twenty.And in the third place, over the calm horizon of Langley had appeared a little cloud, as yet no more than “a man’s hand,” which was destined in its effects to change the whole current of life there. No one about her had in the least realised it as yet; but the Duchess Isabel was dying.Very gently and slowly, at a rate which alarmed not even her physician, the Lollard Infanta descended to the portals of the grave. She knew herself whither she was going before any other eyes perceived it; and noiselessly she set her house in order. She executed her last will in terms which show that she died a Gospeller, as distinctly as if she had written it at the outset; she left bequests to her friends—“a fret of pearls to her dear daughter, Constance Le Despenser;” she named two of the most eminent Lollards living (Sir Lewis Clifford and Sir Richard Stury) as her executors; she showed that she retained, like the majority of the Lollards, a belief in Purgatory, by one bequest for masses to be sung for her soul; and lastly—a very Protestant item when considered with the rest—she desired to be interred, not by the shrine of any saint or martyr, but “whithersoever her Lord should appoint.”The priests said that she died “very penitent.” But for what? For her early follies and sins, no doubt she did. But of course they wished it to be understood that it was for her Wycliffite heresies.It was about the beginning of February, 1393, that the Duchess died. Her husband never awoke fully to his irreparable loss until long after he had lost her. But he held her memory in honour at her burial, with a gentle respect which showed some faint sense of it. The cemetery which he selected for her resting-place was that nearest her home—the Priory Church of Langley. There the dust slept quietly; and the soul which had never nestled down on earth, found its first and final home in Heaven.It might not unreasonably have been expected that Constance, now left the only woman of her family, would have remembered that there was another family to which she also belonged, and a far-off individual who stood to her in the nominal relation of husband. But it did not please her Ladyship to remember any such thing. She liked queening it in her father’s palace; and she did not like the prospect of yielding precedence to her mother-in-law, which would have been a necessity of her married life. As to the Lord Le Despenser, she was absolutely indifferent to him. Her childish feeling of contempt had not been replaced by any kindlier one. It was not that she disliked him: she cared too little about him even to hate him. When the thought of going to Cardiff crossed her mind, which was not often, it was always associated with the old Lady Le Despenser, not at all with the young Lord.Now and then the husband and wife met for a few minutes. The Lord Le Despenser had grown into a handsome and most graceful gentleman, of accomplished manners and noble bearing. When they thus met, they greeted each other with formal reverences; the Baron kissed the hand of the Princess; each hoped the other was well; they exchanged a few remarks on the prominent topics of the day, and then took leave with equal ceremony, and saw no more of one another for some months.The Lady Le Despenser, it must be admitted, was not the woman calculated to attract such a nature as that of Constance. She was a Lollard, by birth no less than by marriage; but in her creed she was an ascetic of the sternest and most unbending type. In her judgment a laugh was indecorum, and smelling a rose was indulgence of the flesh. Her behaviour to her royal daughter-in-law was marked by the utmost outward deference, yet she never failed to leave the impression on Constance’s mind that she regarded her as an outsider and a reprobate. Moreover, the Lady Le Despenser had some singular notions on the subject of love. Fortunately for her children, her heart was larger than her creed, and often overstepped the bounds assigned; but her theory was that human affections should be kept made up in labelled parcels, so much and no more to be allowed in each case. Favouritism was idolatry affectionate words were foolish condescensions to the flesh; while loving caresses savoured altogether of the evil one.Now Constance liked dearly both to pet and to be petted. She loved, as she hated, intensely. The calm, sedate personal regard, in consideration of the meritorious qualities of the individual in question, which the Lady Le Despenser termed love, was not love at all in the eyes of Constance. The Dowager, moreover, was cool and deliberate; she objected to impulses, and after her calm fashion disliked impulsive people, whom she thought were not to be trusted. And Constance was all impulse. The squeaking of a mouse would have called forth gestures and ejaculations from the one, which the other would have deemed too extreme to be appropriate to an earthquake.The Lord Le Despenser was the last of his mother’s three sons—the youngest-born, and the only survivor; and she loved him in reality far more than she would have been willing to allow, and to an extent which she would have deemed iniquitous idolatry in any other woman. In character he resembled her but slightly. The narrow-mindedness and obstinacy inherent in her family—for no Burghersh was ever known to see more than one side of any thing—was softened and modified in him into firmness and fidelity. His heart was large enough to hold a deep reservoir of love, but not so wide at its exit as to allow the stream to flow forth in all directions at once. If this be narrow-mindedness, then he was narrow-minded. But he was loyal to the heart’s core, faithful unto death, true in every fibre of his being. “He loved one only, and he clave to her,” and there was room in his heart for none other.The Dowager had several times hinted to the Duke of York that she considered it high time that Constance should take up her residence at Cardiff, for she was a firm believer in “the eternal fitness of things,” and while too much love was in her eyes deeply reprehensible, a proper quantity of matrimony, at a suitable age, was a highly respectable thing, and a state into which every man and woman ought to enter, with due prudence and decorum. And as a wife married in childhood was usually resigned to her husband at an age some years earlier than Constance had now attained, the Dowager was scandalised by her persistent absence. The Duke, who recognised in his daughter a more self-reliant character than his own, and was therefore afraid of her, had passed over the intimation, accompanied with a request that she would do as she liked about it. That Constance would do as she liked her father well knew; and she did it. She stayed at home, the Queen of Langley, where no oppressive pseudo-maternal atmosphere interfered with her perfect freedom.But in the October following the death of her mother, a thunderbolt fell at Constance’s feet, which eventually drove her to Cardiff.The Duke was from home, and, as everybody supposed, at Court. He was really in mischief; for mischief it proved, to himself and all his family. Late one evening a courier reached Langley, where in her bower Constance was disrobing for the night, and Maude was combing out her mistress’s long light hair. A sudden application for admission, in itself an unusual event at that hour, brought Maude to the door, where Dona Juana, pale and excited, besought immediate audience of her Señorita.The Princess, without looking back, desired her to come forward.“Señorita, my Lord’s courier, Rodrigo, is arrived hither from Brockenhurst, and he bringeth his Lord’s bidding that we make ready his Grace’s chamber for to-morrow.”“From Brockenhurst! Well, what further?”“And likewiseherGrace’s chamber—whom Jesu pardon!—for the Lady newly-espoused that cometh with my Lord.”“Mary Mother!” exclaimed Maude, dropping the silver comb in her sudden surprise.Constance had sprung up from her seat with such quick abruptness that the chair, though no light one, fell to the ground behind her.“Say that again!” she commanded, in a hard, steel-like voice; and, in a more excited tone than ever, Dona Juana repeated her unwelcome tidings.“So I must needs have a mistress over me! Who is she?”“From all that Rodrigo heard, Señorita, he counteth that it should be the Lady Joan de Holand, sister unto my Lord of Kent and my Lady of March. She is, saith he, of a rare beauty, and of most royal presence.”“Royal presence, quotha!—and a small child of ten years!” cried the indignant girl of nineteen. “Marry, I guess wherefore he told me not aforetime. He was afeard of me.”She pressed her lips together till they looked like a crimson thread, and a bright spot of anger burned on either cheek. But all at once her usual expression returned, and she resumed her seat quietly enough on the chair which Maude had mechanically restored to its place.“Go, Dona Juana, and bid the chambers be prepared, as is meet. But no garnishing of the chambers of my heart shall be for this wedding. Make an end, Maude. ‘A thing done cannot be undone.’ I will abide and see this small damsel’s conditions (disposition); but my heart misgiveth me if it were not better dwelling with my Lord Le Despenser than with her.”Maude obeyed, feeling rather sorry for the Lord Le Despenser, whose loving spouse seemed to regard him as the less of two evils.The new Duchess proved to be, like most of the Holands, very tall and extremely fair. No one would have supposed her to be only ten years old, and her proud, demure, unbashful bearing helped to make her look older than she was. The whole current of life at Langley changed with her coming. From morning to night every day was filled with feasts, junkets, hawking parties, picnics, joustings, and dances. The Duke was devoted to her, und fulfilled, if he did not anticipate, her every wish. Her youthful Grace was entirely devoid of shyness, and she made a point of letting Constance feel her inferiority by addressing her on every occasion as “Fair Daughter.” She also ordered a much stricter observance of etiquette than had been usual during the life of the Infanta, whose rule, Spaniard though she was, had been rather lax in this particular. The stiff manners commonly expected from girls towards their mothers had only hitherto been exacted from Constance upon state occasions. But the new Duchess quickly let it be understood that she required them to the smallest detail. She was particular that her step-daughter’s chair should not be set one inch further under the canopy than was precisely proper; her fur trimmings must be carefully regulated, so as not to equal those of the Duchess in breadth; instead of the old home name of “the Lady Custance,” she must be styled “the Lady Le Despenser;” and the Duchess strongly objected to her using such vulgar nicknames as “Ned” and “Dickon,” desiring that she would in future address her brothers properly as “my Lord.” Angrily the royal lioness chafed against this tyranny. Many a time Maude noticed the flush of annoyance which rose to her lady’s cheek, and the tremor of her lip, as if she could with difficulty restrain herself from wrathful words. It evidently vexed her to be given her married name; but the interference with the pet name of the pet brother was what she felt most bitterly of all. And Maude began to wonder how long it would last.It was a calm, mild evening in January, 1394, and in the Princess’s bower, or bedroom, stood Maude, re-arranging a portion of her lady’s wardrobe. The Duchess had been that day more than usually exacting and precise, much to the amusement of Bertram Lyngern, at present at Langley in the train of his master. The door of Constance’s bower was suddenly opened and dashed to again, and the Princess herself entered, and began pacing up and down the room like a chafed lioness—a habit of all the Plantagenets when in a passion. She stopped a minute opposite Maude, and said in a determined voice:“Make ready for Cardiff!”And she resumed her angry march.In this manner the Lady Le Despenser intimated her condescending intention of fulfilling her matrimonial duties at last. Maude knew her too well to reply by anything beyond a respectful indication of obedience. Constance only gave her one day to prepare. The next morning but one the whole train of the Lady Le Despenser set forth on their eventful journey.

“Now is done thy long day’s work;Fold thy palms across thy breast,Fold thine arms, turn to thy rest,Let them rave.”Tennyson.

“Now is done thy long day’s work;Fold thy palms across thy breast,Fold thine arms, turn to thy rest,Let them rave.”Tennyson.

The Earl and Countess were away from home, during the whole spring of the next year; but Constance stayed at Langley, and so did Alvena and Maude. There was a grand gala day in the following August, when the Lord of Langley was raised from the dignity of Earl of Cambridge to the higher title of Duke of York: but three days later, the cloth of gold was changed for mourning serge. A royal courier, on his way from Reading to London, stayed a few hours at Langley; and he brought word that the mother of the King, “the Lady Princess,” was lying dead at Wallingford.

The blow was in reality far heavier than it appeared on the surface, and to the infant Church of the Lollards the loss was irreparable. For the Princess was a Lollard; and being a woman of most able and energetic character, she had been until now thede factoQueen of England. She must have been possessed of consummate tact and prudence, for she contrived to live on excellent terms with half-a-dozen people of completely incompatible tempers. When the reins dropped from her dead hand a struggle ensued among these incompatible persons, who should pick them up. The struggle was sharp, but short. The elder brothers retired from the contest, and the reins were left in the Duke of Gloucester’s hand. And woe to the infant Church of the Lollards, when Gloucester held the reins!

He began his reign—for henceforward he was virtually King—by buying over his brother of York. Edmund, already the passive servant of Gloucester, was bribed to active adherence by a grant of a thousand pounds. The Duke of Lancaster, who was not his brother’s tool, was quietly disposed of for the moment, by making him so exceedingly uncomfortable, that with the miserablelaisser-aller, which was the bane of his fine character, he went home to enjoy himself as a country gentleman, leaving politics to take care of themselves.

But an incident happened which disconcerted for a moment the plans of the Regent. The young King, without consulting his powerful uncle, declared his second cousin, Roger Mortimer, Earl of March, heir presumptive of England, and—in obedience to a previous suggestion of the Princess—broke off March’s engagement with a lady of the Arundel family, and married him to Richard’s own niece, the Lady Alianora de Holand.

The annoyance to Gloucester, consisted in two points: first, that it recognised female inheritance and representation, which put him a good deal further from the throne; and secondly, that Roger Mortimer, owing to the education received from his Montacute grandmother, had stepped out of his family ranks, and was the sole Lollard ever known in the House of March.

Gloucester carried his trouble to his confessor. The appointed heir to the throne a Lollard!—nor only that, but married to a grand-daughter of the Lollard Princess, a niece of the semi-Lollard King! What was to be done to save England to Catholicism?

Sir Thomas de Arundel laughed a low, quiet laugh in answer.

“What matters all that, my Lord? Is not Alianora my sister’s daughter? The lad is young, yielding, lazy, and lusty (self-indulgent, pleasure-loving.) Leave all to me.”

Arundel saw further than the Princess had done.

And Gloucester was Arundel’s slave. Item by item he worked the will of his master, and no one suspected for a moment whither those acts were tending. The obnoxious, politically-Lollard Duke of Lancaster was shunted out of the way, by being induced to undertake a voyage to Castilla for the recovery of the inheritance of his wife Constanca and her sister Isabel; a statute was passed conferring plenipotentiary powers on “our dearest uncle of Gloucester;” all vacant offices under the Crown were filled with orthodox nominees of the Regent; the Lollard Earl of Suffolk was impeached; a secret meeting was held at Huntingdon, when Gloucester and four other nobles solemnly renounced their allegiance to the King, and declared themselves at liberty to do what was right in their own eyes. The other four (of whom we shall hear again) were Henry Earl of Derby, son of the Duke of Lancaster; Richard Earl of Arundel, brother of Gloucester’s confessor; Thomas Earl of Nottingham his brother-in-law; and Thomas Earl of Warwick, a weak waverer, the least guilty of the evil five. The conspirators conferred upon themselves the grand title of “the Lords Appellants;” and to divert from themselves and their doings the public mind, they amused that innocent, unsuspecting creature by a splendid tournament in Smithfield.

Of one fact, as we follow their track, we must never lose sight:—that behind these visible five, securely hidden, stood the invisible one, Sir Thomas de Arundel, setting all these puppets in motion according to his pleasure, and for “the good of the Church;” working on the insufferable pride of Gloucester, the baffled ambition of Derby, the arrogant rashness of Arundel, the vain, time-serving nature of Nottingham, and the weak fears of Warwick. Did he think he was doing God service? Did he ever care to think of God at all?

The further career of the Lords Appellants must be told as shortly as possible, but without some account of it much of the remainder of my story will be unintelligible. They drew a cordon of forty thousand men round London, capturing the King like a bird taken in a net; granted to themselves, for their own purposes, twenty thousand pounds out of the royal revenues; met and utterly routed a little band raised by the Duke of Ireland with the object of rescuing the sovereign from their power; impeached those members of the Council who were loyalists and Lollards; plotted to murder the King and the whole Council, which included near blood relations of their own; prohibited the possession of any of Wycliffe’s books under severe penalties; murdered three, and banished two, of the five faithful friends of the King left in the Council. The Church stood to them above all human ties; and Sir Thomas de Arundel was ready to say “Absolvo te” to every one of them.

This reign of terror is known as the session of the Merciless Parliament, and it closed with the cruel mockery of a renewal of the oath of allegiance to the hapless and helpless King. Then Gloucester proceeded to distribute his rewards. The archbishopric of York was conferred on Sir Thomas de Arundel, and Gloucester appropriated as his own share of the rich spoil, the vast estates of the banished Duke of Ireland.

And then the traitor, robber, and murderer, knelt down at the feet of Archbishop Arundel, and heard—from man’s lips—“Thy sins are forgiven thee”—but not “Go, and sin no more.”

“Master Calverley, you? God have mercy! what aileth you?”

For Hugh Calverley stood at one of the hall windows of Langley Palace, on the brightest of May mornings, in the year 1388, his face hidden in his hands, and his whole mien and aspect bearing the traces of sudden and intense anguish.

“God had no mercy, Mistress Maude!” he wailed under his voice. “We had no friend save Him, and He was silent to us. He cared nought for us—He left us alone in the uttermost hour of our woe.”

“Nay, sweet Hugh! it was men, not God!” said Bertram’s voice soothingly behind them.

“He gave them leave,” replied Hugh in an agonised tone.

It was the old reproachful cry, “Lord, carest thou not that we perish?” but Maude could not understand it at all. That cry, when it rises within the fold, is sometimes a triumph, and always a mystery, to those that are without. “You believe yourselves even now as safe as the angels, and shortly to be as happy, and you complain thus!” True; but we are not angels yet. Poor weak, suffering humanity is always rebellious, without an accompanying unction from the Holy One. But it is not good for us to forget that such moods are rebellion, and that they often cause the enemies of the Lord to blaspheme.

Bertram quietly drew Maude aside into the next window.

“Let the poor fellow be!” he said compassionately. “Alack, ’tis no marvel. These traitor loons have hanged his father. And never, methinks, did son love father more.”

“Master Calverley’s father!—the Queen’s squire?”

“He. And look you, Maude,—heard man ever the like! the Queen’s own Grace was on her knees three hours unto my Lord of Arundel, praying him to spare Master Calverley’s life. Think of it, Maude!—Caesar’s daughter!”

“Mercy, Jesu!”—Maude could imagine nothing more frightful. It seemed to her equivalent to the whole world tumbling into chaos. What was to become of “slender folk,” such as Bertram and herself, when men breathed who could hear unmoved the pleadings of “Caesar’s daughter?”

“But what said he?”

“Who—my Lord of Arundel? The unpiteous, traitorous, hang-dog lither oaf!” Bertram would apparently have chosen more opprobrious words if they would kindly have occurred to him. “Why, he said—‘Pray for yourself and your lord, Lady, and let this be; it were the better for you.’ The great Devil, to whom he ’longeth, behisaid in the like case!”

“Truly, he may be in the like case one day,” said Maude.

“And that were at undern (Eleven o’clock a.m.) this morrow, an’ I were King!” cried Bertram wrathfully.

“But what had Master Calverley done?” Bertram dared only whisper the name of the horrible crime of which alone poor Calverley stood accused. “He was a Lollard—a Gospeller.”

“Be they such ill fawtors?” asked Maude in a shocked tone.

“Judge for yourself what manner of men they be,” said Bertram indignantly, “when the King’s Highness and the Queen, and our own Lady’s Grace, and the Lady Princess that was, and the Duke of Lancaster, be of them. Ay, and many another could I name beyond these.”

“I will never crede any ill of our Lady’s Grace!” said Maude warmly.

“Good morrow, Bertram, my son,” said a voice behind them—a voice strange to Maude, but familiar to Bertram.

“Father Wilfred! Christ save you, right heartily! You be here in the nick of time. You are come—”

“I am come, by ordainment of the Lord Prior, to receive certain commands of my Lord Duke touching a book that he desireth to have written and ourned (ornamented) with painting in the Priory,” said Wilfred in his quiet manner. “But what aileth yonder young master?—for he seemeth me in trouble.”

What ailed poor Hugh was soon told; and Wilfred, after a critical look at him, went up and spoke to him.

“So thou hast a quarrel with God, my son?”

“Nay! Who may quarrel with God?” answered Hugh drearily.

“Only men and devils,” said Wilfred. “Such as be God’s enemies be alway quarrelling with Him; but such as be His own dear children—should they so?”

“Dealeth He thus with His children?” was the bitter answer.

“Ay, oftentimes; so oft, that He aredeth (tells) us, that they which be alway out of chastising be no sons of His.”

Hugh could take no comfort. “You know not what it is!” he said, with the impatience of pain.

“Know I not?” said Wilfred, very tenderly, laying his hand upon Hugh’s shoulder. “Youngling, my father fell in fight with the Saracens, and my mother—my blessed mother—was brent for Christ’s sake at Cologne.”

Hugh looked up at last. The words, the tone, the fellowship of suffering, touched the wrung heart through its own sorrow.

“You know, then!” he said, his voice softer and less bitter.

“‘Bithenke ghe on him that suffride such aghenseiynge of synful men aghens himsilff, that ghe be not maad weri, failynge in ghoure soulis.’ Bethink ye: the which signifieth, meditate on Him, arm ye with His patience. Look on Him, and look to Him.”

Bertram stared in astonishment. The cautious scriptorius, who never broke bread with Wycliffe, and declined to decide upon his great or small position, was quoting his Bible word for word.

Hugh looked up in Wilfred’s face, with the expression of one who had at last found somebody to understand him.

“Father,” he said, “did you ever doubt ofeverything?”

“Ay,” said Wilfred, quietly.

“Even of God’s love? yea, even of God?”

“Ay.”

Bertram was horrified to hear such words. And from Hugh, of all people! But Wilfred, to his surprise, took them as quietly as if Hugh had been repeating the Creed.

“And what was your remedy?”

“I know but one remedy for all manner of doubt, and travail, and sorrow, Master; and that is to take them unto Christ.”

“Yet how so,” asked Hugh, heaving a deep sigh, “when we cannot see Christ to take them to Him?”

“I know not that your seeing matters, Master, so that He seeth. And when your doubts come in and vex you, do you but call upon Him with a true heart, desiring to find Him, and He will soon show you that He is. Ah!” and Wilfred’s eyes lighted up, “the solving of all riddles touching Christ’s being, is only to talk with Christ.”

Bertram could not see that Wilfred had offered Hugh the faintest shadow of comfort; but in some manner inexplicable to him, Hugh seemed comforted thenceforward.

There was a great stir at Langley in the April of 1389; for the King and Queen stayed there a night on their way to Westminster. Maude was in the highest excitement: she had never seen a live King before, and she expected a formidable creature of the lion-rampant type, who would order every body about in the most tyrannical manner, and command Master Warine to be instantly hanged if dinner were not punctual. She saw a very handsome young man of three and twenty years of age, dressed in a much quieter style than any of his suite; of the gentlest manners, a model of courtesy even to the meanest, delicately considerate of every one but himself, and especially and tenderly careful of that darling wife who was the only true friend he had left. Ever after that day, the faintest disparagement of her King would have met with no reception from Maude short of burning indignation.

King Richard recovered his power by acoup d’état, on the 3rd of May, 1389. He suddenly dissolved and reconstituted his Council, leaving out the traitor Lords Appellants. It was done at the first moment when he had the power to do it. But a year and a half later, Gloucester crept in again, a professedly reformed penitent; and from the hour that he did so, Richard was King no longer.

During all this struggle the Duke of York had kept extremely quiet. The King marked his sense of his uncle’s allegiance by creating his son Edward Earl of Rutland. Perhaps, after all, Isabel had more power over her husband than he cared to allow; for when her gentle influence was removed, his conduct altered for the worse. But a stronger influence was at work on him; for his brother of Lancaster had come home; and though Gloucester moulded York at his will when Lancaster was absent, yet in his presence he was powerless. So peace reigned for a time.

And meanwhile, what was passing in the domestic circle at Langley?

In the first place, Maude had once more changed her position. From the lower-place of tire-woman, or dresser, to the Duchess, she was now promoted to be bower-maiden to the Lady Constance. This meant that she was henceforth to be her young mistress’s constant companion and habitual confidant. She was to sleep on a pallet in her room, to go wherever she went, to be entrusted with the care alike of her jewels and her secrets, and to do everything for her which required the highest responsibility and caution.

In the second place, both Constance and Maude were no longer children, but women. The Princess was now eighteen years of age, while her bower-maiden had reached twenty.

And in the third place, over the calm horizon of Langley had appeared a little cloud, as yet no more than “a man’s hand,” which was destined in its effects to change the whole current of life there. No one about her had in the least realised it as yet; but the Duchess Isabel was dying.

Very gently and slowly, at a rate which alarmed not even her physician, the Lollard Infanta descended to the portals of the grave. She knew herself whither she was going before any other eyes perceived it; and noiselessly she set her house in order. She executed her last will in terms which show that she died a Gospeller, as distinctly as if she had written it at the outset; she left bequests to her friends—“a fret of pearls to her dear daughter, Constance Le Despenser;” she named two of the most eminent Lollards living (Sir Lewis Clifford and Sir Richard Stury) as her executors; she showed that she retained, like the majority of the Lollards, a belief in Purgatory, by one bequest for masses to be sung for her soul; and lastly—a very Protestant item when considered with the rest—she desired to be interred, not by the shrine of any saint or martyr, but “whithersoever her Lord should appoint.”

The priests said that she died “very penitent.” But for what? For her early follies and sins, no doubt she did. But of course they wished it to be understood that it was for her Wycliffite heresies.

It was about the beginning of February, 1393, that the Duchess died. Her husband never awoke fully to his irreparable loss until long after he had lost her. But he held her memory in honour at her burial, with a gentle respect which showed some faint sense of it. The cemetery which he selected for her resting-place was that nearest her home—the Priory Church of Langley. There the dust slept quietly; and the soul which had never nestled down on earth, found its first and final home in Heaven.

It might not unreasonably have been expected that Constance, now left the only woman of her family, would have remembered that there was another family to which she also belonged, and a far-off individual who stood to her in the nominal relation of husband. But it did not please her Ladyship to remember any such thing. She liked queening it in her father’s palace; and she did not like the prospect of yielding precedence to her mother-in-law, which would have been a necessity of her married life. As to the Lord Le Despenser, she was absolutely indifferent to him. Her childish feeling of contempt had not been replaced by any kindlier one. It was not that she disliked him: she cared too little about him even to hate him. When the thought of going to Cardiff crossed her mind, which was not often, it was always associated with the old Lady Le Despenser, not at all with the young Lord.

Now and then the husband and wife met for a few minutes. The Lord Le Despenser had grown into a handsome and most graceful gentleman, of accomplished manners and noble bearing. When they thus met, they greeted each other with formal reverences; the Baron kissed the hand of the Princess; each hoped the other was well; they exchanged a few remarks on the prominent topics of the day, and then took leave with equal ceremony, and saw no more of one another for some months.

The Lady Le Despenser, it must be admitted, was not the woman calculated to attract such a nature as that of Constance. She was a Lollard, by birth no less than by marriage; but in her creed she was an ascetic of the sternest and most unbending type. In her judgment a laugh was indecorum, and smelling a rose was indulgence of the flesh. Her behaviour to her royal daughter-in-law was marked by the utmost outward deference, yet she never failed to leave the impression on Constance’s mind that she regarded her as an outsider and a reprobate. Moreover, the Lady Le Despenser had some singular notions on the subject of love. Fortunately for her children, her heart was larger than her creed, and often overstepped the bounds assigned; but her theory was that human affections should be kept made up in labelled parcels, so much and no more to be allowed in each case. Favouritism was idolatry affectionate words were foolish condescensions to the flesh; while loving caresses savoured altogether of the evil one.

Now Constance liked dearly both to pet and to be petted. She loved, as she hated, intensely. The calm, sedate personal regard, in consideration of the meritorious qualities of the individual in question, which the Lady Le Despenser termed love, was not love at all in the eyes of Constance. The Dowager, moreover, was cool and deliberate; she objected to impulses, and after her calm fashion disliked impulsive people, whom she thought were not to be trusted. And Constance was all impulse. The squeaking of a mouse would have called forth gestures and ejaculations from the one, which the other would have deemed too extreme to be appropriate to an earthquake.

The Lord Le Despenser was the last of his mother’s three sons—the youngest-born, and the only survivor; and she loved him in reality far more than she would have been willing to allow, and to an extent which she would have deemed iniquitous idolatry in any other woman. In character he resembled her but slightly. The narrow-mindedness and obstinacy inherent in her family—for no Burghersh was ever known to see more than one side of any thing—was softened and modified in him into firmness and fidelity. His heart was large enough to hold a deep reservoir of love, but not so wide at its exit as to allow the stream to flow forth in all directions at once. If this be narrow-mindedness, then he was narrow-minded. But he was loyal to the heart’s core, faithful unto death, true in every fibre of his being. “He loved one only, and he clave to her,” and there was room in his heart for none other.

The Dowager had several times hinted to the Duke of York that she considered it high time that Constance should take up her residence at Cardiff, for she was a firm believer in “the eternal fitness of things,” and while too much love was in her eyes deeply reprehensible, a proper quantity of matrimony, at a suitable age, was a highly respectable thing, and a state into which every man and woman ought to enter, with due prudence and decorum. And as a wife married in childhood was usually resigned to her husband at an age some years earlier than Constance had now attained, the Dowager was scandalised by her persistent absence. The Duke, who recognised in his daughter a more self-reliant character than his own, and was therefore afraid of her, had passed over the intimation, accompanied with a request that she would do as she liked about it. That Constance would do as she liked her father well knew; and she did it. She stayed at home, the Queen of Langley, where no oppressive pseudo-maternal atmosphere interfered with her perfect freedom.

But in the October following the death of her mother, a thunderbolt fell at Constance’s feet, which eventually drove her to Cardiff.

The Duke was from home, and, as everybody supposed, at Court. He was really in mischief; for mischief it proved, to himself and all his family. Late one evening a courier reached Langley, where in her bower Constance was disrobing for the night, and Maude was combing out her mistress’s long light hair. A sudden application for admission, in itself an unusual event at that hour, brought Maude to the door, where Dona Juana, pale and excited, besought immediate audience of her Señorita.

The Princess, without looking back, desired her to come forward.

“Señorita, my Lord’s courier, Rodrigo, is arrived hither from Brockenhurst, and he bringeth his Lord’s bidding that we make ready his Grace’s chamber for to-morrow.”

“From Brockenhurst! Well, what further?”

“And likewiseherGrace’s chamber—whom Jesu pardon!—for the Lady newly-espoused that cometh with my Lord.”

“Mary Mother!” exclaimed Maude, dropping the silver comb in her sudden surprise.

Constance had sprung up from her seat with such quick abruptness that the chair, though no light one, fell to the ground behind her.

“Say that again!” she commanded, in a hard, steel-like voice; and, in a more excited tone than ever, Dona Juana repeated her unwelcome tidings.

“So I must needs have a mistress over me! Who is she?”

“From all that Rodrigo heard, Señorita, he counteth that it should be the Lady Joan de Holand, sister unto my Lord of Kent and my Lady of March. She is, saith he, of a rare beauty, and of most royal presence.”

“Royal presence, quotha!—and a small child of ten years!” cried the indignant girl of nineteen. “Marry, I guess wherefore he told me not aforetime. He was afeard of me.”

She pressed her lips together till they looked like a crimson thread, and a bright spot of anger burned on either cheek. But all at once her usual expression returned, and she resumed her seat quietly enough on the chair which Maude had mechanically restored to its place.

“Go, Dona Juana, and bid the chambers be prepared, as is meet. But no garnishing of the chambers of my heart shall be for this wedding. Make an end, Maude. ‘A thing done cannot be undone.’ I will abide and see this small damsel’s conditions (disposition); but my heart misgiveth me if it were not better dwelling with my Lord Le Despenser than with her.”

Maude obeyed, feeling rather sorry for the Lord Le Despenser, whose loving spouse seemed to regard him as the less of two evils.

The new Duchess proved to be, like most of the Holands, very tall and extremely fair. No one would have supposed her to be only ten years old, and her proud, demure, unbashful bearing helped to make her look older than she was. The whole current of life at Langley changed with her coming. From morning to night every day was filled with feasts, junkets, hawking parties, picnics, joustings, and dances. The Duke was devoted to her, und fulfilled, if he did not anticipate, her every wish. Her youthful Grace was entirely devoid of shyness, and she made a point of letting Constance feel her inferiority by addressing her on every occasion as “Fair Daughter.” She also ordered a much stricter observance of etiquette than had been usual during the life of the Infanta, whose rule, Spaniard though she was, had been rather lax in this particular. The stiff manners commonly expected from girls towards their mothers had only hitherto been exacted from Constance upon state occasions. But the new Duchess quickly let it be understood that she required them to the smallest detail. She was particular that her step-daughter’s chair should not be set one inch further under the canopy than was precisely proper; her fur trimmings must be carefully regulated, so as not to equal those of the Duchess in breadth; instead of the old home name of “the Lady Custance,” she must be styled “the Lady Le Despenser;” and the Duchess strongly objected to her using such vulgar nicknames as “Ned” and “Dickon,” desiring that she would in future address her brothers properly as “my Lord.” Angrily the royal lioness chafed against this tyranny. Many a time Maude noticed the flush of annoyance which rose to her lady’s cheek, and the tremor of her lip, as if she could with difficulty restrain herself from wrathful words. It evidently vexed her to be given her married name; but the interference with the pet name of the pet brother was what she felt most bitterly of all. And Maude began to wonder how long it would last.

It was a calm, mild evening in January, 1394, and in the Princess’s bower, or bedroom, stood Maude, re-arranging a portion of her lady’s wardrobe. The Duchess had been that day more than usually exacting and precise, much to the amusement of Bertram Lyngern, at present at Langley in the train of his master. The door of Constance’s bower was suddenly opened and dashed to again, and the Princess herself entered, and began pacing up and down the room like a chafed lioness—a habit of all the Plantagenets when in a passion. She stopped a minute opposite Maude, and said in a determined voice:

“Make ready for Cardiff!”

And she resumed her angry march.

In this manner the Lady Le Despenser intimated her condescending intention of fulfilling her matrimonial duties at last. Maude knew her too well to reply by anything beyond a respectful indication of obedience. Constance only gave her one day to prepare. The next morning but one the whole train of the Lady Le Despenser set forth on their eventful journey.

Chapter Six.True Gold and False.“Woe be to fearful hearts and faint hands, and the sinner that goeth two ways!”—Ecclus. two 12.Whatever may have been the feeling which possessed the mind of Constance on her departure from Langley, the incident was felt by Maude as a wrench and an uprooting, surpassing any previous incident of her life since leaving Pleshy. The old house itself had come to feel like a mute friend; the people left behind were acquaintances of many years; the ground was all familiar. She was going now once more into a new world, to new acquaintances, new scenes, new incidents. The journey over land was in itself very pleasant. But the journey over sea from Bristol was so exceedingly unpleasant, that poor Maude found herself acquainted with a degree of physical misery which until then she had never imagined to exist. And when at last the great, grim, square towers of the Castle of Cardiff, which was to be her new home, rose before her eyes, she thought them absolutely lovely—because they wereterra firma. It can only be ascribed to her unusual haste on the one hand, or to her usual caprice on the other, that it had not pleased the Lady of Cardiff to give any notice of her approach. Of course nobody expected her; and when her trumpeter sounded his blast outside the moat, the warder looked forth in some surprise. It was late in the evening for a guest to arrive.“Who goeth yonder?”“The Lady and her train.”“Saint Taffy and Saint Guenhyfar!” said the warder.“Put forth the bridge!” roared the trumpeter.“It had peen better to send word,” calmly returned the warder.“Send word to thy Lord, thou lither oaf!” cried the irate trumpeter, “and see whether it liketh him to keep the Lady awaiting hither on an even in January, while thou pratest in chopped English!”Thereupon arose a passage of arms between the two affronted persons of diverse nationalities, which was terminated by Constance, with one of her sudden impulses, riding forward to the front, and taking the business on herself.“Sir Warder,” she said—with that exquisite grace and lofty courtesy which was natural to every Plantagenet, be the other features of his character what they might,—“I am your Lady, and I pray you to notify unto your Lord that I am come hither.”The warder was instantly mollified, and blew his horn to announce the arrival of a guest. There was a minute’s bustle among the minor officials about the gate, a little running to and fro, and then the drawbridge was thrown across, and the next moment the Lord Le Despenser knelt low to his royal spouse. He could have had no idea of her coming five minutes before, but he did his best to show her that any omissions in her welcome were no fault on his part.Thomas Le Despenser was just twenty years of age. He was only of moderate height for a man; and Constance, who was a tall woman, nearly equalled him. His Norman blood showed itself in his dark glossy hair, his semi-bronzed complexion, and his dark liquid eyes, the expression of which was grave almost to sadness. An extremely short upper lip perhaps indicated blue blood, but it gave a haughty appearance to his features, which was not indicative of his character. He had a sweet low-toned voice, and an extremely winning smile.The Princess suffered her husband to lift her from the pillion on which she rode behind Bertram Lyngern, who had been transferred to her service by her father’s wish. At the door of the banquet-hall the Dowager Lady met them. Maude’s impression of her was not exactly pleasant. She thought her a stiff, solemn-looking, elderly woman, in widow’s garb. The Lady Elizabeth received her royal guest with the lowest of courtesies, and taking her hand, conducted her with great formality to a state chair on the dais, the Lord Le Despenser standing, bare-headed, on the step below.The ensuing ten minutes were painfully irksome to all parties. Everybody was shy of everybody else. A few common-place questions were asked and answered; but when the Dowager suggested that “the Lady” must be tired with her journey, and would probably like to rest for an hour ere the rear-supper was served, it was a manifest relief to all.A sudden incursion of so many persons into an unprepared house was less annoying in the fourteenth century than it would be in the nineteenth. There was then always superfluous provision for guests who might suddenly arrive; a castle was invariably victualled in advance of the consumption expected; and as to sleeping accommodation, a sack filled with chaff and a couple of blankets was all that any person anticipated who was not of “high degree.” Maude slept the first night in a long gallery, with ten other women; for the future she would occupy the pallet in her lady’s chamber. Bertram was provided for along with the other squires, in the banquet-hall, the chaff beds and blankets being carried out of the way in the morning; and as to draughts, our forefathers were never out of one inside their houses, and therefore did not trouble themselves on that score. The washing arrangements, likewise, were of the most primitive description. Princes and the higher class of peers washed in silver basins in their own rooms; but a squire or a knight’s daughter would have been thought unwarrantably fastidious who was not fully satisfied with a tub and a towel. A comb was the only instrument used for dressing the hair, except where crisping-pins were required; and mirrors were always fixtures against the wall.A long time elapsed before Maude felt at home at Cardiff; and she could not avoid seeing that a still longer period passed before Constance did so. The latter was restless and unsettled. She had escaped from the rule of her step-mother to that of her mother-in-law, and she disliked the one only a little less than the other; though “Daughter” fell very differently on the ear from the lips of a child of ten, and from those of a woman who was approaching sixty. But the worst point of Constance’s new life was her utter indifference to her husband. She looked upon his gentle deference to her wishes as want of spirit, and upon his quiet, reserved, undemonstrative manner as want of brains. From loving him she was as far as she had been in those old days when she had so cruelly told his sister Margaret that “when she loved Tom, she would let him know.”That he loved her, and that very dearly, was patent to the most superficial observer. Maude, who was not very observant of others, used to notice how his eyes followed her wherever she went, brightened at the sound of her step, and kindled eagerly when she spoke. The Dowager saw it too, with considerable disapproval; and thought it desirable to turn her observations to profit by a grave admonition to her son upon the sin and folly of idolatry. She meant rightly enough, yet it sounded harsh and cruel, when she bluntly reminded him that Constance manifestly cared nothing for him.Le Despenser’s lip quivered with pain.“Let be, fair Mother,” he said gently. “It may be yet, one day, that my Lady’s heart shall come home to God and me, and that she shall then say unto me, ‘I love thee.’”Did that day ever come? Ay, it did come; but not during his day. The time came when no music could have been comparable to the sound of his voice—when she would have given all the world for one glimpse of his smile—when she felt, like Avice, as though she could have climbed and rent the heavens to have won him back to her. But the heavens had closed between them before that day came. While they journeyed side by side in this mortal world, he never heard her say, “I love thee.”The news received during the next few months was not likely to make Constance feel more at home at Cardiff than before. It was one constant funeral wail. On the 24th of March, 1394, her aunt Constanca, Duchess of Lancaster, died of the plague at Leicester; in the close of May, of the same disease, the beloved Lollard Queen; and on the first of July her cousin, Mary Countess of Derby. Constance grew so restless, that when orders came for her husband to attend the King at Haverford, where he was about to embark on his journey to Ireland, she determined to go there also.“I can breathe better any whither than at Cardiff!” she said confidentially to Maude.But in truth it was not Cardiff from which he fled, but her own restless spirit. The vine had been transplanted, and its tendrils refused to twine round the strange boughs offered for its support.The Princess found her father at Haverford, but the pair were very shy of one another. The Duke was beginning to discover that he had made a blunder, that his fair young wife’s temper was not all sunshine, and that his intended plaything was likely to prove his eventual tyrant. Constance, on her part, felt a twinge of conscience for her pettish desertion of him in his old age; for to her apprehension he was now an old man: and she was privately conscious that she could not honestly plead any preconsideration for her husband. She had merely pleased herself, both in going and staying, and she knew it. But she spent her whole life in gathering apples of Sodom, and flinging away one after another in bitter disappointment. Yet the next which offered was always grasped as eagerly as any that had gone before it.Perhaps it was due to some feeling of regret on the Duke’s part that he invited his daughter and son-in-law to return with him. Constance accepted the offer readily. The Duke was Regent all that winter, during the King’s absence in Ireland; and, as was usual, he took up his residence in the royal Palace of Westminster. Constance liked her visit to Westminster; she was nearly as tired of Langley as of Cardiff, and this was something new. And a slight bond of union sprang up between herself and her husband; for she made him, as well as Maude, the confidant of all her complaints and vexations regarding her step-mother. Le Despenser was satisfied if she would make a friend of him about anything, and he was anxious to shield her from every annoyance in his power.It appeared to Maude, who had grown into a quiet, meditative woman, that the feeling of the Duchess towards her step-daughter was not far from positive hatred. She seemed to seek occasions to mortify her, and to manufacture quarrels which it would have been no trouble to avoid. It was some time before Maude could discern the cause. But one day, in a quiet talk with Bertram Lyngern, still her chief friend, she asked him whether he had noticed it.“Have I eyes, trow?” responded Bertram with a smile.“But wherefore is it, count you?”“Marry, the old tale, methinks. Two men seldom discern alike; and he that looketh on the blue side of a changeable sarcenet (shot silk), can never join hands with him that seeth nought save the red.”“You riddle, Master Lyngern.”“Why, look you, our Lady Custance was rocked in a Lollard cradle; but my Lady Duchess’ Grace had a saint’s bone for her rattle. And her mother is an Arundel.”“But so is my Lord’s Grace of York (the archbishop) himself an Arundel.”“Ay—as mecounteth you shall see, one day.”“Doth not the doctrine of Sir John de Wycliffe like, him well?”“Time will show,” said Bertram, drily.It was quite true that Archbishop Arundel had for some two years been throwing dust in Lollard eyes by plausible professions of conversion to some of the views of that party. At a time when I was less acquainted with his character and antecedents, I gave him credit for sincerity. (Note 1.) I know him better now. He was merely playing a very deep game, and this was one of his subtlest moves. His assumption of Lollardism, or of certain items of it, was only the assumption of a mask, to be worn as long as it proved serviceable, and then to be dropped and forgotten. The time for the mask to drop had come now. The death of Archbishop Courtenay, July 31, 1396, left open to Thomas de Arundel the sole seat of honour in which he was not already installed. Almost born in the purple (Note 2), he had climbed up from ecclesiastical dignity to dignity, till at last there was only one further height left for him to scale. It could surprise no one to see the vacant mitre set on the astute head of Gloucester’s confessor and prompter.The Earl of Rutland presented himself at Westminster Palace before his sister left it, attended as usual by his squire, Hugh Calverley. Bertram and Maude at once wished to know all the news of Langley, from which place they had come. Hugh seemed acquainted with no news except one item, which was that Father Dominic, having obtained a canonry, had resigned his post of household confessor to the Palace; and a new confessor had been appointed in his stead.“And who is the new priest?” asked Bertram. “One Sir Marmaduke de Tyneworth.” (A fictitious person.)“And what manner of man is he?”“A right honest man and a proper (a fitting, satisfactory man), say they who have confessed unto him; more kindly and courteous than Father Dominic.”“He hath then not yet confessed thee?”“I never confess,” said Hugh quietly. The impression made upon Bertram’s feelings by this statement was very much that which would be left on ours, if we heard a man with a high reputation for piety calmly remark that he never prayed.“Never confess!” he repeated in astonished tones. “Not to men. I confess unto God only.”“But how canst, other than by the priest?”“What hardship, trow? Can I not speak save by the priest?”“But thou canst receive no absolving!”“No can I? Ay verily, friend, I can!”“But—” Bertram stopped, with a puzzled look.“Come, out with all thybuts,” said Hugh, smilingly.“Why, methinks—and holy Church saith it—that this is God’s means whereby men shall approach unto Him: nor hath He given unto us other.”“Holy Church saith it? Ay so. But where saith God such a thing?”Bertram was by no means ignorant of Wycliffe’s Bible, and he searched his memory for authority or precedent.“Well, thou wist that the man which had leprosy was bidden to show him unto the priest, the which was to declare if his malady were true leprosy or no.”“The priest being therein an emblem or mystery of Christ, which is true Healer of the malady of sin.”“Ah!” said Bertram triumphantly, “but lo’ thou, when our Lord Himself did heal one that had leprosy, what quoth He? ‘Show thyself to the priest,’ saith He: not, ‘I am the true Priest, and therefore thou mayest slack to show thee to yon other priest, which is but the emblem of Me.’”“Because,” replied Hugh, “He did fulfil the law, and made it honourable. Therefore saith He, ‘Show thyself to the priest.’ The law held good until He should have fulfilled the same.”“But mind thou,” urged Bertram eagerly, “it was but the lither (wicked, abandoned) Pharisees which did speak like unto thee. What said they save the very thing thou wouldst fain utter—to wit, ‘Who may forgyve synnes but God aloone?’ And alway our Lord did snyb and rebuke these ill fawtors.”“Friend, countest thou that the Jew which had leprosy, and betook him unto the high priest, did meet with contakes because he went not likewise unto one of the lesser? Either this confession unto the priest is to be used with, or without, the confession unto God. If to be used without, what is this but saying the priest to be God? And if to be used with, what but saying that God is not sufficient, and the High Priest may not act without the lesser priest do aid Him?”“But what sayest touching the Pharisees?” repeated Bertram, who was not able to answer Hugh’s argument, and considered his own unanswerable.“What say I?” was the calm answer. “Why, I say they spake very sooth, saving that they pushed not the matter to its full issue. Had they followed their reasoning on to the further end, then would they have said, and spoken truly, ‘If this man can in very deed forgive sin, then is He God.’ Mark, I pray thee, what did our Lord in this matter. He brought forth His letters of warrant. He healed the palsied man afore them—‘that ye wite,’ saith He, ‘that mannes sone hath power in erthe to forgyve synnes.’ As though He had said unto them, ‘Ye say well; none may forgive sins but God alone: wherefore see, in My forgiving of sin, the plain proof that I am God’s Son.’ To show them that He had power to forgive sin, He did heal this man of his malady. And verily I ask no more of any priest that would confess me, but only that he bring forth his letters of warrant, as did his Master and mine. When I shall I see him to heal the sick with a word, then will I crede that he can forgive sin in like manner. Lo’ thou, if he can forgive, he can heal: if he can heal by his word, then canheforgive.”The waters were rather too deep for Bertram to wade in. He tried another line of argument.“Saint James also saith that men should confess their sins.”“‘Ech to othire’—well: when it liketh Sir Marmaduke to knowledge his sins unto me, then will I mine unto him, if we have done any wrong each to other. But look thou into that matter of Saint James, and thou shalt find it to touch not well men, but only sick; which, knowledging their sins when their conscience is troubled, and praying each for other, shall be healed of their sickness.”“Moreover, Achan did confession unto Josue,” said Bertram, starting another hare.“Ah! Josue was a priest, trow?”“Nay, but if it be well to knowledge our sins each to other, it shall not be worse because the man is a priest.”“Nor better,” said Hugh, in his quietest manner.“Nay!” urged Bertram, who thought he had the advantage here, “but an’ it be well to confess at all, it is good to confess unto any: and if to any, to a woman; or if to a woman, to a man; or to a man, then to a priest.”Hugh gave a soft little laugh.“Good friend, I could prove any gear in the world by that manner of reasoning. If it be good to confess unto any, then unto anything that liveth; and if so, then to a beast; and if to a beast, then to yonder cat. Come hither, Puss, and hear this my friend his confession!”“Have done with thy mocking!” cried Bertram. “And mind thou, the Lord did charge the holy apostles with power to forgive sins.”“Granting that so be—what then?”“What then? Why, that priests have now the like power.”“But what toucheth it the priests?”“In that they be successors unto the apostles.”“In what manner?”Hugh was evidently not disposed to take any links of the chain for granted.“Man!” exclaimed Bertram, almost in a pet, “wist not that Paul did ordain Timothy Bishop of Ephesus, and bade him do the like to other,—and so from each to other was the blessed grace handed down, till it gat at the priests that now be?”“Was it so?” said Hugh coolly. “But when and where bade Paul that Timothy should forgive sins?”Bertram found it much harder to prove his assertion than to state it. He could only answer that he did not know.“Nor I neither,” returned Hugh. “Nor Timothy neither, without I much mistake.”“I must needs give thee up. Thou art the worst caitiff to reason withal, ever mortal man did see!”Hugh laughed.“Lo’ you, friend, I ask but for one instance of authority. Show unto me any passage of authority in God’s Word, whereby any priest shall forgive sins; or show unto me any priest that now liveth, which shall bring forth his letters of warrant by healing a man all suddenly of his sickness whatsoever, and I am at a point. Bring him forth, prithee; or else confess thou hast no such to bring.”“Hold thy peace, for love of Mary Mother!” said Bertram, passing his irrepressible opponent a plateful of smoking pasty, for the party were at supper; “and fill thy jaws herewith, the which is so hot thou shalt occupy it some time.”“My words being, somewhat too hot for thee, trow?” rejoined Hugh comically. “Good. I can hold my peace right well when I am wanted so to do.”When Constance returned home to Cardiff, she remained there for some little time without any further visit to Court. She alone of all the Princesses was absent from the Church of Saint Nicholas at Calais, when the King was married there to the Princess Isabelle of France—a child of only eight years old. Something far more interesting to herself detained her at Cardiff; where, on the 30th of November, 1396, an heir was born to the House of Le Despenser.That the will of “the Lady” stood paramount we see in the name given to the infant. He was christened after her favourite brother, Richard—a name unknown in his father’s line, whose family names were always Hugh and Edward.In their unfeigned admiration of this paragon of babies, its mother and grandmother sank all their previous differences. But when the difficult question of education arose, the differences reappeared as strongly as ever. The only notion which Constance had of bringing up a child was to give it everything it cried for; while the Dowager was prepared to go a long way in the opposite direction, and give it nothing in respect to which it showed the slightest temper. The practical result was that the boy was committed to the care of Maude, whom both agreed in trusting, with the most contradictory orders concerning his training. Maude followed the dictates of her own common sense, and implicitly obeyed the commands of neither of the rival authorities; but as little Richard throve well under her care, she was never called to account by either.The year 1397 brought a political earthquake, which ended in the destruction of three of the five grand traitors, the Lords Appellants. The commons had at last opened their eyes to the real state of affairs. The conspirators were meditating fresh projects of treachery, when by the advice of the Dukes of Lancaster and York, Gloucester was arrested and imprisoned at Calais, where he died on the 15th of September, either from apoplexy or by a private execution. Richard Earl of Arundel, the tool of his priestly brother, was beheaded six days later. The Earl of Warwick, who had been merely the blind dupe of the others, was banished to the Isle of Man. The remaining two—the ambitious Derby, and the conceited Nottingham—contrived in the cleverest manner, not only to escape punishment, but to obtain substantial rewards for their loyalty! Derby presented a very humble petition on behalf of both, in which he owned, with so exquisite a show of penitence, to havinglistenedto the suggestions of the deceased traitors, and been concerned in “several riotous disturbances”—professed himself and his friend to be so abjectly repentant, and so irrevocably faithful for ever henceforward—that King Richard, as easily deceived as usual, hastened to pardon the repenting sinners. But there was one man in the world who was not deceived by Derby’s plausible professions. Old Lancaster shook his white head when he heard that his son was not only pardoned, but restored to favour.“’Tis hard matter for father thus to speak of son,” he said to his royal nephew; “nathless, my gracious Lord, I do you to wit that you have done a fool deed this day. You shall never have peace while Hal is in this kingdom.”“Fair Uncle, I am sure he will repay me!” was the response of the warm-hearted Richard.“Ha!” said John of Gaunt, and sipped his ipocras with a grim smile. “Sans doute, Monseigneur, sans doute!”Westminster Hall beheld a grand and imposing ceremony on the Michaelmas Day of 1397. The King sat in state upon his throne at the further end, the little Queen beside him, and the various members of the royal line on either side—Princes on the right, Princesses on the left. The Duchess of Lancaster had the first place; then the Duchess of York, particularly complacent and resplendent; the Duchess of Gloucester, who should have sat third, was closely secluded (of her free will) in the Convent of Bermondsey. Next sat the Countess of March, the elder sister of the Duchess Joan, and wife of the Lollard heir of England. The daughters of the Princes followed her. Elizabeth, Countess of Huntingdon, daughter of the Duke of Lancaster, whom that day was to make a duchess, and who bore away the palm from the rest as “the best singer and the best dancer” of all the royal ladies, held her place, beaming with smiles, and radiant with rubies and crimson velvet. Next, arrayed in blue velvet, sat the only daughter of York, Constance Lady Le Despenser. Round the hall sat the nobles of England in their “Parliament robes,” each of the married peers with his lady at his side; while below came the House of Commons, and lower yet, outside the railing, the people of England, in the shape of an eager, sight-seeing mob. There was to be a great creation of peers, and one by one the names were called. As each of the candidates heard his name, he rose from his seat, and was led up to the throne by two nobles of the order to which he was about to be raised.“Sir Henry of Bolingbroke, Earl of Derby!” The gentleman whose unswerving loyalty was about to be recompensed by the gift of a coronet (!) rose with his customary grace from his seat, third on the right hand of the King, and was led up by his father of Lancaster and his uncle of York. He knelt, bareheaded, before the throne. A sword was girt to his side, a ducal coronet set on his head by the royal hand, and he rose Duke of Hereford. As old Lancaster resumed his seat, he smiled grimly under his white beard, and muttered to himself—“Sans doute!”“Sir Edward of Langley, Earl of Rutland!”Constance’s brother was similarly led up by his father and his cousin, the newly-created Duke, and he resumed his princely seat, Duke of Aumerle, or Albemarle.“Sir Thomas de Holand, Earl of Kent, Baron Wake!”Hereford and Aumerle were the two to lead up the candidate. He was the son of the King’s half-brother, and was reputed the handsomest of the nobles: a tall, finely-developed man, with the shining golden hair of his Plantagenet ancestors. He was created Duke of Surrey.Hereford sat down, and Surrey and Aumerle conducted John Earl of Huntingdon to the throne. He was half-brother of the King, uncle of Surrey, and husband of the royal songstress who sat and smiled in crimson velvet. He had stepped out of the family ranks; for instead of being tall, fair, and good-looking, like the rest of his house, he was a little dark-haired man, whom no artist would have selected as a model of beauty. A strong anti-Lollard was this nobleman, a good hater, a prejudiced, violent, unprincipled man; possessed of two virtues only—honesty and loyalty. He had been cajoled for a time by Gloucester, but his brother knew him too well to doubt his sincerity or affection. He was made Duke of Exeter.The next call was for—“Sir Thomas de Mowbray, Earl of Nottingham!” And up came the last of the “Lords Appellants,” painfully conscious in his heart of hearts that while he might have been in his right place on the scaffold in Cheapside, he was very much out of it in Westminster Hall, kneeling to receive the coronet of Norfolk.A coronet was now laid aside, for the recipient was not present. She was an old lady of royal blood, above seventy years of age, the second cousin of the King, and great-grandmother of Nottingham. Her style and titles were duly proclaimed as Duchess of Norfolk for life.But when “Sir John de Beaufort, Earl of Somerset!” was called for, the peer summoned rose and walked forward alone. He was to be created a marquis—a title of King Richard’s own devising, and at that moment borne by no one else. The Earl came reluctantly, for he was very unwilling to be made unlike other people; and he dropped his new title, and returned to the old one, as soon as he conveniently could. He had a tall, fine figure, but not a pleasant face; and his religion, no less than his politics, he wore like a glove—well-fitting when on, but capable of being changed at pleasure. Just now, when Lollardism was “walking in silver slippers,” my Lord Marquis of Dorset was a Lollard. Rome rarely persecutes men of this sort, for she makes them useful in preference.And now the herald cried—“Sir Thomas Le Despenser, Baron of Cardiff!”The Earls of Northumberland and Suffolk were the supporters of Le Despenser, who walked forward with a slow, graceful step, to receive from the King’s hand an earl’s coronet, accompanied by the ominous name of Gloucester—a title stained by its last bearer beyond remedy. In truth, the royal dukedom had been an interpolation of the line, and the King was merely giving Le Despenser back his own—the coronet which had belonged to the grand old family of Clare, whose co-heiress was the great-grandmother of Thomas Le Despenser. The title had been kept as it were in suspense ever since the attainder of her husband, the ill-fated Earl Hugh, though two persons had borne it in the interim without any genuine right.Three other peers were created, but they do not concern the story. And then the King rose from his throne, the ceremony was over; and Constance Le Despenser left the hall among the Princesses by right of her birth, but wearing her new coronet as Countess of Gloucester.Four months later, the Duke of Hereford knelt before the throne, and solemnly accused his late friend and colleague, the Duke of Norfolk, of treason. He averred that Norfolk had tempted him to join another secret conspiracy. Norfolk, when questioned, turned the tables by denying the accusation, and adding that it was Hereford who had tempted him. Since neither of these noble gentlemen was particularly worthy of credit, and they both swore very hard on this occasion, it is impossible to decide which (if either) was telling the truth. The decision finally arrived at was that both the accusers should settle their quarrel by wager of battle, for which purpose they were commanded to meet at Coventry in the following autumn.Before the duel took place, an important event occurred in the death of Roger Mortimer, the Lollard Earl of March, whom the King had proclaimed heir presumptive of England. He was Viceroy of Ireland, and was killed in a skirmish by the “wild Irish.” March, who was only 24 years of age, left four children, of whom we shall hear more anon, to be educated by their mother, Archbishop Arundel’s niece, in her own Popish views. He is described by the monkish chroniclers as “very handsome and very courteous, most dissolute of life, and extremely remiss in all matters of religion.” We can guess pretty well what that means. “Remiss in matters of religion,” of course, refers to his Lollardism, while the accusation of “dissolute life” is notoriously Rome’s pet charge against those who escape from her toils. Such was the sad and early end of the first and only Lollard of the House of Mortimer.The duel between Hereford and Norfolk was appointed to take place on Gosford Green, near Coventry, on the 16th of September. The combatants met accordingly; but before a blow was struck, the King took the matter upon himself and forbade the engagement. On the 3rd of October, licence was granted to Hereford to travel abroad, this being honourable banishment; no penalty was inflicted upon Norfolk. But some event—perhaps never to be discovered—occurred, or came to light during the following ten days, which altered the whole aspect of affairs. Either the King found out some deed of treason, of which he had been previously ignorant, or else some further offence was committed by both Hereford and Norfolk. On the 13th both were banished—Hereford for ten years, Norfolk for life; the sentence in the former case being afterwards commuted to six years. Those who know the Brutus-like character of John of Gaunt, and his real opinion of his son’s proceedings, may accept, if they can, the representations of the monastic chroniclers that the commutation of Hereford’s sentence was made at his intercession.In the interim, between the duel and the sentence, Archbishop Arundel was formally adjudged a traitor, and the penalty of banishment was inflicted on him also.Constance was too busy with her nursery to leave Cardiff, where this autumn little Richard was joined by a baby sister, who received the name of Elizabeth after the Dowager Lady. But the infant was not many weeks old, when, to use the beautiful phrase of the chroniclers, she “journeyed to the Lord.” She was taken away from the evil to come.It was appropriate enough that the last dread year of the fourteenth century should be ushered in by funeral knells. And he who died on the third of February in that year, though not a very sure stay, was the best and last support of the Gospel and the throne. It was with troubled faces and sad tones that the Lollards who met in the streets of London told one to another that “old John of Gaunt, time-honoured Lancaster,” was lying dead in the Bishop of Ely’s Palace.But the storm was deferred for a few weeks longer. There were royal visits to Langley and Cardiff, on the way to Ireland, the Earl of Gloucester accompanying the King to that country. And then, when Richard had left the reins of government in the feeble hands of York, the tempest burst over England which had been lowering for so long.The Lady Le Despenser and the Countess of Gloucester were seated at breakfast in Cardiff Castle, on a soft, bright morning in the middle of July. Breakfast consisted of fresh and salt fish, for it was a fast-day; plain and fancy bread, different kinds of biscuits (but all made without eggs or butter); small beer, and claret. Little Richard was energetically teasing Maude, by whom he sat, for another piece of red-herring, and the Dowager, deliberate in all her movements, was slowly helping herself to Gascon wine. The blast of a horn without the moat announced the arrival of a guest or a letter, and Bertram Lyngern went out to see what it was. Ten minutes later he returned to the hall, with letters in his hand, and his face white with some terrible news.“Ill tidings, noble ladies!”“Is it Dickon?” cried the Countess.“Is it Tom?” said the Dowager.“There be no news of my Lord, nor from Langley,” said Bertram. “But my Lord’s Grace of Hereford, and Sir Thomas de Arundel, sometime Archbishop, be landed at Ravenspur.”“Landed at Ravenspur!—Banished men!”The loyal soul of Elizabeth Le Despenser could imagine nothing more atrocious.“Well, let them land!” she added in a minute. “The Duke’s Grace of York shall wit how to deal with them. Be any gathered to them?”“Hundreds and thousands,” was the ominous answer.“Ay me!” sighed the Dowager. “Well! ‘the Lord reigneth.’”Constance’s only comment on the remarks was a quiet, incredulous shrug of her shoulders. She knew her father.And she was right. Like many another, literally and figuratively, York went over to the enemy’s ground to parley, and ended in staying there. One of the two was talked over—but that one was not the rebel, but the Regent.Poor York! Looking back on those days, out of the smoke of the battle, one sees him a man so wretchedly weak and incapable that it is hardly possible to be angry with him. It does not appear to have been conviction, nor cowardice, nor choice in any sense, which caused his desertion, but simply his miserable incapacity to stand alone, or to resist the influence of any stronger character on either side.Hego to parley with the enemy! He might as well have sent his baby grandson to parley with a box of sugar-plums.Fresh news—always bad news—now came into Cardiff nearly every day.The King hurried back from Ireland to Conway, and there gathered his loyal peers around him. There were only sixteen of them. Dorset, always on the winning side, deserted the sinking ship at once. Aumerle more prudently waited to see which side would eventually prove the winner.Exeter and Surrey were sent to parley with the traitors. They were both detained, Surrey as a prisoner, Exeter with a show of friendship. The latter was too fertile in resources, and too eloquent in speech, not to be a dangerous foe. He was therefore secured while the opportunity offered.Then came the treacherous Northumberland as ambassador from Hereford, whom we must henceforth designate by his new title of Lancaster.Northumberland’s lips dropped honey, but war was in his heart. He offered the sweetest promises. What did they cost? They were made to be broken. So gentle, so affectionate were his solicitations to the royal hart to enter the leopard’s den—so ready was he to pledge word and oath that Lancaster was irrevocably true and faithful—that the King listened, and believed him. He set forth with his little guard, quitting the stronghold of Flint Castle, and in the gorge of Gwrych he was met by Northumberland and his army, seized, and carried a prisoner to Chester.This was the testing moment for the hitherto loyal sixteen. Aumerle, who had satisfied himself now which way the game was going, went over to his cousin at once. Worcester broke his white wand of office, and retired from the contest. Some fled in terror. When all the faithless had either gone or joined Lancaster, there remained six, who loved their master better than themselves, and followed, voluntary prisoners, outwardly in the train of Henry of Lancaster, but really in that of Richard of Bordeaux.These six loyal, faithful, honourable men our story follows. They were—Thomas Le Despenser, Earl of Gloucester; John de Montacute, Earl of Salisbury; Thomas de Holand, Duke of Surrey; William Le Scrope, Earl of Wilts; Richard Maudeleyn, chaplain to the King; John Maudeleyn (probably his brother), varlet of the robes.Slowly the conqueror marched Londonwards, with the royal captive in his train. Westminster was reached on the first of September. From that date the coercion exercised over the King was openly and shamelessly acknowledged. His decrees were declared to be issued “with the assent of our dearest cousin, Henry Duke of Lancaster.” At last, on Michaelmas Day, the orders of that loving and beloved relative culminated in the abdication of the Sovereign.The little group of loyalists had now grown to seven, by the addition of Exeter, who joined himself to them as soon as he was set at liberty. They remained in London during that terrible October, and most of them were present when, on the 13th of that month, Henry of Lancaster was crowned King of England.There stood the vacant throne, draped in gold-spangled red; and by it, on either hand, the Lords Spiritual and Temporal. The hierarchy were, on the right, Arundel at their head, having coolly repossessed himself of the see from which he had been ejected as a traitor; an expression of contemptuous amusement hovering about his lips, which might be easily translated into the famous (but rather apocryphal) speech of Queen Elizabeth to the men of Coventry—“Good lack! What fools ye be!” On the left hand of the throne stood Lancaster, his lofty stature conspicuous among his peers, waiting with mock humility for the farce of their acknowledgment of his right. Next him was his uncle of York, wearing a forced smile at that which his conscience disapproved, but his will was impotent to reject. Aumerle came next, his face so plainly a mask to hide his thoughts that it is difficult to judge what they were. Then Surrey, with a half-astonished, half-puzzled air, as though he had never expected matters really to come to this pass. His uncle Exeter, who sat next him, looked sullen and discontented. The other peers came in turn, but their faces are not visible in the remarkable painting by an eye-witness from which those above are described, with the exception of the tellers, the traitor Northumberland, and the cheery round-faced Westmoreland. These went round to take the votes of the peers. There were not likely to be many dissenting voices, where to vote No was death.Henry stated his assumption of power to rest upon three points. First, he had conquered the kingdom; secondly, his cousin, King Richard, had voluntarily abdicated in his favour; and lastly, he was the true heir male of the crown.“Ha!” said the little Earl of March, the dispossessed heir general, “haeres malus, is he?”It was not a bad pun for seven years old.If Henry of Bolingbroke may be credited, the majority of the loyal six, and Thomas Le Despenser among them, not only sat in his first Parliament, but pleaded compulsion as the cause of their petition against Gloucester, and consented to the deposition of King Richard, while some earnestly requested the usurper to put the Sovereign to death. While some of these allegations are true, the last certainly is false. One of those named as having joined in the last petition is Surrey; and his alleged participation is proved to be a lie. Knowing how lightly Henry of Bolingbroke could lie, it is hardly possible to believe otherwise of any member of the group, except indeed the time-serving Aumerle.Note 1. See “Mistress Margery,” preface, page six.Note 2. His mother, Alianora of Lancaster, was the daughter of Earl Henry, son of Prince Edmund, son of Henry the Third.

“Woe be to fearful hearts and faint hands, and the sinner that goeth two ways!”—Ecclus. two 12.

“Woe be to fearful hearts and faint hands, and the sinner that goeth two ways!”—Ecclus. two 12.

Whatever may have been the feeling which possessed the mind of Constance on her departure from Langley, the incident was felt by Maude as a wrench and an uprooting, surpassing any previous incident of her life since leaving Pleshy. The old house itself had come to feel like a mute friend; the people left behind were acquaintances of many years; the ground was all familiar. She was going now once more into a new world, to new acquaintances, new scenes, new incidents. The journey over land was in itself very pleasant. But the journey over sea from Bristol was so exceedingly unpleasant, that poor Maude found herself acquainted with a degree of physical misery which until then she had never imagined to exist. And when at last the great, grim, square towers of the Castle of Cardiff, which was to be her new home, rose before her eyes, she thought them absolutely lovely—because they wereterra firma. It can only be ascribed to her unusual haste on the one hand, or to her usual caprice on the other, that it had not pleased the Lady of Cardiff to give any notice of her approach. Of course nobody expected her; and when her trumpeter sounded his blast outside the moat, the warder looked forth in some surprise. It was late in the evening for a guest to arrive.

“Who goeth yonder?”

“The Lady and her train.”

“Saint Taffy and Saint Guenhyfar!” said the warder.

“Put forth the bridge!” roared the trumpeter.

“It had peen better to send word,” calmly returned the warder.

“Send word to thy Lord, thou lither oaf!” cried the irate trumpeter, “and see whether it liketh him to keep the Lady awaiting hither on an even in January, while thou pratest in chopped English!”

Thereupon arose a passage of arms between the two affronted persons of diverse nationalities, which was terminated by Constance, with one of her sudden impulses, riding forward to the front, and taking the business on herself.

“Sir Warder,” she said—with that exquisite grace and lofty courtesy which was natural to every Plantagenet, be the other features of his character what they might,—“I am your Lady, and I pray you to notify unto your Lord that I am come hither.”

The warder was instantly mollified, and blew his horn to announce the arrival of a guest. There was a minute’s bustle among the minor officials about the gate, a little running to and fro, and then the drawbridge was thrown across, and the next moment the Lord Le Despenser knelt low to his royal spouse. He could have had no idea of her coming five minutes before, but he did his best to show her that any omissions in her welcome were no fault on his part.

Thomas Le Despenser was just twenty years of age. He was only of moderate height for a man; and Constance, who was a tall woman, nearly equalled him. His Norman blood showed itself in his dark glossy hair, his semi-bronzed complexion, and his dark liquid eyes, the expression of which was grave almost to sadness. An extremely short upper lip perhaps indicated blue blood, but it gave a haughty appearance to his features, which was not indicative of his character. He had a sweet low-toned voice, and an extremely winning smile.

The Princess suffered her husband to lift her from the pillion on which she rode behind Bertram Lyngern, who had been transferred to her service by her father’s wish. At the door of the banquet-hall the Dowager Lady met them. Maude’s impression of her was not exactly pleasant. She thought her a stiff, solemn-looking, elderly woman, in widow’s garb. The Lady Elizabeth received her royal guest with the lowest of courtesies, and taking her hand, conducted her with great formality to a state chair on the dais, the Lord Le Despenser standing, bare-headed, on the step below.

The ensuing ten minutes were painfully irksome to all parties. Everybody was shy of everybody else. A few common-place questions were asked and answered; but when the Dowager suggested that “the Lady” must be tired with her journey, and would probably like to rest for an hour ere the rear-supper was served, it was a manifest relief to all.

A sudden incursion of so many persons into an unprepared house was less annoying in the fourteenth century than it would be in the nineteenth. There was then always superfluous provision for guests who might suddenly arrive; a castle was invariably victualled in advance of the consumption expected; and as to sleeping accommodation, a sack filled with chaff and a couple of blankets was all that any person anticipated who was not of “high degree.” Maude slept the first night in a long gallery, with ten other women; for the future she would occupy the pallet in her lady’s chamber. Bertram was provided for along with the other squires, in the banquet-hall, the chaff beds and blankets being carried out of the way in the morning; and as to draughts, our forefathers were never out of one inside their houses, and therefore did not trouble themselves on that score. The washing arrangements, likewise, were of the most primitive description. Princes and the higher class of peers washed in silver basins in their own rooms; but a squire or a knight’s daughter would have been thought unwarrantably fastidious who was not fully satisfied with a tub and a towel. A comb was the only instrument used for dressing the hair, except where crisping-pins were required; and mirrors were always fixtures against the wall.

A long time elapsed before Maude felt at home at Cardiff; and she could not avoid seeing that a still longer period passed before Constance did so. The latter was restless and unsettled. She had escaped from the rule of her step-mother to that of her mother-in-law, and she disliked the one only a little less than the other; though “Daughter” fell very differently on the ear from the lips of a child of ten, and from those of a woman who was approaching sixty. But the worst point of Constance’s new life was her utter indifference to her husband. She looked upon his gentle deference to her wishes as want of spirit, and upon his quiet, reserved, undemonstrative manner as want of brains. From loving him she was as far as she had been in those old days when she had so cruelly told his sister Margaret that “when she loved Tom, she would let him know.”

That he loved her, and that very dearly, was patent to the most superficial observer. Maude, who was not very observant of others, used to notice how his eyes followed her wherever she went, brightened at the sound of her step, and kindled eagerly when she spoke. The Dowager saw it too, with considerable disapproval; and thought it desirable to turn her observations to profit by a grave admonition to her son upon the sin and folly of idolatry. She meant rightly enough, yet it sounded harsh and cruel, when she bluntly reminded him that Constance manifestly cared nothing for him.

Le Despenser’s lip quivered with pain.

“Let be, fair Mother,” he said gently. “It may be yet, one day, that my Lady’s heart shall come home to God and me, and that she shall then say unto me, ‘I love thee.’”

Did that day ever come? Ay, it did come; but not during his day. The time came when no music could have been comparable to the sound of his voice—when she would have given all the world for one glimpse of his smile—when she felt, like Avice, as though she could have climbed and rent the heavens to have won him back to her. But the heavens had closed between them before that day came. While they journeyed side by side in this mortal world, he never heard her say, “I love thee.”

The news received during the next few months was not likely to make Constance feel more at home at Cardiff than before. It was one constant funeral wail. On the 24th of March, 1394, her aunt Constanca, Duchess of Lancaster, died of the plague at Leicester; in the close of May, of the same disease, the beloved Lollard Queen; and on the first of July her cousin, Mary Countess of Derby. Constance grew so restless, that when orders came for her husband to attend the King at Haverford, where he was about to embark on his journey to Ireland, she determined to go there also.

“I can breathe better any whither than at Cardiff!” she said confidentially to Maude.

But in truth it was not Cardiff from which he fled, but her own restless spirit. The vine had been transplanted, and its tendrils refused to twine round the strange boughs offered for its support.

The Princess found her father at Haverford, but the pair were very shy of one another. The Duke was beginning to discover that he had made a blunder, that his fair young wife’s temper was not all sunshine, and that his intended plaything was likely to prove his eventual tyrant. Constance, on her part, felt a twinge of conscience for her pettish desertion of him in his old age; for to her apprehension he was now an old man: and she was privately conscious that she could not honestly plead any preconsideration for her husband. She had merely pleased herself, both in going and staying, and she knew it. But she spent her whole life in gathering apples of Sodom, and flinging away one after another in bitter disappointment. Yet the next which offered was always grasped as eagerly as any that had gone before it.

Perhaps it was due to some feeling of regret on the Duke’s part that he invited his daughter and son-in-law to return with him. Constance accepted the offer readily. The Duke was Regent all that winter, during the King’s absence in Ireland; and, as was usual, he took up his residence in the royal Palace of Westminster. Constance liked her visit to Westminster; she was nearly as tired of Langley as of Cardiff, and this was something new. And a slight bond of union sprang up between herself and her husband; for she made him, as well as Maude, the confidant of all her complaints and vexations regarding her step-mother. Le Despenser was satisfied if she would make a friend of him about anything, and he was anxious to shield her from every annoyance in his power.

It appeared to Maude, who had grown into a quiet, meditative woman, that the feeling of the Duchess towards her step-daughter was not far from positive hatred. She seemed to seek occasions to mortify her, and to manufacture quarrels which it would have been no trouble to avoid. It was some time before Maude could discern the cause. But one day, in a quiet talk with Bertram Lyngern, still her chief friend, she asked him whether he had noticed it.

“Have I eyes, trow?” responded Bertram with a smile.

“But wherefore is it, count you?”

“Marry, the old tale, methinks. Two men seldom discern alike; and he that looketh on the blue side of a changeable sarcenet (shot silk), can never join hands with him that seeth nought save the red.”

“You riddle, Master Lyngern.”

“Why, look you, our Lady Custance was rocked in a Lollard cradle; but my Lady Duchess’ Grace had a saint’s bone for her rattle. And her mother is an Arundel.”

“But so is my Lord’s Grace of York (the archbishop) himself an Arundel.”

“Ay—as mecounteth you shall see, one day.”

“Doth not the doctrine of Sir John de Wycliffe like, him well?”

“Time will show,” said Bertram, drily.

It was quite true that Archbishop Arundel had for some two years been throwing dust in Lollard eyes by plausible professions of conversion to some of the views of that party. At a time when I was less acquainted with his character and antecedents, I gave him credit for sincerity. (Note 1.) I know him better now. He was merely playing a very deep game, and this was one of his subtlest moves. His assumption of Lollardism, or of certain items of it, was only the assumption of a mask, to be worn as long as it proved serviceable, and then to be dropped and forgotten. The time for the mask to drop had come now. The death of Archbishop Courtenay, July 31, 1396, left open to Thomas de Arundel the sole seat of honour in which he was not already installed. Almost born in the purple (Note 2), he had climbed up from ecclesiastical dignity to dignity, till at last there was only one further height left for him to scale. It could surprise no one to see the vacant mitre set on the astute head of Gloucester’s confessor and prompter.

The Earl of Rutland presented himself at Westminster Palace before his sister left it, attended as usual by his squire, Hugh Calverley. Bertram and Maude at once wished to know all the news of Langley, from which place they had come. Hugh seemed acquainted with no news except one item, which was that Father Dominic, having obtained a canonry, had resigned his post of household confessor to the Palace; and a new confessor had been appointed in his stead.

“And who is the new priest?” asked Bertram. “One Sir Marmaduke de Tyneworth.” (A fictitious person.)

“And what manner of man is he?”

“A right honest man and a proper (a fitting, satisfactory man), say they who have confessed unto him; more kindly and courteous than Father Dominic.”

“He hath then not yet confessed thee?”

“I never confess,” said Hugh quietly. The impression made upon Bertram’s feelings by this statement was very much that which would be left on ours, if we heard a man with a high reputation for piety calmly remark that he never prayed.

“Never confess!” he repeated in astonished tones. “Not to men. I confess unto God only.”

“But how canst, other than by the priest?”

“What hardship, trow? Can I not speak save by the priest?”

“But thou canst receive no absolving!”

“No can I? Ay verily, friend, I can!”

“But—” Bertram stopped, with a puzzled look.

“Come, out with all thybuts,” said Hugh, smilingly.

“Why, methinks—and holy Church saith it—that this is God’s means whereby men shall approach unto Him: nor hath He given unto us other.”

“Holy Church saith it? Ay so. But where saith God such a thing?”

Bertram was by no means ignorant of Wycliffe’s Bible, and he searched his memory for authority or precedent.

“Well, thou wist that the man which had leprosy was bidden to show him unto the priest, the which was to declare if his malady were true leprosy or no.”

“The priest being therein an emblem or mystery of Christ, which is true Healer of the malady of sin.”

“Ah!” said Bertram triumphantly, “but lo’ thou, when our Lord Himself did heal one that had leprosy, what quoth He? ‘Show thyself to the priest,’ saith He: not, ‘I am the true Priest, and therefore thou mayest slack to show thee to yon other priest, which is but the emblem of Me.’”

“Because,” replied Hugh, “He did fulfil the law, and made it honourable. Therefore saith He, ‘Show thyself to the priest.’ The law held good until He should have fulfilled the same.”

“But mind thou,” urged Bertram eagerly, “it was but the lither (wicked, abandoned) Pharisees which did speak like unto thee. What said they save the very thing thou wouldst fain utter—to wit, ‘Who may forgyve synnes but God aloone?’ And alway our Lord did snyb and rebuke these ill fawtors.”

“Friend, countest thou that the Jew which had leprosy, and betook him unto the high priest, did meet with contakes because he went not likewise unto one of the lesser? Either this confession unto the priest is to be used with, or without, the confession unto God. If to be used without, what is this but saying the priest to be God? And if to be used with, what but saying that God is not sufficient, and the High Priest may not act without the lesser priest do aid Him?”

“But what sayest touching the Pharisees?” repeated Bertram, who was not able to answer Hugh’s argument, and considered his own unanswerable.

“What say I?” was the calm answer. “Why, I say they spake very sooth, saving that they pushed not the matter to its full issue. Had they followed their reasoning on to the further end, then would they have said, and spoken truly, ‘If this man can in very deed forgive sin, then is He God.’ Mark, I pray thee, what did our Lord in this matter. He brought forth His letters of warrant. He healed the palsied man afore them—‘that ye wite,’ saith He, ‘that mannes sone hath power in erthe to forgyve synnes.’ As though He had said unto them, ‘Ye say well; none may forgive sins but God alone: wherefore see, in My forgiving of sin, the plain proof that I am God’s Son.’ To show them that He had power to forgive sin, He did heal this man of his malady. And verily I ask no more of any priest that would confess me, but only that he bring forth his letters of warrant, as did his Master and mine. When I shall I see him to heal the sick with a word, then will I crede that he can forgive sin in like manner. Lo’ thou, if he can forgive, he can heal: if he can heal by his word, then canheforgive.”

The waters were rather too deep for Bertram to wade in. He tried another line of argument.

“Saint James also saith that men should confess their sins.”

“‘Ech to othire’—well: when it liketh Sir Marmaduke to knowledge his sins unto me, then will I mine unto him, if we have done any wrong each to other. But look thou into that matter of Saint James, and thou shalt find it to touch not well men, but only sick; which, knowledging their sins when their conscience is troubled, and praying each for other, shall be healed of their sickness.”

“Moreover, Achan did confession unto Josue,” said Bertram, starting another hare.

“Ah! Josue was a priest, trow?”

“Nay, but if it be well to knowledge our sins each to other, it shall not be worse because the man is a priest.”

“Nor better,” said Hugh, in his quietest manner.

“Nay!” urged Bertram, who thought he had the advantage here, “but an’ it be well to confess at all, it is good to confess unto any: and if to any, to a woman; or if to a woman, to a man; or to a man, then to a priest.”

Hugh gave a soft little laugh.

“Good friend, I could prove any gear in the world by that manner of reasoning. If it be good to confess unto any, then unto anything that liveth; and if so, then to a beast; and if to a beast, then to yonder cat. Come hither, Puss, and hear this my friend his confession!”

“Have done with thy mocking!” cried Bertram. “And mind thou, the Lord did charge the holy apostles with power to forgive sins.”

“Granting that so be—what then?”

“What then? Why, that priests have now the like power.”

“But what toucheth it the priests?”

“In that they be successors unto the apostles.”

“In what manner?”

Hugh was evidently not disposed to take any links of the chain for granted.

“Man!” exclaimed Bertram, almost in a pet, “wist not that Paul did ordain Timothy Bishop of Ephesus, and bade him do the like to other,—and so from each to other was the blessed grace handed down, till it gat at the priests that now be?”

“Was it so?” said Hugh coolly. “But when and where bade Paul that Timothy should forgive sins?”

Bertram found it much harder to prove his assertion than to state it. He could only answer that he did not know.

“Nor I neither,” returned Hugh. “Nor Timothy neither, without I much mistake.”

“I must needs give thee up. Thou art the worst caitiff to reason withal, ever mortal man did see!”

Hugh laughed.

“Lo’ you, friend, I ask but for one instance of authority. Show unto me any passage of authority in God’s Word, whereby any priest shall forgive sins; or show unto me any priest that now liveth, which shall bring forth his letters of warrant by healing a man all suddenly of his sickness whatsoever, and I am at a point. Bring him forth, prithee; or else confess thou hast no such to bring.”

“Hold thy peace, for love of Mary Mother!” said Bertram, passing his irrepressible opponent a plateful of smoking pasty, for the party were at supper; “and fill thy jaws herewith, the which is so hot thou shalt occupy it some time.”

“My words being, somewhat too hot for thee, trow?” rejoined Hugh comically. “Good. I can hold my peace right well when I am wanted so to do.”

When Constance returned home to Cardiff, she remained there for some little time without any further visit to Court. She alone of all the Princesses was absent from the Church of Saint Nicholas at Calais, when the King was married there to the Princess Isabelle of France—a child of only eight years old. Something far more interesting to herself detained her at Cardiff; where, on the 30th of November, 1396, an heir was born to the House of Le Despenser.

That the will of “the Lady” stood paramount we see in the name given to the infant. He was christened after her favourite brother, Richard—a name unknown in his father’s line, whose family names were always Hugh and Edward.

In their unfeigned admiration of this paragon of babies, its mother and grandmother sank all their previous differences. But when the difficult question of education arose, the differences reappeared as strongly as ever. The only notion which Constance had of bringing up a child was to give it everything it cried for; while the Dowager was prepared to go a long way in the opposite direction, and give it nothing in respect to which it showed the slightest temper. The practical result was that the boy was committed to the care of Maude, whom both agreed in trusting, with the most contradictory orders concerning his training. Maude followed the dictates of her own common sense, and implicitly obeyed the commands of neither of the rival authorities; but as little Richard throve well under her care, she was never called to account by either.

The year 1397 brought a political earthquake, which ended in the destruction of three of the five grand traitors, the Lords Appellants. The commons had at last opened their eyes to the real state of affairs. The conspirators were meditating fresh projects of treachery, when by the advice of the Dukes of Lancaster and York, Gloucester was arrested and imprisoned at Calais, where he died on the 15th of September, either from apoplexy or by a private execution. Richard Earl of Arundel, the tool of his priestly brother, was beheaded six days later. The Earl of Warwick, who had been merely the blind dupe of the others, was banished to the Isle of Man. The remaining two—the ambitious Derby, and the conceited Nottingham—contrived in the cleverest manner, not only to escape punishment, but to obtain substantial rewards for their loyalty! Derby presented a very humble petition on behalf of both, in which he owned, with so exquisite a show of penitence, to havinglistenedto the suggestions of the deceased traitors, and been concerned in “several riotous disturbances”—professed himself and his friend to be so abjectly repentant, and so irrevocably faithful for ever henceforward—that King Richard, as easily deceived as usual, hastened to pardon the repenting sinners. But there was one man in the world who was not deceived by Derby’s plausible professions. Old Lancaster shook his white head when he heard that his son was not only pardoned, but restored to favour.

“’Tis hard matter for father thus to speak of son,” he said to his royal nephew; “nathless, my gracious Lord, I do you to wit that you have done a fool deed this day. You shall never have peace while Hal is in this kingdom.”

“Fair Uncle, I am sure he will repay me!” was the response of the warm-hearted Richard.

“Ha!” said John of Gaunt, and sipped his ipocras with a grim smile. “Sans doute, Monseigneur, sans doute!”

Westminster Hall beheld a grand and imposing ceremony on the Michaelmas Day of 1397. The King sat in state upon his throne at the further end, the little Queen beside him, and the various members of the royal line on either side—Princes on the right, Princesses on the left. The Duchess of Lancaster had the first place; then the Duchess of York, particularly complacent and resplendent; the Duchess of Gloucester, who should have sat third, was closely secluded (of her free will) in the Convent of Bermondsey. Next sat the Countess of March, the elder sister of the Duchess Joan, and wife of the Lollard heir of England. The daughters of the Princes followed her. Elizabeth, Countess of Huntingdon, daughter of the Duke of Lancaster, whom that day was to make a duchess, and who bore away the palm from the rest as “the best singer and the best dancer” of all the royal ladies, held her place, beaming with smiles, and radiant with rubies and crimson velvet. Next, arrayed in blue velvet, sat the only daughter of York, Constance Lady Le Despenser. Round the hall sat the nobles of England in their “Parliament robes,” each of the married peers with his lady at his side; while below came the House of Commons, and lower yet, outside the railing, the people of England, in the shape of an eager, sight-seeing mob. There was to be a great creation of peers, and one by one the names were called. As each of the candidates heard his name, he rose from his seat, and was led up to the throne by two nobles of the order to which he was about to be raised.

“Sir Henry of Bolingbroke, Earl of Derby!” The gentleman whose unswerving loyalty was about to be recompensed by the gift of a coronet (!) rose with his customary grace from his seat, third on the right hand of the King, and was led up by his father of Lancaster and his uncle of York. He knelt, bareheaded, before the throne. A sword was girt to his side, a ducal coronet set on his head by the royal hand, and he rose Duke of Hereford. As old Lancaster resumed his seat, he smiled grimly under his white beard, and muttered to himself—“Sans doute!”

“Sir Edward of Langley, Earl of Rutland!”

Constance’s brother was similarly led up by his father and his cousin, the newly-created Duke, and he resumed his princely seat, Duke of Aumerle, or Albemarle.

“Sir Thomas de Holand, Earl of Kent, Baron Wake!”

Hereford and Aumerle were the two to lead up the candidate. He was the son of the King’s half-brother, and was reputed the handsomest of the nobles: a tall, finely-developed man, with the shining golden hair of his Plantagenet ancestors. He was created Duke of Surrey.

Hereford sat down, and Surrey and Aumerle conducted John Earl of Huntingdon to the throne. He was half-brother of the King, uncle of Surrey, and husband of the royal songstress who sat and smiled in crimson velvet. He had stepped out of the family ranks; for instead of being tall, fair, and good-looking, like the rest of his house, he was a little dark-haired man, whom no artist would have selected as a model of beauty. A strong anti-Lollard was this nobleman, a good hater, a prejudiced, violent, unprincipled man; possessed of two virtues only—honesty and loyalty. He had been cajoled for a time by Gloucester, but his brother knew him too well to doubt his sincerity or affection. He was made Duke of Exeter.

The next call was for—“Sir Thomas de Mowbray, Earl of Nottingham!” And up came the last of the “Lords Appellants,” painfully conscious in his heart of hearts that while he might have been in his right place on the scaffold in Cheapside, he was very much out of it in Westminster Hall, kneeling to receive the coronet of Norfolk.

A coronet was now laid aside, for the recipient was not present. She was an old lady of royal blood, above seventy years of age, the second cousin of the King, and great-grandmother of Nottingham. Her style and titles were duly proclaimed as Duchess of Norfolk for life.

But when “Sir John de Beaufort, Earl of Somerset!” was called for, the peer summoned rose and walked forward alone. He was to be created a marquis—a title of King Richard’s own devising, and at that moment borne by no one else. The Earl came reluctantly, for he was very unwilling to be made unlike other people; and he dropped his new title, and returned to the old one, as soon as he conveniently could. He had a tall, fine figure, but not a pleasant face; and his religion, no less than his politics, he wore like a glove—well-fitting when on, but capable of being changed at pleasure. Just now, when Lollardism was “walking in silver slippers,” my Lord Marquis of Dorset was a Lollard. Rome rarely persecutes men of this sort, for she makes them useful in preference.

And now the herald cried—“Sir Thomas Le Despenser, Baron of Cardiff!”

The Earls of Northumberland and Suffolk were the supporters of Le Despenser, who walked forward with a slow, graceful step, to receive from the King’s hand an earl’s coronet, accompanied by the ominous name of Gloucester—a title stained by its last bearer beyond remedy. In truth, the royal dukedom had been an interpolation of the line, and the King was merely giving Le Despenser back his own—the coronet which had belonged to the grand old family of Clare, whose co-heiress was the great-grandmother of Thomas Le Despenser. The title had been kept as it were in suspense ever since the attainder of her husband, the ill-fated Earl Hugh, though two persons had borne it in the interim without any genuine right.

Three other peers were created, but they do not concern the story. And then the King rose from his throne, the ceremony was over; and Constance Le Despenser left the hall among the Princesses by right of her birth, but wearing her new coronet as Countess of Gloucester.

Four months later, the Duke of Hereford knelt before the throne, and solemnly accused his late friend and colleague, the Duke of Norfolk, of treason. He averred that Norfolk had tempted him to join another secret conspiracy. Norfolk, when questioned, turned the tables by denying the accusation, and adding that it was Hereford who had tempted him. Since neither of these noble gentlemen was particularly worthy of credit, and they both swore very hard on this occasion, it is impossible to decide which (if either) was telling the truth. The decision finally arrived at was that both the accusers should settle their quarrel by wager of battle, for which purpose they were commanded to meet at Coventry in the following autumn.

Before the duel took place, an important event occurred in the death of Roger Mortimer, the Lollard Earl of March, whom the King had proclaimed heir presumptive of England. He was Viceroy of Ireland, and was killed in a skirmish by the “wild Irish.” March, who was only 24 years of age, left four children, of whom we shall hear more anon, to be educated by their mother, Archbishop Arundel’s niece, in her own Popish views. He is described by the monkish chroniclers as “very handsome and very courteous, most dissolute of life, and extremely remiss in all matters of religion.” We can guess pretty well what that means. “Remiss in matters of religion,” of course, refers to his Lollardism, while the accusation of “dissolute life” is notoriously Rome’s pet charge against those who escape from her toils. Such was the sad and early end of the first and only Lollard of the House of Mortimer.

The duel between Hereford and Norfolk was appointed to take place on Gosford Green, near Coventry, on the 16th of September. The combatants met accordingly; but before a blow was struck, the King took the matter upon himself and forbade the engagement. On the 3rd of October, licence was granted to Hereford to travel abroad, this being honourable banishment; no penalty was inflicted upon Norfolk. But some event—perhaps never to be discovered—occurred, or came to light during the following ten days, which altered the whole aspect of affairs. Either the King found out some deed of treason, of which he had been previously ignorant, or else some further offence was committed by both Hereford and Norfolk. On the 13th both were banished—Hereford for ten years, Norfolk for life; the sentence in the former case being afterwards commuted to six years. Those who know the Brutus-like character of John of Gaunt, and his real opinion of his son’s proceedings, may accept, if they can, the representations of the monastic chroniclers that the commutation of Hereford’s sentence was made at his intercession.

In the interim, between the duel and the sentence, Archbishop Arundel was formally adjudged a traitor, and the penalty of banishment was inflicted on him also.

Constance was too busy with her nursery to leave Cardiff, where this autumn little Richard was joined by a baby sister, who received the name of Elizabeth after the Dowager Lady. But the infant was not many weeks old, when, to use the beautiful phrase of the chroniclers, she “journeyed to the Lord.” She was taken away from the evil to come.

It was appropriate enough that the last dread year of the fourteenth century should be ushered in by funeral knells. And he who died on the third of February in that year, though not a very sure stay, was the best and last support of the Gospel and the throne. It was with troubled faces and sad tones that the Lollards who met in the streets of London told one to another that “old John of Gaunt, time-honoured Lancaster,” was lying dead in the Bishop of Ely’s Palace.

But the storm was deferred for a few weeks longer. There were royal visits to Langley and Cardiff, on the way to Ireland, the Earl of Gloucester accompanying the King to that country. And then, when Richard had left the reins of government in the feeble hands of York, the tempest burst over England which had been lowering for so long.

The Lady Le Despenser and the Countess of Gloucester were seated at breakfast in Cardiff Castle, on a soft, bright morning in the middle of July. Breakfast consisted of fresh and salt fish, for it was a fast-day; plain and fancy bread, different kinds of biscuits (but all made without eggs or butter); small beer, and claret. Little Richard was energetically teasing Maude, by whom he sat, for another piece of red-herring, and the Dowager, deliberate in all her movements, was slowly helping herself to Gascon wine. The blast of a horn without the moat announced the arrival of a guest or a letter, and Bertram Lyngern went out to see what it was. Ten minutes later he returned to the hall, with letters in his hand, and his face white with some terrible news.

“Ill tidings, noble ladies!”

“Is it Dickon?” cried the Countess.

“Is it Tom?” said the Dowager.

“There be no news of my Lord, nor from Langley,” said Bertram. “But my Lord’s Grace of Hereford, and Sir Thomas de Arundel, sometime Archbishop, be landed at Ravenspur.”

“Landed at Ravenspur!—Banished men!”

The loyal soul of Elizabeth Le Despenser could imagine nothing more atrocious.

“Well, let them land!” she added in a minute. “The Duke’s Grace of York shall wit how to deal with them. Be any gathered to them?”

“Hundreds and thousands,” was the ominous answer.

“Ay me!” sighed the Dowager. “Well! ‘the Lord reigneth.’”

Constance’s only comment on the remarks was a quiet, incredulous shrug of her shoulders. She knew her father.

And she was right. Like many another, literally and figuratively, York went over to the enemy’s ground to parley, and ended in staying there. One of the two was talked over—but that one was not the rebel, but the Regent.

Poor York! Looking back on those days, out of the smoke of the battle, one sees him a man so wretchedly weak and incapable that it is hardly possible to be angry with him. It does not appear to have been conviction, nor cowardice, nor choice in any sense, which caused his desertion, but simply his miserable incapacity to stand alone, or to resist the influence of any stronger character on either side.Hego to parley with the enemy! He might as well have sent his baby grandson to parley with a box of sugar-plums.

Fresh news—always bad news—now came into Cardiff nearly every day.

The King hurried back from Ireland to Conway, and there gathered his loyal peers around him. There were only sixteen of them. Dorset, always on the winning side, deserted the sinking ship at once. Aumerle more prudently waited to see which side would eventually prove the winner.

Exeter and Surrey were sent to parley with the traitors. They were both detained, Surrey as a prisoner, Exeter with a show of friendship. The latter was too fertile in resources, and too eloquent in speech, not to be a dangerous foe. He was therefore secured while the opportunity offered.

Then came the treacherous Northumberland as ambassador from Hereford, whom we must henceforth designate by his new title of Lancaster.

Northumberland’s lips dropped honey, but war was in his heart. He offered the sweetest promises. What did they cost? They were made to be broken. So gentle, so affectionate were his solicitations to the royal hart to enter the leopard’s den—so ready was he to pledge word and oath that Lancaster was irrevocably true and faithful—that the King listened, and believed him. He set forth with his little guard, quitting the stronghold of Flint Castle, and in the gorge of Gwrych he was met by Northumberland and his army, seized, and carried a prisoner to Chester.

This was the testing moment for the hitherto loyal sixteen. Aumerle, who had satisfied himself now which way the game was going, went over to his cousin at once. Worcester broke his white wand of office, and retired from the contest. Some fled in terror. When all the faithless had either gone or joined Lancaster, there remained six, who loved their master better than themselves, and followed, voluntary prisoners, outwardly in the train of Henry of Lancaster, but really in that of Richard of Bordeaux.

These six loyal, faithful, honourable men our story follows. They were—Thomas Le Despenser, Earl of Gloucester; John de Montacute, Earl of Salisbury; Thomas de Holand, Duke of Surrey; William Le Scrope, Earl of Wilts; Richard Maudeleyn, chaplain to the King; John Maudeleyn (probably his brother), varlet of the robes.

Slowly the conqueror marched Londonwards, with the royal captive in his train. Westminster was reached on the first of September. From that date the coercion exercised over the King was openly and shamelessly acknowledged. His decrees were declared to be issued “with the assent of our dearest cousin, Henry Duke of Lancaster.” At last, on Michaelmas Day, the orders of that loving and beloved relative culminated in the abdication of the Sovereign.

The little group of loyalists had now grown to seven, by the addition of Exeter, who joined himself to them as soon as he was set at liberty. They remained in London during that terrible October, and most of them were present when, on the 13th of that month, Henry of Lancaster was crowned King of England.

There stood the vacant throne, draped in gold-spangled red; and by it, on either hand, the Lords Spiritual and Temporal. The hierarchy were, on the right, Arundel at their head, having coolly repossessed himself of the see from which he had been ejected as a traitor; an expression of contemptuous amusement hovering about his lips, which might be easily translated into the famous (but rather apocryphal) speech of Queen Elizabeth to the men of Coventry—“Good lack! What fools ye be!” On the left hand of the throne stood Lancaster, his lofty stature conspicuous among his peers, waiting with mock humility for the farce of their acknowledgment of his right. Next him was his uncle of York, wearing a forced smile at that which his conscience disapproved, but his will was impotent to reject. Aumerle came next, his face so plainly a mask to hide his thoughts that it is difficult to judge what they were. Then Surrey, with a half-astonished, half-puzzled air, as though he had never expected matters really to come to this pass. His uncle Exeter, who sat next him, looked sullen and discontented. The other peers came in turn, but their faces are not visible in the remarkable painting by an eye-witness from which those above are described, with the exception of the tellers, the traitor Northumberland, and the cheery round-faced Westmoreland. These went round to take the votes of the peers. There were not likely to be many dissenting voices, where to vote No was death.

Henry stated his assumption of power to rest upon three points. First, he had conquered the kingdom; secondly, his cousin, King Richard, had voluntarily abdicated in his favour; and lastly, he was the true heir male of the crown.

“Ha!” said the little Earl of March, the dispossessed heir general, “haeres malus, is he?”

It was not a bad pun for seven years old.

If Henry of Bolingbroke may be credited, the majority of the loyal six, and Thomas Le Despenser among them, not only sat in his first Parliament, but pleaded compulsion as the cause of their petition against Gloucester, and consented to the deposition of King Richard, while some earnestly requested the usurper to put the Sovereign to death. While some of these allegations are true, the last certainly is false. One of those named as having joined in the last petition is Surrey; and his alleged participation is proved to be a lie. Knowing how lightly Henry of Bolingbroke could lie, it is hardly possible to believe otherwise of any member of the group, except indeed the time-serving Aumerle.

Note 1. See “Mistress Margery,” preface, page six.

Note 2. His mother, Alianora of Lancaster, was the daughter of Earl Henry, son of Prince Edmund, son of Henry the Third.

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