Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England The White Rose of Langley, a Story of the Olden Time, by Emily Sarah Holt. ________________________________________________________________________ This book is set in aristocratic circles in the fifteenth century. For that reason there is a great deal of mediaeval English. However, most of the unusual words are explained as they occur, so there is no problem with comprehension. The last chapter is headed "Historical Appendix", and contains potted lives of most of the people whom we meet in the book, since the majority of them really existed. Of course the detail of the conversations in the book is made up, but we can well believe that something very like them might well have happened. What is very evident is that many of these people were plotters, the object of their desires being in some way to increase their own wealth or status. Even small children may be imprisoned and murdered, as we remember from the sad tale of "the Princes in the Tower". If you are fond of reading historical novels, and are familiar with the general history of the fifteenth century, you will enjoy this view of the lives of the figures that made that history. ________________________________________________________________________ THE WHITE ROSE OF LANGLEY, A STORY OF THE OLDEN TIME, BY EMILY SARAH HOLT. CHAPTER ONE. NOBODY'S CHILD. "Oh, how full of briars is this working-day world!" _Shakspere_. "It is so cold, Mother!" The woman addressed languidly roused herself from the half-sheltered nook of the forest in which she and her child had taken refuge. She was leaning with her back supported by a giant oak, and the child was in her arms. The age of the child was about eight. The mother, though still young in years, was old before her time, with hard work and exposure, and it might be also with sorrow. She sat up, and looked wearily over the winter scene before her. There was nothing of the querulous, complaining tone of the little girl's voice in hers; only the dull, sullen apathy of hopeless endurance. "Cold, child!" she said. "'Tis like to be colder yet when the night cometh." "O Mother! and all snow now!" "There be chiller gear than snow, maid," replied the mother bitterly. "But it had been warmer in London, Mother?--if we had not lost our road." "May-be," was the answer, in a tone which seemed to imply that it did not signify. The child did not reply; and the woman continued to sit upright, and look forward, with an absent expression in her face, indicating that the mind was not where the eyes were. "Only snow and frost!" she muttered--not speaking to the child. "Nought beyond, nor here ne there. Nay, snow is better than snowed-up hearts. Had it been warmer in London? May-be the hearts there had been as frosty as at Pleshy. Well! it will be warm in the grave, and we shall soon win yonder." "Be there fires yonder, Mother?" asked the child innocently. The woman laughed--a bitter, harsh laugh, in which there was no mirth. "The devil keepeth," she said. "At least so say the priests. But what wit they? They never went thither to see. They will, belike, some day." The little girl was silent again, and the mother, after a moment's pause, resumed her interrupted soliloquy. "If there were nought beyond, only!" she murmured; and her look and tone of dull misery sharpened into vivid pain. "If a man might die, and have done with it all! But to meet God! And 'tis no sweven, [dream] ne fallacy, this dread undeadliness [immortality]--it is real. O all ye blessed saints and martyrs in Heaven! how shall I meet God?" "Is that holy Mary's Son, Mother?" "Ay." "Holy Mary will plead for us," suggested the child. "She can alway peace her Son. But methought _He_ was good to folks, Mother. Sister Christian was wont to say so." "To saints and good women like Sister Christian, may-be." "Art thou not good, Mother?" The question was put in all innocence. But it struck the heart of the miserable mother like a poisoned arrow. "Good!" she cried, again in that tone of intense pain. "_I_ good? No, Maude!--I am bad, bad, bad! From the crown of mine head to the sole of my foot, there is nothing in me beside evil; such evil as thou, unwemmed [undefiled, innocent] dove as thou art, canst not even conceive! God is good to saints--not to sinners. Sister Christian--and thou, yet!--be amongst the saints. I am of the sinners." "But why art thou not a saint, Mother?" demanded the child, as innocently as before. "I was on the road once," said the woman, with a heavy sigh. "I was to have been an holy sister of Saint Clare. I knew no more of ill than thou whiteling in mine arms. If I had died then, when my soul was fair!" Suddenly her mood changed. She clasped the child close to her breast, and showered kisses on the little wan face. "My babe Maude, my bird Maude!" she said. "My dove that God sped down from Heaven unto me, thinking me not too ill ne wicked to have thee! The angels may love thee, my bird in bower! for thou art white and unwemmed. The robes of thy chrism [see Note 1] are not yet soiled; but, O sinner that I am! how am I to meet God? And I must meet Him--and soon." "Did not God die on the rood, Mother?" The woman assented, the old listless tone returning to her voice. "Wherefore, Mother?" "God wot, child." "Sister Christian told me He had no need for Himself, but that He loved us; yet why that should cause Him to die I wis not." The mother made no answer. Her thoughts had drifted away, back through her weary past, to a little village church where a fresco painting stood on the wall, sketched in days long before, of a company of guests at a feast, clad in Saxon robes; and of One, behind whom knelt a woman weeping and kissing His feet, while her flowing hair almost hid them from sight. And back to her memory, along with the scene, came a line from a popular ballad ["The Ploughman's Complaint"] which referred to it. She repeated it aloud-- "`Christ suffered a sinful to kisse His fete.' "Suffered her, for that she was a saint?" she asked of herself, in the dreamy languor which the intense cold had brought over her. "Nay, for she was `a sinful.' Suffered her, then, for that she sinned? Were not that to impeach His holiness? Or was He so holy and high that no sin of hers could soil the feet she touched? What good did it her to touch them? Made it her holy?--fit to meet God in the Doom [Judgment], when she had thus met Him here in His lowliness? How wis I? And could it make me fit to meet Him? But I can never kiss His feet. Nor lack they the ournment [adornment] of any kiss of mine. Yet methinks it were she, not He, which lacked it then. And He let her kiss His feet. O Christ Jesu! if in very deed it were in love for us that Thou barest death on the bitter rood, hast Thou no love left to welcome the dying sinner? Thou who didst pity her at yonder feast, hast Thou no mercy for Eleanor Gerard too?" The words were spoken only half aloud, but they were heard by the child cradled in her arms. "Mother, why christened you me not Eleanor?" she asked dreamily. "Hush, child, and go to sleep!" answered the mother, startled out of her reverie. Maude was silent, and Eleanor wrapped her closer in the old cloak which enfolded both of them. But before the woman yielded herself up to the stupor which was benumbing her faculties, she passed her hand into her bosom, and drew out a little flat parcel, folded in linen, which she secreted in the breast of the child's dress. "Keep this, Maude," she said gravely. "What is it, Mother?" was Maude's sleepy answer. "It is what thou shalt find it hereafter," was the mysterious rejoinder. "But let none take it away, neither beguile thee thereof. 'Tis all I have to give thee." Maude seemed too nearly asleep for her curiosity to be roused; and Eleanor, leaning back against the tree, resigned herself to slumber also. Not long afterwards, a goatherd passing that way in search of a strayed kid, came on the unconscious pair, wrapped in each other's arms. He ran for help to his hut, and had them conveyed to a convent at a little distance, which the wanderers had failed to find. The rescue was just in time to bring the life back to the numbed limbs of the child. But for the mother there was no waking in this world. Eleanor Gerard had met God. Four years after that winter evening, in the guest-chamber of the Convent of Sopwell sat a nun of middle age and cheerful look, in conversation with a woman in ordinary costume, but to whom the same description would very nearly apply. "Then what were the manner of maid you seek, good Ursula?" inquired the nun. "By Saint Luke's face, holy Sister, but I would not have her too cunning [clever]. I count (though I say it that need not) I am none ill one to learn her her work; and me loveth not to be checked ne taunted of mine underlings." The nun, who had known Ursula Drew for some time, was quite aware that superfluity of meekness did not rank among that worthy woman's failings. "I would fain have a small maid of some twelve or thirteen years. An' ye have them elder, they will needs count they know as much as you, and can return a sharp answer betimes. I love not masterful childre." "But would you not she were something learned?" "Nay! So she wit not a pig's head from a crustade Almayne, [A kind of pie of custard or batter, with currants] 'tis all one to me, an' she will do my bidding." "Then methinks I could right well fit you. We have here at this instant moment a small maid of twelve years, that my Lady the Prioress were well fain to put with such as you be, and she bade me give heed to the same. 'Tis a waif that Anthony, our goatherd, found in the forest, with her mother, that was frozen to death in an hard winter; but the child abode, and was saved. Truly, for cunning there is little in her; but for meekness and readiness to do your will, the maid is as good as any. But ye shall see her I think on." Sister Oliva stepped to the door, and spoke in a low tone to some person outside. She came back and reseated herself, and a minute afterwards there was a low, timid tap at the door. "Come in, child," said the nun. And Maude came in. She was small and slight for her twelve years, and preternaturally grave. A quantity of long dark hair hung round her head in a condition of seemingly hopeless tanglement, and the dark eyes, proportionately larger than the rest of the features, wore an expression of mingled apathy and suspicion, alike strange and painful to see in the eyes of a child. "Come forward, Maude, and speak with Mistress Drew. Mercy on us, child! how hast moiled thine hair like a fowl his pennes!" [Feathers.] Maude made no reply. She came a few steps nearer, dropped a rustic courtesy, and stood to be questioned. "What is thy name?" inquired Mistress Ursula, as though she were beginning the catechism. "Maude," said the child under her breath. "And what years hast--twelve?" "Twelve, the last Saint Margaret." "And where wert born? Dost know?" Maude knew, though for some reason with which she herself was best acquainted, she had been much more chary of her information to my Lady the Prioress than she now chose to be. "At Pleshy, in Essex." "And what work did thy father?" Maude looked up with a troubled air, as if the idea of that relative's possible existence had never suggested itself to her. "I never had any father!" she said, in a pained tone. "Cousin Hawise had a father, and he wrought iron on the anvil. But I had none--never! I had a mother--that was all." "And what called men thy mother?" "Eleanor Gerard." "Then thy name is Maude Gerard," said Oliva, sharply. Maude's silence appeared to indicate that she declined to commit herself either affirmatively or negatively. "And what canst do, maid?" inquired Ursula, changing the subject to one of more practical purport. Perhaps the topic was too large for reply, for Maude's only response was a nervous twisting of her fingers. Sister Oliva answered for her. "Marry, she can pluck a chick, and roll pastry, and use a bedstaff, and scour a floor, and sew, and the like. She hath not been idle, I warrant you." "Couldst cleanse out a pan an' thou wert set about it?" "Ay," said Maude, under her breath. "And couldst run of a message?" "Ay." "And couldst do as folk bid thee?" "Ay." But each time the child's voice grew fainter. "Sister Oliva, I will essay the little maid, by your leave." "And with my very good will, friend Ursula." "Me counteth I shall make the best cook of her in all Herts. What sayest, maid?--wilt of thy good will be a cook?" Maude looked up, looked down, and said nothing. But nature had not made her a cook, and the utmost Ursula Drew could do in that direction was to spoil a good milliner. So little Maude went with Ursula--into a very different sphere of life from any which she could hitherto remember. The first home which she recollected was her grandfather's cottage, with the great elms on one side of it and the forge on the other, at which the old man had wrought so long as his strength permitted, and had then handed over, as the family inheritance, to his son. Since the world began for Maude, that cottage and the forge had always stood there, and its inhabitants had always been Grandfather, and Uncle David, and Aunt Elizabeth, and Cousin Hawise, and Cousin Jack, and Mother. At some unknown time in the remote past there had been a grandmother, for Maude had heard of her; but with that exception, there had never been anybody else, and her father was to her an utterly mythic individual. She had never heard such a person named until Ursula Drew inquired his calling. And then, one awful winter night, something dreadful had happened. What it was Maude never precisely knew. She only knew that there was a great noise in the night, and strange voices in the cottage, and cries for mercy; and that when morning broke Uncle David was gone, and was seen afterwards no more. So then they tried to keep on the old forge a little longer; but Grandfather was past work, and Cousin Jack was young and inexperienced, and customers would not come as they had done to brawny-armed Uncle David, to whose ringing blows on the anvil Maude had loved to listen. And one day she heard Aunt Elizabeth say to Grandfather that the forge brought in nothing, and they must go up to the castle and ask the great Lord there, whose vassals they were, to find them food until Jack was able to work: but the old man rose up from the settle and answered, his voice trembling with passion, that he would starve to death ere he would take food from the cruel hand which had deprived him of his boy. So then, Cousin Jack used to go roaming in the forest and bring home roots and wild fruits, and sometimes the neighbours would give them alms in kind or in money, and so for a while they tried to live. But Grandfather grew weaker, and Mother and Aunt Elizabeth very thin and worn, and the bloom faded from Cousin Hawise's cheeks, and the gloss died away from her shining hair. And at last Grandfather died. And then Aunt Elizabeth went to a neighbouring franklin's farm, to serve the franklin's dame; and Cousin Jack went away to sea; and Maude could not recollect how they lived for a time. And then came another mournful day, when strange people came to the cottage and roughly ordered the three who were left to go away. They took Cousin Hawise with them, for they said she would be comely if she were well fed, and the Lady had seen her, and she must go and serve the Lady. And Maude never knew what became of her. But Mother wept bitterly, and seemed to think that Hawise's lot was a very unhappy one. So then they set out, Mother and Maude, for London. The reasons for going to London were very dim and vague to Maude's apprehension. They were going to look for somebody; so much she knew: and she thought it was some relation of Grandmother's, who might perchance give them a home again. London was a very grand place, only a little less than the world: but it could not fill quite all the world, because there was room left for Pleshy and one or two other places. The King lived in London, who never did any thing all day long but sit on a golden throne, with a crown on his head, and eat bread and marmalade, and drink Gascon wine; and the Queen, who of course sat on another golden throne, and shared the good things, and wore minever dresses and velvet robes which trailed all across the room. Perhaps the houses were not all built of gold; some of them might be silver; but at any rate the streets were paved with one or other of the precious metals. And of course, nobody in London was at all poor, and everybody had as much as he could possibly eat, and was quite warm and comfortable, and life was all music, and flowers, and sunshine. Poor little Maude! was her illusion much more extravagant than some of ours? But, as we have seen, the hapless travellers never reached their bourne. And now even Mother was gone, and Maude was left alone in all the world. The nuns had not been particularly unkind to her; they had taught her many things, though they had not made her work beyond her strength; yet not one of them had given her what she missed most-- sympathy. The result was that the child had been unhappy in the convent, and yet she could not have said why, had she been asked. But nobody ever asked that of little Maude. She was alone in all the world--the great, bare, hard, practical world. For this was the side of the world presented to Maude. The world is many-sided, and it presents various sides and corners to various people. The side which Maude saw was hard and bare. Hard bed, hard fare, hard work, hard words sometimes. Had she any opportunity of thinking the world a soft, comfortable, cushioned place, as some of her sisters find it? This had been the child's life up to the moment when Ursula Drew made her appearance on the scene. But now a new element was introduced; for Maude's third home was a stately palace, filled with beautiful carvings, and delicate tracery, and exquisite colours, all which, lowest of the low as she was, she enjoyed with an intensity till then unknown to herself, and certainly not shared by any other in her sphere. That sense of the beautiful, which, trained in different directions, makes men poets, painters, and architects, was very strong in little Maude. She could not have explained in the least _how_ it was that the curves in the stonework, or the rich colours in the windows of the great hall, gave her a mysterious sensation of pleasure, which she could not avoid detecting that they never gave to any of her kitchen associates; and she obtained many a scolding for her habit of what my Lady the Prioress had called "idle dreaming," and Mistress Drew was pleased to term "lither laziness;" when, instead of cleaning pans, Maude was thinking poetry. Alas for little Maude! her vocation was not to think poetry; and it was to scour pans. The Palace of Langley, which had become the scene of Maude's pan-cleaning, was built in a large irregular pile. The kitchen and its attendant offices were at one end, and over them reigned Ursula Drew, who, though supreme in her government of Maude, was in reality only a vice-queen. Over Ursula ruled a man-cook, by name Warine de la Misericorde, concerning whom his subordinate's standing joke was that "Misericorde was rarely [extremely] merciless." But this potentate in his turn owed submission to the master of the household, a very great gentleman with gold embroidery on his coat, concerning whom Maude's only definite notion was that he must be courtesied to very low indeed. Master and mistress were mere names to Maude. The child was near-sighted, and though, like every other servant in the Palace, she ate daily in the great hall, her eyes were not sufficiently clear, from her low place at the extreme end, to make out anything on the distant dais beyond a number of grey shapeless shadows. She knew when the royal, and in her eyes semi-celestial persons in question were, or were not, at home; she had a dim idea that they bore the titles of Earl and Countess of Cambridge, and that they were nearly related to majesty itself; she now and then heard Ursula informed that my Lord was pleased to command a certain dish, or that my Lady had condescended to approve a particular sauce. She had noticed, moreover, that two of the grey shadows at the very top of the hall, and therefore among the most distinguished persons, were smaller than the rest; she inferred that these ineffable superiors had at least two children, and she often longed to inspect them within comfortable seeing distance. But no such good fortune had as yet befallen her. Their apartments were inaccessible fairy-land, and themselves beings scarcely to be gazed on with undazzled eyes. Very monotonous was Maude's new life:--cleaning pans, washing jars, sorting herbs, scouring pails, running numberless infinitesimal errands, doing everything that nobody else liked, hard-worked from morning to night, and called up from her hard pallet to recommence her toil before she had realised that she was asleep. Ursula's temper, too, did not improve with time; and Parnel, the associate and contemporary of Maude, was by no means to be mistaken for an angel. Parnel was three years older than Maude, and much better acquainted with her work. She could accomplish a marvellous quantity within a given time, when it pleased her; and it generally did please her to rush to the end of her task, and to spend the remaining time in teasing Maude. She had no positive unkind feeling towards the child, but she was extremely mischievous, and Maude being extremely teasable, the temptation of amusing her leisure by worrying the nervous and inexperienced child was too strong to be resisted. The occupations of her present life disgusted Maude beyond measure. The scullery-work, of which Ursula gave her the most unpleasant parts, was unspeakably revolting to her quick sense of artistic beauty, and to a certain delicacy and refinement of nature which she had inherited, not acquired; and which Ursula, if she could have comprehended it, would have despised with the intense contempt of the coarse mind for the fine. The child was one morning engaged in cleaning a very greasy saucepan, close to the open window, when, to her surprise, she was accosted by a strange voice in the base court, or back yard of the palace. "Is that pleasant work--frotting [rubbing] yonder thing?" Maude looked up into a pair of bright, kindly eyes, which belonged to a boy attired as a page, some three or four years older than herself. Something in the lad's good-natured face won her confidence. "No," she answered honestly, "'tis right displeasant to have ado with such feune!" [dirt.] "So me counted," replied the boy. "What name hast thou, little maid?" "Maude." "I have not seen thee here aforetime," resumed the page. "Nor I you," said Maude. "I have bidden hither no long time. Whereabout sit you in hall?" "Nigh the high end," said he. "But we are only this day come from Clarendon with the Lord Edward, whom I and my fellows serve. Fare thee well, little maid!" The bright eyes smiled at her, and the head nodded kindly, and passed on. But insignificant as the remarks were, Maude felt as if she had found a friend in the great wilderness of Langley Palace. The next time the page's head paused at her window, Maude summoned courage to ask him his name. "Bertram Lyngern," said he smilingly. "I have a longer name than thou." [See Note 2.] "And a father and mother?" asked Maude. "A father," said the boy. "He is one of my Lord's knights; but for my mother,--the women say she died the day I was born." "I have ne father ne mother," responded Maude, sorrowfully, "ne none to care for me in all the wide world." "Careth Mistress Drew nought for thee?" Maude's laugh was bitterly negative. "Ne Parnel, thy fellow?" "She striveth alway to abash [frighten] and trouble me," sighed Maude. "Poor Maude!" said Bertram, looking concerned. "Wouldst have me care for thee? May be I could render thy life somewhat lighter. If I talked with Parnel--" "It were to no good," said Maude, brushing away to get her sink clean. "There is nothing but sharp words and snybbyngs [scoldings] all day long; and if I give her word back, then will she challenge [accuse] me to Mistress, and soothly I am aweary of life." Weary of life at twelve years old! It was a new idea to Bertram, and he had found no answer, when the sharp voice of Ursula Drew summoned Maude away. "Haste, child!" cried Ursula. "Thou art as long of coming as Advent Sunday at Christmas. Now, by the time I be back, lay thou out for me on the table four bundles of herbs from the dry herb closet--an handful of knot-grass, and the like of shepherd's pouch, and of bramble-seeds, and of plantain. Now, mark thou, the top leaves of the plantain only! Leave me not find thee idling; but have yonder row of pans as bright as a new tester when I come, and the herbs ready." [See note 3.] Ursula bustled off, and Maude set to work at the pans. When they were sufficiently scrubbed, she pulled off the dirty apron in which she had been working, and went towards the dry herb closet. But she had not reached it, when her wrist was caught and held in a grasp like that of a vice. "Whither goest, Mistress Maude?" demanded an unwelcome voice. "Stay me not, I pray thee, Parnel!" said the child entreatingly. "Mistress Drew hath bidden me lay out divers herbs against she cometh." "What herbs be they?" inquired Parnel demurely, with an assumption of gravity and superior knowledge which Maude knew, from sad experience, to mask some project of mischief. But knowing also that peril lay in silence, no less than in compliance, she reluctantly gave the information. "There is no shepherd's pouch in the closet," responded Parnel. "Then whither must I seek it?" asked Maude. "In the fields," said Parnel. "Ay me!" exclaimed the child. "And 'tis not in leaf, let be flower," added her tormentor. "What can I do?" cried Maude in dismay. Still keeping tight hold of her wrist, Parnel answered the query by the execution of a war-dance around Maude. "Parnel, do leave go!" supplicated the prisoner. "Mistress Maude is bidden lay out herbs!" sang the gaoler in amateur recitative. "Mistress Maude hath no shepherd's pouch! Mistress Maude is loth to go and pluck it!" "Parnel, _do_ leave me go!" "Mistress Maude doth not her mistress' bidding! Mistr--" Suddenly breaking off, Parnel, who could be as quick as a lizard when she chose, quitted her hold, and vanished out of sight in some incomprehensible manner, as Ursula Drew marched into the kitchen. "Now, then, where be those herbs?" demanded that authority, in a tone indicative of a whipping. "Mistress, I could not help it!" sobbed the worried child. "By'r Lady, but thou canst help it if thou wilt!" returned Ursula. "Reach me down the rod; thy laziness shall be well a-paid for once." Maude sobbed helplessly, but made no effort to obey. "Where be thine ears? Reach the rod!" reiterated Ursula. "Whom chastise you, Mistress Drew?" inquired Bertram's voice through the door; "she that demeriteth the same, or she that no doth?" "This lazy maid demeriteth fifty rods!" was the pleasing answer. "I cry you mercy, but I think not so," said Bertram judicially. "An' you whipped the demeritous party, it should be Parnel. I saw all that chanced, by the lattice, but the maids saw not me." Parnel was not whipped, for her quickness made her a favourite; but neither was Maude, for Bertram's intercession rescued her. "The saints bless you, Master Bertram!" said Maude, at the next opportunity. "And the saints help me, for verily I have an hard life. I am all of a bire [hurry, confusion], and sore strangled [tired], from morn to night." "Poor little Maude!" answered Bertram pityingly. "Would I might shape thy matters better-good. Do the saints help, thinkest? Hugh Calverley saith no." "Talk you with such like evil fawtors, [factor, doer], Master Bertram?" asked Maude in a shocked voice. "Evil fawtors, forsooth! Hugh is no evil fawtor. How can I help but rede [attend to] his sayings? He is one of my fellows. And 'tis but what he hath from his father. Master Calverley is a squire of the Queen's Grace, and one of Sir John de Wycliffe's following." "Who is Sir John de Wycliffe?" said Maude. "One of the Lord Pope his Cardinals," laughed Bertram. "Get thee to thine herbs and pans, little Maude; and burden not thy head with Sir John de Wycliffe nor John de Northampton neither. Fare thee well, my maid. I must after my master for the hawking." But before Bertram turned away, Maude seized the opportunity to ask a question which had been troubling her for many a month. "If you be not in heavy bire, Master Bertram--" "Go to! What maketh a minute more nor less?" "Would it like you of your goodness to tell me, an' you wit, who dwelleth in the Castle of Pleshy?" "`An' I wit'! Well wis I. 'Tis my gracious Lord of Buckingham, brother unto our Lord of Cambridge." "Were you ever at Pleshy, Master Bertram?" "Truly, but a year gone, for the christening of the young Lord Humphrey." "And liked it you to tell me if you wot at all of one Hawise Gerard among the Lady's maidens?" Maude awaited the answer in no little suppressed eagerness. She had loved Cousin Hawise; and if she yet lived, though apart, she would not feel herself so utterly alone. Perhaps they might even meet again, some day. But Bertram shook his head. "I heard never the name," he said. "The Lady of Buckingham her maidens be Mistress Polegna and Mistress Sarah [fictitious persons]: their further names I wis not. But no Mistress Hawise saw I never." "I thank you much, Master Bertram, and will not stay you longer." But another shadow fell upon Maude's life. Poor, pretty, gentle, timid Cousin Hawise! What had become of her? The next opportunity she had, Maude inquired from Bertram, "What like dame were my Lady of Buckingham's greathood?" Bertram shrugged his shoulders, as if the question took him out of his depth. "Marry, she is a woman!" said he; "and all women be alike. There is not one but will screech an' she see a spider." "Mistress Drew and Mother be not alike," answered Maude, falling back on her own small experience. "Neither were Hawise and I alike. She would alway stay at holy Mary her image, to see if the lamp were alight; but I--the saints forgive me!--I never cared thereabout. So good was Cousin Hawise." "Maude," suggested Bertram in a low voice, as if he felt half afraid of his own idea, "Countest that blessed Mary looketh ever her own self to wit if the lamp be alight?" Maude was properly shocked. "Save you All Hallows, Master Bertram! How come you by such fantasies?" Bertram laughed and went away, chanting a stave of the "Ploughman's Complaint"--[See Note 4.] "Christ hath twelve apostles here; Now, say they, there may be but one, That may not erre in no manere-- Who 'leveth [believeth] not this ben lost echone. [each one] Peter erred--so did not Jhon; Why is he cleped the principal? [See note 5.] Christ cleped him Peter, but Himself the Stone-- All false faitours [doers] foule hem fall!" [Evil befall them.] Late that evening a mounted messenger crossed the drawbridge, and stayed his weary horse in the snows-prinkled base court. He was quickly recognised by the household as a royal letter-bearer from London. "And what news abroad, Master Matthew?" "Why, the King's Highness keepeth his Christmas at Eltham; and certain of the Council would fain have the Queen's Bohemians sent forth, but I misdoubt if it shall be done. And Sir Nicholas Brembre is the new mayor. There is no news else. Oh, ay! The parson of Lutterworth, Sir John de Wycliffe--" "The lither heretic!" muttered Warine, for he was the questioner. "What misturnment [perversion] would he now?" "He will never turn ne misturn more," said the messenger. "The morrow after Holy Innocents a second fit of the palsy took him as he stood at the altar at mass, and they bare him home to die. And the eve of the Circumcision [December 31st, 1384], two days thereafter, the good man was commanded to God." "Good man, forsooth!" growled Warine. "Master Warine," said Hugh Calverley's voice behind him, "the day may come when thou and I would be full fain to creep into Heaven at the heels of the Lutterworth parson." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Note 1. The anointing at baptism, when a white cloth was always placed on the head. Note 2. Bertram, Ursula, Parnel, Warine, and Maude and her family, are all fictitious persons. Note 3. The herbs were to be boiled and the liquid drunk, for a sprain, bruise, or broken bone. Note 4. Wright's _Political Poems_, one 304, _et seq_. The date of the poem given by Wright is anticipated by about nine years. Note 5. Why is Peter called the "Prince of the Apostles?" CHAPTER TWO. SOMEBODY'S CHILD. "`Now God, that is of mightes most, Grant him grace of the Holy Ghost His heritage to win: And Mary moder of mercy fre Save our King and his meynie Fro' sorrow and shame and sin.'" The song was trilled in a pleasant voice by an old lady who sat spinning in an upper chamber of Langley Palace. She paused a moment in her work, and then took up again the latter half of the strain. "`And Mary moder of mercy fre'--Called any yonder?" "May I come in, Dame Agnes?" said a child's voice at the door. The old lady rose hastily, laid down her distaff, and opening the door, courtesied low to the little girl of ten years old who stood outside. "Enter freely, most gracious Lady! Wherefore abide without?" It was a pretty vision which entered. Not that there was any special beauty in the child herself, for in that respect she was merely on the pretty side of ordinary. She was tall for her age--as tall as Maude, though she was two years younger. Her complexion was very fair, her hair light with a golden tinge, and her eyes of a peculiar shade of blue, bright, yet deep--the shade known as blue eyes in Spain, but rarely seen in England. But her costume was a study for a painter. Little girls dressed like women in the fourteenth century; and this child wore a blue silk tunic embroidered with silver harebells, over a brown velvet skirt spangled with rings of gold. Her hair was put up in a net of golden tissue, ornamented with pearls. The dress was cut square at the neck; she wore a pearl necklace, and a girdle of turquoise and pearls. Two rows of pearls and turquoise finished the sleeves at the wrist; they were of brown velvet, like the skirt. This finery was evidently nothing new to the little wearer. She came into the room and flung herself carelessly down on a small stool, close to the chair where Dame Agnes had been sitting--to the unfeigned horror of that courtly person. "Lady, Lady! Not on a stool, for love of the blessed Mary!" And drawing forward an immense old arm-chair, Dame Agnes motioned the child to take it. "Remember, pray you, that you be a Prince's daughter!" [See Note 1.] The child rose with some reluctance, and climbed into the enormous chair, in which she seemed almost lost. "Prithee, Dame Agnes, is it because I be a Prince's daughter that I must needs be let from sitting whither I would?" "There is meetness in all things," said the old lady, picking up her distaff. "And what meetness is in setting the like of me in a chair that would well hold Charlemagne and his twelve Peers?" demanded the little girl, laughing. "The twelve Peers of Charlemagne, such saved as were Princes, were not the like of _you_, Lady Custance," said Dame Agnes, almost severely. "Ah me!" and Constance gaped (or, as she would herself have said, "goxide.") "I would I were a woodman's daughter." Dame Agnes de La Marche, [see Note 2], whose whole existence had been spent in the scented atmosphere of Court life, stared at the child in voiceless amazement. "I would so, Dame. I might sit then of the rushes, let be the stools, or in a fieldy nook amid the wild flowers. And Dona Juana would not be ever laying siege to me--with `Dona Constanca, you will soil your robes!'--or, `Dona Constanca, you will rend your lace!'--or, `Dona Constanca, you will dirty your fingers!' Where is the good of being rich and well-born, if I must needs sit under a cloth of estate [a canopy] all the days of my life, and dare not so much as to lift a pin from the floor, lest I dirty my puissant and royal fingers? I would liefer have a blacksmith to my grandsire than a King." "Lady Custance! With which of her Grace's scullion maidens have you demeaned yourself to talk?" "I will tell thee, when thou wilt answer when I was suffered to say so much as `Good morrow' to any maid under the degree of a knight's daughter." "Holy Mary, be our aid!" interjected the horrified old lady. "I am aweary, Dame Agnes," said the child, laying herself down in the chair, as nearly at full length as its size would allow. "I have played the damosel [person of rank--used of the younger nobility of both sexes] so long time, I would fain be a little maid a season. I looked forth from the lattice this morrow, and I saw far down in the base court a little maid the bigness of me, washing of pans at a window. Now, prithee, have yon little maid up hither, and set her under the cloth of estate in my velvets, and leave me run down to the base court and wash the pans. It were rare mirth for both of us." Dame Agnes shook her head, as if words failed to express her feelings at so unparalleled a proposal. "What sangst thou as I was a-coming in?" asked the child, dropping a subject on which she found no sympathy. "'Twas but an old song, Lady, of your Grace's grandsire King Edward (whom God assoil! [pardon]) and his war of France." "That was ere I was born. Was it ere thou wert, Dame?" "Truly no, Lady," said Agnes, smiling; "nor ere my Lord your father." "What manner of lad was my Lord my father, when he was little?" "Rare meek and gent, Lady,--for a lad, and his ire saved." [Except when he was angry.] Dame Agnes saved her conscience by the last clause, for gentle as Prince Edmund had generally been, he was as capable of going into a genuine Plantagenet passion as any of his more fiery brothers. "But a maiden must be meeker and gentler?" "Certes, Damosel," said Agnes, spinning away. The child reclined in her chair for a time in silence. Perhaps it was the suddenness of the next question which made the old lady drop her distaff. "Dame, who is Sir John de Wycliffe?" The distaff had to be recovered before the question could be considered. "Ask at Dame Joan, Lady," was the discreet reply. "So I did; and she bade me ask at thee." "A priest, methinks," said Agnes vaguely. "Why, I knew that," answered the child. "But what did he, or held he?-- for 'tis somewhat naughty, folk say." "If it be somewhat naughty, Lady Custance, you should not seek to know it." "But my Lady my mother wagged her head, though she spake not. So I want to know." "Then your best way, Damosel," suggested the troubled Agnes, "were to ask at her Grace." "I did ask at her." "And what said she?" "She said she would tell me another day. But I want to know now." "Her Grace's answer might have served you, Lady." "It did not serve Ned. He said he would know. And so will I." "The Lord Edward is two years your elder, Lady." "Truth," said the child shrewdly, "and you be sixty years mine elder, so you should know more than he by thirty." Agnes could not help smiling, but she was sadly perplexed how to dismiss the unwelcome topic. "Let be. If thou wilt not tell me, I will blandish some that will. There be other beside thee in the university [world, universe].--What is yonder bruit?" [a noise.] It was little Maude, flying in frantic terror, with Parnel in hot pursuit, both too much absorbed to note in what direction they were running. The cause was not far to seek. After Maude had recovered from the effects of her exposure in the forest, she lighted unexpectedly on the little flat parcel which her mother had charged her to keep. It was carefully sewn up in linen, and the sewing cost Maude some trouble to penetrate. She reached the core at last. It was something thin and flat, with curious black and red patterns all over it. This would have been the child's description. It was, in truth, a vellum leaf of a manuscript, elaborately written, but not illuminated, unless capitals in red ink can be termed illumination. Remembering her mother's charge, to let "none beguile her of it," Maude had striven to keep its possession a secret from every one, first from the nuns, and then from Ursula Drew. Strange to say, she had succeeded until that morning. It was to her a priceless treasure--all the more inestimable because she could not read a word of it. But on that unlucky morning, Parnel had caught a glimpse of the precious parcel, always hidden in Maude's bosom, and had immediately endeavoured to snatch it from her. Contriving to elude her grasp, yet fearful of its repetition, Maude rushed out of the kitchen door, and finding that her tormentor followed, fled across the base court, took refuge in an open archway, dashed up a flight of steps, and sped along a wide corridor, neither knowing nor caring that her flying feet were bearing her straight in the direction of the royal apartments. Parnel was the first to see where they were going, and at the last corner she stayed her pursuit, daring to proceed no further. But Maude did not know that Parnel was no longer on her track, and she fled wildly on, till her foot tripped at an inequality in the stone passage, and she came down just opposite an open door. For a minute the child was too much stunned by her fall to think of any thing. Then, as her recollection returned, she cast a terrified glance behind her, and saw that her pursuer had not yet appeared round the corner. And then, before she could rise, she heard a voice in front of her. "What is this, my child?" Maude looked up, past a gorgeous spread of blue and gold drapery, into a meek, quiet face--a face whose expression reassured and comforted her. A calm, pale, oval face, in which were set eyes of sapphire blue, framed by soft, light hair, and wearing a look of suffering, past or present. Maude answered the gentle voice which belonged to that face as she might have answered her mother. "I pray you of pardon, Mistress! Parnel, my fellow, ran after me and affrighted me." "Wherefore ran she after thee?" "Because she would needs see what I bare in my bosom, and I was loth she so should, lest she should do it hurt." "What is that? I will do it no hurt." Maude looked up again, and felt as if she could trust that face with any thing. So merely saying--"You will not give it Parnel, Mistress?" she drew forth her treasure and put it into the lady's hand. "I will give it to none saving thine own self. Dost know what it is, little maid?" "No, Mistress, in good sooth." "How earnest by it? 'Tis a part of a book." "My mother, that is dead, charged me to keep it; for it was all she had for to give me. I know not, in very deed, whether it be Charlemagne or Arthur"--the only two books of which poor Maude had ever heard. "But an' I could meet with one that wist to read, and that were my true friend, I would fain cause her to tell me what I would know thereabout." "And hast no true friend?" inquired the lady. "Not one," said Maude sorrowfully. "Well, little maid, I can read, and I would be thy true friend. What is it thou wouldst fain know?" "Why," said Maude, in an interested tone, "whether the great knight, of whose mighty deeds this book doth tell, should win his 'trothed love at the last, or no." For the novel-reader of the fourteenth century was not very different from the novel-reader of the nineteenth. The lady smiled, but grew grave again directly. She sat down in one of the cushioned window-seats, keeping Maude's treasured leaf in her hand. "List, little maid, and thou shalt hear--that the great Knight, of whose mighty prowess this book doth tell, shall win His 'trothed love at last." And she began to read--very different words from any Maude expected. The child listened, entranced. "And I saigh [saw] newe heuene and newe erthe; for the firste heuene and the firste erthe wenten awei; and the see is not now. And I ioon [John] saigh the hooli citee ierusalim newe comynge doun fro heuene maad redi of god as a wyf ourned to hir husbonde. And I herde a greet voice fro the trone seiynge [saying], lo a tabernacle of god is with men, and he schal dwelle with hem, and thei schulen be his peple, and he, god with hem, schal be her [their] god. And god schal wipe awei ech teer fro the ighen [eyes] of hem, and deeth schal no more be, neithir mournyng neither criyng neither sorewe schal be ouer, whiche thing is firste [first things] wenten awei. And he seide that sat in the trone, lo I make alle thingis newe. And he seide to me, write thou, for these wordis ben [are] moost feithful and trewe. And he seide to me, it is don, I am alpha and oo [omega] the bigynnyng and ende, I schal ghyue [give] freli of the welle of quyk [quick, living] water to him that thirstith. He that schal ouercome schal welde [possess] these thingis, and I schal be god to him, and he schal be sone to me. But to ferdful men, and unbileueful, and cursid, and manquelleris, and fornicatours, and to witchis and worschiperis of ydols and to alle lyeris the part of hem schal be in the pool brenynge with fyer and brymstoon, that is the secounde deeth. And oon [one] cam of the seuene aungelis hauynge
{'title': 'The White Rose of Langley by Emily Sarah Holt', 'source': 'Project Gutenberg', 'lang': 'en'}