Chapter IX Drawing Nearer
“A bowing, burdened head,
That only asks to rest
Unquestioning, upon
A loving breast.”
The Duchess carried her point, and packed off Agnes in disgrace within a week of the offence. She had the grace to see that there was some escort for the friendless girl on her journey home. A small party of travellers were on their way to the north—consisting of three gentlemen, one of whom was accompanied by his wife and daughters. Agnes received a frigid intimation that she was to make one of this party, and must be ready to start in four days. Mr. Banaster, the married gentleman, lived in Lancashire, whither he was returning, and would take charge of Agnes as far as Sheffield, where, if her friends did not meet her, she must be content to go forward to York with the two younger men whose destination it was. Agnes inwardly hoped that somebody would meet her: but it was a difficult matter to let them know. She wrote to her father, and contrived to send the letter by a post who was going to York with letters from the Duke of Gloucester: but whether it would reach Lovell Tower before herself was an open question. She humbly requested to know the names of the other gentlemen, in a faint hope that they might possibly be acquaintances. Lady Darcy informed her, in her coldest manner, that one of them was a Yorkshire squire, Master Rotherham by name: as for the other, his name was Combe, and whence he might come, she neither knew nor cared. Wherein my Lady Darcy was guilty of saying the thing that is not, since she was perfectly well aware that Master John Combe was of old time Queen Marguerite’s henchman, and she had, under different circumstances, appeared to be very good friends with him. Both names were strange to Agnes. She had one more request to make—for an interview with Frideswide ere she set out. Lady Darcy hesitated, but finally granted the request, though she made a great favour of doing so.
During the last few months, Frideswide’s movements had been regulated by political necessities. Thirty-seven days was the limit beyond which no person could claim the privilege of sanctuary at the cost of the house: and to reside in sanctuary at a man’s own expense was a ruinous proceeding. It was therefore impossible to Frideswide to remain with the Countess of Warwick: and she had no money to provide for herself; yet, being unindicted, she was not a prisoner, and could not expect to be kept at the royal cost. In these uncomfortable circumstances, she had availed herself of an opportunity which few girls would have accepted. A small, though extremely diminished suite had to be provided for the imprisoned Queen, and Frideswide had thankfully received permission to share her captivity. A fervent Lancastrian, she reverenced Marguerite from the core of her heart. Beyond the one change to her own home, any change from that service would be unwelcome.
The unwelcome change was at hand. The Duchess of Exeter had petitioned her brother for Frideswide Marston, and no choice was allowed the latter. One evening in January, Queen Marguerite’s gaoler entered her bower, as he politely termed it—she called it her dungeon—in Wallingford Castle. As gaolers went in those days, Sir Thomas Thwaytes was fairly civil to his illustrious captive.
“Dame,” said he, “please you, take your leave of Mistress Marston, whom it is His Highness’ gracious pleasure to command otherwhere.”
Frideswide turned rather pale, as was but natural. Her first idea was that the alteration had reference to her mistress rather than herself. But Sir Thomas soon undeceived her. Her sister was going home; and Frideswide was to take her place with my Lady of Exeter. Every fibre of Frideswide’s heart and nerves revolted at the very name. Take service under the woman who had ruined the life of that man with the soft sad eyes, for whose miserable story her compassion had been intensely awakened! But Frideswide had no choice. And then the thought flashed upon her that perhaps she might serve him there. At least she could do what Agnes had done, and help him, if he should seek it, to obtain private interviews with his daughter.
Queen Marguerite took an affectionate leave of her young attendant. She gave her a token, or gift, in the form of a table-book—one of those little ivory books, turning on a pivot, for memoranda, which have lasted in the same form for many a century. This one was among the few relics of her lost estate, and was mounted in gold, and set with turquoises. It was also fitted with a silver pen.43
The next morning Frideswide left Wallingford, in charge of one Simon Quyxley, an officer of the garrison, who was going on pilgrimage to Canterbury, and meant to stay a few weeks with his friends in London on his way thither. He delivered Frideswide at Coldharbour; and before she well set her foot inside the house, she found herself in the arms of her sister Agnes.
Fortunately for the sisters, the Duchess was spending the evening at Court, and they were free to be alone together if they chose. Agnes hurried Frideswide upstairs to the maidens’ chamber, which was at that moment empty, and each rapidly poured her story into the ear of the other—a process which left Agnes comforted, and Frideswide indignant.
“Tarry here I must,” said the latter: “but trust me, Annis, so far as lieth in my good will, ’tis for his sake, not hers.”
“And thou wilt serve our gracious Lord to thine uttermost, dear heart?” urged Agnes earnestly.
“Trust me, but I will!” was the reply. “And who be thy travelling fellows, sweeting?”
Agnes told her. The names of Messrs. Banaster and Rotherham were received without any comment; but no sooner had she said, “Master Combe,” than Frideswide’s eyes were lifted with light in them, and a slight flush crept over her brow.
“Master John Combe—not he? He that was the Queen’s henchman?”
There was no Queen but Marguerite to the apprehension of Frideswide Marston.
“Aye, the very same,” said Agnes. “Dost know him?”
Frideswide’s hood wanted a good deal of settling just at that moment.
“Ay,” said she, rather shortly. “Thou wilt not journey ill if Master Combe look to thy comfort. And maybe it shall be none the worser for thee if thou tell him thy name is Marston.”
Agnes quietly drew her own conclusions, but she asked no questions. She found, moreover, during the journey, that Master John Combe was undoubtedly an agreeable travelling companion, doing his utmost to make others comfortable: and that when she had once informed him that she was the sister of Frideswide Marston, he appeared to know as much as she did herself about her home, her relatives, and all that concerned her. About Frideswide herself he said very little: but Agnes soon perceived that to talk of her was the surest means of engrossing Master Combe’s attention.
Sheffield was reached at last, and Agnes found to her regret that no one from Lovell Tower awaited her. She went on to York with the two young gentlemen, with much less reluctance than she had anticipated: for though she was indifferent to Master Rotherham, she had come to have a very sisterly feeling towards John Combe. It was odd that John Combe’s way from York should lie exactly past Lovell Tower: but of course, very convenient for Agnes. Master Rotherham also offered to attend her thither; but Agnes civilly declined his offer as giving him unnecessary trouble. It was late on a Saturday evening in January that Agnes and John Combe reached Lovell Tower at last.
The family were seated in the hall, where a large fire of thick oaken logs was blazing, and the men-servants were bringing in the boards and trestles for rear-supper, the last meal of the day. Fixed tables in the centre of a room were unknown to our medieval ancestors, though they were common enough with the Romans, and even with the Anglo-Saxons. They had leaf-tables, attached to the wall; and wealthy persons indulged in small round or square tables on three feet: but to a much later period than this, the setting of tables for meals included the erection of the table, a mere wide board set upon trestles. We use phrases derived from this practice when we speak of setting a table, or of an hospitable board. Over this was laid a fine damask tablecloth, and the silver nef, or ship, was placed in the middle. This was a large salt-cellar, used as the barometer of rank. The family and their guests sat above the salt; the servants below it. Silver plates and cups were set for the former, wooden trenchers and earthen mugs for the latter. To each person was given a knife and spoon: forks were not invented except for spices, and were never used to eat with. A clean damask napkin, and a basin of water, were carried round before and after every meal: but as neither was changed in the process, the condition in which both reached the lower end of the board is better left undescribed. Fastidiousness was out of place in such circumstances, particularly when husband and wife still ate from the same plate, and for a host to share his plate with his guest was the highest honour he could do him. Yet our ancestors’ rules of etiquette show that they were fastidious in their way. Ladies and gentlemen are therein recommended not to wipe their fingers on the tablecloth, to refrain from all attentions to nose and hair during meals, to lick their spoons clean before putting them into the dish—special spoons for helping were never thought of—and above all things, not to feed their dogs from the table.
Saturday evening being a vigil, the supper consisted of salt ling and haddock, baked eels, galantine, eggs prepared in different ways, and various tarts and creams. Wassel bread was set above the salt, maslin below.
The Lady Idonia sat in a large carved chair near the fire. Lord Marnell, who had only just entered, and had had a day’s hard riding, had thrown himself on a settle near, with the air of a tired man who was glad to come back to home comforts.
The settle itself would have been hard comfort, but a well-to-do house in those days never ran short of cushions, and his Lordship lay on half a dozen. The Lady Margery was flitting about the table, looking to the ways of her household, and Dorathie was extremely busy on a strip of tapestry. The baked eels were just coming in at the door, when the clear notes of a horn rang outside the gate. It was accompanied—as that sound always was—by a nervous start from Idonia.
Dorathie never could understand why her grandmother always seemed alarmed when a horn sounded. She was too young to be told that before she was born, two horns had so sounded, one of which had brought to Idonia the news of her widowhood, and the other had heralded the arrival of persecutors for the faith. For the momentary defection on her part which followed the latter, Idonia’s pardon might be registered in Heaven, but she had never forgiven herself. Was it any wonder if the sound of a horn brought back to her shrinking heart both those awful memories?
“Guests, I ween!” said Lord Marnell, not altering his position on the settle, where he lay with both arms thrown back and beneath his head.
“Dear heart, who shall they be, trow?” responded his wife.
The slip of tapestry dropped from the fingers of Dorathie, who had rushed to the door, and was peering through the crack to make such discoveries as she could.
“Doll! Dorathie! Doll, I say!” cried the scandalised Lady Marnell to her curiosity-stricken heiress. “Come back this minute! Where be thy manners?”
Dorathie’s obedience, rather than her manners, produced a reluctant retreat from the door. The gate was heard to open and shut, the clatter of horses came into the paved court-yard, there was the sound of a little bustle and several voices without, and then through the door one voice that all recognised with exclamations of pleasure, the rather because it was one of the last which they expected to hear.
“Agnes, sweet heart!”
“Annis, my dear maid!”
“O Annis, hast come back?—hast come back!”
Lord Marnell was up in an instant, his wife warmly embracing her step-daughter, and Dorathie clinging to her as though she had not seen her for a life-time. Agnes returned the greetings as warmly as they were given, and when all the kisses and blessings were over, presented John Combe.
There was a cordial welcome for Queen Marguerite’s henchman at Lovell Tower, and he was of course desired to remain there as long as it suited his convenience. Any thing less would have been very rude in the eyes of the fifteenth century. Agnes had a shrewd suspicion that Lovell Tower was the real destination of the guest, and that before he left that place he would find that a little private conversation with Lord Marnell was the thing that suited his convenience. She was not mistaken. Before John Combe had stayed a fortnight at Lovell Tower, Agnes and Dorathie were informed by their mother that they were henceforward to regard that gentleman in the light of a brother-in-law elect. Agnes received with a quiet smile the communication which she had been expecting; Dorathie with ecstatic excitement an idea entirely new to her.
“But”—she suddenly exclaimed, ceasing her transports—“will Frid have to go away, or stay away? Won’t she come home?”
“She will come home first, surely,” answered her mother, “for she will be wed from hence: afterward, Master Combe hath some desire to dwell in this vicinage, though if it shall be compassed I yet know not.”
“Oh, how jolly should that be!” cried Dorathie, “to have Frid but a step off, and run in and out!”
Lady Margery laughed. “A good step, I take it, my little maid. Howbeit, I trust thou mayest have thy wish.”
It was on that very evening that Maurice Carew, who had been to York on business, came in with an important piece of news. The Princess of Wales was found. Found, by the man whom she most dreaded, in the guise of a cookmaid, at a “mean house” in the City of London,—dragged out from her seclusion, and placed under the care of her uncle, Archbishop Neville, with permission to hold intercourse with Queen Marguerite,—the only kindness that could be done to that lonely, widowed, orphan girl. Of all the quarrels that had ever taken place between Clarence and Gloucester, the worst ensued upon this point. The royal family went to Shene on the sixteenth of February “to pardon,” but little pardon was in the hearts of the brothers, who were quarrelling all the way. The King, with whom Gloucester was always the favourite, tried to persuade Clarence to more amiability: but all the concession that could be wrung from the latter was—
“He may well have my Lady my sister-in-law, but she and my wife shall part no livelihood!”
In other words, Clarence did not care how soon the Princess married, so long as she remained a portionless bride, and the Warwick property was left undivided to his children. To do Gloucester credit—the rather since little credit can be done him—he does not seem to have been anxious about the property at that time. It was Anne herself whom he wanted: and he was astute enough to see that if he once got hold of her, the property could be agitated for at leisure.
Not many days after this news had been a nine days’ wonder, Lady Darcy informed Frideswide that my Lady Anne Grey had petitioned her mother for her, and she was to be transferred to her service. Frideswide was exceedingly pleased, the rather because she could thus serve the Duke far better than at Coldharbour. She had heard something of Lady Anne from Agnes: but she was hardly prepared for the thin white face and burning eyes which struck to her heart when she saw her new mistress. She might keep in her service as long as Lady Anne should live, and not defer her wedding. The interview in the presence of the Duchess was very short, and question and answer were brief on both sides. But the engagement was effected, and Lord Marnell was fully satisfied with the transfer. He was glad, he said, to win both his poor doves from the clutches of that kite of a woman. Had Frideswide remained at Coldharbour, he would have hastened her marriage in order to get her away. Now there was no need to do it.
The first night that Frideswide spent in her new home, she was required to attend her young lady at her coucher. Mr. Grey was not at home; he rarely was so. Noble ladies never had the privilege of a room to themselves in the Middle Ages. When their husbands were away, and often when they were not, a female attendant must occupy the pallet bed, which ran on castors underneath the state bed, and was pulled out when required. Frideswide found herself appointed to the pallet bed this first night—an unusual promotion, since it argued some amount of attachment and confidence on the part of the mistress. The coucher was very silent, the only remarks made having reference to the business in hand. But when Frideswide, having finished her duties, had hastily undressed and lain down, the silence was broken.
“Frideswide, art thou in Agnes’ secrets?”
“That is somewhat more than I can answer, my Lady. I wis a thing or twain of hers.”
“Did she ever speak unto thee of—of my Lord my father?”
“I think it was I that spake to her,” answered Frideswide, softly.
“Hast thou seen him?” The tone was painfully eager.
“My Lady, may I speak out?”
“That is it I would have thee do.”
“Doth your Ladyship mind a certain even in winter that his Lordship came to Coldharbour, and, as I think, had speech of yourself?”
“Mind it? Yes, and shall while my life lasts!”
“My Lady, his Lordship had ere that been tarrying with the Queen at Harfleur, and he was pleased to require of me a letter to my sister the which should serve him as a passport to your Ladyship’s presence.”
“He came hither by thy means, Frideswide?”
“Mine and hers, my Lady.”
“Which of you knows him better?”
“Methinks, I, by much, Madam.”
“Frideswide, art thou willing to be his true friend and mine?”
“Trust me, my Lady.”
“Which Rose dost thou wear?”
A delicate question to answer, when the questioner was a daughter of the House of York! But Frideswide Marston never hesitated.
“The Red, Madam, from my cradle; and shall so do to my coffin.”
“So do I,” said Lady Anne, quietly, “down in mine heart, Frideswide. He wears it; and what he is, I am. Ah, would I could pass further!—‘Where thou goest, I will go, and where thou lodgest, I will lodge.’ I had asked God no more. Yet at the least, his people can be my people, as his God is my God. And may-be, when he dies, if not where, then may I die and be buried.”
“My Lady, you are young to count on dying.”
“It seems long since I counted on living,” she said in a low voice. “Life is not worth much, Frideswide.”
Frideswide knew too much to ask why. But she knew that for her, under similar circumstances, life would have gone on; and she wondered whether her physical nature were stronger than that of Lady Anne, or her moral nature more blunt and hard.
“I mind,” said Lady Anne, in the same tone, “once hearing my Lady of Clarence my aunt to say that none save weak folks brake their hearts. I reckon I must be weak. For mine is broken. I misdoubt if it were ever otherwise than weak and easily shattered. It has not taken much to break it. Thou mayest despise me if thou wilt.”
“None less, Madam! It would be impossible.”
“Would it?” she answered, rather wistfully. “Yet methinks thy nature is far stronger than mine. The blows which have crushed me into a poor handful of dust should have rebounded from thee with scarce a bruise. I can see it in thy face; and thy sister is like thee.”
“It may be so, my Lady. But I take it, He told us to pity the weak, who is a God so strong and patient, and who was crucified through weakness for our sakes. Is it not in His strength we can do all things?”
“Dost thou know Him, Frideswide?”
“Aye so, my Lady.”
“Then thou wilt be a comfort to me—in what is coming. It will not be long, Frideswide. Dost thou know that?”
Frideswide’s voice was very low and tender as she said, “Ay, my Lady. I think it will not be long.” She had more hardihood than Agnes, and spoke out her thoughts instead of feeling them in silence.
“And I shall be glad,” said Lady Anne gently. “Only I hope my father may not be long after me. Though we have met of late but so seldom, yet I know the world will seem darker and colder to him when I am gone out of it. I am all he has save God; and he is all that I have.”
Frideswide’s eyes were wet; but she made no reply.
“I used to have a fair dream once—too fair to be true. I reckoned that we might have dwelt together, he and I, in some quiet cot in a green glade, where no strangers should come near us, and none seek to take us from each other. But—it was not to be.”
“Not here, Madam. Yet will it not be—hereafter?”
“I feel as though I knew little of what will be hereafter. It will be as God wills; and His will is good. I lack rest sorely—so does my father: and we miss each other very, very much. I suppose our Lord can give us what we need; and as to how, and when, and where—He will know. We have only to wait. Only—I am so weary!”
And she turned on her pillow with a heavy sigh. Weary of life and all that was in it—and she only just eighteen! Frideswide would have given much to comfort her: but she did not know what to say.
“Our Lord was weary Himself,” she said at last.
“Aye, and the memory should rest me. But it doth not so. I seem to have sunk beneath all that—down into the great depths where no words can reach me. Only His own voice, when He shall come and lay His hand upon me, and say, ‘Arise, and come away.’ I reckon I shall be strong enough to rise up then. Now, I only want to lie and wait for it. Frideswide, dost thou know what gladness feels like? It is so long sithence I have felt it, that I can barely remember.”
“Yes, Madam, I know it well.”
“And I do not, save in flashes,” said Lady Anne again in that wistful tone. “I marvel how it will come to me. I suppose it will come.”
She spoke as if she thought it hardly possible.
“Madam, saith not the Psalmist, ‘Thou hast put gladness in mine heart?’ Methinks that is God’s gift as much as grace or mercy.”
“Then I will ask Him to put it there,” she said, with that childlike simplicity which was a part of her character. “Frideswide, methinks it shall be another way of saying to Him, ‘Lord, let me die!’”
And Frideswide knew it was so.
“My maid,” said the mistress after a moment’s pause, “who was it led thee into the ways of God?”
Frideswide could hardly tell. It had always been so, as it seemed to her. She could barely remember her mother; but first her aunt, and then her stepmother, and always her father, had brought her up in the Lollard faith since her world began. But friends, after all, however faithful and loving, can only lead us into the Court of Israel: the Lord of the Temple must draw aside the veil, and admit His priests Himself into the holy place.
“I can tell thee who it was that led me,” resumed Lady Anne, “and let it cheer thee, my maid, to do God’s work on them that thou hast opportunity to reach. It was one that I cannot in any wise remember—my Lady my grandmother. She was sometime the Lady Anne de Montacute, a daughter of my Lord of Salisbury that died for King Richard at Cirencester: and she bred up first my father, and after, me, in that which she had learned from her father. I cannot recall her face, essay it as I may: but her doctrine abides with me. ’Tis true, I might have minded it less had not my father kept me thereto belike: for the which reason, may-be, it hath alway seemed me that to love him and to love God went together. They were diverse sides of the same medal. I might say that either came of itself, as I learned the other. Once on a time I seemed to come at God through him: and now—I can come at him only through God. And the day when I shall have both, Frideswide, will be the day when I shall know what like it is to feel glad. But, O my God, was there no other way to bring it?—was there no other way!”
“‘There are delights in Thy right hand unto the end,’”44 softly quoted Frideswide. “And, dear my Lady, surely they will be the sweetest unto them that had the fewest delights here below.”
The answer came in another quotation from the same Book. “‘I am poor and needy; the Lord is mine help. My helper and my deliverer art Thou: tarry not, O my God!’”45
Notes
43 Silver pens are considerably more ancient than either steel or gold.
44 Psalm xvi. 10.
45 Psalm xi. 17.