Chapter III Flight
“My barque is wafted to the strand
By breath Divine:
And on the helm there rests a hand
Other than mine.”
—DEAN ALFORD.
The Lady Idonia sat writing at a small table in the hall of Lovell Tower. She was the best writer in the family—which does not by any means imply extraordinary fluency of diction or rapidity of penmanship. The letters grew slowly under her hand, and she frequently paused to look out of the window and think. What lay on the desk before her was the following unfinished letter.
“Jh’u.[#]
“MY NOWEN[#] DERE CHYLDE,
Thys shal be to give you to wyt, wt[#] all louyng comendac’ons from all us, that wee well fare, and do hope in God that you be the same. And we have not yett herde so much as one word from yr sistar. Matters here bee reasonable quyett at this present, onlie that Doratie has broke y’ powdre box of siluer, in good sooth a misaduenture and noe malice, wch shall be wel amended ere yow com home. The dun cowe hath a calfe of hir veraye coloure. And Lyard Carlile[#] and all the dogges fare wel. Maistres Henley hir littel lad lyethe sicke of a fevare, but the leech reckoneth he shal doe well. Dorathie ys merrie, and gode withal. Yr father thynkes to buy som pigges ayenst Xmas.[#] We shal bee fayn to here of yr newes, the rather if you can give us any tydynges of such as you wot of,[#] how they be now in men’s reckonings, and if thei be lyke to fare wel or noe. The gode Lorde of his mercie kepe us all, and make vs to bee hys trew seruantes. Annis, I wold haue you, when conueniencie serue, to sende mee from London towne viij ells gode clothe of skarlette for a goune for yr moder, and so moche of greene kersay as shall be a goun for Doratie: and dowlas to lyne the same, and silke frenge to guard the skarlett goun, and fur of rabetts to guard ye grene: alsoe siluer botons iij dozen, and black botons vj dosen and halfe. And sende ye same well packed vp to the Goldene Lyon by Powles,[#] to ye name of Maister Anthanie Milborne, yt is a frend of mye broder Will, and cometh into Yorksh: thys nexte monethe. And let him that berethe ye same aske of ye sayd Maister Anthanie for a token[#] yt he hath of mee for yow. Annis, wee trust in God yt yow shal be a discrete mayd and gode, and obedyent to yowr maistres, and kyndlie wt yr fellowes.[#] And above al, my dere harte, kepe yow ye fayth yt ve have ben learned, nor let not anie man beguile you therof.”
[#] A contraction of Jesus, commonly used at the head of a letter by pious persons.
[#] Mine own.
[#] With.
[#] The name of a horse.
[#] Against Christmas.
[#] The Lollards.
[#] St Paul’s Cathedral.
[#] Present.
[#] Fellow-chamberers.
The pen had been laid down at this point, and left so long that the ink was dry. The Lady Idonia was speaking now to Another than Agnes,
“O Lord, keep the child!” went up from her inmost heart. “Suffer the unfaithful handmaid to plead with Thee, that the faithful one may be preserved in the faith. I may give her wrong cautions—I may fancy dangers that will not assault her, and be blind to those that will. Thou, who seest the end from the beginning, hold the child up, and suffer her not, for any pains nor fears, to fall from Thee!”
She roused herself at last, and finished her letter.
“And so, with all louyng comendac’ons from al vs, I commend yow to God.
“Yr louyng grandame to my litel powar, “IDONIA MARNELL.
“Writyn at Louell Towre, this Wensday.”
The letter was delivered by Mr. William Carew to a retainer of the Earl of Warwick, who was also one of his friends, and from whom he had understood that the Earl meant to go southwards before the week was over.
The plot was ripe at last. Warwick left Middleham with the first dawn of 1470, and arrived in London without any suspicion of his proceedings being excited at Court. He left his brothers behind him in the north, with strict injunctions to George to keep John out of mischief. They were very necessary. Unfortunately (from Warwick’s point of view) just at that juncture King Edward took it into his head to create Lord Montague’s little son George a Duke—a title then shared by very few who were not Princes of the Blood—with the object of marrying him to the Princess Elizabeth, and thus making him, in case Edward himself left no son, virtually the future King. This high advancement for his boy sorely tried Montague’s new-born Lancastrian proclivities. He swung like a pendulum between the royal rivals: and all the efforts of his brother George were needed to prevent him from going off to Edward, and of course, revealing the plot in which Warwick was now engaged. One thing which had annoyed Warwick was the discovery, real or fancied, that his influence with Edward was less powerful than of old. But he went to work darkly, as was his wont. He was greatly assisted in his proceedings by the fact that he held Edward’s commission to raise troops for his service in the north, and no suspicion would therefore be excited by his gathering an army around him.[#] When he arrived in London, he reported himself at the Palace, and a long interview followed in Westminster Hall between Edward, Clarence, and Warwick. They parted “worse friends than they met,”[#] but Edward still does not appear to have suspected that Warwick was actually plotting against him, or he would hardly have let him go so calmly. Edward had left for Canterbury, and Warwick and Clarence prepared to return northwards and continue their amusement. Before leaving London, Clarence dispatched Sir John Clare to Lord Welles and his son Sir Robert, desiring them to “be ready with all the fellowship they could, whenever he should send word; but to tarry and not stir till my Lord of Warwick were come again from London, for fear of his destruction.”[#] In the mean time they assiduously spread a report that “the King was coming down with great power to Lincolnshire, and his judges should sit, and hang and draw great numbers of the commons.”[#] Of course this disposed the commons to rally round Warwick, who represented himself in the light of a protector from the impending terrors. He sent messenger after messenger to bid Sir Robert Welles be of good comfort, and go forward, promising to meet him at Leicester on the twelfth of February with nineteen thousand men.[#]
[#] A very varied tale is told of Warwick’s capturing Edward in his bed at Wolvey in 1469, and sending him prisoner to Middleham, whence he effected his escape in a romantic manner. The accounts given are contradictory, the story of the escape is disbelieved by Carte, and intimations on the Rolls seem to show that the King had never left Westminster; I therefore have thought it wiser to ignore this episode entirely beyond the present mention of it.
[#] Sandford.
[#] Confession of Sir Robert Welles, Harl. Ms. 283, fol. 2.
[#] Confession of Sir Robert Welles, Harl. Ms. 283, fol. 2.
Clarence, meanwhile, was playing his own little game, independently of his father-in-law. His messengers had private orders to “move the host, that at such time as the matter should come near the point of battle, they should call upon my Lord of Clarence to be King, and destroy the King that so was about to destroy them and all the realm.”[#]
[#] Confession of Sir Robert Welles, Harl. Ms. 283, fol. 2.
Meanwhile, Edward continued his favours to Montague—not because he trusted, but really because he suspected him, and was anxious to ensure his fidelity. A few days only after the meeting of Warwick and Welles, he granted to John, Earl of Northumberland and Baron Montague, the manors of Tiverton, Plympton, Okehampton, and many others in Devonshire,[#] being a portion of the confiscated lands of the Courtenays, Earls of Devon. Perhaps this timely gift prevented Montague from openly siding with Warwick until a later date: but he was not particularly grateful for it, since he contemptuously termed it “a ’pie’s nest,” and plainly intimated that it was not so much as might have been expected. However, for the present, he held aloof from the actual struggle.
[#] Rot. Pat., 9 Edw. IV, Part 2. The earldom of Morthumberland was not immediately restored to the Percys on their submission in the previous October. A writer in the Paston Letters dates their restoration Mar. 25, 1470.
That was close at hand. Some rumour of the transactions with Welles must have reached Edward, for he sent a peremptory order to Lord Welles to come to him. It was obeyed; and the old man was then commanded to write a letter to his son, charging him instantly to forsake Warwick and to join his father. The command was accompanied by a hint that the writer’s head would be the forfeit of his failure. Sir Robert, who seems to have been of an obstinate temper, since we are told that he knew his power was too weak to grapple with Edward, refused to obey, and moved southward to give battle. Edward kept his word, and the father’s life paid for the son’s imprudence. Then he marched northwards, and the two armies met at Stamford, on a place afterwards known as Loosecoat Field. Welles had no chance against the overwhelming superiority of Edward’s forces, and Warwick was not there. Sir Robert was taken, and beheaded at Doncaster on the 13th of March. Hearing that Warwick was encamped about twenty miles from Doncaster, Edward went on to the latter town. The next morning, March 20, “at nine of the bell,” Edward took the field at Estrefield, and Warwick met him. “Never were seen in England so many goodly men, and so well arranged.” But no sooner did Warwick and Clarence perceive that fortune was against them than they fled the field, and went to seek succour from Lord Stanley. They halted first at a little town, so obscure that it was necessary to say that it was in Lancashire, as otherwise few would have known whereabouts Manchester might be. Thence they sent messengers to Lathom, but my Lord Stanley, most cautious of men, showed them little favour. “And so men say they went northward, and thence, men deem, to London.”[#]
[#] Paston Letters.
Perceiving that his chief adversaries had escaped him, Edward stopped pursuit of their troops, and went on to York. He and his men had probably had thirsty work, for we learn that “York was drunk dry when the King was there.”[#] He was wise enough to send to Middleham for Lord Montague. When that trustworthy gentleman appeared, it was to be created Marquis Montague, the earldom of Northumberland being now taken from him and restored to its rightful owner. It might have been supposed that an earl would scarcely deem it a deplorable occurrence that he should be made a marquis: but my gracious Lord of Montague was evidently in an exceedingly bad temper. He growled and grumbled as if he were a deeply injured man,—managing, however, to keep up a contented face in the presence of his master, who appears to have fancied that he had secured Montague’s fidelity. Never were there more men than at that time who were able to “smile, and smile, and be a villain”: and all the Warwick brothers were certainly of the number.
[#] Paston Letters.
From York was issued a long and curious proclamation, in which Edward showed that he had at last fully realised that Warwick and Clarence were his open enemies. If the words of Edward were to be relied on to the exclusion of his deeds, it would certainly be supposed that he was a man of the tenderest and most affectionate nature. In this respect he somewhat resembled his predecessor, Henry III. Both could use very touching language—which the actions of both sorely contradicted. In this document the tone taken by Edward is that of a well-deserving man who had been injured in his deepest affections. He sets forth that “the King granted to George Duke of Clarence and Richard Earl of Warwick his pardon general for all offences before Christmas last,” trusting thereby to have caused them to have “shewed unto him their naturall loue, ligeance, and duetee,” for which purpose he had authorised them to assemble his subjects in certain shires. “Yet the said Duke and Earl, unnaturally, unkindly, and truly intending his destruction and the subversion of the kingdom,... and to make the said Duke king of this the said realm, against God’s law, man’s law, all reason, and conscience, dissimuled with his said Highness.” Their proceedings are then detailed, as deposed in the confessions of Sir Robert Welles and others, concluding with their flight “with all their fellaship into Lancastreshire, so as his said Highness with his hoste for lack of vitayll might not follow.” Notwithstanding all these offences, “our sovereign Lord considered the nighness of blood,[#] and tender love which he hath aforetime borne to them, and was therefore loth to have lost them if they would have submitted them to his grace.” Having disobeyed the writs which allowed them to present themselves, under promise of pardon, up to the 28th of March, the Duke and Earl are now solemnly proclaimed rebels, to whom loyal subjects of King Edward are to give no aid, favour, nor assistance, with meat, drink, money, or otherwise, but are to take them and bring them to the King, upon pain of death and forfeiture. The reward announced for the capture of either is £100 in land by the year, to the captor and his heirs, or £1000 in ready money, at his election. The capture of any knight of their following is to be rewarded by £20 in land or a hundred marks in cash; and of a squire, £10 in land or forty in money.[#]
[#] The Countess of Warwick was Edward’s second cousin, and the Earl his third cousin.
[#] Close Roll, 10 Edw. IV.; dated York, March 24, 1470.
The day after this proclamation, Montague received his marquis’s coronet, and was, in appearance at least, one of the most faithful subjects of King Edward. The news he brought on his return to Middleham caused no little excitement there. The Countess ordered instant preparations for departure. Some of the household were left behind at Middleham: some were suffered to return to their friends, among whom were Theobalda and Eleanor. The only ladies she took with her, beside her daughters, were Mother Bonham, Frideswide, and Avice. There was also a dresser, or lady’s maid, and a scullion-girl.
About midnight, when the ladies were trying to get a little sleep before their early journey on the morrow, the porter was awoke by small pebbles thrown up at his window.
“Who goes there?” he inquired, opening the casement about an inch.
“It is I, John Wright,” answered the familiar voice of the young squire. “Pray thee, good Thomas, be hasteful and let me in privily, with all silence, for I bring word from my Lord unto my Lady.”
The porter cautiously unbarred the small wicket, and Wright stepped inside. He did not wait to satisfy the porter’s curiosity, but sped across the court-yard, and by means of a key which he carried, let himself into the tower which contained the apartments of the Countess. A minute later, he was softly rapping at the outer door of her rooms, and Mother Bonham admitted him.
The Countess sent for him at once to her bedside. She guessed that his message was one of imminent import.
“Noble Lady,” said Wright, with a low courtesy—for the courtesy was a gentleman’s reverence in those days,—“behold here my Lord’s token, who greets you well by me, and desires you to come unto him, and my young ladies withal, at Dartmouth, in Devon, so speedily and secretly as you may.”
He held forth a diamond ring, which the Countess recognised as one usually worn by her husband, and not sent as a token except on occasions of serious moment. She sent Mother Bonham at once to communicate the news to her daughters, and to desire them to be ready to set forth two hours earlier than the time originally fixed. Her idea had been to seek the Earl at Warwick Castle, though she hoped to receive more exact news before her departure. But she deemed it quite as well that that very reliable person, the Marquis Montague, should be left in a little uncertainty touching her departure. She had already taken advantage of a conveniently smoky chimney to move the Marquis into a tower which did not overlook her own. She now gave further orders that the horses were to be in waiting outside the Castle, on the grass, so as to avoid noise, and in a position where they could not be seen from Montague’s windows. At two o’clock, wrapped in long travelling cloaks, and wearing list slippers, the ladies crept out of the Castle into the fresh April night air, and mounted their horses in silence. Sir John Clare rode before the Countess, Sir Walter Wretill before the Duchess of Clarence, and John Wright before the Lady Anne. Slowly and silently, at first, the procession filed off from the Castle, not breaking into a trot till they thought themselves beyond sight and hearing. The Archbishop (just then to be trusted) was keeping watch over his brother, and with him Warwick’s servant, Philip Strangeways, who was to follow an hour later, in order to gallop on and warn the ladies if any pursuit were attempted.
Once out of Wensleydale, and joined by Philip, the journey changed into a rapid flight. They travelled by night. They were afraid of being pursued, not only on their own account, but on that of Warwick, to whose locality theirs would give a clue, as it would instantly be surmised that they were going to join him. They kept as much as possible to the bye-ways and moor roads, which were less frequented, and also less capable of ambush, than the high roads: but they could not keep altogether out of human sight and hearing. Many a cottager woke up in the dark to hear a rush of horses, and to see the flash of the lanterns as the fugitives fled past. It was a wretched journey, especially for the Duchess, who was by no means in health to stand it. But the Duchess had a spirit which carried her above all pain and languor. She would have no halts made for her. She entertained a strong dislike and fear of Edward personally, and if report spoke truly, not without good reason.
Before Dartmouth was reached, Frideswide Marston had most heartily wished herself, a score of times at least, within the safe shelter of Lovell Tower. Oh, if she could wake up from this hurried snatch of sleep under an elderbush, to find herself in that little white bed in the turret chamber, with Dorathie’s head beside her on the pillow! It seemed to Frideswide as if, that wish granted, she could never complain of any thing again.
Along the wild hill-passes of “the back-bone of England,” winding round the Peak, keeping clear of Stafford Castle, where the Yorkist Duke of Buckingham had his home, skirting Shropshire and Hereford, taking the ferry over the Severn, down through Somerset, avoiding alike the uncivilised neighbourhood of Exmoor, where bandits loved to congregate, and the too civilised neighbourhood of Exeter, they came into those safer parts of Devon where the exiled Courtenays were lords of the hearts, though they had lost the lands,—where once more “the King” was Henry VI., and his adherents would meet with honour and help. Near Totness they were met by William Newark, Warwick’s nuncio, who conducted them to boats moored in the river awaiting them. It was a great relief to change their weary saddles for the boats in which they dropped down the lovely Dart, and found Warwick’s fleet, of eighty ships, ready to weigh anchor the moment they arrived, lying off Kingswear.
The voyage, however, had not been long before they discovered that the saddles had been the safer mode of conveyance. The wind, though low, was not unfavourable: but they had scarcely passed Portland when they were met by the very enemy from whom they were endeavouring to escape. As they rounded the little peninsula, ships of war stood before them, with King Edward’s standard and Lord Rivers’ pennon flying from the masthead.
An evil augury for Warwick was that pennon. With any weaker commander, the fleet would have obeyed its Lord High Admiral, as Warwick had been created a year before. But Lord Rivers was a conscientious man of one idea, and he thoroughly believed in Edward’s right. The ships joined battle, and the ladies of course were kept below.
Oh for that little white bed and Dorathie!
Never till then had Frideswide Marston looked death in the face, and never after that day could she be as she had been, again.
Warwick was a less honest and true-hearted man than Rivers, but he was also a better general. The battle was short and sharp, but the victory remained in the hands of Warwick. His ships got safely away, but they were not by any means out of their troubles. It seemed as though both God and man were against them that night. Before they could reach Beachy Head, there came on them a terrific tempest, and they were tossed up and down in the Channel like toys of the storm. To add to all other distresses, the Duchess of Clarence, whose mental energy had hitherto borne her through her physical sufferings, sank beneath them at last, and became alarmingly ill. It was not until the morning of the fourth day that they found themselves off Calais, and a few hours before, the Duchess had given birth to a child which had not survived the event many minutes. But Calais was Warwick’s old home; he had been Governor of the town for years. Here, at least, he might hope for rest and aid.
They cast anchor under shelter of Cape Grisnez, and sent John Wright ashore in a little boat to notify to Vauclere, Warwick’s deputy in command, that his master was about to land.
Warwick himself paced the quarter-deck impatiently. What were those sluggards ashore doing, that his own state barge was not sent off at once to land the ladies? Why did Vauclere not appear, cap in hand, to express his satisfaction at the return of his master? When at last he saw his squire return alone, Warwick’s patience, never very extensive, failed him utterly.
“What means all this?” he roared in a passion.
“My Lord,” shouted John Wright back from the boat, “Messire de Vauclere begs your Lordship will not essay a landing, for the townsmen will not receive you.”
“Not receive me!” cried the Earl in amazement. “Me, their own Governor! Lad, didst hear aright? Is Vauclere beside himself?”
“In good sooth, nay, my Lord, and he is sore aggrieved to have no better welcome for your Lordship than so. ’Tis the townsmen, not he, as he bade me for to say, and he earnestly desires your Lordship to make for some other French port.”
Warwick could hardly believe his ears.
“But surely,” he answered in a rather crestfallen tone, “they will never refuse to receive my Lady Duchess? Have you told Vauclere in what case she now is?”
“My Lord, I told him all things: and he replied that he was sore troubled it should so fall out, but he had no power. He hath, howbeit, sent two flagons of wine for Her Grace.”
“No power!” repeated the Earl. “Wherefore then is he there? Leave me but land in safety, and Messire de Vauclere, and my masters the townsmen, shall soon behold if I have any power or no! No power, quotha! Well! better luck next time. Get you up, lad, and bring the wine, for ’tis sore needed. Bid the shipmaster stand southward. Were we in better case, they should find their ears tingle ere they were much older! Messire de Vauclere shall one day hear my name again, or I much mistake!”
And away strode the Earl wrathfully, to communicate the disappointing news to his suffering ladies.
Southwards, for two days more, they slowly sailed. The storm was over, and the wind had dropped almost to a calm. But at the end of two days, with much difficulty, the vessel containing the Earl and his family was run into the mouth of the Seine, and between Harfleur and Honfleur they landed on the soil of Normandy.
In France the scene was changed. Louis XI. had been pleased to take up the Lancastrian cause—the cause of the King who had of old, as a child, been made the rival of Louis’s father, and whose troops had been so ignominiously driven out of France by the Maid. In France, therefore, Warwick was received with honour and material help. Every provision was made for the wearied ladies at Valognes, where they took up their temporary abode: but for some weeks nothing would tempt Warwick from Honfleur—not even the remonstrances of his friend the Duke of Burgundy, who sent to entreat him to come to his Court. One important point was wanting—Queen Marguerite would make no move towards conciliation. In vain King Louis assured her that Warwick’s help was absolutely essential to the Lancastrian cause. The Queen might have welcomed him, but the cruel defamation of her name the woman knew not how to forgive. She only relented after long importunity, and then on the stern condition that in the presence of the Kings of France and Naples, Warwick should solemnly retract all his accusations, and beg her pardon for his infamous falsehoods. She also insisted on this retractation being published in England. Finding that no better terms could be obtained from his insulted sovereign, Warwick was compelled to eat this most unpalatable piece of humble-pie with what appetite he might. He waited on the Queen at Angers, where he begged her pardon on his knees, and formally unsaid all the imputations which he had made upon her character. Even then all present could see that Marguerite found it a very bitter task to receive her enemy into favour. After this humiliating scene, the Earl rejoined his ladies, and some weeks later they travelled together to the Castle of Amboise, where their royal hosts were then residing.
The Castle of Amboise stands on one of those natural platforms of rock which in and about Touraine gem the vale of the Loire; the little town clustering at its foot, between it and the river, while the Palace towers above all. Were it not for them, the scenery would be as flat as the sea. But wherever they stand up there is a little oasis of beauty, for they are generally clad in verdure, as well as crowned with some picturesque edifice of the Middle Ages.
It was after dark when the barge which bore the fugitives was moored at Amboise. Royal footmen stood on each side of the landing-stage, bearing large torches, and royal ushers handed the ladies from the barge, and led them into the Castle. As Frideswide was modestly following her mistress, the last of the group, rather to her surprise, a hand was offered her, and a voice asked her in English if she were not very tired.
Frideswide looked up into the pleasant face of a man of some thirty years of age, who wore the royal livery of England. Livery, it must be remembered, was not at that time any badge of servitude; all the King’s equerries, household officers, and gentlemen ushers, wore his livery. This man was of fine proportions, had bright, dark, intelligent eyes, and wore—what few then did—a long beard and moustache. There was a kind, friendly expression in his face which made Frideswide feel at her ease. She answered the sympathising inquiry by a smiling affirmative.
“Well, here may you find good rest,” said he. “At the least, after all these stairs be clomb, which I fear shall yet weary you somewhat. Shall we, of your good pleasure, make acquaintance? I am the Queen’s henchman.”
“Master Combe?” asked Frideswide, looking up.
“John Combe, and your servant,” said he. “Truly a lowly name—it could scarce be shorter—but it hath serven me these thirty years, and yet shall, if it please God.”
The name was no unknown sound to Frideswide Marston, for John Combe had been Queen Marguerite’s personal attendant—equerry, secretary, confidant, friend—ever since that dark and evil day when, stung by Warwick’s cruel stab in the dark, the beautiful young Queen, to avoid all ground for evil surmisings, had selected a boy of fourteen to ride before her. Truest of the true had John Combe proved to his royal lady. He was low down, indeed, in her household—no peerage ever adorned his name, nor order glittered on his breast—but there was not a man about her whom Marguerite would have trusted as she trusted him. His feeling towards her was one of reverential tenderness—the sentiment of a devotee towards his chosen saint. In fact, it was John Combe’s nature to look out for, to protect, to love, whatever he found in need of it. “The man who wanted him was the man he wanted.” A timid, shrinking girl, who looked frightened and uncomfortable, would have won John Combe’s notice, though a dozen luxuriously-appointed beauties were fluttering about him in vain. What had originally attracted him to Marguerite herself was not the beauty nor the Queen, but the lonely, helpless, calumniated woman.
The world holds a few John Combes. Would there were more!
The long stretch of stairs came to an end at last, and John Combe led Frideswide into the private closet of Queen Marguerite. It was the first time she had ever seen the royal lady who to her was the incarnation of every thing that was fair and noble. While the Queen was occupied with the Countess and her daughters, Frideswide had time to look at her.
Marguerite of Anjou was now just forty years of age, but she still retained, in every item but one, that wonderful beauty which had won her the reputation of the loveliest woman in Europe. The once brilliant complexion was dimmed and faded by long years of anxiety and privation. But the graceful figure, lithe and slender, was not changed—the gracious bearing was no less fascinating than of old—the blue eyes were bright and sparkling still, and the golden hair held its own without a silver thread. She received the Countess with the affectionate concern of an old friend who was sorry for her recent suffering, and her daughters with motherly kindness. Perhaps there was just a shade more of it for the Lady Anne than her sister. But Anne was the younger, and was at that moment looking the more wearied of the two. Then the Queen turned to the suite, greeted Mother Bonham as she might have done her own old nurse, and gave her hand to kiss to Frideswide and Avice. The Earl, who had been first to wait on King Louis, made his appearance last. Marguerite received him with cold civility, very different from her manner to the ladies. But she condescended to converse with him on political affairs, though it was in a grave and distant style. Marguerite showed to most advantage when she spoke, for then her face lighted up, her eyes were animated, and her natural vivacity made itself apparent. Let her be silent, and the face grew grave and sad, as she had good cause to be.
Before much of this political converse had gone on, the Queen, by a motion of her hand, summoned John Combe, who, whatever he might be doing, always seemed to keep one eye upon every act and gesture of his royal mistress. She desired him to call the Lady de Vivonne, and a plump, lively, gesticulating Frenchwoman accordingly sailed into the room. To her care the Queen committed the ladies who had accepted her hospitality, desiring her to see that they wanted for nothing: and the Lady de Vivonne carried them off to the apartments already prepared for them. Here were several other women, both French and English, who busied themselves in offering help. One of the latter, a girl of about their own age, devoted herself to Frideswide and Avice.
“Gramercy, my damsels, but you must be a-weary!” said she. “I wis I was when we hither came. You shall yet have seen none, as I reckon, save our own Queen?”
“None at all,” answered Avice. “I would right fain see my Lord Prince.”
“And the King and Queen of France—be they here?” said Frideswide.
“They be so,” replied Christian, as they found the girl was named: “but, gramercy! they be not much to look at.”
“Ill-favoured both?”
Christian pulled an affirmative face. She was evidently ready to continue the conversation to any extent; but both the chamberers were so tired that when their duties were over, they were only too thankful to lie down in bed. Only, before they dropped asleep, Frideswide said,—
“What shall be the next move?”
“God wot,” said Avice, gravely.
“Know you if the Queen hath or no any leaning toward our doctrine?”
“Hush, prithee! I cannot tell, in any wise. The King is good man and holy—men say, holy as any saint. The Queen, I have heard, is a great almsgiver—or so were, when she had alms to give. Poor lady! now ’tis well nigh come to asking alms, with her.”
“Poor lady!” echoed Frideswide.
And then they went to sleep.