“‘now god, that is of mightès 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 doña juana would not be ever laying siege to me—with ‘doña constança, you will soil your robes!’—or, ‘doña constança, you will rend your lace!’—or, ‘doña constança, 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 violis ful of seuene the laste ueniauncis (vengeances, plagues), and he spak with me and seide, come thou and i schal schewe to thee the spousesse (bride) the wyf of the lombe. and he took me up in spirit into a greet hill and high, and he schewide to me the hooli cite ierusalem comynge doun fro heuene of god, hauynge the cleerte (glory) of god; and the light of it lyk a precious stoon as the stoon iaspis (jasper), as cristal. and it hadde a wall greet and high hauynge twelue ghatis (gates), and in the ghatis of it twelue aungelis and names writen yn that ben the names of twelue lynagis (lineages, tribes) of the sones of israel. fro the eest three ghatis, and fro the north three ghatis, and fro the south three ghatis, and fro the west three ghatis. and the wall of the citee hadde twelue foundamentis, and in hem the twelue names of twelue apostlis and of the lombe. and he that spak with me hadde a goldun mesure of a rehed (reed) that he schulde mete the citee and the ghatis of it and the wall. and the citee was sett in a square, and the lengthe of it is so mych as mych as is the brede (breadth), and he mat (meted, measured) the citee with the rehed bi furlongis twelue thousyndis, and the highthe and the lengthe and breede of it ben euene. and he maat (meted, measured) the wallis of it of an hundride and foure and fourti cubitis bi mesure of man, that is, of an aungel. and the bilding of the wall thereoff was of the stoon iaspis and the citee it silff was cleen gold lyk cleen glas. and the foundamentis of the wal of the cite weren ourned (adorned) with al precious stoon, the firste foundament iaspis, the secound saphirus, the thridde calsedonyus, the fourthe smaragdus (emerald), the fifthe sardony (sardonyx), the sixte sardyus (ruby), the seuenthe crisolitus, the eighthe berillus, the nynthe topasius, the tenthe crisopassus, the elleuenthe iacinctus (jacinth), the tweluethe amiatistus (amethyst). and twelue ghatis ben twelue margaritis (pearls) bi ech (each), and ech ghate was of ech (each) margarite and the streetis of the citee weren cleen gold as of glas ful schinynge. and i saigh no temple in it, for the lord god almyghti and the lomb is temple of it, and the citee hath not nede of sunne neither moone that thei schine in it, for the cleerite of god schal lightne it, and the lombe is the lanterne of it, and the kyngis of erthe schulen bringe her glorie and onour into it. and the ghatis of it schulen not be closid bi dai, and nyght schal not be there, and thei schulen bringe the glorie and onour of folkis into it, neither ony man defouled and doynge abomynacioun and leesyng (lying) schal entre into it, but thei that ben writun in the book of lyf and of the lombe.”

when the soft, quiet voice ceased, it was like the sudden cessation of sweet music to the enchanted ears of little maude. the child was very imaginative, and in her mental eyes the city had grown as she listened, till it now lay spread before her—the streets of gold, and the gates of pearl, and the foundations of precious stones. of any thing typical or supernatural she had not the faintest idea. in her mind it was at once settled that the city was london, and yet was in some dreamy way jerusalem; for of any third city maude knew nothing. the king, of course, had his palace there; and a strong desire sprang up in the child’s mind to know whether the royal mistress, who was to her a kind of far-off fairy queen, had a palace there also. if so—but no! it was too good to be true that maude would ever go to wash the golden pans and diamond dishes which must be used in that city.

“mistress!” said maude to her new friend, after a short silence, during which both were thinking deeply.

the lady brought her eyes down to the child from the sky, where they had been fixed, and smiled a reply to the appeal.

“would you tell me, of your grace, whether our lady mistresshood’s graciousness hath in yonder city a dwelling?”

maude wondered exceedingly to see tears slowly gather in the sapphire eyes.

“god grant it, little maid!” was, to her, the incomprehensible answer.

“and if so were, mistress, counteth your madamship that our said puissant lady should ever lack her pans cleansed yonder?”

“wherefore, little maid?” asked the lady very gently.

“because, an’ i so might, i would fain dwell in yonder city,” said maude, with glittering eyes.

“and thy work is to cleanse pans?”

little maude sighed heavily. “ay, yonder is my work.”

“which thou little lovest, as methinks.”

“should you love it, mistress, think you?” demanded maude.

“truly, little maid, that should i not,” answered the lady. “now tell me freely, what wouldst liefer do?”

“aught that were clean and fair and honest!” (pretty) said maude confidentially, her eyes kindling again. “an’ they lack any ’prentices in that city, i would fain be bound yonder. verily, i would love to twine flowers, or to weave dovecotes (the golden nets which confined ladies’ hair), or to guard brave gowns with lace, and the like of that, an’ i could be learned. save that, methinks, over there, i would be ever and alway a-gazing from the lattice.”

“wherefore?”

“and yet i wis not,” added maude, thinking aloud. “where the streets be gold, and the gates margarites, what shall the gowns be?”

“pure, bright stones (see note 3), little maid,” said the lady. “but there be no ’prentices yonder.”

“what! be they all masters?” said the child.

“‘a kingdom and priests,’” she said. “but there be no ’prentices, seeing there is no work, save the king’s work.”

little maude wondered privately whether that were to sew stars upon sunbeams.

“but there shall not enter any defouled thing into that city,” pursued the lady seriously; “no leasing, neither no manner of wrongfulness.”

little maude’s face fell considerably.

“then i could not go to cleanse the pans yonder!” she said sorrowfully. “i did tell a lie once to mistress drew.”

“who is mistress drew?” enquired the lady.

the child looked up in astonishment, wondering how it came to pass that any one living in langley palace should not know her who, to maude’s apprehension, was monarch of all she surveyed—inside the kitchen.

“she is mistress ursula drew, that is over me and parnel.”

“doth she cleanse pans?” said the lady smilingly.

“nay, verily! she biddeth us.”

“i see—she is queen of the kitchen. and is there none over her?”

“ay, master warine.”

“and who is over master warine?”

a question beyond little maude’s power to answer.

“the king must be, of force,” said she meditatively. “but who is else—saving his gracious mastership and our lady her mistresshood—in good sooth i wis not.”

the lady looked at her for a minute with a smile on her lips. then, a little to maude’s surprise, she clapped her hands. a handsomely attired woman—to the child’s eyes, the counterpart of the lady who had been talking with her—appeared in the doorway.

“señora!” she said, with a reverence.

the two ladies thereupon began a conversation, in a language totally incomprehensible to little maude. they were both spanish by birth, and they were speaking their own tongue. they said:—

“dona juana, is there any vacancy among my maids?”

“señora, we live to fulfil your august pleasure.”

“do you think this child could be taught fine needlework?”

“the infanta has only to command.”

“i wish it tried, dona juana.”

“i lie at the infanta’s feet.”

the lady turned back to maude.

“thy name, little maid?” she gently asked.

“maude, and your servant, mistress,” responded the child.

“then, little maude, have here thy treasure”—and she held forth the leaf to her—“and thy wish. follow this dame, and she will see if thou canst guard gowns. if so be, and thou canst be willing and gent, another may cleanse the pans, for thou shalt turn again to the kitchen no more.”

little maude clasped her hands in ecstasy.

“our lady mary, and peter and paul, bless your ladyship’s mistresshood! be you good enough for to ensure me of the same?”

“thou shalt not win back, an’ thou do well,” repeated the lady, smiling. “now follow this dame.”

dona juana was not at all astonished. similar sudden transformations were comparatively of frequent occurrence at that time; and to call in question any act of the king of castilla’s daughter would have been in her eyes the most impossible impropriety. she merely noted mentally the extremely dirty state of maude’s frock, calculated how long it would take to make her three new ones, wondered if she would be very troublesome to teach, and finally asked her if she had any better dress. maude owned that she possessed a serge one for holidays, upon which dona juana, after a minute’s hesitation, looked back into the room she had left, and said, “alvena!” a lively-looking woman, past girlhood in age, but retaining much of the character, answered the call.

“hie unto mistress ursula drew, that is over the kitchen, and do her to wit that her grace’s pleasure is to advance maude, the scullion, unto room (situation) of tire-woman; bid her to give thee all that ’longeth unto the maid, and bear it hither.”

alvena departed on her errand, and maude followed dona juana into fairy land. gorgeous hangings covered the walls; here and there a soft mossy carpet was spread over the stone floor—for it was not the time of year for rushes. the guide’s own dress—crimson velvet, heavily embroidered—was a marvel of art, and the pretty articles strewn on the tables were wonders of the world. they had passed through four rooms ere maude found her tongue.

“might it like your madamship,” she asked timidly, her curiosity at last overcoming her reserve, though she felt less at home with dona juana than with the other lady, “to tell me the name of the fair mistress that did give me into your charge?”

“that is our lady’s grace, maiden,” said juana rather stiffly, “the lady infanta dona isabel, countess of cambridge.”

“what, she that doth bear rule over us all?” said maude amazedly.

“she,” replied juana.

“had i wist the same, as wot the saints, i had been sore afeard,” responded maude. “and what call men your grace’s ladyship, an’ i may know?”

dona juana condescended to smile at the child’s simplicity.

“my name is juana fernandez,” she said. “thou canst call me dame joan.”

at this point the hangings were suddenly lifted, and something which seemed to maude the very queen of the fairies crept out and stood before them. juana stopped and courtesied, an act which maude was too fascinated to imitate.

“whither go you, doña juana?” asked the vision. “in good sooth, this is the very little maid i saw a-washing the pans. art come to sit under the cloth of estate in my stead?”

little maude gazed on her fairy queen, and was silent.

“what means your grace, doña constança?” asked juana.

“what is thy name, and wherefore earnest hither?” resumed constance, still addressing herself to maude.

“maude,” said the child shyly.

“maude! that is a pretty name,” pronounced the little princess.

“the señora infanta, your grace’s mother, will have me essay to learn the maid needlework,” added juana in explanation.

“leave me learn her!” said constance eagerly. “i can learn her all i know; and i am well assured i can be as patient as you, doña juana.”

“at your ladyship’s feet,” responded juana quietly, using her customary formula. she felt the suggestion highly improper and exceedingly absurd, but she was far too great a courtier to say so.

“come hither!” said constance gleefully, beckoning to maude. “sue (follow) thou me unto dame agnes de la marche her chamber. i would fain talk with thee.”

maude glanced at juana for permission.

“sue thou the señorita doña constança,” was the reply. “be thou ware not to gainsay her in any thing.”

there was little need of the warning, for maude was completely enthralled. she followed her fairy queen in silence into the room where dame agnes still sat spinning.

“sit thou down on yonder stool,” said constance. “my gracious ladyship will take this giant’s chair. (i have learned my lesson, dame agnes.) now—where is thy mother?”

“a fathom underground.”

“poor maude! hast no mother?—and thy father?”

“never had i.”

“and thy brethren and sustren?” (sisters.)

“ne had i never none.”

“maiden!” interjected dame agnes, “wist not how to speak unto a damosel of high degree? thou shalt say ‘lady’ or ‘madam.’”

“‘lady’ or ‘madam,’” repeated maude obediently.

“how long hast washed yonder pans?” asked constance, leaning her head on the arm of the chair.

“‘lady’ or ‘madam,’” answered maude, remembering her lesson, “by the space of ten months.”

“the sely hilding!” (sely=simple, hilding=young person of either sex) exclaimed agnes; while constance flung herself into another attitude, and laughed with great enjoyment.

“flyte (scold) her not, dame agnes. i do foresee she and i shall be great friends.”

“lady custance! the dirt under your feet is no meet friend ne fellow (companion) for the like of you.”

“truly, no, saving to make pies thereof,” laughed the little princess. “nathless, take my word for it, maude and i shall be good friends.”

was there a recording angel hovering near to note the words? for the two lives, which had that day come in contact, were to run thenceforth side by side so long as both should last in this world.

but the little princess was soon tired of questioning her new acquaintance. she sauntered away ere long in search of some more novel amusement, and dame agnes desired maude to change her dress, and then to return to the ante-chamber, there to await the orders of dame joan, as doña juana was termed by all but the royal family. maude obeyed, and in the ante-chamber she found, not juana, but alvena (a fictitious person), and another younger woman, whom she subsequently heard addressed as mistress sybil (a fictitious person).

“so thou shalt be learned?” (you have to be taught) said alvena, as her welcome to maude. “come, look hither on this gown. what is it?”

“’tis somewhat marvellous shene!” (bright) said maude, timidly stroking the glossy material.

alvena only laughed, apparently enjoying the child’s ignorance; but sybil said gently, “’tis satin, little maid.”

“is it for our lady’s grace?” asked maude.

“ay, when ’tis purfiled,” replied alvena.

“pray you, mistress alvena, what is ‘purfiled?’”

“why, maid! where hast dwelt all thy life? ‘purfiled’ signifieth guarded with peltry.”

“but under your good allowance, mistress alvena, what is ‘peltry’?”

“by my lady saint mary! heard one ever the like?”

“peltry,” quietly explained sybil, “is the skin of beast with the dressed fur thereon—such like as minever, and gris (marten), and the like.”

“thurstan,” said alvena suddenly, turning to a little errand boy (a fictitious person) who sat on a stool in the window, and whose especial business it was to do the bidding of the countess’s waiting-women, “hie thee down to adam (a fictitious person) the peltier (furrier. ladies of high rank kept a private furrier in the household), and do him to wit that the lady would have four ells of peltry of beasts ermines for the bordure of her gown of blue satin that is in making. the peltry shall be of the breadth of thine hand, and no lesser; and say unto him that it shall be of the best sort, and none other. an’ he send me up such evil gear as he did of gris for the cloak of velvet, he may look to see it back with a fardel (parcel) of flyting lapped (wrapped) therein. haste, lad! and be back ere my scissors meet.”

thurstan disappeared, and alvena threw herself down on the settle while she waited for her messenger.

“ay me! i am sore aweary of all this gear—snipping, and sewing, and fitting. if i would not as lief as forty shillings have done with broidery and peltry, then the moon is made of green cheese. is that strange unto thee, child?”

“verily, mistress alvena, methinks you be aweary of fairy land,” said little maude in surprise.

“callest this fairy land?” laughed alvena. “if so be, child, i were fain to dwell a season on middle earth.”

“in good sooth, so count i it,” answered maude, allowing her eyes to rove delightedly among all the marvels of the ante-chamber, “and the lady custance the very queen of faery.”

“the lady custance is made of flesh and blood, trust me. an’ thou hadst had need to bear her to her bed, kicking and striving all the way, when she was somewhat lesser than now, thou shouldst be little tempted to count her immortal.”

“an’ it like you, mistress alvena—”

“marry, master thurstan, it liketh me right well to see thee back without the peltry wherefor i sent thee! where hast loitered, thou knave?”

“master adam saith he is unfurnished at this time of the peltry you would have, mistress, and without fox will serve your turn—”

“fox me no fox, as thou set store by thy golden locks!” said alvena, advancing towards the luckless thurstan in a threatening attitude, with the scissors open in her hand. “i’ll fox him, and thee likewise. go and bring me the four ells of peltry of beasts ermines, and that of the best, or thou shalt wake up to-morrow to find thy poll as clean as the end of thine ugsome (ugly) nose.”

poor thurstan, who was only a child of about ten years old, mistook alvena’s jesting for earnest, and began to sob.

“but what can i, mistress?” urged the terrified urchin. “master adam saith he hath never a nail thereof, never name an ell.”

“alvena, trouble not the child,” interposed sybil.

but sybil’s gentle intercession would have availed little if it had not been seconded by the unexpected appearance of the only person whom alvena feared.

“what is this?” inquired doña juana, in a tone of authority.

thurstan, with a relieved air, subsided into his recess, and alvena, with a rather abashed one, began to explain that no ermine could be had for the trimming of the blue satin dress.

“then let it wait,” decided the mistress—for this was juana’s official title. “alvena, set the child a-work, and watch that she goeth rightly thereabout. sybil, sue thou me.”

the departure of juana and sybil, for which maude was privately rather sorry, set alvena’s tongue again at liberty. she set maude at work, on a long hem, which was not particularly interesting; and herself began to pin some trimming on a tunic of scarlet cloth.

“pray you, mistress alvena,” asked maude at length—wedging her question in among a quantity of small-talk—“hath the lady custance brethren or sustren?”

“sustren, not one; and trust me, child, an’ thou knewest her as i do, thou shouldst say one of her were enough. but she hath brethren twain—the lord edward, which is her elder, and the lord richard, her younger. the little lord richard is a sweet child as may lightly be seen; and dearly the lady custance loveth him. but as for the lord edward—an’ he can do an ill turn, trust him for it.”

“and what like is my lord our master?” asked maude.

alvena laughed. “sawest ever ursula drew bake bread, child?”

“oh ay!” sighed the ex-scullery-maid.

“and hast marked how the dough, ere he be set in the oven, should take any pattern thou list to set him on?”

“ay.”

“then thou hast seen what the lord earl is like.”

“but who setteth pattern on the lord earl?” inquired maude, looking up in some surprise.

“all the world, saving my lady his wife, and likewise in his wrath. hast ever seen one of our princes in a passion of ire?”

“never had i luck yet to see one of their graces,” said maude reverently.

“then thou wist not what a man can be like when he is angered.”

“but not, i ensure me, the lady custance!” objected maude, loth to surrender her fairy queen.

“wait awhile and see!” was the ominous answer.

“methought she were sweet and fair as my lady her mother,” said maude in a disappointed tone.

“‘sweet and fair’!—and soft, is my lady countess. why, child, she should hardly say this kirtle were red, an’ dame joan told her it were green. thou mayest do aught with her, an’ thou wist how to take her.”

“how take you her?” demanded maude gravely.

“by ’r lady! have yonder fond (foolish) books of the lutterworth parson at thy tongue’s end, and make up a sad face, and talk of faith and grace and forgiving of sins and the like, and mine head to yon shred of tinsel an’ she give thee not a gown within the se’nnight.”

“but, mistress alvena! that were to be an hypocrite, an’ you felt it not.”

“hu-te-tu! we be all hypocrites. some of us feign for one matter, and some for other. i wis somewhat thereabout, child; for ere i came hither was i maid unto the lady julian (a fictitious person), recluse of tamworth priory. by our dear lady her girdle! saw i nothing of hypocrisy there!”

“you never signify, mistress, that the blessed recluse was an hypocrite?”

“the blessed recluse was mighty fond of sweetbreads,” said alvena, taking a pin out of her mouth, “and many an one smuggled i in to her under my cloak, when father luke thought she was a-fasting on bread and water. and one clereful (glorious) night had we, she and i, when one that i knew had shot me a brace of curlews, and coming over moorland by the church, he dropped them—all by chance, thou wist!—by the door of the cell. and i, oping the door—to see if it rained, trow!—found these birds a-lying there. had we no supper that night!—and ’twas a vigil even. the blessed martyr or apostle (for i mind me not what day it were) forgive us!”

“but how dressed you them?” said maude.

alvena stopped in her fitting and pinning to laugh.

“thou sely maid! the sacristan was my mother’s brother.”

maude looked up as if she did not see the inference.

“i roasted them in the sacristy, child. the priests were all gone home to bed; and so soon as the ground were clear, mine uncle rapped of the door; and the lady julian came after me to the sacristy, close lapped in my cloak—”

how long alvena might have proceeded to shock maude’s susceptibilities and outrage her preconceived opinions, it is impossible to say; for at this moment thurstan opened the door and announced in a rather consequential manner—

“the lord le despenser, to visit the lady custance, and dame margaret his sister.”

maude lifted her eyes to the height of alvena, and found that she had to lower them to her own. a young lady of about sixteen entered, dressed in a rose-coloured silk striped with gold, and a gold-coloured mantle lined with the palest blue. she led by the hand a very pretty little boy of ten or eleven years of age, attired in a velvet tunic of that light, bright shade of apple-green which our forefathers largely used. it was edged at the neck by a little white frill. he carried in his hand a black velvet cap, from which depended a long and very full red plume of ostrich feathers. his stockings were white silk, his boots red leather, fastened with white buttons. the brother and sister were alike, but the small, delicately-cut features of both were the more delicate in the boy, and on his dark brown hair was a golden gloss which was not visible on that of his sister.

“give you good morrow, mistress alvena,” said dame margaret pleasantly. “the lady custance—may one have speech of her?”

before alvena could reply, the curtain which shrouded the door leading to the countess’s rooms was drawn aside, and constance came forward herself.

“good morrow, meg,” said she, kissing the young lady. “thou hast mistaken thy road, tom.”

“wherefore so?” asked dame margaret; for her little brother was silent, except that he offered a kiss in his turn, and looked rather disconcerted when no notice was taken of it.

“why, ned is playing quoits below, and tom should have bidden with him. come hither, meg; i have a pretty thing to show thee.”

“but tom came to see your ladyship.”

“well, he has seen me!” said the little princess impatiently. “i love not lads. they are fit for nought better than playing quoits. let them go and do it.”

“what, dickon?” said margaret, smiling.

“oh, dickon!” returned constance in a changed tone. “but tom is not dickon. neither is he an angel, i wis, for i heard him gainsay once his preceptor.”

tom looked very unhappy at this raking up of bygone misdeeds.

“methinks your ladyship is in ill humour this morrow,” said margaret. “be not so hard on the lad, for he loveth you.”

“when i love him, i will do him to wit,” said constance cuttingly. “come, meg.”

dame margaret obeyed the command, but she kept hold of the hand of her little brother. when they were gone, alvena laid down her work and laughed.

“thy queen of faery is passing gracious, maude.”

“she scarce seemed to matter the lad,” was maude’s reply.

“yet she hath sworn to do his bidding all the days of her life,” said alvena.

“why,” said maude, looking up in surprise, “would you say the lady custance is troth-plight unto this imp?” (little boy.)

“nay, she is wedded wife. ’tis five years or more sithence they were wed. my lady custance had years four, and my lord le despenser five. they could but just syllable their vows. and i mind me, the lady custance stuck at ‘obey,’ and she had to be threatened with a fustigation (beating, whipping) ere she would go on.”

“but who dared threaten her?” inquired maude.

“marry, my lord her father, which fell into a fit of ire to see her perversity.—there goeth the dinner bell; lap thy work, child. for me, i am well fain to hear it.”

note 1. the child was constance, only daughter of edmund duke of york (seventh son of edward the third) and isabel of castilla.

note 2. agnes de la marche had been the nurse of two of edward the third’s sons, lionel and edmund. she lived to old age, and was long in receipt of a pension from the crown for her former service.

note 3. wycliffe’s rendering of revelations sixteen 6. in various places he follows what are now determined to be the best and most ancient authorities.