“o thou child of many prayers!
life hath quicksands—life hath snares.”
longfellow.
“now, sit you down on de bench,” said regina, kindly. “poor maid! you tremble, you are white. ach! when folks shall do as dey should, dey shall not do as dey do no more. now we shall have von pleasant talking togeder, you and i. you know de duties of de bower-woman? or i tell dem you?”
“would you tell me, an’ it please you?” answered amphillis, modestly. “i do not know much, i dare say.”
“gut! now, listen. in de morning, you are ready before your lady calls; you keep not her awaiting. maybe you sleep in de truckle-bed in her chamber; if so, you dress more quieter as mouse, you wake not her up. she wakes, she calls—you hand her garments, you dress her hair. if she be wedded lady, you not to her chamber go ere her lord be away. mind you be neat in your dress, and lace you well, and keep your hair tidy, wash your face, and your hands and feet, and cut short your nails. every morning you shall your teeth clean. take care, take much care what you do. you walk gravely, modestly; you talk low, quiet; you carry you sad (note 1) and becomingly. mix water plenty with your wine at dinner: you take not much wine, dat should shocking be! you carve de dishes, but you press not nobody to eat—dat is not good manners. you wash hands after your lady, and you look see there be two seats betwixt her and you—no nearer you go (note 2). you be quiet, quiet! sad, sober always—no chatter fast, no scamper, no loud laugh. you see?”
“i see, and i thank you,” said amphillis. “i hope i am not a giglot.”
“you are not—no, no! dere be dat are. not you. only mind you not so become. young maids can be too careful never, never! you lose your good name in one hour, but in one year you win it not back.”
and regina’s plump round face went very sad, as if she remembered some such instance of one who was dear to her.
“ach so!—well! den if your lady have daughters young, she may dem set in your care. you shall den have good care dey learn courtesy (note 3), and gaze not too much from de window, and keep very quiet in de bower (note 4). and mind you keep dem—and yourself too—from de mans. mans is bad!”
amphillis was able to say, with a clear conscience, that she had no hankering after the society of those perilous creatures.
“see you,” resumed regina, with some warmth, “dere is one good man in one hundert mans. no more! de man you see, shall he be de hundert man, or one von de nine and ninety? what you tink?”
“i think he were more like to be of the ninety and nine,” said amphillis with a little laugh. “but how for the women, mistress regina? be they all good?”
regina shook her head in a very solemn manner.
“dere is bad mans,” answered she, “and dey is bad: and dere is bad womans, and dey is badder; and dere is bad angels, and dey is baddest of all. look you, you make de sharpest vinegar von de sweetest wine. amphillis, you are good maid, i tink; keep you good! and dat will say, keep you to yourself, and run not after no mans, nor no womans neider. you keep your lady’s counsel true and well, but you keep no secrets from her. when any say to you, ‘amphillis, you tell not your lady,’ you say to yourself, ‘i want noting to do wid you; i keep to myself, and i have no secrets from my lady.’ dat is gut!”
“mistress regina, wot you who is the lady i am to serve?”
“i know noting, no more dan you—no, not de name of de lady you dis evening saw. she came from de savoy—so much know i, no more.”
amphillis knew that goldsmiths were very often the bankers of their customers, and that their houses were a frequent rendezvous for business interviews. it was, therefore, not strange at all that regina should not be further in the confidence of the lady in question.
“now you shall not tarry no later,” said regina, kissing her. “you serve well your lady, you pray to god, and you keep from de mans. good-night!”
“your pardon granted, mistress regina, but you have not yet told me what i need carry withal.”
“ach so! my head gather de wool, as you here say. why, you take with you raiment enough to begin—dat is all. your lady find you gowns after, and a saddle to ride, and all dat you need. only de raiment to begin, and de brains in de head—she shall not find you dat. take wid you as much of dem as you can get. now run—de dark is gekommen.”
it relieved amphillis to find that she needed to carry nothing with, her except clothes, brains, and prudence. the first she knew that her uncle would supply; for the second, she could only take all she had; and as to the last, she must do her best to cultivate it.
mr altham, on hearing the report, charged his daughters to see that their cousin had every need supplied; and to do those young ladies justice, they took fairly about half their share of the work, until the day of the tournament, when they declared that nothing on earth should make them touch a needle. instead of which, they dressed themselves in their best, and, escorted by mr clement winkfield, were favoured by permission to slip in at the garden door, and to squeeze into a corner among the duke’s maids and grooms.
a very grand sight it was. in the royal stand sat the king, old edward the third, scarcely yet touched by that pitiful imbecility which troubled his closing days; and on his right hand sat the queen of the jousts, the young countess of cambridge, bride of prince edmund, with the duke of lancaster on her other hand, the duchess being on the left of the king. all the invited ladies were robed uniformly in green and white, the prize-giver herself excepted. the knights were attired as clement had described them. i am not about to describe the tournament, which, after all, was only a glorified prize-fight, and, therefore, suited to days when few gentlemen could read, and no forks were used for meals. we call ourselves civilised now, yet some who consider themselves such, seem to entertain a desire to return to barbarism. human nature, in truth, is the same in all ages, and what is called culture is only a thin veneer. nothing but to be made partaker of the divine nature will implant the heavenly taste.
the knights who were acclaimed victors, or at least the best jousters on the field, were led up to the royal stand, and knelt before the queen of the jousts, who placed a gold chaplet on the head of the first, and tied a silken scarf round the shoulders of the second and third. happily, no one was killed or even seriously injured—not a very unusual state of things. at a tournament eighteen years later, the duke of lancaster’s son-in-law, the last of the earls of pembroke, was left dead upon the field.
alexandra and ricarda came back very tired, and not in exceptionally good tempers, as amphillis soon found out, since she was invariably a sufferer on these occasions. they declared themselves, the next morning, far too weary to put in a single stitch; and occupied themselves chiefly in looking out of the window and exchanging airy nothings with customers. but when clement came in the afternoon with an invitation to a dance at his mother’s house, their exhausted energies rallied surprisingly, and they were quite able to go, though the same farce was played over again on the ensuing morning.
by dint of working early and late, amphillis was just ready on the day appointed—small thanks to her cousins, who not only shirked her work, but were continually summoning her from it to do theirs. mr altham gave his niece some good advice, along with a handsome silver brooch, a net of gold tissue for her hair, commonly called a crespine or dovecote, and a girdle of black leather, set with bosses of silver-gilt. these were the most valuable articles that had ever yet been in her possession, and amphillis felt herself very rich, though she could have dispensed with ricarda’s envious admiration of her treasures, and alexandra’s acetous remarks about some people who were always grabbing as much as they could get. in their father’s presence these observations were omitted, and mr altham had but a faint idea of what his orphan niece endured at the hands—or rather the tongues—of his daughters, who never forgave her for being more gently born than themselves.
lammas day dawned warm and bright, and after early mass in the church of saint mary at strand—which nobody in those days would have dreamed of missing on a saint’s day—amphillis placed herself at an upstairs window to watch for her escort. she had not many minutes to wait, before two horses came up the narrow lane from the savoy palace, and trotting down the strand, stopped at the patty-maker’s door. after them came a baggage-mule, whose back was fitted with a framework intended to sustain luggage.
one horse carried a man attired in white linen, and the other bore a saddle and pillion, the latter being then the usual means of conveyance for a woman. on the saddle before it sat a middle-aged man in the royal livery, which was then white and red. the man in linen alighted, and after a few minutes spent in conversation with mr altham, he carried out amphillis’s luggage, in two leather trunks, which were strapped one on each side of the mule. as soon as she saw her trunks disappearing, amphillis ran down and took leave of her uncle and cousins.
“well, my maid, god go with thee!” said mr altham. “forget not thine old uncle and these maids; and if thou be ill-usen, or any trouble hap thee, pray the priest of thy parish to write me a line thereanent, and i will see what can be done.”
“fare thee well, phyllis!” said alexandra, and ricarda echoed the words.
mr altham helped his niece to mount the pillion, seated on which, she had to put her arms round the waist of the man in front, and clasp her hands together; for without this precaution, she would have been unseated in ten minutes. there was nothing to keep her on, as she sat with her left side to the horse’s head, and roads in those days were rough to an extent of which we, accustomed to macadamised ways, can scarcely form an idea now.
and so, pursued for “luck” by an old shoe from ricarda’s hand, amphillis neville took her leave of london, and rode forth into the wide world to seek her fortune.
passing along the strand as far as the row of houses ran, at the strand cross they turned to the left, and threading their way in and out among the detached houses and little gardens, they came at last into holborn, and over holborn bridge into smithfield. under holborn bridge ran the fleet river, pure and limpid, on its way to the silvery thames; and as they emerged from cock lane, the stately priory of saint bartholomew fronted them a little to the right. crossing smithfield, they turned up long lane, and thence into aldersgate street, and in a few minutes more the last houses of london were left behind them. as they came out into the open country, amphillis was greeted, to her surprise, by a voice she knew.
“god be wi’ ye, mistress amphillis!” said clement winkfield, coming up and walking for a moment alongside, as the horse mounted the slight rising ground. “maybe you would take a little farewell token of mine hand, just for to mind you when you look on it, that you have friends in london that shall think of you by nows and thens.”
and clement held up to amphillis a little silver box, with a ring attached, through which a chain or ribbon could be passed to wear it round the neck. a small red stone was set on one side.
“’tis a good charm,” said he. “there is therein writ a scripture, that shall bear you safe through all perils of journeying, and an hair of a she-bear, that is good against witchcraft; and the carnelian stone appeaseth anger. trust me, it shall do you no harm to bear it anigh you.”
amphillis, though a sensible girl for her time, was not before her time, and therefore had full faith in the wonderful virtues of amulets. she accepted the silver box with the entire conviction that she had gained a treasure of no small value. simple, good-natured clement lifted his cap, and turned back down aldersgate street, while amphillis and her escort went on towards saint albans.
a few miles they rode in silence, broken now and then by a passing remark from the man in linen, chiefly on the deep subject of the hot weather, and by the sumpterman’s frequent requests that his mule would “gee-up,” which the perverse quadruped in question showed little inclination to do. at length, as the horse checked its speed to walk up a hill, the man in front of amphillis said—
“know you where you be journeying, my mistress?”
“into derbyshire,” she answered. “have there all i know.”
“but you wot, surely, whom you go to serve?”
“truly, i wot nothing,” she replied, “only that i go to be bower-woman to some lady. the lady that saw me, and bound me thereto, said that i might look to learn on the road.”
“dear heart! and is that all they told you?”
“all, my master.”
“words must be costly in those parts,” said the man in linen.
“well,” answered the other, drawing out the word in a tone which might mean a good deal. “words do cost much at times, master saint oly. they have cost men their lives ere now.”
“ay, better men than you or me,” replied the other. “howbeit, my mistress, there is no harm you should know—is there, master dugan?—that you be bounden for the manor of hazelwood, some six miles to the north of derby, where dwell sir godfrey foljambe and his dame.”
“no harm; so you tarry there at this present,” said master dugan.
“ay, i’ve reached my hostel,” was the response.
“then my lady foljambe is she that i must serve?”
the man in linen exchanged a smile with the man in livery.
“you shall see her the first, i cast no doubt, and she shall tell you your duties,” answered dugan.
amphillis sat on the pillion, and meditated on her information as they journeyed on. there was evidently something more to tell, which she was not to be told at present. after wondering for a little while what it might be, and deciding that her imagination was not equal to the task laid upon it, she gave it up, and allowed herself to enjoy the sweet country scents and sounds without apprehension for the future.
for six days they travelled on in this fashion, about twenty miles each day, staying every night but one at a wayside inn, where amphillis was always delivered into the care of the landlady, and slept with her daughter or niece; once at a private house, the owners of which were apparently friends of mr dugan. they baited for the last time at derby, and about two o’clock in the afternoon rode into the village of hazelwood.
it was only natural that amphillis should feel a little nervous and uneasy, in view of her introduction to her new abode and unknown companions. she was not less so on account of the mystery which appeared to surround the nameless mistress. why did everybody who seemed to know anything make such a secret of the affair?
the manor house of hazelwood was a pretty and comfortable place enough. it stood in a large garden, gay with autumn flowers, and a high embattled wall protected it from possible enemies. the trio rode in under an old archway, through a second gate, and then drew up beneath the entrance arch, the door being—as is yet sometimes seen in old inns—at the side of the arch running beneath the house. a man in livery came forward to take the horses.
“well, master saint oly,” said he; “here you be!”
“i could have told thee that, sim,” was the amused reply. “is all well? sir godfrey at home?”
“ay to the first question, and no to the second.”
“my lady is in her bower?”
“my lady’s in the privy garden, whither you were best take the damsel to her.”
sim led the horses away to the stable, and saint oly turned to amphillis.
“then, if it please you, follow me, my mistress; we were best to go to my lady at once.”
amphillis followed, silent, curious, and a little fluttered.
they passed under the entrance arch inwards, and found themselves in a smaller garden than the outer, enclosed on three sides by the house and its adjacent outbuildings. in the midst was a spreading tree, with a form underneath it; and in its shade sat a lady and a girl about the age of amphillis. another girl was gathering flowers, and an elderly woman was coming towards the tree from behind. saint oly conducted amphillis to the lady who sat under the tree.
“dame,” said he, “here, under your good leave, is mistress amphillis neville, that is come to you from london town, to serve her you wot of.”
this, then, was lady foljambe. amphillis looked up, and saw a tall, handsome, fair-complexioned woman, with a rather grave, not to say stern, expression of face. “good,” said lady foljambe. “you are welcome, mistress neville. i trust you can do your duty, and not giggle and chatter?”
the girl who sat by certainly giggled on hearing this question, and lady foljambe extinguished her by a look.
“i will do my best, dame,” replied amphillis, nervously.
“none can do more,” said her ladyship more graciously. “are you aweary with your journey?”
“but a little, dame, i thank you. our stage to-day was but short.”
“you left your friends well?” was the next condescending query.
“yes, dame, i thank you.”
lady foljambe turned her head. “perrote!” she said.
“dame!” answered the elderly woman.
“take the damsel up to your lady’s chambers, and tell her what her duties will be.—mistress neville, one matter above all other must i press upon you. whatever you see or hear in your lady’s chamber is never to come beyond. you will company with my damsels, agatha—” with a slight move of her head towards the girl at her side—“and marabel,”—indicating by another gesture the one who was gathering flowers. “remember, in your leisure times, when you are talking together, no mention of your lady must ever be made. if you hear it, rebuke it. if you make it, you may not like that which shall follow. be wise and discreet, and you shall find it for your good. chatter and be giddy, and you shall find it far otherwise. now, follow mistress perrote.”
amphillis louted silently, and as silently followed.
the elderly woman, who was tall, slim, and precise-looking, led her into the house, and up the stairs.
when two-thirds of them were mounted, she turned to the left along a passage, lifted a heavy curtain which concealed its end, and let it drop again behind them. they stood in a small square tower, on a little landing which gave access to three doors. the door on the right hand stood ajar; the middle one was closed; but the left was not only closed, but locked and barred heavily. mistress perrote led the way into the room on the right, a pleasant chamber, which looked out into the larger garden.
at the further end of the room stood a large bed of blue camlet, with a canopy, worked with fighting griffins in yellow. a large chest of carved oak stood at the foot. along the wall ran a settle, or long bench, furnished with blue cushions; and over the back was thrown a dorsor of black worsted, worked with the figures of david and goliath, in strict fourteenth-century costume. the fireplace was supplied with andirons, a shovel, and a fire-fork, which served the place of a poker. a small leaf table hung down by the wall at one end of the settle, and over it was fixed a round mirror, so high up as to give little encouragement to vanity. on hooks round the walls were hangings of blue tapestry, presenting a black diamond pattern, within a border of red roses.
“will you sit?” said mistress perrote, speaking in a voice not exactly sharp, but short and staccato, as if she were—what more voluble persons often profess to be—unaccustomed to public speaking, and not very talkative at any time. “your name, i think, is amphillis neville?”
amphillis acknowledged her name.
“you have father and mother?”
“i have nothing in the world,” said amphillis, with a shake of her head, “save an uncle and cousins, which dwell in london town.”
“ha!” said mistress perrote, in a significant tone. “that is wherefore you were chosen.”
“because i had no kin?” said amphillis, looking up.
“that, and also that you were counted discreet. and discreet you had need be for this charge.”
“what charge?” she asked, blankly.
“you know not?”
“i know nothing. nobody would tell me anything.”
mistress perrote’s set features softened a little.
“poor child!” she said. “you are young—too young—to be given a charge like this. you will need all your discretion, and more.”
amphillis felt more puzzled than ever.
“you may make a friend of marabel, if you choose; but beware how you trust agatha. but remember, as her ladyship told you, no word that you hear, no thing that you see, must be suffered to go forth of these chambers. you may repeat nothing! can you do this?”
“i will bear it in mind,” was the reply. “but, pray you, if i may ask—seeing i know nothing—is this lady that i shall serve an evil woman, that you caution me thus?”
“no!” answered mistress perrote, emphatically. “she is a most terribly injured— what say i? forget my words. they were not discreet. mary, mother! there be times when a woman’s heart gets the better of her brains. there be more brains than hearts in this world. lay by your hood and mantle, child, on one of those hooks, and smooth your hair, and repose you until supper-time. to-morrow you shall see your lady.”
