“the future is all dark,
and the past a troubled sea,
and memory sits in the heart,
wailing where hope should be.”
supper was ready in the hall at four o’clock, and amphillis found herself seated next below agatha, the younger of lady foljambe’s damsels. it was a feast-day, so that meat was served—a boar’s head, stewed beef, minced mutton, squirrel, and hedgehog. the last dainty is now restricted to gypsies, and no one eats our little russet friend of the bushy tail; but our forefathers indulged in both. there were also roast capons, a heron, and chickens dressed in various ways. near amphillis stood a dish of beef jelly, a chowet or liver-pie, a flampoynt or pork-pie, and a dish of sops in fennel. the sweets were barlee and mon amy, of which the first was rice cream, and the second a preparation of curds and cream.
amphillis looked with considerable interest along the table, and at her opposite neighbours. lady foljambe she recognised at once; and beside her sat a younger lady whom she had not seen before. she applied to her neighbour for information.
“she?” said agatha. “oh, she’s mistress margaret, my lady’s daughter-in-law; wife to master godfrey, that sits o’ t’ other side of his mother; and that’s master matthew, o’ this side. the priest’s father jordan—a fat old noodle as ever droned a psalm through his nose. love you mirth and jollity?”
“i scarce know,” said amphillis, hesitatingly. “i have had so little.”
agatha’s face was a sight to see.
“good lack, but i never reckoned you should be a spoil-sport!” said she, licking her spoon as in duty bound before she plunged it in the jelly—a piece of etiquette in which young ladies at that date were carefully instructed. the idea of setting a separate spoon to help a dish had not dawned upon the mediaeval mind.
“i shall hate you, i can tell you, if you so are. things here be like going to a funeral all day long—never a bit of music nor dancing, nor aught that is jolly. mistress margaret might be eighty, so sad and sober is she; and as for my lady and mistress perrote, they are just a pair of old jog-trots fit to run together in a quirle (the open car then used by ladies, something like a waggonette). master godfrey’s all for arms and fighting, so he’s no better. master matthew’s best of the lot, but bad’s the best when you’ve a-done. and he hasn’t much chance neither, for if he’s seen laughing a bit with one of us, my lady’s a-down on him as if he’d broke all the ten commandments, and whisks him off ere you can say jack robinson; and if she whip you not, you may thank the saints or your stars, which you have a mind. oh, ’tis a jolly house you’ve come to, that i can tell you! i hoped you’d a bit more fun in you than clarice—she wasn’t a scrap of good. but i’m afraid you’re no better.”
“i don’t know, really,” said amphillis, feeling rather bewildered by agatha’s reckless rattle, and remembering the injunction not to make a friend of her. “i suppose i have come here to do my duty; but i know not yet what it shall be.”
“i detest doing my duty!” said agatha, energetically.
“that’s a pity, isn’t it?” was the reply.
agatha laughed.
“come, you can give a quip-word,” said she. “clarice was just a lump of wood, that you could batter nought into,—might as well sit next a post. marabel has some brains, but they’re so far in, there’s no fetching ’em forth. i declare i shall do somewhat one o’ these days that shall shock all the neighbourhood, only to make a diversion.”
“i don’t think i would,” responded amphillis. “you might find it ran the wrong way.”
“you’ll do,” said agatha, laughing. “you are not jolly, but you’re next best to it.”
“whose is that empty place on the form?” asked amphillis, looking across.
“oh, that’s master norman’s—sir godfrey’s squire—he’s away with him.”
and agatha, without any apparent reason, became suddenly silent.
when supper was over, the girls were called to spin, which they did in the large hall, sitting round the fire with the two ladies and perrote. amphillis, as a newcomer, was excused for that evening; and she sat studying her neighbours and surroundings till mistress perrote pronounced it bed-time. then each girl rose and put by her spindle; courtesied to the ladies, and wished them each “good-even,” receiving a similar greeting; and the three filed out of the inner door after perrote, each possessing herself of a lighted candle as she passed a window where they stood. at the solar landing they parted, perrote and amphillis turning aside to their own tower, marabel and agatha going on to the upper floor. (the solar was an intermediate storey, resembling the french entresol.) amphillis found, as she expected, that she was to share the large blue bed and the yellow griffins with perrote. the latter proved a very silent bedfellow. beyond showing amphillis where she was to place her various possessions, she said nothing at all; and as soon as she had done this, she left the room, and did not reappear for an hour or more. as amphillis lay on her pillow, she heard an indistinct sound of voices in an adjoining room, and once or twice, as she fancied, a key turned in the lock. at length the voices grew fainter, the hoot of the white owl as he flew past the turret window scarcely roused her, and amphillis was asleep—so sound asleep, that when perrote lay down by her side, she never made the discovery.
the next morning dawned on a beautiful summer day. perrote roused her young companion about four o’clock, with a reminder that if she were late it would produce a bad impression upon lady foljambe. when they were dressed, perrote repeated the rosary, amphillis making the responses, and they went down to the hall.
breakfast was at this time a luxury not indulged in by every one, and it was not served before seven o’clock. lady foljambe patronised it. at that hour it was accordingly spread in the hall, and consisted of powdered beef, boiled beef, brawn, a jug of ale, another of wine, and a third of milk. the milk was a condescension to a personal weakness of perrote; everybody else drank wine or ale.
amphillis was wondering very much, in the private recesses of her mind, how it was that no lady appeared whom she could suppose to be her own particular mistress; and had she not received such strict charges on the subject, she would certainly have asked the question. as it was, she kept silence; but she was gratified when, after breakfast, having been bidden to follow perrote, that worthy woman paused to say, as they followed the passage which led to their own turret—
“now, amphillis neville, you shall see your lady.”
she stopped before the locked and barred door opposite to their own, unfastened it, and led amphillis into the carefully-guarded chamber.
the barred room proved to be an exceedingly pleasant one, except that it was darker than the other, for it looked into the inner garden, and therefore much less sun ever entered it. a heavy curtain of black worsted, whereon were depicted golden vines and recumbent lions, stretched across the room, shutting off that end which formed the bedchamber. within its shelter stood a bed of green silk wrought with golden serpents and roses; a small walnut-wood cabinet against the wall; two large chests; a chair of carved walnut-wood, upholstered in yellow satin; a mirror set in silver; and two very unusual pieces of furniture, which in those days they termed folding-chairs, but which we should call a shut-up washstand and dressing-table. the former held an ewer and basin of silver-gilt, much grander articles than amphillis had ever seen, except in the goldsmith’s shop. in front of the curtain was a bench with green silk cushions, and two small tables, on one of which lay some needlework; and by it, in another yellow satin chair, sat the solitary inhabitant of the chamber, a lady who appeared to be about sixty years of age. she was dressed in widow’s mourning, and in 1372 that meant pure snowy white, with chin and forehead so covered by barb and wimple that only the eyes, nose, and mouth were left visible. this lady’s face was almost as white as her robes. even her lips seemed colourless; and the fixed, weary, hopeless expression was only broken by two dark, brilliant, sunken eyes, in which lay a whole volume of unread history—eyes that looked as if they could flash with fury, or moisten with pity, or grow soft and tender with love; eyes that had done all these, long, long ago! so long ago, that they had forgotten how to do it. sad, tired, sorrowful eyes—eyes out of which all expectation had departed; which had nothing left to fear, only because they had nothing left to hope. they were turned now upon amphillis.
“your grace’s new chamber-dame,” said mistress perrote, “in the room of clarice. her name is amphillis neville.”
the faintest shadow of interest passed over the sorrowful eyes.
“go near,” said perrote to amphillis, “and kiss her grace’s hand.”
amphillis did as she was told. the lady, after offering her hand for the kiss, turned it and gently lifted the girl’s face.
“dost thou serve god?” she said, in a voice which matched her eyes.
“i hope so, dame,” replied amphillis.
“i hope nothing,” said the mysterious lady. “it is eight years since i knew what hope was. i have hoped in my time as much as ever woman did. but god took away from me one boon after another, till now he hath left me desolate. be thankful, maid, that thou canst yet hope.”
she dropped her hand, and went back to her work with a weary sigh.
“dame,” said perrote, “your grace wot that her ladyship desires not that you talk in such strain to the damsels.”
the white face changed as amphillis had thought it could not change, and the sunken eyes shot forth fire.
“her ladyship!” said the widow. “who is avena foljambe, that she looketh to queen it over marguerite of flanders? they took my lord, and i lived through it. they took my daughter, and i bare it. they took my son, my firstborn, and i was silent, though it brake my heart. but by my troth and faith, they shall not still my soul, nor lay bonds upon my tongue when i choose to speak. avena foljambe! the kinswoman of a wretched traitor, that met the fate he deserved—why, hath she ten drops of good blood in her veins? and she looks to lord it over a daughter of charlemagne, that hath borne sceptre ere she carried spindle!”
mistress perrote’s calm even voice checked the flow of angry words.
“dame, your grace speaks very sooth (truth). yet i beseech you remember that my lady doth present (represent) an higher than herself—the king’s grace and no lesser.”
the lady in white rose to her feet.
“what mean you, woman? king edward of windsor may be your master and hers, but he is not mine! i owe him no allegiance, nor i never sware any.”
“your son hath sworn it, dame.”
the eyes blazed out again.
“my son is a hound!—a craven cur, that licks the hand that lashed him!—a poor court fool that thinks it joy enough to carry his bauble, and marvel at his motley coat and his silvered buttons! that he should be my son,—and his!”
the voice changed so suddenly, that amphillis could scarcely believe it to be the same. all the passionate fury died out of it, and instead came a low soft tone of unutterable pain, loneliness, and regret. the speaker dropped down into her chair, and laying her arm upon the little table, hid her face upon it.
“my poor lady!” said perrote in tender accents—more tender than amphillis had imagined she could use.
the lady in white lifted her head.
“i was not so weak once,” she said. “there was a time when man said i had the courage of a man and the heart of a lion. maiden, never man sat an horse better than i, and no warrior ever fought that could more ably handle sword. i have mustered armies to the battle ere now; i have personally conducted sieges, i have headed sallies on the camp of the king of france. am i meek pigeon to be kept in a dovecote? look around thee! this is my cage. ha! the perches are fine wood, sayest thou? the seed is good, and the water is clean! i deny it not. i say only, it is a cage, and i am a royal eagle, that was never made to sit on a perch and coo! the blood of an hundred kings is thrilling all along my veins, and must i be silent? the blood of the sovereigns of france, the kingdom of kingdoms,—of the sea-kings of denmark, of the ancient kings of burgundy, and of the lombards of the iron crown—it is with this mine heart is throbbing, and man saith, ‘be still!’ how can i be still, unless i were still in death? and man reckoneth i shall be a-paid for my lost sword with a needle, and for my broken sceptre he offereth me a bodkin!”
with a sudden gesture she brushed all the implements for needlework from the little table to the floor.
“there! gather them up, which of you list. i lack no such babe’s gear. if i were but now on my feraunt, with my visor down, clad in armour, as i was when i rode forth of hennebon while the french were busied with the assault on the further side of the town,—forth i came with my three hundred horse, and we fired the enemy’s camp—ah, but we made a goodly blaze that day! i reckon the villages saw it for ten miles around or more.”
“but your grace remembereth, we won not back into the town at after,” quietly suggested perrote.
“well, what so? went we not to brest, and there gathered six hundred men, and when we appeared again before hennebon, the trumpets sounded, and the gates were flung open, and we entered in triumph? thy memory waxeth weak, old woman! i must refresh it from mine own.”
“please it, your good grace, i am nigh ten years younger than yourself.”
“then shouldest thou be the more ’shamed to have so much worser a memory. why, hast forgot all those weeks at hennebon, that we awaited the coming of the english fleet? dost not remember how i went down to the council with thyself at mine heels, and the child in mine arms, to pray the captains not to yield up the town to the french, and the lither loons would not hear me a word? and then at the last minute, when the gates were opened, and the french marching up to take possession, mindest thou not how i ran to yon window that giveth toward the sea, and there at last, at last! the english fleet was seen, making straight sail for us. then flung i open the contrary casement toward the street, and myself shouted to the people to shut the gates, and man the ramparts, and cry, ‘no surrender!’ ah, it was a day, that! had there been but time, i’d never have shouted—i’d have been down myself, and slammed that gate on the king of france’s nose! the pity of it that i had no wings! and did i not meet the english lords and kiss them every one (note 1), and hang their chambers with the richest arras in my coffers? and the very next day, sir walter mauny made a sally, and destroyed the french battering-ram, and away fled the french king with ours in pursuit. ha, that was a jolly sight to see! old perrote, hast thou forgot it all?”
we are accustomed in the present day to speak of the deliverer of hennebon as sir walter manny. that his name ought really to be spelt and sounded mauny, is evidenced by a contemporary entry which speaks of his daughter as the lady of maweny.
old perrote had listened quietly, while her mistress poured forth these reminiscences in rapid words. when the long waiting for the english fleet was mentioned, a kind of shudder passed over her, as if her recollection of that time were painful and distinct enough; but otherwise she stood motionless until the concluding question. then she answered—
“ay, dame—no, i would say: i mind it well.”
“thou shouldest! then quote not avena foljambe to me. i care not a brass nail for avena foljambe. hand me yonder weary gear. it is better than counting one’s fingers, maybe.”
amphillis stooped and gathered up the scattered broidery, glancing at perrote to see if she were doing right. as she approached her mistress to offer them, perrote whispered, hurriedly, “on the knee, child! on the knee!” and amphillis, blushing for her mistake, dropped on one knee. she was hoping that the lady would not be angry—that she could be severely so, there could be no doubt—and she was much relieved to see her laugh.
“thou foolish old woman!” she said to perrote, as she took her work back. then addressing amphillis, she added,—“seest thou, my maid, man hath poured away the sparkling wine out of reach of my thirsty lips; and this silly old perrote reckons it of mighty moment that the empty cup be left to shine on the buffet. what matters it if the caged eagle have his perch gilded or no? he would a thousand times liefer sit of a bare rock in the sun than of a perch made of gold, and set with emeralds. so man granteth me the gilded perch, to serve me on the knee like a queen, and he setteth it with emeralds, to call me duchess in lieu of countess, and he reckoneth that shall a-pay the caged eagle for her lost liberty, and her quenched sunlight, and the grand bare rock on the mountain tops. it were good enough for the dove to sit on the pigeon-house, and preen her feathers, and coo, and take decorous little flights between the dovecote and the ground whereon her corn lieth. she cares for no more. the bare rock would frighten her, and the sun would dazzle her eyes. so man bindeth the eagle by a bond long enough for the dove, and quoth he, ‘be patient!’ i am not patient. i am not a silly dove, that i should be so. chide me not, old woman, to tug at my bond. i am an eagle.”
“ah, well, dame!” said perrote, with a sigh. “the will of god must needs be done.”
“i marvel if man’s will be alway god’s, in sooth. folks say, whatever happeth, ‘god’s will be done.’ is everything his will?—the evil things no less than the good? is it god’s will when man speaketh a lie, or slayeth his fellow, or robbeth a benighted traveller of all his having? crack me that nut, perrote.”
“truly, dame, i am no priest, to solve such matters.”
“then leave thou to chatter glibly anentis god’s will. what wist any man thereabout?”
perrote was silent.
“open the window!” said the countess, suddenly. “i am dying for lack of fresh air.”
lifting her hand to her head, she hastily tore off the barb and wimple, with little respect to the pins which fastened them, and with the result of a long rent in the former.
“that’s for one of you to amend,” she said, with a short laugh. “ye should be thankful to have somewhat to do provided for you. ay me!”
the words were uttered in a low long moan.
perrote made no reply to the petulant words and action. an expression of tender pity crossed her face, as she stooped and lifted the torn barb, and examined the rent, with as much apparent calmness as if it had been damaged in the washing. there was evidently more in her than she suffered to come forth.
