“i stretched mine empty hands for bread,
and see, they have given me stones instead!”
“b.m.”
before anything more could be said, the door opened, and lady foljambe came in. she addressed herself at once to perrote.
“did i not bid you alway to lock the door when you should enter? lo, here it is unlocked. wherefore have you a key apart from mine, but that you should so do?”
“i cry you mercy, dame,” said perrote, meekly. “did you ever this before?”
“i mind not well, dame.”
“well, of a surety! call you this guarding a prisoner? mind you not that which happed at tickhill, when she ’scaped forth by aid of that knight—his name i forget—and had nigh reached the border of the liberties ere it was discovered? is this your allegiance and duty? dame, i bid you good morrow.”
“better late than never, avena,” said the countess, a little satirically. “thou fond thing, there, lie over twenty years betwixt yon night at tickhill and this morrow. and if the night were back, where is the knight? nay, avena foljambe, i have nought to escape for, now.”
“dame, i must needs say you be rare unbuxom and unthankful.”
“ay, so said the fox to the stork, when he ’plained to be served with thin broth.”
“pray you, look but around. you be lodged fit for any queen, be she the greatest in christendom; you need but speak a wish, and you shall have it fulfilled—”
“namely, thou shalt not put me off with red silk to my broidery when i would have blue.”
“you eat of the best, and lie of the softest, and speak with whom you would—”
“hold there!” the fire had come back to the sunken eyes. “i would speak with some that come never anigh me, mine own children, that have cast me off, or be kept away from me; they never so much as ask the old mother how she doth. and i slaved and wrought and risked my life for them, times out of mind! and here you keep me, shut up in four walls,—never a change from year end to year end; never a voice to say ‘mother!’ or ‘i love thee;’ never a hope to look forward to till death take me! no going forth of my cage; even the very air of heaven has to come in to me. and i may choose, may i, whether my bed shall be hung with green or blue? i may speak my pleasure if i would have to my four-hours macaroons or gingerbread? and be duly thankful that this liberty and these delicates are granted me! avena foljambe, all your folly lieth not in your legs.”
lady foljambe evidently did not appreciate this pun upon her surname.
“dame!” she said, severely.
“well? i can fare forth, if you have not had enough. what right hath your king thus to use me? i never was his vassal. i entreated his aid, truly, as prince to prince; and had he kept his bond and word, he had been the truer man. i never brake mine, and i had far more need than he. wherefore played he at see-saw, now aiding me, and now charles, until none of his knights well knew which way he was bent? i brought charles de blois to him a prisoner, and he let him go for a heap of yellow stuff, and fiddled with him, off and on, till charles brake his pledged word, and lost his life, as he deserved, at auray. i desire to know what right king edward had, when i came to visit him after i had captured mine enemy, to make me a prisoner, and keep me so, now and then suffering me, like a cat with a mouse, to escape just far enough to keep within his reach when he list to catch me again. but not now, for eight long years—eight long years!”
“dame, i cannot remain here to list such language of my sovereign.”
“then don’t. i never asked you. my tongue is free, at any rate. you can go.”
and the countess turned back to the black satin on which she was embroidering a wreath of red and white roses.
“follow me, amphillis,” said lady foljambe, with as much dignity as the countess’s onslaught had left her.
she led the way into the opposite chamber, the one shared by perrote and amphillis.
“it were best, as this hath happed, that you should know quickly who this lady is that wotteth not how to govern her tongue. she is the duchess of brittany. heard you ever her story?”
“something, dame, an’ it please you; yet not fully told. i heard, as i think, of some quarrel betwixt her and a cousin touching the succession to the duchy, and that our king had holpen her, and gave his daughter in wedlock to the young duke her son.”
“so did he, in very deed; and yet is she thus unbuxom. listen, and you shall hear the inwards thereof. in the year of our lord 1341 died duke john of brittany, that was called the good, and left no child. two brothers had he—sir guy, that was his brother both of father and mother, and sir john, of the father only, that was called count de montfort. sir guy was then dead, but had left behind him a daughter, the lady joan, that man called joan the halting, by reason she was lame of one leg. between her and her uncle of montfort was the war of succession—she as daughter of the brother by father and mother, he as nearer akin to duke john, being brother himself. (note 1.) our king took part with the count de montfort, and the king of france espoused the cause of the lady joan.”
lady foljambe did not think it necessary to add that king edward’s policy had been of the most halting character in this matter—at one time fighting for jeanne, and at another for montfort, until his nobles might well have been pardoned, if they found it difficult to remember at any given moment on which side their master was.
“well, the king of france took the count, and led him away captive to paris his city. whereupon this lady, that is now here in ward, what did she but took in her arms her young son, that was then a babe of some few months old, and into the council at rennes she went—which city is the chief town of brittany—and quoth she unto the nobles there assembled, ‘fair sirs, be not cast down by the loss of my lord; he was but one man. see here his young son, who shall ’present him for you; and trust me, we will keep the stranger out of our city as well without him as with him.’ truly, there was not a man to come up to her. she handled sword as well as any marshal of the king’s host; no assault could surprise her, no disappointment could crush her, nor could any man, however wily, take her off her guard. when she had gone forward to hennebon—for rennes surrendered ere help could come from our king—man said she rade all up and down the town, clad in armour, encouraging the townsmen, and moving the women to go up to the ramparts and thence to hurl down on the besiegers the stones that they tare up from the paved streets. never man fought like her!”
“if it please you, dame, was her lord never set free?” asked amphillis, considerably interested.
“ay and no,” said lady foljambe. “set free was he never, but he escaped out of louvre (note 2) in disguise of a pedlar, and so came to england to entreat the king’s aid; but his grace was then so busied with foreign warfare that little could he do, and the poor count laid it so to heart that he died. he did but return home to die in his wife’s arms.”
“oh, poor lady!” said amphillis.
“three years later,” said lady foljambe, “this lady took prisoner sir charles de blois, the husband of the lady joan, and brought him to the king; also bringing her young son, that was then a lad of six years, and was betrothed to the king’s daughter, the lady mary. the king ordered her residence in the castle of tickhill, where she dwelt many years, until a matter of two years back, when she was brought hither.”
amphillis felt this account exceedingly unsatisfactory.
“dame,” said she, “if i may have leave to ask at you, wherefore is this lady a prisoner? what hath she done?”
lady foljambe’s lips took a stern set. she was apparently not pleased with the freedom of the question.
“she was a very troublesome person,” said she. “nothing could stay her; she was ever restless and interfering. but these be matters too high for a young maid such as thou. thou wert best keep to thy broidery and such-like duties.”
harvest home—the sixteenth of august—arrived when amphillis had been a week at hazelwood. she had not by any means concluded that process which is known as “settling down.” on the contrary, she had never felt so unsettled, and the feeling grew rather than diminished. even alexandra and ricarda had tried her less than her present companions, in one sense; for they puzzled her less, though they teased her more. she was beginning to understand her mistress, whose mood was usually one of weary lack of interest and energy, occasionally broken either by seasons of acute sorrow, or by sudden flashes of fiery anger: and the last were less trying than the first—indeed, it seemed sometimes to amphillis that they served as a vent and a relief; that for a time after them the weariness was a shade less dreary, and the languor scarcely quite so overpowering.
late in the evening, on the night before harvest home, sir godfrey returned home, attended by his squire, master norman hylton. the impression received by amphillis concerning the master of the house was that he was a fitting pendant to his wife—tall, square, and stern. she did not know that sir godfrey had been rather wild in his youth, and, as some such men do, had become correspondingly severe and precise in his old age. not that his heart had changed; it was simply that the sins of youth had been driven out by the sins of maturer life. and satan is always willing to let his slaves replace one sin by another, for it makes them none the less surely his. sir godfrey suffered under no sense of inconsistency in sternly rebuking, when exhibited by agatha or matthew, slight tendencies to evil of the same types as he had once been addicted to himself. had he not sown his wild oats, and become a reformed character? the outside of the cup and platter were now so beautifully clean, that it never so much as occurred to him to question the condition of the inside. yet within were some very foul things—alienation from god, and hardness of heart, and love of gold, that grew upon him year by year. and he thought himself a most excellent man, though he was only a whitewashed sepulchre. he lifted his head high, as he stood in the court of the temple, and effusively thanked god that he was not as other men. an excellent man! said everybody who knew him—perhaps a little too particular, and rather severe on the peccadilloes of young people. but when the time came that another voice pronounced final sentence on that whitewashed life, the verdict was scarcely “well done!”
norman hylton sat opposite to amphillis at the supper-table, in the only manner in which people could sit opposite to each other at a mediaeval table—namely, when it was in the form of a squared horseshoe. the table, which was always one or more boards laid across trestles, was very narrow, the inside of the horseshoe being reserved for the servants to hand the dishes. there were therefore some yards of distance between opposite neighbours. amphillis studied her neighbour, so far as an occasional glance in his direction allowed her to do so, and she came to the conclusion that there was nothing remarkable about him except the expression of his face. he was neither tall nor short, neither handsome nor ugly, neither lively nor morose. he talked a little with his next neighbour, matthew foljambe, but there was nothing in the manner of either to provoke curiosity as to the subject of their conversation. but his expression puzzled amphillis. he had dark eyes—like the countess’s, she thought; but the weary and sometimes fiery aspect of hers was replaced in these by a look of perfect contentment and peace. yet it was utterly different from the self-satisfied expression which beamed out of sir godfrey’s eyes.
“what manner of man is master hylton?” she asked of agatha, who always sat next her. precedence at table was regulated by strict rules.
“the youngest of six brethren; prithee, trouble not thine head over him,” was that young lady’s answer.
“but that doth me not to wit what manner of man he is,” responded amphillis, turning to the sewer or waiter, who was offering her some rissoles of lamb.
agatha indulged in a little explosion of laughter under cover of her handkerchief.
“oh, amphillis, where hast thou dwelt all thy life? thou art the full seliest (simplest, most unconventional) maid ever i did see.”
amphillis replied literally. “why, in hertfordshire was i born, but i dwelt in london town a while ere i came hither.”
“a jolly townswoman must thou have made! canst not conceive what i mean? why, the youngest of six brethren hath all his fortune to make, and cannot be no catch at all for a maid, without he be full high of rank, and she have gold enough to serve her turn without.”
“but i don’t want to catch him,” said amphillis, innocently.
agatha burst out laughing, and lady foljambe, from the middle of the horseshoe table, looked daggers at her. unrestrained laughter at table, especially in a girl, was a serious breach of etiquette.
“i say, you shouldn’t be so funny!” remonstrated agatha. “how shall man help to laugh if you say so comical words?”
“i wist not i was thus comical,” said amphillis. “but truly i conceive you not. wherefore should i catch master hylton, and wherewith, and to what end?”
“amphillis, you shall be the death of me! my lady shall snap off my head at after supper, and the maid is not born that could help to laugh at you. to what end? why, for an husband, child! as to wherewith, that i leave to thee.” and agatha concluded with another stifled giggle.
“agatha!” was all that the indignant amphillis could say in answer. she could hardly have told whether she felt more vexed or astonished. the bare idea of such a thing, evidently quite familiar to agatha, was utterly new to her. “you never, surely, signify that any decent maid could set herself to seek a man for an husband, like an angler with fish?”
“they must be uncommon queer folks in hertfordshire if thou art a sample thereof,” was the reply. “why, for sure, i so signified. thou must have been bred up in a convent, phyllis, or else tied to thy grandmother’s apron-string all thy life. shall a maid ne’er have a bit of fun, quotha?”
amphillis made no answer, but finished her rissoles in silence, and helped herself to a small pound-cake.
“verily, some folks be born as old as their grandmothers,” said agatha, accepting a fieldfare from the sewer, and squeezing a lemon over it. “i would fain enjoy my youth, though i’m little like to do it whilst here i am. howbeit, it were sheer waste of stuff for any maid to set her heart on master norman; he wist not how to discourse with maids. he should have been a monk, in very sooth, for he is fit for nought no better. there isn’t a sparkle about him.”
“he looks satisfied,” said amphillis, rather wistfully. she was wishing that she felt so.
agatha’s answer was a puzzled stare, first at amphillis, and then at mr hylton.
“‘satisfied!’” she repeated, as if she wondered what the word could mean. “aren’t we all satisfied?”
“maybe you are,” replied amphillis, “though i reckon i have heard you say what looked otherwise. you would fain have more life and jollity, if i err not.”
“truly, therein you err not in no wise,” answered agatha, laughing again, though in a more subdued manner than before. “i never loved to dwell in a nunnery, and this house is little better. ‘satisfied!’” she said again, as though the word perplexed her. “i never thought of no such a thing. doth master norman look satisfied? what hath satisfied him, trow?”
“that is it i would fain know,” said amphillis.
“in good sooth, i see not how it may be,” resumed agatha. “he has never a penny to his patrimony. i heard him to say once to master godfrey that all he had of his father was horse, and arms, and raiment. nor hath he any childless old uncle, or such, that might take to him, and make his fortune. he lives of his wits, belike. now, i am an only daughter, and have never a brother to come betwixt me and the inheritance; i shall have a pretty penny when my father dies. so i have some right to be jolly. ay, and jolly i’ll be when i am mine own mistress, i warrant you! i’ve no mother, so there is none to oversee me, and rule me, and pluck me by the sleeve when i would go hither and thither, so soon as i can be quit of my lady yonder. oh, there’s a jolly life afore me.”
it was amphillis’s turn to be astonished.
“dear heart!” she said. “why, i have no kindred nearer than uncle and cousins, but i have ever reckoned it a sore trouble to lose my mother, and no blessing.”
“very like it was to you!” said agatha. “you’d make no bones if you were ruled like an antiphonarium (music-book for anthems and chants), i’ll be bound, i’m none so fond of being driven in harness. i love my own way, and i’ll have it, too, one of these days.”
“but then you have none to love you! that is one of the worst sorrows in the world, i take it.”
“love! bless you, i shall have lovers enough! i’ve three hundred a year to my fortune.”
three hundred pounds in 1372 was equal to nearly five thousand now.
“but what good should it do you that people wanted your money?” asked amphillis. “that isn’t loving you.”
“amphillis, i do believe you were born a hundred years old! or else in some other world, where their notions are quite diverse from this,” said agatha, taking a candied orange from the sewer. “i never heard such things as you say.”
“but lovers who only want your money seem to me very unsatisfying folks,” replied amphillis. “will they smooth your pillows when you are sick? or comfort you when your heart is woeful?”
“i don’t mean my heart to be woeful, and as to pillows, there be thousands will smooth them for wages.”
“they are smoother when ’tis done for love,” was the answer.
agatha devoted herself to her orange, and in a few minutes lady foljambe gave the signal to rise from table. the young ladies followed her to her private sitting-room, where agatha received a stern reprimand for the crime of laughing too loud, and was told she was no better than a silly giglot, who would probably bring herself some day to dire disgrace. lady foljambe then motioned her to the spindle, and desired her not to leave it till the bell rang for evening prayers in the chapel, just before bed-time. agatha pulled a face behind lady foljambe’s back, but she did not dare to disobey.
