“where we disavow
being keeper to our brother, we’re his cain.”
elizabeth barrett browning.
“hylton, thou art weary gear!”
“what ails me?”
“what ails thee, forsooth? marry, but that’s as good a jest as i heard this year! i lack thee to tell me that. for what ails me at thee, that were other matter, and i can give thee to wit, an’ thou wilt. thou art as heavy as lead, and as dull as ditch-water, and as flat as dowled (flat) ale. i would i were but mine own master, and i’d mount my horse, and ride away from the whole sort of you!”
“from your father and mother, matthew?”
“certes. where’s the good of fathers and mothers, save to crimp and cramp young folks that would fain stretch their wings and be off into the sunlight? mine never do nought else.”
“think you not the fathers and mothers might reasonably ask, where’s the good of sons and daughters? how much have you cost yours, matthew, since you were born?”
matthew foljambe turned round with a light laugh, and gazed half contemptuously at the speaker.
“gentlemen never reckon,” said he. “’tis a mean business, only fit for tradesfolk.”
“you might reckon that sum, matthew, without damage to your gentle blood. the king himself reckoneth up the troops he shall lack, and the convention-subsidy due from each man to furnish them. you shall scantly go above him, i count.”
“i would i were but a king! wouldn’t i lead a brave life!”
“that would not i be for all the riches in christendom.”
“the which speech showeth thine unwisdom. why, a king can have his purveyor to pick of the finest in the market ere any other be serven; he can lay tax on his people whenas it shall please him (this was true at that time); he can have a whole pig or goose to his table every morrow; and as for the gifts that be brought him, they be without number. marry, but if i were a king, wouldn’t i have a long gown of blue velvet, all o’er broidered of seed-pearl, and a cap of cramoisie (crimson velvet), with golden broidery! and a summer jack (the garment of which jacket is the diminutive) of samitelle would i have—let me see—green, i reckon, bound with gold ribbon; and fair winter hoods of miniver and ermine, and buttons of gold by the score. who so bravely apparelled as i, trow?”
“be your garments not warm enough, matthew?”
“warm enough? certes! but they be only camoca and lamb’s far, with never a silver button, let be gold.”
“what advantage should gold buttons be to you? those pearl do attach your gown full evenly as well.”
“hylton, thou hast no ambitiousness in thee! seest not that folks should pay me a deal more respect, thus donned (dressed) in my bravery?”
“that is, they should pay much respect to the blue velvet and the gold buttons? you should be no different that i can see.”
“i should be a vast sight comelier, man alive!”
“you!” returned hylton.
“where’s the good of talking to thee? as well essay to learn a sparrow to sing, ‘j’ay tout perdu mon temps.’”
“i think you should have lost your time in very deed, and your labour belike, if you spent them on broidering gowns and stitching on buttons, when you had enow aforetime.”
“thou sely loon! (simple creature!) dost reckon i mean to work mine own broidery, trow? i’d have a fair score of maidens alway a-broidering for me, so that i might ever have a fresh device when i lacked a new gown.”
“the which should come in a year to—how much?”
“dost look for me to know?”
“i do, when i have told you. above an hundred and twenty pound, master matthew. that should your bravery cost you, in broidering-maids alone.”
“well! what matter, so i had it?”
“it might serve you. i should desire to buy more happiness with such a sum than could be stitched into golden broidery and seed-pearl.”
“now come, norman, let us hear thy notion of happiness. if thou hadst in thine hand an hundred pound, what should’st do withal?”
“i would see if i could not dry up as many widows’ tears as i had golden pieces, and bring as many smiles to the lips of orphans as they should divide into silver.”
“prithee, what good should that do thee?”
“it should keep mine heart warm in the chillest winter thereafter. but i thought rather of the good it should do them than me.”
“but what be such like folks to thee?”
“our lord died for them, and he is something to me.”
“fate meant thee for a monk, hylton. thou rannest thine head against the wall to become a squire.”
“be monks the sole men that love god?”
“they be the sole men that hold such talk.”
“i have known monks that held full different talk, i do ensure you. and i have known laymen that loved god as well as any monk that ever paced cloister.”
“gramercy! do leave preaching of sermons. i have enow of them from my lady my mother. let’s be jolly, if we can.”
“you should have the better right to be jolly, to know whither you were going, and that you should surely come out safe at the far end.”
“happy man be my dole! i’m no wise feared. i’ll give an hundred pound to the church the week afore i die, and that shall buy me a soft-cushioned seat in heaven, i’ll warrant.”
“who told you so much? any that had been there?”
“man alive! wilt hold thy peace, and let man be? thou art turned now into a predicant friar. i’ll leave thee here to preach to the gilly-flowers.”
and matthew walked off, with a sprig of mint in his mouth. he was not a bad man, as men go. he was simply a man who wanted to please himself, and to be comfortable and easy. in his eyes the whole fabric of the universe revolved round matthew foljambe. he did not show it as the royal savage did, who beat a primitive gong in token that, as he had sat down to dinner, the rest of the world might lawfully satisfy their hunger; but the sentiment in matthew’s mind was a civilised and refined form of the same idea. if he were comfortable, what did it signify if everybody else were uncomfortable?
like all men in his day—and a good many in our own—matthew had a low opinion of woman. it had been instilled into him, as it was at that time into every man who wrote himself “esquire,” that the utmost chivalrous reverence was due to the ladies as an abstract idea; but this abstract idea was quite compatible with the rudest behaviour and the supremest contempt for any given woman in the concrete. woman was an article of which there were two qualities: the first-class thing was a toy, the second was a machine. both were for the use of man—which was true enough, had they only realised that it meant for man’s real help and improvement, bodily, mental, and spiritual; but they understood it to mean for the bodily comfort and mental amusement of the nobler half of the human race. the natural result of this was that every woman must be appropriated to some master. the bare notion of allowing a woman to choose whether she would go through life unattached to a master, or, if otherwise, to reject one she feared or disliked, would have seemed to matthew the most preposterous audacity on the part of the inferior creature, as it would also have appeared if the inferior creature had shown discontent with the lot marked out for it. the inferior creature, on the whole, walked very meekly in the path thus swept for it. this was partly, no doubt, because it was so taught as a religious duty; but partly, also, because the style of education then given to women left no room for the mental wings to expand. the bird was supplied with good seed and fresh water, and the idea of its wanting anything else was regarded as absurd. let it sit on the perch and sing in a properly subdued tone. that it was graciously allowed to sing was enough for any reasonable bird, and ought to call forth on its part overflowing gratitude.
even then, a few of the caged birds were not content to sit meekly on the perch, but they were eyed askance by the properly behaved ones, and held up to the unfledged nestlings as sorrowful examples of the pernicious habit of thinking for one’s self. never was bird less satisfied to be shut up in a cage than the hapless prisoner in that manor house, whom the peasants of the neighbourhood knew as the white lady. now and then they caught a glimpse of her at the window of her chamber, which she insisted on having open, and at which she would stand sometimes by the hour together, looking sorrowfully out on the blue sky and the green fields, wherein she might wander no more. a wild bird was marguerite of flanders, in whose veins ran the blood of those untamed sea-eagles, the vikings of denmark; and though bars and wires might keep her in the cage, to make her content with it was beyond their power.
so thought norman hylton, looking up at the white figure visible behind the bars which crossed the casement of the captive’s chamber. he knew little of her beyond her name.
“saying thy prayers to the moon, hylton? or to the white lady?” asked a voice behind him.
“neither, godfrey. i was marvelling wherefore she is mewed up there. dost know?”
“i know she was a full wearisome woman to my lord duke her son, and that he is a jollier man by the acre since she here dwelt.”
“was she his own mother?” asked norman.
“his own?—ay, for sure; and did him a good turn at the beginning, by preserving his kingdom for him when he was but a lad.”
“and could he find no better reward for her than this?”
“tut! she sharped (teased, irritated) him, man. he could not have his will for her.”
“could he ne’er have put up with a little less of it? or was his will so much dearer to him than his mother?”
“dost reckon he longed sore to be ridden of an old woman, and made to trot to market at her pleasure, when his own was to take every gate and hurdle in his way? thou art old woman thyself, an’ thou so dost. my lord duke is no jog-trot market-ass, i can tell thee, but as fiery a war-charger as man may see in a summer’s day. and dost think a war-charger should be well a-paid to have an old woman of his back?”
“my lady his mother, then, hath no fire in her?” said norman, glancing up at her where she stood behind the bars in her white weeds, looking down on the two young men in the garden.
“marry, enough to burn a city down. she did burn the king of france’s camp afore hennebon. and whenas she was prisoner in tickhill castle, a certain knight, whose name i know not, (the name of this knight is apparently not on record), covenanted secretly with her by means of some bribe, or such like, given to her keepers, that he would deliver her from durance; and one night scaled he the walls, and she herself gat down from her window, and clambered like a cat by means of the water-spout and slight footholds in the stonework, till she came to the bottom, and then over the walls and away. they were taken, as thou mayest lightly guess, yet they gat them nigh clear of the liberties ere they could again be captivated. fire! ay, that hath she, and ever will. forsooth, that is the cause wherefore she harried her son. if she would have sat still at her spinning, he’d have left her be. but, look thou, she could not leave him be.”
“wherein did she seek to let him, wot you?”
“good lack! not i. if thou art so troubled thereanent, thou wert best ask my father. maybe he wist not. i cannot say.”
“it must have been sore disheartenment,” said norman, pityingly, “to win nearly away, and then be brought back.”
“ay, marry; and then was she had up to london afore the king’s grace, and had into straiter prison than aforetime. ere that matter was she treated rather as guest of the king and queen, though in good sooth she was prisoner; but after was she left no doubt touching that question. some thought she might have been released eight years agone, when the convention was with the lady joan of brittany, which after her lord was killed at auray, gave up all, receiving the county of penthièvre, the city of limoges, and a great sum of money; and so far as england reckoned, so she might, and maybe would, had it been to my lord duke’s convenience. but he had found her aforetime very troublesome to him. why, when he was but a youth, he fell o’ love with some fair damsel of his mother’s following, and should have wedded her, had not my lady duchess, so soon as ever she knew it, packed her off to a nunnery.”
“wherefore?”
“that wis i not, without it were that she was not for him.” (unsuitable.)
“was the tale true, think you?”
“that wis i not likewise. man said so much—behold all i know. any way, she harried him, and he loved it not, and here she is. that’s enough for me.”
“poor lady!”
“poor? what for poor? she has all she can want. she is fed and clad as well as ever she was—better, i dare guess, than when she was besieged in hennebon. if she would have broidery silks, or flowers, or any sort of women’s toys, she hath but to say, and my lady my mother shall ride to derby for them. the king gave order she should be well used, and well used she is. he desireth not that she be punished, but only kept sure.”
“i would guess that mere keeping in durance, with nought more to vex her, were sorest suffering to one of her fashioning.”
“but what more can she lack? beside, she is only a woman.”
“women mostly live in and for their children, and your story sounds as though hers cared little enough for her.”
“well! they know she is well treated; why should they harry them over her? they be young, and would lead a jolly life, not to be tied for ever to her apron-string.”
“i would not use my mother thus.”
“what wouldst? lead her horse with thy bonnet doffed, and make a leg afore her whenever she spake unto thee?”
“if it made her happy so to do, i would. meseemeth i should be as well employed in leading her horse as another, and could show my chivalry as well towards mine old mother as any other lady. i were somewhat more beholden to her of the twain, and god bade me not honour any other, but he did her.”
“ha, chétife! ’tis easier work honouring a fair damsel, with golden hair and rose-leaf cheek, than a toothless old harridan that is for ever plaguing thee.”
“belike the lord knew that, and writ therefore his fifth command.”
godfrey did not answer, for his attention was diverted. two well-laden mules stood at the gate, and two men were coming up to the manor house, carrying a large pack—a somewhat exciting vision to country people in the middle ages. there were then no such things as village shops, and only in the largest and most important towns was any great stock kept by tradesmen. the chief trading in country places was done by these itinerant pedlars, whose visits were therefore a source of great interest to the family, and especially to the ladies. they served frequently as messengers and carriers in a small way, and were particularly valuable between the four seasons, when alone anything worth notice could be expected in the shops—easter, whitsuntide, all saints, and christmas. there were also the spring and autumn fairs, but these were small matters except in the great towns. as it was now the beginning of september, godfrey knew that a travelling pedlar would be a most acceptable visitor to his mother and wife.
the porter, instructed by his young master, let in the pedlars.
“what have ye?” demanded godfrey.
“i have mercery, sweet sir, and he hath jewelling,” answered the taller of the pedlars, a middle-aged man with a bronzed face, which told of much outdoor exposure.
“why, well said! come ye both into hall, and when ye have eaten and drunk, then shall ye open your packs.”
godfrey led the pedlars into the hall, and shouted for the sewer, whom he bade to set a table, and serve the wearied men with food.
an hour later, amphillis, who was sewing in her mistress’s chamber, rose at the entrance of lady foljambe.
“here, dame, be pedlars bearing mercery and jewelling,” said she. “would your grace anything that i can pick forth to your content?”
“ay, i lack a few matters, avena,” said the countess, in her usual bitter-sweet style. “a two-three yards of freedom, an’ it like thee; and a boxful of air, so he have it fresh; and if thou see a silver chain of daughter’s duty, or a bit of son’s love set in gold, i could serve me of those if i had them. they’ll not come over sea, methinketh.”
“would it like your grace,” asked lady foljambe, rather stiffly, “to speak in plain language, and say what you would have?”
“‘plain language!’” repeated the countess. “in very deed, but i reckoned i had given thee some of that afore now! i would have my liberty, avena foljambe; and i would have my rights; and i would have of mine own childre such honour as ’longeth to a mother by reason and god’s law. is that plain enough? or wouldst have it rougher hewn?”
“dame, your grace wist well that such matter as this cometh not of pedlars’ packs.”
“ay!” said the countess, with a long, weary sigh. “i do, so! nor out of men’s hearts, belike. well, avena, to come down to such petty matter as i count i shall be suffered to have, prithee, bring me some violet silk of this shade for broidery, and another yard or twain of red samitelle for the backing. it were not in thy writ of matters allowable, i reckon, that the pedlars should come up and open their packs in my sight?”
lady foljambe looked scandalised.
“dear heart! dame, what means your grace?”
“i know,” said the countess. “they have eyes, no less than i; and they shall see an old woman in white doole, and fall to marvelling, and maybe talking, wherefore their lord king edward keepeth her mewed up with bars across her casement. his grace’s honour must be respected, trow. be it done. ’tis only one penny the more to the account that the lord of the helpless shall demand of him one day. i trust he hath in his coffers wherewith to pay that debt. verily, there shall be some strange meetings in that further world. i marvel something what manner of tale mine old friend de mauny carried thither this last january, when he went on the long journey that hath no return. howbeit, seeing he wedded his master’s cousin, maybe it were not to his conveniency to remind the lord of the old woman behind the bars at hazelwood. it should scantly redound to his lord’s credit. and at times it seemeth me that the lord lacketh reminding, for he appears to have forgot me.”
“i cannot listen, dame, to such speech of my sovereign.”
“do thy duty, avena. after all, thy sovereign’s not bad man, as men go. marvellous ill they go, some of them! he hath held his sceptre well even betwixt justice and mercy on the whole, saving in two matters, whereof this old woman is one, and old women be of small account with most men. he should have fared well had he wist his own mind a bit better—but that’s in the blood. old king harry, his father’s grandfather, i have heard say, was a weary set-out for that. go thy ways, avena, and stand not staring at me. i’m neither a lovesome young damsel nor a hobgoblin, that thou shouldst set eyes on me thus. three ells of red samitelle, and two ounces of violet silk this hue—and a bit of gold twist shall harm no man. amphillis, my maid, thou art not glued to the chamber floor like thy mistress; go thou and take thy pleasure to see the pedlars’ packs. thou hast not much here, poor child!”
amphillis thankfully accepted her mistress’s considerate permission, and ran down to the hall. she found the mercer’s pack open, and the rich stuffs hung all about on the forms, which had been pulled forward for that purpose. the jeweller meanwhile sat in a corner, resting until he was wanted. time was not of much value in the middle ages.
