She looked at him in silence. Ademar pointed out of the window to two little children who were dancing merrily on the sh.o.r.e, and laughing till they could scarcely dance.

"How would you comfort them, Madam?"

"They need it not," she murmured, absently.

"In verity," said Ademar; "neither wasteth our Lord His comfort on them that dance, nor His pitifulness on them that be at ease. And I have seen ere now, Madam, that while He holdeth wide the door of His fold for all His sheep to enter in, yet there be some that will not come in till they be driven. Yea, and some lack a sharp rap of the shepherd's rod ere they will quit the wayside herbage."

"And you think she feedeth thereby?"

"I think that an' she be of the sheep, she must be fetched within; and maybe not one nor two strokes shall be spent in so doing."

"Amen, even if so! But this rap hath fallen on the tenderest side."

"The Shepherd knoweth the tender side, Madam; and lo' you, that so doing, He witteth not only where to smite with the rod, but where to lay the plaister."

"And you, Sir Ademar--lack you no plaister?"

"Madam, I have but received a gift. 'For it is _ghouun_ [given] to you for Christ, that not oonli ghe [ye] bileuen in him, but also that ghe suffren for him.'"

"Can you so take it, it is well." And the old lady turned aside with a sigh.

"Ay," said the Lollard priest, "it was well with the Shunammite gentlewoman. And after all, it is but a little while ere our Lord is coming. 'Tis light gear to watch for the full day, when you see the sun gilding the crests of the mountains."

"Yet when you see _not_ the sun--?"

"Then, Lady, you long the more for his coming."

There was no slight stir that morning on Berkhamsted Green. The whole Court was gathered there, fringed on its outskirts by a respectful and admiring crowd of sight-seers. Under a spreading tree sat the King, on a fine black charger, a hooded hawk borne upon his wrist. Close beside him was a little white palfrey, bearing a lady, and on her wrist also was a hooded hawk. They were apparently waiting for somebody. In front, the Prince of Wales, being of an active turn of mind, was amusing himself by making his horse prance and curvet all about the green, and levelling invisible lances at imperceptible foes--to the intense interest of the outside crowd.

"Late, late, my Lord of Kent!" he cried lightly, as a bay charger shot past him, its rider doffing his plumed cap.

Kent merely bowed again in answer, and rode rapidly up to the King.

"Better late than never, fair Cousin!" was Henry's greeting. "We will forth at once. Will you ride by our fair guest?--The Lady Lucy of Milan!"

The lady who sat on the white palfrey turned her face towards the Earl of Kent, and, slightly blushing and smiling, spoke a few words of courteous French, indicating her acceptance of his society for the day.

She was the most beautiful woman whom Kent had ever seen. Her figure was very slight, and her carriage easy and graceful; her age was about twenty. Glossy, luxuriant hair, of the deepest black, shaded a delicate face, in shape midway between round and oval, the features of which, though very regular, could not strictly be termed either Roman or Grecian, for the nose was too straight for the former, while the forehead was too prominent and too fully developed for the latter. Her eyes were usually cast down, so that they were rarely seen; but when she raised them, they showed themselves large, l.u.s.trous, and clear, of a rich, deep, gleaming brown. Her complexion was formed neither of lilies nor roses; it was that pure, perfect cream-colour, which one William Shakspere knew was beautiful, though some of his commentators have rashly differed from him. Add to this description a low, musical voice, strangely clear for her nationality, and a smile of singular fascination,--and it will not seem strange that Kent fell into the snare laid for him, and had no eyes thenceforward but for Lucia Visconti.

The King kept all day near his decoy and his victim. He never interfered with their conversation, but when it languished he was always at hand to supply some fresh topic. They spoke French, which was understood and employed fluently by all three; but Kent knew no Italian, and Lucia no English. The King spoke Lucia's language well--a fact which greatly a.s.sisted an occasional "aside." But Lucia was only half aware of the state of affairs, and it would not have suited Henry's purpose to inform her too fully. She knew that she was expected to make herself agreeable to the Earl of Kent, and that he was a cousin and favourite of the King--so far as a man of Henry's stamp can be said to have had any favourites. But of the plot for which she was made the innocent decoy, she had not the faintest idea.

The shades of evening began to fall at last, and the royal bugle-horn was sounded to call the stragglers home.

Kent and Lucia were riding together. They had reached a fork in the road, where the right-hand path branched off to Berkhamsted, and the left to Langley. And all at once there arose before Kent's soul a haunting memory--a memory which was to haunt him for many a day thereafter; and between his eyes and the fair face of the Italian Princess came another face, shaded with soft light hair, and lighted by sapphire eyes, which, he thought, were probably watching even now from the oriel window at Langley. He checked his horse, and wavered irresolutely for an instant.

He did not know that Constance was no longer at Langley. He did not know that at the very moment when he paused at the cross-roads, she was pa.s.sing the threshold of the Tower as a prisoner of state. For that one moment Kent's better angel strove with his weak nature. But the phase of "_beaucoup_" was over, and "_point du tout_" was beginning.

Lucia saw the momentary irresolution. She touched her palfrey lightly with the whip, and turned her splendid eyes on her votary.

"This way, Monseigneur--come!" The struggle was over. Kent spurred on his charger, and followed his enchantress.

There was another scene enacting at the same time, and not far away.

The Duke of York and Lord Richard of Conisborough were riding home to Langley. The brothers were very silent; Richard because he was sad and anxious, Edward because he was vexed and sullen. They had just heard of their sister's arrest.

The portcullis at Langley was visible, when Edward smote his hand on the pommel of his saddle--a much more elaborate structure than gentlemen's saddles now--with a few words of proverbial Spanish.

"Patience, and shuffle the cards! I may yet go to Rome, and come back Saint Peter."

Richard lifted his mournful eyes to his brother's face.

"Ned!" he said in a low voice, "it were better to abide a forest hind, methinks, than to come back Jude the Iscariot."

"What meanest, d.i.c.kon?"

"Take no heed what I meant, so it come not true."

"So what come not true?" Edward's voice, at any rate, expressed surprise and perplexity.

"If thou wist not, Ned, I am thereof, fain."

"Save thee All Hallows, d.i.c.kon! I can no more arede thy speech than the man in the moon."

"So better, brother mine."

They rode on for a little while without further words. Just before they came within earshot of the porters, Richard added quietly--

"I marvel at times, Ned, if it shall not seem strange one day that we ever set heart overmuch on anything, save only to have 'washen our stolis in the blood of the Lamb, that the power of us be in the tree of life, and enter by the gates into the city.'"

"When art thou shorn priest?" asked Edward cynically.

"I will do thee to wit in time to see it," said Richard more lightly, as they rode across the drawbridge at Langley.

How far did Edward play the traitor in this matter of the attempted rescue of the Mortimers? It cannot be said distinctly that he did at all; but he had played the traitor on so many previous occasions--he had a.s.sisted in hatching so many conspiracies for the mere object of denouncing his a.s.sociates--that the suspicion of his having done so in this instance is difficult to avoid. And the strangest point of all is, that to the last hour of his life this man played with Lollardism. He used it like a cloak, throwing it on or off as circ.u.mstances demanded.

He spent his life in deceiving and betraying every friend in turn, and at last told the truth in dying, when he styled himself "of all sinners the most wicked."

Three days after that evening, the House of Lords sat in "Parliament robes," in Westminster Hall. But the King was not present: and there were several peers absent, in attendance on His Majesty; among them the Duke of York, the Earl of Cambridge, and the Earl of Kent. The House had met to try a prisoner: and the prisoner was solemnly summoned by a herald's voice to the bar.

"Custance of Langley, Baroness of Cardiff!"

Forward she came, with firm step and erect head, clad in velvet and ermine, as beseemed a Princess of England: and with a most princess-like bend of her stately head, she awaited the reading of the charge against her.

The charge was high treason. The prisoner's answer was a simple point-blank denial of its truth.

"What mean you?" demanded the Lords. "No did you, by means of false keys, gain entrance into the privy chambers of our Lord the King in the Castle of Windsor?"

"I did so."