She rose, for the child was beginning to cry, and walked to the window to try and engage its attention.

"A Gospeller, by my troth!" whispered Isabel, with a shrug of her shoulders.

"Maude was alway given unto Romaunts and the like fooling!" responded Avice as scornfully as before.

Note 1. An officer of the Bishop's Court, whose business was to carry to their destination written absolutions and indulgences.

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

THE ROUGH NIGHT WIND.

"Whan c.o.c.kle-sh.e.l.ls ha'e siller bells, And mussels grow on every tree-- Whan frost and snaw shall warm us a'-- Then shall my luve prove true to me!"

_Old Ballad_.

It was the evening of the third day succeeding Isabel's visit, and while she and Avice were seated in the banquet-hall with the Governor and his family, the scene lit up by blazing pine torches, a single earthen lamp threw a dull and unsteady light over the silent bedchamber of the royal prisoner. The little Alianora was asleep in her cradle, and on the bed lay her mother, not asleep, but as still and silent as though she were.

Near the cradle, on a settle, sat Maude Lyngern, trying with rather doubtful success to read by the flickering light.

Custance had not quitted her bed during all that time. She never spoke but to express a want or reply to a question. When Maude brought her food, she submitted to be fed like an infant. Of what thoughts were pa.s.sing in her mind, she gave no indication.

At last Maude came to the conclusion that the spell of silence ought to be broken. The pa.s.sionate utterances which Isabel's news had evoked at first were better than this dead level of silent suffering. But she determined to break it by no arguments or consolations of her own, but by the inspired words of G.o.d. She felt doubtful what to select; so she chose a pa.s.sage which, half knowing it by heart, would be the easier to make out in the uncertain light.

"'And oon of the Farisees preiede [prayed] Jhesus that he schulde ete with him; and he entride into the hous of the Farisee, and sat at the mete. And lo, a synful woman that was in the cytee, as sche knewe that Jhesus sat at the mete in the hous of the Farisee, she broughte an alabastre box of oynement, and sche stood bihynde bisidis hise feet, and bigan to moiste hise feet with teeris, and wypide with the heeris of hir heed, and kiste hise feet, and anoyntide with oynement. And the Farisee seyng [seeing] that had clepide him seide within himsilf, seiyinge, if this were a profete, he schulde wete who and what maner womman it were that touchide him, for sche is a synful womman. And Jhesus answerde and seide to him, Symount, I han sum thing to seye to thee. And he seide, Maistir, seye thou. And he answerde, Tweye dettouris weren to oo lener [one lender]; and oon oughte fyve hundrid pens [pence] and the tother fifty. But whanne thei hadden not wherof thei schulen yelde, [yield, pay] he forgaf to bothe. Who thanne loueth him more? Symount answerde and seide, I gesse that he to whom he forgaf more. And he answeride to him, Thou hast demed [doomed, judged] rightly. And he turnide to the womman, and seyde to Symount, Seest thou this womman? I entride into thin hous, thou gaf no watir to my feet; but this hath moistid my feet with teeris, and wipide with her heeris. Thou hast not gouen to me a cosse [kiss]; but this, sithen sche entride, ceeside not to kisse my feet. Thou anointidst not myn heed with oyle; but this anointide my feet with oynement. For the which thing I seye to thee, manye synnes ben forgiuen to hir, for sche hath loued myche; and to whom is lesse forgyuen to hir, he loueth lesse. And Jhesus seyde to hir, Thi synnes ben forgiuen to thee. And thei that saten togider at the mete bigunnen to seye withinne hemsilf, [themselves], Who is this that forgyveth synnes? But he seide to the womman, Thei feith hath maad thee saaf; go thou in pees.'"

Maude added no words of her own. She closed the book, and relapsed into silence. But Custance's solemn stillness was broken at last.

"'He seide to the womman!'--Wherefore no, having so spoken to the Pharisee, have left?" [concluded].

"Nay, dear my Lady," answered Maude, "it were not enough. So dear loveth our good and gentle Lord, that He will not have so much as one of His children to feel any the least unsurety touching His mercy.

Wherefore He were not aseeth [contented] to say it only unto the Pharisee; but on her face, bowed down as she knelt behind Him, He looked, and bade her to be of good cheer, for that she was forgiven. O Lady mine! 'tis great and blessed matter when a man hath G.o.d to his friend!"

"Thy words sound well," said the low voice from the bed. "Very well, like the sound of sweet waters far away."

"Far away, dear my Lady?"

"Ay, far away, Maude,--without [outside] my life and me."

"Sweet Lady, if ye will but lift the portcullis, our Lord is ready and willing to come within. And whereinsoever He entereth, He bringeth withal rest and peace."

"Rest! Peace!--Ay so. I guess there be such like gear some whither-- for some folks."

"They dwell whereso Christ dwelleth, Lady mine."

"In Paradise, then! I told thee it were far hence."

"Is Paradise far hence, Lady? I once heard say Father Ademar that it were not over three hours' journey at the most; for the thief on the cross went there in one day, and it were high noon ere he set out."

Maude stopped sooner than she intended, suddenly checked by a moan of pain from Custance. The mere mention of Ademar's name seemed to evoke her overwhelming distress, as if it brought back the memory of all the miserable events over which she had been brooding for three days past.

She rocked herself from side to side, as though her suffering were almost unendurable.

"If he could come back! O Maude, Maude!--if only he could come back!"

"Sweet Lady, an' he were hither, methinks Father Ademar--"

"No, no--not Father Ademar. Oh, if I could rend the grave open!--if I could tear asunder the blue veil of Heaven! I set no store by it all then; but now! He would forgive me: he would not scorn me! He would not count me too vile for his mercy. O my Lord, mine own dear Lord! you would never have served me thus!"

And down rained the blessed tears, and relieved the dry, parched soil of the agonised heart. She lay quieter after that torrent of pain and pa.s.sion. The terrible spell of dark silence was broken; and Maude knew at last, that through this bitterest trial she had ever yet experienced, the wandering heart was coming home--at least to Le Despenser.

Was it needful that she should pa.s.s through yet deeper waters, before she would come home to G.o.d?

The leaves were carpeting the ground around Kenilworth, when Custance granted a second interview to her cousin Isabel. There was more news for her by that time. Edward had been once more pardoned, and was again in his usual place at Court. How this inscrutable man procured his pardon, and what sum he paid for it, in cash or service, is among the mysteries of the medieval "back-stairs." He had to be forgiven for more than Custance knew. Among his other political speculations, he had been making love to the Queen; a fact which, though there can be little doubt that it was a mere piece of policy on his part, was unlikely to be acceptable to the King. But the one item which most closely concerned his sister was indicated in plain terms by his pardon--that she need look for no help at her brother's hands until she too "put herself in the King's mercy."

The King's mercy! What that meant depended on the King. In the reign of Richard of Bordeaux, that prisoner must be heavily-charged to whom it did not mean at least a smile of pardon--not unfrequently a grant of lands, or sometimes a coronet. But in the reign of Henry of Bolingbroke, it meant rigid justice, as he understood justice. And his mercy, to any Lollard, convicted or suspected, usually meant solitary confinement in a prison cell. What inducement was there for Custance to throw herself on such mercy as that? Nor was she further encouraged by hearing of another outbreak on behalf of King Richard or the Earl of March, headed by Archbishop Scrope and Lord Mowbray, and the heads of the ringleaders had fallen on the scaffold.

Isabel had sat and talked for an hour without winning any answer beyond monosyllables. She was busy with her rosary--a new coral one--while she unfolded her budget of news, and tried to persuade her cousin into compliance with the King's wish. The last bead was just escaping from her fingers with an Amen, when Custance turned to her with a direct question.

"Now speak plainly, fair Cousin;--what wouldst have me to do?"

"In good sooth, to put thee in the King's mercy."

"In _his_ mercy!" murmured the prisoner significantly. "The which should be--wist how much?"

"Truly, to free thee hence, and thou shouldst go up to London to wait upon his Grace."

"And then--?"

Isabel knew what the King intended to exact, but the time was not yet come to say too much, lest Custance should be alarmed and draw back altogether. So she replied evasively--

"Then his Highness should restore to thee thy lands, on due submission done."

"And yield me back my childre?"

"Most surely."

A knot was tied upon Isabel's memory, unknown to her cousin. If Custance cared much for her children, they might prove a most effective instrument of torture.

"Well!--and then?"

"Nay, ask at thine own self. Me supposeth thou shouldst choose to return to thine own Castle of Cardiff. But if it pleased thee rather to abide in the Court, I cast no doubt--"

"Let be!--and then?"

"Then, in very deed," resumed Isabel, warming with her subject, "thou shouldst have chance to make good alliance for Nib and d.i.c.kon, and see them well set in fair estate."