The Caged Lion by Charlotte M. Yonge (books to read to increase intelligence TXT) 📕

hour of her pretty ways and kindly mirth.  But ’twas even as the children have the game in the streets—

“There come three knights all out of Spain,
Are come to fetch your daughter Jane.”

’Twas for the King of Castille, that same Peter for whom the Black Prince of Wales fought, and of whom such grewsome tales were told.  The pretty princess might almost have had a boding what sort of husband they had for her, for she begged and prayed, even on her knees, that her father would leave her; but her sisters were all espoused, and there was no help for it.  But, as one comfort to her, my aunt Cis, who had been about her from her cradle, was to go with her; and oft she would tell of the long journey in litters through France, and how welcome were the English tongues they heard again at Bordeaux, and how when poor Lady Joan saw her brother, the Prince, she clung about his neck and sobbed, and how he soothed her, and said she would soon laugh at her own unwillingness to go to her husband.  But even then the Black Death was in Bordeaux, and being low and mournful at heart, the sweet maid contracted it, and lay down to die ere she had made two days’ journey, and her last words were, “My God hath shown me more pity than father or brother;” and so she died like a lamb, and mine aunt was sent by the Prince to bear home the tidings to the good Queen, who was a woeful woman.  And therewith, here was the pestilence in London, raging among the poor creatures that lived in the wharves and on the river bank, in damp and filth, so that whole households lay dead at once, and the contagion, gathering force, spread into the city, and even to the nobles and their ladies.  Then my good aunt, having some knowledge of the sickness already, and being without fear, went among the sick, and by her care, and the food, wine, and clothing she brought, saved a many lives.  And from whom should the bounties come, save from the good Queen, who ever had a great pity for those touched like her own fair child?  Moreover, when she heard from my aunt how the poor things lived in uncleanness and filth, and how, what with many being strangers coming by sea, and others being serfs fled from home, they were a nameless, masterless sort, who knew not where to seek a parish priest, and whom the friars shunned for their poverty, she devised a fresh foundation to be added to the hospital of St. Katharine’s in the Docks, providing for a chapter of ten bedeswomen, gentle and well-nurtured, who should both sing in choir, and likewise go forth constantly among the poor, to seek out the children, see that they learn their Credo, Ave, and Pater Noster, bring the more toward to be further taught in St. Katharine’s school, and likewise to stir poor folk up to go to mass and lead a godly life; to visit the sick, feed and tend them, and so instruct them, that they may desire the Sacraments of the Church.’

‘Ah! good Flemish Queen!’ cried Esclairmonde.  ‘She learnt that of our Béguines!’

‘If your ladyship will have it so,’ said Mrs. Bolt; ‘but my aunt Cicely began!’

‘Who nominates these bedeswomen?’ asked Esclairmonde.

‘That does the Queen,’ said Mistress Bolt.  ‘Not this young Queen, as yet, for Queen Joan, the late King’s widow, holds the hospital till her death, unless it should be taken from her for her sorceries, from which Heaven defend us!’

‘Can it be visited?’ said Esclairmonde.  ‘I feel much drawn thither, as I ever did to the Béguines.’

‘Ay, marry may it!’ cried delighted Mrs. Bolt.  ‘I have more than one gossip there, foreby Sister Avice, who was godchild to Aunt Cis; and if the good lady would wish to see the hospital, I would bear her company with all my heart.’

To Malcolm’s disgust, Esclairmonde caught at the proposal, which the Scottish haughtiness that lay under all his gentleness held somewhat degrading to the cousin of the Emperor.  He fell into a state of gloom, which lasted till the loving-cup had gone round and been partaken of in pairs.

After hands had been washed in rose-water, the royal party took their seats in barges to return to Westminster by the broad and beautiful highway of the Thames.

Here at once Alice Montagu nestled to Esclairmonde’s side, delighted with her cat gloves, and further delighted with an old captain of trained bands, to whose lot she had fallen, and who, on finding that she was the daughter of the Earl of Salisbury, under whom he had served, had launched forth by the hour into the praises of that brave nobleman, both for his courage and his kindness to his troops.

‘No wonder King Henry loves his citizens so well!’ cried Esclairmonde.  ‘Would that our Netherlandish princes and burghers could take pride and pleasure in one another’s wealth and prowess, instead of grudging and fearing thereat!’

‘To my mind,’ said Malcolm, ‘they were a forward generation.  That city dame will burst with pride, if you, lady, go with her to see those bedeswomen.’

‘I trust not,’ laughed Esclairmonde, ‘for I mean to try.’

‘Nay, but,’ said Malcolm, ‘what should a mere matter of old rockers and worn-out tirewomen concern a demoiselle of birth?’

‘I honour them for doing their Master’s work,’ said Esclairmonde, ‘and would fain be worthy to follow in their steps.’

‘Surely,’ said Malcolm, ‘there are houses fit for persons of high and princely birth to live apart from gross contact with the world.’

‘There are,’ said Esclairmonde; ‘but I trust I may be pardoned for saying that such often seem to me to play at humility when they stickle for birth and dower with the haughtiest.  I never honoured any nuns so much as the humble Sisters of St. Begga, who never ask for sixteen quarterings, but only for a tender hand, soft step, pure life, and pious heart.’

‘I deemed,’ said Malcolm, ‘that heavenly contemplation was the purpose of convents.’

‘Even so, for such as can contemplate like the holy man I have told you of,’ said Esclairmonde; ‘but labour hath been greatly laid aside in convents of late, and I doubt me if it be well, or if their prayers be the better for it.’

‘And so,’ said Alice, ‘I heard my Lord of Winchester saying how it were well to suppress the alien priories, and give their wealth to found colleges like that founded by Bishop Wykeham.’

For in truths the spirit of the age was beginning to set against monasticism.  It was the period when perhaps there was more of license and less of saintliness than at any other, and when the long continuance of the Great Schism had so injured Church discipline that the clergy and ecclesiastics were in the worst state of all, especially the monastic orders, who owned no superior but the Pope, and between the two rivals could avoid supervision altogether.  Such men as Thomas à Kempis, or the great Jean Gerson, were rare indeed; and the monasteries had let themselves lose their missionary character, and become mere large farms, inhabited by celibate gentlemen and their attendants, or by the superfluous daughters of the nobles and gentry.  Such devotion as led Esclairmonde to the pure atmosphere of prayer and self-sacrifice had well-nigh died out, and almost every other lady of the time would have regarded her release from the vows made for her its her babyhood a happy escape.

Still less, at a time when no active order of Sisters, save that of the Béguines in Holland, had been invented, and when no nun ever dreamt of carrying her charity beyond the quadrangle of her own convent, could any one be expected to enter into Esclairmonde’s admiration and longing for out-of-door works; but the person whom she had chiefly made her friend was the King’s almoner and chaplain, sometimes called Sir Martin Bennet, at others Dr. Bennet, a great Oxford scholar, bred up among William of Wykeham’s original seventy at Winchester and New College, and now much trusted and favoured by the King, whom he everywhere accompanied.  That Sir Martin was a pluralist must be confessed, but he was most conscientious in providing substitutes, and was a man of much thought and of great piety, in whom the fair pupil of the Canon of St. Agnes found a congenial spirit.

CHAPTER VI: MALCOLM’S SUIT

‘That is a gentle and gracious slip of the Stewart.  What shall you do with him?’ asked King Henry of James, as they stood together at one end of the tilt-yard at Westminster, watching Malcolm Stewart and Ralf Percy, who were playing at closhey, the early form of nine-pins.

‘I know what I should like to do,’ said James.

‘What may that be?’

‘To marry him to the Lady Esclairmonde de Luxemburg.’

Henry gave a long whistle.

‘Have you other views for her?’

‘Not I!  Am I to have designs on every poor dove who flies into my tent from the hawk?  Besides, are not they both of them vowed to a religious life?’

‘Neither vow is valid,’ replied James.

‘To meddle with such things is what I should not dare,’ said Henry.

‘Monks and friars are no such holy beings, that I should greatly concern me about keeping an innocent had out of their company,’ said James.

‘Nor do I say they are,’ said Henry; ‘but it is ill to cross a vow of devotion, and to bring a man back to the world is apt to render him not worth the having.  You may perchance get him down lower than you intended.’

‘This boy never had any real vocation at all,’ said James; ‘it was only the timidity born of ill-health, and the longing for food for the mind.’

‘Maybe so,’ replied the English king, ‘and you may be in the right; but why fix on that grand Luxemburg wench, who ought to be a Lady Abbess of Fontainebleau at least, or a very St. Hilda, to rule monks and nuns alike?’

‘Because they have fixed on each other.  Malcolm needs a woman like her to make a man of him; and with her spirit and fervent charity, we should have them working a mighty change in Scotland.’

‘If you get her there!’

‘Have I your consent, Harry?’

‘Mine?  It’s no affair of mine!  You must settle it with Madame of Hainault; but you had best take care.  You are more like to make your tame lambkin into a ravening wolf, than to get that Deborah the prophetess to herd him.’

James in sooth viewed this warning as another touch of Lancastrian superstition, and only considered how to broach the question.  Malcolm, meantime, was balancing between the now approaching decision between Oxford and France.  He certainly felt something of his old horror of warlike scenes; but even this was lessening; he was aware that battles were not every-day occurrences, and that often there was no danger at all.  He would not willingly be separated from his king; and if the female part of the Court were to accompany the campaign, it would be losing sight of all he cared for, if he were left among a set of stranger shavelings at Oxford.  Yet he was reluctant to break with the old habits that had hitherto been part of his nature; he felt, after every word of Esclairmonde—nay, after every glance towards her—as though it were a blessed thing to have, like her, chosen the better part; he knew she would approve his resort to the home of piety and learning; he was aware that when with Ralf Percy and the other youths of the Court he was ashamed of his own scrupulousness, and tempted to neglect observances that they might call monkish and unmanly; and he was not at all sure that in face of the enemy a panic might not seize him and disgrace him for ever!  In effect he did not know what he wished, even when he found that the Queen had decided against going across the sea, and that therefore all the ladies would remain with her at Shene or Windsor.

He should probably never again see Esclairmonde, the guiding star of his recent life, the embodiment of all that he had imagined when conning the quaint old English poems that told the Legend of Seynct Katharine; and as he leant musingly against a lattice, feeling as if the brightness of his life was going out, King James merrily addressed him:—

‘Eh! the fit is on you too, boy!’

‘What fit, Sir?’  Malcolm opened his eyes.

‘The pleasing madness.’

Malcolm uttered a cry like horror, and reddened crimson.  ‘Sir!  Sir!  Sir!’ he stammered.

‘A well-known token of the disease is raving.’

‘Sir, Sir!  I implore you to speak of nothing so profane.’

‘I am not given to profanity,’ said James, endeavouring to look severe, but with laughter in his voice.  ‘Methought you were not yet so sacred a personage.’

‘Myself!  No; but that I—I should