Two Penniless Princesses by Charlotte M. Yonge (historical books to read TXT) 📕

The chapel bell began to ring, and the black veils and white filed in long procession to the pointed doorway, while the two Scottish damsels, with Lady Drummond, her daughter, and Christie, were conducted to three chambers looking out on the one side on the cloistered court, on the other over a choicely-kept garden, walled in, but planted with trees shading the turf walks. The rooms were, as Sister Mabel explained with some complacency, reserved for the lodging of the noble ladies who came to London as guests of my Lord Cardinal, or with petitions to the King; and certainly there was nothing of asceticism about them; but they were an advance even on those at Fotheringay. St. Helena discovering the Cross was carved over the ample chimney, and the hangings were of Spanish leather, with all the wondrous history of Santiago’s relics, including the miracle of the cock and hen, embossed and gilt upon them. There was a Venetian mirror, in which the ladies saw more of themselves than they had ever done before, and with exquisite work around; there were carved chests inlaid with ivory, and cushions, perfect marvels of needlework, as were the curtains and coverlets of the mighty bed, and the screens to be arranged for privacy. There were toilette vessels of beautifully shaped and brightly polished brass, and on a silver salver was a refection of manchet bread, comfits, dried cherries, and wine.

Sister Mabel explained that a lay-sister would be at hand, in case anything was needed by the noble ladies, and then hurried away to vespers.

Jean threw herself upon the cross-legged chair that stood nearest.

‘A nunnery forsooth! Does our uncle trow that is what I came here for? We have had enow of nunneries at home.’

‘Oh, fie for shame, Jeanie!’ cried Eleanor.

‘’Twas thou that saidst it,’ returned Jean. ‘Thou saidst thou hadst no call to the veil, and gin my Lord trows that we shall thole to be shut up here, he will find himself in the wrong.’

‘Lassie, lassie,’ exclaimed Lady Drummond, ‘what ails ye? This is but a lodging, and sic a braw chamber as ye hae scarce seen before. Would you have your uncle lodge ye among all his priests and clerks? Scarce the place for douce maidens, I trow.’

‘Leddy of Glenuskie, ye’re not sae sib to the bluid royal of Scotland as to speak thus! Lassie indeed!’

Again Eleanor remonstrated. ‘Jeanie, to speak thus to our gude kinswoman!’

‘I would have all about me ken their place, and what fits them,’ said the haughty young lady, partly out of ill-temper and disappointment, partly in imitation of the demeanour of Duchess Cicely. ‘As to the Cardinal, I would have him bear in mind that we are a king’s own daughters, and he is at best but the grandson of a king! And if he deems that he has a right to shut us up here out of sight of the King and his court, lest we should cross his rule over his King and disturb his French policy and craft, there are those that will gar him ken better!’

‘Some one else will ken better,’ quietly observed Dame Lilias. ‘Gin ye be no clean daft, Leddy Joanna, since naething else will serve ye, canna ye see that to strive with the Cardinal is the worst gait to win his favour with the King, gin that be what ye be set upon?’

‘There be others that can deal with the King, forbye the Cardinal,’ said Jean, tossing her head.

Just then arrived a sister, sent by the Mother Prioress, to invite the ladies to supper in her own apartments.

Her respectful manner so far pacified Jean’s ill-humour that a civil reply was returned; the young ladies bestirred themselves to make preparations, though Jean grumbled at the trouble for ‘a pack of womenfolk’—and supposed they were to make a meal of dried peas and red herrings, like their last on Lammermuir.

It was a surprise to be conducted, not to the refectory, where all the nuns took their meal together, but to a small room opening into the cloister on one side, and with a window embowered in vines on the other, looking into the garden. It was by no means bare, like the typical cells of strict convents. The Mother, Margaret Stafford, was a great lady, and the Benedictines of the old foundation of St. Helen’s in the midst of the capital were indeed respectable and respected, but very far from strict observers of their rule—and St. Helen’s was so much influenced by the wealth and display of the city that the nuns, many of whom were these great merchants’ daughters, would have been surprised to be told that they had departed from Benedictine simplicity. So the Prioress’s chamber was tapestried above with St. Helena’s life, and below was enclosed with drapery panels. It was strewed with sweet fresh rushes, and had three cross-legged chairs, besides several stools; the table, as usual upon trestles, was provided with delicate napery, and there was a dainty perfume about the whole; a beautiful crucifix of ivory and ebony, with images of Our Lady and St. John on either side, and another figure of St. Helena, cross in hand, presiding over the holy water stoup, were the most ecclesiastical things in the garniture, except the exquisitely illuminated breviary that lay open upon a desk.

Mother Margaret rose to receive her guests with as much dignity as Jean herself could have shown, and made them welcome to her poor house, hoping that they would there find things to their mind.

Something restrained Jean from bursting out with her petulant complaint, and it was Eleanor who replied with warm thanks. ‘My Lord Cardinal would come to visit them on the morn,’ the Prioress said; ‘and in the meantime, she hoped,’ looking at Jean, ‘they would condescend to the hospitality of the poor daughters of St. Helen.’

The hospitality, as brought in by two plump, well-fed lay-sisters, consisted of ‘chickens in cretyne,’ stewed in milk, seasoned with sugar, coloured with saffron, of potage of oysters, butter of almond-milk, and other delicate meats, such as had certainly never been tasted at Stirling or Dunbar. Lady Drummond’s birth entitled her and Annis to sit at table with the Princesses and the Prioress, and she ventured to inquire after Esclairmonde de Luxembourg, or, as she was now called, Sister Clare of St. Katharine’s.

‘I see her at times. She is the head of the sisters,’ said the Prioress; ‘but we have few dealings with uncloistered sisters.’

‘They do a holy work,’ observed Lady Lilias.

‘None ever blamed the Benedictines for lack of alms-deeds,’ returned the Prioress haughtily, scarcely attending to the guest’s disclaimer. ‘Nor do I deem it befitting that instead of the poor coming to us our sisters should run about to all the foulest hovels of the Docks, encountering men continually, and those of the rudest sort.’

‘Yet there are calls and vocations for all,’ ventured Lady Drummond. ‘And the sick are brethren in need.’

‘Let them send to us for succour then,’ answered Mother Margaret. ‘I grant that it is well that some one should tend them in their huts, but such tasks are for sisters of low birth and breeding. Mine are ladies of noble rank, though I do admit daughters of Lord Mayors and Aldermen.’

‘Our Saint Margaret was a queen,