CHAPTER II.

WATCHWORDS.

"Then out and spake a gude auld man—

A gude death micht he dee!—

'Whatever ye do, my gude maister,

Take God your Guide to be.'"

—OLD BALLAD.

While Earl Edmund was governing across the sea, his little son Roger grew in health and stature under the loving care of his grandmother at Wigmore. The Earls of March had many castles and seats, but Wigmore Castle was the family seat of the Mortimers. The old Countess was extremely anxious that the boy should grow up a good man; the rather because she recognised in him a quality beyond her own energy and activity—that passionate, impetuous nature which belonged to his mother's blood. She brought him up on a course of philosophy, and above all of Scripture, in the hope of calming it down. The eradication was hopeless enough; but the Scripture sank deep. Young as he was when he lost her, Roger Mortimer never forgot those lessons at his grandmother's knee. But the quiet years of holy teaching were not long. In the spring of 1381, Earl Edmund sent letters to his mother, requesting that his eldest son might be sent over to him, as he wished him to make acquaintance with the tenants on his Irish lands. The whole province of Ulster would lie one day at the pleasure of its future Earl.

Sir Thomas Mortimer, a distant relative of the Earl, brought his noble kinsman's letters. He was appointed the governor of little Roger, and was to take care of him on his perilous journey. In order to impress the Irish with a sense of the child's grandeur and importance, he was to have a distinct establishment; and the Earl had suggested that the majority of the new servants had better come from his Welsh estates. Two Celtic races, which centuries ago were one, would, as he thought, be more likely to amalgamate with each other than either with the Saxon. Perhaps he forgot that the meeting of two fires will scarcely extinguish a conflagration.

Sir Thomas therefore had come through Usk, where he had imparted the Earl's commands to the keeper of the Castle, ordering him to have ready by a certain day, to meet him at Holyhead, such and such persons—so many men and boys to fill so many offices—much as he might have ordered as many garments or loaves of bread. The villeins were bound to serve in the menial offices; and for higher places, the neighbouring gentry and their sons would only be too glad to hear of the vacancies.

One appointment was to be made, at her son's request, by the Countess herself. This was perhaps the most important of all, for it was the choice of a woman who should look after the child's necessities, and fill so far as possible the place of the dead mother and the absent grandmother. The boy, having passed his seventh birthday, was ostensibly emancipated from the nursery: yet, with no lady at the head of the household, the presence of some responsible woman about the child became needful. The Countess's choice was soon made. It fell on her own waiting-woman, Guenllian, in whom she had more confidence than in any one else. It was an additional recommendation that Guenllian had been about the child from his infancy, so that he would feel her to be a familiar friend. Yet, though she was sending with him the person of all others in whom she most relied, the Countess suffered severe anxiety in parting with her boy, who, after his father, was her one darling in all the world. What would become of him? Suppose he were drowned in crossing the sea, and never reached his father! Suppose he were murdered by the "wild Irish," who, in the eyes of all English people of that date, were savages of the most dreadful type. Or, worse still,—suppose he grew up to be a monster of wickedness,—that pretty little child who now lifted his pure blue eyes so honestly and confidingly to hers! She thought it would break her heart. And strong as that heart was to cleave to God and do the right, yet, as the event proved, it was not one to bear much suffering.

"Very dear Lady," suggested Guenllian tenderly, "can you not trust the young Lord into the merciful hands of God? Can my young Lord go whither He is not?"

"Thy faith shames mine, my maid. May God verily go with you! Wenteline, thou wilt surely promise me that my darling shall be bred up to prize this," and she laid her hand on the French Bible. "Let the Word of the Lord never be out of his reach, nor of his hearing. Rising up and lying down—coming in and going out—let him pillow his soul upon it, and be made strong."

Guenllian gave the required promise very quietly. Her mistress knew she might be trusted.

"And if it should come—as we hear rumour afloat—that Dan John busieth himself to render the Book into the English tongue, then will I send it o'er so soon as may be. An whole Bible in English! Ay, that day that seeth it shall be a merry day for England."

The French Bible was the Countess's parting gift to her grandson. It was no mean gift, for the writing of its fellow, which was to remain with her, had cost her more than twenty pounds.

To the child himself she said comparatively little. She wished her words to sink deep and take root; and she knew that an important means to that end was that they should be few. So, as her last words, she gave him two mottoes, in the language which was only then ceasing to be the mother tongue of English nobles.

"Fais ce que doy, advienne que fourra." And—"Un Dieu, un Roy, servir je day."

And thus, with a thousand prayers and blessings, the boy left her.

"Ah, when to meet again?" she sighed, as from the castle turret she watched him go, turning to kiss his hand to her as he rode away towards Shropshire. "O my darling, mine heart misgiveth me sore!—when to meet again?"

Never any more, Philippa Mortimer, till both stand in the street of the Golden City, and under the shade of the Tree of Life.

Little Roger and his suite travelled, as was usual at the time, on horseback. The charette was reserved for short journeys in civilised places, where there was some semblance of a road; while the litter was the vehicle of ladies and invalids. A dark roan-coloured "trotter," or saddle-horse, was selected for the little lord, and fitted with a black velvet saddle embroidered in gold. The harness was also black. There was no saddle-cloth, as this was an article used on ceremonial occasions; and as the horse was going on a journey which would lie chiefly upon turf, he was not shod.

Roger himself was dressed in a long robe of dark blue damask, relieved by narrow stripes of white and red; and over it he wore a hood of black velvet. On the top of this sat a brown felt hat, in shape something like a modern "wide-awake," with one dark-green plume standing straight up in its front, and fastened to the hat by a small golden clasp. A little white frill surrounded his throat beneath the hood, which latter article could be cast aside if the weather were sufficiently warm. The sleeves of the robe were extremely wide and full, and lined with white; and beneath them were closer sleeves of apple-green, but these were far wider than gentlemen wear them now. Dark-green boots, with white buttons, and spurs of gilt copper, completed the young gentleman's costume. His stirrups were of white metal, and in his hand was an excessively long white whip, much taller than himself.[#] It was the first time that Roger had been allowed to ride alone on a journey, and he was as proud of the distinction as might be expected.

[#] This description is mainly taken from one of Creton's illuminations. Harl. MS. 1319, illum. ix.

Before the convoy went two running footmen, attired loosely in a costume somewhat resembling the Highland kilt, one of whom bore a pennon with the Earl's arms, and the other a trumpet, which was sounded whenever they drew near to any town or village. Every man carried a drinking-cup at his girdle, and his dagger served for a knife. The travellers beguiled the long day by singing songs and ballads, among which was a new song just become popular, of which the first line only has descended to us, and that has a decidedly minor tone—"J'ay tout perdu mon temps et mon labour."

Thus accoutred and equipped, conducted by two knights, eight squires, fifty men-at-arms, and a hundred archers, Roger set forth on his journey. A pleasant ride of eight miles brought them to Clun Castle, which belonged to Roger's cousin, the young Lord Le Despenser, and the keeper of the castle was delighted to show hospitality to one so nearly related to the owner. Here they stayed for dinner, Roger being seated in the place of honour at the head of the daïs, and all present anxious to gratify his slightest fancy. Eight miles more, after dinner, brought them to Montgomery, where the castle received its heir for the night.

In the streets of the towns, but especially on the bridges and in the church porches—where in Roman Catholic countries they usually lie in wait—were always congregated a larger or smaller swarm of beggars, who invariably seized upon a group of travellers with avidity. And as giving of alms, however indiscriminate, was a good work in the eyes of the Church, Sir Thomas Mortimer had provided himself with a purse full of pennies, out of which he doled twopences and fourpences to every crowd of suppliants.

The next day was Sunday; but the only difference which it made in the day's programme was that, before the travellers set forth, they attended mass in the fine old cruciform church of Montgomery. Mass being conducted in a tongue unknown to the vulgar of all nations, may be attended in any country with equal advantage—or disadvantage. The stage that day was rather shorter, but they were now among the mountains, and travelling became a slow and wearisome process. They reached before night the village of Languadan, where they stayed the night, Sir Thomas and his precious charge being accommodated at the village inn, and the guard encamping outside in the open air. A third day's journey of thirteen miles brought them to Kemmer Abbey, and a fourth, long and fatiguing, winding round the base of Snowdon, to Beddgelert. They made up for their extra work by riding only ten miles on the Wednesday, which ended at Caernarvon. Here they returned to more civilised life, and found better accommodation than they had done since leaving Montgomery. But the Thursday's journey was again long and tedious, for they had to sail across the Menai, and round Anglesey. Five boats awaited them here, the St. Mary, the Michael, the Grace Dieu, the Margaret, and the Katherine: their tonnage ran from sixty to a hundred and fifty tons. They were simply large, deep brown boats, with one mast and no deck, and neither cabin nor any other form of shelter. Sir Thomas and Roger embarked on the Grace Dieu, which was the largest of the boats, and the guard were packed into the other four, the squires going with their betters.

On arrival at Holyhead, Sir Thomas was met by the deputy keeper of Usk Castle, who presented to him two more squires, three "varlets," and a boy, who were to serve in the household of the young Lord. One of the squires was named Reginald de Pageham, and his family had been in the service of the Earls of Ulster from time immemorial. The other was named Constantine Byterre, and was the son of a squire of the Earl. The varlets were villeins from Usk. And the boy was Lawrence Madison.

If any reader of modern ideas should desire to know how or why a child of seven years old was selected for a servant, be it known that in the Middle Ages that was the usual period for a boy to commence service. He was to fill the posts of page of the chamber and whipping-boy: in other words, and practically, he was to fetch and carry for his little master, to learn and play with him, and when Roger was naughty and required chastisement,—which could scarcely be expected not to occur,—Lawrence, not Roger was to be whipped.

The combination of boy with boy was a curious one. Roger had been most carefully brought up, led by tender hands every step of the way hitherto traversed. Lawrence had scrambled up on hands and knees, as he might, with no leading at all except the rare catechising in church, and the personal influence of Beatrice and the fishes. But these three had been for good. The Rev. Mr. Robesart, the only one of the clergy of the parish church at Usk who cared to catechise the children, had been one of those rare stars among the medieval priesthood who both loved the perishing souls of men, and were themselves in possession of the Bread of Life to break to them.

Little Beatrice had repeated her lessons to Lawrence, whom she was pleased to like, in a funny, patronising little way, and they had done him at least as much good as they did to her. And the fishes had also had a share in his education, for their beauty had gratified his taste, and their helpless condition had stirred feelings of pity which do not often find such ready entrance into a boy's heart as they did into that of Lawrence Madison.

It was not on account of any intellectual or moral qualifications that Lawrence had been chosen for his post of service. It was simply because he was a pretty child, and would look well in the Earl's livery. His parents were only too thankful for such a chance of promotion for him. He was one too many for their financial resources. On Lawrence's part there was only one person whom he was sorry to leave, and that was the little playmate over the way. He had gone proudly across to the fishmonger's, to show himself in his new splendours, and to say farewell.

"Love us, sweet Saint Mary!" was Philippa's exclamation. "How fine art thou!"

"Oh, how pretty, how pretty!" cried little Beatrice. "Lolly, where gattest such pretty raiment?"

"'Tis my Lord his livery, child," said Blumond. "And what place hast thou, lad? Kitchen knave?"

This was the lowest position that a boy could have in a noble household. Lawrence's head went up in a style which would have amused most students of human nature.

"Nay, Master Blumond," said he: "I am to be page of the chamber to my Lord's son."

"Gramercy, how grand we are!" laughed Blumond. "Prithee, good Master Lawrence, let me beseech thee to have a favour unto me."

Lawrence had an uneasy perception that the fishmonger was laughing at him. He struggled for a moment with the new sense of dignity which sat so stiffly upon him, and then, speaking in his natural way, said,—

"I shall never forget you, Master Blumond, nor Philippa, nor Beattie. But I wis not when I shall see you all again. The little Lord goeth to Ireland, and I withal."

"Where's Ireland?" asked Beattie, with wide-open eyes, "Ireland" having immediately presented to her imagination a large park with a castle in the middle of it.

"That wis I not," answered ignorant Lawrence. "'Tis somewhere. I shall see when we be there."

Blumond was a little wiser, but only a little. "Well, now, is't not across seas?" suggested he.

Lawrence's eyes brightened, and Beatrice's grew sorrowful.

"Wilt thou ever be back, Lolly?" she said in a mournful tone.

"To be sure!" quickly responded Blumond. "He shall come back a grand young gentleman, a-riding of a big black courser, with a scarlet saddle-cloth all broidered o' gold and silver."

There was a general laugh at this highly improbable suggestion, which was checked by Philippa's query if Lawrence had taken leave of Dan Robesart.

"Nay. Should I so?" asked the boy doubtfully.

"Aye, for sure. Haste thee up the hill, for he went into the church but now."

And with a hasty farewell at last Lawrence ran off.

He found the priest pacing meditatively up and down the north aisle of the church, with folded arms and a very grave face.

"Didst seek me, my son?" he inquired, pausing as Lawrence came up and stood rather timidly at a little distance.

"An't please you, good Father, I go hence as to-morrow, and Philippa would have me ask you of your blessing ere I went."

"That shalt thou have, right heartily." And the thin white hand was laid on the child's head. "Our Lord bless thee, and make thee a blessing. May He be thy Guide and Shield and Comforter; yea, may He cover thee with His wings all the day long, and be unto thee a buckler from the face of evil. Lawrence, my son, I would fain have thy promise to a thing."

"What thing, Father?"

"Pass thy word to me, and never forget it, that in all thy life thou wilt never go any whither without asking our Lord to go with thee."

The priest had somewhat failed to realise the extreme youth and worse ignorance of the child to whom he was talking. The reply recalled him to these facts.

"Where shall I find Him?—in the church? Must I hear mass every morning?"

One of the strangest things in Romanism to a Protestant mind is the fancy that prayer must be offered in a consecrated building to be thoroughly acceptable. Of course, when a man localises the presence of Christ as confined to a particular piece of stone, it is natural that he should fancy he must go to the stone to find Him. From this unscriptural notion the Lollards had to a great extent emancipated themselves. Mr. Robesart therefore answered Lawrence as most priests would not have done, for in his eyes the presence of Christ was not restricted to the altar-stone and the consecrated wafer.

"My son, say in thine heart—thou needest not speak it loud—'Jesus, be with me,' before thou dost any matter, or goest any whither. Our Lord will hear thee. Wilt thou so do?"

Lawrence gave the promise, with a child's readiness to promise anything asked by a person whom he loved and reverenced. The priest lifted his eyes.

"Lord keep him in mind!" he said in a low voice. "Keep Thyself in the child's heart, and bear him upon Thine before the Father!—Now, my son, go, and God be with thee."

Mr. Robesart laid his hand again on the child's head, and with a slower step than before, as if some awe rested upon him, Lawrence went down to the hovel below the hill.

The journey from Usk to Ireland was a far more new and strange experience to Lawrence than it could be to Roger. The latter had taken various short journeys from one of his father's castles to another, or on occasional visits to friends and relatives of the family: but the former had spent all his little life in the hovel at Usk, and his own feet were the only mode of travelling with which he had hitherto been acquainted. The sea was something completely new to both. Lawrence was deeply interested in finding out that fishes lived in that mighty ocean which seemed alike so potent and so interminable. He wanted to go down to the bottom and see the fishes alive in their own haunts, and find out what was there beside them. But after timidly hinting at these aspirations to an archer and a squire, and perceiving that both were inclined to laugh at him, Lawrence locked up the remainder of his fancies in his own breast, and awaited further light and future opportunities.

Meditations of this kind did not trouble Roger. He found quite enough to look at in the visible world, without puzzling his brain by speculations concerning the unseen. His nature disposed him at all times to action rather than thought.

Two months were consumed on the voyage to Ireland: not by any means an unreasonable time, when that period or longer was frequently required between Dover and Calais. They were detained previously at Holyhead, waiting for a south-east wind, only for a fortnight, which was rather a matter for congratulation; as was also the fact that they were only twice in danger of their lives during the voyage. Perils in the wilderness, and perils in the sea, were much more intelligible to our forefathers than to ourselves.

Roger was growing dreadfully tired of sea and sky long before the shore of Antrim was sighted. Lawrence was tired of nothing but his own ignorance and incapacity to understand what he saw. He wanted to know—to dive to the bottom of every thing, literally and figuratively: and he did not know how to get there, and nobody could or would tell him. Surely things had an end somewhere—if one could only find it out!

The voyage came to one, at any rate; and on a beautiful summer morning, the keel of the Grace Dieu at last grated upon the shingle of Ulster. Half-a-dozen of the crew jumped out into the surf, and twice as many came to help from the land. The great boat was dragged on shore by the help of ropes, a ladder set against her side, and Roger carefully carried ashore by a squire. Lawrence was left to climb down as he best could. Both reached the ground in safety, and found themselves in presence of a crowd of officers and retainers in the Earl of Ulster's livery; from among whom in a moment the Earl himself came forward, and gave a warm fatherly welcome to his little son. After mutual greetings had been sufficiently exchanged between old residents and new-comers, the Earl mounted his horse, a superb bay caparisoned with a scarlet saddle-cloth, and Roger having been lifted on a white pony beside him, they rode away to the Castle of Carrickfergus.

Ulster was in the fourteenth century, as it still is in the nineteenth, in a much more settled, and to English eyes a more civilised condition, than the Milesian parts of Ireland: but even there, that hatred of rent which seems characteristic of the Irish race, flourished quite as luxuriantly as now. Fifty years before this date, Maud of Lancaster, the girl-widow of the murdered Earl of Ulster, and great-grandmother of little Roger, had been constrained to address piteous appeals to King Edward III. for his charity, on the ground that while nominally possessed of large property, she had really nothing to live upon, since her Irish tenants would not pay their rents.

The English mind, which is apt to pride itself upon its steady-going, law-abiding tendencies, was much exercised with this Irish peculiarity, which it could not understand at all. Why a man should not pay rent for land which the law affirmed was not his own, and what possible objection he could have to doing so beyond a wish to keep his money in his pocket, was wholly unintelligible to the Saxon mind, which never comprehended that passionate love for the soil, that blind clinging to the homestead, which are characteristic of the Celt. Those who have those qualities, among our now mixed race, whatever their known pedigree be, may rest assured that Celtic blood—whether British, Gaelic, or Erse—has entered their veins from some quarter.

The Irish, on their part, were for ever looking back to that day when they were lords of the soil, before the foot of the stranger had ever pressed the turf of the Green Isle. It was the land which they yearned to emancipate rather than themselves. In Celtic eyes a monarch is king of the land, and the people who dwell on it are merely adventitious coincidences: in Saxon eyes he is king of the people, and the land is simply the piece of matter which holds the people in obedience to the law of gravitation. The latter must necessarily be an emigrating and colonising race: the former as certainly, by the very nature of things, must feel subjection to a foreign nation an intolerable yoke, and exile one of the bitterest penalties that can be visited on man. How are these two types of mind ever to understand each other?

It has been well said that "there is not only one Mediator between God and man, but also one Mediator between man and man, the Man Christ Jesus." Never, as Man, was a truer patriot, and yet never was a more thorough cosmopolitan, than He whose eyes as God are always upon the Land of Israel, and who hath loved Zion. Can we not all learn of Him, and bear with each other till the day comes when we shall see eye to eye—when there shall be one nation upon the mountains of Israel, and one King over all the earth,—one flock, and one Shepherd?