CHAPTER III.

CAST ON THE WORLD.

"But He who feeds the ravens young

Lets naething pass He disna see,

He'll some time judge o' richt and wrang,

And aye provide for you and me."

—JAMES HOGG.

"Would it please your good Lordship to stand still but one minute?"

"No, Wenteline, it wouldn't." And little Roger twisted himself out of the hands which were vainly endeavouring to smoothe down his vest of violet velvet embroidered in silver, and to fasten it round the waist with a richly-chased silver belt.

"Then, when my gracious Lord sends Master Constantine for your Lordship, am I to say you will not be donned, so you cannot go down to hall?"

"Thou canst say what it list thee. I want to play at soldiers with Lolly."

"So shall your Lordship when you be donned," answered Guenllian firmly.

Little Roger looked up into her face, and seeing no relenting, broke into a merry little laugh, and resigned himself to the inevitable.

"Oh, come then, make haste!"

Vanity was not among Roger's failings, and impatience very decidedly was. Guenllian obeyed her little charge's bidding, and in a few minutes released him from bondage. He rewarded her with a hurried kiss, and scampered off into the ante-chamber, calling out,—

"Lolly, Lolly, come and play at soldiers!"

The two boys, master and servant, were very fond of each other. This was the more remarkable since not only their temperaments, but their tastes, were diverse. Roger liked noise and show, was lively, impulsive, ardent: he had no particular love for lessons, and no capacity for sitting still. Lawrence was grave and calm, gifted with an insatiable thirst for knowledge, and of a quiet, almost indolent physical temperament. The one point on which their tastes met was a liking for music; and even in this case Roger delighted in stirring martial strains, while Lawrence preferred soft and plaintive airs. Playing at soldiers, therefore, was rather in Roger's line than in Lawrence's: but the latter never dreamed of setting his will in antagonism to that of his master. The game had gone on for about half an hour when a young man of twenty presented himself at the door of the ante-chamber. He was clad in a blue tunic reaching nearly to the knee, and girded with a black belt round the hips, studded with gold; a red hood encircled his neck; his stockings were diverse, the right being of the same shade as the hood, and the left of green stripped with black. Low black shoes, with very pointed toes, completed his costume.

"Now, Master Constantine, you may go away. I want nought with you," shouted little Roger, still struggling with Lawrence, whom he had almost forced into a corner.

"Please it your Lordship," returned Master Constantine with an amused smile, "I want somewhat with you. My gracious Lord hath sent me to fetch you to hall."

"O you bad man, you have spoiled my fun!" cried little Roger. "I had nearly won the battle.—Come along then, Lolly, we will make an end at after. Draw off the troops—right about face! March!"

A smile broke over the somewhat weary face of the Viceroy, when, two minutes later, his little son came marching into the hall, shouldering his toy spear, and followed by Lawrence, who carried a long stick in a manner similar as to position, but dissimilar as to the appearance of interest. At the edge of the dalts Lawrence dropped his stick, made a low bow to his master, and retreated among the household beneath. Roger bounded on the daïs, kissed his father's hand, and squatted himself down—for half a minute—on a hassock at the Earl's feet. The father's hand lingered tenderly among the fair curls on the boy's head.

"Little Roger," he said, "I have somewhat to tell thee."

"Is it a battle?" exclaimed Roger eagerly.

His father laughed. "Of a truth, thou art cut out for a soldier, my lad. Nay, 'tis not a battle; it is a journey."

"Shall I take a journey?"

"Not yet a while. Perchance, some day. But what sayest? Canst do without me for a month or twain?"

"Whither go you, my Lord?"

"I set forth for Cork this next Wednesday."

"Where's Cork?"

"There shall be nigh all Ireland between us, little Roger."

"But musn't I go?" said Roger in a very disappointed tone.

"Not yet a while," repeated his father. "Cork is wilder by far than Antrim. I must ensure me first that it shall be safe to have thee. If so be, I may send for thee in time."

"But must I be all alone?" demanded the child in a changed tone.

"All alone—with Wenteline and Master Byterre and Lawrence—for a little while. Then thou shalt either come to me, or go back to my Lady thy grandmother."

"Oh, let me come to your Lordship! I love not women!" cried Roger, with the usual want of gallantry of small boys.

"In very deed, I am shocked!" said the Earl, with a twinkle of amusement in his eyes which made more impression on Roger than the accompanying words. "Howbeit, we shall see. Thou shouldst dearly love thy grandmother, Roger, for she loveth thee right well."

"Oh aye, I love her all right!—but women wit nought of war and knighthood, and such like. They think you be good if you sit still and stare on a book. And that is monks' gear, not soldiers'. I am a soldier."

"Art thou, forsooth?" responded the Earl with a laugh. "Thou shalt be one day, maybe. Now, my doughty warrior, run to thy nurse. I have ado with these gentlemen."

Two years had passed when this dialogue took place, since little Roger came from Wigmore to Ireland. He was growing a bright boy, still not particularly fond of study, but less averse to it than he had been, and developing a strong taste for military matters, and for the lighter accomplishments. He danced and sang well for his age, and was learning to play the cithern or guitar. He rode fearlessly, was a great climber and leaper, and considering his years a good archer, and a first-rate player of chess, foot-ball, club-ball (cricket), hand-tennis (fives), mall battledore and shuttlecock, and tables or back-gammon. As to drawing, nobody ever dreamed of teaching that to a medieval noble. The three Rs were also progressing fairly for a boy in the fourteenth century.

The small household left at Carrickfergus had but a dull time of it after the Earl had ridden away for Cork. Two months, and half of a third, dragged wearily along, and not a word came from either Cork or Wigmore. The third month was drawing to its close when, late one snowy winter night, the faint sound of a horn announced the approach of visitors.

"The saints give it maybe my Lord!" exclaimed Constantine Byterre, who was as weary of comparative solitude as a lively young man could well be.

The drawbridge was thrown across, the portcullis pulled up, and Sir Thomas Mortimer rode into the courtyard, followed by Reginald de Pageham and various other members of the Earl's household. They had evidently ridden a long way, for their horses were exceedingly jaded.

"How does my Lord Roger?" were the first words of Sir Thomas, and the porter perceived that he was either very tired, or very sad.

"Well, sweet Sir: in his bed, as a child should be at this hour."

"Thank God! Bid Mistress Wenteline down to hall, for I must speak with her quickly."

"Sweet Sir, I pray you of your grace, is aught ill?"

"Very ill indeed, good Alan." But Sir Thomas did not explain himself until Guenllian appeared.

It was necessary to rouse her gently, since she slept in little Roger's chamber, and Sir Thomas had given orders that if possible he should not be disturbed. Fearing she knew not what, Guenllian wrapped herself in a thick robe, and descended to the hall.

"Mistress, I give you good greeting: and I do you to wit right heavy tidings, for Lord Edmund the Earl lieth dead in Cork Castle."

A low cry of pain and horror broke from Guenllian.

"Surely not slain of the wild men?"

"In no wise. He died a less glorious death, for he took ill rheum, fording the Lee, and in five days therefrom he was no more."

It was as natural for a Lollard as for any other to respond, "Whose soul God pardon!"

"Amen," said Sir Thomas, crossing himself. "I trust you, mistress mine, to break these tidings to the young Earl. Have here my dead Lord's token"—and he held forth a chased gold ring. "I am bidden, if it shall stand with the King's pleasure, to have back his little Lordship to my Lady his grandmother at Wigmore."

"Poor child!" said Guenllian tremulously. "Poor child!"

"Aye, 'tis sad news for him," was the answer. "Yet childre's grief lasteth not long. Methought, good my mistress, it were as well he should not hear it until the morrow."

"Trust me, Sir. It were cruelty to wake a child up to such news. Aye, but I am woe for my little child! Mereckoneth he were not one to grow up well without a father—and without mother belike! The morrow's tears shall be the least part of his sorrow."

"Ah, well! God must do His will," replied Sir Thomas in a fatalistic manner.

To him, God's will was only another term for what a heathen would have styled inevitable destiny. In connection with the expression, he no more thought of God as a real, living, loving Personality, than he would have thought of Destiny in like manner. It was simply as an impalpable but invincible law that had to take its course. But on Guenllian's ear the expression came with a wholly different meaning. That Almighty Being who to the one was merely the embodiment of stern fate, was to the other at once God and Father—the incarnation of all wisdom and of all love. It was His will that little Roger should be left fatherless. Then it was the best thing that He could do for him: and He would be Himself the child's Father. The very thought which was the worst part of the sorrow to the one was the greatest alleviation of it to the other.

Little Roger's grief was according to his character—intense, but not abiding. Novelty had for him the charm which it has for all children; and he soon began to look forward to the coming journey to England, and the meeting with his grandmother, and with his brother and sisters, who had been left in her care. But before the journey could be taken, the royal assent and formal licence were an absolute necessity. By the death of the Earl, the viceroyalty devolved on his successor in the earldom until a fresh appointment was made; and the Viceroy must not leave his post except under leave of the Sovereign. Master Richard Byterre, squire of the late Earl, was sent to England to tell the news, and obtain the necessary authorisation, and until his return the household at Carrickfergus was occupied in quietly preparing for the change which was about to come upon it.

But before the return of Byterre, Reginald de Pyrpount arrived from England with the heaviest news of all.

The coffin of the Earl had been taken by sea direct from Cork to Milford Haven, and thence to Wigmore. Perhaps too suddenly, the tidings of the death of her last child were broken to the widowed mother. She came down into the hall of the Castle, whither the Coffin had been carried: the lid was lifted, and she gazed long and earnestly on the face of her dead: but through it all she never shed a tear. When she had regained her own rooms, her squire asked if it were her pleasure that the funeral should be proceeded with on the next day.

"Nay, not all so soon," was the answer. "Wait but a little, and ye shall bear my coffin too."

Despite all the efforts of her anxious suite, the Countess Philippa refused to be comforted. She would go down, into the grave unto her son, mourning. She took to her bed on the second day. Her confessor came to reason with her.

"This is not well, Lady," said he. "You are a rebellious subject unto your heavenly King—a child that will not kiss the Father's rod. Submit you to Him, and be at peace."

"Not a rebel, Father," answered the low pathetic voice. "Only a child too tired to work any more. Let me go to Him that calleth me."

"But there is much for you to live for, Lady——" resumed the confessor, but she interrupted him.

"I know. And I would have lived if I could. I would have lived for my little Roger. But I cannot, Father. Heart and brain and life are tired out. God must have a care of my little child. I am too weary to tend him. Let me go!"

They had to let her go. On the evening of the third day, with one deep sigh as of relief in the ending of the struggle, she laid down the weary weight of life, and went to Him who had called her.

The House of Mortimer of March was represented by those four lonely little children, of whom the eldest was only nine years old. It seemed as if every vestige of a shield for the tender plants was to be taken away and they were to be exposed to the full fury of the winter blasts.

For a whole year little Roger was detained at Carrickfergus, nominal Viceroy of Ireland, with his future still undetermined. This was not the fault of the King, a boy only just fifteen years of age; but of the commission of Regency which governed in his name. At the end of that time orders came from Westminster.

Sir Thomas Mortimer was to bring home the little Viceroy, to receive his exoneration from the arduous honour which had been thrust upon him, and to deliver him to the Earl of Arundel, whose ward he had been made, and with whom he was to reside till his majority. To Sir Thomas this news was indifferent: he desired the child's welfare, which, as he understood it, was likely to be well secured by this arrangement. But as Guenllian understood it, there was fair chance of the boy's ruin. If there were in the world one layman more than another who hated Wycliffe and Lollardism from the centre of his soul, it was that Earl of Arundel to whom Roger's future education was thus entrusted. And the astute statesman who was really—not ostensibly—the ruler of England, knew this quite as well as she did. This was Thomas, Duke of Gloucester, the youngest and cleverest of the sons of Edward III. And we have now arrived at a point in our story which makes it necessary to interpose a few words upon the state of politics at that time.

The King, as has just been said, was a mere boy, and the reins of power were in the hands of his three uncles. Of these Princes, the one whom nature and fortune alike pointed out as the leader was the eldest, John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster. And had he really taken the lead, the disastrous reign of Richard II. might, humanly speaking, have ended very differently. His next brother, Edmund, Duke of York, was so extremely weak in mind as to be little better than half-witted, and was entirely under the control of whoever chose to control him. The youngest, of whom I have spoken above, was clever in the worst sense of that word: but the only man whom he feared was his brother John, and had John chosen he might have reduced the active wickedness of Thomas to a point of merely nominal value. He did not choose. Never was a finer character more completely rendered useless and inert by moral indolence; never were such magnificent opportunities of serving God and man more utterly wasted—than in the case of John of Gaunt.

The word "moral" is used advisedly. Of physical or mental indolence he had none. His greatest delight, on his own authority, was "to hear of gallant deeds of arms" or to perform them: and few, even of royal blood, were more thoroughly well educated and accomplished according to the standard of his day. But all was spoiled by this moral indolence—this laissez faire which would take no trouble. Too much has been said of the libertinism of John of Gaunt. He was not a man of pure life; but he was not so bad as he is usually supposed to have been. Yet in one point he was a perfect rehearsal of Charles the Second—that so-called "sauntering," which I have termed moral indolence, and which it is said that Charles loved better than he ever loved any human being. And in the case of John of Gaunt it is the sadder to relate, because he had more perfect knowledge of the way of righteousness than most of those around him. The one instance in which he broke through the bonds of his besetting sin was in order to stand by John Wycliffe in the hour of persecution. Oh, how terrible is the reckoning for him who was not ignorant, who was not even in doubt of the right—who knew his Lord's will, and did it not!

In consequence of this sad lapse, the reins of power fell into the hands of Gloucester. And Gloucester was one of those men who know how to wait, to feel the pulse of circumstances, and when the right moment comes, to strike a decisive blow. How far he ever loved any one may be doubtful: but that he was a splendid hater is beyond all doubt. There were a few men whom he trusted and favoured; and of these—with one exception, the chief of them—was Richard Earl of Arundel.

The wardship of little Roger Mortimer would much more naturally have been given to one of his only adult relatives—his two grand-uncles, William, Earl of Salisbury, and Sir John de Montacute. But in the eyes of Gloucester, no Montacute was a person to be trusted. The family were by tradition favourers of the Boin-Homines—or, in other words, among the Protestants of that period. And Gloucester was a "black Papist." It is true that the Earl of Salisbury was an exception to the family rule in this particular: but it did not suit Gloucester's views to allow little Roger to reside in his house. He had a wife whose mother was one of the most prominent Lollards of the day: and he was himself much under the influence of the Lollard Princess of Wales, whom he had loved in her brilliant youth. His surroundings, therefore, were dubious. And deep down in Gloucester's crafty brain lay a scheme in which poor little Roger was to be chief actor, and if he were brought up as a Lollard there would be very little hope of utilising him for it. He must be made the ward of somebody who would diligently cultivate any sparks of ambition latent in his mind, who would give him a bias in favour of his uncle Gloucester personally, and against the King, and who would teach him to hate Lollardism. So the child was consigned to the care of the Earl of Arundel, and to make surety doubly sure, was solemnly affianced to his daughter.

A very clever Jesuit is recorded to have said, "Let me have the education of a child till he is seven years old, and you may have him for the rest of his life." The child thus plotted against had passed the test age. It might have been thought that his ruin was sure. But graven deep down in that fervent heart, below all the digging of Gloucester and his myrmidons, lay the mottoes of Philippa Montacute: and no efforts of theirs would ever efface that graving. "Un Dieu, un Roy"—and "Fais ce que doy." They were a hedge of God's planting around the tender shoot. He seemed to have said to the enemy, "Behold, he is in thine hand; but save his moral life."

It was a bitter sorrow to Guenllian that the Earl of Arundel gave her a civil congé. He had not the least doubt that she would be invaluable to the younger children: he could not think of depriving them of her. And little Roger would be amply provided with care. The Countess herself would see to him.

Guenllian was not reassured. The Countess was one of those soft, languid, placid, India-rubber women who would lay aside a novel deliberately if they knew that their children were in danger of drowning. She was not fit to bring up Guenllian's darling! She pleaded with the Earl piteously to allow her to remain with the child. She was sure the old Countess would have wished it. The Earl inquired if she had made any actual promise to this effect. In so many words, Guenllian could not say that she had: but that the tacit understanding had existed she knew full well. And she had distinctly promised that Roger should read constantly and diligently in the French Bible. The Earl assured her with an insinuating smile that there was not the least difficulty about that. He had a French Bible, and read it. Just then, Lollardism was walking in silver slippers, and the Bible was ranked among fashionable literature. Guenllian knew well that the reading with and without her would be two very different things. There would be all the difference in them between a living man and an automaton. But she was powerless. The matter was out of her hands. She must let her darling go.

She lifted up her soul as she turned away.

"Lord, they cannot bar Thee out of Arundel Castle! go with this child of many prayers! Teach him Thyself, and then he will be taught: save him, and he will be saved! Whatsoever the Lord pleased, that did He,—in heaven and in the earth and in the sea, and in all deep places. Let them curse, but bless Thou!"

And so, having touched the hem of Christ's garment, Guenllian went in peace.