CHAPTER IV.

WHAT CAME OF SELF-WILL.

"Are not the worst things that befal us here,

That seem devoid of meaning, or contain

The least of love and beauty, those from which

The heavenly Alchemist extracts the gold

That makes us rich?"

—REV. HORATIUS BONAR.

It was not in the old Castle in Sussex, the ancient home of the Earls of Arundel, that little Roger Mortimer found his home at first. The Earl was about to reside for a time in Town. His city residence, Bermondsey House, was situated on Fish Wharf, near to that delicious part of the City of London now known as Billingsgate. It may be safely asserted that no member of the English peerage would be likely to select this locality in the present day for the site of his town house. But, five hundred years ago, matters were very different, and the banks of the river near London Bridge were pleasant and airy places. This was, in fact, a fashionable part of the City: and here the premier Earl of England held his court, almost rivalling that of the sovereign in costliness and magnificence. Little Roger, for the past year a comparatively lonely child, found himself suddenly transported into the midst of a large and lively family. Liveliness was not, indeed, a characteristic of the Countess, a near relative of Roger, for her father and his grandfather were sons of one mother. She was a calm, imperturbable specimen of humanity, who spoke, moved, and thought, in a slow, self-complacent style, which would have sent an impatient person into a passion.

The Earl was almost the antipodes of his wife. The Fitzalans of Arundel were anything but faultless persons as a rule, but too much slowness and caution were assuredly not among their failings. He was an extremely clever man, gifted with much originality of conception, as well as talent in execution: not unamiable to those whom he loved, but capable of intense harshness, and even cruelty, where he hated. Energetic even to passion in everything which he did, a "whole man" to the one thing at the one moment, capable of seeing very far into that which he chose to see, but of being totally blind to that which he did not. Richard, Earl of Arundel, was one of the last men to whom such a charge as Roger Mortimer ought to have been entrusted.

The family of this dissimilar pair amounted to five in number when little Roger joined them. These were, Richard, a youth of sixteen years; John, aged fourteen; Elizabeth, aged ten, and already married to Roger's cousin, William de Montacute; Alice, aged five; and Joan, aged three. Both the boys were too old for Roger to feel much sympathy with them, or they with him; while the girls, both as being younger, and as being girls, were in his eyes beneath his notice. He therefore remained a speckled bird in the family, instead of amalgamating with it; a fact which drew him closer, despite all inequalities of position, to the one boy whom he did like, Lawrence Madison, the only one of his old acquaintances who was permitted to accompany him to Bermondsey House. The Earl had meant to cut all the old ties; but little Roger pleaded hard for the retention of Lawrence, alleging truthfully that he played at soldiers with him. It was just because this one item was so utterly insignificant that the Earl permitted it to escape the general doom: and thereby, little as he knew it, rendered inoperative all the rest of his cautionary arrangements. It was Lawrence who helped Roger more than any one else to keep true to his grandmother's early teaching. When Roger went astray, Lawrence either refused aid altogether, or went only so far as he thought right, and then stood like a granite rock, immovable by commands or entreaties. When the former was less obstinate, and more capable of being influenced, the look of earnest remonstrance in Lawrence's eyes or even his disapproving silence, were often enough to turn away the versatile and sensitive mind of Roger from a project of doubtful character. The little servant did not appear to care for hard epithets, passionate words, or even blows, to which naughty Roger sometimes descended when his temper got the better of him: but he did care deeply to see his little master do right and grow wiser. The influence of the young Arundels—which was small, since Roger never liked any of them—was often bad, and always doubtful: but Lawrence could be relied upon as a force ever on the side of right, or at least of that which he believed to be so.

It was Alice, the little girl of five years old, who had been solemnly affianced to young Roger Mortimer. She was the only one of the children who in character resembled her mother, nor was this resemblance perfect. It made her physically idle, and mentally dull; but it did not save her from that moral intensity which was the characteristic of the Arundel family. In her, instead of expending itself in mental and physical energy as it did with most of them, it formed a most unhappy combination with those features inherited from her mother. Passionate with a passion which was weakness and not strength, with an energy which was destructive and not constructive, with a capacity for loving which centred in herself, and a perversity of will which only served to lead astray, she went to wreck early, a boat with no compass and no rudder. It was well for Roger Mortimer that however men might think to order his future life, God had not destined Alice of Arundel for him.

It is scarcely necessary to say that notwithstanding the unction wherewith the Earl had expatiated to Guenllian on his possession of a French Bible, he did not see the least necessity for bringing Roger in contact with that volume. He had indeed come upon certain passages therein which he theoretically regarded with reverence as "good words," but which he was nevertheless far from elevating into rules for his daily conduct. It never occurred to him that his Bible and his life had anything to do with one another. He would have thought it as reasonable to regulate his diet by the particular clothes he wore, as to guide his actions by that compilation of "excellent matter" upon which he looked as supremely uninteresting and hardly intended for laymen.

About a week had elapsed since Roger became an inmate of the Earl's household. He and Lawrence slept in a small turret chamber, with a young priest, by name Sir Gerard de Stanhope, whom the Earl had appointed governor of his youthful ward. The boys, who went to bed earlier than the governor, very frequently employed the interval before his arrival, not in sleep, but in confidential conversation—the rather since it was the only time of day when they could talk together without fear of being overheard.

"Lolly!" said Roger on the night in question. He lay in a blue silk bed embroidered with red and gold griffins; Lawrence in a little plain trundle-bed which was pushed under the larger one in the day-time.

"My Lord?" obediently responded Lawrence.

"How doth this place like thee?"

"Please it your Lordship, it liketh me reasonable well," answered Lawrence, in a tone even less decisive than the words.

"It liketh me unreasonable ill," returned Roger in a voice wherein no want of decision could be traced.

"What ails you thereat, my Lord?"

"Lolly, I like nobody here but thee."

"That grudgeth me, my Lord." By which Lawrence meant to say that he was sorry to hear it. "Loves not your Lordship neither my Lord nor my Lady?"

"My Lord's a big lion, and they sometimes bite and claw you. And my Lady's a hen, and all she cares for is to snuggle her in the sand and cluck. Beside, she's a woman, and women be no good. I would there had been some lads."

"So there be, saving your Lordship's pleasure."

"They aren't lads, they are men. My Lord Richard were not so ill, if he were younger, but he is a grown man: and as to my Lord John, he doth nought but make mowes[#] at me. I tell thee, Lolly, there is nobody here, out-taken[#] thyself, that I would buy for a farthing."

[#] Grimaces.

[#] Except.

"Truly, I am sorry your Lordship is of such ill cheer."

"Lolly, what was it—didst hear?—that my Lord spake to Sir Gerard, mighty low, when thou and I were going forth of the chamber this morrow?"

"I heard not all of it," said Lawrence. "Only it was somewhat touching Mistress Wenteline, that had desired your Lordship to be well learned in the French Bible."

"Doth he look to cause me learn long tasks thereout by heart?" asked Roger, with a wry face. "I reckoned thou shouldst hear, for thou wert nearer than I."

"In no wise, my Lord, so far as I might hear, for he bade Sir Gerard have a care you touched it not."

"Then I'll read it right through!" cried Roger with childish perversity. "That cannot be an ill deed, for my Lady my grandmother was set to have me do the same."

Lawrence made no reply.

Though nothing on earth would have drawn the confession from him, yet for all his expressed contempt for women, little Roger sorely missed Guenllian. She had been his virtual mother for so long that, suddenly deprived of her, he felt like a chicken roughly taken from under the brooding wings of the hen. He was far more inclined to respect her wishes than he would have been had she remained with him: and there was also a certain zest added by the instinctive knowledge that what was good in the eyes of Guenllian was not unlikely to be bad in those of my Lord Arundel. Little Roger felt as if he had the pleasure of doing wrong, without the conscientious reaction which usually followed.

The impulsive little mind was made up that he would read that French Bible. That it was locked up in a tall press, at least four feet above his reach, was rather an additional incentive than a hindrance. To be always on the watch for a possible leaving about of the keys formed an object in life; and the subsequent scaling of the shelves like a cat was decidedly a pleasure to be anticipated. The keys were in charge of Sir Gerard, who was the Earl's librarian; and he put them every night beneath his pillow. He need not have taken the precaution, so far as Roger was concerned; for to possess himself of the keys by theft would have been utterly dishonourable and unchivalrous in the eyes of the future knight. Yet with odd inconsistency—are we not all guilty of that at times?—he had no such scruple as to possessing himself of the Bible, if he could only find the keys. But weeks went on, and this hoped-for discovery had not been made.

It came suddenly at last, when one morning the Earl had occasion to send for Sir Gerard in haste, at a moment when that gentleman, having just finished his dressing, was about to put the usual contents into his pockets. He left the articles lying on the table, and hurriedly obeyed the summons: which he had no sooner done than the small Earl of March pounced upon the keys. He had been watching the process with considerable fluttering of his little heart; the next moment the key of the press was slipped off the ring, and was safe at the bottom of his pocket. Lawrence looked on with very doubtful eyes, the expression of which was easily read by Roger.

"Now, Loll, hold thy peace!" said he, though Lawrence had not uttered a word. "I must have it, and I will!"

It will easily be surmised that Roger's ambition involved no particular desire of learning, least of all the study of divinity. The delight of outwitting the Earl and Sir Gerard was great; and the pleasure of doing something that Guenllian and his grandmother had wished him to do, deprived the action of all wrong in his eyes, and added to it a sentimental zest. Had the two motives been weighed in a balance, the first would have proved the heavier.

The press containing the Bible stood in a large room which opened off the hall. The expedition to secure it must remain a future gratification for the present. If only Sir Gerard would not miss the key! Was it safe to carry it in Roger's pocket? Roger consulted Lawrence, who agreed with him that it was a serious risk to run. He advised its restoration, but to that hypothesis his young master would not listen for a moment.

The study of the garden wall now became sensationally interesting; likewise of sundry old trees within the enclosure. The alternatives seemed to have equal chances of adoption, when a little hole was discovered in the wall, at the further end of the garden, delightfully hidden by a small loose stone which just fitted nicely into the crevice. The key was safely concealed, and Roger, with the most angelic innocence of face, returned to the house to repeat his Latin lesson to Sir Gerard.

Roger had been taught that to hide any thing from his confessor was a sin of the most deadly type. Conveniently for him, his confessor was not his tutor Sir Gerard, but the Earl's family chaplain, Friar Thomas Ashbourne, a fat sleepy old priest, who never inflicted a penance that he could help, and was more frequently than not employed in mental wool-gathering during the process of confession, merely waking up to pronounce the absolution at the close. It was not at all difficult to get on the blind side of this comfortable official, especially if a morning could be selected when his thoughts were likely to be preoccupied with some subject interesting to himself.

Roger, having a very good idea what interested Dan Thomas, laid a trap to catch him for the next occasion of shrift. In order to do this, he had first to catch the cook: and for that purpose, he must angle with the master of the household, who happily for his object was a good-natured man, and liked children. Running through a gallery with the hope of discovering him, he nearly fell over the person for whom he was searching.

"Nay, now! what make you here, my Lord?"

"O Master Wynkfeld! I was a-looking for you. Pray you, let us have a capon endored[#] this even for supper, with sauce Madame."

[#] Larded.

The master of the household laughed. "At your Lordship's pleasure. I wist not you loved capon so dear."

Nor did he: but Dan Thomas did. Little Roger stood on tiptoe, and pulled down the master to whisper in his ear.

"Look you, Dan Thomas loveth a capon thus dressed, and I would have him do a thing for me that I wot of."

"Oho! is that it?" laughed the master. "Then be your Lordship assured Dan Thomas shall have the capon."

"With sauce Madame, look you!"

"With sauce Madame: good."

"But don't you tell!"

"Tell! Not I," responded the amused and good-humoured master: and little Roger scampered off.

An hour later, my Lord of March was summoned to be shriven. Having knelt down in the confessional, and gabbled over the formal prelude to the effect that he confessed his sins, not only to God, but to the most blessed Lady St. Mary, to my Lord St. John the Baptist, my Lords Saints Peter and Paul, and all the saints and saintesses in Heaven, little Roger added at the conclusion, all in a breath, as if it were part of the Confiteor,—

"Father, I begged Master Wynkfeld to have for supper a capon endored, with sauce Madame, by reason I knew you loved it thus."

"That shall scantly be amongst thy sins, my son," answered Friar Thomas, jovially. "I thank thee: but keep thee now to the matter in hand."

Roger was doing that much more strictly than was ever supposed by Friar Thomas, who was the most unsuspicious of men. He proceeded at once to the catalogue of his sins, satisfied that they would now receive small attention from the confessor. In silence, with as much rapidity and in as low a voice as he dared without exciting suspicion, Roger accused himself of having taken a key from the table and hidden it in the wall. What key it was, he was not careful to state; if the confessor wished to know that, he could ask him the question. But at this point Roger's heart gave a bound, for he was asked a question.

"Thou hiddest what in the wall?"

"A key," mumbled Roger.

"A pea!" repeated the Friar, misunderstanding him, and not having much care to investigate. "No need to confess such like small matter, my son. Didst thou name sauce Madame to Master Wynkfeld?"

"Oh yes, Father, twice over!" answered Roger eagerly.

"Good lad. Now keep thee to thy confession."

Which Roger diligently did for the rest of the time, and then, absolved and "clean shriven," ran back to Lawrence in the highest glee.

"Now, Lolly, my sins be all clean gone. Go thou to shrift, and get rid of thine; and then, as soon as ever we can, we'll have yon big book."

It was about a week later that the desired opportunity at last occurred. The Earl had carried away Sir Gerard—for what purpose Roger neither knew nor cared—and he and Lawrence had been bidden to play in the press-chamber, and be good boys till they were called to supper. No sooner were they safely shut in than Roger indulged in a gleeful chuckle.

"Look, Lolly!" said he, holding up the key. "I heard my Lord say to my Lady that he should not be home ere supper-time, and I thought we might have luck, so I ran and fetched the key. Now for it! Set me that settle under the press."

"But your Lordship cannot climb up yonder!" responded Lawrence, as he obeyed.

"I can do what I will!" said Roger stubbornly. "Nay, but look how the press boweth outward! How shall you pass the same?"

The press, which was itself of wood, was built into the wall, in such a manner that the upper half projected further than the lower.

"Dost think a wooden press shall master me? I'll show him I'm his master!"

Roger sprang upon the settle, set one foot upon a carved boss, and climbed up with sufficient agility till he was stopped by the projection. No efforts could get him any higher. He returned to the settle, looking considerably discomfited.

"I'll have it yet!" said he. "See, Lolly—if I could catch yonder great brass rod that sticketh out, I am sicker[#] I could climb up by that I shall jump for it."

[#] Certain.

"Eh, good lack! do not so, my Lord! you shall hurt yourself greatly, if you have not a care."

"Thou go whistle for a fair wind! Here goes!" And little Roger, gathering all his forces, gave a wild upward leap from the settle, intent on catching the brass rod which was part of the ornamentation of the press, and was not very firmly fixed. To Lawrence's surprise, he caught it; but the next moment the end of the rod came out in his hand, and the natural result followed. Down came the rod, and down came Roger, overturning the settle, and bringing his head into violent contact with the floor. There he lay stunned, with Lawrence looking at him in a terrible fright.

"Gramercy, what a to-do is here!" said the voice of Master Salveyn at the door. "Were ye not bidden be good lads til!—— Mercy, Saint Mary! my Lord bleeds! How happened this?"

Lawrence tremblingly replied that he had been climbing, and had fallen. His own nerves had received a much worse shock than those of Salveyn.

"Good lack, will lads ever be out of mischief?" demanded that gentleman. "Shut them up in a chamber where you should think none ill could hap them short of earth-moving,[#] and ere you shall well have turned your back, they shall be killing either themselves or one another! Run thou to call Mistress Grenestede, while I bear my young Lord to his chamber."

[#] Earthquake.

Lawrence rushed off for the middle-aged and useful person in question, the children's nurse, governess, prescriber, chemist, confectioner, and general factotum: and in a few minutes Roger was laid in bed, and Mistress Grenestede was bathing his injured head with warm water. She improved the occasion by giving a lecture to Lawrence—who did not need it—on imprudence and rashness. But when time went on, and her little patient did not return to consciousness, Mistress Grenestede began to look uneasy. A whispered consultation with Salveyn resulted in the sending of a varlet on some errand. Another half-hour elapsed without change, and then Lawrence, standing beside his master's bed, half hidden by the curtain, heard somebody say, "He is come." A step forward to enable him to see who it was, and a smothered exclamation of pleasure broke from him. Master Salveyn was ushering in a priest in long black robe—all physicians were priests at that date—and though the new-comer failed to recognise Lawrence, the boy knew him.

"Father Robesart! God be thanked!"

The priest heard him, and turned towards him.

"Who art thou, my son?"

Lawrence's delight overcame his shyness.

"Father Robesart, wit you not me? I am Lawrence, son of Nicholas, tanner, in the huts at Usk, that went away these two years gone. I bade you farewell in the church aisle, and you blessed me, and told me I should pass word to you never to go any whither that I had not first asked our Lord to be with me."

"Good, my son. I remember thee now, and will have more talk with thee anon. Now let me look on the sick child. Is it my little Lord of March?"

"That is he, good Father."

"How gat he this hurt?"

Mistress Grenestede and Master Salveyn knew so little about it that Lawrence was called forward to say what he knew. His instinct told him that it would be best to confess the whole truth to Father Robesart, which he did, thereby calling up a look on the face of his old friend which was a mixture of amusement and pity.

"Poor child!" he said softly, when Lawrence's story was told,—rather astonishing Mistress Grenestede, that one of the first nobles in England should be thought or called a poor child.

"Please it you, Father, did my Lord a wrong thing herein?" asked Lawrence, timidly.

"I fear he did, my son."

Mr. Robesart said no more, but proceeded to his professional duties. When he had finished his examination of the patient, and had given his instructions to Mistress Grenestede—which involved some learned references to the occultation of certain beneficent planets by malevolent ones, and hints that the herbs prescribed were to be gathered with reference to the position of the sun with respect to the Zodiac—he called Lawrence out into the ante-chamber.