CHAPTER X.

MARCUS CURTIUS.

"Yet thy true heart and loving faith,

And agony of martyr death,

God saw,—and He remembereth."

—F. J. PALGRAVE.

"What think you on thus sadly, my son?" said Mr. Robesart to Lawrence Madison, whom he found standing with folded arms, gazing out of an embrasure as though he were not contemplating the landscape.

"I was thinking, Father," was the answer, in a low, dreamy tone, "wherein success lieth."

"What fashion of success?"

Lawrence smiled, "I am beginning to learn that there be more fashions thereof than one."

"It is good to learn it early," said the priest. "For man is apt to think that alone success which hath a gloss and a glitter about it. We be too oft like childre, which would rather a brass counter that did shine bravely, than a gold noble that was dull and covered with dirt. But what be thy thoughts thereon, my son?"

"I thought, Father, that many men did destroy their own success by being too eager to grasp thereat, afore God had it ready."

"Thou hast well spoken, Lawrence—'afore God had it ready.' Hast thou read certain words of Saint Stephen the martyr touching Moyses, that great Prophet of God? 'He guessed that his brethren should understand that God should give to them health by the hand of him: but they understood not.' How should they? Nor was it they that were lacking. It was Moyses that understood not—understood not that the day of deliverance was not come by forty years—that forty years' keeping of sheep in Midian must needs be first. Yet God did mean to deliver them by his hand; it was not undone, only latered.[#] He did so when the right time came—when He was ready, and when Moyses was ready, and when Israel was ready."

[#] Deferred.

"It seemeth me," answered Lawrence, sighing, "that man lacketh much training at our Lord's hand, ere he be fit for a deliverer."

"More than any can rightly judge, out-taken our Lord. The fellowship of Christ's work may well include the fellowship of Christ's sufferings. Mark thou, a stone-breaker needs no training; a goldsmith must have much. The finer the tool shall be, the sharper must be the grinding of it. What is behind thy thoughts, Lawrence?"

"Methinks, Father, you wit my Lord's earnest desire to be he that should peace Ireland with England?—and you know how foot-hot he flingeth himself, soul and body, into all that cometh to his hand for to be done?"

"I know," said Mr. Robesart, with a smile in which amusement and pity had equal shares.

"I was marvelling if he were ready," said Lawrence in the same low voice. "I am something feared lest he may run ere he be sent."

"Men of his disposition are prone to make that blunder."

"That would not bring success."

"Not the brass counter of it, in very sooth: yet it might be a step on the way to the gold. It were more like to bring a lesson to himself than success to his plan. Yet even there, Lawrence, that is at times the truest success which hath most the look of failure. It did not look like success when the cross was reared on the hill of Calvary. Yet that night he was destroyed that had the power of death, and the gates of the kingdom of Heaven were flung open to all believers."

Lawrence did not answer for a moment. Then he said, in a lower tone than ever,—"There be that seem as though they could not learn from the past."

"Let us have a care we be not of them. And for others let us pray."

"It is hard," was the reply with an unsteady voice, "to see a life flung away and lost, for the which you would give your own and count it nothing worth."

"That is not lost," was Mr. Robesart's answer, "which is given to God and our neighbour. The only lost lives are those that be cast away upon Satan and ourselves. He will not lose his life: another may."

Lawrence had no need to inquire if Mr. Robesart were thinking of the Countess.

"And if it were as thou shouldst seem to fear," resumed the priest, "if our young Lord should fling away all, even to earthly life, upon this earnest burning desire that hath possessed him,—who are we to say him nay? This may be God's work for him. It were a good work, surely, if it could be done."

"It were a good work to dry up a quicksand," answered Lawrence, significantly: "yet if a man flung therein all the gold of his having, it should be cast away, and the quicksand be no drier. Father, it seems to me a work that cannot be done, or that, if it were done, should cost a thousand lives as fair as his, and take maybe a thousand years to do it."

"Lawrence Madison," said Mr. Robesart, gravely, "thou and I had better let the Lord's purposes alone, for the chances be an hundred to one that we shall do them mischief. It were unwisdom to stay the wheels of the world lest they should crush a fly."

Lawrence gave a gesture of impatience, almost involuntary.

"My son," continued the priest, laying his hand on Lawrence's shoulder, "childre be apt to make wrong reckonings. Remember, He that driveth the charette is the Father of us all. He will not crush, nor 'noy one of his childre without good cause. And mind thou, that meaneth good cause for him, no less than for the general matter. If the Master of the garden will pluck one of His flowers in the bud, which of His weeding-lads shall say Him nay? And if our Father see it well to call His child to Him, somewhat sooner than the other childre would fain part with him, is it ill for the child thus called, or is it well?"

"By how rough a road!"

"It will not matter when he hath reached Home. Yet is it so? Dost thou know which road should be the rougher—the short, sharp climb up the steep rock, or the weary winding around it? I would scarce presume to say. Forty years in the wilderness be apt to tire a man sorely. Let it rest, Lawrence; it is better. Only pray for him. He will give his life for somewhat, either by the sharp climb or the weary desert way. Pray that he may give it for what God means it. We shall meet and rest at Home."

"God grant it be so!"

"And one other thing, Lawrence, I will say unto thee, of the which I think thou hast need. Be not too careful to spare pain to them thou lovest. It is not the best kind of love. And too often—I would but caution thee, my son, to keep out of the wiles of Satan—what it truly signifieth is that we would fain spare ourselves the pain of seeing it. Methinks thy danger should be on that side, wherefore have a care. God loves us better than that. Aye, and He only knows our hearts, as He only knows those good works which He hath prepared for us to walk in. 'It sufficeth to each day his own evil.' Pray as much as ever thou wilt; only beware of giving commands to God. And when thou hast prayed, and canst do nothing, then is the time to stand still and see His salvation. Remember, for him that is God's child, nothing is verily ill that God doth to him."

"Nay, but if it break his heart?"

"Hearts take more breaking than men think," said Mr. Robesart, quietly. "And He healeth 'all that have need of healing.' By times, when we think we lack the plaster, we do in very deed want the probe."

Lawrence looked up suddenly, with pained eyes.

"The probe gives the most pain when a man shall struggle against it. 'Thy will, not mine,' is the most wholesome medicine for all our ills, my son."

"It is a bitter one," said Lawrence, his lip slightly trembling.

"Aye, whiles we be swallowing of it. But if thou wouldst make thy physic specially bitter, the way is to look thereon a while aforehand, and feed thy fantasy with the bitterness thereof, and swallow the same grudgingly at last."

Lawrence smiled.

"Aye me!" said Mr. Robesart, sadly. "For every time that we say to God with our lips, 'Fiat voluntas tua' how many times do we say to Him with our hearts, 'Fiat voluntas mea!' Nay, at times we pass a step further yet, and say, 'Do Thou my will!' May God save thee and me from that rank treason against our heavenly King! We be all likely to fall therein. And yet His will is for our best welfare—our sanctification here, our bliss hereafter; and our will is but for present ease and passing pleasure. Lord, teach us to do Thy will!"

The same evening, a horn sounded without the gate, and the Earl of Ormonde was announced in the hall of Trim Castle. Roger, who was playing chess with one of his knights, rose to meet his kinsman, a man ten years older than himself.

"Fair fall your Lordship in your light battle to-night!" said Ormonde, with a rather grim smile and a glance at the chess-board. "If you be of my mind, we shall find somewhat heavier work to-morrow."

"Truly, what mean you, fair Cousin?"

"The O'Brien is up, my Lord: and that means work for me—and for you, if you will have with me."

"Have with you? Aye, with all my heart!" returned the Viceroy, with a flash in his eyes. "The O'Brien! ungrateful traitor! was it for this the King knighted him in Dublin Cathedral? Howbeit, you and I shall soon bring him to book, and without tumult, I would fain hope."

"Your Pandora hath her coffer a good size," answered Ormonde, with the same grim smile.

"You think my hopes be over-great, trow?"

"A dram or so bigger than mine."

"I will never fight mine own kin, if I may away therewith," said Roger, cheerfully. "Let me but parley with the Irishry myself, and you shall behold somewhat come thereof."

"Truly, of that doubt I nothing," said Ormonde in the same tone. "But whether that which comes thereof shall be to your gracious Lordship's ease—well, I was not bred up for a prophet."

"Whither march we?"

"Down the Boyne and up the Blackwater. The sept are gathered at Kenles."[#]

[#] Now called Kells.

"How much is your following?"

"All the Botelers, and a good parcel more of the English pale. We are well enough for that."

"I will march to meet them with the dawn," said the Viceroy. "Madison, order all things in good readiness for early morrow. Maybe I shall find my work there."

It was said in a cheerful, almost exultant voice; and Roger quitted the hall, leaving Lawrence very, very sad.

"Maybe he shall find his death there!" he said in a low mournful voice to Mr. Robesart.

"Be it so, my son," answered the priest, though his own tones were not without sorrow. "Let him only find God's work; and then he shall find also God's hire unto His servants. He gives not grudgingly, Lawrence Madison."

The armies met at Kenles, on the 20th of July 1398. When they were yet at a short distance, the Earl of March suddenly sprang from his horse, and bade Lawrence dismount also.

"Quick, and aid me!" said he, in his usual impulsive manner. "I will don the Irish habit, and meet them thus arrayed. They will list me if I come to them in their own habit, and speaking their own tongue. Is not the blood of their ancient kings mine own? Lolly"—the old childish epithet came back to his lips in this moment of haste and excitement—"wherefore standest gazing thus moonstruck? Make haste and help me."

"My Lord, I am sore afeared lest they hurt you."

"They hurt me! Am I not one of them by blood? Have I not learned to be one of them in language? Let me but don their habit, and I am of them in all things. Quick! Cast thy fears and fantasies to the winds! This is no time for them."

While Roger spoke, he was hastily throwing aside his English dress, and arraying himself in the Irish national costume—the tunic and braccæ which dated from Roman days, the loose hood, the plaid, the bare foot in the stirrup, and the spear in the hand. Thus accoutred, and commanding his men to stand still until after the parley, he dashed up the slope to meet the Irish leaders.

For an instant Roger's handsome face and lithe figure were seen at the summit of the knoll, as he cried in Irish to the advancing host.

"God speed you, my brethren! What are your demands?"

There was a moment's pause for consultation among the Irish leaders. Then two appeared to separate from the rest, and to come forth towards Roger.

At that moment came the sharp whirr of an arrow whizzing past, a wild passionate cry, a sudden rush forward, and the next instant a prostrate figure lay on the ground at the top of the slope, and over it stood Lawrence Madison, sword in hand, guarding it alike from friend and foe. Then a sudden word of command from the Irish chieftain, and down the side of the slope charged the sept of the O'Briens, completely overwhelming the English forces.

Let us draw a veil over the next scene. The customs of the Irish septs in war were very terrible. The enemy who fell into their hands alive could rarely expect mercy: while he who met their vengeance dead was sure of a form of wild revenge which makes the reader shudder.

Six hours later, the returned relics of the English army were reviewed, and the roll called, in the courtyard of Trim Castle. Ten disabled archers were answered for by others: so were twenty-seven wounded or captured spearmen. So men spoke up for Lawrence Madison, rescued alive almost by miracle, but brought home sorely wounded and insensible, and delivered into the tender care of Guenllian, to be nursed back to life if that might be.

But there was one name which won no answer of any kind, except the bare bowed heads which greeted its sound, and let it pass by them in solemn silence. And that was Roger Mortimer, Earl of Ulster and March, and Lord Lieutenant of Ireland.

The drawbridge was in place at Trim Castle; the portcullis was lifted, and the gates stood open. In the hall was a great catafalque of black and silver, where lighted tapers burned at the head and foot of the bier. And into that hall, now open to every comer, came men of all kinds and classes, and of both rival nationalities—soldiers in uniform, and squires of the neighbourhood, of the English pale, and bare-footed Irish peasantry wrapped in their tartan cloaks, to gaze upon that still white face which lay so calm and quiet now. The words which could be heard whispered were not all alike. Some of the squires and the soldiers said angrily, "He was too much for the Irish"—"He was no true Englishman." Others hushed them, with, "Nay, he was England's heir," or, "He meant well, poor young gentleman!" But at last came one old man wrapped in the national tartan, and bearing a harp upon his back, who sat down, and played upon the instrument a wild, weird, sweet keen, in the softest notes it would produce. And then, rising, he bound his harp again upon his shoulders, and went up to the black-robed priest who stood holding the sprinkler with the holy water, which each one who pleased it took and sprinkled the corpse. The old man took it from his hand, and softly scattered the fresh drops on the calm figure lying there. While he did so he spoke in Irish.

"Sweet be thy sleep, son of the Kings of Erin! Light lie the earth upon thy fair young face! May He that reigneth in the heavens count thee among the white-winged, and the dark spirits of evil flee away from thy path to glory! Sleep, son of Una the daughter of Cahil! The winds, whistling in thy soft hair, shall not awaken thee. Depart on thy wings, O blast of the north! for thou shalt not disturb his rest. Long is the night that cometh, but his eyes are heavy. Draw over him the curtain of peace, and let peace be his coverlet."

As his murmured words ended he caught the eyes of the priest.

"I was only blessing him, Father!" said the old man quietly. "Didst thou think the words in my lips were reproaches or curses? A bard of Roscommon curse the son of Cahil! We could not do it, Father. And he loved us, and died for us. They will not leave us his dust, methinks. We would enshrine it at Tara where holy Patrick preached, or on the Rock of Cashel with the dust of his royal fathers. Ah, it is not likely. They do not trust us. And maybe, at times, we have not deserved the trust. But we would not have hurt him."

"Yet you killed him!" said Mr. Robesart in a choked voice.

"We?" was the significant answer, in a pathetic tone. "God be Judge between us. You will know one day,—not, perchance, till the great doom shall be. Father!"—the old man, who had moved a little away, suddenly stopped, and fixed his eyes on Mr. Robesart. "There will be some wrong things to be set right, when that shall be."

"There will," was the answer in the same tone.

"Aye," pursued the aged bard, dreamily. "Some false things to be made true, and crooked things to be made straight, and justice to be done by the great Judge that day. It will be a long day, that—the longest earth shall know. It may well take a thousand years." He turned to the corpse. "Sleep till the morning come, golden-haired love of Erin! We shall all be there, every one, the accuser and the accused, the oppressor and the oppressed, the murderer and the slain. There will be some of us who would be glad to change. Peace be on thee, and God forgive us all!"

And the old bard, with the harp bound upon his back, went slowly out of the hall: and Mr. Robesart, looking after him, murmured, "Pax tecum!"

In the upper chambers of Trim Castle, the scenes were nearly as sad as in the hall beneath. In the private rooms of the ladies' tower, the dead father's darling had wept herself to sleep, when exhausted nature could bear no more grief for the moment: and in an upper chamber of the adjoining tower, Lawrence Madison lay in fever and delirium. Between the two Guenllian came and went, with light steps and heavy heart: and Beatrice sat by the velvet bed, watching for the child to wake, and longing to comfort her.

There were two reasons why Guenllian kept Beatrice out of the sick chamber, but neither of them was the one which would occur to a modern nurse. Our fathers, at that time, had little fear of contagion, for they scarcely realised its existence: when an infectious disease broke out, they immediately thought the wells had been poisoned—which perhaps they had, though not by deliberate malice, as was then imagined. One of Guenllian's motives was a desire to keep the young girl from hearing poor Lawrence's perpetual repetition of the dreadful scene just enacted at Kenles—that was one of the two topics on which his fevered thoughts ran endlessly: and the other—motive and topic alike—was that Lawrence in his delirium had told Guenllian a secret, which she wanted time to consider whether it would be well to share with Beatrice. Guenllian had entertained some suspicion of the truth already, but she knew now with certainty that Lawrence loved Beatrice, and that he felt certain she did not love him. On the latter point Guenllian was entirely ignorant, for if Beatrice had any secret feelings of this kind, she confided them to no one. The former was inclined to think that any partiality which Beatrice might feel for Lawrence was only the sisterly kindness which had always existed between them, and if that were so, she was very sorry for Lawrence. Guenllian knew him well enough to be aware that his love, once given, would be given for ever, and that there could be no second time for him. But it was only now and then that Beatrice's name came into the passionate flood of words which were poured forth from the unguarded lips of the sufferer. Nearly all night through he was at Kenles, going over, over, over that awful scene, but—Guenllian noticed—never coming quite to the end. When he reached the most terrible point—just before the death of his master—he always gave a sob and a low cry as if in pain, and turned back again to the beginning. This peculiarity, however, had not struck her as any thing remarkable, until the second day, when in giving a minute account of the patient, she mentioned it among other items to the physician.

"Aye so?" asked Mr. Robesart significantly. "Methinks, Mistress Guenllian, that hath a meaning. I would fain be here the next time that it happeth."

"That may you with little trouble, good Father, since I count it happeth every hour at the furthest."

Mr. Robesart sat down and waited. He had no need to wait long. Before the hour was over, poor Lawrence was once more pouring out his fervid and dreadful tale, as though he were relating it to a listener, broken constantly by disjointed words, yet ever coming back to the one subject.

"Then he rade to the top of the mount—primroses grow there—no, not primroses—what call you them?—he rade up, in his Irish habit—habit—Mistress Wenteline, can you amend this rent in mine habit? The Irish have torn it—he called to them in the Irish tongue—nay, I cannot tell you; I wis not the Irish—they be wild folk. They talk alway; they talked then. And two of them came riding forward at after—Master Byterre, look to your saddle-girth; methinks there is somewhat awry—my Lord bent to his saddle-bow when he answered them. Then one of them laid his spear in rest—rest! Oh for rest! Mine head burneth—'I will give you rest'—aye, only He can give it—but methought the man were not hostile, he seemed as though he held forth his hand—O wala, wala wa! Help, my God!"

And with this cry, not sharply and loudly delivered, but in a low voice of intense anguish, poor Lawrence sank back upon his pillow, and a cold perspiration broke out over his face.

"Lo' you, right this doth he alway!" whispered Guenllian.

Mr. Robesart shook his head. He laid his soft, cool, quieting hand upon the patient's brow.

"My son Lawrence, dost thou hear me?"

A lucid interval seemed to occur, for Lawrence looked up into his old friend's face, with calm weak eyes.

"I see thou dost. What came then to pass? Try to tell me."

"When, Father?" answered the faint voice. He had evidently no recollection of what had just happened.

"When the Irish leader came up to thy Lord with his spear in rest, and held forth his hand, or seemed as though he should do it."

A look of unutterable pain came into the sick man's eyes, and his tongue appeared to refuse its office.

"Tell me, my son," urged Mr. Robesart with gentle firmness. "Was it then the Irish shot him?"

Lawrence tried to lift himself, and looked round uneasily. Mr. Robesart helped him into a more elevated position, and with a look to Guenllian sent her behind the curtain.

"Under benedicite, if I must!" whispered the patient.

"Be it so," answered the priest, and signed to Guenllian to quit the chamber. "Now, my son, here be no ears save mine—and His that knoweth all things. Speak on."

"Father!" continued the low but fervent tone, "the Irish never shot him. That shot came from our own side."

"Never!" broke from the amazed priest. "Lawrence, my son, calm thee! Thou art speaking——"

"I am speaking the heavy truth," answered the sufferer. "Nay Father, I am in good wit now, whatso I may have been. I tell you again, the Irish did it not. It was his own men that slew him."

"Christ pardon him that did it!"

"I will say Amen so soon as I can," answered Lawrence Madison with a sob. "That is not yet."

The priest did not reprove him. Perhaps he was too shocked to say anything: or perhaps he felt that in a case like this, nature must have its way at first, and even grace could hardly overcome it in the opening bitterness of love's agony.

Guenllian had felt much afraid of Mr. Robesart's making Lawrence thus speak out the point which in his delirium he seemed unable to utter, like a nervous horse refusing to pass a special object. But the event proved the physician's judgment right. From the hour that the burden was shared with another, the patient began to amend.

Who was it that slew Roger Mortimer, and why? God knoweth, and men never knew. The chroniclers plainly enough assert the fact of his death; but they content themselves with the vaguest possible hints at the further facts—that his own men slew him, and that they did it out of jealousy on account of what they deemed his Irish proclivities. Just enough to make us guess it they suggest: they were evidently afraid to say more.

The old bard had spoken truly, for the dust of Roger Mortimer was not left to repose in Ireland. Amid solemn pomp and glittering funeral gloom, the coffin of the heir of England was borne over St. George's Channel to his ancestral home at Wigmore. There they laid him with the elder Mortimers, and not, like his father, with his Montacute ancestors, at Bisham. There, by the side of the valiant and wise Edmund Mortimer and his royally descended Margaret, who may be termed the founders of the house, by the first Earl of darkened memory, by the young and royal mother whom he could barely remember, sleeps Roger Mortimer, heir presumptive of England, first and last Lollard of the House of March.

England has forgotten him long ago, her own chosen heir to whom her faith was sworn, and from whose lips, time after time, the cup of success seemed snatched, just as he was about to drink the sweet wine. But should Ireland utterly forget that scion of her ancient kings, the young, warm-hearted, gallant Prince who, prudently of imprudently, gave his life for her, and did not achieve the end in the hope of which he gave it?